Chapter 24: Ballad Of the Mighty I

Summary: Ever see Inception? Here ya go.

Notes: Whew. Okay, sorry for the delay, guys. I've had a little trouble finding the end for this, but I think I'm almost there. Promise. These updates will probably, seriously, be a few pretty quick now, because there's a Thanksgiving idea I really wanna hammer out and I've gotta get thru this one first. So lemme know how I'm doing! Love you all! Sarah PS-Chapter title taken from the song of the same name by Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds. Seriously LOVE that band! If you loved Oasis, you've gotta check 'em out! Anyway, give it a listen. The song fits nicely. Oh-and I don't own Marvel.

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"…I'm lost…"

Darcy whipped around, startled by the faint voice that seemed to speak just over her right shoulder.

But no one was there.

In fact…she wasn't sure she was there.

She wasn't sure where she was. Or how the hell she'd gotten there.

It was a house.

A deceptively large house, she got the feeling, but right now she was standing in the hallway like an idiot.

She'd taken a few art history courses as an undergrad, and, looking around, saw that the interior was done in an Arts and Crafts sort of style, which made the house quite old. Most likely, it was turn of the century, with lots of pretty woodwork and intricate, floral wallpaper.

Where the hell was she?

A cool, eerily familiar sort of feeling washed through her, and she stood for a long moment, considering things. Was she dreaming? Had she hit a strange button somewhere and been transported through time—had she stumbled across the TARDIS?!

She thought about trying one of the many doors, but decided against it, not wishing to walk in on a scene she may not want to be privy to.

Maybe, though, it could offer some clue?

But when she heard the faint sound of voices below, her mind was made up for her.

She went carefully down the creaky staircase, and came out into an open entryway. To the right lay a neat living room that she only glanced in, and to her left and behind, a small kitchen.

A woman stood at the stove over a steaming pot, and a young girl sat at the table, scribbling slowly onto a piece of paper, what looked like a schoolbook open in front of her.

Darcy's 'What-the-Fuck' meter flew past its highest setting, and she stood there, staring, openmouthed.

Neither of them seemed to notice her.

Then the woman turned and surveyed the girl's progress. "Remember to cross your T's, dear," she said, her voice low and coaxing, before turning back around.

Darcy blinked and took a step. "I'm, uh, sorry. But…I'm not really sure where I am, and I was…hoping…" She drifted off as it became clear that they could not hear her, and she noticed for the first time, just what they were wearing.

Dresses, in an old fashion, with cinched waists and high knots at the back of the head, severe, to look repressed and modest. Stockings, buckle shoes. No makeup.

The…twenties? Late Twenties, surely.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as a suspicion began growing there, standing the hair on her arms on end.

The woman turned again, and Darcy studied her face, her straight nose, her blue, blue eyes… "Rebecca, really," she scolded, her voice colored by Brooklyn, no doubt about it. "Dot those i's, dear, or you'll be docked for it. This is meant to be a penmanship lesson. Your brother wasn't nearly so much trouble."

The girl ducked her head.

Rebecca.

Could that mean…?

Just then, as Darcy was half forming the thought, the door flew open and two young boys came tumbling in, laughing. They flew straight past her and Darcy was shocked as she felt the light breeze they stirred up.

She wasn't merely in an illusion, then. She was actually, seriously—

"That was cheating, Buck, and you know it!" the young, fair-haired boy accused, but he was smiling.

The brunette turned, laughing, and Darcy stared a young Bucky Barnes straight in the face, sixteen maybe, color high in his cheeks, his hair wind-tousled, his eyes very, very blue.

Her mouth dropped open at the familiar shape of his face. His cheekbones were already high enough to cut glass.

"S'not my fault you're slow, Stevie!"

"Close the door, boys," his mother ordered. "It's cold in New York in October."

A young Steve brushed past her and she shivered at the touch of his sweater sleeve. He wore no coat. "Sorry, Mrs. B."

"We went down to the new book shop down the street," Bucky said.

Becca gasped. "The one next to Mr. Jones' place?!"

"Yeah," Steve said. "He's got all sorts of neat books!"

"Oh, please, mama—"

"Finish your schoolwork first, Becca. Then I'm sure your brother would be nice enough to take you there. Wouldn't you, Jimmy?"

Bucky smiled again, wider, and the effect sent Darcy's heart fluttering in her chest, so familiar was the sensation. Her breath swept out of her and a sharp sense of longing tightened everything in her, making her flee, running back up the stairs and into the hall she'd initially found herself in.

She grabbed for the nearest doorknob and threw herself through the doorway, slamming it shut behind her, gasping for air. "What the fuck?!"

But she realized then, that she wasn't alone.

An even more familiar figure was standing there, in front of the only ornamentation in the room—a stone fireplace.

And above his muzzle-like mask, his empty blue eyes were staring at her.

((()))

"Same thing," Stephen Strange said as he sat down in the provided plastic chair beside Darcy's bed. "Total block."

Tony pulled a hand down his face and gave a frustrated sigh. "Yes, we've established that. But what does that mean, doc? And I don't know about anyone else, but regardless of my MIT degree, I am so exhausted, I am beyond the reach of words that are longer than three syllables."

"Here, here," Steve sighed from the corner, the afternoon sun glinting off his wedding ring and lighting a small portion of his tired face.

The Sorcerer Supreme smiled sympathetically. "It means that she took my advice. She managed to tap into whatever ability she has and form a neural link with Bucky."

"Neural link?" Steve asked. "God, does anyone else think this is dissolving into some lame science fiction plot?"

Bruce, dozing at his desk, snored softly.

"What ability?" Tony added.

The doctor shrugged. "It would take me years to catalogue what she's capable of, but it would appear she's got some…unique talents."

Bruce, grunting, suddenly jerked awake. "What sorts of talents?"

Strange sighed and sat back. "Well, her healing abilities would tend to signify that she has some psionic ability."

"Which means?" Steve drawled, propping his head in one hand.

"She can manipulate matter, perform certain healing feats, things like that," Tony answered, staring hard at the magic-wielder.

Strange nodded. "Has she displayed anything else that might—"

"Yes," he replied, interrupting. "She, uh…" He glanced down into his lap, a little uncomfortable. "She, apparently, made an SUV…spontaneously combust."

"What?!" Bruce crowed.

Steve jerked, sitting up so quickly he nearly overturned his chair.

Strange merely cocked a brow, calm, but intrigued. "Really?"

"You didn't think to tell me that a little sooner, Tony?" Bruce demanded, straightening his glasses.

Tony shrugged, pulling a face. "Well, we were a little distracted with internal detonators and things blowing up!"

Strange interrupted before it could get out hand. "What, exactly, happened?"

The inventor pulled a hand down his face again. "Bucky said it was like…an air gun. It looked like…the air rippled out from where she touched the dash. Their cars were connected, and…this…energy wave, we'll call it, sent the SUV backward, where it rolled off the shoulder, turned over, and…the gas tank ruptured."

A heavy silence filled the room.

"So, she's…telekinetic?" Steve asked, sounding apprehensive.

Strange cocked his head, thinking. "Well, with the Extremis coming into play, it's difficult to say. She certainly has some sort of ability to affect things with her mind, both living and non."

"'Living' referring to the fact that she brought this guy, here, back from the fucking dead?" Tony asked, his voice dark with sarcasm.

Strange shook his head. "I have to admit, that part does make me…nervous."

"Why?" Steve asked, frowning.

The sorcerer sighed. "Because…bringing someone back from…beyond the veil, it's…we're talking about something else, entirely."

Tony snorted. "So is she psionic or is she a necromancer? Which is it?"

Strange took a deep, deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Resurrection is…it's a powerful gift. But…it's dark. The other side looks over your shoulder each time you draw its attention. It can be dangerous…and seductive."

"How do you even know all this?!" Steve suddenly exclaimed, gesturing wildly, his face screwed up in one-part annoyance, one-part wariness. He wasn't sure he trusted this odd man.

Strange offered a lackluster smile. "It's been quite a journey, but…I've done my fair share of exploring. I know it sounds insane, but…it's what I have to offer you."

"So Darcy's in danger because she, what…folded the planes of the universe to get him back?!" Tony interjected flippantly, gesturing a bit himself as he rolled his eyes.

The former doctor shook his head. "It may be nothing more than the fact that she managed to pull him back from the brink simply by the strength of their union. It may as simple as that. She offered herself to whatever it was the universe wanted and she struck a deal. She probably doesn't even know how she did it. Most people, they…" He cast about, searching for the right words. "They don't understand what happens when they take a vow. It's not something so easily broken by a…a signature, a piece of paper. It's something the universe considers law. You literally tie yourself to others, and the stronger the will behind the words, once spoken, determines how iron-clad that law is."

He studied them all in turn. "You, Stark. Your connection to your wife can't simply be broken in a US court. Rogers, you and Agent Romanoff are nearly as tightly woven. Your relationships are evident all around you, if you know how to read them. I've been taught how to read these things. That vow between them, coupled with Darcy's mysterious abilities, brought him back from the dead, yes, or nearly so. They've tied her to him now in this half-state they're both in. You won't be able to break it from this side. They have to break it from within."

Tony sighed. "And how do they do that?"

Again, Strange shrugged. "Only they'll be able to figure that out. Whatever plane they're on determines the rules, just like the things I can do here—" He snapped his fingers and a glowing symbol appeared there, a blue mandala that slowly faded, glittering, from view—"are determined by the laws of this plane. You see what I'm saying?"

There was a moment of quiet as everyone considered this. Finally, Tony spoke, his voice low. "We're getting deeply philosophical here, and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it."

Steve slouched and tilted his head back against the wall behind him with a thunk.

"So, what do we do?" Bruce finally ask, straightening his glasses again.

Strange shook his head. "You make her comfortable. And you wait."

((()))

Darcy had to give it to HYDRA, really. Grudgingly.

Because seeing the Winter Soldier in CCTV footage, no matter how menacing, was really nothing compared to standing in front of him.

She swallowed, staring into the empty eyes of her own husband.

But he wasn't her husband.

Not this stranger.

Her heart stammering in her chest, she took a step back, one hand held out to feel along the wall. "Jamie?"

He took a step toward her, cocking his head and glaring.

"It's me, baby. Darcy?"

Not even a glimmer of recognition.

Not that she'd expected any. If her growing suspicion was right and they were both lost somewhere in his subconscious, like fucking Inception, then this was certainly not the version of the boy she'd married.

But she had to try; she'd married him, after all—or, at least, a part of him.

It was really as though he'd stepped out of all that footage, all the way down to the tactical gear, the leather plated chest guard, and the combat boots. Even the eye black and his tousled hair…

He was a total phantom.

It was an entirely new sensation for Darcy, to look at him and feel something cold and tentative slither down her spine, but there it was, and she couldn't deny it.

Fear.

Never. Never before had she ever felt threatened by him, not once, not even the one time she'd been foolish enough to startle him in the middle of what had turned out to be a flashback and he'd wrapped a big hand around her throat.

It felt entirely wrong, completely counter-intuitive to her, but she couldn't ignore the sensation of terror that lanced through her, setting her heart to racing as he slowly advanced on her position on the far side of the room.

The room itself was entirely bare but for that old, stone fireplace, complete with cold grate. There was a strange, muted light coming in from the single high window, and the walls were a blank white.

Her single avenue of escape was the door she still stood largely in front of, but while this version of her lover was vaguely terrifying, she also couldn't bring herself to flee just yet. "Jamie. C'mon. You know me, baby. Darcy." She tried to smile but it was shaky on her lips as they refused to obey. "Your girl. Remember? I'm your girl. You call me that all the time."

But, of course, her mind supplied the reminder that this Bucky Barnes—The Asset—hadn't met her yet, would never meet her, not truly. This was some tiny, tiny pocket of James Barnes' mind, a small sliver of his consciousness that the Russians had managed to bring to the fore and expand, until all that was left of the original boy had been rage and blind obedience.

White noise.

He took another step.

"Bucky," she tried as he advanced.

Nothing.

She tried Steve's tactic. "James. Your name is James—Jamie!"

He crossed to her and slammed his fist into the wall behind her head, a warning shot, surely, and though she flinched, she held her ground, wondering if she'd triggered something, plucked something out of the blaring in his mind.

She would not be scared off by this imposter, she would not.

His other fist—the metal one—careened in next, dangerously close to her head this time.

She jumped, her heart leaping into her throat.

Or maybe she would, after all.

Ducking as quickly as she could, she darted out under the cage of his arms and threw herself at the door.

A crackling noise behind her told her he'd damaged the wall.

With a tiny shriek, she darted out of the room with him in pursuit.

((()))

He was locked in.

Bucky sighed, staring at the door with mild trepidation.

He was inside his own head, apparently, and he was locked into a small, dark room.

How his subconscious had found it in itself to lock him somewhere was beyond him, but he'd learned to not question these things—the hard way.

What was that movie called that Darcy had shown him? It was trippy and weird, something about lucid dreaming…?

Inception.

Right.

"How the fuck can I be locked in my own head?" he muttered to himself, taking survey of the room. The walls were painted a dark gray and there were no windows. There was hard, concrete flooring, the single door, and one lonely chair in the corner.

He'd tipped in here blindly earlier in his escape of his sister, remembering that this had been his room as a child—but this was not his room.

It was the same basic shape, yes, but he'd had a window and a small closet. The view had looked out onto the street, the chemist's below and across the street and the bustling of people going on their way.

He used to sit there while he read, tucked into a chair with a blanket on cold winter nights, and his mother used to scold him he'd catch a draft.

He sighed again, scowling around. Buried somewhere in a head like his was really the last place he wanted to be. The very last one.

But, since the first was obviously unavailable—folded against Darcy's warm skin in their bed back home, or tucked beside her in a plush loveseat at their coffee shop—he'd have to fucking make do.

"I don't fucking care what you like or don't like!" a female voice suddenly yelled into the eerie, atmospheric silence, and he jumped. "Who's life is it? Huh, buddy?!"

"Don't you take that tone with me!" came the reply, an older man, and with a decidedly fatherly bent. "I didn't raise you to talk to me like that!"

"Raise me?! Raise me?! You asshole, you were barely around! I'll talk to you however I want to talk to you!" That voice. He'd know it anywhere.

He narrowed his eyes, wandering across the room to hover by the door. The mysterious altercation was definitely taking place in the hallway just outside.

But this was nothing he could remember, no memory of his, nothing he'd randomly overheard.

"I provided for you! That's what fathers do!"

"Oh, you mean all those times you told me to go cry to someone else when I got pushed down on the playground? Or all those times you didn't bandage my scraped knees? Oh, yeah, I remember those real well."

Darcy.

Which meant—

"Darcy, you're being dramatic. All I'm saying is that it's the last time you call me Nathan. I don't want an argument." His tone had cooled.

Darcy's did as well, but her ire was by no means satisfied. "Then why the hell did you start one?"

A deep, authoritative sigh. "I just don't think it's a good idea for you to go gallivanting off to live in Manhattan. That's all I'm saying. I have no idea what half-assed career you've been sifting through since college, but I think you're getting in over your head."

She snorted. "And I think it's hilarious that you still think I care about your opinion. And if I told you about my half-assed career, the CIA would show up the next day and wipe your memory like the fucking Men in Black."

A long, long silence. "Darcy. Please. None of your games, okay? What have you been doing? I heard you were in New Mexico—and there was that huge fire out there in the desert that no one knows anything about. Then you just happened to be in London last year when things went haywire? It's just…it's suspicious, and I'm worried you're getting in too deep."

If Bucky didn't know any better, he'd think Nathan sounded like he cared.

Of the conversations he had overheard, this was a first. It had always made him itch, listening to her talk to her father. Of course, before, he hadn't felt he had the right to say anything, not being formally introduced, but…

No matter how he'd been raised, he'd managed to jam the idea into his head that you treated a woman with respect, be she mother, daughter, or significant other. And once or twice it had taken everything in him not to snatch the phone from Darcy's grip, just from hearing her end of the conversation alone from out in the living room and down the hall.

"What happened to me playing games?" she snarked. "What, are you worried I'll find a guy that'll show you the door?"

He snorted at the irony. There were a whole handful of things he'd like to show Nathan if they ever met face to face. Even here, in this eerie dream space, his hackles came up.

A deep sigh. "I'm worried you'll find yet another one that'll take advantage of you and you'll go off into your head again. You've always been a bit of a dreamer, always lost in your imagination."

He said it like it was a bad thing.

"Nathan, for God's sake. I grew up in Jersey. I've been to Manhattan dozens of times. This is nothing new. You should be glad my internship resulted in a job."

"Is it a paying one?"

"Less than I'd like, if I'm being honest, but it certainly has potential."

"Doing what?"

Another patient sigh. "I told you. I'm PA-ing for a scientist. It's cool. So are you gonna go now, so I can finish dinner?"

"And this new apartment…this place is tiny, Darcy. It's a hole in the wall. You can commute. Live at home."

Darcy snorted. "With you and the woman-child? No, thanks. I'm good. I'm gonna fix this place up—maybe I'll even be able to bunk with Jane in her building. It's sweet digs, you should see the place! High Rise. Balconies. It's ridiculous."

"Oh, yeah? And what's his name?"

A short pause. "Who?"

"Darcy, please. You may hate me, but give me a small ounce of credit. The guy you've got your eye on. You've got that look on your face."

Bucky's heart fluttered in his chest.

But Darcy's voice was surprisingly small. "No one. There's…no one."

A short, sardonic, "Mm-hm. You wouldn't tell me even if there was, would you?"

Shocking him, she admitted it. To Nathan. Whom she hated. He was positive of this. "He's…different."

"Just like Daniel was different?"

Bucky clenched his left hand into a fist, looking down as it whirred and clanked at the force of his grip.

"Daniel was no one," she said, still sounding meek.

It drew a lump to his throat and he wrapped his human hand around the doorknob, turning it ineffectually. It was still locked. He tugged, and it shook under his assault. "Darce?" he called, his voice cracking. He couldn't just leave her out there with the one man capable of tearing her down. "Darcy…baby…"

But he was met with silence.

Somehow, they were gone.

((()))

By the time Darcy had shot down another random, nondescript hallway, she realized she was no longer being followed. Breathing deep, she eyed the way she'd come, but slowed to a more wandering pace.

Okay, so clearly, Bucky's subconscious viewed her as a threat.

She stopped, stuck her hands on her hips, and huffed out a frustrated breath. How the hell was she supposed to do this? She wasn't even sure what she'd done! Strange had been almost deliberately vague, she was sure of it.

Although he'd been on the mark at least a little bit—she had no fucking clue, after all, how her abilities worked, or how she was pulling the strings. She just barely had some idea how to use the healing thing that had been thrust on her last spring, and even that seemed ridiculously faulty.

She gasped. "Max. Oh, shit."

She'd just have to hope that Tony realized what was happening.

((()))

"What the actual fuck is happening?!" Tony snarled, finally losing his patience and taking a swipe at the small engine in front of him on the lab table. It flew off the steel surface, catapulted across the room and shattered upon hitting the far wall, bursting into various small metal parts.

It echoed for a moment.

Breathless, he stared at the small dent he'd created, one part satisfied, once part ashamed.

Maybe Pepper was right: he was more of a control freak than he'd realized.

Because this out of control-ness? It was driving him out of his fucking mind.

He had no idea what to do, and the idleness was threatening to snap what remained of his sanity, which, he admitted, wasn't great on a good day.

There had to be something, something he could do, something that was useful, something that made up for Darcy lying unconscious in the next room over.

He blinked, something occurring to him. "Hey, J, is there any activity in Buck's place?"

A pause. I detect one lifeform, he replied, curtly, as usual. It appears to be the canine that was brought into the Tower last week, regardless of your rule concerning pets, Mr. Stark.

He smirked. God, the spitfire would be the end of him. How Buck handled her was a mystery to him, really. "And?"

Security footage places the canine on the couch within the Barnes' residence, and if the bowl on the kitchen floor is to be taken as its food supply, it is empty. The canine does appear distressed.

He sent the ceiling a look. "Barnes' residence?"

Another pause, this one longer, as though the program was waffling on whether or not to confess to something. Given Darcy's condition in the lab, Sir, I took the liberty of digitally filing the paperwork she had left out, lest it be forgotten. The Manhattan Clerk's Office put it through this morning, Sir. The details will filter down and I am able to follow up with the Post Office and other institutions on an as-needed basis.

Something squiggled uncomfortably in Tony's chest, but he decided not to study it too closely just then. The phrase 'Catch a break' was starting to haunt him.

With a growl, he hit the lights and stomped out of the lab, perfectly aware he was acting like a child, but not giving a rat's ass. He didn't even bother speaking in the elevator, and JARVIS knew what he wanted.

The apartment was eerie without anyone in it and he stood in the doorway for a moment, staring around.

Blue blanket half folded on the couch. Records shuffled through, Andy Gibb on the very top. He smiled, picturing Darcy dancing around in her favorite casual attire—leggings and a too-big t-shirt—to 'I Just Want To Be Your Everything'. The tea box was closed on the kitchen counter. Yoga mat rolled up and propped in the corner. The Great Gatsby on the coffee table, the edges foxed—clearly a favorite.

"Gotta be Buck," he muttered to himself, coming in and closing the door behind him. There were new photographs hung as well, and against his better judgment, he crossed to them to look.

Candid shots, mostly, one taken at the museum, one with Bucky rolling his eyes indulgently, and he could hear Darcy begging him to hold still for just one picture, she promised.

That shot, the one he'd taken, that day. He'd spent the whole afternoon, after they'd quietly exchanged vows, sneaking about, determined to get a good picture of them, something natural, something that fit them and wasn't a set-up.

Thinking back on it, now, he figured he'd maybe projected a little onto them, turned that protective instinct into something simple and easy, like taking a picture of them as they really were, rather than the way everyone thought they saw them could somehow make things easier for them.

Darcy's head on his shoulder.

Buck in just his shirtsleeves.

Her in that beautiful dress.

That certain line to Buck's back that told you he was truly relaxed, something he so rarely was.

They'd clearly liked it, if they'd hung it up. How appropriate for someone like Bucky—a wedding photograph that didn't show his face, and yet, somehow, managed to project a level of intimacy that many formal photographs lacked.

Tony would've been proud, had he been trying to do it that way. It had been an accident, really. Funny how things like that tended to work out.

His heart clenched, and he turned away to find the dog on the couch—Max—looking sadly at him, blinking sleep-crusted eyes and thumping his tail submissively against the cushion.

"Hey, bud," he said. "Max, right?"

The tail thumped again.

"It's alright. We're gonna fix ya up, okay? Don't you worry about a thing."

The tail thumped twice more, harder, and Tony took this as an invitation to approach.

"Don't look so dejected. She didn't desert you—she, just, uh…had a prior engagement. She'll be right back, okay?"

Max whined softly and army crawled across the cushions as Tony sat down, sliding on his belly to show deference.

Tony sighed. "It's alright, little dude. It's alright." He reached out and scratched behind his ears, finding the fur there thick and soft.

The dog took a deep, contented breath, huffed, and laid his chin on Tony's thigh. He sighed. "Well, shit."

This was part of why he didn't allow pets, this, right here, the attachment growing now. "You hungry? You've gotta be starving."

He fed him after going through the cabinets a few times, gave him fresh water, then a small little bacon treat and when he left the apartment, allowed the dog to follow.

But not before he folded the blanket neatly on the footstool, slid the bookmark back into Bucky's book, and set it atop it, where it could wait for its master to return.

Because he would—if Tony had anything to say about it.

((()))

"Rebecca, I'm asking you a question: were you or were you not out past your curfew last night?" a man's voice was snarling around the next bend.

Darcy, edging around the corner, flinched at the cruelty in the voice.

There was no answer; just a helpless sniffle.

She scowled. Becca again, his sister, so young and pretty, like a ballerina in a music box.

Next was the unmistakable sound of skin striking skin and she stuck her head around the corner to peek into the open room—this one done in pink, like a girl's room ought to be. It was sparsely decorated, but there were signs of life all about. Books, a hand-woven doll with yellow hair, a bed with a red and pink woolen blanket.

But Becca refused to cry out. She just looked down into her lap, where her hands were folded, and said, "Yes."

George Barnes nodded his satisfaction and immediately his hands went to his belt buckle. "That's what I thought. Out gallivanting with that Melnitz boy down the street? He's dirt, girl. I'll not have you toying with a Jewish boy. They're thieves, rob you blind—and more than your money."

Becca flinched, but didn't reply.

Darcy thought she looked perhaps seventeen—old enough to want to know what love was. And the climate of the time was less than friendly to certain immigrants. She remembered that much from her history lessons.

"Wait," a familiar voice spoke up from the hallway, and Darcy jumped, glancing over her shoulder to find Bucky there again, this time much older than in the last memory, very nearly the man she'd fallen so helplessly in love with.

Here was Bucky as he'd been.

A fine young man, strapping and determined to prove himself. A little scruff on his jaw, his eyes the blue of his mother's, protective older brother and shamed son. "It was my fault."

"No, Jimmy!" Becca insisted, her face paling further as she finally looked up.

Darcy saw now that they shared the same straight nose, the same sensual mouth.

George scowled, looking between his children as they shared a silent argument. "Well?"

"I was out with Mickey, just like you sa—"

"It was my fault. I told her I'd meet her to help her with her homework, but I got hung up at the garage," he said, speaking over her, his eyes hard on George, daring him, challenging him.

So, by Darcy's reckoning, they'd already had their ultimate row and he'd already moved out with Steve, had already started working at the garage and the diner.

George huffed. "Figures. You're always out gallivanting like a miscreant."

Bucky took a step closer, framing himself in the doorway, the warm heat of his left shoulder pressing against Darcy's, and she stared at the strangeness of it for a moment, no metal in sight, no red star—this was her husband, intact and whole.

But haunted all the same.

And he hadn't even bloodied his hands yet.

"Go, Becca," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

Darcy almost snorted—so he'd had that Winter Soldier voice long before he'd become the Winter Soldier, then. That hardness was hard to ignore, and it was clear that he'd been more a father to Becca than anything else, and certainly more than their actual father.

The girl hesitated only a moment before she darted for the door, her face filled with guilt and torment as she pressed a hand to her reddening cheek.

Darcy—unsure where her place was in these metaphysical visions, jerked back and aside.

"Go on," he murmured lowly as she paused in the hall, his voice softer, but his face still hard for George's benefit. "Mickey's got some ice waiting for you."

"We doing this or not, boy?" George snapped.

Darcy flinched, watching Becca flee down the hall to the top of the stairs, and disappear.

Bucky leveled his father with a calm, neutral stare. "You ever get tired of this, Old Man?"

George sighed, and Darcy was close enough—and lost enough—that she could smell the reeking cheap booze. "You and me had an agreement—or have you forgotten?" He tugged the belt off his waist and coiled the end of it around his hand once, twice. "You take your sister's lashes—that's your choice, you wanna answer for her. If it were me, the only way to teach her a lesson's with leather—just like you."

Bucky sneered. "Didn't work, though, did it?"

George snorted. "Don't I know it?" And he gestured with this chin to the chair Becca had only just vacated. "Go on. You made your bed."

Without a word, Bucky unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, making it clear that it wasn't just The War that had helped him bulk up. All that work with cars at the garage and boxing on Friday nights had given his chest and shoulders plenty of definition, and the tight line of his abdominals made Darcy's mouth go dry all over again. His hair was short, shorn like the soldier he hadn't become yet, and she wondered what year this was supposed to have been.

Giving George a glare, he tossed the shirt over the back of the chair and straddled it, his body language deceptively casual as he set his hands on the back of it.

They worked in silence, the only sound the crack of George's belt as it struck Bucky's muscular back, again and again, raising long, red welts on the skin there.

Darcy's heart was pounding, and she was frozen in place, perfectly aware that this had happened—at least in some respect, given Bucky's hints of it—but still entirely horrified to see it first-hand.

Bucky didn't give an ounce of acknowledgment about it at all, but for the occasional clench of his hands against the chair back as the leather struck home.

By the time George had finished, he'd drawn blood and Darcy's face was wet with tears.

But a hand on her shoulder drew her up sharp, and as George slid his bloody belt back on, she turned, knowing who she'd find behind her.

She felt, rather than saw, the scene dissolve behind her as she stared up into the ghostly face of her own lover. "You never told me about this," she finally said, and her voice was raw and ragged, husky with feeling.

A flicker—she was sure she saw it—above the Winter Soldier's mask.

"Did you feel like you couldn't? Or was it lost somewhere, buried under…everything else?"

He drew his metal hand back, sharply, like she'd burned him, and stared at her.

"It was, wasn't it?" she kept on, staring hard into those fathomless eyes. "It was totally buried? You've always been honest with me, sometimes to a fault. You did this, for Becca?"

He took a step back.

She huffed out a soft laugh. "I thought my father was awful. Compared to yours, I have nothing to complain about. And you wouldn't, you would you?" She raised a brow. "It was just…how it was, then, wasn't it? It was okay to beat your children with your own fucking belt."

He took another step.

She mirrored him. "Why won't you speak to me?" She advanced on him, trying to push down her fear at his hard stance. "I know you can—I know you did, to Pierce, to your STRIKE team. Why won't you speak to me? I'm…I'm me." She reached toward him with shaking hands.

He jerked back.

She implored him. "It's me. It's Darcy. You know me, you—" She stopped herself, biting off the words 'love me' before they could spill out, and they burned like acid on her tongue, aching and digging a hollow pit in her stomach. She sighed, swallowing back the sudden, homesick tears, the well of longing that was slowly rising in her for the very man she was standing in front of—or, at the very least, his shadow. "You know me. I'm your Darcy, I'm your girl. Remember? You used to call me that, all the time. Dollface." She tried to smile, but it was watered down and the tears that had been hovering since she'd stepped into the scene spilled over, and down her cheeks.

He flinched and took another rapid step back.

She followed. "I'm no threat. You don't have to…be all…Winter Soldier-y on me, baby, it's me. Won't you let me in?"

Without any warning, he lunged forward, shoving her back from him, eyes gone hard again. She wondered what she'd said that had turned the table as she stared at him, knocked breathless by his outburst.

He snarled—actually snarled—and murmured something low and not in English. The hard sound of Russian consonants bit the air and she flinched back this time, away from him.

"You know me," she insisted. "You've known me for almost two years. You've seen me naked more times than I can count, for God's sake. I mean, you can't any more real than that."

He just continued to stare at her, slowly advancing again, like a caged animal, prowling at those who dared come too close to his cage.

She huffed, and held up her hands. "Alright. Fine. I'm going." And she sauntered off, giving him a helpless look over her shoulder as she went.