Chapter Text
She stirred to the weight of a hand on her waist, the slow rise and fall of a steady chest against her back. Warm breath caressed the curve of her neck, each exhale sending tiny shivers across her skin like whispered promises. She smiled without opening her eyes, her body instinctively melting into the familiar embrace.
She shifted slightly beneath the arm wrapped around her middle, recognizing immediately the cool press of metal fingers against her hip bone.
"'Mornin'," she mumbled, her voice rough and honeyed with sleep. The comforting scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him filled her senses, wrapping around her like a security blanket she never wanted to lose.
There was no response, but she didn't mind. He was always quiet in the mornings when he stayed. Slow to surface from whatever dreams haunted him, content to lie there with her tangled up in his arms as if she were the only anchor keeping him tethered to the present moment.
Her hand reached back blindly to touch him, expecting the soft brush of worn cotton and warm skin. Instead, her fingers met nothing but cold, empty sheets.
Her eyes snapped open and reality crashed back into her like ice water.
She flipped over slowly in her tangled bedding, her heart already sinking even as she held onto the last threads of hope. The right side of her bed was empty, untouched except for a pillow she must have flung over there during the night in her restless sleep. No indent in the mattress. No lingering warmth. No one to be found.
She was alone. Her bedroom in Avengers Tower stretched out around her in the early morning darkness—silent, sterile, untouched by the warmth of the dream that had felt so achingly real. The same dream she'd had far too many times in the past seventeen months. Nobody pressed against her back. No metal arm curled protectively around her waist. Just the distant hum of New York City awakening forty floors below and the accusatory blinking light of her phone on the nightstand.
She swallowed thickly, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead as she sat up slowly, trying to push away the phantom sensation of his touch that still seemed to linger on her skin. The sheets were twisted around her legs like restraints, damp with perspiration, her pulse still racing from the ghost of something that had never been real—at least, not anymore.
God, she hated that fucking dream.
It had been over a year. Seventeen months and twelve days, to be exact—not that she was counting—since Bucky had disappeared. Since he'd left her bleeding in that hospital for Steve to collect, vanishing into the wind like smoke before she'd even regained consciousness. No goodbye except for a note written in his careful handwriting that Steve had found. A note she still hadn't found the strength to throw away, hidden now in the bottom drawer of her dresser like a splinter she couldn't quite dig out.
And still, despite what she told the team—that she rarely thought about him anymore, that she was moving on, that she was fine—he haunted her dreams with relentless persistence.
With a shaky sigh, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing at her tired eyes with the backs of her hands. Somewhere down the hall, she could hear Sam's familiar laughter echo faintly through the steel corridors, followed by Steve's voice—low and serious, probably already on a morning call with someone important. The sounds of life continuing around her, of her found family starting another day, while she remained stuck in this endless loop of grief.
This was her life now. Tower walls instead of green horizons. Shared breakfasts with superheroes instead of with a former brainwashed assassin. Missions that kept her busy and bruised, surrounded by people with abilities she could never match.
Everyone thought she was doing fine. She'd become an expert at wearing the right expression, at deflecting concern with self-deprecating humor and practiced smiles.
Only Steve and Natasha knew she was lying through her teeth.
The Widow had an uncanny knack for sensing when someone wasn't being entirely truthful—probably came with the territory of being a former spy—and Steve... well, he'd found her sitting on her balcony too many times at three in the morning, staring blankly out at the city skyline, lost in memories of a man who'd walked away from everything they'd built together.
The team had welcomed her without hesitation when Steve brought her back from that godforsaken hospital in West Virginia, her body broken and her spirit even more so.
They'd given her space to heal, included her without question, made room for her in their strange little family. She trained with Natasha almost daily when the redhead wasn't off on classified missions, spending hours on the mats learning to channel her pain into something useful. She'd shared more drinks and half-sincere attempts to unwind with Sam than she could count, his easy humor a balm she hadn't realized she'd needed. Even Tony had grown on her…eventually. Once she'd gotten past the ego, the constant quips, and the genius-billionaire bravado, she'd seen what Pepper had probably recognized all along: a man with a heart bigger than his sarcasm, someone who'd gathered this fractured group of people and somehow made them into something that resembled a family.
And Steve... Steve had become something like a brother. Protective in that quiet way of his, always watching her with barely concealed worry. Maybe it was guilt over what had happened to her. Maybe it was the thread that tied them both to Bucky, this shared love for a man who'd chosen his own guilt over their devotion. Either way, Steve was always there—checking in without being obvious about it, showing up with coffee when she looked particularly exhausted, watching her with that careful kind of concern he never spoke aloud.
They were both grieving, after all. He'd lost someone too. A woman from his own time, long gone, a love story interrupted by ice and time and circumstances beyond anyone's control. She supposed that kind of bone-deep pain made you recognize it in someone else, like a secret language only the heartbroken could speak.
But none of it—not the training, not the missions, not the friendship and found family—could fill the space Bucky had carved out inside her chest before abandoning her to figure out how to exist with the hollow. No matter how hard she tried to push it down, to convince herself she was healing, every morning she woke up reaching for a ghost.
She tugged a worn sweatshirt over her head, her fingers automatically brushing against the chain that never left her neck. Bucky's dog tags. Well, the ones he'd had made specifically for her, with her name etched into the metal in his careful handwriting—rested against her sternum beneath the fabric. The cool metal had become as familiar as her own heartbeat, a weight she'd grown so accustomed to that she felt naked without it. She wore them like armor now, hidden beneath her clothes where no one could see. A reminder of what she'd had, maybe. Or just a wound she wasn't ready to let scar over.
She pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail and tried to shake the lingering wisps of sleep and dreams from her mind as she made her way out of her room. The halls of the Tower were already coming alive with the sounds of morning — FRIDAY's gentle announcements, the distant whir of the coffee machine, footsteps echoing off polished floors. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Everything she had wanted with Bucky, even if he hadn't been brave enough to stay and be part of it.
The communal kitchen was already buzzing by the time she stepped into it, drawn by the scent of fresh coffee and something that smelled suspiciously like Sam's attempt at gourmet pancakes. The man in question sat perched on the marble counter like he owned the place, casually munching on a banana while gesticulating wildly with his free hand. Steve stood by the industrial-grade coffee machine with his arms crossed, his blonde hair still mussed from sleep, listening to whatever animated story Sam was mid-telling with that fond, exasperated expression he got when dealing with their resident smartass.
When she entered, Sam's eyes immediately lit up with mischievous delight, his grin widening as he took in her rumpled appearance.
"Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty herself," he said, his voice warm with affectionate teasing. "Dream about me again? I know I'm irresistible, but you gotta give other guys a chance."
She snorted, grateful for the familiar banter that helped push away the lingering shadows of her nightmare. "Only if I'm having a nightmare, Wilson."
"Ouch." Sam clutched his chest dramatically, his face a mask of mock devastation. "Right in the heart. You wound me, GI Jane. Here I am, being charming and devastatingly handsome at—" he glanced at his watch "—seven-forty-three in the morning, and this is the thanks I get?"
"Don't be too hurt," she replied, unable to suppress a genuine smile as she grabbed her favorite mug from the cabinet. "You're still cute when you pout. Like a sad puppy."
Steve made a face somewhere between amusement and exasperation, pouring his coffee with the kind of precision someone with enhanced senses would have. "Please don't encourage him. His ego is already insufferable."
"I live for female encouragement," Sam declared smugly, eyeing her over the rim of his steaming mug. "Especially from the most beautiful woman I know. Did I mention you look particularly radiant this morning? That whole 'just rolled out of bed' look really works for you."
She rolled her eyes with a smirk. Sam had known from day one that he didn't have a chance with her, but that had never stopped him from laying the charm on thick. She'd spent years stationed with mostly men in various desert outposts; a little harmless flirting was not only familiar territory, it was almost comforting on mornings like this when she felt particularly fragile. She smirked and bumped her shoulder against Steve's arm in a gesture that had become as natural as breathing.
"Does he always turn the charm up this early in the morning?"
"Only when you're around," Steve replied dryly, not even looking up from his methodical coffee preparation. But she caught the slight upturn of his lips that suggested he was more amused than annoyed. "He's been awake for exactly nineteen minutes and you're already his third compliment recipient."
"Who were the other two?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"FRIDAY and his own reflection in the elevator doors," Steve deadpanned.
"Hey, FRIDAY appreciated it," Sam protested, pointing his banana at Steve accusingly. "She even said 'thank you, Mr. Wilson' in that sexy British accent of hers. And my reflection always looks good, that's just facts."
"You're ridiculous," she laughed, the sound surprising her with its genuine warmth.
"You jealous, Cap?" Sam wiggled his eyebrows at Steve, clearly enjoying himself. "I could throw some compliments your way if you're feeling left out. Those pajamas are really working for you, man. Very... patriotic."
Steve shot him a look that was equal parts protective older brother and exasperated father figure — an expression she'd seen him perfect over the months of dealing with
Sam's particular brand of chaos — just as Natasha glided into the kitchen looking impossibly put-together for not yet eight in the morning. Her red hair was pulled back in a perfect ponytail and her green eyes were already sharp and alert as they danced between the three of them.
"God, you're all loud," she muttered, heading straight for the coffee machine with the single-minded determination of someone who hadn't had nearly enough caffeine yet. "Some of us were trying to enjoy a peaceful morning meditation before training."
Sam's grin widened impossibly. "Let me guess…meditation while hanging upside down from the roof, simultaneously doing target practice with throwing knives?"
"Close," Natasha replied, taking a long, deliberate sip of her coffee and sighing in satisfaction. "Yoga on the roof while reviewing three different assassination scenarios. One of them might be yours if you don't stop talking before I've finished my first cup."
"Use your legs for that one," Sam winked at her, completely unperturbed by the threat. "I hear they're your best weapon."
"They are," Natasha agreed pleasantly, and something in her tone made Sam's grin falter slightly. She just rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched with barely suppressed amusement.
Natasha's sharp gaze found her over the rim of her mug, and she knew immediately that the redhead was cataloging everything—the dark circles that had become a permanent fixture under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands that always lingered after the dreams, the way she held herself just a little too carefully, like she was afraid of falling apart. Natasha missed nothing. It was infuriating and comforting in equal measure.
"Sleep okay?" Natasha asked, her tone casual but her eyes intent.
The question was innocent enough, but she could hear the layers beneath it. Did you have the dream again? Are you still letting a ghost dictate your rest? How long are you going to keep pretending you're healing when we can all see you're stuck?
She nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek — a nervous habit she'd never quite managed to break. "Yeah. Mostly. You know how it is."
Natasha arched a single eyebrow, her face remaining perfectly impassive even as her eyes clearly communicated: Don't lie to me. I can see right through you, and we both know it. She'd learned to read that particular expression within a week of knowing the former Widow. It was nearly impossible to get anything past her, and frankly, she'd stopped trying months ago.
As the only other woman on the team besides Wanda—who was still young and dealing with her own trauma—she and Natasha had grown close without much conscious effort. Though if she was being completely honest, that was mostly because Natasha had decided it would happen, and when the Black Widow made a decision, resistance was generally futile. Unlike Steve's gentle brand of comfort, all quiet conversations and patient understanding, Natasha had taken a more hands-on approach to helping her heal. Literally.
The moment she'd been cleared from her physical injuries following the HYDRA incident, Natasha had cornered her in the medical wing and informed her—not asked, informed—that she'd be sparring daily. No exceptions. Rain or shine, mission or no mission, good day or bad day.
And so, for the past year and a half, her mornings usually started on the training mats, getting her ass thoroughly and repeatedly handed to her by the infamous Black Widow. It had been humbling at first, going from decorated Army sergeant to feeling like a complete novice again. But these days, they were mostly evenly matched, and she'd grown to love the ritual of it. Training with Natasha—and with Steve and Sam between missions—had transformed her into a sharper, more strategic fighter. Her hand-to-hand combat skills had progressed far beyond anything the Army had taught her, incorporating techniques from half a dozen different disciplines.
She needed every edge she could get. She didn't have powers like Wanda's reality-bending abilities. No super-soldier serum pumping through her veins like Steve's. No wings and advanced tech like Sam's. No billion-dollar suit like Tony's. Just grit, muscle memory, and the stubborn refusal to stay down that had kept her alive in Afghanistan and would hopefully keep her alive here too.
She wasn't officially an Avenger, something she actively tried to avoid despite Tony's increasingly creative attempts to recruit her, but she needed to fight like one to earn her place in this group. At least, that's what she constantly told herself during the long hours of training, the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her father reminding her that she had to prove she belonged here. She had no interest in carrying imposter syndrome on top of everything else she was already trying to shoulder.
After breakfast and the usual round of good-natured banter—Sam with another outrageous wink, Steve with a quiet nod of encouragement that somehow managed to convey both affection and concern—she and Natasha said their goodbyes and headed for the training wing of the Tower.
The gym was all sharp lighting and gleaming steel, every piece of equipment state-of-the-art and probably worth more than most people made in a year. The best that
Tony Stark's seemingly endless fortune could buy, and he spared no expense when it came to keeping his team in peak condition. It was quiet this early in the morning, save for the low hum of ventilation systems and the soft squeak of rubber soles on polished floors. This was her sanctuary now—the one place where she could lose herself completely in the rhythm of movement, where the constant chatter in her head could finally go quiet.
They circled each other now in practiced silence, feet sliding across the familiar blue mats, arms loose and ready, eyes locked in the kind of intense focus that came from months of this same dance. Natasha struck first—a quick, low sweep aimed at dropping her flat—and she barely managed to leap back in time to avoid being taken down.
She retaliated immediately with a sharp jab combination, testing Natasha's defense, but the Widow blocked each blow with the kind of effortless precision that made it look like a choreographed performance.
"You're distracted," Natasha observed flatly, grabbing her wrist mid-strike and twisting until she had her locked in a hold that sent sharp pain shooting up her arm.
"Again."
She grunted, using her weight and leverage to shift the angle, breaking free with a move Natasha had taught her months ago and spinning around to attempt a takedown of her own. Natasha dodged it easily, stepping back with fluid grace, barely even breathing hard.
"I'm fine," she said, slightly winded but trying to hide it. "Just tired. Didn't sleep great."
"You're always tired." Natasha's tone was matter-of-fact rather than accusatory, but somehow that made it worse. "I've been letting it slide, but you haven't slept a full night in weeks. I can see it in the way you move, the way you hold yourself. Steve notices too."
She opened her mouth to argue, to deflect with humor or change the subject entirely, but Natasha took advantage of her momentary distraction and swept her legs out from under her in one smooth motion. She hit the mat hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a sharp exhale, and before she could recover, Natasha was there, pinning her down with a knee pressed firmly against her sternum.
"Don't lie to me," Natasha said evenly, her voice calm but her eyes intense. The pressure against her chest increased just enough to make breathing slightly difficult. "We've been through too much together for bullshit, and you're terrible at it anyway."
She shoved Natasha off with more force than necessary, her breath catching in her throat from a combination of frustration and the lingering ache in her ribs. "I'm not lying. I'm just not broadcasting every fucking thought in my head for everyone to analyze."
Natasha stood smoothly and offered her a hand up, which she accepted after a moment's hesitation. "You don't have to broadcast anything. But you're still waiting for him."
The words hit like a physical blow, direct and unflinching in the way only Natasha could manage.
She paused, her gaze dropping to her feet like a coward. Which she was, truly. Over a year without so much as a rumor of a sighting, and she was still here feeling sorry for herself, affecting her training, letting her team down. Her father would have been so disappointed in the woman she'd become.
"I get it," Natasha continued, her voice softer now but no less pointed. "I do. He was important. And I know what it's like to lose someone you loved — really loved, not just cared about or had feelings for."
She looked up sharply, eyes narrowing with a flash of defensive anger. "I never said I loved him—"
Natasha cut her off with a look so pointed and knowing it silenced her instantly, the words dying in her throat. "You didn't have to say it. Just because you never told him doesn't mean it wasn't written all over your face every time someone mentioned his name. You've been pining after a man you haven't seen in over a year and a half, wearing his dog tags like a wedding ring, dreaming about him every night. You loved him. Past tense or present tense, doesn't matter. The feeling was real."
She felt her jaw tighten, heat rising in her cheeks, but Natasha didn't soften her approach. If anything, her tone grew firmer, more insistent.
"But it's been over a year, and you're still barely functioning some days. You go through the motions, you train, you smile at jokes, but you're not actually living. Something has to give. If you don't find a way to let him go, you'll never move forward. And honey, you deserve so much more than spending the rest of your life mourning someone who chose his guilt over your love."
None of it was cruel, not really. Natasha had never been one to twist the knife for sport. She was simply voicing what had already been echoing in her own head for months now, the brutal truth she'd been too scared to acknowledge aloud. But hearing it spoken so bluntly, laid out like evidence in a case she'd been refusing to face, hit like a slap across the face.
The bitterness flared in her chest, hot and immediate. She was so damn tired—tired of people telling her how to feel, how to grieve, how to move on, as if any of them had the first clue what she'd actually gone through. None of them had been there during those long nights when Bucky couldn't sleep, when he'd wake up screaming from nightmares about the things he'd been forced to do. None of them had seen the way he flinched at loud noises in those early days, or witnessed the first time he'd dared to brush his metal fingers across her cheek like she was something precious and fragile. They hadn't heard the way he said her name—like a prayer, like an anchor, like she was the only real thing left in his fractured world.
Maybe she sounded like a fool. Maybe she was lovesick and pathetic and everything people whispered about women who couldn't let go.
But they hadn't been the one to help piece him back together, fragment by fragment, for nearly a year—only to watch him shatter completely and disappear into the wind.
"Nat, I get it," she snapped, her voice tight with barely contained emotion. "Believe me, I want to move on. God, do I want to forget all of it sometimes. But how the hell do I just erase every moment I shared with someone I spent nearly every day with for a year? Someone I let see every broken part of me? Someone I trusted completely, who I thought trusted me back? And now I'm just... left with nothing. No goodbye that meant anything. No closure. No explanation that makes sense. He could be dead in a ditch somewhere for all I fucking know, and I'd never find out because he made sure no one could ever find him."
Her voice cracked on the last sentence, the words scraping her throat raw, but she forced herself to meet Natasha's eyes even though she was sure every ounce of pain she'd been hiding was visible on her face. They'd all seen enough of her breaking down—even when she did her best to hold it together, to be the strong soldier her father had raised her to be.
"I'm not saying forget him," Natasha said gently, taking a step closer, her expression softening with something that looked almost like maternal concern. "I'm not saying pretend it didn't happen, or that what you had wasn't real. But you have to find a way to live your life now. In the present. You have to let him go—not the memory, not what you learned from loving him… but the hope that he's coming back. Wherever he is, whatever he's doing... he made a choice. And you're still here. You owe it to yourself to start showing up for the life you actually have instead of the one you wish you could have."
There was a long beat of silence, heavy with unspoken truths and the weight of everything they both knew she needed to hear.
"I have been showing up," she muttered finally, but the words felt hollow even to her own ears. "I'm trying. I went on those dates with that guy, remember?"
Natasha's lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "The blind lawyer."
"Matt," she corrected, though she couldn't help but snort at the description. "Yeah. Him."
"You like him?"
She shrugged, suddenly feeling exhausted by the conversation, by the constant pressure to be better, to be healing, to be anything other than what she actually was…a woman still in love with a ghost. "He's... good. Smart. Charming as hell. Attractive, obviously. And he gets the whole 'complicated past' thing in a way most people don't. But..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "We're not each other's person, you know? We both know it. It's like we're both trying to feel something that just isn't there, and it's not fair to either of us."
Natasha nodded like she understood completely, which she probably did. "Still. You tried. That's more than you were doing six months ago. You just have to keep trying, keep putting yourself out there. Your person is out there somewhere."
She glanced over at her friend, studying the certainty in Natasha's green eyes. "Are you always this emotionally insightful before nine in the morning?"
"Only when I'm beating the truth out of someone I care about," Natasha replied, offering her a teasing smile that took some of the sting out of their earlier exchange. "Now get up. You're still telegraphing that right hook, and if I can see it coming from a mile away, so can anyone who actually wants to hurt you.".
___
The halls of the Tower felt different when she made it back to her room an hour later. Quieter, somehow more oppressive. Natasha had been called away to some urgent meeting downstairs with Steve, Sam, Tony, and the others. Something about a briefing with Secretary Ross, she'd caught in passing, though she hadn't been invited to participate. Something political and tense, something that made Steve's jaw clench and Tony's eyes flash with barely contained anger. She was honestly grateful to be left out of it. She didn't need to hear more about control, oversight, or threats lurking in the shadows.
She had her own ghosts to wrestle with.
She closed her door behind her with perhaps more force than necessary and leaned against it for a moment, letting her eyes drift over the space that had somehow become home despite never quite feeling like it.
The room was neat and impersonal, decorated in the kind of expensive minimalism that screamed 'Tony Stark's interior designer.' The only signs of the woman she used to be—the soldier, the daughter, the lover—were hidden away like shameful secrets. Her father's Purple Heart in the top drawer of her dresser. A photo of her unit from Afghanistan tucked between the pages of a book she'd read a dozen times. And the dog tags she wore against her skin every day, the only part of Bucky she couldn't bring herself to put away.
She crossed the room slowly and sank onto the edge of her bed, her fingers automatically finding the familiar weight of the tags beneath her shirt. She pulled them out, letting them catch the light filtering through her windows, watching the way her name gleamed against the brushed steel.
She wore them every day, keeping them carefully hidden beneath her clothes where curious eyes couldn't see and ask questions she wasn't ready to answer. Especially around the Tower, where everyone was so goddamn perceptive and well-meaning. She wasn't ready for the gentle concern, the carefully worded suggestions that maybe it was time to move on. Wasn't ready to explain why she still clung to something—someone—who'd left her bleeding in more ways than one.
Why was she still so hurt by this? Why can't she just... let go?
She stared at the tags, watched them sway gently with each breath, and tried to understand the woman who'd become so completely undone by losing someone. There were nights she still heard his voice in the spaces between sleep and waking. Mornings when she'd roll over expecting to find him there, her hand reaching across cold sheets for a warmth that would never return. Dreams so vivid she could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips against her neck hours after waking.
It was pathetic. She was pathetic. A grown woman, a decorated soldier, reduced to pining after someone who'd made it clear that his demons mattered more than whatever they'd built together.
She clenched her jaw and forced herself to look away from the tags, swallowing hard against the familiar tightness in her throat. Natasha had said something during training that kept echoing in her mind, words that had burrowed under her skin and refused to be dislodged.
"You loved him."
She hadn't answered at the time, had pretended the words rolled right off her like water. But now, sitting alone in her too-quiet room with nothing but his memory for company, she couldn't deny how deeply they'd sunk in.
Was it love? Had it really been that simple and that complicated?
She thought back to the way he'd held her in those early days—like she might disappear if he didn't hold tight enough, like she was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet. The sound of his laugh when she'd actually managed to coax a smile from him, rare and precious as sunlight. The way they'd danced in the living room of their safe house to music only they could hear, swaying together in the lamplight like they had all the time in the world. The way he'd kissed her—desperate and reverent and achingly tender, like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning for decades.
When HYDRA had forced him to become the Winter Soldier again, the look of absolute devastation on his face when the programming broke and he realized what he'd done to her. The way he'd held her broken body in his arms, tears streaming down his face as he whispered apologies she'd tried to tell him he didn't owe her. The way he'd cried when he understood the full scope of what his past had taken from both of them…and then walked away anyway.
God, she was still so angry. Furious, really, though she'd never admitted it out loud. He'd promised her he wouldn't run again, swore he was done punishing himself for crimes he'd been forced to commit. Swore he was choosing her, choosing them, choosing the possibility of something better than the darkness he'd known. And then he'd vanished like smoke, leaving her bleeding in more ways than just the physical, leaving her to pick up the pieces of a heart she'd never fully given to anyone before him.
But still... still, she loved him. She must have, because there was no other explanation for why her chest felt this hollow, why his absence had carved such a deep canyon inside her that she sometimes felt like she might fall into it and never find her way out. Why she couldn't let him go, even when holding on was slowly killing her.
She squeezed the tags tight in her fist until the edges bit into her palm, using the sharp pain to anchor herself in the present. The rational part of her mind knew it wasn't Bucky's fault for him leaving — not really. It was the programming, the decades of torture and brainwashing, the systematic destruction of everything that made him human.
She knew it wasn't his fault. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it in your bones were two very different things, and she was starting to understand that maybe she'd never fully recover from loving someone whose past was so intricately woven with her own tragedy.
She just wished he'd stayed. Wished he'd been brave enough to fight for what they'd had instead of running from it. Wished he'd trusted her enough to believe that love could be stronger than guilt, that they could have found a way to build something beautiful from the ashes of everything that had tried to destroy them.
A soft knock at her door broke through her spiraling thoughts, causing her to startle. She quickly wiped beneath her eyes, checking for any moisture that might have gathered there despite her best efforts, and cleared her throat.
"Yeah?"
"It's me," Sam's voice came from the other side, sounding more serious than she was used to hearing him. None of his usual playful energy, no teasing undertone. That alone was enough to put her on high alert.
She quickly tucked the dog tags back beneath her shirt and stood, crossing to open the door. Sam stood in the hallway with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically somber. No easy smile, no natural charm, just the kind of gravity that usually preceded very bad news.
"What's going on?" she asked immediately, her military training kicking in as she searched his face for clues.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing back toward the elevator down the hall before meeting her eyes again. The hesitation in his movements, the careful way he was choosing his words—it all screamed that whatever he'd come to tell her was going to change something fundamental about her day, maybe longer.
"You should probably come downstairs," he said finally. "There's been a development. Something big."
She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. "That sounds ominous as hell, Sam. What kind of development?"
"The kind that's going to split this team right down the middle," he replied grimly, running a hand over his jaw. "The UN wants to regulate us. The Avengers. Enhanced people, missions, oversight — the whole damn thing. They're calling it the Sokovia Accords, and basically it means no more independent action without government approval."
Her stomach dropped, a cold dread settling in her chest. She'd seen what government oversight looked like in the military. The red tape, the politics, the way bureaucrats who'd never seen combat made decisions that got good people killed. "Are you serious? They want to put you all on a leash?"
"Pretty much," Sam nodded, his expression growing darker. "After what happened in Lagos... Crossbones set off that bomb, and Wanda tried to contain it, redirect it away from the crowd. But she accidentally launched the explosion into a building full of civilians instead. There were…casualties."
She winced, remembering the mission briefing that had gone sideways so fast. Wanda was still so young, still learning to control abilities that most people couldn't even comprehend. The weight of those deaths, the guilt she must be carrying...
"The media's having a field day," Sam continued, his voice heavy with frustration. "Politicians too. They're saying it's the last straw. First Sokovia gets lifted into the sky and dropped, now this. All caught on camera, all happening in crowded cities with innocent people paying the price. The pressure's coming from everywhere, and something had to give."
She shook her head, feeling the familiar anger that came with watching good people get blamed for impossible situations. "So their brilliant solution is to micromanage a team that's saved the world multiple times? That makes perfect sense."
"Tony's already signed on," Sam said quietly, and something in his tone made her stomach clench. "Steve... not so much. It's gotten pretty heated down there."
She ran both hands through her hair, trying to process the implications. Steve and Tony at odds — again. The team divided over something this fundamental. It felt like watching a family tear itself apart, and she'd had enough of that kind of heartbreak to last several lifetimes.
"What are the others saying?" she asked, though she was almost afraid to hear the answer.
Sam hesitated, his jaw working like he was chewing on words he didn't want to say. "Mixed reactions. Nat's being diplomatic, which probably means she's already picked a side but isn't ready to show her hand yet. Wanda's... well, she's blaming herself for all of it. Rhodey's backing Tony, which isn't surprising. Vision's trying to stay neutral, but you know how that usually goes."
She pressed her lips together, feeling the familiar weight of impending disaster settling on her shoulders. "And you?"
"I'm with Steve," he said without hesitation. "Always have been, always will be. But this thing... it's going to tear us apart. I can feel it."
Her throat felt dry. She swallowed hard, trying to push down the panic that was starting to claw at her chest. This team, they'd become her family, her anchor — the thing that kept her tethered when everything else felt like it was falling apart. The thought of losing them, of watching them turn against each other...
"That's not the only reason you came to find me, is it?" she asked, studying his face. There was something else there, another layer of grief that made her stomach twist with dread.
His expression shifted, becoming somehow even more somber, and she recognized the look immediately. She'd seen it too many times before, on the faces of commanding officers about to deliver news that would change everything. The carefully controlled expression of someone who had to be the bearer of terrible tidings.
"Steve got a call about an hour ago," Sam said quietly, his voice gentler now. "Peggy Carter passed away this morning. In her sleep."
The words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. Peggy Carter. Steve's first love, the woman who'd waited for him to come home from a war that had stolen decades of his life. She'd never met Peggy personally, but she knew the history, knew how much Steve had loved her. Still loved her, if she was being honest.
She knew he visited regularly, had been watching helplessly as Alzheimer's slowly stole away the sharp, brilliant woman who'd helped found SHIELD.
"Oh God," she breathed, her heart breaking for Steve. "How is he handling it?"
"About as well as you'd expect," Sam replied softly. "He didn't say much when he got the news. Just... stood there for a minute like he couldn't quite process it, then walked out of the room. We haven't seen him since. Tony thinks he went up to the roof, but nobody's been brave enough to check."
She could picture it perfectly. Steve standing alone somewhere high above the city, probably staring out at the horizon and trying to reconcile the loss of someone who'd been both his past and his anchor to the present. Steve, who carried so much grief already, now having to shoulder the weight of losing the last real connection he'd had to the life he'd left behind when he went into the ice.
"He loved her so much," she whispered, more to herself than to Sam.
"Still does," Sam agreed. "Always will, I think. That's just who Steve is. He loves completely, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
The parallel wasn't lost on her, and from the way Sam was looking at her, she could tell he'd made the same connection. Steve, mourning a love that had been interrupted by circumstances beyond anyone's control. Her, still grieving a love that had been destroyed by trauma and fear and the weight of an impossible past.
"We're heading to London for the funeral," Sam continued. "Steve didn't ask yet, but I know he'd want you there. If you want to come, of course. I think... I think he could use having people who understand what it's like to lose someone important."
She nodded without hesitation, the decision immediate and absolute. Steve had been there for her every day since Bucky had left, had held her together when she was falling apart, had never once made her feel like a burden despite all the times he'd found her crying on her balcony at three in the morning. Now it was her turn to return that support.
"Of course I'll be there," she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. "Just tell me when and I'll be packed and ready to go."
Sam studied her quietly for a moment, his dark eyes full of understanding and something that looked almost like pride. Then he stepped closer and placed a warm, steady hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze that somehow managed to convey both comfort and strength.
"You holding up okay?" he asked, and she could hear the layers beneath the simple question. How are you handling all this upheaval? Are you going to be able to support Steve when you're barely keeping yourself together? Do you need someone to take care of you too?
She blinked, caught off guard by the directness of his concern. Most people danced around her emotional state, tiptoed around the subject of Bucky, treated her like she might shatter if they said the wrong thing. But not Sam. He'd always been the kind of person to meet problems head-on, to ask the hard questions because he genuinely cared about the answers.
"I'm..." she started, then stopped, reconsidering. Sam deserved honesty, especially now when everything felt like it was balanced on a knife's edge. "I'm trying. Some days are better than others. Today's been kind of rough, actually, but hearing about Peggy..." She shook her head. "It puts things in perspective, you know? Steve's dealing with real loss, final loss, and I'm still over here feeling sorry for myself over someone who chose to leave."
Sam's expression softened, his grip on her shoulder tightening slightly. "Hey. Your pain doesn't become less valid just because someone else is hurting too. Grief isn't a competition, and what you went through with Bucky... that was real. The love was real, the loss was real, and the fact that he's still alive somewhere doesn't make it hurt any less."
She felt her throat tighten dangerously, tears threatening for the second time that day. "Everyone keeps telling me I need to move on, that I need to let him go. And they're right—I know they're right. But I don't know how to stop loving someone just because they're not here anymore."
"You don't have to stop loving him," Sam said gently, his voice carrying the kind of wisdom that came from his years as a counselor, from helping other veterans navigate trauma and loss. "Love doesn't just disappear because someone leaves, and anyone who tells you it should doesn't understand what real love actually is. But you can love him and still choose to live your life. You can honor what you had while still being open to what might come next."
She looked up at him, studying the earnest expression on his face, the genuine care in his dark eyes. Sam Wilson had one of the biggest hearts of anyone she'd ever met, and right now she felt incredibly grateful that he'd chosen to share some of that warmth with her.
"You really think so?" she asked, hating how small and uncertain her voice sounded.
"I know so," he replied firmly. "Look, I've seen a lot of people try to move on from losing someone they loved—in the war, in counseling sessions, hell, in my own family.
The ones who make it through aren't the ones who forget or pretend it didn't matter. They're the ones who figure out how to carry that love with them while still making room for new experiences, new connections, new possibilities."
She nodded slowly, letting his words settle into the spaces between her ribs where the constant ache lived. "That sounds terrifying."
Sam's smile was soft and understanding. "Yeah, it really does. But you know what's even more terrifying? Waking up five years from now and realizing you've spent all this time waiting for someone who's never coming back while life passed you by completely."
The truth of it hit her like a punch to the gut, because that was exactly what she was doing, wasn't it? Waiting. Always waiting. Keeping her heart locked away in case Bucky decided he wanted it back, building her entire emotional life around the possibility of a reunion that might never come.
"Besides," Sam added, his tone shifting back toward the gentle teasing she was more familiar with. "You're way too incredible to spend the rest of your life pining after some broody super soldier who doesn't know a good thing when he's got it. Even if he is my best friend's oldest friend and I'm probably supposed to be on his side."
Despite everything, she found herself laughing. A real laugh, not the brittle thing she'd been producing for months. "You're not supposed to bad-mouth him, Wilson. Isn't there some kind of bro code about that?"
"Bro code gets suspended when said bro hurts someone I care about," Sam replied with mock seriousness. "Besides, Steve would probably agree with me, even if he's too polite to say it out loud. We both think you deserve someone who's brave enough to fight for you instead of running away from you."
The words were meant to be comforting, she knew, but they stirred up a fresh wave of pain that she wasn't quite prepared for. Because the thing was, she didn't want someone else. She wanted Bucky. The real Bucky, the one who'd danced with her in empty rooms and held her through nightmares and looked at her like she was something miraculous. She wanted the man who'd been brave enough to love her despite everything he'd been through, not the broken shadow who'd been too afraid to stay.
But Sam was right about one thing: she couldn't keep waiting for that version of Bucky to come back. Maybe he never would. Maybe the man she'd fallen in love with had been buried too deeply under layers of trauma and guilt to ever fully resurface.
"You know what the worst part is?" she said quietly, not quite meeting Sam's eyes. "I keep thinking that if I'd just been better somehow, if I'd loved him harder or been more patient or said the right things... maybe he would have stayed."
Sam's expression turned fierce, protective in a way that reminded her why he'd been such a good soldier, such a loyal friend. "No. Absolutely not. Don't you dare blame yourself for his choice. You gave that man everything you had. Your trust, your heart, your forgiveness for things most people couldn't even begin to understand. You were exactly what he needed, exactly when he needed it. If he was too scared or too damaged to appreciate that gift, that's on him, not you."
She felt tears prick at her eyes again, but for the first time in months, they didn't feel entirely hopeless. "You really believe that?"
"With everything I've got," Sam said firmly. "And I'll keep reminding you until you believe it too. You're not broken, you're not too much, and you're sure as hell not responsible for fixing someone else's trauma. You're just a woman who loved someone deeply and got hurt because of it. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."
She took a shaky breath, feeling something shift inside her chest. Not healing, exactly, but maybe the beginning of it. Like the first tiny crack in a dam that had been holding back too much pressure for too long.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For saying that. For... all of this. I know I haven't been the easiest person to be around lately."
Sam squeezed her shoulder one more time, then let his hand fall to his side. "You don't have to thank me for caring about you. That's what family does. We show up, even when it's messy, even when it's hard. Especially then."
The word 'family' settled around her like a warm blanket, a reminder that she wasn't as alone as she sometimes felt. She had Steve and Sam and Natasha, had Tony's gruff affection and Wanda's quiet understanding. She had a place here, people who valued her not because of who she'd been before or who she might become, but because of exactly who she was right now, grief and all.
"Now," Sam continued, his tone shifting back toward something lighter, "why don't you get yourself together and come downstairs? We could probably use your help talking Steve through this Accords situation, and I have a feeling the next few days are going to be complicated as hell."
She nodded, wiping quickly at her eyes and straightening her shoulders. "Give me ten minutes to shower and change, then I'll be down."
"Take your time," Sam replied, already turning to head back toward the elevator. "And, hey. We're going to get through this. All of it. The Accords, the funeral, whatever else comes next. We're stronger together than apart, and that includes you."
As he disappeared around the corner, she closed her door and leaned against it again, letting his words wash over her. For the first time in months, she felt like maybe—just maybe—there was a path forward that didn't involve waiting for someone who might never come home.
It was terrifying and hopeful and heartbreaking all at once.
But it was a start.