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Chapter Text

Brooklyn, November 1918

The cold had taken root in everything that winter—clothing, breath, bone. It pressed against the windows of the Rogers’ apartment like a second skin, frost curling along the edges of the glass despite the pot of boiling water on the stove and the fire burning low in the parlor. The walls of the Brooklyn tenement were too thin to keep it out, and the wind howled like it knew their grief was coming.

Sarah Rogers gritted her teeth and bore down, sweat slicking her brow as she labored on the narrow bed. She refused to cry out. Daphne was only a year old, asleep in a makeshift cradle across the room, tucked beneath every blanket Sarah could spare. The baby stirred now and then, tiny fists twitching against a knit shawl, her breath rising and falling in soft clouds.

Beside the bed, Mrs. Garrison from the second floor worked in silence. A basin of lukewarm water sat at her feet, towels folded and stained on the floor. She had seen many births, too many in rooms like this—drafty, dark, lit by the weak glow of coal-stove embers and stubborn women.

“Almost there, Sarah,” she murmured. “Just one more push, love.”

Sarah clenched her jaw. She thought about her husband’s last letter, the one she kept tucked beneath her pillow—already creased and reread into near oblivion. Can’t wait to meet him or her. We’ll be home before you know it, sweetheart. But he wasn’t home. He hadn’t even made it to Christmas.

She bore down again, hard enough to make the world go white.

And then: a cry. High and reedy at first, then loud and insistent—a defiant little thing that filled the apartment like trumpet brass.

Sarah collapsed back against the mattress, tears streaking her temples, though she didn’t sob. She barely breathed. She reached out, hands shaking, as Mrs. Garrison wrapped the newborn in a ragged towel.

“It’s a boy,” the woman whispered, placing the baby gently against Sarah’s chest.

A boy.

Sarah pressed her cheek to his damp forehead and let her fingers run across the delicate, perfect curve of his ear. His fists flailed like he was already trying to fight the world.

“Steven,” she whispered. “Steven Grant Rogers. You came just in time.”

She sat like that for a long moment, rocking gently, until Daphne stirred from her cradle with a groggy whimper. The toddler sat up with her fine blonde hair mussed, blinking sleep from her eyes. She didn’t cry. She simply held out her arms.

Sarah shifted Steve carefully and reached to pull Daphne into bed beside her. One baby in each arm. One for the world she still hoped for. One to remind her of the world that was gone.

It was only a few weeks later that the knock came.

She knew before she opened the door. The footsteps on the stairs had been too slow, too heavy. The silence on the other side of the threshold stretched out like a held breath.

The telegram was short. Formal. Cold.

The War Department regrets to inform you that your husband, Private Joseph Rogers, was killed in action near the River Somme.

She stared at the paper until her eyes burned. Her mouth moved, but no sound came.

Daphne watched her from the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. Steve slept in a crate by the stove, a hot water bottle nestled against his side.

Sarah didn’t cry. She folded the letter carefully, pressed it flat with her hand, and set it down beside the sewing basket.

Then she picked up her needle and thread.

The coat was still draped over the back of the chair—Joe’s old one. Torn near the pocket, the lining frayed. She had meant to mend it before he left.

The stitches were crooked at first. Her hands were trembling. But she kept sewing.

Stitch after stitch after stitch.

Because she still had two babies to keep warm. And winter hadn’t let go.

• • • • • • •

1923

The air in Brooklyn smelled like sawdust, horses, and coal smoke that spring. Sunlight streamed down over the streetcars and brick stoops, over the lines of laundry strung between buildings and the children darting through puddles in too-big shoes. By the time the Barnes family arrived, the block was humming with the usual chatter of neighbors, hammering from upstairs renovations, and a baby crying somewhere behind the walls.

George Barnes stepped down from the moving truck with a grunt and a hand to his lower back. He was still lean, still strong, but war had settled in his bones. His left knee clicked when he bent, and sometimes—when he was quiet too long—his wife Winnie knew he was thinking about France again. But today wasn’t about the past.

It was about starting over.

“James, don’t wander off,” Winnie called, shifting baby Rebecca from one hip to the other as she climbed the front steps of the brownstone they’d been lucky to find. “George, the crib’s wobbling again. I told you the leg’s not screwed on right—”

George raised both palms like surrender. “It made it through the train, didn’t it?”

Winnie rolled her eyes but smiled. Her hair was swept into a loose scarf, and her dress was wrinkled from travel, but there was nothing dim about her. She moved like someone used to being in charge, with warmth that spilled over onto anyone who got too close.

Down the block, Sarah Rogers stepped outside, wiping her hands on her apron. She recognized the look—new family, too many boxes, one husband who meant well but hadn’t measured anything before packing. She called out, “Need a hand?”

Winnie looked up in surprise. “God, yes. I’ll take two if you’ve got ‘em.”

Sarah laughed and came down the stoop, shoes clapping lightly against the stone. “Name’s Sarah Rogers. We’re just over there, two doors down. I’ve got a hammer, a strong back, and a pot of tea once you're through the worst of it.”

“I like you already,” the woman replied, adjusting the child on her hip. “I’m Winnie. That’s George—my husband—and our little ones, James and Rebecca.”

“My two are Daphne and Steve.” She gestured to the steps, where Daphne stood with her arms folded and Steve clinging to the hem of her dress.

George appeared then, carrying a wooden chair under one arm and a toolbox in the other. His sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms marked by old scars and faded ink. He nodded toward Sarah.

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Welcome home,” she said simply.

The pause that followed was small, respectful. George’s jaw flexed once, and he gave another quiet nod.

“Thanks.”

From the upstairs landing, six-year-old Daphne Rogers sat with her arms around Steve, who at five was all knobby elbows and pale skin, his head tucked sleepily against her shoulder. Daphne’s hair was falling out of its braid again—she never stayed still long enough for Sarah to finish it properly—and her dress was patched at the knees from a recent fall.

She watched the new family with serious, unblinking eyes.

Bucky, as he would soon insist on being called, was already talking a mile a minute, asking what room he’d get, if he could have a dog here, and whether anyone nearby played stickball.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing to the kids on the stairs.

Winnie looked up. “Must be the Rogers children.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like being pointed at.

Bucky glanced up and grinned. “Hi!”

Steve waved back uncertainly.

Sarah exchanged a knowing glance with Winnie. “That one’s sharper than a sewing needle,” she said fondly, gesturing towards Daphne.

Winnie smiled. “I’ve got one just like her.” She looked down at Rebecca, who was now squirming in her arms to get a better look at Daphne.

From then on, Rebecca would follow Daphne wherever she went—through hallways, across stoops, even up into the attic once, where Daphne read her fairy tales by lamplight. Daphne didn’t mind. She liked that someone listened.

And over time, the Rogers and Barnes families wove themselves into each other’s lives without fanfare. Sarah and Winnie spent mornings over coffee and laundry, sharing scissors and stories. George helped patch a pipe under the Rogers’ sink. The boys—Steve and Bucky—became inseparable.

• • • • • • •

The alley behind the tenement buildings was cracked and narrow, cluttered with old milk crates, clotheslines that dipped too low, and one stubborn cat who refused to move for anyone. But to the neighborhood kids, it was their kingdom. That afternoon, the sound of sticks clacking echoed between the brick walls, followed by laughter—one high and breathless, the other rough and triumphant.

“Got you again!” Bucky shouted, brandishing his stick like a sword.

Steve grinned, winded but grinning. “Only because you cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat. I’m just faster.”

“You distracted me with that stupid bird impression.”

“That bird impression was brilliant,” Bucky argued, puffing out his chest.

They had been inseparable since the Barnes family moved in six months earlier. Steve’s quiet stubbornness and quick thinking played well off Bucky’s bold energy and mischief. They didn’t have to say much to know what the other was thinking.

A screen door slammed open behind them.

“Steve!” came Daphne’s voice, sharp and no-nonsense.

Bucky turned just in time to see her coming down the steps in mismatched socks and a smudge of flour on her cheek. She carried herself like she was already grown—one hand on her hip, the other wiping her palms on her skirt. She couldn’t have been more than six, but she looked at them like she was thirty.

“Ma says get inside and wash up before you track mud through the kitchen.”

Steve sighed. “Two more minutes?”

“Nope,” Daphne said, grabbing him by the elbow and tugging. “Now.”

Steve shot Bucky an apologetic look before disappearing inside with her.

Bucky stayed where he was, stick still in hand, frowning slightly.

“She didn’t even say hi,” he muttered to no one. “Bossy. Thinks she knows everything.”

Inside, Daphne rinsed Steve’s hands at the sink, muttering about how he was always covered in dirt. Steve looked up at her with a grin.

“You know Bucky thinks you’re scary, right?”

“I am,” Daphne said, drying his hands. 

• • • • • • •

1924

Time stitched the two families together as easily as a patch on a worn sleeve.

By the end of their first year living on the same block, the Barnes and Rogers households had become almost indistinguishable—two separate apartments, yes, but the door between them might as well have been left open. George and Sarah passed tools between floors, Winnie and Daphne shared buttons and bobbins, and the children rarely asked permission before barging in or borrowing a book.

Mornings often began with Sarah leaning out her kitchen window to ask if Winnie had any sugar, and ended with Winnie pressing a Tupperware of leftovers into Sarah’s hands while pretending not to notice how thin her friend’s face had become.

“You give too much away,” Sarah would scold gently, already pocketing the dish.

“And you don’t take enough,” Winnie would reply, folding another dish towel with a wink.

When times were tight—and they often were—they swapped what they had: bread for soup, flour for butter, hours of childcare traded for an evening of mending. The children adapted without complaint, as kids often do when the adults around them make love look like endurance.

One crisp October afternoon, the two women sat on the Rogers’ front stoop, baskets of thread and torn hems between them. Sarah held a boy’s coat in her lap—Steve’s, with the elbow completely gone—and Winnie was fussing with a pair of Rebecca’s overalls that had seen too many climbs up the fire escape.

Their laughter carried up and down the block. They traded gossip, tips, and the occasional judgment of a neighbor’s laundry habits.

Inside, Daphne sat cross-legged on the floor beside Sarah’s sewing chair, a pile of fabric scraps at her feet. Her tongue poked out slightly between her lips as she tried to line up two crooked edges. Her stitches were too wide and uneven, but she worked slowly and carefully, determined to get it right.

Rebecca, barely four, was sprawled beside her with a doll in one hand and a fabric triangle in the other, babbling softly to herself and copying every movement Daphne made with exaggerated importance.

“Hold the thread like this, Becky,” Daphne said, patient and focused. “No—see? You pulled it too fast. Start over.”

Rebecca stuck out her bottom lip but tried again. She didn’t care much about sewing—she just liked sitting beside Daphne.

“You’re going to be a teacher someday,” Sarah remarked from her chair, glancing down at the girls.

Daphne didn’t look up. “I’m going to be a writer.”

“Oh?” Winnie teased gently. “Sewing’s not romantic enough for you?”

“It’s fine,” Daphne muttered, struggling with a knot.

Sarah and Winnie shared a look, half amusement, half something else. 

That night, George came over with his toolbox to fix the leaky pipe under the Rogers’ sink. He worked in silence while the girls played with thread and the boys tried to build a fortress out of stacked soup cans in the hallway. At one point, Bucky wandered past the living room and paused at the doorway, watching Daphne knot her thread for a moment before she noticed and narrowed her eyes.

“Got something to say?”

Bucky smirked. “Nope. Just wondering if you ever sew anything useful.”

“Want me to stitch your mouth shut?”

“Maybe later.”

He left before she could respond, grinning to himself.

In the corner, Rebecca leaned against Daphne’s arm and whispered, “He likes you.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “He likes being annoying.”

Rebecca nodded, as if it were the same thing.

Chapter Text

1925

The classroom smelled like chalk and old paper, like sun-warmed wood and pencil shavings. Daphne sat at her desk in the second row, hands folded neatly on her lap, even as her eyes lingered on the open book in front of her. The page was marked with diagrams of pulleys and levers—basic physics, nothing too complex—but she had read ahead three chapters already. She could recite them from memory if asked.

She didn’t look up when the door creaked open. She only glanced over when her teacher, Mrs. Bellingham, murmured, “Daphne, sweetie—your mother’s here.”

The whole class turned. Sarah Rogers stood just inside the doorway, still wearing her apron, her hands wringing the edge of it. She looked tired in the way only mothers did—her hair pinned hastily, her eyes kind but heavy.

Daphne stood without a word and collected her things. She didn’t say goodbye.

The walk home was quiet. The sound of the city moved around them—carriages rattling, men shouting over crates at the dock—but between Sarah and her daughter, there was only the faint rustle of fabric and the echo of unspoken things.

Inside the kitchen, Daphne set down her schoolbooks on the table and waited.

Sarah didn’t sit. She moved instead to the counter, fussing with a needle and thread, something to keep her hands busy. Her voice, when it came, was gentle but certain.

“I spoke to Mrs. Bellingham. Told her you wouldn’t be coming back.”

Daphne’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the chair.

“I need your help at home. Just for a while,” Sarah added, threading the needle and pulling it taut. “Orders have been picking up, and with Steve getting sick again…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

Daphne nodded. “All right.”

Sarah looked up, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“I said all right,” Daphne repeated, more quietly this time.

Sarah crossed the room and knelt beside her. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind Daphne’s ear and looked her in the eye.

“This isn’t forever,” she said. “I know it’s not fair.”

Daphne didn’t say anything. She didn’t cry. She just nodded again and looked past her mother, out the kitchen window.

The next morning, she stood on the stoop with a bundle of linens in her arms, watching her classmates file past on the way to school. They laughed and jostled each other, books swinging in satchels and mittens trailing from sleeves.

No one noticed her there—except Bucky, who waved halfheartedly before Steve grabbed his sleeve and pulled him forward, saying something she couldn’t hear.

She didn’t wave back.

She just turned, stepped inside, and let the door close behind her.

• • • • • • •

Evenings in the Rogers apartment settled into a kind of quiet rhythm—the kind born from necessity more than peace. The apartment wasn’t big enough for silence, but it was small enough for comfort, especially when the wind outside clawed at the windows and the stove hissed with heat.

Daphne sat at the kitchen table with her back straight and her legs folded under her skirt. The lamplight cast a warm pool over the threadbare tablecloth, illuminating a spread of patched shirts and yellowed library books.

One of the books lay open beside her work: Basic Principles of Mechanical Systems . Its spine was cracked, and the illustrations were smudged from years of fingerprints, but she read it like it was scripture. Next to it sat another— The Human Body: A Primer —borrowed on a whim after Steve had asked how lungs actually worked.

Her needle moved steadily through fabric, looping and tugging without her needing to look. She had learned the stitches by heart. She was learning the rest on her own terms.

Steve sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching something with a stub of charcoal and a scrap of paper—some kind of shield design, half-formed. His brow furrowed in concentration.

Bucky lay sprawled on the couch behind them, one leg hanging over the side, a comic book balanced on his chest.

“I’m telling you,” he said, flipping the page lazily, “the Human Torch could totally melt steel beams.”

Daphne didn’t look up. “No, he couldn’t. Not without structural fatigue already present in the frame.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

She turned a page in her book, not bothering to meet his eyes. “He’d need prolonged exposure at a specific temperature. Otherwise, steel bends, but it doesn’t liquefy.”

There was a pause.

Steve looked up from his sketch and grinned.

Bucky stared at her. “Okay, professor.”

Daphne shrugged, threading her needle again. “You brought it up.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask for a science lesson with my comic.”

“Then maybe don’t start sentences with ‘I’m telling you’ if you don’t want someone to correct you.”

Bucky opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked back at his comic, flipping the page a little more aggressively than before. But he was smirking.

Sarah, cooking something with beans and too much garlic in the kitchen, chuckled to herself. “Don’t poke at her, Bucky. She’s been reading since sunrise.”

“I’m just saying, normal people can enjoy a story without getting a lecture on beam composition.”

“I am enjoying it,” Daphne said. “That’s the part you don’t get.”

She didn’t mean it to sound sharp. But Bucky heard it anyway. 

That winter gave way to a spring full of scraped knees, busted seams, and afternoons that smelled like city dirt and boiled laundry. The world kept turning. So did they.

• • • • • • •

1926

The alley behind the tenement became their home turf. It was always too narrow, always too dirty, and always exactly where they wanted to be. Most days, Steve and Bucky could be found crouched behind garbage bins pretending to be soldiers, or stretched out on crates arguing about which comic book hero would win in a fight.

Steve had the sharpness of someone used to being underestimated. He was small, sure, and sick more often than not, but he noticed things—people, patterns, the way someone’s voice changed before they got mad. Bucky was louder, quicker to swing a stick or charm a neighbor for an extra apple, but he liked the way Steve made plans. Grounded him, in a way he didn’t know he needed.

Together, they made sense.

Their adventures bled across rooftops, stoops, and storefronts. On hot days they snuck into the back of Mr. Kline’s butcher shop to stand near the ice blocks. On cold ones, they raced bottlecaps across frozen puddles in the alley, arguing over who won even when neither could tell.

Sometimes, Bucky would show up at the Rogers’ apartment just before dinner with no explanation. His house was fine—mostly. George was solid and steady, and Winnie loved hard—but the Barnes apartment was loud, crowded, and a little too much some days.

At the Rogers’, it was quieter. Smaller. There was laughter, but less yelling. There was calm in the way Sarah hummed while stirring soup, in the way Steve sketched at the table, in the way Daphne folded shirts in perfect lines before dinner.

Bucky always offered to help with dishes after. Sarah never let him, but she’d tousle his hair like he was hers, and he’d pretend to hate it.

• • • • • • •

1927

Rebecca was five and full of questions.

She asked them constantly—about the sky, about words she couldn't pronounce, about why the cats in the alley always seemed to be fighting. But her favorite questions were the ones she asked Daphne, because Daphne always answered them like they mattered.

Their usual spot was the living room, where Sarah had set up a folding table near the window. In the early morning, light poured in like honey across the floor, and the sound of the street below buzzed gently through the glass. That’s where Daphne worked—stitching patches onto trousers, darning socks, reattaching buttons in long quiet stretches.

And always, Rebecca was there.

She’d climb into the chair beside her with a spool of thread in each hand, watching closely. “What does this one do?” “What’s this called?” “Can I cut it?” “Why not?”

Daphne answered patiently, most of the time.

“No, you can’t cut it. Because it’s silk and that’s expensive.”

“But I want to see what’s inside.”

“It’s thread. It doesn’t have a secret center.”

Sometimes, when she was in the middle of something too delicate to be interrupted, Daphne would assign her tasks.

“Sort the buttons by size,” she’d say. Or, “Pick a book and tell me the color of the cover.”

Rebecca took these assignments very seriously. She’d line up buttons in near-military formation and squint at book spines, sounding out titles she couldn’t read. She didn’t always understand what Daphne was doing—but she knew it mattered.

One afternoon, though, Rebecca tugged too hard on a spool of thread and sent the whole basket toppling across the floor. Buttons scattered in every direction, one rolling under the stove, another slipping between the floorboards. Daphne froze mid-stitch, then snapped.

“ Can you just sit still for five minutes without touching something? ”

The words came out sharper than she intended—too loud, too tired.

Rebecca’s face crumpled. She didn’t cry, just sat down slowly beside the table and said, “Sorry,” in a voice so small it made Daphne’s chest ache.

Daphne closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and set down her needle.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quietly, reaching out to touch Rebecca’s curls. “I’m just… tired. That’s all.”

Rebecca nodded and leaned against her, wordless. Daphne pulled the sewing basket closer and began collecting buttons from the floor, her fingers slower this time.

• • • • • • •

1929

The stoop was warm beneath them, the sun just beginning to sink behind the rooftops, casting the whole block in soft orange light. The city buzzed in the distance—distant voices, a passing trolley, the rustle of laundry being taken down from lines above.

Bucky sat two steps higher than Steve, legs stretched out, arms behind his head like he hadn’t a care in the world. He had a scrape on one knee from tripping during a game of stickball, and a smudge of dirt on his jaw he hadn’t bothered to wipe off. Steve sat with his arms draped over his knees, quiet and content, sketchpad in his lap.

Daphne stepped out the front door with a basket tucked against her hip, already half-full with torn shirts, a coat sleeve, and two pairs of pants waiting to be mended. Her braid was coming loose, as usual, and a soft hum slipped from her lips—something wordless and familiar.

She didn’t look at them as she passed. Just kept walking, skirts brushing against the steps, humming as she went.

“Evening, professor,” Bucky called with a grin.

Daphne didn’t respond, but she did hum a little louder.

Bucky snorted and leaned back. “She’s been unbearable since she figured out how to fix the toaster.”

Steve glanced sideways at him. “You know, she’s teaching herself how to build radios now.”

Bucky turned his head. “What?”

“Found a manual at the library,” Steve said, shrugging. “She’s been reading it every night after dinner. Drew up schematics on a napkin yesterday.”

Bucky scoffed. “Of course she did. Daphne Rogers always has to be the smartest person in the room.”

Steve smirked. “She usually is.”

Chapter Text

1930

The cold had settled into the Rogers apartment like an unwelcome tenant. It seeped through the floorboards, crept beneath the doors, and curled under the bedsheets like smoke. Frost crusted the windows, ghosting the world outside in pale white. On mornings like this, it was hard to remember what spring felt like.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, not really. Just a gray haze pressed against the sky, bleeding into the kitchen like bruised light. The stove was burning low, its embers dim but steady, and the only sounds were the faint ticking of the wall clock and the scratch of Daphne’s needle moving through threadbare cloth.

She sat at the table with a thick pair of socks layered under her skirt, her shoulders hunched and her brow furrowed in concentration. Her hands moved quickly—not sloppily, but without pause—as if the moment she stopped, something would break loose inside her. Her fingertips were raw, the pads tinged with tiny red pinpricks that throbbed each time she touched cotton. She didn't notice. Or she pretended not to.

Around her were piles: a worn coat missing three buttons, a stack of trousers needing new cuffs, a collar to be resewn. Everything frayed. Everything thinning. She kept going.

In the corner, Sarah stood at the kitchen counter, unwrapping a small bundle of coins from the corner of her apron. She poured them into her palm and began to count softly, lips moving silently.

“Ten… fifteen… seventeen cents,” she said at last, barely audible.

She exhaled slowly and closed her fist over the change.

Behind her, the kettle began to whine. She lifted it from the burner and poured a splash of water over old tea leaves in a chipped mug, letting the steam rise into her face like a prayer.

“We’re out of flour,” she murmured.

Daphne didn’t look up. “There’s a little sugar left. And the oats from last week.”

Sarah stirred the tea. “It won’t stretch far.”

“We can use milk.”

“There’s no milk.”

A knock rattled the door before either of them could say more. Daphne didn’t flinch, didn’t pause her stitching. Sarah set the mug down and opened the door with her shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

Winnie Barnes stood on the stoop, cheeks pink from the cold, a scarf knotted tight under her chin. Her coat was too thin for the weather, but her voice was bright, determined. In her gloved hands: a jar of lard, half full.

“Split it?” she asked without ceremony.

Sarah nodded gratefully. “God bless you.”

George appeared behind her in the hall, dressed in worn wool and rubbing his hands together. His boots were scuffed from years on the docks. His shoulders were squared but slouched just enough to show how tired he was.

“No work again today?” Sarah asked.

He shook his head once. “Not unless someone falls in.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” Winnie offered, ever the optimist.

George tipped his cap and turned to go without another word. The door clicked closed behind him like punctuation.

Sarah and Winnie sat at the table, sharing the lard between two chipped jars. Daphne kept sewing. She hadn’t stopped.

Winnie moved to help, setting her jar beside the tea and pulling off her gloves. “You girls been up long?”

“Since four,” Sarah replied. “The pipes were groaning again. I thought they’d burst.”

Daphne said nothing. Her stitches were perfectly even. Her jaw was tight.

“You should rest those hands,” Winnie said gently, watching her. “You’ve done enough.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m still sewing.”

In the hallway, a soft cough echoed—Steve’s, wet and shallow. Sarah’s eyes flicked toward the sound, but she didn’t move. Daphne’s sewing slowed, just for a beat.

Daphne pricked her finger on the next stitch and hissed without meaning to. A tiny bead of red bloomed at the tip, and she pressed it to the hem of her apron without stopping.

Outside, the wind howled down the alley like it was looking for something to take.

• • • • • • •

It started as a wheeze.

Daphne stirred at the sound, eyes still half-closed in the dark. She knew the rhythm of her brother’s breath better than most people knew their own heartbeat. One ragged inhale. A pause. Then the first cough—a soft one, like his chest was trying to clear itself without waking the house.

But the second came harder. Then a third, faster, harsher, until it was no longer coughing but something deeper. Something that came from his ribs, from the hollow behind his collarbone, from the part of his body that never quite seemed to work right.

She sat up.

Across the room, Sarah was already moving, rising from her cot in the corner. There was no panic in her steps, just the focused urgency of someone who had done this many times. She crossed the floor barefoot, the hem of her nightdress brushing the wood, and knelt beside Steve’s bed.

Daphne slid out from under the quilt, bare feet hitting the cold floor like bricks. Steve’s coughing filled the room now—hitching, rattling, as if each breath was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I’ve got the basin,” she murmured, already halfway to the washroom.

Her hands were trembling, but not from the cold.

The hallway was dark. She didn’t bother with a lamp. Her fingers found the handle of the tin basin on instinct, and she set it down by the sink. She twisted the tap. The pipes groaned, then sputtered to life. Water trickled out—barely warm, not hot enough.

The kettle. She needed the kettle.

As she turned toward the stove, she nearly collided with Bucky.

He was standing just inside the kitchen, hair a mess, sweater pulled hastily over his pajama shirt. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The noise from the bedroom had woken him too.

They stared at each other for a moment, caught in the dim light from the stove. The kettle sat there, half full, just beginning to hum again with leftover heat.

Bucky moved first.

He picked it up and stepped past her without a word, pouring the hot water into the basin with practiced care. Steam curled up toward the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of metal and something scorched from the burner’s coil.

Daphne blinked once, as if surprised by the gesture. Then she reached for a rag and dunked it in the basin, squeezing it until it dripped, and carried it back toward the bedroom.

Behind her, Bucky lingered in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter. His face was unreadable, but his ears were pink with worry.

Steve was quieter now. Still coughing, but not with the same force.

When Daphne re-entered the bedroom, Sarah had him upright, propped against a pillow, murmuring to him in a low, rhythmic voice. She was rubbing his back, her own face calm, almost serene in the dark.

“Put this on his chest,” Daphne said, kneeling beside her.

The cloth was hot, but not scalding. Sarah pressed it gently to Steve’s chest, then wrapped his fingers around it as if giving him something to hold.

His breathing stayed rough, but steadier now. Like the worst of it had passed.

Daphne sat back on her heels, arms braced on her thighs, head bowed. She didn’t realize she was still shaking until Sarah placed a hand over hers.

“You did good,” her mother whispered.

But Daphne didn’t look up. Her jaw was clenched, her shoulders tight.

Outside the room, the floor creaked faintly. Bucky still hadn’t gone back to bed.

• • • • • • •

1931

The fire escape creaked under Daphne’s weight as she shifted her sewing basket from one side to the other. She sat tucked into the corner of the rusted landing, legs folded beneath her skirt, a wool coat wrapped tight around her shoulders and her fingers bare despite the chill. Thread slipped through fabric with steady rhythm, the metal railing cool against her back.

From above, a soft thud.

Then the rattle of boots.

Bucky appeared one floor up, hanging halfway out his window with a half-eaten apple in one hand.

“You’re gonna catch frostbite out here,” he called down, biting into the fruit with a grin.

“I’m fine,” Daphne replied, not looking up. “I’m used to the cold.”

“I’ve noticed. You’re emotionally immune too.”

She did look up then, just long enough to narrow her eyes. “What do you want, Barnes?”

He swung a leg over the edge and dropped down the next level of the fire escape, thudding onto the landing opposite hers with the casual confidence of someone who’d done it a hundred times. He crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, and gestured to the shirt in her lap.

“You’re ruining the stitch count with that thread.”

“No, I’m fixing it,” she said. “The previous stitching was a mess.”

“I did that.”

“I know.”

He grinned, unfazed. “So what’s the official stitch per inch on that masterpiece?”

“Ten, but I double-backed the cuffs. Want to count it for yourself, or do you just enjoy being wrong?”

Bucky leaned back against the railing and took another bite of his apple. “Mostly the second one.”

Daphne shook her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched. She bent her head again, thread glinting briefly in the weak winter sun.

They didn’t say anything for a while. Just the scrape of apple skin, the whisper of her needle, the low murmur of traffic below.

Across the alley, Rebecca peeked through the Rogers’ bedroom curtain, chin resting on the sill. She watched without blinking, eyes bouncing between Daphne’s bowed head and Bucky’s relaxed sprawl. Her breath fogged the window in small, uneven bursts.

A few days later, it happened again—this time in the stairwell, early morning.

Daphne was carrying a basket of linens back from the basement laundry. Bucky was coming down with a stack of borrowed newspapers under his arm. They nearly collided on the middle landing.

“You’ve got ink on your face,” Daphne said, stepping sideways without looking at him.

“You’ve got steam coming out of your ears,” he replied.

She turned then, eyebrow raised.

“I mean it,” he added. “There was a typo on the front page and I could practically hear you having an aneurysm from across the hall.”

“It said the president vetoed a housing bill that never made it to the floor.”

“And you knew that how?”

“Because I pay attention.”

He gave her a once-over. “You memorize congressional records for fun?”

“I do a lot of things for fun that would confuse you.”

She pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his arm just enough to register. Neither turned around.

Rebecca sat curled on the bottom stair, tying and untying her shoelaces in slow loops. She watched the exchange with wide, curious eyes and filed it away.

The third time came in the kitchen.

Daphne stood barefoot on a stool, reaching for a jar of dried beans from the top shelf. Bucky wandered in looking for Steve and caught sight of her stretching up, coat slipping from her shoulders.

“You know, if you fall and break your neck, I’m not carrying you to the hospital.”

“I’d haunt you,” she said.

“See, I knew you were evil.”

“And I know you’re illiterate.”

He reached past her and grabbed the jar in one smooth motion, handing it down with a smirk.

She didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect her to.

Steve, sitting at the kitchen table with a pencil tucked behind his ear, glanced up from his drawing but said nothing. Just kept sketching.

Bucky lingered in the doorway for a second longer than necessary.

Daphne stirred the beans into a pot without looking at him. “If you’re going to loiter, make yourself useful.”

He muttered something under his breath and stepped forward.

It was nothing—small words, passing glances, moments no one would think twice about.

But they were becoming a pattern.

• • • • • • •

1933

By 1933, the snow didn’t feel like magic anymore. It felt like another weight—something to trudge through, something to melt into wet socks and cracked soles. Brooklyn had grown quieter in the cold, more withdrawn. The lines outside the soup kitchen around the corner stretched longer each week, and people spoke more in looks than in words.

Daphne adjusted the brown paper bag in her arms, careful not to crush the eggs near the top. A small miracle—Mr. Rovner at the grocer had slipped them in, quietly, after she returned the hem of his wife's coat on time. “You're precise,” he’d said. “That matters.”

The wind bit at her face as she turned the corner toward home. She tucked her chin down against it, her braid already dusted white. The bag was heavy: potatoes, two carrots, flour, a tin of peaches someone had bartered with her mother for, and the eggs.

The snow fell in fine, slanted threads now—barely visible until it stung her cheeks.

The bottom of the bag sagged. Wet. Too much weight, too little reinforcement.

The paper let out a soft, terrifying tear.

Daphne swore under her breath and paused mid-step, shifting the weight to one hip and clutching tighter, but it was no use—the seam was going. She could feel it.

“Here.”

The voice came fast, low, and closer than expected.

She startled, turning just as Bucky stepped up beside her from the side street, already reaching out. His glove was fingerless—threadbare from use—and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. Snow clung to his lashes.

“Don’t drop the eggs,” he said, gently prying the bag from her arms before she could protest. “You’ll never forgive yourself.”

She hesitated, arms suddenly empty, skin still warm from where the paper had pressed against her coat.

“I had it,” she said, not quite sharply.

He glanced sideways, smirking just a little. “Sure you did.”

She didn’t respond. The wind cut between them like a thread snapping.

They walked in silence, boots crunching in sync across the uneven sidewalk. The snow softened their steps, the sky already darkening toward early dusk. Lamps flickered to life one by one down the block.

“I saw you reading the Times last week,” he said. “You looked like you were ready to punch someone.”

“I was,” Daphne muttered. “The editorial blamed women for the unemployment rate again. Said if we stopped working, our husbands would have jobs.”

Bucky blinked, unsure whether to joke or nod.

“So?” she pressed, half-smiling. “You gonna agree?”

“God, no,” he said, offended on instinct. “You’d flatten me with a frying pan.”

They both smiled, faintly. The streetlamp above them buzzed.

They turned the corner onto their block. The wind shifted behind them, pushing instead of pulling. Home was near.

At the Rogers’ stoop, Daphne reached for the bag without saying anything. Her fingers met his on the side, brushing over the seam.

Bucky stilled.

She didn’t pull away.

For a second—maybe two—they both held it.

Then her hand slid around the edge, steady, and she took it from him. Her gloves were damp with melted snow. Her braid had come mostly undone. She didn’t look up.

“Thanks,” she said softly, and pushed the door open with her hip.

He stood still as she disappeared inside.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky blinked, realizing his hand was still half-lifted in the air. He dropped it into his coat pocket, cleared his throat like there was someone there to hear it, and turned around.

The wind rushed back up the street, sharp against the collar of his coat. He didn’t know why his chest felt tight, why her hand had lingered longer than it used to. But he walked slower than usual.

Chapter Text

1934

The Rogers apartment smelled faintly of starch and lavender soap, warmed by the low burn of the stove and the quiet hum of evening. Outside, the city was soft with the last light of day—dusky and cool, with laughter from a few blocks over drifting in like smoke through the open window.

In the corner of the bedroom, Daphne stood barefoot beside the sewing table, pinning the last hem of her dress with fingers that refused to stop trembling.

The dress was modest—just like she wanted. High-necked, tea-length, cinched slightly at the waist. Nothing too showy, nothing that would draw attention. But it was hers —the first thing she had ever made entirely for herself. The stitches were clean, even. The seams hugged her frame just enough to remind her she was no longer a child, but not enough to make her self-conscious.

Sarah sat on the bed behind her, a small wooden box open in her lap—one Daphne remembered from childhood, the one that only came out on the rarest of occasions: holidays, funerals, and one time when Sarah went to a union meeting and needed to feel like she still owned something beautiful.

Daphne didn’t look at her. She was focused on the mirror—the cracked one propped against the wall beside the sewing table. She tilted her head slightly, inspecting the hem, the collar, the fall of the fabric. Then she stepped back and turned sideways, brushing invisible wrinkles from her hip with both hands.

“I’m just going to the dance,” she said, not quite to herself and not quite to Sarah. “It’s not a big deal.”

She crossed the room and opened the small box again. Nestled inside, beneath a bit of faded muslin, lay a pair of pearl drop earrings—simple, delicate, the metal dulled with age.

“They were your grandmother’s,” Sarah said. “She wore them to her wedding, though they weren’t hers either. She borrowed them from a neighbor.”

Daphne looked at them but didn’t reach out.

“I don’t need jewelry,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Sarah said, softer now. “But you deserve to feel like yourself. Even if it’s a new version of her.”

Daphne hesitated, then sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Sarah fastened the earrings herself—gently, like she used to when brushing knots from Daphne’s hair.

“There,” she said. “They suit you.”

Daphne turned back to the mirror. The earrings dangled just beneath her earlobes, catching the light in a way that startled her. She didn’t look older. Not exactly. Just… different. Like someone standing on the edge of something.

She didn’t say she was nervous. She didn’t say anything at all. But when she reached for the brush and began to smooth her braid, Sarah noticed the slightest tremble in her hands.

She said nothing. Just stepped back and let her daughter finish.

Daphne tied the ribbon at the end of her braid tighter than she needed to. Then stood. Then sat again. Then stood once more.

“I don’t want it to be a thing,” she muttered. “It’s just a dance.”

Sarah smiled, gathering the discarded pins from the floor. “You’ll be home by ten.”

Daphne nodded. “I know.”

• • • • • • •

The church basement smelled like lemonade concentrate, floor wax, and nervous sweat.

Crepe paper streamers sagged gently from the low ceiling, their ends curling with humidity. A record player near the front pulpit spun scratchy jazz tunes that faded in and out over the sound of sneakers scuffing the linoleum floor. The lights were dimmed just enough to make everything feel slightly more serious than it was, as if dimness alone could make the night feel grown-up.

Bucky leaned against the wall near the refreshments table, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-full cup of warm punch. He wasn’t dancing. Most of the guys weren’t yet—at least not until someone else broke the tension first.

He was pretending not to be looking for someone. Or at least, pretending he wasn’t checking the door every few minutes.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” his friend Jack muttered beside him, elbowing him lightly.

Before Bucky could respond, the side doors opened. Steve stepped inside, small and slightly overwhelmed, adjusting the collar of his too-big shirt. Beside him—

Daphne.

Bucky stood up a little straighter without realizing it.

She wore a navy dress—modest, but clean-lined and elegant in a way that startled him. Her hair was braided and pinned, and the flicker of earrings caught the light when she turned to say something to Steve. She wasn’t wearing lipstick or a fancy scarf, but she didn’t need to.

She looked… different. Taller. Quieter. Self-possessed in a way that unsettled him.

She caught his eye across the room and blinked once, expression unreadable.

He looked away first.

Ten minutes later, after two songs and a lot of lingering near the punch bowl, Bucky crossed the floor.

He approached casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t been thinking about it the whole time.

“Hey,” he said, nodding at Steve, then turned to Daphne. “You look decent.”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he said, grinning. “Want to dance?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to—because she didn’t know if he meant it.

He rocked back on his heels, adding, “You can say no. I won’t die or anything.”

Daphne studied him. Then gave a short, quiet nod. “All right.”

They moved toward the center of the room where a few other couples were already swaying. The music had shifted—something slower now, with a smooth trumpet line and a lazy beat that invited close steps.

Bucky offered his hand, awkwardly at first. She took it.

They stood there for a second, both uncertain.

Then they started moving.

Their hands were too stiff. Her left foot nearly stepped on his right. His other hand hovered at her waist like he didn’t quite know where to put it.

“This is weird,” she murmured.

“I’m aware,” he muttered back.

But after a few more steps, their rhythm evened out. The awkward tension slipped into something quieter. Familiar. Comfortable.

Bucky’s hand found its place at her waist.

Daphne’s fingers settled lightly on his shoulder.

Their feet fell into sync, and their bodies adjusted like they’d done this a hundred times—except they hadn’t. Not like this. Not really .

He looked down at her braid, the way a few strands had slipped loose around her temple.

She glanced up at him once, then looked away quickly.

The record popped softly. Someone laughed from the corner. The world kept moving.

But for a minute—just one—they weren’t thinking about what any of it meant.

They were just dancing.

And both of them realized, too late, that neither one wanted the song to end.

• • • • • • •

1935

The air was thick with heat and noise—the hum of evening traffic, the screech of a distant streetcar, and the lazy chorus of radios spilling swing music from open windows. A small crowd had gathered near the corner soda shop, where a few local boys lingered outside under the flickering light of the storefront sign. Laughter spilled into the air, loud and careless.

Bucky Barnes crossed the street with his sleeves rolled up and his jaw tight. He hadn’t planned on walking past the shop that night. He hadn’t planned anything at all—he’d just needed air. He’d had a fight with George that morning about money, and the heat in the apartment had made it impossible to think straight.

But then he saw her.

Daphne.

Standing just outside the shop window in that white cotton dress she wore when the weather refused to break, her braid looped in a loose crown over her head. Her arms were crossed, but her expression wasn’t hard—she was laughing at something. A tall boy in a newsboy cap stood a little too close, grinning at her like he thought he had a shot.

Bucky stopped mid-step.

The boy leaned in, said something that made Daphne roll her eyes—but she didn’t walk away. He reached for her arm—lightly, playfully—and Bucky didn’t wait to see what happened next.

He moved fast. Too fast.

“Hey,” he said sharply, inserting himself between them without ceremony. “She’s not interested.”

The boy blinked. “Who asked you?”

“I figured it out all on my own.”

Daphne’s voice behind him: “Bucky—”

The boy took a step forward. “Look, pal, we were just talking. Why don’t you mind your own—”

Bucky shoved him.

It wasn’t a hard shove. Just enough to make a point. But it was summer in Brooklyn, and boys didn’t back down easily.

The boy shoved back. Bucky swung.

It didn’t last long. Two punches, some shouting, a brief scuffle broken up by a grocer yelling from across the street. The boy cursed and walked off, wiping blood from his lip, shouting something about “Barnes losing his damn mind.”

Bucky stood there, breathing hard, knuckles stinging. His heart thudded in his ears louder than the fading footsteps.

Daphne stared at him.

“What the hell was that?” she asked, her voice low and clipped.

He turned, rubbing his bruised knuckles on his sleeve. “He was bothering you.”

She folded her arms, still fuming. “He wasn’t. I had it under control.”

“He grabbed your arm.”

“Barely.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” she snapped. “That I’m not allowed to talk to anyone without you watching?”

Bucky stiffened. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I liked it.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

He blinked at her, thrown.

“Maybe I wanted to go out with him,” she added, her voice quieter now, not because she didn’t mean it—but because saying it made something in her chest twist.

Bucky took a slow breath, his fists still balled at his sides.

“I don’t think you did.”

“Don’t tell me what I want.”

“I’m not.”

And then, without another word—without warning—he kissed her.

It wasn’t a question.

His hand found her cheek, warm and rough and too familiar, and his mouth met hers like it had been building there for years—messy and real and angry and full of something he couldn’t name. She didn’t move. She didn’t push him away. But she didn’t kiss him back either.

When he pulled away, she was staring at him, stunned. Her lips parted, breath caught halfway in her throat.

She didn’t say anything. Not right away.

Then, softly: “I have to go.”

She turned and walked off, steps faster than they needed to be, not looking back. Bucky stayed where he was, watching the place she’d just been.

The bruise on his knuckle was already starting to swell, but he didn’t notice. Not over the ache in his chest.

Chapter Text

1936

The morning light bled through the curtains in soft streaks of yellow and gray, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. The city was already warm—the kind of humid that stuck to your skin before you were even out of bed. Outside, somewhere below the tenement windows, a baby cried, a trolley rattled past, and someone shouted about bread.

Daphne lay still in her cot against the far wall, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other stretched across her stomach like a barrier. Across the room, Steve’s soft breathing filled the quiet space between them. His sketchbook was still open on the chair by his bed, a pencil resting where it had slipped from his hand sometime in the night.

She stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

A year. It had been a year since Bucky had kissed her on that corner near the soda shop, the summer air hot on her neck, her dress sticking to the backs of her knees. A year since he had touched her face like he meant it—like he had to—then kissed her like it had been waiting inside him too long.

She hadn’t spoken about it to Steve, and Bucky hadn’t tried again. But the silence between them had changed. It wasn't cold—it was heavy. Knowing.

She shifted beneath the sheet and pressed a palm to her forehead, willing the thoughts away. But they returned anyway, same as they did every morning, slipping in like light beneath the door: the way his thumb had brushed her cheek, the way his lips had been warm and uncertain, the way her heart had stopped , and then pounded like it wanted answers.

She threw the blanket off her legs and sat up.

Steve stirred across the room, muttered something, then turned over without waking. Daphne crossed to the small table in the corner and reached for her mending basket. A pile of shirts waited for her—collars too soft, cuffs too torn, fabric too worn to waste. She threaded her needle and began to sew.

But the rhythm didn’t come.

Her fingers moved automatically, but the thread caught, skipped, pulled unevenly. She stared at the stitch she’d made—sloppy, crooked, wrong.

She ripped it out and tried again.

Then again.

By the fourth try, she dropped the needle onto the table with a soft, frustrated breath. Her hands were shaking. She curled them into fists in her lap.

It had been a year, and she still hadn’t made peace with what she wanted. She hadn’t let herself want much of anything, really. Survival was safer. Sewing. Work. Holding her family together. Dreaming made you vulnerable, and she’d been taught not to be vulnerable.

But Bucky Barnes made her wonder what it might feel like to stop surviving for once—and just want something.

Across the alley, in the Barnes apartment, Bucky lay in bed with one arm slung over his eyes, the early light pressing through the window like an accusation.

He wasn’t hungover, but he felt like it—heavy, strung out from lack of sleep, and too full of thoughts he’d spent the past year trying to ignore. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Not just from that night—but from yesterday, and last week, and every single time she refused to look at him for too long.

She’d pulled away.

She had every right to.

But he hadn’t been able to stop wanting to try again.

He turned over, burying his face into the pillow.

He hadn’t kissed anyone since. Not seriously, anyway. Not that anyone noticed. He still flirted. Still laughed and winked and played the part everyone expected of him. But she’d ruined it—Daphne Rogers had ruined every other kiss for him.

And she didn’t even know it.

The first time Daphne and Bucky passed each other on the stairs after that night— that kiss —neither of them spoke.

She was coming up from the corner grocer, a paper bag tucked against her hip, the collar of her blouse damp with sweat. He was coming down, hair still damp from the sink, sleeves rolled like he was trying to be casual.

They both paused on the narrow landing.

Daphne’s hand tightened around the paper bag.

Bucky opened his mouth like he might say something— “How are you?” maybe, or “Sorry,” or “Do you still think about it?”

But instead, he said, “Stairs are loud today.”

Daphne blinked once. “Yeah. Probably warped in the heat.”

And then she stepped aside. He did too. They passed with the kind of polite silence usually reserved for strangers. Her skirt brushed his leg.

Neither of them looked back.

For weeks afterward, they kept doing that—circling each other like they were afraid to cast shadows too close to one another.

Until one Tuesday morning, when the city was hot and humming and full of the scent of summer rain trapped in bricks, Bucky stepped out of his apartment and saw her at the base of the stairs, balancing a wicker basket on her hip. It was fuller than usual—flour, soap, two cloth bags dangling from the side.

He didn’t think. He just called down.

“Hey—need help?”

She looked up at him, startled. Her braid was looped low on her neck, wisps clinging to her temples in the heat. There was a beat—half a second—where he expected her to say no.

“Sure,” she said.

Just that. No smile. No hesitation either.

He jogged down the stairs and took the basket from her without ceremony.

“Trying to set a record or something?” he asked, eyeing the weight. “This thing’s half your size.”

“It’s only a mile to the market.”

They walked in step along the street, dodging puddles from the last night’s storm. The air was thick with the smell of wet stone and tobacco, and newspaper boys shouted headlines from corners like they were announcing revolutions.

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

But they did talk.

About books—how she’d finally read The Great Gatsby and hated every man in it.

They talked about music, too. How she still liked Ella Fitzgerald but was warming to Benny Goodman. How he secretly liked the Andrews Sisters because they made him think of dancing in the living room as a kid, before the war took everyone’s fathers and bread lines became part of the routine.

They even talked about the city.

“How it’s getting noisier,” she said, shifting the flour sack higher in the basket as he held it. “Not just louder— busier . Like it’s trying to outrun something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Like if it slows down, someone might ask it how it’s really doing.”

She looked at him. That time, her smile reached her eyes.

They made it to the market before noon. He waited while she bargained for eggs, while she inspected peaches for bruises, while she whispered something to the butcher that made him laugh and throw in a second cut for free.

On the way home, he didn’t ask why she’d said yes to him. She didn’t offer.

But when they reached the bottom of her stoop, she didn’t take the basket right away.

“Thanks,” she said, fingers brushing his when she finally did. “For carrying it.”

“Anytime.”

And he meant it.

They stood there for a beat too long—too aware. The kiss hovered between them, unmentioned. But the silence now wasn’t avoidance.

• • • • • • •

The back stoop behind the Rogers’ building was cracked and uneven, its paint long since peeled away by rain and time. But in the evenings—when the sun dipped low behind the rooftops and the streets fell into that golden hush just before night—it became their meeting place.

It wasn’t official. No one ever said, let’s sit out there tonight. It just… happened. One would step outside with a basket of peas to shell or a cigarette in hand, and the other would follow. Or already be there.

That night, Bucky was the first.

He sat on the third step from the top, elbows resting on his knees, watching the sky shift from blue to bruised violet. A radio played faintly from somewhere down the alley—a slow, swaying jazz number with horns soft enough to feel like memory. He leaned back, squinting toward the tenement windows, half-expecting her.

And then she was there.

Daphne stepped outside without a word, holding a frayed coat— his coat—folded neatly over one arm. She wore her usual linen dress, faded from too many washings, and her hair was pinned back in a way that made her look older than he remembered, even from a week ago.

She sat beside him without asking.

“Is that—?” he began.

“You left it on the fence three days ago,” she said, setting it in his lap. “The right pocket was half torn off.”

He blinked, then looked down. The patch was clean, reinforced. Her stitching was always precise—like she believed in the power of mending more than replacement.

“I didn’t even know it was ripped.”

“Because you never look,” she muttered, not unkindly.

He touched the fabric lightly with his fingers. “You didn’t have to fix it.”

“I know,” she said. “I wanted to.”

The words hung in the air between them, gentle but undeniable.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded and folded the coat again, careful this time, setting it beside him like it mattered.

A silence settled, but it wasn’t heavy. It was quiet . The kind that came from people who didn’t need to fill the space with noise.

A breeze swept down the alley, lifting the corner of Daphne’s hem and rustling the pages of the book she’d tucked beneath the stair before sitting. She reached for it now— Jane Eyre , worn spine, dog-eared corners.

Bucky watched her flip it open, and then said casually, “Thought you might want this back.”

He pulled something from his jacket— the book she’d loaned him weeks ago , a collection of Langston Hughes poems she’d found in a secondhand shop. He handed it to her, and she took it, eyebrows raised.

It felt warm from being in his coat pocket.

She flipped through it, frowning slightly—then froze.

Pressed between two pages was a single, dried violet. Small. Fragile. Still holding the faintest trace of its color.

She looked at it for a moment, then at him.

He shrugged. “I saw it growing through a crack in the sidewalk. Figured if anything could survive there, it deserved to be in a book.”

Daphne rolled her eyes—but slowly, with none of the usual sharpness.

“Poetic,” she said.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he muttered, feigning horror. “I have a reputation to keep.”

She didn’t laugh. Not out loud. But her smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she closed the book gently, leaving the flower where it was.

They sat like that for a long time—side by side, not quite touching, watching the sky fade into night.

They weren’t “together.” No one had called it anything. There was no declaration, no whispered promises, no sweeping moment.

But it was happening anyway.

Quietly. Patiently. Like something unfolding between stitches.

• • • • • • •

The sun was going down behind the buildings, casting long streaks of amber across the Rogers kitchen floor. The room was quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the soft clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink. Dinner had been simple—boiled potatoes, bread, and a bit of canned ham Sarah had gotten in trade—and now only the scent of mustard lingered in the warm, still air.

Steve stood at the stove, rinsing plates, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Bucky was behind him, leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and an unread newspaper folded under one arm. He’d been unusually quiet through the meal, barely touching his food, eyes flicking too often to the doorway Daphne had walked through fifteen minutes earlier.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You two are spending a lot of time together lately,” Steve said, voice light. Too light.

Bucky looked up. “What?”

“You and my sister,” Steve said without turning around. “Walking to the market. Sitting on the stoop. Laughing at stuff that isn’t funny.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose and looked at the floor.

Steve shut off the faucet and dried his hands, then turned, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Is there something going on?”

Bucky hesitated.

Steve’s eyes narrowed just enough. “Don’t lie to me.”

“We’re just talking,” Bucky said, voice low.

“She’s my sister,” he said. “You know what that means to me.”

Bucky nodded once. “I know.”

Steve stepped closer, his voice tighter now. “You’re not just some guy on the block, Buck. You’re my best friend. She’s not—she’s not just some girl you can—”

“I know ,” Bucky said again, sharper this time.

A long pause stretched between them, edged with something brittle.

Steve didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

“She’s strong. She doesn’t let people in easy. And if you’re just passing time—if this is just a thing until the next girl comes along—”

“It’s not,” Bucky cut in, voice hoarse. “It’s not like that.”

“Then why haven’t you said anything?” Steve asked. “Not to me. Not to her.”

The question was too big. Too close.

“Because if I say something, then it’s real,” he said finally. “And if it’s real, then I can mess it up.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by the honesty.

Bucky’s voice softened. “She’s not just your sister, Steve. She’s Daphne. She’s the only person who’s ever looked at me like I was worth something before I threw a punch or made a joke. She knows how to make something last. I break things.”

“No, you don’t,” Steve said. “You just get scared of holding them too long.”

Steve crossed his arms, thinking. “I don’t care if you like her,” he said finally. “I care if you’re gonna hurt her.”

“I’m not.”

“Then don’t act like you already did.”

Bucky swallowed.

“She doesn’t talk about you,” Steve said, voice softer now. “But she looks different when your name comes up.”

“I’m just trying not to ruin the one good thing I’ve ever wanted,” Bucky said. 

Steve looked at him for a long moment. Really looked. At the wear in his friend’s shoulders. The way he wasn’t standing like someone who’d won something—but like someone who didn’t know how to hold it without breaking it.

“You don’t get to be careless with her,” Steve said finally. “Not even once.”

“I won’t be.”

Steve gave a short nod, then stepped back and grabbed his sketchbook from the kitchen table.

“You’d better not.”

And with that, he left Bucky alone in the doorway, the newspaper still folded, the cigarette still unlit. The room felt smaller than it had a moment ago.

• • • • • • •

The apartment had fallen into stillness, the kind that only came late—when the city had finished exhaling for the day and the pipes weren’t clanging, when even the sirens had quieted into the distance.

Daphne lay on her back in the dark, one hand tucked beneath her head, the other resting lightly on the open pages of a worn book beside her. Steve’s soft, rhythmic breathing came from the cot across the room. His blanket had slipped off his shoulder, but she didn’t get up to fix it. He always ran warm. He’d be fine.

She couldn’t sleep.

Outside, the wind whispered between buildings, making the window pane rattle faintly. She stared up at the ceiling and counted the cracks in the plaster, like she’d done since she was twelve. Same ones. Same spot. Nothing had changed—and yet everything had.

She turned her head to the side, eyes falling to the book beside her. The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes, the spine nearly gone. She’d read it more than once, but she hadn’t opened it tonight to read.

Tucked between the pages was the flower.

The little violet Bucky had pressed there weeks ago—still pale, still delicate, flattened into memory. She touched it now with the tip of her finger, tracing the paper-thin edge. It was brittle. Easy to break. But it hadn’t. Not yet.

Neither had she.

She’d grown up thinking her life would follow a pattern: finish school, leave early to help at home, sew until her fingers gave out, take care of Steve, take care of Sarah, take care of the people who never asked but always needed her.

She never thought there’d be room for anything else.

But lately, something was stirring inside her, soft and slow like steam rising from the kettle before it whistles. The late walks. The way Bucky looked at her like she was something chosen , not inherited. The way he didn’t push, but didn’t pull away either.

She wasn’t in love. Not yet.

But she was wondering what it would feel like to be.

She closed the book slowly, her hand lingering on the cover. The flower stayed between the pages, pressed like a secret. She slid it under her pillow like a child hiding a letter.

Maybe Bucky wanted more too. Maybe they both did—and maybe, for once, wanting didn’t have to mean being foolish.

She stared at the ceiling again, a slow breath expanding her ribs.

Tomorrow would come.

And maybe she’d let herself meet it halfway.

Chapter Text

The Brooklyn Public Library was quiet in that way only libraries ever were—murmuring paper, footsteps softened by worn rugs, the occasional cough echoing off shelves stacked taller than most grown men. Light slanted in through the windows like syrup, warming dust motes that hovered in still air. Outside, the wind had started to turn, crisp with early fall. Inside, it was warm, dim, and lined with stories.

Daphne was in her usual spot—second floor, east wing, fiction section B to G. She wore a slate-gray skirt, hem neatly pressed, and a cardigan buttoned up to the collarbone. Her hair was braided and pinned. Her shoes didn’t squeak on the tile like the cheap ones did. She’d returned Jane Eyre that morning and was now weighing a thin Faulkner against a thicker volume of Woolf.

She didn’t hear him come up behind her.

But she knew.

“You’re going to hate that one,” Bucky said, nodding to the Faulkner in her hand. “Takes fifty pages to say one thing.”

She turned her head, unimpressed. “I’m sorry—when did you become an expert on Southern literature?”

He grinned, unbothered. “The minute I walked over here and saw you holding it.”

She rolled her eyes but put the book back anyway. “I liked his short stories.”

“You like torturing yourself.”

She snorted, trying not to smile. “You’re not supposed to talk in here.”

He grinned. “Then you’d better keep me quiet.”

They didn’t talk much as they made their way to the check-out desk. Daphne nodded to the librarian, tucked the book under one arm, and headed for the doors. Bucky followed, not needing to ask permission. Outside, the sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows over the front steps. Yellow leaves spiraled around their feet as they descended.

The wind tugged at her scarf. He reached out without thinking and caught the end before it slipped loose. She paused. He held it out to her, fingers brushing hers just briefly.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem.”

They started walking down Eastern Parkway, the world softened around the edges by golden hour. The rhythm of their steps fell into sync before they realized it. 

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. “So. Library date?”

She shot him a sideways glance. “It wasn’t a date.”

“I was there. You were there. We left together. We both got books.”

“You got a manual on maritime warfare.”

“And you’re judging me for trying to improve myself?”

“I’m judging you for faking interest in anything published by the U.S. Navy.”

He grinned. “So it’s a soft no on calling it a date.”

Daphne rolled her eyes, but there was no bite behind it. “It’s a walk.”

“And the walk comes with coffee?”

She hesitated. Just a second.

Then: “Sure.”

They stopped at a pushcart near the park, the man behind it pouring dark roast into chipped ceramic mugs. Bucky paid before she could reach for her coin purse.

“Now it’s really a date,” he said, handing her a cup.

“I’ll pay next time.”

His smile faltered just a second—then settled into something quieter. “Yeah. All right.”

They found a bench beneath a tree whose branches still held a few stubborn leaves. It wasn’t far from where the trolleys passed, but the street noise felt distant. They didn’t talk much at first. Sipped their coffee. Watched the world turn.

• • • • • • •

The wind off the East River always carried a different kind of chill—cleaner, sharper. It bit through the wool of Daphne’s coat as she sat on the bench, hands tucked under her thighs for warmth. The water glittered under the pale autumn sun, broken only by the occasional tugboat or ferry carving its way through the current.

Beside her, Bucky sat with his elbows resting on his knees, one ankle crossed over the other. He was quiet in the way he only ever was around her—alert but unhurried, like he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it.

They’d been walking for nearly an hour. No destination, just an unspoken agreement to stay near the water. The city loomed behind them, loud and fast, but here—on this stretch of bench beneath a slowly shedding maple—it felt like time had let out a long breath.

Daphne stared out at the river, watching the tugboats leave wakes that broke against the piers. “Did you know Howard Stark filed his first patent at sixteen?”

Bucky glanced over. “Is that the science guy you’re always reading about?”

“He’s not just a science guy,” she said, lips curling around the edge of a smile. “He’s built prototype turbines. He’s working on something with repulsor energy. Some kind of clean propulsion system, they think. He’s only twenty.”

“And you’re what, nineteen?”

“Same age,” she said quietly.

Bucky let that hang in the air for a second.

“You sound like you hate him,” he said.

“I don’t.” She paused, brow furrowing faintly. “I admire him. I just… I can’t help wondering if I could’ve done something like that. If I’d had the chance.”

He didn’t tease her. Not this time.

Daphne looked down at her gloves, folded in her lap. “Sometimes I think I could build something, you know? Something useful. But then I’m back home stitching buttons, and I feel ridiculous for even thinking it.”

“You’re not ridiculous,” Bucky said, his voice low and even. “You’re probably smarter than he is.”

She smiled again, softer this time, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I just don’t want to be mending other people’s clothes for the rest of my life.”

Bucky looked at her then—not just glanced, but really looked. Her braid was coming loose from the wind. A smudge of ink stained the side of her thumb. There was something in her posture—steady, but tired—that made his chest pull tight.

“You won’t,” he said.

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded a little, eyes back on the water like it might give her a map.

A gull called out overhead. Somewhere upriver, a bell rang faintly—soft and rhythmic.

Daphne shifted. “We should head back. Before Steve starts worrying.”

They stood in sync, neither in a rush, brushing the crumbs from the bench off their coats. She stepped down onto the path first, adjusting the collar of her coat against the wind. He followed, reaching into his pocket for his gloves.

And then—without thinking, without planning—he reached for her hand.

It wasn’t a dramatic movement. It wasn’t anything at all, really. Just instinct.

His fingers brushed hers, paused. She looked down. And then she let him.

She didn’t say a word. Just slid her hand into his like it had always belonged there, like she’d been waiting to be asked and didn’t want to make him say it out loud.

Their hands fit. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but honestly —warm palms, calloused fingers, the edge of her glove caught between them.

He gave the smallest squeeze. She didn’t let go.

They walked the rest of the way home without speaking of it.

• • • • • • •

The stoop was still warm beneath them, holding onto the last heat of the day as twilight crept up the brick walls of the building. The sun had slipped behind the rooftops, leaving behind a sky streaked with lavender and amber, and the city had begun to quiet—just enough to notice the sound of wind rattling the laundry lines above and the low, lazy murmur of a radio two windows down.

Daphne sat with her knees tucked toward herself, her arms looped around them loosely. The collar of her blouse had gone soft from too many washings, and her braid had started to come loose from the pins she’d stuck in that morning. She didn’t bother fixing it. Not tonight. Beside her, Bucky sat slightly slouched, arms draped over his knees, ankles crossed. They hadn’t spoken in several minutes—not since they sat down after walking back from the grocer’s together, trading stories about neighbors and music and the smell of rain in the stairwell. It hadn’t felt like filler. It had felt like them.

Now, the silence was thicker. Not awkward. Just full.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want this,” Daphne said suddenly, her voice soft, like she didn’t mean to say it aloud. She didn’t look at him. She was watching a chalk drawing on the pavement across the street—half-faded, half-washed away from a storm the night before. “Not because of you. Because of everything else.”

Bucky looked over slowly, head tilted just slightly. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Her hand made a vague gesture—toward the steps, toward him, toward the city. “Wanting something for myself. Wanting something... good.” She swallowed, her eyes still forward. “I always thought if I let myself want too much, the world would remind me why I shouldn’t.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm against his thigh.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I get that.”

She turned her head then, and he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking down at his hands, like he was sorting something inside himself.

“I used to think the best way to not ruin anything was not to care too much,” he said. “Don’t want it, don’t break it. Simple.”

“And now?” she asked, so gently it nearly didn’t come out.

He looked up. “Now I care too much, and I’m scared I’ll ruin it anyway.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then said, quiet and clear, “You haven’t.”

Bucky’s brow lifted. “No?”

“Not even close.”

He nodded a little, like that meant more than he wanted her to know. For a long moment, they just sat like that—side by side, barely touching, the closeness between them settling like a shared blanket.

The sky above had gone deeper blue, stars starting to peek through the gaps in streetlight. Somewhere down the block, someone was playing the piano, off-key but steady, the tune carrying up through the warm night air like it belonged there.

Bucky shifted slightly, so their knees touched. This time, she didn’t move.

His hand moved—just a little—resting beside hers, not quite brushing. She glanced at it, then up at him.

He was already watching her.

Not in the way he used to, not like a boy noticing a girl for the first time. It was quieter than that. He watched her like someone who had known her in every form—childhood, stubbornness, solitude—and still wanted more.

He leaned in slowly. Not with a smirk or a wisecrack or a dare. Just the soft, certain kind of lean that asked for permission.

She didn’t stop him.

When his lips touched hers, it was almost shy. Careful. But it didn’t stay that way. It deepened—gradually, gently—into something sure, something full of everything they hadn’t said but had always been building toward. He kissed her like he knew exactly how long he’d been waiting. And she kissed him back like she wasn’t scared of it anymore.

When they pulled apart, it wasn’t dramatic. There were no gasps or confessions or promises.

Just the quiet of the street. The warmth of the step beneath them. Her smile, barely there, but impossible to miss.

“About time,” she said, so softly it almost made him laugh.

He smiled too, slow and certain.

And neither of them moved to go inside.

Chapter Text

1937

The sky outside the window was still dark when Bucky Barnes rolled out of bed, careful not to wake the rest of the apartment. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet, the kind of sound he knew how to step around now—learned habits from years of early mornings and thin walls.

He moved through the quiet with practiced ease, pulling on his work shirt from the chair where he’d left it the night before, brushing off the coal dust that never seemed to come out in the wash. The room smelled faintly of soap and old newspaper ink, and somewhere down the hallway, the radiator hissed like it was whispering secrets.

He sat on the edge of his bed and laced his boots slowly, fingers moving with mechanical steadiness, but his mind wasn’t on the laces.

It was on her.

The photo sat tucked into the edge of his nightstand mirror—slightly curled at the corners, the sepia tint faded where the sunlight hit it each morning. Daphne was in profile, head tilted down over a book, one hand tucked beneath her chin. He hadn’t meant to capture her in that moment—it had just happened . George had brought home a camera one Sunday, and Bucky had snapped it without thinking.

Now he looked at it every morning before work. Like a compass. Like something that reminded him where he was going.

He let out a breath, long and slow, and reached toward the drawer. Inside, wrapped in a square of linen, was a small velvet box—edges worn, the hinge slightly stiff. He lifted it carefully and opened the lid.

His mother’s ring.

It had been Winnie’s when she was barely older than Daphne was now—slender gold with a single small sapphire. Not flashy, but steady. Durable. The kind of ring you wore through hard winters and hot summers and still found on your hand when the babies were grown. Winnie had passed it to him quietly a few weeks ago, pressing it into his palm after supper, saying only, “She’s already family. This just makes it official.”

Tonight , he thought.

He didn’t rehearse a speech. Didn’t plan how to say it. He’d known for months that he wanted to marry her. That she wasn’t just part of his life—she was the life. The one that made everything else make sense.

He rewrapped the ring and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat.

• • • • • • •

The Rogers apartment always felt a little too small when everyone was over—but that was half the charm. Chairs scraped against the worn linoleum, silverware clinked softly against mismatched bowls, and the smell of garlic and broth hung thick in the air. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze, and through them, the city hummed—low and distant, like a lullaby.

Sarah moved gracefully between the stove and the table, ladling soup into chipped bowls, her apron already dusted with flour. Winnie, laughing, followed behind her with a warm apple pie wrapped in a dishtowel, setting it on the counter like she was unveiling treasure.

“Only took me two hours,” she announced. “If it’s burnt, lie to me.”

“I always do,” George said from the corner, already pulling a spoon from the drawer.

Rebecca, now sixteen and tall as her mother, leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, giving Bucky a theatrical side-eye. “You better have a good speech planned,” she muttered as he passed, just loud enough for him to hear.

He smirked. “Don’t doubt me.”

“You’re lucky she hasn’t come to her senses yet.”

They settled around the table—Bucky beside Daphne, knees bumping under the tablecloth, neither of them moving away. It had become second nature by now. No dramatic hand-holding, no whispered endearments. Just quiet familiarity. Shared glances. The subtle kind of closeness that didn’t ask to be acknowledged because it already was .

Steve sat across from them, stirring his soup absently and watching Bucky with something between amusement and fond warning. George and Sarah chatted at opposite ends, trading updates about the neighborhood, the ration cards, the butcher who’d started watering down his sausage. Winnie passed around pie with practiced grace.

Everything was exactly as it had always been—until it wasn’t.

The conversation had lulled, the dishes pushed aside, coffee poured into mugs with that soft, after-supper clink of ceramic. The pie was half-eaten, the window now glowed with gold from the last bit of sun sinking past the rooftops.

Bucky leaned toward Daphne, voice low.

“Come up to the roof with me?”

She glanced at him, surprised, but not suspicious. “Now?”

He nodded once. “Just for a minute.”

There was something in his face. Not nervous, exactly—just… intent.

She set down her fork, dabbed her lips with the corner of her napkin, and stood.

Across the table, Winnie caught Sarah’s eye. It was quick, but unmistakable.

Winnie raised one brow.

Sarah smiled and nodded, her hands wrapping quietly around her coffee mug.

Steve, still hunched over his drink, didn’t say a word. But a grin curled slowly over his face as he stared into the steam. He lifted the mug and took a long sip, hiding it.

Bucky stood, gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek, clapped George once on the back.

Then he followed Daphne to the stairwell.

The conversation resumed behind them—intentionally casual, overly loud, just enough to cover the silence they left behind.

The air on the rooftop was cooler than below, touched with the scent of laundry soap, old tar, and the lingering heat of the city settling into night. The sun had already dipped behind the tallest buildings, leaving streaks of gold and plum across the sky like paint left too long on a brush. The kind of sky that made you feel like something was ending—but also just beginning.

Daphne stepped up first, her shoes soft against the gravel. She wrapped her arms around herself without thinking, scanning the skyline like she always did, as if there were answers hidden between smokestacks and water towers.

Bucky followed, the door clicking shut behind him.

Neither of them spoke at first.

This rooftop had been theirs for years. First as kids sneaking up during summer heatwaves. Then as teenagers sharing secrets and stargazing with too much space between them. And now—something else. Something quieter. Deeper.

“I forgot how good the sky looks from up here,” Daphne murmured.

“You never forget,” Bucky said. “You just get distracted.”

She glanced at him then. He was standing a little too straight, hands tucked into his coat pockets like he didn’t trust them not to fidget.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

But his voice was rougher than usual, and when he stepped toward her, he didn’t stop until they were close enough that the world felt smaller.

He reached for her hand. She gave it, without hesitation.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About everything.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’ve changed.”

“I noticed.”

Another silence, but not awkward. Just… suspended. She watched his face—how serious he looked, but not afraid. Just ready.

“When I was a kid,” he said, “I used to think the best life I could have was one where I didn’t get stuck. Just keep moving, don’t put anything down long enough to miss it.”

She said nothing. Just let him go on.

“But then I met you. And for a long time, you were just Steve’s sister. And then you weren’t. And now, you’re—”

He broke off. His hand reached into his coat pocket.

Daphne’s breath caught.

He pulled out a small, square bundle of cloth.

When he unwrapped it, the ring sat in the center.

Simple. Gold. And the stone was soft and pale, like the sky above them right now.

“I want a life that stays put,” Bucky said. “I want a life that has you in it. A hundred laundry days. A thousand quiet mornings. All of it.”

He held the ring out—not on one knee, not with fanfare. Just there , between them.

“Will you marry me?”

Daphne stared at the ring, then at his face, and for a moment, she felt like her heart forgot how to beat. Not because she was shocked—but because some part of her had always known. That it would come to this. That love, for her, would never be loud or perfect or pretty in the way other girls dreamed it.

It would be this.

Something quiet. Steady. Earned.

“Yes,” she said.

Then again—because it felt good to say it:

“Yes.”

He slid the ring onto her finger, hands shaking just a little. She held them there between them, staring at the way it sat like it had always been meant to.

Then he kissed her. Not like the first time—fast, uncertain, charged. This one was slow. Warm. Full of breath. When they finally pulled apart, the sky was darker.

“Should we go tell them?” Daphne whispered.

“I think they already know. Probably just wondering if you actually said yes.”

She smiled. And together, hand in hand, they headed back down the stairs.

The hallway was warmer than the rooftop, thick with the smell of leftover soup and spiced pie and the faint trace of Sarah’s rosewater soap. Daphne and Bucky walked in step, their fingers still loosely intertwined. Neither spoke as they approached the apartment door.

He glanced at her once, catching the smile she was trying to suppress.

“You’re not hiding it well,” he murmured.

“I’m not trying to.”

Bucky smirked and opened the door.

Inside, the apartment was quiet— too quiet.

Everyone was still at the table, bowls empty, coffee mugs half-full. But no one was talking. Winnie was “reading” the label on the sugar tin with great interest. George was pretending to be fascinated by the state of his fingernails. Rebecca was doodling something dramatic on a napkin. Steve sat leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, mug in hand, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Hey,” Bucky said.

Daphne gave them a look. “Seriously?”

Winnie dropped the sugar tin and immediately wiped her eyes. “What?” she said innocently. “We’re just sitting here.”

Sarah stood slowly, her eyes moving straight to her daughter—then to her left hand.

She saw the ring.

She covered her mouth with one hand. Her voice came out small, full of feeling.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, thank God.”

Daphne hadn’t expected the tears. But they filled her own eyes anyway. She crossed the room, and Sarah pulled her into a hug that said everything she hadn’t said aloud in years.

George stood and gave Bucky a look—equal parts approval and amusement.

“Well,” he said, grabbing Bucky’s hand in a rough shake before pulling him in for a brief, back-slapping hug. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, a little breathless. “I know.”

Steve raised his coffee. “Finally,” he said.

Bucky met his eyes and nodded once—grateful. Steve had given him his blessing weeks ago, on a cold morning walk past the pier. No big speech. Just a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and a quiet, “Just be good to her.”

Now, he smiled like a man who’d kept a secret worth keeping.

Rebecca stood, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the ring. “If I’m not your maid of honor, I’m boycotting the whole thing.”

Daphne laughed, brushing a tear from her cheek. “You’re in. Obviously.”

Winnie was dabbing her eyes now in earnest. She reached for Daphne and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “About time we made it official,” she murmured. “You’ve been family since you were ten years old.”

Daphne hugged her back, heart full.

Bucky stood off to the side for a second, watching—his mother hugging his fiancée, his best friend nodding approval, the Rogers kitchen full of steam and joy and soft chaos.

It wasn’t the grand sort of celebration some people dreamed of.

It was better.

It was theirs.

• • • • • • •

The apartment was quiet again.

The kind of quiet that only came after a long evening of celebration, laughter, and too many hands reaching for the last piece of pie. The dishes were done, the kettle empty, and the sky outside had turned a soft, velvet black.

Daphne stood at the kitchen sink, still in her dress from earlier, fingers resting on the cool porcelain rim. She wasn’t doing anything—just standing there, letting the hush settle around her like a blanket.

Behind her, she heard the creak of the floorboards.

Steve.

He crossed the room slowly and leaned his hip against the counter beside her, arms folded. His hair was still a little damp from when he’d washed up, and his sleeves were pushed to his elbows, revealing the thinness in his wrists that never quite went away.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“You look like you’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

She smiled faintly. “Habit.”

Steve didn’t laugh, but he smiled too—soft, lopsided. Then he looked down at her hand, where the ring sat like it had always belonged.

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, “I’m glad you’ll be happy.”

She looked up.

“I mean it,” he said, voice low. “I know how much you gave up for me. School. Work. You patched my shirts and skipped dinners so I could eat. You held this family together when you were just a kid yourself.”

Her throat tightened.

“I know you never complained,” he went on. “But I saw it. Every time you stayed up late sewing. Every time you said no to something because I needed something more. You never said it, but I know. ”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Steve’s eyes shone, but he didn’t blink them away. “You deserve someone who looks after you the way you’ve looked after everybody else your whole life. And Bucky—he’ll do that. I know he will.”

Daphne looked down, blinking fast. She nodded. “He will.”

“I just want you to have a life that feels like yours. Not one you built around someone else.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “It’s still yours, Stevie. Always.”

He let out a soft breath and leaned his head against hers for a second, shoulder to shoulder like they used to do as kids when the wind rattled the windows and their father hadn’t come home.

“I don’t say it enough,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to.”

Chapter Text

1938

The Brooklyn courthouse sat square and gray against the pale morning sky, its stone steps still slick from the night’s rain. Inside, everything echoed—footsteps, murmurs, the low drone of paperwork being stamped and signed. The windows let in a thin, clean light. It made everything feel both very real and very sacred in a way no chapel could have.

Daphne stood by the window in her mother’s dress.

It wasn’t white—more of an antique cream, with a high neckline and soft embroidery worn thin at the sleeves. The hem had been let out and re-stitched more than once. It had been tucked away in Sarah’s trunk for over a decade, pressed between lavender sachets and a bundle of old letters.

Daphne hadn’t wanted anything new.

She wanted this —something worn and warm and familiar, something stitched by hand and softened by time. It fit her perfectly.

Bucky stood across the room, shifting from foot to foot, in a crisp shirt and his best jacket, hair combed but already starting to fall out of place. He kept rubbing the back of his neck like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

"Are you ready?" Steve asked.

Daphne nodded, adjusting the beaded Juliet cap on her head. "How do I look?" she asked.

"You look beautiful," Steve said, smiling as he looped his arm around hers.

As the soft music played in the background, Steve walked Daphne down the church aisle, Bucky waiting for her with a smile on his face.

When Daphne crossed the room to stand beside him, everything settled.

Steve stood just behind her, jaw tight, eyes red. He didn’t speak, but when Bucky met his gaze, he gave the smallest nod. Daphne saw it. Her hand found Bucky’s and held on.

Rebecca sniffled audibly behind them. She was crying so hard her mascara had smudged halfway down her cheek, and she didn’t seem to care. Sarah stood beside her, dabbing her own eyes with the same lace handkerchief she’d carried at her own wedding.

Winnie blinked fast, arms folded tightly across her chest—but the proud little smile never left her face. She passed George the camera they’d borrowed from a neighbor, whispering, “Don’t mess this up.”

“I won’t,” he whispered back, squinting one eye as he tried to frame the picture.

The justice of the peace cleared his throat.

"James, do you take Daphne to be your lawfully wedded wife from this day forward - to have and to hold, in good times and bad, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; will you love, honour, and cherish her for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do" Bucky smiled, squeezing her hands in his own.

"Daphne, do you take James to be your lawfully wedded husband from this day forward - to have and to hold, in good times and bad, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; will you love, honour, and cherish him or as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," she said, blinking back the tears in her eyes.

"Daphne, James, having proclaimed your love for, and commitment to one another in the sight of Almighty God and these witnesses, it is my pleasure to pronounce you, by the power vested in me by the St. Mark Baptist Church and the state of New York married! You may now kiss your bride!"

Both of them smiled, hearing everyone clapping for them as Bucky pulled Daphne into a kiss, both of them ready to start their new lives together.

"Gathered guests, it is my great pleasure to present to you Mr. and Mrs. Barnes!"

• • • • • • •

The stairs creaked under their feet as they reached the second floor, breathless from hauling boxes and hand-me-downs up from the street. The hallway smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and coal dust, with thin walls that hummed faintly with the lives behind them.

Bucky jiggled the key in the lock, muttering something under his breath about how it stuck more than it had yesterday. Daphne waited beside him, arms full of linen bundles.

The wallpaper was yellowed and curling at the seams, a pattern of faded roses that had likely been outdated when McKinley was president. The sink in the corner let out a slow, deliberate drip. The floor sloped gently toward the back corner, where a radiator the size of a horse wheezed with ghostly energy.

Daphne stepped inside first.

She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the squeaky windows, the cracked plaster, the wobbly table in the corner with only three good legs.

Then she smiled.

“It’s perfect.”

Bucky looked at her sideways. “You’re kidding.”

“Well, I already love you . The rest is just furniture.”

He leaned in and kissed her quickly—still not quite over the newness of being allowed to do that whenever he wanted. Then he set down the toolbox he’d borrowed from George and headed toward the kitchen.

The cabinet door squealed when he opened it, then fell off entirely.

He caught it just before it hit the floor and let out a low whistle. “Okay, maybe not perfect .”

Daphne laughed, already pulling fabric swatches from one of her bundles. “We’ll fix it. We’ll fix everything .”

Later that afternoon, she stood on a stool, measuring the windows with a piece of twine while Bucky crouched near the radiator, poking at it with a screwdriver like it might hiss into submission. He got a splinter from the cabinet, then sliced his palm on a crooked hinge.

“Son of a—”

“Let me see.”

He held it up sheepishly. She clicked her tongue, walked over, and tore a strip from the clean dish towel she’d brought from home. She wrapped his hand with quick, gentle fingers, tying the knot just tight enough to make him wince.

“There,” she said, satisfied.

“That was my good hand.”

They looked around again—at the battered stove, the crooked floor, the cracked window that stuck when it was humid. Their lives were stacked in piles around them: borrowed dishes, thin blankets, and hand-sewn curtains waiting to be hung.

And still, it felt like everything they needed.

He leaned back against the counter. “Think we’ll make it work?”

She looked at him, her hand resting lightly over his bandaged one.

“We already are.”

• • • • • • •

The apartment smelled faintly of burnt onions and boiled potatoes. Daphne stood by the stove with her hands on her hips, staring down into the pot like it had personally betrayed her. A wooden spoon stuck out at an awkward angle, and steam rose lazily toward the cracked ceiling.

Bucky peeked in from the doorway. “Is it… edible?”

She didn’t look up. “Define edible.”

“That it won’t kill me?”

“Then yes. Technically.”

He grinned and ducked into the main room. He crouched near the makeshift dining area—or what they were generously calling one. The table wobbled like a drunk on payday, and one leg was bolstered with a stack of old newsprint and a single brick they’d found in the alley. The chairs didn’t match. One creaked when you breathed near it. The other leaned to the left.

He spread a faded dishtowel across the tabletop and stepped back, hands on his hips.

“Table’s set,” he declared. “In the fine tradition of Parisian cafés everywhere.”

Daphne appeared in the doorway with the pot held carefully in a towel. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours.”

She rolled her eyes—affectionately—and ladled the lumpy stew into their bowls. It was… thick. A little too peppery. Possibly missing salt. She watched him take the first bite with barely hidden dread.

He chewed thoughtfully.

“Well?” she said, arms crossed.

He swallowed. “I’ve had worse.”

“Don’t lie to me, Barnes.”

He looked her dead in the eye. “I have had worse. In third grade. Rebecca tried to make cookies with vinegar instead of vanilla.”

Daphne groaned. “Why didn’t I learn how to cook? Steve’s the one who can roast a chicken with his eyes closed.”

“You’ve got other talents.”

“Like what?”

“Being the smartest person in the room. Marrying incredibly handsome men.”

That made her laugh—and not just a small one. The kind that filled the apartment and made the walls feel warmer, like the laughter itself was insulation.

The table, true to form, wobbled dramatically when Bucky leaned to refill their mugs with tap water. They stared at it in silence as it tilted sideways like a drunken sailor.

Then, without a word, they both picked up their bowls and sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor.

The tiles were chipped. The corners were dusty. The radiator moaned once like it was offering commentary.

But their knees touched. The stew was warm. And the light from the window turned everything golden.

Bucky raised his mug in a toast.

“To our first dinner in our first home.”

Daphne clinked hers gently against his. “May all our meals be better than this one.”

“And may all our floors be slightly cleaner.”

• • • • • • •

The pale morning sun crept through the thin cotton curtains, painting soft golden stripes across the kitchen floor. The apartment was still half-asleep—quiet except for the slow gurgle of the percolator on the stove and the faint hiss of the radiator warming too early for summer.

Daphne moved around the kitchen in her slippers and a faded dressing gown, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She was humming under her breath—something simple, almost tuneless—as she wrapped up a sandwich in wax paper and tucked it into a metal tin.

Behind her, Bucky sat at the table buttoning his work shirt. The collar had frayed since last week, and the second button was hanging by a thread—literally.

“Don’t move,” Daphne said, coming up behind him.

He froze mid-button.

She reached over his shoulder and turned the collar down properly, fingers moving with quick, familiar precision. Then she threaded her needle, snipped the loose string, and stitched the second button back in place without him needing to take it off.

“This one’s not going to last much longer,” she murmured.

“I’m not either,” he said, yawning.

She flicked the back of his head lightly. “You’ll survive.”

He turned his head toward her with a half-smile. “You always say that.”

“I’m always right.”

Once the button was secure, she patted his shoulder and moved back to the counter, slipping the lunch tin into his canvas bag. She added an apple and a folded napkin. Bucky watched her do it, one elbow on the table, chin in hand.

She handed him the bag. “Eat all of it this time. Not just the sandwich.”

“I only skipped the apple once.”

He stood and slung the bag over his shoulder, then reached for his coat hanging by the door. Daphne moved to meet him there, stepping into his space without hesitation. She straightened the collar of his coat and gave it one last tug.

“Okay,” she said softly. “You’re ready.”

Bucky leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You sure?”

She smiled. “Go before you’re late.”

He opened the door, paused, then turned back and kissed her properly—quick but full of warmth, like punctuation to a sentence they didn’t need to speak aloud anymore.

“Love you,” he said, already stepping into the hallway.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Love you too.”

And she watched him walk down the stairs, whistling something out of tune, his work boots loud against the steps. She didn’t go back inside until he was out of sight.

• • • • • • •

The city outside hummed with its usual chorus: the occasional rumble of a streetcar, laughter drifting up from the sidewalk below, the distant bark of a dog chasing something unseen. But in their apartment, everything was still.

The bedroom was small—barely big enough for the bed, a nightstand, and a narrow dresser—but it was theirs. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the warm night air, and the curtain fluttered gently with each passing breeze.

Daphne lay on her side, facing Bucky. Her head rested on the crook of her arm, and a thin cotton sheet was tangled somewhere near the foot of the bed. The mattress squeaked if they moved too quickly, so neither of them did. They just… stayed still.

“I was thinking,” she whispered.

Bucky opened one eye. “Dangerous.”

She nudged his leg under the blanket. “We should save up for a radio.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. One of those big ones with the glowing dial. I saw one in the shop window on Flatbush. Wood casing. Real nice.”

He smiled in the dark. “You want a radio?”

“I want something to listen to while I mend things.”

“You could sing.”

“I do sing. You complain.”

“That’s because you always pick the sad ones.”

“They’re the best ones.”

He reached across the space between them and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “We’ll get a radio.”

She didn’t say thank you. Just smiled.

He shifted a little, propping himself up on one elbow. “I could take on another shift next month. Nothing steady, just evenings. Extra money, maybe put it toward something.”

She tilted her head. “We’re doing okay.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But I want to do better. For you. For us.”

They were quiet a moment. Then she said, casually, “I like the name June.”

Bucky blinked. “Like the month?”

“Like a girl. Just in case.”

He was quiet again, but this time for a different reason.

“I like it,” he said eventually. “June Barnes. Sounds smart.”

“And kind.”

“What about a boy?”

She thought for a second. “I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“That’s alright,” he murmured. “We’ve got time.”

They didn’t say anything else after that.

The city kept moving outside, and the radiator tapped once as if clearing its throat. Inside, everything softened. Daphne shifted closer until their foreheads nearly touched. Bucky’s hand found hers under the sheet, and their fingers laced together without thought.

They fell asleep like that.

Facing each other.

Hands warm. Futures unfolding—slowly, carefully, lovingly—right there in the quiet.

Chapter Text

1939

The apartment was warm with the smell of something simple cooking—onions, butter, a bit of broth bubbling on the stove. Outside, the sky hung low and gray, rain slipping down the windowpanes in soft, streaky lines. It tapped gently against the glass, the kind of rain that didn’t storm or shout, just stayed.

A jazz record spun on the phonograph, the needle catching just slightly on the edge of a Duke Ellington tune. In the kitchen, Bucky hummed along, off-key but content, dish towel slung over one shoulder as he dried a plate with slow circles. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, hair still damp from where he’d leaned too far over the sink and gotten splashed.

In the next room, Daphne lay curled sideways on their threadbare couch, a novel open in one hand, the other resting lightly on Bucky’s knee. Her feet were tucked under a quilt she’d pieced together the winter before, one square at a time. Every now and then, she turned a page with a soft rustle, her toe nudging gently at his leg when he paused too long between dishes.

“You missed a spot,” she said without looking up.

“I definitely didn’t,” Bucky called back. “That pan was practically shining.”

She smirked. “You mean the one with the egg stuck to the bottom?”

“I’m letting it soak!”

He reappeared in the doorway a minute later, plate in one hand, eyebrow raised. “Why do I get the feeling I’m being supervised?”

“Because you are.”

She set her book down and opened her arms as he approached. He dropped the towel onto the back of the chair and sat beside her, shifting so her legs could rest in his lap. He rubbed a thumb absentmindedly along her ankle.

“You always this bossy?” he murmured.

“Only since I married you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her knee through the fabric of her dress, then rested his chin there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The rain kept falling. The record spun on.

Later, after dinner—scrambled eggs and toast, because payday was still two days away—Daphne sat at the table with her sewing kit open, repairing the cuff of one of Bucky’s work shirts. Her fingers moved quickly, almost unconsciously. She didn’t need to look to thread the needle anymore.

Bucky stood beside her, brushing crumbs from the table, his eyes drifting down to the way her brow furrowed slightly when the thread tangled.

“Don’t you ever get tired of sewing my sleeves back together?” he asked.

“Not really,” she replied, tying off a knot. “I like keeping you stitched together.”

He grinned and kissed the top of her head. That night, after the dishes were stacked and the kettle emptied, they danced.

No music. Just the fading echo of the record in their heads, the rhythm of the rain, and the creak of the floor under their bare feet. Daphne’s cheek rested against his collarbone; Bucky’s arms wrapped loosely around her waist. Their socks slipped a little on the worn floorboards, but neither of them cared.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

It was just the quiet joy of this —the apartment, the rain, the soft yellow lamp light, the steady breath of someone who loves you back.

• • • • • • •

The Rogers apartment was too quiet now. The kind of quiet that came not from peace, but from absence. No kettle whistling. No radio humming in the background. Just the ticking of the wall clock and the creak of floorboards that hadn’t been mopped in days.

Daphne let herself in with her key, holding a covered plate in one hand and a folded napkin tucked beneath her arm. She paused by the threshold, listening—for breath, for movement. For any sign that her mother was awake.

The living room was dim. Steve’s cot had been stripped. His coat was no longer hanging on the wall. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old tea. A vase of wildflowers sat wilting on the windowsill, petals curling in at the edges like they were bracing for something.

Daphne crossed the apartment and knocked gently on the bedroom door.

“Mama?”

A pause. Then a thin, raspy voice from the other side.

“Come in, sweetheart.”

The room was small, but warm. The heavy curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a sliver of late afternoon light. Sarah sat propped up on pillows, her cardigan buttoned up to her neck, a blanket tucked neatly around her legs. Her skin had gone papery pale in the last few months, and her cheekbones stood out sharply beneath her eyes—but she smiled the way she always had when Daphne walked in. Like it was the best part of her day.

“You’re early,” she said softly.

“I had extra soup,” Daphne replied, setting the tray on the bedside table. “And Steve says you need to eat more if you want to keep bossing us around.”

Sarah chuckled. “I’ll pretend I’m offended.”

Daphne helped her sit up straighter, adjusted the pillows, then handed her the bowl with careful hands. Sarah’s fingers trembled slightly as she held the spoon, but she waved off the offer for help.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just a little tired.”

She always said that. Just a little tired. Even after the diagnosis. Even after the doctor told them what they all knew but didn’t want to say: There’s no cure, only rest. Time. Distance.

Steve had cried when he found out. Not in front of Sarah—never in front of her. But later, back at the apartment he now shared with Daphne and Bucky, he’d sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, saying over and over again, “I should be there. I should be with her.”

“You are,” Daphne had told him. “Every time she closes her eyes, she sees you.”

Now, she watched Sarah struggle through half the bowl before setting it aside.

“Would you read to me?” Sarah asked, breath catching on the end.

Daphne nodded, reaching for the dog-eared copy of Little Women on the nightstand—the same copy Sarah had read to them when they were small, voices changing with every character. She opened to the marked page and began to read aloud, voice steady but quiet.

Sarah’s eyes fluttered closed—not asleep, but resting. Listening.

Daphne read for twenty minutes. Maybe longer.

When she looked up, her mother was watching her.

“I dreamed,” Sarah whispered, “that you were married in my old dress. With flowers in your hair. You were laughing.”

Daphne reached for her hand. “That wasn’t a dream. That was real.”

Sarah’s eyes closed again. “Good,” she murmured. “I like that one.”

They sat like that until the sun slipped lower, painting the ceiling gold.

Daphne didn’t speak. She just held her mother’s hand, pulse fluttering faintly beneath her palm, as the room settled into its fragile hush once more.

• • • • • • •

The dishes had been cleared, the last of the pie scraped from the tin, and the kettle was cooling quietly on the stove. The Barnes apartment smelled of apples and cinnamon, faintly smoky where the crust had bubbled over. From the kitchen came the soft clink of cups being washed—Winnie humming under her breath, Rebecca offering her commentary on the neighbors in hushed, rapid-fire whispers.

In the living room, George and Bucky sat with coffee in mismatched mugs, the table between them scattered with breadcrumbs and the day’s newspaper. The radio on the sideboard crackled, its volume turned low. A broadcast filtered in and out of clarity—names like Poland and Germany drifting through the static, too sharp to be ignored.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, brow furrowed as he listened.

“Third country this month,” he said softly. “Feels like it’s not gonna stop.”

George didn’t look up from his mug. “It won’t.”

A long pause passed between them.

“You think we’ll get pulled in?” Bucky asked.

George took a sip of coffee, then set the mug down with a quiet thunk. “Don’t matter what I think. The world’s already moving. You either get dragged or you jump.”

Outside, a siren wailed faintly—ambulance or patrol car. Impossible to tell. Inside, the radio muttered on.

Bucky tapped his fingers once on the table. “I’ve been thinking about it. You know, if it comes to that.”

George looked at him then—really looked. His eyes were steady, sharp despite the years, despite the war he’d already seen.

“You want to be a soldier, Buck?”

Bucky hesitated. “I don’t want to be. But I don’t know if I could stay here if something like that starts. If there’s a fight worth being part of.”

George’s jaw shifted, his hand tightening slightly around his mug.

“Don’t get romantic about war,” he said. “It doesn’t make you a man. It just breaks the ones who already are.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. He watched the steam curl from his cup, his thoughts louder than the radio now.

“I just don’t want to stand still,” he said finally. “If the world changes, I don’t want to say I sat it out.”

George leaned back in his chair, the light from the nearby lamp catching on the lines that war had etched deep into his face.

“You think I wanted to go?” he asked, voice quiet. “You think any of us did?”

Bucky looked down.

“I lost more friends to bad orders than I did to bullets. Lost more nights to what I saw than to what I fought. And when I came home, I was never the same. Not to your mother. Not to myself.”

He let the words hang, heavy in the small room.

George reached forward then, pushed the mug toward Bucky. “You want to fight for something? You do that every day. You keep a roof over your wife’s head. You take care of your family. You show up.”

Bucky nodded slowly, but his fingers still curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white.

The radio sputtered again. Another border crossed. Another warning given.

George watched him.

“You’re a good man, son,” he said. “Don’t let war convince you you need to prove it.”

And Bucky didn’t answer—not because he disagreed, but because some part of him already knew the choice would be taken from him anyway.

• • • • • • •

The bedroom was wrapped in shadow, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the curtain. The air was heavy, warm in that way late summer nights often were—too still to be comfortable, too quiet to ignore your thoughts.

Daphne lay on her side, the sheet twisted at her waist, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She hadn’t spoken in a while, but Bucky knew she wasn’t asleep. He could feel it in the way her fingers tapped against the mattress, like she was counting off worries in rhythm with her heartbeat.

He reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.

“She barely ate today,” Daphne whispered. “Coughed for half an hour before she let me come in the room.”

Bucky said nothing at first. Just rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, steady.

“I know she says it’s under control,” she continued, voice quiet. “But she’s getting thinner. Her skin’s like paper.”

“She’s tough,” Bucky said. “Always has been.”

“I know.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “But she’s tired, Buck. I can see it in her face. She’s pretending for me. And I don’t know how to help her.”

He shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and pressing his forehead gently against hers.

“You’re already helping,” he murmured. “She’s still fighting because she knows you’re there.”

They were quiet again. Somewhere outside, a car backfired, sharp against the silence. Then the night settled once more, low and heavy.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him—soap and cotton and city dust. But there was something else in the air too. Not perfume. Not illness.

Dread.

“Bucky,” she whispered. “Are you thinking about it?”

He didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need him to.

She turned to face him fully, the sheet rustling between them. His face was half in shadow, but his eyes were open—wide, restless.

“Just promise me,” she said. “If things change… don’t run toward it just to prove something.”

His breath caught.

“I’m not trying to prove anything.”

“I know,” she said. “But you’re still thinking about it.”

He swallowed. “I’m thinking about everything.”

She reached up and touched his jaw, thumb grazing the faint stubble there. “We’re enough, you know. This life. Me. Steve. Your family. You don’t have to go looking for something bigger to make it real.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

And he meant it.

But even as the words left his mouth, they both felt the same thing deep down—that the world was changing, and that love, no matter how strong, might not be enough to hold it still.

Chapter Text

1940

The wind had picked up overnight. It pushed at the corners of buildings and whispered through alleyways, the kind of cold that slipped through coat seams and settled deep in your ribs. The city was quieter than usual that morning—no shouting vendors, no trolley bells, just the steady hum of life beginning beneath a gray, heavy sky.

Daphne held her scarf tighter over her mouth, breath misting behind the wool. In her left hand was a tin thermos of chamomile tea. In the other, a wax-paper-wrapped scone, still warm from the bakery down the block. Sarah had been struggling to eat, but she always took a few bites if it was soft. Sweet. Familiar.

Bucky walked beside her in silence. He didn’t say anything when she slowed in front of the building. He waited on the stoop as she dug out her key and slipped inside.

The hallway smelled the same as always—wood polish and old newspaper ink, a faint trace of mothballs from the neighbor’s coat closet. But something about it felt… wrong.

Not loud. Not obvious.

Just off.

The living room was still. Dim.

She set the scone and thermos down on the counter, hanging her coat on the hook near the door. The quiet wasn’t unusual—Sarah had been sleeping more lately—but today it felt heavier. Like the hush before a storm, or the moment a clock stops ticking.

“Ma?” Daphne called gently. “It’s me.”

She didn’t expect a response—her mother had been too hoarse to shout for weeks—but she always called out, just to let her know someone was home.

She poured the tea, grabbed the napkin-wrapped scone, and walked toward the bedroom. Knocked once on the door.

No answer.

“Ma?”

She opened the door slowly, letting in a narrow stream of pale morning light.

Sarah was lying just as she had the day before—propped on pillows, blanket up to her chin, hands folded lightly over her stomach. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was slightly open. Her chest didn’t move.

Daphne smiled softly at first, assuming she was still asleep. Then she stepped closer. The smile faded. She reached out, touched her mother’s shoulder.

Cold. She froze.

No breath. No warmth. No fluttering twitch of a dream behind the eyelids.

“Ma,” Daphne whispered, louder now. “Mom.”

Nothing.

Her heartbeat slammed into her ears. Her hand shook.

She touched her again, harder this time. “ Ma— ”

It hit her like the snap of a bone.

The thermos fell from her other hand and hit the floor with a metallic clatter. The lid rolled under the bed. The tea seeped out across the boards.

Her knees buckled as she dropped beside the bed, hands scrambling to pull the blanket back, to do something, to find something still living there—but there was nothing. Just stillness. Finality. Cold.

“ Bucky! ” she screamed, her voice torn from someplace primal. “ BUCKY—! ”

The cry echoed down the hallway like glass shattering.

Footsteps thundered across the floorboards a moment later, faster than thought. The front door slammed open. Then the bedroom door.

He found her on her knees beside the bed—half collapsed, clutching at Sarah’s body like she could anchor her mother to the world if she just held tight enough.

“Daph—” Bucky moved to her, but she was already pulling at the blanket, frantically tugging it down, pressing her ear to Sarah’s chest, her face pale and streaked with panic.

“She’s not—she’s not gone, she’s just tired—” Daphne gasped. “She always sleeps late—she’s cold, but she—she just—”

Bucky reached for her, but she shoved the blanket off entirely and pushed herself up onto the edge of the mattress, straddling the side, trying to lean her mother back.

“I can wake her up—I just—I just have to—”

She tilted Sarah’s chin with shaking fingers and pressed her lips to her mother’s, trying to breathe for her. One breath. Two. She pumped her hands against her chest, too fast, too frantic, muttering, “Come on, come on—don’t do this—don’t do this —why isn’t it working?”

Her voice cracked, each word higher and more panicked than the last.

Bucky grabbed her shoulders. “Daphne—Daph, stop—”

“ She’s not dead! ” she screamed, fighting him. “She’s not—she just— why isn’t it working?! ”

He pulled her back as gently as he could, but her knees buckled and she collapsed into him, fists beating weakly against his chest.

“Please,” she sobbed, her whole body shaking. “Please, Bucky, please—do something—I didn’t stay—I should’ve stayed— ”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, sinking with her to the floor as she folded in on herself. Her cries weren’t words anymore—just broken sounds, raw and gut-wrenching, echoing through the tiny apartment like thunder in a bottle.

Bucky closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to her temple. He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t bring Sarah back.

All he could do was hold her.

So he did.

Tight enough that she didn’t collapse.

Tight enough that she knew she wasn’t alone.

• • • • • • •

The light through the Rogers apartment windows had turned gray-blue, stretched thin and cold across the floorboards. Everything in the room felt heavier now—furniture, silence, breath. The kind of stillness that no longer felt like quiet, but like the air itself was mourning.

Daphne sat curled on the loveseat, her knees tucked to her chest, Bucky’s coat draped over her shoulders though she didn’t remember him putting it there. Her face was pale and blotchy, lashes still wet, and her hands were wrapped around a tea mug she hadn’t touched.

The bedroom door remained ajar down the hall. No one had gone back in.

There were no more screams. Just the echo of them.

The apartment door opened softly.

Steve stepped inside, his hat in his hands, a scarf twisted around one wrist. He looked around, eyes landing first on the untouched tea tray on the counter, then the door down the hallway—just slightly ajar.

Bucky stood near the kitchen, gaze low. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Steve understood instantly.

He stood there for a second, still as stone, then took a shallow breath and nodded once, like that would hold him together. He walked past the living room without a word, down the hall, and gently pushed the bedroom door open.

He didn’t cry.

He just sat.

Right down on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up, his hand resting on the edge of the mattress. He looked at their mother’s still form like he was waiting for her to wake up and tease him for slouching.

Daphne couldn’t bring herself to go in again.

She watched from the couch, barely breathing, the weight in her chest pressing heavier with each tick of the clock.

“I should’ve stayed,” she whispered eventually, her voice flat and cracked. “I should’ve stayed last night. I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have moved out at all.”

Bucky crouched beside her, but it was Steve who spoke—quiet, from the bedroom doorway, without looking back.

“Daph, don’t do that.”

She shut her eyes, jaw trembling. “She was alone.”

“She wasn’t ,” he said. “She had you every day. You took care of her when I couldn’t. You made her laugh last week. You brought her tea every morning. You gave her your whole life. ”

Daphne shook her head. Her arms pulled tighter around her knees.

“I missed it,” she choked. “I missed her. ”

Steve stepped into the living room, walking slowly, every movement weighted. He sat beside her and rested a hand on her back.

“You didn’t miss her,” he said. “She knew. ”

That broke something new in her.

She turned, finally, and buried her face in his shoulder.

He held her.

And Bucky, across from them, sat on the floor and watched the two people he loved most try to piece themselves back together around a loss that would never be filled.

• • • • • • •

The Rogers apartment had never been loud, but now it felt hollow. Not empty, exactly. Just… stripped of its heartbeat.

Dust floated in the pale afternoon light as Daphne and Steve moved slowly from room to room, cardboard boxes opened and waiting on the floor. The air smelled of old cedar, faint perfume, and time—like something sealed up too long was finally letting itself be felt.

No one said it aloud, but they were doing what had to be done: packing up their mother’s life.

Steve sat cross-legged on the floor near the bedroom, sorting through a box of letters and bills, pausing every so often when he found her handwriting. Daphne moved carefully through the small living room, her hands grazing every object like she wasn’t sure if touching them would hurt or help.

She knelt by the bookshelf and pulled down a recipe card, the edges curled and stained with years of flour and butter. Sarah’s handwriting looped neatly across the front: Molasses Bread (Joe’s favorite). Daphne didn’t remember ever eating it. She pressed it to her chest and breathed in like it might still smell like her mother’s kitchen.

A creak behind her.

Bucky had been there all morning—moving slowly, saying little. He helped Steve carry boxes down to the stoop. He swept when no one asked. He was the one who brought sandwiches and made sure they drank water. He didn’t touch anything sacred. Just stayed close enough for when she needed him.

She froze in front of the dresser, fingers resting on a drawer handle.

Bucky came up beside her. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

He waited.

Then she pulled it open slowly. Inside: scarves, folded neatly. A pair of old gloves. A church pin. And tucked along the edge, just barely visible under a swatch of lace, was her mother’s sewing tin.

She opened it with trembling hands.

Inside: a half-used spool of thread, a thimble worn smooth at the top, a silver needle threaded with gray cotton that had dulled with age.

She picked up the needle and stared at it.

“Last one she used,” she whispered.

Her voice cracked.

Bucky stepped closer, but didn’t touch her.

“I watched her fix Steve’s coat with it,” she said, blinking hard. “She said it still had a few good stitches in it. She said she’d teach me to darn better cuffs if I ever stopped being too proud to ask.”

Her shoulders trembled.

Then she sat right down on the floor and started to cry— really cry—like she had been holding it inside since the day she’d screamed his name. The kind of sobbing that came from the bones, raw and childlike and utterly helpless.

Bucky dropped to his knees beside her, pulled her against his chest, and held her while she wept.

“I wasn’t ready,” she gasped.

“You weren’t supposed to be,” he murmured.

Around them, the boxes remained open, half-filled with fabric and paper and lives that didn’t know how to end. The apartment felt like it was watching, waiting—for a sound, a breath, anything.

But there was only this:

The shape of her curled into him.
The press of her grief against his shirt.
And a silver needle, still threaded, sitting in the palm of her hand.

• • • • • • •

The apartment was dim, lit only by the low flicker of the stove’s pilot flame and the soft yellow glow of the lamp in the corner. Outside, the city exhaled in muffled car horns and the rustle of wind between buildings. The windows fogged faintly at the edges from the cold.

Daphne sat curled in the windowsill, one knee drawn up under her chin, her forehead resting against the glass. The hem of her sweater sleeves was frayed where she’d picked at them all day without realizing. Below her, the street stretched quiet and wet, glinting under lamplight like a road to somewhere that didn’t exist anymore.

Behind her, Bucky moved around the kitchen with quiet hands. He stirred the soup again even though it was already warm. Then looked over. She hadn’t moved.

He watched her for a moment longer, then turned off the stove and walked across the room.

The wood floor creaked under his steps, but she didn’t turn.

He didn’t say anything. He just pulled a chair beside her and sat down.

A long stretch of silence passed between them. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Then Daphne spoke, barely more than a breath.

“It feels like everything is ending.”

Bucky looked at her—at the way the streetlight haloed around her hair, at the faint reflection of her face in the glass. Her eyes didn’t move from the window.

“Then we hold onto what’s left,” he said softly.

She blinked. Slowly. Then turned her head just enough to meet his gaze.

He reached for her hand. Laced their fingers together. Neither of them squeezed. They just stayed like that, breathing in the stillness of the moment before everything changed.

Chapter Text

1942

The air inside the grocery store was colder than the street, but still thick with nerves and ration stamps. Shelves that once held rows of canned vegetables and meat now stood mostly empty, the metal glint of a few lonely tins reflecting the overhead lights. Daphne moved methodically, slipping the last can of potted meat into her basket and eyeing a half-row of green beans like they might vanish if she blinked.

She turned the corner of the aisle just as a clatter hit the floor.

A can rolled to a stop against her shoe.

Daphne bent to pick it up, brushing dust from the label, and turned to hand it off.

"Betty? Hi," she said, surprised, recognizing the dark-haired woman beside her.

Betty looked up, blinking as if she’d just been shaken from a trance. Her lipstick was faintly smudged and her coat hung a little looser than Daphne remembered.

"Oh, Daphne. Hi. I'm sorry, I've been a bit in my head all morning," Betty sighed, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

Daphne shifted her basket to her other arm. "What's wrong?"

"Well, um, it's Donald. His number's up," Betty told her, voice brittle, like it might break if she pushed too hard.

Daphne froze, a confused frown tugging at her brow. It had been over a year since the Selective Training and Service Act had gone into effect. Every man aged 21 to 35 had been required to register for the draft. Most had. Including Steve. Including Bucky.

But Steve had been turned away—too sickly, too small. And as for Bucky, he was still safe. Supposedly, they weren’t looking to take married men or fathers. At least until now. 

"But I thought... you two are married," Daphne said, a strange heat rising in her palms, sticky and sudden.

Betty’s mouth twisted. "The rules are changing. Not enough volunteers, I guess."

Daphne nodded slowly, her stomach pulling tight. "Well, I'm sure everything will be okay. He'll be back before you're even able to miss him," she said, voice light and steady—too steady. It felt like the words belonged to someone else entirely.

Betty nodded, eyes glassy. "I'm sure you're right."

Daphne glanced up at the clock above the register. Her heart was pounding. She couldn’t remember what else she’d come in for—why she’d even walked through the door in the first place.

"Will you excuse me? I forgot I actually have to be somewhere," she said quickly, stepping back from her cart. She didn’t wait for Betty’s reply.

The moment she hit the cold air outside, she knew had to get home.

• • • • • • •

The kitchen light buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow across the chipped linoleum as Steve dug through the refrigerator like it owed him something. The air was thick with frustration.

“Steve, man, you’ve gotta stop this,” Bucky sighed, leaning heavily against the back of the couch, arms folded across his chest.

Steve didn’t even turn around. “I want to do this, Bucky.”

“They already told you no like three times,” Bucky reminded him, more tired than annoyed now. It was the third time this week they’d had this conversation.

“So I’ll try again,” Steve said, straightening with a bottle of milk in hand, his jaw set like stone. “It’s not fair of me not to go. You’re going.”

“Yeah, not because I want to!” Bucky snapped, pushing off the couch. “I swear you’re the only guy in the country who wants to go so bad.” He shook his head, trying to keep his voice from rising. “Steve, you’ve gotta be here for Daphne. If we’re both gone then what is she gonna do? Huh? Did you ever think about that? While you’re so desperately tryin’ to go off to war you’d be leavin’ your sister here all alone.”

There was a pause.

“You’re leaving?” Daphne’s voice cut through the room, sharp and small all at once.

Both men turned. Neither of them had heard her come in. She stood in the doorway, purse still dangling from her shoulder, eyes wide, body frozen in place.

“Both of you?”

“No,” Steve rushed out, stepping forward. “No, I’m not going.”

Daphne’s gaze locked on Bucky. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The folded letter in his jacket pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Bucky?” she asked again, softer this time, her lip beginning to tremble.

“I’m gonna give you two some space,” Steve said quietly, brushing past them.

But Daphne didn’t look away from Bucky. Not once. She waited, standing in the middle of the room like the floor might give out.

“The letter came when you were—”

“No.” She shook her head, her voice shaking as she walked past him, setting her purse down on the table with shaking fingers. “No.”

Bucky sighed, slowly crossing the room. He leaned against the counter, unable to meet her eyes.

“Daphne. I didn’t... I didn’t think they’d actually pick me.”

“I don’t care who they picked. You’re not going,” she said, her voice hardening, like sheer will might stop the war itself.

“I don’t think it works like that,” he said softly, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped closer.

“You can’t just leave,” she whispered. “You can’t leave me.”

“Hey.” He reached out, gently cupping her face in both hands. “Look at me. It’s only basic training. Seventeen weeks.”

Her hands came up to rest over his, trembling.

“What about after that? What if you—”

“Don’t think about that right now,” he said quickly, his thumbs brushing her cheeks.

“When do you have to leave?” she asked, her voice barely more than breath.

“They’re giving me a few days,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. Her face tucked under his chin like it belonged there. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she mumbled into his shirt, her voice thick with tears. “But I’m really gonna miss you.”

“God, I’m gonna miss you so much. But knowing my girl’s gonna be here waiting for me will make it go by faster,” he said, closing his eyes and holding her tighter.

She gave a watery laugh, weak and warm all at once. “Don’t forget about Steve.”

“Oh of course not,” Bucky chuckled through the ache. “Like I could ever forget that punk.”

• • • • • • •

The platform was already crowded by the time they arrived. Draftees and volunteers gathered in loose clusters beneath the peeling signs and iron awnings, duffel bags slung over shoulders, uniforms still stiff with starch. Steam hissed from the engine as a low whistle echoed down the track.

Bucky stood a few steps ahead, his name scrawled in sharp letters on his issued bag. The cap felt too new. The uniform too clean. He’d run a hand through his hair a dozen times already, trying to look composed. Trying to look like someone who was ready.

Behind him, the people who knew better tried not to cry.

Winnie was the first to step forward, her hands cupping both sides of her son’s face.

“You write me, James Buchanan Barnes,” she said, her voice thick. “None of that ‘I’m too busy’ nonsense. You find a minute.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “I’ll write every week.”

“You’d better. I don’t care if you’re crawling through mud.”

She kissed his forehead, hard, then smoothed the shoulders of his uniform like she could fix all the things about it that scared her. Her hands lingered a second too long.

Then George stepped in, and for a moment the two men just looked at each other—father and son, soldier and soldier.

George didn’t say much. He just extended his hand, gripped Bucky’s tightly, then pulled him in for a brief, hard hug.

“Come back smarter than I was,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Come back whole.”

“I will, Pop,” Bucky said. “I promise.”

Rebecca was next. She was seventeen now, all sharp eyes and big opinions, pretending she wasn’t already crying.

She slugged his arm with more force than necessary. “Don’t be stupid over there, okay? Don’t do anything dumb and heroic.”

“I’ll try,” Bucky said, laughing. “But you know I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Rebecca wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. “You come home or I’ll kill you.”

He bent and kissed the top of her head. “Deal.”

Steve was waiting behind her. He hadn’t said much all morning, not since the walk to the station. Now, he stepped forward and pulled Bucky into a hug without warning.

They stood there for a long beat—two boys who had become men side by side. The silence between them said everything words couldn’t.

When they pulled apart, Steve’s jaw was tight, his hands in his coat pockets. “You know I’d go with you if I could.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “But I need someone keeping an eye on your sister.”

At that, Steve managed a crooked smile. “She’ll keep you in line through letters alone.”

And then there was Daphne.

She’d been quiet all morning. Holding his hand like it was the only thing anchoring her, her other hand tucked in the pocket of his coat she refused to stop wearing. Now, as the conductor called first boarding, she stepped in front of him.

She didn’t speak.

He didn’t either.

He just cupped her face in his hands, leaned in, and kissed her like it had to last.

When they finally broke apart, she still didn’t cry—not in front of him. Her lip quivered, but she held his gaze.

“Seventeen weeks,” she whispered.

“Then home,” he whispered back. “I’ll send you a letter the second my boots hit the dirt.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I know.”

The train gave another sharp whistle. A few young men were already stepping aboard, waving at mothers, clutching letters in their hands.

Bucky gave one last look at his family—his whole world—and then picked up his bag.

He smiled, tried to make it convincing.

“Save me a plate at Sunday dinner,” he called over his shoulder.

Winnie clutched George’s hand. Rebecca wiped her eyes again. Steve nodded once, tight. Daphne pressed a hand to her chest, like holding in a piece of him as he turned away.

And then he was gone.

• • • • • • •

1943

It had been four months since Daphne or Steve had seen Bucky—four long months of letters that came late or out of order, written in rushed penmanship that said "I'm fine" too many times to be believed. Words on paper weren’t the same as hearing his voice in the kitchen, or seeing his jacket tossed over a chair.

Steve still hadn’t made peace with being left behind. Not really. He kept up the act—cracking jokes, helping Daphne with rent—but she’d caught him slipping out early some mornings with that determined look in his eyes. She knew what he was doing, but neither of them talked about it.

He'd tried different hometowns, different last names, hoping one of them would be far enough from his file to fool the enlistment board.

Daphne kept busy because she had to. Like most women she knew, she was holding the world together in pieces—two jobs now, sewing by lamp light when the rest of the building had gone quiet. Saturdays were the only time she let herself slow down. Usually with Steve. Usually pretending things were fine.

They were walking past the corner market, wind tugging at her hem, when something caught her eye.

A sliver of crumpled paper, poking from his coat pocket. Just enough to see the stamp.

4F.

“What the hell?” she muttered, coming to a sudden stop. Her eyes locked on the page. “You’ve been trying again?”

Steve turned, caught off guard. “What?”

“I can see the paper stickin’ out of your pocket, Steve,” she said, groaning as his cheeks flushed with guilt. “Were you just not gonna tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell. Obviously, they said no again,” Steve said.

“Oh, yeah, obviously. And what if they had said yes, huh? Were you just gonna spring it on me that you enlisted? Just go home and tell me you’re leaving tomorrow and that I’ll probably never see you again?” she asked, voice rising with every word.

“No, I had a plan, okay. I know they give you a few days before you leave so I had until then to convince you that I’d be okay,” he said.

“Of course. Steve, the man with a plan. Well, that’s a horrendous plan because there’s not enough time in the world for you to ever convince me that this would be a good idea,” she scoffed.

“Well, if you’d just—”

“I shoulda known I’d find you two arguing in the middle of the street.”

They both turned at the sound of the voice behind them.

Daphne’s breath caught. Her body froze, then moved all at once as she rushed forward.

“Bucky,” she breathed, nearly throwing herself into his arms. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers fisting the back of his coat. She held him like she might fall through the sidewalk otherwise.

He laughed softly, steadying them both with a hand to her waist. “Look at you,” he said, leaning back just far enough to see her face. “A sight for sore eyes.”

“When did you get back?” Steve asked, stepping forward as Daphne slowly let go and moved aside.

“About an hour ago. I went to the apartment first but you weren’t there. Figured I’d be able to find you two somewhere close,” Bucky said.

Daphne stepped back to really take him in—his dark green uniform pressed and sharp, the brown cap sitting at just the right angle on his head. He looked taller somehow. Older. Tired around the eyes.

“You look handsome,” she said, a touch of awe in her voice.

“You get your orders?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes. The pride was there—but so was something else. Something heavier.

“The 107th,” he said. “Sergeant James Barnes.”

“The 107th? That’s the unit our dad was in,” Steve said, his voice quieting at the thought of the stories their mother used to tell about a war they only knew from pictures.

Daphne’s voice softened, breaking around the edges. “How long, um, how long until you have to…”

Bucky didn’t make her finish. He let out a breath and looked away for a second, then back.

“Tomorrow. They’re sending me to England.”

Her face crumpled. Not into tears—not yet—but into that barely-contained look of someone who’d been bracing for bad news and still wasn’t ready for it.

She knew she wasn’t alone in this. That women across the world were letting go of husbands, brothers, sons.

But right now, it felt like it was only her. Like her heartbreak was the only one echoing in her chest.

“I should be going,” Steve muttered, suddenly uncomfortable in the weight of their sadness.

Daphne’s head snapped toward him. “Steve, do not start with me right now.”

“Well, it’s true,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

“Bucky, please tell your friend that he’s an idiot,” Daphne sighed.

Bucky’s brow lifted as he eyed the enlistment paper sticking out of Steve’s pocket. He reached over and tugged it free.

“Seriously, Steve? How many times is this?” he asked, scanning it. “Oh, you’re from Paramus now? You know it’s illegal to lie on the enlistment form. And seriously, Jersey?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Steve mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Daphne folded her arms, watching both of them with equal parts love and exasperation.

“Okay, look. We can talk about this some other time. But you’re back. For now at least. We should do something special? Right?”

“You read my mind, doll,” Bucky said with a grin, pulling a folded-up newspaper from his back pocket and handing it to them.

“We’re going to the future.”

On the front page was a full-color ad, ink slightly smudged from the fold: Howard Stark’s 1943 World Exposition of Tomorrow.

A brief escape. A moment of wonder before the world cracked wide open.

And for tonight, at least, they had time.

Chapter Text

Howard Stark’s expo shimmered like something out of a dream—part circus, part miracle, part future that still felt just out of reach. The air buzzed with music and the smell of popcorn, machine oil, and hot metal. Lights blinked from every towering archway, glinting off chrome displays and mannequins in silver jumpsuits. War raged across the ocean, but here, for one strange evening, America was alive with hope and illusion.

Daphne held Bucky’s hand tighter as they wove through the crowd. For a moment, it almost felt like the world was still whole.

But Steve… Steve wasn’t smiling.

"I don't see what the problem is. You're about to be the last eligible man in New York. You know there's three and a half million women here," Bucky said, his voice casual as he leaned against a nearby railing.

"There a reason you know that statistic off the top of your head?" Daphne asked, one brow raised as she shot him a sideways glance.

"For Steve, obviously. And so I'd be able to tell you that you're prettier than three and a half million other women," Bucky said, slinging an arm over her shoulder with that familiar lopsided grin.

"You know you didn't have to invite me if I'm just gonna be a third wheel," Steve said, shifting awkwardly beside them.

"You're not a third wheel," Daphne said, reaching for his hand with quiet certainty.

"Well…" Bucky trailed off, wincing just in time for Daphne’s hand to smack lightly against his stomach.

"You're not a third wheel. Third wheel implies you're not wanted and we want you to come with us," Daphne said, narrowing her eyes as she looked up at him. "Don't we?"

"Of course we want you to come with us. Steve, look around. It’s a party. You’re supposed to be having fun," Bucky said, sweeping a hand toward the pulsing lights and laughter surrounding them.

"I am having fun," Steve muttered.

"Well, you should try telling your face that," Daphne smirked, grabbing both their arms and pulling them deeper into the swell of the crowd. "Come on. It’s starting."

At the heart of the expo stood a stage that looked like a movie set—curved chrome columns reaching for the sky, lights casting everything in glossy red and gold. A sleek car gleamed under the stage lights, polished so bright it mirrored the overhead spotlights. Swing music burst from the loudspeakers, and a dozen women in matching satin uniforms danced in formation around the vehicle.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Howard Stark!"

The cheers were immediate, the kind that rattled through the metal framework of the tented dome above. Howard jogged onto the stage in a white suit, all teeth and bravado, waving like he was about to unveil the cure to every American problem with a lightbulb and a wrench.

Daphne’s heart jumped in her chest, excitement spreading through her like static. She leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won’t even have to touch the ground at all?"

The gasps from the audience were theatrical, but Daphne’s was real.

The dancers peeled the tires off the car like stage magic, revealing metal ports glowing faintly with blue light.

"You don’t actually think he could do that, do you?" Steve asked, arms crossed, skeptical as ever.

"If he had the right propellor or maybe a ducted fan. But the amount of energy that would take would be over 500 kilowatt-hours," Daphne replied, eyes never leaving the stage.

Bucky and Steve exchanged a glance, both completely lost.

"With Stark Gravitic Reversion Technology, you’ll be able to do just that," Howard declared, swaggering to the control panel.

A switch flipped. The stage lights flickered—and then the sound came.

A low hum turned to a thrum, then to a full-bodied vibration that seemed to pulse in the chest. The car began to rise, metal shifting, glowing brighter, hovering inches—then feet—off the ground.

"Holy cow," Bucky whispered, eyes wide.

Daphne was frozen. She wasn’t watching a magic trick. She was watching a future she’d only ever traced in sketches on napkins, whispered about in classrooms full of men who never thought to ask her opinion.

But reality snapped back in a heartbeat.

The hum shifted—became a screech—and then the whole vehicle slammed back to the platform with a thunderous metallic crash. Sparks shot into the air. Daphne flinched, stumbling back against Bucky as his arm reflexively came around her.

"I did say a few years, didn’t I?" Howard chuckled, raising both hands in surrender.

The crowd didn’t seem to mind. They roared with applause anyway, and the music picked up like nothing had gone wrong.

"Hey. You hungry?" Bucky leaned down to murmur in her ear, his voice softer, quieter beneath the music and crowd.

Daphne nodded, eyes still scanning the flickering lights above. “I’m craving funnel cake,” she said, half-dazed with adrenaline and wonder.

"Alright, come on," Bucky said, slipping his hand into hers and guiding her through the press of bodies.

The world might’ve been spinning into war and uncertainty, but tonight… tonight was still made of light.

• • • • • • •

That night, the wind pressed softly against the windows, barely noticeable through the thicker walls of their new apartment. It was warmer here—no need for the mountain of blankets they used to pile on just to keep their toes from freezing. But Daphne and Bucky still lay tangled together, skin to skin beneath the cotton sheet, as if neither could sleep without the other’s heartbeat nearby.

The world outside felt far away.

Neither of them spoke.

The clock ticked faintly on the nightstand. Somewhere in the building, a pipe clinked. The low hum of a passing streetcar faded into the distance.

Bucky’s fingers were moving slowly, absently—twisting long strands of her hair around his knuckles, letting them fall, and winding them again. Gentle. Repetitive. She knew that rhythm. It meant he was awake. Lost in thought.

"Can I ask you a question?" she murmured, her voice soft and nearly swallowed by the dark.

"Yeah. Anything," he said, his voice just as quiet, but steady. Always steady—for her.

"Are you scared?" she asked.

The words settled between them like dust.

Bucky went still.

He stared at the ceiling, her head resting against his chest, the rise and fall of their breathing no longer synced. He could hear the echo of her question behind his ribs. Could feel the weight of it pressing into the hollow places he hadn’t let her see.

The truth rose like a tide.

Yes. He was scared. Terrified.

Not of blood or bullets. Not even of dying.

But of what it would do to her if he didn’t come home.

Of her standing alone in the doorway when the letter came. Of her folding laundry when the knock hit the door. Of her sitting right here in this bed, reaching for him in the night and finding only cold.

But he couldn’t tell her that.

He was her strength. He had to be. Even now. Especially now.

"No. No, of course I’m not scared," he said, the lie easy, the smile that followed real enough to pass. He looked down as she tilted her head to meet his eyes.

"I should've known. You've always been the bravest person I've ever known," she said. "Well, I guess after Steve."

He let out a low laugh, the sound settling in his chest. He thought of Steve’s stubborn courage—the way he kept trying, kept fighting, even when the world said he couldn’t.

"Yeah. I don't think anything scares him. But he gets it from you. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit."

"Not true. I’m scared of some stuff," she replied, a smile curling at the edge of her voice.

"Oh yeah? Like what?" he asked, amused.

"Hmm." She paused, eyes squinting like she was seriously contemplating. "Spiders."

"Spiders? Right. How could I forget?" he teased, reaching over to poke her cheek, grinning as she swatted at his hand.

"Hey," she said, shifting to her side, propping herself up on one elbow. Her face was close to his now, shadows playing across her features in the soft glow of the hallway light seeping under the door. “Can you do something for me?”

"For you? Anything."

Her eyes searched his face, suddenly heavy, glistening.

"When you're out there. Fighting. For us. Being a hero. I need you to remember that I..." she paused, her breath catching as tears welled. “That I’m here.”

One rolled down her cheek.

“That I’m here and I’m waiting for you. Remember that I love you. More than anything.”

He reached up without hesitation, brushing the tear away with the pad of his thumb. His hand lingered, cradling her cheek like she might dissolve if he let go.

"That won’t be too hard," he whispered. "You’re pretty unforgettable."

Outside, the city carried on. Inside, they held each other like the world might end come morning.

And maybe it would.

• • • • • • •

The days dragged by.

Slow. Heavy. Agonizing.

Bucky was gone, and though his pillow still held the faintest shape of him, his side of the bed had turned cold by the second night. Daphne stopped reaching for it after the fifth. But the ache lingered, coiled in her chest like a second heartbeat.

She kept herself busy—frantically so. She picked up every available shift. Worked until her arms trembled and her knees ached. Because if she never had a quiet moment, then maybe she wouldn’t have to sit with the thought that her husband might never come home.

And she had faith in him—God, she had faith in him. Bucky could talk his way out of a storm and fight his way through a dozen men without blinking. But this wasn’t a street brawl. This was war.

He was somewhere out there—in a country he’d never seen—fighting men who had been trained to kill. Trained to kill him.

She almost passed out with dread every time she checked the mail. Nothing made her happier than a bill.

It meant no telegram had come.

Leaving the factory after eight grueling hours, Daphne wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her sleeve, her coveralls sticking to her skin in patches. Her hands ached from threading steel and tightening bolts. All she wanted was food and five minutes not thinking about war or absence or death.

But as she turned the corner onto Main Street, something in the periphery caught her attention.

She glanced into the dusty window of an old shoe store—converted now into a makeshift recruitment center. And there, standing frozen in front of a faded poster, was a silhouette she’d know anywhere.

Her stomach dropped.

She turned back toward the crosswalk, shaking her head like she could will it away—but then turned again, slower this time, eyes narrowing.

With a groan of disbelief, she pushed the door open and marched inside, ready to grab her brother by the collar.

“Seriously, Steve?” she asked, striding up to him where he stood, eyes locked on the lineup of boys already overseas.

Steve turned, clearly startled. “Daphne? What are you doing here?”

“I think that’s a better question for you,” she said, planting one hand on her hip.

“You know what I’m doing,” he mumbled, sheepish.

“Why are you doing this? Did you even stop to think about what would happen if they actually took you?” she asked, her voice tight with anger—and fear.

“Look, I know you don’t think I can do this—”

“Is that what you think?” she cut him off, her brows furrowed. “You think I don’t want you to go to war because you can’t handle it?”

“Come on, Daph. I know what you and everyone else think of me. That I’m weak and—”

“ Stop it! Steve—” she sighed, dragging a hand down her face and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not for one moment have I ever thought you were weak. You are the strongest person I know. And there’s no doubt in my mind that if given the chance, you’d be a great soldier.”

“Then why don’t you want me to do this?” Steve asked, voice cracking on the last word.

“Because you’re also a great brother. My brother, Steve. Other than Bucky, you are all I have left.” Her voice dropped. “I can’t… Steve, I can’t lose you too.”

He looked down. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Daph, I’m not doing this because I want to leave you,” he said.

“I know. You’re doing it because it’s who you are. You want to help,” she said softly. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t such a good person.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re the only one,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Daphne let out a long breath and looked past him toward the desk where enlistment forms sat in messy stacks.

“If I ask you not to do this and come home with me, you’ll say no, huh?”

“Probably.”

“What if I dragged you out?” she asked, one brow raised.

“I’d just come back tomorrow,” he said, without missing a beat.

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll wait for you out here. But if you get arrested for pretending to be Steve from Ohio, don’t expect me to bail you out.”

She barely finished the sentence before he was rushing to the desk, practically snatching the clipboard from the sergeant behind it.

And even then, despite her exhaustion, her worry, and her aching heart—Daphne smiled.

Because no matter how broken the world became, Steve Rogers never stopped trying to save it.

• • • • • • •

When Steve stepped out onto the sidewalk, the door creaked shut behind him with a final-sounding click . Daphne was already standing there, her arms crossed and jaw set. She barely even glanced at him as she swung her purse over her shoulder, motioning down the street.

“So what do you want for dinner?” she asked, already walking toward the curb. Her voice was clipped, a little tired. “And don’t say something other than meatloaf because that really narrows down our choices.”

But his footsteps didn’t follow.

Halfway to the crosswalk, she paused. Turned. Her brow knit in confusion when she saw him still standing near the recruitment center’s entrance, rooted to the spot like he couldn’t move.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice softening as she stepped closer. “I know they didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear but you can—”

“Daphne,” Steve said, cutting her off.

She stopped, blinking. “What?”

He didn’t say anything. Just held out the form in his hand.

The paper fluttered slightly in the breeze. She recognized the layout instantly—she’d seen it too many times. But the box that once held a harsh red 4F had been replaced. A new stamp gleamed across the center of the form.

IA.

Her stomach flipped.

Daphne stared. For a second, she couldn’t find her voice. Couldn’t even feel her hands.

“Steve—”

“They’re giving me a chance, Daphne,” he said, almost reverently.

“A chance?” she echoed. Her breath caught in her throat. “So that’s it? You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” he said, folding the paper with a care she hadn’t seen since he’d pressed flowers into a book for her years ago. “First thing tomorrow.”

“What…” Her lips parted, the words stammering out as her brain caught up. “Steve, I…”

She looked at him like she didn’t recognize him. Like the world had tilted beneath her feet.

“Steve, you can’t. ”

“You must be Daphne—the sister,” came a voice behind them, accented and calm.

She turned quickly, startled, eyes narrowing on the older man approaching in a wool coat, spectacles perched low on his nose.

“Yes, I… I’m sorry, who are you?” Daphne asked, her tone sharper than she meant.

“Dr. Abraham Erskine. I am—”

“You’re the one sending my brother off to war,” she said, cutting him off before he could finish.

“Daph, this is different. They have something different,” Steve interjected.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked, whirling back to him. Her pulse was hammering now.

“We can’t talk about it here. But I can assure you, Miss Rogers—”

“ Barnes, ” she corrected, the word escaping on instinct.

Dr. Erskine blinked, confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Barnes,” she repeated, quieter this time. “I’m, um… I’m married.” She lifted her left hand slightly, letting the ring catch the afternoon light. It felt heavy all of a sudden.

“My apologies, Mrs. Barnes,” he said, giving her a small, respectful nod. “But your brother, Steve, will be in the best hands.”

Daphne said nothing. She couldn’t. The knot in her chest was too tight.

Steve reached for her, voice low and steady. “Daphne. Everything’s going to be okay,” he said. “I promise.”

And for the first time in their lives, she wasn’t sure if he could keep that promise.

Chapter Text

Daphne,

I know you’ve probably been worrying about me since I left, but don’t. I’m at Camp Lehigh in Jersey.
Jersey, of all places—I know.

But everything’s okay. I think I’m actually doing pretty well. Or starting to, at least.
There’s a woman here, Agent Peggy Carter. She’s pretty neat. I think you two would actually really get along.

Have you heard from Bucky? I really do miss you both.

But I have good news. We’re going to get to see each other soon. It took a lot of convincing, but Erskine agreed that you could come.

Remember when I told you they were giving me a chance? Well, on the 22nd at 8 a.m., there will be a car with two soldiers in it to escort you somewhere. I don’t even know where yet—it’s all a big secret.

I know this sounds crazy, but I need you to trust me.

I love you so much,
—Steve

Daphne stood outside the apartment, the letter trembling slightly in her hands as she reread it for the fifth time. She hadn’t let it out of her sight in two weeks. When it first arrived with official government postage, her stomach dropped through the floor. She thought it was the letter.

It wasn’t.

But it was still terrifying.

Now, standing on the curb just before 8:00 a.m., she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Not from fear of what was coming—but because of not knowing what was .

Right on time, a black, unmarked car rolled up to the curb, engine purring low. Two men sat in the front seat, both dressed in U.S. Army uniforms, sunglasses glinting in the early morning light. Only one stepped out.

He moved stiffly, deliberately. "Daphne Barnes?" he asked.

"Yes. Where is my brother?" she asked immediately, her voice sharper than she intended. "What’s going on?"

“Come with us. Steve Rogers is currently waiting for you at our facility,” he replied.

“What facility?” she asked, her gaze narrowing.

“The matter is too delicate to talk about here. Please, Mrs. Barnes—you need to come with us.”

She hesitated, eyes scanning the quiet street. She didn’t like any of it—didn’t like how rehearsed he sounded, how unreadable their faces were—but the letter burned in her pocket. Steve said this would happen.

She gave a small, wary nod, climbing into the back seat.

The soldier followed, shutting the door beside her as the driver pulled away.

"So," she asked after a moment, trying to keep her voice steady, "where are we going?"

"Airport," the driver replied without looking at her.

Her stomach dropped. “Airport? They’ve already taken him overseas? To England?”

The two men exchanged a look in the rearview mirror. The driver’s voice didn’t falter. “Yes. To England.”

Something twisted in Daphne’s gut.

But she bit her tongue. Steve sent them. He told her to trust them. She had to trust him.

She stared out the window, trying to shake the nerves buzzing just under her skin. But twenty minutes later, her blood turned cold.

They passed the turn for the airport.

They should’ve gone right.

They went left—toward the docks.

“I thought we were going to the airport,” she said, tension threading into her voice.

Neither of the men responded.

“Hello?” she snapped. “This isn’t the way to the airport.”

Still nothing.

“Look, if you don’t tell me where we’re going and what’s going on, I’ll—”

She froze.

The man in the passenger seat turned around slowly, raising a pistol and pointing it straight at her face.

“ Stop talking, or I shoot you in the head, ” he said flatly, the thick German accent slithering out from beneath the surface.

Daphne’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

Everything stopped.

She felt herself sink into her seat as if the weight of the moment was trying to press her out of existence.

The car rolled to a stop near the end of the dock, where two more men waited—guns already drawn, eyes like stone.

The driver got out and rounded the car.

Daphne expected to be dragged out by force, but instead, the man pulled the door open and held up something else.

A needle.

Thick. Metallic. Filled with a strange, glowing green liquid.

Her stomach lurched. "What is that?" she asked, backing away instinctively.

She kicked at the door, but the man inside slammed his hand down on her leg and pinned her in place.

"No! Stop! What is that?!" she screamed, thrashing. “ Let go of me! ”

The gun pressed against her temple.

"If you stop moving, it'll hurt less," the soldier said calmly.

The needle plunged into her arm.

She screamed.

It felt like acid, like her veins were catching fire, melting from the inside. Her vision blurred. The pain surged up her spine—then suddenly vanished, replaced by a syrupy numbness that stole her breath.

She slumped, dazed and spinning, the world tipping sideways.

One of the soldiers grabbed her under the arms and hauled her out of the car. She was weightless now—barely aware of the waterline, the shadows, the submarine waiting just ahead.

She didn’t hear the echo of boots on concrete behind her.
Didn’t hear the shouting.
Didn’t hear the voice yelling her name.

“ DAPHNE! ”

Steve’s scream tore through the morning air.

But it was too late.

They had her.

• • • • • • •

"Das ist also das Mädchen? Seine Schwester?"
("So this is the girl? His sister?")

"Ja, Herr Schmidt. Aber er weiß, dass wir sie haben."
("Yes, Herr Schmidt. But he knows we have her.")

A thick fog clouded Daphne’s mind as her eyelids fluttered, too heavy to lift. Her chest felt compressed, like something massive was sitting on it. Every breath was shallow. Her head spun violently with disorientation.

Muffled voices reached her ears—cold, foreign. She couldn’t understand what they were saying. German, maybe? Or maybe she had a concussion. Maybe worse.

"Das spielt jetzt keine Rolle, Dr. Zola. Bis er hier ankommt, wird es zu spät sein."
("That doesn't matter now, Dr. Zola. By the time he gets here it'll be too late.")

She managed a low, pained groan.

The taller man turned toward her at the sound, and a smile stretched across his face—not kind, but clinical. Like a scientist pleased that a lab rat had survived anesthesia.

"Ah, Ms. Rogers. You are awake. Good. Now we can begin," he said smoothly, his accent unmistakably German.

Panic flared in Daphne’s chest. Her vision blurred, the harsh lights above making her eyes sting. She turned her head slightly, struggling to focus.

"Where...where's Steve?" she whispered, her voice cracked and dry.

The tall man didn’t answer her. Instead, he turned to the other in the room, the shorter one adjusting a control panel.

"Dr. Zola, please begin getting everything ready."

"Yes, Herr Schmidt," the man replied, already flipping switches and adjusting dials on a large, humming machine. A horrible whirring noise filled the room, the pitch rising in sync with Daphne’s dread.

She looked down, suddenly aware of the wires—long, thick ones—snaking out from the machine and leading directly to her. Needles pierced her arms, her legs. Every joint ached.

She was strapped down, bound at the wrists and ankles to the cold metal table. Panic bloomed fully now, hot and frantic in her bloodstream.

"No, no, no," she muttered, pulling at her restraints, desperate to get free.

"Ah, ah, ah," the tall man said, shaking a finger at her like she was a child misbehaving. "Breaking out is not an option for you."

"Who are you? Where is Steve?" Her fear sharpened into rage, voice rising despite the tightness in her throat.

The man gave a slight bow, his tone theatrical. "Of course. Where are my manners? I am Johann Schmidt, head of Hydra. That is Dr. Arnim Zola. And as for your brother? Well… I have a feeling he’s currently looking for you."

Hydra. The name meant nothing to her, but she could feel it—whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Nazis, probably. Monsters, definitely.

"Let me go! What do you want?!" she shouted, yanking at the cuffs around her wrists until her skin burned.

Schmidt’s expression didn’t change. "What I want," he said calmly, "is to turn you into the best possible version of yourself. Like myself. Like Steve Rogers. But first, we must ensure your loyalty."

"No! No!" Daphne thrashed as Zola approached, holding two adhesive patches wired to the machine. She turned her head, trying to dodge him, but she was pinned. "Stop, stop. Please stop!"

"The more you resist, the more it'll hurt," Zola murmured, his eyes gleaming with cruel excitement. He leaned down, voice low and venomous as he whispered into her ear.

"Hail. Hydra."

Before she could scream again, he flipped the switch.

Agony exploded through her body—raw, searing, and absolute. Electricity surged through every nerve. Her back arched off the table, muscles seizing. The scream that tore from her throat didn’t even sound human.

Then, nothing.

Darkness claimed her.

• • • • • • •

Her eyes fluttered open.

Everything was blurry at first—light, shadow, the faint hum of electricity somewhere in the walls. As her vision sharpened, two figures came into focus in front of her: Herr Schmidt and Dr. Zola.

She stared at them, heart thudding slowly in her chest.

What was her name?

Her head tilted slightly, trying to piece together the answer, but nothing came. Her mind felt blank—wiped clean like a slate. She glanced down, only just realizing she was no longer strapped to a table but upright. Standing.

No—restrained. Her wrists and ankles were bound against the cold wall behind her. But for some reason… that didn’t seem to bother her. Not really.

Was that normal?

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know much of anything—except for the names of the two men standing in front of her. She knew them. Somehow, that felt important. She was supposed to trust them.

“Guten Morgen, Soldat.”
("Good morning, soldier.")

Herr Schmidt’s voice was calm, authoritative.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Schmidt,” she replied automatically.

The words slipped from her mouth with ease, even though she wasn’t sure how she knew them. German. She understood it. Spoke it. Maybe she was German. That would explain it, right?

Still, nothing felt certain. A strange instinct whispered to stay quiet. To follow. To obey.

“You have been out for a week, soldier,” Dr. Zola said, stepping forward. “Today marks the beginning of the rest of your life. We will begin a series of injections followed by a few tests. Are you ready to begin?”

She stared at him, silent.

The question echoed in her head, but it didn’t feel like a real question. More like a formality. An expectation.

After a moment, she simply nodded.

That was enough.

“Let’s get to work,” Zola said.

Chapter Text

"Verbrennung."

"Getrübt."

"Einundzwanzig."

"Sonnenaufgang."

"Heizung."

"Zwölf."

"Sicher."

"Anfang"

"Fünf"

"Bahnhof."

Everything felt… off.

No—not wrong exactly. Just different. Was that even the right word? She couldn’t tell. She still didn’t know her name. They kept calling her Soldat . Maybe that was it. It didn’t sound right, but the thought of having no name at all made her chest tighten with panic.

So Soldat would have to do.

“Guten Morgen, Winter. Are you ready to comply?” Schmidt’s voice was crisp, precise, as he stood in the dimly lit corridor, his gloved hands folded neatly behind his back.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice flat and devoid of inflection, eyes staring ahead without focus or hesitation.

“Good. Follow me.”

Her boots echoed sharply against the concrete floor as she moved behind him, the rubber soles squeaking slightly with each step. She rubbed her palms down the length of her black pants and straightened the fitted shirt she wore, the Hydra insignia stitched just above her left sleeve like a brand. Her mind was blank. Her muscles were tense but obedient. Every breath she took felt mechanical, practiced.

The lights in the room above her were blinding. Had they always been this bright? Her eyes wandered, catching on a window that looked out across a vast, snow-covered mountain. The view was so crisp it felt like she was standing in it. Like she could step right through the glass and be swallowed up by it.

Schmidt led her to a large steel door, its surface battered with age, a small circular window fogged at the edges from the cold. He paused, glancing back at her.

“Did Dr. Zola have a chance to go over the specifics of your treatments?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Mm,” he mused, as if pleased. “You’ve been training for nearly a year now—stronger, faster, more precise. Today we test your strength… and your loyalty. Inside this room is a man who wants to see everything we’ve built fall. You are going to kill him.”

She didn’t speak. She simply nodded.

Schmidt’s thin smile widened as he turned the handle and pulled open the heavy door. The screech of metal filled the hallway before the sound was swallowed by silence. Without another word, she stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a hollow clang.

Inside, the room was stark—bare walls, a single light overhead, and a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He stood slowly from the floor when she entered, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

“You’re bloody joking,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They sent you to kill me?”

“Yes,” she said, already moving.

He barely had time to react before her fist collided with his jaw. The impact sent him reeling backward. He stumbled, caught off-guard not just by the attack, but by the strength behind it. She closed the distance in two strides, grabbed the front of his jacket, and slammed him down hard onto the floor, straddling his waist. Her fists found his face again and again, brutal and unrelenting.

She didn’t flinch when his lip split. Didn’t hesitate when his nose cracked under her knuckles. Her punches didn’t slow until her breath grew shallow—not with effort, but with boredom. When she’d had enough, she shifted her weight and braced a knee against his chest. Reaching down, she twisted his head hard and fast until his neck snapped with a sickening crack. His body went limp beneath her.

The door opened immediately.

Schmidt entered with measured steps, his gaze flicking to the corpse, then to her."Do you know why we are called Hydra?" Schmidt asked. His voice was calm, coaxing, and he smiled when she silently shook her head.

"The Hydra was a Greek monster. A serpent with many heads. Cut off one, and two more grow in its place. We are never-ending." He stepped closer, eyes glittering. "Your old name also has Greek origins. But you... you are so much more than what you used to be."

She blinked, the weight of his words unsettling. Something stirred inside her—quiet, questioning.

"My old name? What was it?" she asked. It surprised even her, how foreign her voice sounded. Realizing it was the most she’d spoken to him, or anyone, since she arrived.

"The old you isn’t important anymore," he said. "The old you is dead."

His words struck something deep—an ache she couldn’t place. Unease twisted through her, unfamiliar and sharp.

"But the new you..." he went on, voice smooth like oil. "The new you will help me bring my vengeance across the world."

He turned to study her reaction. "Do you know who else carried out vengeance? The Furies. Do you know who that is?"

Again, she shook her head.

"You, mein Schatz ," he said, almost tenderly. "You. You are my Fury. You will hunt down my enemies and kill them for me. My own personal huntress. Come on. It's time for the last stage of your transformation."

She followed him down the corridor, her footsteps echoing behind his. The words he’d said tumbled through her mind like static: vengeance... fury... huntress . That was her now. The Huntress. That was her purpose. That was her name.

But if she had a new name, didn’t that mean she’d had an old one too?

She wanted to remember. Some part of her did. But another voice inside whispered that it didn’t matter. What mattered was Hydra. Schmidt. Dr. Zola. Orders. Obedience.

The room they entered next was different. Larger. Harsher. Brighter.

Men in lab coats swarmed the space, moving quickly under the sharp bark of Dr. Zola’s commands. Machinery hissed and whirred around a towering steel chamber at the center of the room—like an upright coffin made of cold metal. It had a single window in the center and was laced with wires and tubes that connected to consoles along the walls.

Dr. Zola approached her, seizing her arm with a clinical grip.

She flinched at the contact. Her muscles twitched with the urge to fight back—to tear him apart for touching her—but she held still. She couldn’t risk it. She worked for Hydra. She had to comply. She didn’t know how to be anything else anymore.

Zola led her toward the towering machine and yanked the door open with a hiss. But before he could move further, a deafening alarm blared throughout the lab. All movement halted.

Zola turned sharply toward Schmidt, confusion on his face.

Schmidt strode toward the monitors, his mouth curling into a curse as he scanned the screens.

"He’s here! Put her in now!" he barked.

Zola hesitated. "But if he's here, I won't have enough time to properly—"

Schmidt stormed across the room, grabbing Zola by the collar and dragging him close. His voice dropped, lethal and cold. "Put her in now."

Then he turned to her, his tone shifting back to command. "When you get out, kill Captain America."

She blinked. The name meant nothing. A face she couldn’t place. But it was an order.

"Yes, Herr Schmidt. Kill Captain America," she repeated.

"Zola. Hurry."

The doctor shoved her inside the container. It was freezing and dark. The walls closed in as the door sealed shut with a loud hiss. She was alone now, surrounded by metal and the low thrum of distant machines.

Through the tiny window, she saw the other scientists fleeing the room, only Zola and Schmidt remaining.

Their voices were muffled but audible through the steel.

"It’s ready. But there’s no certainty it will work. It could kill her," Zola warned.

"Which is why we test it on her first before me," Schmidt said, unmoved. "If it works, she will take care of the problem. If not—we still have the Tesseract. Now do it."

Tesseract. Another word she didn’t know. But the urgency in his voice was unmistakable. They were experimenting. On her.

The realization struck with a force like lightning. Emotions surged—panic, anger, fear—too many at once. Her breath caught.

But before she could scream, or pound on the glass, or beg them to stop—a hiss filled the chamber. A strange white gas spilled in, swirling around her feet, rising fast.

She gasped once.

Then the world blurred, then darkened, and then—

Nothing.

Except one thought, echoing in the silence that followed.

Kill Captain America.

• • • • • • •

Steve ran through the narrow, dimly lit corridors of the Hydra base, his breath tight and pace relentless. The prisoners he’d helped escape told him where to find the solitary ward—where Bucky would be. He hadn’t hesitated. He wasn’t even supposed to be here, and he knew full well there would be consequences when he returned. But he didn’t care.

Daphne was supposed to have been there that day—on the morning of his transformation. She was supposed to be with him, watching Erskine's experiment from the safety of the gallery. But when two soldiers showed up alone, claiming someone else had been assigned to retrieve her, Steve’s gut twisted. Something was wrong. And within hours, Hydra agents infiltrated the operation and killed Dr. Erskine.

He hadn’t had time to think. He chased the escaping car on foot, newly transformed and unsure of his own strength. When he reached the docks, the last thing he expected was to see her—Daphne. Slumped unconscious in one of the men’s arms, carried toward a submarine like a package. He froze. Just for a second. And that second cost him. He was too late. They vanished beneath the water, and he hadn’t been fast enough to stop it.

That moment lived behind his eyes, every second of every day since.

They never learned why Hydra had taken her. Some believed it was leverage—to use Steve as a weapon. Because of that possibility, Steve had been barred from participating in any efforts to find her. He followed orders. But he never stopped searching.

And then, stationed in Austria for a USO tour, Steve overheard something. The 107th Infantry Regiment—Bucky’s unit—had been captured. Prisoners of war. And just like that, a sliver of hope pierced the grief that had rooted itself in his chest. If Bucky was alive, maybe Daphne was too.

He stalked through the hallway, lit only by flickering overhead lights, until a figure ahead caught his attention. A short man, not dressed in Hydra gear. When the man turned and spotted him, his eyes went wide, and he bolted.

“Hey!” Steve shouted, chasing after him—but stopped short when he heard a low groan from the room the man had just fled.

He turned back.

Cautiously, he entered the room, eyes scanning every shadow. Inside, a single figure lay strapped to a cold metal table, mumbling softly.

“Sergeant. 32557,” the man whispered, over and over.

Steve’s breath caught as he stepped closer. The bruised, pale face became clear in the light.

“Bucky?” Steve gasped, rushing to his side.

But Bucky didn’t respond. He stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, his lips still moving as he repeated the same string of numbers.

“Oh my God,” Steve murmured, heart pounding. Whatever they’d done to him—it was worse than he feared.

With a grunt of effort, Steve gripped the bindings and ripped them loose. At the sudden motion, Bucky flinched, his body reacting instinctively—but his gaze shifted, eyes blinking hard.

“Is that… is that…”

“It’s me,” Steve said softly. “It’s Steve.”

Bucky stared at him, dazed. “Steve?” he repeated, like the name was a lifeline.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Steve confirmed, helping him to sit up.

“Steve,” Bucky said again, more firmly this time, his awareness returning in pieces. He rose shakily to his feet, still leaning against the table for balance.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve said, steadying him.

"I thought you were smaller," Bucky said, eyeing Steve from head to toe with a crooked half-smile, still trying to make sense of what was in front of him. A blast echoed in the distance, shaking the walls. The sound snapped them both back to the urgency of the mission.

Steve's face tightened. There wasn’t much time.

"Bucky," he started, voice low. "Have you... is Daphne here?"

Bucky’s expression twisted in confusion. "Daphne? Why the hell would Daphne be here?" he asked, blinking like the question had knocked the air out of him.

Steve didn’t answer right away. His silence was louder than anything else in the room. Bucky’s heart began to hammer harder, a cold feeling creeping into his chest.

"Steve," he said again, firmer now, more desperate. "Why would Daphne be here?"

Steve hesitated, then dropped his eyes. "They... they took her. Hydra took her."

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

"What? When?" Bucky’s voice broke on the edge of panic. Adrenaline surged through his tired body, washing away whatever numbness was left from captivity.

Steve let out a shaky breath, his mouth dry. "Eleven months ago. I still haven’t found her. I don’t even know if she’s—"

"Don’t." Bucky’s voice cut like a blade, sharp and sudden. "Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say!" He shoved past Steve, storming toward the door. "We need to find her. Now—"

A deafening explosion tore through the hallway.

The blast rattled the walls and sent chunks of debris clattering to the floor. Smoke poured into the corridor, curling through the air like fingers. Steve and Bucky instinctively ducked, eyes wide as the dust cleared.

A massive wall had been blown open, revealing a gaping hole lined with broken stone and jagged metal. Across the rubble stood a thick metal door—one Steve recognized instantly. It was nearly identical to the chamber he’d been in when he received the serum.

Then—movement.

From the smoke, a figure stepped forward.

She emerged slowly, carefully, like a shadow slipping into reality. Her black uniform clung tight to her frame, the Hydra insignia gleaming faintly on her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back into a precise ponytail. In one hand, she held a pistol, her grip calm and practiced.

She stepped over the wreckage without hesitation. Her boots crunched softly against the stone.

Steve and Bucky froze.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

Her expression was blank. Cold. Distant. Like she didn’t even see them.

Until—

"Daphne?" Bucky said, his voice small, unsure, but laced with hope.

Her head turned sharply, eyes locking onto them. She scanned them—slowly, calculating—as if assessing whether they were a threat. Her gaze lingered on the shield strapped to Steve’s arm.

Recognition flickered. And then her face went still.

She raised her gun.

Steve didn’t move. Bucky didn’t breathe.

Her voice was flat. Unfeeling.

"Kill Captain America."

Chapter Text

She woke drenched in sweat, the heat pressing against her skin like she was suffocating inside an oven. Disoriented, she blinked through the dark, her eyes adjusting just enough to see a sliver of light shining through a small window in front of her. She tried to move, but her elbows struck cold metal on either side. The walls were too close. She was trapped. A box. A tomb. Her chest tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

And then—panic. Not just from the heat or the confinement, but something worse, something deeper.

She didn’t know her name.

Was it Huntress? That’s what Herr Schmidt had called her.

Herr Schmidt. The mission.

Kill Captain America.

Yes. That was why she was here. That was the only thing she knew with certainty. She needed to get out.

Pressing both arms forward, she shoved against the door. To her surprise, it flew open with explosive force, launching off its hinges and tearing through the brick wall across the room. She didn’t flinch. Her body moved on instinct. Calmly, she stepped over the debris and into the open room beyond.

It was quiet now—eerily so. The sirens were gone. No guards. No doctors. But that didn’t matter. The mission was all that did. Kill Captain America.

Her eyes landed on a pistol sitting on a desk across the room. She picked it up, checked the magazine—two bullets. More than enough.

She stepped into the hallway, dust and brick floating in the stale air. Her boots echoed faintly as she moved forward, calculating her path. She needed to find her target. Then—

“Daphne?”

She froze. The voice came from behind her. She spun around, raising the gun in one swift motion.

Two men stood there—soldiers by the look of them. But not Hydra. Enemies. Her eyes narrowed.

Daphne. That name again.

She locked onto the shield the taller one held. The colors. The shape. Red. White. Blue.

Captain America.

“Kill Captain America,” she said, her voice flat, almost mechanical.

“Wait, wait, wait! It’s me! It’s Steve!” the man with the shield shouted, eyes wide.

“Steve?” she echoed. “You’re Captain America?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

That was all she needed. She fired both shots. The bullets ricocheted off the shield with a heavy clang, and the force of it made the man stumble. Tossing the gun aside, she sprinted toward him, leaping into the air and slamming her foot into his leg. He crashed to the floor with a grunt.

The second man lunged for her, grabbing her arm. “Daph, stop. It’s us!”

She didn’t hesitate. She twisted his wrist, flipping him over her shoulder and slamming him onto the ground. He hit with a loud groan, winded and confused.

“Daphne!” Steve called, scrambling to his feet, his hands raised in surrender. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You probably won’t,” she said coolly, swinging a punch at his face. He ducked it just in time.

“It’s me, Steve! Your brother!”

Brother?

Her punch faltered, her body pausing mid-motion. That hesitation was all Steve needed. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, locking her arms to her sides and pulling her back into his chest.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he said gently, his breath hot against her ear.

She growled and threw her leg out, flipping him forward over her shoulder. They rolled together across the floor, tangled in each other’s limbs, until she broke free and scrambled upright. Before she could orient herself, the other man was on her again.

She turned sharply, her voice a venomous snarl. “Don’t touch me.”

Her hand gripped his arm, ready to break it, when he spoke again—fast, desperate.

“Daphne! It’s me. It’s Bucky. You know me! You know us!”

“Stop! I don’t know you!” she yelled, pulling her arm free. Her hands flew to her head. Pain shot through her skull like lightning. Her knees buckled.

“Yes, you do. You know us,” Bucky said, stepping toward her with measured care. “Your name is Daphne Barnes. That’s Steve—your brother. And me, I’m Bucky. We got married. May 15, 1938. You remember me. I know you do.”

She shook her head violently. The words cut deep, carving holes through her mind. Steve? Bucky? Daphne?

Daphne.

She knew that name. Didn’t she?

Her vision blurred. Her head pounded. She was slipping.

“No, no, no,” she whispered. “No. I don’t know you.”

“You do,” Bucky said, his voice low, aching. “Before I left, you told me to remember that you love me. I need you to remember that I love you. More than anything.”

Her eyes flew open. She stared at him.

“Bucky,” she said, her voice broken, shaking with emotion.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, it’s me.”

She collapsed into his arms, sobbing against his chest.

How long had it been? How long had she been gone? What had they done to her?

She pulled back slowly, tears still glistening in her lashes, and turned to Steve. He was taller now—so much taller than she remembered.

“Oh my God,” she murmured, throwing her arms around him. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I joined the army,” he said with a soft smile, hugging her close.

She pulled back, her brow furrowed. “Oh God—I tried to kill you!”

“You can apologize later,” Steve said quickly. “Right now, we need to get out of here.”

She nodded, wiping her tears as another explosion rattled the hallway.

“Come on,” Steve urged, motioning for them to follow as he led them back the way he’d come.

“So why are you so tall?” Daphne asked breathlessly, racing alongside them.

“Uh—super soldier serum. Probably what they gave you,” he said.

“I have no idea what they gave me,” she muttered.

“Did it hurt?” Bucky asked.

“Um, a little,” Steve said.

“A lot,” Daphne replied, her voice flat.

Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance but said nothing.

“Is it permanent?” Bucky asked after a beat.

“So far,” Steve said, just as another bomb went off behind them, shaking the hallway as they ran.

They reached the level where the base's reactors were located, and the source of the explosions was obvious. Fire and smoke belched from the chambers below, roaring like an angry beast. Looking down over the edge, the flames were too thick, too high—they wouldn’t be able to cross there.

“This way,” Steve called, already bounding up a staircase, hoping they could get above the blaze. Smoke curled up around the railings, the heat chasing them as they climbed. A set of narrow ramps led across to the other side—maybe their way out.

From across the chasm, a voice rang out—clear, commanding, and bitter. “Captain America!” Schmidt stood there with Zola at his side, expression gleaming with cruel excitement. “How exciting! I see you found my Huntress. And seeing as though you’re alive, you managed to break her out of the hypnosis.” He turned to glare at Zola, clearly displeased.

Zola flinched slightly and yanked a lever beside him. The metal ramp connecting their sides began to retract with a sharp screech, cutting off their exit.

“No matter what lies Erskine told you,” Schmidt went on, voice rising with triumph, “you see, I was his greatest success!” With that, he began to peel the flesh from his face like a mask. Beneath it, the skin was crimson, sunken, skeletal.

“You guys don’t do that, do you?” Bucky asked, grimacing.

“I don’t think so,” Daphne muttered, rubbing self-consciously at the skin on her neck, suddenly worried it might peel away too.

“You are deluded, Captain,” Schmidt said, voice cold. “You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind. And soon, the Huntress won’t be human at all.”

The words chilled her more than the smoke. The gas. She still didn’t know what it had done to her. “What does that mean? What did you do to me?” she asked, her voice rough with confusion and fear.

Schmidt just smiled. “Ich habe dich in die beste Version deiner selbst verwandelt, Huntress,” he said smoothly. I have turned you into the best version of yourself, Huntress.

Great. So she still understood German.

Schmidt and Zola turned and stepped into a waiting elevator, clearly having their escape route planned. If they were going up, there must be another way out at the top.

Steve didn’t hesitate. He broke the lock that blocked off the rest of the stairs with a twist of his shield. “We’ll go up. Come on.”

Daphne glanced at Bucky, whose face was tight with pain. She grabbed his arm gently. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine,” he muttered, still managing to stand.

“You want me to carry you?” she teased with a tired smile.

“You’re still not funny,” Bucky sighed.

They followed Steve to a narrow metal beam that stretched across the fiery drop below. It wasn’t built for walking—barely the width of a boot.

“You’re joking? This is your plan?” Daphne said, staring at it.

“You have a better one?” Steve asked.

Daphne looked around quickly, searching for anything else—any safer option. She came up empty.

“Not really. Just thought you should know this plan sucks and I hate it,” she muttered.

“Duly noted. We’ll go one at a time. Ladies first.”

“Okay, wait. She’s right, this is a bad idea,” Bucky said suddenly, dread in his voice. The thought of her crossing that tiny beam over a pit of fire was nearly unbearable.

“No. We have to. It’s our only way out.” Daphne grabbed the railing and climbed over slowly. “Please be careful,” Bucky said, helping steady her.

“Yeah, of course,” she murmured, staring down at the flames below. Her palms were slick with sweat. “Okay. I can do this.”

One foot in front of the other, she moved across. Quick, but careful. The heat rose in waves, stinging her skin, and sweat rolled down her back. A sudden explosion rattled the entire structure, and the beam wobbled beneath her feet.

“Jesus Christ,” she gasped, but kept going.

She reached the other side, heart thudding, and climbed over the railing. Steve and Bucky exhaled in relief.

“Okay. You next,” Steve said, helping Bucky over.

Daphne bit her lip as she watched Bucky begin his careful crossing. Another explosion cracked through the base, and he swayed.

The metal beneath her feet shifted. She looked down. It was loosening—fast.

“Bucky, you have to jump!” she shouted.

“What?!”

“It’s not gonna hold you! You have to jump and I’ll catch you!” she cried.

Bucky glanced toward her, then at the fire beneath him. He wasn’t sure he could make it.

“Bucky! Please, just jump! I will catch you, I promise!”

He looked into her eyes. Steeled himself. Steve gave him a nod from behind.

Bucky ran the last few feet and leapt off the beam. Daphne caught his hand, holding tight. She gritted her teeth and pulled him up over the railing.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded, breathless and staring at her in awe. “You got really strong.”

“Thanks,” she said, turning as Steve stepped onto the beam.

But it was too late.

The beam behind them snapped and dropped into the fire with a crash.

“Shit,” Daphne muttered.

“There’s gotta be a rope or something!” Bucky called, scanning the wall.

“Just go! Get out of here!” Steve shouted from across the gap.

“No! We are not leaving without you!” Daphne yelled, her voice sharp and cracking.

Steve cursed under his breath, knowing there was only one way across. He backed up, judged the distance, and tore away the metal railing to make room.

He ran.

The platform behind him exploded mid-sprint. He jumped, soaring across the space and catching the railing just in time. Daphne and Bucky grabbed his arms, pulling him up.

They collapsed into a group hug, breathing hard, arms clutching tight with disbelief that they were all still alive.

“You are such a showoff,” Daphne muttered into Steve’s shoulder.

Behind them, the inferno roared, a growing reminder that they weren’t done yet.

“We should hurry,” Bucky said, already leading the way.

Nodding, Steve and Daphne followed him, ready to leave Hydra behind once and for all.

Chapter Text

“Look who it is!”

Daphne glanced out at the crowd of soldiers gathering around them, their cheers and shouts echoing across the field. The sheer number of men felt overwhelming—an army unto themselves. These were the prisoners Hydra had held captive, forced to work on weapons and aircraft. Now, they were free.

The return to camp felt surreal. For Daphne, it had only been a few weeks—maybe a couple of months, at most. But when Steve told her it had been eleven months, she was stunned. Hydra had scrambled her sense of time just like everything else. She couldn't remember learning German, or how she’d become such a skilled fighter. Her strength frightened her, and her body felt unfamiliar—altered in ways she couldn’t explain.

People whispered her name like a myth. Apparently, everyone knew she’d been killed. When a soldier tried to shake her hand, she froze, every nerve in her body screaming that he was a threat. Only when Steve and Bucky spoke to her did she calm down. They thought it was PTSD. But none of them really understood what Hydra had done to her.

“Look who it is!”

Daphne glanced out at the crowd of soldiers gathering around them, their cheers and shouts echoing across the field. The sheer number of men felt overwhelming—an army unto themselves. These were the prisoners Hydra had held captive, forced to work on weapons and aircraft. Now, they were free.

The return to camp felt surreal. For Daphne, it had only been a few weeks—maybe a couple of months, at most. But when Steve told her it had been eleven months, she was stunned. Hydra had scrambled her sense of time just like everything else. She couldn't remember learning German, or how she’d become such a skilled fighter. Her strength frightened her, and her body felt unfamiliar—altered in ways she couldn’t explain.

People whispered her name like a myth. Apparently, everyone knew she’d been taken. When a soldier tried to shake her hand, she froze, every nerve in her body screaming that he was a threat. Only when Steve and Bucky spoke to her did she calm down. They thought it was PTSD. But none of them really understood what Hydra had done to her.

More cheers erupted as other soldiers greeted long-lost friends. Daphne’s attention shifted as a man and woman approached. They both radiated authority.

“Who the hell is this?” the man asked, eyeing Daphne with clear surprise.

“Daphne. My sister,” Steve answered.

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Colonel Phillips,” he introduced himself. “That’s Agent Carter,” he added, nodding to the poised woman beside him, who offered Daphne a polite smile.

Daphne returned the gesture faintly but suddenly became acutely aware of her thirst. Her throat was dry, her skin burning with heat. She was parched. And hot. So hot.

“Some of these men need medical attention,” Steve said as medics rushed in to help the wounded, both from the fight and the trauma they’d endured under Hydra.

“I’d like to surrender myself for disciplinary action,” Steve added, bracing for the consequences of going AWOL.

“That won’t be necessary,” Colonel Phillips said gruffly before turning and walking away.

“You should see a medic,” Bucky said, his concern obvious.

“No. I’m fine. Just thirsty,” she rasped, proving her point with the rawness of her voice.

Bucky nodded and took her hand. “I’m gonna take her to get cleaned up,” he said to Steve.

“I’ll come find you in a second,” Steve replied, watching her with quiet worry.

Bucky led her to a medic tent and helped her onto one of the cots. He handed her a canteen of water, and she wasted no time unscrewing the cap and chugging the contents in seconds. It soothed her throat but did nothing to cool the feverish heat radiating off her skin.

With a frustrated sigh, she set the canteen aside and began tugging at her shirt.

“Whoa, hey—what are you doing?” Bucky said, alarmed, stopping her by grabbing her hands.

“It’s hot,” she muttered, trying to wrest her arms free.

“Daph, you can’t just start taking your clothes off in front of everyone,” he said, glancing nervously around the tent at the passing soldiers.

“Bucky. I feel like my whole body is on fire,” she said, her voice cracking with desperation.

“Okay. I’m gonna grab you some more water. Can you wait here for me?” he asked gently.

She nodded, rolling up her sleeves. “Okay. I’ll be right back,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead before signaling a medic and jogging off.

A man with a red cross on his sleeve approached her. “No. I’m fine, thank you,” she said quickly, shaking her head.

“You were there a long time. I should give you a look over just to make sure,” he insisted.

“I’m not injured. Just hot,” she repeated.

“If you have a fever, I can give you an aspirin,” he said, reaching out and placing the back of his hand on her forehead.

In a flash, something snapped inside her. Daphne shot upright and grabbed his wrist, hurling him across the tent with a force that startled even her. He crashed into a table, knocking over supplies and cots.

“Whoa! What’s going on?” another soldier shouted, reaching out to help. But Daphne shoved him away.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, panic exploding inside her.

She didn’t recognize where she was. Didn’t recognize anyone.

Everyone was a threat.

One soldier moved toward her and she punched him, sending him crashing to the floor. Others rushed in to help, but she took them down one by one—flipping one over her shoulder, kicking another away like he weighed nothing. Chaos erupted in the tent as more soldiers crowded around, unsure whether to intervene or just stay back.

“Daphne! Daphne! Stop!” Steve’s voice cut through the noise. She froze, her breath ragged, eyes wide as she released the soldier in her grip and turned to face her brother.

Steve ran to her, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the tent. “What’s going on?” he asked, confused and alarmed.

Bucky ran over just then, a canteen in hand. Daphne snatched it from him and drank so fast that half of it spilled down her front.

“What the hell happened?” Bucky asked, looking around at the wreckage inside the tent. “Holy shit.”

“Daphne, what’s wrong?” Steve asked, watching her drop the empty canteen and wipe her face.

“It’s really hot,” she murmured, her eyes unfocused.

Agent Carter and Colonel Phillips hurried over.

“Maybe we should get her to Stark,” Peggy suggested.

“She did this? By herself?” Colonel Phillips asked, surveying the groaning soldiers lying on the ground.

Steve nodded grimly and took Daphne’s arm, leading her toward the parked jeeps.

“Where are you taking her?” Bucky asked, trailing after them with Peggy.

“To Howard Stark. He’s the only one who can figure out what they did to her,” Steve said. “He’s the only one who can help her.”

They hadn’t gone far when Daphne suddenly stopped and doubled over, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.

“Daph? What’s wrong?” Bucky said, reaching for her as she collapsed to her knees, hands pressed to the grass.

“Daphne?” he called again, crouching beside her.

“Steve, the grass,” Peggy said, pointing to the blackened earth beneath Daphne’s palms. The grass was burning.

Daphne groaned. The pressure inside her was mounting—like magma beneath the surface of her skin. She could feel it, the energy boiling, threatening to erupt.

She pushed herself upright and looked at them. “Stay here,” she said, breathless, her voice tight.

“What? What’s wrong?” Steve asked, reaching for her again.

“No. No, just stay here. Please just stay here,” she repeated, backing away before turning and sprinting into the trees.

They shouted her name, chased after her, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She had to get away—had to put distance between her and the people she loved before she lost control.

She kept running until she couldn’t anymore. Her lungs ached, her skin blistered with invisible heat, and her vision blurred. She dropped to her knees in the forest and clutched at the grass, trying to ground herself.

But it wasn’t enough.

With a scream that ripped from her chest, the energy finally exploded.

A wave of white-hot light burst outward, a shockwave that scorched everything in its path.

Back in the trees, Steve, Bucky, and Agent Carter ducked, shielding their eyes as the blast rolled past them. When the light faded, they looked up in awe.

The forest around them was charred. The grass had been seared away. Leaves had vanished from the trees. A perfect circle of devastation surrounded a lone figure.

“Daphne…” Bucky whispered, sprinting toward the epicenter.

She lay motionless in the center of the blast zone.

“Daphne!” he shouted, dropping to his knees as he cradled her in his arms.

“Is she okay?” Steve asked, breath catching in his throat.

“She’s still breathing,” Bucky said, voice shaking. “She’s alive.”

Agent Carter knelt beside them. “We should really get her to Stark.”

• • • • • • •

“I have no idea what to do,” Howard Stark admitted, pacing beside the examination table. His gaze flicked down to Daphne’s unconscious form. She looked peaceful, despite the circumstances, but his voice was tight with frustration. “We can’t take her blood to test it—the needles break before they even pierce her skin.”

“Can’t you try something else? I mean, I never burned down half a forest,” Steve said, his arms crossed, worry creasing his brow.

Howard shook his head. “Well, based on what you told me, it doesn’t sound like she was given the exact same serum as you. When Erskine came to work for us, he took the serum with him. Whatever Hydra used must’ve been their attempt at a recreation.”

A low groan broke through the tension. Daphne stirred on the table, her eyelids fluttering open as she adjusted to the bright, sterile lights above her. Her limbs felt heavy, but the haze in her head was beginning to lift.

“Hey, Daph. We’re here,” Bucky said gently. He was seated beside the bed, never having let go of her hand.

“Bucky?” she murmured, turning her head toward him. Her eyes searched his face, then the unfamiliar room around them. “What happened?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Howard cut in, stepping forward. His tone was more curiosity than accusation, but Daphne still flinched at the sound of a stranger’s voice.

She sat up slowly, her gaze snapping to him. Her eyes widened with sudden recognition. “Oh my god,” she breathed.

“She’s a big fan,” Steve added, barely suppressing a grin.

“Steve, shut up,” Daphne snapped reflexively before turning back to Howard, her tone shifting to hesitant disbelief. “Um… I really don’t mean this to be rude, but you’re not a doctor.”

“Yes, well,” Howard replied with a shrug, “emitting nearly a thousand joules worth of energy isn’t exactly a normal medical condition.”

“Oh, god.” Daphne covered her mouth with her hand. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

“No. Just about a couple hundred trees,” Agent Carter chimed in from the other side of the room, her voice dry but not unkind.

“What if it happens again?” Daphne asked, the panic slipping back into her voice, soft and unsteady.

“Why don’t you tell us what Hydra actually did to you?” Howard said, his expression softening. “Then we can see what we’ll be able to do about it.”

The room was silent for a beat.

Bucky, still holding her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. His eyes locked with hers, steady and reassuring. “I’m right here, doll. You gotta tell us what happened so we can help you.”

Daphne’s eyes glistened as she nodded slowly. She didn’t know where to begin. So much of it was missing—blurred, erased, warped into something unrecognizable. But she knew they needed to understand. And the best she could do… was start from the beginning.

“Mystery gas and a glowing blue box?” Howard Stark echoed, eyebrows raised in disbelief as he leaned against the edge of the table. His gaze flicked toward Daphne, clearly trying to piece together what little she had managed to remember.

“I didn’t see much,” Daphne said, her voice quiet but steady. “And I can barely remember anything. But when I was in the chamber… I was hit with a gas. It knocked me out for a bit. When I woke up… I was stronger than I remember.”

“So they gave you the serum first,” Agent Carter reasoned, arms folded across her chest, “to make you more likely to survive the… mystery gas?”

Daphne nodded slowly, confirming as much as she could. She felt the weight of the room’s silence pressing down on her. Everyone was waiting for something more, some detail that might explain it all. But that was all she had.

“What could it be?” Steve asked, glancing from Howard to Peggy.

Howard ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “No idea. Whatever it is, it filled your body with an incredibly large amount of energy. An amount that should be lethal.”

“So how the hell do we get it out?” Bucky asked, tension tight in his voice as he sat forward.

“I don’t think we can,” Howard replied. “Our best bet is figuring out a way to stabilize it. Otherwise, it’ll continue to build and just come exploding out again.”

Daphne’s stomach twisted. “How do I do that?” she asked.

“That is something I still have to figure out,” Howard admitted. “But until then, it’s probably best you avoid doing anything that might cause your heart rate to rise. Keep the chances of the energy increasing low.”

Daphne nodded, her arms wrapping around herself as she leaned against the cool wall behind her. Her fingers fidgeted restlessly at her side, and she bit her lip, nerves flickering across her face.

“Hey,” Bucky said gently, moving to stand beside her. “You’ll be alright. We’re gonna figure it out.”

“I know,” she murmured, though her voice lacked the conviction he hoped for.

“If you want,” Agent Carter offered, stepping forward, “I can take you back to where I’ve been staying. You can shower and change into some clean clothes.”

Daphne lifted her head and met Peggy’s eyes. After a beat, she nodded. The thought of warm water and fresh clothes was more than welcome.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Bucky asked.

She shook her head as she straightened up. “I’ll be alright. Can I find you after?”

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky said, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Daphne turned to Steve and gave him a quick hug—short, firm, and grounding—before she followed Agent Carter out of the room, her steps slow but steady.

Chapter Text

When Daphne stepped out of the shower, it felt like she had washed off more than just dirt and sweat—it felt like she had scrubbed away layers of fear, of confusion, of something she couldn’t even name. Her hair was clean and dry, combed neatly over her shoulders, and her skin no longer felt sticky or overheated. Agent Carter had left her a change of clothes—simple, but fresh and comfortable—and for the first time in what felt like forever, Daphne felt almost human again.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from the mirror. She turned, and her lips curved into a small smile as Peggy stepped inside.

“I hope everything fit you okay,” Peggy said kindly, glancing over the outfit she’d brought.

“It’s great. Thank you, Agent Carter,” Daphne said, smoothing down the front of her shirt with a grateful nod.

“Oh, you can call me Peggy,” she replied with a warm smile. “And if you’re almost ready, we’re going to be on a flight to London in a few hours. Colonel Phillips decided we all need a break.”

Daphne blinked. “And me? I’m allowed to go?”

The question hung in the air heavier than she intended. While she was in the shower, she’d thought a lot about her situation—everything she’d done, everything she didn’t remember. She wasn’t enlisted. She wasn’t part of any mission. Technically, she figured she should be sent back, maybe with Howard Stark and whatever team of doctors could dissect her cells and figure out what she was becoming.

“Well, for now at least,” Peggy said, reading her expression with understanding. “But I’d think that after everything you’ve been through, you’d like a break.”

Daphne’s smile returned, softer this time. “Yeah. A break sounds nice.”

“Great,” Peggy said, already turning toward the door. “Just meet me downstairs when you’re ready. The boys will be meeting us there.”

• • • • • • •

Daphne should’ve known they wouldn’t be flying commercial. As soon as she stepped onto the aircraft, it was clear this was no ordinary civilian flight. The plane was polished and sleek, filled with plush seating and enough space to make her wonder if it had once been reserved for someone important—maybe the president. Or in their case, Captain America.

She settled into one of the cushioned seats beside Steve, while Bucky and Peggy took their places across from them. A few other soldiers from Bucky’s unit—those closest to him—were scattered in nearby rows, while the rest of the men had been assigned to another plane.

Steve leaned over slightly, studying her. “How do you feel?” he asked gently.

Daphne glanced at him, then at the newspaper folded neatly in her lap. “I don’t think I’m about to blow anything up soon, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, no... I mean, yeah, that had me curious,” Steve admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “But I just mean in general, you know.”

She lowered her eyes to the headline across the front page: Captain America to Receive Medal for Valor . The words felt surreal. It was like she’d fallen asleep in one world and woken up in another.

“I’m sorry I got you dragged into this,” Steve said quietly. “What happened to you... it’s my fault.”

Daphne shook her head and reached over, giving his hand a firm squeeze.

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not all bad,” she said, then leaned in to whisper, her lips close to his ear. “Now we can team up to finally kick his ass.”

She tilted her head toward Bucky, mischief dancing in her eyes.

Steve let out a laugh, which made Bucky narrow his gaze at both of them. “Are you two talking about me? I can feel you talking about me.”

“You can feel us talking about you?” Daphne repeated, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“No, it is,” Bucky insisted, pointing between them. “You two always get this look on your faces when you’re trying to gang up on me.”

“That’s dramatic,” Steve said flatly.

“Very dramatic,” Daphne agreed, flashing a grin just as Peggy let out a soft laugh beside Bucky.

Bucky turned to her with an exasperated smile, shaking his head. “Do you see what I have to put up with?”

• • • • • • •

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Daphne asked, standing just outside the Whip and Fiddle with Peggy. The pub was buzzing with noise from inside—shouting, laughter, the plink of piano keys echoing through the thick wooden door. Steve, Bucky, and a few of the other men had insisted on checking the place out their first night in London.

"You’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay long. But a night out might do you some good," Peggy said, offering a reassuring smile.

"I thought Howard said not to do things that'll elevate my heart rate," Daphne countered, arching an eyebrow.

"You’ll stick to Cola then," Peggy replied with a nonchalant shrug.

Daphne narrowed her eyes with a knowing grin. "I think you’re just desperate to go inside and talk to my brother."

Peggy blinked like she'd just been caught red-handed, and Daphne couldn’t help but laugh. She grabbed Peggy’s arm and pulled her into the bar, the scent of old wood, spilled whiskey, and pipe smoke hitting her immediately. The room was dim, lit mostly by the glow of wall lamps and a few overhead lights, with a man hunched over a piano in the corner playing something upbeat while the crowd of men sang along—loud, rowdy, and entirely off-key.

As soon as the two women walked in, heads turned. Most of the men were used to seeing Peggy in uniform, so the curve-hugging red dress she wore drew plenty of attention. Daphne could feel eyes on her too, and though she hadn’t gained the muscle mass Steve had, she knew she looked... different. Healthier. Her hair was shinier, her skin clearer. She still felt like herself—just a stronger version.

She spotted Steve and Bucky near the bar and nudged Peggy forward. Bucky stood up as soon as he saw her, stepping away from his stool and reaching for her hands as his eyes swept over her.

"Wow... I... I've got to be the luckiest guy in the world," he said, tugging her gently closer.

"I assume that means I don’t look terrible," Daphne said with a grin, remembering the state she was in the last time he saw her.

"No. No, terrible is definitely not a word I’d use."

"Oh? And what word would you use?" she asked playfully, resting a hand on his cheek.

"Hmm. Pretty, beautiful, gorgeous, irresistible," he said, smiling just before she leaned in and kissed him.

Steve cleared his throat behind them, and Daphne pulled back, biting her lip to suppress a laugh. She leaned into Bucky’s chest, his arms wrapping securely around her. She caught Peggy’s eye and gave her a meaningful look before glancing at Steve, gesturing subtly for Peggy to say something.

Peggy nodded, clearing her throat as she turned to him. "Howard had some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning," she said, voice even.

"Sounds good," Steve replied with a nod, though his eyes lingered on her like he wanted to say something else but didn’t.

Cheers erupted from the corner of the pub as a group of soldiers clinked their glasses together. The noise gave Daphne something to focus on as Peggy turned toward them again.

"I see your top squad is prepping for duty," she said with a wry smile.

"You don’t like music?" Bucky asked, watching the tension between his friend and Peggy build.

"I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing," Peggy said, eyes still on Steve.

"So what are you waiting for?" Daphne asked, clearly teasing.

"The right partner," Peggy replied. She looked at Steve and then at Daphne. "0800, Captain. You too."

"Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there," Steve called after her.

Daphne turned to her brother and punched him in the arm—not too hard, but enough to make a point.

"Ow! What was that for?" he asked, rubbing his arm.

"You’re an idiot, that’s what it was for," she said bluntly.

"She obviously wanted you to ask her out," Bucky chimed in.

"No, she didn’t," Steve insisted, shaking his head.

"Super soldier serum obviously didn’t go to your brain, huh?" Daphne teased.

Steve shot her a glare. "Aren’t you supposed to be resting? So you don’t nearly explode again?"

"Howard didn’t say I had to rest. Just make sure I stay calm. So unless—"

"So. You’re Bucky’s girl? The one who took down ten soldiers all on her own?" a voice called out from a nearby table. One of the soldiers, cocky and loud.

Daphne turned, eyes narrowing. "I have a name. And yes, that was me. Why? Jealous?"

"Not at all, dollface. Just don’t believe it," the man said, smirking.

"Leave her alone, Jones!" Bucky barked across the bar.

"It’s fine," Daphne said, brushing them both off. She strode confidently over to the table, ignoring Steve and Bucky’s protests. She sat down across from Jones, eyes locked on his.

"I get it. You think you’re stronger than me."

"Oh, I know I am, sweetheart."

She scoffed, holding out her arm. "Prove it then. Unless you don’t want your friends to see you get beat by a girl."

Jones laughed and took her hand, settling into arm-wrestling position.

"Count of three?" she said.

"I don’t want to hurt you, princess."

"I wouldn’t worry about it."

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

With a loud crack, the wooden table split clean in half under the force of Daphne slamming Jones’ arm down. The bar went silent, all eyes on the broken furniture and the stunned man cradling his arm.

Daphne stood up, brushing invisible dust off her dress. Without a word, she walked back to Bucky and Steve, grabbed Bucky’s drink, and downed the rest of it.

"I should, um, probably head back," she said, catching her breath.

"Yeah, probably," Steve muttered, still wide-eyed.

"I’ll go with you," Bucky offered, standing. Daphne nodded, saying a quick goodbye to her brother, and let Bucky guide her out of the bar.

As they strolled down the quiet streets of London, Bucky took her hand. "You alright?"

"Yeah. I’m fine. I think. I mean, I know I shouldn’t have done that I just..." She trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

"Just what? You know you can tell me anything," Bucky said, releasing her hand to drape his arm around her shoulders.

"I know. I guess I just don’t like being underestimated."

"Trust me, Daph. No one’s underestimating you now," he said with a chuckle. "And you know I’ve never underestimated you."

"Well yeah, ‘cause I’ve always been able to beat you," she said, teasing.

He stopped walking, mock-offended. "Take it back."

"I don’t think I will."

"Oh, no?" He grinned and lunged at her, fingers finding her sides as he tickled her. She laughed loudly, squirming in his arms.

"Stop!" she giggled, trying to twist away.

"Should’ve taken it back," he teased, lifting her effortlessly over his shoulder.

"Bucky! Put me down!" she shouted, pounding her fists against his back.

"No, I don’t think I will," he said, carrying her into the hotel, both of them laughing as if the world outside didn’t exist. For a moment, it was just the two of them—no war, no Hydra, no powers. Just a boy and a girl, lost in each other, holding onto something that still felt like home.

"I heard you got into a bar fight last night," Howard said as he led Daphne into his lab, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow.

"It was not a bar fight. It was an arm wrestle. Big difference," Daphne replied, rolling her eyes as she followed him inside. Her gaze swept across the cluttered room, taking in the scattered tools and pieces of half-assembled machinery. The air smelled faintly of oil and metal, and the quiet hum of equipment created a low backdrop of noise.

"You broke a table. Sounds like a bar fight to me," Howard said, unbothered as he moved deeper into the room.

Daphne walked past a workbench, her fingers brushing lightly over the blade of one of the throwing knives. It gleamed under the overhead lights, but her touch didn’t even scratch the surface. "So I was thinking about what happened to me," she said casually. "It was some kind of catalytic process, right?"

Howard turned, arching a brow at her. "What do you know about catalytic processes?"

She shrugged, the corners of her lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "I read. But I’m right, aren’t I?"

He eyed her with interest, clearly wanting to know how much more she might know. “Yeah. You are. Do you know what chemicals are released during the combustion of hydrocarbons?”

"Yeah. Mainly carbon dioxide," she said, still unsure of the relevance.

"Exactly. I took some samples of the area around the explosion you set off but got no traces of carbon dioxide. No carbon monoxide, no sulfur, nothing that we would expect to find during an explosion of that kind," Howard explained, his tone rising with excitement.

"So what did you find?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

"Daphne. Whatever you did, it’s quite literally unheard of. The molecules that came out of you don’t exist. At least not here," he said, staring at her with wonder.

Her eyes widened slightly as she looked down at her hands, feeling the energy just under the surface of her skin. "What does that mean? Whatever they put into me, is a completely new element?"

Howard nodded slowly, just as stunned as she was. Before either of them could say more, Steve’s voice broke the silence behind them.

"Morning. You're late," Daphne said, glancing back at the clock behind her.

"Yeah, I, um, got caught up in something," Steve replied awkwardly.

"You know my hearing is really good now too, right?" she asked with a grin, clearly enjoying the embarrassment on her brother’s face. "Seriously? Fonduing?"

"Shut up," he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "What'd I miss?"

"Well apparently, I basically have some alien life force running through my veins," Daphne said, turning to face him fully.

Steve blinked, caught off guard by how calmly she said it. He studied her, wondering why she didn’t seem more shaken by the news. While he had made peace with the changes the serum brought him, this... this wasn’t the kind of thing his sister had ever asked for.

"Right. And what are you planning to do about it? So whatever happened the other day doesn't happen again?" he asked, directing the question at Howard.

"Well I was hoping this could help," Howard said, motioning for them to follow as he led them to a container. Inside was a small, glowing blue orb, no bigger than a marble.

"What is it?" Daphne asked, captivated by its glow.

"It's from the weapon Steve brought back from Hydra. Whatever this is, it’s just a small piece of whatever they're using to power their machinery. And just like what’s coursing through your veins, it too is not of this world," Howard explained.

"How is it gonna help her?" Steve asked.

But Daphne wasn’t listening anymore. Her eyes were fixed on the orb, drawn to it as though it were calling out to her. She didn’t hear the conversation continuing around her. Slowly, as if pulled by a string, she inched closer to the container, her hand rising of its own accord.

"Hey! I wouldn’t do that," Howard called, suddenly alarmed. The last time he and his team tried to touch it, the glass shattered and sent them flying.

"Daphne!" Steve shouted, seeing how detached she looked.

She didn’t respond. Her fingers closed around the orb.

Steve grabbed Howard and pulled him down behind the table, bracing for the inevitable blast—but it never came.

Standing perfectly still, Daphne held the orb in her hand. A warm current of energy spread through her veins, not painful like the serum, not scalding like the gas. It was... peaceful. Balancing.

She stared down at her palm, watching in awe as the orb began to liquefy. The glowing substance sank into her skin, disappearing completely as if it had always belonged there.

"I think I figured out how to control it," she said finally, glancing up at the two men still crouched behind the table.

"You feeling okay? About to blow anything up?" Howard asked cautiously, standing slowly beside Steve.

"No. I... I feel in control of it," Daphne answered, her voice steady. The calm in her face was undeniable. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t overwhelmed. She looked free.

"Alright good. Now let’s test that out. Steve, you’re up," Howard said, suddenly clapping Steve on the shoulder.

"Wait, me? Why me?" Steve asked, caught off guard.

"You didn’t think I was gonna do it? You’re the super soldier, buddy. Not me," Howard said with a chuckle. Then he turned to Daphne with a grin. "Oh, and Daphne—I went ahead and fixed you up a new suit. You can’t fight in that."

Daphne glanced down at her clothes and then back at Howard, smiling despite everything. Somehow, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was falling apart. She felt ready.

Chapter Text

Whatever Hydra had taught Daphne—whether through force, hypnosis, or experimentation—it had stuck. Even if she didn’t remember how she learned any of it, her body clearly did. She moved fast. Fluid. Efficient. And when she threw knives, her accuracy was uncanny. Each blade hit its mark like she had been training for years.

And she’d just kicked Steve’s ass.

The maroon one-piece suit Howard had designed fit her like a second skin. Sleek, durable, and built for flexibility, it came with reinforced gloves for a better grip and holsters for whatever weapons she wanted to carry. She moved like she’d been wearing it her whole life.

Best of all, the power inside her—the one that had once nearly exploded out of her—stayed calm. She was in control. For the first time since this all began, it felt like her own body again.

Holding out her hand, she grinned as she helped Steve up off the mat. “I win,” she said, breathless but smug.

“Only because I wasn’t trying as hard,” Steve replied with a sheepish smile, brushing dust from his uniform. “Didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” she laughed, rolling her eyes.

Across the room, Howard Stark tapped the dented surface of Steve’s battered shield, which sat on the worktable beside them. The once-pristine metal was now riddled with scratches and pockmarks, dulled by years of use.

“Hey, Steve,” Howard called out, tapping his knuckles against the shield. “I hear you’re kind of attached.”

“It’s handier than you might think,” Steve replied, giving the old thing a fond look. It had saved his life more times than he could count, even if it was barely holding together.

“I took the liberty of coming up with some options,” Howard said, gesturing to the prototypes laid out on the table. There were several: some circular, some angular, some with high-tech features and buttons. All sturdier than the one Steve had been using.

Daphne walked over, brushing her hand over the cool surface of one. “How come I don’t get any special Stark equipment?” she asked.

“You get the alien space element,” Howard teased, grinning over his shoulder.

“Plus, you’re not fighting. You’re not a soldier,” Steve added, his tone soft but firm. It was clear he didn’t want her in combat, no matter what she was capable of.

Daphne said nothing, though the flicker of defiance in her eyes made it clear that was a conversation they’d be having later.

Howard continued showing off his gadgets. “Oh, this one’s fun. She’s been fitted with electrical relays that allow you to—”

Steve wasn’t listening. Something under the table had caught his attention: a plain silver shield, simple and unadorned. No flashy buttons or hidden tech. Just clean, solid design.

“What about this one?” Steve asked, pulling it out and holding it up.

“No, no, that’s just a prototype,” Howard said quickly, but Steve was already studying it closely.

“What’s it made of?” he asked, surprised by how light and balanced it felt in his hands.

“Vibranium. It’s stronger than steel and a third of the weight. It’s completely vibration absorbent,” Howard explained as Steve slipped his arm through the straps.

“How come it’s not standard issue?” Steve asked.

“That’s the rarest metal on Earth. What you’re holding there, that’s all we’ve got,” Howard said with a shrug.

Their conversation was cut short by the unmistakable sound of high heels clicking across the floor. They turned to see Peggy Carter entering the lab, her posture straight and her expression unreadable.

“You quite finished, Mr. Stark? I’m sure the Captain has some unfinished business,” she said coolly, her voice sharp with irritation. It didn’t take much to guess who she was mad at—well, not for most people.

“What do you think?” Steve asked, oblivious, holding up the new shield with a hopeful grin.

Peggy stared at him, visibly stunned by his nonchalance. Without a word, she picked up a handgun from the table, cocked it, and fired four shots directly at the shield. Everyone instinctively moved out of the way.

The bullets bounced off with a satisfying ping. Not a scratch.

“Yes, I think it works,” she said flatly, setting the gun down before turning on her heel and walking out.

“I think she’s mad at you,” Daphne said with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Steve groaned, still staring at the door she’d disappeared through.

Howard looked equally speechless. Daphne rolled her eyes at both of them.

“I’m meeting Bucky for lunch,” she announced, already heading for the door. “You two have fun… fonduing.”

• • • • • • •

Turns out the budget for meals while they were stationed in London wasn’t exactly glamorous. It stretched just enough to cover food from the modest café tucked into the lower level of their hotel. Still, it wasn’t bad. And after weeks of eating whatever could be cooked over a makeshift fire in the field, the warm meals and fresh bread were practically a luxury.

When Daphne stepped through the café door, the room fell quiet. A pause in conversation, in chewing, even in breathing. It was the same stunned silence she’d encountered at the pub the night before. She didn’t blame them. Her outfit today was a far cry from the elegant red dress she’d worn—this time, it was Howard’s newest creation: a sleek, skin-tight jumpsuit designed for combat and agility. It hugged her figure, drew eyes, and left no room for subtlety.

She spotted Bucky seated at a table near the window and headed straight for him, smiling as she slid into the seat beside him. “Hi,” she mumbled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Hi,” he echoed, eyes flicking over her as he took in the new look. She reached for his plate without hesitation, stealing a bite of his bagel.

“God, I’m starving,” she sighed, chewing contentedly.

“New outfit?” he asked, brushing his fingers over the smooth material of her sleeve.

“Yeah, Howard made it for me. Oh, and I have good news.” She held up her hand, showing him the blue energy that danced between her fingers like liquid lightning. “I learned how to control it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly with concern as he reached out, taking her hand in his. “Do you feel okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, her smile soft but certain. “I feel great.”

Bucky held her hand a moment longer, watching the flickering blue energy fade back into her skin like a tide receding. It wasn’t the glow that caught his attention next, though—it was the bare skin on her left hand. His thumb brushed over the spot where her wedding ring used to sit.

“We’ll find it,” she said. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll find it.”

Bucky searched her face, the certainty in her eyes anchoring something in him that had felt unsteady ever since they brought her back. After a long pause, he huffed out a breath, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a lopsided smile.

“I should’ve known,” he said, shaking his head. “The second this war broke out, I should’ve known you’d find a way to follow me and Steve overseas.”

Daphne laughed, the sound low and warm. “You really thought I was gonna let you two have all the fun without me?”

• • • • • • •

Realistically, Daphne should have expected this sort of reaction. The immediate uproar, the clamor of disagreement, the condescending rage wrapped in military uniforms and male egos. It all made her want to vomit—but instead, she rolled her eyes.

Bucky and Steve’s voices rose in protest, their rants overlapping in frantic declarations about how dangerous it was, how there was no way they would ever let her go. But she didn’t hear them. Not really. Her focus stayed on the man seated before her: Colonel Phillips. Peggy stood just behind him, silent, composed, waiting to see how this would unfold.

“Sir, we’ve all seen what Hydra’s weapons can do. And no offense, but your men don’t stand a chance,” Daphne said firmly, chin lifted in defiance.

“Mrs. Barnes,” the Colonel began, his voice gruff but not cruel, “I’m sure you know as well as anyone else. Women are not allowed in combat roles. I am not sending you out to the front lines.”

“Daphne, drop it. You’re not going,” Steve interjected, trying to cut her off before she could push any further.

“Why not? Because I’m a girl? That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Daph, you could get hurt,” Bucky added, softer than Steve, but no less insistent.

“Oh, and you can’t? I wasn’t aware you were now invincible. I must’ve missed that memo,” she snapped, giving him a sharp look.

“You must’ve missed the memo that women aren’t soldiers because they’re too emotional,” came Jones’s voice from the back of the room, his tone edged with disdain.

Daphne turned to him slowly, a smug smirk forming. “How’s your arm?” she asked coolly, the memory of their arm-wrestling match still fresh—and humiliating—for him.

Ignoring his scowl, she turned back to Colonel Phillips. “I don’t want to be a soldier. All I know is that I’m a good fighter, a good shot, a—”

“We already have those things,” Phillips cut in. “All these men are good fighters and good shots. And we have your brother.”

For a heartbeat, she was silent. Then, slowly, deliberately, Daphne raised her arm and fired an energy blast through the wall behind her. The sound was deafening. Bricks exploded outward, the blast sending dust and rubble everywhere. Silence followed like a wave, heavy and stunned.

She turned back to the Colonel, her voice steady and cold. “And please, tell me, Colonel— which one of your men can do that? Hydra’s weapons will kill every single one of them, including Captain America, if I’m not there. I am your best shot.”

The room held its breath. Phillips stared at the jagged hole in his wall, lips pressed into a tight line. After a long pause, he stood.

“We’re shipping out to France tonight. No games. No special treatment. One slip-up and you’re gone,” he said. Then, without missing a beat: “And get someone to fix my wall.”

Daphne’s grin broke across her face like sunlight through a storm. She turned just as Peggy stepped up beside her, a proud smile on her lips.

“Congratulations, Huntress. You just made history,” Peggy said.

“What do you mean?” Daphne asked, blinking.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve just become the first woman assigned to a major combat role,” Peggy told her.

Pride bloomed in Daphne’s chest—fierce and burning and real. That was a big deal. A huge deal. And she hadn’t even realized it. When she asked to join them—Steve, Bucky, the Howling Commandos—she hadn’t been thinking about history. She hadn’t been trying to make a statement.

All she knew was that she had the power to help, and it was something she had to do. For herself. For Steve. For Bucky. She couldn’t let them go into something they weren’t ready for, not when she could fight too. Not when she was Hydra’s greatest weapon turned against them.

She barely had a second to breathe before Steve and Bucky were at her side again. Steve looked furious, though there was a trace of panic behind his eyes.

“Daphne, this is too dangerous,” he said. His voice wasn’t harsh—it was pleading. Protective. Desperate in a way only a brother could be. “You don’t understand what we’re going into.”

She turned to him, jaw set, arms crossed over her chest. “I’m not letting you face it alone.”

Steve stepped closer, shaking his head. “Things are different now. I don’t need my older sister fighting my battles.”

“I’m not trying to fight for you,” she said, voice firm. “I’m trying to fight with you. I don’t care if you’re Captain America. To me, you’re still my little brother. And I’m not sitting on the sidelines while you put your life on the line.”

Steve looked at her, speechless. It didn’t matter how tall he stood or how strong he was now—her words hit harder than any punch. His eyes softened, but before he could speak again, Bucky reached for her hand.

“Daph… please,” Bucky said, his voice quiet and raw. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to.”

She looked at him, her heart aching at the fear in his expression. She placed a hand against his cheek, gently. “I do,” she said. “We’ve always looked out for each other. That doesn’t stop now.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, knowing he couldn’t change her mind. Steve finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping as he glanced between them.

“Then we look out for each other,” Steve said. “No matter what.”

Daphne nodded. “Always.”

Chapter Text

The jet rumbled quietly as it coasted through the clouds toward their drop point on the outskirts of the Hydra base. Inside, the team sat in tense silence, mentally preparing for what lay ahead. The mission was straightforward—get in, dismantle Hydra’s operations, and get out. But nothing ever went quite as planned.

Daphne sat near the back, adjusting the straps of her suit with calm precision. The knives strapped to her thighs and waist gleamed under the cabin lights. Her movements were methodical, focused. Across from her, Steve sat beside Bucky, watching her carefully as she double-checked every weapon and piece of gear she carried.

“You sure about this?” Bucky whispered, his eyes never leaving Daphne.

“You want to tell her she can’t come?” Steve asked dryly, already knowing the answer.

Bucky sighed and leaned back in his seat. “One day I’m gonna convince you two to stop running into fights.”

Steve smirked. “Right, and one day we’ll convince you to stop trying to stop us.”

“Five minutes out!” the pilot shouted from the front of the cabin.

Steve stood and stepped forward, drawing the team’s attention. “Daph, Falsworth, and I will take the front entrance. Dernier, Morita, and Dugan will go around the back. Bucky and Jones, you’re our eyes up above.”

As the jet began its descent, Daphne pushed herself to her feet and approached Steve. She held onto the overhead railing to steady herself.

“You’re really good at this, you know?” she said, smiling.

“Good at what?” Steve asked, glancing at her.

“Being a leader. I mean, you always were, but it’s nice seeing you like this. Captain .”

“Thanks, Daph.” Steve paused, studying her. “You really sure you’re up for this?”

“I know that if you ask me that one more time, I’m gonna kick you in the face,” she said flatly, only half-joking.

Bucky joined them as the doors opened, the wind whipping through the cabin. “This has to be the craziest thing the three of us have ever done together.”

“But we’re doing it together. That’s what matters,” Daphne said. “If we stick together, we can get through anything.”

“Pretty sure when we promised each other that, we were only talking about high school,” Steve said.

“Well, then just pretend it’s high school.”

They disembarked quickly, disappearing into the cover of the trees. Daphne stayed close to Steve and Falsworth as they crept toward the main entrance of the base, their footfalls silent on the forest floor. There were only a few guards posted outside—most of Hydra’s forces were likely inside, protecting what mattered most.

A tank rumbled down the path, heading toward the gates.

“You two take the guards, I’ll handle the tank,” Steve said.

With a nod, Daphne veered right, Falsworth left. She slipped up behind one of the guards and clamped a hand over his mouth. Her other hand pressed to his side, blue energy sparking through her fingers. The man convulsed, his groan muffled, before crumpling silently to the ground.

Across the clearing, Falsworth dropped his own target, and the two met eyes with a nod of mutual respect.

A loud boom startled them—Steve had leapt onto the tank, dropped a grenade inside, and jumped clear just as the machine exploded behind him.

Daphne sprinted to the gate, kicking it open as they charged into the base.

Inside, chaos erupted. Their team had breached the back entrance and were locked in a firefight. Hydra soldiers poured out from every corridor, returning fire. Alarms blared. Daphne ducked behind stacked crates, sending blasts of energy at any soldier who came too close. Her knives made quick work of those who closed the distance.

“Verstärkung kommt aus dem Osten!” a voice shouted nearby.

Daphne cursed, recognizing the German. Reinforcements were coming from the east—where Bucky and Jones were stationed.

Without hesitation, she turned and ran. Steve was just ahead, fending off an attacker when she blasted the soldier behind him.

“They have more people coming in from the east. I have to go stop them!” she shouted.

“You can’t go alone!” Steve shouted back.

“Steve, we don’t have time to argue. I’m going. Make sure the base is clear!” she called, already taking off.

She sprinted through the trees, her lungs burning. Cresting the ridge, she spotted Bucky and Jones lying prone, eyes trained through their scopes—completely unaware of the group of Hydra soldiers creeping up behind them.

“Bucky!” she shouted, blasting a wave of energy past their heads. The explosion knocked several of the soldiers off their feet.

Realizing what was happening, Bucky and Jones sprang into action, rifles blazing. They picked off the stragglers with precise shots while Daphne cleared the rest.

“They’ve got another truck coming!” Jones called, pointing down the path.

Daphne dashed toward the nearest vehicle, yanking open the hood and tearing the battery out.

“What are you doing?” Bucky shouted.

“You two might wanna get down!” she warned.

She hurled the battery at the incoming truck and sent a blast of energy directly into it. The impact created a spectacular explosion, engulfing the vehicle in fire and smoke.

Jones gaped. “Holy shit.”

“You’re welcome,” Daphne said, brushing off her hands as she turned back toward the base.

The fighting had stopped. Smoke billowed from the main compound, and flames consumed what was left. Down below, she could see Steve gathering the men at the rendezvous point.

“I think we did it,” she said, letting herself breathe for the first time in hours.

“Hell yeah we did,” Bucky said, clapping her on the back. Together, the three of them started down the hill to rejoin the others, battered but victorious.

• • • • • • •

Two years had passed since Daphne’s first mission, though it hardly felt like it. Time blurred when you were constantly on the move, in battle after battle, chasing after ghosts in bunkers and forests. Most of Hydra’s known bases had been taken out by now, and the hunt for Johann Schmidt was finally closing in. He had to be sweating. They were right behind him.

For now, though, Colonel Phillips had pulled the team back to London. A brief break, just long enough to rest, recover, and wait for intel on the next base. But the pause in movement didn’t mean things were quiet—at least not for Daphne.

What had started as a whispered rumor was now an international story. The mysterious woman fighting Nazis alongside Captain America and the Howling Commandos wasn’t just a battlefield legend anymore. She was headline news. Every day, another photo. Another opinion. Another paper with her face printed front and center.

She hadn’t expected this much attention. She figured people would care—maybe ask questions about her powers, maybe want to hear her side of the story. What she hadn’t expected was the controversy. The fascination with her existence. The obsessive scrutiny.

“Look at this one,” Daphne snapped, tossing a newspaper onto the table where the team was eating dinner at a small café tucked into the London streets. The men barely looked up until Dum Dum reached for the paper and read the headline aloud.

“‘Who’s taking care of the home while Mrs. Barnes is at war?’” he read, raising his brows.

“We lived alone,” Daphne scoffed, folding her arms over her chest. “We didn’t even have a plant.”

“It’s not that bad,” Steve offered carefully, trying to keep his voice light.

“They printed an entire article about how I take care of my feminine needs on the field, Steve,” she said, glaring at him. “It is that bad.”

Steve winced, caught. “So I’m guessing now is a bad time to tell you a film crew is going to be accompanying us back to base tomorrow?”

Daphne blinked. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“It wasn’t my decision,” Steve said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Orders.”

Daphne sighed, but her frustration shifted when she glanced at Bucky. He hadn’t said a word. He was still staring down at the paper, jaw tight, eyes locked on the article as he scanned it again and again.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him quietly.

“It’s nothing,” Bucky muttered, pushing the paper aside and rising to his feet. “I think I’m gonna head in. If you wanna come…”

“Yeah, okay,” Daphne said, grabbing her jacket. “We’ll see you guys in the morning,” she added to the others, before slipping her hand into Bucky’s and following him out of the café.

They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing off the cobblestones. The city was quieter now, the chaos of war taking its toll even on the nightlife. But Daphne could feel something simmering just under the surface of Bucky’s calm exterior.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, glancing at him.

“Yeah, doll. I’m fine.”

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, tugging on his hand until he turned to face her. “Bucky, you’re a bad liar. What’s wrong?”

He sighed, his gaze softening as he reached for her hand, thumb brushing over the back of it in slow, grounding circles. “I don’t like how they talk about you,” he admitted.

“Who?”

“Everyone. The names they call you, the words they use to describe you.” His voice was tight, full of quiet rage. “None of it’s true. And I don’t like that I can’t do anything about it.”

Daphne gave him a small smile and stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. “What they’re saying—it’s frustrating. But it’s…” She paused, searching for the right words. “It’s not something you have to worry about.”

“Yes it is. It’s my job to worry about you.”

“I thought your job was to protect me,” she teased, lifting a brow.

“It’s both,” he said, his arms circling her waist. “Protect and worry. And keep you happy. I’ve got a lot of jobs.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” she said, laughing softly.

“Yeah, you’re definitely a handful,” he grinned.

She leaned in, her lips just barely brushing his, the air between them humming with warmth. His grip tightened around her, grounding them in that moment. “And what’s my job?” she asked.

“You just gotta be there,” he whispered, voice low and sure, just before their lips met.

The world around them faded. People passed by, glancing briefly at the girl kissing her soldier in the middle of a quiet London street, but the two of them didn’t notice. For that moment, it was just them—together, strong, and holding on in the middle of a war.

• • • • • • •

“So, Mrs. Barnes—”

“Look,” Daphne interrupted sharply, not even bothering to glance up from the map she was studying, “if I’m going to answer your questions, no more calling me Mrs. Barnes. You’ve acknowledged every other soldier here by their proper titles.”

The filmmaker blinked at her, caught off guard. She had agreed, reluctantly, to let him ask a few questions for the documentary he was putting together about the Howling Commandos. But she wasn’t in the mood to be patronized, not today.

“Yes, of course,” he said, clearing his throat and forcing a grin. “And what exactly is your title? Should we be calling you Private Barnes?”

“No,” Daphne said, already rolling her eyes at the condescending tone. “I’m not a soldier.”

“Then what are you, exactly?” he asked, voice still tinged with mockery.

“Huntress,” she replied simply, still scanning the terrain on the map. “I hunt. And right now, Hydra’s my prey.”

He gave her a skeptical look, as if weighing how serious she was. Then, motioning to his cameraman to come in closer, he continued, “And what do you have to say to the people who don’t think it’s appropriate for someone like you to be out here?”

“Someone like me?”

“A girl.”

“A woman, you mean,” Daphne corrected without missing a beat, lifting her eyes to meet his squarely. “I believe I peaked out of my girlhood ages ago. But those people don’t bother me. If there’s a ton of people who don’t want you to do something, that’s probably the best reason to do it.”

Before he could ask more, Peggy approached from across the camp, offering a welcome reprieve. Daphne smiled gratefully as Peggy stepped up.

“There’ve been some developments Colonel Phillips wants to go over,” Peggy said.

“Okay. I’ll be right there,” Daphne replied, then turned back to the filmmaker. “I do hope I answered all your questions.”

“Just one more,” he said quickly, clearly unwilling to let her go just yet. “The biggest question, I think, is why? Why join a war when no one was expecting you to?”

Daphne let a smirk tug at her lips. “Well, I believe you just answered your own question. I did it because no one was expecting me to.” And with that, she turned and walked off with Peggy, leaving the filmmaker blinking behind them.

“That was very inspired,” Peggy said with a chuckle as they headed toward the command tent.

“God, I know. Maybe I was a poet in another life,” Daphne joked.

Peggy gave her a playful nudge. “Congratulations, by the way. On the engagement.”

Daphne looked down at her ring, her smile softening. “Thank you. Maybe the four of us can go on a double date when this is all over.”

“The four of us?” Peggy asked, raising a brow.

“You and Steve, obviously,” Daphne replied, grinning.

“Right. Obviously,” Peggy said, rolling her eyes, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her amusement.

Inside the command tent, Colonel Phillips looked up as they entered. “Huntress. Nice of you to finally join us.”

Daphne gave a half-hearted eye roll, knowing he wasn’t nearly as annoyed as he sounded. “My apologies. What have I missed?”

Phillips didn’t bother to repeat the sarcasm. He nodded to Morita, who handed over a slip of intercepted communication. “Morita here intercepted a message from Hydra. We have it on good authority that Arnim Zola will be on the Schnellzug EB912 train tomorrow.”

At the sound of that name, Daphne’s body stilled. It had been two years since she’d heard it—two years since the darkest parts of her memories had been buried and locked away. She couldn’t remember much of what had happened during her time with Hydra, but hearing Zola’s name brought a cold, familiar fear that crawled up her spine.

“And Schmidt?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“No word on Johann Schmidt. But if we successfully capture Zola, we’ll have a better lead on him,” Colonel Phillips answered.

Daphne nodded slowly. Steve stepped forward, his expression set. “We’ll ship out tonight. We’ll hijack the train and bring Zola back alive.”

Everyone nodded their understanding, and the team began filing out of the tent to prepare. Daphne lingered a moment, her thoughts swirling, until Bucky walked up beside her.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” she said, though her tone wasn’t as convincing as she hoped. “Just haven’t thought about Zola in a long time, I guess.”

“You know you can stay here. If it’s too much,” Bucky offered, his voice low and full of concern.

Daphne glanced at him, her jaw set. “And you know that I’m definitely not gonna do that.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I know. But it was worth a shot.”

Together, they walked back toward the tent they shared, the weight of the mission ahead hanging heavy between them, but the strength of their bond anchoring them in place.

Chapter Text

Standing atop the snowy mountain summit, Daphne stared out at the landscape. The height was intimidating—something about being so far above the rest of the world stirred unease in her chest—but it was also breathtaking. The wind whipped at her hair and the snow shimmered under the pale light. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. She never thought her life would lead here, to a place so extraordinary, on a mission so monumental.

Still, no matter how proud she was of the work they were doing, she couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up her spine. A voice in the back of her mind whispered that even if they won this war, something worse was waiting. Something bigger. Something she wouldn't be able to stop.

“Hey, you okay?” Steve’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He stood beside her, adjusting his gear, concern in his eyes.

“Yeah. Just want this to all be over, I guess,” she sighed, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

“It will be. We’ll find Zola and Schmidt. We’ll shut down Hydra,” he said with conviction.

“You seem very confident,” she said, arching a brow.

“For some reason, you don’t. And you always seem so sure of yourself.”

“I don’t know. Just a bad feeling I can’t shake.” She forced a smile. “But maybe I should take a page out of your book and be outrageously optimistic.”

Steve chuckled, about to respond when Bucky approached, a nostalgic smirk on his face. “Hey. Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?” he asked, clapping Steve on the shoulder.

“Yeah, and I threw up,” Steve said, the memory not particularly fond.

“This isn’t payback, is it?” Bucky asked, eyeing the wire connecting them to the train car down below, the setup as shaky as it looked.

“Now why would I do that?” Steve joked.

“We were right. Dr. Zola’s on the train,” Jones called from nearby, fiddling with the radio as Morita looked on. “Hydra dispatcher gave him clearance to open the throttle. Wherever he’s headed, they want him bad.”

Steve gave a sharp nod and pulled his mask down. Daphne, watching him, raised a brow. “How come you get a helmet?”

“It’s not a helmet,” he said with a grunt, adjusting the strap.

“Looks like a helmet to me,” Bucky muttered, making Daphne laugh.

She reached for Bucky’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Be careful.”

“I’m supposed to be telling you that,” he said, softening.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah, of course I’m gonna be careful,” he relented, kissing the side of her head.

“I’m holding you to that. If anything happens to you, I’m gonna be really pissed.”

“Daph. I’ll be fine. We both will. We can do anything if we’re all together, remember?”

“Right. Together.”

“We’ve only got about a ten-second window,” Steve shouted to the team. “You miss that window, we’re bugs on a windshield!”

He clipped in and zipped down the wire, disappearing toward the moving train below. Bucky, Daphne, and Jones followed immediately after, the others staying behind to provide cover or backup.

The wind screamed around them, snow slicing at their skin as they hit the roof of the train. Daphne blinked through the blur and found her footing, moving fast with the others until they reached a hatch. She and Jones dropped inside while Steve and Bucky continued ahead to another car.

Inside, the train was dim, humming with tension. Daphne’s boots made soft thuds on the floor as they crept through the narrow car.

“This one’s clear,” Jones said quietly.

Just as Daphne reached for the next door, it slammed shut behind her, locking her in alone. She spun around and froze. A Hydra soldier stood there, wielding two enormous tesseract-powered rifles. He didn’t hesitate—he fired.

Daphne dove behind a crate, the wall behind her erupting with the force of the blast. Whatever those weapons were, they were stronger than anything she’d seen before. She peeked out and fired back, but the soldier ducked away. Thinking fast, she gripped one of the nearby storage units and hurled it with enhanced strength. It struck the soldier squarely, knocking him to the ground with a grunt.

She sprinted over, disarmed him, and held one of the guns up, admiring it. “Thanks,” she muttered to his unconscious body. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the weapon on the locked door and fired.

The blast melted through the metal. She burst into the next car, just in time. Jones was crouched behind a crate, nearly out of ammo. A Hydra soldier loomed over him, weapon raised—until Daphne’s energy blast hit him square in the chest, sending him flying.

Jones glanced up at her, breathless. He nodded in thanks as she tossed him one of the rifles. Together, they moved forward.

Sliding open the next door, they found their target. Arnim Zola stood frozen in surprise.

“Been a long time,” Daphne said before decking him, knocking him out instantly.

Turning to Jones, she couldn’t help but smile. “Stay here and stop the train. I’ll go find Steve and Bucky.”

Jones nodded and moved to the controls while Daphne stepped over Zola’s unconscious form and sprinted back down the train.

She didn’t have to go far. A jagged hole had been blasted into the side of one of the cars, revealing the icy mountain cliffs below. 

The shriek of the wind in the broken train car drowned out everything else as Daphne ran inside, heart pounding, eyes wild. Her boots skidded on the icy floor as she spotted Steve—kneeling, motionless, too close to the jagged edge where the train had been torn open.

"Steve!" she called, her voice slicing through the air. He didn’t move. Just stared over the edge, his face ashen.

"Steve, where's Bucky? We found Zola," she said, hurrying toward him. She expected him to stand. To answer. To be relieved. But he didn’t.

He looked up slowly, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth unable to form words.

A chill raced down her spine. “Steve. Where’s Bucky?” she asked again, the question lodged deep in her throat. She scanned the space, desperate for a glimpse—an arm, a coat, anything.

Nothing.

“Steve!” she cried out, grabbing him by the collar, yanking him up to face her. “Steve. Where is he?”

“I… I couldn’t save him,” he said, his voice broken and hoarse.

“What?” she breathed, the word fragile and stunned.

“I’m sorry. I—”

“No, no, no,” Daphne whispered, already backing away. Her feet stumbled toward the gaping hole in the train. Her hands gripped the twisted metal of the doorway as she peered out over the drop, eyes frantically searching the endless sea of white below.

All she could see was snow. Empty, desolate, and cruel.

“No. No, please. Please,” she said, shaking her head, her voice collapsing beneath the weight of hope draining from her soul. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

“Daph,” Steve said, stepping toward her, trying to anchor her in place. She shook him off.

“No. Steve, I have to find him. I have to go look for him,” she sobbed, pushing against his grip, clawing toward the open edge.

“Daph, he’s gone,” Steve said, wrapping his arms around her, holding her in place. She thrashed in his grip, fists pounding against his chest.

“No! Let go of me! I have to go look for him!” she screamed, her voice ragged and raw with hysteria.

“Daphne. He’s gone. I can’t lose you too,” Steve pleaded, clutching her tighter as her world began to collapse. Her hands were burning now—literal heat rising from her palms—but she didn’t notice.

She couldn’t notice anything but the unbearable emptiness that stretched inside her, tearing her apart.

The train had begun to slow, but it felt like the whole earth was shaking beneath her feet. Her breath came in ragged, gasping sobs. Her body trembled uncontrollably.

He was gone.

Bucky was gone.

Dead.

No, no, no, he couldn’t be—he had promised. He promised.

"He promised," she cried, collapsing into Steve's chest, her sobs turning jagged and breathless. Her fingers clutched at his jacket, as if she could keep herself from falling apart by holding onto something solid.

"He promised!" she wailed, her tears soaking into the fabric. Her knees gave out and Steve followed her to the ground, still holding her tightly as she shattered in his arms.

They’d found Zola. The end was supposed to be in sight. They were supposed to be safe.

He couldn’t be gone.

Not when he was her whole world. Not when he had carried every piece of her heart in his hands.

Daphne trembled violently, her soul cracking open beneath the weight of grief. It wasn’t just sorrow—it was agony. Pure, unrelenting agony. The kind that made it hard to breathe. The kind that didn’t just break a person—it hollowed them out.

And in that hollow silence, the only thing that remained was the truth she couldn’t deny.

Bucky was gone.

And she didn’t know how to live in a world without him.

September 1941 THREE MONTHS BEFORE PEARL HARBOR

“Do you think we’re eventually going to join the war?” Daphne asked, her voice soft against the hush of the bedroom. The window was cracked just enough to let in the city sounds—muffled jazz from a neighbor’s radio, the occasional bark of a dog, the low rumble of passing cars.

Bucky lay beside her, one arm tucked behind his head, the other gently playing with her fingers. He traced the curve of her knuckles, noting how small her hands were compared to his, how easily they fit together.

“It’s possible,” he said after a moment, not wanting to lie, but not eager to speak it aloud either.

Daphne stared up at the ceiling, the weight of the thought pressing into her chest. “If we did… you’d have to go.”

He glanced over, watching the worry knit itself into her brow. He reached out, smoothing the crease with his thumb. “That’s not something you need to worry about right now.”

“But it’s something that could happen.” She turned toward him, propping herself up on one elbow. Her eyes were clear, steady. “And if it did… I’d stop you.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a faint laugh in his throat. “You’d stop me?”

“I’d shoot you in the foot,” she said simply.

His laugh broke fully then, amused and disbelieving. “You’d do that to me?”

“I wouldn’t be doing it to you,” she said, folding her arms with mock indignation. “I’d be doing it for you. They can’t draft you if you’ve got a limp.”

“I’d be crippled,” he said, teasing.

“But you’d still be here.” Her voice dropped, her grip tightening on his hand. “You’d be alive.”

Bucky’s smile faded into something softer. He shifted closer and cupped her cheek, guiding her gaze to meet his.

“Hey. Daph. Look at me.”

She did.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” Her voice cracked slightly.

“Promise,” he said, leaning in to kiss her—slow, certain, warm.

When he pulled back, she was already smiling, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he replied, brushing his nose against hers. “More than anything.”

Chapter Text

The sky over Brooklyn was gray when the cab pulled to a stop in front of the Barnes’ brownstone. The streets were quieter than either Steve or Daphne remembered, but that could have just been the fog of grief pressing down on everything—on them.

Steve hadn’t spoken much since they left London. Neither had Daphne.

The few words exchanged were logistical: train times, arrival windows, the name of the cab company. Everything else they had to say lived in the silence between them.

Daphne sat still as the driver closed the door behind them, her gloved hands folded in her lap, pressed so tightly together her knuckles were white. Steve stepped up the walkway first, hesitating only slightly before knocking on the familiar door.

They could hear movement from inside. A chair scraping. A latch unhooking. Then the door opened.

Winnie Barnes stood there in a modest dress, her eyes widening the moment she saw them.

“Steve?” she asked, stunned, and then her gaze shifted. “Daphne?”

Daphne’s mouth opened but no words came. She stepped forward instead, gently pulling Winnie into a hug.

“I thought—” Winnie began, her voice shaking. “We haven’t heard anything in months. We wrote, but…”

“I know,” Steve said quietly. “Can we come in?”

George appeared in the hallway just then, his thinning hair tucked beneath a newsboy cap, worry lining his face. Rebecca came down the stairs a beat later, her expression brightening at the sight of them—until it didn’t. Until she saw Daphne’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Where’s Bucky?” she asked.

That was it. The question hung in the air like a blade suspended from a thread. Daphne’s breath hitched. Steve stared at the floor.

Rebecca’s face fell instantly, and Winnie took a step back as if she'd just been struck.

“No…” Winnie whispered.

George reached for her elbow, steadying her.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve said. His voice broke on the words. “We—we tried everything. He saved my life. He saved all of us. He was brave. He was so… Bucky was everything good.”

Daphne shook her head, tears rolling silently down her cheeks, unable to speak. For a long time, no one said anything. The only sound was the creak of the old house and the quiet sobs shared between four people whose lives had revolved around one boy—now a man they’d never see again.

• • • • • • •

The phone rang late in the evening. The Barnes home was quiet—too quiet. Since the news of Bucky’s death, silence had settled over the house like dust, thick and hard to shake. Daphne sat curled on the couch beneath one of Rebecca’s old quilts, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular, when the shrill ring cut through the stillness.

Steve set the mug down and crossed to the phone on the wall. “Hello?” he said, his voice cautious.

“Steve, it’s Peggy.” Her voice was brisk, but urgent.

Daphne sat up straighter, instantly alert.

“Zola cracked,” Peggy said. “He gave us Schmidt’s location. Northern Alps. An old weapons facility carved into the mountain. This is it, Steve. We have him.”

Steve didn’t speak at first. His fingers tightened slightly on the phone cord.

“I’ll be there within the hour,” he said finally, and hung up.

He turned to find Daphne already on her feet.

“You’re going after him,” she said.

He nodded.

“Then I’m going too.”

“Daph…”

“No, Steve. I’ve been there since the start of this. Since before the serum, before the uniform. This ends now.”

But Steve stepped toward her, shaking his head.

“It’s too dangerous.”

“You think I care?” she said, her voice rising. “He took everything from us. Bucky, our lives, my sanity—”

“I know. I know,” Steve said, gently reaching for her shoulders. “But listen to me. Zola said there’s a fail-safe. A final set of trigger words.”

Daphne froze.

“He told Peggy,” Steve continued. “If Schmidt says them—”

“I’ll turn,” Daphne whispered, finishing the thought.

She looked away, blinking fast, the truth digging sharp into her ribs. All the control she’d worked so hard to master could vanish in an instant if those words were spoken.

“I could hurt you,” she said, her voice cracking. “I could kill you.”

Steve didn’t say anything at first. He only pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. Daphne clutched the fabric of his shirt, pressing her face into his shoulder.

“I’m not letting you do this alone,” she murmured, already knowing what he would say.

“You have to,” he replied quietly. “If Schmidt uses you against me, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop you. And I can’t lose you too.”

A tear slid down her cheek, and she hated how familiar the sensation felt.

“You better come back to me,” she whispered.

“I will.”

“Promise.”

“Promise,” Steve said, leaning back just enough to meet her eyes. “You’ve always fought for me. Let me fight for you now.”

Her breath hitched as she nodded, arms still wrapped around him like letting go might break something in her. They stood there in silence, two siblings bound by blood, war, and the people they’d loved and lost.

Finally, she let him go.

“Go get him, Captain ,” she said, forcing the words out past the pain in her chest.

Steve gave her one last, quiet smile. “I’ll bring him down. For Bucky. For all of us.”

And with that, he turned and walked out the door, the weight of the world once again resting on his shoulders—alone.

• • • • • • •

The afternoon light drifted lazily through the lace curtains of the Barnes' parlor, painting soft golden patterns on the floorboards. The house had been quieter lately, filled with the kind of silence that hangs like a thick blanket—too heavy to ignore, too familiar to fight.

Daphne sat on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped around something small and cold. Rebecca sat opposite her in the armchair, legs folded underneath her, a cup of untouched tea in her lap.

She looked older now—grown. Twenty years old, but her eyes were wiser than that. Grief had a way of aging people. Rebecca hadn’t said much in the days since Steve and Daphne had returned from the Alps. She’d cried once—quietly, in her mother’s arms—but mostly, she sat in stillness. Watching. Thinking.

“I wanted to give you something,” Daphne said softly, breaking the silence.

Rebecca looked up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Daphne replied, offering a gentle smile. “But I want to.”

She unfolded her fingers slowly, revealing a set of worn, silver dog tags resting in her palm. The metal was dulled, the edges slightly scuffed, but the letters were still clear.

Barnes, James B.
32557038

Rebecca’s breath hitched. Her eyes locked on the tags, unmoving. Rebecca reached forward, her hand trembling as her fingers grazed the cool metal. She held them like they were made of glass, fragile and sacred.

Daphne swallowed hard, blinking away her own tears. “He loved you so much, Becca. You were his whole world.”

Rebecca nodded, fingers tightening around the tags as they clinked softly in her hand.

“I miss him,” she whispered.

“Me too.”

After a moment, Rebecca leaned over and wrapped her arms around Daphne’s shoulders. Daphne exhaled, sinking into the hug, resting her chin against the crown of Rebecca’s head.

“Thank you,” Rebecca whispered.

Daphne closed her eyes.

“Always.”

• • • • • • •

Talking about Bucky with Winnifred helped. Just a little. Hearing the same stories she’d heard a dozen times—about his first steps, his scraped knees, the time he tried to teach Rebecca how to throw a punch—it didn’t make the grief disappear, but it dulled the sharpest edges. Daphne still cried herself to sleep most nights, curled in his old bed with her fingers ghosting over the ring that used to sit there.

The world had become muted, foggy, as though she were a ghost walking through it.

She forced herself to eat dinner with his family, even though every bite tasted like ash. She sat at the table across from his empty chair, feeling the weight of his absence like a boulder on her chest. They’d all agreed not to have a funeral until Steve returned. The idea of a service, of not having a body to bury, made her stomach churn.

It was just past noon when a knock came at the front door. Rebecca was next door visiting a friend. George was at work. That left only Daphne and Winnifred in the quiet, heavy house.

“I’ll get it,” Daphne called softly, rising from the worn armchair in the parlor. Her footsteps echoed too loudly against the wood floor as she made her way to the front door.

She opened it—and froze.

Peggy and Howard stood on the porch. Daphne blinked at them, confused. “Peggy? Howard? What are you doing here?”

They weren’t supposed to escort her back to base until tomorrow. Something in the way they stood—the tightness in Peggy’s jaw, the way Howard avoided her eyes—sent a jolt of dread slicing through her chest.

“Maybe we should talk outside,” Howard said gently, his voice too calm.

Daphne’s blood ran cold. It was like her entire body went still. Every muscle, every breath, frozen.

“Why?” she asked slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“Daphne—” Peggy began.

“Peggy.” Daphne’s voice cracked as she stepped forward, desperation clawing at her throat. “Just tell me. Please. What’s wrong?”

Peggy glanced at Howard, her eyes already filled with tears. Her silence said more than words ever could.

Howard stepped forward, clearing his throat. “It’s Steve,” he said softly. “He… he found Schmidt. There was a bomb, planted on a plane headed for Manhattan. Steve, he… he had to put the plane down. In the Arctic.”

Daphne stared at him. “Put the plane down?” she repeated. The words didn’t make sense. Her voice rose in pitch. “What does that mean?”

She looked from one of them to the other, her heart thundering in her chest. “Howard,” she said, her tone sharp now, edged with panic. “What does that mean? Where is Steve?”

Neither of them answered right away. The silence screamed in her ears.

“Howard!” she shouted, her voice cracking in desperation. “Where is he?!”

“He sacrificed himself,” Peggy whispered.

Daphne’s breath hitched.

“Steve’s gone.”

The world tilted.

Gone.

The word hit her like a punch to the ribs. It knocked the wind out of her. Her knees buckled and she stumbled back a step, grabbing the edge of the doorframe to keep herself upright. Her vision blurred instantly, her eyes brimming with tears that fell too fast for her to wipe away.

“No,” she whispered, barely able to breathe. “No. Not Steve too. Please. Please, no.”

Her body shook as a sob tore through her. She pressed a hand to her chest like she could physically keep her heart from falling apart.

First Bucky. Now Steve.

Her brother. Her little brother. The one person she thought would always be there. The last piece of home. Of safety.

She let out a strangled sound as Peggy rushed forward, pulling her into a tight embrace. Daphne clung to her, the grief bursting out of her like a dam breaking.

Gone. Both of them. Gone.

And suddenly, Daphne was nothing but the echo of who she’d been.

• • • • • • •

“Are you sure about this?” Howard asked, his voice low, uncertain.

“You already said you would. Don’t back out on me now,” Daphne replied, her gaze locked on the machine in front of them.

The two of them stood before the towering cryogenics chamber, a near replica of the Hydra technology that had once imprisoned her. It was ironic, really—how she had once clawed to escape such a device, and now, she was walking back into it willingly. But this time, it wasn’t captivity. It was mercy.

Losing Bucky had nearly broken her. Losing Steve just a week later had finished the job. In the days since, Daphne had walked through New York like a shadow of herself. It was a miracle, truly, that she hadn’t destroyed half the city in a grief-fueled explosion of energy. Every breath was a battle. Every memory, a blade.

It wasn’t pain anymore. It was exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-sick fatigue that no amount of rest or resolve could fix.

She was tired.

“I know but… the world still needs you,” Howard said quietly.

“Not right now, they don’t,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled. “And right now, I don’t think I’m in the right headspace to help anybody. I can’t even…” She trailed off, swallowing hard, shaking her head.

“I can’t even think about it without wanting to… destroy something.”

Blue light flickered between her fingers like lightning trapped in glass, curling and crackling in tune with her grief.

“I know,” Howard said, offering a faint smile. “But I’m gonna miss you, you know.”

Daphne tried to match his expression, forcing a soft laugh. “I think you really need to get some friends. Work can’t be everything.”

“What can I say? A genius’s work is never done,” he replied with a shrug. His eyes drifted back to the machine, and his smile faltered. “So what, we just… wake you up when we’re in trouble again?”

She nodded slowly, stepping closer to the open chamber. Her reflection warped in its frosted glass. “Whenever you need me. Because God knows you can’t defend yourself.”

He nudged her shoulder. “Not that I want something to threaten our existence again, but I really hope I see you again soon.”

Looking at him, her voice softened. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

“Pretty sure I should be thanking you,” Howard said, his tone more serious now. “But you’re welcome. I get it, though. You’ve been through more than most people could ever survive. You deserve a break.”

She nodded again, eyes drifting down. “Don’t worry,” Howard said gently. “You’ll be safe here. I won’t let anything happen to you while you’re gone.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

She stepped into the chamber.

“And remember,” she added, turning one last time to look at him. “Wake me up when you need me again.”

Howard gave her a tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, and pulled the chamber door closed with a soft hiss. He hesitated for a moment, hand resting on the control panel, before finally reaching for the switch. The machine whirred to life.

Inside, Daphne closed her eyes. The hum of the chamber filled her ears, and the air around her grew cold, sharp, biting. The temperature plummeted, and her limbs began to stiffen, her skin prickling as ice traced its way across her suit and skin. Her last breath escaped her lips in a sigh, and then—nothing.

Darkness. Silence. Sleep.

Howard stared at the machine, the blue light casting long shadows across the lab. She was gone now, encased in stillness, a soldier frozen in time. A friend. A hero.

He looked down at the folder in his hands—blueprints stamped with bold lettering: Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division .

He could only hope this new agency would live up to the legacy she and Steve and Bucky had left behind.

They were his friends. Peggy’s friends. They had saved the world.

And Howard Stark was going to make damn sure no one ever forgot it.

Chapter Text

2012

Flashes. That was all Steve Rogers could see now—bright, fractured pieces of a life that no longer existed. It had been nearly seventy years since he crashed into the ice, his body preserved by some freak miracle of science and nature, sleeping while the world moved on without him. Seventy years since the war ended. Since Bucky died. Since Peggy. Since Howard.

Seventy years since he last saw his sister.

They told him she was presumed dead. Disappeared not long after his plane went down. No sightings, no remains. Just another casualty of war, swallowed by time and tragedy. Howard had been the last one to see her—but now he was gone too, taken by a car accident decades ago.

When Steve woke, they gave him the headlines and the history. They gave him Nick Fury, director of S.H.I.E.L.D., a name that sounded like something out of a pulp novel, and a safe house to settle into while he "adjusted."

But how was he supposed to adjust to this?

He hadn’t even mustered the courage to see Peggy. She was still alive, they said, but not the same. Her mind... the time had taken its toll. Everything he loved had either changed or disappeared. Even the sky looked different.

He tried to ground himself in routine. In the gym. In silence. In the one thing that never changed: the fight.

He slammed his fist into the punching bag again and again, the leather groaning under the force of every strike. It was all he could do to stay sane.

“Trouble sleeping?” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Steve turned, sweat dripping down his temple as he saw Fury step into the gym.

“I’ve slept for seventy years, sir. I think I’ve had my fill,” Steve replied, grabbing the tape around his fists and starting to unwind it.

“Then you should be out. Celebrating. Seeing the world,” Fury said, voice even.

Steve looked up, a bitter huff escaping him as he kept unwrapping his hands. Celebrating? Celebrating what? A world he no longer recognized? A life that had vanished in the blink of an eye?

“When I went under, the world was at war,” Steve said quietly. “I wake up, they say we won. They didn’t say what we lost.”

Fury didn’t respond at first. Instead, he stepped forward and held out a file.

“We’ve made some mistakes along the way,” he said. “Some, very recently.”

Steve took the folder, flipping it open—and there it was. A picture of the tesseract. That cursed cube. That thing that had torn his life in two.

“Hydra’s secret weapon,” Steve muttered.

“Howard Stark fished that out of the ocean when he was looking for you. He thought what we think. That the tesseract could be the key to unlimited sustainable energy. That’s something the world sorely needs,” Fury explained.

Steve stared at the image a beat longer before glancing back up. “Who took it from you?”

“He’s called Loki. He’s not from around here. There’s a lot we’ll have to bring you up to speed on if you’re in. The world has gotten even stranger than you already know.”

“At this point,” Steve said with a tired breath, “I doubt anything would surprise me.”

“Ten bucks says you’re wrong,” Fury said with a faint smirk.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “And the second mission? What is it?”

Fury hesitated just long enough for Steve to notice.

“This one hits a little closer to home,” he said, handing over a second file.

Steve opened it. The moment his eyes hit the page, he froze. His breath caught in his throat as he looked back up at Fury, confusion and hope warring in his chest.

“What is this?” he asked, voice low.

Fury didn’t blink. “Well, Cap… you’re not the only one who’s been asleep.”

Steve’s heart slammed into his ribs. “Presumed dead. That’s what you told me.”

“That’s what you were told, yes,” Fury corrected, his tone maddeningly calm. “If you knew then, you’d want to wake her up.”

Steve’s fists clenched around the file. “Damn straight I’d want to wake her up. You were never going to tell me my sister’s alive? That you’ve been keeping her in some box—on ice?”

“We were under strict orders not to wake her up,” Fury said.

Steve’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Whose orders?”

Fury looked him dead in the eye. “Hers.”

• • • • • • •

“Daphne?”

The sound of her name floated to her ears like it had traveled through water, muffled and distant. She couldn’t place the voice yet—her body felt stiff, frozen from the inside out. Everything around her was cold.

“Are you sure she’ll remember?” came another voice, clearer this time, but still unfamiliar.

“She should,” someone answered.

The sensation of ice breaking off her limbs, melting into nothingness, sent a jolt through her. Numbness gave way to pins and needles as movement slowly returned. Her eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, the overhead lights too bright, too sterile. She tried to sit up but stumbled forward, realizing she was already standing.

“Whoa, hey. You’re alright.”

A firm hand grabbed her arm, steadying her. She blinked again, and this time her vision adjusted. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Steve?” she whispered, staring at the man holding her.

He looked like a ghost. Or a dream. She was sure she was still dreaming—Steve was dead.

“Daphne?”

The sound of her name floated to her ears like it had traveled through water, muffled and distant. She couldn’t place the voice yet—her body felt stiff, frozen from the inside out. Everything around her was cold.

“Are you sure she’ll remember?” came another voice, clearer this time, but still unfamiliar.

“She should,” someone answered.

The sensation of ice breaking off her limbs, melting into nothingness, sent a jolt through her. Numbness gave way to pins and needles as movement slowly returned. Her eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, the overhead lights too bright, too sterile. She wasn’t lying down—her body was upright. She tried to sit but stumbled forward, realizing she was already standing.

“Whoa, hey. You’re alright.”

A firm hand grabbed her arm, steadying her. She blinked again, and this time her vision adjusted. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Steve?” she whispered, staring at the man holding her.

He looked like a ghost. Or a dream. She was sure she was still dreaming—Steve was dead. Had been for decades. Hadn’t he?

“Yeah. Yeah, Daph, it’s me,” Steve said gently, still supporting her weight.

Daphne turned her head, trying to piece together where she was. The cryo-chamber loomed behind her—its frost still clinging to the frame. It wasn’t a dream. She had been asleep. And now, somehow, she was awake.

She took a step back, needing confirmation, and reached up with trembling hands to touch Steve’s face. The skin was warm. Real. Solid beneath her fingers.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, her voice cracking as she collapsed into him, throwing her arms around his shoulders. “I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were dead,” Steve said, voice tight with emotion as he held her like he never planned to let go.

Daphne’s heart thundered in her chest. Everything felt wrong and overwhelming. Her mind raced as she pulled back just enough to look at him.

“What’s…what’s going on?” she asked, confused and breathless. “I wasn’t supposed to wake up, not until… Where’s Howard? And Peggy?”

“You’ve been asleep a long time,” a voice said behind her.

She turned quickly, noticing another man standing in the corner of the room. Dark coat, composed expression. She didn’t recognize him.

“Who are you?” she asked sharply.

“Nick Fury. Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he answered.

Daphne shook her head, bewildered. “No. No, Howard. Where is he? I can’t be awake without—”

“Howard’s gone, Daph,” Steve interrupted softly, his tone weighed with sorrow. “He… We’ve been gone a long time.”

Her stomach dropped. Her heart stopped.

“How long is a long time?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Nearly seventy years. It’s 2012,” Steve told her.

Daphne stared at him in horror, the air leaving her lungs.

“Hydra’s gone. You don’t have to worry about them anymore,” Fury said, as if that would comfort her.

But Daphne said nothing. Her thoughts were a storm. Her past, her grief, her sleep—it all slammed into her at once. Finally, she looked back at Steve, her voice hoarse.

“Why did you wake me up?”

“We need your help,” Steve said. “It’s the tesseract.”

She stiffened. “What about it?”

“It’s back,” he told her grimly. “And it’s definitely in the wrong hands.”

• • • • • • •

Daphne sighed as she fumbled with the dress they’d given her. The woman who handed it to her had called it “modest,” something to help her not feel too out of place. But everything already felt out of place. The clothes, the room, the time—none of it felt like her own. The fabric itched slightly against her skin, unfamiliar and wrong in a way she couldn’t name.

 But even now, freshly cleaned and dressed, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside her wasn’t right. She didn’t feel like she was being controlled again, but she definitely didn’t feel like herself.

Her memory was still foggy. Disjointed. Everything before Hydra—her family, Bucky, her childhood—it felt more like scenes from an old film than her own life. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her. The face was familiar, but distant. Like a stranger wearing her skin.

The sound of the door opening drew her attention.

“Hey. How do you feel?” Steve asked gently, stepping into the room.

“Like I don’t really know how to answer that question,” she said, tugging at the edge of the sweater draped over her shoulders. It was soft and warm, but it did little to soothe her.

“Yeah. I guess I still don’t know what to say when people ask me either,” Steve admitted with a small, understanding smile. “But it gets better, I promise.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” she asked, her voice quieter now. There was a tremor beneath her words, like a thread unraveling. “What if I… what if I lose control?”

Steve stepped closer, his hands gripping her shoulders with steady reassurance. “I won’t let that happen. I promise,” he said firmly. “Not again.”

A woman poked her head through the door, clearing her throat gently. “Uh, excuse me,” she said. “We’re ready for you. You’ll be briefed on the plane.”

Steve nodded, giving her a small smile as the woman disappeared again. He looked back at Daphne. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” she sighed, following him out, the weight of the unknown pressing on her shoulders with every step.

• • • • • • •

Sitting beside Steve on the plane, Daphne sifted through the digital files Fury had provided, trying to get the hang of the sleek tablet in her hands. Technology had certainly moved lightyears ahead while she was frozen, and adjusting to it wasn’t exactly her strong suit. Still, she scrolled carefully, absorbing as much as she could.

“We’re about 40 minutes out from home base, sir,” the pilot’s voice came through over the intercom, calm and steady.

From the reports and surveillance footage Fury had compiled, it was clear they weren’t the only ones being recruited for this mission. There were others—people with skills, and in some cases, powers—far beyond what either of them had seen before. Among them were Natasha Romanoff, a former assassin turned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and Dr. Bruce Banner, a scientist with a volatile alter ego: a massive green creature fueled by rage.

“So, this Dr. Banner was trying to replicate the serum used on me?” Steve asked, glancing up at Agent Coulson, the S.H.I.E.L.D. handler assigned to accompany them.

“A lot of people were,” Coulson replied, his tone filled with quiet admiration. “You were the world’s first superhero. Banner thought gamma radiation might hold the key to unlocking Erskine’s original formula.”

Steve and Daphne leaned closer to the tablet as footage played—a grainy, shaky recording of the Hulk tearing through a New York street, a blur of green fury and destruction.

“You know, when he’s not that thing, the guy’s like a Stephen Hawking,” Coulson added with a slight chuckle.

Steve and Daphne turned to him at once, twin expressions of blank confusion. Coulson blinked, realizing neither of them knew who he was talking about.

“He’s like a… smart person,” Coulson explained, flustered. He cleared his throat, clearly nervous under their combined scrutiny. “I gotta say… it’s an honor to meet you both, officially. I’ve sort of met you—I mean, I watched you while you were sleeping.”

He winced as soon as the words left his mouth, the awkwardness rolling off him in waves.

“I mean, I was present while you were unconscious,” he tried to correct himself quickly.

Daphne didn’t respond. She stood and moved toward the front of the plane, eyes scanning the cockpit controls. If this was going to be their new reality, she wanted to know how everything worked—how to take control if she needed to.

Steve followed her silently, just as eager to leave the strained conversation behind, but Coulson trailed them, still riding the high of meeting his childhood heroes in the flesh.

“It’s really just a huge honor to have you both on board this—”

“I just hope we’re actually right for the job,” Steve cut in, his voice quiet but heavy.

“Oh, you are. Absolutely,” Coulson said quickly, hoping to reassure. “We made some modifications to the uniform. Well, except for yours,” he said, glancing at Daphne. “Other than the material, we’ve kept it pretty much the same.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, turning back to him. “The uniform? Aren’t the stars and stripes a little… old-fashioned?”

“With everything that’s happening,” Coulson said, with a faint, earnest smile, “and the things that are about to come to light, people might just need a little old-fashioned.”

Chapter Text

“Agent Romanoff. Steve Rogers, and Daphne Barnes,” Coulson announced as he led them toward a waiting figure.

Daphne’s eyes scanned her surroundings, barely able to believe what she was seeing. The design of the aircraft was one thing—sleek, almost alien compared to the planes she once knew—but the massive ship they were standing on was something else entirely. The sheer scale of it was overwhelming. She tried not to let it show.

Steve nodded politely. “Ma’am.”

“Hi,” Natasha Romanoff replied coolly, giving them both a once-over. “They need you on the bridge. They're starting the face trace,” she added, speaking to Coulson.

He gave them a quick nod before turning to head off in the direction she indicated, leaving them alone with the red-haired agent.

“It was quite the buzz around here, finding out both of you would be waking up soon,” Natasha said as she led them down the long runway. “I thought Coulson was gonna swoon.” Her tone was flat but playful. “Did he ask you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?”

“They’re vintage. He’s very proud,” she added with a glance back at them.

Daphne didn’t reply, her mind still whirling from how bizarre everything felt. It was like stepping into a futuristic war novel. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or brace for impact.

They continued walking until they reached a man standing near one of the open corridors, his unassuming posture at odds with the footage they had seen earlier of his more monstrous side.

“Dr. Banner,” Steve said, reaching out to shake his hand.

“Oh, yeah. Hi. They told me you would be coming,” Banner replied, his expression a mix of curiosity and guarded politeness. He turned to Daphne next, extending a hand.

She hesitated, staring at the offered gesture, her hands frozen at her sides. The moment lingered awkwardly.

Steve stepped in quickly, sensing her discomfort. “Oh, uh, physical contact isn’t really—”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah. I get it,” Banner said, withdrawing his hand with a small, understanding nod.

Steve moved the conversation along. “Word is you can find the cube.”

“Is that the only word on me?” Banner asked, an edge of weary humor in his voice.

“The only word we care about,” Steve answered plainly.

Banner seemed to relax at that, appreciating their directness. He glanced around the deck before returning his gaze to them. “It must be strange for you,” he said quietly. “All of this.”

Daphne and Steve exchanged a look and then glanced around. The deck buzzed with motion—soldiers training, running laps, shouting orders. Men and women in uniforms that bore no resemblance to anything they once knew.

“Well, this is actually kind of familiar,” Steve admitted with a shrug.

“You three might want to step inside in a minute,” Natasha interjected smoothly. “It’s gonna get a little hard to breathe.”

An alarm blared as her words registered. Crew members suddenly sprang into motion, heading to stations with practiced urgency.

“Flight crew, secure the deck,” a voice called over the loudspeaker.

Steve furrowed his brow. “Is this a submarine?”

“Really? They want me in a submerged, pressurized, metal container?” Banner asked, clearly unimpressed.

Daphne followed them to the edge of the deck, bracing herself as the hum of machinery grew louder. Water began to surge off rising turbines—four massive rotors lifting from beneath the ship as it began to shake.

This wasn’t a submarine. It was a helicarrier—and it was headed for the sky.

“No, no,” Banner said, taking a step back and shaking his head as the deck began to rise beneath their feet. “This is much worse.”

• • • • • • •

Banner, Steve, and Daphne trailed behind Natasha as she led them through the metallic corridors of the massive flying fortress known as the helicarrier. The deeper they moved into the structure, the more surreal it became—every hallway buzzed with energy, every turn revealing a new technological marvel that made the 1940s feel like the Stone Age.

When they stepped into the cockpit, Daphne froze for a second, taking it all in. The room was enormous, alive with dozens of agents positioned at various monitors, speaking into headsets or typing furiously at keyboards. Fury stood at the heart of it all, commanding the space like a general on a battlefield. The scale, the hum of machinery, the urgency—it was a kind of chaos, but it was organized. Controlled.

“Never thought we’d see anything like this, huh?” Steve said quietly, his voice tinged with awe.

Daphne glanced sideways at him, her expression dry. “I should’ve known one day you’d get me into trouble,” she muttered, though a faint smirk pulled at her lips.

“Gentlemen,” Fury greeted as he turned to them, eyes sharp beneath his black eye patch. “And ma’am.”

Steve reached into his pocket, producing a ten-dollar bill and handing it to Fury. No words were exchanged about the bet they’d made—but it was clear Fury had won.

Coulson, nearby, was already launching into briefing mode. “We’re sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet. Cell phones, laptops. If it’s connected to a satellite, it’s eyes and ears for us.”

“We’re still not gonna find him in time,” Natasha cut in, her tone clipped with urgency.

“You have to narrow your field. How many spectrometers do you have access to?” Banner asked, stepping forward.

Fury raised an eyebrow. “How many are there?”

“Call every lab you know,” Banner instructed. “Tell them to put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I’ll rough out a tracking algorithm, basic cluster recognition. At least we could rule out a few places.” He paused. “Do you have somewhere for me to work?”

“Agent Romanoff, could you show Dr. Banner to his laboratory, please?” Fury said without missing a beat.

Natasha nodded, already on the move. “You’re gonna love it, Doc. We got all the toys.”

As they exited, Daphne remained behind, slowly circling the command center, her eyes scanning the multitude of monitors and blinking lights. Curiosity tugged at her. Everything was different now, but her instincts were still sharp—and so was her mind.

She stopped beside one of the younger agents seated at a monitor. Leaning in slightly, she noticed the way he stiffened, breath catching at her proximity.

“You’re using this to track Loki?” she asked, eyes flicking over the strange symbols and codes on the screen.

The agent nodded quickly, seemingly struck mute.

“Explain it to me. How it works, everything,” she said, her voice calm but commanding.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course,” he stammered, snapping into action.

As he explained, Daphne followed along easily. After a few minutes of listening, her gaze narrowed on a red blip on the screen.

“That’s red,” she said, pointing to the signal. “What does that mean?”

The agent blinked and leaned in, paling slightly. “Oh shit,” he muttered, scrambling to confirm what she already suspected. “We got a hit! 67% match!”

Daphne leaned forward, fingers flying over the keyboard as she adjusted the search parameters with a precision that startled the agent. The number jumped. “Seventy-nine percent, actually,” she corrected smoothly. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

Coulson stepped in from the side. “Location?”

“Stuttgart, Germany. 28 Königstraße,” the agent reported. “He’s not exactly hiding.”

Fury, looming over them, looked up at Steve and Daphne. “Well, looks like you two are up.”

Daphne turned to her brother, her tone light but her expression sharp. “Ready to go back to Germany?”

Steve sighed, already resigned. “Not really,” he admitted.

An agent arrived to escort them to the armory, where their new suits awaited. Daphne opened the case containing her updated black tactical uniform. It was sleeker than what she’d worn in the ‘40s, but the weight of it was the same—responsibility, expectation, danger. She changed in silence, slipping into the suit with practiced ease.

But underneath the confidence, she could feel it again. The whisper. The warning.

Steve and Fury promised Hydra was gone. That no one alive knew the code words. That she was safe now.

But Daphne couldn’t shake the feeling in her bones.

Her past wasn’t finished with her yet.

• • • • • • •

Loki raised his scepter, the glow of the tesseract pulsing dangerously as he prepared to strike an elderly man who stood defiant in the square. Just as the energy surged toward the man, Steve dove forward, his shield catching the blast. The impact echoed through the plaza, crackling with heat and force, ricocheting off the vibranium and sending Loki sprawling backwards onto the stone ground with a grunt of pain.

"You know," Steve said, stepping forward, "the last time I was in Germany, and I saw a man standing above everybody else, we ended up disagreeing."

From the ground, Loki lifted his head with a grin, unbothered by the attack. “The soldier,” he said mockingly. “The man out of time.”

“I’m not the one who’s out of time,” Steve shot back.

Before Loki could respond, a bright blue streak of energy seared across the air, slamming into his chest and sending him flying across the square. Daphne appeared behind him, hand still outstretched and glowing with barely-contained power.

"I cannot believe you just made a Hitler reference," she said, walking up beside her brother.

"It seemed like the right thing to say at the time," Steve replied, trying to brush off the moment as if they hadn’t just exchanged blows with a Norse god.

"We really gotta work on your one-liners," she muttered.

The roar of engines pulled their attention upward as the quinjet swept in low overhead. A large mounted weapon rotated into position beneath the aircraft. Natasha’s voice echoed over the speaker system, calm and commanding.

“Loki. Drop the weapon and stand down.”

Loki responded with a flash of defiance, launching a blast of energy from his scepter toward the aircraft. Natasha veered away with ease. Steve retaliated, flinging his shield toward Loki, but the Asgardian caught it with an almost casual backhand, the disc bouncing uselessly off his armored chest.

The crowd, which had been paralyzed in fear, finally scattered in all directions, screams echoing through the square. Daphne held her ground, both hands lit with pulsing blue-white energy. She fired rapid bursts toward Loki, who deflected them with the scepter in whirling arcs, each block sending shockwaves through the plaza and tearing cracks into the surrounding stone.

Seeing their ranged attacks were useless, Steve charged. He ducked under a blast, ramming his shoulder into Loki’s chest and swinging upward with his fist. The punch connected solidly—but Loki barely flinched. With one smooth motion, Loki countered, slamming his boot into Steve’s abdomen and sending him skidding backwards.

Daphne rushed forward without hesitation, leaping into a spinning kick that knocked Loki’s legs out from under him. He crashed hard onto his back but rolled quickly to his feet, scepter ready again.

Then, as if the absurdity of the situation couldn’t escalate further, the blaring pulse of AC/DC’s "Shoot to Thrill" filled the square.

“What the hell?” Daphne muttered, turning as a red-and-gold blur streaked through the sky and dropped between them and Loki.

A man—no, a suit—hovered there, sleek and mechanical, glowing at the chest and hands. Before anyone could process it, a repulsor beam fired from his palm, striking the scepter cleanly and sending it spinning out of Loki’s reach.

With his weapon gone, Loki stumbled, disoriented. Daphne took the opening and blasted him square in the chest with another surge of her power, sending him sprawling onto the ground, groaning.

“Make your move, reindeer games,” the metal-suited man said coolly, landing with a thud beside Daphne as Steve jogged over.

Loki lifted his hands, surrendering at last. “Good move,” the newcomer said.

Steve exhaled through his nose and gave the man a curt nod. “Mr. Stark.”

“Captain,” the other replied, helmet shifting with a hiss of air.

Daphne blinked, squinting at the strange armored figure. “Stark?” she echoed, confused.

The helmet retracted with a smooth mechanical flourish, revealing a man with dark, tousled hair and a cocky half-smile. “You know, you’re a lot hotter than my dad described,” he said without missing a beat.

Daphne stared at him, momentarily stunned. “Your dad? Howard?” she asked, her voice quieter now, full of disbelief.

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I’m Tony. His son. I’d shake your hand, but I hear you’re not too into touching. I don’t like people handing me things, so I guess we’ve got that in common.”

Daphne didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. She just stared at the man who bore a flicker of resemblance to Howard, her mind reeling. Her past was gone, and yet here it was—standing in front of her, wrapped in iron.

Chapter Text

The hum of the quinjet filled the cabin as it sliced through the clouds on its return to the helicarrier. Loki sat bound and still, smugness lingering in the curve of his mouth even with his wrists restrained. Natasha focused on flying, hands steady on the controls, eyes flicking occasionally to the weather as dark clouds began to gather outside.

Daphne sat near the back, her gaze drawn—almost involuntarily—to the man in red and gold. Tony Stark. The resemblance to his father was uncanny, not just in his face but in his presence, the air of confidence and charm that hovered around him like a shield.

“I don’t like it,” Steve muttered from beside her, eyes fixed on Loki.

“What, Rock of Ages giving up so easily?” Tony replied, arms crossed, voice casual but edged with suspicion.

“I don’t remember it being that easy. This guy packs a wallop,” Steve said, glancing at Loki again.

Tony gave him a sidelong look. “Still, you are pretty spry for an older fellow. And her—” he gestured toward Daphne, “what’s her thing? Why does she keep staring at me? It’s freaking me out.”

“Sorry,” Daphne said softly. “You just look a lot like him.”

Tony tilted his head. “Yeah, I know, we’re both ridiculously handsome. And how are you in such good shape for someone your age? I mean, you are seriously the best-looking ninety-year-old woman I’ve ever seen. Let me guess—Pilates?”

A surprised laugh broke from Daphne’s lips before she could stop it.

“Stop flirting with my sister,” Steve snapped, glaring.

“Relax, Cap. I’m in a healthy, committed relationship,” Tony said, smirking. Before Steve could fire back, a rumble of thunder rolled over them, low and unnatural, causing everyone to pause.

“Fury didn’t tell me he was calling you in,” Steve said, eyes narrowing as he redirected his irritation back to Tony.

“Yeah, there’s a lot of things Fury doesn’t tell you,” Tony replied, just as a flash of lightning cracked across the sky, bright and violent.

Romanoff stiffened in the pilot’s seat, glancing at her monitors. “Where’s this coming from? It wasn’t supposed to storm today.”

Another streak of lightning tore through the clouds, jostling the jet with turbulence. Steve looked toward Loki, who for the first time seemed genuinely unsettled.

“What’s the matter?” Steve asked, watching him closely. “Are you scared of a little lightning?”

“I’m not overly fond of what follows,” Loki replied coldly.

Before anyone could question him further, a massive thud echoed through the quinjet, shaking the floor beneath their feet.

“What the hell was that?” Daphne asked, standing.

Tony didn’t answer. He just slipped his helmet back on, the faceplate sealing into place with a mechanical hiss. As he approached the side hatch, Steve stepped forward.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

The hatch burst open before Tony could respond, wind roaring into the cabin as a figure shot inside like a thunderbolt. He had long blonde hair, a red cape, and armor that looked ripped from a mythology textbook. Before anyone could react, the intruder flung a hammer—an actual hammer—at Tony, sending him flying back against the wall of the jet with a groan.

The stranger didn’t hesitate. He marched toward Loki, grabbed him by the collar, and with a swipe of his hammer, soared out of the jet into the darkened sky, taking the bound god with him.

“Now there’s that guy,” Tony groaned from the floor, sitting up as the others stared at the now-empty hatch.

“Another Asgardian?” Natasha asked, struggling to regain control of the aircraft in the sudden updraft.

“That guy’s a friendly?” Steve asked skeptically, strapping on a parachute.

“Doesn’t matter. If he frees Loki or kills him, the tesseract’s lost,” Tony said, already recalibrating his thrusters.

“Stark, we need a plan of attack,” Steve called.

But before anything more could be said, Daphne stepped forward quickly. “Wait, you can’t go alone,” she said, meeting Tony’s eyes.

He nodded, understanding. “Right,” he said simply, then wrapped an arm around her waist. With a blast from his boots, the two of them launched out of the jet in pursuit of Thor and Loki, vanishing into the stormy sky.

Steve groaned, grabbing another parachute. “Why is she always like this?” he muttered, strapping in tight and stepping up to the edge. With one last glance at Natasha, he leapt out after his sister.

Flying through the storm-swept sky with the wind howling in her ears, Daphne clung to Tony’s armored frame as tightly as she could. Rain lashed against her face and her eyes narrowed as she spotted two figures ahead on a mountain ridge—one of them unmistakably Loki, the other tall, cloaked in red, with long golden hair whipping around him like something out of a myth.

“There he is!” she shouted over the roar of the wind. “Drop me here!”

Tony glanced down. “You sure?”

“Do it!”

Without hesitation, he released her. Daphne tucked into a dive, angling her body just right as she collided full force with the blonde stranger, knocking him clean off the cliff. The two of them tumbled down the slope, bouncing off rocks and tearing through branches before crashing hard into the muddy clearing below.

Daphne was the first to her feet, skidding into a crouch as the man grunted and stood. His glare was thunderous.

“Do not touch me again,” he growled.

“Okay,” she said with a shrug—and immediately blasted him square in the chest. He flew backward, tumbling over a ridge just as Tony landed beside her with a metallic thud.

The stranger rose again, eyes blazing. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Uh, Shakespeare in the Park?” Tony quipped. “Doth mother know you wear-eth her drapes?”

The man’s expression didn’t waver. “This is beyond you, metal man. Loki will face Asgardian justice.”

“All we want is the Tesseract,” Daphne said firmly. “After that, you can have him.”

“Until then,” Tony added, “stay out of the way.”

Without warning, the man threw out his hand—and his hammer, Mjolnir, screamed through the air toward them. Daphne ducked just in time, but the impact with Tony sent the armored man flying a dozen feet into the trees with a crash of breaking branches and metal scraping rock.

Daphne growled, her hands flaring with blue energy as she fired another blast at the man. It slammed into his chest, launching him backward through a massive oak tree that cracked and splintered like toothpicks. Yet even as he hit the ground hard, he rolled to his feet, hand extended once again.

Mjolnir flew back to him and, raising it high, he summoned a bolt of lightning. The sky split open, thunder cracking like an explosion as the bolt surged downward. Daphne barely had time to react—but when the electricity struck her, instead of burning or blasting her back, it surged through her.

It charged her.

Her eyes widened as her body lit up, blue energy crackling across her skin like living flame.

“Well, shit,” she mumbled, staring down at herself in stunned awe.

From the ridge, the stranger watched with dawning horror. She met his eyes—and released a deafening roar of energy. The blast slammed into him like a cannonball, sending him crashing through multiple trees, his body flailing helplessly through the air before finally hitting the ground with a thud far below.

Tony jogged back to her side, brushing dust and leaves from his suit. “Did you know you could do that?”

“Nope,” Daphne said, panting lightly. “Learn something new every day.”

The man—who could only be the god Thor, based on Loki’s words—stood again, face flushed with fury. Before Daphne or Tony could react, he launched himself into the air using the hammer’s momentum, ready to come down hard.

But Steve’s shield collided with him mid-air, sending him crashing to the ground instead. The impact rattled the earth.

“Hey!” Steve shouted, stepping between them. “That’s enough! Now I don’t know what you plan on doing here—”

“I’ve come here to put an end to Loki’s schemes!” the stranger thundered.

“Then prove it,” Steve countered. “Put the hammer down.”

Tony groaned. “Uh, yeah, no. Bad call. He loves his hammer.”

True to prediction, the man roared and slammed the hammer into Tony again, sending him flying backward.

“You want me to put the hammer down?” the god bellowed, leaping into the air and swinging Mjolnir toward the earth.

Steve barely raised his shield in time.

The impact was nuclear.

A shockwave blasted through the woods like a bomb, leveling trees and throwing everyone into the underbrush. The air was thick with smoke, crackling energy, and the smell of scorched earth.

Daphne groaned, dragging herself to her feet amid the wreckage. Her hair was windblown and her body ached.

She looked around at the flattened forest, the scorched crater left by the hammer’s impact.

“Are we done here?”

• • • • • • •

"In case it's unclear, if you try to escape, if you so much as scratch that glass..." Fury trailed off, opening a chute that led directly down and out of the helicarrier.

"It's 30,000 feet straight down in a steel trap. You get how that works? Ant," he said, gesturing to Loki. "Boot," he added, pointing to the button that opened the chute.

Everyone was sitting in the conference room, watching Fury make sure Loki was trapped through the cameras that were set up all around the helicarrier.

"It's an impressive cage," Loki laughed. "Not built, I think. For me."

"Built for something a lot stronger than you," Fury told him.

"Oh, I've heard," Loki said, looking directly at the camera. "A mindless beast. Makes play he's still a man."

Everyone glanced awkwardly at Banner, who tried to avoid all the looks.

"How desperate are you, that you call on such lost creatures to defend you?" Loki asked.

"How desperate am I? You threaten my world with war. You steal a force you can't hope to control. You talk about peace, and you kill because it's fun. You have made me very desperate. You might not be glad that you did," Fury said.

"Ooo,h" Loki mocked. "It burns you to have come so close. To have the tesseract, to have power, unlimited power. And for what? A warm light for all mankind to share. And then to be reminded what real power is."

Fury just nodded before walking away. "Well let me know if real power wants a magazine or something."

"He really grows on you, doesn't he?" Banner asked.

"He has an army called the Chitauri. They're not of Asgard, not any world known. He means to lead them against your people. They will win him the Earth, in return, I suspect, for the tesseract," Thor said.

"So...aliens?" Daphne asked.

"So, he's building another portal. That's what he needs Erik Selvig for?" Banner said.

"Selvig?" Thor asked.

"He's an astrophysicist," Banner said.

"He's a friend," Thor told them.

"Loki has him under some kind of spell, along with one of ours," Natasha said.

"I wanna know why Loki let us take him. He's not leading an army from here," Steve said.

"I don't think we should be focusing on Loki. That guy's brain is a bag full of cats. You could smell crazy on him," Banner said.

"Have care how you speak. Loki is beyond reason, but he is of Asgard. And he is my brother," Thor snapped.

"He killed 80 people in two days," Natasha told him, not caring who Loki was to him.

Thor was quiet before he shrugged and backed off. "He's adopted."

"I think it's about the mechanics. Iridium. What do they need the iridium for?" Banner asked.

"It's a stabilizing agent," Daphne said, catching Banner off guard.

"That is it. Hallelujah, one of the twins has a brain," Tony said, as he walked in.

"We're not twins," Steve sighed.

"It means the portal won't collapse in on itself like it did at S.H.I.E.L.D." Tony continued, ignoring Steve before looking at Thor.

"No hard feelings, Point Break. You've got a mean swin,g" he said, tapping him on the shoulder. "Also, it means the portal can open as wide and stay open as long as Loki wants.

Walking up to the controls, Fury used Tony looked around. "Uh, raise the mizzenmast. Jib the topsails," he said to the agents who looked at him like he speaking another language.

"That man is playing Galaga! He thought we wouldn't notice, but we did," he said, pointing out an agent who sat near the back. Covering one of his eyes, Tony looked at the controls. "How does Fury even see these?"

"He turns," Agent Hill said, unamused.

"Sounds exhausting. The rest of the raw materials, Agent Barton can get his hands on pretty easily. The only major component he still needs is a power source of high energy density. Something to kickstart the cub,e" he said.

"When did you become an expert in thermonuclear astrophysics?" Hill asked.

"Last night. The packet, Selvig's notes, the extraction theory papers. Apparently Barnes and I are the only ones who did the reading," Tony said.

"Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?" Steve asked.

"He would have to heat the cube to 120 million Kelvin just to break through the Coulomb barrier," Banner said.

"Unless Selvig knows how to stabilize the quantum tunneling effect. But if he could do that he could achieve heavy ion fusion at any reactor on the planet," Daphne said.

"Okay, is being a super genius a side effect of the serum your brother just didn't get?" Tony asked before looking at Banner. "And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster."

"Thanks," Banner mumbled.

"Dr. Banner is only here to track the cube. I was hoping you might join him," Fury said, walking over.

"I'd start with that stick of his. It may be magical, but it works an awful lot like a HYDRA weapon," Steve said.

"I don't know about that, but it is powered by the cube. And I would like to know how Loki used it to turn two of the sharpest men I know into his personal flying monkeys," Fury said.

"Monkeys? I do not understand," Thor said, a confused look on his face.

"I do! I understood that reference," Steve shouted.

"Shall we play, doctor?" Tony asked, rolling his eyes, looking over at Banner. Banner nodded and gestured toward the hall where his lab was.

"Barnes, why don't you come along? You seem to know what you're talking about," Tony suggested.

Daphne was hesitant, but Steve placed his hand over her. "Go. You could really help. I'll be here if you need anything."

So she nodded and stood up to follow Tony and Banner.

"You two seem really close," Banner said as they walked into his lab.

"He's all I have left," Daphne said. "And not to be rude, but he's the only one I trust."

Chapter Text

"So you've been locked in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s basement this whole time?" Tony asked.

"Apparently," Daphne shrugged.

"You know this whole time I thought you were a myth. Like Walt Disney's head," he said.

Daphne just looked up at him, having no idea what he was talking about.

"The gamma readings are definitely consistent with Selvig's reports of the tesseract. But it's gonna take weeks to process," Banner said, scanning the scepter. 

Daphne found herself once again drawn to the blue pulse of the Tesseract’s energy, just as she had been all those years ago in Howard’s lab. Her fingers hovered over the edge of its container, not quite touching but close enough that the hair on her arms stood on end.

“It’s calling to me,” she murmured, her voice distant as if the Tesseract had reached something dormant inside her.

“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” Tony quipped from behind, watching her carefully.

“Funny. That’s exactly what your dad said to me the first time,” she replied, shooting him a look that held both nostalgia and pain.

“Yeah, and then you absorbed it. But we still need that, so maybe wait until we’re done playing with it,” Tony said, turning his focus back to the screens. “If we bypass their mainframe and direct route to the Homer duster, we can clock this at around 600 teraflops.”

“All I packed was a toothbrush,” Banner chimed in with a dry laugh, clearly overwhelmed by how quickly the mission had escalated into cosmic territory.

“You know, you should come by Stark Tower sometime,” Tony offered. “Top ten floors, all R&D. You’d love it. It’s Candy Land.”

“What are the bottom floors for?” Daphne asked with a raised brow.

“S&M,” Tony said with a smirk, and Daphne shook her head, laughing despite herself.

“Either way, the last time I was in New York, I kind of broke Harlem,” Banner said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish expression.

“Well, I promise a stress-free environment. No tension, no surprises,” Tony replied—then jabbed Banner with a sudden electric prod.

“OW!” Banner yelped, jerking away.

“Hey!” Steve snapped, rushing over, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Nothing?” Tony asked innocently, staring at Banner for a reaction.

“Are you nuts?” Steve demanded.

“Jury’s out,” Tony replied with a shrug. “You really have got a lid on it, haven’t you? What’s your secret? Mellow jazz, bongo drums, huge bag of weed?”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Steve said, scowling.

“Funny things are,” Tony answered coolly.

“Threatening the safety of everyone on this ship isn’t funny,” Steve said, shooting a glance at Banner. “No offense, Doc.”

“It’s all right. I wouldn’t have come aboard if I couldn’t handle pointy things,” Banner assured them, adjusting his glasses.

“See, Steve?” Daphne said gently, walking over and placing a calming hand on her brother’s arm. “Everything’s fine.”

“You’re tiptoeing, big man,” Tony said, eyeing Banner. “You need to strut.”

“And you need to focus on the problem, Mr. Stark,” Steve said pointedly.

Tony turned his attention to Daphne. “Have you always been the cooler twin?”

“We’re not twins,” Daphne said with an amused sigh.

“Alright, look. Think about it. Why did Fury call us in? Why now? Why not before? What isn’t he telling us?” Tony pressed. “I can’t do the equation unless I have all the variables.”

“You think Fury’s hiding something?” Steve asked.

“He’s a spy, Captain. He’s the spy. His secrets have secrets,” Tony replied.

“Why would Fury lie to us? He works for SHIELD. An organization started with the help of your father,” Daphne reminded him.

“I know it’s bugging the doctor too. Isn’t it?” Tony asked, turning toward Banner.

“Uh… I just want to finish my work here…” Banner replied hesitantly.

“Doctor?” Tony pressed.

Banner sighed and pulled off his glasses, rubbing his temples before he finally looked up.

“A warm light for all mankind,” he said. “Loki’s jab at Fury about the cube.”

“Yeah, and?” Daphne asked, folding her arms.

“I think that was meant for you,” Banner said, gesturing toward Tony. “Even if Barton didn’t tell Loki about the tower, it was still all over the news.”

“The Stark Tower? That big, ugly–” Steve asked, then paused at Tony’s glare. “building in New York?”

“It’s powered by an arc reactor. A self-sustaining energy source,” Banner explained.

“So the building can run itself?” Daphne asked.

“For how long?” Steve added.

“A year, tops. It’s just the prototype. I’m kind of the only name in clean energy right now,” Tony said with a shrug. “That’s what he’s getting at.”

“So why didn’t SHIELD bring him in on the Tesseract project? What are they doing in the energy business in the first place?” Banner asked.

“I should probably look into that once my decryption program finishes breaking into all of SHIELD’s secure files,” Tony said casually, popping a blueberry into his mouth.

“Decryption program?” Daphne asked, incredulous.

“JARVIS has been running it since I hit the bridge. In a few hours, I’ll know every dirty secret SHIELD has ever tried to hide,” Tony said, offering the container.

“Who’s JARVIS?” Daphne asked.

“Uh, he’s like my robot butler,” Tony replied, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“No wonder SHIELD didn’t want you around,” Steve said, clearly unimpressed.

“An intelligence organization that fears intelligence? Historically, not awesome,” Tony quipped.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I think Loki’s trying to wind us up. This is a man who means to start a war, and if we don’t stay focused, he’ll succeed. We have orders. We should follow them.”

“Following’s not really my style,” Tony said with a shrug.

“And you’re all about style, aren’t you?” Steve asked.

“Of the people in this room, which one is, a) wearing a spangly outfit, and b) not of use?” Tony shot back.

“Steve,” Daphne said softly, tugging his arm until he turned to look at her. “What if he’s right?”

Steve sighed, his features tightening as he looked around at the others. “Just find the cube,” he muttered, taking Daphne’s arm and leading her from the room.

“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to keep pace as he stormed down the hall.

“We’re gonna find out if Tony’s right,” he said. “If Fury’s hiding something—we’ll find it.”

• • • • • • •

The clang of metal echoed through the lab as Steve slammed down one of Hydra’s old pulse rifles onto the table. The tension in the room thickened instantly, but it was nothing compared to the fury radiating from the woman beside him.

Daphne stood rigid, her eyes blazing with rage as she stared down at the weapon. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her fingers twitching with the energy she was barely holding back. After everything she had endured at the hands of Hydra—after losing Bucky because of them—this revelation felt like a knife to the chest. The idea that Bucky had died trying to stop something that S.H.I.E.L.D. had apparently picked up and carried forward... it made her feel like she was going to explode.

"You’re using the cube to make weapons?" Steve demanded, his voice sharp, directing his question squarely at Fury.

The director stood calmly, though his eyes flicked between the gun and the super soldier in front of him. Banner and Tony were close by, their postures tense as they watched the confrontation unfold.

"Rogers, we gathered everything related to the Tesseract. This does not mean that we're making—"

"Ah, I'm sorry, Nick," Tony interjected, holding up the blueprints he had found—schematics for a missile powered by the cube's energy. "What, were you lying?"

Fury didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The blueprints spoke for themselves.

Daphne’s chest heaved, her knuckles whitening as her nails dug into her palms. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear the entire helicarrier apart. Hydra had stolen everything from her, and now the organization that was supposed to be better—supposed to be safe—was following in their footsteps.

"I was wrong, Director," Steve said coldly, stepping back as he locked eyes with Fury. "The world hasn't changed a bit."

Before anyone could respond, something flickered on one of the nearby monitors. Daphne's eyes caught it first—a small image tucked in the corner of the screen. Her name was there, printed clearly across the top of a digital file. Her brows furrowed.

"What is that?" she asked, stepping forward. The tone of her voice made the others pause, heads turning toward the screen.

Fury’s voice was sharp but hesitant. “Barnes, that’s not—”

But it was too late. Tony had already swiped his fingers across the interface, enlarging the image before Fury could finish. The display now filled with a crisp, high-resolution scan—an x-ray of a head and neck. Daphne’s head.

Confusion twisted her features as she stared at the strange square nestled at the base of her skull. "What is that?" she asked again, this time her voice lower, colder. She turned slowly toward Fury, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"It was a decision made before my time," Fury said, standing stiffly. "As a precaution."

Tony leaned in, clicking on the image. Text appeared beside it, and he read aloud. "It’s a Remote Neural Compliance Regulator," he said, eyes flicking from the file to the group. "It’s basically a wireless cattle prod for the human nervous system. Implanted at the base of the skull—close enough to hit the vagus nerve and spinal cord. One press of a button and boom—instant compliance. Or paralysis. Or cardiac arrest, depending on how generous the person holding the remote is feeling."

Daphne's hand slowly rose, trembling as she touched the back of her neck. Her voice cracked. "That’s inside me? You put that inside of me?!"

"It is a non-lethal precaution!" Fury snapped. "Hydra may not exist but the code words do."

The room fell silent but charged, and Steve stepped toward her. He remembered the last time she lost control—remembered the wreckage. "Daph?" he asked softly, reaching for her arms. She was shaking now.

"It's happening again," she whispered. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but her voice held fury. "Everyone we love is gone because of Hydra, Steve. He’s gone because of Hydra."

"I know. I know," Steve said gently, gripping her arms with just enough pressure to ground her. "Look at me. You need to breathe, okay?"

Daphne nodded, but her breathing was shallow. The air around her pulsed faintly with energy as Thor and Romanoff entered the lab, eyes immediately darting to the tension in the room.

"Did you know about this?" Banner asked, turning to Romanoff.

"You want to think about removing yourself from this environment, Doctor?" she replied coolly, not even glancing at him.

"I was in Calcutta. I was pretty well removed," Banner replied, voice tight.

"Loki is manipulating you," Daphne snapped, turning toward him now.

"And you’ve been doing what, exactly?" Banner shot back.

"You didn’t come here because I batted my eyelashes at you," she said, her voice rising.

"Yes, and I’m not leaving because suddenly you get a little twitchy," Banner retorted. "I’d like to know why SHIELD is using the Tesseract to build weapons of mass destruction."

"I’d like to know too," Daphne growled, her voice now shaking with restrained power. Blue energy crackled faintly at her fingertips. "Because I am about three seconds away from tearing this plane apart!"

"Because of him!" Fury shouted, pointing directly at Thor.

"Me?" Thor asked, his tone incredulous.

"Last year, Earth had a visitor from another planet who had a grudge match that leveled a small town," Fury said. "We learned that not only are we not alone, but we are hopelessly, hilariously, outgunned."

"My people want nothing but peace with your planet," Thor said calmly.

"But you’re not the only people out there, are you?" Fury replied. "And you're not the only threat. The world’s filling up with people who can’t be matched, that can’t be controlled."

"So that's your plan?" Daphne said sharply, every syllable edged in venom. "Control the cube and blow up cities whenever you feel threatened? Sounds a lot like Hydra."

"I can promise you, Mrs. Barnes, we are not Hydra," Fury said firmly, his voice cutting through the simmering tension in the room.

"You’re using the cube to make weapons," Thor interrupted, eyes narrowed. "It is what drew Loki to it—and his allies. It is a signal to all the realms that the Earth is ready for a higher form of war."

"A higher form?" Steve repeated, frowning as confusion set in.

"You forced our hand. We had to come up with something," Fury said, his voice more defensive now.

Daphne scoffed, shaking her head with growing exhaustion. "I can’t believe you woke me up for this."

"A nuclear deterrent," Tony added dryly, “because that always calms everything right down.”

"Remind me again how you made your fortune, Stark," Fury snapped.

"I’m sure if he still made weapons, Stark would be neck-deep—"

"Steve, not the time," Daphne muttered, trying to keep her brother from escalating further.

"Hold on. How is this now about me?" Tony asked, his tone edged with irritation.

"I’m sorry, isn’t everything?" Steve shot back.

"I thought humans were more evolved than this," Thor said, watching the scene with equal parts amusement and disdain.

"Excuse me," Fury said sharply. "Did we come to your planet and blow stuff up?"

"You treat your champions with such mistrust," Thor answered, unfazed.

"They're not my champions," Fury snapped.

"Are you all really that naive?" Romanoff said, folding her arms. "SHIELD monitors potential threats."

"Aren’t you a Russian spy? Who says we can even trust you?" Daphne snapped back.

"Didn’t the Nazis give you superpowers?" Romanoff countered, her voice cold.

"Ooh! Catfight!" Tony called out, half amused, half exasperated.

"Stark, so help me God, if you make one more wisecrack—" Steve warned, stepping toward him.

"Threat! Verbal threat. I feel threatened!" Tony said, raising both hands dramatically.

"Show some respect," Steve growled.

"Respect what?" Tony retorted.

"You speak of control," Thor said, stepping forward, "yet you court chaos."

"All right, thank you, Dr. Seuss," Daphne muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples.

"That’s his M.O., isn’t it?" Banner said from where he sat, suddenly drawing all eyes. "I mean, what are we, a team? No, no, no. We’re a chemical mixture that makes chaos. We’re a time bomb."

"You need to step away," Fury warned him.

"Why shouldn’t the guy let off a little steam?" Tony asked, leaning on the table.

"You know damn well why. Back off!" Steve shouted.

"Oh, I’m starting to want you to make me," Tony said, standing his ground.

Steve stepped forward, fists clenched, and Daphne immediately wedged herself between the two men. "Guys, please. You’re acting like children."

"Yeah. Big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?" Steve challenged, ignoring her.

"Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist," Tony shrugged.

"I know guys with none of that worth ten of you," Steve snapped. "I’ve seen the footage. The only thing you really fight for is yourself. You’re not the guy to make the sacrifice play—to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you."

"I think I would just cut the wire," Tony said coolly.

"Always a way out," Steve said with a sneer.

"Steve, just let it go," Daphne pleaded, still between them.

"You may not be a threat," Steve continued, eyes never leaving Tony, "but stop pretending to be a hero."

"A hero? Like you?" Tony fired back. "You’re a laboratory experiment, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle."

"Hey!" Daphne shouted, the crackling of energy radiating from her clenched fists. "Do not talk about him like that!"

The tension was electric—literally. The air began to shimmer faintly with the energy emanating from Daphne, her control fraying as her emotions spiraled.

Thor, watching the chaos with faint amusement, let out a low laugh. "You people are so petty. And tiny."

"Yeah, this is a team," Banner muttered bitterly.

"Agent Romanoff, would you escort Dr. Banner back to his—"

"Where?" Banner interrupted Fury, standing slowly. "You rented my room."

"The cell was just in case—"

"In case you needed to kill me," Banner said, his voice dropping. "But you can’t. I know. I tried."

The room fell silent.

"I got low. I didn’t see an end. So, I put a bullet in my mouth. And the other guy spat it out." His hands trembled now. "So I moved on. I focused on helping other people. I was good. Until you dragged me back into this freak show and put everyone here at risk."

Everyone was watching him now—uneasy. He stared directly at Romanoff.

"You want to know my secret, Agent Romanoff? You want to know how I stay calm?"

Guns cocked across the room as they noticed Banner’s hand—gripping the scepter.

"Dr. Banner, put down the scepter," Steve said quickly, voice taut.

Banner looked down, startled, as if he hadn’t realized what he was doing. The tension lingered until the sound of a digital chime from the lab console broke through.

"Sorry, kids," Banner said, setting the scepter down. "You don’t get to see my party trick after all."

He stepped over to the terminal.

"You located the Tesseract?" Thor asked.

"I could get there fastest," Tony offered.

"The Tesseract belongs on Asgard. No human is a match for it," Thor said.

Everyone leaned in as Banner stared at the screen, his expression shifting rapidly. "Oh my god," he muttered.

Before anyone could ask what he meant, an explosion ripped through the helicarrier. Fire burst from the vents below, throwing the team apart in a sudden, violent blast. The fragile alliance shattered in a storm of smoke and fire.

Chapter Text

Daphne hit the bottom level of the carrier with a hard thud, groaning as she landed beside Banner and Natasha in the chaos. The explosion had thrown them apart from the rest of the team. It wasn’t exactly how she’d hoped to get some distance from the heated arguments, but it was effective.

Across from her, Natasha lay pinned, her face contorted in pain. A massive pipe rested across her leg. Daphne scrambled over and, with a grunt, lifted it just enough for Natasha to pull her ankle free. The spy hissed through her teeth but nodded her thanks.

Their earpieces crackled to life as Fury’s voice rang out, calling for their status. Natasha responded first, trying to steady her breath. “We're fine,” she said. But Daphne wasn’t so sure. Her eyes flicked over to Banner, who was groaning on the ground, his body writhing, breath shallow.

“Are we?” she asked quietly, watching him warily.

“Doctor?” Natasha called out, concern overtaking the pain in her voice. “Bruce? You got to fight it. This is just what Loki wants.”

Daphne helped Natasha to her feet, slinging her arm around her shoulders for support, though she knew deep down help might be a useless effort. Banner’s groans had changed—guttural now, pained and inhuman. His skin rippled unnaturally as deep green veins pulsed across his neck and chest.

“Your life?” he repeated, his voice no longer Bruce’s—deeper, thunderous.

Their steps back became quicker as his transformation accelerated. He doubled over, his body convulsing, and then, with a roar that shook the walls, the Hulk emerged. He turned and faced them, eyes wild with rage. Bruce was gone.

“We need to go,” Daphne muttered, tightening her grip on Natasha and bolting in the opposite direction. The heavy pounding of Hulk’s steps behind them echoed like thunder, shattering pipes and buckling walls as he gave chase.

With every desperate step, Daphne felt the platform beneath her strain. When they reached a metal staircase, she leapt up with all the strength she had, clutching Natasha tightly and hoisting her to the platform just as Hulk smashed through the structure below, missing them by inches.

Panting, they sprinted down the walkway, the pounding behind them relentless. Natasha limped as fast as she could, but Daphne knew they wouldn’t outrun him for long. As they neared a split in the hallway, Daphne made a split-second decision and shoved Natasha into the corner, turning to keep Hulk’s attention on her.

She turned and blasted him with energy again, but it bounced off his skin like a spark. He snarled, charging her and swatting her like a ragdoll against the wall. She hit with a gasp, her vision swimming, her limbs trembling from the impact.

Before he could close the distance, a blur of red and silver burst through the wreckage. Thor. The god slammed into the Hulk, knocking him back and into a chamber beyond the shattered wall. Daphne pushed herself upright, dazed but grateful for the reprieve, and stumbled back toward Natasha, who was catching her breath where she had fallen.

“Can you walk?” Daphne asked, extending a shaky hand.

Natasha nodded, gripping her arm. “Yeah. We should go,” she said, her face pale but determined. Hulk’s enraged bellows roared behind them, a reminder that their window was closing.

They hobbled through the corridor just as Fury’s voice cut through the comms: “Barton took out our systems. He’s headed for the detention level. Does anybody copy?”

“Agent Romanoff and Barnes. We copy,” Natasha responded.

“Barton. You know him?” Daphne asked as they raced toward the lower decks.

“Yeah. We’re friends. So when you see him, don’t kill him,” Natasha said, casting her a look.

“I’ll go this way,” Daphne nodded, veering off as they split the corridor to try and corner him.

Moving quietly, Daphne crept through the shadows of the hall, weaving between large metal containers and keeping her footsteps light. She could hear the distant sounds of a scuffle—shouts, grunts, the clang of metal. Natasha.

Rounding the corner, she spotted Nat locked in combat with Barton. Without missing a beat, Daphne rushed forward and grabbed Barton from behind, yanking him off of Natasha.

He turned toward her, eyes wide with confusion.

“Hi,” she said calmly, then pressed her hands to either side of his head. A sharp jolt of electricity surged from her fingertips, and his body seized for a split second before crumpling to the floor, unconscious.

“I said not to kill him!” Natasha snapped, hobbling over.

“I didn’t,” Daphne said with a shrug, her voice casual.

Before Natasha could retort, Fury’s voice broke through their earpieces again. It was different now—hollow, weighted.

“Agent Coulson is down,” he said.

The two women stared at each other in stunned silence.

A second voice came over the line, clipped and professional. “A medical team is on its way to your location.”

“They’re here,” Fury’s voice returned. Then, quieter. “They called it.”

• • • • • • •

After helping Natasha get Barton to the infirmary, Daphne sat quietly in the conference room, shoulders tense, fingers nervously tugging at the hem of her sleeves. Across from her sat Steve, Tony, and Fury. The silence was heavy until Fury reached into his coat pocket and tossed something onto the table with a dull slap of plastic against metal.

"These were in Phil Coulson's jacket," Fury said grimly. "I guess he never did get you to sign them."

Daphne’s breath caught in her throat. She looked down at the stack of vintage trading cards—pictures of her and Steve from the 1940s, their wide-eyed selves smiling up from beneath smears of blood. Coulson’s blood. Her stomach twisted as she picked one up, then quickly tossed it away like it had burned her.

"We're dead in the air up here," Fury continued, voice low. "Our communications, the location of the cube, Banner, Thor… I got nothing for you." He leaned back slightly, a tired sigh escaping him. "I lost my one good eye. Maybe I had that coming."

Daphne glanced at the discarded card again, feeling the sting of guilt and helplessness creep deeper under her skin. She hadn’t just failed Coulson. She’d failed everyone.

"Yes, we were going to build an arsenal with the Tesseract," Fury admitted. "I never put all my chips on that number, though, because I was playing something even riskier."

Steve looked up at him as Fury's tone changed, something more resolute settling into his voice.

"There was an idea—Stark knows this—called the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people, to see if they could become something more. To see if they could work together when we needed them to, to fight the battles that we never could." He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "Phil Coulson died still believing in that idea. In heroes."

Tony abruptly pushed back his chair, standing up. He stared off for a moment, then without a word, turned and walked out of the room. Steve moved to follow him, and Daphne, still shaken but unwilling to let the tension fester, quickly stood and followed after them.

They found Tony standing silently, eyes unfocused. Steve’s voice was gentle when he asked, "Was he married?"

"No. There was a, uh, cellist, I think," Tony said distantly.

"I'm sorry. He seemed like a good man," Steve offered.

"He was an idiot," Tony replied bluntly.

"Why? For believing?" Steve asked.

"No, for taking on Loki alone," Tony said, bitterness creeping into his tone.

"Not everyone is okay with just sitting back and watching," Daphne said quietly beside Steve.

Tony scoffed. "He was out of his league. He should have waited. He should have..."

"Sometimes there isn't a way out, Tony," Steve said, cutting him off gently.

"Right, I've heard that before," Tony muttered.

"Is this the first time you lost a soldier?" Steve asked.

"We are not soldiers!" Tony snapped, his voice raw.

"Neither am I," Daphne said. "I never was. I was just someone who had the power to help—and I did. So are you. Coulson was doing his job. And this is ours. We can’t let Loki win. He still needs a power source."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "He made it personal."

"That's not the point," Steve said.

"That is the point," Tony said quickly. "That's Loki's point. He hit us all right where we live. Why?"

"To tear us apart," Steve said.

Tony nodded. "Yeah. Divide and conquer is great, but he knows he has to take us out to win, right? That's what he wants. He wants to beat us. He wants to be seen doing it. He wants an audience."

"Right. We caught his act in Stuttgart," Steve said, starting to piece it together.

"Yeah, that was just previews. This is opening night." Tony turned, eyes narrowing with realization. "And Loki… he's a full-tilt diva, right? He wants flowers, he wants parades. He wants a monument built to the skies with his name plastered—" Tony stopped cold, his jaw tightening. "Son of a bitch."

• • • • • • •

After getting suited up, Daphne made her way to the infirmary, where Nat and Barton still were.

"Time to go," she told them.

"Go where?" Natasha asked.

"I'll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets?" she asked.

"I can," Barton said.

"Good. Let's hurry," she said.

Steve joined the three of them as they made their way onboard one of the jets. Tony had his own mode of transportation.

"Hey, you guys aren't authorized to be in here," the pilot said.

"Son, just don't," Steve huffed, practically shoving him out of the jet as they all prepared to head to Stark Tower in New York City.

When they finally arrived in Manhattan, the city was already in utter chaos. The portal above Stark Tower was wide open, a swirling blue vortex ripping through the sky, and the Chitauri were pouring out of it by the thousands. The alien army rained destruction down on the city, blasting holes into buildings, swarming the streets, and attacking anything that moved. Car alarms blared, fires burned unchecked, and the screams of terrified civilians echoed through the concrete canyons.

Below, people abandoned their cars in the middle of the road, sprinting in every direction in a desperate bid for safety. But there was no real shelter. The Chitauri descended from the sky on their hovercrafts, launching bolts of deadly energy at whatever caught their attention—buses, street corners, entire office buildings.

"Stark, we're on your three, headed northeast," Natasha said through the comms, her voice steady despite the madness outside.

"What? Did you stop for drive-through?" Tony snapped, clearly already in the thick of it. "Swing up Park. I'm gonna lay 'em out for you."

Natasha followed the instructions without hesitation. Underneath the quinjet, a mounted gun emerged, swiveling into place. The hum of its charge-up filled the cabin before it began firing relentlessly into the waves of Chitauri ahead, cutting down rows of them in midair and scattering the others.

Daphne sat near the edge of the cabin, eyes scanning the skyline. It was worse than she imagined. The destruction was total. Blocks of the city were already in ruins, the kind that would take years to rebuild—if they ever did. She gritted her teeth, already bracing for the fallout.

They passed Stark Tower, now the epicenter of the invasion. The Tesseract sat in its device, pulsing with energy as it held the portal open. Up above, Loki and Thor clashed violently on the rooftop, metal striking metal in a blur of fury and divine power.

“Nat,” Barton called from the cockpit.

“Yeah, I see ’em,” she replied, spotting the Asgardian brothers locked in battle.

As Natasha turned the jet to aid Thor, Loki turned toward them. In a flash, he raised the scepter and fired. The blue beam slammed into one of the jet’s engines. Alarms screamed. The whole aircraft jolted violently as the engine flared and died, sending the quinjet spinning wildly out of control.

Inside, Steve and Daphne grabbed hold of whatever they could—straps, seats, the frame—anything to keep from being thrown around. Barton and Natasha fought to keep the jet in the air, but it was already too late. The left wing clipped a building, glass and concrete shattering, causing another tremor that rattled them all.

Barton angled the quinjet downward, weaving between towers, barely avoiding another collision as they careened toward the ground. Civilians scattered below, screaming as the shadow of the falling jet swallowed them in panic.

They hit hard. Pavement cracked, concrete shredded, and asphalt flew in every direction as the jet carved a path through the street. The landing was rough, jarring, and violent—but somehow survivable.

As soon as they caught their breath and confirmed they were still alive, Natasha threw open the rear hatch and they piled out. The damage from the sky had been bad, but from the ground, it was harrowing. Buildings on fire. Cars overturned and mangled. Glass, debris, and dust in the air thick enough to choke on. Blood in the street. Chaos everywhere.

They barely had time to take it all in before they looked up and saw Stark Tower under siege. Chitauri were pouring out of the sky, some flying through the open portal on hovercrafts, others already scaling buildings.

“We’ve got to get back up there,” Steve said, voice sharp as he took off running.

Daphne and the others followed, weaving between burning vehicles and scattered debris. The street looked like something out of the apocalypse. Flames licked the sky. Sirens wailed. The air was filled with heat, panic, and destruction.

Then they heard it—a low, thunderous growl from above that seemed to shake the air itself. They skidded to a stop, craning their necks upward toward the source of the sound.

A massive shadow descended from the portal. It wasn’t a ship.

It was a creature.

Metallic and monstrous, it stretched over forty feet long, its segmented body gliding through the air like some ancient leviathan. Its armor shimmered, dark and jagged, with massive fins protruding from its sides and spikes trailing down its spine. Its mouth—if it could be called that—opened wide to reveal rows of glinting metal teeth.

Daphne’s breath caught. This wasn’t the little green men she’d once joked about. This was war on a scale she hadn’t even dreamed of.

The monster let out another deafening growl as it smashed through a skyscraper, sending glass and steel raining down. From its sides, compartments opened—launch bays, like hatches on a warship—and dozens more Chitauri dropped out, grappling onto buildings, crashing through windows, and unleashing mayhem on the civilians still trapped inside.

Chapter Text

Amidst the chaos and ruin of midtown Manhattan, Steve kept his eyes locked on the swarm of Chitauri pouring from the sky. Their grotesque hovercrafts twisted through the skyscrapers like wasps from a hive, dropping more foot soldiers by the second. The destruction was unimaginable—cars flipped, fires raged, and the skyline was fractured by smoke and flame.

“Stark, are you seeing this?” Steve asked, voice tense as he scanned the battlefield.

“Seeing. Still working on believing,” Tony replied in his earpiece. “Where’s Banner? Has he shown up yet?”

Steve blinked. “Banner?”

“Just keep me posted,” Tony muttered.

Above them, Chitauri soldiers dove toward the street like vultures, their shrill screeches slicing through the thunder of explosions. Civilians scrambled for shelter, ducking behind wrecked cars and shattered storefronts.

“We’ve got civilians still trapped up here,” Barton called out, crouched behind an overturned cab as he launched arrow after arrow with expert precision. His arrows detonated in clean bursts, knocking Chitauri off their gliders mid-air.

“They’re fish in a barrel down there,” Steve muttered, eyes scanning the building fronts and open streets.

“So what’s the plan?” Daphne asked, stepping beside him. Her hands crackled with blue energy, already glowing in anticipation of the fight.

Before Steve could answer, the air shrieked with the sound of engines—three Chitauri had landed around them, snarling and raising their weapons.

Daphne raised both hands and sent a shockwave into the nearest one, launching it into the wreckage of a hotdog cart. Natasha pulled her pistols and fired quick, precise shots, dropping two more with headshots.

Barton darted into cover behind a taxi, his bow string whistling with every shot. “You two should go,” Natasha said to Steve and Daphne. “We got this. It’s good.”

“Think you can hold them off?” Steve asked.

Natasha gave a tight, battle-worn smile. “Captain, it would be my genuine pleasure.”

“Alright, Daph. Come on,” Steve called, already taking off at a sprint.

Daphne followed without hesitation. They vaulted over the freeway railing, landing on top of a bus lodged in the middle of the street. Their boots hit the roof with a clang, and they rolled forward as plasma blasts sizzled past them, punching glowing holes into the metal roof.

Daphne turned back, releasing a beam of energy that incinerated a pair of Chitauri hot on their tail. The shockwave ignited a gas tank near the rear of the bus, and Steve tackled her off the side just as it exploded behind them, fire curling into the air like a demon’s breath.

They hit the street hard, rolling into a crouch before taking off again. Abandoned cars and rubble blocked the roads, but they vaulted over them like they were hurdles on a track.

Ahead, a hastily formed barricade of NYPD cruisers tried to stop the invasion. Officers fired in every direction, their bullets barely slowing the alien horde. Screams echoed from the windows above—people trapped, people terrified.

Steve and Daphne jumped down onto the hood of a squad car, startling the officers behind it.

“You need men in these buildings!” Steve barked, pointing at the glass towers overhead. “There are people inside and they’re going to run right into the line of fire. You take them to the basements or through the subway. You keep them off the streets. I need a perimeter as far back as 39th.”

One officer hesitated, glancing around in disbelief. “Why the hell should I take orders from you?” he asked.

A massive explosion erupted behind them—another taxi, obliterated in a single blast. Steve turned, shield raised just in time to block flying shrapnel. Chitauri surged forward from the smoke.

Daphne didn’t wait. She ran at the first soldier and blasted it back through the windshield of a nearby sedan. Another leapt at her—she punched it square in the face, spun, and kicked it into a lamppost before finishing it off with a focused bolt of lightning from her palm.

Steve cut through the next two with brutal efficiency. His shield cleaved the arm off one attacker, then he shoulder-slammed it into the pavement, leaving it twitching. The second lunged, and Steve swung his shield like a discus, sending the creature flying.

The officers stared in stunned silence.

“I need men in those buildings!” Steve repeated. “Lead the people down and away from the streets. We’re setting up a perimeter all the way down to 39th street!”

The officer nodded, rallying his men. They spread out quickly, ducking into the buildings and calling for civilians to follow.

Daphne turned to Steve, breathing hard, a smear of ash across her cheek. Despite the ruin around them, she managed a grin. “We really do make a good team.”

Steve smirked, glancing over at her. “I’m starting to see why everybody thinks we’re twins.”

Amid the ruined streets of Manhattan, the Avengers regrouped after securing the civilians and giving the NYPD direction. Smoke thickened the air, mixing with the stench of scorched metal and burning fuel. Daphne flung out her hand, releasing a concentrated pulse of blue energy that disintegrated a Chitauri aiming its weapon at Natasha.

Steve’s shield whirled through the air, knocking down two more enemies before snapping back to his arm. Daphne barely turned in time to see a Chitauri charging from behind; she kicked out, sweeping its legs from beneath it and sending it crashing to the pavement. Without hesitation, she grabbed its rifle, spun, and shot it directly in the head before tossing the weapon to Natasha.

Suddenly, more Chitauri dropped from the air, but before they could attack, electric currents erupted through the street like a storm’s fury. Steve glanced toward Daphne, expecting it was her—until she shook her head. “Not me.”

The sky cracked, and Thor descended like a meteor, landing in a crouch, electricity dancing around him. Though bloodied, the Asgardian’s posture showed no weakness.

“What’s the story upstairs?” Steve asked him.

“The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable,” Thor said grimly.

“Thor’s right. We gotta deal with these guys down here,” Tony’s voice crackled through their comms.

“How do we do this?” Natasha asked, her guns reloaded and ready.

“As a team,” Steve replied, steady and sure.

“Love the sentiment, Stevie, but that’s not really a plan,” Daphne muttered, tightening her gloves.

“I have unfinished business with Loki,” Thor added, gripping his hammer tighter.

“Yeah, well get in line,” Barton muttered as he loosed another arrow into a Chitauri’s throat.

“Save it,” Steve said firmly, stepping into the center. “Loki’s gonna keep this fight focused on us, and that’s what we need. Without him, these things could run wild. We’ve got Stark up top—he’s gonna need us to—”

A loud sputtering engine interrupted him as a dust-covered motorcycle skidded to a stop nearby. Banner climbed off, looking like he’d crawled out of an avalanche.

“So, this all seems horrible,” he said, glancing around the chaos.

“Seen worse,” Daphne said, recalling their last encounter—and how close she'd come to dying by his hand.

“Sorry,” he muttered sincerely.

“No, we could use a little worse,” Natasha said, her smirk returning for the first time in hours.

“Stark, we got him,” Steve said into the comm.

“Banner?”

“Just like you said,” Steve confirmed.

“Then tell him to suit up. I’m bringing the party to you.”

And then Tony whipped around a corner at full speed—trailing behind him was a massive, screeching Leviathan. The beast tore through a building as if it were paper, its enormous armored form flattening cars and flipping pavement like cardboard.

“I don’t see how that’s a party,” Natasha muttered.

“I’m used to parties having more booze,” Daphne added.

Steve turned to Banner, calm and steady. “Dr. Banner. Now might be a really good time for you to get angry.”

Banner began to walk forward. “That’s my secret, Captain. I’m always angry.”

Mid-stride, his form exploded outward—skin turning green, muscles expanding grotesquely, clothes tearing. He roared, then slammed his now-massive fists into the Leviathan’s face. The entire creature shuddered midair, then crashed down into the street, demolishing blocks of roadway.

Tony zipped overhead. “Hold on!” He fired a missile straight into the beast’s exposed undercarriage. The detonation was deafening. Steve lunged, pulling Natasha and Daphne behind the wreckage of a cop car just as the Leviathan’s head hit the street with a thunderous crash.

All around them, the Chitauri froze, screeched in unison, and redoubled their assault.

Tony landed beside them. Steve turned to face the team, now fully assembled. “Call it, Captain,” he said.

Steve stepped up. “All right, listen up. Until we can close that portal, our priority is containment. Barton—on that roof. Eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays. Stark, you’ve got the perimeter. Anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back or turn it to ash.”

“Can you give me a lift?” Barton asked, glancing at Tony.

“Right. Better clench up, Legolas,” Tony replied, grabbing him and launching them both skyward.

“Thor,” Steve continued, “you’ve got to try and bottleneck that portal. Slow them down. You’ve got the lightning—light the bastards up.”

“I should probably go with you. I think I can help in the ‘light them up’ department,” Daphne said.

Thor nodded, gripping her waist. “Hold on.”

With a spin of his hammer, they launched into the air like a rocket, soaring toward the Empire State Building. The wind screamed past them as Daphne clung tighter.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights,” Thor teased.

“I’m not—but we’re like 1,400 feet up and I swear to god, you better not drop me.”

“Oh, don’t worry. If I do—I’ll just catch you,” he grinned.

He lifted Mjolnir, summoning a torrent of lightning. Thunder clapped overhead. Daphne, bracing herself, let the energy surge through her palms, releasing her own current to combine with Thor’s.

Their combined bolt surged up into the portal, sizzling with energy. Chitauri vessels sparked and ignited mid-flight, some screaming in agony as they burst apart. The Leviathans shook midair, convulsing before falling still like marionettes with cut strings.

“Daph, we could use a little help down here,” Steve said in her earpiece.

“Be right there,” she replied.

She looked at Thor. “Think you can give me a hand?”

“Sure thing,” he grinned—and jumped.

Daphne screamed as the world blurred in freefall. Her boots slammed into the pavement seconds later, and she clutched her chest. “Never do that again,” she wheezed. “I can feel my heart beating in my throat.”

Thor only laughed, already turning toward the fight.

She sprinted down the street, leaping over overturned cars and ducking under debris. When she reached the others, Nat and Steve were still mid-battle, overwhelmed.

“Get down!” she shouted, then unleashed a wave of raw energy. Dozens of Chitauri were obliterated in a glowing blue explosion.

They caught their breath for just a moment. Blood ran down Nat’s face, and Steve’s shield was scorched, but they were still standing.

“You guys okay?” Daphne asked.

“Fine. You?” Steve asked.

She nodded.

“Guys, none of this is going to mean a damn thing if we don’t close that portal,” Nat said, her voice sharp.

“Our biggest guns couldn’t touch it,” Steve said.

“Maybe it’s not about guns,” Nat replied, turning to Daphne. “You said you touched that thing before, right?”

“Just a piece of it,” Daphne said. “But it’s worth a shot.”

“No! We’ll try something else,” Steve said.

“Steve—”

“You don’t know if you’ll survive. I remember what happened to Schmidt. I’m not letting that happen to you.”

“Schmidt was a psychopath and an idiot. He wasn’t even close to being ready. But I am. I’ve already got a piece of it in me. I can do this, Steve,” she said, voice steady and sure.

He hesitated, pain flickering in his eyes. “I know. I just… you’re all I’ve got left, Daph.”

She stepped forward, pulled him into a tight hug. “You’re all I have too. I’m not leaving you. I promise.”

Steve nodded, swallowing hard. “Fine. But if you want to get up there, you’re gonna need a ride.”

“I think I can get one,” she said, tapping her comms. “Tony. Think I can call in a favor?”

“Be right there,” he answered without missing a beat.

Chapter Text

The wind howled high above Manhattan as Tony’s repulsors flared and he dropped Daphne roughly onto the platform at the top of Stark Tower. She landed in a crouch with a hard thud, groaning as she stood upright and brushed off her hands.

“Sorry,” Tony muttered, already lifting off again before she could reply. The moment his silhouette disappeared from view, her attention shifted to the swirling portal overhead, and the strange, humming contraption beneath it—the machine Selvig built to harness the Tesseract. Her breath caught in her throat. The cube glowed with the same blinding energy it had the last time she saw it... nearly seventy years ago. And just like then, it pulled at something deep inside her, like a song only she could hear.

The sound of Steve’s pained grunt echoed through her comm, snapping her out of the trance.

“Steve!” she shouted, scanning the city below. “Steve!”

“I’m okay,” he groaned in reply.

“Keep it that way, please,” she muttered, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.

But before she could take another step toward the Tesseract, a sudden impact shattered the rooftop. Loki landed before her, tumbling across the ground with a grunt after being blasted from a Chitauri glider. He rose slowly, brushing himself off, and smiled when he saw her.

“Huntress. Have I been waiting a long time to talk to you,” he said smoothly.

Daphne narrowed her eyes. “So sorry. Kind of in the middle of something,” she said, then thrust her hands forward and released a concentrated blast of energy.

Loki rolled to the side and dodged the hit, laughing softly. “Before you try—and fail—to kill me... wouldn’t you like to know more? About who you really are?”

She didn’t let herself react, but her heart stuttered. “You’re just trying to stall me.”

“Perhaps. But you’re curious, aren’t you? The Tesseract—can you hear it calling? Wondering where your powers come from? The extent of what you could truly do?”

She clenched her fists. He wasn’t wrong. The Tesseract’s pull was stronger than ever.

“And let me guess? You’ll tell me all about it if I let you go?” she said, eyes narrowing.

Instead of replying, Loki smirked and shimmered. She blasted him again—only for the beam to pass through an illusion. She whirled around just in time to see him behind her.

Before he could strike, a green blur streaked into the scene. Hulk barreled into Loki, grabbed him like a ragdoll, and slammed him into the floor over and over until the god could barely move.

Daphne peered through the shattered glass and raised a brow. “Huh. Thanks, Banner,” she muttered before turning her attention back to the Tesseract.

Selvig lay slumped beside the generator, blood streaking down his temple. She crouched beside him carefully.

“What have I done?” he whispered, staring at the chaos raging across the city.

“Hey. This wasn’t you. It was Loki. You didn’t know what you were doing,” she said firmly.

“Daphne. Sometime soon would be nice,” Nat’s voice came through the comms.

“Right. Okay. Selvig, we need to shut this thing down.”

“We can’t. It would take too much power.”

“Then we’re going to have to hope I have that much power,” she said, helping him to his feet.

“It could kill you,” he warned.

“Thank you very much for the vote of confidence,” she muttered dryly.

Selvig pulled open his laptop and started plugging in cables connected to the device. “Whatever power you have—focus it right there. At the crown.”

“Guys, I can close it,” Daphne said into her comm. “I can close the portal.”

“Do it!” Steve ordered without hesitation.

“No, wait!” Tony’s voice snapped in. “Stark, these things are still coming,” Steve argued.

“I got a nuke coming in. It’s gonna blow in less than a minute. And I know just where to put it.”

A long beat of silence followed. They all knew what that meant.

“Tony. That’s not something you can just come back from,” Daphne said quietly, her voice trembling with concern.

He didn’t respond, but she could see him now—just a speck in the sky, red and gold, carrying the missile through the atmosphere and straight into the portal. She held her breath. So did the rest of the city.

Down below, Chitauri warriors crumpled to the ground mid-stride. Their ships spun out, their monstrous transports falling still. The Leviathan let out one final, echoing groan before it toppled like a dying beast, crashing into buildings with a final thunderous collapse.

But Tony hadn’t come back.

Daphne looked up at the portal, heart racing. “Come on. Please. Please,” she whispered, scanning the skies.

“Daph. You gotta close it,” Steve said softly in her ear.

“No. Steve, we can’t leave him up there,” she pleaded. “We can’t just—he saved all of us.”

“He’s not coming back down, Daph. I’m sorry... but we have to close it.”

Tears welled in her eyes, her whole body shaking with the weight of it. Howard’s son. The last piece of her friend. And now... gone.

She groaned under her breath and bit her lip, trying not to scream. She had made Steve a promise. She would not break it.

Looking at Selvig, she nodded. “Ready?”

Selvig pressed keys rapidly. “Ready.”

She drew a breath so deep it burned, then raised her hands toward the crown of the device. Blue energy flooded her limbs, power roaring through her like an electric tide. The pain was instantaneous, ripping through her chest like a lightning bolt. She screamed, raw and ragged, as the beam shot into the core.

The world blurred. She barely heard Steve’s voice over the comm before everything went dark.

When she came to, her body was numb, the sky spinning above her. Selvig hovered over her, eyes wide.

“Please tell me I did it,” she mumbled.

“You did. Are you alright?” he asked.

“I think so,” she croaked.

“Steve,” she said, instinctively reaching for her comm—only to realize it had been lost in the blast. “Shit.”

“Daphne!”

She turned. Steve sprinted toward her, eyes full of panic. Relief washed over her face as he pulled her into a tight hug.

“You did it,” he whispered, refusing to let go.

“Tony?” she asked, heart in her throat.

Steve pulled back, a soft smile on his face. “Tony’s fine.”

Daphne finally allowed herself to exhale. “We won.”

• • • • • • •

After giving themselves a day—just one day—to shower, sleep, and recover from the battle that had nearly leveled New York, the team met again in Central Park. The early morning sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting a gentle golden hue over the quiet stretch of grass where they’d gathered.

Daphne stood beside Steve, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable as she watched Thor prepare the Tesseract for transport. Loki stood restrained and silent, his eyes betraying no emotion as he glanced at each of them in turn. Thor gave them all a nod of solemn acknowledgment before lifting the Tesseract in his hand. In a flash of brilliant blue light, the Bifrost opened, and both he and Loki vanished—returning to Asgard with the cube that had nearly torn their world apart.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The air was still, thick with the weight of everything that had just happened.

Then Tony stepped up beside Daphne, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as he looked ahead where the portal had been.

“So… if you still want the whole Hydra brainwashing thing gone, I have a few ideas,” he said casually, but his voice was gentler than usual.

“You do?” Daphne asked, turning to look at him, a flicker of hope lighting in her eyes.

“Well, it probably won’t be easy,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But I’m sure we can think of something.”

She smiled softly, gratefulness softening her entire expression. “Thank you,” she said, sincere and steady. “I really appreciate it.”

Tony looked at her, his usual smirk absent. “My dad promised to help you,” he said. “I intend to finish what he started.”

• • • • • • •

Two Months Later

The room was silent, clinical, and tense with the weight of what they were about to attempt. Daphne stood inside a reinforced glass cell—one designed with the Hulk in mind, now repurposed for a very different kind of test. The lights overhead buzzed faintly as Steve stood just outside the enclosure, gripping the small remote control in his hand like it was a loaded weapon.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” Steve asked, his voice quiet but tight, eyes fixed on his sister.

“Just a safety precaution. Just like the chip. Once we’re sure the Hydra programming is gone, we remove it. We’ve been running different tests for weeks. Now we see if it works,” Tony said, standing at the console, his posture more rigid than usual.

Steve turned to Daphne again, hesitating. “Are you sure about this?”

“You’re the only person I trust to have it,” she told him, her tone firm despite the tension clinging to her shoulders.

“Trust issues. We’ll work on that next,” Tony muttered, fingers flying across the tablet. He looked up. “You ready?”

Daphne nodded slowly, forcing her breath to stay even, praying that this would finally end it—that the programming Hydra had burned into her skull would finally be gone.

“Here goes nothing,” Tony murmured.

The first word came like a gunshot.

“Verbrennung.”

Daphne flinched.

“Getrübt.”

Her hand twitched at her side, fingers flexing as a faint tremor crawled up her arm.

“Einundzwanzig.”

A sharp breath escaped her. Her knees buckled slightly, but she stayed upright.

“Sonnenaufgang.”

A low groan left her lips as her hands clutched at her head, fingers digging into her scalp as if trying to claw out the words.

“Heizung.”

The pain was visible now. Her shoulders shook. Sweat beaded at her temple.

“Zwölf.”

Her breathing was shallow, uneven.

“Sicher.”

She was slipping. Steve could see it—the way her eyes began to lose focus, her presence dimming behind her stare.

“Anfang.”

Her arms dropped to her sides. She stopped resisting.

“Fünf.”

Her eyes blinked once—slowly.

“Bahnhof.”

When she looked up again, her gaze was blank. Empty. Void of recognition. She stepped forward, eyes locked on Steve as she tilted her head just slightly, calculating. The last mission etched into her mind echoed through her like a drumbeat:

Kill Captain America.

She walked up to the glass, slow and steady, like a predator studying its prey. Then, she moved.

The first bang against the fiberglass made both Steve and Tony flinch. She hit it again—harder. Then again. A spiderweb of cracks began to splinter from the point of impact.

“Daphne?” Steve called out, unsure now—hope and dread in equal measure.

“She’s gone,” Tony muttered grimly. “You know what to do, Cap.”

Steve’s grip on the remote tightened, unmoving. “No. I can’t.”

“Steve,” Tony warned as another thunderous strike echoed through the room. The cracks deepened, spreading like veins.

“There has to be another way!” Steve shouted, desperation creeping into his voice.

“There’s not!” Tony snapped, just as Daphne’s fist shattered the glass, shards flying like shrapnel.

Without a second thought, Steve hit the button.

The effect was immediate. Daphne screamed—loud and agonized—as electricity surged through the base of her skull. Her knees buckled, her body convulsed, and then she dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Tony exhaled, the weight of the failure hitting him hard. “There’s a reason my dad never figured this out.”

He called in the medical team, who quickly arrived to lift Daphne’s unconscious body onto a stretcher, careful but swift. Steve stood frozen for a moment, his face a mask of pain and guilt. As they passed him, he reached out and gently brushed a hand over Daphne’s head, then turned to Tony and shoved the remote into his hand.

“Try something else,” he said, his voice hard and raw. “Because I’m not doing that again.”

Chapter Text

SIX MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF NEW YORK

“Alright, now make sure the intake manifold is secure,” Tony instructed, his voice echoing slightly off the garage walls.

With a grunt of effort, Daphne leaned in and tightened the manifold, the wrench in her hand biting into her palm. She double-checked it with a practiced eye before stepping back.

“And look at that,” Tony said with a grin, wiping his hands on a towel. “Baby’s first V-8 engine.”

Daphne gave him a look. “How exactly is this helping?”

“Emotional stimulus,” Tony replied, gesturing vaguely around them. “We connect you to things you enjoyed before Hydra scrambled your wiring. Hence the hours of swing music. You like mechanics and engineering. So do I. Win-win. Plus, it keeps me from being bored.”

“Glad I could entertain you,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she set the wrench down on the workbench.

Tony smirked. “Yeah, well, speaking of entertainment, I’m going to have to pass the torch.”

“Steve’s on a mission,” she said automatically, wiping grease from her fingers. Fury had him paired with Natasha lately—field ops, infiltration, all that covert super-soldier stuff. When he was gone, he called her constantly, always checking in, always making sure she was okay.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why it’s not him,” Tony said, already turning toward the exit. “Fury got me in touch with someone else.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Like a doctor?”

Before he could answer, Jarvis’s voice crackled through the overhead speakers. “Sir, you have a Sam Wilson here to see you.”

“Perfect timing,” Tony said, gesturing for Daphne to follow him through the hallways of the newly renovated Avengers Tower. It had become her second home—more of a refuge, really—whenever Steve was gone. She hated being alone in their apartment.

“Tony,” she said warily, heels clicking behind him. “I’m not in the mood to meet new people.”

“Relax. He’s here to help,” Tony assured her as they entered the conference room. A man stood when they arrived—tall, broad-shouldered, and calm in a way that immediately felt intentional.

“Hey,” the man said, offering a kind smile as he extended a hand. “You must be Daphne. I’m Sam.”

“She doesn’t do physical touch,” Tony cut in. “We’re still working on that. It’s on the list right after trust issues.”

Daphne shot him a withering glare. “Are you a doctor?” she asked Sam.

“No,” Sam replied, unfazed. “I was with the 58th pararescue. Now I work down at the VA’s office. I offer counseling to veterans with PTSD.”

Daphne turned to Tony, eyes narrowed with something between betrayal and fury.

“Yeah, remember what I said about emotional stimulus?” he said casually, though he was already edging toward the door.

“I remember that you were supposed to be helping me.”

“And I still am. But the heart-to-heart part? Not really my style,” Tony said, backing out the door.

“Does it look like mine?” she called after him.

“Sam, she’s all yours,” Tony replied cheerfully, disappearing before she could stop him.

Left standing in the quiet that followed, Daphne sighed and turned back to Sam. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“No, I get it,” Sam said. “Talking to a stranger about your problems is never fun. How about we get to know each other first, before I start digging into your life trauma?”

“I don’t... I don’t like getting to know people,” she said plainly.

“Why not?”

“This could be a trap. I could get hurt. Innocent people could get hurt. Hydra could still be around.”

Sam tilted his head slightly. “Hydra were Nazis, right? Do I look like someone the Nazis wanted on their side?”

Daphne couldn’t help it—she rolled her eyes. He had a point.

“Why can’t I just talk to Steve?” she asked.

“You feel safe around Steve?”

“He’s my brother.”

“But what if he’s not around?” Sam asked gently.

Her body tensed immediately, fist clenching, eyes flaring. Sam held up both hands.

“I didn’t mean like that,” he said quickly. “I meant like right now. Steve’s not here. What happens if you lose control and he’s not around to help you through it?”

She was quiet, unsure. The truth was, she didn’t know what she’d do.

“You’ve got to learn to feel safe by yourself,” Sam continued. “Or you’re never going to be free.”

Daphne studied him closely. “That’s why you’re here?”

“Part of the reason. Help you start remembering the good stuff from before Hydra. Reconnect with who you are. The real you.”

“And the other part?” she asked.

Sam gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe you just need a friend.”

SEVEN MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF NEW YORK

“So, what do you think?” Sam asked, nodding toward the open pizza box between them.

Daphne eyed the steaming slice in her hand—topped with pineapple, of all things—and gave a small shrug. “I like it.”

Sam recoiled, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as if she’d personally wounded him. “Oh well, that proves it. I can’t help you. You are crazy.”

She rolled her eyes and took another bite, unbothered. “You’re very dramatic.”

“And you’re disgusting,” he retorted, watching in horror as she calmly chewed another bite of pineapple-topped pizza.

“It’s better than the food we used to have,” she said, brushing crumbs off her lap. “We boiled everything that wasn’t meatloaf.”

“You like to cook?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not particularly,” she admitted with another shrug. “Growing up, we had to ration everything during the Depression. I’ve eaten enough crackers and canned beans to last a lifetime.”

Sam chuckled. “What about Steve?”

“Steve was the main reason we had any edible meals at all,” she said with a faint smile, her voice softening as she spoke of her brother.

That smile faded almost immediately when Sam, perhaps without thinking, asked, “What about after the Depression? Your husband, Bu—”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Daphne cut in sharply, her voice suddenly cold.

“Okay,” Sam said quickly, hands up in surrender. He gave her a beat before pivoting. “Music, then. Marvin Gaye, 1972. Trouble Man soundtrack. Everything you missed jammed into one album.”

• • • • • • •

“Verbrennung.”

“Getrübt.”

“Einundzwanzig.”

“Sonnenaufgang.”

The words cut through the silence like sharp knives, each one digging deeper. Daphne sat curled in the corner of the reinforced glass cell, her breathing already unsteady. She squeezed her eyes shut as Sam continued.

“Sam, stop. I can’t do this,” she groaned, her voice trembling under the weight of what those words triggered in her. Her hand pressed against her forehead as if she could physically block them out.

“Heizung.”

“Zwölf.”

“Sicher.”

“Stop, please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She slid to her knees, resting her forehead against the cool glass. The pain wasn’t just physical—it was memory, fear, and fire bundled together under her skin.

“Anfang.”

“Fünf.”

“Bahnhof.”

There was a shift. Daphne went still. Her breathing slowed to an eerie calm. And when she lifted her head, her expression was no longer pleading—it was flat, emotionless. Predatory.

She looked up at Sam through the glass, her voice low and rough, almost inhuman. “Let me out.”

Sam remained where he was, one hand hovering near the remote, the other clenched tightly at his side. “Can’t do that until I know you’re not gonna try and kill me.”

Without warning, Daphne slammed her body against the glass with full force. The sound was like a crack of thunder. Her hands clawed at the smooth surface, her eyes wild, her voice raw. “Let me out!”

Sam winced. His jaw clenched as he stared at her, then finally—unable to take the sight of her unraveling—he pressed the button.

A sharp sound pulsed through the chamber.

Daphne screamed. Her body seized and then crumpled to the floor, unmoving, the blue flickers of energy still dancing faintly under her skin.

EIGHT MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF NEW YORK

Steve stepped quietly into the gym, watching from the doorway as Daphne struck the punching bag with an angry force that sent it swinging wildly. One final blow knocked it clean off the hook, sending it crashing to the floor with a dull thud.

"Tony said we're gonna have to start paying for those," he said, his voice light but cautious.

Daphne exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from her brow as she unwrapped her hands. "Well, it'd help if I had a live person to train with," she muttered.

"Stand there while I let you beat me up? No thanks," Steve joked, stepping further into the room.

"Well, I'd want you to at least try," she said, a faint smirk playing at the corners of her mouth despite the tension in her voice.

Steve nodded, the teasing falling away as he reached into his pocket. "I talked to Sam," he said.

"About?" she asked, already bracing herself.

"You," he said simply.

"Should've figured," she sighed, turning back toward the remains of the punching bag.

"You won't even mention Bucky," Steve said, watching her closely.

"I didn't realize that was mandatory," she shot back, voice tight.

"You're supposed to be talking to him about stuff—"

"Before Hydra. Yeah, I know. But why Bucky? There's a million other things to talk about. Why can't anyone understand that I don't want to talk about him?" she snapped, her voice rising.

"Why not?" Steve asked, soft but firm.

"Because it's hard, Steve," she said, her voice cracking as she turned away from him. "It's hard, and I thought you would get that."

She made to storm past him, but he caught her arm gently. "Of course I get it. I loved him too. But when we first found you... he was the one who broke you out. Not me."

She stilled, the fight draining from her posture as he continued.

"You need to open up about him or you're never going to get through this. And I'm here for you. I'm always here for you, you know that. But I also want my sister back."

Steve reached into his jacket and pulled something small from his pocket. He held it out to her—her wedding ring.

"Fury said they found this a while ago, going through old Hydra bases. It’s been in storage since," he said.

Daphne stared at the ring resting in his palm, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she reached out and took it, her fingers trembling slightly as they curled around the band.

• • • • • • •

Daphne leaned back on the worn bench, letting the quiet of the afternoon settle around them. "Do you have siblings?" she asked, her voice casual, but there was a thread of something deeper underneath it.

"A sister. Sarah," Sam replied, glancing over at her.

"Does she annoy you?" Daphne asked, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve.

"I’d think something was wrong if she didn’t," Sam said with a small laugh. "You get into a fight with Steve?"

"No. Not a fight. Just... hate when he's right," she muttered. "Which, just to clarify, is very rare."

"Noted," Sam grinned, nudging her lightly with his elbow. "What was he right about?"

She let out a quiet sigh, tugging harder at her sleeves like the cotton could ground her. "Bucky."

"Ah. The infamous Bucky. Thought I’d never hear about him," Sam said, raising a brow.

"Yeah, well, he’s pretty special to me. Guess I wanted to keep him to myself," she admitted, voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

"That’s fair. You don’t have to tell me everything. Just the little stuff," Sam offered gently.

"Like what?"

"How’d you meet?" he asked.

"He was Steve’s friend first," Daphne shrugged. "He was around a lot."

"When’d you realize you liked him?"

Daphne gave a soft, bittersweet smile as the memory settled over her. She shook her head. "Puberty, I guess."

"Tale as old as time," Sam teased.

She rolled her eyes, but there was real fondness behind it now. "There was just something about him, I guess. I mean, he was a flirt—he definitely knew his way around women," she laughed softly. "But he had heart. That’s what I liked most. He was brave. Didn’t give up easily. And he worked really hard."

"He sounds like a good man," Sam said sincerely.

"He was the best," she whispered, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. She cleared her throat quickly, trying to mask the ache behind her smile. "So, I opened up. Do I get a sticker or something?"

Sam snorted, folding his arms with a grin. "Yeah, sure. Gold star. But you know we’re just getting started."

"You just don’t let up, do you? You sound like Steve," she said, half-annoyed, half-amused.

"Yeah, comparing me to your brother. ‘Cause that’s what every guy wants to hear," he deadpanned, and she finally let out a real laugh.

"Wow, I did it. Eight months and I finally got a laugh," Sam said triumphantly.

"Shut up," Daphne mumbled, rolling her eyes but unable to keep the grin off her face.

"Come on. Let’s go get a drink. You can tell me more about how amazing Bucky is," he said, standing up and offering her a hand.

"You’re a horrible therapist," she teased, taking it.

"Yeah, well, I’m not a therapist and this isn’t therapy," Sam said with a smile. "We’re friends. Now come on. Bet you’ve never had margaritas before."

ONE YEAR SINCE THE BATTLE OF NEW YORK

"You feeling confident?" Sam asked, watching Daphne pace slowly across the padded floor of the testing room.

"Not really," she sighed, her voice thin and breathy. Her hands fidgeted at her sides despite her attempt to keep them still.

"You should be," Steve said, standing beside her, offering the calm strength only he could. "You've been working hard with Tony and Sam all year."

She glanced at him, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "What if that's not enough?"

"Do you think Hydra’s stronger than you?" Sam asked plainly, arms crossed. Daphne didn’t respond, only groaned under her breath, like the very thought exhausted her.

"That’s what I thought," he said, his voice firm but reassuring.

Steve stepped closer. "You can do this," he said quietly. "Focus on all the good, and don’t let them in."

She gave a small nod, though it was clear her nerves were fraying. Her breathing shallowed as she lowered herself to her knees inside the sealed glass containment cell. Steve backed away, his hand hovering near the release switch, just in case.

"Verbrennung," Sam began.

"Getrübt."

Her heartbeat picked up like a drum in her chest, loud and fast, as if it might burst through her ribs.

"Einundzwanzig."

"Sonnenaufgang."

"Heizung."

Daphne clenched her eyes shut, her entire body tightening. She tried to focus on the image of Steve’s smile, of her and Bucky dancing in their apartment, of Sam making her laugh over greasy pizza with pineapple. She gripped those memories like a lifeline.

"Zwölf."

"Sicher."

"Anfang."

A sob broke from her throat as her knees buckled beneath her. She dropped forward, catching herself with trembling hands. The room spun and blurred, her tears stinging.

"Fünf."

"Bahnhof."

Then… silence. Sam and Steve exchanged a glance, frozen in place. Daphne was on her knees, head bowed, her breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. Seconds ticked by, unbearably slow. They didn’t know if the protocol had taken over or if she had fought it off.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were wide and wet, but clear. No trace of the empty, deadly expression Hydra had burned into her. Only fear—and something like hope.

"Steve," she whispered, as if saying it too loud might shatter the moment.

Steve took a step toward the glass. "Daphne?" he asked, his voice cracking with tentative relief.

"Steve," she said again, and this time her eyes locked with his, full of tears but unmistakably herself.

He didn’t wait another second. Rushing to the control panel, he hit the release, the seal hissing open as he stepped inside and dropped to his knees beside her. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as her sobs broke free.

"You did it," he murmured into her hair, over and over again. "You did it. It’s over. It’s over."

Daphne clung to him, too exhausted to speak. Her body shook in his arms, not with fear, but with the weight of finally being free.

Over Steve’s shoulder, she looked at Sam through tear-filled eyes, and a small, grateful smile formed on her lips.

"Thank you," she mouthed, her voice too raw to say it out loud.

Sam just gave her a soft nod and a half-smile in return. "Anytime."

Chapter Text

After successfully having the Hydra programming removed from her mind and the compliance chip extracted from her neck, Daphne finally felt like she could breathe again. When Steve was reassigned to Washington, D.C., she chose to go with him, taking a position at S.H.I.E.L.D. It wasn’t fieldwork—not yet—but she contributed behind the scenes, engineering new weapons and tools to make missions safer and more efficient for others.

Nick Fury himself told her she’d been handpicked for the role by Alexander Pierce, the man above him. She hadn’t met Pierce yet, but she was told he’d heard about her skill set from Tony. Daphne didn’t like being watched from afar, but she let it go. For now.

She was walking through the long, sleek corridors of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters when she caught sight of Steve storming toward her, still in his Captain America uniform, looking like he was ready to tear the walls down.

"I thought you were—" she started.

"Where's Fury?" he snapped, not slowing.

"His office. Why? What happened?" she asked, alarmed, trailing after him.

Steve didn’t answer. He stormed straight into Fury’s office without knocking.

"You just can't stop yourself from lying, can you?" he demanded, his voice low but sharp.

Daphne lingered in the doorway, surprised to see Fury not flinch at the accusation. He looked almost like he’d been expecting this.

"I didn't lie," Fury said evenly. "Agent Romanoff had a different mission than yours."

"Which you didn't feel obliged to share," Steve shot back.

"I'm not obliged to do anything," Fury replied, rising from his desk.

"Those hostages could have died, Nick."

"I sent the greatest soldier in history to make sure that didn’t happen."

"Soldiers trust each other," Steve countered. "That’s what makes it an army—not a bunch of guys running around shooting guns."

Fury’s expression hardened. "Last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye."

"Okay!" Daphne cut in, throwing up her hands. "This is way too much testosterone. Would someone like to explain to me what the hell is going on?"

Fury turned toward her, his voice still calm but firm. "I didn’t want you doing anything you weren’t comfortable with. Agent Romanoff is comfortable with everything."

Steve shook his head. "I can’t lead a mission when the people I’m leading have missions of their own."

"It’s called compartmentalization," Fury said. "Nobody spills the secrets because nobody knows them all."

"Except you," Steve said coldly.

Fury sighed. "You’re wrong about me. I do share. I’m nice like that."

He stepped out from behind his desk and gestured toward the hallway. "Follow me. Both of you."

They trailed him into the elevator. "Insight Bay," he said aloud.

"Captain Rogers and Agent Barnes do not have clearance for Project Insight," the elevator’s voice responded.

Daphne frowned and turned to Fury. "What the hell is Project Insight?"

"Director override. Fury, Nicholas J."

"Confirmed."

The elevator started descending. Daphne’s heart beat a little faster, sensing that whatever they were about to see would be important.

"You know, they used to play music," Steve said offhandedly.

Fury cracked a faint smile. "Yeah. My grandfather operated one of these things for 40 years. Granddad worked in a nice building. Got good tips. He’d walk home every night, a roll of ones stuffed in his lunch bag. He’d say hi, people would say hi back. Time went on, the neighborhood got rougher. He’d say hi. They’d say, ‘Keep on steppin’.’ Granddad got to gripping that lunch bag a little tighter."

"Did he ever get mugged?" Steve asked.

Fury chuckled. "Every week some punk would say, ‘What’s in the bag?’"

"And what would he do?"

"He’d show ’em. Bunch of crumpled ones… and a loaded .22 Magnum."

The elevator doors opened, revealing a cavernous space—an enormous underground hangar bustling with technicians and armed guards. Daphne’s eyes widened as she stepped forward.

"Holy shit," she muttered.

Suspended in the air were three massive helicarriers, sleek and deadly-looking, each one bristling with firepower.

"Yeah, I know," Fury said, his voice oddly somber. "They’re a lot bigger than a .22."

Unlike the last helicarrier they'd been on, this one was a floating armory. Towering cannons extended from nearly every surface, the machines humming with power, lethal and unmistakable. The hangar floor buzzed with activity—technicians barked orders, engineers wheeled in crates of components, and pilots prepped rows of freshly delivered quinjets. The entire bay had the feel of a war machine coiled and ready to strike.

"This is Project Insight," Fury announced as the elevator doors opened. His voice was steady, but carried weight. "Three next-generation helicarriers, synced to a network of target satellites."

Steve stepped out beside Daphne, narrowing his eyes at the massive structures suspended in the cavernous space. "Launched from the Lemurian Star," he muttered, finally understanding why that ship was out in open water—why it had seemed so out of place.

"Once we get them in the air," Fury continued, "they never need to come down. Continuous sub-orbital flight, courtesy of our new repulsor engines."

"Stark?" Steve asked, already suspecting the answer.

"You didn’t tell me this is what those were for," Daphne said sharply, turning toward Fury. Her gaze flicked up to the weaponized ships.

"Wait, you made them?" Steve asked, surprised.

"At the time you didn’t need to know what they were for. These new long-range precision guns can eliminate a thousand hostiles a minute," Fury said, unflinching. "The satellites can read a terrorist's DNA before he steps outside his spider hole. We’re going to neutralize a lot of threats before they even happen."

"How do you know it’s a threat if it hasn’t happened yet?" Daphne asked quietly, her arms folded across her chest.

"We can’t afford to wait that long," Fury replied.

"Who’s ‘we’?" Steve asked.

"After New York, I convinced the World Security Council we needed a quantum surge in threat analysis. For once, we’re way ahead of the curve."

"By holding a gun to everyone on Earth and calling it protection," Steve snapped. His voice was cold now, disbelief and anger tightening his jaw.

Fury didn’t flinch. "You know, I read those SSR files. Greatest Generation? You guys did some nasty stuff."

"Yeah, we compromised," Steve said, not denying it. "Sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. But we did it so people could be free. This—" he gestured to the enormous helicarriers above them, "—this isn’t freedom. This is fear."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. takes the world as it is, not as we’d like it to be," Fury said, his voice sharp now. "And it’s getting damn near past time for you to get with that program, Cap."

Steve’s stare hardened. "Don’t hold your breath," he said before turning on his heel, heading back to the elevator.

"Steve!" Daphne called, hurrying after him. She caught up just before the doors closed. "I didn’t know anything about this, I swear."

He stopped but didn’t face her. "What did you think the engines were for?"

"Don’t do that," she said gently, planting herself in front of him. "You’re mad at Fury and need someone to yell at, but don’t make it me. You know I wouldn’t be involved in something like this if I had any idea."

He let out a frustrated breath as the elevator began its ascent. "You’re right. I’m sorry."

"It’s fine," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Fury, everyone—they’re scared. You can’t blame them for that."

Steve turned to her, eyes weary. "Tell me there isn’t a part of you that thinks this is a bad idea."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Obviously I think launching weapons into the atmosphere is a bad idea. But what are we supposed to do, Steve? Wait until the next invasion and hope we survive it?"

"I don’t know," he admitted quietly, his voice edged with uncertainty. "But maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t what we thought it was."

​​ • • • • • • •

The moment Steve suggested they go to the Smithsonian, Daphne’s reaction was immediate and unflinching: absolutely not. She already knew what was waiting there—an exhibit dedicated to them. To Captain America and the Huntress. To the Howling Commandos. A glossy, government-approved version of the story she had lived, survived, and still carried with her every single day.

She hadn’t needed a museum to remind her of who she used to be. Every glance at her left hand, at the wedding ring she still had put back on the moment she got it back, was reminder enough. What could a curated display offer that her nightmares didn’t already replay each night in brutal clarity? Hydra. Zola’s voice. The cold weight of needles. Schmidt’s sneer. And Bucky—always Bucky. The echo of his final promise: “We can do anything if we’re all together, remember.”

Still, Steve had insisted. Something about confronting the past, about the value of remembering, even the painful parts. And so she’d relented.

But the moment they stepped inside, she regretted it. Towering murals of her and Steve lined the walls, draped behind carefully placed American flags. Daphne kept her head down as they passed families and tourists, all blissfully unaware that the woman in the grainy black-and-white photographs was walking right beside them.

She hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t asked to be powerful or exceptional or mythologized. The world liked its heroes sanitized. They never saw the dark parts—the nights she couldn’t sleep, the memories that came clawing back like ghosts under her skin. The worst of it was that she couldn’t talk about it. Not really. Not even to Steve. Especially not to Steve.

She gripped her brother’s hand tightly as they made their way through the main hall. Her palm was damp. She felt like she was being slowly crushed beneath the weight of history.

A recorded voice echoed through the chamber: “Symbols to the nation. Heroes to the world. The story of Captain America and the Huntress is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice.”

She glanced at Steve. “Why do I feel like you paid them to say that?”

“You know I was thinking the same thing about you,” he replied with a small smile.

They paused in front of a large display.

"Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare..."

Daphne nudged him. “I think you have a fan,” she said, nodding toward a young boy staring wide-eyed at them. Steve grinned and held a finger to his lips in a mock shush. The boy nodded solemnly, reverent.

But then Daphne froze.

There it was—her display. A life-sized photo of her in uniform, her expression frozen in mid-smile, back when she thought they could actually win something without losing everything.

"Taken captive in 1943, Daphne Rogers was tested on by Hydra..." the narration began. She barely heard the rest. Her breath caught as the screen lit up with an old interview. Her face. Her voice. Frozen in time.

"A woman you mean. I believe I peaked out of my girlhood ages ago..."

She’d given that interview the day before Bucky died.

“You okay?” Steve asked gently from behind her.

“Yeah,” she lied. “Just weird, I guess. Everyone sees me as some sort of... trailblazer.”

“You are,” he said without hesitation.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” she whispered, and turned to keep walking. But the next panel stopped her in her tracks.

It was Bucky.

His face stared back at her from a black-and-white photo. Below it, a short, clean biography: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 1917–1945. Best friend of Captain America. Member of the Howling Commandos.

That was it. That was all they had to say.

Her throat tightened, hot tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. The words felt like erasure. Sanitized. Hollow. They didn’t say a thing about the real Bucky—the man who'd walked her home from the library every Sunday, no matter how early she went or how long she stayed. The man who could read her mind just by the way she sighed. Who made her laugh. Who danced with her even when she stepped on his toes. Who promised her forever and meant it.

They didn’t say a damn thing about how much she loved him.

“I can’t... I can’t be here,” she choked out, the dam finally breaking.

Steve turned instantly, concern washing over his face. “Daphne. It’s okay. We can leave.”

“No,” she said quickly, wiping at her eyes. “You should stay. Just... I’ll meet you at home.”

And before anyone else could see the tears spilling freely down her cheeks, she turned and hurried out of the exhibit, past the photographs, past the carefully constructed history—away from all of it. Away from Bucky’s picture. Away from the version of her story they wanted to remember.

When Daphne stepped outside, the sunlight hit her like a wave, too bright, too warm, too present. She staggered toward one of the stone pillars and leaned against it, gripping the edge like it might anchor her to the moment. Her breath came in uneven bursts, each inhale caught halfway in her chest.

This—this was exactly why she hadn’t come here before. Exactly what she knew would happen. Steve could face the past with open arms, but she wasn’t built like that. Her past didn’t empower her. It haunted her. It whispered Hydra’s chants in her ear when she tried to sleep and filled her lungs with the cold memory of a cryo-chamber.

Her past had Bucky’s name etched all over it.

And still, no matter how badly she wanted to outrun it, there was one thing left unfinished. One person she couldn't bring herself to leave behind—not yet.

Not without saying goodbye. Not really.

Chapter Text

When the door creaked open and the elderly woman saw who was standing on her porch, she blinked as if her eyes were playing a cruel trick on her. For a moment, she thought maybe her mind was slipping. Maybe time had finally caught up to her. Maybe she was seeing a ghost.

“Daphne?” she asked, her voice trembling as she stared at the face she hadn’t seen in decades.

“Hi, Becky,” Daphne said softly, a gentle smile tugging at her lips as she looked at the woman who, in her memory, had only ever been ten years old and drawing stick figures with chalk on the sidewalk. Now, Rebecca Barnes was well into her eighties, her hair silver, her back a little stooped, her hands weathered—but her eyes still had that same spark. The spark that reminded Daphne of Bucky.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Becky whispered, her voice breaking as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Daphne in a surprisingly strong hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Daphne said, her voice catching in her throat, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for. For disappearing. For not saying goodbye. For surviving when Bucky didn’t. For missing so much.

“Come in,” Becky said quickly, pulling her into the warmth of the house.

The moment Daphne crossed the threshold, she felt the tears begin to rise again. The house was nothing like the small apartment Becky had grown up in. It was filled with soft light and lived-in comfort. The walls were lined with photo frames—generations of family smiling down at her, laughter frozen in time. Pictures of children and grandchildren, holidays and quiet moments. There was a fullness here, a life Becky had gone on to build—without her brother. Without Daphne.

Her eyes drifted to the mantel. A wedding photo sat in a place of honor, Becky beaming in a lace gown beside a man Daphne had never met. Her husband. A life that Bucky had never gotten to see.

The weight of it was too much. Daphne tried to hold it in, but the dam cracked open anyway. The tears spilled down her face as she stood in the middle of Becky’s living room, the ache of lost time gripping her chest.

She’d missed it all. She missed everything. And most of all, she missed him—Bucky—who never even got the chance to see his little sister get married.

• • • • • • •

When Daphne wandered down the long corridor toward the conference room, she wasn’t exactly sure why her feet had brought her there. She told herself it was just to pass through. Just to peek in. She had no intention of going inside. But something had been clawing at her lately—something unresolved. Something she needed to say aloud, but not to anyone too close. That ruled out Steve and Nat. The rest of the Avengers, for all their camaraderie, felt too much like family now. Too involved.

She needed someone on the outside. Someone who understood but didn’t hover.

“The thing is, I think it’s getting worse,” a voice said from inside the room.

She paused just outside the door, her fingers curling into her sleeves. A small circle of veterans sat in folding chairs, all eyes on the man speaking. “A cop pulled me over last week. He thought I was drunk. I swerved to miss a plastic bag. I thought it was an IED.”

Daphne stayed pressed to the edge of the doorway, half-shadowed by the frame. Her stomach twisted. She wasn’t sure what she expected from the group, but not this. Not the raw honesty. The vulnerability. She suddenly felt wildly out of place.

“Some stuff you leave there. Other stuff you bring back,” Sam said, standing near the front, arms crossed casually as he addressed the group with a quiet confidence. “It’s our job to figure out how to carry it. Is it gonna be in a big suitcase, or in a little man-purse? That’s up to you.”

Daphne stayed on the sidelines, silent, blending into the wall as if she were part of the paint. She didn’t dare interrupt. These men and women were here to talk, to heal. She didn’t want to take that away from them.

But Sam noticed her. Of course he did.

After the session ended and the chairs began to scrape back from the floor, Sam stepped away from the others and walked toward her, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Saw you lingering at the door,” he said gently. “You didn’t want to come in?”

“I don’t think the veterans would appreciate listening to the woes of an ex-Hydra assassin,” she replied, her tone half-bitten, half-resigned.

“You know, you’re the only person who focuses on that part of the story,” he told her, unbothered by her sharpness.

“What part should I be focusing on?” she asked, eyes scanning the now-empty room.

“Maybe the part where you helped defeat Hydra,” he said. “Then after a lot of hard work, got them out of your head.”

“I did,” Daphne murmured, her voice softening. “But it still feels like I’m playing for the wrong team.”

Sam tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.” She sighed. “I don’t know if I can trust them the way I thought I could.”

“It’s the guilt. The regret,” he said plainly.

She narrowed her eyes at him, quietly astonished. “How do you know how I’m feeling?”

“I recognize the look on your face,” he said. His tone wasn’t accusing. Just true. “My wingman, Riley. Flying a night mission. Standard PJ rescue op. Nothing we hadn’t done a thousand times before. Until an RPG knocked Riley’s dumb ass out of the sky. Nothing I could do. It’s like I was up there just to watch.”

Daphne swallowed hard. That hit deeper than she expected. “I’m sorry.”

“After that,” Sam said, his voice steady, “I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?”

She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Well, you seem happy now. Back in the world.”

“The number of people giving me orders is down to about zero. So, hell yeah. Aren’t you glad you got out?”

“I was,” she admitted. “Now I’m starting to think that was a bad idea.”

Sam studied her quietly. “So what do you want?”

There was a long pause. Daphne looked down at her hands, then back up at him.

“I think I want back in.”

• • • • • • •

When Sam pulled up to the curb in front of Daphne’s apartment, the sun had just begun to dip beneath the buildings, casting long shadows over the street. As she stepped out of the passenger side, Steve rolled up at the exact same moment on his motorcycle, the engine humming low as he parked it beside the curb.

“Thank you,” Daphne said sincerely, turning to Sam. Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. “For the ride. And the talk. I don’t really have a lot of people to talk to anymore.”

“Hey, anytime,” Sam said with a small smile, the kind that came easy to him. “If you ever need someone to talk to, about anything, you can always call me. Even if you’re just bored.”

“I will,” she promised, nodding. There was something comforting in the steadiness of Sam Wilson. She stepped out and walked over to Steve, who was waiting by the door, arms crossed and expression far too amused for her liking.

“So?” he asked, clearly unable to resist the teasing edge in his voice.

“So what?” she returned, playing it cool.

“Sam giving you a ride home, it’s late…”

“Relax,” she said, pushing the door open as they entered the building and began climbing the stairs to their apartment. “We were just talking and he decided to give me a ride home.”

As they reached their floor, their neighbor Kate appeared, juggling a laundry basket and her phone. She offered them a polite smile as she tried to wrap up her conversation.

“I gotta go,” Kate said quickly, clearly eager to exit the call.

Daphne nudged Steve, eyebrows raised as she gestured subtly toward Kate. It wasn’t the first time she and Nat had tried to nudge him in this direction. But as always, Steve rolled his eyes.

“My aunt,” Kate explained, catching their awkward lingering. “She’s kind of an insomniac.”

Daphne smirked as Steve squirmed slightly, trying to find his footing.

“Hey, if you want…” he started, voice slightly uncertain. “If you want, you’re welcome to use our machine. Might be cheaper than the one in the basement.”

“Oh yeah? What’s it cost?” Kate asked with a raised brow, clearly playing along.

“A cup of coffee,” Steve replied, a little too quickly.

Daphne bit back a smile as she unlocked the door, listening to Kate respond.

“Thank you, but I already have a load in downstairs. And you really don’t want my scrubs in your machine. I just finished a rotation in the infectious disease ward, so…”

“Oh, well, I’ll keep my distance,” Steve said, chuckling.

“Hopefully, not too far,” Kate tossed back, a playful note in her voice that had Steve's cheeks flushing faintly.

Just as Daphne was about to open the door, Kate called out one last thing.

“Oh, and I think you left your stereo on.”

Daphne and Steve exchanged a look, the smile quickly fading from both their faces.

“You didn’t leave it on, did you?” she asked.

“I don’t even know how to use it,” Steve replied, already tense. Jazz music was faintly audible now, drifting through the door.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “We’re going in around the back.”

They slipped out to the fire escape, climbing through the window. Steve went first, his hand already reaching for the shield slung across his back. Daphne followed, heart beginning to pound as they crept down the hallway. The music grew louder with every step.

At the end of the hall, Steve paused and cautiously leaned around the corner. His whole body relaxed in an instant, and Daphne, curious, peeked past him—only to roll her eyes.

Fury. Sitting on their couch like he owned the place, record player spinning beside him.

“I don’t remember giving you a key,” Steve said dryly.

Fury shifted with a grimace, clearly in pain. “You really think I’d need one? My wife kicked me out.”

Daphne snorted. “You? You’re married?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Fury replied.

“Yeah, Nick. That’s the problem,” Steve said, flipping on the lights. But the second he did, he caught sight of the blood on Fury’s clothes, the wound on his arm. His demeanor shifted instantly.

Fury raised a hand, quickly gesturing for them to kill the lights. Then, he tapped something into his phone and held it up.

EYES EVERYWHERE.

“I’m sorry to have to do this, but I had no place else to crash,” he muttered.

SHIELD COMPROMISED.

Steve and Daphne shared a look, their stomachs dropping.

“Who else knows about your wife?” Steve asked cautiously.

YOU TWO AND ME.

“Just… my friends,” Fury said.

“We’re friends?” Daphne raised an eyebrow.

“That’s up to you,” Fury said.

Before she could reply, four deafening gunshots pierced through the wall. Fury grunted in pain and collapsed.

“Shit!” Daphne cursed, diving beside Steve as they dragged Fury into the hallway, away from the windows.

Blood soaked through Fury’s shirt as he fumbled in his pocket and handed Steve a flash drive.

“Don’t trust anyone,” he rasped.

They were still trying to figure out what to do when the door burst open and Kate stepped in, gun raised.

“Captain Rogers!” she called.

Both siblings turned, startled, but froze as Kate stepped forward confidently.

“I’m Agent 13 of SHIELD Special Service,” she announced.

“Kate?” Steve blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m assigned to protect you,” she said.

“On whose order?” Daphne asked, the adrenaline still racing through her.

“His,” Kate replied, glancing down at Fury’s unconscious form. She dropped to her knees, pulling out a walkie.

“Foxtrot is down. He’s unresponsive. I need EMTs.”

Daphne glanced toward the window, a flicker of movement on the roof across the street catching her eye.

“Steve,” she said quietly, pointing.

“Do we have a 20 on the shooter?” a voice asked through the walkie.

“I’m going after them,” Daphne said, already moving.

“Wait,” Steve called, grabbing her arm. “Be careful.”

Daphne nodded, eyes hardening with determination before she took off at a sprint. She crashed through the window without hesitation, glass shattering around her like harmless glitter, not leaving a single mark on her. As she vaulted out, she grabbed onto the rusted gutter of the adjacent building, her fingers closing tightly around the cold metal. With practiced precision, she swung herself up and over, landing hard on the rooftop.

Her boots thudded against the concrete just as her eyes locked on the shooter ahead—already mid-leap, crossing to the next rooftop with inhuman agility. Daphne groaned under her breath, realizing exactly what this chase was going to become.

“Great. Parkour,” she muttered, and took off running.

Her foot caught the edge of the roof, propelling her forward as she reached out mid-stride and yanked a length of metal piping from a nearby vent. Without breaking pace, she leapt across the gap to the next roof and hurled the pipe with all her strength. It cut through the air like a missile.

The shooter turned just in time to see it coming—and caught it with one hand like it weighed nothing. That’s when she saw it. The mask covering the lower half of his face, and those eyes—ice-cold and familiar in a way that made her blood chill. A shiver ran down her spine as recognition buzzed somewhere in her subconscious, but she didn’t have time to process it.

Before he could throw the pipe back, Daphne launched an energy blast straight at him. The impact sent him sprawling across the rooftop, body skidding as concrete cracked beneath him. She was on him in seconds, ready to pin him down—only for his hand to shoot up and clamp around her throat with terrifying force.