Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Evie’s fingers are still buzzing from the last chord when the bar erupts into claps and whistles. She ducks her head in thanks, offers a small wave to the crowd, then slips off the stage as the next act sets up behind her.

It’s late. The kind of late where the streets outside are quieter than the bar’s inside hum, and the air smells like warm beer and fading perfume. She weaves through the crowd toward the bar, guitar case slung over her shoulder, hoodie pulled up now that her set’s done and she’s just another girl in the room.

She doesn’t notice the woman at first. Not until she steps up beside her, silent as a shadow.

“Nice set,” the woman says smoothly, as Evie flags down the bartender.

Evie turns. The stranger’s hair is dark and swept back in perfect waves — except for one striking streak of silver cutting through the front like a deliberate warning. She’s dressed like she doesn’t belong here — too clean, too composed, like the city never touches her. There’s confidence in the way she stands, like she doesn’t need to introduce herself, and a hint of something dangerous in the way she smiles.

“Thank you,” Evie says cautiously.

The woman doesn’t blink. She takes a sip from her drink, and then adds, casually, “I know what you can do.”

Evie stiffens. Her stomach flips. “What—what are you talking about?”

“No need to panic,” the woman says, raising a gloved hand. “I mean, you filled out the declaration about your powers post-Blip, like everyone was asked to. Told us what you can do. You’ve done a good job staying off the radar, whether you were trying to or not. But not everyone’s blind. I’ve been watching you for a while.”

Evie’s throat is dry. The bartender finally drops a drink in front of her, and she doesn’t touch it.

“I have an opportunity,” the woman continues. “Something bigger than this place. Bigger than open mics and sticky floors. I know you can do more with your powers than just getting the piano in the corner to play on its own during your gig. Something more… worthwhile.”

Evie raises an eyebrow. “And you are?”

The woman’s lips curve like she’s been waiting for that. She reaches into her coat and pulls out a sleek black business card, flipping it between two fingers before handing it over.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine
Director, Intelligence & Enhanced Asset Acquisition

Evie stares. “Is this… real?”

“Every letter,” Val says. “And I’m setting up a meeting.”

“A meeting,” Evie echoes.

“Tomorrow morning. Ten AM. New Avengers Tower. Although, I'm trying to push for The Watchtower. Sounds cooler.”

Evie nearly chokes. “A—Avengers Tower?”

Val’s smile widens, sharklike. “Yes. You’ve heard of it, I assume.”

“You could say that. Bit of an understatement.”

“Then you know I don’t hand out invitations for nothing.” Val tilts her head, assessing. “Give me a call if you change your mind. But if I don’t hear from you…” she leans in, her voice just above the music, “…I’ll be expecting you there. On time.”

And with that, she melts into the crowd, high heels clicking on the wooden floor like the punctuation on a sentence Evie hadn’t realised she’d started reading.

Evie looks down at the card in her hand.

Valentina de Fontaine.

What the hell is happening?

Chapter Text

The walls of Avengers Tower hum faintly with the sound of the city beyond — a low, constant thrum of life. They’re based out of New York again, back at what was once Stark Tower, then Avengers Tower, and now something new. Reclaimed. Reinvented. After the destruction of the Upstate compound, this is where it made the most sense to rebuild. This is where the world expects heroes to stand.

The past six months have been anything but simple.

After the Battle of Earth and the fallout that followed, the world changed again — and so did its defenders. The Avengers initiative, once overseen by SHIELD and buried under government red tape, was fractured in the wake of Thanos. But something held. Something remained.

In the place of one team, there were two: one formed under Sam Wilson, running on ideals and integrity, and the other shaped in the shadows by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine — a black-ops answer to heroism, where results matter more than morals.

At least, that was the plan — until both sides realised fighting over logos, titles, and territory would only destroy what little faith the world had left in them. And working under the government again, despite their grievances, would not be that bad since the ball was in their court.

So, they merged.

Not easily. Not without conditions. But purpose brings people together in strange ways.

Bucky Barnes was the one who made it happen.

He stood between Sam and Valentina and played the long game, holding every piece of leverage he’d been gathering since joining her Thunderbolts team. Now named the New Avengers. With a ‘Z’, if Alexei could have his way.

“She wants legitimacy,” Bucky told Sam. “We want resources. Let her keep her title, and we get the Tower, the tech, and access to whatever black-budget ops she’s been hoarding. We hold her accountable with every deal. And if she steps out of line, we burn her to the ground.”

Sam resisted at first. But the world was getting darker again, and the Tower gave them reach. The files Valentina brought in gave them names. Tools. Connections.

“It’s what gives us all purpose,” Bucky told him. “We’ve been drifting. This anchors us. You know it.”

Sam agreed.

Now, Valentina technically commands the merged initiative. But she knows the real leadership lies in the room she just left — with Bucky, Sam, and Steve.

Because yes, Steve Rogers came back.

Not from death — he never died. When he returned the Stones, he made a choice. One final detour. But something pulled him back to the future. Not because of war, or duty, or some cosmic threat. He came back because Bucky was here. Because the fight wasn’t over. Because his place was here, beside his friends.

The government still watches, still expects, but the Avengers answer to no one but themselves — a decision born of necessity. After the Blip and everything that followed, public trust is a brittle thing, and bureaucracy moves too slow for the threats they know are coming. They are smaller now, a skeleton crew built on loyalty and scars, but still here. Still fighting.

For those who can’t anymore.

For those who are gone.

And for those who need them.

They’ve been trying to build.

Inside the Tower’s main conference room, Sam lounges in his chair, boots crossed at the ankles. Bucky sits beside him, arms folded, unreadable as ever. Steve is opposite them, older but not out of place — calm, steady, watching.

Around them, the new core team has taken shape.

Yelena Belova leans back with her boots on the table, flipping a knife idly in one hand, eyes scanning the room with restless curiosity.

John Walker — U.S. Agent — keeps to himself, jaw clenched tight, always looking like he’s trying not to punch the furniture.

Ghost stands quietly near the window, half in shadow, always watching, phasing occasionally without realizing it.

Red Guardian tells a story no one asked for, getting shushed by both Yelena and Sam at once.

And Sentry — Bob Reynolds — the newest, strangest addition, stands apart, eyes unfocused like he’s hearing a different conversation in another room entirely.

This isn’t the Avengers of old.

There’s no Nat — gone for good. No Wanda. No Bruce. No Tony.

But they’re still here. Still building.

Outside these walls, everything’s shifting. Governments, corporations, vigilante groups, underground networks of enhanced individuals — some hungry for power, some desperate for protection. No one team is big enough anymore. That’s why the merge mattered.

And why they’re recruiting again.

Officially, they’re no longer taking volunteers. They're choosing people. Tracking them. Vetting them. And Valentina is the one that finds the enhanced for them.

Inside the main conference room, the afternoon light slants in golden stripes across the long table, glinting off metal mugs and scattering across thick folders stamped with SHIELD’s insignia. The air smells of coffee, worn leather, and something faintly metallic — the scent of a place still too new to feel like home.

"Maybe you’re forgetting I was there when Steve learned to fight," Bucky Barnes says, breaking the heavy quiet.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, leveling a hard glare at Sam Wilson across the table. His voice carries that low, dry rasp he’s never quite shaken, even after everything.

Sam, lounging lazily with his boots crossed at the ankles, flashes a grin. "Oh, I know. You’ve told me many times about teaching Steve how to wield a pistol proper, Mr World-Class Sniper. I don’t forget things. I’m not a forgetter. I’ve got an amazing memory."

Bucky gives him a look. That flat, unimpressed, you really wanna start this? look.

"Name one time I forgot something," Sam presses, tapping the tabletop with a steady rhythm.

"You left me in the parking lot last week," Bucky deadpans.

Sam’s grin widens into a full-throated laugh. "Oh, no, I did that on purpose."

Across the table, Steve Rogers hides a smile behind the back of his hand. Yelena smirks openly, spinning a pen between her fingers. John shakes his head fondly, whilst Ava watches them all with a soft, almost wistful expression.

This is the core of the team now. Their family.

Small, stitched together with stubborn loyalty and the hard-earned bond of shared loss.

Steve lets the laughter settle before he speaks. "Alright. Let’s get back on task."

The laughter fades, but the warmth of it lingers in the room.

Outside these walls, the world is shifting — governments, corporations, old enemies. SHIELD, Stark Industries, and what’s left of the U.S. government are all pressing down hard, demanding the Avengers rebuild, expand, prepare. Not a family — an army.

But it’s not enough. Not anymore. Not after all they’ve experienced and all they’ve fought.

The threats they face now are different — not massive alien armies or world-ending tyrants (at this stage anyway), but splinter cells, rogue factions, enhanced individuals operating outside any law. The world has fractures, fault lines ready to break wide open. And six Avengers, no matter how seasoned, are not enough to hold it all together.

Which is why today matters.

They are recruiting.

For the first time since the team’s inception, they are actively seeking new members — enhanced individuals strong enough to fight beside them, loyal enough to trust with the legacy they carry. It’s not about numbers. It's about survival.

And they can’t wait for people to come to them like they used to. They can’t wait to see if they find anyone fit to join the team. They need to actively search.

The recruitment drive has been a long, gruelling process. SHIELD — reformed, restructured, but still battered — had sent out offers to individuals flagged in the post-Blip registry. In theory, anyone with enhanced abilities is supposed to register now, but compliance is spotty. Fear, mistrust, pride — people have their reasons.

Still, dozens have responded.

And almost none have been what they need.

The morning's parade has been underwhelming at best. Some are eager. Some are terrified. Most aren't useful.

A boy who can make flowers grow.

A woman who can hold her breath for twelve minutes straight.

A teenager who can hear animal's thoughts but not humans – showcased by bringing in his family’s dog.

Sam leans over to Bucky halfway through the morning and mutters, "We’re gonna need a lot of luck." Bucky snorts under his breath.

They sit through the rest anyway. Every hopeful applicant steps into the center of the room, standing nervously under the too-bright lights. Ava senses fear, frustration, excitement, disappointment. They all leave, one after another, with a handshake and a polite smile.

Steve feels the weight of it tightening in his chest — the empty spaces, the ghosts. Maybe they’re enough the way they are. Maybe they have to be.

A woman who can heat coffee with her hands.

A man who can make himself invisible... if no one is looking at him.

A kid who can levitate objects, but only if they weigh less than a pound.

Steve feels the hope in him shrinking, compacting under the quiet weight of disappointment.

Thor is off with the Guardians, in space, doing God knows what. Clint is retired with his family, as he should be. Tony and Vision are gone in the fight with Thanos, their lives sacrificed for the greater good. And Nat – she jumped for the soul stone, and when Steve went to return all of the stones, there was no amount of negotiation with the Red Skull that could bring back the dead.

That leaves the few of them, who have signed on to be full-time Avengers. Others will float in and out to offer support, but the core group is there, in that conference room, quietly disappointed by what they’ve seen so far.

Maybe this is it. Maybe their circle will stay small, and they’ll simply fight harder, longer, until there's no fight left.

But then the door creaks open again.

Valentina walks in, alone, and hands Steve a file.

Steve glances down at the latest folder in front of him. A name. A photo. Evelyn Day.

“She played a bar gig last night,” Valentina says, slipping the folder onto the table with a smirk. “Thought I’d go see if she’s any good. Invited her here this morning.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“You recruiting her or managing a record label?” Sam asks.

Val shrugs. “Why not both?”

Sam looks over at Steve and Bucky. “You think she’s ready?”

Bucky shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We are.”

Steve smiles faintly. “Let’s see what she can do.”

Valentina disappears and reappears with a small and confused woman, who forces a small smile onto her face.

At first glance, she doesn’t seem like much. Petite. Faded jeans, a battered jacket open to reveal a washed band tee of a bygone era band from the seventies, dark hair long and messy from the wind outside. She moves like someone used to being overlooked, hands tucked deep into her pockets, shoulders hunched against invisible blows.

But the moment she crosses the threshold, the air in the room changes.

Ava sits up straighter. The faint hum of the room’s energy flickers, almost imperceptibly — like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

A pulse of something — not fear, not exactly — hums in the room, brushing across Steve’s skin like static. John shifts in his seat. Yelena stills the spinning pen between her fingers.

Steve leans forward, curious despite himself.

“Hi,” he says politely.

“Morning,” she says to all of them, meeting each of their eyes.

"What’s your name?" he asks, voice steady.

"Evelyn Day," she says. Her voice is quiet but unwavering, carrying across the room like a note struck just off key.

“Lovely to meet you,” Steve says sincerely. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

“I know,” she says with a small laugh. “I know who all of you are. Kind of hard not to. You’re… everywhere right now,” she explains, referring to the lunch boxes and posters and commercials of the Avengers, that have only escalated in the months since the defeat of Thanos, restoration of half of the universe and formation of Val’s New Avengers. “You guys did save the world.”

“The universe, actually, if you want to get technical,” Sam quips.

“Well, I was sort of blipped so I may have missed a couple things,” she shoots back with a wry smile.

Sam laughs, sitting back in his chair.

"Tell us about your abilities," John prompts, pen poised over a blank page.

Evelyn hesitates. She glances at the others — the legends sitting in front of her — and for a moment, Steve thinks she might bolt.

But then she takes a breath. Steadies herself.

"I can move things. Without touching them. Telekinesis, you could probably call it. I know the Scarlet Witch – Wanda – she could move things in a similar way," she says. "But I can sense people. Where they are, like a sort of guidance leading me to the people I want to find. And I can sense their emotions. Their energy. I can’t fully read minds, but I can sense the types of thoughts people are having." A pause. "And... I can change how they feel. If I want to."

The room goes still.

Valentina is the one who breaks the silence.

“She might be the key to unlocking Bob. Being able to use Sentry.”

The temperature in the room drops, just a little. Everyone turns toward the man seated at the far end of the table — Bob Reynolds. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair just starting to fray with time. His hands are clenched on the table, knuckles white.

“No,” Bob says immediately. “I told you. I can’t—”

“You can,” Valentina counters, voice calm but firm. “You’ve just never had someone like her to keep the Void in check.”

Bob’s jaw tightens. He shivers at the mention of the persona he tries so hard not to think about. “You think I haven’t tried? Every time I let go — even a little — the Void starts to slip through. I lose days. Weeks. I come back covered in blood I can’t explain.”

Everyone shifts, eyes flickering with quiet discomfort. No one has ever seen Bob at full power. Not really. They’ve seen flashes. Bursts. The aftermath. But never the transformation in real time — never the man splitting into two.

“Bob has powers,” Valentina explains to Evelyn. “But when he uses them, a second side of him comes out, fuelled by negativity. Impossible to defeat. Your manipulations of emotions could just be the key.”

Evelyn looks away, thinking. Then, she steps forward, slow but certain.

“I’m not afraid,” she says simply.

Bob meets her gaze — something between pain and disbelief in his eyes. “You should be.”

Evie exhales. “Maybe. But if I can help… If I can give you control — give you peace — and make the Avengers stronger, then we have to try.”

Steve nods. “Go on, Bob.”

Bob stands. He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He walks to the centre of the open space in the room — a ring of reinforced flooring built for demonstrations, combat drills, powered flare-ups.

He closes his eyes.

At first, nothing.

Then the air around him begins to bend, like heat over asphalt. The light fractures at odd angles. Bob’s body lifts slightly off the floor, and the shadows in the room grow long and sharp.

And then it starts.

Darkness bleeds from his skin — thick and oil-slick, inky tendrils wrapping around his arms, sliding across his chest. His eyes open, and they’re pitch-black. Not glowing — devouring. The edges of his golden uniform shift, distort, like reality is struggling to hold onto him.

Yelena moves to reach for a weapon. Ava takes a step back. Even Alexei looks unsure.

Evelyn walks toward him.

"Evelyn—" Sam warns, hand twitching at his side.

But she doesn’t stop. She steps into the dark. Into the space where the air feels like it’s vibrating with something ancient and hungry.

Bob is struggling. Shoulders heaving. His voice warps when he speaks — two tones layered atop one another. “He’s coming. I can’t hold it.”

Evelyn raises her hand.

Her fingers touch his.

Her eyes glow — not just green now, but iridescent. Alive. A colour no one can quite name. They widen, unfocused for a moment, and then sharpen — like she’s seeing through him. Into him.

The black slows.

The tendrils recoil slightly, as if unsure.

Bob blinks — the black in his eyes flickering, then fading, like smoke sucked back into a bottle. He shudders violently, and his knees nearly buckle, but Evelyn holds him upright. One hand on his chest, the other gripping his wrist like an anchor.

His breathing evens out.

And then — the shadows are gone.

The light returns to the room in one long sigh.

Bob blinks again. He looks around slowly, like someone waking from a dream. He looks at Evelyn — eyes wide, wet with unshed tears.

“I remember everything,” he whispers. “The Void was there. Right there. But… he didn’t take over. I didn’t lose myself.” His voice breaks. “You — you pulled me back.”

Evelyn just gives him a quiet, shaky smile. “I guess I can do that.”

Bob exhales in disbelief and gratitude, sinking to the floor like a man finally released from years of pressure.

Valentina is already stepping forward, triumphant. “I want her on your team.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You know we don’t take orders from you.”

“I know,” she says with a small smile. “But you’d be stupid not to. With her helping Bob stabilise — you’ll be unstoppable. Any threats that come at us will be no match for the Avengers.”

The team exchanges glances. Something unspoken passes between them — a mix of awe, disbelief, and the cautious weight of possibility.

Steve sits back in his chair, eyeing her closely. "Why do you want to be an Avenger, Evelyn?" he asks, his voice softer now, almost coaxing.

She holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch.

"Honestly? My life’s not going anywhere," she says simply. Her hands curl into fists in her jacket pockets, knuckles white. "It’s a long story, and I’m not here to convince you with some sob story about how difficult my life is — not compared to what some of you have been through."

Her voice never wavers, but there’s a sharpness beneath it, like a blade she’s too tired to keep sheathed.

"But I know I have these powers. And I don’t know what else to do with them. But after seeing what happened... the intergalactic threat that Thanos posed... how you guys stepped up to protect us all when we had no way to fight him..." She trails off for a beat, swallowing hard. Then lifts her chin, steady and sure. "I want to do that. I want to help people. And I’ve been given the opportunity to do that. I don’t want to waste it."

The honesty in her words is raw, unvarnished. The kind of thing you can’t fake, no matter how much you might want to.

Silence stretches in the room, thick and heavy.

Around the table, they exchange glances — small, silent conversations passing between them. Ava's hand hovers briefly over the tabletop, as if she’s reaching for something intangible. Sam leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Bucky watches Evelyn like he’s seeing something familiar, something that maybe, just maybe, reminds him of himself.

Let us get back to you.

That’s what their silence says.

Walker clears his throat gently, offering her a kind smile. "We’ll let you know within a few days if you’ve been successful," he says.

Evelyn nods, a small smile flickering across her lips — tentative, but real. "Thank you," she says, voice thick with sincerity. "I appreciate your time. And the opportunity."

Valentina places a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder and guides her out of the room.

She turns and walks toward the door, her steps light but determined. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look back.

The door hisses shut behind her.

Evelyn steps out of the conference room and into the long, sterile hallway, the soft click of the door closing behind her almost too loud in her ears.

Her boots scuff against the polished floors as she walks, trying to keep her pace steady, her hands jammed deep into the pockets of her battered jacket. Avengers Tower is enormous — pristine glass walls, gleaming metal, the faint buzz of technology humming beneath everything. It feels both futuristic and ancient at the same time, a place heavy with ghosts.

The corridors are quiet, only the occasional agent passing her by, throwing curious glances. She ducks her head, heart hammering in her chest.

God. She hopes she didn’t blow it.

She replays the interview in her mind — the questions, the way Steve’s eyes softened when he asked why she wanted to join. The way Yelena’s sharp gaze never wavered from her face, like she was dissecting every word.

Evelyn had told the truth. Every word. It’s all she has left.

Outside, the city glitters in the distance, far away but pulling at her like gravity. A thousand lives, a thousand futures she’ll never know.

She takes the elevator back down to the lobby and steps back out onto the streets of New York, breathing in the cool late afternoon air.

No matter what happens — whether they call her back or not — she knows one thing with absolute certainty.

She has to do more with her powers than she already is.

As the door closes softly behind her, the room remains silent for a moment longer, as if the air itself is still considering her.

Then Bucky lets out a low breath. "Well, she’s already tougher than half the people we saw this week," he mutters.

Steve exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Thoughts?” he asks, looking around the table.

“She shut down the Void,” Alexei is the first to say, his voice rising. “She is the KEY!”

Sam snorts. “But she’s green. No formal training, no battle experience. Probably hasn’t even been in a real fight outside of high school parking lots. If ever.”

“But she’s powerful,” Ava says simply, twining a lock of hair around her finger. “More powerful than she realises. I can feel it in her.” Ava leans forward, elbows on the table. She taps a finger against her temple. "Her mind isn’t closed off. She’s not hardened yet. She still believes she can make a difference."

Walker leans back in his chair, fingertips pressed together. “She’s emotionally aware of her abilities, which is rare for someone her age. She’s not reckless. That’s important.”

Yelena tilts her chair back, crossing one boot over the other. "And she doesn't want to use her powers to hurt people — not unless she has to. That's even more important. She’s raw," Lena says, voice thoughtful. "But she’s honest. She’s got a conscience. That's not something you can teach."

She leans forward toward, toward Bob. “How did it feel? When she did that to you?”

“Calm,” Bob says with a small smile, having finally dragged himself from the floor and into a chair. “All those thoughts that drive the Void… They were gone. I felt more calm than I’ve ever felt in my life.”

They all share a look.

Bucky is quiet, arms folded tightly across his chest, brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he says, “She reminds me of the Avengers. When they were started.”

That earns a brief glance from Steve. Something flickers between them — memory, regret, hope — then vanishes just as quickly.

“We don’t need another soldier," Steve says, voice low. "We need someone who knows what it’s like to lose everything and still stand back up. Someone willing to fight for the right reasons.”

“She’s rough,” Sam says, but it’s not an argument anymore. It’s just a fact.

Steve nods once. "Then we make her ready."

Around the table, the decision settles — unspoken but firm.

Because if there’s one thing that they all understand after everything they’ve lost, it’s that sometimes the best heroes aren’t the ones who already know how to fight.

They’re the ones who know why they have to.

Steve leans back in his chair, staring at the door where Evelyn disappeared. In the fading afternoon light, his expression is unreadable — part hope, part caution, part something heavier.

He knows better than anyone: hope is not a guarantee.

But it’s a start.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Steve calls her back to the compound. Evelyn waits in one of the glass-walled briefing rooms, nervously smoothing her palms over the knees of her jeans. Sunlight spills across the polished floors. Everything feels a little too clean, a little too official, and yet, somehow, welcoming too.

The door slides open with a soft hiss. Steve and Yelena step inside, side by side, less formal than before. Yelena’s in a slightly scuffed leather jacket over a hoodie, combat boots, and that trademark air of not caring what anyone thinks. Steve wears a dark Henley that does nothing to hide the strength in his frame, casual but still carrying that quiet authority that fills the room without him even trying.

Evelyn rises instinctively, nerves sparking, but Steve lifts a hand, palm down — a small, reassuring gesture.

"Stay," he says, smiling. "No need for formality."

She sits back down, heart beating a little too fast.

Steve crosses the room with easy strides and pulls out the chair across from her. Yelena leans against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded, chewing absently on a piece of gum as she watches. There’s nothing casual about the way her eyes track everything, though; sharp, calculating, assessing.

“I’m glad you came back,” Steve says, his voice low and sincere.

There’s something a little vulnerable in his expression, like he means it more than he’s saying.

He hesitates for half a breath, then adds, “The prospect of becoming an Avenger... it’s a lot. Part of me figured you might sleep on it and change your mind.”

Evelyn meets his eyes, steady. “I thought about it,” she admits. “A lot. But... it didn’t change anything.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Steve’s mouth, genuine and a little proud.

Yelena pushes off the wall and saunters closer, cocking her head slightly. “Good," she says. "We could use someone who doesn’t run at the first sign of existential dread.”

“We were very impressed by your abilities,” Steve adds, his voice warm and steady.

“Thank you, Captain Rogers,” Evelyn replies, sitting up straighter.

“Please,” he says, smiling, “call me Steve.”

She nods quickly, heart thudding somewhere near her throat.

Steve nods. “We talked it over with the rest of the team. We want you to join the Avengers. We’re offering you a place here, officially. Training, missions, everything that comes with it. It’s not just a job. It’s a commitment. To us. To the world.”

“And to each other,” Yelena adds, more serious now, eyes narrowing just a little. “We’re not just some super-powered club. You watch their back, they watch yours. No excuses.”

Evelyn swallows, her throat tight, and says, “I want that.”

There’s a flicker of approval in Yelena’s face — subtle, but there. She nods once, like she’s confirming something to herself. “Your powers could be real game-changer for us,” she says.

Evelyn blinks, not sure she’s heard them right. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Steve says, chuckling softly at the disbelief in her voice. “Welcome to the Avengers.”

Steve leans forward and extends a hand across the table. His grip is firm, grounding. Evelyn shakes it, an unspoken pact.

There’s a pause for a moment as Evelyn takes it all in. “Well,” she lets out a shaky breath that turns into a grin. “This is exciting.”

The weight of the offer settles heavy on Evelyn’s shoulders; not like a burden, but like armour being strapped into place. Something solid. Something real.

It feels surreal, hearing it out loud. Evelyn presses her palms to her thighs, grounding herself, trying not to grin too much. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you.”

“So… what, do I sign a contract or something?”

“There’s admin to it, yeah,” Steve agrees, releasing her hand. “Paperwork, security clearances. The whole OXE-funded bureaucracy package. Topped up by Stark Industries and what's left of SHIELD when they can spare.”

Yelena smirks. “Oh yes. Very sexy paperwork. You will love it.”

Steve chuckles under his breath, then turns serious again. “But that’s not the important part. Right now, it’s about getting you settled. Learning the routines. Training. Getting to know the team.”

“You can’t have each other’s backs if you don’t know the person next to you,” Yelena says, her voice flat but meaningful. “Trust comes first. Always.”

Evelyn nods, absorbing every word like gospel.

“We’ve got a big job ahead of us. A lot of responsibility. We’re Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. That’s not a small title to hold. I hope you understand that.”

“Of course I do,” she says, sincerely.

“We’re maybe the only team capable of pulling off what we do. Let me introduce you to the team.” Steve leans back, resting one ankle on his knee, his voice turning more casual — almost like a story told around a campfire. “Get you familiar with your new family.”

He ticks them off on his fingers, each name like a chapter.

“First up, Sam Wilson — was the Falcon, now our Captain America with wings. I handed over the mantle when I came back, was done with being Cap. He’s our eyes in the sky, fastest guy on the team. Wings, tech, instincts — Sam’s got the full package. Ex-military, rescue ops, and the kind of leadership that makes people want to follow him. Smart, adaptable, and quick with a joke when you need one.”

“Also quick with a sarcastic comment when you don’t,” Yelena mutters, smirking. “But you’ll get used to it.”

Steve’s mouth twitches with a grin. “Then there’s Bucky Barnes — the White Wolf. He debated for ages on what to call himself and decided to keep the name they gave him in Wakanda. Alexei kind of pushed for him to keep ‘Winter Soldier’, but Bucky wants to move away from that. Sam was keen on 'Revolution', but Bucky wasn't a big fan. You’ve probably seen the headlines over the years. From brainwashed assassin, to running from the law, saving the world from Thanos, half a term as a congressman, and now he’s back with us, helping lead the Avengers. He’s the one we send in when subtlety’s out the window. Tactical, sharp, and terrifyingly efficient when he needs to be.”

“Big grump. Steel arm. Surprisingly decent cook,” Yelena adds, casually.

“He’s the muscle,” Steve adds.

“And there’s a lot of it,” Yelena snorts. Steve shoots her a mock-glare but his mouth twitches with amusement.  “But don’t ask too many questions. Bucky opens up on his terms, not yours.”

Steve nods, more solemn. “If he trusts you, that’s it. You’re in. And if anyone ever comes for you, he’ll be the one standing between you and the threat. Just don’t push him.”

“He’s the guy you send in when things go bad. The one who gets the job done — even when it costs him. He learnt to do that, back in the war when we fought together – learnt to be the guy who got things done, even if it kept him up at night.” Steve’s voice softens slightly. “Try not to mention his arm. Or his past. Or… anything really. Unless he lets you in first. Just… don’t push. Let him set the pace. Trust isn’t easy for him, but once he gives it, it’s ironclad. He’ll give you his all if he trusts you.”

Evelyn listens, silent and focused, filing every word away.

“Next is Alexei Shostakov — the Red Guardian. Old-school super soldier from the Cold War. Think a Russian Captain America with more vodka and louder opinions. He’s... rough around the edges, but loyal. Strong. He throws himself into a fight like he’s got something to prove.”

“He always has something to prove,” Yelena says with a sigh. “But he means well. And he’s still got it… mostly.”

Steve chuckles. “Then we’ve got John Walker. He’s... complicated. Former government pick to be the new Captain America. That didn’t go how they planned. But he’s trying to do the right thing now. He fights hard. He believes in justice, even if his version of it takes some... tempering.”

“He’s intense,” Yelena says. “You’ll see what I mean. Just don’t get into a debate with him unless you’ve got three hours and a lot of patience.”

“Okay, who next… Ava Starr — Ghost. She’s got quantum phase-shifting abilities. Can move through walls, disappear mid-fight. Lethal, precise, and quiet. She doesn’t say much unless she has to, but if she’s watching your back, you’ll never see the hit coming.”

“She’s not big on trust either,” Yelena notes. “But she’s good a person. Just... careful.”

“Bob Reynolds — the Sentry — is... well.” Steve pauses, searching for the right words. “He’s one of the most powerful beings alive. Solar-based powers, flight, strength, energy manipulation. But with all that power comes fragility. He’s working through some heavy things. When he’s in control, he’s unstoppable. When he’s not... we make sure he never feels alone in that.”

Evelyn blinks. “That sounds... intense. I'm still surprised I could hold it all back. He was on the news, right? Turned half of New York into some desolate dark void?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “But he’s part of this team. And we’ve got his back.”

“And then there’s me,” Yelena says, stepping in before Steve can. “Yelena Belova. Widow. Spy. Assassin. Avenger.” She smiles crookedly. “If you need something infiltrated, interrogated, or blown to hell, I’m your girl.”

Steve shoots her a look of amused exasperation. “She’s underselling herself. She’s also the sharpest strategist in the room most of the time. Don’t let the sarcasm fool you.”

“And don’t let him fool you,” Yelena adds, nudging him with her elbow. “He might not wear the stars and stripes anymore now he goes by Nomad, but he’s still the heart of this team. Steve doesn’t just lead. He grounds us. Reminds us what we’re fighting for.”

Evelyn smiles. “The leader, the legend,” she offers, motioning toward Steve.

Steve actually blushes, a faint pink rising into his cheeks, and Evelyn grins, delighted. Who knew Captain America – sorry, Nomad – could be embarrassed?

Yelena smirks. “The guy who somehow convinces us we can survive the impossible. Even when it’s a one-in-a-million shot.”

The room hums with quiet laughter, the kind that feels like the start of something real.

Evelyn’s smile fades into something softer, more serious. “And… where do I fit into all of this?” she asks, voice steady but low.

Steve meets her gaze, steady as ever. “That’s what we work out. Together. As a team.”

The weight of it settles into her chest, not a burden, but a promise. For the first time in what feels like forever, Evelyn realises: maybe she isn’t just surviving anymore.

Maybe she’s finally found a place to belong.

“Welcome to the chaos,” Yelena says with a grin. “You’ll fit right in.”

Steve leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Now we’ve given you the rundown, I think seeing them in action is something else entirely. Sam’s running drills on the rooftop track, he’s always in motion. Bucky’s probably downstairs, lifting something absurd just to see if he still can. And Alexei’s likely trying to out-bench him for bragging rights.”

Yelena leans back, smirking. “Ava’s in the shadows somewhere, probably phasing through walls to avoid conversation. Bob’s... well, he might be floating midair doing breathing exercises. Or writing poetry. Or reading a book. You’ll know when you see him. And I’m right here,” she adds with a grin, “so you’ve got at least one cool person on your side already.”

Steve chuckles and stands, offering a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you introduced properly. We’ll call everyone in. It’s time.”

He offers her a hand up, and when Evelyn takes it, she feels the steadiness in his grip — strong, certain — but also something gentler beneath the surface. Trust. An unspoken promise that she wasn’t alone anymore.

“This is your space now too,” he says, squeezing her hand lightly. “But if I can give you one piece of advice? Find your person. The one who’s solid, who keeps you anchored. It helps when things get rough.”

“Will do,” she replies softly.

The door slides open again. The corridor beyond hums with life. Footsteps are thudding on the floor above, the faint thwack of fists against a training pad, laughter echoing from down the hall, and a deep Russian voice swearing loudly about someone cheating at cards.

For the first time in longer than she can remember, Evelyn steps forward without hesitation.

Toward something real.

Toward a future that might just belong to her.

Toward a family she never thought she’d have.

Chapter Text

Evelyn follows Steve and Yelena down a wide corridor, the base alive with quiet energy — the soft whir of automated doors, the rhythmic thud of punches from a nearby training room, someone swearing in Russian. It’s not the sterile military installation she expected. It’s lived-in. Human. Real.

They arrive at a large open lounge, sunlight flooding through tall windows, casting golden rectangles on the floor. The room hums with presence.

Sam is slouched in an armchair, lazily tossing a baseball into the air and catching it with practiced ease. There’s sweat on his brow and around the neck of his t-shirt, evidence of the training he had been done on the rooftop moments before. Bucky is perched at the edge of a table, sipping coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Alexei is flat on the floor doing one-handed push-ups, loudly counting in Russian, mostly to annoy someone and to prove he’s still got it. Ava stands near the wall, half-phased, arms crossed, eyes sharp even in the half-light. And Bob sits cross-legged near the window, glowing faintly gold around the edges in the soft morning light, lost in thought as he absently sketches something in a battered notebook.

All eyes lift when Steve and Yelena enter, Evelyn a step behind them.

“Alright, everyone,” Steve says, clapping his hands together once. “Meet the newest member of the team, Evelyn Day.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a ripple of responses; glances exchanged, raised eyebrows, nods. A few curious. A few reserved. Some quietly welcoming.

“You’ve probably already googled us,” Yelena says, folding her arms, “but just a heads-up that real life is messier and louder than the internet.”

Sam’s the first to break the moment. He rises with a grin, striding over and extending a hand. “Sam Wilson,” he says. “Captain America, team therapist when someone gets grumpy, undefeated champ of rooftop races, fastest flyer in the city now that there’s no Iron Man and War Machine’s retired. Welcome to the circus.”

“And professional ego booster,” Yelena mutters under her breath.

Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Hey, confidence is a public service.”

Evelyn laughs, tension unspooling from her shoulders. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

Alexei bounds up next, still catching his breath. “I am Alexei,” he declares, puffing out his chest. “The Red Guardian. The original super-soldier.” He winks. “Also, the best-looking, but don’t tell Steve.”

Steve just rolls his eyes.

From the shadows, Ava emerges, solidifying fully. She studies Evelyn for a long moment, like she’s sizing her up in a way only someone who’s lived between phases can. Then, with a nod, she speaks.

“I’m Ava. Ghost. You’ll do fine. Just don’t get in my way when I’m phasing through walls.”

Evelyn nods, not intimidated. “Deal.”

“And you already met Bob,” Yelena says, motioning to the man in the window.

He offers a shy wave and a tiny smile, knees tucked up against his chest. Evie waves back. He closes his notebook, blinking like someone returning from another planet.

“I’m Robert. Bob if you like, or Bobby, whatever is fine,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “Sentry when I use my powers, the… Void when things go sideways. But seems you’ll be the key to solving that little problem,” he says with an innocent laugh. “I don’t always... do crowds well. But I’m glad you’re here.” His gaze lingers on her for a moment. “You carry a lot of light. Even if you don’t see it yet.”

Evelyn’s breath catches, surprised. “Thanks,” she says, quietly.

"And last but not least…" Steve says, glancing over his shoulder.

Evelyn feels it before she sees him; a shift in the air, something heavier, rougher around the edges.

Bucky steps out from the shadows near the back wall, placing his coffee mug down. He’s been leaning there, arms crossed, half-watching. His dark jacket is slung over one shoulder, metal fingers catching the light. His expression is guarded, wary, but there’s no hostility.

Just... a deep, careful study. 

He walks up to her, standing before her, and noticeably looks her up and down. Not in a flirty way, or an attracted way, but in a way like he’s sizing her up, deciding whether she’s a threat. 

“I’m Bucky," he says simply, a few moments later. 

Their eyes meet — a jolt like static at first contact. Not the sudden fire of instant attraction, but something quieter, heavier. A flicker of understanding. Recognition.

Evelyn watches him carefully, and she can sense it. Wounded souls recognising each other’s broken edges.

“Evelyn," she says back, steady.

She offers her hand before she can overthink it.

Bucky hesitates — just a breath, just long enough to notice — before stepping forward and shaking it. His grip is firm but not crushing, his hand surprisingly warm in hers.

Up close, Evelyn can see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the faint scars along his temple, the thousand-yard stare he hasn’t quite shaken despite a lot of work. And yet, there’s something else. Something searching.

“Good to have you,” Bucky says quietly. It’s not just politeness. It sounds like... a promise.

Yelena smirks at the side of the room. “Careful, Barnes. She might be tougher than you.”

“I’m counting on it," Bucky says without missing a beat, and there’s a faint spark of amusement in his otherwise grave voice.

The room dissolves into low chuckles.

Evelyn feels her heart lift in a way she hasn’t felt in years.

Steve claps a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll find your place fast. We’re a little crazy, but we’ve got each other's backs. Always.”

“And we take movie night very seriously,” Sam adds, deadly solemn.

“Most of us have a lot of pop-culture catch up to do. So, if you can bring any suggestions with you, we’re open to it. But God help you if you talk during the movie," Ava says, her eyes twinkling.

“Those nights are sacred,” Bob agrees.

“No phones. No talking. No spoilers. Alexei has a habit of yelling at the screen, but we’re working on it,” Sam informs her.

“You lie,” Alexei huffs. “My commentary is educational.”

“Your commentary is loud,” Ava mutters.

Evelyn laughs again, a genuine sound, and feels the invisible walls around her crack just a little more.

For the first time since her life was ripped off-course, she doesn't feel like a stranger in the room.

She feels like maybe, just maybe, she's home.

The group begins to drift back into their rhythms — Sam flops down again, tossing the baseball higher now; Alexei goes off to the training rooms, Ava ghosts toward the far wall, vanishing halfway through it; and Yelena throws herself onto the couch with theatrical exhaustion.

Steve gives Evelyn a reassuring smile. “Take a breath. You did good.”

Yelena smirks. “No one even tried to scare you. That’s a new record.”

Evelyn chuckles, rubbing the back of her neck. “I was expecting... I don’t know. More chaos.”

“Oh, you’ll get chaos,” Sam calls without looking up. “Just give it a day.”

Sam starts throwing out terrible nicknames she immediately vetoes.

It’s overwhelming, but not in a bad way.

It’s the kind of overwhelming that fills your lungs after too long underwater.

They give her a small smile before fading away, leaving her standing by the couch, still drinking it all in.

That’s when she notices Bucky — still there, still leaning casually against the far wall, arms folded. Watching. Not with suspicion, like she feared, but something quieter. Something more like... curiosity.

Evelyn catches his gaze and holds it.

For a moment, the noise of the room fades into the background.

Bucky pushes off the wall and crosses the space between them, his boots soundless on the polished floor. Up close again, there’s a quiet steadiness about him, like a river running deep beneath still ice.

“You look like you could use an escape route,” he says, voice low and a little rough around the edges.

Evelyn smiles, the edges of it softening into something real. “Is it that obvious?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly. “New faces. Big expectations. I know the look. And… well… Sam told me to be nice. That you’d need someone to help you out the first few days, and I know how it feels to be the newbie in the room, to feel like an outsider, so…” 

She studies him for a beat, the way he keeps his own guard half-raised even while offering a sliver of trust. She recognises it. It mirrors the way she sometimes braces herself without even realising.

“I could show you around?” he offers, his voice slightly hesitant. “This place is big — long hallways, hidden armouries, and suspiciously locked doors.”

“You offering to be my tour guide?” she asks lightly, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky’s mouth twitches; not quite a smile, but the beginning of one. “If you can keep up.”

“Oh, is that a challenge, Barnes?”

Now he smiles, quick and sharp, and the sight of it — rare and startling — makes something catch low in Evelyn’s chest.

“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head toward the hall. “I’ll show you the important stuff. Like the best coffee machine. And where Sam keeps the good snacks he thinks nobody knows about. We better get a tour in before Alexei tries to rope you into a sparring match.”

Evelyn falls into step beside him, her pulse still racing from the earlier introductions but steadier now. There’s something about walking beside Bucky — the quiet steadiness of him — that feels… safe.

They move through the base’s gleaming corridors, the floor gleaming under their boots, overhead lights casting soft pools of gold and white as they pass. Bucky walks like someone who’s memorised every square inch of the place; not for comfort, but for survival. Alert but not tense. Quiet but never absent.

“This way’s the kitchen,” he says, nudging a door open with his shoulder. Inside, the space is all stainless steel and sleek benches, a high-tech kitchen pretending to be casual. “Sam hides the good coffee pods in the third drawer from the left. Thinks no one knows. He’s wrong.”

Evelyn laughs, the sound ringing off the walls. “Noted. I’ll guard that intel with my life.”

“Good,” Bucky says. “That secret stays between us.”

He leads her through the gym next, with polished floors, racks of weapons and gear, an open sparring ring lined with mats. The air smells of rubber, sweat, and challenge.

“You’ll live in here,” Bucky says. “Whether you like it or not.”

“Oh, good,” she deadpans. “I was worried I wouldn’t have enough opportunities to publicly fail.”

“You won’t.” His voice is quiet, sure. “You’ve got good instincts. I’m sure of it.”

She looks at him — a little startled by the certainty in his voice — but he’s already moving on.

They continue down another hallway, passing a row of locked doors that Bucky ignores with practiced ease. He shows her the locker rooms, the storage vaults, a quiet rec room with battered couches and a wide-screen TV. The lights are dimmed, and a stack of old DVDs sits by the player, all action movies and 90s sitcoms. Evelyn lingers just a little.

“You’ll want to claim your seat early for movie nights,” Bucky says. “Yelena gets violent about popcorn.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Evelyn replies, grinning.

The base sprawls out around them, filled with gleaming corridors, tucked-away corners, spaces humming with the heartbeat of something bigger than themselves. They fall into a comfortable rhythm of her asking the occasional question, him answering in short but thoughtful replies.

Then there's the balcony, a stretch of concrete and glass overlooking the city below that shimmers in the afternoon sun, the hum of a world beyond the base.

They pause there, letting the stillness settle between them.

“It’s quieter out here,” Bucky murmurs, resting his elbows on the railing.

“I can see why you'd like it,” she says softly.

He doesn’t respond, but there’s something in his expression that softens, like a door left half-open.

Bucky points things out with short, dry commentary that makes her laugh more than she expects.

Somewhere between the gym and the training grounds, the heavy silence that usually clings to him starts to ease.

Somewhere between the weapons room and the balcony that overlooks the lake, Evelyn feels the unfamiliar weight of belonging settle on her shoulders; not like a burden, but like a second skin.

And when she glances sideways at Bucky — the soft afternoon light catching in his dark hair, the faintest hint of a real smile on his lips — she realises that maybe, just maybe, she isn’t the only one who needed a place to land.

The silence between them isn’t awkward. It’s... companionable. Easy.

Like two people who understand what it means to carry things quietly.

Chapter Text

After the tour, things shift. It isn’t like Bucky means to be distant—he just is. Sam told him to be nice, to try, and he did, but making friends and talking to people can be… draining. Not that Evelyn is draining, it’s just him. It’s how he’s wired now, after everything. But it was easy talking to her, he reflects afterwards. Simple. Conversation that flowed. Laughs that fell easily and jokes that landed with a punch. He’d almost forgotten that part of him existed.

There is something about Evelyn’s presence that feels too easy, too quick to make sense, and that puts him on edge.

He had shown her the compound, answered her questions, but as soon as the tour ended, Bucky slipped into his default mode: detached, distant, keeping everyone at arm’s length. He’d done the same thing with Steve when they first came back together in the modern world, and with Sam, and even with Yelena and the others when they first joined the “Thunderbolts” (or got roped into it, he supposes; the team with the name Bucky had hated for the whole two days they were throwing it around before Val renamed them).

It isn’t personal. It’s just how Bucky works now.

Evelyn had barely set her few things down in the living room before he was gone with a quick goodbye and a wave. When he sees her, he smiles or says hi and then he’s vanishing into the training rooms or the gym, or sometimes just into the shadows of the compound where he can think and not have to look anyone in the eye.

It isn’t like he hates her. He doesn’t even not like her. He just doesn’t know how to process the fact that she is here. She’s new, when the team has been pretty stable for a few months now, and Bucky doesn’t really handle new people well. He likes his routine, his circle of familiar faces.

So, when Steve or Sam ask about her, Bucky answers briefly, giving nothing away. He isn’t interested in discussing Evelyn more than necessary.

“She’s fine,” he says. “Tough. Can hold her own, I’m sure. Nothing to worry about.”

It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either. There is something about her quiet intensity, the way she watches him as if she could see through the cracks in his armour, that keeps him from feeling like things are… normal. He can’t explain it, and he hates not being able to explain himself.

Evelyn, for her part, seems to understand. She doesn’t push him to open up. She doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Instead, she simply keeps to herself, trains when she needs to with the others and with a terrible form, and stays out of his way. But Bucky can feel her eyes on him sometimes, and it makes him uncomfortable. She isn’t like the others, who either ignore his moods or tiptoe around them. Evelyn has an awareness, a sharpness that unnerves him.

He hasn’t meant to be so cold, but he isn’t good at anything else. The walls he builds are strong, too strong to let anyone in easily. Giving her a tour was him being a good leader, making sure she was settled. And she’s setting well now, so it’s not like she needs him. But Evelyn is like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit yet with him, even as she’s fitting in with the team, and yet she is there, lingering in the edges of his mind.

A few days after the tour, during a particularly gruelling training session, he notices her again, this time in the gym. He’s been throwing punches at the heavy bag, lost in the rhythm of the strikes when a soft voice interrupts his focus.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even look up as he delivers another punch. “Yeah?”

“I get it,” she says, her tone a little too quiet, a little too perceptive. “You’re not one for small talk.”

Bucky’s fist connects with the bag again, his knuckles bruising as the bag swung back. “Sometimes, I’m not really much for talking, period.”

“Fair enough,” she replies, the soft tread of her boots growing fainter as she moves away.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at her. He can’t. If he looks at her, maybe he’ll feel the urge to explain. To apologise. To do something that might bridge the gap that has formed between them after the tour. But he isn’t sure how to fix it, not yet. He’s not really sure why he wants to. They just met, less than a week ago. She’s a colleague. He doesn’t work that hard to get to know the others, just goes along with whatever they’re doing and leads when he needs to. Most of his time is spent with Sam and Steve. 

The silence stretches again afterwards. It isn’t the same as before. This time, there is a mutual understanding hanging in the air. She knows he is being distant because that’s just who he is (and no doubt Steve probably told her about it, too), and he knows she isn’t going to push him.

That makes him want to talk to her more and more with every passing second.

Later that evening, after the usual debrief and a quick meal, Bucky finds himself wandering the hallways again. It isn’t unusual for him to do this, to avoid the quiet of his room and the constant loop of his thoughts. But tonight, something tugs at him. Maybe it’s the fact that Evelyn is new, still finding her place here, and he can’t shake the feeling that, despite the distance he’s put between them, she might need something. Might need help, or might be lost, or might just need a friend.

Maybe he could be that person for her?

He certainly enjoyed the company when he gave her the tour. The humour just kind of slipped out of him naturally, without even trying.

Everyone else has their person.. Bob and Yelena, or Yelena and Alexei. Steve and Sam and Bucky. John and Ava and their strange sibling-like bond. Everyone has a person they can turn to. Maybe Evie needs someone, too?

Or maybe it’s just that, despite himself, he’s beginning to wonder if he can trust her. Like, really trust her. It’s a dangerous thought. One he doesn’t want to entertain, especially now.

He doesn’t expect to find her in the hallway when he turns the corner. But there she is, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring out the large windows that lines the corridor. She looks peaceful, but there is something about the way she carries herself that reminds him of how she’d been in the gym earlier—always observing, always waiting.

She doesn’t look up when he stops in front of her, but she doesn’t need to. He knows she sensed his presence.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer than he intended.

Evelyn doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she straightens up and glances at him, eyes steady. “I was gonna head home to my apartment after the session. I sat down here for a while to catch my breath, and then I got to thinking, and all of a sudden it’s late. I’m tired. And catching the subway doesn’t sound fun.”

“Your room here not ready?” He asks.

“Apparently not. Still being renovated. I’m sure there’s plenty of other rooms, but I like having my own bed.” She looks up then, at him. “You okay?”

“Same,” he replies, his hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket. “Not the going back to my apartment part, the thinking part.” He pauses for a second and then slides down the wall beside her, sitting on the floor, elbows on his knees. Looks like this is happening… “You getting along okay here?”

She smiles, but it’s a small, knowing thing. “I’m fine. It’s not like I’m asking for a tour guide again. I can figure it out.”

There it is again—that sharpness, that quiet confidence that unnerves him. She isn’t asking for much, but he can see she is perceptive enough to know when people are being distant or when they are hiding something. Maybe she sees through his silence more than he realises.

“Look, I’m… not the best company,” Bucky mutters, his gaze drifting toward the windows.

“I don’t need company, especially not if it makes you uncomfortable,” she reassures, her voice light but firm. “I need to figure out where I fit in here. We all do.”

For a moment, there is only the sound of their breathing, the soft hum of the compound around them.

“I’m… I’m not uncomfortable. With you. I mean, it’s only been a small amount of time, but you’re fine. I’m fine. I just… I’m used to being alone,” he admits.

She nods at him.

Bucky can feel the walls he’s built around himself beginning to crack, even if just a little. He doesn’t know what it was about Evelyn, but maybe—just maybe—he could start trusting her, even if it takes time.

“Nothing wrong with that,” she tells him with a small smile.

He glances at her again, meeting her gaze for the first time in a while.

“I was heading home,” he lies, even though he had every intention to sleep here tonight. “I try to split my time between here and my apartment for a break from it all. I’m in Brooklyn, too,” he finds himself saying. “We could take the train together. I’ll walk you the last block.”

Evie hesitates, watches him carefully. “Sure,” she says eventually, standing at the same time as him.

“Just don’t expect me to make small talk,” he says, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Evelyn smiles back, the tension between them easing just a fraction. “I can live with that.”

Bucky ends up making more small talk than either of them expected.

By the time the train rattles over the bridge into Brooklyn, he’s leaning back in his seat beside her, the rhythm of their conversation slowing.

“You’ve got your powers,” he says, voice low and serious now, “but you still have to be able to hold your own. In case shit goes down.”

Evelyn lifts an eyebrow. “You want to train me?”

He gives a soft huff of a laugh, almost a real one. “You’re gonna need more than just fancy tricks. You need instincts. Reflexes. Muscle memory. And much better form than you have now. Things that don’t disappear if you’re tired or scared.”

There’s no judgment in the way he says it. Just plain truth, the kind forged in long, brutal experience.

She nods, feeling the weight of his words settle into her bones. “Alright. Let’s train.”

Bucky holds her gaze for a moment longer — assessing, maybe — and something unspoken passes between them. An understanding. A spark of something just beginning to catch.

He nods once, short and firm. “Good. Tomorrow morning. Early.”

“How early?”

The smirk he gives her is pure trouble. “Five AM call time.”

“Five?” She asks incredulously. “That’s like… six hours from now.”

“Better get home, then.”

They step off the train and into the night, the streets quieter now, bathed in the soft yellow glow of streetlights. The air’s cooled, heavy with the scent of rain on concrete. They walk in silence, footsteps falling in rhythm down the final block.

When they reach the corner, when the worn stone steps of her building come into view, he stops. He just knows it’s her place, can feel it. 

“This is me,” she says, nodding toward the stoop.

He doesn’t move to follow. Just stands there, hands tucked into his jacket pockets again, eyes scanning the street like old habits die hard.

“Thanks for walking me,” she says, offering a small smile.

Bucky meets her eyes. Nods once. “Anytime.”

It’s not dramatic. Not full of weight or meaning. But there’s something solid in it, something that feels like the start of a truce.

Evie lingers for a moment, like there’s something else she could say, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she climbs the steps, key already in hand.

She glances back once before she disappears inside.

He’s still standing there, watching the street. Watching her go.

Then he turns without another word and starts walking back the way they came, shoulders hunched slightly against the night breeze.

Evie watches him go, her smile fading into something quieter. Thoughtful.

He’d walked her all the way here. Out of his way, at least a few blocks, maybe more. She still doesn’t know where he lives in Brooklyn, but he hadn’t said a word about it.

He just made sure she got home safe.

That ghost of a smile tugs at her lips again, stubborn and aching all at once. Because under the dry humour and the quiet watchfulness, there’s something else there—something worn and deeply human.

She doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

But she knows how it feels.

And it stays with her, long after he’s disappeared into the night.

But something else draws at her, nags at her, tugs at her heart. Because underneath the easy smirk and the sarcasm, she can see it and she can feel it: the weight he carries, the grief stitched into him like a second skin.

He doesn’t know it, but it clings to him like a shadow. A presence she’s not ready to explain, not yet.

She draws in a slow breath, pushing the heaviness away. Tomorrow is soon enough to face whatever comes next.

For tonight, it’s enough to know she’s not entirely alone in her ghosts.

He keeps his head down as he walks, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the cool air sharp in his lungs. He doesn’t look back.

It had been a long day. He should feel tired, worn out. But instead, there’s a restless energy under his skin, the kind that doesn’t come from adrenaline or exertion. It comes from her. From the way she’d smiled at him like she meant it. From the way she hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pried.

That kind of patience is rare.

Bucky exhales slowly, the sound barely audible. He’d meant to stay distant, keep his head down, keep things simple. But then she’d looked at him like she saw him—not just the soldier, not just the shadow of who he’d been—but the man who still doesn’t know exactly who he’s supposed to be.

She hadn’t said anything about him walking her home. Didn’t make it a big deal. But he knows she noticed. Of course she did. She notices everything.

He glances up at the quiet street, the steady rhythm of his boots on the pavement grounding him.

Truth is, he’s not sure why he walked her all the way back. Just that it felt right. Safer. Not for her, maybe, but for him.

A corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile.

You’re gonna need more than just fancy tricks, he’d said to her.

He hadn’t meant to offer to train her. But something about Evelyn makes him want to offer things he doesn’t usually give: time, effort, trust.

He’s not there yet. Not fully. But maybe… he’s starting.

And that thought, however small, lodges itself in his chest and stays there as the streetlights flicker overhead and the city moves quietly around him.

Chapter Text

The clock on the wall reads 5:07 AM when Evelyn bursts into the training room, still tying her hair back, sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor.

Bucky’s already there, of course, leaning lazily against the edge of the sparring mat, arms folded, looking like he’s been up for hours. His black T-shirt clings to him, sleeves tight around solid muscle, and there’s a faint gleam of sweat at his temples.

Like he’s already trained before their training.

He lifts an eyebrow as she skids to a halt in front of him, a few strands of hair escaping her rushed ponytail.

“Nice of you to join us, Sleeping Beauty,” he drawls.

She throws him a look. “It’s five in the morning.”

He straightens up, a slow grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Correction: It’s five-oh-seven. Oop — five-oh-eight.”

Evelyn huffs, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Sue me.”

Bucky steps closer, that glint of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Next time, I’m knocking on your door.”

There’s a beat, just long enough for the meaning to hang between them, and then he’s moving, tossing a pair of sparring gloves at her.

“Look, I’m not a morning person either, but you gotta be punctual,” he says, voice light. “Gloves on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The next hour is brutal.

Not in a cartoonishly over-the-top way. There’s no yelling, no flashy flourishes. Just steady, surgical dismantling. Bucky fights like a ghost and a hammer; quiet, efficient, and unrelenting.

Evelyn is sweating within minutes. Her shoulders burn, her breathing turns ragged, and there’s a steady throb already building behind her right knee from the first time he swept her legs out from under her.

“No powers,” he reminds her again, almost gently. “Not here. Just you.”

And just like that, she’s painfully aware of how mortal she is.

She swings too wide. Her blocks are a half-second too slow. Every time she thinks she’s anticipating him, he changes rhythm, feints low and strikes high. Once, he gets her with a flick of his left wrist — just a shift of balance and pressure — and she finds herself flat on her back before she even processes what happened.

“Keep your stance tighter,” Bucky says mildly, offering her a hand. She doesn’t take it. She rolls to her feet, wiping sweat off her brow with the back of her glove.

Again.

He doesn’t taunt. Doesn’t gloat. He corrects her footwork, shows her how to pivot her hips, tilts her chin just slightly with a brush of knuckles and says, “That’s better,” in that low, even voice of his.

Then knocks her on her ass again.

By the forty-minute mark, she’s lost count of how many times she’s hit the mat. Her muscles are jelly. Her ribs ache from a particularly sharp jab he landed — pulled, she knows, but still enough to knock the wind out of her.

But she keeps getting up.

Gritting her teeth. Shaking out her arms. Planting her feet.

She throws a punch — it’s wide again, too ambitious — and he sidesteps it neatly, catches her wrist, and flips her onto the mat like she weighs nothing.

“Momentum,” he says, standing over her. “Use it. Don’t fight it.”

Evelyn stares up at the ceiling, chest heaving. “Right,” she wheezes. “Use it. Totally what I was going for.”

And he chuckles — a low, almost surprised sound — like he didn’t expect her to joke. Like maybe he’s starting to enjoy this.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, he steps back and holds up a hand.

“Alright,” he says, breathing only slightly heavier than when they started. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them onto the bench. “That’s enough for today.”

Evelyn doesn’t so much sit as collapse onto the mat, arms sprawled, sweat pooling at the hollow of her throat.

Everything hurts.

Her pride most of all.

She tilts her head to look up at him through a curtain of damp hair. “I’m guessing… I didn’t pass with flying colours.”

Bucky’s mouth quirks into something almost… almost fond.

“You showed up. You took the hits. You kept getting back up.” He shrugs, that easy, understated kind of respect that doesn’t come with a gold star but means more than one. “That’s a hell of a lot more than most.”

The praise, genuine and simple, settles into her chest like a warm ember. Not flashy. Not performative. Just real.

She grins tiredly, her limbs trembling from exertion. “Same time tomorrow, I’m guessing? This is your little project now, isn’t it?”

Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners in a rare, real smile.

“You bet your ass,” he says.

And for the first time since arriving at this compound, since stepping into this strange new life, Evelyn feels like she’s earned something.

Not victory. Not skill.

But maybe — just maybe — a bit of respect.

Chapter Text

The hallway smells faintly of fresh paint and industrial cleaner, but underneath it lingers something softer — coffee from someone's late shift, linen washed in lavender, the faint warmth of a place people actually live. Evelyn walks beside Steve, sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floors, the hush of the evening stretching long between them like a shared breath.

He stops at a door halfway down the residential wing, reaching into his back pocket for a keycard. The door unlocks with a soft, mechanical click — more like a sigh than a sound — and he hands the card to her without ceremony.

“Go ahead,” he says. “It’s yours.”

Evelyn steps inside and stills.

It isn’t grand. It isn’t even especially large. But it’s... kind. That’s the word that roots itself in her chest. Warm wooden floors stretch out beneath her feet, the walls painted the soft gold of early morning. A compact kitchenette stands tucked into one corner, appliances gleaming like they’ve been cleaned more out of care than routine. A couch — not sleek, but soft, broken in — sits in the centre of the small lounge. Two doors, one clearly a bedroom, the other a modest bathroom where she can still smell the faint trace of fresh soap.

Her fingers drift across the stone countertop, slow and hesitant, like she’s afraid the whole place might flicker and disappear if she breathes too hard.

“It’s really nice,” she says eventually, her voice quieter than she expects. Barely more than a whisper.

Steve leans against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with that steady gaze of his. A small smile plays at his mouth. “You can change whatever you like. Paint, furniture, knock down a wall if you feel ambitious. If you ask around, I’m sure you’ll find someone handy to help you.” His tone is light, but his eyes are steady. “You don’t have to use it all the time, or even at all. Some people keep their own places in the city. But this is yours if you want it. A safe place. A door that only opens for you.”

Something about that — a door that only opens for you — hits harder than it should.

Evelyn swallows around the sudden knot in her throat, the kind that shows up when something good feels almost too good. When trust feels like a gift you’re not sure you’ve earned.

She turns away, letting her gaze travel across the room again, absorbing the quiet safety of it all. The stillness. The privacy. The promise.

"Well,” she says, injecting a little levity to crack through the lump rising in her throat, “It’s a hell of a lot nicer than my shoebox apartment.”

Steve chuckles and steps inside, just enough to close the distance a little. “Where’s home these days?”

“Brooklyn,” she answers with a crooked smile, throwing him a glance. “Thought that might score me points with you, Brooklyn Boy.”

He smiles back, a real one, laced with something old and a little bruised. “It does.”

She walks slowly across the living room, dragging her hand along the back of the couch, testing the way the silence hums here. Not empty, just calm. It’s the first time in a long time she’s felt still.

"Who's room was this?" She asks quietly, looking around for any hints of who used to live here.

"Wanda's," Steve says, his voice solemn and sad. He sighs deeply. "She loved it here. It was her safe space. But she hasn't been here in a long time. We moved to the compound Upstate, and then we all went our separate ways. She and Vis were going to build a house, I think. But now she's gone, and... She'd want you to have a bit of that safe space she had."

Evie smiles at him sadly, looking out the window at the view below. “I love it there,” she says after a pause. “The noise, the grit. It makes me feel... like I belong to something.” She shrugs, a little sheepishly. “Think I’ll split my time. Stay here when I need rest. Go back when I need reminding.”

Steve nods. “That’s smart. It helps, having something that’s just yours. A place, a habit, even a view out a window. Something that roots you.”

She turns to him, studying the way he carries himself — calm but not relaxed, like he’s learned how to live in his skin through effort, not ease.

“You always sound so sure,” she says, and she means it. “Like you know who you are, and why you’re here. Like you never got lost.”

Steve’s smile softens, but it fades at the edges, like a photograph exposed to too much light. His gaze flickers for a moment, somewhere past her, before settling again.

“Took me a long time to figure that out,” he says, his voice quieter now, as if he’s confessing rather than recalling. “And longer still to accept that it changes. Who you are isn’t fixed. It moves with you. Like shadow and sunlight.”

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Evelyn looks around once more, breathing in the stillness. The steadiness.

“I think I’ll stay a while,” she says softly.

Steve just nods. “We'd like that.”

A quiet beat passes between them before Evelyn pads back toward the kitchenette, fingers brushing a light switch just to test it. The warm overhead glow clicks on, flooding the room with soft gold.

Steve glances toward the hallway. “I’ll let you settle in. If you need anything—”

He stops as footsteps echo from the corridor — not rushed, but familiar. A slow, measured gait with a little too much weight on the left side. Evelyn looks up just as Bucky appears in the doorway, hand braced casually against the frame.

He’s dressed down in dark jeans, a faded Henley rolled to the elbows, metal fingers catching the light like chrome ribbon. His expression is sceptical but not unkind.

“So, this is the new neighbour, huh?” he says, giving the apartment a once-over. “You didn’t tell her about the mandatory potlucks yet, Rogers?”

Evelyn raises an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to scare me off?”

Bucky shrugs. “Depends. Can you cook?”

“Not well,” she admits. “Baking – fine, great even. Cooking, eh. I made a chilli once that almost melted my brother’s face off,” she supplies with a smile, which earns him a chuckle.

“Well, I’m sure you told him not to eat a whole bowl,” Steve offers. “Sounds like that was on him.”

Bucky’s grin is lopsided, tugging up just one corner of his mouth. “Okay. You can stay. We like spicy food.”

He steps inside, his presence grounding in a different way than Steve’s; less like sunlight, more like something forged. He doesn’t move past the entryway, but his eyes scan the room as if mentally cataloguing it, mapping exits, evaluating corners. Old habits, Evelyn thinks. She gets it.

“If you need anything,” Bucky says, nodding toward her. “You knock on the door down the hall. I’ve got coffee. Or whiskey. Or spare ammo, depending on the mood.”

Evelyn lets out a surprised laugh. “All the essentials, then.”

“Exactly.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but fondly. “He’s not as grumpy as he pretends to be.”

“Lies,” Bucky mutters.

Evelyn leans back against the kitchen counter, the last of the tension beginning to unknot from her shoulders. The quiet hum of the apartment fills the space between them — gentle, welcoming, solid. A little like trust, she thinks. A little like family.

She glances at Steve, then Bucky. “Do you guys always do the whole good cop, emotionally-wounded cop thing when someone moves in?”

Bucky tilts his head, feigning offense. “Hey, I’m both of those things.”

Steve snorts, and Evelyn smiles.

For a moment, no one says anything.

Then Steve’s voice comes quieter, softer, like it’s meant for the space more than for her. “You don’t have to be anything here, Evie. Not stronger than you feel. Not fine when you’re not.”

Her breath catches just slightly.

She’s heard a dozen versions of that sentiment before from caseworkers, from friends, from people who meant well but didn’t really understand. But this… this feels different. Not rehearsed. Not therapeutic. Just honest.

Her eyes flick back to Bucky, who doesn’t look away. There’s something steady in his gaze, like he’s seen people fall apart and come back together again, and knows both are okay. Like he’s seen himself do it, too.

Evelyn clears her throat, looking down at the counter. “I, uh… I think I’ll stay here tonight. Just… see how it feels.”

Steve nods once. “Good idea.”

Bucky pushes off the wall. “You’ll hear me get up at 4:30. I’m not quiet.”

“Noted,” she says dryly.

He’s already turning toward the hallway when he glances back. “Be ready by five.”

Evelyn raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

Bucky’s mouth lifts into that half-smile again, the one that never quite reaches his eyes. “Further initiation.”

And then he’s gone.

Evelyn exhales slowly into the quiet.

The room feels a little bigger now. Still unfamiliar. Still strange. But not so empty.

She turns toward the couch, toeing off her shoes, and decides not to think about tomorrow just yet.

Evelyn does hear Bucky wake up, and it’s like an alarm clock. Through their shared wall, she hears him moving around, doing what she thinks is a jump around on one leg into his pants, make a coffee on a machine he must have in there, and stomp down the hallway.

She sighs as she gets up.

The training room is darker than usual when Evelyn slips inside, the low lights casting long shadows across the mat. It's 4:57 AM. She’s early, technically. She’s learning.

Bucky’s already there, as always.

He doesn’t look up when she enters. He’s on the mat, throwing slow, precise punches at a heavy bag that sways with each impact. His movements are fluid, economical. All control and silence and steel.

Evelyn watches for a moment, adjusting the wrap on her wrist, then steps onto the mat. “What, no snide comment about punctuality today?”

Bucky still doesn’t look at her. “Clock says 4:57. You’ve got three minutes left to be late.”

She snorts. “So generous.”

He finally glances at her, with his sweat-slick hair, sharp eyes, unreadable expression. “You stretch already?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Alright,” he says, tossing her a pair of gloves. “Then let’s go.”

She barely catches them.

The first few rounds are a blur of movement and correction. Evelyn’s stronger than before, sharper too — her footwork more confident, her strikes carrying weight. She’s still not fast enough to land a solid hit on him, but he’s not knocking her down every thirty seconds anymore either.

Still, he pushes her.

He tests her reflexes with quick, probing jabs, correcting her stance with clipped instructions and the occasional nudge of his boot. When she leaves her right side open, he steps in close, catching her wrist and twisting her off balance, sending her tumbling to the mat with a thud that echoes.

She groans, eyes on the ceiling. “Jesus, Barnes. You ever heard of positive reinforcement?”

“I am reinforcing,” Bucky says, circling her like a wolf. “Positively kicking your ass.”

She glares up at him. “That joke sucked.”

He shrugs, offering a hand. “So did your guard.”

Evelyn hesitates, then takes it. His grip is strong and sure, hauling her back to her feet in one smooth motion. She’s breathing hard, sweat clinging to her skin, her arms aching, but she doesn’t back down.

They reset. He comes at her harder now, testing how far he can push. A quick flurry of blows where she dodges the first, blocks the second, misses the third. His metal arm sweeps low, catching her ankle, but this time she jumps, barely clearing the trip.

He smirks. “Better.”

She grins, feral. “Told you I was a quick study.”

He doesn’t respond, just lunges again.

They fall into a rhythm that feels almost like dance: hit, block, dodge, reset. It’s not even about fighting anymore, not really. It’s about learning each other. Tells. Timing. Tempo.

And for a few minutes, the world narrows to that rhythm — just the sound of breath and bodies moving and gloves hitting skin.

Until she slips again.

Too slow on a pivot, she opens herself up, and Bucky takes the opening, sweeping her legs clean out from under her. She hits the mat hard.

Before she can move, his weight is above her; one knee pressing into the mat near her ribs, a gloved hand pinning her wrist. Not painful. Just solid.

“Dead,” he says simply.

Evelyn huffs, chest heaving. “You’re getting cocky.”

“And you’re sloppy,” Bucky says, not unkindly. “There’s a difference.”

She closes her eyes for a beat. Sweat drips into her hairline. “You ever gonna tell me I’m doing good?”

“You’re not actually dead,” he says. “That’s good.”

She opens one eye. “You are the emotionally-wounded cop.”

He offers the faintest twitch of a smile and then pushes off her, rising to his feet.

“You’re improving… Slowly, but it’s only session four,” he says after a second, voice quieter. “You don’t give up. You learn fast. You’ve got instincts, you just don’t trust them yet.”

She blinks, caught off guard by the praise, such as it is. “Thanks,” she says after a moment, pulling herself upright again.

Bucky nods. “Tomorrow, we try knives.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That escalated quickly.”

He tosses her a towel. “Welcome to the deep end.”

A few days later, after she’s half-settled into the rhythms of life at the compound — early mornings, training with Bucky, late nights walking the halls when she can’t sleep — Steve finds her again.

They sit outside on one of the upper balconies, the kind no one uses unless they need to think. The city sprawls beneath them, rooftops and highways glittering like spilled starlight. The night is cool and still, the compound humming faintly behind them, like a living thing in sleep.

Evelyn perches on the concrete ledge, legs folded beneath her, fingers curled around a chipped mug of tea. Steve leans forward beside her, elbows braced on his knees, a thermos beside him.

“I forget sometimes how quiet this place can get,” she says.

Steve glances over. “Quiet’s a rare thing these days.”

They sit in it for a moment, the silence. The space.

Then he speaks again, voice even. “You’ve been here long enough that you should know how things work. Surely, you’re figuring it out. But you have to go with the flow. Officially… Valentina finds threats. She passes them to us. We pretend to follow orders.”

Evelyn raises an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That sounds like a system that’s working great.”

Steve huffs out a low laugh. “We’ve got leverage. She’s in the middle of an impeachment trial, it’s been going on for months — corruption charges, backroom deals. She forced Bucky and the others into forming the New Avengers. Basically got Buck kicked out of office with her stunt, but he wasn’t exactly enjoying it anyway. Took us a while to realise Val’s New Avengers and what was left of Sam’s Avengers team should just join forces. We don’t follow her lead. We operate how we want, and she gets to pretend she still has a leash on us. Win-win.”

Evelyn nods slowly, processing. “And where do we work out of now? Doesn’t feel like this place has Tony Stark’s fingerprints.”

“It doesn’t. He left the tower to Pepper. After he passed, she turned it over. Government tried to turn it into a PR museum, but it didn’t stick. So, Val gutted it. Rebuilt. This place isn’t for spectacle. It's for the work.”

She looks out at the city again. “And the others? Are they all… full-time?”

Steve shakes his head. “No one is, really. That’s the rule. We’ve seen what happens to people who only do this.” His voice softens, something old and tired in it. “You need something else. Hobbies. Family. Hell, even a dog. Otherwise, it eats you alive. You got something else you can turn to?”

There’s a pause. Evelyn lets the breeze pull through her hair, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug. “Yeah. My music. It’s always been an outlet for me. It can be my thing.”

"I wanted to ask you something," he says, voice low and careful. “As...unofficial team leader, I try to know the people I’m fighting beside. We get dropped into bad situations. We have to trust each other. Know each other.”

“Sure,” she says in agreement. “What is it?”

“You explained a little of what motivates you to be an Avenger when you came to us. But if you’re willing... I’d like to know more. About you. About why you really chose this… You want to be one of us?” he asks finally, quiet but direct.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then, “Yes,” she says. Simple. Firm.

He nods. “Why?”

Evelyn hugs her knees to her chest, picking at a thread on the hem of her jeans. The quiet intimacy of the moment gives her permission to lower her walls.

After a long moment, she starts talking.

"I was in a band," she says, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it now. "Not the best one. But we thought we’d make it big. Be someone. Like you always do when you’re young. We'd play little bars, community events, at shitty little dive places where the only audience was drunks and two old ladies playing pool. Did a few college campus events, weddings if we were lucky. I mean, I think I'm good. But doing gigs down at McGinty's Pub for tips wasn’t exactly paying the rent.”

Steve smiles, listening carefully.

“But... talent isn’t everything. We barely made enough for gas money. I left my hometown when I was nineteen. Population: one-eighty. Blink and you miss it." She smiles fondly. "I wanted bigger. Brighter. Something more. I thought if I could get to the city, I could make it big.”

“And did you?” He asks gently.

She smiles tightly. “Not really. I was young. Naïve. But it’s not as easy as just wanting it, y'know? Ended up working a bar, playing gigs when I could. I picked up a job teaching music to kids at a little school attached to a community centre. Taught piano on the side to anyone who wanted it."

He’s quiet, letting her set the pace.

“Brooklyn’s not cheap."

He chuckles under his breath. "Tell me about it." Steve’s expression softens, a thread of understanding weaving between them.

"And then the Blip happened," she said, voice lowering. "Half my family just gone before my eyes whilst I was back visiting home. We were sitting at the dinner table, together, laughing and eating mom’s roast. And then I watched them fade away. I felt weird and it was like my body was fighting it. And then... so was I. Blipped. Gone. I blipped last. Left my dad and sister sitting at the table for five years."

The quiet settles heavier between them.

"When I came back," Evelyn said, voice steady but raw, "It felt like I’d been erased. Everything had moved on without me. Everyone had scars. And I realised — if I have these powers, if I have any chance to stop something like that from happening again, even just a little... then I have to. I owe it. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

She blinks hard, forcing the emotion back.

”I said it at the interview, that my life was going nowhere. So when Valentina showed up at the bar with a business card and the offer for an interview, I just… knew it was a chance. One I might not get again. And even though I was terrified, I had to see where it would lead me.”

Steve sits there for a long moment, shoulders tense with the weight of memories and losses of his own.

Finally, he says, voice thick, "I’m glad you’re here, Evelyn."

She stares down at the city like the answer might be hiding in the skyline. But it isn’t. It’s in her.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to control something that no one else could understand. And for a while, it controlled me. My powers. It scared me. Still does sometimes, but I’m less afraid to use it. And then the Blip happened and Thanos came, and suddenly everyone was scared of people like me — not just what we could do, but what we might do. People with powers.”

She exhales, fiddles with the mug in her hand.

“After the Snap, the government required people with enhanced abilities to register. They said it was for our safety. It wasn’t.”

Steve nods grimly. “It never is.”

“Valentina found me through that list. She said I had a rare affinity — that most people who try to manipulate the Void end up lost to it. Said I had something stable in me. Some kind of anchor. She thought I could help Bob, stablise him, so the Avengers could become stronger against those threats.”

“And then she made you an offer,” Steve finishes.

Evelyn nods. “I wanted to say no, at first. I was tired. Scared. Then she showed me what could be coming, when she caught up with me after my first day here — authoritarian companies rising from the ashes, fractures in the veil, creatures slipping through, dimensional breaches. She said we can only expect the threats to get worse. And I realised... if I didn’t try to control this, someone else would. And they wouldn’t care who got hurt.”

Steve’s quiet for a while. Then he speaks again, voice low. “You don’t owe anyone redemption, Evelyn. Not me. Not Valentina. Not anyone.”

“I know,” she says. “But maybe I owe it to myself to do something with it. Not run anymore.”

He watches her for a long beat, then gives a slow, approving nod. “Then let’s make sure you’ve got the right people in your corner.”

She smiles faintly, a little tired, a little brave. “Thanks, Brooklyn Boy.”

He huffs out a breath. “Don’t let Bucky hear you call me that. He’ll say you’ve gone soft.”

“Oh, I have. I drink chamomile tea now and everything,” she tells him, holding up the empty mug.

Steve grins.

The wind picks up, cooler now, and for a moment they sit in silence again — not heavy, not awkward. Just there.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, she isn’t alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

Later that night, Evelyn returns to her room.

The lights are low, just the soft glow of the hallway bleeding in through the slightly ajar door. She doesn’t turn them on. Doesn’t need to. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark, and besides, the quiet feels right. The kind of quiet you don’t want to disturb.

She toes off her shoes, sets her mug down on the counter, and moves to the middle of the living room. The couch is still neatly made. She hasn’t spent much time here yet, not really, but the space is starting to feel... less foreign. Less like a hotel suite. More like a possibility.

Evelyn stands still for a moment, listening to her own breathing.

Then she closes her eyes.

She lifts her hands slowly, palms up. Not wide, not summoning, just calling gently.

And the air responds.

Not a violent rush, not a tear in space. Just a subtle ripple, like fabric shifting in a breeze. A shimmer in the air around her fingers, like heat over pavement. The faintest glow, black edged in green, folding into itself like silk.

The aether pulses in her palms. Present. Waiting.

She doesn’t recoil this time.

Instead, she watches it.

Breathes with it.

Her heart flutters; not with fear, but something quieter. Something steadier.

Control.

The energy flickers, folds inward again, and vanishes, like it had never been there.

Evelyn opens her eyes.

And smiles.

Not a grin. Just a small, thoughtful curve of her lips.

Then she turns toward the bedroom and walks in without turning on the lights.

She sleeps through the night for the first time in months.

One evening, Bob sits in near-silence at the far edge of the common room, his back to the rest of the Tower. The only light in the room is the distant orange glow of the city bleeding through the window. He's still in the hoodie he trains in—dark, damp at the collar, sleeves bunched around fists that haven't unclenched since dinner. He hasn't said much all day. Evie notices the tension before she even steps into the room. He looks like someone trying to contain something he’s afraid will break loose.

She approaches slowly. Not carefully, not like she’s scared—just gently, like she’s aware this version of Bob could bolt or crumble with the wrong kind of attention. She doesn’t ask if she can sit, just does, lowering herself into the armchair beside his. There’s space between them, but not too much.

A minute passes in quiet. Then she speaks, her voice low.

"You're chewing your cheek again," she says softly, not quite teasing.

Bob doesn’t smile. He blinks, like he hadn't noticed. "Yeah," he says, and that’s it.

Evie watches him in profile. How his eyes are distant, jaw set like he’s bracing for a blow that never lands. Slowly, she reaches out, just the tips of her fingers brushing his hand, where it's clenched in his lap. She doesn't try to take it, just makes contact, light and deliberate. His hand flinches but doesn't pull away.

"Talk to me, Bob," she says, her voice still gentle. “You don’t have to give me everything. Just… what’s rattling around in there?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding the breath for hours.

"I don’t think I’m ready for this," he murmurs. "To be in the field. To be an Avenger. To be... him."

Evie says nothing. Just waits.

He glances at her, then back out the window. "I know they think I’m some kind of weapon. A last resort. That's why Val brought me into all this, why she believes in me. That's why you're here, because you can hold me down if it gets bad. I get it. I do. But I can’t help feeling like… like the clock's already ticking. Like I’m being wound up for something I’m not ready to do."

There’s something raw in the way he says it. Not fear exactly, more like resignation wrapped around a core of guilt.

Evie shifts, turning toward him, her voice still quiet. “I’m not here just to ‘hold you down,’ Bob.”

He finally looks at her fully, eyes shadowed and a little haunted. “Aren’t you? Isn’t that what you do? Control people like me so we don’t go nuclear?”

"People like you?" she echoes, softly. "You mean people who’ve been through hell? Who still show up anyway?"

That seems to catch him off guard. He swallows, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

"I’m not afraid of your power," she adds. “I’ve felt it. It’s big, and yeah, it’s dangerous, but so are a lot of things worth keeping around. What scares me is the way you look at yourself. Like you think you’re a mistake just waiting to happen.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, hoarsely, he says, “You’re not scared of what I might become?”

Evie considers it. “I’m scared of what people will make you become if you don’t have someone in your corner. That’s what we’re all here for, right. They’re your family? And Yelena… she’s your safe person. I can sense that.”

Bob’s throat tightens. His shoulders shake once, just barely, and he clamps his eyes shut, like the words hit somewhere too close to the bone.

"I’m not here to own you, Bob. I'm here to stand next to you. To pull you back if you start to lose yourself, but only if you want me to."

He looks down at their hands. His fingers, stiff at first, slowly unclench. He wraps them around hers, carefully, like he’s scared even now of crushing her by accident.

"You don’t know me," he says, not as a challenge, but like he’s admitting something heavy. "You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve been."

Evie meets his gaze. “Then show me. Let me decide.”

He studies her face, as if expecting to find pity or fear there, but there’s only stillness, and a fierce, quiet determination. He nods once. Just once.

“I’ll let you,” he whispers.

It’s not a promise, not yet. But it’s permission. And in that moment, it’s enough.

Bob’s hand lingers around hers longer than before. His touch is hesitant, but there’s a strange kind of certainty in the way his fingers curl around hers now, like he’s made a decision. Something ripples faintly in the air between them, a cold shiver like the shadow of a memory.

“Let me show you,” he says, low, almost reverent.

Evie doesn’t pull away. She feels it, the power behind his words—something ancient and aching, something he doesn’t often allow himself to share. The moment their palms fully meet, her breath catches.

It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. But it’s like plunging into ice water.

In a blink, she's there, in his past.

Needles. The sharp tang of antiseptic. Cold tile under bare feet. Bob in a mirror, gaunt and desperate, clutching pills with shaking hands. Sweat. Vomit. A locked door. The echo of someone begging — maybe him, maybe not.

Then it shifts.

Another memory slams into place: the chamber where Sentry was born. Machines whirring, synthetic light blinding. His body convulsing, strapped to a slab as the formula rips through him. His scream doesn’t even make it out of his throat. It’s muffled under steel and sedation.

It changes again.

Valentina. Her voice smooth, cutting, coiled like a serpent. “Good boy,” she says, over and over. Promises dressed as praise. Orders wrapped in silk. Bob standing, glazed-eyed, bloody-knuckled, not knowing what he just did.

A boy now — younger, smaller — flinching under a belt. A man’s silhouette towering over him. The sound of glass breaking. “You’re not good enough,” the voice snarls. “You’ll never be good.”

And then, black.

A city skyline. Cracking. Melting. Screaming. New York disappearing into the Void as Bob floats above it, face blank, eyes golden. The sheer silence of annihilation is worse than the screams. Half a million lives swallowed in seconds, and he did it. He did it.

Then it all collapses.

It only lasts seconds. But when he pulls away, Evie’s breathing hard, blinking like she just surfaced from deep underwater.

Evie sways backward where she sits, gasping, her vision swimming.

Bob looks at her like he’s just confessed a murder. “I—I didn’t want you to see all that. Couldn’t pull away.”

She steadies herself on the back of the couch. “You didn’t show me anything I didn’t already know.”

He blinks, stunned. “But now you’ve seen it.”

“And I’m still here,” she says, easily.

Bob’s eyes are wide, glistening, lips slightly parted as if afraid he’d hurt her. “You okay?”

She nods, shaken but calm. “Yeah. I just… didn’t know how much you were holding in.”

He doesn’t reply. He just watches her—longer, deeper—then slowly reaches out again.

“Now you,” he says, voice soft but intent. “I want to see yours.”

Evie frowns slightly, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

He nods, his hand hovering an inch from hers. She gives him her hand without protest.

But when he touches her skin, there’s nothing.

Bob draws back, confused. He tries again, focusing. His brow furrows, the light around him dimming slightly as he taps into the Void, his power extending toward her—

Nothing.

Just… a blank. Not peace. Not serenity. Not suppression.

Nothing.

He lets go abruptly, staring at her like he’s looking at something impossible.

"You don’t have a Void for me to tap into,” he says, voice laced with disbelief.

Evie arches an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Bob leans back, genuinely unnerved. “Everyone has one. Everyone I’ve touched—I see their worst memories, their buried fears, their shames. When they go into the Void, it drags them there. It shows them what they’ve tried to forget. But you—” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing. Not even walls. Just… light.”

Evie shrugs, rising to her feet casually, brushing off her palms like she’s finished a conversation she’s had before.

“Probably because I see it all the time.” Her voice is easy, but there’s a weight behind it — practiced, exhausted, unwavering.

Bob blinks. “You mean…?”

She gets to her feet. “I don’t have the luxury of forgetting or pushing it down. I don’t get to suppress the worst parts of myself. I carry them. And I see them. Constantly.”

She’s walking away then with a tiny wave, and he watches her go, heart pounding, a strange awe stirring in his chest. He’s not sure what he expected to find in her. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t this.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob isn’t sure who the powerful one in the room really is.

Chapter Text

It’s another early morning, the kind where the world feels hushed before the day truly begins. Evelyn has gotten used to the quiet in the compound — the sound of footsteps echoing down empty hallways, the faint hum of the kitchen appliances that breaks the silence.

She steps into the kitchen, the smell of coffee already in the air. She isn’t surprised to see him there. Bucky is often the first one awake. And usually, it’s the same: a cup of coffee, eyes distant, staring at the wall as though he is lost in thought, or maybe just lost in nothing.

He doesn’t seem to notice her enter at first, despite his constant alertness, and she hesitates, watching him for a moment. He’s sitting on the stool at the counter, his arm resting on the cool surface, his face angled toward the windows, the soft morning light casting shadows across his features. He looks... different. He doesn’t look like the soldier she had first met, and not like the hardened, steely-eyed warrior. Now, he looks like a man still caught between worlds: the one he was before, and the one he is trying to build.

His posture is rigid, like his body can’t quite relax, even in the stillness of the moment. His hair is slightly messy, and there is a faint stubble on his jaw; not enough to be scruffy, just enough to add to the unkempt look. He is lost, but not in a way that feels dangerous. It’s as though he’s fighting a battle inside himself that no one else can see.

Evelyn stands there for a few seconds, unsure if she should interrupt. Part of her wants to ask if he is okay, but she knows it isn’t that simple. So, instead, she goes to the coffee machine, the routine of making her own cup providing her with a small moment of calm.

It isn’t until she’s sipping her coffee, the warmth spreading through her chest, that Bucky finally speaks.

“You know,” he says, his voice low and rough, as if he hasn’t used it much yet today. “I could probably set up a cot in here. I seem to end up in this spot a lot.”

Evelyn chuckles quietly, leaning her shoulder against the counter. She knows what he’s doing, trying to make light of it, deflecting, but she doesn’t call him out on it. “You could,” she replies, “but that sounds like a pretty uncomfortable way to live.”

He half-laughs, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He stirs his coffee, his fingers tapping on the side of the cup, keeping his gaze trained on the countertop. It’s almost like he’s trying to make himself invisible in the soft morning light.

“I don’t mind it,” he mutters, though even he doesn’t seem to believe it. There’s a hollow edge to his voice, the kind of edge that makes Evelyn take another slow sip of her coffee.

She doesn’t speak at first, letting the silence stretch between them. She can feel the heaviness in the air, and she knows better than to try and push through it too quickly. She watches him for a few moments, studying him; the way he sits, the way his shoulders are so stiff, like he’s bracing for something.

Evelyn takes another sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment. She can feel it, the weight that Bucky carries, like a shadow that trails him everywhere he went. She doesn’t have to ask. She doesn’t have to pry. She can see it in the way he moves, in the way he sometimes stares off into space like he is fighting something — or someone — in his mind.

It isn’t hard to tell that the Winter Soldier isn’t gone, not entirely.

She’s never been one to let things slide when they’re so obviously unspoken.

“You don’t have to do it alone, you know,” she says gently, her voice softer than usual, more sincere.

He doesn’t look at her right away, but she can tell her words land on him. His fingers stop tapping against the cup, and she can see the way his jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, like he’s shutting something down inside of him. For a second, she thinks he’s going to retreat. That he’ll give his usual one-word responses and close himself off like he always does. But then, his eyes flicker to hers, and she sees a faint crack in the armour he’s built.

He doesn’t smile, but there’s something else there — something vulnerable, something almost... reluctant.

“I’m not alone,” he says, and it’s clear he’s trying to convince himself more than her. “I’m fine.”

Evelyn’s gaze doesn’t waver. She’s seen this act before. She’s seen people try to push their pain down so far that it takes up all the space inside them. But it doesn’t work. Not with her.

“No,” she says, her voice firm but soft. “You’re not. Sometimes, it helps to share the weight. Even if it’s just with someone who gets it.”

For the first time, Bucky meets her gaze fully. There’s something in his eyes, a flash of something dark, something old. It’s there and gone so quickly that she almost thinks she imagined it. But he doesn’t look away. Not this time.

“I don’t... I don’t talk about it much,” he admits, his voice quieter now, raw in a way she hadn’t expected. “The stuff that goes on in my head... It’s not something I know how to explain.”

“You don’t have to explain it,” Evelyn says, her voice gentle, but firm. “But if you ever want to...” She hesitates, losing her edge. “Look, you don’t know me that well yet, but I guess I just want you to know that I’m here if you need.”

Bucky looks at her again, his expression unreadable for a moment. And then, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth twitch just a little. He doesn’t smile, not yet, but it’s something. A sign. A flicker of recognition. A small crack in the walls he’s built around himself.

He doesn’t answer right away, but there’s something in the way he looks at her now — something different, something open. Not fully, but enough to matter.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

For the first time since they met, Evelyn feels like the man in front of her isn’t the cold soldier she’s seen on the battlefield in videos and in the training ring. He’s just Bucky… a person. A friend, maybe? And, maybe, someone who could one day let himself heal.

As the quiet settles over them again, Evelyn watches him for a moment, then turns back to her coffee. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t need to. She knows he’ll talk when he’s ready and if he wants to. And when he does, she’ll be here.

Chapter Text

It starts as a casual thing — Sam suggesting a "mandatory team bonding exercise" with a wink, dragging out a battered old projector and stringing up a sheet across the common room.

Bowls of popcorn materialise, and there’s a constant stream of movement as people settle in. Yelena kicks her boots up on the coffee table, cracking open a beer. She immediately starts making sarcastic remarks about the film choice, earning an eye roll from Sam. Ava grumbles about how dumb it is but doesn’t leave. She’s there, sitting against the arm of the couch, arms crossed, clearly not expecting much from the movie night.

Evelyn finds herself nestled at the far end of the couch, a little shy. The space between her and the others feels like a bubble, comfortable but slightly isolating. She pulls a knitted throw blanket over her lap, the softness of it offering a small comfort against the unfamiliarity of the situation. She’s still getting used to the people, the unspoken rules of their group, but the low hum of conversation and the soft clatter of plates filling the air reminds her of something that feels almost… normal.

At the last second, someone drops down into the seat beside her — solid and heavy, a faint scent of leather and soap, like the fresh air after a rainfall. She tenses for a moment, startled by the sudden presence, but when she turns her head, she’s met with a familiar, unreadable gaze.

Bucky.

His metal arm brushes lightly against her shoulder, sending a brief, startling jolt through her. Her breath catches for just a second, but she keeps her composure, turning to face him. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about her reaction. He just gives her a nod, something almost casual about it.

“Hey,” he says gruffly, like it’s no big deal. His voice is deep, steady.

“Hey,” she whispers back, her voice a little softer than she intends. She feels the warmth of the couch, the gentle weight of the blanket between them, but also the closeness, the proximity that feels like something she’s not sure how to navigate yet.

Neither of them moves away.

She’s suddenly aware of how close they are — his shoulder brushing against hers, the steady rhythm of his breath beside her. It’s almost too much, but not in a bad way. Just… unfamiliar.

Evelyn takes the blanket and throws it over Bucky’s legs, too. He doesn’t say anything, just lets it settle across him, the fabric soft against his worn jeans. He doesn’t push it off, and in that small, silent moment, Evelyn feels the unspoken agreement — that quiet understanding between them. It’s not much, but it’s something.

As the movie starts — an old action flick Steve apparently loved when he first watched it a few years ago — the grainy film flickers to life on the makeshift screen. It’s a mix of explosions, corny one-liners, and over-the-top stunts, all of which seem to please Steve far too much for Evelyn's taste. But it's Steve's night to pick the film, so she lets it slide, allowing herself to relax into the couch.

Bucky’s arm rests casually along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off him — like the warmth of the sun, familiar but not overwhelming. It’s a presence she didn’t expect, something steady and grounding in the midst of everything else that’s new and still a little too foreign.

The flickering light from the projector casts shadows across their faces, but Evelyn’s mind isn’t on the plot. Instead, it’s the sound of Bucky’s breathing, the faint click of his fingers tapping against the metal of his arm, the way his presence seems to settle into the room, unspoken but undeniable.

It’s strange. She hasn’t figured out this team dynamic yet, hasn’t quite placed herself in it, but there’s something comforting in the simplicity of this moment. She doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words, just the steady comfort of shared space.

Bucky shifts slightly, his arm brushing against her again, a reminder that he’s still there, and for some reason, she doesn’t mind. She looks over at him, catching a glimpse of his eyes in the dim light, something softer behind them. Neither of them says anything, but it feels like they’re in on something together — a small understanding that doesn’t require explanation.

The movie continues, but for a moment, Evelyn forgets to watch it, instead focusing on the quiet rhythm of the night — the soft laughter in the background, the weight of the blanket over them both, and the way the space between her and Bucky doesn’t feel so wide anymore.

When she finally looks back at the screen, it’s to find that she’s not quite as alone as she thought she was.

Every once in a while, she catches him smirking at the ridiculous stunts on-screen, the way the characters defy every law of physics and logic with ease. His expression is soft but knowing, like he’s seen it all before, but still finds it amusing — still finds something to laugh at, even in the ridiculousness of it all. There’s a trace of nostalgia there too, something about the absurdity that reminds him of a time long gone.

Once, she cracks a quiet joke under her breath, something about the way the hero improbably survives a near-death fall. It’s dry, just a simple observation, but when Bucky hears it, he actually laughs — a low, genuine sound that rumbles in his chest. It’s brief, but Evelyn catches it, and something in her chest loosens, as if the sound somehow fills a space she didn’t realise was there. It’s the first time she’s heard him laugh like that — not a chuckle, not a sarcastic remark, but a real, unguarded laugh.

There’s a strange, quiet comfort between them, one that doesn’t require much more than the shared space, the shared moment. It’s as if they’ve known each other longer than a handful of days. As if they’ve seen enough of each other to recognise something familiar, something unspoken. Like two people who understand the unvoiced things that tie them together — the heavy burdens, the unshared history, the weight of it all — without needing to name it.

The movie winds down, the credits slowly rolling across the screen in the kind of slow, clunky fashion that only old films seem to manage. The others start to rib Steve about his questionable taste in movies, loud and playful, but Evelyn barely registers the banter. She’s lost in the quiet hum of the evening, the softness of the air, the comfort of being surrounded by people who don’t feel like strangers anymore.

When the others start to disperse, laughing and teasing one another, Bucky doesn’t move. He stays right where he was — solid, steady, familiar. It’s not that he’s avoiding the group, but somehow, he doesn’t need to join in. He’s content, sitting there in the quiet after the movie, his presence anchoring her without words. He doesn’t offer any grand gesture, but somehow, just by being there, he makes everything feel... simpler.

Evelyn settles back, her eyes drifting to the screen, the dim light from the projector casting shadows around them. But her focus is less on the fading credits now, more on the fact that for the first time in a long while, she feels like she belongs in a place where she’s not just a passing face. A place where the silence between people isn’t awkward but comfortable, even when no one says a word.

Chapter Text

The training room is blessedly empty when Evelyn pads inside the next morning, her body still heavy with the remnants of sleep. A tired yawn escapes her, and she presses a fist to her mouth to stifle the sound. The sunlight streams through the high windows, bathing the space in a warm, golden glow. It dances across the polished floors and glints off the metal fixtures, giving the room a sleek, almost otherworldly sheen. She takes a deep breath, feeling the crisp morning air, and begins to stretch, easing the tightness from her shoulders as her muscles groan in protest.

It’s then she hears the familiar hiss of the door opening behind her, and she doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s walking in.

Bucky strolls in with his usual confidence, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, the fabric of his worn black sweats clinging to his frame. He’s wearing a faded t-shirt that has seen better days, and his metal arm gleams in the morning light. Without missing a beat, he drops the gym bag with a loud thud onto the floor and raises an eyebrow at her with an almost lazy smirk.

“You’re early,” he says, his tone mock-suspicious.

Evelyn’s lips curl into a teasing smile as she rolls her shoulders, preparing for the workout ahead. “I can be punctual when properly bribed,” she replies lightly, flicking a glance at him. “There was a rumour about decent coffee if I survived sparring. Something about a new Wakandan blend Shuri sent you to try?”

Bucky’s smile turns into a rare half-grin, and his eyes twinkle with something that might almost be amusement. “Guess we’ll see if you earn it.”

She’s about to respond when the door opens again, and another figure enters with a punctuated yawn, clearly not quite ready for the day.

“Training the new recruit?” Sam asks, his voice thick with sleep as he ambles in, stretching his arms over his head.

“Trying to,” Bucky answers dryly, eyeing Sam as he heads toward the corner of the room.

Sam grins, looking between them as he lowers himself into a stance. “Gotta train as a team to be a team.”

Bucky snorts in reply, his eyes flicking toward Sam. “We’re not a team, though,” he jokes, gesturing between him and Sam with a wide, exaggerated sweep of his hand.

“No,” Sam agrees, crossing his arms and giving Bucky a pointed look.

“We’re co-workers,” Bucky concludes with a shrug, looking more amused than anything else.

“Sure are, definitely not partners,” Sam raises his eyebrows, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We do look damn good though,” he says, motioning to their new uniforms. The fabric clings just enough to show off their well-toned physiques, particularly Bucky’s — his metal arm gleaming under the fluorescent lights as if daring anyone to ignore it.

“That we do,” Bucky smirks, his usual stone-cold demeanour slipping into something lighter, something almost like pride.

Evelyn watches Sam and Bucky banter, curiosity piqued. She tilts her head slightly and asks, “Do you guys, like, hate each other or something? You give off a weird vibe.”

The two men exchange a glance, the kind that seems almost rehearsed. For a second, Evelyn wonders if they’re messing with her. But then they both shake their heads in unison.

“No,” they say together, their voices alarmingly in sync.

Evelyn raises an eyebrow, her confusion deepening. “Okay…”

Sam steps closer, his usual grin slipping into something more casual, a look that feels a little more grounded. “Look, we didn’t get along so well after Bucky ripped my steering wheel out of my car and tried to kill me as the Manchurian Candidate. But he’s better now. Not perfect — a little angry, a little quiet, a little stalkerish and starey, but you get used to it.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head at Sam’s bluntness. “We also… bonded over mutual hate.”

Evelyn’s interest sharpens, hands resting on her hips as she leans in, eager for more. “Oh? Who are we hating on today?”

Bucky’s face twists, the hint of disgust evident. “John Walker.”

Evelyn’s eyes widen in recognition. “Oh, like John, John Walker?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “He’s on the team. He’s growin’ on us, but he still pisses off grumpy over here.”

“Wasn’t he Captain America for, like, five minutes?” Evie asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky grumbles, voice dripping with disdain.

“He’s a teammate. We’ll jump in front of him out in the field, take a bullet for him, work with him. But outside of that, we’re far from best friends.”

“Far from it,” Bucky repeats. "Got off on the wrong foot."

“Look, I’m just glad Steve decided to come back,” Sam says, his tone a little more serious now. “Neither of us wanted to be Cap,” he explains, gesturing between himself and Bucky. “Steve offered it to both of us, asked if we wanted to take on the mantle when he was set on going back in time to Peggy. We both turned it down — figured the shield would end up in a museum somewhere, collecting dust. But then Walker gets his hands on it, or should I say gets it handed to him, and… let’s just say I would’ve begged Steve on my knees to come back if I’d known what was coming.”

“We didn’t have to try too hard,” Bucky adds with a chuckle, a little warmer now. “Steve regretted it the moment he stepped away. He can’t live without the fight.”

Evelyn nods thoughtfully, piecing it together. “So, let me get this straight. Steve says he’s gonna go back to Peggy Carter in the forties, changes his mind and returns, pretends he’s retired from Avenging, walks away from being Cap, and then ends up right back in the middle of it all? The Captain America mantle Uno-reversed?”

“Uno reverse?” Bucky asks, genuinely confused.

“It’s a game,” Evelyn explains, her eyes dancing with amusement. “We can play sometime. Fair warning, you won’t walk out of it as friends.”

Bucky considers it for a moment, nodding in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Well, kind of,” Sam explains. “When he did come back to join the New Avengers, he didn’t want to be Cap anymore. Wanted to find himself away from that. Steve has always seen Captain America as a totally different personality from himself. He wanted to let that go. He picked his Nomad mantle back up from our time in Wakanda when we were running from every other world government. Felt more like he could just be himself.”

“So, what made you change your mind about being Cap, then?” Evie asks Sam.

Sam sighs, looking out at the horizon for a moment before meeting Evelyn’s eyes. “Honestly? It wasn’t just about the shield or the title. After everything that happened — the Blip, the fight against Thanos, what we all went through — it was more about the world needing someone to step up. Someone who could represent more than just a symbol. It wasn’t about being a perfect hero. It was about being real, you know?”

Bucky nods in agreement, his gaze hardening slightly as he leans back against the wall. “Cap wasn’t just a shield. It was everything Steve stood for. And it wasn’t about him being perfect either. It was about him being someone the world could trust to fight for them. Sam… he’s got that, even if he doesn’t see it all the time.”

Sam smirks at Bucky’s words, a little embarrassed but also touched by the sentiment. “Thanks, man,” he mutters, his voice softening. Then he turns back to Evelyn, the casual confidence slipping back into place. “But yeah, I didn’t want to be Cap at first. It felt like too much. A black man, taking on the stars and stripes… I didn’t think it was right. But when I saw Walker with the shield being a right asshole, I knew I had to do something. I had to make it right. Cap’s not just a mantle. It’s a responsibility. And I knew I was the one who needed to take it.”

Evelyn watches him for a moment, processing his words. “I get it. The weight of it all.”

“Exactly,” Sam says, nodding. “And that’s why Steve didn’t want it anymore. He didn’t think he could live up to it anymore, not after everything he’d already given. But me?” He shrugs. “I’m ready to fight for it. I’m ready to make sure the world sees Captain America for what it really is. Not just a guy with a shield, but a symbol for everyone.”

Evelyn’s expression softens, a quiet respect in her eyes. “You’re right. It’s not just about the title. It’s about who you are underneath it.”

Sam meets her gaze, his smile a little more genuine now. “Exactly.”

Bucky watches them both for a second, then cracks a small grin. “Well, either way, Cap,” he says, his voice lighter now, “I think the world’s in good hands.”

“What’s this? Another compliment?” Sam asks, faking offense.

“I’ll take it back,” Bucky warns.

“No need,” Sam says with a playful wink. “Every time you compliment me, I can just feel myself liking you more already, Buck. And just thinking about Walker makes me appreciate you more. Love you, bestie,” he says to Bucky, his tone full of affection.

Bucky rolls his eyes but can’t suppress the small, amused smile tugging at his lips. “Me too, bestie.”

With that, Sam is off, strutting out of the room with his usual swagger, leaving Evelyn to laugh at the easy camaraderie that seems to have blossomed between them.

“That was cute,” she tells Bucky.

“Shh.” Bucky watches Sam leave, then turns back to Evelyn. “Alright,” he says, voice steady again, the shift in tone subtle but noticeable. “Let’s get to it. We’re behind schedule.”

And with that, the playful mood shifts, and they’re back to training. They circle each other on the mat, the sound of their bare feet slapping against the floor almost rhythmic. Bucky keeps his hands low, his movements deceptively relaxed, but there’s an undeniable sharpness to his every motion — like a coiled spring waiting to snap.

Evelyn knows she’s out of her depth, knows she can’t beat him without her powers, and even then, she’d only barely hold her own. But she’s impressed by how he doesn’t treat her like she’s fragile. His blocks are fluid, his redirection of her attacks seamless. He’s testing her limits, never pulling his punches too obviously, but giving her just enough room to learn from her mistakes.

They move faster now, exchanging low grunts and breathless laughter when she manages to duck or feint around him. Sweat slicks her back, her pulse pounding in her ears, but she keeps going, driven more by stubbornness than form.

After one exchange where she manages a quick tap on his ribs, Bucky steps back, nodding in approval. "You're getting better," he says, a bit winded. "Quicker."

Evelyn grins, pushing a damp strand of hair away from her forehead. “Guess Steve’s not the only stubborn one around here.”

Bucky lets out a rare, low laugh. “Not bad for a musician,” he teases.

“Hey!” she protests, mock-offended. “We have excellent hand-eye coordination.”

He smirks, shaking his shoulders out. His metal arm catches the light as it moves, almost gleaming.

“You still have to be able to hold your own if shit goes sideways,” he says, his voice turning serious. “Power or no power.”

“I know, you already said,” Evelyn replies simply, the weight of his words settling over her. Every bruise, every sore muscle is a reminder that this isn’t just play.

They reset positions, Bucky shifting his stance slightly, raising his hands again. Evelyn mirrors him. The moment draws taut between them. Focused. Intent.

Then it happens.

They both lunge at the same time, but not in sync. He shifts right just as she darts left, trying for a feint and follow-up strike. But instead of evading him cleanly, her fist—intended for his shoulder—connects hard and fast with the side of his jaw.

A sharp crack echoes through the room. Bucky reels back a step, hand flying to his face, more stunned than hurt.

“Oh my god—Bucky!” Evelyn gasps, stumbling forward. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—are you okay? I swear I wasn’t trying to actually hit you—well, not there—”

Bucky blinks a few times, jaw clenched, fingers pressed to his cheekbone. Then, he laughs. Quiet and rough around the edges, but unmistakably amused.

“Nice punch,” he says, his lip quirking.

Evelyn gapes at him. “You’re not mad?”

He rubs his jaw, then shrugs. “Should’ve seen it coming. That was a good angle. Quick execution.”

She squints at him. “You’re… complimenting me for accidentally punching you in the face?”

He grins now, cheek still pink where she hit him. “Well, we’re not supposed to actually land hits like that, but hey—if you can knock me off balance, you’re doing something right.”

Evelyn groans, dropping her hands to her hips. “I’m going to feel guilty about this forever.”

“Don’t,” he says, and something shifts in his tone. A flicker of respect woven into it. “I’ve had worse.”

He watches her for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering across his face. It’s not approval exactly, more like something deeper, quieter, heavier.

"Give me your hand," he says quietly.

Evelyn frowns, confused, but extends her hand without hesitation. It’s still curled slightly from the impact, the knuckles flushed and red. Bucky takes it in both of his, his right hand cradling hers, and his metal fingers brushing lightly over the bruising.

He’s so careful it nearly undoes her.

His thumb ghosts over her skin, cool and deliberate, like he’s memorising the contours. Like he’s afraid of hurting her, even though she just socked him in the face. The contrast of warm skin and cold vibranium sends a shiver up her spine, but she doesn’t pull away.

“That’ll bruise,” he murmurs, eyes on her hand, his voice softer than she’s used to. He says it like a promise. Or maybe a warning.

"You've knocked me on my ass nearly every session near a month and you're worried about a little bruising," she says with a breathy laugh. "S’okay.”

Bucky looks up then, meeting her gaze, and it’s like something in him pauses. Catches. His hand tightens just slightly around hers, like he’s anchoring himself. “We’ll ice it,” he says.

“When we finish training,” she insists, trying to steady the heat climbing her neck. “Twenty minutes more won’t kill me.”

His thumb lingers over a tender spot. He doesn’t let go. “You’re tough,” he says, voice low and certain, no trace of teasing now. “Don’t lose that.”

Evelyn swallows, hard. She doesn’t realise she’s still holding his gaze until she starts to forget what she was supposed to say.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” she manages.

He gives her hand one last, careful squeeze before finally letting go, stepping back — and just like that, the moment ends. But the feeling doesn’t.

They reset their positions once again, circling each other. When Bucky lunges this time, she manages to stay on her feet a few seconds longer before he sweeps her off her balance, pinning her with one swift move. She’s flat on her back before she knows it, winded and laughing.

“Back to normal,” he says with a smirk.

“God, you’re a menace,” she groans, staring up at him.

Bucky offers her a hand, his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to laugh too. “Come on, trouble,” he says, his voice low with amusement. “Up you get. Coffee’s not gonna earn itself.”

The team kitchen is still quiet when Evelyn walks in, the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows, casting long shadows on the polished tile floor. She’s still panting lightly from the workout, sweat clinging to her skin. She slides into a seat at one of the long tables, resting her elbows on the surface, her eyes half-lidded in exhaustion. She flexes her fist, feeling the ache across the knuckles. She did punch him hard. 

Bucky enters after her, his heavy gym bag slung over one shoulder. Without a word, he sets two steaming cups of coffee on the table—one for her, one for himself, a newfound routine between them. He wraps a bag of never-opened frozen peas that've been in the freezer for months in a tea towel and places it on the bench beside her. Then he takes a seat across from her, stretching his legs out and leaning back in his chair with a small, satisfied grunt.

Evelyn blows on her coffee, the warmth tingling her fingers. She holds the ice pack to her hand. "I gotta say, I never thought I'd be drinking coffee before seven AM," she says, her voice light with a hint of humour. "I’m normally not up yet if I can help it."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Why not? Day’s young."

"Not when you work a shift at the bar until 2 AM," she replies, smirking. "I’m more of a night owl."

"Sure," Bucky agrees. "Why the late shifts?"

"They pay more," she adds with a shrug, sipping her coffee.

Evelyn lets out a slow exhale, her eyes scanning the room as she tries to shake off the lingering fatigue from the workout. She’s not used to this much physical exertion so early in the day. Her muscles ache, but it’s a good kind of pain — the kind that reminds her she’s still alive, still pushing herself.

Bucky stirs his coffee slowly, his gaze fixed on his mug. "Guess that’s one way to make a living." His voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it — maybe concern, maybe curiosity, hard to tell. "You ever think about leaving it behind? Now that you’re here, avenging."

She pauses for a moment, her eyes flicking up to meet his. There's something in his tone, something softer than the usual gruffness he hides behind. She shrugs lightly, tapping the side of her mug with her fingers. “I don’t know if I could. Not yet, anyway. It's kind of... who I am, you know? The bar and my music is my thing. I’m good at it. Been making music since I can remember, and working at the bar since I came to the city at nineteen.” She cracks a small smile, almost to herself. “And it’s the only thing that’s ever been consistent for me.”

Bucky watches her for a beat, his eyes dark and unreadable. The silence stretches just a little longer than it should, but neither of them rush to fill it. Finally, he leans forward slightly, his voice low. “You ever think about something else? Something more... stable?”

Evelyn furrows her brow, unsure how to take his question. “You mean, like, normal?”

Bucky nods. “I guess. Something... not this.” He gestures vaguely around them, at the compound, at the lives they lead. "You ever think about a life that isn’t just bouncing from one thing to the next?"

Her breath catches slightly, a quick glance at him betraying an emotion she doesn’t want to name. She’s not sure she has the answer. “I don’t know if normal exists for people like us,” she says softly, looking down at her coffee. “For all of us… it’s always been just trying to survive, getting by however we can.” She hesitates, then looks up at him, meeting his eyes. "It’s hard to imagine a life that doesn’t have a little chaos in it.”

He gives a small, wry smile. "I get that," he mutters. "But... maybe it doesn’t have to be all chaos. Maybe there’s room for something else too."

There’s something in his words that lingers, an unspoken possibility between them. She’s not sure if he’s talking about her, or him, or both of them. Maybe she’s not sure if she’s ready to even entertain that thought.

“Maybe,” she agrees quietly, but doesn’t press it.

Instead, she takes another sip of her coffee, the warmth filling her as the silence stretches comfortably between them. There’s no need for more words for now. Just the steady rhythm of their routine, the easy companionship they’ve built in the short time they’ve known each other. It’s enough, for now.

"So, what are you, a caffeine addict?" she asks, watching him refill his cup and drink his third cup already.

Bucky’s lips quirk as he takes another long sip, barely flinching at the heat. "You could say that," he replies, his voice low and smooth. "It’s a necessity."

She raises an eyebrow, leaning forward a little. "How’s that?"

Bucky’s gaze flickers for just a moment, a shadow crossing his face as he sets his cup down. His fingers run absentmindedly over the rim, a nervous habit that betrays him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. "Well, I don't sleep much. Need it to function sometimes. And I’m a super soldier. Takes a little more caffeine to stimulate the brain," he says, his voice softening, as if he’s not entirely sure he wants to say more. "Also, I can’t get drunk."

Evelyn chuckles. "Well, that’s a bummer. No liquid courage for you on the dance floor," she teases.

“Haven’t danced since 1943 anyway.” Bucky takes a breath, then looks at her, his gaze suddenly heavier. "But also… Hydra messed with my head," he says, his voice rougher now, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "A lot. And it left its mark. Sometimes it’s like these… migraines. Sharp, intense. They’re not just headaches. They’re more like… bursts of pain that hit out of nowhere. The caffeine helps with it. Gives me a little relief. It’s not a cure, but it helps take the edge off."

Evelyn’s eyes widen slightly, her lips parting in surprise. She hadn’t expected that response and hadn’t expected the moment to feel so… raw. She studies him quietly, her expression softening. "I had no idea," she says, her voice quieter now. "I mean, I knew about Hydra, but I didn’t realise it had that much of an effect still. Now you’ve had the trigger words wiped and stuff..."

Bucky looks at her then, his gaze softening too, though it’s fleeting. He picks up his coffee again, swirling it slowly, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the porcelain mug. "Yeah, well… people tend to forget that sometimes. It wasn’t just the arm," he says, almost to himself, his voice quieter now. "It was the mind games. The conditioning. That stuff sticks with you longer than the scars. ‘Specially after they put me brain through the blender for eighty years.”

Evelyn is silent for a moment, processing what he’s just shared. She knows all about complications—her own powers came with their own baggage, things she wasn’t fully ready to confront. But this? This feels different. She can feel the years of pain behind his words, the unspoken weight he carries.

"I’m sorry you went through that," she says, her voice sincere, the words genuine.

Bucky’s gaze flickers to hers, then quickly away, his lips pressing into a thin line. The brief flash of vulnerability is quickly hidden, but she catches it. "It’s just... how it is," he says quietly, his tone dismissive, as if he’s trying to brush it all off.

But the tension has shifted. There’s something new between them now. It’s not just about being teammates anymore. No, this is different. This is trust. She can feel it, the understanding settling between them like an unspoken bond. For a moment, he’s not the soldier, not the guy with the metal arm and the baggage. He’s just… Bucky. Human. Real.

Evelyn smiles, a small, knowing smile. She lifts her cup toward him. "Well, at least now I know who to come to when I need a caffeine fix. I think I could use more of this if I’m gonna survive another round with you."

Bucky smirks, his eyes lighting up with mischief again, but there’s warmth there now. "Only if you’re ready for a real challenge," he teases, the playfulness back in his tone.

"I’m always ready," she shoots back with a playful grin, her eyes glinting.

Bucky chuckles, leaning back in his chair again. The tension in his shoulders eases, and the conversation shifts back to small talk, back to the light banter. But beneath it all, there’s something more. Something unspoken.

Later that evening, Evelyn finds herself perched at the kitchen counter, legs swinging idly from the stool as she stirs the last bit of pasta around her bowl. The compound is unusually quiet, the steady hum of the fridge filling the space between them. Most of the Avengers have disappeared - a few on a mission, a few out for the night, and a few going back to their homes and families for a break. Bucky stands across from her, nursing a glass of water, his other hand pressed lightly to his cheek.

She eyes the spot with a wince. “Still sore?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at her, deadpan. “You tell me.”

“Oh my god, I said I was sorry like twelve times,” she groans, dropping her fork dramatically. “Do you want me to knit you a sympathy hat? Write a musical apology ballad?”

His lips twitch. “Kinda want to hear that ballad now.”

Evelyn narrows her eyes. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll do it. I’ll write a whole tragic piece about The Time I Accidentally Punched a Super Soldier in the Face. I’ll debut it at the bar tomorrow night.”

Bucky chuckles, finally sitting down next to her with a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you this—most people don’t even get close. Let alone land one.”

She blinks. “Wait, really? I’m not just... a fluke?”

He glances at her sideways. “You caught me off guard. That takes nerve.”

A pause settles between them, quieter now, something a little softer in the air. Evelyn bites her lip, then says, “I really didn’t want to hurt you.”

Bucky nods. “I know.”

She leans her elbow on the counter, resting her cheek in her hand. “Still feels weird. Like, we’re sparring to get better, not beat the crap out of each other.”

“Well, you didn’t beat the crap out of me,” he says with a smirk. “Just mildly rattled my brain.”

She rolls her eyes. “Good to know you bounced back.”

He raises his glass in mock salute. “Gotta keep the moneymaker intact.”

She snorts. “Oh, please. What, worried your modelling career’s in danger now?”

“Obviously,” he deadpans. “This face is important. Cereal box photos. Campaign posters. Kids need to believe in something.”

Evelyn nearly chokes on her water, laughing. “Yeah, nothing says hope like brooding and a five o’clock shadow.”

“Exactly,” Bucky replies without missing a beat. “Classic American image.”

She leans forward, smirking. “You know they’re just gonna Photoshop Steve’s face over yours, right?”

“Rude.”

They both laugh, and for a moment, the tension that always seems to linger at the edges of Bucky’s presence melts away.

Then, more quietly, he adds, “You’re alright, Evie.”

She looks at him, surprised by the warmth in his voice. “Thanks. So are you.”

He meets her eyes, something unreadable flickering again in his expression. Then, lighter, “Just... give me a heads-up next time you’re gonna go for my face.”

Just as Evelyn opens her mouth to make another smart remark, the sound of the front door hissing open cuts through the conversation.

Steve steps into the kitchen, casual in sweats and a faded T-shirt, towel slung over his shoulder from a late-night run. He pauses mid-step when he sees Bucky at the counter, nursing his cheek, and Evelyn perched across from him, clearly trying not to laugh.

Bucky, like the absolute menace he is, slowly turns to Steve with a straight face and says, “Evie punched me.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“In the face,” Bucky adds helpfully, gesturing to the barely forming bruise along his jawline. “Full force.”

“It was an accident!” Evelyn blurts, hands raised in panicked defence. “We were sparring and I didn’t mean to—he lunged wrong!”

“I lunged correctly,” Bucky says with all the dignity of someone who definitely did not. Bucky gives him a deadpan look. “My modelling career is hanging by a thread.”

Evelyn groans into her hands. “Oh my god.”

Steve turns to her with a grin threatening to spread. “Honestly? I’m kinda proud.”

“Why?!” she asks, scandalised.

He shrugs. “He’s been asking for it for, like, a decade.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, raising his water in a silent toast.

Steve claps him on the shoulder. “You finally met your match, Buck.”

“She caught me off guard,” Bucky mutters, but there's no real bitterness behind it — only a glint of amusement and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of pride.

Evelyn throws her hands up. “Great. Two super soldiers and I’m the problem now.”

Steve chuckles. “Nope. You’re just efficient.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, tilting his head slightly. “And dangerous.”

Evelyn smirks. “Put that on my cereal box.”

Chapter Text

Evie stands at the bar, the hum of the dishwasher in the background, her hands busy drying the last of the dishes from her shift. It’s nearly one in the morning, and the bar is winding down, the chatter of the few remaining patrons just a low murmur. Her mind is already drifting, not entirely focused on the routine task in front of her, when Sam’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and inquisitive.

“So, you’re an Avenger now, officially. You got a superhero name?”

She looks up, eyes flicking to Sam, who’s lounging near the counter, his arms crossed. He’s got that easy confidence about him, like he’s just waiting for her to drop some epic answer.

Evie lets out a small laugh, wiping the glass dry before setting it in the stack. “Yeah, hotshot,” she replies, her voice light, teasing. “Do I need a name to go with the superhero cape, or can I just be... Evie?”

“You don’t wear a cape?” Bob asks quietly, head titling in confusion.

“I know, it was a The Incredibles joke,” Evie explains softly.

Bob nods at that, accepting it even though Evie’s sure he’s probably never seen the film.

The male members of the New Avengers, minus Steve, are on a night out. Enjoying a bit of peace and quiet from their usual lives, a beer or two in a dingy bar somewhere - and what better way to do it than to come ruin Evie’s peace and quiet at her shift.

Evie complained when they first walked in, but secretly she’s been loving the company and the death glares Bucky’s been sending to the customers that get a little too forward. 

Walker, leaning against the bar next to her, takes a swig of his beer and snorts. “You need a name for the public. Come on, you know that. You can’t just walk around being ‘Evie,’ unless you want people calling you ‘that one Avenger chick.’” He smirks, amused by his own joke, but Evie only rolls her eyes.

“I don’t need a superhero name,” she mutters, glancing at the clock. 1:02 AM. The hands on the wall tick forward as the quiet night drags on, the subtle click of the second hand joining the background hum of the bar.

She pulls another glass from the dishwasher and dries it off, rubbing out the water marks, the warmness of the surface against her palm making her feel grounded.

“Come on, Evie,” Walker presses again, a little louder now. “You’ve got to have one. Think about it. We all have cool names – U.S. Agent, Sentry, Red Guardian, Captain America, White Wolf… What are you gonna do when someone asks who you are?”

Evie’s fingers pause mid-motion, and she shrugs, not really feeling the weight of the question. “I’m not really concerned about it.”

“Oh, you should be,” Walker continues, leaning in a little as he tries to get a rise out of her. “You’ve got powers. You’re an Avenger. You gotta have a name for the press.”

“Have you ever tried to think of one?” Alexei’s voice booms from across the bar, where he’s nursing his own drink, sitting back in a chair watching some random sporting game on the tiny TV in the corner. There’s something warm, almost proud, about the way he asks it.

Evie chuckles, glancing at Alexei with a shrug. “Nope,” she says, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile. She glances around the bar. “Well, you got any ideas?”

The silence that follows stretches just a little too long, each of the men around her turning the question over in their minds. Sam raises his brows and looks to Bucky for input. Sam opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. Bob tilts his head further, brows furrowing in thought. Bucky’s expression is vaguely thoughtful, eyeing John.

“Thought that might be the case,” she mutters, shaking her head at Walker and Alexei’s blank expressions She leans against the counter, the towel in her hand falling forgotten to the side.

Sam scratches his chin, his gaze shifting thoughtfully. “You could go with something like… Serenity? Something that reflects your calming presence.”

Evie pulls a face at Sam’s suggestion, making a noise of mock-disgust. “Serenity?” She cringes, turning to Alexei, who shrugs, unimpressed. “That’s your suggestion, Sam?”

Bucky chuckles.

“What about Calm?” Walker suggests.

Evie’s face scrunches slightly as she looks at the suggestion. "Calm?" she repeats, tilting her head. She smirks, playfully nudging him with her elbow. “It’s a little… tame for a superhero name, don’t you think?”

Walker grins and raises his glass. “Guess if you’re gonna be part of the crew, you gotta have something with a little more punch.”

Bob laughs over his drink. “Like how you punched Bucky,” he adds helpfully, smiling brightly and jabbing Bucky lightly in the ribs.

“Did you tell everyone about that?” Evie asks Bucky.

”Sure did. You’re my abusive friend,” Bucky deadpans.

Evie rolls her eyes. “Oh, bull,” she tells him. "Anyone got any better ideas?" she asks, raising an eyebrow, but her tone is teasing. She’s only half-serious, but still curious to see what they come up with.

“You need something strong, something powerful!” Alexei declares, suddenly energized, crossing the bar to stand beside Bucky. He thunks his empty beer glass down with purpose, and she passes him another wordlessly, cracking the top open with a flick of her wrist.

“Like… Red Widow,” he begins. “American Girl. Or…” He snaps his fingers. “Girl Guardian!” It’s said like an epiphany, his eyes wide, proud.

“No,” she says flatly, her frown immediate. “Absolutely not. That sounds like a Saturday morning cartoon.”

“It’s vintage!” Alexei protests, wounded.

“It’s terrible,” Bucky mutters beside him.

Evie turns toward the counter, chuckling to herself, when she notices the way Bucky’s gone quiet. He’s leaning on the bar now, his fingers tapping rhythmically, brows drawn as though turning something over in his head.

Finally, he speaks.

“What about… Aura?”

The word hangs there, soft but grounded. He doesn’t look at anyone at first—just at her.

“It’s not just about calming people,” he says, almost like he’s explaining it to himself as much as to her. “It’s the way you change the room when you walk in. The way people stop and listen. You don’t push people—you pull them in. And with the way you move things, sense energy… it fits. Feels natural.” His voice drops on the last word. He glances at her then, cautious but sure, like he knows exactly how much it means and is afraid she might still push it away.

There’s a beat of silence. Sam, Walker, Alexei—all of them look at Bucky, eyebrows raised in open surprise. Not at the name, but at the way he said it. Like it meant more.

Bob smiles. He meets Evie’s eyes, holds them for a second. “He’s right. That’s very true. Perceptive.”

Evie stares at Bob for a moment, lips slightly parted, before her eyes shift to Bucky. There’s a strange flutter in her chest, like something delicate cracking open.

“…I kind of like that,” she says finally, voice softer than she meant. She turns the name over in her mouth again. “Aura. The Aura.”

There’s power in it, but grace too. It isn’t flashy or aggressive. It’s her.

Bucky lets out a breath, a small smile ghosting over his lips. “Yeah. Thought you might.”

Sam whistles low in surprise. “Well, look at that,” Sam says, raising his glass with an impressed grin. “Turns out the Buckster has a poetic streak.”

Walker whistles. “Never thought I’d live to see Bucky ‘Steel Glare’ Barnes name a superhero with actual emotional insight.”

Bucky glares at both of them. “You want emotional insight? I could throw you out that window.”

Sam holds his hands up, grinning. “And there he is.”

Before the moment gets too sentimental, Evie’s phone buzzes. She glances down, already guessing who it is. Her eyes widen as she reads it.

“Guess we should be getting some merch ready,” she mutters, scrolling through the incoming messages.

“Already?” Alexei asks, bewildered. “But we just named you!”

“I’m sure Valentina’s on it,” Walker replies without missing a beat. He points at her phone. “I texted her the name two minutes ago. She replied with about fifty emojis. She likes it. You’re probably already a Funko Pop.”

“Why the hell is she working at one in the morning?” Alexei asks. “Does this woman not sleep?”

Evie groans and laughs all at once. “You really think she’ll do that?”

“You really want to doubt her?” Sam adds. “Pretty sure she’s been waiting to brand you since day one.”

The next morning, Evie sits on her bed, legs curled beneath her, still in sleep clothes and staring at her phone screen. The message from Valentina is the last thing in the thread – a full mock-up graphic with her smirking face edited into a cinematic pose, glowing energy around her hands, hair sweeping dramatically in the wind, the name The Aura in glittering silver type. Beneath it, The Avengers’ Newest Hero.

She stares at it for a long second.

It’s silly. It’s over-the-top.

But it’s also real. Something about it roots itself deep in her chest, grounding her in this strange new life.

“Well,” she mutters, half-smiling, “guess that’s official.”

She leans back, eyes lingering on the glowing graphic. The name feels weird. But also good. Comfortable. Like pulling on a coat that was always meant for her.

Behind her, there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Yeah?” she calls, glancing back.

The door creaks open and Bucky appears, hoodie slung over his shoulder. His eyes flick to her phone. “…Val already sent the graphic?”

Evie holds it up for him to see. “I think she had it pre-made. Just waiting for a name to slap on it.”

He snorts, walking into the room. “It’s not bad,” he says after a second, then adds—almost shyly—“…Looks good on you.”

She tilts her head, smiling. “Thanks for naming me.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t name you. Just saw you for what you already were.”

Evie feels the warmth bloom in her chest again, soft and full. She holds his gaze for a long moment.

“You’re a real softie, you know.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, turning away—but he’s smiling.

Evie is halfway through her second coffee when her name starts trending.

She doesn’t notice at first. She’s in sweatpants, scrolling aimlessly on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders and a plate of toast crumbs in her lap. Bucky’s somewhere in the kitchen, being suspiciously quiet, and Sam’s doing push-ups in the living room like a menace. The others are still in the training room, having started later. Typical Tuesday.

Then her phone pings. And again. And again.

And then it buzzes nonstop.

She frowns, opens her notifications—

#THEAURA
#AvengersNewHero
#WhoIsAura
#GirlWithTheGlow
Aura Fan Cam 😳💥
Valentina’s Hero Drops Like a Bombshell: Who is Aura and Where Did She Come From?

“What the—” Evie mutters, tapping into one of the links.

It’s a GQ article.

It’s a glossy profile piece.

There’s a full dossier of her public record, highly edited action stills from training sessions (because she hasn’t really done proper missions or PR yet), a freeze-frame of her lifting a beam off a trapped civilian on the street (from before she was even an Avenger when she was just a bystander to some villain tyrant burning through the city). She nearly wets her pants laughing when she sees the slowed down clip of her landing a punch on Bucky’s jaw in the training room, his face slowly crumpling into an expression of shock, her own eyes widening comically as she reaches for him to apologise. It talks about her life before the New Avengers, working the bar, her performances, her musical career.

And right there, in bold font at the top of the article:

Meet Aura: The Calm Before the Storm

“Oh my god,” she says aloud.

“What’s up?” Sam asks, not stopping his push-ups.

She turns the screen toward him. “Did you know about this?”

Sam glances, squints, and laughs. “Oh, hell. Val’s not even pretending to be subtle anymore.”

“I didn’t even approve that picture!” she sputters. “I look like I’m in a shampoo commercial. And the wind machine they put in front of me. Oh my god.”

“Pretty sure that’s the goal.”

“Has she made merch?”

“She made it the second Bucky said the name out loud and Walker sent that text,” Sam says. “There’s a mug in the kitchen. I bought it yesterday.”

Evie bolts upright. “What?!”

Bucky, emerging from the kitchen with said mug in hand, looks sheepish. The mug says ‘Aura Energy Only’ in cursive font with sparkles. He slowly sets it down on the table between them.

“Thought it was funny,” he mumbles.

“Et tu, Barnes?”

He shrugs. “It’s dishwasher safe.”

The media frenzy only intensifies from there.

By noon, she’s been tagged in thirty fan edits. Valentina has posted a “Welcome Aura” video on the New Avengers Instagram page, with dramatic orchestral music and a montage of her greatest hits, the punch on Bucky Barnes the main clip being used and her sparring with the super soldiers. 

Jimmy Fallon name-drops her in his monologue.

Some outlets call her the new Jean Grey. Some compare her to Scarlet Witch. Some are arguing about her hair colour.

And then there's the “hot or not” debate on Twitter, which explicitly lands on the “hot” side, that sends her burying her face in a pillow for ten solid minutes.

Chapter Text

General Ross walks into the room, his presence filling the space as he surveys the group of assembled New Avengers.

There's a noticeable tension in the air—a mix of curiosity, caution, and barely concealed distrust—as they gather in the newly established headquarters.

The New Avengers are a varied group: some familiar faces from the original lineup, new recruits, and a few unexpected additions. The team’s makeup reflects the shifting nature of what the Avengers have become. Some are veterans, seasoned by battle and time, while others are still finding their place. And then there’s the wildcard—Bucky, once the Winter Soldier, now struggling to prove he’s something else entirely.

Ross stands in the middle of the room, eyeing them all with a disapproving frown. He surveys the lineup slowly, his gaze lingering longest on Evelyn and Bucky. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation,” he begins, voice sharp, eyes narrowing. “You’ve put together this team—this New Avengers—and some of you were around during the Accords. You know what we asked of you, then, what the world was looking for in the Avengers. What more are you offering here? We’re asking you to reassemble, and this is all you can muster?”

Before Steve can respond, Yelena cuts in, barely masking her irritation. “Valentina reassembled us first,” she says coolly. “She chose us.” She points to those on Valentina’s original Thunderbolts team.

As if on cue, the doors at the back of the room open again. Valentina steps through with a theatrical slowness that makes it clear she’s not used to being ignored.

“Well, technically, Ross,” she says, her voice like velvet lined with steel, “you didn’t ask them to reassemble. You told Wilson to reassemble a team. And then you tried to absorb them into your little personal army.”

She makes her way down the steps, heels clicking, eyes sweeping over the team with calculated appraisal.

“And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Accords didn’t exactly age well. Not everyone’s keen on falling in line just because you barked.”

Ross’s jaw tenses. “You’ve given them resources and oversight. That doesn’t make you a General, Valentina.”

“I’m not trying to be one.” She smiles, baring teeth. “I'm something better—I’m someone who knows how to get things done.” She glances sideways at Steve and Sam. “And I trust the people I back.”

Steve sighs but stands tall, calm and composed. “With respect, sir, this isn’t everyone. We’re not all available at once. But the core team is here right now.” He gestures around the room. “We’ll be Avenging full-time. A few others—Ant-Man, Spider-Man, Strange, Ghost, Red Guardian—will rotate in. They couldn’t be here today.”

“We work under Valentina’s funding,” Sam explains carefully, “but we’re a separate entity. Pepper Potts has reassumed Stark Industries’ position as a sponsor as well.”

Ross narrows his eyes. “Sounds more like a cover for you working under the radar.”

Valentina laughs lightly, folding her arms. “Isn’t that rich coming from you. How many black ops did you sign off on during your time, Thunderbolt?” Her tone sours as she steps closer. “They’re doing what you couldn’t. Building something functional. Something ethical. Something with accountability—just not to you.”

Ross turns back to Steve. “You still won’t accept my offer to bring the team under my command?”

“No, sir,” Steve says simply. “You lost our trust with the Accords. We’re privately funded. We work within the law. But we’re not going to be weaponised.”

There’s a moment of tense silence before Valentina smiles sweetly and offers Ross a pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Thaddeus,” she says. “You can still be adjacent to history. That’s something.”

Ross’s eyes narrow as his gaze flicks to Bucky, standing off to one side, his posture relaxed but alert. There’s a tension in the room, palpable and thick, as Ross lets out a low, controlled exhale before speaking.

“I’m not sure I agree with the Winter Soldier being on the team,” Ross says, his voice laced with scepticism.

“It’s “White Wolf”. And that’s not your decision,” Steve says simply.

 “He’s too volatile. Too unpredictable.” Ross’ words drip with disdain, as if each syllable weighs heavy with judgment. “The reasons for the breakdown of the Avengers in the first place.”

Yelena steps forward, her movements smooth but deliberate. Her eyes narrow, and her expression hardens into something colder. “He’s had his redemption, Ross. He was pardoned. He’s done the work. Don’t try to pretend you don’t know that.” She doesn’t flinch under his gaze, and her voice is unwavering, a steady reminder of the past.

Ross scoffs, brushing off her words as if they mean little to him. “A pardon doesn’t change what he did. You can’t just erase all that blood on his hands.”

“We all have blood on our hands. Some of us have a past that’s dripping red. But we’re here now. Trying to do the right thing. Trying to make up for that and help people. Isn’t that what counts?” Yelena asks.

Ross sighs. The venom in his tone rises with each word, and his eyes flash with a mix of old anger and newfound contempt. He takes a step forward, closing the space between them, his eyes still locked on Bucky. “You really think you can trust him?”

Steve’s expression hardens, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he moves to stand next to Bucky. He places a hand over his chest, a subtle but forceful gesture meant to emphasize the weight of his next words. “Ross,” he begins, his voice firm and commanding, “Bucky is far from the Winter Soldier. He’s changed. He’s worked hard. He’s in therapy, doing the hard yards. Give him a little credit.”

Evelyn crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at Ross with a cool, calculating stare. The disdain is clear in her posture, even though they’ve yet to exchange words. She’s already formed an opinion, and it’s not in Ross’s favour.

“The New Avengers are funded by Stark Industries and by OXE,” Steve continues, his voice now hard with authority. “You really don’t have a say in what we do.” He steps closer to Ross, an invisible line being drawn in the sand. “There are no Accords anymore. We’re a private institution. We recruit who we see fit to do the job as required. Saving the world when needed. And Bucky is part of that.” He turns fully to face Ross now, his gaze unwavering, as though daring him to argue further.

Ross bristles at the dismissal of his authority, and his eyes flicker between Steve and Bucky, frustration boiling under the surface. His voice rises with anger, the words coming out sharper, more biting. “I can’t just ignore the fact that he’s a former assassin—trained by Hydra, brainwashed to kill,” Ross continues, his voice rising with each syllable. “He murdered hundreds. Thousands.”

“And I’m former KGB Red Room,” Yelena says, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We all have a past. You don’t keep bringing that up.”

Ross pauses, his hand gripping the back of his neck, frustration evident on his face. “That’s… different,” he mutters, but his words carry no weight, falling flat in the face of Yelena’s rebuttal.

Bucky, who’s been standing silently off to the side, finally speaks, his voice surprisingly calm considering the rising tension in the room. “Look, I’m not him anymore,” he says, his voice steady and unyielding. “I’m just… I’ve changed the name and everything.” He shrugs, his posture almost casual as he looks down at the floor, his jaw tightening with something more—regret? Pain? “I’m not the brainwashed Winter Soldier anymore, Ross. I’m… Bucky,” he says, his voice raw, the weight of his past evident in the way he says it. “Or at least, trying to be.”

Ross’s eyes are cold as he stares at Bucky, his gaze hard, unrelenting. “You think that changes everything?” he spits, his voice sharp. “You think that erases your past?”

Steve steps in once more, his voice low but authoritative. “Ross…” He says the name with warning, a simple word that carries weight, the unspoken plea to let it go.

Sam cuts in then, his tone light and joking, immediately diffusing the tension in Bucky’s shoulders. “Ross, do you really think this is the face of a killer?” he asks, his voice rising just a bit, his tone mocking. He suddenly grabs Bucky’s face, pinching his cheeks together like he’s messing with a kid. Bucky’s chubby cheeks smoosh up under the pressure, and for a moment, he looks absurdly innocent.

Bucky bats Sam’s hands away with a grunt. “Fuck off, Sam,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. But there’s a faint smile on his lips, a momentary reprieve from the heaviness in the room.

“Now come on, children. Play nice,” Valentina says, her voice laced with humour.

The laughter that follows is a balm, soothing the tension and breaking the wall Ross has tried to erect. But even as the room lightens, Ross’s face darkens. He clears his throat, trying to regain control of the room.

“You know, he killed Stark’s parents,” Ross says suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a knife. “And Stark isn’t here to defend himself anymore after saving the entire universe and getting killed in the process,” he adds, his eyes now piercing as he looks at Bucky. “Would Stark really want this… this… murderer on what used to be his team?”

The mention of Stark’s death hits harder than any of Ross’s words could. Bucky’s face falls immediately, the colour draining from his features as he is struck with the weight of Ross’s accusation. His shoulders slump slightly, and for a moment, he looks like he might crumble under the gaze of the man who stands before him.

Evelyn can sense it—the shift in Bucky’s thoughts, the self-hatred that comes with the reminder of his past. She can feel it too, the rawness in the air.

“You’re out of line,” Evelyn says before she can stop herself, her voice cutting through the sudden hush in the room. Her words are sharp, her gaze unwavering as she locks eyes with Ross.

The room goes quiet. Everyone turns to look at her, their eyes wide in surprise, as if they hadn't expected anyone else to speak out against Ross, let alone the new recruit.

“Sorry?” Ross asks, his voice cool but filled with an edge of disbelief, his eyebrows raising in challenge.

“I mean, apology accepted,” Evelyn retorts with a smirk, the words dripping with sarcasm, “but you could say it with a little less attitude.”

“Atta girl,” Val adds.

Ross stares at her, dumbfounded. Sam snorts. Steve hides his smile. Bucky stares at her, wide-eyed.

She steps forward, her stance confident, arms crossed over her chest. She pauses to eye him up for just a moment before asking, “Are you done talking shit about Bucky, or are you going to keep digging yourself a hole?”

Ross laughs, but it’s humourless, and there’s no trace of amusement in it. “Who do you think you are? You don’t even know me.”

Evelyn’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’ve seen enough to know what kind of person you are.”

Ross’s jaw tightens, his teeth gritted as he glares at her, his expression a storm of disbelief and fury. He steps forward, closing the space between them, towering over her. The threat in his posture is unmistakable, but Evelyn doesn’t flinch. She stands her ground, arms crossed, staring him down without an ounce of fear.

“Evelyn Day,” he says, looking her up and down, his voice a low growl.

“Thunderbolt Ross,” she replies coolly, her tone even, her eyes unwavering. “You’re taller in person than I thought… And older. When are you going to retire?”

Ross smirks, the gesture predatory. “They tell me your powers are strong. I hope you’ll be a suitable addition to the team.”

Evelyn nods, her expression sincere, but there’s an edge to her voice. “Hope so. I just hope I’m not too volatile or unpredictable for your liking.”

Ross opens his mouth to retort, but instead, he just huffs, clearly trying to hold back his frustration. He clenches his fists, his eyes blazing with unspoken fury.

“You’re new,” he says, his voice low and threatening. “You may not fully understand what you’re getting into right now. This isn’t some game. You’re playing with fire.” He inches closer, his tone darkening, growing more menacing. “And if you keep pushing, I won’t hesitate to extinguish it.”

Evelyn’s smile never falters, though her gaze sharpens, her posture unwavering. She meets Ross’s eyes with unwavering confidence, not backing down an inch. “Are you trying to scare me?” she asks, her voice calm but filled with an undeniable edge, a challenge in every syllable.

Ross’s eyes flash. “Just a reminder that there are consequences for our actions, Miss Day,” Ross says, his voice quieter now but still thick with warning.

Evelyn stands her ground, unfazed by his intimidating words. Her smile tightens just a little, her eyes narrowing slightly as she meets his steely gaze. The room falls into a tense silence, the air thick with the unspoken threat hanging between them.

“Consequences?” she repeats, tilting her head slightly as if she’s considering his words. “I’m well aware of consequences, Ross. But I also know when to step back and when to fight back.” Her tone is calm, but there’s a cool, almost dangerous undertone that makes her words even more striking.

Ross’s eyes narrow, but before he can respond, a low voice cuts through the air, interrupting the standoff.

“I know you want to defend Tony, Ross,” Sam adds, his voice soft but firm, drawing Ross’s attention away from Evelyn. “With everything that happened, he was the one who sided with you in the Accords. But at the end of the day, even he turned away from you. He wanted the Avengers to be together. To work as a team. That’s what we’re trying to do.”

“Tony was a good man,” Ross concedes, taking a step back. “You all turned your backs on him until the end. The Avengers aren’t a team.”

“We’re trying to be,” Steve says, his voice sincere and steady. “We’re trying to work together, as the New Avengers. We’re doing the work.”

Ross keeps going, his voice rising. “Tony Stark was the one who wanted to keep the Avengers together, even after everything fell apart. He was the one trying to hold the team together, trying to do the right thing. And you all turned on him. For all his flaws, he had more faith in this team than any of you ever did.”

Steve swallows hard, jaw tightening. “We didn’t turn our backs on Tony,” he replies, slow and controlled. “He turned his back on us first. After everything—Civil War, Sokovia—we were all just trying to do what we thought was right. We made mistakes. So did Tony. But none of us were saints.”

Walker, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, pushes off to speak. “We all made choices, Ross. And we’ve all had to live with those consequences. We can’t keep looking backward forever. Not if we want to move forward.”

Ross’s stare sharpens at Walker, but Walker doesn’t flinch.

“Tony might’ve thought he had the answers,” Walker finishes, “but we’re trying to build something better now. For all of us.”

Ross’s jaw clenches, anger simmering beneath the surface, but there’s something else flickering behind his eyes—regret, maybe. Or exhaustion. “You think you can just move on from all that?” he snaps. “The things Tony did, the things you all did, the way you’ve all behaved—it doesn’t just vanish. You can’t erase the past.”

Valentina, who’s been standing quietly by the edge of the group, finally speaks—smooth, cool, and calculated. “No one’s trying to erase the past, Thaddeus. That would be... inconvenient. And honestly, bad PR.” She smirks as she steps forward, heels echoing on the floor. “But you do have to evolve. The public doesn’t want statues—they want stories of survival. Of redemption. That’s what this team is about.” She pauses, letting the moment breathe. Then, dryly, “And frankly, if we’re going to sell cereal boxes and campaign posters, we need their faces intact, not buried under ten years of your moral outrage.”

Yelena lets out a soft snort. Even Walker smiles faintly.

Ross’s expression darkens. “So, it’s all just a story to you?”

Valentina shrugs. “Everything is. At least I’m honest about it.”

Evelyn steps forward, eyes sharp. “You’re right, Ross. We can’t erase the past. But we can choose what we do with it. We’re not here to rewrite history, but we’re damn sure not going to let it dictate our future. Not anymore.”

Her words hang in the air like a strike of lightning—clear and irreversible. Ross meets her eyes, but it’s Bucky his gaze settles on next.

“I think Stark would be rolling over in his grave seeing you here,” he says coldly, a final blow.

Bucky stiffens, visibly shaken. His gaze drops to the floor, eyes unreadable.

Valentina steps between them. “Good thing the dead don’t get a vote,” she says, tone turning razor-sharp. “But the living do. And right now, they’re choosing these guys to fight.”

Ross huffs a laugh. “Fighters… Tony would be so disappointed.”

Before anyone can respond, Evelyn’s voice rings out, cutting through the tension with unexpected levity. “That is so unfair, you have the same lame argument every time,” she whispers, shaking her head. “By all accounts, Tony Stark had daddy issues,” she offers, her voice smooth but laced with a hint of sarcasm. “Seems like the Winter Soldier solved them.” She shrugs, urging Ross to keep arguing with her.

The silence that follows is almost deafening. The air feels thick with the weight of what she’s just said. For a moment, no one knows how to react. Then, as if someone flips a switch, the entire team bursts into laughter. Sam’s laughter rings the loudest, shaking his head as he clutches his stomach. Steve snickers under his breath, shaking his head with a look of admiration for Evelyn’s audacity. Yelena rolls her eyes but even she can’t help but smile. Even Walker, who typically stays composed, is chuckling softly in the background.

The joke lands perfectly. The tension breaks entirely, and despite the nature of Ross’s visit, the team looks genuinely lighter.

Ross, on the other hand, stands stock-still, his face growing crimson as he glares at Evelyn. The veins in his neck bulge, and it’s clear he’s barely holding back his fury.

“You think that’s funny?” Ross spits, stepping forward toward her, his voice low and dangerous.

Evelyn smiles sweetly, her eyes wide with innocent charm. “Well, clearly it was,” she says, her tone completely unbothered. “I mean, it was a bit of a risky joke, wasn’t sure how it was going to land, but I think I found my crowd.”

Ross looks like he could kill her. He takes another step toward her, threateningly, but Evelyn doesn’t move, doesn’t back down. Just smiles at him. Ross grabs her wrist.

“Now you listen here, Day–”

Bucky steps forward, his expression hardening. His eyes flash with a warning that makes the room fall into a tense silence.

“That’s enough,” Bucky says, his voice low but cutting.

Evie flinches, thinking it’s directed at her, but Bucky’s eyes are trained only on Ross.

Ross immediately lets go of Evie’s wrist, her hand falling to her side.

Bucky doesn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his words is enough to stop Ross in his tracks. “You may think you can intimidate people with that… that nonsense, but you don’t scare anyone here. And you sure as hell don’t scare me.”

The room goes dead quiet as Ross’s eyes flick to Bucky, his glare now icy, but Bucky doesn’t flinch. He stands his ground, his posture as rigid and unyielding as steel.

“If you have a problem with Evelyn, or anyone else on the team, take it up with me. And if you’d like to discuss my position in the team, I’m open to that,” Bucky adds, his tone unwavering. “But don’t threaten her, or anyone else on this team. Not now, not ever. We’re here for the greater good. I don’t see you donning a suit and fighting alongside us.”

Ross stares at Bucky for a long moment, his fists still clenched. For a split second, it looks like he might explode, but then something in his eyes shifts, and he forces a tight smile—one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Steve takes a step forward, his voice low but unwavering. “Look, Ross, we’re all here because we believe in something. We believe in the Avengers. We believe in redemption. And we believe in second chances.”

Ross sneers, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his expression. “Second chances don’t always work out the way you think.”

“And sometimes,” Sam adds with a grin, his tone lightening, “They work out better than you expect. But hey, what do I know?”

Ross sighs. He looks at Evelyn, giving her a tight, fake smile. “Enjoy your time getting to know your team,” he snaps, turning on his heel and marching toward the door. “I’ll leave you all to it.”

As the door slams behind him, the laughter dies down. The team exchanges looks, but Evelyn’s smile doesn’t waver.

“What’s up with grumpy?” she asks, still amused.

Steve leans back in his chair, shaking his head slightly. “He’s always like that. Not much of a fan of the rest of us after the Accords incident. And now… not you either, apparently,” he says, giving her a teasing smile. “Well done.”

Evelyn shrugs casually. “What can I say? I’m good at making first impressions.”

Sam leans against the table, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Man, I really needed that.”

Steve rubs his face, looking both exhausted and amused. “He’s got a way with words, doesn’t he?”

Yelena smirks, crossing her arms. “Too bad he can’t take a joke.”

Bucky, who’s been silent for most of the exchange, finally speaks up. His voice is low but firm. “I don’t care what Ross thinks. He’s just mad because he’s not in charge anymore. But if he ever gets the nerve to question me again… I’ll be ready.”

Sam, ever the light-hearted one, claps Bucky on the back, his voice dripping with sarcastic enthusiasm. “Ooh, I’m scared. You going to give him a stern look?”

Bucky shoots him a glance, and despite the tension, there’s a brief flicker of a smile on his lips. “If that’s all it takes to shut him up, then maybe.”

The rest of the team continues to laugh, the atmosphere much lighter than before. Steve leans against the wall, smiling at Evelyn’s easy-going nature. “You sure know how to make an entrance,” he says, still clearly amused.

Lena chuckles as she rubs her temples. “You’re trouble, but I kind of love it.”

Evelyn just winks. “Hey, it’s all part of the fun.”

Sam, grinning, raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you keep making jokes like that, you’re definitely gonna fit in around here.”

They all sit down then, a silence settling over them.

“So, why exactly is he so invested in how the Avengers are assembling?” Evie asks, her tone finally serious.

Steve’s expression shifts slightly, his face darkening with thought. He glances around the room, his eyes locking on each of them, then he speaks with a sense of gravity. “There are always threats. But… we have a feeling something is brewing. Something big.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air.

Yelena picks up where he left off. “Thanos was universe-level damage,” she explains, her voice firm but tinged with sadness. “We need a line of defence. We all fell apart after we defeated Thanos, went our different ways. But at the end of the day, the world needs us. Earth needs us. We’re stronger together than apart.”

Evelyn listens carefully, a frown settling over her face. She can feel the weight of the situation, the responsibility that comes with being a part of this team. “So, they want a team together again?” she asks, her voice steady but tinged with uncertainty.

“Correct,” Steve confirms, his eyes never leaving her. “On standby. Ready. Just in case. We’ve been preparing for a few months, low-level stuff, but we needed you and we needed Bob in the fight to make our team complete.”

The room goes quiet again, the weight of their purpose settling over them. They are no longer just a team. They are Earth’s last line of defence, and whatever comes next, they’ll face it together.

Evelyn takes a deep breath, glancing around at the group of New Avengers now gathered in front of her – not all of them, but a lot of them in the one room. The uncertainty of the future hangs in the air, but there’s a newfound sense of camaraderie between them. They may not have all the answers, but at least, for now, they have each other.

As the team begins to disperse—some heading for the kitchen, others still murmuring about Evelyn’s boldness—Valentina lingers behind, her gaze never leaving Bucky.

“Barnes,” she calls, her voice syrup-smooth but cool. “Walk with me.”

He doesn’t want to. But he does. Not because she commands him—but because he knows avoiding her will only give her more power. They move a short distance away, enough to give the illusion of privacy. The others pretend not to watch, but they’re listening.

Val doesn’t speak at first. She walks slowly, deliberately, like she’s setting the pace of something only she understands. Then she stops and turns toward him, her expression composed, eyes sharp.

“You’ve still got that tragic hero complex,” she says, smiling faintly. “So noble. So predictable.”

Bucky doesn’t rise to it. “Say what you came to say.”

She sighs, as if disappointed by his lack of gamesmanship. “Fine. I’ll be direct, just for you. You have a gift, Barnes—presence. People follow your lead, whether they know it or not. So, when you challenge someone like Ross in front of an audience, it ripples. And those ripples reach people I have to answer to.”

“I was putting an end to it,” he says.

“Wasn’t necessary. Let Day fight her own battles and make her own enemies. Don’t rise up to Ross.”

His jaw tightens. “If you’re trying to guilt me into silence, you picked the wrong ex-assassin.”

Val chuckles, tilting her head. “Oh, I’m not trying to guilt you. I’m reminding you. You’re free now, sure. On paper. But we both know how thin those lines are—between asset and agent, between useful and... obsolete.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That supposed to scare me?”

“No,” she says, voice cooling. “It’s supposed to make you think. Because no matter how many new uniforms you wear, you’re still the same man who knows where all the bodies are buried. Including mine, if you got your way with the impeachment trial. And I know you’re not stupid enough to forget that.”

He takes a step closer. “If you’re worried that I’ll out you, maybe stop giving me reasons to. We’re all trying to get along here, Val.”

Val’s smile falters just a touch. She nods slowly. “Noted.”

She starts to walk away, but then glances over her shoulder. “Just remember, Bucky. I don’t need to be your enemy. But I’m very good at it.”

He watches her go, eyes like ice. “So am I.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to sting—before Val turns and strides off, heels echoing against the corridor tile.

Bucky exhales through his nose, barely a sound. He doesn’t move.

Behind him, there's a soft shuffle—just a slight misstep—and he turns his head.

Evelyn stands a few feet away, clearly having caught the tail end of the conversation. Her arms are crossed loosely, but her brows are drawn, eyes searching his face.

“She always talk to you like that?” she asks lightly, but there’s an edge beneath it.

Bucky shrugs, eyes drifting back to where Val disappeared. “Only when she’s trying to remind me who she thinks I am.”

Evelyn steps closer. “And who’s that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, “A weapon. A warning. A man better kept on a leash.”

She studies him, then says, quietly, “Funny. All I’ve seen is someone holding the line while the rest of us figure out how to catch up.”

That gets a small reaction—a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t let her get in your head, Barnes,” she adds, voice low but firm. “You already got out.”

Chapter Text

Evelyn walks into the common room, her boots thudding softly against the polished floor. The space is still humming with the aftershocks of the morning’s training session—everyone in various states of recovery. Sam is sprawled across one of the couches, phone in hand, while Yelena perches on the armrest beside him, lazily stretching out her legs. Steve leans against the counter with a cup of coffee, ever the sentinel. And Bucky stands beside him, by the window, arms crossed, scanning the skyline like it’s a battlefield.

The air shifts the moment Evelyn enters.

Bucky and Steve move at the same time—subtle, almost imperceptible adjustments. Steve straightens slightly; Bucky’s stance tenses, then relaxes. It’s not dramatic, but it’s instinctive. Reflexive. They both turn to look at her at the exact same time, one eyebrow raised. And then they both smile at the same time in greeting. That same smirk, no teeth. Bucky's mouth tilts up just a bit more on one side.

Evie arches an eyebrow and grins. “If you two were women, your periods would be in sync.”

There's a beat of silence.

Then Yelena bursts out laughing, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

“They do that all the time,” she says with a mock sigh. “I swear, they’re like one brain in two overly muscled bodies.”

Steve chuckles, shooting a wry glance at Bucky. “It’s not that bad.”

“You just stood the exact same way, looked at me at the same time, smiled the same way,” Evie says, dropping into the armchair across from Sam. “It’s impressive. Creepy… but impressive.”

“We’re not that in sync,” Bucky mutters. But the ghost of a smile plays at his lips—betraying the pride he’ll never admit out loud.

Sam lifts his head toward her. “That’s what you find impressive? Not the fact that these two can dismantle an entire Hydra cell without speaking a word?”

“Pfft,” Evie says, waving him off. “The combat telepathy is old news. I’m here for the twin energy.”

Yelena snorts. “They’re the Avengers’ emotional support twins.”

“I heard that,” Steve says mildly, sipping his coffee.

“You’re not denying it,” Evie teases. “Which means I’m right.”

"They barely offer any emotional support," Bob adds. "Bucky gives off annoyed Dad energy. Steve happy Dad energy."

"Sure," Bucky huffs. “If anything, Steve’s the annoying older twin who tries to do things ‘the right way’, which really has no thought to it at all, and I’m the one who keeps us from getting killed.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy with six knives on him right now,” Steve fires back without missing a beat.

“You counted?” Bucky glances over, brows raised.

Steve shrugs. “You’re not subtle.”

Sam groans. “God, it’s like listening to a married couple.”

“No, see, they wish they were that emotionally functional,” Yelena says, grinning.

Evie laughs, shaking her head. “Whatever it is, it works. Watching you two train together is like watching a dance. You cover each other without even thinking.”

That draws the conversation down a notch. There’s weight behind her words. And a hint of something else—admiration, maybe.

Steve sets his cup down. “That’s the point,” he says. “Every time we step out there, the stakes are too high to guess. We train until instinct takes over.”

“And it’s not just us anymore,” Bucky adds, glancing at her. “You're part of that rhythm now too.”

Evelyn blinks. The room quiets just a fraction.

“I am?” she asks, more surprised than she means to sound.

“You think we’d waste time syncing with someone we didn’t trust?” Steve asks gently.

Evie’s smile falters just slightly, sincerity replacing the usual sarcasm. “Well… I guess not.”

Yelena breaks the moment. “Ugh, feelings. I liked this chapter better when we were roasting them.”

“Agreed,” Sam says. “Let’s go back to mocking Bucky’s brooding aesthetic.”

“I do not brood,” Bucky says flatly.

“You literally stand in the window and stare into the distance,” Bob shoots back. "A lot. I find you like that a lot."

“Yeah,” Sam adds, “with jazz music playing in your head like it’s 1943.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, shakes his head.

Steve’s expression softens. “Mock us all you want, but we train like this for a reason. Things are shifting—missions are getting more complicated, alliances thinner. We need to be tighter than ever.”

There it is – the purpose. The undertone of seriousness beneath the teasing. Everyone hears it. Everyone knows it.

Evie leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Then we train harder. We match each other. Not just the moves—mindset too. You’re not the only ones who can keep in sync.”

Bucky looks at her then, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes. Not surprise. Something like recognition.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll see if you mean that.”

Her grin returns. “Oh, I do. Hope you’re ready, Barnes.”

The moment hangs there—weighty, charged, then dissolves in another ripple of laughter from Sam. “Someone please film this,” he mutters. “We’re witnessing the beginning of synchronised sarcasm.”

As the banter fades and the room settles into an easier rhythm, the unspoken truth lingers in the air: this team isn’t just made of strategy and power—it’s made of bonds. Quiet, resilient ones. The kind that form in fire and are held together by choice.

Even now, they are syncing—not just movements, but beliefs.

And soon, they'll need every second of that connection.

The next morning, the training room is a cathedral of motion. Padded floors. Sparring mats. Walls lined with every kind of weapon—none of which Evie plans on touching today. Her breath clouds in the cool air, and her muscles are already beginning to hum.

Bucky stands across from her, arms folded, jaw tight. Steve lingers off to the side, relaxed but watching—always watching. The two of them are like twin statues cut from war and habit. Evie, by comparison, feels like she’s made of something rougher. More breakable.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Bucky asks.

Evie stretches out her shoulders. “Didn’t you say yesterday I was part of the rhythm now? Or was that just your idea of flirting?”

Steve snorts. “He doesn’t flirt. That was him being nice.”

“I can flirt,” Bucky mutters, and then immediately seems to regret it.

Evie grins. “Don’t worry. You can show me your dance moves later.”

Steve claps his hands. “Alright, kids. Focus. We’re running the mirror drill.”

Evie’s grin fades slightly.

The mirror drill is no joke—two fighters moving as one. Matching speed, power, and strategy in a way that leaves no room for ego. She’s trained in it with Ava. With Sam. Even with Yelena, which nearly cost her a rib. But this? Going up against these two?

It’s a trial by fire.

Steve steps forward first, stance already settled. “We’ll go slow to start. Just respond to what I do. Bucky will follow you. And if you’re not in sync, one of you will probably end up in the infirmary.”

“Probably me,” Evie agrees, but she nods and mirrors his stance. Defensive. Centred. The air feels heavier already.

The first punch is light—a tester. She blocks it with a sharp wrist, pivots, and counters with a low sweep. Steve dodges. Bucky moves behind her, an echo a heartbeat later. A test of trust.

They move again. Steve strikes high—Evie ducks, spins, counters. Bucky shadows her, footwork matching hers perfectly. It’s disorienting at first, having someone behind her instead of an opponent in front. But within a few exchanges, the rhythm starts to set in.

She feels it in the shifting of weight. In the twitch of Steve’s shoulder. In the breeze that brushes her side just before Bucky reacts. It’s like falling into a current and letting it carry her.

They move faster.

She’s the pivot now—Steve attacks, Bucky defends, and she dances between them, the conduit. Every movement is tight, fluid, precise.

Then Steve fakes high and comes in low—harder. She almost misses the tell. Almost.

Her heel pivots, catching his leg just before it sweeps hers out. She recovers, panting, heart racing. Bucky’s hands steady her back.

“Nice,” he murmurs.

She catches his eye. “You surprised?”

His mouth twitches. “A little.”

Steve nods. “Good. Now let’s make it real.”

They don’t need to ask what that means. They just move.

Minutes blur together. Steve and Bucky are faster now, more aggressive. No longer going easy. Evie is pushed to her limit—and then further. She falters once, grazed by Steve’s elbow, and Bucky is there in a flash, pulling her back into position before she even knows she’s stumbled.

Sweat drips into her eyes. Her arms ache. But something inside her locks in.

She belongs here.

Not just because they let her. Because she earned it.

By the end, the three of them stand in a loose triangle, chests heaving, sweat shining on their skin. Steve’s eyes gleam with pride. Bucky looks at her like he’s seeing her differently now—less like someone to shield, and more like someone who can stand beside him.

“That,” Steve says between breaths, “was damn good.”

Evie wipes her forehead. “If that was a test, did I pass?”

Bucky looks at her. “You didn’t just pass. You kept us sharp.”

She blinks, caught off guard. “Coming from you, that almost sounds like a compliment.”

“It is,” he says simply.

They leave the mats in silence, the kind earned through sweat and effort. As they walk out together, Evie glances between them—two men who have fought in wars she’ll never fully understand, bound by a history that could drown lesser people.

And yet… here they are. Letting her in.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

But Bucky’s shoulder brushes hers, intentional.

“We’ll go again tomorrow,” he says.

And just like that, she knows.

She’s not catching up anymore.

She’s starting to keep pace.

Chapter Text

The sun is just starting to creep over the horizon, casting a golden hue across Central Park as the New Avengers gather for their morning run. It’s a brisk five in the morning, the chill still lingering in the air as the team assembles near the park's entrance, each of them gearing up for their cross-country endurance challenge.

Steve, Bucky, and Yelena are already there, stretching or bouncing on their heels, ready for action. Sam’s already pacing, looking half-caffeinated but determined. Alexei, ever the gentle giant, stands off to the side, his large hands casually adjusting his gloves. He’s not in any rush, but there's a clear sense of anticipation in the way he watches the others, a hint of the former soldier still in his eyes. He cracks a smile at the sight of Sam pacing, but his focus is on the task ahead. Bob leans against the railing, watching the team with a calculating gaze. His sharp mind and controlled energy bring balance to the often chaotic mix of personalities around him. When his eyes flicker toward Evelyn’s late arrival, there's a brief, amused glance exchanged with Bucky.

They’ve all made this a routine—training at the crack of dawn to push their limits, refine their skills, and keep themselves sharp. But there's always one who pushes the limits of punctuality. This time, it’s Evelyn.

Evelyn bursts through the park’s entrance, her breath visible in the cold morning air, hair a little wild from her hurried sprint. “I’m not late, I’m not late,” she mutters under her breath, eyes wide as she jogs up to them, panting.

Steve turns to her with a teasing smile. “Yeah, if we lived in Toronto.”

Evie stops, hands on her knees, catching her breath. “I’m pulling the Brooklyn card,” she argues, looking up at them with a grin. “I came all the way from Flatbush.”

Bucky smirks, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt... this time.”

“We were so worried,” Sam teases, his half-smile not quite hiding his fondness.

“Mm, Barnes definitely was,” Yelena quips.

Bucky glares.

Alexei chuckles, clapping a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, making her huff out a breath with the force of it. “You should show Evelyn some mercy, comrade. She’s trying her best.”

Steve, always the steady anchor of the group, just shakes his head with a smile. “Alright, let’s go.” Steve motions ahead, clapping his hands to get everyone moving.

The challenge is simple. Run as fast as they can on a set trail route through the park. The goal isn't about competing with each other; it’s about pushing personal boundaries. But with Steve and Bucky enhanced, they quickly pull ahead, like they’ve done a thousand times before. Alexei stays with them for a while, keeping pace, but even he knows they’ve got an edge.

Sam lags behind the super soldiers, but he’s significantly ahead of Evie and Yelena, striding out strong.

A few miles in, Evie is already falling behind, her strides less efficient than the super soldiers’. “You two are really something,” she mutters, watching them speed off ahead. “This is just rude.”

Yelena, on the other hand, is hardly breaking a sweat. She’s not as fast as Steve and Bucky, but her endurance seems unmatched. She glances over her shoulder, catching Evelyn’s pained expression as she tries to keep up.

“Are you a super soldier, too?” Evelyn gasps, voice strained as she tries to push herself.

Lena looks over, her expression as effortless as ever. “No,” she replies, her pace not changing. “Just fitter than you, clearly.”

Evie rolls her eyes, trying not to slow too much. “I don’t need fitness,” she retorts, her breath coming in sharp bursts. “I’ve got powers.” She lets out a huff. “But clearly, I’ll have both if we keep training like this.”

Yelena grins, shifting into an even quicker pace. “You’ll get there.”

“Yeah, I’ll just... wait here,” Evelyn mutters, her voice strained as she feels her legs giving out.

She stops and slowly lowers herself to the grass beside the path, flat on her back, eyes closing as she tries to catch her breath.

Yelena pauses, running on the spot, looking at Evie with a humorous expression.

“You go ahead! I-I’m just gonna... stay here. Come find me later!” Evie’s voice trails off, muffled by the grass.

Yelena hesitates only for a moment longer, letting out a laugh. “You’re a piece of work,” she says before picking up the pace again, disappearing down the path with ease.

Evelyn stares up at the sky, watching the clouds drift lazily by as the sun rises higher, warming the air just enough to make the park feel alive. Joggers pass by, some of them nodding to her in greeting, but no one dares to ask why she’s sprawled out on the side of the path.

Time ticks by slowly but peacefully. She’s content—at least for now—to let the world keep running as she rests, letting her body recover from the exertion.

She closes her eyes, just for a second—

“Ah, there you are,” says a voice from somewhere above her.

She hears footsteps approaching. She squints up into the sun. Bucky’s silhouette comes into view, strolling casually up the path, and then he’s standing over her, phone in hand and pointed right at her.

“Yelena said she left you somewhere by the ‘Imagine’ mural,” Bucky says with a grin, glancing down at her, his voice teasing.

“You’ve already finished the course?” She asks.

“Only about fourteen minutes ago,” Bucky says with a shrug. “You’re not even half way.”

She squints up at him, still vaguely winded. “What are you doing?” she asks, annoyed but with a hint of humour.

“Taking it upon myself to document the goings-on of my friends,” Bucky replies, a little too gleeful. “Helps me remember everything. Welcome to your first video. I’ve snuck in plenty of photos, but this is your first talkie.”

Evie raises an eyebrow. “You’ll be deleting this,” she warns.

Bucky’s laugh is loud and carefree. “If you can make me,” he retorts, continuing to film her lying on the grass with a mock-serious look on his face. Then, tilting his head a little, he adds, “Are you okay, doll?”

Evelyn feels her stomach flip unexpectedly, not from exhaustion this time, but from something else — something more delicate. She blinks at him, thrown off for a beat longer than she should be.

Doll.

It’s old-fashioned — 1940s slang, like something out of a black-and-white movie. A little bit sweet, a little bit teasing. A nickname from a world that barely exists anymore.

She realises, sharply, that it’s not just a habit. It’s part of Bucky, part of the bygone world he still clings to — the lopsided remnants of who he used to be, stitched into who he is now. A leftover tenderness, carried forward through everything he’s survived.

The thought twists something in her chest, surprisingly tender. It feels personal. Almost intimate.

“Yeah, just great,” she manages finally, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just… dying.”

Bucky shrugs, not missing a beat. “Come on, up you get.” He offers her his hand.

“I’m afraid my legs have turned to jelly,” she says dramatically. “No can do, Serge.”

Bucky gives her leg a little nudge with his boot, looking down at it like he’s inspecting a piece of furniture.

“Nope, still intact,” he jokes.

He leans down, grasping her hand in his gloved one and pulls her up with an easy strength she envies. She doesn’t even try to help — she just lets herself be lifted like a ragdoll as she tries to shake off the heavy feeling in her legs.

“Not bad for your first run, in all honesty.”

“I’m not built for cross-country,” Evie admits, groaning a little.

They walk a little ways, silently, side by side, and come to the end of the agreed-upon path. Yelena’s already there, finished her run, a gleam of sweat on her brow. In the distance, Sam and Steve are still running, toward them. Evie suspects Steve may have gone back to follow Sam after finishes his own run. Bucky runs up to join them, bouncing on his feet.

Bucky and Steve effortlessly lap Sam over and over.

They joke with Sam each time they pass him, calling out “On your right!” or “On your left!” in exaggerated voices, the playful teasing a routine.

“They did that the whole way around,” Yelena says with a small sigh. “Lapped Sam eight times over.”

“Hilarious,” Sam mutters, his expression deadpan as he runs.

Bucky’s voice cuts through. “And the last runner finally makes it to the finish line. Well, in front of Miss Giver-Upper over there,” he says cheerfully, taking his phone back out and filming, zooming in on Sam, his face glistening with sweat, eyes narrowed in mock annoyance.

“You’re a champ, Sammy,” Steve says, voice teasing.

Bucky chuckles, adding, “Even Lena overtook you eventually, and she’s half your height.”

“So, tell us – How does it feel to be slower than two centenarians?” Steve teases.

They get back to the group, and Sam looks agitated.

Evie can’t help but laugh. “You really shouldn’t agitate Sam so much,” she says. “He might take you out one day.”

Bucky flashes a grin. “He can try.”

“Don’t forget, you do sleep. You’re not a robot,” she reminds him, voice light. “Perfect opportunity for him.”

Bucky just shrugs. “Don’t sleep much,” he admits. “And when I do, it’s with one eye open.” He gives her a playful wink, clearly relishing the back-and-forth.

Evie just shakes her head with a grin. “You're all insane.”

“Hang on a second,” Yelena suddenly says, looking around. “Where is Alexei?”

The group set off back down the path and find Alexei near the beginning, sitting on a park bench, ice cream cone half devoured in his hand.

”It’s 7am,” Bucky says, eyeing him.

”And you were supposed to be running,” Steve accuses.

”Yes, well. I had other priorities,” he smiles as he continues to lick the ice cream.

Chapter Text

The Quinjet thrums around them, all steel and shadows and low, mechanical hums. Outside, rain lashes against the hull as they carve through storm clouds, the sky a roiling mess of grey and static. Thunder growls in the distance, the sound muffled but ever-present — a warning, maybe.

Inside, it's quiet. Too quiet.

Evelyn sits strapped into a side bench, her tac vest snug against her chest, gear secured and checked twice. Her gloves are tight, fingertips twitching despite her focus. She’s memorised the floor plan. She knows the mission brief by heart. But her leg bounces, involuntary, betraying the energy coiled beneath her calm exterior.

Across from her, Bucky watches. Silent. Steady. Blue eyes narrowed, assessing — not judging, just reading her like he does everyone. Like he was trained to.

“You good?” he asks, voice low enough to stay private in the cabin’s murmur.

“Yeah,” she replies automatically, then exhales. “I mean… mostly. I’ve never led point on an op with you two. Doesn’t feel real.”

He leans forward slightly. “That’s because it is real. Which is why you’re here. You’ve trained for this.”

“That’s what Steve said,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

Bucky’s mouth curves in a near-smile. “He’s right. You’ve got instincts. You’re quick. You listen. That’s what matters.”

Evie nods, grounding herself in the weight of her gear, the steadiness of his presence. “Thanks.”

“ETA ten minutes,” Steve calls from the cockpit, his voice crisp through the comms. “Lock and load.”

Bucky rises, checks his sidearm. His vibranium fingers click against the weapon’s barrel before he holsters it. Then he offers Evelyn a hand. She takes it. He pulls her to her feet, smacks her encouragingly on the back of the shoulder.

“You’ll do fine,” he says, then adds with a smirk, “Just try not to show us up too much.”

Target: An abandoned hydroelectric station nestled against the cliffs just outside rural New Jersey. Long decommissioned — at least, on paper. Satellite imaging and intercepted chatter suggest it’s been repurposed as a clandestine R&D site. Possibly Hydra. Possibly worse.

Objective: Sweep and secure. Retrieve all available data. Minimal noise. Maximum speed. Evie leads the interior infiltration. Steve handles external recon. Bucky floats between, running point if things go sideways.

Spoiler: they do.

They descend fast — sharp and surgical. Storm rain spatters the landing pad as the Quinjet doors hiss open. The three move out in formation; Steve to the north perimeter, Bucky veering west, and Evelyn straight through the central control corridor.

The building looms before her, all rust-stained concrete and cold geometry. Vines claw at its base, nature trying to reclaim the bones of something once mechanical and alive.

“Perimeter’s clear,” Steve reports. “No visible guards. That feels wrong.”

Evelyn slides through the front checkpoint. Dust hangs in the air, disturbed by her movement. She flicks on her tactical light — white beams illuminating scattered bullet casings and a toppled chair. Something violent happened here. Recently.

“Inside now,” she says. “Server room ahead.”

“Copy,” Steve replies. “Keep your six covered.”

The control room is quiet — eerily so. Screens flicker with static. Wires dangle from torn-open terminals. One console still hums faintly. She plugs in the extraction drive, eyes scanning for movement.

Her breath fogs slightly.

Too cold.

She turns — but the door slams shut.

Shit.

The first attacker lunges from the shadows, low and fast. Evie ducks instinctively, kicks him back, and fires — catching his shoulder. He stumbles, but a second man crashes through the opposite side, disarming her in one smooth motion.

She pivots, grabbing a loose pipe, ripping it clean with a force that draws on more energy then her muscle strength alone, swinging hard. It glances off his mask, stunning him just long enough for her to dive for the taser baton on her belt. She stabs it into his ribs and hears the satisfying crackle of voltage before he drops, flinging him away from her into the far wall with a flick of her hand, eyes glowing bright green.

“I’m compromised!” she shouts into her comm, ducking as a bullet grazes the metal rim of the server rack beside her. “Two down, but more incoming!”

“Hold position!” Steve barks. “I’m en route!”

But he doesn’t need to — because somewhere down the corridor, there’s the slam of boots pounding against concrete, fast and familiar. He’s close. She knows that rhythm.

Evie’s back slams against a console as she reloads. Her breaths come fast. Sharp. She’s not out of the woods yet.

The third assailant comes through the doorway like a battering ram. He’s built like a wall, reinforced armour glinting under the emergency lights, and the way he moves — fast, calculated — tells her he’s not just muscle. He’s been modified. Enhanced. Augmented.

He lunges.

She doesn’t even have time to draw breath before his hand catches the front of her tactical vest and hurls her backward into the server unit. Sparks erupt. The metal groans under the impact, and something inside her ribs lets out a white-hot burst of pain. She gasps, eyes swimming, but grits her teeth and shoves him away with a kinetic pulse of raw energy.

He flies. Hits the ground with a dull thud, but rolls quickly, already recovering.

Evie staggers to her feet, swaying just a little, blood running from a gash at her temple. But her fingers are already moving — tapping the last few lines of command into the console, the download bar ticking up—

88%

Bucky hasn’t responded to her shout into the comms, she realises. Stupidly - why does that matter? Steve’s on his way.

But she can still hear pounding footsteps in the corridors around her, coming from all sides, and she doesn’t know if they’re from friend or foe.

He charges.

She turns and throws all of it at him — a wide burst of pressure, violent and unrefined. It catches him mid-sprint and slams him bodily against the far wall. The crack of bones echoes through the server room, and this time when he hits the floor, he doesn’t get back up.

The silence is thick, pulsing with tension and smoke and the electric crackle of overloaded circuits.

Evie breathes.

94%

She limps toward the console, blood running down her arm. She presses one hand against her ribs — definitely cracked — and the other hovers over the console, ready to eject the drive.

99%… 100%.

The drive pings.

Evie yanks it free and stumbles a step backward, her breath sawing in and out, blood trailing down one arm. Her ribs ache with every movement, and her temple is sticky with sweat and the dull burn of a gash.

“I’m okay,” she says into her comm, voice ragged but steady. “I took them out and got the—AHH!”

The wall behind her explodes.

Plaster, concrete, rebar—everything erupts outward as Bucky barrels through it like a missile fired from hell. He bursts through with his human shoulder, and then his metal arm leads the charge, curled into a fist mid-swing, his eyes wild—untamed—scanning for a target. There’s dust in the air, chunks of stone still falling around him, boots grinding over shattered concrete.

“EVIE!” he roars, and his eyes snap to her.

She’s standing in the middle of the chaos, bloody, dazed, holding the drive and blinking at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind. There's no threats. There's no one else standing in the room but her, drive clutched in her hand, other hand raised in defence.

“What the fuck, Barnes?!” she shouts, coughing through the dust. “You just burst through the concrete wall! Who does that?!”

He doesn’t answer at first — he’s still breathing like he sprinted the whole compound, gun in one hand, metal fist twitching. His pupils are huge, body still tense and coiled for a fight.

“You said you were in trouble,” he mutters, voice low and barely controlled. “You went quiet. You screamed.”

Evie’s glare falters a little. She tilts her head to look at him, brows furrowing together at his words.

His gaze sweeps over her — the blood, the shaking in her shoulders, the cracked console behind her. The three unmoving bodies at her feet. He lowers his weapon slowly. “Jesus.”

Before she can say anything else, Steve barrels in through the actual door, shield raised and eyes sharp. He stops dead at the destruction.

“Everyone in one piece?” Steve asks, taking in the toppled racks, the unconscious assailants, the gaping hole in the wall. “What the hell—”

Evie leans against the nearest upright surface, panting. “Just bruised. Got the data.” She holds up the drive between two fingers like a trophy. “And they were not polite.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You said ‘compromised.’ This looks more like massacre.”

Evie huffs a laugh, then winces. “Guess I graduated.”

Bucky steps further into the wreckage, calmer now, but still visibly shaken. His shoulders are tight, jaw clenched. There’s powdered concrete in his hair.

“You shouldn’t’ve been alone this long,” he says gruffly.

Evie just shrugs, though it’s clear she’s sore. “I wasn’t alone. You were coming.”

That undoes him a bit — she can see it in the way his eyes soften, just barely. The anger melting into guilt and something deeper. His gaze lingers on the blood on her face, her trembling hands.

“You did good,” he says quietly. “But next time… let me get there before you take on the Terminator, alright?”

She smirks faintly. “Next time, I’m getting hazard pay.”

Steve, ever the tactician, can’t help the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re already on Avengers rates.”

Evie glances down at the enhanced man who gave her the worst of it — still unconscious, crumpled in a heap where she left him. Her eyes narrow.

“How’d they know what we were going to do?” she asks. “They came straight for me. No hesitation.”

Steve’s face darkens. “This wasn’t random. Someone tipped them off. Someone knew exactly where we’d be.”

They all pause.

Evie lifts the extraction drive. “Then there might be answers in here.”

Steve nods, stepping to support her on one side while Bucky’s already at her other, practically moulding himself to her side like he’s scared to let go.

As they guide her out — limping, bruised, victorious — Steve glances back at the carnage, the concrete dust still settling in the ruined room.

“You know,” he mutters to Bucky, “remind me never to piss you or her off.”

Bucky glances sideways, eyes still locked on Evie like he’s checking she’s really there. “You just figuring that out now?”

Back in the Quinjet, Evelyn sits on the bench, unzipping her vest, the adrenaline draining slowly from her system. She’s got a cut on her cheek. A bruise blooming across her ribs. But she’s alive. She didn’t freeze. And she didn’t need saving — not exactly. Just backup. Teamwork.

Bucky tosses her a cold pack.

“Next time, don’t let the big guy corner you,” he says, mock-serious.

She smirks through a wince. “Next time, kick in the door a little faster.”

“Well, I didn’t use the door,” he says with a tiny smirk.

Steve returns from the cockpit, data pad in hand. “There’s something buried in the files. Looks like facility access logs… and an internal comm. Someone called out our arrival ten minutes before touchdown.”

Evie stiffens. “So, someone did tip them off.”

Steve nods grimly. “We’ve got a leak. Somewhere.”

They fall quiet. The weight of that realisation settles hard.

But beneath the tension, something steadier burns in Evie’s chest — a quiet pride. She stood her ground. She proved she could run point, adapt under pressure, hold her own beside soldiers forged in war.

She’s not just tagging along anymore.

She’s in.

They make it back to the safehouse in one piece — mostly. Evie’s got a split lip and a spectacular bruise blooming on her side, and Bucky’s moving stiffly, like something in his shoulder’s not sitting right.

It’s late. Or early. None of them check.

Evie collapses onto the couch with a hiss, holding her side like it’s liable to fall off.

Bucky lingers near the door, glancing back toward her like he’s unsure if he should sit, hover, or re-patch the same wounds for the third time.

She turns to look at him, a playful smirk on her lips. “You gonna stand there all night like Batman, or...?”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“Pretty sure Batman doesn’t crash through walls like a wrecking ball,” she adds, shifting enough to throw a pillow at him.

He catches it one-handed. Of course he does.

“You were screaming,” he says simply.

“Well, yeah, I was trying to take down a frickin’ super soldier,” she laughs. “And I wasn’t screaming, it was a rageful yell.”

“Sure,” he allows.

“And your first instinct was to shoulder through a concrete wall?” she teases, narrowing her eyes at him. “You ever heard of a door, Barnes?”

He sits beside her, finally, shoulder-to-shoulder, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Didn’t have time.”

She looks at him for a moment, eying his shoulder, the way he sits so still and stiff, like he’s in pain. She frowns. “You hurt yourself, didn’t you?”

“No,” he says immediately, looks away.

“Bucky...”

He sighs. “…Maybe a little.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Where?”

He hesitates. Then rolls his shoulder with a wince. “Right side. Not the metal one.”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, sitting up straighter. “You’re telling me you came through a wall like the Winter Soldier Kool-Aid Man and pulled your damn shoulder out?! Why didn’t you use the metal one?”

He shrugs — and winces again. “I’m right handed,” he says. “Could’ve been worse.”

Evie leans her head back against the couch and starts giggling, which turns into full-blown laughter — even though it hurts, and she immediately regrets it. “You’re such a dumbass. I’ll go get ice.”

“It’s really okay, Evie,” he tries, but she’s up already, walking slowly toward the common room fridge and wrapping a bag of frozen peas in a tea towel.

“Put this on your shoulder, Mr Muscle,” she says, placing it under his t-shirt against his collarbone and shoulder.

She sits back down then, next to him, and spends a little while adjusting it so it stays on its own.

Bucky watches her, not moving a muscle, with something soft behind his eyes. “You’re not scared of me?”

She quiets. Frowns. The moment hangs.

“No,” she says truthfully. “Why would I be?”

“Well, I burst through a concrete wall... And I can look scary, sometimes…” He trails off, looks away again.

Evie pauses again, considers him for a moment. “I’m not scared of you or what you can do, Bucky. You’re the safest thing in the world.” She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

He swallows hard. Looks away. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because… I don’t know what to do with it.”

Evie shifts, nudging his leg gently with hers. “You don’t have to do anything with it. Just... let it be true.”

Bucky nods slowly, not trusting himself to speak.

Bucky doesn’t reply, not at first. He just stares ahead, brow furrowed, jaw tight, like he’s afraid if he opens his mouth, something too real will come out.

Evie doesn’t push. She lets the silence settle between them — not awkward, just… full. Full of things unsaid.

After a minute, she adjusts the ice pack on his shoulder again, fingers brushing his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He flinches. Not from the cold, but from the touch. But he doesn’t pull away.

“You gonna let me take a proper look at it?” she asks, voice low. Gentle. Not pitying. Just her, just Evie, and that look in her eyes like he’s someone worth caring about.

“It’s fine,” he says, but his voice is rough, worn paper thin.

Evie rolls her eyes. “Sure it is. And I didn’t just throw a man twice my size across the room.”

That gets a smile. Small, but it’s there. “You really handled yourself.”

“Damn right I did. And now I get to boss you around in return. C’mon,” she says, patting her thigh. “Lean forward.”

Bucky gives her a wary look, like she just asked him to strip down and confess his darkest secrets.

But he does it.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He takes his arm out of the sleeve, just that arm, his shoulder and side revealed to her. Evie peels back the fabric of his shirt, holding it out of the way, lips pursed in focus. There’s already a deep bruise blooming at the top of his collarbone — angry, purplish-black, creeping into his upper chest.

She whistles low under her breath. “Jesus, Barnes. You really are a dumbass.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess I didn’t feel it till I stopped moving.”

Evie runs her fingers lightly around the bruise, not touching it directly, just mapping its edge. He watches her hands instead of her face. It’s easier that way.

She leaves again and comes back with bandages, painkillers, a bottle of water, and a small sleeve of cookies she snagged from the pantry, tossing them into his lap. “For morale,” she says.

“You’re something else,” he mutters, watching her kneel in front of him to wrap his shoulder.

She shrugs. “You came through a wall for me. Least I can do is patch you up. So it doesn’t go all stiff.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long moment as she carefully wraps his shoulder.

“Do pain meds even work on you?” She asks quietly.

“Don’t think so,” he says. “It doesn’t really hurt anyway.”

She levels him a look. “Drink the water. Eat the cookies.”

He does as she asked, sitting quietly, moving ever so slightly as she wraps his shoulder tight, but not too tight, just right to support it.

Then, he says quietly. “That wasn’t strategy. That was… I heard you. And I didn’t think. I couldn’t think.”

Evie’s hands still for a second, then pick up again, softer now. “I know.”

His voice lowers. “Didn’t care what was in the way. Just had to get to you.”

Her throat tightens.

After a while, she finishes up on his shoulder and helps him threads his arm back into the sleeve, she sighs and sits next to him on the couch. She leans against his good side — carefully — and rests her head just below his shoulder. “You can’t punch through walls every time I get into trouble.”

“I can’t?”

“No. You’ll run out of shoulders.”

Another pause.

“Wasn’t gonna stop until I got to you,” he murmurs.

Her voice is softer now. “I know.”

They sit there like that for a while. No missions. No comms. No adrenaline. Just the low hum of the safehouse heater and the weight of something neither of them are ready to say yet.

But she stays tucked close. And he lets her.

And the next morning, when she wakes up curled beneath a blanket she definitely didn’t put over herself — with a mug of tea waiting, her favourite kind — she doesn’t have to ask who did it.

Because she already knows.

Chapter Text

The mission is a small one.

A low-level arms dealer trying to move stolen Stark tech through the back alleys of Brooklyn. The team doesn’t even need the full roster — just Sam, Yelena, and Evie, slipping in under the radar before anyone knows they were there.

It should have been simple.

Minimal resistance. No serious combat. In and out.

But standing in the tight confines of the van outside the warehouse, Evie feels her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic, caged thing.

Her gloves feel too tight. Her tactical suit itches at the base of her neck. Her palms are sweaty, and her breathing catching no matter how many calming techniques she tries to remember.

"You good?" Sam asks, giving her a sideways glance as he adjusts his wings.

Evie nods — probably too fast. "Yeah. Fine. Totally fine," she says, her voice an octave higher than normal.

Yelena, sitting across from her and tightening the strap on her belt, just smiles in that quiet, knowing way of hers. "First one’s always the worst. After that, you get addicted."

“I’ve done my first. This is my second proper mission,” Evie corrects.

“Well, you’re still in your quickfire adjustment period.”

"I don’t think being shot at is a habit I wanna pick up," Evie mutters, wringing her hands together.

"You'll be fine," Sam says, flashing her a grin. "We’re not letting anything happen to you, newbie."

That should help settle her nerves. It doesn’t.

Instead, as the doors open and the cool night air rushes in, Evelyn’s nerves jolt so sharply that for half a second, she can’t move. Her feet feel glued to the metal floor. Her mind spins — What if she freezes out there? What if she messes up? What if she gets someone hurt? Who will pull her out?

And then she remembers Steve, back at the compound the night before — the way he’d looked at her across the training mat, brow furrowed, serious.

"You’ve got good instincts," he’d said. "Trust them. Trust yourself."

Taking a steadying breath, Evie forces herself forward, stepping into the night.

It goes fast, just like they'd promised.

The guy is sloppy. He has a few hired thugs with stun weapons, but no one who can handle themselves against Yelena or Sam. Evie ends up using her powers instinctively — yanking the metal pipes from the warehouse scaffolding and sending them clanging down like dominoes, pinning the last two men without even touching them.

Her hands shake afterward. She tries to hide it, pulling her sleeves down over her fists as they cuff the bad guys.

But Sam claps her on the back as they walk out into the street, whistling low. "Not bad, metal bender."

Yelena just tosses her a look over her shoulder. "Told you. Addicting."

Back at the compound, the adrenaline has drained away, leaving Evelyn bone-tired and loose-limbed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She drags herself into the kitchen, still half in her gear, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

And there he is. Bucky.

Leaning against the counter, a coffee mug in one hand. He looks up as she stumbles in, and the corners of his mouth twitch — not quite a smile, but something close.

"Hey, rookie," he says, voice low and warm. "Heard you survived your second mission."

"Just barely," Evie teases, tossing her bag onto one of the chairs. "I was starting to think I’m not made for this stuff."

"I’m sure you did good."

Simple words. But they hit heavier than she expects.

She ducks her head, fighting a smile. “Thanks.”

They smile at each other for a moment before she sighs.

“Well, I’m exhausted. And I’ve got a shift tonight at the bar I can’t get out of, so I’m going home to nap and then I’m working," she says, grabbing her bag again and slinging it over her shoulder. "I gotta go. I’ll catch you later, Barnes.”

He flinches — just the smallest twitch — but she sees it.

Sees the way his shoulders go stiff, how his fingers curl slightly against the counter like he’s trying to hold something steady inside him.

The way his fingers tighten slightly around the coffee cup. The one with her superhero name on it, glittery and silver.

"D-don’t call me that," he says, and his voice is quiet. Softer than she’s ever heard it.

Evelyn blinks. "Is that not your name?" she asked slowly, brows knitting together in confusion. “I’ve been calling you that since I got here. Or Serge. Think I snuck in a menace, too. And a dumbass.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, long and weary, and sets his mug down with a faint clink on the counter. He doesn't meet her eyes at first. His gaze drops to his boots, as if the words he needs are somewhere near the floor. He gathers the words.

"Well, yeah, it is,” he says eventually. “But countless people call me Barnes. Reporters, commanders, people who don’t give a damn about me. It’s... impersonal. It’s a surname. And sometimes, I don’t even feel like a Barnes, not anymore…" he says quietly. "Not... not me, I don’t think."

When he looks up again, there's something unguarded in his expression — something old and aching, like a faded photograph kept too long in a wallet.

"You’re not just anyone. You mean more to me than they do," he says, his voice rough. "You’re... closer. Everyone I actually care about calls me Bucky."

The words hang between them, heavier than anything she expected.

A small piece of the forties clings to him — the careful way he chooses his words, the need for small, sincere gestures instead of grand ones. Doll and sweetheart and Bucky — fragments of a life he’s still holding onto, even now.

Evelyn’s breath catches a little.

She hasn’t realised — never thought her silly teasing nicknames or casual hellos matter. Not like this.

"You want me to call you Bucky as well?" she asks, but it comes out softer, gentler now, like she’s holding something delicate. "I kinda thought that was just a Steve, Sam thing."

Bucky shrugs awkwardly, the corner of his mouth twitching up like he’s trying to play it cool but failing miserably. He rubs the back of his neck — and is it her imagination, or does he look a little embarrassed? "Well... it was for a long time. But you’re my friend too. You don’t annoy me like the others do sometimes. So…"

A smile pulls at her lips, something teasing but fond. "You like me?" she says, raising her eyebrows. "I never would’ve guessed, what with the grumpy cat glare thing you’ve got going on." She waves a hand at his eternally unamused face.

"Ha ha," Bucky deadpans, but there’s a glimmer of amusement lurking there now — like the sun just barely starting to push through the clouds.

"Very believable," she says. "You’re practically rolling on the floor with laughter."

"I just..." He hesitates again, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter. "I like it," he says finally, almost under his breath. "When you say my name. The few times you have…"

The words are so bare, so unpolished, that Evelyn feels them catch against her ribs. Her teasing smile fades into something quieter, warmer. She holds his gaze for a beat longer than she needs to — a silent promise she doesn't even have the words for yet.

"Well, alright then," she says, her voice light but sure as she adjusts the strap of her bag. "Catch you, Bucky."

She turns to go, the door swinging gently closed behind her.

Bucky stands there for a long moment after she’s gone, staring at the spot where she stood.

A faint, almost incredulous smile pulls at the corner of his mouth — small and private, like something he’s afraid to show to the world.

He runs a hand over his face, exhaling slowly.

And just for a moment — a fleeting, precious moment — the world feels a little less heavy on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

The first time Bucky and Evie really talk — properly, without the buzz of the tower or the looming weight of missions hanging over them and when not in Avengers Tower — happens because Bucky needs a ride.

He’s supposed to meet his therapist — a stand-in session, somewhere inconvenient on the outskirts of Brooklyn — and the place is a nightmare to get to. No trains close by, too far to walk without being late, and taxis? Bucky hates them. Too many strangers. Too much noise. Too many doors he can’t control.

He texts the group chat that Evelyn set up for all of the New Avengers which usually turns into late night conversations, emojis and meme-sharing. Just a short message, might be late to dinner, got therapy stuff across town and gotta take 4 trains, will catch up after — and thinks nothing more of it.

But then Evie’s name pops up and she’s responding, almost immediately, like she saw his name and picked the phone up instantly. Maybe she did.

Want me to drive you? She asks. I have a car. I’m not doing anything. I’ll just sit in the car, read a book, meddle in my own thoughts, idk. Lmk.

At first, he hesitates. He doesn’t know what idk means, or lmk. And he doesn’t like putting people out. Doesn't like feeling like he owes anyone.

You sure? I can manage. He types out.

Her reply is immediate. Learn to accept help sometimes. Name your time.

He tells her a time, and true to her word, that’s when she gets there. Actually on time, unlike usual.

Bucky is sitting on the front steps of his apartment, nervously checking the street every few seconds. He’s been out there for twenty minutes already, worrying he’d somehow miss her — or worse, that she'd change her mind. Then he’d never make the session.

Then he sees it. A tiny car, a little battered, the kind you wouldn’t trust for a long haul but somehow feels… dependable. It rolls up and stops in front of him. Evie rolls down the window, grinning at him.

“You getting in or what?” she teases.

Bucky smirks, standing up and slinging his jacket over one arm. “I don’t know. Will I even fit?”

She scoffs, mock-offended. “Please, you’re well built, but not that well built.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath, squeezing himself into the passenger seat. She’s shoved the seat all the way back, and still, his knees just about brush the dash. The car rattles a little, a noise coming from somewhere under the glovebox that Bucky decides not to mention.

He glances around warily. “Will this thing even make it to the other side of Brooklyn?”

Evie pats the dashboard affectionately. “Of course she will. Matilda has been with me since I was seventeen. She’s my first car. She’s never let me down.”

“Matilda, huh?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s stubborn, but she gets the job done. Kinda like someone else I know.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

He gives her the address, she plugs it into her phone, and then they’re off.

The drive isn’t that long, but it’s quiet in a way that feels comfortable. She hums along to the radio — old tunes, ones he recognises from another lifetime or from drives with Sam — and doesn’t force conversation. Just lets him be.

“You sure Matilda’s not gonna quit on us halfway there?” Bucky asks, side-eyeing the rattling dashboard as they wait at a stoplight.

The person in the car next to them looks over at the sound of the engine growling. Bucky awkwardly meets their eyes.

Evie grins. “Trust the process. Matilda runs on good vibes. And you’re bringing it down.”

“That makes two of you, then,” he says, lips twitching. “Running on vibes and caffeine alone.”

She laughs, a bright, easy sound that makes something inside him unclench. “Come on. You don't trust a girl with a junker and a dream?”

He looks at her, at the messy ponytail, the scuffed dashboard, the way she’s grinning like it’s all the greatest adventure — and something in him cracks a little, in the best way.

“I trust you,” he says without thinking.

The words slip out, and for a second, neither of them says anything.

Evie just smiles, softer this time, eyes flicking toward him before returning to the road.

“Well. Good. Because you’re in it now, Bucky. No backing out.”

“Figured as much when you threatened me with good vibes,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it.

When they get there, she pulls into a spot and throws the car into park.

Bucky sits there for a second, fingers drumming against his knee. He doesn’t move right away. His hand stays curled loosely around the door handle. He stares out the windshield at nothing, the familiar twist of dread coiling low in his stomach.

Evie doesn't rush him. She just watches the rain gathering lightly at the edges of the windshield, her hands in her lap as she waits contently, and says, "No hurry. Take your time."

It hits him then — hard — how rare this is.

Nobody waits for him. Not without impatience, not without expectation.

Not like this.                                                                            

Like he’s worth the time.

He turns to look at her. She smiles when she catches his gaze, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

His throat feels tight. He forces out a breath, almost a laugh. “You’re making it way too easy to stay,” he says.

She tilts her head, playful. “How’s that?”

He hesitates, what he really wants to say sitting on the edge of his tongue. Instead, he says, “The banter is just too good.”

Her smile turns shy, but sure. “Guess you’ll have to come back out after, then. So I can continue to pick on you.”

He snorts, opens the door. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Guess I will.”

She waves him off with a little salute, grinning. “Go do your thing. I’ll be right here.”

Bucky doesn't look back as he heads inside, but he feels a little less tense knowing she’s waiting.

The session is rough. They're always rough. But this one leaves him feeling particularly hollow, like someone dug their hands into his chest and tried to pull out everything good left inside.

When he comes out, he notices her in the car, a book open on her lap, a packet of crackers half-finished on the dashboard. She glances up the second she sees him, her face immediately brightening, like just seeing him is enough.

His eyes are red when he emerges, his mouth set in a hard line.

Evie doesn’t say anything. She just holds out a fresh coffee she must have walked off to buy, holding it toward him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, giving him a tiny smile.

He takes it, mumbling, “Thanks,” his voice rougher than usual.

She just nods, sipping from her own cup and starting the car. The heater buzzes to life, filling the silence.

The drive to dinner is companionable. No pressure to talk. Just breathing, sipping coffee, and letting the city pass them by.

The coffee warms his hands, but it’s the silence that warms something deeper — the way she doesn’t ask, doesn’t press, doesn’t make him feel like he’s broken for needing help. Maybe that's what gets him the most. She just... accepts him.

When they walk into the restaurant that Ava chose, to eat out for once instead of at the Tower, they slip into seats across from Steve and Sam, and the two men share a look over their beers.

Steve leans over to Sam, muttering low enough that only Sam can hear, “They're getting there.”

Sam snorts into his drink. “Took him long enough to let someone in.”

Across the table, Evie bumps Bucky’s knee under the table — a small, quiet gesture — and he finally lets himself relax for the first time all day.

Maybe he’s not as alone as he thinks.

Chapter Text

Evelyn leaves the bar, the dull thud of the door clicking shut behind her, the sound muffled by the cold night air. It’s late — or early, depending on how you look at it — and the streets are nearly empty. The only sound is the distant hum of a passing car and the faint echo of her boots against the cracked sidewalk. The chill bites at her skin, sinking deep into her bones, as though the night itself has made a home of the city. She pulls her coat closer, wrapping it tight around her to hold off the cold, but it’s useless against the bite of the wind. She fumbles with her keys, trying to get them to fit into the lock, her hands stiff from the cold.

She pushes the heavy trash bag toward the bins with a sigh, trying to ignore the ache in her muscles from the long shift. The air feels thinner out here, colder, somehow darker. The quiet is different — more oppressive, like the world is holding its breath. She throws the trash in the bin, then turns toward the street, her mind already thinking of her warm bed.

It’s the end of another shift, but tonight, there's something else in the air. She can feel it, that odd sense of awareness, the subtle weight of the quiet, like something is waiting just around the corner.

And there, under the faint glow of the streetlamp, she sees him.

A shadow shifts in the darkness, long, dark hair spilling around his face, the flicker of a cigarette barely illuminating his features. He’s leaned against the side wall of the alley, like he’s been waiting there for hours, even though she knows he hasn’t – he wasn’t there forty minutes ago when she last stepped out.

She freezes instinctively, tension spiking in her chest. Her hand hovers over the small knife she keeps in her bag, her body already assessing the situation, figuring out escape routes, defensive stances. She’s had enough bad run-ins working at the bar to know how to handle herself, but this... this is different.

But then, the figure shifts slightly, and a silver gleam catches the moonlight — the unmistakable shine of metal. Her body relaxes instantly.

“Bucky?” she calls out, her voice a little sharper than she intends. She pushes the apprehension from her voice, her feet taking hesitant steps toward him. "You scared the shit out of me."

He looks up at her, smiling sheepishly, stepping into the dim light that spills from the streetlamp above. His face is softer now, his eyes warm despite the late hour.

"Sorry," he says, his voice low and almost sheepish, as though apologising for something he had no control over. "Wasn’t my intention."

Evelyn shakes her head, blinking away the lingering anxiety. "What the hell are you doing here?" she asks, though she can’t keep the relief from creeping into her tone.

He’s watching her eyes carefully. “You’re shifts finished?” He asks.

“Yeah, just now. I just locked up to leave…” she says, looking toward the closed door. She looks back at Bucky, shakes her head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Bucky shifts his weight, his hands deep in his pockets as he looks at her, expression unreadable for a moment. “You weren’t really meant to know,” he admits. “I thought you’d go out the front door. I was just gonna follow.”

“Why?”

“You said in the group chat you couldn’t make it to movie night tonight because you had a shift at the bar.” He glances toward the closed door behind her, then back at her. "We were talking about it, your other job. Sam said your shifts end around 2AM and you walk home alone, in the dark. And that just won’t do. I’m not okay with that. So, here I am."

Evelyn blinks at him, confused. “What?”

Bucky’s eyes soften with something like concern. "This isn't the safest neighbourhood, Evelyn. You don’t have to be walking home by yourself at this hour. I’m just gonna walk with you. Make sure you get home safe.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, cutting her off gently. “You don’t have to argue with me on this. I’m walking you home.”

Evelyn glances at her phone, at the time. “Buck, it’s like three in the morning. You really don’t have to do this.”

He shrugs. “I want to. It’s not like I sleep much anyway.” His voice is low, like he’s admitting something that’s usually kept close to his chest.

She looks at him for a long moment, trying to read him, but there’s something in his eyes that softens her resistance. She sighs, the frustration melting into something else, something warm. “Because you don’t need to or because you can’t?” she asks quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

A small, rueful smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “A bit of both,” he admits softly. “Come on. Let’s get you home before you freeze.”

They fall into step side by side, the cold air biting as they walk down the nearly deserted sidewalks, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional wail of sirens breaking the silence around them. Brooklyn at this hour is a different world. It’s eerie, almost unreal, as though the city holds its breath, waiting for something.

"Look, Bucky," Evelyn begins, her voice soft but steady, "I appreciate the gesture. It’s really sweet of you. But I’m an Avenger. I can take care of myself."

He glances at her from the corner of his eye, his mouth quirking up slightly. "I know you can," he says quietly, the weight of his voice something she can’t quite place. “But you don’t have to. I’m walking you home.”

Evelyn shakes her head in disbelief. “Is this some forties gentlemanly act you’re still leaning into?” she teases, the sound of it light and airy, masking the subtle swell of something she’s not quite ready to identify. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

“Yeah, I know.” He lets out a breath, but there’s something in the air between them that shifts. "But I want to. It feels... right."

They pass by dark storefronts, old brick buildings lined up like silent sentinels, their windows dark and empty. The occasional streetlight flickers, casting brief shadows across their path, and it’s quiet — too quiet — except for the soft shuffle of their footsteps. Bucky walks just slightly ahead, always on the side closest to the road, his posture protective, despite the casual air he’s trying to maintain.

Evelyn watches him, noting the way he walks, the small movements he makes to keep her safe without saying a word. It’s comforting, this act of silent care, though part of her feels strange accepting it.

“Well, if this is going to become a habit… Next time,” she says, breaking the silence, “Can you at least come into the bar and wait inside? You can sit in the warmth while I finish packing up. Don’t make me kick you out of the alley again, freezing your ass off.”

He grins, a rare, genuine smile that makes her chest tighten just a little. “Sure,” he agrees easily.

“Good. You can help me with the undesirables who refuse to leave after last call.”

He grins. “I’m good at being intimidating.”

“No kidding. You can be the bouncer.”

They turn a corner, shoes crunching over a thin layer of icy snow.

After a moment, she nudges him with her elbow. “Okay, tell me. What are some of the other gentlemanly rules you’re still clinging to?” She asks, tilting her head in curiosity.

Bucky hums thoughtfully, clearly enjoying the playful shift in conversation. He scratches the back of his neck, his eyes scanning the street around them as if he’s pulling these rules out from a long-forgotten place, rifling through an old drawer in his brain.

“Well, the sidewalk rule, of course,” he says, glancing down at the cracked pavement beneath their feet as if it’s the most important thing in the world. “The man walks on the road side.”

Evelyn glances at him, eyebrow raised. Sure enough, Bucky’s walking on the side of the footpath closest to the road. “Why?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s more dangerous. Cars, bikes, and if you trip, you might fall into the street. Besides, you can’t get your bag snatched by a passing car or bike if you’re on the sidewalk."

Evelyn lets out a small laugh at that, shaking her head, amused by how seriously he’s taking this. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

He shrugs with a kind of casual pride. “You know, god forbid a carriage barrels through,” he adds with a smirk, “but the idea was to shield you, just in case. Also—if someone’s gonna get splashed by a puddle, it should be me. I’ve lived through worse than wet shoes. And wouldn’t want to ruin your style.”

“My hairstyle?” She clarifies.

“Yeah. Girls used to use a lot of hairspray. They’d set their hair, brush it out all perfect. Water was the enemy.”

“Well, my hair is barely brushed, so I think we’re safe,” Evie laughs. “What else?” she asks, her voice still light but growing warmer, as though she’s finding something genuinely endearing in his words.

He gestures vaguely in the air, as though pulling the next rule from the air itself. “The puddle rule. A girl should never have to walk through a puddle. If there’s one, you carry her over it, so her shoes don’t get wet.”

“And if the whole road’s flooded?” she teases, her lips curling in a sly smile.

“Well,” he says matter-of-factly, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes, “that’s why the piggyback was invented.”

His tone is dead serious, and she can’t help but burst into laughter.

She shakes her head, still laughing. “Is that so?” she asks, raising her eyebrows in mock disbelief.

He grins, that little spark of humour never quite leaving his face. “Mm-hmm.”

She laughs again, more softly this time, the sound warmer than before. “You’re ridiculous, Bucky,” she says, but it’s affectionate, the teasing tone giving way to something genuine.

“I know,” he agrees, shrugging as if to say, What can I say?

She gives him a sidelong look. “What else?”

Bucky grins now, warming to the game. “Opening doors. Pulling out chairs. Never showing up empty-handed. Walking you home—preferably not because you punched me in the face during training.”

“That was one time,” she laughs.

His smile fades just a little, turning into something softer. “Listening,” he says, quieter now. “Really listening. Not just waiting for your turn to talk. That’s a big one.”

Evelyn looks at him, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. There’s sincerity in his voice, something quietly earnest that catches her off guard.

“So, what, you used to follow all these rules?” She clarifies.

“Yeah,” he says. “Still want to. There’s a lot more.”

“More?”

“Well, the rules aren’t just about protecting a girl from puddles or cars. They’re about making your girl feel like she matters. Like she’s worth the effort. It’s about showing her that she deserves to be treated well.”

His voice softens on the last part, and for a moment, Evelyn isn’t sure how to respond.

She opens her mouth to say something, but he’s already moving on, recounting other small gestures — almost old-fashioned, maybe even outdated, but somehow timeless in their simplicity.

“Like holding the car door open. Always. Even if it’s just to show her I’m paying attention.” He smiles faintly, as if the memory of it is something fond. “Or leaving little notes for my lady. Not every day, but enough so you know she’s always on my mind. A quick ‘good morning’ written on the bathroom mirror, or a note left on the pillow.” His gaze drifts a little as if lost in the thought of some long-forgotten time. “And I guess I always liked the idea of dancing in the kitchen just because.”

Evelyn’s breath catches, just slightly, as she listens. His words are simple, but the sincerity behind them hits her harder than she expects. She feels a strange flutter in her chest as she looks at him.

“Who taught you all this?”

“I dunno. My parents. Friends at school. It was all just sort of… ingrained into you. The women loved it, so…” he trails off, shrugging.

“I like it. Sounds like a nice way to be treated,” she admits softly, her voice quiet, like the weight of the words holds something she wasn’t ready to fully say out loud. “To feel… I dunno, seen.”

The air between them feels charged for a moment, more than just the cold night seeping into her skin. It’s as if Bucky’s quiet, earnest admission has shifted something — not just in him, but in her too. The world around them fades, the hum of the city fading into a distant memory as her eyes meet his. And for a fleeting second, she wonders if that’s how he would treat someone — with such care, such tenderness.

The silence between them lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s warm, like something waiting to be acknowledged, but not forced.

Bucky shifts slightly, his hands tucked deep into his pockets as they continue walking. “And flowers,” he adds after a moment, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Once a week. Maybe not roses — but whatever’s in season. I don’t know. It’s just the little things, you know?”

Evelyn nods, her heartwarming at the thought of it. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her gaze softening. Evelyn looks over at him again, really looks this time. “You know,” she says quietly, “most people would’ve let all that stuff go. Let the world turn them cold.”

His smile softens. “Yeah, well. Some things are worth hanging on to.”

And she doesn’t say it out loud, but she thinks she knows what he means.

They reach the base of her apartment building, and Evelyn pauses. She glances up at him, the cold air swirling around them, and for a moment, she hesitates.

“Well, this is me,” she says, her voice just a little bit quieter. She digs her keys out of her bag, the motion slow.

Bucky watches her for a beat. “You got your keys?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” she replies, showing him.

“I’ll wait until you’re inside, safe,” he says, his voice gentle, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Evelyn looks up at him for a moment, something unspoken in her gaze, before she nods and heads for the door. Her fingers pause over the keyhole, and she glances back one last time.

“Night, Bucky,” she says quietly, offering him a small smile. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” he says, earnestly. “Night.” He gives a small wave.

She disappears inside and goes up to her apartment on the top floor. When she gets to the kitchen, she turns on the light. Glancing out the window, she realises he’s only just turned to walk off down the street, once he knew she was inside the apartment.

Something swells in her chest.

Bucky shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets as he walks, the cold biting at his skin even through the layers.

He doesn’t mind.

He waits, just to make sure the light goes on in her kitchen window. When it does, something settles in his chest, loosening a knot he hadn’t even realised he was carrying.

He turns away, boots scuffing softly against the sidewalk. The streets are near empty at this hour, the hum of the city dulled under the weight of the late hour and thin snow. He breathes it in — the cold, the quiet, the lingering trace of her voice saying goodnight.

Maybe it’s stupid, he thinks, standing around just to make sure she got inside okay.

But it doesn't feel stupid.

It feels... good. Right. Like he’s part of something again. Like he could be something good, if he stayed close enough to her.

He walks home lighter than he has in a long time.

Chapter Text

Evelyn barely sleeps.

She tosses and turns, the blankets too heavy and not heavy enough all at once, the corners pulled and twisted from her restlessness. The room feels colder than it should, even with the radiator humming in the corner. Her mind loops endlessly, circling around the same image: Bucky under the streetlight, hands tucked into his jacket, watching until he knew she was safe. There had been something about that look in his eyes. Not possessive. Not performative. Just steady. Protective. Real.

When the pale sun begins to bleed through the curtains, she gives up. She throws on a robe, shuffles to the kitchen, and switches the coffee pot on. The familiar sound of the drip and hiss fills the silence. She leans against the counter and stares out the window, mug clutched in both hands like a lifeline.

The streets are dusted with snow, soft at the edges, muffling the world. It’s quiet. Still. A moment held in suspension, as if the city itself hasn’t quite decided to wake up yet.

Her phone buzzes on the counter.

Bucky: Morning. Hope you slept okay.

She smiles—small, involuntary. She hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen before replying.

Evelyn: Not really. You?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Bucky: Didn’t really expect to. You free today?

She glances at the clock. Sunday. No work. No plans. Just her, the cold, and the memory of his voice in her head.

Evelyn: Yeah. What’s up?

Bucky: Thought maybe we could get some breakfast? If you want.

There it is. That tiny leap in her chest again. Her heart doing a flip she refuses to acknowledge.

Evelyn: Sure. Where?

Bucky: There’s a diner a few blocks from you. Real old-school. Best pancakes in Brooklyn.

Evelyn: You had me at pancakes.

Bucky: I’ll be at yours in 20.

Her eyes widen. Panic. Scramble.

She hurries back to her room, throws on jeans, a soft grey sweater, and a jacket that’s warm enough for the chill but doesn’t make her look like a marshmallow. She grabs her straightener and runs it through her hair to make herself presentable—straightened hair but loose down her back—and dabs concealer under her eyes, throws mascara onto her lashes, a tiny dab of blush on her cheeks. Enough makeup to look awake. Present. Maybe a little bit pretty.

Why are you doing that? She finds herself thinking. It's just Bucky.

It’s just breakfast. Casual. Friendly.

Except… it doesn’t feel like just anything.

By the time she makes it downstairs, Bucky’s already there, leaning against the railing like he’s stepped out of some vintage film reel—jacket collar up, hair tousled, eyes lifting to meet hers through the glass door.

She opens it. The cold greets her like an old friend.

“Hey,” she says, stepping out.

He smiles, small and real, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Hey.”

“Haven’t seen you in… five hours?” she jokes, pulling her jacket tighter.

“Too long,” he says without missing a beat. The words land softly but stick.

They fall into step like they’ve done this forever. The city around them yawns and stretches awake, traffic beginning to hum, footsteps starting to echo across the sidewalks.

The diner is exactly as he promised—worn booths, laminated menus that have seen better decades, and the rich smell of bacon and butter thick in the air. They slip into a booth by the window. The waitress pours coffee without asking.

Evelyn raises an eyebrow as the woman walks away.

Bucky just grins. “Told you. Best pancakes in Brooklyn. I come here a lot.”

She laughs. “You have secret haunts all over the place, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Gotta keep a few mysteries.”

They eat. Talk. Drink far too much coffee. Evelyn finds herself laughing more than she has in weeks—months, maybe. They talk about everything and nothing: his favourite movie growing up, her disastrous first job, the Brooklyn of old, her move to the city all those years ago.

At one point, he leans back, mug cradled in his hands, eyes on her like she’s the most interesting thing in the room.

She notices. Feels the weight of it.

“What?” she asks, cheeks heating under the intensity of his gaze.

He just shakes his head, smiling a little. “Nothing. Just… glad you’re here. With me.”

The words slide under her ribs like warmth. She ducks her head, hiding the flush by stabbing a fork at a piece of pancake.

On the walk back, they take the long way, meandering through quiet side streets where the pavement and gardens haven’t been fully trampled down by passers-by. The conversation turns softer—childhood memories, things they miss, things they don’t.

By the time they reach her building, the sun is higher, the world louder, but the little cocoon around them hasn’t burst.

They stop at the bottom of her steps.

“Well,” Evelyn says. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Thanks for coming,” he says.

“You really need to stop insisting on paying for me.”

“It’s just another one of those old rules you thought were real funny,” he teases.

“They’re sweet,” she says, quieter now.

His eyes linger on hers. The moment tilts.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing warm against her temple.

Her breath stutters. She swears the world holds its breath too.

He doesn’t lean in.

Instead, he steps back, hands in his pockets again.

“See you soon, Ev,” he says, voice low, almost tender.

She watches him walk away, long strides carrying him down the street, the sun gilding the edges of his hair like something out of a dream she hasn’t quite woken up from.

Something inside her shifts. Subtle, certain.

And she knows—knows—whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming…

She doesn’t want it to stop.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

Bucky: You up?

Evelyn blinks at her phone, the blue light harsh in the dark. It's just past midnight. She's been lying in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling.

Evelyn: Unfortunately.

Bucky: Come walk with me?

She doesn’t even hesitate. Jeans. Hoodie. Jacket. Boots. She doesn’t bother with makeup, doesn’t try to fix her hair—just pulls it into a loose ponytail, grabs her keys, and heads downstairs.

He’s waiting at the corner this time, already there like he'd been walking past and thought of her before texting, leaning against the lamppost. The tip of a cigarette glows between his fingers. He doesn’t smoke it—just holds it, lets it burn down, something to fidget with.

She steps into the pool of yellow light, and he looks up. Smiles.

"You shouldn't smoke," she berates, jokingly. "Bad for your lungs."

"Seriously?" He laughs.

"Serious. These kill people you know.”

”Evelyn, I’m a super soldier,” he responds, looking at her like she’s stupid.

”And? You can still try to look after your body. You know, since you like to throw yourself through concrete walls and everything.”

”Ha ha,” he deadpans. “You know my shoulder still doesn’t feel right after that.”

”What can I say, I was right. You are a dumbass.”

My dumbass, she finds herself thinking. What the fuck?

”So, everyone smoked, hey?” She says instead, pushing the thought away quickly, shaking her head at herself. “Did people know they were bad?”

”Nah,” he says.

”What, they tell you they’re good? Didn’t they prescribe them for asthma? Poor Steve, no wonder he was sick as a dog. Doctors were senseless sometimes.”

"They did, actually," Bucky huffs. "Pretty stupid."

"Uh, yeah," she breathes.

He throws the butt onto the ground and stomps it, the light going out.

"Oh, so you're a litterer, ex-Congressman Barnes?" She teases.

He frowns at her playfully. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t try very hard.”

They fall into step again like no time has passed. The city is hushed, muffled by the blanket of late hour. Even the snow seems to quiet its fall.

They don’t speak much at first. Just the sound of boots on pavement, the occasional car passing in the distance. The kind of silence that’s companionable. Easy.

Eventually, Evelyn glances sideways. “So… where are we walking to?”

Bucky shrugs. “Nowhere. Just… away from everything, I guess.”

She nods. She understands that kind of walking. The kind where movement feels like the only answer.

They pass shuttered shops, empty playgrounds, a bus stop with a flickering streetlight. The cold nips at their noses and ears, but they don’t turn back.

“You always do this?” she asks after a while. “Midnight walks?”

“When it gets loud upstairs.” He taps two fingers gently against his temple. “I walk around the Watchtower half the night sometimes, wandering the halls. Find heaps of new things.”

She doesn’t press. Doesn’t need to. Her own thoughts have been shouting lately, too.

They walk in silence a little longer. Then—

“Tell me about something good,” she says suddenly.

He glances over. “Good?”

“Yeah. Anything. I just… I feel like you need to hear something good right now. Think about something good happening for you.”

Bucky thinks for a moment. “Okay. There’s this bakery on 86th that opens before sunrise. Still makes everything by hand. You walk past it around five in the morning, and it smells like cinnamon and heaven.”

Evelyn smiles. “That’s good. Though no one should be up at five. Criminal.”

“Your turn.”

She exhales, watching the fog of her breath disappear into the air. “Hmm," she begins, thoughtful. "There’s a stray cat that lives behind my building. Real grumpy, like you, I suppose. But he lets me feed him sometimes. I call him Lieutenant Meow. Lame, I know.”

Bucky laughs, and she swears it’s the best sound she’s heard in weeks. Deep, real. She grins back.

They keep going, good things back and forth, and for a while they both feel a bit lighter.

"And I guess... this is a good thing," Bucky says eventually, hesitantly. He points between the two of them.

Evelyn blinks, caught off guard. The chill in the night air seems to soften all at once, the silence that follows not uncomfortable, but full.

She turns to look at him fully. “Yeah,” she says, quiet. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

They stop walking for a moment. Just stand there—on an empty stretch of pavement, under a flickering streetlamp, between the sleeping city and the wide-open dark. The kind of place where everything feels suspended, like time decided to take a breath, too.

Bucky shifts his weight, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. “Didn’t expect that,” he admits, eyes flicking over to her and then quickly away. “To feel… good. With someone. Even just walking.”

“I didn’t expect you to laugh,” Evelyn teases gently. “That was a plot twist.”

He chuckles again, more subdued this time, but it still reaches his eyes. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

They start walking again. Slower now. Not aimless—just unhurried. Like neither of them wants the night to end too soon.

Evelyn bumps his arm lightly. “Tomorrow, I’m bringing snacks. We’re not doing midnight walks without snacks.”

“Deal,” Bucky says. And this time, the smile lingers.

They keep walking, winding through side streets until the skyline opens up near the river. The lights from Manhattan shimmer on the water, reflections bending with the current.

They stop at the railing overlooking the East River. The cold wind bites harder here, but neither of them moves to leave.

“I used to come here before missions,” Bucky says quietly, after a while. “Just to remind myself the world was still… still here. Still worth coming back to.”

Evelyn’s throat tightens. She reaches out, her gloved hand brushing his.

He turns his palm up.

She slips her hand into his without a word.

They stay like that, shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the lights across the water. The silence isn’t empty now. It’s full—of everything unsaid, of everything they’re beginning to trust each other with.

Eventually, he speaks again, voice low and rough. “Thanks for coming.”

“I always will,” she says softly. "Unless I don't text back, which means by some miracle I've managed to fall asleep."

He doesn’t look at her, but his thumb brushes gently over the back of her hand, slow and steady.

They stay by the river until their fingers go numb, until the glow of the city starts to shift from deep night to the faintest breath of dawn. It’s not quite morning yet, but the sky is starting to soften, black retreating into navy.

Evelyn shifts her weight and gently pulls her hand back from his, flexing her fingers inside her glove to get the blood moving again.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he does glance at her, eyes catching in the dim light. “Come on, popsicle. Let’s get you home. You’re freezing.”

She smirks, her nose red, cheeks raw from the cold. They retrace their steps slowly, neither one in a hurry to end the moment. It’s quieter on the return. Not awkward—just… gentle. Like neither of them wants to talk over what’s been shared.

When they reach her building, she stops at the foot of the stairs, turning to face him.

“Well,” she says, a little breathless from the cold and something else, “this was unexpectedly nice.”

Bucky nods, shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “It was.”

There’s a pause.

She could invite him in. She thinks about it. But the moment doesn’t feel like it needs more. Not yet.

“I’ll see you soon?” she asks instead, her voice softer than she means it to be.

“You will,” he says. And there’s a certainty in it that makes something warm unfurl in her chest.

“Goodnight, Bucky. Or should I say good morning,” she says with a tiny laugh.

“Night, Ev.”

She climbs the stairs, glancing back only once. He’s still there, watching. She disappears inside.

He waits until the light clicks on behind her curtains before he finally turns, hands still buried in his pockets, and walks back into the waking city.

Chapter Text

The following day, the team assembles in the Tower for the mission briefing, but there’s one noticeable absence. Evelyn hasn’t arrived.

Bucky sits near the front, his gaze drifting over the group. He notices her empty seat, and for a moment, his brow furrows in concern. He looks around at the others, eyes scanning the room, almost as if expecting her to suddenly walk through the door.

"Where’s Evelyn?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft, though he tries to mask the concern with casualness. The question hangs in the air, and the usual banter falls to a hush.

Sam smirks, leaning back in his chair. "What, you missin' her already, Barnes? You gettin’ attached to the new recruit?" he teases, raising an eyebrow. There’s a light-hearted edge to his voice, but the teasing is clear.

Bucky doesn’t smile. He simply stares at Sam for a moment, the words hitting him differently than usual. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s Evelyn they’re talking about, or maybe it’s the fact that her absence is bothering him more than he’s willing to admit. Something’s going on between them, their relationship is shifting, and he really cares about her. He likes being around her. She makes him feel safe, seen, supported. She’s… nice.

A friend.

A nice friend.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck.

Yelena, sitting across the table with a lazy smirk on her face, looks up from her phone. "She called in sick," she says, her tone flat but informative. "Said she felt off."

Bucky nods, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "Sick?" he repeats, his mind already going into overdrive.

Evelyn doesn’t strike him as one to take sick days, let alone admit she’s unwell. She gets back up every time Bucky knocks her down when they spar, and the time when Sam flipped her over his shoulder onto her head, and when Ava accidentally phased her across the room. She gets up.

Worry sits in the bottom of Bucky’s stomach all day. It coils there like a weight, low and heavy, refusing to budge no matter how much he tries to shake it off. The mission briefing drones on, voices around him fading into background noise as he zones out, his eyes occasionally flicking back to Evelyn’s empty chair like it might suddenly be filled. But it never is.

He doesn’t realise he’s bouncing his knee until Yelena nudges it with the toe of her boot under the table. He glances over at her, startled, and she raises a single brow in that way of hers that somehow says, Relax and What the hell’s wrong with you? all at once. He forces his leg to still.

After the meeting, the team disperses, heading off to gear up or grab food. Bucky, instead of following, stands at the back of the room for a long moment, unmoving. Then, almost without conscious thought, his feet start carrying him toward the elevator.

By the time he’s outside Evelyn’s apartment, it’s already late afternoon. He doesn’t really have a plan. He hadn’t meant to come straight here, but his feet made the decision for him. There’s something gnawing at him—a tight, restless feeling that’s only grown stronger since Yelena’s comment. She felt off. What does that even mean?

The only stop he made was at a deli on the way, grabbing a container of chicken soup and a bag of crackers. It’s not much, but it’s something. Something his mother used to do. Something simple and kind.

Now, standing in front of her door, he hesitates. His hand lifts, then drops again. He’s not sure if he’s overstepping. She might not want to see anyone. She might want space.

But then he knocks anyway—soft, almost tentative. The sound of footsteps shuffling slowly to the door follows a moment later.

When Evelyn opens the door, Bucky feels the breath catch in his throat.

She looks pale. Not just tired, but drained. Her skin is sallow under the soft hallway light, and her hair is mussed, like she’s been tossing in bed all day. There’s no spark in her eyes, just a dull, weary ache behind them. She wraps an oversized hoodie tighter around herself, leaning against the frame for support.

“Bucky?” Her voice is hoarse, surprised. Her eyes flick down to the container in his hands, then back up. “What are you…?”

“Heard you were sick,” he says. His voice is a little rough, but gentle. He lifts the container. “Brought you something. It’s just soup. My Ma always used to make it for me, when I was a kid. Made everything better. Figured… I dunno. Couldn’t hurt.”

She stares at him for a beat, then huffs a tired laugh, though it quickly turns into a small cough. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Wanted to.”

“Thank you.” She opens the door a little wider. “Come in.”

He steps inside, blinking at the sudden shift from sterile hallway light to the low, warm glow of her apartment. It’s quiet, save for a softly humming fan and the faint murmur of a nature documentary playing on the TV. The place is cluttered but lived-in—blankets strewn across the couch, a book face-down on the armrest, a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table.

“You look like hell,” he says before he can stop himself.

Evelyn snorts and flops down onto the couch, dragging the blanket over herself again. “Thanks, Barnes. Great bedside manner.”

He follows her in, perching on the edge of the couch. She accepts the soup with a quiet thanks and begins to eat, small spoonfuls like each one takes effort. He watches her closely. Too closely. Every wince, every shiver—he clocks them all.

"I think there was something off about those pancakes the other day. Or all these sleepless nights are catching up to me," she says, her voice weak but still carrying that familiar edge of humour.

”It’s probably from being out in the cold all night,” Bucky says. “We shouldn’t do that again.”

”No way, that was nice. It can’t be that,” she says, her tone playful. “Maybe you passed on some kind of super bug to me when we were out all night,” she adds, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles, but it’s clear she’s not feeling her usual self.

Bucky chuckles, the sound soft, but his concern is clear in his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’m not contagious.”

She walks toward the couch, sinking down into the cushions. “Maybe not, but I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Definitely feel worse than usual.”

He walks over, sitting down beside her hesitantly on the armrest of the couch, and for a moment, they sit in silence. She’s curled up under a blanket, sipping the soup. Her face looks almost grey, and he’s starting to get more worried.

“Do you need anything else? Maybe some medicine?” he asks, his voice softer than usual, like he’s trying to be helpful but not overstep.

She shakes her head, a small sigh escaping her lips. “No, I’ll be fine. Just... need to sleep this off, I think. Or maybe I’m just burning out from trying to keep up with all of you,” she adds after a while.

“You’ve been doing fine,” Bucky says quickly. “Better than fine.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she lets out a breath and leans her head back against the cushions. “Maybe.”

There’s a moment of silence. A real one. Not heavy, not awkward. Just… quiet.

Bucky rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. “Do you want me to stay for a bit?”

Evelyn’s eyes flutter open. She looks at him for a long moment, something unreadable passing across her expression.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Actually… I’d like that.”

So, he stays.

Bucky watches her, unsure if she’s truly okay. He wants to help but doesn't quite know how. He can feel a shift in the air, a change that’s subtle but still noticeable. It’s like the lines between them have blurred, and he’s no longer just a teammate or a friend—he’s someone she trusts to be here while she’s vulnerable.

"You can't sit there all day," she tells him, eyeing the way he's perched on the edge. "Si'down, make yourself comfy. Mi casa es su casa."

Bucky hesitates for a moment, then shifts, moving to sit on the couch rather than perching on the edge, adjusting himself so he’s more comfortable. She passes him the remote and he flicks through the channels, volume low. He tries not to make too much noise, but the couch isn’t very big. Before long, his body gives in to the quiet pull of exhaustion. The warmth of her presence beside him, the sound of her soft breathing—it’s comforting in an unfamiliar way.

He’s never sat with anyone like this before, just resting together, no expectations, no rush. He’s watched TV with the other New Avengers, but that had been about concentrating, following the plot, making jokes. This is just quiet.

And as much as his mind keeps drifting back to the mission and the responsibility waiting for him, part of him is content to be here, just existing in this shared moment.

They don’t talk much. She dozes, and he sits beside her, scrolling half-heartedly through his phone or just watching random sitcoms. Once, when she stirs in her sleep and starts to shiver, he quietly pulls the blanket higher over her shoulder.

As the hours tick by, Evelyn falls into a deep sleep, her breathing steady and slow. Bucky doesn’t want to move, not wanting to disturb her. He can feel her head slowly slide to his shoulder, her weight light against him. He stiffens at first, unsure if he should move, unsure if she’s even awake. But then she sighs, low and content, and something in him softens. He instinctively leans into her, just a little, so she can rest easy, leaning on his shoulder.

And there they stay—Evelyn asleep, her warmth a comfort against his side, while Bucky remains still, watching over her.

He falls asleep at some point, his head lolling back against the cushions, in a sitting position, and doesn’t move again until morning.

When Bucky finally wakes up, his neck is stiff. The soft light of dawn is breaking through the windows. He feels sore from staying still too long, his back hurts, but he doesn’t mind. He sits up straighter, blinking away sleep, realising he stayed the whole night sleeping upright on the couch.

Evelyn is still curled up beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, her blanket pulled up to her chin. Her face is calm, skin a little less pale. He watches her in the soft, early light, the peace of her expression, and something deep in his chest shifts.

He doesn’t know what this is between them yet, not exactly. But he knows he wants to protect it.

To protect her.

He gently shifts, careful not to wake her, and lowers her onto the couch, putting a pillow under her head. He looks around. The quiet of the apartment feels peaceful, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

Her breathing is steady, and when she shifts slightly, mumbling in her sleep, he smiles softly. He wants to stay like this, just a little longer, but he knows they both have things to do – well, he does anyway. They leave for the mission in about two hours.

Bucky carefully stands, looking down at her for a moment. She’s still so vulnerable, and he feels a pang of something in his chest. He wants to make sure she’s okay, but he knows he can’t stay forever. As he leaves, he quietly closes the door behind him.

Chapter Text

The dimly lit venue hums with a gentle energy, the air thick with the murmur of the crowd. The small stage is bathed in a warm, amber glow, the kind that spills from the heart of a quiet room. The spotlight falls softly on the piano at its centre, its sleek black surface reflecting the light in muted ripples. It’s the end of another long set, the crowd’s energy pulsing in the air—a buzzing mix of exhilaration and anticipation.

Evelyn sits before the piano, her fingers hovering just above the keys, suspended in a moment of stillness. She takes a quiet breath, feeling the weight of the night’s energy settle around her. An hour of seventies hits, love songs that make people close their eyes and sway, and her own originals woven through the set—now, it’s time for the final song. She’s done it a thousand times before, but there’s always that flutter of nerves, the kind of anxious excitement that runs through her veins when she knows she’s about to give something of herself to the crowd.

The roar of the crowd rises, a thunderous swell that reverberates through her chest, quickly followed by the wild cheers of her fans packed tightly around the bar. But Evelyn doesn’t let it distract her. Instead, she locks her gaze on the keys, her fingers brushing over them in a prelude to something deeper. It’s familiar—the pull of the music, the flow of her power—but it always feels like an act of release, an exhale after holding in so much.

There’s no band tonight—just her and her powers. With a subtle gesture, the other instruments begin to come to life once more for the final song. The guitar floats into the air beside her, its strings strummed by invisible fingers, while the drumsticks rise and tap the beat out in perfect rhythm. The music swells and breathes as though it has a life of its own, each note harmonizing with the next in a seamless blend of magic and reality. The sound is rich, full, yet still carries the quiet intimacy of a solo performance, her voice rising to meet the music.

Her fingers press the keys with practiced ease. The first notes of the song drift into the air, soft and melancholic at first, like a tender whisper just for herself. The delicate chords trickle into the room, each one falling like droplets of water into a still pond. The music begins to rise, but there’s an intimacy to it, a reflective quality that only Evelyn can bring. It’s as if the world slows down for a moment, the crowd fading into the background as the piano takes over the space, wrapping the room in its warmth.

The room falls into a hush. You can almost feel the collective breath of the audience, suspended in anticipation. Her fingers move with effortless precision, each chord a pulse, a beat of her heart shared with every listener. The energy of the crowd is still there, but it’s transformed, captured in the silence that follows the first few notes, every person waiting for the next.

Evelyn doesn’t need to think anymore. Her hands move almost of their own accord, the music guiding her on a journey both familiar and surprising each time. There’s magic in the way her power weaves through the instruments, pulling them into harmony as if they’re extensions of herself—soft guitar notes rising and falling, the percussion joining with just the right emphasis. The sound is alive and intimate, filling the space with something that feels both personal and shared.

Evelyn's eyes scan the audience as she sings, her voice smooth and soulful, effortlessly sliding between notes. It’s clear this isn’t just a performance for her—it’s a language she speaks with her soul. The crowd is rapt, hanging on every word, every chord, but her gaze lands on someone in particular.

At the back of the room, almost swallowed by the shadows, is a figure she recognises.

Bucky.

He's standing alone, leaning against the wall, his posture tense but his eyes locked on her, like a man who can’t look away even if he wanted to. Evelyn feels a strange flicker in her chest—both warmth and an inexplicable pull—as though the music has connected her to him in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Her throat tightens, but she keeps singing, her voice unwavering.

She doesn’t let her gaze linger too long, focusing instead on the music, letting the melody carry her forward, filling the room. "Somebody to Love" fills the air, its sombre undertones slowly rising into something more dynamic, more searching. The piano notes cascade with elegance, but there’s a rawness to it, an emotion she pours into each touch of the keys. She’s always chosen this song to end her sets—an echo of something timeless, something grand. Queen. A crowd favourite, and tonight is no different. But tonight, it feels like it means something else.

Something shifts in Bucky’s expression. Her voice, soft but clear, wraps around the lyrics with the weight of everything unspoken, all the feelings that have been simmering beneath the surface. As the crowd begins to sway, lost in the familiarity of the melody, Evelyn allows herself to close her eyes for a moment.

The song becomes an offering—not just to the audience, but to him—a silent admission of vulnerability, a wish for the kind of connection the song speaks of.

As the song builds, Evelyn’s eyes find Bucky again, watching him carefully as she sings, letting the lyrics tell a story they both know well: the search for somebody to truly love, to trust, to stand beside through everything.

The piano’s melody swells, her voice joining it effortlessly. She’s not just singing the words; she’s becoming them, embodying the spirit of the song. And for a brief, fleeting moment, it’s just Evelyn and the music, the crowd nothing but a hum in the distance. Her voice carries the weight of decades, of memories and nostalgia, but also something new, something that’s always her own.

It’s the moment when time feels suspended. The last song of the night, the final notes before everything shifts back into reality. She lets the last chord linger, allowing it to resonate through the room. The crowd erupts into applause, the energy rushing back in a wave of love and excitement.

But Evelyn’s smile is soft, almost bittersweet, as she gently lifts her fingers from the keys. She’s given all of herself, and for a brief moment, everything feels complete.

She stands and gives a small bow, waving, the invisible instruments gradually lowering back to their resting places as she lifts her fingers from the keys.

Backstage, she quickly drops off her gear, her mind still swirling from the performance, the hum of the music still lingering in her veins. The adrenaline fades, replaced by a quiet sense of satisfaction, but there’s something else too—an odd sort of nervousness. She grabs two beers from the bar, the cool bottles a welcome contrast to the warmth in her chest.

Making her way through the crowd, she spots Bucky at the edge of the bar, his eyes scanning the room, ready to leave. He looks like he’s about to slip away unnoticed, but Evelyn isn’t having that. She walks up to him, the bottles in hand, setting one down in front of him.

“What brings you here?” she asks, taking a seat beside him, a soft but teasing smile on her lips.

Bucky glances up at her, clearly a little surprised. He raises the beer to her in a silent thank you, taking a long swig before answering. “Was curious,” he says, his voice low and steady. “How did you know I was here?”

Evelyn leans back slightly, crossing her arms in mock contemplation. “Well, the man with the brooding face watching from the shadows was kind of a dead giveaway.” She’s teasing, but there’s an edge of affection to her words.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, slightly defensive. “I don’t have a brooding face.”

“Yes, you do,” she counters with a laugh.

He smirks, then looks down into his beer. “Was I really that obvious?” he asks, almost sheepishly.

Evelyn shrugs with a grin. “Only a little. I thought you were supposed to be a super spy.”

“Were. Key word.”

Then her smile falters, just a fraction, and she glances at him, her voice quieter. “So… what? You didn’t like the music?”

Bucky’s face softens immediately, a flicker of concern crossing his features. He leans in slightly, his eyes sincere. “No, I loved it,” he says, his voice genuine. “You’re good. Really good.”

Evelyn laughs softly, but there’s a hint of dejection in her tone. “Can you tell your face that, then? You looked miserable the whole set.”

Bucky lets out a breath, his posture loosening as he shifts to face her more directly. “I was just taking it all in. And I’m not much for crowds like this,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips. “You’ve got a nice voice. It’s different. In a good way.”

“Thank you,” she says, her gaze softening. “I’d hope so, since some people do pay me to use it.”

“And the whole floating instruments playing on their own thing is a nice touch. Original.”

“It’s a hard act to beat, I will admit,” she smirks.

Bucky chuckles, his eyes warming with amusement. It’s a small, genuine laugh, and it lingers between them as they settle into a comfortable silence.

“I know it isn’t the forties music you like. It’s probably not your jam. But I have thought about adding something like that in, something older. Maybe you could give me some ideas,” Evelyn says after a while, her tone light but sincere. “But anyway, thanks for coming to see me perform.”

Bucky looks at her, his expression thoughtful. “I know I tell Sam I only like forties music, but that’s just to get on his nerves,” he admits, the hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Those playlists you guys make me? I actually like the music. And what you played up there…” His voice softens a bit. “Well, that’s probably my new favourite.”

Evelyn laughs, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, so you’re a seventies guy, then,” she teases, leaning back slightly on her stool to look him over. “That’s basically all I play, mixed with some newer stuff. I can see you in a pair of bell bottoms, rocking out to Fleetwood Mac.”

“Who?” Bucky asks, looking genuinely confused.

Evelyn blinks, almost taken aback by his lack of recognition. “They’re a band. I played a few of their songs up there,” she explains. “They’re one of my favourites.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, his eyes thoughtful like he’s cataloguing that information away in his mind. “There were a few songs you played that I recognised, but there were a few I’ve never heard before.”

Evelyn lets out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Shocking,” she says. “Sam’s pop culture re-education of you hasn’t been going for that long, huh?”

“You’ll have to give me the names so I can listen,” Bucky says, his tone suddenly earnest.

“Well, for some of them, I could give you the names, but you’ll find it hard to get a recording,” she teases. “I wrote some of those songs, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Mm,” she nods, smiling at his surprised reaction. “I play a mix of covers and originals. When my bandmates are actually here, we try to change the set around regularly, mix it up. Though I’m usually playing alone – most of us have moved on now, thought it was going nowhere. But changing it up keeps people coming back to see us, opens us up to new audiences, gives us exposure for our original stuff.”

Bucky leans in slightly, his curiosity piqued. “Why don’t you record them? Release them?”

Evelyn’s smile tightens just a fraction. “I’m working on it,” she says quietly. “The music industry is difficult to break into. Hence the bar work. And the whole being an Avenger thing.”

Bucky gives a small, understanding nod, his expression softening.

“So, why the hiding at the back, brooding?” Evelyn asks, her gaze unwavering.

Bucky hesitates before replying, his voice low. “I was going to leave before you saw me.”

“Why?” she asks, concern deepening in her eyes.

Bucky shifts slightly, leaning in a little closer. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here,” he admits, his words soft.

Evie shakes her head, surprised. “Of course I do.”

He tilts his head, his smile playful yet tinged with vulnerability. “You never offered.”

“You never asked,” she counters, a small grin tugging at his lips. She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d be that interested in my side hustle.”

Bucky’s eyes soften as he finishes his beer in one swift swig. “Can I come watch again sometime?” he asks, his tone genuine and hopeful.

Evelyn grins, her heart light. “Of course. Whenever you want. I don’t mind at all. Especially if you’re gonna be a fan…”

“I think so,” Bucky says, standing with a small stretch and pulling on his jacket. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

Chapter Text

The Quinjet hums low beneath them as they speed toward the Los Angeles coastline, the city sprawling in a haze of lights and smog below. Evelyn sits strapped in next to Sam, her hands resting too still on her lap. She's trying to play it cool — upper lip stiff, chin tilted just right — but her stomach twists itself into tighter knots with every passing minute.

Across from her, Bucky watches her. His arms are folded, one leg bouncing slightly. He leans in just a little, voice low so the others don’t hear. “You nervous, Evie?”

She snorts, flicking her eyes to him. “Nope.”

But the lie is thin. Bucky catches the flicker in her gaze — wide and bright and full of panic. His lips twitch into the faintest, knowing smile. He doesn’t call her out on it, just leans back again, giving her space.

Ava and John had stayed behind at the base. Walker was busy dissecting some old Hydra tech. Ava had looked ready to come but agreed to hang back when Steve suggested they might need her powers elsewhere soon. That had been a few hours ago, when the alert came in: possible Hydra cell activity at the docks in LA.

The moment the name Hydra had been spoken, something shifted in the jet. Steve's jaw set tighter. Bucky’s hands curled unconsciously into fists. Even Sam had gone quiet, his usual easy humour wiped off his face.

Evelyn had asked, quietly, why Hydra was still even a thing. She hadn't meant it to sound naive, but it came out that way, young and uncertain.

Steve had answered, voice low and grim. “They never really died. After the Blip… everything was chaos. SHIELD. was barely hanging on. The diehards took advantage of it. Started rebuilding in the cracks.” He met her eyes then, blue and heavy with the weight of too many years. “And they keep trying.”

Now, as the Quinjet descends and the docks come into view — sprawling warehouses, endless containers, the gleam of metal ships anchored and waiting — Evelyn feels the words sinking into her bones. Hydra is still here. Still festering.

“Touchdown in two,” Sam says from the cockpit. His voice cuts through the tension, crisp and sharp.

Steve stands first, his shield already slung across his back. Bucky checks the pistol at his hip and flexes his metal hand. Yelena arms herself in that easy, lethal way of hers, like it’s second nature.

Evie forces herself to move too, checking the small handgun strapped at her thigh. She has other tricks — her powers humming faintly under her skin — but Sam has drilled it into her: always have a backup.

The Quinjet lands with a muted thud on an abandoned strip behind the shipping yards. The night air smells like salt and diesel.

They move fast, slipping between crates and stacks of shipping containers, keeping low. In the distance, they see them — dozens, no, hundreds of workers bustling around the docks. Too busy. Too organised. Crates are being loaded onto massive ships under the cover of darkness.

"Hydra," Bucky mutters under his breath like a curse.

Steve lifts a hand, signalling to split up. Yelena veers left. Sam launches upward with a quick thrust of his wings, soaring high for a better vantage. Steve nods at Bucky and Evie — together.

They slink closer, weaving through the metal maze of cargo.

Then — the sharp bark of orders in Russian. Armed guards appear near the loading zones. Automatic weapons, full tactical gear.

It happens fast.

Steve hurls his shield, slamming two guards into a container wall with a hollow clang. Sam swoops down, knocking another off his feet.

And Bucky — something snaps in Bucky.

At the sight of Hydra insignias patched onto vests, the old rage pours into him, fast and molten. Evelyn barely keeps up as he charges into the fray, tearing through them like they’re made of paper.

He grabs a man by the vest and flings him into a steel crate hard enough to leave a dent. His metal fist catches another Hydra agent in the ribs with a sickening crack, sending him crumpling to the ground.

“Bucky—!” Evelyn calls, trying to stay close without getting flattened.

But Bucky’s lost in it. Not mindless — no, never mindless — but ruthless. Efficient. Every punch is precise, devastating. It’s terrifying and beautiful all at once, watching him tear through the men who tried to destroy him once.

Evie clenches her fists and dives in, a surge of her power crackling at her palms. She sends two men flying backward with a pulse of kinetic force, feeling the satisfying whoomph of air knock them off their feet.

The docks are chaos now — gunfire rattles, men shouting orders, crates smashing open, spilling weapons across the asphalt.

Steve barrels toward the biggest ship, signalling them on.

“Come on!” he shouts.

Bucky breaks away, grabbing Evelyn’s hand to yank her with him, and they sprint after Steve and Yelena.

The docks are chaos.

Hydra soldiers pour out of the shadows, armed to the teeth, shouting orders over the crash of waves against the concrete. Crates stamped with Hydra’s twisted sigil are hanging in the air on cranes, midway through being loaded onto a massive cargo ship. But the ship is moving, its engines rumbling to life, smoke pouring from the stacks.

Steve and Bucky exchange a grim look — frustration, exhaustion — before charging into the fray.

Sam launches himself into the air with a rush of his wings, taking out a rooftop sniper with a precise shot. Yelena moves like liquid shadow, weaving between soldiers and knocking them out cold with sharp, decisive strikes. Steve’s shield sings through the air, a blur of red, white, and blue that clears a path. And Bucky — Bucky is something else entirely.

Evie fights too, heart hammering, adrenaline singing in her veins. But it’s not enough.

Over the din of the battle, the ship’s deep vrrrmmm grows louder. The ropes tethering it to the dock fall away, one by one, and the vessel starts to pull out across the dark water. Hydra soldiers scramble aboard, hauling crates and weapons — the package they're desperate to protect.

Sam swoops down toward the ship, wings slicing the air. He can pick off a few soldiers, maybe take out a gunner — but he can’t stop an entire ship by himself.

“We’re losing it!” Yelena shouts, dodging a blast of gunfire.

Evie’s blood runs cold. She sprints to the edge of the docks, boots skidding slightly on the wet concrete. The black water churns beneath her, cold and unforgiving. The ship is already pulling away, too far for anyone to jump — even for Steve or Bucky.

Panic flares in her chest — until instinct takes over.

“Cover me!” She yells into the comms, and prays that someone will.

She raises her hands toward the ship, fingers trembling. Closes her eyes.

For a second, nothing happens. Just the roar of the engines, the crash of gunfire behind her. She frowns, focusing harder, reaching with something deeper than muscle and bone — something inside her, wild and stubborn.

A deep, metallic groan echoes across the water. The ship shudders, the engines whining in protest.

Evie opens her eyes — and the ship is moving.

Backward.

Toward them.

Despite the roar of the engine trying to propel it forward, away from the docks.

Hydra soldiers on deck shout in confusion, scrambling to correct course. But it’s no use. The vessel is being dragged back, inch by brutal inch, fighting the pull but losing.

"That's new," Sam mutters, awe threading his voice as he hovers above.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. The second the ship drifts close enough to the dock, he sprints and jumps the gap, landing hard on the deck. Bucky is right behind him, metal arm clanging against the ship’s railing as he pulls himself aboard. Sam dives down from above, wings tucking close, landing lightly.

The ship slams into the dock with a thunderous crash, the force rattling the crates and knocking some Hydra soldiers off their feet. A few fall overboard with the force. The docks shake. The concrete cracks under Evie’s feet, splintering like spiderwebs across the ground.

Yelena vaults onto the deck with a graceful flip, drawing her batons midair. Evie lowers her hands, chest heaving, but she doesn’t let herself falter. She bolts forward, boots pounding the dock, and leaps onto the ship after them.

They tear through the Hydra forces together — fast, brutal, relentless. Evie throws up a shield of force when a soldier aims a high-powered rifle at Steve, deflecting the shot with a flash of raw energy. Bucky rips through another group with terrifying efficiency, while Yelena disables the bridge controls, cutting off the ship’s escape for good.

In the cargo hold, they find what Hydra was so desperate to protect: weapons. Enough of them — and bad enough — that one city wouldn’t survive if they got loose.

Steve’s jaw tightens as he stares at the crates, fists clenching at his sides. "SHIELD needs to get here now," he says, voice low and dangerous.

“They're already en route,” Yelena confirms, tapping her comm.

Evie leans against a bulkhead, heart still racing, sweat trickling down her spine. Her hands are still buzzing from the strain of what she did — dragging a whole ship back — but for once, she doesn’t feel weak or afraid.

Bucky comes to stand next to her, quiet and steady. He glances down at her hands, then back at her face.

"You’re full of surprises," he says.

Evie flashes a tired, breathless smile. "You have no idea."

They fight their way down the hallways of the ship, Hydra agents pouring out like hornets from a nest. Sam circles overhead, picking off shooters from the deck with pinpoint accuracy.

It’s brutal. Close quarters. Evie can see into the eyes of every person she hits, blasts overboard, slams into the floors of the ship.

Evie dodges a blade aimed at her side and slams a fist into the man’s nose, feeling the sickening crunch of cartilage.

Bucky’s beside her, a silent wall of violence, ripping guns away, disarming enemies like it's second nature.

Finally, Steve reaches the bridge and takes down the captain with a shield throw so vicious the guy flips over the control panel.

They get the boat locked down. Engines dead. Weapons secured.

Sirens blare in the distance — SHIELD enforcement arriving, finally.

Sam jogs over, flipping his goggles up. He smiles proudly at Evie. “Nice mission, rookie,” he teases lightly, but there’s real pride in his voice.

“You do not tell me that I’ve done well,” Yelena deadpans, but there’s only camaraderie in her voice.

The roar of the fight fades, replaced by the thrum of SHIELD transport engines cutting through the night sky. Evie stands near the bow of the ship, letting the cool breeze wash over her flushed face, heart still hammering from adrenaline and fear and — strangely — pride.

Floodlights flare across the docks as SHIELD agents swarm in, weapons raised but unnecessary now. Steve intercepts them, his shield attached to his forearm, voice low and clipped as he debriefs them on what they’ve found: classified Hydra weapons, experimental tech that could level an entire city in minutes.

The agents nod grimly and move in to secure the cargo.

Evelyn stands in front of the cargo, silent. Her eyes are locked on the crates the agents are hauling away — stencilled with warnings, red-lettered: EXTREME LETHALITY.

One agent calls out, voice grim. "Captain — some of this stuff could level a city."

Evelyn feels the chill run down her spine.

They won tonight.

But Hydra isn’t dead. Not yet.

And somewhere deep inside Evelyn, something tells her: this was just the beginning.

She sighs and turns away, toward the railing, looking out at the ocean. She leans against a railing, panting hard still despite the downtime they’ve had. Her hands are scraped raw. Her chest heaves. But they won.

Evie watches Steve for a moment — the way his shoulders stay tense even now, the way his jaw locks as he talks about Hydra — and something twists in her chest. This never gets easier for him. For any of them.

“Hey.”

A quiet voice pulls her out of her thoughts. Bucky.

He stands a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, eyes sharp beneath the messy fall of his hair. His clothes are torn and smeared with grime, but there’s a softness in his expression that cuts right through the post-battle haze.

“You okay?” he asks.

Evie opens her mouth to answer automatically — of course, I’m fine — but the words stick. Her arms ache from pulling the ship back. Her head is still pounding from the strain. And the memory of the way Hydra soldiers looked at her, like she was just another target to be used or broken, hasn’t quite left her.

She shrugs, a little helpless. “I’m... standing.”

Bucky steps closer, close enough that she can see the smudges of dirt on his cheek, the faint shimmer of blood drying in a cut along his hairline.

"You did good," he says quietly.

Evie blinks, heat rushing to her face faster than she can control. It's not the kind of praise that comes with a pat on the back or a loud cheer. It’s quieter. Real.

He studies her for a second longer — and then, without a word, reaches out. His gloved fingers brush gently over her arm, checking for injuries she hasn’t even registered yet. His touch is careful, almost hesitant, but steady.

Evie swallows hard, feeling the knot in her chest loosen slightly.

“I’m good,” she says, a little softer now. “Promise.”

Bucky nods once, but he doesn’t move away just yet.

Behind them, SHIELD agents start hauling crates off the ship, shouting orders to each other. Steve finishes his briefing and comes over, Sam and Yelena in tow.

“We’ll have to move fast,” Steve says, frowning. “If there’s this much firepower here, Hydra’s planning something bigger.”

"Great," Sam mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "And here I thought we'd get a break after blowing up a floating fortress last week."

Yelena gives him a sideways smirk but says nothing.

Steve’s eyes shift to Evie then, his expression softening just a little. “You did good tonight, Evie. You held your ground.”

The pride in his voice, quiet and unwavering, hits harder than she expects.

She straightens up, exhausted but stubborn. “Thanks. I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve nods once, solid and sure. “Good.”

The team falls into step together, weary but unbroken, as they head back toward the Quinjet.

Hydra may be trying to claw its way back into the world — but so long as they stand together, they’re not going to let it happen.

The base is quiet when they get back.

The Quinjet touches down with a soft whirrr just before dawn, the sky outside still that pale, bruised blue of early morning. Inside, the corridors are dim, most of the lights set to low power. Everyone moves slower now — the adrenaline has long since burned away, leaving exhaustion in its place.

Steve disappears into a debrief with Valentina over comms. Yelena mumbles something about a shower and vanishes down the hall. Sam yawns so wide it cracks his jaw, tossing a lazy salute toward Evelyn before following Yelena’s path, his wings dragging against the floor.

Evie lingers a little longer near the Quinjet, still clutching her battered jacket in one hand, too wired to sleep but too tired to think straight.

Bucky waits for her, leaning against the wall like he’s got all the time in the world. His arms are folded across his chest, his head tipped back against the cool metal. He watches her with that patient, steady gaze of his — the one that makes it harder to pretend she’s fine.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly.

Evie shrugs, looking down at her scraped knuckles. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Bucky pushes off the wall, stepping closer. He doesn’t press. He just stands there, close enough that his presence alone starts to ease the buzzing under her skin.

"You did good out there," he says. "Real good."

“You said,” she says, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "I almost got stabbed."

"Almost," he echoes, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Key word."

She shakes her head, smiling despite herself. A long, heavy silence settles between them, but it's not uncomfortable. It's easy.

After a minute, he tilts his head. His voice is quieter now, careful. "Was it what you expected?"

Evelyn thinks about it — the chaos, the fear, the overwhelming flood of faces and noise and violence. The way her heart hammered so loud she thought it might break her ribs.

"No," she admits. "It was... worse. And better. All at once."

Bucky hums, like he knows exactly what she means.

The hallway feels too big, too empty, so she leans her shoulder against the wall beside him, grounding herself. Her body aches in places she didn’t know could ache. Every breath pulls sore muscles taut.

“You scared me a little," she says after a beat, not looking at him.

Bucky arches an eyebrow. "Me?" There’s a flicker of hurt that crosses his face, but he hides it quickly.

She nods. "You were... different. When you saw them. Hydra."

The smile fades from his face. He stares ahead, the shadow of old ghosts creeping back into his expression.

“I wasn’t scared of you. Just… for you,” she clarifies quickly, looking small.

"I know," he says, voice low and rough. "Hydra does that to me."

He doesn't elaborate, and she doesn’t push. Some things are stitched too deep into a person’s bones to drag out in one night.

Instead, Evelyn reaches over and gently, carefully, hooks her pinky around his metal one. A small, silent tether.

Bucky glances down at the touch, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. His metal fingers curl, ever so slightly, around hers.

“You’re not them,” she whispers. “You’re not what they made you.”

For a long moment, he just stands there, breathing slow and steady, like he's trying to believe her. Like maybe, just maybe, her words are enough to tilt the balance.

"Steve wants us in the briefing room,” he says eventually, voice softer now. "Then you can go get some sleep. You earned it."

"So did you," she points out.

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. "I don’t sleep much anyway."

She squeezes his pinky once before letting go, stepping back. Her feet feel heavy as she moves down the hall toward her the conference room, but the knot in her chest eases a little.

Behind her, Bucky stays where he is, watching until she disappears around the corner. Only then does he let himself relax, exhaling a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He looks back down at his metal hand, at his pinky, and curls it again. It feels all tingly from the touch she offered so easily, so freely.

In the quiet that follows, in the dim light of the early morning, it’s easy to believe — just for a second — that maybe not all ghosts are meant to haunt you forever.

Chapter Text

The briefing room is quiet except for the low hum of the projector as the footage plays on the screen. Video footage of the fight. They're picking apart each moment, looking for weaknesses, ways they could improve, how they used their strengths. There's nods of approval when they watch Evie drag the boat back toward the dock with the power of her hands, eyes glowing bright green.

But the image of Bucky—his face taut, eyes narrowed in focus—flashes across the wall, followed by the scene where he slams an agent into the wall with a force so brutal that it’s hard to watch. The impact is violent, and the agent’s body crumples unnaturally to the floor. The metallic whir of Bucky's arm as it retracts from the action is almost as chilling as the force of the hit itself.

Bucky’s jaw tightens as the scene plays out. His fingers flex, as if the memory of that moment is still pulsing through his hand, still lingering in his muscles. His body is still tense, despite the distance between now and then. He doesn’t want to watch this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he was capable of. The image of the agent’s lifeless body—crumpled, destroyed—settles in his gut like a stone.

His eyes flicker briefly to Evelyn, who’s sitting beside him, watching him more closely than anyone else in the room. He’s aware of her gaze, of the softness there, but it doesn’t ease the burning anger and regret that starts to bubble up inside him. He hates that this is his reality. That this violence, this destruction, is part of who he was. Part of who he still feels like sometimes.

He shudders as the footage ends. His face pales slightly, and he can feel the weight of his own anger and shame pressing in on him, suffocating him. His chest is tight, and it’s hard to breathe.

Then, without thinking, Evelyn reaches over. Her hand covers his, the warmth of her touch grounding him. His breath catches, and for the first time in minutes, he’s aware of something other than the suffocating weight of his past.

The tension in his shoulders, which had been coiled so tightly, begins to ease. He exhales slowly, his eyes closing as her touch brings a strange, calming wave over him. It's like she’s always known just what to do, even without asking. She never judges him for the things he’s done. She doesn’t look at him like a weapon, a monster, or a threat. She just sees him, Bucky, and that—more than anything else—calms him.

But as he starts to relax, he notices something else in her eyes. There’s a frown tugging at her brow, a subtle furrow of concern that catches his attention. She’s not looking at the screen. She’s looking at him. And there’s something more than worry in her gaze.

He can feel her presence shifting, her energy not quite right. The connection she always maintains with him—this steady, quiet strength—suddenly feels… different. There’s a kind of distance, a hidden weight to the look she’s giving him. Her fingers, still gently wrapped around his hand, tighten ever so slightly.

Her gaze shifts from him, and for a moment, Bucky catches the flicker of something—something more than concern, something deeper, something darker—passing across her features.

He turns to look at her, his throat tightening slightly. “Evie?” he says quietly, his voice hoarse, uncertain.

She doesn’t answer immediately, her eyes focused on something unseen, something beyond the walls of the room. He watches her, perplexed, as if she’s listening to something he can’t hear. Then she looks back at him, her lips parting as if she’s going to speak but hesitating, as if trying to find the right words.

“Yeah?” She says instead.

“You’re staring.”

She hesitates. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

Evelyn sits in the corner of the room, her back against the cool glass of the window, the skyline before her nothing more than an expanse of blinking lights and distant shadows. She’s quiet, a presence almost invisible among the chatter, but her eyes are sharp, too sharp—sweeping over the faces of her teammates, each one unaware of the weight pressing in on her from every angle.

The apartment is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation echoing from the other room. The television flickers in the corner, casting soft shadows across the faces of the people gathered around the makeshift living space. The world outside the window is wrapped in darkness, the city lights twinkling like scattered stars, far below. Evelyn leans against the cool glass, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though to keep the weight of the world from spilling out.

The room feels small tonight. Even though it’s packed with life, laughter, and warmth—Sam and Bucky tangled in a fierce, competitive round of Uno, the low murmur of Yelena and Ava conversing by the couch—there’s something suffocating about it. Something heavy. There are too many people here, too many faces she doesn’t recognise, too many souls lingering in the spaces between her breath and theirs. People from the past, from the edges of the lives of those she cares about. People they’ve lost. People they’ve loved. People they’ve killed. And she can see them all.

It’s not a gift. No, it’s a curse. A curse buried deep within her, wrapped tightly beneath layers of silence, of careful smiles. She’s learned how to hide it, how to lock it away behind well-practiced walls of calm. No one knows. No one ever will, because if they did, they wouldn’t be able to handle it. They wouldn’t be able to bear seeing what she sees.

She feels them first. The chill in the air that isn’t from the open window. The flicker at the edges of her vision, the weight of someone watching from just behind her shoulder. There are hundreds of them. The dead. Those who’ve moved on but linger, still tied to the living by threads of memory, of grief, of regret. The ones they can’t forget, the ones they never could.

The quiet ones—the ones who never speak, just linger. They’re the hardest to ignore.

She's always been able to see them - the ghosts. Since she was a child. They'd frightened her then to no end, and they frighten her now, but she's slowly learned to live with them. But here, in Avengers Tower, surrounded by people with red in their ledger and their own ghosts of their past, there's more than ever, and sometimes she feels like she's drowning.

Most of them just linger, around the Avengers.

It’s almost second nature now, this act of tuning them out. She can drown them in noise, blur them into the background. But with certain people, it’s impossible.

And with Bucky, it’s worse. It’s always worse.

She doesn’t want to be here. Not really. Not when the memories are so thick in the air, so tangible, so suffocating. But she stays because it’s safer that way. Safer than being alone with her thoughts, her ghosts.

She can see them now, as clearly as she can see the people sitting a few feet away from her, laughing, talking, distracting themselves from the things that haunt them, the things they can never forget.

Steve is the first one she turns her mind to, though he’s the furthest away. He’s sitting by the window across from her, leaning casually against the sill as he talks with John. They’re arguing about something—probably about the next steps in their ongoing fight for justice, their fight for peace—but she doesn’t hear the words. She hears the ghosts that follow him like a cloud, a storm that he can never outrun.

The ghosts are old friends to her. She’s been watching Steve for months now, and she knows them well. His mother, Sarah Rogers, stands just behind him, a gentle, almost ethereal figure. She’s dressed in the same worn clothes from the time Steve was a boy, her hands always gently reaching for him, her love both a comfort and a tragedy. Sarah watches Steve from a distance, her face a constant mask of sorrow, but there’s pride in her eyes. Always pride. But it’s the pride of someone who knows her son will never forgive himself, who knows that he’ll carry the weight of the world on his shoulders until the day he dies.

His father, Joseph Rogers, is there too. His broad shoulders and rough hands are a quiet presence beside Sarah, always standing slightly behind her, his gaze piercing and full of regret. There’s no comfort in him—only an unspoken judgment. Evelyn can feel it, even if she doesn’t know exactly why. The weight of his disappointment presses on Steve's chest, a constant reminder that no matter how hard Steve fights, no matter how many battles he wins, he’ll never be enough.

But it’s the faces of the ones Steve lost that are the hardest to ignore. They float in and out of her vision like fleeting, haunting reflections in a broken mirror—Bucky, the way he used to be, she supposes, dressed in his navy blue double-breasted jacket, hair swept to the side, and looking almost like and different person entirely - because the Bucky that Steve used to know died that day he fell from the train, and someone else entirely emerged. Peggy Carter, the woman he loved but could never have. His team from the war—those who didn’t make it out. She sees them all, their faces etched in the corners of the room, waiting for Steve to finally acknowledge their presence. They don’t need to speak. They don’t have to. Their eyes are full of questions, full of longing, full of the silent accusation that Steve didn’t save them, that he couldn’t. They watch him with such intensity, such a quiet demand for closure that it nearly overwhelms her. But Steve never sees them. He never acknowledges them, not directly. Not anymore. It’s just the way he’s learned to live. With them there. In the background. Always a whisper, always a shadow.

Then there’s Sam. Sam Wilson, the man who holds the shield now, but who carries a burden even heavier than the one Steve ever had to bear. Sam is sitting next to Bucky, joking with him in a way that Evelyn can’t quite understand, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters are the ghosts that crowd around him, lingering like dark figures in the corner of her vision.

The first ghost is Riley. Sam’s best friend from his time in combat, the one who died beside him, the one whose blood stained Sam’s hands, whose body was left behind in a place Sam would never forget. Evelyn can hear Riley’s voice in the silence, a soft whisper that lingers around Sam, never leaving him. His face is always there, behind Sam’s, just out of focus but never far enough to escape. There’s a sadness in Riley’s eyes, but more than that, there’s an unspoken question. A question Sam will never be able to answer. “Why did you survive, Sam? Why didn’t I?”

And then there are the other ghosts—the ones who haunt Sam’s every move, the ones who live in the corners of his mind, the ones from his time as Falcon, the ones who were there when the world rejected him, when the country rejected him. He’s the Black man who many believe should never have been Captain America, the one who fought against everything that history tried to force upon him. The whispers of people who told him he wasn’t good enough, who told him his race made him unworthy, follow him wherever he goes. Their faces are faceless—abstract ideas, societal ghosts, but they’re still there, haunting his every action, every decision. They won’t ever let him go.

Yelena’s ghosts are different. Hers are filled with a sense of unfinished business, of broken promises and blood debts. She is haunted by her family, the ones she lost, the ones she can never forget, no matter how hard she tries. Her parents, of course, are the first—her mother’s face as clear as a memory, her father’s as rough and loving as Yelena remembers. But it’s the ghosts of the Black Widows, the ones who were left behind in the Red Room, that press on her the most.

Yelena can’t escape them. She tries, but she can’t. The faces of the other Widows are burned into her memory, each one a reminder of what she couldn’t save, of the women she failed. They stand behind her, always just out of reach, their faces full of sorrow, of anger, of grief. Their eyes are accusing, and in their gaze, Yelena sees her own reflection—broken, lost, incapable of saving the ones who mattered most. Natasha’s face always lingers there too, a soft ghost that refuses to leave. She isn’t a burden. She’s a reminder of what was. Of what could have been. But she’s also the ghost of sacrifice, of love that was never truly realized. The one Yelena can’t escape.

Then, there’s Ava. Her ghosts are the newest additions to Evelyn’s life, ones she wasn’t prepared for, one that haunts her own dreams, her own waking moments. Ava never belonged to this world, not really. Every time she disappears, uses her powers to travel, she pops into Evelyn’s mind like she is a ghost herself. Evie can see her moving, even when she’s invisible to everyone else. She sees her in the quiet spaces, in the flashes of memory that burst out when she least expects it. And around her, all the time, are the ghosts of those she’s killed, of her family, of those who abandoned her.

John Walker is different. His ghosts are born from his own guilt. They are the faces of the people he murdered, the people he betrayed, the ones he couldn’t control, the ones who still haunt him in the darkest corners of his mind. His mother is the first, her disappointment in him sharp and searing, a pain that never leaves him. She watches from behind him, her face twisted in a way that makes Evelyn shiver—because it’s not just the disappointment. It’s the fear, the regret that John will never be the man he could have been.

But there are others too—the men he killed in his rage, the ones he didn’t even know. Their faces are blurry, fading, but always present. And then there’s Lamar—his closest friend, his brother. Lamar’s face is haunting, not because of anger, but because of loss. He’s the ghost that never lets John forget the cost of his actions. The one who was taken from him because of his own recklessness, his own hubris. John will carry that for the rest of his life. Lamar’s death will never fade, and neither will the guilt that eats him from the inside.

And then there’s Bucky.

His ghosts—they crowd him, suffocate him. She can see them in his every movement, in the sharpness of his gaze, the way his shoulders tense when he enters a room, as though he’s always preparing for something to strike. His thoughts are so loud. Louder than anyone else’s. She can’t shut them out, can’t turn them off.

Every day, she watches him fight against it—the past, the things he’s done, the people he’s lost, and the ones he’s killed. The faces that haunt him, follow him, never letting go. They are always there, pressing against him like the weight of the ocean, holding him beneath its surface. And when he’s close to her, she sees them all.

She sees his parents—his mother’s soft smile, the pride in his father’s gaze. They stand beside him like shadows, always a breath away but never fully there. She’s learned their faces from the few memories Bucky has allowed her to glimpse. The love they still have for him, even after all these years, is palpable. It stings, the sight of them. It’s the love that Bucky can never feel for himself, no matter how hard he tries.

Then there are the Howling Commandos. She knows them by name. The faces are clearer with them, etched into her memory like stories in a history book; the ones who stood by Bucky in some of his darkest hours. Their loyalty still lingers in the air, thick and unshakable.

And then—the faces that won’t let her forget. The ones who haunt him because they were with him when the blood spilled. The ones he can’t push out of his mind, even after everything he’s done to atone. The ones he doesn’t remember but she knows he’s killed. The innocents, the victims, the faces that flicker in and out of focus like bad dreams—some in military garb, others wearing the faces of civilians, strangers he never had the chance to know. Their eyes are hollow, their gazes cold with accusation.

She doesn’t know if it’s her power or something deeper, something darker that binds them to her when she’s near him, but she knows one thing: they’re there. They’re always there. Watching him. Watching her.

Every time Bucky tries to speak, tries to reach out, tries to open up, they’re there. The ghosts, crowding the space between them, between his words, between the seconds he takes to gather his thoughts. The air feels thick, like it’s filled with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. Sometimes she sees their faces so clearly it feels like they’re looking at her, accusing her, blaming her for the sins of the past.

But it’s not her fault. It’s never been his fault, either. But they don’t care. They don’t care that she’s the only one who can see them, the only one who knows they exist.

The worst part is when he tries to move on. When he tries to step forward into the light of redemption. She wants to help him. Wants to pull him away from them, from the ghosts that won’t let go. But she can’t. Because the moment she reaches out, they all gather around him, their whispers filling her ears, their hollow eyes following her every move.

She hates it. Hates the way they crowd him, how they make everything feel suffocating, like there’s no escape from the past. How they make her feel like she’s suffocating too. It’s too much. It’s too painful.

She can’t tell him. She can’t tell anyone. Because if she does, they’ll all know. They’ll see them, too, maybe, and she doesn't want that. They’ll see the ghosts—of people lost, of people loved, of people dead because of Bucky’s actions—and it will break them. It will break him.

And so, she stays silent. She stays close, watching him with a heart full of empathy and pain. She grounds him in the present, offering him her hand, steady and unwavering, hoping that one day, with enough time, the ghosts will finally fade away.

But until then, she carries the burden alone. And she keeps her secret buried deep within her, locked away, because she knows—if they knew the truth, if they saw the faces of the past, they would never unsee them.

And neither would she.

Chapter Text

It’s board game night in Steve’s room at Avengers Tower. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting long golden beams across the scattered game pieces and the well-worn coffee table. Laughter and playful banter bounce off the walls as everyone settles in, cups of coffee and snacks within easy reach.

The group is almost complete. John is already smugly stacking his cards like he owns the place. Sam’s grinning wide, clearly ready to gloat. Steve’s shuffling the deck with his usual steady patience, while Yelena eyes everyone with a sly smile, clearly plotting her next move.

Except one seat is empty.

“Where’s Evie?” Bucky asks, a subtle edge of impatience in his voice. His fingers drum lightly on the table, betraying his calm facade.

“She’s coming, Buck,” Sam says, scrolling through his phone.

“Where is she?”

“Why do you care?” Sam teases.

Bucky glares.

“She texted,” Bob tells Bucky. “Said she’d be late—had a shift or something.”

Bucky nods but stays restless. His gaze flicks toward the door every few seconds, the anticipation written plain across his face.

A sudden sound of footsteps draws everyone’s attention just as Bucky’s about to complain again.

There she is, stepping through the door like a burst of energy. Hair pulled back messily, a tired but determined grin on her face.

“There you are!” Bucky says, his voice brightening instantly, genuine excitement lighting up his eyes.

The eyes of the rest of the Avengers dart to him. Sam smirks. Steve rolls his eyes. Yelena takes a sip of her drink to hide her smile.

Evie laughs, sliding into the empty spot beside Bucky, which he kept for her by glaring at the others if they tried to sit there for the first hour of the get-together. “Here I am!" She says, oblivious. "I was teachin’ a class at the community centre – kids learning piano. But I’m here now and ready to whip your asses.”

"Oooh, big talk," Sam teases.

She tosses down the unmistakable deck of Uno No Mercy cards with a theatrical flourish. “Prepare to be disappointed. This game is a wild ride.”

The room erupts into a mix of groans and laughter, the tension broken, and the night officially underway.

She turns toward Bucky then, and notices the way he smiles at her like she’d been missing for weeks, not hours. “Hey, Buck,” she adds with a smile of her own.

“Hi,” he responds, and finds it a little hard to look away.

Things quickly take a turn.

Evie and Sam explain the rules, having played before, and the game begins. There’s a lot of yelling, glaring, “don’t you dares” and shocked expressions thrown around before they hit what they think will be the climatic part of the game.

Bucky glares at the deck in front of him as Sam triumphantly makes his move. The cards are shuffled, dealt, and Sam’s playful smirk only adds fuel to the fire. Bucky counts the pile of cards in front of him — 15 cards. Fifteen. The others try to hold back their laughter, but Bucky’s patience is wearing thin.

“There is no strategy to this game!” he grumbles, glaring at Sam.

Sam, never one to back down, raises an eyebrow. “That’s because you don’t know how to play right.”

“This is supposed to be fun, not a battle of wills!” Bob mutters under his breath, his own hand fairly large in his hands.

“Can’t help it if you suck at it,” Sam shoots back with a grin.

The air thickens, and Bucky’s already red face turns a little darker. He leans forward. “I’m telling you, there’s no strategy. Just luck and sheer chaos.”

“You just wait till you see my strategy,” Sam retorts, clearly enjoying the challenge.

At the table, Steve, Yelena, Bob, and Evie exchange amused glances, though Evie can see Bucky’s frustration is growing.

“New big three: draw six, draw ten, colour roulette,” Sam says, slamming down a colour roulette card on Bucky. “Yellow, big man. Pick up ‘til you get one.”

“Big three, my ass. Stop saying things like that,” Bucky retorts grumpily, flicking through the draw pile looking for a yellow.

“Big three of Uno Mercy. Big three villains.”

“We’ve been through this,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “There is no big three.”

The tension in the room thickens as Bucky continues flipping through the cards with increasing frustration. He mutters under his breath, his patience fraying. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbles, still searching for the elusive yellow card. He's amassed another ten already and still going.

“Big three of Uno No Mercy. Big three villains,” Sam repeats, with a grin that's all teeth.

Bucky shoots him a glare that could melt steel. “Stop.”

“Just wait,” Sam says, almost smug. “You’re gonna see how my strategy works. One more round and it’s game over, big guy.”

“I swear, if you play another colour roulette on me—” Bucky starts, but his words are cut off when Sam drops another card, making it worse.

“That’s right,” Sam interrupts, leaning back in his chair, satisfied. “Yellow. Draw until you get one. Again. And I’ve got uno.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens as he grabs a new stack of cards. “You’re not gonna get away with this,” he mutters, flipping through them with increasing desperation looking for a yellow.

Bob, who’d been quietly observing, suddenly raises an eyebrow. “Big three?” he asks, his tone confused. “Am I missing an inside joke?”

Sam looks at Bob like he's the last person on earth who hasn’t heard his theory. “Aliens, androids, and wizards.” He lets out a dramatic sigh, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How do you not know this by now?”

“Wait a minute,” Bob says, leaning forward, the curiosity in his expression growing. “Aliens I get, but androids and wizards?”

Sam leans forward, entirely serious for once. “For example: Thanos – alien. Ultron – android. Loki – wizard. You’ve got your space invaders, your man-made problems, and then… well, magic.”

Bob nods slowly, as if considering it. “Sounds a bit… simplistic, don’t you think?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Sam says, smugness radiating from him. “It’s the perfect breakdown.”

“You’ve got your extraterrestrials, your androids, and then the ones with spells. It’s the trifecta,” Yelena agrees, nodding her head in approval of Sam’s theory.

“What about witches?” Steve asks. “Does that fit under wizards?”

“Sorcerers? Oracles? Prophets?” Bob supplies.

“A sorcerer is just a wizard without a hat,” Evie says off-handedly.

Sam’s eyes light up, almost too eager. “Exactly!” he exclaims, as though he’s won a major victory. “Told you,” he sneers at Bucky.

Evie throws down a flip card. Everyone dutifully slips their cards over to the other side. “And the way Bucky’s luck is going, they’d knock him out with a hex if we faced off with a wizard anytime soon.”

Bucky shoots her a mock glare, tossing down a card onto the pile with an exaggerated, exaggeratedly loud thud. “I don’t need magic,” he says with a grin. “I’ve got my own tricks up my sleeve.”

The table laughs, but Sam quickly leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Maybe you do, but I don’t think your Bucky Barnes card is gonna save you today.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m starting to wish I was facing a hex right about now…” He is trying to organise his cards, dropping a few out of his hands.

“You are facing one,” Steve pipes up from across the table. “It’s called Sam’s game strategy.”

“If you have more than twenty-five cards, you’re out,” Bob informs him, reading the rulebook.

Bucky glares, half laughing despite himself, and throws down his cards. There are way more than twenty-five. “I’m gonna make a real strategy next time,” he mutters.

Yelena’s expression lightens, and she leans forward again, clearly amused by the whole situation. “So, this Uno No Mercy... Is it always this chaotic?”

Evie grins. “Oh, you have no idea. Last time I played with my family, my brother got kicked out onto the porch.”

A beat of silence follows, and then Yelena grins playfully. “Next time, we should play something more civil, like Monopoly.”

At that suggestion, Bucky groans dramatically. “You really are trying to break me, huh?”

“You guys had that in the 40s?”

“Sure did,” Steve smiles. “We played that on snow days when it was too cold and snowy to go outside.”

“Oh, so, you’re aware of how it breaks up families?” Sam jokes.

There’s a few rounds of gameplay, and the game goes smoothly for a while—no +10s, no chaotic flips, just the steady rhythm of cards slapping the table and drinks being refilled. Someone’s music playlist hums from the speakers in the corner, shifting from old soul to chaotic 2000s pop without warning. Sam complains about the transitions, Bob defends them passionately.

It’s warm in Steve’s living room—physically and emotionally—the kind of atmosphere that comes from people who’ve bled together, laughed together, lived too many lives in one lifetime.

They’re halfway through another round of Uno when Yelena, watching Evie closely over the top of her cards, cocks her head to the side. “So,” she begins, casual as can be, “what problems do you have, Evelyn?”

Evie, mid-sip of her cocktail, chokes a little. “What?”

“You’ve been with us for months now,” Yelena continues, dealing another card with surgical precision. “And yet, no tragic backstory. No suppressed trauma. No deep emotional damage you offhandedly reference at breakfast. I’m beginning to suspect you might be… normal.”

Evie blinks. She has deep emotional damage, she sees ghosts for god's sake - there's four in the corner of the room watching them right now - but she isn't about to spill that now.

"Uh… I mean… I cry during Pixar movies?” She offers.

“No,” Sam cuts in, waving that off. “We mean real problems.”

“Like,” Bob jumps in with innocent sincerity, “were you tortured in a lab or something?”

“Traumatic upbringing?” John offers.

“Some kind of government-induced psychosis?” Alexei adds helpfully, already halfway through his vodka soda.

Evie stares at them, completely blindsided. “What the hell, guys?”

Yelena shrugs. “We all have our thing. Mine’s assassinations and identity crises. Bob’s been to seventeen therapists and made all of them cry.”

“They said it was cathartic!” Bob protests.

Sam leans forward on his elbows. “So, what’s your thing, Evie?”

“I’m… broke?” she tries, frowning. “I’ve had bad roommates? I was in a failed band?”

“That doesn’t count,” Bucky says flatly. “Try again. Brainwashing? Blackmail? Death cult?”

“I have student debt—”

“Who doesn’t?” Yelena interjects. "Oh wait, not me. The Red Room was free."

Evie throws her arms up. “None of those things you said before! Oh my god, are you guys okay?”

The table erupts into laughter.

“Definitely not,” Yelena smirks, raising her drink.

Evie’s still looking at them like she’s walked into a group therapy session by accident. “You just… sit around and compare trauma like trading cards?”

“It’s like Pokémon, but depressing,” Bob says cheerfully.

“Catch ‘em all,” Sam deadpans.

“I mean, this explains so much,” Eve mutters, slumping back in her seat.

“You being the most stable person here makes you dangerous,” John muses.

“She’s going to develop a saviour complex,” Yelena warns.

Evie rolls her eyes. “No, I’m just going to make sure none of you set yourselves on fire.”

“Therapist,” Bob decides, pointing at her with mock solemnity. “Unofficial team therapist.”

Evie snorts. “Oh, no. That’s above my pay grade.” Evie blinks. “Plus, I think that’s illegal.”

“Only if you charge for it,” Sam says, grinning as he slaps down a card.

“No, seriously, are you guys hearing yourselves?” she asks, looking around at the circle of misfit Avengers—most of them either holding a drink or nursing one. “You just listed off the darkest shit imaginable like it was a Buzzfeed quiz.”

“‘What Kind of Trauma Are You?’” Bob chimes in brightly, mimicking the tone of a YouTube ad. “Take this quiz to find out!”

“Oh my god,” Evie groans, pressing a hand over her face, half-laughing, half-horrified. “You people need so much therapy.”

“Too expensive for how much we need,” Yelena says with a shrug, then steals the draw-two card before Sam can.

Alexei lets out a booming laugh. “Is hugs not therapy?”

“No,” Bucky mutters. “It’s not.”

Evie looks around the group again, her gaze softening. “You’ve really all… been through it, huh?”

A pause settles, not uncomfortable but weighty—acknowledging the truth in her words.

“We’re a walking cautionary tale,” John says, raising his glass.

“To generational trauma,” Sam toasts.

“To found families,” Evie counters, lifting her drink and clinking it lightly against Bucky’s glass beside her.

“To people who didn’t fall apart even when they probably should have,” Bucky adds softly, and there’s something raw and real in his voice that makes Evie’s stomach flip.

Everyone nods at that.

Ava clears her throat and slaps another card down. “Okay, enough of that. Back to Uno. I’m about to ruin all of your lives.”

“Bring it,” Bob grins, the moment lingering even as the game spins back into playful chaos.

Underneath the jokes and the game, though, something settles between them all—an understanding. They may be a little broken, a little bruised, but they’re not alone anymore.

After a brief pause, Evie leans back in her chair, glancing around the table. “So, I’ve heard bits and pieces from different people, but no one’s ever really told me the full story,” she said, her curiosity evident. “How did you all meet?”

At this, Sam chuckles, shaking his head as if it's an inside joke. “She doesn’t know all the lore yet,” he teases, his tone playful and full of mischief.

Evie shrugs, unfazed. “Well, I know Steve and Bucky were childhood friends. And Steve went against every government in the world for him a few years back,” she says, nodding toward Bucky, who’s still grumbling over the last Uno card. “Oh, and during World War II, Steve went into enemy territory alone to rescue Bucky from Hydra. We learned about that in school.”

Steve and Bucky share a glance, a silent exchange full of the weight of their shared history. It’s a look they’ve exchanged countless times, but this time it carries a tinge of disbelief, as if even after everything, it still feels surreal to talk about.

“I’m still mad you did that,” Bucky offers. “Punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve shoots back. “That makes us sound so old, Evie. Don’t say things like that,” Steve says with a laugh.

“You are old,” Yelena informs them.

Sam picks up the story. “I met Steve on a run, back when Hydra was still in SHIELD. Helped him take them down and eventually bring Bucky home. Been working with them ever since.”

Evie nods, absorbing it all, before turning her attention to Bucky and Sam. “So, you two go way back?”

“Way back,” Sam confirms, his tone light but his eyes holding a deeper, unspoken understanding.

“And you were blessed with this beautiful friendship through a mutual friend?” She asks Sam, motioning to Bucky.

Bucky chuckles darkly. “Actually, we met when I jumped through the air onto his car and ripped the steering wheel out while they were going 140 miles an hour down the freeway.”

Evie’s eyes widen. “Wait, what?”

Bucky quickly raises his hands in defence. “That was the Soldier.”

“Bucky was brainwashed,” Steve explains softly. “Sent to kill me. I was in the car with Sam. We were heading to SHIELD headquarters to take down Alexander Pierce and the other Hydra goons that were working within SHIELD.”

“Look, if I was in control, I probably would’ve just shot out your tires instead. The Soldier was always a little dramatic.” Bucky gestures at Sam. “He’s lucky you didn’t crash the car.”

Sam shakes his head, a grin playing on his lips. “I’m telling you, he was wild.”

Bucky’s smirk widens. “Yeah, well, you were just lucky I didn’t put you through the windshield. Or out the window, like Sitwell.”

Evie’s disbelief is palpable as she glances between the two men, her mind reeling. “I swear, you all should write a book about how you met and what you’ve done.”

Steve chuckles, leaning back in his chair, clearly amused by the exchange. “Yeah, it’d probably be a bestseller. The real story of how the world’s most dysfunctional team came together.”

“Dysfunctional?” Yelena raises an eyebrow, mock offense clear in her voice. “We were never dysfunctional.”

Sam throws up his hands. “Fine, we’ll call it ‘charmingly chaotic.’”

Yelena’s expression shifts slightly, a veil of sadness flickering behind her eyes. “Natasha Romanoff was my sister,” she begins quietly, her voice carrying the weight of lost years. “After she died, I was lost. I didn’t know where to turn. I was working for Valentina, doing all kinds of off-the-books work, mostly stuff I don’t like to talk about.” She pauses, the words clearly difficult to find. “One of those jobs was to destroy the Sentry Project. I didn’t even know what I was walking into. But Valentina… she has a way of making you believe you’re doing the right thing when you’re not. And when things went south, she decided we were expendable.”

Evie leans in, listening intently as the room quiets.

“She tried to cover her tracks by killing all of us who had been working for her—me, Ava, Walker. But we escaped.” Yelena’s eyes flicker with memories that are more bitter than sweet. “We didn’t just run, though. We teamed up with Bucky, took on Valentina’s operation, and saved Bob.”

Bob shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as if the memory still lingers like a heavy weight on his chest. He looks at Yelena, and for a moment, the air is thick with unspoken understanding. Then, he smiles—a soft, almost imperceptible gesture that speaks volumes about their shared history.

Yelena’s gaze softens, her voice taking on a more hopeful tone. “And we didn’t need any wizards to help us,” she adds with a wink, trying to lighten the mood.

Sam groans and slouches further in his chair. “I knew we were gonna get back to the wizards.”

There’s a brief pause before she continues, her tone shifting back to something more grounded. “We brought Bob back. Got him out of Val’s grasp. And now, he’s got a family.” She looks at Bob again, and this time, there’s a warmth in her smile—a genuine, heartfelt affection that seems to put Bob more at ease.

Evie nods slowly, her smile reflecting the mix of admiration and empathy she feels for their journey. “That’s... that’s incredible,” she says softly, clearly moved by the depth of their experiences.

Bucky, who had been listening quietly, leans forward, adding in his usual dry tone, “Family isn’t always the blood you’re born with. Sometimes it’s the people who don’t leave you behind.” His eyes flick to Bob as he says this, a quiet affirmation of their bond.

Sam chuckles from the other side of the table. “Guess that makes us all one big, dysfunctional family then,” he teases, though there’s a fondness in his voice that makes the joke feel more like a statement of truth than a quip.

Evie’s gaze moves from face to face around the table, taking in the quiet moments between them. “You guys really are something else,” she repeats, but this time, the awe in her voice is clear. “What you've all been through... it’s more than I ever could have imagined.”

The table settles into a comfortable silence, everyone reflecting on the paths they’ve walked to get here. For a moment, the weight of their pasts isn’t a burden, but something that has shaped them into who they are now—a family of their own, forged through shared experiences and mutual respect.

The whole table laughs, the tension from earlier lifting completely. But as the laughter dies down, there’s a sense of warmth in the air—something that speaks to the bonds they’ve forged, even in the most unexpected places.

Evie sits back, taking it all in, a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, you’ve certainly made the lore way more interesting than I could’ve imagined.”

“And it’s just getting started,” Sam says with a grin. He laughs, loudly. “You should’ve seen the look on your face when you found out how Bucky and I met.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she replies, still grinning. “I want to hear more about that another time.”

Steve takes out his phone at some point, intent on taking a photo of Bucky’s dejected face with his Uno loss, holding up the forty-eight cards he amassed thanks to Sam’s strategy.

“Steve trying to use modern technology, part 103,” Evie types with exaggeration onto her StarkChat story, sending it to the group. She adds a bit of sass to the caption as she snaps a photo of Steve, who’s currently holding his Starkphone upside down in Bucky’s direction, looking utterly confused by the interface.

“Steve, you have to turn it around,” Yelena says, her voice laced with an amused but slightly exasperated tone. She leans over to help, gently repositioning his hands.

Steve glances at her, his brows furrowing in concentration. “I don’t understand—there’s a button, but it doesn’t seem to do anything.” He presses the power button again, and the phone lights up briefly before dimming.

“That’s not how you—here,” Lena takes the phone from him and flips it in the right direction. With all the patience in the world, because this is probably a very common conversation, she says, “Just swipe right to take the photo. It’s simple.”

Evie’s camera flashes as she captures the moment, Steve still looking totally baffled by the whole thing. The angle’s perfect: his face, a mix of frustration and confusion, and Yelena, trying to be patient, but her grin betrays her amusement.

“You know,” Evie texts as she sends the snap, “I think we need a whole series of these. How Steve vs. Tech ends—spoiler, he never wins.”

Steve taps the screen once, but all he does is bring up a random app with a picture of a cat. “I swear these phones have a mind of their own.”

Bucky chuckles from the other side of the table, where he’s watching the scene unfold. “Oh, man. This is why we can’t take Steve anywhere with Wi-Fi.”

Sam, who’s been observing all of this with an amused smirk, laughs. “Just let him be, man. Give it a few more years, and Steve will probably be the one showing us how to use holographic phones.”

“Yeah, right,” Bucky quips, “or he’ll still be stuck on using a rotary phone, thinking it’s high-tech.”

Steve rolls his eyes, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Very funny, guys. Very funny.”

Sam, still shaking his head in disbelief, leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “You’re so smart, Steve, with your big super-soldier brain,” he starts, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “and after ten years out of the ice, a Starkphone still baffles you?” He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Even Bucky’s figured it out, and he can’t even use his metal arm with them. The damn thing whacks out the phone, but at least he knows how to open an app by now.”

Bucky, who’s been quietly nursing his drink, looks up with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, give me credit. I’ve only really been here for two years after the brainwashing, the ice, living on my farm in Wakanda with my goats, being a goddamn congressman. And it took six months to stop smashing my phone with my arm. That’s progress.”

“Six months,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “Steve, I’m telling you, if Bucky can do it by now, you can do it. You’ve been out of the ice for ten years. The only thing that should be confusing you is trying to keep up with the new slang.”

Steve, looking slightly embarrassed, shoots a glance at Bucky before mumbling, “Slang’s a problem, too.”

Bob, who’s been silently observing the exchange with an amused smile, suddenly speaks up. “Is this why you never respond on the group chat?” He leans forward, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “You can’t work it out?”

Steve sighs, giving him a sheepish look. “I can’t work it out.” His voice is almost mournful, as if admitting defeat.

Sam bursts into laughter. “Oh, man. Steve, you’ve fought alien invaders, Hydra agents, and fought in multiple wars, but a phone—a phone—has you stumped. You’re gonna make me question everything I know about you.”

“You’re just mad because I don’t reply to your ridiculous memes,” Steve retorts, trying to save face. “You can’t expect me to keep up with all the nonsense you send. It’s hard trying to understand half of the jokes. I don't know what half of them mean."

“Oh, you’ll get there,” Sam teases, “but when you finally start responding, I’m sending you all the TikTok dance videos. You’ll love those.”

Bucky chuckles, his voice dry. “Steve can’t text. You think he’s ready for viral dance trends?”

“We’ll send you all the memes,” Evie promises.

Sam lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is the most un-technologically advanced team I’ve ever been a part of.” He throws his hands up in surrender. “You guys are hopeless. Apart from Evie. Thank God you know what you’re doing. Must be a Millennial thing. Unlike our Silent Generation friends over here.”

As the group settles into their evening again, the warm glow of the table light and the light-hearted banter fills the room. But, for now, it’s clear—Steve Rogers and modern technology might never quite be friends.

Chapter Text

Bucky's apartment is quiet that Wednesday morning, save for the soft hum of the city outside his window. The air is crisp as he stands by the door, glancing down at his watch. He's early—way earlier than he would've liked to be. It's just the kind of thing that happens when you're used to being on time, but also used to not having any real place to be anymore. He tucks his phone into his pocket and stands outside, leaning against the brick of the building, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his nose.

His condo in Brooklyn is small, but it's home. A place where he can walk down the street and feel close to the past—the memories of who he used to be before the war, before Hydra. He might not be able to shake all of it, but having a spot here, tucked away from the world, helps him feel grounded.

The veterans' event he's headed to on Saturday is a big deal for him, but he's got no way of getting there. He could take a taxi, but that's too expensive for his taste—especially considering his back pay still hasn't come through after all this time and the congressman cash dried up pretty quickly once Val all but got him fired. Being an Avenger doesn't exactly come with a fancy paycheck. OXE and Stark Industries handle the funding now, but it's not nearly enough to cover the kind of expenses a regular guy might expect, even after he gave up his congressman apartment and moved back to a shitty little place in a worse neighbourhood. He barely makes ends meet with the measly salary they get, just enough to cover rent, food, and maybe an occasional beer with the guys. Not enough to buy a car, though. And he has nowhere to put it aside from out on the road, and that seems like a waste.

Sam's out of town, visiting Sarah and the nephews, leaving Bucky on his own to figure this out. He pulls out his phone and hesitates for a second before deciding to text Evie directly. It's been a while since he's reached out to her outside of the group chat, but he knows she's got a car.

Hi, he types simply.

A few minutes later, the phone buzzes in his hand. Her response is quick, casual. Hey, Bucky.

What are you doing Saturday?

She pauses, the little dots popping up on the screen as she types. Apart from a planned Friends binge, nothing. Why?

Bucky half-laughs to himself as he types. He's not exactly known for his outgoing nature, but when it comes to someone like Evie, there's something about her that makes him feel... okay.

I have a gig I need to get to at 3, he writes. Would you be willing to chance a drive in that wreckage of a car of yours? Out to Jersey someplace. It's a couple hours' drive.

A beat. He waits, thumb hovering over the screen as he watches the three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear like she's considering the offer. Or thinking about how to say no.

What's in it for me, soldier? she replies, a teasing tone clear through the text.

Bucky grins to himself, leaning against the wall. He wasn't expecting it to be easy. I'll buy you lunch on the way there? And you can come along as my date. Since you're my safe person and all. You know I don't like crowds.

There's a pause. The three dots bounce again, and then the response comes through. Done. Pick you up at 11am.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Done. He's already looking forward to it more than he expected.

By 10:30am, Bucky's already standing outside his apartment, looking down the street for her car. He glances at the time again. A little early, but that's how he is—on time, all the time. He's not about to leave her waiting.

Right on 10:58 a.m., he hears the unmistakable hum of a familiar engine. It's low and uneven, a little too rattly for a car in good condition—but there's something steady about it too. Reliable. Like the woman driving it.

Evie's beat-up little car pulls up to the curb in front of his apartment. It's scratched in places, the paint dull from sun and wear, but the charm is in the details—stickers along the bumper, a hanging air freshener shaped like a cassette tape, and the unmistakable glint of someone who's kept it alive out of love, not necessity.

It's not flashy. It's not armoured. It's just hers.

Bucky smiles despite himself, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. The warm spring sunlight catches the edges of his hair.

Evie rolls down the window and sticks her arm out, waving once before grinning up at him. "Did you bring something fancy to wear?" she calls. "I think it's fairly nice. Veterans, old ladies, probably some kind of lemonade situation. Very wholesome."

He raises an eyebrow, glancing down at his jeans and plain T-shirt. "I'm pretty sure my best look is 'grumpy with sunglasses.' Maybe 'morally conflicted but still hot.'"

She snorts. "Great. You'll fit right in with the rest of the 107th."

He walks around the front of the car slowly, holding a suit bag over his shoulder, like he's giving himself time to adjust to the idea of going. To this day. To what it means. Evie watches him through the windshield, fingers tapping a rhythm against the steering wheel, patient. He lays the suit bag on the back seat and then slides into the passenger seat, pushing the chair back so his legs fit.

"Don't worry," she says when he opens the passenger door. "I brought five outfit options. From 'charming girl' to 'sexy and dangerous'. I'll sus the vibe when I get there."

"I'm sure any of them are fine," he mutters, looking confused by her use of slang.

Evie shrugs. "I can dress nicely when I need to. Outside of combat gear and jeans." She gestures at her own outfit—dark denim, worn boots, and a crisp white t-shirt. Simple. Put-together. Safe.

Bucky fastens his seatbelt and gives her a sidelong glance. "You're awfully chipper this morning."

"Someone's gotta be," she says, nudging his shoulder lightly. "Now—any road trip bangers you want?"

"Bangers?"

"Songs. Music."

He hesitates. "I don't really know much music. I mean... post-war music," he admits, already feeling the strange excitement of the unknown. It's been a while since he's done anything like this—a simple drive with someone who's not constantly worried about saving the world.

Evie pauses mid-scroll on her phone, then looks over at him. "Well, that's criminal. Buckle up. I'm joining Sam's noble quest to educate your eardrums. He's doing a poor job so far."

She taps play. A funky, upbeat rhythm pours from the speakers. Something modern but not overwhelming. Evie sings along under her breath, tapping the steering wheel in time, her voice soft but certain. She doesn't look at him, just keeps driving—giving him space to be, to listen, to exist without being watched.

The song switches and she grins, turning up the volume, and soon the car fills with the sound of a beat Bucky's never heard before. Evie sings along quietly, her voice soft but steady. Bucky watches her from the corner of his eye, his small smile hidden beneath his shades. He's used to the sounds of war, the ringing in his ears from years of combat and explosions. But this... this feels different. Soothing.

He sits back. Listens. Watches the way the sunlight filters through the windshield and dances across her knuckles.

It's been a long time since he's been in a car that didn't have a mission or therapy attached to it. Since he's let himself sit still long enough to notice the world outside the windows. Trees flicker past. Billboards. The glint of a child's bubble wand from the back of a passing truck.

They get stuck in traffic leaving Brooklyn. Horns blare ahead, a chorus of impatience echoing off the buildings. The sky's painted with the gold-pink haze of late afternoon, and the city feels like it's holding its breath in the stillness.

Evie sighs and rolls down the window, letting the breeze curl through the car. The music drifting from the speakers slips into the street — something soft, melodic, nostalgic. A piano cover of an old song neither of them acknowledges but both recognise.

"So, I've been thinking," she says after a beat, trailing off like she's unsure how much she wants to press.

"Uh oh. That's dangerous," Bucky quips, eyes still on the bumper ahead of them.

"Hush," she scolds gently. "Tell me… what made you become a Congressman for half a term?"

He glances at her, surprised. "Public speaking doesn't really seem like your style, Buck."

He huffs a laugh. "It's not. Used to be okay with it, back in the day. But not now."

"So… why Congress?" she asks again, more softly this time. "Why not… I dunno, working with vets at the VA or something?"

He doesn't answer immediately. The light turns green, and they inch forward, the car crawling past a food truck and a pack of kids in high school uniforms. Bucky drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

"I'm hardly one to counsel people, Evie," he says eventually, lips twitching at the corners. "I wouldn't know where to start."

"Okay, fair," she concedes, smiling. "But you know what I mean. You could teach World War II classes at NYU. Or, like, Cold War Perspectives from a Guy Who Was There."

"Funny," he deadpans.

She shrugs, leaning her elbow on the window frame. "It'd be a hell of a syllabus."

He takes a breath, eyes fixed on the road. "I just… wanted to do something. Something different. After we took down Thanos, and then dealt with the Flag Smashers, I was just… done. With fighting. With weapons. With being something people were scared of."

Evie turns to look at him then, quiet and open.

"I was in therapy. Trying to… atone. Whatever that means. And I kept asking myself what the hell I was supposed to do next. Who I was without the next mission. And I figured—if I was gonna live through everything I lived through… maybe I should try to make it mean something."

Her voice is gentle. "Being an Avenger does mean something, Bucky."

"I know," he says, then pauses, swallowing. "But I needed… peace. Something real. Something that felt mine. Not a fight someone gave me, not a cause someone else told me was righteous."

She nods, watching him. "So… why politics?"

A sheepish smile tugs at his mouth. "Started as a joke."

"A joke?" she echoes, amused.

"Yeah," he says. "I was talking to Sam. Told him I wanted to help people, really help. Build something instead of always destroying things. He laughed and called me 'Brooklyn Congressman Barnes.' I said, 'Hell, maybe I should be.' And he just grinned and said, 'I dare you.'"

"Seriously?" She says. "An ounce of peer pressure and you cave."

"I like a dare," Bucky shrugs. "I went along with it. As a bit, at first. But then I started door knocking, sitting on porches, drinking really bad coffee with old ladies who still call it 'The War' like it's the only one that ever happened. Listening to them. Hearing what they were scared of. What they wanted. And I realised… I could actually do something."

He glances sideways at her, his expression softer now, distant. "It was the first time in my life I wasn't being used. Not by Hydra. Not by the Army. Not even by the Avengers. I was just… me. And that was enough."

Evie's smile falters a little. She sees the weight of it in his eyes — the years, the ghosts. He's never quite stopped trying to claw his way back to himself.

"Next thing I knew, I had a whole damn campaign going," he continues. "And then I was voted in."

"Did you enjoy it?" she asks after a pause. "When you were in?"

He chuckles, low and dry. "Things took much longer to get through Congress than I expected and that annoyed me. So much pointless speaking and nothing being changed. I got frustrated, honestly. Couldn't make the changes I really wanted to. I spent most of it trying to take down Valentina from the inside. And you know how that ended."

"I do," she says softly, the warmth behind her eyes quiet but steady. "But I also know you tried."

He doesn't respond for a moment. The car crawls forward another few feet.

"I voted for you, you know," she adds, glancing out her window like she's trying to make it sound casual.

Bucky's head turns. "Really?"

"Yeah. Your campaign was solid. I liked the slogan – Get Lucky, Vote Bucky. But that wasn't your idea, was it?"

He shakes his head, grinning. "Hell no. Some Gen Z intern. I didn't even know what half the memes meant."

"Well, it worked," she says. "You were a hot commodity on social media. Boomers loved the PTSD war vet, and the youngins? Well, you're a celebrity. Tortured and hot."

He groans. "That again?"

"You said it yourself earlier," she teases, her tone bright. "Morally conflicted and hot."

Bucky lets the smile linger this time. But beneath it, something more complicated stirs. He shifts in his seat.

"Evie…" he says, quietly.

She glances at him. "Yeah?"

"There's a part of me that still feels like I didn't deserve that vote. Or the seat. Or… hell, even the bad coffee and front porch conversations. I tried to do good, but—there was always this voice in the back of my head saying, 'You're still the Winter Soldier. You're still a killer. Don't forget.'"

Evie's smile fades. Her hand finds his forearm, grounding him, one arm still on the steering wheel. She doesn't look at him, watching the traffic in front of them. "I know," she says, softly. "But I also know who you are now. And so do a lot of other people. I think that was the main pull for your campaign, you know. People saw what you'd been through, and that you were still fighting for good. They saw a man of another time get dropped into the present and just keep moving forward. Learn to use technology, learn to live in a new world, learn to cope with what had been done to him. I think it was inspirational. That's certainly why you got my vote."

The car ahead moves. So does Bucky. But the words still hang between them, heavy with truth and history.

He sighs again, quieter this time. "It's easier, sometimes, to hide behind missions or titles. Soldier. Avenger. Congressman. But with you… I can't do that. You see all of it."

"I do," she says. "And I'd still vote for you, Bucky Barnes, if you ran again. Maybe with a new slogan?"

Bucky huffs out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh — not because he doesn't appreciate it, but because of course she'd say something like that. Of course she'd try to make him smile even now.

He glances at her, just for a second. "Yeah? What would it be this time?"

Evie grins, leaning back in her seat with mock-seriousness. "I can think of a new. How about: Vote Barnes: He's Got a Metal Arm and a Heart of Gold."

Bucky snorts, startled by the laugh that actually escapes him. "That's terrible."

She raises a brow. "That's why it's good. He Fought Nazis. Your HOA Doesn't Stand a Chance."

He shakes his head, but there's a softness creeping into his expression now. The kind he reserves only for her. "You're insane."

"From Assassin to Advocate — That's Growth, Baby."

"Okay, I get it," he laughs.

"Vote for Bucky: Reprogrammed for Democracy."

"That's barely even funny."

Evie starts laughing then, loudly, slapping her leg. "Wait, wait, I've got the best one. He's Killed Dictators. Now He'll Just Politely Debate Them."

"Politely... fuck off, doll," he says, but he's laughing.

"He Earned His Peace. Now He'll Fight for Yours," she continues, ignoring him.

His smile fades a little, but not in a bad way — more like something genuinely light settles on his chest for the first time in days.

"Alright," he murmurs. "If I ever run again, you're in charge of slogans."

Evie beams. "Damn right I am. We'll have merch. Stickers. Coffee mugs. TikToks. The whole thing."

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "God help America."

She shrugs. "America's had worse. Our President turns red and fought Captain America."

And he can't help it — he laughs again. For real this time.

The traffic starts to clear ahead. Sunlight streaks between the buildings, and the city slowly exhales around them.

And even though they're just driving, stuck between red lights and exhaust fumes, something inside him shifts — like maybe, just maybe, the long war is over.

"You ever get bored?" she asks after a few quiet minutes.

"Of what?"

"Of… I don't know. Feeling like you have to be someone all the time. Some version of yourself."

He glances over. She's not looking at him. She's focused on the road, like the question didn't cost her anything.

"All the time," he says quietly. "But with you…"

He trails off. She doesn't press.

Once they hit the highway, the city falls away behind them like a coat being shrugged off. The rhythm of the road takes over—steady, constant. A soft wind moves through the car, ruffling his hair. She flips through playlists, humming here and there, occasionally glancing over to check if he's smiling at a certain song.

He is. More than once.

"You like this one?" She asks every now and then.

"Yeah. Nice beat," he'd say. Or, "I like the story." Or, "Nah, too loud."

The ones he says he likes, he notices she adds to a new playlist: Songs Bucky Likes. He smiles.

They talk, eventually. He learns she loves Jaws more than she should, despite the terrible effects, because it's the original suspense film, Bucky, everything else is based on Jaws. That she once cried watching a documentary about sea turtles getting plastic caught around their necks and fins. He senses a pattern with marine animals. That her dad tried to teach her how to fix the engine in this very car with nothing but a flashlight and a lot of swearing.

He tells her he used to sneak into the movies with Steve during the war when they were supposed to be planning or training. That he once drove a motorcycle through a Nazi checkpoint just to impress a girl at the SSR base who didn't remember his name. That he used to go to Steve's art classes with him to watch Steve paint because it was so mesmerising, and a couple of times they asked him to pose as a live model.

"So, you were a model," she accuses. "When I punched you in the face, you said your modelling career would never take off. You lie."

"It was barely modelling," he laughs. "I sat in a chair holding a bowl of fruit. One of the tasks was to draw my side profile ten times. Steve's were the best, but I guess I'm biased."

There's laughter. Real laughter. The kind that sneaks up on them and sticks around longer than it has any right to.

By the time they pull into a tiny roadside diner—one of those places with checkered floors, cracked menus, and waitresses who call every customer honey—Bucky feels like something inside him has unknotted a little. The sun is high in the sky. There's a smell of bacon and syrup and burnt coffee in the air. It's a classic, greasy spoon type of place—one of those where the locals know everyone's name. Evie parks the car, and they head inside, where the smell of fresh coffee and bacon fills the air.

"Lunch is on me, remember?" Bucky says, grabbing the menu.

"I know," Evie smiles, sliding into the booth. "I'm holding you to it."

They chat easily as they wait for their food, the conversation flowing effortlessly. Bucky's surprised how naturally it all comes. It's not often he feels this comfortable around people who aren't his old friends or teammates. But with Evie, it's different.

He feels... peaceful.

They eat, laughing over stories that feel like they could be from someone else's life. The kind of stories that make the world feel small, and for a moment, simple.

They argue about the best kind of pie (Evie says cherry and the one from Walmart is perfectly fine, Bucky insists on apple, homemade, no shortcuts), and she jokes about taking him on a proper culinary tour of Brooklyn someday. Or maybe, America, she suggests, expanding the idea. He doesn't say it, but he thinks he might like that.

As they finish up their meal and get ready to leave, Bucky takes a long look around. He doesn't know when the last time was that he felt like this—like he was just a guy on a road trip, on his way to something meaningful.

The drive to the venue feels longer than it should, though the road is smooth and the car hums steadily beneath them. Bucky glances at Evie from time to time, catching her humming along to the music on the radio, her fingers tapping lightly on the wheel. It's almost surreal—the comfort of the drive, the ease of being with someone who isn't expecting him to be a hero, or to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. For once, he doesn't feel like he's on some kind of edge, waiting for something to go wrong.

When they pull into the venue parking lot, the grandeur of the building hits him immediately. It's a place that feels too polished for him, with its clean lines and understated elegance. He shifts in his seat, adjusting his jacket, trying to tamp down the butterflies that have started to settle in his stomach. It's an event for the families of the 107th. His unit. The men he fought alongside. A part of him feels a strange sense of pride that they still care enough to keep this tradition going, even after all the years and all the losses.

Evie parks, and they make their way to the backstage area where they're greeted by a staff member who ushers them toward a small dressing room. The room smells faintly of perfume and the faint echo of previous events. She steps in first, her eyes scanning the space before glancing at Bucky.

"Alright, soldier," she says with a smile, "time to look presentable. I brought a few options. You pick what works."

She pulls out a small bundle of clothes from the bag she's carrying and sets it on the table in front of him. The dresses are simple but elegant—nothing too flashy. Bucky's eyes land on the red one almost immediately. Red has always been a colour he likes. It reminds him of the warmth of fire, the danger of battle, and the life he used to have before Hydra turned everything cold and clinical.

Evie catches his gaze and smiles. "Good choice. Thought you might go for that one."

Bucky doesn't say anything, but he can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. She's observant, that much is clear. He looks at the dress one last time before heading into the changing area to slip out of his usual clothes.

The sports jacket feels stiff at first — too tailored, too deliberate — but he adjusts quickly enough, tugging it into place over a fresh black t-shirt and dark jeans. A compromise. Dressy, but not too much. Enough to say he made an effort, not enough to make him feel like he's wearing someone else's skin.

He stands in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection with a slow, assessing kind of detachment. His hair's too long. Not the neat, slicked-back style he used to wear in the '40s. Not the severe, regulation cut of his time in the military. Not even the functional, masked anonymity of the Winter Soldier. Now it's… in between. A little too long, a little unkempt. It brushes the tops of his shoulders, uneven at the ends. Not quite careless, but not careful either.

He drags his fingers through it, trying to coax it into some kind of order. It doesn't listen. It rarely does anymore.

It's been ages since he bothered with more than the bare minimum. Not since Congress — when he had to wear suits that cost more than his old apartment, smile for cameras, attend galas full of people who wanted photos but didn't want to know the man behind the handshakes. Back then, he'd cut it a little shorter. Cleaned up. Tried to look… respectable. Like someone the world could trust.

But it's never just hair.

The only time he'd really cut it — truly cut it — was after the Snap was reversed, after Steve left.

Not when Steve said he would leave, and when he asked for Bucky's blessing to stay in the past with Peggy. Not when he handed over the shield to Sam. But when he didn't come back. He'd told Bucky, but Bucky didn't really expect it to be true.

Steve had promised Sam and Bruce he'd return after putting the Stones back in their places. A few minutes, he'd said. Maybe ten. But Bucky knew better, from their conversation the night before, that he wouldn't be returning. It was long enough for Bucky to wait with his hands in his pockets, pretending to believe him. Long enough for Sam to make small talk while Bucky's stomach churned.

Ten minutes turned into twenty. Then into hours. Then into days.

And Bucky — standing in front of a cracked bathroom mirror in some nondescript safehouse — had stared at himself until the image became unbearable.

His reflection looked back at him, too familiar and yet entirely foreign. Haunted eyes. A metal arm. Long, tangled hair that reminded him too much of the man he'd been under HYDRA's control — that ghost, that weapon.

And in that moment, he'd been sure: Steve had stayed in the past.

Of course he did. Why wouldn't he? Steve had always believed Bucky could be better — but maybe even Steve had finally realised Bucky was too broken to fix.

The clippers weren't charged, so he used dull kitchen scissors instead. Grabbed chunks of his hair and sawed through them with blunt, angry cuts. No finesse. No care. Just the raw urge to change. To strip away some version of himself, any version that might've made Steve stay away.

When he was done, it was jagged. Short. Brutal.

He didn't feel better.

He didn't feel like himself.

He didn't feel anything.

So, he let it grow again. Stopped doing anything with it at all.

Let time do what it does — blur the sharp edges, soften the ache. Let his hair fall over his ears again, over the collar of his shirts. Let it become a kind of armour, not like the mask he once wore, but a shield of its own. Something that said: I've survived.

Now, as he runs his hands through it again, smoothing it back, he studies himself in the mirror. He pulls his hair back a little more, tucking it behind his ears.

Still doesn't quite look like someone he recognises. But maybe he doesn't need to anymore. Maybe it's not about going back. Maybe it's about making peace with what's here, right now. There's something in his eyes now—something softer, more open. It's the same face, the same worn features, but it's as though the man inside is beginning to shed some of the layers of pain and mistrust that have covered him for years. He looks… a little bit more like he used to, maybe? Before… everything. Not that it really matters.

The jacket fits better now. Not just on his shoulders — but on the man he is tonight.

He takes one last look at himself.

Evie knocks on the door, interrupting his thoughts. "You ready?" She asks, her voice quiet.

He steps out and pauses. For a second, Bucky just stands there.

The red dress hangs perfectly on her frame, soft fabric catching the breeze, the cut tailored in that elegant, mid-century way—like something straight off a film reel in the forties. The neckline, the hem, even the way her hair falls just so—it all looks like it was borrowed from another era. No sequins or flash, no modern frills. Just quiet style, timeless and deliberate. She looks stunning. But it's not just the dress. It's the way she wears it—like she belongs to another time and she knows it, owns it, doesn't care who notices.

"You look incredible," he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he means it to. Honest.

Evie tilts her head at him, lips curving. "Thanks, Buck. It's my favourite dress." She smooths a hand down the side absentmindedly, then lets out a soft laugh, a little self-conscious now.

"Did you… did you choose that dress for me?" He asks, hesitantly.

She laughs. "No," she says. "I've had this for years. It's kind of old-fashioned, I know. Like something out of a black-and-white movie."

Bucky smiles, slower this time. "Yeah. That's probably why I like it so much."

She quirks a brow. "What, because I look like I stepped off the set of Casablanca?"

"Exactly," he says, deadpan. "All you need is a cigarette and a trench coat. Maybe a monologue about lost love."

Evie laughs, rolling her eyes. "Please, if I start monologuing, you're legally obligated to tell me to shut up."

He pretends to consider that. "I dunno. You'd fit right in at a smoky train station. Rain coming down. Farewell kiss, maybe a jazz trumpet in the background."

"God, now I want that scene," she says with mock longing. "Let me live my noir fantasy."

He chuckles, but something about her expression—wistful, a little amused—sticks with him.

This isn't new, he realises. The dress is just the latest in a string of little things he's been noticing. She gravitates toward history the way some people chase trends, toward past decades. Her playlists jump from Motown to Zeppelin to Glenn Miller to Christina Aguilera and Eminem and Tchaikovsky like it's normal. She still writes things down on paper and uses her phone like a tech-wizz. Her novels are always second hand, worn spines and scribbled notes in the margins. And when she talks about the past, it isn't like someone reading out of a textbook—it's like someone who misses it. Longs for it. Wishes they were in it. And don't even get him started on her music.

"You ever think," he says slowly, "that maybe you were born in the wrong decade?"

Evie shrugs, lips tugging into a crooked smile. "Sure. But which one? I mean, give me a record player, a flared pair of jeans, or a thirties dress and I'm happy." She spreads her arms. "I'm basically a walking thrift store. I go there all the time. Love a good find. I'll take you sometime, you might find some of your old stuff."

Bucky huffs a laugh. "You left out the chain-smoking and existential dread."

"Oh, that's all implied," she says, deadpan.

He grins, watching her for a moment too long.

There's something about her that feels... familiar. Like she's a remnant of all the time he's lost. Not stuck in the past but stitched from it. And somehow, standing next to her, he doesn't feel so misplaced anymore. Doesn't feel like the last man standing at the end of a forgotten song.

She notices the look he gives her and raises an eyebrow. "What? You're staring."

"I just..." He shrugs one shoulder. "I think you might be the only person I've met who could time-travel and survive."

She smiles at him. "Well, that's the nicest, weird compliment I've ever gotten. Thank you." She hesitates for a moment more. "You did. Time travel," she tells him. She shrugs. "You're surviving."

"Because I have people like you as tour guides making it all easier." He shifts slightly. "You would've loved the forties. Minus the racism and the whole Great Depression thing."

"I think I would've," she admits. "If I ever get sent back by some blip Infinity Stone situation, tell me you'll find me, so I don't get myself arrested on day one."

"Promise," he smirks.

They stand there for a moment, the hum of summer air between them. In a minute, they'll walk into a room full of old photos, heavy memories, and awkward speeches. But right now, under the sun, beside her, Bucky feels something steady. Something like grounding.

It's brief. But it's enough.

With Evie there—her half in the past, half in the now—it's easier to believe he might actually belong somewhere again.

"How do you feel?" she asks, her voice a little more serious than it had been earlier.

"I think I look... alright," he says, stepping toward her a bit more. His voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of uncertainty.

Evie takes a slow, deliberate step back, eyeing him up and down. She doesn't say anything at first, just nods approvingly. "You clean up pretty well, Buck. Not bad at all. Though, you probably could've brought along a proper suit."

"Don't own one anymore," he says with a laugh. "I rented them all as congressman. Best I can do now is a sports jacket."

Evie chuckles softly, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than usual. There's something warm in her eyes, a quiet approval that makes the space between them feel more comfortable, less stiff. "Well, I think the jacket works," she says, her tone light, but there's a hint of something else, something unspoken that hovers in the air. "But next time, I'm dragging you to the store. A proper suit might be nice for these things."

"You gonna make me thrift one?' He asks.

"Sure. We could get you a gangster suit. Maybe something bright white. Or maybe one with a nice gold paisley pattern?"

"That sounds… questionable," is the word he chooses, wincing.

Evie shrugs. "Some people can pull them off."

Bucky grins, but it's a half-smile, the kind that still feels new to him—something he's still getting used to. "Guess I'll trust you on that." He shifts his weight, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under her watchful eyes.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" she asks.

"Buying a suit? You just said I should."

"No, today. The Gala," she clarifies, her voice dropping just enough to show that she's looking out for him. She doesn't sound like she's concerned about his ability to handle the event—more like she's giving him the space to be honest with her if it's too much.

Bucky hesitates. A small part of him feels like he's about to step back into a world that's no longer his. He's been to events like this before, but that was before the war, before everything had changed. He wasn't sure what was left for him now—those people had families, lives, and memories that didn't involve him. He had been one of them once, but now... now he's not sure who he is when he stands beside them.

But then he looks at her, and he feels this strange pull—a comfort he can't quite explain. Maybe it's the way she's standing there, a little out of place herself in that glamorous dress, her eyes quietly studying him, waiting for the answer.

"I'll be fine," he says, more to himself than to her. "I just... don't know what to expect, you know?"

Evie nods, her expression softening. She steps closer, just enough to close the small distance between them. "You're not doing this alone," she says simply. "I'm right here."

For a second, Bucky doesn't know what to say. Her words settle in him, like something solid, something grounding. She's not expecting anything from him. She's not asking him to be anyone but himself. And for a moment, that weight, that armour he's kept around himself for so long, slips a little.

"Thanks, Evie," he says, his voice quieter now, the words more meaningful than they've ever been.

She smiles, her hand briefly resting on his shoulder before she steps back, her posture shifting back into that confident, easy-going attitude he's come to know. "Alright, soldier. Let's go show them how it's done. One step at a time."

The words are light, but there's a sense of understanding in them, and Bucky finds himself nodding. She's right. One step at a time.

They leave the room together, but he pauses in the doorway, just for a second, before offering her the crook of his elbow. Her hand slides onto his arm, like it was always meant to sit there, and she holds on tight, so he knows she's there. As they walk through the quiet hallways, the sound of their footsteps echoes softly in the space. The gala isn't far off now, and the nerves start to creep in again, but it's easier now. Having Evie there, the steady presence of her beside him, makes it feel like maybe this moment isn't as foreign as it once seemed.

As they approach the venue room, Bucky feels that knot in his chest loosen just a little bit more. The familiar weight of the past is still there, but it's less suffocating when she's around. They step into the venue, and the grandness of it hits him immediately. There's a quiet elegance to it, but something about the place feels different now, less intimidating.

The ballroom is grand, with golden chandeliers casting soft light over the sea of black-tie guests. The sound of clinking glasses and low murmurs fills the air, creating an atmosphere of elegance and reverence. But for Bucky, the space feels vast and distant, as if he's on the periphery of everything. He stands a little too still, trying to keep his shoulders squared, his posture perfect, but his mind is elsewhere. The laughter of families mingling around him, the way they interact so easily with one another, is a reminder of everything he's lost. He's surrounded by warmth and closeness, yet he feels like a ghost, as though he's watching someone else's life unfold before him.

For a moment, the weight of his past feels like it's pressing down on him—like he's wearing a heavy cloak that no one can see, but that he feels in every bone of his body. His mind drifts back to the war, to the faces of the men he once fought beside, and the stories that still haunt him. They were just kids, like him, thrown into hell. And now their children are here, trying to understand who their fathers and grandfathers were, what they endured. They look at him with those eyes—full of curiosity and hope, searching for a connection. Bucky feels the pull of their gaze, but also the distance that has grown between him and that time. How could he explain to them that he doesn't know who he is anymore? He's not the same person they think he is. He isn't the soldier who fought beside their fathers. He isn't the man they want him to be.

But they don't know that. All they see is a soldier, a piece of history. The stories pour out of them—about their fathers' bravery, about the war they never fully understood. Bucky listens with a tight smile, nodding at the right moments, shaking hands, offering brief words of comfort. But inside, he's silent. It's as if every handshake, every conversation, is a reminder of everything he's lost, of how he'll never be able to piece himself back together again.

Through it all, Evie is there, either on his arm or only a few steps away, a constant, steady presence in his peripheral vision. She doesn't know anyone here, but she moves through the crowd effortlessly. She's engaging with the people around her, listening with that open, warm attentiveness that makes everyone feel seen. She's not just chatting for the sake of conversation; she's genuinely interested in what they have to say, asking questions, offering kind words. And somehow, she makes even the most awkward of exchanges feel natural, even easy.

Bucky watches her for a moment, noting how effortlessly she fits in, how comfortable she is in her own skin. She's at ease, unaffected by the formality of the event, and it's a stark contrast to his own discomfort. But despite that, she never once pulls away or treats him like he's anything less than he is. She doesn't look at him like a broken soldier or a relic of a war that's long past. She just... sees him. Not for his past, not for what he's done, but for who he is now. And that's something he's not used to. He's so used to people looking at him through the lens of his history, of his mistakes, of his violence. But Evie doesn't do that. She's here, beside him, and that's enough.

At one point, as he's standing alone near the bar, lost in thought, he catches her eye across the room. She's talking to a few older women, but when she sees him, her smile softens. It's a quiet thing, but it's like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of his own spiralling thoughts. The smile she gives him is warm, genuine, and for a brief moment, everything feels simpler. She's there. She's not judging him or looking at him like he's some kind of damaged soldier. She's just there, offering him that quiet, steady reassurance that he's not alone.

His chest tightens with something he can't quite place—relief, gratitude, maybe even something more. He offers a small, almost imperceptible smile in return, and it's as if, in that exchange, some of the weight lifts off his shoulders. The knot in his stomach loosens just a little.

Bucky turns back to the crowd, but it's different now. There's a sense of peace that settles in his bones, a calm that wasn't there before. He moves through the ballroom with a little more ease, a little more confidence, because he knows she's there. No matter what happens tonight, no matter how many stories he has to hear or faces he has to put on, Evie is there. And that thought—simple as it is—makes him feel more whole than he's felt in a long time.

As the evening stretches on, Bucky begins to open up more, telling stories of his own—little moments from his past, memories of the men he fought with. They come more easily now, as if the shared experiences of the room are opening him up in ways he hadn't expected. It's not as heavy as he feared it would be. People laugh, they reminisce, and for a moment, it feels like he belongs here, like he's part of something again. Not the war, not the chaos, but something else. Something that feels real.

At one point, he finds himself cornered—gently—by a wide-eyed young woman with a camera around her neck and a vintage blazer that probably used to belong to her granddad. She introduces herself, grinning, as Ellie Dugan.

"Dum Dum's great-granddaughter," she says, clearly proud.

Bucky smiles. "In the flesh," he says, eyebrows rising. If he really looks at her, he can see the resemblance.

"My mom always said he was a legend. Any chance you've got a story or two?" She asks, hopeful, kind.

Bucky laughs, then leans in a little, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You sure you wanna know? Might ruin the myth."

Ellie lights up. "Definitely."

He gestures her in closer, drawing the attention of a small group nearby. "Alright," he says. "So, there was this one time—Italy, '43. We'd just liberated this little mountain town, right? And Dum Dum—he's struttin' around like he owns the place, puffed up with that ridiculous bowler hat, moustache twitchin', all proud of himself. Finds a crate of wine in a cellar and insists on doing a 'proper toast.' Like we were at a wedding or something."

A few people around them chuckle.

"We all raise our glasses because he wouldn't have shut up about it if we didn't," Bucky continues, "and Dum Dum, being Dum Dum, climbs up on this rickety little box to make his speech. One minute he's doing his whole 'to freedom and brotherhood!' bit, and the next—crack—the box gives way."

Ellie grins, already sensing the punchline.

"He lands right on his ass," Bucky says, grinning. "Which would've been fine—except turns out the crate underneath was full of confiscated sidearms. That type, they always were a little unstable. One of 'em discharges."

There's a collective gasp.

"Don't worry," Bucky adds quickly, "he lived. But the bullet caught him right in the backside. Clean through."

The crowd bursts into laughter.

"He was furious. After his stint in the infirmary with the cute nurse, he spent the next week waddling like a duck, complaining about how he'd never sit properly again. Kept muttering something about 'getting shot by fascist furniture.'"

Even Ellie's doubled over now, laughing into her camera strap. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was," Bucky says, shaking his head fondly. "He made us sign a pact never to speak of it again. Said if word got out, he'd never be able to command respect from anyone." He lifts his glass in mock salute. "Sorry, Dum Dum. Guess the statute of limitations is up."

The laughter lingers, easy and warm. Ellie wipes a tear from her eye, still smiling. "Thank you. That's... that's better than any picture I could've gotten."

Bucky shrugs, though there's a softness in his expression now. "He was a good man. Brave. Loud as hell. But good."

The story ripples outward through the room, and for a few moments, the war feels like something else entirely—not just blood and fire, but laughter, ridiculous mishaps, and the stubborn, human joy that managed to survive alongside it.

And then Bucky's got a line of people there, asking for stories of their own parents, grandparents, heroes. Bucky doesn't remember them all – some were part of the 107th long before he was, but those he does remember, he offers his words and his memories, and they light up at hearing the history come to life.

Bucky feels a sense of pride blooming within him.

And when Bucky glances across the ballroom and catches Evie watching him, smiling quietly from the edge of the crowd, he realises he's smiling too.

For the first time in a long while, the past doesn't feel like a weight.

It feels like a bridge.

When the evening finally winds down, much later than he expected, the night has taken on a surreal feeling, as if time is moving differently here—slower, more measured. The music dies down, and the clinking of glasses fades away. Bucky's feet ache from standing for so long, but there's something comforting in the stillness now.

As the last of the guests are saying their goodbyes, Evie reappears at his side. She slots her hand into the crook of his elbow again, and his arm stiffens immediately, instinctively, holding it to his side to provide a rest for her hand. She gives him that same soft smile, her eyes warm and knowing.

"You did good," she says, her voice low, like she's speaking just to him. "You're not a ghost, Buck. You're here. And that's what matters." She pats his arm, his metal arm, and gives him a little squeeze.

Bucky doesn't know how to respond, so he just nods, his throat tight. There's so much he wants to say, but for now, her presence is enough. She's here. That's all that matters. And as they leave the venue together, he feels like he's taking another step forward, however small, into a world that doesn't feel quite so foreign anymore.

"Ready to head back?" she asks, her voice calm, unbothered.

Bucky nods, but the words don't come easily. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he's been part of something. Something human. The connections, the stories, the people—he's been a soldier for so long, but tonight, just for a moment, he was a person again.

"Yeah," he says quietly, voice thick with emotion. "Let's go home."

Evie nods, understanding more than he expected.

They head out to the car after collecting their things from the change rooms out back.

"You've been drinking, and it's been a long day. I'll drive," he offers.

"Oh, you so you did see how many champagnes I downed. Caught me red-handed."

"Can smell it on you, too," he smirks.

She throws the keys to him across the divide, and he catches them effortlessly. "Alright, well, go easy on Matilda. She's an old girl."

They get into the car and Bucky leans back in the seat, letting the weight of the evening settle around him. The hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of headlights as they pass through darkened stretches of highway are the only sounds between them. It's strange, how quiet it is, and yet, it's not uncomfortable. It's like the silence has finally shifted from being a reminder of all the things left unsaid to something softer. Something warmer.

He looks over at Evie, her profile framed by the dim glow of the dashboard. Her lips are curved into a small, content smile, her eyes focused on the road ahead. He feels a quiet gratitude for her presence, for how she's been this anchor through the evening, this constant force of calm that's made everything just a little bit easier to breathe through.

Evie catches him looking. She doesn't say anything in return, but her eyes flick to him for a moment, understanding in their depths. It's a look he's come to trust, a look that says she knows more than she lets on. More than he's willing to admit.

The drive continues in silence for a while, Bucky's hand resting loosely on the wheel, the road stretching out before them. As the miles roll on, he starts to feel it—the tension that had been lingering in his shoulders, the tightness in his chest, the fear of facing another night alone in his apartment, starts to loosen just a little. It's a strange feeling, one he hasn't felt in a long time. Like maybe—just maybe—he's not as alone as he thought.

They're nearing Brooklyn, the city skyline looming ahead, when the car jerks suddenly, the engine sputtering and making some very unhealthy noises before it dies completely. The lights on the dash all turn on at once, brightening the panel. Bucky pulls over to the side of the freeway quickly, stopping in the emergency lane. The headlights flicker once, then go out, leaving them in the dark with only the streetlights of the highway as a backdrop.

Bucky sighs, hands gripping the wheel. "Well... that's not ideal."

Evie looks over at the dash, and then at the front bonnet where a steady stream of smoke is rising from the edges.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "If I hadn't asked you to drive me–"

He stops when Evie begins to laugh, a bright sound that cuts through the tension. It's unexpected, and it catches Bucky off guard. He turns his head to look at her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Y-you're not mad?" he asks, his voice softer than he meant. He's half-expecting her to get frustrated, but instead, she's just... laughing. The carefree, unbothered kind of laugh that sounds like she's not fazed at all by the fact that they're stranded on the side of the road in the middle of the night.

"Of course not," she says, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "Have you seen the miles on the dash?" She points to the dashboard, where the numbers are almost comically high. "She's practically held together by tape and zip ties. It's a miracle she's even still running."

Bucky glances down at the dashboard, his mouth falling open in disbelief. The miles are ridiculous—way beyond what any car should be able to handle. And yet, here they are. Still driving.

Well, sort of.

"I'll call a tow," Evie adds, reaching for her phone.

Her voice is calm and steady, like this is just another minor inconvenience to be dealt with.

It's exactly what he needs, and it almost makes him laugh too, the absurdity of the whole thing. He's used to things falling apart around him, but tonight, this feels oddly... fitting. A little moment of chaos in a night that's already been full of surprises.

They get out the car. He hands her his jacket for warmth, as she's still wearing the dress. She refuses it at first, but then gives in as he practically shoves it around her shoulders, muttering something about a chill in the air and her getting sick.

And then they make their way to a nearby diner, on the other side of the freeway, running across the lanes to wait for the car to be hauled away. They sit in silence for a while, sipping coffee and talking about nothing in particular. It's peaceful in a way that he hasn't known for years.

The tow truck arrives in less time than he expected, and they sit in the front seat of the truck with the driver as he takes them and the car to a mechanic near Evie's apartment. Evie makes gentle conversation with the man, her laughter booming through the cabin. Bucky sits quietly against the door, looking out the window with a soft smile on his face.

The next morning, Bucky's still half asleep when he hears the sound of a familiar engine outside his apartment. He gets up to check, peering through the window, and his jaw nearly drops when he sees Evie's car pull up. The thing looks... like it hasn't even been touched. Like it's somehow magically fixed itself in the few hours since they were stranded.

He opens the door, stepping out into the cool morning air, and watches as she pulls to a stop in front of him, the car still rumbling like it hasn't missed a beat.

"How the hell is that thing still running?" Bucky breathes, his eyes wide in disbelief.

Evie grins, leaning out the window. "Magic?" she offers with a shrug, clearly enjoying the moment.

He shakes his head, unable to suppress a small chuckle. "You've got to be kidding me. That car should be scrap by now."

She just smiles at him, the gleam of mischief in her eyes. "Hey! Be nice, or no more lifts for you. Matilda's a champ. You just need a little faith."

Bucky laughs again, shaking his head in amazement. The sound of it is light, genuine, and it's the first time he's really felt like himself in a long time.

Maybe it's the car's inexplicable resilience, or maybe it's Evie's easy way of handling the chaos that life throws at them. Either way, in that moment, he feels... better. More whole than he's felt in a while.

Evie: I've got some new campaign slogans for you, she texts, at around 2AM.

Bucky's awake. His phone dings and he's picking up the phone instantly, smiling.

Bucky:  Oh, I can't wait to hear them.

Evie: They're excellent. I made a list. "Vote Barnes — Or I'll Cry on Live TV" ?

Bucky: Who'll cry?

Evie: Me. Steve. Probably Sam. Very likely Bob.

Bucky:  Nah, not a massive fan.

Evie: Ooh, tough crowd. These are stellar. What about "Because If You Don't Vote for Him, I Have to Explain That to Steve Rogers"? This one is a solid threat.

Bucky:  It is.

Evie: " Metal Arm, Soft Centre, Very Hot. What's Not to Like?"

Bucky lets out a laugh, the kind that cracks through the silence of his dark apartment like sunlight. He sinks deeper into the couch, phone resting against his chest for a moment before his fingers dance over the screen.

Bucky:  You can't put "very hot" on a campaign poster.

Evie: Why not? It's accurate. Ask anyone.

Bucky: I'm not running a thirst trap campaign, Evie.

Evie: You could, though.

He chuckles again, rubbing his hand over his face, the smile lingering longer than it has in days. He feels a flicker of light—ridiculous, affectionate, exactly what he needs.

She sends another one.

Evie: "Vote Barnes: He's Already Saved the World, Let Him Fix the Damn Roads."

Bucky: Okay. That one's actually good.

Evie: Thank you. I'm available for full-time speechwriting and emotional support services. Competitive rates. Excellent benefits.

Bucky: What kind of benefits?

Evie: You get me. I get you. We take down fascists. Win-win.

He stares at that last message for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then—

Bucky: Deal.

He doesn't send anything else for a while. Just sits there, feeling it settle deep in his ribs. Her voice, her laugh, the way she always finds him—even in the dark.

Outside, the city hums like it always does. But inside, Bucky breathes easier.

Even if only for tonight.

Chapter Text

Evie crashes onto the bed, the weight of the day dragging her down like an anchor. Every muscle in her body aches from the endless meetings—tensions flaring in international briefings, strategies laid out like battle plans, back-to-back calls with diplomats and agency heads that left her drained in ways even war never had. Her nerves hum with residual adrenaline, her temples throbbing. She kicks off her shoes with a groan, pulling the blanket over her shoulders like armour, and exhales, long and slow. Her eyes close, but sleep stays just out of reach, hovering like a shadow in the corner of the room.

Her mind spins—numbers, names, battlefronts. She presses her palm to her forehead. It’s too much. The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by sleep.

But she tries anyway, closing her eyes and letting the darkness take her. It doesn't. Sleep teases her, hovering just out of reach.

Then—through the thin wall that separates them—she hears it.

Bucky’s nightmare begins.

Muffled but unmistakable, comes the first cry.

It’s low at first—guttural, broken—and then louder.

Her eyes snap open.

It starts small – a hitched breath, sharp and shallow, like someone gasping for air beneath water. Then the tension—the unmistakable sounds of a body fighting its own instincts. Sheets rustle. A choked noise. And then, like thunder cracking open a calm sky, Bucky screams.

That voice. That scream.

Evie jolts upright, the sound slicing through her like shrapnel. The tower, quiet and still moments ago, suddenly feels full of ghosts. She freezes, waiting, listening.

No second scream comes, but she doesn't need it. She’s heard these before—too many times, too recently. They used to be rare, surfacing only when he was under extraordinary stress. Now they claw their way into his sleep regularly, merciless and unrelenting. He doesn’t wake gently anymore. He wakes like a soldier dragged from hell.

Something’s changed. Maybe it’s the whispers of Hydra resurfacing, maybe something deeper. She doesn’t know. But she can’t ignore it—not when she knows what it sounds like when someone is breaking.

She hesitates for only a moment before sliding out of bed, her bare feet padding softly across the cold, polished floor. Her heart races in her chest as she walks down the corridor, drawn to the sounds of Bucky’s distress. She reaches the door, left slightly ajar, but there are voices in the room—Steve’s and Sam’s.

She pauses in the doorway. Sam notices her first, stepping away to meet her.

“It’s okay, Eve,” he says gently, though the crease in his brow betrays the calm. “Just a night terror. This happens all the time. We’ve got him.”

But he doesn’t believe it. She can see it in the way his jaw clenches. He’s saying it for her benefit, trying to protect her from something she’s already too deep in to walk away from.

She doesn’t budge. “I heard,” she says, and her voice is quieter than she intends. “I hear them every night. He always says he doesn’t sleep, the nightmares. But it’s worse tonight, isn’t it?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He just glances over his shoulder. The door is cracked open, just enough.

Evie peers inside.

Bucky is thrashing in the centre of the bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets like restraints. His chest rises and falls in frantic, jerky breaths. His metal arm twitches, clenches, like it remembers pain his body has long since survived. His human hand fists the air. He mutters something under his breath—Russian, maybe. Then comes another cry, hoarse and filled with terror.

His fists clench, teeth bared, and a broken sound escapes his lips—a sound no one should ever have to make. Evie flinches. Sam sighs, pained.

Steve is beside Bucky, crouched down, murmuring soft assurances, willing Bucky to wake up, trying to reach a man who isn’t really there.

“It’s over, Buck. It’s okay. You’re here. You’re safe. Come back.”

But Bucky isn’t listening.

For him, it isn’t really over.

His face twists, tears at the corners of his shut eyes.

Evie steps through the door. Sam doesn’t stop her this time. Steve glances up, and in that split-second their eyes meet, there’s nothing but helplessness. It’s a look she’s seen on him only a handful of times—and it breaks her heart.

“I usually don’t like doing it, but… I can help,” she says gently.

Steve hesitates. His hand is on Bucky’s shoulder, but it isn’t enough. It never is, not when the shadows are this deep. But then he moves aside. He trusts her.

Evie approaches the bed slowly, as if walking into a storm. The air seems heavier around him, thick with the residue of trauma. She stands beside the bed and reaches for his hand. His skin is ice-cold and trembling, his fingers twitching. But when she takes his hand in both of hers, he grips back—not tightly, not consciously, but instinctively, like a drowning man clinging to the only thing he recognises.

Her breath catches. Even unconscious, he knows her.

Her power stirs.

It’s not a blinding force, not something loud or violent. It’s quieter than that, older. A gentle current rising beneath her skin, radiating out like warmth from a hearth. Her breath slows as she leans over him, placing her palm flat against his temple. Her eyes slip closed—and when they open again, they glow, faint but luminous, like candlelight held behind glass.

She climbs onto the bed carefully, sitting beside him like someone taming a wild animal.

Bucky’s breathing slows, uneven at first, then gradually finding rhythm. His limbs stop thrashing. The strain in his brow eases, and the trembling in his shoulders subsides. His grip loosens slightly, still holding onto her, but not as if he’s falling anymore. More like he’s landed.

His muscles, once coiled and rigid, begin to ease. His metal arm falls limp beside him. A faint noise escapes his lips—not a cry, not a scream, but something almost like a sigh.

She strokes her thumb gently along the line of his knuckles.

The room dims around her. Her powers bloom in the quiet, unseen by most, but palpable in the shift of the air. Energy flows from her like a pulse, weaving itself into Bucky’s chaotic aura. She doesn’t erase the nightmare—that would be impossible. But she dulls the edges. Calms the storm. She offers him her steadiness, her presence, her unspoken promise that he is not alone.

Steve and Sam watch in silence, both visibly moved. They’ve fought with him, bled beside him, walked through fire for him—but this? This kind of healing is something neither of them can offer. Slowly, Steve stands, and Evie hears him leave the room, Sam closing the door behind them, leaving her and Bucky alone.

Bucky’s thrashing slows, and his features soften, his tight grip on her hand loosening. His eyelids flutter, and slowly, like waking from the deepest of slumbers, his eyes crack open. He’s still dazed, blinking against the soft light of the room, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to his thoughts. Bucky’s eyelids flutter, rimmed with tears. His gaze is unfocused at first—then finds hers.

He calms fully, sinking into the mattress. A small, exhausted smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, a look of quiet gratitude crossing his face. He lifts his other hand slowly, reaching for her with a tenderness that contrasts with the violence of moments before. His hand finds her cheek, cupping it gently, feather-light.

“Evie,” he whispers. A single word, but it holds everything—fear, relief, confusion, and above all, trust.

“I’m here,” she replies softly. She touches his face, brushing damp hair from his forehead, light and steady. “You’re safe.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse from the screams that still echo in his chest.

His eyes begin to close again, the tension draining from his features as the nightmare recedes. His breathing slows to something almost peaceful.

Evie’s smile is soft, her fingers brushing gently against his forehead, smoothing the hair back from his face. She doesn’t say anything, just stays close, her presence more than enough. As she watches him slowly fall back into a peaceful sleep, her hand resting lightly on his forehead, she can feel the weight of his exhaustion—physical, emotional, the deep scars that go far beyond anything visible.

She stays with him, her body close to his, feeling his steady breathing as he sinks into a calmer sleep. She holds his hand, her thumb tracing small, soothing circles over his skin, offering a silent comfort. She keeps projecting, melting the sides of the nightmare, removing his fear, so he can rest.

For a moment, she almost forgets about everything else—the meetings, the responsibilities, the world outside that never seems to stop. All that matters is this quiet, fragile peace between them.

She stays there for what feels like an eternity, her hand warm on his forehead, her eyes fluttering closed as she allows herself to breathe in the stillness. The room is soft and quiet, the darkness outside the windows nothing compared to the calm in the room.

Bucky sleeps on, her hand still resting gently on his forehead, like a child needing comfort, needing care, needing to be reminded that there are people who will help him, even in the darkest of times.

She stays there all night, sitting on the bed next to him, leaning back against the headboard, making sure he gets his rest.

Hours pass in the dark. She never moves, escape to shift her hand from his forehead to his chest, just above his heart, feeling it rising and falling. Her other hand stays holding his, still and warm.

The world outside fades—the calls, the strategy, the endless demands of being something to everyone. None of it matters right now.

Only this. Only him.

By morning, the storm has passed.

The shadows that clung to his sleep have scattered, chased off by something quieter, steadier than fear. For the first time in a long time, he sleeps through the night—no flinching, no ragged gasps, no desperate clawing toward reality.

Just peace.

Evie’s still there, her body stiff from staying in the same position for hours, but she doesn’t care. Her hand has drifted from his forehead to his chest, where it rests just above his heart, her fingers feeling every rise and fall, like reassurance.

She watches as his brow smooths, as the tension drains from his face inch by inch. When he finally stirs, it’s not with a jolt, but a slow, steady blink, like surfacing from deep water. His eyes find hers, hazy with sleep but clearer than she’s seen them in days.

“You stayed,” he says, his voice low and raw with morning.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of hair away from his temple.

There’s a pause—quiet and full. His eyes drift closed again for a moment, like he's testing it, the silence, the ease in his chest. And when he opens them again, there’s something different there. Something lighter.

“I didn’t have any dreams,” he says, voice almost disbelieving.

“I know,” she whispers. “I took them.”

A beat. Then he huffs a quiet laugh, the barest edge of a smile pulling at his lips. “Show-off.”

She grins. “Takes one to know one.”

He turns his hand, the one still holding hers, and laces their fingers together properly this time. It’s soft. Simple. But there’s weight in it—like a thank-you he doesn’t know how to say.

And he doesn’t have to.

Because she already knows.

Chapter Text

The dream comes like it always does—

But this time, it starts differently.

He’s not on a mission. He’s home.

Evie is laughing, soft and radiant in the afternoon light, her fingers twined with his as they walk beneath budding trees in Central Park. Spring air. Her voice is the safest sound he knows. She’s saying something about music—she’s always saying something about music—and he’s smiling.

Then—

The snap.

The rupture.

Reality splits at the seams.

The world tears apart like soaked paper.

Suddenly, he’s strapped to the chair.

His arms yank against restraints, metal digging into his skin. Cold floodlights sting his eyes. He tries to scream but something sharp wedges between his teeth. The scent of antiseptic and blood hits him like a wave.

A voice echoes in Russian.

Orders barked.

The click of machinery.

They don’t even wait for his fear to register before the machine surges to life. It crackles, groans, and begins to grind its way into his skull.

His memories—

Her.

The first to go is her voice, vanishing like a candle in the wind. Then her face. Then the feeling of her hand in his. He fights—God, he fights—but it’s like trying to hold water. Every touch, every smile, every moment she grounded him—it’s all being burned away, atomised.

He screams for her, the last word on his lips before the machine finishes its work.

“Evie—”

He wakes.

But this time, he fights his way out.

It’s like dragging himself through molasses and fire. His own scream tears from his throat before his eyes even open—a raw, animal sound. He lurches upright, gasping, choking on breath like its air he hasn’t earned.

The room is dark, silent. Too still.

Wrong.

His heart is a hammer against his ribs. His skin, slick with sweat, sticks to the sheets. His hands are shaking so badly he barely recognises them. He looks down at his hands, metal and flesh, and his eyes widen, like he doesn’t remember that ever happening to him. His dog tags dig into his collarbone, cold and sharp, and he claws them away like they’re choking him.

He’s still in the room. The safe house he has at the Watchtower. His bed. The present.

But his mind is back there.

In the chair.

The lights.

The voices.

The pain.

And the worst part—the erasure.

He remembers the screaming hum of the machine as it burned through his mind like acid. The frantic grasp of memories trying to hold on.

But they took her first.

Evie’s laugh. Her hands in his. The way she whispers his name like a secret.

All of it—stolen, dissolved, erased.

The ghost of it still lingers, like soot in his lungs. He can still feel the moment she vanished from his mind like she never existed.

It still burns, the thought of losing her.

It guts him.

Hollows him.

He can't breathe.

The dream clings to him like smoke—suffocating, thick with loss. He lurches from the bed, heart hammering against the cage of his ribs. The walls tilt. His legs give.

Find her.

That’s the only thought that remains. Everything else—time, place, sense—is lost to panic.

He stumbles, half-blind with panic. His vision tunnels. His legs drag, knees nearly buckling. The hallway tilts and sways under his feet. Every breath is a battle.

His metal hand hits the wall, scrapes the doorframe, carving a splintering line through the wood as he stumbles forward.

It slams against the wall of the hallway, dragging down the paint, carving a desperate line through plaster and wood as he staggers forward.

Focus. Move. Get to her.

He reaches her room.

He doesn’t knock.

He crashes through the door.

The lock shatters. Wood splinters and flies. The frame gives with a thunderous crack. The screech of the alarm cuts the silence like a blade, piercing and shrill, because he broke in without using the fob.

Bucky stands in the wreckage, chest heaving, bare feet planted in the shards of what was once a door. He’s silhouetted by the flickering hallway light of the alarm, sweat-slicked, wide-eyed, utterly wrecked.

Evie bolts upright, already halfway to standing. Her hands fly up instinctively—power sparking wild and unfiltered from her palms like a live wire, eyes glowing green. A pulse of energy flashes through the air, thrumming with panic.

Her eyes adjust to him instantly—recognising the storm behind his silence. Her powers must already be humming in her blood, reacting to his presence like they always do.

“Oh my god, Bucky!” she screams—raw, startled.

But then she sees him.

Really sees him.

His eyes—wide and wet, grey and dark in the low light. His whole frame shaking. Like a child who’s been lost in the woods and finally found home. And beneath all that rage and instinct—terror.

Terror, not of her—but of being without her.

His voice cracks, hoarse and shredded.

"E-Evie!"

Evie runs to the panel on the wall, pressing different buttons. The alarm turns off, the blaring stops, and they’re thrown back into darkness. The only light comes from the open window, the curtains open, light from the city around them filling the room – she always sleeps with the curtains open, hates the darkness.

“Bucky, what happened?” She whispers, looking at him with a quiet concern but keeping her distance so as to not startle him.

Bucky feels a sob wrack through his body. “I—I can’t—”

The light in Evie’s hands finally dims. Her power folds inward, drawn in like a tide. Her hands drop, her chest heaving with the adrenaline.

“Buck?” she whispers, her voice a steady tether in the dark. "Jesus..."

She slowly drops back onto the bed, looking exhausted and coming down from the panic of the moment before. She sits on the edge and watches him with a quiet concern.

He doesn’t answer her.

He crosses the room in three unsteady, almost drunken steps and sinks into the bed beside her like gravity itself has claimed him.

He curls toward her like a man broken open—head bowed, arms clenched in around his ribs, as if trying to hold his splintered pieces together. His arms reach out for her, grabbing onto her forearm, and he pulls her hand into him, gripping it like a lifeline.

He’s trembling so hard the mattress vibrates beneath them. His breath comes in shattered pulls.

When he speaks, his voice is barely human—raw, rasped, hoarse with the weight of grief and memory.

“I need…” He swallows hard, like the words burn on the way out. “I need more of whatever you did last night, doll. Please.”

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t need to.

She just moves—fast and sure and gentle. Pulls him down into the bed properly, gathers him beneath the blanket like she’s tucking a child into the last safe place in the world. She lays down beside him, facing him, her hair spilling across the pillow like threads of firelight, already reaching for him.

Her hand lifts—slow and deliberate—and slides to his forehead. She brushes the sweat-slicked strands from his face, the motion featherlight.

And the second her fingers graze him, he softens.

Like ice meeting warmth.

Like something sacred has just remembered how to breathe.

His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. A flickering, fragile smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—shaky and small, but real.

An echo of something that might one day be peace.

He looks at her like she’s the only thing solid in a room full of smoke.

“You’re here,” he breathes, like he doesn’t entirely believe it. Like maybe she’s just another echo in the long hallway of his mind.

“I’m here,” she says, and her voice is everything—grounding, steady, quiet in the way of ancient things.

His eyes are glossy, not from tears exactly, but from the weight of it all pressing behind them. “They made me forget you,” he says, voice catching. “I forgot your face. Your name. I forgot what it felt like to hear you laugh.”

The words bleed out of him—raw, wounded, gasping for air. As if saying them aloud might make them disappear, or solidify them in a way he can finally fight.

Evie’s heart fractures, quietly and cleanly, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. She stays exactly where she is, folding her fingers into his with a calm that steadies the both of them. “They’re not here anymore, Bucky. They're not taking your memories,” she murmurs. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard. His metal hand stays limp at his side, but his flesh hand clings to hers like a man holding the last rung of a ladder above a flood.

“I have nightmares every night,” he whispers, eyes darting toward the dark corners of the room like they might be listening.

“Of your past?” she asks gently, already knowing the answer but needing him to say it.

He nods once. “And of losing what I have now. Family. Friends. This. You.” His voice cracks. “Sometimes they’re so real I wake up thinking it already happened. That I ruined everything. That I’m alone again.”

Evie squeezes his hand. “You’re not alone, Bucky. Not anymore. And you’re not going to lose any of us. Not me, not Steve, not Sam. None of your people are going anywhere.”

“You say that like it’s simple,” he says, bitter at himself, not her. “But nothing about me is. I can’t shut my brain off. If it’s not the dreams keeping me awake, it’s the headaches. The phantom pains. Like I’m still wired into something that isn’t there anymore.”

She shifts closer, reaching up to brush a damp curl away from his forehead, fingertips soft but sure. “Then let me help. I can fix both of those things, if you let me. But only with your permission.”

“Any time,” he whispers. His breath stutters. “I just don’t want to pull you into the darkness with me.”

Evie cups his face, gentle but firm. “You’re not darkness. You’ve lived through it, sure. But you’re not it.”

He doesn’t know what to say. That kind of loyalty—it terrifies him in ways bullets never did. He’s used to people leaving. Dying. Giving up.

The glow begins softly. A shimmer. Barely there at first. But in the dark, it blooms. Her eyes light up—low and green, illuminating the colours of her eyes like twin stars emerging from shadow. Her power hums through the air between them, a living current.

It flows from her fingers into his skin, into the spaces between thought and pain in his mind.

It’s not just light.

It’s memory. Warmth.

It’s her.

Anchoring him. Calling him home.

His shivers ease, slowly, like a fever breaking. His breathing evens.

His metal hand—usually clenched tight even in sleep—uncurls, relaxed against the mattress. His eyes flutter shut, lashes damp, his brow no longer furrowed.

She wipes the last of his tears away, and where her fingers pass, they leave behind something glowing—something that doesn’t quite vanish. Like stardust. Like hope.

“Go to sleep, Buck,” she whispers, voice softer than silk and steadier than stone.

And he does.

Right there beside her in the dark.

Safe.

Remembering.

Evie wakes to silence.

Not the kind that feels peaceful, but the kind that feels held—like the whole room is holding its breath.

The first thing she feels is the weight of him beside her. Heavy. Real.

She opens her eyes.

He’s still asleep, curled toward her, one arm hooked around her waist like even in sleep he’s afraid she’ll disappear. His forehead is pressed to her shoulder. His breath fans warm against her skin—uneven, but steady now. His face still carries the wreckage of last night—crease marks on his cheeks, tear-streaks faded but not forgotten, the faint furrow between his brows like a bruise that hasn’t quite healed.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t dare.

Just watches him.

There’s a flicker in her chest—something between awe and grief. He thought he’d lost her. Worse, he thought he’d forgotten her. That they took her from his mind, rewrote him like a page torn clean.

She imagines what that must have felt like. To wake up and know something is missing—know someone is missing—but not remember who. Just an ache where her name used to be.

A tremor passes through his hand, still curled loosely around her. She lays her own over it—soft and steady—and his fingers flex instinctively, latching onto hers even in sleep.

He exhales.

The tension drains from his body like a tide retreating. His brow smooths. His grip loosens, just enough.

And then his eyes flutter open. Bleary. Blinking. Grey and stormy in the dawn light.

For a moment, he just stares at her. Like he’s not sure if he’s still dreaming.

Then he breathes her name. “Evie.”

Not loud. Not desperate like last night.

Certain.

She smiles, her voice a whisper. “Hi, Bucky.”

His eyes water instantly. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I thought I…” He can’t finish.

“You didn’t,” she says. “You’re here. We’re here.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just pulls her hand to his chest and presses it there, right over his heart. Like he needs her to feel it. Like maybe that’s the only way he believes he’s alive and she’s real.

“I remember you,” he whispers.

“I know,” she says. And she smiles again—gentle, glowing, grief-lined and full of love. “You always will.”

Chapter Text

The hallway outside the press room buzzes with distant voices, but Evie leans against the wall in blessed quiet, tugging at the cuff of her sleeve, trying to ignore the sound of her heartbeat. She’s half-hoping to make a clean escape out the fire exit when the sharp click of heels announces Valentina’s arrival.

“Ah, there you are,” Val says, sweeping toward her in a designer suit that probably cost more than Evie’s rent. “How do you feel about headlines, darling?”

Evie squints at her. “Mildly nauseous. Why?”

Valentina’s smile is sharp enough to shave steel. “You’re the focus today. The face of the future, all that. Aura gets her moment.”

Evie stares. “You’re joking. I thought this was a whole Avengers press conference, not just me.”

“I never joke,” Val says sweetly. “Too exhausting. The others will be there, they might get a question or two. The focus is on you.”

“You really expect me to walk into that room and talk? About what? Being a rookie New Avenger,” Evie folds her arms.

“Yes, just be you.”

“I’ve had no PR training,” Evie says. “What if I say something that gets me eternally screwed? Or turned into a meme?”

Val shrugs. “That’s just more exposure.”

“We’ve done the merch, the photos. What’s next—lunchboxes? A Saturday morning cartoon?” Evie asks.

“We’ll workshop it,” Val says, already turning. “Come along, starshine.”

Evie mutters under her breath, “I think I liked it better when no one knew my name…”

"Some people already knew your name, with your little music acts and all. Now you're just more famous. And more successful."

Evie frowns at her but says nothing. 

As they near the door, Steve intercepts them, giving Evie a reassuring nod.

“Do we do these often?” she asks, low enough that only he hears.

“No,” Steve says, adjusting his tie. “Really just when there’s major changes. Like a New Avenger joining the team. This is your time to shine.”

“Terrific,” Evie deadpans. “I’ll try not to combust on stage.”

He grins. “You’ll be fine.”

Then the door swings open.

The lights are too bright.

Evie squints against the glare, vision blurring slightly from the overlapping camera flashes. She follows the others and moves quickly to the panel seating at the front of the stage, taking a seat in front of the tag with her name on it.

The podium feels too tall, the press too close. She’s used to people—used to moving through the world fairly unnoticed, anonymous, blending. Until she's on the stage in a tiny bar or a wedding or posting on her Instagram to her millions of followers which doesn't really feel all that real. But now they see her. All of them. Staring.

She’s never minded crowds—until now.

Reporters pack the room wall to wall, a sea of lenses and voices and ravenous anticipation. The media wall looms behind her like a billboard stamped with inevitability: MEET AURA: THE FUTURE OF THE NEW AVENGERS. Her name, her face, her destiny—plastered like a brand.

She’s wedged between Sam and Bucky.

Sam, as ever, is composed and charismatic, his smile carved out of confidence and experience. Bucky, by contrast, looks like a statue trying not to punch a camera. His arms are folded, body rigid, jaw set. He hasn’t said a word since they walked in. But Evie can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. Not anger—something closer to protective dread.

Valentina lingers to the side, smiling like a proud puppeteer with her newest stringed marvel. “Ladies and gentleman, it’s my pleasure to call this press conference today to introduce the newest member of the New Avengers team – Aura!”

The crowd breaks into applause. Cameras flash.

Evie swallows. This isn’t what she wanted. She never asked to be anyone’s symbol. Never wanted to be capital-A Aura—with interviews and hashtags and merch lines. She just wanted to help. Quietly. Honestly.

Val widens her eyes at Evie, makes a gesture for her to speak.

Evie adjusts the mic. Her palms are sweating.

“Hi,” she says awkwardly. “Um, I’m… Evelyn. People call me Evie. Also known as Aura, I guess, but that's a new name and I'm still getting used to it.”

A chuckle ripples through the crowd. Sam flashes her a reassuring look. She keeps going.

“I, um, didn’t really expect to be here like this. I’m not great with speeches. Or cameras. Or… this kind of attention, really. I’m just here to help. Maybe change the world a bit. I just wanted to do good with the powers I have.”

“We’ll go to questions now,” Valentina says quickly, sensing Evie’s discomfort.

Flashes pop. A hand goes up immediately.

“Yes, you—uh, red jacket.”

“Aura, are you replacing Scarlet Witch on the team?”

She stiffens. Freezes. The reporters see they’ve stumbled her already. Cameras flash.

Difficult first question.

The question hits harder than she expects. Wanda. A name laced with memory, grief, and reverence. Sam shifts like he’s about to take the mic, but Evie subtly raises a hand. I’ve got it.

“No,” she says. “No one can replace Wanda. The Scarlet Witch was an incredibly powerful and valued member of the Avengers team. None of us are a replacement. I’m here to be something different. And like I said, to help. Not a replacement. Not a reboot. Just… me. With very different abilities.”

Bucky watches her through half-lowered lashes. Something in her voice—quiet but resolute—threads through his defences.

“When’s your first mission?”

“I’ve done a few small ops, but I’m still in training. It takes time to prepare. I’ll be on the regular fixture soon enough.”

Another reporter jumps in. “There’s speculation about your abilities—are you psychic? Are you connected to the Mind Stone? Are you another government-made super?”

Evie flinches, just a little. The phrasing stings. She meets the question head-on, but her voice loses some ease. Her voice is steady when she answers, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability behind her words. “I’m... none of those things,” she says carefully. “I have telekinesis and some empathic control, but I wasn’t made in a lab—if that’s what you’re asking.”

The words hang in the air, a challenge and a confession.

Bucky, Steve and Alexei’s postures change. Something about that hits too close to home. They know the weight of being “made.”

She hesitates, choosing her next words with care. “I wasn’t made at all. I was born with these abilities. I’ve been able to do it as long as I can remember. There was no accident, no experiment, no glowing space rock.” She gives a slight, dry smile. “Sorry to disappoint. My origin story is… boring.”

There’s a beat of quiet, but she doesn’t stop. “I’ve spent a lot of years wondering if I was some kind of mistake, if having these powers meant I had to be someone else—something dangerous or more useful. But I’m not a weapon. I’m not a project. I’m just... a person. We all are,” she finishes, gesturing to every member of the team who made it to the press conference, for her debut, today. "And I just want to do something good with that power."

The room falls momentarily silent, absorbing the sincerity in her voice.

Then a new voice chimes in from the back of the crowd, pushing the press forward again.

“How have you been settling into the Watchtower?”

That draws a flicker of relief from her. An easier question.

“Great,” Evie says, this time with a genuine smile. “We’re a family. We’re building trust. We’ve got each other’s backs, even on the hard days.”

She glances to her left, where Sam stands just off-centre, projecting calm reassurance like it’s second nature. “I couldn’t have done it without Sam and Yelena. They’ve been incredible at helping me feel like I belong in this new world. Patient, supportive—Sam’s basically the team dad,” she adds with a crooked grin. A few reporters chuckle. “Steve’s our unofficial leader, and he’s checked in on me almost every day, made sure I was comfortable, checked if I needed anything. And he pushes us to think about why we’re here, why I want to be an Avenger. I appreciate that, the grounding. We all need a little grounding sometimes.”

“And Bob, we’ve become close. We train together, sometimes, joke around. It’s been nice. We all rely on each other when things can get tough, and they definitely do."

"And she always looks after us," Bob adds, giddily, leaning forward to clap quietly toward Evie. She smiles at him fondly. 

"And… of course,” Evie says, turning slightly, “I owe a lot to Bucky.”

Her voice softens. The kind of soft that makes people lean in to hear.

She doesn’t look at the cameras—she looks at him. And Bucky, who’s been sitting like a stone pillar, arms folded tightly across his chest, shifts. He stiffens slightly, but not in discomfort. Not exactly. More like surprise. Her words settle into him slowly, like sunlight on ice.

“I guess you could say he’s become a good friend. Pretty quickly, too – gave me a tour of the tower, trained me, took me under his wing. And I help him, too, with movies he missed out on and music playlists and my excellent pop culture knowledge. And now…” She trails off, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Well, we’re total opposites—chalk and cheese—but somehow, we complement each other…” She hesitates for just a second, meeting his eyes. “He’s… He’s something of a safe person for me.”

Bucky’s frown dissolves as she says it. He uncrosses his arms, straightening, sitting just a little taller. He doesn’t smile, but the shift in his expression is subtle and unmistakably fond. It tilts warmer—private.

And then, from somewhere at the back, “So are the internet’s shipping rumours true? Barnes and Day, Bucky and Evie… That you and the White Wolf are dating?”

“What would your ship name be?” Another adds, hastily. “There’s some names flying around the internet you could veto for us – Aura Wolf? Bucklyn? Beavie? Eveky? Or maybe–”

The reporter doesn’t even get to finish.

Bucky moves. It’s tiny, his gaze shirting toward the back of the room, a tiny movement to sit forward more, arms resting on the table. Not aggressive. Not threatening. But decisive.

The ripple of tension in the room is immediate.

Sam steps in smoothly, voice cool and authoritative. “Let’s stay on topic,” he says firmly, shooting a glance toward the offending reporter that could melt metal.

The questions continue, and Evie does surprisingly well. Some questions are directed at Sam, or Yelena, or Steve. Alexei answers a few, in a booming voice, and Ava provides insight into their upcoming tactics, how they’ll work together on the battlefield.

When one is directed at Bucky, he speaks fairly confidently into the microphone, answers the question in as few words as possible, stumbles a bit at the end. He looks... nervous. Uncomfortable. Despite his work in Congress, public speaking, he still never really got used to the limelight.

Evie watches his fingers twitch under the table. A tic. A tell. He’s not panicking—but he’s not far off.

His eyes keep darting toward the crowd, like he's trying to anticipate something—waiting for the next trap to spring. The way his fingers twitch against the table gives away more than his face does. Sam leans forward slightly, subtle but intentional, like he's bracing to jump in if needed.

Another question flies in. This one’s about Sokovia and Berlin and the Accords—about the past, about whether people like Bucky and Wanda should have been held more accountable.

The words aren’t aimed at him directly, but his whole body coils. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick somewhere far away.

“I think we’ve all spent more than enough time answering for things that weren’t really ours to choose,” Steve cuts in evenly, voice low and level. “We’re here today to talk about what’s next. That’s what matters.”

There’s a ripple in the press line—a shifting of gears. But Bucky’s shoulders are still tight, his gaze distant now.

Evie doesn’t say anything. Just slowly shifts her hand beneath the table, inching it across until her fingers brush the edge of his prosthetic where it rests on his knee. She doesn’t grab. Just touches. A silent offer.

Slowly but surely, he grasps her hand, not too tight but tight enough that she knows he needed it, and laces their fingers together.

Bucky doesn’t look at her. But he exhales. Slow. Deep. His fingers still.

It’s enough.

A quiet anchor. As if the touch grounded him.

One last question—this one for Evie. Something lighter, about her future in the new program. She answers with more confidence than anyone expected, her voice steady, her smile easy.

But when the cameras finally flash off and the mics are cut, Bucky’s the first to rise from the table, his chair scraping back with just a little too much force.

“I’m gonna get some air,” he mutters, not quite looking at anyone. And then he walks away, his fingers slowly sliding out from Evie’s loose grasp, and her hand falls away between them.

Steve nods, doesn’t try to stop him.

Sam watches him go, then turns to Evie. “He did better than he thinks,” he says quietly.

Evie nods. “I know.”

Still, her eyes follow Bucky as he disappears out the side door, like she’s thinking about following him. Like maybe she already knows what kind of storm he’s walking into.

She takes one breath. Then another.

“I think that’s enough questions for today.” Her voice is measured. Her words deliberate. And as she steps back from the mic, the buzz in the room quiets. Less frenzy. More reflection.

Because what they heard today wasn’t just a press debut. It was a woman drawing a line in the sand. And a man holding the space beside her, whether he knew how to say it aloud or not.

The door swings shut behind him with a solid, satisfying click.

Bucky exhales.

The air outside the conference room is cooler. Quieter. A blessed relief after the crush of voices and cameras and that fucking LED lighting that makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t stop walking until he hits the far end of the hallway. Just short of the stairwell, out of sight. He leans against the wall, arms braced, metal hand pressing into the plaster hard enough that it creaks.

He breathes.

One. Two. Three.

It shouldn’t get to him like this anymore. He’s done worse. Endured worse. Faced worse.

But somehow, a swarm of journalists speculating about his morality and relationship status stings in a way that Hydra couldn’t touch. Because he can’t fight this. He can’t punch a camera. He can’t dodge questions about Wanda, or Steve, or himself like bullets.

He’s trying. Dammit, he’s trying.

And then—her.

Her voice is still in his ears. That quiet steadiness, cracking in places but never breaking. He didn’t expect her to speak like that. To see him like that. Not with the whole damn world watching.

He’s my safe person.

He swallows. That shouldn’t have undone him. But it did.

Not because he doesn’t believe her. But because he does.

He feels it, whenever she’s near. Like the edges of him stop buzzing. Like the weight of every goddamn thing he’s done doesn’t press quite as hard on his ribs. Like maybe he doesn’t have to brace for impact every second she’s in the room.

She makes the noise go quiet.

He hears the soft click of the hallway door before he hears her footsteps. They’re light. No hurry. Just… there.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to.

“I figured you’d run,” Evie says gently behind him. Not accusing. Just honest.

“I didn’t run.”

“No?” A pause. “What would you call this then?”

He closes his eyes. “A tactical retreat.”

She laughs softly. “Fitting. For a soldier.”

She stops a few feet from him. Not close enough to crowd, but near enough that he can feel her presence press into the space beside him.

Bucky finally turns his head.

She’s in the light now, face backlit by soft fluorescents. The edge of her hair’s still caught in one of those damn bobby pins she forgets to take out, and there’s a wrinkle in her blazer where she nervously tugged it three times during the Q&A.

She shrugs. “You didn’t have to defend me when they asked if we were—”

“Dating?” He cuts in, cutting her off.

Evie’s expression flinches at the word. Just slightly. “Yeah.”

He watches her for a beat. “I didn’t like how they said it,” he says finally. “Like it was a punchline. Like you were the punchline.”

Her gaze drops. “Yeah. Well. Get used to that.”

He watches her fidget with the edge of her sleeve, lips drawn tight. For all the steel she had at the conference, here she is—frayed. Human.

“It’s not all bad,” he offers. “Some of them liked you.”

“I don’t care if they liked me.”

He nods. “Good.”

She looks up. “But I do care if you did.”

His throat tightens. That’s not what he expected.

“You were good,” he says gruffly. “Up there. You were honest. Brave. You didn’t let them box you in.”

She snorts. “I felt like I was a mess.”

“Doesn’t mean you weren’t good.”

Evie leans against the opposite wall, mirroring his stance. “Somehow you managed to skirt around answering every single question you were asked. Not a straight answer kind of guy?”

“I didn’t like any of them.”

Her laugh is soft but real. And it does something to him—cuts through the tension in his shoulders, the headache still blooming behind his eyes.

He sighs. Finally, he says the truth that’s easier to hold. “I don’t like people asking if I should’ve been locked up when I’ve spent the last five years making damn sure I never deserve that again.”

Her face shifts. Compassion. Respect. Pain. All of it. “I know,” she says, voice barely a whisper. “Me too. Was gonna say something but then Steve jumped in. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to make some more enemies besides Ross.”

He looks at her. Really looks. She means it. The whole world’s just seen her, and all she’s thinking about is whether he can breathe right now.

She’s not just kind. She’s good.

And maybe—maybe—so is he, if he can protect that.

“Come on,” Evie says, nudging his shoulder. “Let’s go back. Steve's probably sending a search party.”

He grunts but doesn’t move. She waits. Slowly, she reaches a hand out toward him, a silent offer, pale fingers open, palm up.

He stares at it for a moment before he straightens, stretches his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair. Looks at her like he’s anchoring again. Then reaches out and takes her hand as he stands in front of her, clasping their fingers together again.

“You did good, Aura,” he murmurs.

She smirks. “You gonna call me that now?”

“Nope.” His mouth tugs into something like a smile. “I know I came up with it, but I think I’ll stick with Evie.”

She bumps his arm with hers as they walk, hand in hand, comforting. 

By evening, the press conference clips are everywhere.

Some of the headlines are sympathetic:

"Aura Shines: New Avenger Speaks from the Heart"

"Not a Weapon, Not a Project: Meet the Empathic Hero Who’s Redefining Power"

"White Wolf and the Aura – New Duo Steals the Spotlight"

Others are more speculative:

"Mystery Mutant? New Hero Evie Sparks Debate Over Registered Powers – Has She Bared All?"

"Is the White Wolf Off the Market? Body Language Experts Think So"

"Lab-Created or Natural Born? The Truth About 'Aura'"

Clips of her calm but confident “I’m just a person” quote go viral on TikTok, especially paired with videos of her subtly glowing hands during combat training. A slow-mo GIF of Bucky moving forward to glare warningly at the reporter during the press conference becomes a meme within hours.

“When your man hears someone get too bold in the comments.”

On fan forums, someone coins the term "AuraWolf" to describe the pairing. Someone else starts selling shirts with the phrase "Not a Project, a Person" by midnight.

Evie slumps back onto the couch, phone still lit in her hand. “I think I’m going to have to delete the internet.”

“Too late,” Yelena says, dropping into the armchair across from her. “You’re already a meme. Several, actually.”

Bucky leans against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee like he’s trying to pretend he’s not listening. He absolutely is.

“I saw one where you were dubbed over with Beyoncé lyrics,” Sam adds helpfully. “Something about a safe person.”

“Oh my god,” Evie groans, rubbing her face. “I should’ve stopped after the 'chalk and cheese' line.”

“No way,” Sam grins. “That line made it.”

Alexei walks past holding a bowl of cereal. “I do not understand this cheese reference, but you should know that Russia has already written an article calling you ‘The Soul of the Western Avengers.’ There are many images and videos. It is very dramatic. There is fire in the background.”

Walker strolls in, reading something off his phone. “‘The White Wolf’s Aura: Who Is the Empath He Stepped Forward For?’” He raises an eyebrow. “Y’all got stans.”

Sam glances at Bucky. He hasn’t moved, but his ears are a little pink. “Buckaroo?” He says softly, his voice slightly playful, teasing. “You okay?”

He nods once, still staring into his coffee. Then, a quiet mutter. “Didn’t like the tone that guy used. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Sam says innocently. “Nothing to do with you practically growling when someone asked if she was dating you.”

“I did not growl.”

“You did,” Ava chimes in, teasing now. “Like a territorial husky.”

He finally looks up, eyes narrowed. “I was being professional.”

Walker snorts. “That’s your version of professional? Remind me not to let anyone flirt near you again.”

Sam puts a hand on his chest. “We just didn’t know you had feelings, Barnes. Next thing you know, you’ll be smiling in public.”

“You smile at her,” Alexei points out, almost contemplatively. “Only her.”

Bucky sighs heavily and glares at all of them. “You’re all insufferable.”

Evie beams at him. “But you love us.”

He doesn’t answer, but he does refill her tea cup without being asked, setting it down next to her with a shrug.

No one misses it.

Not even him.

Later that night, the compound is mostly asleep.

Bucky finds her sitting in the hallway, staring out at the ceiling-to-floor windows at the view over the city. The soft glow of the city so many floors down illuminates her face.

She leans against the wall, yanking at the pins holding her hair up, eyes locked on the lights outside.

Bucky sits next to her, sliding down with his back to the wall, soft hoodie pulled up. He’s got two mugs in hand. He holds one out wordlessly.

Evie takes it, eyes what it says. “You didn’t have to bring me my own merch just to rub it in,” she says dryly. "You love this damn mug, Barnes."

He sets his own mug down with a quiet clink. “It’s not about the mug.”

“Thought you’d still be up,” she says, taking a slow sip of the tea.

He glances at her. “You figured right.” His eyes land on her hair, the bobby pins stuck in the strands. “You’ve made yourself a little birds nest of bobby pins,” he tells her.

“I know,” she sighs, pulling at it hard, but they don’t budge. “Fuckin’ things. Every time I use them, they always get stuck.”

“Let me,” he says, voice low.

His hands gently untangle the bobby pins from her hair. His fingers move carefully, barely even tugging at the strands as he undoes each pin.

“Ever heard of a hairbrush, doll?” He asks, amused.

“Shut up,” she whinges. “I do brush it. It's humid today, it messes with it. Ever heard of frizz? No, because you’ve got those silky smooth locks. You don’t get tangles. I'm sure you wake up looking like Prince Charming and I wake up like Hagrid.”

“I don’t know who Hagrid is but I’m sure she has lovely hair,” he reassures.

She’s on her phone then, getting up a picture. He looks at it and laughs. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh is right,” she huffs, locking her phone again. “I appreciate the supportive vibes, though.”

“Well, you must be a sight to wake up to, then,” he amends, finally getting the last bobby pin free and settling it in her open palm. “That’s all of them.”

“Thanks,” she says quietly, putting them in her pocket.

He rakes a hand through her hair just a few times to settle it down, smoothing it out.

They sit in silence for a beat.

Then Bucky says, “You doing okay?”

Evie stares out at the skyline. “I think I liked it better when no one knew who I was. The struggling musician with only 6,000 Instagram followers compared to a couple million.”

“Yeah. I remember that.”

She glances at him. “How did you deal with it?”

He’s quiet for a second. “Didn’t. For a long time. I let the noise drown me out.”

“And now?”

“I’ve got people who remind me who I really am. When the noise gets too loud.” He sighs. “You feel like a circus act?” Bucky asks.

“Feel like a fraud,” she mutters.

“You’re not.”

“People keep saying I’m the future of the Avengers. Like I’m supposed to lead something. Like I’m supposed to be some beacon of hope.” She laughs bitterly. “I’m not even sure who I am half the time.”

“You’re someone who stayed behind to help people when you didn’t have to,” Bucky says softly. “You’re someone who listens. Who sees people. And who makes the rest of us want to be better.”

She turns her face toward him. “Even you?”

He snorts. “Especially me.”

There’s a pause. They sit in silence for a while. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything.

Eventually, he speaks. “I’ve been trying to find the words all night,” he says quietly.

Evie tilts her head, waiting.

“What you said today,” he begins, staring down into the dark yard below. “At the press thing.”

Her brow furrows. “Which part?”

“All of it, the parts about me. But mostly the part about me being your safe person.”

She exhales slowly. “I meant it,” she says, like a promise, eyes wide.

“I know you did,” he says, eyes still on the horizon. “That’s what wrecked me.”

She frowns.

He pauses. Swallows. “I’ve never been that for anyone. Not in a long time. Maybe back in the forties for Steve, but not like this. Not really. I’ve been the weapon. The ghost. The risk.” He laughs, low and humourless. “Hell, I’ve been the guy they warned people about.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not saying this so that you’ll argue with me,” he interrupts gently. “I just want to tell the truth.”

Evie turns slightly where she sits, facing him a bit more rather than sitting shoulder to shoulder. She sits cross-legged, hands in her lap, tea discarded somewhere off to the side.

“But with you…” His voice dips. Softens. “It’s different. You don’t flinch when I’m angry. You don’t pity me when I can’t sleep. You don’t look at me like a headline. You don’t look at me like something to fix, or look for bits and pieces of what I used to be once upon a time. You smile at me like I’m worth it.” He finally turns to face her, and the vulnerability in his eyes makes her breath catch. “You make it easier to just be... me,” he says.

Evie doesn’t speak, not yet. She waits.

“I didn’t know what that felt like until you,” he continues. “I always had Steve, he’s always been my anchor. But he left for a while there, and I had to find my own way. I trust him with my life, trust him completely… But you’re different. I didn’t know I could have this. And after today, with the questions and the cameras and everything in me screaming to run… I didn’t. Because you were there.”

Evie’s eyes shine in the moonlight. His hand twitches in her lap, nervous, and she presses her hand over his, steady and sure.

“You’re my safe person too,” Bucky says. “I think maybe you always were, pretty much from the day I met you. I just didn’t have the guts to say it until now.”

There’s a long moment where she just looks at him. Not blinking. Not breathing.

Then—

She shifts, moving closer, and leans her head against his shoulder. She slides her arms around his front, settling across his stomach, slow and certain, and then moves slightly to rest her head against his chest, above his heart. Bucky stiffens for only a second before everything in him sighs, and he lifts his metal arm to wrap it around her shoulders, holding her close. His other hand hesitates, only for another second, before resting over her own hand across his stomach, giving it a squeeze.

It feels natural, like she’s gravity.

No words. No pressure. Just there.

Just safe.

And in the quiet, Bucky lets himself believe it’s real.

Chapter Text

Bucky’s life hasn’t been the same since Evelyn came into it. He’s never been good at asking for help—especially with things like his headaches, things that feel like symptoms of a deeper, uglier truth buried in the folds of his mind. The migraines aren’t just pain; they’re echoes. Residue. Ghosts of the Winter Soldier, carved into him like old code he can’t quite delete.

He used to hide it. Muscle through. Grit his teeth and pretend he was fine.

With Steve, it was easy to put on a brave face—Steve, who’d already lost too much. With Sam, he managed it too, even as Sam chipped at his walls, tried to draw him out with calm logic and steady friendship. They both tried. They cared. But Bucky never let them all the way in—not really.

He didn’t want to be a burden.

Didn’t want to be seen as someone still stuck in the past.

But Evelyn… Evelyn is different.

She slipped into his life quietly, like dawn light filtering through a window. No grand declarations. No demands. Just this subtle presence that made everything feel a little less heavy. A little less sharp.

He noticed it first in the quiet moments. When the weight of his memories threatened to drown him, when the roar of what he’d done came rushing in with no warning—Evelyn was there. She didn’t ask him to explain. Didn’t flinch. She’d just reach for his hand, her fingers fitting between his like she belonged there, and somehow… the pressure in his chest would loosen. The noise would dim. Her powers, whatever they were, seemed to help—but it wasn’t just that. It was her. Her being.

There’s something sacred in the way she sees him—not the weapon, not the soldier. Just Bucky. Just the man trying to make sense of the wreckage. She doesn’t look at him like he’s dangerous. Or broken. She looks at him like he’s worth staying for.

And he didn’t realise how much he depended on that until the morning she wasn’t there.

It was small, really. Just one morning. She’d left early—something about a supply run or checking in with one of the med teams. He hadn’t heard her leave. But when he woke up, the Tower felt… wrong. Too quiet. Too cold. No scent of coffee drifting from the communal kitchen. No quiet hum of her powers brushing against the air. No soft clink of the mug she always left for him if she was up earlier.

He sat on the edge of the couch longer than he should’ve, staring at the space she normally filled.

And that’s when he felt it: the ache.

Not just the headache—though it spiked, sudden and brutal—but the absence. That hollowness in his chest he hadn’t known was being filled until it wasn’t anymore. It rattled him. Because he used to be fine alone. He used to prefer it.

But now?

Now he measures his days by her routines. The sound of her laughter in the other room. The way she curls into his side when his nightmares get bad, and she comes into his room to calm him. The look she gives him when he says her name like it’s a prayer.

Steve has been his anchor for decades. Sam has been a lifeline when the water got too deep. But Evelyn? She’s something else. Not a tether—something gentler. Something inevitable.

She’s the centre of his gravity.

Every morning now, before he even opens his eyes, he listens for her. Her movements in the next room over as she forces herself out of bed. The soft scuff of her feet on the kitchen floor. The hiss of the coffee maker starting up in the kitchen. The subtle buzz in the air when her powers stir, just enough to smooth the edges of his mind. She doesn’t have to ask if he needs it. She just knows.

It’s not about the coffee, not really. It’s about how she knows.

Knows how the bitterness grounds him. How the warmth settles the shaking in his hands. How the caffeine gives him enough clarity to push the ghosts to the edges, if only for a little while.

He doesn’t say thank you every morning. He never has to.

Because when she hands him that mug, eyes still sleepy, a faint smile tugging at her lips, she already knows.

He doesn’t talk much about how bad the nights can get. But Evelyn sees the shadows he carries, the way his jaw clenches when he’s hurting, the way his metal hand flexes like it’s still wired to fight. And she meets that with patience. With stillness. With warmth.

He used to believe his life was made up of battles and survival and trying to atone for a past he barely remembered. But now—now his mornings begin with Evelyn. And that, somehow, has become enough to keep going.

It scares him, how much he needs her. How completely she’s become part of his world. How much she’s become his safe person.

But it’s also the first thing in years that’s made him feel human.

Evelyn notices the shift long before Bucky does.

At first, it’s subtle. A longer pause before he speaks. The way his eyes find her in a room like they’re checking for something—not danger, but her. The way his shoulders ease just slightly when he hears her voice. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, but she does.

She notices everything.

She notices the way he lingers in doorways if she’s not in the room, like he’s listening for her. The way he frowns when she leaves without saying goodbye, even if it’s just for an hour. The way he’s always there to walk her home from the bar. The way he asks to go on errands with her. The way he tells her things he doesn’t tell the others. The way he always sits a little straighter, breathes a little deeper, when she touches him—even lightly, even unintentionally.

She sees the tremble he tries to hide in his hands when he wakes from those nights where he hasn’t slept at all. She knows the quiet signs of a headache building—the small twitch in his jaw, the tight line of his shoulders, the way he holds the bridge of his nose and thinks she won’t notice.

But she does.

She always does.

She gets up the courage to ask one day.

They’re sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing against the worn rug beneath them. The light is soft, early morning bleeding through the window. Evelyn is cross-legged, hands in her lap. Bucky’s still half-tucked under the quilt, shoulders hunched like he’s waiting for something to break.

Her question—gentle, careful—lingers in the air between them. “What are they from?”

Bucky looks over at her slowly. There’s no frustration in his face, no attempt to lie or brush it off. Just surprise. Like he genuinely hadn’t realised she’d noticed.

She sees it all though. The tiny tremors in his fingers when he thinks she isn’t watching. The sharp exhale when he drags a hand over his face and tries to focus through the fog. The way he flinches away from light some mornings, squinting like the brightness physically hurts.

“The headaches,” she clarifies.

“They started a while back,” he says at last. His voice is quiet. Worn. “Not new, exactly. Just… louder now.”

He shifts, sits up a little straighter, and she notices the way his hands curl into fists in the blanket. Like he's trying to hide the shaking. Like it shames him.

“They did scans in Wakanda,” he continues. “After… everything. Shuri ran them herself. She’s the one who figured it out.”

Evelyn says nothing. Just watches, patient and still.

“There’s damage. Deep in the tissue. Old trauma. It’s from the mindwiping. The chair. The shocks. Every time they reset me, it… tore something. Not enough to kill me. Just enough to stay.”

His mouth twists. Not bitter, not angry. Just tired.

“She said it’s like—like lesions, almost. Microtears. Misfiring neural pathways that never got a chance to heal right. The more I try to live like a person—remember dates, names, think long-term—the harder it gets. The Soldier didn’t need to think. He just had orders. But me… I think too much.”

He taps two fingers lightly against his temple. “So now, I get these headaches. Brain fog. Forgetfulness. Sometimes I’ll walk into a room and forget why. Sometimes I can’t find the words I want. That’s why I carry the notebook around. Why I write everything down. Just in case I lose track again.”

Evelyn swallows. “You’ve never told me that.”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You didn’t want me to worry.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “That too.”

He looks down, studying the tremble in his hand like it’s a stranger he doesn’t quite trust. Then: “The lack of sleep doesn’t help. Nightmares make everything worse. But…” His voice softens. “I sleep better when you’re here.”

Her breath catches.

“I don’t know why,” he says, a little embarrassed, “but I do. Maybe it’s the warmth. Or your heartbeat. Or just… knowing you’d wake me up if I needed you.”

Evelyn reaches out then—no words—and takes his hand in both of hers. Holds it like it matters. Like it isn’t something broken or failing. And he lets her.

“Just part and parcel of what Hydra did to me, I guess,” he murmurs.

“No,” she says gently. “It’s what they tried to do. But you’re still here.”

Evelyn learned early that Bucky doesn’t ask for help. Not really. He carries pain like it’s owed. Like weakness is something to punish. Not because he wants to suffer, but because he still doesn’t quite believe he deserves comfort.

So, she never forces anything. Never pushes.

Instead, she offers.

A hand against his brow when the pressure builds. A mug of tea already steeped, the honey just the way he likes it. Her power, soft and grounding, gently humming near his temples to ease the worst of the ache without flooding his senses. She doesn’t draw attention to it. Doesn’t make it a thing. She just… gives. Steady. Reliable.

And slowly—like thawing snow—he’s started to lean in. To let her.

Some mornings, she finds the notebook half-filled with memories he wants to keep. Places they went. Meals they shared. Her laugh, described in his careful, looping hand like he’s afraid he might forget the sound. Notes about how to reset the modem. Sketches of her curled asleep on the couch.

There’s something achingly intimate in the way he’s learning to live again. Not just survive—but really live. And she knows, with the quiet, steady certainty of love, that she’ll be right there with him through all of it.

Evelyn learned early on that Bucky doesn’t ask for help—not in the traditional sense. He’s too used to being the weapon, the protector, the one who keeps everything locked down tight. It’s not pride. It’s shame. Fear. Years of being punished for weakness. For feeling.

So, she doesn’t ask him what he needs. She offers. Quietly. Repeatedly. Steadily. Until the offerings become routine.

Never floods him. Just a whisper of warmth—of her.

And he leans into it, more and more.

They fall into a rhythm that isn’t loud or showy, but it’s steady—reliable. Gentle.

He starts to murmur things, half-whispered as she sits beside him, or as they walk somewhere together, or as she drives him to therapy on a bad day. “It feels like static sometimes,” he says once, his hand hovering near his temple. “Like a loose wire sparking in the dark.”

She listens. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just reaches over, threads her fingers through his, and lets him squeeze as tightly as he needs to.

Sometimes, when it’s really bad, he presses his forehead to her shoulder. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Like her presence alone can anchor the pain. And maybe it can. Maybe it does. Her powers were never meant to heal in the medical sense—but emotions, tension, fear… she can soothe them. She does.

In the quiet after a particularly rough night, when she finds him hunched over the sink in the kitchen, knuckles white against the stainless steel, she doesn’t say anything. Just walks up behind him, presses her hands to his back, and waits.

His shoulders shake once, then settle.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbles.

“You didn’t,” she says softly. “I just… knew.”

He chuckles, dry. “Of course you did.”

He doesn’t sleep much that night. But he rests—his head on her shoulder, her fingers running slowly through his hair. No words. Just presence.

And in the days that follow, the notebook fills more quickly. Thoughts. Tasks. Half-formed dreams. Her birthday. The recipe for her favourite pancakes. A note to pick up more Tylenol, even though it doesn’t really touch the edges. A memory about the Brooklyn Dodgers that surfaced out of nowhere and made him laugh.

She catches him reading over those pages sometimes, a little frown on his face like he’s trying to make sure he’s still himself.

“You’re still you,” she says one morning when she finds him staring at a line he’s already underlined twice.

He glances up. “How can you be so sure?”

She crosses to him, presses her palm to his chest, just over his heart. “Because you’re still the man who loves people more than he hates what he’s been through. That doesn’t go away.”

His throat works around a word he doesn’t say.

Instead, he turns the page, writes down: "Remember this. She said I’m still me."

And he is.

Scarred, yes. A little foggy around the edges. But healing.

Not alone.

She watches him become gentler in her presence, though he’d never call it that. He still walks like a soldier, still sleeps like someone braced for battle—but when she touches him, something shifts. His edges soften. His breathing slows. Sometimes, when he thinks she’s not looking, his metal hand will reach out to graze the hem of her sleeve, just to feel that she’s real. That she’s still there.

That’s when she understands.

It isn’t just her power that steadies him.

It’s her.

Her presence, her voice, her refusal to flinch at his past or recoil from the pain he carries. The way she sits beside him when he can’t speak and listens anyway. The way she stays.

She feels the way he orbits around her now, silently, instinctively. He’s not clingy. He’s not demanding. He never says I need you—but he shows it in every glance, every exhale, every moment his eyes find hers across a room and stay.

There’s a weight to that. A quiet, enormous trust.

And some days, it terrifies her.

Because she knows what it costs him—to trust like that. To rely on someone again after everything. To let someone into the ruins and let them sit among the wreckage like it’s still sacred.

But most days… it humbles her.

It makes her move slower in the mornings, just so she can watch the way he blinks sleepily at her from the kitchen table. It makes her soften her voice when she tells him to rest, when he’s too wired to admit he needs it. It makes her reach for his hand even when hers are shaking—because sometimes, his grounding steadies her, too.

She knows he used to rely on Steve the way a drowning man clings to a rope. And Sam—he was the first person in a long time who tried to pull Bucky into the light without asking for anything in return.

But this is different.

Bucky doesn’t just look at her like she’s someone who helps him survive.

He looks at her like she’s the reason he wants to.

Chapter Text

The Tower is still. The kind of stillness that settles after a storm—quiet, but not empty. Just... waiting.

Evelyn pads barefoot into the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, her hair still damp from the shower. The early morning light filters in through the windows, grey and washed out. Outside, the city stirs, but inside, time moves slowly. Carefully.

The coffee machine hisses to life. She moves through the motions without thought—grinding, pouring, setting out the mug he always reaches for. Her fingers wrap around the handle before the last drop’s even hit the bottom.

She doesn’t need to look to know he’s there.

But she does anyway.

Bucky stands in the doorway, rumpled from sleep. Tight t-shirt, flannel pants and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His hair sticks up on one side, and his eyes—those blue-grey eyes—are watching her like she might disappear if he blinks.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just steps forward, silent. Slow. His metal fingers flex once at his side. She can see the tightness in his jaw, the tension he hasn’t shaken since whatever nightmare pulled him under last night.

She lifts the mug and hands it to him without a word.

He takes it like it’s more than just coffee. Like it’s her hand in his. Like it’s proof of something he still struggles to believe in—comfort. Home. Her.

“Your hair is wild, Bucky,” she tells him, reaching up on her tip toes to flatten the side down for him.

He shakes his head, fluffing it all back out, and runs his fingers through it. He takes a sip of his coffee, trying to seem nonchalant, and drops onto the stool on the other side of the island.

His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks.

“You were gone for a few days,” he says.

“Yeah, mission went longer than anticipated,” she replies, taking a sip from her own coffee. “Got caught up in some stuff. We had to hightail it out of there and find a new way in a few days later once it all calmed down.”

“Mm,” he hums, his face thoughtful. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmares?” She asks.

“Well, yeah, and bad headaches. But mainly… I was worried.”

She pauses. “You were worried about me?”

He nods, looking away from her. His fingers curl tighter around the mug. His eyes drop to the floor. “I missed hearing you. Seeing you. And I—” He breaks off. Shakes his head, like the thought is too much.

Like it scares him.

She moves closer, slow and measured. Her hands find the edge of the counter beside him.

“You always know where I am, Buck,” she says gently. “Even when you think you don’t. I was safe. I was with the others.”

His eyes lift to hers then—stormy, uncertain. “I didn’t used to need this. Not like this.”

She knows what he means. This—the pull toward her. The quiet desperation in his voice. The tremble beneath his skin.

“I used to get by,” he says. “Steve was there. Sam kept me grounded. I had people. But now…” He exhales sharply, chest rising and falling with more weight than the room should carry. “Now it’s like I can’t think straight unless I know you’re nearby. And safe. Like I… I don’t know how to be without you anymore.”

She steps forward, until her hand rests gently over his.

His real hand.

“You don’t have to know how,” she says. “You’re allowed to need things, Bucky. People. Even me.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t speak.

“You’re not broken because you want comfort,” she continues. “You’re human. After everything, you’re still human. And you need to know that I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in him crumples at that.

He sets the mug down and draws her into his chest, arms curling around her like a lifeline. He buries his face in her shoulder, breathing her in like he’s anchoring himself with the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her skin.

“I don’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But everything’s different now. You’re the reason I sleep. The reason I wake up and don’t dread the whole damn day. You—you changed everything.”

She closes her eyes. Wraps her arms around him in return.

“I know,” she whispers. “I can help you sleep tonight,” she promises. “I’ll take away the nightmares.”

“That would be nice,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They stand there like that for a while—no alarms, no missions, no world to save. Just two people holding each other in the hush of morning, wrapped in silence and the promise of one more day.

A week later, Steve drags Bucky out to a bar.

It’s something they used to do all the time—back when the world felt simpler. When they were just two kids from Brooklyn, or two soldiers with nothing but dog tags and dumb jokes to their names. Before the weight of history, before the Winter Soldier, before the dust and the Blip and the silence in their bones.

Bucky doesn’t enjoy it much anymore. The noise, the crowd, the way the air clings to his skin—it all feels like a costume that doesn’t fit. But Steve insists. Just for old times’ sake.

They find a small table near the back, dimly lit and tucked out of the way. The hum of conversation and soft clink of glasses fills the air, familiar but distant, like a memory with blurred edges. They clink glasses with a smile and take a sip. Steve smacks his lips after setting it down, smiling.

“It’s nice, to get out like this sometimes,” he tells Bucky, looking around, eyes crinkled in his smile.

Bucky hasn’t had a drink in months. The beer in front of him tastes sharp and bitter, grounding him more than he expected.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, then adds with a faint smirk, “Can’t believe you dragged me out for this swill, though. I’ve tasted better in field rations.”

Steve chuckles, nudging Bucky’s glass with his own. “Careful, Barnes. That’s local craft. Artisanal.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Artisanal my ass. You just picked the one with the pretentious label.” He takes another sip anyway, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “What’s wrong with a normal pale ale? Maybe a stout. I don’t want beer that tastes like marshmallows.”

“You love marshmallows,” Steve says. “You have a deathly sweet tooth.”

“Yeah,” Bucky allows, shrugging.

Steve leans back in his chair, eyeing Bucky over the rim of his glass. “You used to love this sort of stuff. Going to a bar, having a drink and a yap.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugs. “I also used to love dancing to swing and punching Nazis. Time changes a man.”

“You still love punching Nazis,” Steve points out, grinning.

Bucky snorts. “Alright, fair. That one stuck. And I do like bars, just… quiet ones.”

“Or Evie’s bar,” Steve teases.

Bucky mock glares at him.

They fall into a silence that’s comfortable, not strained. The kind that only comes after decades of knowing exactly who the other person is—at their best, their worst, and everything in between.

Steve taps his fingers on the edge of the table, casual, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes. “You doing okay?” he asks eventually. “Really?”

Bucky hesitates. His fingers curl loosely around the glass. “I dunno,” he admits. “Yeah? It’s a weird in-between place right now. Not the past. Not the future. Just... the bit in the middle. The nightmares are shit when Evie doesn’t come to stop them for me, but everything else is getting a bit easier.”

Steve nods, quiet. “You ever talk to her about it? Evelyn?”

Bucky looks away, jaw working. He lies through his teeth. “Not really. Just locker room banter. Training days.”

“Banter,” Steve echoes, smirking. “Uh-huh. That what we’re calling it now?”

Bucky shoots him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She called you her safe person in a global press conference. You go out places together – walks all night, pancakes in the morning. Training together. And I see you both sitting together, whispering, those little conversations…”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “We’re not whispering.”

“You’re definitely whispering. It's very conspicuous.”

“Yeah, well, we talk sometimes. Doesn’t mean anything,” Bucky says, his tone growing defensive.

Steve gives him a long look. “You don’t let most people in like that. Only really me and Sam. What’s different about her?”

Bucky shrugs, looking down at his beer. “She gets it. The silence. The weight. I don’t have to explain everything with her.”

“I’m just saying,” Steve says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “If I had a nickel for every time you said ‘it’s nothing’ and it turned into you thinking about her, staring wistfully into the middle distance...”

“I don’t stare wistfully.”

“You do,” Steve insists. “It’s very poetic.”

Bucky groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God, I hate you sometimes.”

Steve grins. “You wish you hated me. I’m your best friend. And best friends get to poke around when something big is obviously going on.” He tips his head, more serious now. “There’re changes happening in your life, Buck. Good things, from where I’m sitting. Just… open up a little bit here. So, I know what’s going on in that cyborg brain of yours.”

Bucky sighs, but he looks like he’s close to giving in.

Steve leans back in his chair, watching him over the rim of his glass. There’s something thoughtful in his eyes. Something quiet. “What’s it like?”

Bucky glances over. “What?”

Steve gives a small tilt of his head. “Being with her. Evelyn.”

The name lingers in the air like a warm draft. Bucky doesn’t answer at first. He looks out the window instead, where neon signs smear themselves across rain-slick pavement, the city blinking like it’s half-asleep.

He exhales slowly. He wants to be honest with Steve, he does, but what he and Evie has is sacred, and strange, and not really fleshed out. He doesn’t know… what it is.

“It’s like…” He falters, searching for words that never come easy. “It’s like when I’m with her, everything goes quiet. All the noise—the pain, the memories, the static—it fades. I can just be... me. Not the weapon. Not the ghost.”

Steve nods but doesn’t say anything. Just watches, waiting. He’s always been patient like that.

“Do you think it’s her powers?” he asks finally, the question gentle.

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, that’s part of it. She’s careful with it—like she knows when I need it before I do. But she only uses them when I ask – she calls it an invasion of privacy if she forces it. But it’s not just that.”

He pauses, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass.

“It’s the way she looks at me,” he continues. “The way she talks to me. She notices me. Like I’m not broken. Like I’m not dangerous. Like I’m just... Bucky. Like I still matter.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter, Bucky whispers, “She makes me feel safe. Happy. Worth something.”

Steve’s gaze softens, touched by something deeper—something that settles between them like shared history and hard-earned peace. He leans forward, setting his drink down with a soft clink.

“She said that about you,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky’s eyes flick toward him. Then something warmer. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “Guess it goes both ways.”

“Have you told her that?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Was nice.”

“I get it,” Steve says quietly. “Sometimes it’s not about what they can do. It’s about who they are. The ones who see past the wreckage and still want to stay.”

Bucky nods, slow and thoughtful. The truth of it settles in his chest like warmth in winter. “I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he admits, almost to himself. “Not after everything. Didn’t think I’d ever deserve it. I have you and Sam, and you guys brought me back from the edge. You guys saved me when I didn’t know how to save myself. But with Evie… it’s like I’ve got a reason to stay now. A purpose for everything I fought through. …It’s like I can breathe again. Like the past doesn’t own me anymore.”

Steve smiles, faint but steady. “You deserve that, Buck.”

For a second, neither of them speaks. There’s only the sound of the bar around them—glasses clinking, laughter from a nearby table, the dull thump of a jukebox playing something old and familiar.

Bucky lifts his eyes, meets Steve’s gaze. There’s something unspoken there. Gratitude, maybe. Relief. A fragile kind of hope.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, the word solid and quiet and true. “I think I do.”

Chapter Text

The mission is small, and she’s sent in alone with backup waiting on the edges of the combat zone. A true test of her abilities, of her training as the newbie Avenger. Her ability to keep herself alive.

In and out. Minimal contact. No casualties.

But the streets never listen to the plan.

Evelyn has her eyes on the target, shadowing him through the wet maze of back alleys behind the nightclub district. Her breath comes steady despite the bite of the night’s air. Her instincts are tight and sharp, each step calculated, her senses open like a wire stretched taut.

She should’ve sensed the second man sooner.

Too late.

He comes at her from behind, appearing out from the depths of the dark alcove behind her, boots crunching glass and gravel. She turns, tries to push him away with a flick of her hand—but not fast enough—and the next thing she knows, she’s slammed against the concrete wall. The pain cracks through her ribs like a lightning strike, and the back of her head bounces hard enough to fuzz the edges of her vision. Cold creeps up her spine, and for a fraction of a second, she tastes fear.

Get up, she orders herself. Now.

She pushes through the haze, staggers, fists already up. No hesitation. That’s the first rule Bucky drilled into her. Fear slows you down. Fear gets you killed.

Her assailant smirks like he thinks he’s already won. He is bulky and overconfident, too used to intimidating people into submission. But Evelyn isn’t just anyone—and she isn’t in the mood to play fair.

“Coming at someone from behind,” she tells the man. “Bit of a dog act, pal.”

He lunges.

She drops low and spins to the side, her fist connecting with his ribs with a satisfying crack. With a bit of her powers behind her, the punch is stronger, more powerful, debilitating. The hit jars her knuckles, but the pain only fuels her. She pivots, ready to follow through—but then something barrels into her from behind.

Another one. Dammit.

She hits the ground hard, her palms scraping against the rough concrete. The impact knocks the breath from her lungs, and pain flares up her ribs. Before she can roll, a heavy boot slams down between her shoulder blades, pinning her in place. Cold metal—definitely a gun—presses to the base of her neck.

For a moment, all she can hear is her breath, ragged and fast, and the brutal thudding of blood in her ears. Her cheek stings against the gravel as he presses her into the wet ground. The stink of alley rot fills her nose.

Don’t panic.

Breathe.

Think.

She doesn’t have time to think.

The weight on her back is crushing, and panic scratches at her ribs, sharp and sudden. Not like this. Not tonight.

Her fingers curl against the pavement. Heat builds in her palms—familiar, electric. Her pulse syncs to it. One beat. Two. Her skin glows faintly at first, then brighter, the blue-white light flaring like a crack in the dark.

She flicks her hand outward, and the alley erupts.

A force, invisible and violent, punches out from her body. One of the assailants—the one hovering over her—screams as he's yanked off his feet, launched backward like a ragdoll. He hits the metal dumpster with a deafening clang, the entire thing rocking from the impact.

The other one stumbles, startled by the sudden flare of energy knocking him off guard.

Evie rolls onto her back, teeth clenched, one hand moving to push them back, her eyes glowing green. Her other arm whips up, palm open, and a pulse of energy bursts forth, slamming into the second attacker’s chest and sending him flying into the alley wall. Brick cracks behind him, leaving a man-sized dent in the wall.

She’s on her feet in an instant.

Pain screams through her side, but she channels it, funnels it into focus. Her skin still hums with residual energy, light sparking across her knuckles like fire trying to break free.

“You picked the wrong damn girl,” she growls, breathless.

The man by the dumpster groans, dragging himself upright with trembling arms. His face is a mess of blood and panic, but he’s still moving—still trying. Evie steps forward, a limp in her gait, but fire in her fists. The glow intensifies, flaring across her knuckles in sharp pulses of blue-white light. She raises one hand—

Ready to finish it.

But she doesn’t get the chance.

Something changes.

A sound splits the night air—

Low. Primal. Like gravel and thunder buried in a throat.

A growl.

And then comes the voice.

“Touch her again,” it snarls, rough and feral, each word bitten off like it costs him control. Rough, dark, lethal. “And I’ll kill you.”

The voice is unmistakable, even though it’s not any way he’d ever speak to her.

The world tilts for a beat. The alley goes still. The men freeze—like prey suddenly aware they are no longer the apex, staring toward the direction of the voice.

Evie turns as well, squinting into the shadows behind her.

And then Bucky’s there.

Emerging from the shadows like a ghost dragged from war, like something summoned. His shoulders are squared, jaw tight, every inch of him coiled like a live wire. The faint gleam of the streetlight catches on his metal arm, highlighting the brutal gleam of it—sharp, deliberate, dangerous.

His eyes, though. They burn. Not with fear. Not with concern. With fury.

Bucky crosses the space in three strides—quicker than breath—and slams the downed man against the dumpster with the force that knocks every ounce of air from the man’s lungs and breaks half the bones in his upper body.

Vibranium fingers wrap around the man’s collar.

A gun—Evie doesn’t even see him draw it—appears in Bucky’s other hand, the barrel pressing into the man’s sweat-slick forehead with a cold, mechanical click.

Deadly. Calm. Final.

The man goes rigid, a shudder ripping through him.

And even in the fractured light and smoke-thick air, Evelyn sees it. The moment this man realises he’s made a fatal mistake. The exact second he realises he’s going to die.

Not in a clean way. Not quick. And not from her.

Evie stands tall, her body still alight with the remnants of her power. The alley smells like smoke and ozone now, and her heart thunders in her chest.

She didn’t need saving. But God, she’s glad he’s here.

The silence is razor-sharp. The neon hum above them crackles like a warning. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howls and dies. But here, in this narrow stretch of shadow and fury, it’s just them.

Bucky’s voice slices the quiet. Low. Steady. Unforgiving. “One move,” he says, gun pressed cold and unmoving against the attacker’s skull, “and I won’t hesitate.”

And there’s no doubt—he means it. Every word.

Evie exhales slowly, dragging air into lungs that feel bruised. Her ribs scream with every breath. Her temple throbs where it hit the wall—blood trickles in a thin line down her cheek. She blinks it away.

She squares her shoulders. Shakes the dust from her sleeves. Pain will come later. Right now, she has to stay standing.

And then, before she even notices the movement, Bucky is beside her, the man on the ground forgotten. He’s heat and steel and barely-contained violence. His body slots against hers like instinct, like muscle memory. His metal arm wraps around her torso, firm and unyielding, pulling her back into him. Shielding her.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t hesitate. He just moves like she’s his.

She didn’t need saving. She never did.

But Bucky isn’t here to save her. He’s here to stand with her. Between her and the world.

And for one suspended second—one heartbeat caught between aftermath and something more—
the weight of that shatters her.

The way his hand grips her like he’s afraid she’ll vanish. The way his jaw clenches like his fury’s only barely under control. The way his eyes—God, his eyes—search her face like he’s cataloguing every bruise, every scrape, every mark like they’re sins carved into her skin that he failed to stop.

It lodges in her chest like glass.

“I had it,” she whispers. The words are soft. Reflexive. Habitual. More pride than truth.

Bucky doesn’t reply. His jaw ticks. His hold stays tight.

And Evelyn doesn’t pull away.

Because for all her fire, all her training, all the nights she’s fought alone. This, him. There is something about the way he holds her now that makes her feel safe in a way she never lets herself admit. Not like she’s breakable. But like she’s irreplaceable.

Her fingers drift up, brushing against the fabric over his bicep, then the seam of metal along his arm. It’s subtle—but she feels it. The tremble. Not fear. Restraint.

Because the danger is gone. But he’s not letting go until he’s sure. Really, truly sure.

Agents race into the alleyway to apprehend the two men. They hear the click of handcuffs and restraints, the shuffle of the men being lifted into a standing position, dragged out of the alleyway. The one that Bucky shoved against the dumpster screams as he’s moved, hunching over against broken bones and collapsed lungs.

“Let’s go,” Bucky says, voice low.

He leads her out of the alleyway and onto the main street where the emergency vehicles have arrived, sirens flashing. A SHIELD SWAT van sits by the alleyway, the men being loaded inside. Down the road sits the Quinjet, perched in the middle of the street.

Bucky looks around, cataloguing the scene.

“You always used to have my six,” Steve’s voice cuts through the moment—low and casual, but weighted with memory, reminiscent. He’s walking across the street toward them, hands at his sides, shield in hand, eyes watchful. The kind of watchful only old soldiers carry.

Bucky doesn’t look up. Doesn’t blink. His eyes stay locked on the attackers as they’re locked away in the van, the finger still curled loose but ready around the trigger. Waiting for those doors to slam shut behind them, signalling an end to the danger.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. “But you’ve got Sam now.” He tilts his head, just enough to acknowledge Steve—but his arm tightens around Evelyn. “She needs someone watching her six.”

Evie hears it—the truth hidden in the cracks of his voice. The weight behind his words. Not just duty. Not obligation.

Choice. Devotion.

Steve gives a knowing smile—something between approval and farewell. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”

Click.

The sound is faint, almost lost beneath the hum of city noise. But Evelyn hears it.

Then, a rising whine. Mechanical. Sinister.

Her head snaps toward the source. The dumpster behind them, back down the alleyway.

“No,” she breathes.

Bucky and Steve turn toward the noise as well.

Her hands ignite with light, but it’s already too late.

The man she’d slammed into the metal heap—broken, bleeding—wasn’t trying to crawl away from her. He was crawling toward something. Toward this. His hands had trembled but they hadn’t failed. He’d ignited the detonator. A countdown must have been slowly ticking away behind them.

And then—

BOOM.

The explosion tears the world apart.

The dumpster goes up like a bomb—because it was one. The fireball rips down the alleyway in a searing wave of destruction. The SWAT van rocks violently on its wheels. Police lights vanish in a wash of orange. SHIELD agents are flung like ragdolls. Nearby buildings convulse, windows shattering in a single screaming heartbeat.

Evelyn moves on instinct. She doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe. She reacts.

They’re in the entrance to the alleyway, in the line of fire. One hand flings up, casting a kinetic shield that curves between them and the blast—thin, fragile, but it holds. Her other hand snatches Bucky’s arm, dragging him just as a chunk of searing metal punches through the air where he’d been.

“MOVE!” she yells, voice barely audible over the inferno.

They bolt.

The street is chaos. Fire lashes at their backs like a living creature. Concrete rains down in chunks. A support beam collapses behind them with a groan and crash. Smoke rolls in thick and black, swallowing the flashing lights and leaving only screams and static.

Bucky’s hand closes around hers without hesitation, and they run—faster, together, muscles screaming, lungs burning. Evelyn’s shield flickers out with a gasp of energy just as another tremor splits the pavement beneath them.

She risks a glance back.

Regret punches through her.

The alley is gone.

The dumpster, the surrounding buildings—reduced to a mangled furnace. Fire crawls up the brick walls. Glass and twisted steel litter the street like confetti from hell. A SHIELD van is on its side. The bodies of two agents lie motionless in the wreckage.

Her chest tightens—not just from exertion, not just from the smoke. But from the brutal reminder.

This wasn’t just a fight. It was a trap.

They hadn’t been trying to win. They’d been trying to erase her and any other Avenger or SHIELD agent or policeman who would attend the scene.

“Goddamn it,” she chokes, barely able to hear herself.

But at least—at least—the evacuation had started before the attack. Most civilians were clear. Minimal casualties compared to what it could’ve been.

Still—she can’t unsee it. Can’t ignore the weight of it.

The cost.

The price of being who she is.

The fire roars behind her, hungry and merciless. And beside her, Bucky tightens his grip, grounding her without saying a word.

They’re alive.

But this war just changed.

Gunfire erupts behind them, fresh and urgent—reinforcements, or maybe just another wave of chaos.

Bucky moves without hesitation. His metal arm slams forward in a blur, catching bullets midair with a harsh clang that reverberates through the alley. The vibranium absorbs the assault, bending but unbroken. He spins, muscles coiled metal, and delivers a brutal uppercut to the closest agent—sending him sprawling into a wall with a grunt.

Evelyn’s breath catches—but she doesn’t hesitate. Sparks flare again in her hands, kinetic energy crackling. She sweeps a glowing arc through the narrow alley, knocking two more assailants off their feet with an invisible blast that sends them crashing into the wall.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, eyes sharp and cold. Every movement is precise, controlled. A kick here, a punch there—each strike calculated, lethal. He covers her like a shadow, a forcefield.

She falls into step beside him, heart pounding in rhythm with his. Their attacks sync, a deadly dance forged in fire and repetition—muscle memory, trust, instinct. She ducks a wild swing, catches a wrist, and twists—feeling the satisfying snap of a joint beneath her grip as the man crumples with a guttural cry.

Around them, the street is war.

Gunfire explodes in every direction. SHIELD agents scream orders no one hears. Police return fire, crouched behind wrecked cars and splintering barricades. A building down the block groans ominously, its windows shattered from the earlier blast. The strobe of muzzle flashes turns the smoke into a stuttering lightning storm.

Somewhere ahead, Steve is fighting alone—his shield a blur as it ricochets through the air, slamming into attackers like a meteor. He’s a force, a sentinel—but even he can’t bring order to this chaos.

There is no formation. No strategy. Just instinct and survival.

Except for them.

Bucky and Evie move like one.

He grabs the barrel of a rifle mid-shot, twisting it upward as he drives his elbow into the wielder’s gut. Evelyn slips beneath the arc of a baton, sending a shockwave through the concrete that knocks two more off their feet. When she turns, he’s already stepping in to block the blade meant for her ribs—catching it with his metal arm and snapping it in half with a snarl.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to.

Every pivot, every strike, every glance—they know where the other is going to be.

She throws up a kinetic blast over their flank as bullets cut through the air behind them, the shield flaring just in time. Bucky turns and shoots without hesitation, dropping the assailant aiming for her back.

“Six,” he says, reloading smoothly.

“Got it,” she fires back, sending a searing pulse through the nearest attacker’s chest plate.

More agents rush them—confused loyalties, bad intel, or maybe just mercs drawn to blood. It doesn’t matter. Evie hurls a wave of energy forward, sending bodies sprawling. Bucky drops to a crouch, legs sweeping out, and another goes down hard.

Evelyn glances over—just once—and sees the tight line of his jaw, the narrowed eyes, the way he always, always, keeps himself between her and the danger as best as he can.

This is what it means to have someone’s six, she realises. It’s more than backup. It’s trust. It's presence. It's... him.

Steve’s voice crackles through the comms—barely audible through the static. “Get to the jet—go, now! This whole block’s compromised. Everyone’s retreating. We’ll strike from above.”

Bucky grabs her wrist. “Come on.”

They run. Through smoke and gunfire and screaming sirens, across cracked pavement and over the bodies of the fallen, they sprint for the Quinjet—its silhouette a promise in the chaos. Evelyn pushes harder, lungs burning, legs screaming.

The ramp lowers in a hiss of hydraulics, lights flashing like salvation. Steve’s already sprinting for it from the opposite side, shield in hand, eyes scanning for them.

Evelyn sprints up first, turns on instinct, her hand still glowing—ready to cover Bucky as he leaps on beside her.

A second explosion lights up the block as everyone retreats, capturing the enemy in its blast. The heat slams into the hull just as the doors seal shut behind them.

The jet lifts, Steve at the helm behind the control panel.

The blast rattles the jet. The floor lurches beneath their boots. Evie’s teeth snap together from the force of it. For a moment, there’s only noise—fire, smoke, the distant crack of gunfire fading into sealed silence.

They’re safe. But only barely.

Only then—only when the ground is peeling away beneath them—does she let her breath shudder out.

And still, even then, Bucky is angled in front of her. Still shielding. Still watching. She doesn’t say anything. She just stays close. She collapses against the wall, chest heaving. Her hands are still glowing faintly, her powers buzzing beneath her skin like they’re not quite done yet. Sweat beads along her hairline. Her ribs ache. Her hands tremble—not from fear, but from too much, too fast.

Bucky follows her. Watching. Always watching. His expression unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—burn with something raw and steady. She thinks she sees the ghost of a smile.

“You good?” she asks, voice hoarse.

He nods once, the kind of nod that says more than words ever could. “I’ll always have your six.”

Her heart trips over itself. 

She doesn’t answer. Can’t. The words lodge somewhere between her throat and chest, blocked by the tide of adrenaline and grief still rushing through her system. Instead, Evelyn lets herself sink into the cold, riveted metal of the Quinjet wall, grounding herself in the steady thrum of the engines beneath her boots and the far-off thunder of explosions still echoing behind them like distant war drums.

The cabin is dim, the flicker of emergency lights casting harsh shadows across the steel interior.

“We wait for the explosions they’ve set off to pass,” Steve says from the front, his voice clipped and professional, but low enough to betray the tension beneath it. “The others are attacking from above. Then we assess the damage.” His gaze is locked on the burning city below as he speaks into the comms, already coordinating the next wave of clean-up. Always three steps ahead. Always carrying the weight.

But Evelyn isn’t listening. Not really.

She turns her head and meets Bucky’s eyes.

He’s still watching her. He doesn’t look away. Not even for a second.

There’s something about his gaze that steadies her—and yet, unravels her at the same time. It's not just the protectiveness, or the guilt, or even the unspoken apology that always seems to sit behind those stormy eyes. It’s the way he looks at her like he sees everything. Every scar. Every ghost.

Maybe because he’s haunted, too.

Evelyn shifts uncomfortably, her gaze drifting toward the far corner of the Quinjet. That’s where she sees it.

Not a person. Not alive.

A ghost.

One of his that haunts him daily.

Evelyn shifts uncomfortably, watching. It’s one of Bucky’s ghosts, a face she’s seen countless times surrounding Bucky, flickering like the faintest of memories. His eyes are filled with sorrow, but also something else—something harder, something heavier. Guilt.

She’s also seen this face before, buried in declassified files and whispered confessions. This one had begged. Bucky had remembered that part. The man had begged, and the Winter Soldier hadn’t stopped or shown any mercy. Couldn’t stop. And now, the ghost hangs back in the shadows, watching—not with hate, but with a bone-deep grief that cuts sharper than any blade.

His eyes, if they can be called that, meet hers. For a heartbeat, Evelyn swears he sees her. Swears he knows she can see him.

And then something changes.

The air around him starts to shimmer, like heat off pavement. His form—once firm enough to make her chest tighten—starts to soften. The edges blur. His outline falters. The sadness in his expression begins to lift, as if... as if some ancient tension has finally begun to ease.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t dare.

Because she knows what this is.

It’s not just memory.

It’s not just pain.

It’s progress.

Bucky’s redemption. She can feel it, like a light growing stronger with every step he takes. She can almost feel the way the ghosts around him—those who haunt him, those who press in from every corner of his mind—are slowly starting to fade. They’re still there, lingering at the edges, but they’re fading, softening, and one by one, they’re disappearing. Every time he lets go of another piece of his past, every time he moves closer to healing, one of them fizzles away, just like the one before her now.

It’s Bucky letting go—even if he doesn’t know it. With every mission he finishes, every innocent life he saves, every time he chooses to stay instead of run, one more ghost releases its grip. Every time he saves her, he's making progress, letting go of the ghosts of his past. One more piece of that haunted, fractured past loses its power.

The ghost dissipates slowly, unravelling like smoke, until there's nothing left but a slight chill in the air and the hum of the Quinjet’s engines.

It’s a small victory, but it’s one she knows he doesn’t see. He can’t see it. He doesn’t know that the more he tries, the more he works to make amends, the more of these shadows vanish. But she does. And she knows—she knows—that this is what he needs. This is what will save him.

She wants to tell Bucky what she saw. Wants to say you’re doing it—you’re healing. But she knows he wouldn’t believe her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So instead, she looks at him again. He’s still watching her, his face unreadable except for the fierce focus in his eyes. He chances one look away, toward the corner of the Quinjet she’d been staring at, and his eyes flick back to her with a frown when there’s nothing there. There’s something quiet and steady in that look. Something solid. It says what he won’t. What he can’t. I’ve got you.

Her chest tightens—not with fear this time, but with something like comfort. Trust.

They’re both still bleeding, in different ways. Still fighting to carry the weight of what they’ve done and what they’ve lost. But they’re here. Together. And somehow, that’s enough to hold back the dark, for now.

Outside, the world burns.

Inside, something else glows—faint but steady. Hope.

Evelyn feels a shift inside herself, a quiet sense of hope that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

Bucky’s redemption is the answer.

It won’t come easy. It won’t be without its struggles. But Evelyn knows now that it’s happening. Slowly, but surely. And the ghosts that haunt him, that still haunt her—those faces, those voices—they’re all starting to fade. Maybe not all at once, but with every step he takes toward redemption, with every time he chooses to fight for the light, they lose their grip on him, just a little bit more.

She looks at him again, the quiet storm in his eyes still there, but something else, too. Something softer. He’s learning to forgive himself. To let go of the guilt that’s been suffocating him for so long.

And for the first time in a long time, Evelyn allows herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the ghosts—his ghosts—will finally be gone.

For good.

She leans back again, letting her eyes close just for a moment. Not because she’s shutting down—but because for the first time in a long time, she feels like maybe they’re moving in the right direction.

Maybe, just maybe, those ghosts—the ones that circle her too, whispering in her own nightmares—will learn to fade, just like his.

One by one.

Until they’re both free.

Chapter Text

The training room is dim—just the faint overhead glow of the emergency lighting humming above, painting the space in shadows and steel. The mission tonight ran too long. It scraped too close to something in her. Something raw. Evelyn sits in the corner, her back pressed against the cool metal wall, knees drawn up, arms loosely draped over them. The silence here should be a relief. It isn’t.

Her breath is uneven, edged with that familiar tension that settles in her bones after too much violence, too many near-misses. Her thoughts won’t quiet. They swirl like a storm just beneath her skin, churning in the hollows of her chest. She tells herself she’s fine, that she just needs space—from the team, from the weight of what they carry, from the ghosts. But tonight… tonight they are louder.

They hover around her, unseen but felt, the air thick with their presence. She knows the difference now—the heaviness that isn’t her own. It clings to her like smoke, curling cold fingers around her spine.

She’s seen them. Always around Bucky. They orbit him like dying stars, faces half-formed in memory, half-forged in pain. The same ones that crowd into her mind now, drawn to her by proximity, or maybe by the echo of whatever power binds her to this in-between. At first, their presence chilled her to the bone. Hollow eyes, mouths shaped in silent accusations. But now… now she knows better.

They aren’t here to punish him.

She closes her eyes, grounding herself in the chill of the wall behind her, letting her breath slow as she opens that part of herself she usually keeps tightly locked. She reaches into the quiet with a whisper, her voice hoarse.

“What do you want?” It comes out barely audible, but it carries. “Why do you stay with him?”

The temperature drops. Not drastically—just enough to notice. Just enough to feel. The air thickens, charged with that telltale hum of presence. She doesn’t need to see them to know they’re here. She feels them shifting around her like wind in a closed room.

The answer doesn’t come at first. Just silence. Stillness. Then—faint, scattered as if blown in from far away—voices begin to surface. Fragmented. Layered. Soft.

We want him to be happy.

A breath catches in her throat. The words are simple, but they hit like a bruise. They’re not angry. Not vengeful. Just… sad. Tired.

We just want him to find himself again.

Her chest tightens.

She’s never asked before—not like this. She’s watched them, wondered, but never dared to speak to them directly. Not until now.

“Why do you stay?” she asks again, firmer this time. “He’s trying. He’s trying so hard to make things right. Why won’t you leave him?”

For a heartbeat, she thinks they’ve gone. Then one voice rises above the others—clearer, but soft, and impossibly ancient. It sounds like grief shaped into sound.

He cannot move on without us. We cannot leave until he accepts what he’s done.

Evelyn stiffens, breath shallow.

“He… has to accept it?” she whispers. “You mean… the past?”

Yes, they say together, a choir of echoes. Until he forgives himself. Until he understands that what was done… was not him. Not truly. It was the Winter Soldier.

She presses her palm flat against the ground, steadying herself. Her vision blurs—not from tears, but from the sheer weight of it all. The truth sinks into her like cold water.

We do not blame him, another voice murmurs, this one softer than breath. We only want him to live. To find peace.

Her throat tightens with the ache of it. They’re not here for revenge. They’re here because they know—he knows—that until he confronts it all, he’ll never be free. The ghosts aren’t chains. They’re mirrors. Witnesses. Guides, maybe.

They can’t leave until he sees it for himself. Until he forgives what was never truly his to carry.

A tremor runs through her, not from fear—but empathy. Because she’s seen him at his lowest. Curled in on himself in silence, breathing through nightmares, his hands shaking from memories he doesn’t speak of. She’s seen how hard he fights to be good. To be better. And now she understands—the ghosts aren’t holding him back.

They’re waiting for him to let them go.

Her eyes snap open, and she looks toward the empty centre of the room. She imagines him standing there—Bucky, eyes dark and tired, shoulders weighed down by things he never chose. She wants to run to him, to tell him what she’s learned, to make it easier somehow.

But she knows—this part, at least—isn’t hers to carry. It has to come from him.

Her breath shudders as she exhales, her body curling forward slightly, hands clasped tight in her lap. The cold recedes just a little.

Don’t let him forget, one last voice whispers, fading like smoke at sunrise.

She nods, throat raw. “I won’t,” she murmurs. “And I’ll make sure he knows he’s not alone.”

She rises slowly, hand dragging along the wall as she steadies herself. She casts one last look toward the shadows in the corner of the room. They’re still there—faint, but quieter now. Watchful.

They’ll be there a while longer. She knows that now.

But one day, when he’s ready, they’ll fade.

And until that day, she’ll be here.

Helping him carry the weight. Helping him walk toward the light.

He doesn’t say much when he comes out of the session. He never does.

He walks out of the clinic waiting room that is all clean lines and artificial calm—beige chairs, potted plants that aren't quite convincing, soft instrumental music that feels like it's mocking the actual ache people bring into this place. Crosses the carpark quickly, eyes darting around with that alertness he struggles to shake, and slides into the passenger seat of Evie’s car.

She shifts as he gets in, putting down her notebook where she’s busy trying to write some sort of song she won’t show him yet, and uncrosses her legs.

His expression is unreadable, jaw tight, eyes shadowed with something she’s come to recognise: the aftershock. The subtle tension that lingers after digging around in a place he didn’t really want to go.

She puts the keys into the ignition and the car starts. She eyes him for a while, the way he sits, his expression, and then she puts on a playlist of old music, music from the 30s and 40s that Bucky knows like the sound of his own breath, playing it quietly – familiarity.

She doesn’t say anything yet. But she doesn’t pull out of the carpark either. She watches out the windshield as the sun just beginning to lower, soft gold bleeding through the clouds. When she finally speaks, she turns to look at him again.

“Hey,” she says, gently, almost too casual.

He glances over, one brow slightly raised.

“You’re doing good, Buck.”

He stills. Not dramatically. Just for a second, like it throws him off balance.

She shrugs a little, leaning in just a tiny bit toward him. “I mean it. I know it doesn’t feel like it most days, but showing up like this? Going in there?” Her voice is quiet but steady. “That’s something. That’s more than something. You’re putting in the work. You're making progress, more than you realise. You're finding yourself again, I think. Making a life. That matters.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw shifts, eyes flicking away—like maybe he doesn’t believe her. Or doesn’t think he deserves to hear it.

But she sees it. The flicker in his expression. The way his shoulders drop just slightly. Like the armour slipped for a second.

“…Thanks,” he says, eventually. Low and rough, but sincere.

Evelyn nods and offers a soft smile, patting his knee. “Anytime.”

The ride back is quiet. Comfortable.

And later—much later, when she’s not looking—he glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

Like maybe… he wants to hear her say something like that again.

The gym is mostly empty. Late enough that the others have filtered out—showered, headed to the mess or their rooms. Evelyn stays behind. So does Bucky.

They’re not sparring, not really. Just moving through drills. Patterns, footwork, rhythm. It’s quiet, save for the dull thud of her gloves against the pads he holds, the faint creak of the floor beneath their steps.

Jab, jab, hook. Her breathing is sharp and even, her focus steady.

“You’re dropping your elbow,” he mutters, adjusting his stance.

“Mm.” She exhales, throws another jab. “You’re bossy when you’re tired.”

He smirks faintly. “I’m always bossy.”

She cracks a grin despite herself and steps back, dropping her arms for a moment. Sweat curls at her temples, dampening the fine strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail. Bucky watches her—just for a second too long.

Then she tilts her head, studying him. “You doing okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to say that. You can tell me the truth.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, “Better than I was.”

Her brows lift slightly. That’s not nothing.

He moves to grab a towel from the bench, scrubbing at the back of his neck, like if he doesn’t look at her, it’ll be easier to keep going. “What you said. After the session,” he mumbles. “About me… doing good.”

She nods, stepping over to take a sip from her water bottle. “Yeah?”

He glances at her now. Eyes dark, thoughtful. “I don’t hear that a lot.”

Her heart pinches a little. She doesn’t let it show. Just caps the bottle again, offers a soft, almost teasing smile. “Well. You should.”

Silence settles between them for a moment. Not awkward—just weighted.

“I keep thinking… if I was better, it’d be gone by now… the memories, the guilt,” he says suddenly, eyes unfocused. “That I’d stop seeing their faces every time I closed my eyes. Or feeling them. That I’d be… free of it.”

Evelyn’s breath stills. Her hand tightens a little on the bottle.

He doesn’t know.

She swallows. Carefully.

“I don’t think it works like that,” she says gently. “Healing isn’t… it’s not about erasing things, necessarily. It’s about learning how to live with them until you can let them go and accept it.”

He looks at her, then—really looks. There’s something like vulnerability in his gaze, something unguarded. “And what if I can’t?”

She takes a step closer, not too much, just enough that he can feel her presence. “Then you lean on the people who want to help you try.”

Another beat passes. His eyes drop, then rise again—searching hers. “You’re one of those people?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Buck,” she says softly. “Not unless you want me to.”

His throat works. He nods once, barely. Then, quietly, he reaches for the gloves she dropped. “One more round?”

She slips them back on, gives him a nod.

And they fall back into rhythm—not just of fists and blocks, but of something gentler. Familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t say anything more that night. But the next time she drives him to therapy, he goes inside with slightly less hesitance than any other time she's taken him. And when he comes out, he’s already looking for her.

Chapter Text

It’s past 2AM when the knock rattles her door.

Evelyn’s up. She hasn’t slept, not yet, anyway. She rarely does when she gets home from the bar, always too wired from chatting to customers and rushing through making drinks and walking home late at night. She’s curled on the couch in a hoodie and sweats, an old movie playing low on the screen, mostly for the illusion of company.

The knock comes again. Three sharp raps. Familiar.

She pads barefoot to the door, looks through the peephole, and then opens the door.

Bucky stands there, hunched slightly, hoodie thrown on over a t-shirt, joggers and boots. His hair’s mussed like he ran a hand through it a hundred times. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed in shadow. He looks like he’s been running from something—and lost.

“Bad one?” she asks, voice soft.

He nods once.

She steps aside.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just sinks onto the couch where she’d been and scrubs a hand over his face. Evelyn disappears into the kitchen and returns with tea—cheap stuff, half herbal, half whatever was on sale—but he takes it like it’s a peace offering.

“Weren’t you at the Tower tonight?” She asks quietly.

He nods. “I caught the train here.”

She frowns at that. "That's a long way to come," she says, voice unsure.

"Had to see you," is all he says.

She sits beside him, cross-legged, their knees almost touching. They watch the movie in silence for a while. It’s some black-and-white noir—fedoras and sharp cheekbones, men chasing lies down dark alleys. Neither of them are really watching it.

After a while, he speaks. “I saw his face again. Tonight. Yori’s son.”

She doesn’t ask who that is. She knows there are many faces Bucky regrets, despite his efforts to atone and his years of therapy and talking with Steve and Sam, starting to come to terms with what happened to him. There’s always another face. Another memory.

“I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t change it. I just… watched it happen.”

His knuckles are white around the mug. She notices the way his left hand—his metal hand—shakes just slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But not to her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she offers.

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

They fall quiet again. The movie flickers shadows against the walls. A storm’s blowing in outside, the wind nudging at the windows like a whisper.

Evelyn exhales, her body folding slightly forward, arms around her knees. Her eyes don’t leave the screen.

“I see them too, you know,” she says, voice low. Not quite a confession. Not yet.

His head turns slightly. “Who?”

A pause.

She almost says it. The ghosts. The ones that follow him, hover in her periphery like smoke. The ones who ache for his peace, even if he can’t feel it. The ones who follow everyone around her, all the time, inescapable.

She almost says, They’re not angry with you, Buck. They just want you to stop blaming yourself.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she just says, “The people we’ve lost.”

He studies her in the glow of the TV. Doesn’t ask what she means. Doesn’t press.

Another minute ticks by.

Then, quietly, he leans back against the cushions. Not slumped, not broken—just tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch. The kind that lives in your bones.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” he admits. “Tower felt too… cold. Even though some of the others were there...”

She looks at him sidelong for a moment, thinks about what she really offers him if she feels the opposite... warmth. And then, she lets out a quiet breath. “You can sleep here, if you want,” she offers easily.

He nods quickly.

She gets up and pulls the quilt from her bed, dragging it out and pulling it over both of them. Bucky leans back further against the cushions, still sitting up but slumped. Evie curls up on the other end of the couch, feet under herself, head on a pillow against the armrest.

They sit like that a long time. The movie ends. A new one starts.

She thinks he’s asleep, until she hears him whisper, “Thanks, Evie.”

And something in her chest tightens. Because it’s the first time he’s said her name like that—soft, like it means something. Like she’s something solid in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

She doesn’t sleep, not really. She lets herself drift, just a little, listening to the sound of his breathing settle. Watching the ghosts fade into the background—for now.

She doesn’t tell him they were here tonight too.

That they stood in the corner of her apartment, silent and still, watching him with something like hope in their hollow eyes.

That they’re quieter now. That they know she’s helping.

One day, she’ll tell him.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he came to her. Tonight, he stayed.

And that, for now, is enough.

The sun’s barely up when Evelyn wakes.

Or maybe she never really slept. Her neck aches from the angle she slumped in, head tilted against the couch cushion, one leg tucked under her, the other numb.

Bucky’s still there.

He’s out cold, sprawled sideways on the other end of the couch. One arm tucked behind his head, the other hanging off the side, fingertips brushing the rug. His face is soft in sleep—creased a little at the brow, but peaceful in a way she rarely sees. She watches him for a moment, just breathing. Just being.

Then she feels it.

The shift in the air.

She doesn’t have to look to know they’re here. One of them at least. Lingering at the edge of the kitchen, just behind the fridge. Her eyes snap over to it and she scowls, waving it away with her hand. But it stays, staring at her, eyes wide. Its eyes flick to Bucky, asleep. Another appears, nearer to Bucky, head tilted like they’re watching him sleep.

Evelyn scrubs a hand over her face and mutters under her breath, “Do you mind? Let him sleep. You couldn’t give us one damn morning?”

The ghost looks at her, eyes wide, almost apologetic, and moves away toward the window.

Bucky stirs.

Her stomach drops.

There’s a long pause before his voice, low and rough with sleep, breaks the silence. “…Who are you talking to?”

Shit.

She freezes. Then clears her throat like nothing happened. “Uh. Myself.”

His eyes crack open. He squints at her, sceptical. “Sounded like you were arguing with someone behind the fridge.”

“Well, yeah.” She stands up a little too quickly. “I mean, the fridge and I have an ongoing feud. It makes this weird clicking noise. Passive-aggressive, honestly.”

Bucky just blinks at her.

She gestures vaguely toward the kitchen, backing into it. “It’s… a whole thing. Anyway. You want coffee?”

He watches her like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. “…Sure.”

She busies herself with mugs and the ancient French press she swears by. Her back’s to him, but she can still feel his gaze. And the ghost’s. Probably laughing its incorporeal ass off.

He walks into the kitchen, hair sticking out on one side and tangled, still frowning with sleepiness. He stands behind her, rubs at his face, looks around.

“You talk to your appliances often?” he asks finally.

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

A long pause. Then, in a tone way too casual to be casual, “You said us, by the way.”

She nearly drops the coffee tin. “…I did?”

“You did.”

She makes a noncommittal noise. “You must’ve been dreaming.”

He lets it go, but just barely. But he still gives her a long, thoughtful look. “I think you need more sleep.”

“Tell that to your snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Sure, Barnes,” she quips.

He yawns, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re weird.”

"Aren't we all, just a tad." She grins at him without turning around. “And you’re nosy.”

They drink coffee in silence after that. But he watches her more closely than usual. Not like he’s alarmed. Just curious. Like she’s a book he’s started over, noticing things he missed the first time.

And she? She very carefully avoids the kitchen corner—because the ghost’s still there, silently judging her with what she swears is smug spectral energy.

When Bucky finally heads out with a, “Thanks for the couch,” there’s something warmer in his voice. Softer.

Evelyn leans back against the door once it’s closed and glares into the empty air.

“We can’t tell him yet,” she mutters.

Silence.

Then the fridge clicks.

Loudly.

She sighs. “Traitor.”

Chapter Text

The air in the small German village is crisp, the scent of fresh bread and coffee drifting from nearby cafés, mingling with the chatter of people on their daily routines. It’s peaceful, almost idyllic. But under the surface, tension simmers as Evie and Bucky walk side by side, blending into the crowd, both of them playing their parts expertly.

Evie pulls her long, dark hair back into a sleek, tight bun—an unusual look for her. She’s not used to being so put-together. But today, the mission calls for polish. The bun keeps her hair out of her face and adds an edge of clean-cut elegance to her otherwise casual look. Leather jacket. Jeans. Nothing flashy. Nothing memorable. Just another face on the street.

Bucky, too, is disguised. His longer hair is hidden under a black beanie pulled low over his brow. A plain hoodie, dark jeans, scuffed boots. His metal arm is tucked beneath his sleeve, a sliver of silver glinting when the sun hits just right.

They walk with arms around each other, feigning intimacy like it’s second nature. His arm slung around her shoulders; her fingers curled at his waist. They laugh quietly at something he says—a joke with no punchline, but enough to sell the scene. They’ve done this kind of dance before. But this time feels… heavier. Higher stakes.

They’re not just playing house—they’re getting close to a Hydra buyer. Someone who knows where the new line of experimental weapons is heading.

Sam’s voice crackles in her earpiece, laced with dry amusement. “Not gonna lie, you two are a little too good at this whole ‘pretend lovers’ bit. Kinda suspicious.”

Evie smiles up at Bucky, tightening her arm around his waist. “Maybe we should become actors. Some of us are multifaceted. We could get the boss to film some promotional material.”

Bucky lets out a low chuckle, nudging her with his hip. “Or maybe someone’s bitter they’re not here.”

“Jealousy’s not a good colour on you, Wilson,” Evie adds, her voice playful.

Sam scoffs. “Please. I’m devastated over here. Just me and my latte, watching you two play house like it’s a romcom.”

“Focus,” Steve’s voice cuts in, all sharp edges. “Target’s leaving the shop in two minutes. Stay close, stay casual.”

The target appears—a suited man with a greying beard and a briefcase, stepping out of the corner bakery. Inside, Yelena pretends to fumble with the till, playing the harmless cashier as her eyes track his every move.

Evie leans into Bucky, voice low. “You’re getting kind of committed to this boyfriend role. You would have to ask me first, you know?”

He smirks, not breaking stride. “Just trying to keep our enemies confused. Maybe they'll hesitate if they think we're on a honeymoon.”

“Oh, gag,” John mutters from across the plaza, sipping a coffee with exaggerated flair. “Seriously, though. You guys have chemistry. It’s unsettling.”

Evie quirks an eyebrow. “Should we be flattered or concerned?”

“Both,” Sam replies.

“Knock it off,” Steve snaps. “Eyes on the prize. They’re moving.”

Evie sighs under her breath. “Fun sponge, that one.”

“Rude, Vee,” Steve’s voice cuts back in just before comms go quiet. “Save the pillow talk for later.”

Bucky’s arm tightens around her waist as they pivot to follow the mark, slipping seamlessly into the ebb and flow of the crowd.

And then, the world shifts.

Suddenly, chaos erupts.

Yelena bursts out of the shop like a shot fired from a gun, her expression taut with urgency, still dressed in the uniform of the coffee house where she’d been taking cover. One hand is locked around the buyer’s arm in a vice grip, dragging him forward with surprising strength for her size. The man—older, sharp-suited, and clearly not used to being manhandled—stumbles in protest, but doesn’t get a word out before Bucky moves.

One moment, the man’s eyes are wide with confusion as he’s dragged by Yelena, and the next, he’s locked in place, Bucky’s vibranium hand coiled around his wrist with an unyielding force. His other hand presses flat against the man’s chest, pinning him with the kind of precision that speaks of years of combat.

"You come with us and don’t make a scene," Bucky says, low and even, but there’s a current of threat under the words, a dark promise wrapped in steel. "Or you can try something stupid. I’d kinda prefer the second option."

The buyer freezes. He looks… confused, like he doesn’t understand what Bucky says. His gaze jumps from Bucky’s face to Evie’s, hoping—mistakenly—for sympathy. But she’s already stepped forward, calm and composed, fingers resting lightly near her concealed weapon. Her expression is all business, but her smile—sharp-edged and dangerous—says she won’t hesitate.

"Please resist," she says sweetly. "I haven’t had my cardio today."

There’s a long beat. The man exhales sharply, the bravado draining from him as he realises there’s no out. He nods once, curt and shaky.

"Smart choice," Bucky mutters, then jerks his head toward the alley.

They move fast, weaving through narrow cobbled streets that twist like a maze. The village’s postcard charm is quickly overshadowed by the pounding of boots and the press of adrenaline. Evie stays on the buyer’s flank, eyes flicking between rooftops, windows, every open door—anywhere a sniper or ambush could be waiting. Her pulse is steady, but her body hums with tension, every step charged.

Bucky doesn’t ease up on his grip. The man’s feet occasionally drag against the uneven stone, but Bucky doesn’t slow. He’s a shadow with purpose, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure they’re not being tailed.

They reach the safehouse—an unassuming door in a crumbling side wall—and slip inside. The moment they're in, Bucky slams the buyer into a chair without ceremony. The metal clank of the frame echoes through the tight room.

“Non… je vous en supplie… ne me faites pas de mal… pitié! (Please, don’t hurt me!” The man sobs, gasping for breath as he stares at Bucky’s unrelenting eyes.

"Commence à parler (Start talking)," Bucky growls, cold and precise. “Où sont les armes? (Where are the weapons?)”

The buyer hesitates.

Sam and Steve push into the room behind them, weapons drawn, eyes sweeping the room. John lingers just outside, scanning the alley one last time before locking the door with a heavy clunk.

"Je vais vous dire ce que vous voulez savoir, s'il vous plaît. Ne me faites pas de mal (I'll tell you what you want to know, please. Don't hurt me)," the man stutters. Tears slide heavily down his cheeks.

“Alors, commence à parler (Then, start talking),” Bucky presses, the barrel of the gun he holds hard against the man’s temple. He flinches at the feeling of the cold metal against his skin.

"Je—je peux vous dire (I—I can tell you)," the man stammers, throat bobbing as he looks around at the circle of eyes trained on him. "Ne me tirez pas dessus, d'accord ? (Just don't shoot me, okay?)"

The other Avengers tilt their heads at him, unable to understand.

Bucky and the buyer talk back and forth in the foreign language, everyone else frowning at Bucky.

"Do we need a translator?" John asks.

"Seems we have one," Sam says.

Bucky and the guy wrap up their conversation after a few minutes. The Avengers all stare at Bucky. He stares back, waiting for an answer. "Well?" Bucky pushes.

"Bucky, we don't know what you're saying. You're speaking French," Sam says.

"No, we're just talking."

"In French," Sam emphasises.

"What? I don't know how to speak French," Bucky argues. "Aside from a few lines we learned from Dernier eighty years ago," he says, gesturing toward Steve.

Steve frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to recall that memory.

"Clearly you do, monsieur," Evie smirks. "That was a whole conversation of more than just ‘bonjours’, 'ouis' and 'nons'."

Bucky frowns, looking down at the floor in thought. He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to recall forgotten memories. "I didn't know I could do that."

"No time for trauma. What did he say, White Wolf?" Yelena presses, impatience biting at her tone.

"He said there's—a facility. Hydra," he says quickly. "It's in the mountains, about thirty klicks east. They're still active—experimental tech, weapons off the books."

"That's it?" Sam asks.

"He said that's all he knows, he swears."

Evie folds her arms, voice dry. "That's never all they know. Come on ex-assassin, surely you remember that."

Bucky leans in close, eyes narrow. "Tu es sûr de ne pas vouloir te souvenir de plus? (Are you sure you don't want to remember more?)”

Bucky presses the man harder into the chair, his metal arm a vice around his wrist, every breath the buyer takes shallow and ragged. His finger twitches over the trigger, millimetres from making contact.

The man swallows hard, eyes darting between the steel gaze of Bucky, the cool precision of Evie's pistol also trained on him, and the impatient glint in Sam, Lena, and Steve's eyes behind them. Walker stands by the door, keeping guard, half watching the interrogation happening across the room.

“Je vous ai dit—je ne sais pas tout (I told you—I don't know everything),” the buyer stammers, sweat beading on his forehead. “Juste ce pour quoi j'ai été payé (Just what I was paid to know.)”

"He says he only knows what he was paid to know," Bucky translates, frowning.

Evie steps forward, her tone deceptively soft, but every word drips with menace. "You're telling us you have no clue where the shipment's headed? We need to know where they’re transporting, and if it’s only to this facility you speak of nearby.  Because Hydra doesn't pay for ignorance. They pay for loyalty. And lying… that gets you hurt."

Bucky translates.

The man flinches. "Non, pas de mensonges. L'envoi—ce ne sont pas que des armes. Il y a autre chose. Quelque chose d'expérimental. On m'a dit que c'était volatile (No, no lies. The shipment—it's not just weapons. There's something else. Something experimental. I was told it's volatile).”

Bucky tightens his grip, making the man wince. "Volatile how? Chemical? Biological? Something that can blow us all to hell?"

The man swallows, voice barely audible. “Je ne connais pas les détails. Mais ils le gardent sous haute sécurité à la base de montagne. Seule une poignée de hauts gradés d'Hydra y ont accès (I don't know the specifics. But they keep it under heavy lock and key at the mountain base. Only a handful of Hydra top brass have access).”

Sam steps closer, voice sharp. "Names. We need names."

"Give me names (Donne-moi des noms)," Bucky instructs.

The buyer shakes his head. "Je ne connais pas les commandants. Je fais juste les livraisons, je récupère l'argent (I don't know the commanders. I just deliver the goods, collect the cash).”

Evie leans in so close her breath brushes his cheek. "Bullshit. You're the buyer's buyer. You meet with them, you know something."

Bucky clocks the gun, pressing it against the man's temple.

The man's façade cracks. His eyes flicker, caught between fear and calculation.

“D'accord. Il y a une femme. Nom de code 'Viper.' Elle supervise les envois. J'ai entendu dire qu'elle est impitoyable. (Okay, there's a woman. Call-sign 'Viper.' She oversees the shipments. Heard she's ruthless).

Bucky's gaze sharpens. "Where do they operate from exactly?"

The man's voice drops to a whisper. “L'installation est au cœur de la Forêt-Noire. Souterraine. Camouflée par les anciens tunnels miniers. Ils ont des protocoles de sécurité—scans biométriques, patrouilles armées (One of the facilities is deep in the Schwarzwald. Underground. Camouflaged by the old mining tunnels. They have security protocols—biometric scans, armed patrols).”

Evie straightens, exchanging a look with Bucky as he translates. "Sounds like a fortress."

"And well-guarded," Sam adds, eyes darting nervously to the door as distant gunfire echoes. "We won't get in without a hell of a distraction."

Bucky's grip eases fractionally, but his eyes don't soften. "Good. Because we're the distraction."

The man's face pales. "Vous ne savez pas avec quoi vous vous embarquez. Hydra ne vend pas seulement des armes. Ils préparent quelque chose de catastrophique (You don't know what you're messing with. Hydra's not just selling weapons. They're planning something catastrophic).”

Bucky barks out a laugh. "He says we don't know what we're messing with. Like we haven't been fighting Hydra for over eighty years. Like I wasn’t Hydra myself," Bucky says, more to Steve than to anyone else.

Evie's voice drops, deadly calm. "We've stopped worse. And we're not about to let you or Hydra win."

Silence falls, heavy and thick, until the first sounds of another explosion shake the building.

Steve barks, "Time's up. We move now."

Bucky shoves the chair back as the team rallies, adrenaline snapping tight around them.

A thunderous explosion tears through the air. The building shakes with the impact. Light fixtures swing wildly. A plume of dust descends from the ceiling, coating everything in a fine grey powder. The buyer screams, curling in on himself.

"Down!" Steve yells, already moving.

Gunfire cracks outside like firecrackers, rapid and chaotic. Sam ducks near the window, peeking through the curtain. "We’ve got incoming. Multiple hostiles."

"Of course we do," Evie mutters, drawing her gun in a fluid motion. She glances at Bucky. "So much for the quiet stroll."

"Hope you’re still in the mood for cardio," he says grimly.

She gives him a crooked smile. "You know I like a bit of drama."

Outside, another blast shakes the walls—and this time, it sounds closer. The wall beside John crumbles, barely holding up as it was, and the Hydra agents pour in.

The fight begins.

Bucky’s metal arm whips out, throwing the buyer to the ground, his eyes flicking to Evie. "Stay close," he mutters, voice low but commanding.

Evie’s gun is already in her hand, and she fires, the sound sharp and deadly. A Hydra agent dives for cover, but she’s faster, the bullet finding its mark with a sickening thud. Her heart pounds, but she doesn’t hesitate—she moves forward, slipping between pillars of crumbling concrete, her movements fluid, precise. Bucky follows closely behind, his metal arm swinging out to disarm an opponent before crushing the man to the floor with a single punch.

"Evie!" Bucky calls out suddenly, his voice tight with warning.

A Hydra soldier emerges from the shadows, aiming for her, but before the man can even get a shot off, Bucky’s metal fist connects with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

A second emerges, but stops mid-air, held back by a flick of Evie’s hand. He suspends in the air, like he’s being strangled by something invisible, and then drops to the ground, unmoving.

She’s already moving, darting toward the next enemy, her hand raised, eyes sharp. A tiny ball of light appears in the palm of her hand the more she uses her powers, and they gain traction, power, getting stronger with more practice.

The fight rages on, and the two of them fall into rhythm, a deadly dance. They fight side by side, Bucky’s metal arm sweeping out to incapacitate opponents, while Evie picks them off from a distance.

The Hydra agents are relentless, but so are they.

It’s a blur of motion, chaos erupting around them, but through it all, Bucky’s presence never falters. He’s always there, his eyes on her, watching her six as they clear the building. Every shot, every punch, every movement is calculated and precise, a reflection of the trust they’ve built over countless missions together.

And just as quickly as it began, the battle comes to a halt. The last Hydra agent falls, crumpling to the floor with a heavy thud. The only sound now is the ringing in her ears, the rush of her heartbeat.

The mission went smoothly—or as smoothly as a mission could go with Hydra involved. The tension is always there, gnawing at them in the background, but for now, it seems like they’ve come out on top.

But something still hangs in the air between them, an unspoken sense of camaraderie that’s as strong as ever. Bucky and Evie had played their roles well. Too well, perhaps. The ruse had been flawless, their “couple” act convincing enough to fool anyone who didn’t know them, or anyone who didn’t know how much they’d been through together. Their timing, their chemistry—it was like something clicked, a natural flow to the way they moved together, the way they laughed the way they walked in each others’ arms.

As they exit the warehouse, she glances at Bucky, finding his gaze already on her.

"You okay?" Bucky asks, his voice steady as ever, his hand reaching out to pull her close for a brief, shared moment of quiet in the aftermath of chaos. His voice is low, checking her with a glance.

Evie doesn’t waste a second. "I’m fine." Evie glances at Bucky, her eyes meeting his. "You’ve got my six, always," she says softly.

Bucky nods, his expression hard but satisfied. "And you’ve got mine."

And there, as they stand for a moment, there’s a shift, a moment where Bucky’s gaze lingers just a little too long on her.

“You did good out there,” Bucky says finally.

Evie blinks, a bit caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. It isn’t that she doesn’t know he appreciates her, but there is something in the way he says it this time that makes her heart skip. He is almost always reserved, always so guarded with his emotions with everyone else but her, and right now, in the midst of the mission’s aftermath, he is laying it out plainly.

“Thanks,” she responds, her voice soft, with an edge of warmth. “You, too.”

They share a moment of silence, the sound of their breaths mingling with the hum of the Quinjet in the background. The adrenaline is wearing off now, leaving a strange kind of stillness in its wake, and for the first time that day, Evie feels the weight of their proximity, the easy comfort of their closeness.

It’s not just the mission or the rush that makes her feel like they’re in perfect sync. There’s something else—something deeper—that surfaces as they move together, as they share these quiet moments of victory. For a second, she wonders if he feels it too, that subtle shift beneath the surface.

But before she can let her thoughts drift any further, Sam’s voice comes through the comms, breaking the moment.

“Do you two ever stop flirting?” Sam teases, light and easy, as if the chaos of the mission hasn’t just unfolded around them.

Evie rolls her eyes, chuckling under her breath. “Not now, Sam. You’re ruining the vibe.”

She glances at Bucky, catching his faint grin out of the corner of her eye, the corners of his lips tugging upward like he’s enjoying this too.

“I’m just saying,” Sam continues, “I’ve never seen two people that perfect in the middle of a Hydra raid. Almost makes me jealous.”

Bucky’s expression softens, his grin shifting into something more genuine. “We make a good team. Keeps things interesting.”

Evie doesn’t miss the way he says it—how it’s not just a simple statement, but something more layered, something that makes her heart beat a little faster. Her breath catches for a second.

Before she can respond, Steve’s voice cuts through the comms, sharp and focused. “Enough chatter. We’ve got Hydra to take down. Time to finish this. Get on the jet.”

Evie nods, shaking off the lingering thoughts as she refocuses on the mission. There’s still work to do, and the adrenaline is rising again, coursing through her veins. But as they move back toward the Quinjet, she can’t shake the question: how much of the “act” had been real? How much of what they shared wasn’t just part of the cover they’d created, but something deeper?

Something neither of them had said out loud but that’s starting to feel impossible to ignore.

As they prepare for the next phase of their mission, Evie steals a glance at Bucky, catching the glint in his eyes that tells her he’s thinking the same thing. There’s no need to speak it. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The cold night air smells like rust and oil.

Floodlights flicker along the perimeter fencing of the tunnels. There’s the hiss of mist rising off rain-slick asphalt and the hum of arc lights buzzing along rusting chain-link fence. Massive crates stamped with Stark and OXE logos line the lot like sleeping giants—scrapped drones, cloaking generators, redundant Helicarrier parts. The perfect buffet for any ambitious villain crew.

“They’re moving weaponry,” Steve says, looking at it all. “Stolen, maybe. Same as what we’ve seen before. But it looks like this might be a storage facility of sorts.”

The site sleeps under a bruised sky, a graveyard of prototype drones, disabled cloaking gear, and power cells too dangerous to transport elsewhere.

From a rooftop across the street, the New Avengers wait in the shadows, watching.

Sam adjusts his goggles, the lenses glinting faint blue in the dark. His breath fogs in the cold.
“Why does every villain crew dress like they’re on a reptile-themed bar crawl?” he mutters, scoping in with his binoculars. He adjusts the focus and snorts. “Seriously. Bright green tights and fangs. It's like someone lost a bet at Party City.”

Down below, three figures move in eerie synchrony. One large and hulking, one sleek and fast, one coiled and charismatic.

The biggest one towers over the other two — a wall of muscle wrapped in scale-like armour, the green and silver of her suit gleaming in the floodlights. Her thick braids are twisted tight against her scalp, her gloved hands clenching and unclenching like she’s waiting for a fight to start.

Beside her, another stomps forward in steel-toed boots. His armour is bulkier, mechanical — augmented limbs pulsing with dull, rhythmic light. A weaponised tail curls around his waist like a third limb. Every time he shifts, it rattles — low, metallic, menacing.

And at the centre of them, is a villain who their database tells them goes by “King Cobra”. He walks like he owns the damn earth beneath his feet. He’s lean, fast, serpentine. His suit fits like it was designed by some twisted high-fashion tactician: dark green leather trimmed with gold, a hood that arcs like a cobra’s flare. His eyes gleam from behind a half-mask, and even now, he moves with a choreographed elegance that screams I’ve done this before.

John huffs. “At least they’re easy to spot. Flashy weirdos. Smash-and-grab gig, right?”

“We don’t know what’s in there,” Evie says. “The buyer said something about them having something experimental or volatile. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

“Well, we have barely any intel,” Walker sighs. “We won’t know until we get inside. Could just be some new sort of bomb or something? Let’s just get in and see.”

“No, wait,” Bucky says quietly. He steps forward, face half-shadowed beneath the hood of his jacket, arms folded. His expression is unreadable — the same one he wears when something is bothering him and he hasn’t decided whether to punch it or mourn it. “They’re too clean,” he says, nodding to the trio below. “Watch the way they move. That’s trained formation. Tight triangle. Centre point stays mobile, flanks shift coverage. That’s not a gang. That’s muscle with doctrine.”

Yelena rolls her eyes. “They are snakes. Maybe they just like looking dramatic.”

Bucky points — subtle, efficient. They watch as the three figures move in perfect rhythm: King Cobra leads with a coiled grace, Anaconda watches the perimeter with trained precision, and Rattler adjusts a pulse detonator with the ease of someone who’s done this before. Their movements are rehearsed. Tactical.

“Someone trained them,” Bucky says. “Military or better.”

Ava, crouched beside a refurbished Stark laptop, taps her screen. “I’ve got encrypted chatter bouncing off three nearby cell towers. That’s not merc talk. They’re using old Hydra cipher architecture, old codes. Retrofitted, scrambled. New syntax.”

Yelena smirks. “So... Fancy Hydra snakes.”

Alexei cocks his pistol. “Fancy snakes still bleed.”

“Do we think they’re working with Hydra?” Evie asks beside Bucky, squinting down at the tiny glimpses of their new enemy. “If they’re using their codes, popping up now when Hydra is in a resurgence…”

Walker sighs. “Only one real way to find out.”

They talk tactics for a while, team ups, check their comms, prep their weapons. And then they’re ready.

Alexei grunts, standing from his seat atop an old air conditioner box. “Enough talking. Let’s give them something to hiss about.”

Sam sighs, extending his wings. “Alright, Red Room Dad. Let’s dance.”

The Thunderbolts descend.

Sam dives first, wings slicing the air in controlled silence. Yelena vaults after him with catlike grace, twin batons glowing. John drops hard from the rooftop like a wrecking ball with a shield. Ava phases straight through the perimeter wall, leaving a ripple behind. Bucky and Evie follow last — calm, surgical, eyes scanning for something no one else sees.

The fight is instant and brutal.

Anaconda grabs Yelena mid-sprint, wrapping her in an unrelenting chokehold. Yelena slams an elbow into her ribs — once, twice — but the grip tightens. Ava materialises through a crate and clocks Anaconda across the face, giving Yelena the opening to twist free.

Rattler slams a boot into the pavement, sending a sonic shockwave through the ground that cracks concrete and throws Alexei off-balance. The Red Guardian recovers with a roar, catching Rattler’s tail in both hands and swinging him full-force into a cargo crate.

King Cobra dances through the chaos, weaving between opponents, striking with surgical speed. He trades blows with Bucky — jab, feint, sweep. They move like echoes of each other, each strike blocked or dodged by a hair.

Cobra grins beneath his mask. “You’re faster than they said, Soldier.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He pivots, lands a solid blow to Cobra’s jaw — but the man slips back, twirls, throws a smoke capsule.

“Flashy and full of himself,” Sam mutters, dodging a plasma round from Rattler.

In the thick of battle, the Thunderbolts notice something’s off.

Sam’s voice comes through the comms. “They’re not retreating. They’re covering for something.”

Ava sighs, sitting in the corner with the Stark laptop again, being covered by Evie. “Data spike in the facility mainframe. They’re stealing intel and weapons.”

“Hydra never used thieves. They used zealots,” Walker says, over the roar of battle.

Yelena is pinned down by the Rattler, but she’s grinning. “These feel like both.”

Through it all, the three enemies stay in sync. They cover each other. Communicate with hand signals. They’re not freelancing this.

Sam fights with the Rattler. “Y’all ever consider therapy instead of terrorism?”

Walker finds himself near Bucky, at the edge of the fight, taking a second to reassess the scene. “Why the hell do they keep talking about ‘the order’ like it’s a religion?” He asks Bucky, eyes wide beneath the cowl of his helmet.

The Thunderbolts start gaining the upper hand. Anaconda is pinned, tossed through the air by Evie’s powers, followed by a bunch of lose metal pipes that wrap around him, pinning him against the wall of the tunnel. Rattler’s gauntlet malfunctions after a well-placed EMP pulse from Ava. Bucky has King Cobra on the ropes—until the villain presses a button on his belt and a green gas bomb explodes, blanketing the area in acrid smoke.

Bucky stumbles back, the gas burning his skin at the lightest touch.

Smoke rolls across the yard. Ava tries to phase through it — it burns her skin, a chemical laced mist. She gasps, stumbles. The other Avengers step backward, away from the rolling gas, watching as King Cobra positions himself atop a ruined crate, looking down over them.

“The gas is poison. Chemical warfare,” Walker hisses, pushing Evie backward away from the gas. They stumble away, tripping over crates and poles and boxes strewn in the fight.

Evie lifts her hands, eyes glowing green, and the gas starts to move, slowly parting through the open air away from the Avengers, moving upward into the night air. It’s slow going as she fights to push it away as more and more appears from the bomb in the middle of them all, still spitting out green flumes.

“You think the head of the snake is gone—just because you cut the tail?” King Cobra shouts through the smoke.

Bucky freezes.

That isn’t a line just for show.

Those aren’t the words of a hired gun. Those are doctrine. That’s Hydra talk. Hydra belief.

He watches the smoke swirl, his metal fingers twitching at his side.

It isn’t bravado. That’s doctrine.

When the smoke clears, finally, Evie pushing the last of it up into the air above them, the three enemies are gone, leaving the New Avengers standing alone in the facility.

Cobra is long vanished, but a trace of his voice is still echoing in Bucky’s ears.

Ava rubs at her temples. “Tell me someone got a sample of that code language.”

Sam scrolls through Redwing’s footage. “I got thermal of Cobra’s mouth moving before the smoke bomb. He said ‘the coil tightens.’”

Yelena grimaces. “Creepy.”

Evie clutches her ribs, breathing hard, and glancing at Bucky. “Did he say what I think he said?”

Sam pouts slightly, frowning. “Sounds like a cult.”

Bucky’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “Sounds like Hydra.”

They all glance at him.

Sam walks closer to Bucky. “Didn’t we already cut that snake’s head off? We’ve been taking them down for months now.”

Bucky seems grim. “Apparently not. I’m worried they’re bigger than we ever thought.”

Ava is already pulling up a scrambled map of digital footprints. “He wasn’t bluffing. There’s something underneath this. Something older.”

Yelena wipes green smoke from her cheek, tosses her ponytail back. “Hydra 2.0?”

“No,” Bucky says. He looks at the scorch marks, the eerie stillness that follows the exit of true believers. “This isn’t new. It’s something that’s been waiting.”

And from the broken shadows of the yard, thunder cracks in the distance.

Sam glances around, tense. “We’re not done here.”

Bucky nods once, already moving toward the far end of the facility. The others follow, boots echoing off concrete as they descend deeper into the tunnels. The air grows colder, heavier, the sharp chemical sting still lingering in their lungs.

The further they go, the more obvious it becomes: this place isn’t just a hideout.

It’s a depot.

Steel doors line the corridor, marked with Hydra insignias half-burned off, others painted over with the Serpent Society’s crude logos — the coiled snake, the split tongue. King Cobra hadn’t been lying. This wasn't just a splinter group. This was organised.

Evie steadies herself against the wall as the path slopes downward. “Jesus. How deep does this go?”

“Deep enough they didn’t want anyone finding it.” Walker sweeps his flashlight across a sealed vault door. “Stark Industries.” His jaw tightens. “This is black market Stark tech. Some of it’s supposed to be off-world.”

“OXE, too.” Ava gestures to a set of metal crates, stamped with corporate logos from half a dozen shell companies. “Private weapons contractors. Biological agents.” She pauses at one container, reading the hazardous materials codes with growing horror. “This is military-grade. They’ve got enough here to—”

“Level cities,” Bucky finishes quietly, scanning rows of weapons racks—Stark repulsor rifles, crates of high-powered ammunition, experimental drones, missile payloads stacked like firewood. “Same as on that ship we stopped. They’re moving all this to their bases.”

Yelena exhales, voice sharp. “They’ve been stockpiling for years.”

Sam frowns, eyes narrowed. “We’re not just dealing with leftover Hydra cells. This is something else.”

“No,” Bucky says, his voice colder now, darker. “This is Hydra. What’s left of it. Just wearing a new skin.”

He steps closer to one of the crates, pulling back a tarp to reveal canisters—chemical agents, labelled in Russian, German, languages from every war Hydra has ever wormed into.

Evie’s voice trembles. “How many cities could they hit with this?”

“All of them,” Bucky answers flatly.

For a moment, the whole team stands in the oppressive silence of the storage vault, surrounded by enough stolen weaponry to ignite another world war.

“We need to secure this,” Sam says, voice tight. “We call it in. Right now.”

Walker’s eyes stay on the rows of missiles. “And pray they don’t have more of these somewhere else.”

Bucky’s gaze stays locked on the Hydra crest burned into one steel plate. His fingers curl into a fist. “They do. That’s the worrying part.”

Sam keys his comms as soon as they assess the full scale of the depot. “Redwing. Upload full site recon. Code black. Threat containment protocols in effect.”

Redwing’s drone swarm launches instantly, scanning and transmitting everything — inventories, schematics, weapons types, personnel movements from earlier. AI-assisted algorithms begin mapping the facility’s underground network in real-time.

“Already notified GRSOC and JSOC,” Sam adds. “They’ll scramble cleanup teams.”

Bucky moves down a secondary corridor, checking for any stragglers or automated defences. His voice is clipped when he reports back. “No hostiles remaining on site. Facility is abandoned. Only automated systems active.”

Ava’s eyes sweep the area, still wary. “For now.”

“I feel like those three gave up too easily,” Yelena mutters, staring at one of the bombs beside her. “This is a lot of weaponry to abandon…”

Walker snorts, tense. “Feels like a setup. Nearly all of them have been. It’s like Hydra is just diverting us away from the real thing.”

Evie steps closer, voice tight. “What if they are? We’ve been worried about a leak this whole time. Maybe there is. And we’re falling for all of it.”

The facility hums quietly around them — generators still active, air filtration still running. The place doesn’t feel deserted. It feels maintained.

Bucky’s fingers twitch. “We need to sweep for remote detonation systems.”

Ava’s eyes widen. “Fail safes. If they knew we were coming—”

Redwing flashes a rapid data burst across Sam’s HUD.

“Tripwires in sections 4B and 6C,” Sam relays. “Explosives primed but not armed. They left in a hurry. We intercepted them before they could finish it.”

“Or they want us to think they did,” Bucky mutters.

“Who the hell abandons millions in black market weapons?” Walker demands. “Not unless they’ve got something bigger.”

“I’d bet my bottom dollar that they do,” Steve answers flatly.

Evie swallows hard. “This is the distraction, isn’t it?”

Sam nods, expression grim. “Looks that way. One of many…”

Yelena scans one of the computer terminals, fingers flying across the keys. “There’s encrypted data here. Coordinates. Possible transfer routes.”

Steve steps behind her, narrowing his eyes. “They're moving the rest somewhere else.”

Sam exhales. “Which means this is only one depot in a network.”

The room falls silent as they all realise it simultaneously.

Hydra isn’t hoarding weapons. They’re staging for something.

Evie leans against a support beam, breathing hard. “We need hazmat here. Half these canisters are unstable. If any of this ruptures—”

“Hazmat, bomb disposal, biotech retrieval teams. I’ve got every acronym in the alphabet en route.” Sam’s voice is calm but tense. “This place goes fully dark in sixty minutes.”

Yelena checks one of the secured vaults. “We’ll need Stark forensic teams too. Some of this tech was supposed to be dismantled after Sokovia.”

Walker kicks a loose shell casing aside. “Looks like Hydra had better logistics than the UN.”

And amid the chaos of the clean up, as multiple government agencies sweep the site to secure the danger within, one thought claws at the New Avengers—the Viper. The unseen puppeteer, the Hydra snake coiling in the dark.

They don’t know their name.

“None of them were the Viper,” Evie eventually says, her voice cutting through the silence like glass.

“Viper’s still out there,” Yelena agrees as they reach the extraction zone, rain soaking through their gear. “If they’re smart, they’re already setting the next trap.”

Bucky’s eyes harden, cold fire burning behind steel and flesh. “Then we find them. Before it’s too late.”

The Quinjet roars to life, tearing through the storm’s fury as they lift off, carrying them off into the uncertain night.

The team gathers later that night in a secure OXE’s forward ops centre, high-level feeds patched into multiple agencies.

Valentina’s voice crackles over the secure line: “Confirm the assessment, Wilson.”

Sam nods. “Facility matches previous Hydra deep storage models. Estimated 40,000 square feet of underground space. Multiple weapons caches. Advanced weaponry sourced from Stark Industries, OXE, former Soviet programs, and Hydra R&D labs dating back to World War II.”

“Level of threat?”

“Catastrophic if deployed. Chemical, biological, and high-yield ordinance all viable. Containment achieved. Site is being secured by SHIELD joint-response teams as of 0400 hours.”

An older DOD liaison cuts in, voice tight: “Who was running it?”

Sam glances at Bucky, then responds. “Primary operators appear to be remnants of the Serpent Society, operating under Hydra-aligned doctrine. King Cobra led local operations, but intelligence suggests wider coordination.”

“Hydra’s been fractured for years,” the DOD responds, confused.

Bucky speaks up, voice low. “Fractured. Not dead. This isn’t a rogue cell — it’s systematic. They're rebuilding. Quietly. The Serpent Society’s just the latest face.”

Val leans forward slightly on the screen. “Are we looking at a full Hydra 2.0, Barnes?”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “We’re looking at something worse. Leaner. Smarter. And fully operational.”

POST-MISSION REPORT (EXCERPTED)

AGENCY: NEW AVENGERS / JOINT THREAT ANALYSIS UNIT
SUBJECT: OPERATION BLACK COIL — MISSION REPORT

• Mission Codename: BLACK COIL
• Field Command: Captain Steve Rogers (Appointed)
• Operatives Present: Sam Wilson, James Barnes, Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, John Walker, Alexei, Shostakov, Evelyn Day

Summary of Events:

• Discovery of Serpent Society-Hydra aligned weapons facility in subterranean complex beneath former industrial sector (location redacted).
• Recovery of significant illegal stockpiles, including:
• Stark repulsor weaponry (unauthorized procurement)
• OXE biotech and viral agents (classified materials)
• Hydra-engineered chemical weapons (dating back to early Cold War programs)
• Ballistic and guided munitions (city-level threat assessment)

Hostile Actors:

• King Cobra (escaped)
• Anaconda (escaped)
• Rattler (escaped)
• Unknown additional collaborators – not sighted

Current Status:

• Facility secured.
• Materials in containment (SHIELD, OXE)
• Investigation into supply chains, financing, and Hydra/Serpent leadership structures ongoing.

Preliminary Assessment:
Hydra-affiliated networks remain operational under new decentralised models. Further field operations recommended to prevent escalation.

POST-MISSION PERSONAL NOTE — BUCKY’S PRIVATE FILE

(Filed under encrypted journal logs; unauthorised access prohibited)

“We thought Hydra was nearly gone. I thought it was gone. But this—this was doctrine. The way Cobra spoke… They’re still out there. Different names. Different uniforms. Same rot underneath. And we’re going to have to burn it out again. Every last piece of it.”

Chapter Text

“I think we should get out of here,” Evie says. “The others are on the mission and there’s no point moping around the Tower worrying until they get back. Come on, there’s a street fair a few blocks over. Let’s go, let off some steam.”

Bucky thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah, alright. Let me get a jacket.”

And that's how they find themselves walking through the East Village, weaving through the Sunday street fair — noise, colour, crowds. Evelyn’s trying to enjoy it. Trying to act like a normal person doing normal-person things with her totally-not-complicated friend who just happens to be a former assassin. After they just lost a fight against three Serpent-themed villains a few days ago. And are uncovering more and more about Hydra and a Serpent Society threatening everything they’ve ever known. 

And she totally feels normal toward Bucky. They're friends. They did not keep up a perfect couples facade on the mission before it. And they don't compliment each other. And Bucky doesn't rely on her. And she doesn't secretly rely on him, too. And they definitely did not call each other their safe person.

I'm in this bad, she thinks to herself, and sighs.  

Bucky’s on edge, she can feel it in the way he walks, positions himself, eyes on alert. But he’s got a little bag swinging from his right hand with a nice smelling candle she bought herself, and she’s eyeing off a small handmade jade ring at the next stall, trying it on a hand that shakes just a little bit if anyone was to look close enough.

“You like it?” She asks him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Looks nice.” He never actually looks at it, his eyes darting around them.

She pauses for a second, looking at him carefully. “Bucky–”

“Ev?” He finally looks at her.

“We can go back to the Tower,” she offers.

“No, it’s okay. M’fine. Promise.” He looks down then, noticing the ring still on her finger. “That’s nice, the ring,” he says finally. She frowns at him like he hadn’t just said it was nice before. He takes her hand gently in his, looking at it closely. Her hands tremble just a little bit in his. “You gonna buy it?”

“Think I will,” she says, and hands over the cash to the vendor, who thanks her.

They start to walk again, and she fiddles with the ring on her finger, swirling it around.

This is normal.

Totally normal.

Just another day.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

Until it’s not.

She feels them before she sees them. A coldness sliding up her spine. Then the crowd opens and suddenly they’re everywhere — ghosts. Five, six, maybe more. Surrounding her like a tide.

One of them stares through her like she’s made of glass. Another mouths something she can’t hear. Her breath catches. She stops walking.

“Ev?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the noise. He’s a few steps ahead, turning back. “You okay?”

She snaps her head up. “Yeah. Fine. Just—” Her eyes dart to one of the ghosts, then away. “Just zoned out.”

He squints at her. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

She barks a laugh that’s way too sharp. “Don’t be dramatic.”

But then — one of them reaches toward her. Not touching. Just pointing. Right at her chest.

She flinches.

“What was that?” Bucky asks, suddenly close beside her again. “You jumped.”

“It was nothing.”

“You looked like someone touched you.”

“No one touched me, Buck. Don't be silly.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I’m warm.” She shrugs off her jacket quickly, like it’s stabbing into her skin, huffing. He watches her carefully. She forces a crooked grin. “I think I’m just… low blood sugar. Or overstimulated. Or whatever.” She waves a hand vaguely toward a hot dog stand. “Let me get something greasy, I’ll bounce back.”

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t drop it either. Just falls into step beside her again, silent and thoughtful. She grabs the nearest street food she can find and talks about absolutely anything except what just happened. Bucky humours her.

But later — much later — she catches him watching her when he thinks she’s not looking.

And she knows, she’s running out of time.

They’re back at the compound. Bucky’s heading down the hallway toward the training rooms, towel slung around his neck, earbuds in, mind halfway into sparring mode already. Evelyn’s a few paces ahead, rounding a corner, when she jolts like someone just grabbed her arm.

He sees it — clear as day.

She spins, eyes locked on something he can’t see, mouth set in a sharp line. She whispers something, low and fast, her hand raised just slightly like she’s warding something off.

By the time he jogs up to her, she’s smoothing down her sleeve and forcing a smile.

“You good?” he asks, brows pulling together.

Evelyn doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. Just—thought I saw something.”

“What kind of something?”

“A reflection. Glitch in the mirror. You ever seen The Matrix. Glitch in the Matrix...”

He looks around. There’s no mirror. There’s nothing, actually. No reason for her to flinch like that. No person. No noise. Just the hum of the hallway lights and her fake-casual posture that’s a little too stiff to sell.

He stares at her, like he’s trying to fit pieces together that should make sense but don’t.

She shrugs. “It’s fine.”

And for now, he lets it drop. But the way he watches her as she walks away—he’s adding it to the list.

Bucky doesn’t believe in ghosts.

He believes in trauma, in memory, in shadows that follow you home and refuse to leave. He knows what it’s like to wake up with someone else’s blood on your hands and no recollection of why.

But ghosts? That’s too far, even for him.

Still, something’s… off.

He notices it more now. Evelyn glancing over her shoulder when no one’s there. The way she freezes sometimes mid-laugh, as if she’s suddenly standing in a colder room than the rest of them. Her quiet apologies whispered into empty air.

It’s ramping up. He’s never noticed it before, in the few months they’ve known each other. But it seems to be more frequent in the last few weeks, often, and it seems to be freaking her out, even though she bats him away and waves off his concern and refuses to talk about it.

And there’s the smell.

It’s faint — something sharp and old, like ozone or candle smoke — but it shows up when she’s unsettled. When she flinches, or talks to something that isn’t there, or looks at an empty corner of a room, it comes. Bucky catches it in passing, chalks it up to nerves, instinct, whatever. He doesn’t ask. He’s not sure he wants to know.

But he’s watching now. Not suspicious. Just… careful.

One night, when they’re both leaving the gym, she holds the elevator door for him and her eyes flick to something over his shoulder.

She whispers, “Not now, okay?” — so quietly it could’ve been to herself.

He glances behind him. Empty hallway.

She covers fast. “Sorry, just—reminding myself not to forget something.”

He nods slowly. Says nothing.

But later, in his room, he can’t shake the weird twist in his gut. Like something brushed against him on the way out. Like he wasn’t alone.

It happens after another mission. Clean, efficient. Minimal casualties. But Bucky can’t let it go — not the way she’d frozen again during the debrief, eyes pinned to something that wasn’t there. Not the way she muttered under her breath when she thought no one was close enough to hear.

They’re alone in the hallway outside the conference room. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, a steady, electric buzz. Evelyn’s halfway to the elevator when he speaks.

“You keep looking at things that aren’t there.”

She stops. Turns slowly. “What?”

“You heard me, doll.” A beat of silence stretches between them. Evie looks awkward, uncomfortable. Bucky folds his arms. “You’ve been talking to thin air. Flinching at shadows. I’ve seen you.”

Evelyn forces a chuckle. “Everyone sees things sometimes, Barnes.”

“Don’t,” he says, low. “Don’t give me the ‘stress’ line again. Don’t bat me away like that.”

Something flickers in her face — guilt, fear, deflection. “I’m not—I’m fine. You're reading too much into it. I’m just antsy. I’m an antsy person.”

He steps forward, voice gentler now. “I know what it's like to carry something you think people won’t understand. But if there’s something going on… you can trust me.”

She meets his gaze — and wants to tell him. Wants to unspool the truth like thread between them.

But instead, she says softly, “You don’t want to know, Bucky.”

And she leaves him standing there, jaw tight with frustration and worry.

Chapter Text

The dream comes like a storm—violent, sudden, unrelenting.

Evelyn’s breath catches as she runs through a darkened forest, every step heavier than the last, fog curling around her legs like hands trying to pull her under. She calls his name—over and over—but the silence swallows it whole. Then she sees him.

Bucky. Standing still, too still, at the edge of the tree line. Pale. Cold. Wrong.

He turns slowly, and her stomach plummets.

His eyes are dull. His skin is waxy. His mouth opens to speak, but no sound comes. Blood stains his shirt, spreading out from his heart like something blooming.

“No,” she gasps, reaching for him—but her hand passes through his chest like mist. He looks at her one last time. Then he’s gone. Just—gone.

The scream catches in her throat as she jerks upright in bed, drenched in sweat, chest heaving like she’s drowning. Her heart is pounding so violently it aches, and for a moment, she can’t breathe. She’s still there—in that moment—watching him vanish.

Her sheets are tangled around her legs, soaked with sweat, her chest heaving like she’s just run miles. The image is still there, seared behind her eyes—Bucky, lifeless.

Bucky, reaching for her with hands that pass through her like smoke.

Bucky, whispering her name with a voice that doesn’t belong in the living world.

She gasps and claws at the sheets, sitting up so fast her vision swims. It wasn’t just a dream. She knows what dreams feel like—disjointed, surreal. This was something else. It was cold. Real.

It wasn’t just fear. It was presence. She knows the difference.

Something is wrong.

She doesn’t think.

He’s dead.

She’s sure of it.

The world tilts on its axis.

“No,” she breathes, shaking her head as her fingers tremble violently. “No, no, no—”

She needs to see him.

“Bucky,” she whispers aloud, a tremor in her voice.

Barefoot, still in her sleep clothes, she stumbles out of bed. Her legs are weak, heart hammering against her ribs like it’s trying to escape. She doesn't bother with a robe, doesn’t bother to knock. She pushes out of her room and moves quickly down the hallway, her breath shallow and unsteady. Every part of her feels raw, like her skin’s been scraped thin.

The hallway feels longer than usual. Each shadow stretches like it's watching her. The light from under Bucky’s door is faint, but it’s enough to guide her. Her hand trembles on the doorknob.

Please, she thinks. Please be alive. Please be real.

She knocks on the door.

“Bucky,” she hisses, knocking again. “Open the door.”

She scans her finger and the door opens, and she pushes on it. Doesn’t even register the fact that the door opens to her as well as to Bucky when they’re only supposed to open for the occupant of the room. Unless someone adds a fingerprint to the system.

And then he’s standing there in front of her, shirtless, confused, bleary-eyed.

“Ev?”

There’s a knock, loud and sharp, and Bucky, in the midst of sleep, hears his name being hissed on the other side of the door.

The soft sound of the door creaking open pierces the stillness of the night, and Bucky jerks awake, the blanket falling to his lap. He pushes the covers back and jumps out of bed, instinctively moving toward the door. He’s barely coherent when he sees her standing there, her silhouette dark against the faint light spilling in from the hallway. He pauses, looking at her.

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but Bucky immediately senses something’s wrong.

“Ev?” His voice is thick with sleep, but concern cuts through the grogginess.

She doesn’t answer, just takes a step forward, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. She’s trembling, her whole body shaking in the cold air.

She looks at him like he’s a ghost. Like he’s not really there.

He moves toward her slowly.

“Evie?” he says, taking the sides of her face in his hands, staring into her eyes. “Tell me what happened, doll. Did someone hurt you? You just tell me who and I’ll deal with them.”

“N-no,” she whispers.

Her hand comes up to touch his flesh hand, gently as though she’s afraid. She touches his shoulder and then his cheek, like she’s making sure he’s real. She looks surprised when her cold fingers meet the warm flesh of his arm and face.

She takes another step and collapses into his arms without a word, her face burying into his chest.

He wraps his arms around her, his touch automatic but gentle. She’s shaking so hard, it’s almost like she’s made of glass. His heart squeezes at the sight—this isn’t just fear; this is something deeper, something that claws at her in the dark.

“Evie,” he says again, a little more urgently, his metal hand gently running up and down her back. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Her body wracks with a quiet sob, and Bucky feels his throat tighten. He knows she’s been through hell. But this? This is different. She’s not just scared—she’s terrified.

“I thought you were…” Her voice breaks, and she pulls away slightly, but not enough to escape his hold. Her eyes meet his, and he sees the panic, the raw emotion that flares in her gaze. “I thought you were dead.”

He sighs. “You had a bad dream?”

“I—I don’t know,” she whispers.

“I’m okay. I’m right here. See? M’fine,” he promises, squeezing her tightly.

“I saw you. You came to me. As a ghost. Dead.”

The words hit him like a punch. He doesn’t let her go. His grip tightens instinctively, pulling her close again. She’s shaking too hard for him to let her slip away.

“Evie,” he murmurs, the words tumbling out, desperate to calm her, to make sense of what she’s saying. “I’m here. I’m not dead. I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is hoarse now, thick with a depth of emotion he doesn’t usually show. He can feel her heart pounding in her chest, as fast as his own.

She exhales shakily, her eyes filling with tears again, and she buries her face against him, clutching at his back. “You were a ghost, Bucky. I—” She cuts herself off, gasping for air like she’s trying to grasp onto something solid. “I saw you. And then you—” She chokes on the words, shaking her head. “You were gone. You were dead.”

She pulls back and looks at him then, eyes wide, manic.

“You were a ghost. Like the others.”

Bucky feels something tight in his chest, an ache that spreads through him, but he holds her tighter, his hand sifting through her hair, trying to soothe her. It all starts to make sense – all the flinching, the talking to people who aren’t there, her wide-eyed expression as she stared at empty corners of rooms.

He doesn’t really know what this means. Ghosts? Visions? He’s faced monsters, he’s fought battles, but this—this is something outside his understanding. But it doesn’t matter. Not now. He needs to pull her back from the edge.

“What…” His voice drops, softer now, as he leans in a little closer, trying to catch her eyes. “What do you mean? What are you talking about—about seeing me as a ghost?”

She freezes for a moment, her breath hitching, her eyes distant, like she’s trying to find the words to explain something she can’t quite understand herself.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she whispers.

“Tell me what?”

Finally, she sighs, her voice trembling as she speaks, barely a whisper. “I can see them sometimes. The dead. They—sometimes they come to me, and I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but they just find me. They just… they’re there. It’s part of my powers.”

Her hands clench, grabbing hold of him tighter, holding both his biceps like it’s a lifeline, and he feels her breath come faster, like she’s about to be swallowed by this truth.

“They don’t always talk. Most of them just... look at me. Like they’re waiting for something. Like they want something. And sometimes,” she chokes, her voice cracking, “sometimes it’s people I knew. People I’ve lost. And sometimes it’s strangers. Soldiers. Children. I see how they died. I feel it. Like a memory that’s not mine.”

Her shoulders tremble. “I saw you, Bucky. I felt what it would be like if you were gone. Like the world just... tilted sideways. Like it stopped making sense.”

Bucky stares at her, his mind scrambling to process what she’s just said. He’s been through a lot—things that would make most people crumble. But this? This is different. It’s not an enemy you can punch or a mission you can finish. It’s grief without a name. A gift twisted into a curse.

He swallows hard, heart clenching at the weight she’s been carrying, all in silence. All alone.

“I’m scaring you,” she whispers.

“No,” he promises quickly. “You’re not. I’m fine, Ev, promise.”

She hesitates again. “Do you think I’m crazy?” She asks quietly.

He breathes out a soft laugh. “Hey, I’ve seen you move things with your mind and control emotions. I’ve fought aliens and Nazis wielding magical space stones. I’m 109 years old and don’t look a day over 35. I don’t think you’re crazy,” he reassures her, voice firm but soft, like he’s grounding her in the reality that she's not alone in this madness. "Not even close."

She lets out a shaky breath, half-relieved, half-sceptical, but the tension in her shoulders eases just a little, the raw vulnerability of her fear starting to soften in the comfort of his steady presence. The weight of the moment hangs in the air, but she’s grounding herself in him, in the warmth that radiates from his touch.

“And you’re not dead?” she asks again, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if needing to hear it from him, to feel his solid presence before she believes it. Her hand reaches out again, her fingers tracing his flesh arm, as if verifying what she already knows in her heart.

“No,” he answers firmly, his voice steady despite the uncertainty and worry still thrumming inside him. “I’m not dead.”

Her eyes search his face for any sign of doubt, but when she finds none, she presses on. “Dying?”

He shakes his head, a soft, reassuring smile tugging at his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, weighed down by the worry he sees in hers. “Don’t think so.”

Her brow furrows slightly, the ghost of fear still lingering, and she asks again, softer now, “Sick?”

He leans a little closer to her, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Nope.” His tone is lighter, but the concern is still there, thick in the air between them. “Super soldier, remember?”

She sighs, looking away from him, her hand coming up to wipe at the stray tears that have slipped down her cheeks. The weight of everything—her fear, her exhaustion—hangs heavy in the space between them. She doesn’t want to show it. Doesn’t want to admit how close she came to losing him in her own mind, how much that fear has torn her apart. But it’s there. It always is.

“Evie,” he whispers again, his voice softer this time, raw with emotion, as if his very soul is reaching out to her. His hand finds her face, gently cupping her cheek, his thumb grazing away another tear. The touch is tender, as though he’s afraid that too much pressure will break her. “I’ve got you.” He leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there, just a moment longer than usual. “You’re not crazy. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

She looks up at him then, and for the first time in what feels like forever, she lets her guard slip just a little. Her eyes, wide and vulnerable, search his face, as though trying to read him, to find any flicker of doubt. There’s none. Only that quiet, unyielding certainty that she’s not alone. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to explain herself any further. She doesn’t need to. The weight of her fears, her anxieties, are too much for words to handle.

Without a sound, she leans into him, letting herself fall completely into his embrace. Exhausted, afraid, and desperately in need of the comfort he offers, she allows herself to be held. Her breath comes in uneven gasps as she sinks into him, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, grounding her in the way nothing else can.

“Come on,” he murmurs softly, guiding her toward the bed. His hand is gentle on her back as he leads her, like she’s fragile, like she’s something precious that needs to be protected.

Bucky sits down on the bed and pulls her down with him, wrapping the blankets around her like a cocoon of warmth and safety. He doesn’t rush her, doesn’t force anything. He lets her settle beside him, letting her feel his presence, his calm steadiness, in the midst of the chaos swirling around her.

Without a word, he shifts, easing her down onto the bed beside him, keeping her close, making sure she feels his solid presence beside her. His hand finds hers amid the mess of blankets, fingers intertwining, as if it’s a silent promise that he’s not going anywhere. He’s not leaving her. Not tonight. Not ever.

She doesn’t fight him when he pulls her into his arms again, her head resting against his chest. She feels the rhythm of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breath, and it’s like an anchor, steadying her in the storm of her own mind. Her body trembles slightly, but the shakes are less intense now, the warmth of his embrace soothing some of the fear still thrumming beneath her skin.

She closes her eyes, feeling the heat of his body against hers, allowing herself to relax into him. For the first time in what feels like forever, she lets herself be weak. She lets herself be held, letting the weight of exhaustion settle over her. She needs him now. More than ever. She needs this moment of comfort, of security, of knowing that, for now, she’s safe.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky repeats softly, his voice quiet in the stillness of the room.

His hand smooths down her hair, a gentle caress that feels like it’s erasing the fear, the tension, the worry. She feels her breath slow as she sinks deeper into the calm of his presence, her body relaxing into the rhythm of his heartbeat.

But Bucky doesn’t sleep. Not yet. Not with so much still unsettled in his mind. He lies there, his arms wrapped around her, his thoughts racing. He knows she’s been through things—things that most people wouldn’t survive. But this? This is different. The way she spoke of the dead, the way she looked at him with that unshakable fear in her eyes, makes his chest tighten. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know how to help her rid herself of whatever ghosts are haunting her, but he knows one thing for sure: he’s not going to let her face them alone.

He can’t change the past, can’t undo the horrors she’s lived through, but he can be here. He can keep her safe. He can protect her from whatever comes next. And that’s exactly what he plans to do.

Her breathing deepens, and the weight of exhaustion finally takes its toll. Bucky feels her body relax, her muscles unwinding as sleep finally claims her. He lets out a soft sigh of relief, his mind quieting, even if only for a moment. She’s finally at peace, at least for now.

He closes his eyes, still holding her, knowing that whatever ghosts may linger in her world, he’ll be the one to fight them off. And if there’s a way to heal whatever’s haunting her, he’ll find it. One way or another. He won’t stop until she’s free of the fear that holds her.

But for now, he stays with her, wrapped around her like a shield, his mind quiet, even as the world outside remains chaotic. There’s no rush. There’s no hurry.

She’s safe here.

With him.

Chapter Text

Bucky wakes up gasping. Cold sweat clings to his skin, his chest heaving like he’s still fighting his way out of whatever hell just gripped him. His eyes fly open, wild, unfocused.

He doesn’t know where he is—until a familiar voice cuts through the haze.

“Hey. You’re okay. I'm here,” Evie whispers.

She’s already beside him, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting carefully over his flesh forearm. She must’ve heard him thrashing from next door. He’s not sure what woke him—his own voice or the sound of his heart breaking open.

“I’m here,” she says again, her voice gentle, calm. “You're safe.”

His breathing begins to steady, though his throat is tight and sore, like he’d been screaming in his sleep. Maybe he had.

She reaches for the water glass by the bed and presses it into his hands. He sits up on his elbow, leaning toward her, and drinks mechanically, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the present.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “Did I wake you?”

Evie gives him a look. “You don’t have to apologise for having nightmares.”

He hesitates. “Can you… can you stay for a while?”

She nods without hesitation and climbs into the bed beside him, settling under the covers. She doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t crowd him, just offers her presence. And it’s enough. It’s everything. He lays back again, staring up at the ceiling.

They lie in silence for a few minutes. The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the heating vent and the soft rhythm of their breathing. The shadows shift slowly across the ceiling, moonlight stretching long fingers across the room like it’s trying to soothe the night’s tension away.

But the tightness in Bucky’s chest hasn’t eased. Not fully.

“Can I talk to you about something?” he says, voice rough.

Evie turns toward him instantly, brushing a stray piece of hair from his forehead. “Of course. Anything.”

He closes his eyes briefly. Her touch is warm—gentle in a way he still doesn’t quite know how to hold onto. It would be easy to sink into it. To let her be the anchor he clings to and forget the dark water below. But that’s the thing—he can’t let her be an anchor to someone she doesn’t even know the depths of.

“I—I feel like if we’re ever gonna… move past where we are now, whatever we are… and if I’m ever going to move on from it, I need to talk about it. You gotta know.”

He doesn’t say it outright—not yet—but the words hang in the air between them, weighted and real. Her breath catches at what he’s implying, but she doesn’t call him on it. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t flinch.

“What is it?” she whispers instead, her voice soft with curiosity but steady with patience.

Bucky stares up at the ceiling, the words clawing at the back of his throat. You. He thinks. It’s you. I want you.

He wants to reach for her, to tell her how often his thoughts drift to her laugh, the way she mutters to herself when she’s annoyed, the fierce kindness she carries like a shield. He wants to tell her how he’s been watching the way she glances at him when she thinks he isn’t looking. How he feels something sharp and alive in his chest every time she touches him—even just brushing his arm in passing.

It terrifies him. Because wanting her means wanting a future. And wanting a future means she has to see all of him. Not just the war hero, not just the ghost Hydra left behind—but the pieces that still cut if you pick them up the wrong way.

“I think about you,” he says, voice barely audible. “More than I probably should.”

Evie doesn't interrupt. Just listens. Waits.

“And I want… I want more. With you,” he confesses. “But I can’t let you step into this—into me—without knowing exactly what you’re walking into.”

His jaw tightens. Shame flares in his stomach like an old wound reopening.

“I trust you,” he whispers, eyes pleading as he looks at her.

“I know you do. It’s okay, Bucky.”

He sighs. He turns away and stares at the ceiling again, jaw tight. “I gotta get this off my chest… Has Bob told you much about the Void?” He asks.

“Enough,” Evie admits quietly.

“There was a… thing. When I was in the Void. When we brought Bob back the first time, he swallowed us all up in it,” he says slowly. “We had to fight through our worst fears to try to find him, to get ourselves out. And… I’ve never talked about it before. Wasn’t ready. Said I was fine.”

Her hand finds his again. “What did you see?” She whispers. “Is that what you want to tell me about?”

He nods, avoids her eyes. “There were rooms,” he continues. “We had to fight through. Each one showed me something. A memory. A nightmare. Or something worse. Somethings that I’m still ashamed of.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Bucky’s voice is quiet, but there’s a weight to it that stills the air around them. “Can I tell you about what I saw?” He asks, looking to her for permission.

“Of course you can, if you want to,” she promises.

“You gotta know all of it. All of me. You can’t be going in blind.”

She smiles at that, huffs a little bit of a laugh. “I’m not going in blind. I see you, Buck.”

He nods at that. “Okay. In the first room…” he begins, his eyes glassy, unfocused. “I was falling. Off the train. Again.”

Evie doesn’t say a word. Her hand just tightens around his, anchoring him.

“It was like I was back there. The cold metal under my boots. And then the weightlessness as I was hanging on. The wind howling past my ears. Steve screaming my name—but it was already too late.”

His breath catches.

“I saw his face. Just before I went over. Steve’s. That look—like the world was ending. And maybe for him, it felt like it was. For me, it did.”

He pauses, swallowing hard.

“I hit the side of the ravine on the way down. Felt my arm snap. The white of bone. Then the snow—icy, wet, sharp. I remember the cold. Not just outside—inside. Like it was getting into my bloodstream, freezing me from the heart outward. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even call for help. Just... laid there, blinking up at the grey sky. Every second dragged. I kept hoping someone would find me. But no one came.”

The silence stretches.

“I think I died there, in a way,” he says softly. “The person I was. The guy who made Steve laugh. Who flirted too much. Who had plans. And… when the Russians came, when they found me, I heard their footsteps first, and I was so relieved because I thought it was Steve. And then it was an ally, and I was still relieved – they were gonna save me. But they dragged me straight to Hydra, and I… I realised I wish I’d died, there, in that snowy ravine. Cursed every god there ever was for what they were doing to me. And then, in the Void, it just started it all again, from the beginning. Over and over.”

Evie gently strokes his thumb with hers. “I’m so sorry.”

His eyes flick to hers, full of something raw. But he keeps going.

“The second room… it was worse.”

She hears the shift in his voice—thinner, hollow. She isn’t sure how it could really get any worse.

“It was all of them. Everyone I ever killed as the Winter Soldier. Every mission. Every name. They were there. Surrounding me.”

He draws in a breath that rattles.

“They weren’t people anymore. Not exactly. More like shadows—half there, half gone. I couldn’t make out faces, but I knew them. Knew what I’d done to them. One after the other. Over and over.” He closes his eyes. “They didn’t speak at first. They just watched me. Like they were waiting. Then they started whispering. Soft at first—then louder. ‘Don’t.’ ‘Please.’ ‘Why are you doing this?’”

Evie’s bottom lip trembles, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt.

“I covered my ears. Screamed. Told them to stop. But it didn’t matter. They just kept going. They started to reach for me. Their hands were cold. Like… grave-cold. And no matter how fast I ran, they followed. I wasn’t fighting for anything in there—I was just trying to outrun their hands. But you can’t outrun guilt.”

His voice breaks on the last word. Evie shifts slightly, her other hand reaching to brush his hair back from his damp forehead.

“The third room…” Bucky says, and there’s a sudden shift in tone. Softer. More fragile. “It was me and Steve. We were kids. Maybe twelve, thirteen. We cut school on some warm October day to get ice cream. Just wandered around Brooklyn like we didn’t have a care in the world. Steve had chocolate ice cream dripping down his wrist. I had vanilla. We traded halfway through.”

He lets out a faint laugh, the sound more pain than joy.

“I could feel it, Evie. The sun. The crunch of leaves under our feet. The heat of the pavement through my shoes. I could even smell the damn pretzels from that corner cart.” He pauses. “And then this… ache started. Not physical—just this growing grief. Because I knew that moment was gone. I knew it would never come back. I’d never be that carefree again, that young, that innocent.”

Evie nods slowly, tears lining her lashes. She doesn’t wipe them away.

“That hurt more than the others,” Bucky whispers. “Because it was real. And it was mine. And I still lost it.”

He presses his hand over his chest briefly, like trying to calm something inside. Takes a deep breath.

“The fourth room…” His tone changes again. It flattens. Dulls. “…was Hydra.”

Evie stiffens slightly but says nothing.

“I was strapped to a chair. My body… it wasn’t mine anymore. There were chains. Metal ones. I could feel every link. I could hear the electricity humming.” His jaw clenches. “They were experimenting on me. Testing limits. Seeing how much I could take before I blacked out. There was always a new method. Pain, disorientation, starvation. The drugs that made everything slow and thick.”

His voice is fading now, like it’s costing him more to speak.

“And if I fought back, they punished me. Made it worse. So eventually… I stopped. I just… gave up. Gave in to it. It was easier. And they wiped my memories, which made it all easier eventually.”

Evie’s hand tightens around his, and when he looks over, her eyes are burning.

“I’m here,” she says. “I’m listening. You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.”

But he does. Because this matters. Because she’s here.

“They used me. In ways you should never use a person. That… that’s why I haven’t really liked being touched. By anyone,” he finishes, his voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t have to say it aloud for her to know what he means. She freezes, acutely aware of how she’s lying beside him, hand in his, has been brushing back his hair, touching him without asking. How she’s hugged him, grabbed his hand, patted his back, cupped his cheek. All the ways she’s invaded his personal space over the last few months, and he probably didn’t know how to tell her not to.

Immediately, she’s filled with regret and guilt. She moves to let go of his hand, and then realises how much of a mistake that would be in this moment. So she freezes entirely, goes stiff, waits. She goes to apologise, but he speaks first.

“But with you, it’s different,” he tells her, finally meeting her eyes. “You make me feel safe. When you touch me, every time, it’s like you’re rewriting the wiring of my brain, telling it that touch is good and safe and okay.”

Evie lets out a breath, shaky and full of something she can't name. Relief. Ache. The terrible weight of understanding. She swallows hard. “I didn’t know,” she murmurs. “I never… if I had, I would've—”

“I know,” he says gently, before she can spiral. “You would’ve asked. Or given me space. But I realised pretty quickly that I didn’t want that.”

She nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise. I should’ve picked up on it sooner.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His fingers squeeze hers — deliberately, meaningfully. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re helping me, every time you’re there for me.”

She looks down at their hands, at the calluses and scars and everything they both carry in their skin.

Then, quietly, she says, “It makes sense now. Why you don’t sleep much. Why you always notice exits. Why you flinch at certain noises. Why you don’t like anyone else touching you. You shouldn’t have let me do that, Bucky,” she says, with a bit of a nervous laugh. “Boundaries are important.”

Bucky gives her a tired, lopsided smile. “You notice that?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “I see you.”

And he believes her.

They sit there in the dark for a while, not needing to say anything else. Just two survivors, side by side on a couch, in the soft, in-between hours of the night. The past doesn’t loosen its grip easily — but here, now, it feels lighter somehow. Shared.

“The fifth room,” he says, a little steadier, “was at the World’s Fair. I think the girl’s name was Connie. She kissed me right before I left for the front lines.” He stares at the ceiling. “She was sweet. Brunette. Wore a red scarf that night. I remember the way her lipstick tasted like cherry candy. But even back then… I did that, you know. I was flirty. I went on dates. I kissed girls. But something about it made me flinch.”

Evie watches him closely.

“In the Void… that memory was twisted. Her touch felt wrong. Not because of her. Because of me. Because I’ve hated being touched for so long, Evie. Even good touches. Even safe ones. They just… they don’t land right. And in that room, it was like I was being shown exactly what I lost. I knew I probably wouldn’t ever have that again – that closeness, that comfort. Not without fear, or pain, or shame clinging to it. At least I never thought I would… until I met you.”

Evie’s hand is trembling now, though she’s trying to hide it.

“And then I’ve been thinking about it a lot… I’d there was a sixth room,” he says softly. “It would be you.”

Her breath catches.

“I dream about it a lot. It takes the same shape as a shame room. And I asked Bob about it, because, you know, he was see if it if he touches our hand. He confirmed, it’s you…”

”What am I doing?” Evie whispers.

”You were standing at the edge of a street. Telling me you were done. That you couldn’t take it anymore. Me. And then you turned and walked away.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

“I didn’t run after you. I just stood there. And I felt it in my gut. That you were the last one. Everyone else had left, or died, or abandoned me. And you were the only person who still saw me. And then you were gone too.”

Evie’s eyes are wide, swimming with tears. Her face is pale.

“And that,” Bucky says, “would the worst one. Of all the rooms. That one hurts the most.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. So, she squeezes her hand and leans forward, resting her forehead against his, eyes scrunched closer. Not urgently. Just there. Solid. Present. Herself.

He leans into her, his own eyes closed, his breathing still shaky.

“Bucky, do you think I’m ashamed of you?” She finally asks, voice low.

”I think you should be,” he says shakily.

”I’m not,” she promises. Her breath floats across his mouth. “I could never be. I’m proud of everything about you, if anything. And I see how far you’ve come and how long you’ve fought for. I’m anything but ashamed of you.”

He doesn’t respond to that, doesn’t really know how. Just takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“I’m glad you weren’t fighting with us then, when we were the Thunderbolts and only just coming together,” Bucky murmurs, his breath tickling the end of her nose. “There were others with me, in the Void, through all of those rooms when we were fighting through. I wouldn’t have ever wanted you to see that. Any of that.”

Evie sits up slightly, backing away from him, and sits up on her elbow so she can look down at him. Her voice is steady. Fierce. “Bucky. I don’t see those things,” she whispers.

He turns to her, confused.

“I see you,” she says, firm. “Right here,” a hand, placed just over his heart. “A man who had so many things done to him that no one—no one—could blame him for being a little broken. But you’re not just that.” She brushes a hand against his cheek. “You’re strong. You’re kind. You’re here. You fight every single day to be more than what they made you. And you are.”

Bucky swallows hard, throat tight. He reaches up to grab her hand, holding it against his cheek, warm against his skin.

“You are so loved, Bucky Barnes. By everyone. And especially—especially by me.”

Something breaks in him at that. A sob he didn’t mean to let out. She pulls him into her arms without hesitation. And for once, he lets himself be held. 

He’s quiet for a long time. Breathing her in. Letting her be his anchor.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Evie presses her lips to his temple. “Always.”

Evie holds him close for a while, not saying anything, just letting the silence settle around them like a blanket. His heart, still racing from the confessions, starts to slow, matching the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath his cheek. The room feels warmer somehow, as if her presence can erase some of the cold that’s been lingering in him for so long.

His breathing evens out, his hands slowly unclenching from fists he didn’t even realise he’d been making.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly after a while, his voice rough, as if the words have been stuck for too long.

Evie pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, her gaze soft but firm. “There’s nothing to apologise for. Not with me. Never.”

Bucky swallows, his throat still tight. He nods, not trusting himself to speak further. His eyes flick to her lips for the briefest second, but he doesn’t move to close the space. The weight of his past presses so heavily on him that even the most simple touch feels monumental.

Evie notices the way his gaze lingers, and she gently shifts closer, her hand brushing over his as she guides it to rest against her own heart.

“Just be here, Bucky,” she whispers. “Just for now. Let it all go, for tonight. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

The soft weight of her words settles in him like the calm after a storm. For the first time in a long time, he feels the edges of the burden lighten, if only a little. His eyes close, and he nods slowly, the tension starting to drain from his body as he exhales.

Evie doesn’t pull away. Instead, she keeps her arms around him, her presence grounding him. She doesn’t try to fix anything, doesn’t offer solutions. She just is, a steady, unwavering force that doesn’t need to change him to accept him.

Eventually, the quiet stretches on. Her hand moves in small, soothing circles on his back, tracing gentle paths over the worn fabric of his shirt. It’s rhythmic, comforting, like a heartbeat of its own. The simple act of her touch—warm, unhurried—wraps around him, a quiet kind of healing he’s never known before.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Bucky murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Be... like this. Open.”

Evie’s response is soft, but sure. “You just did a pretty good job of it,” she promises. “Do you feel a little better? Getting it off your chest?”

For a long moment, he’s not sure how to respond. He only knows that in her arms, in the warmth of her words, the fragments of himself he’s kept hidden for so long start to piece themselves together. The broken parts, the pieces too jagged to fit anywhere else, are slowly finding a place with her.

“Yeah,” he whispers, and it’s true,

Bucky’s eyelids flutter shut, exhaustion finally claiming him. The weight of his nightmares begins to drift away, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, he feels a small flicker of peace.

As he drifts off, he can feel her breath against his cheek, steady and calm. And for the first time, sleep doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like a refuge.

In her arms, he allows himself to simply rest, knowing that whatever comes next—whatever demons are still out there—he doesn’t have to face them alone.

Chapter Text

Bucky’s heart flutters unexpectedly, a sensation so foreign that it catches him off guard.

He’s walking down the corridor, passing by Evie’s room, when the sound of gentle guitar strings drifts toward him. At first, he’s not sure what it is. The soft, rhythmic plucking is unfamiliar, but as his steps slow, he realises—it’s her.

Evie’s voice rises in the air, soft and clear, cutting through the silence of the hallway. It’s a melody he hasn’t heard before, not that that’s a shock, delicate and haunting, weaving through the space like a quiet thread. He pauses just outside her door, his body frozen in place, not wanting to interrupt but unable to tear himself away from the sound.

Her guitar playing is steady, grounding. The music carries a warmth with it, a sense of intimacy that fills the hallway, and Bucky feels it in his chest, a flutter of something soft and real. The way she plays—carefully, but with an easy fluidity—suggests a comfort, a familiarity with the strings, with the rhythm. Her voice, though quiet, rises and falls with the melody, carrying a depth of emotion that’s unmistakable. It’s personal. Vulnerable.

Each note seems to hold a piece of her, a piece of something deeply meaningful.

He doesn’t want to be the one to intrude, but there's something about her song that pulls him closer. The way the lyrics float on the air, a gentle confession, seems to speak to him in a way that words never have. The honesty in her voice is raw, and Bucky can tell she’s singing about something—or someone—important to her.

It’s not just a song.

It’s a window into her soul, one that she’s letting him peek through, without even realising it.

“I don’t know where we’re going, but I swear I’ll stay,

Through the darkest nights, I’ll find a way.”

Bucky leans against the doorframe, his hand resting lightly on the edge. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe too loudly, as if afraid to disturb the delicate moment. There’s a quiet peace that fills him as he listens—something that he didn’t know he needed, but now that it’s here, he can’t quite shake it. Her voice, with all its softness and strength, holds him in place. The music seems to fill the space between them, closing the distance, even though she’s on the other side of the door, unaware of his presence.

It’s as if the song is telling him a secret—a quiet confession that he doesn’t quite understand but feels drawn to uncover. The vulnerability she’s expressing in this moment—without pretension or expectation—wraps around him like a blanket. His smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he can even stop it. He doesn’t know exactly why, but the connection between them feels tangible, in a way he didn’t expect.

“You’ll never be alone, I’ll be right here,

I’ll hold your hand, I’ll chase away the fear."

Time slips by unnoticed as he listens, the world outside the music fading away. The sound of her voice intertwining with the guitar strings creates a landscape of emotions that he can feel deep in his chest. He thinks about how long it’s been since he let himself be open to something like this, something that feels gentle but powerful at the same time.

The song ends, its final note hanging in the air, leaving an aching silence behind it. For a moment, he doesn’t move. The space between them seems to have changed. The music is gone, but its effect lingers. He stays where he is, standing just outside her door, his heart still echoing with the remnants of the song.

He thinks about stepping inside, about telling her how beautiful it was, how it made him feel—but he doesn’t want to overstep. Not now, not yet. She’s already shared something precious with him, and he doesn’t want to be the one to shatter that quiet intimacy.

With a final glance at the door, he steps back, the faintest of smiles still tugging at his lips, as if the music has planted something inside him that he can’t quite name, but knows he’ll carry with him. As he walks away, the smile stays with him—faint but sure—something soft, something that feels new.

A few nights later, the air inside the bar is alive with energy, the hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and music mixing together into a warm, electric atmosphere. The stage is bathed in soft light, and Bucky stands in the back, drink in hand, his eyes fixed on the woman in the spotlight.

Evie’s guitar is slung low across her body, and her fingers move across the strings effortlessly. Her voice rings clear above the crowd, stronger now, and it’s the same song—the one Bucky heard in the hallway, the one that’s haunted him in the best way since that night. But here, with the crowd around her, there’s a power to it, a command that makes the room pause, makes the world outside seem like it doesn’t matter at all.

"In the silence, I will find your voice,

When the world is heavy, you’ll have no choice—

But to lean on me, and I’ll carry you through,

Because I’m not going anywhere… I’ll stay with you."

The lyrics are simple, but in their simplicity lies a promise—one Bucky can feel all the way through his chest. There’s something about the way she sings, the vulnerability that pours from her, the rawness in her voice that pulls him in deeper. It’s as if she’s speaking directly to him, offering him something—comfort, safety, connection—in the most delicate way.

Bucky’s heart skips a beat, and he leans forward slightly, unable to pull his gaze from her. Her eyes are closed as she sings, lost in the music, and there’s a softness in her face he’s never noticed before, an openness that makes the whole room fade away.

People clap, cheer, and sway to the beat, the energy in the bar rising as her voice takes them all somewhere else. But Bucky’s gaze is fixed on her, his chest tight in a way he didn’t expect. He watches her eyes as she sings, the way she loses herself in the music, and for a brief moment, it’s just the two of them—her voice, her song, and the undeniable connection he feels.

Each word seems to echo in his heart, reverberating with the truth of her message. The song isn’t just beautiful—it’s a confession, a promise, one that digs deeper than just the music itself. It’s her laying bare a part of herself, offering it without asking for anything in return.

The last note of the song lingers in the air, holding them both in a suspended moment. Bucky can’t move. He’s rooted to the spot, his heart beating a little faster than it should, and for a second, the rest of the world feels far away. The way she’s looked at him, the connection they share—it’s all tangled up in the music now, binding them in a way words never could.

He smiles from the back, his drink forgotten in his hand. He watches her for a moment longer, feeling something warm spreading through him. It’s pride, but it’s more than that. It’s awe, and a bit of something he’s not entirely sure how to name. There’s something in the way she holds herself up there, the way her soul is laid bare in the music, that makes him feel like he’s seeing her for the first time—truly seeing her.

And as the cheers swell around her, she glances back, catching his gaze for just a second. There’s a smile that tugs at her lips, a knowing look shared only between the two of them, before she turns back to the crowd, as if nothing had changed, but everything had.

It’s maybe a week later when it happens.

The air is thick with the aftermath of a brutal training session, muscles sore and bodies drenched from a sudden downpour that had swept over the compound grounds like an unexpected storm. The scent of wet asphalt and sweat clings to the air, mingling with the damp heat as the two of them make their way back to the locker room. The sound of their footsteps echoes in the empty hallway, the rhythmic thud of boots against the ground a stark contrast to the calm that’s settled in after the chaos of training.

Evelyn slams her locker shut with a sharp clang, the sound breaking the silence of the room. She wrings water from her hair with a towel, her movements sharp and automatic as she tries to get rid of the worst of the soaking wet strands that are now clinging to her face. A tired sigh escapes her, the kind that’s only a little bit from the workout and mostly from the weight of the day. She’s been going at it non-stop lately—missions, briefings, constant mental gymnastics to stay on top of everything.

Her eyes flicker to Bucky, a few feet away, still half in his tactical gear. The same gear he’s worn a thousand times before, but today it looks heavier, the fabric clinging to him in ways that suggest he’s feeling the strain of more than just the rain.

“You good, doll?” she asks without thinking, her voice a mix of casual concern and habit.

The words slip out like they always do, the kind of easy familiarity they’ve built up over months of shared space, shared missions, shared quiet moments. She doesn’t even think twice as she throws the phrase out, but the second it’s said, she feels a shift in the air.

Bucky freezes mid-motion. His towel slips from his hand and hits the floor with a soft, wet thwap. He doesn’t move to pick it up. Just stands there, staring at the concrete like the word knocked the air from his lungs.

His posture shifts—not alarmed, not angry, but something stilled, like a wire pulled tight inside him.

Then he looks at her.

There’s something in his eyes she’s not used to seeing. Not guarded, not closed-off. Something raw flickers there—brief, bright, unguarded.

He clears his throat once, then again, like he’s fighting words that won’t come easy.

“You just...” His voice is low, almost rough. “You called me doll.”

Evelyn blinks. “What?” she says, quieter than she means. “Did I? I mean—yeah, I guess—I didn’t mean—”

She shuts her mouth with a snap. God, what are you even trying to say?

“You say it all the time. I didn’t even think—I mean, sorry. I’m not imitating you, and I wasn’t trying to—”

She’s rambling, but there’s something in Bucky’s expression that makes her pause, something in the way he’s looking at her that makes her throat tighten just a little. His gaze is steady now, but there’s still something soft behind it, a flicker of vulnerability that makes her chest feel too tight.

He’s quiet for a moment, but then a smile starts to form at the corners of his lips. It’s small—so small it could almost be missed—and then it turns genuine, the kind of smile that feels like it’s been years since he’s given it to anyone. His eyes soften, the tight lines around his face loosening for just a moment. For that second, he doesn’t seem like the soldier who’s been through hell. He seems... human. A little broken, maybe, but human. And... happy.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” he says simply, his voice steady but with something softer beneath it. “I like it when you sound like me.”

Evelyn’s breath catches in her throat, the warmth of his smile making her heart stutter. She looks away quickly, trying to hide the way her cheeks are burning. It’s ridiculous, really, how one small smile can make her feel so... exposed. She shakes her head, rolling her eyes to cover up the sudden rush of emotions she’s not quite ready to deal with.

“Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it, pal,” she says, trying to make light of it, her voice a little sharper than she meant it to be – throwing in Bucky’s other favourite word for emphasis. “You’re lucky I didn’t call you sweetheart or sugar or something even worse.”

Bucky laughs then, a soft, warm sound that fills the space between them. It’s low, and it’s real—nothing forced about it. The sound lingers, echoing down the empty hallway, and Evelyn can’t help but smile too, though she still keeps her eyes on her bag, pretending to rummage through it to avoid letting him see just how much that laugh affects her. How much the ease between them is suddenly weighing heavy on her chest.

As the moments stretch on, the weight of their shared understanding hangs in the air. There’s something in the way they’re so effortlessly comfortable with each other that feels both safe and terrifying at the same time. It’s too easy, too natural for something that feels so fragile. But it’s there, undeniable, in the smile that lingers on Bucky’s face and the warmth in Evelyn’s chest that won’t seem to fade.

Bucky steps past her on the way to his locker. His hand brushes hers, barely a touch—but not quite accidental.

Neither of them says anything.

And for just a second, it doesn’t matter where they are, or what comes next.

It’s just this: The echo of his laugh. The warmth in her chest. And the fragile, quiet thing that’s started to grow between them—undeniable now, and impossibly real.

Sam and Steve are watching from the sidelines, leaning against the wall, and Sam can’t help but mutter, “When do you think they’re going to admit how they feel?”

Steve shrugs, his eyes never leaving Bucky and Evie. “Not sure,” he says, his voice quiet but knowing. “Maybe when Bucky pulls his finger out.” He chuckles softly to himself before continuing, “He’s so set on the idea that no one could ever love him. He’ll never notice while he thinks so low of himself.”

Sam snorts. “Man’s an idiot.”

Steve shoots him a sidelong glance. “You don’t think I know that?”

Bucky’s movement falters for a split second as he catches the last part of their conversation. He isn’t sure if Sam’s talking about him or if it’s just a general observation, but the words hit him with an uncomfortable weight.

He knows they’re right. He’s always been the one to hold back, always the one to doubt himself, to believe that someone like Evie — someone so vibrant, so full of life — couldn’t possibly want someone like him. Not someone with his past, with the things he’s done.

But still, there’s something in the way she looks at him. Something in the way she cares, the way she reaches out. Something in the way her songs make him feel seen, like he’s more than just the ghost of who he used to be.

He glances at her, meeting her eyes for a fraction of a second as she turns back toward him, once last look before she leaves the room. And in that moment, it’s like the whole world fades away. In the back of his mind, the thought lingers; maybe it’s time to stop hiding. He knows she sees through him, knows she’s waiting for him to make a move.

But he’s not sure he’s ready. Not yet.

He has to figure it out, just like everything else. And maybe, just maybe, that song she was singing earlier holds the key.

Chapter Text

Steve finds her sitting out on the balcony just off the common room, legs curled under her, a mug of something warm in her hands. The late-evening sun is melting over the city in soft golds and sleepy pinks, catching in her hair like threads of copper.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks.

Evie glances up, surprised, but she smiles. “Sure.”

He sits beside her, slower than he used to. The serum might’ve kept him strong, but it didn’t stop the weight of memory from settling heavy in his bones.

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, the kind that doesn’t press.

“I wanted to check in,” Steve says eventually. “See how you’ve been settling in. It's… a lot, being part of this team. Especially lately.”

Evie tilts her head. “I’ve been okay. It’s different. But good-different.”

He nods slowly. “I’ve been thinking about what we’re building here. This new version of the Avengers. And how we’re trying to do it right this time. Not just the missions, but… everything else. The in-between.”

Evie’s quiet. Listening.

Steve’s voice lowers. “The old team… we weren’t really a family. Not in the way we should’ve been. We cared about each other, but it was messy. Disconnected. We showed up for the big battles, but not always for the aftermath.” He pauses. His eyes are distant now, full of ghosts. “Like Wanda.”

Evie’s breath catches. “Yeah.”

“We should’ve been there after Vision died. After Westview. After everything. She was alone. Grieving. Angry. The world turned her into a monster, and we let it happen. No one was really there to pull her back.” His voice tightens. “She was one of us. And we failed her.”

Evie reaches over and sets her hand gently on his arm. “That’s not your fault, Steve.”

“No,” he says quietly. “But I think… I think it was our responsibility. Not to fix her. But to hold space for her pain. We didn’t. And now she’s gone.”

”No one’s ever really, truly gone, Steve,” she says carefully, voice soft.

He turns to look at her. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

”Do you?” She presses.

Steve shrugs. “Not sure what I believe in anymore, really.”

The silence between them hums, filled with the ache of hindsight.

“I don’t want that to happen again,” he says. “Not to Yelena, not to Ava, not to Peter or Bob. Not to Bucky.” He looks at her then. “They need more than a team. They need a family. And that’s what we’re trying to be now.”

“You are Bucky’s family, Steve,” she says softly. “You know that, right?”

His mouth twitches into a bittersweet smile. “I know. Always have been. Always will be.”

Steve’s gaze turns back to the skyline, thoughtful, silent for a while.

“I’ve just been watching,” he admits. “The way you’ve settled in here these last few months. The way you carry yourself in the quiet moments.”

Evie arches a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his tone is soft but sure. “You help Buck in ways I don’t think any of us could. You calm him, give him space when he needs it, push him when he doesn’t want to be pushed but in all the right ways. And somehow, you manage to do the same with Bob, too.”

She laughs lightly. “Bob is easy. Just gotta bribe him with pop tarts and keep things positive.”

Steve smiles, but his voice turns more earnest. “It’s more than that. You see people. You really see them. Even me and Sam. You listen, you check in, you pick up on the things most people let slip by. You’ve only been part of this team a few months, but… it already feels like you’ve always belonged here.”

Evie blinks, clearly moved. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “I don’t know… sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re really part of something until someone says it out loud.”

“Well, let me say it, then,” Steve replies. “You’re part of this family. And we’re better with you in it.” Then, after a beat, he adds with a slight chuckle, “Bucky’s still a big grump though.”

Evie grins. “You all keep saying that. But… not with me.”

Steve’s eyes soften, like he’s watching something quietly miraculous. “Yeah,” he says. “Might be a reason for that.”

She tilts her head. “What reason?”

He studies her for a moment, like weighing his words. “You help him,” he says simply. “You mean a lot to him. And I think—no, I know—he’s got a soft spot for you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”

Evie looks down into her mug, but there’s the faintest blush at her cheeks. “Of course I have. I’m not blind. Or deaf. Or dumb.”

“So, what’s stopping you?” Steve presses, head tilted in confusion.

She’s quiet for a beat before answering. “Nothing’s stopping me. I’m just… letting him take the lead. Letting him decide the pace. He’s had so much control taken from him over the years. His body, his mind, his choices. The one thing I can give him is ownership of his own story. If he wants slow… then slow it is.”

Steve nods, clearly moved. “What about your story?” he asks gently.

Evie smiles then. Not a sad smile, but a patient one, rich with promise. “Oh, we’re in the slow burn part right now. The waiting part. I always liked those stories. You know… the ones that simmer. The ones where everything is quietly building until it’s undeniable.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh. “Those are the best ones.”

There’s a soft shift of air behind them, the faintest creak of the balcony door opening—Bucky, stepping out, unnoticed for now. He’d been coming to find her, maybe with some excuse about a movie or asking what time training will be tomorrow. But now he freezes, just beyond the doorframe, hearing Steve’s words drift into the cool night.

Evie smiles, still unaware of the figure watching in the shadows. “Look… That means a lot, Steve, to hear you say that. I know how much you all mean to each other. I know I’ve been around a few months now, but I don’t want to take space that doesn’t belong to me.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re not taking space, Evie. You made space. You made room in all the cracks we didn’t know we had. Especially for Buck. He’s been carrying so much for so long. And I don’t think he even realised how heavy it was until you started helping him set it down.”

Her voice drops into a murmur. “Sometimes it’s heavy for me too.”

“I know,” Steve says gently. “But you don’t flinch. That matters.”

“It’s worth it, all of it, to help him. He deserves every nice comment and hug I can offer,” she admits. “And he helps me back. Safe person, remember? He means a great deal to me as well. I... I'd be pretty lost without him. In more ways than just being an Avenger.”

Out in the shadow of the balcony door, Bucky’s fingers curl slightly against the railing, his jaw tightening—not from anger, but from the raw, sudden weight of emotion. He hadn’t expected to hear any of this. Not the way she talked about waiting for him, nor the way Steve spoke about her like she was already stitched into the seams of their strange little patchwork family.

And now… he doesn’t know whether to step forward or retreat.

Evie shifts, as if sensing something, and turns her head just enough to catch a flicker of movement.

“Buck?” she calls softly.

Busted.

He exhales through his nose and steps out into the light with a rueful look. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Steve just smiles knowingly, rising to his feet and clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as he passes him. “Well,” he says casually, “now you know we talk about you when you’re not around.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a flicker of something softer in the glance he trades with Evie—something surprised, maybe even a little shy.

Steve heads inside, leaving the two of them alone on the balcony, the city buzzing below and something unspoken crackling gently in the air between them.

Evie looks up at him, smiling, eyes warm. “So… overhear anything interesting?”

Bucky shrugs, but his voice is quieter than usual. “Maybe.”

She reaches out, hooks her pinky around his. “You okay?”

He nods, slow and honest. “Yeah. Just… didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Well,” she says, resting her head lightly against his shoulder, “now you do.”

They linger on the balcony even after Steve goes in, the hum of the city below a soft, distant pulse. The air between them is warm with unspoken things—things still blooming into language. Evie doesn’t press. She never does.

Bucky leans against the railing beside her, arms folded, eyes on the skyline. “I didn’t expect to hear all that,” he admits finally. “From him. From you.”

She glances at him. “Was it too much?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just… people don’t usually talk about me like that. Like I matter to them.”

“You matter to us,” she says easily, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

He turns to look at her. “Even when I’m… complicated?”

“You think I don’t like complicated?” she teases, nudging his shoulder with hers. “You ever seen me try to fix the Tower’s coffee machine?”

That earns a short, quiet laugh from him. The sound does something to her chest.

She takes a breath. “Bucky, you don’t have to be simple to be worth loving. You don’t have to be healed to be here. You don’t have to be anything but… you.”

The words fall between them, soft and heavy, like a secret she’s been holding in her hands for a while.

He stares at her, eyes searching. Then, almost reluctantly, he murmurs, “Sometimes I think I don’t know how to let someone stay.”

“Good thing I’m stubborn,” she says gently.

Silence. Then, in a voice quieter than the breeze, he asks, “You’d stay? If I asked?”

She moves to him, close enough that her hand can find his. She threads their fingers together. “You don’t have to ask. Of course I would,” she says, and it’s a promise.

He looks down at their hands—flesh and metal, different and the same. His jaw clenches, and she can see the thoughts warring behind his eyes. Then he nods, slow and certain.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” His voice is almost a whisper, raw and uncertain. “Just... be near you?”

Her heart stumbles, a brief skip that feels like a secret promise. She smiles softly, nodding without hesitation. “Yeah. Of course you can. We’ve done it before, right?”

He follows her wordlessly to her room, each step careful, deliberate, like breaking a silent agreement between them. No grand gestures, no dramatic lines—just quiet presence. He doesn’t do anything dramatic. He doesn’t climb into bed immediately but perches on the edge by the foot of the bed, hesitant, unfamiliar with this new space between them. This isn’t a post-nightmare rescue or a healing touch after pain. This is something new — fragile and real. He’s lucid, awake, aware. And he’s asked for this, instead of needing it in the moment to calm him. He asked for it, and he’s here, aware, watching her.

Evie goes to the bathroom and emerges a few minutes later with pyjamas on, teeth brushed, hair tied back. She jumps onto the bed casually and throws back the covers, climbing in and settling against the headboard. She studies him for a second, the way he lingers at the end of the bed, unsure.

It feels more intimate than any mission, more vulnerable than any confession. Feels more than anything they've had before.

“That’s not comfortable, Bucky," she observes. "We can share the bed. We have before. It’s no big deal. Come sit up next to me.”

He raises an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Wait—you want me to sit on you?”

“No!” she laughs. “Next to me. Listen.”

He pauses. “Huh. Sounded like ‘on.’ I like my version better. But you know I weigh like 250, right? Not including the arm.”

"Then maybe don’t sit on me,” she says.

“Too late. You gave me permission.”

“I did not—”

Bucky eyes her for a beat, then with mock seriousness, he shrugs. “Alright, if you insist.”

Before she can brace herself, he climbs toward her and — with a cheeky grin, like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing— plops down right on her lap, dramatic and heavy, with the full smugness of a man who knows he’s pushing it. 

Evie gasps as the air leaves her lungs. “Oh my God—!” She grunts at the weight, half-surprised, half-laughing, as he leans back against her, squishing her into the headboard as she giggles. “Get off,” she laughs. “Bucky, I’m not a chair.”

He leans back against her like a human boulder, grinning up at the ceiling. “Ahhh. Perfect. Just what I needed.” 

“Get off,” she wheezes, laughing despite herself. “You’re literally crushing my soul.”

His hands settle across her knees like armrests, casual and smug, like he owns the place. “See? Comfy. Problem solved. Plenty of space.”

She pushes at him again, squirming under his weight. Her knees shift apart in protest, and with a lazy slide, he falls into the space between them, sprawling across the mattress. Her legs bend at the knees, bracketing his ribs. His shoulder blades rest between her thighs. The moment stills—just for a second—as they both register how close they’ve become.

Evie doesn’t move.

Neither does he.

“Relax,” Bucky murmurs, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. “I’m light as a feather.”

“You’re built like a truck,” she mutters, a little breathless. “I wanted you to sit with me. Next to me. But you wanted to be close, so… I guess this is good enough.”

His body shifts ever so slightly, sinking into her like he belongs there. Her hands creep around his waist on instinct, settling lightly over his abs.

“Warning,” she says, voice hushed. “I’m a squeezer.”

“That’s okay,” he replies without hesitation, soft and low.

“I used to squeeze all the animals,” she adds, grinning against his back. “Because they were too cute and my brain short-circuited.”

She grits her teeth and tightens her grip, squeezing him hard. It does nothing.

“You are weak,” Bucky deadpans.

“You are rude.” She reaches up, her fingers grazing his jaw, and then she grabs at his face. She pushes his head back against her shoulder dramatically. “Shh, go to sleep. Close your eyes,” she instructs, her hand fumbling across his face to cover his eyes.

“I think you just snapped my neck,” he jokes, voice thick with mock pain. He makes a strangled noise, eyes half-closed. His voice drops to an exaggerated whisper. “Oh no… I’m dying...”

And with dramatic flair, he pretends to have died, collapsing back against her as a dead weight. She coughs, the air leaving her lungs. He was holding most of his weight back, she realises, because then she’s really being crushed.

“Jesus, you really are heavy,” she breathes, a smile tugging at her lips despite the protest in her voice. “Off you get, Buck.”

“No,” he says, utterly relaxed.

“Bucky.”

With determined effort, a few grunts, and a few swear words, she pushes at his back, with minimal help from him. Finally, he flops over onto the other side of the bed, sprawling like a king reclaiming his throne. He tosses his head back on the pillow, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Menace,” she tells him, shaking her head at him, but her tone is fond. “You just lay there and be quiet.”

"Yes, ma'am," he hums, settling beside her.

She lays down next to him, facing him, stretching her legs. Pulls the quilt up over his shoulder so he doesn’t get cold.

Then, without warning and without hesitation—like he’s steeled himself in those moments of play—he reaches out. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close, pressing her into the solid warmth of his chest. The world narrows to the steady beat of his heart against hers, the mingling of cold and heat, flesh and metal, hope and fear tangled tight in the silence between them.

They lay like that for a long time. Quiet. Breathing the same air.

At some point, she murmurs, “You smell like cedar.”

He chuckles into her hair. “That’s just Steve’s stupid shampoo. I ran out.”

“I like it,” she says, curling her hands up under her chin, her head tucked under his.

A long pause.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “For being patient. For seeing me.”

She leans into him. “Always.”

And in that tiny room, wrapped up in each other, nothing needs to be fixed. Nothing needs to be rushed. They just are.

Chapter Text

It starts slowly, almost imperceptibly at first — but Bucky, being Bucky, notices the small things. Every time Evie walks home from the bar after her shift, he finds himself walking right behind her. At first, it's a simple desire to make sure she gets home safe. After all, the streets are quieter late at night, and even though she can handle herself just fine, he feels better when he's there.

And so, it becomes a routine. Every night she works, he's there, walking her home, offering silent company as they pass dimly lit streets and empty corners. Sometimes, they talk, sometimes they don't. Sometimes, she's tired and doesn't say much. Sometimes, she catches him glancing at her with that look he can't seem to shake — a look that says more than words ever could.

And then it shifts again, becoming a little less about safety and a little more about something else. It starts with morning runs. She's been talking about her fitness goals — how she needs to build strength and stamina, how she's working on being quicker and more agile. Bucky offers to help, suggesting they run together. It's simple, easy — the two of them, pushing each other to go faster, farther. Sometimes they don't talk much, just the rhythm of their feet on the pavement and the quiet buzz of early mornings.

The truth is that it becomes a habit. A habit he doesn't want to break. The sound of her laugh, the warmth of her presence, the subtle way she challenges him to be better — all of it pulls him closer. Not in an obvious way, but in little ways, until he realizes that he's thinking about her more than he should.

And then one day, it happens. They're both in the grocery store, both distracted by the hum of fluorescent lights and the rustling of bags as people shop around them. He's lingering near the produce section, his hand resting on the edge of the cart as he picks through apples like he's studying them.

That's when she notices him. She turns the corner with a basket in hand, scanning the shelves before her eyes fall on him. She blinks, pausing for a moment before raising an eyebrow.

"Bucky?" She asks.

Bucky freezes, caught mid-step like a soldier mid-mission who just triggered a silent alarm. He wasn't even trying to be subtle. In fact, he'd been trailing her with the clumsy subtlety of someone who clearly didn't belong in a fluorescent-lit grocery store at 3PM on a Tuesday.

"This is not your local shops," she accuses. She eyes him up and down, his deer in headlights expression. "Bucky, are you following me?" Evie's voice drifts back to him from just past the display of apples. Amused. But there's a thread of real curiosity in it, like she's not entirely sure what to make of him.

"Just making sure you're safe," he says, glancing around the aisle like he's scanning for a sniper hidden behind the bananas.

Evie turns to face him fully, one eyebrow raised, hands planted on her hips. "In the supermarket?" she asks, deadpan. Her voice is dry but light, teasing. "Really? I mean, the apples aren't exactly going to take me out. Or the chip packets. Peanuts though, sworn enemy. One bite and I just go down for good."

He clears his throat and looks at the oranges like they might hold the answer to world peace. "You never know," he murmurs, shrugging like it's totally reasonable to expect danger between the kale and the kiwis. "Are you allergic to peanuts?" He asks, entirely serious.

"I am, actually, yeah," she says.

"Noted," he replies, like he's logging it in a mental journal.

She lets out a short sigh, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Look," she says, stepping closer, her voice quieter now, a little more vulnerable, "if you want to make sure I'm okay... just come with me. Ask. Don't follow me like some weird Cold War ghost. I get bored. I get lonely. Grocery stores are depressing, and I'd rather have someone with me who makes them a little less... grey."

That hits him harder than he expects — not the teasing, but the honesty. She's not scolding him. She's offering something. An invitation. A place at her side, even in the ordinary.

"I'll… try to do better," he says, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile. There's no defensiveness in his tone, no false excuses. Just quiet warmth. And something else too — the tug in his chest that's become more familiar than he's willing to admit.

But the truth is, he doesn't want to stop watching her. Being around her in the small, quiet moments that no one else would ever think twice about. Somewhere along the line, she stopped being a mission, or even a mystery. She became a person he wanted to know — not protect, not monitor — just know. He likes how she laughs when she reads cereal boxes, how she hums under her breath when she's thinking, how she doesn't flinch when he's too quiet, or too close. And he wants to make sure she's safe, because he wants to keep knowing her.

"We're friends, Bucky. You don't have to follow me. You can do things with me."

Evie tilts her head, watching him with that knowing look she gets sometimes — like she sees right through every wall he's ever built. It should unsettle him. But somehow, it doesn't.

"Well, in that case," he says, stepping up beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touch, "next time I'll ask before I follow you around like a lost puppy."

She laughs — really laughs — and it's bright and unexpected and makes something tighten pleasantly in his chest. "I'd appreciate that," she says, shaking her head. "But you have to promise me one thing."

He raises an eyebrow, curious. "What's that?"

"When you do come with me, you don't hover like a bodyguard. No flanking me through the soup aisle. No tactical retreats near the frozen peas. Just… walk beside me. Like a normal person."

He smirks. "No promises."

Evie rolls her eyes and nudges him with her shoulder, the contact light, familiar, warm. She grabs a couple of apples and tosses them into her basket with a mock huff. "I'll believe it when I see it."

They continue walking, side by side, moving through the mundane routine of grocery shopping — but somehow, it doesn't feel mundane. The overhead lights are harsh and the floor tiles squeak under their shoes, but it all feels oddly intimate. Their steps fall into sync. The silences between them feel comfortable. Easy. His metal fingers brush hers once by accident when they both reach for a loaf of bread, and she doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just smiles at him like it's nothing.

But to him, it's everything.

By the time they get to the checkout, her basket is full and his heart feels lighter than it should. She pulls out her wallet, ready to swipe her card, but Bucky's faster. He steps forward and holds out his own.

"Let me," he says, almost too quickly. "It's the least I can do after stalking you through every aisle."

Evie gives him a look, one that's half amused and half something else — something softer. She doesn't argue. She lets him do this small thing for her, and in her silence, he feels something shift — not loudly, but gently, like the first crack of spring thaw.

It's small, but it matters.

"I noticed you before I came into the shop, by the way," she tells him. "You are not that subtle."

"When?" He asks, curious.

"About four blocks back. I just wanted to see how far we could take it, to be honest," she says, with a smirk, before picking up some of the bags and walking out.

As they leave the store, bags in hand, their arms bumping now and then, Bucky glances at her and wonders if she has any idea what she's doing to him. How these little moments — walking through a store, talking about apples, brushing shoulders — feel more like home than anything he's known in years.

And maybe he'll always have that protective instinct. Maybe he'll always be ready to step between her and the unknown. But more than that, he just wants to be beside her — in the errands, in the quiet, in the everyday.

Just her.

Just this.

The cool night air hits them as Evie starts walking towards her apartment, and Bucky falls into step beside her.

"So," he says, looking over at her. "What's next? Another adventure? Maybe a trip to the bakery for some late-night pastries?"

"Not everything is an adventure," she says with a laugh. "Some things are just… mundane."

"Well, I like that. The normal stuff," Bucky admits.

"Even as an Avenger, we still gotta buy food. Makes us feel a bit more normal, right?" Evie offers.

"Right."

Evie glances at him, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Well, considering you're sticking with me now," she says, her voice playful but sincere, "I think you've earned the right to tag along to all my boring errands. But don't get too comfortable. I've got a few more stops in mind before the night's through."

"I'll be the perfect shadow," he says with a grin, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. "Just promise I won't be relegated to the produce section again."

"No guarantees," she teases, her pace slowing slightly as she walks alongside him.

She pops into the chemist, and then stops at an ATM on the way back to the apartment. They keep talking as they wind through the quiet streets, their laughter soft and unhurried under the dim glow of the streetlamps. There's something peaceful about it — the kind of ease that doesn't need explanation. She doesn't ask why he's always there, and he doesn't offer an answer. She knows. And that, in itself, is enough.

By the time they reach her apartment building, neither one wants to say goodnight. There's a lingering pause by the door, a shared glance, an invitation unspoken — and then Evie twists the key in the lock and nudges it open.

"You coming in, or are you going to keep hovering out here like a very conspicuous statue?" she asks over her shoulder, smiling.

Bucky blinks, surprised, but something warm flares in his chest. "Yeah," he says, stepping inside. "Sure."

They climb the stairs to the top level of the building and down the hallway stopping at the door. She unlocks it and steps inside, one bag of groceries in hand. He's got the other three. Her apartment is small but cozy — he's been here before but he's really taking it all in now. There's worn cushions, mismatched mugs on the counter, and a faint scent of lavender in the air. It's very colourful, the walls and kitchen all painted, a green couch, rugs and paintings and knick knacks. It's a lot, but it's also kind of nice.

He's been to her apartment twice – once mid-nightmare breakdown, and once when she was sick and he brought her soup. And in that time, he barely left the couch and the loungeroom, apart from lingering in the kitchen doorway once. It's nice to just... be here. Because he can. Because she's letting him.

He hovers awkwardly by the entrance at first, but Evie gestures toward the kitchen. "Thanks for carrying these for me," she says, as he drops the grocery bags gently on the counter.

"No worries. Arm's gotta be useful for something," he quips.

"Other than punching and blocking bullets. Shock."

He smiles.

"Sit. You've earned a snack. Or maybe even dinner, if you're willing to chance my cooking," she says. "And, you bought the food. You're entitled to at least some of it. It's getting late. You must be starving."

"A little," he admits. "Though I'm hungry most of the time. Serum."

He settles at the kitchen bench while she starts unpacking the groceries, chatting about the absurdity of the store's layout and how overpriced the cereal was. He listens, a little mesmerised by the normalcy of it.

"What do you feel like?" She asks, staring into the fridge at the food they just bought. "Pasta? Steaks? Sandwiches? Mac and cheese? Chicken?"

He laughs. "Anything. Just don't poison me."

"Rude."

She gets out the chopping board and chucks some food onto the counter in front of him, starting to prep… something. He's not really sure what she's doing. It's all a little chaotic, and out of order, and he tries not to wince at the way she holds the knife.

"Lena told me you were a good cook," she says conversationally as she chops the meat.

"I'm not bad," he says, humbly. "I'll help you. You're butchering that chicken breast."

He ends up moving around to the other side of the counter, washes his hands, and then reaches instinctively for a knife and the right cutting board.

"What are we making?" He asks.

"Some recipe from a video I saw."

"On the Clock app?"

"Yeah, that one," she laughs. "It's called Tiktok, Buck."

His hands move quickly, chopping through the chicken and pushing it aside, ready for cooking. He washes his hands, grabs a new chopping board and knife, and starts on the tomatoes.

"Diced?" He asks.

"Think so," she says, unsure. "Lemme check. This recipe is trending right now," Evie explains, frowning at her phone as the video of the recipe repeats itself. "Between the brainrot videos, sometimes there are things that are helpful."

"You sure you want me interfering in your TikTok recipe?" he asks, slicing a tomato with practiced ease.

She glances at him with a grin. "Please. I'm counting on it. I have no idea what I'm doing."

He chuckles and keeps chopping while she starts heating the pan.

"It's called 'Marry Me Chicken'," she says, gesturing vaguely with a spoon.

He pauses mid-slice, glancing up. "Why?"

She smirks. "Because apparently when you make it, it makes men want to marry you."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. He tilts his head, giving her a slow, thoughtful look. "You know, I should probably be concerned that you're testing this on me."

She shrugs, unbothered. "You volunteered. You stepped into the lab of your own free will, Sarge."

He laughs — a full, genuine sound that feels rare even to him. "Well, if I drop to one knee mid-bite, you'll know it worked."

Evie snorts. "If you propose over chicken and pasta, I'm saying no out of principle."

He grins, stirring the sauce. "Noted. I'll bring pastries next time. Real classy."

There's a beat of quiet after that — not awkward, but full. A glance exchanged that lingers a second too long. Then she turns back to the stove with a shake of her head and mutters something about not burning the sauce.

They move easily around each other after that, falling into an unexpected rhythm as they finish cooking the meal — passing things wordlessly, making space without needing to ask. Bucky frowns at the recipe on the phone, still replaying over and over repeatedly, and tells her she's made the sauce wrong. He fixes it for her. She smiles as she watches him.

"You cook much before?" She asks, watching as he plates the food like some sort of chef.

"Yeah, a lot in the 40s. Stevie was real sick so I used to do most of it. Everything was a lot more... bland and boiled though."

"Now you get to really experiment," she jokes. "No Great Depression recipes, spices from all over the globe, cooking with gas rather than over an open flame..."

"It was 1943, not 1820," Bucky glares at her, but there's no heat.

And when they finally sit down to eat, it's not about the food. It's about this. The strange, sweet calm of it all.

She gets out some bottle of red wine that looks like she's had it for a while and pours them both a glass. They clink glasses and take a sip, and her face screws up.

"Never been a fan of red," she says. "Someone bought this for me for a birthday a while back. Do you like it?"

"Yeah," he says, thoughtfully, eyeing the wine. "S'not bad. When is your birthday?" He asks.

"April 12th," she says.

"Good, I haven't missed it, then."

They start to eat, and Bucky demolishes the pasta like he hasn't eaten in days.

"I swear to God," she laughs, handing him a napkin, "You're like a bottomless pit with a metal arm."

He shrugs, mouth full. "Super soldier metabolism," he says around a bite. "It's a curse."

She snorts, shaking her head. "Yeah, poor you."

He goes up for a second plate-full and sits back down, taking another sip of wine before he dives back in.

She watches him shovel another forkful into his mouth, eyebrows raised. "Jesus. You're really going to town on that."

He nods, swallowing. "It's good. Really good."

"Oh no," she deadpans, setting down her wine glass. "Is this it? Are you about to propose, Bucky Barnes?"

Bucky pretends to consider it seriously, setting his fork down with exaggerated care. He leans an elbow on the table, wine glass in hand, and looks at her with mock solemnity. "Evelyn, my darling," he begins, voice low and dramatic, and there's something about the way he looks at her that makes her stomach flip, even though it's a joke.

It's a joke, it's a joke. Evelyn, get yourself together, for goodness sake.

"I've eaten a lot of meals in my lifetime. Decades' worth. Army rations, diner food, grey gloop through an IV, weird root stew in Wakanda… but this?" He gestures to the plate. "This is marry me chicken. This is life-changing. This is 'go to war for you' chicken."

She lets out a loud laugh, covering her face with her hands. "You are not proposing to me over TikTok pasta."

He smirks. "Too late. Already planning the wedding. Hope you like forties jazz and awkward dancing."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a faint blush creeping up her neck. "You're a menace."

"And you made the chicken," he shoots back, lifting his glass in mock salute. "You brought this on yourself."

She clinks her glass against his again, smirking. "Damn TikTok. Guess I'll have to start reading up on ceremony venues."

"Start with anywhere that doesn't serve this red wine," he teases.

That earns him a bread roll to the shoulder. She bursts out laughing, loud and unguarded, the tension breaking like a bubble. "You're such a shit," she says, grinning.

He grins back, a little too pleased with himself. "A very well-fed shit."

She reaches across the table to steal a bite of is chicken, even though she has the exact same thing in front of her – she's eaten all her chicken though and left a bit of pasta. "Well, if this is your proposal, I'd hate to see your vows."

"I'm working on them," he says, through another mouthful. "Something, something, I promise to always hug you when you have a nightmare. Something else cute, you're the most beautiful woman in every room. You make me complete, you make me feel whole. You make every day so much better. You make me feel seen, and known, and worthy..." He pauses for a moment, like he wasn't expecting the words to come out of his own mouth.

Evie freezes for just a second, fork hovering mid-air. Her expression shifts—softens—caught somewhere between teasing and something deeper, something like awe. She chews slowly, swallows, and raises an eyebrow.

"Well," she says finally, voice quieter than before, "you had me at 'hug you when you have a nightmare.'"

Bucky huffs a laugh, leaning back in his chair. His hand rakes through his hair as if he's trying to brush off the weight of the moment—but it clings to them anyway. "I was joking," he adds quickly, avoiding her eyes now, but his voice falters a little. "Mostly. I mean… obviously. I don't even have a ring."

"Oh, is that the only reason we're not married?" she shoots back, tone light, but her gaze locked on him like she's trying to read between the lines. "Apart from the fact that we, you know, aren't dating."

He looks up. Meets her eyes. And it's there—the flicker of something real behind the smile. A kind of naked honesty that neither of them is used to.

"I'm not exactly…" He gestures again. This time smaller. "I come with a lot of history. Bad history. I don't know if anyone's supposed to sign up for that."

Evie's voice softens. "I think the word you're looking for is worthy. And you already covered that in your vows, remember?"

His breath catches—just briefly—but he nods, looking back down at his plate. He pushes a piece of chicken around like it might offer him answers.

"I don't know why I said all that," he admits. "It just—came out."

She smiles gently, reaching across again—not to steal food this time, but to rest her hand over his for just a moment. "Well. If it helps…" Her voice drops conspiratorially. "I said yes."

He blinks.

"To the proposal."

He blinks again.

"I mean—hypothetically."

"Right," he says, lips curving despite himself. "Hypothetically."

They sit there like that for a second—hands touching, half-finished meals forgotten between them, the New York night buzzing softly outside the window. It's not a date. It's just dinner. But the air between them feels a little less casual than before.

He doesn't pull his hand away.

And she doesn't let go.

He clears his throat. Tries to lighten the mood again. "And I guess I'd have to finish the vows off with a something, something, 'til death do us part. Which is kind of complicated, given, you know—" he gestures vaguely at himself—"all the not-dying."

She snorts. "God, imagine the paperwork in that."

Bucky laughs. "I think I'd need Steve to be my best man. Just to keep it historically accurate. Sam can come up there too, if he promises not to call me Buckaroo in any speeches."

"And I'll walk down the aisle to "Angel Eyes". Ella Fitzgerald, not ABBA. I love ABBA, but…" she says, raising her wine glass. "There's something about Ella. Very romantic."

"Agreed," he says.

They clink glasses again.

And for a moment, between the jokes and the wine and the glow of her kitchen light, something unspoken lingers in the air — not quite ready to be acknowledged, but impossible to ignore.

Later, when the kitchen is cleared, she flops onto the couch and pats the space next to her. "Wanna watch something?"

He hesitates, then nods and joins her. She puts on something light and modern — a sitcom, maybe — and it's clear from the way Bucky leans forward, eyes wide and curious, that he's never seen it before. His posture is alert at first, like he's waiting for something to go wrong, like laughter might be a trick.

"A cop show?" he asks, cautious.

"It's Brooklyn Nine-Nine," she says, with emphasis, like she's offended he doesn't know it. "I've even started from the beginning for you, old man."

He relaxes slightly, settling deeper into the couch. He hesitates for a while, watching the characters on screen. "It's funny," he says, after laughing at a joke. The sound is quiet at first, like it caught him off guard.

They watch a little longer, as the story establishes and the jokes land more and more, and he's soon in stitches on the couch, doubled over, hugging the pillow next to him. It's genuine, unguarded. Like something inside him is unclenching.

"This is ridiculous," he murmurs after a while. "But… kinda amazing."

Evie grins. "Wait till you get to season two."

Time slips by like that. The world quiets down around them, and inside her apartment it's just the low hum of dialogue, the occasional burst of laughter from the TV, and the subtle, steady presence of someone who isn't trying to run from anything tonight.

And for once, neither is he.

The ordinary rhythm of it — the soft lamplight, the worn couch cushions, the way she tosses him a blanket without asking — it settles into him like something sacred. Like muscle memory he forgot he had. He didn't know how much he missed this until it was right in front of him: the comfort of nothing extraordinary. Just peace. Just being.

Eventually, Bucky glances at the time and shifts reluctantly. "I should head out," he says, though there's no conviction in it.

Evie stands and walks him to the door. Her hand brushes his briefly as she opens it, and the touch is light but grounding.

He stops in the doorway, looking down at her with something that's half a smile and half something far more serious. "You always walk people to the door like this, or am I special?"

She smiles at him, but doesn't respond to that. "Goodnight, Bucky," she says, her voice warm and genuine. "Thanks for the company."

He lingers on her doorstep for half a second longer than necessary, searching her face like it holds something important. "Goodnight, Evie," he replies, his heart feeling unexpectedly full.

She smiles, tilting her head slightly. "You sure you're not going to propose again? Might be your last chance."

He huffs a soft laugh, eyes lingering on her. "Nah. Gotta save something for dessert."

"Oh, I thought you were the dessert," she says, her voice flirtier than Bucky's ever heard.

His eyebrows lift. "Oh, we're doing that kind of confidence tonight?"

She laughs, her cheeks a little red. "What can I say?"

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, impossibly casual. Looks at her for a long while, eyes soft and sparkling in the low light. "You make a guy feel like he could win a couple hearts just by showing up."

"Oh, just a couple?" she fires back, arms folding.

Bucky's grin widens. "Don't want to brag. Yet."

She narrows her eyes at him, but she's smiling now — warm, corner-of-the-mouth, dangerously close to fond. "Goodnight, Barnes."

He takes a slow step backward. "Sweet dreams, Evie."

"Dream of marriage proposals, will you?"

"I'll put in a good word with the universe," he says, tapping his temple. "Just in case."

And with one last crooked smile — slow, meaningful — he turns and pulls the door shut behind him.

The door clicks shut, and for a second, Bucky just stands there in the hallway like an idiot. The cooler night air of the hallway hits his face, but it barely registers. His heart's thudding too loud in his ears.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Pull it together.

He didn't mean to flirt that much. Not really. Okay — maybe a little. But then she smiled at him like that, and her hand brushed his, and the words just started coming out of his mouth before his brain caught up. And she made him goddamn Marry Me Chicken. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"I thought you were dessert."

"You make a guy feel like he could win a couple hearts just by showing up."

God. What the hell was that?

But she laughed. She smiled. She leaned into it. That look in her eyes — not mocking, not brushing him off — it settled somewhere deep in his chest, like warmth he didn't know he'd been missing until just now.

She walked him to the door like she wanted him to stay. Her voice when she said "Goodnight, Bucky" felt like being tucked into something safe.

He's halfway down the block before he realises he's smiling to himself like a damn teenager. His hands are jammed in his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill, but he feels lighter. Like something cracked open in his ribs and let a little more light in.

Maybe he's in trouble.

Maybe he doesn't even care.

Because for the first time in a long time, he's not thinking about what he did, or who he used to be, or what he owes the world.

He's just thinking about her.

And the way her eyes crinkled when she called him dessert.

And the way she looked at him like maybe — just maybe — she'd let him kiss her goodnight if he was bold enough to try.

He wasn't. Not yet.

But one of these nights… he might be.

He doesn't take the train right away. Just walks for a bit. Hands in pockets, breath fogging lightly in the air, mind looping through every moment of the evening like a film reel he's afraid to rewind too fast in case he misses something.

And as he walks into the quiet night, he finds himself replaying the softness of her laughter, the warmth of her kitchen, the sound of her saying his name like it belongs there.

Maybe he hasn't just found a place where he belongs.

Maybe he's found a person.

The silence of the city isn't as heavy as it usually is. Not tonight. Not after laughter and pasta and Marry Me Chicken. Not after her hand brushed his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He's lived a hundred lifetimes and survived more nights than he can count — but this? This feels new.

And maybe that's what scares him most.

Or maybe it's what keeps him moving forward.

Evie closes follows the door as it shuts, leaning against it to click it closed. She flicks the lock, turns, and then leans back against it, hand over her mouth, grinning like a fool.

She runs to her bed and jumps onto it, phone in hand. She sends a text to a friend, giddy. A friend, who requests constant updates and knows everything that's happened between Evie and Bucky so far.

Evie: It was insane. He stayed for dinner and I made him goddamn Marry Me Chicken.

There's a pause, and then Brooke, an old friend from her hometown, responds, her own messages filled with life.

Brooke: EVIE YOU MINX. SO FORWARD. I LOVE IT.

Evelyn laughs at that.

Brooke: So, do you think he will marry you? A second text comes through, a little calmer this time, more thoughtful.

Evie doesn't respond immediately, thinking on it. Sincerely thinking on it.

Evie: Don't be ridiculous. She eventually responds. He's gotta kiss me first.

Chapter Text

Bucky's sitting on his couch, half-slouched into the worn cushions, the flicker of an old war movie casting shadows across the living room. He's not really watching it. The volume's low, just enough background noise to make the silence feel less loud. His fingers tap a restless rhythm on his thigh as he stares at his phone, thumb hovering over her contact.

He sighs. Then hits call.

It rings twice before her voice crackles through the speaker, soft and amused. "Well, hello. You're calling me. That's new."

He can hear the smile in her voice and feels one tug at the corner of his own mouth. "What, I'm not allowed to call?"

"You're absolutely allowed. You just usually text. I just assumed you'd rather send cryptic emojis and sarcastic memes at 1 AM."

He huffs a soft laugh, settling back into the couch. "That was one time. And it was a very good raccoon meme."

"It was objectively terrible."

"Still made you laugh."

Evie hums, conceding. "Okay, fair."

"And I… kind of wanted to hear your voice," he admits. "Been a few days."

"You saw me yesterday morning," she laughs,

"And it's now this afternoon, so it's nearly been a few days," he argues.

"Barely," she huffs, but he can hear the fondness in her tone.

There's a short beat of quiet. Not awkward—just full. Comfortable.

"So," he says, more casual than he feels, "What are you doing tonight?"

He can almost hear her raising an eyebrow. He hears a swiping sound, like she's checking her phone calendar. "Nothing, it seems. Depends. Am I being recruited for a mission or guilt-tripped into pizza and paperwork again? That won't work on the team a second time."

"Neither," he says, then clears his throat. He shrugs, even though she can't see it – too casual. His fingers tap idly on his thigh. "How about it? Dinner, you and me?"

She's quiet for half a second, just long enough that he thinks maybe he's mis-stepped.

"Like… a date?" she asks.

"If that's what you want it to be." His voice dips into something lower, more tentative, like he's worried he's misread the situation, their whole situation. The vulnerability surprises even him. "I mean—it is what I want it to be. I've just been trying to figure out the right time to say it."

"Bucky," she says softly, warmth blooming through the speaker. "Well I guess if you're going to propose eventually, you should take me on a first date at some point."

He laughs—really laughs—and shakes his head. "You're messing with me."

"Not entirely."

"Jesus, no pressure or anything. First date and I’ve already got a ring to live up to." He pauses, then adds with a crooked smile, "You got a preference on stones, or should I just wing it?"

“Well… if you’re already thinking about rings, I guess I’d better say yes to dinner first.” There’s a smile in her voice, warm and fond — and maybe, just maybe, a little flustered too. “Start with dinner. We’ll see where we end up.”

The relief that floods his chest is almost dizzying. He hadn't realised how tightly he'd been holding his breath until now. His hand relaxes on his thigh, his tapping slowing.

He nods, smiling.

A real date.

Something soft and normal tucked into the craziness of their lives.

He can tell she's trying to play it cool. "You got somewhere in mind?"

"There's this French place I heard about," he says, shifting slightly like he's half-nervous about her answer. "Never had a lot of French food. I'm curious. Unless you hate French food. In which case, I'll pretend I never said that."

"No, no, I love French food," she assures him. "Look at you, going all fancy. Real high society. You gonna order in French, too, since you're multilingual and didn't know it?"

"Guess I could," he offers.

She laughs, bright and delighted, and it's so good to hear that he almost forgets what he wanted to say next. Almost.

"Hey," he adds, voice turning a little quieter. "I meant what I said. About wanting this to be a real thing. Not just grabbing burgers after work or crashing on your couch 'cause I don't want to be alone."

There's a pause on her end, thoughtful. "I know," she says gently. "And I want that too."

As Bucky sits there, thinking only of her, his thoughts are swirling. This moment, this little piece of normal, feels so unexpectedly important, and the simplicity of it catches him off guard. He's so used to chaos—fighting, running, surviving—that the idea of something as simple as a dinner date feels almost like a luxury.

Something inside him shifts. A little tug in his chest, like his heart is waking up after years of being asleep.

He hadn't expected this. Her. This... normalcy. He was fine before, wasn't he? He'd survived on his own. But now? Now, there's her smile, her laugh, the way she sees him not as some broken soldier but as someone who could, maybe, have a real life. A normal life.

Bucky's hand twitches at his side, fingers tapping out a rhythm on his jeans. A nervous habit. He hasn't been nervous about a lot in a long time, not like this. Not about asking someone to dinner.

He realises how much he wants this. Wants her. Not just in the way of fleeting moments or forced company, but something more. Something steady. Something real.

He ducks his head a little, grinning. "I thought maybe it was about time I actually asked you on a proper date. Make things official." His voice dips slightly, a little rough. "We spend enough time together. We… practically cuddle."

"Not practically," she adds helpfully. "We've cuddled. More than once."

"And I like spending time with you," he finishes.

The vulnerability in his words is almost a surprise, but it's true. Every moment with her, every laugh, every quiet conversation, feels like something he could build a life on. His whole world has been about surviving, about being a weapon. And now—now, he's realising there's more to life than just getting through it. There's her. There's the way she makes everything seem possible. The way she makes him want things he'd long buried in the rubble of his past. Things like connection. Comfort. A future.

"And, you know, after you made me Marry Me Chicken and everything," he adds, shifting nervously, hoping his words make sense. The weight of it presses on him—the wanting, the needing—but there's a fear, too. A fear that maybe he's still too broken, too much of the man he used to be, to deserve this kind of normal.

"Yeah," she says, voice warm, a smile tugging at her mouth. "I'd really like that. Been waiting for you to ask me for a while now, Mr Flirt."

When she agrees, her voice warm and inviting, Bucky feels a flush of relief. He'd been so unsure of what to expect, of what she might say. But this? This feels like a step toward something he's never had before. A chance at something real.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. This—her—this is what he wants. He's never had the luxury of letting someone in, but now that he's got a taste of it, he doesn't want to let it go.

He smiles, something warm blooming in his chest. "Guess I'm just slow."

"You're not," she replies. "You're just careful. And that's okay."

Her words wrap around something deep in him—something old and sore that's finally starting to heal.

And for a few quiet seconds, neither of them speaks. But the silence feels full again, rich with possibility.

As Bucky stares at the TV without seeing it, his mind drifts—not to war or ghosts or regrets—but to her. Her smile, her warmth, the way she always sees him, not the myth, not the weapon, not the broken thing. Just him.

He thinks maybe he could get used to this.

Maybe he even deserves it.

"I'll meet you there at seven?" he asks, already grinning. "Unless you want me to swing by and pick you up?"

"No, I can meet you. It's a date," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice too.

When the call ends, Bucky doesn't move right away. He just leans back into the couch, the flickering TV forgotten, and lets himself feel the simple, startling joy of hope. A future. Maybe even love.

He can't help but think, Maybe I deserve this. Maybe he can have something beyond the ghosts and the nightmares. Maybe—just maybe—he can have a future. A future with her.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky lets himself picture it. What a life with her could be. Simple. Normal. Something so human that it feels almost impossible, but... real.

He smiles softly to himself, his heart beating a little faster as he watches her. She might not know it yet, but she's the one he's been waiting for.

The restaurant is small, tucked away off a side street, the kind of place you only find if you know it's there. Seems Bucky may have been doing some research into a potential location. And when they get there, he's already made a booking. The sign above the door is faded and unassuming, but warm light spills from inside, golden and inviting.

Evie spots him before he spots her.

Bucky's pacing, just a little — hands in the pockets of his dark sports jacket, head ducked, shoulders tense. He looks like he's been here for a while already, trying to look casual and failing at it in the most endearing way possible. He pauses every few steps to glance at his phone, then away again like he doesn't want to seem like he's waiting, even though he obviously is.

When he sees her approaching, everything changes in a blink.

His spine straightens. His expression shifts. His feet trip. He turns too fast and clips the freestanding chalkboard out front, the one with the day's specials scrawled across it in messy cursive. It topples over with a loud clack, the corner nearly taking out his shin.

"Shit—sorry, sorry—" he mutters, crouching to right the board, and then — absurdly — offers a small, sheepish apology to the sign before looking back up at her. "And, uh… sorry to you, too."

Evie bursts into laughter, loud and sudden and real. "You apologised to a sandwich board."

He dusts his hands off and straightens up, standing a little too stiffly now. His eyes are a little wild, like he's just been hit by a truck and is trying to walk it off. "Hi," he blurts. "It's me. Bucky."

He winces immediately after saying it.

Evie raises an amused eyebrow, barely hiding her grin. "Oh," she deadpans. "Well, it's very nice to meet you, Bucky. Did we just match for a Tinder date? Is this our first time meeting in real life? In that case, I'm Evie."

He exhales a short laugh and shakes his head, like he knows he's off to a rough start but can't quite help it. "Right. Great. Strong opener."

And then, from behind his back, he pulls out a small bouquet of flowers — pale pinks and soft purples, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. They're a little uneven, a little wild, but thoughtfully chosen.

"These are for you," he says, a little bashful now, ducking his head slightly. "I picked them out myself. Didn't let the ladies at the flower shop help. Figured they should match your whole… thing." He gestures vaguely at her, then looks horrified at himself for phrasing it that way. "You know, your… vibe. I don't know. I'm terrible at this."

Evie softens, completely. The flowers are beautiful — gentle and delicate, just like his nerves tonight. 

"They're perfect, Buck," she says warmly, accepting them and lifting them to her face. "Been a long time since anyone bought me flowers."

He smiles — not the press smile, not the public persona — but the real one. Small and lopsided and full of old charm. "Well," he says, clearing his throat and stepping aside, "guess we'll have to remedy that."

He holds the door open for her without even thinking. That chivalry — stitched into him before the war — hasn't gone anywhere. Evie brushes past him, murmuring "Thank you" just as she catches the quiet, almost unconscious smile he gives her in return.

It's not flashy or practiced. It's genuine.

As the door closes behind them and the hush of the restaurant wraps around their shoulders, Bucky glances at her again — like he still can't believe she's really here. Like he's half-expecting to wake up.

But she's real. And she's smiling.

And he's already falling.

Inside the restaurant is dimly lit with little candles on every table, low jazz playing just loud enough to hum through the bones of the room. All soft lights and old music and glasses clinking softly over conversations.

It's too nice for her usual taste, but with Bucky sitting across from her — hair slicked back, dark jacket fitting him a little too well — she doesn't mind one bit. He's wearing a dark button-down and a jacket that fits him way too well, and it shouldn't make her knees weak — but it does.

The soft light catches the sharp angles of his face as he follows her in. Bucky's always been handsome in that rugged, battle-worn way, but tonight, in this soft atmosphere, he seems almost out of place, like he's been pulled from the pages of some lost fairy tale. His hair slicked back, the soft glow of the candlelight turning him into something almost too perfect—something she feels in her bones, in the fluttering pulse that speeds up in her chest when he looks at her.

It's stupid, she thinks, how easily he can make her heart race. It's just dinner, right? But this moment... this feels different. It feels like the start of something real. Labelled. Just for them.

They're seated in a corner booth, tucked away from the rest of the world, their voices low enough to blend with the quiet chatter around them. Bucky's smile—easy, warm, familiar—pulls her in, and for a brief moment, the weight of everything falls away. No fights, no missions, no lingering shadows from his past—just this, just them.

Evie looks around, eyebrows raised. "You sure you didn't ask one of those flower shop ladies to pick this place?"

Bucky shakes his head, guiding her toward the small table near the window that already has his name on the booking card. "Nope. Did some digging. Wanted someplace quiet. Nice. But not the kind where they judge you if you ask for ketchup."

She laughs again, and God, that sound has already lodged itself somewhere under his ribs.

They sit, and there's a short stretch of silence that would feel awkward with anyone else. But with her, it just feels like space to breathe.

"So," she says, unfolding her napkin. "First date."

He pauses, then raises his glass of water. "May it not end in disaster."

She clinks her glass lightly to his. "You're off to a strong start. Flowers and mild property damage."

"I go big or go home," he deadpans, then immediately softens. "I was nervous... Am nervous."

"You? The guy who jumps out of planes and fights crooks for a living?"

He shrugs, mouth twitching. "Easier than this."

Evie tilts her head, curious. "What, the date?"

"No," he says, gaze warm but steady. "Caring. Letting myself want something good."

The words land gently, without dramatics — but Evie still feels them settle, heavy and honest. Her smile fades into something softer, more real.

"Well," she says quietly, "for what it's worth… I'm glad you wanted this. Even if you are a bundle of nerves."

His throat works around a response he doesn't quite know how to say, so instead, he smiles — the real kind, crooked and a little bashful — and opens the menu like it's the safest thing in the room.

When the waiter comes, they both order the same pasta without realising, and laugh about it for longer than they probably should. Bucky hands back the menus to the waiter and then accidentally knocks over the little vase of water on their table and catches it before it falls — reflexes like a soldier, expression like a man embarrassed out of his mind.

Evie's eyes sparkle as she leans in. "You always like this on dates?"

He leans in too, elbows on the table, mirroring her. "Wouldn't know. It's been a while since I asked someone."

And for a moment — a flicker, a heartbeat — the whole world seems to pause. The candlelight reflects in her eyes. The clatter of the kitchen, the hum of the street outside, it all fades. It's just the two of them, finally choosing something slow. Something good.

He doesn't say anything, but his fingers brush lightly across the tablecloth, like maybe — just maybe — he wants to reach for her hand but doesn't want to rush.

Not yet. But maybe soon.

Evie feels a warmth spread through her chest as she watches him, taking in the easy way he leans back in his seat, the sharp lines of his jaw softened under the glow of the restaurant's low lights. There's a weight to the moment, but it's not heavy. Not with him. Not with them.

"You clean up nice, Buck," she tells him, her voice sincere as she lets her eyes linger on him for a moment longer than she probably should. She's always noticed the way he looks—his rugged edges, the scars that mark him as someone who's seen too much—but tonight, with his hair slicked back and the dark jacket hugging his broad shoulders just right, he looks… softer. More present.

"So do you," he says, his gaze flicking over her with a look that could only be described as appreciation. His eyes catch the way her hair tumbles in loose curls, the subtle curve of her lips painted in a shade of red that makes his chest tighten in an unexpected way.

"With that Prince Charming hair that you've got going on. It suits you. Looks good," she tells him. "Did you do that yourself? The blowout?"

He huffs a laugh as his cheeks heat up, bright red. Cute. "Ava did it. Before I left the Tower. Said I had to look good. Insisted I couldn't show up looking like I just rolled out of bed."

Evie can't help but grin at the thought of Ava's enthusiastic recommendations, her hands gesturing wildly, probably ensuring Bucky's hair had that exact sleek, windswept look he's sporting tonight. "Did she use the Airwrap?"

Bucky groans dramatically, his shoulders slumping as he rolls his eyes. "Yes. She insisted on that, too."

"Well," Evie says, giving him a grin that's a little smug, "It worked. You really do look nice."

There's something in the way she says it, something unguarded in the simplicity of the compliment, and for a moment, it hangs between them like a fragile thing—soft, but strong. Her words settle over him, quiet but genuine, and Bucky finds himself staring at her a little longer than usual. There's something about the way she looks at him tonight, the sincerity in her eyes, that makes his heart ache in a way he's not used to.

He smiles, and the softness in his eyes deepens, pulling him closer to her in a way he's not sure how to explain. It's not just the way she sees him—it's the way she accepts him. The way she doesn't try to fix him, or run away from what he's been, or make him into something he's not.

He opens his mouth to say something, but the words don't come. Instead, he just lets the moment stretch out, letting the silence do the talking for once.

They laugh over the strangeness of snails on the menu (neither is brave enough to order them) and split a bottle of wine Bucky immediately grimaces at.

Halfway through dinner, after the second course and while she's chasing a particularly stubborn pea around her plate, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table.

"So," he says casually, though there's a playful edge to his tone. "Tell me something about yourself I don't already know."

Her eyebrow quirks up, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "What do you want to know?"

He leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table as he considers her for a moment. There's an intensity in his eyes that makes her heart stutter in a way she can't ignore. It's not the usual kind of tension—this is different. This is... wanting, but wanting something real, something grounded.

Something soft.

"Something... important," he says, his voice low but steady. "Like…" He trails off, unsure.

She leans back in her chair, pretending to mull it over, though she's pretty sure she knows exactly what he's doing. This isn't a casual question. This isn't just small talk over dinner. He wants to know her. All of her. And that thought should terrify her, but for some reason, it doesn't.

"Like… what?" she asks, dragging her finger over the rim of her wine glass, trying to buy herself a few seconds to think.

"Like…" He taps his fingers on the table, a light rhythm that almost feels like the beat of a song she can't quite place. "What's your favourite colour?"

Her laughter bursts out before she can stop it, and she shakes her head, exhaling a little too sharply. "Wow. Going for the heavy-hitters tonight. That's too much... I—I'm not sure I can answer that."

The laugh he lets out is easy, relaxed, but there's a little more to it than that. The sound of it wraps around her like a comforting blanket, and she realises that this is what she's been missing all along—the simplicity of just being with someone. No expectations, no pressure. Just them.

She brushes her hair behind her ear again, a nervous tic she doesn't even realise she's picked up, the gesture small but meaningful, and smiles—one of those smiles that feels like it's just for him, the kind that says more than words ever could. Something unspoken, something warm, something right.

"Seriously though," he prompts, grinning, "What is it? I've seen your apartment, Evie. It's like a rainbow threw up in there. Help me narrow it down."

She laughs again, more warmly this time. "Green," she says after a moment. "But not just any green. Forest green. Emerald. The good green."

Bucky watches her quietly, his blue eyes reflecting the candlelight. "That tracks," he says. "You feel like springtime sometimes."

She blinks at him, caught off guard — cheeks flushing before she can stop herself. She ducks her head, fiddling with the stem of her wineglass.

Springtime.

Nobody has ever said anything like that to her before.

"What about you?" she asks, her voice a little more uncertain than usual as she clears her throat. It's like she's trying to keep things light, but there's something deeper she wants to know. The question hangs between them for a moment, a challenge to keep the conversation going.

Bucky shrugs, leaning back just slightly in his chair, his mind far away for a beat. "Didn't really have one back in the day," he says thoughtfully. "Colours weren't something we thought about much when the world was at war."

"Well, everything was in sepia tones," she allows.

"Smart ass," he tells her. He smiles, but it's the kind of smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, like a small apology for things that can never be undone. "Well... now that I can see the world in colour?" His gaze shifts to her, a quiet confidence in the way he looks at her. "I'd have to say green too."

Her eyes brighten, a spark of amusement dancing in them. "Oh, snapsie," she teases, nudging his foot under the table. "What type? You're not about to tell me you're a lime green guy, are you? 'Cause I might have to rethink this whole thing and walk out of here right now."

He chuckles, low and genuine, the sound warm, like a breath of air in a room that's gotten a little too thick. His eyes stay on hers, studying her with that quiet intensity he always has, but now it's softer, like he's letting her in a little more. "Nah. Whatever colour your eyes are—that's my favourite. Especially when they glow."

The words are simple. Honest. There's no grand gesture, no flashy confession, just raw truth that catches her off guard. And it hits her harder than any flowery speech ever could, in a way that makes her chest tighten with something that's both tender and unspoken.

Evelyn feels the blush rise in her throat, hot and undeniable. No matter how hard she tries to pretend it doesn't affect her, the warmth spreads fast, staining her cheeks. She ducks her head, trying to cover the redness creeping up, biting her lip as she pretends to smooth the napkin in her lap, but her heart is racing in a way that makes her dizzy.

"Smooth," she mutters, a half-laugh escaping her lips, but it's shaky, unsure. She's trying to hide it, but everything inside her is turning over, flipping in all the wrong directions, like she's falling even though she's standing perfectly still.

Bucky watches her, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he sees exactly what's happening. But he doesn't push her. He lets the silence fall between them, letting it linger without awkwardness, just understanding.

Bucky's smile flickers, but his eyes darken with something quieter, almost hesitant. He shifts a little, like he's gathering his thoughts.

"You've got that look on your face where you want to say something and you're debating whether you should," Evie tells him, staring at him over her wine glass. "Just say it, Buck."

He smirks at her, but looks away, down at his gloved hands. "You know," he says softly, "we literally fell asleep cuddling the other night. And I sat on you."

Evie laughs, nodding. "Yeah, you did."

"And we hug sometimes," he adds, voice low, almost like he's reminding himself. "Hold hands."

"I know," she says, her voice gentle.

"And you brush my hair off my face when I have a nightmare."

"I do," she agrees.

"And we say things to each other."

"Sweet things," she agrees.

He looks away for a moment, fingers tracing an invisible pattern on the table. "It's just… I don't want you to be disappointed."

"In what? You?"

"In… how fast or slow we go," he whispers. "Sometimes, with touch—any kind of closeness—I struggle. More than I thought I would after all this time." He swallows, searching for the words. "It's like… my body remembers things I don't want it to. Things that make me pull away or tense up. Even when my mind wants to lean in."

She reaches out, brushing her fingers lightly over his hand. "That sounds really hard. Bucky… I'd never be disappointed with you. I promise. You just need to communicate how you're feeling, okay? So that I know. I never want to make you uncomfortable."

He nods, eyes meeting hers again. "I want to be close. I want to hold you and hug you and… and kiss you. But sometimes it feels like I'm holding back without knowing how to stop. Like I'm too much, or not enough, all at once."

Evie's heart clenches. "I'm glad you told me."

He lets out a shaky breath, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Honestly? When we've cuddled before, or when I plopped down on you the other day—"

Evie smirks.

"—that was a huge deal for me. It's like I was letting you in, letting you… hold me. And then I held you, and… it was nice, to be helpful. To be there, with you, for you. Even if I was being a bit of a menace about it."

She laughs, squeezing his hand. "You're welcome to be a menace."

He chuckles, the tension easing. "Thanks for being patient with me. For sitting there and letting me be… me."

"That's what I'm here for," she says softly.

As the stillness settles between them, Evie's mind turns inward. She senses the unspoken truth beneath Bucky's words—the weight he carries around intimacy, the walls he's built not out of stubbornness but survival. She's seen glimpses of it before, the hesitation in his touch, the way he flinches when things get too close too fast.

And yet, here he is, leaning on her, trusting her enough to let his guard slip for a little while. It's not much, but it's everything.

Evie knows what he was really saying in those quiet moments toward the end of dinner. She understands the boundaries he's setting without having to hear them aloud.

Evie knows that this patience she offers isn't about waiting for grand gestures or sudden breakthroughs. It's about being present in the quiet moments, honouring the pace he needs. Not rushing what can't be rushed. Accepting the messy, imperfect, fragile pieces he lets her see.

She's not expecting fireworks or declarations tonight. She's not even expecting tomorrow. She just wants to be the steady hand in his storm—someone who doesn't demand more than he's ready to give.

And somehow, that understanding makes the closeness between them feel softer, warmer, more real.

Slowly, the conversation drifts back to lighter things, laughter returning like a soft tide washing away the heaviness.

The night feels like it slips by too quickly. Even the clink of silverware against plates, the hum of other conversations in the background, feels like it's fading as they near the end. The soft jazz that had filled the air when they arrived is now just a quiet pulse in the distance. And when the check comes, it's almost like a signal for the night to close, but neither of them is ready for it.

Bucky walks her home, the quiet stretching out between them, but it's comfortable, easy in a way that feels new. It's not that they don't have things to say—it's just that sometimes, words aren't needed. Sometimes, it's the presence that speaks volumes. The rhythm of their steps in sync as they reach her building, and as they stand there, just outside her door, something shifts.

He hesitates for a second, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, like he's battling with himself over something—some invisible line he doesn't know if he should cross. She's watching him, like she's waiting for something to come, but she's being patient, letting him set the pace. She has been the entire time.

And then, just as quickly as the thought appears, he leans in, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, close to the edge of her mouth. The kiss is light. Feather-soft. A kiss that doesn't linger, just a brush of his lips against her skin, so quick that if she wasn't paying attention, she might have thought she imagined it.

It's sweet. It's awkward. But somehow, in its own quiet way, it's perfect.

When he pulls back, there's a flicker of something in his eyes, a shadow of uncertainty, of anxiousness, something that makes her heart ache for him. He's still stuck somewhere between the man he was and the man he's trying to be now. Between the rules he's carried with him his whole life and the new ones he's learning to navigate.

But it's there. The shift. The want. The possibility of something more.

Like he's battling himself, old rules and concrete walls and new hopes tangling together.

She smiles softly, the corner of her mouth lifting just a little, and her heart beats a little faster, understanding that hesitation more than she probably should. "I had a really lovely time tonight. The best," she says warmly, her voice soft, like she's letting him know it's okay. She's not upset. Not at all.

He steps back, still unsure, hands buried deep in his pockets as he shifts awkwardly on his feet. His eyes flicker over her face, lingering there for a moment like he's trying to memorise her features, as though he's afraid he might forget.

"So did I. I appreciate you a lot," he says, genuinely.

"Me too." She ducks her head, smiles at him through her lashes. "Goodnight, Bucky," 

"Goodnight, doll," he says, his voice low, a little rough with emotion, affectionate.

It's the first time he's used that word like that—intentionally, careful, deliberate, not a slip of the tongue. It's like he's claiming it, claiming her, in some quiet, understated way. The word lands between them, soft and fragile, but it feels like a promise. A quiet declaration of something he's not yet ready to say out loud.

She hesitates only for a tiny second before she leans forward, pressing a kiss to the stubble on his cheek in return. Quick, light, but a tiny understanding, a promise.

She pulls away, smiles at him, and then climbs the front steps of the building.

And when he walks away, she stays there, leaning against the door, her hand still resting on the doorknob. She watches him disappear down the road, her chest full of something she doesn't quite have a name for yet.

Evelyn feels the ghost of his voice settle into her ribs.

It feels like a little piece of the past he's carefully, lovingly handing to her.

— and she knows, without a doubt, she's falling in love with him. If she hasn't already.

Who is she trying to kid? She definitely has already.

She goes inside and collapses on her bed, lying sprawled across the covers, staring up at the ceiling with a stupid, dopey grin stretched across her face.

She replays the night over and over in her head — the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he leaned in like he wanted more but didn't want to scare her, the way he said doll like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her heart feels too big for her chest.

She presses her hands over her face, muffling a ridiculous little giggle.

She's seventeen kinds of gone for him, and it's pathetic, and it's perfect.

"Doll," she whispers into the darkness, feeling the way it wraps around her like something soft and warm and safe.

She falls asleep smiling, dreaming of forest green and soft jazz and the way Bucky Barnes looked at her like she was something precious.

Chapter Text

The next day, the bar's busy but not packed, a low buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filling the warm air. Steve, Bucky, and Sam claim a booth near the back — cold beers already sweating on the table, half-forgotten.

Bucky's slouched in his seat, drumming his metal fingers against the glass, his shoulders hunched like he’s expecting a lecture.

Steve leans in, elbows on the table. "So?" he prompts, eyebrows raised.

"So, what?" Bucky mutters, avoiding both their eyes.

Sam snorts. "Come on, man. You went on your first real date in—" he glances at Steve—"what, decades? You tried online dating and never got anywhere. And you had one date with that chick from the bar Yori knew. This was real. You gotta spill."

Bucky shifts, clearing his throat. He shrugs, looking embarrassed. "It went good."

"Good…" Steve repeats slowly, like he’s waiting for more.

"Yeah. Dinner. Talked a lot. Laughed a lot," Bucky says, ticking the points off on his fingers like he’s trying to convince himself it happened. "Walked her to her door."

"And?" Sam presses, grinning like he already knows the answer.

Bucky hesitates just a beat too long.

"You didn’t kiss her?" Sam asks, voice high with disbelief. That was clearly not what he was expecting.

Steve groans softly, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Bucky, come on."

"I..." Bucky gestures vaguely, struggling for the words. "I panicked, alright?"

Sam throws his hands up. "You flirted with her all night and then just, what? Left her standing on the porch like an Amazon package?"

Bucky scowls. "I kissed her cheek! I held her hand!"

“Cute pre-school behaviour," Sam jokes. Bucky scowls. "But I’m sure she’s waiting for more. You’ve been holding hands for months. She kissed your bloody forehead that night after your nightmare. You’ve shared a bed… how many times?”

Steve shrugs, and then looks at Bucky like he’s a completely lost cause.

“You told us you cuddled,” Sam adds. “That ain’t no small deal, Buck.”

“That’s different… I didn’t want to mess it up, it was a date,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve and Sam share a look across the table — that silent, long-suffering look that says this idiot needs help.

"What did you want me to do?" Bucky snaps, defensive. "Bed her on the front steps on our first date?"

"No," Steve says, voice even, like he's trying not to laugh. "Maybe just... a kiss on the lips would've been nice. You know. Romantic. Women tend to like that."

Bucky huffs, sinking lower into the booth. “I just… I don’t know if Evelyn likes me like that.”

Sam and Steve both stare at him, mouths wide open.

“Are you kidding?” Sam asks, and he can’t help the smile that grows on his face.

“You’re an idiot, Bucky,” Steve says, putting his face in his hands.

“Real stupid,” Sam agrees, and then he sighs. “Pretty sure yous fell in love with each other the moment you met. This is more than friends, Bucky. Stop doubting it.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush, but he starts to smile. A real smile.

Sam smirks into his beer. "Man, you've been making eyes at each other for months. Flirting, sparring, walking her home at three in the morning, grocery shopping, cooking together, acting like you're already a couple. You’ve got a new staring problem cause you can’t keep your eyes off her. You’re so obvious, it’s painful.”

“Okay, okay… Yeah, there’s been some times together…” He trails off, still smiling, cheeks getting redder.

“She made you Marry Me Chicken. That girl is trying hard to pull you, Barnes.”

“I know,” Bucky frowns at Sam, his glare icy cold. “I’m doing my best.”

“What else has happened between yous?” Steve asks. “Huh? I know there’s been more.”

Bucky hesitates.

Steve leans forward, brows raised. “Well?”

Bucky sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “You both are nosy as fuck. She said I’m her safe person.”

Steve blinks. “At the press conference – we were there.”

“She said she feels calm around me. Like… she doesn’t have to perform or prove anything. That I don’t expect anything from her.”

Steve’s eyes soften. “Buck…”

Sam whistles. “Damn. That’s deep.”

Bucky fidgets. “And I told her she feels like home,” Bucky admits, then ducks his head. “I said that. Out loud. Like a total sap.”

Steve and Sam both pause, startled into silence for a second.

“You said that to her?” Steve asks, a slow smile creeping across his face.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. “And she said it back. That I feel like home too.”

Sam sits back in the booth, shaking his head in disbelief. “Damn. That’s not first-date talk, man. That’s endgame talk. This is not friend behaviour, Buck.”

“I know that,” Bucky mutters defensively.

Steve raises a brow. “Then why the hell didn’t you kiss her?”

Bucky hesitates. The only person he’s ever told about his time with Hydra, all of it, is Evie. He couldn’t even bear to tell his therapist. The frustration boils under his skin that he can’t just be normal, like Steve and Sam, and just kiss a woman because you’ve fallen in love with them and they need to know. He wants to, he does. But when he tries… his whole body freezes up. 

“Because I didn’t want to mess it up,” Bucky says, voice rising with frustration. “I was nervous, alright? She means a lot to me.”

“She’s already in,” Sam says. “She’s not gonna spook just because you kissed her goodnight like a normal human.”

“I know that now,” Bucky grumbles. “But in the moment I just… froze.”

Steve sighs into his hands. “What else has she said to you? Come on. Spill it.”

Then, after a second, Bucky huffs a laugh under his breath. “When she made the chicken, it started a joke… About marrying me. We talked about the aisle music, and who I’d have as best man, and awkward dancing to forties music. And… she said if I was going to propose eventually, I should probably take her on a date first.”

Sam slaps the table. “See? That’s not a joke, that’s a green light with neon arrows.”

Steve nearly chokes on his drink. “What?!”

Sam throws his head back and groans. “And you still don’t think she likes you?”

“She was joking—”

“Endgame talk, Buck,” Sam says, stabbing his finger into the table. “She’s there. She’s chosen you. You’re in love, you dummy. And she’s in love with you. Now go kiss your future wife.”

Bucky huffs a reluctant laugh, but his cheeks are turning pink, and he’s not denying it anymore. Not really.

Sam leans back with a smug grin. “God, I love this soap opera.”

Steve tilts his friend at Bucky, eyeing him closely. “You look at her like she hung the sun and the moon in the sky, Bucky,” Steve offers. “What’s up with you?"

Bucky picks at the label on his bottle, shoulders tense. "It's been a long time since I’ve... done this stuff." His voice is quiet, almost ashamed. “Once I put a… label on it, it felt more real. And I realised I had no idea what I was doing.”

Steve's face softens immediately. "Yeah, Buck. But from what I remember, you used to be damn good at this. Maybe you just need to find that part of yourself again."

Bucky shakes his head, exhaling hard through his nose. "Different time. Different world. Different... me."

Steve leans in, dropping his voice. "Kind of, but not really. You’re more what you used to be than you realise. She knows that. She’s patient. She gets it. She gets you."

Bucky looks up at that, something vulnerable flickering across his face. Hope, maybe. Fear.

"You got a week coming up," Sam adds, nudging his beer toward Bucky like a coach hyping up his player. "We’re all goin’ to her parents’ place, right, for Christmas and New Year? That’s seven whole days of being around each other.”

“Yeah, but her parents will be there. I have to meet them, and the rest of her family,” Bucky argues.

“I know, you’re not a massive people person. But she’s your person. So, you’ll be fine,” Steve reassures.

“Feels like the perfect time to have a real conversation,” Sam continues. “Maybe... make a move that’s not a quick peck on the cheek."

Bucky scrubs a hand through his hair, staring at the table like it’s personally offended him. "The kiss was pretty close to her lips,” he argues, the frustration with himself and his nosy friends evident. “This is literally scarier than going to war," he mutters.

Sam laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. "I know, man. But this? This is the normal shit. This is the good stuff. Stuff people fight for." He smiles, warm and genuine. "And it’s so worth it. Trust me."

Bucky nods slowly, the weight of it all pressing down on him — but not in a bad way.

More like armour. More like hope.

He glances up at Steve and Sam, the two people who somehow believe in him more than he believes in himself most days.

"I'll figure it out," he says, voice rough but steady. "I just... gotta do it my way."

Steve clinks his bottle lightly against Bucky’s. "Your way’s always been good enough for the people who matter."

And for the first time that night, Bucky smiles — small, crooked, real.

Bucky stares at his phone like it might bite him.

He’s been sitting on the edge of his bed for fifty minutes, thumb hovering over the screen, the words typed out and deleted and retyped so many times he’s ready to chuck the thing across the room.

But he’s broken enough phones, and if Sam has to take him to get another one again, Sam might kill him.

Steve’s advice echoes in his head. She’s patient. She gets you. Just be honest.

With a gritted jaw, Bucky finally types: Had a really good time last night. Hope I get to kiss you next time.

He hovers again, thumb trembling slightly.

God, this feels stupid.

He’s over a hundred years old. He’s fought in wars. He’s faced down Hydra, aliens, psychos with god complexes —

But texting a girl he likes? That’s apparently where he draws the line at bravery.

Before he can second-guess himself again, he hits send.

The message pings off into the aether.

And then he texts Sam and Steve on their chat to let them know he did it. He gets a string of messages back instantly from Sam, who’s somehow become his biggest cheerleader the last few years. Steve’s yet to read it.

And now all he can do is sit there, heart pounding way too hard for a man who's supposed to be the definition of calm and cool.

A minute passes.

Two.

Three.

He gets nervous.

He starts to sweat.

Can he take it back?

Evie: I had a really good time too. I was hoping you'd say that. I might have been waiting for it.

Bucky exhales a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

Evie: But it’s okay if you’re not quite ready. I get it. And I’m a very patient person, she writes, a second message dinging into the silence.

You’re worth it.

His mouth curls into a crooked smile, and before he knows it, he's falling back onto the bed, arm flung over his eyes, grinning like a complete idiot.

He doesn't even care how ridiculous he must look.

For the first time in a long, long time — it feels good to be hopeful.

It feels normal.

Chapter Text

The drive stretches on for hours, and Bucky is panicking. Just a tad. He’s trying not to show it, but he knows he has many tells.

Evelyn’s car leads the way, Evie driving with Ava. Her little hatchback is just ahead of Sam’s SUV, disappearing occasionally into the hills before coming back into view. They can vaguely hear the pounding music coming from the car, the windows down despite the cold air, the two girls enjoying the drive and the solitude.

The landscape of far upstate New York is breathtaking—craggy hills dusted with snow, silent, endless fields lined by old, bent fence posts. There’s a beauty in the solitude of it, a peacefulness that feels miles away from the city chaos they’re used to.

Inside Sam’s car, it’s quieter than it should be. The low hum of the engine is the only thing filling the silence, and Bucky spends the first hour staring grimly out the window, arms folded tight across his chest. His mind is running a thousand miles a minute—nervous energy eating at him. He should’ve just stayed at the compound, he tells himself, but that would’ve been cowardly, and deep down, he knows it.

Meeting her family feels like stepping into uncharted territory, like trying to navigate a map without knowing where the boundaries are. He’s been in plenty of situations where he’s been the stranger, but this feels different. This isn’t some mission, some temporary role. This is Evelyn’s world — a world he has no experience with, no way to predict how he’ll fit into it. And a world he desperately wants to be a part of.

Sam, of course, notices the tension. He glances at Bucky in the rearview mirror, then at Steve, who’s trying and failing to look casual, tapping out some kind of rhythm on his knee.

Steve, ever the optimist, tries to break the tension. "You know," he says lightly, not looking away from the road, "Christmas is basically made for moments like this. Cold weather, mistletoe, family around. Perfect time to finally do something about your little crush."

Sam snickers from the driver's seat, a devilish glint in his eye. "Yeah, Barnes. It’s practically a Hallmark movie waiting to happen. You’ve got the brooding, mysterious type down. Now all you need is a heroic gesture and some snowflakes falling in the background."

Bucky groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Can you two please shut up?"

“Alexei, Yelena and Bob are doing Christmas somewhere else, so you won’t have to contend with Alexei’s commentary. Ava’s quiet. She’ll just ghost around. We’ll stay out of the way…”

“Stop,” Bucky warns.

But they don’t. They just keep going, teasing him relentlessly, cracking jokes at his expense, throwing out unhelpful “pep talks,” and Sam threatens to pull the car over so Bucky can “practice his moves” on a tree. Bucky sinks deeper into the seat, grumbling, but secretly—he’s grateful. The noise helps. Keeps his mind distracted, if only for a little while.

Bucky rolls his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. “I’m serious, guys.”

But Steve isn’t deterred. "Hey, maybe it'll be good for you. Take the edge off. Family’s where the magic happens, right?"

Bucky feels a sharp pang of discomfort at that — the word "family" hanging in the air like a weight. It’s one of those things he’s never had in this new time, not until the New Avengers came together. Sure, there are people he’s fought beside, people he cares for, but none of them feel exactly like family – there’s always something in the way; a girl, friendships, people getting agitated with each other, a mission, understandings and misunderstandings.

But Evelyn, she’s different. He can’t quite explain it, but he’s always known she’s different, from the moment he met her. She feels like home, like something he never expected to find in this world.

But that’s the problem. He’s not sure if he belongs in her world. Not really. Still feels… out of place sometimes.

The nerves are real. He can feel them twisting tight in his stomach, gnawing at him. This thing with Evelyn feels bigger than anything he’s faced in a long time. Maybe ever.

His phone pings, and he pulls it out. There’s a text from Evie, but she’s driving. He frowns.

It’s gonna be fine, Buck. I can practically feel you stressing from the car in front. Relax - Eve on behalf of Ava.

Bucky smiles and pockets his phone again. She really does know him.

By the time they hit the outskirts of the small town, the roads are dusted with snow, and holiday lights glow faintly from distant farmhouses, sparkling in the pale light of the afternoon. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows over the snow-dusted ground. Evelyn’s car signals right, and they follow, crunching up the long gravel driveway leading to a large, welcoming farmhouse. Its wraparound porch is decked out in pine garlands, old-fashioned red bows hanging from every corner.

The moment Evelyn’s car comes to a stop, she’s out like a shot, boots thudding against the frozen ground. She’s quick on her feet, already making her way toward the house before anyone has a chance to follow. Her mother—a warm-looking woman with silver streaks through her dark hair—is already on the porch, arms outstretched.

They meet halfway, Evelyn practically barrelling into her, laughing breathlessly. The hug is tight and long, the kind of hug that speaks of months apart and missing someone with your whole heart. And Bucky can’t help but watch, something tight in his chest. He’s not sure if it’s envy or longing—maybe both—but it hits him like a wave, overwhelming and sudden.

Her dad follows, moving slower but smiling wide. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with the unmistakable posture of a man who spent a lifetime following orders before trading them in for the soil beneath his boots.

They get out the car and follow Evie up the steps onto the porch.

Her dad is the first to greet them all. He shakes Sam’s hand firmly, shakes Steve’s hand and claps Steve on the back, and when he turns to Bucky, his grip softens just slightly—something about the way Bucky holds himself, guarded but polite, makes the man adjust his handshake.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, locking eyes with Bucky as he does. “Really. Evie’s told us a lot about you.”

Bucky smiles. He’s heard her, on the phone sometimes through the wall, telling them about her life and a lot about him. “Good to meet you,” Bucky says in return, voice quieter than he wishes.

“I should probably salute you all, but I turned in my title many years ago,” the man continues, turning to face them all.

“No need, sir,” Steve reassures, waving a hand.

“Sir,” he says, laughing breathlessly. “Been a while since anyone’s called me that. Let alone by an Avenger. Please, it’s Henry.”

“No Avengers here this week. We’re just Sam, Steve and Bucky,” Sam jokes, clapping the man on the back.

There’s a round of hugs as Evie’s mom pulls each of them in, tightly, like she already knows them – and she probably already feels like she does, from how often they hear Evie on the phone to her, talking about them all. She tells them all to call her Mary, not Mrs Day, and greets them like old friends.

She pulls Bucky in without warning, and he stiffens a bit at first, but then he relaxes. He’s getting more used to physical touch now he’s around Evie and the New Avengers, with Yelena’s motto about how a hug can fix everything. He has to stoop down a bit to hug her properly.

“Bucky,” she says, pulling away. She grabs both sides of his face, looking into his eyes. “It’s lovely to finally meet you,” she says, with such sincerity that Bucky melts. “Evie was right, you are very handsome.”

“T-thank you,” he says with a small smile.

“Mom,” Evie hisses, blushing.

Mary lets go of Bucky’s smooshed cheeks, giving him a fond smile. “Oh, hush. Now get inside, all of you. It’s freezing out.”

Evie and Ava follow her into the house, the men following with the bags.

Inside, the farmhouse smells like cinnamon, woodsmoke, and something baking in the oven—a warm, homey scent that settles deep in Bucky’s chest. The floorboards creak under their heavy boots, the thick scent of pine and aged wood clinging to the air. There’s a fire roaring in the living room, flames crackling cheerfully. Stockings hang above the hearth, filled with who-knows-what. Old photographs crowd every shelf and table, reminders of generations past. He stops and smile at one, Evie when she was younger in a cheerleading outfit at some big game, smiling so brightly at the camera, her hair in a ponytail and ribbons, pom poms in hand.

The place feels alive, like the walls themselves have soaked up years of laughter, grief, and all the moments in between. It’s the kind of house you find yourself rooting for, the kind you imagine when you think of "family."

Small talk settles over them, along with polite smiles. Evie’s mom—Mary—insists on first names again, waving off any “Mr” or “Ma’am” nonsense with a flick of her hand and a bright grin. Her cheerfulness seems bottomless. Her dad—Henry—offers everyone a beer before they’re ushered upstairs to drop their bags. The house is alive with movement and chatter, a whirlwind of holiday prep, but there’s a rhythm to it all—a kind of lived-in calm—that Bucky finds strangely comforting.

Upstairs, the rooms are a mix of singles and doubles, most already claimed. Bucky and Sam end up stuck together—something about not enough beds, the rest of the family arriving soon—but Mary says one of them is welcome to take the front couch if they’d rather.

Their room has two narrow beds pushed awkwardly apart with a dresser wedged between them. The air smells faintly of pine and cookies, like flour and cinnamon somehow cling to the walls.

They both take one look and immediately lunge for the bed closest to the window.

Bucky wins, obviously—because he has a metal arm, and Sam is weak.

He flops down with triumph, smirking as he stretches out like a cat, arms overhead, sighing in exaggerated contentment.

“This bed was calling to me,” Bucky says, smug.

Sam scowls from his own mattress. “It’s too early in this trip for you to already be insufferable.”

Bucky just grins, folding his hands behind his head like a man who’s already won.

Still, even though it’s cozy and cute, but Bucky can’t quite get comfortable. It’s too small. Too close. He feels like he’s intruding, like a visitor who doesn’t quite belong.

Evelyn disappears into what must have been her childhood bedroom, her arms full of linens and pillows. She laughs that she’ll have to share with her sister and her nephew once they arrive tomorrow morning. For tonight, she’s got the room to herself.

Bucky watches her disappear into the hallway, his stomach flipping at the thought of maybe being alone with her, of finally having a chance to talk to her without anyone else around.

They all head back downstairs and are given a tour of the property, stepping out onto the wide porch that wraps around the whole of the house. At the back of the house, away from the road, is an expansive property. The late afternoon sun casts golden light over the land, warming the faded wood beneath their feet. From here, the world feels wide and slow and untouched.

Mary gestures out across the property, her voice full of pride. “We’ve got a little over two hundred acres. Mostly pasture and woodland. We lease some out, but most of its ours to work.”

Bucky steps off the porch and trails behind the others as they walk down toward the fields. The landscape stretches out in soft, rolling hills, the grass high and green, dotted with grazing cows that lift their heads lazily as they pass. There’s little patches of snow around, but a lot of it has melted throughout the day as the sun rose. In the far distance, a snowcapped mountain range rises against the horizon, pale blue and white like a painting.

Off to the right, the land thickens into forest—tall, old-growth trees standing like sentinels at the edge of the pasture.

“Forest goes for miles,” Evelyn says, falling into step beside him. “It’s my favourite part. Used to hike it all the time when I was a kid, pretend I was in a movie. Still like to go walking through there when I come home.”

He nods, taking it all in.

A rusted old pickup truck sits beside the barn, its paint chipped and flaking, one of the tires a little low. It looks like it’s seen a hundred seasons but still starts on the first try. “That’s the bash truck,” Mary laughs. “Only thing you’re allowed to drive around the property. Maisie and Evelyn learned to drive in that thing. Nearly rolled it on the hill over there.”

“Figures, have you seen this woman drive?” Sam jokes, hooking a thumb toward Evelyn.

“Hey! No lifts for you, smart ass.”

“Wouldn’t want to get in your death trap of a car anyway. Only one stupid enough to is Barnes.”

They pass the stables—clean and well-maintained, with fresh hay stacked neatly outside and saddles hanging from a wooden rack. Two horses poke their heads out of the stalls, curious and content. They all give them a pat. Evie tells them she missed them.

“We breed and sell them,” Henry explains. “Not just for show. Good bloodlines, strong stock. Pays the bills better than you’d think. They have to be ridden every day, trained, prepped. We’ll get you on one in a few days once the Christmas rush passes.”

“They’ve got awards in the den,” Evie adds with a grin. “Dad won’t admit it, but he’s kind of a big deal in the state circuit.”

Henry grunts, waving her off with a shrug. “People talk too much.”

They pass a little outhouse shed, and they can see through the slightly ajar door there is a drumkit and a guitar, like a little studio. Bucky can imagine Evie in there, younger, practicing.

Bucky’s quiet through most of the tour, letting the others ask questions, crack jokes. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, but his eyes keep drifting to the fields, the horizon. There’s a bench on the edge of the porch facing the open land, and for a moment, he pictures himself sitting there with a cup of coffee, not saying a word. Just breathing. Just being.

The thought of it makes something loosen in his chest.

He doesn’t even realise he’s staring until Evelyn glances over. “Nice, huh?”

He blinks, caught. “Yeah. It’s... quiet. Peaceful.”

“It always is. That’s why I come back.”

She smiles softly at him, and he can’t quite look away.

The dogs find them on the way back up the path to the house—three of them, lean and sure-footed, coats dusted with hay and mud and snow, their tails wagging like metronomes. One of them—a scrappy brown mutt with mismatched eyes—runs straight to Evelyn, nearly knocking her over in excitement.

She laughs and drops into a crouch, scratching behind his ears. “This one’s Flash. Named him when I was fifteen. Still hasn’t slowed down.”

The other two dogs flank Henry, falling into step with him like loyal soldiers. “They help with the herding,” he explains, patting one of them. “Smart as hell. We’d be lost without ‘em.”

Sam bends to give one a scratch as it trots up beside him. “You’re just glad someone listens to you,” he teases.

Henry snorts but doesn’t argue.

On the porch, a handful of cats lounge in various states of royal laziness—one curled on a sun-warmed windowsill, another grooming itself on the porch rail, and a third sprawled in the rocking chair like it pays rent. Mary shoos them off with mock sternness as they head inside. “They’ll sneak into the pantry if we’re not careful. Last year, they stole an entire ham.”

“Heroes,” Ava mutters under her breath, grinning.

Golden hour clings to the edges of the day as the others peel off to help with dinner or unpack. Evelyn heads inside to wrangle something for dessert, as per her mother’s request, leaving Bucky lingering on the porch for a moment longer, staring at the tree line.

He exhales slowly.

The air is clean. Brisk. Full of birdcalls and the distant shuffle of hooves. But underneath it all, in the stillness, he feels it again—that weight. That hollow that never really leaves. It doesn’t scream here. Doesn’t ache. But it hums, soft and low, just beneath the surface.

And Evelyn...

He doesn’t know how, but she knows.

She never says anything. Never pushes.

But when her eyes flick to him, there’s something there. A quiet knowing. Like she sees something he doesn’t speak of.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

Not yet.

But out here, where the world is wide and soft and slow…

Maybe he’ll find the space to figure it out.

Inside, the house is full of warm smells—cinnamon, roast vegetables, something sweet baking in the oven. The wood stove crackles in the corner of the kitchen, casting flickering shadows across the pine-panelled walls. The table is already half-set, platters waiting to be filled. It feels like the kind of house that’s always ready for guests, always holding space for more.

Charlie arrives just before dinner, slipping in through the back door with snow still in his hair and dirt on his boots. He’s lanky, a little awkward in his gait, wearing a faded hoodie under his work jacket. He can’t be more than nineteen, with a mop of messy brown hair and wide, earnest eyes. He’s wearing some sort of uniform, maybe for the local diner or something.

“How did you get home? You were supposed to call your father for a lift,” Bucky hears Mary say from where he and Steve are sitting in the loungeroom, where they were put to relax.

“Mr Jones dropped me off. Shift got off early,” the younger boy says. “They here yet?”

“Sure are. Your sister’s in the kitchen making Grandma’s pie recipe. Or trying to, anyway.”

“Evie?” He calls.

Evie’s head pokes around the kitchen wall, and her face lights up.

Charlie’s hands are rough, his eyes tired—but they brighten the second they land on Evelyn. The moment he sees Evelyn, he freezes for half a second before darting forward and throwing his arms around her neck.

“Evie,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “I missed you so much.”

The hug lasts a few seconds longer than anyone else’s. His shoulders ease under her arms. You can see it—how he grounds himself in her presence. How she makes the world feel manageable for him. Her arms wrap tightly around him, pulling him in close as she murmurs soft reassurances into his hair.

Bucky watches from the couch, something tightening in his chest. The way Charlie clings to her—the way she’s everything he needs right now—it makes something click in Bucky’s mind. That’s why she’s so good with people like me, he thinks. Because she’s been doing it her whole life. She’s been holding it together for the people who need her.

Charlie eventually pulls back, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his sweater.

He nods a polite greeting to the others as Evie introduces them. “This is Charlie, my younger brother. When he’s not at college, he works down in town at the diner. Charlie, this is Steve and Bucky. Sam and Ava are upstairs somewhere.”

Charlie gives a soft smile and a small wave. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

They all murmur greetings in return. Bucky studies him a second longer, like he’s filing something away. Charlie notices. His gaze flicks over Bucky and then down to the metal arm, and something passes behind his eyes—not fear, just... understanding. A quiet recognition.

“I’m gonna go shower before dinner,” Charlie says, disappearing upstairs.

Evie watches after him for a moment, a quiet concern on her face.

Then she walks in and sinks down onto the couch beside Steve and Bucky with a small sigh, tucking her legs up underneath her. The scent of cinnamon and butter still clings to her, warm and sweet, like the house itself.

“Pie’s in the oven,” she says, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “And dinner’s nearly done. Mom’s doing that glazed chicken she likes to make when we have company. You’re lucky.”

Steve smiles, ever the polite guest. “We’re feeling lucky already.”

But Bucky watches her closely, and he sees the tightness around her mouth. The way her fingers twist in the hem of her sweater. She’s doing that thing again—shouldering something. Holding too much.

She glances toward the stairs, where Charlie had disappeared, then leans in slightly, voice lower now. “He’s... he’s been having a rough time. For a while.”

Bucky doesn’t interrupt. Neither does Steve. She’s not looking for advice. She just needs space to let it out.

“He’s only nineteen,” she says quietly. “My parents had Maisie and I when they were young, and Charlie way later. He’s the baby of the family. And he’s seen more than most kids should. One of his closest friends had an abusive home, and… he killed himself last year. Just after Christmas. Charlie’s never really come back from that. He was always quiet before, a bit of a wallflower, but…” She shrugs.

The room feels a little smaller for a moment, the quiet settling thickly.

Evie swallows hard. “He blames himself. Thinks he should’ve noticed something sooner. That he should’ve done more. I try to tell him that’s not how it works, but…” She trails off, shaking her head.

Bucky watches her profile—steady and composed, but her fingers are still fidgeting, still looking for something to do.

“Mom’s… trying,” she adds after a pause. “But I think she’s just overwhelmed. And Dad doesn’t really know what to say. Charlie won’t talk to anyone, really. But when I’m home, he opens up a bit. I think—” her voice softens, “—I try to call him when I can. I think I’m his safe person. So, I just try to be there for him. You know?”

“You’re good at that,” Bucky says before he can think better of it. His voice is quiet, but firm. “Being there.”

She looks over at him, surprised. But she doesn’t dismiss it. She just nods. “I don’t always know what I’m doing,” she admits. “But I guess… maybe that doesn’t matter as much as just showing up.”

Steve shifts a little, offering a small smile. “It matters more than you think.”

There’s a quiet beat between them.

“I should check the pie,” Evie says eventually, standing and brushing invisible crumbs from her jeans.

As she disappears into the kitchen, Bucky leans back and exhales slowly.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” Steve murmurs beside him.

Bucky nods, eyes still on the doorway where she vanished. “Yeah,” he says. “She always is.”

The house buzzes with activity. The hum of old pipes rattles through the walls, mingling with the faint strains of Christmas music playing from a speaker in the living room. The smell of roasted chicken and caramelised vegetables curls through the air, thick and comforting, like a blanket of memory wrapped around the old farmhouse.

Bucky and Steve end up in the kitchen, half-heartedly helping Evelyn’s mom set the table and putting together the trestle table from the garage. Mary is a whirlwind—cheerful and quick, darting between the stove and the counter like someone who’s done this a thousand times. She gives orders gently but firmly—“Forks on the left, boys,”—and laughs when Steve pretends not to know where anything goes. There’s a warmth in it all, in the way everything is slightly mismatched but full of life.

Then she disappears upstairs with a folded tea towel over her shoulder and a call for Charlie to come down soon, leaving them alone in the kitchen’s golden glow. They hear banging around upstairs, and then people coming back down. And that’s when they hear it—soft, but not soft enough. A conversation threading in from the hall, low and weighted.

“You should think about coming home, Evie,” Mary’s voice wavers with quiet urgency. “Charlie needs you. He’s going through a lot right now.”

“I’m still here for him,” Evelyn replies gently. Her voice is paper-thin but steady, layered with restraint. “I’m just… a little further away.”

“You’re doing good things. I know that. But family’s important too.”

“I know, Mom,” Evelyn sighs, the words soft but tired, like an old coat she’s had to wear too long. “But I’m finally doing something good with my life. Something that makes me proud. I’m twenty-nine years old. I need to find purpose beyond playing gigs in pubs and working as a bartender.”

There’s a long pause. The air feels too still. Too sharp.

“I get that. They’re like family to you as well. Just… don’t forget about your brother, okay?”

“I’m not,” Evie says, frustration in her tone. “I’d never. I just… I have a lot going on as well. Charlie’s not the only one I’m helping.”

“I know,” her mother says, voice resigned. “I know.”

Bucky glances at Steve, who meets his eyes with a quiet nod. They don’t say anything, but they don’t move either. They’re not supposed to be listening—but they are. And it’s too late to unhear it now.

He turns his gaze back toward the hallway, jaw clenched. That tired note in her voice—it hits something in him, something buried and familiar. Evelyn isn’t just tired from the work. She’s tired from carrying everyone else’s pain. And it’s been that way for a long time.

He sees her in a new light now—not just strong, not just capable—but exhausted from the kind of giving that drains you down to the bone. She's not invincible. She's just someone who keeps showing up anyway.

And maybe that’s what gets him. That she still chooses to show up.

Bucky swallows hard. The chicken’s still cooking, the house still hums with life, and the light over the table flickers once, catching on the edge of the silverware.

He thinks about what it means to really be there for someone.

Not just to protect them. Not just to admire them from afar.

But to be there. Solid. Constant. Present.

He wants that. Wants to be that—for her.

Maybe—just maybe—he’s not as broken as he thought he was.

Maybe he’s learning how to be whole again.

And maybe this place, this family, this girl standing in a hallway trying not to break under the weight of it all—maybe this is what he’s supposed to be doing with his life. After all the uncertainty and fighting, and wondering what the point was after defeating Thanos, he thinks he knows.

For the first time since they pulled into the driveway, Bucky feels the enormity of it all settle in his chest.

He doesn’t just like her.

He admires her.

He wants to be someone she can lean on too, the way everyone else leans on her.

Maybe he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

She comes back into the kitchen alone, rubbing at the back of her neck, her face drawn but steady. The kind of steadiness Bucky’s starting to recognise as a mask. Not a lie—just armour. He knows it well.

Steve makes eye contact with him and then leaves the room, quietly.

She doesn’t notice him at first. He’s still by the table, watching her, arms crossed loosely over his chest. She moves to the sink like she’s on autopilot, rinsing her hands even though they’re already clean. The water runs. The hum of the oven fills the room.

Then she senses him, turns around slowly. Their eyes meet. No words pass between them.

He just walks over, calm and certain, and wraps his arms around her.

She stiffens, caught off guard.

They’ve fought side by side. Walked home under stars in companionable silence. She’s held his hand through panic attacks, brushed the hair from his forehead when he couldn't sleep, held him in her arms so he could sleep. They’ve been on a date, and he’s kissed her cheek. He’s tucked her own hair behind her ear. They’ve cuddled. But they’ve never hugged like this. Not really.

Not a normal hug. Only hugs laced in desperation or fear or trauma.

He holds her gently but firmly—like he’s offering something without asking for anything in return. She’s still for a second too long, and then her arms come up around him, fitting under his shoulders like they were always meant to.

She exhales into his chest. A shudder, barely noticeable if he hadn’t felt it. The smell of woodsmoke clings to his flannel shirt. She closes her eyes.

Her voice doesn’t come. She doesn’t need it to.

His hand finds the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her hair. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t let go too soon. Just stays with her. Warm and solid and quiet.

Outside, someone calls from the porch.

The moment shifts. She steps back slowly, and he lets her go.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to.

But her eyes linger on him as she reaches for the oven mitts, as if anchoring herself just a little longer.

And Bucky—he feels something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight for a long, long time.

Dinner is a casual spread laid out buffet-style: roasted chicken with rosemary, mashed potatoes, honeyed carrots, fresh bread, spiced cider. It’s comfort food, rich with love and memory. Everyone fills their plates and settles around the long, slightly uneven dining table that’s clearly seen years of meals and elbows and laughter.

Mary carries the conversation like she’s done it all her life, asking about missions (“but only the non-classified bits!”), teasing Evie about her “city posture,” telling a story about the time Evelyn broke her arm trying to jump a fence on horseback.

“You didn’t even cry,” Charlie says softly from the other end of the table. “Just got really quiet. I remember that.”

Evie meets his eyes and smiles, gentle and fond. “You were the one who ran back for help.”

He ducks his head. “Didn’t want you to be alone.”

The table quiets for just a moment—enough to feel the weight of the bond between them—and then Mary jumps in with a story about the cats trying to open the fridge last week, and laughter returns like a tide.

Steve relaxes visibly as the night goes on, leaning back in his chair, sipping cider. Even Ava relaxes, sitting back, as they laugh at the stories and crack jokes. Sam helps clear dishes with Ava, telling Mary to sit back down. Bucky stays mostly quiet, taking everything in. He watches Evelyn when she isn’t looking. Watches the way her hand always finds Charlie’s shoulder when he seems to drift, how she refills her mom’s cider without being asked, how her laughter is real here. Open.

She’s different here.

Not entirely—but softened. More anchored.

After dessert—their Grandma’s apple pie and something called “snowball cookies” that Sam immediately falls in love with—they move to the lounge in front of the fire. The dogs settle at their feet. The cats reclaim the furniture. Snow starts to fall outside the windows, soft and silent.

And Bucky, for maybe the first time in a long while, doesn’t feel like a soldier out of place.

He just feels like a person.

A tired one. A haunted one. But human.

The night of Christmas Eve carries a quiet magic, thick with the weight of the holidays and the warmth of familiarity. The house is alive with the crackling of the fire, the soft glow of Christmas lights, and the muffled sounds of the snow falling just outside. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty, but full of possibility. It’s peaceful, but the kind of peace that makes Bucky feel like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to shift.

Apparently, it’s tradition for them all to make music on Christmas Eve, so Evie is told to sit at the piano. She plays a range of tunes, even some that Steve and Bucky would know, and the family sings along, laughing, listening.

Evie, the firelight dancing across her face, plays the piano with an effortless grace. Her fingers move fluidly, each note ringing through the room like a lullaby, soft and steady. Sam and Steve join in, their voices loud and off-key, filling in the melody with jovial, if not completely in-tune, harmony. The sound is a little bit of everything he’s missed — laughter, music, light. The kind of warmth that fills the corners of a house and makes it feel like home.

Bucky’s hands rest on his knees, his mug of spiked hot chocolate warm between his palms. He watches them — the way Sam and Steve bicker over lyrics, the way Evie smiles at them, teasing with a playful look. Mary and Henry are considerably more tipsy from the spiked hot chocolate, and they strike up a dance, and Bucky can see how much they love each other, even after so many years together. It’s nice. It’s more than nice.

He’s always felt like an outsider in these kinds of moments, the odd one out. But tonight, it’s different. Tonight, it feels like he’s part of something he can’t quite define, something that makes him feel human in a way he hasn’t in years.

By the time they’ve transitioned from familiar tunes to Christmas carols, the group has settled into a rhythm — a rhythm he finds comforting. There’s a sense of ease, as if they’ve all known each other forever, their bonds forged through shared history and unspoken understanding. Bucky glances over at Steve, who’s humming off-key but smiling like he’s found a moment of peace himself. Ava laughs quietly beside him, and Bucky feels a wave of gratitude for their friendship, for the way they’ve supported him even when he didn’t know how to ask for it.

When the movie It’s a Wonderful Life starts – another tradition, apparently – it pulls everyone into a cozy quietness, the kind that wraps around you like a blanket. The TV flickers softly in the dim room, and Bucky shifts uncomfortably on the couch. He’s not used to this kind of calm, to being in a place where he’s not on guard, where he can let his thoughts drift without feeling the weight of every decision he’s ever made.

Evie, who’s been sitting on the other end of the couch, scoots closer, draping a blanket over their laps like she does in their movie nights at Avengers Tower. The fabric brushes against his legs, warm and soft. For a moment, their eyes meet, and Bucky feels that familiar rush of warmth in his chest, a kind of flutter that he’s tried to ignore but can’t quite shake. She gives him a small, knowing smile, and he’s not sure if it’s because she senses it too, or if she’s just comfortable in the way things have settled.

They’re quiet for a while, watching the movie, but every so often, she shifts slightly, her fingers brushing against his, the contact light but enough to send a jolt of warmth up his spine. He can’t decide if it’s the proximity or the blanket that’s making his heart race, but it’s there — the steady beat, the pulse of something he doesn’t know how to name.

He hesitates only for a moment before lifting his arm, settling it across the back of her couch, over her shoulders, his hand resting on the end of her shoulder.

Mary, still sitting near the fire, leans forward slightly, her gaze flicking between her daughter and Bucky. She watches them both for a moment, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

When the boys move off to the front parlour with Henry to raid the bar again, the girls are left in the living room by the fire. Ava is sitting on the floor where she’d been leaning against Steve and Sam’s legs. Charlie follows the boys, and his dad allows him a small amount of whiskey. Being allowed into Henry’s alcohol cabinet is an honour not bestowed lightly.

Ava excuses herself to go to the bathroom, leaving Evie and her mom alone again.

“So, tell me, baby,” she begins softly, her tone careful, as though testing the waters. “How’s it really been for you? Being an Avenger... It must be a lot, huh?”

Evie doesn’t seem caught off guard, but she hesitates for just a second, her fingers briefly pausing their fidgeting with the edges of her hair. She lets out a quiet sigh, turning slightly toward her mother, her voice low but steady. “I’m fine, Mom. I have powers, remember? And me and the others — we always have each other’s backs. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Her mother seems unconvinced, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she smiles and relaxes into her seat, her eyes shifting from Evie to Bucky where she can just see him in the other room down the hallway, and then back to Evie again, as though something is clicking into place in her mind.

“I just want you to be safe,” Evie’s mother says finally, her voice soft but firm, a mother’s worry woven through every syllable. “All of you. I know you’ve got powers, but I still worry.”

Evie, with a soft smile, leans back slightly, her shoulders relaxing, the weight of her mother’s concern settling into something more manageable. “I know, Mom. But I’m okay. I promise.”

There’s a pause—long and soft—settling between them like a blanket, the hush of the house filling the space. And then her mother speaks again, voice low, almost conspiratorial, like she’s sharing something sacred.

“Bucky seems very protective of you, doesn’t he?”

Evie stills, her fingers caught mid-twist in her hair. The shift in tone makes her glance over. Down the hallway, she catches a glimpse of him—Bucky, quiet and steady, nursing a glass of whiskey as he leans into the edge of the couch in the front room. He’s laughing at something Sam said, that low rasp of a laugh that only ever slips out when he’s fully present. But even then, his eyes scan the room, always working. Always aware. And when she moves, his gaze tracks her for just a moment too long, as if to make sure she’s still there.

Her heart flickers, unsteady.

She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, settling deeper into the armchair. “He’s... like that with everyone,” she says, too sure.

Her mother hums, unconvinced. “Mm. Sure he is.”

Evie gives her a look. Her mother’s eyes twinkle, full of mischief and far too much perception.

“So,” her mom says lightly, “how’s is it going?”

Evie raises an eyebrow, then follows her gaze back to the lounge. “I dunno. Sometimes I feel like it’s not really going anywhere,” she admits. “We’ve flirted, we’ve had a couple of moments, we went on a date, but... I don’t know.” She shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “He’s been through hell, Mom. I don’t want to push.”

Her mother leans back, smiling like she already knows the next ten steps. “Still,” she says, “the way he looks at you... and you with him. You’ve got a whole orbit going.”

Evie lets out a small, reluctant laugh. “You think?”

“Oh, honey.” Her mother’s voice softens. “He watches you like you’re the only steady thing in the room.”

Evie doesn’t answer, but the words lodge deep. She takes a sip of her drink, eyes drawn back to the way Bucky rests now, looking a little less tense, but his jaw clenches, even when he smiles. Always holding something back. Always a little bit uncomfortable. This whole week is just a bit too much for him.

“I just don’t want to mess it up,” she says finally. “He’s still healing. I think... he’s scared to want anything, sometimes. Doesn’t think he deserves it. And he doesn't want to mess it up, either. I’ve been letting him set the pace, you know?”

Her mother nods. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just waiting for a green light.” She leans in a little. “Sometimes the bravest thing you can do for someone like that is let them know you’ll be there. That they don’t have to do all the reaching. Maybe,” her mother adds, voice quieter now, “you’re the thing that pulls him out of the fog.”

Evie doesn’t know how to respond to that. It feels too big, too fragile. Like touching it might break it.

But still—her eyes drift back to Bucky. And just then, as if sensing her, he turns. Their eyes meet. Neither of them looks away. For one heartbeat, the noise of the house fades. There’s only the firelight, and the ache of something just beginning.

Evie pulls the blanket up to her chin, trying to hide the smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.

“You really think we’re cute?” she murmurs, not quite looking at her mom.

Her mother stands, brushing crumbs off her jeans, grinning. “Adorable. But don’t stay stuck in adorable forever.”

Evie watches her go, the air shifting in her absence. The fire crackles. Conversation swells around the house again. But something stays lodged in her chest, warm and a little wild.

She glances back at Bucky. He’s still watching. A tiny smile on his lips. His eyes soft.

Chapter Text

Christmas morning dawns crisp and golden, sunlight spilling through the frost-rimmed windows like something out of a postcard. The fire is already crackling in the hearth, the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting through the house. Slippers shuffle across hardwood floors, someone’s making coffee, and laughter bubbles from the living room even before breakfast.

The tree glows like something alive — too many lights, too many ornaments, tinsel tangled in the branches like a nest of glittering thread. And around it, chaos.

There’s a sense of comfort that Bucky hasn’t had in... well, a long time. Despite how much Steve and Sam have tried to give it to him since he came home.

They all dart into the room like kids, the excitement of Christmas too much for them. It’s been a long, long time since they had anything like this. Steve and Sam are in matching Christmas pyjamas, which was likely Sam’s idea, not Steve’s. He had a set for Bucky, too, but Bucky had just levelled him a look and walked out of the room. If Evie had given them to him, he would’ve reconsidered. But not Sam. He’ll never.

Bucky’s wearing flannel pyjama pants and a t-shirt, sitting on the floor in front of the fire so he's warm, just watching everything. Henry’s trying — and failing — to get a camera set up on the mantel. Sam’s already on his second candy cane. Steve looks bemused but content as he sinks into the couch with a mug of coffee, watching it all unfold like it’s the theatre. Ava sits beside him, on her second cup of coffee, a sort of child-like innocence about her - she's never really had Christmases, not really.

And in the middle of it all, Mary claps her hands with theatrical authority. “Okay! Evelyn, get up here — no one’s opening anything until the official elf starts handing them out! You’ve always had this job, you can’t escape it now.”

There’s a chorus of groans and cheers as Evelyn stands, mock-saluting before slipping past the crowd toward the tree. She’s in mismatched socks and an oversized jumper that might once have been her dad’s, her hair still mussed from sleep, cheeks pink with warmth. “I live to serve,” she announces, diving into the pile of gifts.

Steve, Sam, Ava and Bucky are not expecting anything. They brought things for the family as a thank you for their hospitality, but they’re far from expecting a gift. So, imagine their surprise when gifts start dropping into their hands, carefully wrapped, their names written neatly on the gift tag, ribbons wrapped around the coloured paper with care.

Paper crinkles. Tags are checked. Names are called. “For Sam — Careful, it jingles.” Sam grins and grabs it.

“Steve — No peeking. This one’s yours but I know there’s a second part somewhere.”

“Ava, this is yours. Merry Christmas!” Ava's face lights up as she carefully takes the gift, gingerly, like it's breakable. She unwraps it with shaking hands.

“Ew, this one’s glittery. Dad definitely wrapped this. That’s for you, Mom.”

Laughter rolls around the room. Wrapping paper flies.

Someone puts on Christmas music. Charlie makes a comment and it instantly starts a heated debate over whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie. It’s loud and messy and real.

And Bucky?

He just sits back for a second, taking it all in.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt like he was part of something like this — not just tolerated but folded into the shape of a family. No mission. No agenda. No need to look over his shoulder. Just the low buzz of joy.

Then Evelyn turns to him.

She moves closer with a grin, eyes bright. “Here,” she says, handing him a small, precisely wrapped box — paper with tiny gold stars and a ribbon tied in a bow that’s just a little too perfect. “This one’s for you.”

Bucky looks at her. He takes it gingerly, eyebrows lifting. “For me?”

But she’s already turned away, diving back into the pile like a woman on a mission, calling out to her dad as she flings a gift in his direction.

Bucky’s fingers trace the paper – he hasn’t had a present in all the time he can remember. They were few and far between in the 30s given the state of things, and Steve never had any money to buy him anything anyway, not that either of them minded. And he hasn’t had a proper Christmas since he… came back. After Thanos, the Blip, everything. He's been trying to scrape his life back together in the time, not focusing on Christmas. And he and Steve agreed on no presents last year, Steve's first proper year back – Christmas didn’t really feel like Christmas, anyway.

He opens it slowly, careful not to rip the paper. Inside is a gift card to a small vintage bookstore in Brooklyn — the kind that sells rare editions, signed covers, and smells like dust and ink. It’s generous. Too generous. Beneath that, a sleek bottle of whiskey, the exact brand he likes. Hard to find. Familiar. Comforting.

He doesn’t have to ask — this was Mary and Henry, clearly. But Evie must’ve told them what to get, must have mentioned the brand and the bookstore, must’ve remembered that night he told her it was the only drink that didn’t taste like ash anymore and it was a store he’d always meant to go into when he walked past it on the way to her apartment.

It’s small, but it hits him square in the chest. Someone thought about him. Someone saw him.

He swallows, the edges of the wrapping paper clenched in his hands.

“Evie,” he calls softly, almost unsure.

She’s crouched across the room, halfway through unwrapping something bright and fluffy. She glances over her shoulder, meets his eyes — and grins like she already knows. She doesn’t say anything. Just gives him a little shrug, like of course. Like it’s not a big deal.

Bucky looks down again. He mutters, “Thank you,” under his breath, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

The morning rolls on in bursts of laughter and gift wrap and declarations of “Who got me socks again?!”

Steve is given a hand-knitted scarf with stars on it. Sam opens a gag gift and nearly chokes laughing. Ava is given a weighted blanket, a way to ground her when her molecules feel like they might fall apart. Soft, heavy, calming. And then she unwraps a custom mug that says stop phasing through my emotions. She laughs, thinks it's probably from Sam, and then immediately pours her hot chocolate into it, sipping with a smirk.

Someone else spills hot chocolate on the floorboards and Charlie soaks it up before the dogs can. Henry plays the same Bing Crosby track three times in a row, swearing at the playlist on his phone.

And Bucky — well, he brought a bottle of wine and a big box of chocolates. That’s it. It felt like enough, a little thank you to the Days for having him, until now. It wasn't a cheap bottle by any means, but it feels small and worthless in his hands. But no one treats it like a small thing. Mary beams when she unwraps it, immediately placing it beside the sink like it’s a trophy. “Perfect for dinner, sweetheart. Thank you,” she says, before moving on.

He sits back after a while, gifts at his feet, his new scarf draped around his shoulders courtesy of Evelyn’s aunt something he’s never met. He glances at Evie, who’s now sitting cross-legged by the tree, unwrapping something from Sam that turns out to be a hideous Christmas sweater with a flamingo in a Santa hat. She loves it.

The gift pile dwindles, paper crumples into bags, and ribbons trail like confetti across the floor. The music changes to something else old — Bing giving way to Ella Fitzgerald — and someone finally manages to get the cinnamon rolls into the oven.

Just as Bucky’s starting to think he might have opened everything, Steve appears at his side, holding a slim, flat package wrapped in plain brown paper and twine.

“Forgot this one earlier,” Steve says with a smile. “From me and Sam.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow but takes it. “You two conspiring now?”

Steve shrugs. “Sometimes.”

He unties the string slowly. The paper gives way to reveal a framed photo — black and white, grainy but clear. It’s from the 1940s. A candid shot he doesn’t remember being taken: Bucky leaning against a railing outside some dance hall, cigarette dangling from his fingers, a crooked smile aimed somewhere off-camera. He looks happy. Free.

Tucked behind the frame is another photo — a modern one. This time it’s him and Sam, mid-argument at a Mets game, both of them yelling at the ump. Sam’s pointing; Bucky’s scowling. Steve must’ve snapped it. Someone must’ve convinced him it was worth framing.

Two lives. Two frames.

His throat tightens.

“Hope that’s okay,” Steve says, voice a little tentative now. “We figured… it’s good to remember where you came from. And where you are now.”

Bucky nods once, sharply, jaw flexing. “Yeah. It’s good.”

Then Sam leans over with a devilish grin, holding out a lumpy, poorly wrapped box. “And this is from me alone.”

Bucky eyes it warily. “Should I be worried?”

“Deeply.”

He unwraps it — layers upon layers of duct tape, masking tape, glittery tissue paper, just to annoy him judging by Sam’s smirk. Inside, a T-shirt that reads 'World’s Okayest Ex-Assassin'.

He snorts despite himself. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, cyborg.”

And now it’s Bucky’s turn.

He gets up quietly and retrieves a small bag from behind the tree — where he’d stashed the things last night in a moment of nerves. He’d debated each one for weeks — agonised over whether they were right, whether they were too much, too little. He isn’t good at this kind of thing. But he wanted to try.

He starts with Steve. Hands him a small box wrapped in navy blue paper. Inside, a replica of a 1930s baseball glove, handcrafted from worn leather, aged just enough to feel real. Along with it, two tickets to a vintage-style game upstate — complete with uniforms and rules from their time.

Steve’s face softens instantly. “Buck…”

“You missed that game in ’43,” Bucky says quietly. “Figured you deserved a do-over.”

Steve claps a hand to his shoulder, no words needed.

Next is Ava — he passes her a small, flat case. A slim, beautiful knife with a carved handle — Damascus steel, custom-forged, with her initials subtly etched into the base. Balanced. Elegant. Deadly. Like her.

Ava’s eyebrows lift, impressed despite herself. “This is… really nice.”

“Got one for Yelena, too. Don’t stab me with it,” he says dryly.

“No promises.”

Sam’s next. His gift is wrapped in newspaper — classic Bucky — but inside is a rare CD Sam once mentioned wanting during a long road trip. His car’s older, and still runs on CDs and AUX cords. It took Bucky two weeks of tracking through collectors online, but he found it. The label’s pristine.

“Man, damn,” Sam says, eyes wide. “You really listened when I said that.”

Bucky shrugs, suddenly shy. “Guess I did.”

And finally — Evelyn.

He hesitates, then crosses to her, kneeling by where she’s curled in an armchair, the flamingo sweater now fully on display. He pulls a slim box from his jacket pocket and hands it over. She takes it with a small, curious smile.

Inside is a vintage locket. Proper vintage – he searched online for days to find it and ordered it. Silver. Simple. When she opens it, gently, in one half of the frame is a tiny, pressed forget-me-not flower that he picked at the park. A daisy, her favourite flower, he thinks. The other side is blank — waiting. Waiting for a photo, or a word, or whatever she wants to put there.

“I know it’s old-fashioned,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “And I know you like that sort of stuff. I saw it and thought… I don’t know. It reminded me of you.”

Evelyn’s quiet for a moment, fingers brushing over the metal. Her eyes shimmer, not with tears exactly, but with something soft and warm. Then she leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead — feather-light, but steady.

“I love it,” she says. “Thank you.”

Bucky blushes slightly, the apples of his cheeks just a little bit pink. He smiles at her. “You can put a picture in there. Of something that means a lot to you,” he tells her, motioning to the empty slot.

“Well, I’ll have to hit you up for a photo then, won’t I?” She says with a smirk. Bucky's eyes widen comically, and his blush becomes more furious, even the tips of his ears turning pink. “Help me put it on?”

Bucky nods, his breath catching just a little. He takes the locket carefully from her hands, fingers brushing hers for a second longer than necessary. The chain is delicate, barely more than a whisper of silver, and for a moment he just looks at it resting in his palm. Then he rises, moving behind her as she lifts her hair without a word. His fingers fumble slightly with the clasp — he curses softly under his breath, and she laughs, quiet and warm. 

He finally gets it hooked and lets the chain settle gently against the base of her neck. His hand lingers there, not quite ready to pull away. She turns her head slightly, enough for her cheek to brush against his knuckles.

"You didn’t have to get me anything," she says softly, fingers touching the locket now resting over her chest. "But I’m really glad you did."

Bucky shrugs, stepping back, but there's a slight flush to his cheeks. “I wanted to. Spent weeks trying to talk myself out of it.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to get it wrong,” he admits. “Didn’t want to do too much. Or not enough. But mostly…” He trails off, then looks at her, voice low. “Mostly I just didn’t want to mess up something that matters.”

Her eyes find his. “You didn’t,” she says, quiet but sure. “You didn’t mess up at all. It's perfect.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but the sound of someone yelling, “Who finished the cinnamon rolls without telling me?!” from the kitchen breaks the spell. Evelyn smiles, but her hand stays over the locket, protective and grateful.

“We better go fight for a cinnamon roll. You coming?” she asks.

He watches her a second longer, then nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

She leaves the room with one last glance, and Bucky lets out a slow breath, hands in his pockets. His fingers brush the edges of a bit of folded wrapping paper tucked deep in his coat — something he couldn’t throw away just yet.

He stands there for a moment, quiet amid the lingering scent of pine and cinnamon and paper and warmth.

And again, he thinks, maybe he’s allowed this. Maybe he’s allowed to have this, too.

The front door creaks open, followed by the peal of a child’s laughter echoing down the hall. Evelyn’s sister, Maisie, steps in first, cheeks pink from the cold, her smile bright as she shrugs off her coat. Just behind her, her young son clutches a stuffed dinosaur, eyes wide as he takes in the bustle of the house.

“There they are!” Maisie calls cheerfully, her voice cutting through the chatter.

Heads turn. Evelyn’s face lights up the moment she sees them. She’s on her feet in a flash, crossing the room with a joy that radiates off her.

Bucky watches from the table, eyes flicking between the sisters. There’s an ease between them — laughter in the way they hug, the kind that comes from a lifetime of shared secrets and inside jokes. It makes him feel a bit like an outsider, though not in a painful way. Just... unfamiliar. He’s never had a big family like this, never been swept into the easy rhythm of it. It’s overwhelming — but in the kind of way he’s starting to want more of.

Maisie hugs Evelyn tightly, and just behind her, the little boy lets out a squeal and launches into Evelyn’s arms.

“Aunt Evie!”

“Hi, baby,” Evelyn coos, pulling him close and swaying a little with the weight of him. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he says, pulling back just enough to shove his dinosaur plush in her face. “Dino did too.”

She presses a kiss to the toy’s nose. “Well, tell Dino I missed him.”

The boy beams. Bucky melts.

Maisie’s already walking toward him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You must be the infamous Bucky.”

He stiffens, caught mid-sip of his drink. “Infamous?” he echoes, setting the glass down.

Maisie raises a brow, clearly entertained by how off guard she’s caught him. “Evie doesn’t shut up about you.”

Bucky blinks. That’s new. He’s used to being talked about — classified files, whispered rumours — but not like this. Not fondly. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly too warm. “Uh… hopefully just the good stuff?”

Maisie laughs, rich and genuine. She glances over her shoulder at Evelyn, who’s now laughing with her mom and Charlie, still holding Henry. Then she leans in a little, voice low and conspiratorial.

“Only the good stuff, I promise.”

His blush deepens, but he chuckles anyway. “That’s a relief.”

Maisie grins and claps him gently on the shoulder, just as Evelyn approaches with her nephew at her side.

“Milo, this is Bucky,” she says, her voice warm. “Bucky, this is my nephew.”

Milo peeks up from behind Evelyn’s leg, lifting a shy hand in a wave.

Bucky offers a small, easy smile and reaches out. “Hey there, buddy. Nice to meet you.”

Milo eyes him for a second, then reaches out and shakes his hand, firm for a kid his size. “Nice to meet you,” he mumbles.

Evelyn watches them, her expression soft — a kind of quiet pride in her eyes. Bucky catches it, and something tugs at his chest. The look she gives him makes him feel seen. Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon. Just... as himself.

Milo’s gaze shifts, curiosity taking over. The young boy, with his innocent and unfiltered curiosity, tilts his head slightly. He catches sight of Bucky’s vibranium arm where it rests against his leg, and his expression lights up. “Whoa.”

Before anyone can stop him, Milo wriggles free and steps closer. His small fingers brush against the cool metal without hesitation.

Bucky freezes. Just for a second — the old instincts flaring — but Milo looks up at him, not with fear, not with judgment, just... awe.

“Cool arm,” Milo whispers.

Bucky blinks. He expects the flinch, the retreat. But Milo’s eyes sparkle with wonder, not wariness. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You think so?” Bucky asks, voice a little rough.

Milo nods. “It’s like a robot arm. Can you do tricks?”

Bucky lets out a soft laugh — surprised by it, but not resisting. “Yeah,” he says, relaxing into the moment. “I can do a few.”

Evelyn crouches beside Milo, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Be gentle, bud. Bucky’s arm is a little different.”

Milo nods seriously. “It’s okay. He said it’s cool.”

Bucky looks down at him, the boy’s small hand still resting on his arm like it belongs there. His small hand pats it with the kind of innocent affection Bucky has never expected. “You’re a brave kid,” he says softly.

Milo grins. “Show me the tricks sometime?”

“Deal.”

As Milo darts back toward Maisie, Evelyn lingers. Her gaze meets Bucky’s — and something in it stills him. It’s not just affection. It’s trust. It’s belief. And it floors him a little, how much he wants to be worthy of it.

“Thanks, kid,” Bucky murmurs, almost to himself.

Evelyn brushes her fingers against his, quiet and steady. “He already thinks you’re a superhero.”

Bucky lets out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “That makes one of us.”

She smiles up at him. “Guess you’ll have to catch up.”

As Milo’s attention shifts elsewhere, still full of youthful wonder, Bucky glances up at Evelyn. There’s something in her eyes — the kind of understanding that only someone close to him, someone who knows him, would have. He can’t help but feel the smallest sense of gratitude for this family that’s taking him in, despite his scars, despite the parts of him that still feel like they don’t belong.

Maisie, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, nudges her sister playfully. “You two are cute,” she teases, her voice full of warmth as she heads off toward the kitchen with Milo in tow. “Alright, let’s get this food on the table before it gets cold. Everyone’s starving.”

The tension in Bucky’s shoulders eases, and he watches the two of them walk away, suddenly feeling like maybe he’s not quite as much of an outsider as he thought. But as he looks back at Evelyn, he knows he still has a long way to go — with her, with this family, with himself.

And somehow, that doesn’t scare him quite as much as it used to.

“Did anyone pick up the grandparents?” Mary suddenly asks.

Everyone looks around, confused.

“Oh my God,” Henry says. “I was supposed to get them from the nursing home fifteen minutes ago. Charlie, let’s go.”

They race out the door. They're only gone a short while. The smell of cinnamon and roast chicken hangs in the air, and Evie is elbow-deep in a mixing bowl when the door opens again. Maisie barrels past them all with a flour-smudged face and meets them at the door.

“Gramps!” she yells, launching herself at the older man standing there in an oversized red-and-green sweater and a grin that could power a small city.

“Hey there, possum!” he chuckles, catching her in surprisingly strong arms.

Behind him, her nan trails in with a tin of shortbread and a weary but fond smile.

But it’s Pop, Henry's father, who draws the attention. Because he’s wearing a T-shirt under his flannel jacket—and on it, proudly, unironically printed in bold comic sans, is a photo of Evie mid-eye-roll at a press-conference with the words AURA IS MY GRANDDAUGHTER AND I’M HER #1 FAN.

Maisie bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, Pop, that’s merch. You made Evie merch.”

“Damn right I did,” he says, completely unbothered, planting a kiss on Evie’s cheek as she comes over. “Got it on some site called Redbubble. You think I don’t know how the internet works?”

“What is that monstrosity?” Evie cries.

“The best t-shirt I’ve ever earned. I wear it every second day, if your Nan remembers to wash it.”

Evie groans, half-laughing. “Oh, Jesus. Please take that off before dinner.”

“Not a chance. I’m the proud Pop of an Avenger.”

“Yeah, because us other grandkids can’t compare,” Maisie jokes, light-hearted. “Where’s our t-shirt?”

“Make him one, darling, and he’ll wear it,” Evie’s nan reassures.

Then he turns—and spots the two men standing in the kitchen doorway.

Bucky’s holding a mug of coffee. Steve’s leaning against the frame, sleeves rolled up, a faint dusting of flour on one temple from where Maisie accidentally whacked him with the sifter.

Pop freezes. His face changes—transforms, really—from cheer to something like reverence. He walks forward, a little stunned, and looks up at them with eyes glassy behind his bifocals.

“I was five when the war started,” he says, voice quiet with awe. “My dad used to tell me stories about you two—Captain America and the Howling Commandoes. It's a pleasure to meet you," he tells Steve, shaking his hand.

"And you," Steve responds, sincerely.

"But..." Pop turns then to face Bucky. "Most important of all to me was Bucky Barnes, the Howling Commando, Captain America's right hand man. After my uncle bought me a Bucky Bear, I was such a big fan. My uncle kept the newspaper clippings in his wallet 'til the day he died.”

Steve gives him the kind of soft smile he’s practiced for decades, gently heroic and gracious.

Bucky, on the other hand, looks stunned. Like someone dropped an ice cube down his collar. His cheeks flush red.

“I never thought I’d get to meet you,” Pop says. “You—both of you—you were heroes to us. Real ones. Not like movie stars. Like saints.”

“Pop, leave them alone,” Evie sighs, trying not to smile as she pulls him back by the shoulder.

“He can’t help being a fan,” Maisie teases, dropping down beside Bucky and peering at him with amusement. “You’ve got groupies across three generations now.”

Steve takes it in stride, clasping the old man’s hand again and thanking him. But Bucky… Bucky’s still blinking. Still unsure what to do with that kind of reverence. He’s used to fear. Wariness. Even the uncomfortable silence people give when they recognise him from a time long gone.

Not this. Not the warmth.

Pop reaches out and clasps Bucky's arm. “You came home,” he says. “You survived.”

And Bucky—heart a little off-kilter, throat thick—nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I did.”

Pop beams at him. “Well, we’re damn glad you did. You’re the one my granddaughter won’t shut up about.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” Bucky smirks.

Pop laughs, a full, chest-deep sound that echoes around the room, cutting through the usual holiday clatter like a bell. “Seems she’s got good taste.”

Evie groans and hides her face in her hands. “You two don’t need to bond over me. Please.”

“No, no,” Pop says, wagging a finger at her. “This is justice. Years of hearing you sigh over your silly little celebrity crushes. Now there’s someone real.”

Maisie howls with laughter. Steve chokes on his drink. Evie goes bright red, and Bucky’s never seen her look so flustered. She gives up entirely, marching into the kitchen with muttered curses about her “chaotic family” and “traitorous grandfather.” But her cheeks are pink, and her smile sneaks through the storm.

Bucky just grins—slow, real. “Guess I owe you a signed photo for that.”

Pop’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “You sign one and I’ll put it next to my framed photo of Winston Churchill and the photo from my wedding day on my bedside table.”

The sun hangs high and golden by the time they gather around the long, worn dining table for Christmas lunch. Light spills through the lace-curtained windows of the old farmhouse, catching on motes of dust that dance lazily in the warm air. The kitchen hums with heat and the scent of home: roasted turkey with crisped skin, mashed potatoes drowned in butter and garlic, earthy stuffing, and the sharp sweetness of cranberry sauce. There’s freshly baked bread cooling on the counter, its crust crackling softly as it settles. The oven’s warmth has crept into the rest of the house, thawing out the cold corners and filling the rooms with something that feels like memory.

The place is alive in a way that tugs at something deep inside Bucky — a muscle memory of a life that was never his, but might’ve been, in another time.

He sits near the end of the table, not quite exiled, but not quite in the middle of things either — close enough to feel the pulse of the conversation, too far to add to it without effort. He doesn’t mind. There’s comfort in the distance, in being able to observe without being pulled too hard into the noise. Still, his gaze keeps drifting toward Evelyn.

She sits across from him, angled toward her brother Charlie, and it’s like watching sunlight settle over water — warm, shifting, always moving. She laughs at something he says, eyes bright with mischief, her hand curled loosely on the back of his chair in a protective, grounding way. Charlie leans toward her, drawn in by her attention, still tethered to her despite being old enough to start pulling away. But Evelyn gives him no reason to. She listens like everything he says matters. Like he matters. That kind of attentiveness feels rare to Bucky — precious.

There’s a gravity to her. Not loud, not showy — just a quiet certainty that draws people in. She doesn’t command the room; she holds it, gently, without ever seeming to try. Her presence wraps around the others like a blanket — warm and steady. Charlie’s drawn in completely, his wide-eyed admiration almost fierce in its loyalty, and Bucky gets it. He understands the comfort in being known that fully. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.

The table bursts with movement — clinking glasses, shifting chairs, voices overlapping like waves crashing onto shore.

Her mother weaves through the tangle of limbs and laughter with the kind of grace that comes from years of navigating crowded family tables. She’s a quiet conductor in the orchestra of chaos — scooping up empty plates, refilling wine glasses, nudging elbows when the breadbasket gets missed. Her presence hums with the weight of a lifetime spent loving these people — a thousand small gestures worn into muscle memory.

When she reaches Bucky, he’s mid-sip of water, unsure if he should be offering to help or just staying out of the way. But she doesn’t hesitate. She leans in with a familiarity that startles him, a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes balanced in one hand, the other reaching instinctively to steady his plate.

“Here we go,” she murmurs, already piling more onto his plate. “You need to eat up, young man.”

There’s no room for argument in her tone — not stern, but assured in that quiet, motherly way that makes you believe she knows what’s best, just by existing. The kind of voice Bucky hasn’t heard in a long, long time. It’s not just the words — it’s the way she says them, like he’s one of hers, like feeding him is something sacred.

He swallows, not the food, but something heavier — a lump of surprise and emotion caught in his throat. He nods, not trusting his voice, and manages a small, grateful smile.

She pats his shoulder — gentle, but grounding — before moving on, already fussing at someone else for not trying her stuffing. And Bucky sits there for a moment longer, staring down at the mountain of food, feeling oddly rooted by the simple, unquestioning care of a woman who barely knows him.

For a few seconds, it’s not about being a guest or trying to belong. It’s just about being seen. Fed. Looked after.

And that, somehow, feels like the kindest thing in the world.

Henry follows behind her, quiet but observant, refilling water glasses and pulling pies from the oven, wearing the kind of contented look that only settles on a man who’s exactly where he wants to be.

Bucky’s halfway through pushing the potatoes around on his plate when Evelyn’s father takes the seat beside him with a low grunt, his chair creaking under the weight. The man offers a wry smile and a soft pat on the back of Bucky’s shoulder — not too familiar, not awkward, just… steady.

He puts another beer in front of Bucky without a word, the cap already popped off, and they clink glasses in a happy sort of silence.

“Hope you’re not too overwhelmed by all this,” Henry says, nodding toward the whirlwind of family chaos — plates being passed, voices overlapping, Evelyn laughing loud enough to echo. “We’re a loud bunch. Comes with the territory.”

Bucky offers a faint smile, shoulders tensing just slightly before he wills them to relax. “It’s...nice,” he says after a beat. “Different. But nice.”

Henry gives a quiet chuckle, sipping his beer and leaning back like they’ve known each other longer than an afternoon and a morning. “Evie said you were quiet. But I get the sense there’s a lot going on up here.” He taps his temple with two fingers, not unkindly. “Takes one to know one.”

That catches Bucky off guard, just enough for him to glance over, cautious. “Yeah?” he says, wary but curious.

Henry nods, thoughtful now. “I was Army. Years back. You know that. Nothing like what you’ve seen. But I know what it’s like to come back carrying things no one else can see. Sometimes you don’t need to talk about it. Sometimes it just helps to be around people who aren’t trying to fix you.”

He lets the words hang there, unhurried, then reaches for a bread roll and tears it in half. “You’re welcome here. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his plate, at the small mountain of food that someone cared enough to pile up for him, at the people still laughing around the table. He lets out a slow breath.

“Thanks,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual — almost like it’s been sanded down to something real. “Means more than you know.”

Henry just nods again and starts buttering his bread. “Good. Now eat before your potatoes get cold. My wife’ll have both our heads.”

And just like that, it’s easy again — like something unspoken passed between them and didn’t need to be explained. For the first time that day, Bucky doesn’t feel like he’s watching through the glass. He feels like maybe — just maybe — someone’s opened the door.

Bucky just absorbs. Learns the rhythms of this life like someone eavesdropping through a crack in the door.

And strangely — it doesn’t hurt. He’s not overwhelmed, not drowning in the chatter or the chaos. He feels present, grounded in a way he hasn’t in years. Not since… well, not since before. And maybe it’s the holiday, or the warmth, or the sound of Evelyn’s laughter threading through the noise, but something about it makes his chest ache. In a good way. Or in a way he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

Every second, he feels a little more settled. A little less like an outsider, and a little more like someone who belongs in the room. The clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation, even the laughter that fills every corner — they don’t feel like a storm anymore. They feel like... home. It’s a strange thought. He’s not sure how to name it yet, but he knows he hasn’t felt this steady in a long time.

His eyes find her again, almost without thinking. Evelyn’s talking now, laughing, her hand on Charlie’s shoulder as he excitedly rants about some new game he’s obsessed with. Charlie’s words are coming fast, but Evelyn matches his pace, listening intently, her face lighting up with every detail. She makes him feel seen, heard. Not just listened to, but understood.

It’s like she gives people room to exist. Doesn’t expect them to change or mould into something else. She’s there, in the space they’re in, and she makes them feel like they matter just as they are. It’s effortless for her. For a moment, Bucky can’t help but wonder if he could ever make someone feel that way. If he could belong here, like she does.

His throat tightens. It’s not envy, he tells himself. Not exactly. But something stirs in his chest. A quiet longing. Like standing outside in the cold and watching through a warm window — you want to be inside, but you don’t know how to walk through the door.

Then Evelyn’s eyes flick to his. A brief glance, a flicker of recognition. And in that instant, something shifts in Bucky. It’s not just that she saw him — it’s that she really saw him. And for that one second, the distance between them closes just a little.

He looks away, startled by the warmth of it, his heart picking up its pace.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice cuts through his thoughts, sharp and knowing. “You alright, man?"

Bucky flinches involuntarily, glancing over too quickly. Sam’s watching him with that patient look — the one that means I see you, even when you’re not saying anything. For a moment, Bucky doesn’t respond. His mind floods with things he could say — things he doesn’t know how to voice. I don’t know if I know how to be here. I don’t know how to fit in. But somehow, he knows he’s already fitting in, little by little. And that’s what makes the silence stretch.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice steadying. “Fine.”

They stand there a moment longer, brothers in the calm glow of the Christmas lights, before a soft sound carries in from the living room — music. A gentle, old-timey tune crackling from an ancient speaker, something slow and lilting, from a record that’s been played one too many times.

Sam glances past him. “You might wanna see this.”

Bucky turns, eyes narrowing curiously, and watches as Evie crosses the living room toward her Pop. He’s rising from his recliner with some effort, a stubborn grin on his face as she holds out a hand.

“C’mon, old man,” she says gently, smiling. “We’ve got guests. Don’t want to embarrass me in front of Captain America, do you?”

“I taught you everything you know,” Pops replies, voice rasped but proud, taking her hand. “Let’s show ’em how it’s done.”

They dance. Right there, in the narrow strip of carpet between the recliner and the window, bathed in the faint glow of the tree lights and the soft flicker of the TV left on mute. He leads — just barely — and she follows, light on her feet, their movements unhurried and practiced.

Bucky watches, unable to look away. It’s not perfect — Pop moves slower now, his grip a little shakier than it probably used to be — but the rhythm is there. The memory of the steps, preserved in muscle and love. Evie lets him guide her like they’ve done this a thousand times. Her laughter floats above the music, light and sincere, and her hand rests gently against his shoulder as they turn in slow circles.

The room quiets around them — even the kids hush — like everyone knows this moment matters.

Bucky feels something in his chest tighten.

Not longing, exactly. Not envy. Something older. Something sad and warm at the same time.

She knows how to hold people. How to make room for them to be exactly who they are. And they let her.

“Hey Barnes,” Pop calls out after the song ends, still catching his breath. “You ever arm-wrestle a veteran in a recliner before?”

Bucky chuckles, blinking himself back into the moment and handing off his plate to Steve. “Duty calls.”

“I want you to use your metal arm. Don’t hold back. I’m younger than you, after all,” Pops adds, his tone mischievous.

“I see where Evelyn gets her humour from,” Bucky notes, sitting down beside the recliner and dutifully taking the aged hand in his metal one.

“She learned from the best.”

Steve watches him go — back into the noise, the love, the ridiculousness of it all — as Bucky doesn’t have to try hard at all to force Pop’s hand down onto the recliner armrest. He goes gently. Respectfully. And still wins.

The conversation swells around them again as Bucky returns to the table, leaving the oldies (who are younger than him, his brain reminds him) in the lounge for their afternoon nap, pulling everyone else back into its current. Evelyn throws her head back laughing at something Charlie says, and Bucky watches her again, feeling that same low, humming ache settle in his bones.

The way she looks at her brother — not just at him, but into him — makes Bucky wonder what it would be like to be seen like that. To be someone’s safe place. To be understood without having to explain.

She leans in closer to Charlie, nudging him gently, teasing something out of him that makes him grin so wide it nearly splits his face. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she moves, the light catching on strands of gold and chestnut, and her hand stays steady on his chair — a small gesture, but one that radiates something solid. Something Bucky can’t stop looking at.

It’s the way she holds the room. Not with any effort, but with the way she gives everyone the space to be themselves. To be seen, to be heard. It’s like she’s the centre of it all — calm, steady, unshaken. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where Bucky’s finding himself, too. Not on the outside anymore. Not so far away.

Maybe, just maybe, he belongs here. Maybe, just maybe, this could be his place.

She’s the eye of the storm, he realises. The calm centre. And for all the noise and warmth and motion in the room, everything orbits her.

And maybe — just maybe — he could, too.

He could be part of her life — not as an outsider, not as the guy who’s just passing through, but someone who belongs.

But then, Sam’s voice cuts through the fog of his thoughts, drawing him back. “What’s the plan for after the food coma kicks in?” he teases, a grin playing on his lips.

Evelyn looks up, her eyes twinkling with that same mischievous glint. “Well, Charlie and I are going to finish setting up the tree,” she says casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It’s a tradition. We always do it together after lunch. The tree goes up at the start of December with the tinsel and the lights, but this afternoon, we’ll add the ornaments we’ve collected over the years. I picked up two more to add this time,” she tells Charlie as a side thought.

Bucky feels something stir deep inside at the mention of another tradition. Family. It’s a simple concept, one that many take for granted, but for him, it’s the kind of thing that feels elusive, like the last piece of a puzzle he never thought he could complete. A life he never imagined having again — yet, here it is, unfolding before him. The sacred normalcy of a family holiday. It’s almost too much to bear, too beautiful to believe.

“That sounds nice,” Sam chimes in, giving Charlie a playful grin. “But you don’t need a tree to have a good time. Pretty sure you’ve got the best decoration right here,” he says, pointing toward Evelyn.

Charlie’s face flushes a deep shade of red, his eyes widening in embarrassment.

Evelyn laughs, a soft, fond sound that fills the room. “Oh, Sam,” she says, affection colouring her voice.

Bucky watches the easy back-and-forth — the effortless warmth of family. They belong to one another in a way that feels as natural as breathing, as if no one had to try. And for just a moment, Bucky feels a sharp, unsettling pang deep in his chest. He’s not sure what it is — envy, longing, or maybe just grief for the time he’s lost. But whatever it is, it cuts through him, undeniable.

Just as he’s about to lose himself in the weight of that feeling, Evelyn catches his eye. Her gaze is soft but holds a hint of concern, as though she can see right through him, into the spaces he tries to hide.

“Bucky?” Her voice is low, drawing his attention completely. “You okay?”

Time seems to slow. The noise of the table fades into the background, and all he hears is her voice — steady, gentle, like a lifeline cast into the storm of his thoughts. He hadn’t realized how much he needed her to ask, how much he needed someone to see him — really see him.

“Yeah,” he answers, his voice thick, caught on something unsaid. He clears his throat, trying to push past the lump that’s forming there. “Just… thinking.”

Her smile widens, and there’s no judgment in it. No teasing. Just genuine curiosity. “Well, you’re in good company for that,” she says softly, the words an unspoken acknowledgment of everything they’ve all endured. “We’re all a little lost in our own heads sometimes.”

Her words settle in, and for the briefest moment, everything else fades. It’s just the two of them — the unspoken connection between them a silent understanding. A space where they don’t need to explain it all. Where the weight of the world can be shared.

Then Charlie’s voice breaks through, his high-pitched call pulling them back to reality. “Evelyn, I need help with the star! Can you come help me?”

Evelyn looks back at Charlie, then back to Bucky, and for a fleeting second, he wonders if he imagined it all — the softness in her gaze, the fleeting connection between them. But then she smiles again, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds.

“Like I’m tall enough?” she teases. “I’m shorter than you.”

“Powers?” Charlie calls back, like she’s dumb. “You can lift the star up there.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same,” she laughs. “Someone’s gotta put the star on.”

Bucky watches her walk away, her movements graceful, slipping through the room with effortless elegance. The world seems to brighten when she’s in it. The room feels warmer, fuller. And for the first time in ages, he wonders if — just maybe — there’s a place for him here. In this moment. With her. With them.

Milo joins them, and Bucky watches, his chest swelling with an emotion he’s not sure how to name, as Evelyn lifts Milo up to hang ornaments on the tree. The simplicity of their affection, the easy way they move through life, strikes him. For a brief moment, he allows himself to fully witness it — the quiet love, the sense of belonging. It feels both foreign and familiar, as though he’s on the outside looking in, but also as though he’s been given a glimpse of something he could have, too.

“Dude,” Sam mutters, just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “you’ve got to make a move.”

Bucky snaps back to attention, his gaze drawn to Sam and Steve, both grinning knowingly. Sam raises an eyebrow while Steve just gives him a look — a look that says everything without a single word.

"Hey, he got her that locket. Relax," Steve whispers, urging Sam to back off.

“I’m trying,” Bucky says, adorably frustrated.

Bucky’s stomach tightens. His eyes flick back to Evelyn, her laughter still hanging in the air, the warmth of the room surrounding her. It’s Christmas. A time for family, for connection. A time to put aside doubt, hesitation. He’s spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, convinced he didn’t deserve a place like this. But maybe… maybe he’s wrong. Maybe it’s time. Maybe he’s ready.

He stands, feeling the weight of the decision in his chest. This time, he won’t overthink it. He won’t let fear or past losses hold him back. He walks over to where Evelyn is, reaching up to help Charlie with the star, and gently places a hand on her shoulder.

She looks up at him, surprise flickering in her expression. Her eyes flicker with something unspoken, a question that he doesn’t have an answer for yet. But it doesn’t matter.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice low, steady. “Can I help?"

“Sure!” She says, with a teasing grin. “You're tall. You can put the star on top. Last year, I had to use Charlie as a stool. It didn’t go over well.”

Bucky chuckles at the image, his heart warming. He takes the star from her, their fingers brushing for a moment longer than necessary. The star feels cool in his hand, a simple task, but it grounds him in this moment.

He reaches up and places it gently atop the tree, his fingers brushing the highest branches. The tree towers above them, a silent testament to everything he’s never thought he could have — a family, a home, a sense of purpose.

When he pulls back, he meets Evelyn’s gaze again. Her expression is softer now, the teasing replaced with something more vulnerable. And Bucky realizes he’s no longer just floating through life, disconnected from everything. For the first time, he feels like he’s part of it.

“There’s the heroic gesture,” Bucky hears Sam say to Steve, but he ignores him.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of holiday music playing from a speaker in the kitchen — an old jazz version of Silent Night.

Bucky feels like his brain is misfiring just looking at her. "I… uh, think you look great, by the way, Evie,” he says, his voice more syrupy and sweet than he thought it would be. "Been meaning to tell you that all day."

Evelyn's smile widens, warmer now, not teasing but something softer. “Thanks, Bucky,” she says, her voice quiet, like she’s savouring the moment, too.

Charlie looks up at Bucky, smiles slightly like he's anticipating more, but Bucky doesn't keep going. Charlie frowns at him, shrugs at him as though to say is that it?

Bucky shrugs back as if to say I'm doing my best, and scratches the back of his neck.

Charlie shakes his head and walks away, a small chuckle under his breath. He goes and sits next to Sam, and Bucky knows they're talking about him. Because of course — with his enhanced hearing — he can hear every damn word.

“Dude’s got the emotional range of a teaspoon,” Sam mutters, not even trying to be subtle.

“He told her she looked nice,” Charlie whispers back, half-exasperated, half-delighted. “That’s the romantic equivalent of offering someone a napkin.”

“I was waiting for a dramatic holiday confession,” Sam sighs. “Instead, he gave her… a Hallmark compliment and an awkward shrug.”

“Baby steps,” Ava replies, calm, watching Evie and Bucky with a subtle sort of contentment.

“He’s a 110-year-old super-soldier with a crush and no clue how to flirt in this century," Sam tells her.

“Poor guy,” Ava hums. “He’s trying so hard. This is more entertaining than grumpy Bucky, though.”

Sam mutters something that sounds like “sweet mother of slow burns,” and Steve sighs audibly.

Bucky rolls his eyes to the ceiling, half embarrassed, half amused. He doesn’t turn around. Just mutters under his breath, “Super hearing, idiots.”

Evelyn turns toward him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He shakes his head, lips twitching into a smile. “Nothing. Just—they're all conspiring over there like old aunties watching a soap opera. I should tell them to stop.”

But Evelyn just smiles and bumps her shoulder into his. “Don’t. It’s kind of cute.”

He glances at her sidelong. “That’s a strong word for three grown men gossiping.”

“I meant you,” she says, eyes twinkling. “You’re kind of cute.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

They stand there, the noise of the table fading into the background, the world shrinking to just the two of them. The Christmas lights shimmer around them, casting a soft glow on her face. For the first time in years, Bucky feels the tightness in his chest begin to ease. He doesn’t know what the future holds, but he knows something important is unfolding in this moment. And he doesn’t want to miss it.

The lights glow softly against his skin as he pulls back. The living room is dim except for the warm gold and red of the tree, casting flickers across the wooden floor, the walls, his face. He turns and finds Evelyn watching him, her teasing grin gone — replaced with something gentler, more open. There’s a moment between them that stretches, quiet and full.

He’s spent years feeling like a ghost — walking through other people’s lives, drifting. But standing here, next to this tree in this house with her… it doesn’t feel borrowed. It doesn’t feel like someone else’s memory.

It feels like his.

Evelyn clears her throat softly. “So,” she says, her voice lighter again but still laced with meaning, “Want to take a photo? You’re always the one behind the camera. Maybe this one should be of you. Your first proper Christmas in a while.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches into a smile — small, a little unsure. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

She picks up the camera from the counter — the one he’s always using to document little things like snowfall, her cooking disasters, the dog next door in a Santa hat. She raises it and peers over the top, already framing the shot.

“Okay,” she murmurs, “Don’t look like I dragged you into this.”

He snorts and steps beside the tree, squaring his shoulders but not quite posing. One hand rests lightly on a branch, the other at his side. His metal fingers catch the glow of the lights, faint reflections dancing across the vibranium. His expression is calm but thoughtful, like he's still getting used to the idea that he belongs here.

The camera clicks.

Evelyn lowers it slowly, watching him through the lens for a beat longer than necessary. “There,” she says quietly. “That one’s going on the fridge.”

Bucky glances away, his smile lingering — soft, almost shy, as though the idea of being seen like this, captured in a still moment of peace, is something entirely new.

Like he's never been the subject of a photo where he looked happy.

And this time, he is.

The house is quiet now, the laughter and conversation that once filled the rooms fading into the distance, leaving a peaceful stillness in its wake. The clink of silverware, the rustle of wrapping paper, the warmth of voices — all are gone, replaced by a silence that feels almost sacred. The Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, its lights twinkling softly, casting gentle shadows that flicker across the walls, the only source of illumination in the otherwise dimly lit room. The scent of pine still lingers in the air, mixed with the faint, lingering trace of cinnamon from the afternoon's feast.

Outside, snow continues to fall, its delicate flakes drifting through the air, blanketing the world in white. Each flake is unique, soft and fleeting, settling quietly on the earth like a thousand tiny whispers. The world seems smaller in the snow — quieter, slower. It’s as though the snowfall is wrapping the house in a quiet cocoon, keeping everything else at bay, allowing the night to breathe.

Bucky stands in the doorway of the living room, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweater. He surveys the room with a quiet, contemplative gaze. The chaos of the day is behind him, the rush of presents and plates, the laughter that had filled the air only hours ago. Everyone else is upstairs, tucked into bed, likely already lost to the comfortable embrace of sleep. But Bucky isn’t ready for the night to end. He’s still processing everything that’s happened — the warmth, the closeness, the sense of belonging that has been so foreign to him for so long. He didn’t realize how much he needed this, how much he longed for something as simple as being part of a family, a place where he didn’t feel like a shadow.

His gaze drifts toward the window.

There she is. Evelyn. She’s settled into the nook by the window, a cozy reading spot lined with soft pillows and surrounded by shelves brimming with books. The low, golden light from the tree spills across her, a soft glow that dances over her features, leaving her looking almost ethereal. She stares out the window, her gaze lost in the falling snow. The coolness of the night air seems to have seeped into the room, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s wrapped in a thick, knitted blanket, the fabric clutched tightly around her, though it’s still not enough to hide the softness of her profile, the quiet elegance of her presence.

There’s a serenity about her, a stillness that somehow makes the world feel more at peace. It’s an ease he hasn’t known, and he finds himself captivated, rooted to the spot. Her presence is a gentle pull, drawing him closer without a word. For a moment, he simply watches her, the quiet beauty of the scene unfolding before him. The world outside, the soft fall of snow, and her — there’s something in that moment, something he didn’t know he was searching for.

Without thinking, his feet move, carrying him across the room. She doesn’t hear him at first, lost in her own thoughts, but when his footsteps fall softly on the wooden floor, she looks up, her lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. It’s a smile that says she’s not surprised to see him. She knows him in a way no one else does.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice like a breath, barely disturbing the silence.

“Hey,” he responds, his voice low and uncertain. The words feel inadequate, too small for the moment. But it’s all he can manage, and somehow, it’s enough.

Evelyn shifts the blanket on her lap, her hands smooth and graceful as she pulls it back to make room for him. “Come sit,” she offers, the invitation warm and welcoming. “Not on me, this time.”

He hesitates only for a moment before lowering himself beside her, the blanket falling over his shoulders as she adjusts it, tucking it around him. Her hands brush against his arm, a light touch, soft and comforting. The warmth of the blanket, of her proximity, seeps into him, and for a moment, he’s content to simply be — not needing to fill the space with words or gestures, just existing in this quiet space with her.

They sit in silence for a few moments, their eyes both turned to the window, watching as the snow continues its steady descent. Bucky feels the weight of the night settle around him — the peace, the tranquillity. It’s a feeling he’s not used to, one he’s never known how to hold onto. The world outside is beautiful in its quietness, the snowflakes floating down, delicate and ephemeral. It’s like a lullaby for the world, for them.

“It’s pretty,” Evelyn murmurs after a while, her voice soft, almost reverent.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice rougher than he intended. His eyes never leave the snow. It’s mesmerizing, calming, like the world is slowing down just for them.

She looks over at him then, a faint smile playing on her lips. “I know you don’t like the cold, but… from afar, it’s nice. Right?”

Bucky doesn’t immediately answer. His gaze remains fixed on the snowflakes as they drift past the glass, each one unique and fleeting. There’s something about it — something simple, something pure. The cold, the snow, the silence — all of it feels like a soft release, like something heavy inside him is finally, quietly letting go.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see winter like this again,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. He feels vulnerable saying it, but it’s true. “I used to… hate the cold. It was never just the chill, you know? It was what it reminded me of. But this…” His words trail off, and he shakes his head, as if trying to clear the confusion, the unexpectedness of it all. “It’s different now. Everything’s different.”

Her eyes meet his then, their gaze locking. There’s something in her eyes, something that feels like understanding, like she’s hearing more than just his words. “Sometimes,” she says softly, “all it takes is a new perspective. You just need to find the beauty in the quiet moments.”

Bucky swallows hard, her words sinking deep into his chest, heavy with meaning. She’s right. All this time, he’s been lost in the shadows of his past, drowning in the weight of memories and regrets, and he hadn’t seen the moments right in front of him. The moments that could have been his, if he’d only let them.

He turns his head slowly, meeting her gaze once more. “I think I’m starting to see them,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet certainty. “The moments.”

Evelyn smiles at him then, a slow, gentle smile that seems to light up the room. It’s the kind of smile that makes him feel like maybe he’s not so broken after all, that there’s still something in him worth saving. Like she understands the pieces of him that he’s afraid to let anyone else see. And in this moment, surrounded by the soft fall of snow and the warmth of her presence, he feels a sense of peace he’s never known.

“I’m glad,” she whispers, her voice carrying the weight of something unspoken but deeply felt.

Evelyn reaches down to the small table beside her, grabbing a small gift wrapped in delicate paper, and hands it to him.

“I, uh... I have something for you. From me, this time, not what I suggested my parents get you,” she says, voice a little quieter now. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

He takes the gift, feeling the smooth edges of what he thinks is a vinyl record through the paper.

“I-I didn’t get you anything else,” he hesitates.

“Bucky, you gave me this beautiful necklace,” she says, her hands instinctively moving toward it. “It’s okay, this is just something little,” she says, sincerely. “I just saw this and thought of you. Had to get it.”

His brow furrows in surprise as he pulls it free, revealing the record cover of his favourite song, the one that always made him feel something deeper than words can express.

“You remembered...” he breathes out, touched more than he can say. “How did you...?”

“I listen when you talk,” she says softly, her voice low but sure. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Bucky chuckles, a small, fond smile forming on his lips as he holds the record in his hands. “I guess I’m not, huh?”

“Here. My parents have a record player,” she says, taking the record from his hands.

She stands and walks over to the record player in the corner, placing the vinyl onto the turntable and setting the needle down with delicate precision. The soft crackling sound fills the air, the melody starting low, the room humming with the familiar tune. She lowers the volume, the music quiet but present.

He looks over at her, watching the way her eyes seem to soften with the music, how she closes her eyes for a moment, lost in it.

She walks back toward him, a slight sway to her walk to the music. She seems to hesitate for just a second, and then before she can talk herself out of it, she holds out both hands toward him.

“Dance with me, Buck?” she asks, her voice soft, yet there’s an undeniable strength in it.

He doesn’t hesitate. He takes her hands and stands, and she lets him guide her closer. They move together, slow and steady, the music playing low in the background as they sway in the small space. It’s quiet, just them and the snow outside, the warmth of the room surrounding them. And for once, Bucky doesn’t feel like he’s drifting through life. He feels grounded, like he belongs.

In her arms, in this moment, he knows he’s home.

“You’re a good dancer,” she whispers, looking him in the eyes.

“Of course,” he smiles. “Swing dance champion here.”

“Really?” She asks, eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Mmm.”

“You’ll have to teach me the moves sometime.”

“It’s a date,” he smirks.

They dance for a long time in silence, in the coolness of the room, wrapped in each others’ warmth. Her hand is warm in his, his metal arm wrapped around her waist, holding her tight. Her hand grasps his shoulder, moves to his neck, slowly brushes the skin around the top of his jumper neck, smooth and loving.

Evelyn’s touch is gentle, almost reverent, as she traces the line of his neck, her fingers gliding over the soft fabric of his sweater. The sensation sends a quiet shiver through him, not from the cold, but from the tenderness she’s offering him without words. It’s something he’s not accustomed to, this kind of softness, this care. It’s so easy to let himself get lost in it, to forget the weight of everything he’s carried for so long.

His breath catches slightly as he pulls her just a little closer, his hand at her waist firm as though he’s afraid that if he holds her too tightly, she might slip away. But she doesn’t. She stays, her presence a quiet balm to all the chaos inside him. The way she moves with him, her body in sync with his, is effortless. There’s no tension between them, just a shared rhythm, a shared moment where everything else falls away.

The song plays on, its gentle melody flowing around them, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky feels at peace. He’s always been a fighter, always been driven by something beyond his control, but right now, there’s nothing to fight. There’s no battle, no mission, just the two of them, wrapped in the soft glow of the room and the quiet hum of the record spinning.

She leans her head against his chest for a moment, her hair brushing the fabric of his shirt, and he closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of her—sweet and soft, like the snow outside. He can feel the steady beat of her heart beneath her ribs, and for a moment, he can almost forget all the things that have scarred him, the things that have made him who he is. He doesn’t need to be the Winter Soldier here, or the White Wolf, not with her. He just needs to be Bucky.

He pulls back slightly, tilting his head to look at her. She’s gazing up at him, her eyes soft, a slight smile playing at the corners of her lips. There’s something in her gaze, something unspoken but clear: she sees him. All of him. The soldier, the pain, the history. And she’s still here. She’s not afraid of him.

“You really do listen,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than before, like he’s afraid to break the fragile magic of the moment.

She meets his gaze with a soft, understanding smile. “I don’t miss much,” she says, her voice tender, but there’s strength in it too. “And I remember the important things.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound more genuine than he’s made in a long time. “You’re something else, Evelyn.”

“And you,” she replies, her fingers brushing the back of his neck, sending another ripple of warmth through him, “are more than you think.”

They dance for a while longer, the music swirling around them like a protective cocoon, and as the snow continues to fall outside, Bucky feels the weight of the world lift just a little. There’s nothing else to worry about right now. No mission. No past. Just this moment. Just her.

“I…” Evie starts, then hesitates, her gaze dropping for a second before she looks back up at him. The warmth in her eyes falters — just slightly — enough for him to notice. “Can I tell you something?”

Bucky nods, his thumb brushing lightly along the side of her hand. “Always.”

She swallows. “You make me feel… like I’m the most beautiful person in the room. Like I’m important. Like I’m seen.” She pauses, trying to get it right. “And not just when I’m smiling or being useful, but even when I’m quiet. Or tired. Or not doing anything at all. When I'm just... me.”

Bucky’s brow softens. His heart stutters a little. "You are," he says, entirely sincerely.

“But sometimes,” she continues, voice smaller now, “I get scared it’s not real. That it’ll disappear. That you will. That this will. That this isn't really happening. Because... you mean a ridiculous amount to me and I never want to lose you.” She forces a shaky laugh, embarrassed by her own honesty. “Sorry. That’s heavy.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he cups her cheek gently, grounding her. His voice, when it comes, is quiet but full of conviction.

“It’s real,” he says. “I see you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes shine, lips parting like she wants to say something else, but the words don’t come.

They don’t need to.

He holds her closer, like it’s a vow — one he’s choosing, every single day.

“You know,” he says softly, shifting closer, “I’ve spent so much of my life thinking I’m unlovable. That there’s no room for me in a world that’s already so full. But... I feel different now. With you.” He hesitates, but then the words tumble out before he can stop them. “You know me. You see me, too. And I never knew I needed that until Val walked you into the Watchtower that day. The day that sealed my fate.”

Evelyn’s eyes flick to his, soft and understanding, and for a long moment, neither of them says anything. It’s as if the music is speaking for them, saying everything that’s been left unsaid.

“I think..." He hesitates just for a second. "I’ve fallen in love with you,” Bucky says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t say anything at first. But then, with a small, heartfelt smile and a soft but steady voice, she says, “I know I’ve fallen in love with you, Bucky Barnes.”

The world feels like it stops for a moment, the music, the snow, the soft glow of the room fading away until it’s just the two of them. His heart beats a little faster, a little stronger in his chest.

Her words, soft and steady, hang in the air, and for a moment, Bucky can’t seem to find his breath. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this—this openness, this warmth. She’s not afraid of him. She’s not pulling away. She’s here. And she sees him, truly sees him, all of him—his scars, his past, the broken parts—and she still looks at him like he’s something worth holding onto.

Bucky’s heart races, and it’s not from the adrenaline of a fight or the rush of a mission. No, this is something entirely different. Something that feels like it’s been building, quietly, in the space between them for weeks, maybe months. It’s an undeniable pull, the kind that he’s tried to ignore, to bury beneath layers of self-doubt and guilt. But now, with Evelyn looking at him like this, he can no longer deny it.

And then she’s touching him, her hand cupping his cheek, her fingers warm against his face, her finger moving to brush his lips. The world feels like it’s been reduced to just the two of them. Her touch is soft, almost reverent, and he can feel the warmth of her fingers against his skin, like a promise that he doesn’t fully understand but is willing to accept. Her finger brushes across his lips, a slow, deliberate movement, and it sends a jolt of warmth through him, making his pulse quicken. He’s never wanted something so much, but at the same time, he’s terrified of it. Terrified of how much this could mean.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. He swallows and tries again, and all that escapes is a quiet, almost desperate, “Can I kiss you?”

It’s more than a question. It’s a plea, a vulnerability that he’s never shown anyone before. A chance for her to say no, a chance for her to pull away and reject him like he’s been rejected so many times before.

But she doesn’t. She closes the space between them, her breath mingling with his, and when she speaks again, it’s low and warm, wrapping around him like a gentle caress. “You don’t have to ask.”

And then, before his mind can catch up, his lips are on hers.

The kiss is tentative at first—like he’s waiting for her to pull back, for her to tell him that this is a mistake, that he’s not worthy of something this beautiful. But she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she deepens the kiss, and everything inside him melts. His doubts, his fears, his guilt—they all fade away as he sinks into her touch, into the warmth of her, into the feeling of being wanted, of being loved, in a way that he’s never allowed himself to believe he could be.

Her hands are everywhere, touching him with a tenderness he’s never known, like she’s memorising the feel of him. His own hands move instinctively, resting on her back, pulling her closer, feeling the heat of her body against his. His metal hand comes up to cup her cheek, fingers knotting in her hair. There’s a fire inside him that’s been simmering for years, and now it’s igniting, burning brighter than he ever thought it could. Her lips against his are soft, but there’s an intensity in the way she kisses him—something that says she’s been waiting for this too.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads resting together, the room seems impossibly quiet. All he can hear is their breathing, deep and erratic, as if they’re both trying to catch up with what just happened. He feels lightheaded, like he’s been living in a fog and has just been pulled into the clearest day he’s ever known. And when he speaks, his voice is rough, like he’s struggling to keep the words from tumbling out too quickly.

“I think I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” he murmurs, his hands still resting on her back, as if he’s afraid she’ll slip away.

Evelyn’s chuckle is soft, the sound warm and full of affection. Her hand rests gently on his chest, her fingers splayed across the fabric of his sweater. She looks up at him, and there’s something so certain in her gaze that it makes his heart swell. “I think you’ve always been here, Bucky. You just needed to realise it.”

Her words hit him harder than he expects. You’ve always been here. It’s like a key turning in a lock, and suddenly, all the pieces click into place. All the darkness he’s fought through, all the years of believing he was broken beyond repair—none of that matters right now. With her, he’s not just the remnants of the Winter Soldier. He’s Bucky. He’s someone worth loving.

He pulls her back into him, his lips finding hers again, deeper this time, a kiss that’s full of everything he’s held back. It’s a promise. It’s a thank you. It’s the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can let go of the things that have haunted him for so long.

When they finally break apart, the room feels too small for everything they’ve just shared. But it’s okay. They don’t need anything else. The snow falls outside, and the world might be cold, but inside, with her in his arms, Bucky feels like he’s finally found his place.

He’s not alone. He’s home.

Chapter Text

The smell of fresh coffee hits Bucky before he even makes it to the kitchen.

He runs a hand through his messy hair and rubs the back of his neck as he steps through the doorway. He’s still wearing the T-shirt Evie gave him to sleep in, and he’s not entirely sure if his feet are touching the floor. Everything feels a little floaty this morning — a little unreal. Like he might still be dreaming.

Sam’s at the counter, already halfway through a mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll, phone in one hand. Steve leans against the fridge, arms crossed, watching Ava load up a plate with toast and fruit. They're mid-conversation, but all three of them stop and turn when Bucky walks in.

Steve arches an eyebrow. “You look... different.”

“Yeah,” Ava says slowly, narrowing her eyes. “Is that a smile, Barnes?”

Bucky smirks faintly. “Could be.”

“You look calm,” Ava adds, her tone suspicious. “Like you slept for once.”

“Didn’t,” Bucky says, walking to the counter and reaching for a mug.

Sam crosses his arms, looking at Bucky knowingly. He squints and then lets out a dramatic gasp. “You kissed her.”

Steve blinks. “Wait—really?”

Bucky pours the coffee, not looking up. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Oh my God,” Ava mutters, “finally. You were moving at a glacial pace.”

Sam nods solemnly. “Like watching paint dry. But emotionally.”

Bucky scratches behind his ear and shrugs, pretending to study the inside of his mug. “It was last night. After we danced to the record she bought me. In front of the fire. Snow falling outside.”

“That’s so romantic,” Ava all but squeals, and it’s the most giddy Bucky’s ever seen her.

“Okay, relax,” Bucky mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. If anything, he looks... dazed. A little soft around the edges.

Sam leans back against the counter, smug. He smirks at Bucky knowingly.

“Shut up, Wilson,” Bucky frowns, meeting his gaze with an icy frown.

Sam holds his hands up in surrender. "I said nothing.”

Steve chuckles under his breath and closes the newspaper in front of him, dated to a few days ago. “So? It went okay, Buck?”

Bucky exhales slowly. He leans back against the counter, cradling his mug in both hands. “It wasn’t just okay. I’m not giving you a play-by-play,” Bucky says flatly.

Steve chuckles. “That good, huh?”

Bucky glances up at them. There’s no teasing in his voice this time—just quiet honesty. “She told me she’s scared it’s not real because it’s too good to be true. Me.” He pauses, thumb tapping once against the ceramic. “And I get it. Because I feel the same way. Like if I breathe too hard, it’ll all disappear. But… it felt... right. Like I’ve been waiting to breathe and didn’t even know it.”

That shuts them up for a beat.

Ava leans forward, her grin dimming into something gentler. “She really loves you, you know.”

“I know,” Bucky says softly. “And I love her. I told her.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, so you’re just knocking out milestones left and right.”

“It was time. Past time, actually,” Bucky says simply. “And... I think I’m allowed to have something good.”

Steve claps him on the shoulder. “More than allowed. You deserve it.”

But as he leans against the counter, coffee in hand, he can’t help the way his gaze drifts toward the hallway — toward the sound of footsteps overhead, where Evie is probably just starting to wake up.

Yeah, he thinks. This is real.

Evie rounds the corner, hair messy, sweatshirt sleeves too long, blinking against the light. Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately, and her lips tug into a sleepy smile — the kind she reserves just for him.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” he replies, something in his voice going quieter. He straightens without thinking, like she’s the only person in the room now.

The kitchen falls silent. Not awkward — just… observant.

Evie slows, eyes darting to Sam, Steve, Ava — all very blatantly not pretending to mind their own business. “Oh no,” she mutters. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, shrugging helplessly. “Just that we kissed. In my defence, they knew. Sam guessed before I opened my mouth.”

“He didn’t deny it,” Ava sing-songs.

Evie groans, grabbing a mug and bumping her shoulder gently against his as she passes. “Traitor.”

Ava snorts. “Confirmed and celebrated.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head. “Only took six months of pining.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and leans against the doorway, sipping his coffee. “You all talk like you weren’t rooting for it.”

“We were,” Ava says cheerfully. “That’s the point.”

Evie blushes but doesn’t move away from Bucky’s side. Her hand finds his, warm and easy, fingers threading through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I like this,” Steve says, sliding eggs onto plates. “It’s… peaceful.”

Sam raises a brow. “Give it five minutes. She’s gonna start teasing him and it’ll be chaos again.”

Evie sips her coffee and grins into the rim of the mug. “What can I say? He’s easy to fluster.”

Bucky kisses the side of her head and murmurs, just for her, “You’re the only one I let get away with it.”

And as the banter continues around them — as Sam and Ava start squabbling about pancake toppings and Steve sighs into his coffee — Bucky realises something remarkable:

This is it.

A morning after. A quiet room full of people who care. The girl he loves beside him.

No mission. No fight. No ghosts.

Just life. And for once, he’s living it.

The truck bounces wildly as it powers over the snow-covered trails, each bump and jolt making the passengers in the back lurch this way and that like ragdolls. Evie's got her foot firmly on the gas, steering like a pro, but Sam and Bucky in the back are clinging to the sides like they're about to be ejected into the wilds of the farm at any moment.

Bucky's chuckle echoes in the air, a little more carefree than usual, and Sam's voice rises in mock protest as the truck swerves yet again.

Sam yells over the roar of the engine, his voice barely rising above the chaos. "Evie! This truck has more airtime than a stunt double!"

"You think you can handle it, Sam?" Evie smirks over her shoulder. "Think you've got the guts for this?"

"Guts?" Sam shouts back, holding onto the truck bed like it's the last lifeline on a sinking ship. "I'm questioning my life choices right now!"

Bucky, on the other hand, is grinning, his hair whipping around like a confused mop. "It's all part of the fun, Sam!" he calls, enjoying the ride a little too much. "It's like riding a rollercoaster but with dirt and less safety."

"And no seatbelts. I'd like a little more safety!" Sam grumbles, but even he can't help but laugh. "Let me tell you something," Sam says, shaking his head dramatically. "If I had a dollar for every time I almost went flying out of the back of this truck, I could buy a whole new set of airbags."

Charlie, sitting up front in the cabin, glances nervously out the window as Evie navigates the increasingly treacherous path. He grabs the armrest like it's his only anchor to reality. "You sure this is safe?"

Evie glances over at him, her smile teasing. "Safe? Charlie, we're out here living the dream. Don't worry, just enjoy the ride."

"You sure you're enjoying it?" he mutters under his breath, watching Evie casually steer the truck through yet another giant puddle, spraying muddy water everywhere.

"Absolutely!" she shouts back over her shoulder. "Best way to break in the truck, don't you think?"

"More like break us in," Sam calls out from the back, having just nearly been launched over the side.

There's something in the way Charlie grips the seat next to him. His knuckles are a little pale, his body tense. His gaze flickers to the road and then back to Evie. She glances at him quickly, catching the look in his eyes.

"You sure you're good, Charlie?" she calls out, her voice soft amidst the sound of the truck's engine.

"Yeah, just… not used to this kind of driving," he admits, his voice slightly strained, but he's trying to hide it with a grin.

"That's because dad drives like an old man," she jokes. She meets Bucky's eyes in the mirror. "No offense, Bucky."

"Ooh, burn," Charlie laughs.

Evie grins, taking a sharp turn and hitting another bump. The truck jumps, sending Sam into Bucky's lap.

"Whoa—hey!" Sam shouts, looking up at Bucky, who looks far too pleased with the whole situation. "I did not sign up for this kind of adventure!"

"You're lucky I'm here to catch you, Sam," Bucky says, his tone deadpan. "Otherwise, you'd be kissing the dirt right now."

Sam glances up at him, dead-eyed. "I'm really regretting not sitting in the front."

They round another bend in the trail, and the snow-covered paddocks stretch out on either side, dotted with cows, sheep, and a few horses. Evie's driving becomes a little more deliberate as she slows down to check on the animals, making sure they're safe and sound after the snowstorm. Sam and Bucky peer over the truck bed, calling out to the creatures and making jokes about the mud.

"Look at that one," Sam points to a cow with an awkward stance in the snow. "That's me trying to walk without my morning coffee."

After checking on the animals and making sure no one's gone rogue in the snow, Evie decides it's time to head back.

"Alright, Charlie. Your turn."

Charlie blinks. "My what?"

"Your turn to drive. You've been nervous about driving with anyone else, right? Well, now's your chance," Evie says with a wink, hopping out of the driver's seat and into the passenger side like it's no big deal. "I'm here, let's give it a go."

Charlie's face pales. "Uh, I—no. I—I'm fine in the back. No need to—"

Evie just grins, all confidence. "You got this. Besides, someone has to take us home, and I'm not doing it in that mud pit again. Too many complaints from the back."

Charlie glances at the driver's seat like it's a ticking time bomb. "I, uh… I don't know, Evie. I've only driven with you, and that's—"

"Come on," she nudges him. "It's easy. Just like the video games. Except with real mud."

He stares at her. "That's not reassuring."

"You can't get worse than Sam's driving," she teases, pointing to the back of the truck where Sam's still recovering from a particularly violent bump. "He's got the whiplash to prove it."

Sam shoots her a glare. "I swear, if I get thrown out of this truck one more time, I'm suing for emotional damage."

With a final, resigned sigh, Charlie takes the wheel. His hands grip it like it might bite him. Evie sits beside him, full of encouragement. "Okay, first things first. Brake, then gas. Nice and easy."

"Right, easy," Charlie mutters, starting the truck with a cautious twist of the key. The engine roars to life, and for a split second, he just stares at it, as if expecting the truck to start giving him life advice.

"Foot on the brake," Evie says, tapping her foot as if they're in a slow dance. "Now, just ease off... and hit the gas."

Charlie's foot hesitates, and then the truck lurches forward with a loud thunk.

"Oh—" he swears as the truck jerks violently.

"Try again," she says calmly.

Charlie nods, taking a deep breath as he grips the wheel, his fingers twitching slightly. He's nervous, but he tries to mask it, pushing the nerves down as he puts the truck into gear and presses the gas. The truck lurches forward again with a sudden jolt.

"Oh, jeez," Charlie mutters under his breath, quickly releasing the gas and hitting the brake. The truck stops with a jerky thud, making everyone in the back jolt.

Sam groans, rubbing his neck. "Whiplash."

Bucky laughs, giving Sam a slap on the back. "Hey, give him a break. He's learning."

Charlie looks over at Evie, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry, I—"

"No worries," she says with a comforting smile. "You just need to ease into it. Let's try that again. You're doing fine."

Charlie finally gets the truck to not stall, and they start moving up the hill. It's slow. Very slow. In fact, it's so slow that the truck starts to bunny-hop, sending everyone jerking forward and backward like they're in a bouncy castle.

"Oh, no," Charlie groans, his foot slamming down too hard on the gas. "I think I'm doing it wrong."

"Just keep going!" Evie encourages, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she's flicked around the cabin, back and forth. "You're doing great!"

The truck lurches up the hill like a drunk kangaroo, bouncing every few feet. Sam lets out a dramatic groan, holding onto the side of the truck as if his life depended on it. "I can feel my spine compressing every time we hit the ground! This is not the kind of fun I signed up for!"

Finally, with a lot of cursing and a lot of bunny-hopping, Charlie gets the truck to the top of the hill. He breathes a huge sigh of relief as the truck levels out.

"See? Easy peasy," Evie says with a grin, not even slightly shaken.

Charlie looks over at her, his face a mix of pride and sheer terror. "Yeah, totally easy."

Sam, still gripping the sides of the truck with white knuckles, manages to say, "Next time, I'm sitting in the truck. No more sitting on it."

Bucky chuckles, looking at Sam, then back at Charlie. "Alright, Charlie, I think you've officially earned your place as the new driver. Sam? You're demoted."

Sam groans. "I'm not sure whether I'm about to kiss the ground or cry."

But Charlie, with a sheepish grin, gives the wheel another tentative turn. He's not perfect, but for a first time, he's made it through with only a few bruises to his ego... and Sam's back.

"Let's just go home before the truck starts a rebellion," Sam says, finally leaning back with a grin. "You know, if we make it back in one piece."

Evie laughs, the sound of it warming the chilly air as the truck rolls slowly toward home, ready for whatever chaotic adventure tomorrow might bring.

The horses are standing in the paddock, their breath visible in the cold morning air, and Bucky's eyeing them with the same wariness he would give a grenade.

"I'm not sure about this," he mutters, shifting uncomfortably, his eyes flicking from the horse to Evie, and back to the horse again. "You sure these things won't, you know, buck me off?"

"Scared to live up to the nickname?" Sam retorts. Bucky ignores him.

Evie grins, her hands resting on her hips as she looks at him, her boots kicking up dirt as she leans casually against the fence. "Oh, they're gentle, Bucky. Don't worry. They're not going to throw you. Unless you give them a reason to, of course."

Bucky's eyes widen slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Evie laughs, stepping toward the horse. "It means, if you listen to me, we'll be fine. Just don't pull on her mane and don't squeeze her too hard with the thighs of betrayal or kick her, and you'll be right. Trust me. I've been riding since I could walk."

"Right. Of course you have," Bucky says, nodding as if trying to process it. "I don't think I've ever even seen a horse up close."

"Well, now you get to meet one," Evie teases, walking over to the horse, who whinnies softly as she approaches. She pats its neck, speaking to it in soft, soothing tones. "This here's Bella. She's a good girl. She won't bite."

"Bite?"

Sam, Steve and Ava are standing nearby, eyeing the horses like they're being asked to perform an advanced military maneuverer. Sam's got his arms folded over his chest, squinting at the animal in front of him. Steve, on the other hand, is actively regretting not bringing a helmet.

"I've ridden a horse once," Sam says, but there's no confidence in his voice. "It was... not pretty."

"I've never ridden one, but I've seen enough cowboy movies to know how it works," Steve says, giving a nod of determination, even though his eyes say definitely not sure about this.

Evie turns to Bucky, smirking as she holds out a hand. "Ready to saddle up?"

Bucky hesitates for a long moment, glancing from the horse to her, then back again. "I'm not sure about this. What if I fall?"

Evie's grin only widens, and she steps closer, resting a hand on his arm. "Bucky, you're a super soldier. A little horse-riding is nothing compared to the stuff you've already survived. If you fall off, you'll just bounce. Come on."

With a sigh, Bucky pulls his jacket tighter around himself. "Well, I suppose I can't back out now, can I?"

She gives him a playful nudge. "Nope. Come on, get up there."

The moment he tries to mount, Bucky seems to forget that humans don't have the balance of a horse. He stumbles, missing the stirrup once or twice before his foot finds the right spot, but by then, he's got a look of panic on his face. He flings himself up, and he's perched awkwardly atop Bella like he's about to topple over at any moment.

Sam lets out a snort from where he's standing. "You okay there, Buck? You look like you're trying to ride a broomstick, not a horse."

Bucky glares over his shoulder at Sam. "You try getting on this thing without falling flat on your face."

Evie, having hopped onto her horse with ease, watches him carefully. "Okay, now just hold the reins, and let Bella lead a bit so she gets used to you. She'll follow my horse when we get started. They like to stay together. Don't overthink it, alright? Relax, breathe. You're not gonna fall off unless you make it happen."

Bucky tries to relax, but the moment the horse shifts beneath him, he stiffens. "I'm not sure this is relaxing."

"Just focus on the rhythm," Evie calls from the front, leading the group toward the wooded trail that cuts through the edge of the property.

Charlie, already mounted on his own horse, trots ahead, calling back to Bucky, "You'll get it! Just go with the flow, man."

Bucky grumbles but finally seems to get a slight handle on the reins, guiding Bella forward at a hesitant pace. Sam and Steve follow awkwardly behind, riding more like they're on a two-legged rollercoaster than actual horses. Ava takes off on her horse, somehow naturally getting it.

"Does this feel... normal to you?" Sam asks, his posture stiff and unnatural as he tries to keep himself from tipping off the side. He glances at Steve, who looks like he's concentrating so hard he's about to pass out from the effort.

"I mean, yeah," Steve says, voice tight. "It's just like riding a bike. Only... with a lot more legs and a bigger chance of falling."

"I never fell off a bike," Sam mutters, still gripping the reins with the intensity of someone fighting in a war.

Evie looks back at them, her expression a mix of amusement and fondness. "It's all about trust. You've gotta trust the horse. And trust yourself."

"Trust yourself," Bucky mutters under his breath, trying not to jostle too much in the saddle. "The horse doesn't look like it trusts me."

"You'll get the hang of it, you big lug. You're pretty heavy for her. She's just getting used to you," Evie calls over her shoulder. "Now, let's head through the forest."

They make their way through the wooded path, the snow melting beneath the hooves of the horses, and for a while, there's nothing but the soft sound of hooves and the occasional bird chirping in the trees.

At first, Bucky is tense, his whole body rigid with the effort to stay balanced. But as they move deeper into the forest, with the trees arching over them like the quiet halls of an old church, he begins to loosen up. The rhythmic clip-clop of the hooves starts to relax him, and soon, he's not worried about falling. He's focused on the peace around him—the quiet of the forest, the smell of fresh air mixed with the scent of horses, the way the trees look, tall and silent, like they're watching over them.

"Okay, I'm starting to get it," Bucky admits, his voice more relaxed than before. "This is... kind of nice."

Sam, riding behind him, smirks. "You sure you're not secretly a cowboy, Buck?"

"Not unless you count cowboy as 'completely terrified of horses,'" Bucky says dryly, but he's smiling. The tension from earlier has faded, replaced by something like contentment.

Evie's voice floats back to him, teasing but warm. "I think you're doing great. You just needed someone to show you the ropes. Or, you know, the reins."

"I know what I'm getting you for Christmas next year," Steve says. "A nice cowboy hat to sit on that long hair of yours."

Charlie, still ahead, turns his horse slightly to look back at them. "This is perfect. I swear, you guys need to get out here more often. Less city, more nature."

The trees begin to thin as they reach the edge of the property, the sun now breaking through the clouds and warming the snow-covered ground. Bucky takes in a deep breath, his heart light, the world around him quiet in a way he hasn't felt in years. Maybe it's the riding, or maybe it's just the people he's with, but something about this moment makes him feel like he belongs.

"You know," Bucky says, his voice thoughtful, "I think I've been missing this. Just... being outside. Like this."

Evie's smile is gentle as she turns back to look at him. "There's nothing like it, huh? Nature's got a way of making everything feel a little easier."

"Yeah," Bucky murmurs, "I think I'm starting to understand that."

As they continue their ride through the peaceful forest, the crunch of hooves on the snow is the only sound that fills the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves as a breeze sweeps through the trees. The world feels still and calm, as if time itself has slowed to let them enjoy the simplicity of this moment.

Bucky, sitting atop the horse with Evie beside him, can feel the tension in his chest easing, the tightness in his shoulders melting away with every step the horse takes. There's something about the rhythm of the ride, the gentle sway of the horse beneath him, that grounds him. The world outside, with all its noise, its battles, its weight—none of it seems to matter here.

He glances over at Evie, her eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that only comes when someone's truly in their element. She's an expert at this, the way she moves with the horse, so comfortable and fluid. For a moment, he feels like a piece of himself he thought was lost might be coming back, little by little. Maybe—just maybe—he doesn't have to be afraid of the world anymore. Not when he's got people like Evie around, showing him that there's more to life than the battles he's fought, more than the pain that's haunted him for so long.

They ride on in silence for a while, the only sound the soft whinnying of the horses and the occasional call of birds flying overhead. Eventually, they come to a small clearing in the forest, where a tiny creek winds its way through the trees. The water beneath is frozen, forming a glistening sheet of ice that reflects the pale sunlight filtering through the canopy.

"I feel like I'm in Outlander or something," Ava says.

Evie laughs. "Steve can be your Jamie Fraser?" She offers.

Ava shoots Steve a look, and then rolls her eyes, trotting ahead.

Evie guides her horse closer, bringing them to a stop. She looks down at the creek, then back up at Bucky, a playful glint in her eyes. "You know," she says, her voice light, "You can ice skate here if it's frozen enough. It's a bit of a local secret."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "You ice skate? Is there anything you can't do?"

Evie chuckles. "I never said I was good at it. But when the creek freezes over, it's the perfect little spot to get away from everything. Kind of like a secret hideaway."

Bucky dismounts slowly, taking in the scene. The frozen creek sparkles beneath the trees, the ice smooth and inviting. It's the kind of quiet, simple beauty he hadn't even realized he was missing until now.

"I'll take your word for it," he says, his voice soft as he watches the ice shimmer in the light. He thinks for a moment, then adds with a grin, "But I think I'd break something if I tried to skate."

Evie laughs, a soft, warm sound that feels like a balm to the cold air around them. "Maybe next time," she says, giving him a teasing look. "I'll teach you how, but you might want to start with not falling on your face."

They stand there for a few minutes, watching the ice, the forest, and the horses as the silence wraps around them like a blanket. The weight of the world seems so far away here, in this quiet corner of the farm.

After a while, Evie nudges her horse gently, signalling that it's time to head back. "Come on, let's get back to the farm before we freeze solid."

Bucky nods, mounting his horse again, his mind still lingering on the peacefulness of the moment. They turn and begin riding back toward the farm, the sound of hooves crunching over the snow filling the air once more.

Evie pulls them to a stop near the barn and they all start to jump off, leading the horses back into their respective stalls, the horse's names above each stall. Their manes glint in the soft sunlight that's breaking through the clouds. Bucky, still adjusting to the rhythm of the ride, slides off Bella with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Okay, that wasn't as bad as I thought," Bucky admits, rubbing his backside. "But I still think my legs are going to fall off."

"Complaints already, Barnes?" Sam teases from behind him, dismounting with more grace than should be allowed for someone who's barely stayed on the horse the entire time.

As they walk toward the barn, they spot a familiar figure standing near the horse float. Henry's truck is parked next to it, and he's already unloading something into the horse pen that makes Bucky freeze in his tracks—a large, wild-eyed horse with a thick coat of fur. Its muscles ripple under its skin as it paws at the ground, nostrils flaring as it takes in the surroundings.

"That's a big one," Bucky mutters, his gaze fixed on the creature.

Evie squints, crossing her arms. "What's he bought now?" She says to her brother, looking at the horse with a hint of concern.

Henry notices them approaching and waves, a grin plastered on his face. "Got myself a deal, kids," he says, clearly excited. "Picked this one up cheap from a local farm. He's wild—needs some breaking in. Thought I'd get a good price once he's tamed. Just wait till you see him in action."

The horse bucks violently inside the pen as Henry opens the gate, its hooves striking the dirt as it gallops around in a frenzy, sending dust and snow flying into the air.

They all make their way up to the edge of the horse pen, watching the beast through the bars.

"Doesn't seem too happy," Sam comments dryly.

"Yeah, you think?" Bucky mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "What's the plan here? We just stand around and wait for him to calm down?"

Henry's already moved to the pen, determined to try his hand at taming the horse himself. "Gotta break him in. We'll get him, always do," he says, unbothered by the horse's display of power. "Got a few tricks up my sleeve. Watch this."

He opens the pen gate and steps inside, trying to approach the horse with slow, deliberate movements. The horse turns to face him, nostrils flaring and ears flat against its head. It snorts, kicking up the ground with its hooves.

Bucky watches, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised in amusement as Henry cautiously approaches the wild horse. Henry's movements are slow, deliberate, as he reaches out, attempting to place a harness around the horse's neck. But the second his fingers brush against the animal's mane, the horse rears up, hooves striking the air in a flurry of chaos. Henry barely has time to react before he's thrown to the ground in a cloud of dust, the horse kicking up dirt as it bolts away from him.

"Well," Bucky mutters, a smirk tugging at his lips, "That's one way to greet someone."

Henry groans as he scrambles to his feet, brushing himself off with a grunt. He looks at the horse, unbothered by the tumble. "Alright, alright. Let's see what you've got, Charlie." He turns to Charlie, who's standing off to the side, watching the spectacle with wide eyes.

Charlie looks over at Henry, his expression a mixture of reluctance and uncertainty. "You sure about this?" He asks, a slight tremor in his voice. Henry doesn't even give him time to protest before he's already pushing him toward the pen.

"Go on, give it a shot," Henry urges, a teasing grin on his face. "You've got to get some more experience with the animals."

Charlie hesitates, but with a sigh, he steps forward. His steps are slower than Henry's had been, a lot more cautious, and he keeps his distance as the horse paces around the pen, its nostrils flaring as it eyes him with suspicion. He watches it carefully, making sure not to make any sudden movements. But the horse, clearly not impressed by Charlie's cautious approach, bucks once more, sending him stumbling back a few feet, his hands flailing to regain his balance.

"Yeah, I'm gonna have to pass on this one," Charlie calls out, stepping back to the fence, his face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and relief.

Sam can't help but laugh, the sound low and rich in his chest. "Well, it's a start," he teases, giving Charlie an encouraging pat on the back. "Maybe next time, yeah?"

Charlie gives him a half-hearted glare but can't suppress a grin. "I'll stick to the cows for now," he mutters, looking at the horse warily as it prances around the pen, clearly enjoying the chaos.

Henry shakes his head, clearly amused. "Alright, alright, let's see how it goes with Evie. She's got the magic touch with these guys."

Bucky watches as Henry steps aside, but he's not convinced that anyone is going to get that horse under control anytime soon. That is, until Evie steps into the pen. There's a shift in the air as soon as she moves closer, her presence a calm contrast to the horse's frantic energy.

Bucky blinks in surprise. "Wait, you're seriously going in there?"

Evie's grin widens as she steps toward Bucky, her hands on her hips, clearly enjoying the moment. "You're looking at the best horse trainer on this farm, Bucky. I don't need a rope or a saddle to make a horse listen to me. I have powers."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, sceptical but intrigued. "Powers? Really?"

"Oh, yeah," she says with a wink, her tone confident. "I can manipulate emotions, remember? Humans, animals, doesn't matter. It's all about feeling the energy and calming it down."

As if on cue, the wild horse snorts loudly, its hooves pounding the dirt in frustration as it circles the pen. Henry takes a cautious step back, clearly sensing the intensity of the animal's energy. But Evie doesn't seem to mind. She steps forward without hesitation, her movements slow and purposeful, her eyes focused on the horse. As she moves, the horse's wild, flashing eyes snap to her, its body stiffening.

But instead of charging, as it had done to Henry and Charlie, the horse pauses. It seems to sense something—perhaps the calm confidence that Evie exudes, or maybe the subtle shift in the air as she draws near. The horse hesitates, its muscles twitching, before it lowers its head slightly, watching her with cautious curiosity.

Evie continues her approach, not stopping, her eyes locked on the horse's. She doesn't break her stride, stepping closer until she's just a few feet away. Her hand stretches out slowly, and the horse, still restless, watches her fingers twitch toward its mane. Without warning, her hand brushes gently through its thick fur. The moment her skin makes contact, the tension in the horse's body eases ever so slightly.

She speaks to it in a low, soothing voice, her words soft and rhythmic. "Hey there," she whispers. "It's alright. No need to be scared. I've got you." Her voice seems to resonate with something deep inside the animal. It doesn't pull away. Instead, the horse stands still, breathing heavily, its wildness slowly being replaced by something calmer.

Bucky watches with his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide in disbelief. The horse, still agitated, takes a single hesitant step forward. He can't help but feel the shift in the air—like the storm of energy inside the animal is being slowly diffused by Evie's steady presence. She's not rushing; she's taking her time, like she's patiently unravelling the horse's fears, piece by piece.

Evie edges closer, her body relaxed, her breathing even. She inhales deeply before swinging one leg over the horse's back, settling onto it bareback with a fluid ease that takes Bucky's breath away. The horse's muscles tense under her, as if unsure of what's happening. For a moment, it's still, but then Evie speaks again, her voice a gentle breeze, cool and soothing. "Easy, boy," she murmurs, her hands resting lightly on the horse's neck. "I've got you."

The horse, as if listening to the calm in her voice, finally relaxes, its muscles softening beneath her touch. It begins to move, its steps slow and measured as she guides it around the pen. No reins, no saddle—just Evie and the horse, communicating through her calm and steady presence. The two circle the ring a few times, and with each pass, the horse becomes more and more at ease, its wild energy melting away.

After a few more moments, Evie lightly hops off, landing with a soft thud on the ground. She pats the horse's side and grins. "Alright, let's get the saddle on him."

Henry, who's been watching from the sidelines, is staring at her with wide eyes. "Well, I'll be damned," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Ten minutes with Evie and this horse is already ready to be sold. Thought he'd be a challenge, but... looks like he's just what we needed."

Evie shrugs nonchalantly, a proud grin on her face. "Doesn't take long. The trick is just understanding them. He's a good boy, just needed someone to calm him down."

She steps back, giving Henry the nod to get the saddle, her eyes twinkling with quiet satisfaction. As she watches Henry work, Bucky can't help but feel a growing admiration for Evie—not just for the way she handles the animals, but for the strength and calmness she brings to everything she does.

Evie grabs the saddle from the side and expertly straps it onto the horse's back, her movements swift and precise, as if she's done this a thousand times. Once the saddle is secure, she grins, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Let me out," she says, before steering the horse toward the open gate.

Without another word, she kicks the horse into a full gallop, her hands steady on the reins as the animal responds immediately, racing out of the pen. The wind picks up, whipping through her hair, the cold biting against her cheeks as she leans forward, urging the horse to go faster. The hooves thunder against the ground, a rhythmic pounding that matches the beat of her heart. The snow kicks up behind them, a white blur in the distance as the horse pushes forward, its muscles rippling beneath her.

Evie's laugh rings out, carefree and free-spirited, as she effortlessly rides through the open field. The world around her seems to blur into nothing but the rush of wind and the powerful rhythm of the galloping horse. There's no hesitation in her movements, no sign of struggle. She and the horse are one—fluid, natural, and at peace. It's clear that this is second nature to her, her powers working in perfect harmony with the horse's energy, calming it as it sprints across the open terrain.

Bucky watches, his jaw slightly dropped, unable to look away. He's never seen anyone so at ease on a horse before, especially not like this—Evie is practically gliding through the field, as though she were born for this. The horse's movements are smooth and controlled, its wildness gone, replaced by a calm determination that seems to mirror her own.

Bucky can't help but laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Yeah, well," Sam adds from beside him, "You've got yourself a damn horse whisperer in your midst, Barnes. It's like we're in some cowboy movie."

Evie, hearing them, flashes them a playful wink before she returns, pulling the horse to a sudden stop with a gentle tug on the reins. The horse slows to a trot and then a walk as she guides it back toward the pen. She's grinning ear to ear, clearly proud of her work. "All set. This guy's ready for sale," she says, patting the horse's neck affectionately. "And if you guys need a ride anytime, just let me know. He might be more reliable than Matilda."

As she dismounts gracefully, the horse remains calm under her touch, its once fiery energy now subdued. She smirks, her eyes glinting with amusement. "You just wait until you see me break in a wild bull next time. Same technique, but with a lot more yelling."

Bucky laughs, clearly in awe. "I think I'll just stick to horses for now."

Henry claps him on the back with a hearty laugh. "Smart choice."

Chapter Text

The sun hasn’t quite crested the tree line yet, but the sky is already a soft gradient of lavender and rose-gold. A faint mist curls along the edges of the pasture, dew clinging to the tall grass like tiny stars. Bucky sits on the porch steps, shoulders hunched slightly, a chipped mug of coffee warm in his hands. The steam curls up into the cold air, vanishing before it rises too high. He’s been out here since before dawn—sleep didn’t come easy last night, like most nights.

The creak of the screen door is soft, followed by gentle footsteps. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Mary.

She steps outside wrapped in an oversized knitted blanket, her hair tousled from sleep, a quiet softness to her presence that doesn’t disturb the silence but joins it. She pads over and stands beside him for a moment, taking in the morning air, before she speaks.

“Mind if I sit?”

Bucky glances over, nodding with a smile. “Please.”

She lowers herself beside him on the step, tucking the blanket more securely around herself. They sit in companionable silence, sipping coffee and watching the morning unfurl itself around them. A bird calls from somewhere in the trees. The horses are just barely visible in the distance, still clustered near the fence.

“You alright?” Mary asks, not pressing, just curious.

Bucky exhales slowly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She hums in understanding. “Sometimes it’s like that. The quiet makes the mind too loud.”

He nods, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Been a long time since I’ve been still like this. It’s... unsettling.”

“I imagine it would be.” Her voice is kind. “After everything you’ve been through.”

There’s a pause, and then Bucky says, almost like he’s confessing, “I don’t always know what to do with peace.”

Mary doesn’t flinch from the weight of that. Instead, she wraps the blanket tighter and leans just slightly against his shoulder.

“Well, that’s alright. Peace doesn’t come with instructions. You learn to live in it. Bit by bit.”

He turns to look at her, surprised by the clarity of her words. “You’re good at that,” he murmurs. “Knowing what to say. Evie’s like that, too.”

“I’ve had years of practice,” she says, smiling. “Had to learn how to be a wife to an ex-soldier with too many thoughts. Then a mom to a wild, stubborn girl with more fire in her than sense.”

“Evie or Maisie?” Bucky laughs.

“Both,” Mary humours. “And a teenage boy with more emotions than I know what to do with sometimes.”

“Charlie’s a good kid,” Bucky says fondly.

“He is,” Mary agrees, smiling out at the fields.

“They all are,” Bucky says, voice quiet.

“And now…” Mary hesitates, turning to look at him carefully, thoughtfully. “I’m learning how to be a mom to a man with too much weight on his shoulders and not enough people to share it with.”

He huffs out a soft laugh at that. He can’t meet her eyes. He’s trying not to cry. “You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “I’m… Evie’s boyfriend. Not your responsibility. You don’t have to take me on like that.”

“Oh, but I want to.” She looks at him seriously now. She takes his hand in hers, motherly, pats the back of his hand. “You need someone else in your corner who doesn’t expect anything. Just wants to see you whole. Wants to see you in the good and the bad.”

Bucky just looks at her, and she can see the brokenness underneath all that quietness.

“You call me whenever you need, alright?” She tells him. “You’ve got a mom now—whether you like it or not.”

That undoes something in Bucky, deep in his chest. He swallows hard, blinking quickly. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I don’t think anyone’s said that to me in… a long time.”

The words hit him harder than he expects. Something in his chest goes tight.

He thinks of his mother.

He hasn’t seen her face since the day he shipped out in 1942. That last moment—her standing at the front door of their Brooklyn apartment, wiping her hands on her apron, trying to be strong but already crying—flashes behind his eyes. He’d promised her he’d come back. Promised her he’d look after Steve if he ever got himself enlisted like he was trying so hard to. Promised her that he’d be alright.

He never returned.

She never heard anything from him again.

She died never knowing any of that came true.

Bucky stares out over the field, jaw clenched. He wonders what she would think of him now. Would she still call him her boy, hold his face in her hands, kiss his forehead the way she always used to? Or would she flinch from what he became—what was done to him?

Would she be proud of the man sitting here on this porch, coffee cooling in his hand?

Or would she look at him and see only the shadow of what was stolen from her? And from him.

He misses her so deeply it feels like a phantom ache—like a limb that’s long gone but still hurts. He doesn’t think about it a lot, and he knows there’s a lot about her he still doesn’t remember. But now, sitting here, he feels it. The pain. He never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell her he was sorry. That he remembered every lullaby, every soft scolding, every night she stayed up waiting for him to come home safe.

“Evie’s very lucky to have you,” he says sincerely, choking down whatever he’s feeling.

“I’m luckier. She’s one of the best things in my life. Along with Charlie and Maisie. And Milo.”

“And Henry?” Bucky jokes.

“Eh,” she quips back, laughing. “You just… Can’t compare anything to the way you love your kids. And the way you worry about them.” Mary gives him a warm, steady smile.

Bucky looks at her again, sadly. “My Ma… she thought I was killed in action. In the war. She had no idea I survived. Well… a version of me did, I guess. I’m not the same person I was then. And Ma, she’s… long gone. But… She never knew I made it out,” he confesses, ripening the old wound.

Mary doesn’t say anything at first. She just sits with it, lets the silence be soft instead of heavy.

Bucky swallows hard. “I still remember the way she used to hum when she cooked,” he says quietly. “She didn’t sing — not really — but she’d hum, and it was always the same tune. I don’t even know what it was. Just… this sound that meant home.”

He stares out across the porch, eyes distant.

“She had calloused hands from cleaning and sewing, but she always smelled like lavender soap. She used to rub my shoulders when I came home sore from the docks. Said no son of hers was gonna be too proud to let someone look after him.”

A breath catches in his throat. “She was small, y’know. I was taller than her by the time I was ten. But she had this… weight to her. Like she could keep the whole world spinning just by worrying about it hard enough.” He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “She was always proud. Of me. Of my sister. Of Steve.”

“She still would be,” Mary promises. She doesn’t push, doesn’t prod — just anchors him.

“I never got to tell her I was sorry,” he admits. “For disappearing. For not writing. For not… coming back. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But by the time I had the chance—” He cuts himself off, blinking fast. “She died thinking I broke every promise I ever made her.”

His breath hitches. He blinks harder, trying to wish away the tears. His voice goes hoarse, barely a whisper now.

“I don’t even know where she’s buried.”

The confession hangs there, brittle and unguarded.

Mary squeezes his arm gently, like she’s holding all the sharp edges for him. “She knew, Bucky,” she says, soft but certain. “A mother knows. Even when the world tells her otherwise. I promise you — she never stopped loving you. And she never stopped doubting you or being proud of you. Not for a second.”

Bucky nods, but his eyes are glassy, jaw clenched tight. He looks away, out into the trees, like he’s afraid he’ll break if he doesn’t.

Mary doesn’t try to make it better. She just stays beside him, lets him feel it. The grief. The ache. The memory of lavender soap and humming over the stove.

And maybe, just maybe, Bucky lets himself believe — for the first time in a long time — that someone knew he came home after all.

“You can find where she’s buried. You can go see her. Even if it’s hard. But she’s still always with you.”

Bucky nods, swallows hard. He makes a mental note to find that information. He has to go.

“I know you’ve looked out for Evie since the moment she joined your team. You didn’t have to, but you did. You’ve been her shield. Her friend. And as her mother, I’m very grateful.”

Bucky’s gaze drops to the rim of his mug, his thumb brushing the edge absently. “She’s… everything to me,” Bucky admits.

“I know. I can see it in the way you look at her.”

Bucky swallows. “I’d die before I let anything happen to her.” It’s not just a statement, but a promise.

Mary nods. There’s no trace of surprise in her eyes—only quiet understanding. “And that’s why I can sleep at night. Knowing she’s got someone like you beside her. Who cares about her like you do.”

He looks up at her again, and something in his expression softens, like the tension in his jaw has finally released.

“I don’t think I’ve ever deserved someone saying they’re proud of me,” he says after a moment, voice hoarse with vulnerability. “At least, not in a long time.”

“Well then,” Mary says gently, reaching over to place a hand on his cheek, “let me be the first to make you feel like I mean it. I’m proud of you, Bucky. For what you were. For what you are. And for what you’re becoming.”

His lips part in surprise, and then, slowly—hesitantly—a smile blooms. Not the crooked, guarded smirk he gives to hide his feelings, but a real, radiant thing, bright with emotion.

“Thank you,” he says again, voice thick.

They sit together in the rising light, the world slowly waking around them, and for the first time in a very long while, Bucky feels like someone’s son again, maybe.

Mary bumps her shoulder lightly against his, smiling. “Now drink your coffee before it gets cold. We’ve got chores to do and horses that won’t feed themselves.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says with a laugh, the sound carrying light and easy into the morning.

And beside her, he feels something like hope take root.

Chapter Text

The town hall is barely recognisable.

Normally a sleepy, functional space with folding chairs and dull beige walls, tonight it’s glowing. Strings of golden fairy lights zig-zag across the rafters, casting a honey-warm light. Streamers and old-time bunting are draped along the walls. Tables are lined with mismatched tablecloths and homemade dishes — cheese platters, spiced nuts, cupcakes with glittering frosting. A chalkboard leans against one corner that reads Happy New Year! Dance starts at 8! Fireworks at midnight!

Outside, it’s icy cold, the sky a canopy of stars, but inside it’s warm with laughter and music and the kind of joy that comes from being surrounded by people who’ve known each other forever.

Bucky steps into the hall alongside Steve and Sam – Ava opted out of the “pathetic small-town celebration” – tugging at the sleeves of his leather jacket and glancing around. The locals are dressed in a mix of semi-formal and country chic — women in satin and boots, men in suits with bolo ties, others in what can only be described as farmers’ gear. There’s a lot of cowboy hats. There’s something easy and unpretentious about it all. A live band is already playing in one corner — a fiddle, a double bass, a piano, a guy on acoustic guitar wearing a cowboy hat and grinning like he’s just happy to be there. People are dancing, line dancing, drinking, laughing.

A familiar voice cuts through the hum of the crowd.

“Turn around, Buck,” Sam says, nodding toward the entrance. “Your girl’s about to stop time.”

Bucky turns. And stops breathing.

Evie walks in just behind Mary, having come in the car with her parents since she was running late (as usual), wrapped in a dark green velvet dress that hugs her waist and flares slightly at the knees. Her hair is curled and glossy, pinned on one side with an old clip, the look straight out of 1943. She’s radiant — not in an intimidating, untouchable way, but in the way a memory might be. Like something old made new again. For a moment, Bucky swears he’s been transported back to a dance in 1941, standing along the wall while girls twirled in tea-length dresses and men in uniform smiled too wide.

She’s not trying to steal attention — she just is. She smiles when she sees him, a little nervous, a little knowing. She walks up and stops in front of him, her lips red with lipstick. He’s staring at her, mouth slightly ajar, eyeing her up and down.

“Thought you might like it,” she says, cheeks flushed, when she reaches him.

“You… Evie.” Bucky blinks like he’s been hit in the head. He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “You look like you walked out of another time. You look like a dream.”

“Like one of your dreams?” She teases, stepping a little closer.

“Exactly like one of mine,” he murmurs.

She laughs and curls her fingers lightly around his arm. “Then it was worth the effort. I had to raid Mom’s hot rollers and follow one of grandma’s old curling patterns.”

“It was definitely worth it,” he promises, leaning in to claim her lips with his own. “I can’t believe you’re mine,” he tells her when they part.

“I have been for a while. Just took us a long time to figure out what it was,” she responds.

The grin Bucky gives her is breathtaking.

As the night unfolds, the hall grows more alive. The band switches to a fast swing number and Steve, of all people, pulls a random woman near him onto the dance floor and surprises everyone by absolutely killing it. She whoops with laughter, heels tapping quick and sharp, while Sam shouts, “Look at this old man move!”

“How ‘bout a dance? Won’t be a slow dance or a Lindy Hop like you’re used to…” Evie offers.

Bucky’s about to say yes when the music shifts into a slower tempo, a crooner’s voice drifting through the old speakers at the edge of the hall. Fairy lights strung along the beams glow soft gold, and the polished wooden floor gleams with years of memories.

Bucky takes her hands, staring to pull her away from the wall toward the dance floor.

“Maybe we can slow dance after all,” he drawls, eyeing her with flirtatious eyes and a smirk to pair.

Evie feels herself melting under his gaze, following him blindly, her eyes locked with his.

And then, a high-pitched shriek cuts through the music.

“Evie Day, you absolute traitor!”

A blonde blur launches from the crowd like a firework, barrelling straight into Evie. They crash into each other in a spinning, full-bodied hug, laughing loudly enough to turn a few heads nearby.

“Brooke?” Evie gasps, breathless with delight. “Brooke, is that you?”

“In the flesh,” Brooke declares, stepping back and tossing her golden curls with theatrical flair. She’s petite but commands space like she owns it, hands on her hips and grinning like the devil. “You were gonna come home for Christmas and not tell me? We text all the time! You could’ve said.”

Evie shrugs, caught between guilt and laughter. “I was going to. But then—Avengers, missions, travel, family chaos—and then there was this guy—” She says, motioning toward Bucky.

Bucky lifts a hand sheepishly as Brooke’s eyes snap to him.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, eyes flicking up and down like she’s sizing him up. “I do know about you. Seen your face all over the news at one point. And now, all over this one’s Instagram and StarkChat stories. You’re practically the main character in her life.”

Bucky actually blushes. So unusual for him. “Is that so? Well, I’m Bucky,” he says sweetly.

“I’m Brooke. Evie’s best friend, before she ran off to the big city and I couldn’t afford the rent,” she says, putting an arm round Evie’s shoulders. “She’s probably replaced me by now, you flake.”

Evie rolls her eyes, feigning annoyance. “We were in a band together. In high school,” Evie explains.

“And a bit after. But you continued on without me while I went to college to become a music teacher.”

“And I had to get a job at the bar to make up the rent that you weren’t paying anymore while I went to university myself,” Evie shoots back.

“Eh, you only live once,” Brooke laughs. “So, are you always flanked by male models?” Brooke asks Evie, eyeing Sam and Steve as well. “Lucky girl.”

“Brooke,” Evie laughs, flustered.

She eyes Bucky again then. “You must be the reason she skipped the Winter Solstice karaoke night at the pub the other night. I was sort of expecting to see you there if you were back. You a good dancer, metal arm?”

“I get by,” Bucky replies, deadpan.

Brooke barks a laugh, claps her hands once. “God, you do have a type, Evelyn. Strong jaw, tragic eyes, potentially capable of murder. Classic.”

Evie groans and hides her face in Bucky’s shoulder.

But then Brooke grabs Evie’s hand. “Come on. We’re dancing, Miss Avenger.”

“No, no—Brooke—” Evie protests, but she’s already being yanked to the middle of the floor. It’s almost as if Brooke pops her shoulder out as she drags her through the crowd.

Evie hesitates only for a second, shooting Bucky a pained look, her friend already dancing beside her. Brooke yells something to her over the music, and Bucky watches as Evie’s hesitance falls away. And then they’re moving together like no time has passed at all. Brooke leads with reckless joy, twirling and two-stepping with abandon, while Evie follows easily, laughing so hard her face shines. The crowd parts to give them space, and people start clapping in time with the beat. They’re magnetic — and Bucky finds himself smiling, heart full just watching her shine like this.

“She kind of reminds me of you,” Bucky murmurs to Steve, who’s nursing a local lager and watching them from a nearby table.

Steve raises a brow. “Who, Brooke?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “The chaos. The charm. The volume.”

Steve snorts. “You saying I’m loud?”

“You were louder when you were smaller,” Bucky offers. “But I’m saying she’d have punched you in the face back in ’43 and you’d have married her out of spite.”

Sam nearly chokes on his drink. “Facts.”

The music winds down and applause bursts from the crowd. Brooke and Evie curtsy with exaggerated flair, both of them flushed and glowing.

That’s when the band’s lead singer — a local guy with a steel guitar and a big personality — leans into the mic.

“Alright, alright, I know it’s been a while,” he says, eyes scanning the floor. “But we’ve got two very familiar faces in the room tonight, already making their presence known down there on the dancefloor. You two gonna make my job easy and get up here or what?”

Brooke’s eyes go wide. “No. No, no, I haven’t done that in years.”

The crowd starts cheering anyway. “Evie! Brooke! Evie! Brooke!”

Evie stiffens. “Oh god. We haven’t sung together in forever. Brooke, I don’t—”

But then Bucky’s beside her, his hand on her back, voice low and steady in her ear. “Hey. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But if you want to, you should. I’ve seen you take down bad guys. And I’ve seen you rock a gig back in Brooklyn. I think you can handle a small-town stage.”

She searches his face, hesitating.

“I’ll be right here,” he adds, softer now. “And you’ll be amazing.”

Brooke grabs her hand again, giving in. “Let’s go, hotshot.”

They head up to the small wooden stage, familiar even after all these years. The band makes room, taking a break by the bar, and Evie steps up to the mic, brushing her fingers over it like she’s steadying her nerves.

She looks out over the crowd — some old friends, some strangers. Then she looks at Bucky.

He smiles.

She inhales. And when she exhales, the lights shift.

Not visibly — not to most people — but Bucky feels it. The faint shimmer of her power, low and quiet, weaving through the instruments on stage. Strings tune themselves with barely a whisper. The keys of the piano hum, anticipating. The air vibrates like it’s holding its breath.

Brooke strums the guitar once, and Evie nods to her.

And then she sings.

It’s a cover, one they used to do in high school, something wistful but strong. Evie’s voice is rich, a little older now, weathered in the way all real voices are. But she sounds like home.

People sing along. People sway. People dance.

Bucky doesn’t know when he started holding his breath, but he finally lets it go as the chorus hits. Her powers swirl softly through the stage, guiding the rhythm like a conductor, filling in the missing pieces of the band — bass, harmony, even a little violin, echoing from somewhere unseen.

Invisible bass lines fill the empty spaces. A violin, soft and sad, rises and falls from nowhere. She’s not just singing — she’s shaping the whole moment with her will, filling in every gap with something real and beautiful and hers.

And god, he thinks, this is what she’s like when she lets herself shine.

By the end of the song, half the room is on its feet. There’s whistling, clapping, someone crying into their gin and tonic. A guy near the dartboard hollers, “We missed you, Evie!”

Brooke grins like a wild thing, launching into the next number without hesitation — something more upbeat, classic rock this time. The crowd responds like fire to kindling. A dancefloor springs into motion again. A man in cowboy boots tries and fails to twirl his partner. Two college kids jump up and down like it’s a concert. Even the bartender’s bobbing along.

They do three more songs. Each one gets louder, freer. The music crackles through the air, half-powered by the sound system, half-powered by her. Joy pulses under every note.

When they finally finish — breathless, grinning — Evie is flushed and laughing, hiding behind her hands at the roaring applause. Brooke, never one to shy away from attention, takes a dramatic bow.

“We’ll take drink tickets as payment,” Brooke declares into the microphone, making the crowd laugh again.

Evie hops down from the stage and finds her way back to Bucky, cheeks still pink.

“Well?” she says, almost shy.

He leans in, speaking just loud enough for her to hear. “I’ve seen you punch through steel walls and throw people around with your powers. But that? That was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

She beams.

They settle back into the group — Steve and Bucky with their beers, Sam and some stranger arguing over whether line dancing counts as cardio, Charlie sneaking extra dessert from the snack table, and Mary and Henry working the room like seasoned politicians.

Evie’s cheeks are pink from dancing, curls loosened from laughter and movement, the velvet of her dress catching the golden light like moss in moonlight. Brooke’s beside her, fanning herself dramatically with a napkin, her voice rising over the music. “We’ve still got it, Vee. Damn. The town’s gonna be talking about that until next New Year.”

Evie grins. “Come to New York with me and we can do that every weekend,” she offers.

“And abandon my cherub students? No way in hell. Still can’t afford the rent on a teachers’ salary.”

“Your loss,” Evie mutters.

She leans into Bucky’s side as he offers her a drink, one eyebrow raised. “I’m guessing that wasn’t the first time you two brought the house down?”

“Not even close,” Brooke says, winking at him. “We were a menace in matching leather jackets. Jazz covers, Fleetwood Mac, one horrifying attempt at a Beyoncé number. The mayor’s retirement party hasn’t recovered.”

Evie bumps her hip against Brooke, then glances up at Bucky. “It was easier, back then. Before everything.”

“You still shine,” he says simply. “How about some fresh air?” He suggests. “Away from all the people ogling you for being the returned Avenger to their town.”

“Sounds great,” she says, sincerely, and takes Bucky’s offered hand. “I’ll be back,” she tells Brooke, who busies herself by walking off into the crowd.

The night air is cooler than expected when they step outside, the door swinging shut behind them with a thud that muffles the music inside. Out here, the sounds of the bar are softened — laughter, clinking glasses, someone dropping a drink and shouting “Shit!” — but it’s all distant now, like a story happening in another room.

Evie exhales slowly, letting the air hit her lungs, letting her shoulders drop. Her hand is still wrapped in Bucky’s, and he hasn’t let go. Neither has she.

They walk a few paces down the sidewalk, gravel crunching under their shoes. The string lights on the building’s awning flicker overhead, casting gold halos around their heads. The street’s mostly empty, save for a couple of people sitting on the hood of a truck across the lot, passing a bottle between them.

Evie stops by the rusted railing near the edge of the lot and leans against it, arms folded loosely now, hair pulled back from her face by the breeze. “God, I forgot what that felt like,” she says softly, voice hoarse from singing.

Bucky leans beside her, elbow brushing hers. “Being home? Or performing like that? With Brooke?”

She shrugs. “Both, I guess. It’s been a long time. I haven’t been back much in the last three years.”

“You should do both more. You seem… lighter, here.”

“No threats of world domination of destruction out here,” she laughs, looking around. “Just… this.”

For a few beats, they just stand there, watching the glow from the bar windows spill onto the gravel, listening to the hum of a place that still remembers her, even after all these years.

They fall into a comfortable silence, but it’s comfortable this time. Easy. The kind of silence that only exists when two people know they don’t have to fill it to be understood. Evie leans against the post, looking out at the streets and fields around them.

Then Evie looks over at him, watching the way his profile softens in the dim light. His expression is quiet, reflective, as if there’s something on the edge of his tongue — something he wants to say but isn’t sure how. Something he’s been thinking about.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks.

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He glances out at the parking lot, then down at his boots, then finally back at her. His thumb brushes over her hand, slow.

“I was thinking about my Ma,” he says.

“Your Ma?”

“Mm.”

“You’ve never talked about her,” Evie notes. She tilts her head, thoughtful. Other than that, she doesn’t move — just waits to listen.

“I don’t talk about her,” he continues, almost like he’s surprising himself with the admission. “Not since I woke up in… all this. Guess it’s been too long. But seeing your mom has… brought it all back to the surface, I guess.”

He swallows. The wind stills a bit.

“I remember, she had this old radio in the kitchen. Big thing, wood casing, knobs that always stuck. She’d keep it on while she cooked — music, sometimes the ballgame. She always hummed, even when she was off-key.” He lets out a soft laugh. “She had a terrible voice. Just awful. She’d sing sometimes, but not a lot. But she didn’t care. She’d hum while she folded towels, while she stirred the pot. My sisters and I would groan every time she started dancing. My Dad’d just smile at her like she was the best damn thing he’d ever seen.”

Evie watches his face closely. It’s not grief on it — not exactly. Just something gentler. More worn. Like a door that’s been shut too long finally easing open.

“I get how he felt, now,” Bucky says. “You’re a good singer, obviously, and dancer. But the way he looked at her, the way he loved her – I get it now.”

Evie smiles, broadly, her eyes a little glassy. “Buck…”

“She would’ve loved you,” Bucky says. “The way you sang tonight. That joy? That strength? You reminded me of her.”

Her breath catches.

“She used to say a person’s voice was a kind of prayer,” he adds, quieter now. “That even if nobody else hears it, the universe does.”

For a while, neither of them speaks. Evie just steps a little closer, rests her head lightly against his shoulder. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t tense. Just leans into her, like a tree remembering how to bend.

“I think she’d be very proud of you,” Evie murmurs.

He closes his eyes, lets the words settle.

When he opens them again, the sky above them is deep navy, the stars stubborn and bright.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe she would.”

“And I think she’d love this party,” Evie jokes, lightening the mood again.

“Better go back in, make her proud with some more dancing,” Bucky says, taking her hand again and leading her back inside.

He beelines back to the chairs where Sam and Steve are sitting, talking, and Evie heads toward the bar, heart still racing, lungs aching in the best possible way from laughter and adrenaline. Her skin hums with leftover energy from the stage, her fingertips tingling with residual magic. She can still hear the echo of the crowd’s applause, feel the warmth of Brooke’s hand in hers. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold air outside and the sudden heat inside the hall, her hair slipping loose from all the dancing, but she doesn’t care. She feels alive.

She’s halfway to ordering a drink — something cold, maybe sparkling, anything to cool her down — when a familiar voice slices through the buzz of conversation behind her.

“Well, well. Evie Day. Didn’t expect to see you back in town, let alone lighting up the stage like that.”

Her spine stiffens.

She turns slowly. And there he is.

Tall. Athletic. Dressed like he wants people to notice — jeans just tight enough, shirt just crisp enough, smile just a little too polished to be genuine. Mason Rivers.

The last time she saw him was four years ago, in the parking lot of his apartment building, when she’d finally had the sense to stop letting him rewrite the narrative of their failing relationship and walked away. Back then, he was charming in the way people with too much confidence and not enough conscience often are.

And apparently, not much has changed.

“Mason,” she says coolly, already beginning to turn away.

But he’s quick, sliding up beside her, freshly poured drink in hand and leaning in like they’re picking up where they left off.

“You look incredible,” he says, eyes raking over her in a way that makes her skin crawl. “Didn’t realise saving the world also made you even hotter.”

She gives him a tight, closed-lip smile. “Nice to see you too.”

He chuckles — that practiced, self-assured laugh that always used to get him out of trouble. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we ended things too soon. You and me — we were good. I mean, now you’re an Avenger... Your powers always sort of freaked me out, but now… kind of ups the stakes, doesn’t it?”

Evie scoffs, lips twisting in disbelief. “Wow. Guess that is an alluring quality. Weird abilities, access to Stark-level tech and international fame? Really does it for you, huh?”

“Sure does,” he says flirtatiously, stepping forward.

“Just to clarify, we were not good. I ended things between us for a reason. That reason being that you were a massive asshole,” she tells him.

Mason shrugs, undeterred. He steps closer — too close — his cologne creeping into her nose, all synthetic musk and ego. He reaches up, casually brushes a stray curl behind her ear like he still has permission.

Her smile hardens. “You still don’t ask first, do you?”

He smirks like it’s a joke. “Come on, Evie. People change. Maybe I was... a little stupid back then.”

“You were,” she agrees, all sweetness and steel, and takes a deliberate step back, putting the barstool between them.

But Mason follows, lingering like a bad smell. “So… how’ve you been?”

“Great,” she says breezily, lifting a brow. “Saving the world. Performing in bars. Oh, and I’m in love.”

That stops him.

“In love?” His expression falters, just for a second. “You moved on?”

She tilts her head. “We broke up four years ago, Mace.”

He opens his mouth to say something — a protest, a joke, a possessive retort she’s heard before — but then he hesitates.

“Well then, who’s the lucky guy?” he asks, forcing a grin. He glances over his shoulder, scanning the crowd like the man in question should’ve already stepped in to rescue her.

Evie follows his gaze casually and lifts a hand to point.

“There. That one. The one looking like he might start a bar fight with you in the next twenty seconds.”

Bucky is across the room, one hand curled loosely around a beer bottle, but everything else about him is taut. His eyes are locked on Mason — icy, unblinking, clinical in a way that makes even the air feel colder. He hasn’t moved yet, but every inch of him looks ready to.

Evie waves at him brightly, eyes twinkling. Bucky softens, waves back at her, and then goes back to staring at Mason.

“The starer?” Mason says, suddenly less confident.

“Bucky can be a little intense,” Evie says lightly, brushing past Mason to grab a drink off the bar.

“Bucky… As in Bucky Barnes?”

“That’s the one,” she says in a singsong sort of way.

“Fuck…” He whispers, eyeing Bucky again, who’s doing that staring thing that freaks people out.

“He’s fiercely protective. Loyal, kind. Doesn’t particularly like guys who treat women like they’re some kind of comeback tour,” Evie continues, holding both drinks – one for her and one for Bucky, as she waits for him to leave her be.

Mason swallows, visibly re-evaluating his odds. “So, you’re... really into him?”

Evie smiles, wide and wicked. “I really am.”

She takes a sip of her drink and lets the moment hang.

Mason steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, grin brittle. “Alright. Point taken. No hard feelings, right?”

“Of course not,” she says. “We all make mistakes. Some of us just don’t try to repeat them.”

He turns and disappears into the crowd, shoulders stiff. Bucky watches him until he’s out of sight, still glaring.

Evie glances once more at Bucky, whose eyes are now on her, softened, wide. She lifts her drink slightly in a silent toast. Bucky raises a brow and tips his bottle back, never breaking eye contact.

Evie lingers at the bar a moment longer, savouring her drink and the glow of adrenaline still humming in her veins. She lets herself breathe, lets the cool fizz hit her throat, and watches Mason disappear into the crowd like a bad memory finally walking out the door.

It doesn’t take long before she senses Bucky approaching — not because he’s loud (he’s never loud), but because his presence rolls in like a tide: heavy, inevitable, impossible to ignore. She turns to find him there, still nursing his empty beer bottle, his expression unreadable in that classic Winter Soldier way. But his eyes are softer now, a little less arctic, a little more curious.

“Who was that?” he asks, nodding toward the direction Mason fled.

Evie hands him the new drink she got him, and he takes it gently. Evie sighs. “He’s my ex.”

Bucky’s brow lifts, just a bit. “That guy, who looks like he walked out of a body spray commercial?”

She snorts into her glass. “Apparently my new job title has made me... appealing.”

Bucky leans against the bar beside her, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off him, anchoring her. He takes a swig of his beer, then mutters, “He looked like a douche in a varsity jacket.”

Evie grins, wide and genuine now. “That’s because he was a douche in a varsity jacket. Back in high school, he wore his letterman like it was armour. Thought being the quarterback gave him the right to be king of the town.”

Bucky hums low in his throat, gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “Let me guess — parents with money, charm just slick enough to fool adults, but not nearly enough substance to back it up?”

“Bingo,” Evie says, tapping the rim of her glass. “Dated him way too long. He was pretty. And loud. And knew all the right songs to play at bonfire parties. He came to New York with me, but we didn’t last long. He...” She trails off, thinking of how to frame it.

“But he didn’t see you,” Bucky finishes, eyes sliding back to meet hers.

She looks up at him, surprised, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, jaw ticking. “Guys like that — they think girls like you are trophies. They don’t know how to deal with someone who can outshine them.”

Evie’s heart stumbles, just for a second. The way he says girls like you — it’s quiet, reverent, as if it’s not just about her powers or her job or her looks, but something deeper. Something truer.

“He used to hate when I played music with Brooke,” she says, almost absently. “Said it made him look bad. Said no one wanted to hear a girl sing sad songs at a party.”

“Well,” Bucky says, a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth, “judging by the way the town lost their damn minds tonight, I’d say he was wrong.”

Evie laughs, the tension finally melting from her shoulders. “Thanks.”

Bucky tilts his head, considering her. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He’s just... a memory. You know? From before.”

Bucky nods slowly. “I know all about ghosts.”

Evie flinches at Bucky’s comment. Actually flinches. Bucky doesn’t see it, looking out at the crowd.

They fall into a comfortable silence. Around them, the dance continues — couples swaying to a slow song now, fairy lights overhead casting warm halos on the crowd. Sam and Ava are laughing at something across the room. Brooke’s animatedly recounting a story to a cluster of teachers near the stage. Charlie’s playing cards at a folding table with kids Evie half-remembers from the neighbourhood.

Bucky nudges her with his elbow. “You know, I didn’t actually get to say it earlier.”

“Say what?”

“You were amazing up there. On stage.” He looks at her then, really looks, and there’s something unguarded in his expression. “Like the whole damn world stopped to watch you.”

Evie’s throat tightens. “I was kind of terrified. Old crowd, you don’t know how they’re going to react when you’ve changed.”

He leans in, voice low and rough. “Didn’t show. You looked like you belonged there.”

She swallows hard. “It felt like I did, by the end of it.”

Bucky nods. “That’s the thing about home. Sometimes it’s a stage under string lights. Sometimes it’s a person.”

Evie looks at him — at the way the lights catch on the stubble along his jaw, at the way his blue eyes soften when they land on her.

And for once, she doesn’t overthink it.

She just smiles. “We never did get that dance,” she says. “Come on, soldier.”

Bucky grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They dance a while, and midnight creeps on closer. The countdown is beginning. Ten… nine… eight…

“Any New Year’s resolutions?” she asks softly.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on hers. “Be brave.”

“Six… five…”

“Good one,” she murmurs.

“Four…”

They lean in.

“Three!”

Her hand slips into his. He squeezes her fingers gently. I’m here.

“Two!”

He dips his head, and she rises on her toes.

“One!”

The hall erupts.

Cheers, confetti, noisemakers, the thud of fireworks from somewhere just outside.

And Bucky kisses her.

It’s soft at first, like he’s still unsure this is real. But her fingers curl behind his neck, and he forgets how to be careful. It’s not a showy kiss. It’s a steady, grounding, real kiss — the kind you only give someone when you want to be known by them, completely.

When they part, it’s to the sound of someone wolf-whistling — probably Sam — and Evie flushes all over again.

She leans her forehead against his. “Happy New Year, Buck.”

“Happy New Year, Evie.”

He doesn’t say it, but he’s thinking it.

Maybe this one will be different.

Chapter Text

Evie stays in town for a week after New Year's, long after everyone else has headed back to their busy lives. The house is quiet now, a cozy stillness hanging in the air. Henry, her dad, had wanted to work through the New Year with some renovations on the house. Evie always used to help out, and she’s got no work waiting for her, her leave approved, so she stays on for some much-needed family time she’s missed out on the last three years of hustling at the bar and then learning how to be an Avenger.

When Evie offers for Bucky to stay, too, he doesn’t hesitate to say yes. It’s a quiet break for the two of them — time to relax, but also to help out in any way they can. Steve tells him not to worry about the leave, he’ll sort it. Bucky gives him a grateful smile, and they say goodbye to their friends on the front porch.

The mornings are slow.

They rise early, not because they need to, but because neither of them sleeps all that well anymore. The house is quiet at that hour, bathed in soft grey light that filters through the curtains like a held breath.

Bucky’s still not used to sharing a space with someone. The guest room is his, even though he knows it doesn’t have to be. It’s a line he isn’t quite ready to cross—not yet. Not all the time, anyway.

At 6:02, the door creaks open. He’s awake, of course. He always is. But he keeps his eyes closed as the mattress dips and a warm weight slips under the thick quilt and settles beside him. Evie curls into his side without a word, her arms slipping around his middle like this is just… normal.

Maybe it is. Maybe it’s becoming that.

He lets out a slow breath, one hand hesitating before resting lightly on her arm, the other coming around her shoulders, holding her tight against him. Present. Grounded.

“Morning,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw.

“Morning,” he responds, voice raspy.

She pauses for just a moment, the first time she does this, and then asks, “This isn’t too much too soon, is it?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “No. It’s perfect.”

She relaxes then, tension easing from her shoulders as she tucks her head beneath his chin. The moment stretches, soft and slow. His thumb traces an absent pattern along her arm.

There’s a time when this kind of closeness would have set him on edge. A time when being touched, being wanted, was a reminder of everything he didn’t think he deserved. But now—

Now, it’s just quiet. Not empty. Just… peaceful.

She fits against him like she’s meant to be there. Like she’s been there all along and he’s only just realised it.

“Could stay like this forever,” she murmurs.

His lips brush the top of her head. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

They get up, eventually, and eat pancakes together at the kitchen table before they get to work. Henry has a list of things he’s been putting off: a few broken shutters, some patching up around the window frames, a couple of minor repairs on the old shed out back. The house has that lived-in, rural charm, but there’s always something that needs fixing.

He never asks Bucky to help. Bucky offers. Evie likes to help her parents around the house when she comes, and she never forces that on Bucky, but he doesn’t mind at all — he’s the first to grab a hammer when Henry calls out for help. He’s always liked using his hands, fixing things. It’s why he always enjoyed the docks back before the war.

“It’s nice to have some muscle around here for once,” Henry grins at Bucky one morning as they shift heavy boxes in the garage.

Henry’s movements are slower, his joints creaking more than they used to, but he’s got a quiet, steady confidence about him, a certainty in the way he handles tools. He’s built like a man who’s worked with his hands for a lifetime. Bucky lifts the boxes effortlessly, moving them where he asks.

“Evie’s always been more about music and books than fixing things. She tries to help, but I usually have to patch over or re-do everything she helps with. I’ve never told her, of course. But it’s good for her to have someone around who doesn’t mind getting dirty.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, she mentioned something about breaking a hammer once?”

Henry barks a laugh. “Snapped it clean in two. Claimed it was defective. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d been hitting the nail sideways for ten minutes.”

They both laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet garage, dust motes swirling in the sunlight through the half-cracked door.

“Look, her powers are very helpful. Last time she was here, a few months ago, just before the joined your team, she helped put the shed together. I directed her, the pieces fell into place, all the bolts screwed into place on their own accord. Saved a lot of back work. But she usually tries not to use her powers to make her life work. And when she tries to do it herself, well…” He trails off, a fond smile on his face as he thinks about all the things his daughter inevitably broke or made worse by trying to help. “Can’t complain. Maisie never wanted to get her hands dirty, never lifted a hand on the farm. And Charlie was always younger, more anxious than anything. She was the only pair of helping hands I had.”

“She’s like that. Likes helping people.”

Henry wipes his brow with a rag. “She always tried. Even when her heart wasn’t in it. That girl’s got more grit than she lets on.”

Bucky nods, shifting the next box. “Yeah. She’s got this… fight in her. But she’s also soft, y’know? Not weak. Just... open.”

“Exactly,” Henry says, pointing at him with the rag like he’s just won a bet. “Most people don’t notice that part. They see the stubborn, funny, loud part — the fire. Not the quiet.”

Bucky’s face softens a little. “I notice.”

Henry watches him for a moment, eyes narrowing in that way older men do when they’re trying to get a read on someone. There’s no suspicion there — just curiosity. And maybe, a little protective weight.

“You care about her,” Henry says, not a question.

Bucky doesn’t dodge it. “Yeah. I do. A lot.”

He nods. “My wife told me.”

Bucky flushes a little.

“Nothing much, just that she was safe with you, and I could stop worrying myself to sleep at night.”

Another pause. Then Henry turns back to the shelf they’ve been reorganising, and one that’s fallen down, the screws giving way. He gestures for a level. Bucky hands it over.

“Is this the part where you threaten me that if I hurt her, you’ll hurt me?” Bucky asks, and there’s a hint of humour to his voice, but also a seriousness. He’d be fully expecting that conversation. After all, he was the Winter Soldier, and Henry was army.

Henry huffs a laugh, quiet. “Nah,” he says, checking the bubble in the level and adjusting the bracket. “If she picked you, that’s enough for me.”

Bucky blinks, caught off guard.

“I know who you were,” Henry adds, not looking up. “But more importantly, I know who you are now. And how much you’ve gone through to get here, today. And she’s not the type to fall for someone who doesn’t deserve her.”

He passes Bucky the drill.

Bucky takes it, weighing it in his hand. “Thank you.”

“Just don’t give her a reason to stop trusting that.”

“I won’t.”

Henry gives him a look then—sharp, but not unkind. “Good. Evie’s been through some rough patches, like anyone. Life is hard. Some you probably already know, some you don’t. But she always found her way back. Mostly because she’s too damn stubborn to stay down. But sometimes I worry she forgets how much she’s allowed to lean on other people.”

Bucky nods slowly. “She’s not the only one.”

Henry gives him a sideways glance. “Thought that might be the case.”

They work in silence for a little while, the kind that says more than most conversations. Tools clink. Wood creaks. The drill screams as Henry screws the shelf back up, Bucky holding it straight with his metal arm. There’s a breeze coming in through the open door, carrying the scent of cut grass and honeysuckle.

After a while, Henry steps back and inspects the shelf. He and Bucky stand together, silently, looking at their handiwork.

Henry peaks again — quieter now. “You remind me of my brother.”

Bucky looks over at him, curious.

“We were both army. He came back from Korea… Different. Didn’t talk much. Jumped at shadows. Always kept his back to the wall, like someone might sneak up on him in the kitchen.” Henry starts putting stuff back up on the shelf – tools, boxes. Bucky silently helps. “But he built things. Fixed things. Said it made him feel like he was putting the world back in order, even if it was just a birdhouse or a broken step.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, and he looks down at his hands. “Yeah. I get that.”

Henry gives him a long look, then nods once. “Thought you might.”

Another beat passes. Then Henry leans on the workbench and sighs. “I was hard on him, back then. Too proud to ask what he’d seen. Too scared to really hear the answer if I did. Then I went to war myself, and I got it. Didn’t have to ask anymore to know what he’d seen and experienced.”

Bucky meets his gaze, eyes steady. “Sometimes there aren’t words for it.”

“No,” Henry agrees. “But sometimes, you don’t need words. Just someone willing to stand in the garage and fix shit with you.”

Bucky cracks a small smile. “Guess I’m in the right place then.”

Henry pats him on the shoulder. “Yeah. I think you are.”

Evie’s off on her own little project in the kitchen, helping her mom put together an early lunch. The windows are open, letting in the late-morning light and the breeze that carries with it the smell of fresh-cut grass and the sound of birdsong. She hums under her breath as she slices tomatoes, passing a bowl of herbs to her mother, who’s carefully laying out pieces of warm, crusty bread.

She can hear the men talking outside — low voices, the occasional laugh, the steady rhythm of hammers and footsteps across the porch boards. It’s not what they’re saying that gets her, not really. It’s the tone. The calm, easy-going chatter that rolls in like waves, grounding the house in something real and steady.

It fills the space between the floorboards and walls. A quiet domesticity, one she hadn’t realized she missed until it was here again.

She pauses for a moment, fingers resting on the counter, knife in hand. Her eyes drift toward the window over the sink.

Bucky’s out there — sleeves rolled up, hair tied back with one of her hair ties, a tiny little bun at the back of his head where most of the front falls out anyway, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He’s not performing, not trying to impress. He’s just there, fitting into her life like he was always meant to.

She watches as her dad claps him on the shoulder, says something that makes Bucky shake his head and grin, eyes down. It’s the kind of grin she only started seeing recently with others, with Steve and Sam from the beginning, and with her practically from the day they met — real, soft, unguarded. It blooms in his face like a small, rare flower and makes her breath catch a little.

“Looks like they’re bonding,” her mom says gently, arranging a plate with practiced hands.

Evie startles slightly, then smiles. “Yeah. They are.”

Her mom glances at her sidelong, a small smile of her own tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Haven’t seen your dad talk that much to anyone in months. Not since your cousin Henry Junior was here last Christmas.”

Evie leans on the counter, shoulders relaxing. “He’s good with him. With Bucky. I think they get each other.”

“Well, they’ve both seen some things, haven’t they?” her mom says softly, not prying, just observant in the way mothers often are. “Sometimes the quiet ones just need the right kind of quiet.”

Evie’s gaze drifts back outside. Bucky’s wiping his hands on a rag, head tilted toward her dad as he listens. He looks settled, like he belongs.

She swallows down the flutter in her chest. The part of her that still can’t believe he’s here — not just in her town, not just for a visit, but here, in the moments that make up a day. Helping her dad. Laughing in the garage. Eating pancakes in the morning with sleep in his eyes and his hand warm on her back.

Her mom pats her hand and says nothing more. She doesn’t have to.

Outside, the sound of tools quiets. A door creaks open. Footsteps on the porch. Bucky’s voice, calling out — “Need any help in there?”

Evie turns, meeting him in the doorway.

“No, but lunch is ready if you both want to come in,” she says. Bucky turns and goes back out to call in her dad.

Lunch is simple, but full — sandwiches stacked with fresh vegetables, thick slices of cheese, herbed chicken from the night before, and a jug of cold lemonade sweating on the table. The kitchen table’s a little cramped with the four of them squeezed in now that they’ve taken down the extra trestle tables from Christmas, elbows brushing, but no one seems to mind.

Charlie’s been at work, earning as much money as he can in the holiday season before college starts again in a few days’ time. He walks into the house not long after lunch is ready, his morning shift over, and plops himself down in the chair beside Evie, looking at the food with a ravenous expression.

Henry washes up quickly and sits down with a satisfied grunt, nodding at the spread. “Alright, ladies. You’ve outdone yourselves.”

Evie’s mom swats him with a napkin. “It’s sandwiches, Henry.”

“Yeah, and I’ve had worse dinners at weddings,” he replies, already reaching for one. “Remember, the Robertsons’ son’s wedding. We left halfway through to come home to eat and then went back to dance.”

Bucky chuckles, and Evie watches the way he eases into the chair beside her — cautious, still, like he’s not entirely used to being allowed to take up space like this. But then her dad slides him the plate of chicken without a word, and Bucky murmurs a soft “thanks,” and something in his shoulders relaxes.

Conversation flows easily. Evie’s mom tells a story about a broken-down tractor one of the neighbours swore was haunted when she ran into them at the store that morning, and Henry’s wheezing with laughter by the end of it.

Evie adds her own twist to the tale from the time she visited their house as a teenager — “No, but seriously, it did keep rolling forward after they turned it off, you can’t deny that, Dad” — and Bucky listens, quietly, smiling more often than he speaks.

“Yeah, and my motorbike will turn itself back on after years of the engine not turning over. If any vehicles haunted, it’s that bike. Still gotta get it going without it dyin’ on me.”

“I used to fix up bikes,” Bucky says, after a mention of Henry’s old motorcycle. “Back before the war. I could look at it for you.”

“You did?” Evie asks, quietly.

Bucky nods. “Worked at the ship yards, but did some work on weekends to earn extra cash. There was this one guy in the neighbourhood who’d ride his all the way out to the Hudson just to turn around and come back. Swore the wind was better that way.”

Henry leans in, curious. “You grew up in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding, lips quirking faintly. “Close enough to the docks to hear the cranes at night.”

Evie’s eyes flick to him, surprised — it’s the most he’s said about his past in front of anyone.

Henry seems to sense the weight in it too. He doesn’t push. Just says, “City boy learns the tools young. Unusual – usually city slickers just pay people to fix things for them.”

Bucky shrugs. “You get real good at making do when the hardware store’s a few pay checks out of reach. And during a worldwide economic recession.”

“I forget that,” Henry admits.

Bucky shrugs. “Sometimes, it’s like I do as well.”

“Wild times,” Evie offers.

“You’re like… really old,” Charlie tells him.

“Thanks, pal,” Bucky laughs.

“Don’t offend him,” Evie swats Charlie. “He’s a little sensitive about it.”

“No, I’m not,” Bucky argues. But he knows he is.

The talk shifts again — to weather, to garden beds, to the music Evie and Brooke played a few nights before at the New Years Dance— and Bucky starts to feel it more and more: this warmth, this hush of belonging. Not earned through war or work or sacrifice. Just offered. Freely.

Evie rests her hand on his knee under the table. Barely a touch, but he still glances at her, eyes meeting hers for a long moment. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

By mid-afternoon, Henry calls Evie out to the driveway, interrupting her time in the music studio he set up for her when she was a teen out back. The place still smells faintly of pine and dust, filled with old amps and notebooks. She pauses, her fingers on the strings, hearing the faint call of her name. She sets down her guitar and heads through to the porch, walking around the side of the house.

“Car’s a mess, sweetheart,” Henry says as she walks down the porch steps.

“I’ve been tellin’ her for months,” Bucky says.

“And yet you keep accepting the lifts,” she shoots back.

“Why do you still have this car?” Bucky asks.

“It’s Matilda,” Evie says, like he’s stupid. “And I need a car so I can come out here to see my fam. If I wasn’t driving out here, I’d just take the subway or a cab.”

“You could get a new car?” Bucky suggests.

“No way. Matilda still has many miles in her.”

Henry’s standing beside the old hatchback in the driveway, gesturing toward it like it personally offended him. The paint’s dull, the tires gone soft, and something under the hood’s been rattling for months now — a sound Evie’s learned to ignore with the radio turned up.

Bucky’s next to him, arms crossed, gaze on the car like it’s a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. “We can probably take care of that rattle under the dash,” he says, voice low and easy. The kind of voice he uses when he’s steadying her nerves. “Might as well look at the rest while we’re at it.”

Evie raises an eyebrow, amused. “I don’t want to put you out.”

Bucky shrugs, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he jokes. “Besides, I’ve got a reputation to maintain — guy with tools, mild charm, mysterious past.”

“Emphasis on mild,” she mutters, teasing.

He just smiles and gets to work.

The afternoon stretches out slow and golden. Evie goes back and gets her guitar, bringing it onto the rocking chair on the porch, and plays the strings lazily, testing out a new song lowly, singing under her breath, half-watching as Bucky and Henry dig into the guts of the old car. Bucky’s movements are methodical, sure. His hands are steady, coaxing the dashboard open with the kind of care most people save for broken clocks or bruised hearts. Henry hands him tools, occasionally muttering instructions, but more often just watching — quiet, a little impressed.

“Used to be I was the one fixing everything around here,” Henry says, almost to himself, as he holds up a wrench. “Now I’ve got a cyborg doing my chores.”

Bucky chuckles, taking it. “You still hold your own. I just have fewer human joints to complain about.”

By the time the sun starts dipping low, the car is humming again. Rattle gone, oil changed, a few screws and bolts tightened like new. Bucky wipes his hands on an old rag, smudges of grease on his forearms and a quiet satisfaction in his eyes.

“I wish she’d just get a new one,” Henry mutters, stepping back to eye the car. His voice is gruff, but his expression is all affection. “She’s stubborn. And broke.”

From the porch, Evie calls out, “I can hear you, Dad.”

“Good,” he says. “Maybe it’ll sink in this time.”

“I’ll try to talk her ‘round,” Bucky adds, glancing up toward her. His voice is even, but his gaze sharpens with something more serious. “She needs something safe. Reliable.”

Evie rolls her eyes, though there’s no real heat in it. “I’m not scrapping a car just because it’s a little rough around the edges.”

Bucky huffs, levelling her a look. He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, quietly, “When my army backpay clears, maybe I’ll just buy you a new one.” His voice is laced with a kind of understated promise.

She blinks. “Bucky, you don’t—”

“I know,” he says, cutting gently across her protest. “But I want to. You deserve better than ‘barely running.’ I want you to be safe.”

There’s a pause — thick, warm, weighted with more than just the words between them.

Evie swallows, her voice softer when it finally comes. “I appreciate it.”

Bucky gives her a small nod, like he’s saying, I know. Like it’s already decided.

Behind him, Henry smiles – a quiet kind of smile. Something warms in his chest.

After the tools are put away and the sun's dipped low enough to paint the porch in orange light, Evie finds Bucky rinsing off at the outdoor sink by the shed. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s still grease in the creases of his hands, a smudge along his jaw. He’s working hard at the plates of his metal arm, trying to work away the grease with a scourer. He’s frowning at it – stuff always gets stuck.

He looks up when he hears her steps on the gravel.

“You missed a spot,” she says, reaching up to gently wipe the grease from his cheek with the corner of her sleeve.

He just watches her, quiet, with a dopey smile on his face. “Thanks, doll.”

They stand there for a second, smiling at each other.

“I like how peaceful it is out here,” he says eventually, glancing toward the trees swaying at the edge of the yard. “Almost makes me forget.”

Evie leans against the edge of the sink beside him. “That’s the point,” she murmurs. “We all need somewhere that lets us breathe a little.”

Bucky nods slowly. “I don’t usually... stay. In one place, I mean. Even Wakanda was just a place to pass through in the end. Settling with the Avengers, with my Brooklyn apartment was all a first for me. It always felt safer to keep moving.”

“But you stayed,” she says, not a question — just a quiet observation.

He turns to look at her again. “Yeah. I did.”

The space between them fills with the sound of crickets, the faint rush of wind through grass. Neither one moves for a while.

Then Evie nudges him lightly with her shoulder. “Come on, Sarge,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“You’ve earned a beer and a slice of Mom’s lemon pie.”

He huffs a laugh. “That better be a real offer.”

She grins. “You’re lucky. She made it from scratch.”

They head back up the porch together, arms wrapped around one another. The kitchen windows glow like lanterns against the dark, and somewhere inside, Henry’s voice rumbles as he debates music with Evie’s mom. It smells like lemon zest and fried onions, like home.

And Bucky realises, with a quiet pang, that for the first time in a long time… he doesn’t feel like he’s passing through.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun filters through the kitchen window, casting warm, golden light across the countertops. Dust motes dance lazily in the air. Evie leans against the counter, arms loosely crossed, a smudge of old paint still clinging to her forearm from the day's work. Her mom hums as she moves around the kitchen, the scent of garlic and onions curling through the air like a memory. There’s a familiar rhythm to it all — the gentle clatter of utensils, the sizzle from the stovetop, the low murmur of conversation from the living room where her dad and sister are playing cards.

It feels like stepping back into a softer version of her life. One she didn’t realize she missed.

“You know,” Mary says, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing smile, “he’s a nice man, sweetheart.”

Evie smiles without thinking. It blooms easily, unexpectedly warm. “The best,” she says, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

Mary turns back to the pot, giving it a slow stir. “He looks at you like he’s found the thing he didn’t think existed anymore.”

Evie feels her breath hitch, just a little. She picks at the edge of the counter with her thumb. “He makes it feel easy,” she says. “Like... I don’t have to explain myself all the time. Like he already gets it.”

Mary looks over again, and this time there’s something quieter in her gaze — something protective, but proud.

“Do you love him?”

Evie doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

Mary crosses the kitchen and presses a hand gently to her daughter’s cheek, her thumb brushing the line of her jaw like she did when Evie was small and scared of thunderstorms. “Good,” she murmurs. “You deserve that.”

The words land deep, nestling into a part of Evie that still sometimes wonders if it’s okay to want things for herself. She swallows, blinking against the sting behind her eyes. Her mother’s hand falls away, but the warmth of it stays.

She glances toward the backyard, where Bucky is laughing at something her dad just said. His voice is low, relaxed, more at home here than she ever imagined he’d be.

Evie stands there for a moment, the weight of her mother’s words sinking in. It feels right, all of it — the way her heart tugs at the thought of Bucky, the way he’s so easily woven into her life, into the fabric of this town, this home. She knows she’s found something real, something she’s never quite had before.

And for once, the future feels like it’s not just a distant thought, but a tangible thing, just within reach.

Yeah. This feels like a beginning. One that might actually hold.

After dark, when the house has quieted and the world outside hums with a soft chorus of crickets, Evie slips through the hallway like a teenager again — heart racing, careful not to creak the floorboards. She pulls Bucky into her room by the hand, shutting the door behind them with a quiet click. She’s an adult, hasn’t been a teenager in a while, obviously, but there’s still something a little absurd about it — sneaking around in her parents’ house like she’s sixteen, like the boy in her room isn’t a man with more ghosts than years she’s been alive.

The room smells faintly of old wood, lavender, and something sweet he can’t quite name — maybe the perfume she wore in high school still clinging to the edges of memory.