#all that shit about intended meaning and signs and signifiers and mediums and messages and whatnot

[elftwink]

i do agree with the writing advice “write for yourself” and i personally am always self-indulgent in my writing before i am anything else— idk how i’d write anything if i didn’t indulge myself, since that is what storytelling is. but i do wish we put more weight on our audience; not pleasing them (again, you won’t please everyone and that’s just a fact of life, within writing and without it), but just.... knowing they’re there. stories don’t— can’t— exist in a vacuum. they’re inherently connective, social things, the way we are inherently social, connected beings. a story doesn’t Exist until you tell it to someone, really. before that it’s an idea or a plan, a thought train idling at a station. a draft. it’s a secret, even, if you’ve put in the work and made a novel that you only show to yourself. it becomes a story when it’s shared. 

and i think some of the best stories are the ones that know this. that are acutely aware that what is being written also has to be read— that aren’t assuming that you personally will like it or even finish it, but that know that someone, somewhere, is hearing it. do you know when you read a story and it knows you’re there? that understands, and makes you understand —maybe with a joke, or a wink and a nod, or a call to action, or a moral, or a direct address if the medium allows for it— that fiction is and always has been a two way street? that you, the reader, the watcher, the recipient, the listener, do not take a passive role in the storytelling process. stories that leave room for you, that include you in them.

there’s something incredibly powerful about stories like that. i am heard, therefore i am. i think in a way, most stories are like that. most stories want to be heard. but there’s a specific kind that knows it’s being heard instead of just wanting it, and that’s really something.

anyway write your stories down and show them to people. they don’t have to be, and they probably shouldn’t be, FOR those people. but the fact that they’re there is something you should let into your works, cause there’s no point in telling stories at all if no one gets to listen to them. 

[scribeofmorpheus]

Counterpart [4/5]

Pairing: Bucky x Reader x Framework!Steve

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Words: 5k

A/N: When Nat went underground, instead of dying her hair blonde like in IW, she dyed it black. I had fun with the idea of Nat and Pietro and Bucky forming this unconventional family of sorts, and I loved playing with the idea that Sam and Carol were old friends in the framework, though tbh, I don’t really know where her framework arc might lead. I will have to do a second pass proofread but anyway...

Note: There’s a Framework centric spin-off in the WIP tank!

Warnings: This chapter contains depictions and mentions of alcoholism, language, violence, etc. It’s a dark series, expect a darker take.

CHAPTER FOUR: TWO HALVES

~Canada, The Refuge

The sound of birds chirping outside his window stirred him from his slumber. Bucky was still groggy from sleep, rubbing the remnants of unconsciousness from his eyes with the pads of his flesh fingers. He yawned awake, sitting up from under the covers of the double bed. Glancing at the clock, he noted it was 6 am.

"72 hours," he reminded himself as got up from the bed and walked to the closet, a watch materialising on his wrist, a timer counting down.

"Thanks, Friday," he looked to the ceiling.

There was no reply. Only the sound of wind rustling through the blinds.

While digging through the closet, he was surprised to find several women's clothes hanging next to his. Choosing to ignore that red flag, he reached for a long-sleeved shirt on the rack and noticed his metal arm was a different colour than the usual chrome-blue and gold. This one was red, white and blue.

Cap's colours, he internally pointed out.

A canary emblem in place of the Russian star he had once sported.

"What the?" He glanced at the etched bird using the door fitted mirror beside him. When his eyes looked up to inspect his face, he was greeted by a head of short hair, shaven at the sides. He would have looked military if not for his medium length stubble. He ran a hand through his spikey hair, the brush of it against the metal feeling unfamiliar, "Is this pomade?"

As soon as his hand fell from the trailed paths his fingers had parted through his styled hair, a woman's voice spoke out dotingly, "Morning, Soldat."

The woman's Russian accent was faded but present, she sounded almost like...

"Nat?" Bucky swung around.

She tilted her head to the side. Her hair was longer, darker, a charcoal blackness that absorbed the light. Her face marked by an imposing lateral scar running across the length it, partially healed like a botched brazing job. She looked different but it was indeed her.

"Nat?" She laughed awkwardly. "Not Talia?" She shrugged as she walked over. "Semantics." Her gaze running across his exposed chest with shameless desire.

"Ugh, Nat- Talia, what are you?" Bucky tried to use the closet door to hide his body.

Natasha laughed again as though he were being silly, "You're acting weird this morning. When you're done being all modest, come down to the kitchen so we can start making breakfast for the kids."

Bucky's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets, "Kids?"

It was then that he noticed the couple’s photo of him and Nat on the nightstand, coupled with Nat's flirty behaviour, the double bed and the shared closet, everything finally made sense. And now his stomach was doing summersaults.

"Kids?" Bucky said again as he stared at Natasha with his mouth agape. "Nat… Uhh, Talia."

"You can call me Nat if it's suddenly easier for you, liybimaya."

Bucky's neck reclined back as if those words had slapped him, "My love...?"

"Yes?"

"What is- Never mind… Um, do you know how to get in contact with Shield?"

"James, I thought we agreed to let that go. We have enough responsibilities with the kids as it is." Natasha pointed to the portrait style picture hung up on the wall.

Bucky peered at the sixteen by twenty inch photograph. In the forefront was a group of kids of all shapes and sizes, seated on two rows of benches, wearing clashing colours and sporting wide grins as they looked out at the camera. Natasha, Pietro, Bucky and a scary, muscly woman stood behind them. Pietro had thrown up an 'L' sign behind the other Bucky's face, his cheek lines prominent in an obvious laughing position while Natasha had pressed her face between two young children, one of them sticking out their tongue playfully.

Underneath the portrait was an engraving on a brass plate: Second Chance, Home for the Displaced Children of Sokovia, 2017.

"Oh, those kids," Bucky sighed inaudibly, relief hitting him like a wave of ice-water. When he turned back to answer the raven-haired woman blinking rapidly his way, he almost felt sorry for her. Even if she wasn't real to him, she was very much real in her own right, and this very real person had just lost the man she shared a life with. What was worse was that she didn't realise it yet.

"Right, of course, how silly of me to forget about that." Bucky's lips wound up in a corkscrew motion as he pulled his shirt over his head. "Okay, then do you know how to get in contact with Fury?"

"What is a 'Fury'?"

Bucky's eyes rolled in the back of his head, "A figment of my imagination apparently. How about Sam Wilson?"

"Sam… Wilson?" Her lips upturned in a half-moon. "Is he someone from your Shield days? The name is familiar…"

"Uhh, yeah, something like that."

Natasha frowned, "What's really going on with you? You're acting strange this morning. This isn't because of the news last night is it?"

"News?"

"That Hydra captured the Iron-Maiden?” Natasha patted his chest. “Pepper is stubborn, she won't talk, you can relax. We're safe as houses as long as we stay across the border." She left the bedroom as Bucky pulled on his jeans.

Jogging after her, he spotted another framed photograph of a younger version of him shaking hands with someone who looked presidential hanging on the Livingroom walls.

"Hurry up Soldat, these potatoes won't peel themselves."

"I'll be right there Na- Talia!" Bucky searched the large living space for a computer or electronic device, he needed to get familiar with this world before he could make any efforts to find Y/N.

After he had moved some couch cushions and disorganised several drawers, Natasha came back into the room, peeling knife in hand.

"James? What are you looking for?"

"The… remote?" His voice went squeaky. “I wanted to check the news updates.”

Natasha brushed the edges of her fringe away from her eyes as she blinked rapidly again, "James the kids lost that days ago. We sent Pietro to buy a new one while on his supply run." She peered at him, folding her arms defensively. "Are you sure everything is fine?"

Bucky exhaled, moving closer to Natasha so he could look her earnestly in the eye, "No, it's not."

Her mouth fell, "What's the matter, liybimaya?"

Bucky glowered briefly, "A friend of mine is in danger, a Shield agent. I need to help her before it's too late, but to do that I need to find her. Sam Wilson was… her contact. If I find him, I can find her."

"You've never mentioned this before..." Natasha rubbed his metal arm with her free hand. "The tablet is in the bedroom, you can search about your friend."

"Thank you!" Bucky buzzed with energy, teetering in front of Natasha indecisively, unsure of what their dynamic was. He settled for kissing her on the forehead, awkwardly.

"You're… welcome…?" She watched him jog back into their shared bedroom, her fingers spinning the peeling knife with great skill.

Bucky fished out the tablet, dismayed to find it password protected, "Shit!" He leaned his head in his hand as he thought of possible password combinations. "Okay, let's try my birthday."

The screen remained locked, a message notifying him he had two more chances.

"Damn it! If I'm with Shield in this universe, maybe I just got the format wrong..."

Bucky typed his birthday in the American format.

The screen was still locked.

"It can't be Y/N's birthday because this world's Bucky probably never met her…" Bucky drummed his fingers against his temple, his eyes widening when he punched in another set of numbers.

The screen unlocked.

"Curious..." Bucky thought out loud before opening up a search engine.

When he searched for the name: Y/N Y/L/N, he was perplexed when nothing came up, instead, there was a small 'i' icon at the edge of the screen that suggested: "Did you mean Y/N Rogers?"

Bucky pressed his lips into a white slash, his neck turning stiff as his finger hesitated above the red highlighted words. After taking a moment to gather himself, Bucky's metal finger tapped on the link swiftly, the metal colliding with the glass harder than he intended.

A news headline popped up and Bucky read the words, keeping pace with the speed of the scrolling script, "Android Ensures New Yorkers Sleep Safer. Hydra's top of the line security android, Spectre, successfully apprehended and pacified the Iron Maiden's (Virginia 'Pepper' Potts) terrorist cell with record low losses. Steve Rogers and his team (comprising of veteran Hydra officers Clint Barton and Y/N Rogers) were present at the sight, providing ground support and med-evac assistance. This signifies a new milestone in overseeing Director Alexander Pierce's vision for a safer, brighter world under Hydra's protective governance.”

Bucky's molars strained from the stress of his compressed jaw, memories of Alexander Pierce and the mind splitting brain-washing sessions made his blood boil. Shaking his head, which felt odd considering his hair didn't sway into his eyes, Bucky continued scrolling through other articles.

"Power couple of the century?" he retorted sarcastically as the picture of Steve and Y/N dressed in wedding attire mocked him. Their happy faces a punch to the gut. How could he feel jealous, angry and mournful at both his best friend and his girlfriend all at once?

Bucky's metal arm propelled the tablet like a boomerang at the wall, only it never reached it.

"I leave for two days and you return to your old brooding self, smashing furniture like we can afford it?" Pietro tossed the tablet in the air with a boyish grin on his face. "Come, friend, you better not let Talia see those tight eyebrows, huh." He flashed over to the dresser and back, tablet no longer in his hand as he patted Bucky on the back. "We can't keep reminding you that it's not your fault Steve was awoken by the tentacle crazies. What could you do, huh? You were a popsicle stick for almost a hundred years. A hundred years!"

Bucky felt his anger lose its hold on him, for a moment he had forgotten everything he was feeling and seeing wasn't real. Somehow having Pietro sit beside him, treating him like a friend, made that all clear again because Bucky had never met Pietro, he had only ever seen pictures of him hanging in Wanda's room, his very presence was the stark jolt of surrealism he needed to remind himself of why he was here.

"You're right," Bucky said as he rose from the bed and retrieved the tablet.

"Oh, hey, hey, hey now," Pietro held his palms up at Bucky. "You aren't planning to-" he made a throwing gesture at the wall.

Bucky's cheek lifted up as he returned a calming half-smile, "Don't worry, I'm not going to throw anymore furniture."

Pietro let out a shaky laugh, hands placed on his hips as his cheeks inflated from a deep exhale, "Good, because I broke the other one and we don't want to see Talia get mad again."

"Err, right. That would be…" Bucky pressed the 'e' at the end of his sentence as Pietro looked on with buggy eyes. "…Bad?"

Pietro nodded in agreement.

"Oh, did you remember to get the replacement remote?" Bucky asked as he typed in Sam's name into the search engine.

Pietro smacked his thigh with the underside of his hand, "I knew I forgot something. Don't tell Talia I was here, I'll go pick it up right now."

Pietro flashed out of the space in a fraction of a second, residual wind from his velocity drying out Bucky's eyeballs.

"Jesus," Bucky whispered when he read the information packet on Sam.

 ~Sam's Homestead, Missouri

Sam was rudely awoken by his loud alarm clock that sounded more like a fire alarm than a soothing melody. He smashed the digital clock as he fumbled with his sheets. His breath tasted of something foul, like stagnant bile, and his head pounded like a marching band had just traipsed across his synapses, a throbbing sensation pulsing at his temples.

When his eyes finally opened he was horrified by the disastrous state of his avatar's home. Clothes were piled on the floor, blinds shut, several cans and bottles littering the space, filling the air with a stale rancid smell of sweat, malt and sick.

He glanced down at his vest and noticed the vomit stains, "Jesus Christ."

Sam groaned as he motioned to sit up from the bed. However, with his balance out of whack, he tumbled onto the floor, face-first into a pile of unwashed slacks that made him retch.

"What the fuck?" He looked down at his feet and noticed he only had the one leg. The other was amputated at the knee leaving behind a mangled scar and a phantom pain that his conscious mind refused to reconcile since the real version of him still had control of both his legs, submerged in a tank underwater. "I didn't see this comin’."

Sam rolled his eyes as he hoisted himself back onto the bed and looked around for a pair of crutches, reaching under the bed instinctively, he was pleasantly amazed to find them there. "Let’s try this again."

He picked himself up on one leg, hobbling about on his crutches that got tangled with all the clutter on his way out of the room.

"Hello?" Sam called out into the dusty, humid house but there was no reply, only dead silence and the grinding of a fan in need of oiling. "Man, this is turning out to be one hell of a bad day."

A stopwatch manifested on his wrist, the hours counting down. Sam pulled his head back, eyes searching for some kind of sign in place of the water-stained ceiling, "Friday, I need to get in touch with Bucky, know how I can do that?"

Silence.

"Yeah, figures."

When he got to the kitchen he saw a note scribbled on a piece of stationery: 'There's some clean laundry in the dryer. I restocked your fridge. Remember: one day at a time. S.'

"S? Who the hell is S?" He complained, turning on his three legs to get a feel for the room. A wistful sigh filling the emptiness.

A gurgling noise rumbled from his stomach, the headache that most likely succeeded his avatar's heavy night of drinking was undoubtedly the cause. Sam tried to clear his throat and rid the taste of fermented wheat from his tongue and teeth, but it didn't help much, It only made him realise how desperate he was for a good shower and a bottle of mouthwash.

He set the rusty coffee pot to brew, deciding the metal tang it would adopt would only be a trick of the senses and hopefully not carry any lasting side effects. He cracked open a window, letting the smell of conifers and rain unclog his sinuses. He then clomped his way down to the bathroom and ran himself a bath after he figured showering would be more of a challenge given his new-old condition.

It bothered him more that he could still feel his leg. It was so surreal to look down and see it gone every time. The irritation digging into his under-arms from the crutches was a psychological reminder of the harsh reality he was about to be subjected to in this world.

After brushing his teeth and changing into new clothes, which required some tactful manoeuvring, Sam looked around for any electronic device that connected to the internet.

"Bingo!" He cheered as he saw a tablet stuffed between two couch cushions. There was no password protection on the device. "Gee, I guess I got nothin' to hide huh? Well if that's the case..." Sam typed his name into the search engine and regretted it immediately after he read the first few headlines: 'Reckless Pilot Destroys Multi-Million Dollar Flight Suit; Drunk, Dishonourably Discharged; Sam Wilson's Vet Clinic Foreclosure; Disgraced Pilot Flees to the Hills.'

"Well, this is depressing," Sam threw the tablet on the couch, opting to switch on the news channel instead. As he rifled through the strange house, the news reporter filled him in on whatever passed for news in this new, frightening world.

"Eyewitnesses report of seeing a strange blue and white streak making its way across Europe earlier this week. Hydra enforcements remind all citizens to call the subservient prevention hotline if they see any person or persons acting suspiciously," the reporter said.

Sam guffawed as he flipped through old photo albums, "Oh yeah, scare the little guy into giving up his neighbour… real patriotic."

"In other news, Hydra's defence android, dubbed Spectre by the head office, has successfully led a charge to apprehend and pacify the Iron Maiden's terrorist cell earlier this week. Citizens of New York can sleep safer knowing that this menace has been brought to justice and is expected to fill out her life sentence behind bars at the Hydra supermax prison."

Withholding the urge to spit, Sam clamped down on his crutches and stomped to the kitchen to grab that cup of coffee.

The reporter continued her deep-dive, "And now, politics. Hell's Kitchen boasts another prosperous year under the leadership of Mayor Fisk. Following recent events concerning the escape of the Punisher, former military specials unit Captain Billy Russo, local citizens have demonstrated their support for the mayor's proposed anti-vigilante task force by taking to the streets in protest against the rising number of subservients. Opposing mayoral candidate, Congressman Murdock, warns voters to not be so hasty with their vote as he fears the new proposed task force may cause an increase in police unemployment rates."

Sam switched the TV off, his frustration causing him to toss the remote callously onto the couch, where it bounced and smashed onto the floor, batteries popping out of the casing and rolling under the couch.

Not without difficulty, Sam got on his one knee, his stump waving in the air without a place to perch, and extended his arm under the sofa, patting down to try and feel for the cylindrical batteries. An odd film textured object slid across his calloused pads as he patted down on the floorboards.

With an interested drone, Sam fished out the glossy paper and fell back on his ass so he could observe it properly. It was a photograph of him with someone who looked like an aged Carol Danvers. She was wearing a green flight suit, hiding her crow’s-feet behind blue-tinted aviators. Standing beside her was a grey-haired Peggy Carter in a wheelchair held in place by Sharon – sunlight flares blurring her smile. The air force logo was stuck to the side of a jet in the background, his old nickname 'Snap Wilson' spray-painted on it.

Sam Flipped the photograph around to skim read the fine, cursive inscription: ‘Congrats on moving up, Snap. You'll be missed by the grunts at the bottom. Leave some target practice for us. And remember: one day at a time. C & S.’

"Well, I'll be damned. Hello, S..." Sam's nail scratched at a smudge on the corner of the photograph, it looked almost like a watermark stamp of the letter L. "What is--"

A shrill ringing sound came from his landline. He swivelled his head from side to side trying to spot the annoying thing. It was hiding under a stack of old newspapers that needed to be put in the recycling.

"He- Shit!" He almost tumbled on one leg. "Hello?"

"Sam? It's Bucky..."

***

Bucky shoved whatever useful supplies he could find lying about into a small backpack before slinging it over his shoulders and clipping it at the front of his chest -an old habit as it were.

Natasha walked in on him circling blind spots on a map with a marker, his face conveying devastation as if she'd just caught him in bed with another woman.

When Bucky didn't say anything, Natasha pointed to the training equipment peeking out from under her bed –their bed. "Training sessions. I forgot my knee pads." She picked them up, dusting them down. "You're leaving, aren't you?" Her tone was sad yet insightful.

Bucky was growing increasingly agitated as the seconds continued to count down on his watch, "I need to head over there!"

"James, stop! Last time you were on Hydra's radar that damned psychopath tore your arm off!"

He folded the map into his back pocket, "Stark?"

She threw her hands in the air, "No, Stark is the only reason you were fitted with a replacement! I'm talking about that monster that Hydra fished out of the ocean."

"Steve?" His tone went dark.

"Did you hit your head when you were chopping firewood yesterday? Yes, Steve. Of course, Steve!" Natasha smacked the side of his head with the knee pads.

Bucky strode past her, "You don't have to shout."

"Then stop acting like you were born yesterday!"

One of the foster kids witnessed their shouting and was ushered into another room by a worried-looking Pietro. Natasha swore in Russian before slamming their bedroom door shut, trapping Bucky inside with her.

He took her hands in his, "Look, I know I don't seem myself, but I have to get to New York. It's important. There's someone I swore to protect, no matter what and she's in danger now. I know you still care about the world, Na- Talia. These kids you're helping are evidence enough. Help me do this one thing and I promise everything will go back to normal."

Natasha sighed, "I haven't seen that look in your eye in a long time. Whoever it is must be important."

"More than you know."

"Where is she... your friend?"

"With Hydra. In New York."

"A prisoner?"

"Of sorts."

"New York huh?" Her eyes steeled with venomous conviction, her fingers twitching around the air between her fingertips and her scar. "I can think of a reason or two to tag along."

"No, I can't ask you to come with me, it's too dangerous, and the kids need you."

"You need me, liybimaya. It's like I told you all those years ago, the only thing powerful enough to separate us is death…" Her hand fell on his jaw, eyes searching his for something he couldn't give. "And even then, it wouldn't be enough."

Bucky sighed, finding himself instinctively leaning into her touch, "Okay, you win. But we have to stop somewhere first."

"Dge, Soldat?" her Russian trickled out.

"Missouri."

 ***

Knock. Knock. Knock

"I'm goin' as fast as I can, god damn!" Sam chewed his bottom lip as he clomped his way to the door.

Just as he was about to twist the doorknob, the door burst open and a supersonic boom shook the keys on the wall. A blue and silver streak whizzed past Sam's peripheral. Turning, he was pleasantly surprised to find Pietro eating a packet of crisps that he stole from the kitchen cupboard, feet kicked up as he surfed the channels. “Damn, that’s one fast kid. Like a friggin’ silver bullet.”

"Forgive him," Natasha urged. "Our TV hasn't been functional beyond the weather channel for days, he's forgotten his manners." She extended her hand, "Name's Natalia Romanova."

“Nat…” Sam's mouth remained open for a moment too long and her eyebrows rose up. Gathering his jaw off the ground, he clasped her hand with a loud smacking sound before nearly barking out his reply through a wide grin, "Sam Wilson. Pleasure to meet you."

"Samuel Wilson! I knew that name was familiar. You’re the pilot who crashed the prototype--" Natasha stopped herself mid-sentence.

Sam shrugged, "The very same apparently." He moved to the side to let her in.

Once in the kitchen, he noticed Bucky hadn't stopped staring at his leg, or rather the absence of it. "Take a picture, it'll last longer." He glowered. "If you thought your day was weird, mine was definitely worse."

"I can see that," Bucky cocked his head to the side.

“Coffee? I’m pretty sure it’ll give you tetanus from the rust but…”

“No, thanks.”

 Bucky laid out the map from earlier on the kitchen table, his mind obsessing over his attack plan. Sam kept leaning over every now and again to catch a glimpse of Natasha and Pietro looking very much alive and real in the next room.

Curiosity got the better of him, "What's up with you and Nat?" 

"It's Talia over here," Bucky's eyes remained glued to the blueprints. "And apparently we're together and I go by James."

"No shit?" Sam's tone took on a higher pitch, hands tucked under his pits. "I'm an alcoholic who lost a leg and you get paired up with Nat. Yeah, that's very fair," he grumbled sarcastically.

"Sam..."

"I know, I know, I'm focusing on the wrong thing. It's just I'm a little mad is all."

Bucky stopped hunkering over the table as he looked at Natasha and Pietro with an almost-longing stare, "It's weird, you know. The other Bucky has this full life here. He smiles in all his photographs, he wasn't brainwashed by Hydra. Hell, he's even raising kids with Talia and is like an older brother to Pietro. Despite how fucked up things are over here, his life seems fuller. He seems… better."

Bucky shook the thoughts from his head, dropping the permanent marker on the table, watching it roll without making an effort to stop it.

"Speak for yourself," Sam told him off. "This side's Sam is a mess. I practically woke up in my own vomit this morning."

"Jesus," was all Bucky gave him.

"Hang on, did you say you and Nat are raising kids together?"

"Mmm-hmm. We run a kids shelter in Canada. I train them in self-defence on Wednesdays and Fridays, and History and English every other weekday."

Sam laughed, using his crutch to poke Bucky's side, "Well, shit. Look at you. Mr Professor Barnes."

Pietro's pure laughter rippled out from the other room as he watched cartoons going about their usual tomfoolery. Something kept gnawing at Bucky's stomach, making him feel uneasy.

Sam scratched his cheek, "You alright there, Tin-can?"

"During the car ride over here, Talia kept reminiscing about our third year anniversary and how we spend a week on a luxury cruise aboard a blip –for some reason, they're the more acceptable form of travel here."

"I mean, it's not such a bad idea. Reduced carbon emissions-"

"That's what you're focusing on? Blips are filled with hydrogen. They explode!"

"Excuse me for finding a bright side in all this. In case you hadn't noticed, there's not much of that going around." Sam tapped on his leg, his eyes narrowing at Bucky.

“Christ on a cracker, must I spell it out?”

“Spell what out?”

“Three-year-anniversary,” Bucky waited for Sam to catch on.

“Oh Shit! Did you two…” He walked closer to Bucky to whisper-hum the wedding march.

Bucky groaned, “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not exactly the easiest thing to bring up in polite conversation, besides she already suspects something is off with me… him… us? Whatever, you know what I mean.”

Sam chuckled, “Huh… that’s kinda ironic. You spent so long being afraid to propose to the girl you love, even though you have everything –security, shelter –and yet somehow, the guy with more to lose, is the one who was least afraid of being with the woman he loved.” He said, glancing over at Natasha.

As if on cue, the dark haired woman rose from the couch, a piqued expression taking over her features. “Okay, James. Enough with the whispering and the side-ways glances. I think I’ve given you two enough time to catch up. Now… what’s the plan?”

“Well…” Bucky tapped his metal finger on the red circled dot and delved into the details of his rescue plans.

“That won’t work,” Natasha said bluntly once he was done. “The only way you get into Hydra alive is if they bring you in.”

“Are you suggesting…?” Sam’s eyes widened.

“Yup.”

Pietro whooshed in from the couch, licking the crumbs from his fingers. “If we’re going after Hydra, we’ll need backup.”

“I agree,” Natasha replied as she pulled out her phone to dial a number.

“I don’t think the bol'shaya zhenshchina will be enough. I have a favour I can call in. Don’t wait for me.” Pietro added before zooming out of the house.

 ~Hydra HQ, NY

You marched into the interrogation room, the sound of muffled steel punches landing on a human jaw made you flinch. The doors opened automatically and a large molar flew across the room, knocked loose from the mystery man’s mouth. He laughed, staring down his interrogator with such conviction it made your skin erupt in goosebumps.

“Leave us,” you told the man wearing the knuckle duster.

He nodded curtly before spitting, “Terrorist scum!”

You dragged over a chair and sat on it, arms resting on the back support. “So, they tell me you got caught trying to cross the border patrols. Not very smart.”

“Oh, I don’t know, as plans go…” the man lifted his head so his striking blue eyes pierced through you, a satisfied smirk ghosting over his lips when he noticed you physically shudder. “It wasn’t so bad. After all, it brought me to you, didn’t it?”

Instantly, a migraine hammered against your cranium with the highest intensity yet, something about his presence, his voice, his eyes, undid every fibre of your being until all you felt was nausea bubbling up to the surface. You gripped the chair to steady yourself but the longer he stared at you, the worse everything got. You felt like you were being torn apart at the seams. In desperation, you hurried out of the room and raced towards a potted plant so you could relieve your stomach of its contents –though there wasn’t much left to throw up.

“Babe, are you alright?” Steve’s hand rubbed at your back as he kneeled next to you.

You huffed lifelessly, wiping the residue of puke from your mouth with your sleeve. Your chin quivered violently forcing your teeth to chatter. The sickly miasma of ozone clung to your nostrils as ghosts from another life encroached around you, and visible only to you from the fact that Steve wasn’t distressed in the least to see a very alive and well Wanda Maximoff laughing by a window -sunlight like fire on her red hair. Through the windows reflective surface, you saw him again, the ghost from the apartment and suddenly, you understood why the man in the interrogation room had shaken you to your core. It was him… the ghost, only he wasn’t a figment of your imagination. He was real too.

You grabbed onto Steve’s arms like they were the only thing keeping you from downing. “I think I’m losing my mind…”

Chapter Four: The Choice

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