Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Courageous, righteous, hopeful.” 

Sam’s words hit Isabelle like a blow to the ribs, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her eyes narrowed. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she shifted her weight. As her eyes finally lifted from the spot she stared at on the floor, she saw him, still standing behind the podium. He looked confident and self-assured, but she saw beneath that carefully crafted exterior. She could pick apart that familiar discomfort. The same reluctance that churned in her stomach was mirrored in the tight set of his jaw and the barely perceptible tension in his shoulders. 

Flashes of light assaulted her vision as cameras clicked incessantly. The low hum of murmured conversations blended with the shuffling of feet, grating on her nerves. Her gaze drifted to the banner looming behind Sam. Steve Rogers’ face stared down at them all. She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to flee. This wasn’t just another memorial service. It was a reminder of everything they’d lost, everything that had changed. 

Neither of them wanted to be there, dragging open still-fresh wounds and playing roles that didn’t fit anymore. But as the cameras kept flashing, Isabelle knew they had no choice but to smile and see this through. 

Sam’s gaze swept across the crowd, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he motioned to the banner. “And let’s not forget,” he added, his voice carrying a touch of playfulness, “that he mastered the art of posing stoically.” 

A ripple of laughter spread through the audience. Even Rhodey, standing to Isabelle’s right, chuckled softly. But for Isabelle, the joke fell flat, leaving a sour taste in her mouth. The corners of her lips twitched, the muscles tightening as she fought to keep her expression neutral. But the laughter felt wrong, almost disrespectful. 

Rhodey’s eyes flicked towards her, catching the stony set of her features. Isabelle met his gaze, unable to hide the irritation simmering beneath the surface. She rolled her eyes, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to avoid saying something she’d regret. Rhodey’s smile faltered for a heartbeat, guilt flashing across his face, before he forced it back into place. 

“The world has been forever changed,” Sam continued, his voice growing more serious. “A few months ago, billions of people reappeared after five years away, sending the world into turmoil. We need new heroes.” 

New heroes? 

She fought the urge to scoff, instead channeling her frustration into picking at her nails, keeping her hands down at her sides. She straightened her posture, trying to appear composed, but the reality of being gone for five years still felt like a surreal nightmare she couldn’t shake. To her, it had been moments– one blink, a short breath–and suddenly, the world had moved on without her. Relationships had shifted, people had changed, and she felt like a novelty from a time that no longer existed. 

A familiar, unwelcome tingle began to spread through her body. It started in her fingertips, a prickling sensation that raced up her arms and across her chest. Isabelle winced, trying to keep it at bay. 

She could feel Rhodey’s eyes on her, concern radiating off him in waves. He leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. “You good? You look like you’re about to bolt.” 

Isabelle nodded subtly, not trusting her voice. She wanted to reassure him, to lie and say that she was fine, but the words stuck in her throat. This was her first public event since returning, and every fiber of her being screamed at her to run, to hide, to escape the suffocating pressure of the scrutiny. 

“I’m fine,” she finally managed to whisper back, her voice tight. “Just…forgot how much I hate these things.” 

Rhodey nodded, gently squeezing Isabelle’s arm before returning his attention to the stage. Isabelle appreciated the gesture, but part of her resented him for insisting she come in the first place. He’d been trying to get her to ‘reengage’ with the world. To stop isolating. But standing here, surrounded by reminders of all she had lost and all that had changed, she felt more isolated than ever. 

“And the thing,” Sam said, picking up the shield that leaned against the podium and holding it. “It’s more than just vibranium and paint. It’s a symbol of hope, of perseverance.” 

Isabelle’s fingers twitched at her sides, phantom sensations of the shield’s smooth surface ghosting across her skin. She could almost hear Steve’s voice, low and patient, the faint give of the gym mat under her sneakers. 

“Keep your guard up, Izzy,” Steve had said nearly ten years ago. She could picture his stance, feet planted firmly, shield at the ready. “The world’s always changing, but some things stay the same.” And then he had paused, tilting his head at her. “Like the importance of watching your opponent’s feet.” 

Isabelle’s muscles tensed involuntarily, muscle memory kicking in even as she stood motionless in the crowd. She felt the sensation of Steve’s leg sweeping hers, the momentary weightlessness as her feet left the ground, and the impact of her back hitting the mat, knocking the wind out of her lungs. 

But then she had imagined the feeling of warmth, of Steve’s strong, calloused hand grasping hers. She could almost feel the gentle tug as he pulled her to her feet, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. 

“You’ll get there,” he’d say, that trademark half-smile playing on his lips. 

The memory faded, leaving her with a hollow ache in her chest. She blinked rapidly, willing away the tears that threatened to form. Is this how Steve felt when he first came out of the ice? She couldn’t help but wonder. That surreal sensation of being adrift in time, surrounded by the familiar yet achingly different? 

She tried to shake off the thought, turning to watch Sam address the crowd. 

“I don’t know if there’s ever been a great symbol. But it’s not just about the shield. It’s about the man who carried it–the man who stood for something greater than himself. Steve Rogers wasn’t just a soldier,” Sam said, his voice growing softer. “He was a friend, a leader, a beacon of hope in dark times. But now he’s gone.” Sam lowered the shield. 

Isabelle looked down, shaking her head slightly. Steve was gone–and he’d abandoned her without a second thought. The words felt uglier every time she thought them. 

A sharp pain began to build behind Isabelle’s eyes, a headache threatening to bloom into something more intense. She glanced up at the larger-than-life poster behind Sam, anger and hurt bubbling to the surface. 

Rhodey’s eyes were on her again, concerned, but he didn’t say anything. The tingle intensified, like a thousand tiny needles pricking her skin. 

“But his legacy,” Sam’s voice cut through the fog, sharp and clear. “That’s what we’re here to honor. That’s what we need to carry forward.” 
 Isabelle’s eyes snapped back to the stage, focusing on Sam. She could see the slight tremor in his hands as he gripped the shield as if he was second-guessing letting it go. 

 “So, thank you, Captain America,” Sam concluded, his voice thick as he handed the shield over. 

 Isabelle watched, frozen, as he actually did it. The metallic clang as it changed hands echoed in her ears, drowning out the burst of applause that followed. Her hands moved slowly, automatically. The motion felt disconnected from her body, and her palms met in a hollow imitation of applause. The camera flashes were worse this time around as they rushed to capture the moment. Each burst seared into her retinas, leaving afterimages that danced and blurred.

The cheers, the shield, Steve’s face plastered over them–it all felt like a mockery. 

Rhodey turned to her, keeping his voice low as he spoke. “We can step out if you need to, Izzy.” His breath tickled her ear as he leaned in close. 

The familiar nickname scraped against her raw nerves like sandpaper. She hated herself for flinching. 

“No,” she said, frowning. “I wanna be here.” 

The lie tasted acrid on her tongue, but she forced it out anyway. Her eyes flickered to Sam, still standing on the stage. His shoulders were set, his chin high, but she could still see past it. The weight of expectation hung heavy in the air, pressing down on them both. 

“For Sam,” she added. 

And maybe if she kept saying it, it would feel true.

The room buzzed with conversation and the clink of glasses, the noise sitting heavy on Isabelle’s skin. Isabelle’s eyes occasionally darted to where Sam stood, surrounded by reporters, military personnel, and government officials. 

 She felt a hint of guilt–she hadn’t intentionally been avoiding him; she did want to be here for him. She just hadn’t made an effort to approach. The thought of navigating those conversations, filled with platitudes and expectation,  well, Sam was better at faking it than she was. 

 She and Rhodey had managed to skirt the worst of it, only approached by a few of Rhodey’s colleagues and, to her discomfort, some of her father’s old acquaintances. Rhodey had deftly handled most of the talking, steering her away when the questions became too probing or personal, which Isabelle was grateful for. 

 But now, as the evening wore on, the air thickened around her. The constant hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter pressed in, threatening to suffocate her. She needed hair that didn’t taste like old grief and politics. 

 As another of Rhodey’s colleagues excused themselves, Isabelle seized her chance. Her chest tightened with the need to escape, if only briefly. 

“I need a drink,” she murmured to Rhodey, jerking her head towards the ba.  The words came out more desperate than she’d intended. 

Rhodey turned to her, his brow furrowed. “Okay. Maybe,” he started, his tone gentle but carrying that familiar note of guidance she’d known since childhood, “afterward, we can catch up with Sam. You haven’t seen him since you got back stateside, right?” 

Isabelle’s gaze drifted across the room to where Sam stood. She missed him–missed the easy conversations, the understanding that required no explanation. But not here, not with all these people watching, waiting for her to crack or reveal something they could dissect later. 

 “I want a drink,” she replied firmly and forced a smile that felt brittle on her face. Her fingers found the hem of her dark blue dress, worrying the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “You go talk to Sam. I know you’ve been wanting to since we got here. I’ll catch up.” 

 Rhodey studied her face, his own pulled tight with concern and resignation. He shifted his weight, the subtle mechanical whir of his leg braces barely audible beneath the noise of the reception. 

 “Alright, but if you need anything…” he trailed off, still hesitating. 

 “You’ll be right across the room. Please, I’ll be fine.” Isabelle cut him off sharply, the words slicing through the air before she could stop them. 

 Rhodey’s expression fell slightly, and guilt immediately flooded through her. He was only trying to help–had always been trying to help, even when she made it nearly impossible. 

 She sighed, shoulders dropping as the tension momentarily leaked out of her. Reaching out, she touched his arm gently. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” Her tone softened, genuine affection warming her voice. “Thanks, Uncle Rhodey. Really.” 

 His expression relaxed, and he gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Twenty minutes, then I’m coming to find you,” he said, only half-joking. 

 “Don’t worry, don’t wanna miss any more of those great War Machine stories,” she rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. “You know, the ones where everyone mysteriously needs to refill their drinks halfway through.” 

 Rhodey’s eyes narrowed, but amusement flickered across his face. “Those stories happened to be classified intelligence.” 

 “Is that why no one can stay awake through them?” she countered, feeling a moment of lightness break through the evening’s heaviness. 

 “You’re as bad as your father,” he muttered, but there was a fondness in his voice. “He used to set timers on his phone that would go off five minutes into my stories.” 

 Isabelle felt that familiar pang again, this time at the mention of her father. But it was softer here, cushioned by the shared memory. “Dad always said you should save the War Machine stories for hostage negotiations.” 

 “Hilarious,” Rhodey said dryly, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. He adjusted his stance, shaking his head. “Twenty minutes,” he repeated, pointing a finger at her before turning toward Sam. 

 Isabelle watched him go, the brief moment of normalcy evaporating as the reception noise rushed back in. Her chest tightened again–she needed that drink. 

 She turned toward the bar, her fingers still fidgeting with the hem of her dress as she navigated the crowded room. Each step was calculated, a maneuver through a minefield of bodies and forced smiles. A woman in a white dress shifted left just as Isabelle moved right; she pivoted sharply, her shoulder nearly clipping a waiter’s tray. 

 “Miss Stark!” Someone called from her right. 

 Isabelle ducked her head and quickened her pace, pretending she hadn’t heard. But she heard, and she felt the dozens of eyes pressed against her back– watching, analyzing, dissecting. She could hear the whispers trailing in her wake. 

 There she is…heard she was overseas…hasn’t been seen at any memorials…

 The bar appeared before her like an oasis, and she slipped into an empty space, exhaling a deep breath. 

 “What can I get you?” The bartender’s voice cut through her thoughts. 

 Isabelle opened her mouth to order something strong…something that would file down the jagged edges of the afternoon. But instead, she found herself sayin,  “Just water, please.” 
 The bartender nodded and turned away. Isabelle leaned against the polished wood countertop, letting her shoulders drop as she turned her back to the crowd. The persistent throb behind her temples intensified, a dull hammer striking in rhythm with her heartbeat. She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing–in four, hold for seven, out for eight. 

 “Here you go.” 

 She blinked her eyes open as the bartender slid a glass tumbler toward her. The ice clinked against the glass. She wrapped her fingers around it, the coolness seeping into her skin–something real, something tangible to anchor herself to. 

 “Thanks,” she murmured, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a long, slow sip. The cold water slid down her throat, washing away the tightness there. 

 Despite herself, Isabelle’s gaze drifted back to the crowd, automatically seeking familiar faces in the sea of strangers. She found Sam immediately as if her eyes were drawn to him by some invisible force. He stood tall among the suits and uniforms, his broad shoulders squared as he spoke with Rhodey and a cluster of officials. Even from this distance, she could see the way he commanded attention–not with arrogance, but with a natural gravity that reminded her painfully of Steve. 

 As if sensing her eyes, Sam glanced up suddenly. Their eyes locked across the room, and for a heartbeat, everything else blurred away. A jolt shot through her chest–not quite pain, not quite relief, but something raw that made her breath catch. His expression softened, a question in his eyes that she couldn’t answer from across the room. 

 I should go to him, she thought. I should stop running. 

 But before she could move, a senator leaned in to claim Sam’s attention, and the moment fractured, slipping between her fingers like water. 

 Isabelle turned back to the bar, her knuckles whitening around the glass. She drained half of it in one desperate gulp, suddenly wishing she’d ordered something stronger. Her father would have had a scotch–neat, two fingers. She could almost see him standing at this very bar, glass in hand, that sardonic half-smile playing at his lips as they people-watched together. The image hit her with such force that she had to set her glass down, her hand trembling. 

 “Can I get you anything else?” the bartender asked, eyeing her empty glass. 

 Isabelle hesitated, her fingers drumming against the counter. The responsible part of her brain–the part that sounded suspiciously like Rhodey–warned her against drinking at such a public event. But her ‘enhancements’ made alcohol little more than flavored water to her system. A normal person would get pleasantly buzzed after two drinks; Isabelle could down an entire bottle of whiskey and feel only the faintest warmth in her cheeks. 

 Screw appearances. 

 “Actually,” she said, leaning over the counter. “I’ll take a double whisky. Neat.” 

 The memory of the one time she’d actually felt drunk flickered through her mind–Thor’s thousand-year-old Asgardian mead at the tower, the room spinning in a way she’d never experienced befoe.  The bartender returned with her drink, the amber liquid catching the light. She wrapped her fingers around the class. 

One wouldn’t do anything. Neither would five. She’d need to empty half the bar to recreate something close to that blissful oblivion Thor’s mead had given her. 

 “Thanks,” she murmured, lifting the glass to her lips. 

The whiskey burned pleasantly down her throat, but the sensation burned almost immediately, her body already working to neutralize the buzz. She drained the glass in one long swallow, then set it down with a click. 

 “Another,” she paid, pushing the empty glass forward. The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. 

 Isabelle glanced over her shoulder, scanning for Rhodey. Twenty minutes, he’d said. How many drinks could she get down in that time? How many would it take before the whispers and stares became background noise instead of needles under her skin? 

 Probably more than she could reasonably order without raising more eyebrows. Definitely more than she should have at an event where cameras were watching. Her father had made that mistake enough times for both of them. 

 Still, as the bartender set down her second round, Isabelle couldn’t help but throw it back in one fluid motion. For a half second, she felt something. 

 “Another–” Isabelle began, but a familiar voice cut through the air like nails on a chalkboard, sending a shiver of irritation down her spine. 

 “Two glasses of whatever reds you’ve got open,” Christine Everhart said, sliding into the space beside her easily.

 Isabelle’s jaw clenched so tightly she could hear her teeth grinding. Of all the people in this overcrowded reception, it had to be Christine Everhart–the woman who’d made a career out of Stark family exposs.  

Just the sight of her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and calculated smile made Isabelle’s skin crawl. Memories flashed through her mind: headlines accusing her father of war profiteering, articles questioning the Avengers’ accountability, sound bites calling for the regulation of ‘enhanced individuals’ like herself. 

 “I’m good, thanks,” Isabelle said, her words sharp enough to cut a diamond. She shifted her body away from Christine, hoping the reporter would take the hint. 

 But Christine, true to form, pressed on with the persistence that made her infamous in journalistic circles. “Please, Miss Stark,” she said, her voice honey-coated poison. “It’s on me. Consider it a thank you for helping bring everyone back from the Blip.” She tilted her head, hair falling perfectly across one shoulder. “I’m not sure if you remember me–” 

 “Christine Everhart, Vanity Fair,” Isabelle interrupted, each syllable dripping with disdain. She turned just enough to meet Christine’s gaze, her green eyes cold. “How could I forget? You wrote that lovely piece about one of my father’s birthday parties. What was the headline again? ‘Tony Stark: Iron Man or Iron Liver?’” The memory alone made her fingers tighten around her empty whiskey glass. 

 Christine’s smile twitched at the corners, the only crack in her polished veneer. She straightened her shoulders. 

“WHiH World News, now actually,” Christine corrected, her smile never faltering despite the apparent hostility. She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her tailored blazer. “I’ve moved up in the world.” 

She leaned in slightly, close enough that Isabelle could smell her expensive perfume–something floral and cloying that made her want to take a step back. But Isabelle held her ground, refusing to give an inch. 

“And that headline?” Christine continued, genuine offense flashing across her face. “That was a Bugle story. I would never use something so…pedestrian.” She wrinkled her nose as if the very thought left a bad taste in her mouth. “My work has always had more nuance.” 

Isabelle gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nuance? Is that what you call it when you suggested my father was ‘emotionally unstable’ after New York?” The words burned through her–the vultures circling while her father struggled to sleep, while he built suit after suit, while the world picked apart his trauma for entertainment. 

“I call it journalism, Miss Stark.” Christine’s eyes narrowed. “After all, your father did give your address to a terrorist on national television. That wasn’t exactly stable behavior, was it?”

The bartender slid two glasses of wine in front of them. Isabelle grabbed the glass before she realized what she was doing, her fingers wrapping tightly around the fragile stem. The first sip washed over her tongue–dry, slightly acidic–but she barely registered the taste, her focus locked on the predator beside her. 

“Good for you,” Isabelle muttered, rolling her eyes. “You got your Pulitzer for picking through our garbage yet?” 

Christine’s smile remained fixed, but something cold flashed behind her eyes. Her manicured hand disappeared into her designer purse, emerging with a sleek voice recorder that made Isabelle’s stomach drop. The device caught the light, a small red dot blinking as Christine placed it on the bar between them. 

“I was hoping we could chat,” she said, her tone professional but her eyes hungry. “Just a few questions–” 

“No.” The word came out flat and final, like a door slamming shut. 

But Christine, ever the shark sensing blood in the water, pressed forward. “It’s only a few questions, Miss Stark. The public deserves to know. You haven’t made a single statement since coming back–” 
 “Didn’t know I had to file a press release about my existence,” Isabelle snapped, her fingers tightening around the wine glass. She could feel that annoying tingle turning dangerous, spreading up her arms, a warning sign she couldn’t afford to ignore. 

Christine leaned cloer,  the scent of her perfume suddenly suffocating. “The world deserves answers,” she said, her voice lowered to a confidential murmur. “Your father, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers–all gone. How does that feel? You vanished for five years during the Blip, and when you returned, they were gone. That must be…quite the adjustment.” 

Gone. All gone. 

Isabelle’s chest constricted, lungs struggling to pull in enough oxygen. The room seemed to shrink around her, the chatter and clinking of glasses roaring in her ears. 

Christine tapped a finger on the voice recorder, the red light pulsing. “And what about Wanda Maximoff? The Westview situation–” she leaned even closer, her tone heavy with implication, “-was disturbing, to say the least. You two were close, weren’t you? Don’t you think those people deserve to know why they were enslaved? Any comment from the remaining Avengers–what few there are?” 

The tingling sensation intensified, spreading through Isabelle’s body like wildfire. Her vision blurred slightly at the edges; the reception hall suddenly seemed too bright, too loud, too overwhelming. She could feel her control slipping, molecules vibrating beneath her skin, ready to reach out and–

“I said no,” she managed through clenched teeth, setting the wine glass down with such force that the stem nearly snapped between her fingers. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. 

Christine didn’t flinch. Her smile remained fixed and professional, but her eyes were calculating, measuring Isabelle’s reaction with clinical precision. 

“The public has questions about who’s protecting them now,” she pressed, her voice hardening beneath its veneer of journalistic concern. “Especially with so many…vacancies in your ranks. Who’s leading the Avengers? Is there even an Avengers team anymore? The world feels vulnerable.” 

Isabelle felt her jaw tighten until she thought her teeth might crack. 

“You know what I find interesting?” Christine continued, shifting tactics like a seasoned interrogator. She leaned in even closer, close enough that Isabelle could count her eyelashes and smell the mint on her breath. “Some people think Steve Rogers is on the moon.” Her eyebrow arched. “Any truth to that?” 

Something inside Isabelle—stretched taut since she’d walked into this place, since she’d returned from the Blip to find her world shattered–finally snapped. 

The wine glass in her hand shattered with a sharp crack, sending glass shards and dark red liquid spraying across the polished bar. The stem crumpled in her grip, fragments digging into her palm. 

Several nearby guests jumped back, conversations halting mid-sentence. A hush rippled outward from the bar like a stone dropped in still water, and suddenly, all eyes were on them. 

Isabelle stared at her now-empty hand, watching as tiny rivulets of wine mixed with pinpricks of blood where the glass had cut skin. The sting felt distant, disconnected, barely registering through the haze of grief and rage that clouded her mind. Her enhanced healing was already at work, pushing the glass fragments out of her flesh. 

Her gaze snapped back to Christine, who looked more intrigued than alarmed. The reporter’s finger hovered over the record button, her expression hungry, eager to capture whatever came next. 

“Is this a joke to you?” Isabelle hissed. 

The power within her surged up her arms like electrical currents, causing her fingertips to twitch. She could feel her molecules vibrating, threatening to destabilize in a way that would make the broken wine glass seem trivial. 

“My father is dead.” Each word landed like a bullet. “Natasha is dead.” Her voice cracked slightly on the name. “And Steve–” His name caught in her throat, an obstruction she couldn’t push past. She swallowed hard against the burning sensation. “He’s gone too,” she finally spat. 

The wine and blood on her hand began to dry, sticky and warm. A drop slid between her fingers, tracing a crimson path down her wrist and disappearing beneath the sleeve of her dress. 

“I lost five years of my life in the blink of an eye,” Isabelle continued. “I came back to a world where half my family was just…gone.” She leaned forward, close enough that Christine had to take a step back. “And you want to know if Captain America is on the fucking moon?” 

Christine cracked. For the first time, genuine fear flickered across her face as she registered something dangerous in Isabelle’s eyes–something mutant and barely contained. The reporter took another instinctive step backward, her back hiding the bar’s edge. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Christine said, her voice higher than before, that practiced confidence wavering as she clutched her recorder to her chst.  Her eyes darted to Isabelle’s hand, where the cuts were visibly closing before her eyes. 

“Yes, you did,” Isabelle glared, her tone flat and certain. “That’s exactly what you meant to do. Get a reaction. Get a headline.” She could feel eyes on her from all around the room, sense the spike of anxiety and curiosity from the gathered crowd. 

Christine’s composure returned in loose fragments, her reporter’s instincts kicking back in despite the fear still evident in her eyes. She took a step sideways, gesturing vaguely across the room. “Miss Stark, if I could just–” 

“You don’t get to do that,” Isabelle sidestepped, blocking Christine’s retreat with a fluid motion. Something dark and vengeful unfurled in her chest, something that wanted to make this woman hurt like she was hurting. “Not after you tried to turn their death into clickbait.” 

The tingling sensations reached a fever pitch, building to a point she hadn’t felt since those early days of her powers manifesting. If she lost control in this room full of politicians and reporters, the fallout would be catastrophic. 

“They weren’t just headlines to me,” but Isabelle couldn’t stop. “They were my family.” 
 From the corner of her eyes, she caught movement–Rhodey and Sam cutting through the crowd, having emerged from the Captain America exhibit. Sam’s eyes locked with hers across the room, and even from this distance, she could read the question in his gaze: Are you okay? 

She wasn’t. Not even close. 

Part of her screamed to walk away, to salvage what she could from this situation. But the voice was drowned out by the ager.  She turned back to Christine, who had shrunk back against the bar, the hunger in her eyes finally tempered by fear. 

“You want a statement, Miss Everhart?” Isabelle leaned in, cornering her for once. She leaned in close so the reporter could see the unnatural flecks of gold brightening in Isabelle’s green eyes–a telltale sign of her powers stirring beneath the surface. “How’s this: The next time you try to profit off my family’s pain, I won’t be responsible for what happened to you or that fancy recorder of yours.” 

Something in her tone made Christine flinch—not just flinch, but physically recoil. Perhaps it was the echo of Tony Stark’s razor-sharp wit that made the reporter’s composure crack, or perhaps it was the very real threat that hummed beneath Isabelle’s words. 

“Did you just–” Christine’s eyes widened, her voice emerging as a strangled gasp. “Are you threatening me?” 

“Threatening you?” Isabelle’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She tilted her head, studying Christine before letting out a laugh. “No, Miss Everhart. I’m a Stark. We don’t make threats. Consider it a professional courtesy. A warning between colleagues.” The word ‘colleagues’ dripped with disdain.

Without another word, Isabelle pushed past Christine, her shoulder deliberately clipping the reporter’s as she moved. 

The whispers started immediately, a chorus of speculation rising in her wake like smoke. Isabelle kept her chin high, her back rigid, though her powers still surged. Her palm was already healed, but the pain still lingered where the glass had cut—or maybe it was just the memory of pain, the kind that ran deeper than flesh.

The crowd parted before her, not out of respect but wariness. Bodies shifted away as she approached, conversations faltering mid-sentence. The exit doors loomed ahead, promising escape. Her hand found the cool metal of the door handle, fingers wrapping around it with more force than necessary. The cool air hit her like a slap as she stumbled outside, her heart hammering against the cage of her ribs. 

Chapter Text

The spring air hit her like a slap, too bright, too sharp, as she burst through the Smithsonian doors. Each nerve ending seemed to fire at once. She needed distance–from the museum, from the memories, from herself. 

 Sweat beaded instantly at her temples as she set off down the crowded sidewalk, weaving between tourists clutching maps and locals with coffee cups. The Washington Monument stood in the distance, indifferent to her turmoil. Her lungs burned, not from exertion, but from holding her breath as if exhaling might release whatever dangerous energy coiled within her. 

 “On your left,” a voice called out, deep and warm–familiar. 

 Isabelle’s rhythm faltered, her heels scuffing against the pavement. 

Sam. 

Of course, he’d followed her. She fixed her eyes on the sidewalk ahead, his footsteps behind her, steady, measured, patient. 

 “You know,” he said, easily keeping pace beside her, “I was pretty sure I had you back there with my ‘stoically posing’ joke. Most people at least give me a pity laugh. But you?” He let out a low whistle. “Ice cold, Stark. That’s some impressive commitment to the brooding aesthetic.” 

 Isabelle couldn’t stop her lips from quirking upward. Not quite a smile. She wasn’t ready to surrender that much. It was more of an involuntary response to his determined lightheartedness. The tingling beneath her skin receded slightly. 

 “I’ve had practice,” she managed, her voice rough. “Growing up with Tony Stark means developing immunity to bad jokes. It’s an evolutionary adaptation.” 

 Sam clutched his chest dramatically, his eyes widening in mock offense. “Bad jokes? You wound me, Iz.” 

 A group of schoolchildren rushed past them, their backpacks bouncing, as their excited chatter momentarily drowned out their back-and-forth. Isabelle used the distraction to steal a glance at Sam. His expression was casual, but his eyes were watchful, assessing. 

 “You don’t have to do this,” she said, picking up her pace again. “The whole following-me-to-make-sure-I’m okay thing. I’m fine.” 

 “Uh-huh,” Sam nodded, completely unconvinced. “And I just jog in Italian leather dress shoes for the cardiovascular benefits.” He gestured down at his footwear. He looked back up at her, expression softening slightly. “Look, I’m not here to push. But whatever happened back there,” he nodded back toward the museum, “has got you looking like you’re about to either bolt into traffic or punch a monument. Both of which would probably make tomorrow’s new cycle and give Rhodes an aneurysm.” 

 Isabelle’s lips twitched, and a reluctant laugh escaped her, surprising them both. It felt foreign in her throat, like a language she’d forgotten how to speak. 

 “There she is,” Sam said softly, a genuine smile warming his features. 

They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city filling the space between them–car horns, snippets of conversations, a street musician playing saxophone near a metro entrance. 

“How’ve you been, Iz?” Sam’s voice was gentler now, probing carefully. He shifted his weight, hands sliding into his pockets. “I haven’t seen you since…since…” 
 “The funeral?” Isabelle finished for him, finally slowing to a stop. 

She finally met his eyes but quickly pivoted, taking in their surroundings. The realization of where they stood hit her with unexpected force. The memory flickered in her mind–Sam and Steve, both breathing hard from their morning run, Natasha’s sly smile as she revved the engine. 

“Can you believe we met here ten years ago?” 

“Please don’t,” Sam groaned, pressing a hand to his chest. “My knees remind me how old I am every morning without your help.” His eyes clouded briefly, looking past her into that distant memory before snapping back to her face. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that deflection. Pro move, but I invented that game.” He leaned against the nearby railing, positioning himself where she couldn’t easily slip away without being obvious. “How are you really holding up? And don’t give me the run-around answer you’ve been feeding everyone else.” 
 Isabelle exhaled slowly, feeling her shoulders slump as the adrenaline from her confrontation with Christine ebbed away  

“I’m…” she started, then shook her head, running her fingers through her hair. Several strands caught between her knuckles, and she tugged her fingers free with a wince. “How exactly am I supposed to be, Sam? Half the world thinks I should be grateful for the ‘sacrifice,’” she made air quotes with her fingers, “and the other half thinks I’m not grieving hard enough. What’s the appropriate reaction when your father saves the universe but leaves you behind? Again.” 
 Sam’s eyes softened, not with pity– he knew she’d sooner walk into traffic than accept pity–but with something worse: understanding. He nodded towards a bench nestled beneath a flowering cherry tree, pink petals occasionally drifting down in the spring breeze. 

“Let’s take five,” he suggested, his tone making it not quite a request but not an order either. 

Isabelle’s muscles tensed, her body urging her to keep moving, to run until her lungs burned and her thoughts quieted. But something in Sam’s gaze made her hesitate. She’d seen that look before—in safe houses across Europe, in the quiet moments after nightmares when her powers had threatened to spiral out of control, when he’d sit with her until her breathing steadied.

“Fine,” she muttered, dropping onto the bench, the wood creaking in protest. 

Sam settled beside her, close enough to feel his warmth but not so close that she felt trapped. 

“You know what I think about sometimes?” he asked, tilting his face toward the sun. “That morning, Steve and I met. How different everything might’ve been if I’d decided to hit snooze. No Captain America breathing down my neck with his ‘on your left’ nonsense, no aliens, no...” He paused, glancing at her profile. “No getting to know the most stubborn Stark in existence.”

Isabelle watched a cherry blossom drift down, landing on the toe of her boot. “The multiverse of what-ifs,” she murmured. “Dangerous territory, Wilson.”

“Yeah, well.” Sam shrugged, shoulders moving beneath his tailored jacket. “Dangerous is kinda our brand at this point.”

 The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with everything unsaid. A child’s laughter rang out somewhere nearby, the sound so carefree it made Isabelle’s chest ache.

“It’s okay not to have your shit together, you know,” Sam said finally, leaning forward to catch her eye. 

Isabelle’s fingers twisted in her lap, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve until it unraveled further.

 “I should,” she muttered, more to herself than Sam. “I should know how to handle this by now. After mom died, after the snap, after...” Her throat constricted around the words. “After Dad.” She clenched her jaw, feeling the muscle jump beneath her skin. “It’s like grief is the only thing I’m good at anymore.” 

“Bullshit,” Sam said, the word sharp but his tone gentle. He shifted on the bench to face her more fully, his eyes locked on hers. “That’s complete and utter bullshit, Stark.”

Isabelle blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness.

“You’re good at plenty,” he continued, counting off on his fingers. “You’re good at making rookie agents wet themselves with just a look—a skill I’ve personally witnessed and deeply respect. You’re good at ordering and drinking those sugar abominations you call coffee that would give a normal human being cardiac arrest.” His lips quirked up. “Seriously, how you drink those without your heart exploding is beyond medical science.”

A reluctant half-smile tugged at Isabelle’s mouth, but Sam wasn’t finished.

“You’re good at seeing a fight before it happens,” he said, his voice dropping lower, more serious. “Mexico City. Before the Accords mess.” His eyes took on that focused intensity she’d seen on countless missions. “Those mercenaries—”

“Serpent Society,” Isabelle corrected, nose scrunching. “Such a stupid name.”

“Agreed, but not the point,” Sam agreed, a flash of his old humor returning. “They got the drop on us, hit us from three sides, completely outnumbered. Steve pinned down, Nat outgunned, and I tried to get aerial coverage when they brought out the heavy artillery. You saw what nobody else did,” Sam continued, leaning forward slightly. “That merc had Wanda in his sights. A clean shot to her shoulder, maybe worse. And you made him double over with some kind of stomach cramp.” 
 “Appendicitis,” Isabelle said quietly, flexing her fingers. “Localized. Temporary. Enough to drop him but not kill him.” 

Sam’s eyes tracked the movement of her hands. “Precise. Controlled.” His gaze lifted to meet hes.  “And let’s not forget,” he added, his voice lower still, “you nearly shattered every bone in Thanos’s body.” 

Isabelle curled her fingers into a fist at the memory—the feeling of her powers surging through her veins, of Thanos’s alien physiology yielding under her influence. She remembered the resistance of his bones as they began to splinter under her concentration, the way his face had contorted in shock before understanding dawned in his eyes.

“Would’ve worked too,” Sam said, an edge of bitterness hardening his voice. “If that purple bastard hadn’t cheated and reversed it with the time stone,”

Isabelle traced the lines of her palm with her thumb, biting her lip. “Didn’t matter in the end, did it?” The words tasted ashen in her mouth.

“It mattered,” Sam countered, firm but gentle. “You’ve always fought for what’s right,” Sam continued, his eyes holding hers with unwavering certainty. “Even when it costs you everything.” He shifted on the bench, turning more fully toward her. “You stood with Steve when the Accords tore the team apart. Protected Wanda when half the world wanted her locked up or worse.” His voice softened. “You chose to help Barnes, knowing everything he’d done to your family.”

Another cherry blossom drifted down, landing on the shoulder of Sam’s jacket. Isabelle reached out automatically to brush it away, her fingers hovering just above the fabric before she pulled back.

“There’s no manual for this,” Sam said, watching her withdraw. “No right way to grieve.” He paused, a shadow crossing his features. “And there’s sure as hell no ‘should’ about any of it.”

“I just—” Her throat constricted around the words, frustration burning behind her eyes. The words burned behind her eyes, hot and caustic, rebelling against the admission. She inhaled sharply through her nose, chest heavig.  “It’s like I’m supposed to be this... this perfectly functioning person again. Everyone wants me to step back in line. Stark heir. Avengr,  whatever the hell I’m supposed to be now.”

Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding together. She jabbed a finger toward the Smithsonian.

“And all of that—” Her voice dropped, hardening to something brittle and dangerous. “I’m supposed to care about Steve’s shield? About his legacy? About any of it?”

The venom in her voice surprised even her. She felt Sam stiffen beside her, saw his shoulders square almost imperceptibly. His breath hitched—just for a millisecond—before he exhaled slowly through his nose, a controlled release of tension she recognized from countless missions.

Isabelle looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. Her chest constricted as though someone had wrapped metal bands around her ribs and was slowly tightening them. The cherry blossoms blurred into pink smudges as tears threatened, and she blinked rapidly, her jaw clenched so hard it ached. She would not cry—not here, not now.

“Steve cared about you, Iz,” Sam said finally, his voice measured, careful. Too careful. The diplomat’s voice. The counselor’s voice.

A laugh tore from Isabelle’s throat—harsh, jagged, nothing like her normal laugh.

 “Cared about me?” She turned to face Sam fully, each word sharp as broken glass. “That’s what you’re going with? He cared?”

She shot to her feet, unable to look at him. The bench suddenly felt like a trap, a confinement she couldn’t bear.

“My father flies a nuclear weapon into space, nearly dies. Then, years later, he snaps his fingers to save the universe and succeeds in killing himself. Very heroic.” Her hands trembled, not with grief but with something hotter, more volatile. “Meanwhile, Steve—Captain America, our fearless leader—takes a little time-travel joyride and just... decides not to come back?”

The anger that had been simmering beneath her skin for months finally boiled over. She couldn’t stay still, pacing the length of the bench, unable to contain the energy coursing through her.

“He abandoned us, Sam.” She stopped abruptly, the full force of her gaze locking onto him. “One kiss from Peggy Carter seventy years ago, and suddenly that’s worth more than everything we built together? The family we became?”

Sam remained still, his face carefully neutral, which only fueled her rage. She wanted a reaction—needed one—anything to validate the storm inside her.

“And now?” She flung her arm toward the Smithsonian, where Christine Everhart was probably still standing in front of the Captain America exhibit, notebook in hand. “Now we’re supposed to celebrate Captain America’s noble sacrifice? Put his shield in a glass case and pretend he was this perfect symbol instead of a man who made choices—selfish choices—that hurt real people?” Her voice dropped, vulnerability bleeding through the cracks in her armor. “What about us, Sam? What about the people who stayed? The ones left picking up the pieces while they get immortalized as heroes?”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The lines around his eyes deepened—not with judgment but with something that mirrored her own exhaustion.

“Iz,” he began, his gaze never leaving her face. “I hear you. And I get that anger. But Steve was tired. Bone-deep tired of the fight—”

“So was I!” The words exploded from her, echoing across the park.

 A nearby couple startled, then quickly averted their eyes. Isabelle forced herself to lower her voice, but couldn’t disguise its tremor. 

“You think I wasn’t exhausted?” Her voice cracked on the last word, sharp and humiliating. “I lost everything fighting. Fighting alongside him, fighting for him.” She swept her arm across the park and the city beyond, encompassing the world they’d saved at such cost. “I watched my father die, Sam. I didn’t just see it. I felt it.” Her hand pressed against her sternum, where phantom pain still bloomed in her nightmares. “Every cell in his body shutting down. Every nerve ending burning out.” Her breath hitched. “I felt his heart stop.”

A tear escaped, tracking down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away.

“And then I come back, trying to figure out how to live in a world without him, and Steve—” Her voice fractured. “Steve, who promised he’d be there, who swore that he understood what it meant to lose everything...” She shook her head, unable to finish.

Sam stood slowly, his movements deliberate as though approaching a wounded animal. His eyes widened slightly, comprehension dawning across his features. “I didn’t know,” he breathed, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t know you felt this way about Steve leaving. Not like this.” He took a careful step toward her. “Iz, he—”

“Don’t.” She held up a hand, taking a step back, the distance between them suddenly crucial to her composure. “Don’t defend him to me. Not today.” Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind an emptiness more terrifying than the rage. “Maybe not ever.”

Sam’s hand hovered in the space between them, not quite reaching for her but unwilling to retreat.

“Iz, I can’t even begin to imagine what that felt like,” he said softly, “but I know it hurts,” he continued, finally bridging the gap to touch her shoulder. “But Steve…he didn’t make that decision lightly.” Sam’s eyes searched hers, earnest and troubled. “And it might not seem like it right now, but he cared about you. All of us.” His grip tightened slightly, grounding her. “Sometimes... sometimes people have to make hard choices, even if it means hurting the ones they love.”

“Hard choices?” she echoed, the words bitter on her tongue. She jerked away from his touch, feeling her power surge in response to her emotions, a familiar tingling behind her eyes. “He was selfish, Sam. Plain and simple.”

She expected Sam to argue, to defend Steve as he always had. To trot out the same tired lines about sacrifice and duty and the greater good. But when she met his gaze, something in his expression made her falter. It wasn’t an agreement exactly, but uncertainty shadowed his eyes, and beneath it, a flicker of doubt that she’d never seen before when it came to Steve Rogers.

Sam ran his thumb across his lower lip, a habit she’d witnessed countless times during mission debriefs when he was working through a tactical problem.

“You know,” he finally said, his voice lighter but not dismissive, “I worked really hard on that speech back there that you completely ignored.” He jerked his head toward the Smithsonian. He tapped his jacket pocket. “Index cards and everything.”

Isabelle felt the tension in her shoulders loosen, just a fraction—a nearly imperceptible shift that Sam would notice because Sam noticed everything. The tightness in her jaw eased, the burning behind her eyes cooling. She recognized what he was doing—the tactical retreat. It was a dance they’d perfected over years of friendship, knowing when to push and when to offer breathing room.

“Index cards?” Isabelle arched an eyebrow, grateful for the lifeline he’d thrown her. “Seriously?”

“Mock me all you want, Stark, but organization is key.” Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners, the tension around his mouth softening. “Blue cards for the inspirational bits—you know, the ‘legacy of heroes’ stuff that makes people misty-eyed. Yellow for jokes.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Which, by the way, was absolute gold. Your loss.”

A laugh escaped her—small and rusty, like a door hinge unused for too long. The sound surprised her, foreign to her own ears. When was the last time she’d genuinely laughed? Before the funeral, certainly. Maybe even before the final battle. The realization settled in her chest, heavy and cold.

Sam nudged her shoulder with his, the contact brief but grounding. His expression shifted, the playfulness receding to reveal something more substantial beneath.

“Look,” he said, voice dropping to that particular register he used when cutting through bullshit. “I know this isn’t easy. Some days, I wake up, and it’s like the world is spinning too fast. Can’t catch my breath, can’t find my footing.”

The honesty in his admission caught her off guard. Sam was always the steady one, the rock when everything else crumbled. Hearing the edge of vulnerability in his voice made her chest tighten.

“But maybe,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers, “embracing the future means finding a way to move forward, even when it feels impossible.” 

“How do you do it?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, smaller and more desperate than she’d intended. She cleared her throat, tried again. “How do we just... move forward? When everything’s changed, when people we thought would always be there just... aren’t?”

“Well, for starters,” Sam said, his gaze direct and unflinching, “when I call you, you don’t put me straight to voicemail like you’ve been doing for the past six months.”

The words weren’t meant to hurt, but to wake her up. They still stung, though. Heat crawled up her neck, settling in her cheeks. 

“I don’t know who’s worse,” Sam continued, shaking his head with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You or Barnes. Neither of you answer your goddamn phones.” A short laugh escaped him, more exasperation than humor. “He may have an excuse; I’m not convinced the old man knows how they work. Might still think they have rotary dials.” His gaze locked on hers, the humor evaporating. “But you? Radio silence for months, Iz. Not even a text to let me know you were breathing.”

The accusation in his voice wasn’t loud—Sam Wilson never needed volume to make his point—but it resonated through her all the same.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words inadequate but sincere. “I was in Europe—”

“‘I was in Europe,’“ Sam mimicked, voice rising in a poor imitation of hers before dropping back to its normal register. “Yeah, Rhodes mentioned that. Said you bounced pretty much after the funeral.”

Isabelle’s eyes dropped to the ground. The grass beneath her feet suddenly became fascinating—each blade distinct, some trampled flat by passing tourists, others stubbornly reaching upward. She could still feel the weight of the wreath in her hands as she’d placed it on the lake six months ago, watching it float away on gentle ripples. The memory of Morgan’s small hand in hers, squeezing so tight it hurt.

After the funeral, she’d run. Paris first, then Rome, Berlin, Prague. Cities where no one knew her face, where Stark wasn’t a household name, where she could walk down streets without seeing her father’s face on memorial murals. Places that didn’t feel like home because home didn’t exist anymore.

“Look, I—” she started, but Sam cut her off with a sharp gesture.

“Nuh-uh, I’m not done,” he said, a little too harshly. “You don’t ignore me. That’s not how this works.” He tapped his chest, then pointed at her. “We’re friends. We stick together. That’s the deal.” The muscle in his jaw worked as he swallowed, his eyes softening just enough that Isabelle felt something crack inside her chest. “Even when it hurts,” he added, quieter now. “Especially when it hurts.”

Isabelle’s throat constricted, the pressure building behind her eyes threatening to spill over. She opened her mouth, but the words dissolved before they could form. Sam had never spoken to her this way – had never needed to. The gentle reprimand stripped away her carefully constructed defenses, leaving her exposed in a way that made her skin prickle with vulnerability.

“I needed space,” she finally managed, the words coming out more defensive than she’d intended. She hated how defensive she sounded, how the statement hung in the air like a flimsy excuse. Her thumb worked over her knuckles, pressing hard enough to feel the bone beneath. “Everything here was just... too much.”

“Space I get,” Sam conceded, shifting his weight. The leather of his shoes creaked against the pavement. He tilted his head, catching her downcast gaze. “Disappearing off the face of the earth?” He made a cutting motion with his hand. “That’s something else entirely.”

“There were things I needed to handle,” she said finally, deliberately vague. The half-truth tasted metallic on her tongue. “Things I couldn’t deal with here.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed just slightly. His head tilted a fraction, his tell that he was reading between her lines, searching for what she wasn’t saying. “Things,” he repeated, the word neutral but weighted with unasked questions. “Must have been some pretty important things to keep you away this long.”

The challenge in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. Six months of silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled with all the texts she’d ignored, the calls she’d declined, the messages she’d left unheard.

Isabelle met his gaze, unflinching despite the guilt gnawing at her insides. “They were.”

For a moment, neither spoke. It was Isabelle who broke first, her shoulders dropping as she exhaled. “Sam, I—” she began, but he waved her off, the gesture weary rather than dismissive.

“Save it,” he said, not unkindly. The hard edge had left his voice, replaced by something that sounded dangerously close to resignation. “I’m not fishing for apologies. I’m just saying...” He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re not the only one trying to figure out how to live in this new world. The rest of us are stumbling through it, too.”

Isabelle bit her lip. Her own grief and anger had consumed her so deeply that she had barely considered what the others might be feeling, how Sam might be struggling with his own losses and uncertainties.

“I know,” she said quietly, shame coloring her cheeks. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, using the motion to gather her thoughts. “I’ve been so caught up in my own bullshit I haven’t even thought about how you’re doing with all of this.” Her eyes flicked to his face, really seeing him for the first time since their encounter. The new lines around his eyes. The slight shadows beneath them. “Giving the shield away...it can’t feel good.”

Something flickered across Sam’s expression – surprise, perhaps, that she’d noticed or that she’d brought it up so directly. His shoulders tensed slightly, and he let out a long breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.

“It’s... a lot,” he admitted, his voice dropping as he crossed his arms. Not defensively, but as if he needed to hold himself together physically. He looked up, trying to find the right words. “I just knew those shoes were too big for me to fill, you know?”

Hearing that edge of uncertainty made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her own pain.

Isabelle nodded slowly, her lips pressing together as she considered his words. Part of her wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that he was more than capable. That Steve had chosen him for a reason. But then she thought about the weight of that legacy – the scrutiny he would face, the constant comparisons, the whispers that would follow him— always reminding him that he wasn’t Steve Rogers.

“I miss him,” she admitted, the words escaping before she could trap them behind her teeth. “Even though I’m still furious. I miss all of them.” The confession felt like pulling out stitches before the wound had fully healed—necessary but excruciating.

“Yeah. Me too.” Sam exhaled heavily, his breath visible in the cooling afternoon air. His gaze drifted toward the Smithsonian, lingering for a second before returning to her face. “Listen, I’m heading back to Louisiana tomorrow.” He paused, studying her face. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Isabelle blinked, her train of thought derailing. “Louisiana?”

“My sister’s place,” Sam clarified, his posture relaxing as he warmed to the idea. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet. We’ve got plenty of room,” His eyes lit up, that spark of enthusiasm she’d missed these past months. “And her cooking?” He kissed his fingertips dramatically. “Makes that fancy five-star restaurant you dragged me to in Monaco look like a fast-food joint.”

“That was a Michelin-starred chef,” Isabelle protested, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.

“Well, Sarah’s gumbo has won the parish cook-off three years running.” Sam’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Plus,” Sam added, leaning in conspiratorially, “no reporters, no press conferences, no Christine Everhart.” He gestured expansively. “Just good food, good company, and maybe—if you stop being such a city girl about it—we can even get you out on the water.”

For a moment, Isabelle let herself imagine it: the warm Louisiana sun on her skin, the taste of home-cooked food on her tongue, the gentle lapping of water against a boat. Something warm unfurled in Isabelle’s chest, tender and painful all at once. The offer was tempting—more than tempting. To disappear into the Louisiana bayou, to be somewhere no one knew her name or her history or expected anything from her. Somewhere, she could breathe.

The fantasy dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Reality crashed back in, cold and unyielding.

“I can’t, Sam.” The words tasted like defeat on her tongue. She shook her head, shoulders stiffening as she mentally calculated the fallout approaching. “I basically threatened a nationally syndicated journalist back there. By tomorrow morning, my face will be plastered across every news outlet from here to Tokyo.”

She could already see the headlines scrolling across screens worldwide. The thought sent a cold ripple down her spine, her fingers instinctively curling as if to contain the power that had nearly slipped its leash.

“I should stay and handle this,” she continued, her thumb working circles against her index finger. “Or at least warn Pepper before she gets blindsided during a board meeting.” The thought of her stepmother having to field questions about Isabelle’s behavior while trying to run a multinational corporation made her stomach clench. “She’s got enough on her plate with Morgan and the company without me adding to the chaos.”

Sam’s forehead creased, concern etching lines around his eyes. “That’s not who you are, Iz. Whatever spin Everhart puts on—”

“What, you mean ‘Dangerous Enhanced Individual Intimidates Defenseless Reporter’?” Isabelle cut in, a bark of bitter laughter escaping her. “Someone’s got to be the scary bogeyman now that Bruce is…whatever that is now, and that Wanda’s gone. Bound to be my turn eventually.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam said firmly, voice dropping an octave. “That’s not fair to you, to Bruce, and it’s not fair to Wanda. You’re more than that.” He stepped closer, his presence solid and unwavering. “You’re heroes. All of you.”

“I thought you said the world needed new heroes,” she murmured, offering him a ghost of a smile. Her eyes met his, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. “I was listening, you know. Even when it looked like I wasn’t.”

Something shifted in Sam’s expression—surprise melting into recognition. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, recalibrating whatever he planned.

“That’s not what I—” he started, then stopped, frustration flickering across his features. He exhaled slowly through his nose, as he always did when choosing his words carefully. “Fine. But my offer stands. Anytime you need to disappear for a while, my door’s always open.” He held her gaze, ensuring she understood the weight of his promise. “No questions asked.”

Isabelle hesitated, her instinct to retreat warring with the part of her that desperately craved connection. The warmth in Sam’s eyes—genuine, uncomplicated—made her throat tighten. She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “I know, Sam. Thanks.”

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, his voice softening, “Christine Everhart has been trying to take down Avengers since before we even called ourselves that. She went after your dad for years.” A rueful smile crossed his face. “Woman’s like an attack dog with press credentials.”

That pulled a reluctant laugh from Isabelle, the sound surprising her with its authenticity. “Yeah, well, she picked the wrong day to come at me about legacy.” She rubbed at a spot between her eyebrows where tension had gathered. “God, I can already hear Pepper’s PR team drafting apology statements.”

Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Let them earn their paychecks. Meanwhile...” He jerked a thumb towards the road, a mischievous glint warming his eyes. “My flight isn’t until tonight. Want to grab some lunch?”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite herself. “Lunch?”

“Yeah, you know, that meal between breakfast and dinner?” Sam’s grin widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I know a place nearby that makes a burger so good it’ll make you forget your own name.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “And who knows, maybe I can convince you to change your mind about Louisiana over some sweet potato fries.”

“You really never give up, do you?” Isabelle asked, the weight in her chest lightening just a fraction.

“Nope,” Sam replied, popping the ‘p’ sound with exaggerated emphasis. “Stubbornness is a Wilson family trait. Ask my sister sometime about the great treehouse standoff of ‘92.” He struck a ridiculous pose, puffing out his chest. “Plus, it’s part of my charm.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes but couldn’t entirely suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Your charm is debatable, Wilson.”

“Ouch,” Sam clutched his chest in mock offense. “And here I was, about to offer to pay.”

“In that case,” Isabelle said, straightening her shoulders, “lead the way to these supposedly life-altering burgers.”

As they turned to leave the park, Isabelle fell into step beside Sam. For a moment—just a moment-the weight on her shoulders felt a little lighter, the constant pressure in her chest easing enough to take a full breath.

Chapter Text

Isabelle shifted the canvas bag, grimacing as the edge dug deeper into her palm. Three packages of ramen, a box of Captain Crunch—All the Berries—and a six-pack of some craft IPA with a ridiculous name, slid against each other, held tight under her white-knuckled grip. 

It had been like this all day. Eyes following her. Whispers. The cashier at the bodega had stared too long, recognition dawning in her eyes. Even her doorman had given her that look when she walked in—part pity, part morbid curiosity. The same look people gave to car crashes and public meltdowns. 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Stark,” he’d said, voice pitched higher than normal. His eyes had darted away from hers as he’d handed over her mail. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t. It was raining. They both knew it.

Christine’s article had dropped online that morning, and by noon, it had been picked up by three major news outlets. 

The elevator dinged, and she stepped out. Each step toward her apartment door felt heavier than the last. Apartment 1507 loomed ahead. Her door—a slab of dark wood with brass numbers that caught the harsh fluorescent light. Home. The word lodged in her throat like a pill swallowed wrong.

That wasn’t home. Just an expensive storage unit for her things. A place to collapse between nightmares. 

She’d assembled the minimalist furniture herself during 3 a.m. insomnia spirals, Allen wrench gripped tight while some early 2000s movie droned in the background. The walls remained bare, not even a single photo or painting to suggest someone actually lived there. Her mattress felt like sleeping on a hotel bed, never quite right, and her sheets smelled of detergent but were never comfortable, no matter how many times she washed them.

The bag dug deeper into her palm. She welcomed the pain—something tangible to focus on besides the crawling sensation of being watched, discussed, dissected.

Nat would’ve dragged her to a farmer’s market by now, lecturing about antioxidants and proper nutrition while filling Isabelle’s arms with organic kale and locally sourced honey. She’d have made Isabelle drink some green concoction that tasted like lawn clippings but somehow made her feel better.

“Your body is a temple, Isabelle,” she could almost hear Natasha saying, that half-smile playing on her lips. “And you’re treating it like a dumpster.” 

Her phone vibrated against her thigh. Again. Third time in the last hour. She didn’t need to check the screen. Rhodey had escalated from casual check-ins to thinly veiled welfare calls.

You okay? Just checking in. Call me when you get a chance. Izzy, I know you’re reading these. Five seconds to text back “alive” is all I’m asking.

Isabelle’s fingers fished for keys in her jacket pocket, pulling them out with a trembling hand. Rhodey had probably read Christine’s article by now. The muscles in her jaw clenched so tight she heard a faint pop near her ear. She exhaled slowly through her nose, feeling the faint tickle of power beneath her skin—the warning sign before things got bad.

This half-assed vanishing act wasn’t fooling anyone. Not the bodega cashier. Not Gerald. Not Rhodey. Not even herself.

Her mind flashed to the lakeside property. The place where Tony had finally found peace, built a life, had a family—all while Isabelle was nothing but dust scattered across a battlefield. She’d spent those first awful days after returning there. After the funeral. After the will reading. After sitting through endless meetings with lawyers about Stark Industries trusts and inheritance structures, she couldn’t bring herself to care about.

She should be there. She knew she should.

But every creaking floorboard in that house, every ripple on that damn lake, screamed at her to run. The life she’d missed out on during those five years—the birthdays, the holidays, the quiet moments—taunted her from every corner of that perfect lakeside retreat. Every time Morgan looked at her with Tony’s eyes, Isabelle felt herself fracturing all over again.

She fumbled with the lock, her fingers suddenly clumsy and uncooperative. The canvas grocery bag slid down to her wrist, the edge cutting a red line into her skin. There was a click, then Isabelle shouldered the door open, momentum carrying her forward into the dark apartment.

The door swung shut behind her with a soft thud. She leaned against it, letting her head fall back against the cool wood. Her lungs burned, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths as if she’d sprinted the fifteen floors instead of riding the elevator. The grocery bag slipped from her numb fingers, landing with a clatter of beer bottles against hardwood. The six-pack burst free from its cardboard prison, glass bottles skittering across the floor. 

“Shit,” she muttered, watching one bottle roll under the couch. 

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, scanning the apartment like she was assessing a combat zone. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, Manhattan’s skyline spread before her like a glittering wound. From fifteen stories up, the city was all sharp edges and cold beauty—a circuit board of interconnected lights pulsing with artificial life. 

 Beautiful, distant, cold. The same view that had cost her an obscene amount of money now made her stomach lurch with vertigo, like she was perpetually falling.

“Welcome home, Miss Stark,” FRIDAY’s voice cut through the silence, making Isabelle flinch. Her shoulders hunched reflexively, heart rate spiking before her brain caught up.

“Hey, FRIDAY,” she murmured, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. 

Tony had left FRIDAY to her in his will—“Because someone needs to keep an eye on you, kid.” His words from the will reading echoed in her head, that video message he’d left playing on loop in her nightmares.

 She pushed away from the door on unsteady legs. She kicked off her boots, leaving them in a haphazard pile by the entrance. Bending down with a sigh, she gathered the scattered groceries. The packages of ramen went into her left hand, the cereal box tucked under her arm. She corralled the beer bottles one by one, glass cool and slick against her fingers.

Isabelle headed to the kitchen, weaving between towers of cardboard. 

Boxes. Everywhere. A month in this place and they’d multiplied like rabbits instead of diminishing. “KITCHEN” boxes with packing tape still pristine and unbroken. “CLOTHES” cartons with just their top flaps disturbed, where she’d frantically dug for clean underwear at 5 AM. “BOOKS” containers she couldn’t bear to open because they smelled like the compound. Like before.

She dumped her armful of provisions on the kitchen counter. The ramen packages skidded across the marble, one sliding off the edge before she caught it. 

Her stomach growled, a hollow ache that she’d been ignoring since noon. She yanked open a drawer, searching for a bottle opener. Empty. The next drawer was empty except for a single plastic spoon. The third drawer contained nothing but a pent paperclip. 

Isabelle gritted her teeth and grabbed a beer, pressing the cap against the counter’s edge. She slammed her palm down—a sharp crack echoed through the empty apartment as the cap popped off, taking a small chip of the expensive marble with it. Foam erupted, spilling over her fingers in a cold, sticky rush.

She tipped the bottle back, the bitter liquid hitting her empty stomach like a shock of ice water. She leaned against the counter, the edge digging into her lower back. The boxes surrounding her seemed to multiply under her gaze. Four weeks in this place, and she’d barely touched them.

She drained the bottle in three more swallows. Without hesitation, she grabbed another, repeating the same violent ritual—slam, crack, fizz. This time, she caught the foam with her mouth, tongue darting out to lick the bitter liquid from her knuckles.

The living room beckoned. 

She collapsed onto the couch, stiff and unyielding against her body. Four thousand dollars of designer furniture that felt like sitting on concrete—a low-slung charcoal sectional with decorative pillows still arranged in the exact formation they’d been delivered in. The glass coffee table supported nothing but a remote control and yesterday’s coffee mug, a brown ring crusted at the bottom.

She curled her legs underneath her, the fabric of the couch scratching against her skin.

“Miss Stark,” FRIDAY’s voice sliced through the silence, making Isabelle’s hand jerk. “You have a voicemail from Mrs. Stark regarding an invitation to Easter dinner at the lake house.”

The bottle froze halfway back to her mouth. Her throat closed. Morgan in an Easter dress. Egg hunts by the lake—the empty chair at the table where her father should be.

“Colonel Rhodes has left several messages as well,” FRIDAY continued, her Irish lilt somehow making it worse. “Would you like me to play them?”

“No!” The word exploded from her, sharp and panicked. She swallowed hard, trying to force her voice back to something resembling normal. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to break free. “Don’t play them. Just... don’t.”

A brief pause followed—that millisecond until FRIDAY finally responded. “Very well, Miss Stark. Shall I maintain your current away message? That you’re visiting Sam Wilson in Louisiana?”

The lie sat heavy in Isabelle’s stomach, curdling with the beer and self-loathing.

“Yes,” she whispered, hating herself a little more with each syllable. “Keep saying that.”

Her fingers found her phone without conscious thought, pulling it from her pocket. The screen illuminated, harsh blue light crossed her face. Christine’s byline stared back at her, black text against white. 

“HERO OR HAZARD? Isabelle Stark’s Smithsonian Outburst Reignites Accords Debate.”

She’d avoided it all day, but now her thumb hovered over the screen. Don’t do it. Don’t read it. Her heartbeat quickened, a rapid flutter beneath her ribs.

She took another swig of beer instead, the bitter liquid sliding down her throat in a cold rush that did nothing to douse the heat rising in her chest. The bottle was nearly empty now. She set it on the coffee table with a clink. 

“Screw it,” she muttered, tapping the screen.

The article expanded before her eyes, words swimming into focus:

‘When questioned about the Avengers’ current leadership, Stark became visibly agitated. “The interaction quickly escalated,” says Senator Robert Kelly, with Stark exhibiting concerning behaviors including property damage and making what appeared to be threats.’

Her jaw clenched. Property damage. A shattered wine glass. 

‘Many are drawing parallels between Stark’s outburst and the Westview Incident, where fellow Avenger Wanda Maximoff held an entire town hostage. With the Sokovia Accords in limbo following the Blip, who monitors these potential threats? As Senator Kelly noted, “Someone who can cause illness with a touch should be subject to the highest levels of regulation. What happens next when she loses control of her abilities? The potential for a public health catastrophe is staggering—”‘

The phone slipped from her suddenly numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table. Her stomach twisted, acid burning up her throat.

Four days. She’d had four measly days of anonymity in this apartment before Christine Everhart’s hit piece shattered it. A muscle jumped in her jaw. She could feel it—the warning sign—the thing she couldn’t control. 

Isabelle pressed her palms against her eyes until stars burst behind her eyelids, pressure building in her skull. “Stupid. So goddamn stupid.” She’d handed Christine exactly what she wanted—a reaction. A moment of weakness. Ammunition.

The apartment walls seemed to contract around her, closing in with each shallow breath. Her gaze landed on the beer bottle, condensation forming a dark ring on the glass coffee table. She reached for it, hand trembling so badly she nearly knocked it over. 

A siren wailed fifteen stories below. Not urgent—just ambient city noise. But the pitch of it, the way it Dopplered in and out, mimicked something else entirely.

Not sirens. Screams.

Hundreds of them. Alien, human, mechanical.

Isabelle’s muscles locked. Her fingers tightened around the bottle. She was already halfway back there before she realized she’d flinched.

Iron-rich soil filled her nostrils. The battlefield materialized. The thunderous roar of alien creatures reverberated through her bones. The metallic taste of fear coated her tongue. 

Then that terrible silence.

The battlefield had gone deathly still when Thanos stepped through the portal. The air compressed around his massive form, as if gravity bent toward him. 

She’d followed Steve, lunging forward without thought, without a plan, just desperation. Just one touch—that’s all she needed. Her mind raced through possibilities: Hemorrhagic fever? Neurotoxin cascade? Targeted stroke?

Her fingertips had grazed his skin, powers reaching out like tendrils, searching for cellular pathways to corrupt, for systems to shut down—

Then, crushing pressure—his hand around her throat.

Her trachea collapsed under his grip. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision as her feet kicked uselessly above the ground.

His eyes.

Not rage. Not hatred.

Something worse: pity.

The world blurred as he hurled her aside, her body cartwheeling through the air—weightless for one suspended heartbeat—

Impact.

Something hard—tree? Rock? Ribs cracked like dry twigs. Her shoulder wrenched with a wet pop that made her stomach lurch, the joint tearing free from its socket.

“Isabelle!” Nat’s voice cut through the haze. Hands gripped her shoulders, fingers digging into her suit. “Stay with me! Look at me!”

Isabelle tried to focus on Nat’s face hovering above her, but her vision kept sliding sideways, refusing to lock onto anything. The battlefield sounds warped around her—too loud, then too soft, like someone was playing with a volume dial. 

Nat’s voice cracked, raw with desperation. “Izzy, don’t you dare—”

Then…nothing. 

Not darkness or light. Not pain or relief. Just...absence. A complete void of sensation or thought. Non-existence.

Until five years later, when she’d gasped back to life. The same spot. The same dirt under her fingernails. The same pain knifing through cracked ribs and a ruined shoulder—injuries five years old and somehow fresh. 

“Miss Stark!” 

Isabelle jolted violently, the bottle slipped. Her reflexes kicked in just in time to catch it before it hit the floor. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, the muscle memory of broken bones making her chest ache with phantom pain.

Reality crashed back in segments. Her lungs seized, caught between battlefield dust and apartment air.

“Your vital signs indicate elevated stress levels,” FRIDAY continued, “Your heart rate is currently 142 beats per minute. Perhaps I should call—”

“Don’t call anyone!” Isabelle shouted. The sound ricocheted off bare walls and empty spaces, throwing her own panic back at her. She forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose, counting silently to four before releasing the breath. “Sorry, I just...” She swallowed, throat clicking dryly. “Don’t call anyone.”

The AI’s pause felt weighted, almost human in its hesitation, like FRIDAY was deciding whether to override her command, calculating the probability of her self-destruction.

“Very well, Miss Stark,” FRIDAY finally replied, voice modulated to something gentler, almost maternal. 

Isabelle pushed herself off the couch. Her legs felt disconnected from her body as she shuffled toward the kitchen. She yanked the door open, the cold rush of air hitting her, momentarily shocking her system. She blinked rapidly, vision clearing just enough to locate the frozen bag of peas she’d stashed there three nights ago after a similar episode. The plastic crinkled as she pressed the makeshift ice pack against her flushed cheeks. The cold burned at first, then numbed, the pain in her skull receding. Still there, just less deafening. 

Then there was a vibration against her thigh.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the frozen bag harder against her temple until the cold burned a different kind of pain into her skin. “For fuck’s sake,” she muttered, leaning forward until her forehead rested against the refrigerator’s cool metal surface.

“Sam Wilson is calling,” FRIDAY’s tone held something that sounded suspiciously like programmed sarcasm. “Would you like me to inform him you’re away visiting Sam Wilson in Louisiana?”

A strangled laugh escaped her throat, muffled against the freezer door.

“Very funny, FRIDAY.” She pushed herself away from the refrigerator, squaring her shoulders like she was preparing for battle. “I’ll take it.”

Her hand trembled as she pulled the still-vibrating phone from her pocket. Her thumb hovered over the screen. One more second of peace. Just one more...She put the frozen peas back in the freezer with her free hand, the package making a soft thud against the ice tray.

“Hey Sam,” she said, swiping to answer. Her voice came out too high, too brittle. She cleared her throat. “What’s up?” Better. Almost normal.

“Have you seen the news?” Sam’s question cut through pleasantries like a knife.

Her stomach dropped, acid burning up her throat. The cold patch on her cheek from the frozen peas tingled as blood rushed back.”If you mean Everhart’s hit piece, then yeah, had the pleasure. Not really in the mood to talk about it.”

“I—” Sam paused, his voice softening when he continued, though the steel core remained. “Wasn’t calling about that, but you know I’m here if you need to talk, right?”

“Oh.” The syllable fell flat between them. She blinked, thrown off-balance by the pivot. “I know. Thanks.” Her fingernail tapped an anxious rhythm against the phone. “What were you calling about then?”

The knot in her chest tightened. Please, no more aliens.

“Hold on,” Sam said, his voice muffled like he’d turned away from the phone.

She heard rustling, then the rapid-fire tapping of fingers against a screen. Her phone vibrated against her ear—an incoming message. Isabelle pulled it away, squinting at the notification banner sliding down from the top.

A link from Sam. Some news article.

“Government Announces New Captain America: John Walker.”

Her grip tightened on the phone until the case creaked under the pressure.

She read the headline again. And again. The letters blurred, refusing to make sense no matter how many times she blinked. The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered against the counter. She fumbled for it, jabbing at the speaker button with unsteady fingers.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Her voice cracked, the sound raw even to her own ears.

“If it were, it ain’t a good one.” She could picture him perfectly—jaw clenched, that little muscle near his temple pulsing the way it did when he was containing himself. “They just announced it out of nowhere. No warning, no discussion. I thought that shield would spend its days behind glass, not—”

He broke off. The silence that followed held more weight than his words.

Isabelle’s throat closed. She slammed her palm against the counter. “How could they—” The sentence fractured, shards of it catching in her throat. “But you—”

She stopped herself, but the unfinished thought hung between them like smoke. 

But you were supposed to be Captain America. Steve gave it to you. It was yours.

“Who the hell even is this Walker guy?” she asked instead, pacing now, each step striking the hardwood with increasing force.

“Military man,” Sam replied, his words measured and clipped. “Three Medals of Honor. Special Forces.” A beat. “On paper, he’s the perfect American hero.”

The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. 

“This is bullshit,” she hissed, free hand clenching into a fist.

“Rhodes said the same thing.” Sam paused. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened. “Which, by the way, next time you’re using me as your cover story, a heads-up would be nice. The man called me, worried sick when you weren’t answering his texts.” 

Isabelle froze mid-step. 

“Shit.” Heat crawled up her neck, prickling under her skin. “I’m sorry, Sam.” The apology felt paper-thin, dissolving on her tongue. “I just... I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t think,” Sam cut her off. No cushioning. No gentle Sam Wilson approach. Just truth, sharp enough to draw blood. “We just talked about this, Iz. You promised you’d stop disappearing.”

The fight drained from her like water circling a drain. She snatched her phone from the counter and shuffled back to the couch, limbs suddenly weighted with concrete fatigue. 

“I’m in New York,” she admitted, voice small. “I’m at my place, I swear.” Her fingers traced the seam of a decorative pillow, following the stitching like it was a map to somewhere better than here. “After the Smithsonian, I just needed some time to cool down.”

She pressed her palm against her forehead, feeling the throb of an oncoming headache pulsing behind her eyes. She pulled her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. Outside her windows, the city lights blurred, smearing across her vision like watercolors.

Sam was quiet for a moment, and she could almost see him processing, choosing his words carefully, deciding how hard to push. 

“You shouldn’t have lied,” he finally said, voice firm but lacking the sharp edge she’d braced for. “Not to Rhodes, not to me.” A heavy exhale crackled through the speaker. “Man, I was genuinely worried when you weren’t answering. I had to stand there looking like an idiot with no idea where you actually were.”

Heat crawled up Isabelle’s neck, prickling beneath her skin. She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, spine curving. 

“And what exactly was your plan here?” Sam pressed, that counselor’s voice slipping through—the one that always managed to get under her defenses. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you weren’t actually hanging out on my couch eating all my cereal?”

“Your cereal selection is garbage anyway.” The retort tumbled out automatically, muscle memory from countless similar exchanges. “All that healthy granola crap.”

“Don’t deflect,” Sam countered. She caught the hint of amusement warming his tone. It vanished with his next words. “We talked about this, Iz. You promised—no more disappearing acts. Not after last time.”

There was nothing but silence on the line.

Last time.

Last time when she’d disappeared for months after the funeral. No calls, no texts. Just gone. 

Her teeth worried at her bottom lip until she tasted copper. The metallic tang of blood snapped her back to the present.

“I fucked up,” she admitted, the words scraping her throat raw. “I know I did. I just...” Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt, the fabric bunching between white knuckles. The shame burned hotter than the power simmering beneath her skin.

“Look,” Sam’s sigh made her tense. “Walker wasn’t the only reason I called. And I didn’t call to pull a guilt trip on you either,” he continued, clearly trying to shift the conversation. “Isabelle, I know you’re laying low right now, but I could really use your help on something. I need someone I can trust.”

She knew that tone. It was his ‘I’m-about-to-ask-you-something-you-won’t-want-to-do’ voice.

“Sam...” Her voice came out as a warning, sharp and brittle like ice cracking underfoot.

“Just hear me out,” he said. “This isn’t some world-ending catastrophe.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.” Isabelle leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“Fair enough,” Sam huffed out a laugh. “But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” 

Her leg bounced, heel tapping a nervous rhythm against the hardwood. The vibration traveled up her calf, into her knee. She caught herself chewing her thumbnail and yanked her hand away, tasting the bitter residue of beer.

“What is it?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

“Have you heard about the Flag Smashers?”

“The who now?” Despite herself, she straightened, eyes narrowing at nothing.

“Taking that as a no.” She could hear the smile in his voice—that small, crooked one he got when he knew he was reeling her in. “They’re a group that popped up after the Blip. Think the world was better during those five years when half the population was gone.”

“Better during the Blip?” Her voice shot up an octave. “Who the hell thinks that?”

“People who had nothing before and suddenly found themselves with opportunities,” Sam replied, his tone measured. “Jobs opened up, housing became available, and resources weren’t stretched so thin. For some folks, the world improved when it emptied out.”

The concept settled uncomfortably in Isabelle’s stomach. She’d never considered that perspective—that her personal apocalypse had been someone else’s salvation. While she’d been nothing but dust scattered across Wakandan soil, others had been building better lives in the emptier world.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard.

“They’ve been hitting GRC supply centers,” Sam continued. “The folks trying to help resettle everyone who came back.” His voice hardened. “A kid I work with, Torres, he got pretty banged up tracking them last week. Good kid, too eager for his own good.” A pause. “But we might have a hit on their next location. I don’t want to go in alone.” Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice softened. “Come on, Iz. I miss having my partner in crime around.”

“Partner in crime-fighting, you mean?” The banter felt rusty but familiar, like stretching a muscle that hadn’t been used in too long.

“That too.” Sam’s easy laugh warmed something cold inside her.

She thought back to the headline again. ‘Hero or Hazard.’ 

Maybe this was her chance to answer that question. Not just for the public. But for herself. To prove Christine Everhart wrong. To prove she wasn’t broken, wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t just another enhanced individual who couldn’t control herself.

But what if they were right?

“You know what Nat would say right now, right?” The name caught in her throat, sharp-edged and painful.

The line went silent for a beat. When Sam spoke again, his voice had softened. “Probably something terrifying in Russian before kicking both our asses into gear.”

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in Isabelle’s chest—unexpected, almost painful in its suddenness. “God, she would, wouldn’t she?” The memory of Natasha’s no-nonsense approach to their hesitations sent a pang through her heart. “She’d tell me to stop wallowing and make myself useful.”

“In considerably fewer words,” Sam agreed, his voice warm with shared grief. “But yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

Isabelle watched a cloud drift across the sky, casting a momentary shadow over the buildings below. Her reflection stared back at her from the window—hollow-eyed, hair a mess, the ghost of the woman she used to be.

“If I say yes...” She hesitated, her free hand curling into a fist against her thigh. “If things get too intense, if I start to—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. If I start to lose control. If I become the hazard they think I am.

“You’re out,” Sam finished without hesitation. “No questions, no guilt trips, no ‘one more mission’ speeches. I’m not trying to rally the troops for one last stand. I just need someone I trust watching my back.”

The simplicity of it loosened something in her chest. Not a savior of the universe, not a weapon to be wielded—just a friend with a specific set of skills. Just Isabelle.

“Okay.” She exhaled slowly, feeling something shift inside her—not resolution exactly, but movement where before there had been only stagnation. Her lungs expanded fully for what felt like the first time in days. “I’m in.”

She uncurled her fingers one by one, watching as blood rushed back into the whitened knuckles. Her reflection in the window seemed to sharpen, the edges of her becoming more defined against the darkness beyond. She straightened her spine. 

“So when do we start?” 

Chapter Text

The duffle bag strap carved a groove into Isabelle’s shoulder as she followed Sam through the main hangar. This place reminded her of Avengers Compound. Buzzing machinery, personal shouting orders, the metallic clang of tools, that unmistakable jet fuel smell burning her nostrils. Just like the compound. Too much like it. 

Her boots squeaked against the polished floor as they rounded a corner. Then, red, white, and blue slashed across her vision. Isabelle stopped dead, her muscles locking into place. 

On the wall, John Walker’s face stared back at her, in full Captain America regalia—the suit, the shield, all of it. His chin jutted forward with a self-satisfied smirk, making her blood pressure spike.

YOUR NEW CAPTAIN AMERICA, the poster declared.

Sam backtracked when he realized she wasn’t following. His eyes tracked to the poster, then back to her face, watching her expression harden. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she whispered. “These flag-humping Pentagon suits are already stamping him out like some cheap action figure?” She stepped closer, jabbing a finger at the poster. The glossy paper dimpled under her touch. “Just look at this asshole.

“Iz.” Sam’s voice dropped low, a warning wrapped in her nickname. He slid between her and the poster, shoulders blocking her view. “Not here.”

She leaned around him, heat building behind her eyes. “They’re parading him around like he’s the real thing. Like any of these assholes knew Steve.” His name cracked in her mouth like broken glass. “Like they have any right to—”

“Hey.” Sam’s hand found her arm, warm through the fabric of her sleeve. His grip was firm but gentle. “I need you to dial it back about ten notches. Remember where we are.”

His eyes flicked toward the personnel moving around them—airmen with clipboards, officers barking orders, mechanics with grease-stained hands.

“These are good people doing their jobs,” he continued, voice pitched for her ears only. “The grunts on the ground aren’t the ones sitting in war rooms making policy decisions.”

Heat rushed to Isabelle’s cheeks, not embarrassment but anger burning hotter. 

“Good people following bad orders are still complicit,” she hissed, meeting his gaze head-on. “You of all people should understand that, Sam. After everything we’ve seen.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t even go there,” he said, eyes flashing with a warning that made her stomach clench. “You think I don’t feel it too? Seeing that damn poster, it’s like someone’s twisting a knife in my gut. Like they’re erasing him.” He leaned closer, close enough that she could smell the faint mint on his breath. “But we can’t afford to make enemies right now. Not here. Not when we need these resources.” 

Isabelle dragged her eyes away from his, focusing instead on the scuffed toes of her boots. A loose thread hung from her laces. She took a breath that shuddered on the way in, filling her lungs with that jet fuel smell that reminded her too much of her father’s workshop. 

“Fine,” she muttered, the words clipped and sharp. She adjusted her duffle bag again.

Sam’s expression softened just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. He nodded toward the corridor ahead. 

She fell into step beside him, forcing herself not to look back at the poster. But she could still feel it watching her, Walker’s smug face burning into her back as they walked away. 

Further down the walkway, a man approached from the opposite end. Isabelle clocked his injuries immediately, his face looking like he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight. Purple-yellow bruises bloomed across his cheekbones, his left eye swollen so the skin stretched shiny and taut. Burst capillaries spiderwebbed across the white of his right eye. 

He smiled at Sam. This was the man Sam told her about. The kid he worked with, who tracked the Flag Smashers. 

“He seems like a good guy,” the man said, nodding back toward the hallway they’d just left. “Have you met him yet?” 

Isabelle’s jaw clenched so hard her molars ached. Either this guy’s enthusiasm was genuine, or he’d suffered brain damage along with his facial injuries.

Sam shot her a look that could’ve frozen lava—a clear “don’t you dare” warning. She caught the nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes, the slight flare of his nostrils.

“No, haven’t had the pleasure,” Sam replied, shifting his weight subtly to include Isabelle in the conversation. “Iz, this is First Lieutenant Joaquin Torres. Torres, this is—”

“Isabelle Stark,” Joaquin finished. Something like awe flickered across his features, making him look suddenly younger. He thrust out his hand with such eagerness that he winced at his own movement. “Holy sh—” He caught himself, glancing at Sam before continuing. “Sorry. It’s just—this is so cool. Sick Girl—awesome. You’re like, easily my second favorite Avenger.” 

The naked admiration blindsided her. Isabelle was accustomed to people flinching away, to the subtle shift of bodies creating distance in crowded rooms. Most civilians either feared her or treated her like she might infect them with something. But Joaquin looked at her like she was something special—something good.

“Second favorite, huh?” Isabelle felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips as she shook his hand, careful not to grip too hard. The simple human contact—without fear—dissolved some of the rage still simmering in her chest. “Who beat me out for first place?”

Joaquin’s face fell like she’d asked him to choose between oxygen and water. His gaze ping-ponged between her and Sam, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Well, I mean—that’s—” 

“Yeah, Torres.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest, eyebrow arching dangerously high as he leaned forward. “Who exactly beat her out for first?” He smirked, enjoying this. 

“You’re definitely top three, boss,” Joaquin rushed to say, reaching out to pat Sam’s shoulder before pulling his hand back with an awkward laugh. 

Sam’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “But not number one.”

Isabelle snorted, the sound escaping before she could trap it. The knot of tension that had been coiled in her chest since seeing Walker’s poster loosened another fraction.

“So who’s your number one?” she pressed, unable to resist the opportunity to needle Sam further. She caught his exasperated look and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.

Joaquinn shifted his weight, looking both apologetic and starstruck as he admitted, “Ant-Man.” 

“I’m sorry—” Isabelle blinked, certain she’d misheard. The name ricocheted through her brain like a bullet. “Ant-Man? Scott Lang?”

Sam made a sound like he’d been personally wounded. “The dude whose main superpower is shrinking?” His hand sliced through the air in disbelief. “That’s your number one?”

A laugh bubbled up in Isabelle’s throat. “You’re telling me,” she said, leaning forward, “that a guy who talks to bugs outranks super soldier training and literal disease manipulation?” The absurdity of it hit her again, and she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing harder.

“The ants have names,” Joaquin said, his face lighting up with earnest enthusiasm. His bruised eye crinkled despite the swelling. “He named them. That’s commitment. And tactically speaking, the shrinking thing is genius for reconnaissance.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I fly, Torres,” he said, voice flat with disbelief. “With actual wings. Mechanical ones that don’t require bug telepathy.”

“Which is awesome,” Joaquin assured him quickly, hands coming up in a placating gesture. “Definitely awesome. Top three material.”

“Top three,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. The corner of his mouth twitched downward.

“Wait—” Isabelle’s lips curled into a mischievous smile as a memory surfaced, crystal clear despite the years. She turned to Sam with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment. “Didn’t he kick your ass once? On the Compound’s roof...”

She snapped her fingers like she was struggling to remember, though the security footage had been one of her favorite videos. Her father had shown it to her three times, cackling each time Sam went spinning across the concrete.

Sam’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “It was a recruitment assessment.” Each word came out clipped and precise, like he was reading from an official report. His eyes narrowed at her, a silent warning that only made her smile widen. “A controlled evaluation of his capabilities.”

Isabelle locked eyes with Joaquin, who watched their exchange with the rapt attention of someone witnessing their favorite TV show play out in real life. She leaned in conspiratorially, though her voice carried easily to Sam.

“I’ve got the security footage backed up in three different places,” she stage-whispered, the words warm with amusement. Her lips quirked up at the corner. “He got taken down by an ex-con who was literally the size of an ant. Redwing went haywire, Sam was spinning in circles...” She twirled her finger for emphasis, tracing tight loops in the air between them.

“It wasn’t—” Sam started, then cut himself off with a huff.

“There was this part where he shrunk down,” Isabelle continued, “and Sam’s all ‘where’d he go?’ and then—” She slapped her hands together with a sharp crack that echoed through the corridor. A passing airman glanced over, then quickly looked away. “Lang pops back to normal size and sends him flying. Full superhero landing and everything while Sam’s eating concrete. Got his ass handed to him,” Isabelle finished, unable to keep the grin off her face. “By a guy who named his ants.”

Joaquin’s laugh burst out before he could stop it. 

“If we could focus,” Sam interrupted, glaring at Isabelle. “Now that you two have bonded over my professional humiliation, maybe we could get back to the reason we’re actually here?”

Isabelle met Sam’s eyes, not bothering to hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Right, right,” Joaquin straightened, all business now despite the lingering smile. “I’m almost done with the checklist for your equipment. Everything should be ready by the time you land in Munich.”

Isabelle fell into step behind them as they descended a metal staircase. Her gaze kept drifting to Joaquin’s face. Curiosity mingled with her natural concern, her mind automatically cataloging which injuries were fresh and which had already been healing for several days.

“So, Torres,” she said, quickening her stride until she flanked him opposite Sam. “Who made your face look like you went ten rounds with a meat tenderizer?” She knew the answer, of course, but couldn’t help it. It was a family trait. Words coming out before her brain could filter them. 

Joaquin winced reflexively, hand lifting toward his face before stopping mid-air, like he’d forgotten how bad it looked until she mentioned it.

“Flag Smashers,” he admitted, a flush creeping up his neck past his collar. “I was tracking them through some online forums, managed to get invited to one of their meetups. Then—” He gestured to his face with a self-deprecating shrug. “Well, they don’t pull their punches.”

“Flag Smashers,” Isabelle repeated, the name feeling ridiculous in her mouth, like chewing on something that shouldn’t be edible. “Sounds like a rejected boy band from 2010.”

Sam snorted but his eyes remained serious. “They’re anything but amateur hour,”He glanced at a passing officer before continuing, voice dropping to just above a whisper.

“Yeah, they’re...” Joaquin paused, eyes unfocusing slightly like he was replaying footage in his head. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, catching on the small split at the corner of his mouth. “Different. Not normal. The dude who did this to me—” he gestured at his face, “—moved like nothing I’ve ever seen. Stronger than he should’ve been. Faste,r too.” 

They descended the final flight of stairs, the hangar sprawled out before them. Isabelle opened her mouth to ask Joaquin another question when something stopped her mid-stride. 

No. Not something. Someone. 

Her body registered his presence before her brain did—a sudden electric current zipping down her spine, every nerve ending suddenly, painfully alert. Her step faltered, boot scuffing against concrete as her breath caught in her throat.

Across the hangar floor, cutting through the crowd like a knife through water, was Bucky Barnes.

The sea of uniforms parted around him instinctively, bodies shifting out of his path without conscious thought. Even at this distance, Isabelle could read the rigid set of his shoulders, the controlled precision of each step. Heat seemed to roll off him in waves, like asphalt on a summer day.

Six months. Six months since she’d last seen him, standing silent and stone-faced at her father’s funeral. 

He’d cut his hair. The long, shaggy strands she remembered were gone, replaced by a shorter style that still managed to look disheveled, like he’d run frustrated fingers through it a dozen times today. Civilian clothes hung on his frame—dark pants and a fitted jacket that couldn’t quite disguise the lethal strength beneath. Gloves concealed his hands, both flesh and metal.

His face had changed, too—or maybe it was just her memory playing tricks. His jawline seemed sharper, more defined beneath the stubble that shadowed it. His eyes, fixed on Sam with laser-like focus, were winter-cold blue, the color of deep ice with storms trapped beneath.

“—don’t you think, Iz?” Sam’s voice broke through her trance.

“What?” Isabelle blinked, reality rushing back in. Her mouth felt suddenly dry.

Sam tracked her gaze across the hangar, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition to something harder. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

“Sam?” Isabelle edged closer until her shoulder pressed against his arm. “Did you invite him—”

“No,” Sam cut her off, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I absolutely did not.”

“Holy shit,” Torres whispered beside them, tugging nervously at his uniform collar. “That’s Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky closed the distance between them. His eyes locked on Sam, never once flickering to Isabelle or acknowledging Joaquin. “Wilson.” His voice was rough gravel, like he hadn’t used it in days.

“Barnes.” Sam’s reply came cold, none of the warmth Isabelle was accustomed to hearing in his voice. “Fancy seeing you here. Thought you were still ghosting everyone’s calls.”

Bucky’s metal fingers flexed beneath his glove—a microscopic tell that sent Isabelle’s pulse racing. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Do we now?” Sam crossed his arms, shoulders squaring. “Six months of radio silence and suddenly we need to talk?”

The tension between them was a physical thing, crackling like a live wire. Isabelle’s skin prickled with it.

“You gave away the shield.” Not a question—an accusation. Bucky’s voice vibrated with barely contained fury. His jaw clenched so tight Isabelle could almost hear his molars grinding. “Steve’s shield.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, his chest expanding with a slow, deliberate breath. “I don’t have time for this.” Sam stepped forward, deliberately driving his shoulder into Bucky’s as he passed. 

The collision would have staggered most men. Bucky didn’t move an inch. His eyes tracked Sam’s retreat, narrowing as his head pivoted slowly. The muscles in his neck corded with tension. He turned on his heel, stalking after Sam. 

Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat. The shield. Of course. It clicked into place like the final tumbler in a lock. That wasn’t just anger on Bucky’s face—it was betrayal.

“Surprised they let him in here,” Torres murmured beside her, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as they both watched Bucky’s retreating back. “I mean, with his history and all the—” He made a vague gesture with his hand, somehow encompassing decades of assassinations, international incidents, and a rap sheet that spanned continents.

The Winter Soldier’s resume, condensed into a nervous hand flutter.

“He’s an Avenger,” Isabelle replied automatically, the words leaving her mouth before her brain could catch them.

Was he, though?

He’d fought alongside them against Thanos, had stood shoulder-to-shoulder. But had anyone actually offered him the title? Who was even left that could?

Not her father. Not Steve. Not Natasha.

Her eyes tracked Bucky as he caught up to Sam. His shoulders bunched beneath the jacket, the fabric straining. Fragments of their argument reached Isabelle, cutting pieces that didn’t form a complete picture but drew blood nonetheless.

“Steve trusted you with it, and you threw it away.”

He’d planted himself directly in Sam’s path. His right hand hovered near Sam’s chest, index finger extended but not quite making contact—a soldier who knew exactly where the line was, who wanted desperately to cross it but wouldn’t allow himself to.

The careful mask he always wore had fractured. Isabelle caught glimpses of something jagged and bleeding underneath—pain so naked it made her chest tighten. His eyes, usually guarded behind walls of ice, now burned with vulnerability. 

Sam tried to sidestep Bucky, but the former assassin mirrored his movement. Like a dance they’d rehearsed a thousand times. The tendons in Sam’s neck stood out as he struggled to keep his voice low, his hand reaching out in a gesture that was half pleading, half exasperated.

“What do you want me to do? Call America and tell ‘em I changed my mind? Huh?” His hand sliced through the air. “Walk into the Pentagon and demand the shield back?”

“Maybe you should.” Even from this distance, Isabelle heard the leather of Bucky’s glove creak as his fist clenched. The sound sent a shiver crawling up her spine. “Because you had no right to give up on what Steve believed in you—”

Something in Sam snapped. The expression on his face made Isabelle’s breath catch—she’d seen Sam face down aliens and terrorists with less intensity than this.

“Hey.” He stepped forward, eliminating the distance until he and Bucky stood nearly chest to chest. “This is what you’re not gonna do. You’re not gonna come at me in your overextended life and lecture me about my rights.”

A muscle jumped in Bucky’s jaw. His face went carefully blank, that assassin’s mask sliding back into place, but not before Isabelle caught a flash of something that looked suspiciously like guilt.

Joaquin fidgeted beside her, his bruised face contorting with discomfort. “Should we, uh—” he gestured vaguely toward the confrontation, “—do something?”

Isabelle scanned the hangar floor, suddenly aware of the shifting attention around them. A technician with grease-stained coveralls abandoned his clipboard, mouth hanging slightly open. Two officers paused mid-conversation, heads swiveling toward the confrontation. A mechanic elbowed his colleague, nodding toward the spectacle.

She turned back to Sam and Bucky. Their voices had dropped to dangerous lows, but their body language screamed a warning—Sam’s finger jabbing the air inches from Bucky’s chest, Bucky’s metal hand opening and closing. 

“I’ll handle this,” she told Joaquinn, already moving. She caught his anxious gaze, how his eyes kept darting between the confrontation and the nearest exit. “Can you finish prepping the plane? We’ll meet you there once I’ve prevented a homicide.”

Relief washed over him. “Yeah, absolutely,” he stammered, backing away. “I’ll just—” he gestured vaguely toward the far side of the hangar, “—go do that.” 

Isabelle approached the standoff, but neither man noticed her. 

“—you think Steve would’ve wanted this?” 

“Don’t you dare—”

“Gentlemen,” Isabelle cut in, sliding between them. 

Both men startled, heads snapping toward her as if suddenly remembering the world existed outside themselves. Sam’s chest heaved with a sharp inhale. Bucky went utterly still.

“As fascinating as this very public therapy session is,” she continued, “maybe we could take it somewhere with fewer audience members?” She tilted her head toward the growing circle of airmen who had abandoned any pretense of work, some actually leaning against equipment with crossed arms and unabashed interest. “Unless you’re planning to sell tickets?”

Bucky’s eyes finally—finally—met hers, and the contact hit like an electrical surge through her chest. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded flickered across his face—surprise, recognition, and something else that made her stomach flip—before the shutters came down again, his expression hardening into that careful neutrality she knew too well.

“Isabelle,” he said, her name rough in his mouth, like a word practiced in private but rarely spoken aloud. His gaze swept her face, lingering for a fraction too long. “I—I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Clearly,” she replied, arching an eyebrow, “or you might have started with ‘hello’ instead of initiating World War III in the middle of an Air Force base.” She shifted her weight, deliberately creating space between them while maintaining her position as a human barrier.

Sam exhaled, a controlled release of air through clenched teeth. “She’s right.” His eyes swept the gathering audience, muscles tightening along his jaw. “Not here.”

“Then where?” Bucky challenged, voice radiating something deeper than anger. “Because decisions about Steve’s shield apparently happen without the people who actually knew him.”

“You think I made that decision lightly?” Sam stepped forward, closing the distance Isabelle had created.

She moved without thinking, palms pressing against their chests, pushing them apart. “What the hell did I just say?” Her gaze darted between them before locking on Sam. “Wasn’t it you telling me to dial it back ten minutes ago? Something about not making enemies?” Her fingers pressed harder against his sternum. “Take your own advice before you join me on Everhart’s next hit piece.”

Sam’s eyes met hers—anger warring with reason behind them. He stepped back with a tight nod. 

Bucky remained rigid under her touch, his eyes darting between her and Sam, and for a moment, Isabelle thought he might refuse to back down. But then, almost imperceptibly, something shifted. Not surrender—Bucky Barnes didn’t surrender—but a tactical retreat. He shrugged her hand off with a quick, controlled movement and nodded. 

Sam straightened his jacket with a sharp tug, squaring his shoulders as he fixed Bucky with a hard look. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re working,” he said, voice dropping into that command tone that left no room for argument. “We have bigger things to deal with right now.”

“What could be bigger than this?” The question wasn’t a challenge but a genuine plea. Bucky kept his eyes on them, almost in disbelief. 

Isabelle recognized that ache. She’d felt it searing through her own chest when she’d seen Walker’s poster, that same sense of something sacred being violated. The shield wasn’t just vibranium and paint—it was Steve. It was everything he’d stood for.

“Bucky,” she said, his name softer in her mouth than she’d intended. She swallowed, recalibrating. “I know how you feel.” Her eyes flicked toward Sam. “But Sam’s right. Something is happening. Something that unfortunately has to take precedence.”

Bucky’s eyes locked with hers. His gaze was unreadable, and that unsettled her more than any glare could have.

“Fine,” he said, his lips pressing into a tight line as he took a half-step back. When his gaze shifted to Sam, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. “What’s so important that it takes precedence over Captain America’s shield being handed off to some government stooge who’s never bled for anything in his life?”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing hard enough to leave faint red marks against his skin. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he shot Isabelle a look that clearly said: Great, there’s two of you now.

His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath that seemed to physically pain him.

With a resigned sigh that seemed to come from somewhere beneath his ribcage, Sam pulled out his phone, then held it out to Bucky with barely contained frustration.

“This guy.” He jabbed a finger at the screen, showing a screenshot of the Flag Smasher who had attacked Joaquin. “He’s connected to a rebel organization that’s been hitting targets all over Eastern and Central Europe.”

Bucky, however, seemed unimpressed. He pulled back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Okay, and?” His voice was gruff, bordering on dismissive. His eyes flickered to Isabelle for a split second before darting away. 

Sam’s nostrils flared as he shoved the phone back into his pocket. “They’re calling themselves the Flag Smashers. They’ve been gaining traction online, pulling off coordinated attacks across borders. Not random—targeted. Strategic.” He tapped his temple. “Redwing traced them to Munich.” He gestured between himself and Isabelle, the movement sharp. “We’re heading there to check it out.”

“Flag Smashers,” Bucky repeated flatly, “that’s what we’re calling the bad guys now?” He shifted his weight, fixing Sam with a skeptical look, his eyes narrowing. “Well, I don’t trust Redwing.” 

“You don’t need to,” Sam scoffed, already turning away. The dismissal was pointed and deliberate. He nodded toward Isabelle, a clear signal to follow. “You’re not a part of this.”

Isabelle hesitated, her gaze flickering between them. She watched Bucky’s face, saw the flicker of something vulnerable beneath the hardened exterior, the way his eyes tracked Sam’s movements with a mixture of frustration and something that looked suspiciously like abandonment.

Before her brain could catch up with her mouth, Isabelle called out.

“Maybe he should be.” The words came softer than she intended, barely carrying over the ambient hangar noise. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder this time. “A part of this, I mean.”

Sam froze mid-step. His head whipped around so fast that Isabelle was surprised he didn’t pull something. “What?” The single syllable dropped between them like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, surprise flickering across his features—genuine, unguarded surprise that made him look suddenly younger, more human. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying her face as if searching for the punchline.

“I think he could help us,” Isabelle continued, gesturing toward Bucky with an open palm. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady, reasonable. “These Flag Smashers—they’re enhanced, have to be, with how Torres described them.” 

 Her mind raced through the tactical advantages—Bucky’s superhuman strength, decades of combat experience, and his ability to blend in. But those weren’t the only reasons, and she knew it. There was something about the lost look in his eyes, the way he’d said Steve’s name like it physically hurt him. 

“Having another super soldier might be the difference between reconnaissance and a body bag.” She took a half-step forward, closing the distance between them.

Sam’s expression shifted through disbelief, irritation, and something that might have been seeing the sense in her argument. “Let me get this straight,” he said, his face settling into a carefully controlled exasperation. “You want to bring him—” he jabbed a finger toward Bucky without looking at him. “—on a covert mission? The Winter Soldier? The guy whose face is in history books under ‘world’s most wanted assassin’?”

“Former assassin,” Bucky corrected, his voice a low rumble that Isabelle felt more than heard. 

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply through flared nostrils. The sound whistled slightly. “Iz, we’re trying to fly under the radar here. Barnes isn’t exactly known for his subtlety. He can’t even get through a metal detector.” 

“I’m standing right here,” Bucky interjected, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I can be subtle when I need to be.” His eyes flicked briefly to Isabelle before returning to Sam, something unreadable passing across his features. “I spent two years in Bucharest without anyone finding me. I think I can manage this.”

“Yeah, until you didn’t,” Sam countered, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. “Or did you forget the part where half the German special forces tried to take you out in a tunnel? The part where cars were flipping and helicopters were crashing and—”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Bucky replied, his voice cooling several degrees. “And if we’re tallying property damage, let’s talk about you and that helicopter in Berlin—”

“Oh, for—” Isabelle stepped between them again, hands raised like she was trying to separate two feral cats. “Can we focus for five seconds? This isn’t a pissing contest.”

Her voice echoed slightly in the hangar, drawing a few more stares from nearby personnel. A mechanic paused mid-wrench turn, watching them with undisguised interest.

Sam’s gaze darted between them, shrewd and assessing. His eyes narrowed at Bucky, who had regained his composure but still stood with his body angled subtly toward Isabelle—a detail she tried very hard not to overthink.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his temples like he was trying to physically push the headache out of his skull. “I must be losing my damn mind,” he muttered, dropping his hand with a soft slap against his thigh. His eyes returned to Bucky, hard and serious. “Fine. You can come.”

Bucky’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch—his equivalent of open-mouthed shock.

“But,” Sam’s inhale whistled through flared nostrils, “there are conditions. Non-negotiable.”

“Name them.” Bucky straightened, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly, feet shoulder-width apart. Isabelle recognized the stance immediately: a soldier awaiting orders. 

“One.” Sam thrust his index finger up. “You follow my lead. Every call, every decision. No disappearing acts, no ‘I work better alone’ bullshit. We’re not in a spy thriller.” 

Bucky’s brow twitched, but he remained silent, eyes never leaving Sam’s face. He nodded. 

“Two.” Another finger shot up. “No killing unless absolutely necessary. We contain, we question, we learn.” Sam’s voice dropped lower. “I don’t need bodies dropping everywhere we go.” 

Something dangerous flashed behind Bucky’s eyes. “I don’t kill people for fun, Wilson.”

“Didn’t say you did,” Sam countered without missing a beat. “But your definition of ‘necessary’ and mine might differ considerably.” His eyes narrowed. “So we’re clarifying now.”

Isabelle shifted her weight. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she watched the exchange, wondering if she’d just made a catastrophic mistake. 

“Three.” Sam’s third finger joined the others. “We are not discussing the shield. Not during this mission, not on the plane, not at all. That conversation is tabled indefinitely.”

Bucky’s face remained carefully blank, but Isabelle caught the subtle tells—the tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible flare of his nostrils, the way his gloved hand flexed once before going still.

“Fine,” he said finally.

The word hung between them, neither surrender nor acceptance. A tactical retreat. Isabelle recognized the strategy. She’d deployed it herself countless times with her father.

“Great,” Sam said, not sounding remotely pleased. He checked his watch with a deliberate flick of his wrist, lips pressing into a thin line. “Wheels up in fifteen. If you’re not on the plane, we leave without you.” His eyes locked with Bucky’s. “I’m not kidding.” Sam turned to Isabelle, his expression softening fractionally. The hard lines around his mouth eased. “I need to finish the pre-flight check with Torres.”

Without waiting for a response, Sam strode away. Silence expanded between Isabelle and Bucky. She became acutely aware of her breathing, of the weight of her duffle bag cutting into her shoulder. She shifted awkwardly. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bucky said, sensing her discomfort. His eyes remained fixed on Sam’s retreating form.

She shot him a questioning look, unsure what he meant. 

“Vouch for me.” He turned to face her fully. He looked over her face before his eyes darted away. “Why did you?”

The question caught her off guard. Why had she? The tactical advantages were obvious, but there was something else—something about the lost look in his eyes when he’d talked about Steve, about the shield.

She recognized that look. She saw it in the mirror every morning.

“Because we need you,” she said, the words coming out more honest than she’d intended. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or disbelief. She cleared her throat. “Tactically, I mean. These Flag Smashers—if they’re enhanced, we’re going to need all the super-soldier help we can get.”

Isabelle tightened her grip on her duffle strap and turned to go. Her boots had barely scraped against the concrete when his voice stopped her.

“Isabelle.”

She froze. Her name in his mouth still sounded strange—careful, like he was testing the weight of it. Like someone handling a weapon they weren’t sure how to use. She looked back over her shoulder, finding his eyes fixed on her with that same unsettling intensity.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

The words seemed to cost him something, each syllable deliberate and rough around the edges. For bringing him along? For speaking up? For seeing something in him worth salvaging? She wasn’t sure which, and suspected he might not be either.

“Of course.” The words felt inadequate, but she couldn’t think of anything better. She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, gesturing toward the plane with a jerky sweep of her arm. “We should probably...” She cleared her throat, suddenly desperate to escape the intensity of his gaze. “Sam wasn’t kidding about leaving us.” 

She turned, taking two steps before glancing back over her shoulder. Bucky hadn’t moved, still watching her with that unreadable expression that made her skin prickle with awareness.

“You coming, Barnes? Or are you planning to test if super soldiers can outrun jets?”

He seemed to snap out of whatever thought had held him, nodding once. “Right behind you.”

The weight of his gaze followed her all the way to the door, raising goosebumps along her spine that had nothing to do with the cold draft seeping into the hangar.

What the hell had she just done?

Chapter Text

The black and green fabric felt alien under Isabelle’s fingertips. Not unfamiliar—worse. Too familiar. She traced the seam where emerald panels met the deep black base, feeling the ridge between materials. A whisper of a memory ghosted across her mind. 

The Triskelion. Three months after aliens had torn through New York. Four months after she’d finally admitted to herself that her condition wasn’t going away.

She remembered running her fingers along this same material. Back then, the suit wasn’t flashy. SHIELD standard issue with green accents that matched Natasha’s red ones. The weight of it had meant something different then.

The changing room had been claustrophobic, all hard angles and fluorescent light that made her skin look sickly pale. She’d watched herself disappear beneath the tactical material, each piece covering another inch of Tony Stark’s awkward daughter until someone else stared back from the mirror.

The suit had hugged her frame too tightly, pressing against her ribs with each inhale, a constant reminder: this isn’t a game anymore. 

When she’d emerged, Natasha had been waiting, arms crossed, face a careful blank.

“Well?” Isabelle had asked, arms spread wide, voice steadier than the tremor in her hands.

Natasha’s eyes had narrowed, calculating. Not judging—assessing. “The suit doesn’t make the agent, Stark.” She’d stepped forward, fingers cool and precise as she adjusted the collar where it pinched Isabelle’s neck. “But it’s a start.”

The suit evolved as she did. With each mission, each failure, each success, she’d tailored it. Added reinforcements at weak points. Streamlined it for speed. Enhanced it for stealth. The more she embraced what the public dubbed her— ‘Sick Girl’—the more the suit reflected her power.

God, she hated that name. Stupid. Insulting. Just the thing she could do. The thing she’d never asked for. 

 Every time she heard it, she was twelve years old again. Sitting alone at the corner table in the school cafeteria, plastic tray pushed to the center, untouched. Watching classmates whisper behind cupped hands, their eyes darting toward her, then quickly away. The way they’d edge their chairs back when she approached, like proximity was contagious.

Because it was.

Jenna Faraway had called her “freak” once, right to her face. Twenty minutes later, Jenna doubled over, vomiting on her new white sneakers. Isabelle hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t understood what was happening. But everyone knew. Everyone saw. 

But no one could explain it. 

After that, the empty circle around her grew wider. Parents made phone calls. Teachers kept their distance. Even the lunch lady would slide her tray across the counter rather than risk their fingers touching. 

She remembered when putting on the suit felt like freedom. Like purpose. She’d been eager then, fingers fumbling with zippers and clasps, heart racing with anticipation rather than dread. Natasha had watched with that half-smile that meant approval.

For a while, she’d been something more than the girl who made people sick. She’d been an agent. An Avenger. Someone who could control the thing that had controlled her for so long.

But now, as her fingers drifted across the fabric, something hollow settled in her chest. The material no longer felt like a second skin—it felt like a shroud. 

Isabelle sucked in a breath that pushed painfully against her ribs and yanked the zipper up, the sound sliced through the quiet. 

The suit hummed to life against her skin. Green lines flickered along the seams, pulsing like electronic veins against the black fabric. The eerie glow reflected off the metal walls, casting her shadow in sickly shades of emerald.

“Systems online,” FRIDAY’s voice slid through her comms. “Running diagnostics.”

Isabelle flexed her fingers, watching the green light ripple across her knuckles. 

“Heart rate elevated at ninety-four beats per minute,” FRIDAY continued. “Blood pressure one-twenty over eighty. Oxygen saturation at ninety-eight percent.”

Isabelle slid her feet into combat boots. 

“Biometric readings within acceptable parameters. Suit integrity at one hundred percent. Power cells charged.”

She tugged on her fingerless gloves, feeling the slight resistance as the material aligned with the suit’s sensors. The exposed skin of her fingertips buzzed—her power already responding to the adrenaline coursing through her system.

“If I may, Miss Stark—your cortisol levels suggest—”

“I’m fine.” She flexed her hands, watching the green light pulse brighter with each heartbeat. Not unstable. Just... ready. “Give me the all-clear, FRI.”

A pause. “All systems operational. You are cleared for deployment.”

Isabelle sighed, adjusting her gloves one final time, tugging the material until it sat just right. 

With a sharp exhale, she yanked back the curtain.

The cargo hold stretched before her—all hard angles and utility, steel floors that reflected the dim overhead lights in dull patches. Bucky stood at the weapons rack, his broad shoulders tensed beneath a navy leather jacket. His fingers froze mid-adjustment on his collar, eyes flicking to her for a fraction of a second before snapping away. 

The subtle tightening around his mouth didn’t escape her notice. Neither did the way his metal hand flexed unconsciously at his side, plates whirring almost indiscernibly.

The suit’s sensors prickled against her skin like static electricity, registering the slight spike in her pulse. 

“Well, look who finally decided to join the party,” Sam called from where he stood, checking his wing pack. The red and silver gleamed under the cargo hold lights as his fingers worked methodically over the mechanisms. “I was starting to think you were sewing that thing from scratch in there.”

“Well, you know us Starks,” she replied, crossing the hold. Her hips swayed slightly—that unconscious performance of confidence she’d perfected years ago. The one that said ‘I belong here’ when everything inside screamed she didn’t. “We like to make an entrance.”

The plane suddenly lurched sideways, hitting a pocket of turbulence that had the metal walls groaning in protest. Isabelle’s stomach dropped as her balance faltered. Her hand shot out reflexively, fingers wrapping around an overhead strap so tightly her knuckles blanched white beneath the green glow of her suit.

“Shit,” she hissed through clenched teeth as another violent shake rattled through the fuselage. Her free hand pressed flat against the wall to steady herself, the cold metal biting into her exposed fingertips.

She squeezed her eyes shut, counting breaths—the familiar pressure built behind her sternum—that tightness that always came with flying. Not fear exactly. More like the visceral certainty that humans weren’t meant to be suspended 30,000 feet above the earth in metal tubes.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate flying?” The words came out strained, her jaw tight.

“Every time,” Sam muttered, bracing himself against the wall, wing pack secured against his chest. “Literally every single time.”

Across the hold, Bucky stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, barely affected by the turbulence. His body swayed slightly with the motion, compensating and shifting his weight. His eyes met hers—steel blue and searching. 

“You okay?” he asked, the question so quiet she almost missed it beneath the rumble of the engines.

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. Not pity. Something worse. Understanding.

“Always,” she answered automatically, the lie practiced and smooth. 

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the floor, then back to her face. His jaw tightened. He didn’t buy it. But he didn’t press. Just a slight nod, the barest dip of his chin. 

The turbulence eased, leaving only the steady hum of engines vibrating through the metal floor. Isabelle uncurled her white-knuckled fingers from the overhead strap one by one, flexing them to restore circulation.

“So, these Flag Smashers...” Bucky’s voice cut through the silence, trailing off as if he’d surprised himself by speaking. His eyes darted briefly to Isabelle before fixing on some point in the middle distance. “What else do we know about them?”

The question hung in the air. Isabelle watched as Sam, mid-adjustment of his wing pack straps, froze. His shoulders tensed beneath his tactical gear, and he shot Bucky a look that could have curdled milk. 

“Sam thinks they’re part of the big three,” Isabelle cut in, fighting back the twitch at the corner of her mouth as confusion clouded Bucky’s features. 

“The big three?” Bucky’s brow furrowed, head tilting slightly to the side. The movement was almost dog-like—a comparison she’d never voice aloud unless she wanted that metal hand around her throat.

“The big three,” Sam repeated with exaggerated patience, giving both of them a look that screamed ‘Are you serious right now?’ 

Isabelle bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“What big three?” Bucky insisted, his confusion morphing into irritation. His eyes darted between Sam and Isabelle, searching for context, finding none. 

“Told you it wasn’t a thing,” Isabelle stage-whispered to Sam, nudging him with her elbow.

Sam glared at her, betrayal written across his features. 

“It’s totally a thing!” he hissed, before turning back to Bucky with the air of someone explaining quantum physics to a toddler. “The big three. Androids, aliens, and wizards. You know, the trifecta of weird we keep running into.”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, face completely blank. Isabelle could almost see the gears turning behind those steel-blue eyes, processing this information. 

“That’s not a thing,” he finally said, squinting slightly. 

“It absolutely is a thing,” Sam insisted, gesturing emphatically with one hand. “Every time we turn around, it’s one of the three. You can set your watch by it.”

“Your watch must run weird,” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms, making the dark fabric of his jacket strain slightly against his biceps.

Isabelle snorted. Sam’s head swiveled toward her, his expression shifting from indignation to betrayal in the space of a heartbeat. 

“Sorry,” she managed, pressing her lips together, voice tight with suppressed laughter. 

“No, you’re not,” Sam said flatly, crossing his arms.

“You’re right.” She released the laugh fully now, letting it spill out. “I’m not.” She leaned sideways, bumping her shoulder against his. “Come on,” she coaxed, tilting her head to catch his eye. “It was funny.”

“I’ll fight you,” he growled, but the threat landed hollow, wrapped in reluctant affection. He jabbed a finger toward her face. “I swear to God, Stark.”

Isabelle raised her eyebrows, challenge sparking in her eyes. “Oh, please, you love me, Wilson.”

Sam shook his head, turning back to Bucky with renewed determination. 

“I’m just saying,” he continued, gesturing with both hands now, “these Flag Smashers could be any of the three. Enhanced strength could mean android.” He ticked off on his fingers. “Could be alien tech. Hell, could be magic for all we know.”

“You’re leaving out so many options,” Isabelle interjected, extending her own fingers in a mocking count. “Gods.” One finger. “CEOs.” Another. “Crazy men in robot suits.” A third. “Hydra—”

She paused as she caught Bucky’s subtle flinch at the last word. Something twisted in her chest. 

Her voice dropped, the playfulness evaporating. “Hell,” she continued, softer now, “even other Avengers.”

“You’re missing the point, Iz!” Sam insisted, his voice rising slightly. “The Big Three are the worst of it.”

“Oh really?” she challenged, her eyebrow arching as she stepped closer, planting herself directly in his line of sight. “I’ve never fought a wizard, Sam. Have you?”

“Yeah, Sam,” Bucky chimed in, his voice deadpan. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in what, for Barnes, practically counted as rolling on the floor laughing. “So, who are you fighting now? Gandalf?”

Sam’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “How do you know about Gandalf?”

“I was born in 1917, not on Mars,” Bucky replied, each word desert-dry. His metal fingers tapped once against his thigh—a gesture Isabelle was beginning to recognize as barely-contained impatience. “I read The Hobbit when it first came out. In 1937.”

Isabelle couldn’t stop the surprised laugh that bubbled up from her chest. It felt strange—genuine amusement breaking through the tension she’d carried since stepping into the suit.

“Wow,” she said, crossing her arms and cocking her hip. “Never pictured Bucky Barnes as a fantasy nerd.” She studied his face, trying to reconcile this new information with the man from Steve’s stories. “From what Steve told me about you guys, I expected…I don’t know, less Tolkien, more boxing matches and chasing skirts.” 

Something shifted in Bucky’s expression—a flash of something raw before the shutters came down. The amusement vanished like a match dropped in water.

“What stories did Steve tell you?” The question came out sharper than she expected, his voice dropping half an octave. His eyes—steel blue and suddenly intense—locked onto hers with unnerving focus.

Isabelle felt her pulse quicken. Wrong step. She’d wandered into a minefield without realizing it.

“Nothing bad,” she backpedaled, raising her palms slightly. “Just—you know, the double dates. How you’d always drag him along, even when he didn’t want to go.” She tried for a smile, but it felt tight around the edges. “The dancing.”

Bucky’s shoulders had gone rigid, the casual stance from moments earlier replaced with something coiled and defensive.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rough at the edges. His flesh hand flexed at his side, a quick clench-and-release. “I’m not a nerd.”

“The Hobbit is pretty nerdy,” Isabelle countered, deliberately injecting lightness back into her voice. She tilted her head, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. 

Bucky’s glare intensified, his eyebrows drawing together like storm clouds. 

Isabelle couldn’t help herself—she laughed again, the sound bouncing off the metal walls of the cargo hold. The vibration of it traveled through her chest, momentarily easing the tightness there.

“I never said being a nerd was a bad thing,” she said, holding her hands in mock surrender. “I’ve read The Hobbit. And Lord of the Rings...” She watched his face carefully, looking for any sign the storm was passing. “Though growing up, I was more of a Narnia kid.” She leaned slightly forward, testing the waters. “Liked the talking rat. Though the lion was preachy.”

Bucky’s hard edges receded slightly, like ice beginning to thaw around the margins. “Reepicheep,” he said, the name coming out almost reluctantly, like he was giving away a secret.

“What?” Sam interjected, looking between them like they’d both started speaking in tongues. 

“The rat’s name,” Bucky clarified, his eyes still fixed on Isabelle. “It’s Reepicheep.”

Sam and Isabelle exchanged glances—hers surprised, his utterly baffled.

Bucky cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the metallic space. “I found them. Box set,” he said, voice dropping to something just above a murmur. His shoulders hunched slightly, defensive. “In Steve’s apartment. After...” He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t need to.

“The Narnia books?” Isabelle asked, suddenly acutely aware of Sam’s gaze ping-ponging between them. She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I, uh—I got those for him. Christmas present.” The memory crystallized, sharp and sudden: wrapping paper scattered across Steve’s floor, his genuine smile as he turned the books over in his hands. His promise to read them all. “Thought he might like them. The whole ‘man out of time’ thing.”

She’d gotten them for him for his first Christmas out of ice. Before SHIELD fell. Before the Winter Soldier. Before everything changed.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to the floor, something flickering in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Understanding.

“He finished them,” Bucky said after a moment. “All of them. Had notes in the margins.” 

Isabelle swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. She could picture it clearly—Steve’s neat, precise handwriting. The careful way he’d handle books, like they were something precious. The way he’d mark passages that spoke to him.

“Did you like them?” she asked, the question softer than she intended, almost vulnerable.

The hard lines around his eyes eased slightly. For a moment, he looked younger. Less like the Winter Soldier and more like the man from the black-and-white photographs in the Smithsonian.

 “Yeah,” he admitted, and there was a weight to that single syllable that caught her off guard. “I did. Dawn Treader was my favorite.”

“That’s my favorite too!” Isabelle straightened, genuine excitement sparking through her chest. The words tumbled out before she could filter them. “The whole voyage concept—exploring the unknown, sailing literally off the edge of the map...”

“The islands,” Bucky added, nodding slightly. His voice dropped, taking on a quality she hadn’t heard before—almost wistful. “Liked…the islands.” 

“The movie was awful, though,” she added, wrinkling her nose. “Completely butchered the story.”

Bucky’s eyebrows rose slightly. “There’s a movie?”

“Oh god,” Sam groaned, dropping his head back dramatically. “Please don’t get her started on book-to-film adaptations. We’ll be stuck here till we hit cruising altitude.”

He froze mid-motion, head snapping forward so fast Isabelle heard his neck crack. His eyes narrowed, landing on Bucky. 

“Hold up,” Sam said, straightening to his full height. He pointed an accusatory finger directly at Bucky’s chest. “You’re telling me that you—” he gestured at Bucky’s entire frame, from combat boots to tactical gear to the metal arm gleaming under the cargo hold lights, “have opinions about talking animals and magic wardrobes?”

The almost-smile that had been forming on Bucky’s face vanished instantly. His jaw tightened, shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked, voice dropping to that dangerous register that made the hairs on Isabelle’s arms stand up.

“It’s just a little hard to picture you curled up with a children’s book.” Sam shrugged, his easy smile faltering slightly. “You know…because you’re—” 

“Because I’m what, exactly?” Bucky challenged, cutting him off with something dangerous threading through his tone. His eyes had gone flat, the brief warmth extinguished. 

The temperature in the cargo hold seemed to drop several degrees. 

“You know what I mean,” Sam rolled his eyes, but his chin lifted slightly. Defensive. 

“No. I don’t know what you mean.” Bucky took a step forward, the movement fluid and controlled in a way that made the hairs on the back of Isabelle’s neck stand up. His vibranium hand curled into a fist at his side, plates shifting with a soft mechanical whir. “Say it.”

“Guys,” Isabelle could feel the potential energy building in the small space, like the air before a lightning strike. “Can we not do this right now?”

Bucky ignored her, his eyes locked on Sam. “You can’t say it, because you have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I think I know enough, Buck,” Sam replied, the nickname landing like a slap.

Bucky flinched—a microscopic tell, just a tightening around his eyes, but Isabelle caught it. Saw him inch forward. 

“Hey,” she said, stepping between them, planting her boots firmly on the metal floor. The green lines of her suit pulsed brighter, responding to her elevated heartbeat. “How about we don’t pick fights amongst ourselves before a mission? Crazy thought, I know.”

Her powers stirred beneath her skin. She forced a slow breath, pushing the sensation back down. Not now.

Sam’s jaw worked beneath his skin, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords. His eyes, sharp and assessing, darted from her face to Bucky’s, then back again. The air between them felt charged, dangerous.

Then he exhaled heavily, shoulders dropping an inch as he turned on his heel.

“You’re right,” Sam said, voice clipped. He crossed his arms over his chest, chin tilting upward in that stubborn way that meant he was digging in. “Ma’ always said, ‘if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’ So I guess we’re riding the rest of the way in silence.”

“Sam—” Isabelle stepped toward him, frustration clear in her tone. 

“Nope.” He raised a hand, palm facing her. The gesture was so abrupt it nearly made her flinch.

“You can’t be serious right now,” she scoffed, that Stark temper flaring, quick and hot, behind her ribs. 

“Shh.” Sam made an exaggerated motion of zipping his lips, twisting an imaginary key, and flicking it over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed to slits, daring her to challenge him.

“Oh my god,” Isabelle muttered, “you’re actually twelve years old.”

The childishness of it all left her momentarily speechless. She’d seen him irritated, frustrated, even genuinely angry—but this petty silence was something different. She stared at him, mouth half-open, watching as he crossed his arms tighter across his chest like a petulant child refusing to eat his vegetables.

She’d seen him irritated, frustrated, even genuinely angry—but this petty silence was something different. Whatever was eating at him had teeth.

She slid several feet away on the metal bench, the cold surface biting through the thin material of her suit. The suit hummed against her skin, and sensors picked up her elevated heart rate and shallow breathing. She could feel FRIDAY preparing to comment on her vitals and mentally willed the AI to stay silent. The last thing she needed was the suit announcing her stress levels to the entire cargo hold.

“Sam,” she tried again, voice lower, stripped of its earlier edge. “Whatever’s going on—”

“Shh!” The sound sliced through the air between them, sharp as a blade. Sam’s eyes flashed a warning that could have melted vibranium, nostrils flaring with each controlled breath.

A snort broke the tension, so unexpected that Isabelle’s head whipped around to stare at Bucky. He moved to sit directly across from Sam. He settled onto the bench with deliberate slowness, elbows resting on his knees, eyes never leaving Sam’s face. The challenge in his posture was unmistakable—a predator settling in for a long watch.

The overhead lights flickered briefly as the plane hit another pocket of turbulence. The metal floor vibrated beneath Isabelle’s boots, sending tiny shockwaves up her legs. Rain began to pelt against the fuselage, a rapid-fire staccato that matched the racing of her heart. She slumped back against the wall, letting her head thunk softly against the metal. 

This was going to be a long flight.

Chapter Text

Hours had crawled by in a suffocating silence thanks to Sam’s ‘no-talking’ rule. 

Isabelle had sprawled across a couple of seats, her fingers mindlessly scrolling through her phone. She shifted uncomfortably, glancing up from her phone, catching Sam and Bucky locked in their ridiculous staring contest for what felt like the hundredth time. Their jaws were set, eyes narrowed, neither willing to break first.

Suppressing a sigh, Isabelle returned her attention to her phone. The soft blue glow illuminated her face as she scrolled through the files FRIDAY had compiled on John Walker. Images flashed across the screen: Walker in his military uniform, accepting medals, shaking hands with high-ranking officials. His service record was impeccable. 

Isabelle’s brow furrowed. Everything looked perfect. Too perfect. 

She grunted, letting her phone drop to her chest, and turned her attention to Bucky and Sam once more. 

The monotonous hum of the engines seemed to grow louder with each passing minute, grating on Isabelle’s nerves. She could feel her powers stirring restlessly beneath her skin, itching to lash out and give Sam and Bucky splitting headaches. Just to end their childish standoff. 

Isabelle was about to snap, but a sharp warning alarm cut through the silence. She jerked upright, quickly tucking her phone away in one of her pouches and smoothing out the wrinkles in her suit—the sound of approaching footsteps from the cockpit was preceded by Torres’s appearance in the cargo bay.

“One minute to drop off, guys,” Torres announced, his eyes flicking to his watch as he moved to help set up the drop.

Isabelle stood, stretching her arms above her head. As she turned, she expected Sam and Bucky to be preparing as well, only to find them still locked in their intense staring match. They both jerked forward suddenly as if about to leap from their seats, racing each other to stand first.

Rolling her eyes, Isabelle muttered under her breath, “For the love of...” then strode towards Torres, leaving the two men to their ridiculous competition. She jerked a thumb back to them. “We might need to requisition some sandbox toys for our next mission. Seems like some of us never outgrew the terrible twos.”

Torres chuckled, his eyes darting between Isabelle and the two men still locked in their silent battle of wills. “Maybe we should start packing juice boxes and nap mats, too,” he quipped back, grinning.

Their laughter died abruptly as Sam’s sharp glare cut through the air. Torres quickly busied himself, his hands fumbling with the equipment. Isabelle, however, met Sam’s gaze head-on, one eyebrow arched in silent challenge. 

Isabelle’s powers coiled tighter within her, a restless energy that buzzed beneath her skin. She could feel the familiar tingle in her fingertips, the urge to lash out and give Sam a taste of his own medicine—just a flick. But she held back.

Without a word, Sam finally stood, the movement smooth despite the hours of stillness. Bucky was quick to follow, pushing himself up. 

Sam reached for his goggles first, sliding them into place with a soft click. His fingers traced the familiar contours, adjusting them until they sat perfectly in place. Next came the earpiece, which he fitted snugly into his ear. Bucky mirrored his actions with his own earpiece, his movements just as quick and precise. 

Isabelle watched them, mouth slightly agape. Before she could stop, a frustrated groan escaped her lips, echoing in the confined space.

“So what’s our plan?” Bucky stepped away from the others, his fingers adjusting his earpiece.

 Sam, still committed to his vow of silence, looked pointedly at Bucky but kept his lips sealed tight. 

“Great. So, no plan,” Bucky grunted, dropping back into his seat with a heavy thud. Annoyance etched across his features, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Isabelle shot Sam a stern look, her eyes narrowing. Sam merely rolled his eyes in response, the gesture so exaggerated it was almost comical. He nodded his head towards the side door of the plane.

As they started walking towards the exit, Isabelle tilted her head toward Bucky, her eyes questioning Sam’s intentions. The roar of the wind outside grew louder as Torres opened the door, and the rush of cold air hit them hard. It whipped at Isabelle’s hair, sending blonde strands flying across her face.

She brushed them away impatiently, her eyes never leaving Sam’s face. The chill seeped through her suit, raising goosebumps on her skin and sending a shiver down her spine. 

“You have a plan, right?” she muttered, her voice nearly lost in the roar of the wind. 

Sam’s silence finally broke, his voice cutting through the roar of the wind. But he didn’t answer her. Instead, he turned to Bucky. 

“Looks like you’re getting the scenic route, Buck,” he called over his shoulder.

Bucky’s face twisted into a scowl, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Stop calling me that,” he snapped. 

“Why not? It’s what Steve called you,” Sam retorted, pivoting to face Bucky fully. 

“You’re not Steve,” he growled. His eyes flashed dangerously as he shook his head. “Steve knew me. Steve had a plan. And told his team the plan. ”

“Ten seconds to drop!” Torres’s voice cut through the tension, nearly lost in the howling wind that tore through the open door.

Isabelle scanned the cargo hold, her eyes searching for the familiar outline of parachute packs. They should be mounted on the wall, or stacked in a compartment—but she couldn’t spot them anywhere. A flutter of anxiety rose in her chest.

“Where are the chutes?” she called out, having to raise her voice over the roaring wind. Her eyes met Torres’s briefly before he turned back to his controls. “Torres? The parachutes?”

Sam’s attention returned to the mission, his eyes narrowing with determination. “I’ve got a plan,” he declared, his voice firm and unwavering as he turned his back on Bucky.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he pushed himself up, moving to follow. “Mind sharing with the class?”

Sam ignored him, instead focusing on Isabelle. Their eyes met, and she gave him an exhausted look. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Are you still afraid of heights?”

“Yes—wait, why? What do you mean?” Isabelle’s brow furrowed. “Sam, where are the—”

Before Isabelle could finish her sentence, Sam’s strong arms wrapped around her waist. The world tilted as he pulled her close against his chest, the fabric of his suit rough against her cheek. Her heart leaped into her throat as realization dawned—he was going to carry her out. No parachute. Just Sam and his wings.

“Sam, wait—” Isabelle started, her fingers instinctively clutching at his arms. The sudden closeness sent an unexpected jolt through her body—a mixture of alarm and something else she didn’t have time to analyze. “No, no, no—”

Her words were cut short as Sam approached the open door. The roar of the wind became deafening, drowning out all other sounds. Cold air slapped against her face, making her eyes water. Her stomach lurched at the sight of empty space beyond the doorway—just clouds and the distant ground a couple of hundred feet below. 

Time seemed to slow as they teetered on the edge. Isabelle’s fingers instinctively gripped Sam’s suit, her knuckles white with effort, the fabric bunching between her fingers. A fleeting thought of Bucky flashed through her mind—what about him? But before she could voice her concern, the world disappeared beneath them.

Sam stepped into nothingness, taking Isabelle with him. Her stomach dropped as gravity claimed them, the initial freefall sending a surge of adrenaline through her veins. The wind whipped her hair across her face, stinging her cheeks. She squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face against Sam’s chest as they plummeted. 

“I got you,” Sam’s voice vibrated through his chest against her ear, barely audible over the rushing air. “Trust me.”

Isabelle felt Sam’s muscles tense beneath her grip, a split second of coiled anticipation before the mechanical whir of his wings deployed. The sound vibrated through his chest against her ear, more sensation than sound as the rushing air tried to steal it away. 

Their freefall transformed instantly, the stomach-dropping plummet shifting into a controlled glide that pressed her harder against Sam’s chest. 

She forced her eyes open, fighting against the wind that made them water. The ground rushed toward them—too fast, impossibly fast—patches of green and brown blurring together. Her fingers dug deeper into the fabric of Sam’s suit, her heart hammering so violently she was certain he could feel it even through their suits.

“Don’t squirm,” Sam’s voice came again, steady despite the roaring wind. His arms tightened around her, secure and unyielding. 

Isabelle only managed a strangled growl that sounded more like a gasp. 

A flash of movement caught her attention. She tilted her head back, catching a glimpse of the plane above them, now just a dark speck against the blue. A figure appeared in the doorway—Bucky. Even from this distance, she could sense his hesitation, the rigid set of his shoulders as he stood at the threshold between safety and empty air.

Was he going to…

The ground approached with alarming speed now. Isabelle could make out individual trees, the texture of the grass, small rocks, and uneven terrain. Sam’s body tensed again, preparing for impact. His wings angled precisely, slowing their descent in the final moments.

His feet touched down first, knees bending to absorb the impact. The force of the landing still jolted through Isabelle’s body as Sam carefully set her down beside him. The sudden transition from flight to solid ground sent the world spinning around her. Her legs wobbled, refusing to support her weight after the drop.

She staggered sideways, reaching blindly for something—anything—to steady herself. Her palm found rough bark, fingers digging into the crevices of a nearby tree.

“You good?” Sam asked, already scanning the area, his posture shifting into mission mode.

“Nope,” she managed, her voice coming out more breathless than she’d intended. 

She ran a shaky hand through her wind-tangled hair, working out the worst knots with her fingers. Her heart still hammered against her ribs, the rush of blood loud in her ears.

 “Still don’t—” she swallowed hard, “—like that. Pretty sure I left my stomach somewhere up there.”

Sam’s wings settled back into his pact with a soft click. He grinned at her. That familiar grin that had been noticeably absent during the majority of their flight. 

“Aw, come on, really? Not even a little bit of fun?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was a real bonding experience.”

“Yeah, well, next time, let’s bond over coffee like normal people.” Isabelle straightened, her eyes scanning the clear blue sky for any sign of Bucky. Her powers prickled beneath her skin, still unsettled from the adrenaline rush. 

Sam’s laughter rumbled deep in his chest, warm and genuine. “I thought you said Starks were all about the dramatic entrances!”

“Yeah, well, I prefer my entrances not involving plummeting through the air without a parachute.” Isabelle retorted, her hand still pressed against the tree trunk. 

She opened her mouth to say more when a distant thud caught her attention. Her head snapped in the direction of the sound, just in time to see Bucky having landed not far from them. He hit the ground hard, momentum carrying him into an ungraceful roll before he sprawled flat on his back. His metal arm caught the sunlight, flashing silver as he lay there, a pained groan escaping him. 

Redwing hovered above him like an annoying mosquito, camera whirring as it recorded Bucky’s less-than-dignified landing.

“Oh god, Bucky!” Isabelle exclaimed, her heart lurching into her throat. 

She pushed away from the tree, legs still unsteady beneath her. Pine needles and fallen leaves crunched under her boots as she hurried toward him, her earlier dizziness forgotten in the rush of concern.

Bucky lay spread-eagled on his back, chest heaving. His face was contorted in a grimace, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. As she drew closer, Isabelle could see the rise and fall of his chest, too fast, but steady.

“I got all of that on camera, you know that, right?” Sam’s voice carried that unmistakable note of smug satisfaction as Redwing buzzed above Bucky, its small camera focusing.

 Every muscle in Bucky’s body screamed in protest as pain radiated from his shoulders to his lower spine. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out both the discomfort and Sam’s irritating commentary. When he opened them again, the sight of Redwing hovering just feet above his face sent a fresh surge of irritation through him.

“Get that thing out of my face, Sam,” Bucky growled, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his right shoulder, making him wince. “Or I’ll break it.” 

“Shoo, you little menace!” Isabelle glared, jogging over to Bucky, swatting at Rewing. The drone dodged her hand with an almost smug mechanical whir. She turned her attention to Sam, her eyes narrowing. “And by menace, I mean you, Sam!”

Bucky watched her approach, feeling strangely vulnerable, lying out on the ground like this. He’d faced gunfire, torture, and decades of brainwashing, yet somehow, Isabelle Stark seeing him sprawled in the dirt after a botched landing made something in his chest constrict.

Isabelle knelt beside him, her movements quick but careful. Her hand came to rest on his left shoulder, and Bucky tensed instinctively at the contact. The sensation was different through the vibranium, muted yet somehow more intense at the same time. Most people avoided touching his metal arm, treating it as if it were something dangerous or taboo. Isabelle touched it as if it were just another part of him.

Her eyes scanned over him methodically, searching for injuries. The wrinkle between her brows deepened as she frowned.

 “Did you just...” Her gaze flickered from him to Sam and back again,  disbelief shining in her eyes. “Did you just seriously jump out of a plane without a parachute?”

Bucky met her gaze, finding himself momentarily caught in the intensity of her concern. It wasn’t pity—he’d seen enough of that to recognize the difference—but something warmer, more unsettling. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

“Didn’t have much of a choice,”  he muttered, attempting to sit up further. 

A sharp pain lanced through his lower back, and he couldn’t suppress a wince. The embarrassment burned worse than the pain—falling flat on his ass in front of both of them, especially after Sam’s picture-perfect landing with Isabelle in his arms.

A soft chuckle escaped Isabelle’s lips, warm and unexpectedly melodic. Bucky shot her a half-hearted glare, but found himself fighting the urge to smile in response. There was something infectious about the sound, something that made the embarrassment easier to bear.

“Relax, Iz,” Sam called from behind them, still clearly amused by the whole situation. “The trees broke most of his fall. Besides, he’s a super soldier. A little tumble like that is nothing, right, Barnes?”

Bucky shot Sam a dark look over Isabelle’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll show you what ‘nothing’ feels like?” The words came out as a low growl, the threat only half-joking.

“Ignore him,” Isabelle said softly, her voice dropping to a volume meant only for Bucky. “Come on, let’s get you up, tough guy,” she said, offering her hand. 

The gesture was simple but loaded with a kind of casual trust that caught him off guard. Bucky hesitated, staring at her outstretched hand. 

Part of him—the part still wired for isolation, for self-reliance—wanted to refuse, to push himself up without assistance. But something in Isabelle’s eyes made him reconsider. With a deep breath, he reached up with his right hand, his fingers closing around hers.

Her grip was firmer than he expected, steady and sure as she helped pull him to his feet. As he stood, another spasm of pain shot through his lower back, more intense than before. He stumbled forward slightly, off-balance and disoriented.

Isabelle reacted instantly, stepping closer to steady him. Her hands gripped his arms, one on flesh and one on metal, holding him upright. The sudden proximity brought her face inches from his, close enough that he could see flecks of gold in her green eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against his chin.

“Whoa, easy there,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing. Her fingers pressed gently into his forearms, anchoring him in place. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m...” he started, then stopped. 

The genuine concern in her voice caught him off guard. Bucky was used to pain, used to brushing off injuries and pushing through. But the worry in Isabelle’s eyes made him pause, made him consider his answer more carefully than he might have otherwise.

“I’ll be fine,” he finally managed, his voice gruffer than intended. “Just need a minute.”

She was still holding his arms, still standing close enough that he could smell the faint trace of something citrusy in her hair—lemon, maybe, or grapefruit. It was distracting in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Take your time,” Isabelle said, her hands still steadying him. She glanced over her shoulder at Sam, who was watching them with barely concealed amusement. “Hey, flyboy! Maybe next time you could give everyone a lift instead of just me?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What, and miss out on quality entertainment? Not a chance.” He gestured toward Bucky with a deliberate nod, eyes dancing with mischief. “Besides, I don’t think it’s me Barnes wants to cuddle up with.”

Bucky felt his jaw tighten, a sharp retort forming on his tongue.  Irritation settled in his chest, heavy and hot. He’d spent decades as the Winter Soldier—feared, respected, a ghost story told in whispers—and now he was reduced to being the butt of Wilson’s jokes.

But before he could speak, he felt Isabelle’s fingers tighten slightly on his arms—whether in warning or support, he couldn’t tell. 

“Sam, I swear to god,” Isabelle started, her voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone that reminded Bucky she was a Stark through and through. “One more word and you’ll be dealing with a migraine that’ll make you wish you’d stayed on the plane.”

Sam held up his hands in mock surrender, though the amusement never left his eyes. “Just making observations. That’s what reconnaissance is all about, right?”

Bucky watched the exchange, feeling strangely caught between them. He shifted his weight, testing his back. The pain had already begun to fade, his body’s enhanced healing taking care of the worst of it. Still, the embarrassment lingered, a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

“Thanks,” he said quietly to Isabelle, the word feeling foreign on his tongue. 

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful—just unused to having anyone to thank. For decades, no one had offered him help without expecting something in return. The simple kindness of her steadying hands still felt like a language he was struggling to relearn.

Isabelle turned back to him, her expression softening around the edges. “Yeah, of course,” she replied, her voice equally soft.

She craned her neck to see Sam standing a little ways away, focused on the small screen on his gauntlet. Redwing still hovered nearby, its camera lens reflecting sunlight in quick flashes. She narrowed her eyes in concentration, a small furrow appearing between her brows. Her lips pressed together, and for a split second, the air around her seemed to shimmer with invisible energy.

“Ow!” Sam yelped suddenly, his hand flying to his temple. He shot Isabelle an accusatory glare, rubbing at the spot like he’d been stung. “Come on, real mature, Stark.”

A smirk tugged at Isabelle’s lips, satisfaction dancing in her eyes. “Just evening out the playing field,” she retorted, the mischief in her voice making her sound younger, lighter. She turned back to Bucky, her expression softening once more. “You sure you’re good to move?”

Bucky nodded as they started making their way to where Sam stood. “I’ve had worse falls,” he said, then added with a hint of a smile, “Much worse, actually. This is practically a walk in the park.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Bucky saw Isabelle tense. Her stride faltered—not enough for Sam to notice, but enough for him. Her shoulders stiffened beneath the sleek fabric of her suit, and something flickered across her face—recognition, understanding. The gears turning in her head, connections forming. 

She was thinking about that fall—the one from the train. The day that had changed everything. The day that had led to his capture by Hydra and his transformation into the Winter Soldier. The beginning of his seventy-year nightmare. 

The forest around him blurred at the edges, sounds dulling as memories threatened to surface—the biting cold, the wind screaming in his ears, the sickening lurch of gravity claiming him, Steve’s face growing smaller as he fell...

His lungs constricted, each breath suddenly requiring conscious effort. His fingers curled reflexively. He opened his mouth, desperate to say something, anything to break the tension, but the words wouldn’t come. They lodged in his throat, sharp and painful, as he watched Isabelle’s face shift from shock to something softer, more dangerous—compassion.

Her hand twitched at her side, as if she might reach for him again. The possibility of her touch terrified him more than any weapon ever could. He’d rather face a firing squad than pity.

But she only gave him a soft smile, her eyes holding his for a beat longer than necessary. “Yeah... I get it,” she said quietly, her voice pitched low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear. “I’ve had worse, too.”

Something in her tone made Bucky look closer. He studied her face, noticing the shadows behind her eyes – shadows he recognized all too well. The kind that came from having your body turned against you, from being unmade and remade against your will.

Her fingers absently traced the edge of one of her suit’s green panels, following a seam that looked almost like a needle track. The movement was unconscious, the way his own hand sometimes drifted to where metal met flesh on his left shoulder.

Something scratched at the back of Bucky’s mind – fragments of information he’d glimpsed once in a file. Back when he was still piecing together who he was after breaking free from Hydra’s control. Something about Isabelle’s mother, about hidden laboratories and secret experiments: the word “Belladonna” floated to the surface of his memory, sending an involuntary chill down his spine.

He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but needing to acknowledge the connection he felt. Before he could speak, Sam’s voice cut through the moment.

“Well, well, well,” Sam drawled as they reached him, his eyes darting between them with undisguised amusement. “Look who finally decided to stop flirting and join us.”

Bucky felt heat rise to his face, his jaw tensing. He was ready to defend himself, to explain that it wasn’t what it looked like – that they were just talking. The words formed on his tongue, but Isabelle beat him to it. 

Again. 

“You know, Sam,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “for someone who was so committed to silence earlier, you sure are chatty now.”

Sam’s grin faltered for a moment before he recovered, his eyes still dancing with mischief. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents. Silence and witty commentary are just two of them.”

Isabelle crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one hip in a stance that screamed annoyance. “How about we focus on the mission instead of your talents?”

“Fine, fine,” Sam conceded, holding up his hands in mock surrender. The teasing light in his eyes dimmed as he tapped at the screen on his gauntlet. “According to the intel, we need to head north. The facility is about two miles out.”

Bucky stepped closer, grateful for the change in subject. His eyes scanned the treeline, taking in the dense foliage and uneven terrain. The wind rustled through the leaves, carrying the scent of resin and damp earth. 

The familiarity of it all sent him back decades, to stealthy approaches through European forests, to lying in wait for hours, his breath controlled, his finger hovering over the trigger. He pushed those memories aside, focusing on the present, on the mission at hand.

“We should stick to cover as much as possible,” Bucky said, his voice low and gravelly. He gestured toward a particularly dense section of trees. “Use the forest to our advantage. Minimize our exposure until we can get in.”

To Bucky’s surprise, Sam nodded in agreement, no sarcastic comment following.

“Agreed,” he said, his gaze meeting Bucky’s for a brief moment of professional respect before he pointed to a dense patch of trees to their right. “We’ll head that way, keeping low and quiet.”

Sam turned to Isabelle, his expression softening slightly. The transition from teasing to tactical was seamless. 

“Isabelle, you’re on point,” Sam said. “We don’t want to start a fight. We just want to gather intel. Your powers might give us an edge if we run into any patrols. Knock ‘em out without raising any alarms.”

Isabelle nodded, her earlier irritation fading as she shifted into mission mode. Bucky watched as she rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck. The air around her hands shimmered with a subtle green glow – not enough to be visible from a distance, but clear to anyone standing close.

Her powers always fascinated him—the way she could manipulate the human body with just a thought, causing anything from mild discomfort to complete unconsciousness. It was terrifying and impressive in equal measure. A weapon that couldn’t be taken away, couldn’t be detected by metal scanners or security systems.

“Let’s move,” Sam ordered, stepping aside to let Isabelle go first. 

As she passed between them, her shoulder brushed against Bucky’s arm gently. A fleeting contact that lasted less than a second but sent a jolt of awareness through him.

Their eyes met briefly, but then she slipped forward, moving between the trees with practiced stealth, and Bucky found himself following, his senses already sharpening as they ventured deeper into the forest, toward whatever lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The warehouse stank of rust and gasoline, an unsavory tang that clung to the back of Isabelle’s throat. Shadows slithered across the cracked concrete floor, elongating and shrinking with each flicker of the dying overhead lights. 

Isabelle pressed her spine against the metal shelving, its icy edge digging into her shoulder blades. Her muscles burned from holding the crouch position too long, but she didn’t dare shift. Not with the Flag Smashers moving just twenty feet away. 

One of them—a woman with dark braided hair—lifted a steel crate that had to weigh three hundred pounds. Her arms didn’t even tremble. She tossed it into the truck with a casual flick of her wrist. 

“Holy shit,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could catch them. 

Another Flag Smasher—this one built like a linebacker—grabbed two crates at once. The veins of his neck barely strained as he hurled them into the truck. 

She counted six. One of them whistled—two short notes, one long—and they immediately began splitting into groups, the engines growling to life. 

“They’re moving,” Isabelle whispered, her fingers curling against the cold concrete. “Three to each truck.” 

“Wait—” Sam’s voice cut through, tension threading his tone. “I think they have a hostage.” 

Isabelle shifted her weight, wincing as pins and needles shot up her left leg. “Where?” She flexed her foot to restore circulation. 

“Redwing’s scan says the first truck,” Sam’s voice dropped. “Someone’s inside. Not moving like the others. We need to move—” 

The trucks’ engines revved louder, drowning out the rest of Sam’s words. Isabelle felt the rumble through the soles of her boots as the vehicles began to pull away, tires crunching over asphalt. 

Bucky was already crossing the concrete floor, abandoning his hiding spot with inhuman speed. 

Isabelle jerked out of her own spot, turning to Sam, finding him already watching her from a few feet away. His expression shifted. One eyebrow was slightly raised underneath his goggles, his mouth dangerously quirked at the corner. 

He tilted his head toward Bucky’s disappearing form, wings already extending. “More bonding time?” 

Isabelle grunted, head rolling back. She stretched her arms overhead, feeling her spine crack as adrenaline flooded her system. “Do we have to?” She didn’t bother hiding the exasperation in her voice, even as her body tensed, preparing. 

“Adventure’s good for you, Stark,” Sam smirked, the whites of his eyes bright against his face. 

His wings were fully deployed with a satisfying snap-click, hovering a few feet off the ground. The drowndraft stirred up dust as he approached, tickling her nose. Without further warning, he swooped down and grabbed her under the arms, the firm grip of his gloves digging into her. 

Then they were airborne, her stomach dropping as they shot upward. The ground fell away too fast, her feet dangling uselessly. Each dip and swerve sent her pulse racing. 

The trucks were pulling away faster now, engines growling as they sped down a winding, forested two-lane road. Bucky sprinted alongside the lead truck, his metal arm catching sunlight as he leapt. His fingers dug into the frame with a screech. In one fluid motion, he ripped the rear door open with his left hand, the metal crumpling like tissue paper in his grip. 

He disappeared inside the truck’s dark interior. Isabelle strained to see, catching only fragments—shadows shifting, the flash of his metal arm. 

“Bucky, status?” Sam’s voice was sharp in her earpiece, his grip tightening on her. 

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the howl of wind and the rumble of engines. One second. Two. Three.

“They’re stealing medicine,” Bucky’s voice finally crackled through. “Vaccines.” 

Isabelle’s brow furrowed. But before she could process or ask about the hostage, a crash rang out below. Bucky’s body hurtled through the air. He slammed into the following truck’s roof with enough force to dent it. 

Two figures emerged from the second truck, climbing onto the roof. Their black masks bore a single red handprint—the Flag Smashers symbol. They grabbed Bucky before he could fully recover. One pinned his right arm while the other wrenched his left behind his back. 

Something cold and heavy settled in Isabelle’s stomach. No ordinary human could manhandle the Winter Soldier like that. 

Isabelle extended a hand, focusing on the pulse beneath her skin. The green glow flowed from her fingertips, brighter than usual, fueled by her desperation. She pushed harder, imagining pneumonia-like symptoms—the burning chest pain, the way each breath would feel like inhaling glass shards, the suffocating pressure.

Nothing happened. They didn’t even flinch. 

“What the hell,” she breathed, taking a moment for disbelief to flood her system. “FRIDAY?” Then she blinked rapidly in the specific pattern that activated her contacts—another invention of her father’s. The HUD display flickered to life across her vision. 

“Their cellular structure appears altered. ” FRIDAY’s voice was a welcome sound, even with the AI’s tone carrying a note of concern, “I’m detecting abnormal density readings throughout their musculature and nervous systems.” 

Below, Bucky broke free long enough to land a vicious uppercut that should have shattered the first attacker’s jaw. The Flag Smasher merely stumbled back, recovering almost instantly. 

As Bucky pivoted toward the second attacker, movement from the truck’s cab caught Isabelle’s eye—a third Flag Smasher emerging from the sunroof, already lunging toward Bucky’s exposed back. The third attacker slammed into Bucky from behind. In that split-second of distraction, one of the others recovered, moving with blinding speed to grab Bucky’s left arm again. 

“Sam, we have to—” 

The words died in her throat as Sam suddenly released her. She gasped in that brief moment of freefall that ended with a bone-jarring impact as she hit the truck’s roof. She tucked and rolled, her boots screeching against the surface. 

“Thanks for the warning, Wilson!” she snapped, pushing herself upright, legs braced wide against the truck’s movement. 

Sam’s voice crackled through her comm, “You’re welcome,” followed by the distinctive sound of his wings adjusting as he banked overhead.

There was no time for further complaints. Bucky grappled with two, matched strength for strength. The third—a woman by the looks, with wild red hair—was already charging toward Isabelle. 

Isabelle raised her hands again, reaching deeper this time. This time, she envisioned the woman’s inner ear canals swelling, her equilibrium failing, vertigo and nausea crashing through her system like tidal waves. 

The Flag Smasher’s stride faltered—just barely—before she shook her head and pressed forward, barely slowed. 

“Seriously?” Isabelle hissed, cold fear and irritation slithering through her veins. Whatever these people were dosed with burned through her powers like paper in a flame. 

A flash of crimson cut through her peripheral vision—Redwing.

“Redwing’s got eyes on them!” Sam’s voice crackled through her comms, steady as a heartbeat despite the chaos unfolding beneath him. “Tracking all targets.”

Isabelle’s lungs burned as she sucked in a breath. “Yeah? Tell him to shoot faster,” she muttered, casting a cautious look back at the approaching woman. 

Redwing targeting systems emitted a soft whine. The drone’s weapons deployed with a series of clicks, locking onto the approaching Flag Smasher. A burst of rounds erupted from its undercarriage—each shot designed to incapacitate without killing.

The woman’s head snapped toward the drone. Her hand shot out, fingers closing around Redwing’s chassis in mid-flight, the drone’s wings still whirring uselessly against her grip. For one suspended moment, the woman held Isabelle’s gaze through her mask. Then she squeezed. 

Metal shrieked and crumpled. Sparks erupted between her fingers like tiny fireworks. Circuitry snapped with sharp, distinct pops, Redwing’s lights flickering once, twice, then dead. 

The woman tossed what remained of the drone over her shoulder without looking back. The mangled heap of metal and wiring hit asphalt, bouncing before disappearing under the wheels of the second truck. 

“Sam?” Isabelle called, her voice pitching higher than intended. Her eyes left the woman to glance at Bucky, still struggling. “Any brilliant ideas would be welcome right about now.” 

Isabelle backed up a step, then another, and the truck’s roof suddenly felt much smaller. The Flag Smasher resumed her approach, unhurried. Her red hair whipped around her face like flames.

“Hang on, Stark!” The comms crackled with static. “Looping back around—” 

The Flag Smasher launched herself forward. Isabelle reacted fast and jabbed at the woman’s throat—a quick, roughshod strike. Her knuckles connected with flesh, but the redhead barely registered it. Instead, she snatched Isabelle’s extended wrist, fingers clamping down like a steel vise. The woman yanked. 

Hard. 

Isabelle’s shoulder socket screamed in protest as she was jerked forward. Instinct took over—she used the momentum, driving her knee upward into the woman’s solar plexus, earning a grunt. The first sign that the Flag Smasher could actually feel pain. But the grip on her wrist didn’t loosen. 

A few feet away, metal flashed in the sunlight as Bucky broke free, slamming his vibranium fist into one attacker’s chest. The impact sent the man skidding backward, boots scraping against metal.

Bucky spun, blocking a kick with his forearm before countering with an uppercut connected to the jawbone. The Flag Smasher’s head snapped back, but he recovered in the blink of an eye, neck cracking as he straightened.

Pain shot through Isabelle’s arm as the redhead’s grip tightened, bones grinding together. The truck hit a pothole, nearly sending them both sprawling. Desperate, Isabelle slammed her forehead forward, smashing it against the bridge of the woman’s nose. 

The mask absorbed some of the impact, but Isabelle felt the cartilage give way beneath it. The redhead’s grip loosened—just enough. Isabelle wrenched her arm free, following through with a roundhouse kick to the woman’s ribs. The Flag Smasher staggered back a single step. 

“What the hell are these guys on?” she shouted to Bucky. 

“Nothing good,” he grunted, blocking a punch aimed at his throat.

The Flag Smasher coiled to strike, muscles tense, eyes locked. Isabelle’s breath caught, bracing for the hit. But it never came—Sam dropped from above, wings snapping shut as his boots slammed into the Flag Smasher’s chest. The woman flew backward, skidding toward the edge. Her fingers caught the roof’s lip, denting the steel like tinfoil. 

“Sam, watch—” 

The woman snapped upright like a whip. One second hanging, the next charging. That speed, that strength—too fast, too sharp—was familiar. Like Bucky. Like her. 

Sam ducked her punch, just barely. His counter jab hit square in the ribs. It should have doubled her over. Instead, the blow landed with a solid thunk, as if he’d punched a tree trunk. 

“What the—” Sam started, but the Flag Smasher grabbed his wrist. Twisted. “—Ah!” 

Then she hurled him across the gap between trucks. He hit the roof of the second truck, rolling once, twice, absorbing the impact. His wings, half-extended, scraped against metal as he tried to regain his footing. The sound made Isabelle wince. 

Sam barely had time to breathe. Two more Flag Smashers emerged from the cab. One grabbed his left arm. The other, his right. Sam’s face contorted with effort, muscles straining as he was pinned down. 

 Isabelle took a step toward him —a mistake. The redhead. Again.

“FRIDAY, weak points?” Isabelle spat, raising her fists. Behind her, Bucky’s grunts mixed with the metallic impact of his arm against flesh. She couldn’t afford to check on him. “Need to end this. Now.”

“Analyzing.” Data streamed across her vision, the HUD highlighting potential vulnerabilities in pulsing red. “Subject favors the right side. Recommend targeting the left knee and the solar plexus. Caution: enhanced recovery rate detected.”

The Flag Smasher charged, and this time, Isabelle spun on her back foot, avoiding the woman’s outstretched arm. Her leg swept out, boot connecting with the back of the woman’s left knee with a satisfying crack. The woman buckled, one knee hitting the truck roof. 

Isabelle didn’t hesitate. She sprang forward, fingers splayed, reaching for the exposed neck beneath that red-marked mask. The power gathered in her fingertips, ready to flood the woman’s nervous system with white-hot pain—

A fist tangled in her hair, pulling backward with such force that her scalp screamed. Her world tilted as her face slammed into cold metal. Her teeth cut into her cheek, blood filling her mouth—copper and salt and rage.

“Projectile incoming,” FRIDAY’s voice cut through the ringing in her ears. “Three o’clock. Brace for impact.”

Something blurred overhead—a flash of red, white, and blue spinning through the air. With a sound like a gunshot, the shield slammed into the Flag Smasher’s side. The impact lifted the woman clean off her feet. 

The iron grip on Isabelle’s hair vanished, and she rolled to her side. Her tongue probed the inside of her cheek, finding a jagged tear. She spat a mouthful of blood onto the roof, watching it splatter across metal. When she looked up, her gaze locked with the most punchable grin she’d ever seen. John Walker stood at the edge of the truck, shield returning to his arm with a magnetic snap. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered, pushing herself to her knees. 

The Flag Smasher hit the roof with a sickening thud. In the half-second, Isabelle expected her to stay down, but the woman was already moving. Her eyes burned through the mask, raw hatred radiating off her in waves. Isabelle shifted her weight forward, standing, bracing for the next attack. 

 The helicopter swooped down overhead, and a figure plummeted from above. Combat boots connected with the redhead’s chest. The Flag Smasher’s eyes widened in shock as the momentum carried her backward again. Her fingers left desperate silver gouges in the metal roof before she disappeared over the edge. 

Lemar Hoskins landed in a perfect crouch where the woman had stood. Isabelle recognized him instantly from the briefing files FRIDAY pulled for her on the plane. 

Walker and Hoskins exchanged a wordless nod and fist bump, then Walker snapped into motion. The shield spun toward the Flag Smasher pinning Sam. The man sprawled face-first against the roof when it hit, letting Sam twist free. 

The shield was already sailing again, this time toward Bucky’s fight. Isabelle’s breath hitched as Bucky ducked—the shield missing his head by inches—before it slammed into his opponent’s chest. The vibranium sang as it returned to Walker’s outstretched hand, locking back onto his arm with a magnetic snap.

Walker turned toward Isabelle, his smile too white, too eager, too goddamn like the recruitment posters. His eyes held something worse than arrogance—certainty.

“Isabelle Stark,” he said, hand extended toward her. The wind ruffled his perfectly styled hair, not a strand daring to fall out of place. “It’s an honor.”

Her jaw clenched so tight she felt a molar creak. Every cell in her body screamed at her to punch him in the throat. To tell him exactly where he could shove that shield. 

Instead, she swallowed the acid rising in her throat and took his hand. She let him help her up. The second her balance returned, she yanked her hand away, wiping her palm against her thigh like she could scrub off the contact. The friction of fabric against skin wasn’t nearly enough to erase the feeling. 

Walker didn’t notice—or pretended not to. His attention had already pivoted to Sam, chest puffed out like a peacock in star-spangled Kevlar.

“Sam!” he called, voice carrying over the wind. “John Walker. Captain America.” He gestured broadly at the unconscious Flag Smashers, then at Hoskins, who gave a curt nod. “Looks like you guys could use a hand!”

Sam’s answering stare could’ve peeled paint off a wall. His eyes flicked to Isabelle’s, a silent conversation passing between them: This fucking guy.

Bucky’s presence shifted behind her, and she didn’t need to turn to know he was glaring daggers at Walker’s back. But there was no time for shared disdain. 

The red-haired woman clawed her way back onto the truck, and Isabelle struck before the woman could fully right herself. She focused, channeling a power spike straight at the woman’s inner ear. The sensation was like pushing thick honey through a narrow straw—resistant at first, then suddenly flowing.

The Flag Smasher staggered mid-rise. Her knees buckled. One hand flew to her temple, fingers digging into skin with enough force to leave white pressure marks. Her pupils dilated with confusion, eyes darting wildly as her equilibrium betrayed her.

Isabelle pushed harder, doubling the nausea. The spinning world. The disorientation. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she concentrated, channeling everything she had into the woman’s vestibular system. The Flag Smasher’s breaths came in short, sharp gasps, her body fighting the invisible assault.

Just a little more—

The truck hit another pothole.

The connection between them severed with an almost audible snap in her mind. The sudden absence of resistance made her stumble backward, boot heel catching on a ridge in the metal roof. The asphalt below blurred into a gray-black smear, trees flashing by at seventy miles per hour. Her heart lurched into her throat, a silent scream building as gravity claimed her—

Strong fingers dug into her upper arm. Her descent halted with a jerk, the grip bruising-tight. The world snapped back into focus as she collided with a solid chest, the scent of leather and metal and sweat filling her nostrils.

Bucky.

He yanked her back with a grunt, left arm circling around her waist. The vibranium was cold even through her suit, pressing against her lower back with unyielding pressure. His heart hammered against her shoulder blade, a rapid staccato that matched hers. Relief flooded her system, sharp and sudden like diving into icy water.

His grip tightened fractionally. A silent question in the pressure of his fingers: You okay?

“Boss, incoming hostile!” FRIDAY’s warning sliced through the moment.

Isabelle’s power surged beneath her skin, but before she could unleash it, Walker slammed into the redhead with his shield. The impact sent the woman skidding across metal with a screech that set Isabelle’s teeth on edge.

Walker barked a laugh, spinning and hurling the shield at another Flag Smasher trying to climb back onto the truck. The vibranium disc cut through the air—Bucky’s hand shot out beside her, snatching it mid-flight.

Isabelle felt Bucky’s chest expand against her back as he drew in a deep breath. The vibranium plates of his arm recalibrated against her waist with a soft whir. She didn’t need to see his face to know his entire body had gone rigid, tension radiating through every point where they touched. 

“Nice catch,” Walker said, hand extended, smile unwavering. 

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the shield’s edge. For a split second, Isabelle thought he might not return it. That he might hurl the shield off the truck entirely, sending it spinning into the blur of trees just to keep it out of Walker’s reach. Then she felt it, the sag of his shoulders. A surrender so subtle she would’ve missed it if she hadn’t been pressed against him. The arm around her waist loosened. He extended the shield toward Walker without a word. 

“Thanks, pal,” Walker said, snatching it back with a casual flick of his wrist. 

A scream of twisting metal ripped through the air. Across the gap between trucks, Sam thrashed against two Flag Smashers, their strength bending his wings at crushing angles. Metal struts groaned in protest. Sam’s face contorted, sweat streaming down his temples as he fought back, losing ground inch by excruciating inch.

“Sam—” The name barely left her lips when Bucky’s warmth vanished from her back.

No hesitation. No pause. One second he was beside her, the next he was airborne, launching across the gap between vehicles. 

Movement to her right stopped her. The redheaded Flag Smasher rose again—blood streaking from her nose, eyes burning wild.

Isabelle grunted, fingers twitching. She fired off a raw, unfiltered blast. Migraines detonating behind the eyes, muscles seizing in violent spasms, inner ear canals swelling until the world tilted and spun. Every nasty symptom she could conjure was thrown at once.

The Flag Smasher’s stride faltered mid-step. Her pupils dilated, nostrils flaring as pain crashed through her system. A violent tremor rippled through her body, starting at her shoulders and cascading downward. Her knees buckled. But she didn’t go down.

Gritting her teeth, the Flag Smasher pushed forward like wading through cement.
 “That’s all you’ve got, Avenger?” she spat, her voice a rasp. “The same old cheap tricks?” Then she lunged.

Isabelle tried to dodge, but the truck hit another pothole at precisely the wrong moment. Her ankle twisted, balance faltering for just a fraction of a second—

The Flag Smasher’s fist connected with her jaw.

Pain exploded across Isabelle’s skull. Her teeth slammed together, catching the edge of her tongue between them. Copper flooded her mouth, hot and metallic, as her head snapped sideways from the impact. 

“Fuck,” she hissed, staggering backward, vision swimming in and out of focus. The world tilted, doubled, then snapped back together. Before she could recover, callused fingers closed around her throat. Her feet left the ground, toes dangling uselessly as the woman lifted her with one hand, arm extended like she weighed nothing.

“This,” the Flag Smasher hissed, breath hot against Isabelle’s face, “is what real power feels like.”

The grip tightened, crushing her windpipe. Isabelle’s lungs burned, desperate for air that wouldn’t come. Black spots bloomed at the edges of her vision, expanding with each frantic pulse.

Her fingers scrabbled at the woman’s wrist, nails digging deep enough to draw blood. Isabelle’s power flickered beneath her skin like a dying lightbulb, weakening as her brain starved for oxygen. Somewhere far away, she heard Sam shouting her name. The sound rippled through water, distorted and fading.

Fine, then we do this the ugly way.

Isabelle stopped fighting the grip. Instead, she focused on what lay beneath her fingertips. Bones. Tendons. Ligaments. Nerves. The delicate architecture that makes a wrist function. She visualized each component in perfect anatomical detail, then—

Snap.

The sound was wet and final, like stepping on a rotten branch. Bone fragments shifted beneath Isabelle’s fingers, grinding against each other as the wrist collapsed inward.

The Flag Smasher’s scream hit a pitch that made Isabelle’s ears ring. The grip on her throat vanished instantly. She dropped to the truck’s roof, knees buckling as she hit metal. She doubled over, hacking coughs wracking her body as she braced her palms against the vibrating surface.

Through watering eyes, Isabelle saw the woman cradling her mangled wrist, face contorted with fury and something else—shock. As if she’d forgotten what pain felt like. As if she’d believed herself untouchable.

“You—” the woman started, voice shaking with rage.

Isabelle didn’t let her finish. She pushed herself upright and dove her boot upward with every ounce of strength left in her body, connecting with the woman’s solar plexus. The Flag Smasher lifted off her feet, farther than physics should allow, farther than Isabelle had meant to send her. The woman’s body arced through the air, a graceless tangle of limbs.

The Flag Smasher crashed back onto the truck’s roof, ten feet away. The woman rolled twice before catching herself with her good hand, her mangled wrist tucked protectively against her chest. When the woman’s head snapped up, Isabelle expected a grimace of pain. Instead, those eyes burned through the mask with something far more dangerous. Her scream wasn’t pain—it was pure, undiluted rage.

“Boss,” FRIDAY spoke suddenly, unnervingly calm in Isabelle’s ear. Data flickered across her HUD, green and white numbers scrolling too fast to read. “I’m detecting trace compounds similar to—”

Isabelle couldn’t focus on the rest. Her throat burned where fingers had crushed it seconds ago. Her pulse hammered in her temples. The fight was spiraling out of control faster than she could track it.

She twisted, searching for Sam and Bucky on the second truck, just in time to see Bucky’s body hurtling through the air. Her heart stopped. Sam’s wings snapped open a second later, diving after him in a blur of red and silver.

Her stomach dropped as both men vanished from sight. The urge to jump after them was so visceral she had to dig her heels into the roof to stop herself. 

They’re fine. They have to be fine.

A hollow thud vibrated through the metal beneath her feet. Then another. The two Flag Smashers who’d been fighting Sam and Bucky had leapt the gap between trucks. 

Seven against three. 

No—against two and a half.

Her gaze darted to Hoskins, dangling from the linebacker Flag Smasher’s grip, his face purpling as thick fingers dug into his throat. His boots kicked uselessly, finding no purchase. 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Walker shifted to face them, shield raised. His cocky grin was replaced by a snarl, eyes locked on Hoskins dangling from the Flag Smasher’s grip. 

“Let him go.” The command scraped from Walker’s throat, stripped of all the rehearsed Captain America polish. “Now.”

The redheaded Flag Smasher staggered upright. Her mask had been twisted just enough to reveal the satisfied smile that curled her lips. 

Isabelle’s stomach clenched, acid burning up her throat. Not for Hoskins—she barely knew the man—but for what was coming. The inevitable escalation that had been building since the first punch landed.

The redhead took a step forward. Then another. The remaining Flag Smashers moved in perfect sync, closing the circle with mechanical precision. Walker backed up until his shoulder nearly brushed Isabelle’s, shield angled to cover them both.

“On my mark—” Walker started, voice tight.

The Flag Smashers moved first.

They attacked as one unit, converging from all sides. The redhead lunged at Isabelle while two others flanked Walker. Isabelle’s boots slid across metal as she ducked under a wild swing.

“Your left!” she shouted at Walker, who spun just in time to block a punch that would have shattered his jaw.

His shield sang as it deflected the blow, the vibration carrying through the air. Walker countered with a vicious uppercut connected with the Flag Smasher’s chin. The man’s head snapped back—and then snapped forward again, as if the blow had been nothing more than a tap.

“They’re not staying down,” Isabelle hissed, dancing backward to avoid a retaliatory strike. “We need to retreat—”

A Flag Smasher appeared at her blind spot. Pain exploded through her left side as a boot connected with her ribs. The crack was audible—a wet, splintering sound that echoed inside her skull.

“Boss, your left side is compromised,” FRIDAY’s voice cut through the haze of pain. “Possible hairline fracture detected. Recommend immediate disengagement.”

“Thanks for the update,” Isabelle wheezed, forcing herself upright despite the white-hot agony lancing through her torso. “But I think I noticed. Any word on Sam and Bucky?”

“I’ve located Mr. Wilson and Sergeant Barnes. They’re en route, ETA approximately 4 minutes.” 

“Four minutes.” Isabelle’s eyes darted between the advancing Flag Smashers—the woman in front with her chin tilted in challenge, three men flanking with hands flexing into fists, two crouched near the body of their fallen comrade, the one Walker had killed. Blood still pooled beneath him. “Might as well be four years.”

“I’m patching Mr. Wilson through now—”

The female Flag Smasher moved like lightning. One second she was ten feet away, the next her fist slammed into Isabelle’s ribcage with a crack. She stumbled backward, mouth open in a silent scream, unable to pull in even a whisper of air. 

“Shit,” she finally wheezed, the single word sending fresh spikes of white-hot agony shooting through her chest. Her hand pressed instinctively against her side; even that feather-light touch made her vision swim. The bones shifted beneath her palm. Definitely broken. Possibly puncturing something important.

The woman’s face swam into focus through Isabelle’s pain-blurred vision—smug satisfaction twisting her features, eyes gleaming with the thrill of an easy target.

“Not so tough without your team, are you?” The Flag Smasher circled her. “Where are your little tricks now, Avenger?”

Static burst in Isabelle’s ear, sharp and painful against her eardrum. Sam’s voice came through in broken fragments. “Iz... hold on... coming...”

Relief flooded her system like morphine, momentarily dulling the knife-edge pain in her ribs. She tried to focus on his voice, straining to hear through the crackling static. “Where—” A ragged cough tore from her throat. Something wet and warm spattered her lips. She swiped at it with her tongue, tasting copper. Blood. Not good. “—are you?” 

The connection cleared suddenly, Sam’s voice cutting through with urgent clarity. “They’re super soldiers! All of them!”

The pieces snapped together in her mind like magnets finding their match. The impossible strength. The unnatural speed. The way her powers barely slowed them down. 

Steve and Bucky had always been partially resistant to her abilities—their enhanced physiology fighting off what she tried to inflict. That’s why her powers felt like pushing through concrete. That’s why these people shrugged off attacks that would have dropped normal humans in seconds. 

“Boss,” FRIDAY interjected, her voice pixelating slightly as the HUD display flickered, “that’s what I was trying to tell you. I’m detecting serum compounds similar to—”

“Super soldiers,” Isabelle whispered, the words scraping against her bruised throat. Her gaze locked with the female Flag Smasher, whose eyes narrowed beneath her mask. “But that’s not possible—t

The redhead moved with blinding speed, her boot connecting with Isabelle’s sternum before Isabelle could even raise her hands. The strike sent a fresh explosion of pain through her already broken ribs. A distinct crack echoed in her ears—another rib giving way. The impact lifted Isabelle clean off her feet. 

For one suspended moment, she was weightless. Wind rushed past her face, cool against her feverish skin. The truck receded above her. 

Then gravity seized her. 

Chapter Text

Bucky’s lungs burned as he sprinted across the asphalt. Not fast enough. Never fast enough. Each footfall thundered through his body, his heart slamming against his ribcage. Blood roared in his ears, drowning everything but the desperate count in his head. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. 

Then he saw her. Isabelle. 

The world compressed to a single point. 
His vision narrowed until all he could see was her body sprawled across the highway. Dark blood pooled beneath her, spreading in an ever-widening circle that gleamed obscenely under the harsh sun. The summer heat vanished, replaced by the biting cold of a memory. 

Zemo’s calculating eyes. The slight curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth. A shot cracking the air like a whip. A body crumpling to the ground, shock etched across her face as crimson bloomed across her chest. 

The memory slammed into him like the impact from the freight train all those decades ago. His metal arm whirred, recalibrating with his sudden tension. His breath caught in his throat, chest constricting as if a metal fist—his own fist—was crushing his sternum. 

It was his fault. All of it. Always his fault. 

“No, no, no—” He blinked hard, forcing reality back into focus. This wasn’t Siberia. This wasn’t 2016. But the fear, the helplessness, the sickening sense of déjà vu—that was all too real.

His metal fingers clenched so tightly he heard the servos whine in protest. Seven yards. Five. Three.

“Isabelle!” Sam dropped to his knees beside her, wings retracting with a mechanical whir that cut through Bucky’s panic. “Can you hear me?” Sam’s hands hovered over her body, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse. “Jesus Christ—”

Bucky hit the pavement hard. Concrete bit into his flesh knee, but the pain didn’t register. Nothing registered beyond the sight before him. Blood matted her hair. Her face—too pale, too still—was streaked with dirt and blood. One arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Her chest barely moved. 

He leaned closer, enhanced hearing straining past Sam’s ragged breathing, past his own thundering heart. There—the faint, erratic flutter of her pulse. Alive. Barely. 

Something cracked in his chest. Not a sound—a feeling. Like a hairline fracture spreading across glass under pressure. Bucky recognized it immediately: the beginning of a break he couldn’t afford. Not now. Not here.

“Barnes.” Sam’s voice sliced through the roaring in his ears. Sharp. Commanding. “Barnes, you with me?”

Bucky jerked his head once. A soldier’s response. Mechanical. “I’m here.” The words felt disconnected from his body, like someone else was speaking through him.

“I need you here, man.” Sam’s eyes locked with his, unflinching. “All the way here.”

Bucky forced himself to inhale. One breath. Two. The oxygen burned his lungs, but it pushed back the darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. The memories of Siberia retreated—not gone, just waiting. He’d deal with them later. 

“Her powers are they—” The question scraped his throat raw. He couldn’t finish it. 

Sam’s jaw clenched as his eyes darted over Isabelle. He tapped his earpiece. “FRIDAY, what happened? What’s her status?” 

“Ms. Stark was forcibly ejected from the moving transport at approximately 63 miles per hour,” FRIDAY replied. “Impact occurred 1 minute and 47 seconds ago. Initial scans indicate critical injury. Internal bleeding has slowed significantly in the past 30 seconds. Left lung is partially collapsed but beginning to reinflate. Multiple fractures to the ribs, left humerus, and pelvis are already beginning to set correctly due to her accelerated healing factor.”

Bucky watched a trickle of blood slide from the corner of Isabelle’s mouth. He caught the subtle flutter of her eyelids—not consciousness, just involuntary movement.

“I advise against moving Ms. Stark,” FRIDAY continued, “until the most critical injuries have stabilized. Particularly the spinal fracture at L2.”

Spinal fracture. Bucky’s fingers dug into his thighs. “How long?” Each word felt like broken glass in his mouth. 

“At the current rate of cellular regeneration, Ms. Stark should be stable enough to move in approximately 6 minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

Six minutes. Three hundred and ninety-seven seconds of watching her blood seep into the asphalt. He tore his gaze away, scanning the perimeter with the cold precision that had kept him alive for a century. Empty highway stretching north and south. Too exposed. No cover. The tree line stood two hundred yards east—too far to carry her if those bastards circled back.

“She needs medical attention.” His voice came out harder than intended, the words clipped and sharp. “Now.”

“Her body’s healing itself,” Sam countered, but uncertainty threaded through his voice. He crouched beside Isabelle, hands hovering uselessly over her broken form. “FRIDAY’s right. Moving her now could—”

“Could what?” Bucky snapped, metal arm whirring louder with his rising tension. “Make it worse than a spinal fracture?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, actually. It could.”

“So we just sit here?” The taste of copper flooded Bucky’s mouth—he’d bitten through the inside of his cheek. The pain was nothing. Less than nothing. His flesh hand trembled, a slight tremor that infuriated him. Weakness he couldn’t afford. “Like targets on a goddamn shooting range?”

“For now, yeah.” Sam rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders. “Keep watch. If those Flag Smashers circle back—”

“When,” Bucky corrected, voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “When they circle back.”

“—then we move her. Not before.” Sam pulled out his phone, the soft tapping of his thumbs against glass unnaturally loud in the silence. “Updating Torres,” he muttered.

Bucky forced himself to stand, to put distance between himself and them both. The sun beat down on his back, his tactical gear absorbing the heat like a punishment he deserved.

“To tell him we failed.” The words tasted like ash.

Sam’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “We didn’t fail, Buck.”

“I said, don’t call me that.” He spun on his heel and jabbed a finger at Sam, the gesture sharp and aggressive. “And didn’t fail?” He barked a harsh laugh, gesturing sharply toward Isabelle with his flesh hand. “Super soldiers are running around, and she’s bleeding out on the highway while they’re halfway to God knows where.” 

Bucky could feel the heat radiating between them. Could hear Sam’s heartbeat, slightly elevated but steady. Controlled. Always so goddamn controlled. 

“We did what we could.” Sam rose to meet him, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Not backing down an inch. “We couldn’t have known—” 

“We should have!” Bucky’s shout cracked across the empty highway, echoing off distant trees. A flock of birds erupted from the pines, wings beating frantically against the cloudless sky. “We’re supposed to be better than this. Faster, stronger—”

“We’re not gods, Bucky!” Sam shouted back, chest heaving. A vein pulsed at his temple, jumping beneath dark skin slick with sweat. “We’re doing our best with what we’ve got.”

“That was our best?” His eyes snapped back to Isabelle, cataloging the damage with brutal precision. A thin line of new skin was already forming at the edge of her temple wound. Blood had stopped flowing from her nose. Her chest rose with less effort than thirty seconds ago. “Our best got her thrown from a moving truck at sixty-three miles per hour.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sam stepped closer. His eyes burned with something fierce and protective that made Bucky want to look away. “I was the one who brought her here. You think I don’t see her lying there?” Sam jabbed a finger toward her, his voice cracking on the last word, the first fracture in his composure.

“Then why aren’t you angry?” Bucky demanded, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. His jaw was tight, a muscle flexing in his cheek as if he were holding back something far more explosive than words. “Why aren’t you—”

“Because someone has to keep it together!” Sam’s voice cracked like a whip. “Someone has to think clearly right now, and you’re too busy—”

“Too busy what?” Bucky moved into Sam’s space, close enough to count the sweat beads trickling down Sam’s temple, to see the tension locked in his jaw. “Too busy caring that she almost died? Too busy too—”

“You two...” 

The voice sliced through his rage. Weak, barely audible, but unmistakable. Bucky’s heart stuttered, then hammered against his ribs. 

“…talk... so... fuckin’ loud.”

Both men froze mid-breath, their heated exchange forgotten in an instant. Bucky whipped around so fast he nearly lost his balance, boots scraping against the pavement. 

Isabelle had propped herself up on one elbow, her other arm wrapped tightly around her torso like she was physically holding herself together. The road rash that painted her left cheek was already knitting itself back together, the angry red fading to pink before their eyes. The gash on her temple had shrunk by half, new tissue spreading across the wound in uneven patches. But it was her eyes that punched the air from Bucky’s lungs. Open. Alert. Glazed with pain, pupils dilated, but aware. 

He took a half-step forward, then froze, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, his body, the relief flooding his system like a drug. 

“Thought you two might...” She winced, sucking in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. A thin sheen of sweat coated her forehead, catching the harsh sunlight. “Might actually throw punches. Was about to... place bets.”

Bucky watched a rib visibly realign beneath her form-fitted suit, the bone shifting with a muted crack that made his stomach turn. Her healing factor was working overtime, prioritizing internal damage over surface wounds. He’d seen it once before, and it still made her feel simultaneously relieved and nauseated.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Sam said, recovering first. He dropped to a crouch beside her. “You had us thinking you were checking out on us. How bad’s the pain?”

Isabelle blinked slowly, her gaze drifting between them before finally focusing. A tremor ran through her propped arm, making her elbow slide an inch across the pavement. Her tongue felt thick, coated with copper and something worse.

“Like I got hit by a truck.” She swallowed blood, wincing. “Or thrown from one. Same difference.”

Her left arm snapped straight with a wet crack, bone fragments finding each other beneath her skin. The sensation made her stomach lurch, like insects crawling beneath her flesh, rearranging her from the inside out.

“Jesus,” Sam muttered, looking away. “Never gonna get used to that.”

“Makes two of us.” Isabelle pressed her palm against the scorching asphalt, needing to move, to do something other than lie here feeling her body rebuild itself. The pavement burned against her palm, but the pain was clean, external. Better than the crawling itch of accelerated healing.

“I strongly advise against movement for another two minutes and seventeen seconds, Boss,” FRIDAY’s voice chimed through her comms. “Your L2 vertebra is still completing fusion.”

“Spinal fusion. Great.” Isabelle gritted her teeth as another rib snapped into place with a sound like wet kindling breaking. Sweat beaded across her forehead. “Love that for me.”

She pushed herself up anyway. The world tilted, then spun, asphalt swimming beneath her palms like dark water. Blood drained from her head so fast she could track its journey—brain to neck to chest—leaving nothing but static and pinpricks of light behind her eyes.

“Whoa—” Sam’s fingers found her elbow, warm and steady against her clammy skin.

Simultaneously, cool vibranium pressed against her shoulder blade. Bucky’s touch. Firm but gentle, as if he knew exactly where the fracture had been.

“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met,” Sam said, his voice tight with something between admiration and exasperation. “And I was friends with Steve Rogers.”

“Well,” She swallowed hard, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake her. “He did teach me—” She sucked in a sharp breath as another vertebra aligned with a sickening click. “—not to... stay down.”

Bucky hadn’t spoken yet, but his metal hand remained steady against her back. His fingers shifted slightly, finding the exact spot between her shoulder blades where her spine curved most painfully.

“You’re still bleeding,” he said finally, voice rough. Bucky’s jaw tightened. His flesh hand hovered near her side, where dark blood still seeped through her suit. “You need to lie back down.”

“Pass.” Isabelle straightened further, ignoring how the horizon tilted five degrees left. The movement sent lightning through her half-fused vertebrae. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. “Just need to—”

Her fifth rib wrenched itself into position with a sound like snapping celery, cartilage grinding against bone. The sensation of it moving beneath the muscle made bile rise in her throat, acidic and burning.

A strangled noise escaped her—half laugh, half gag.

“Easy, Iz.” Sam’s grip tightened, his callused thumb pressing into the crook of her elbow. “FRIDAY’s right. You need another minute.”

“What I need,” she said through gritted teeth, “is not to feel my skeleton rearranging itself.” She sucked in a breath as her spine completed another fusion, the vertebra slotting into place with a sensation like a key turning in a lock. She tried again to push herself upright, desperate to regain some control, some semblance of dignity. 

“Boss, your spinal fusion is complete, but I strongly advise—”

“Mute,” Isabelle muttered. Her arms trembled, muscles firing in uneven spasms, then gave out completely.

Bucky moved faster than her eyes could track. One moment, he was beside her. Next, his right hand caught her shoulder, fingers splayed in hesitation, and his body angled to protect her from another fall. The movement brought his face inches from hers—close enough that she could count each dark eyelash, see the tiny flecks of gray in his blue irises, smell the gunpowder and leather that clung to his skin.

“Don’t move,” he ordered. Something flickered across his face—realization, perhaps, that he sounded too much like the Winter Soldier. His jaw worked, muscles tensing beneath stubble. He exhaled slowly. “Just... stay still.” The words came softer now, almost gentle.

Isabelle blinked up at him, caught off guard by the naked concern etched into the lines around his eyes. His hand remained steady on her shoulder, keeping her upright, thumb brushing against her collarbone. The touch was light, almost accidental. 

She tried once more to sit up, defiance overriding common sense. This time, something in her lower back finally clicked into place—the last vertebra slotting home like the final piece of a puzzle. The sensation sent a wave of relief through her body, so intense that it bordered on pleasure, a rush of endorphins flooding her system.

“There,” she gasped, managing to prop herself on one elbow. Sweat beaded at her hairline, trickling down her temple where new skin formed. “All better. See?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, tracking every microexpression that crossed her face—the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, the tension around her eyes, the shallow rhythm of her breathing. His metal fingers adjusted their pressure points on her back, finding the exact spots that needed support.

“You’re still in pain,” he said flatly. Not a question.

Isabelle met his gaze, refusing to blink first. “Yeah, well, I’m always in pain, so…” She let out a huff of a laugh. “Comes with the territory.” 

His jaw tightened, the muscle along his cheek flexing beneath stubbled skin. A pulse beat visibly at his temple. “This isn’t funny.”

“Humor’s subjective, Barnes.” She bit down on her lip and snapped her eyes closed as her pelvis realigned with a muted crack that both of them felt through the contact points of his hands. 

Copper flooded her mouth where her teeth broke skin. When she opened her eyes again, Bucky still watched her, his expression hardened into something dangerous. 

“The Flag Smashers,” she said, desperate to shift his attention away from how her body trembled against his hands. “Did they—”

“Got away,” Bucky cut in, the admission burning his throat like acid. “For now.”

“They’re tomorrow’s problem,” Sam said, straightening to his full height. His shadow fell across her face, a momentary relief from the merciless sun. The lines around his eyes had deepened since she’d last looked. “Right now, we need you somewhere that isn’t the middle of a highway with your insides still playing musical chairs.” He scanned the empty stretch of road. “I’ll take point. Buck—” He caught himself, mouth tightening. “Barnes, you got her?”

Bucky answered with a single, sharp nod, his lips in a thin line. 

“I can get myself, Wilson.” Isabelle glared up at him. 

The look Sam shot her could have withered concrete. “Your spine was broken in three places about four minutes ago. Walking’s off the menu.”

“Had worse.” The words slurred together despite her best efforts, her tongue still thick with the copper taste of blood.

A violent tremor rippled through her body, betraying her as thoroughly as her uncooperative limbs. The road rash on her cheek pulled tight—skin knitting itself back together with the sensation of a thousand microscopic needles stitching her face. Another rib snapped into place beneath her suit, the crack audible even to non-enhanced ears.

Bucky’s expression darkened, shadows gathering in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. His flesh hand moved from her shoulder to her wrist, fingers circling the delicate bones there. His grip was firm but careful, the calluses on his palm rough against her pulse point. “Stop,” he said, voice dropping to that dangerous register that made the hair on her arms stand up. “Just... stop.”

Something in his tone—not the Winter Soldier’s clinical detachment or Barnes’ usual gruffness—made her freeze. Vulnerability threaded through the command, raw and unexpected. For a heartbeat, she glimpsed something beneath his carefully constructed walls. Something that mirrored her own broken pieces.

“Fine,” she conceded, the word barely audible. Her fractured ribs protested as she exhaled, the sharp edges grinding against each other before fusing another millimeter closer together. “But if you princess-carry me, I swear I’ll make you throw up your own stomach lining.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but close enough to count. A victory in the wasteland of this day. “Noted.”

He positioned himself at her side, calculating angles and pressure points with the eyes of a man who’d spent decades learning the exact force needed to break a body—and now, preserve one. 

His left arm slid beneath her knees while his right hand hovered over her back, hesitating. “Put your arm around my shoulder,” he instructed. 

Isabelle gritted her teeth, lifting her arm with painstaking slowness. The movement sent fresh ripples of agony through her ribcage. Her fingers trembled as they found purchase on the thick fabric of his jacket. 

“On three,” he murmured, his breath warm against his temple. “One…two…” She braced herself, muscles tensing in anticipation. “Three.” 

Bucky lifted her, surprising her with his gentleness, but still, her body betrayed her. A strangled cry tore from her throat before she could swallow it back. Pain exploded across her torso. Her vision blurred, and the world tilted dangerously. 

“Shit—sorry—” she hissed through clenched teeth, mortified by her own weakness. 

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky said, his voice rough but quiet, meant only for her. 

Rather than cradling her against his chest as she’d expected, Bucky pivoted, carefully maneuvering her upright. Her feet touched the ground, but he took the weight, his left arm secure around her waist. His right arm crossed her collarbone, palm flat against her sternum, keeping her from pitching forward. 

“Better?” he asked, his voice a low rumble she could feel vibrating through her back where it pressed against his chest.

Isabelle nodded, not trusting her voice. The movement sent another spike of pain lancing through her skull. She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to make another sound. She forced her eyes to focus on the horizon, the empty stretch of highway shimmering with heat. 

Sam’s eyes traced the empty stretch of highway, squinting against the sun’s merciless glare. “Next town’s about twenty miles northeast. Torres is working on transport, but...”

“Twenty miles?” Bucky’s grip on Isabelle tightened fractionally, metal fingers adjusting their pressure against her side. “She can’t walk twenty miles.” 

“I’m right here,” Isabelle grumbled, eyes shifted to glare at them both. “And ‘she’ can hear you perfectly fine. Stop talking about me like I’m not here—I can walk. I’m fine.” 

Sam stepped in front of her, arms crossed over his chest. He raised an eyebrow, lips quirking into that expression that said he wasn’t buying what she was selling. 

“I get it. Wounded pride and all that,” he said, his voice gentler than his stance suggested. “But there’s a difference between tough and stupid, and right now—” His eyes flicked to the blood still seeping through her suit, to the tremor in her hands she couldn’t quite control. “You’re dancing on that line.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Each bone realignment drained her further. Her healing factor devoured calories like a furnace, consuming her from the inside out. 

“Fine,” she conceded through gritted teeth. The word cost her more than it should have.

Bucky shifted his weight, adjusting his grip without a word. His left arm remained secure around her waist. “Lean on me,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. Not quite an order, but something close. His breath stirred the hair at her temple. “I’ve got you.”

The words hit her harder than they should have. Simple. Factual. I’ve got you. Three syllables that shouldn’t have made her throat tighten, shouldn’t have sent something warm and dangerous unfurling in her chest beneath the broken bones and torn muscle.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, worry etching new lines around his mouth. He nodded once, relief flickering across his features. Isabelle watched him pace ahead, his shoulders set in a tense line. The distance between them stretched to five yards, then ten.

“He blames himself,” Bucky said quietly, his eyes tracking Sam’s movements. “For bringing you here.”

Isabelle tried to shift her weight to take some pressure off him, but her legs trembled with the effort. “It’s not his fault,” she said, her brows pinched together. Her gaze followed Sam’s retreating figure as Bucky led her forward. “It was my choice to come.”

Bucky’s arm tightened fractionally around her waist, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “Doesn’t matter. He brought you into the field. In his mind, that makes you his responsibility.”

Something in his tone made her glance up. His jaw was set in that familiar stubborn line, blue eyes fixed on the horizon, refusing to meet hers. A muscle jumped in his cheek.

Sam had pulled further ahead, now twenty yards in front of them. Every few minutes—like clockwork—he’d glance over his shoulder, checking on them with a quick, assessing sweep.

A mile and a half in, Isabelle’s head felt suddenly too heavy for her neck. It lolled to the side against her will, pressing her temple against the rough stubble of Bucky’s jaw. Her eyes fluttered closed—just for a second, just to reset.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice cut through the fog. He jostled her—a tiny movement, just enough to send a ripple of awareness through her body. His breath was warm against her ear. “Eyes open.”

She forced her lashes up, each one seemingly weighted with concrete. The world swam into focus, then immediately began to blur again, colors bleeding into each other like watercolors left in the rain. Her pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the green until only a thin ring remained. “M’fine,” she mumbled, the words thick and slurred.

“Stay awake,” Bucky ordered, his hand patting her hip, a gentle but insistent rhythm. “Isabelle.”

 Her gaze wandered over his features with strange intensity, like she was committing them to memory. The deep crease between his brows. The tight line of his mouth. The way his eyes—blue so vivid it seemed almost unnatural—kept darting between her face and the road ahead. Her breath came in shallow puffs against his neck, each exhale warm and copper-scented. “You look... scared.”

His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath stubbled skin. “I’m not scared.”

“Liar.” No heat in the accusation, just certainty. “Your eyes…give you away.”

Something twisted in Bucky’s chest—she could feel it in the sudden tension of his arm around her waist, the slight hitch in his breathing. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against the high collar of his jacket.

The darkness behind her eyelids beckoned, soft and welcoming. Just for a moment, she thought. Just to reset. Her lashes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice sharpened with urgency. His flesh hand moved to her face, rough palm cupping her cheek, forcing her to look at him. “What did I say about those eyes? Keep them open.”

The contact sent a jolt through her system—his skin was so warm against hers, almost burning. His callused thumb brushed across her cheekbone, careful to avoid the road rash still healing there.

Isabelle forced her eyelids up. The world swam into focus—the empty highway, the harsh sun, the dark smudge of Sam’s figure twenty yards ahead.

“Talk...” Her tongue felt thick, uncooperative. Her fingers twisted weakly into the fabric of his tactical jacket, desperate for an anchor. “Talk to me. Distract me.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. The lines between his eyebrows deepened, carving shadows across his face. “Not much of a talker.”

“Try.” The word emerged more as a plea than a command, scraping her throat raw.

He was silent for several steps, the only sound his boots against asphalt and her shallow breathing. The rhythm of his gait was hypnotic, threatening to lull her back into darkness. She focused on the steady thud of his heartbeat against her shoulder, counting each beat to stay conscious. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low she almost missed it.

“I was nine when I met Steve.” The words emerged rough, like he was dragging them up from somewhere deep and rusty. “Skinniest kid I’d ever seen. All bones and attitude.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched. The movement pulled at her healing skin.

“Found him behind the corner store,” Bucky continued, shifting his grip as they navigated a crack in the asphalt. “Three boys had him cornered. Bigger, older. He was bleeding from his nose, lip split open.” His jaw tightened against her temple, muscles tensing beneath stubble. The memory sharpened his features, carving new lines around his mouth. “But he wouldn’t stay down.” Something softened in his voice—not quite fondness, but close. “Kept getting back up, fists raised like he thought he had a chance.”

“Sounds like Steve,” Isabelle murmured. The words slurred together, but she was fighting, clawing her way toward coherence.

Bucky’s chest expanded with a slow inhale. “I jumped in.” A pause. “Not because I thought he needed saving. But because I’d never seen anyone that brave before.” Another pause, longer this time. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Or that stupid.”

“Definitely Steve.” Isabelle huffed a weak laugh, immediately regretting it as pain lanced through her ribs.

“After, he was mad at me.” Bucky’s lips quirked up at one corner, the ghost of a smile. “Said he had them on the ropes. I told him—”

A low rumble cut through the air.

Bucky froze mid-step, every muscle going rigid. The sound grew louder with each passing second—the distinctive growl of an engine pushing hard. Isabelle felt the change ripple through him, soldier’s instincts overriding everything else. His arm clamped around her waist, pulling her flush against his side as his eyes scanned the horizon.

Sam’s head whipped around, his body tensing further. “Vehicle,” he said, voice dropping. “Coming up behind us.”

A dust cloud appeared on the horizon, billowing up from the asphalt like smoke signals. The vehicle materialized through the haze—a military-grade jeep. It screeched to a halt beside them, brakes protesting with a high-pitched whine that set Isabelle’s teeth on edge. Dust swirled around them, coating her tongue with grit and stinging the raw patches of skin on her face. She blinked through the haze, squinting as the particles settled.

She blinked furiously, eyes watering as she squinted through the settling dust. Her stomach dropped.

Walker. 

Chapter Text

Isabelle sat wedged between Bucky and Sam, their shoulders digging into hers with each jolt of the jeep. Across from them, Walker sat ramrod straight, hands on knees, shield secured at his feet. And his partner, Lemar, she reminded herself, watched them warily. His gaze lingered on Bucky’s arm, then darted away when he caught Isabelle noticing. 

“Let me know if you need another one,” Lemar said, nodding at the half-eaten protein bar in her hand. “I know it doesn’t taste like much, but it’ll keep you going.” 

Isabelle looked down at the bar clutched between her fingers. It tasted like cardboard soaked in artificial sweetener. She’d only accepted it after Lemar had extended it three times, and Sam had nudged her, his lips pressed into that tight line that meant eat the damned thing. She took another reluctant bite, the texture like compressed sawdust against her tongue. 

“Yeah…I’ll let you know,” she said finally, washing down the chalky residue with lukewarm water from the bottle she had wedged between her thighs. The plastic crinkled as she squeezed it too hard. 

Bucky’s thigh pressed against hers. She could feel the subtle shift of his muscles as he tensed, staring down Walker with everything he had. On her other side, Sam maintained the facade of neutrality, but Isabelle knew better. The slight clench of his jaw, the way his eyes never settled on one spot for too long. He didn’t want to be in this jeep any more than she or Bucky did.

But this was better than walking. 

Unfortunately.

Walker’s gaze bounced between them like a nervous pinball, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed repeatedly. He kept adjusting his posture, shoulders squaring then slumping, a man desperately trying to find his footing on shifting sand. Isabelle could practically hear the gears grinding in Walker’s head as he struggled to find words.

Finally, Walker cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, each word measured like he was defusing a bomb. “I’m still figuring this stuff out.”

Bucky’s leg pressed harder against hers. Isabelle felt the exact moment his muscles locked, tension radiating from him like heat. She glanced sideways, catching the hard set of his jaw as he studied Walker. Sam shot them both a warning look from her other side, his eyes meeting hers for a fraction of a second—communicating volumes in that brief connection.

Walker cleared his throat again, desperation leaking into his expression. His eyes darted between them—Sam to Bucky to Isabelle—like a man searching for a friendly face in a firing squad. “I’ve never faced off against any of the big three before,” he admitted, voice straining for casual but landing somewhere between desperate and reverent.

Sam shot Isabelle and Bucky a pointed look that screamed, ‘told you it was a thing.’ His eyebrows lifted in that smug way that made Isabelle want to flick him between the eyes. She rolled her eyes instead, too bone-tired and irritated to bother with words. The protein bar crumbled between her teeth as she took another reluctant bite. 

Beside her, Bucky’s entire body went rigid. His metal fingers flexed against his thigh, plates recalibrating with a nearly inaudible whir. He licked his lips, jaw working before he finally muttered, “No such thing as wizards.” 

Walker and Lemar exchanged confused glances—the universal look of men on the outside of an inside joke. Walker’s brow furrowed, his expression caught between wanting to be included and trying to maintain authority.

“Okay...” Walker said slowly, “Maybe they’re not wizards...”

“Super soldiers,” Sam interjected, his tone deceptively casual, like he was commenting on the weather instead of dropping a tactical nuke into the conversation.

Bucky’s head snapped toward Sam so fast that Isabelle heard his neck crack. Blue eyes widened, jaw slacking for a split second before clamping shut again. Heat bloomed in Isabelle’s chest—not the warm kind, but the sharp, acidic burn of disbelief. Why was Sam volunteering information to Walker and Hoskins? She shot Sam a look that could’ve melted steel, but he pointedly avoided her gaze.

“Super soldiers?” Walker leaned forward, his posture suddenly alert, like a hunting dog catching a scent. “Like—” His eyes flickered to Isabelle, lingering, then darted to Bucky, then quickly away. The comparison hung in the air, unspoken. “Okay, yeah.” Walker nodded, a smile spreading across his face. “That settles it. We need to work together on this.”

“No.” Bucky’s response was immediate. A single syllable, hard as granite and cold as ice. His voice carried no hesitation, no room for negotiation—just flat, absolute rejection.

Walker blinked, confusion creasing his forehead. “What?”

Bucky moved his arm, resting it on the back of the seat behind her shoulders. The gesture wasn’t casual or accidental. It was deliberate. Territorial.

“We don’t need to work together on anything,” Bucky growled, leaning forward slightly. His voice dropped an octave, taking on that dangerous edge. “Just ‘cause you carry that shield doesn’t mean you’re Captain America.”

Hoskins shifted uncomfortably across from them, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his knee. His eyes darted between Bucky and Walker, calculating odds, measuring threats. The protein bar wrapper crinkled in Isabelle’s grip as she unconsciously tightened her fingers.

Walker’s expression hardened, the eager-to-please mask slipping to reveal something rawer underneath—angry, wounded, and desperate.

“Look,” Walker started, his voice taking on that particular tone men use when trying to sound reasonable while being anything but. His jaw worked like chewing on the words before spitting them out. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but—”

“Wrong foot?” Bucky’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass, a sound with no humor. “You think this is about getting off on the wrong foot?”

The cool metal of his arm brushed against Isabelle’s shoulder as he leaned forward, the plates recalibrating with a series of nearly silent clicks. 

Walker’s face flushed, embarrassment and frustration flashing across his features in quick succession. His eyes darted between Isabelle and Sam, searching for an ally and finding none. When he spoke again, his voice had an edge to it, a hint of defiance creeping in beneath the veneer of professionalism.

“Now listen here, Barnes,” Walker said, leaning forward until his knees nearly touched Bucky’s. The shield shifted at his feet with a metallic scrape. “I may not have fought in World War II or been an Avenger, but I’ve served my country. I’ve bled for it.” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “This shield, this uniform—they were given to me. I didn’t steal them.” His eyes locked onto Bucky’s. “You need to accept that.”

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw jumped as his teeth ground together. Isabelle felt him go perfectly still beside her, the kind of stillness that preceded violence. When he finally spoke, his voice was deceptively soft, like the whisper of a knife being drawn from its sheath. “That shield means something,” Bucky said, his eyes never leaving Walker’s face. “It’s not just a piece of metal for you to wave around like a toy soldier.”

Walker’s eyes narrowed, the nervous deference from earlier burning away, replaced by something harder. His posture shifted—spine straightening, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable: the good soldier giving way to the man beneath.

“I’m not trying to be Steve Rogers,” he shot back, words clipped and sharp. His fingers curled into fists on his knees. “I’m trying to be the Captain America this country needs now. And whether you like it or not, Barnes, that’s me.”

“You just said how underprepared you were,” Isabelle cut in, unable to contain herself any longer. The words spilled out sharp and hot. “You were literally just asking for our help.”

Walker’s attention snapped to her, his eyes widening slightly as if he’d forgotten she was there. The muscle beneath his left eye twitched.

“I’m acknowledging we’re facing something beyond standard military threats,” he countered, voice tight as a bowstring. “That’s not weakness—that’s tactical awareness.”

“Tactical awareness?” Isabelle scoffed, the half-eaten protein bar crumbling in her grip. Dusty particles fell onto her lap. “Is that what they’re calling incompetence these days?”

Walker’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as his gaze dropped pointedly to the bruises blooming across her cheekbone. “And what about you, Stark?” His eyes then lingered on the tear at her left side, where the fabric of her suit had torn. “From where I was standing, you weren’t exactly handling yourself. All I saw was someone who got thrown around like a rag doll. That’s how the Avengers taught you to fight?” Walker pressed, his voice gaining momentum.

Isabelle felt her lungs constrict, a familiar tingle building in her fingertips—the warning buzz of her powers stirring beneath her skin. “Excuse me?” she hissed. 

Hoskins shifted uncomfortably beside him. “John—”

“No, I want to know,” Walker bulldozed over his partner’s warning, eyes locked on Isabelle’s. “Because I’ve studied the footage. I know how they operated.” He jabbed a finger toward her. “What I saw on that truck wasn’t Avengers protocol. It was amateur hour.”

The jeep hit another pothole, jolting them all, but Isabelle barely registered it. Her blood roared in her ears, drowning out everything but Walker’s voice and the electric hum of her powers crackling beneath her skin, begging for release.

“You don’t know a damn thing about the Avengers,” she snarled, each word razor-edged. “Or protocols. Or me.”

“I know enough.” Walker’s lips curled into something not quite a smile, more like a sneer disguised as professionalism. “I read the leaked SHIELD files. I know Tony Stark kept his ex-wife’s science experiment on a short leash. Kept you off the front lines when it mattered.” He cocked his head, studying her like a bug under glass. “What was it? Worried you’d crack under pressure? Or just didn’t trust what you might do?”

Bucky’s entire body went rigid beside her. The plates in his arm recalibrated with a series of soft, menacing clicks that vibrated against Isabelle’s shoulder. “One more word,” he growled, voice dropping to that Winter Soldier register that made even hardened soldiers flinch, “I dare you.”

Walker’s eyes flicked to Bucky, then back to Isabelle. Something ugly flashed across his face—satisfaction at having struck a nerve. His mouth opened, the next barb already forming on his tongue.

“John,” Hoskins said again, firmer this time, grabbing his partner’s wrist. “That’s enough.”

Walker blinked, the spell breaking. His expression shifted—confusion, then dawning realization, then a flash of panic as he registered what he’d just said. His eyes darted between the three of them, landing on Sam’s stone-cold glare, Bucky’s murderous stare, and finally Isabelle’s barely contained fury.

“I—” Walker swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That came out wrong.”

Isabelle’s fingers twitched, power humming through her veins like an electrical current seeking ground. One touch. That’s all it would take. One touch and she could drop him where he sat, make him feel every broken bone, every torn muscle she’d ever suffered.

“You think?” Sam’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and authoritative.

Walker’s face flushed, blotchy red, spreading up his neck to his ears. He leaned forward, hands raised in a placating gesture that looked more like surrender. “Look, I misspoke. I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out, rehearsed but desperate. “I’ve been studying you all for years—your tactics, your missions. I just—” He raked a hand through his short hair. “I’m trying to do this right.”

“By throwing files in her face?” Bucky’s voice remained dangerously low. “That’s your idea of teamwork?”

Walker’s eyes flicked between them, desperation leaking through the cracks. He looked younger suddenly, the bravado stripped away to reveal the man drowning beneath the shield’s weight. “Look, we’re facing the same threat,” he sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “Super soldiers. You know what that means better than anyone.” His gaze shifted to Bucky, then back to Isabelle. “I’m not asking you to like me. I’m asking you to work with me so nobody else gets hurt.”

 Sam’s gaze swept over them all, his expression hard-edged but composed. “We appreciate the ride,” Sam said, his voice leaving no room for argument, “but that’s where this ends. We’re not a team and not looking to be one.”

Walker’s face fell, the rejection hitting visibly. His shoulders stiffened as he straightened, trying to maintain dignity while his eyes darted between them, searching desperately for any crack in their united front.

“The GRC is doing important work,” Walker insisted, leaning forward. “Post-Blip infrastructure, resource allocation, housing—these Flag Smashers are undermining all of it.” His knuckles whitened as his fingers dug into his knees. “They’ve hit three supply depots in the last week alone. Vaccines, medicine, food—all gone. And it’s more than theft. They’re building something—a movement. A dangerous one.” He gestured between them with an open palm. “With your experience, we could—”

“We said no.” Bucky still glared at Walker, eyes locked hard and cold. 

Walker’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His gaze shifted to Isabelle, desperation bleeding into calculation. “You were an Avenger,” he said, his tone softening to something almost pleading. “You know what it means to be part of something bigger. To put aside differences for—”

“I know what it’s like to work with people I trust,” Isabelle cut him off, her voice razor-sharp. “People who don’t throw my past in my face the second they want something from me.”

Walker flinched, the barb landing exactly where she’d aimed it.

Hoskins shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “I get why you’re hesitant.” His voice was steadier than Walker’s, less desperate. “But John’s right about the threat. These aren’t regular terrorists. They’re enhanced, organized, and gaining support.” He looked directly at Isabelle, then Bucky, his expression softening. “And for what it’s worth, I think what you did with the Avengers—standing up after everything you went through—takes real courage. The kind we could use right now.”

Bucky’s head swiveled toward Hoskins, eyes narrowing dangerously. “And who the hell are you again?” The question hung in the air, flat and unimpressed.

“Lemar Hoskins.” Pride crept into his voice as he straightened slightly. “I’m Battlestar.”

“Battlestar?” Bucky repeated, his tone so flat it could have been used as a spirit level.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on Hoskins, taking in the way the man positioned himself next to Walker—the subtle mirroring, the protective angle of his body, the quiet confidence in his partner’s abilities despite the evidence to the contrary. It was all too familiar. A knock-off version of what he and Steve had once been. What they’d had during the war.

Without conscious thought, Bucky lunged forward, metal fingers clamping around the door handle. He yanked it with enough force that the entire jeep shuddered on its suspension, the frame groaning in protest. “Stop the car!” The command tore from his throat, raw and sharp.

The driver’s head snapped around, eyes wide with alarm. His foot slammed the brake pedal to the floor. Tires skidded across loose gravel, the high-pitched screech cutting through the tension-filled cabin as the jeep lurched to a violent halt.

Dust billowed around them, and the engine idled with a low, persistent growl that matched the one building in Bucky’s chest.

His lungs burned. Each breath came quickly and shallow. The jeep’s interior had shrunk around him—walls closing in, air thinning, the shield at Walker’s feet seeming to pulse with accusation. That goddamn shield. Steve’s shield. Not this stranger’s.

“Bucky—” Sam’s voice cut through the fog in his mind, low with warning, heavy with understanding.

He ignored it. The door was already open, his body halfway out before his brain had fully caught up. He swung himself out of the vehicle, boots hitting the ground with a satisfying thud. “I’d rather walk,” he growled. 

The cool late-afternoon air rushed into his lungs, clean and sharp, washing away the suffocating closeness of the jeep. He rolled his shoulders back, metal arm glinting in the slanted sunlight as he flexed his fingers, fighting the urge to put them through something—preferably Walker’s smug face.

Behind him, Walker’s voice cut through the air, slicing into Bucky’s momentary relief. “Look, I... I get it, okay?” A note of desperation crept into Walker’s tone, making it higher, thinner. “I get the attitude, I do. You didn’t think the shield was gonna end up here.” A pause, then the final presumption: “I get it, Bucky.”

 Bucky’s jaw locked so tight he felt a molar creak. How could this man—this stranger—possibly understand? How could he comprehend what that shield represented? Not just America or heroism or any of that propaganda bullshit, but Steve. His best friend. The kid from Brooklyn who was too stupid to run from a fight. The man who’d never stopped believing in Bucky, even when Bucky was a weapon pointed at his heart.

The soft thud of boots hitting gravel pulled him from the edge of his rage. He turned to see Isabelle standing beside the jeep, her expression thunderous, eyes flashing with a fury that matched his own. The wind caught her hair, blonde strands whipping across her face as she stepped away from the vehicle. 

“Don’t assume you get it, Walker,” she said. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t need to. The quiet intensity of her words cut deeper than any scream could have. “You don’t.”

Her stance was steadier now, the pain from earlier seemingly pushed aside by pure, distilled anger.

She shot Sam an apologetic glance over her shoulder—a quick flicker of regret—then turned away from the jeep without another word. Bucky found himself moving in sync with her, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. Their boots crunched in unison across the gravel as they walked away side by side, shoulders nearly touching but not quite. The space between them hummed with shared indignation.

Every step put distance between them and Walker, but the man’s words clung to Bucky like burrs. Super soldiers. The shield. The presumption that Walker understood anything about what that shield meant—to Bucky, Steve, and the world they’d fought for.

“I should’ve hit him,” Isabelle muttered beside him. Her fingers flexed at her sides, curling and uncurling. “Just once. Right in his self-righteous face.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Still could,” he offered, the words rough but somehow lighter than before. “I’d hold him still for you.”

He glanced at Isabelle, noting the hard set of her jaw, the tight line of her mouth. The way her eyes kept darting back toward the jeep—calculating, measuring. She was just as affected by this as he was, maybe more so. Walker’s words about Tony had hit a nerve. Bucky could see it in the rigid line of her shoulders, the too-careful way she was breathing.

“You okay?” he asked, the concern in his voice surprising even him. It was a softness he wasn’t used to hearing in his own words, a gentleness he’d thought had been beaten out of him decades ago. His eyes scanned her face, searching for signs of discomfort beyond the obvious bruising. 

Isabelle’s pace faltered for half a step, her eyes meeting his. In the fading light, he could see the weariness etched into her features, the barely concealed frustration simmering beneath the surface. Something else too—a vulnerability she rarely showed.

“Yeah,” she replied, but Bucky could hear the strain in her voice. She swallowed, throat working. “Just tired of people who think reading a file means they know me.” She hesitated, then added, “You?”

The question caught him off guard. It had been so long since someone had asked him that—asked and actually seemed to care about the answer. He flexed his metal hand unconsciously, the plates whirring softly as they recalibrated.

“I’ll be fine,” he said finally, the words feeling inadequate even as they left his mouth. “Just needed to get out of there before I did something...” He trailed off, eyes drifting back to the jeep where Walker sat watching them, the shield at his feet. “Something Steve would’ve talked me out of.”

Isabelle’s eyes softened just slightly, understanding passing between them without words needed. “For what it’s worth,” she said, her voice dropping lower, almost gentle, “Steve would’ve hated that guy.”

A surprised huff of laughter escaped Bucky’s chest, rusty and unfamiliar. “Yeah. Yeah, he would’ve.”

The road stretched ahead of them, dusty and empty. Isabelle squinted against the glare of the setting sun, her eyes scanning the outskirts of the town ahead on the horizon. 

“I can have FRIDAY get us a ride,” she said, tapping at her comms still in her ear. “Book us a flight back home. Commercial, though. I don’t have the Stark jet on reserve.” She grimaced. 

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile, a hint of mischief dancing in his steel-blue eyes. “At least we won’t have to be quiet the whole flight.”

Isabelle’s laugh burst out of her—a genuine sound that cracked through her exhaustion. “Oh, you mean I don’t have to watch another eight-hour staring contest between you two?” She rolled her shoulders, wincing as something popped. “God, that was painful. I thought one of you might actually combust.”

“He started it,” Bucky muttered, then caught himself. He sounded like Steve after a back-alley scuffle in 1938.

“Sure he did, tough guy.”

They fell into rhythm beside each other, boots crunching in tandem over loose gravel. Their silence felt different now, not the wary distance of strangers or the tense quiet of reluctant allies. It was almost... comfortable.

Bucky stole another glance at her. A bruise was darkening along her cheekbone, purple-black against her skin. Her hair fell in wisps around her face. Something twisted in his chest—an unfamiliar feeling he couldn’t quite name.

“You know,” he said, surprising himself by breaking the silence, “when I pictured my first mission after... everything, I didn’t think I’d end up hitchhiking down some backroad with a Stark.”

Isabelle’s eyes flashed to his, surprise giving way to amusement. “Oh yeah?” The corner of her mouth quirked up. “And what exactly did the great James Buchanan Barnes envision for his triumphant return to action?”

Bucky snorted, a rare chuckle escaping him. The sound felt foreign in his throat, rusty from disuse. “Definitely not this, doll.”

The endearment slipped out before he could catch it, a ghost from another lifetime. He tensed, waiting for her to bristle or pull away.

Isabelle’s eyebrow arched, but instead of offense, he saw something playful spark in her eyes. “Doll, huh?” She bumped her shoulder against his metal arm, the impact sending a dull vibration through his sensors. “Careful there, Barnes. A girl might get ideas.”

Heat crept up Bucky’s neck. He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the horizon. Her giggle drew his gaze back like a magnet. The sound was so at odds with everything he knew about her—Stark’s daughter, an Avenger, a woman who could drop a man with a touch. Yet here she was, laughing at his fumbling attempts at conversation.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” she said, her voice dropping to something softer, almost tender, “I’m glad you’re here, Bucky. Even if it’s not exactly how either of us pictured it.”

Something shifted in his chest—a piece of ice cracking, letting in a sliver of warmth he hadn’t felt in decades. The sensation was so foreign he almost didn’t recognize it. “Yeah,” he managed, his voice rougher than intended, catching on the single syllable. “Me too.”

The sound of footsteps behind them shattered the moment. Bucky tensed instantly, hand sliding to the knife hidden at his waist, feet shifting into a defensive stance. He pivoted sharply, only to see Sam jogging toward them, slightly winded.

Bucky’s shoulders eased, but a twinge of disappointment flickered through him. The quiet moment with Isabelle had been... nice. Different. A reprieve from the constant vigilance that had become his second nature.

“Hey,” Sam called out, closing the distance between them with quick strides. “You two trying to leave me behind?”

Bucky’s eyes darted to Isabelle, catching the slight quirk of her eyebrow and the amused twist of her lips. Her voice carried a hint of playful sarcasm as she asked, “Couldn’t take the bullshit either?”

“Nope,” Sam replied, falling into step beside them. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Man, I thought I’d seen it all, but those two... they’re something else.”

“Something else is right,” Bucky muttered, scanning the horizon. The sun was sinking lower now, shadows stretching longer across the road. Soon, they’d lose daylight entirely. He suppressed a shiver, memories of cold Siberian nights creeping unbidden into his mind—the bone-deep chill, the silence broken only by the howl of wind against concrete walls.

Sam’s voice cut through his darkening thoughts. “Who comes up with these names?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Battlestar? Did they pull it out of a cereal box or something?”

Despite himself, Bucky felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Probably the same people who thought giving the shield to that guy was a good idea,” he grumbled, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.

Isabelle laughed—not a polite chuckle or forced smile, but a genuine laugh that broke from her throat and spilled into the cooling air around them. A warmth bloomed in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. It reminded him of something he’d felt lifetimes ago, sitting around a campfire with the Howling Commandos, Steve at his side. Before the train. Before the fall. Before the cold.

Siberia.

The word echoed in his mind, sharp and sudden as a gunshot. His metal fingers flexed unconsciously, plates whirring softly as they recalibrated. The last time he’d been in Siberia—

No. He wouldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t afford to. Not with Isabelle looking at him like that, her laughter fading into something softer, more curious. But the memories were there, lurking just beneath the surface. Waiting for the dark. Waiting for the quiet. Waiting for him to close his eyes.

Chapter Text

2016 

Bucky’s eyes darted around the cramped Quinjet, his muscles tense as he tried to make sense of the situation. He caught Steve’s gaze, those blue eyes a mixture of determination and concern that Bucky had seen countless times before. It was the look of a man who would move heaven and earth for his friend, and it sent a pang of guilt through Bucky’s chest.

“I’m not worth all this, Steve,” Bucky muttered, his voice barely audible over the aircraft’s noise. “Why risk everything for me?”

 “Buck, you know why.” Steve furrowed his brow, focusing on the sky as he flew the aircraft.

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but movement to his right caught his attention. His eyes fell on the young woman sitting in the front passenger seat. 

Isabelle Stark. 

She sat slumped in her seat. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed, face pale and drawn. Bucky watched her through squinted eyes. She had stood by his side during the fight at the airport, her face contorted with concentration as she wielded her strange power. 

Pathokinesis, Steve had called it. The ability to induce physical ailments in others. He’d watched her take down Natasha and King T’Challa with nothing more than a touch and a look whenever they got too close to him.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Bucky whispered, more to himself than to Steve. “None of them should have been. This wasn’t their fight.”

Steve turned his head back to give him a firm look. “It became their fight the moment they chose to stand with us, Buck. That’s what friends do.”

Bucky frowned as he studied her sleeping form, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way her blonde hair had escaped its messy ponytail to frame her face. Something about her tugged at the edges of his consciousness, a nagging familiarity he couldn’t quite place. A memory stirred, hazy and indistinct. He’d seen her before all of this, hadn’t he? 

“I’ve met her before,” Bucky said, his voice low and rough. “As... him. The Soldier. I can’t remember clearly...it’s all mixed up,” He trailed off, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. “But she was there, wasn’t she? When we... when I...”

“Project Insight,” Steve supplied softly, his eyes flicking between Bucky and the sky ahead. “Yeah, Buck. She was there.”

The name triggered another flash - chaos, gunfire, the acrid smell of smoke. He could almost feel the heat of flames licking at his skin as a massive helicarrier plummeted from the sky in a twisted heap of metal and shattered glass. Bucky’s metal arm whirred softly, plates shifting and recalibrating as his fist clenched involuntarily. The phantom sensation of gripping a weapon, of dealing out death with cold efficiency, made his stomach churn. 

“I remember...” Bucky trailed off, his brow furrowed in concentration. He swallowed hard, struggling to articulate the fragmented memory. “She looked at me. She was afraid of me.” 

He shook his head, frustration etching deep lines around his eyes. The hazy images refused to coalesce into a coherent whole, slipping away like smoke through his fingers. 

“Why would she help?” The question came out harsher than he intended, tinged with self-loathing. “After everything I’d done?”

Steve’s gaze softened as he glanced back at Bucky. “Because she saw you, Buck,” he said quietly. “Not the Soldier.”

Bucky grunted, tearing his eyes away from Isabelle’s sleeping form. The weight of Steve’s belief in him was almost too much to bear. “She’s just a kid, Steve,” he muttered, his throat tight. “Shouldn’t be mixed up in all this.”

A small, fond smile tugged at Steve’s lips. “I wouldn’t let her hear you call her a kid,” he warned, a hint of amusement in his tone. “She’s not one. She’s not much younger than we were when we shipped out.”

The reminder sent another jolt through Bucky’s system. Images of a different time flashed before his eyes - crisp uniforms, the nervous excitement of fresh-faced recruits, the weight of responsibility settling on shoulders far too young. He could almost smell the musty canvas of their tent, hear the distant rumble of artillery fire.

Steve’s expression grew serious, pulling Bucky back to the present. “She’s here because she believes in what we’re doing,” he said, his voice low but filled with conviction. 

Bucky’s gaze drifted back to Isabelle, studying how her brow furrowed even in sleep, the slight tremble in her hands. He recognized the signs of exhaustion, of pushing oneself beyond normal limits. It was a feeling he knew all too well.

“And what exactly are we doing, Steve?” Bucky asked, unable to keep the edge of bitterness from his voice. “Running? Fighting? Dragging innocent people into my mess?”

Steve’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, the quinjet lurched. Isabelle’s eyes snapped open, and she bolted upright with a startled gasp. Bucky watched as panic flashed across her face, her gaze darting wildly around the cramped interior. Her chest heaved with rapid breaths.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Steve’s voice softened immediately, a gentleness in his tone that Bucky hadn’t heard in decades. “We’re just approaching the landing zone.” The easy familiarity in Steve’s words caught Bucky off guard. This wasn’t the awkward, tongue-tied punk he remembered fumbling around dames in Brooklyn. 

Bucky watched Isabelle visibly relax, her breathing slowing as she ran a hand over her face. The tension in her shoulders eased, and a small, grateful smile tugged at her lips. “Hate flying,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. Her fingers combed through tangled blonde hair, wincing as they caught on a knot. “How long was I out?”

“A few hours,” Steve replied, his eyes flicking between her and the sky ahead. A fond smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You looked like you needed it.”

Isabelle managed a wry smile, still working on her hair. “Hope I didn’t talk in my sleep. Did I miss anything exciting?”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Just the usual – turbulence and more turbulence.” His expression sobered, and he fixed her with a look. “How are you feeling? Really?”

Bucky didn’t miss the layers in that question. Steve wasn’t just asking about her physical state – he was probing deeper, checking on the emotional toll they’d just been through, of having to fight and turn against her father. 

Isabelle’s smile faltered, her gaze dropping to her hands. Bucky noticed they were trembling slightly. “I’m okay,” she said, but the quaver in her voice betrayed her. 

Steve reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. The gesture was so natural that Bucky felt like an intruder watching it. He remembered a time when Steve could barely string two words together around a pretty girl, and now here he was, offering comfort as easily as breathing.

“You did good out there,” Steve said softly, his thumb rubbing small circles on her shoulder. “I’m proud of you. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Isabelle leaned into the touch, closing her eyes briefly. “Thanks, Steve. I just... I hope it was worth it. That Dad will...” She frowned, opening her eyes, unable to finish the thought.

The weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air. Bucky felt the guilt gnawing at him again, sharper now as he watched the interplay between Steve and Isabelle. He’d caused this, hadn’t he? Torn apart a family, forced a daughter to fight against her father. 

“Tony’s stubborn, but he’ll—” Steve started, then paused, choosing his words carefully. “He loves you, Belle. He might not always show it in the best way, but he does. This doesn’t change that. He’ll come to his senses.”

As the Quinjet descended through the swirling snow, Bucky watched Isabelle rise from her seat, her movements careful as she navigated the aircraft. Her hand shot out to grasp the overhead rail, steadying herself as the quinjet rocked. Isabelle peered out the windshield, her eyes widening at the whiteout conditions beyond. 

Bucky followed her gaze, his stomach churning at the dizzying view. The mountainous landscape was barely visible through the veil of snow, bringing back flashes of another time, another mission in the cold. He pushed the memories aside, focusing on the present.

“Wish I brought a coat,” Isabelle muttered, rubbing her arms. She caught Bucky staring and offered a soft smile, though he could see the uncertainty lingering in her eyes. “What? Never seen a girl regret her wardrobe choices before?”

Bucky’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. The quip was unexpected, cutting through some of the tension building since they’d taken off. “I’ve seen worse,” he replied, his voice rough from disuse. “Steve used to go out in the winter with nothing but newspapers in his shoes.”

Steve chuckled from the pilot’s seat. “Hey, we couldn’t all afford fancy boots like you, Buck.”

“Newspaper? Seriously?” Isabelle’s eyebrows shot up, a hint of amusement coloring her tone. “And here I thought my dad’s stories about walking uphill both ways were exaggerations.”

The Quinjet touched down with a gentle thud. Bucky rose from his seat, his movements fluid and practiced. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready for action. He watched as Steve powered down the aircraft, the low hum of the engines fading to silence while Isabelle moved towards the rear, reaching for the ramp controls. The metal groaned as it lowered, and a blast of frigid air rushed into the cabin.

“Jesus,” Isabelle muttered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. 

As they descended the ramp, Bucky’s boots crunched against the snow-covered ground. He scanned their surroundings, taking in the stark, unforgiving landscape. In the distance, partially obscured by swirling snow, loomed the entrance to the abandoned Hydra base. The massive steel doors stood open, a gaping maw in the side of the mountain. He could almost hear the echoes of his past reverberating from within those dark halls.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You okay?”

Bucky turned to find both Steve and Isabelle watching him with concern. He swallowed hard, forcing his features into what he hoped was a neutral expression. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Just... remembering.”

Steve nodded, taking point and trudging towards the entrance. The wind howled around them, driving snow and ice against their faces. Isabelle stumbled slightly, the snow slippery, and without thinking, Bucky reached out to steady her with his metal arm.

She looked up at him, surprise flashing across her features before being replaced by a small, grateful smile. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice nearly lost in the wind.

Bucky nodded, unable to find the words to respond. 

As they approached the yawning entrance, Bucky watched as Steve moved towards the already unlocked door, pushing it open with a soft creak that set Bucky’s teeth on edge.

Something wasn’t right. 

The ease of their entry gnawed at Bucky’s instincts. His eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness beyond the threshold. The meager light from outside barely penetrated the inky blackness, and Bucky’s grip on his rifle tightened instinctively. He nodded for Isabelle to go in after Steve, positioning himself to bring up the rear.

As they descended into the bowels of the facility, the darkness gave way to dim, flickering lights. The change only heightened Bucky’s unease. Each flicker cast dancing shadows along the walls, playing tricks on his senses. This had trap written all over it, and Zemo had proven himself a master manipulator at every turn.

The elevator groaned as it carried them deeper into the complex, the sound grating against Bucky’s nerves. His muscles coiled tighter with every floor they passed, memories of similar facilities flickering at the edges of his consciousness. 

The air grew colder as they ventured deeper, carrying with it the musty scent of disuse and decay. Bucky’s breath came out in small puffs of vapor. 

When the doors finally slid open with a hiss, Bucky was the first to move. His movements were fluid, practiced, as he swept the long, damp hallway stretching into the gloom. The cold metal of his rifle was a familiar comfort against his palms as he cleared each corner, searching for any sign of movement or threat. He could sense Steve right behind him, the soft scrape of his boots and Isabelle’s lighter footsteps followed, and Bucky found himself straining to hear them, constantly aware of her position. 

“Stay close,” Bucky murmured, as they began to ascend a set of stairs, hugging the wall for cover. The silence was oppressive, broken only by their measured breathing and the soft scuff of their boots on concrete. Bucky’s enhanced hearing picked up the faintest tremor in Isabelle’s breath, the slight quickening of her heartbeat.

Suddenly, a loud clank echoed through the hallway, followed by the grinding of metal on metal. A door opened somewhere behind them. Bucky’s body reacted before his mind could process, whirling around with his rifle raised. He caught a glimpse of Steve grabbing Isabelle’s arm, pulling her behind him as the familiar ‘shink’ of his shield being raised filled the air.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he peered down the hallway, his finger hovering over the trigger, adrenaline surging through his veins. The metallic creaks grew louder, higher in pitch as whatever lay beyond approached. He exchanged a quick glance with Steve, sharing the same tense anticipation that took over him.

The door slid open with a grinding screech that set Bucky’s teeth on edge. A familiar red and gold figure stepped through, the soft blue glow of the arc reactor casting eerie shadows in the dim hallway. 

Tony Stark.

 Bucky’s grip on his rifle tightened instinctively, memories of their last encounter flashing through his mind. He risked a quick glance at Isabelle, searching for any sign of betrayal, but her wide-eyed shock seemed genuine. She stepped out from behind Steve’s shield, ignoring the captain’s protective gesture.

“Dad?” Isabelle’s voice was barely more than a whisper, a mixture of disbelief and apprehension. “What are you—you shouldn’t be here—”

Tony’s faceplate retracted with a soft hiss, revealing an expression of barely contained fury. Each step Tony took towards Isabelle was deliberate, the sound of metal boots on concrete echoing in the narrow space like a countdown to detonation.

Bucky’s finger twitched on the trigger, ready to react at the slightest provocation. He could feel Steve tensing beside him before shooting him a look—wait, Steve’s eyes pleaded. 

“Are you okay—you hurt?” Tony asked, his voice tight with controlled anger. His eyes scanned Isabelle, lingering on the fading bruises from the airport battle that hadn’t healed yet. 

“ I-yeah... yeah, I’m fine,” Isabelle stammered, her usual confidence wavering. She gestured to the cut on Tony’s cheek, her hand trembling slightly. “Um, you?”

Tony’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, clearly struggling to maintain his composure. “Oh, I’m just peachy,” he snapped, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Nothing like having your daughter decide to play international fugitive.” 

Tony’s gaze shifted, locking onto Steve and Bucky. The change in his posture was subtle, but to Bucky’s trained eye, it might as well have been a neon sign. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, his body instinctively preparing for a fight.

“You two seem a little defensive,” Tony said, his voice suddenly more sarcastic, almost playful. The shift in tone only heightened Bucky’s unease. He’d seen men use humor to mask their true intentions before, usually right before they struck.

“It’s been a long day,” Steve replied, his voice tight with forced calm.

Bucky watched as Tony deliberately placed himself between Isabelle and the two super-soldiers. He tensed further as Steve took a tentative step forward. Bucky’s mind raced, assessing the situation. The confined space of the corridor limited their options. If this turned into a fight, it would be brutal and close-quarters. This was a powder keg, and Tony Stark was holding a lit match. 

Tony’s attention shifted to Bucky, his eyes narrowing with a hint of challenge. “At ease, Soldier,” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m not currently after you.”

The words did little to ease Bucky’s suspicion. If anything, they set his nerves further on edge. His eyes flicked to Isabelle, noting the tension in her posture, the way her fingers twitched at her sides as she kept a close eye on her father.

“Then why are you here?” Steve’s voice cut through the silence, echoing Bucky’s unspoken question.

A bitter laugh escaped Tony’s lips, the sound harsh as something dark flashed across his face—a look of a man pushed to his breaking point, dangerous and unpredictable. “Because you dragged my kid out here,” Tony spat, gesturing toward Isabelle with a jerky movement of his armored hand. “And—” Tony paused, his jaw clenching as if the words physically pained him. “And I hate saying this, but maybe your story’s not so crazy.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, studying Tony’s expression. There was something else there, buried beneath the anger and bravado. Whatever it was, Bucky wasn’t convinced. He’d seen too many traps, too many carefully orchestrated deceptions, to take anything at face value.

“What changed your mind?” Steve asked, his voice cautious but tinged with hope. His shield remained raised, though it had dipped slightly—a silent gesture that spoke of trust not fully given, but not entirely absent either.

Tony didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to Isabelle, her face set in quiet concern. For just a moment—so quick it might have been imagined—something flickered across Tony’s face. Pain? Regret? It cracked through his usual mask of indifference before he caught himself. He blinked hard, as though shutting a door on whatever emotion had slipped through. 

And then there it was again—his armor—not made of metal this time but irritation. He straightened his posture and let out a sharp breath through his nose.

“FRIDAY,” he said simply, the word clipped and final. “Let’s just say she found some merit to... to all this,” Tony continued. His eyes darted around the dimly lit corridor as if expecting hidden cameras or listening devices. “Look, Ross has no idea I’m here. I’d like to keep it that way. Otherwise...” He paused, a humorless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Otherwise, I’d have to arrest myself.”

Steve’s posture relaxed slightly, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Well,” he said, his tone light but cautious, “that sounds like a lot of paperwork.”

Isabelle couldn’t help but snort at that, the absurdity of the situation hitting her all at once. Three pairs of eyes snapped to her, and she felt heat creep up her neck. “Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s just…this is insane, right? All of this?”

Tony’s gaze softened as he looked at his daughter, the corner of Tony’s mouth quirked upward in response—a ghost of his usual smirk making a brief appearance before fading again. But whatever levity might have been building between them didn’t extend to Bucky. 

Bucky stood rigid as a statue a few feet away, his rifle held steady in hands that didn’t so much as tremble. His shoulders were tense beneath the worn leather of his jacket. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes told another story: sharp and watchful, darting between Tony and Steve like he was waiting for Tony to make the wrong move.

Tony noticed. Of course he did.

His stance shifted slightly as he turned toward Bucky—not aggressive or threatening exactly, but deliberate. His gaze locked onto the rifle before flicking up to meet Bucky’s cold stare head-on. 

“Hey,” Tony said after a beat, breaking the heavy silence with a tone that was equal parts exasperated and dryly amused. “Manchurian Candidate—you’re killing me here.”

Bucky didn’t flinch either. He merely stared back at Tony with an unyielding intensity that could have turned steel to dust.

Tony pressed on regardless, undeterred by Bucky’s lack of reaction. “There’s a truce. You can drop…” he added pointedly, gesturing vaguely toward Steve as though that explanation alone should suffice.

Bucky’s finger twitched on the trigger. His instincts screamed at him not to lower his guard—not now, not ever—but then Steve stepped forward. It wasn’t much—a single step closer—but it was enough. Steve raised one hand in a calming gesture while keeping his shield in the other—a silent signal meant only for Bucky.

Slowly—so slowly it seemed to take an eternity—Bucky lowered the rifle. He didn’t sling it over his shoulder or set it aside; he merely let the barrel dip toward the ground while keeping both hands firmly on it. Bucky’s eyes tracked Steve as he moved back towards the stairs, his enhanced hearing picking up on the hushed words Tony directed at Isabelle. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Tony’s voice was low, but the anger simmering beneath the surface was unmistakable. “The situation you’ve put yourself in? And for what? Some misguided sense of loyalty to Rogers?” 

Isabelle’s chin lifted, her eyes flashing with defiance. “You said you came here because you know he’s right. About Bucky being framed, and we’re still going to have this conversation?” she retorted. 

Tony’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure. His gaze shifted, locking onto the back of Steve’s head before snapping back to his daughter. 

“You should have come to me,” he hissed. “Talked to me. This isn’t some training exercise. There are real consequences here. International laws broken, bridges burned.” 

“I didn’t go to you because I knew this is how you’d react,” Isabelle shot back, her voice rising slightly. “Irrational. And besides, I wasn’t going to stand by while Bucky got blamed for things he had no part in.” 

The mention of his name sent a jolt through Bucky’s system. He watched as Tony glanced at him, eyes blazing—Bucky met his stare unflinchingly, even as guilt gnawed at his insides. 

“You taught me to stand up for what’s right. What I believe in,” Isabelle continued, her voice softening slightly. “To use what I have to help people and to—” 

“I taught you to think!” Tony shouted, his composure finally cracking as his head whipped back to her in a blink. The sound of his voice reverberated through the narrow space, making Bucky’s ears ring and Steve turn back around, eyes wide with concern. “To use that brilliant mind of yours, not to throw yourself into danger without a second thought! To not—” He paused, swallowing hard. 

The silence that followed was deafening. Bucky’s eyes darted between Tony and Isabelle, cataloging every micro-expression, every shift in stance. He recognized the fear beneath Tony’s anger, the desperation of a father trying to protect his child. And in Isabelle, he saw a stubbornness that mirrored Steve’s, a determination to stand her ground no matter the cost. 

Tony’s shoulders sagged slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, laced with weariness that seemed to age him years in seconds. “Why couldn’t you have just signed the damned Accords? It would have made cleaning up your involvement in all this so much easier.” 

Isabelle’s eyes widened in disbelief, and hurt flashed across her face. “Is that what this is about?” She shook her head, her voice tight. “I won’t sign away my autonomy or my conscience.” 

“Your conscience?” Tony’s voice rose sharply, the momentary fatigue replaced by a flash of anger. “What about your safety? What about your future? You think running around with—” he jerked his head toward Bucky and Steve, not even bothering to look at them, “—with them is going to end well?”

“This isn’t about them,” Isabelle shot back, color rising in her cheeks. “This is about doing what’s right when the system fails.”

“No, this is about you making the same reckless decisions I’ve spent my entire life making!” Tony’s voice echoed off the concrete walls. “And look where that got me—look where it got us!”

“Tony,” Steve stepped forward, his shield lowered but still at the ready. “She made her choice. She did what she thought was right.”

Tony whirled on him, eyes blazing. “You stay out of this, Rogers. You’ve done enough damage.” His armored finger jabbed the air between them. “Dragging my daughter into your crusade—”

“He didn’t drag me anywhere,” Isabelle cut in, moving between them. “I chose this. Me. Not Steve, not anyone else.”

“Oh, really?” Tony’s laugh was harsh, brittle. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like Captain America whispered some noble speech about doing the right thing, and you jumped right in without thinking about the consequences.”

“Dad, stop it,” Isabelle hissed, her own hands trembling now—whether from anger or the strain of her powers threatening to surface, Bucky couldn’t tell.

Tony’s jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with a storm of emotions—frustration, fear, and something that looked almost like pride. He opened his mouth to respond, but his gaze suddenly shifted, locking onto Bucky. The Winter Soldier stood motionless, his face an impassive mask as he listened to their heated exchange.

“We don’t have time for this,” Steve cut in, his voice sharp as steel. He stepped forward, physically inserting himself into the narrowing space between father and daughter. “Whatever’s waiting for us isn’t going to wait forever. Zemo’s still out there, and he’s got a head start.”

Tony’s eyes locked with Steve’s, a silent battle of wills crackling between them. For a moment, Bucky thought Tony might actually throw a punch—the tension in his armored frame was unmistakable.

Instead, Tony stepped back, his faceplate snapping down with a metallic hiss. “Lead the way, Captain,” he said, voice now mechanized and cold through the suit’s speakers. “But this conversation isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

Isabelle’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining from her as quickly as it had flared. She caught Bucky’s eye for just a moment—something vulnerable and raw in her gaze before she masked it, squaring her shoulders and following Steve deeper into the facility.

Bucky’s muscles coiled instinctively, ready for action. He fell into step behind Steve, hyper-aware of Tony’s presence at their backs. He could feel Tony’s gaze burning between his shoulder blades, and Bucky had to fight the urge to turn around. Instead, he focused on the dim corridor ahead, mapping potential escape routes. 

As they rounded a corner, Bucky leaned closer to Steve and whispered. “Can we trust them?” The words were more of a statement than a question.

Steve looked at him, steady and sure. 

“Yes,” he said firmly, but Bucky detected a flicker of something else beneath the certainty. 

Bucky’s metal arm whirred softly as he flexed his fingers, fighting the urge to raise his weapon again. “You sure about that?” he pressed, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice.

Steve’s brow furrowed, his gaze drifting back to where Tony walked with Isabelle. “I know Tony,” he said. “He’s angry, scared even. But he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t believe us on some level.” 

Bucky grunted, unconvinced. His eyes darted around the dimly lit space, old instincts refusing to let him relax. “And her?” he asked, his voice rough. “You trust her, too?”

Steve’s expression softened slightly. “Isabelle’s been through a lot, Buck. But she’s got a good heart. Like someone else I used to know.”

Bucky swallowed hard, glancing back at Isabelle as they turned another corner. 

A pang of guilt twisted in Bucky’s gut. He was the reason for this rift between father and daughter. His past, his actions – even if they weren’t truly his own – had torn apart yet another family. And yet... a selfish part of him couldn’t help but feel grateful. Isabelle had chosen to stand with him, to believe in his innocence when so many others wouldn’t. She’d risked everything to help clear his name.

As they continued down the corridor, Bucky couldn’t shake the feeling that this fragile truce was balanced on a knife’s edge, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.

Chapter Text

Bucky never once let his guard drop as they entered a dimly lit room. Massive cylindrical tanks lined the walls, an eerie yellow glow emanating from within, condensation beading on their glass surfaces. The acrid stench of stale air and chemicals assaulted his nostrils, triggering unwelcome flashes of memories. 

The room seemed to close in on him, shadows dancing at the edges of his vision. Bucky gripped his rifle tightly, fighting against the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Bucky moved in step with Steve, his gaze was inexorably drawn to the faces suspended in the murky liquid. Through the yellowed fluid, he could see clean, precise holes puncturing each forehead. Bullet holes. 

“What the hell happened here?” Tony’s voice cut through his confusion. Tony’s voice was tight and barely contained revulsion. He stood a few feet away, his face still hidden behind his helmet. 

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat constricting. “They’re dead,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “All of them. Shot through the head.”

He remembered these people, not as the frozen corpses before him, but as living, breathing weapons. Flashes of grueling training sessions and brutal experiments that had forged them all into something more than human... something less than human... flickered through his mind like a grotesque slideshow.

Across the room, Isabelle moved cautiously. Her eyes widened in horror, a fraction of morbid fascination creeping in despite her disgust.

She approached a cluster of desks pushed against one wall, her fingers trembling as she rifled through scattered papers and folders. The metal drawers creaked open, revealing stacks of files. Her fingers brushed against a thick file, and she hesitated before opening it. 

Inside, a series of photographs made her breath catch in her throat. A younger Bucky stared back at her, strapped to a chair, his face contorted in agony. Isabelle’s heart raced, her vision blurring slightly as she tried to process what she was seeing.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She’d known, in an abstract way, what Bucky had endured. But seeing it, the raw pain etched on his face, made it horrifyingly real. Her stomach lurched, and she had to grip the edge of the desk to steady herself.

The sound of approaching footsteps made her look up. Tony, his face still hidden behind his helmet, peered over her shoulder. Even through the mask, Isabelle could sense the tension radiating from him.

“What is it?” 

Isabelle swallowed hard, her face pale. “It’s... records. And experiments.” She glanced across the room, where Bucky and Steve stood examining the tanks.  Bucky wouldn’t want them to see him like this—hell, she didn’t want to see him like this.

With trembling hands, Isabelle closed the folder, looking up at her father. She fought the urge to be sick. The images of a younger Bucky, his face contorted in agony, burned into her mind. She stepped away from the desk, her gaze drawn slowly back to the tanks lining the walls.

“If he didn’t come here for them, then what’s his game?” Steve asked aloud as he peered into one of the tubes. 

Tony followed Isabelle as she moved to join Steve and Bucky. “Whatever it is, it can’t be good. These people were weapons, weren’t they? Like you were?” He directed the question at Bucky.

Bucky nodded, his jaw clenched as Tony spoke. “Highly trained, enhanced. Deadly.” He paused, eyes briefly flickering to the floor. “But expendable, apparently.” 

Isabelle watched Bucky, her heart aching at the pain etched across his features. She wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but the horror of their surroundings kept her rooted in place.

A sudden crackle of static pierced the air, causing everyone to flinch. The hairs on the back of Isabelle’s neck stood on end as a smooth, accented voice filled the room, dripping with mock sympathy.

“If it’s any consolation,” Zemo’s voice echoed through hidden speakers, “they died in their sleep.” 

A pause, the words left heavy and thick to settle into them. Isabelle’s chest tightened, her breath catching in her throat. She glanced at Bucky, watching as his jaw clenched, his eyes hardening with something she could only read as anger. Bucky’s gaze met Steve’s, a silent exchange passing between them—they walked into a trap. 

The pause didn’t stretch out for long before Zemo continued, “Did you really think I wanted more of you? I am grateful to them, though,” Zemo’s voice took an almost gleeful edge. “They brought you here—to me.” 

Zemo had revealed himself, standing behind a thick pane of glass in a small, fortified room. His lips curved into a cold smile, eyes glittering with malice. In a second, Steve’s shield flew through the air, a blur of red, white, and blue—but it bounced off the glass without so much as a scratch. 

“Please, Captain,” Zemo’s voice sliced through the room, dripping with smug satisfaction. His lips curved into a cold smile as he stood behind the thick glass, untouchable. “The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets.”

Tony’s faceplate snapped up, his eyes hard. “I’m betting I could beat that.” The repulsors in his suit hummed to life, a barely contained threat.

Steve’s hand came up, a silent command. “Wait,” he murmured, his voice tight with tension. “I want answers.”

Zemo’s laugh echoed through the room, cold and mirthless. “Oh, I’m sure you could, Mr. Stark,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “But as the good Captain said – answers. Why did I invite you all to this little gathering?”

Bucky felt Isabelle shift beside him. “Tell me when,” she glared, side-eying Steve. Her body thrummed with barely contained energy. “And he’s out.”

Zemo’s gaze snapped to Isabelle. His eyes narrowed, tracking her with a focus that made her skin crawl. 

“Ah, Ms. Stark,” he said, voice suddenly silk-smooth. The abrupt shift in tone made Bucky’s trigger finger twitch. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Zemo leaned closer to the glass, palms flat against the surface. 

“I’ve read much about you. Dr. Proctor’s notes were quite... illuminating.” His tongue lingered on the word. “The way she documented every injection, every fever, every seizure. Such clinical detachment for a mother, wouldn’t you agree?”

Bucky saw Isabelle’s face drain of color. Her breathing quickened—shallow, uneven. The slight tremor in her hands intensified until she clenched them into fists.

“Tell me,” Zemo’s voice dropped to an intimate whisper, as if sharing a secret, “does it frighten you, standing so close to the Winter Soldier? The perfect weapon.” His eyes flicked to Bucky, then back to her. “Is that what you see when you look at him? A glimpse of what you might have become if you hadn’t... lost control?”

The air around Isabelle seemed to vibrate. Bucky felt it—a subtle shift in pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks. Her pupils dilated to a black swallowing green.

“Your mother was tasked with creating HYDRA’s next soldier,” Zemo continued, merciless. “Instead, she created something she couldn’t contain. Something that killed her.”

Isabelle swayed slightly. Bucky’s metal arm twitched, ready to steady her, but he held back.

“Enough!” Tony stepped forward, the repulsors in his suit glowing brighter, their high-pitched whine filling the room. “You don’t talk to her,” he snarled, positioning himself partially between Zemo and Isabelle. “You don’t even look at her.”

The movement was instinctive, protective, and exactly what Zemo wanted. The man’s smile widened, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“How touching,” Zemo purred. “The prodigal father, so quick to violence.” He tilted his head, studying Tony with clinical interest. “Tell me, Stark, does it run in the family? This eagerness to hurt, to destroy?” His gaze slid between Tony and Isabelle like oil. “Like father, like daughter?”

Steve tensed, his shield gripped tightly as it all clicked. “So that’s your game?” Steve’s jaw clenched, his voice tight. “You’re Sokovian. Is that what this is about?”

Zemo’s eyes glittered with malice. “Oh, Captain. Always so eager to simplify, to categorize. But tell me, how does it feel to stand there, surrounded by the very weapons you claim to fight against?” His gaze swept over the group, lingering on Bucky, first, then Tony, then Isabelle. “The Winter Soldier, Hydra’s right hand. The Iron Man, the ‘reformed’ war profiteer. And Sick Girl, the girl with death in her veins? But... no. Sokovia was a failed state long before you Avengers blew it to hell,” Zemo spat, his composure cracking for just a moment. “No. I’m here because I made a promise.”

“You lost someone,” Steve said, a hint of empathy creeping into his voice.

Zemo’s response chilled them all to the core. “I lost everyone.” His eyes burned with a hatred so intense it was almost tangible. “And now, so will all of you.”

With a flick of his wrist, Zemo activated a small screen in the center of the room. The harsh fluorescent lights dimmed, casting long shadows across the faces of those present. Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as grainy footage flickered to life, the black and white images searing into his retinas. He recognized the scene immediately, and dread settled in the pit of his stomach like a lead weight.

A lonely stretch of road. A car. Two figures inside.

Isabelle’s eyes widened, her heart hammering against her ribcage. She shot a panicked look at Steve, their gazes locking for a brief, terrifying moment. They knew this night. The secret they had sworn to keep, the truth they had hidden from Tony– it was all unraveling before them.

Tony stepped closer to the screen, confusion etched across his features. “What is this?” Tony demanded, his voice tight with barely contained anger. 

Zemo’s voice slithered through the room as a motorcycle roared into view on the screen. “December 16th, 1991.”

Bucky flinched, his eyes screwing shut for a moment before forcing them open again. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t hide from the truth of what he had done. The Winter Soldier, his face obscured by goggles and a mask, pulled alongside the car. A glint of metal, a sickening crunch, and the car veered off the road, slamming into a tree. The Winter Soldier dismounted, stalking towards the wreckage.

Isabelle wanted to look away, to shield her father from what was coming, but she found herself paralyzed, her eyes glued to the screen, until she couldn’t watch any longer. Her eyes flickered to her father. Tony’s face had drained of color, his eyes wide with dawning realization. 

He flinched as the Winter Soldier’s fist connected with Howard’s face, once, twice, three times. Tony’s breaths came faster now, his chest heaving as he watched the Winter Soldier wrap his metal hand around Maria Stark’s throat. Isabelle felt bile rise in her own throat, her heart hammering against her ribcage.

As the video ended, plunging the room into suffocating silence, Isabelle’s mind raced. She knew her father, knew how he reacted to pain and anger. Images flashed through her mind – Tony becoming Iron Man after learning about Obadiah’s betrayal, his reckless behavior when he was dying, giving their address to a terrorist after Happy was attacked. And Ultron... oh God, Ultron.

Panic clawed at her chest as she realized what Tony might do now, blinded by grief and rage. She sent Steve another desperate look, silently pleading for help, for some way to defuse the situation before it exploded.

This wasn’t like facing off against alien armies or power-hungry despots. Zemo’d torn the Avengers apart from within, using nothing but words and carefully orchestrated revelations. He’d manipulated them, led them here like lambs to slaughter. For the first time, she felt truly afraid, a deep, primal fear that told her they were woefully unprepared for what was to come.

“Tony...” Steve’s voice was soft and pleading. 

Isabelle watched Steve reach out, his hand hovering inches from Tony’s shoulder. The gesture seemed to snap Tony out of his trance, his body going rigid. He flinched away from Steve’s touch, his eyes never leaving the now-dark screen. 

“Did you know?” he finally spoke, his voice a strangled whisper. 

Bucky’s heart raced, hearing the rapid, uneven breaths of everyone in the room. He could almost taste the isotonic edge grasping them all, thick and suffocating.

Steve’s hesitation was palpable, his voice strained when he finally answered. “I didn’t know it was him.”

The lie tasted bitter in the air. 

Bucky and Isabelle saw Tony’s jaw clench, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers,” he snarled, his voice rising to a shout that echoed off the metal walls. “Did you know?”

The silence stretched for an eternity. And then, when Steve’s voice came, it was heavy with regret. “Yes.”

Tony stumbled back, his eyes wild with disbelief and betrayal. Bucky watched, helpless, as Isabelle stepped forward, her hand outstretched towards her father.

“Dad,” she whispered. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, wanting to comfort him, to explain, to do something—anything—to stop what she feared was coming. 

Tony’s gaze snapped to her, his eyes wild with pain. “You knew,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. It wasn’t a question. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Bucky could see the struggle in her eyes, the desperation to find the right words, to make this right somehow. 

Her shoulders slumped, her voice small and filled with regret. “I—yes... when SHIELD fell...”

“Two years,” Tony breathed, staring at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. His voice cracked, “You’ve known for two years... ”

Isabelle moved to stand between Tony and Bucky, her hands raised in a placating gesture. “Dad, let me explain—”

“Explain?” Tony’s voice dripped with venom, his eyes flashing dangerously. “There’s no explaining, Isabelle. You lied to me.”

Isabelle’s face crumpled, the tears welling in her eyes finally spilling over onto her cheeks. “Dad, please,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “I wanted to protect you—”

“Protect me?” Tony’s laugh was harsh and bitter. 

Bucky’s muscles tensed, ready for the fight he knew was coming. He could see it in Tony’s eyes – the grief giving way to rage, the betrayal fueling a fire that threatened to consume them all. 

“Ah, Mr. Stark,” Zemo’s voice wriggling through the air, dripping with false sympathy. “Betrayal by one’s daughter, though satisfying to witness, isn’t a proper punishment for a man responsible for so much death and destruction. No, someone who had a hand in creating such chaos should know what it’s like to lose their greatest creation.”

Bucky tensed, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. The words ‘greatest creation’ echoed in Bucky’s mind, and suddenly, he knew. His eyes widened in horrified realization, darting to Isabelle. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but the sound died in his throat as a high-pitched whine filled the air, so sharp it made his teeth ache.

Bucky’s body moved on instinct, before his mind could fully catch up. But even as he lunged forward, he knew with sickening certainty that he wouldn’t be fast enough.

A beam of searing blue-white energy erupted from a hidden device in the wall, cutting through the air with terrifying precision. Bucky watched, helpless, as it struck Isabelle squarely in the chest. The force of the impact made her stagger back, her eyes widening in shock, and then for a heartbeat, everything was silent. Isabelle’s eyes widened in shock, her lips parting in a silent gasp.

Then the smell hit him – the acrid, sickening stench of burning flesh. 

Isabelle remained standing for a moment, her gaze locked on her father. Tony’s face was a mask of horror, his eyes wide with disbelief. Then Isabelle buckled, legs giving out. 

Bucky watched in horror as Isabelle collapsed, her body hitting the concrete floor with a sickening thud. Her hands clutched frantically at the wound in her chest, fingers slipping in the blood that poured between them. Each desperate, wet gasp echoed in the chamber, the sound drilling into Bucky’s skull like an ice pick.

The shield dropped from Steve’s grip, spinning across the floor with a metallic wail before clattering to a stop. He lunged forward, sliding on his knees across the concrete until he reached her. 

“Oh God,” he choked out, panic straining his voice to breaking. He pressed his palms against the wound, trying to stem the flow. 

Isabelle’s back arched off the floor, a sound tearing from her throat that wasn’t human—raw and animal. Her eyes flew wide, pupils blown with shock and agony.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve muttered, his face twisting. Blood welled between his fingers, hot and relentless. “I have to stop the bleeding. Just hang on, okay? Stay with me, Belle. Stay with me.”

Isabelle’s eyes, glassy and unfocused, struggled to find Steve’s face. Her lips moved, blood bubbling up and spilling down her chin in thin rivulets. Her fingers scrabbled weakly at Steve’s uniform, leaving crimson streaks across the blue fabric. Each breath came shorter than the last, a wet, rattling wheeze.

“S-Steve,” she managed, the word barely audible. Her face contorted, tears flowing down her cheeks. “It…hurts…” 

“I know, I know,” Steve said, voice cracking. He leaned closer, his words urgent and pleading. “Hang on, we’ll get you help. You hear me? You’re going to be okay—”

Steve’s hands remained pressed against the wound, but his eyes met Bucky’s across the room, and Bucky saw in them what he already knew: it was too late. The wound was too severe, too precise. Zemo had calculated exactly where to strike, had known exactly what would hurt the most.

Isabelle convulsed as a wet, gurgling sound escaped her throat. The sound snapped Tony out of his paralysis. 

“Get away from her!” Tony lunged forward, repulsors whining. His armored hands slammed into Steve’s chest, sending him skidding back. “Don’t you dare touch her!” 

Steve scrambled up, palms raised, crimson-stained. “Tony, please—” His voice steady despite the panic in his eyes. “We need to get her help now or she won’t—”

“Shut up!” Tony’s eyes were wide. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted, “This is on you. All on you, Rogers.” 

He dropped to his knees beside Isabelle, metal scraping against concrete with a sound that set Bucky’s teeth on edge. Tony’s gauntleted hands hovered over her body, trembling violently, uncertain where to touch.

“Izzy, baby, please—” The words crumbled into something primal as Tony’s composure shattered completely. Tears carved tracks down his dirt-streaked face. “No, no, no, no—” Each word punched out between ragged breaths. “FRIDAY, scan vitals, now!”

“Tony, her vitals are critical. Massive internal damage detected. Survival probability... 12% and dropping rapidly.”

Bucky picked up the subtle change in Isabelle’s heartbeat. The rhythm faltered, stumbled, then picked up again in an erratic pattern. Her skin had gone gray, lips tinged blue. 

“Quite effective, isn’t it, Mr. Stark?” Zemo’s voice drifted from behind his protective barrier. “Your own technology, turned against you.” He paused, and Bucky could hear the smile in his voice. He could picture the slight curl of his lips and the gleam in his eyes as he savored their pain like a connoisseur sampling fine wine. “I acquired it from a very eager seller in New York.” Another deliberate pause, heavy with implication. “It seems your innovations have a way of... falling into the wrong hands.”

Isabelle’s eyelids fluttered, closing for a moment before opening again, wandering, unfocused, before finding her father’s face. Her lips moved, forming words too faint for even Bucky to hear. 

Tony shook his head, one gauntleted hand hovering just above her wound while the other cradled her head. “I’m here, sweetheart,” he choked out, “I’m right here. Stay with me, okay? Just stay with me. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Tony tried to slide his arms beneath Isabelle, metal fingers leaving bloody smears on the floor as he attempted to gather her against his chest. The movement jostled her wound, and the sound that tore from her throat sliced through the air like a blade, high and thin and animal with pain.

Bucky flinched, the sound drilling into his skull, triggering flashes of memory—other screams, other bodies, other blood on his hands. His jaw clenched so tight he felt his teeth might crack.

Steve lurched forward, hand outstretched. “Tony, wait—we can’t move her—”

The words died in his throat, unable to finish the sentence they all understood: Isabelle would bleed out before they could get her to help. 

Bucky watched the exact moment comprehension dawned in Isabelle’s eyes. Her unfocused gaze suddenly sharpened, pupils contracting as the fog of shock briefly lifted. The panic that had twisted her features smoothed into something worse—acceptance. A terrible, unnatural calm settled over her face.

Her hand trembled violently as she reached for Tony, fingers leaving crimson streaks across his armor. The simple movement drained what little color remained in her face.

“Dad,” she gasped. “I’m sorry... I should’ve...”

“Shh, don’t talk.” Tony urged, his own hand engulfing hers. “You’re gonna be okay. You hear me? I’ll fix this.” His words came faster, more desperate, tumbling over each other. “I always fix things, right?” Tony’s face contorted, the mask of control slipping.

A wet, choking sound escaped Isabelle—something between a laugh and a sob that morphed into a whimper. Tony shook his head frantically. 

“No, no, don’t you do that.” His voice rose, taking on a frantic edge as Isabelle’s eyelids began to flutter. “Isabelle Maria Stark, you stay with me. Please!”

Bucky watched, paralyzed, as Isabelle’s fingers went slack against Tony’s cheek. Her hand dropped, landing with a soft thud against her chest. 

Tony’s face transformed, cycling through emotions so quickly Bucky could barely track them—disbelief, horror, grief, and then something darker. Something that made Bucky’s combat instincts flare to life.

Rage.

Steve stumbled back, his boots scraping against concrete. His face drained of color until the bruises from earlier stood out like ink stains. For a moment, his eyes darted frantically around the room—searching for solutions, options, anything—but found only the cold gleam of metal walls and the heavy silence of failure.

His gaze finally locked onto Zemo behind the barrier. The man’s face remained placid, almost serene, as he observed the chaos he’d orchestrated. Steve’s features contorted, grief twisting into something feral.

“You bastard,” he snarled, voice stripped raw. “This wasn’t—”

A sound cut him off—something not quite human, not quite animal. The sound of something fundamental breaking.

Tony.

Bucky watched as Tony’s head snapped up from Isabelle’s still form. Blood smeared his armor where he’d cradled her, dark and accusatory against the red and gold. His eyes—Bucky had seen that look before. In the faces of men who’d lost everything. In mirrors. The complete absence of hope. The presence of something darker.

Tony’s movements were jarringly gentle as he laid Isabelle down, one gauntleted hand supporting her head until the last possible moment. His fingers lingered on her cheek, smearing crimson across pale skin. Then he rose in one fluid motion, the servos in his suit whining softly.

“Tony,” Steve stepped between Tony’s path to Bucky. “This isn’t the way. We need to—” 

“Get out of my way, Rogers.” Tony’s voice barely sounded human. His eyes never left Bucky’s face. “You don’t get to decide anything anymore,” Tony continued, each word precise despite the tremor underneath. “Not after this.”

“It wasn’t him, Tony,” Steve pleaded, kicking his shield up with practiced ease and catching it on his forearm. He raised it defensively, not quite covering Bucky but positioned to intercept. Sweat beaded along his hairline, trickling down his temple. “Bucky wasn’t in control. Hydra—”

“I don’t give a damn about Hydra!” Tony roared. His next words came slower, each one dragged from somewhere deep and broken. “He killed my parents.” His voice cracked, splintering like ice. “And now...” His eyes flicked toward Isabelle’s motionless form, then back to Bucky with renewed fury. “She’s gone. Because of him. Because of you.”

Bucky’s gaze was drawn inexorably to Isabelle’s still form. Her eyes, once so full of life and compassion, stared blankly at the ceiling. This was his fault. All of it. Maybe it would be better if...

But before he or Steve could act, Tony launched himself forward, repulsors blazing. Bucky closed his eyes, bracing for the impact. The last thing he heard was Steve’s desperate shout, drowned out by the deafening roar of Tony’s suit and the thunderous pounding of his own heart.

Present

Bucky leaned against the cold metal of the cargo bay, his eyes fixed on Isabelle’s sleeping form. The gentle hum of the plane’s engines vibrated through his bones and set his nerves on edge. His jaw clenched, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if to hold himself together. It had been a sudden jolt of turbulence that sent him spiraling, and then, he wasn’t on the plane anymore. 

He was in Siberia. 

Bucky shook his head violently, trying to banish the memories, but they clung to him like frost. 

His gaze drifted to Sam, sprawled out on the opposite row of seats. Though not asleep, Sam’s breathing was steady and relaxed. Bucky furrowed his brow. He envied Sam’s ability to find peace even after the day they’d had. 

Another strike of turbulence hit the plane, the metal frame groaning under the strain. Steve’s shield, slamming into Tony’s arc reactor. Again and again. 

He blinked hard. The fight in Siberia had been brutal, raw emotion and years of pent-up anger fueling every punch, every kick. He looked at his left arm, new and whole, but in his mind’s eye, he saw it as it had been that night—shot off, bits of metal sizzling and whirring as they flew away. The phantom pain was almost overwhelming, and he shifted against the wall, his hand clenching and unclenching. 

And then, Isabelle had appeared—alive, impossibly alive. Her sudden resurrection had shocked them all, pulling them back from the brink of destruction. 

But the damage had already been done.

Bucky’s eyes found Isabelle’s sleeping form once more, studying the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The rhythmic motion was hypnotic, almost soothing, but it did little to quell the storm raging inside him. His right hand slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around the worn notebook he always carried. 

Flipping it open, calloused fingers traced down the list of names – people he’d wronged. The Winter Soldier’s legacy, written in ink and blood. 

Isabelle’s name was near the top. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, the words feeling hollow, inadequate. “for everything.” 

Chapter Text

The hangar lights slammed into Isabelle’s vision. She squinted, each movement sending ripples of pain through her freshly healed body. Her ribs screamed when she inhaled.

But the silence hurt worse.

Sam walked five paces ahead, back rigid, shoulders squared. The easy rhythm of his usual step had vanished. Bucky moved beside him like a shadow, jaw muscles bunching beneath stubbled skin, eyes fixed on nothing.

Something had shifted while she’d slept on the plane. She searched her memory, rewinding through fragments of half-heard conversations, trying to piece together what could have turned the air between them so frigid. 

Isabelle quickened her pace, wincing. “Either of you planning to actually speak?” Her voice cut rough against the silence. “Or are we playing Sam’s silence game again?”

Sam’s stride faltered—just a microsecond—before resuming. Bucky’s metal fingers flexed once, twice, but nothing more. 

“Seriously?” Isabelle stopped walking. Her palms grew clammy, anxiety crawling up her spine, settling like ice between her shoulder blades as realization kicked in. “You’re benching me. That’s what this is about.”

Sam and Bucky exchanged a look—guilt flashing across both faces—and she knew.

“It’s not what you think, Iz,” Sam said, voice gentle in that way that meant bad news was coming. His eyes skated across her face before settling somewhere over her left shoulder.

“Then what exactly is it?” The question scraped out smaller than she intended, anger fracturing around the edges, revealing something raw underneath.

A shift in the air. Sam’s focus darted behind her, his expression morphing from guilt to surprise. Beside him, Bucky’s face emptied of emotion, his posture subtly straightening.

Isabelle turned.

James Rhodes stood ten feet away, military-straight, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was thunderous, jaw locked tight, eyes boring into her with an intensity she hadn’t seen since she’d hotwired his Audi when she was sixteen.

“Shit,” she whispered, the word escaping on an exhale that hurt her ribs.

“Rhodes,” Sam broke the silence, voice lifting slightly as he glanced between Isabelle and Rhodey. “Uh, hey man?”

“Sam.” Rhodey acknowledged with a curt nod, gaze never wavering from Isabelle except for a millisecond flick toward Bucky. When his eyes locked back on her, they had somehow hardened further. “Barnes.”

Bucky shifted beside her. He didn’t seem so surprised. Isabelle shot him a warning glance before squaring her shoulders to face her godfather.

“What are you doing here?” The question came out sharp and defensive. Then understanding hit her like a physical blow. Heat flooded her face, crawling up her neck to her cheeks as she whipped toward Sam, ignoring the stab of pain in her ribs. “You called him?” Each syllable landed like a slap.

Sam’s eyes widened, hands coming up in immediate surrender. “What—no! I wouldn’t—”

“I did,” Bucky cut in, voice low but unapologetic. His jaw was set, blue eyes steady when her gaze snapped to him.

The admission punched through Isabelle’s stomach, hollowing her out. Her lungs seized, the betrayal stealing her breath more effectively than any internal bleeding had. Even Sam looked blindsided, his head jerking toward Bucky.

“What the hell, man?” Sam hissed.

“You did what?” Isabelle took a step toward Bucky, hand forming a fist. “You called my uncle? Why?” Each question came faster, sharper than the last, her voice rising with each word.

Bucky met her eyes directly, a flicker of defiance mingling with obvious guilt. His metal fingers flexed once at his side. “Technically, I texted him.”

“Oh, well, that makes it so much better,” she snapped, throwing her hands up. “Texting is totally different from calling. My mistake.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying her.

“And I’m glad he did,” Rhodey interjected, his voice carrying that same commanding tone that had made generals stand at attention. 

The sound of his leg braces whirred softly as he stepped closer, the mechanical click-hiss barely audible on the hangar floor. 

“You weren’t answering your phone, Isabelle. FRIDAY said you were visiting Sam in Louisiana, which was a lie, then I hear you were in Munich fighting super soldiers?” 

His gaze lingered on each injury—the way she favored her left side, the barely concealed wince when she breathed too deeply, the fading bruise at her temple. Something in his expression shifted from anger to poorly concealed fear. 

Isabelle shot Bucky another betrayed look, ignoring Rhodey completely. “Since when are you and my uncle texting buddies?”

“Since about twelve hours ago.” Bucky didn’t flinch. His eyes softened slightly, though his posture remained combat-ready. “I figured someone in your family should know you were bleeding internally.”

“I wasn’t—” The lie formed automatically, then died on her tongue. She swallowed it back, tasting bitterness. She pivoted to Rhodey, summoning the practiced Stark smile that never reached her eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Rhodey’s expression hardened. He’d known her long enough to recognize the lie.

Isabelle scoffed, turning back to Bucky, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You had no right to text him.”

“He had every right,” Rhodey interrupted, closing the distance between them. 

Isabelle fought the urge to step back. She wouldn’t give ground, not now. His face went completely still, the kind of stillness that had always preceded storms when she was growing up.

“Isabelle.” His voice dropped lower, steadier. “This needs to stop. The running away without a word. No backup. No plan—”

“She had backup,” Sam interjected, stepping forward to stand beside Isabelle.

The movement surprised her—she’d expected him to take Bucky and Rhodey’s side. Instead, Sam positioned himself at her left shoulder. 

His eyes tracked the flush creeping up her neck, the way her shoulders hunched forward. He recognized that coiled tension—the same look he’d seen in soldiers about to either throw a punch or bolt. Her eyes had gone glassy, unfocused, pupils dilated. Fight or flight. He’d seen it enough times to know what came next.

“She had us,” Sam continued, voice firm but measured. No anger, just facts. “The situation went sideways. That happens in the field.” His gaze locked with Rhodey’s. “You know how these things play out sometimes.”

Rhodey’s jaw clenched so tightly that Sam could see the muscle jump beneath his skin. “Yeah, I know better than most, Wilson.” The words landed like bullets, precise and targeted.

“This is ridiculous.” Isabelle’s voice cracked. She shoved a hand through her hair. “You’re being ridiculous—” 

“What’s ridiculous,” Rhodey cut in, voice rising sharply before he visibly pulled himself back, exhaling hard through his nose, “is that my goddaughter ended up nearly dead in Munich when she was supposed to be on vacation in Louisiana.”

He stepped closer—close enough that Isabelle could see the bloodshot veins threading through the whites of his eyes, the stubble on his usually clean-shaven face.

“Do you know what it was like getting that text from Barnes?” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “‘Isabelle injured in Munich. Super soldiers. Thought you should know.’” The mimicry of Bucky’s terse tone was perfect. “No other details. Just that.”

Isabelle’s eyes darted to Bucky, who met her gaze unflinchingly. His face remained impassive, but something in his eyes said he’d do it again.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Isabelle felt Sam shift beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers. She could sense Bucky’s stillness, the weight of his presence at her back. Three sets of eyes on her, waiting.

Her throat closed around the words she couldn’t say. How could she explain that this mission had been the first time in months she’d felt anything but the hollow echo of her father’s absence? That fighting alongside Sam and Bucky had given her purpose when she’d been drowning? That every bruise, every broken rib, every moment of pain had been worth it because for once she wasn’t just existing—she was alive?

Rhodey’s expression softened, just barely. The anger remained, but something else flickered across his face—a flash of understanding, maybe, or resignation. “Let’s not do this here,” he said, gesturing toward a corridor off the hangar. His tone was gentler but left no room for argument.

“We’re kind of in the middle of something,” she said, gesturing between herself and the two men. Her voice came out small, uncertain, nothing like the sharp-edged defiance she’d intended.

Sam cleared his throat, suddenly finding intense interest in a spot on the hangar floor. “Uh—you should probably talk to your uncle.” All his warmth vanished, replaced by a formality that felt like a knife between her ribs.

“What?” She stared at him, disbelief washing through her. She turned to Bucky, searching his face for support, for anything.

The Winter Soldier remained stone-faced. “We have something we need to do anyway,” he said, voice rough. He turned sharply, the movement military-precise. “Come on, Sam.”

Sam hesitated. His eyes finally met hers, and the connection sent a jolt through her chest. In that split-second, she saw conflict, regret, and something deeper she couldn’t name—something that made his usually warm brown eyes seem distant, almost foreign. 

“We’ll catch up later,” he said, turning away, shoulders rigid beneath his jacket. Three steps and he was already too far. “I promise.” 

“Sam—” His name escaped before she could swallow it back.

He paused, just for a heartbeat, the muscles in his back visibly tensing. Then he kept walking, falling into step beside Bucky without looking back.

Isabelle watched them retreat, her throat closing around words that wouldn’t form. Beneath her skin, a familiar buzz started—tiny electric pinpricks crawling up her forearms, across her shoulders, down her spine.

“Isabelle.” Rhodey’s voice cut through the static, gentler now than it had been moments before.

She blinked, forcing her focus back. When she turned, she found him watching her with an expression that cracked something loose inside her chest. It was the same carefully constructed mask he’d worn at Tony’s funeral—lips pressed into a line, eyes too bright, jaw working beneath skin as though physically holding back whatever threatened to spill out.

“Please,” Rhodey said. Just that single word—not a command but a request. He didn’t beg. Didn’t plead. He was War Machine, Colonel James Rhodes, the man who’d stood toe-to-toe with the military, with Congress, with Tony Stark himself. But here he was, asking.

Isabelle gave one last glance at the now-empty corridor where Sam and Bucky had disappeared, then she turned back to Rhodey.

“Fine,” she said, the fight draining from her voice like air from a punctured tire. “But I want it on record that this is completely unnecessary.”

The corner of Rhodey’s mouth twitched, not a smile but close. He outstretched his arm, guiding her toward a corridor leading off the hangar. 

He led her to a conference room, holding the door open before closing it behind them with a soft click. The space was sterile, impersonal—gray walls, long table, standard-issue chairs. No windows. He leaned against the table while Isabelle remained by the door, crossing her arms over her chest. 

 “Look, I’m sorry.” She sighed, “I shouldn’t have lied. But I don’t need permission to leave the country.”

“No one said you did.” Rhodey’s voice remained steady, controlled. “But there’s a pattern here, Isabelle.” He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. “You run. After Tony—” His voice caught just for a moment, “After we lost him. I understood. You needed time.”

Isabelle fixed her gaze on the floor, counting tiles. One, two, three, four. The perfect squares gave her something to focus on besides the pressure building in her chest, the electric current humming beneath her skin.

“But that wasn’t the first time.” Rhodey pushed off from the table. “The Accords—you vanished for two years—left with Steve and Nat, and did a stint as some type of secret Avengers. Do you have any idea what that did to Tony?”

Her head snapped up. “That was completely—”

“And before that,” he continued, cutting through her objection like it was tissue paper, “after New York, you joined SHIELD. Became a spy without so much as a goodbye dinner.” His jaw tightened. “Tony found out from Fury. Fury, Isabelle. Not his daughter.”

She remembered Tony’s face when he tracked her down at the Triskelion—hurt masked by sarcasm, eyes too bright. She’d told herself it was for the best. “After New York, I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t what? Talk to him? Tell him to his face?” Rhodey stepped closer. “You always need space, Izzy. Every single time. When your mom —” His voice softened fractionally. “The minute you turned eighteen, you were gone.”

Isabelle’s jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ached.

“And now,” Rhodey continued, “with what happened at the museum with Everhart, you ran again.”

“Stop.” Isabelle sliced her hand through the air. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, drilling into her skull. “I killed my mother with powers nobody believed I had.” Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. “And you think I should’ve stayed? With a father who was either drunk, bringing random women home, or buried in his workshop?” The words tumbled out faster, sharper. “He didn’t even show up to my high school graduation, Rhodey. Sent Happy with a fucking Audi and a card. A card.” 

The memory still stung, seventeen-year-old Isabelle scanning the crowd for a face that never appeared.

Rhodey’s expression softened. He took a step forward, bracers whirring softly. “Izzy, you could have come to me—”

“I did! All the time.” The words exploded from her chest. “You were the only one who came back for me. Who kept checking in. Every goddamned time.” Her throat tightened, voice cracking. “And I appreciate that. More than you’ll ever know. But that doesn’t give you the right to throw it all back in my face now.”

Rhodey’s shoulders sagged. For the first time since she’d turned around in the hangar, she really looked at him—the new silver threading his temples, the shadows beneath his eyes, the lines etched deeper around his mouth. He looked older. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

“I promised him,” Rhodey said quietly. “I promised Tony I’d look out for you if anything happened to him.” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “How am I supposed to keep that promise when you won’t tell me where you are?”

The pressure behind Isabelle’s eyes built, hot and insistent. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. The silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid.

“Come on,” she finally managed, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears. She tilted her head, the gesture deliberately casual. “You’re being a little dramatic, don’tcha think?”

The words fell flat, a pathetic shield against the truth hanging between them.

“Am I?” 

The silence stretched taut between them. One heartbeat. Two. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a constant electric drone that matched the buzzing beneath her skin.

“Because from where I’m standing,” he continued, each word landing like a hammer strike, “it looks like you’re spiraling. Just like Tony did after New York.”

The comparison sliced through her defenses. Her father’s face flashed in her mind—hollow-eyed, sleepless, building suit after suit in that basement workshop. The manic energy radiating off him. The obsession. The recklessness that had nearly gotten him killed. The way he’d look right through her when she’d try to talk to him.

“I’m not him,” she snapped. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “And you’re not him either.”

She glared at Rhodey, daring him to push back, to give her a reason to explode. The familiar heat crawled up her neck, pooling behind her eyes, beneath her skin.

Another beat of silence. She took a step backward, heel connecting with the door behind her.

“Look, I appreciate your concern, really,” she said, forcing her lips into something approximating a smile, injecting false lightness into her voice, “but I can assure you, I’m not going to give my address to a terrorist or create a killer robot anytime soon.”

Rhodey’s face hardened, muscles tightening beneath his skin. The lines around his mouth deepened as his jaw clenched. “This isn’t a joke, Isabelle.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Your father—”

“My father is dead!”

Something snapped loose inside her chest—a dam breaking, emotions flooding through the cracks in her control. Green light pulsed from her body with the outburst—nothing directed, just the overflow of emotion she couldn’t contain. It rippled outward in a concussive wave, the air distorting like heat waves off summer asphalt.

Rhodey gasped, stumbling backward as the wave hit him. His hand flew to his chest, fingers splaying across his sternum as if trying to hold something in place. The color drained from his face, eyes widening as his lungs seized momentarily.

Horror crashed through her, ice-cold and immediate. The green light vanished, sucked back inside her as if her body had inhaled it.

“Rhodey—” Her voice cracked. She reached for him instinctively, hands extending. Then she saw his expression—that split-second flash of fear—and yanked her hands back so violently she hit the door again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself, fingernails digging into her biceps through her jacket. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” Rhodey straightened, his breathing returning to normal, but his eyes remained wary. 

 Isabelle looked away, shaking her head. “I should go. Catch up with Sam and Bucky.” Her hand found the doorknob—cold metal against her overheated skin. “Before they leave without me.”

“Isabelle—” Rhodey’s voice held that note, part warning, part disbelief. 

“I promise I’m not running.” Isabelle forced her fingers to loosen around the doorknob before the metal warped beneath her grip. “We’ll do dinner or something. Pepper, Morgan, and Happy can come. We’ll make it a thing.”

Even as she said it, she knew the promise was empty. From the way Rhodey’s expression hardened, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tightening at the corners of his mouth—so did he.

She didn’t wait for his response. She yanked the door open, putting her whole body into the motion. The door slammed against the wall with a crack that echoed down the empty hallway like a gunshot, making her flinch. 

Isabelle stepped into the hallway, the air conditioning hitting her flushed skin. She kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Don’t look back. Don’t think.

The green pulse of energy still tingled in her fingertips, an aftershock of the explosion. She’d lost control. Again. In front of Rhodey. The shame of it burned hotter than the power itself.

She turned a corner sharply, putting a solid wall between herself and the room. The buzz crawled beneath her skin, responding to her rising panic like an eager pet. Tiny electrical pulses skittered along her nerve endings, dancing up her forearms, pooling in her palms. Ready. Waiting.

She smacked her hands against her cheeks, once, twice. “Get it together,” she hissed, never once faltering in her steps. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

A lie, but a necessary one. She’d learned that from Natasha—sometimes you lie to yourself first, and eventually, you start to believe it. Nat’s voice echoed in her head: Compartmentalize. Focus on the mission.

What mission? Sam and Bucky had walked away. Left her standing there like—

Her vision narrowed, focusing only on the path ahead, on the exit sign glowing at the end of the corridor. She shoved the double doors open with both hands, stumbling into the parking lot. The midday sun hit her full force. She squinted, raising a hand to shield her eyes. 

Fresh air filled her lungs. She gulped it down in desperate breaths, letting it clear the fog of anger and humiliation from her mind. The parking lot stretched before her, row after row of government-issue sedans and SUVs gleaming under the sun. Isabelle searched for any sign of Sam’s rental car, scanning the sea of black and silver vehicles.

“They wouldn’t,” she muttered, her boots scraping against the asphalt as she broke into an awkward jog. “They wouldn’t just—”

But when she reached the spot where they’d parked earlier—third row, second space from the end—she found nothing but bare asphalt, still warm from the sun. No car. No Sam. No Bucky.

“They left,” she said aloud, staring at the empty spot. She spun in a slow circle, scanning the lot again as if they might materialize if she just looked hard enough, as if this were some elaborate prank. “They actually left without me.”

She dug into her pocket, fingers scraping against denim as she yanked out her phone. The screen lit up her face, notifications blinking—none from them. She scrolled to Sam’s name, thumb hovering over it for half a second before jabbing down hard enough to hurt.

One ring. Her heart stuttered. Two rings. Her jaw tightened. Three rings. Something cold slithered down her spine.

“This is Sam. Leave a message.”

“Sam, it’s me.” She forced steel into her voice, but it wobbled at the edges like a badly balanced knife. “Where are you guys? Did you seriously just—” The words caught, tangled. She inhaled sharply, ribs screaming in protest. “Call me back, you asshole.”

She stabbed the end button. 

“Unbelievable,” she whispered, shoving the phone back into her pocket with enough force that the seam strained against her knuckles. The concrete bit into her thighs as she sank down, legs suddenly too heavy to support her weight. She pressed her phone against her forehead. “Un-fucking-believable.”

A shadow fell across her, blocking the sun’s glare. Isabelle’s body reacted before her brain caught up—muscles coiling. One hand curled into a tight fist while the other splayed open, fingers tensed and ready to grab whatever—whoever—had approached.

She squinted up, the sunlight haloing the figure standing over her, transforming them into a dark silhouette against blinding white. 

“Need a ride?”

Rhodey’s voice registered before his face came into focus as her eyes adjusted. He stood above her, and his weight shifted slightly. The anger and worry hadn’t vanished entirely—she could still see it in the tightness around his mouth—but concern had pushed it to the background.

“I can call an Uber,” she snapped out automatically, defensive reflex kicking in before thought. Isabelle dropped her stance, hands falling limp on her knees.

 “Stop being so stubborn.” Rhodey’s gaze shifted pointedly to the empty parking space beside her, lingering there a beat too long. “They really left without you, huh?”

The confirmation from someone else made it real in a way that staring at the empty asphalt hadn’t. “Apparently,” she grunted, pressing her lips together. 

“Come on, kid.” Rhodey extended his hand toward her, palm up. “Let’s get out of here.”

She stared at his outstretched fingers. The same hands that had steadied her on her first bicycle when Tony had been buried in his workshop, too consumed by whatever project had captured his attention to teach his daughter to ride. The same hands that had helped her up after she’d fallen during self-defense training when she was 16—Rhodey’s insistence, not Tony’s. The same hands that had guided her away from her father’s body when her legs had threatened to give out beneath her.

A lump formed in her throat, hard and immovable.

“I don’t need your pity,” she said, the words lacking any real conviction.

“Good, because I’m not offering any.” He wiggled his fingers impatiently, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I’m offering a ride and maybe some food, because you look like hell and I’m pretty sure you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Her stomach chose that moment to growl, an embarrassingly loud rumble that cut through the parking lot’s silence. Rhodey’s almost-smile grew more pronounced.

“Traitor,” she muttered to her stomach.

She reached for his hand, hesitating just long enough to make a point before closing her fingers around his. His grip was warm, solid, anchoring her when everything else felt like slipping away. He pulled her up with practiced ease, compensating for the extra weight of his braces.

“I want a cheeseburger,” she said bluntly, brushing dust from the back of her jeans, not meeting his eyes. “A real one. Not one of those fancy restaurant ones with arugula and aioli.”

Rhodey’s eyes softened, understanding passing between them without words. He nodded once, a quick dip of his chin. “I think I can swing that.” His voice was gentle, and the rough edges were worn smoothly. He jerked his head to the right, “Come on, I’m parked down this way.” 

The knot in her chest loosened, just a fraction. She glanced down at her phone again, at the empty notification bar—no missed calls. No texts. Nothing.

Sam and Bucky were gone.

But at least she wasn’t standing alone in an empty parking lot anymore.

Chapter Text

Isabelle slammed the door to her apartment with enough force to rattle the hinges. Her body moved on autopilot—drop the duffle, kick off the boots, keys on the counter. Her feet padded across the cold hardwood. The refrigerator hummed in the silence, its white glow spilling across her face as she yanked it open. She grabbed a beer, the glass cool against her palm. 

No bottle opener. 

Right. 

She grunted, gripping the cap and twisting. The metal bit into her skin before giving way with a sharp crack. Tiny shards of glass clung to the jagged rim. She brushed them away with her thumb, not flinching when one sliced her skin. 

Isabelle leaned against the counter, taking the first, long sip. Her fingers twitched toward her phone for what felt like the hundredth time since landing. She pulled it out, the screen lighting up her face in the dim kitchen.

No missed calls. No texts. Nothing from Sam. And of course, nothing from Barnes.

She pushed off the counter, pacing the length of the apartment. Five steps, turn. Five steps, turn. The space felt both too large and suffocatingly small. Munich's adrenaline still hummed in her veins, with nowhere to go, trapped beneath her skin like electricity searching for ground.

A hairline fracture in the wall caught her eye. It started just below the ceiling—a thin, jagged line splitting the pristine white paint. She'd never noticed it before. The longer she stared, the more it seemed to grow, branching out like veins beneath skin.

Her heartbeat quickened. She stepped closer, beer forgotten in her hand. She reached out, running her index finger along the fissure. Bits of plaster crumbled beneath her touch, dusting her fingertip white. The sensation was oddly satisfying—finding something else that was breaking apart.

She scowled, wiping the plaster dust on her jeans. "This is pathetic."

Her gaze dropped to the bottle in her hand, to the jagged edge where she'd torn the cap off. A tiny smear of blood—her blood—stained the glass. The cut on her thumb had already healed, leaving only a faint pink line.

"I'm pathetic."

The words hung in the air, heavy and accusing. She took another swig of beer, the liquid bitter against her tongue. The crack stared back at her, a silent challenge.

Isabelle straightened her shoulders, a flicker of her father's stubbornness igniting in her chest.

"FRIDAY," she called out, her voice sharper than intended. "Where's the nearest home improvement store?"

"There's one approximately 1.2 miles from your apartment, Miss Stark," the AI responded promptly, voice smooth and unfazed by her tone. "Shall I provide directions?"

"Yeah." Isabelle's gaze swept across the apartment once more, cataloging imperfections she'd never noticed. Scuff marks by the door. Faded paint near the windows. The crack that seemed to mock her. "And FRIDAY, make a list of everything I'd need to fix a wall crack."

"Certainly, Miss Stark."

Isabelle set the beer down on the counter with a decisive clink. She grabbed her keys again, the metal warm from where they'd been sitting. 

Two hours later, Isabelle stood surrounded by her purchases, hands on hips, surveying the battlefield. Spackling paste, putty knives, sandpaper, primer, and a can of paint created an obstacle course around her feet. The chemical smell of fresh paint and plaster hung in the air, making her open the floor-to-ceiling window for the first time since moving in. 

She’d changed into a pair of green plaid pajama bottoms and a faded Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt from when her father had taken her to see them for her 13th birthday. The shirt hung loose now, collar stretched and fraying, a small hole forming near the hem. Her hair was twisted into two messy braids that bounced against her shoulders as she moved.

The opening line of Blondie's "Heart of Glass" thundered through the apartment's sound system, vibrating up through the floorboards and into her bones. 

"Alright, apartment," she muttered, pointing at the wall of cardboard boxes. "Your bland dictatorship ends today."

She grabbed the box labeled 'VINYL' first, hauling it toward the record player— the one thing she'd bothered to unpack properly the day she moved in. The sleek turntable sat on a shelf opposite the TV, its matte black surface still pristine, untouched.

Isabelle dropped to her knees beside the box, tearing through the packing tape with her thumbnail. The cardboard flaps gave way with a satisfying rip. Her fingers trailed over album covers as she flipped through them. 

 Blondie, David Bowie, Pink Floyd, Motley Crue, Fleetwood Mac, Elton John. 

"Hello, old friends," she whispered, pulling out more of her collection. 

Rancid's "...And Out Come the Wolves" with its dog-eared corners. She'd stolen this one from her dad's collection when she was fifteen, and he'd never asked for it back. The Pixies' "Doolittle" came next, the back cover bearing a coffee stain that had dried in the shape of a lopsided heart. She'd tried everything to get it out—soap, alcohol—but nothing. Green Day's "Dookie" emerged from the pile, and a flush crept up her neck. She flipped it over, examining the scratches on the back cover where she'd dropped it in her haste to—

"Right." She cleared her throat, memories flooding back. 

Seventeen years old, Jake Winters from her AP Physics class sprawled on her bed, his hands fumbling with the clasp of her bra while "When I Come Around" skipped on the third verse because of a scratch she'd never bothered to fix.

"Wonder what happened to him," she mused, setting the album aside with more care than it probably deserved.

She laid them out on the floor in front of her, creating neat rows that only made sense to her. First by year—the classics from the 60s and 70s that her dad had passed down, then the 80s and 90s albums they'd collected together, and finally her own additions from the 2000s. Within each decade, they went alphabetical by artist, except for special cases where albums needed to stay together regardless of release date.

"The Cure goes here, not there," she muttered, rearranging two records with quick, decisive movements. "And Bowie's Berlin trilogy stays together, obviously."

She worked faster now, albums hitting shelves and boxes emptying. The physical labor felt good, necessary. Her muscles burned, her mind narrowed to the simple mechanics of the task. Sort. Stack. Arrange. Breathe.

Just breathe.

The song changed. Then changed again. She lost track of time unpacking box after box. The clock crawled past midnight when she found herself sprawled across the hardwood floor of her living room. The 'VINYL' boxes sat empty, their cardboard shells crushed and folded against the wall. The 'BOOKS' boxes had been conquered too, her collection now organized on the built-in shelves.

She'd started on the 'KITCHEN' boxes, but stopped when she found what she'd been looking for all along. She’d clutched the bottle opener like a trophy. 

She pushed herself up from the floor, her spine popping in three places. She let out a soft groan, rolling her shoulders back, surveying her handiwork.

The apartment breathed differently now. Her records lined the shelves, books filled the empty spaces, and the wall crack was patched, waiting for paint to dry. The boxes that remained were pushed against the far wall, a problem for tomorrow's Isabelle.

She took another sip of her beer. The liquid had gone warm, but she didn't care. Her hand reached for the half-eaten pizza on the coffee table, grabbing a slice that had cooled to room temperature. She took a messy bite anyway, strings of mozzarella stretching between her mouth and the slice.

Isabelle glanced at the time glowing in the corner of her screen. 12:47 AM. The numbers blurred, her vision swimming as exhaustion finally caught up with her. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm, feeling grit beneath her eyelids.

"Shit," she mumbled, letting her head fall back against the couch. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted with fatigue. She should drag herself to bed. She should—

Her phone buzzed against the hardwood floor. The vibration rattled through the wood, creeping up her spine, demanding attention. 

She glanced down. Pizza sauce still clung to the corner of her mouth, cooling against her skin. Sam's name flashed on the screen, bright and accusing.

Her stomach clenched. Irritation surged first—hot and immediate—followed by unwelcome curiosity. And beneath it all, that goddamn stubborn flicker of concern she couldn't extinguish no matter how hard she tried.

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, jaw tightening as she stared at the still-buzzing phone. Her pulse quickened, betraying her feigned indifference.

Buzz-buzz-buzz. The sound filled the apartment, relentless.

She wiped her greasy hands on her sweatpants, leaving behind streaks of orange buffalo sauce on the worn green plaid. The phone continued its angry dance against the floor, each vibration seeming louder than the last.

"Seriously? Now you call?" The words came out sharp, aimed at the phone as if Sam could hear her through the unanswered line. "After ditching and ghosting me all damn day?"

Karma. 

The word flashed through Isabelle's mind like neon, harsh and unavoidable. This was cosmic payback for those months she'd let his calls go straight to voicemail, for the texts she'd read and never answered.

Her thumb hovered over the red button. One press and she could send him straight to voicemail. Simple. Clean. Justified. Right? 

Wrong. 

"Dammit, Sam," she sighed, the words half-growl, half-surrender.

She snatched up the phone, swiping to answer before she could change her mind. Sam's breathing filled her ear immediately, slightly elevated, like he'd been moving. 

"This better be good, Wilson," she said, leaning back against the couch. "I'm in the middle of something important."

"Izzy, I—"

"Had a wonderful day ditching me?" The words shot out before she could stop them, sharp and barbed. She pulled her knees to her chest, the worn plaid pajama bottoms soft against her palms. "Lemme guess, you and Bucky had such an amazing date that you just couldn't wait to share? Did you make matching friendship bracelets with little shields on them?"

She twisted one of her braids around her finger, the fidgeting keeping her from launching into a full-blown rage. 

"Or wait—I know," she continued, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You guys finally confessed your undying love over candlelight? Held hands while taking a romantic walk through the park? Maybe got matching tattoos—'Sam and Bucky Forever' with a little heart?"

The silence on the other end stretched. One second. Two. Three.

"Are you done?" Sam's voice was steady, maddeningly patient. The kind of patience that made her want to throw something.

In the background, voices crashed together—dozens of them—overlapping with ringing phones and the rapid-fire clicking of keyboards. Not the quiet of Sam's apartment. Not the stillness of his Louisiana home. Not anywhere he should be at nearly one in the morning.

Isabelle straightened, pizza forgotten, her fingers tightening around the phone. "Where are you?" The question came out sharper than she intended, worry creeping in beneath the irritation.

"Bucky's been arrested."

Her next quip died in her throat. The world tilted sideways, gravity shifting beneath her. Her fingers went numb, and the phone nearly slipped from her grasp. The music— still blasting through her speakers—suddenly felt too loud, too cheerful, too wrong.

"What?" The single word scraped her throat raw. "Arrested? What the hell for? By who?"

Her mind raced through the possibilities, each worse than the last: Bucky's vacant eyes when the Winter Soldier took control. The bridge in D.C. His metal arm gleaming as it smashed through concrete. People screaming. Running. Glass shattering. Blood on pavement.

"Did he—" The words stuck in her throat like tar. She couldn't finish the question. Couldn't give voice to the fear. She pushed herself to her feet, suddenly unable to sit still. The floor felt unsteady beneath her.

"No," Sam said immediately, understanding her unspoken terror. "Nothing like that. He's himself. He's..." A pause, the sound of fabric rustling against the phone. "Look, he's fine, physically. But this is bureaucratic bullshit with teeth, Izzy."

Her shoulders dropped an inch. Relief washed through her, followed immediately by a fresh wave of anger.

"What the hell did you two idiots do?" she snapped, eyes narrowing. 

"We didn't do anything," Sam fired back, matching her tone beat for beat. "And if you'd let me, I could explain." Through the phone, voices swelled like he was moving through a crowded space. A door slammed shut, muffling the noise. 

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm listening."

"Bucky missed his court-mandated therapy session while we were in Munich."

Isabelle blinked, mouth agape as she tried to process the absurdity. A man who'd helped save the universe, arrested for missing therapy.

 "A therapy session?" she repeated, voice rising an octave. "They arrested him over a missed appointment?" She pressed her palm against her forehead, pushing back the loose strands of hair that had escaped her braids. 

"I wish I were joking," Sam said, frustration bleeding through. “But the terms of his pardon were explicit. Regular therapy, check-ins, the whole nine. Miss one without prior clearance, and technically, they can revoke his pardon."

"But we were on a mission!" Isabelle protested, her free hand gesturing wildly even though Sam couldn't see her. "Doesn't that count for anything? What kind of backwards system—"

"You think I haven't tried that angle?" Sam cut in, his composure fracturing. Exhaustion bled through, bone-deep and ragged. "I've been here for hours explaining to brick walls with badges. The arresting officer keeps spouting 'procedure' and 'protocol' like they're carved in stone. Since Bucky technically isn't active-duty military or a recognized government operative..."

The unspoken truth hung between them. Despite everything Bucky had done to help save the world, despite his sacrifice and service, to some, he would always be the Winter Soldier first.

"I’m in the city. 78th Precinct. They're processing him for transfer to a higher security facility. I've been here since—" A pause, the subtle shift in his breathing as he checked the time. "Jesus, almost six hours trying to cut through red tape. They won't let me see him. I was hoping—"

"I could come down and work my Stark magic?" Isabelle finished, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. Her mind raced through options, cataloging them with brutal efficiency. Lawyers to call. Officials to pressure. Favors to cash in. The Stark name still opened doors, even if using it made her skin crawl.

She clicked the speaker button, then flung the phone down onto the couch. She moved toward the largest cardboard box with ‘CLOTHES’ scrawled across the side. Her fingers dug through layers of hastily packed fabric. 

"Yeah," Sam admitted, relief softening his voice. "I've tried everything short of breaking him out. They're treating him like he's still..." He trailed off, not needing to finish. 

Still the Winter Soldier. Still a threat.

Isabelle's fingers froze mid-search through the cardboard box. "Give me twenty minutes," she said, voice hardening to steel.

She abandoned finesse, upending the box onto her floor. The contents spilled across the hardwood in a fabric avalanche—tank tops, sweaters, leggings she'd forgotten existed. She sifted through the pile with quick, decisive movements, her fingers skimming over cotton and silk until they found denim.

Black jeans. No rips. Professional enough.

She yanked off her plaid pajama bottoms, kicking them aside. The cool air raised goosebumps along her bare thighs as she stepped into the jeans, tugging them up in one fluid motion. The denim scraped against her skin as she fastened the button with one hand while the other dug deeper into the scattered clothes. 

"Izzy..." Sam's voice crackled through the phone's speaker, a note of wariness threading through his exhaustion. "Thanks. I know you're angry with us right now, but I—"

"It's fine," she cut him off, yanking a black tank top from the pile. She inspected it with a quick flick of her wrist. No stains. Good enough. “We’ll just call ourselves even, Wilson. Just don’t ditch me next time after asking for my help.” 

She ripped off her Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt, the worn fabric catching briefly on her ear. She tossed it into the growing pile of clothes, then tugged the tank top over her head. Too casual. She dove back into the clothing explosion, fingers closing around the sleeve of her charcoal blazer.

"I didn't—" Sam started, then stopped himself. She heard him exhale slowly, the sound of a man choosing his battles. "Yeah. I hear you, Izzy."

She shrugged into the blazer. "I'll text when I'm close," she said, ending the call before Sam could respond, before his gratitude could make her feel things she wasn't ready to process.

The phone's screen went dark—time to remind New York's finest exactly what happened when you pissed off a Stark.

Chapter Text

Isabelle burst through the police station’s doors. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps, casting everyone in that sickly, washed-out pallor that made even the living look half-dead. Her eyes darted across the room, past uniformed officers hunched over paperwork like they were trying to disappear into it, past plastic chairs bolted to the floor as if someone might actually want to steal them, until—

Sam.

Even from across the room, she could read the frustration radiating off him—that slight forward lean, the controlled set of his jaw, the way his right hand kept flexing and unfurling. The moment their eyes met, something in her chest loosened. Not entirely—more like a fist unclenching one finger at a time, still ready to punch if necessary.

Sam straightened, exhaustion momentarily replaced by relief as she made her way over to him. “Took you long enough,” he said, but there was no bite.

“Traffic at this hour was a nightmare.” The quip fell from her lips automatically, a shield against the anxiety still coursing through her. She nodded toward the front desk, where a uniformed officer was suddenly fascinated by his computer screen, deliberately avoiding eye contact like they were contagious. “Any luck with our favorite prisoner?” she asked, shifting her weight.

Sam’s jaw locked. He dragged a hand over his close-cropped hair, exhaled hard through his nose. “They’re stonewalling us,” he grumbled. “Apparently, ‘preventing international terrorism’ doesn’t qualify as an excused absence from court-mandated therapy.”

“Unbelievable,” Isabelle watched the officer cradling his phone against his ear, pretending to be on a call. Her patience—what microscopic amount remained—evaporated. “Let me talk to them.” Her voice dropped an octave, that particular tone that made even Sam take half a step back.

She rolled her shoulders back. Straightened her spine. Felt her lips curling into a smile. The one that said, ‘I’m being polite right now, but we both know I don’t have to be.’ 

Isabelle approached the front desk, eyeballing the stern-faced officer behind the counter. He continued to hunch over his keyboard, the rapid clacking growing louder as she approached. She planted both palms flat on the high counter, leaning forward until she invaded his space. The laminate surface felt cool and slightly tacky against her skin.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice carrying that unmistakable Stark edge. Not yelling. Worse than yelling. “I need to speak with someone about James Buchanan Barnes. Now.”

The officer—Diaz, according to his nametag—barely flicked his gaze upward, his expression a practiced blend of boredom and dismissal. His uniform was pressed, but the collar showed sweat stains. “Look, as I told your friend, Miss,” he said, the word ‘miss’ carrying just enough dismissal to make her jaw clench, “visiting hours are over, and the prisoner is still being processed.”

“Prisoner?” Isabelle repeated. Her powers stirred beneath her skin—that familiar pressure building behind her sternum, hot and electric, like swallowing fire. She tamped it down, forcing the sensation back into that mental box where she kept all the dangerous things. “That ‘prisoner,’“ she continued, making exaggerated air quotes with her fingers, “has saved more lives than you’ve written parking tickets.”

Officer Diaz’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching as two spots of color appeared high on his cheeks. He straightened in his chair, abandoning all pretense of working. The chair squeaked in protest.

“Miss, I’d advise you to watch your tone when addressing an officer of the—” His words trailed off as his eyes narrowed, really taking in her appearance now, from her face to her stance, lingering just long enough for Isabelle to see the mental gears turning. The slight widening of his pupils. The infinitesimal shift in his posture. “You’re—” Diaz started, voice losing its authoritative edge.

“Yeah, yeah,” she cut him off dismissively. “Isabelle Stark. I’m aware.” She leaned further over the counter, close enough that the edge dug into her ribs. His drugstore cologne hit her—something trying desperately to smell expensive and failing—mingling with coffee breath and the faint tang of nervous sweat. “I’m really not in the mood for whatever this song and dance is, so let’s skip ahead to the part where you make the call.” 

She hated this. Hated the way his eyes had changed when recognition hit—that subtle shift from dismissal to calculation. The mental arithmetic of what she might be worth to him. What favors or stories could he trade later? Remember when Stark’s daughter came in? But right now? She’d use every damn advantage in her arsenal.

“As my friend has explained multiple times,” she continued, each syllable precise and clipped, “Sergeant Barnes was on a sanctioned operation. There’s been a misunderstanding.” 

“Barnes violated his pardon conditions—” Diaz started, his earlier bravado cracking like thin ice under pressure.

“Look,” Sam interjected, moving to stand beside her. His shoulder brushed against hers, and the tightness around his eyes betrayed his own fraying patience. “Barnes was with us tracking a group of interest. Surely there’s some workaround here.”

“Mr. Wilson,” Diaz said, his voice hardening as he visibly regained his composure, straightening his spine like he’d remembered the uniform he wore. “He’s not getting out of here. Not tonight, not tomorrow.”

Isabelle tapped her fingers against the counter, a deliberate rhythm that drew Diaz’s attention back to her. “I have a team of lawyers who will be very interested in this situation,” she said, her voice dropping to a conversational tone. “But I’m hoping we can resolve this... quicker. Less paperwork for everyone.” She smiled—the particular smile she’d inherited from her father, all teeth and no warmth. “Fewer headlines. Fewer internal investigations.”

Diaz’s nostrils flared. He leaned forward until they were almost nose to nose, his breath hot against her face. “Ms. Stark,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a hush that only she and Sam could hear, “I understand your position, but I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England or an Avenger.” Something ugly flashed in his eyes. “Barnes violated his pardon conditions. He’s exactly where he belongs.” 

Something inside her chest—that last thread of restraint she’d been clinging to—snapped clean in two. Her palm slammed against the counter with a crack. The impact stung, radiating up her arm, but she barely registered it through the surge of adrenaline. Conversations died mid-sentence. A coffee mug froze halfway to someone’s lips. Every eye in the precinct locked onto her like heat-seeking missiles.

“This is absolute bullshit!” Her voice bounced off the walls, amplifying her fury. Heat crawled up her neck in a burning wave, spreading across her cheeks like wildfire, her eyes flashing.  Sam’s hand found her elbow, a gentle pressure. A warning. She shook him off.

“Ms. Stark,” Diaz’s eyes narrowed, taking in her flushed face, her rigid posture, the way her hands trembled. His lip curled. “Control yourself.”

Those two words—spoken with such condescension—sent a fresh wave of rage crashing through her. The pressure behind her sternum intensified, a hot current buzzing through her veins like live wires. “Control myself? While you’re holding him on a technicality? You have no right to—” 

“To what? Uphold the law?” Diaz cut her off. “I know you people think you’re above the law, but actions have consequences—even for people like you.”

 The dismissal in his tone hit harder than she expected. Her breath caught, trapped in her lungs as the pressure built. One push. That’s all it would take. One small release of the power coiled inside her, and Officer Diaz would understand exactly who he was dismissing. The energy pulsed beneath her skin, eager and hungry, seeking the path of least resistance.

Diaz’s voice cut through the roaring in her ears, tinny and distant. “I suggest you calm down before I have you removed from the premises—” his hand drifted toward the radio clipped to his shoulder, “—or arrested for causing a disturbance.”

Sam’s hand found her shoulder, his touch firm but gentle. His fingers pressed into the tense muscle, grounding her. “Izzy, easy,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. Not fearful—never fearful with her—but steady. “This isn’t helping Bucky.”

Bucky. Right.

The name cut through the haze of anger. The contact pulled her back from the dangerous edge she’d been teetering on. She inhaled sharply through her nose, held it for three seconds. Her powers receded, slowly, reluctantly, like a tide pulling back from shore, leaving her drained and slightly nauseated. 

Isabelle’s chest tightened, a knot forming in her throat that she couldn’t swallow past. For the first time in her life, her name, its weight, and the power it carried weren’t enough. Again, she wasn’t enough. “This isn’t over,” she managed, her voice rough around the edges.

“It is for tonight,” Diaz replied, satisfaction creeping into his tone.

She became acutely aware of the other officers watching her, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright wariness. Some had their hands hovering near their weapons—a detail that sent ice water down her spine, cooling the last embers of her rage. She’d been closer to the edge than she’d realized.

“Fine,” she spat, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. She turned on her heel, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. 

She felt Sam fall into step beside her. He didn’t touch her or try to guide her toward the exit—he knew better. But she could feel his eyes on her profile, assessing, calculating. 

“I’m fine,” she muttered, not looking at him.

“Didn’t ask,” Sam replied evenly.

“You were thinking it.”

“Actually, I was thinking we need a new approach.” His voice dropped lower as they neared the exit. “And maybe some air.” 

She nodded once, a sharp jerk of her chin, and shoved through the heavy double doors. The night air was cool against her face, damp with the promise of rain. She inhaled deeply, pressing her back against the brick wall of the building. 

This was exactly why Sam and Bucky had left her behind. The reason they’d gone off on their own. The reason Bucky had called Rhodey to babysit her like she was some unstable nuclear reactor. Because she was. A liability. A hothead who couldn’t keep it together when it mattered most. 

“I’m sorry,” she scraped her fingernails against the brick. “I didn’t help. I made it worse.”

“Look at me.” Something in his tone—not anger or disappointment, but something more Sam—made her turn. He stood with his hands tucked into his pockets. “You didn’t screw up,” he said finally, taking a step closer. “That guy in there? He was never going to help us. Not really.”

“But I lost it,” she said, her voice smaller than intended. “This is why you and Bucky left me behind? The base. This morning.” The words tumbled out sharper than she meant them to, edged with the hurt she’d been swallowing. “You two went without me. Had my uncle pick me up like I’m some stupid kid who can’t be trusted.”

“Iz, that’s not—” He stopped, pressed his lips together, then exhaled slowly. His shoulders dropped an inch. “You were hurt. Bad.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a hand, palm out. “If you’re gonna say you’ve had worse, I know.” He glared, silencing her with a look. “When you were sleeping on the plane, we talked. Bucky and I.” Sam’s voice dropped lower, more intimate. “He was worried about you. Really worried. Kept watching to make sure you were breathing. He didn’t want to risk you getting hurt again. I didn’t know he was going to text Rhodes like that. That wasn’t the plan.”

Something in her chest constricted. Not at the words themselves, but at the image they conjured—Bucky watching over her, counting her breaths. The knot in her throat tightened. “Then what was the plan?” she challenged, folding her arms across her chest. Her jacket creaked with the movement, leather pulling tight across her shoulders. 

“I wanted to give you time to rest. Bucky wanted me to meet someone,” Sam leaned against the wall beside her. “Another super soldier.”

“What?” The word came out as a shocked exhale, barely audible. Her arms fell to her sides. “There’s another—”

“Isaiah Bradley,” Sam said, his voice taking on a reverent quality she rarely heard from him. “Korean War vet. Bucky ran into him in ‘51 during a mission in Korea.”

Isabelle turned to face him fully. “How have I never heard of him?”

His eyes hardened, not at her, but at something distant and infuriating. “Because the government buried him. Erased him.” A car passed, headlights briefly illuminating the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw worked before he continued. “They gave him the serum in the fifties. No fanfare.” He paused, swallowed. “Locked him up for thirty years when they were done with him. Experimented on him like he wasn’t even human.” 

 “Fuck,” Isabelle’s breath caught. She thought of Steve—Captain America, the golden boy, the hero with museums and memorials and school textbooks dedicated to his legend. And this man—this Isaiah Bradley—erased. Buried. Forgotten.

Her fingers curled against the brick, catching on the rough edges. It was like what they’d done to Bucky. What they’d tried to do to her.

“Bucky’s been carrying this one for a while,” Sam said. His eyes searched hers, making sure she understood what he wasn’t explicitly saying. “Wanted me to understand.” The weight of his gaze pressed against her. “Some things hit closer to home than others.”

The implication hung between them, heavy as lead. Isabelle felt a chill crawl up her spine that had nothing to do with the night air.

“And Bucky,” Sam added, softer now, “he wasn’t ditching you, Iz. He was protecting you the only way he knew how.” A hint of something—frustration, maybe—crept into his tone. “Not saying it was right. Just saying where his head was at.”

Isabelle released a long breath. Her anger from earlier was still there, but it had transformed into something more complex—an ache tinged with understanding. The memory of Bucky’s face when she’d woken up on the side of the road flashed behind her eyes—the tightness around his mouth, the careful way he’d looked at her, like she might shatter if he blinked wrong.

“So what now?” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “We can’t just leave him in there.” The thought of Bucky sleeping in a cell made her stomach twist. 

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted, his posture shifting. “They won’t listen to us. Not to me, not to you.”

Isabelle stared at the police station’s entrance, the American flag hanging limp in the still night air. Her mind raced through scenarios, each one hitting a dead end. Calling lawyers would take hours. Going back in would likely end with both of them in cells beside Bucky. Then it hit her—a solution so obvious and so deeply unappealing that her body physically rejected it, a sour taste flooding her mouth.

“Dammit,” she muttered, fumbling for her phone. She clicked the phone on, “FRIDAY,” she said. “I need a number.” 

“Of course, Miss Stark,” the familiar voice responded, crisp and efficient. “Whose number would you like?”

Sam moved closer, eyebrows drawing together until a deep line formed between them. “Iz, what exactly are you thinking?” The wariness in his tone told her he already knew—and didn’t like it.

“Someone who has pull with the right people.” Her free hand fell to a fist at her side. “Someone I really, really don’t want to call.”

“Walker.” Sam didn’t phrase it as a question. The name hung between them like something toxic.

“The asshole himself.” Isabelle’s jaw tightened until her teeth ached.

“That’s a hard no.” Sam’s voice dropped an octave, his shoulders squaring.

“He’s military,” she continued, softer now but no less intense. She jabbed her phone toward the station’s entrance. “He has connections we don’t anymore, apparently. The kind that can override whatever bullshit technicality they’re holding Bucky on.”

Sam’s eyes never left hers, searching for something—weakness, maybe, or a better solution. Finding neither, his jaw worked back and forth, the muscle there jumping beneath his skin.

“Bucky’s sitting in a cell right now because he was trying to help people,” she said, quieter now. “Because he was with us.” 

Sam’s jaw worked as he processed her words, the internal struggle playing across his features like shadows. “Fine. Do it.” 

Isabelle took a breath that filled her lungs but did nothing to settle the electric anxiety buzzing beneath her skin. She turned her attention to her phone, thumb hovering over the screen. “FRI, get me John Walker’s phone number.”

The plastic chair dug into Sam’s lower back, the cheap molding designed for discomfort. Isabelle’s leg bounced beside him—a rapid, uneven rhythm that matched the ticking of the wall clock overhead.

When they’d reentered the station, the atmosphere had shifted. Officers gave them a wide berth, conversations dropping to whispers as they passed. Diaz tracked their movement from behind his desk, eyes narrowed in warning. The message was clear: cause trouble again, and you’ll regret it.

Sam leaned back, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, scanning the room for any sign of their unwanted ally. “Can’t believe we actually called him,” he muttered, keeping his voice low enough that only Isabelle could hear. 

“What were our other options?” Her tone was flat, but beneath it ran a current of bitterness that Sam recognized all too well. 

Sam opened his mouth to respond—something between a plan and a prayer forming on his tongue—when the sharp click of heels against linoleum drew both their gazes up. Sam’s spine straightened instinctively, while Isabelle went still, her bouncing leg freezing mid-motion. 

The footsteps rounded the corner, and Sam’s eyes narrowed, muscles tensing as he prepared to face—

Not Walker.

A woman.

She strode toward them, the leather portfolio tucked under her arm, looking expensive and official. Her eyes landed on them almost instantly. “Sam? Isabelle?” 

Sam’s hand found Isabelle’s elbow, nudging her to follow as her rose to his feet. Isabelle followed more slowly, her muscles protesting after an hour in the plastic chair.

The woman closed the distance between them, hand already extended. Up close, Isabelle noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes, expertly concealed but visible this close—someone else’s night interrupted.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about both of you,” she said. The smile she offered was small but genuine, reaching her eyes in a way that surprised Isabelle. “I’m Dr. Raynor, James’s therapist.”

Sam’s posture shifted subtly—the coiled tension in his shoulders easing by degrees as recognition clicked. “Dr. Raynor,” he said, taking her hand in a firm grip. “Sam Wilson. Good to finally put a face to the name.” His voice carried that particular Sam warmth—the one he reserved for allies, for people who might actually help.

Isabelle stepped forward, her handshake more tentative.  “Yeah, thanks for coming,” she said, shooting Sam a sideways glance that screamed confusion. “We were just expecting...” She trailed off, not wanting to say the name out loud as if it might summon him.

“Someone else,” Dr. Raynor finished for her, understanding flickering in her eyes. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “John asked me to come down. Given James’s history and the current situation, he thought my presence might help facilitate matters.”

The mention of Walker sent a fresh spike of irritation through Isabelle’s chest, but it faded quickly as the implications sank in. Walker had actually done something smart. Something helpful. The cognitive dissonance made her head hurt. “Oh,” Her shoulders relaxed even as her jaw tightened. “That actually makes sense.”

“Well, thank you for coming,” Sam said. He glanced at the clock on the wall—2:47 AM—then back to Dr. Raynor. “Maybe this won’t be a complete disaster after all.”

The words had barely left his mouth when a booming voice shattered the station’s quiet like a sledgehammer through glass. 

“Christina!”

Sam exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes briefly closing like a man preparing for impact. 

Isabelle’s stomach knotted as John Walker entered the room, the star-spangled uniform practically screaming for attention in the drab police station. He paused to shake hands with two officers, his smile wide and practiced, a politician’s grin. A woman in a rumpled business suit approached him with her phone raised, and Walker immediately shifted his stance—shoulders back, chin up, chest puffed out like a peacock in mating season.

Walker finished his impromptu photo session with a handshake and a wink before zeroing in on their small group. His smile never faltered as he approached. “Dr. Raynor, so glad you could make it.” He extended his hand to the therapist, gripping it firmly as his gaze darted between her and Sam. “It’s good to see you again!”

Sam’s head snapped toward Dr. Raynor, the look of disbelief that bloomed across his features transformed his entire face—eyebrows shooting up, mouth parting slightly, eyes widening. “You two know each other?” 

Dr. Raynor’s expression remained professionally neutral, but Isabelle caught something flicker across her features—a flash of what might have been regret or discomfort—before she smoothed it away. Her fingers tightened minutely around her portfolio. 

“Yes,” she replied, her tone measured and even. “We did some field ops back in the day.”

Walker stepped forward, breaking into their small circle with all the subtlety of a battering ram. His gaze swept over each of them in turn, lingering a beat too long on Isabelle. She bit her tongue. 

“I’m glad you called,” he said, keeping his eyes on Isabelle, his voice dropping into what she assumed was meant to be sincerity.

It sounded rehearsed to her ears, like a line he’d practiced in front of a mirror until he got the intonation just right. 

“Well,” she said, injecting her voice with a sweetness that could rot teeth, “desperate times call for desperate measures.” She gestured vaguely at his star-spangled outfit, the movement sharp and dismissive. “And who better to call than America himself?”

Sam coughed into his fist beside her, the sound suspiciously like a smothered laugh. His shoulder bumped against hers—a silent show of solidarity that steadied her more than she wanted to admit.

Walker’s smile didn’t falter, but something hardened in his eyes, a flash of irritation quickly masked. He pivoted toward Dr. Raynor, widening his stance. The movement was deliberate, commanding space that made Isabelle’s skin crawl. “Christina,” Walker leaned toward Dr. Raynor. “Bucky’s not gonna be following a strict schedule any longer.”

Dr. Raynor’s professional mask slipped. A vertical line appeared between her brows as she shook her head, causing a strand of brown hair to fall across her forehead. “We haven’t finished our work,” she said, voice firm but quiet. Her gaze darted between Walker and Sam, deliberately skipping over Isabelle as if sensing the fury radiating off her. “James is making progress, but it’s delicate. Who authorized this?”

Walker gestured to himself with a theatrical flourish, chest puffing out beneath the star-spangled suit. “I did.” Pride dripped from each syllable, thick as syrup and twice as sickening.

“And since when,” Sam cut in, “does Captain America have the authority to override court-mandated therapy?” His voice remained deceptively calm, but Isabelle caught the warning signs—the muscle jumping in his jaw, the controlled tension in his shoulders, the slight forward tilt of his stance.

“Since the government decided that Sergeant Barnes’ skills are more valuable in the field than on a therapist’s couch,” Walker replied, each word coated in condescension. He turned to Dr. Raynor, dismissing Sam with a movement. “He’s too valuable an asset to have tied up, so just do whatever you’ve got to with him to clear him, and then send him back to me.”

Asset.

Isabelle’s nostrils flared. 

Before any of them could respond, a harsh electronic buzz cut through the station, followed by the metallic clank of a heavy security door unlocking. Isabelle’s head snapped toward the sound, her heart lurching against her ribs.

Two officers flanked Bucky as he emerged from the holding area. His shoulders curled forward slightly, not in defeat but in a protective hunch, the one that made his massive frame seem smaller, less threatening. His vibranium arm was hidden beneath a dark jean jacket, but the officers kept a careful distance from that side, all the same.

 She frowned, seeing how his hair was slightly mussed on one side as if he’d been leaning against a wall or held his head in his hands. Isabelle took an instinctive half-step forward before catching herself. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into skin.

Bucky’s gaze drifted from her to Sam, a silent question passing between them. Then his eyes landed on Walker, and Isabelle watched the subtle transformation—the tightening around his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his jaw locked into place. Nothing obvious enough for the officers to notice, but to her, it was like watching armor slide into place.

“Well,” Walker clapped his hands together once, the sharp sound cracking through the station like a gunshot. Isabelle flinched, adrenaline spiking through her system before she could suppress it. He gestured toward Bucky with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Looks like our man of the hour has arrived. Finish up in here, I’ll be outside waiting.” 

The sound of Walker’s boots faded as he strutted toward the exit, shoulders squared like he was expecting applause to follow him.

Bucky approached like a caged animal being led to another enclosure—cautious, alert, dangerous in his restraint. His eyes never stopped moving, cataloging every exit, every potential threat, every distance between bodies. Old habits. Hydra habits. 

His dark hair was disheveled, strands falling across his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. The anger she’d nursed since that morning—the hurt of being left behind—evaporated like dew under a harsh sun. 

“Hey,” she said as he reached them. “You okay?”

“Been better,” he replied, his voice sandpaper-rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. His gaze flicked between her and Sam, and the furrow between his brows deepened. “What’s going on? How did you...?” His metal hand made a small gesture at the police station around them, plates shifting with a soft mechanical whisper.

Isabelle swallowed hard, her fingers twisting together until her knuckles whitened. “Had to ask for a favor,” she admitted, unable to keep her left eye from twitching slightly. The thought of owing John Walker anything made her stomach twist into knots. “From Walker.”

Bucky went completely still. Only his eyes moved, darkening as his pupils dilated. “Walker,” he repeated, the name falling from his lips like something poisonous. For a split second, something dangerous flashed across his features before he blinked it away, burying it deep.

Isabelle opened her mouth to explain further, to tell him they’d had no choice, that they’d tried everything else first—but Dr. Raynor stepped forward, cutting through the tension with clinical efficiency.

“James,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, “condition of your release is a session now.” Her gaze swept over to include Sam and Isabelle, her expression brooking no argument. “You too, Sam. Isabelle.”

Sam stiffened beside Isabelle, his shoulders squaring as if preparing for an ambush rather than therapy. “Nah, I’m good,” he said, forcing casualness into his tone that didn’t match the wariness in his eyes. “I’ll wait out here with—”

“That wasn’t a request,” Dr. Raynor interrupted, already turning on her heel, clearly expecting them to follow like ducklings after their mother.

Isabelle caught Sam’s gaze, recognizing the reluctance mirrored there—the same instinctive resistance crawling up her own spine like icy fingers. They both looked to Bucky, who seemed to have retreated further behind his walls, his expression carefully blank except for the slight tightening around his eyes.

With a collective sigh that felt like surrender, they followed Dr. Raynor back through the door Bucky had emerged from, each step feeling heavier than the last. Isabelle’s heart hammered against her ribs as the door closed behind them with a soft, definitive click.

Chapter Text

Dr. Raynor led their small procession, her posture tense, her steps quick. Isabelle walked beside Sam, while Bucky trudged between them and Raynor. Bucky hadn’t looked back once. Not a glance, not a flicker of acknowledgement. Just the tense line of his back. 

Dr. Raynor stopped at a door at the end of the hall, eyes scanning all of them. She swung the door open for them, hinges giving a soft protest. Bucky moved instantly. Two long strides later, he folded his frame into the chair on the right, his hands clasping and resting in his lap. 

Sam lingered beside her, his shoulder bumping hers. “Ladies first?” he offered with a sly smile, sweeping his hand toward the empty chair beside Bucky. 

Isabelle felt her jaw tighten. She recognized a power play when she saw one. Sam was trying to force her next to Bucky, making her the buffer in whatever tension stretched between the men.

“Oh no,” she said, stepping past him without breaking eye contact. Her voice dripped with saccharine sweetness as she leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I’ll stand. I know you have bad knees and all.” 

The smile vanished from Sam’s face like someone had flipped a switch.  They locked gazes—a silent standoff, neither willing to yield first. The deadlock might have lasted forever if not for the soft, weary sigh that escaped Bucky’s lips. 

The sound was barely audible but sparked something wicked in Isabelle’s belly. An impulse she couldn’t resist. She reached inward. Just a small tug, just enough to—

Sam blinked rapidly, his confident posture faltering mid-standoff. His body swayed, a subtle shift at first that he tried to hide. Up was down, and still was spinning. 

“Are you okay?” Isabelle tilted her head, voice honeyed with fake concern. The picture of innocence as she watched him struggle. “You should sit, Sam. You’re looking a little…dizzy.” 

He shook his head like a dog trying to clear water from its ears, which only intensified the effect she’d created. “You little cheat,” he muttered through gritted teeth, low enough that only she could hear. He shot her a look that promised retribution as he surrendered, taking the seat next to Bucky and putting a space between them. 

Dr. Raynor closed the door with a soft click. Trapped. She settled into her chair like a judge taking the bench. Those clinical eyes swept over each of them—Sam still looking faintly green, Bucky folded into himself —before landing on Isabelle. No surprise in that gaze. Identification. Challenge accepted.

“Most people find chairs more comfortable than walls,” Dr. Raynor observed, pen poised between her fingers.

“Yeah, well,” Isabelle shrugged, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. “I was born to disappoint.” 

The therapist’s eyes flicked pointedly to the empty chair against the adjacent wall, then back to Isabelle. 

Sit. Down.

For three heartbeats, Isabelle considered refusing—a small, petty rebellion. But something in Raynor’s unwavering stare, like she could wait all day, all year, made Isabelle’s resolve crumble.

With an eye roll that would make a teenager proud, she pushed off the wall, grabbed the spare chair against the left wall, and dragged it across the floor. The metal legs screeched against tile—an unholy sound that made Sam wince and Bucky’s shoulders tighten. 

She positioned it squarely between the men and dropped into it with theatrical heaviness. “There,” she said, crossing her legs, shooting Sam a pointed look. “Everyone happy?” 

From her peripheral vision, she caught Bucky watching her, his expression blank save for the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost. 

Dr. Raynor uncapped her pen with a decisive click. “Happiness isn’t required. Participation is. So,” Dr. Raynor started, clicking her pen and sitting straight. She looked between them. “Who would like to start?” 

The silence stretched, elastic and uncomfortable. The wall clock’s ticking grew thunderous. Sam cleared his throat. Bucky stared at his hands. Isabelle glanced between them, a silent plea: Someone. Anyone. Say something.

The clock ticked louder.

“All right, look,” Sam finally said, breaking the suffocating silence. “I get why you want to talk to Freaky Magoo here—” he jerked his thumb toward Bucky, not even looking at him, “—but there’s no need for all this…whatever this is.” 

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look up.

Dr. Raynor leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It is my job to make sure that you’re okay—”

“Technically,” Isabelle cut in, unable to help herself, “it’s your job to make sure he’s okay.” She pointed at Bucky, whose shoulder tensed against hers at the sudden attention. Something twisted in her chest—regret for drawing the spotlight to him when he so clearly wanted to disappear.

Dr. Raynor’s gaze shifted between them. “This might be slightly unprofessional,” she admitted, her voice softening in a way that caught Isabelle off guard.  “But it’s the only way I can go through this release with a good conscience.”

Isabelle’s gaze shifted to Bucky, who had turned away, focusing intently on a water stain blooming across the ceiling tile. The slight furrow between his brows deepened under her eyes. 

Sam exhaled loudly—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—his head falling back to stare at the ceiling. His knee bounced rapidly, betraying his irritation loudly. “We’ve got actual problems out there. Real threats. And we’re sitting here playing therapy circle.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Bucky finally spoke, his voice rough like he’d forgotten how to use it. 

“See?” Dr. Raynor said with forced brightness that didn’t reach her eyes. Her smile was professional but tight at the edges. “Making progress already.”

A laugh bubbled up in Isabelle’s throat. Not from humor—from the sheer absurdity of it all. Three adults crammed into chairs made for high schoolers, all avoiding eye contact like they’d been caught passing notes in class.

“Now,” Dr. Raynor tried again, tapping her pen against her notepad. “We’ll try an exercise I use with couples struggling to envision their future together.” She straightened, squaring her shoulders with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to difficult patients. 

Bucky’s head snapped up so fast that Isabelle heard his neck crack. “No,” he growled, arms crossing tight over his chest.

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a hard pass,” Isabelle said, narrowing her eyes. Her temples throbbed—the beginning of a headache or the temptation to use her powers again, she wasn’t sure. “And there’s three of us, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She gestured between them with a circular motion of her finger.

“Relationships come in all shapes and sizes.” Dr. Raynor dismissed her objection with a casual flick of her wrist. “Are you familiar with the miracle question?”

“No,” Sam said flatly. 

“Absolutely not,” Bucky muttered.

“Is this really necessary?” Isabelle groaned, letting her head fall back. The fluorescent lights above burned into her retinas, making starbursts behind her eyelids.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if it weren’t,” Dr. Raynor replied, her voice infuriatingly reasonable.

“Fine.” Isabelle straightened, squaring her shoulders. “What’s the miracle question?”

Dr. Raynor’s lips curved into something almost resembling a smile. “I want each of you to imagine that tonight, while you sleep, a miracle occurs.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “When you wake up tomorrow, your problem is solved. What’s different? What do you notice first?”

A miracle. What a fucking joke. If miracles had happened, her father would still be alive. If miracles happened, she wouldn’t have spent five years as dust while the world moved on without her. If miracles happened—

“I’d wake up and not be here,” Bucky said suddenly, his voice flat. 

Dr. Raynor’s pen hovered over her notepad. “And where would you be?”

Bucky’s throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes were fixed on some distant point only he could see. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere...” He trailed off, jaw clenching.

“Somewhere no one knows your name,” Isabelle finished for him, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

His eyes snapped to hers, startled, then narrowed. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Exactly that.”

Sam shifted in his seat, the chair creaking beneath him. “Well, that’s depressing as hell.”

Bucky angled his body slightly, leaning toward Isabelle. His shoulder brushed against hers, the vibranium arm whirring almost imperceptibly as he adjusted his position. “In my miracle, he’d also talk less,” he said, nodding toward Sam. 

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Sam fired back without missing a beat.

“Oh my god,” she scoffed at them and their childish bickering. She shot Dr. Raynor a look, “I don’t pay you, I don’t need this.” She pushed back her chair abruptly, “I’m waiting outside—”

“No, you don’t. Sit down.” Dr. Raynor’s index finger wagged in Isabelle’s direction. 

Isabelle’s body responded before her mind could object, muscle memory so deeply ingrained she couldn’t fight it. That wagging finger. The firm, unyielding tone that expected immediate compliance. 

In an instant, she was eight years old again, perched on the edge of an oversized chair in her mother’s office, legs swinging nervously above the floor as Laura Proctor delivered another lecture about responsibility or decorum or whatever shortcoming had disappointed her that day. That same expression—lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows slightly raised, as if perpetually surprised by Isabelle’s inability to meet expectations.

“Sit down, Isabelle. We’re not finished.”

No one made her feel small like her mother could—and now this stranger had managed it with five words and a gesture.

She sank back into her seat, shoulders hunching inward like a scolded child. Heat crawled up her neck, flooding her cheeks with unwanted color. She felt Bucky’s eyes on her—curious, watchful—and that only made it worse.

Dr. Raynor’s expression shifted as she studied Isabelle, the clinical mask slipping just enough to reveal something human underneath. Her shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch, hands no longer poised to command but settling on her notepad with deliberate gentleness. “All right,” she conceded,  “let’s try something simpler: the soul-gazing exercise.” 

“The what now?” Isabelle choked out, whipping her head toward Sam and Bucky, finding mirror images of horror etched across their faces.

“Oh hell no,” Sam muttered, shaking his head with such force his earpiece rattled. “Soul-gazing wasn’t in the deal. Nobody said anything about soul-gazing.” His knee started bouncing again, faster this time, a nervous drumbeat against the underside of the table.

Bucky remained silent, but Isabelle felt his body go rigid beside her. His breathing changed—shallower, more controlled—like a man preparing for pain.

“It’s a simple exercise,” Dr. Raynor continued, unfazed by their collective dismay. Her voice maintained that infuriatingly reasonable tone. “Turn your chairs to face each other in a small half-circle.”

Sam leaned toward Isabelle, his breath warm against the shell of her ear, carrying the faint scent of mint gum. “On three, we make a break for it,” he whispered, eyes darting to the door. “I’ll take the therapist, you handle the lock.”

“I’ll take point,” Bucky breathed from her other side. His muscles coiled beneath his jacket, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders. 

Dr. Raynor clapped once—a sharp crack that split the air like a gunshot. All three of them flinched in unison, battle reflexes firing. Isabelle’s hand instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn’t there. Sam’s body half-rose from his chair. Bucky’s metal fingers curled into a fist.

“Chairs. Facing inward. Now.” Dr. Raynor’s voice dropped an octave, each word landing like a brick. She motioned with her hands like a traffic cop directing vehicles.

 Isabelle’s gaze locked with Bucky’s for a fraction of a second. In the pale blue of his eyes, she saw the same realization dawning: they weren’t getting out of this.

“This is worse than Hydra,” Bucky muttered, so softly that only Isabelle could hear.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up in her throat. She swallowed it down, tasting something bitter. “At least Hydra would just shoot us,” she whispered back, earning a smirk from him. 

With exaggerated reluctance, Isabelle dragged her chair around, metal legs screeching against the linoleum in protest. Sam followed suit, his movements deliberately slow, like a man approaching the gallows. Bucky’s chair moved without a sound—the super-soldier apparently too disciplined to engage in passive-aggressive furniture manipulation.

They formed a lopsided triangle, knees almost touching in the center. 

“Now what?” Isabelle asked, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “We hold hands and sing Kumbaya?”

“Now—” Dr. Raynor’s smile was thin but patient, “—now, we’re going to practice something that helps people who work in high-stress environments build trust and recognize each other’s humanity.”

“I recognize their humanity just fine,” Sam protested, jerking his thumb between Bucky and Isabelle. “That one’s grumpy, that one’s stabby. Humanity recognized.”

Isabelle kicked his shin under the chair. Not hard—just enough to make him wince.

“See?” Sam said, gesturing toward her with vindication. “Stabby.”

Dr. Raynor ignored them both, pulling a small timer from her pocket and setting it on the table. “For two minutes, I want each of you to look into another person’s eyes. No talking. No laughing. Just eye contact.”

The silence that followed was so profound that Isabelle could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Bucky’s throat worked as he swallowed. Sam’s mouth opened and closed twice, like a fish suddenly finding itself on land.

“You can’t be serious,” Isabelle finally managed, her voice coming out higher than intended.

“Entirely serious,” Dr. Raynor confirmed, finger hovering over the timer. “Who would like to go first?”

Another beat of silence.

“I’m not doing this,” Bucky muttered, shifting in his seat. 

Dr. Raynor’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes hardened. “James,” she said,  “you’ve spent seventy years avoiding looking people in the eye. Two minutes won’t kill you.”

The words hung in the air like smoke after a gunshot. Isabelle felt Bucky go completely still beside her, the kind of stillness that wasn’t calm but the opposite—a storm contained in human form. She risked a glance at his profile. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping beneath his stubble.

“Low blow, doc,” Sam murmured, all traces of humor suddenly gone from his voice.

Isabelle’s heart hammered against her ribs. The air in the room felt too thick, too charged. 

“Fine,” Bucky said, the word like gravel. He raised his eyes to Dr. Raynor’s, a direct challenge. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dr. Raynor nodded, satisfied, and turned to Isabelle. “Ms. Stark?”

Isabelle’s stomach knotted. She’d rather face down another alien invasion than do this.  Eye contact meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant weakness. Weakness meant—

“I’ll go,” Sam interrupted, spinning his chair to face Bucky directly. Their knees bumped, and neither man moved to create distance. “Come on, Barnes. You and me. Let’s soul-gaze the hell out of this.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up, surprise momentarily replacing the tension in his face.  Sam only leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The challenge hung between them like a gauntlet thrown. For a heartbeat, Isabelle thought Bucky might actually get up and walk out—protocol and consequences be damned.

Instead, he mirrored Sam’s posture, leaning in until barely two feet separated their faces. “Start the timer,” he growled, not looking away from Sam.

Dr. Raynor pressed the button with a soft beep. “Two minutes. Starting now.”

The seconds stretched like taffy. Isabelle watched, fascinated despite herself, as the two men stared each other down. Neither blinked. Neither moved. It was like watching two predators sizing each other up—wary, tense, refusing to show weakness.

Thirty seconds in, Sam’s left eye twitched. Bucky’s mouth curved into the barest hint of a smirk.

“No talking,” Dr. Raynor reminded them, though neither had spoken.

Isabelle shifted in her seat after the first minute passed. Then another thirty seconds.  Just when Isabelle thought they might actually make it through the full two minutes, Sam’s poker face cracked. Eyes watering, he blinked against his will. 

“Dammit,” he muttered, breaking eye contact to glance at the timer.

“I win,” Bucky said, his voice low but unmistakably smug.

“I didn’t realize it was a competition,” Dr. Raynor commented, raising an eyebrow.

“Everything’s a competition with these two,” Isabelle said, rolling her eyes. “They’d turn breathing into a contest if they could.”

Sam straightened, rolling his shoulders like a boxer between rounds. “Your turn, Stark,” he said, spinning his chair to face her. “Unless you’re chicken.”

The childish taunt shouldn’t have worked. It absolutely shouldn’t have worked. Isabelle was a grown woman, for god’s sake, not some playground kid being dared to eat a worm.

And yet.

“Fine,” she huffed, angling her chair to face Sam directly. Their knees brushed. “But just so we’re clear, this is stupid and I hate it.” 

“Noted,” Dr. Raynor said, resetting the timer. “Ready?”

No, Isabelle thought. Not even close.

“Ready,” she said instead, meeting Sam’s gaze.

The timer beeped. Two minutes. Starting now.

Sam’s eyes were dark brown, almost black in this light, with flecks of amber near the pupil that Isabelle had never noticed before. His gaze was steady, challenging but not unkind. The man who had followed Captain America into battle, who’d been there every time she needed him—there was steel beneath the humor, resolve behind the easy smile. 

Forty-five seconds in, Isabelle felt her throat tighten. This was too intimate, too raw. She didn’t want to see the person behind the quips and the swagger. She didn’t want him to see her either—the cracks in her armor, the fear she kept locked. 

Her eyes began to water from the effort of not blinking. Sam did too, but neither of them looked away. 

“One minute left,” Dr. Raynor announced softly. 

Isabelle’s heartbeat quickened. She could feel Bucky watching them, his gaze a physical weight against her skin. What did he see? What was he thinking?

Sam’s expression softened. Something passed between them—not forgiveness, exactly, but understanding. A silent acknowledgment: We’re both doing our best in an impossible situation. 

The timer beeped again, startling them both.

“Time,” Dr. Raynor said, sounding pleased. “Well done.”

Isabelle exhaled shakily, dropping her gaze to her hands. Her fingernails had left crescent-shaped indentations in her palms.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Sam said, his voice oddly gentle. 

Before she could respond, Dr. Raynor reset the timer once more. “Last pair,” she said, nodding toward Bucky and Isabelle.

Isabelle’s stomach dropped. 

No. 

Not him. Anyone but him. 

She turned slowly, like a prisoner facing a firing squad. Bucky was already watching her, his expression unreadable, those pale blue eyes giving nothing away. 

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly, surprising her. “I can tell her to go to hell.” 

The offer hung between them—an escape route, freely given. Part of her wanted to take it, to run as far and as fast as she could. But another part, which she didn’t want to examine too closely, was curious. What would she see if she really looked at him? What would he see in her?

“It’s fine,” she said, the lie obvious even to her ears. She straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Bucky studied her for a moment longer, then nodded once. He shifted his chair to face her directly, their knees almost touching. 

“Ready?” Dr. Raynor asked, finger hovering over the timer. 

Isabelle met Bucky’s gaze and felt something electric zip down her spine. His eyes were winter-pale, the color of a frozen lake, but not cold-never cold. There was too much life in them, too much history, too much pain. 

“Ready,” she whispered, though she wasn’t. Not even close. 

The timer beeped. 

The first ten seconds were excruciating. Isabelle fought the instinct to look away, to find some safe middle-distance point over his shoulder. Instead, she forced herself to really look at him. 

Fifteen seconds in, his left eyelid twitched slightly. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Twenty seconds. Her heart hammered so loudly she was certain he could hear it. 

And then—a flash. The overpass. The mask. The dead, mechanical stare as he’d advanced on her, Steve, Sam, and Natasha. Metal arm gleaming in the sunlight as bullets tore through the air around them. 

The Winter Soldier. The most terrifying thing she’d ever faced at that time—and she’d fought during the Battle of New York. 

Her breath caught. Bucky’s pupils dilated slightly, as if he could see the memory playing across her face. 

Thirty seconds. His gaze didn’t waver, but something shifted in it—a softening around the edge. The fight on the helicarrier, when she and Steve had tried desperately to reach the man buried beneath the programming? The way he’d dragged them both from the Potomac afterward? 

She remembered regaining consciousness on that muddy bank, water streaming from her lungs, turning her head to see Bucky standing there, soaked, confused, terrified. She’d rasped out, “Why?”—why did he save them? He hadn’t answered with words. He’d answered with his eyes, lost, haunted, but undeniably human. 

Before disappearing into the trees. 

Forty-five seconds. Bucky swallowed, the sound audible in the silence of the room. A drop of water clung to his lashes—not quite a tear, but close. From the strain of not blinking, or something else?

One minute. Halfway there. Her pulse quickened, blood rushing in her ears. Isabelle couldn’t look away even as memories crashed through her like waves against a breakwater.

Vienna. The bombing. The hunt.

She remembered finding him in that tiny Bucharest apartment, newspapers covering the windows, a sad little notebook filled with fragments of memory. The raw fear in his eyes when they’d cornered him—not for himself, but fear of what he might do. 

Zemo. Siberia. Her throat tightened. 

After the fight, after the revelation, after her father... After everything had shattered beyond repair. She’d helped Steve get Bucky to the Quinjet. She remembered sobbing, the taste of salt and copper on her lips, her body shaking so hard Steve had to hold her upright.

“You’re at one twenty,” Dr. Raynor’s voice came from somewhere distant.

T’Challa standing there with Zemo in custody. The look of pity on the Black Panther’s face. The offer of sanctuary when they had nowhere else to go. And Bucky—God, Bucky—watching her the entire time. Silent. His eyes never left her, even as Steve whispered reassurances against her hair.

Because he knew.

He knew that she was supposed to have been in that car that night. A week away with her grandparents before Christmas. But she’d gotten sick—too sick to travel. 

And yet she still had chosen him in Berlin. In Siberia. Had thrown everything away in that moment—her relationship with her father, her home, her name. All for a man who, in another timeline, would have snapped her grandparents’ neck before doing the same to the nearly 3-year-old version of herself without hesitation. 

One minute forty-five seconds.

Zemo’s voice slithered through Isabelle’s memory, cold and precise as a scalpel: “Tell me, does it frighten you, standing so close to the Winter Soldier? The perfect weapon.”

Her pulse hammered against her throat. Bucky’s eyes tracked the movement.

“Is that what you see when you look at him?” Zemo had pressed. “A glimpse of what you might have become if you hadn’t... lost control?”

Isabelle’s fingers twitched in her lap. That was why she’d chosen him in Berlin, wasn’t it? Not despite what Bucky was, but because of it. He understood what it meant to be unmade. To have your body turned against your will. To be the monster in someone else’s nightmares. 

A single tear escaped, tracking hot down her cheek. Then another. The salt stung her lips. 

“I can’t,” she whispered, the words scraping her throat raw. Her voice cracked on the second syllable. “I can’t do this.” 

Bucky instantly broke their gaze, looking down at his hands. The guilt radiating from him was almost tangible, a living thing filling the space between them. 

Isabelle wiped furiously at her face, smearing tears across her cheekbone with the heel of her palm. Her chest felt hollowed out, scraped clean of everything but the raw, pulsing ache beneath her ribs.

“Hey, you okay?” Sam shifted in his chair, leaning toward her with a furrowed brow. 

Isabelle jerked away from his outstretched hand, nearly toppling off her chair. The thought of being touched right now, by anyone, made her skin crawl. 

Sam’s eyes flickered to Dr. Raynor, hardening from concern to anger. “Doc, we’re done here,” he said, voice dropping to that dangerous calm he used before missions went sideways. “This isn’t helping anyone.” 

Dr. Raynor studied them over steepled fingers, her clinical mask slipping just enough to reveal something that might have been satisfaction. She set her pen down with a soft click against the notepad. 

“Actually,” she said, “I think it is.”

“Fuck off,” Isabelle spat, shoving to her feet so violently her chair crashed back against the floor. “Just—fuck off with your soul-gazing bullshit.” Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling. 

She felt more than saw Bucky go rigid beside her. His breathing changed—controlled, measured, the way soldiers breathed when preparing for impact.

“Ms. Stark,” Dr. Raynor began, her voice maddeningly calm. “Sometimes emotional responses—”

“Don’t.” Isabelle sliced her hand through the air. The room suddenly felt twenty degrees hotter, sweat beading at her hairline. “Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me right now.”

Her chest constricted, lungs refusing to expand fully. The walls seemed to pulse inward with each heartbeat, closing in like a vise. Tiny electric shocks were racing just beneath her skin, gathering momentum. Her powers stirred, responding to her emotional state like a predator scenting blood in the water.

The room’s edges began to blur. Dr. Raynor’s voice distorted. One more push, one more prod, and she wouldn’t be able to contain it. The sickness would leak out, invisible tendrils seeking vulnerabilities in everyone around her.

“Isabelle.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the static in her head—not commanding, not placating. Just steady. Her name in his mouth sounded different than when others said it. Softer. More careful.

She looked up, met his gaze. His eyes were clear, focused entirely on her, seeing exactly what was happening. What was about to happen.

“Take a breath,” he said quietly.

She inhaled sharply through her nose, the air cold in her lungs. One breath. Two. The pressure behind her eyes receded, just slightly. 

“I need some air,” she managed, already backing toward the door. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, knees threatening to buckle. The metal doorknob was shockingly cold against her palm, slick with her sweat as she fumbled for purchase.

“Isabelle—” Dr. Raynor started, rising halfway from her chair, pen still poised between her fingers.

“Let her go,” Bucky cut in, his voice low but leaving no room for argument.

The door handle felt cold under Isabelle’s trembling fingers. She yanked it open with more force than necessary.  She didn’t look back—couldn’t look back—as she stumbled into the hallway.

She moved on autopilot, following exit signs, pushing through doors, her vision tunneling until all she could see was the next escape route. She just needed out. Now.

She hit the exit with both hands, the door swinging wide as she stumbled onto the precinct steps. Four a.m. darkness wrapped around her like a blanket, the streets eerily quiet save for distant sirens and the hum of streetlights.

She gulped oxygen, hands braced on her knees, the concrete steps cold beneath her boots. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face from nothing, from no one.  The trembling in her hands wouldn’t stop.

“Dammit,” she whispered, the word a puff of vapor in the frigid air.

A car engine idled nearby, the low rumble cutting through the quiet. Headlights gleamed on wet pavement. Isabelle straightened, roughly wiping her face with the back of her hand. She needed to pull it together. 

“Stark!” 

The voice sliced through her thoughts like a knife. Familiar. Unwelcome.

Isabelle froze, her spine stiffening as she slowly turned toward the sound.

Leaning against a police cruiser parked directly in front of the station steps was John, arms crossed over his chest. Beside him stood Lemar. John’s eyes raked over her, taking in her tear-streaked face, her disheveled appearance, the tremor she couldn’t quite hide—and his mouth curled into something not quite a smile.

“Rough night?”

Chapter Text

“Rough night?” John smirked, pushing himself off the car with a casual grace that somehow managed to be both fluid and irritating at once.

Isabelle’s muscles tensed involuntarily. She bit her lip hard, glancing over her shoulder toward the building entrance. No sign of Sam or Bucky—still inside with Raynor. The realization that she was alone with John sent a cold ripple down her spine, settling like a stone in her stomach.

She inhaled deliberately through her nose, feeling the cool night air fill her lungs. The dampness clung to her throat, carrying the scent of coming rain. 

He helped us, she reminded herself. He didn’t have to. After Munich—after she’d dismissed him with barely concealed contempt, after Sam’s pointed comments, after Bucky had nearly put him through a wall—John could have left Bucky to rot in that cell. That counted for something. 

Had to.

But the longer she looked at him, standing there in his too-perfect posture with that too-perfect smile, the more her skin crawled with unease. 

“Thanks for coming,” she finally said, fingers twitching at her sides, itching to form fists. “I…appreciated it.” 

“Thanks for calling,” he replied, his smile widening. He took a step closer, and Isabelle fought the urge to step back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Look, about Munich...” He paused, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that seemed rehearsed, like he’d practiced it in a mirror. “What I said in the jeep. I’m sorry, okay? It was uncalled for.”

Isabelle’s eyebrow arched skeptically. The apology rang hollow, practiced—like he was reading lines for a press conference. Behind him, Lemar’s watchful gaze told her everything she needed to know. This wasn’t remorse; this was damage control.

“I just...” John continued, shifting his weight forward slightly, “heat of the battle, the adrenaline still pumping.” He studied her face, searching for something. “You know the feeling, right?”

There it was—the barb hidden inside the apology. The subtle reminder that he knew exactly who she was, what she was. That he thought they were the same.

“I know what adrenaline feels like,” she said carefully, measuring each word like ammunition. “I also know it’s not an excuse for being an asshole.”

The air between them crackled with tension. John’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

Lemar cleared his throat. “We all say things we don’t mean sometimes.” His voice was calm, reasonable—the diplomat to John’s blunt instrument. “Especially in our line of work.”

John’s jaw tightened, but his smile never faltered. “Just clearing the air, Stark. Making sure we’re all on the same page.”

“Different books entirely,” Isabelle muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. The leather of her jacket creaked with the movement.

“Look, I’m trying to apologize here.” John’s voice hardened, frustration bleeding through the manufactured charm. “What do I have to do to prove to you—”

“Nothing. I don’t want you to prove anything to me.” Isabelle’s voice cut like glass. She felt her powers stirring under her skin, responding to the spike of adrenaline. She forced them down, breathing through the surge.

He gestured toward the police station with a casual flick of his wrist. “Look, we’re clearly better together. You need my help—tonight proved that.” His eyes narrowed, something calculating behind the practiced sincerity. “If we keep dividing ourselves, the Flag Smashers win.”

The mention of the Flag Smashers made Isabelle’s chest tighten. He wasn’t entirely wrong, and that realization burned worse than any insult. She opened her mouth to respond when the station door swung open behind her.

“Walker.” Bucky’s voice cut through the tension, low and dangerous. “What are you still doing here?”

Isabelle turned to see Bucky and Sam emerging from the station, both wearing identical expressions of barely contained discomfort. Sam’s jaw was set tight, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. Bucky’s eyes were cold, moving to her left side, as if positioning himself between her and a potential threat. 

“That’s one hell of a way to thank the guy responsible for getting you out of prison, Barnes.” John’s smile didn’t falter, but something hardened in his eyes—a predator recognizing another predator. His posture shifted, squaring toward Bucky.

Sam moved between them with practiced ease, his shoulders rolling back as he positioned himself as the buffer. He exhaled slowly, the sound carrying his exhaustion. “Thanks for the assist back there,” Sam said, the words clipped but genuine. He extended his hand, and John took it with that too-perfect grip. “Seriously.”

Isabelle caught the slight nod Sam gave John—acknowledgment without warmth.

“But let’s skip the recruitment speech,” Sam continued, releasing John’s hand and stepping back. “Been a long night, man, and none of us are in the mood for another sales pitch about your team-up fantasy.”

John’s eyes narrowed, just for a fraction of a second—a flash of something ugly before the practiced charm slid back into place.

Isabelle felt Bucky shift closer to her left side. Her pulse quickened, not from fear but from something else entirely—the visceral awareness that Bucky Barnes had just positioned himself between her and a potential threat.

John and Lemar exchanged a glance—swift, practiced, professional. The kind of look that required no words. Isabelle caught it immediately—the slight narrowing of Lemar’s eyes, the nod. And just like that, John transformed. His shoulders squared, chin lifting a fraction of an inch. Not defeat, but cooperation. 

“The leader’s name is Karli Morgenthau,” he said, voice dropping to a tactical register. His eyes locked onto Isabelle’s. “The one with the mean left hook.”

Isabelle’s ribs throbbed on cue, a phantom echo of impact. Her fingers moved unconsciously to her side, pressing against the tender spot beneath her jacket. The memory flashed vivid and unwelcome—her body sailing through air, the sickening crack as she hit concrete, the humiliation of being tossed aside like a child’s doll.

“What else do you know about Karli?” Sam asked, his voice cutting through her flash of remembered pain.

John shifted his weight, one hand resting on his hip. “They’re operating through an encrypted messaging app. Moving constantly. Never in one place more than a day or two. We’ve been tracking their movements, though.”

“And how exactly are you tracking them?” Bucky’s voice carried a razor’s edge of suspicion.

John’s mouth twitched but didn’t smile. “We’ve been targeting civilians who’ve been helping her. Following breadcrumbs.”

“Targeting civilians,” Isabelle repeated, the words tasting bitter. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means,” Lemar cut in smoothly, “we question people who provide shelter, transportation, supplies.”

“Question,” Bucky echoed. The single word landed like a brick. No inflection. No question mark. Just a flat accusation.

John’s eyes flashed bright, snapping his attention to Bucky. “You got a better method, Barnes? Or are you just here to criticize the people actually getting results?”

Isabelle slipped her phone from her jacket pocket, the movement fluid and subtle. Her thumb swiped across the glass, blue light washing over her face as FRIDAY’s interface activated. She typed rapidly, keeping the screen angled away from John:

Need everything on Karli Morgenthau. Background, associates, movements. Priority on encrypted app.

The response came instantly—data streaming across her screen. Passport photos, social media fragments, surveillance stills assembling like digital puzzle pieces. She caught John watching her movements, his eyes tracking her hands. Her skin prickled.

“These people believe in what Karli’s doing,” John continued, leaning forward, something fevered in his intensity. His voice dropped, taking on an almost evangelical quality. “They’re not just random helpers—they’re part of her network. Her army.”

“They’re civilians,” Sam corrected. His voice was tight, controlled, but Isabelle heard the steel underneath.

John’s jaw flexed, a muscle jumping beneath skin. “They stopped being civilians when they decided to aid and abet terrorists.”

“That’s not how this works.” Bucky stepped forward, the movement so sudden that Isabelle felt the air shift beside her. “You start going after civilians, you become exactly what you’re fighting against.”

Sam moved between them. Sweat beaded at his temples, catching the harsh yellow of the streetlight. 

“Let’s focus on Karli,” he said, each word measured, strained with the effort of peacekeeping. The muscle in his jaw worked overtime. “What else do you actually know about her? Origins? Motivations? Anything that might help us understand what she’s after?”

John’s cocky smile faltered, cracking like thin ice. For just a heartbeat, frustration, genuine frustration, flashed across his face. Maybe even embarrassment. The mask slipped, revealing something raw underneath. 

“Unfortunately,” he admitted, each word dragged through clenched teeth, “not much.”

Isabelle felt a flicker of satisfaction watching America’s newest hero struggle to maintain his composure. His jaw worked overtime, the muscle beneath his skin jumping with tension.

Lemar stepped forward, shoulder angling protectively toward John. “They geotag locations,” he offered, his voice steady where John’s had faltered. “Mostly displaced communities. Refugee centers. Public housing. The messages self-destruct after a few hours.” He gestured with his phone. “By the time our techs crack it—”

“They’re gone,” Sam finished.

Bucky scoffed, the sound sharp in the night air. “So you’re throwing your weight around, terrorizing civilians, and you’ve got nothing but a map of places they’ve already been.” He shook his head, disgust radiating from every line of his body.

Isabelle’s phone vibrated against her palm. She glanced down, the blue light illuminating her face as information cascaded across the screen—coordinates, communication patterns, and best of all, a decryption key. She couldn’t stop the small, satisfied smirk that tugged at her lips as FRIDAY’s message flashed: 

ENCRYPTION PATTERN IDENTIFIED. FULL ACCESS ACHIEVED.

John’s eyes narrowed, tracking her expression. “Care to share with the class, Stark?” His voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut. It was how he said her name—like it was both an accusation and a commodity he wanted to own. 

Sam shifted beside her, a subtle half-step that placed his shoulder partially between her and John. The movement wasn’t lost on her or John, whose eyes flickered briefly to Sam before returning to her face with renewed intensity.

“Actually,” Isabelle said, turning her phone to reveal a complex network of glowing nodes spread across Europe, “I’ve already cracked their app.”

The satisfaction that surged through her as John’s composure shattered was almost worth the headache of calling him for help. His jaw went slack, eyes widening before he caught himself, shoulders stiffening as he tried to recover.

“That’s impossible,” Lemar blurted with genuine surprise. “Our best people have been working on this for weeks.”

“Your best people aren’t my tech,” Isabelle replied, unable to keep the edge of smugness from her voice. The cold weight that had settled in her stomach earlier lightened slightly. Whatever else happened tonight, she’d just outplayed Captain America 2.0 at his own game.

John’s friendly facade dropped completely, his expression hardening into something ugly. “That system contains classified intelligence. You don’t have clearance to—”

“To what? Do your job for you?” Bucky cut in, his voice carrying a dangerous edge that made even John and Lemar straighten. “Seems like someone should.”

Isabelle felt rather than saw Bucky’s eyes on her, a brief glance of approval that sent an unexpected flutter through her chest. She focused on John, watching as his carefully constructed image of control crumbled further.

John’s hand twitched toward his shield—just a fraction of movement, barely perceptible—but enough for Isabelle to notice. 

Sam leaned in, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he studied the network. “They’re not just randomly moving,” he said, finger tracing a pattern across the display. “Look—these aren’t hideouts. They’re distribution points.”

Isabelle zoomed in on a pulsing red node. “See these clusters? FRIDAY identified specific communication patterns consistent with Flag Smasher operations.” She tapped the screen, highlighting a specific point that glowed brighter than the others. “This one’s bouncing through multiple VPNs.”

“Can we track where they’re heading next?” Sam asked, voice low and hopeful, meeting her eye.

She nodded, swiping across the screen. The map transformed, digital veins spreading outward from the nodes, creating a web of potential movements. Each pathway glowed with varying intensity—probabilities made visible. 

“FRIDAY’s already on it. She’s running predictive models based on their movement patterns, communication frequency, supply needs—everything. Give her a few hours to process, and we won’t just be one step ahead— we’ll be five.”

John edged closer, boot scraping against wet pavement, moving to invade her space. “And you’ll be sharing what you find with us, right?” His voice dropped an octave, transforming the question into something more demanding—a command. 

An order.

Isabelle didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch this time. “Are you going to ask me nicely?” 

“I just did you a favor,” John stepped close enough that the toes of his boots nearly touched hers. “This?” He tapped the star emblem on his chest with his index finger. “This means I can make your life very difficult. Next time, I might decide you’re all threats to national security. Especially you, Stark.” His eyes flicked to her phone, then back to her face. “Hacking government systems? That’s terrorism these days. And we both know what happens to people labeled terrorists.”

The threat slithered between them like something alive. Isabelle felt her heartbeat accelerate; she took a half-step forward, the wet pavement slick beneath her boot.

“That sounds suspiciously like a threat, Captain,” she said, the title dripping with contempt. “And here I thought the shield was supposed to protect people, not intimidate them.”

John’s nostrils flared. “It’s not a threat. It’s reality. The world’s changed. Maybe it’s time you—”

Before he could finish, Bucky moved fast, inserting himself between them. His shoulder connected with Isabelle’s, pushing her back with enough force that she stumbled, her boot heel catching on the uneven pavement. Bucky’s back was to her now, the broad expanse of his shoulders forming a barrier between her and John.

“Things are really intense for you, aren’t they, Walker?” Bucky’s voice carried an unnatural calm that raised the hair on the back of Isabelle’s neck.

 His head tilted slightly to one side, the gesture almost curious. His lips curved into something too sharp to be called a smile. 

John’s attention shifted to Bucky, his expression bordering on murderous. His hand drifted toward his holster, fingers twitching, a movement so subtle most would miss it—but Bucky didn’t. Neither did Isabelle. Isabelle watched Bucky’s posture shift in response—the subtle weight transfer to the balls of his feet.

“Whoa, whoa.” Sam slid between them, not touching either man, but inserting himself into their line of sight. “We’re not doing this. Not here.”

Bucky’s breathing had changed—the subtle shift only Isabelle could detect from her position behind him. Three quick inhales, one controlled exhale.

“Bucky.” Sam’s voice dropped lower, a private frequency meant only for his friend. “You with me?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Didn’t move. The muscles in his back remained coiled tight beneath his jacket, a predator ready to strike.

Lemar moved next, stepping to John’s side rather than in front of him. His hand found John’s shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform.

“John,” Lemar murmured, the word barely audible but charged with warning. “This isn’t the hill to die on, man.” His grip tightened.

John’s eyes never left Bucky’s. The vein at his temple throbbed visibly, a blue line pulsing beneath skin flushed red with anger. His jaw worked furiously, grinding teeth audible in the tense silence. The shield on his back caught the crimson flash of a distant traffic light, painting half his face in blood-red for a heartbeat before fading back to shadow.

One second stretched into five. Ten.

John broke first.

He stepped back—a single, deliberate movement—rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off an invisible weight. The tension didn’t leave his body; it merely redistributed, settling into the rigid line of his spine, the controlled flexing of his fingers, the artificial looseness of his stance.

Bucky didn’t relax. Not even a fraction. His body remained coiled tight, a weapon primed to fire at the slightest provocation. Isabelle tracked the minute shifts in his posture—the slight forward tilt of his shoulders, the weight transfer to the balls of his feet, the way his metal arm hung just a little too loose at his side. Ready.

She’d seen that stance before. Right before blood hit the floor.

Her hand moved without conscious thought, fingertips finding the small of his back where his jacket had ridden up. Her fingertips grazed the ridge of his spine, the lightest touch a silent: I’m here. We’re okay. 

The touch lasted less than a heartbeat, but she felt him register it—a microscopic release in the bunched muscles beneath her fingers, the fractional softening in his stance that no one else would notice. His exhale was controlled, deliberate. 

Not standing down. Just recalibrating.

“Thing is,” Sam continued, hands spreading wide in a gesture that looked casual but was anything but, “you guys have to play by the rules. Clearances, authorizations, paperwork.” He gestured between John and Lemar with one hand, then swept his thumb toward himself, Bucky, and Isabelle. “We don’t. We’re free agents.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched upward, so slight that Isabelle almost missed it. A dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes as he caught Sam’s strategy. Isabelle pressed her lips together, swallowing the acid satisfaction rising in her throat. John’s face was darkening by the second, the muscles in his jaw working overtime.

“So maybe,” Sam finished, voice dropping into that reasonable tone that somehow managed to sound both conciliatory and like a challenge, “it makes more sense if we handle this our way, and you handle it yours.”

Sam’s hand found Isabelle’s shoulder, his touch light but firm as he guided her away. Different from Bucky’s coiled tension, but no less protective. She felt Bucky fall into step beside her, close enough that their arms nearly brushed. His footsteps were unnervingly silent despite his size, a predator’s tread on wet pavement.

They had barely made it three steps when John’s voice called to them through the darkness: “You really think that’s smart? Dividing our resources when people’s lives are at stake?” 

Isabelle’s shoulders tensed, her fingers curling reflexively. The three of them half-turned, catching his silhouette in the harsh glare of the streetlight—all perfect posture and righteous indignation.

“What I think,” Sam for them, his voice firm but weary, “is that we’ve all had a long night, and nobody’s making good decisions at 4 am in a parking lot.” He gestured upward toward the lightning sky, where stars were beginning to fade into the approaching dawn. “We’ll be in touch when we have something concrete.”

John’s jaw worked as he processed the dismissal. Isabelle watched the calculation play across his features—the subtle narrowing of his eyes, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. His need for control battled visibly against the practical reality that he needed them more than they needed him.

“Fine.” John spat, taking a half-step forward. He jabbed a finger toward them, the gesture stopping just short of threatening. “But a word of advice then.” His eyes locked onto Isabelle’s, something dark and unreadable flickering behind them. “Stay the hell out of my way because next time. I won’t always be in such a charitable mood.”

The threat hung in the air between them, naked and raw. Not a suggestion. Not posturing. A promise. And then, John turned away, pivoting on his heel, done with the conversation. Done with them. 

“Hey, Walker.” Bucky’s voice cut through the night, deceptively casual, almost conversational. 

John stopped, his shoulder tensing before looking back. 

Bucky’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing with the focused intensity of a sniper zeroing in on a target. 

“That shield,” he said, nodding toward the vibranium on John’s back. His voice dropped lower, intimate almost, like he was sharing a secret meant only for the two of them. “It’s heavier than it looks, isn’t it?”

The mask of Captain America cracked for a heartbeat. Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. His throat worked as he swallowed, the movement visible even from where they stood. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice.

For that single, suspended moment, John Walker looked terrifyingly human.

Then the mask slammed back into place. His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a hard line. He managed a curt nod before turning away again, his movements stiffer than before, as if the shield had actually gained weight in the last thirty seconds.

Lemar lingered, his dark eyes meeting Isabelle’s across the space between them. Something passed across his features—a silent apology. Then he too turned, following John’s retreating form.

“Subtle,” Sam muttered to Bucky. 

“Wasn’t trying to be,” Bucky replied, his voice a low rumble. His eyes remained fixed on the corner where John and Lemar had disappeared, his body still poised as if expecting them to return.

Isabelle pressed her fingertips against her temples, applying firm circular pressure that momentarily dulled the throbbing pain behind her eyes. 

She looked at Bucky, her expression tightening with a frown that deepened the shadows under her eyes. Her gaze searched his face, lingering on the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw seemed perpetually clenched as if he were bracing for a fight that hadn’t yet arrived.

“Thanks,” she said softly, the word scraping against her dry throat. “For stepping in back there.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, surprise flickering across his features. His eyebrows pulled together, creating a deep furrow between them. For a moment, he looked almost confused by her gratitude, as if he couldn’t quite process why she would thank him for something so instinctual.

He gave a short, jerky nod—the movement mechanical, unpracticed. Like someone who’d forgotten the appropriate response to thanks and was making his best guess from memory.

“He had no right to threaten you like that,” he finally said, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, words dying on her tongue. The memory of what had happened inside the station with Raynor pressed against her consciousness, sharp-edged and insistent. The way she’d broken down. The tears she couldn’t control. 

And Bucky had seen it all. Had watched her crumble. Had been the reason she did.

Heat crawled up her neck, settling in her cheeks. She looked away, focusing on a distant streetlight until it blurred into a hazy smear of yellow. 

“Inside,” she started, “with Raynor—”

“Don’t.” Bucky cut her off, the single syllable gentle but firm. When she risked looking back at him, his eyes had softened, the steel-blue warming to something less severe. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

A knot she hadn’t realized was there loosened. 

“We should move,” Sam interrupted, his voice dragging them both back to the present. He stood a few feet away, shoulders hunched with exhaustion, eyes bloodshot in the harsh light. “Find somewhere to regroup, figure out our next move.” He started walking, footsteps heavy on the wet pavement. “How long before FRIDAY has something concrete?”

Isabelle nodded and pulled out her phone again. Lines of code scrolled past, FRIDAY’s algorithms working at speeds that would make government systems look like dial-up internet. 

“A few hours, maybe less, maybe more,” she said, tucking the device away. Her fingers trembled slightly—from adrenaline or exhaustion, she couldn’t tell anymore. “She’s running multiple decryption protocols simultaneously, but even FRIDAY needs time to sift through this much data. And if the Flag Smashers don’t set a ping…well, there’s nothing traceable.”

“So we might actually have time to catch our breath,” Sam said, rolling his shoulders with a wince that made Isabelle notice the stiffness in her own body. 

Her ribs ached where Karli had hit her, a dull throb that pulsed with each heartbeat. 

Sam’s hand moved to massage the back of his neck, fingers pressing into knotted muscle. “Maybe even grab something that isn’t prison coffee and whatever the hell those donuts were made of. Pretty sure I chipped a tooth.”

“Sleep would be nice,” Isabelle added, the word itself making her eyelids feel heavier. “My place isn’t far. Four blocks that way.” She gestured vaguely northward, her arm heavy as lead. “FRIDAY can keep working while we crash.”

Bucky made a sound—half grunt, half snort—that vibrated in the back of his throat. His eyes had gone distant, that thousand-yard stare that made him look both present and somewhere else entirely.

“What?” Isabelle asked, too exhausted for anything but bluntness. The word came out sharper than she intended, brittle with fatigue. “Don’t like sleepovers?”

“Not exactly at the top of my social calendar these days,” he said, voice rough.

“I don’t care where I sleep,” Sam interrupted, scrubbing a hand over his face. “As long as you got food.” He shot her a sideways glance, eyebrows raised. “Real food,” he emphasized, pointing a finger at her.

“Depends on your definition of real food,” she replied, lips quirking up into a smirk. 

They fell into step together, footsteps marking a tired rhythm against the damp pavement.

 “I’ve got a shit ton of Lunchables,” she continued, counting off on her fingers, “some questionable Chinese takeout from...” She paused, mentally rewinding through the blur of days. When had she last eaten a proper meal? “Tuesday? Maybe Monday.” She shrugged. “And probably half a jar of peanut butter. Oh, and I just stocked up on ramen.”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. His head swiveled toward her, expression shifting from exhaustion to utter disbelief. 

“Lunchables?” His voice cracked on the word. He stared at her like she’d just announced she collected human teeth. “Stark Industries is worth what, billions? And you’re eating processed cheese circles designed for elementary schoolers?”

“Hey,” Isabelle protested, jabbing a finger in his direction as he fell back into step beside her. “Those little pizza ones are elite drinking food. Don’t judge my culinary choices, Wilson.”

“Oh, I’m judging,” Sam said. He shook his head, the movement exaggerated enough to make his point. “I’m judging hard. All that money and you’re eating—”

“At least it’s not K-rations,” Bucky muttered, walking precisely three steps behind them. 

Isabelle glanced back over her shoulder. 

“See?” Isabelle gestured back at him with a triumphant flick of her wrist. “He gets it. The man might be a century old, but he understands the simple joy of a processed cheese product.”

“I understand desperation,” Bucky corrected, but there was something almost warm in his tone. “And low standards.”

Sam snorted. “Man’s got you there, Iz.”

“Whatever,” Isabelle said, rolling her eyes. She shoved her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, fingers curling against the lining worn smooth from habit. “My apartment, my rules, my questionable food choices.”

The trio fell into step together, their shadows stretching and merging on the wet pavement. For just a moment, Isabelle could almost pretend they were just three friends heading home after a night out, not three broken people chasing ghosts and trying to save the world. 

Almost.

Chapter Text

The doors slid open with a cheerful ding that felt wildly inappropriate for the hour. Relief flooded Isabelle’s system for exactly half a second before a fresh wave of dread crashed in. She stepped into the hallway, the corridor stretching before her like a runway to disaster. The gray carpet muffled their footsteps as she led Sam and Bucky toward 1507.

Were there dirty dishes in the sink? Definitely. That black sports bra hanging off the kitchen chair from—god, was it three days ago now?  And the stack of ramen cups she’d been too lazy to throw away had evolved into some tragic art installation beside her couch. Why had she suggested her place? 

She reached her door, key fumbling out of her back pocket with clumsy fingers. Behind her, she felt Sam and Bucky waiting. 

“Just so we’re clear,” she said, voice tight as she twisted the key, “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” She swallowed hard. “Like, ever.”

“You think we care about housekeeping?” Sam asked, his amusement barely contained. 

Isabelle’s cheeks burned hotter. She stared at the doorknob, unable to meet his eyes. Oh, he had no idea—

The lock finally surrendered, and the door swung open with a betraying creak that seemed to announce all her shame at once. She froze in the doorway, hand still gripping the knob. The apartment sprawled before them, bathed in the orange-white glow of city lights filtering through half-drawn blinds. 

An open pizza box gaped on the coffee table. Beer bottles stood in formation across her TV stand. A single sock dangled from her reading lamp—a sad surrender flag. 

Sam stepped inside, his boots making soft thuds against the hardwood. He released a low whistle that sliced through her mortification like a knife. “…Well, damn.” 

“I was robbed,” Isabelle said flatly. She stepped inside, forcing herself not to look at Bucky as he followed. “By…by a raccoon…you know that one, from space—very opinionated raccoon with a beer problem.” 

She flicked on the lights. It was worse in full illumination—the stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter, the collection of mugs with varying levels of abandoned coffee, the throw blanket bunched on the floor where she’d kicked it off during a nightmare. She dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter. 

“Did the raccoon also throw a kegger and forget to clean up?” Sam asked, nudging an empty ramen cup with his foot. The cup tipped over, revealing a sticky residue beneath it. 

“He’s a very social raccoon.” Isabelle lunged for the dangling sock, yanking it from the lampshade.  “Had a whole gang. Terrible manners.” She stuffed the sock into her pocket, where it created an awkward bulge against her hip.

The pizza box lay open like evidence at a crime scene. Three steps and she was there, folding it closed with a cardboard crunch that seemed to amplify in the quiet apartment. Grease stained her fingertips. She wiped them against her jeans.

Isabelle’s heart nearly stopped as she then spotted a black lace bra peeking out from beneath the couch. Oh god. She casually shifted her weight, angling her body to block their view, then kicked backward. The soft scrape of lace against wood made her wince.

Bucky’s eyes tracked the movement. Of course they did. His gaze flicked from the couch to her face, one eyebrow rising a fraction of an inch. But he said nothing. Instead, he moved past her silently, eyes sweeping the apartment. His gaze lingered on each window, then his attention settled briefly on the cardboard boxes stacked on the floor. Some were still sealed, others half-emptied and broken down. His eyes returned to the windows again. 

“I’ve seen worse,” he said quietly.

For some reason, that simple acknowledgment tightened her chest in a way Sam’s teasing hadn’t. 

She stood frozen between them, suddenly hyperaware of everything they were seeing. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” she said abruptly, desperate to regain some control over the situation. Her voice came out sharper than intended. “Kitchen’s obviously there. Help yourselves to whatever—”

The words died in her throat as Bucky reached for an empty beer bottle on the TV stand. Then another. And another. The glass clinked softly as he gathered them in his metal hand, the vibranium fingers curling carefully around the necks of the bottles.

“You really don’t have to—” Isabelle started, but he continued, methodically collecting bottles, his movements economical, practiced. 

Bucky ignored her, continuing his silent collection. His face remained unreadable, eyes focused on the task as if it required his complete attention. “Where’s the recycling?” he asked, carrying the bottle to her kitchen. 

“Under the sink,” she mumbled, watching as he crouched down to open the cabinet. His broad shoulders filled the narrow kitchen space, the dark jean jacket stretching across his back as he bent forward. The movement exposed a sliver of skin at his lower back, pale against the dark fabric.

Isabelle forced her eyes away, suddenly aware she’d been staring. 

Sam opened the nearest cabinet, and his suspicions were confirmed when he found nothing but a stack of identical ramen packages lined up like depressing little soldiers. He pulled three from the front, the packages crackling under his fingers. The cabinet’s interior was coated with a thin film of dust, undisturbed except for the cleared path to the ramen.

“You weren’t kidding about the ramen,” he called over his shoulder. 

“I never kid about processed carbs,” Isabelle replied, her voice tight. 

Sam moved to the refrigerator next, tugging the door open. The light flickered, illuminating a wasteland. Two beers. A half-empty bottle of ketchup. Something in a takeout container that had probably been there since she moved in. The vegetable drawer held exactly one withered apple. He glanced at the stack of Lunchables—the kind with the little ham circles and processed cheese squares—and something in his chest tightened further.

He recognized the signs immediately—had seen them too many times in group sessions at the VA. This wasn’t just everyday messiness. This was depression in physical form, manifested in empty cabinets and forgotten food. The Isabelle he’d known at the compound had been meticulous, almost obsessively so—everything in its place, labeled and organized.

This was something else entirely.

Sam closed the fridge, his chest tightening. He glanced back at Isabelle, who was now frantically shoving a stack of mail into a drawer, her shoulders hunched defensively. Behind her, Bucky continued gathering bottles with that quiet efficiency of his, face unreadable.

“You got a pot somewhere in this place?” Sam asked, keeping his voice deliberately light.

Isabelle pointed to a cabinet beside the sink. “Bottom shelf. Probably.”

He crouched down, finding a single small pot buried beneath what looked like three years’ worth of plastic grocery bags. The pot was clean, probably because it had never been used.

“I’m gonna cook,” he said, straightening up. “You two chill out for a bit.”

“You don’t have to—” Isabelle started.

“I know I don’t have to,” Sam cut her off, filling the pot with water from a tap that ran for nearly thirty seconds before running clear. “But we’re all hungry, and this is what we’ve got.” He set the pot on the stove, turning the burner to high. The click-click-click of the ignition filled the kitchen before blue flames erupted beneath the pot. 

As Sam waited for the noodles to cook, Bucky gathered the broken-down cardboard boxes. Isabelle watched his hands, how he gripped the cardboard with his left hand without crushing it, and how his right hand smoothed down the edges. Each box was stacked exactly parallel to the wall, carefully. 

“Seriously, stop cleaning,” Isabelle said, her voice tight. “It’s weird.”

Bucky paused, a flattened box held between his hands. His eyes met hers without flinching. “Would you rather I just stood here?”  The question wasn’t challenging, just matter-of-fact, his voice low enough that Sam couldn’t hear over the bubbling water.

Isabelle opened her mouth, then closed it again. The truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted. Having them here—having anyone here—felt like an invasion, like someone had peeled back her skin and was examining all the broken parts underneath.

She moved toward the last box, needing to do something with her hands. Bucky reached for it at the same moment, and their fingers collided over the cardboard edge. She instantly yanked her hand back. 

“Sorry,” she muttered, rubbing her fingers against her palm where the ghost of his touch lingered. Bucky picked up the box, adding it to his neat stack. “Thanks for not judging,” she said after a moment. She gestured vaguely at the apartment. “All of this.”

Bucky straightened, turning to face her, with a slight release of tension in his jaw. “I get it.” 

Three simple words, but they landed with unexpected weight in Isabelle’s chest. She swallowed, suddenly finding it hard to maintain eye contact.

“After I got back...” Bucky continued, his voice dropping even lower, a confession meant only for her. “After everything with HYDRA, the Blip, my place...” He paused, his flesh hand flexing at his side. “It didn’t look much better.”

The admission hung between them, fragile and unexpected. Isabelle could picture it—empty rooms, unmade beds, dishes piling up while nightmares kept him awake. The Winter Soldier, surrounded by domestic debris, he couldn’t bring himself to care about.

“Worse, actually,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Not quite a smile, but close. “At least you have furniture.”

“Do you sleep on the floor?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Bucky’s eyes met hers, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “The bed is too soft.”

“I slept in the bathtub last week,” she whispered, the words escaping like air from a punctured tire. “With the shower curtain closed. Felt...safer, somehow.”

Bucky nodded once, a single downward tilt of his chin. 

“Water’s boiling!” Sam called from the kitchen, the cheerful announcement shattering the moment between them. “Hope everyone likes their ramen extra salty, because that’s the only flavor we’ve got.”

Bucky’s eyes lingered on hers for one beat longer before he turned toward the kitchen. Isabelle remained frozen in place, suddenly aware of the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. She pressed her fingertips against it, feeling the rhythm beneath her skin.

What the hell was that?

Sam tore open the seasoning packets with a flick of his thumb, the foil crinkling between his fingers. He dumped the powder into the bubbling water, where it dissolved into cloudy swirls of artificial gold. “Tomorrow we’re getting real food in here,” he announced, stirring the pot. 

“Tomorrow we’re tracking down the Flag Smashers,” she corrected, sliding onto one of the barstools. Her elbows hit the cold countertop with a dull thud. “Remember? The actual reason you two broke into my apartment?”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto hers. “We didn’t break in. You brought us here.” 

“Semantics,” Isabelle muttered, tracing an invisible pattern on the counter with her index finger.

“And we can do both,” Sam added, twisting the burner knob to the off position. The blue flame died with a soft pop. “Track bad guys, buy groceries. I’m great at multitasking.”

He reached overhead, cabinet door creaking as he pulled out three mismatched bowls. One had a chip along the rim that caught the light, another bore a hairline crack that spider-webbed down the ceramic side. The third—her favorite, though she’d never admit it—was a faded Stark Industries mug from some forgotten company retreat.

The ladle scraped against the pot’s bottom as Sam divided the steaming noodles. Thin wisps of vapor rose between them, carrying the artificial scent of chicken that had never seen a farm.

“Here,” he said, setting the bowls on the counter with a gentle clack. “Dinner. Or breakfast. Whatever meal this is supposed to be at—” he glanced at the microwave clock “—five-twenty-seven in the morning.”

Isabelle approached cautiously, as if the ramen might rear up and bite her. Her fingers closed around the bowl with the chipped rim. 

“Thanks,” she said quietly. The ceramic burned against her palms, but she didn’t flinch. The heat felt alive against her perpetually cold hands.

“You got any clean forks?” Sam asked, his voice deliberately casual.

“Drawer by the fridge,” she replied, nodding toward it. 

Before Sam could move, Bucky was already there, sliding the drawer open with his right hand. Metal clinked against metal as he extracted three forks. He handed one to Sam with a wordless nod, then turned toward Isabelle.

Two steps, and he was standing before her, fork extended handle-first. She gave him a soft smile as she reached for it. Their fingers didn’t touch this time, but something was still there during the exchange that felt suddenly charged. 

Sam’s eyebrow arched as he watched the exchange, his mouth quirking at one corner.

“What?” Isabelle demanded, jabbing her fork into the noodles. The tines scraped against the ceramic with a sound that made her teeth ache.

“Nothing,” Sam said, but his eyes flicked between them, assessing. “Just wondering when you two got so comfortable with each other.”

“We’re not—” Isabelle started.

“Just being polite,” Bucky said simultaneously, his voice clipped.

Sam’s smirk deepened as he twisted a tangle of noodles around his fork. “Sure. Polite.” He blew on the steaming food before taking a bite.

Bucky shot him a dark look but said nothing, leaning his hip against the counter as he ate.

Sam scrubbed the pot with more vigor than instant ramen residue required, his forearms flexing beneath rolled-up sleeves. He shooed Isabelle away with a pointed look when she tried to help. 

“If I have to hear you say ‘you don’t have to do that’ one more time—” he’d warned, wielding the sponge like a weapon.

She’d retreated to the living room, muttering something about setting up the couch. “You two can flip a coin for it,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m not playing favorites.”

Bucky didn’t join either of them. He leaned against the refrigerator instead, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes fixed on a crooked magnet that read JARVIS IS MY CO-PILOT. The magnet’s tilt seemed to personally offend him. 

Karli. The Flag Smashers.

The names circled in his mind like vultures. His jaw tightened as unwanted connections formed, puzzle pieces slotting together no matter how hard he tried to scatter them. Super soldiers. The serum. HYDRA. Power structures that never truly died, just went underground to emerge in new forms. Each thought connected to the next, forming a path he didn’t want to follow but couldn’t ignore.

More super soldiers.

His fingers flexed against his bicep. Sam glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, but said nothing. 

Bucky’s gaze drifted to the living room, where Isabelle was aggressively fluffing a pillow.  Her movements were sharp, controlled, but he recognized the undercurrent of anxiety beneath them.

The serum had taken everything from him. Seventy years. His identity. His freedom. His humanity. And when he’d finally clawed it all back, piece by bloody piece, Thanos had snapped half the universe away and five more years gone in what felt like seconds.

And Isabelle—the serum had stolen her childhood. Turned her into a weapon. Left her with powers that could kill with a touch, living in an apartment that screamed of isolation. All because someone decided playing god was worth the collateral damage.

His gaze hardened as he watched her struggle with a fitted sheet, muttering curses under her breath. The sheet snapped back, hitting her in the face. She didn’t laugh. Just reset her jaw and tried again.

They could stop the Flag Smashers. Track them down, bring them in. But without finding the source—whoever was manufacturing the serum—there’d just be more super soldiers down the line. Another Winter Soldier program. Another Project Belladonna. An endless cycle of people trying to replicate what Erskine had created, never understanding that the miracle wasn’t in the formula.

It was in the person.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Sam said, drying his hands on a dish towel. “I can hear the gears grinding from here.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His jaw clenched, muscles tightening beneath three-day stubble. The refrigerator hummed against his back, vibrating through his spine. He kept his eyes fixed on that crooked magnet. 

Sam snapped the dish towel, the crack pulling Bucky’s attention back to the kitchen. “Earth to Barnes.”

“I’m here,” Bucky muttered, the words scraping his throat.

“You sure about that? Because your face says you’re back in 1943.”

“We need to talk to Zemo,” Bucky said, the name-dropping between them like a live grenade.

Sam froze, water dripping from his fingertips onto the floor. “Tell me that’s not what you’ve been brewing over there.”

“He understands the serum better than anyone.”

“He’s a killer.”

“So am I.” The words came out flatter than Bucky intended. Not a confession, just a fact.

Sam’s shoulders tensed. “That’s different and you know it.”

“Is it?” Bucky pushed off the refrigerator, closing the distance between them in two steps. He kept his voice low, aware of Isabelle just one room away. “We keep chasing the Flag Smashers, but they’re just symptoms. Zemo might know where to find the disease.”

“The disease,” Sam repeated, his voice equally quiet but sharp as a blade. “You mean whoever’s making the serum?”

Bucky nodded once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin. “Someone’s manufacturing it again. Someone who shouldn’t have access to that kind of power. Zemo knows all of Hydra’s secrets.”

“And you think Zemo—the man who bombed the UN, killed King T’Chaka, and tore the Avengers apart—is going to help us out of the goodness of his heart?”

“No.” Bucky’s metal fingers flexed at his side, plates recalibrating with a soft whir. “I think he’ll help because he hates super soldiers more than anything. It’s the one thing we can count on.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, the kitchen light casting shadows across his face as he leaned forward. “You realize you’re a super soldier.” He nodded toward the living room. “And so is she.”

“I’m aware.” Bucky’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble.

“And have you thought about how you’re going to explain this to her?” Sam jerked his head again, back to Isabelle, who had finally conquered the fitted sheet. “The man shot her, Bucky. Left her dead on concrete.”

“I know what he did. I was there.” Bucky said, each word precise and controlled. “But we need him.”

“There are other options.” Sam countered. 

“Like what? Waiting for more super soldiers to pop up? For someone else to get hurt?” Bucky leaned in, lowering his voice further. “You saw what the serum did to me. To her. You want that happening to more people?”

The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Sam’s expression shifted, the calculation in his eyes giving way to something harder to read.

“Hey,” Isabelle called from the doorway, making both men snap to attention. “If you two are done with your kitchen conspiracy, the couch is ready.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, dark circles under her eyes more pronounced in the harsh kitchen light. “Though I can’t promise it’s comfortable.”

Bucky turned, meeting her gaze directly. Something twisted in his chest—guilt, protectiveness, he couldn’t name it. How much had she heard?

“What?” Isabelle pushed off from the doorframe, her sock-clad feet silent against the kitchen tile. “You two look like you’re plotting a prison break.” Sam and Bucky exchanged a glance—quick, loaded, the kind of look that confirmed her suspicions instantly. “Oh my god, you are.” Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. 

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the three of them crowded between countertops and cabinets, the refrigerator’s hum filling the silence. Bucky’s throat closed up. The words congealed in his mouth like cement.

Sam exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping an inch. “Not a prison break,” he said, carefully setting the dish towel on the counter. “But Bucky thinks we should talk to Zemo.”

Isabelle went completely still—a bone-deep paralysis of prey caught in a predator’s gaze. Bucky watched the transformation ripple across her face: confusion flickering to disbelief, then horror blooming in real-time. 

“Zemo,” she clarified, as if there could be any other. Her voice cracked at the surname. “Helmut Zemo—” she stopped, her right hand unconsciously rising to her sternum, fingertips pressing against the spot where she’d been shot. 

Bucky felt it before he saw it—the subtle shift in air pressure, the microscopic prickling sensation behind his eyeballs that raised the hairs on his arms. 

“Breathe,” he said quietly, taking a careful step toward her, palm out, non-threatening. The same way he’d approach a cornered animal or a pressure-triggered explosive. 

“Don’t tell me to breathe,” Isabelle snapped, recoiling. She backed away until her shoulder blades hit the wall with a dull thud. The impact seemed to knock something loose inside her, words spilling out with increasing velocity. “He shot me to prove a point. To break my father.” Each syllable emerged sharper than the last, her voice climbing half an octave. 

“Someone’s manufacturing the serum again. Creating more super soldiers.” Bucky’s eyes locked on hers, unwavering. “And Zemo knows things about HYDRA’s operations that nobody else does.”

“You don’t get it,” she hissed, the words clawing their way out of her throat. “For nearly ten minutes, I was dead. Clinically. Dead. Gone.” The phantom pain flared beneath her palm—hot, sharp, impossible. “I still feel it. Every day. I can feel it burning through me again.”

The memory crashed over her—concrete against her back, the wet gurgle of blood in her lungs, her father’s face contorting as he screamed her name. 

“You don’t have to be there,” Sam interjected, shooting Bucky a warning look that could’ve peeled paint. “We can handle Zemo.”

“No.” The word shot from Isabelle’s mouth like a bullet. “Absolutely not.”

She pushed off the wall, taking a deliberate step toward Bucky. His shoulders squared, spine straightening—not from fear, she knew. The Winter Soldier wasn’t afraid of her. But something in her face must have registered as a threat because his eyes tracked her movements. 

“If you do this—” she started, then stopped, recalibrating. “When you do this, because I know you will, I’m coming with you.”

“That’s not—” Bucky began.

“It’s not negotiable.” She cut him off, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You want Zemo’s help? Fine. But I’ll be there to make sure he doesn’t turn you two against each other. To make sure he doesn’t finish what he started.”

“Isabelle—” Sam started, but she cut him off with a sharp slice of her hand through the air.

“Don’t.” She snatched up a quarter from the counter, slapping it back down on the counter in front of them. Both men flinched. “Figure out who gets the couch between yourselves.” Her voice was steady now, deliberately controlled. Too controlled. “I’m going to bed.”

She turned, not waiting for a response.

Her sock-clad feet made no sound as she disappeared down the hallway. The soft click of her bedroom door closing felt louder than if she’d slammed it.

“That went well,” Sam muttered, leaning back against the sink. 

Bucky glared down at the coin, then reached for it, picking it up between thumb and forefinger. “Heads or tails?” His voice was rough. 

“You serious right now?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s what you’re taking from this conversation? A woman just had a panic attack over the man who murdered her, and you’re flipping coins?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just launched the quarter into the air with a metallic ping. It spun—a silver blur catching the light in flashes—before he snatched it mid-rotation and slapped it onto the back of his flesh hand.

“Heads,” Sam said, the resignation in his voice making it clear he was humoring Bucky rather than engaging.

Bucky lifted his hand. Washington stared up at them, unimpressed. “Guess you get the couch,” Bucky said, pocketing the coin.

“Lucky me.” Sam’s voice dripped sarcasm thick enough to drown in.

Bucky didn’t meet Sam’s eyes. Without waiting for a response, he moved to the living room and lowered himself against the wall adjacent to the couch. Knees up, back straight, eyes fixed on both the front door and the hallway leading to Isabelle’s room. 

Sam watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “Are you planning to sit like that all night? Like some kind of creepy gargoyle?”

Bucky didn’t respond. The wall was cool against his spine, grounding him. From this position, he could reach the door in 2.3 seconds. Isabelle’s room in 3.1. The windows in 4 seconds flat. His brain calculated escape routes automatically, a background process he couldn’t shut down.

Sam sighed—the deep, full-body exhale of a man who’d seen this behavior before. He pushed off from the doorframe and crossed to the couch, springs protesting beneath his weight as he sat. “Get some rest,” he said, settling back against the cushions. “Then we figure this out. All three of us.”

Bucky nodded once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin.

Then something soft smacked him in the face. He caught it before it hit the ground. His nostrils flared, combat reflexes kicking in before his brain registered it was just a pillow. Sam had tossed it at him, followed by a blanket that unfurled mid-air like a parachute.

“Really, Sam,” Bucky growled, yanking the blanket off his head.

Sam’s mouth quirked at one corner. “What? Just because you’re determined to punish yourself doesn’t mean you gotta be uncomfortable doing it.”

Bucky glared at him, but arranged the pillow behind his back, and the blanket left bunched in his lap, unwilling to admit he appreciated it.

Sam stretched out on the couch, one arm folded behind his head. Within minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened. The ease with which he surrendered to sleep was almost enviable.

Bucky tilted his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. A hairline crack ran across the white expanse, barely visible even to his enhanced vision. A flaw in the foundation, perhaps. Or damage from some past impact. The kind of thing most people would never notice.

But Bucky noticed everything. The crack. The faint smell of mildew from the bathroom. The way the refrigerator’s hum changed pitch every 7.3 minutes. The soft, almost imperceptible sound of Isabelle finally turning over in her bed down the hall.

He stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds until dawn.

Chapter Text

This was the last place Sam wanted to be. The last person he wanted to see. 

Zemo. 

The name alone made his jaw clench. 

Two years on the run had left scars that weren’t visible but cut deep all the same. Sam remembered the frantic midnight relocations, the burner phones, the constant vigilance that had to become second nature after the Accords tore everything apart. All because Zemo’s elaborate revenge plot shattered the Avengers from within. 

The guard ahead paused at another security checkpoint, scanning his badge, Bucky hot on his heels. Sam took the chance to look over his shoulder. Isabelle trailed several paces behind, face drawn and pale, eyes fixed on some middle distance. 

He dropped back, matching her shorter strides when the guard picked up his pace again. “Nobody would blame you for sitting this one out, y’know.” Sam lowered his voice as another guard passed, their boots clicking against the concrete floor. 

“I told you,” Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him, jaw tight. “I don’t trust him alone with you two.” The words came out clipped, defensive. 

Sam studied her face, the pallor beneath her olive complexion, the tension around her mouth. He recognized fear when he saw it—he had worn it himself too many times. 

“I’m serious, Iz,” he said, keeping his voice calm and quiet. “He made me miss my nephews growing up,” Sam said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Made you miss your dad’s wedding. You don’t need to put yourself through this. You don’t have to do the brave face thing with me.” He bumped her shoulder gently.

Pain flashed across Isabelle’s face. Raw and unfiltered. Sam remembered finding her outside their safe house in Kraków that night, shoulders shaking as she clutched her phone, staring at the photo of the wedding that had been released to the press. She hadn’t made a sound, but her tears had left dark spots on the concrete.

“I know what he cost us,” she said quietly, fingers curling into fists at her sides. 

She glanced ahead at Bucky’s back—the rigid set of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head. Listening, always listening. 

She turned back to Sam. “But if Zemo knows about anyone else who might have recreated the serum...” Images flashed behind her eyes—labs, needles, restraints. She swallowed hard, forcing down the metallic taste of fear. “Bucky’s right. We need to talk to him.”

Sam’s eyes tracked across her features like he was looking for landmines. Before he could find one, the guard turned a corner, stopping them at a reinforced metal door. Keys jangled at his belt as he turned to face them. 

“Standard protocol. No physical contact with the prisoner,” the guard stated. He stood at rigid attention, eyes forward, jaw set. “Stay behind the yellow line at all times. Keine kusnahmen.”

Sam rolled his shoulders back, feeling the tension knot between his shoulder blades. He’d faced HYDRA operatives, alien armies, and Thanos himself. One man in a cell should be nothing.

The guard inserted his key into the lock with a metallic scrape. Isabelle flinched beside Sam as if the sound had physically struck her.

“I—” The word strangled in her throat. 

Sam turned and saw her face drain of color, leaving only two bright spots of panic high on her cheekbones. She stumbled back a step, then another, her shoulder blades hitting the concrete wall with an audible thud.

“Sam, I can’t.” Her voice cracked. Her eyes darted between the door and his face, pupils blown wide with terror. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts. “I thought I could, but—”

Sam moved instantly, positioning himself between her and the guard’s increasingly curious stare. His shoulders created a small pocket of privacy in the narrow hallway. He could see the fine tremor in her hands, the way she pressed them flat against the wall behind her to hide it. 

“Look at me,” he said firmly, not touching her but keeping his hands visible. “Nobody’s making you walk through that door.”

Behind him, the guard cleared his throat, impatient. Sam felt his shoulders tense at the intrusion. He didn’t turn around. 

Bucky’s footsteps scraped against concrete as he pivoted. “Give us a minute,” he said, voice dropping to that dangerous register that made people remember exactly who he was. 

The silence that followed told Sam the guard had backed off. He kept his eyes on Isabelle, watching as her breathing steadied, though her fingers still pressed against the wall hard. Bucky stopped beside them, giving Isabelle space. 

“This was my idea.” His voice was low, matter-of-fact. His face held no judgment, just understanding. “I’ll talk to Zemo.” 

“Alone?” Sam tilted his head, studying Bucky’s face.

“He’ll talk to me.” The muscle in Bucky’s jaw jumped, his eyes hardening to winter-blue steel. “He likes to think he knows me.”

“Okay, but,” Sam stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Just remember we need information, not revenge.” Sam cautioned, eyes narrowing as he watched Bucky’s expression harden into something dangerous. “No matter how satisfying it might feel to rearrange his face.”

“I’m a professional,” Bucky replied, but there was a glint in his eye that made Sam uneasy.

 “Just be careful in there.” Sam nodded once, throat dry. He glanced at the reinforced door, feeling an ice water sensation spread deeper through his gut. “And remember – Zemo’s got nothing to lose.”

“That makes two of us,” Bucky murmured, the words barely audible. He turned to the guard, shoulders squared. “Open the door.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched audibly. He stepped forward, and the door slammed shut behind Bucky with a metallic clang reverberating through Isabelle’s bones. Her legs gave out. She slid down the cold concrete wall, the rough surface catching at her jacket as she collapsed to the floor.

 The guard’s eyes flicked over her—detached, dismissive. He checked his watch with exaggerated movements. “I must make my rounds.” His accent thickened with annoyance. “Stay put, don’t wander, verstanden?” 

Sam watched the guard go, waiting until his footsteps faded before sliding down the wall to join Isabelle on the floor. His knee popped loudly. 

“Damn,” he muttered, rubbing the offending joint with a grimace. He rotated his kneecap gingerly, feeling the subtle grinding beneath his fingers. “When did I get so old?” 

Isabelle’s mouth quirked up at one corner, despite the pallor still clinging to her face. “You’re not old, Wilson. Just well-seasoned.” 

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Sam raised an eyebrow, grateful to see even that small flash of humor return to her eyes. “I’ll remember that the next time you need something from the top shelf, short stack.” 

Another guard passed, boots squeaking against the polished floor. His eyes lingered on them—the Falcon and Sick Girl sitting on the floor like teenagers ditching class—before continuing his patrol.

Isabelle pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her fingers trembled slightly before she interlaced them, knuckles whitening.

“I hate this,” she finally said, her voice low and tight. “He’s behind bulletproof glass. He can’t hurt me. ” Her jaw worked, tendons standing along her neck as she searched for the right words. “I shouldn’t be afraid.”

Sam didn’t push. Didn’t pry into why her hands still trembled or why her eyes kept darting to the door. She had every right to her fear.

“You ever think about Prague?” Isabelle said suddenly. “That safe house with the ceiling that leaked every time it rained.”

Sam snorted, knowing exactly the one. “And that hideous floral wallpaper,” 

“God, that wallpaper.” A small smile cracked through her tension. “Remember the neighbor’s rooster?” 

“Five AM, like clockwork.” Sam shook his head. “I caught you and Nat plotting its demise at least twice.” 

“Three times.” Her smile widened briefly before fading. “Some mornings, I wake up and for a split second, I miss hearing that stupid rooster.” 

“You miss being on the run?” This was good. Isabelle was voluntarily opening up to him, instead of deflecting with sarcasm or changing the subject. 

Isabelle shook her head, tracing patterns on the floor. “Not the running. Or the cold showers. Or eating stale cereal for dinner.” Her gaze lifted to the reinforced door, imagining Bucky on the other side with Zemo. A chill crawled up her spine. “I miss knowing exactly who we were. The good guys, even when the world said we weren’t. Now everything’s just…” 

“Complicated?” Sam offered, shifting his weight to ease the pressure on his knee.

“Gray.” She pressed her palms flat against the cold floor, feeling each ridge and imperfection beneath her skin. “We’re not criminals anymore, but we’re not heroes either. Half the world’s relieved the Avengers are back. But who’s really left? ” Her throat tightened around the words. “And the other half still looks at us like we might snap and level a city block.”

“You’re not a weapon, Iz,” Sam said, turning to face her directly. “You can’t take what Everhart wrote to heart.” 

“Can’t I?” She met his gaze head-on, challenging. Heat rose in her chest, not anger but something adjacent to it—frustration, dread, resignation. “That’s what my own mother designed me to be.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. “That’s not—”

“At the Smithsonian,” she cut him off. “I could’ve done worse.” She held her hands out before her, watching them tremble slightly. “I wanted it to. For a second, I really wanted to hurt her.” 

The words hung between them, naked and ugly. Isabelle’s mouth went dry, shame coiling in her stomach like a living thing. She couldn’t look at Sam now, couldn’t bear to see disappointment or—worse—fear in his eyes.

“You didn’t, though.” Sam’s voice was quiet but firm. Not backing away, not flinching.

“This time.” She curled her fingers into fists, nails biting into her palms. “What about next time? What happens when someone pushes the right button and I just—” She made a small, explosive gesture with her hands. 

The prison’s ventilation system hummed overhead, the sound filling the silence between them. Down the corridor, a door slammed, the echo bouncing off concrete walls.

“You know what I think?” Sam leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “I think if you were really what they wanted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Weapons don’t worry about collateral damage,” he continued, his voice low but intense. “They don’t lose sleep over what they might do. They don’t fight to stay in control.”

Sam’s gaze drifted to the middle distance. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his knee.

“After Riley died,” he finally said, “I had these dreams.” His eyes fixed on the cell door, but Isabelle could tell he was seeing something else entirely. “Vivid ones. I’d be back there, watching him fall, but this time I’d catch him.” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Or sometimes...” His voice dropped lower, almost a confession. “Sometimes I’d find the guy who shot him down, and I’d do things I’ve never told anyone about. Not even Steve.”

Isabelle turned to look at him, surprised by the admission. Sam Wilson—the voice of reason, the one who talked everyone else down from ledges—harboring violent fantasies?

“The dreams felt good,” Sam continued, meeting her gaze with eyes that held no apology. “Righteous, even. Like the universe was finally balanced, but they weren’t me.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Just my brain processing trauma the only way it knew how.” 

Sam shifted, wincing as his knee popped again.

“First deployment after Riley, I was a mess.” His voice was steady now, clinical almost. “Functioning, but barely. There was this insurgent we captured—intelligence value, high priority target. I got five minutes alone with him during transfer.” He flexed his hands, studying his knuckles. “Five minutes where I could’ve done anything. Made him hurt the way I was hurting. Nobody would’ve questioned it. Hell, some would’ve helped.”

“What happened?” Isabelle asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Nothing.” Sam’s mouth quirked up, not quite a smile. “I gave him water. Checked his restraints weren’t cutting off circulation.” He shrugged, the movement tight against his shoulders. “Because that’s who I am. Not the guy from the dreams.” He reached over, tapping her knee lightly with his index finger. “That’s my point, Iz. The fact that you’re terrified of losing control? That’s exactly why you won’t.”

“I—” Her voice shattered mid-word. Isabelle stared at Sam’s hand on her knee like it was the only anchor in a storm. She swallowed hard, the click in her throat audible in the prison’s hollow silence. “Fuck.”

She dug her palms against her eyes until starbursts exploded in the darkness. Pressure was building until it pushed back against the scream building in her throat. When she dropped her hands, Sam was still watching. Patient. Still. 

“Can I tell you something? Something I haven’t told anyone.” The words tumbled out before she could trap them behind her teeth. Her heart slammed against her breastbone, an animal trying to escape its cage. “Something I did.”

Sam’s face remained carefully neutral, but she caught his shoulders squaring, jaw tightening a fraction. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The tells of a man bracing for impact. His fingers tensed against her knee, not enough to hurt, just enough to say: I’m still here.

Isabelle’s mouth went dry, making her lick her lips. “I didn’t just disappear to grieve, Sam.” She hugged her knees tighter against her chest, the concrete wall bit into her back, cold and unforgiving—exactly what she deserved. 

She swallowed hard, staring at the scuffed toes of her boots. 

“I wanted an out. I didn’t want to be... this anymore.” She gestured vaguely at herself, the motion sharp and dismissive. 

Paris materialized behind her eyelids when she blinked—neon lights bleeding into darkness, bass thumping through her bones. Strangers’ hands on her waist, her hips, her back. The smell of sweat and expensive cologne and desperation.

“I was in Paris.” She turned her head slightly, not quite meeting Sam’s eyes. “Nobody knew who I was.” Her lips curved in a bitter smile. “Nobody cared.”

She remembered the third night most clearly. Some underground place in Pigalle with music so loud it vibrated her teeth. The guy she’d left with had an apartment six blocks away. He’d traced the lines of her collarbone, whispered French endearments against her neck. She couldn’t remember his name now.

“I couldn’t get drunk,” she added, her voice dropping, hollow and distant. “But the noise, the people, the—” she gestured vaguely, with one hand, fingers curling in the air as if grasping the right words “—physical stuff. It was almost enough to make me forget. For a minute anyway.” 

She exhaled slowly, the sound harsh in the prison corridor’s silence. 

“I’d wake up in strangers’ beds, stare at unfamiliar ceilings, and wait to feel something. Anything.” Her shoulders hunched forward, making her seem smaller against the concrete wall. “That’s when she found me.”

“She?” Sam’s eyebrows drew together, his body angling toward hers instinctively. The tension in his voice was subtle but unmistakable – the way his tone shifted from supportive to alert in those three letters.

“Valentina de Fontaine.” The name fell from her lips like a curse, bitter and sharp. “Caught me leaving this guy’s apartment at 5 AM. Just... standing there on the street corner in a white pantsuit that probably cost more than the building. Knock off Nick Fury.”

“The director of the CIA?” Sam’s entire body went still. 

The kind of stillness that came before action, before danger —the stillness of a soldier processing a threat assessment. The muscle along his jaw flexed once, twice, as his eyes narrowed a fraction. 

“The woman who bought Avengers Tower? What the hell was she doing in Paris?” His voice dropped lower, controlled in a way that betrayed how much control it took. 

“Sam, I—” Her voice fractured. She’d rehearsed this confession a hundred times in her head. In the shower. On sleepless nights. Now that the moment was here, words abandoned her.

Sam’s eyes had changed. Not dramatically—Sam was too controlled for that—but she caught it anyway. The subtle recalibration. The reassessment. The same look he got when a mission parameter suddenly shifted, when an ally revealed themselves as something else. “What did she want.” 

“She offered me something.” Isabelle’s gaze dropped. “Said her people could neutralize the serum in my system.”

She could still smell Val’s perfume—something expensive and subtle that had cut through the Parisian morning air. Could still see the perfect arch of the woman’s eyebrow as she’d made her pitch, the way her lips had curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. The business card that was pressed into Isabelle’s palm, heavy cardstock with an embossed phone number and nothing else.

“Not a cure, exactly.” The words quickened, tumbling out like she needed them gone from inside her. “She said they could make me more normal.”

Sam’s hand moved from her knee to her wrist, his grip firm but gentle. The warmth of his palm against her skin pulled her back from Paris, from Val’s voice, from the desperate hope that had bloomed in her chest at the offer.

“More normal?” Sam repeated the word sharp with disbelief. His eyes narrowed, searching her face. “What does that even mean?”

“A series of injections.” Isabelle’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. “Something to dampen the serum’s effects, suppress the cellular regeneration. Make me...” She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat painful. “Not this.”

Sam’s fingers tightened fractionally around her wrist. Concern deepened into something sharper, more focused. His thumb pressed against her pulse point, as if checking she was still there, still real.

“And you said yes.” It wasn’t a question.

Isabelle’s eyes snapped to his. “Wouldn’t you have? If someone offered you a way out of—” She gestured at herself with her free hand, a quick, dismissive motion. “This? This... thing I never asked to be?”

Sam didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. The steadiness in his gaze made her want to scream. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed I even considered it,” she whispered, nose crinkling, “I didn’t want to look at me like you’re looking at me right now.” 

Sam’s expression softened a fraction, but the wariness remained, a shadow behind his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a variable you can’t calculate.” Isabelle swallowed hard, tasting bitterness. “Like I might be the weak link in the chain.” Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her knees. “But I was. I was so fucking desperate, Sam. I’d have given her my entire inheritance. Everything I had.”

“Let me guess,” Sam’s eyes narrowed, the slight crease between his brows deepening. “She didn’t want money.”

“No.” Isabelle’s voice hardened to match the concrete beneath them. “She wanted me.” The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, a constant electric hum that made her teeth ache. Or maybe that was just the tension locking her jaw. 

A door slammed somewhere down the corridor, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a gunshot. Isabelle flinched, her shoulders hunching instinctively. Sam’s hand remained steady on her wrist, his thumb brushing once across her pulse point. The small gesture anchored her and pulled her back from the edge of the spiral.

“Six assignments,” she continued, returning her eyes to her shoes. Sam’s gaze was too heavy. “That was the deal. I stole data. Broke into private labs. Traffickers, weapons dealers, black-site researchers. Bad people. People who deserved worse than they got.” 

“Alone?” 

“Yes.” 

Sam’s jaw flexed, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. No shouting. Just silent. Almost worse.

“I had rules,” she tried to defend herself quickly, leaning forward. Her hands came up, palms out, placating. “No kills. That was my line. The one thing I wouldn’t cross.” Her eyes locked with his, refusing to flinch despite the shame burning beneath her skin. “And I kept it.”

Sam shook his head once. Not dismissal—something that cut deeper. Disbelief.

“You should’ve called me,” he said quietly. His voice softened, but the words landed sharply, uncomfortably. “Any time. From anywhere.” 

“And say what?” Heat rushed to her face, her words gaining momentum. “That I was working for the CIA director off the books to get the serum out of my system? That I was so desperate to be normal, I’d let her use me? That I was that weak?”

“That you needed help,” Sam countered, voice steady but intense. He shifted, angling his body toward hers, knee brushing against her leg. “That you were drowning.”

Isabelle’s throat closed. The concrete wall behind her suddenly felt too hard, too real. She pressed her shoulder blades against it. 

“Did you get what you wanted?” The question was gentle but direct. “The treatment?”

Isabelle stared at the wall opposite them. She nodded once, a sharp, mechanical movement. “Five injections. One after every completed mission. That was my payment.”

“You said six missions.” Sam’s fingers tensed against her wrist—not enough to hurt, just enough to telegraph his alarm.

“The first dose burned. ”Her voice was detached despite the memory. “Like liquid nitrogen in my veins. I couldn’t even scream.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Woke up thirty-six hours later in a puddle of sweat, fever so high I hallucinated my father sitting at the foot of the bed.”

“Jesus Christ, Isabelle.” Sam’s voice dropped to that dangerous register—the one that meant someone was about to catch hell. And he had used her full name. “And you went back for more?”

“Four more times.” She traced the invisible track marks along her inner arm, feeling phantom needles beneath her skin. “Each one worse than the last. But I thought—” She let out a humorless laugh. “I convinced myself the side effects meant it was working. That normal people feel pain when they get sick.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, tracking across her face with tactical precision, cataloging details she probably thought she’d hidden.

“I knew something was wrong by the third injection.” Her fingers trembled against her thigh. She pressed them flat against her pants, willing them still. “It wasn’t suppressing anything. It was... amplifying it. Like poking a bear.” She met Sam’s eyes directly. “Like whatever my mother put inside me was getting louder. More awake.” She hesitated, humiliation crawling up her neck. “More hungry.”

Sam’s eyebrows drew together, his expression shifting from anger to something closer to dread. “Hungry how?” His gaze dropped to her hands, watching the tremor she couldn’t quite control. “What exactly did they put in you, Isabelle?”

“I don’t know.” Her mouth went dry. The words stuck in her throat like glass shards. “But there’s…there’s a voice.”

She hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t wanted him to know this part. Her pulse hammered against her wrists where Sam still held her, the steady thump-thump betraying her panic. She forced herself to meet his eyes, bracing for judgment or worse—fear.

“Not—not like hearing voices, crazy,” she added quickly. “But something inside me that... pushes.” She tapped her sternum with two fingers, right where the pressure always built. “Right here. Like there’s something under my skin that wants out.”

She expected Sam to pull away. To create distance. To look at her as if she were a specimen, not a person. But he didn’t move. Instead, he leaned closer, his knee pressing against hers. 

Isabelle’s pulse quickened. The words felt dangerous, like naming something might give it more power. Like speaking it aloud would make it real in ways she couldn’t control. But she was too far in to stop now. 

“I was in Japan, after the third injection.” The memory flashed. The exact moment everything shifted. “Middle of the night. Couldn’t sleep. I got up to splash water on my face and just…saw my reflection and—” She made a sharp, punching gesture with her right hand, the movement so sudden that Sam’s eyes widened. “Punched the mirror. But before, my reflection...for a second, I swear to god, Sam—” She swallowed hard, the memory making her fingers curl into fists. “My eyes weren’t mine.”

“What do you mean?” Sam’s voice remained steady, but she caught the subtle shift in his posture—the slight straightening of his spine, the way his shoulders squared.

“They were... darker. Empty. Like someone else was looking back.” 

Her fingertips hovered near her face, tracing the outline of her eye socket without touching skin. She leaned forward, voice dropping lower.

 “I can’t sleep. Not really. When I do, I feel it moving under my skin. Pacing. Waiting.” Her palm pressed flat against her sternum, fingers splayed wide. “Right here. Like something scratching to get out.”

Her eyes darted to the reinforced door where Bucky had disappeared, then to the shadows pooling in the corridor’s corners. Sam’s jaw tightened almost invisibly as he followed her gaze, his mind working.

“I quit after the fifth job. Couldn’t finish it. The voice—” She cut herself off, to take a breath. “It kept pushing me. Harder. Further.” Her fingers flexed, mimicking a grip around phantom flesh. “I had my hand on this guy’s throat, and something inside me just...”

She demonstrated with her hand, fingers slowly curling inward. The gesture was small but loaded with terrible intent. She could still feel the flutter of his pulse against her palm, the moment when something inside her had whispered: squeeze harder.

Isabelle let her hands fall back to her lap, sudden exhaustion crashing through her. “Left the job unfinished. Walked away.” A bitter laugh escaped her, pointed as broken glass. “Val wasn’t happy.”

“She come after you?” Sam’s voice sharpened to a dangerous edge. 

“No. I ran home.” Isabelle shook her head. “Figured she wouldn’t touch me if I were visible. Public. If I played Isabelle Stark again. ” She looked up at the ceiling lights, letting herself see dots. “Press conferences. Charity galas. All the bullshit.” Each word dropped like an indictment. “All those cameras. All those eyes. Perfect protection.”

“And the side effects?” Sam asked, voice carefully neutral. “The... voice?”

“Still there.” She pressed her palm flat against where the pressure always built. “Quieter some days. Screaming on others. The treatments didn’t fix anything, Sam. They just made it worse—I…I made it worse.”

Sam was quiet. 

Isabelle’s muscles coiled tight, bracing for the inevitable—the careful step backward, the subtle shift in his eyes when he finally saw her for what she was, what she was becoming.

Instead, Sam’s arm settled around her shoulders. Not tentative, not hesitant—purposeful, strong, genuine. He pulled her against his side, the gesture so unexpected that Isabelle went stiff, muscles tensing on instinct. Her breath caught in her throat, suspended between inhale and exhale. For a moment, she couldn’t process it—this simple human contact without fear, without calculation. 

“Easy,” Sam murmured, his voice a low rumble she felt more than heard.

Slowly, her lungs remembered their purpose. She exhaled, a shaky, ragged sound in the sterile corridor. Her body softened by degrees, the tension bleeding out as she leaned into his warmth. After a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped an arm around his waist, fingers curling into his jacket.

Sam’s hand remained steady on her shoulder, his thumb pressing gently against her collarbone. “Why now, Iz?” His voice cut through the white noise. “Why tell me this now?”

Isabelle’s eyes darted back to the cell door, the reinforced metal suddenly looking paper-thin. Her pulse quickened. Steel, concrete, and bulletproof glass—and yet somehow not enough to contain what awaited inside. What if Zemo could see right through her, too?

“Because—” The word caught. She swallowed, tried again. “Because Zemo knows things. About what they did to people like me and Bucky.” Her fingers twisted deeper into the fabric of Sam’s jacket, knuckles whitening until they ached. “And I’m afraid of what I’m becoming. I’m afraid I proved him right.” Her voice cracked on the final syllable. “That we’re all just time bombs. That people like us can’t be trusted.”

Sam shifted beside her, angling his body to face her more directly. His eyes tracked across her features, searching for something. The weight of his gaze made her want to look away, but she forced herself to meet it.

“Whatever’s happening,” he said, voice dropping to that fierce register that brooked no argument, “we’ll figure it out. Together. ” 

His hand found hers, calloused fingertips rasping against her knuckles. Isabelle nodded, throat working around words that wouldn’t come. The lump there felt like broken glass, jagged and dangerous. If she spoke, she might bleed.

“No more secrets.” Sam’s eyes locked on hers, the words not a request. “Not with me. No more running off alone when things get bad.” His grip tightened. “Whatever’s going on with you, whatever this voice is telling you to do—I need to know. ”

The weight of his demand pressed against her chest. She’d spent so long carrying everything alone, burying secrets under layers of sarcasm and deflection. The prospect of transparency felt like standing naked in a snowstorm.

“Sam, I—” The words died as a metallic scrape cut through the corridor, sharp as a gunshot.

They both snapped toward the sound. The reinforced door to Zemo’s cell swung open with a pneumatic hiss that raised the hair on Isabelle’s arms. Her muscles tensed, fight-or-flight instincts flaring as Bucky emerged. 

Chapter Text

Bucky’s face went cold and hard as iron—jaw muscle twitching beneath taut skin, eyes fixed forward with a focus so intense it made the fine hairs at Isabelle’s nape rise. He maintained that mask-like expression as the guard who’d escorted them earlier reappeared around the corner to lock Zemo’s cell. Every movement Bucky made was controlled, deliberate—the careful precision of someone fighting to keep something caged inside. 

They walked back through the prison’s sterile hallways, Bucky’s boots striking the concrete in a one-two, one-two rhythm. His face never changed, but his eyes—they flicked up once, so quickly, Isabelle almost missed it. A split-second assessment of the security camera nestled in the corner where the wall met the ceiling. The red light blinked steadily. Watching. Recording. 

Somewhere between the cell block and the main security checkpoint, Sam slowed his pace just enough to fall in step beside Isabelle. Their eyes met—his warm brown holding her green gaze with a question that didn’t need words. 

Don’t tell him, she pleaded silently, hoping her expression conveyed what she couldn’t say aloud. Not about Valentina. Not about the treatment. Not now, not ever. 

Sam studied her face, conflict evident in the subtle crease between his brows. His lips pressed together, then relaxed. He bit his lip, and then came the slight nod. The knot between Isabelle’s shoulders loosened a fraction at Sam’s nod, but relief evaporated like water on hot metal. She tucked her chin slightly, a silent thank you.

Her focus shifted back to Bucky three paces ahead. She’d seen him like this before—but no, not quite like this. She’d watched him dismantle SHIELD agents with mechanical precision, seen him compose himself under heavy gunfire. The careful nothingness of his expression wasn’t calm; it was a dam holding back a flood.

Whatever Zemo had whispered through that glass had cracked something in Bucky. Had he threatened them? Revealed some new scheme? Or worse—had he slipped past Bucky’s defenses, planted something in his mind?

The guard ahead swiped his keycard at the final security door. The soft electronic beep echoed in the sterile hallway, unnaturally loud against the backdrop of silence. They stepped through into the prison’s administrative section, lights buzzing overhead. The guard gestured toward the front desk with a perfunctory flick of his wrist. 

“Sign-out procedure,” he muttered before retreating back through the door they’d just exited.

The guard at the desk didn’t bother looking up. Mid-twenties, with patchy facial hair that suggested more ambition than execution, and dark circles that had taken up permanent residence beneath bloodshot eyes. His finger traced a line of clues on the crossword puzzle spread before him.

“Bitte, sign out,” he said, pushing the clipboard toward them with one disinterested finger. “All three, ja?”

Sam stepped forward first, shoulders relaxed in that deliberately casual way. Not quite the charm he’d use in a bar, but something adjacent—disarming, intentional. 

“Long shift?” Sam asked, voice pitched low and conversational as he accepted the pen.

The guard’s eyes flicked up, surprise registering at being addressed as a person rather than a checkpoint. His pen hovered over the half-filled puzzle. “Kreuzworträtsel,” he mumbled, then caught himself. “Ah, crossword. Is helping me with English, but...” He tapped the paper with his pen, frustration evident in the sharp rap against the desk. “Is difficult sometimes.”

Isabelle shifted her weight, glancing down at the puzzle. German clues paired with English answers—a linguistic tightrope walk. The distraction was welcome, pulling her attention momentarily from the tightly wound tension radiating from Bucky beside her. His stillness had its own gravity, a black hole of controlled rage that threatened to collapse in on itself.

“Doppelschicht,” the guard continued, stifling a yawn that exposed a silver filling in his back molar. “How do you say—double shift?” He rubbed at his left eye with his knuckle. “Der andere Mann—other man—he is sick. Again.” The final word carried the universal inflection of workplace grievance, accompanied by an eye roll that needed no translation.

“That’s rough,” Sam commiserated, signing his name with a practiced flourish before passing the pen to Bucky. “Your English is really good, though. Been studying long?”

The guard straightened slightly in his chair, fatigue momentarily displaced by a flicker of pride. “A year now. Still learning, but...” He offered a modest shrug that didn’t quite disguise his satisfaction.

“Seriously, man, you’re doing great,” Sam continued, maintaining the easy rhythm of conversation. “I tried learning Spanish once. Got as far as ordering tacos, then gave up.”

Isabelle bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a smile. Classic Sam Wilson misdirection—the man spoke Spanish fluently enough to have negotiated hostage releases in Bogotá. But here he was, deliberately downplaying his abilities to boost a tired prison guard’s confidence. Small kindnesses were Sam’s specialty, offered without fanfare or expectation.

Bucky made a sound—not quite a grunt, not quite a snort—as he took the clipboard. The pen looked absurdly small between his metal fingers. She watched as the pressure of his grip left subtle indentations in the cheap plastic, the ballpoint threatening to crack under the controlled force. His jaw remained locked as he scrawled his name with quick, efficient strokes.  

When he passed the pen to her, his flesh fingers brushed against hers, a brief point of warmth that sent an electric current racing up her arm. The pen was still warm from his grip, and she could feel the slight impressions his fingers had left in the plastic.

Her eyes dropped to the guard’s crossword puzzle as she signed her name. Seven down caught her attention: “Der Inbegriff: perfektes Beispiel seiner Art.” The empty boxes waited for an answer.

“Die Antwort ist ‘Quintessenz,’“ she said, handing the clipboard back while tapping the empty boxes with her index finger. “It means the perfect example of something—the quintessence.”

The guard’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. “Sie sprechen Deutsch?” His eyes darted to the puzzle, lips moving silently as he counted spaces and verified her answer. “Ja, stimmt! That fits perfectly.” A genuine smile cracked through his professional veneer. “Danke schön—thank you.”

“Gern geschehen,” Isabelle replied with a small nod. She felt Bucky’s eyes on her, a subtle shift in his attention that made her skin tingle. “My mother insisted I learn languages young. German, French, and just enough Italian to order gelato without embarrassing myself.”

“Sehr gut! Very impressive.” The guard’s expression brightened further. He tapped his pen against the puzzle. “Perhaps you could help with nine across also? I am stuck with this one for days now—”

“Another time, maybe,” Bucky interrupted, his voice deceptively casual. His right hand came to rest at the small of Isabelle’s back, fingers splayed with deliberate pressure. Not pushing, not yet, but the intent was clear. “We need to go.”

The guard’s face fell for a microsecond before professionalism reasserted itself. “Ja, of course. Auf Wiedersehen.”

“Auf Wiedersehen,” Isabelle replied, offering an apologetic smile even as Bucky’s hand shifted upward between her shoulder blades. The gentle pressure sent chills down her spine, her body responding to his touch in ways her brain hadn’t authorized. 

“Have a good one,” Sam called over his shoulder as they moved toward the exit.

Bucky’s hand remained steady between her shoulder blades as he pushed the door open with his right, sunlight spilling across the threshold. The moment they cleared the doorway, cold April air slapped against Isabelle’s face, sharp and clarifying.

The prison’s exterior was all concrete and razor wire, stark against the backdrop of dense Bavarian forest. Isabelle’s lungs expanded with the fresh air, but the knot in her chest only tightened. Bucky’s hand dropped away from her back the instant they were outside, leaving a phantom warmth where his fingers had been.

“Alright,” Sam said quietly once they were halfway out of the courtyard, voice pitched just loud enough for the three of them. “You want to tell me what the hell happened in there? And why you rushed us out without telling us why?”

Bucky’s pace didn’t falter, but something dangerous flickered across his face. “No, not here,” he muttered. His eyes scanned the perimeter—rooftops, windows, passing cars. “This way.” 

He jerked his head left without breaking stride, offering no explanation, no reassurance. Just the expectation that they would follow. 

Isabelle caught Sam’s eye. What the hell is happening? Sam only shrugged, his right hand casually adjusting his jacket before following after Bucky. Isabelle fell into step behind them, not too far but not too close. 

 He cut through Berlin’s winding streets like someone who’d memorized the city’s layout. Each turn seemed random but executed with absolute certainty—left at the bakery with the peeling blue paint, right at the intersection with the broken streetlight, straight past a woman with hennaed hair hanging laundry from a third-floor balcony. 

The cobblestones beneath her feet gave way to cracked sidewalks, then back to cobblestones as they wove deeper into a neighborhood of close-packed buildings. Isabelle’s lungs burned slightly from the pace and the cold air. A bead of sweat trickled down her spine despite the chill.

Ten minutes of silent, rapid movement. No explanations. No backward glances.

 Sam finally broke the silence, his voice carrying just enough edge beneath the casual tone. “You know, some of us didn’t get the super-soldier stamina upgrade.” He matched Bucky’s pace despite his complaint. “A little heads-up on where we’re sprinting to would be nice.”

Bucky finally slowed his pace—barely, just enough that Isabelle and Sam could draw even with his shoulders. “Safe house,” he muttered.

Within minutes, the neighborhood transformed around them with each block. Quaint cafés with wrought-iron tables gave way to half-abandoned industrial buildings. Paint peeled from concrete walls in long, curling strips. Windows stared back at them, some boarded, others covered in newspaper, or simply empty like dead eyes. A group of construction workers in neon vests paused mid-conversation as they passed, cigarettes hovering halfway to lips, words suspended in curious silence.

“Seriously, man,” Sam said, keeping his voice controlled but tight. “We’re following you blind here. At least tell us if we need to be worried about—”

“Can you just trust me for five more minutes?” Bucky cut him off, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that carried an edge Isabelle hadn’t heard since Bucharest. His flesh hand clenched and unclenched at his side. “We’re almost there.”

“Trust you? Sure.” Sam’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders squared. “Trust whatever’s got you looking like you’ve seen a ghost? That’s a harder sell.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he offered nothing more, just another sharp turn down a narrow street where laundry lines stretched between buildings like forgotten cobwebs.

Two more blocks of wordless walking, and Bucky stopped so abruptly that Isabelle nearly collided with his back. He stood before a weathered brick building that slumped between two newer developments like an old man refusing to be pushed out of his neighborhood. Three stories of faded red brick, blackened windows that revealed nothing of what lay behind them. A sign hung above the door, the words “Motorrad Werkstatt” barely visible in peeling red paint against rust-colored metal.

“A motorcycle shop?” Isabelle whispered, her voice catching slightly.

Bucky approached the side entrance without answering—a heavy metal door with a substantial padlock that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. He examined the lock for precisely three seconds, his eyes narrowing as he assessed it. Without hesitation, he gripped it with his vibranium hand. The lock groaned before surrendering with a muffled snap as he squeezed. 

The door yielded to his push, hinges screaming in rusty protest. The sound scraped against Isabelle’s nerves, too loud in the empty street. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting someone to investigate the noise, but the narrow street remained deserted.

Beyond the threshold lay darkness so complete it seemed solid. Cold air rushed out to meet them, carrying the musty scent of disuse, motor oil, and something metallic that reminded her of blood. Isabelle’s skin prickled, not just from the chill.

“In here,” Bucky said, his voice low and tight. He positioned himself at the threshold, one foot inside, one out, his body angled to scan both the street behind them and the darkness ahead. The Winter Soldier stance—protecting their six while assessing potential threats from all angles.

“Into the creepy abandoned building with no lights?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up, but his hand had already moved to hover near his concealed weapon. “Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all.‘Hey friends, follow me into this abandoned building in a foreign country without explanation.’ This is literally how horror movies start.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “We don’t have time for this.”

“And you’re being cryptic as hell.” Sam took a step forward anyway, peering into the darkness. “If there’s a clown in there, I’m out.”

“Don’t like clowns, Wilson?” Isabelle laughed, a smile flickering across her lips despite the tension in her chest. “Did one traumatize you at a birthday party or something?”

Sam shot her a sideways glance, his expression deadpan. “You laugh, but a man in my neighborhood dressed as a clown for Halloween when I was eight. Chased me three blocks with a rubber chicken.” He tapped his temple. “Some scars don’t heal.”

Bucky made a sound that might have been a suppressed snort or a growl of impatience—impossible to tell with his face half-shadowed. “There are no clowns,” he said, his voice tight as a wire. “Just get inside.”

“No clowns, he says,” Sam muttered, stepping fully into the darkness. “That’s exactly what someone hiding clowns would say.”

Isabelle lingered at the threshold for a heartbeat, her eyes meeting Bucky’s. The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch—not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. 

“Trust me,” he said again, softer this time, his flesh hand hovering near her elbow without quite touching it.

Isabelle gave him a soft nod and stepped into the darkness, the air immediately cooling against her face. Bucky followed, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. 

“Well, this is cozy,” Sam’s disembodied voice floated from somewhere to her left. “Nothing says ‘trust me’ like being led into pitch-black abandoned buildings.”

Isabelle fumbled for her phone, fingers sliding across the smooth surface before finding the right button.

 The flashlight beam cut through the darkness like a knife, illuminating a galaxy of dust motes that swirled and danced in the sudden intrusion. The concrete floor beneath her boots was stained with decades-old motor oil, creating dark archipelagos across the gray surface. Workbenches lined the walls, their wooden surfaces warped with age and neglect. Half-dismantled motorcycle engines sat frozen in time, their metal components dulled by a thick layer of dust and cobwebs that stretched between them like ghostly hands.

Sam’s phone light joined hers, the beams crossing and creating shifting shadows that crawled across the walls. 

“Okay, Barnes,” he said, sweeping his light across what appeared to be a vintage Harley engine block. “Door’s closed. We’re in your mystery box. Time to talk.”

Bucky moved through the darkness with unsettling ease, navigating around obstacles her light hadn’t yet revealed. “We needed somewhere secure,” he said, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls, creating echoes that seemed to come from everywhere at once. “No cameras. No bugs. No ears.”

“And an abandoned motorcycle shop was your first choice because...?” She swept her light across a pile of rusted tools, illuminating what looked like a calendar from 1987 still hanging on the far wall, its edges curled with moisture damage.

“Because I used it before.” Bucky paused near what looked like an ancient circuit breaker box, his metal fingers tracing over its rusted surface. “During the Cold War. KGB asset drop site. Later, HYDRA.”

The casual way he referenced his past made Isabelle’s stomach tighten. Sometimes she forgot just how long Bucky had been operating in the shadows—decades of violence and espionage compressed into a man who looked barely thirty-five. His vibranium fingers found a hidden latch beneath the breaker box, and with a practiced flick, the front panel swung open to reveal circuit breakers.

“Great. So we’re standing in a HYDRA clubhouse,” Sam said, his voice flat with sarcasm. “That’s comforting.”

“It’s been abandoned since the Berlin Wall fell,” Bucky’s metal fingers moved methodically across the circuit panel, searching.“Look, we’re secure now. That’s what matters.”

“Secure enough to tell us what the hell happened in that cell?” Sam asked, crossing his arms. Isabelle could make out the outline of Sam’s silhouette. “Because you’ve been acting like someone put a bomb in your pocket since you walked out of that cell.” 

Bucky switched the breakers, and light stuttered to life—a sickly yellow glow that cast long shadows across the dusty motorcycle shop. Isabelle winced against the sudden brightness, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted. She switched off her phone’s flashlight, hearing Sam do the same with a soft click.

When she could finally see clearly, Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat. Bucky stood facing them fully now, his shoulders rigid and jaw tight. Something in his expression made her stomach drop. His eyes darted between them, the look of someone cornered and desperate. 

“We need to break Zemo out of prison,” he said, the words falling into the room like stones.

Isabelle’s brain stuttered, refusing to process what she’d just heard. The dust particles dancing in the light between them seemed to freeze mid-air. A distant drip from somewhere in the ceiling marked three seconds of complete silence. Her lungs forgot how to function, and her heart slammed against her ribcage with such force she felt it might crack a rib.

Sam’s laugh—sharp and brittle—finally shattered the silence. 

“Hold up.” He took a half-step forward, head tilted like he was waiting for the punchline. “Did you just—” He blinked rapidly, finger pointing accusingly at Bucky. “Did you just say we should break out the guy who framed you for terrorism? That Zemo?”

“Yes.” Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t elaborate. Just that single syllable, delivered with the finality of a bullet.

“Okay, so we’re going with the ‘completely lost your mind’ plan. Good to know.” Sam’s voice rose with each word, bouncing off the concrete walls. His hands animated his growing disbelief. “Let me ask you this: Did you happen to hit your head while you were in that cell with him? Because that’s the only explanation I can think of for why you’d even consider—”

“He knows things, Sam.” Bucky’s voice remained low, controlled, but Isabelle caught the slight twitch in his flesh hand—a tell she’d noticed before when he was fighting to maintain composure. 

“He knows how to manipulate people,” Sam countered, jabbing a finger at Bucky’s chest. “Starting with you, apparently.”

Heat crawled up Isabelle’s neck, spreading across her face as the initial shock transformed into something sharper. The absurdity of what Bucky was suggesting sank in. Her throat constricted, and the room seemed to tilt slightly. She could feel her powers stirring beneath her skin—that dangerous heat that rose with her anger, begging for release.

“Are you—” The words caught in her throat, strangled by disbelief. She tried again, her voice emerging sharper than intended. “Are you seriously suggesting we break out a mass murderer?”

Her green eyes flashed, and she took a step toward him, close enough that he could see exactly what this was doing to her.

“A mass murderer who can lead us to the people creating more potential mass murderers,” Bucky countered, frustration edging into his voice. His eyes never left hers, unflinching in the face of her growing rage. “Eight super soldiers are already out there. How many more will there be next week? Next month?”

“I let you talk us into meeting with Zemo. That was already crossing a line I wasn’t comfortable with,” Isabelle jabbed a finger toward Bucky, “but breaking him out? That’s—” She hissed, raking both hands through her hair, tugging at the roots until pain sparked across her scalp. The sensation grounded her, barely. “Absolutely not.”

“She’s right.” Sam moved to stand beside her, eyes narrowing at Bucky. “We’re supposed to just trust he’ll do the right thing and help us?”

“Trust?”

Bucky’s laugh was a broken sound—all jagged edges and rust. His eyes, usually guarded behind careful neutrality, flashed with something feral that made Isabelle’s breath catch.

“I don’t trust him to tie his own shoelaces.” He paced three sharp steps, boots scuffing against the concrete. “We don’t trust him. We use him.”

 Isabelle’s stomach twisted at the detachment in his voice—how easily he slipped into this tactical mindset, as if they were discussing chess pieces instead of a mass murderer.

“And how exactly do we use a master manipulator?” she challenged, making air quotes with her fingers. “The second we let him out, he’s going to start playing mind games.” She held his gaze, refusing to back down despite the storm brewing behind his eyes. Something dangerous and desperate lurked there. “Especially with you.” She softened her voice, just slightly. “No offense.”

“Offense taken,” Bucky replied, his mouth quirking into something too sharp to be a smile. 

The expression vanished as quickly as it appeared, like lightning across a battlefield. He took a half-step toward her, close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his blue irises. 

“Look, I don’t like this either.” His voice dropped lower, rougher at the edges. “But Zemo has connections we don’t. Intelligence networks. Underground contacts. He spent years hunting HYDRA’s secrets—the same people who created the serum in the first place.” Bucky’s metal fingers flexed, catching the dim light. “He can’t help us behind bars. Super Soldiers go against everything he believes in—”

“And Avengers too,” Isabelle cut in, motioning to herself with a sweep of her hand. “Or did you forget that part?” 

Bucky’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. “He won’t touch you,” Bucky said, his voice dropping to a low, fierce promise. His flesh hand twitched at his side, as if he’d almost reached for her but thought better of it. “You have my word.”

For a heartbeat, the rest of the room—the dust motes dancing in shafts of sickly yellow light, the cobwebs stretching across forgotten engines, even Sam’s steady breathing—faded to background noise, leaving only Bucky’s blue eyes locked on hers. A silent plea for understanding passed between them. 

Then he blinked, and the moment shattered.

Bucky turned back to Sam, breaking the connection with a sharp pivot that left Isabelle momentarily disoriented. The cold rush of air that replaced his proximity made her suppress a shiver.

“He’s crazy,” Bucky said, his voice rough-edged but controlled, “but he still has a code. He wants what we want—to stop super soldiers before they cause more damage.”

“I’m not freeing Zemo,” Isabelle declared, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, drawing Bucky’s attention back on her. 

Bucky’s metal hand flexed at his side, and pressed his lips together, his jaw working as if physically chewing on words that tasted wrong.

“Can I just...” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Walk you through a hypothetical?” His voice lowered, almost gentle now. “Just a hypothetical situation?” 

Sam, who had been examining the dusty workbench with his back turned, pivoted with deliberate slowness. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he turned, his expression shifting from contemplative to suspicious in the space of a heartbeat. His eyes narrowed to calculating slits, head tilting slightly as he studied Bucky’s face with the practiced scrutiny of someone who’d seen this movie before and didn’t like the ending.

“What did you do?” Sam’s voice was dangerously quiet, but filled the room like thunder. 

“Nothing,” Bucky replied, the word snapping out too fast. His hands rose in a placating gesture that only heightened the tension crackling between them. “But consider this: the weakest point in any security system isn’t the software or the hardware.” He tapped his temple with his left index finger. “It’s the meatware. The human element.”

He looked between them, his eyes raw with urgency. They were listening. Good. That’s all he needed. 

“In that prison,” he continued, words clipped and precise as bullet points, “it’s nine to one, prisoners to guards. And if two prisoners start fighting—” his fingers mimicked a collision in midair, “—protocol says four guards respond. Minimum.”

“Wait.” Sam’s expression started with suspicion, then darkened to comprehension, then horror. “You seem to know suspiciously a lot about this prison’s inner workings.” 

“Yeah,” Isabelle added, acid rising in her throat as the pieces clicked into terrible alignment. “Why would two prisoners randomly start fighting, Bucky?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly. He looked almost insane, eyes wide, a weird smile on his face, batty as he kept going. 

“Who knows?” He shrugged, the movement too casual against the tension vibrating through his frame. “Prison’s a pressure cooker. Could be any reason—territory, respect, boredom...” His voice dropped lower, almost conversational. “But the point is, these things escalate. Lockdown procedures would have to be initiated.”

“Tell me you didn’t—” Sam mumbled under his breath, shoulders tense as he brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“—All those bodies flying around,” Bucky pressed on, words accelerating like a train with cut brakes, “wouldn’t be hard to slip down a hallway or two. And then if the fire alarm got tripped while the prisoners were being separated—”

“You son of a bitch,” Sam cut him off. “You already set it up, didn’t you? This isn’t hypothetical at all.”

Isabelle felt her blood boil. “And when exactly is this prison break supposed to happen?” she demanded, fighting to keep her voice steady as heat prickled beneath her skin, her powers stirring with her rising anger.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and for a split second, something like regret flickered across his face.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

The words landed like a grenade between them.

Isabelle’s lungs seized, her chest tightening as if squeezed by an invisible vise. Her heartbeat thundered everywhere at once—fingertips, temples, throat—each pulse a small explosion beneath her skin. “You did what? Without telling us? Without even—”

“I had to make sure we were clear of the facility first,” Bucky cut her off, his tone maddeningly matter-of-fact. His shoulders remained squared, stance wide and solid as if bracing for impact. “If you knew beforehand, your reactions wouldn’t have been genuine. The cameras would have caught it.”

“So you made that decision for all of us?” Sam’s voice dropped dangerously low, the calm before a storm. “You just—”

A metallic groan sliced through the air, the sound echoing off concrete walls, bouncing back distorted and hollow.

Isabelle spun toward the noise, her body coiling tight as a spring. Every muscle tensed for fight or flight, her powers surging beneath her skin in immediate response. Heat flooded her fingertips, that familiar burning sensation that preceded her abilities manifesting. She curled her fingers inward, pressing nails into her palms to contain it.

Footsteps approached from the shadows. Deliberate. Unhurried. The confident stride of someone who felt no need to rush.

Zemo.

Chapter Text

Helmut Zemo stepped into the light with the graceful precision of a predator, one hand adjusting the collar of a prison guard’s uniform that sagged slightly on his frame. The dark fabric made his skin appear paler, his eyes cutting through the room like glass shards. 

His gaze swept over the safe house methodically—exits, structural flaws, threats. When his eyes landed on Isabelle, everything stopped. 

For the briefest of moments, his expression faltered. A flicker of recognition. Of disbelief. Of guilt? No—something colder. It was gone before it could be named, smoothed over by that immaculate mask of smug civility.

Something inside Isabelle snapped tight. Her breath caught like barbed wire in her throat. That face. Those eyes. The last thing she’d seen before everything had gone black. Before—

Before he’d killed her.

Zemo recovered with a quiet, terrible elegance. “Ms. Stark,” he said smoothly, as if greeting an old colleague. “You look... well. Death becomes you.”

Her powers flared without permission. Heat spiked down her spine like molten metal, pooling in her fingertips before she could think to stop it. There was a terrible, wonderful surge of energy that made the air around her hands shimmer with a sickly green. 

Zemo was still looking at her. Still breathing. Still existing.

The wave of dizziness shot from her hands before she could consciously think to attack. Pure instinct. Pure fear—a crack. She watched it hit him—an invisible ripple that made the air between them distory—and felt a cold satisfaction when his smug expression faltered. 

 Only Sam’s sudden presence beside her—his shoulder brushing against hers, solid and warm—kept her from finishing what she’d started. An anchor to reality when she only wanted to make Zemo feel every ounce of terror she’d felt in those final moments before darkness.

“Isabelle—” Bucky’s voice cracked, raw with desperation. He lunged forward, one hand extended toward her. “Wait. Please.” 

But Zemo took a step closer, the nausea making him unsteady. His polished veneer cracked as Isabelle’s chest constricted. 

She lashed out again, harder this time. Not from fear, but from rage. White-hot and uncontrollable. The second wave hit him with enough force to make him physically stagger. His knees buckled slightly, color draining from his face as vertigo took hold.

“Wait—” Bucky’s expression was torn between understanding and urgency. His hand hovered near her arm but didn’t touch, respecting the boundary even now. “Give me a second to explain,” he pleaded, eyes darting between Sam and Isabelle. “We need him.”

“No.” Sam’s face contorted with anger, jabbing a finger in Zemo’s direction. “He’s going back to prison. Now.”

Zemo straightened, fighting through the disorientation Isabelle had inflicted. “If I may—” His words came out strangled, cut short as Isabelle hit him with a third wave. This time, she pushed deeper, finding the nerves controlling his equilibrium and twisting.

“No!” The simultaneous shout from Sam, Bucky, and Isabelle echoed through the garage. 

Zemo hunched forward and clutched his stomach. His knees hit the concrete with a dull thud that resonated through her bones.

For a moment, she felt powerful—in control. Then she caught her reflection in the surface of a nearby tool cabinet—green eyes glowing unnaturally, face twisted with a hatred she barely recognized.

“Please, Isabelle.” Bucky’s voice cut through her focus, softer now, almost gentle. The hint of desperation crept back into his tone. “I know what he did. I know. But we need what he knows.” His eyes held hers, not judging, just asking. “Just give me a minute to explain.”

Her fingers trembled. The power coursed through her veins, begging for release, for completion. For vengeance. But—

Slowly, reluctantly, she uncurled her fingers. The green glow faded, and Zemo gasped as the pressure lifted. He remained on his knees, breathing heavily, but his eyes never left her face.

“Don’t,” she warned, her voice low and dangerous, barely more than a whisper. The single word carried the weight of a promise. “Don’t even think about trying anything.”

Zemo’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile, as if they were sharing some private joke. “My dear Ms. Stark,” he managed, voice ragged but still infuriatingly composed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Bucky took a deep breath, dragging his left hand through his hair. “When Steve refused to sign the Accords, you backed him,” he said, voice low and steady. His eyes moved deliberately between Sam and Isabelle. “You broke the law. You stuck your neck out for me—both of you. I’m asking you to do it again.” 

Isabelle felt her jaw clench. The memory of Leipzig airport flashed through her mind—concrete cracking beneath superpowered bodies, the taste of blood in her mouth, her father’s voice crackling through the comms. The cost had been catastrophic.

Zemo straightened, dusting off his knees as the nausea from Isabelle’s attack receded. His eyes were clear again. “I really think I’m invaluable—” 

“Shut up,” Sam cut him off, each syllable sharp as a blade. The muscles in his jaw worked beneath his skin, anger radiating off him in waves.

The garage fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft ping of cooling metal somewhere in the shadows. Sam’s eyes dropped to the oil-stained concrete, his shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths. Isabelle could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes—weighing options, calculating risks, measuring the cost of trust against necessity.

Bucky stood perfectly still, the way only he could—a soldier awaiting orders, a friend asking for faith.

After what felt like hours compressed into seconds, Sam raised his head. His eyes, when they met Bucky’s, carried resignation and resolve in equal measure.

“Okay,” he said, the word hanging in the air between them.

“Okay?” Isabelle echoed, disbelief sharpening her voice. The green glow threatened to return to her fingertips. She curled them into her palm, feeling her nails bite into skin. “He killed me, Sam. He killed me and you’re just—”

Sam held up a hand, the gesture firm but not dismissive. His eyes softened when they met hers. “Look, I know—I know.” The repetition carried understanding, not condescension. “I don’t like this either.”

He turned, shooting warning looks at both Bucky and Zemo, the shift in his posture making it clear who was in charge despite Bucky’s request. The Sam Wilson who’d followed Captain America was still there, but something else was emerging—something that made even Zemo straighten slightly.

“If we do this,” Sam said, each word deliberate as he fixed his gaze on Zemo, “you don’t make a move without our permission. You don’t pull your bullshit. You don’t even breathe too loud without checking with one of us first.”

A ghost of a smile played at the corners of Zemo’s mouth, the expression never quite reaching his eyes. “Fair,” he agreed, voice smooth as polished stone.

“No! Not fair,” Isabelle said, the words scraping her throat raw. Her fingers still tingled with residual power. The green had faded, but the potential hummed beneath her skin. “Nothing about this is fair.”

Sam’s eyes found hers across the garage, in understanding. She didn’t want his understanding. She wanted his regret.

“Iz—” he started.

“Don’t you dare ‘Iz’ me right now.” She stepped back, heel catching on an uneven patch of concrete. Her gaze slid to Zemo, who watched her with that infuriating half-smile, like they were actors in a play only he had read to the end. She swallowed hard, tasting copper. “No,” she said, her voice steadier than her hands. “I’m out.”

“Isabelle—” Sam stepped forward, arm extended toward her.

She slapped his hand away with enough force to make him wince. “No. You said I could pull out, no questions asked. I’m pulling out.” Her voice cracked on the last word, betraying her. “I refuse to work with him. I thought we were just talking to him,” she continued, gesturing wildly toward the Sokovian. “Not teaming up with him. Not—” She cut herself off, chest heaving. “Not bringing my murderer onto the team.”

She shot Bucky a glare that could have melted vibranium, disappointment radiating from her in waves. The betrayal stung worse than she’d expected.

“Good luck with that,” she spat, jerking her head toward Zemo. The words tasted bitter on her tongue, acidic and raw.

She turned, muscles coiled tight as she moved toward the exit. Each step on the concrete floor echoed too loudly in her ears. The garage seemed to shrink around her, walls closing in, air thickening. The shadows between shelving units deepened, stretching like fingers toward her ankles.

Three sets of eyes burned into her back. Sam’s concern radiated like heat. Bucky’s desperation hung heavy as smoke. And Zemo—calculative, gauging, assessing her retreat with that detached care that made her skin crawl.

Her fingers closed around the door handle. Cold metal bit into her palm. One push and she’d be gone. Away from this insanity. Away from the man who had killed her.

“Isabelle.”

Bucky’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. Not demanding. Not commanding. Just her name, spoken like a question.

She froze, breath catching. Her knuckles whitened against the handle.

“Wait. Please.”

Something in his tone made her hesitate—the ragged edge of genuine fear. Not fear of her. Fear for her. She didn’t turn immediately. Couldn’t. The rage still pulsed beneath her skin, green and sickly and hungry. But she didn’t push the door open either.

Three heartbeats. Four. Five.

Slowly, she pivoted. Her gaze cut across the room, past Sam’s tense shoulders, past Zemo’s infuriating half-smile, landing finally on Bucky. His eyes were wide, unguarded—steel blue and painfully earnest.

“Five minutes,” she said, voice tight. “That’s all you get. Outside. Just us.”

Relief flickered across his face, quickly masked by determination. He took a careful step toward her, then another. 

Sam shifted his weight, looking like he wanted to intervene, but something in Bucky’s expression stopped him. A silent exchange passed between them—trust me, Bucky’s eyes seemed to say. Sam’s jaw tightened, but he stepped back.

Isabelle pushed the door open with more force than necessary, cool air rushing against her heated skin. The alley behind the garage was narrow, littered with discarded tools and empty oil drums. The afternoon light cut between buildings in sharp, angular shafts.

She moved several paces away before facing him, arms crossed tight over her chest. A barrier. Protection.

Bucky followed, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. In the half-shadow of the alley, the planes of his face looked harder, the circles under his eyes deeper.

“Talk,” she demanded, the single syllable sharp as broken glass.

He didn’t speak immediately. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. The silence stretched between them, taut as piano wire.

“I should have told you,” he finally said. “About Zemo. About the plan.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, voice flat. “You should have.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped, closing his eyes for a second. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“They’re called words, Barnes.” The bitterness leaked through despite her attempt to sound detached. “Try ‘Hey Isabelle, just a heads up, I’m thinking about working with the guy who murdered you.’“

He flinched as if she’d struck him. Good. Let him hurt. Let him feel a fraction of what was churning inside her.

“You’re right,” he said, and the simple admission caught her off guard. “I—I should have told you and Sam.”

The anger that had been sustaining her wavered, just slightly. She tightened her grip on her arms, nails digging into skin through her jacket. Isabelle turned away, staring at the brick wall of the alley. A faded advertisement for motor oil peeled at the corners, decades old. She focused on the chipped paint, trying to steady her breathing.

“I died, Bucky.” Her voice was barely audible. “Do you understand what that’s like? One minute I was there, and then—nothing. Darkness. Cold. And my father’s face was the last thing I saw.” 

She heard him shift behind her, boots scraping against concrete.

“ I know what it’s like to have someone take everything from you,” he said quietly. “To have them standing right in front of you, breathing the same air. Living while you’re—” He stopped, swallowed. “While you’re barely holding yourself together.”

She turned back to face him, surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. His eyes held hers, unflinching.

“I’m not asking you to forgive him,” Bucky continued. “I’m not even asking you to be in the same room with him if you don’t want to be.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Bucky’s metal hand reached out, hesitating for a moment before gently grasping her shoulder. The touch was light, careful, ready to withdraw at the slightest resistance. But she didn’t pull away.

“I’m asking you to trust me,” he said, voice low and intense. His steel-blue eyes locked onto hers, filled with a fierce determination that made her breath catch. “I swear to you, on my life, Zemo will not hurt you again. Not while I’m breathing. ”

The conviction in his voice sent an unexpected warmth through her chest. She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. A reluctant smile threatened to break through. She fought it back, not ready to surrender her anger completely.

“I can’t promise I won’t kill him,” she said, the words hanging between them like a challenge.

Bucky’s eyes met hers, something fierce and protective flashing in their depths. “If he tries anything—anything at all—I’ll help you hide the body.”

The unexpected response startled a genuine laugh from her, sharp and surprised. “Pretty sure Sam wouldn’t approve of that plan.”

“Sam doesn’t need to know everything.” Bucky’s grip on her shoulder tightened, just slightly.

She studied his face, searching for any hint of manipulation or impatience. There was none—just that steady, unwavering presence that had become so familiar over the past weeks.

Isabelle uncrossed her arms, letting them fall to her sides. The anger wasn’t gone—it still burned hot and bright inside her—but it no longer threatened to consume her whole.

“Five minutes are up,” she said, tapping an imaginary watch on her wrist. There was no heat in her voice now, just a slight slump of her shoulders. 

Bucky’s hand slid from her shoulder, and he took a half a step back, giving her space without retreating completely. “What do you want to do?” he asked. No manipulation, no pressure—just a simple question.

Isabelle looked past him toward the closed garage door. Beyond that thin barrier stood Zemo—breathing, thinking, existing when he had no right to. The mere thought of sharing oxygen with him made her stomach clench and her powers ripple beneath her skin.

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “If I go back in there,” she said carefully, each word measured, “I can’t promise what will happen.”

“I know.” Bucky’s eyes never left her face, steady and unblinking.

She ran her tongue over her teeth. “He deserves worse than prison.”

“Yes.”

The simple agreement startled her. She’d expected platitudes about justice, about being better than their enemies. Instead, Bucky’s face held grim understanding—the look of someone who’d weighed souls and found them wanting.

Isabelle glanced down the alley toward the street beyond. She could walk away right now. Disappear into the crowd, call Happy for extraction, be on a Stark Industries jet within the hour. Leave Sam and Bucky to deal with Zemo, with the Flag Smashers, with whatever fresh hell was brewing.

It would be so easy.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. 

Isabelle closed her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of responsibility settle across her shoulders. 

“I’m not saying I’m okay with this,” she said, opening her eyes to fix Bucky with a hard stare. “I’m really, really not. But, I’ll stay,” she continued, her voice hardening. “For now.” 

The relief on Bucky’s face was immediate and palpable, like a physical weight lifted. The tightness around his eyes softened, though the wariness didn’t wholly disappear.

“If he tries anything—”

“I’ll hold him down while you do it,” Bucky finished, his voice deadly serious.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward, not quite a smile but close. She turned on her heel. She pushed the door open, squaring her shoulders as she prepared to face the man who had once ended her life.

Behind her, Bucky’s voice came soft and sincere: “Thank you.”

The industrial district of Berlin melted into a blur of grays and browns in the rearview mirror as Sam drove the black sedan Bucky had waiting for them at the safehouse. Isabelle pressed herself into the corner of the backseat, as far from Zemo as the confined space allowed. 

She focused on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The technique Bruce had taught her, over ten years ago now, for controlling her powers when emotions threatened to overwhelm. Bucky sat rigid beside her, his body angled slightly forward, eyes locked on the back of Zemo’s head with such intensity that Isabelle half-expected the man’s hair to catch fire. 

“Turn left here,” Zemo directed, pointing toward what appeared to be a dead-end street. “The entrance is concealed.”

Sam’s jaw clenched visibly as he followed the instruction, distrust radiating from him in waves. “If this is a trap—”

“Then you would kill me,” Zemo finished smoothly. “Which would be counterproductive to my continued existence. I assure you, my self-preservation instinct remains fully intact.” 

The narrow street opened suddenly into a hidden industrial courtyard, surrounded by weathered brick buildings with blacked-out windows. Sam pulled to a stop, the engine’s purr fading to silence that felt heavier than before.

“Ah, we’re here.” Zemo stepped from the car once Sam parked it. He gestured toward the largest structure with a sweep of his hand, as if presenting a prized estate rather than a dilapidated warehouse.

Isabelle’s fingers tightened around the door handle as she pushed it open. “Let’s just get this over with,” she said, sliding out of the car and putting immediate distance between herself and Zemo. Her boots hit the ground with deliberate heaviness, a counterpoint to his silent movements. “The sooner we get what we need, the sooner we can put him back where he belongs.”

Bucky emerged behind her, his presence a solid wall at her back. She didn’t need to look to know his eyes hadn’t left Zemo since they’d arrived—tracking, calculating, ready.

“Behind bars?” Zemo asked, tilting his head slightly.

Isabelle turned fully toward him, allowing herself to really look at him for the first time since the garage. “Six feet under would be my preference.” 

Something flickered in Zemo’s eyes—not fear, but amusement. A spark of genuine humor, as if her hatred delighted him. His smile widened a fraction, revealing perfect teeth. 

“The entrance is this way,” he said, gesturing toward a rusted side door nearly invisible against the weathered brick. “After you, Ms. Stark.”

“No,” Sam cut in, stepping between them. “After me. Then Barnes. You go where I can see you, and Isabelle keeps her distance.”

Zemo inclined his head in acquiescence, but as Sam moved toward the entrance, he leaned slightly toward Isabelle, voice dropping to a near-whisper.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “your death was never personal. Just... necessary.”

Before she could respond, Bucky’s hand closed around Zemo’s upper arm, metal fingers visibly tightening. “Move,” he ordered, shoving the Sokovian forward with barely restrained force.

Zemo complied, but not before casting one last glance at Isabelle over his shoulder. The look held neither malice nor fear—just curiosity, as if she were a puzzle he was still trying to solve.

The warehouse door groaned as Sam pulled it open, the hinges protesting loudly, like a wounded animal. Zemo stepped through first, slipping past Sam. 

Isabelle watched his silhouette against the dark interior, a shadow among shadows, and felt her stomach clench.

“Allow me,” Zemo said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

A series of clicks followed, and then, light exploded outward, industrial fixtures humming to life one by one with theatrical timing. Isabelle blinked against the sudden brightness, her eyes adjusting to reveal—

Cars. Dozens of them. Row upon pristine row of gleaming automobiles arranged with museum-like precision. Vintage classics nestled alongside modern supercars, their polished surfaces throwing back fractured reflections of the overhead lights.

“Jesus,” Sam muttered beside her, “our first move is grand theft auto?”

Zemo turned, “There are all mine, actually.” He ran his fingers along the hood of a midnight-blue Aston Martin, the gesture almost loving. “My father was a collector. These have been in our family for generations.”

The casual tone—as if they were colleagues on a business trip rather than captor and prisoner—made bile rise in Isabelle’s throat. She caught Sam’s reflection in the glossy surface of a nearby Jaguar, his expression mirroring her disbelief. This is insane, flashed between them without a word being spoken.

“How comforting,” Isabelle grumbled, her brow twitching. “A war criminal with a car collection. What’s next, a wine cellar? A summer home in Monaco?”

Behind her, Bucky shifted his weight as Zemo pivoted slightly, just enough to show her his profile. 

“Both, actually,” Zemo replied, his accent wrapping around the words like silk over steel. “Though I prefer the château in Lugano when the weather turns. The light on the lake is quite spectacular in autumn.”

“I wasn’t asking for your travel blog,” she snapped, fingers curling into fists. The green glow threatened to spill between her knuckles, her control fraying with each passing second in his presence.

“No?” Zemo’s eyes flicked to her hands, noting the suppressed power there. “Perhaps you should. Travel broadens the mind, Ms. Stark. Something we could all benefit from.”

Sam stepped between them, shoulders squared. “Enough with the tourism pitch. What are we doing here? We can’t exactly take any of these on our little road trip.”

“No,” he agreed, “we cannot.” Zemo’s smile turned enigmatic, the corners of his mouth lifting. And that damned head tilt again. 

He moved through the collection with the casual confidence of ownership, his fingers trailing across hoods and fenders as if greeting old friends. 

Bucky remained a silent sentinel, tracking Zemo’s every movement with predatory focus. The plates in his metal arm recalibrated with a nearly imperceptible whir when Zemo paused at a black Mercedes, its chrome accents catching the light.

He popped the trunk with practiced ease, revealing a leather duffel bag and several garment bags. He unzipped one, pulling out a change of clothes—expensive fabrics in dark colors, the kind that didn’t draw attention but screamed money to those who knew what to look for.

“Dressing for the occasion?” Isabelle couldn’t help but quip, her eyes lingering on a trench coat with an exaggerated collar. The kind of coat that belonged in spy movies, not real operations.

Zemo’s gaze flickered to her, giving her a nod. “One must always look the part. Appearances matter more than most realize.” 

He began to change with the unselfconscious efficiency of a soldier, unbuttoning his stolen guard uniform without hesitation. Isabelle turned away, her cheeks flushing slightly with a mixture of disgust and unwanted awareness. Even with her back turned, she felt his presence like a splinter under her skin—foreign, painful, impossible to ignore.

“I spent years hunting people Hydra recruited to recreate the serum,” Zemo continued, his voice muffled briefly as fabric passed over his head. The rustle of cloth filled the silence between his words. “Because once it’s out there, once that particular genie escapes its bottle—”

She heard him zip something, the sound sharp and final.

“—People inevitably create armies of super soldiers.”

Isabelle felt his eyes on her back, and she turned slowly, muscles tensed for a fight she wasn’t supposed to start.

Zemo stood fully dressed in a tailored ensemble—dark purple turtleneck hugging his throat, pristine trench coat settling perfectly across his shoulders, slacks pressed with military precision. The guard’s uniform lay discarded on the concrete floor like a shed skin.

“Like the Avengers,” he added, his gaze locked with hers, challenging.

“We weren’t an army,” she hissed through clenched teeth. 

“No?” Zemo raised an eyebrow, the gesture somehow both polite and condescending. “Then what would you call a collection of enhanced individuals operating outside governmental oversight, answering to no authority but their own moral compass?”

Before she could answer, he turned away, moving to a canary-yellow Porsche parked at the end of the row. The color was jarring against the muted tones of the other vehicles—too bright, too cheerful for the man selecting it.

He reached inside, his body blocking her view of whatever he was retrieving. The movement was casual but deliberate, his shoulders angled just enough to obscure his actions. Isabelle took an instinctive step forward, muscles tensing.

Bucky moved in the same instant, closing the distance to Zemo in three silent strides. His metal hand shot out, fingers clamping around Zemo’s wrist just as the Sokovian withdrew something from the glove compartment.

Zemo didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His eyes—cool and calculating—flicked from Bucky’s face to the metal hand encircling his wrist, then back again.

“Easy, Sergeant Barnes,” he said, the words almost gentle, as if soothing a spooked animal. “I assure you, if I wanted to harm any of you, I would be considerably more... creative.”

He slowly rotated his captured hand, palm up, revealing what he’d withdrawn from the glove compartment—a small, folded piece of purple fabric. The movement was deliberate, theatrical even, like a magician revealing the harmlessness of his trick.

Isabelle stepped closer despite herself, drawn by the strange intensity between the two men. The warehouse lights caught the sheen of the fabric—silk, or something equally fine—as Zemo unfurled it with his free hand to reveal a simple ski mask.

“A precaution,” Zemo explained, his accent wrapping around the words like velvet over steel. “Not everyone appreciates my face these days.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, the muscle there jumping visibly. For five heartbeats, he maintained his grip, metal fingers pressing into flesh hard enough that Isabelle could see the skin whitening beneath them. Not enough to bruise, but enough to remind.

The air between them crackled with unspoken threats.

Then, with obvious reluctance, Bucky released him. His fingers uncurled one by one, the plates in his arm recalibrating with a series of soft clicks as he stepped back.

“Try that again,” Bucky said, the words barely audible, “and I’ll break it next time.”

Zemo’s mouth curved into something not quite a smile as he massaged his wrist, the motion almost absent-minded. “Noted.”

He folded the mask into his leather bag without comment, but Isabelle caught the ghost of satisfaction that flickered across his face—like he’d proven something, tested a boundary and found it exactly where he expected.

“I ended the Winter Soldier program once before,” Zemo said, his voice taking on a steely edge as he secured the bag. His eyes moved deliberately between the three of them, lingering longest on Bucky. “I have no intention of leaving my work unfinished.” He straightened his already-perfect collar, the gesture almost ritualistic. “To do this properly, we’ll have to scale a ladder of lowlifes. Each rung bringing us closer to our quarry.”

Sam crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “Well, join the party,” he said, voice flat. “We’ve already started.”

“We’re waiting on a ping from the Flag Smashers’ next location,” Isabelle said. Her phone felt heavy in her pocket—the last check with FRIDAY this morning had yielded nothing. Just static and silence where intelligence should be. “As soon as they surface, we’ll find them.”

Zemo made a sound, something between a scoff and a tut. “That will only give you this particular patch of soldiers,” he said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous care. His eyes flicked to Bucky. “As James has already surmised, we need to find the source.” The way Zemo wielded familiarity like a weapon was almost as dangerous as his tactical brilliance. “First stop is a woman named Selby. She’s a mid-level fence, but I still have a line on her. From there, we climb.”

Isabelle caught Sam’s eye across the warehouse floor. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard with caution. She shifted her gaze to Bucky, and beneath his vigilance, she caught his determination. Desperation, even. 

Isabelle’s stomach knotted. She’d seen that look before—on her father’s face, in the moments before he’d make a decision that would either save everyone or destroy everything.

“Alright,” Sam finally said, each syllable heavy with reluctance. He stepped closer to Zemo, using his height to full advantage as he looked down at the Sokovian. “But remember what I said. You don’t make a move without our say-so.”

Zemo inclined his head in acknowledgment, the gesture almost courtly in its precision. “Of course.” His eyes, however, remained cold and calculating. “Shall we begin?”

 And then he moved toward the exit, a man who knew exactly where all the pieces on the board were positioned.

Isabelle felt the green energy pulse beneath her skin, responding to the adrenaline coursing through her veins. One push, one moment of lost control, and she could end this—end him—before they took another step into whatever web he was weaving.

Her fingers tingled with potential.

Sam’s hand settled on her shoulder, grounding her. “Eyes forward,” he said quietly. “We do this together.”

She exhaled slowly, and she nodded. Reluctantly. 

As they stepped through the doorway after Zemo, Isabelle couldn’t shake the sensation that they were walking onto a tightrope stretched across an abyss. One misstep, one moment of misplaced trust, and they would plummet into darkness.

She only hoped they wouldn’t fall.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over Berlin’s horizon, casting long gold shadows across the private airstrip. Before them sat a sleek private jet, its polished exterior gleaming against the darkening sky. An elderly man in an immaculate black suit stood at the base of the stairs, arms behind his back, gaze impassive.

“Okay,” Isabelle muttered, crossing her arms, a nervous energy buzzed, “we’re not seriously about to hijack a jet, are we? Because if transportation was the issue, my family has jets. Plural.”

Zemo was already halfway up the stairs, moving like a man who belonged exactly where he was. He paused, turning to look at her over his shoulder. The fading sunlight caught his face at an angle, highlighting the faint curve of his lips.

“Ms. Stark,” he said, voice silky with mock offense, “you wound me deeply. Do I strike you as a man who would stoop to something as crude as hijacking?” He gestured toward the plane with an elegant flick of his wrist. “I curate.”

Sam looked between the plane and Zemo, then back to Isabelle. The confusion on his face shifted to disbelief. “Wait—” Sam’s voice dropped an octave. “You own a plane?”

Zemo didn’t break stride as he continued up the stairs. 

“I’m a Baron, Sam,” he replied. The words were flat, matter-of-fact, but carried an edge sharp enough to cut. “My family held wealth and land long before Sokovia was turned to ash.” A beat of heavy silence. “Courtesy of your colleagues.”

Zemo turned, heading up the steps. 

“Ah, Oeznik, so good to see you, my friend,” He greeted the older man at the stairs. They exchanged cheek kisses like old diplomats. With a fluid gesture, Zemo motioned toward the aircraft. “Please. Let’s continue this charming debate in the air. Time, after all, is not something I take for granted.”

Sam hung back for a second, his gaze dragging across the jet like it might explode on contact. “Man,” he muttered, rubbing his face, climbing the steps, disappearing into the cabin. “I can’t believe I’m about to get on a plane with Zemo.” 

Bucky turned to Isabelle, the wind tugging lightly at his hair. He nodded toward the jet’s entrance. Isabelle huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh and wasn’t quite a laugh. Something in between—the sound of someone who’d long since given up being surprised by the absurdity of her life. 

“Fuck off,” she grumbled, gripping the cool metal railing, feeling the subtle vibration of the idling engines through her fingertips as she climbed. “As if I didn’t hate flying enough already.” 

Charcoal leather seats gleamed in the cabin’s ambient lighting, each one looking soft enough to swallow her whole. Polished wood paneling lined the walls, and recessed lights cast everything in a warm amber glow that felt like a lie. Pretty packaging for a dangerous situation.

Typical. 

She slid into a window seat, the leather yielding beneath her. Bucky entered last, his frame filling the doorway momentarily before he ducked inside. He lowered himself into the seat beside her, on the other side of the aisle. 

Across, Zemo folded himself into the seat directly opposite Isabelle, not in front of Bucky as she’d expected. The choice was deliberate. Strategic. Psychological warfare at 40,000 feet. He crossed one leg over the other, the movement elegant and controlled, like everything else about him.

Sam dropped heavily into the seat across from Bucky. He stretched his legs out with exaggerated casualness, but Isabelle caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept darting to the cockpit.

“So,” Sam said, clapping his hands together once, the sound sharp in the hushed cabin, “anyone wanna bet how many secret lairs this guy’s got stashed across the globe?” He jerked his thumb toward Zemo. “I’m gonna say twelve. One for each time he’s tried to manipulate someone in the last twenty-four hours.”

“You’re lowballing,” Isabelle smirked, meeting Sam’s eyes. “I’d put it at fifteen, minimum.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched at the corners—that almost-smile she’d started to recognize.

“I assure you,” Zemo said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. His eyebrows lifted in practiced amusement. “My holdings are far more diverse than mere ‘lairs.’“ He pronounced the word with delicate distaste. “Though I must admit, the concept of a Monday-specific hideout is... charming.”

The engines roared to life beneath them, a deep mechanical purr that Isabelle felt first in her boots, then crawling up her calves and settling in her chest. Oeznik returned from the back of the plane, carrying a silver tray balanced in one hand, a crystal flute of pale gold champagne perched on it like a jewel.

“Ah, impeccable as always,” Zemo murmured, accepting the glass with a slight incline of his head. His fingers wrapped around the delicate stem, lifting the glass slightly. His gaze swept across the cabin like a searchlight, lingering a half-second too long on each of them before moving on. 

“Would anyone care to join me? The vintage is...” His tongue clicked softly against the roof of his mouth, “...exceptional. Château Margaux, 1995. A particularly good year for France, if not for the rest of the world.”

“I’m good,” Sam said flatly. He folded his arms across his chest, shoulders squared, jaw set. “I don’t drink with people who monologue mid-murder.”

Bucky didn’t even bother to respond. He only stared out the window. Only the slight flex of his metal fingers betrayed any reaction at all—a ripple of silver, then stillness.

“No.” Isabelle dropped her gaze to the carpet beneath her feet. Geometric patterns in muted grays and blues, probably worth more than most people’s monthly rent.

Zemo swirled the champagne once, twice. The liquid caught the cabin’s amber lighting, spinning gold against crystal. 

“But Ms. Stark,” he said, voice low and smooth as silk, “I imagine your palate is quite refined. Surely there’s something aboard that meets your standards.” His eyes glinted. “Your father favored Macallan, did he not? Aged thirty years, if I recall correctly.”

“How do you know—” 

She stopped herself as his words slid between her ribs like a blade, precise and cold. The casual mention of her father, what he liked, what he drank, in Zemo’s mouth felt like a violation. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into flesh. She looked up, meeting his gaze directly. Her eyes locked with his. Dark against light, fire against ice.

“Don’t,” she said softly. 

Not a request. 

A warning. 

Zemo’s smile curved, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if her refusal was exactly what he’d been fishing for. As if her reaction delighted him.

“Hey,” Sam leaned forward in his seat, his voice light in that dangerous ‘calm before the storm’ way, “How ‘bout we skip the cocktail mind games and focus on why we’re actually here?”

Bucky’s head turned slowly from the window, his attention now fully on Zemo, watching with the focused intensity of a predator tracking movement in tall grass.

Zemo’s smile faded a fraction, not disappearing completely but thinning at the edges. He set the glass down on the small table beside him with a soft clink that echoed in the sudden silence. His fingers tightened around the stem for a heartbeat before letting go, a momentary tell that Sam’s interruption had landed.

“Of course,” Zemo said, leaning back in his seat. “Always so... focused, Sam. It’s admirable, truly.” His gaze slid to Isabelle again. “My apologies, Ms. Stark,” he said, each syllable polished smooth. “You must understand, being in such close quarters with you...” He tilted his head slightly, studying her face like it was a puzzle he was assembling. “…is difficult, you could say.” 

His fingers traced the stem of the untouched champagne flute, a casual gesture that somehow felt like a threat.

“Ultron took everything from me.” The words came out soft but landed hard. “My wife. My son. My father.” His accent thickened slightly, the only crack in his perfect composure. “All buried under a mountain.”

The cabin suddenly felt airless. Isabelle’s lungs seized, her throat closing around words that wouldn’t come. She could feel Bucky’s eyes on her, feel the heat radiating from him across the aisle—tension made physical.

“I—” Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard, tasting something bitter at the back of her throat. “I’m sorry.” The words felt pathetically inadequate, dust thrown against a hurricane. “My dad…he thought he was doing the right thing.”

Zemo’s smile was a thin, bloodless thing. His eyes never warmed, never softened—twin points of ice in a perfectly composed face. “And look where he ended up.”

The words sliced through the cabin, clean and cruel, bouncing off the walls of her skull. 

Dead. 

That’s where her father ended up. Dead and gone and dust, while she sat in a luxury jet with the man who’d helped tear the Avengers apart.

She caught Bucky watching her, his expression unreadable except for the slight furrow between his brows. She heard the subtle whir of vibranium plates recalibrating as his metal fist clenched.

The jet began to take off, accelerating and pressing her deeper into her seat. Zemo leaned back, lifting the crystal flute to his lips. He took a slow sip, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction as the jet’s nose tilted upward. He looked like a man who’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

Sam’s jaw clenched, the muscle working beneath his skin. His eyes narrowed to slits, following Zemo’s every movement like a hawk tracking prey. 

“Why don’t you tell us about where we’re going,” Sam said, patience clearly hanging by a thread, “and cut this bullshit?”

Zemo’s lips twitched. He set his champagne flute down with a soft clink against the polished wood table. His hand disappeared inside his coat, the fabric rustling softly against whatever was hidden there. Isabelle tensed instantly, her hand curling into a fist. Across the aisle, Bucky went perfectly still, his eyes never leaving Zemo’s hand.

The Baron extracted a small leather-bound book, worn at the edges, its spine cracked with use. The tension in the cabin remained thick as he thumbed through it with exaggerated interest, the soft flutter of pages the only sound besides the hum of the engines.

Sam cleared his throat pointedly. “You hard of hearing now too?”

Zemo looked up, eyes wide with practiced innocence. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, voice dripping with false sincerity. He extracted something from between the pages—a smaller notebook, its cover faded and battered, edges softened by time and handling. He held it up between two fingers like a playing card. “I was just fascinated by this.”

Recognition hit Isabelle. The small, weathered notebook dangling from Zemo’s fingers—it was Steve’s. 

Zemo’s gaze slid from the notebook to Bucky.

 “I don’t know what to call it,” he said, tapping a finger against an open page, his nail making a soft clicking sound against the paper. “But this part seems to be important.” His eyebrows arched with theatrical curiosity. “Who is Nakajima?” His eyes pivoted to Isabelle next.  “Also, this is rather curious. Your name is on this list, too, Ms. Stark.”

In one moment, Bucky had been sat, planted firm in his seat, and then the next, he was a blur of motion. 

His vibranium hand closed around Zemo’s throat, the impact slamming the Baron back. His head bounced against the leather headrest with a dull thud that Isabelle felt in her own skull. The champagne flute toppled, spilling gold across polished wood, dripping onto the carpet in slow, silent drops. 

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her pulse hammered against her ribcage as Bucky leaned in, his face inches from Zemo’s. The cabin lights caught the sharp edge of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his eyes. This wasn’t the quiet, brooding man she was coming to know. This was something else. Something breaking through carefully constructed restraints. 

“If you touch that again,” Bucky growled, each word sharper than the last, “I’ll kill you.” 

A shiver raced down Isabelle’s spine—not entirely from fear. The raw power in his voice, the absolute certainty behind the threat…it stirred something in her she wasn’t prepared to name. Her mouth went dry. She watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s mental fingers flexed against Zemo’s throat, the plates recalibrating with soft mechanical whispers that somehow cut through the roar of blood in her ears. 

Zemo’s face had gone chalk-white, eyes bulging as he pawed uselessly at Bucky’s wrist. The notebook slipped from his fingers, hitting the carpet. 

Isabelle’s body instinctively prepared to move, though whether to pull Bucky back or help him finish the job, she wasn’t entirely sure. Her powers hummed beneath her skin, responding to the surge of adrenaline, to the electric tension filling the small space. 

With a sharp, disgusted motion, Bucky released his grip, shoving Zemo back. The Baron gasped, a wet, desperate sound that filled the cabin. Isabelle couldn’t tear her eyes away from the angry red imprints left by metal fingers on his throat—perfect outlines of exactly where Bucky could have crushed his windpipe. 

“Bucky—” Sam started, voice tight with warning. 

“It’s not yours,” Bucky cut Sam off, ignoring him. 

His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, the only visible sign of his rage. He bent down, snatching the fallen notebook from the floor and tucking it inside his jacket with a protective gesture that seemed almost tender compared to the violence of seconds before. 

His eyes never left Zemo’s face, tracking every minute movement like a sniper calculating when to take the shot. “It’s not yours to read.” 

Isabelle realized she’d been holding her breath only when her lungs began to burn. She exhaled slowly, silently, acutely aware of how the temperature in the cabin seemed to rise ten degrees. 

Zemo massaged his throat, fingertips pressing into the tender flesh. He coughed once, but despite everything, his composure reassembled itself with unsettling speed, like a magic trick in reverse, or broken pieces snapping back into place before her eyes. 

 Isabelle knew she should say something. Break the tension, defuse the situation. But the words wouldn’t come. All she could think about was the lethal grace in Bucky’s movements, the absolute certainty in his threat.

And how, God help her, some small, dark part of her had wanted to see him follow through.

“I see I’ve touched a nerve,” Zemo rasped, straightening his collar. 

But Isabelle couldn’t focus on him. Her eyes were now fixed on the spot where Bucky had tucked Steve’s notebook. Where her name apparently resided alongside others. The cabin seemed to shrink around her, air thinning. 

“I apologize,” Zemo said, the words lacking his usual polish. “That was…tactless of me.” He inhaled carefully, testing the limits of his bruised throat. “I understand what that list represents. People you’ve wronged as the Winter Soldier.” 

Her heart stuttered. 

People he had wronged. Her grandparents. Howard and Maria Stark. The car crash. And all the chain of events in her life that followed. 

Isabelle’s gaze snapped to Bucky. His eyes met hers across the narrow aisle. Blue-gray eyes full of guilt so raw it made her chest ache something fierce. His jaw worked silently, lips parting then closing without sound. His flesh hand trembled before clenching into a white-knuckled fist.

Isabelle turned away, unable to bear the naked anguish on Bucky’s face. The window offered escape, the endless expanse of clouds, painted in violent oranges and reds by the setting sun. Like blood spreading through water. 

Sam leaned forward, inserting himself between them like a human buffer. His elbows came to rest on his knees, shoulders squared but posture deliberately open. The peacemaker. The mediator. The only one thinking clearly. “That notebook,” he said, “that was Steve’s, right?” 

Bucky’s hand moved to his jacket, fingers pressing against the outline beneath the fabric. The gesture was possessive, almost tender. Isabelle watched his grip tighten, then relax. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said with a rough nod. 

“I gave it to him,” Isabelle said. The words emerged before she could catch them. “After New York.”

She could still feel the weight of it in her hands. The smooth leather cover, the crisp blank pages with their faint blue lines. The bookstore had been small, tucked between a coffee shop and a vintage record store. 

“Everything was so new to him,” she continued, throat tightening. “Everyone kept throwing information at him. History, technology, pop culture. It was overwhelming him.” 

Bucky’s eyes found hers across the aisle again, something vulnerable flickering in their depths.

“So I bought him that,” she said. “Wrote down a few things to start with. Movies, music, food he should try.” She huffed a small laugh that felt more like a wound opening. 

The memory crystallized – Steve’s face lighting up as she’d handed him the small notebook. The way his fingers had traced the edges reverently, like she’d given him something precious instead of just a $12 journal from a bookstore.

“He carried it everywhere after that,” she said, the ache in her chest expanding. 

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “He gave it to me. After...” He trailed off, jaw working silently.

The word hung in the air. 

After Steve left. 

After he chose Peggy. 

After he abandoned them all for a life seventy years in the past.

Sam frowned, but kept his eyes warm, looking between Isabelle and Bucky. “First day I met him, I told him about Trouble Man.” His eyes stood on Bucky, something tentative but genuine crossing his face. “Marvin Gaye. He wrote it in that book.” His eyebrow lifted. “Did you listen to it? What’d you think?” 

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders hunched slightly. “I like ‘40s music, so,” he muttered, gaze dropping to the floor. 

Sam’s mouth fell open, eyes widening with exaggerated horror. “You didn’t like it?” 

“I liked it,” Bucky snapped, defensive as a cornered cat. 

“It is a masterpiece, James,” Zemo said, voice silky despite the damage. His fingers traced absent patterns on the armrest. “Complete. Comprehensive.” Each word rolled off his tongue with practiced precision. “It captures the African-American experience.”

Sam turned to Zemo, bewilderment flickering across his features before settling into reluctant agreement. “What...” He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “He’s out of line, but he’s right.” The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. “It’s great. Everyone loves Marvin Gaye.”

“I like Marvin Gaye,” Bucky mumbled, gaze fixed on the darkening sky outside. The clouds had turned deep purple as they climbed higher, the last rays of sunlight catching on the wing.

“Steve adored Marvin Gaye,” Sam added, voice softening.

A sudden giggle escaped Isabelle’s lips, surprising even herself. The sound felt foreign in her throat after so much tension.

“When we all moved into the tower,” she said, warmth spreading through her chest at the memory, “Steve was always playing Marvin Gaye in the gym. Like, always.” She could still see him, sweaty and focused, punching to the rhythm of ‘What’s Going On.’ “I tried to get him into other stuff, but he always liked Sam’s music taste better than mine.”

Sam grinned, settling back with a smug expression. “Well, that’s because you like all that metal and rock shit,” he teased, hands gesturing broadly. “You gotta work Steve slow, ease him into it.”

“It’s not like I started him with Motley Crue, or like, Dio,” Isabelle shot back, a defensive heat creeping up her neck. Her fingers splayed, hands moving as fast as her thoughts. “I had a system. A curriculum.” 

She leaned forward, elbows on knees, suddenly invested in making them understand. “You start with the Beatles, obviously. Then Creedence, Blondie, Bowie—build the foundation before you hit the heavy stuff.” 

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes sharpening with unexpected focus. “Creedence?” The name rolled off his tongue like he was testing the feel of it. “They sang that rain song, right?”

Something electric shot through Isabelle’s chest. She straightened, her body gravitating toward him without conscious thought.

“Yes!” The word burst from her like she’d been holding her breath. “‘Have You Ever Seen the Rain?’ God, that’s literally my favorite song ever. The Ramones cover is also amazing too.”

Her fingers tapped out the rhythm on her thigh without her even realizing it, the familiar beat as natural as her own heartbeat. She could almost hear John Fogerty’s voice in her head, clear as a bell.

Bucky’s face transformed. Not the polite half-smile he sometimes offered, but something genuine, a slight curve of his lips that reached his eyes, softening the hard edges.

“Steve wrote that one down,” he said quietly. “Said it reminded him of Brooklyn. The good parts.”

Isabelle couldn’t fight the grin that spread across her face, couldn’t tamp down the ridiculous surge of pride. That was her recommendation. Her song. Something that had mattered to Steve enough that he’d written it down, treasured it, and passed it on.

 Zemo shifted in his seat, eyes fixed on Isabelle again. She felt his gaze like a physical touch, cataloging her smile, her posture, the way her fingers had stopped their nervous tapping. 

“You must have been close to Captain Rogers,” Zemo said, each word a carefully placed chess piece.

The warmth drained from Isabelle’s face like water down a drain. Her smile collapsed, muscles going slack before tightening into something defensive.

“I was,” she said, the two words hanging in the air like orphaned things.

Her fingers resumed their restless movement, tracing invisible circuits on the armrest. The leather felt cool beneath her fingertips, then warm, then cool again as her body temperature fluctuated with her rising unease. She could feel Bucky’s eyes on her, a weight as tangible as a hand on her shoulder.

She offered nothing more, her teeth clicking together with finality.

Zemo nodded slowly, his expression softening into something that might have looked like genuine understanding on anyone else’s face. On his, it was a mask slipped over calculation. His fingers drummed a soft, steady rhythm against the leather armrest—one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four—hypnotic, deliberate.

“I realized something when I met him,” he said, his voice taking on a contemplative tone that sent warning signals flaring through Isabelle’s brain like emergency flares. “The danger with people like him, like you, the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes—” the words curled with subtle mockery, his tongue caressing each syllable like a venomous snake “—is that we put them all on pedestals.”

Sam’s body tensed, and Isabelle caught the subtle shift in his posture. Weight forward, hands uncurling, preparing. “Watch your step, Zemo,” he hissed. 

But Zemo continued as if Sam hadn’t spoken, his voice gaining momentum. “They become symbols, icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws.” His eyes gleamed with a fervor that made Isabelle’s skin prickle with goosebumps. “From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought.”

His gaze shifted to Bucky, who had gone completely still. Not even his chest moved with breath.

“You remember that, don’t you?” Zemo asked, his voice deceptively soft, like a knife wrapped in silk. “As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon?”

The temperature in the cabin plummeted like someone had opened a hatch to the stratosphere. Isabelle felt her heartbeat quicken, her blood heating beneath her skin in direct contrast to the chill in the air. Her powers stirred, responding to the surge of emotion—anger, protectiveness, fear, all swirling together like oil and water, refusing to mix.

“Are you seriously comparing Steve Rogers to the Red Skull?” She leaned forward, fingers digging into the leather armrests until her knuckles blanched white. “Because that’s a really fucking stupid thing to do in present company.”

Zemo’s lips curved into a humorless smile. 

“Your words, not mine,” he replied. He raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Though the question remains valid. Do we want to keep living in a world full of people like the Red Skull?”

His voice dropped lower, taking on that hypnotic quality that made Isabelle’s skin crawl. His gaze locked onto Sam’s, intense and unwavering, like a snake with its prey. 

“That is why we’re going to Madripoor.”

Sam’s face hardened into something dangerous. The look he got right before dropping someone from three thousand feet.

“You know,” Sam said, voice dripping with sarcasm sharp enough to draw blood, “for someone who claims to hate symbols so much, you sure love your dramatic speeches.” He leaned back, arms crossed. “What’s next, a PowerPoint presentation on the evils of heroism? And what’s Madripoor? You talk about it like it’s Skull Island or something.”

“Island nation in the Indonesian archipelago.” Bucky’s voice pulled her and Sam’s attention. Something shifted in him—shoulders squaring, spine straightening, eyes going flat. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable. “Pirate sanctuary back in the 1800s.”

“It’s kept its lawless ways,” Zemo added, excitement bleeding through his controlled facade. “We cannot exactly walk in as ourselves.” His gaze locked onto Bucky, deliberate and pointed. “James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.”

Bucky tensed, and Isabelle saw it, along with what Zemo was implying. Heat surged beneath her skin, power humming through her veins.

“No,” she snapped, the word like a whip crack in the confined space. “Absolutely not.”

Zemo’s expression softened to something almost paternal, which only stoked her fury higher. “Ms. Stark, I’m afraid you don’t understand what Madripoor is. It’s not a place for Avengers or heroes. It’s where only the most dangerous are respected.”

“I know exactly what you’re suggesting.” Her voice dropped low, dangerous. “You want him to be the Winter Soldier again.”

The weight of Bucky’s hand, his flesh one, landed on her forearm. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it anchored her instantly. His skin was warmer than she expected, calloused fingertips rough against her sleeve. When she met his eyes, something complicated swam in their depths—resignation, determination, and something else she couldn’t name.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice pitched for her alone. His thumb brushed once, twice against her sleeve—a gesture so small she might have imagined it. “I knew this was coming.”

The quiet certainty in his voice made her chest constrict. 

“It’s not okay,” she insisted, leaning closer, their shoulders nearly touching. “This is exactly what he wants. To prove you’re still what they made you.”

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched.

“I know what he’s doing,” he said, his fingers remaining on her arm, not gripping, just resting there. “But if this gets us to who is supplying the Flag Smashers—”

“If I may,” Zemo cut in, leaning forward, his accent thickening slightly. “The Winter Soldier is not just a weapon, Ms. Stark.”

Isabelle’s skin crawled at the way he said it, like he was discussing a particularly interesting museum exhibit.

“He is a ghost story,” Zemo continued, eyes gleaming with something that made her want to punch him. “In Madripoor, such a reputation opens doors that would otherwise remain firmly closed.” His gaze slid between them, calculating every micro-expression, every tensed muscle. “And doors, I’m afraid, are precisely what we need.”

“Okay fine, you’re obsessed with doors, but let’s be clear about something,” Sam narrowed his eyes at Zemo. “Nobody’s becoming anything. We’re playing parts to get information, that’s it.” He leaned back, his casual posture doing nothing to hide the steel in his voice. “And you’re on the shortest leash imaginable.” 

“Of course,” Zemo agreed, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I am merely your humble guide through the underworld.”

Isabelle snorted, the sound harsh and loud in the cabin’s hush. “Yeah, and Dante was just a tour guide, too.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Bucky’s face. His hand slipped from her arm, leaving a phantom warmth behind that lingered like an afterimage. She caught herself missing the contact and immediately shut that thought down.

“So what’s the actual plan?” she asked, forcing her attention back to the problem at hand. The engines hummed beneath them. “We land in Madripoor, and then what? Start asking around about super-soldiers? Because that seems like a great way to get ourselves killed.”

She could picture it already—the four of them walking into some seedy bar, Sam asking too-direct questions while Bucky loomed silently, and her trying not to accidentally poison everyone when things inevitably went sideways.

“We’ll need disguises,” Sam said, his tactical mind already mapping out contingencies. “New identities.”

“I have that covered,” Zemo replied, each word smooth as polished stone. “For all of you.”

Something in his tone made the hair on the back of Isabelle’s neck stand up. How he looked at her made it seem like he was already ten moves ahead in a game she didn’t even know they were playing. 

Which, of course, he was.

His eyes lingered on her face a beat too long, head tilting slightly as if seeing something new. The smile that followed was small and knowing, like he’d just solved a particularly satisfying puzzle.

“I believe, Ms. Stark,” he said softly, “that you’ll find your role particularly... illuminating.”

Chapter Text

The neon-soaked streets of Madripoor pulsed with life as Isabelle, Sam, Bucky, and Zemo stepped out into the humid night air. Garish signs flickered in a dizzying array of colors—electric blue, toxic green, bleeding crimson—casting an otherworldly glow that transformed ordinary faces into something alien and dangerous. The air hung thick with the scent of spices, sweat, and something metallic that reminded Isabelle too much of blood.

Isabelle blinked rapidly, the brown contacts making her eyes feel dry and foreign in their sockets. A small discomfort compared to everything else.

 She reached up to adjust the deep red wig that clung to her scalp next, the synthetic strands slipping between her fingers. Nothing about this disguise felt right—not the wig, not the low-cut dress that restricted her movement, not the heels that would make running a nightmare if things went south. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Zemo murmured, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of distant music, raucous laughter, and angry shouts that echoed between buildings. “You’ll draw attention.”

Isabelle clenched her fists at her sides to stop herself from reaching up to scratch the maddening itch where the adhesive met her skin. Her face felt heavy, masked beneath layers of foundation, dark eyeshadow, and blood-red lipstick that made her mouth feel sticky when she spoke.

The memory of their exchange on the plane still burned in her mind.

“You are, of course, a recognizable face,” Zemo had said as they prepared to land. He’d been removing a sleek silver case from an overhead compartment, setting it down with deliberate care. “Fortunately, I came prepared.” 

When he’d clicked open the case, revealing the crimson wig, the dress, the makeup kit, something cold had slithered down Isabelle’s spine. 

Now, as they wove their way through the crowded streets, Isabelle couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she should’ve waited on the plane. Every step deeper into this neon hellscape felt like walking willingly into a trap that Zemo had laid specifically for her. 

A man stumbled against her shoulder, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. Before she could react, Bucky’s metal hand shot out, creating space between them with a firm push that sent the drunk staggering backward. 

Isabelle shot him a thankful look, even though she could’ve handled it alone. She smoothed down her tight black dress, the hem riding uncomfortably high on her thighs. The soft fur of her coat brushed against her bare shoulders as she adjusted it.

Bucky’s eyes met hers, and she forced her lips into what she hoped was a reassuring smile, ignoring the flutter of anxiety in her chest. His eyes softened slightly, but the worry remained, his gaze sweeping the crowd around them with practiced vigilance. 

The Winter Soldier was on full display tonight—tactical gear, haunted eyes, metal arm gleaming menacingly under the neon lights. Zemo’s personal guard dog, at least for appearances. Isabelle noticed how the crowd parted for them, or more accurately, for Bucky, the Winter Soldier. People stepped back, conversations halting mid-sentence, eyes following them with a mixture of fear and calculation.

“What even is this?” Sam muttered beside her, tugging at the collar of his ridiculous dark red suit for the tenth time in as many minutes. The yellow lines crisscrossing the fabric caught the light, making him look like a walking traffic sign. “Why am I the only one who looks like a damn pimp?”

Isabelle snorted, grateful for the momentary distraction from her own discomfort. “Try being the hooker next time,” she said, the lipstick making her lips stick together slightly as she spoke.

“You look exactly like Conrad Mack, the Smiling Tiger,” Zemo replied, keeping his attention forward as he guided them through the streets. 

“Perfect my ass,” Sam shot back, but he dropped his hands from the flashy suit, squaring his shoulders with the resigned dignity of a man who’d endured worse indignities. 

Zemo’s attention shifted to Isabelle, his gaze traveling over her disguise with an appraising coolness that made her want to cross her arms over her chest. He leaned closer, cologne mixing with the leather of his coat. 

“And you,” he said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I wouldn’t cast you as something so... pedestrian. You’re not a hooker.”

Isabelle arched an eyebrow. The smirk on his face confirmed what she’d heard in his tone—he was enjoying this far too much. “So what am I then? Your secretary?” 

“My companion,” Zemo corrected. His expression remained carefully neutral despite the amusement dancing in his eyes. 

“So... a hooker,” Isabelle deadpanned, edged with the irritation that had been building since he’d presented her with the disguise.

Zemo sighed, the sound barely audible over the thumping bass from a nearby club. “No. My protégé.” His eyes hardened slightly, the playfulness vanishing like a switch had been flipped. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Your name is Camilia. Remember it. And stand straighter,” Zemo instructed, his hand suddenly at the small of her back. 

The touch was light but commanding, his fingers pressing against the thin fabric of her dress. Her spine stiffened reflexively, a visceral response to both the unexpected contact and the authority in his voice. 

“Shoulders back. You’re not some frightened tourist. You belong here.”

She resisted the urge to shrug away from his touch, to create distance between them. Instead, she forced her chin up, mimicking the confident stance she’d seen Natasha adopt countless times on missions. 

Fake it till you make it, she thought, swallowing down the grief that threatened to rise like bile in her throat. 

“Better,” Zemo murmured, his approval somehow making her skin crawl more than his criticism. His hand remained at her back for a beat too long before falling away.

Bucky’s eyes caught hers from where he stood slightly behind Zemo, a silent question in them. The blue of his irises looked almost black in the harsh neon light, but the concern was unmistakable. She gave him a barely perceptible nod. I’m fine.

“So where exactly are we headed?” Sam asked, his voice tight with irritation as a drunk woman whistled at him from across the street. 

“The Princess Bar,” Zemo replied, nodding toward a building at the end of the block where a neon crown flickered in shades of pink and gold. “Where all the real business in Madripoor happens.”

They continued down the street, Isabelle’s heels clicking against the damp pavement. Vendors lined the narrow thoroughfare, their makeshift stalls spilling out onto the walkway, forcing their group to navigate single-file through certain sections.

As they approached the Princess Bar, two bouncers flanking the entrance came into view. Both men were built like brick walls, their faces impassive beneath the pulsing neon. The taller one’s hand rested casually on what looked like a modified pulse weapon strapped to his thigh—illegal in most countries, but apparently standard issue in Madripoor.

Zemo extended his arm toward Isabelle, palm up, fingers relaxed in practiced elegance. Isabelle stared at the offered arm like he’d offered her a venomous snake in a silk glove. 

Every instinct screamed to recoil, but instead, she swallowed the revulsion rising in her throat. The muscles in her face fought against her as she dragged her gaze up from his hand to meet his eyes. She molded her features into what she hoped resembled desire, or at least something adjacent to it, her lips curving upward while her stomach twisted.

“Only because this dress doesn’t have pockets,” she purred, voice dripping with honeyed venom. 

She slipped her arm through his, the fine wool of his coat sleeve rough against her bare skin. His body heat radiated through the fabric, uncomfortably intimate. 

To her left, Bucky went completely still. Not the casual stillness of someone waiting, but the predatory immobility of a hunter tracking movement. She caught it from the corner of her eye—the sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw locked so tight she could almost hear his teeth grinding.

But his vibranium fingers betrayed him. They twitched once, a barely perceptible movement that spoke volumes. Isabelle recognized the aborted gesture for what it was—the instinct to reach out, to intervene, forcibly suppressed.

The taller bouncer straightened, his gaze sliding from Zemo to Bucky and back again. His eyes narrowed at the Winter Soldier—threat assessment—before widening slightly when they settled on Zemo. The recognition was immediate, followed by a flicker of fear that quickly morphed into something like reverence.

 The taller one nodded almost imperceptibly and stepped aside, his movement fluid despite his bulk. He pulled the heavy door open, bass-heavy music exploding into the night. 

Isabelle felt Bucky’s eyes burning into her back as she crossed the threshold, his gaze both a warning and a promise. The weight of his attention should have been uncomfortable, but instead, it anchored her as she walked into a den of predators with nothing but a wig, a dress, and a fabricated smile as weapons.

But somehow, Bucky’s attention felt safer than being alone with Zemo’s arm around her waist, his fingers splayed possessively against her hip as he guided her deeper into the pulsing heart of the Princess Bar.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” Zemo chastised, his hand still settled at the small of her back. His touch was feather-light but unmistakably proprietary. Five fingers splayed, heat bleeding through the material and into her skin. 

 Isabelle’s muscles coiled tight beneath the contact, her body registering the intrusion before her mind could process it fully.

“Relax,” he murmured, lips barely moving beside her ear. “No one will believe you’re my protégé if you look like you’re being marched to execution.”

Isabelle forced her shoulders to drop a fraction, but her jaw remained clenched behind her painted smile. She tilted her head toward him, batting mascara-heavy lashes and summoning every ounce of acting ability she possessed.

“Better?” she whispered, the words dripping with false sweetness and barely concealed venom.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Much.”

Inside the Princess Bar hung thick with the scent of cheap whiskey and expensive cologne, cigarette smoke layering over sweat and something else Isabelle couldn’t place. Bodies pressed against each other in the dim space, conversations shouted over music that vibrated through the floorboards and up into her bones. 

“This place is a health code violation with a liquor license,” Sam muttered from her right, his eyes scanning the room and landing on a wall of monkey skulls. Dozens of empty eye sockets stared back at him, their jaws frozen in silent screams, teeth bared in eternal grimaces.

“Welcome to Madripoor,” Zemo replied, sounding entirely too pleased.

They moved further into the bar, Zemo’s persistent hand guiding her. At the counter, a bartender with a groomed beard and sleeve tattoos worked. Too hipster for a den of criminals, Isabelle thought as she watched his hands glide over bottles. 

When he spotted them approaching, his hands faltered—just for a millisecond, but Isabelle caught it. Recognition flickered across his features before being carefully masked behind professional indifference. The muscles around his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.

“What’s your poison?” he asked, his accent distinctly American—Midwestern, maybe Chicago. The question sounded casual, but his gaze lingered on Zemo a beat too long.

Zemo leaned against the bar with calculated nonchalance, one elbow resting on the polished surface as if he’d claimed it. “Whiskey,” he replied, his voice dropping to a silky purr that carried just far enough to be overheard by those nearby. 

The bartender’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once, sharp and quick.

Zemo turned to Isabelle, his hand sliding from the small of her back to rest possessively at her waist. “And for the lady?” The question dripped with performative affection.

Isabelle fought the urge to shrug away from his touch. Instead, she met the bartender’s eyes directly, refusing to play the simpering ‘companion’. “Strongest Vodka you got,” she said, her voice steady and clear. “Neat.”

The bartender nodded, a slight furrow appearing between his brows as he studied her face. 

“Vodka?” Zemo’s eyebrow arched, honest surprise breaking through his calculated facade. His fingers flexed against her waist. “I would have pegged you for something sweeter.” The observation carried a hint of genuine interest that unsettled her more than his performance.

“I’m full of surprises,” Isabelle replied with a sneer. 

Sam then slid into place beside her, leaning in to create the illusion of casual conversation.  “We’ve got eyes on us,” he muttered. His smile never faltered, teeth flashing white against his skin as he spoke through it. “Three o’clock. Big guy with the gold teeth.”

Isabelle forced a laugh. High, musical, completely unlike her own. She threw her head back slightly, using the movement to scan the room. 

The man Sam indicated dominated a corner booth like a king holding court. His massive frame strained against a pristine white suit, the fabric pulled taut across shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. Gold chains layered across his chest caught the neon lights with every breath, matching the gold caps that flashed when he smiled. Three men flanked him, their postures too stiff, jackets bulging in ways that screamed concealed weapons.

When her eyes met his, he didn’t look away or pretend he hadn’t been watching. Instead, he lifted his glass in a mocking toast, his gaze sliding down her body with antagonizing slowness. His eyes lingered on her exposed thighs, her neckline, before returning to her face with an expression that said he’d cataloged every inch for future reference.

Her powers pulsed in response, a dangerous surge that she tamped down with practiced control. The familiar sensation of sickness coiled in her palms, begging for release. She curled her fingers into fists, pressing crimson nails into her palms until the feeling subsided.

For one terrible second, her stomach twisted. Had they already been made? Was this a warning look, or something worse? Her heart beat faster.

She shifted closer to Zemo on instinct, feigning intimacy, as if proximity could shield her. “Who is he?” Her voice remained steady, but she couldn’t stop her hand from pulling the fur coat tighter around her shoulders. The soft hairs tickled her collarbone, a small comfort. 

“Trouble,” Zemo replied, his smile tightening at the corners. His eyes never left hers, but she could tell his attention had split, calculating angles and risks. “But not our primary concern tonight.”

He adjusted her coat collar, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her neck. The touch was light, almost tender. His fingertips lingered a second too long, tracing the line of her jaw before withdrawing.

In the mirror behind the bar, she caught Bucky’s reflection. He stood three paces back, positioned for optimal coverage of both exits and their position. The vibranium arm gleamed dully under the bar lights, the plates shifting almost imperceptibly as he flexed his fingers.

The bartender returned, setting their drinks on the polished wood counter. The crystal made a soft clink against the surface when Isabelle was already reaching for her vodka. Her fingers curled around the cool glass when the bartender placed a third drink beside her hand—an amber-filled tumbler. 

“Compliments of the gentleman in the corner,” the bartender said, his voice neutral but his eyes telling a different story. There was resignation there, perhaps even a hint of warning as he tilted his head toward Gold Teeth. This wasn’t his first time playing messenger between predator and prey.

Zemo’s fingers dug into her waist, the pressure increasing just enough to communicate his displeasure while his face remained perfectly composed.

“How generous,” he said, each word dripping with disdain barely masked as gratitude.

Isabelle lifted the glass, studying the way the light fractured through the amber liquid. The crystal was heavy, expensive—the kind of glass that was meant to impress. She brought it to her lips without drinking, using the motion to scan the room again. 

Gold Teeth hadn’t moved from his corner throne, but his attention remained fixed on her, his gaze a physical weight against her skin. His lips curled into something between a smile and a leer, revealing those gaudy gold caps that gave him his nickname.

“Don’t drink it,” Bucky warned, materializing at her shoulder like a shadow given form. His voice was so low only she could hear it, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. The contrast between his cold exterior and that whisper of warmth sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. 

She kept the glass at her lips, the rim cool against her painted mouth. “Poison doesn’t work on me,” she whispered back, barely moving her lips. The words were a simple fact, stated without pride or explanation. The serum in her blood would neutralize toxins before they could take effect—one of the few benefits of her condition.

She took a deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact with Gold Teeth across the room. The liquor burned a path down her throat, stronger than she expected—top-shelf whiskey, not the watered-down swill served to regular patrons. It bloomed warm in her chest, a pleasant heat that wouldn’t last. Her metabolism would burn through it before she could feel even a hint of intoxication.

“Waste not, want not,” she murmured, lowering the glass and running her thumb along the rim. The corner of her mouth quirked up in a defiant half-smile directed at their admirer.

“Great,” Sam complained beside her, his voice pitched low beneath a forced smile that showed too many teeth. “Now we’ve got the local crime lord thinking you’re on the menu.” He shifted his weight, angling his body to partially block her from Gold Teeth’s line of sight. “That’s exactly what we needed tonight.”

“Relax,” Isabelle said, leaning closer to him as if sharing a secret. “I’m the protégé, not the hooker, right? Not on a menu.” The joke fell flat even to her own ears, the words tasting bitter beneath the whiskey’s lingering burn.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, not finding any humor in her deflection. “That distinction means nothing to a guy like that,” he muttered, scanning the room with practiced casualness. “Trust me.”

Zemo’s hand slid from her waist to the small of her back again, his touch reclaiming territory. “Our friend is merely establishing dominance,” he said, his accent thickening slightly. “Like an animal marking its territory.” His eyes flicked to Gold Teeth, then back to Isabelle. “But there are more dangerous predators in this room.”

The double meaning wasn’t lost on her. 

The bartender’s attention suddenly snapped to Sam, eyes narrowing with sudden recognition. His polishing cloth stilled mid-motion, fingers freezing around the glass he’d been cleaning. 

“Smiling Tiger?” The name came out like an accusation. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon...” His gaze slid to Zemo, then back to Sam, disbelief etching deeper lines around his mouth. “...and with him.”

 The last word carried particular weight, dropping between them like a gauntlet.

Sam’s jaw tightened. Isabelle watched his shoulders square beneath the ridiculous red suit, the fabric stretching across his back as he prepared for whatever came next. 

Before Sam could think of a response, Zemo leaned forward, his fingers tightening around his whiskey glass. “We’re here on business,” he said, tapping two fingers against the polished bar top—deliberate, measured, the gesture casual yet somehow threatening. “We need to speak with Selby.”

The bartender’s gaze lingered on Sam’s face, suspicion hardening his features as he searched for something—recognition, confirmation, weakness. His jaw worked beneath his beard, a muscle twitching along the edge.

“The usual?” he finally asked, nodding to the liquor bottles.

Isabelle felt Sam tense beside her, the fabric of his suit brushing against her arm as his breathing shifted. He nodded once, mouth wired shut. 

The bartender reached beneath the counter. Isabelle’s fingers instinctively clenched into a fist. Behind her, Bucky shifted his weight, a subtle redistribution that positioned him to intervene in a fraction of a second. 

But instead of a weapon, the bartender slapped a dead snake onto the bar. The serpent’s scales gleamed with oily iridescence under the neon lights, its body unnaturally limp, head lolling at a sickening angle.

Isabelle’s nose wrinkled before she could stop herself, the smell hitting her—raw meat and something chemical, cloying and wrong.

The curved knife appeared in the bartender’s hand, flashing silver as it sliced through scaly flesh with a wet, tearing sound. Isabelle’s stomach lurched as he extracted something small and gelatinous, a pale organ, and dropped it into a shot glass with a soft plop. 

He poured clear liquid over it, the organ bobbing like a grotesque eye watching them from its glass prison. “Your usual, Smiling Tiger,” the bartender announced, sliding the glass toward Sam. His fingers lingered on the rim, a challenge embedded in the gesture.

Sam’s face remained impassive, but Isabelle caught the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, the subtle convulsion of his throat as he swallowed. His hand reached for the glass with a confidence that couldn’t quite mask the tension coiled in his knuckles.

Zemo leaned forward, one elbow braced against the bar. The movement pressed him closer against Isabelle’s side. Sam’s gaze flickered to Zemo—a split-second glance loaded with silent communication. Zemo responded with the barest nod, his expression unchanged, but his message clear: Do it.

The shot glass looked absurdly small in Sam’s hand as he lifted it. The contents sloshed, the organ bobbing like a grotesque ice cube. The smell hit Isabelle from two feet away—medicinal, rancid, with undertones of something metallic that made her think of hospital rooms and blood draws.

“Bottoms up,” Sam muttered, his voice carrying the forced cheer of a man walking to his execution.

He tipped his head back, and Isabelle watched his throat work, once, twice, the muscles straining against his collar. A drop of the liquid escaped the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin before he caught it with his thumb.

Bucky shifted behind her, his vibranium fingers flexing once at his side. His eyes never stopped scanning the room, but she felt his attention split between their surroundings and Sam.

The glass hit the counter with a sharp crack. Sam’s eyes watered instantly, the whites turning bloodshot. His knuckles went white against the edge of the bar, but his face settled into a satisfied smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Smooth as ever,” he said, voice roughened but steady. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the movement almost hiding the tremor in his fingers. “Now, about Selby.”

The bartender nodded, something like respect flickering across his features as he turned back to Sam. “She’s in the back. But she doesn’t like surprises.” His gaze hardened. “Or crowds.”

“Then it’s fortunate we’re not a crowd,” Zemo interjected smoothly, his accent more pronounced than usual. “Merely old friends with a business proposition.”

The bartender’s lips thinned to a bloodless line. “Your funeral.” He jerked his head toward a door half-hidden in the shadows at the far end of the bar, the entrance nearly invisible against the dark paneling. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

He disappeared behind the bar, the swinging door offering a brief glimpse of a narrow hallway illuminated by sickly fluorescent light before closing with a soft thud.

Sam immediately doubled over, one hand braced against the sticky bar top, the other pressed against his mouth. A strangled sound escaped between his fingers as his body convulsed with what looked like a suppressed heave.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, voice raw. His eyes watered, bloodshot and glassy. “That was—” He coughed, the sound wet and visceral. “That was like drinking battery acid mixed with rotten eggs and a dead man’s cologne.”

Isabelle winced in sympathy, her nose wrinkling at the lingering stench that now surrounded Sam like a toxic cloud. She raised her own glass to her lips, letting the vodka burn away the phantom taste of whatever horror Sam had just endured.

 “You okay?” she asked, knowing full well he wasn’t.

“No.” Sam straightened with visible effort, shoulders rigid against the tremors running through his frame. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he swallowed repeatedly, fighting whatever internal rebellion the snake concoction had triggered. He leaned close to her, his breath hot and putrid against her ear. “Next time,” he whispered, voice ragged, “I’m the arm candy, and you’re drinking the snake juice.”

“Be my guest.” Isabelle patted his arm, letting her fingers linger in genuine concern despite her light tone. “The dress might be a bit tight across the shoulders, but you’ve got the legs for these heels.”

“You think this is funny? My insides are currently rearranging themselves.” Sam pressed a hand against his abdomen, fingers splayed as if trying to hold something in place. “Pretty sure that thing was still alive when it went down.”

“If it helps,” Isabelle offered, tilting her head closer, “I once saw Thor drink something from Asgard that actually glowed in the dark. Came out the same way it went in. Stained the toilet so bad, dad had to replace it.”

Sam’s face contorted into a grimace that was half disgust, half reluctant amusement. “That doesn’t help. At all.”

“What about the time Nat challenged Clint to drink that—”

“Please,” Sam held up a hand, “I’m begging you. One more story about magical alien digestive disasters and whatever’s left of my stomach lining is going to make a guest appearance on this bar.”

A tiny, genuine laugh escaped Isabelle before she could stop it. For just a moment, the weight of their situation lifted. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, the tension in her neck easing.

He caught her eye, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite his obvious discomfort. “Glad someone’s enjoying this.”

“Children,” Zemo cut in, voice silk-smooth but threaded with steel. “Perhaps save the bickering for when we’re not surrounded by people who kill for sport.” His smile remained flawless, not a crack in the polished appearance he presented to the room.

The momentary lightness evaporated.

Zemo’s eyes flicked past her shoulder, tracking movement in the crowd. A warning prickled at the base of Isabelle’s spine. She followed his gaze.

Gold Teeth. Still watching. Still hungry.

The man’s attention had shifted entirely to her, dismissing Sam and Bucky as if they were merely furniture. His gaze crawled over her body with such deliberate slowness she could almost feel it, like fingertips dragging across her skin. His tongue darted out, wet and pink against those gaudy gold caps as he raised his glass in another silent toast.

The message couldn’t have been clearer if he’d shouted it across the room.

Zemo’s hand moved with snake-like precision. One moment it rested at the small of her back, the next it slid to her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. He pulled her against him with a single, fluid motion—hip to hip, her shoulder pressed to his chest.

“What the hell—” The words died in her throat as his grip tightened.

Every muscle in Isabelle’s body locked. The contact burned through the thin fabric, each fingertip a point of unwanted heat against her ribs. Her stomach twisted, acid rising at the back of her throat.

Don’t break character. Don’t break character. Don’t—

Behind them, the air shifted. A low, guttural sound vibrated through the space—not quite a growl, not quite a threat, but something primal that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Bucky.

She didn’t need to turn to know his expression. She could feel his rage radiating like heat from a furnace, a physical presence at her back.

“Your guard dog seems restless,” Zemo noted, his accent thickening with amusement. His gaze slid past her shoulder to where Bucky stood. “Perhaps he needs a tighter leash.”

His thumb traced a small circle against her waist, a casual, possessive gesture that made her skin crawl.

Isabelle’s jaw clenched so hard she tasted blood where her teeth cut into the inside of her cheek. The metallic tang mixed with the waxy lipstick, bitter and sharp. She swallowed it down, along with the violent retort building in her throat.

“I suggest,” Bucky’s voice came from directly behind her, so close she could feel his breath disturb the synthetic strands of her wig, “that you keep your hands to yourself for the remainder of this mission.”

The Winter Soldier had entered the conversation—his voice flat, emotionless, deadly. A voice that had preceded death for decades.

“Or I’ll remove them for you.”

Not a threat. A promise.

Isabelle felt goosebumps cascade down her arms despite the bar’s stifling heat. Her breath caught, suspended in her lungs as the tension stretched between the men.

The weight of Bucky’s presence at her back was different from Zemo’s at her side—solid, grounding, a shield rather than a cage.

Zemo’s eyebrows rose, his expression one of mock offense. “I don’t remember giving you permission to speak, Soldat.”

Isabelle felt Bucky go completely still behind her, the kind of stillness that preceded violence. The vibranium plates in his arm recalibrated with a soft whir that only she could hear over the thumping bass.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might actually do it—might reach around her and tear Zemo’s hand from his wrist.

Instead, Zemo conceded, his fingers lifting from her waist. The absence of pressure sent blood rushing back to skin that felt bruised, relief washing through her in a dizzying wave. But as his hand withdrew, his knuckles brushed deliberately against her cheek—a final, calculated touch. A reminder that while he might yield this battle, the war of control continued.

“Such hostility, James.” Zemo adjusted his cuffs with polished nonchalance. “One might think you have a personal interest in our companion beyond professional concern.”

The insinuation hung in the air between them, sharp as a blade.

Heat bloomed across Isabelle’s cheekbones, a flush that crept up her neck and spread beneath the heavy foundation. Thank god for small mercies—at least her humiliation remained hidden under layers of makeup. 

She caught Bucky’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar, his eyes meeting hers for just a heartbeat. Something raw and unguarded flashed across his features—anger, protectiveness, something deeper she couldn’t name—before the Winter Soldier mask slammed back into place.

“One might think,” Bucky replied, each word measured and deadly quiet, “that you’re trying to provoke me. It’s working, by the way.” 

The threat wasn’t empty. But the threat wasn’t what made her pulse skitter and jump beneath her skin.

It was the voice.

One slip, it whispered, silk-wrapped and seductive at the base of her skull. That’s all it takes. Just one.

Her powers surged in response, a hot tide rising through her veins. Heat bloomed behind her sternum, spreading outward through her chest, down her arms, to her fingertips. The familiar pressure built beneath her skin—not pain, not exactly, but a terrible urgency. Her lungs constricted, each breath shorter than the last.

The image formed with perfect clarity: Zemo on his knees. Face contorting. Lungs filling with fluid. His elegant hands scrabbling at his throat as his body betrayed him from the inside out.

The thought wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

Isabelle’s jaw clenched so tightly she heard a faint pop near her ear. She forced herself to breathe—one ragged inhale, one controlled exhale. Her powers pulsed with each heartbeat, pressing against her control, seeking the smallest crack to escape through.

She flicked her gaze sideways to Sam without turning her head. Just a quick glance, nothing that would draw attention.

Help me.

The words never left her lips, but she poured everything into that look—the panic clawing up her throat, the heat building in her veins, the voice whispering terrible possibilities. 

Sam caught it immediately. His eyes widened a fraction, just enough to register what Isabelle wasn’t saying. The tension was vibrating through her. The edge she was riding. The thin line between control and catastrophe.

He straightened, shoulders squaring as he slid into character. His chin tilted upward, his stance widened, and a swagger entered his posture that seemed to expand his presence despite the ridiculous suit. The Smiling Tiger emerged from Sam Wilson’s skin like a second self.

“You two gonna measure dicks all night,” Sam drawled, his voice pitched just loud enough to cut through their standoff, “or can we get back to it? Room full of people who kill for sport, remember?” 

He adjusted his garish cuffs with exaggerated flair, drawing attention to himself and away from Isabelle’s trembling hands. His hand landed on Isabelle’s lower back, the touch firm but nothing like Zemo’s—an anchor rather than a brand. 

“Go,” he said, voice dropping, “freshen up.” He flicked his fingers toward the hallway, the gesture dismissive, entitled. 

Isabelle caught the lifeline Sam had thrown, her mind clicking into gear. She pivoted toward him, and the movement put her back to Zemo, breaking his line of sight on her face. “Thanks,” she said quietly. 

Behind her, Bucky shifted his weight. She didn’t need to see his face to know his expression: brow furrowed, blue eyes narrowed, jaw locked as he tried to decode the sudden shift in dynamics. The Winter Soldier was analyzing a situation he couldn’t quite read.

Zemo’s smile remained fixed, porcelain-perfect, but his body betrayed him. His spine stiffened, shoulders pulling back as control of the situation slipped through his fingers. A muscle jumped along his jaw before he could suppress it.

“Don’t be long, meine Liebe,” he said, voice smooth despite the tension radiating from him like heat from pavement. His fingers twitched once at his sides before going deliberately still. “Our host will be expecting all of us.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” Isabelle replied, stepping back. Each inch between them loosened the vice grip around her lungs. Her powers receded by degrees, the heat in her veins cooling from boil to simmer. 

Sam nodded, a subtle dip of his chin that carried a message entirely different from his words: Get it together. We need you.

Isabelle turned without another word, already moving. Sweat prickled at her hairline beneath the wig, making the adhesive burn against her skin. Her dress clung to the small of her back, the fabric suddenly too tight, too restrictive. She resisted the urge to tear it all off.

Her heels clicked against the sticky floor, each step carrying her further from Zemo’s calculating gaze, from Bucky’s confused stare, from Sam’s concern. The crowd swallowed her—bodies pressing against her sides, the stench of alcohol and sweat and too many competing colognes filling her nostrils.

Every step she took, she felt Bucky’s gaze burning into her back. Watching.

Not tracking. Not judging.

Protecting.

And for one brief second, it made her feel like she hadn’t completely lost her grip on reality.

Chapter Text

The path to the restroom took her past Gold Teeth’s table. His men shifted as she approached, subtle movements that most wouldn’t catch. But Isabelle did. Shoulders squaring, hands drifting toward concealed weapons, eyes tracking her trajectory. A dozen tiny tells that screamed danger in a language she’d been fluent in. 

Gold Teeth himself leaned forward as she neared. Six-four, at least. Two-seventy of what looked like pure muscle beneath that tailored suit.

“Enjoy the drink, sweetheart?” His voice was disarmingly soft, like velvet draped over broken glass. The accent—Russian maybe, with something rougher underneath—curled around each syllable. 

Isabelle maintained her stride. 

“Delicious,” she replied, voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding her system. Her pulse hammered against her throat, but her face remained a careful blank. “Thank you.”

His laugh followed her, low, rumbling, knowing. The sound crawled up her spine like cold fingers. “Come find me when you’re tired of the Baron.” His eyes, dark and devious, took her measure. 

She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. 

The pulse started in her gut—a hot, dense coil snapping taut. 

Then it flared. 

A wave of pressure rippled outward from beneath her skin, invisible to the crowd but impossible to ignore to those tuned in to it. Like a heartbeat radiating outward, only this one wasn’t hers—it was theirs. 

Behind her, Gold Teeth stiffened. His cocky smirk faltered. One of his men winced sharply, a hand flying to his temple. Another cursed under his breath, clutching his stomach like he’d been kicked in the gut. 

Isabelle’s stomach plummeted. 

No. No, no no—

Sloppy, the voice hissed. Cold. Coiled. Familiar. One little nudge and they’d fall to their knees. Like dominoes. Doesn’t that sound nice? Doesn’t it feel good to remind them who’s really in control? 

Her breath hitched. She didn’t break stride, but the sway of her hips became more exaggerated, deliberately slow. A mask layered over panic.

She couldn’t let them see it. 

Isabelle hit the restroom door with her palm, expecting it to give. 

It didn’t budge. 

“Come on,” she hissed, ramming her shoulder against the peeling wood. The door groaned before finally surrendering with a screech of rusted hinges. The smell hit her first: industrial bleach failing to mask something organic and rotten beneath. Her nostrils flared, rejecting it. 

The overhead bulb stuttered a sickly yellow rhythm. On-off-on-off. Each flicker illuminated another detail she wished it hadn’t. Cracked tiles. Rusted-stained sink. Something dark and viscous pooled beneath the broken paper towel dispenser. 

Blood? No—don’t think about it. But, thank god, it was empty. 

Three quick strides and she was to the sink. Her fingers wrapped around the chipped porcelain, and a hairline fracture spiderwebbed beneath her grip. The crack made a sound like tiny bones breaking. 

“Shit,” she hissed, easing her hold. Always forgetting her own strength at the worst moments. 

Isabelle kept her head down, focusing on the corroded faucet. Her hands trembled as she twisted the handle. Water sputtered, then flowed, ice cold against her skin. She counted the drips, matching her breathing to them. 

In through the nose. Out through the mouth—but the pulse was still there, coiled in her gut like a living thing. Waiting. Hungry. 

“Get it together,” she whispered, voice raw. “Get it fucking together, Stark.” 

Her heartbeat hammered in her ears, drowning out the ambient noise from the club beyond. Gold Teeth’s men would be recovering by now. 

Wondering what the hell had hit them. Wondering if they’d imagined it.

She risked a glance upward, then immediately regretted it.

In the mirror, her eyes weren’t her own. Pupils blown wide, only a thin ring of amber visible around the edges. The face of the thing inside her—the thing that had once been part of her but now felt separate, foreign.

She gripped the sink harder—another fracture beneath her thumb.

The voice didn’t wait for her to steady herself.

You let him touch you. The words slithered inside her skull, cold mercury poured directly into her brain stem. Not a voice—a sensation with syllables. You let him live.

Colder than before. Louder. And fucking furious.

“You don’t lose it here,” she whispered, glaring at her reflection, at those too-wide pupils, and at the time, looking back at her wearing her face. Her knuckles went white against the sink’s edge.

You’re already losing it. The voice convoluted again, wrapping around her thoughts like smoke around bone. You’re a cracked flask trying to hold poison. And soon someone’s going to drink from you and choke on it.

She flinched, a full-body tremor that started at her spine and radiated outward. The mirror image of her trembled too, but its eyes stayed fixed. Unblinking. 

The pulse in her gut twisted sharply, a hot knife that folded her in half. Her forehead nearly cracked against the mirror as she doubled over.

“Shut up,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Shut the fuck up.”

Her hands slammed over her ears, fingernails digging in. A useless gesture. The voice wasn’t coming from outside. 

Images flashed behind her eyelids: Zemo’s fingers trailing her back, proprietary, calculating. Gold Teeth’s tongue darting across those metal incisors while he undressed her with his eyes. Bucky’s jaw clenching as he pretended not to watch her every move from across the room. And Sam—god, Sam—trying so damn hard to hold everything together while she unraveled right in front of him.

The sickness coiled tighter, pressing against her organs, seeking exit points. It writhed beneath her skin like heat lightning trapped in a bottle. She could feel it mapping her veins, testing boundaries, whispering promises.

One flare. One breath. The walls would peel. The floor would buckle. Everyone beyond that door would drop like marionettes with cut strings.

Her hand spasmed. 

Kill them all, it urged, voice like crushed velvet against her brainstem. One pulse. One breath. Let go. They deserve it. You know they do.

“We’re not doing this,” she whispered, voice scraping against her throat. “Not here.”

The thing wearing her face smiled.

You already did it, the voice replied, lips not moving in the mirror. They know something’s wrong with you now.

Then the pain receded abruptly, but the presence remained. Like something curling back into itself, satisfied it had made its point.

Isabelle raised her head slowly, meeting those alien eyes in the mirror. The pupils contracted as she watched, shrinking from black pools to pinpricks, revealing the false brown of her contacts underneath. The transformation felt like watching someone else put on her skin.

She inhaled sharply, forcing her lungs to expand. Her ribs ached with the effort, like something inside was pressing outward, wanting space. She held her breath until spots danced at the edges of her vision. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. The pressure in her chest built, a counterpoint to the thing coiled in her gut.

Then release. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight.

Her spine cracked as she straightened—one vertebra, then another, then a third. The sound echoed in the cramped bathroom, oddly satisfying.

She forced her lips into what felt like a smile. It stretched her face wrong. 

Her hands moved to the dress, smoothing the fabric where it had bunched around her hips. The material clung to curves she usually kept hidden beneath tactical gear and baggy hoodies. Armor, in its own way. This dress was armor, too—just a different kind. The kind that made men stare at her body instead of her eyes, that made them underestimate the threat behind the packaging.

Zemo had chosen it. Of course, he had.

He’s using you, the voice murmured, softer now but no less insistent. They all are. The Baron. The Soldier. The Falcon. Little broken Stark, so eager to please.

“I said shut up,” Isabelle hissed. There was no heat behind the words. Just bone-deep exhaustion. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion mechanical. “I know what I’m doing. 

A lie. But lies were armor, too. 

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and the persona slid back into place. 

Her fingers closed around the bathroom door handle. Cold metal, slick with condensation from the bathroom’s poor ventilation. The bass from the club vibrated through her palm, and she hesitated, listening to the thrum of voices beyond. Laughter. Shouting. The clinking of glasses. 

She pushed through. 

She fixed her gaze on the bar across the room. On Bucky’s broad shoulders, the sharp angle where they met his neck. On Sam’s ridiculous red suit, catching the pulsing lights. On Zemo lounging against the countertop like a cat who thought he owned the room.

Twenty steps. That’s all she needed. 

She made it to three. 

A hand shot out from her left, meaty fingers clamping around her waist with bruising force. The grip yanked her sideways, her heels skidding against the floor. Her brain registered danger a half-second too late. 

“Going somewhere, sweetheart?” Gold Teeth’s breath hit her ear, hot and sour with vodka and something worse. His gold canines caught the light when he spoke, flashing like warning signals. 

Her world tilted. The room spun in a blur of neon and shadow. Then she was in his lap, her hip bone grinding painfully against his thigh. His arm locked around her waist like a vise, pinning her against the solid wall of his chest. Her spine pressed against him, nerves registering the unwanted contact. 

His other hand landed on her thigh, fingers splaying wide, claiming territory. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric of her dress. The pulse beneath her skin answered, coiling tighter.

Kill him, the voice whispered, alert, ravenous. Watch his lungs fill with fluid. Watch his eyes bulge as he drowns sitting upright.

The command slithered through her brainstem like ice water. So simple. So tempting. One pulse from her core, and his lungs would fill with fluid. His men would follow.

Isabelle’s muscles coiled tight, the tension building beneath her skin like a gathering storm.

She forced each muscle to unclench, one by one. Shoulders. Back. Thighs. A deliberate unwinding that went against every survival instinct screaming inside her. She melted against Gold Teeth’s bulk, transforming rigid panic into something pliant and inviting. Her body curved into his like she belonged there, like his touch didn’t make her skin crawl with revulsion.

Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs, but she manufactured a smile—one that promised everything and meant nothing. The kind she’d watched a hundred women wear in a hundred clubs just like this. The kind that said I’m yours while thinking you’re nothing.

“Just freshening up,” she purred, the lie sliding from her tongue with practiced ease. She shifted slightly in his lap, testing the iron band of his arm around her waist. No give. No weakness. His fingers dug into her flesh hard enough to bruise. “The Baron doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Gold Teeth’s laugh rumbled through his chest and into her back, vibrating against her spine.

“The Baron can wait his turn.” His fingers tightened on her thigh, inching higher, leaving heat trails of disgust on her skin. “We’re just getting acquainted.”

The man across the table leaned forward, vodka sloshing in his glass. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide with something chemical, something that made his gaze too hungry, too focused. “Boss always gets the pretty ones first,” he said, teeth flashing yellow in the low light.

The others laughed—a chorus of wolves catching a scent.

Isabelle’s gaze darted to the bar, scanning desperately for her team. Sam’s back was turned, his attention caught by something Isabelle couldn’t see. Bucky was looking in the wrong direction, shoulders tense beneath his jacket, head angled toward a conversation happening three tables away.

And Zemo—Zemo was watching. His eyes locked with hers across the room, his expression carved from marble. Unreadable. Unmoved. He sipped his drink, making no move to intervene.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Gold Teeth’s hand slid higher on her thigh, as if he’d already decided she belonged to him. His thumb traced slow circles on her inner thigh, each rotation inching closer to the hem of her dress.

“Tell me,” he murmured against her ear, his breath hot and wet against her skin, “what’s a woman like you doing with a man like Helmut Zemo?” His lips brushed her earlobe, sending a revulsive shiver down her spine that she forced herself to disguise as pleasure. “He can’t possibly satisfy you.”

Her breath hitched as his hand slid higher, fingers digging into the silk of her dress, bunching the fabric. The material rode up, exposing another inch of thigh. The cool air against her skin made her hyperaware of how vulnerable she was. How exposed.

Her mind raced, calculations firing like misfiring synapses. What would Natasha do? The thought flashed hot and urgent. Nat would turn this. Use it. Make him think he had control while stealing it right back.

Isabelle let her body soften further, her muscles going liquid against him. She tilted her head just so, exposing the vulnerable curve where neck met shoulder. A practiced move she’d watched Natasha execute a hundred times during ops. The perfect blend of submission and invitation.

“I like rich men,” she murmured, pitching her voice to a breathy purr that made her want to scrub her tongue with soap. Her fingers trailed up his forearm. “They know how to…appreciate valuable things.” 

His eyes darkened, pupils expanding with interest. “Then you’re in the right lap, красотка.” The Russian endearment slid from his tongue like oil on water. “I could buy and sell your Baron three times over.”

His hand moved suddenly from her thigh to her hair, thick fingers tangling in the red strands. He twisted, not enough to hurt—yet—but enough to control. A jolt of panic shot through her core. The wig. One hard tug and her cover would unravel as quickly as the synthetic hair would separate from her scalp.

“I think,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that she could count the gold teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should continue this conversation somewhere more private.”

Not a suggestion. A statement.

His grip on her tightened, fingers digging into the space between her ribs. The pressure was deliberate, a reminder of his strength, of how easily he could break her if he wanted to. His other hand remained tangled in her hair, the synthetic strands stretching against the adhesive at her scalp.

Let me out.  

Gold Teeth’s hand slid from her hair to her throat. His fingers wrapped around—not squeezing, just resting there. A promise. His thumb found her pulse point, pressing just hard enough to feel it jump.

“What do you say, красотка?” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, breath hot and wet. “Just you and me?”

Isabelle tracked the movement of his men with her peripheral vision. One stood to block her view of the bar. Another shifted to cut off the path to the exit. The third angled his chair to face the main entrance. Not random positions. Practiced. Choreographed.

These men had hunted before.

“Tomorrow night,” she said, voice honey-sweet, turning just enough to meet his gaze without giving him leverage on the wig. She let her eyes go half-lidded, mimicking desire. “You can have me all to yourself then.”

His laugh vibrated through her back, through her ribs, like bass turned too high.

“Why wait?” The hand not at her throat moved to the edge of her coat, then slipped beneath. His fingers were glacier-cold against her collarbone, calloused in ways that spoke of violence. 

The fingertips traced her skin, following the neckline of her dress downward. Isabelle’s muscles locked, a full-body rejection her mind couldn’t afford to indulge. The pulse inside her flared hot, pushing against her control.

His thumb hooked under the fabric of her dress, the nail scraping a white line across her skin. “Tonight,” he whispered, his lips so close to her ear she could feel the wet heat of his mouth. He brought his hand back up to her throat. “I always get what I want.”

The power beneath Isabelle’s skin roiled, a sick pressure building behind her sternum like magma seeking cracks. Her teeth ground together, molars aching with the force.

“I—” Her mind spun frantically for something to say that wouldn’t end with bodies on the floor and their cover blown to hell.

“Hey!”

Sam’s voice cut through the club’s noise like a bullet through glass. Sharp. Clean. Final. 

 Isabelle’s head snapped up, relief flooding her system with such force it made her dizzy. Sam was already halfway across the floor, cutting through the crowd. The look on his face wasn’t the easy charm he wore like a second skin. His eyes tracked every detail—Gold Teeth’s hand at her throat, the positions of his men.

Three precise steps behind him, Bucky materialized from the crowd, his movement so fluid it was almost supernatural. Where Sam blazed with righteous fury, Bucky froze—winter made flesh, eyes locked on Gold Teeth’s fingers against her windpipe. His expression was carved from ice, but his eyes burned with something terrible.

Gold Teeth’s fingers tightened reflexively against her windpipe, a quick spasm of surprise that cut her air for half a second. Isabelle’s body tensed, coiling like a spring. The sickness building in her veins pressed outward, seeking exit points—fingertips, eye sockets, the hollow of her throat.

His men shifted around the table, hands disappearing with practiced synchronicity. One reached for something at his ankle. Another’s fingers brushed the inside of his coat. The third simply stood, chair scraping back with a metal screech that cut through the music.

Across the room, Zemo intercepted Sam like a chess master anticipating his opponent’s move. His body inserted itself into Sam’s path, one hand pressing against Sam’s chest, not forceful, but firm. Definitive.

“Stop,” Zemo murmured, his eyes flickering toward the exits, where the bouncers had already noticed the brewing confrontation. Two by the main door straightened, and another near the service entrance reached beneath his jacket. “You break cover, we all go down.” 

Sam’s jaw clenched tight enough that Isabelle could see the muscle twitching beneath his skin from across the room. His eyes locked with hers—a silent question, a promise. The vein at his temple pulsed, his left hand curled into a fist at his side, knuckles whitening then relaxing in a rhythm that matched his breathing—controlled, deliberate, a man fighting his own instincts.

Sam’s nostrils flared. His eyes never left Isabelle’s face, tracking the minute shifts in her expression, reading the tension in her shoulders. 

Zemo pivoted with disturbing grace. His fingers found Bucky’s shoulder, settling there with deceptive lightness. Every line of Bucky’s body had gone rigid—shoulders squared, spine a steel rod, feet planted in a fighting stance so subtle most wouldn’t notice. His metal hand flexed at his side, plates recalibrating with a whisper-soft whir that sent electricity racing down Isabelle’s spine.

Isabelle met his glare. It wasn’t anger. Not directed at her. It was the look of someone who knew exactly what it was to be touched against your will, to be treated like property. To have choices stripped away by hands that saw you as a thing to be used.

His flesh hand twitched toward the knife she knew was strapped to his thigh.

“Soldat,” Zemo said, just loud enough to be heard by everyone nearby. His accent thickened deliberately around the word. He leaned closer to Bucky’s ear, his lips barely moving. “Zhelaniye.” 

The trigger word—the first of ten that had once transformed Bucky Barnes into the Winter Soldier—hit the room like a gunshot. Conversations around them stuttered. A glass clinked as someone set it down too hard. Gold Teeth’s fingers tightened reflexively against Isabelle’s windpipe.

Her heart stuttered. The pulse beneath her skin coiled tighter, pressing against her control.

“Rzhavyy,” Zemo continued, voice steady, emotionless. “Semnadtsat’...”

Bucky’s eyes went flat. Dead. His posture shifted—subtle but unmistakable—spine straightening another fraction of an inch, shoulders squaring with mechanical precision. His head tilted slightly, chin lowering as his gaze fixed on Gold Teeth with predatory focus.

The transformation happened in real-time. Not the Winter Soldier emerging—something else entirely. A performance so convincing it sent ice water racing through Isabelle’s veins. She recognized what he was doing immediately: using Zemo’s words as cover, letting everyone think the worst while he maintained complete control.

Playing the monster so he could move like one.

He didn’t wait for the fourth word.

Bucky exploded into motion, a blur that crossed the room before Gold Teeth’s men could react. His metal arm caught the light as he moved, a silver flash that drew every eye in the room.

His fingers closed around Isabelle’s upper arm, then yanked her from Gold Teeth’s lap with a single fluid motion. Her ankle twisted as her heel caught on the chair leg, sending a sharp spike of pain up her calf. The sudden movement snapped Gold Teeth’s fingers from her throat. Cold air rushed into her lungs, sweet and sharp after the sour heat of his breath.

Bucky positioned himself between them, the line of his back a wall of muscle and tension. He shoved her behind him, rough enough to sell the act, but controlled enough that when she collided with the nearby table, it was her hands that hit first, not her spine. 

Gold Teeth surged to his feet, “Who the fuck do you think—”

The words died in a wet gurgle as Bucky’s right fist connected with his jaw. The impact wasn’t the strike of a trained soldier—it was something rawer, something personal. Gold Teeth’s head snapped back, those gleaming dental fixtures catching the strobing lights as a fine spray of blood and saliva arced through the air.

Two bodyguards lunged from opposite sides—the first with brass knuckles already slipped over thick fingers, the second reaching inside his jacket with trained proficiency. Bucky didn’t spare them a glance. His awareness extended beyond sight, a battlefield sense honed through decades of violence.

He caught the first man’s wrist mid-swing, his grip precise as a vise. One twist and something snapped with a wet crunch. The man’s scream cut through the pulsing bass, high and animal. Bucky used the guard’s own momentum to slam him face-first into the table. Glass shattered in a crystalline explosion. Vodka sprayed across the concrete floor in a glittering mist. Blood followed, darker and thicker.

The second man’s fist connected with Bucky’s ribs—a blow that would have folded most men in half. Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t register pain. His metal arm whipped around in a backhand strike so fast that Isabelle missed it when she blinked. The impact lifted the guard off his feet, hurling him into the nearest wall, where he crumpled like discarded paper.

The third and last guard reached for his weapon. The pistol cleared his jacket as Bucky moved, fluid, unstoppable, inevitable, his hand shooting out like a striking viper. The plates recalibrated with that distinctive mechanical purr as his fingers closed around the guard’s throat before the gun could level.

The weapon clattered to the concrete, the sound sharp beneath the rising screams from nearby tables. The guard’s eyes bulged, bloodshot capillaries spreading like spider webs across the whites. His mouth worked silently, forming words that died in his crushed windpipe.

Bucky’s face remained utterly expressionless. No satisfaction. No rage. Nothing human at all behind those eyes. This wasn’t the performance anymore—this was muscle memory, bone-deep programming rising to the surface. 

The guard’s feet dangled two inches off the ground, kicking uselessly at air. His fingers clawed at the metal hand, nails breaking against unyielding vibranium. The guard’s face darkened to a mottled purple, veins standing out against his temples.

Isabelle felt the pulse inside her respond, coiling tighter, hungry for the violence unfolding. The voice whispered: See how easy it is? One squeeze. That’s all it takes.

Bucky lifted the guard higher, the servos in his arm whining with the effort, then slammed him down onto the concrete floor with enough force to crack the aged surface. The impact knocked the remaining air from the man’s lungs in a wet wheeze. He curled into himself, one hand at his throat, the other reaching blindly for a weapon that wasn’t there.

He didn’t get up.

Gold Teeth stumbled backward, colliding with an overturned chair. His expensive leather shoes slipped in spilled vodka, nearly sending him sprawling. Blood streamed from his split lip in a crimson ribbon, painting those ridiculous gold caps with a wet sheen. His eyes darted to the exit, then back to Bucky, animal instinct warring with wounded pride.

Pride won.

“You fucking—” Gold Teeth launched himself forward with a roar, swinging a meaty fist at Bucky’s head.

Bucky caught it mid-air without even looking, metal fingers closing around Gold Teeth’s knuckles with mechanical precision. The sound that followed wasn’t the clean snap of breaking bone—it was the wet, grinding crunch of a hand being systematically crushed.

Gold Teeth’s howl pierced the club’s stunned silence, a sound more animal than human. His knees buckled as Bucky twisted the mangled hand behind his back, forcing him face down onto the sticky concrete. Gold Teeth’s cheek pressed against the floor, right in the puddle of his own blood.

“Touch her again,” Bucky’s voice emerged flat, emotionless—Winter Soldier cadence bleeding through the performance. His lips barely moved as he spoke directly into Gold Teeth’s ear, each word precise as a knife thrust. “And I’ll take more than your hand.”

He increased pressure on the trapped wrist—just enough to crack another metacarpal.

Isabelle stood frozen, the sickness inside her still coiled tight, hungry and unsatisfied. Her gaze fixed on Bucky’s back—the rigid line of his shoulders, the controlled rise and fall of his breathing. Not a hair out of place. Not a drop of sweat. As if dismantling four men had required no more effort than brushing his teeth.

A whisper slithered through her mind. That’s what a real weapon looks like. Efficient. Controlled. Not broken like you.

She swallowed it down, tasting copper.

His head turned slightly, eyes found hers, and for a fraction of a second, the Winter Soldier mask slipped. Something raw flashed across his face—concern tangled with something darker, something protective that made her stomach flip. His pupils contracted, focusing on her with an intensity that made her feel simultaneously exposed and sheltered.

He didn’t ask if she was okay. Didn’t need to. The slight tilt of his head said enough. The moment stretched between them, electric and dangerous. The connection snapped when Gold Teeth groaned from the floor, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the concrete.

“Fuck,” he gurgled, the word distorted by his swelling jaw. One gold tooth hung loose, dangling from torn gum tissue. “You’re dead. All of you.”

Isabelle’s pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the scattered gasps from the crowd. Around them, the club had frozen in tableau. The bartender peered over the counter edge, knuckles white against the polished wood. The DJ stood motionless, one hand still on his equipment, the other hovering near what was probably a panic button. Patrons pressed against walls, drinks forgotten in slack grips, eyes wide with the voyeuristic thrill of witnessing violence that hadn’t targeted them.

Sam materialized at her side, his finger brushing against her elbow. Casual to anyone watching, deliberate to her. A check-in disguised as possessiveness.

“You good?” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

She managed a tight nod, not trusting her voice.

Gold Teeth struggled to his knees, cradling his mangled hand against his chest. Blood dripped between his fingers, pattering onto the floor in a rhythm that matched the pulse inside her. His eyes—bloodshot and hateful—locked onto Bucky.

“Ты труп,” he snarled, teeth bared like a wounded animal. You’re dead.

Bucky didn’t bother looking at him. “Встань в очередь.” Get in line.

The click of expensive shoes against concrete announced Zemo’s approach. He navigated the wreckage with the unhurried confidence of a man who’d orchestrated rather than witnessed chaos. Glass crunched beneath his Italian leather as he stepped over a puddle of blood, careful not to stain the cuffs of his trousers.

“Well,” Zemo said, voice carrying just far enough to reach nearby tables, “I believe we’re done here.” He adjusted his cuffs, the gesture so casual it bordered on insulting. His eyes, though—his eyes missed nothing. They cataloged Gold Teeth’s injuries, the positions of his fallen men. His gaze swept over Isabelle, clinical and assessing, before shifting back to Gold Teeth. “I hope that my associate made it clear. I don’t share well. A character flaw, I’m afraid.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His metal hand flexed at his side, plates recalibrating with that distinctive whisper-hiss. The sound sent another shiver down Isabelle’s spine—half fear, half something darker she didn’t want to examine.

Gold Teeth lurched to his feet, swaying like a drunk. “This isn’t over,” he slurred, blood bubbling between his lips. “You think you can just—”

“I think,” Zemo interrupted, voice dropping to that silky-dangerous register that made the hairs on Isabelle’s arms stand up, “that you should consider your position very carefully.” He gestured vaguely toward Gold Teeth’s fallen men. “Three incapacitated men. A broken hand. And my friend here—” he tilted his head toward Bucky, “—hasn’t even gotten creative yet.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his posture—a subtle realignment that made him look even more dangerous. The Winter Soldier wasn’t a mask he wore; it was a skin he shed, and right now, that skin was peeling back.

The bartender slid back into view, his face a mask of professional neutrality that didn’t quite hide the tension around his eyes. “Selby will see you now,” he said, his gaze flickering to the blood splatter on the floor, then to Bucky, then away. 

Zemo smiled widely. “Perfect timing,” He offered a shallow bow, then gestured toward the darkened hallway behind the bar. “Shall we?” 

Isabelle didn’t move at first. Bucky watched her eyes flicker to the bodies on the floor, to the blood, to Zemo’s smile. He saw the tightness in her jaw. The way her fingers twitched like she was still deciding whether to burn the whole place down.

Then she stepped forward, spine straight, gaze cold. Unflinching.

Bucky fell in behind her without a word—his metal hand still flexing, still itching.

Chapter Text

Isabelle’s heels clicked too loudly on the concrete. Her pulse still skipped like a broken metronome. Every step toward that door felt like walking into a furnace dressed in silk. 

Minutes ago, she’d watched Bucky tear through men like paper. Minutes ago, her own power had surged through her veins like poison, begging for release. The room had reeked of copper and fear, and some part of her had liked it. That was the part she needed to bury now. 

Zemo walked two steps ahead, his posture impeccable, as if they were strolling into a gala rather than the back room of a club where people disappeared. 

They approached the unmarked door at the back, and her fingers twitched at her sides. One wrong word in there, one slip, and everything would unravel—worse than it already had. She wasn’t ready. Not with her power still humming loudly beneath her skin, restless. 

Zemo reached for the handle, the door swinging open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. A wall of stale smoke hit her face, clinging to her eyelashes and crawling down her throat. 

The room beyond was a coffin with furniture. Narrow. Suffocating. A single bulb dangled from a frayed cord, painting everything in sickly yellow that made the peeling wallpaper look like diseased skin. Three men sat around a circular table, their faces half-hidden in shadow, cigarettes burning between yellowed fingers.

The air felt solid, thick with smoke that curled like living things, and the unmistakable punch of bottom-shelf whiskey. The kind that stripped paint and dignity in equal measure. It coated the back of her throat, making her want to gag.

Her gaze caught on the gun resting casually beside an ashtray. The man closest to it had hands that didn’t shake when he lifted his glass. Professional. Killer’s hands.

Isabelle straightened her spine, letting the Stark mask slide into place even as her heart hammered against her ribs. She’d walked into worse rooms with worse men. She could do this.

Selby lounged on a cracked leather couch that looked like it had survived several bar fights and at least one war. Her white hair gleamed under the weak light, cropped short against her skull. Deep lines carved a map of hard choices and survival across her face. But her eyes, they were sharp, unblinking, tracking their entrance with the patience of someone who’d built a small empire on other people’s desperation. 

Isabelle’s training activated like muscle memory. Two exits: the doors at her back and another behind a threadbare curtain to the left that smelled questionably. One window with black paint flaking at the corners, sealed shut, probably alarmed. Three weapons within arm’s reach: brass lamp (heavy base, good for blunt force), overflowing ashtray (glass, jagged if broken), and a silver letter opener on the side table (six inches, pointed tip, serrated edge). 

“Baron,” Selby drawled, smoke escaping her yellowed teeth like something dying. “Didn’t expect you’d crawl back to Madripoor so soon.” She flicked ash onto the floor, deliberately missing the overflowing tray. A power move. A declaration that this was her territory, her rules. “Sit.”

Zemo inclined his head, taking in Selby with the clinical interest of someone examining an insect under glass. He smiled widely. “Always a pleasure, Selby.” 

His fingers brushed Isabelle’s wrist as he lowered himself into the chair, light but deliberate. A signal. A reminder of their choreographed roles in this dangerous theater.

Isabelle shifted her weight to her back foot, the movement subtle as smoke. She took a position slightly behind Zemo’s right shoulder, not too close or far. The perfect distance. Close enough to catch a bullet, far enough to draw and fire. 

Her power pulsed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat, each throb sending pins and needles through her fingertips. She clenched her jaw, forcing it down, burying it beneath the same face she’d worn through thousands of charity galas, board meetings, and press conferences. 

Through her peripheral vision, she tracked Sam taking up a spot near the curtained exit, as if he’d simply wandered there. His fingers tapped once against his thigh—their signal that he’d also identified all potential threats in the room. 

Bucky drifted to her left, a shadow detaching from shadows. His metal arm caught the light as he settled against the wall, the sound of his back meeting concrete barely audible. The vibranium plates shifted once, twice, then stilled. His eyes, cold and assessing, never left Selby’s face.

The room contracted around them, air molecules compressing with the collective tension of too many killers in too small a space. Isabelle felt her lungs protest, her breath shallow against the smoke and the press of adrenaline.

Selby leaned forward, her cigarette dangling between fingers that should have trembled with age but remained unnervingly steady. She took a long drag, the ember flaring bright orange in the dim room. When she exhaled, the smoke curled around her.

“You should know,” Selby said, each syllable hanging in the stale air, “people don’t just walk into my establishment and make demands.”

“Not a demand, my dear Selby,” Zemo countered. He spread his hands, palms up—the universal gesture of innocence that looked obscene coming from him. “An offer. Between old friends.”

Isabelle caught Sebly’s face, and what flashed across it. A tightening around the eyes, a fractional straightening of her spine. Recalculation. Reassessment. The woman’s gaze slid from Zemo to Bucky, lingering on the metal arm where the vibranium caught the light. Recognition flickered in those pale eyes, sharp and dangerous as broken glass.

“I thought you were rotting away in a German prison cell.” Selby crushed her cigarette with deliberate force, grinding it into the mountain of butts until the ember died. Her fingernails—chipped and painted a red that matched the bloodshot veins in her eyes—scraped against the glass ashtray. “Last I heard, they’d thrown away the key after the mess you caused with him in Vienna.”

The man with the gun shifted his weight, his chair creaking. Isabelle felt rather than saw Bucky tense beside her, the temperature around him dropping a fraction of a degree. She kept her eyes on Selby but tracked the gunman’s movements, calculating the milliseconds it would take to reach him if he drew.

Zemo smiled—that same pleasant smile he’d worn in Siberia while describing how easy it’d been to break the Avengers apart. “Circumstances change,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “Prisons aren’t built to hold men like me. Not forever.”

Selby’s laugh was a harsh, broken sound. “No,” she agreed, reaching for another cigarette. “They never are.”

Isabelle felt her powers stir beneath her skin—a familiar itch crawling up from her palms to her fingertips. Heat and cold simultaneously, like fever chills. Ready to unravel at the slightest provocation. She curled her fingers inward, nails digging into her palms. The pain helped. Grounded her.

Sam shifted his weight behind them, a floorboard betraying him with a long, plaintive creak. His breath hitched—barely audible, but in this room, small sounds carried weight. Like him, she kept her expression neutral, but her pulse drummed against her throat, a metronome counting down to disaster.

Selby’s eyes narrowed to calculating slits. She pulled out her lighter, clicking once, twice before the flame caught. The brief orange glow carved deeper shadows into the hollows of her face, making her look skeletal for one unnerving moment.

“And what are you offering, Baron?” she asked through a fresh cloud of smoke, her interest piqued despite her obvious wariness. “Must be something special to risk showing your face in Madripoor. With friends.”

Her gaze slid to Isabelle, lingering with the practiced assessment of someone who’d spent a lifetime weighing the value of flesh. Isabelle had been sized up before. As a girl. As a weapon. As leverage. Selby’s gaze was just one more version of it—but no less violating. Every second she held her tongue felt like swallowing broken glass.

“Ah, yes.” Zemo’s lips curved upward, the gesture never reaching his eyes. “This is Carmilla. A protégé of sorts.” He tilted his head toward Isabelle without breaking eye contact with Selby. His voice dropped to a silken murmur. “Quite talented, I assure you.”

Isabelle kept her face carefully blank, though her skin crawled beneath Selby’s appraisal. The woman’s eyes dragged over her body. She exhaled another plume of smoke, her lips curling. The smoke drifted between them, a shifting barrier that did nothing to blunt the sharpness of her next words. 

“Uh-huh—talented.” She winked at Zemo, her voice dropping to a raspy purr that made Isabelle’s stomach turn. “Didn’t think you’d ever move on from your wife, Baron.”

The change in Zemo was imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t watching for it—a fractional tightening at the corners of his jaw, his fingers digging briefly into the armrest before relaxing. Something raw and wounded flashed behind his eyes, there and gone so quickly that Isabelle might have imagined it. But she hadn’t.

Her stomach knotted. The wife whose death had driven him to tear the Avengers apart from the inside. Selby had just casually ripped open that wound with surgical precision, the verbal equivalent of sliding a blade between ribs.

“Now, now, Selby.” His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. Each syllable carried weight, like stones placed carefully on a scale. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

He turned to Isabelle, giving her an exaggerated wink that transformed his face into something almost boyish. The performance was flawless—and utterly chilling. A shark wearing a child’s smile.

Isabelle returned a coy smile she didn’t feel, her lips stiff with the effort. Copper bloomed across her tongue where she’d bitten the inside of her cheek. The taste anchored her, kept her from reaching for the letter opener six inches from her fingertips.

Natasha’s voice whispered through her memory: Sometimes you have to become whatever they need you to be. A lover, a daughter, a victim. You make them see what they want to see. The Black Widow had described her Red Room training with clinical detachment, but Isabelle had caught the hollow look in her eyes. The same emptiness that now threatened to swallow her whole.

Selby’s gaze raked over her again, lingering. 

“She’s pretty,” Selby conceded, tapping more ash onto the floor. “But beauty’s cheap in Madripoor, Baron. Pretty girls wash up on these shores every day,” she continued, her gaze never leaving Isabelle’s face. “Some living, some not.”

Isabelle felt Bucky shift behind her—a minute tensing of muscle, the soft whisper of vibranium plates recalibrating. She kept her face blank, her posture relaxed. Selby was testing her, probing for weakness like pressing on a bruise to gauge the reaction.

Selby let out a chuckle, not genuine amusement, but the dry, rattling kind. She leaned back against the leather, arms sprawling across the back of the couch with an unsettling casualness. Like she recognized a weakness. 

Without warning, Selby’s attentions snapped to Sam. The movement, cobra-quick, her head pivoting with unnatural precision that caught them all off guard. Her eyes narrowed, taking in Sam’s posture, the way his hands rested too laxly at his sides. 

“You’re taller than I expected, Smiling Tiger.” 

Ice flooded Isabelle’s veins, and a single bead of sweat traced Sam’s temple. But Sam didn’t flinch. Not a muscle twitched in his face. His shoulders remained square, chin level, offering only a curt nod in response.

Bucky shifted, a minute adjustment that nobody else noticed besides her and Sam. His weight transferred to the balls of his feet, his body angling fractionally toward Sam, positioning himself to intercept bullets if necessary. The vibranium arm whirred once, nearly silent, plates recalibrating in preparation.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” Selby asked, keeping her gaze on Sam. “Funny. Word is, you never shut up.” 

The man with the gun leaned forward, his chair creaking beneath his weight. His finger wasn’t on the trigger but rested alongside the guard, ready.

“Mmm.” Selby’s attention snapped back to Zemo, the movement just as abrupt as before. Her voice dropped an octave, all pretense of cordiality evaporating into the smoke-choked air. “What’s the offer, Baron? And make it good. Very good.” 

Zemo rose from his chair. Not abruptly, but with the fluid grace of a man certain of his territory. Each movement calculated, unhurried, as though time bent to his will rather than the other way around. He circled behind them, footsteps whispering against the grimy floor. Isabelle tracked him without turning her head, pulse hammering against her throat as he positioned himself directly behind Bucky.

With a theatrical ceremony, Zemo placed both hands on Bucky’s shoulders. The gesture was deliberate, possessive—a conqueror claiming spoils.

“Information about who’s recreating the super-soldier serum,” Zemo announced. His fingers pressed into the fabric of Bucky’s jacket, dimpling the material. “In exchange for this.”

This. Not him. This.

Isabelle’s stomach twisted. One word—three letters that stripped away humanity, reduced a man to property.

Zemo’s fingers dug deeper into the meat of Bucky’s shoulders, kneading like a cat preparing to pounce. The gesture wasn’t gentle—it was ownership on display. A master presenting prized livestock at auction.

Isabelle caught the microscopic flinch at the corner of Bucky’s eye, the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. His metal arm hung at his side, plates shifting with a subtle whir as his fingers curled inward, then relaxed with forced control.

“Along with the code words to control him, of course.” Zemo’s right hand abandoned Bucky’s shoulder to trace a path up his neck, fingers ghosting along the stubbled line of his jaw with mock tenderness. “The Winter Soldier, fully operational. Fully... compliant.”

The last word dripped from Zemo’s lips like venom. Compliant. The implication hung in the air, toxic and inescapable. Not just a weapon—a puppet. A thing to be used however they pleased.

Bucky’s eyes fixed on some distant point, but Isabelle saw the slight dilation of his pupils, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. The invisible flinch that no one else would notice. 

It wasn’t just possession. It was desecration. Zemo turned Bucky into a thing, and no one in the room blinked.

Her power surged without warning, a sudden rush of heat beneath her skin. Electricity crackled between her fingers—invisible to everyone except her. And Bucky. His eyes flicked to her hands, then back up to her face. A fractional shake of his head. So slight it might have been nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

Control it. Lock it down. Push it back, the tide of rage threatening to spill over. 

Selby straightened, cigarette forgotten between fingers. Her posture transformed, boredom replaced by naked interest. Her gaze traveled over Bucky’s body with the clinical assessment of a butcher selecting prime cuts.

“Anything?” The word slithered from her mouth, dripping. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, the leather couch creaking beneath her. “He’ll do... anything?”

The question hung between them, heavy with meaning. Not just killing. Something darker. Something worse.

Heat surged through Isabelle’s body, her vision blurring at the edges. Red. Everything tinged red. She forced air through her nostrils, counting silently. One, two, three. Her powers stirred once more. 

“That’s the idea.” Zemo’s smile remained fixed, clinical, never touching his eyes. His fingers trailed down Bucky’s neck to rest at his collarbone, a parody of affection. “Complete compliance. Complete control.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Whatever task you require... whatever service you might desire. You know his reputation, I’m sure.”

Bucky didn’t move. But Isabelle saw the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. The way his metal arm recalibrated with a sound so soft only she could hear it. The plates shifting, readjusting, like skin crawling.

Selby’s laugh—a harsh, grating sound like metal on concrete—bounced off the grimy walls. She crushed her cigarette into the overflowing ashtray, grinding it with vicious force that sent flakes of ash scattering across the table.

“The Winter Soldier,” she said, testing the name on her tongue like tasting expensive wine. Her eyes gleamed with something that made Isabelle’s stomach turn. “HYDRA’s perfect weapon. I’ve heard stories.” 

Her gaze dissected Bucky piece by piece, lingering on his metal arm, then his face, then lower. 

“They say he can kill a man seventeen different ways with just his flesh hand. That he never sleeps. Never tires.” Her tongue darted out, wetting cracked lips. “Never fail to... perform.”

Something snapped inside Isabelle, a crack in her control. Her power surged through her veins, burning as it flowed to her fingertips. She didn’t move, didn’t gesture, just focused the building pressure toward Selby with surgical precision.

A thin trickle of blood appeared beneath Selby’s nostril. Not much, just a crimson thread bright against sallow skin. The woman flinched, her hand flying to her face with a startled jerk. When her fingers came away wet, confusion flickered across her features, quickly followed by a wince as something invisible constricted around her sinuses.

Isabelle felt the power flowing through her veins—hot and cold simultaneously, a fever-chill that buzzed beneath her skin. She could feel the pressure points in Selby’s skull like they were mapped in her own mind, could sense exactly how much more force it would take to rupture capillaries, to fracture delicate bone. Just a little more pressure...

Zemo’s eyes whipped toward her, cold fury crystallizing his features. Not at what she’d done—at the timing. The risk to his carefully orchestrated performance. His fingers tightened faintly on Bucky’s shoulder, a warning Isabelle felt as clearly as if he’d shouted.

Bucky’s gaze locked with hers, surprise clear in those winter-gray eyes. Not just surprise—something else. Gratitude? 

Sam tensed beside her, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Ready to move if this went sideways. A question hung in the tilt of his head: What are you doing?

The man with the gun shifted, his chair creaking as he leaned forward. His fingers twitched toward the weapon.

Isabelle exhaled slowly, deliberately. She uncurled her mental grip from around Selby’s sinuses, forcing herself to release the hold one finger at a time, like prying open a fist that wanted to remain clenched. Her fingertips tingled, then went numb. The comedown always felt like pins and needles, like blood rushing back to sleeping limbs. Her hands trembled at her sides. She curled them into fists to hide the shaking.

Selby yanked a handkerchief from her jacket pocket with surprising speed. She pressed it hard against her nostril, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits as she scanned the room. Blood bloomed across the cloth, bright crimson against dingy white.

“Fucking sinuses,” she spat, voice thick and wet. She tilted her head back, nostrils flaring. “Madripoor’s air is poison this time of year. Pollution. Spores. Shit from the harbor.” Each word came sharper than the last, her free hand drumming agitated patterns against the leather armrest.

Selby dabbed again at her nose, checking the cloth with a grimace before folding it with practiced efficiency—blood hidden inside like a secret—and tucking it away. 

“Now that—” Selby jabbed a finger toward Zemo, “—that’s the Zemo I remember.” A crooked smile split her face. “Glad I decided not to kill you immediately. You were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right.”

She shifted, leather creaking beneath her. The sound reminded Isabelle of breaking bones. Of snapping tendons. Of things that shouldn’t bend but did.

Zemo returned to his seat, unhurried, his eyes finding Isabelle’s as he crossed the room. He reached for her wrist, fingers circling with deceptive gentleness. A tug—light but insistent—drew her closer to his side. His thumb found her pulse point, pressing just hard enough to feel the hammering beneath her skin.

To anyone watching, it looked affectionate. A lover’s touch. A reassurance.

Isabelle felt the truth of it—a vise disguised as tenderness. His fingers tightened fractionally, the pressure precise. Just enough to send a message without leaving marks: Control yourself or I’ll control you.

The threat hummed between them, unspoken but clear as broken glass.

“My dear Selby,” Zemo continued, his thumb still circling Isabelle’s wrist in that mockery of affection. His voice dropped to velvet, each word carefully measured. “I believe we have the foundation for a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Isabelle fought the instinct to wrench away, to snap his wrist like kindling.

The pressure against her pulse wasn’t painful—not yet—just deliberate. A reminder of who controlled the room. Who controlled her, as far as everyone here was concerned.

“The question remains—” Zemo tilted his head, studying Selby, “—what information can you provide about our serum-seeking friends? The Flag Smashers?”

Selby’s eyes flicked to Bucky, lingering on the metal arm before returning to Zemo. “The super-soldier serum,” she finally said, each word deliberate as a knife thrust, “is here, in Madripoor.”

“Here?” Zemo’s voice remained controlled, carefully calm. But Isabelle heard the slight lift at the end, the hope wrapped in disbelief, like a disillusioned gift. His fingers dug deeper into her wrist, abandoning the pretense of affection for naked control.

“Dr. Wilfred Nagel.” Selby savored each syllable, rolling the name between her teeth like expensive liquor. “He’s recreated it. Perfected it, some say.”

Her lips peeled back in a yellow-toothed grin. 

“He worked on that old project... the one that got exposed when the Black Widow leaked those SHIELD files.” Selby’s eyes narrowed, pupils contracting to pinpoints of malice. She leaned forward, the leather couch protesting beneath her. “That Belladonna project—with that Stark girl...the Avenger.”

Isabelle suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her lungs seized mid-breath, oxygen evaporating from the room as if someone had thrown a switch. The cigarette stench morphed, chemical memories overlaying reality—antiseptic sting, the metallic bite of surgical tools, the powder-dry latex of gloves against her skin.

Her mother’s lab. Her prison.

Selby’s voice continued, but the words warped and stretched like taffy as she jerked her head towards Bucky. “...said the girl was meant to be the next him.” She jerked her head toward Bucky. “Dangerous little thing. Walking bioweapon.” 

Isabelle’s hand shot back instinctively, fingers scraping against peeling wallpaper as she stumbled back a half-step. Her balance wavered—not just her body, but something deeper. The careful walls she’d built between past and present crumbled like sand.

“Easy there, darling,” Selby’s voice cut through the fog, knife-sharp. Her eyes narrowed, tracking Isabelle’s reaction. “Seems like someone recognizes that name.”

The room tilted again. Isabelle’s vision tunneled to pinpricks of light. Zemo’s fingers around her wrist became her only anchor, pain keeping her present when memory threatened to drag her under. His grip tightened, pressing against tendons and bone. 

She could feel Sam’s gaze burning into her. Felt Bucky’s attention snap toward her like a rubber band too tight. 

“Excuse my associate.” Zemo’s chuckle slid through the air, smooth but stiff. His thumb dug deeper into her wrist, pressing against bone. “She seems to have drunk too much tonight.”

The lie hung between them, transparent and flimsy. His grip tightened—a vise disguised as concern. 

He knew. Of course, he knew. Every classified file on the Winter Soldier program. Every HYDRA offshoot experiment. Every failed attempt to recreate Erskine’s miracle.

Every child they’d broken trying.

“Is that so?” Selby leaned forward, eyes lit with the curiosity of someone who’d just discovered leverage. “Funny reaction,” She reached for another cigarette, tapping it against the table three times before placing it between her lips. “For someone who’s just…drunk.” 

 The cigarette bobbed between Selby’s fingers before sliding between cracked lips. The woman’s tongue darted out, wetting the paper with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving Isabelle’s face.

The room had gone deadly quiet. 

Isabelle could feel her power stirring beneath her skin, responding to not just any panic, but a specific, jagged-edged terror that belonged to her mother’s voice, clinical and detached, dictating notes into a recorder while Isabelle’s small body convulsed on the examination table. The nightmare that had transformed her into a weapon. And the man who had smiled, patted her head, and said, “Good girl. This won’t hurt much.”

He had lied.

Chapter Text

2004

The pain hit her before consciousness fully claimed her. Not gradual. Not building. A white-hot spike driving through her abdomen, radiating outward like molten glass beneath her skin.

Fifteen-year-old Isabelle tried to scream. 

But nothing came. 

Her lungs seized, throat closing, muscles locking rigid. This wasn’t a bruise or a cut or a broken bone. This was something alien, invasive—something worming through her veins, rewriting her from the inside out.

Her eyelids felt weighted with lead. She fought against them, desperate to see, to understand. When they finally cracked open, fluorescent lights stabbed her retinas. White ceiling tiles blurred above her, multiplying and merging in a nauseating dance.

“Temperature rising,” a voice said. Analytic. Detached. “104.2 and climbing.”

“Good,” came the reply. Her mother’s voice. “That’s expected.”

The smell hit her next—antiseptic with an aggressive edge. Not the mild, clean scent of hospital corridors, but something sharper. Industrial. It scorched her nostrils and coated her tongue with a metallic taste that made her stomach convulse.

Beneath it lurked something unmistakable. Copper. Salt. Blood. Her blood.

Something cold pressed against her ribs. Not cutting, no, not yet. The instrument traced her ribcage, tracing bone and tissue like she was coordinates on a map. 

“Pulse 142,” her mother said, voice stripped of anything maternal. Just data points and observations. “Respiratory rate elevated.”

Isabelle’s eyes darted wildly, desperate for anything familiar. Nothing. White walls that seemed to pulse with the fluorescent lights. Stainless steel trays lined with instruments she couldn’t name but instinctively feared. IV bags hanging nearby, filled with something that wasn’t clear but faintly luminescent—a sickly green-blue that pulsed like it had its own heartbeat.

She tried to swallow, but her throat constricted. This wasn’t her bedroom with its posters or awards. This wasn’t a nightmare she could wake from either. This was somewhere else. 

Somewhere worse. 

“M—mom?” The word was slurred, her tongue feeling as if it was swollen, useless. 

She tried to lift her hands, but resistance bit into her flesh. Straps. Thick medical-grade restraints pinning her wrists, ankles, and waist, splaying her across a table like a frog in a high school dissection. 

“Mom?” Louder this time. Desperate. 

The figure above her went stiff. The drip from the IV punctuated the silence—each drop a tiny explosion in Isabelle’s heightened awareness. Drip. Drip. Drip. Green-blue liquid pulsing into her veins.

Her mother’s face swam into focus. Same honey blonde hair. Same high cheekbones. Same brown eyes Isabelle saw in the mirror. But something was wrong. Those familiar features were arranged in an expression Isabelle had never witnessed—clinical detachment, scientific curiosity. The surgical mask hung beneath her chin, revealing lips pressed into a bloodless line. Under the harsh fluorescents, shadows carved valleys into her face, transforming her into a stranger wearing her mother’s skin.

“She’s conscious.” Mom’s voice wasn’t for her. It traveled past her, directed somewhere beyond Isabelle’s limited field of vision. No warmth. No comfort. Just data. “That’s impossible. She should be completely sedated.”

“Pulse still climbing,” a man answered. Clipped consonants. Professional urgency. “146... 150... 152. We’re losing the window, Laura.”

Isabelle tried to turn toward the voice. White-hot pain splintered through her neck, her skull, detonating behind her eyeballs. The ceiling spun, tiles multiplying, merging, separating.

“What are you—” She choked on the words. Something thick coated her throat. “—doing to me?”

Her gaze snagged on a glint of metal in her mother’s hand. A scalpel. The edge wasn’t clean. Wasn’t sterile. Fresh blood—her blood—decorated the blade. Vibrant crimson catching the light. Not old. Not dry. Wet. Recent.

Isabelle’s focus traveled upward. Her mother’s latex-covered fingers wore the same crimson stain, smeared across the tips like she’d been finger-painting. More blood splattered the white lab coat. Not drops. Splashes. Arterial spray.

Isabelle’s stomach contracted. That was her blood. That was her blood, outside her body, decorating her mother like abstract art.

“You shouldn’t be awake.” Her mother’s voice softened, almost apologetic. Something flickered in her eyes—a momentary flash of the woman who’d once bandaged Isabelle’s skinned knees and checked for monsters under the bed. It vanished so quickly that Isabelle wondered if she’d hallucinated it.

“The serum is adapting faster than projected.” Dr. Nagel stepped into view, his tall, thin frame looming over her. The hollows beneath his cheekbones deepened as he leaned closer, transforming his face into something skeletal. 

Isabelle knew him. He was her mother’s research partner. But this couldn’t be him—not the man who’d praised her Bach at the living room piano. Not the colleague who’d laughed at her mother’s terrible jokes over Sunday dinners.

“Her system is metabolizing the sedative at 3.8 times the expected rate.” His fingers twitched at his sides, eager. Excited. “The markers are unprecedented.”

The words bounced through Isabelle’s skull like ricocheting bullets. Markers. Rate. System. She didn’t understand what any of it meant. But she understood that they were discussing her like machinery. Like code.

“We need to increase the dose.” Her mother’s voice came from somewhere above and behind, all traces of maternal warmth surgically excised. The bloody scalpel hit the metal tray with a clink that vibrated through Isabelle’s molars.

Cool latex pressed against her forehead. The touch—so achingly familiar—sent bile rising in Isabelle’s throat. Her mother’s fingers traced her hairline, leaving wet trails of copper-scented warmth. Blood. Her blood.

“If we increase it now, we risk cardiac arrest.” Nagel’s hands moved in Isabelle’s peripheral vision, tapping rapidly across a monitor. Each tap-tap-tap hammered into her skull. “Temperature 104.9 and climbing. The protein chains are destabilizing faster than anticipated—”

“I know my daughter’s limits.” Mom’s voice hardened, but her touch remained gentle—the contradiction making Isabelle’s stomach heave. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

Isabelle tried to jerk away from the touch. Her muscles spasmed uselessly against the restraints. The leather bit deeper, hot friction against raw skin. A sound escaped her throat—not the scream building in her chest but something feral, wounded.

“Her heart rate’s spiking,” Nagel warned. “166... 170...”

“Just finish the notes.” Mom’s thumb brushed Isabelle’s temple, smearing something wet across her skin. “We’re behind schedule.”

Schedule? They had a schedule for whatever they were doing to her?

“Stop—” Isabelle’s vision collapsed inward, darkness gnawing at the edges like acid eating paper. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat a small explosion. 

Tears welled, hot and stinging. The sterile ceiling fractured above her—white tiles dissolving into watercolor smears. She blinked rapidly, desperate to clear her vision, to see what they were doing to her body.

Her mother’s hand withdrew from her forehead. The absence felt worse than the touch—a cold void where something familiar should be. 

Footsteps circled the table. Three steps. Pause. Two more. The distinctive squeak of rubber-soled shoes against industrial linoleum. Someone breathing—measured, controlled. Professional. Metal scraped against glass with a sound that vibrated through her molars.

Nagel’s face appeared above her, blocking the fluorescent glare. His thin lips compressed into a line. Sweat beaded along his hairline. The overhead light caught his glasses, transforming them into twin moons that obscured his eyes.

The syringe in his hand captured the fluorescent light, transforming the green-blue liquid inside into something alive—trapped sunlight pulsing with each subtle tremor of his fingers. The needle looked impossibly long and thick, more weapon than medical instrument.

“No,” Isabelle whispered. Her vocal cords spasmed, reducing the word to a breath. “Don’t—”

The needle hovered above her inner elbow, its shadow falling across a constellation of purple-yellow bruises from previous injections. Her skin crawled beneath it, goosebumps rising as her body instinctively tried to retreat from the coming invasion.

“Isabelle.” 

Her mother’s voice cracked like a whip against her consciousness. 

Laura’s face slid into view, eclipsing Nagel and the harsh light. Her features had transformed—hardened into the expression Isabelle had seen a thousand times before. The look that accompanied failed math tests and missed piano notes. The look that expected immediate compliance and accepted no excuses.

“Look at me.” Not a request—a command. Clinical. Authoritative. “Deep breath. In. Out.”

Isabelle’s lungs responded automatically, expanding on command—fourteen years of conditioning impossible to override even as her mind screamed rebellion. 

“You’re going to change the world,” her mother whispered, leaning closer until her face filled Isabelle’s field of vision. The familiar scent of her perfume—vanilla and jasmine—permeated the sterile air, now corrupted by the metallic tang of blood and chemicals. The combination churned in Isabelle’s stomach, acid rising in her throat. “Just like we always planned.”

We? 

The needle pierced her skin. 

Not a pinch—a violation. Cold fire erupted at the injection site, liquid ice racing through her veins toward her heart. Each centimeter it traveled left numbness in its wake, a creeping paralysis that felt like death advancing through her circulatory system.

Nagel’s thumb pressed the plunger with methodical slowness. The liquid disappeared into her bloodstream milliliter by milliliter. Isabelle tried to scream, but her throat constricted, vocal cords freezing mid-vibration.

The world bled to white, colors leaching away like water down a drain. Sounds distorted—her mother’s voice stretching into unintelligible frequencies, the beeping monitors collapsing into a single sustained tone.

The last thing she saw before consciousness fled was her mother’s face, not looking at her, but at the monitor beside the table. Her eyes weren’t filled with concern or regret or even love. They gleamed with something colder, brighter.

Triumph.

Not a mother watching her daughter suffer.

A scientist watching her experiment succeed.

Her body convulsed upright, sheets tangled around her legs like restraints. Sweat plastered her t-shirt to her skin, the fabric clinging to her torso in damp patches. Her stomach throbbed—not the dull ache of hunger but something deeper, more invasive, as though someone had reached inside and rearranged her organs.

She pressed trembling fingers against her abdomen, half-expecting to find an incision, stitches, evidence. Nothing but smooth, unbroken skin beneath the soaked cotton. Yet the ghost-sensation of cold steel against her ribs lingered, the phantom pressure of straps around her wrists.

Sunlight streamed through half-drawn blinds, painting golden stripes across her bedroom floor. Isabelle blinked, orienting herself. Her bedroom. Her bed. Her life. The digital clock on her nightstand read 6:42 AM. Normal. Ordinary. Safe.

She forced herself to look around. The room was exactly as she’d left it last night—math textbook open on her desk, pencil marking her place mid-equation. Her cello case was propped in the corner. Framed photos lined the wall opposite her bed: Isabelle and her mother at recitals, music showcases, and award ceremonies. Laura’s smile was identical in each one—proud, poised, perfect.

Everything looked normal. Achingly, impossibly normal.

But nothing felt right. 

No evidence of last night. No sign that anything had happened.

Had it happened?

“It wasn’t real,” she whispered, voice cracking in the silent room. “Just a nightmare.”

But the image flickered like damaged film: her mother’s latex-gloved hands. The scalpel catching fluorescent light. Nagel’s thin face hovering above her. The needle—impossibly long—sliding into her vein. The burn of something foreign entering her bloodstream.

From downstairs, the domestic sounds of morning drifted up—the sizzle of eggs on a pan, the soft clink of silverware against plates, the hum of the radio playing classical music. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

Isabelle swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as another wave of pain radiated outward from her core. Her toes curled against the carpet, and she gasped. Every fiber pressed against her skin with impossible clarity, each loop and whorl suddenly distinct and overwhelming. The air itself felt wrong—too dense, too present, molecules scraping against her face like sandpaper.

She stumbled toward the mirror, legs trembling beneath her. Same tangled hair. Same pale skin. Same purple shadows beneath her eyes. But her eyes...

Isabelle leaned closer, fingers gripping the edge of her dresser. Her irises had changed—the familiar dark brown now infused with flecks of gold, like honey caught in sunlight. Not dramatic enough for anyone else to notice, but she knew her own face. Something fundamental had shifted.

“Isabelle! Breakfast!”

Her mother’s voice sliced through the air. Isabelle’s body jerked backward, her heart hammered against her ribs, a caged animal sensing danger. That voice—the same voice that had clinically observed her temperature rising. The same voice that had discussed increasing her dosage while she screamed.

Right?

Her fingers traced her inner elbow, searching for puncture marks, bruises—any evidence that last night had been real. The skin was unmarked. Pristine. As though nothing had happened.

“Isabelle Maria Stark! Don’t make me call you again!” The cheerful lilt in her mother’s voice sent ice water cascading down Isabelle’s spine. 

“Coming!” she called back, her voice cracking on the single word. Her hand flew to her stomach, pressing against phantom pain. Dreams didn’t leave physical sensations this intense, did they? Dreams faded upon waking, details blurring into nonsense. 

She shook her head, forcing herself to move toward the door. Each step sent ripples of discomfort through her abdomen, persistent enough that she couldn’t ignore it. Her hand found the doorknob, fingers hovering over the cool metal.

“Get it together, Stark,” she whispered.

She turned the doorknob with a soft click, the hallway stretching before her, longer than she remembered, each step requiring conscious effort. Modern art pieces hung at precise intervals along pristine white walls—abstracts in blues and grays that her mother had selected from some gallery in SoHo. Isabelle had never liked them. Now they seemed to shift and pulse as she passed, colors bleeding beyond their frames.

She trailed her fingertips along the wall to steady herself, the texture of the paint registering with microscopic detail against her skin. Each tiny imperfection, invisible to normal eyes, scraped against her fingertips like sandpaper. Too much information. Too much sensation.

Her stomach cramped again, a vicious twist that doubled her over mid-stride. Isabelle pressed her palm against it, probing gently. The skin felt tender, hypersensitive—like a sunburn beneath the surface. But there was no visible mark. No incision. No evidence.

The smell hit her first as she approached the kitchen—eggs, butter, coffee, toast. Normal breakfast smells that suddenly carried undertones she’d never detected before: the sulfurous note in the eggs, the rancid edge of dairy beginning to warm, the bitter alkaloids in the coffee. Her stomach lurched in protest.

The kitchen occupied the far end of the open-concept living area—all sleek countertops and stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The kind of kitchen designed for magazine spreads rather than actual cooking. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the chrome fixtures into blinding points of light that stabbed at Isabelle’s sensitive eyes.

Her mother stood at the six-burner stove, back turned, spatula moving with over a pan of scrambling eggs. No blood. No scalpel. Just Laura Proctor in silk pajamas making breakfast, her hair pulled into a perfect French twist without a single strand out of place. The sight was so achingly normal that for a moment, Isabelle wondered if she was still dreaming.

“There you are.” Laura turned, spatula poised mid-air. Sunlight caught the droplets of egg clinging to its edge. Her eyebrow arched with that familiar expression before piano recitals and science fairs. A reminder not to disappoint. 

Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition. No guilt shadowed her features—no hesitation in her movements.

“You slept in later than normal.” The spatula resumed its path, scraping against non-stick with a sound that grated against Isabelle’s suddenly sensitive eardrums. Metal against metal. Like instruments on a tray. “You look flushed.”

“I—” Isabelle’s fingers dug into the doorframe, anchoring herself as the kitchen tilted sideways. Colors bled at the edges—the stainless steel appliances too bright, the granite countertops rippling with veins that hadn’t been visible yesterday. Her stomach clenched, the phantom pressure of hands inside her abdomen. “I had a weird dream last night.”

Laura’s movements stuttered. There and gone in less than a heartbeat. The spatula froze over the pan, trembling almost imperceptibly before resuming its rhythm with deliberate steadiness.

“Hmm? What kind of dream?” Too casual. Too measured. Each syllable placed with the precision of stitches closing a wound.

Isabelle took a half-step forward. The cold tile stuck slightly to her bare feet—another sensation amplified beyond normal perception. She cataloged her mother’s tells: the slight tension at the corners of her mouth, the controlled, even breathing, the way her fingers gripped the spatula with fractionally more pressure than necessary.

“You and Dr. Nagel...” Isabelle watched for reaction, for confirmation. “You were... cutting me open.”

Laura’s shoulders tensed, then deliberately relaxed—the same controlled response Isabelle had seen her use during arguments with her father before the divorce. She turned, her expression a perfect blend of amused concern. The laugh that escaped her lips didn’t reach her eyes—a hollow sound that cracked against Isabelle’s eardrums like ice breaking underfoot.

“Sweetheart, that’s the last time you watch anything in your father’s horror movie collection before bed.” She slid a perfectly folded omelet onto a waiting plate, the yellow edges precise and uniform. Not a single air bubble marred its surface. “You know those movies give you nightmares.”

The casual dismissal struck Isabelle like a slap. She’d just returned from her father’s a few days ago—the mandatory Thanksgiving holiday visit dictated by custody arrangements that divided her life into segments since the divorce. She’d brought back some of his DVDs, yes, but—

“But it felt real.” Isabelle stepped closer despite the warning bells clanging in her head. “I feel sore. My stomach—” She lifted her t-shirt slightly, revealing unmarked skin that somehow felt violated, exposed. Phantom pain radiated outward from her core, hot tendrils wrapping around her ribs. “It hurts right here, like something’s—”

Laura’s smile vanished. Not fading. Not diminishing. Simply gone, like a switch had been flipped, circuitry rerouted. The transformation was so abrupt that Isabelle took an involuntary step backward, her spine connecting with the doorframe.

“You were feverish yesterday, don’t you remember?” Her mother’s voice shifted into the tone she used for when Isabelle was being difficult—firm, authoritative, brooking no argument. The spatula tapped against the edge of the pan. “103.2. I was about to take you to urgent care when it finally broke.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to argue, but the memory slipped away like water through her fingers. Had she been sick? The more she reached for yesterday, the more it dissolved into fog. Disconnected fragments surfaced: her mother’s cool hand on her forehead, a thermometer beeping, ice chips melting on her tongue. But those images felt wrong somehow—too perfect, too staged, like stock photos rather than lived experience.

“I don’t—” Isabelle pressed her fingers against her temples, where pressure was building behind her eyes. The kitchen lights suddenly seemed too bright, each beam splintering into rainbow fragments. “That doesn’t sound right.”

Laura frowned. 

She set the spatula down gently and crossed the kitchen. Her hand, warm and dry, pressed against Isabelle’s forehead. “Still warm.” Her fingers trailed down to Isabelle’s cheek, the touch suddenly feeling like a perfect replica of maternal concern. “Fevers cause vivid dreams. Hallucinations, even. Your brain overheats and makes connections that aren’t there.”

The scientific explanation slid into place easily. The words had the polished quality of something rehearsed, something she’d said before.

“We should revisit your medication.” Laura’s voice dropped to a whisper despite the empty house, her gaze darting to the window as though checking for observers. “I think we need to adjust your dosage.”

Medication.

The word clicked into place like the final tumbler in a lock. The pills she’d taken every morning since she was ten. The “immune support” her mother insisted she needed. The bitter capsules that Laura watched her swallow each day and each night, waiting until they disappeared down Isabelle’s throat before turning away. 

Isabelle’s stomach twisted—not phantom pain this time but something visceral, instinctual. The animal part of her brain recognizes danger.

“This wasn’t a fever dream.” Isabelle pulled her arm from her mother’s grip, the sudden movement sending another wave of nausea through her abdomen. 

Something flickered in Laura’s eyes—not concern or confusion, but calculation. A rapid assessment of variables, of options, of damage control. The same look she wore when reviewing lab results that didn’t match her hypothesis.

“Sit.” Laura’s hand moved toward Isabelle’s shoulder.

Isabelle flinched back. Laura’s hand froze mid-air, fingers curling slightly before she lowered it with deliberate slowness.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Laura’s voice softened, but her eyes remained sharp, assessing. “You can barely stand. Look at you—white as a sheet.”

Isabelle’s legs trembled beneath her, betraying her. The kitchen tilted sideways, then righted itself with nauseating suddenness. She pressed her palm against the wall, seeking stability as her vision swam.

“Fine.” She took a single step forward, keeping the island counter between them. “But I can sit by myself.”

She made her way to the kitchen stool, each step requiring conscious effort. The distance seemed to stretch impossibly, the polished floor beneath her feet suddenly treacherous. She gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as she lowered herself onto the stool.

Laura circled the island and pulled a glass from the cabinet, filling it with orange juice and sliding it across the counter. “Drink,” she instructed, turning back to the stove with an air of dismissal. “You need the vitamins.”

Isabelle stared at the juice, suddenly aware of her parched throat. The glass felt abnormally heavy as she lifted it, watching pulp swirl in lazy eddies. Each fiber of orange suspended in liquid seemed unnaturally distinct, like she could count them individually if she tried.

Her mother busied herself wiping down the already spotless counters. The silence stretched between them, taut as a tripwire.

Isabelle raised the glass to her lips, then stopped. The juice smelled wrong—not spoiled, but different. Sharper. Chemical undertones beneath the citrus that she’d never noticed before.

Or never been able to notice.

Isabelle set the glass down untouched. “Mom,” she said, her voice barely audible even to her own ears. “The medicine you gave me yesterday... did it have a needle?”

The wiping motion ceased entirely. The cloth twisted between her fingers, knuckles blanching white against the dark fabric. The kitchen clock ticked, each sound amplified in Isabelle’s ears like a hammer striking metal.

“A needle?” Her mother pivoted, eyes wide in shock. She leaned against the counter, arms crossing over her silk pajama top. Casual. Practiced. False. “No, sweetheart. It was pills. The same ones you always take when you’re sick. You swallowed them with water while I watched. Don’t you remember?”

Isabelle didn’t. She reached for the memory, but it slithered away. The more she grasped, the faster it dissolved, like trying to hold smoke between her fingers.

Laura crossed the kitchen again. The silence of her approach sent prickles of alarm racing up Isabelle’s spine. “Isabelle.” Her mother’s voice dropped half an octave, taking on that edge that always preceded discussions about her father. The tone signaled danger more effectively than any alarm. “Darling, this dream is concerning me.”

Laura’s fingers brushed Isabelle’s shoulder, the touch feather-light. Isabelle’s muscles tensed beneath the contact, every cell in her body suddenly screaming to move away.

“If this keeps happening every time you come back from Tony’s...” The sentence dangled, unfinished but unmistakable in its threat.

The threat hung between them like a guillotine blade. Her mother would petition the court. Cite psychological distress. Present evidence of Isabelle’s “deteriorating mental state” after visits with her father. Tony wouldn’t fight it—he never did. He’d send expensive gifts instead, call more frequently for a few weeks, then gradually fade into sporadic texts and missed birthdays.

“It was just a dream,” Isabelle said, the lie burning her throat. “You’re right. I’m still feeling off.”

She lifted the orange juice to her lips, buying time. She forced herself to swallow, fighting the urge to spit it back into the glass. Her throat constricted against the liquid, her body’s instinct to reject what her mind suddenly classified as wrong.

“See? You need fluids.” Laura smiled, reaching to pinch Isabelle’s cheek. Her fingers lingered a half-second too long before dropping the hand. 

Isabelle’s skin crawled beneath the touch. Each fingerprint left a ghost sensation against her cheek. She set the glass down with a soft clink, orange juice sloshing against the sides. The liquid caught the morning light, suddenly looking too vibrant, too artificial.

“Mom.” She started cautiously. The question burned in her throat, dangerous and necessary. “You would never hurt me, right?”

Laura froze. Then horror bloomed across her features.

“Isabelle Maria Stark.” Her mother’s hands shot out, capturing Isabelle’s face between her palms. The sudden movement sent another wave of nausea rolling through Isabelle’s stomach. Laura’s thumbs pressed against her cheekbone. “How could you even ask that?”

Not an answer. 

“I just—” Isabelle tried to pull back, but her mother’s grip tightened.

“I am your mother.” Laura’s pupils contracted to pinpoints, her gaze tearing into Isabelle with laser focus. “Everything I do—everything—is to protect you. Do you understand that?”

Still not an answer. A deflection wrapped in the language of love. The pressure against Isabelle’s cheekbones increased fractionally, a subtle reminder of the expected response.

“Yes.” The word tasted like surrender on her tongue. Bitter. Copper-tinged. Like the aftertaste of those daily pills.

Laura’s expression softened instantly. Her hands relaxed their grip on Isabelle’s face, one sliding down to squeeze her shoulder instead.

“Good girl.” She pressed her lips to Isabelle’s forehead, the contact cool and dry. “Now eat up, and so you’re not late for school.”

As Laura turned to start making her own plate, Isabelle stared down at the omelet her mother had placed before her. Her stomach contracted violently at the sight, acid climbing her throat.

The fork felt impossibly heavy as she lifted it, metal teeth catching the morning light like surgical instruments. She pressed the tines against the omelet’s surface, watching as it gave way too easily, revealing the contents hidden inside. Spinach. Mushrooms. Cheese. All arranged in perfect proportion, cooked to textbook precision.

Just like everything else in this house. Perfect on the surface. Clinical underneath.

With one finger, she pushed the plate away, her appetite vanishing completely as a terrible suspicion took root in her mind.

Chapter Text

Later That Day – 9:06 AM

The classroom was too bright.

Isabelle squinted against the sunlight pouring through the tall windows. The geometry lesson fractured before her eyes—lines and angles dissolving into meaningless shapes that swam across the whiteboard. Her pencil trembled between her fingers, the slight vibration traveling up her arm. She clenched her jaw against the steady, rhythmic throb building behind her right eye. 

She sat in the third row, middle seat. The perfect territory for facing into the background. Not a front-row overachiever. Not a back-row slacker. Just... there. 

But today, she could feel eyes on her. Every movement felt wrong. Too loud. Too visible.

Isabelle hunched lower, shoulders curving forward as she scribbled what might have been notes. The scratch of graphite against paper sounded unnaturally loud in her ears. Her hand jerked, leaving a dark slash across her notebook. 

“Hey.” A whisper from her right, cutting through the white noise. Ollie Patel leaned across the aisle, her dark eyes narrowed with concern. The sleeve of her uniform blazer was pushed up, revealing a stack of thin bracelets that clinked softly when she moved. “You okay? You look like you’re gonna hurl.” 

Isabelle tried to smile, but her face felt stiff, the muscles uncooperative. Ollie had stuck by her since third grade, when Isabelle had punched Tommy Reichert for stealing Ollie’s lunch. Sharp-witted and sharper-tongued, Ollie never missed a detail. Today, her uniform bore all the hallmarks of her quiet rebellion: collar deliberately askew, at least fifteen bracelets stacked up her left arm, black nail polish chipped in a way that somehow looked intentional.

“I’m fine,” Isabelle murmured, even as a fresh wave of nausea coiled through her stomach, a low burn threading between her ribs like wire pulled too tight. “Just didn’t sleep.”

Ollie’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath her choppy bangs. That look—the one that screamed bullshit without a single word. Her eyes flicked to Isabelle’s white-knuckled grip on the pencil, to the sheen of sweat at her temples. But she didn’t push. She never did, not when Isabelle’s mouth went thin and tight like that.

Instead, Ollie flicked her pen cap, a tiny blue projectile that landed squarely on Isabelle’s half-finished notes. “If you pass out, I’m not carrying you to the nurse again,” she whispered, her voice low enough to dodge beneath Mr. Peterson’s droning explanation of complementary angles. “I threw out my back last time.”

Isabelle huffed a quiet laugh that sent a sharp pain through her chest. She pressed her palm against her sternum, feeling the too-rapid thud of her heart beneath her fingertips. The classroom tilted slightly, desks sliding in her peripheral vision.

Something was wrong. 

10:22 AM – History Class

The room felt smaller than usual. Every scrape of chair legs against linoleum sent needles through Isabelle’s skull. Every cough ricocheted off the walls. Every rustle of paper sounded like sandpaper against her raw nerves.

“The Treaty of Versailles created conditions that—” Mr. Abernathy’s voice faded in and out like a badly tuned radio.

Isabelle’s uniform collar choked her. Sweat beaded at her hairline. Her palms left damp prints on her notebook, smudging her half-hearted notes into gray ghosts.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Behind her, Kyle Prescott kicked her chair again. The fourth time in ten minutes. Each impact jolted up her spine, feeding the pressure building behind her eyes.

Her mother’s voice sliced through the classroom noise: “Everything I do—everything—is to protect you.”

The words should’ve comforted her. They didn’t.

Tap-tap- TAP.

Another kick. Harder this time.

The memory of the lab—if it was a memory—pressed against the back of her mind. Not vague impressions anymore, but crystallizing details. 

Tap- TAP-TAP.

“For Christ’s sake,” she hissed under her breath. 

Her pencil snapped between her fingers with a crack that sliced through the classroom. The sound hit her ears like a gunshot—too loud, too sharp. Splinters bit into her palm.

Twenty-three heads swiveled in perfect synchronization. Mr. Abernathy’s mouth froze mid-sentence, the word “reparations” hanging incomplete in the air.

Heat crawled up Isabelle’s neck, spreading across her cheeks in blotches she knew were turning an ugly red. She hunched lower, as if she could physically shrink from their stares.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Mr. Abernathy’s eyes lingered on her for three excruciating seconds before he cleared his throat and continued. The class’s attention drifted back to the lesson like reluctant satellites returning to orbit.

TAP.

Kyle’s foot connected with her chair again. A snicker followed.

Something snapped inside her chest. Not anger—anger was too simple, too clean. This was liquefied and electric, a live wire thrashing beneath her skin. It crawled up her throat like bile, pulsed behind her eyes with each heartbeat. Her fingertips tingled, then burned.

The classroom dimmed at the edges. Sounds warped—Mr. Abernathy’s voice stretched and compressed like a broken cassette. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with increasing intensity, the sound drilling into her skull.

Isabelle’s vision tunneled, narrowing to holes of light. 

“What the hell’s your problem?” She whipped around, catching Kyle’s smug grin.

The smirk vanished. Just... disappeared. His face went slack, then crumpled inward like paper burning from the center. Kyle’s eyes widened, confusion blooming into panic as blood erupted from both nostrils—not a trickle but a flood, bright arterial red splashing onto his pristine white collar.

“I—” His voice strangled itself. One hand flew to his nose while the other clutched at his temple. “My head—” The words fractured. “Something’s—”

His fingers trembled against his face, blood seeping between them, painting his knuckles crimson. A sound escaped him—not quite a whimper, not quite a scream—high and thin like tearing metal.

“Mr. Prescott?” Mr. Abernathy’s chalk clattered to the floor. He moved forward, monotone replaced by sharp alarm.

Kyle lurched to his feet, knocking his history textbook to the floor with a thunderous slap. Blood pattered onto the pages—one drop, two drops, a constellation of red. His eyes rolled upward, showing whites.

“It hurts,” he gasped. His voice cracked on the second word. “Like something’s—inside—” He swayed, one hand still pressed to his temple, fingers digging into his skin as if trying to claw something out.

The classroom erupted. Chairs scraped backward. Someone whispered “holy shit” too loudly. A girl in the front row gagged audibly.

“Someone get the nurse!” Mr. Abernathy shouted, lunging toward Kyle, whose knees were buckling.

From three seats over, Ollie let out a snort that cut through the chaos. “Karma’s a bitch,” she muttered, just loud enough for Isabelle to hear.

But Isabelle couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her spine had fused to the chair, muscles locked in place as she watched blood drip-drip-drip from Kyle’s chin onto his shoes. The surge of whatever-it-was inside her chest receded like a tide, leaving behind arctic emptiness.

I didn’t touch him. 

Kyle’s eyes found hers through the chaos. Fear. Pure, animal fear.

I didn’t do anything.

Blood vessels in his left eye burst, flooding the white with crimson. His mouth opened in a silent scream.

I just looked at him.

But she knew. Deep in her marrow, she knew. This wasn’t karma.

This was her.

11:57 AM – Cafeteria

The lunch tray trembled in her hands. Not visibly. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough for her to feel like she might shatter.

The pizza on her tray looked wrong. Smelled wrong. The cheese glistened with an oily sheen that turned her stomach. The sauce reeked of artificial sweetness and metallic preservatives. She could smell every individual ingredient, breaking down the whole into its chemical components.

Isabelle pushed the tray away, just an inch. Then another.

“Seriously? You’re not eating?” Ollie dropped into the seat across from her, balancing her own tray loaded with two slices and a mountain of tater tots. “On Pizza Day? Now I know the world’s ending.”

Isabelle stared at her hands. They looked normal. Ordinary. Human. But they didn’t feel like hers. Like she was wearing someone else’s skin—too tight across her knuckles, too loose around her wrists. Her bones ached with a deep, hollow throb.

“I heard they brought Kyle to the hospital.” Ollie leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried despite the cafeteria’s din. Her dark eyes gleamed with something that made Isabelle’s stomach clench. “Actual ambulance, lights, and everything. Overheard Mrs. Hensley saying he seized in the nurse’s office. Like, full-on foaming.”

Isabelle’s throat closed. 

“Guess karma finally caught his address,” Ollie continued, stabbing a tater tot with vindictive precision. “Remember seventh grade? When he put that gum in my hair, and I had to cut three inches off? Or last week when he tripped that freshman carrying the science project?” She popped the tot in her mouth, grinning as she chewed. “Cosmic justice, that’s what this is.”

“Stop.” The word scraped Isabelle’s throat raw.

“What?” Ollie’s bracelets clinked against the table as she reached for another tot, oblivious to the ice spreading through Isabelle’s chest. “Come on, the guy’s been torturing everyone since—”

“I said stop, Olivia!” Isabelle’s palm slammed against the table. 

The sound cracked through the cafeteria, drawing glances from nearby tables for a few seconds. The sensation hit again—that crawling, electric feeling beneath her skin. The cafeteria lights seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat.

Ollie froze, tater tot suspended halfway to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Her eyebrows drew together, the familiar crease forming between them—the one that appeared whenever Isabelle said something incomprehensible. Like when she said she preferred Vans over Converse. 

“Whoa. Since when do you care about Kyle Prescott?” Her voice dropped lower, a hint of hurt creeping in. “And since when do you use my full name?”

Isabelle curled her fingers into her palm, pressing until her nails bit into skin. The pain anchored her, pushed back the static crackling at the edges of her vision.

“I don’t,” she said, softer now, painfully aware of the attention they’d drawn. The whispers were already starting. “I just—” Her throat closed around the words she couldn’t say. 

I did that to him. I looked at him and something inside me reached out and—

Or I’m going insane. 

“It’s not funny,” Isabelle managed instead. “He could be really hurt.”

Ollie’s expression shifted, confusion bleeding into concern. She set down her fork with a soft clink, her bracelets sliding together as she leaned forward.

“Iz.” Her voice dropped to a genuine whisper, the kind reserved for secrets and emergencies. “What’s going on with you? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because I’ve known you since we were nine, and this—” she gestured at Isabelle’s entire being with a quick circular motion, “—is not nothing.”

Isabelle kept her eyes fixed on the table’s surface. 

“You look like shit. You’re ignoring pizza—your favorite food in the universe,” Ollie continued, ticking points off her fingers. “And now you’re defending Kyle Prescott? The same Kyle who called you ‘Stark Raving Mad’ for an entire semester until you finally decked him in the face?”

The cafeteria noise swelled around them—laughter, plastic trays clattering, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Each sound hit Isabelle’s ears with painful clarity, like someone had cranked up the volume on just the irritating parts of the world.

Isabelle stared at her hands, still pressed flat against the table. 

But she could feel it now—the wrongness pulsing beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. The thing that had reached out when she’d turned to Kyle. The thing that had somehow reached inside him and twisted.

She curled her fingers into fists, feeling her nails bite into her palms.

“Just queasy.” She swallowed hard against the lie, feeling it lodge in her throat like something physical. “I think I have a fever.”

“Bullshit.”

Ollie’s voice was soft but certain. She reached across the table, her fingers stopping just short of Isabelle’s wrist, hovering, not touching, like she knew better than to make contact. Like Isabelle might shatter.

“This isn’t a fever. This is something else.” Ollie’s dark eyes narrowed, scanning Isabelle’s face with the focused intensity she usually reserved for calculus problems. “You’ve been off since you walked in this morning. Worse than off.”

Isabelle’s gaze dropped to the untouched pizza. The cheese congealed with each passing second, oil pooling in tiny amber lakes. Her stomach twisted.

“Did something happen at home?” Ollie’s voice dropped lower, barely audible above the cafeteria chaos. She hesitated, the silence stretching taut between them. “Was it your mom again?”

The question hit like a slap. Isabelle’s breath caught, memories flashing rapid-fire: her mother’s hand connecting with her cheek after she’d brought home a B- in Chemistry. The bruise that had bloomed along her ribs when she’d talked back during dinner with investors. The five-finger imprint on her arm from when Isabelle had missed the cutoff for the prestigious Juilliard summer program by two points.

“You promised you’d call me or your uncle if she—” Ollie’s voice cracked slightly.

“It’s not that.” Isabelle cut her off, the words sharp enough to draw blood. Her fingernails carved deeper into her palms, half-moons of pain that anchored her as the cafeteria tilted on its axis. “She’s been... fine.”

Fine. Nothing about her mother had been fine since the divorce.

“Then what?” Ollie persisted, the concern in her voice sharpening to frustration. “Because you look like you’re about to either pass out or murder someone, and honestly, I can’t tell which would be worse.”

“Can we just fucking drop it?” Isabelle’s voice came out harder than she intended, brittle as thin ice. 

A flash of hurt crossed Ollie’s face—there and gone in an instant, but Isabelle caught it. She watched her best friend retreat, shoulders squared as she sat back, arms crossing over her chest.

“Fine. Whatever.” Ollie picked up her pizza, taking a deliberate, aggressive bite. Cheese stretched between the slice and her mouth, snapping back with a wet sound that made Isabelle’s stomach lurch. “Sorry I give a shit, Isabelle.”

The words hung between them, sharper than any slap. Isabelle opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she possibly say?

Sorry, my mom’s a psychopath? Sorry, I think I just gave Kyle Prescott a brain hemorrhage by looking at him? 

Instead, she wrapped her fingers around her water bottle, focusing on the cool condensation against her skin. The tremor in her hands had gotten worse. Beneath the table, her leg bounced in an erratic rhythm, heel tapping against the floor.

Isabelle didn’t wake up during any more experiments. Not fully. But her body remembered.

Day three after that night, she jolted awake at 5:17 AM, sheets twisted around her ankles, the ceiling pulsing above her, expanding, contracting. Her joints ached as if someone had replaced them with ground glass. When she tried to stand, her legs buckled. She crawled to the bathroom and vomited nothing but bile. 

Her mother found her there an hour later, curled against the bathtub, a glass of water and two pills in her hands. Isabelle noticed they were slightly larger. She swallowed without question.

School quickly became impossible. 

The ringing of the first bell each day felt like a siren pressed against her skull. She flinched every time, earning sideways glances from students who used to barely notice her existence. By second period, the fluorescent lights overhead pulsed like strobe lights, only she could see. Flicker-throb-flicker. 

At lunch, the cafeteria had become agonizing. The cacophony of voices, trays clattering, chairs scraping—it all crashed against her. She could smell every component of every meal: the preservatives in the bread, the ammonia undertones in the chicken, the rancid oil in the fryers. Her stomach heaved.

“You haven’t touched your food.” Ollie sat across from her, dropping her tray with a clatter that made Isabelle wince. “Third day in a row.”

Isabelle stared at her untouched sandwich. The bread looked wrong—too white, too smooth, like plastic. “Not hungry,” she managed.

“You’re avoiding me.” 

“I’m not.”

“You are. Ever since Kyle had his episode, you’ve been—”

“Don’t call it that.” The words snapped out before Isabelle could stop them.

“Call it what? An episode? That’s what everyone’s saying. Stress-induced—”

“It wasn’t stress.” Isabelle’s fingers curled around her water bottle, knuckles whitening. The plastic creaked under her grip.

Ollie’s eyes narrowed. “Then what was it?”

The cafeteria noise swelled, a wave of sound crashing over Isabelle’s consciousness. Someone dropped a tray three tables over—the clatter exploded in her ears like a gunshot. Her water bottle crumpled inward, plastic buckling.

“I have to go.” Isabelle stood abruptly, chair legs screeching against linoleum.

Then Ollie started distancing herself, and the whispers followed soon after. Isabelle caught them in fragments as she moved through the halls. 

“I sat next to her in History and got this killer migraine. Like, instant. Had to go to the nurse.”

“Dude, you didn’t hear? Melanie passed out in the bathroom after Stark bumped into her. Just... collapsed.”

Each whisper prickled against her skin, needles of awareness that made her want to scream. They were watching her. All of them. Eyes tracking her movements, cataloging her failures, her strangeness.

By the next week, the whispers changed.

“There she is,” someone murmured from ten lockers down. Not quietly enough.

“Jesus, she looks worse than yesterday.”

“You think it’s drugs?”

“Maybe it’s contagious. Whatever she has.”

A freshman boy with a shock of red hair stepped deliberately into the other side of the hallway as she passed, pressing himself against the wall. His eyes—wide, watchful—tracked her movement like she might lunge at him.

Isabelle kept her gaze fixed on the floor tiles. White, gray, white, gray. The pattern blurred as she walked faster, her breathing shallow and quick.

The worst part wasn’t the whispers. It was that they weren’t entirely wrong.

Jenna Liu had been her lab partner on Tuesday. By Wednesday morning, Jenna was home with a 103-degree fever that had appeared out of nowhere. Mrs. McCormack had touched Isabelle’s shoulder during English to ask if she needed to see the nurse. Ten minutes later, Mrs. McCormack was rubbing her temples, voice trailing off mid-sentence as she fumbled for the Advil in her desk drawer.

And Kyle... Kyle still hadn’t returned to school.

She rounded the corner too quickly and collided with someone. Books clattered to the floor. Isabelle stumbled back, an apology forming already on her lips.

“Watch it, freak.”

Isabelle recognized him immediately—Marcus Hyland, lacrosse captain, permanent resident of Kyle’s orbit. His usual smirk twisted into something uglier as he looked at her.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, bending to help gather his scattered textbooks.

“Don’t touch my stuff.” He jerked back, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to create distance. “Everyone knows you’re the reason Kyle’s in the hospital.”

The hallway noise dimmed. Faces turned toward them, conversation dropping to a hush. Isabelle felt her cheeks burn, the heat spreading down her neck in blotchy patches.

“I didn’t do anything to Kyle,” she said, the words sticking in her throat.

“Bullshit.” Marcus’s voice rose, drawing more attention. “You did something to him. And now half the people who get near you end up sick.” He jabbed a finger in her direction, careful to keep several feet between them. “First, Kyle, then Jenna, then Melanie in the bathroom. You’re like a walking plague.”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and terrible. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong. Something was happening to people around her—something she couldn’t control.

“That’s not—” she started, but her protest died as a freshman girl edged away from her, pressing herself against the lockers.

“They should quarantine you,” Marcus continued, gaining confidence as heads nodded around him. “Or maybe you should just stay home. Nobody wants whatever freaky disease you’re carrying.”

Isabelle’s chest tightened, each breath shallower than the last.

Two weeks had passed since the Kyle incident. Isabelle was the first to stand from her desk when the dismissal bell finally rang, her books already packed, poised to escape. She didn’t wait for Mr. Peterson’s final “See you tomorrow.” The moment the harsh electronic tone pierced the air, she was moving, shouldering past classmates who visibly flinched from her proximity.

In the hallway, the crowd parted around her—not the usual teenage shuffle but a deliberate, wary separation. Like animals sensing a predator. The isolation followed her in a perfect six-foot radius all the way to her locker.

Her fingers trembled as she spun the combination dial. Her fingertips felt simultaneously numb and hypersensitive, the metal ridges of the dial digging into her skin. On the third try, the lock finally clicked open with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud to her ears.

“Heard you and Ollie aren’t talking.”

Mia Donovan’s voice sliced through the hallway noise—sugary sweet with a familiar undercurrent of venom. Isabelle kept her eyes fixed on the contents of her locker, mechanically exchanging textbooks.

“Not that I’m surprised,” Mia continued, leaning against the neighboring locker. The scent of her expensive perfume—Chanel, something with jasmine notes—invaded Isabelle’s space, cloying and overwhelming to her heightened senses. “You’ve been acting like a total freak. Even more than usual.”

Isabelle’s hands stilled on her calculus textbook. The electric feeling crawled up her spine again, pooling at the base of her skull like mercury—heavy, toxic, mobile. She could feel Mia watching her, those perfectly lined hazel eyes scanning for weakness, for any reaction she could weaponize later.

It had been this way since seventh grade, when Isabelle had corrected Mia’s answer in front of everyone during debate club. A small humiliation that Mia had transformed into a years-long vendetta, escalating from whispers to “accidental” spilled lunches to orchestrated social exclusions.

“Leave me alone, Mia.” Each word emerged as if through gravel, her throat tight and dry.

“Everyone’s talking about you, you know.” Mia’s voice dropped to a theatrical whisper, loud enough for the gathering spectators to hear. Her brown hair fell in perfect waves, not a strand out of place, catching the fluorescent light. “How weird you’ve been. The way people get sick around you.” She tilted her head, feigning concern while her eyes remained cold. “Some people think you should be in therapy. I think you should be somewhere more... secure.”

The locker door creaked under Isabelle’s grip. The metal felt too thin beneath her fingers, like aluminum foil rather than steel. She could feel it giving way, could feel the strength in her hands that shouldn’t be there. The sensation both terrified and exhilarated her.

“I said, leave me alone.” Each word emerged through clenched teeth, the effort of restraint making her jaw ache.

“Or what?” Mia stepped closer, invading the bubble of isolation that had protected everyone else. Her eyes gleamed with the familiar thrill of pushing boundaries, of public performance. The scent of her perfume intensified—too sweet, too chemical—flooding Isabelle’s heightened senses. “You’ll give me a nosebleed like Kyle? Everyone’s saying you did something to him. That you’re on drugs, or—”

Something snapped—not just inside Isabelle, but physically, audibly. The locker door wrenched free with a screech of tearing metal, hinges separating from the frame like they were made of paper. Isabelle stared at the door now dangling from her hand, its weight seemingly nothing, the edges bent where her fingers had gripped too hard.

The hallway fell silent.

Dozens of eyes fixed on her, on the destroyed locker, on the impossibility of what she’d just done.

Mia’s perfectly glossed mouth hung open, the carefully crafted insult dying on her lips. Her complexion drained of color, leaving her face a pale oval of shock beneath her immaculate makeup. For the first time in their long history of mutual animosity, Mia Donovan looked genuinely afraid.

“Did she just—” someone whispered from the growing crowd.

“—ripped it clean off—” another voice murmured.

“Holy shit,” a boy said, loud enough to break through the stunned silence.

Isabelle let the mangled door clatter to the floor. The metal bounced once, twice, before settling with a final hollow ring against the linoleum.

She didn’t even think. She just turned and walked away, leaving her books scattered on the floor. The crowd split before her like the Red Sea, students pressing against lockers to avoid contact. Not casual avoidance. Not the usual teenage dance of personal space. They flattened themselves against the walls, some even ducking into classrooms.

They were afraid of her. They should be. 

Later that night, she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror.

The contacts she used to wear? Useless. She didn’t need them anymore. Her vision had sharpened to a terrifying clarity. She could see every crack in the tile behind her. Every strand of hair curled out of place—every freckle.

And her eyes...

They weren’t brown anymore. Not fully. 

Flecks of green had appeared—first barely there, like moss growing at the bottom of a well. Now they gleamed under the bathroom light, flecked with gold. Not Hazel. Not natural.

Alien.

Isabelle leaned closer, her nose nearly touching the glass. The green seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, tiny veins of emerald threading through her irises. Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink. The porcelain creaked under her touch.

A sharp knock jolted her upright. No pause, no waiting—the door swung open immediately.

Laura stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. Her face was a mask of practiced calm, but something flickered behind her eyes. Not concern. Not anger. Something that made Isabelle’s skin crawl.

Anticipation.

“I just got off the phone with your school.” Laura’s voice was meticulously controlled, each syllable measured and precise. She stood perfectly still, not a wrinkle in her tailored blouse. “They said there was an incident.”

Isabelle didn’t turn away from the mirror. In the reflection, she watched her mother’s eyes track over her, clinical, assessing. Like Isabelle was a lab specimen showing unexpected results.

“I broke my locker,” Isabelle said flatly.

“Broke it how?” Laura stepped further into the bathroom.

“I ripped the door off.” The words felt strange in her mouth, too big for her tongue. “With my bare hands. In front of everyone.”

Laura’s breathing changed. Isabelle’s heart quickened then slowed. The corner of her mouth twitched upward before she controlled it.

“I see.”

Three heartbeats of silence stretched between them. Isabelle could hear the blood rushing in her veins, the soft hiss of the ventilation system, and the distant hum of traffic seventeen floors below.

Laura’s gaze flicked to the doorway, then back to Isabelle. Her expression remained unreadable, but her pupils had dilated. Excitement, poorly concealed.

“Dr. Nagel is coming for dinner tonight,” Laura said, her voice suddenly brisk. 

Isabelle’s fingers tightened around the edge of the sink. “Again?”

“Yes, again.” Laura’s tone remained neutral, but something hummed beneath the surface, close to annoyance. 

“That’s three times this week.” Isabelle turned from the mirror to face her mother directly, the bathroom suddenly feeling two sizes too small.

Laura’s gaze flicked to Isabelle’s hands, still gripping the sink, then back to her face. “Is that a problem?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively light. A trap. Everything with Laura was a trap.

“No, ma’am,” Isabelle said, the lie bitter on her tongue.

Laura’s mouth twitched. “Good. Be downstairs at seven.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve. “Wear something presentable. The black dress, perhaps. Not those... things.” Her gaze swept dismissively over Isabelle’s worn jeans.

Isabelle said nothing, only nodded. 

“And do something with your hair.” Laura’s eyes narrowed, clinical assessment replacing the momentary excitement. “You look like a slob. I raised you to take better care of yourself.” Laura checked her watch—a sleek, expensive thing that gleamed under the bathroom lights. She turned toward the door, then paused. “And Isabelle?”

“Yes,” 

“Try not to break anything else before dinner.” Laura’s voice dropped lower, almost intimate.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Isabelle stared at the empty space where her mother had stood, the twisted feeling in her gut spreading outward like poison. 

Not fear. Not confusion.

Rage.

Chapter Text

6:29 PM

Isabelle curled up on her bed, arms wrapped around her middle like she could physically hold herself together. Her phone weighed heavily in her palm—Tony’s contact already pulled up, his face staring back at her. One press away.

She hit call before she could talk herself out of it.

One ring. Two. Three.

“Yeah?” Tony’s voice crackled through the cheap flip phone speaker. Distracted. Distant.

“Hey! Um, er—” Isabelle whispered, her voice shrinking in her throat. “Dad...”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then a woman’s laugh filtered through the background—light, intimate.

“Izzy, hey—” Tony’s voice moved away from the receiver. “Give me a sec, honey.” Not to her. To whoever was with him. “Sorry, kiddo. Bad timing. I’m in the middle of—uh—a meeting.”

Meeting. Right. Her stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot.

“I just...” Her voice cracked. She dug her fingernails into her palm. “Something happened at school today. I don’t feel right. It was like—”

“Did you tell your mom?”

Isabelle’s breath caught.

“Yeah,” she sighed, rolling onto her side and staring at the darkening sky. The city lights blurred as tears welled.

“Well, there you go,” Tony replied, already moving on. Glass clinked in the background. A murmur of female laughter. “Hey—I should really—can I call you tomorrow? Promise. Just wrapping up this... thing.”

Isabelle pressed her forehead against her pillow. “Sure,” she whispered. “Tomorrow.”

“Love you, kiddo.” 

The line went dead before she could say it back. Before she could tell him about the locker that had crumpled beneath her fingers. About the nosebleeds. The headaches. All of it. 

Isabelle stared at the dark screen, throat burning. Dad was busy. Dad was always busy with whoever that woman was. With everything but her.

She hurled the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a crack but didn’t break. The tears came then, hot and silent, as the city lights blurred into a kaleidoscope beyond her window.

6:59 PM

Isabelle slid into her seat, a clockwork performance of normalcy. One minute to spare. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed her napkin across her lap, the fabric catching on her raw knuckles.

Every sound amplified—the clink of silverware against porcelain, water being poured, the scrape of chair legs. Her skin felt too tight, like it belonged to someone else.

“Water, Isabelle?” Laura asked, pitcher poised.

Isabelle nodded, not trusting her voice. The glass filled, and she watched tiny ripples form from her shaking hand when she reached for it.

Across the table sat him. Dr. Wilfred Nagel.

“So good to see you, Isabelle,” he said, lips forming that thin, dry smile that never reached his eyes. “Your mother tells me school’s going well.”

She stabbed her steamed broccoli, fork scraping against the plate with a sound that made her teeth ache. “I tore a locker door off its hinges today,” she said flatly, meeting his gaze. “Yeah, it’s going great.”

The candle flames lit in the center of the table reflected in his glasses as his eyes widened slightly. She felt a sick satisfaction watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Isabelle took a sip of her water. 

“Isabelle,” Laura hissed, her warning clear as a slap.

Isabelle’s water glass trembled in her grip. She set it down with care before she could crush it, the memory of the locker door folding under her fingers still fresh—metal groaning, hinges popping like they were made of plastic.

“Isabelle, why don’t you tell Dr. Nagel about your upcoming audition for—”

“I’m not hungry.” The words scraped out of her throat, raw and final.

Laura’s eyes flicked up—subtle, sharp as a scalpel. “Isabelle—”

“I said I’m not hungry.” Isabelle pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping against hardwood with a sound that felt like satisfaction. 

“Isabelle. Sit. Down.” Each word dropped like a bomb. Laura’s fingers curled around her knife, knuckles whitening until the tendons stood out. “Do not embarrass me in front of my colleague.”

The threat hung between them, unspoken but familiar as a bruise. Isabelle’s gaze dropped to Laura’s hand—the same hand that would leave marks once Nagel was gone. If he was ever really gone. How many nights had she fallen asleep after these dinners only to wake with her body feeling hollowed out? Like something had been scooped from inside her while she slept?

Nagel’s eyes tracked the exchange, clinical interest behind those glasses. Not surprise. Not concern. Just... observation. His thumb moved rhythmically against the stem of his wine glass.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I’m feeling a bit faint,” Isabelle said, a smirk forming—rebellion rising like bile. She met Nagel’s gaze, holding it three beats longer than comfortable. “Must be the same thing that happened at school today. When I crushed a metal locker.” She enunciated each word, watching his pupils dilate slightly. “With my bare hands.”

Laura’s fork clattered against her plate. The sound rang in the silence, high and brittle.

“Go to your room.” Laura’s voice dropped to that dangerous register. Her face tightened, that familiar twitch at the corner of her mouth that promised consequences. A vein pulsed at her temple. “If this is how you want to behave, we’ll discuss this later.”

Later. 

When Nagel would pretend to leave. When Laura would come to her room, anger barely contained beneath that perfect composure. When Isabelle would feel the sting of disappointment before darkness claimed her, and she’d wake knowing her mother did something worse.

“Looking forward to it,” Isabelle muttered, already calculating how to barricade her door tonight. How to stay awake. She took three steps toward the hallway, then pivoted, the motion smooth and deliberate. “Enjoy dinner with your ‘colleague’...” She gestured between them, fingers drawing invisible connecting lines. “What is it you two do again?”

“Isabelle!” Laura’s warning crackled with electricity.

“I’m just curious.” Isabelle leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, feeling her heartbeat against her ribs, each beat a small act of defiance. “All these extra hours you’re working... and yet, I don’t actually know what you do.”

Laura rose from her chair with predatory slowness, wineglass abandoned. Her eyes never left Isabelle’s face. “You know perfectly well what I do. Stop trying to be smart and go to your room.”

“Right, right.” Isabelle’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “Vaccines. You make vaccines for hospitals.” She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes until they were just slits. “What do you test them on? Mice, or...” Her gaze slid deliberately to Nagel, who had gone statue-still. “Something else?”

Nagel’s wine glass froze halfway to his lips. A single droplet of cabernet trembled on the rim, blood-red in the candlelight.

“That’s enough.” Laura’s voice dropped to that deadly register, the one that preceded storms.

“Is it?” Isabelle pushed off from the doorframe, taking a half-step into the dining room. The air felt charged, dangerous. “Because I keep having these dreams where I’m strapped down, and there are needles, and you’re both there, watching—”

“I said that’s enough!” Laura’s palm slammed against the mahogany table. The crystal glasses jumped. Wine sloshed. The candle flames danced wildly, casting monstrous shadows that clawed up the walls.

Isabelle flinched but held her ground, jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.

Laura’s face smoothed into something worse than anger—cold, clinical disappointment. She crossed her arms, mirroring Isabelle’s stance with mocking precision. “You think you’re making some grand statement. All you’ve done is embarrass yourself.”

“Embarrassed you,” Isabelle corrected, the words sharp on her tongue.

“Both.” Laura’s voice dropped lower, each syllable precise and cutting. “You wonder why your father doesn’t call? Why he doesn’t want to spend time with you?”

The air vanished from Isabelle’s lungs.

“This, right here,” Laura stepped closer, just enough to twist the knife. “Look at how you’re acting, Isabelle. The tantrums. The accusations. The delusions.” Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Of course, he wants nothing to do with you.”

Isabelle’s throat closed. The room tilted sideways. Tony’s voice echoed in her head—Bad timing, kiddo—the woman’s laughter in the background.

“You didn’t prove your point,” Laura continued, her voice softening to something almost maternal, which somehow cut deeper. “You just proved mine. And his. Again.”

Something hot and sharp splintered in Isabelle’s chest. Her eyes burned. Her hands, which had torn metal today, now trembled like leaves.

“He’s never going to choose you, Isabelle.” Laura’s words were almost gentle now. “He never has. So stop trying to fight me.”

The truth of it—the horrible, undeniable truth—froze Isabelle in place. Her body went rigid, tears welling but not falling.

Laura turned back to Nagel with a practiced smile. “I apologize for the interruption. More wine?”

Isabelle broke. The careful walls she’d built crumbled all at once. She spun and fled down the hallway, vision blurring, lungs burning. The sound of her mother’s laugh—light, professional, unaffected—followed her like a ghost.

She slammed her bedroom door, pressing her back against it as the first sob tore free. Tears scalded her cheeks as she slid to the floor, knees pulled tight to her chest. She pressed a fist against her mouth to muffle the sound.

Dad was busy. Dad was always busy.

And maybe her mother was right.

Maybe he always would be.

February 1, 2005

There was no cake.

Isabelle stood in the kitchen doorway, frozen. She blinked once, twice, as if the empty counter might suddenly sprout frosting and sixteen candles if she just tried hard enough. The bare marble gleamed under the recessed lighting, spotless and accusatory.

No presents either. Not the usual department store gift card. Not even one of those scratchy sweaters Laura bought without checking the size—always too small or too large, never right. Just... nothing.

Well, Nagel wasn’t joining them for dinner. That counted as something.

Her fingertips traced the edge of the dining table. Two plates. Two glasses. Two sets of silverware and the candles Laura had lit weren’t birthday candles—just her usual tapers, burning with their steady, joyless flames. Not for celebration. 

“Sixteen,” Laura had said over dinner, raising her water glass in a toast that felt like a formality at a business meeting. Her mother’s smile didn’t crease the corners of her eyes, didn’t disturb the perfect application of her lipstick. “You’re growing up so fast.”

The words had evaporated between them, meaningless as smoke.

Isabelle had nodded, pushing salmon around her plate, counting the minutes until she could escape. Four months since that dream. Four months of waking up feeling different. Since she woke up. 

They’d finished dinner in silence, broken only by the scrape of silverware against china.

“May I be excused?” Isabelle had finally asked, the politeness a shield.

Laura had checked her watch—a deliberate gesture—and nodded. “Of course. Homework?”

“Always.”

Now, back in her room, Isabelle pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her window. Sixteen. Sweet sixteen. What a joke. She pulled her phone from her pocket, checking it for the twentieth time. Still nothing from Tony.

But then, the screen lit up suddenly, vibrating in her palm. A jolt shot through her chest. Not Tony. But—

“Uncle Rhodey?” Her voice cracked on his name, hope and disbelief colliding.

“The one and only.” His warm chuckle filtered through the speaker, solid and steady as ever. “Happy birthday, Izzy-girl. Sweet sixteen.”

Something inside her chest cracked open. She sank onto her bed, knees pulled to her chest, back pressed against the cold headboard. “You remembered.”

“‘Course I remembered.” The familiar rumble of his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. “Sixteen’s a big deal. You doing anything special?”

Isabelle’s gaze drifted to her empty desk. No cards. No wrapped packages. No cake crumbs. “Just the usual. Quiet night in.”

“Your dad call yet?”

Isabelle’s throat tightened, eyes fixed on the city lights blurring outside her window. “Not yet,” she whispered, the lie bitter and familiar on her tongue.

Rhodey’s sigh carried through the phone—soft, knowing. “I’m sorry, kid.” The silence stretched, comfortable in a way that silence with Laura never was. “How’s school?” Rhodey asked, shifting gears with the practiced ease of someone who’d navigated Tony Stark’s moods for decades.

“Fine.” The word came automatically. Then, after a pause, “Actually, no. It’s not fine.”

Her voice trembled. And then, like a dam breaking, everything spilled out. The dream four months ago. The pills Laura kept giving her. The missing time. The physical changes. Kyle and then the locker door crumpling in her hands. The headaches that felt like her skull was splitting. Nagel’s visits. The way she kept waking up feeling hollowed out.

They talked for ten minutes. Then twenty. Then longer. 

Rhodey didn’t interrupt. He didn’t dismiss. He just listened—really listened—making only the occasional sound to let her know he was still there, still hearing every word.

When she finally ran out of breath, out of words, out of strength to keep her voice steady, silence fell between them. Not empty, but heavy with everything she’d said.

“I think I’m going crazy,” she whispered, pressing her palm against her window, watching how the city lights filtered through her splayed fingers. “Or maybe I already am.”

Three heartbeats of silence.

“You’re not crazy, Izzy.” Rhodey’s voice had shifted—harder now, focused. The voice he used when things got serious. “And you’re not alone.”

Through the phone, she heard movement. Keys jingling. A door slamming shut. An engine starting.

“Give me a few hours, but I’m coming,” he said.

The doorbell’s chime cut through the pre-dawn silence like a knife.

Isabelle jolted upright, textbook sliding from her lap where she’d fallen asleep reading. Her clock read 5:42 AM. The sky outside her window hadn’t even begun to lighten.

He came.

She scrambled off her bed, bare feet silent against the hardwood as she crept to her door. She pressed her ear against it, hearing Laura’s bedroom door open down the hall, followed by the soft pad of her mother’s footsteps on the stairs.

Isabelle slipped out and moved to the landing, crouching low to peer through the banister rails. Her heart hammered so loudly she was certain it would give her away.

The front door swung open. There stood Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, not in casual clothes but in full Air Force dress uniform—medals gleaming, shoulders squared, spine ramrod straight. The brass buttons caught the entryway light, and his face was set in hard lines that belonged in war rooms, not family visits.

“James!” Laura’s voice rose with practiced charm, but Isabelle caught the millisecond flash of alarm before her mother’s mask slipped back into place. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“Laura.” Rhodey didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. His eyes scanned past her into the foyer. “I was in New York. Thought I’d stop by to wish my goddaughter a happy birthday.”

“How thoughtful,” Laura said, voice cooling by degrees. “Though I’m sure Tony could have sent something if you’d reminded him.”

Rhodey’s jaw tightened. “May I come in?”

Laura hesitated, one elegant hand still gripping the door. “It’s rather early.”

“It is,” Rhodey agreed, not backing down. “Funny thing about military flights—they run on their own schedule.”

Isabelle held her breath, watching the silent battle of wills unfold below. Her mother’s fingers drummed once against the doorframe—the only tell of her irritation.

“Fifteen minutes,” Laura finally said, stepping aside with reluctance. “She has a physics test today.”

Rhodey stepped inside, and Isabelle caught the subtle way his eyes swept the entryway. Not a social visit. A mission.

“Uncle Rhodey?” Isabelle called, descending the stairs with deliberate casualness, as if she’d just noticed his arrival.

When he turned toward her, something in his expression shifted—concern flooding his features before he masked it. What did he see? The dark circles under her eyes? The weight she’d lost? The way her hands trembled slightly at her sides?

“There’s my girl,” he said, voice warming. He opened his arms, and Isabelle flew down the remaining steps into his embrace.

His arms tightened around her, and she felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath when his hands found the prominent ridges of her spine through her thin t-shirt.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered against her hair, too low for Laura to hear. Then, even quieter: “I’ve got you.”

Laura cleared her throat. “Isabelle needs to finish getting ready.” Her voice was higher than normal, overly welcoming. “Perhaps you could join us for breakfast, James? I was just about to start the coffee.”

“That’d be great,” Rhodey said, finally releasing Isabelle but keeping one hand on her shoulder. The weight of it felt like armor—solid, protective, grounding. “I’d love to catch up with Izzy before her day starts.”

Isabelle met his eyes, reading the message there. The slight narrowing at the corners. The almost imperceptible nod. He wasn’t just visiting. He was here to get answers.

“Oh yes, after she gets dressed,” Laura interjected, stepping between them. “Go on up, Isabelle. The quicker you get ready, the quicker you can talk to your uncle.”

The dismissal hung in the air. Non-negotiable.

“Yeah...okay,” Isabelle squeezed Rhodey’s arm once—a silent thank you—before heading upstairs, each step measured to hide her urgency.

She paused at the landing, glancing back to see Laura ushering Rhodey toward the kitchen, her mother’s hand not quite touching his back like shepherding a wolf.

Rhodey stood with military stillness beside the kitchen island, watching Laura move with practiced efficiency. The scent of dark roast coffee filled the air as she measured grounds with scientific precision.

“So, how’ve you been?” Laura asked, her voice light as meringue. “It’s been years!”

Rhodey’s eyes tracked her movements, noting how she positioned herself between him and the staircase. “I’ve been good... busy.”

“Still overseas?” Laura pressed the coffee machine’s button, the mechanical whir filling the awkward silence.

“No, not these days.” Rhodey’s fingers drummed once against the countertop, then stilled. “I’m an officer, and also serving as a liaison between the military and Stark Industries.”

Laura’s shoulders tensed for a fraction of a second before she reached for mugs from the cabinet. “Wow, moving up in the world.”

“It has its moments.” Rhodey accepted the coffee mug she offered, but didn’t drink. “Interesting work. Keeps me in the loop on a lot of... developments.”

Laura’s smile tightened at the corners. “I’m sure it does.”

“Speaking of developments,” Rhodey said, setting his untouched coffee down with a deliberate click against the marble countertop, “I was surprised to hear about Isabelle’s recent... health issues.”

Laura’s hand froze midway to the refrigerator. “Health issues?”

“The headaches. ” Rhodey’s voice remained casual, but his eyes hardened. “The unusual strength incidents.”

The refrigerator door opened with more force than necessary. Laura’s face disappeared behind it for three beats too long before she emerged with a carton of eggs. “Teenagers exaggerate, James. You know how girls can be at this age—looking for attention.”

“Yeah... looking for attention.” Rhodey’s voice hardened, and he leaned against the counter. “Funny thing about teenagers, though—they usually don’t make up stories about crushing their lockers with their bare hands. Unless…something is wrong. Really wrong.”

Laura’s smile remained fixed, but something flickered behind her eyes—calculation, recalibration. The silence stretched between them, taut as a tripwire.

The quiet padding of feet on the stairs broke the standoff. Isabelle appeared in the doorway, school uniform crisp and pristine—plaid skirt, navy sweater vest, white button-up underneath. Her hair was brushed but limp, and dark circles were still visible beneath her eyes despite her efforts. Her backpack hung from one shoulder, knuckles white around the strap.

Her gaze darted between them, reading the room’s tension like a battlefield report.

Laura’s posture relaxed instantly, the perfect mother materializing from the ice queen. “There you are, sweetheart. Sit down, breakfast is almost ready.” She gestured to Isabelle’s usual place at the table.

Isabelle slid into her chair, the wood cool beneath her thighs. Next to her plate sat a glass of orange juice and three pills—white, blue, and a capsule filled with something that looked like sand.

Rhodey’s eyes locked onto them immediately.

“What are those for?” he asked, the casualness in his tone so deliberate it might as well have been a siren.

Laura didn’t turn from the stove where she was flipping an egg with surgical precision. “Oh, just vitamins. Growing girl needs her nutrients.”

Rhodey moved closer, studying the pills. “Pretty intense vitamins.”

“Only the best for my baby.” Laura’s smile didn’t reach her eyes as she slid a perfectly cooked egg onto Isabelle’s plate. “Stark women need to be strong.”

The word ‘Stark’ hung in the air like a challenge.

Rhodey nodded slowly, his military posture never wavering. “And how are you doing, Isabelle? School going okay?”

Before she could answer, Laura’s hand appeared at her shoulder, squeezing once—a warning disguised as affection.

“Take your pills, honey,” Laura said, sliding the glass closer. “Don’t want to be late.”

Isabelle’s fingers trembled as she reached for them. Her eyes met Rhodey’s, a silent plea passing between them. His jaw tightened a she placed the pills on her tongue, tipped her head back, and swallowed the orange juice in three gulps. The capsule scraped her throat on the way down, leaving a metallic taste that coated her tongue.

Laura’s smile widened. “Good girl.”

Rhodey watched the entire ritual, his expression unreadable except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. 

Isabelle set the empty glass down with a soft clink. Her tongue felt thick, coated with that familiar metallic aftertaste that always followed Laura’s “vitamins.” A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach—not from the pills, but from the realization of what she’d done. Telling Rhodey everything. The weight of Laura’s gaze pressed against her skin like a physical force.

She’d made a mistake. A terrible, possibly fatal mistake.

Her vision blurred at the edges, the kitchen’s pristine surfaces suddenly too bright, too sharp. The egg on her plate congealed into a yellow eye staring back at her.

“Isabelle?” Rhodey leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice pitched low with concern. “You okay, kid?”

“She’s fine,” Laura answered, the words slicing through the air before Isabelle could even open her mouth.

Rhodey’s gaze hardened, jaw tightening as he turned to Laura. “I asked Isabelle.” The edge in his voice wasn’t subtle.

 Isabelle felt caught in the crossfire, her chest tightening with each breath.

“I’m okay,” she finally managed, the lie bitter on her tongue. Her mouth felt wired shut, each word requiring effort to push past her teeth.

“You sure?” Rhodey pressed, eyes never leaving her face. He saw through it—she could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers curled against the countertop.

Isabelle’s bottom lip quivered. She bit down on it, hard enough to hurt, to ground herself. Her fork clattered against the plate as her fingers trembled.

“Look at the time,” Laura announced, glancing pointedly at her sleek silver watch. She moved with sudden efficiency, whisking away Isabelle’s barely touched breakfast. “We should reschedule, James. Isabelle has school, and she can’t be late. Physics test, remember?” 

Her smile was perfect, practiced—the smile of pharmaceutical commercials and PTA meetings.

“I really wish you’d called beforehand,” Laura continued, hand settling on Isabelle’s shoulder with deceptive gentleness. Her fingers dug in just enough to communicate the warning. “We could have planned a proper dinner. Caught up properly.”

Rhodey didn’t move, his eyes locked on Isabelle’s face. He saw it all—her pallor, the slight tremor in her hands, the way she flinched under Laura’s touch. His expression gave nothing away, but Isabelle recognized the calculation happening behind his eyes. The strategic assessment.

“Well, good news,” he said, voice deliberately casual. “I’m in New York for a few days before heading back to Malibu. Maybe I could take Izzy out this weekend? Grab lunch, catch a movie?” He directed the question at Isabelle, not Laura.

Laura’s fingers tightened fractionally on Isabelle’s shoulder. “That’s thoughtful, but her schedule is quite full. School activities, study groups, college prep—you know how it is these days.” Her laugh tinkled like breaking glass. “I’ll have to check her calendar.”

“I’d really like that,” Isabelle said, the words rushing out before she could stop them. “To go. With him, for a few hours this weekend,” She met Rhodey’s eyes, willing him to understand the desperation behind hers.

“Like I said, I’ll have to check the calendar, Isabelle.” She gave Isabelle a stern look before turning to smile at Rhodey. “Let me walk you out, James,” Laura said, moving toward the door, subtly maneuvering her body between them. “Isabelle, grab your things. We leave in five minutes.”

Rhodey didn’t budge. 

“I can see myself out.” His voice carried the quiet authority that had commanded troops in combat zones. “Let me say goodbye to my goddaughter properly.”

Laura’s smile flickered—a momentary system failure in her perfect programming. Her fingers twitched once at her side before she nodded. “Of course.”

Isabelle felt the pills working already, that familiar cotton-wool feeling creeping around the edges of her consciousness. She forced herself to stand straighter as Rhodey stepped forward. His arms enveloped her in another hug. 

 “Walk me to the door?” he asked, loud enough for Laura to hear.

Laura’s eyes tracked them like targeting systems as Isabelle led Rhodey the short distance to the entryway.

At the threshold, Rhodey knelt, pretending to adjust his already-perfect shoe. His face came level with hers on the way down, all traces of the friendly uncle vanishing. This was Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes now—the man who’d survived war zones. 

“You call me,” he murmured, voice pitched so low she had to strain to hear. Each word precise as a bullet. “No matter what. You hear me, kid? I’m going to fix this.”

He stood up straight, hugging her one last time. 

Isabelle’s throat constricted. She managed the barest nod, not trusting her voice.

Rhodey straightened, turning to face Laura. His eyes hardened as they locked with Laura’s. “It was great seeing you, Laura.” The words were cordial. His tone was anything but. “Let me know about this weekend.” 

“Of course,” Laura leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smile never wavering. But her eyes had gone flat and cold as laboratory glass. “Safe travels, James.” Her voice dripped with honeyed poison. “Always a pleasure.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow echoed through the silent house like a gunshot.

Chapter Text

Dinner was silent that night. 

It was a void, heavy and uncomfortable. The scrape of silverware against plates. The clink of glasses. Nothing else.

After the dishes were cleared, Laura grabbed a cloth and wiped down the already spotless counter. Isabelle watched her mother’s hands. They didn’t shake. Not even a tremor.

“You embarrassed me,” Laura said finally, voice like ice breaking.

Isabelle’s throat tightened. She said nothing.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Laura’s voice dropped lower, more dangerous. The cloth made another pass across the immaculate granite.

Still, Isabelle remained silent. 

Laura turned, the movement unnervingly slow. The candlelight caught in her eyes, transforming them into something feral. Something barely contained.

“You ungrateful little brat—”

The slap came out of nowhere.

No warning. No wind-up. Just the sudden crack of palm against cheek.

Isabelle’s head snapped sideways. The sting bloomed hot and sharp across her face, nerve endings screaming in protest. The taste of copper flooded her mouth where her teeth had cut into her inner cheek.

She stumbled back, one hand flying to her face. Not from the pain—she’d felt worse, so much worse. 

Her mother stood frozen, hand still extended, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. For a split second, something like horror flickered across Laura’s face—but it hardened just as quickly into cold justification.

Isabelle didn’t cry. Wouldn’t give her that satisfaction like she used to. 

Instead, she stared back, letting the hollow emptiness inside her rise to the surface. Let Laura see what she’d created. What she’d just solidified.

The silence between them stretched, taut as a tripwire.

“I guess we’re done pretending,” Isabelle said finally, her voice flat. Dead.

Something in Laura’s expression faltered.

Isabelle turned away, each step measured as she headed for the stairs. The railing was cool under her palm. The house suddenly felt like a stranger’s.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

Her bedroom door swung open silently when she got there, and she slipped inside, shutting it. No lock. Laura had removed it months ago after finding Isabelle’s journal. “No secrets in this house,” she’d said, as if the entire house wasn’t built on them.

Isabelle pressed her back against the door, scanning her room with new eyes. The pristine white walls. The meticulously organized desk where she’d spent countless hours studying. The shelf of awards and recital ribbons—trophies of a life that felt like someone else’s now. The cello in the corner stood like a silent witness, its curves catching the dim light from her bedside lamp.

Her reflection in the vanity mirror made her freeze. Flushed skin. Tear tracks she hadn’t realized were there. Eyes wild and glassy with something dangerous building behind them.

Her cheek throbbed, the handprint already blooming red against her pale skin. She touched it gingerly, wincing at the tenderness. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the pressure building inside her skull—a pounding, relentless drumbeat matching her heart.

She reached for her phone, which was usually placed on her nightstand. It wasn’t there, though. Laura—she must’ve taken it. 

The realization hit her with crushing weight: she had no one. Rhodey had left. Her phone was gone. No way to call for help. No way to run. No way to—

Her lungs constricted, each breath shorter than the last. The walls seemed to inch closer. The perfect, spotless room became a vacuum, sucking the oxygen away.

She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to contain the scream building in her throat. 

And something inside her—something that had been bending for years, stretching thinner and thinner with each carefully hidden bruise, each calculated humiliation, each stolen freedom—finally snapped.

She grabbed the lamp from her nightstand, fingers curling around the ceramic base. Then she hurled it across the room. The crash was magnificent. Glass exploded against the wall, raining shards across her pristine carpet. Plaster cracked, leaving a crater in the perfect white surface. The sound reverberated through her bones, satisfying and terrible all at once.

Not enough.

Isabelle yanked open her drawers with such force that the first one came completely off its tracks. She flung it sideways, textbooks and pens arcing through the air like shrapnel. Her physics book—the one Laura had insisted on getting her into advanced placement for, even though she didn’t inherit the Stark or the Proctor interest for maths and science—hit the wall with a dull thud. Her calculus notebook followed, pages fluttering open like broken wings.

Her reflection caught her eye again—that perfect Stark daughter with her perfect posture and perfect grades and perfect fucking life. The mirror didn’t stand a chance. Isabelle’s fist shot forward before she could think. The mirror shattered on impact. Pain exploded across her knuckles as glass bit into skin. Her reflection fractured into a hundred distorted versions of herself—broken, splintered, honest.

She slammed her fist into the wall next. Once, twice, a third time. Each impact sent shockwaves up her arm, vibrations rattling through bone. The drywall cracked, and white powder dusted her bleeding knuckles. 

Blood smeared the perfect white paint. Her blood. The crimson streaks looked almost artistic against the sterile backdrop.

“I hate you,” she whispered, the words scraping her throat raw. They tasted like copper and truth. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

Her desk was next. One violent sweep of her arm sent everything flying—pencil cup shattering, papers cascading like confetti, her laptop crashing to the floor. The motion felt like dancing, like fighting, like finally being honest.

Something sharp caught her forearm—a shard from the mirror, perhaps, or a piece of the lamp. It sliced deep, from wrist to elbow, a clean, decisive line.

Isabelle gasped, stumbling backward. The pain was immediate, a lightning strike of sensation. Blood welled instantly—too much, too fast—spilling over her pale skin in rivulets of crimson. It dripped onto the carpet, stark against the cream fibers.

Her head spun. The room tilted.

Then—impossibly—the blood flow slowed. The edges of the wound quivered, then began to crawl toward each other like magnetic opposites seeking connection. Muscle fibers wove together beneath her eyes. Blood vessels sealed themselves shut.

Isabelle froze, transfixed with horror and fascination. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched her body betray physics, betray nature.

The wound wasn’t closing completely, but enough to stop the bleeding. Enough to keep her alive.

Her fingers trembled as they traced the half-healed gash. The skin felt hot, unnaturally warm. Wrong.

“What the fuck,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “What the actual fuck.”

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t human.

Dawn crawled through Isabelle’s window, finding her wide awake, perched on the edge of her bed. She hadn’t slept—not for a minute. The night had stretched endlessly, her mind racing between horror at what her body had done and fury at what her mother had done to her.

The destruction around her remained untouched. Shattered glass glittered on the carpet. Books lay splayed open, pages bent. Blood—her blood—had dried in rusty streaks across the wall.

And Laura hadn’t come. Hadn’t investigated the crashes. Hadn’t checked on her.

Isabelle stared at her arm where the deep gash had been. She traced it with her fingertip, feeling the slight ridge of new tissue.

Wrong. It felt wrong.

Her knuckles had healed, too, leaving only faint marks where glass had sliced them open. The throbbing in her cheek from Laura’s slap had vanished completely.

The house below creaked with familiar morning sounds. Cabinet doors opening and closing. The coffee maker gurgling. Laura, continuing as if nothing had happened.

Isabelle stood, legs stiff from sitting motionless for hours. She pulled on clean clothes, covering the evidence of her healing, and headed downstairs.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and toast. Sunlight streamed through the windows, making everything look falsely bright. Normal. Perfect. Laura stood at the counter, back turned, arranging breakfast on a plate. Same as always. Same as yesterday. Same as every day. 

“Good morning,” Laura said without turning around. Her voice held that manufactured cheerfulness that made Isabelle’s skin crawl.

Isabelle said nothing, sliding onto her usual chair at the island. Her place was set—the same glass of orange juice, the same three pills lined up beside it. 

“Eat up.” Laura placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her. “Don’t want to be late for school.”

Isabelle stared at the food, then at the pills. Her throat constricted at the sight.

“I have an important meeting today. Last minute thing, ” Laura continued, checking her sleek silver watch with a practiced flick of her wrist. “So I need to drop you off early. Hurry up and eat.”

The pills seemed to grow larger the longer Isabelle stared at them. Her fingers twitched. The memory of her arm knitting itself back together flashed behind her eyes.

Laura’s heels clicked against the tile as she moved around the kitchen island. She paused, finally noticing Isabelle’s stillness. The artificial smile slipped from her face.

“I said hurry up and eat,” she commanded, voice dropping an octave. “And take your pills.”

The word ‘pills’ hung in the air between them, suddenly loaded with new meaning. Isabelle’s heart hammered against her ribs.

She didn’t look up from the plate. “No.”

The kitchen went silent. Even the refrigerator seemed to hold its breath. The tick of the wall clock became deafening.

“Excuse me?” Laura’s voice dropped several degrees, frosting over.

Isabelle raised her eyes now, meeting her mother’s gaze. Something electric crackled between them. “No.”

Laura set down her coffee mug. The soft clink against the counter felt like a warning shot. “Isabelle—”

“Fuck you.”

The words hung between them, sharp and irretrievable. They tasted like freedom on Isabelle’s tongue. They made Laura’s face transform. 

Laura’s nostrils flared as she marched over to her daughter, a vein pulsing at her temple. Her hand shot out, palm open, aiming for Isabelle’s face.

This time, Isabelle was ready.

Her hand snapped up, catching Laura’s wrist mid-swing. The impact jarred up her arm, but her grip held firm. Stronger than it should be. Stronger than she’d ever been.

Laura’s eyes widened—not in pain, but in genuine surprise. For the first time in Isabelle’s memory, her mother looked caught off-guard.

“Don’t,” Isabelle said, her voice dropping to a whisper that filled the kitchen more completely than any shout could. “Ever. Again.”

Laura yanked her arm back, but Isabelle’s grip held firm—too firm. The bones of her mother’s wrist shifted beneath her fingers. A small, dark part of her brain catalogued exactly how much pressure it would take to snap them.

For a suspended moment, they were locked together, neither willing to yield. 

“Let. Go. Of. Me.” Each word emerged like individual ice cubes dropping into a glass.

Isabelle’s fingers tightened fractionally. “Like you let go of me last night?” The words came out steady despite the earthquake beneath her ribs. “Like you’ve let go every time you decided I needed to be put in my place?”

Laura’s perfect mask cracked. Fear flickered in her eyes—real fear—before hardening into something clinical. Something assessing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know!” It exploded from Isabelle, raw and ragged. Her voice cracked, splintering like the mirror upstairs. “That’s the whole fucking point! I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

She released Laura’s wrist with a violent shove that sent her mother stumbling backward against the counter. The orange juice glass toppled, pills scattering across the marble like tiny meteorites. One rolled to a stop against Isabelle’s plate. White. Innocuous. Poison.

Laura massaged her wrist, angry red fingerprints blooming where Isabelle had gripped her. Her breathing came faster now, but her voice remained controlled—the scientist observing a failed experiment. She straightened her blouse with precise movements. “I swear I have tried so hard with you. Been there. Been a good mother—”

A laugh tore from Isabelle’s throat.

“A good mother?” She stood so violently that the chair crashed backward. “You made me sick. You drug me daily.” She jabbed a finger towards Laura. “You hit me.” Her voice rose, trembling with the force of years of buried rage. “Cut me open and put things inside me. You turned me into this!”

She thrust her arm forward, yanking up her sleeve to reveal the pink line where last night’s gash had been. Blood still crusted at the edges, but the wound itself was days old, not hours.

“Look at it! Look what I can do now!” Her voice cracked, splintering at the edges. “What did you do to me?”

Laura’s face drained of color, porcelain skin going ashen. Her eyes locked on the healed wound, then darted to Isabelle’s face. Something shifted behind her eyes—fear morphing into calculation with terrifying speed.

“You don’t understand,” Laura said, her voice steadying as she reached for her phone on the counter. Her fingers trembled slightly—the only tell. “You need your medication. You’re having an episode.”

“Don’t.” Isabelle moved faster than thought, her hand snatching the phone before Laura’s fingers could close around it. The distance between them vanished in a heartbeat—too fast, impossibly fast. “Don’t you dare call anyone. Don’t you dare pretend this is me being crazy.”

The phone creaked in her grip. Laura’s eyes widened.

“I want answers.” Isabelle’s voice dropped lower, steadier. “Now.”

Laura tracked Isabelle’s movements with the wariness of someone suddenly realizing they were locked in a cage with something dangerous.

“Give me my phone, Isabelle.”

“No.” Isabelle backed up a step, keeping the kitchen island between them. The cold marble pressed against her lower back. “Not until you tell me the truth. What am I? What did you do to me?”

A muscle twitched in Laura’s jaw—that telltale sign of restraint Isabelle had learned to watch for since childhood. 

“You’re my daughter.” Laura’s voice hardened, clinical. “You’re sick. You need help.”

“Bullshit.” The word felt good on Isabelle’s tongue—forbidden, liberating. Her fingers tightened around the phone until the case cracked. “Normal sick people don’t heal overnight. Normal sick people don’t—” The thought hit her like a physical blow, stealing her breath. “I’m not sick at all, am I? I never was.”

Laura’s face smoothed into that practiced expression—the one she used at parent-teacher conferences, at doctor’s appointments. The concerned mother mask.

“You’re spiraling,” Laura said coldly. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening. “You’re hormonal and emotionally unstable—your father’s influence, no doubt—”

“I haven’t seen my father in months!” Isabelle’s voice cracked, raw, and ragged. The phone in her hand whined as plastic compressed under impossible pressure. “How the hell is this his fault?”

Laura’s nostrils flared. “So you’re just ungrateful? Enough with these delusions.” She pushed off from the counter, taking a step forward. “I know you’re angry at him for not being there. And I am truly sorry, but this—” she gestured at the space between them, at the broken phone, at Isabelle’s trembling form, “—you taking your feelings about him out on me—needs to stop! I am not hurting you!”

A laugh tore from her throat, wild and unhinged, scraping her vocal cords raw. Not like glass, but like a dam breaking. 

“Oh yeah?” She slammed the mangled phone onto the counter. The device skidded across the marble, leaving a trail of shattered glass and twisted metal. “Not hurting me?”

“You need to calm—”

Isabelle’s palm crashed down onto the pristine countertop. What mattered was the sound—the sharp, impossible crack of expensive marble splitting beneath her hand.

They both froze, staring at the spiderweb of fractures radiating from her palm print.

Laura’s face drained of color. Her throat worked, swallowing hard. “Isabelle, you need to calm down. This isn’t—”

“This isn’t what?” Isabelle’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Normal? Human? Yeah, no fucking shit.” She pushed off from the counter, her movements unnaturally fluid. “I need the truth. Now.”

Laura’s eyes darted to the doorway. Calculating escape routes. Isabelle recognized that look—she’d worn it herself, trapped in this house for years.

“I’ve given you everything,” Laura said, voice steadying as she edged sideways. “Everything a mother could—”

“Except honesty.” Isabelle moved with sudden purpose, crossing to the cutting board where Laura had been preparing breakfast. Her fingers closed around the handle of the kitchen knife—eight inches of steel, perfectly balanced. 

The blade caught the light, reflecting Laura’s widening eyes.

“Isabelle.” Her mother’s voice sharpened with genuine alarm. “Put that down.”

“Why?” Isabelle’s hand was perfectly steady. “Afraid I’ll hurt myself? Or afraid I won’t?”

“You’re not thinking clearly—”

“I’ve never thought more clearly in my life.” Isabelle held Laura’s gaze as she pressed the blade against her own forearm. The metal felt cool against her skin. 

Laura lunged forward. “Don’t—”

Too late.

Isabelle dragged the knife down her arm in one fluid motion. The blade parted skin, muscle, and veins with surgical precision. Blood welled instantly—bright arterial red, pulsing with her heartbeat. It spilled over her pale skin, dripping onto the white tile floor with hypnotic rhythm.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry out. Just watched.

And Laura watched too, horror and something else—something hungry and clinical—flashing across her face.

The blood flow stuttered. Slowed. Stopped.

At the edges of the wound, skin trembled and crawled like something alive. Muscle fibers reached for each other across the gap, weaving together with unnatural purpose. Veins sealed themselves, the torn edges knitting with microscopic precision.

In minutes, the gash was gone. Only a thin pink line remained, already fading.

The knife clattered to the floor, smearing blood across pristine tile.

“What am I?” Isabelle’s voice was barely a whisper, the words scraping her throat. Her hands shook now, the delayed shock setting in. “What did you do to me?”

Laura’s scientific mask slipped. For a heartbeat, raw fear showed through—not fear of Isabelle, but something self-preserving. Her eyes darted to the doorway.

“You weren’t supposed to find out like this.” Laura’s voice had changed, all maternal warmth evaporating into clinical detachment. She edged backward, one hand reaching behind her to feel for the doorframe. “You don’t understand what you are—what I’ve done to protect you—”

“Protect me?” The word tasted like acid on Isabelle’s tongue. “You experimented on me!”

“I perfected you!” Laura’s back hit the wall. 

 Rage built inside Isabelle’s chest, surging and pooling in her fingertips. “You made me think I was crazy!” 

“Isabelle, listen—” Laura’s voice sharpened with desperation as she inched toward the hallway. “There are things about your biology, about your genetics—”

“No more lies!” Isabelle screamed, the sound tearing from her throat like something feral.

The pressure inside her chest exploded outward. She didn’t reach out—not physically—but something did. Something invisible and unstoppable, racing across the space between them.

Laura’s next word died mid-syllable. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating. One hand flew to her chest, fingers clawing at her blouse. The other reached blindly for support, finding none.

“What—” Laura gasped, her face draining of color. “What are you—”

Her knees buckled. She slid down the wall in slow motion, mouth opening and closing.

Each breath came shorter than the last, wet and desperate.

Isabelle felt it happening—felt Laura’s lungs constricting, her blood vessels narrowing, her heart spasming inside her chest. Felt it as if it were happening in her own body, a perfect mirror of pain.

“Stop,” Laura wheezed, her lips taking on a bluish tinge. Sweat beaded on her forehead. “Isa—please—”

Horror crashed through Isabelle’s rage. She stumbled backward, hands flying up as if to physically push away what she was doing. “I’m not—I don’t know how to—”

Laura’s eyes rolled back, her body convulsing once, twice. A thin line of saliva trailed from the corner of her mouth. The sound that escaped her wasn’t even human—a wet, strangled rattle that echoed in the pristine kitchen.

“Mom?” The word escaped Isabelle before she could stop it, small and terrified. Her childhood voice. “Mom!” She dropped to her knees beside Laura, hands hovering uselessly. Laura’s chest heaved with uneven, shallow breaths. 

Isabelle’s hands hovered over her mother’s body, trembling. What could she touch? What should she touch? The power still hummed beneath her skin, electric and hungry. She might make it worse.

“I didn’t mean—” The words died in her throat. Useless. Meaningless.

She had meant it. Deep down. Or maybe not so deep. 

Laura’s eyes fixed on something beyond Isabelle’s shoulder, something only she could see. Her lips moved, forming words too quiet to hear. Isabelle leaned closer, pulse hammering in her ears. Laura’s breath brushed against her cheek, warm and fading.

“—weapon,” Laura whispered, each syllable a labor. Her eyes suddenly sharpened, finding Isabelle’s with terrifying clarity. “My perfect weapon.”

The words landed like physical blows. Each one precise. Calculated. True.

Not daughter. Weapon.

Laura’s fingers, which had been clutching weakly at Isabelle’s wrist, went slack. The perfectly manicured nails scraped across skin as her hand fell to the floor with a soft, final thud.

The kitchen fell silent. No breathing. No heartbeat. 

Isabelle stared at the body. Her mother’s body. The woman who had raised her. Controlled her. Lied to her. Created her.

She had killed her. 

Isabelle stared at her hands—clean, unmarked, no evidence of what they had just done. No evidence except the cooling body on the kitchen floor.

Laura’s eyes stared at nothing, glazed and empty. That perfect posture finally broken, limbs splayed at unnatural angles against the pristine tile. The woman who had controlled every aspect of Isabelle’s life for sixteen years now controlled nothing. Not even her own body.

Isabelle hadn’t moved from her knees. Couldn’t. The tiles beneath her had warmed to her body temperature, the blood long since dried to a rusty brown that would never fully come out of the grout. Evidence. Permanent.

She should feel something. Grief. Remorse. Relief. Anything.

Instead, there was just... nothing. A vast, echoing emptiness where emotion should be. Like someone had scooped out her insides and left a hollow shell behind.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The kitchen clock counted seconds that meant nothing anymore. How long had she been kneeling here? Minutes? Hours? Time had become abstract, meaningless. The morning sun had climbed higher, casting new shadows across Laura’s face, highlighting the blue tinge of her lips, the unnatural stillness of her chest.

“My perfect weapon,” Laura had said. Her final words.

Not “I love you.” Not “I’m sorry.” Not even “I hate you.”

Weapon.

Isabelle’s muscles screamed as she dragged herself across the floor, inch by excruciating inch. The landline phone sat on the drawer table—miles away, it seemed, though only across the room.

She fixed her eyes on it. One goal. One lifeline.

Her elbow bumped Laura’s shoe, still attached to her mother’s foot. Still warm. Isabelle flinched away, bile rising in her throat.

The drawer table’s edge finally came within reach. She pulled herself up, fingers clawing at the polished wood. The phone receiver felt impossibly heavy as she lifted it, the plastic cool against her blood-sticky palm.

The dial tone hummed, steady and indifferent. Isabelle stared at the keypad, her vision blurring. Only one number mattered now. Her fingers moved on autopilot, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.

One ring.

Isabelle’s heart hammered against her ribs. What would she say? How could she possibly explain?

Two rings.

Her mother’s body lay sprawled behind her. Her doing.

Three rings.

Maybe he wouldn’t answer. Maybe she could just disappear. Run. Hide. Become someone else.

Click.

“Rhodes here.” His voice came through clearly. Alert but weary around the edges. The sound of it—so familiar, so safe—made something crack inside her chest.

Her throat closed. Words died before they reached her lips.

“Hello?” Shuffling sounds came through the line. Sheets rustling. Him sitting up.

Isabelle opened her mouth again. A strangled sound escaped, half-breath, half-sob.

“Who is this?” Sharper now. More alert. 

“Uncle Rhodey.” Her voice emerged as a whisper, cracked and hollow.

Silence. Then: “Izzy?” All military precision vanished, replaced by raw concern. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

The dam broke. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, cutting clean tracks through the dried blood. “I need help.” The words tumbled out, fractured and desperate. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—I think she’s—” Her eyes darted to Laura’s still form. “I think she’s dead. Mom’s dead.”

“Isabelle.” His voice sharpened, anchoring her. “Slow down. Are you hurt? Are you safe right now?”

A hysterical laugh bubbled up her throat. Safe? What did that even mean anymore?

“I don’t know what happened.” Her words slurred together, panic rising. “She hit me, and then—my arm healed—and we fought, and I just wanted her to stop lying—and something came out of me—I couldn’t control it—”

“Listen to me.” Rhodey’s voice cut through her spiral, steel wrapped in velvet. “I need you to breathe. Right now. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

She obeyed automatically, drawing a shuddering breath that smelled of copper and death.

“Good. Now tell me where you are.”

“Home.” The word tasted wrong on her tongue. This place had never been home. “In the kitchen.”

“I’m coming to you.” Movement on his end—drawers opening, clothes rustling. “Don’t touch anything else. Don’t call anyone. Stay exactly where you are.”

“Uncle Rhodey.” Her voice cracked, childlike and small. The phone trembled against her ear. “I didn’t mean to.”

Isabelle slumped against the drawer table, sliding down until she sat on the floor. Laura’s unseeing eyes stared at her from across the kitchen. 

Accusatory. 

Empty.

Chapter Text

Present

A phone rang. 

Isabelle blinked, the kitchen dissolving around her. The marble countertop, her mother’s body, the lies—all vanishing. Not real. Over. 

Her pulse hammered against her temples as reality reasserted itself: Madripoor. The dim, yellow-tinged light. Selby’s watchful eyes across the table. The weight of Zemo’s presence beside her, the tension radiating from Sam and Bucky. 

The phone rang again, sharper this time. The sound cut through the room’s thick silence, emanating from Sam’s pocket. 

Selby’s face transformed instantly. Her lips tightened, nostrils flared, catching a scent. “Answer it.” 

Her voice carried the casual cruelty of someone accustomed to being obeyed. She snapped her fingers, a quick, demanding gesture, and the nearest guard moved. 

The guard stepped behind Sam, the metallic click of his weapon adjustment echoing in the small room. Isabelle’s skin prickled with cold sweat, the hair on her arms rising.

“On speaker,” Selby commanded, rising from her seat. She leaned forward, palms flat against the table’s surface, rings glinting in the low light.

Sam’s eyes flicked to Bucky across the table. Isabelle caught the silent communication between them—Bucky’s blue eyes sharp with warning, the smallest head shake so subtle it barely disturbed the air. Don’t break. Don’t react. Play along.

Sam extracted the phone with deliberate slowness, his movements careful under the guard’s watchful eye. His thumb hovered over the screen, a flash of recognition in his eyes before he masked it, his features smoothing into practiced neutrality. 

The gun barrel pressed closer to Sam’s neck. Isabelle’s fingers curled against her thighs, nails digging into her palms. One wrong move, one wrong word, and everything would collapse around them.

“Hello?” 

“Hey, you busy?” Sarah Wilson’s voice burst through the speaker, clear and commanding, oblivious to the danger surrounding her brother. “We need to talk about this situation.” 

Isabelle’s stomach twisted. Sarah Wilson—Sam’s sister. Isabelle had met her once, years and years ago. Christmas at the compound. Champagne flutes catching light. Sarah’s laugh, warm and genuine, as she’d teased Sam about his dancing. Before Thanos. Before the Blip. Before everything fell apart.

The guard pressed his weapon harder against Sam’s shoulder blade, metal digging through fabric. Isabelle caught the microscopic flinch Sam couldn’t suppress. Across the table, Bucky’s breathing shifted to a controlled pattern. Beside her, Zemo’s fingers twitched almost imperceptibly against his thigh, and his jaw slackened. 

Isabelle felt her powers stirring beneath her skin, a familiar heat spreading through her veins. 

“It’s been drivin’ me nuts,” Sarah continued, her Louisiana accent flowing through the room like warm honey, terrifyingly out of place in this den of predators. “I mean, seriously, Sam.”

Isabelle watched panic flash behind his eyes—a drowning man realizing the shore was farther than he thought.

“What situation exactly are you talkin’ about?” Sam’s voice dropped, suddenly rough-edged and performative. He slid into an exaggerated gangster inflection that made Isabelle’s teeth clench. Amateur hour in the deadliest club in Madripoor.

“Are you high?” Sarah’s exasperation crackled through the speaker, the sound bouncing off the walls. “You know what situation. It’s the only situation me and you have.”

Selby moved, head tilted, pupils contracting to pinpoints, circling Bucky like a shark scenting blood. Her fingertips dragged across his shoulder as she passed, testing, probing. Bucky didn’t flinch, but the muscle in his jaw jumped once—his tell.

“What situation, Sarah?” Sam’s voice tightened. “Say it.”

“The damn boat,” Sarah snapped, each word a nail in their collective coffin. “And watch your tone, okay? I let you slide at the bank—”

“The bank, yeah.” Sam pounced on the word, his laugh hollow and brittle as glass. Sweat beaded visibly across his forehead as his eyes darted between Selby’s men. “Laundered so much...”

The words hung in the air, too eager, too forced. A silence followed, thick enough to choke on.

Selby’s expression hardened to granite, her eyes flashing with cold recognition. The guard’s finger tightened on the trigger. Isabelle felt her powers surge, ready to burst through her skin.

Sarah’s laugh—genuine, unsuspecting—crackled through the speaker, the sound jarringly bright. “If that was the case, then why’d they dog you out, Big Time?” 

Isabelle watched Sam’s face tighten, his eyes darting between the armed guards. She could feel his panic radiating outward like heat from a furnace.

“Yeah, you damn right I’m Big Time.” Sam’s voice strained against the false bravado. “You’ll see when I have that banker killed.”

The words landed with the grace of a dying bird. Isabelle’s stomach clenched as Selby’s lips curved upward, eyes beaming with satisfaction. The guard behind Sam flicked off his safety with an audible click that seemed to echo through Isabelle’s bones. Her powers surged beneath her skin, heat building in her fingertips. One touch and she could drop the guard—but the others would fire before his body hit the floor.

“Cass! What’d I tell you about the Cheerios?” Sarah’s voice shifted, growing distant. Fabric rustled through the speaker. Sam’s eyes met Isabelle’s—a flash of desperate hope swimming in dark waters. “God—I don’t have time for this! Sam, I’m sorry. I’ll call you back.”

The line went dead.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. Isabelle measured her breaths—one, two—as Selby’s face transformed. The businesswoman’s facade cracked like porcelain, revealing something triumphant and cruel underneath. Her crimson lips peeled back in a slow, deliberate smile that never reached her eyes.

“Sam?” Selby savored the name, rolling it between her teeth like a sommelier testing wine before declaring it poison. She straightened, shoulders pulling back as her gaze swept over them. “You’re not Smiling Tiger.”

Not a question. A death sentence wrapped in three words. 

The silence stretched for half a heartbeat—just long enough for Isabelle to register the shift in the room, the subtle tensing of muscles, the predatory gleam in Selby’s eyes.

“Kill them!”

The command cracked through the air. Isabelle’s body coiled, ready to unleash her powers—but before she could move, a gunshot thundered through the room. The sound reverberated in her chest, vibrating against her ribs.

She braced for pain, for the hot tear of a bullet. It never came.

Instead, Selby’s expression transformed. Shock replaced triumph as her eyes widened, pupils dilating. A perfect circle of red bloomed between her shoulder blades, spreading across pristine white fabric. Isabelle watched, transfixed, as the stain expanded—arterial blood soaking expensive silk.

Selby’s lips parted in silent surprise. She pitched forward, hands grasping at nothing, fingertips brushing the table’s edge before her body collapsed. The impact sent glasses toppling, liquid splashing across the surface. Her forehead hit with a dull, wet thud that turned Isabelle’s stomach.

Then the guard behind Sam lunged with a guttural roar. Isabelle caught the flash of his teeth, the whites of his eyes, the tendons standing out in his neck. Sam dropped, pivoting on his heel, ducking beneath the guard’s outstretched arm. He then drove his elbow up into the man’s solar plexus.

Sam twisted, grabbing the man’s wrist and wrenching until bone ground against bone. The rifle clattered to the concrete, the sound metallic and sharp. Sam scooped up the weapon in one continuous motion, his hands moving fast as he checked the chamber. 

Across the room, Bucky exploded into action. A guard appeared from his left, weapon raised. Isabelle saw the man’s finger tightening on the trigger, the slight adjustment of his aim toward Bucky’s chest.

Too late.

Bucky’s vibranium hand shot out, fingers closing around the barrel just as the guard squeezed the trigger. The gun made a strangled mechanical sound—metal warping, the bullet jamming inside the compressed chamber. The barrel crumpled beneath Bucky’s grip like aluminum foil, twisting into uselessness.

“Behind you!” Isabelle called out, spotting another guard approaching.

Without looking, Bucky wrenched the ruined weapon away and used the first guard’s momentum against him. He pivoted, slamming the man face-first into the grimy wall with enough force to crack the plaster. The guard slid to the floor, leaving a crimson trail in his wake, body limp as a discarded doll.

In one seamless motion, Zemo dove behind the table, his purple-lined coat billowing around him like dark wings. His fingers found the table’s edge, muscles tensing as he flipped it onto its side with surprising strength. The heavy wood crashed against the concrete floor with a thunderous impact that reverberated through Isabelle’s bones.

Selby’s body slid from the overturned table, landing with a wet thud beside him. Her eyes stared upward, unseeing, blood pooling beneath her platinum hair like a macabre halo. Zemo didn’t spare her a glance, already calculating their next move, finding their exit. 

The room had transformed from a negotiation space to a kill box in seconds. The back entrance burst open with a screech, the door slamming against the wall with enough force to shower concrete dust from the ceiling. Four guards stormed in—not the casual muscle they’d faced before, but something deadlier. Tactical formation. Synchronized movements. Their rifles were raised with the mechanical precision that only came from professional killers.

A kill squad.

“Down!” Sam shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

But Isabelle didn’t drop. Didn’t duck. Didn’t even flinch.

Time slowed to a crawl as her perception sharpened. The lead guard’s finger tightened on the trigger. The minute adjustment of his aim toward Sam’s chest. The cold calculation in his eyes as he prepared to execute.

Let me in, it whispered. They’ll die if you don’t. 

Not a request. A simple truth. 

A flash hit her: Sam’s body jerking with impact, crimson blooming across his chest. Bucky, face twisted in fury, cut down mid-lunge—you can’t save them unless you let go. 

Isabelle’s resistance crumbled. No time for morality. No time for control. No time for the careful boundaries she’d constructed. She surrendered to the darkness coiled inside her, felt it rise like mercury in a thermometer—hot and poisonous and unstoppable.

Her body surged forward like a blade unsheathed—pure instinct, pure power. 

The first guard never saw her coming.

Isabelle vaulted over the couch in one fluid motion as the guard’s finger tightened on the trigger. The bullet cracked past her cheek, close enough that she felt its heat sear her skin. The miss was narrow—a matter of centimeters and milliseconds. The concrete wall behind her exploded in a shower of dust and fragments.

She landed low, then—no hesitation, no thought—just movement and purpose as she launched forward.

You only need a touch. Take the leg.

Her fingers found his ankle—warm skin, coarse hair, the ridge of bone beneath.

Bend it, the voice instructed. Show him what we can do. 

Green energy surged through her veins, crackling beneath her skin like lightning seeking ground. It spilled from her fingertips into his flesh, illuminating the network of veins and capillaries beneath his skin in sickly emerald light.

Isabelle didn’t close her eyes. She wanted to see it happen.

The leg folded sideways with a wet crack that reverberated through the room. Bone punched through flesh and fabric, gleaming white and slick with blood. The guard’s scream was high and thin, almost childlike in its shock and pain. His weapon clattered to the floor as he collapsed, clutching at the ruined limb.

One, it counted, satisfaction rolling through their shared consciousness.

Isabelle rose in one smooth motion, already tracking the next target. Taller than the first, broader across the shoulders, face contorted with rage as he swung his weapon toward her. The barrel looked impossibly wide from this angle—a black hole promising oblivion.

Too slow, we’re faster.

Isabelle slid beneath the rifle’s arc, concrete scraping her palms raw. She drove her shoulder into his solar plexus with enough force to lift him off his feet. The impact jarred through her body, ribs cracking beneath her shoulder—not hers, his. His breath left in a pained whoosh, eyes bulging with shock.

He stumbled backward, struggling to bring his weapon to bear, but his movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. Blood vessels had ruptured in his eyes, turning the whites crimson.

Take the arm, it urged, no longer whispering but commanding. We’ll make sure he never holds a gun again.

Isabelle’s hand closed around his elbow, fingers digging into the joint. Green energy pulsed from her palm, seeping between muscle and tendon, finding the weaknesses in his anatomy.

Now.

The joint ruptured. 

Two, they counted together as the ulna broke and the rifle dropped from nerveless fingers. 

As the second guard crumpled to the ground with a cry, a third attacker emerged from the shadows, knife catching the dim light as it arced through the air. His face was a mask of cold determination, eyes narrowed to calculating slits.

Isabelle felt her lips curve into a smile that wasn’t entirely her own. Green energy danced between her fingers, eager and hungry, crackling like static electricity against her skin. The sensation was intoxicating—raw power waiting to be unleashed.

The guard lunged, knife slashing toward her throat in a practiced, efficient strike. Isabelle juked left, feeling the blade tear through empty air mere centimeters from her face. The rush of displaced air kissed her cheek where the knife had nearly connected.

He’s off-balance. Take him now.

She pivoted on her heel and sprinted at him full-force, launching herself at him, arms locking around his neck as her momentum carried them both backward. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, his body cushioning her fall. The guard bucked beneath her, trying to throw her off. His knife hand twisted, blade seeking her ribs. Isabelle caught his wrist, applying pressure to the tendons until his fingers spasmed. The knife clattered to the concrete.

He tried to rise, face contorted with determination and rage.

Touch his spine. Right at the base of his neck.

Her fingers slid beneath his collar, finding the warm skin where vertebrae protruded. She felt the rapid pulse of his carotid artery beneath her thumb.

Now. Think of every nerve ending. Every electric command racing through his body.

Isabelle closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, visualizing the complex network of nerves branching from his spine—delicate threads carrying signals from brain to limbs. She imagined them all firing at once, short-circuiting like overloaded wires.

The guard’s body went rigid beneath her, back arching at an impossible angle. His eyes rolled back, showing whites as his limbs locked in a violent spasm. A wet gurgle escaped his throat, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. 

Three.

Isabelle stood slowly, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Her hands trembled, not from fear or revulsion. 

You feel that? It cooed, her voice intimate as a lover’s whisper. That’s clarity. That’s what you are when no one holds you back.

Isabelle didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Her mouth was full of copper and guilt and heat. 

The last guard backed away, rifle raised defensively before him. His finger trembled against the trigger, but his grip faltered. His eyes were wide with naked fear, darting between Isabelle and the bodies scattered around her.

He’ll run, the voice warned, voice hardening. Or he’ll stab you in the throat the moment you turn away. They always do. Finish him.

The guard’s gaze shifted to the exit. His weight shifted to his back foot.

Isabelle moved.

She closed the distance in three fluid steps, her body cutting through space with predatory grace. Before he could squeeze the trigger, she slammed him against the wall, his head bouncing off the surface with a dull crack. His eyes glazed momentarily, weapon dipping.

Her hands clamped down on his shoulders, fingers digging into the meat where neck met collarbone. Green energy pulsed beneath her skin, hungry and eager.

Snap them. Left. Then right.

Isabelle obeyed, channeling her power into his clavicles. She felt the bones beneath her fingers—solid, then suddenly not. The crack of both collarbones breaking in tandem echoed like a thunderclap in the small room. The guard dropped like a marionette with cut strings, curling inward, gasping in pain, arms hanging at unnatural angles.

And four.

Bodies twitched on the floor around her. Isabelle stood motionless at the center of the carnage, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. 

Blood spattered the concrete in abstract patterns. The metallic scent filled her nostrils, mingling with the acrid smell of gunpowder and fear-sweat. The last traces of green energy receded beneath her skin. The power didn’t vanish—it never did—just retreated to that dark place inside her where it waited to be needed again. 

The silence pressed against her eardrums. No gunfire. No screams. Just the wet, rattling breath of the guard whose spine she’d short-circuited and the soft whimpers of the man whose collarbones she’d shattered. Four bodies. Four choices she couldn’t remember making.

Sam stood frozen across the room, one hand still gripping the confiscated rifle. His eyes had gone wide, pupils dilated. He stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time, recognition warring with something darker. Not fear exactly. Wariness. The look of a man who’d just watched a controlled fire become a wildfire.

“Isabelle?” Sam’s voice broke the silence, her name a question rather than a statement. Testing the waters. Checking who was answering.

The sound pierced through the fog clouding her mind. Isabelle blinked hard, reality stuttering like a skipping record. Her hands trembled before her, smeared with crimson that wasn’t her own. When had that happened?

“What happened?” The words felt strange in her mouth, disconnected from her tongue. Her voice sounded flat, hollow, as if someone else were speaking through her.

A sharp pain lanced through her temple. Isabelle flinched, pressing her palm against her head. Static crawled beneath her skin, tiny insects marching along her nerve endings. The buzzing in her skull intensified, a swarm of hornets trapped behind her eyes.

Bucky took a single step toward her, vibranium fingers remaining relaxed at his side, but ready. His flesh hand extended slightly, palm open—the universal sign for I mean no harm. His eyes—sharp blue and too knowing—tracked over her face with careful assessment.

“You don’t remember?” he asked, voice pitched low and steady. Not accusatory. Just confirming. 

Isabelle swallowed, her throat clicking with dryness. She tasted copper and something else—something electric and wrong. “I remember the guards coming in. The first shot.” She gestured vaguely at the bodies surrounding her, unable to look directly at the man whose spine she’d short-circuited. His wet, rattling breaths filled the silence between her words. “Then... this.”

The gap in her memory yawned like an open wound. Seconds? Minutes? How much time had she lost?

From behind the overturned table, Zemo emerged. He moved like water finding its path—unhurried yet inevitable. His polished shoes stepped over Selby’s outstretched fingers without hesitation, leaving perfect prints in the thin film of blood spreading beneath her body. He straightened his coat with a practiced flick of his wrists, thumbs smoothing the lapels of his purple-lined jacket.

“Fascinating,” Zemo said, the word carrying genuine curiosity. 

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile but an acknowledgement of something confirmed. A hypothesis proven correct. He took another step toward her, his eyes never wavering from hers, dark and knowing and terribly perceptive. 

“Tell me,” he continued, voice dropping lower, “do you always black out when you use your powers, or is that reserved for special occasions? I’ve studied you extensively, and nowhere did your mother’s notes or Nicky Fury’s say that…” 

Isabelle’s lungs seized, air catching in her throat. The casual precision of it—the way he’d identified exactly what she feared most—made her jaw tighten until she tasted the metallic tang of blood where her teeth had caught the inside of her cheek. A cold sweat broke across her skin, prickling at the nape of her neck.

Sam snapped first, though, breaking out of his stunned silence as he registered Zemo’s approach. The rifle in his hands shifted, not quite aiming at Zemo but no longer pointed at the floor either. 

“Back off, Zemo,” he warned, the easy charm vanishing, replaced by something harder, protective. 

His body slanted forward, moving toward Isabelle without crowding her, offering protection without containment. He positioned himself to keep both her and Zemo in his field of vision, shoulders squared, weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

But beneath the protective stance, Isabelle caught something else in his expression—a flicker of uncertainty. The way his eyes darted to the bodies on the floor, then back to her hands, assessing, connecting dots. This was what she’d warned him about. The thing she’d tried to explain but couldn’t quite articulate. Now he’d seen it firsthand, and she couldn’t read whether the knowledge terrified or reassured him.

Bucky circled around to her other side, completing the triangle. His eyes swept over the fallen guards, cataloging injuries with clinical precision before locking onto the exit.

“We need to move,” he said, voice low and steady. “Someone’s going to come looking for Selby and her men.” His gaze tracked to the door, calculating angles and distances, mapping potential threats. “And when they do—”

“They’ll find us standing over their corpses. Not ideal.” Zemo finished for him, eyes raking over Isabelle again. 

 Isabelle looked down at her hands.  She tried to wipe them clean against her thighs, but the stains remained, ground into her skin like guilt made visible. Her fingers trembled with fine tremors she couldn’t control.

“I didn’t—” she started, then stopped, the words dying in her throat. What could she say that wouldn’t sound like a child’s excuse? I didn’t mean to? I didn’t know? The evidence lay sprawled across the floor—bones twisted at impossible angles, one man still twitching with nerve damage that might never heal.

She had done this. Her hands. Her power.

But something stirred in her consciousness, a realization cutting through the fog of horror. She focused on the fallen guards, watching the shallow rise and fall of their chests, the occasional twitch of fingers. Not still. Not silent.

“I didn’t kill them,” Isabelle whispered, the words scraping her throat raw. As if that distinction mattered. As if breaking bones was somehow more merciful than taking lives.

The room swayed around her, colors blurring at the edges of her vision. The night crashed through her in waves—each memory hitting harder than the last. Zemo’s fingers trailing possessively along her back as they’d entered the bar. The weight of Gold Teeth’s gaze as he’d appraised her like merchandise. Bucky’s unexpected defense. Sam’s eyes widened as he witnessed what lived beneath her skin.

And Nagel.

Nagel was here. Creating more of what her mother had started. More of what had been forced into her veins.

Her stomach lurched violently. The concrete floor beneath her seemed to tilt and pitch like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. Black spots danced at the corners of her vision, expanding and contracting with each shallow breath.

Her knees buckled without warning. Isabelle’s legs folded beneath her like wet paper, and she sank to the floor. Her palms slapped against the gritty concrete, catching her weight. 

“Iz!” Sam’s voice reached her as if from a great distance, concern cutting through his earlier wariness.

Bucky moved faster, crossing the space between them in two swift strides. He crouched beside her, his movement controlled and deliberate. He kept a careful distance, not touching her, just lowering himself to her eye level. His metal hand rested on the floor between them, palm up—not reaching, just present. The vibranium plates shifted silently, recalibrating, catching the dim light.

“Breathe,” he murmured, the word barely disturbing the air. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” His eyes held hers without judgment. Just understanding. The look of someone who’d stood exactly where she was standing now.

Isabelle tried to follow his instruction, drawing a shuddering breath that caught halfway in her lungs, but then Zemo opened his damned mouth again. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, each pulse a hammer against her skull.

One breath. Just one.

She managed to pull oxygen through her nose, feeling it catch against the raw edges of her throat. But before she could exhale, Zemo’s voice sliced through her concentration. “Now you understand. Super soldiers are not born,” he continued, “they’re built. “

The word “built” made Isabelle flinch. Her shoulders hunched inward, spine curving as if to make herself smaller, less visible. A target folding in on itself. Her breath caught in her throat, sharp and painful.

Built. Not born. Not human. A thing assembled from parts, pieces slotted together according to someone else’s blueprint. A weapon disguised as a woman. A perfect weapon. 

Sam moved between her and Zemo, his body a physical barrier. The rifle in his hands wasn’t pointed at Zemo, but his finger rested just outside the trigger guard, ready to shift in an instant.

“I said back off,” Sam growled, the words vibrating with barely contained fury. Gone was the diplomatic negotiator, replaced by something harder, sharper. His shoulders formed a perfect line, stance wide and immovable.

Zemo raised his hands in mock surrender, lips curving into something adjacent to a smile but emptied of warmth. “I’m merely stating facts, Sam.” His gaze slid past Sam to fix on Isabelle again, assessing every tremor, every shallow breath. “Your friend knows I’m right. Don’t you, Ms. Stark?”

Isabelle’s fingers curled against the concrete, nails scraping against the rough surface. The sound, high and grating, sent shivers down her spine. Green energy pulsed beneath her skin in response to her distress, pushing against her control like water testing a dam for weaknesses.

Breathe. Just breathe.

From her peripheral vision, she caught Bucky’s subtle shift. The careful distance he’d maintained collapsed as he angled his body between her and Zemo, his shoulders forming a barrier. The movement was fluid, almost predatory—a wolf positioning itself between a threat and its wounded packmate.

“One more word,” Bucky said, each syllable sharp as broken glass, “and we’ll find out if that fancy coat of yours is bulletproof.”

The threat hung in the air, vibrating with quiet intensity. Isabelle felt rather than saw the tension coiling in Bucky’s frame—the minute adjustments of muscle and tendon, the controlled rhythm of his breathing before he turned his attention back to her. 

“Isabelle.” Her name in his mouth was different—rougher, weighted with understanding. The Winter Soldier’s edge had vanished, replaced by something quieter, more human. “Ignore him. Look at me.”

Bucky’s right hand—warm flesh, not cold metal—hovered near her shoulder. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, but not quite touching. Respecting boundaries even now, when boundaries seemed like a luxury they couldn’t afford.

She couldn’t lift her gaze. Her eyes remained fixed on her bloodstained hands. They wouldn’t stop trembling—fine, persistent tremors that rippled up her arms and settled somewhere beneath her ribcage, where they transformed into a hollow ache.

“I’ve been there,” Bucky continued, each word emerging as if pulled from somewhere deep and painful. His voice dropped lower, meant only for her ears. “I know what it’s like to wake up and not recognize your own hands.”

Isabelle raised her eyes slowly, forcing herself to meet his gaze. The effort felt monumental, as if her head were weighted with lead.

What she found wasn’t pity or disgust or fear. It was recognition. The look of someone who’d stared into the same abyss and clawed his way back, fingernail by bloody fingernail. His blue eyes held a steady certainty that anchored her, a fixed point in churning waters.

“It wasn’t you,” he said quietly, the words barely disturbing the air between them.

Isabelle’s throat tightened, her next breath catching on something sharp and painful. The back of her eyes burned with unshed tears.

“Then who was it?” she whispered, voice cracking on the final word. Her tongue felt too thick, her mouth too dry. “Because I felt it, Bucky.” Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. “I felt—”

She broke off, the words evaporating on her tongue. The truth lodged in her throat like a shard of glass—too sharp to swallow, too dangerous to expel. 

Isabelle’s jaw clenched tight as she fought against the confession building in her chest. She’d already admitted it once to Sam. And she wouldn’t say it again. Not here with Zemo’s eyes dissecting her every movement. She could feel his gaze on her now, assessing, measuring the distance between what she said and what she meant.

Bucky remained bent before her. Not demanding, not pushing—just waiting with the patience of a man who’d spent decades learning when to move and when to be still. His metal fingers remained slightly curled, ready to offer support but not insisting on it.

Sam lowered himself to one knee on her other side, his movement slow. It was the careful approach of someone who’d talked people down from ledges before. Nothing sudden. Nothing threatening. 

“We need to move,” he said, voice pitched low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond their small circle. The urgency in his tone was unmistakable, but controlled. “But first, I need to know you’re with us. That you’re...”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat as his eyes searched her face. Isabelle saw the conflict there, the concern for her battling with the practical need to assess whether to expose her truth or keep it between the two of them. 

“Present?” she supplied, a humorless smile twisting her lips. 

Sam nodded once, relief flickering across his features at her coherence. His eyes never left hers, searching for something beyond her words. Something to reassure him that whoever—whatever—had broken those guards wasn’t still in control.

“I’m here,” she said, forcing strength into her voice despite the tremor that still ran through her hands. She flexed her fingers, watching the dried blood crack along her knuckles. “I’m—”

Distant shouts echoed from somewhere beyond the room’s walls, cutting her off mid-sentence. Voices raised in alarm, footsteps pounding on metal stairs. The sounds sliced through the moment, adrenaline spiking through Isabelle’s system like ice water in her veins.

“Time’s up,” Zemo announced, already moving toward the door with the unhurried confidence of a man accustomed to navigating disaster. His polished shoes stepped deliberately over Selby’s outstretched fingers, without a second glance, his movements fluid and unhurried despite the urgency. “Unless you’d like to explain to Madripoor’s underworld why their broker is dead with a bullet in her back, I suggest we leave. Now.”

The footsteps grew louder. Multiple sets now. Heavy boots. 

Bucky rose in one smooth motion, offering Isabelle his hand—the metal one, gleaming dully in the low light. A choice. Trust or not.

Isabelle stared at the outstretched hand. The weapon that had killed hundreds. Maybe thousands. The hand that had been controlled by someone else, just as her own had been moments ago. The hand attached to a man who understood what it meant to wake up with blood on your fingers and gaps in your memory.

The hand that belonged to someone who understood.

She reached up and took it.

Chapter Text

The passage reeked of mildew and decay—layers of scents that Isabelle mentally catalogued with each inhale. Rotting food. Stagnant water. And something metallic that clung to the back of her throat, reminiscent of the med bay after missions gone sideways—that distinctive copper-penny tang of blood mixed with disinfectant. 

Zemo moved ahead, his back unnaturally straight, shoulders tight beneath his coat. Not a single step wasted. Not a moment of hesitation. It was almost hypnotic watching him navigate the labyrinth of halls. 

He’s too calm. Too rehearsed. Like he planned for this exact scenario.

She felt Sam’s presence behind her without looking—the controlled tension radiating off him in waves, his breathing measured but alert. Further back, Bucky’s footfalls made almost no sound at all, yet she sensed his vigilance like a physical weight against her back.

Zemo took another turn—left, then right, then right again—never breaking stride or checking his bearings. The corridor narrowed with each new passage, the ceiling dropping lower until overhead pipes forced them to duck. Water dripped somewhere ahead, an irregular plink-plink-plink that marked time in this underground maze.

“You’ve been here before,” Isabelle said. Not a question.

Zemo didn’t turn, didn’t miss a step. “I make it my business to know the escape routes before I enter a room.”

“That’s reassuring,” Sam muttered behind her, his voice pitched low. She caught his eyes when she half-turned, saw the slight furrow between his brows, the way he kept glancing back over his shoulder at the narrowing path behind them.

A rusty pipe above them groaned, releasing a shower of condensation that spattered across Isabelle’s cheek. She wiped it away, suppressing a shudder at the gritty residue left on her fingertips. The walls seemed to press closer with each step, the air thickening with mold and the distant, muffled percussion of city noise filtering down from somewhere above.

Something stirred in the back of her mind—that familiar pressure building behind her eyes. The voice. She clamped down hard, jaw tight enough to ache, refusing to let it resurface. 

A faint glow appeared ahead—electric blue-purple neon bleeding through the cracks of what appeared to be another hidden door. The light cast Zemo’s silhouette in sharp relief, transforming him momentarily into something otherworldly and dangerous.

He halted abruptly, raising one finger for silence. Isabelle nearly collided with his back, catching herself at the last second. Behind her, she felt Sam tense, his hand moving subtly to her arm. 

Zemo pressed his ear against the metal door, eyes half-closed in concentration. The moment stretched, elastic with tension. Three measured breaths. Four. Five.

The muscles in Isabelle’s shoulders coiled tight as wire. A drop of water landed on the back of her neck, sliding cold beneath her collar. The voice stirred again, a whisper so faint she couldn’t make out the words—just the familiar cadence that made her skin crawl.

Zemo nodded once, satisfied with whatever he’d heard—or hadn’t heard—and pushed against the exit with controlled pressure. The door gave way with a soft hydraulic hiss, revealing a slash of neon-drenched darkness beyond.

The sensory assault was immediate. Isabelle staggered as the relative quiet of the corridors exploded into Lowtown. Her enhanced perception, usually an asset, became momentarily overwhelming. Bass vibrations pulsed through the soles of her boots. The air tasted of fried food, sweat, and something chemical that burned the back of her throat.

The narrow alley they’d emerged into pulsed with neon—red, blue, yellow—from signs advertising pleasures in languages she couldn’t translate but whose meaning was universal. Bodies pressed close in the crowded space, each one radiating heat and intent. A woman with glowing facial implants brushed past, leaving the scent of jasmine in her wake.

Zemo stepped into the flow of foot traffic with practiced ease, adjusting his collar as if he’d just finished a pleasant business dinner rather than fled a bloodbath. His shoulders relaxed in a way that made Isabelle’s own tension more apparent. The contrast infuriated her.

“Stay close,” he whispered as he glanced back at them for the first time since entering the tunnel. His eyes lingered on Isabelle’s face a beat too long, assessing something she couldn’t name. “Now, we simply blend with Madripoor’s colorful denizens. Walk as if you own the street, and no one will question you.”

“That’s your brilliant plan?” Isabelle hissed, stepping closer to avoid a stumbling drunk whose breath reeked of alcohol. The man’s shoulder bumped hers, and for a split second, she felt the familiar tingle in her fingertips—the power stirring, ready to inflict sickness with a touch. She clenched her fist, suppressing the urge. “Just walk away?”

“The best escape is often the simplest,” Zemo replied, eyes constantly scanning the crowd, cataloging threats with the efficiency of a predator. “Panic makes you visible. Calm makes you—”

A chorus of electronic chimes cut through the street noise like a knife.

Isabelle froze. All around them, conversations halted mid-sentence. Drinks paused halfway to lips. A sea of hands reached for pockets and purses in eerie synchronization.

They’re looking at you. They know what you are.

“Shit,” Bucky breathed beside her, his body language shifting subtly into combat readiness.

A woman in leather—who’d been screaming at a vendor about counterfeit merchandise seconds before—turned slowly, her eyes widening as they locked on Sam. The vendor himself squinted through the neon haze, recognition dawning across his face like a spreading stain. Three sailors by a bar entrance stopped their laughter, heads swiveling in unison toward their group.

Isabelle felt it before she saw it—the collective shift in energy, the predatory focus narrowing on them from all sides. Her heartbeat quickened, and with it, the tingling sensation spread from her fingertips up her arms. The power humming beneath her skin, ready and eager.

You’ll have to use me again. 

She pushed the voice away, focusing instead on the exits, the bottlenecks, the potential weapons within reach. Her body was already cataloging threats and escape routes before her conscious mind caught up—muscle memory from years of training.

“What’s happening?” Sam whispered, shoulders tensing as he shifted closer to Isabelle. His hand hovered near where his weapon would be if they hadn’t been forced to abandon most of their gear.

“Technology,” Zemo replied, his smug demeanor evaporating. “The bounty just went live.”

“Bounty?” Isabelle’s mouth went dry. She noticed a man to her right—hand sliding beneath his jacket, eyes never leaving Sam’s face. Without thinking, she shifted her weight, ready to intercept. “What bounty?”

“The one on our heads.” Zemo’s eyes darted between exits, calculating. “Selby’s associates work quickly. ”

The crowd was tightening around them—not pressing closer yet, but repositioning. Isabelle felt her power surge in response to the threat, a tingling heat that made her skin feel too tight. 

They pivoted as one, abandoning any pretense of casual strolling. The crowd parted before them—not from courtesy but from recognition, faces transforming from indifference to interest in the span of a heartbeat. Phones were raised to capture images, to confirm identities against the bounty notifications.

Isabelle felt the first tendril of panic wrap around her chest, squeezing. The voice grew louder, more insistent, as if feeding off her fear.

They’re closing in. You need me. Let me out.

“Run,” Bucky growled, “now.”

But they couldn’t run.

 The crowd had parted to reveal not an escape route but a killing floor, methodically arranged around them. Her muscles tensed, power humming beneath her skin like a live wire seeking ground.

The first bounty hunter stood directly in their path, pistol already leveled. Isabelle’s gaze traveled up from the barrel—matte black, professional grade, not some street thug’s weapon—to the hands holding it. Steady. No tremor. Their fingers were positioned with practiced precision on both grip and trigger—military training, or something equivalent. The man’s face revealed nothing—no excitement, no fear, just the flat calculation of someone completing a transaction.

“Three o’clock!” Sam’s voice cut through her focus, urgent but controlled.

Isabelle pivoted without hesitation, catching movement in her peripheral vision. Another mercenary materialized from between two neon-drenched storefronts, weapon already raised. 

“Six o’clock,” Bucky added. His body shifted almost imperceptibly, weight transferring to the balls of his feet.

She didn’t need to look to sense them at their backs. Four more, their presence registering as pressure points on her awareness. The tingling in her fingertips intensified, spreading up her arms like fire beneath her skin. The voice in her head grew louder, more insistent.

Use me. Let me out.

“Options?” Sam muttered. His shoulders tensed beneath his jacket, hands slightly raised in a deceptively casual posture she recognized as his pre-fight stance. Ready to explode into action the moment an opening presented itself.

Zemo’s voice was barely audible, his accent thickening with tension. “None that don’t end with bullets.”

The lead mercenary stepped forward, rifle trained on Bucky’s chest. His movements were fluid, economical.  A professional killer who’d done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times before. His eyes performed a quick assessment of each of them, lingering fractionally longer on Bucky’s metal arm.

“Power Broker wants you alive,” he announced, voice flat as a desert. His eyes flicked briefly to Isabelle, calculating something that made her skin crawl. “But damaged works too.”

Isabelle felt her heart rate accelerate, the familiar chemical surge of adrenaline flooding her system. With it came the power—eager, hungry, pushing against her control like water against a cracking dam. She curled her fingers into her palms, nails biting into flesh, using the small pain to anchor herself.

“Power Broker?” Sam muttered under his breath.  “Who the hell is that?”

The question hung in the neon-tinted air for a heartbeat before Zemo answered, his voice so low that only they could hear it. “The one person in Madripoor you never want to cross.” His eyes scanned the gathering mercenaries. “Not the legal owner of this cesspool, but the true one. Rules through fear and absolute control of information. And apparently—” he tilted his head slightly toward the armed figures surrounding them “—we’ve managed to thoroughly piss them off.”

“Great,” Sam breathed. “Another psychopath with resources. Just what we needed.”

The lead mercenary took another step forward, the barrel of his gun unwavering. Isabelle tracked the minute adjustments of his trigger finger—relaxed but ready, the practiced ease of someone who’d killed many times before. “Hands where I can see them. On your knees. Now.”

Isabelle caught Bucky’s eye for a fraction of a second, enough to see the minute shake of his head—don’t. 

But the voice in her head was louder than him. 

Don’t hold back, the voice whispered, seductive and eager. 

Isabelle inhaled slowly, focusing on the lead mercenary’s face—the pores of his skin, the slight flare of his nostrils, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Her power stirred beneath her skin, electric and alive, humming through her veins like a current seeking ground.

“I won’t ask again,” the man said, voice dropping an octave. “On. Your. Knees.”

She narrowed her eyes, establishing the connection. It was like threading a needle with her mind—delicate, precise, but once connected, unbreakable. She visualized infection spreading through his airways, inflammation blooming like dark flowers along the soft tissues. Just enough pressure to incapacitate. Not enough to kill.

Deeper, the voice urged, its presence coiling around her thoughts like smoke. He deserves worse.

“No,” she thought back fiercely. Her choice. Her power. Her control.

The first sign was subtle—a flicker of confusion crossing the mercenary’s face, his brow furrowing slightly as something changed inside him. Then his breathing hitched. Once. Twice. His next inhale caught halfway, transforming into a wet, hacking cough that bent him forward at the waist.

“What the—” The mercenary’s words dissolved into violent coughing, each hack more desperate than the last. His rifle wavered, the barrel dipping toward the ground as his body convulsed. He dropped to one knee, still clutching his weapon, but the threat had evaporated like water on hot metal.

Sam’s voice cut through her concentration: “Izzy—”

She pivoted without waiting for him to finish, locking eyes with the closest mercenary—a woman with a geometric tattoo snaking up her neck like circuit board traces. The woman’s finger was already tightening on her trigger.

Isabelle pushed harder this time, the power flowing more readily, like a dam breaking. She visualized something more aggressive—viral, efficient, targeting the respiratory system with surgical precision.

Sharper, the voice coached, almost purring with pleasure. Faster.

Her eyes flickered darker green—she could feel the change, a deepening of color that always accompanied stronger manifestations. The mercenary’s eyes widened a fraction of a second before her knees buckled. Her weapon clattered to the ground, forgotten as survival instinct overrode training. She collapsed against a neon-bathed wall, still conscious but incapacitated, choking. 

Isabelle spun, already focusing on the four approaching figures. They slowed, uncertainty replacing confidence as they witnessed their comrades dropping. One raised his rifle, finger tightening on the trigger. Another reached for something at his belt—grenade or smoke bomb, she couldn’t tell.

Let me take them all, the voice purred, louder now, more insistent. Give me control. Let me show you what we can really do.

“No,” she snapped aloud, her voice raw. 

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply, drawing on every ounce of control she had left. The tingling in her fingertips intensified to burning, power crawling up her arms like fire ants beneath her skin. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on all four simultaneously. 

She pushed her power outward in a wave, controlled but forceful, like a scalpel rather than a sledgehammer. The air between them rippled with faint green energy, visible only for a millisecond before it struck.

All four mercenaries staggered simultaneously, as if hit by an invisible wall. Their expressions transformed in unison—confusion, then panic, then pain as their bodies betrayed them. The first dropped to his knees, vomiting violently. The second clutched his chest, face contorting as his lungs seized. The third and fourth managed a few stumbling steps backward before collapsing, unconscious, before they hit the ground.

Isabelle swayed, the edges of her vision darkening like ink spreading through water. The alley tilted sideways, neon signs blurring into streaks of color. She locked her knees, refusing to fall. The power that had surged through her moments before now ebbed away, leaving her hollow and scraped raw.

Something warm trickled down her upper lip—punishment. The voice inside her lashed out with physical consequence, a sharp pain stabbing behind her eyes that made her vision swim.

You could have killed them all in seconds, the voice whispered, disappointed. 

She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, the metallic scent hitting her nostrils before she registered the crimson streak across her skin. The blood was darker than usual, almost black in the neon light. It spread across her knuckles, following the lines of her hand like a roadmap.

Pathetic. The voice twisted inside her skull, pressing against the tender tissue of her brain. Another hot rush of blood followed, dripping onto her upper lip and sliding into the corner of her mouth.

She swallowed the copper taste flooding her mouth and turned to find Sam staring at her. His eyes were wide, muscles tensed as if preparing to catch her, or defend against her. The look cut deeper than she expected. Not fear exactly, but caution. Reassessment. As if he was seeing her capabilities for the first time and recalculating the threat she posed.

“We need to get out of the streets,” Zemo cut in, his voice unnervingly calm despite the bodies surrounding them. His gaze swept over her handiwork with clinical detachment, almost appreciation. “They’ll know exactly who you are now, what you can do. And Avengers aren’t welcome here.”

Isabelle took a step forward. Her leg nearly buckled, muscles trembling with sudden fatigue. She caught herself against the nearest wall, fingertips pressing into the grimy surface. The rough texture anchored her, something solid in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

Weak, the voice mocked, its tone like glass shards scraping inside her skull.

“Shut up,” she hissed under her breath.

“What?” Sam asked, moving closer, his hand hovering near her elbow without touching—always careful with contact now.

“Nothing.” She straightened, pushing away from the wall through sheer force of will. 

Lie better. He’s not stupid.

Bucky stepped closer, his metal fingers flexing once before stilling at his side. His eyes tracked the dark rivulet of blood that had escaped the corner of her mouth, following its path down her chin. Not disgust in his gaze—something worse. Recognition.

“Can you walk?” he asked, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. The question wasn’t accusatory, just practical. Tactical.

“I’m fine,” she lied, swallowing another mouthful of blood that tasted like pennies and rust. Her throat constricted around it, muscles working against the urge to gag. “Just the usual kickback.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed fractionally, the minute shift in his expression speaking volumes. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he held her gaze. He didn’t believe her—of course, he didn’t. The man had spent decades learning to read the slightest tells in a target’s face, to spot weakness before it became vulnerability. And right now, Isabelle was nothing but vulnerability wrapped in false bravado.

But he nodded once, and respecting her choice to push through, to maintain the facade of strength when they both knew better. 

Without wasting more time, they plunged deeper into Lowtown’s maze. Isabelle pushed forward on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else—disconnected, unreliable, trembling with each step. The voice pulsed behind her eyes, a persistent drumbeat of mockery.

You’re slowing them down. You’re going to get them killed.

Zemo led them away from the main thoroughfare, veering sharply into a narrow side street where the buildings pressed so close they blocked out what little sky was visible. The walls seemed to breathe here, expanding and contracting with each labored breath she took. 

“We need to get off the grid,” Zemo murmured, his eyes darting between shadowed doorways. “The Power Broker’s network extends to every—”

“Get down!” Bucky’s voice cut through the fog in her mind, sharp as a blade.

Before her brain could process the command, his hand clamped around her bicep, warm flesh fingers digging into her skin with enough force to bruise. The world tilted violently as he yanked her sideways.

Isabelle’s stomach lurched as Bucky tackled her into a narrow alley, his larger frame curving protectively over hers. Her shoulder hit the ground first, the impact sending a jolt of pain up her neck and into her skull. Concrete scraped her palms raw as she instinctively tried to catch herself, the sting immediate and familiar.

The bullets came a half-second later.

Three shots in rapid succession slammed into the brick wall where they’d been standing moments before. The impacts were deafening in the confined space, each one sending fragments of masonry exploding outward in deadly clouds. Brick dust rained down, coating her hair and eyelashes with gritty red particles that tasted like chalk and metal when she gasped.

Bucky’s weight pressed against her back, solid and secure. His chest expanded against her shoulder blades with each controlled breath, his heart hammering a rhythm she could feel through her spine. His metal arm braced beside her head, the vibranium plates recalibrating with soft mechanical whispers. His other hand had somehow moved from her bicep to her waist, fingers splayed across her ribs in a grip that was both protective and unexpectedly intimate.

“Move!” Sam’s voice cut through the ringing in her ears. He materialized at the mouth of the alley, back pressed against the wall, eyes scanning for the shooter.

Isabelle’s gaze locked with Bucky’s as he shifted above her. His eyes were winter-blue and intense, pupils contracted to pinpoints from adrenaline. Something electric passed between them in that suspended moment—recognition, concern, and something else that made her breath catch in her throat. His face was inches from hers, close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, count the individual eyelashes framing those too-perceptive eyes.

Then his expression hardened, mission focus reasserting itself with practiced efficiency.

“Come on,” he commanded, voice rough with urgency. He rolled smoothly to his feet in a single fluid motion, metal hand reaching down to clasp her forearm.

The vibranium fingers wrapped around her with careful strength, lifting her upright with enough force that her shoulder socket protested with a sharp twinge. Isabelle kicked off her heels without hesitation, the expensive stilettos skittering across filthy pavement with twin clicks that seemed obscenely loud in the momentary quiet.

Her bare feet connected with the ground—cold, gritty, slick with substances she didn’t want to identify—as they bolted down the alley. Isabelle pushed forward, but her body betrayed her with each labored stride. Her muscles turned to wet cement, unresponsive and heavy. The edges of her vision constricted.

“Shit,” she muttered as her foot caught on an uneven seam in the pavement. Her ankle twisted, sending her pitching forward into the darkness.

Strong hands caught her before she hit the ground—one warm flesh, one cool metal. Bucky’s grip tightened around her bicep, steadying her with effortless strength. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble. His metal fingers flexed once, plates recalibrating with a soft whir that she felt more than heard. “This isn’t just exhaustion.”

“Just—” She swallowed, tasting metal and salt. Her tongue felt swollen, clumsy. “Just need a minute.”

“Yeah, we don’t really have a minute.” Bucky’s eyes flicked ahead to where Sam had taken point, already fifteen feet ahead and gesturing frantically for them to hurry. The distant shouts grew louder—more hunters closing in, the promise of violence echoing off concrete walls.

Isabelle shot Bucky a hard look and tried to push forward, stubbornly shrugging off his grip. Her next steps betrayed her as the adrenaline crash hit like a concrete wall. The alley spun violently, neon signs smearing into toxic streaks of color. Buildings tilted at impossible angles. Her stomach lurched, bile rising to mix with the blood coating her throat.

“Damn it,” Bucky muttered, the words more breath than voice. Before she could protest, his flesh hand closed around hers, warm and calloused and startlingly gentle. “Hold my hand!”

“I don’t need—”

“Shut up!” His tone left no room for argument, but something softened in his eyes—concern wrapped in barbed wire, vulnerability disguised as irritation. His fingers tightened around hers, an anchor in the spinning world. “You push too hard and you’ll collapse. Then I’ll have to carry you, and neither of us wants that.”

The feeling of his grip sent an unexpected current up her arm. His palm pressed against hers, rough in all the places hers was smooth, steady where hers trembled. His thumb unconsciously traced a small arc across her knuckles, the gesture so subtle she might have imagined it.

Isabelle wanted to argue, to pull away and prove she could handle this herself. But the blood now dripping freely from her nose told a different story. Her powers had exacted their toll, and her body was calling in the debt with interest.

This is what happens when you fight me, the voice taunted, each syllable like a nail driven into her temples. Next time, it’ll be worse.

They moved deeper into the maze of Lowtown’s back alleys, Sam fifteen paces ahead, scouting each turn before waving them forward. Bucky’s hand remained firm around hers, guiding her through the darkness with surprising gentleness for a man who’d once been the world’s deadliest assassin.

“Fuck this—” Isabelle spat, each word punctuated by the slap of her bare feet against wet concrete. “—fuck this entire night—” 

Another spray of bullets tore chunks from the brick wall inches above their heads. The impacts sent brick dust raining down, coating her eyelashes and filling her mouth with the taste of pulverized stone. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

“—fuck Madripoor,” she continued, voice rising with each syllable, anger building like pressure in a sealed chamber. The rage felt good, clean, and clarifying compared to the murky terror of the voice still whispering at the edges of her consciousness.

She risked a glance over her shoulder, scanning the space behind them. Empty air where Zemo should have been. The baron had vanished like smoke, leaving no trace he’d ever been with them.

“And where the fuck is Zemo!” 

Sam’s head whipped around, eyes widening as he registered the baron’s absence. His expression shifted from determination to something darker, more dangerous. “That son of a—”

The crack of a rifle cut his curse short, the sound bouncing between the narrow walls like a physical thing. Isabelle flinched as the bullet punched into the dumpster beside them, metal screaming against metal. The impact sent a vibration through the ground that she felt through her bare feet.

“Left!” Bucky commanded, metal arm gleaming as he took point at the intersection. His body was coiled in tension, ready to explode into violence at any moment.

Isabelle followed, her hand still locked in his as they veered left. Bucky’s fingers tightened around hers as he pulled her forward, the pressure both reassuring and urgent. The contrast between his warm flesh and her clammy skin made her acutely aware of how rapidly her body was failing her.

Behind them, footsteps thundered against pavement—too many to count, a percussion of pursuit that grew louder with each second. The voice in her head seemed to pulse in rhythm with those footsteps, growing stronger as her own strength ebbed.

“They’re herding us,” Sam panted from just ahead, dodging a stack of rotting crates that nearly blocked the narrow passage. His shoulders barely cleared the walls on either side. The alley was constricting, narrowing with each turn like a throat closing. “We need to split up.”

“Bad idea,” Bucky countered, never breaking stride. He jumped over a fallen trash bin with fluid grace, then turned back, his hand still gripping Isabelle’s, helping her navigate the obstacle. His eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, concern flickering behind the tactical assessment. “Stay together.”

A bullet screamed past Isabelle’s ear. Her fingers tightened around Bucky’s instinctively, nails digging into his palm. His hand was warm, solid—the only thing that felt real as the world began to blur around her edges. His calloused palm pressed against hers, rough but oddly comforting, like a promise made in a language without words.

Use me. The voice surged again, stronger this time.  Let me take control.

Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she stumbled, her free hand reaching out to steady herself against the grimy wall. The brick scraped her palm raw, but the pain helped focus her thoughts, pushing the voice back momentarily.

Isabelle swiped at her face with her forearm, leaving a dark smear across her skin. The blood was too dark, almost black in the dim light. Wrong. Her body was breaking down from the inside out, punishment for wielding power without surrendering control.

“Guys—” she started, but the word died in her throat as they burst from the narrow passage into an open space.

The alley widened abruptly into what might have once been a loading dock, now abandoned and cluttered with years of urban detritus. Broken pallets. Rusted machinery parts. Shattered glass that glittered like malevolent stars in the dim light. And beyond that—nothing. A solid wall of corrugated metal rose fifteen feet high, topped with razor wire that gleamed dully in the distant neon glow.

Dead end.

Chapter Text

They stood in a small lot bordered on three sides by windowless buildings that stretched upward like prison walls. No fire escapes. No doorways. No windows. Just blank concrete faces staring down at them with indifferent hostility. The fourth side was blocked by a chain-link fence topped with cruel coils of razor wire that gleamed like silver teeth in the dim light. Beyond it: the ocean.

Sam spun in a tight circle, eyes scanning desperately for an exit. “Shit!” he breathed, sweat streaming down his temples despite the chill. “They knew exactly where we’d end up.”

A metallic clang echoed from the alley entrance. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

“They’re coming,” Isabelle whispered, her throat tightening. She could feel her power stirring beneath her skin, but it was weak, flickering like a dying flame. She’d pushed too hard earlier. Used too much.

Bucky’s hand tightened around Isabelle’s, his thumb brushing once across her knuckles—the gesture so brief and gentle it felt like an apology. His eyes met hers, blue and resolute.

“I can get us over that,” he said, nodding toward the fence. His gaze dropped to her bare, bloodied feet. “Don’t know how you feel about swimming.”

Isabelle glanced at the razor wire, then at the dark water beyond. “Better than dying in a box.” She squeezed his hand back, ignoring the pain shooting up her legs. 

“And then what?” Sam challenged, backing toward them as shadows materialized at the alley entrance. “We’re still outnumbered, and Isabelle’s—”

Drained. Compromised. A liability.

Isabelle bristled, anger flaring hot beneath her exhaustion. The words Sam hadn’t said hung in the air between them, sharp as broken glass.

“I’m what, Sam?” she snapped, pulling her hand from Bucky’s grip. The absence of his warmth left her fingers cold in the night air as she stepped toward Sam. “Go ahead. Say it.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath his skin. His eyes—usually warm with understanding—hardened as they flicked to her bloody footprints on the concrete.

“You can barely stand, Isabelle.” He spat harshly. “Your feet are torn to hell. I can see you shaking. And after what happened back at the club...” He exhaled sharply. “Look, I’m not saying you’re—”

“A liability?” She laughed, a harsh sound that scraped her throat raw. “You think I don’t know that? You think I can’t feel exactly how useless I am right now?” The words tasted bitter on her tongue. Her power flickered beneath her skin like a pilot light threatening to go out, making her nauseous with the effort of keeping it contained.

“Nobody said useless.” Bucky moved between them, his broad shoulders blocking Sam from her view. His eyes found hers, steady and certain. “But we need options, not arguments.”

“Options?” Sam’s laugh was hollow as he gestured at the concrete walls boxing them in. “What options? They herded us here like cattle. They’ve got us exactly where they want us.” He jabbed a finger toward the alley they’d come through. “And Zemo ditched us the second things went sideways. Told you we couldn’t trust him.” 

The shadows at the alley entrance solidified into figures—six, no, seven silhouettes moving with military precision. The scrape of boots against concrete echoed in the enclosed space.

“They don’t want us dead,” Bucky observed, his voice dropping to a tactical whisper as he shifted closer to Isabelle. “Not yet. Otherwise, they’d have just bombed this place with us in it.”

“So comforting,” Isabelle muttered, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.

Sam moved closer, forming a tight triangle between the three of them. “If we go over that fence, we’re exposed. They’ll pick us off before we hit the water.”

“If we stay here, we’re fish in a barrel,” Bucky countered, his metal arm whirring softly as he clenched his fist.

“We could surrender,” Sam suggested, though his expression made clear how little he liked the idea. The lines around his eyes deepened. “Buy time. Figure out what this Power Broker dude wants.”

“The asshole wants to kill us,” Isabelle shook her head. “They bring us to whoever this Power Broker is, we’re dead.”

Before Sam could respond, the first mercenary stepped fully into view at the mouth of the alley, rifle raised to his shoulder. The red targeting laser cut through the darkness, dancing across Sam’s chest. Two more flanked him, spreading out in practiced formation, weapons at the ready.

Isabelle’s breath caught as the leader stepped forward. His face was half-hidden beneath tactical gear, but his eyes were visible—cold, calculating, with none of the wild aggression of the men who’d chased them earlier.

“Hands where I can see them,” the leader called, his voice flat and emotionless. 

Bucky shifted imperceptibly closer to Isabelle, his shoulder brushing against hers. She felt the subtle press of something cold and metal being slipped into her palm—a small knife, hidden from the mercenaries’ view by their bodies.

“What’s the play?” Sam whispered, barely moving his lips as he slowly raised his hands.

The leader took another step forward, the red dot of his laser sight now centered on Isabelle’s forehead. She could feel its heat like a brand against her skin, promising death with the slightest twitch of his finger.

“I said hands where I can see them!” the leader barked, all pretense of calm evaporating as spittle flew from his mouth. The red targeting laser trembled slightly against Isabelle’s forehead—not from fear, she realized, but from anticipation.

Isabelle’s fingers closed around the knife in her palm. The metal warmed against her skin, Bucky’s body heat still clinging to the handle. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything but the rush of blood and the shallow scrape of her breathing.

“Last warning,” the leader called, his voice dropping to something almost conversational. Behind him, his men spread wider, rifles raised to cheekbones, eyes cold behind tactical gear. “We know who you are.”

Sam’s shoulders tensed beside her. She could feel the calculations running through his mind—the same ones racing through hers. Seven armed men. Three of them. One fence. Open water beyond.

No good options.

“We’ve got about three seconds before they open fire,” Bucky murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “When I move, you move.”

Isabelle gave the slightest nod, not daring to speak. The knife felt impossibly small against the arsenal pointed at them. Her power flickered beneath her skin—a guttering candle, nearly spent. She might have enough for one burst, one desperate push, but after that...

The leader’s finger tightened on his trigger. Isabelle saw the minute shift in the tendons of his hand, the slight narrowing of his eyes. Time stretched like taffy, each heartbeat an eternity.

“Now!” Bucky’s voice sliced through the tension.

His arm whipped forward in a blur of motion, too fast for human eyes to track. The knife spun through the air—a silver streak cutting through darkness—and buried itself with a wet thunk in the leader’s collarbone, just above his body armor.

The man screamed, a high, animal sound of shock and pain. His rifle clattered to the ground as his hands flew to the knife protruding from his flesh, blood already darkening his tactical vest.

Isabelle lunged forward on instinct. The concrete scraped her soles raw, but adrenaline dulled the worst of it. Her fingers closed around the fallen rifle before it hit the ground, the metal still warm from the leader’s grip. It was heavier than she expected—solid, deadly, and unfamiliar in her hands.

Without hesitation, she spun the weapon, gripping it by the barrel. One clean movement—she brought it down hard across her knee. The crack of splitting metal echoed through the lot as the rifle broke, rendering it useless. Plastic components clattered to the ground at her feet.

The leader stared at her, eyes wide with shock and pain, blood pulsing around Bucky’s knife still embedded in his collarbone. His mouth worked soundlessly, disbelief written across his features.

Isabelle reached forward, wrapping her fingers around the knife handle. The leader’s eyes locked with hers, pleading, suddenly human. She hesitated for half a heartbeat.

“Sorry,” she whispered, then yanked the blade free.

Blood sprayed in a warm arc across her face. The leader screamed, a high, animal sound that cut through the night air as he clutched at the wound.

“Watch out!” Bucky’s voice sliced through her consciousness like a blade.

His body slammed into hers from the side, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. They hit the ground together as bullets tore through the space where she’d been standing. Concrete chips exploded upward, peppering her skin with tiny, burning fragments.

Something hot grazed her cheek—a bullet passing close enough to kiss. Pain bloomed across her face, sharp and immediate. Warm wetness trickled down to her jaw.

She rolled with Bucky’s momentum, feeling the solid strength of him against her for one brief second before they separated. Her shoulder hit the ground hard. She scrambled into a crouch behind a stack of wooden pallets, splintered and weathered from exposure.

Through the gaps in the wood, she saw Sam launch himself at the nearest mercenary—a blur of controlled fury. His shoulder connected with the man’s sternum with a dull thud. The rifle discharged wildly, bullets spraying toward the night sky as both men crashed to the ground, Sam’s weight driving the mercenary into the concrete.

Bucky was already moving. One moment beside her, the next melting into the deeper darkness at the edge of the lot. She caught only glimpses of him—a flash of metal arm reflecting moonlight, the whisper of combat boots against concrete, a strangled cry quickly silenced. 

Two men dropped in quick succession, their bodies hitting the ground with heavy thuds before they even realized what was happening.

A mercenary stumbled backward toward her position, trying to get clear of Sam’s assault. She saw her chance.

Isabelle burst from cover, driving her shoulder into the back of the man’s knees. The impact sent a jarring shock up her spine, but the man buckled, dropping to one knee with a startled grunt. He twisted, faster than she’d anticipated, swinging his rifle in a wide arc. Isabelle ducked, the weapon whistling over her head close enough to stir her hair. She lunged forward, driving her palm into his wrist with a sharp crack. The rifle clattered sideways, skidding across the concrete.

“You little—” he snarled, reaching for the combat knife at his belt.

Isabelle moved on instinct, her body following the patterns Natasha had drilled into her over countless brutal training sessions. Lower center of gravity. Use their momentum. Anticipate, don’t react. She stepped inside his guard, her fingers closing around his wrist before he could fully draw the knife.

“Not today,” she hissed, twisting his arm at an unnatural angle.

The mercenary howled as tendons strained against bone. The knife fell from his grip, and Isabelle snatched it from the air with her free hand, the weight familiar and deadly in her palm. She drove her forehead into the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch.

Pain exploded across her skull, white-hot and disorienting. She gasped, stumbling backward as stars burst behind her eyes. Her vision swam, doubling momentarily as blood from her split eyebrow trickled into her eye. That’s not how Nat made it look.

The mercenary staggered but didn’t fall, blood streaming from his shattered nose. His eyes narrowed to slits of pure hatred as he reached for the sidearm holstered at his thigh.

Isabelle feinted right, then pivoted left, her body moving in a fluid, deadly arc. The knife in her hand flashed as she slashed upward, catching the underside of the mercenary’s wrist just as his fingers closed around the pistol.

He hissed in pain but didn’t drop his weapon. Blood dripped from the shallow cut, spattering the concrete between them. His lips curled into a grin, teeth white in the darkness as he raised his gun again. She met him halfway, ducking under his wild swing. The knife found its mark between his ribs—a quick, vicious thrust. She felt the blade scrape bone, catch on fabric, then sink deeper. The mercenary grunted, more surprised than pained. 

His fist connected with her face before she could pull back. Stars exploded behind her eyes as pain radiated from her cheekbone. She staggered, nearly losing her grip on the knife, the taste of copper flooding her mouth.

The mercenary pulled free of her blade, blood darkening his tactical vest. He advanced again, face twisted with rage, weapon raised.

“Little bitch,” he spat, finger tightening on the trigger.

The last barrier holding back what remained of her power fell. It rushed through her veins like ice water, making her gasp. The familiar green glow crawled up her arms, dim and flickering but present. She threw out her hand, palm forward, and pushed.

The mercenary froze mid-step. His eyes widened as blood vessels burst, turning the whites crimson. The pistol clattered from his fingers as he dropped to his knees, clutching at his throat, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

Across the lot, Sam and Bucky had found each other, standing back-to-back as they faced the remaining attackers. Three mercenaries circled them, weapons raised.

Sam moved first, ducking low and sweeping the legs out from under the closest attacker. As the man fell, Sam stripped the weapon from his hands in one fluid movement, tossing it aside.

Bucky pivoted, catching another mercenary by the throat. His metal arm whirred softly as he lifted the man off his feet, then slammed him into the concrete wall with enough force to crack the surface. The mercenary slid to the ground, unmoving.

The third attacker opened fire, bullets cutting through the air toward them. Bucky’s metal arm came up, deflecting the worst of it. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off the vibranium surface. He angled his body, shielding Sam for a crucial moment.

Isabelle’s power guttered out, leaving her hollow and trembling. She staggered backward, catching herself against a stack of pallets as her vision swam. The mercenary she’d taken down lay motionless at her feet. 

A coldness slithered down her spine. Her eyes darted to the shadows at the far edge of the lot, where the chain-link fence met the concrete wall.

Movement.

A figure crouched in the darkness, separate from the main fight. The mercenary had positioned himself behind a stack of rusted oil drums, his rifle braced against his shoulder. The weapon’s barrel gleamed dully as he adjusted his aim with practiced precision.

Following the line of sight, Isabelle’s heart stuttered.

Sam.

The rifle was aimed directly at Sam’s back as he grappled with one of the remaining attackers. He was completely exposed, unaware of the deadly threat lurking in the shadows. Bucky was engaged with two mercenaries, his attention divided, his back to the hidden shooter.

The world around Isabelle compressed to a single, terrible moment of clarity. She saw the mercenary’s finger tighten on the trigger. Saw the minute adjustment as he tracked Sam’s movement. Saw the shallow breath he took to steady his aim.

Kill shot.

Her body moved before her mind could process the decision. One second she was leaning against the pallets, the next she was running—sprinting across the concrete. 

“Sam!” The name tore from her throat, raw and desperate.

Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.

Time stretched. She could see the individual droplets of sweat on Sam’s neck as he turned toward her voice, confusion etching across his features. Could see Bucky’s head whipping around, eyes widening as he registered the threat too late. Could see the mercenary’s finger completing its squeeze on the trigger.

The crack of the rifle split the night.

Isabelle slammed into Sam’s body, shoving him sideways with every ounce of strength she possessed. His surprised grunt was lost beneath the sound of her own gasp as the bullet found her instead—a white-hot poker punching through her side, just below her ribs.

The impact spun her half-around, her body suddenly heavy and uncooperative. She stumbled, one hand instinctively pressing against the wound. Warm wetness seeped between her fingers, shocking in its abundance.

“Isabelle!” Sam’s voice sounded distant.

The second shot came before she could respond. This one caught her higher, tearing through her chest with devastating force. The pain was so immediate, so absolute, it transcended itself, becoming a strange, buzzing numbness that spread outward from the center of her being.

Her knees buckled. The concrete rushed up to meet her, but strong arms caught her before she hit the ground. Sam’s face swam into focus above her, his features contorted with horror and disbelief.

“No, no, no,” he was saying, the words tumbling over each other as he lowered her to the ground. “Stay with me, Isabelle. Eyes open.”

She tried to speak, but something wet bubbled in her throat instead. The taste of copper flooded her mouth, metallic and warm. She could feel it spilling from the corner of her lips, tracking a hot path down her chin.

“Bucky!” Sam’s voice cracked as he shouted over his shoulder. “She’s hit! Bad!”

Isabelle’s vision tunneled, the edges going dark and fuzzy. She could hear the continued sounds of fighting—grunts, the impact of fists against flesh, a strangled scream that cut off abruptly. Bucky must have found the shooter.

Sam’s hands pressed against her wounds, the pressure sending fresh waves of agony through her body. She arched upward, a choked sound escaping her throat.

“I know, I know,” Sam murmured, his voice gentler now but threaded with panic. “I’ve got to stop the bleeding. Stay with me.”

Her head lolled to the side, cheek pressed against the rough concrete. From this angle, she could see Bucky sprinting toward them, his face a mask of cold fury that melted into naked fear as he dropped to his knees beside her.

“How bad?” he asked, though the answer was written in the spreading pool beneath her.

Sam didn’t respond. His hands were slick with her blood, pressing desperately against wounds that wouldn’t stop flowing. “We need to move her. Now.”

Isabelle tried to focus on Bucky’s face as he leaned over her. His blue eyes were wide, pupils dilated with adrenaline and fear. She wanted to tell him it was okay. That she’d make this choice again in a heartbeat, that saving Sam was worth whatever came next.

But when she tried to speak, only a wet, rattling sound emerged. Something was wrong inside her chest—a terrible, liquid sensation with each shallow breath.

“Don’t try to talk,” Bucky said, his metal hand surprisingly gentle as he brushed hair from her face. “Just breathe. We’re getting you out of here.”

Sam’s face appeared beside Bucky’s, his features tight with determination that couldn’t quite mask his terror. “I’m going to lift you now. It’s going to hurt, but we have to move.”

As Sam slid his arms beneath her, Isabelle’s vision swam, darkness encroaching from all sides. The pain was receding now, replaced by a spreading coldness that crept from her extremities toward her core. She knew what that meant. Had felt it once before, in another life.

Her gaze locked with Bucky’s as Sam lifted her. His eyes held hers, refusing to let go—as if through sheer will alone, he could keep her tethered to this world.

“Stay with me,” Bucky whispered, the words meant only for her. “Please, Isabelle. Stay.”

But the darkness was pulling harder now, an insistent tide she couldn’t fight. Her eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The last thing she saw was Bucky’s face, contorted with a grief so raw it seemed to transcend the moment, as if he’d lived this loss before and couldn’t bear to experience it again.

Then the darkness swallowed her whole.

Februrary 10th, 2005 – 2:02 PM

Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn

The sky was too blue, too bright, like it didn’t give a damn about what was happening below. The wind cut through Isabelle’s thin blazer, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of freshly turned earth and the faint antiseptic smell of funeral flowers.

Laura Proctor’s funeral was small. Thirty-seven people, Isabelle had counted. No eulogy. No slideshow of smiling moments. No swelling music to tell the mourners when to cry. Just a mahogany box and a hole in the frozen Brooklyn ground.

Isabelle stood rigid, arms crossed so tightly against her chest she could feel her own heartbeat hammering against her forearms. The black blazer she wore had been hastily purchased the night before by Pepper—the sleeves hung past her knuckles, and the shoulder pads sat wrong, making her look even smaller than she was. The collar itched at the back of her neck, a constant reminder that this wasn’t planned, wasn’t supposed to happen.

She didn’t cry. Not here, surrounded by colleagues who knew Dr. Laura Proctor but didn’t know Laura. 

Tony stood slightly behind her right shoulder, close enough that she could feel his presence but not so close that anyone would think he was comforting her. His expensive cologne cut through the cemetery smells—sandalwood and something citrusy that didn’t belong among the headstones. One hand stayed buried in the pocket of his tailored black coat; the other rested lightly on her shoulder, his thumb occasionally brushing against her collarbone when she swayed.

He hadn’t said much all day. Just appeared at her door that morning, handed her a coffee she didn’t drink, and then had Happy drive them to Green-Wood in silence. He’d offered tissues she didn’t use and kept reporters away with a glare that could have melted steel.

Rhodey stood a few feet away, ramrod straight in his military dress uniform, arms crossed over his chest. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but the tight line of his mouth said everything. Pepper was beside him, elegant in understated black, her strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a severe knot. She kept glancing at Isabelle, concern etched in the fine lines around her eyes. 

A woman Isabelle vaguely recognized from a charity gala she’d gone to with Laura approached, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “She was brilliant,” the woman said, reaching for Isabelle’s hand. “A true pioneer. The work she did—”

“Thank you,” Tony cut in smoothly, stepping slightly forward. His hand never left Isabelle’s shoulder, but something in his posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. A shield. “We appreciate you coming.”

The woman retreated, and Tony’s fingers tightened briefly on Isabelle’s shoulder. 

Isabelle watched the mourners disperse, breaking into hushed clusters. Their voices carried on the wind in fragments—”brilliant mind,” “such a shame,” “so young”—words that bounced off her like rain on glass.

“I want to go,” she said, the words scraping her throat raw. First words she’d spoken since they’d arrived.

Tony nodded once, no questions, no platitudes. “Happy’s waiting with the car. And burgers. Figured you wouldn’t want to do the whole reception thing.”

Burgers. The word landed like a stone in her empty stomach. She wouldn’t eat it. Couldn’t.

She hadn’t eaten a full meal since... since dinner. That night. The night she killed her mother.

No one knew.

She tried to tell Rhodey when he’d walked into the house and found the aftermath. The overturned chairs. The blood—not much, just smears from the knife, but no wounds. Isabelle’s hands still trembling, still hot from where the power had erupted from her palms.

But Rhodey had seen what he expected to see: a traumatized teenager. A mother who’d collapsed during an argument. He’d gathered Isabelle into his arms, her face pressed against the stiff fabric of his uniform, and whispered, “It’s not your fault, kid. It’s not your fault.”

But it was.

The police came. Asked their questions. Took their notes. An autopsy followed. Cause of death: cardiac arrest. Massive heart failure. No signs of external trauma. No toxins. No evidence of foul play.

Isabelle got off clean.

So she said nothing. Let them file it under trauma. PTSD. Let them build the narrative of a bad fight, a shouting match gone wrong. A mother who hit too hard. A daughter who shouted back. A tragic accident.

She just nodded. Muted. Careful. Let them believe what was easier to believe.

“Hey.” Tony’s voice cut through the fog in her head. His hand moved from her shoulder to her upper arm, turning her slightly to face him. His eyes—dark and knowing—searched her face. “Where’d you go just now?”

Isabelle blinked, the cold air suddenly sharp in her lungs. “Nowhere.”

The lie sat between them, palpable as the grave they stood beside. Tony’s jaw tightened, the muscle working beneath his skin. For a terrible moment, she thought he might push—might pry open the vault where she kept that night locked away.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, sliding them onto her face with surprising gentleness. The world dimmed, colors muting behind the tinted lenses. Her tears, if they came, would be hidden now.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, his voice rough at the edges. His arm settled around her shoulders, not pulling her close, but offering support if she wanted it.

The cemetery workers began filling the grave, each shovelful of dirt hitting the mahogany casket with a hollow thud that reverberated through Isabelle’s chest. The service blurred into a smear of black coats and murmured platitudes.

Tony stayed beside her, a silent sentinel in an expensive suit. His hand never left her shoulder as mourners approached them—a human barrier between Isabelle and their grief. Each time someone stepped toward them with that particular expression—head tilted, eyes soft with sympathy—Tony would shift his weight forward almost imperceptibly. 

The pattern repeated. Someone would approach. Tony would intercept. His responses grew increasingly clipped, his smile more fixed. “Appreciate it.” “She’d be touched.” “Thank you for your support.” A verbal shield, deflecting condolences that landed like blows.

Isabelle’s throat burned with unshed tears, but her eyes remained dry behind Tony’s sunglasses. The lenses were too big for her face, sliding down her nose every few minutes.

Then she felt it—a change in the air, a shift in pressure that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up beneath her ill-fitting blazer.

He arrived late. Wilfred Nagel.

He stood at the edge of the gathering. Black coat buttoned to the throat. Thin wire-frame glasses perched on a nose too sharp for his face. Gloved hands folded neatly in front of him, the leather tight across his knuckles.

He looked like what he was—a scientist observing a specimen. Not a colleague mourning a peer.

Their eyes met across the thinning crowd.

Something cold slid down Isabelle’s spine. In that single, electric moment of eye contact, certainty crystallized in her chest: He knew. He knew exactly what had happened that night. What she’d done.

Her hands began to tremble. Not the slight tremor of grief, but the violent shake of terror. She shoved them deep into her pockets to hide them. 

Tony’s attention shifted immediately. His gaze tracked from Isabelle’s face to the source of her distress, locking onto Nagel with the precision of a targeting system. His posture changed—subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders squaring. Spine straightening. Weight shifting to the balls of his feet.

“Who’s that?” Tony asked, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

Isabelle couldn’t answer. Her throat had closed, air refusing to move past the knot of panic lodged there.

Nagel stood motionless, observing the proceedings with clinical detachment. When the last of the other mourners moved away from the gravesite, he took three precise steps forward. Not approaching Isabelle directly, but positioning himself where she couldn’t avoid seeing him.

He gave a slight nod—first to the fresh grave, then directly to Isabelle. The gesture wasn’t respectful. It was acknowledging. Confirming.

She didn’t nod back. Her body felt leaden, rooted to the frozen ground.

Tony moved instead, a half-step forward that placed his body partially between Isabelle and Nagel. Not obvious enough to draw attention, but unmistakable in its intent.

“That guy bothering you?” Tony’s voice was casual, but his eyes had hardened to flint.

“No,” Isabelle said too quickly, the word escaping before she could stop it. Automatic denial. The reflex of someone used to handling threats alone.

Tony’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at her, keeping his eyes fixed on Nagel. “Try again.”

She swallowed hard, tasting copper where she’d bitten the inside of her cheek. “He worked with Mom.”

“In what capacity?” Tony asked the question as precisely as a scalpel.

“Research partner.” The lie tasted sour on her tongue. Nagel had been more than that—the shadow behind her mother’s work, the whisper in her ear, the hand that guided the needle.

Tony studied Nagel with narrowed eyes, head tilted slightly as if trying to place the man in some mental database. His fingers drummed once against his thigh—a tell Isabelle had noticed before, when he was running calculations, assessing threats.

After what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than minutes, Nagel inclined his head once more. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps too soft for someone so dangerous. 

Isabelle watched him go, muscles locked tight with tension. Only when he disappeared beyond the cemetery gates did she exhale, a shuddering breath that clouded in the cold air.

Tony watched her, not Nagel’s retreat. His eyes missed nothing—not the rigid set of her shoulders, not the white-knuckled fists still buried in her pockets, not the way she’d stopped blinking behind his sunglasses. But he didn’t press further, accepting the boundary even as his expression said he’d be revisiting it later.

As they turned to leave, Isabelle felt the cold certainty settle in her bones—Nagel’s appearance wasn’t a coincidence. It was a message. A reminder that some secrets couldn’t stay buried, even when you put them six feet under.

Chapter Text

Isabelle woke up choking on air.

Not the gentle return to consciousness most people experienced after fainting. This was violent. Actual oxygen flooding her lungs like she’d been underwater for hours. Each breath felt like swallowing fire, her throat raw and rebelling against the sudden intrusion of life.

Her fingers clawed at her chest, nails scraping against skin as if she could somehow make more room for the air that both saved and tortured her. The ceiling above her blurred and refocused in nauseating waves.

Death. She’d been dead. Again.

She remembered the weight of the gun aimed at Sam. The split-second calculation. The decision that wasn’t really a decision at all. The bullets—two of them—punching through her body as she’d thrown herself in front of him. The wet heat. The cold that followed, creeping through her limbs. Then nothing. The absolute nothing that always waited for her.

Now everything was too much. Too bright, too loud, too real.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape, the thundering pulse echoing in her ears. Sweat broke out across her skin in an instant wave, cold and clammy. Her fingers clutched at the sheets beneath her, desperate for something solid to anchor her to this reality.

Everything hurt.

Not the clean, precise pain of a fresh injury—the kind you could point to and name. This was deeper. A marrow-dragging ache that pulsed through every cell. Like her nerves were stuck in an echo chamber, replaying the same signals long after the danger had passed. 

She groaned and tried to sit up. Her body betrayed her, muscles seizing with almost mechanical failure. Joints popped—neck, shoulders, spine—a domino effect of misalignment. The room tilted dangerously.

“Fuck,” she hissed through clenched teeth, palms pressing flat against the sheets. Her stomach muscles spasmed, and phantom bullets still burned through absent wounds, her body insisting on pain that should have faded with the injuries.

Movement in the corner caught her peripheral vision. A chair creaked—metal against hardwood flooring, the sound slicing through the room’s stillness like a blade.

“Don’t.” The voice was stripped bare, each word extracted through gravel. “Don’t you fucking move, Isabelle.”

She let her head roll sideways, the room spinning before settling into focus. Her gaze landed on the figure beside the bed, and something in her chest tightened.

Sam Wilson looked destroyed. His usually unerring appearance was in shambles—shirt wrinkled and stained with what she recognized as blood. Her blood. It had dried in uneven patterns across his chest, some spots almost black where it had pooled thickest. His sleeves were pushed up haphazardly, one higher than the other, exposing forearms corded with tension.

His eyes, always so clear, so certain, were bloodshot. The skin beneath them had taken on a purplish-gray color, exhaustion evident and loud. His jaw looked carved from stone, muscles bunched at the hinges from clenching too long. 

What hit her hardest were his hands. Those steady hands that could pilot anything and patch wounds in the field without hesitation now trembled where they gripped the armrests. Minute vibrations that most wouldn’t notice, but to Isabelle, they screamed.

“You’re—” she started, but a cough tore through her, sending fresh waves of pain radiating outward. She swallowed, tasting copper. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay?” Sam’s voice cracked in the middle, the sound so unlike him it made her flinch. “You took two bullets meant for me and bled out on the fucking street. You were dead, Isabelle.” His voice dropped to a whisper, the words falling between them like stones. “Dead for over two hours.”

Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach, fingers probing for the wounds that should have been there. The fabric against her skin felt wrong—softer, looser. She glanced down, realizing someone had changed her clothes and taken that ridiculous wig off her. Gone was the fitted black dress Zemo had picked out for her. Instead, she wore a faded grey shirt that hung off one shoulder and sweatpants that pooled around her ankles, drawstring pulled tight and knotted twice at her waist. 

The skin under her exploring fingertips was smooth. Unbroken. Nothing but the ghost of pain remained. 

“They’re gone. Healed.” Sam’s voice dropped lower, a tremor running through it. “Whatever your body does when it... repairs itself. It pushed them out about an hour ago.” 

He reached down beside the chair, movements stiff like his joints had locked from sitting too long. When his hand came back up, he held a small metal surgical dish. Two misshapen bullets sat inside, coated in dried blood. The metal was warped, flattened on one side where they’d impacted bone before tearing through her organs.

“They just... worked their way out of you,” he said, staring at the dish like it contained some terrible truth he couldn’t look away from. 

Isabelle stared at the bullets. Evidence of her death. Of her return. The physical manifestation of what made her different, what made her wrong. What made her useful.

“I had to carry your body out of there,” Sam continued, each word precise and cutting. His voice had found its strength again, but something was underneath it, something raw and wounded. “Your head against my chest. Arms hanging. Do you have any idea what that was like? Your blood soaking through my clothes, knowing you jumped in front of those bullets for me?”

“I can come back,” she whispered, her voice thin and brittle. “You can’t.”

Something shifted in Sam’s expression—a fracture in his composure. The controlled anger gave way to something more devastating.

“Don’t you dare say that like it’s okay.” His eyes were red-rimmed, the tracks of dried tears visible on his cheeks. The realization that he’d been crying—Sam Wilson, who maintained composure during alien invasions and world-ending threats—hit her harder than the bullets had. “You think it’s better that you died? Like your life costs less?” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “That’s not heroism, Isabelle. That’s—” He broke off, swallowing whatever the word was, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. “That’s not how this team works. That’s not how we work.”

Isabelle looked away, unable to meet his eyes. She’d caused this—not just by taking the hit, but by making him watch her die. By making him carry her lifeless body. By treating her life as expendable.

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was their breathing—hers still uneven and struggling, his controlled but too deep, like he was forcing each inhale.

“It worked, didn’t it?” She tried to sound defiant, but her voice cracked in the middle, betraying her. 

Her body trembled with aftershocks as nerves reactivated, as cells remembered their purpose. A particularly violent shudder ran through her right leg, making her foot twitch against the sheet. It was like this after Siberia—like her body needed to run a system reboot, everything firing at once, some signals crossed, others amplified.

Sam’s hand moved from the armrest to her wrist, his fingers encircling it completely. His touch was warm against her still-cold skin, his pulse a counterpoint to her erratic one. For all the anger in his words, his grip was gentle, as if he feared she might shatter.

“This time.” His thumb pressed against her pulse point, feeling the proof of her return. “What about next time? Or the time after that?” His eyes locked with hers, refusing to let her look away again. “How many lives do you think you have, Isabelle?”

She didn’t know. Nobody did. One day, she might not come back at all. The thought should have terrified her. Instead, a small, dark part of her wondered if that might be a relief.

Sam’s fingers tightened around her wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to demand her attention. “I’m not worth your life,” he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “No one is.”

Isabelle met his gaze, finding a strange clarity cutting through her pain. “That’s not your call to make,” she replied, a thread of steel winding through her voice despite its weakness. “And you’re wrong. I don’t—”

The sentence died as something shifted inside her. A wave of nausea crashed over her without warning, her body remembering it had been dead only hours before. She twisted to the side, barely making it to the edge of the bed as her body convulsed. Nothing came up, but the taste was still bitter and acrid like battery acid. It burned her already raw throat.

Sam was there instantly, one hand steady on her back, the other gathering her sweat-dampened hair away from her face, just in case. His palm was warm against her clammy skin, grounding her as another shudder racked her body.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that calm cadence she hadn’t realized she’d craved to hear right now. “Just breathe through it. It’ll pass.”

Isabelle clutched at the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, as the room tilted and spun. When the worst of it subsided, leaving her trembling and spent, Sam eased her back against the pillows. His movements were gentle but clinical, like he was handling something fragile but dangerous.

“Here.” He reached for a crystal tumbler on the nightstand, the ice long since melted. “Small sips,” he instructed, holding it to her lips, his other hand cupping the back of her neck to support her. “Too much at once will just make you sick again.”

The water was cool against her parched throat. She took one careful sip, then another, feeling it track down her esophagus. Her body seemed unsure whether to accept it or reject it.

As her vision cleared and the room stopped swaying, Isabelle forced herself to take in her surroundings beyond the blinding light that had first assaulted her. High ceilings with ornate crown molding. Heavy damask curtains drawn against what might be day or night. Antique furniture that looked both expensive and authentic. 

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice steadier now, mind finally clearing enough to focus on what mattered. She pushed herself up straighter.

Sam’s expression tightened, something complicated passing behind his eyes. “Easy, please,” he urged, one hand moving to her shoulder as if to keep her from bolting. His fingers brushed her hair back from her face with unexpected tenderness. “We’re at Sharon’s.”

Isabelle blinked, certain she’d misheard. “Who’s?”

“Sharon’s,” Sam repeated, watching her face carefully.

“Carter?” The name came out sharp, disbelieving. “That Sharon?”

“Yes, that Sharon,” he confirmed, a hint of wariness creeping into his tone. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, the rasp of stubble audible in the quiet room. “She... it’s a long story, okay? But she’s in Madripoor now. Has a place here. Found us when we were trying to get you somewhere safe after—” He broke off, unable or unwilling to say it again.

Isabelle’s mind raced, trying to process this new information through the fog of resurrection. Sharon Carter. Ex-SHIELD. Ex-CIA. Steve’s almost-something. Now, apparently, harboring them in what looked like a luxury safehouse in the criminal paradise of Madripoor.

“And Zemo?” she asked, suddenly remembering the mission that had gotten her killed. “Is he—”

“Here,” Sam cut in, his jaw tightening. “Zemo found us after...” His eyes flickered to her abdomen, “After you got shot. Before Sharon found us.” 

He moved closer then, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed, shifting her body slightly toward him like a planet caught in a gravitational pull. His hand found hers, moving down from her wrist. 

“When we got here,” he continued, “Sharon had medical supplies waiting. Not that they...” His eyes flicked to her stomach again. “Not that they helped much. You were already gone.”

Isabelle watched his face, cataloging every microexpression—the tightening around his eyes, the way his nostrils flared slightly with each controlled breath. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words insufficient even as they left her lips.

 “Don’t apologize for saving my life,” he said, voice rough. Then, softer: “But don’t expect me to thank you for dying, either.” 

The contradiction hung between them, impossible to resolve. How could she regret an action that had kept him alive? How could he accept a sacrifice that had cost her everything, even temporarily?

Sam’s thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles, the calluses on his skin catching slightly against hers. “I can’t lose you,” he said, voice dropping to something raw and honest that made her chest ache in a way the bullets never could. The admission seemed torn from him, each word carrying weight. “Not again. Not like that.”

For the first time since waking, Isabelle felt her racing heart begin to slow, matching its rhythm to his. The chaos in her body quieted momentarily, cells no longer screaming as they remembered how to exist. She leaned into his touch, allowing herself this small comfort.

It didn’t last long.

“What happened back there?” he asked, voice quieter now but no less intense. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying her face, eyes never leaving hers. “At Selby’s. On the street. That wasn’t you fighting. Not entirely.”

Isabelle froze. The momentary peace was shattered, replaced by a cold dread that spread through her limbs faster than the bullets had. “What do you mean?”

Her fingers curled tighter in the sheets, bunching the fabric until her knuckles whitened. The room suddenly felt colder, the air thinner. She didn’t know how to explain the way it had pleaded with her in those moments before the fight. How it had scratched at the inside of her skull, demanding to be let in. And when she finally gave in...

It had loved the violence. Reveled in it. Each broken bone and ruptured vessel had felt like a victory.

“I’ve fought alongside you enough to know your moves,” Sam continued, leaning closer. “This was different.” He paused, swallowing hard enough that she could see the movement in his throat. “Was it the voice? The one you told me about in the prison?”

That was impossible to dodge, and Isabelle’s mouth went dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. 

“It’s getting stronger,” she admitted, surprising herself. The confession felt dangerous, like speaking it aloud might summon it back. “When I’m in danger, when people I—” she cut herself off, reconsidered. The word had almost slipped out too easily. “When people I care about are threatened, it’s harder to keep it contained.”

Sam’s expression shifted, something unreadable passing over his features. His brow furrowed slightly, lips parting as if he was about to press further—

The door across the room opened with a precise click, hinges whispering against the frame. Isabelle’s body reacted before her mind caught up—muscles tensing, heart rate spiking. She pushed herself up on trembling elbows, the room tilting dangerously as she tried to focus on the figure in the doorway

“Oh. You’re up.”

Sharon Carter stood perfectly still for three heartbeats, framed in the threshold like a photograph. Her eyes swept the room in a practiced scan before landing on Isabelle with laser focus. Something flickered behind her gaze—not surprise, but confirmation.

She stepped into the room, barefoot against polished hardwood. Her linen pants and fitted tee looked expensive in that understated way that screamed weekend brunch at the country club, not harboring resurrected Avengers. She carried a stack of pristine white towels and folded clothes with the same ease someone might carry a coffee cup.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Stark,” Sharon continued, crossing to an armchair upholstered in hand-stitched leather. She set down her bundle and then moved to lean against the wall, arms crossing over her chest. “Tough to kill, aren’t you?”

The words landed like ice down Isabelle’s spine. Something in Sharon’s tone—the lightness that didn’t match the weight of the question—made her stomach clench. But before she could respond, Sam stood up, his broad shoulders blocking Sharon from view.

“She needs rest,” he said, his voice firm but tired. “And probably food, once she can keep it down.”

Sharon’s gaze shifted to Sam, her expression softening. “You look like you haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, Wilson,” she said, her voice gentle but brooking no argument. “Go take a nap before your eyeballs explode on my furniture,” she said, her voice gentler now but still brooking no argument. Her hand landed on his shoulder, applying subtle pressure that guided him toward the door. Her fingers squeezed once, a gesture somewhere between comfort and command. “Eat something.” 

Sam hesitated, his exhausted eyes finding Isabelle’s over his shoulder. The silent question hung between them—Will you be okay?

“I’ll be fine,” Isabelle said. She manufactured what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though her facial muscles felt stiff and uncooperative.

Sam’s jaw worked as he weighed his options. Then, he nodded. “I’ll be back,” he said, the promise heavy in his voice. He moved to the door with obvious reluctance, each step measured as if fighting against his own instincts to stay. 

“Don’t worry,” Sharon called after him, her voice light but her eyes sharp. “I’ll take good care of our miracle girl.”

The door closed behind Sam with a soft click that somehow echoed in the stillness of the room. Isabelle felt his absence immediately, like a physical chill where his warmth had been.

Sharon approached the bed. Her eyes never left Isabelle’s face, studying her with an intensity that felt clinical and curious at once. 

“So,” she said, stopping at the edge of the bed. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’ve got dried blood...” She gestured vaguely at Isabelle’s neck, her collarbone, her hands. “Everywhere, actually.”

Isabelle glanced down at her fingers, noticing for the first time the rust-colored crescents under her nails, the flaking crimson in the creases of her knuckles. She grimaced and, with a nod,  shifted her weight, attempting to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Her muscles protested immediately, trembling with the effort. Her knees buckled the instant she tried to put weight on them.

Sharon moved, catching Isabelle before she could collapse. Her grip was firm but not rough, one arm sliding around Isabelle’s waist while the other steadied her elbow.

“Easy,” Sharon murmured, her breath warm against Isabelle’s temple. “Your body’s still waking up.” The unexpected gentleness in Sharon’s touch made Isabelle pause. “I’ve got you,” Sharon added, guiding Isabelle back to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight, Sharon settling beside her with practiced ease. “There’s no rush.”

Isabelle let her shoulders sag, surrendering to the support. She found herself leaning into Sharon’s hold, grateful for the anchor as another wave of dizziness washed over her.

“Thanks,” Isabelle managed. She attempted a smile, feeling her lips crack with the effort. “Not my most graceful moment.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Sharon’s lips quirked upward, her gaze flickering briefly to Isabelle’s torso. “Much worse.”

There was something in her tone—not judgment or disgust, but a quiet understanding that made Isabelle’s skin prickle. How much had Sharon seen during those two hours? What had happened while she was gone, her body working its terrible magic?

Isabelle swallowed hard and glanced around the room, desperate for a distraction from the implications in Sharon’s words.

“Nice place,” Isabelle said, her fingers absently tracing the intricate stitching on the duvet beneath her. “Very... old money meets new crime.”

To her surprise, Sharon laughed and her posture changed, a subtle relaxation that made her look younger, less guarded.

“Thanks. Worked hard for it.” She stood and moved to the window, adjusting one of the heavy curtains to allow a thin slice of city light into the room. The glow caught the highlights in her hair, turning them to spun gold against the darker blonde. “Madripoor rewards those who understand how the game is played.”

The sliver of outside world revealed a scatter of neon signs, their glow diffused by fog or maybe smoke, painting the night in electric blues and reds.

“And what game are you playing, exactly?” Isabelle asked, unable to keep the edge of suspicion from her voice. The Sharon Carter she remembered had been straight-laced SHIELD, then CIA—Peggy Carter’s great-niece, carrying on the family legacy of serving the country above all else. That woman wouldn’t have luxury apartments in criminal havens.

Sharon turned from the window, half her face illuminated by the city’s glow, the other half in shadow. She studied Isabelle for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she crossed back to the bed and sat beside Isabelle again. 

“The only game that matters in a place like this.” Sharon’s voice was quiet but clear, no apology in it. No shame either. “Survival.”

She leaned back slightly, the mattress shifting beneath them. Her posture remained relaxed, but something in her eyes hardened—a flash of steel beneath the velvet.

“When the world decides you’re expendable, you make choices.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her linen pants. “Some people run.” Her gaze locked with Isabelle’s, unwavering and unapologetic. “Some of us build something new.”

No bitterness tinged her words—just cold pragmatism that resonated in Isabelle’s chest like a tuning fork struck against bone. She recognized that tone. Had heard it in her own voice when trying to explain choices that others couldn’t possibly comprehend.

“You missed quite the show while you were playing Sleeping Beauty,” Sharon said suddenly, standing once more, seemingly unable to stay still. She moved to an antique dresser across the room. She pulled open a drawer, expensive runners. “Your Winter Soldier nearly tore this place apart when we brought you in.”

Isabelle tracked her movement, still not trusting her body to stand again. Her eyes narrowed at ‘your Winter Soldier’, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. “I’m sorry, my what?” 

“Your Winter Soldier.” Sharon’s voice lilted with amusement as she extracted a silver hairbrush from the drawer. “Barnes. He nearly put Zemo through my atrium wall after he said something about your odds of surviving a second death.” She crossed back to the bed, the brush dangling from her fingers like a weapon. 

Without asking permission, she began gathering Isabelle’s tangled hair, her fingers surprisingly gentle as they worked through the knots. Isabelle visibly tensed, but didn’t protest—stuck on Sharon’s words. 

“Then before that,” Sharon continued, voice light but eyes watchful, “he hardly let anyone touch you—not even Sam. Sam had to practically pry his metal fingers off you so we could get you cleaned up.”

Heat crawled up Isabelle’s neck that had nothing to do with her body’s resurrection process. The sensation of Sharon’s fingers in her hair felt invasive, intimate in a way she wasn’t prepared for, but her limbs were too heavy to pull away.

“He was just being careful,” Isabelle managed, wincing as Sharon worked through a particularly stubborn knot.

“Mmm.” Sharon’s hum vibrated with disbelief. The brush’s teeth scraped Isabelle’s scalp with each stroke. “And I suppose him standing guard by your bedside since we got you here was just standard protocol?”

“What?” The word escaped before Isabelle could trap it behind her teeth, embarrassingly breathless.

Sharon’s rhythm with the brush never faltered, each stroke methodical and precise. “Oh yes.” She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against Isabelle’s ear. “He only left when Zemo started running his mouth again.” The brush paused mid-stroke, suspended in air. “Dragged him out of the room by the collar of his fancy coat.” A small, appreciative smile curved Sharon’s lips. “I thought he might actually kill him in my living room. Would have been a pain to clean up, but almost worth it for the entertainment value.”

Isabelle stared at her own hands, noticing how they trembled in her lap. She curled them into fists, pressing her nails into her palms until the pain grounded her. “Bucky’s protective of the team,” she managed, the words hollow even to her own ears.

“The team.” Sharon resumed brushing, each stroke more deliberate than the last. The silver handle caught the dim light, flashing like a warning. “Is that what you guys are?” She set the brush down on the nightstand. 

“What else would we call it?” Isabelle snapped. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing through her, but she forced herself to remain upright, refusing to show weakness.

Sharon’s eyebrows lifted, her expression shifting into something knowing and dangerous. “I saw the way he looked at you tonight, Stark,” he said, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “That’s not how someone looks at a teammate.” 

Her gaze drifted momentarily, focusing on something Isabelle couldn’t see—some memory playing behind her eyes. 

“That was...” A shadow crossed her face, hardening her features. “That was how I looked at Steve, once upon a time.” The admission seemed to cost her something; her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

Isabelle’s heart stuttered against her ribs, each beat a painful reminder that she was alive again and having this conversation. “You’re imagining things,” she said, waving a dismissive hand that trembled mid-air, betraying her.

“Am I?” Sharon stood with another laugh. “When Sam told him you were breathing again, Barnes went completely still.” Her voice softened, almost reverent. “Like someone had hit pause on him. Frozen. Not even blinking.” She tilted her head, studying Isabelle with unnerving intensity. “I thought the man might actually cry. His eyes got that glassy look, you know?” She paused, letting the words settle between them like dust motes in the dim light. “Never thought I’d see the day—the Winter Soldier, brought to his knees by a Stark.”

Isabelle’s throat constricted, her defense dying before it could form. The implication in Sharon’s observation felt too raw, too exposed—like someone had peeled back her skin to examine what lay beneath.

“That’s not—” she started, but her voice cracked, the sound small and uncertain in the vast bedroom. Her fingers twisted in the bedsheets, clutching at the expensive fabric until she could feel individual threads straining against her grip. “He was just worried about the mission,” she finally managed, the lie bitter on her tongue, coating her mouth like the metallic aftertaste of resurrection. “We all look out for each other. It’s what we do.”

Sharon’s responding chuckle was soft but sharp-edged, a blade wrapped in silk. “Keep telling yourself that,” she said. “Denial looks good on no one, Stark.” Her eyes met Isabelle’s, something knowing and almost pitying in her gaze. “Especially not someone who’s cheated death twice.”

Isabelle looked away, unable to hold Sharon’s gaze, afraid of what the other woman might see written across her face.

Sharon stood and nodded toward a door on the far side of the room. “There’s a shower in there. Hot water’s temperamental in this part of the city, but it works. Better than most places in Madripoor. The pressure’s decent, at least.”

She crossed to a chair where a neatly folded stack of clothes waited, dark fabrics in various shades of practicality. 

“I’ve left you some things that should fit. They’ll be better than...” Her eyes flicked to Isabelle’s borrowed clothes. Sharon moved to the door that led into the hall and paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder.  Her fingers tapped once against the doorframe, a gesture that seemed almost nervous. 

The door clicked shut behind her with quiet finality, leaving Isabelle alone with the echoes of Sharon’s words and the sudden, suffocating silence. 

She exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from her shoulders as she slumped forward, elbows on her knees. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain, lighter in places from Sharon’s attempts to clean the blood from it. Her body still felt wrong—like wearing clothes that had shrunk in the wash, everything too tight and restrictive.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room.

She planted her palms against the mattress, fingers splayed wide. The simple act of pushing herself upright sent tremors through her arms, muscles quivering with the effort. Her first attempt failed, her body collapsing back like a marionette with cut strings. Isabelle gritted her teeth, tasting copper again.

“Come on,” she muttered, rallying her scattered strength. “Get it together, Stark.”

The second attempt worked. 

She pushed herself upright, legs trembling beneath her weight. Isabelle fixed her gaze on the bathroom door, using it as an anchor point. Left foot. Right foot. Don’t think about the bullets. Don’t think about Sam’s face. Don’t think about Barnes crying. Just move.

Her reflection ambushed her before she reached the door—a full-length mirror mounted on the wall caught her image and stopped her cold.

The woman staring back was a stranger. Skin paper-white except where blood had dried in rusty patterns across her neck and jawline. Her eyes were sunken, ringed with shadows so dark they looked like bruises. Her lips were bloodless, cracked at the corners. 

She looked like a corpse that had forgotten to stay dead.

The voice stirred in the back of her mind, a whisper so faint she almost missed it.

We look terrible.

Chapter Text

When she finally turned off the water, Isabelle stood for a moment in the silence, skin pink, nerves tingling, the high of resurrection wearing off like anesthesia. The kind of silence that buzzed behind your eardrums. That made the world feel like it was holding its breath.

She wrapped herself in one of Sharon’s towels—thick, plush, and far too luxurious for what it was. The fabric clung to her skin as she padded barefoot into the bedroom, steam curling off her shoulders like smoke.

And then—

She froze.

So did he.

Bucky sat in the chair across the room, elbows propped on his knees, metal fingers interlaced with flesh ones. His head hung low, shoulders curved inward like he was carrying something heavy. At her entrance, his head snapped up, and their eyes locked.

For three thundering heartbeats, neither of them moved. The tension detonated between them like a grenade. 

A droplet of water slid down her spine. Her grip on the towel tightened. His eyes, impossibly blue, followed the path the droplet took down her collarbone before he looked away like he’d touched a live wire.

A flush crept up his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, words stumbling out like they’d forgotten how to walk. “I—I didn’t—” He cleared his throat, metal hand flexing at his side with a barely audible whir. “Sam said you were awake, but still—”

“Jesus Christ!” Isabelle clutched the towel closer, heart slamming against her ribs as she lurched back into the bathroom doorway. One bare foot remained in the bedroom, toes curling against the hardwood. “What happened to knocking, Barnes?”

“I did knock!” He was on his feet now, all six-foot-something of lethal super soldier suddenly looking like a teenager caught somewhere he shouldn’t be. His hands lifted, palms out, a universal gesture of surrender. “I knocked three times.” The chair he’d vacated rocked slightly behind him. “No answer. Sharon said it was fine to come in!”

“So you just—what? You thought you’d just sit there? And wait? What kind of Victorian ghost behavior is that?” she shot back, too mortified to stop herself, the words sharp and defensive. 

Bucky’s eyebrows lifted slightly, his lips parting in genuine confusion. “Victorian ghost—?” He shook his head, a crease forming between his brows. “I was waiting for you to finish. Not exactly a crime scene stakeout. I thought you’d…ya’ know…come out dressed…” His jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping once, but something in his eyes softened. “Would you prefer I’d barged in while you were in the shower?”

The mental image that conjured sent an unwelcome heat crawling up her neck. Isabelle clutched the towel tighter, acutely aware of how the damp fabric clung to every curve.

“I’d prefer a warning system. A text. A note. A shout, so I’d know to come out dressed.” She swallowed, her free hand gesturing wildly. “Smoke signals, Barnes. Anything but finding you brooding in the dark like some—some sentinel.”

“Sentinel?” A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his eyes flickering over her face. “That’s a five-dollar word, doll.”

The endearment hit her like a physical touch. 

Doll. 

The casual intimacy of it, wrapped in that low Brooklyn drawl, settling somewhere beneath her ribs. Something from another time, another world—a world where men in uniform called women “doll” before shipping off to war.

“Did you just call me...doll me again... but this time while I’m standing here in nothing but a towel?” Isabelle’s voice came out higher than she’d intended.

Bucky’s face transformed in real time. The hint of that smile vanished at those five letters that had slipped past seventy years of careful restraint. He felt heat crawl up his neck, spreading across his cheekbones in a flush he couldn’t control. 

“I didn’t—” His throat constricted, suddenly dry. The room felt ten degrees warmer. He watched her knuckles whiten around the edge of the towel, and his eyes betrayed him, dropping to the curve where fabric met skin before he wrenched his gaze away. “I wasn’t—”

His eyes widened as panic surged through him, genuine, unfiltered alarm, before he fixed his stare on a water spot on the wall just past her left shoulder. Safer territory. 

“Force of habit,” he finally managed, the lie scraping rough against his throat. But it wasn’t a force of habit. It wasn’t even close to the truth. She was the first woman he’d called doll since 1945.

James Buchanan Barnes. The charmer. The smooth-talker. The man who’d once danced with pretty girls, who’d flirted easily and meant every word. Before the fall. Before the arm. Before he became this—a weapon, trying to remember how to be human.

And now here he was, calling Tony Stark’s daughter “doll” while she stood dripping wet in nothing but a towel, looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words coming out softer than intended. He ran his flesh hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “That was... inappropriate.”

His eyes met hers again, unable to stay away despite his best efforts. There was something magnetic about her indignation, something that pulled at him. Made him want to step closer instead of back.

Dangerous territory, Barnes.

“I should go,” he said, but his feet remained rooted to the floor, his body betraying him just as thoroughly as his words had moments before.

The mortification on his face made something shift inside Isabelle. She’d made the Winter Soldier blush. The anger that had flared hot and defensive moments earlier began to cool, replaced by something she couldn’t name. 

Isabelle didn’t know what possessed her next. Maybe it was the hollow tiredness in his eyes. Maybe it was how his voice cracked when he’d said “I should go.” Maybe it was just that her heart hadn’t stopped racing since coming to Madripoor. But it made her take a full step back into the room. 

“Hey,” she said, her voice coming out softer. Still breathless. Still raw. The word hung in the air, an offering. “Thank you.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, brows drawing together in confusion. His shoulders, which had been hunched forward in embarrassment, straightened slightly. “For...?” 

She hesitated, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other. “Back at the club. That guy with the—” Her fingers made a vague gesture in the air, motioning to her closed mouth. “You stepped in before it got worse.”

Something in Bucky’s expression softened, the corner of his mouth twitching upward—not quite a smile, but close. “Didn’t exactly step in. More like threw him into a wall.”

“Like you almost did to Zemo?” A small, unexpected smile appeared on her face. She tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Sharon told me what happened...While I was out. With Zemo.”

Bucky looked down at his hand, flesh one, not metal—like it had betrayed him somehow. His fingers curled inward, knuckles whitening briefly before relaxing. “I might’ve... reacted.”

“She said you nearly put him through her atrium.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the sleeve of his Henley pulling tight across his shoulder with the movement. “Yeah. Well. He said something that pissed me off.”

“About me?”

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. Isabelle watched the subtle shift in his posture—spine straightening, shoulders squaring. The soldier in him, responding to a threat. “He said something about not wasting time reviving what was always meant to die.” A pause, heavy with unspoken words. “Said it like you were some... tool. A broken one.”

The anger in his voice didn’t rise, but she felt it—steady and cold and dangerous. Defensive in a way that had nothing to do with strategy or mission parameters. 

His eyes met hers again, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her breath catch. “He was wrong.”

Her pulse stumbled, tripping over itself. She hugged the towel tighter, but not out of modesty now, but because her chest ached with a feeling too big, too raw to examine.

“You don’t even really know me,” she whispered, more breath than sound. 

Bucky took a step forward, then stopped himself, as if remembering the boundaries between them. The distance was shortened by inches, but it felt like miles. “I know enough,” he said, his voice low. His eyes tracked over her face, searching for something. “I know you’re a fighter. I know you’re stubborn as hell.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I know you’ve got a mouth on you that would’ve gotten you in trouble in my day.”

The unexpected warmth in his tone made her stomach flip. She found herself fighting a smile, losing the battle.

“Your day?” she echoed, one eyebrow lifting. “What, you mean the Great Depression?”

His smile widened just a fraction, genuine this time, reaching his eyes. “Careful, doll. I’m sensitive about my age.”

There it was again. Doll. The word slipped out so naturally, like it belonged to her somehow. Like it had been waiting a century to find her.

The air between them changed, charged with something electric. Something that made Isabelle acutely aware of her bare shoulders, her damp skin, the way the towel clung to her curves. Of his height, his breath, the way his presence seemed to fill the room entirely. Of how little separated them—just a towel and seven feet of hardwood floor that suddenly felt like both too much and not nearly enough.

“I should let you get dressed,” Bucky said. This time, he did move, stepping toward the door, but there was hesitation in it, as if his body was fighting against the direction.

Isabelle found words caught in her throat. Too many possibilities, none of them safe.

“Okay, yeah-right,” she managed finally, backing toward the bathroom. Her bare foot hit the cool tile, a shock against her heated skin. “I’m gonna... y’know. Clothes.”

“Right.” Bucky cleared his throat, another step backward, his hand finding the doorknob behind him without looking. Metal fingers flexed at his side, plates shifting with a soft mechanical whisper. 

She paused in the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame. She should close the door. She should let him leave. She should do anything but what she did next.

“Bucky?”

He looked back, already half-turned toward the exit. The light from the hallway caught the edge of his profile, throwing shadows across the planes of his face.

She smiled, small and teasing, her heart thundering so loudly that she was sure he could hear it. “Next time you wanna see me in a towel, buy me dinner first.”

Something transformed in his expression—tension unspooling into surprise, then into something warmer. He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the edges, and for a moment, she caught a glimpse of the man from the 1940s, the one from the history books who stood beside Captain America with an easy smile.

“Deal,” he said, the word carrying a weight that made her stomach flip.

Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, the click of the latch impossibly loud in the empty room.

Isabelle leaned against the doorframe, the cool surface a shock against her bare shoulder. She pressed her palm flat against her sternum, feeling the rapid-fire rhythm of her pulse beneath her fingers. Her skin hummed with awareness, every nerve ending alive and electric.

She closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath that did nothing to steady her. This feeling—this wasn’t fear. It wasn’t adrenaline from a fight or the lingering effects of resurrection.

This was something far more dangerous.

This was want.

And for the first time since waking up in Sharon’s place, since Madripoor, since the club, Gold Teeth, and everything else, Isabelle wasn’t thinking about death, danger, or escape plans.

She was thinking about how Bucky Barnes had looked at her like she was something precious and dangerous all at once. The way his voice had roughened around that single word: doll.

The way she wanted to hear him say it again.

Sharon’s clothes fit better than expected—black leggings that hugged without constricting, a soft gray tank that didn’t press too hard against tender skin, and a slouchy olive-green sweater that felt like salvation against the dull, persistent ache that radiated through every joint, every muscle, every cell of Isabelle’s body. 

Her damp hair fell in loose waves around her face, framing features that felt raw and exposed without makeup. Nothing to hide behind. Just clean skin and eyes that had seen death from the inside. 

She took a careful step forward, negotiating with her body. Don’t limp. Don’t wince. Don’t show weakness. 

Bucky stood in the hallway, waiting with shoulders pressed against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and one ankle hooked casually over the other. His gaze was fixed on some invisible point on the floor, brows drawn together in concentration. The soft click of his door made his head snap up, blue eyes locking onto green ones. Then, just as quickly, his gaze jerked away. 

The hallway suddenly felt degrees warmer and half as wide. Isabelle swallowed hard, her throat scratchy and dry as she allowed herself to really look at him. Black jeans hugged his thighs in a way that shouldn’t be legal. A dark Henley stretched across his chest and shoulders, the fabric straining slightly where muscle met vibranium at his left side. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but somehow they only emphasized the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his mouth. 

His hair fell loose around his forehead, as if he’d run his fingers through it while she was changing. Trying to clear his head, maybe. Trying to forget what she’d looked like in nothing but a towel—

“What?” Bucky asked, catching her stare, one eyebrow lifting slightly, questioning. 

“Nothing,” she rushed out, but the word came out all wrong. Too breathy, too transparent. She cleared her throat, taking another step into the hall, feeling the strain in her thighs, the protest in her knees. She motioned toward him with a jerk of her head. “Sharon dress you too?” 

A flash of self-consciousness flickered in his expression. For a split second, he looked like he was trying to decide if she was checking him out or mocking him. 

“Not directly,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. A pause, then the corner of his mouth curved upward in a smirk that transformed his entire face. “She threw a few hangers at me.” 

“Well, looks like she’s got a good eye,” Isabelle said, her eyes traveling down the length of him before she could stop herself. Before her brain could catch up with her mouth. “I mean—” she backpedaled hard, hands lifting in a gesture that communicated absolutely nothing. “You know, you look good for blending in. Less…assassin-y. More…normal person who doesn’t kill people.” 

Oh god, that was worse. 

She blinked fast and dropped her eyes to her feet, as if they’d committed some cardinal sin. The carpet in the hallway was beige. Boring. Safe to look at. 

What the hell was that? She’d been harassed, killed, and resurrected in the past twenty-four hours, and here she was, checking out the Winter Soldier’s ass like they were at a bar on ladies’ night. 

Bucky cleared his throat, and she risked a glance up. The tips of his ears had gone pink, a detail so endearing it made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her recent injuries. 

“I, uh—” He ran his right hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “Thanks? I think?” 

“Don’t mention it,” she muttered after a second, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to hide. “Seriously, let’s never mention it again.” 

A soft huff of laughter escaped him. It was barely there, just a breath of amusement that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Noted.” 

He pushed himself off the wall, unfolding his body and standing upright. He gestured down the hall with a tilt of his head. Three steps down the hall, he slowed, the rhythm of his footfalls changing as he registered her lagging pace as she followed. He didn’t turn immediately. 

Isabelle watched his shoulder tense, then release, his shirt shifting across the broad plane of his back as he made the conscious decision to look at her. 

“You okay?” he asked softly. His eyes tracked over her face, missing nothing. Not the pallor beneath her freckles, or the tight line of her mouth, or even the way her fingers curled into the sleeve of the borrowed sweater with every step. 

For a moment, Isabelle considered lying, straightening her shoulders, flashing a smile, and pretending she wasn’t one wrong move from crumpling. It was what she’d always done. What Tony had taught her, without meaning to: never show weakness, never admit pain. But something in Bucky’s eyes stopped her. He’d know the lie before it could fully fall from her lips. 

“Healing hurts like hell,” she admitted, shifting her weight. “You saw me after Munich. And I didn’t…you know, die then…” There was no point lying to a man who’d been unmade and rebuilt more times than she had. “Phantom pains doubled. Muscles ache more…body’s like rewiring. Trying to remember how to function again, but all at once without my say so.”

Bucky’s face softened, the hard lines around his eyes relaxing. He uncrossed his arms, letting them hang at his sides, making himself less of a wall, more of a window. 

“I know that one.” He nodded, his left fingers flexing unconsciously.  “The kind that makes you question if your body’s even yours anymore.” 

Isabelle studied his left arm, the way the light from the hallway caught on the vibranium surface, turning it from gunmetal to silver and back again with each subtle movement.

“Does it hurt?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. She gestured toward his left side with a small tilt of her chin. “The arm. Where it... connects.”

Bucky went still, his expression shifting into something unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might deflect or shut down entirely. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

“Sometimes,” he finally said, the words rough-edged but honest. His flesh hand moved unconsciously to his left shoulder, hovering over the seam where metal met skin without actually touching it. “Not the arm itself. But where they attached it.” His eyes were fixed on some point down the hallway, seeing something beyond the walls of Sharon’s place. “The nerve endings. They’re always... awake. Like they’re waiting for the rest of what should be there.”

He looked down at his metal hand, flexing the fingers deliberately this time. The plates shifted with precision, a soft mechanical symphony that seemed impossibly graceful for something so lethal.

“Phantom pain,” Isabelle said, understanding blooming like a bruise beneath her skin. “But in reverse.”

His eyes snapped to hers, surprise flickering across his face—not at her words, but at being understood so completely. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, not quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “In reverse.” He hesitated, then added, “The Wakandans made it better. The new one. It’s lighter. Doesn’t pull as much.” His fingers flexed again, this time with a barely perceptible wince. “But some days, when it rains or when I’ve been fighting—”

“It reminds you,” she finished for him.

Something shifted in his expression then—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability that made him look suddenly, achingly human. “Every damn day.”

Isabelle swallowed hard, her throat tight with unexpected emotion. She’d never considered what it must be like to carry that constant reminder—to have the weapon they’d made you permanently attached to your body. To wake up every morning and see it first thing, gleaming and inescapable.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words inadequate but sincere.

Bucky shook his head, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Don’t be. It’s...” He trailed off, searching for words. “It’s part of me now. Not just the arm. The pain, too.”

Their eyes met and held, a current of understanding passing between them that went deeper than words—the shared knowledge of what it meant to be unmade and put back together wrong. To carry the evidence of it in your body, in your bones, in the very cells that made you who you were.

His pace changed then, matching hers perfectly as they continued down the hall, slowing when she slowed, pausing when she paused. Not once did he reach for her elbow or offer support, somehow understanding that she needed to do this on her own. But his body remained angled toward hers, ready to catch her if she fell.

“The first time I died,” Isabelle said suddenly, her voice so quiet it seemed to dissolve into the air between them, “it wasn’t in Siberia.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the carpet ahead, watching the subtle pattern shift with each step. Her fingertips had gone numb where they clutched the sweater. 

“I was thirteen.” 

The confession hung in the air, fragile and dangerous. She could feel Bucky’s gaze on her profile, steady and unflinching, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet it. 

“Never told anyone about it.” Her tongue felt thick, clumsy. Each word scraped her throat raw. “But it’s out there. In those files. When SHIELD fell, Hydra got exposed. Whoever read the leaks…” She swallowed hard, a clicking sound in the quiet hallway. “I think that’s why Zemo did what he did. Because he knew I’d come back.” 

Her next step faltered, knee threatening ot buckle. Bucky’s hand twitched at his side—not reaching for her, but ready.

“Cardiac arrest,” she continued, the clinical term easier somehow than saying ‘my heart stopped.’ “Two minutes, seventeen seconds. I don’t remember it. It was the early days of my mom using the serum on me. I was unconscious the whole time, anesthesia still worked on me.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with understanding. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful, like he was handling something that might shatter.

“How many times?”

Isabelle’s steps faltered at the question. Not because it was cruel, but because it was perfect. Direct. Unflinching. Without a trace of disbelief or pity. How many times have you died? As if it were the most natural question in the world.

Her eyes flicked to his face, searching for the disgust or horror she’d expected to find. Instead, she saw only quiet attention, his blue eyes clear and steady.

“Honestly?” She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much until the serum really kicked in—even then it was…hazy...” Her fingers twisted deeper into the sleeve, fabric bunching between her knuckles. “I stopped reading my mother’s notes after a few entries.”

The memory of those clinical pages flashed through her mind—her mother’s neat handwriting documenting vital signs, recovery times, cellular regeneration rates. Subject exhibited heightened adrenal response during resurrection event #3. Recommend increasing sedation for subsequent trials.

“I just couldn’t...” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Ignorance is bliss, you know?”

She risked another glance at Bucky, finding his expression unchanged—not sympathetic, not horrified, just present. Somehow, that was worse. Sympathy, she could deflect. Horror she could mock. But simple acceptance left her nowhere to hide.

“This time was…quick. Clean. Siberia was—” She cut herself off, the memory pressing against her skull like bruised fingertips. Her tongue felt heavier now with words she couldn’t release. Not now. Not in this hallway with her body still remembering what it was like to be dead. “Messier.” 

Bucky made a soft sound of agreement. 

“My first memories after HYDRA are like that,” he said, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear it, as if sharing a secret that belonged just to them. “Everything too bright. Too loud. Too much. Messier…Like my body was a stranger I had to learn how to live with all over again.” He paused, swallowing visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the shadow of stubble along his throat. “They took everything from me. My name. My memories. My choice. But they couldn’t take all of me. Not the parts that mattered.”

The raw honesty in his voice struck something deep inside her—a chord that had never been played before. Isabelle’s vision blurred unexpectedly, tears threatening to spill over. She blinked them back furiously, refusing to let them fall, hating the weakness they represented.

“How do you know which parts matter?” she asked, her voice cracking on the question—a vulnerability that she’d never intended to show. 

Isabelle felt something in her ribcage crack open—a hairline fracture in the careful wall she’d built around herself. She’d never met anyone who understood this particular hell. This sensation of being a visitor in your own skin, of having to relearn what it meant to be alive after death had claimed you.

Bucky slowed his pace further as they approached the end of the hallway, the murmur of voices from the main room growing louder. Sam’s distinctive cadence rose and fell, punctuated by Sharon’s clipped responses. 

He turned toward her, angling his body to create a pocket of privacy in the narrow space. His eyes met hers, blue, clear, and haunted by ghosts she recognized. The hallway light caught in his irises, turning them the color of a winter sky just before snow.

“The parts that still hurt,” he said quietly, each word measured and heavy with truth. “The parts that still care about hurting others.” His eyes held hers, steady and sure, not allowing her to look away. “The parts that are afraid of becoming a monster—those are the parts.”

The honesty in his voice, in his eyes—no platitudes. No false comfort. Just the truth—hard-won and offered without expectation. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the sudden pressure behind her sternum.

Before she could respond, the hallway opened into the living room, where Sam’s voice rose in animated discussion with Sharon. “—can’t just walk in there without a plan, that’s all I’m saying—”

“—It’s a party, Sam. You don’t need a plan. You need a drink—” 

The moment between them broke, reality rushing back in with all its complications and dangers. Isabelle felt the loss of it like a physical thing—this brief connection severed by the intrusion of the world.

Bucky gave her a quick smile before nodding toward the room. He stood by her side as they started walking again. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to catch her if she fell. His metal arm glinted in the brighter light of the living room, no longer hidden in shadow but exposed—the weapon they’d given him, worn openly now. Not with pride, but with acceptance.

And for the first time since waking up in Sharon’s, the pain in Isabelle’s body felt like something she could bear. Not because it had lessened, but because she wasn’t carrying it alone.

She glanced at Bucky’s profile as they entered the room, catching the slight tightening around his eyes as he shifted from the man who had spoken to her in the hallway to the soldier the others expected to see. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable—a mask sliding into place, not unlike the one she felt forming on her own features.

In that brief moment before they rejoined the others, a thought surfaced in her mind, dangerous and unexpected: What would it be like to see him without any masks at all?

Chapter Text

The suite sprawled before her. White walls and sleek furniture in muted grays and blacks dotted the space with purpose: a glass-topped table here, a leather armchair there, each piece probably worth more than most people made in a month. Several clothing racks lined one wall, their metal frames gleaming dully in the ambient glow from the few activated lamps.

Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling along the far wall, framing Madripoor’s glittering skyline like a living painting. The city’s lights pulsed against the darkness—red, gold, electric blue—a neon heartbeat beneath a velvet sky. Inside, Vivaldi whispered through hidden speakers, the violins crisp and precise, each note cutting through the air in perfection. 

Sam stood by a full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of a dark turtleneck. His eyes were distant, unfocused—his mind clearly wrestling with something far removed from clothing. Across the room, Sharon was half-buried in a clothing rack, pushing hangers back and forth. 

And Zemo—of course—lounged on a velvet chaise like he owned the air they breathed. One leg crossed elegantly over the other, a crystal tumbler dangling from his manicured fingers. 

As Isabelle entered, Zemo unfolded himself from his reclined position, sitting up straighter with fluid grace. He swirled his drink once, the ice clinking against crystal with a sound like tiny bells. His eyes found her across the room, a lazy, deliberate tracking that made her skin crawl.

“Ah, Ms. Stark.” He took a slow sip, letting the liquor linger on his tongue before swallowing. When he spoke again, his voice was velvet-smooth and threaded with thorns. “Recovered from your little...” His pause hung in the air between them, a deliberate suspension, “...episode?”

The word dripped with condescension. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but unmistakable. It was the smile of a man who had watched her die and found it mildly entertaining.

Isabelle’s jaw tightened, teeth pressing together behind closed lips until she felt the pressure in her temples. She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the tremor that ran through her fingers. Instead, she curled them into her palms, nails biting into flesh.

“I’m touched by your concern,” she said, voice dry as desert sand. She took another step into the room, ignoring the protest in her knee—a sharp, hot stab that threatened to buckle the joint. “Truly. All warm and fuzzy. Like a teddy bear stuffed with razor blades.”

Zemo’s laugh was soft and genuine, a warm sound that somehow made it worse—the authenticity of his amusement more cutting than mockery would have been. He raised his glass in a mock toast, the amber liquid catching the light. “I do have my softer sides.”

Before she could respond, Bucky moved—not dramatically, not obviously—but he moved. One shoulder angled slightly in front of Isabelle, his weight shifting forward on the balls of his feet. His spine straightened, metal arm hanging loose at his side, plates whirring almost imperceptibly as they recalibrated. The sound was barely audible beneath Vivaldi’s strings, but Isabelle felt it more than heard. A vibration in the air between them, the quiet promise of violence wrapped in stillness.

The room’s temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. Zemo’s eyes flickered to Bucky, then back to Isabelle, his smile deepening with something that looked disturbingly like satisfaction.

Sam’s head snapped up at her entrance, the muscles in his forearms tensing visibly beneath rolled sleeves. He didn’t smile. Not right away. Instead, his gaze moved over her methodically, cataloging every wince, every careful shift of weight, every shadow beneath her eyes.

“You look better,” he said finally, his voice deep and curt. The words hung between them, honest but insufficient. “Better’s good.” 

Isabelle nodded once, her lips curving into something approximating a smile. “Better’s... something.” The word tasted hollow in her mouth, like chewing on cardboard.

Sam exhaled, a controlled release of breath, his mouth twitching at the corner, the ghost of his usual humor struggling to surface. His eyes, though, those remained serious, watchful. “You sure you’re okay to be on your feet?”

“I’m fine.” The lie slipped out automatically, practiced and polished from years of use. Isabelle shifted her weight to her left leg, trying to disguise how the movement sent a hot spike of pain from her right ankle to her hip. The joint felt unstable, like balancing on a crumbling ledge. Each heartbeat pulsed through the swollen tissue, a dull, insistent throb.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, giving her a knowing tilt of his head. It was the same look he’d given Steve when he’d claimed a stab wound was “just a scratch.” It was a look that said: I’ve heard that particular bullshit before and I’m tired. 

“She’s still hurting.” Bucky’s voice cut through the room, quiet but unmistakable. He hadn’t turned his head, hadn’t shifted from his protective stance, but the words landed with the precision of a thrown knife. Not a question. Not even an accusation. Just a quiet statement of fact, delivered to the room like weather data.

“I said I’m fine,” Isabelle replied, her tone sharp around the edges. Not defensive—just bone-deep exhausted. The violins in the background hit a crescendo that seemed to pierce directly through her temples, each note a needle behind her eyes. Her fingers twitched at her sides, wanting to press against her skull, to block out the sound, to hold herself together.

Bucky looked at her then, turning just enough that she caught his profile in the half-light.  The blue of his eyes seemed darker in this light, shadowed beneath heavy brows, holding her gaze with uncomfortable steadiness. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

The moment hovered between them, taut as a tripwire. Four simple words that somehow contained multitudes: I know you’re in pain. I know you’re pushing through it. I know you’re lying.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with something electric and unnamed, while Zemo watched them all. The ice in his glass clinked as he took another sip, the sound unnaturally sharp in the weighted silence.

Bucky broke the stalemate first. He drifted toward the sofa with deceptive casualness, dropping onto its edge. His movements were too deliberate to be relaxed. Isabelle noticed how he positioned himself: back to the wall, clear sightline to both exits, body angled to intercept anyone approaching from Zemo’s direction. His metal arm rested along the back of the sofa, fingers splayed in a way that looked casual but would allow him to launch forward in an instant.

Sam remained by the mirror, arms now folded across his chest, the turtleneck forgotten. His eyes followed Isabelle’s movements, tracking the subtle limp she was trying to hide, the way her fingers occasionally twitched at her side when pain spiked through her knee. His expression remained neutral, but there was a softness around his eyes that betrayed his concern.

“You know,” he said finally, “there’s this revolutionary concept called ‘resting.’ Might want to look into it sometime.”

Before Isabelle could respond with something appropriately cutting, Sharon emerged from the racks of clothes with a dress flung over one shoulder like a trophy of war. 

“Found it,” she announced, breaking the tension as if she hadn’t noticed it, though the quick glance she shot between Isabelle and Bucky suggested otherwise.

She held up a garment that caught the light—something dark and elegant that would blend into shadows while still looking expensive. The fabric shifted like liquid smoke, absorbing and reflecting the room’s dim lighting in equal measure.

Sharon’s lips curved into a smile. She ran her fingers along the dress’s sleeve, demonstrating how the fabric moved. “Breathable, flexible, and the cut will disguise that limp you’re pretending not to have.”

Isabelle looked around the suite again, taking in the racks of clothing, the carefully curated luxury, the way Sharon moved through the space with practiced ease. She was missing something— “Um…why are we getting all dressed up?” 

“I’m hosting clients in an hour, and important ones.” Sharon lifted an eyebrow, her smile cool and professional. “So now that I’ve given these boys some hope, we gotta pick you out something that doesn’t look like you crawled through a war zone.” She gestured at Isabelle’s borrowed sweater and pants with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

Sam scoffed, though there was no real heat behind it. “She sells actual Monets now.” He caught Isabelle’s eye with a look that said, can you believe this shit?

“Like...” Isabelle blinked, momentarily thrown. The pain in her knee receded momentarily, displaced by genuine surprise. “Real shit? Not—” she glanced at Zemo, who was watching their exchange with undisguised amusement, “—not fake identities or weapons or whatever else people trade in this place?”

Sharon’s smirk was answer enough as she moved to a nearby rack, flipping through more hangers.

“Damn,” Isabelle muttered under her breath, adjusting the hem of her borrowed sweater. Her fingers caught on a loose thread, tugging it absently. The material felt suddenly coarse against her skin. “So that’s what you meant about survival.”

“It’s amazing what people will pay for authenticity in a world full of fakes,” Sharon replied, her tone light but with an undercurrent that Isabelle couldn’t quite place—something that might have been bitterness or pride or both. 

She pulled another dress from the rack, held it up to the light, then discarded it with a shake of her head.

“Anyway,” she continued, the soft swish of expensive fabric punctuating her words, “until you guys figure out your next move, you’re welcome to mingle. And not get blood on the artwork. These clients pay for pristine.”

“Don’t we have bounties on our heads?” Isabelle asked, squinting at Sharon. The reality of their situation crashed back through the veneer of normalcy—the soft lighting and expensive wine couldn’t erase the fact that they were fugitives in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. “Last I checked, we weren’t exactly welcome in Madripoor. Pretty sure there’s a ‘shoot on sight’ order with our faces attached.”

Sharon turned, and something in her demeanor shifted. Her spine straightened, chin lifting a fraction of an inch. The friendly art dealer vanished, replaced by something harder, more dangerous.

“You’re safe here,” she said. Her eyes, when they met Isabelle’s, were flat and cold as stones. “The Power Broker can’t touch this place.” Her smile remained perfectly in place, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Trust me, though I’ve already advised Sam that you guys should really catch the next flight out of here for your own safety...”

“The Power Broker doesn’t want us meddling in his affairs,” Zemo added, materializing at Isabelle’s side without a sound. She hadn’t heard him move—one moment he was lounging across the room, the next he stood by her side. His eyes gleamed in the low light, pupils slightly dilated. “Such a territorial creature, this Power Broker.” The words rolled off his tongue like he was savoring them. “One wonders what he’s protecting.”

Sharon’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes—a shadow passing over deep water, there and gone so quickly Isabelle might have imagined it.

“Wait...” Isabelle’s brain caught up with the conversation, pieces clicking into place. “So he’s involved with the Flag Smashers?” She looked between Sharon and Zemo, searching their faces for confirmation. 

“We went to Selby to ask about Karli and the serum,” Zemo said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “And she ended up dead. Now we have bounties on our heads.” He spread his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. “I think it’s clear he is... invested in the situation.”

Sam pushed away from the mirror, abandoning all pretense of interest in the clothing. “We know it’s a risk,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority that always seemed to come naturally to him. “But we won’t leave. Karli and at least seven others have taken the serum. We need to stop it at the source.”

His eyes found Isabelle’s across the room, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out her phone. The screen was cracked in one corner, a spiderweb of fractures that hadn’t been there before. “Can you check with FRIDAY?” he asked, holding it out to her. “See if she’s gotten any pings?”

Sharon’s brow furrowed. “Pings?”

“Cracked their app with FRI,” Isabelle explained, taking the phone from Sam. “She’s been running searches on them for at least two days.” The familiar weight of the device in her hand was oddly comforting. “I checked before the club, but Karli still hasn’t set a ping yet. As soon as they do, we’ll know.”

She swiped open the screen, the soft blue glow illuminating her face. No notifications. No alerts. Nothing but the blank stare of an empty screen. Disappointment settled in her stomach, heavy as a stone.

“But until then,” Sam continued, his eyes never leaving Isabelle’s face, watching her reaction, “we need to find the person who cracked the code. Selby said he’s in Madripoor.”

“Wilfred Nagel,” Bucky said from the sofa, the name seeming to cause him physical pain. His jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the skin as he looked at Isabelle, something like an apology or warning in his eyes.

Nagel. Her spine stiffened, muscles locking into place as if bracing for impact. She’s almost forgotten. 

The room around her all receded behind a wall of static that buzzed through her nervous system. Cold electricity skittered across her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

“Nagel...” Sharon said slowly, placing the dresses on the back of a nearby couch. Her eyes narrowed as they found Isabelle’s face, recognition dawning. “Isn’t he—”

The question hung incomplete, but the implication was clear. Sharon Carter knew. Of course, she knew. Former SHIELD agent, CIA operative—she would have had access to files, to histories, to the truth of what Wilfred Nagel had done. Who he’d worked with. How he’d collaborated with Laura Proctor. What he’d done to Isabelle.

What he’d taken from her.

Isabelle’s jaw clenched so tight she could feel the pressure radiating into her temples. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, each beat a reminder that she was alive despite everything they’d done to ensure she wouldn’t be.

“It’s fine,” she said, the lie scalding her tongue like acid. The words tasted metallic, like blood or pennies. She swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that rose in her throat.

Sharon’s gaze flicked between Isabelle and Bucky, then settled on Sam. Something passed across her face—a flash of what might have been fear, quickly masked by practiced neutrality. She moved across the room with deliberate steps, the soft whisper of expensive fabric against the floor marking her progress toward the bar.

“Zemo’s right,” Sharon said, reaching for a crystal decanter. “The Power Broker is involved with the Flag Smashers.” The amber liquid caught the light as she poured, casting golden reflections across her hands. “Or, well, in a way—Nagel works for the Power Broker.”

The glass made a soft clink as she set the decanter down. Isabelle watched Sharon’s fingers curl around the tumbler, steady and sure. No tremor, no hesitation. The mark of someone who’d learned to hide their tells.

“Sharon, we could use your help,” Sam said, stepping forward. His voice carried that particular tone—the one that made people want to follow him, to trust him. “You clearly got connections. Help us, and I can get your name cleared.”

Sharon’s laugh was sharp and brittle, like breaking glass. She rolled her eyes as she took a long sip of her drink. “You haggling with my life?” The ice in her glass clicked against crystal as she lowered it. “You pretending you can clear my name?” Her gaze hardened, something bitter and wounded flashing in her eyes. “You’re not Captain America. You can’t get me cleared like Steve got him his pardon.” She jerked her head toward Bucky, who remained unnaturally still on the sofa.

Isabelle felt her patience fracture. 

“Look, can you help us get information on Nagel or not?” The words came out sharper than she intended, edged with frustration and something darker. “I respect this whole ‘girl-boss’ thing, but it’s not useful to us unless you make it useful.”

Sharon’s eyebrows rose slightly, but before she could respond, Sam stepped between them.

“I get it,” he said, his voice softening. “What happened to you isn’t fair. But I’m willing to try if you are.” He glanced toward Bucky, a hint of his usual humor breaking through the tension. “They cleared the bionic staring machine, and he killed almost everybody he’s met.”

“I heard that,” Bucky grumbled from the sofa, the first words he’d spoken since Nagel’s name had been mentioned.

“Sam...” Isabelle shot him a warning glare, though there was no real heat behind it. Her heart wasn’t in the banter—not with Nagel’s name hanging in the air between them like poison gas.

Sharon swirled her drink, the ice making soft circles in the amber liquid. “I don’t trust charity.”

“It’s not,” Isabelle countered, shifting her weight to her good leg. “It’s a transaction. Help us track down Nagel, and we’ll get your name cleared.”

Sharon’s eyes narrowed, focusing on Isabelle with unsettling intensity. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do when you see him again?” The question landed like a challenge, sharp and pointed. Sharon knew exactly what she was asking—what seeing Nagel would mean to someone like Isabelle.

Isabelle felt the others watching her, waiting for her answer. What would she do? The truth was a dark, pulsing thing in her chest—a knot of rage and pain and fear that had been growing for years. She could feel it now, unfurling like something alive.

She paused, then bit her lip. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”

The lie tasted bitter, but it was better than the truth: that she’d imagined killing Wilfred Nagel a thousand different ways over the years. That she’d fallen asleep to the fantasy of watching the light leave his eyes. That even now, standing in this luxurious suite with her knee screaming in pain, she could feel her power stirring beneath her skin—eager, hungry, ready.

“You kill him,” Sharon said flatly, “and the Power Broker kills you.”

A laugh bubbled up from Isabelle’s chest, surprising even her with its sharpness. “Welp, if tonight proves anything, he can’t really do that now, can he?” The words came out with more bravado than she felt, but there was truth in them, too. She’d survived worse than the Power Broker. She’d survived Nagel.

Sam stepped between them, hands raised in a placating gesture. “A deal, then?” He extended his hand toward Sharon. “You help us out, I’ll get your name cleared.”

Sharon looked at his outstretched hand for a long moment, something unreadable passing across her face. Then, reluctantly, she reached out and shook it. “Deal.” Her grip was firm, businesslike. “I sell to some pretty connected people. Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party.”

She released Sam’s hand and turned back to Isabelle, deliberately changing the subject. 

“About these clothes for tonight...” She gestured toward the dresses she’d set aside earlier, her expression shifting to something more professional. “The green would complement your coloring, but the black has a better cut for concealing weapons.”

Isabelle stared at the dresses, then back at Sharon. The casual pivot from discussing Nagel to discussing fashion gave her conversational whiplash. But beneath Sharon’s nonchalant exterior, Isabelle caught something else—a calculated wariness, a careful assessment. Sharon Carter was playing a dangerous game in Madripoor, and she wasn’t about to show her full hand.

“Weapons?” Isabelle echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I thought this was just a fancy art deal.”

“In Madripoor, there’s no such thing as ‘just’ anything.” Sharon lifted the black dress, holding it against Isabelle’s frame. “Trust me—you’ll want options.”

Sharon caught Isabelle’s eye, nodding toward the green gown, then to the dressing screen standing discreetly in the corner. An unspoken instruction that felt more like an order.

Isabelle accepted the dress with reluctant hands. The fabric pooled between her fingers. Hidden silver threads caught the low light, creating miniature constellations across the dark surface. Even holding it sent a dull throb through her. 

A memory surfaced, unbidden. Another dress. Another party. The night at Avengers Tower after they’d found Loki’s scepter. The night Ultron had first spoken. The night everything had started to unravel.

“You clean up nice, kid.” Her father’s voice in her ear, the weight of his hand on her shoulder. Pride and distance in equal measure.

Something twisted in her chest—not quite pain, not quite grief. Something sharper, with teeth that bit into soft tissue. She swallowed against it, tasting copper at the back of her throat.

She inhaled slowly, feeling the protest of her ribs. She’d pushed too far, too fast. She knew it. Her body knew it. Every cell screamed for rest, for darkness, for silence. The thought of standing in a room full of strangers, smiling and pretending she hadn’t died hours ago, made her stomach clench.

And Nagel. Somewhere in this city, Nagel was breathing, living, existing. The man who had helped tear her apart molecule by molecule. The man who had watched with clinical detachment as they’d pushed her beyond human limits. The man whose voice still echoed in her nightmares: “Subject shows remarkable resilience. Increase the dosage.”

She needed to be at her best when they found him. Not half-dead and propped up by stubborn pride.

Isabelle looked up, meeting Sharon’s expectant gaze, then glancing at Sam’s raised eyebrow, and finally—reluctantly—at Bucky. His expression was unreadable, but something in the set of his jaw told her he was waiting. Watching. Reading her in that unnervingly accurate way of his.

“Thanks,” she said, the word coming out softer than intended. She cleared her throat, straightening her spine despite the protest from her ribs. “But... no thanks.”

Bucky furrowed his brow so sharply it looked painful. Sam straightened from his casual stance, blinking twice as if he’d misheard. Zemo, still next to her, tilted his head ever so slightly. 

“I’m sitting this one out,” Isabelle continued, tugging her sweater sleeves down over her knuckles, a gesture that felt suddenly, uncomfortably vulnerable. She forced steel into her voice to compensate. “My body’s calling in some debts, and I think... for once... I’m actually gonna listen.”

“You’re what now?” Sam gasped, taking a step closer to her. 

“Sitting this out,” Isabelle repeated, handing the dress back to Sharon. The fabric slipped between her fingers—a cool, silken goodbye that left phantom sensations on her skin. “Not exactly rocket science, Wilson.”

“No, I heard you.” Sam crossed his arms, the brown turtleneck stretching across his shoulders as he leaned forward, squinting at her face.  “I’m just trying to process Isabelle Stark voluntarily benching herself. Are you feeling feverish again?” He reached toward her forehead, palm outstretched.

“Stop it, Sam,” she swatted his hand away. Her fingers brushed against his wrist, and for a split second, she felt his pulse—steady, strong, alive. Everything she wasn’t quite yet. “Didn’t you just tell me about resting? Some revolutionary concept I should look into?”

“Huh.” Sam tilted his head, studying her with new eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but Sharon cut in before he could speak.

“You’re gonna miss a hell of a time,” Sharon said, already folding the dress over her arm. 

“I’ve seen enough hell to hold me over,” Isabelle muttered.

Sharon rolled her eyes, placing the dress back onto the rack with a soft metallic hanger sliding against the rod. “Come on,” she said, jerking her chin toward the open door. “I’ll show you where you can hang out. Living room’s comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Isabelle said, the syllable still unfamiliar on her tongue, like a foreign word she was learning to pronounce. Gratitude had never come easily to her—not when it meant acknowledging she needed something from someone else.

“Try not to get blood on the couch if you nosebleed again,” Sharon added, already moving toward the door with brisk steps. “The upholstery’s imported.”

“I’ll do my best to contain my bodily fluids,” Isabelle replied dryly, following Sharon with a slight limp she couldn’t quite hide.

At the door, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder. Sam was tugging on a tailored jacket, Zemo had returned to his studied boredom, examining his fingernails as if they held the secrets of the universe. But Bucky—

Bucky was still watching her, his expression unreadable beneath the curtain of dark hair that fell across his forehead. His eyes, though—those were impossible to misinterpret. Concern, wariness, and something else she couldn’t quite name. Something that made her stomach flip.

“Behave tonight, alright?” she said to all of them, but her eyes stayed on him. “Try not to blow anything up. Or get arrested. Or start an international incident.”

Sam offered a mock salute, his smile crooked and familiar. “No promises.”

“We’ll try to stay boring,” Bucky said, his voice low. 

Isabelle’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. The expression felt strange on her face, muscles moving in unfamiliar patterns. “You? Never.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. His eyes held hers for a beat longer than necessary, a silent exchange she couldn’t quite translate but could feel in the sudden tightness of her chest, the subtle shift in the air between them.

She turned before the moment could stretch into something dangerous, something she wasn’t equipped to handle—not now, not with her body in rebellion and Nagel’s name still echoing in her mind like a curse. She followed Sharon into the hallway.

“Living room’s through here,” Sharon said, leading her toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall. “There’s a panic button under the coffee table if anything happens. Not that it will.” She glanced back at Isabelle, her expression unreadable. “But in Madripoor, it pays to be prepared.”

Isabelle nodded, filing the information away. Panic button. Coffee table. The mental checklist was formed without conscious effort.

Sharon pushed the doors open, revealing the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, a massive sectional sofa faced the windows, piled with throw pillows in various shades of gray and silver. A glass coffee table—presumably hiding the panic button—anchored the seating area, its surface empty save for a single art book and a crystal decanter.

“Kitchen’s through there,” Sharon gestured to an archway on the right, where Isabelle caught glimpses of stainless steel and marble. “Help yourself.” She moved to a sleek entertainment console beneath a mounted television that looked thin enough to disappear when viewed from the side. “Remote’s here. Streaming services, cable, whatever. Password for the wifi is on the back.”

Isabelle limped further into the room, taking in the details—no personal touches. Nothing revealed anything about Sharon Carter beyond her expensive taste and attention to security. It was a beautiful space designed to reveal absolutely nothing about its occupant—a safehouse disguised as a luxury apartment.

“Thanks,” Isabelle said, lowering herself carefully onto the edge of the sofa. The cushions were firmer than they looked, offering just enough support to ease the pressure on her aching body. She sank into them with a barely suppressed sigh of relief.

Sharon handed her the remote, then paused, her expression shifting into something harder, more serious. She glanced toward the open doorway, then back to Isabelle.

“I’m serious about Nagel,” she said, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. The change in tone made Isabelle’s spine straighten despite the protest from her ribs. “You kill him, and the Power Broker will hunt you down.” Sharon’s eyes were cold, calculating, assessing Isabelle’s reaction with the precision of someone who’d interrogated people for a living. “And trust me, what happened tonight? That was nothing compared to what the Power Broker can do.”

Isabelle met her gaze, refusing to flinch despite the chill that crawled up her spine. “You seem to know an awful lot about this Power Broker,” she observed, keeping her voice deliberately casual. “Professional courtesy between criminals?”

Sharon’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “In Madripoor, everyone knows about the Power Broker. That’s the point.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the entertainment console. “He’s everywhere and nowhere. You don’t see him coming until it’s too late.”

“Sounds like a ghost story to scare the locals,” Isabelle said, though the tremor in her fingers betrayed her attempt at nonchalance. She curled them against her palm, nails digging into flesh.

“It’s not a story.” Sharon’s voice had an edge now, sharp enough to cut. “The Power Broker doesn’t just kill you. He takes everything—your reputation, your connections, your future. He makes examples of people.” She pushed off from the console, taking a step closer. “And he’s particularly interested in the serum. In Nagel.”

Something in Sharon’s intensity made Isabelle uneasy. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, an animal instinct warning of danger. She’d seen that look before—in people who knew more than they were saying, who were calculating exactly how much truth to reveal.

“Why are you telling me this?” Isabelle asked, her voice quieter now.

Sharon’s expression softened, just barely—a crack in the professional façade. “Because I’ve seen that look before. On Steve. On myself.” She paused, her eyes searching Isabelle’s face. “The look of someone who’s planning something stupid and calling it justice.”

Isabelle’s jaw tightened. The comparison to Steve should have felt like a compliment, but instead, it landed like an accusation. “I’m not—”

“Save it,” Sharon cut her off with a dismissive wave. “I don’t need to know your plans. I just need you to understand the consequences.” She straightened, professional distance sliding back into place like armor. “Get some rest.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Isabelle alone. She leaned back against the cushions, letting her head fall against the soft fabric. Isabelle closed her eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion press against her. 

Chapter Text

Isabelle curled deeper into the couch, tucking her knees to her chest. Every nerve ending still fired at once, hypersensitive and raw. She tugged at the knit throw, trying to cover her bare ankles, but it fell short. Another small defeat. She was collecting them today like bruises. 

On the TV screen, Cary Grant moved through the black and white world with impossible charm. All sharp angles and perfect timing, not a hair out of place. His voice carried that particular mid-century cadence. Clipped consonants, rounded vowels, everything precise and polished. The kind of voice that belonged to a world where problems got solved in ninety minutes flat, where the bad guys were obvious, and the heroes never woke up screaming. 

“Must be nice,” she whispered to the screen, her voice scraping against her throat. 

Her tea had gone cold. Chamomile with lavender. Sharon’s idea of comfort. Isabelle lifted the mug anyway, inhaling the floral scent that did nothing to calm the tremor in her hands. She took a sip and grimaced as the tepid bitterness coated her tongue, clinging to the back of her throat. 

“God, that’s awful,” she muttered, setting the mug back on the coffee table. 

She eyed her phone, lying dark and silent beside the tea. The text to Rhodey had taken her twenty minutes to compose, fingers hovering over the screen, deleting and rewriting until she’d finally hit send on something that wouldn’t make him worry more than necessary. 

Out of country with Sam and Bucky—can’t say much else. Safe. Love you, will update.

Not enough. Never enough. But a start. 

She could almost see Rhodey’s face as he read it, the furrow between his brows deepening, the way his jaw would tighten. He’d know she was lying—not about being with Sam and Bucky, but about being safe. He knew her too well. 

She uncurled slowly, stretching her legs along the couch. Pain shot through her calves, her thighs, her hips—a domino effect of protest that pulled a hiss through her clenched teeth. Her muscles felt like they’d been wrung out, twisted, and stretched beyond their limits. She tugged the throw higher anyway, up to her chin. 

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

Isabelle’s muscles tensed before her brain could process why. Another creak—closer now. Footsteps. Not heavy, not rushed. Left foot slightly heavier than right. A half-second pause between steps. The sound of someone trying to be quiet but deliberately making noise.

For her benefit. So she wouldn’t startle.

A shadow fell across the threshold. Isabelle flinched despite herself, a tiny involuntary jerk that sent pain skittering across her raw nerve endings.

“It’s just me.” 

The low rumble of his voice loosened something in her chest—Bucky. 

She turned her head, a lightning strike of pain shooting from her shoulder up through her neck. He stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the hallway’s light, one broad shoulder pressed against the wooden frame. His metal arm hung at his side, the vibranium plates catching slivers of the television’s flickering light—now silver, now shadow, now silver again.

“Thought you’d be at the party,” Isabelle said. She didn’t bother straightening up. The couch had practically swallowed her whole, and she preferred it that way—sinking into something soft when everything else felt so dangerously sharp. “What happened? Sam try to make you dance?” 

Bucky’s eyes moved over her, taking in her disheveled hair, the half-empty snack wrappers littering the coffee table, the sweater slipping off one shoulder. 

“Didn’t feel like playing dress-up,” he said with a shrug. He stepped into the room fully. 

“And Zemo?” She raised an eyebrow. She shifted on the couch, making room without directly inviting him to sit. Her body protested every inch she moved. 

“Dancing,” Bucky replied, face completely straight, not a flicker of humor except for something almost mischievous lurking in his eyes. “With…enthusiasm.” 

Isabelle blinked once. Twice. The image refused to compute. “You’re lying.” 

“Nope.” One corner of his mouth twitched upward. 

“Zemo? Dancing?” She stared at him, searching for the joke, the punchline, the gotcha. “Baron Helmut Zemo? The man who tore the Avengers apart? That Zemo? Dancing?” 

“Like he was born for it.” Bucky’s voice remained deadpan, but the twitch at his mouth had become more pronounced. 

“That’s…” Isabelle shook her head, immediately wincing at the starburst of pain behind her eyes. She tried to picture Zemo—with his perfectly tailored clothes and aristocratic bearing—cutting loose on a dance floor. “Disturbing. And somehow not the weirdest thing that’s happened this week.” 

Bucky chuckled, then looked to the television, where Grant gestured wildly. Something flickered across Bucky’s face. Recognition, nostalgia, then something deeper that made the lines around his eyes crease—a memory surfacing from the depths. 

“What?” Isabelle asked, catching the shift in his expression. 

Bucky hesitated. For a moment, she thought he might retreat behind that wall he so carefully maintained. Instead, he surprised her.

“Saw that one with Steve. Opening weekend, 1940.” His voice changed when he spoke about the past, specifically the pre-war past—the roughness giving way to something almost tender, the Brooklyn accent thickening just enough to notice. “Theater on Flatbush Avenue. Sticky floors. Broken air conditioning.”

Isabelle watched his face more than the screen, fascinated by this glimpse of the man he’d been before. 

 “Steve kept laughing so hard, people were giving us looks. Had to practically drag the kid out before he triggered an asthma attack.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips, genuine this time, warming his eyes. “Skinny punk couldn’t breathe right, but he wouldn’t miss the ending for anything.”

The fondness in his voice made something twist in Isabelle’s chest. The smile on his face was so unguarded, so different from his usual carefully controlled expressions, that she found herself staring.

“What?” he asked, catching her gaze.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly, then amended: “Just... I forget sometimes that you were actually there. That all this—” she gestured vaguely at the black and white film “—wasn’t just history for you. It was Tuesday.”

“Most Tuesdays weren’t that memorable.” Bucky’s smile faded, but not completely. 

He moved further into the room. His eyes never left her face, watching for something—permission. Or signs that she wanted him gone. 

Isabelle studied him in return—the way he positioned himself just beyond the invisible boundary of her space, one shoulder against the wall, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Neither fully present nor preparing to leave. A perfect tactical position. Ready for anything.

Ready to stay. Ready to go.

“You gonna hover all night, or...?” Isabelle patted the empty cushion beside her. “I’m not contagious,” she added dryly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers slightly trembling from exhaustion. “At least, not accidentally.” 

The barest hint of amusement cracked through. “Funny,” he murmured, one corner of his mouth twitching further upward again. 

Isabelle smirked back at him, the small victory warming her chest. She shifted on the couch, patting the cushion again. “Come on, Barnes, the couch won’t bite.” She paused, tilting her head slightly. 

Bucky’s weight shifted from his left foot to his right, then he moved, crossing the remaining distance in two deliberate steps.  The cushion dipped beneath him, closing the careful distance she’d left between them by a few inches.

He watched the screen, his attention seemingly fixed on Grant’s rapid-fire delivery. The furrow between his brows gradually softened, like ice thawing under gentle heat. Isabelle noticed how his shoulders lowered a fraction, how his spine eased against the cushions. His metal hand rested on his thigh while his right hand lay palm-up in the space between them, fingers slightly curled. 

“They really did talk like that back then,” he said suddenly. “Not everyone, but reporters especially. And guys trying to sell you something.” He smiled fully without realizing it. “Like they were getting paid by word and trying to squeeze in every last cent.” 

“Fast talkers, huh?” Isabelle reached for her mug, grimacing at the taste and temperature, but swallowed it anyway. She was too drained to make the journey to the kitchen for something better. “Steve said you were quite the talker yourself.” 

His head turned toward her, surprise flashing across his features. Eyebrows lifted, eyes widened slightly. “Oh yeah?” Guardedness gave way to curiosity. “What else did Steve say about me?” 

Isabelle set the mug down, tracing its rim with her fingertip. The small circular motion helped steady the slight tremor of her hand. “He’d tell me stories about how you’d get all the ladies.” She paused, a small smile playing at her lips. “Sorry—wait, not ladies. Dolls? Or, was it dames….that’s what you used to call girls, right?” 

His eyes met hers, warm and amused kindling in their blue depths. “Dames, yeah.” The word sounded different in his mouth, rounded at the edges with that hint of Brooklyn. “Though that word’ll get you in trouble these days.” He kept his smile. “What else did Steve tell you?” 

“That you were the charmer of Brooklyn.” She let the throw fall lower, sitting up straighter. “Said you could talk your way into or out of anything.” She tucked her legs closer to her body, leaning forward more. “Said you’d spend your last dollar on pomade on more than one occasion for your hair before a date.” 

Bucky huffed a sound that might have been a laugh—rusty and underused, but genuine. His flesh hand moved to his hair, fingers running through the dark strands in an unconscious gesture. 

“Not entirely wrong.” The admission came with a self-deprecating tilt of his head. “Used to slick it back. Thought I was hot stuff.”

“And were you?” The question slipped out before she could catch it, her voice lighter than it had been all day. “Hot stuff?”

A memory surfaced, then half-submerged again. “I did alright.” His gaze dropped to his hands, metal and flesh resting side by side on his thighs. “Steve exaggerated. Always made me sound better than I was.”

“Really?” She arched an eyebrow. She shifted, wincing as her muscles protested, but turned to face him more fully. “What were you like, then? Before... everything.”

Bucky was quiet for so long that she thought he might not answer. 

“Loud,” he said finally, the word emerging like something excavated from deep within. “Cocky. Always running my mouth.” His eyes remained fixed on his hands, but his focus was clearly elsewhere, decades ago. “Flirting with any girl who’d look my way twice.”

The image was so at odds with the quiet, watchful man beside her that Isabelle found herself trying to reconcile the two versions. The brash young sergeant from Brooklyn and the haunted ex-assassin who moved through the world like he was perpetually asking permission to exist in it.

She reached for the bowl of popcorn, offering it to him with deliberate casualness. The kernels shifted against her fingers, still warm enough to leave a buttery residue on her skin.

“So what happened to that guy?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. The words left her mouth and hung in the air between them, and she immediately wanted to snatch them back. “I’m sorry, that was—” She broke off, mentally kicking herself. “I know what happened. I don’t know why I asked that.”

She became aware of a weight, his gaze on her face, steady and unblinking. Not watching the movie at all. Watching her. The intensity of it made her skin prickle, not unpleasantly.

“He fell off a train,” Bucky said quietly. No bitterness in the words, just a simple statement of fact. His voice was soft, almost gentle, as if he were the one comforting her for the misstep. “Died somewhere in the Alps. What came back was... something else.”

The popcorn bowl hovered between them, forgotten. Isabelle’s fingers tightened on its edge, the cardboard bending slightly under her grip.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She met his eyes directly, something compelling her toward honesty despite the vulnerability it created. “I think you’ve shown me some pieces of him.”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features before he could mask it. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second—so brief she might have imagined it—before returning to the TV, then back to her.

 Isabelle became acutely aware of her own breathing—too shallow, too deliberate—and the way the couch cushion dipped slightly toward him, gravity itself conspiring to close the gap. She gulped and leaned back into the cushions, trying for casual and missing by a mile. The velvet upholstery caught against her borrowed sweater, creating a soft friction that somehow amplified the deep ache in her shoulders. She couldn’t suppress the slight wince as her muscles protested.

His eyes tracked the movement, missing nothing. They didn’t waver, focused with an intensity that made her skin prickle with goosebumps. Not the clinical assessment of a tactician, but something more... personal. Something that made her want to lean closer and bolt from the room simultaneously.

“You’re in pain still.”

Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered in that low, gravel-rough voice that seemed to bypass her ears and settle somewhere at the base of her spine. 

“Stunning observation, Barnes,” she replied, but the words lacked their usual bite. She was too tired for real venom, too worn down by the constant throb that had become her shadow. “What gave it away? The limping or the general aura of misery?”

“Both.” His gaze tracked over her face, cataloging details she wished he couldn’t see. The tightness around her eyes. The way she held her left shoulder slightly higher than her right. The controlled, measured breaths she took when a movement sent pain lancing through her. “Plus, your breathing pattern changes when you move wrong. Shallower. Controlled. Three-second pauses between inhales when something hurts.”

Isabelle blinked, momentarily thrown by the observation. The popcorn bowl suddenly felt heavy in her hands, the butter congealing on her fingertips. “That’s... unsettling.”

“That’s training,” he corrected, shifting his weight slightly on the couch. The cushion dipped further, closing the gap between them by another inch. “You learn to read pain in targets. Helps predict movement.”

“Great. So I’m a target now?” She set the bowl down, kernels jumping and scattering across the coffee table like tiny escapees. One rolled to the edge and fell to the floor with a soft plunk.

“No.” Something in his face shifted, softened fractionally. The hard line of his jaw relaxed, and those storm-cloud eyes warmed by a degree. “Just someone in pain trying to downplay it.”

Isabelle looked away first, her gaze dropping to her hands. She could feel the blood vibrating in her veins, a strange humming sensation that always followed when her powers rebounded on her. A tremor passed through her body—not quite a shiver, not quite a shake.

“It’s not...” she started, then stopped, searching for words that wouldn’t sound pathetic. “It’s manageable. Whatever I inflict on others or what I heal from... it sticks to me sometimes. Like an echo.”

She reached up without thinking, fingers digging into the knot in her shoulder muscle. Her nails pressed into her skin through the sweater, applying pressure that only seemed to worsen the pain. Instead of relief, the sensation radiated outward, spreading like ink in water, seeping into tissue and bone.

“The pain has... memory,” she said, voice dropping lower. “It knows where to go, where it’s been before. Takes a while to fade. Sometimes it doesn’t. Or it does, then comes back with a vengeance when I least expect it.” 

She rolled her neck slightly. A small sound escaped her—not quite a gasp, more like air punched from her lungs. His eyes narrowed at the sound, tracking her movements with that unsettling focus. 

“Does it help if you—” He hesitated, then made a vague gesture with his flesh hand, pressing thumb and fingers together in a kneading motion. “If you put pressure on it? The pain points?”

Isabelle remembered their conversation in the hallway. How his eyes had softened when she’d mentioned phantom pain, how he understood the way pain could echo through a body long after the wound had closed.

She nodded, surprised by the question and the careful way he asked it. “Sometimes. Depends where.” She tried again to reach the spot between her shoulder blades, her fingers straining, finding no relief.

His eyes tracked where her hand was still working at her shoulder, fingers digging beneath the soft green sweater. “I could...” he started, then stopped abruptly. He shook his head once, a sharp dismissal of whatever he’d been about to offer. “Never mind.”

“What?” she pressed, curiosity overriding caution. The pain made her bolder, more willing to reach for relief, even if it came from unexpected quarters.

His eyes met hers again, and the uncertainty layered over determination, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, calculating the drop.

“I know some pressure points,” he said finally, each word measured, careful. “For pain. From... before. And after.” The words hung between them, heavy with what they didn’t say. Before Hydra. After Wakanda. “Might help.”

The offer settled in the space between them, weighted with implications neither acknowledged. His hands—one flesh, one vibranium—capable of crushing throats and snapping bones, now offered as instruments of relief. Hands that had killed, hands that had been weapons, now potentially something else entirely.

Isabelle hesitated, weighing relief against vulnerability. The pain made a compelling argument. She’d endured worse, but this was different. A constant, grinding ache that dulled her thoughts and frayed her nerves. It’d been like this for weeks after Siberia. 

“Okay,” she said finally. 

Bucky’s eyes widened fractionally. He’d offered without expecting her to accept. His weight shifted on the couch as he turned toward her, movements deliberately slow and telegraphed, giving her every opportunity to change her mind.

“Where’s it worst?” he asked, his voice taking on a clinical edge that somehow made this feel safer for both of them. 

Isabelle mentally mapped the topography of her pain, cataloging the hot spots. “Left shoulder,” she admitted after a moment. “And down the spine. Like someone’s dragging hot coals along each vertebra.” The admission cost her something—acknowledging weakness always did.

Bucky nodded once, all business now. “Turn,” he instructed, making a small circular motion with his flesh hand.

She complied, shifting carefully to present her back to him. The position left her feeling exposed, her spine to a former assassin, her neck unprotected. Every instinct honed through years of training and survival screamed against it. She forced her breathing to remain steady, counting each inhale. 

The first touch of his hand, his left, settled on her shoulder through the sweater. The contact set a jolt through her system. His palm was broader than she’d expected, fingers longer, the weight of his solid and grounding. 

“I can feel the knots even through this,” he murmured, thumb pressing experimentally against a particularly tight bundle of muscle. The pressure sent a sharp spike of pain relief that made her breath catch. “But it would work better if—” He stopped abruptly, clearing his throat.

“If what?” Isabelle asked, glancing back over her shoulder. Their faces were closer than she’d anticipated, close enough that she could see the different shades of blue in his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

His eyes met hers for a heartbeat before darting away. A flush crept up his neck, barely visible in the television’s flickering light. “The sweater,” he said, voice rougher than before. “It’s... in the way. Would you be comfortable—” He gestured vaguely with his metal hand.

Heat bloomed across Isabelle’s cheeks, spreading down her neck. “Oh.”

“Only if you’re okay with it,” he added quickly, the metal hand pulling back as if her skin had suddenly become molten. The warmth of it disappeared, leaving a ghost-print of sensation behind. “I can work around it. It just won’t be as—” He cleared his throat. “—effective.”

Isabelle swallowed hard, her throat suddenly desert-dry. She stared at his hands for a moment. Both now hovering in the space between them, offering something else entirely.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, voice steadier than the trembling in her fingertips would suggest. She wrapped those treacherous fingers around the hem of the sweater, anchoring them. “I mean, you’ve already seen me in just a towel, so...”

The joke hung awkwardly between them, a failed attempt at lightness. Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, and the flush that had started at his neck spread across his cheekbones in uneven patches. His gaze dropped to where her fingers clutched the sweater’s hem, then snapped back up to her face with almost comical speed.

“I didn’t—that wasn’t—” He stumbled over the words, looking for all the world like a man who’d accidentally stepped into quicksand and was rapidly sinking. 

“Relax, Barnes,” she said, surprising herself with a small, genuine laugh that seemed to loosen something in her chest. “I’m just giving you a hard time.” She hesitated, fingers still twisted in the soft fabric. “Um, let’s just keep the tank on, yeah?” 

“Of course,” he replied, so quickly it almost made her smile despite everything. His eyes were very deliberately fixed on her face, not wandering even a fraction of an inch. 

 As she lifted her arms, her muscles seized—a white-hot flash of pain that made her freeze mid-motion, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. Before she could push through it, Bucky’s hands were there, hovering, not touching, waiting for permission.

“Let me,” he said quietly. “Before you hurt yourself worse.”

She nodded, dropping her arms in surrender. His fingers caught the edge of the soft fabric with surprising gentleness. She raised her arms halfway, teeth clenched against the burning sensation that raced across her shoulder blades. The sweater slid upward as he eased the fabric over her head. 

The air hit her exposed arms and shoulders, raising another wave of goosebumps. The gray tank top suddenly felt like too little and too much all at once. She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest, instead focusing on the weight of the sweater no longer pressing against her tender skin.

“Okay?” he asked, folding the sweater with military precision before setting it aside on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” she admitted, surprised by how much lighter she felt. “Thanks.”

He nodded, hands hovering just above her skin. “I’m going to start with the shoulder. Tell me if anything hurts. More than it should, I mean.”

His thumb made contact first, pressing into a spot just below her shoulder blade. Isabelle’s world narrowed to that single point, a knot of tension she hadn’t even realized was there. Her jaw visibly clenched, and her hands coiled into fists. 

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice so close to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck. 

She inhaled so sharply. The tank top was thin enough that she could feel the calluses on his right hand, the slight roughness that caught against the cotton as he moved his thumb in small, precise circles.

“Shit,” she whispered as he found a particularly tender spot, her voice catching on the word.

“Found it,” he said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. His thumb dug deeper, and the pain flared bright and hot before dissolving into something else entirely—a release that made her shoulders drop an inch.

His left hand settled at her waist, steadying her as he worked. The vibranium was cooler than his flesh hand, but not cold. The plates shifted slightly against her, recalibrating with whisper-quiet precision as he adjusted his grip.

“Okay?” he asked, pausing when she tensed slightly again.

“Yeah,” she managed. 

His right hand moved up, tracing the curve where her neck met her shoulder, finding another knot with unerring accuracy. His thumb pressed in, and this time the pain was sharper, more focused. It hurt worse than before, sending sparks shooting down her arm. Then something released, a band of tension she’d been carrying for days, maybe weeks, suddenly unspooling. 

“God,” she breathed, the word escaping without permission as the relief flooded through her system. Her head fell forward instinctively, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck. The small, involuntary surrender made her pulse quicken.

“Too much?” Bucky asked, his voice concerned. 

“No,” she said quickly, perhaps too quickly. She swallowed, tried again. “No, it’s—” She rotated her shoulder experimentally, feeling space where there had been only constriction moments before.  “—good.”

His fingers resumed their work, moving with more confidence now. His thumb traced the ridge of her shoulder blade, following the contours of bone and muscle. The metal hand at her waist remained steady, an anchor point that kept her from swaying as his other hand worked deeper.

“How’d you learn this?” she asked, partly to distract herself, partly because she genuinely wanted to know. 

“Wakanda,” he said after a moment. “Part of my recovery. They taught me...” He trailed off, searching for words. His thumb worked a particularly stubborn knot at the base of her neck. “How to use these hands for something besides destruction.”

She wanted to turn around, to see his face, but she remained still, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing was building in this quiet room.

“They did a good job,” she said instead, wincing as he found another tender spot.

His hands moved lower, working down her spine, each vertebra receiving attention. “Breathe through it,” he instructed when she tensed at a particularly painful spot. “The muscle’s fighting back.”

She inhaled slowly, forcing air deep into her lungs, then released it in a controlled exhale. He worked the spot with patient insistence, thumb pressing in small, tight circles. Bucky’s hands moved to her mid-back, thumbs pressing on either side of her spine. 

Her eyes drifted closed despite herself as he increased the pressure gradually. He read her body’s responses, adjusting without being asked, found pain she’d been carrying so long she’d forgotten it wasn’t normal. 

Something deep in the muscle finally released, the sensation so intense, so unexpected, that the sound escaped before she could catch it—a low, throaty moan that filled the quiet room. 

Bucky’s hands froze instantly. Every point of contact between them suddenly charged with electricity. The air in the room felt thinner, harder to draw into her lungs.

Heat rushed to Isabelle’s face, spreading down her neck in a flush she couldn’t control. She could feel his breath against her hair, slightly faster than it had been moments before. His metal hand at her waist had gone completely still, no longer even the subtle whir of calibration.

“Sorry,” she said, the word coming out huskier than intended. She cleared her throat, hyperaware of the warmth of his palm through the thin cotton of her tank top. “That was—”

“Don’t apologize.” His voice had dropped to that dangerous register, all gravel and restraint. His hands hadn’t moved, still pressed against her skin, now burning with a different kind of heat. “It means it’s working.”

She swallowed, suddenly aware of how close they were sitting, of the weight of his gaze on the back of her neck. Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, seconds expanding into small eternities.

“You’re carrying everything here,” he said, pressing into the space between her shoulder blades where the tension was thickest. “Like you’re bracing for a hit that never comes.”

“Old habit,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “Old injury.”

His fingers paused, just for a moment. The sudden absence of pressure made her aware of how much she’d been leaning into his touch. 

“From what?”

Isabelle opened her eyes. Memories surfaced, barbed and vivid. The metallic interior of the Quinjet. The low hum of engines. Bruce’s eyes—warm brown one moment, then something else entirely. The moment of realization that came too late.

“Ultron,” she said finally, the name falling from her lips like poison. She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Or well, Bruce, really.”

Bucky’s hands stilled completely, but remained on her skin. Waiting. 

“Ultron was trying to get vibranium. Wanda was with him then,” Isabelle continued, “she got in Bruce’s head. Made him see something that triggered the Hulk.” 

Bucky’s thumb moved again, tracing small circles at the base of her spine. Not pushing, just present. Listening with his hands as much as his ears.

“I was with him. Thought I could help.” She gave a bitter laugh that scraped against her throat. “Stupid.”

“What happened?” Bucky asked, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it, a rumble that seemed to travel from his chest through his hands and into her skin.

“He didn’t recognize me.” Her voice flattened. “Threw a bus at me. Then threw me into a wall. Several walls, actually.” 

She inhaled sharply as Bucky’s thumb found the exact point where the damage had festered over the years. It was a spot just below her left shoulder blade where the bone had fractured and healed wrong, where scar tissue had formed a permanent knot beneath the skin.

“You can still find the footage online if you want a laugh,” she added, the attempt at humor falling flat even to her own ears.

Something in her tone made him pause, and she felt his gaze on the back of her neck, heavy and searching. She turned, just enough to see his face over her shoulder.

His eyes were distant, focused on some point beyond her, beyond the room. The furrow between his brows had deepened, and his jaw was set in a tight line. His gaze snapped back to hers, startled by the movement. For a moment, they just looked at each other. 

“Did you forgive him?” Bucky asked suddenly, his voice rough at the edges. “Banner?”

The question caught her off guard. She blinked, considering. No one had ever asked her that before. Most people just assumed—Bruce was the Hulk, the Hulk wasn’t in control, therefore, Bruce wasn’t responsible. Simple math. But the reality had been messier, the pain more complicated.

She remembered Bruce’s face afterward. The horror in his eyes when they got to Clint’s home, how he saw the damage he’d done. 

“There was nothing to forgive,” she said finally, the words coming slowly, each one weighed and measured. “It wasn’t him. Not really.”

She studied Bucky’s face, the tightness around his eyes, the way his metal fingers curled slightly against her waist. Understanding dawned slowly, like the first gray light before sunrise. This wasn’t about Bruce at all.

Her mind flashed to the plane. Zemo’s voice, calm, taunting, as he revealed what was written in that notebook. Her name written amongst those wronged by the Winter Soldier. Her father’s parents—Howard and Maria Stark—dead at the hands of the man now touching her with such careful gentleness.

The memory should have made her pull away. Instead, she found herself turning more fully toward him, ignoring the protest in her muscles.

“Just like it wasn’t you,” she said softly, holding his gaze. “With all those people. With my father’s parents.”

His hands froze on her back. Every muscle in his body tensed, coiled tight like a spring under immense pressure. The muscle in his jaw jumped once, twice, a visible pulse of tension.

“Not the same,” he said, the words clipped, each one bitten off as if it hurt to speak them.

“Isn’t it?” Isabelle shifted to face him more fully, her knee brushing against his thigh as she turned. “Bruce was under Wanda’s influence. You were under HYDRA’s. Neither of you had a choice.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, storm clouds gathering. His right hand slipped from her back, coming to rest on his own thigh, fingers curling into a loose fist. But his left hand remained at her waist, the metal warm now from the contact with her skin.

“I remember all of them,” he said, his voice as low as it could. “Every face. Every…” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly against the taut skin of his throat. “Every name. Every scream.” 

The raw confession lay between them, fragile and frightening. Isabelle watched his eyes—how they seemed to look through her rather than at her, focused on ghosts only he could see.

Isabelle reached for his hand—his left hand, the metal one—before she could overthink it. The vibranium was warm now from contact with her skin, no longer the cold weapon but something alive, something part of him. Her fingers wrapped around his, metal plates shifting minutely beneath her touch.

Bucky stared at their joined hands as if witnessing something impossible. His fingers remained rigid, unmoving, as if he feared what might happen if he returned the pressure.

“For years I thought I was a monster,” she continued, her voice steadying as she spoke. She lifted his hand, drawing it closer until she pressed it against her sternum, just above her heart, to show she trusted him. The weight of it felt right somehow, anchoring her to the moment. “Some days I still do.”

His eyes widened, pupils dilating as he felt her heartbeat against his palm. Steady, strong, slightly too fast.

“But we didn’t choose this,” she said, holding his gaze. “HYDRA did this to you. To us. They broke us open and poured in their poison and expected us to thank them for it.”

His throat worked, swallowing something unsaid. The plates in his arm recalibrated with a soft whir, but he didn’t pull away.

“You know what I see when I look at you, Barnes?” she asked, her voice dropping lower, something fierce threading through it.

He shook his head once, a barely perceptible movement. His eyes never left her face, searching for something, a lie, perhaps, or the disgust he expected to find.

“I see someone who’s been through hell,” she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. “And came back anyway.”

His fingers curled against her chest, just a fraction, no longer rigid but gently conforming to the curve of her body. His gaze dropped to where his metal hand rested against her, the contrast stark—gleaming vibranium against soft cotton and softer skin. His thumb moved, just once, a small circular motion that sent a current racing through her body.

“When I was in Wakanda,” he said slowly, each word chosen with careful precision, “Ayo told me something I didn’t believe at the time.” He paused, the furrow between his brows deepening. “She said the things that are done to us don’t define us. Our choices do.”

His eyes met hers again, and Isabelle became acutely aware of how close they were sitting, of the heat radiating from him, of the weight of his hand still pressed against her chest. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something neither was ready to name.

His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than could be dismissed as accidental. She felt her pulse jump beneath his palm, a betrayal her body couldn’t hide. His pupils dilated further, darkening his eyes to midnight.

For one suspended moment, Isabelle thought he might lean forward, closing the narrow gap between them. She found herself holding her breath, waiting for something she hadn’t known she wanted until this exact second.

Instead, Bucky’s eyes flickered with something like regret. He cleared his throat and slowly withdrew his hand from beneath hers, the loss of contact leaving her skin tingling.

“We’re missing the best part,” he said, gesturing toward the television where the movie was nearing its climax. His voice was rougher than before, carrying an edge she couldn’t quite identify.

Isabelle turned back to face the screen, her heart still racing too fast, her skin still humming where he’d touched her. The pain in her muscles had receded to a dull, manageable ache—but in its place was something potentially more dangerous. A different kind of ache. A different kind of hunger.

Chapter Text

Isabelle drifted into consciousness slowly, awareness returning in gentle waves. Something soft cushioned her head—a pillow that hadn’t been there before. The blanket tucked around her shoudlers wasn’t her doing either. She blinked away the remnants of sleep, registering that she was stretched out on the couch where she and Bucky had…

Where’d they’d talked. Just talked. 

The living room came into focus, morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains. No sign of Bucky. She tamped down the little twist in her chest—dissappointment? No, that would be ridiculous. Why would she be disppointed? They weren’t... anything. Just two people who’d watched a couple movies together. Just two damaged souls who’d shared a moment of unexpected connection on a couch in Madripoor.

Isabelle pushed herself up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down to her waist. Her hair fell in her face, and she brushed it back, trying to ignore how her eyes immediately scanned the room for him.

“Good morning, Ms. Stark,” came a cultured voice from her left. “I trust you slept well?”

Zemo sat in the armchair opposite, ankle crossed over knee, coffee cup balanced delicately between his fingers.

“Like the dead,” she replied flatly, swinging her legs to the floor. “Though I usually prefer not waking up to war criminals watching me sleep.”

“A mere observer of human nature,” Zemo said with a slight shrug. “Fascinating, what we reveal in our unguarded moments.”

Isabelle’s eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, movement from the kitchen caught her attention. Sam and Sharon stood at the counter, heads bent over what looked like a tablet. Sharon’s blonde hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, her expression all business.

And there—by the window—stood Bucky. Arms crossed, shoulders tense, his eyes never leaving Zemo. The morning light caught the metal of his left arm, sending a brief glint across the room. Watchdog mode: activated.

Isabelle refused to acknowledge the flutter in her stomach when his gaze briefly shifted to her. She stood, stretching casually as if she hadn’t just been searching for him the moment she woke.

“I got something last night,” Sharon announced, looking up from the tablet. Her eyes met Isabelle’s, holding a glint of triumph. “I found Nagel.” 

Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat. This was it—the link they needed. The link she needed. 

“Where?” she managed after a moment, crossing to the counter in three quick strides. Her bare feet made no sound against the cool floor, a ghost moving through the morning light.

“Shipyard on the outskirts.” Sharon’s finger traced a location on the screen, her nail tapping against a maze of shipping containers. “He’s been operating out of a lab in one of these containers.”

Sam nodded, his shoulders squaring as he shifted into tactical mode, jaw set with determination. “We move now, before he gets wind we’re looking.”

Across the room, Bucky’s posture tightened, catching Isabelle’s eye. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and something unspoken passed between them—a shared understanding of what finding Nagel might mean.

“Let me handle some last-minute deals from last night, and we can head out,” Sharon said, already moving toward the hallway. She paused, eyeing Isabelle’s rumpled sleep clothes with a critical gaze. “And get you out of those pajamas.”

Isabelle ran a hand through her tangled hair, feeling suddenly exposed under the collective gaze of the room. She was acutely aware of Bucky’s eyes still lingering on her, of Zemo’s calculating assessment, of her own vulnerability in this moment of dishevelment.

“Right,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “Because nothing says ‘intimidating super-spy’ like bedhead and yesterday’s T-shirt.”

Sharon’s lips quirked in what might have been appreciation for the gallows humor. “Follow me. I suppose I can let you borrow more of my clothes. Try not to bleed on these ones.”

Isabelle followed Sharon down the hallway, hyperaware of the silence she’d left behind. The apartment took on a different character in daylight—less shadowy refuge, more tactical staging ground. Weapons were subtly positioned at strategic points; Isabelle counted three handguns and what looked like a tactical knife disguised as a decorative letter opener.

“You always live like you’re expecting a SWAT team?” Isabelle asked, nodding toward a closet door with reinforced hinges.

Sharon’s stride didn’t falter. “In Madripoor? I’m expecting worse than SWAT.” She glanced back, eyes sharp. “You should understand that better than most, Stark.”

They reached Sharon’s bedroom, and unlike the sparse, utilitarian space Isabelle had expected, the room held surprising touches of personality—a vintage record player in one corner, a collection of weathered paperbacks stacked on the nightstand.

Sharon moved to a sleek black dresser, pulling open the top drawer. 

“These should fit,” she said, tossing Isabelle a bundle of clothes. “Bathroom’s where you found it last night, in the guest room. Second door on the right.”

Isabelle caught the offering: tight black jeans, a white henley and a supple leather jacket. Sharon then moved to a rack of shoes, and handed her a pair of combat boots with scuffs on them. The clothes of someone who knew how to disappear in plain sight.

Isabelle murmured her thanks and retreated to the guest room, clicking the door shut behind her and making her way into the bathroom. She leaned against the door for a moment, feeling the cool wood press against her. Three deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

This was no time to shut down.

She turned to face the mirror as her hands moved mechanically through the motions of undressing, peeling off yesterday’s t-shirt and pants. She folded them neatly in a pile and placed them on the counter’s edge. 

The jeans slid over her legs, hugging curves but not too tight to restrict movement, not loose enough to catch on anything. The henley’s fabric was soft against her skin but sturdy enough to withstand whatever the day might throw at her. She zipped the leather jacket halfway, testing her range of motion with a quick roll of her shoulders. 

Sitting on the edge of the tub, she pulled on the boots, appreciating the worn-in comfort as she laced them with deft fingers. They’d been broken in by someone else’s feet, but they fit like they’d been waiting for her.

Her phone came out next, the screen a spiderweb of cracks that caught the light in fractured patterns. Isabelle ran her thumb over the largest fissure—a jagged line that bisected the display from corner to corner. The glass was cool beneath her fingertip as she tapped the secure line. 

“FRIDAY, any update on the Flag Smashers?” she asked, keeping her voice low. Even in the relative privacy of the bathroom, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. 

“Good morning, Ms. Stark,” FRIDAY’s crisp voice replied through the damaged speaker, somehow making the cracked screen seem irrelevant. There was something about hearing FRIDAY’s voice in that moment that sent an unexpected pang of homesickness through her chest. “I’ve been monitoring communications as requested. The Flag Smashers’ activity has been traced to Riga, Latvia. Multiple pings within the last six hours, suggesting a significant gathering.”

Isabelle’s stomach tightened. She leaned against the sink, the porcelain edge digging into her lower back as she processed this information. Two threads to follow now—Nagel here, Flag Smashers in Latvia. The mission was splintering, complications multiplying.

“Thanks, FRIDAY,” she murmured, then hesitated, finger hovering over the screen. “Also... can you send another text to Uncle Rhodey? Just another update that I’m okay.” She swallowed, adding with forced lightness, “Tell him I haven’t blown anything up yet.”

The joke fell flat even to her own ears. She could almost see Rhodey’s worried frown, the way his forehead would crease as he read her message. The guilt of keeping him in the dark sat heavy in her chest.

“Of course, Ms. Stark. Shall I include your current location?”