#I am holding this young woman’s legacy so tenderly and so close to my heart

[sassmill]

I asked “are you okay with me introducing your queerness into the museum’s official narrative? Is that term alright with you? Does it resonate with your experience when you lived?” And these cards all came flying out of the deck. Lizzo’s “about damn time” came into my head right when the three of wands came out, too. I feel like I’m going to start crying.

[watery-lane]

Raven (Prologue)

Pairing: Ivar Lothbrok x Reader

Summary: Ivar hears of a woman who is said to be able to tame ravens. Lost in his curiosity and thirst for power, the new king decides to choose her as his bride, with the hopes of getting closer to Odin.

Little does he know, it is not very wise to try and domesticate the dark feather creatures.

Warnings: Heavy angst

Words: 3K

A/N: This was supposed to be my entry for @dreamwritesimagines writing challenge “Not Today, Writer’s Block” with the prompts: “If I can’t be happy, I will be a Queen.” “Gods must have sent you as a gift to me.” and “You are nothing to me from now on.” back in October or so. It has been a while and it is even rude to post this as an entry for the challenge after all this time, but I had the complete series already drafted and I really loved writing it, so I am posting this as a completely non-related fict. I hope you enjoy one of the last ficts I wrote before taking my long hiatus.

There is a high cliff near the pier of Kattegat, a podium on Midgard, not tall enough to reach for the other branches of Yggdrasil but ideal for a pair of human eyes to watch over the coastal town. The thick dark green mantle of perennial trees guarding the crystal covered grass valley grants the visitor a discreet and intimate environment, while a lone stone resting mere feet away from the edge provides a place to sit and contemplate the seas. Your hair, painfully braided into a complex updo resembles the roots holding your universe in place. You bite your lower lip, eyes stinging ever so slightly, not because of the new hairstyle you had to wear from now on but because the idea of shutting your eyes close escaped from your mind. The vertigo you felt, the lightheaded sensation you used to take for granted was being torn away from you with each decision you took... or did not take.

Two dark figures fall from the grey sky next to you, deep croaks like vague greetings as the tempestuous birds land on a long branch right above your head. You smile solely with your lips, moving your hand full of fading claw scars out of the furs and into the little leather sachet hanging from your waist. At such sight, the two ravens fly closer.

“Eat slowly,” you playfully commanded, your feathered friends quickly picking the fresh berries you left by your side “nobody is here to steal your food.”

Your eyes return to the sea, a persistent reflex you developed since you could barely walk.

When you were little, you waited on this exact same cliff so you could be the first one seeing the boats sailing back home. Your father, a loyal and humble explorer, used to take you and your now deceased sister up there, apples and toys made with the most exotic woods hidden under his robe. He told you two to keep your eyes at the horizon, where the line between the sky and the sea seemed to melt and merge into one. You two were in charge of informing mother and the little ones of his return from every raid. He told you that if you were faster than him and reached home before he did, he would narrate his adventures like a tale before you went to sleep.

A few weeks after your sister passed away due to an outbreak of a ravaging plague, two ravens seemed to take her place at the cliff. You never knew whether they were there before you or not, but the newfound company seemed rather comforting while you mourned for the loss of your best friend and caretaker. They couldn’t talk, they didn’t show pity towards your broken self and their simple presence brought a certain warmth and protection that reminded you of her. Your new feathery friends would patiently sit on the nearest tree as you jumped around and collected berries for everybody while you waited for the boats to appear.

They didn’t use to get very close at first, their dark eyes observing attentively every gesture you made, a menacing shrill harming your ears when you made movements way too harsh for their liking. But one day you saw one of the ravens with their claw stuck in the cracks of an icy rock and you tried to melt down the ice with your own hands and furs. To this day you still had some of the scars from the attacks, their peaks and free claws digging into your  flesh while you bit down and rescued the creature that kept you company when you needed it the most.

The new company and the fact that you used to spend more time in nature before you sister passed away —event that pushed you to take over the household responsibilities she left behind— made you find your peace in that hidden cliff, waiting for father surrounded by nature.

Soon you started to develop a routine away from your peaceful nook, where you would wake up before the rooster crowed. You would visit the farmers and fishermen instead of the town market and clean the house before the little ones woke up. In this way, you found the produces to be fresher and the words of the workers much kinder. Whenever you managed to cram your household duties before noon, you gave the rest of your midday to your mother, who worked as the healer of Kattegat. It wasn’t until you finished sorting out the herbs and cleaning up the pots when you would quietly remove yourself from the wooden hut and hide in the woods again.

You could spend hours out there, picking up flowers, berries and branches. Your skilled fingers would work on the collected wood with the help of a small knife as you snack mindlessly either waiting for the sun to go down or your father to come back. You waited for hours, days and weeks.

You waited until you saw the ships sailing back home.

But your father never did.

Your mother, with a broken heart and four offspring to take care of, had to move on quickly, passing down more and more responsibilities to your ten year old self. She remarried a few months after the disappearance of your father, feeding the viper tongued people in town, who spread the rumour of how your mother cursed her husband so she could get married to her lover.

That is why, as she braided your hair under the dim light of the fireplace early this morning, she lowered her lips to your ears with discretion after you expressed your concern about your imminent marriage and whispered:

“If you cannot be happy, at least be a queen.”

A wise advice coming from a woman who knew what was to live under the influence of the people. As a queen, her daughter would always be above sharp tongues and poisonous rumours and with a husband like Ivar, those pigs would never dare to raise their voices against her. You will be protected.

“If I cannot be happy, I will be a queen.” You whisper to yourself as the two birds placidly eat their berries, hugging yourself while you feel your stomach churn as if a worm was trying to make your tummy its new home. “If I cannot be happy, I will be a queen, if I cannot be happy, I will be a qu— “

“What are you whispering about?” You jump on your seat at the sound of a second voice right behind you. The ravens croaked, annoyed at the sudden intrusion. They let an angry squawk before flying back into the woods. “Talking to the ravens?” Ivar jokes as he approaches you with slow steps, tired from the ride uphill to your hidden spot.

You stare as he gets closer, wondering if it is the added height what makes him make your guts squirm with concern and reservation. You liked Ivar, all these months of courtship helped you grow fond of him little by little. Yet, as the wedding time approached slow but steadily, you couldn’t help but feel your legs shake with nervousness.

The callous hands of the King search for yours under your furs after he sits down next to you, chapped lips kissing your knuckles tenderly as he observes you contemplating the ocean.

“Spill your thoughts.” Ivar asks calmly, eyes never leaving your profile. His voice, with a slightly higher pitch than all his brothers makes him sound a little bit more childish, a little bit more demanding. However, he was the king after all. He could ask for whatever he wanted to and he would get it. 

That is how he got you.

“Why me?” You responded with a shy voice, such question eating you alive ever since the day he showed up at your house and asked for your hand to your mother. That was mere weeks after talking to you for the very first time.

Ivar chuckles at the question.

He remembers the day he heard of you. He just returned from York, still a prince, the memory of that mysterious thrall sitting on his lap completely naked still lingering in his mind like the most precious thought. It was the first time he felt… worthy. Appreciated. Loved. Not useless, feared or despised. And, as much as he hated to admit it, something inside him was searching to feel the same thing all over again.

Ragnhild, one of his first thralls, was preparing him a bath when Ivar found himself spilling his thoughts to the young woman: how he was told that he was destined to great things and that he believed it too, how much he wanted to be closer to the gods and how bad he longed for a woman to help him with his legacy.

The strawberry haired thrall was not much older than the prince. She was probably ten years older at most, not very smart but wise and reliable enough for Ivar to trust her with his thoughts. Her hooded green eyes and freckled face had always had a calming effect on Ivar, who would let his guard down as soon as she got close enough to take care of him. Maybe it was because she worked along his deceased mother. Maybe it was because she raised him since he was a teenage kid.

To his surprise, Ragnhild agreed with him, unaware of her tight lipped smile while she told him about the daughter of a widowed witch, a wicked sorceress who killed her own husband. Said young woman was single and, as the thrall heard, never bedded.

At first, Ivar separated himself from the soothing touch of his thrall, his scalp growing cold at the places her fingers were massaging. He asked, with a menacing tone if she was trying to get him cursed too. Calmly the thrall shook her head, using her soft touch to mould him back into his previous vulnerable state.

She revealed that it was said that you could tame ravens, as people had seen you carry around two of them on your shoulders and forearms as if they were nests of food. She hinted that they could even be Huginn and Muninn, the eyes and ears of Odin in Midgard.

And so, Ivar went looking for you, asking oblivious guards and sharp tongued rumourmongers if they have ever seen you.

He found you, peeling an apple in a hidden spot on the highest cliff, crossing a forest not even his horse was willing to walk through. He stood behind some dense bushes, watching you. It wasn’t until you cut the fruit into pieces and let out a whistle when he could see two dark figures descending from a tree. You were talking to them as if you were waiting for a response, a serene smile plastered on your face making Ivar feel a rush of heat warming up his cheeks. What a sweet and curious creature you were. Such sight proved Ragnhild was not lying. The more he stared, the bigger was his desire of owning your gift.

He kept observing and noticed how one of the ravens carried a small stone on its beak before leaving it next to you. You picked it up happily, your fingers stroking the small head of the raven before handing them a slice of apple each.

At such sight, Ivar got angry. How dared you, a simple Midgardian, treat Huginn or Muninn like mere pets, stroking their heads as if they were hounds.

So intense was his annoyance he clenched his fist and hit the wet ground, making the bushes that concealed him shake with the impact.

“Who is there?” You asked abruptly, head turning towards his spot.

Reluctantly, after a moment of silence and stillness, Ivar showed himself, crawling to your seat slowly as you stood up, a little bit frightened at the sight of a crawler snaking slowly towards you. It took you a little while before noticing he was actually prince Ivar, your body a little bit more relaxed.

“I got lost in the forest and heard someone talking. I followed the voice and found you here, playing with... Ravens?” Ivar lied, voice booming with confidence covering any sign that could give him away. You didn’t talk, making him raise his eyebrow as he tilted his head. “You are not scared of a prince, are you?”

Truth is, you had all the reasons to be scared of this particular prince. Yet you shook your head, keeping your head high and nails digging into your palm while you tried to keep your composure. Ivar kept staring at your tense frame with a crooked smile until he snapped his head to the right to look at the two curious birds moving their tiny heads, staring back at the young prince. Slowly he crawled next to them, raising his hand to see their reaction. You held your breath, fully aware that any wrong move could mean the end of your beloved ravens.

The two little feathered animals could sense your nervousness, yet they remained calm and composed, eyes blinking slowly watching the little prince look at them with contained fascination.

“It is unusual for them to stay this calm before a stranger.” You blurted out, trying to break the tension. “They must like you, my prince.”

He smiled. The thought of those sacred figures favouring him making him feel good.

“You have a sweet mouth...” Ivar looked at you, expectant.

“(Y/n)” You answered, hands tidying your skirt. “(Y/n) (Y/l/n).”

“(Y/n)” Ivar repeated, enjoying the sound of your name rolling in his tongue. “Gods must have sent you as a gift to me.” Ivar whispered as he looked at you blush, side smirk and piercing eyes exposing his hidden intentions.

  Ivar recovers his trail of thoughts and tilts his head, a wide smile parting his lips as he lets his words out. You looked expectant, as if you were waiting for him to return from his trip to memory lane.

“Because you were born to be queen.”

You blink slowly, drinking down his words carefully like a strong ale, burning you and bringing heat to your cheeks the same way the beverage does.

The thing is, deep down you know you are not fit to be queen. You never were.

But the way he stared at you when he pronounced those words, as if he truly believed, firmly, adamantly, that you belonged next to him made you feel... Wanted. Worthy.

Maybe a little bit loved.

All of the sudden you feel a wave of gratification washing over you, silently thanking your mother for veiling for your protection. Her good wishes may have convinced Freyja to spare you a little bit more love than you probably deserved.

You nod with a smile plastered on your face, looking at your future husband with newfound tenderness.

“Those are beautiful words, my King.” Ivar grins with satisfaction, his calloused fingers bringing your cold hand to his mouth, gifting you another kiss before departing to the great hall. In the background, two different incessant croaks started to sound, menacingly.

Ignoring the persistent screams Ivar takes a few steps back, nodding to you as a farewell before leaving you on the same spot he found you, contemplating the silver water sway calmly like a child in the arms of the moon.

The physical pain of the braids tugging your skin no longer felt as bad.

You know that in a matter of hours, the weight of a crown would take over it.

As the moon fell upon the streets of Kattegat and painted the town in silver, the usually calm atmosphere that came with the darkness never got the chance of manifesting itself. Slowly but steadily, the soft argent shade was killed by rows and rows of bright fire, the voices of the people drowning the cracking of the fires.

Tonight, the king is crowning his queen.

“Do not forget the sacrifice, my King,” Ragnhild mumbles to Ivar, hot breath caressing his neck and ear like the touch of a lover, words dragging slowly like a menacing snake. Her hands tuck on the fur she was putting on Ivar, positioning them comfortably over his shoulders as he observes another thrall working on the last details for his wedding silently at the other side of the room. “you must do everything it is in your hands to protect your new family.” Still sitting in his fur coated chair, Ivar frowns.

“What is it that I have to protect them from, hm?” He questioned, counting the men and sources he had in his hands as he prepared himself to reprimand the mouthy thrall. “You have seen the army I own. Nothing will touch anything that is mine. Not her, nor Kattegat.” In the middle of her task, Ragnhild pauses for an instant.

“You can protect your loved ones from outsiders, but you cannot protect your wife from your own people.”

“I can punish them.” Ivar doesn’t miss a beat.

“Not when the harm cannot be seen. Or proved.” At this, Ivar turns around, chest puffed out at the idea of such menace.

“Explain yourself, thrall.” Ragnhild observes him pleasantly before walking around and bringing her hands to his hair, ready to braid it back again.

 “You must remember the nature of this marriage, my King.” Her fingers start to take strands of hair slowly. “You have heard yourself first-hand what they thought about your mother-in-law and her offspring.” Discreetly, she leans closer to him. “Snakes cannot do anything else but hiss.” Under her soft touch and swift words, Ivar frowns.

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[afewmarvelousthoughts]

No Surrender: Part 2

Part 1

Request: hey i love your writing!! i was wondering if you could write something where the ready and bucky are in the same hydra facility and try to escape together. idk maybe that’s bad but i love your writing!!

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: In the winter of 1945 Hydra captures Sargent James Barnes. After months spent unconscious, he wakes up in a cell with you and a new addition on his left side. Quickly it becomes clear that being locked up together may be the best bout of luck either of you has had in a while… Maybe together the two of you have a chance of making it out of this hell alive. Now, 69 years later the two of you are brought back together, scars and all. War changes everyone it touches but maybe, together, you can both find some kind of peace. 

Warnings: Light angst, heavy emotions, that’s really it

A/N: Lol, one shot. I know better. This is prob going to be a 3 part with an epilogue. Why? Because this is A Few Marvelous Thoughts and that’s how things are done here. The stories are long and the writer is overly invested in ALL OF THEM.  And, honestly, I kind of liked doing something that brought the Howlers into the mix and some Peggy and... yeah. I’m just enjoying myself. I hope y’all enjoy it too!

Tags are open!

@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4@piensa-bonito @buckysstar @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @handplucked  @krugeforeveryone @jewelofwinter @get-loki @just-a-littlebit-of-everything

June 2014

You stare at your muted reflection in the airplane window tracing the scar on your cheek. It’s not quite as visible as it once was but you can feel it all the same.

Pulling your eyes away you check the screen on the back of the seat in front of you. One more hour until DC. It had been 69 years, what was one more hour… Still, you can’t keep your heeled foot from jiggling nervously.

Opening your iPad you look over the files Sharon sent you, thinking as you often do just how much easier this kind of tech would have made yours and Peg’s lives back in the day. 

You wish Stark was here to give him shit for not coming up with this sooner. Thinking of your old friends always brings a sad smile to your face. Absentmindedly you fiddle with the dog tags and wedding rings always hanging around your neck from a long chain.

Steve and someone named Wilson had brought him in. Physically he was fine, some minor injuries but nothing to cause concern. Mentally… severe memory loss, disorientation, disassociation, PTSD, on and on. Quickly you scroll past it all, you didn’t need to read about it to know that a lifetime with Hydra could leave a person fractured. At the end was what you wanted. A photo.

He looked much the same. Dark hair and those spectacular blue eyes but… he was changed, even in a photo, you could see that. Really though you were all changed. Not one of you left that war or any of the ones that followed without wounds that wouldn’t heal.

Tenderly your fingers touch the image on the screen. You’re lost in memories of a day so long ago that the flight attendant startles you when she approaches.

“Sorry, ma'am,” she smiles brightly, “would you like another gin and tonic before we land?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.” It wouldn’t do anything to calm your nerves of course, but you liked the taste.

The first sip reminds you you’ll also need to see Peg… it got harder every time. Silently you pray to anything that will listen for her to be lucid so you can tell her you found him, finally after all these years. Sharon said that seeing Steve helped her, he brought back the old Peg. Maybe you’d get lucky. Though… guilt roils in your gut.

You’d spent the last couple of years actively avoiding Steve Rogers. All you could think was that you could only give him a story of regret, one more may have been. He didn’t need that. Something in your heart reminds you though, you have more than that to give him. Stories of his old friends no one else could tell. How the Howlers never forgot him, how every toast until the very end held his name… and Bucky’s. What kind of legacy he really left with the people that mattered.

A tear winds its way down your cheek and you dash it away. You’d make up for it now. Tell them both the rest of their story. Maybe it would be a comfort.

When the wheels meet the tarmac your heart lodges in your throat. You rush off the plane to the nearest restroom to inspect yourself. In the floor length mirror, you smooth a hand over your breezy white blouse tucked into a pair of camel high waist trousers. The slim straight fit showed off your figure just enough. To anyone, you would look like a woman in her early 40’s maybe. A few grey hairs, soft lines on your face, but still young enough and certainly not 94.

You take a shaky breath, reapply your red lipstick, and stride confidently out of the airport, ready as you’ll ever be.

From the outside, it looks like a nondescript, if not a touch run down, office building. You know it’s an old S.H.I.E.L.D. office. They’re holding him here, assessing him, trying to figure out exactly what to do in a situation that bucks just about every bit of protocol there is in one way or another.

“Thank you,” you say to the agent in the front seat. 

Your accent had softened over the decades. This thought makes worry curl in your gut. The chances of him recognizing you are so slim. You were older, your voice was different… Hell, the report said he had trouble remembering Steve and they’d known one another their whole lives until the war. He’d only known you for a day…

“Are you ok?” The young man asks gently.

“Yes, sorry…” Your hand curls around the handle.

“Don’t know why they’re sending someone like you in with a monster like that. If you don’t wanna to go I’ll take you to your hotel or some-”

Your well-manicured hand wrapped around his throat cuts him off, “If that’s what you think that man is,” your voice a malicious purr, “I highly suggest you find a new line of work, boy.” You release him and go to open the door.

Turning back to him you catch his slack-jawed expression, “That man deserves your respect. Am I clear?”

“Y-Yes ma’am,” he stammers.

“Good,” you open the door and step out, strutting up to the building, adding just a touch of extra sway to your hips for good measure.

At the door, you push a button to activate the com, “Y/N Bernard, here for Sharon Carter.” There’s no response just a click.

As you enter the sparse lobby you hear the elevator ding, the doors swoosh, your body tenses on reflex. When a blonde with a bright smile exits though, you relax.

“Aunt Y/N!” Sharon calls, her tone full of excitement. She rushes you and you embrace your best friend’s favorite niece. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too my darling,” you pull the girl back and look at her. So much like her mother but she inherited Peggy’s fire.

“Come on, let’s get started.” You follow her into the elevator.

As the doors close and the elevator moves down, you reach into your tote to pull out a small box, “I never forget, mon chaton.”

Sharon laughs, taking the box from you, “You didn’t have to.” She lifts one of the macarons out, taking a bite, savoring it.

“Bah,” you wave away her protest, “of course I did.” Every time you saw Sharon you brought her some. Her whole life.

She takes a deep shaky breath, closing the lid, “Thank you Aunt Y/N.” Tenderly you cup the side of her face with your left hand, she shakes her head, “I’m ok.”

“No, you’re not. Nor should you be,” you tuck a strand of hair behind her ear as the elevator settles. “I’m here for you, always, you know that?”

“I do.” The doors slide open and you follow your adopted niece out. Heart kicking up a notch.

Sharon leads you down a corridor to a conference room. A young man with a kind smile rounds the corner just before she opens the door.

“Hey, Sam,” Sharon nods at him.

“Hey,” he returns the nod. “You must be Mrs. Bernard. Sam Wilson, it’s good to meet you,” he extends a hand and you take it giving it a shake.

“It’s, miss,” you say smiling. “But you can call me, Y/N. Thank you for what you did.”

Sam shakes his head, “Just helping out a fellow soldier, no need for thanks.”

“You have it anyway,” you smile, liking this young man already.

Sharon opens the door and your eyes see, not initially Steve Rogers as you expect, but Tony Stark. Once he registers who you are his jaw hits the floor, eyes wide with shock.

“You look well Anthony,” a mischievous smile curls your lips, “certainly better than the last time I saw you.”

“How do you…?” Sharon, standing to your right, looks like she may not want to know the answer.

You laugh, “Oh no darling, nothing like that. I simply got Anthony here out of a pinch in where was it Morocco?”

“Monaco,” Tony says, smiling a smile that makes you think of his father.

“Ah, yes Monaco,” Sam rounds the table and takes a seat to Tony’s left. “You couldn’t have been 17. Pissed off the wrong person and landed in a cell.”

“And somehow you got me out. Though I was more scared of you than the cops after that verbal lashing.”

“That sounds like my Aunt Y/N,” Sharon says smiling.

Tony’s brows raise trying to work that one out, “But you never told my dad.”

“What point was there to tell, Howard? He would have just thrown some overblown fit. He loved to hear himself talk, especially when he was angry.”

Tony laughs, “You’re not wrong.”

“Sounds like you knew Howard well,” a voice from the back left corner of the room says causing you to jump a little. Steve Rogers is leaning there, arms crossed, face dark, watching you.

You swallow hard, “I did. I knew them all… very well.”

He saunters to the table, “So I saw,” slamming down a thick file before he takes a seat. You hold his gaze for a second. The emotion passing between the two of you beyond words.

“Ooook,” Tony breaks the silence and you turn to him a tense smile on your lips. “I’m assuming you’re some kind of super soldier too.”

You take a seat next to Sharon, across from Tony. “I wouldn’t say soldier but I am… enhanced. Much like Captain Rogers and Sargent Barnes. Only difference is I was never put on ice.”

“So you were born in…?” Sam is studying you with fascination.

“1920, I’m 94 years old,” he makes a whistling noise and you laugh.

The door opens and a slender brunette rushes in, “Sorry, had another fire to put out.” Agent Hill looks at you as you stand, “I’m-”

“Agent Hill,” you smile at her, “Nick spoke highly of you.” Your knowing gaze seems to convey that you’re all too aware that he’s fully alive. It would take a cataclysm to kill Nick Fury. Thank god for it.

“And you’re, Y/N Bernard,” her head shakes and an awkward smile curls her lips. “I never thought I’d have the honor.”

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

She rounds the table and sits at the head opposite Steve, taking a deep breath. “Did you all start without me?”

“Nope,” Sharon slides a tablet to her.

“Good. We wanted to take a moment to brief you on the predicament we’re in, Ms. Bernard.”

“Y/N, please.”

“Y/N,” Hill smiles, “we think things are going to move quickly. The government wants to clean this mess up and do things under the radar as much as possible. That means we have to work fast to get our bearings and determine the best course of action.”

“Bearings regarding S.H.I.E.L.D. or Sargent Barnes?” You ask, tone even but suspect.

“Both,” Hill runs a hand over her face. “We’ve had Barnes for almost two weeks. So far they’re letting us hold him, mainly because no one else is equipped, but who knows how long that will last. Technically he’s considered a P.O.W. and Wilson is pulling any strings he can to sort that situation out. Get Barnes the care he deserves.”

You look to Sam, his eyes are on the wood of the table hands clasped in front of him. The Howlers would have liked this one. Out of habit you pull the necklace from your shirt and begin to fiddle with the contents.

“However, in the month since S.H.I.E.L.D. was exposed…” She clears her throat. You understand her pain, the thought that Hydra was so close… “Well, it’s become pretty apparent that there’s no rebuilding it.”

Sharon glances over to you. Slipping your hand into hers you give it a squeeze. Losing S.H.I.E.L.D. was like losing a part of yourselves.

“Stark has offered an alternative, kind of an official/unofficial organization,” Tony nods, “but that’s for another time. Right now we have to deal with the very real possibility of Barnes being put on trial.” Your blood runs cold, you release Sharon’s hand, worried you may accidentally break it.

“On trial for what exactly?” You spit.

Hill’s look is soft, sympathetic, “Anything they can pin on him.”

“That’s preposterous,” you try to take a deep breath to calm yourself.

“We agree,” Hill nods. “That’s why we’re trying to make sure we have anything we can to prove that whatever actions he partook in when he was with them was against his will.” 

Her jaw tenses, “Agent Carter has implied you may be able to help with that. There’s not a lot on file about you. You’re officially listed as retired, have been for over 40 years. I’ve heard stories of course but…”

“I’ll tell you anything you need to know. Put me on the stand if you must.”

“Aunt Y/N, that would-” Sharon’s eyes are filled with fear.

“Expose me? I know, mon chaton, I know,” your smile is tender. “It doesn’t matter. For him, I would do anything.”

Hill goes to speak but Steve cuts her off, his voice low, heavy with emotion, “Why?”

You drag your eyes to the brooding Captain, “Because, Captain Rogers, 69 years ago Bucky Barnes saved my life.” Your voice cracks despite your efforts, “And he’s here today because of that.” Sharon’s hand rests on your knee, trying to provide comfort. She doesn’t know that some hurts are too deep for comfort.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Hill’s voice is soft. “If it comes to that we will talk strategy. How about we break for now. I need,” she rubs the bridge of her nose, “something.”

Everyone stands to leave. You direct Sharon to look after Agent Hill and go to follow them all out when Steve grabs your arm.

“I think we need to talk,” his blue eyes are stormy.

“I agree,” you look into the conference room.

“No, follow me,” he walks to the elevators without once looking back.

It’s possible that it’s the most awkward elevator ride of your long life. When the doors open he walks to the end of the hall, a door opening to a steep flight of stairs.

“Will those be a problem,” he glances down to your breakneck stilettos.

You raise an eyebrow at him, “You’d be surprised what I can do in heels, Captain Rogers.” He holds the door and you sprint up them, never teetering and not the least bit winded, smirking a bit at him as he comes up behind you.

Inwardly you thank god that he wanted to talk outside, you want a cigarette, desperately. Reaching into your bag you pull the pack and flick one up skillfully, pulling it out with red lips. He’s watching and you smile with the unlit cigarette between your lips.

“Want one?” You hold the pack out. He shrugs and takes one. You’re about to pull out your matches when he flicks up a zippo.  

“Light?” You nod and he lights yours before his own. A smile plays on your lips as you try to think of the last time a man lit your cigarette.

He walks to the edge of the roof and sits on the low wall facing you. Taking a drag he finally speaks, “I never smoked before… this,” he gestures to his body. “So I never really knew what the appeal was but the motion is-”

“Soothing,” you finish sitting next to him. “I miss what nicotine used to do to me. Can’t tell you how often I have wished I could get drunk still. Never thought I’d miss a good hangover.”

He laughs a little, “Yeah.” The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, lost in your own thoughts.

“What did you mean?” Rogers is staring off into the distance.

“Sorry?” You’re unsure what he wants you to clarify.

“When you said he’s here because he saved you… what did you mean?”

Your heart squeezes. Memories of that place, the sound of the soldiers coming, the bunker shaking, the look on his face as he shoved you into that crawl space… So long ago but it may as well have been yesterday.

Taking a deep breath you dive in, “Hydra captured me in January 1945…”

The two of you burn through two more cigarettes each as tell him your story. You keep the part about promises of dances and that kiss to yourself. Though your hand lingers near your lips as you remember.

“I crawled through that tunnel for what must have been a mile,” you take a drag. “When I finally got out I ran for two days until I came across a British camp. They thought I was Hydra with the uniform and all. I kept telling them, ‘My name is Y/N Bernard, I am French Resistance Lyon. I have a message for Captain America.’ But they wouldn’t-”

“Wait,” he holds up a hand, “what was the message.”

Oh. You had told him Bucky said find Steve and the Howlers but the message… You hold Steve’s gaze, “I was to tell you that it wasn’t the end of the line.” Somehow you had maintained composure through the whole thing but now tears spill from your eyes.

Rogers looks away, sniffing hard, wiping at his own eyes. His elbows rest on his knees and he laughs a bit, shaking his head, “It really was him then.”

“Oui,” you sit straighter trying to get a hold of yourself. “Of course they didn’t believe me. Threw me in shackles and transported me to London.” Steve’s eyes burn into you but you can’t look at him.

“Once there they locked me in an interrogation room for hours until they found, Peg,” your voice almost breaks but you push through it. “Since… since I was a woman and it had to do with you they thought she was best. I told her everything. Begged, cried, pleaded her to bring me to you, I had a message we didn’t have time…” Your hands are trembling with emotion, “Finally I just told her the message, just to pass it along. Lock me in a cell, whatever she had to do just to tell you.”

Finally, you can look at him, “That’s when she told me you had died. But she believed me, apparently, you had shared that pledge you and Bucky had with her.” 

He nods and you press on, “She took me to the Howlers immediately. Said we had a mission. At first, they didn’t believe some broad but Dugan,” you have to take a breath, “he said that if there was even a chance we had to take it.”

“Sounds like him,” Steve smiles sadly.

“It does, yes,” your hand toys with the tags, “We left the next day.” You shake your head, the lump in your throat growing, “We weren’t fast enough… I knew we wouldn’t be,” tears stream down your face now. 

“I failed him. He saved me and I didn’t make it back in time,” a sob tears out before you can stop it. You hadn’t ever told this story not the full thing… it felt like a special kind of hell.

Steve lays a hand on your back. You look to him, “We didn’t stop looking though. Every base, every agent, we tried to find something, anything, that would lead us to him. But… we never found him…”

“You were a Howler,” his tone is filled with respect.

You nod, “I was. Proud to be too.” You squeeze his knee, “They never forgot you, either of you.”

Tears sparkle in Steve’s eyes, “Did you know… when I… when I woke up?”

Shame rolls over you but you don’t look away, “I knew the day they found you, Fury called me…”

“Then why… I mean I know we didn’t know each other but… I,” he wipes his eyes and stands to take a few paces. “It would have been good to have someone who knew… what… what it’s like to…”

“Be so out of place?” He nods. “I know,” you look at the ground, tears streaming, “I’m so sorry.” You hold in a sob and try to compose yourself before looking up at him.

“All I could think was that I failed you both, that all I could give you were empty apologies.” He opens his mouth but you hold up a hand, “I know that’s not right… and I’m sorry. It’s a shit excuse, but it is the truth. I’d like to make it up to you if I can.”

Steve shakes his head, “You don’t have to make anything up. I understand.” A smile fills his face, “I’m just happy we have another Howler back where she belongs.”

Something between a laugh and a sob breaks from you and he holds out a hand. When you take it Steve pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. The two of you hold one another and have a good cry for a bit.

“Come on,” he pulls back, “let’s head in.”

You follow him back inside and he leads you to a different section than where the conference room from earlier was. Two guards, heavily armed, eye you as you pass through sliding bulletproof doors.

He pauses in front of a nondescript door and turns to you thumb nervously tapping on the handle. “This is just the monitor room but… do you want to see him?”

Your fingers freeze on the dog tags you’d been fiddling with and stare at him suddenly unable to speak. The obvious answer was yes but… what if it was bad… what if he’s feral or catatonic or- It doesn’t matter.

“Yes,” the word finally crawls from your mouth. Steve smiles opening the door, holding it to allow you entry.

Sam’s already there and gives you a warm smile, “I’ll leave you two.” He gives Steve’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he walks out.

There’s a man wearing simple scrubs sitting on a cot with his back pressed to the wall, head leaned back, a knee pulled up with his metal left arm resting on it. Music is playing from speakers you can’t see, he softly sings along smiling gently.

Your jaw hangs open. This isn’t the ghost you were anticipating. This is Bucky.

“He’s had a good day,” Steve’s voice reaches you but you can’t look away.

Composure leaves you. Doubling over as if you’ve been hit you weep, a huge smile on your face. Pressing the dog tags and rings to your lips you eke out, “He’s ok, Dummy. He’s safe. It’s over, Dummy.”

Steve doesn’t say anything for a minute then you feel his hand on your back, “It’s a lot I know. Here,” he gently lifts you and guides you to a desk chair passing you a box of tissues.

“Thank you,” you wipe at the mascara streaming down your face.

“I’m sorry but… did you say dummy a second ago?” He takes the seat next to you.

You smile, “I did.”

“As in, Dum Dum Dugan.”

Nodding you hold up the necklace, “My husband.”

“That has to be one of the first stories you regale me with,” Steve laughs.

“Deal,” your eyes wander back to one of the screens, fingers hovering over the image of Bucky. You can’t help but think of another cot in another cell. Snapping your eyes shut you remind yourself that this isn’t Hydra… well not anymore.

There’s a knock at the door, “Come in,” Steve replies. Sam and a woman you haven’t met enter. You stand wiping at your eyes a bit more, certain it’s all beyond saving anyway.

Steve introduces you, “Y/N, this is Dr. Laura Carr. She’s the psychologist taking point with Bucky, former S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Dr. Carr takes your hand, “It’s a pleasure.”

“Thank you for being willing to help him, Doctor,” you give her a warm smile.

“No thanks needed. It’s the right thing to do.” She laughs a little, “And I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was more than a little fascinated by the case.”

You like her honesty, “I think that’s a good thing. Curiosity drives us to think outside set parameters,” Sharon comes in as you speak, “and I believe you’re going to need that in this case.” Dr. Carr nods.

Steve looks back at the screen then to you, “Dr. Carr,” he throws her a smile, “do you think Y/N, here could see Bucky today?” Your breath catches and you swear you can hardly feel your heartbeat.

The doctor eyes you, “Sharon told me you two have a history, though she was pretty vague with the details.”

“My apologies, doctor,” you smile softly at Sharon, “the life I’ve led has made vague the default. Being with S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m sure you understand.”

She nods, “I do. It always made things more complicated when your patients couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell you everything.” She takes a moment and looks to Steve, “You’re his medical power of attorney, if you trust her I would say that today would be fine. Though I will want to monitor the exchange.”

“I trust her,” some tension slides from you at Steve’s words, “I’m ok with you watching. Y/N?”

“Of course,” you nod. “But… there’s something I need to get first.” Confusion settles on the faces around you, “Just a promise I made a long time ago that I’d like to keep. Could I use your car, Sharon?”

“I can drive you,” she walks to your side.

“Fantastic!” You smile up at Steve, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

-

“Bread?” Sharon eyes the large french loaf you’re cradling as you get back in the car.

“Oui.”

“Not what I was expecting but… ok.”

“What were you expecting, mon chaton?”

She laughs, “I don’t know. Whiskey, brandy, lingerie.”

You laugh fully, it feels good after the weight of the day thus far, “I don’t usually prefer an audience when lingerie is involved, kitten.”

“Please, stop there,” Sharon’s face scrunches in mock disgust.

As she parks the tone shifts, “Will you be ok, Aunt Y/N… seeing him?” She takes your hand giving it a squeeze, “It’s ok if you want to-”

“My sweet girl,” you squeeze back, “I have not been this ok in a long, long time.” Sharon smiles and nods.

Back in the monitor room everyone looks just as confused when you enter with the bread. Steve is already in the room the two talking casually about something.

“You can go in whenever you’re ready, Y/N,” Dr. Carr tells you. “I thought it best to have Steve go in as a sort of warm up. Keep in mind he’s suffering from severe memory loss, he may not know you so don’t be put off by that.”

“I’ve grown strangely used to my friends not knowing me,” sadness flits across Sharon’s features, “doesn’t make me any less happy to see them.” The doctor nods and Sharon leads you down the hall.

The door is heavy, reinforced steel. She enters a code and does a retina scan before the locks give way. You had expected this to lead to the room but there’s just a hall. You go through two more less enforced doors before stopping at one that looks normal.

“You ready?” She asks you. Your grip on the bread tightens a little. The perfect crackle of the crust hits your ears and you know.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, it’s all yours,” she steps behind you, “just let me get past the last door then knock.”

As the door behind you closes you raise your fist, take a deep breath, and rap on the door. The metal tings and you realize that the normalcy is a bit of a front. A moment later Steve opens the door a nervous smile on his lips. He eyes the bread but doesn’t say anything.

“Buck, there’s someone who wants to see you if that’s ok?”

“Sure?” His voice hits you like a freight train. Steve leads you into the room, “Don’t know who would want-” His words halt when he sees you.

You press down the hope that rises in your chest. He doesn’t know you, the chances are too slim. He’s surprised is all, a new person, one he can’t remember wants to see him and he doesn’t know why. You tell yourself you’ve seen this before in Peg, Dernier, and Juniper. This is the same. Don’t get excited.

“Hello, Sargent Barnes,” your voice is soft, heart thundering in your chest. He stands slowly, those eyes you remember so well, studying you. You try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“I know this may be confusing. And that you likely don’t know who I am… That’s ok. I just… wanted to see that you were well and… bring you this.” Tentatively you hold the bread out to him. He takes the wrapped loaf and opens it.

You swear a smile is playing on his lips, “Bread?”

“Oui. I-I know it seems silly-”

“Did you fly all the way from Lyon to bring it to me?” The breath leaves you. Hot tears stream down your face instantly. 

He smiles, that bright true smile and sets the bread down on the edge of his cot, “I’m glad you’re ok, Y/N.”

“Bucky,” your voice is thick with emotion. Without thought you fling yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His arms encircle you holding you tight. When you feel a tremor pass through him you realize he’s crying too.

“I’m so sorry,” you say over and over again.

“Hush,” he whispers, pulling back he looks at you. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I do though. I wasn’t fast enough I-”

“Stop,” his right-hand cups your face. The silence hangs for a moment while you try to find your bearings.

“I don’t know how or why, but you were always one of the first things I’d remember when my memories would come back. Before they…” His whole body shakes and you know exactly what he means. “You gave me hope. Reminded me that there was no surrender,” his lips twitch up into a crooked smile and your heart clenches.

“It’s not from Lyon,” you give him a grin. “But it is French, thought you had waited long enough for some decent bread.”

He laughs, “Well, it’ll do. For now.”

Oh yeah, there’s more to come.