Hey everyone! Welcome to Ink Blots. This fic is a Captain America/Avengers/general MCU thing that I've been working on for a while, and I'm really excited to share it with you guys! I'm planning on this being long, so here's some basic info to know before you get involved too much.
Rating: T for violence, romance, and language. More specific triggers will be listed on the tops of each chapter!
Characters: Lydia Kennedy, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, etc.
Pairings: Lydia/Bucky, Steve/Darcy, Natasha/Clint, Pietro/Jules, Wanda/Vision, Thor/Jane, Steve/Bucky (past)
Summary: As the Avengers' psychologist, not much surprises Lydia Kennedy anymore. This changes when she accidentally becomes a fugitive with, befriends, and starts to fall for a recently reformed Bucky Barnes.
Warnings: Violence/romance/some sex stuff but nothing explicit. This chapter specifically includes mentions of kidnapping and torture, and some homophobia.
EDIT 7/2/16: fixed plot errors and closed plot holes and fixed typos.
i. catalyzation
The thing about fleeing is that one can never actually flee. To be a successful fugitive, a girl needs to blend into the crowd, since tucking and rolling behind foliage isn't exactly subtle.
However, blending in is a task made infinitely harder when lugging around a former assassin with a metal arm.
This probably requires some explanation.
Two Weeks Ago
"They need you on the 15th floor for an eval at eleven," SHIELD's receptionist informed Lydia Kennedy as the woman strolled towards her office. The day was shaping up to be a quiet one, with the respective members of the Avengers on different missions-Steve was running a observation job in London, Bruce and Tony in the Tower working on their projects. Thor was in Asgard for a while deal with his father, and Clint and Natasha were in Paris.
"I thought that was next week?" Lydia answered, eyes instinctively going up to the calendar on the wall. SHIELD never moved appointments unless a city had been blown up, and Lydia's viewing of the morning news yielded no evidence that someone had busted back into town and tried to kill the Avengers (again.)
"It got moved," he explained. Thanks, man, she thought, inner voice dripping with sarcasm. Real helpful.
"Any reason why?" she inquired, but was only answered with a shrug of shoulders and a how-should-I-know look.
She sighed.
Lydia was a creature in possession of impeccable control. If her degree, her job, her skin and bones were all peeled away, one would find nothing but a tersely moderated center. It had been bred into her by strict parents and two years at the SHIELD academy and seven years of higher education. Three years as an Avengers babysitter, four learning how to maintain a gun, five at university learning about the way the mind worked. Self-control was as imminent a part of her being as her trademark red lips or curly hair or dark skin or low voice. You can't hold a gun without being responsible. Not that it counted for weapons anymore. She didn't usually carry a gun these days.
She never meant for it to turn out this way.
The plan was like this:
Go to college, go to the SHIELD academy, become a field agent, work until no longer capable, get a job as an investigative operative.
But on her first mission, her first real mission in the field, someone jumped out of a truck and stole Lydia from her place on the sidewalk, and then tied her up and left bruises and scars. When she returned home she received a diagnosis for PTSD. And just like that, her field career was over. Gone. Someone used to composure and commandeering her own life had no choice but to stray from her plan. To be fair, she didn't stray far—back to grad school to get certified in psychology. SHIELD paid off her student loans in exchange for her working for them. She'd already been exposed to the inner workings of the organization; it was best to keep her on their side.
After a year of low-clearance teams, Lydia got promoted to Strike Team Delta, and when that unit was deactivated, she was assigned to the mess that saved (and destroyed a lot of) New York. As it turned out, most of the Heroes of New York failed to take care of themselves, despite insistence from the resident scientist-wranglers and assistants and significant others. Darcy Lewis and Pepper Potts tried as hard as they could to keep the team healthy, but Lydia was the one in connection to the agency employing them. She was the one who could track their sleep hours or suspend them from missions if they had stayed up all of the previous night. And even though Stark liked to whine about it, she wasn't punishing them. She was trying to keep them from losing their minds.
Lydia frowned at her useless assistant (why wouldn't SHIELD let her hire her own staff?), then sighed, then stepped into her office and locked the door. She checked her email, and surely enough, the inbox was full of messages-meet with Romanoff and Rogers after they return from mission. Discuss side-effects of sleeping pills prescribed to Stark. Make sure Lewis is keeping Jane well-fed.
Lydia eyed the post-it's stuck hastily to the frame of her computer screen, including FOSTER-10 AM WAKEUP. It was 9:30, so Lydia was tempted to just call and get it out of the way but she decided to let Jane get the extra half hour of sleep. SHIELD's brightest minds were no good with their eyeballs dried out.
She spent the morning as she normally did, cross-legged in her desk chair and making phone calls and discussing Stark's sleeping habits with Pepper. The wireless monitor for Banner's heart rate sat a few inches away from her computer, the line drawing steadily across the screen. Photos of her parents and sister sat on the desk behind jars of pens and rubber band balls. Stacks of papers covered the surface. A crisply chaotic watchful mess of knick-knacks and supplies and notes. Each purposeful and yet none complexly organized. They lay evenly on her desk, overlapping corners and edges here and there. Nothing creased.
When eleven o'clock rolled around, Lydia grabbed her purse and her notes. She locked the drawers in her desk and headed up to the fifteenth floor. SHIELD's New York building was all smooth surfaces and cold angles. The architecture tried very hard to be sharp and real but as a whole, it ultimately seemed abstract. Like existing within a monochromatic cubist painting.
Usually Agent Gonzalez conducted her interviews. He was a tall man with a kind face who had retired from field work a decade ago. But he wasn't the one in the windowless office when Lydia arrived-instead, it was a balding man with sallow skin and a natural frown. She flinched at his face. In her head, her mother's voice chastised her-Don't be rude, Lydia. Say hello to the nice man.
Lydia bit down on the inside of her cheek. Hard. "Hello," she greeted.
"Morning, Missy." His eyes roamed her figure. She shifted, uncomfortable under his gaze. Uncomfortable at being called 'missy.' Everything about him made her squirm.
"I'm here for the eval?" she clarified, bringing his eyes back up to her own.
He pointed at the chair and brought up a tape recorder. Weird. SHIELD had access to all sorts of high-tech. Why was he using a tape recorder? With actual tape?
Dropping her purse onto the carpeted floor, Lydia took a seat. Her legs stuck unpleasantly to the seat of the chair and she lifted her knees up to keep from making contact.
"Tell me about the Avengers," the agent demanded as soon as she settled.
Lydia's brow furrowed. There were lots of things to tell. "What about them?"
"What has Romanoff told you about her past?"
What the hell? "She's told me whatever's in her file." False. Romanoff trusted Lydia far more than she trusted SHIELD. She'd shared her nightmares with Lydia. Called her on the phone once, even, in a small voice speaking vulnerable words. Well, she'd called Barton first. Still: Lydia was someone she could talk about the Red Room with. She didn't plan on betraying Nat's trust.
"That's not it. I know that's not it."
Lydia squinted at him. "What's this really about? Where's Gonzalez?"
"Tell me about Romanoff."
"Can't. Doctor-patient confidentiality."
He scowled. She glared. The tape recorder made a low noise as the tape spun in circles within. "You are an employee of SHIELD. It is your job to inform us of the data you gather."
"And as a member of SHIELD, by possessing this knowledge I am keeping the organization updated."
"Tell me about Rogers, then."
"He's a true American hero," Lydia deadpanned.
He didn't seem to appreciate this comment. "What was his relationship with James Barnes like?"
"They were close. You don't need me to tell you that, though. You could pick up any history book you want and it would tell you-'Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers, best friends, close pals, war-buddies, and possibly lovers,'" she quoted.
"Were they?"
"Excuse me?"
"Were they lovers?"
"No." They weren't. Steve had a crush on Bucky for a while growing up. They kissed once when Steve was eleven and Bucky was twelve, and never spoke of it to each other again. But she wasn't going to tell him that. That wasn't just a violation of doctor-patient privilege. That was being an asshole. And Lydia could be an asshole about a lot of things, but certainly not this.
"Hm. Good thing. Can you imagine-America's favorite hero being gay? It would explain the tights." And then he began to make this ugly wheezing laugh, hacking out coughs between guffaws. Her jaw set, Lydia tried her hardest not to appear as irritated as she was. This was a waste of her time, this was a waste of her energy, this was probably a waste of the tape rotating in the machine, collecting such an irrelevant conversation, words that were unadulteratedly incorrect. She didn't comment. He seemed like someone adamant of his opinion.
"What is this meeting about?" Lydia repeated, and the man sobered up again.
"The thing is," he said, "you aren't sharing the truth with us. That's a federal offense."
She folded her arms over her chest, elbows and skin enveloped to keep her anger inside, to smother the rage and quiet the fury. The heat in her core tangled together as it got compressed tighter and tighter.
"What truth am I withholding?"
"I don't know if you realize this, girly-girl, but the Avengers are dangerous."
Girly-girl? Lydia bit her cheek until the skin broke and blood spilled into her mouth, hot and metallic on her taste buds. Quiet, she commanded herself. She begged her features not to betray her thoughts.
"I'm aware," she answered, patience dwindling. "SHIELD is the one that puts them on a pedestal. Get them more covert costumes if you want people to stop idolizing them. I don't know. That's not my job."
"You know, your tone could be considered aggressive."
Lydia gritted her teeth. "Why am I here?"
"You're the most dangerous woman in the country. One Avenger knows one Avenger's secrets, but what about you? You know them all. You can't be trusted to carry this information alone."
"Information is a weapon, then. Well, solving the problem isn't going to happen by handing it out to everyone else."
The man squinted at her, over the table, and announced, "Gonzalez will be back next week. You can speak with him then."
"Fantastic," Lydia muttered, an edge to her voice. Instantly, an apology rushed to her tongue, but she swallowed it down. Now was no time for manners. She gathered her things and left the room, but on her way out, she spared a glance over her shoulder. Nothing felt safe.
Things happened normally for a few weeks. She got a haircut and cleaned her apartment. Her sister was on spring break from college, so they all visited home for a few days.
That's where Lydia saw the news. In a peculiar collision of two worlds, she discovered what happened in DC while clutching a plate of her mother's cooking.
The city was in flames. HYDRA had taken over SHIELD and demolished it.
"Ma!" Bianca called. "You put too much rice in," she whined.
Lydia couldn't move, though. Her eyes were glued to the screen, unable to turn away. A blonde news anchor spat out a number of casualties and injuries. They played footage of Nat and Steve and some kind of cyborg engaging in elaborate fighting. A winged man was involved too, somehow.
"...what this information means for the World's Greatest Heroes, we here are unsure. More at eleven."
That night, Lydia dialed Clint.
"What the hell happened?" she demanded.
"I have no clue. SHIELD's gone. If I were you, I'd lay low for a little. I've got a safehouse I can give you coordinates too, if you need. You have my number."
Lydia was in her apartment three days later. She'd been a few states away from the chaos and destruction, but still stress-organized and re-organized everything. She swept for bugs every time she entered a room. She stopped checking her email. She chopped up her phone and threw it in the sink, using a burner to call Darcy and make sure Jane was okay.
It was a Tuesday morning when things began.
She'd been fixing herself a bowl of cereal with the news playing off in the living room. Someone started to knock on her door.
It's six am, pal, she thought as she padded over to it. Her fingers grazed the knob when a string of words was spat out of the TV.
"Lydia Kennedy, a highly dangerous criminal. Authorities are calling her a threat to national security. Crimes include treason, withholding time-sensitive and hazardous information, and murder."
Lydia swung around to stare open-mouthed at the TV. Wait. What? Treason? Threat to national security? Murderer?
A moment passed by as Lydia processed this information. Treason. Threat to national security. Murderer. Her pulse raced furiously through her veins. And then instinct kicked in.
She grabbed the emergency backpack from her closet: clothes, first aid, substantive weapons (as in, a pocket knife and a few matches). Lydia yanked her sweatpants off and exchanged them for jeans and sneakers. She ran a brush through her hair to avoid suspicion and skipped out on the makeup. And then she grabbed her notebooks of interviews and session notes, threw open her window, and jumped out onto the fire escape.
She climbed down three flights and jumped down the last. Treason. Threat to national security. Murderer. What the hell what the hell what the
—oof.
Lydia grunted as her foot rammed into something. A garbage bag, likely. Looking down, she assessed what type of trash had spilled onto her shoes.
Not a garbage bag. A person. She flipped him over. He was probably drunk. Probably just passed out and stoned. Probably just a homeless man or a dude who'd spent too much time partying last night. Not something she needed to concern herself with. Nothing to worry about.
Until, well, she noticed his arm.
His arm was made of fucking metal. When she opened up his hand (his metal hand, like, what the actual fuck), she found a piece of paper with her name and address written in Steve's writing.
The man grunted, and the realization hit Lydia with the force of a brick.
The Winter Soldier.
She gasped and jumped away, hand flying to her waist as she'd been taught. Only, there was no gun. There was just her, and a highly trained assassin that put Captain America into a hospital. This was not a situation she wanted to be in.
"Steve," he grunted. "Where's Steve?"
And now he was awake.
Fantastic.
Lydia turned towards the street. A man passed by and she held her breath. He didn't turn. Didn't even notice her among the shadows. Run, her training whispered. Run, find a crowd, meet up with an ally.
Well, if she died now at least she wouldn't have to die later. This logic emerged from such impeccable hatred of procrastination. Logically, her brain told her, "You don't want to die procrastinating. If now's your last moment alive, now is when you want to be productive."
In one swift, masochistic action, Lydia turned to the person. "Who are you?" she demanded.
He grunted. Then: "...Bucky. That's what he called me. The man on the bridge called me Bucky. The museum said Barnes."
Bucky Barnes? But...he was dead. One war hero had already risen from the grave. Now Barnes too?
Lydia asked him, "Who's Steve?" to make sure.
"Steve Rogers. Skinny kid. Not so much anymore, I guess. Where is he?"
Lydia stared it him for a moment. He looked like someone who'd just woken up from a hundred-year sleep. The facts whirred around in her head. He was the Winter Soldier, but he was also Bucky Barnes, then by the transitive property of equality (if a = b and a = c, then b must = c), Bucky Barnes was the Winter Soldier. So Steve's best friend had put him into the hospital, which meant that—
Sirens.
Police sirens wailing in the distance. There's no time. There's no time. Leave him here.
Lydia yanked him off the ground, ignoring her brain and deciding rather optimistically that if he wanted her dead she'd be deceased. She smashed in the window of one of the parked cars using his arm and stuck a hand in (hers, not his), to open the door from the inside. Shoving him into the passenger seat, she jumped in.
It was her lucky day, apparently (aside from the whole traitor to America thing), because whatever idiot parked their car here had left their keys on the dashboard. Nice.
Lydia pulled them out and started the car, reaching under Barnes' arm to reach the center console. She pulled out of the alley just as a police car made the turn to pull in.
And then she made the decision betweenblending in, or driving a hundred an hour and getting the fuck out of town. She'd seen the car chase in a recollective segment of footage about the Battle of DC. Running meant being chased, and being chased meant getting caught, and getting caught was...not good.
It was six am and dark, she just needed to make it out of the city, somewhere more rural. She couldn't go home—they'd follow her almost definitely and she didn't want to bring her mom and dad and Bianca into this. All the Avengers were probably under fire. Also, there was the small complication of: she'd decided to tote around a former assassin.
"What the hell," said the Winter Soldier.
"I agree," quipped Lydia. "But here's the deal. You're wanted for mass murder. I'm wanted for murder, which never happened, and also for treason, which also never happened. I don't know what your story is," she told him, finding a highway to merge onto, "but I know we have a common enemy. And I know that you and me? The two of us are going on a road trip until we figure it out."
a/n: Thank you for reading! I know I teased this story on tumblr for a while (you can find me at suethor or cabeswwater) and now it's finally here. Please please please leave a review, it would make my day.