Late Afternoon SHIELD Compound
Charlotte hadn't stopped moving since she'd stormed out of the briefing room that morning.
She'd run. Hard. Longer than she had in years, until her legs burned and her lungs felt like they were being grated from the inside. The trail around the compound blurred beneath her feet, each lap bleeding into the next until she couldn't remember when she'd started or how many she'd done.
Somewhere around what she assumed was the twenty-fifth mile, her wrist monitor's light blinked from green to yellow.
That was when she stopped. Somewhere deep inside her, his voice still echoed. Telling her to hit the brakes, to listen to herself. For once, she actually did. If only to spite him for thinking she'd never learn.
She ignored the cramping in her calves, the raw sting in her heels from socks that had rubbed past their breaking point. Ignored the sharp pang behind her ribs that came every few steps, begging her to sit for a moment and catch her breath. But she wouldn't. Couldn't.
She was terrified of slowing down and risking all the emotions she'd been running from catching back up with her. So she kept walking, one foot after another, towards her building.
Back inside, the shower was scalding—deliberately so. She let the heat pour over her until her skin turned blotchy and raw, like she could melt off the memory of his fingers from the last few nights. From the safe house. From her skin. Her bones.
She didn't scrub. She just stood there. Let it burn.
By the time she dressed, her limbs felt like boiled noodles from the exertion and the heat. She threw on the first set of clean clothes she could find—Nat's old jeans and a white button up, sliding a belt on to secure the pants to her body. She dried her hair halfway before hearing raindrops hit her windows, resigning herself as she left it to dry the rest of the way in her natural loose waves. She slipped her feet into boots and made her way through the thankfully empty common room. From the elevator to the path across the compound, she moved on autopilot. The rain was nothing more than a light spring drizzle, so she didn't bother with an umbrella. She entered into the building that housed the lab before long anyways.
She wasn't planning to say much to Calla. She just needed to do something. Anything.
The compound halls were quiet at this hour, bathed in that late-afternoon lethargy that still affected even the most elite training facility in the world..
She didn't realize how fast she was walking until the sound of footsteps caught up behind her.
"Agent Rossi?"
Charlotte turned.
A junior agent—young, mid-twenties maybe, with a SHIELD badge clipped to his belt—approached her, holding a tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other.
"Sorry to bother you," he said, adjusting his grip on the tablet. "Just need a quick signature on the final mission report from the Prague op. Lead agent evaluation's already been filled out, but protocol says we still need yours on the last page."
She blinked at him. "Sure," she said, voice flat. "Yeah. No problem."
He held the tablet out to her.
Charlotte nodded absently, taking it without looking up. "Yeah. Sure."
She scrolled with her thumb, eyes scanning the top page—debrief summary, asset assessments, tactical breakdown. The usual.
Until she hit a subheader:
Lead Agent Evaluation – Barnes, J.
Her thumb stilled.
Her eyes skimmed the section, heartbeat slowing to a crawl as the words sharpened into focus:
"Agent Rossi demonstrated repeated disregard for undercover protocol and public perception during mission 87-3. She disobeyed direct orders and compromised the chain of command. While her skill set remains formidable, her emotional volatility in the field presents an ongoing liability. It is my professional recommendation that she not be reassigned to active missions until further psychological assessment has been completed." —Barnes, James B.
Charlotte's thumb hovered over the screen like it didn't belong to her, like if she didn't move, maybe the words would rearrange themselves into something less gutting. Less final.
She read it again.
And again.
The world didn't blur—it sharpened. Every edge of fluorescent light above her buzzed too loud. Every breath of the agent across from her echoed like it was happening in a cavern.
She'd spent the day trying to figure out how to choke down Bucky's comments in the briefing, how to make sense of it.
But this? This was a knife.
A professionally worded. Clinical. Objective. Traitorous. Fucking. Knife.
She could hear his voice in every word. He hadn't just criticized her performance. He'd discredited her entire capability in the field.
He didn't say she had a bad day. Made a bad judgement call. He said she was unstable. Dangerous. A liability.
And the worst part—the part that made her stomach lurch and her knees feel suddenly too hollow to stand on—was that some awful, secret piece of her believed him. Believed that he was right.
Believed that he'd seen the truth no one else had the guts to say.
Believed that he'd always seen it.
Not good enough. Not stable enough. Not safe.
Her thumb curled tightly around the edge of the tablet, the screen groaning under her grip.
No. No, fuck that.
Not from him.
Not after everything.
"Is something wrong?" the agent asked gently.
Charlotte looked up. Her face was blank. Cold. That practiced, perfect mask.
"No," she said. "I'll handle it."
She handed back the tablet without signing and walked out, the echo of her boots sharp against the floor.
The agent stared after her, confused, until she turned the corner and disappeared down the hall.
Late 2015 Bucharest
The streets of Bucharest were crowded—shoulder to shoulder with locals and tourists, noise and color blending into chaos. Bucky moved with purpose, head low beneath his hood, careful not to draw attention. But he could feel it—the shift in the air. Like something sharp brushing against the back of his neck.
He didn't need to see her to know.
She was close.
He turned slightly, just enough to glance behind him. And there she was. Their Mockingbird.
She moved through the crowd like a shadow—fluid, silent, deadly. Civilian clothes. Neutral expression. Nothing out of place. But Bucky saw it. The stiffness in her shoulders. The exactness in her stride. The calculated sweep of her eyes, ticking through faces like a weapon scanning for a lock.
His stomach twisted.
They sent her after me.
She didn't see him—yet—but she was close. Too close.
He ducked into a narrow alley, heart hammering, back pressed against cold brick. He waited, breathing shallow. Listening.
He risked another glance.
There she was again. Right at the edge of the alley, weaving through the crowd with quiet precision. Her face—
It was empty.
That same terrifying stillness they'd programmed into him. Cold. Detached. Her features slack with focus, with obedience. She wasn't herself, not that he ever really knew who that was. She was inhuman.
She was the weapon they made her.
And she didn't even know how close she'd come to accomplishing her mission this time.
He wanted to run to her. Pull her out. Grab her and disappear into the shadows like he should've done years ago. Even if he had to knock her unconscious to get her out of here.
But then he saw them.
Scattered through the crowd like vultures—HYDRA agents, blending in, eyes fixed on her. One sipping coffee. One pretending to read a newspaper. Another with a camera. None of them were watching him.
They were watching her.
Not to protect her. To keep her in line. To keep her from disappearing.
They'd learned from their mistake with him. They weren't going to lose their new favorite weapon. Not without blood. He suspected they were under orders to splatter her brains across the pavement rather than let her escape. His stomach lurched and he forced the nausea down.
He looked at her one more time—how she moved, how still her eyes were, how deeply she'd disappeared inside herself.
And he made the only choice he could.
He slipped into the shadows.
Present Day Training Room
The steady, punishing beat of Bucky's fists against the punching bag echoed through the training room. They were steady, relentless, like he was trying to beat back something inside him that wouldn't stay down. The knuckles on his right hand were raw. He hadn't bothered to tape them when he showed up an hour ago, ready to feel everything. His jaw was tight. Sweat clung to him in a sheen, plastering his hair to his forehead. He'd opted to leave the lights off, the high windows letting in just enough light from the overcast day to draw long shadows on the floor. His own person ghost, haunting his peripheral as he moved.
He heard her before he saw her—boots striking the mat in quick, deliberate strides. They were just erratic enough for him to know she wasn't coming here on friendly business.
He turned just in time for Charlotte to shove him square in the chest.
He staggered, caught off guard, arms instinctively rising. Not to strike back, but to defend against her onslaught as she was already reloading to hit him again. "Charlotte—"
She didn't wait. Her fist cracked into his right shoulder as he blocked her knee driving up against his ribs. He remained on the defensive.
"Fight back," She ground out, gritting her teeth as she swung an elbow and lunged forward. He dodged it, jerking backwards and retreating across the mat. He was disarmed enough by her rage that he didn't regain his balance, didn't snap into combat mode.
"I'm not going to—" He dropped underneath a sharp right hook. "Fight you—"
Her left knuckles collided with his face in a jab he missed as he pleaded with her eyes. She felt the soft skip of his lip burst as she made contact. Blood bloomed instantly, a pool of red leaking from the corner of his mouth. His head snapped back with the force, a grunt escaping him.
She didn't slow. Didn't hold back. No remorse flickered in her eyes—only fury, frayed and unrelenting.
Bucky caught her next punch with one hand and deflected the other with his forearm. "Charlotte—stop—"
She twisted, broke free of his grip, and whirled to drive her elbow back into his ribs. He grunted, catching her arms as he pulled her back against his chest, trying to restrain her without hurting her. "This isn't how—"
She arched her back and shoved off him, breath ragged, already reloading her weight on her back foot. He dodged her next swing but didn't strike back, didn't retaliate. He refused to hurt her, but he wasn't just going to stand there and get torn apart either.
"Dammit, Char," he muttered, ducking another swing. "Talk to me."
She didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Instead, she launched into a melee of kicks, one after the other, driving him backwards as he dodged them.
This wasn't either of their standard fighting rhythm. Charlotte was ordinarily calculated, precise, calm as her body slipped into what it was programmed to do. But now, she was fighting with her heart rather than her mind. Bloodlust clouded her vision as she carried on, throwing her full force into every blow, not caring how much energy she wasted. Stumbling backwards, Bucky was far from his element. His strength came from going on the offensive, striking first, hitting harder, finishing things quickly. But with Charlotte, the end was the only thing he never wanted to see. Even as she seemed intent on beating the shit out of him. So he kept retreating, kept raising his hands to deflect kick after kick.
Finally, she froze. Chest heaving, fists trembling, eyes blazing as they met his for the first time since she'd stormed in.
"Why?" One word. A single, splintering accusation. She hurled it at him with as much force as any of her blows.
Bucky exhaled like it had been trapped in his chest for hours. "Maria asked for an objective report. She gave me an ultimatum. I gave her what she wanted. I wasn't trying to—"
"Less than a day," she cut in, voice sharp, "after I gave you the one untouched piece of myself I had left. And you hung me out to dry already."
His shoulders dropped like the weight of her words was actually pressing down on them. His gaze dropped to the floor, jaw tightening.
A pause.
Bucky had no excuse. Not one that would matter.
He stepped toward her, slow, hands lowered like he was approaching a live wire. "I wasn't trying to hurt you," he said, voice low. "I thought—God, Char, I thought it would protect you. If they thought I was being unfair, playing favorites, we'd never be assigned to anything together again. If I was objective, they'd sideline you temporarily. Keep you out of the field. Let's be honest, you don't always have the best track record of self-preservation. If I'm not there, I don't trust anyone else to watch your back like I would. I wasn't trying to undermine you, I didn't mean to cut you down. I was just doing...I tried to do the right thing. I was trying to keep us from getting separated and I was trying to keep you breathing, Charlotte."
Her expression didn't shift.
Bucky took another step. "You're not a liability. You never were. I just… I don't want to lose you. Not as a teammate, and not...for good."
For a second, he held her gaze, thought she might say something. Might look away. Might soften.
Instead, she said, "Make it up to me."
His head tilted ever so slightly. Blood rushed in his ears. He felt the same beat pulsing in his lip and ribcage where she'd landed her hardest hits. It was all background noise. The only thing he wanted to hear was her voice. He wanted to hear her say that she meant what he thought she did.
"Now?"
She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. "Now."
He looked at her like she might destroy him. Like maybe she already had.
"Charlotte…"
She stepped in, close enough to feel her breath against his neck. Her voice was low and cutting. "For God's sake. And I'm the one who can't follow orders?"
Something inside him cracked. He reached out with both hands and cupped her jaw, pulling her into a deep kiss without caring about the blood still spilling out of his lip.
He held her like she was something sacred. Like he was a man on death row and she was the judge who'd just expunged his record. Like she was the first and last good thing he'd ever known.
She kissed him like she was trying to prove a point.
Ferocity. Pressure. Aggression. A low, unguarded sound escaped him—half relief, half ruin—as she put her hands on his chest and backed him toward the wall. His hands trailed softly from her face to her waist, unsure. She gave a final shove as they closed the gap between his back and the wall, thrusting him into it with more force than necessary.
She didn't stop kissing him.
There was nothing warm in it—only control. Sharp, deliberate control. She kissed him like she could make him taste the betrayal she felt. He tilted his head, trying to kiss her deeper, one hand coming back up into her hair at the nape of her neck.
She bit his lip.
His breath hitched as fresh blood filled his mouth—reopening the cut that had only just begun to clot. The gasp didn't slow her. If anything, it seemed to spur her on. She broke the kiss only to lift the hem of his shirt and rip it over his head. Lifting his arms, he obliged her, trying not to be unnerved by the still-angry haze in her eyes. Her lips crashed into his as she threw his shirt off to the side.
He groaned into the kiss when her fingers raked down his chest, nails dragging fire in their wake. His hands worked her belt loose, fumbling with the button of her jeans beneath. Impatiently her hands shoved his out of the way, tugging her pants just low enough to get what she came for. His hands slid up to the buttons of her shirt, making it halfway down before she turned and shoved him to the mat. He followed her lead, dropping to his knees and letting her join him, both of their hands wrestling with the tie on his drawstring pants as their words were lost into the kiss. The knot relented, her hands tugged his waistband down and revealed that he was more than ready for her.
Bucky wasn't sure if he imagined it when he saw her eyes dart down, raking across his body, but he swore her pupils dilated. She refused to meet his eyes as she tangled her hands in his hair and pulled him back into a kiss, the metallic tang of his blood still on her tongue.
"Charlotte—" he rasped.
"Shut up," she whispered—not cruel. Just absolute. "Shut up and make it up to me."
The point of no return. Bucky drew a breath, desire and guilt and absolution muddled together in his mind, and crossed right over. He gripped her arms and in one movement, spun her on her knees so her back was against his. Her pants were still half-on, shirt half unbuttoned and pushed up to her ribs—no undressing, no tenderness. Just access. Just control.
"You sure?" His voice was rough, one thread of restraint intact as he lined himself up behind her.
"Do it," She damn near growled.
He thrust into her. The gasp she let out was the first human sound she'd made since she came into the room. One of his arms wrapped around her, holding her to him in the somewhat awkward position they were in, both kneeling on the mat. The other gripped her hips with bruising strength, giving him leverage to push into her again and again and again.
One hand reached behind him to tangle in his hair, and he leaned in, kissing her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone. She yanked his head back by the hair.
"Don't," she warned. Her voice didn't shake.
She arched her back, sending him even deeper. Despite himself, Bucky's head fell back, a moan escaping his throat as he picked the rhythm back up. Charlotte leaned forward, falling to her hands and knees, pulling him with her. His left hand braced himself on the mat, and his right hand snaked around her waist to find itself between her legs. He didn't ask for permission before giving her what he knew she liked. Needed.
Her breath hitched the second his fingers found her. Not because she was surprised, but because it felt good—infuriatingly good. Her forehead dropped to the mat, hands fisting against it, her body no longer pretending to keep control. Bucky watched her carefully, his own control fraying with every fractured sound that slipped from her lips.
She didn't speak, didn't guide him. She didn't need to.
He knew every cue—every stutter in her breath, every shift in her hips, every way she tried to stay silent and failed.
She was unraveling against him, but she wouldn't let it show. Not fully.
Her hand reached back, blindly grabbing for his thigh, his hip, anything to ground herself. When her nails dug into his skin, it pulled a growl from deep in his chest.
He leaned forward slightly, letting his forehead rest between her shoulder blades, their bodies slick with sweat and steam, the air between them thick and too quiet. He was losing himself in the rhythm, in the way her body welcomed him even as her mind screamed stay away.
Bucky didn't know what it meant. He just knew he couldn't stop.
Her breathing hitched once—twice—then turned sharp and fractured as she came apart beneath him, biting down on her own lip so hard he could almost feel the sting himself.
The sound she made wasn't loud.
It was haunted.
He followed her over the edge seconds later, vision blurring at the edges as his body folded forward, wrapped around hers like he could shield her from something that had already happened.
Their bodies stilled. For a moment, time itself stood still along with them. They both collapsed to the mat, Bucky's left arm draped over Charlotte's back.
Both of their breathing heavy, irregular. For a moment, he wondered if it was all okay. If they'd be okay. He closed his eyes, searching for any kind of words to communicate what the hell he felt. Before he could find them, Charlotte moved. She rolled out from under him, standing and zipping her pants like she hadn't just shattered him on the floor. She fastened her belt but left the top half of her shirt forgotten and unbuttoned.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position, still breathing hard. He looked up at her, dazed and broken wide open. There was something desperate, needy in his eyes.
She didn't even meet them to see it.
His voice cracked the silence, raw and raspy. "Char..."
"Emotional volatility in the field presents an ongoing liability," she said, her voice calm, cold, venomous.
She turned away, heading for the door. Her footsteps echoed through the otherwise empty room. She didn't once, but as she walked out, she wiped his blood off her mouth with the back of her hand.
And then she was gone.