Branches scratched against the window, creating a melody of dysphoria in the room. The walls were a pale lavender, the bed adorned in the same color. Bookshelves lined the walls, full to the bursting. A picture window was the focal point of the space, three windows lined in a semicircle, the window seat littered with half read books. The middle window was cracked slightly, cool wind blew through and ruffled her hair as she lay in bed, one arm strewn over her head in sleepy contentment.

She didn't stir when the hand appeared, softly and slowly nudging the window further up.

The call came in the early hours of the morning. Steve was barely awake when he answered sleepily, rolling onto his back in bed. Fury wouldn't be calling him unless it was important, but he still didn't appreciate the wake up call.

"We've got an enhanced," Steve sat up in bed, this was a call he wasn't expecting "and I need you to come in."

Twenty minutes later, dressed in a light gray shirt and jeans, Steve sat across the office desk of Nick Fury. The director looked exhausted, but pleased. He was pointing to a plethora of monitors, showing the path of the enhanced over the last few months.

"So," Fury pointed at a series of dots in the Midwest, mostly small farm towns "as you can see she moves around a lot. Smart girl. This is what she looked like the last time we could capture an image." Fury pointed to the image and Steve leaned forward in his seat. The girl was small, close to five feet, with a short dark hair and dark eyes. She was dressed discreetly with a cap that covered most of her face, but the camera had caught a solid look at her when she glanced at it.

"Her abilities?"

"She seems to have telepathic abilities to some degree," Fury played a video clip of the girl walking through security at an airport without even being glanced at "but we don't know how advanced or what exactly she is capable of. We need you."

"I'm bringing her in?"

"You're being sent to find out what she's currently up to, the girl seems to be about four steps ahead of us at all times, and I want to know how and why. I want you to be discreet."

"She's not a threat?" Steve moved closer to the screen, watching various images and reading snaps of reports.

"She's definitely a threat." the older man pushed himself out of his chair, walking to a desk across the room to pour two cups of coffee. He set one in front of Steve, then took a long sip from the other. "She's just not necessarily a threat to us." He quickly tapped a few buttons, then pointed to a different series of dots on the screen, each of which brought up entire case files.

"This can't be possible," Steve leaned forward to inspect the images closer, smiling faintly "she's doing this on her own?"

"I'm afraid she is."

2 years later...

She had seen him before, of course. He had been tailing her for years, after all. He had a strong square jaw and light cropping of hair. She had seen him on television, in photographs, twelve steps behind her every time she shopped for groceries. She had seen him closer once, foolishly, when she let her curiosity get the better of her and went to his museum. She stood for a long time in front of the displays, until a nice woman with sympathetic eyes told her it was time to go home, her tone hinting that she knew the girl in front of her didn't have anywhere to go. She had seen him again, days after that adventure, wearing a dark jacket and a baseball cap, following a great distance away but never far enough to lose her. She had tested the limits of her abilities that day, allowing him to stay close and observe his movements the same way he observed hers, until she got nervous and lost him. She had watched from the rooftop as he gazed around in confusion, certain that she ought to be right there, then reached for the earpiece he wore to speak into it. Not moments later, a dark car picked him up and sped away. She moved that day, packing up what little she had into two duffel bags and setting out for the coast. It had been a year and two months since then, and she hadn't seen him again, though she felt the presence of his friends.

She allowed herself a luxury this morning, she walked down the road to the ocean, feeling the first rays of sun burn through the marine layer. The blue green waters of the Harbor were still, but even from the road she could hear the faint crash of waves on the shoreline. Turning right, she followed the rocks of the jetty to the shore.

As much as she loved listening to the massive surf break on the sand, today she longed for serenity. It was still early enough that the public was not out in masses and the summer crowds had died down even in the two weeks since she had been there. It was almost time to move again, but she rather liked the peninsula. It was a sleepy beach town where she wanted it to be, but just busy enough to blend in and attract little attention. She made her way out onto the rocks until she was as far out as she could be, in a position where she could hardly hear the whooping of boys braving the large surf, and instead could watch the glimmering water and listen to the quiet churning of the ocean. Few people came this far out onto the jetty, so it was clear to her that she had company when he saw him coming.

She recognized him, of course. He was wearing the same baseball cap he was wearing the last time, but a lighter jacket and sandals instead of boots. She laughed at that, supposing that he might have chosen them in an attempt to blend in with the locals.

He came too close for comfort, sitting about ten feet from her. She remained still, staring out into the waters with quiet resignation. Each could tell that the other was aware of their presence, and each was uneasy. He broke the silence.

"I'm not your enemy."

She considered these words carefully. She had never considered him an enemy, more of an obstacle to be conquered.

"Friends don't stalk friends."

"That wasn't my call to make."

"You can always make your own call." She turned to look at him. He smiled a weary smile back at her, and for one of the first times she considered that he might relate to her plight. He was magnificently nervous.

"I'm here because I need your help." She turned back around to face the ocean.

"I know that."

"So come with me."

She was silent. She could feel his frustration with her, she could feel his hopelessness and his want for her to comply.

"Why won't you?"

"Because I know what you want me to do."

"And?"

"And I don't particularly want to do it." She could feel the contempt in her own voice, she could feel it surging in the air around her and reigned it in quickly. She looked at him to gauge his reaction, and he was narrowing his eyes. All these years and he didn't understand the full extent of her powers.

"It would right a lot of wrongs."

"Doing this doesn't fix the past," she turned to face him, this time with venom in her voice "it won't bring the people he's killed back. It won't right anything. The only thing it will do is bring an expert assassin back to cognizance, and god knows we don't need any more people masquerading as heroes running around."

"Then what are you?" His voice was softer. He understood her aggravations but it didn't do anything to change his resolve. He was committed to his project.

She didn't respond. There was nothing left to say. He knew exactly what she was, exactly what she did. He stood, and remained standing for a moment as if expecting her to rise to join him. The first whale watching boat of the day was leaving the harbor, it's deck laden with carefree tourists and a few bored locals. She didn't look at him again until she heard the sand against the rocks as he walked away. When she did allow herself to look again, he had turned one last time to glance at her, the figure on the rocks at the end of the jetty.

A year and a half later...

Steam rose gently off the cup, which she had already dumped two ice cubes into. For some reason, she couldn't stand coffee when it wasn't slightly above a lukewarm temperature. She could feel the eyes of the waitress on her. For once, this one didn't think of the small quiet girl as a teenage runaway. She wasn't exactly dressed like a teenage runaway today, in dark blue jeans and nude flats. She wore a simple black tank top and her dark hair was loose and wavy from the beach humidity.

His thoughts entered her head before she saw him, anxious and nervous and terrified all at once. She found it comical that he was so frightened of her. He hadn't come alone, as she asked. She could let that go for now.

The bell dinged as he walked in, and she could see him turn his head to find her. In hindsight she shouldn't have sat with her back to the door, but it wasn't like the small diner was busy. Unless she was a middle aged surfer or an old man reminiscing on the glory days, he shouldn't have a problem. His eyes locked on the back of her head, and he took five hesitant steps toward her, checking her profile before taking a seat. She reached for her coffee cup and took a generous sip. She could feel his eyes searching her face, hunting for some sign of what she was thinking. His anxiety rose. He thought she was still as harsh as when he met her on the beach two years ago. He thought she would turn him down. A lot had changed since then. Sokovia. Wakanda. The whole battle centered around Barnes, a spectacle that was being called "Superhero Civil War."

"Your agents have given me miles of shit this week, you know." She stated it matter of factly, still staring out the window. He softened just a little bit.

"Sorry about them, they don't know how to be subtle."

"The brunette one was cute, the Sokovian?"

"Wanda."

"Right," she nodded "one of the Maximoffs."

"The only Maximoff." He stared her down and for the first time she looked at him. He was reminding her of the cost. She knew the damn cost. She wondered why he would bother reminding her.

She paused, reading him again. His hands were folded in his lap, his large body contained in the booth on the other side of the table. He liked that he could see the door, years of looking over his shoulder have made him constantly anxious, but that was quelled right now. He hardly ever knew who his enemy was, but he knew for a fact it wasn't her. The waitress dropped by, bringing a cup of coffee and another glass of water. She paused for a moment as if to take their order, but Steve nodded curtly in her direction and she ambled away after a hesitant pause. Steve couldn't tell what she was thinking, but she knew his thoughts very well. He was hopeful, more than anything. He had a genuine, naive belief in her and in her abilities. He thought she could fix everything.

She wasn't so sure.

"You know I haven't really changed my mind." She looked at him steadfastly. His outward demeanor didn't betray his emotions, the man was good at looking professional. The only thing that gave any indication of the storm brewing inside of him was a slight clenching of his jaw.

"I know." She allowed a pause before speaking again.

"Where is he?" She asked, turning to stare out the window again, as if he was going to pop out of the bushes across the street and wave to her. He hesitated to tell her, though she knew the answer immediately after asking, when the large facility popped into his mind.

"Wakanda," he said, deciding she needed to be trusted if he was going to ask for help, "he put himself under again, at least until we can figure out how to fix him."

"Like he's a car with a broken part." She scoffed and he shrugged.

"Do you have a better way of putting it?"

"I suppose not." She smirked, thinking of him as a giant human popsicle. She wondered vaguely if it would be like the movies, if he would have lines of snot frozen under his nose when they finally defrosted him. Defrosted him. She chuckled at that and he looked at her strangely. It wasn't funny, not really, but comparing the super soldier to meat was curiously humorous to her.

Steve squinted at her, trying to make sense of her thoughts again, foolishly. In the last year and a half she had perfected how best to hide her emotions, how to make those thoughts disappear from her face. Projection, that was the key. She flexed a finger and could feel the uncertainty pass out of her body to radiate through his. His eyes widened, he could feel it too, sudden and powerful, and it could have only come from one source.

"You still don't know?" He asked, as if it surprised him.

"No, I don't." She looked him in the eye again. "I don't know why I would help, but then again I really don't have a good reason not to."

"You've been doing great work the last few years." He complimented her in hopes of softening her resolve, turning her to his belief. She knew this, but she let herself be softened anyway.

"They aren't coming down easy. I've only gotten three since we last met."

"Still impressive, as a team we've only gotten five."

"You've had other situations to deal with though. Together and," she paused to gauge his reaction "separate."

His jaw clenched again. The whole situation infuriated him, he didn't like it when people didn't like him, and he felt so strongly that he was right that he refused to back down to the others. He'd talked a few of them over to his side, even. Most notably the redhead, Romanoff. She was reclusive now, claiming to be searching for Banner, but who really knew. She had flown completely off the radar six months ago, and they both knew it was because she didn't want to actually go down with Rogers sinking ship. It would be so easy, too, to just tell her where Banner was. But life didn't work that way for most people and besides, the man was doing very well evading her on his own. Romanoff was sniffing the edges of the trail though, it wouldn't be long until he was found again.

"Regardless," she continued "I don't know about this."

"You don't have to fight with us," he started, but she cut him off.

"Isn't that what always happens though? No one has to fight with you, but once they start they don't stop until they're dead." That hit him hard and he looked down at his hands in quiet resignation. "That's why there's only one Maximoff. That's why Coulson went down. That's why Rhodes can't walk. Your little team is destructive, in more ways than one. Why would I want to contribute?"

He looked up slowly, and a rush of emotions emanated her way. Guilt, regret, terror, anxiety. But there was pride, too. He was proud of his actions.

"We save more than we hurt."

"Barnes doesn't," She said it shortly "and if we're really operating on honesty here you should tell me why exactly you want me to help him. He's killed dozens, probably into the hundreds. He tried to kill Romanoff, if you recall."

"She forgives him."

"She remembers him." He paused with his mouth slightly ajar. "He trained her. He was-never mind. It's complicated."

"I-" he cut off and looked out the window, searching for her.

"You didn't know," She grabbed her mug and took two large swigs, then slid to the edge of the booth and stood, looking back at him accusingly, "and you were supposed to come alone."

"Chandler, wait!" He called after her as she strode for the door. He he paused to throw a crumpled bill on the table, to cover the coffees. She almost laughed, even chasing down a target the man couldn't be dishonorable. "Chandler, she's the only one that's here."

"You're lying." She whipped around, now standing in the parking lot. A homeless man was sitting on the bench outside, watching the drama unfold in a drug induced stupor that almost dazed her to even look at. She focused on Steve. "You're lying because the other one is here too. The one with the metal wings."

She didn't have to read him to know she was right, his eyes flicked upwards as the shadow passed over them.

"I trusted that you would keep this between us," she spit the words through her teeth and he felt the fury radiate from her like a nasty heat wave "and you betrayed that trust. If you hadn't," she paused, the words truly pained her to say "I was becoming inclined to help you."

His brows furrowed. Resignation. She couldn't tell what it was toward. Anticipation. She felt this one a moment later than she should have, and then she felt the earth shake as the man who called himself the Falcon landed behind her. She whipped around to face him and a second later felt the pinch of a needle on the side of her neck. Immediately, her head lolled to the side and she felt herself slumping backwards. To his credit, he caught her before she fell, a wave of his regret washing over her, and whispered "I'm sorry."

"You drugged me." She screamed the statement furiously from the backseat, shooting up to glare out the window. Her beautiful California coastline had given way to flat grasslands. Romanoff was driving, Rogers in the passenger seat. Steve was wearing a new set of clothes, it had been at least a day. They both glanced back at her, the redhead in the rear view mirror with a hint of contempt and Rogers turning fully around in his seat, the regret faded but still strong.

"I'm sorry," he started, but she cut him off with a screech.

"You're sorry?!" She pulled the door handle furiously, but it wouldn't budge. Child locks. "You fucking drugged me and threw me in the backseat of a getaway car, and you're sorry? This is kidnap!"

"Technically," the Russian quipped "you don't exist. So it's not like you can go to authorities."

Chandler was dumbfounded. The hero of the nation had drugged her and driven her across state lines. Feeling her fury, Rogers grimaced.

"Also technically," he started "I wasn't the one who drugged you." That fueled a whole new fire.

"No, but now you think that since you have me I'm just going to do your bidding?" To her credit, Natasha chuckled at that, earning half a smirk from Chandler and a glance of reproach from Steve. He hadn't told her what Chandler had shared. She was blissfully unaware of he past, and yet when Chandler looked deep enough into her she could feel the pain ebbing below the surface. Her existence was made of pain, coiled and twisted

"No," he started "but I think I can persuade you to think differently."

"How exactly do you plan to do that?" She tried to read him, but he was thinking too quickly, thinking of nonsense. He was keeping her out intentionally because he knew she wouldn't like what he had planned.

"Sleep for another seven hours or so," Steve smirked, the redhead revved the engine and the car crept closer to 90 "then you'll see."

"Bastard," she whispered again, slumping into her seat and shutting her eyes "star spangled bastard."

They pulled up in front of a Brooklyn brownstone six and a half hours later. The couple allowed her to remove herself from the car and she walked around it, following Natasha up the stairs and into the home. There was frustration in the air, and she didn't need her abilities to sense it or its source.

"I hate this country," the voice quipped in a thick accent, giving Chandler a half second glance before turning back to the television "and all their idiotic reality shows."

Natasha threw her legs over the back of the couch to join Wanda Maximoff, grabbing the remote and switching the channel to some sporting event with utmost grace. Steve followed Chandler in solemnly, as if he expected her to understand why she was here already.

"I don't get it," she turned around "this doesn't make any sense to me. I'm not going to turn your way because you brought me home to your fake little happy life."

"Upstairs," he pointed "second door on the left."

After a pause, she went obediently, like a puppy. He was apprehensive, and she wanted to know why.

The stairs were steep and slightly slanted backwards, a product of years of wear and tear. She peeked into the other doors as she passed them, the first on the left seemed to be Maximoff's room. A lot of it was still in boxes, but Russian trinkets lined the walls and the bedding was a deep scarlet. Fitting. The door on the right had to be Steve's, everything in it screamed military. The bed was small and narrow, sheets and blanket pulled tight. There wasn't a single crease in the pillow case, and only one photo sat on the nightstand. Chandler, despite herself, crept closer.

It was them, during the war. A photo that hadn't made its way into the hands of news outlets. They were smiling, their heads close together, as if one of them had just told an age old joke. It would have been a standard military photo, if it weren't for Steve's stupid uniform, the star splayed across his broad chest. She picked up the frame and ran a finger gently over the glass.

"I said second on the left."

"I know what you said," she put the frame down and turned to him, leaning languidly against the doorframe "I just... You really care about him this much?"

The corner of his mouth pulled up in the saddest smile she had ever seen, and he nodded once. He was happy just thinking about the man. She couldn't make eye contact. She turned once more to look at the photograph, two young, foolish soldier boys tripping over themselves for glory, then brushed past him and back down the hall. Steve remained where he was, watching her carefully. She read him one more time. Apprehension still, but notably stronger this time.

She opened the door. The room was dark, and she knew it immediately.

"What is this?"

"We," Steve walked into the room after her flicking on a light switch that cast a dim, yellowish glow over the room "think we know what the best way to help him is."

"You recreated the room he was brainwashed in." It was on a much smaller scale, but it was accurate. The walls were dark and resembled concrete, as was the floor. Light fixtures on the ceiling resembled the same as the once Bucky must have stared at, all those years ago for so many hours. She was fixated on the chair. Dark and harsh looking, with strong bondings meant to hold the strongest of the strong in place. She took a few steps and placed her hand on the back of it, swallowing the rock that seemed to appear in her throat.

"We need to bring him back to those memories." Steve's voice was quiet but sure from behind her. She inhaled deeply then straightened and turned to face him.

"We could do that without this, besides this room isn't big enough." She looked around again. He wasn't going to believe he was truly back there, not when you could hear the traffic of the city and see where the wood grain of the floor was coming through the paint.

"We plan to recreate this in the facility in Wakanda," Steve looked around again "but we need your help to do that."

"Just that?" She already knew the answer to the question.

"No," he sighed and she could feel the pain he felt at having to admit that he couldn't save his best friend alone "not just that. We need to bring him back to those memories and change them."

She nodded, slowly. They expected so much from her when they didn't even understand the full extent of her abilities. They wanted her to fix this man, who had killed at least dozens of people, who had fought for the enemy for so long, on the off chance that he might one day be good again. Steve had torn her out of her life, out of her personal mission to fulfill his, and she could tell that he felt her resentment even as she registered how deeply it was bubbling. She turned to look at the chair again, and it faded slightly, visible below the surface like rocks under a slow moving stream. She fingered the restraint on the chair and imagined it binding his flesh arm, restraining him so he was forced to become the assassin he didn't want to be, the assassin he would have fought against had he retained his sanity. She could see him screaming in this seat, in pain and anger and frustration, in knowing that he was wrong but not being able to do anything about it. She blinked away the tears that she suddenly found in her eyes and spoke.

"I need you to make me a promise."

"Anything." She heard Steve straighten behind her and uncross his arms. She felt his hope, his joy. She could tell that he knew she was going to give in, and he was ecstatic.

"If I help you," she turned to face him, the ghost of a smile on his face "you leave me alone for the rest of my life. No contact, no coming after me, no more begging me to meddle in people's heads, no nothing."

His smile broke out over his face, real and genuine and unconfined.

"Of course."

"So," she turned one more time to face the chair, inhaling deeply and taking a moment to close her eyes "when do we fly to Wakanda?"

They landed sixteen hours later and were quickly ushered into a long black limousine. Steve looked exceedingly uncomfortable with the luxury accommodations, tucking his long limbs in to himself and pressing his legs together. The others weren't used to it either, but sprawled out to take advantage on the short ride to the facility.

The flight had been long and mostly silent, and Chandler had used the time to assess each of her companions with more detail than she ever had before. They had been following her and surveying her for years, and she had never seriously looked into any of them. Steve she knew fairly well, and his motivations and memories were very simplistic, but Wanda and Natasha were incredibly complex. She tested her abilities by testing them, paying close attention to the memories they called to mind and the dreams they had when they dozed. Wanda's was a nightmare. She couldn't save her brother. When she woke, she took a deep breath and wiped a single tear, she was used to this dream. Natasha's had been vague, mostly shapes and colors, but there was panic in her eyes when she started awake, and Chandler decided to give her the privacy of her thoughts for the remainder of the flight.

When Steve slept, he dreamt of Bucky. Nothing in particular, nothing really in relation to what's happening inside his mind, just random quick bursts of memory. Bucky smiling crookedly, Bucky rumpling Steve's hair before either of them saw combat, Bucky standing by Steve's side during the funeral, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. When he woke, he settled on bringing back the entirety of those memories, why the reason Bucky was smiling was because Steve had slipped on ice, that he had rumpled Steve's hair because Steve had once again tried to enlist, Bucky being the only thing that kept Steve standing during the funeral by physically holding him up when he swayed. Bucky was Steve's whole world after his mother died.

Momentarily, Chandler regretted waiting so long to help him.

They pulled up to the huge complex as the sun was setting, outlining the massive stone panther etched out of the rock. Chandler leaned forward in her seat to get a better look at the rock as they passed almost entirely underneath it. She knew she looked awestruck, and she could feel the silent stares of the others.

"It's impressive." Steve admitted as Chandler turned to face them, slightly pink in the face. She nodded gratefully at him as the limousine pulled into what looked like a small and dark cave. The road steeped to a decline quickly, then pulled up as light filled the cave again. They pulled into what looked like a garage, where a large, dark skinned man waited for them. T'Challa.

"Captain Rogers," the man extended his hand which Steve firmly grasped, smiling "good to see you again, especially under the circumstances." Natasha gave him a peck on the cheek and Wanda offered a friendly smile and a quick nod of her head. Chandler hung back, but T'Challa's dark eyes found her quickly. "This is her?"

"This," Steve extended a hand in her direction and she slowly came closer "is Chandler."

Chandler kept her arms folded firmly across her chest, scanning T'Challa's memories as he scanned her. He took in her small frame with an inherent mistrust of her abilities. In his country, physical prowess was the most important tool to survival, and it did not appear that she had much. He didn't yet know that her abilities were internal. Steve hadn't told him much.

"She is going to save Barnes?" T'Challa sounded dumbfounded.

"I am going," Chandler took a deep breath, fully prepared to prove herself "to do the damn best I can to fix him, because I don't think he should go the rest of his life living in regret. We have these powers, these superhuman abilities, it is our responsibility to act on them, or else we live in regret. You know something about regret, don't you? Except you spell regret 'O-r-o-r-o.' Life is a series of 'what ifs,' isn't it?"

He stared at her, absolutely dumbfounded and filled with rage as she smiled at him. He swallowed back his angry words and his eyes shifted around to look at the others.

"He's this way." T'Challa broke his gaze to point down a long hallway and after a pause, they followed.

"Has he been taken out of cryostasis yet?" Steve asked, more spring in his step than usual.

"He should be waking up in the next few minutes." T'Challa stopped outside of a door and waved them in. Steve didn't hesitate for a moment, and the rest followed. Chandler felt T'Challa's scowl on her as she entered the room, but she knew he was more suspicious of what she could do than actually angry for what she had said. He would get over it.

Bucky was reclined in a chair similar to the one in the brownstone, but white and padded. There was a heart rate monitor attached to his bare chest, and his left arm ended in a nub just below his shoulder. His breathing was slow and steady, and his heart rate was steadily increasing back to a normal rate. Steve, Natasha, and Wanda stared at him cautiously, barely breathing themselves. Chandler moved closer to him, trying to read his foggy memories as he came back to consciousness. The fingers on his right hand twitched as his lead lolled to the left. Chandler gasped as he opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he took in the room around him before his eyes settled on her.

"Chandler," he breathed "you're alive."

"He knows you?" Steve said sharply, after only a half seconds pause. Bucky turned his head to look at him, smiling the same hazy, crooked smile Chandler had seen in Steve's memories on the plane. Steve's brow furrowed as he searched Bucky's face for an answer, but Chandler found herself too dumbstruck to respond as she was flooded with waves of Bucky's memories, clarified and sharp as razors. Blood, fear, regret, wave after wave of painful emotions washed over her as Bucky remembered everything that had to do with her. Chandler felt breathless and dizzy at the onslaught.

"Of course I know her," he blinked at Chandler one more time, the smile fading from his face as the memory of that night came back to him "she's my daughter."