"Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence."
-Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

"No," you reply, taking another sip of the pitch black espresso set out on the table.

"You haven't even looked at the list of—"

"Westchester—our school—is no place for your agents, however assured of their loyalty you may be. We work with children; troubled children more often than not."

The drink is bitter, bright, and sharp on your tongue and you can feel the tendrils of caffeine starting to snake through your system. You have to actively resist your body's instinctive reaction to purge what it recognizes as poison.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is—was—very well aware that you're not just running a school up there," the leather-clad man sitting across from you drawls, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his sunglasses. "We know all about your extra-curricular activities."

"Then our rejection of your proposal should make more sense, not less," you retort, placing the delicate cup back on its saucer.

You look away briefly, sucking air in through your teeth. You'd been told to reveal information only as necessary, but you're increasingly convinced that Fury believes he has the upper hand, which is both untrue and terribly annoying.

"Let me tell you what we know. We know that the remaining divisions of S.H.I.E.L.D. are actively pursuing individuals of a particular designation."

"They're not the same as—"

"Oh, I know. We all know that. But you are pursuing them because you feel their very nature—which isn't so terribly different from our own—is a threat. S.H.I.E.L.D. exists, at least in theory, to negate threats."

"All correct, and all widely available knowledge after Romanoff's data dump."

"We didn't need to wait for Black Widow to hang up your dirty laundry in order to catch a whiff of its stink," you shoot back. "What I'm getting at is that precisely no one in Westchester is comfortable with the idea of harboring people who see us as potential threats that require negating."

"I take it this comes straight from the Professor?"

"His voice carries the most weight, as I'm sure you understand. But all of us—all of the active members of the team—discussed it together. We're not about to invite the people responsible for locking up—what's the euphemism you use? Enhanced? Gifted?—Gifted individuals as if they're criminals by default, into our home."

There is undoubtedly an undercurrent of thinly veiled hostility flowing between yourself and the former spy. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been operating for years as if it were the leading authority on all things supernatural, extra-terrestrial, and super-human. The sheer hubris of that presumption was enough to garner the ire of those old enough to understand its implications. The fact that HYDRA had been the power behind the throne all along, well, that had come as a bit of a shock.

You consider the man seated across from you. From the intel gathered by your colleagues, Fury had dropped off the grid just before the Triskelion fell, with some reports claiming he was actually KIA. Not long after the disaster over the Potomac, his entire agency was disavowed by the various governments that had once touted it as the planet's best defense against large-scale threats. No one at the school believed for a second that they had been completely dismantled, of course. Even a tarnished blade could prove useful if placed in the right hand, and S.H.I.E.L.D. still had its obvious uses. None of that explained why Fury had surfaced now though, months later, to beg shelter for some of his most loyal agents.

You frown and settle on your best guess, which also happens to be the simplest: There is some kind of power struggle going on within whatever is left of the organization, and Fury is trying to keep as many of his people out of the crossfire as possible.

"Look, I understand that you're trying to find your operatives a soft place to land, but we're not the right fit," you offer diplomatically, feeling some of the tension drain away now that you have a better grip on what is actually going on. Eugh, spies.

"I appreciate your concerns about integrating agents among school children, but I'm not really interested in Xavier's academic pursuits, to be honest. It's his other resources that've caught my eye. We worked with the Avengers—"

"The Avengers are not mutants," you waggle a finger at him. "Barton isn't even enhanced, and whatever was done to Romanoff, she barely qualifies. Banner is the result of a freak accident—"

"I hear the same can be said of Dr. McCoy…"

"McCoy had active mutations before he started tinkering with his own genetic code," you correct before continuing. "Tony Stark is a prima donna Lothario, a rabid technophile, and though he possesses an admittedly staggering IQ, he also has a long history of making truly poor life choices."

Fury chuckles, then scrubs a hand across his face. "Continue."

"Thor is an alien who spends more time off-world than on, has a bit of a temper, and family drama that makes Parent-Guardian Visitation day at Xavier's look like a bloody picnic with the Cleaver family."

"You're not nearly old enough to drop those kinds of references, young lady."

"And then there's the good Captain. If ever there were a man who best represents a powder keg simply waiting to go off, it's Rogers."

Fury shifts in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. You briefly wonder why he's broadcasting his emotional state so clearly. The man is a spy, so he should be playing all of this close to the chest. It has to be a gambit of some kind, you're just not sure which or why. Perhaps it's simple fatigue.

"Fair enough," he finally concedes, pulling his steepled fingers apart and motioning for the waitress to bring him his check.

"We are sorry for what happened. Moral grey areas aside, all accounts indicate that you were trying to do the right thing for the right reasons. At present, the situation is too… nebulous for us to throw our hat in with yours. We're still trying to keep a low public profile, hoping no one notices us for a bit longer."

"The illusion of safety is only ever an illusion," Fury gently reprimands, handing several bills to the hovering waitress before turning his back to her. You both wait for her to sidle away, out of earshot, before continuing.

"To be honest, I don't disagree with you there, Director. But I am one voice amongst many, and most junior to boot."

"Seniority's a bitch," he smirks.

"When the dust settles, and when all of the restructuring and purging is complete, you know how to reach us," you nod, bringing the cup of espresso back to your lips for one last swallow.

"I doubt it'll be that simple, but I appreciate the gesture."

"Of course it won't be. There'll be conditions if the olive branch is ever extended and not immediately slapped away. Amongst other outstanding issues, that dreadful Index of yours needs to go."

Fury just snorts and shakes his head. "Last I checked, none of your people were on it."

"Yet. None of us are on it yet."

He concedes the point before pushing away from the table. You stand as well, accepting the handshake offered.

"Safe travels, to wherever you're headed next," you tell him, canting your head to the side. "I'm that way," you point back over your shoulder, in the vague direction of your bike.

"A moment more, if you don't mind. There's someone else who'd like to talk to you."

You blink, caught off guard, and slowly sit back down. A figure two tables away stands, face cloaked in the shadows of his hoodie, and approaches.

"May I?" he asks, and you immediately recognize the voice.

"Of course, Captain…" you grind out, eyes narrowed at Fury as he tries—and fails—to hide his smirk. So that's why he got so cagey when you made your observations about Rogers known.

"My part in this discussion is over," Fury says with a shrug, saluting with two fingers against his brow. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

"I'm sure you will," you huff, drawing in steadying breath before turning your attention to the super soldier now seated across from you. "What I said earlier—"

"Isn't what I want to talk about," Rogers interrupts with a shake of his head. "Honestly, I've gotten pretty used to everyone offering their opinion on that subject."

He clears his throat and presses his fingers against his temples. He looks haggard and harried in a way you're not accustomed to seeing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s former poster-boy. Even in the footage from the Chitauri invasion, he'd looked hopeful and resilient, despite being thoroughly bloodied.

"What can I do for you, Captain Rogers?" you ask, forcing a gentle quality into your voice that doesn't always come naturally.

He drags his fingers away from his face and leans back in his chair, blowing air out in a sudden whoosh that catches the attention of several nearby tables. A few cellphones come out, snapping pictures of the both of you. None of these people would recognize your precious self, but Rogers is a bona fide celebrity. You resist the urge to both cringe and let loose a colorful litany of swear words at the nosy civilians.

"Sorry," he offers, glancing over at the nearest table and throwing a half-hearted smile their way. "I told Fury I'd rather we meet somewhere private."

"Like a dark alley?" you quip. "Public is better. Less chance for someone to do something purposefully stupid."

"Us or you?" he counters, a lopsided smile creasing his face. Genuine, this time, as it reaches his eyes.

You chuckle, running the tip of one finger around the lip of the empty espresso cup. "Both, I suppose."

"This is harder than I expected," he admits, hunching forward, practically looming, though you figure that's more from sheer size than conscious intent.

"You'd better not have a ring in your pocket," you tease. "We've only just met."

This time he does laugh, looking up from beneath long lashes. He seems to consider you for a moment, then nods to himself.

"I need your help. Or at least for you to point me in the direction of someone who can."

"You'll need to be more specific," you prod. "And depending on said specifics, perhaps we should move this conversation elsewhere."

Rogers plops a small, silver rectangular box down on the table. At first, you think it's some kind of StarkTech mobile, but then Rogers fiddles with it and your ears pop. Unable to suppress a hiss of surprise, you feel your body tense, the instinct to prepare for an attack momentarily overwhelming.

"Sorry!" Rogers says, catching the sudden change in your posture. "I should have warned you. It's a sound dampener. Or something. I usually just nod when Tony starts rambling."

You swallow hard and command yourself to be calm. You know that your eyes—always the first to give you away—have likely changed. You blink a few times, waiting for the subtle itch along your corneas to signal that they've reverted to their normal hue.

Rogers is staring.

"Wow. Um. Fury told me, but that's," he stumbles over his words. "Different actually seeing it, I guess."

"Fury doesn't know half so much as he likes to think," you warn, and it isn't an idle boast. The Professor is very good at containing sensitive information, and the fact that the school wasn't exposed when Natasha Romanoff gifted the Internet with all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files was proof enough of that.

Rogers clears his throat, "If you don't mind my asking, does that hurt?"

"No," you answer, trying very hard not to take offense to his casual discussion of what you consider a private matter. You drum your fingers on the table, slowly arching an eyebrow at his continued deviation from whatever it is he actually came here to discuss. "As you were saying?"

"Right. Help. Yours, if you think that's the best option. But I'm open to suggestions. It's Bucky."

"Bucky."

"James Barnes."

"The dead Howling Commando," you posit, still arching that brow.

Rogers winces a bit, then slowly exhales. "He's not dead. What I'm about to tell you, very few people know. And those that do are people I trust with my life. And his."

"Again, I'm flattered, but we've just met. You don't know a significant thing about me, save one, and that's only because you're friends with the former Director of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I know, I know," he backs off, holding his hands out conciliatorily. "But I'm desperate."

"How do you know Barnes is still alive? I'm fairly certain I remember being told that he fell off a bloody mountain from a moving train. Did some new source of information shake loose when everything else fell apart?" you ask, genuinely intrigued.

"I saw him. Fought him."

You stare at the man across the table from you, a bit slack-jawed and in no hurry to do anything about it. "In this decade?"

"This year. Just before the Triskelion, then while we brought the helicarriers down."

"He turned?" you ask, shocked and slightly sickened.

Despite your general lack of interest in history, you had minded your lessons (especially after being enrolled at Xavier's). Practically every child in the Free World knew that Barnes had been Rogers' best friend growing up in Brooklyn, and had saved his life on more than one occasion. He'd been hailed as one of the greatest heroes of the war. There were almost as many kids fighting to "be Barnes" in the schoolyard as there were jockeying to "be Cap" when they'd get to playing Commandos. You'd broken up several fights yourself over the designation at Xavier's, and those kids lived with actual superheroes.

"That's not how I'd describe it," Rogers spits out, his face contorting as his thoughts turn dark. "After he fell, we all thought he died. No one could survive a fall from that height. But he did, and he was captured. First by the Soviets, then passed on to HYDRA. They did things to him."

He unzips his hoodie and pulls out a battered manila folder, placing it carefully on the table.

"Someone warned me not to pull on this thread, and part of me wishes I'd listened," he says. "What kind of friend does that make me?"

You decline to answer the question, instead pulling the folder toward you and flipping the jacket open.

"There are hundreds of documents in here," you murmur, already horrified by the few bits and pieces you catch with a quick scan. Rogers gives you a while longer to absorb more information, only electing to speak when you finally lift your eyes from the yellowed pages.

"They tortured him. Wiped his memories and replaced them with new ones. They made him into someone unrecognizable," Rogers continues, and you can hear the fury in his voice.

"This is…" you shudder and close the folder. "This is far beyond my expertise, Captain. The records here indicate he was dosed with a poor copy of the serum Erskine developed and used on you. That explains how he survived the fall from the train. But the machine they reference, the one they used to wipe his mind? That's just… that's not how memory works."

"What do you mean?" he asks, taking the folder back.

"Well, frankly, even the most preeminent cognitive science researchers don't understand exactly how or why memories form and connect beyond observable physical changes—the appearance of new neural pathways, and so on. What is understood is that unless the actual brain material is destroyed—like in certain types of traumatic brain injury—you don't just lose memories. You can't have them wiped away. Someone with, say, dementia or severe psychological trauma may have their memory impaired because the connections between memories are disrupted or shuffled out of order, but they don't vanish."

"Right," Rogers agrees. "I've been told something similar by Dr. Banner. That's why I think Bucky kept hesitating. Why he didn't kill me or let me drown in the Potomac."

"You think he was starting to remember you?"

"Maybe. I don't know for sure. But either way, we've been searching for him ever since I got out of the hospital."

"Is he the one who put you in intensive care for two weeks?"

"Yeah, mostly, but like I said… he didn't kill me. And he could have. He really, really could have."

"The metal arm probably helped in that arena," you observe, eyeing the folder now pressed beneath both of Rogers' palms.

"Felt like getting hit with a sledgehammer," he agrees, lifting one hand to rub his jaw.

"So after the Triskelion, he vanished?"

"Like Houdini. Even Natasha, uh, that's Natasha Romanoff—"

"I'm familiar with the name."

"Even she can't seem to pick up his trail."

"Is it possible that whatever is left of HYDRA found him?" you ask.

"We considered that. But we've taken a few of their people in for questioning and none of them were able to confirm that HYDRA is even looking for Bucky. By all accounts, they were planning to dispose of him once Project Insight was up-and-running."

You sneer. HYDRA would consider something like that routine. The disposal of a human being who had outlived his usefulness might have been discussed with as much gravity as emptying the bin in the break room.

"The records in that file also indicate he needed routine maintenance," you supply. "For the arm and to address the lingering physical effects of his time in cryo, along with whatever damage he may have sustained in the field. The cycle of freezing and defrosting, the mind wipes, and the missions must have racked up some serious medical issues, knock-off serum be damned. It's been months since the Triskelion, Captain. Unless he's found someone to keep him nominally functional—and that's just in terms of his physical condition—I don't see how he could…"

Rogers' face falls a bit, and some of the light goes out of his eyes.

"I know it's a long shot. But I have to exhaust every option. I left him at the bottom of that ravine," he chokes and squeezes his eyes shut. "I left him behind and they took him. I can't abandon him again. Not until I know for sure."

You let out a long sigh and consider your options.

"I have to be honest with you, Captain—"

"Steve."

"Right. I have to be honest with you, Steve. I don't think you'll receive much help from the school's resident psychics, if that's what you were hoping for."

"I wasn't even sure you had any. There are rumors, and Fury's made some insinuations, but—"

"Well that's why you probably won't have a line queuing up to help. It's not a lack of sympathy, so please don't interpret it as such. But we're responsible for the safety of hundreds of children that this government," you motion vaguely, "would much rather have locked up should they ever figure out what we're capable of. We don't want to get involved in these sorts of things."

"I know, but—"

"They have to come first, Steve. This world…" you look away, staring into the busy Midtown traffic crawling by. "It's not ready for people like us. They barely accept you, and you've very publically saved them from Nazis, aliens, and then HYDRA's most recent attempt at world domination and mass murder. Not to mention the amount of government corruption you unearthed in the process. They should throw you a bloody parade."

"They have," he notes with a slight incline of his head.

"Point is, no one will be throwing parades for Wolverine, or Cyclops, or Storm."

"Might help if you didn't choose names that scare the stuffing out of small children," he smirks.

"I'll remember to bring that up at our next team meeting," you answer drily.

Rogers tucks the folder back inside his zip-up and starts to stand.

"Thank you for listening to all this," he says. "And I do understand why you aren't able to do anything. But I had to try, y'know?"

He turns to walk away and you find yourself calling for him before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

"Wait…" you slump in your seat, staring up at the narrow strip of blue sky framed by the towering buildings rising up all around. "Bloody… shit. Wait."

"What are you—?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose briefly before sitting up straight again.

"There is someone I know who might be able to help. All sorts of inappropriate even considering her as an option, but she might very well murder me in my sleep if she ever found out I'd turned you away in your hour of need."

"Who?" he asks, lowering himself back into his seat.

"My sister. She… It's complicated. Her powers, that is. Not our relationship. That's fairly straightforward. She's not a psychic in the classical sense, but something off that ability tree. Sort of. I think."

"I'm not following," Rogers admits, brow creased.

You dig down into the pocket of your jeans and retrieve your cellphone. "I've been with her every step of the way as her powers manifested and developed, Captain, and I don't entirely follow. Like I said, it's complicated."

You select her number from your contact list and wait as the phone dials.

The dialed line picks up, and the drowsy voice of your little sister warbles through.

"Hullo?"

For a moment, you forget the urgency and purpose of the call, slipping into your Big Sister shoes without noticing.

"Ana. It's nearly noon. Why on earth do you sound like you're still in bed?"

"It's Saturday," she reminds you.

"Hardly an excuse," you scold. "You have several reports due on Monday, one of which I assigned."

"Already done. Finished them last night," she sighs into the phone. "God, you are so annoying."

"Heaven forbid you should cease reminding me. I might forget," you snap back at her. Rogers clears his throat and you shoot him an apologetic look. Back to the task at hand.

"There's something I need to talk to you about, and it's serious."

"Are you going to let me and Jess go to the Justin Bieber concert?!"

"What?" you ask, wrinkling your nose. "No. God, no. I said it was serious, not outrageously stupid."

"You are the worst, you never let me—"

"I'm in the city with Steve Rogers," you interrupt, not in the mood for another teenage tantrum.

"Wh-what?"

"We're sat at a café chatting over espressos. Well, I had an espresso. Rogers doesn't partake, I assume."

You feel a slight tickle at the back of your skull and instantly know she's checking the truth of your claim. Normally, that would earn her a hell of a scolding (hard to maintain any sense of privacy otherwise), but you let it go for now.

"Why would you be out to brunch with Captain America? Are you two…? I mean, you can't be…"

"A resounding 'no' on that account. The meeting was for business purposes."

"Okay, but—"

"Can I please get to the point of this phone call?"

"Um… yes?"

"Captain Rogers has been out searching for an… an old friend… for some time now and hasn't had any luck locating him. You know the connections he has to certain agencies that specialize in this sort of thing, and they haven't been able to find him either, so understand that this person is either very skilled at hiding or he's being hidden by someone who is."

"Okay," Ana responds, and some of the girlish giddiness has gone out of her voice. Perhaps she's picking up on your own tension, or felt it when she'd peeked inside your head. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm a bit unclear on how your abilities work—"

"That's because you can't sit still long enough for me to explain!" she protests. "It's not that confusing—"

"—but I know you can't just zero-in on someone like the Professor does with Cerebro. However, considering the general attitude of non-intervention back home, you are the only person I can think of who might have a shot at narrowing down a search area."

"Wait," Ana stammers. "Who exactly is he looking for? You're purposefully avoiding that part and it's sort of important."

You pull the phone down to your chest, muffling the receiver. "I'll have to fill her in on some of the details. Are you okay with that?"

"As long as she promises not to post any of it to Facebook or tumblr, or whatever the kids are using these days," Steve says with a shrug and a sly smile.

"Hello?" Ana chirps. "Did you put me on hold?"

"No. Quiet. Do you remember when we took a field trip to the Smithsonian a few years ago?"

"I remember you sulking about it quite clearly," she retorts, and you swear you can actually hear her crossing her arms and pouting.

"Yes, lovely, well if you recall, we spent an inordinate amount of time at the exhibit detailing the exploits of Captain Rogers and the Howling Commandos."

She sighs, exasperated. "Yes. Mr. Logan got really quiet and was grouchier than usual for like, a week, afterwards."

"He had his reasons," you supply, cutting off that particular tangent before it gains any traction. "You remember the section about James Barnes?"

"I didn't need to go to the Smithsonian to learn who James Barnes was," she remarks. "Everyone knows who he was. I dressed up as him for Halloween when I was eight."

"Only because you were Rogers the year before and I wouldn't let you repeat the same costume," you throw back, immediately flushing as you realize you've just divulged that in front of the actual Captain America.

"Seriously?" he asks, blushing more furiously than you must be.

You wave him off and return your attention to the phone call. "Do you remember how he died?"

"Yes. He fell, on that train mission in the Alps."

"Right. Now for the dramatic plot twist: He didn't die. He's still alive."

A long silence stretches across the line.

"…What?"

"Rogers ran into him again, just this year. The footage we watched of the fight in D.C.?" you ask, leading her along.

"Yeah, the one where HYDRA made its first very public appearance after… After Captain Rogers refused to play nice with Secretary Pierce. They were on an overpass."

"You got footage of that?" Rogers asks, slightly affronted. "The government ordered a media blackout."

"It was on the internet for about thirty seconds before the Fed shut down all the links. But once something gets loose online, you can't ever get rid of all traces. We have some very knowledgeable computer-types at home."

At his look of continued indignation, you decide it may be best to explain a bit further.

"We were trying to determine if we needed to step in or get some of our people in the area into safe houses. The footage was initially restricted to staff and members of the team. Some of the kids got a hold of the data a few days later and were appropriately punished, I can assure you."

"Where are you going with this?" Ana asks, increasingly annoyed by the three-way conversation going on.

"The main shooter on the overpass, the one wearing the mask, with the metal arm?"

"Yeah?"

"That was Barnes."

She makes a noise that can only be described as a shocked sort of whimper. Barnes, like Rogers, was one of Ana's childhood heroes, and like so many other children, she idolized them both to the point that any injury to their respective reputations seemed more like a sin than an insult.

"Oh shit," she finally replies.

"No kidding," you agree. "And it only gets worse."