CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE—Halloween 2039

When the day came, Sam fortified herself.

She lifted one foot off her bedroom floor and placed it back down onto a homemade, multicolored carpet. Portal travel, whether a sizzling, yellow ring or a black smoke cloud, was disorienting. For all her fears of what Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters would be like, this wasn't what she imagined.

The massive hallway, which may have resembled Strange's Sanctum when bare, sat lined with side tables made of repurposed junk. Each table was covered in little trophies, handmade picture frames, and kid's ceramics. Above the tables were draped linen tapestries, handprint collages with nicknames scrawled beside them.

"Well, what do you think?" Tyrone shut the Darkforce portal behind them. Students ran around him like nothing at all had happened.

"Move, Ty! I've almost caught her," a boy shrieked, barreling past. The little girl with braids changed course quickly down another hall, and the boy chasing reached an arm out to stop her.

His prey turned to sand against the boy's touch, but the girl giggled and taunted the boy again as they raced away.

Sam sighed. "I…feel old." She'd never considered that students here had graduated by the time they were Sam's age. They would go off to be placed with various teams and facilities across the world—or had gained enough control to live a normal life.

"Nonsense," Ty quipped, squeezing Sam's shoulder, "you're only a year older than me. Let's drop that off at Dee's."

Sam clutched the handle of her grandfather's bowling bag. All the pieces of her Halloween costume had fit until the shoes, so the zipper remained half-open.

Up the stairs, down a hall whose decor skewed older, with watercolors and framed portraits above blown-glass and carved wood statues, Ty winked in front of an unassuming door, knocking once.

Sam heard the squeal before she saw Dee. For such a delicate figure, Tandy gave a crushing hug.

"Missed you, too," Sam huffed while Ty laughed.

"The vid-comm is just not the same," Dee cried into Sam's shoulder.

Dee tucked away Sam's bag, babbling on about when she'd need to start Sam's pin-curls. Sam couldn't get a word in. Of course, she missed her friends and was elated to see them, but her nerves fired excessively as she ruminated on how unlike this her world was on campus. The good news was, she could focus enough to not generate heat, thanks to the meditation, so even when Sam never once in her life wanted a crowd of friends and constant entertainment, she found herself melting into the chaos of being 'in.'

Dee showed off her goody bags for the youngest students who would walk the darkened halls to Trick-or-Treat in the hour before dinner. Dee had taken a few old tutus and turned them into pompoms to go at the ends of pens and pencils. Ty had made little caramels, but those were back in his room. He said it wasn't that hard, but Sam was still very impressed. Dee's expression categorized her as 'dubious' in belief of Ty's success

Sam could not remember ever Trick-of-Treating; the Bartons lived too far from a neighborhood. Clint and Laura did make the barn 'haunted,' but after Sam cried for several hours, scared shitless as a six-year-old, that family tradition never returned.

"We have to go out to the driving range. The Hammonds are here," Dee exclaimed, "but be back at—what? Four-thirty?"

"Whatever you say, commander." Ty lazily saluted. "Onwards."

Sam caught Tandy's hand before she bounced away, too. "But I've got to talk to you guys about something…"

"Later. You'll like this," Dee comforted.

She was dragged through halls and a garden path, and soon the mansion dissolved behind a canopy of trees in the back yard, leading to a hill that dipped towards a small grater. Sam heard voices and banging as they approached. It didn't sound like golf. After each thump came an excited cheer, and Sam slowed her pace. They were doing target practice at the various junk at the bottom of the crater.

Sam wasn't a mutant, she had not developed power in childhood, and she shunned the training most craved. She didn't belong here, and she thought anyone would sense it instantly.

The widened leg braces of James Rhodes elongated his shadow down the slope while the shock-red of Wanda Maximov's hair draped the back of a flowing tunic. They were giving pointers on aim to a half-dozen kids.

"Kyle," Tandy cried, sweeping a tall, pale boy with brown hair into one of her death-grip hugs.

Sam heard Ty grumble beside her.

"Kyle Richmond," Dee introduced, "this is my bestie, Sam Stark. Sam, meet Kyle, or rather Nighthawk."

Sam shook Kyle's hand. He appeared the oldest of the 'kids,' in his early twenties. He did not react to Sam's name at all.

Kyle looked up at Tyrone. Ty looked elsewhere.

"What's your alter-ego?" Kyle asked.

"I don't have one." Shame bubbled in her gut as the resounding response in her mind was Iron Orphan. Sam looked over her shoulder to Ty, whispering, "I've got to talk to you about that though." She wasn't sure he heard her.

Dee pointed, turning Sam back around. "Terrence, aka Trauma—don't let him get too close to you—and his little minion Elvin, aka Rage."

"He isn't little," Sam murmured, staring at the boy's muscular arms.

"Toxic waste exposure, but he was—is—only thirteen. That was five months ago. Rhodes is really protective of him and Butterball."

"Who?" What a cruel name… but Dee had already turned to laugh at something Kyle whispered in her ear, chasing after the boy when he bolted down the hill.

Ty signaled over Sam's shoulder.

She turned to realize that what she thought was a boulder on the ridge was a hunched man—an enormous man—sitting with his legs splayed. He wore athletic shorts and a stretched grey t-shirt.

He ripped up a blade of grass and tried to play it like a kazoo.

"Butterball? Who names a guy—"

"Emery," Ty corrected, "he's—" Ty tapped his temple "—four. Same toxic waste, but he's at Camp Hammond 'cause he could c-cause too much damage in the house."

The boy ripped up another blade of grass.

Ty went to take his shot with the group. Sam sauntered over to sit by Emery.

"Hi," she tried gently.

He continued to whistle with the grass.

"I'm Samantha."

"I don't care." Emery dug his fist into the ground, making the effort look as easy as scooping whipped cream. He threw the chunk of roots down into the crater. "You're just gonna make fun of me," he muttered.

Sam's heart sank. He was the same age as she was when she moved to the Barton's, alone and bitter.

"I won't. I may even be able to help." But this is worse. What if I'd been Extremis at that age involuntarily? She swallowed hard, adding, "I can take a look at your file."

"They all say they want to help. Nobody ever does."

That's true enough. They won't help you if they can use you.

Back when the school in Iowa found out who she really was, the focus of students and their parents was entirely about Iron Man and how to be associated with him. Sam was never invited anywhere without motive to gain something from her. She knew the frustration well. She felt it to this day.

"Wow," one of the boys called from behind them. "It's a lot easier to aim when Butterball isn't shaking the earth. Why don't you sit this still at camp?"

A tear crept down Emery's cheek. The relentless shame of being, and its stifling inability to change the very thing that haunts you, swelled in Sam's chest. She was twelve again, and Laura was turning the car around, yelling for Lil'Sam to hide her face while they fled the driveway of a sleepover, lightbulb flashes blinding her all the way home.

Sam spun around, pressing the fuel of anger to explode from her palms, lift her from the grass, and carry her inches from the boy Terrence's screeching face. She audibly snarled, picturing those who had bullied her not-so long ago.

Sam blinked once, and he wasn't Terrence anymore. Nate Barton stood in his place.

Sam pressed a heating hand to the boy's chest, staring at his frightened eyes, enraged. He was real, but he wasn't Nate. It couldn't be Nate. In that moment, it didn't matter. She could take this one chance to really show him—

"Samantha," a woman called, strong and forceful, then a faintly lighter, "Little Sam."

A ruby cloud of energy, somehow firm and gossamer all at once, pulled Sam's hand slowly away, and Nate stumbled back, scurrying a few feet in the grass before, in a blink, Terrence's face became his own again.

"That's enough," the silky voice of Scarlett Witch added.

The whole hilltop went silent until Ty stepped to Sam's side. "Don't fight it," he breathed.

Sam could not move her hand. She could generate no energy in the ruby mist. When she released a reluctant sigh of surrender, Wanda released her arm.

Ty steadied Sam by the shoulder, allowing some of her nervous energy to drain into him. He whispered, concerned. "Yo, are you afraid of N-Nate? You know he's—"

"Let's you and I go for a walk, Ms. Stark." Wanda motioned back towards the house, and Sam followed, gripping her arms across her chest in shame. Tyrone let go without another word, but whether that was out of respect or fear of Aunt Wanda, Sam had no clue. The whole place was overwhelming; Xavier's was full of children similar to her and yet so different. Sam didn't belong as she thought she might.

She'd hoped. However, she was too old to be special in the same way as them, just as Emery was too young, and because she'd done all of this to herself, well, Sam had no room to complain.

The changing trees gave Sam and Wanda a gorgeous and fiery cover for their conversation.

"I know this must be…difficult," Wanda started, dragging a delicate, long finger across the bark of a sapling beside her, "seeing your friends move on to a different purpose, but you must be happy for them. Cloak and Dagger have worked extremely hard to rise this high. They deserve their time in the spotlight."

Sam knew that; she swore she wanted it all for them. "I'm not mad at their achievement. I'm mad I haven't gotten the same chance."

"Have you not?"

Sam didn't argue. She took one look at Wanda's intense gaze and knew she couldn't argue. The more she pushed, the more she'd be tempted to say. She feared giving away that she planned something, that given the opportunity she would do whatever it took. She willed herself not to even think about it in Wanda's presence.

They walked in silence parallel to the hill, watching target practice from afar. Sam saw that Terrence always stayed several arm-lengths away from the others with Elvin constantly looking over to him, checking.

Wanda called over. "Terrence, go help Emery up, please."

They couldn't hear the words, but Terrence made a show of annoyance. He wasn't the strongest of the kids, so Sam thought it a punishment for teasing until Terrence grabbed Emery under the arm.

Nothing happened. Terrence didn't change.

Wanda sensed Sam's question. "So far, Emery is the sole person that Terrence can remain himself beside."

"Part of Emery's power?"

"No," the Scarlet Witch shook her head. "Terrence is who the child is most afraid of."

A bizarre entanglement, Sam thought, to never be yourself around others unless they fear you. Terrence lifted Emery with great effort but also with more care than Sam would expect. She wondered if Trauma bullied Emery on purpose just to be beside someone. The relentless shame of being, indeed. If he were nice, Emery would no longer fear him, and Terrence would turn into someone different.

"We all decide how to behave to get what we want," Wanda offered, picking at bark again. "They will all have to behave a certain way, to keep their positions. There will be expectations."

"You mean, Dee and Ty won't be my friends anymore?" Sam tensed. They would never. "Wouldn't be my first abandonment, Aunt Wanda."

Wanda's expression darkened before she sighed. "I mean to impart some wisdom, Samantha. Spend time with those you love however you can. You never know how long you have."

If it was a threat, a warning to behave a certain way, Sam wanted none of it. "What if I don't want to lose my friends?"

"Loss, or the fear of loss, can spoil even strong relationships."

"Are you talking about my mom?"

"I'm talking about everything that—" Wanda's nails dug into the wood, crumpling off brittle, dry chunks "—died with her. That explosion took Tony's hope. And mine. He made decisions out of fear for a long time."

Sam didn't understand. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

She was met with sad green eyes. "Forgive him, and me, and yourself, little one. We wanted only good things for each other, and our fear soured it all."

"Miss Maximov—" Tandy came over with her hands clasped together timidly "—sorry to interrupt but if I could steal Sam for the evening…"

Aunt Wanda's beautiful head snapped up with a soft smile. "Yes. Of course. You both must be very excited for the party." Her hand slid once more up the side of the tree, healing all the bark she had torn away in a ruby glow.

Sam swallowed hard, curious as to why an expected punishment had turned into a mutual mourning exercise. She didn't know exactly what Wanda mourned, but it felt profound and relatable. It reminded her of the deep sadness that lay behind her father's eyes, the one that seeped in during his glances away from Sam, the one he thought no one noticed after all his bravado echoed in a room. Pepper Potts meant everything to a lot of people, it seemed, but Sam needed to make new memories to move on. She let Tandy take her hand and rush her back to the mansion.

Never. Ending. Exhaustion.

Even in Bucky's dreams he craved rest. With Tony out, Hill got the management duties, Banner got the tech and analysis, and Bucky got the heavy lifting. More D-Lite victims. More ships showing up on the radar. More demand for action. More SAEC interference. Even with Steve's help on missions, there were not enough hours in the day to control the ever-expanding frontier of—as Bucky aptly called them—assholes.

Next week, Bucky actually looked forward to reading a speech and clapping for some kids in costume. That was the most relaxation he had to look forward to.

So here he was, the lead braun of the Avengers, snoring while the credits rolled on the final Halloween movie projected in the Atrium, the whole Parker family tucked into sleeping bags on the floor around him.

Everyone else had lasted longer than minute twenty of the first movie.

The kids, now thirteen and ten, snored like their dad. MJ slept like a mummy wearing headphones, serving the dual purpose of music and noise blocking.

One of Peter's more violent snorts snapped Bucky awake to a dark room. Speckles of blue flashed behind the lights of the projector.

He rubbed the base of his neck and thought about heading back to his real bed when he caught sight of a shadow in the far hall.

Sleep clouded his vision, but the soft rustle of fabric was distinctly real.

Dot?

Until a year ago at Mephisto's rise, Bucky didn't believe in ghosts, but this was All Hallow's Eve. The notion may have passed right through with the wisps of his dreams if not for the accompanied "oof" and a thud from the same hall.

He breached the corner in time to see a polka-dotted dress beneath curled dark hair. As Dot turned the corner, a glint of silver in her hair caught his eye.

What the hell? His chest tightened, heart racing.

Bucky followed her to the kitchen where he could see the tulle of her skirt poking out behind the open fridge door. He held his breath before she popped back up with juice in hand.

Sam jumped. "Jeez, Buck. You scared me."

"I—" he flicked on the light, staring at her "—thought… What are you doing?"

Sam held up a finger while chugging juice straight from the bottle.

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, glancing behind him. "Did you fall?"

Sam swallowed hard. "Heels," she managed before another long swig. "Uncle Scott said the sugar helps with the…metabolic problem…like the ant suit." She pressed her lips together and sloshed the bottle forward. "You want any?"

Bucky simply motioned to the stove. "The kids made cider."

Sam smiled, switching to a mug and ladling out a serving. She noticed him stare before she looked down. "Yeah, I never saw you to tell you. Dee said period costumes…since everybody can already do lots of magical, fantastical things." She put down the mug and pulled the silver from her hair. "I even 3-D printed this, if you want it. It sounded so pretty when you described it."

Sam pushed the little lizard into his hand. Red stones for eyes, it curled into an S shape. Unlike the original, a line of green stones dotted its spine, tapering at the tail.

Sam fiddled with her skirt. "It's hard to fireproof this material, though. Got lucky it didn't burn to a crisp."

Bucky turned the pin over and over in his hand, thinking of Dot's face for the first time since telling Sam about her.

"Not real stones, of course, but looks pretty close."

"No," he said quietly. This was twice the size as the one from a century ago. That one was stretched out in a line with only the tail curled. Styles changed over the years.

"Of course," Sam apologized and took the bauble back, "should have asked."

"You just caught me off guard," Bucky repeated.

He watched her pet the little lizard and sigh. "Are you happy?" Sam blurted.

Bucky blinked, still stunned by the similarities between the women in navy.

"Happy with your arm, that is? I didn't…mess things up for you by doing that?"

"What? No."

"Do you think I'm a failure? Like I know I went out on a limb—" she gestured towards his side "—shouldn't have put you in danger, but it worked out almost perfectly. So why…"

Bucky cracked a smile.

"Whatever. Nevermind."

"Out on a limb?" he chuckled. "You sound like him now."

Sam shrank. "Oh, jeez, that's…horrible."

"No, I like that. I probably wouldn't like Tony's delivery, but I could use that occasionally."

Sam tossed the pin onto the countertop and sipped cider, moping in bold red lipstick. How much she changed since the last time he saw her in makeup, hiding scars along her arms, shy and unsure she belonged.

"If I never said it," he offered in the quiet, placing her handiwork on her padded shoulder, "thank you."

Her smile was faint and hollow. "What if I'd been wrong? What if I'd killed you?" Her face darkened as her voice cracked. "He's right though. I have to stop putting others in danger."

And Stark Industries' weapons didn't? Bucky felt a surge of frustration. The entire facility around them was built from the profits of life-taking technology. Tony. Notorious for the double-standard. Or the triple-standard, if you count Howard.

Before he could offer encouragement, Sam shrugged him off. She smoothed her skirts. "I'm happy for them. It was nice seeing Ty and Dee. They're gonna do great things."

"As long as she never hits me with a dagger…" Bucky murmured, snatching up the juice to wipe waxy red from its rim. He replaced the bottle in the door. The waft of cool air made him sleepy again.

"They certainly practice enough. I doubt she'll miss in the field," Sam added, refilling her mug. "They'll do great things," she repeated. Sad brown eyes met his. "You all will, of course, and I'll be here."

He moved a few empty cups to the sink, unsure how to comfort her. Bucky agreed that for safety if Sam could not participate then she should not live on campus, but when he considered idiots like Lucas Sommerson, and many worse things, were beyond the gates, he faltered.

Sam was not dangerous to him; she was carving a space for herself into stone with a wooden spoon. Sometimes she reminded him of Steve back in Brooklyn, crouched behind a trash can lid, defending the honor of the little guy.

They both wanted to matter—with wildly different reactions.

"Actually, I won't," Sam corrected. "Tony's thinking a place in Alaska now. Not before he throws me a birthday-slash-farewell rave though, because…I don't know…makes sense to him." Sam pushed her weight off the counter and winced at her feet.

"I'll miss you guys. Though you might not notice I'm gone." She raised her mug without looking up, hurrying to the hall. "Cheers."

Her tight, fake smile left little to interpretation: Samantha hated this arrangement. It surprised him she had gone this long without a fight. Banner had floated the idea that Mistress would stay when Tony and Sam moved, but when Bucky argued the idiocy of that plan, no one had considered the girl and her doll might be inseparable.

Bucky retrieved the pin from the counter. After considering its new owner, he concluded the changes fit her well. Everyone should have things that fit them.

Much like the massive yawn that escaped him, an idea—something to remind Sam of the good she'd done—smacked him in the head and blossomed.