Siberia, 2016
June 25th, 2016
Siberia, Russia
“дух.” Ghost.
“Сэр.” Sir. She spoke before she was fully conscious, the cold and the stiffness of her body so reminiscent of her time in her cell, that it took her a moment to register her surroundings. Her partner said nothing, waiting until she had woken fully before he stretched out his hand.
They were in Russia.
She knew the cold intimately, could practically taste the years of stillness on the flurry of snowflakes that blew into the open hull of the Quinjet. She took her partner’s hand, and he hauled her upright, holding her for a moment as she gingerly put weight on her injured leg. Thankfully, it had healed enough to stand without debilitating pain. She’d put up with worse. She looked at her partner properly then, berating herself for leaving him alone for so long. Well – not technically alone – but still. “Ты в порядке?” Are you alright?
He met her eyes unguardedly, but there was a faint haze over the silver of his irises that told her he was struggling to rise above the years they had spent here. She wondered what was tormenting him most – the pain and punishments, or the ice of cyrosleep; the memory of being suspended in endless darkness. He shrugged roughly, “Я буду в порядке, когда они умрут.” I'll be fine once they're dead. He looked shiftily over his shoulder, a moment of guilt passing over his face. His reunion with Steve was clearly affecting him more than he was letting on.
She reached for him then, both to comfort him and to sate her own selfish desire to have him close, if just for a moment. “Мы в безопасности.” We’re secure. She whispered, and cupped his cheeks between her palms. Despite the frigid wind, he was still warm. He bowed into her, hands squeezing a little too hard on her hips. She rested her forehead against his for a long moment, and breathed him in. A cold all of her own was beginning to descend upon her. She struggled to stay lucid, to keep warm. “Что ты собирался сказать?” What were you going to say? She asked, suddenly desperate for a distraction, despite the looming fight.
This close, the symmetrical planes of his face were all she could see, and she drank in his familiar features greedily. He was so beautiful it made her hurt a little. For a moment, she saw a naked desperation in his own eyes. He drew away from her, releasing her almost reluctantly. When he smiled, it didn’t touch his eyes. “I’ll tell you later.” He echoed her own words, and for a moment she was almost irritated by it. He seemed to notice, reaching out briefly to tap the tip of her nose playfully. “I promise, doll. Later.”
Neither of them voiced their looming reality – that there might not be a later.
The Captain was waiting for them in the snow. He didn’t like the cold, she could see it in the tight set of his mouth, though he didn’t shiver. She wondered idly if like her, and her partner, the serum provided him with protection from the elements. She didn’t miss the way he looked between them, as if he could see the remnants of their hands upon each other. Her partner busied himself with his rifle. She watched his clever hands adjust the sight and the grip, and drummed her fingers briefly on the hilt of her knife.
“Ghost,” The Captain spoke almost tentatively, and she tried to soften her gaze before looking to him. He was looking at her as if sizing her up. “Will you be able to get us inside?” She inclined her head. She was still not fully recovered, but however long she had slept had allowed her to regain some of her strength. He nodded, more to himself, and turned to survey the white landscape. “Okay – well, lead the way.”
She had forgotten just how desolate the tundra was.
Her partner took point this time, and it was all too natural to fall in beside the Captain to flank him. The only sound as they marched towards the dark smudge of the base, was the crunch of fresh snow beneath their feet and the faint huff of their breathing, the Captain and her partner’s breath fogging in front of them.
When they reached the heavy cement of the base, they both stood aside for her. She could feel the Captain’s eyes on the side of her face as she approached.
When she got close enough, her heart sunk. Though she knew realistically they could not have beaten the Doctor to the base, seeing the doors already open awakened a new pit of despair inside of her. Without looking at the pair of them, she reached out to push the heavy door all the way open. She pretended not to hear the Captain’s low curse.
It was like stepping back in time.
It did not matter that the power was out, that dust and cobwebs covered much of the long winding halls – she could feel the echoes of the past with every step she took into the bowels of the place.
Her partner seemed just as uneasy, lingering in the space between her and the Captain, seemingly torn between shadowing the Captain in ancient muscle memory, or defaulting to cover her, as was their habit of seventy odd years.
She made his decision for him, phasing through him until she was between the two men, close enough to reach out to touch them both. The Captain threw her a brief look over his shoulder, though it was devoid of any discomfort or animosity. She felt her partner brush one hand briefly over the exposed skin of her neck before his rifle came up.
They had all grown silent as they descended into the base.
She kept her eyes on the small strip of skin she could see between the edge of the Captain’s helmet and his collar, and tried not to look at the halls and rooms where she had suffered and waited in endless stasis for an eternity. She tried not to listen to echoes of the past, the screaming of her partner, her own pain stored and reflected in the labyrinth. Her partner had drawn closer to her, so close she could feel his body heat at her back. The barrel of his rifle was jutting into her periphery, extending just to the left of her head, aimed into the uncertain darkness ahead of them.
They were approaching the cyrochambers when she heard it.
A distant clinking of metal, the sound of life where there should have been none. They were all on edge, all attuned to their surroundings, and so they moved as one. The Captain threw up his shield, her partner cocked his rifle, and instinctively, she reached back to grab a fistful of her partner’s vest, and curled her other hand over the Captain’s shoulder. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, though the world felt cold and slow, like glacial water.
The heavy blast doors opposite them creaked and shuddered, and she took a breath and readied herself.
“You ready?” The Captain’s voice was tight.
“Yeah.” Her partner pressed into her grip and lowered his eye to the scope of his rifle.
The glowing eyeholes and red metal that appeared in the crack of the door confused her enough that she froze. Iron Man. Stark?
The man in the suit of armour shouldered the door open the rest of the way, and stepped through. She shifted slightly, putting her foot on the stair above her, ready to bolt. His helmet retracted, and she was greeted with the sight of a blooming black eye on his aging, but still handsome face. She knew Stark from the media circus that always seemed to surround him, and she knew Iron Man as an enemy. The Captain’s shield wavered, and she tightened her grip upon him, a warning.
The Captain stepped out of her reach, and she clenched her jaw. Stupid. She thought, keeping her eyes on him as he slowly descended the stairs towards Stark. She trusted her partner to keep the gun trained on Stark.
“You seem a little defensive.” Stark’s voice was loud and obnoxious in the tense silence, and she twitched at the sound of it.
Steve nodded once, humourlessly. “It’s been a long day.”
“At ease, Rosenbergs.” It took her a moment to realise he was addressing them – his eyes slid over her face once before focussing on her partner. She was suddenly and viciously glad for the strangeness of her countenance. “I’m not currently after you.”
“Then why are you here?” The Captain spoke for them.
Stark shrugged with feigned casualness. “Could be your story’s not so crazy,” for once, there was no smugness in his tone, “Maybe.” He looked momentarily mutinous; clearly, admitting his error cost him. “Ross has no idea I’m here, I’d like to keep it that way.” He leaned, with that same artificial insouciance, against a supporting pillar. “Otherwise, I gotta arrest myself.”
The Captain’s shield wavered further still. It set her teeth on edge. “Well that sounds like a lot of paperwork.” Stark snorted, and the Captain lowered his shield. No. She didn’t like it. “It’s good to see you, Tony.”
“You too, Cap.” Stark sounded suddenly serious. Then he looked at them again, eyeing their defensive posture with condescending derision. “Hey, Manchurian Candidates, you’re killing me. There’s a truce here, you can drop it.”
It was only after the Captain raised a hand that her partner dropped his rifle. She straightened obediently, but kept her hand flat against her partner’s stomach, ready to pull them both into the Grey. She didn’t know Stark, didn’t trust him.
To her relief, Stark took point as they continued towards the cryochamber, and she was able to slip soundlessly to the rear, still with her hand on her partner. It was only adding to her stress; keeping one eye on Stark whilst still listening intently for sounds ahead of them. She was beginning to sweat despite the chill of the facility, and she could feel it trickling down her spine.
“I got heat signatures.” Stark’s metallic voice came quietly as he rounded the corner to the chamber. She took a breath and held it.
“How many?” The Captain asked, too loud for the atmosphere.
Stark sounded uncertain. “Uh, one.”
The high-ceilinged chamber was just as she remembered, walls with exposed piping that added to the industrial feel. The lighting was low, only a few sporadic patches of daylight filtering weakly through grimy skylights high on the walls. She frowned. The cryochambers should have been lit too – she remembered their yellow glow well, the way they turned her a sickly green when she stood before them. The hiss of hydraulics was also too low, and as she stepped into the room, she realised immediately what was wrong.
The yellow lights of the chambers flickered on as the Captain stepped in beside them, and her suspicions were confirmed.
“Они мертвы.” They’re dead. Her whisper was hollow, and she watched her partner stiffen as he took in the lifeless forms lying limp within the cryochambers. From here, she could see the empty spot and spiderwebbing of cracks from the single bullet hole in each of the chambers. They had not suffered. She was almost sorry.
“If it’s any comfort,” The voice that sounded, crackling, over the loudspeakers made her react reflexively. She and her partner phased from sight and touch. In the muted Grey, she caught her skipped breath. “They died in their sleep.”
“Релиз.” Release. Her partner muttered lowly, and though it pained her, she let him go. He raised his weapon again, senses fully restored and she fought to stop herself from reaching for him again.
The three men moved further into the room, her partner moving to investigate the closest Soldier, rifle still held aloft. She lingered by the door, alarm bells ringing louder and louder.
“Did you really think I wanted more of you?” It was said with derision. She searched the dark room for the source. “I’m grateful to them, though. They brought you here.” A small light flicked on at the opposite end of the hall, revealing man behind a small pane of glass. She did not recognise him, though she knew it was Zemo. The imposter.
She surged forwards before she could help herself, lips curling in an involuntary smile. Zemo looked right at her and smiled – and then her spine lit up in familiar debilitating agony.
She fell to the ground heavily, body seizing as electricity raced through her system. She flickered in and out of sight, crying out unhappily. Her partner had already turned to her, and through the haze clouding her eyesight, she watched the Captain launch his shield at Zemo. It resounded off the thick metal with a loud clang.
“Что я могу сделать?” What can I do? Her partner sounded desperate, dropping his rifle to reach for her. His hands went right through her; her implants making her abilities go haywire. Stark’s technology seemed to just shut her down – of course HYDRA’s machinations were meant to make her suffer.
Zemo lifted a small black device – a remote – and grinned. “Please, Captain.” He laughed lightly, and the pain increased to the point that her vision whited out, and she lost all sensation. “The Soviets built this to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets.” Just as suddenly, the charge stopped, and she fell limp. “The Soviets also distributed this little fail-safe against their second most dangerous threat. I wonder how many others have the key to stopping your little Ghost dead.”
She rolled weakly to her side to look at him again. “I betting I could counter that.” Stark’s voice rang out. “Wouldn’t take me too long. And then you won’t be able to hide in a bunker.” At her pointed look, her partner picked up his rifle again.
“Oh, I’m sure you could, Mr. Stark.” Zemo sounded unconcerned and it made her hackles rise. Her limbs felt like jelly, but she forced herself to stand without help, inching away from her partner as he took a half-step towards her. She could not look weak. “Given some time.” Her partner had prowled forwards again, and she shadowed him, taking a cautious step towards Zemo. Her implants remained blessedly dormant. “But then you’d never know why you came.”
“You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here.” The Captain did not share her reserves. He strode forwards until he was less than a foot from Zemo. The other man stared hungrily at him through the thick glass of the bunker, and she frowned.
It wasn’t about them.
“I’ve thought about nothing else for over a year. I studied you. I followed you.”
It was about Steve. And-
She looked at the red and gold suit of armour. Stark.
It was about Stark too. It was about them, their legacy. The Avengers.
Zemo was fully engrossed in the Captain, and she took the opportunity to move closer again, muscles tensed, ready for pain. None came. “But now that you’re standing here, I just realised… there’s a bit a of green in the blue of your eyes. How nice to find a flaw.”
A flaw. A flaw that Steve had and shared with Stark. And Zemo, who was- who was Sokovian.
Ghost remembered with clarity the long winding exodus of the Sokovian natives, the exhausted broken faces of a people destroyed by a fight that should not have been theirs. The displacement and the death dealt had been immense. Dealt by them. By the Avengers. And Steve, and Stark – they were the faces, the leaders, the occult myth.
“You’re Sokovian.” She spoke before she considered her own words. She was suddenly desperate to stop it – to stop whatever machination that Zemo had put in place. They were playing right into his hands, she could sense it, though she had no idea what plans lay in store, what devastation would occur – only that it would occur. “You are punishing them.”
Zemo looked at her again. They all did, Stark with a faint whir of mechanics, the Captain with a frown, and her partner with confused intensity.
Zemo shook his head slightly. “Sokovia was a failed state long before they blew it to hell. You should know – I have seen your handiwork in it’s political ruin.” She swallowed a lump of guilt. She had been to Sokovia before, long before, and it would be a lie to say she did not do some of her own killing. “No. I am here because I made a promise.” So, it was not patriotism. She took another step closer. It had become all the more dangerous, because it was personal for Zemo.
“You lost someone.” The Captain had finally caught up, and though she could not see his face, she could see the way his shoulders bunched and tensed in anticipation.
Zemo’s stare grew glassy, though no tears fell. He was clearly past emotion. “I lost everyone.” He nodded a little manically, “and so will you.” Zemo reached down, and pressed something, and she flew forwards, darting for her partner.
Shuddering with adrenaline, she was taken aback by the screen that lit up. She had expected something else. Her partner had turned towards her in equal anticipation, but had stopped dead at the sight of the screen.
It was with a sinking feeling that she read the date on the top of the screen.
December 16th, 1991.
“An empire toppled by its enemies can rise again. But one which crumbles from within?” Zemo’s voice faded into a dull buzz, as a nauseating realisation dawned within her. “That’s dead.”
The road. The car. The couple.
It was only now that she recognised them, that she remembered the mission that they had buried so far within her that it had to be dragged out by this tiny, static filled video. Her partner had not looked long enough to register the date, but she had. She had, and she knew.
She watched as Stark stepped towards the screen and recognised what was playing. A dull tolling, a funeral dirge, began to fill her head.
“I know that road. What is this?” He called to Zemo, as if the man would answer, and she swallowed down bile and reached for her partner slowly.
She could hear it; she could hear the sound of the engine. She knew that a crash would follow. A crash, and then cries for mercy. Mercy that was not given. “James.” She whispered to him, and he turned. Whatever he saw on her face must have frightened him because he was beside her in an instant, drawing Stark’s eyes.
The dark-haired man met her gaze. “What is this?” He asked again, voice breaking like a child’s cry. She looked away, and met her partner’s worried eyes.
“Декабрь. 1991 г.” December. 1991.She breathed, and for the first time in a long time, felt very, very afraid.
She had told Wanda there was only one thing she was frightened of.
Losing her partner was the one thing. The only thing.
And now, in the wake of the revelation, with Stark so near, so vulnerable, so close to understanding, already primed for hatred – she was afraid. There was no telling what Stark would do. The Panther had come close to killing her partner already, and yet he had been crippled by the freshness of his loss. Stark’s wound was scarred over, and ripping it open now, revealing the terrible truth would only made him more rabid.
“Мы должны идти.” We have to go. She tried to sound calm, tried to keep her voice level, but it wavered. Understanding, sick and raw, made her partner’s face drop. And yet he did not move. “James, Мы должны уйти. Сейчас.” We must leave. Now.
Her partner was not looking at her anymore. He was looking at Stark. There was a dangerous resolution, a resignment to his gaze.
“Howard!” Maria cried for her husband, and Stark looked towards them with murder in his eyes. “Howard – please!” The woman wailed again, pain and confusion making her voice strained. And then, faintly, she heard Maria’s death rattle. She felt again, the hot slickness of the woman’s lifeblood on her hand, and sucked in a breath.
“Пожалуйста.” Please. Her voice was just as broken as Maria’s – and out of the corner of her eye, she watched Stark shudder violently. Her partner did not meet her eyes.
Stark lurched for them suddenly, and Steve grabbed him, catching him by the arm. She had already grasped her partner, pulling him into the Grey. For the first time ever – he shook her off, jarring her nearly healed wrist. “No, Tony-” Steve hissed, though his eyes were just as horrified. But devoid of surprise. He knew. Ghost felt her stomach drop in shock. Steve had known what they had done.
He had known and yet he had still thrown himself between them and Stark. Selfish. She realised. Steve was selfish enough to want Bucky, no matter what he had done to his supposed team, his chosen family. She marvelled at his devotion to her partner even as her gut churned with nausea.
Stark turned slowly back to Steve, and she watched him draw the same conclusion she had. “Did you know?” It sounded as if the words had been cut from him.
“I didn’t know it was them.” Steve was a bad liar.
Stark trembled again, “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers – did you know?” Stark snarled like a cornered animal, eyes wide and bulging with rage.
Still, her partner stood frozen.
They could all see it when Steve gave in to his own guilt. “Yes.”
The admittance made Stark lurch back from him as if burnt. For a long moment, Stark stared at the screen in front of him. And then he struck. He backhanded Steve with all his metal might, helmet sliding back into place as the Captain went rolling away with a pained grunt.
Stark fired at her with unerring speed, and she barely had time to phase out of being as the bright blasts of energy went through her. It was this that seemed to bring her partner back to life; he intercepted Stark as he raised his gauntlet again, and Stark blasted the rifle from his grip, and as James swung at his head, he caught his metal arm in his own steel grip.
For a moment they strained against the other’s strength, before Stark grabbed her partner by the throat with his other hand, and lifted from the ground. He flew a few feet with her partner, landing and slamming her partner into the ground, and lifting his gauntlet to his face. She bolted for them, throwing her only knife desperately at the joint of Stark’s elbow. It jolted his arm enough to displace the deadly blast to the left of her partner’s face, and Stark whirled, three small devices flying from a compartment on his shoulder.
They hit her with the another incapacitating pulse of electricity and brought her to her knees mid stride. Stark was in the air again, and she couldn’t do anything as the full weight of his metal suit bowled her over. She convulsed beneath him, eyes going wide as the bright white spot of his blaster filled her vision. This time, it was the Captain who deflected Stark’s blast, resounding his shield off Stark’s breastplate and sending him tumbling off of her.
Trembling, she reached for the knife that had fallen to the ground, and dug the tip between her skin and the little device that had attached itself to her chest. With a short whine, the device powered down, and she was able to regain some control of her limbs.
The Captain had been knocked off his feet again in her momentary distraction, heavy looking clamps fastening his two feet together as Stark grabbed her partner again. She panted, dropping to her knees beside him, and wrapping her fingers around the thick metal bands as he bucked against the restraints. From the other side of the room, she heard her partner grunt with effort, and she hissed out a similar sound as she exerted all of her strength.
The metal restraints gave way with a ping of metal, and she fell back as the Captain rose to his feet. He didn’t spare her a look as he raced towards where Stark had her partner pinned to the wall. As she rose again, she ripped at the other little device that had embedded itself in her upper thigh. The sharp sting as its prongs left her flesh barely registered, as a bright flash of flame exploded around the base of the cryochamber unit.
She swore in alarm, sprinting out of the way as the supporting pillar began to topple, the gas lines alighting and setting off a chain reaction. The Captain was leaping over a barricade, trying to make it to her partner and Stark before he was crushed beneath the pillar. Desperately, she lurched for him, phasing through the barricade, and reaching for him. He wasn’t going to make it, she wasn’t going to-
Her fingers closed around the nape of his neck and as the pillar descended upon them like the fire of heavenly retribution, she pulled them into the Grey. He let out a cry as if he had been punched, and she powered them through the confusing mess of flame and shrapnel.
Her partner rose unsteadily on the other side of the rubble, and she caught his eyes. “Go!” She barked at him, desperate and harsh enough to make him flinch.
“Get out of here – both of you!” It was the Captain who bellowed the final order, and she stumbled unsteadily at his sudden push. She turned to look at him, at the desperation in his blue eyes, and tried to understand him. He blinked at her, and bared his teeth. She turned and ran after her partner.
A bolt of energy caught her shoulder as she scrambled around the corner, and she tripped over her own feet as she clutched at the sharp pain. Above her, the blast door had begun to open. Her partner stood at the control panel, one hand outstretched towards her, the other already reaching for the escape ladder before him. “Давай!” Come on!
He hauled her up bodily, half-tossing her onto the metal grating above him. She rolled to her feet, and jumped for the next level as her partner scrambled up beside him.
She felt like an animal again.
You forget yourself, dog. You forget your master.
Her breath sawed loudly in her throat, choked and almost like sobs. Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out. She felt unhinged, devolved. All she ever was, all she had been, was an animal. A creature of instinct and desperation. And she was on the run again. She was a rabid dog running from the gun.
The gun she deserved.
And suddenly – fingers hooking into the grate above her, abdominals screaming as she hauled herself up – she understood the resignation on her partner’s face.
Would it not be better to stop running? Would it not be better to answer for her sins? Would it not be just, poetic even, to meet her end at the hands of a hero?
And yet the animal in her did not – could not stop. She ran, she ran though she was ashamed, and when her partner leapt above her, close to the light, so close to freedom, she felt a selfish surge of hope.
When the roof slammed shut again, she felt it resound through her. When Stark’s metal gauntlet fisted around the collar of her borrowed jacket, she did not fight the sudden shift in gravity as he ripped her from her grip on the ledge. When his arm came around her throat, when he whispered to her, she did not fight him. “Do you even remember them?” She thought she knew hate. Stark sounded somehow beyond the ugly emotion; driven so far into rage she did not think she even registered to him as anything more than a corpse waiting to happen.
But as his grip tightened on her throat, as her vision began to wobble and waver, she did not want to lie to him. “I remember all of them.” It came out choked and weak, and she felt tears cut a hot path down her cheek. Stark’s grip did not waver, and her world went dark.
She welcomed it.
The sudden influx of oxygen to her system made her gasp back into consciousness.
For a moment, she was angry. Angry that she had woken again, angry to be ripped from that peaceful darkness.
But then she registered the sound of her partner’s distress, and she rolled until she could see over the edge of the grating. Far below, she made out two forms, and for a moment sheer panic made her breath catch in her bruised throat. Then she made out her partner, dragging himself over the ledge just as she had – and she watched as he dropped down, further into the hell hole.
Fuck.
She knew she couldn’t leave it, knew she couldn’t leave her partner. Her partner, who seemed determined to die by Steve’s side. She tried not to let it hurt her. Wheezing slightly – she suspected her trachea was quite damaged – she forced herself to move. If her partner wanted to die a martyr, then she would die with him.
The Captain and Stark were fighting again, though now, it seemed Stark had turned an equal ire towards the other man. Her partner moved with more urgency, and she spurred herself on, faster. Focus. Push through the pain. There is nothing but the mission.
Now, it was necessary to draw upon the numbing cold that clouded her thoughts. It was mindless obedience that they had built within her, but it was also focus and drive, it was the complete lack of personal awareness. Emotion, pain – it was left behind.
She was a ghost. She was the Ghost.
And when the Captain fell, and when her partner was forced to his knees, the glowing remnants of his arm sparking painfully, she did not look to them. She could not look to them.
Ghost caught Stark’s swing with her left hand, slamming her forehead into the metal of his faceplate hard enough to make him stumble and make stars spark across her vision. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. There is nothing but the mission. She phased, again and again and again, letting the blasts of Stark’s weapons go through her. And once his gauntlet sparked and went dark, she moved again.
She forced him back against the wall, just as her partner had, but this time when she reached for his glowing heart, she knew she could pluck the life from his breast. As she reached into him, he reached for her with his dying suit, metal fingers clumsy against her throat, her neck. Ghost did not need to hold his heart till it stilled to kill him. Her fingers closed around the metal rim of his arc reactor, and his metal fingers clinked against her top most implant, and this close, she could hear his stuttered gasping as she began to crush the reactor as it sat within his chest.
Even as electricity began to flare, she willed herself to stay upright. Her body revolted against her, her tenuous hold on the Grey slipping as Stark activated the fail-safe HYDRA had put inside of her. She screamed with the effort of it, roaring into the blank metal of his red and gold mask, and tightening her grip.
The sudden, sharp pain that bloomed under her ribcage made her heart stutter. She-
She knew-
Ghost-
She looked down dazedly at her partner’s knife buried to the hilt in her side, still held in the grip of Stark’s dead gauntlet from where he had snatched it from her own holster.
It was-
The mission. Nothing but-
Red, dark and wet against the burgundy of the jacket, bloomed and spread.
She hadn’t realised she had stumbled back until a weak blast from his other hand made her fall. It jolted the knife in her side, and the ripping, tearing pain made her gasp.
Her partner was looking at her. Against the dark grey of the cement, his eyes seemed particularly bright. He was saying something, but her head was swimming and she couldn’t even be sure if he was speaking Russian or English. His eyebrows were rising, his mouth opening wide.
She remembered kissing him, and smiled.
He began to drag himself towards her, face screwing up in agony as the exposed wiring of the stump of his arm scraped against the concrete. She thought about him in Paris as light filled the space around them. Dimly, she knew that the Captain was still fighting.
She should be fighting still too. And yet she had been betrayed by her own body.
Her partner was close enough to touch, but she pillowed her head beneath her free hand and watched him. She had lost too much blood too quickly, and it was growing harder to draw breath as her throat swelled. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the mission. If there was anyone else she trusted to protect her partner, it was the man still on his feet, still lifting his shield to defend them. James reached for her other hand where she was holding the hilt of the knife still buried in her side, and he was saying something again, feverish and too fast to follow. The low timbre of his voice buzzed pleasantly in her ears, and she smiled again.
Her partner was injured – but he would live.
And so, she could go without fear.
“That shield doesn’t belong to you.”
Steve adjusted Bucky slightly, and numbly eyed the blood pooling under the woman who had already been too pale to begin with.
“You don’t deserve it. My father made that shield!”
He had burned his bridges. He had turned his back on the world, on his friends.
Bucky groaned quietly, a half-whisper. “Please.” He was not looking at Steve, he was looking at Aleksandrina, at Ghost.
And he would do it all again.
In the end, it was an easy choice.
He could not hold his shield and the two assassins he had sacrificed everything for. Natasha deserved a happy ending too, and as he stooped slightly – leaving Bucky for a moment to sway on his own two feet – he couldn’t help but see his friend in her face. He dropped the shield with a clang, and gently eased his arm under the thin woman. If he couldn’t hear the concerning rattle of her shallow breath, he would have though she was dead already. He slung her over his shoulder as best as he could, body aching and begging for reprieve as he threw his other arm around Bucky’s shoulders. He could feel Aleksandrina’s blood soaking into his uniform, wetting his skin.
He was aware of Tony’s eyes on him, on the three of them.
He would feel the guilt soon, the remorse for what he had done to the man who had been a friend too.
But right then, all he knew was exhaustion. All he knew was the painstaking drag of his feet as he carried them all from that hellish compound.
Steve left the shield, and he left Tony and he left the Avengers behind him.