Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The monorail glides overhead, sleek and fast, casting flickers of light across the World Exposition of Tomorrow. Below, the fairgrounds hum with life—music, chatter, wonder. Steve and Bucky stroll down the bustling midway, surrounded by glowing signs and the scent of roasted peanuts and motor oil.

Bucky flashes a grin. “I don’t see what the problem is. You’re about to be the last eligible man in New York. You know there’re three and a half million women here?”

Steve shrugs, hands tucked in his pockets. “I’d settle for just one.”

Up ahead, Bucky spots someone and waves. “Good thing I’ve taken care of that.”

Across the way, two girls, Connie and Bonnie, wave back from in front of the Modern Marvels Pavilion.

Steve gives Bucky a look. “What’d you tell her about me?”

Bucky just smirks. “Only the good stuff.”

They pass exhibit after exhibit—chrome-plated dreams of the future, blinking lights, polished glass. One display holds a red-suited android in a sealed case. Dr. Phineas Horton Presents...The Synthetic Man! A fire extinguisher sits discreetly nearby.

Bucky and the girls hurry past, laughter trailing behind them. Steve follows, a few steps behind, as invisible as ever.

Connie squeals, tugging Bucky’s arm. “Oh my God, there he is!”

They push toward the stage at the Stark Industries pavilion. Steve pauses to buy a bag of peanuts, then watches from the edge as the crowd tightens. On stage, Howard Stark stands beside a gleaming 1942 Cadillac, soaking in the attention.

Howard flashes his signature grin. “Ladies, you know how hard it is putting on makeup in a car that bounces like a kangaroo on a trampoline?”

Steve offers Bonnie a peanut. She wrinkles her nose and turns away.

Howard continues, “What if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile wouldn’t touch the ground at all?”

He hits a button. The Cadillac begins to rise, its tires staying planted as bulky, mechanical devices push it upward. The crowd gasps in awe.

“Ho-ly cow,” Bucky breathes, eyes wide.

Howard basks in the reaction. “With Stark Gravitic Reversion Technology—patent pending—you’ll be able to do just that.”

Then—pop. A small explosion. The car crashes back down onto the stage with a metallic thud.

Howard winces. “I did say a few years, didn’t I?”

Laughter rolls through the crowd. As Bonnie and Connie lean into Howard with a dreamy sigh, Bucky, glances around.

That’s when Bucky sees her.

Striding toward the stage from the crowd—tall, lean, all legs and confidence. Golden-red curls catch the light. She’s wearing a sleek black dress and heels that click with precision against the pavement.

Howard’s eyes catch her too. He straightens, already smiling. “Well, hello, gorgeous.”

She doesn’t slow. “Mm, no, not interested.”

Howard blinks, thrown. “Come on, you haven’t even heard my pitch.”

She stops just long enough to point to the Cadillac. “You used titanium galve links instead of copper, didn’t you, muckety-muck?”

“What?” Howard stammers. “Wait, how did you know!?”

There’s a ripple through the audience. Bucky stares, struck dumb—not just by what she said, but how she said it. The accent is like nothing he’s heard before. Her presence is electric. 

She tips her head, cool and cutting. “Because it would’ve lasted at least five minutes if you’d used copper. Idiot.”

Then she turns, disappears into the crowd as if she hadn’t just dismantled Howard Stark in front of a hundred people.

Howard stares after her, stunned. “Hey—wait, what’s your name!?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s gone.

Howard bolts off the stage, chasing her. The girls try to keep Bucky’s attention, but he’s already leaning after her, desperate for another glimpse. He hasn’t even seen her face properly, but something in his gut tells him she’s the one.

Bucky turns to Steve. “Hey, Steve, what do you say you treat these ladies to…”

But Steve’s not there. In his place, a little girl digs gleefully into his bag of peanuts.

Bucky groans, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

A flurry of sparks lights up the dark as Howard Stark barrels through the curtain, breathless, his tie now loosened. His shoes crunch over dropped tools and stray wires. Technicians scurry out of his way—he’s got that look in his eye. The kind that says he’s hunting something impossible.

And there she is.

Perched on a stack of supply crates, legs crossed, one high heel tapping slow and deliberate. She’s all angles and steel in a black dress that dares anyone to underestimate her. She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t need to. She already knows he’s there.

“There she is,” Howard says, flashing a grin.“The copper prophet herself. You always make an entrance like that, or am I just lucky?”

“If I wanted to impress, Stark,” she says coolly, still not looking at him, “your car would still be floating.”

Howard laughs. Hands on his hips, head tilted. He’s not offended—he’s interested.

“I like a woman with opinions. Especially ones that can publicly humiliate me in front of half of New York.”

She finally glances at him, eyebrow raised. “Aw. Did I bruise your ego?” Her voice drips with mock sweetness. “Here, want me to kiss it better?”

He steps in like he might actually let her.

“Wouldn’t say no.”

Her tone snaps like a whip. “That wasn’t an offer.”

Howard blinks. Okay. That’s a wall. He backs off a step, raising his hands in playful surrender.

“Alright, alright… truce. But I do want to know... how the hell did you spot that issue with the gravitic rig?”

“I read specs like most people read novels,” she says, finally hopping down from the crate. “You slapped a grav-reversion system under a civilian chassis and didn’t adjust for vibrational tolerances. Rookie mistake. Copper’s more elastic than titanium. That’s why it shook itself apart.”

He stares at her, equal parts stunned and impressed. “You’re an engineer.”

“Among other things,” she replies. “Tinkerer, analyst, occasional insomniac. Depends on the day.”

“How would you like a job?” Howard asks, already reaching for a metaphorical contract.

“No.”

It’s immediate. Not hesitant, not teasing. Just an ironclad no.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He blinks. “Why not? I’m offering a salary most engineers would kill for.”

“I don’t work for men who smile like they’ve already won,” she says, voice flat. “I work with people who know how to listen.”

That lands. Howard studies her now… really studies her. The fire in her voice. The sharp eyes. That dangerous, patient calm like she’s five steps ahead and maybe already bored.

“Alright,” he says, more serious now. “You don’t work for me. You work with me.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You sure about that? I bite.”

“You should meet my mother,” Howard says. “She’s worse.”

That earns a smirk. She steps forward.

“Fine. I’ll help you. But I’m not your assistant. And if you ever ask me to get you coffee, I will rewire your entire wardrobe to short-circuit at Carnegie Hall.”

“Deal.”

He offers his hand. She stares at it like she’s judging whether to shake or slap it—but then she takes it. Her grip is firm. No games.

“What’s your name, by the way?” Howard asks. “Can’t just go calling you the dame who embarrassed me.”

“Ileana Smythe,” she replies. “Call me Lee or Dr. Smythe.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Like I said… I like to tinker. The human body and mechanical engineering aren’t too different when it comes down to it.”

She turns to walk away, but pauses.

“And Stark?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time you try to flirt with someone smarter than you, don’t lead with your smile. Lead with your specs.”

She disappears into the maze of cables and shadows like she’s already onto the next problem to solve.

Howard watches her go, that grin tugging back to life.

“Hell in heels,” he mutters, and damn if he doesn’t mean it.

The fair is loud, alive with motion and brass music, but Steve Rogers barely hears any of it. He stands still outside the Recruiting Pavilion, eyes fixed on the mirrored booth with its bold, cheery lettering: “YOUR DUTY: TRY IT ON FOR SIZE!”

A broad-shouldered man steps in front of the glass, the kind of guy you’d expect to see on a war bonds poster. The mirror reflects him back in full uniform—strong, square-jawed, invincible. People nearby nod, impressed.

Then Steve steps forward.

In the mirror, the uniform hangs awkwardly on his small frame. The collar nearly swallows his neck. His eyes barely clear it. He looks like a boy playing dress-up—and he knows it. The disappointment is sharp, but he doesn’t move.

A familiar hand lands on his shoulder.

“You’re kind of missing the point of a double date,” Bucky Barnes says, his voice casual but lined with concern. “And I was about to run off after some gorgeous broad to leave you with them too. Come on, we’re gonna get a chocolate soda.”

Steve doesn’t look away from the mirror. “You go ahead.”

Bucky follows his gaze to the recruitment posters. His expression darkens.

“You’re really gonna do this now?”

“It’s a fair. I’m gonna try my luck.”

Bucky crosses his arms. “As who? ‘Steve from Ohio’? They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.”

Steve turns to him at last, jaw tight, eyes harder than usual. “You don’t think I can do it.”

There’s a beat. Bucky’s voice softens, but only slightly. “This isn’t some back alley, Steve. It’s a war. Why are you so keen to fight? There’re lots of other important jobs.”

“You want me to sit in a factory?” Steve asks, voice rising just a touch. “Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon while the men are laying down their lives? I can do as well as them and I got no right to do any less. That’s the thing you don’t get, Bucky. It’s not about me.”

Bucky stares at him. “Right. ‘Cause you’ve got nothing to prove.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Neither of them looks away.

Then a voice breaks through—Connie’s, light and teasing from across the way. “Hey Sarge, we gettin’ sodas?”

Bucky exhales through his nose, annoyed. “Yeah. We are.” He turns to go, every movement tense—but after a few steps, he stops.

For a moment, he just stands there. Then he pivots and walks back to Steve, expression serious now. He offers his hand.

Steve hesitates only for a second before taking it. The grip is firm.

“Promise me you won’t do anything too stupid before I get back.”

Steve allows a flicker of a smile. “I can’t. You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Bucky grins, almost reluctantly. “You’re a punk.”

“You’re a jerk.”

They let go. Bucky turns again—this time, he adds a spin and a casual wave.

Steve watches him go, Connie laughing under Bucky’s arm as they vanish into the crowd.

And then Steve turns toward the tent.

He doesn’t know it yet, but inside waits the man who will change everything: Dr. Abraham Erskine.

The lights of the World Exposition blaze around them—bright, mechanical promises humming with optimism and a hundred thousand volts. Howard walks with his hands in his pockets, glancing sidelong at Ileana as they pass a booth advertising “The Future of the American Kitchen.” A chrome-plated, egg-shaped oven puffs out smoke and promptly fizzles. Sparks sputter behind the display.

Ileana clicks her tongue. “Motor’s too tight in the housing. Overheats after thirty seconds. Probably fried the regulator trying to make a roast.”

Howard smirks. “You know, I usually have to pay someone to insult the competition.”

“Consider it charity,” she says, arching a brow. “God knows you need some around here.”

They move past a glimmering glass box labeled “Auto-Laundress 3000,” which churns a set of bedsheets into a limp knot. Ileana just shakes her head.

“No clutch compensation. Load anything heavier than silk and it’ll twist the frame right off.”

Howard grins. “You're a menace.”

Ileana’s heels click crisply against the polished floor as she shrugs. “I'm just observant. You’d be amazed what you can pick up when you don’t waste time being polite.”

Howard chuckles and leans in slightly. “Alright, Miss Observant. Where are you from anyway? I’ve been trying to place that accent since you insulted my flying car.”

She doesn’t look at him. “Here and there.”

He raises a brow. “That a town near Boston or just a fancy way of saying ‘none of your business’?”

She finally glances his way, dry. “Take a guess.”

Howard laughs again, but it’s more curious now. They pass a display of prototype radios, one emitting an endless high-pitched whine. Ileana reaches out, flicks the dial, and the noise cuts off.

“Field dampeners are out of sync,” she mutters. “Amateurs.”

“You ever not fix something?” he asks, genuinely intrigued now. “What’d you say your background was again? Doctor of what—smartassery?”

She gives him a side-eyed glance. “I said I tinker. The rest’s just noise.”

Howard stops walking. She takes another step before realizing and turning back. His expression is less amused now.

“You’ve got to give me something,” he says, voice low but firm. “If I’m gonna trust you—really trust working with you—I need more than smoke and mirrors.”

Ileana watches him. The crowd flows around them like water around stones. Slowly, she nods.

“Alright. Something true, then.” Her voice drops, soft and clear. “I’m not from Earth. I’m from another world, far from here. And I’m immortal.”

Howard stares at her and then bursts out laughing. A deep, rolling laugh that doubles him over slightly, hands on his thighs. Heads turn from nearby booths.

“Jesus,” he gasps, wiping at his eye, “You don’t do subtle, do you?”

But Ileana isn’t laughing. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even blink.

Howard’s laughter dies. He straightens. Meets her eyes.

“…You’re kidding, right?”

Howard doesn’t get an answer—not right away. Ileana just stares at him with that cool, still gaze that unsettles him far more than he wants to admit. It’s the look of someone who’s already calculated his reaction three ways from Sunday and is just waiting to see which version he picks.

He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, and gestures for her to follow. “C’mon. Too many ears here.”

They break away from the main exhibition hall and slip through a side door marked Authorized Personnel Only. Behind it, the noise dies down to a low hum. They walk in silence through a dim corridor lit by exposed bulbs, their footsteps echoing. Eventually, they reach an empty loading dock stacked with unused crates and cables.

Howard leans against a crate, arms folded. “Alright. No audience now. No stage lights. Say that again.”

Ileana doesn’t move. “I’m not from here. Not from this world.”

“You mean country…?”

“No. I mean world.”

“…Okay,” he says slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “And this whole ‘immortal’ thing? That just comes standard where you’re from?”

“Yes,” she replies. “I was born this way. If you can call it a birth.”

Howard studies her face, searching for the tell—anything that gives away a punchline. But she’s not joking. She isn’t even trying to convince him.

“You’re serious.”

“I told you,” she says. “You wanted something real.”

He exhales and looks out over the empty dock. “Well, damn. This is about the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard. Gonna be a hard one to put on your personnel file.”

Ileana smirks faintly. “Just write ‘not easily defined.’”

He shakes his head and laughs under his breath. “You’re something else, Doc.”

She shrugs. “Told you I bite.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun cuts through the windows of Stark Industries and inside the sleek steel-and-glass labs, the air hums with potential. Machinery clinks, lights flicker, and something somewhere emits a high-pitched whirr that nobody seems concerned about.

Howard walks just ahead of Ileana, sleeves rolled, hair a little more tousled than usual. He’s been in inventor mode all morning—talking fast, showing off the cutting edge of his empire like a kid showing off his favorite toys.

“Over here’s the magnetic propulsion rig. We’re still figuring out stabilization—blew out three walls and my second-best suit last week. And this…” he throws open a door to a room lined with tanks and thick cables, “...is the cryo chamber. Not for people. Yet. But one of the interns nearly locked himself in trying to impress a date.”

Ileana walks beside him silently, taking everything in with sharp, calculating eyes. She doesn’t gush. Doesn’t marvel. She just... absorbs.

Howard watches her out of the corner of his eye. “Y’know, most people at least pretend to be impressed.”

“You’re doing fine without the applause.”

He snorts. “God, you’re exhausting. You know that?”

Ileana glances at a calibration screen blinking red. “That reading’s off.”

He frowns. “It is?”

“By .07. The left coil’s misaligned.”

He crosses to the console, squints, then mutters a curse. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

She leans on the nearest worktable, crossing her arms. “You brought me here to show off or test me?”

“Both,” he says honestly. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d flinch.”

“I don’t flinch.”

He leans beside her, voice quieter now. “So... other world. Immortal. You planning to elaborate, or do I have to bribe you with lab access and decent whiskey?”

Ileana smiles, but there’s a hint of weariness behind it this time. “Maybe. Just not today.”

Howard watches her for a long moment, then pushes off the table with a grin. “Guess I’ll just have to keep impressing you.”

She watches him walk ahead, then glances around the lab—this crude, brilliant place full of possibility and danger, and murmurs under her breath, “Good luck with that.”

The lab is quiet, the lights dimmed low. The usual hum of machines and clatter of movement has died down, leaving only the flicker of a radio dial and the faint buzz of the overheads. The smell of grease and salt fills the air now, courtesy of the paper bags Howard dumps unceremoniously on a workbench cleared of tools.

"No spectacle," he mutters, cracking open a deli wrapper. "Just a few sandwiches, fries, and mutual mistrust."

Ileana rolls her eyes but takes the offered bag. “You’re really selling this partnership.”

He shrugs and drops into a stool across from her. “I’m curious, not romantic.”

“You’re also nosy.”

“And you're evasive.”

She smirks, bites into a fry. “Touché.”

For a while, they eat in silence. No fanfare. Just two people in a quiet lab, the scent of engine oil still lingering beneath the scent of fries.

Howard glances at her between bites. “So. Stones.”

Ileana doesn’t look up. “What about them?”

“You said you’re a ‘child of the stones.’ What does that mean? You bedazzled at birth?”

She snorts. “Not exactly.”

He waits. She sighs, leans back on her stool, her club sandwich half-forgotten.

“There are six of them. The Infinity Stones. Reality, Time, Mind, Power, Space, and Soul. My mother… held them. Literally. They lived in her. She was the vessel. When I was born, they passed into me. Well, not all at once and not yet. They dispersed across the stars, scattered themselves like seeds.” Her voice tightens slightly. “My job is to find them. One by one. And when the time’s right, when they’re willing—they’ll come to me.”

Howard’s brows lift. “Willing? Stones can… agree to be absorbed?”

She nods. “They’re not just rocks. They’re alive. Not like you and me, but sentient. Aware. They choose who touches them. Who survives touching them.”

Howard leans on one elbow, sandwich forgotten. “And your mom? She survived holding all of them?”

Ileana's mouth twists into something bitter. “If you’d call that living. She’s more of a drunk than anything these days.”

That catches him off guard.

His mouth opens, then closes. “Ah.”

Ileana doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t apologize. She just picks up a fry and flicks it at him. “Cheers.”

He blinks, then huffs out a breath and lifts his own fry, tapping it to hers with a dry clink. “To crappy parents.”

“Mm.”

He sits back again, watching her, eyes a little softer now. “So what happens if you find them all?”

“I take them back,” she says. “All six. They become a part of me. If they let me. If I’m… worthy, I guess. If I’m strong enough. And if not—well. That’s the end of me.”

Howard whistles low. “Hell of a gig.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“No one ever does.”

The silence returns, a little heavier this time, but not uncomfortable. Just full.

After a long pause, Howard asks quietly, “You ever think about what you’ll do after?”

She shakes her head. “Can’t. That’s not how this works.”

He nods, taking another bite. “Well. You’re in good company.”

She glances at him. “You talking about me or you?”

Howard grins. “Both.”

Howard taps the last of his fries out of the bag, then tosses the crumpled wrapper toward a nearby bin. It misses. He doesn’t bother trying again.

Ileana’s still working through her food slower, more methodical, like she’s used to rationing—like she’s not entirely convinced it’s safe to relax. Howard notices. Doesn’t comment.

Instead, he spins his stool half toward her, elbows resting on the bench behind him. “So you said ‘if they let you.’ That mean they’ve refused before?”

Ileana nods once. “The Mind Stone. I got close once. It cracked open a psychic blast so loud I couldn’t think for three days. It didn’t want me. Not then.”

Howard whistles. “And you didn’t, I don’t know, stop?”

She shrugs. “It’s not about want. It’s about duty.”

“That’s a word people like us usually avoid.”

Ileana looks at him sharply. “People like you maybe.”

He lifts both brows, hands raised in mock offense. “Alright, alright. Strike one for Team Mysterious Alien Immortal.”

“I’m not an alien.”

“You’re not from Earth.”

“I’m not from your Earth,” she says coolly, then pauses. “But I’ve been here long enough to bleed for it.”

Howard leans forward slightly, searching her face. “How long?”

Her eyes meet his. “Long enough to know this world’s on the edge of something. Something big. And if it goes wrong… the stones won’t be scattered this time. They’ll be broken.”

A beat.

Howard shifts. “So that’s why you’re here? All this interstellar guardian business—you’re here to protect us from what’s coming?”

Ileana gives him a sidelong glance. “There’s a stone here, on Earth. Two actually.”

Howard narrows his eyes. “You’re kidding?”

She nods, “I think it’s in Germany. The other’s being held in Nepal.”

He looks away, lets out a low breath. “Well. That explains why the nazis keep acting like they’re guarding Excalibur.”

She smiles faintly. “Not a bad comparison.”

Another pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he admits.

Ileana tosses a napkin onto the bench, brushing salt from her fingers. “I get that a lot.”

“No, I mean… you’re not soft. But you’re not cold, either. You’re careful. Wounded. But still in the fight.” He tilts his head. “It’s weirdly admirable.”

She studies him for a second, then smirks. “You’re not what I expected either. Less egotistical. More… tired.”

Howard chuckles once. “That’s age, sweetheart.”

“No. That’s regret.”

He quiets.

For a long moment, they sit like that. Two people from very different worlds, both weighed down by things they never asked to carry.

Then Howard clears his throat, voice lighter again. “Alright, Dr. Smythe. I get the sense you’re not going to run screaming into the night.”

She smiles. “Not unless you bring out a guitar.”

“God forbid.” He stands, stretching his back with a groan. “Well. I guess if we’re gonna work together, I oughta trust you a little.”

Ileana raises a brow. “You guess?”

“I reluctantly guess.”

He grins. She snorts.

As he moves to start cleaning up, he glances at her again. “Hey… Lee.”

She looks up.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

The words hang there between them. Not a promise. Just a possibility.

And, unwittingly, she lets that possibility in.

Chapter Text

Howard rounds a corner and throws a glance back at Ileana, who trails him with the same quiet focus she’s maintained since stepping into the lab three weeks back. “By the way,” he says casually, “you’re about to meet someone important. Dr. Abraham Erskine. Ever heard of him?”

“I’ve heard of a Dr. Erskine,” she replies, raising an eyebrow.

“This one’s German. Quiet. Looks like he walked out of a university ten minutes before it was bombed. But brilliant. Like—really brilliant. You’ll like him.”

They reach a high-security section of the lab, marked by two uniformed guards and a steel door. Howard nods to one, who steps aside and buzzes them through.

Inside, a woman in a tidy grey suit waits with a folder in her hands. She offers it to Ileana. “Non-disclosure agreement,” she says briskly. “Sign and date.”

Ileana takes the pen, scribbles something fast and precise. The name flows in practiced script: Dr. Ileana Smythe.

The woman nods and vanishes through another door.

Howard’s already moving again, leading her into a smaller, quieter workspace. There’s a warmth here the other labs lack. The equipment is older, more personal. And seated at a drafting table covered in hand-drawn schematics is a man in his sixties, spectacles perched low on his nose, brows drawn in concentration.

“Doc,” Howard says, stepping in. “Brought someone I thought you should meet.”

Dr. Erskine looks up, blinking once before rising to his feet. “Ah. And who might you be?”

“Ileana Smythe,” she answers, tone softer now, respectful. “Doctor.”

His gaze sharpens behind the glasses. “Doctor of...?”

“Medicine,” she says. “I’m also a mechanical engineer.”

Erskine smiles, visibly impressed. “Unusual combination. And yet—useful. Very useful.” He studies her for another moment. “You carry yourself... differently.”

Howard smirks from behind her. “That’s one way to put it.”

Erskine ignores him, focused now. “Tell me, Dr. Smythe. How do you feel about pushing the boundaries of science in the service of something... greater?”

She tilts her head. “Depends on what’s being asked. And what’s being sacrificed.”

Erskine nods slowly, pleased by the answer. “You may be just the person we need.”

He gestures for them both to sit, then moves to a wall-mounted chalkboard covered in elegant handwriting and cross-section diagrams. “What I am about to share does not leave this room. Project: Rebirth is a multi-national effort to create a new kind of soldier. One who can stand against tyranny—not with more bullets, but with the strength to protect the vulnerable.”

Ileana watches him, attentive.

“A serum,” he continues. “A transformation. It will enhance the body, yes—but also the mind, the moral compass. We are not creating monsters. We are looking for the best of us... and making them stronger.”

She leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “And you think that’s possible? That morality can be enhanced with muscle?”

Erskine smiles again, this time with something sad behind it. “No. I believe morality must already be present. The serum only amplifies what’s inside.”

Howard chimes in, pacing near the chalkboard. “He’s got a candidate in mind. Scrawny little guy. Doc says he has the heart of a lion.”

Ileana doesn’t answer right away. Then—quietly, “And what happens if it works?”

Erskine’s voice is soft, but certain. “Then perhaps... we change the world.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment. For once, there is no sarcasm, no smirk.

Just a quiet nod.

“All right,” she says. “I’m listening.”

Erskine gestures toward a nearby stool. “Then come,” he says. “Let me show you what we’ve built so far.”

Ileana moves forward, her black dress shifting around her knees as she sits. Howard stays standing, hands in his pockets, posture loose but eyes keen. The energy in the room tightens slightly—an unspoken understanding that what follows matters.

The doctor retrieves a thick binder from a locked cabinet, flipping it open to a series of diagrams. Muscle systems, nerve pathways, chemical formulas scrawled in hurried ink. “I’ve stabilized the formula,” Erskine explains, turning the pages with care. “And we’ve integrated a Vita-Ray delivery system. It allows us to activate the serum at the cellular level—precisely, uniformly.”

Ileana leans in, scanning the data. Her brows draw together.

“Isotope 17B?” she murmurs, fingers brushing the margin. “That’s volatile. Even at trace levels.”

Erskine’s smile flickers wider. “It is. But it’s also necessary. It creates the catalytic bridge between the serum and the subject’s biology. Without it, the transformation remains incomplete.”

Howard nods. “We’re still working on stabilization. That’s part of why I wanted you here.”

Ileana glances up. “You’re asking me to fix it.”

“I’m asking you to help us make it survivable,” Howard says, and for once there’s no glibness in his voice. “If we get this wrong, it won’t be a super soldier—it’ll be a corpse.”

Erskine closes the binder gently. “You understand the stakes now, Dr. Smythe. But I need to know more about you. Not credentials. Not titles. Why are you here?”

She exhales slowly, meeting his gaze. “Because the kind of war that leaves no ruins is already brewing. And this world doesn’t know how to fight it yet.”

Howard leans against the table, watching her closely. “And you do?”

“I can practically see it coming,” she says. “Civilizations burning from the inside out. You don’t fight that with armies. You fight it with a single, unshakeable soul.”

That draws a long silence.

Erskine nods, thoughtful. “Then we are aligned.”

Ileana’s expression softens, just slightly.

He picks up a photograph from the corner of the desk—black and white, grainy. A slight, pale young man with too-large eyes stares up from the image.

“This is Steven Rogers,” Erskine says. “The man who will carry everything we are building.”

Ileana studies the face. “He looks... fragile.”

Howard chuckles. “He is. Physically. He’s got asthma, a dozen other things. But he kept showing up. Kept trying to enlist. Five times until Erskine found him.”

Erskine places the photo down gently. “He doesn’t want to kill anyone. He just doesn’t like bullies.”

Ileana is quiet a moment before she nods, “I’ll help. But if your serum corrupts him—if he breaks under it—I walk.”

“Fair,” Erskine says. “But I don’t think he will.”

Howard straightens, glancing between them. “Alright. I think this is the start of a very strange friendship.”

Ileana stands, folding her arms. “You’re all very optimistic for men playing god.”

Howard winks. “It’s only blasphemy if we get it wrong.”

Ileana smirks faintly at that, the tension easing as she walks back toward the lab door. “Well then,” she says. “Let’s not.”

The lab’s quiet again by the time Ileana and Howard emerge. Erskine’s retreated to his notes, and the guards barely glance up as the door hisses shut behind them. The hallway is long, sterile, echoing with the low hum of fluorescent lights.

They don’t speak for a while.

Howard leads her past the main corridor and down a side hall that dead-ends at a small, glass-walled room tucked behind some forgotten filing cabinets. It’s got a couch that looks like it was dragged in from someone’s den, and a tiny fridge humming in the corner. The light’s softer here. Less government, more human.

He opens the fridge, grabs two bottles—beer—and tosses one to her.

Ileana catches it without looking. “That the official Stark welcome?”

He shrugs. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

She pops off the cap with a key and sinks into the couch. “Only because I haven’t decided to walk yet.”

He drops into the armchair across from her, legs stretched out, bottle resting on his knee. “But you didn’t. You stayed. Even after hearing the serum pitch.”

She sips her drink, then rests the bottle against her knee, mirroring him. “Because you’re not wrong. Something’s coming. And it’s not going to care how many bullets we’ve got lined up.”

Howard watches her a moment, quiet. “You talk like someone who’s seen this kind of thing before.”

“I have.”

“And you talk like someone who’s not scared of it.”

“I am.” Her voice is steady. “But fear doesn’t mean much when you’ve got a job to do.”

He nods slowly, taking another drink. “You said your mother used to hold the stones. That she was... what, a vessel?”

Ileana’s jaw tenses slightly. “More like a prison. She kept them inside her, all six, for centuries. Said it was the only way to keep them from destroying each other. Or everything else.”

“And you?”

“When I was born, they should have passed to me but she fought to keep them for a while. Then she scattered them across space, told me one day they’d come back. If I was strong enough.”

“And you’re... what, waiting for them to show up?”

“I’m hunting them. Slowly. Quietly. They won’t answer me until they choose to. But when they do... they’ll come willingly. If I’m ready.”

Howard leans back, exhaling a low whistle. “And I thought my inheritance was complicated. Too many zeroes to make use of.”

Ileana gives a faint, humorless laugh. “You also got a shadow to crawl out from under.”

He glances at her. “Yeah. That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

Silence falls between them again. Not uncomfortable—just weighted.

Then Howard clears his throat, voice quieter now. “That thing you said about your mother... the drinking...”

She glances over. “Yeah?”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “My dad wasn’t exactly father of the year either. Drank. Screamed. Hit sometimes. Then told me it was my fault when he woke up.”

Ileana watches him, expression unreadable.

“I used to think I had to outrun it,” he says. “Outbuild it. Every invention, every project—just trying to prove I wasn’t him.”

She tilts her head. “And now?”

He shrugs. “Still building. Still trying. But maybe now I’m also trying to make something that matters. Something that lasts.”

Ileana raises her bottle, thoughtful. “To making something that matters.”

He taps his bottle to hers. “To outliving the people who tried to break us.”

They drink in sync, quiet again.

Then, after a long pause, Howard says, “You know... you don’t talk like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Ileana smirks. “That’s because I’m not from here.”

“Yeah.” He eyes her sideways. “Still trying to figure out what the hell that means beyond the obvious.”

“You’ll get there.”

He studies her face for a beat. “I’m starting to think I actually might.”

The stars above Iricys burn a strange kind of cold.

They stretch across the sky in pulsing bands, aurora-like in color, but heavier somehow. Like they’re watching. Waiting.

Ileana is six years old the first and last time she sees her mother split apart.

The temple stands high on the cliff face, carved into the black stone like an open wound. Wind screams through it at night, carrying voices she doesn’t recognize, speaking words she’s not old enough to understand. Her feet are bare, numb from the frostbite that never quite reaches her bones. She doesn’t shiver. Her kind doesn’t need to.

Her mother stands at the altar’s edge, arms bare, robes soaked in salt and blood. Her hair whips in the wind. Long, brown, tangled with ash. Her eyes are closed. Her mouth is open. Chanting.

Six stones orbit her like planets around a dying star.

Ileana crouches behind a column, small enough to go unnoticed—or maybe just tolerated. She watches in silence. She’s learned to.

The stones thrum with life. Not like people. Not even like gods. Something deeper. They vibrate with their own language, humming in Ileana’s ears. Each glows a different shade, casting her mother in impossible colors. Power ripples outward in waves, bending the air, cracking the ground beneath her feet.

Then, without a scream, without even a breath, her mother opens her arms.

And the stones shoot inward.

Not one by one. All at once. A soundless flash of light, a pressure that flattens the air, and her mother’s body convulses. Her back arches. Her feet lift from the ground. For a second, she floats—lit from within like glass catching fire. Her veins glow.

Ileana presses herself against the stone column, heart hammering.

Seconds pass. Then her mother collapses.

The temple falls silent.

Ileana steps out slowly, breath held. The world feels fragile, like one wrong sound will break it.

Her mother lies motionless. Blood trickles from her nose, her mouth, her ears. Her hands twitch. Her eyes are closed.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

Ileana kneels beside her anyway. “You’re bleeding.”

Her mother lets out a ragged laugh, sharp and bitter. “I’m always bleeding.”

Ileana’s hand brushes her arm. It’s cold as death. “Are they inside you now?”

“Yes,” her mother says. “For now.”

She turns her head, finally meeting Ileana’s eyes. There’s no softness in her gaze. Not cruelty either. Just distance—like she’s already far away.

“They’ll leave me,” she murmurs. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But they will. And when they do… it’ll be your burden.”

Ileana says nothing.

“They won’t come easy.” Her mother’s voice drifts. “They never do. But if they answer you—if they come back to you on their own—then you’ll know. You’ll be strong enough.”

Ileana swallows. “And if I’m not?”

Her mother looks up at the stars. They glow steady and cold.

“Then everything dies.”

Three days later, her mother vanishes into the dark. No goodbye. No warning.

Ileana never sees her again with those young, untarnished eyes.

Ileana wakes in a cold sweat.

The soft gray light of morning slips through the tall windows of her Manhattan apartment. Outside, traffic hums down the avenue—streetcars rattling over rails, the occasional honk breaking through. Somewhere below, a paperboy shouts the day’s headlines. The world is already moving.

But Ileana isn’t. Not yet.

She stares at the ceiling, chest rising and falling like she’s run a marathon in her sleep. The dream still clings to her skin. No—memory. Too vivid, too sharp. It stretches her thin, as if centuries still have their claws in her.

The quilt feels heavy. She pulls it aside, planting her feet on the cold floorboards and letting the chill ground her. The air smells of old wood and the faint tang of the coal heat rising from the building’s pipes.

At the foot of the bed, her desk waits—a sturdy piece of dark cherry, older than the apartment around it. She crosses to it slowly, opens the top drawer, and lifts out a small, worn box.

The lid creaks as she opens it.

Inside: fragments of herself, scattered like puzzle pieces across time.

A Norse fibula, the pin bent just so, from a time when the sea was law.

A bald eagle feather, faded but proud, collected on horseback during her years roving the western frontier.

A quill, still darkened by long-dried ink from signing a great American document.

A slim, gold ring from ancient Greece—when she still believed in gods because she had met some of them.

A scarab amulet, polished smooth, still warm to the touch. Egypt. The Nile. Another name, another self.

Ileana exhales slowly. Memory presses against her ribs like water rising.

She closes the box gently and rests her hands on the polished wood.

Then the phone rings.

It cuts through the quiet.

She answers it before the second ring. “Yes?”

Howard’s voice comes through, clipped but steady. “You ready?”

She lets silence stretch just a moment too long.

Then, “Not really.”

He doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t scold.

Just says, “It’s time. Rebirth starts today.”

Ileana glances back toward the box. Toward the past. Then toward the window—toward a city that never stops moving, even when the world tilts under its feet.

“I’ll be there,” she says.

“You know what this means.”

“I do.”

“Then let’s make it mean something.”

The line clicks dead.

Ileana sets the receiver back in its cradle, then opens her closet. The wool coat waits, black as a raven. Her heels, polished the night before. The streets outside are slick with last night’s rain, and cold with the kind of wind that slips down alleyways like a knife.

She doesn’t flinch.

She packs only what she needs. Just enough to remind herself of who she’s been.

Lastly, she pockets her keys, connected to a lucky rabbits foot. Given to her by a surrogate brother centuries ago and steps out into the city.

The underground lab hums like a living thing.

Tucked beneath an unassuming shop in Brooklyn, the facility is a maze of reinforced doors and humming generators. Outside, the war presses on—ration lines, air raid drills, whispered updates from the front. But down here, something new is being forged. Something dangerous.

Howard Stark leans over the schematic board, sleeves rolled up, suspenders tight against his shoulders. Sweat beads on his temple despite the chill in the room.

Ileana steps in through the steel-reinforced door, her heels echoing against the concrete.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up.

“I’m ancient,” she replies dryly. “You’ll survive the wait.”

Howard chuckles under his breath, tapping a spot on the blueprint. “Magnetron’s running hot. We’re still calibrating the energy flow between the coils. You touch the wrong dial, it’ll fry the subject from the inside out.”

“Noted.” Ileana moves past him, her hand brushing the cold edge of the capsule. It towers in the center of the lab—steel and wires curling like roots from its base. A cradle for rebirth, or a coffin. Depending on the outcome.

“You sure about this?” Howard asks, quieter now.

Ileana glances at him. “It’s not about being sure. It’s about necessity.”

He watches her, eyebrows drawn. “I know what you are, Lee. Or enough of it. You’ve survived things the rest of us can’t even imagine. But this—what we’re building here—it’s not just science. It’s politics. It’s war. You still want to be part of that?”

She rests a hand against the metal. “I’ve seen empires rise and fall, Howard. This one’s worth the fight.”

He nods slowly. “All right then.”

Together, they move to the generator bank. She helps him adjust the voltage regulators. Her hands are steady. He notices, but doesn’t ask. He never asks.

Across the lab, SSR agents secure the perimeter. Vials of the serum—Erskine’s formula—are chilled in thick glass containers. Every step is triple-checked. One mistake, and it all goes up in smoke.

Howard flicks a final switch. The chamber thrums to life, light pulsing within its core.

Ileana watches it come alive, arms folded.

“First subject arrives today. Steve Rogers,” Howard says, watching the gauges. “We’ve got one shot at this.”

“Then we don’t miss.”

He turns to her. “And if it works?”

Ileana holds his gaze.

Her voice is soft, “Then we change everything.”

Chapter Text

Steve steps out onto a raised platform and freezes, eyes wide with awe. The massive, ultra-modern Rebirth Lab sprawls beneath him—vastly larger than the storefront above. Technicians operate intricate machinery, engineers monitor rows of screens, and a film crew sets up their equipment with quiet focus. Every head turns to look at Steve, and a hush of respect settles across the room. His gaze finally lands on the centerpiece: the Rebirth Device. It gleams, futuristic and alien, with glittering lenses circling a man-shaped cradle. Pneumatic panels hiss and shift beneath it. Behind the structure loom six Vita-Ray reactors, tall and humming with latent power.

In the center of the chaos, Dr. Erskine moves with urgency, checking preparations. Steve surveys the room, his eyes drifting toward the observation booth, where a small group of sharply dressed men has begun to gather.

Erskine returns to Steve's side and helps him into the cradle. The machine seems built for someone far bigger.

"Comfortable?" Erskine asks.

Steve shifts slightly in the larger frame of the device. "You save me any of that schnapps?"

"Not as much as I should have," Erskine winces.

He nods to the attendants, who begin hooking Steve up to the device. Then Erskine glances toward a man in a suit and a woman in a dress, both making precise adjustments near the back of the machine.

"How are your levels, Mr. Stark, Dr. Smythe?"

The man steps into view. Steve's eyes widen in surprise.

"Coils are at peak, levels are 100%. We may dim half the lights in Brooklyn, but we're ready. As we'll ever be," says Howard Stark, with a grin.

"Correction, we will knock out the power in Brooklyn for at least 30 seconds and then we'll be good," the strawberry blonde beside him corrects, flicking Stark's ear in annoyance.

Steve smiles faintly. "I saw you at the Expo. Did you ever get that Cadillac in the air? And you're the woman who corrected him then too, right?"

She nods. "Yeah, that was me."

"Had her flying six full minutes, with the help of Dr. Smythe here," Howard says, gesturing at her.

"Then what happened?"

"We landed." He pauses. "Technically."

He claps Steve on the shoulder. Steve doesn't look especially reassured.

Ileana rolls her eyes and walks over, arms crossed. "It's only because I didn't want to re-do the whole thing. That car was a disaster. Uses too much fuel as well. Not to worry, with me at the wheel as well... you're in good hands, Mr. Rogers."

Steve nods, taking a deep breath.

Behind him, Erskine awkwardly bumps into a frozen Peggy Carter as he tries to squeeze past.

"Agent Carter, wouldn't you be more comfortable in the booth?" he offers with gentle insistence.

She gets the hint. With a soft smile to Steve—who smiles back—she turns and walks toward the observation booth.

Erskine pulls down an overhead microphone and eyes the booth, waiting for Colonel Phillips to be within earshot. He taps the mic—loudly. Phillips flinches, hand flying to his ear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this morning we do not take another step toward annihilation. Today, we take the first step on the path to peace."

From the observation booth, Brandt watches with skepticism.

Erskine's voice continues through the speakers: "We will begin with a series of micro-injections to the subject's major muscle groups."

Peggy enters the booth. A man labeled "Clemson" quickly offers her his seat.

In the lab, Stark and his older assistants ready the machinery. Engineers check monitors. An EKG begins to beep rhythmically.

"The serum will cause immediate cellular change. In order to prevent uncontrolled growth, the subject will then be saturated with Vita Rays."

Erskine clicks off the microphone and nods to a nurse. She opens a case, revealing a gleaming aluminum syringe. She taps the needle, draws back the plunger... and injects Steve in the arm. He winces, then relaxes.

"That wasn't so bad."

Erskine smiles. "That was a tetanus shot."

Ileana's eyes flicker around the room, frowning in thought. She trusts the process, but part of her still marvels at how far science has come—and how quickly.

A panel slides back to reveal a carousel of glowing blue vials. Seven tubes of serum stand at the ready. Erskine and the nurse insert six of them into the injector system.

A hood descends over Steve's head, sealing him inside the chamber. Through the small window, his face would be framed in glass—were he tall enough. Erskine speaks softly into a mic.

"Steven, can you hear me?"

"Is it too late to go to the bathroom?" Steve's voice crackles through the speaker.

Erskine chuckles. "We shall proceed."

Stark throws a switch. The reactors behind the chamber begin to hum louder as they come online. He turns the power dial steadily, with Ileana watching intently beside him.

A high-pitched whine fills the lab. On a huge gauge, the needle begins to climb: 10... 20...

Inside the chamber, orange light builds. Steve's face tenses.

Technicians don protective goggles. Peggy crosses her fingers.

30... 40... Steve's jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut as the pain intensifies.

Erskine checks the vitals, then gives a slight nod. Stark turns the dial higher.

50... 60... Steve's head snaps back, body seizing against the straps. The EKG beeps faster. And faster.

70... 80... The light surges, flooding the window until Steve is lost behind a white glare. The EKG shrieks.

"Steven? Steven!?" Erskine yells, pressing against the window.

Peggy bolts from the booth, descending the stairs two at a time.

"Shut it down!"

The lights grow even brighter.

"Mr. Stark, kill the reactors!" Erskine shouts.

A beat.

Then: "No... Don't..." Steve's voice crackles from the speaker.

Everyone freezes. Stark's hand hovers over the dial, about to switch it off. Ileana shoves it aside.

"I can do this," Steve says again.

Erskine hesitates, breath caught, then finally nods.

Ileana gives the dial a sharp final twist to 100. Howard grips her shoulder, but she's calm. Confident.

The whine reaches a piercing pitch.

The chamber flashes white.

Then—darkness. Silence. Even the EKG goes dead.

No power. Just like she predicted.

Ileana lifts her wristwatch, counting down from thirty.

Erskine goes pale.

Stark stares at her hand on the dial, uncertain, until she lifts her eyes and nods. He exhales.

Peggy watches. Waiting.

"Thirty seconds!" Ileana calls out.

The EKG beeps to life again. Lights flicker back on across the lab.

Erskine hurries to the device. Stark lets out a loud breath of relief.

"Mr. Stark!" Erskine calls.

Stark hits a button. Steam blasts outward as the chamber opens. As it clears, a new silhouette hangs in the straps—tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. Steve, transformed. Perfect.

Ileana circles the chamber, laughing lightly. "Well, you fit the chamber now, Rogers."

Technicians release the straps. Steve stumbles, collapsing into Erskine's arms. The old man staggers under the weight.

"Steven?"

"Doctor? Did it...?"

"I think... yes..."

"You did it, Doctor. You really did it," Stark says, helping to steady Steve.

Ileana grins. "Just a bit different there, Rogers. You'll get used to it. Like a massive growth spurt, hm?"

Others flood into the lab. Phillips eyes Brandt with a smirk.

"Sorry you got up early now, Senator?"

"I can think of some folks in Berlin who are about to get very nervous," Brandt replies.

Peggy approaches, offering Steve his clothes. He pulls on his old shirt—it's far too small now.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

Steve blinks down at her, dazed but smiling.

"Taller..."

A man with glasses enters the lab. His gaze scans the room—and lands on it. The remaining tube of unused serum. He flicks open a lighter. Beneath the flame, a hidden button glints.

Click.

Dr. Erskine hears it. He turns.

"Please, do not smoke in here," Erskine says, eyes narrowing.

Then, he sees the man. Really sees him. Recognition flashes across his face. Confusion. Dread.

"No..." Erskine murmurs.

Across the room, Smythe's eyes widen. Instinct kicks in—she lunges and tackles Stark, shielding him with her body.

"What are you...?" he begins, voice muffled as she presses a hand over his mouth, already bracing for the worst.

The man presses the button.

The booth erupts.

Fire and glass explode into the lab. Shards fly through the air like bullets. Ileana takes the brunt of it—glass pierces her lab coat and dress, but it stops at the armored vest beneath. She barely reacts to the pain, shoving herself up to help Stark. He spins her around, quickly checking her back. His hands move with grim efficiency as he pries the glass out. He notices the vest. Relief flickers across his face.

Colonel Phillips throws himself into Brandt, knocking him clear.

Peggy draws a pistol in a smooth motion.

Dr. Erskine sees the man making for the serum. He bolts, determined to reach it first.

Too late.

The man whips out a pistol and fires. The bullet finds its mark.

"No!" Steve cries.

"Damn," Ileana mutters, already moving.

Erskine flies backward, his body slamming into a bank of machinery—just missing Stark, who's dragged to safety again by his partner.

The man snatches the last remaining tube and dashes for the exit.

Phillips fires, clipping him in the side. The man stumbles, but keeps going.

Ileana and Steve rush to Erskine. She drops to her knees beside him while Steve pulls him close, cradling the old man in his arms.

"Doc!" Steve's voice cracks.

Erskine's glasses are shattered. He stares up at Steve, unfocused but proud. Ileana sees the wound—clean, straight through the heart. Irreversible. She knows there's nothing to be done.

Erskine smiles faintly. His hand lifts with effort. He taps Steve's chest, right over his heart. A silent message.

Then he goes still. His arm falls. His body relaxes.

Dead.

Steve stares down at him. A long, quiet moment. Then he looks up, his face changing—rage beginning to burn behind his eyes.

"Go, Rogers. Go and get him," Ileana growls.

He nods, gently lowering Erskine's body into Ileana's arms and takes off at a run.

Ileana eases the Doctor down to the floor. Her hands tremble slightly as she removes his broken glasses, placing them beside him. She gently shuts his eyes. Then, softly, she presses a kiss to his forehead.

Be at peace and one with the stars of the universe now, Dr. Abraham Erskine, she thinks.

"You should maybe help him out, Lee," Stark says, voice unusually quiet.

She nods once.

Without a word, she tears off her lab coat and bolts from the lab.

She vaults the counter in a smooth motion and sprints into the street.

There—Peggy.

Peggy waves down a sedan. The driver slows and rolls down the window. "Stay out of the road, there's some... Hey!"

Too late.

Peggy hauls him from the car and slides into the driver's seat. Tires screech as she floors it.

Before the car even picks up speed, Ileana leaps. She lands silently atop the vehicle's roof—standing steady despite the sudden acceleration. Her eyes are locked on the street ahead.

A one-man submarine breaches the water's surface just off the Brooklyn Pier.

The man on the dock sprints toward it in desperation.

Steve bursts through, eyes locking on the young boy he'd tried to save—clinging to a wooden ladder off the pier.

"Go get him! I can swim!" the boy shouts.

Steve shifts his gaze toward the departing mini-sub. His brow furrows.

"Great. I can't."

The sub begins to dive, its twin propellers churning the water. Inside, the pilot veers beneath the hull of a nearby tramp steamer. Steve doesn't hesitate, he sprints the full length of the dock and dives in.

Underwater, Steve kicks hard, fighting the drag. The pilot smirks in satisfaction, certain of his escape—until the sub lurches. He whips around.

Steve grips the tailfin with both hands.

Panicked, the pilot forces the sub into a deeper dive. Steve clings tighter, relentless. He slams his fist into the cockpit glass again and again. Cracks bloom. Water bursts through as the spiderwebbed glass gives way.

Steve grabs the latch and forces the cockpit open. He yanks the man out and kicks for the surface just as the sub crashes into the silty riverbed.

On the dock, Steve hauls the man up and throws him down—but the man springs back, brandishing a knife.

Steve reacts instantly, kicking him flat. The blade and a glass vial fly from his hands. The vial hits the dock, shattering. The last of the serum seeps between the cracks. The man watches, horrified, as the shimmering blue liquid drains into the river.

Steve pins him down, a knee to his chest.

"Who the hell are you?" he demands.

"The first of many. Cut off one head..."

The man grits his teeth and presses his tongue to a false tooth.

"And two more shall take its place," he growls.

He bites down. Foam bubbles from his mouth.

"Hail... HYDRA."

His body convulses, seizing. Steve stares as the man goes still—dead.

He rises slowly, stepping back. For the first time, he looks down at himself—at the transformed body that is now his. He's alone on the pier.

A screech of tires tears through the moment. Peggy slams the brakes on the sedan, and Ileana leaps from the roof mid-motion, landing in a sprint. She rushes straight to the dock where the broken vial and dead body lie.

She kneels, pries open the corpse's mouth, and takes a whiff.

Cyanide. Potent.

Her eyes flick to the puddle of blue serum still lingering. Calmly, she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it to the ground. The fabric soaks up what remains of the liquid. She wads it, conceals it in her dress pocket. No one else can know—she needs to study it later.

Peggy jumps out of the car, rushing to Steve's side. Jeeps full of MPs screech up to the scene.

Spotting Ileana, Peggy gasps. "How did you get here, Dr. Smythe?"

Shrugging, Ileana responds, "I took a ride on the roof of your borrowed car, didn't think you'd mind."

Peggy gawks. Steve stares too—still catching his breath, still processing.

Ileana just rolls her eyes and heads toward Howard, who's hopping out of one of the arriving jeeps.

She shakes her head grimly. "No good, it's gone. Broken and spilt into the water. So's he, for that matter. Cyanide pill. Strong one at that," she mutters.

Howard exhales, matching her frustration with a nod.

Inside the dim SSR warehouse, Stark and Smythe—both in coveralls and goggles—work side by side. The HYDRA mini-sub rests half-disassembled before them.

Howard wrestles a panel free. "Think you'll get in trouble for riding a car like that?"

Ileana huffs. "Course I will. I'll have to fight them off to not put me in the war now. I told you I need to keep under the radar. Whenever I jump into it, I just move. I react automatically."

"Well, I'll try and keep you stuck with me then... What is this shit, Lee?" he asks, eyeing a faint blue glow with suspicion.

She leans in and presses a gloved hand to the surface.

"Something that shouldn't be here. It was supposed to remain hidden. This is power. Pure energy—and it's not good."

"You mean power as in one of the..." he trails off as she nods grimly.

Ileana exhales sharply. "I did not want to have to go searching them out like this. Remind me again that my Mother's an idiot."

"Your Mother's an idiot, Lee," Howard says solemnly—then bursts into laughter. She just rolls her eyes again.

"'Hail HYDRA' is what he said, hm? Looks like we have another Hercules," she mutters, half to herself.

Howard squints. "I'm not ancient like you. What's this got to do with Hercules?"

She flashes him a wry look. "The HYDRA was a serpentine water monster with nine heads that is often referenced in Greek mythology. Literally—cut one off and two grow in its place. It was an offspring of Typhon—who had the legs of two coiled snakes—and Echidna, who was literally half monster, half snake. Ugh. It was bred by Hera to kill Hercules. It didn't."

"Real or myth on this one?" Howard asks, genuinely curious.

Ileana shrugs, waving her wrench. "Eh, so-so. It was technically part Titan."

Steve stares down as an SSR nurse and doctor draw blood from his arm. Peggy watches with concern.

"You think you've got enough?" Steve asks, hesitant.

The nurse fills the vial and sets it beside a dozen others.

Peggy sighs. "All of Dr. Erskine's research and equipment is gone. Any hope of reproducing the program is locked in your genetic code. But it would take years... At the moment, you're the only super soldier there is."

Steve rolls down his sleeve. On the desk, he spots Erskine's shattered glasses.

"Erskine deserved more than that," Steve says after letting out a frustrated sigh.

Peggy softly reminds him, "If it could work only once, he'd be proud it was you..."

Howard and Ileana continue working as Phillips enters, with Brandt and his aides close behind.

"Colonel Phillips, my committee is demanding answers," Brandt announces.

Phillips glares at him. "Great. Why don't we start with how a German spy got a ride to my secret installation in your car?"

Brandt frowns and shuts up.

Phillips turns to Howard and Ileana just as Steve and Peggy join them.

"What've we got?" he asks.

Howard nods. "Well, speaking modestly, I'd say I'm the best mechanical engineer in the country..."

Ileana fakes a loud cough and glares at him.

"One of the two best mechanical engineers in the country..." he corrects himself.

He opens the hatch that they just pried off. Impressive circuitry and a faint blue light glow from within.

Howard shrugs. "And I've got no idea what any of this is or how it works. We're nowhere near capable of this technology."

"I'm not even aware of what powers this thing," Ileana lies.

Senator Brandt frowns. "Then who is?"

"HYDRA," Colonel Phillips informs him.

Brandt looks at him blankly, clearly unfamiliar.

Phillips sighs. "I'm sure you've read our briefings."

"I'm on a number of committees, Colonel," Brandt says with a shrug.

"HYDRA is the Nazi deep science division. It's led by Dr. Erskine's first test subject, Johann Schmidt," Peggy informs him.

"Forced test subject. Dr. Erskine did not pick him—he stole the serum and used it on himself," Ileana reminds her, and she nods.

Phillips sighs in frustration. "HYDRA's practically a cult. They worship Schmidt. Think he's invincible."

Brandt jumps in. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"I spoke to the President this morning. As of today, the SSR's being re-tasked," the Colonel announces.

Peggy's shocked. "Colonel?"

He waves her off. "We're taking the fight to HYDRA. Pack your bags, Agent. You too, Stark. The four of us fly to London tonight. As for you, Smythe—we want you on two fronts. We'll be discussing this later."

"Not without Stark you're not. I joined with Howard Stark convincing me after I met Dr. Erksine. I have a very solid contract in place. Talk me into doing more than I'm asked and we'll see," Ileana informs him firmly, and Phillips nods at that.

Steve steps forward. "Sir? If you're going after Schmidt, I want in."

Phillips laughs. "You're an experiment. We're sending you to Alamogordo."

"As what, a lab rat? The serum worked!" Steve practically shouts.

"I asked for an army. All I got is you. And you are not enough," Phillips snaps.

Howard and Ileana exchange a look—both thinking the same thing: Hercules.

Steve looks down, frustrated. Brandt waves over his aide, who's carrying a document.

Senator Brandt smirks. "With all due respect, Colonel, I think we may be missing the point. You've seen Steve here in action. More importantly, the country's seen it."

Brandt's aide hands over a copy of the New York Examiner, which he shows to the group. The headline reads: NAZI SABOTEUR FOILED! MYSTERY MAN SAVES CIVILIANS! with a photo of Steve deflecting gunfire using a bullet-riddled car door.

He continues. "Enlistment lines have been around the block since this hit the newsstands. You don't take a soldier—a symbol—like this and hide him in a lab."

Steve looks surprised. He didn't expect Brandt to stand up for him.

Ileana frowns, wary. She doesn't trust politicians.

Brandt turns on the charm. "He needs to be out there, showing the world what the American fighting man is made of."

"Son, do you want to serve your country? On the most important battlefield in this war?" he asks Steve.

Steve nods. "It's all I want."

The Senator grins. "Then congratulations. You just got promoted."

Ileana rolls her eyes and walks off.

Chapter Text

Steve stands alone on a crude wooden stage in the middle of the muddy encampment, posture straight, chin up, confidence worn like armor. The stars and stripes of his costume gleam dully in the overcast light.

No one applauds.

Dead silence meets him.

Hundreds of battle-hardened GIs stare up at the man in the red, white, and blue pajamas with thinly veiled disdain. Their faces are blank, unimpressed. Steve shifts slightly, trying not to flinch.

“Okay...” he says, voice catching slightly. “I’m going to need a volunteer.”

A voice shouts from the crowd.

“I already volunteered. How do you think I got here?”

Laughter erupts from the mass of soldiers, sharp and mean. Steve stiffens.

“BRING THE GIRLS BACK!” another heckler calls from deeper in the crowd.

Steve pushes on, his grin faltering. “I think they only know the one song, but... I’ll... see what I can do...”

“You do that, sweetheart!”

The crowd begins to boo. It starts with a few, then spreads until it drowns out everything else. A full wave of rejection.

Steve’s expression flickers with confusion. He raises his voice, trying to maintain some semblance of authority.

“Hey, guys, we’re all on the same side…”

“Hey Captain, sign this for me!”

Steve turns just in time to see a GI moon him.

Roars of laughter explode around the field. Before he can recover, a tomato sails through the air. He raises his shield just in time. It splats against the metal with a wet smack.

The chant rises. “Bring back the girls! Bring back the girls!”

Steve stands alone, soaked in silence and now tomato juice.

Rain starts to fall.

Steve sits on the edge of the stage, coat pulled tight over his ridiculous uniform. The rain patters softly against canvas and steel as he sketches in a small notebook: a chimpanzee in a Cap outfit rides a unicycle, juggling bananas. His pencil moves with quiet frustration.

A voice interrupts the rhythm.

“That was quite a performance.”

Steve looks up. Peggy Carter stands beside the stage, arms crossed, watching him with her usual cool calm. He rises, surprised to see her here.

“Yeah, I... had to improvise a bit,” he replies. “The crowds I’m used to are usually more... twelve.”

Peggy doesn’t smile. “I understand you’re ‘America’s New Hope.’”

Steve follows her gaze to the corner of his coat where part of his Captain America suit is still visible. He shuts it quickly and sits back down.

“People buy bonds, bonds buy bullets, bullets kill Nazis,” he says flatly. “Sales rise ten percent in every state I visit.”

“Is that Senator Brandt I hear?” she asks.

“Hey, Phillips was going to stick me in a lab. At least Brandt got me here.”

Peggy studies him, voice soft but firm. “And are those your only options?” She nods toward his sketch. “Lab rat or dancing monkey? You know you’re meant for more than this. You should see Dr. Smythe now.”

Steve looks away, taking that in. Finally, he says quietly, “It’s just, you get enough people telling you you’re a hero, after years of them telling you you’re nothing...” He trails off, voice catching.

“All I dreamed about was coming overseas, being on the front lines, serving my country. I finally get everything I wanted... and I’m wearing tights.”

As if to mock the moment, a battered ambulance pulls up to the hospital tent. Corpsmen leap out, rushing to unload wounded men on stretchers. Their uniforms are soaked with blood and grime. A platoon of soldiers limps past, dazed and broken. Steve watches them in silence.

“Looks like they’ve been through hell,” he murmurs.

“These men more than most,” Peggy says.

He eyes her carefully. “HYDRA?”

“Not officially.”

“Back home, that’s a yes.”

Peggy hesitates, then steps closer, lowering her voice.

“Schmidt was moving a force through Azzano. Two hundred men went up against them. Less than fifty came back. Your audience contained all that’s left of the 107th. The rest were killed or captured. We usually have the Raven Warrior on standby, but they weren’t there this time. Pretty angry about it, too.”

Steve stares at her, breath catching.

“The 107th?” he echoes.

“Yes, what?”

Without another word, Steve rises and pulls Peggy up with him.

“Come on.”

A corporal types steadily at a desk, the rhythmic clack of keys filling the tent. Across the room, Colonel Phillips works through a stack of condolence letters, his pen scrawling signature after signature without pause.

Suddenly, Steve Rogers barrels through the entrance with Peggy Carter close behind him. Phillips barely looks up.

“Well, if it isn’t ‘the star spangled man with the plan.’ What is your plan exactly?”

Steve wastes no time. “Azzano. I want to see the casualty list.”

Phillips gestures to the rank insignia on his collar, unimpressed.

“You don’t get to give me orders, ‘Captain.’”

“I don’t need the whole list. Just one name. Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th.”

Phillips turns to Peggy with a sharp glance. “You and I are going to have a conversation later that you won’t enjoy. I’ve already faced the Raven Warrior today and won’t feel bad about our conversation in the least.”

“Just tell me if he’s alive, sir. BA-R…”

“Do not spell at me, son.”

Peggy watches Steve, sees the resolve set in his shoulders. She steps in.

“Sir, Rogers is only on loan to the USO. Officially, he is still SSR.”

Phillips studies Steve in silence. Then, with a sigh, he reaches for a thick stack of letters.

“Barnes?”

Steve nods. Phillips flips through the top pages.

“I’ve signed more condolence letters today than I’d care to count. But the name does sound familiar.”

Steve’s expression falters. The implication hits like a blow to the chest. His gaze drifts to the map of Austria pinned on the wall, flanked by aerial reconnaissance photos of what looks like a facility.

“What about the others? You’re planning a rescue mission?”

“Yeah. It’s called ‘winning the war.’ Raven was already at my throat about this earlier.”

“But if you know where they are.”

“They’re thirty miles behind the lines. Through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We’d lose more men than we’d save. I don’t expect you to understand that, because you are a chorus girl.”

“I think I understand pretty well.”

“Then understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters right, you’ve got some place to be in a half hour.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

Steve takes one last glance at the maps, then turns and walks out. Phillips returns to his letters.

“You got something to say now’s the time to keep it to yourself. Like I said, Dr. Smythe has tried this already.”

Peggy lingers, considering. Then she leaves after Steve. She catches him just outside.

“Get what you need, I’ll get Raven Warrior and our way in,” she says briskly.

Steve blinks, confused. “Who’s Raven Warrior? I keep hearing them mentioned.”

“Today? They’re your partner,” she replies, not missing a beat.

Stark’s Silver Electra cuts through the night sky, high above the clouds.

The helmet from the USO show, that familiar “A,” rests on a bench, abandoned. Beside it, Steve buttons fatigues over his Captain America uniform. His eyes flick constantly to the pair seated across from him—but mostly to the one in black.

The Raven Warrior.

They sit with unshakable poise, covered from head to toe in tactical black. A sleek raven mask hides their face except for a pair of strikingly cold, blue eyes, glinting beneath black grease paint. A hood drapes over their armor—polycarbonate, leather, and feathers shaped into pauldrons. They look more myth than soldier.

Knives glint in holsters up and down their frame. A broadsword lies strapped across their back, curved short swords on each hip, and smaller blades sheathed in their boots, gloves, and belt. They are the shadow between threats—the warrior no one warned him about.

Steve has never seen anyone like them. He’s never even heard of them.

Across from him, Peggy and Raven both study a large, creased map.

“The HYDRA camp is in Krausberg, tucked between two mountain ranges. It’s a factory of some kind,” Peggy explains.

Up front, Howard Stark calls back from the cockpit. “We should be able to drop you both right on the doorstep.”

Steve nods. “Just get us as close as you can.”

Raven leans over the map and points to an area, giving Steve a thumbs-up.

“You know, you’re both going to be in a lot of trouble when you land,” Steve mutters, glancing between them.

“And you’re not? At least the Colonel’s terrified of Raven. We’ll blame them if we must,” Peggy says, half amused.

She nudges Raven lightly. The warrior doesn’t react. Eyes forward. Locked in.

Peggy rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, but where I’m landing, if anybody yells at me, I get to shoot them… and they can sharpen their swords I guess,” Steve jokes, trying for levity. Nothing. Raven remains focused.

“They’re undoubtedly going to shoot back,” Peggy remarks dryly.

Steve shows her his shield strapped to his back and shrugs. “It’s got to be good for something.”

From the cockpit, Howard adds cheerfully, “Agent Carter, if we’re not in too much of a hurry, I thought we’d stop in Lucerne for a late-night fondue.”

Steve stiffens at the word, glancing quickly at Peggy. She laughs softly.

“Stark’s the best civilian pilot I’ve ever seen, and mad enough to brave this airspace. We’re lucky to have him, and that Raven Warrior is mad enough to join you on this mission.”

Steve’s voice stammers, uneasy. “Do you, are you two...fondue?”

Raven doesn’t turn. Just rolls her eyes beneath the hood.

Peggy hands Steve a small device.

“Take this transponder. Activate it when you’re ready and the signal will lead us right to you.”

Steve looks at the label. “STARK INDUSTRIES.” He raises an eyebrow. “You sure it works?”

Howard snorts. “It’s been tested more than you have.”

Suddenly, a violent explosion shakes the plane. It lurches to the left—enemy fire. Gunfire from below peppers the hull. Howard pulls hard on the controls, veering through flak and smoke.

Steve and Raven strap into their parachutes, Raven nodding once.

Steve throws open the jump door, wind howling in. Peggy shouts from behind.

“Rogers, Raven, get back here. We’re taking you all the way in!”

Another explosion rocks the fuselage. Steve turns to Peggy, voice firm.

“Once we’re clear, turn this thing around and get out of here!”

“You can’t give me orders!” she yells over the noise.

“The hell I can’t!” Steve calls back, bracing against the frame. “I’m a Captain!”

He jumps.

Raven Warrior steps forward, calm in the chaos. She salutes with two fingers.

She leaps backwards from the plane, vanishing into the clouds in a controlled dive.

Peggy rushes to the open door. She sees Steve’s chute flare open—then Raven’s.

She swears under her breath and signals Howard. He slams the throttle forward, pulling the plane away into the night.

Chapter Text

The Raven Warrior drops like a ghost through the night.

Her chute flares just long enough to slow her descent, then she’s cutting herself free mid-air, hitting the forest floor in a controlled tumble. One knee sinks into the soil, muffling the impact. She’s already moving as she rises, unclipping the remaining strap and letting the fabric fall behind her like shed skin.

Overhead, something rustles.

She looks up.

Steve Rogers is dangling in a tree—his chute tangled in the upper branches, his arms flailing as he tries to pull himself free. He’s muttering under his breath, twisting in the harness, boots swaying above the ground.

Raven tilts her head. Her shoulders lift, then drop in a silent sigh. She steps back a pace, pulls two small throwing daggers from her thigh sheath, and flicks her wrists.

Thwip. Thwip.

Both blades strike cleanly through the tangle of straps.

Steve yelps as the harness gives out beneath him—he crashes through two lower branches and lands hard in a crouch, shield clattering behind him. He blinks, looking around, one hand reaching for the strap of his shield.

A tap lands on his shoulder.

He jumps and whirls, fist already swinging.

Raven ducks.

He stumbles past her and catches himself on a tree trunk, immediately straightening, face burning.

“Sorry! I thought—you startled me,” Steve mutters, stepping back. “Uh, thanks. For the...uh. The knife thing.”

She says nothing.

Now that they’re on the ground, up close, he’s trying to study her. The black mask still hides her face—just those cold, sharp eyes peering through. No part of her is unarmed. She moves like she’s done this a thousand times.

Steve fumbles with a whisper, lowering his voice. “So...how long have you been with the SSR? Or are you just freelance? Is that mask standard issue, or…?”

Raven turns her head slowly. Raises a gloved hand.

Folds it into a fist.

Then opens and closes it once, silently.

Steve blinks.

“Oh. Right. Button it.”

She nods once and turns away, already vanishing into the trees.

Steve sighs, hoists his shield, and follows.

Quietly.

Steve peers out at the guards patrolling the main gate. Raven Warrior rolls flat to the ground. He quickly follows, dropping as headlights sweep across the road. Three covered trucks rumble toward the gate. Raven points and tilts her head in question. He nods in agreement.

A gate guard checks the drivers’ papers.

Steve and Raven Warrior sneak into the last truck.

The trucks roll into the compound, gates closing behind them. Guards hurry out to unload.

At the last truck, one guard peers in, curious. A red, white, and blue shield stands among the supplies…

WHAM!

The shield springs out, smashing him in the face. The guard drops. Steve and Raven Warrior emerge from the darkness.

She waves him along, slipping through the shadows. He follows her lead.

One man spots Steve—she pulls back, grabs him by the mouth, and knocks him out with a swift jab to the neck before twisting it in a clean crack. She pulls him into the shadows with them, hiding the body.

He eyes her, wide-eyed, but moves on when she glares.

Inside the compound, they spot HYDRA guards prodding P.O.W.s within cages. Steve follows, keeping to the shadows with Raven Warrior.

They pause, watching one guard who stands sentry as the others lead prisoners inside. The moment they’re through, the Raven knocks him out with a sharp chop.

She sighs and turns to her partner, motioning a neck-slice, then presenting her hand to the unconscious guard as if asking permission. He grimaces but nods. She rolls her eyes, then snaps the guard’s neck. They position his body so he appears asleep.

The pair wait silently, timing their next move.

Another guard steps out, finding his partner “asleep” against the wall with his helmet down. He kicks him—no response. He lifts the helmet to check.

Steve steps up behind him with a truncheon and cracks his skull with a clean blow.

Four prisoners—Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, and Dugan—slump on the floor of their cage, exhausted.

The Warden patrols the upper floor. He rounds a corner and Steve cracks his skull with the truncheon. The Warden drops on top of the cage, unconscious.

The prisoners jump to their feet as Steve and Raven Warrior look down on them.

Steve says simply, “Hi.”

Raven Warrior rolls her eyes and waves.

The prisoners stare, stunned. Jones eyes Steve’s outfit and shield.

Jones asks, “And who the hell are you supposed to be? I know that’s R.W.”

“I’m... Captain America,” Steve replies, slightly embarrassed.

The prisoners’ excitement dies.

“Merde,” Dernier mutters.

Freed prisoners follow Steve as he moves down the row, unlocking cages with the guard’s keys. Raven is ahead of him, using one of her throwing knives to break open the locks.

She releases Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, and Dugan.

Dugan spots a Japanese-American soldier, Morita, already free.

“What, are we taking everybody?” Dugan asks sarcastically.

“I’m from Fresno, Ace,” Morita scoffs.

He smirks when Raven Warrior smacks the back of Dugan’s head lightly and wags a finger in mock admonishment before moving on.

“You meet R.W. ever?” Dugan asks Morita.

He nods. “Yeah, a while back. Saved my life.”

“Same. Twice now, Apparently,” Dugan mumbles.

Steve scans the crowd of prisoners.

He asks, “Are there any others?”

Falsworth answers, “They did take a number of the men to the isolation ward. I’m afraid we haven’t seen them since.”

Steve and Raven Warrior consider this as the prisoners gather around. They glance at each other and nod.

Steve hands out a pistol and grenades. Raven follows, distributing her throwing knives carefully.

“The tree line’s northwest, about 80 yards from the gate. From there, just follow the creek bed,” Steve instructs. The group prepares to move.

Steve nods to Raven Warrior. “We’ll meet you in the clearing with anybody we find inside.”

Jones stops him.

“Wait. You sure you know what you’re doing? I know Raven Warrior’s got this. They’ve done this loads of times,” Jones says.

Steve grins. “Sure. I’ve knocked out Adolf Hitler over 200 times. Besides, I’ve got a bird on my shoulder now.”

Steve moves out, not noticing Raven’s glare. She turns to the group, mimics a talking puppet with her hand, and they stifle laughter as she rolls her eyes and leaves.

Steve circles the factory, looking for a way in with his leather-feathered accomplice.

Raven Warrior holds up a hand to stop Steve for a moment. She knocks on the glass door. He holds in a laugh.

A HYDRA guard stands watch near the entrance. He hears... tapping. Two silhouettes appear behind the glass. The guard cautiously opens the door and pokes his head out.

The guard calls out, “Ja?”

Raven slams the door, pinning his head. The guard looks up, just in time to see Steve’s fist coming. He’s out cold.

Raven and Steve slip into the factory, creeping between bombs and crates. Clusters of cartridges bristle from an unfinished bomb.

Steve pulls one out, curious. It glows blue in his hand. He pockets the cartridge, missing the brief flash of glowing blue in Raven Warrior’s eyes as she scans the room with suspicion. They head for the stairs.

A guard rushes down the stairs, jackboots thudding inches from Steve’s fingers.

Steve and Raven Warrior hang beneath the staircase. Steve yanks the guard’s ankle and he tumbles. They nod to each other and leap up.

Raven swings backward, spinning mid-air, landing light on a step. Steve shoots her an impressed look. She shrugs, and they move on.

Steve steps onto the catwalk—only to be met by a guard raising a pistol.

He knocks the gun from his hand and smashes him in the face. The guard falls, flips back up, charges.

Raven Warrior swings down from a beam, kicking the guard square in the chest. He crashes off the catwalk to the floor below. She picks up the gun and hands it to Steve.

They scan the factory floor, taking in the scale of the bomb-making operation.

Two more soldiers attack from opposite sides. The first fires—but a broadsword flashes, deflecting the bullet back into his head.

The second charges. Steve whirls, crushing his neck with the edge of his shield.

Steve and Raven reach the corridor. At the far end, Zola clutches files to his chest and bolts. He sees Steve, but doesn’t spot Raven Warrior in the shadows. Steve advances. Zola flees.

Steve stalks inside, alert. Raven Warrior is armed with a short sword and knife at the ready.

Beyond scattered files and specimen jars, they see a large cage over a rusty drain.

Raven darts forward, silent—she’s spotted the prisoner slumped inside. Steve follows. The prisoner hears his footfalls and calls out, voice ragged.

“Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038,” Bucky gasps out.

Raven freezes. She glances quickly at her wrist, then back.

“Bucky?” Steve calls.

Silence. No response.

Then: “Who... who is that?”

Steve rushes to the cage. A battered, grizzled Bucky Barnes stares back.

Bucky squints, straining to focus.

“Is that...” he rasps.

Raven slices through the lock with her short sword. For a moment, even Steve is stunned.

He snaps out of it, grinning, and offers his hand.

He whispers, “It’s me, Buck.”

Bucky studies his face.

“Steve?” he asks, dazed.

He laughs, “I thought you were dead.”

Bucky frowns, “I thought you were smaller.”

Steve gently helps him down. Bucky stares, wide-eyed, at the transformed man before him.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

Steve shrugs, “I joined the Army.”

Bucky glances at Raven, who’s studying the map on the wall.

“And now you’re hanging out with R.W.? Do you know how big of a deal they are?”

Suddenly, a blast rocks the room. Steve and Bucky stagger. Raven stays perfectly still.

As they move to leave, Steve catches sight of the massive map, littered with HYDRA symbols across Europe.

Steve supports Bucky down the corridor. Raven walks ahead—short sword and knife still drawn.

Another explosion. The walls tremble.

“Did it hurt?” Bucky asks.

Steve tilts his head slightly. “Little bit.”

Raven scoffs, remembering the screaming all too clearly.

“Is it permanent?” Bucky asks.

Steve replies, “So far.”

Bucky smiles, weary. “You are going to get so many girls.”

Raven Warrior shoots them a glare, then raises her hand and closes it like a puppet’s mouth. The signature gesture.

“Button it, got it,” Bucky says with a wary nod, and they move on.

Chapter Text

Steve and Bucky reach the stairwell, the Raven Warrior close behind, watching their six with an unsettling stillness. But as they begin their descent, another explosion tears through the building. Debris crashes down in front of them, blocking their path.

The Raven Warrior lets out a low growl of frustration. She raises a gloved hand, motioning them back.

They pivot and double back, boots clanging against the steel. Overhead, a catwalk stretches across the factory, half-hidden in shadow and smoke. No time to second-guess it. They make for the incline.

Steve hauls himself up first, then Bucky. The Raven Warrior moves behind them like liquid shadow, vanishing into the gloom. On the far side of the catwalk, a figure waits—tall, still, expectant.

Johann Schmidt.

His face is calm, almost amused as he handles a silver case. Behind him, Zola hovers near the elevator like a nervous rodent.

"Captain America. How exciting. I'm a fan of your films," Schmidt says, voice syrupy with mock admiration.

He hands the case to Zola and steps forward.

Steve doesn't slow.

Neither does Schmidt.

The two meet at the center of the catwalk like converging storms, each waiting for the first flash of lightning.

Behind them, Bucky starts forward, but the Raven Warrior places a firm hand on his arm. Her other hand lifts—one finger to the mouth of her mask. Silence. She slips back into the shadows, nearly invisible now.

Schmidt eyes Steve with cold curiosity. "So the old man managed it after all. Not quite an improvement, but impressive."

Steve punches him, fast and sharp—a straight shot to the jaw. Schmidt staggers back, stunned.

"You've got no idea," Steve mutters.

Schmidt straightens, unshaken. "Don't I?" he says, then lunges.

He swings hard. Steve raises his shield. The impact dents the steel, and Steve's eyes widen. In the moment it takes him to register it, Schmidt seizes the advantage, slamming Steve with three quick strikes and knocking him to the floor.

He looms over him, grinning.

"Erskine said your experiment was a failure," Steve gasps, disoriented.

He kicks upward with brutal force, sending Schmidt reeling. At the same moment, twin blades whistle through the air—silver glints from the darkness. The Raven Warrior emerges just long enough to throw two knives, both slamming into Schmidt's shoulders. He crashes to the floor with a furious, inhuman snarl.

Zola panics. He dives for the catwalk lever and yanks it.

The metal under their feet begins to shift. With a groaning creak, the catwalk splits in half, retracting slowly and separating Steve from Schmidt. The Raven Warrior edges toward Steve's side, her eyes fixed on the titanium case. She can feel it—the infinity stone pulses faintly, a wrongness in the air like a blade held to the throat of the universe.

She can already tell it's not ready for her.

Schmidt glares at Zola, furious. The scientist shrinks back, pale as ash.

Then Schmidt turns.

A tear splits the edge of his cheek, revealing red beneath.

"A failure? Oh, no, Captain," he says, voice strangely calm as he pushes to his feet. "I was his greatest success."

He rips out the knives, dropping them with a wet clang. Then he grips the edges of his skin and peels it off—slowly, deliberately.

Beneath the flesh is polished crimson skin on bone. Dark eyes gleam. He is no longer Johann Schmidt.

He is the Red Skull.

"You don't have one of those, do you?" Bucky mutters to Steve, frozen in disbelief.

Red Skull tosses his discarded face into the fire below. It curls and blackens in an instant.

"You're a liar, Captain," Red Skull sneers. "You pretend to be a simple soldier. But in reality, you're just afraid to admit we've left humanity behind."

His gaze slides to the Raven Warrior. "And you, Raven Warrior. Truly as impressive as the rumors say. Excellent aim. I do wonder what's under your mask."

The building groans again. Flames creep along the ceiling.

"Unlike you, I embrace it proudly," Red Skull says. "Without the masquerade... without fear."

"Then how come you're running?" Steve calls from the far side of the gap.

Zola steps forward, holding out the titanium case. Red Skull takes it, his mouth twisting into a pleased snarl. Together, they back into the elevator.

An explosion detonates below the catwalk. Metal twists and shrieks. The Raven Warrior grabs Steve and Bucky, shoving them toward the edge just as the structure begins to collapse.

They skid to a halt.

No way forward.

Bucky looks up. A gantry runs above them. Narrow. Fragile. It might be their only chance.

"There!" he points.

They run, heading for the gantry. The metal is already warping from the heat. Raven notices, calculating quickly.

She and Steve signal for Bucky to go first. He hesitates, then takes off. The gantry creaks beneath his weight.

"Hurry," Steve calls as he steps onto the metal platform.

Bucky limps across, carefully. Rivets clatter to the ground. At the end, he jumps, barely making it to the other side.

Then, with a deafening crack, another explosion goes off. The gantry collapses behind him.

Steve and Raven are stranded on the other side. Bucky spins, panic rising.

"There's got to be a rope or something!" he shouts, eyes scanning the wreckage.

Raven Warrior scans the gap. It's wide. And she's heavy from her armor, weapons, gear. But the math adds up.

Barely.

"Just get out!" Steve shouts.

The bombs are going off faster now, chain reactions ripping through the factory.

"Not without either of you," Bucky replies, firm.

Raven backs up, then launches. She flips twice, spins, and lands in a crouch. A puff of breath escapes her as she rises.

Both men stare at her, stunned.

She points to Steve, then to her side, waiting.

The roof around Steve starts to collapse. He eyes the gap, then groans.

"Aw, hell."

He backs up and runs for the edge, locking eyes with Bucky as he leaps—feet kicking, body soaring over the fire below.

He lands safely. The three of them bolt for the roof.

No one is here. Just a ladder leading down. They descend fast, skipping rungs.

Finally on solid ground, they sprint for the tree line—where the freed POWs are waiting.

Steve yells, "Run!"

They do, bolting into the forest just as the factory erupts behind them, fire lighting the sky in a violent roar.

They regroup on a dirt trail, the path ahead just visible in the moonlight. They've obtained trucks, but not enough.

Raven nudges Steve, miming a phone with her hand. He frowns, checks his pocket, and pulls out the transponder—cracked and useless. They stare at it.

Disappointment hangs between them.

She exhales hard, then holds up two fingers and a fist.

"Twenty?" he guesses.

She nods, points to her wrist, then gestures down the trail.

"Hours to walk. Got it, Raven," he mutters.

Turning to the group, he raises his voice. "We're walking—twenty hours, maybe more." There are groans, but no complaints. They get moving, feet dragging, eyes forward. Steve, Bucky, and the Raven Warrior take point.

Raven glances up at the moon, calculating time. A week, maybe more, given everyone's condition. Better to pace it—rest when needed. First, though, they need distance.

And Bucky—he's in the worst shape.

She falls back, stepping silently beside him. Taps his shoulder. He flinches, startled.

"Oh, Raven Warrior. Hi," he says, wary.

She sighs, swings her arm back to unhook a slim emergency pack tucked behind her broadsword. He watches with quiet curiosity.

She opens it, revealing a med kit.

"Yeah, kinda need that right now, don't I?" he murmurs.

Steve approaches. "You're a medic too?"

She gives him a one-shouldered shrug, then gestures so-so before handing him the pack to hold open while she works.

Her hands move gently across Bucky's scalp, pressing around the bruises. He winces. She finds the cut—hidden, bleeding.

She grabs a dressing, unseals a vial of iodine. The sharp scent cuts the cold air. She dabs the gash and the one below his eye.

"There's one on my leg too," Bucky mutters, rolling up his pant leg as far as he can.

She nods, tosses the used dressing, and gets another. It doesn't need stitches, but it's dirty. It'll be infected if they wait. She cleans it thoroughly, then wraps it tight.

When she looks up, their eyes meet—and Bucky goes still.

Ice, he thinks. Not cold—just sharp. Focused. But there's something soft in them too. Something real.

"Bucky, I think they're asking if there's anything else?" Steve says. She nods once.

He clears his throat. "Uh, no. That's it. Thanks, Raven Warrior."

She smiles slightly—just in the eyes—then nods again, packing the kit back into her sling. She pulls out a canteen and hands it to him.

A downward circle with her hand: pass it around.

Then she points left, signals with five fingers: river nearby, five minutes out.

"Got it. Five minutes from water for a refill. Thanks, Warrior," Bucky murmurs, taking a sip before passing it to Steve.

Steve drinks, then offers it to her—but she shakes her head, circling her hand again.

"You sure?" he asks.

She nods. Firm.

Steve passes it down the line.

Bucky raises his voice, "There's a river five minutes west of here if you need to refill your canteen!"

"Let's move!" Steve calls out.

And again—they do.

The group settles in under a canopy of thick trees, far enough from the blast site to risk a small fire. The glow is low and flickering, casting shadows that dance across tired faces. Quiet murmurs and the occasional clatter of gear are the only sounds—no one has the energy for conversation.

Bucky sits at the edge of the firelight, his back against a tree, unwrapping the bandage on his leg to check the wound. It's holding, thanks to Raven.

He glances up as she approaches again, quiet as before, but less cautious now. She kneels beside him, not speaking, just watching his movements.

"Still looks good," he mutters, adjusting the wrap and nodding once.

She studies it, then shakes her head, rewrapping it tighter.

Bucky winces.

"You know, I know sign language," he mutters, "My sister's deaf."

She nods, contemplatively.

There's a pause.

Then she reaches into her satchel and pulls out a small pouch—dried herbs and bark, from the smell. She uncaps a dented metal flask, sprinkles the mixture in, and swirls it before offering it to him.

Bucky hesitates, sniffing the rim. It's strong, bitter.

"What is it?" he asks.

She signs: drink.

He shrugs and takes a sip. Winces. "Okay, wow. That's awful."

She smirks with her eyes and signs: good for sleep.

He takes another sip, slower this time.

They sit like that a while. The fire crackles. A few feet away, Steve is dozing with his shield still strapped to his arm. The others lie scattered in exhausted clusters.

"I don't remember silence like this," Bucky says, more to the air than to her. "Not since... everything."

Raven doesn't move, but something about her stillness shifts—inviting him to go on.

"I used to hate being alone," he says quietly. "Now it's like... the noise follows me, even when no one's there. You ever get that? Like it's still happening somewhere behind your eyes."

She watches him, then slowly reaches into her jacket and pulls out a metal tag. Old, weathered. She places it in his hand.

He turns it over—there's a symbol etched into it. Not one he recognizes.

"What is this?"

She taps it, then touches her chest, then gestures a cutting motion across her throat. Dead.

"Someone you lost?"

She nods. Then signs: many.

Bucky closes his fingers around the tag and hands it back. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Me too."

Another silence, this one less heavy.

She leans back against the tree beside him, eyes tilted toward the sky. No stars tonight—too much cloud cover. Just the hush of wind moving through leaves.

He watches her for a moment. "You don't talk," he says. "But it's not just because you can't, is it?"

She doesn't answer. Just gives him a sidelong look—sharp, thoughtful.

"It's okay," he says. "I get it."

He adjusts the blanket over his shoulders, finishes the last of the sleep brew, and sets the flask down between them.

"Thanks," he says softly. "For everything today. For patching me up. For the... tea of doom."

Her lips almost twitch under her mask.

He leans his head back, finally letting his eyes close.

She stays beside him until his breathing evens out—then shifts the blanket a little higher over his shoulder and settles in to keep watch.

Phillips stands at the window of his tent, arms folded behind his back, his face a carved mask of stoicism. Dust swirls outside in the morning light. Behind him, a corporal sits at a desk, fingers poised over a typewriter. Phillips doesn't turn as he speaks.

"Senator Brandt," he begins, voice low and steady, "I regret to report that Captain Steven G. Rogers went missing behind enemy lines on the 3rd of last week."

He glances down at the notepad in his hand, reading from the rough draft of the report. The corporal types as he dictates.

"Aerial reconnaissance has proven unfruitful. As a result, I must declare Captain Rogers killed in action."

The corporal hesitates, fingers freezing mid-word.

Phillips turns slightly—just in time to see Peggy Carter appear in the doorway. Her eyes are red, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. She doesn't wait for an invitation. She steps inside and lays down a series of aerial photographs on the table.

"The last surveillance flight is back," she says, her voice even but brittle. "No sign of activity."

Phillips looks down at the grainy black-and-white photos. Burnt-out ruins. Nothing but ash and cratered earth. He exhales slowly, then turns to the corporal.

"Corporal. Why don't you go get a cup of coffee?"

The young man stands without question and slips out of the tent. The silence that follows is tight, tense. Phillips turns to Peggy.

"I can't touch Stark. He's a civilian... and the Army's number one weapons contractor. He's angry as it is about his work partner. You're neither."

Peggy lifts her chin. "You'll have my resignation in the morning."

Phillips doesn't blink. "I can probably make it so that you'll avoid a court martial."

She doesn't flinch. "With respect, sir, I don't regret my actions. And I doubt Captain Rogers or Dr. Smythe did, either."

His voice hardens. "What makes you think I give a damn about your opinions?"

The coldness in Peggy's expression is immediate, a sudden drop in temperature. Phillips steps forward, crowding the space between them.

"I took a chance on you, Agent Carter. Now that boy... and a lot of other men including Dr. Smythe, are dead, because you had a crush."

"It wasn't that." Her voice drops. "I had faith."

"Well, I hope that's a great comfort to you when they shut this division down."

From outside the tent, noise begins to build—a distant clamor that grows louder. Phillips frowns, turning toward the window.

"What the hell's going on out there?"

He pushes past Peggy and steps outside. She follows.

They both freeze.

Dozens of soldiers are running toward the camp entrance, their movements frantic but purposeful. Then the crowd parts.

Steve Rogers, Raven Warrior, and Bucky Barnes walk up the road, leading a squad of liberated POWs. Behind them, a trail of ragtag vehicles carry more survivors. Steve's uniform is torn, stained with dirt and blood. His shield hangs from his back, battered and scorched. But his head is held high.

Cheers erupt from the soldiers. More pour out from the barracks and mess hall, rallying to the sight.

Phillips blinks, mouth slightly open. He glances at Peggy. She's already crying, wiping a hand quickly under her eye. The crowd parts further as Steve approaches. He salutes sharply.

"Colonel, some of these men need medical attention. We did our best with what Raven Warrior had at hand."

Phillips surveys the worn, hollow-eyed faces of the returning soldiers. He nods once, and medics rush in to take over.

Steve squares his shoulders. "I'd like to surrender myself for disciplinary action."

Phillips doesn't answer right away. He looks toward the figure standing in the distance—Raven Warrior. She meets his gaze, gives a subtle shake of her head, and offers a small, mischievous wave.

Phillips sighs and turns back to Steve. His eyes drop to the battered shield.

"That won't be necessary."

"Sir."

"Just how many orders do you plan on disobeying, Captain?"

Steve meets his gaze without hesitation, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

"Yes, sir."

Phillips snorts, a dry chuckle under his breath, and turns toward Peggy. His expression softens, just slightly.

"Faith, huh?"

He walks off, shaking his head.

Peggy takes a step toward Steve, heart in her throat. For a moment, she wants to throw her arms around him—but she stops herself.

"You're late."

Steve pulls something from his pocket and holds it up. It's the Stark transponder—shattered and charred.

"Sorry, couldn't call my ride. Raven led us out."

Their eyes meet and linger. The world narrows around them, just for a moment.

Then the soldiers are on him. Even the ones who once booed him at the USO show now crowd in, slapping him on the back, shouting, cheering. Flashbulbs pop. Bucky's voice rises above the rest:

"Let's hear it for Captain America and Raven Warrior!"

Steve glances around at the noise and celebration—only to realize Raven Warrior is gone. Disappeared.

A G.I. waves one of Steve's comic books in the air, yelling his name. More cheers follow. Steve can't help it—he smiles, finally, truly. For the first time, he feels accepted.

Chapter Text

Raven Warrior exhales slowly, heavily, as she closes the door behind her. The room is small and quiet, the silence almost a relief. She begins stripping off her armor and weapons, each movement stiff with exhaustion. She hasn’t eaten. She hasn’t drunk anything. Not in days. She’s kept her mask sealed tight against her face since before they crossed enemy lines.

Her fingers fumble at the mask’s straps before she finally peels it off. The cowl comes down with it, revealing blue eyes ringed with fading grease paint, and lips cracked and dry from neglect. Her strawberry-blonde hair spills loose—tangled, matted with sweat and dust.

She reaches for a cloth and leans toward the mirror, wiping away what’s left of the paint. The woman staring back at her is hollow-eyed, unfamiliar. She doesn’t linger on the reflection. Instead, she pulls on a fresh black t-shirt and worn overalls, stuffing the rest of her belongings into a small cloth bag before heading toward the showers.

The steam fills the air, soothingly washing away grime, blood, and memory. She moves on autopilot until she catches sight of her wrist again. The name burned into her skin. Her people’s language—no one else can read it. But she can. Her gaze lingers, and her frown deepens.

Exiting the shower area, towel draped around her neck, she’s immediately greeted by a pair of wide, worried brown eyes.

Then, Howard Stark pulls her into a tight hug.

“You look like shit, Lee,” he mutters.

She doesn’t answer, just nods against his shoulder and hugs him back with equal strength.

“Where’s that apparent suave-ness when you need it, huh?” she mutters into his shirt.

He laughs, breath shaky with relief.

“None for my best friend,” he scoffs, pulling back to look at her properly. “We couldn’t find a single trace of you out there. I’m guessing that was your doing?”

She shrugs. “We were behind enemy lines. You never know who’s going to pop up. Can you feed me? I haven’t eaten or drank anything in a week.”

Howard throws his head back with exaggerated exasperation. “Come on, Lee, let’s get something in that skinny warrior.”

“Fondue?” she deadpans.

He barks a laugh. “I was thinking of a club sandwich and as much water as you can handle, old lady.”

She nods, already walking beside him. “That sounds divine.”

The cot creaks slightly as Bucky shifts, his leg extended while a field doctor checks the healing wound.

“Who patched this up?” the doctor asks, frowning at the tight bandage.

Bucky doesn’t hear him.

“I said, who patched this up?”

“What?” Bucky blinks, returning to the present. “Oh. Raven Warrior did. Real tight too.”

“That explains it,” the doctor mutters, more to himself. “Raven Warrior’s a doctor, you know? If they hadn’t treated it, you’d be septic by now. Tight bandaging like this—it was to hold back the infection.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “I thought they were saying they’re barely a medic?”

The doctor laughs as he finishes cleaning the wound and begins wrapping it again.

“Not surprising. They say a lot… or don’t say anything at all. Those hand movements of theirs, no one really knows what they mean. I think they know proper sign language, but don’t bother using it. SSR keeps most of it classified. Never even been shot, if rumors are true. But if they had, they’d probably just treat it themselves.”

Bucky stares at him, more confused than ever. “How do you know they’re a doctor, then?”

“They rotate in after battles,” the doctor explains, tightening the bandage. “Real talented. Well trained. Smacked the back of my head once for botching a stitch. Another time, I was about to amputate a leg. They took over—man’s home now with just a limp. No one knows where they go when they’re not fighting or in here. What were they like out there?”

Bucky thinks for a moment, then nods. “Brilliant. Like a ghost. I kept jumping—they’re so quiet. Constantly alert, like they’re reading the terrain, planning moves. I don’t think they ate or drank once the entire way back. They refused everything, even though we had trucks and Humvees with rations.”

“They probably didn’t want to remove the mask,” the doctor says thoughtfully. “Might be trained to work without food or water for long stretches.”

“Who do you think trained them?” Bucky asks. “I remember hearing rumors a few months ago, then I met a couple of soldiers from 107 who said they were saved by them, but didn’t even realize they were there at the time.”

The doctor shrugs, done with the bandages. “I’ve heard the same as you. SSR brought them in already trained. Probably one of theirs. Supposedly, they have their own team out there, too. All I know is—I’m glad they’re on our side.”

Bucky nods, gaze distant.

“Me too. Between them and Steve Rogers, we might actually end this thing.”

It’s nearly silent in the mess hall. The only sounds are the low scrape of cutlery and the hum of tired men trying to forget what just happened. Ileana slides into a corner seat without a word, her shoulders hunched, eyes sunken with fatigue. Her skin is pale, and her damp hair clings to her temples in tangled waves.

Howard sets a tray in front of her like it’s an offering. “You’re eating every bite of that,” he says firmly.

She glances down at the club sandwich, chips, and tall metal cup of water. She blinks like it’s foreign.

“You sure it’s not going to eat me first?” she mumbles, voice rough from disuse.

Howard doesn’t even blink. “You look like a damn skeleton. I can practically count your ribs.”

Ileana exhales a shaky breath and picks up half the sandwich. The first bite is mechanical, slow. Her jaw works carefully, like chewing takes effort. Howard watches her the whole time, not touching his own tray.

“I’m not a child,” she mutters.

“You vanished off the grid for seven days,” he says flatly. “We had no contact. Not even a whisper. I had brass crawling up my ass asking where you were.”

“We were cut off,” she says between bites. “No comms. No fallback. Got dropped behind enemy lines into a hornet’s nest.”

He pushes the water closer to her. “So what’d you do?”

She downs half the cup before answering. “Got people out. Set a few fires. Confused the hell out of the enemy. Got lucky.”

Howard snorts. “You don’t do luck.”

Ileana shrugs. “This time I did.”

He leans forward, voice low. “They were surrounded at Azzano. That wasn’t a skirmish, Lee. That was a goddamn massacre.”

She nods once, then takes another bite. “We got them back though. We improvised.”

“You always improvise. One day that’s not going to work.”

She finishes the sandwich without answering.

Howard hands her a second cup of water. “Drink.”

She obeys. This time, it’s slower. Controlled.

He watches her carefully. “Who made it out with you?”

Ileana’s expression darkens slightly. “Most of the unit that was MIA. Took the long way back—overland, mostly at night. I had to keep them quiet. Couldn’t risk too many fires. Food. Even water was tricky. I went without.”

“Jesus,” Howard breathes, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You went full ghost.”

“Had to.”

He studies her again. Her face is thinner, eyes sharper with something he can’t quite name—fatigue, grief, guilt. Maybe all of it.

“You’re not fine.”

“Nope.”

“But you’re here.”

She nods once. “Still breathing.”

“Barely,” he mutters. Then, in a lighter voice, “You want dessert?”

She smirks, faint but real. “Only if it’s fondue.”

He groans. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

The fluorescents overhead buzz faintly. The air smells faintly of solder and old dust, a space that’s been repurposed too many times. Rows of analog equipment blink and hum, patched together with field repairs.

Howard punches in the access code. The main console wakes with a low thrum.

Ileana steps inside behind him, slow but steady. The bruises under her eyes look deeper in this light. Her sleeves are rolled to her shoulders, her boots heavy on the floor.

Howard slides a chair toward her with his foot.

“You know,” he says lightly, “for someone who ghosted an entire battalion, you’re not great at laying low.”

She doesn’t answer, just sinks into the chair and pulls herself closer to the console. Her fingers hover above the keys for a moment before they start moving. Not fas—just efficient. Muscle memory. She doesn’t need to think.

Encrypted chatter spills from the receiver, all layered tones and coded noise. Ileana closes her eyes.

Then, slowly, the data unravels. Not on paper, but in her mind. The encryption slides into clarity. Her breath evens. Her fingers rest.

“They’re alright,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. “Took down a trafficking hub near Marrak. Got a few more kids out. Advanced sensory types. One of them could hear heartbeat patterns through steel.”

Howard leans against the edge of the console. “Another prodigy. Terrific.”

“They’re not test subjects,” she says, not sharp, but direct.

“I know,” he says. “Just wish they had normal problems. Acne. Homework. Not escape routes and blood on their hands.”

A faint noise escapes her—something like a laugh, but tired and hollow. “They were worried. About me. Said your message helped.” She opens her eyes now. “And I quote: ‘Thank you for informing us of Lee’s latest impromptu mission of idiocy.’”

Howard grins. “Sounds like them. I assume they also insulted my encoding skills?”

“They did. Called it ‘dying-spider-on-a-chalkboard’ bad.”

He puts a hand to his heart. “Rude. I’ll have you know my regular calligraphy is legendary.”

“You label everything in caps with a black marker.”

“Exactly.”

A beep chimes from the console—a soft end-of-transmission tone.

She leans back slowly, the old chair creaking beneath her. “They’ll stay quiet until I check in again. You want to update Command?”

“Already did.” He pushes off the console. “I covered for you. Again.”

“I’ll file the report.”

He lifts a brow. “A real one, this time. Not just ‘I made it back, nobody died, don’t ask questions.’”

She shrugs, tugging a thread from her fraying sleeve. “You want narrative, write it yourself.”

“I’m tempted.”

She stands. Her overalls hang a little loose on her frame. The knees are scuffed. There’s a rip near the thigh that’s been stitched twice. Her boots creak.

Howard gestures to the door. “Come on. Your gear’s ready. They said your breastplate looked like a bear chewed on it.”

“It did,” she says. Then adds, flatly, “That was me.”

He sends her a dry look. Then he exhales and starts walking.

As they head out, she glances down at the faint, curling mark on the inside of her wrist. She traces it absently with her thumb.

Howard catches the motion. “One day, you’re going to tell me what that means.”

She doesn’t look up. “Not tonight.”

“Alright.” He doesn’t push. “Not tonight.”

They exit side by side, her steps heavier than usual, but solid.

The door swings open with a soft hiss. Howard Stark strolls in first, hands in his pockets. Ileana follows silently eyes already scanning the benches for her weapons.

On a steel worktable near the back, her gear is laid out in precise formation—curved blades, gauntlets, her distinctive mask.

Howard picks up one of the throwing knives, turning it over in his fingers. “You know,” he says, weighing it thoughtfully, “your ideas aren’t always terrible, I’ll admit. These knives are pretty good, and I rather like the mask design. Stylish in a way that says ‘I could kill you, but politely.’”

Ileana snorts, crossing her arms. “Function first, always. But I’m glad you approve.”

He sets the blade down and steps toward her primary sword, hovering his hand just over the dark, matte edge. “Yeah, but nothing compared to that sword and those short blades. You sure I can’t get some of that? A little scrap? Sliver?”

She walks past him to retrieve one of the smaller knives, re-sheathing it. “Positive.”

Howard raises a brow. “Come on. Not even for a prototype?”

She shakes her head, not even looking at him. “It’s not on this planet and shouldn’t ever be.”

That gives him pause. “Wait, you mean…?”

“I mean,” she cuts in firmly, finally turning to face him, “I can’t even re-forge any of it without the stones, and you can’t get a sample without them either.”

“Stones,” he echoes, frowning. “Plural. That’s never ominous at all.”

Ileana shrugs as she slides the last blade into its sheath. “Let’s just say, there are things not meant to be in the hands of this war.”

Howard mutters under his breath, “Which, in your case, makes me wonder why you have them.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “Because I remember what happens when the wrong people do.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, just the low hum of machinery and distant clang of metal on metal.

Howard folds his arms. “You’re still the most terrifying ally I’ve ever had, Smythe.”

“Good,” she says, voice cool. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Chapter Text

Steve sketches precise coordinates on a map, almost perfectly duplicating the one from the HYDRA factory. "The fourth one was in Poland, here, not far from the Baltic," he says, tracing the lines with his finger.

He looks up briefly. "And the last was outside of Strasbourg, say thirty, forty miles west of the Maginot line. I only got a quick look."

Peggy watches closely as Steve works, nodding thoughtfully.

"Nobody’s perfect," she replies after a moment.

An aide picks up the map and carries it across the room. Steve and Peggy turn as Howard Stark approaches, holding a blue HYDRA cartridge in his hand.

"Hey, aren’t you supposed to be picking up a medal right about now?" Howard grins, raising an eyebrow. "I know Raven’s already refused it."

Steve doesn’t look up. "I’m off the publicity circuit."

Just then, Colonel Phillips approaches from across the room, his presence commanding.

"Rogers," Phillips begins, "you and Raven Warrior just embarrassed a senior senator in front of a dozen reporters and ten members of Parliament." He hands Steve a medal, holding another one in his other hand. "You both should get a medal just for that."

Phillips notices the HYDRA cartridge in Howard's hand, his expression darkening.

"You figure out what this is, yet?" he asks, his voice dropping.

Howard shrugs as he walks away toward his lab. "If you believe Rogers, it’s apparently the most powerful explosive known to man."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "If?"

Howard nods, not turning around. "Well, either you’re wrong or Schmidt’s damn near rewritten the laws of physics."

He disappears toward his lab, adding over his shoulder, "And I’m rather fond of the laws of physics..."

Phillips moves to the room-sized map table, glancing down at both copies of the maps. One is slightly skewed in a few places, but the overall picture is clear.

"These are all of HYDRA’s factories," Phillips states, his voice low as he studies the maps.

Steve steps forward, his finger resting lightly on one of the locations. "The ones we know about. But Sgt. Barnes said HYDRA shipped all the bombs to another facility. And that... wasn’t on the map."

Phillips stares at the map for a moment, his mind working. He makes a decision, then turns toward his office.

"Agent Carter," he calls, his voice sharp, "coordinate with MI6. I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main HYDRA base."

Peggy looks up. "What about us?"

Phillips smirks, his eyes glinting with determination. "We’re going to light a fire under Johann Schmidt’s ass." He turns to Steve. "What do you say, Rogers? It’s your map, and it almost exactly matches Raven’s. Think you can wipe HYDRA off it?"

Steve stares at Phillips for a moment, the weight of responsibility settling in. This is the moment he’s been waiting for. He finally speaks, his voice steady but resolute.

"I’m going to need a team."

Phillips nods, his expression unreadable. "We’ve already started lining up the best men."

Steve’s eyes narrow. "If you don’t mind, sir... so have I. And I want Raven Warrior with us."

Peggy and Phillips exchange a look.

Phillips is the first to speak. "That’s entirely up to Raven Warrior. They have their own place in this fight. If you can even convince them to reveal who they are... then you might have a chance of getting them on your side."

Steve leans forward, frustration creeping into his voice. "Chance? Wouldn’t they want to do this immediately? They saw what’s out there."

Phillips shrugs, unconcerned. "It’s up to them, son. They have a contract with us, and it’s very tight. You’ll have to ask and reason it out. They have their own team out there on top of everything else they do for us."

Steve furrows his brow. "What else do they do? I heard they show up in battle when it gets rough."

Peggy steps forward, her expression serious. "They’re a doctor as well. Do rotations on the field and off, and that’s just the start."

Steve’s eyes widen in surprise. "Do they even sleep?"

"We’re not convinced of that yet," Peggy says dryly. "But we’ll set up a meeting for you. If they agree, they’ll demand a new contract, and I’m not opposed."

Phillips shrugs. "And neither am I."

Dum Dum Dugan’s voice cuts through the noise, heavy with disbelief. "Let me get this straight."

Falsworth, Jones, Dernier, Morita, and Dugan all lean on their stools, eyes on Steve as he lines up at the dartboard.

Jones shakes his head, a mix of exhaustion and disbelief in his voice. "We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?"

Steve doesn’t even flinch. He weighs the dart for a moment, then casually throws it. The dart lands perfectly in the bullseye.

"Pretty much," Steve says, a simple certainty in his voice.

The men exchange looks, the tension hanging in the air. A long, pregnant silence stretches before Falsworth breaks it with a grin. "Sounds rather a good time, actually."

Morita chuckles, his decision made. "I’m in."

Steve eyes Dernier, waiting for his answer. Dernier meets his gaze and nods confidently.

"Je combattrai jusqu’a ce que le dernier de ces bâtards soit mort, enchaîné ou bien qu’il pleure comme un nouveau-né!" he declares, his voice fiery with determination.

Jones laughs, slapping Dernier on the back. "J’espère touts les trois!"

Dernier bursts out laughing, clapping Jones on the shoulder. When they both look up, the others stare at them, clearly not understanding a word.

Jones grins and shrugs. "Oh, uh, we’re in."

Dum Dum Dugan finishes his beer, his mustache covered in foam, and sets the empty pint down on the table. "I’ll fight. Well, I’ll always fight. But you gotta do one thing for me."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "What’s that?"

Dugan pushes the empty pint glass toward Steve with a grin. "Open a tab."

The others laugh, and Dugan's grin spreads even wider. They all hand Steve their empty glasses. Steve chuckles, shaking his head, before turning and heading back to the bar.

At the bar, Bucky waits, leaning against the counter. Steve slides the empties over to him.

"Another round?" Steve asks.

The bartender looks impressed as he eyes the stack of glasses. "It is possible to run out, you know."

Steve shrugs, looking back at Bucky. "I don’t plan on running out anytime soon."

Bucky smirks, his eyes narrowing with a knowing look. "That was the easiest battle of the war."

Steve laughs softly, shaking his head. "What about you? You gonna follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

Bucky grins widely. "Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight? I’m following him."

Bucky nods over to a tour poster of Captain America that’s pinned on the wall: “PERFORMANCE CANCELLED - NOT TO BE RESCHEDULED.”

Bucky looks back at Steve, a knowing glint in his eyes. "But you’re keeping this outfit, right?"

Steve shrugs nonchalantly. "Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not exactly regulation."

Bucky raises an eyebrow, amused. "I dunno. You saw those guys in Italy when you came back." He pauses, his expression thoughtful. "I don’t think they were cheering just for you."

Across the room, the Howling Commandos begin to sing, drunkenly slinging their arms around each other. But one by one, they stop when they notice Peggy entering the bar.

Out of uniform, Peggy looks stunning in a red dress. Steve is the last to notice her.

"Captain," she says with a smile, her voice cool and confident.

Steve stands immediately. "Agent Carter."

Bucky nods with a respectful, "Ma’am."

Peggy looks around the bar, her eyes flicking to Steve with a knowing glint. "Howard’s got some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning. And you’ve got yourself a meeting with Raven Warrior."

Steve nods, his expression serious. "That sounds fine."

The Howling Commandos, now emboldened, start singing again. Terribly.

Peggy watches them, her face breaking into a smile. "I see your crack squad is prepping for duty."

Bucky, his eyes twinkling, leans in. "You don’t like music?"

Peggy shrugs slightly. "I do, actually." Her gaze shifts back to Steve. "I may even, when this is all over, go dancing."

Bucky grins and nods toward the dance floor. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Peggy smiles, her eyes meeting Steve’s. "The right partner."

She nods to him before heading for the door. "08:00, Captain."

Steve continues to stand, watching her leave. "Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there."

Bucky stares at Steve, puzzled by what just happened. Steve pats him on the shoulder, breaking the silence.

"Maybe she’s got a friend," Steve adds with a grin.

Bucky takes a seat on another stool and jumps when he hears a voice near his ear. He thought he was alone.

“Don’t feel too bad. That’s Peggy for you—she’s a lady who knows what she wants,” a woman says, her voice laced with an unusual accent.

He spins toward the sound and stares.

She’s wearing a black dress again, this one made of velvet, trimmed in gold sequins along the open cream silk collar and the pockets. Her long, lean legs are crossed, and he notices the stockings lined up the back and the black nappa pumps with bows and cut-outs at her heels.

Her hair is golden red and long, curled around her face and pinned back on one side. Her eyes are icy blue, framed with black lashes, and her pouty lips are painted bright red. Her cheekbones are high, her features delicate. She smirks.

“You-you’re her…” Bucky stammers, still caught up in how stunning she is.

The woman raises a brow. “I’m me, yes. And who are you?”

He clears his throat. “No, I mean… my name’s James Buchanan Barnes. But, uh, call me Bucky. What’s your name?”

She laughs, the sound light and easy. “Ileana. Friends call me Lee Smythe.”

He glances at his wrist. That’s the name that’s been on it since the day he was born. No last name. Just Ileana, like a birthmark. The doctors never figured out how it even got there.

As if reading his mind, she leans in a little and murmurs, “Mm. I had a feeling that’d sound familiar. Mine says James. Not Bucky. I might have to call you James, if you don’t mind. That’s what I’ve been calling you in my head for a while now.”

“Lea,” he replies, dazed.

She tilts her head. “Lea? Not bad. Haven’t been a Lea before.”

He shakes his head. “I call it my Lea. You’re Lea. How are you Lea?”

She laughs again, warm and surprised. “You realize only two of those words made sense?”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. He’s never embarrassed himself like this in front of a dame before. And this one—she’s the one he wanted to run after at the Expo.

“You were at the Expo!” he remembers suddenly. “You made fun of Stark.”

She nods, still smiling. “Didn’t know you were there, handsome. Might’ve turned around if I did. Yeah, I work with him now—SSR and Stark Industries. I’m a mechanical engineer, too.”

“I thought he was going to hunt you down and ask you out,” Bucky says.

“He tried,” she replies with a shrug. “I shut him down for the last time that day. We’ve been friends ever since.”

His smile fades, replaced by something more serious. “How is this on my wrist? How come my name’s on yours?”

Ileana’s expression softens. She nods, understanding the weight of the question. But this isn’t the place for it.

“My place isn’t far. We’ll need a long conversation, James. Would you mind coming over? I’ve got meetings and a lab shift tomorrow, but… nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that. I’d like some answers, if you don’t mind,” he replies, still serious but now deeply curious.

Before she can say more, Steve walks up to join them.

“Oh! Dr. Smythe,” Steve says with a grin. “Still working with Stark?”

“I do,” she replies warmly. “Glad to see you’re well, and nice job getting out the 107th. I always knew you were meant for something more than a chorus girl.”

Steve chuckles and turns to Bucky. “You should’ve seen her. She was there when I… changed. Helped with the tech. I definitely trusted her more than Stark. Then she rode on top of Agent Carter’s stolen car to get to the docks after.”

Ileana shrugs. “Not doing that again, that’s for sure. She’s a terrible driver. Anyway, I’m heading out. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Rogers.”

She slips off the stool and saunters out of the bar without a glance back.

Bucky stands. “You uh, you take care of the team, Steve. I’m heading out too.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You sure? This is all on me.”

Bucky just nods and walks out in silence.

Steve shrugs and turns back to order another round.

Chapter Text

Bucky scans the street, searching. Ileana steps out from the shadows beside the building.

“You rode on top of a car?” he asks, wary.

She shrugs and starts walking. “I’ve done stranger. I’ll explain when we’re somewhere with better insulation, James.”

They walk together down the street, the silence between them companionable rather than awkward. She leads him onto a quieter, residential street, stopping at a black-and-white Victorian house.

“This is me,” she says, opening the gate and heading up the steps with him.

At the door, she pulls out a key attached to a rabbit’s foot keychain.

“Lucky rabbit’s foot, huh?” he asks.

Ileana nods, her smile a little distant. “Got it from an old friend. Years and years ago now.”

She unlocks the door and gestures for him to enter first.

The foyer is elegant—cool shades of blue, white, and silver-gray contrasting against rich mahogany wood. Bucky takes it in, noting the careful detail.

She locks the door behind them and gestures toward the living room.

“It’s a little fancy, I guess,” she says, sounding almost shy. “I’ve saved up over the years. Decorating helps me think.”

He smirks. “It’s… pretty.”

She rolls her eyes, amused. “Sit wherever you like. You drink scotch? I’ve got beer too. White Shield in the icebox, Guinness in the cabinet.”

“Beer’s fine,” he says, easing down onto the couch.

She nods and slips into the kitchen. A moment later, he hears the bottles open.

This is going to be a hard explanation, she tells herself, returning with two bottles. She hands him one and sinks beside him with her Guinness.

She takes a long sip, then sighs heavily. “This is gonna be complicated, James. I’m sorry in advance. Still trying to figure out how to explain it without sending you running.”

He studies her, cautious. “Anybody else know?”

She nods. “A few friends. Howard has a rough idea—but not the name part. That’s... personal.”

“How’d Stark take the rest?”

“He was thrilled. Said it was the most exciting thing he’d ever heard. Ran around like a kid on Christmas.”

Bucky snorts. “Figures.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Swear you won’t run. I will chase you. And I’m fast.”

He lifts a hand in mock oath. “I swear.”

She sets her bottle on the table, then turns toward him fully. “I’m not human. I’m an immortal being created by the Universe to protect it. My people—we call ourselves the Immortals, though that’s just a translation—we’re from a planet called Iricys. I’ve been alive about… two thousand years. Give or take. I stopped counting a while ago.”

He blinks, not sure whether to laugh or listen harder.

“I’ve mostly lived on Earth,” she goes on. “You get attached. Especially when you’ve got one of those names. We tend to show up wherever they’re born. I came here over a thousand years ago. First five hundred were mandatory training back home.”

Bucky’s eyes roam her face. “You’re not green under there, are you?”

She bursts out laughing. “Nope. But my blood looks like the night sky. Stars and all. We call it ichor—like the Greek gods. It masks itself as red.”

“This sounds like something outta H.G. Wells,” he mutters.

“You’re not wrong.”

There’s a pause.

“We’ve met before,” she says.

He nods. “Sure. At the Expo.”

“No. Later. Black suit, bird-shaped helmet. I’m the Raven Warrior. That’s why I can do the things I do.”

His eyes widen. Then, slowly, a grin forms. “Definitely not running now. They said you were a doctor, back in the tent. Said I wasn’t gonna make it without your help.”

“You’d have made it, you just would have likely lost that leg. And I’m already attached to that leg,” she smirks.

Bucky chuckles, “Why do you wear a mask?”

She shrugs. “Easier to blend in that way. Fewer questions. Just a shadow that passes through.”

“You look my age. How’d you pull that off?”

“I can shift how old I appear. Helps me fit in. I was ‘fourteen’ when I graduated high school here in England. Pushed through quick—medical school, then MIT in the States. This body’s twenty-five now.”

“My age,” Bucky murmurs. “So you’re… kind of my age.”

She smirks. “Ever do a school project on the Declaration of Independence?”

He frowns. “Yeah. We had to pick a signer to write about. I chose Leeanne Hamilton. Only woman to sign it. Thought that was neat.”

She laughs. “That’s irony for you. Signing it was pretty neat. Adams was a pain, though. I go by Lee a lot.”

He stares. “I’m sorry… what?”

She nods to a painting on the wall—her, alongside a redheaded man who looks oddly familiar.

“That’s Alexander and me. About a month after we signed. Only portrait of us together. Not blood, but like a brother.”

Bucky gets up, crossing the room. He squints at the faces. Definitely her. And that does look like a young Alexander Hamilton.

“You’re Lee Hamilton. And the Raven Warrior.”

She nods. “Lea to you. I’ve had a lot of names.”

“Like what?”

“Ana Hamilton. Worked as Abraham’s personal secretary. Convinced him to grow the beard. Told him I’d shave off the mole if he didn’t.”

Bucky lets out a short laugh—then goes quiet. “The name. Why is your name on my wrist?”

She exhales. “That’s… the trickier part. I’ll have to start from the beginning.

“My people were born from stones of power. Six now, though there was only one at first. Unity. When it shattered, the universe began. The being who held the stone remained. Later, the Universe gave them a child—a new bearer. The first of us.”

She glances sideways. “You still with me? Need a second drink?”

He’s barely touched the first. Just sipping. Eyes steady.

“I’m good,” he says. “I’m following. Just… trying to keep up.”

She nods. “You’re handling this better than most. Might be part of it. Want me to keep going?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, leaning forward. “Don’t stop now.”

Ileana laughs softly, the sound light and warm. “Well, the story goes like this. The new bearer of the Stones had been alive for just over a million years—lonely, despite immortality. So they called out to the Universe. Asked for something… more. A family. A mate who was like them. And the Universe listened, as it sometimes does when the plea is sincere enough. It offered them one condition: that one of their children, someday, would become the next Stone Bearer.”

She leans forward, eyes aglow. “That child would come when the time was right. The bearer would know. But in the meantime, they would find their soulmate somewhere across the stars. Someone destined. Someone theirs.”

Bucky listens in silence, his beer long gone, the glass sweating between his palms.

Ileana continues. “And so it was. Immortals began to find soulmates—scattered through galaxies, through time. When they met, they knew. We all look different, but we are given a name. A pull. And a desire stronger than anything else: to protect the soulmate, and the world they come from.”

She pauses, her voice softening. “But for a child to be born between them, the soulmate had to become Immortal too.”

Bucky raises a brow. “How?”

“There’s a process. A trial of three steps.” She lifts a hand, ticking them off with each finger. “First, the finding—and the truth. The Immortal tells the soulmate everything, just as I’m telling you now. Second, the bond is sealed through what we call the Mating. It’s a permanent link, a way to keep the soulmate safe. The Immortal will always know where they are. They both feel… whole, after. And third, the transference. The ichor of the Immortal—the life-blood—is mingled with the blood of the soulmate. That balance allows for longevity, power… and children, if they choose.”

He’s silent, studying her like she might vanish if he blinks too hard.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Bucky asks finally, voice low.

Ileana nods. “Of course there is.”

She exhales, steadying herself. “I’m a Stone Child. The last bearer was my mother. Her father before her. But not all Stone Children are born carrying the Stones. Sometimes the bearer lets go of them. Or the Stones decide to rest.”

“Rest?” he echoes.

“They’re alive, in their way. They think. Feel. My mother... she scattered them, hid them across the universe. She never told me why. Said she doesn’t remember. She’s never found her soulmate either. Just me.”

She swallows, then meets his gaze. “So I was born without them. But I feel them calling now. I’ll be sent to find them soon. I’ll know when. It’s getting close.”

Bucky’s brows furrow. “HYDRA,” he guesses.

She nods grimly. “They have one of them. The bombs they’re building? They’re not using uranium. They’re powered by the Power Stone. They must have found it and figured out how to harness a fraction of its energy. Enough to burn continents.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “So… no God, then?”

She tilts her head. “That depends. The Universe is One. God, if you like. Not a man in the sky, no beard, no throne. Just… One. The everything. But no, no son named Jesus. Sorry if that offends.”

He snorts, the tension cracking a little. “Protestant. Not offended. Just recalibrating.”

She adds quickly, softer, “You’re human. Beautifully so. I don’t pray the way you do, but I honor the dying. I wish them freedom among the stars. There’s peace out there.”

They sit in silence, the hum of the city outside the window like a second heartbeat. Then Bucky says, “I’ve got one last question.”

Ileana arches a brow. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at her—really looks at her—and then leans in, kissing her.

At first, she’s still.

Then her fingers find his hair, threading through it as if she’s done it a thousand times before, and they’re both moaning into the kiss. He pulls her down with him, breath stolen, hands greedy, and she groans into his mouth before nipping his lower lip.

He growls low in his throat and bites her back. Their tongues tangle, desperate, until breath is a memory and laughter finally breaks the spell.

“Well,” she whispers, voice rasped and heavy.

He nods, matching her tone. “Yeah.”

They’re flushed and painted in scarlet.

“Lipstick,” she murmurs. “Carmine. It stains everything.”

That makes him laugh—really laugh—and she joins him, pulling him up by the hand and leading him to the bathroom.

She dabs at his mouth with a cloth soaked in oil.

“Olive oil?” he asks, amused.

“Best makeup remover in the world. And rationed, so don’t go wasting it.”

He watches her in the mirror as she wipes her own skin clean, like some goddess in a wartime glamour reel.

“I wanted to kiss you the moment I heard your voice at the Expo,” he says, almost sheepish. “Didn’t even see your face. I tried to follow but… I was delayed.”

She hums, knowing. “A date?”

He winces. “Yeah.”

“I’ve been around a while. I don’t get jealous of the past.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

“You’re not supposed to be sure yet,” she teases. “Soulmates tend to be a little possessive, if the stories are true.”

He nods, amused but thoughtful. “I should go. But… you said there’s more I need to know.”

“There is,” she agrees. Then she smirks, wicked and bright. “But not tonight.”

She’s already halfway down the hallway, and he’s left grinning like a fool.

Something eases in her chest at the sight. He’s fine with it. Really fine. She didn’t realize how much she needed that to be true.

He follows her to the door, resisting the urge to nip at her neck—a strange, primal tug he chalks up to Immortal weirdness.

“You joining Steve’s team tomorrow? Carter mentioned a meeting.”

Ileana nods, unlocking the door. “Yes. Steve and I have a long talk ahead. I’ll join the unit, but I have conditions. I’ve got other work—medic duties and my own people out there, my team. Might need to rotate roles. But I’ll pull my weight.”

“Team?” Bucky echoes, lingering.

She smiles knowingly. “More later. Go on, James. Back to the barracks.”

She rises on her toes and kisses him quick—just once, featherlight—and shuts the door before he can lean in for more.

“Promise?” he calls through it.

She rests her palm on the wood. “Promise.”

Chapter Text

The windows are covered in reinforced grating—a precaution after the last experiment. It doesn’t help much.

Inside Stark’s lab, wartime urgency mixes with brilliant chaos. The hum of active machinery fills the air. Buzzing equipment lines the room, wires curl like ivy across metal tables, and clipboards dangle beside blueprints worn at the edges. At the center of the storm sits a large blast chamber, its thick walls glowing faintly with residual energy.

Within the chamber, robotic claws are precisely handling a gleaming cube cartridge that pulses with contained potential.

Howard Stark leans in, studying the readouts with a furrowed brow. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, hands smudged with graphite and grease. Beside him, Ileana stands poised, pencil behind one ear, a clipboard in her hands already half-filled with her fast, graceful notes.

“Emission signature is unusual,” Howard murmurs, eyes narrowed. “Alpha, beta, and gamma ray neutral. Though I doubt Rogers picked up on that.”

Without a word, Ileana steps forward. Her movements are careful. She slides open a secure panel and extracts a small, glowing pellet from its slot before stepping back again.

Howard whistles low. “Hmm. Looks harmless enough.”

He flicks a switch on the console. The robotic arm stirs to life once more, extending a sparking wire toward the pellet. The arc shimmers as it nears the surface.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Howie,” Ileana says, not even glancing up from her notes.

Howard waves her off. “Nah, nah. Hard to see what all the fuss is ab…”

The wire makes contact with the pellet.

The shockwave tears through the lab. Glass explodes outward. Steel groans. Howard is hurled across the room like a ragdoll, crashing into a cabinet with a teeth-rattling clang.

Dust drifts down. Lights flicker, straining to hold steady.

Silence.

Then: a groan. Howard sits up slowly, soot smearing his face, his hair faintly smoking.

“Write that down,” he deadpans.

Ileana doesn’t flinch. She calmly notes the result, underlining the word volatile twice before blowing on the page to dry the ink.

Howard drags himself onto a stool, one hand pressed to his ribs.

“We should put ‘don’t touch shiny alien objects’ in the manual,” he mutters. “Big bold letters.”

“Preferably illustrated,” Ileana replies. “Maybe a stick figure of you flying through the air?”

He shoots her a look. She meets it with a raised eyebrow and the faintest smirk.

Before he can fire back a retort, the already-damaged lab door creaks open further, and a young lab assistant pokes his head through the gap, looking rattled.

“Uh, sir? Colonel Phillips is asking for you. Something about the deployment plans.”

“Tell him I’m discovering the secrets of the universe,” Howard replies. “Tell him I might be dead. I don’t care which.”

The assistant nods awkwardly and vanishes.

Ileana offers Howard a cloth. He takes it with a grunt and begins wiping the soot from his face.

“You sure you’re not concussed?” she asks.

“Only mildly,” he says. “My pride took the worst of it.”

His gaze shifts to the pellet, still glowing innocently on the tray, as if none of the chaos had ever happened.

“This thing has more kick than a Brooklyn mule,” he says. “You think HYDRA’s really got one of these stones powering their toys?”

Ileana studies it too, her expression unreadable.

“I think HYDRA doesn’t know what it’s really holding,” she says. “But they’re going to try using it anyway. That should terrify everyone.”

Howard nods, his earlier bravado dimming. The joke passes. The weight of the war settles back in.

“Let’s get a containment team in here,” he says. “And lock it down. No more... impromptu science for the afternoon.”

“I’ll let the others know,” Ileana replies.

She lifts the tray with slow, steady hands and begins sealing the pellet into a lead-lined container. Every movement is careful. Deliberate. She doesn’t let her focus waver.

Howard watches her for a beat, eyes heavy with thought.

“You ever think this war’s going to get stranger before it gets better?”

“Oh, definitely,” she answers. “But the better part will come. Eventually.”

Click.

The lid locks into place.

Lorraine sits behind her desk, leafing through a copy of Stars & Stripes. The headline catches the light: “P.O.W. CAMP LIBERATED, MIRACLE TREK ACROSS ENEMY LINES.” She barely looks up as someone steps into the room.

“Excuse me, I was looking for Mr. Stark?” Steve asks, standing a little awkwardly in the doorway.

“I think he went to look for a broom,” Lorraine replies, still not looking up.

Then she does—and sees him. Her eyes widen just a touch, and a slow, pleased smile crosses her face.

“Of course… you’re welcome to wait.”

Steve nods and takes a seat nearby, hesitating just slightly. Lorraine swivels in her chair, casually crossing her legs. He tries not to watch—fails.

“I read about what you did,” she says.

“Oh, I was just doing what needed to be done.”

“Sounded like more than that. You saved nearly two hundred men.”

“Really. It wasn’t a big thing. And I had Raven Warrior with me.”

“Tell that to their wives.”

“I... don’t think they were all married.”

“You’re a hero. You both are.”

Despite himself, Steve smiles. “Well, maybe. Depending on whose definition.”

“The women of America owe you their thanks.” She glances around the empty room. “And seeing as they’re not here…”

She leans in. Before Steve can react, she kisses him. He stiffens—startled—but then relaxes into it.

When they break apart, Peggy Carter stands silently beside the desk.

Lorraine jolts back, flustered. Peggy’s expression is cold and unreadable.

“Captain. We’re ready for you... If you’re not otherwise occupied,” she says icily before turning on her heel and walking away, heels clicking sharply down the corridor.

“Agent Carter. Wait a second,” Steve calls, standing and hurrying after her.

She doesn’t even slow down.

“Looks like finding a partner wasn’t that hard after all,” she says coolly.

“Peggy. That wasn’t what you thought it was.”

“I don’t think anything, Captain. Not one thing.”

She strides toward a metal door at the end of the hallway.

“You wanted to be a soldier. Now you are one. Just like all the rest.”

That hits him. Steve slows, frustrated and upset.

“Well, what about you and Stark?” he blurts. “How do I know what you two haven’t been... fonduing the whole time?”

Peggy stops. Turns. Her voice is razor-sharp.

“You still don’t understand a bloody thing about women.”

She storms down another corridor.

Steve stands there, speechless, until a voice cuts through the awkward silence.

“Fondue’s just cheese and bread, my friend.”

He turns. Howard Stark leans casually in the now-open metal door.

“And it looks to me like she thinks you’ve got a lot more going for you than that.”

Howard ushers Steve into his lab. Technicians bustle about, installing high-tech machines. Ileana oversees their work. Workers replace shattered glass in the windows. Nearby, a few mechanics tune up a motorcycle.

“Really, I didn’t think…” Steve begins.

“Nor should you, pal. The minute you think you know what’s in a woman’s head is the minute your goose is well and truly cooked.”

Howard stops in front of a collection of futuristic fabrics.

“Me, I concentrate on work. Which at the moment is making sure you and your men don’t get killed.”

He unrolls a gray metallic weave.

“Carbon polymer. Lee helped me on this one. We use it for R.W., although they have black leather bonded to it as well. Ought to hold its own against your average German bayonet. Of course, HYDRA’s not likely to come at you with a pocket knife...”

Howard gestures to Steve’s battered shield on a nearby table.

“I hear you’re sort of attached.”

Steve fingers a bullet hole along the rim. “It’s handier than you might think.”

“So’s the hotel chambermaid, but I wouldn’t take her into battle.”

Howard rolls over a cart stacked with prototype shields.

“I took the liberty of coming up with a few options.” He picks one up. “This one’s fun. It’s fitted with transistorized relays.”

But Steve’s attention is elsewhere. He reaches for a plain, round shield on the bottom shelf. It’s simple. He spins it between his palms. Light. Balanced. He taps it—it rings like a bell.

“What about this one?”

“Oh, that’s just a prototype. Now this one…”

“What’s it made of?”

“Vibranium. Stronger than steel and a third of the weight.”

Steve slides the shield onto his arm.

“It’s completely vibration absorbent. Should make a bullet feel like a cotton ball.”

Behind them, Peggy enters the lab, still icy.

“How come it’s not standard issue?” Steve asks.

“It’s the rarest metal on Earth. You’re holding all we’ve got.”

Peggy steps up to them without a word.

“Are you about finished, Mr. Stark? I’m sure the Captain has some unfinished business as well as a meeting with Raven Warrior.”

Steve smiles. She doesn’t.

He lifts the shield slightly. “What do you think?”

Peggy looks at him, unreadable. Then she turns, picks up a gun, and without hesitation, fires three times at his chest.

BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.

Steve raises the shield, blocking each shot. The bullets flatten and clink to the floor.

“I think it works,” she says curtly and stalks out.

Steve and Howard stare after her in silence.

Ileana strides over, grinning. “Classic Peggs. What did you do, anyway?”

Steve sighs, determined not to answer. “About my uniform...” He hands Howard a sketch, but neither of them looks away from the door Peggy just exited through.

“I had some ideas.”

Ileana smacks the back of Howard’s head when he doesn’t respond.

“Ow!” Howard yelps. “Whatever you want, sport.”

Ileana rolls her eyes. “I’m off for lunch.”

“Bring me back a sandwich!” Stark calls out as she passes through the room.

She lifts a hand, confirming her agreement.

Ileana’s boots echo softly down the corridor as she searches the base, half a sandwich in hand. She rounds a corner and spots Peggy storming out of a briefing room, her jaw tight and shoulders stiff.

“Peggs!” Ileana calls.

Peggy doesn’t stop.

Ileana quickens her pace and catches up.

“Hey! What the hell happened in there? You nearly shot Rogers.”

Peggy’s eyes flash, but she doesn’t look at her. “The shield worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Peggy says nothing. She marches forward.

Ileana sighs and follows, biting off a piece of her sandwich.

“Look, I don’t need all the details,” she says, chewing, “but you were doing fine earlier. Then he shows up in the lab, and now you’re one trigger-pull away from war crimes.”

Still nothing.

“Peggy.”

Peggy finally stops. She turns slowly, eyes blazing.

“I saw something.”

Ileana raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What something?”

Peggy starts walking again, faster now. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Peggy, of course it matters,” Ileana implores. She glances around and takes her friend’s hand. “Come on, help me get ready.”

Peggy nods and follows obediently, still frowning.

They reach her quarters. Ileana opens the door, steps inside with Peggy following.

Spartan. Clean. A cot, a footlocker, and an armor rack gleaming with black leather and matte metal. A few photographs are taped to the mirror.

Peggy sits heavily on the cot, arms crossed. Ileana tosses the half-eaten sandwich onto a tray and starts taking down the pieces of her Raven Warrior suit.

“He kissed her,” Peggy mutters.

Ileana pauses, looking over.

“Sorry?”

“He kissed her. Lorraine. Right there. In front of me.”

“That doesn’t sound like Steve.”

Peggy scoffs. “I walked in and saw it with my own eyes.”

Ileana gives her a look. “And did you see the whole thing? Or just the end of it?”

Peggy opens her mouth… then closes it.

“He’s a good man. Bit awkward. Sometimes dumb as bricks when it comes to reading a room… but not a liar.”

Peggy looks down, frustrated. “I don’t care.”

“You do.”

Looking away, Peggy focuses on the floor.

Ileana steps behind the partition screen to change. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of buckles fill the silence.

Peggy mutters, “And after everything… after the way he talks to me, how he looks at me…”

“You thought it meant something,” Ileana finishes for her.

A beat.

“Yeah,” Peggy says softly.

Ileana steps back out, armored now from shoulder to boot. She begins locking the vambrace into place on her right arm.

“Maybe it does mean something,” she says. “Maybe he’s just… bad at navigating attention. He’s not exactly used to being admired.”

Peggy scoffs. “I’m not going to sit around waiting for him to figure it out.”

“No one said you had to.”

Peggy stills for a moment, then picks up the Raven Warrior mask, turning it over in her hands.

“You want me to slice her tires?” Ileana offers lightly.

Peggy gives her a look.

“What? I know a guy with access to all the staff vehicles.”

Ileana straps on the last piece of her gauntlet, then grabs her cloak from the hook near the door and slings it over one shoulder. Peggy hands her the black helm, feathers carved into the edges like wings.

As she turns it over in her hands, she glances at Peggy, still sitting, still fuming.

“You know his friend, Bucky?” she asks casually.

Peggy raises a brow, suspicious. “Yeah. He’s mentioned him. James Barnes.”

Ileana nods, slipping the helm under her arm for a moment. Her lips curve slightly.

“He’s swell.”

Peggy blinks. “Excuse me?”

Ileana just smirks.

Peggy stares at her, jaw open. “You didn’t.”

Ileana winks and, without another word, slides the helm over her head.

She steps out, the door clicking softly behind her.

Peggy remains frozen for a long beat.

“…Swell?”

She drops her head into her hands.

Chapter Text

“They’re inside,” Phillips mutters as he passes Steve, heading to his office without a glance back.

Steve hesitates at the door, uneasy. He opens it—empty. The room’s quiet. Too quiet.

He frowns, steps inside.

A tap on his shoulder.

He spins fast, heart hammering, only to see her already strolling past him, Raven Warrior, calm as anything. She drops into a chair, kicks her boots up on the table.

“Seriously?” he mutters, still catching his breath. “How did you even…?”

She waves a hand. Get on with it.

Steve steadies himself. “I’m putting a team together. We’re hitting HYDRA facilities hard. And I want—no, I need you on it. Agent Carter and Colonel Phillips told me about your background. You’re a doctor. You’d be an asset. But you’d have to leave your current post. Come on as our field medic and then some.”

Raven Warrior scoffs and swings her legs down. She stands.

He blinks. “Wait… that’s it? You’re not even going to consider it?”

“You saw what they were doing!” His voice rises, desperate. “They’re building weapons that could wipe out everything we know. And you’re telling me you don’t want to help?”

She cracks her knuckles. Then, without a word, crosses the room. Picks up a clipboard and pen. Flips the paper over. Begins to write.

Minutes pass.

Finally, she hands it to him and folds her arms.

Steve reads. And his face drains of color.

Men like you charge into war thinking it’s all about glory. You say you fight for those who can’t. That’s what I’m doing. But not for countries or flags. For the people no one talks about. The forgotten. The dying. The ones being slaughtered because someone decided they weren’t ‘pure’ enough. Men, women, children—burned alive, starved, gassed, tortured. I’ve seen it. I’ve walked through the ash. You think HYDRA is the worst thing out there? You’re wrong. The worst thing out there is people. People doing this to other people.

I built my own team. Over 300 strong. We’re everywhere. We’ve saved hundreds. We don’t get paid. We don’t ask for medals. We do it because no one else will. HYDRA’s evil, sure—but the Nazis are evil with laws and uniforms. They’re experimenting on kids. Operating without anesthesia. Injecting unknown chemicals. Breaking families. Destroying futures.

You want to recruit me? Give me a reason. A real one. Because I’ve already chosen a side—humanity. And I’ve been fighting longer than you’ve had muscles.

Steve lowers the clipboard slowly, numb. He sinks into a chair.

“They said you didn’t hesitate,” he murmurs. “That you threw yourself between the bullet and Morita. Knocked it aside with your blade. That you batted a grenade away like a baseball before it exploded. You didn’t even think. You just moved.”

She says nothing. Just stares, eyes cold.

He stands again.

“You won’t stop,” he says quietly. “And you shouldn’t. So don’t. Fight on both fronts—against HYDRA and the Nazis. I’m not asking you to abandon your team. I’m asking you to fight with us too. You’re right—it’s not about me. It’s about all of us. You want a new contract? Name your terms. I’ll sign them myself. But don’t fight alone anymore.”

There’s a beat.

Then, under the mask, she smiles.

She holds out her hand. Steve gives her the clipboard, and she begins writing again—faster this time. She finishes, signs it.

Dr. Ileana Smythe
Raven Warrior of Justice

Steve reads the name and goes still.

She pulls off her cowl, then the harness. Lays the mask between them on the table.

“Nice to see you again, Steve Rogers,” she says, her voice calm, firm, accented. “Remember—your heart comes first. Not any stupid codename.”

Steve stares at her, stunned. “What do I call you, then?”

“Lee,” she says. “But you introduce me to the team as Raven Warrior. Don’t screw it up.”

She extends her hand.

He takes it. Shakes it tight.

“Nice to officially meet you, Lee,” he says. “I look forward to ending this war. All of it.”

She pulls back and lifts the mask again. “Get that contract to Phillips. Only Phillips. No one else types it. When this goes on, Lee disappears. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She eyes him a moment before nodding to herself. “Just so you know, Rogers. This isn’t a game. It’s bigger than you can ever imagine.”

“I understand.”

Ileana nods and he watches her pull the mask back on. Her posture shifts—sharper, heavier, more rigid.

She turns to leave. Then pauses. Salutes him.

And walks out.

Stark is waiting when she emerges, falling into step beside her.

They walk in silence to her private lab. As soon as she’s inside, Ileana peels off her cowl and the Raven Warrior mask.

“Got him to see reason, huh?” Howard asks.

She scoffs, and he moves to help her unstrap the array of weapons secured across her frame.

“He’s an idiot, but a decent one,” she mutters, sighing. “He thinks Red Skull and HYDRA are the only enemies that matter now. He doesn’t see the bigger picture. There’s so much more at stake.”

“I take it you corrected that impression,” Howard replies. “There’s an update from Wolverine and Virago. More kids evacuated. Another subcamp shut down—Gross-Rosen. That makes what, seventy-seven subcamps? They also mentioned something else... Sobibór.”

His voice tightens, frustration seeping through.

She exhales hard. “Sobibór’s a death camp. Yeah, I know. SSR won’t approve my dispatches—don’t believe half of what we’re reporting. They keep stonewalling my requests to contact Allied command. How many confirmed?”

“It’s in the file.”

“We helped take Treblinka offline in August,” she continues, voice low. “And we seized Bełżec in September. I was there both times. But we need to reach Auschwitz. There's a man—Klaus Schmidt. Keeps turning up there. I think he’s an advanced human, or at least trying to become something close to one. He spends most of his time there. And Auschwitz…” she cuts herself off. “It’s a killing center. A massive one. And we still don’t know what’s happening in the main compound.”

She accepts the file Howard hands her and thumbs through it, her brow furrowing.

“Fifty-seven Advanced Humans got out of Gross-Rosen,” she murmurs.

Howard shrugs, trying to mask the horror on his face. “... About these camps—what exactly are we talking about?”

She gestures toward her adjoining office. “Come on. You sure you want to know? Because this is as bad as it gets.”

He nods. “Show me.”

She unlocks one of the drawers and pulls out a thick dossier—three inches of worn paper, bound tight.

“This is Bełżec. First full file we compiled. Take a look. First page has the full casualty estimates.”

Her voice is cold. Detached.

Howard opens the folder and scans the page. His face drains.

“They were dismantling the site when we arrived,” she tells him. “We neutralized everyone. There were no survivors. Go ahead. Read it. These people deserve to be known.”

Howard clears his throat and begins to read:

“Operation Reinhard camps. September 1st, 1943. Twenty-eight SS guards, one hundred and ten Ukrainian auxiliaries killed during engagement. Records indicate estimated deaths: six hundred thousand. Mass graves presumed beneath loose earth—confirmed by Wolverine via decomposition scent. Ash along rail tracks tested and confirmed as human remains by Sabertooth, Virago, and Wolverine.

“Documentation recovered includes a file on Sonderkommando 1005—tasked with excavating and destroying evidence of Nazi mass murder across occupied Eastern Europe. Orders for final liquidation issued June 1943. Remaining forced laborers transferred to Sobibór for execution, or killed on site.”

Ileana’s expression hardens. “Virago’s latest report says only five hundred and fifty-three made it out of Sobibór. They’d been planning an uprising for spring. We infiltrated with a small team on October 1st. Fourteenth, we assisted in their revolt. Adjusted their plan. Eleven SS personnel left when we struck. File should list the casualty estimates. Most of their records had already been destroyed.”

Howard swallows. “One hundred sixty-seven thousand.”

He flips another page. “What about this one, Treblinka?”

“Treblinka II,” she corrects, grim. “Same situation. Also under Sonderkommando 1005. We stumbled across it by chance. August 2nd, 1943—prisoners stormed the gates. We were in the woods nearby. Heard the gunfire. The four of us rushed in.”

She pauses. “Over three hundred escaped. Most were gunned down before they got clear. We regrouped, brought in more operatives. Later confirmed: over nine hundred twenty-five thousand Jewish killed. Plus thousands more—Polish, Romani, Soviet POWs, Advanced. The original manifest was incinerated.”

She sets the file down. “I think I can get the Soviets to act. If I bypass SSR entirely and go through personal contacts. They’ve got POWs in those camps. They’ll want them back.”

Howard slumps into a chair. “Jesus. I think I’m going to be sick. Why would the USSR help, if none of our own command will?”

She meets his eyes, her voice steel. “Because their people are dying in those camps, too. And unlike the SSR... they might actually listen.”

The door creaks open. The squad's boots scuff the linoleum as they settle into their seats around the table, still riding the high from their return. Morita leans back, balancing his chair on two legs. Dum Dum slouches with a toothpick in his mouth. Falsworth taps his pen in military rhythm.

“So, who’s the last seat for?” Dum Dum grunts, glancing at the empty chair near Steve.

“Someone who slept in, apparently,” Morita quips, smirking.

Steve, seated at the head, sighs and turns to the window. “They said they’d be here.”

Suddenly, thwack—a folder slams onto the table. Every head whips around.

“Holy shit, R.W., don’t do that!” Dum Dum barks, flinching.

Standing where no one saw her enter is Raven Warrior. Dark-cloaked, mask on, posture casual but eyes sharp.

“You got Raven Warrior on this?” Falsworth says, impressed. “Now that’s a move, Cap.”

She says nothing, just starts distributing thin folders. Each man takes one with a flicker of confusion. Then silence.

The air shifts.

Morita’s brows knit together as he reads. “This is wrong,” he mutters. “My family’s still in California. They just got out of one of the…”

Knock. She raps her knuckles on the table, sharp. Points to the paper.

He squints. “They moved to New York?”

She nods once. Taps again.

“Cold Spring Harbor, huh? When did that—oh. Last week.” His voice softens. “Nice. Should get a letter soon. Don’t know how they afforded it though.”

Bucky’s already halfway into signing. He catches her eye and starts signing fast in ASL. Her shoulders finally drop in relief. She signs back: “S.T.A.R.K.”

Steve blinks. “What did you ask?”

“I asked who paid for it,” Bucky says, “and she said Stark did.”

Steve turns to her, arms folded. “Okay, Raven Warrior… why did you look us all up and hand us detailed bios about ourselves?”

She glares through the mask, unimpressed, and signs a curt message.

Bucky laughs as he translates. “Because you don’t have a clue who any of these people are beyond their passion to help. This is just basic information. And I know you're gonna overlook it. So sit here and get to know each other, Spangle-ass.”

The others crack up. Steve groans.

Falsworth raises an eyebrow. “And what about you? All we know is that you help and wear a mask. Superb help—don’t get me wrong—but we don’t even know your name.”

Bucky smirks knowingly. He already does.

Another folder slides across the table. Everyone dives. Dum Dum snatches it first, eyes scanning.

He frowns. “We need to sign a gag order just to learn your name?”

She nods. Calm. Sets a cup of pens in front of her like a challenge.

“I’ll sign it,” Bucky says.

Morita follows. “Same here.”

Dernier shrugs. “Je signerai.”

“He’ll sign. I will too,” Jones adds.

“I already did,” Steve says, flipping up his paper with a grin.

Dum Dum looks up at her, nods, then signs. “Fine. But after this? I want to know how much you really know about baseball.”

She accepts the folder, checks each signature with quick precision, then sets it aside.

Then—swiftly—she pulls back her cowl and unclasps the mask. Long, strawberry blonde hair tumbles loose. A few jaws drop.

She sets the mask on the table like a chess piece. No turning back.

“My name is Dr. Ileana Smythe,” she says. Her voice is dry, direct, clipped with an unusual cadence. “I lived in Reykjavik before moving to the U.K. at fourteen to study medicine at Oxford. One year in bioscience, then four more years—emergency medicine and trauma surgery.”

She pauses, letting that sink in.

“I moved to the U.S. after graduation. Got my master’s in Mechanical Engineering at M.I.T. I’m twenty-five. I live between Manhattan and London. I work for S.T.A.R.K. Industries. And, clearly, the SSR.”

She folds her arms. “Questions?”

Every hand shoots up.

Ileana groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t a classroom.”

“Do you actually know baseball?” Dum Dum presses.

“Yes. But no, I’m not a Red Sox fan just because I lived in Cambridge. Dodgers. Thank you.”

Bucky whoops.

Everyone turns.

“Sorry. I like the Dodgers too,” he mutters, unashamed.

Morita clears his throat. “Did Stark really pay to get my parents out of California?”

She nods. “Yeah. I told him about what happened. He offered. I made the call. They stayed in my Manhattan apartment until they found a place. Emiko picked lace curtains, apparently.”

Jones blinks. “You gave them your apartment?”

“I was out of the country. Didn’t need it. Besides… Emiko wanted windows. Not fences.”

Steve leans forward, tone soft. “I gotta ask… how do you do the things you do?”

She lifts a brow.

“You move like a ghost. You drop in out of nowhere. I’ve seen you do leaps no one else could land. And that blade work…”

Ileana shrugs, glancing away.

“Not much to do in Iceland. We climbed trees, cliffs, ice ridges. Smacked each other with sticks. Standard.”

A beat.

“…But we did have a gymnastics program. I was very, very good.” She grins faintly. “Still am. I also trained as a figure skater. That… shifts over into what I do now.”

Falsworth nods, impressed. “So we’re working with a doctor, engineer, gymnast, skater, and stealth specialist.”

Bucky claps his hands. “Basically, the rest of us are just holding her coffee.”

“Tea,” Ileana corrects. “And yes. You are.”

Laughter breaks out again, easy and warm.

Dum Dum leans back, pointing at her. “You ever thought of running the place?”

She tilts her head. “I like not being in charge.”

Morita chuckles. “That’s a lie.”

She doesn’t deny it. Just slips the mask back into her pack and folds her arms again, calm as ever.

Steve watches her, studying the quiet force behind the precision.

“Glad you’re here,” he says finally.

Ileana nods once. “Good. Now let’s get to work.”

The others drift out of the room one by one, still murmuring about Ivy League degrees, dodged bullets, and lace curtains. Steve lingers by the door, gives Bucky a nod, and steps out, leaving the two of them alone.

Ileana stays seated, the mask off, but her expression unreadable. She’s restacking the papers with careful, precise movements, though there’s nothing neat about the tension in her shoulders.

Bucky watches her for a beat, then strolls back to the table. Not close—he knows better—but close enough.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Her eyes flick to him. “Always.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She exhales through her nose, then leans back in the chair, her fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the tabletop.

“They weren’t supposed to react like that,” she says eventually. “I thought—information helps. It’s better when you know who you’re risking your life with.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees. “They just didn’t expect you to know that much.”

“They should’ve.”

He tilts his head. “You’ve got a habit of sneaking up on people. Makes folks uneasy, even when you're on their side.”

“I don’t mean to. I just… move quieter than most.”

Bucky smiles faintly. “Yeah, I noticed.”

A pause. The air between them shifts. Not tense, not soft. Something in between.

“You sign pretty well,” she says, gesturing lightly. “You said your sister is deaf?”

“Picked it up as a kid when she was learning,” Bucky says. “Steve tried, but he rarely practiced it. Didn't think I’d ever use it in combat, though.”

“You never know what the world will throw you,” she murmurs.

“No kidding,” he replies, then hesitates. “That thing you said earlier—about climbing trees and hitting people with sticks. That true—even with the other stuff you told me?”

She smirks. “Very. Just didn’t happen in Iceland.”

“Huh.” He grins. “You and I would’ve gotten along just fine in Brooklyn.”

“I’m not sure your Brooklyn could’ve handled me.”

“Probably not,” Bucky laughs. Then, more gently, “But I’m glad this team’s got you.”

She studies him, something guarded flickering behind her eyes—surprise, maybe. Then she gives a short nod.

“Me too.”

They sit in the quiet for a beat longer before Ileana slides the last paper into its folder.

“You should get some rest, James. Big mission tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well. Sleep’s overrated.”

He starts to walk off, but pauses at the door and turns back.

“Oh… and for the record? I’d still have guessed Dodgers.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Bucky chuckles and slips out, the door shutting softly behind him.

Ileana sits there a moment more, alone now. She sighs, long and slow, then leans forward and pulls the mask back into her lap. For just a second, she lets the smile linger.

Chapter Text

[France - December 1943]

Snow dusts the dead pines surrounding the compound. The old factory sits like a cancer in the forest—thick stone walls, rusted gates, and the faint electric hum of something alive beneath concrete.

Ileana crouches near the treeline, eyes scanning the perimeter. “Let’s change the plan and just go in the main entrance,” she says, voice light but pointed.

Falsworth raises a brow from his position behind her. “Are you sure you didn’t save us just to get us killed?”

She grins. “Positive. We should show them we mean business.”

“Great,” Dum Dum mutters. “I always wanted to die on a dramatic entrance.”

Before the sarcasm can spiral, Gabe calls out, “Lee, we have a telegram. It’s encrypted.”

She stands, brushing her hands on her coat. “Bring it here, please.”

Gabe hands her the strip of ticker tape. She scans it quickly, frowning—then stuffs the entire thing into her mouth.

“Uh… what are you….” Dum Dum begins.

She chews, then spits the pulp under a nearby bush with a grimace. “Message from my team. Forty-two thousand confirmed dead. They just got the reports.”

The amusement dies fast.

“Army casualties?” Bucky asks, stepping closer.

Ileana shakes her head. “No. Civilians. My people are tracking down the camps. The extermination sites. We missed one. A big one.”

“What extermination sites?” Bucky asks, ashen.

“Exactly what I said. It’s the Reich.”

A cold silence settles in. Steve’s jaw tightens. “Is there anything we can do?”

Ileana crouches, her back to the tree, elbows on her knees. “Not here. Not now. The Allies still don’t believe it’s happening. Even SSR brass thinks it’s overblown propaganda. My agents are out there trying to save anyone they can find before the next train arrives.”

“We believe you,” Bucky says quietly.

She doesn’t answer, but she nods once, almost too small to notice.

“So, front door, huh?” Steve mutters, glancing at the factory.

The front door of the factory blasts open, and Steve Rogers storms in, shield up, blasting a Tommy gun.

Bullets ping off his shield as the Howling Commandos charge behind him—Dum Dum firing a shotgun from the hip, Falsworth picking off rooftop guards with sharp precision, Gabe moving through the shadows with silent efficiency.

Bucky flanks left, ducking behind rusted metal, picking off snipers with accuracy.

Raven Warrior moves through the chaos like smoke—silent, precise, devastating.

Down one corridor, Bucky calls out: “Left corridor’s blocked! Looks reinforced!”

“Then go right!” Steve orders, shield up, bullets ricocheting around them.

Raven Warrior ducks under a beam and throws a flash charge that blinds a hallway of guards long enough for Dum Dum to rush in and take them down with a grenade. Gabe disables a mounted gun before it can fire. The team functions like a single organism—fluid, unspoken trust in every move.

The corridors roar with gunfire and smoke. Every footstep echoes off steel and concrete. The team splits up like clockwork—decisive, lethal.

Bucky rounds a corner and kicks down a door. Inside: a vaulted chamber filled with long rows of HYDRA crates, some half-open.

“Raven,” he calls out. “You’ll want to see this.”

She jogs up beside him and steps inside, eyes narrowing. Gabe and Falsworth arrive moments later, weapons raised, sweeping the room.

Inside the crates: long rifles with unfamiliar cores, metal tubing that pulses faintly blue. Coils. Capacitors. Fins like turbine blades, all packed in straw and cloth.

“This isn’t standard-issue,” Gabe mutters.

Raven Warrior crouches and pulls a piece free from one crate. The rifle’s too heavy for one person to carry easily, and the metal is unlike anything they’ve handled. Almost warm to the touch. It hums softly.

“They’re stockpiling,” Bucky says. “Planning something bigger.”

“We can’t let them keep it,” Steve says from behind them. He enters the chamber with Dum Dum at his side. “Set charges. Bring this whole place down.”

Dum Dum grins. “Thought you’d never say it.”

The team moves fast. Gabe starts setting demolition charges on the weapons racks. Falsworth pulls a map off the wall and rolls it up under his arm. Raven Warrior sweeps a side table of schematics and blueprints into her satchel. No time to study it here.

Steve and Bucky work on the central supports, rigging the building to flatten under its own weight.

Then Raven finds it—at the far end of the chamber: a control room, locked behind thick glass. She smashes it with the handle of her short sword and steps inside. Banks of dials and cables surround a central control panel, labeled in HYDRA’s twisted pseudo-German code. She pulls free a plugboard, sparks flying.

She turns to Bucky, signing as he translates: “This whole building’s on a power loop. Once we blow one section, the rest will go too.”

Steve nods. “Set the timer.”

Gabe kneels beside the main support and flicks on the detonator. “Ninety seconds.”

The team backs out fast. They hit the hallways running. Smoke already creeps along the ceiling. Somewhere, an alarm starts to blare—too late.

They burst out into the snow-covered clearing just as the first blast rips through the factory.

The side wall bursts outward, flames belching skyward. The ground shakes beneath them. A second, sharper explosion tears through the center, ripping metal beams into the sky like thrown spears. Fire licks the treetops. Smoke chokes the winter air.

They drop behind a fallen tree, shielding their faces from the heat. The earth groans. A final, thunderous roar follows, then silence.

Ash drifts down like snow.

Dum Dum lets out a long breath. “Guess that’s that.”

Steve scans the treeline for movement, then nods. “Let’s move out before someone comes to check.”

As the others begin to fall into line, Bucky pauses beside Raven Warrior. She hasn’t moved.

He crouches beside her. “You alright?”

She signs: “This was just one. There are dozens more out there.”

“But one’s a start,” he says.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the black smoke twisting into the pale morning sky.

Then she nods once and stands.Together, they disappear into the forest with the rest of the team.

Behind them, the HYDRA factory crumbles.

The forest is quiet now. Smoke curls between the trees in fading ribbons, blending with the early dusk. The team has spread out to rest and regroup—Dum Dum sharpens a blade on a stone, Gabe leans against a tree cleaning his rifle, and Steve stands alone at the edge of the clearing, scanning the horizon like he’s waiting for the next war to come crashing through the trees.

Bucky finds Ileana sitting on a fallen log a short distance away, away from the others, her coat pulled tighter around her. She’s got her arms resting on her knees, gaze locked on nothing in particular.

He approaches quietly, boots crunching softly on frost-hardened ground.

“You didn’t even celebrate,” he says, easing down beside her.

She doesn’t look over. “We’ll just have to blow up another one tomorrow.”

He watches her for a second. Her hair’s loose, falling in strands across her cheek.

“You okay?” he asks.

She breathes out slowly through her nose. “I will be.”

A pause. The cold settles between them.

“I was serious earlier,” she says. “About the camps. Forty-two thousand. That’s just the number they’ve confirmed.”

Bucky nods. “I believe you.”

“No one else does,” she murmurs. “Even the ones who should. They say it’s exaggerated. But I’ve seen the photos. I’ve lost good people trying to get the evidence out. And it still doesn’t matter. Not enough.”

Her voice cracks slightly at the edge, not weakness—just exhaustion she can’t quite shove down anymore.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Lea.”

She finally turns her head at the name.

He gives a faint smile. “Lea... you’re not the only one carrying the weight of this. We all are. You just feel it louder.”

She looks away again, jaw tight.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” she says quietly. “I don’t know how to be okay knowing we’ll never reach all of them in time.”

“You don’t stop it,” Bucky says. “You just keep going. One mission. One factory. One Camp. One life saved, if that’s all we get.”

She closes her eyes for a moment.

“You’re not alone in this fight,” he adds.

A long breath escapes her, visible in the cold. She nods, barely.

Bucky doesn’t press her for more. He just sits there beside her, the silence no longer heavy. Just present. Like the firelight of shared burden.

[Belgium - January 1944]

Snow burns black where the fire spreadss. The outskirts of the village are already reduced to smoking ruins—timbers jut from collapsed houses like shattered ribs, flames crackling in the wind. Smoke chokes the sky, and the glow of fire paints the snow a sickly orange.

Steve Rogers moves like a hammer through chaos, shield up. Bullets ricochet off the vibranium with sharp metallic shrieks. He ducks a wire and pushes forward without hesitation. Behind him, the Howling Commandos fan out, practiced and lethal.

Dum Dum Dugan fires from the hip, his shotgun booming with every step. Gabe slinks along the edge of shadow, picking off HYDRA soldiers in twos—never seen, only felt. Falsworth positions himself behind a broken stable wall and nails a rooftop sniper with one clean shot, then shifts smoothly to the next target.

Bucky flanks wide, boots crunching through snow and broken glass. He vaults a trench wall, puts a round through a soldier’s skull, then takes down another with the edge of his rifle. There's no hesitation—just the rhythm of combat, precise and personal.

And through it all, Ileana moves like smoke. Raven Warrior. She flows across the battlefield, quiet and sharp, a blade in the dark. She doesn’t waste bullets. Her knife flashes once—throat. Again—spine. One soldier raises his weapon, and she’s already behind him, twisting his neck with brutal ease.

“Push forward!” Steve calls, raising his shield. “Factory’s at the ridge!”

They move as one. No orders needed now.

A distant explosion punches a crater into the far side of the village—fire and smoke bloom high, then collapse into silence. The ground shakes. Someone screams.

“Mortar team, north corner!” Gabe shouts into the comms. “R.W…?”

He doesn’t finish. She’s already gone.

Bucky catches a glimpse of her darting between buildings, like a shadow. She vaults a charred cart and vanishes into the trenchline. Seconds later, the mortar nest erupts—flames bursting through the air. No more screams.

Bucky exhales, half-smiling. “She’s clearing the whole damn flank solo.”

Falsworth’s voice crackles over the comms, dry as ever. “She does have a talent for it.”

They regroup at the edge of the village. The snow beneath them is soaked with blood, oil, and soot. What’s left of the enemy is holed up in a reinforced command post—concrete walls, steel doors, the final fallback.

Steve doesn’t wait. He charges the entrance, shield first, and the doors blast inward on impact. A HYDRA officer inside raises a pistol—Steve knocks him unconscious before the shot leaves the barrel.

Bucky moves in next, clearing the left side in a blur of gunmetal and movement. Gabe disables the radio equipment with the butt of his rifle. Sparks burst. Falsworth takes down the last straggler.

Raven Warrior enters last.

She’s streaked with ash and sweat, but her eyes are sharp. She surveys the room like she’s still mid-mission, never letting the tension drop.

Steve looks to her. “Is this it?”

She steps forward, lifting her mask slightly, scanning the mess of documents—maps, supply lists, and coded orders. She flips one map over, eyes narrowing as she lifts her helm.

“No,” she says coldly.

Silence grips the room.

She drops the map. Her voice is tight, bitter.

“The real weapons transport left two days ago.”

Steve clenches his jaw. “Then we keep moving.”

“We will,” she says without hesitation.

She glances over at Bucky. He meets her eyes from across the room, blood and soot still clinging to his uniform. Neither speaks. They don’t need to. The fire between them isn’t just in the air—it’s in the work. The mission. The unspoken promise that no one else will do it if they don’t.

The wind hisses low through the pine trees outside the barn. Snow falls in slow, fat flakes, and for once, the fire doesn’t crackle in urgency—it just warms. There’s a lull in the world, like even the war knows it’s tired.

Inside the drafty shelter, the Howling Commandos are scattered. Dum Dum snores already. Falsworth cleans his rifle with quiet, methodical strokes. Steve sits near the door, working in his journal, eyes distant.

Bucky finds Ileana seated on a hay bale near the fire, poking at a dented tin cup with the end of a spoon. She looks up as he approaches, one brow raised. There’s soot still smudged along her jaw.

He plops down beside her with a dramatic grunt, shaking the snow from his hair.

“Brooklyn’s colder,” he mutters, deadpan.

Ileana snorts. “Please. You’ve never been to Iceland.”

He smirks. “You keep saying that like you actually grew up in Iceland.”

“I did.” She pauses. “Sort of.”

“‘Sort of?’”

She grins crookedly and looks into the fire. “The name's close enough. Iricys. Planet on the edge of the Orion Divide. I just told people Iceland when it was known here. Fewer questions.”

Bucky turns his head, grinning. “You’re really gonna sit there and say you’re from a planet called Iricys like that’s normal.”

“It is normal,” she says, mock-offended. “We had snow seasons that could bury your house. Mountains with crystal cliffs. And ice fields where the air sang when the winds hit the quartz right. Everything shimmered.”

“That sounds fake,” he says.

“It’s beautiful.”

Bucky watches her for a second. The firelight softens her face, makes her seem younger, like the weight of command is resting somewhere else for now. She glances over, sensing it.

“What about you?” she asks.

“Brooklyn,” he says, leaning back on his elbows. “Fourth street, across from an Italian bakery that always smelled like heaven but somehow never gave out samples. My dad worked three jobs, my mom passed when I was little. I’ve got two sisters. Martha and Rebecca. Bec’s—she’s the one who lost her hearing. Steve and I got into trouble a lot. Dumb things. Stealing apples, sneaking into matinees. We were small. No one noticed us till we made noise.”

“Iricys kids made noise too,” she says, nudging his knee. “We’d race across the ridge paths. This one time, I fell into a cave full of winter bats and came home covered in crystal powder and guano. My grandfather nearly killed me.”

Bucky laughs. A real one, low and full of surprise. “That tracks.”

“You?”

“Skinned knees. Splinters. Steve got roughed up a lot. He fought anyone who looked at him sideways, and I always had to step in.”

“That also tracks.”

They sit like that for a while, warmth radiating from the fire and from each other.

“Hey, Lea?” Bucky says after a beat, voice quieter.

She hums in response, still half-lost in the firelight.

“I like hearing about Iricys.”

She turns to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It makes all of this feel… smaller. Like there’s more out there than just blood and bullets.”

Her smile is soft now.

“There is, James,” she says. “There’s so much more.”

Ileana watches the fire flicker and die down to embers, the orange glow playing in Bucky’s eyes. There’s a long pause where neither of them speaks, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels earned.

Bucky shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing hers. He doesn’t pull back.

“You ever think about what happens after?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “If we make it through this war?”

Her smile fades, not into sadness but something quieter. “Sometimes,” she says. “But it’s hard. Hard to imagine something peaceful after all this. After the screaming. The reports. The numbers. It always is.”

“Still,” he murmurs, “you should get to go home. Back to the place with singing ice.”

“That’s not really home anymore, not for a long time at least.”

“Well, maybe you can find a new home here?”

Ileana nods, thoughtful.

“And you?” she asks.

“I dunno.” He looks down. “Something quiet. Maybe a shop. A life where I don’t wake up wondering who I have to shoot today.”

There’s something in the way he says it—tired, longing, sincere. Ileana turns to face him fully. Her hand brushes against his, just barely, but he doesn’t move. He lets it linger.

“I’d like to see it,” she says quietly. “That life. The shop. Brooklyn.”

His eyes flick up to hers, and for a breath, the room feels like it contracts around them. No fire. No war. Just her hand over his, his breath catching ever so slightly, and a wordless charge humming in the air.

He leans in, slow, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.

She doesn’t.

But just as their lips are about to meet…

“HRNNGH—RRGHHHKKK.”

Dum Dum lets out a volcanic snore from across the barn, loud enough to rattle loose straw from the rafters.

Ileana jolts and pulls back, blinking. Bucky flinches, too, then groans under his breath.

Steve startles upright near the door, fists half-raised before realizing what it is. “Dum Dum!” he hisses.

From the shadows, Falsworth mutters, “For God’s sake, man.”

Dum Dum snorts again and rolls over, completely unaware of the destruction he’s just caused.

Ileana presses her lips together to stifle a laugh, shaking her head.

Bucky leans forward, elbows on his knees, and mutters, “Killed by snoring. Never saw it coming.”

She chuckles, low and warm. “Your timing’s terrible, James.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, shooting her a sideways glance. “You’re not exactly easy to read, Lea.”

She lifts a brow. “Try asking next time.”

He holds her gaze, something flickering behind his tired smile.

“I will.”

The Howling Commandos sleep scattered where they dropped the night before. Dum Dum’s back rises and falls with a contented snore. The others are still wrapped in wool and fatigue.

Steve sits near the door, wrapped in his coat, journal open on his lap. His pencil moves in steady lines, though his eyes are distant—tracking something far beyond the barn walls. His last watch ended minutes ago, but the quiet is too rare to waste.

Bucky stirs first, brushing hay from his hair as he pushes himself up. He runs a hand over his jaw, bones stiff with sleep, then pauses. His eyes land on a small bundle near the fire.

Ileana.

She’s still asleep, curled beneath her army-issue blanket—and draped over that is his coat, worn and too big on her. Her face is turned just enough toward the fire for him to catch the soot still smudged along her jaw from the night before.

Steve doesn’t look up, but his mouth twitches, just slightly. “You and Lee, huh?”

Bucky glances over sharply. “What? No.”

Steve finally lifts his head, eyes narrowing with that look he always gets when he knows something and is enjoying it too much. “That your coat on her?”

Bucky shrugs, trying to play it cool. “She looked cold.”

“She’s also not wearing your boots,” Steve says dryly, going back to his journal.

Bucky lets out a quiet sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “It’s not like that.”

Steve just nods, lips twitching. “Sure.”

A beat.

Bucky’s gaze drifts toward her. “I don’t know what this is. I just know that when she talks to me, I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Steve studies him for a long moment. Then he nods, slowly. “Then that’s something.”

They sit in the quiet, the fire giving off a low heat that doesn’t demand attention. Outside, snow stacks itself gently on pine branches. The war feels far away, like it’s agreed to pause for just this one morning.

In her sleep, Ileana shifts.

She pulls the coat tighter around her shoulders, burying her face deeper beneath the fabric. A small sigh escapes her lips as she tucks into herself.

Bucky watches her a moment longer, then leans back on his hands, letting out a slow exhale.

Chapter Text

[Poland - February 1944]

Bucky holds his breath, finger resting just above the trigger as he peers through the sniper scope. Below, through crumbling rafters and broken stone, Steve moves like a ghost through the bombed-out HYDRA factory—shield up, shoulders tense, eyes sharp.

The place is a skeleton of iron and ash. Smoke curls from shattered windows. Fire crackles somewhere deep inside, casting flickering shadows that blur friend from enemy.

Bucky follows Steve through the glass, tracking his every step. Each crunch of debris echoes faintly through the scope.

Movement.

The scope whips to the left. A HYDRA gunman, hidden behind the jagged ribs of a collapsed walkway, raises his weapon. Aiming straight at Steve’s back.

BLAM.

The gunman crumples before he ever gets a shot off. Drops like a stone.

Steve turns, instinctively raising his shield before realizing the threat is already neutralized. He looks up toward the rooftop where Bucky is perched and flashes a thumbs up.

Bucky grins, lowering the rifle just slightly. “You’re welcome,” he mutters under his breath.

Beside him, the Raven Warrior settles onto the ledge without a sound. Her icy eyes scan the horizon, catching the movement below. She gives Steve a small wave, fingers flicking once in acknowledgment.

Steve nods at her too, then slips back into cover, already moving again.

Bucky shifts slightly to give Raven Warrior more room, his shoulder brushing hers. “You’re late,” he says, keeping his eye on the battlefield.

“I was making sure the east side’s clear,” she murmurs, mask lifted an inch, “Three down. One cried.”

Bucky snorts. “Soft bunch today.”

“Amateurs,” she agrees.

And then, without speaking, they settle in again—eyes sharp, bodies still, watching the world from above.

Waiting for the next move.

The trees groan softly in the cold, their branches heavy with snow. High above the sleeping camp, Bucky perches on a thick limb, one boot braced against the trunk, rifle slung across his lap. He scans the horizon, alert but still, his breath fogging in the night air.

Beside him, Ileana blends into the dark like she was born of it. Her eyes glow faintly in the moonlight, catching the reflection of stars as she watches the tree line below. Neither of them speaks for a long time.

“You ever get used to this?” Bucky finally asks, voice low. “Waiting for something to go wrong?”

She glances at him, faintly amused. “I don’t wait for it. I just prepare.”

He snorts softly, nods, then hesitates. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “What does it mean, the soulmate thing?”

Ileana looks at him for a moment. Long enough that he starts to wonder if she’s going to answer. Then she shifts, turning toward him, legs still braced on the branch, balanced like a cat.

“It means you’re never truly alone,” she says. “It means somewhere in the universe, your name lives on someone else’s skin. It’s not a sentence—it’s a promise.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, thoughtful. “And you think… I mean, you really believe mine’s you?”

Instead of answering, Ileana reaches for his glove. He doesn’t stop her.

She peels it back gently, exposing his left wrist. The lines he was born with, deemed an unusual birthmark. Just a name.

Ileana.

She brushes her fingertips across it. “That’s not a birthmark. It’s not ink,” she says. “It’s etched by the universe. It won’t fade.”

Her touch is feather-light. Bucky looks down at it, then at her. “You’ve had mine for a long time, haven’t you? All your life, just waiting?”

Ileana doesn’t deny it.

There’s a pause, tension thick in the cold air between them. It hums under Bucky’s skin like static.

“Lea,” he says, quiet. “Can I kiss you again?”

She doesn’t answer with words. Just leans forward, the cold forgotten between them. His hand rises to her jaw, cupping her face as he kisses her—fervent but soft, the kind of kiss that says this matters.

He kisses her like a man who’s been chasing silence and finally found the sound that fits in his chest.

Her hand slides behind his neck, fingers threading through his hair…

Thunk. Thunk.

Two silver glints whistle down through the trees, thrown from Ileana’s hand. Below, two HYDRA scouts collapse into the snow with twin dull thuds, daggers sunk deep into their skulls.

The camp erupts. Steve’s up first, shield in hand, already moving. Dum Dum’s cursing, fumbling for his hat. Gabe rolls out of his blanket with a pistol raised.

Bucky pulls back just enough to catch his breath, eyes wide.

Ileana grins against his mouth. “We’ll finish that later,” she says, voice warm.

Then they drop together out of the trees like wolves falling into the fray.

[Czechoslovakia - March 1944]

The woods are dead quiet.

Frost clings to every branch like brittle glass, and the snow lies untouched beneath the skeletal trees—deep, thick, undisturbed. Not even the birds are brave enough to sing.

The snow stirs.

Seven figures rise slowly, emerging from shallow burrows carved beneath the drifts. They look like ghosts—white-cloaked, frost-bitten phantoms. No sound. No chatter. Just breath misting in the cold and the slight creak of joints stiff from hours in frozen stillness.

The Howling Commandos.

Each one shakes off snow like second skin. Gabe pulls a wool cap down tighter. Falsworth stretches a cramp out of his leg, his rifle steady even mid-movement. Dum Dum grumbles under his breath but keeps his shotgun aimed low, sweeping the tree line.

Then an eighth figure bursts up from the snow—taller, broader, clad in red, white, and blue.

Steve Rogers.

His shield flashes silver in the pale winter sun, and for a second, he looks like a banner come to life.

BLAM!

The shot rings out, sharp and fast.

The bullet zings toward him—ping—ricochets off the vibranium curve of his shield. Steve doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

Instead, he pivots on instinct.

In one fluid motion, he hurls the shield.

It slices the air, arcs high—then WHUMP.

A HYDRA sniper drops from a tree branch fifty feet away, landing with a dead thud in the snow. Blood spills dark against the white.

The woods go quiet again.

The Howling Commandos stare.

Falsworth mutters, “Well, damn.”

Steve catches his shield on the rebound with ease.

From the end of the line, Raven Warrior tilts her head. She regards the sniper’s corpse like a satisfied predator. Then, very slowly, she begins to clap.

Once. Twice. Three times. Deliberate.

Steve sighs with mock exasperation. “Really?”

She shrugs.

She signs and Bucky translates: “Just giving credit where it’s due.”

The fire’s little more than embers now—dim, pulsing faint orange under a blanket of ash. Night presses in close around the camp, heavy with damp air and the scent of pine. The mountains are quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind through black trees.

Ileana sits just beyond Bucky’s lean-to, perched on a flat stone, still as the rifles beside her. Her eyes, sharp even in the dark, scan the shadows. Her ears catch every soft footfall of foxes, every twig-snap.

The others are in a deep sleep, she’s been on watch most of the night.

Behind her, the quiet shifts.

Bucky stirs in his bedroll. At first it’s just a shallow breath, caught sharp in his throat. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038.”

Her head turns. She listens.

“Barnes… James… Sergeant. 32557038.”

He twitches again, face pinched in a grimace. His hands curl tight, fingers twitching toward a weapon that isn’t there. The words keep falling out, tumbling like a lifeline on a loop.

“Barnes… 32557038…”

She doesn’t move toward him. Doesn’t reach out.

Instead, her voice breaks softly into the space between them.

“James.”

He doesn’t stir.

“James,” she says again, steady, calm, clear.

The whispering falters.

“Lea’s here.” Her tone doesn’t waver. “You’re not alone.”

Silence. Then a strangled breath. His legs kick slightly beneath the blanket like he’s still trying to run.

“You’re safe, James,” she says again, from just outside the flap. “It’s over. You’re not with them.”

The camp stays quiet except for the fire’s slow exhale.

“I’m here,” she murmurs. “Lea’s here.”

This time, he gasps awake. Sharp. Gasping like the air’s too thin. He lurches upright, eyes wide, hands splayed against the earth as if anchoring himself to something that won’t vanish.

He looks around like he expects walls, a cage, steel.

Instead, he finds the stars. Pine branches. A cold breeze.

And her.

She hasn’t moved. She just meets his eyes through the canvas flap.

“Hey,” she says gently. “You came back.”

His chest heaves. His throat works. “I… I didn’t know…”

“You were dreaming,” she says. “But this is real.”

His eyes flick to her, uncertain. “This is real?”

She nods once. “The ground under you. The trees. The frost on your boots. Me.”

A beat.

“You’re here,” he breathes, like the thought just caught up with him.

“I’m here,” she echoes. “I never left.”

Bucky’s eyes search hers for a moment longer—still clouded, still trembling on the edge of whatever memory tried to drown him. Then his hand reaches out, sudden but not rough, fingers closing around her wrist like a tether.

“Come here,” he whispers.

Ileana rises without hesitation. Steps into the lean-to and kneels beside him.

He doesn’t speak. Just pulls her into him, arms wrapping around her middle, face burying into the crook of her neck like he’s afraid the night will take her if he looks away.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even breathe hard. Her hands settle lightly on his back, resting there. No pressure. Just warmth.

His body still trembles.

“I didn’t know where I was,” he murmurs into her shoulder. “Didn’t know if it was real. If you were real.”

“I know,” she says. “I heard you.”

Bucky pulls back slightly, just enough to look at her. His hands come up to her face, tracing the line of her cheek like he’s convincing himself it’s not another hallucination.

“I tried to hold on,” he says, voice raw. “Kept repeating it. My name. Serial number. Thought if I let go of that, I’d…”

“You didn’t,” she says. “You held on. You’re here.”

She leans in, touches her forehead to his.

“I’m here,” she whispers again. “You found your way back.”

He breathes her in. The scent of pine smoke and salt and something else—something steady.

“I don’t know how long I can keep doing this,” he admits, voice fraying at the edges. “The dreams, the fog. Not knowing what’s real.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

His arms tighten around her again.

From his cot just a few feet away, Steve shifts under his blanket, eyes slitting open at the faint murmur of voices. He sees Bucky clinging to her like a lifeline, Ileana steady as stone beside him. A small, tired smile touches Steve’s lips as he exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering shut again.

“’Bout time,” he murmurs, barely audible, before sleep pulls him under once more.

Chapter Text

[London - March 1944]

The map room hums with low voices and the scratch of pencils against paper. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a cold glow across a war room covered in red dots, pins, photographs, and yellowing files. Cigarette smoke coils toward the ceiling as techs and analysts shuffle papers and punch keys on typewriters.

Steve Rogers stands at the head of the central table, jaw tight as he scans the war map stretched across it. Every red pin marks a HYDRA facility. Every pin is a battle waiting to happen.

There are too many pins.

“You’re sure this is up to date?” he asks.

Colonel Phillips nods grimly. “Latest intel. Took months to cross-reference from all our contacts across Europe. Eastern front’s gone dark, but we know they’re out there.”

Bucky leans over the map with a frown, one hand braced on the table. “We’ve hit twenty-seven sites in the last three months. Why do it like this? Scatter everything?”

“They don’t want anything centralized,” Ileana mutters from behind him. “Makes it harder to destroy the whole operation.”

“Or track where the resources are going,” Gabe adds, crossing his arms.

“Exactly,” Phillips says. He jabs a finger at the pins clustered around northern France and western Poland. “HYDRA’s not just feeding their war machine. They’re building something else. These aren’t just munitions factories anymore.”

Steve exhales through his nose, frustrated. “We need to move faster.”

“And lose people?” Dum Dum grunts, half-asleep in a chair, feet up on a crate. “Cap, we’re good, but we’re not made of steel.”

Ileana steps back from the table, folding her arms. “We can start sending in stealth teams ahead of time. Gather intel. Disable key tech. Buy you more time.”

“You already do enough,” Bucky says quietly, looking over at her. “You haven’t stopped since… well. Since the start.”

She glances over at him, eyes unreadable. “I’m not the one HYDRA’s scared of, Barnes.”

He half-smiles. “You sure about that?”

Steve clears his throat and gestures to the map again. “Alright. Let’s regroup. Prioritize factories linked to enhanced weapons production. Focus on ones moving material out by rail—we can choke supply lines that way.”

Phillips nods. “And for god’s sake, don’t get killed. The brass is finally starting to believe what HYDRA’s actually capable of.”

Falsworth taps the side of a pin with his finger, considering. “Then we’d better remind them what we’re capable of.”

Across the room, someone flips a page in a file. Another pin goes up on the board.

Ileana steps into the room and closes the door behind her with a click.

The light in her office is low—sunlight filtered through thick blackout curtains. Dust drifts through the air, but the atmosphere is heavy with something else: waiting.

They’re already there.

Victor Creed leans against the far wall, arms crossed, a scowl tugging at his mouth like it’s welded into place. Mariana Howlett—Virago—sits at the edge of the wide table, boot tapping quietly against the leg. And Jimmy… Jimmy is standing, hands braced on the edge of the table, watching her.

She walks to the head of the table. Doesn’t sit.

No one says anything for a moment.

Then Victor speaks, voice like a growl. “You’re late.”

She doesn’t blink. “I was delayed.”

“Yeah? Telegrams are convenient that way, huh?” He pushes off the wall. “You disappear, send us scraps of words wrapped in code, and expect everything to run smooth.”

“Victor…” Jimmy starts.

“No. Let him speak,” Ileana says, gaze fixed on Creed.

He smiles, but it’s not pleasant. “You used to fight with us. Now you’re off playing ghost with Captain American Flag and leaving us to track these goddamn camps ourselves. You hunting HYDRA, or are you just done with us?”

The tension in the room is sharp as a blade.

“I haven’t given up,” she says, quiet but solid. “You know that.”

“You say that, but we’re out there sifting ash and bones while you chase ghosts across Europe. You think HYDRA’s more important than our people?”

Jimmy steps forward. “She’s the one who started the search, Victor. Don’t rewrite the damn history.”

Victor scoffs, pacing now. “Yeah, and now she’s rewriting her part in it.”

“You think I want to be away from the team?” Ileana snaps, her voice suddenly fierce. “You think I sleep easy knowing you’re risking everything in those forests while I’m out there without you  killing in silence?”

A pause. Her voice lowers.

“I’m doing what I have to do. HYDRA has leads. Leads that don’t reach the surface. That don’t get picked up unless someone reaches inside and rips them out.”

She looks at each of them. “I’m burning their map from the center while you sweep the edges.”

Victor doesn’t respond, jaw tight. But he doesn’t argue again.

Mariana leans forward, calm and cool, but there's a needle underneath. “What do we do, then, Lee? You’re in deep with the Captain and the stars-and-stripes crowd. You’ve got clearance, cover, and contacts. We don’t. We’re still Zero Quadrant, not the Howling Commandos.”

Ileana nods slowly, absorbing it. “Then we divide clean. Jimmy keeps point on locating the northern camps—we know they're using rail lines now. Mariana, you coordinate with our sleeper cells in France and Belgium. Victor…”

“Don’t give me a leash,” he warns.

“I’m giving you a direction,” she replies coldly. “Track the eastern shipments. You’re the only one who can get close without getting caught.”

Victor smirks faintly. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Jimmy mutters. “In her language.”

They all look back at her.

She stands a little taller, eyes level.

“I didn’t leave you. I didn’t forget your people. I’m just fighting from a different angle. You want to win this war, then we do it together—across borders, behind lines, in the dark. But never apart.”

The room is quiet.

Then Mariana nods once. “All right. But next time you go off the map, don’t send us telegrams.”

Ileana raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Send a target.”

[London - April 1944]

The evening air is cold and damp, heavy with the scent of coal smoke and distant rain. London murmurs quietly beneath the rooftops, cloaked in blackouts and the tension of wartime. Up here, it's quieter. Just wind and shadows, the occasional distant siren, and two soldiers standing side by side in the dark.

Bucky shifts from one foot to the other, hands jammed deep in his coat pockets. “You cold?” he asks.

Ileana shakes her head. Her braid is tucked into her collar, and her eyes are watching the sky, cloud-covered and starless. “No colder than usual. Why are we up here, Barnes?”

He glances at her and then away. “I, uh… I had something I wanted to ask.”

“Is this about the HYDRA base in Portugal?” she teases lightly. “Because I already told you, the schematics were…”

“No, it’s not about Portugal.” He clears his throat and scratches at the back of his neck. “I was thinking… maybe… maybe we could go out?”

She turns to face him fully, curious. “Out?”

“Like a date.” The words tumble out faster now. “An actual date. You and me. Not surrounded by explosions, bullets, or Steve Rogers being dramatic. A night off.”

A small smile blooms on her lips. “I see. And where would this date be, Sergeant Barnes?”

He looks genuinely stumped, mouth open mid-thought, then shut again. “I, uh… I didn’t actually think that far. I don’t even know what’s open these days. I mean, there’s gotta be a dance hall somewhere, right?”

Her smile widens. “There’s a place in Soho. Shim-Sham Club. Underground, but the floor’s steady and the band’s good.”

He grins. “Shim-Sham? You’re making that up.”

“I’m not. I’ve been.”

“You’ve danced there?”

“I’ve won there.” She bumps her shoulder against his. “Try to keep up, soldier.”

“Oh, now it’s a challenge.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Alright. You and me. Tomorrow night. The Shim-Sham Club.”

She nods, gaze soft now. “It’s a date.”

For that moment, London fades. No war. No HYDRA. Just a girl from another world and a boy from Brooklyn, standing under a dark sky, daring to hope for something more.

Chapter Text

Smoke curls in golden coils beneath the low lights of the Shim-Sham Club. The air pulses with wild jazz—brass blaring, bass thrumming, drums snapping sharp enough to crack bone. The crowd is electric, a kaleidoscope of service uniforms, swing skirts, silk gloves, and whisky glasses. Allied soldiers mix with Londoners, Polish refugees, West Indian airmen, American nurses, sharp-eyed women in red lipstick. No one asks questions here. No one talks about the war. Not in this place.

Bucky steps inside, tugging at the lapel of his brown wool jacket, shoulders stiff from too many weeks in uniform. He exhales through a grin. “I still don’t believe this place is real.”

Then he sees her.

Ileana glides out of the shadows of the bar like some kind of vision pulled from a noir reel. Her dress is inky black crepe, the fabric catching the dim light with every sway of her hips. It hugs her waist with intricate beadwork, subtle as starlight, and flares toward her calves in a perfect whisper of motion. The neckline dips in a clean slit, just enough to tease. But it's the heels—blood-red, sharp and unapologetic—that make his breath catch.

She walks straight toward him, head tilted, smile slow. “You clean up alright, Barnes.”

He stares a little too long. “You—damn.”

That makes her laugh, the sound like cool water cracking over fire.

A saxophone screams from the stage as the bandleader shouts, “Next up… fast one! Let’s see who can keep up!”

The dance floor shifts like the tide, bodies turning, faces flushed, hands raised. Bucky offers her his hand.

She doesn’t take it.

She grabs his collar and yanks him straight onto the floor.

They find the rhythm quickly—too quickly. She leads for a moment, then lets him catch up, letting her weight fall into the swing of his arms, letting her body melt into the tempo like she was made from it. Bucky spins her, and she spins him right back, red heels flashing against the wooden floor. Laughter bubbles out of both of them as the music gets faster, more erratic, the crowd stomping in time.

She’s magnetic. He knows how to dance—Brooklyn taught him how to charm with a grin and a spin—but she lives in this beat. She’s all danger and silk, hair pinned up and eyes burning with the kind of freedom you don’t get on battlefields.

He twirls her again, catches her at the waist. She leans in, lips close to his ear. “Still keeping up, soldier?”

“Barely,” he breathes, completely breathless, grinning like an idiot.

She grabs his hand and whips him into a backstep just as the song crashes into a final flourish. Applause rises. Laughter follows. They’re both flushed, panting, caught in the kind of silence that makes the world tilt.

Bucky’s still holding her waist.

Ileana’s still not letting go.

Around them, the crowd swirls. But here, in this corner of the world’s unraveling, there’s just the two of them. Her dress brushing against his legs. Her breath warm on his cheek.

He says nothing.

She doesn’t need him to.

The band starts up again, slower now. A sultry saxophone line winds through the chatter like a whispered secret. Around them, couples draw close, the mood shifting, softer now. More private.

Ileana doesn’t let go. She slides her hands up Bucky’s chest, resting one just over his heart. The other threads behind his neck. “We don’t have to keep dancing,” she says, almost teasing.

Bucky leans in, forehead brushing hers, voice low. “I’m not ready to stop.”

Her mouth quirks. “Good. Neither am I.”

They move in time with the music, bodies close, barely swaying. It’s not about the steps anymore. Not about the crowd or the war or who’s watching. It’s just warmth. Connection. A single slow moment in a life full of sharp ones.

Bucky glances down at her. The beading at her waist catches the lamplight, delicate as frost. Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. She’s not smiling anymore—but she’s present, entirely so. Her eyes locked onto his like she’s memorizing his face in real time.

He doesn’t want to break the silence.

He doesn’t want this to be another thing the war takes from him.

So he murmurs, “I used to dream about nights like this. Somewhere quiet. Music. Someone who makes it feel like the world isn’t ending.”

Ileana’s lips part. Her thumb brushes lightly across the back of his neck.

“And?” she whispers.

His eyes flick to her mouth. “And I think this is better than I ever pictured.”

For a heartbeat, the room disappears. The ache in his shoulders, the cold outside, the weight of the mission, the sound of boots and bullets and broken ground—gone.

He leans in slowly.

She doesn’t stop him.

When their lips meet, it’s nothing like their battlefield kisses—no adrenaline, no fire-forged panic. It’s slower. His hand curls around her jaw, steady. She presses closer, the scent of her, night wind, and something ancient, wrapping around him like a memory he never had.

The kiss deepens—gentle, but certain.

They part only when the saxophone winds down, and she exhales a soft, almost breathless laugh.

“You always kiss like the world’s about to fall apart?” she asks.

Bucky smiles, brushing her cheek. “Only when it’s true.”

She tugs him toward the bar, catching the edge of his jacket as they weave through the crowd.

“Come on,” she says. “We’ve got a few hours before they send us back into hell. Let’s pretend, just for tonight.”

Bucky grins and wraps an arm around her waist.

The door to Ileana’s office clicks shut behind Bucky. Rain taps the windows in a soft, steady rhythm. A teacup sits on a side table. Ileana sits at her desk, legs crossed, half a page into a field report, her other hand scribbling ciphers in a notebook. Her eyes flick up as Bucky enters.

“You look like you’re trying not to fall asleep,” he says, leaning on the doorframe.

“I’m always trying not to fall asleep. Comes with the job.”

Bucky crosses the room and lowers himself into the chair opposite her, arms resting on his knees. “Zero Quadrant,” he says. “You’ve talked about them. I wanna know what they’re like.”

She studies him for a beat, then closes the folder. “They’re family. The kind that chooses to be, again and again.”

He tilts his head. “Start with the names. Jimmy. Victor. Mariana?”

A soft smile crosses her face. “Good memory. Mariana first. I was her nursemaid, back in New York. Early 1900s. She was five. Sweet, stubborn, never stayed in bed when she was sick. Her father worked at the embassy, so she was raised like royalty. But she hated all that. Wanted dirt under her nails and wind in her hair.”

Bucky watches her with quiet curiosity, chin resting in his hand.

“When the war came… World War I,” she continues, “she didn’t hesitate. Joined up as a field nurse. I went with her. Couldn’t let her face that horror alone.”

“That’s when you met Jimmy and Victor?”

“Yes. Trench warfare turned them into wolves long before they became anything else. Jimmy was already half-feral by then. Quiet. Kind, in his own way. He’d carry wounded men twice his size like it was nothing. Victor... was harder. Angrier. He’s not cruel anymore, not like he used to be, but he walks with rage in his bones.”

Bucky nods. “Sounds like they’ve seen too much.”

“They have.” Ileana’s voice softens. “We all have.”

He shifts. “And Mariana and Jimmy?”

“They fell in love. Slow and fierce. Got married the day the armistice was signed. No ceremony. Just the four of us in the rain outside a cathedral that had half a roof left. In retrospect, Mariana is so much younger, but they knew.”

There’s a beat of silence before Bucky asks, “What happened after the war? How did you stay close? I thought you went to school.”

She smiles at the memory. “They became my parents, imagine? I aged myself down again to blend in. Attend school. Keep the cycle going. Jimmy and Mariana moved with me. We forged papers. Told the neighbors I was their daughter. Laughed ourselves breathless every time I had to call them Mum and Dad in public.”

He grins. “That’s twisted.”

“Only a little.”

He sobers. “You said they’re like you.”

“In a way. Not quite the same, but close. They don’t age. They heal fast. Stronger, faster, more aware than most humans. We don’t know why. Not yet.”

He narrows his eyes. “They were born like that?”

“As far as we can tell. Jimmy’s mutation, if you want to call it that, showed up in his early teens. Three claws in each hand. Like knives of bone. Victor’s earlier. I call him a kitty cat just to piss him off. Mariana—she was with me when it happened. Her eyes change, her teeth sharpen, black nails like claws. None of them has aged for a long time now.”

Bucky leans back. “And Zero Quadrant is full of people like that.”

“Exactly.” Her voice tightens. “We find them in camps. Experiments. Brothels. Hidden labs. Sometimes not even human—just human-shaped. Trafficked because they’re different. Because they can’t be broken easily.”

He nods slowly. “You’re not just rescuing them. You’re protecting something bigger.”

“We’re protecting the future, James.”

Bucky tilts his head, still watching her. “What’s your real role in all this, Lea?”

She hesitates, gaze flicking to the window. “I keep the machine running,” she says finally. “The logistics, the contacts, the movement of bodies and supplies. I write the codes, wipe the trails, forge the identities. I make sure when one of ours goes missing, the rest of the world doesn’t even know who to look for.”

“That sounds like more than logistics.”

She smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I founded it, James. Zero Quadrant. After the Great War. After the camps. After what I saw done to children like Mariana. To people like Jimmy and Victor. To others who weren’t lucky enough to survive it.”

Bucky’s expression shifts. “You built it.”

“I laid the first brick,” she says. “Victor found the muscle. Jimmy found the networks. Mariana found the ones no one else could see—because she knew what it felt like to be hidden. And I made the whole thing invisible.”

There’s a pause.

“We operate like smoke. Drift in, extract who needs saving, burn the evidence. We don’t answer to governments. Not really. We have a few allies. A few deep pockets. But mostly we rely on each other.”

Bucky watches her, quiet, he asks, “Why call it Zero Quadrant?”

She runs a finger along the spine of an old ledger. “Because it doesn’t exist. Not on any map. Not in any war room. We’re the quadrant no one accounts for. The variable no one sees coming.”

“That’s… kind of brilliant,” he says, almost reluctantly.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

He shrugs. “It’s just—when you talk about it, it’s not tactical. It’s personal.”

“It is personal.” Her voice is firm now. “They’re not anomalies to catalog. They’re people. Scared, hunted, and half the time convinced they’re monsters. Someone has to show them they’re not.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Then Bucky says quietly, “You’re still doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Raising people,” he says. “Like you did with Mariana. Like you’re doing with this whole damn operation. You make broken things feel like they belong.”

That stops her. The words catch somewhere deep, in a place she usually locks behind steel and shadow.

“…Thank you,” she says, so softly it’s almost lost under the rain.

Bucky leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You ever think about what happens when it’s over?”

Her eyes meet his. Calm. Steady.

“I don’t believe it will be.”

“Then what will you do?”

Ileana sighs, looking towards him seriously. “You can’t say a word about it.”

He raises a brow. “If no one knows you’re an alien from me, I won’t say a thing about whatever you’re about to.”

She chuckles. “It’s called Havin. An Island in the Indian Ocean. We’re working on keeping it hidden, but… we’re building a city, James. For them. To keep those we find safe.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, eyes widening slightly. “A city.”

“A sanctuary,” she clarifies. “It’s not just about survival anymore. Not just hiding and rescuing. It’s about living. Thriving. Building something that lasts.”

He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing that. “And you think they’ll be safe there?”

“I know they will,” she says, conviction threading her voice. “We have plans built for it. We’ve planned protections—technology you wouldn’t believe. It’s not going to just be walls. It’ll be a ghost on the map. We’re raising it from the bones of forgotten land. No one will find it unless we let them.”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair. “That’s a hell of a dream.”

“It’s more than a dream. We already have the first buildings up. Clean water. Food stores. A school. Victor’s got a forge running, Jimmy built the housing network. Mariana’s planning gardens for the kids.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at her. “You built an army in the dark, and now you’re building a future.”

“That was always the plan,” she says softly. “Fight like hell to win space. Then make that space beautiful.”

A pause.

“You think I could see it, someday?” he asks, voice tentative. “Not now. I know it’s not the time. But… someday.”

She studies him carefully, her expression unreadable for a beat—then something gentler loosens the line of her jaw.

“If you still want to when this is over,” she says, “I’ll take you myself.”

Bucky nods, and for a long time, neither of them says anything.

“You need sleep,” Bucky reminds her.

“So do you.”

“Yeah, but you’re the boss.”

She gives a tired smile. “Unfortunately.”

“Lea?”

“Hm?”

“You ever think you deserve peace, too?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches between them, not heavy, but deliberate.

“I don’t know what I deserve,” she whispers. “But I know what they do.”

Ileana glances away, her tone shifting as she tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I have to get back to work.”

Bucky doesn’t push her. Just watches as she looks back at the folder in her hand, the firelight catching the edges of her braid and casting shadows across the stacks of paper. She slips into the work like she’s sliding into armor.

A few minutes pass.

Then Bucky’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and steady. “You working or plotting something dramatic?”

She doesn’t glance up. “If I were plotting, I’d be smiling.”

“Fair point.”

He watches her in the dim light for a beat, and something in his chest shifts—how tired she looks, how focused. Like she’s holding the whole damn war together with a notebook and a pencil stub.

“What is it?” he asks gently.

She exhales. “Camp locations. Transferred detainees. Movement patterns through the mountains. The trains aren’t just going east anymore.”

Bucky’s brow knits. He leans over slightly, eyes scanning the page. It’s half German, half cipher, and all grim.

Ileana turns the page, sighs through her nose. “If I send it now, Zero can intercept. But it has to be phrased exactly right, or we risk exposure.”

She reaches for the telegraph on the side table. Her fingers hesitate.

“I can do it,” Bucky says, standing and sliding the chair over to her side of the desk.

She blinks. “What?”

“I’ll send it,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Just show me how you’re encoding it. You’ve been at this for hours. Thought I’d help.”

It hits her sideways. The offer. Not because he can’t do it—he’s capable, sharp—but because he noticed. Because he offered.

Ileana lowers her hand slowly. “All right,” she says. “I’ll write it out. You send.”

He pulls a chair beside her without another word.

She leans close, pencil to paper again, murmuring the cipher as she goes. He watches, not interrupting, not rushing her.

Their shoulders almost touch.

When she finishes, she hands him the slip of paper. He takes it with a small nod, and for a moment, doesn’t move. He looks at her instead—really looks at her.

“You don’t always have to do it alone, you know,” he says softly.

She meets his eyes, startled by the gentleness in them.

“I know,” she says.

But she doesn’t.

And maybe he knows that too.

He gets up, heading for the telegraph.

Ileana watches him go, then glances down at her notebook again. The codes blur for a second.

She exhales, a slow breath easing from somewhere deeper than her lungs.

Then, almost unconsciously, she reaches across the table, flips open the corner of a clean page, and writes.

“James offered. He sent the message. I didn’t expect that.”

The pencil hovers above the paper, hesitant. Then it touches down again, slower this time.

“I don’t remember the last time someone noticed without me asking.”

“I’ve been the one carrying, sorting, running, stitching the pieces together. People follow, they salute, they obey, but they don’t see the weight. Not really.”

She pauses. The scratch of the telegraph carries faintly from the next room, steady and careful.

“He didn’t have to say much. Didn’t even ask what I was doing. He just knew I needed a moment to breathe.”

“That’s rare.”

Her handwriting shifts, smaller now, more deliberate:

“The others… Zero still don’t trust the choices I’ve made. Victor thinks I’ve abandoned them. Even Mariana is uncertain. Maybe they’re right to doubt. I’ve been… distant. Split in too many directions.”

“But I haven’t stopped. Not for a second. I just don’t know how to carry all of them and still feel like a person. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve stopped trying to feel like one.”

She draws a slow line under the last sentence.

She writes:

“And then James says he’ll send a message. As if I’m not alone.”

“I didn’t realize I needed that.”

She pauses again, lets the silence settle. The flame from the oil lamp flickers. Her eyes feel heavy, but her hand moves once more.

“He doesn’t look at me like I’m something broken.”

“Not a weapon. Not a leader. Not a liability. Just me.”

She stares at the last few lines. Then flips to a new page, as if that will stop the weight of what she’s just admitted.

At the top, in the smallest handwriting yet:

20 April 1944 - Small kindnesses are harder to survive than battlefields.

She closes the notebook.

Ileana lets herself lean back in the chair, tilting her face toward the warmth of the lamp,

Outside, the war waits.

But for now, there is just this: the sound of Bucky: tapping out the message she no longer has to send alone.

Chapter Text

[Czechslovakia - May 1944]

The sky splits open with sirens.

The Howling Commandos burst from the factory’s rusted side doors, smoke curling after them like hungry fingers. Gabe dives behind a broken-down truck, Falsworth tumbles into a snow-dusted ditch, and Dum Dum Dugan belly-flops behind a mound of half-frozen sandbags. Sparks crackle in the cold night air. The ground shakes with the groaning protests of a building on the edge of collapse.

Then nothing.

No explosion. No fire. Just the distant pop-pop of retreating HYDRA gunfire and the whine of failing generators.

Gabe peeks over the hood of the truck. “What gives?”

Falsworth squints at the empty factory entrance. “He was right behind us.”

Dum Dum lifts his hat and slaps it against his thigh. “Where the hell is Steve?”

Before anyone can answer, a shower of glass explodes from the upper floor. A blazing red-white-and-blue blur launches through it.

Steve Rogers on a goddamn motorcycle.

He sails through the air like a bullet fired from God himself, his shield strapped to his back, his body low and focused. The motorcycle hits the ground hard, wheels screaming against gravel.

An explosion rocks the air. The HYDRA factory detonates behind him in a roaring fireball. Flames roll into the sky, consuming everything they’d just spent hours sabotaging. The shockwave rips through the trees, rattling the ground as Steve blazes forward through the chaos like the tip of a spear.

Dum Dum scrambles to his feet, waving his hat like a lunatic. “That’s how you make an exit!”

Raven Warrior drops from a nearby tree branch and lands without a sound, a smirk curling her lips.

She signs: “Showoff.”

Bucky laughs, “She said you’re a showoff!”

Steve pulls the bike around, skidding to a halt in a spray of gravel. Smoke and fire glint off his helmet, the American star on his chest illuminated in the dark.

“Sorry,” he calls out, voice casual. “Took the scenic route.”

Gabe just stares. “That was insane.”

Steve shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Behind them, the factory continues to burn—HYDRA blueprints, stolen tech, and prototype weapons melting into slag. The wind howls over the scorched trees, carrying ash and victory in equal measure.

The Howling Commandos regroup, filing out from cover, breathless and grinning.

Bucky claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, laughing. “Next time, warn us before you go full circus act.”

Steve smiles. “What’s the fun in that?”

“Jerk,” Bucky scoffs.

“Punk.”  Steve grins back.

Ileana signs: “You’re both idiots.”

The fire crackles low, tongues of flame licking the chill out of the dark. The Howling Commandos are a loose sprawl of limbs around it, boots off, jackets open, laughing like the war is a hundred miles away instead of just over the next ridge.

Dum Dum Dugan is halfway through an exaggerated tale about a goat, a minefield, and a girl named Elsie when the latest round of laughter breaks across the group.

“...I swear to God, the goat cleared the wire better than we did!” he shouts, and even Morita, who's usually hard to crack, lets out a wheezy snort.

Ileana sits on the edge of it all, just close enough to be within the circle. She doesn’t say much, she rarely does, but her laugh rings clear at all the right moments. Warm, genuine. She’s leaned into Bucky’s side, his arm draped easily across her shoulders, her fingers curled around his under the hem of his coat. It's subtle, but intimate.

Steve’s seated across from them, legs stretched long in the pine needles, nursing a dented mug of whatever counts as coffee out here. He watches the fire for a moment, then glances at her.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, voice light. “Tell us something, Iceland.”

The group quiets, like they always do when someone points toward her. Not rudely. Just curious.

Ileana stills.

The smile on her face falters, just for a second.

Bucky squeezes her hand—barely a twitch, really, but she feels it like a signal.

She doesn’t look at him. She looks at the fire.

Her voice, when she speaks, is soft and strange around the edges. “When the deep freeze came in winter, everything turned to glass. Trees, roads, rivers. You couldn’t walk anywhere without hearing something crack.” A pause. “We used to build snow forts, all of us. The kids from the valley would come up to the cliffs. There was this one year—it froze so hard, you could carve the snow like stone. We built a castle. An ice castle.”

A few of the men shift, watching her now, quiet in a different way.

“You could walk inside it without ducking your head,” she goes on. “The ceilings held. We made rooms. Little tunnels that connected them. We even dug out a fire pit in the center—burned it all night, so the walls would glow from the inside out.” Her voice softens into memory. “It was warm in there. Like we’d tricked the cold somehow.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from her.

“That sounds like some kinda fairytale land,” Dum Dum says with a chuckle, shaking his head.

Ileana’s smile drops.

“It wasn’t,” she says, the words low.

Final.

Something in her tone shuts the laughter down.

The fire pops.

The others glance at each other, then politely look away.

Bucky, though, just gazes at her, eyes filled with something gentle and unspoken. He doesn't ask, doesn’t press. Just lifts her hand to his lips and brushes a kiss over her knuckles, slow and sure.

She exhales through her nose and leans against his shoulder again, watching the fire flicker, reflected in eyes that have seen far more than any of them suspect.

They don’t ask about Iceland again, and Ileana doesn’t laugh for the rest of the night.

[Greece - July 1944]

The Greek forest blurs past, pine branches whipping at Jacques Dernier’s face as he sprints full tilt through underbrush, mud kicking up behind his boots. Clutched tight beneath one arm is a compact bomb, its metal casing gleaming with a painted skull and crossbones. Breath hisses between his teeth, but he doesn’t slow. The roar of an engine grows louder to his right.

Up ahead, through the trees, a HYDRA fast-track vehicle barrels down a narrow dirt road, its treads grinding up dust and broken pine needles. It’s heavily armored and built for speed—six wheels, reinforced frame, cannon mounted on top. Soldiers shout from within.

Dernier’s pace doesn’t falter. His eyes lock onto the vehicle. He angles his run to intercept.

The moment comes in a blur.

With a grunt, Dernier dives and rolls under the fast-track just as it thunders past above him. The world goes dark and deafening for half a second, steel and engine screaming overhead.

He slams the bomb into the undercarriage. The magnetic clamps bite down hard. No time to think.

He rolls again, out from under the treads, and throws himself into a crouch behind a tree just as the vehicle surges past.

One breath.

Two.

BOOM.

The explosion tears through the forest, ripping the fast-track apart in a blast of fire and shrapnel. The shockwave knocks leaves from the trees. A tire sails through the air and lands with a thud ten feet away.

Dernier watches the wreckage burn, grinning to himself as he adjusts his beret.

“Vive la Résistance,” he mutters, then turns and disappears into the trees.

The smell of gun oil and ration stew hangs thick in the summer heat, but tonight—somehow—it’s festive.

A banner that definitely wasn’t regulation hangs lopsided between two supply poles: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CAP!”

Someone painted it in charcoal and berry juice. It’s barely legible, but the intent is clear.

Steve stares at it, arms crossed. “Who did this?”

Bucky steps up beside him, hands in his pockets, mock-serious. “What, you don’t like it? I bled for that juice.”

“Looks like you sneezed while painting.”

“I did sneeze while painting.”

From behind the tent, Dum Dum Dugan appears holding what might technically be a cake—or a pile of flour, raisins, and desperation baked in a helmet. He beams. “Birthday ration loaf. Don’t ask what’s in it. Just smile and nod.”

Steve blinks. “Is it… safe?”

“Define safe,” Morita calls from a makeshift picnic blanket, where he’s fiddling with a record player salvaged from a bombed-out house. Jazz warbles out of the speaker, warped and skipping in places, but recognizable. Music.

Gabe Jones tosses a football back and forth with Dernier, who’s wearing Steve’s helmet for no reason other than chaos. Gabe catches it and points at Steve. “C’mon, Cap. You’re not getting out of this. Birthday boy’s got to make a speech.”

Steve raises his hands. “You really don’t want me to do that.”

Bucky claps him on the shoulder. “Oh, we absolutely do.”

The guys cheer.

Ileana lounges in a folding chair nearby, overalls rolled at the ankle, grease streaked on her forearm from earlier maintenance.

She lifts a metal cup. “To the only man in this camp who can scowl at a party and still get celebrated for it.”

Steve shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “You people are unbelievable.”

Bucky hands him the “cake” with exaggerated care. “Blow out the matchstick.”

There is a single match, lit and wobbling in the center like a sad candle.

Steve exhales slowly and blows it out.

Cheers. Whoops. Dum Dum fires a pistol in the air, to which Morita yells, “Dugan, for the love of—not near the fuel drums!”

Ileana laughs, rising from her chair to lean against Bucky’s side, arms folded. “Think he’ll ever get used to being loved?”

Bucky glances at Steve—awkwardly accepting a group hug from half the team, face redder than the berries in the ration loaf.

“Not a chance,” Bucky says. “But we’ll keep making him try.”

Later, as the sun sinks into the hills and shadows creep over the fire pit, Steve sits on a log beside Ileana. The music’s soft now, someone humming along. Bucky's trying to teach Dernier the words to “Take the A Train.” Laughter rolls like smoke.

“You ever think we’d make it this far?” Steve asks quietly.

Ileana tilts her head. “Not like this. Not with… moments like this.”

He nods.

Then she adds, “Next year I’m getting you actual fondue.”

He groans, dropping his face into his hands. “You have to let that go.”

“Never,” she says, and bumps her shoulder into his. “Happy birthday, Captain.”

Chapter Text

[Portugal - August 1944]

The sun beats down on scorched metal and shattered glass, the light glinting off the wreckage of what used to be a HYDRA weapons plant. Flames still lick at the husk of the building, smoke curling into the bright sky like a dark flag of victory.

A weathered Jeep barrels down a dirt road away from the destruction, its tires kicking up dust and scorched leaves. Dugan grips the wheel with one hand and adjusts his bowler hat with the other, steering around debris like it’s just another Tuesday. In the back, Steve Rogers crouches beside Raven Warrior and Jim Morita, bracing with one hand while holding his shield ready with the other.

A sudden screech cuts the air. The sky darkens for just a second as a shadow swoops overhead.

A HYDRA fighter plane.

It screams in low, guns blazing.

Bullets rain from the heavens. Steve barely has time to throw his shield up, the vibranium disk pinging with each impact. Hot metal ricochets into the back of the Jeep as Dugan swerves to avoid a ditch.

“We’ve got company!” Dugan shouts, eyes wide beneath the brim of his hat.

Raven Warrior is already moving, calm as ever, drawing a blade just in case they’re forced to jump. Beside her, Jones doesn’t hesitate—he swings the mounted .30 caliber machine gun toward the sky, braces himself, and lets loose.

The air fills with thunder.

Jones tracks the plane as it banks and swoops, a graceful predator hungry for blood. He grits his teeth, stitching the air with precision fire. His rounds punch through the metal belly of the aircraft, one after another until BOOM.

Smoke bursts from the engine. The plane screeches, shudders, and begins to spiral, a trail of black smoke pouring behind it. It noses downward in a death dive.

Steve stands, gripping the roll bar for balance, watching as the plane clips a tree line and disappears behind a hill with a crash.

The explosion rolls through the earth like thunder. Birds scatter from the canopy, and a column of smoke surges upward, black and oily.

Dugan eases the Jeep to a stop. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. Silence falls, broken only by the crackle of distant fire and the slow ticking of the Jeep’s engine cooling.

All four of them stare ahead, dumbstruck.

Raven Warrior blinks once, shaking her head in amazement.

Steve exhales, lowering his shield. He glances at Jones. “Nice shooting.”

Jones chuckles, eyes still fixed on the smoke. “Lucky shot.”

Dugan whistles low and shakes his head. “If that’s what you call luck, remind me to never play cards with you back at base.”

Around a scuffed crate doubling as a table, the Howling Commandos are mid-game. Poker, naturally. A few mismatched chairs and ammo crates serve as seats. Dum Dum Dugan has his suspenders rolled down and a cigar clamped between his teeth, while Gabe Jones shuffles the deck.

Ileana sits cross-legged in a folding chair, dressed down in worn black t-shirt and faded overalls, a deck of cards fanned lazily in one hand. A quiet smile plays at her lips as Bucky leans forward, grinning like a devil.

“I’m telling you,” Bucky says, elbows braced on the table, “Steve once tried to pick a fight with a guy three times his size because he wouldn’t give up his seat on a bus. Steve ended up with a black eye and a dislocated shoulder. The guy didn’t even notice him swing.”

The table erupts in laughter. Steve, sitting nearby cleaning a sidearm, doesn’t look up.

“I was being principled,” Steve mutters.

Bucky grins wider. “You were being five-foot-nothing and made of paper.”

Steve throws a cloth at him. It lands short.

“Better aim than usual,” Bucky quips.

Gabe deals the next hand as the laughter dies down. The firelight flickers in Ileana’s eyes as she leans in.

“Oh,” she says lightly, “speaking of Steve’s greatest hits—did I ever tell you that on the way to save you lot he thought fondue meant fondling?”

Steve’s head drops into his hands.

The table explodes.

Dum Dum lets out a wheezing bark of laughter. “You’re kidding me.”

“She’s dead serious,” Bucky wheezes. “We’re in Europe, trying to stay alive, and he thinks people are just casually propositioning each other over melted cheese.”

“I thought it was a euphemism,” Steve groans. “It sounded… suggestive!”

“That’s rich,” Morita gasps between snorts. “Captain America, scandalized by dairy.”

Ileana raises her hands, poker face flawless. “In his defense, Howie did wink when he said it.”

Steve glares at her, but there’s no heat. Just long-suffering affection.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Bucky says, slapping a card on the table. “Full house, baby.”

Groans all around. Dum Dum tosses his cards into the pile with exaggerated despair.

“You cheat,” Morita accuses.

“I’m charming,” Bucky corrects.

Ileana lifts her own hand—four queens—and lays them down without a word. The table goes still.

Bucky stares at the cards, then at her. “You’re a menace.”

She sips from her canteen. “I’m charming.”

[Denmark - October 1944]

The world is quiet tonight.

The crickets have fallen silent, the trees barely stirring in the gentle wind. A pale crescent moon hangs overhead, casting silver light through the thin canopy. Somewhere far off, artillery echoes faintly—a distant reminder of the war still raging beyond this moment of stillness.

Bucky Barnes leans against a tree at the perimeter of camp, his rifle resting across his knees. Beside him, Ileana sits cross-legged on the earth, alert but relaxed, wrapped in a black wool cloak that softens her silhouette against the night.

Their hands are joined, fingers laced. It’s almost absent-minded now, the way they reach for each other. Familiar. Comforting. Real.

“You think we’ll get Christmas off?” Bucky murmurs, breaking the long silence. He keeps his voice low, almost conspiratorial, as if the thought itself might be too hopeful to say aloud.

Ileana glances at him sideways, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Unlikely,” she says dryly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, grinning anyway. “Didn’t think so.”

They go quiet again. There’s no rush to speak. With her, there never is. The firelight from the camp flickers in the distance, warm and far away.

Ileana sighs, catching his attention, “What’s wrong?”

She swallows, “Are you sure you’re okay with this, me being what I am?”

Bucky reaches over and his hand gently grasps her chin, turning her to face him.

“Yes. Everything we are. Everything you are. We’ll figure it out together.”

She smiles softly, and he glances at her mouth. Chucklin,g she presses a quick kiss to his lips before turning away again.

Bucky shifts slightly, the motion subtle—but his fingers drift briefly from hers. His hand brushes his coat pocket, where a small worn velvet box presses against the inside lining. He pats it gently, just once. As if reassuring himself it’s still there.

Ileana doesn’t look down, but she notices. She always does. Her gaze lingers on him, curious, but she doesn’t ask.

Instead, she leans her head gently against his shoulder.

He closes his eyes for just a moment and lets the warmth of her presence ground him.

They don’t talk about what’s coming. Not yet.

For now, they hold hands in the dark, stealing this fragment of peace while the world still lets them.

The field is a blur of mud, smoke, and shouted orders. The Howling Commandos bolt across the open terrain, boots pounding the frost-crusted grass as the Landkruezer—a mammoth HYDRA tank, nearly the size of a building—roars after them like a steel predator.

Shells explode behind them, dirt and shrapnel showering the team as they sprint toward the crumbling remains of a barnyard wall—the only semblance of cover for miles. Steve Rogers leads the charge, shield raised, shouting, “Move! Go! Don’t stop!”

They're nearly there when Dugan’s bowler hat lifts off in a gust of concussive wind and sails behind him, landing directly in the path of the monstrous tank.

“My hat!” Dugan yells.

“Leave it!” Gabe shouts, ducking as a shot slams into a tree beside him.

But Dugan’s already turned. He sprints back, dives forward, and snatches the hat off the ground in one swift motion—tucking and rolling like a vaudeville act. He plants it smugly back on his head, adjusting the brim.

Then he hears it. A grinding change in gears.

He looks up.

The Landkruezer has turned—coming directly for him.

Dugan’s face drops. “Aw, hell.”

Before he can blink, Steve Rogers comes flying out of nowhere, diving across Dugan’s path and grabbing onto the tank’s cannon barrel mid-sprint. With a mighty heave and impossible momentum, he swings himself up, landing atop the turret with a metallic thud. The whole tank groans under the force.

Moments later, Raven Warrior lands beside him, boots skidding across the iron plating. She moves like wind and shadow, flipping her body into a crouch and scanning the deck. Her eyes lock onto something—a glowing conduit, housed beneath a reinforced casing: the energy core.

Her own eyes begin to glow—a shimmering, unnatural blue, the same color as the HYDRA weapons they’ve destroyed for months.

She draws her blade.

“Wait,” Steve says sharply, stepping toward her, but she’s already moving.

WHAM!

The sword slams down, metal biting into the housing. Sparks fly, blue light leaping from the gash like lightning.

Steve steps back, brow furrowed.

“Raven,” he warns. “Don’t…”

SMASH!

Another blow.

The tank shudders beneath them. Inside, alarms begin to blare.

Her eyes are brighter now, burning like charged reactors.

“Raven!” Steve barks. “Something’s wrong. Stop!”

But she doesn’t hear him—one final strike.

BOOM.

A deep, vibrating drone begins to rise from within the tank, vibrating the air with ominous energy.

Steve grabs her arm. “We have to jump, now!”

They run, leap from the top just as the Landkruezer explodes in a blinding flash of blue and fire. The force hurls them across the field. They land hard, tumbling across the mud as debris rains around them.

Smoke thickens. Fire licks the sky.

Steve lifts himself, coughing, eyes darting—not to the wreckage—but to Raven Warrior as she rises nearby, calm, almost… unshaken.

Her eyes are still glowing.

He stares. His jaw tightens. “What the hell is going on with you?”

She blinks—confused, maybe. Or maybe not.

Steve frowns, his expression hardening into suspicion.

HYDRA. It has to be HYDRA.

His hand inches toward his shield as they begin to fade.

And for the first time, he doesn’t know if she’s going to be the one standing beside them...

Or standing in their way.

Chapter Text

[Aarhus, Denmark - October 1944]

The camp is quiet, or as quiet as it gets between missions. Canvas flaps rustle. Radios murmur. Boots shift in muddy ruts worn by soldiers too tired to complain. But behind the eastern comms tent, in the shadows, Captain America stands alone.

Bucky finds him there. He doesn’t waste time.

“You pulled her.”

Steve doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on the trees.

“You pulled Lea off mission rotation without telling anyone,” Bucky says again, voice low and clipped. “Why?”

Steve shifts his weight. “It’s done.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “It’s not your call, Buck.”

“The hell it isn’t. I’ve been on every mission with her since Poitiers. I know what she’s capable of.”

“I do too,” Steve says. Quiet. Firm.

“So what changed?” Bucky presses, stepping forward. “She saved my ass in Dresden. She saved you from getting hit in Hamburg. Now she’s suddenly benched?”

Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. “She’s not going out again.”

“Why?”

A beat. Then another. Steve’s voice drops. “I can’t tell you.”

Bucky stares at him. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’m not…” Steve stops himself. “It’s not something I can explain.”

“That’s bull.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No, Steve, it’s cowardice,” Bucky snaps. “You pulled the best operative we’ve got, and you can’t even say why?”

“I’m trying to protect her.”

“From what?”

Silence.

“Say it.”

“I can’t,” Steve says. His voice is strained now, rough around the edges. “Just... trust me.”

“I do. Or I did.” Bucky steps back. His hands are shaking. “You don’t get to play God because something makes you uneasy.”

“She’s not what she says she is.”

Bucky’s eyes flash. “Now you sound like Colonel Phillips.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You’re wrong. You don’t know her like I do.”

“I know something’s off.”

“You know what I know?” Bucky says, voice rising. “I know I love her. And I’m not leaving her behind because you’ve got a bad feeling you can’t even explain.”

“You should,” Steve says. “If you knew what I…” He stops himself. His mouth shuts like a trap.

“What you what?”

Steve looks away. “Forget it.”

“No. Say it.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m not leaving the woman I love because you’ve got a ghost whispering in your ear. That’s not enough.”

Steve’s silence says it all.

Bucky laughs bitterly. “You know what I think? You’re scared. Not of her. Of me. Of what I’d choose.”

Steve looks back at him, pain flickering just beneath the surface. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“You’re asking me to walk away from the only thing that’s felt good since we left Brooklyn.”

That hits like a gut punch.

Steve’s expression falters for a beat. “And what if it’s not real?”

“It is,” Bucky says. “Lea’s not perfect. She’s stubborn, she’s reckless, and she eats chocolate like it’s going out of style. But she feels real, Steve. When she’s with me, I don’t feel like some broken piece of war machinery. I feel human.”

Steve looks at him, something unreadable in his eyes. “Then I hope you’re right. Because if you’re not…”

“If I’m not?” Bucky steps in close. “What? You’ll be the one to say I told you so? You’ll add her to your growing list of things you don’t understand but need to control?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Bucky snaps. “It’s not. Neither is what you just did to her.”

A long pause. Bucky stares hard at Steve, shifting his jaw.

“I’m not giving her up,” Bucky says, quieter. “Not for your ghosts. Not for your gut.”

Steve's fists are clenched at his sides. His voice is low, rough.

“You think this is easy for me? She’s on our team. I like her. But there’s something wrong here, and I can’t ignore it.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. His jaw is set, eyes narrowed with disbelief.

“Then say it. Say what you think she is. Spy? Psychic? HYDRA experiment? What?”

“I don’t know!”

Steve steps forward sharply, boots sinking into the mud. Cold air turns his breath to vapor—quick, shallow bursts between them.

“But if I’m wrong—I hope to God I’m wrong—then I’ll say it to her face. But if I’m not…”

“She’s not the enemy,” Bucky says, voice tightening with every word. “I know what it feels like to lose control, Steve. To not trust your own head. She pulls me out of that. Every damn time. And I’m not giving her up because of something you can’t explain.”

The silence that follows is thick. It stretches between them like a tripwire.

Steve’s eyes darken.

“Then you’d better hope your heart’s not leading you into something we can’t walk out of.”

Bucky’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t break.

“Funny. Thought you were the one who always said to follow it.”

He turns without waiting for a response, his silhouette swallowed by the mist. His boots splash through the soaked earth, leaving Steve behind in the rising fog, watching a line he didn’t want to cross disappear in front of him.

The canvas tent is dim, lit only by a single lantern swaying from a rope loop overhead. Shadows ripple across the walls, warping as Ileana moves. She folds a knit sweater mechanically, then places it on top of a nearly full satchel.

Bucky stands in the doorway. He’s soaked to the knees, fists clenched, breathing like he ran the whole perimeter. She doesn’t look up.

“You’re leaving.”

Her fingers pause. “They’ve reassigned me to London. Debrief, health reassessment, and all the usual trappings of bureaucratic exile.”

“That what they’re calling it now?”

Ileana exhales slowly. She doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t even tell me,” Bucky says, stepping inside. “I had to read it in a note.”

“I thought you’d be on mission prep. Didn’t want to be a distraction.”

He scoffs. “Right. Because that’s what you are to me. A distraction.”

She finally looks at him. Her expression is unreadable. “What do you want me to say, James?”

“I want you to say you’re not giving up.”

Ileana’s jaw tightens. “It’s not giving up. It’s being removed.”

“You’re letting them.”

“Did you miss the part where your best friend pulled rank on me behind closed doors?” she snaps, voice rising. “It wasn’t exactly a negotiation.”

“You could’ve fought it.”

Ileana drops onto her cot, “Fought what, James? I have to protect Zero Quadrant. If I fight this…”

She shakes her head.

“He’s not telling me why he’s doing this. I don’t even think the rest of the SSR knows. But they’re letting him because he’s goddamn Captain Spangles with stars and stripes coming out of his arse.”

Bucky lets out a breath—half laugh, half growl. “Jesus. That’s going to live in my brain forever.”

“Good.”

He crosses to her, mud trailing from his boots, and sits down beside her on the cot. His arm curls instinctively around her waist. She leans into him, and he kisses the top of her head with quiet finality.

“I hate this,” he mutters.

“I know.”

They sit in the hush. Rain taps against the canvas, slow and steady. He doesn’t let go.

“I’ve been thinking about the transference,” he says after a long beat, voice low, uncertain.

She stiffens just slightly.

He continues. “You said it once. That it was possible. That you could—whatever it is—change me.”

“It won’t fix this, James. It’s not a gift.”

“You’re still here.”

“I’m not what you think I am. Not really.”

“You’re everything I think you are,” he says, turning to face her. “And I’ve seen enough of this war to know what it is to lose people, over and over. If I’ve got a choice to stay longer with someone who makes the fight worth it… when it’s my literal soulmate…”

His fingers brush hers. “I just want to know it’s not off the table.”

Ileana watches him, heart slamming against centuries of instinct. “If you take the transference, there’s no going back. You’ll outlive everything. You’ll watch the world turn to ash and rebuild a hundred times. You’ll lose names. You’ll forget colors. You’ll watch your own reflection become something unfamiliar.”

“I already do.”

That shuts her up.

“You’d regret it,” she says finally, gently.

“Then I’ll regret it next century,” he answers.

A long silence.

“I’m not saying yes,” Ileana whispers.

“I’m not asking for now.”

“The mating comes first, it’s… It’s a process, you know that.”

“I do and I want it.”

She sighs, nodding, and says, “I should go.”

His mouth tightens. “I know.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Me either.”

Another silence.

Almost reluctantly, he says, “They’re pulling us back to London between missions. For intel drops and regrouping.”

Her brows lift. “I didn’t know that.”

“‘That’d be Steve’s doing, I’d bet. But when we do come through… I’ll find you. Every time.”

“You promise?” she asks, voice fragile in a way she rarely lets it be.

He takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “On my life.”

She swallows hard. “That’s not a small thing to promise me.”

“I know who I’m saying it to.”

For a moment, the ache between them is unbearable. Then she nods, just once, and stands. He helps her hoist the satchel onto her shoulder.

At the tent flap, she turns and hesitates. “Tell Steve…”

“I’ll tell him you left because you were ordered. And that I didn’t try to stop you.” He meets her eyes. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because I trust you to come back.”

She leans forward, presses a kiss to his cheek—gentle, lingering, bittersweet.

“I’ll see you in London, Sergeant Barnes.”

His voice is low, “Count on it.”

“And when I’m sick of sitting on my arse, then I’ll let Steve have a what for.”

He smirks, “I’m counting on that too.”

Chapter Text

[London - November 1944]

The door slams shut with a metallic echo. The tension on base has been building for days. Now, it snaps.

Ileana rounds on Steve, jaw set, eyes flashing with restrained fury.

"You have ordered me to stay behind for the last five missions now. I went through your bureatic shit and they approved me to stay on," she snaps, voice sharp and rising. "I want a damn answer. Why?"

Steve exhales hard through his nose, turning away from her, pretending to busy himself with a map he’s already memorized. "It’s not up for debate."

"That’s not good enough," she fires back, stepping forward, forcing his attention. "I’m part of this team. I’ve bled for this team. And if you think I’m just going to sit in a bunker while everyone else risks their lives…"

"I’m not doing this with you, Lee." Steve’s voice is low, even, but there's a crack beneath it.

She stares at him, stunned. “Is this because of James?” Her voice is quieter now, hurt edging in. “Because of me and him?”

“No.” It’s immediate. Firm.

“Then what is it?” she demands. “Tell me what the hell is going on!”

Steve doesn’t answer. Just tightens his grip on the back of a chair until his knuckles go white.

"Look at me," she says, stepping into his space, eyes boring into his. "If there’s something wrong—if you know something—say it. Don’t you dare hide behind your rank."

His jaw locks. He won’t meet her eyes. “You don’t question orders, Lee,” he says finally, cold steel in his voice. “You’re staying behind. That’s it.”

Silence. Thick and furious.

She blinks at him once, slowly, as if absorbing a hit. Then she nods once, sharp, and steps back.

“Copy that, Captain.” Her voice is cool now. Controlled. Every syllable laced with acid.

She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, boots echoing across the floor, door hissing shut behind her.

“Odd seeing you here these days,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Ileana looks up from the stack of papers she’s been pretending to read. She offers a tired smile to a worn-out Howard Stark.

“Odd being here,” she replies with a dry scoff. “We can thank Steve for that. Not that any of us know why—except him.”

Howard steps in and drops into the chair across from her. “When’s the last time you saw your man?”

“Two weeks and three days ago,” she answers without hesitation, scrunching her nose in frustration.

Howard frowns. “That doesn’t sound like him. I know you—you don’t hurt people unless you have to.”

“I didn’t,” she says, the frustration flaring. “I haven’t even been shot, Howard.”

He leans forward. “You think he saw something… not human?”

She shrugs. “It’s possible. But I don’t know how. There’s nothing to see, even if I bleed. Reflections can be dismissed, and most people do.”

“How bright do your eyes glow?” he asks, getting up to shut the door behind him.

Only once he’s seated again does she show him. Her irises flick to luminous, glowing white.

Howard tilts his head. “It’s just like you’re standing in direct sunlight.”

“Exactly.” She blinks them blue again. “So what, suddenly he’s afraid of the skinny redhead who flips off rooftops? That’s not new.”

Howard exhales. “I’ll admit, you’re a little intimidating right now. But that’s not why I’m here.” He glances out the window, avoiding her eyes.

Ileana frowns. “Howard Anthony Walter Stark Junior… what did you do?”

“I’ve been offered a placement on the Manhattan Project,” he says, still not looking at her. “And I accepted.”

Her chair scrapes sharply against the floor as she stands. Her teacup knocks off the desk and shatters. Howard winces at the sound.

“Are you mad?” she nearly shouts. “The cancer rates for survivors will skyrocket. Forty percent, minimum. The project itself? Thirty. And that’s not even factoring in future generations.”

“It’s two fronts, Lee! Two!” Howard shoots back. “It’s getting worse, and you know it!”

She slams her hands on the desk. “It would take every ounce of the Reich’s production to build even one bomb—and they don’t have the time or the money! They abandoned the project already. America? This thing will be finished by mid-’45. It’s November 20th, 1944, Howard. The war is nearly over.”

“You don’t know that,” he snaps.

“I do!” she fires back, voice rising. “I’ve seen wars—hundreds of them. Thousands of battles. And this?” Her eyes flash again. “This is the matchstick. You drop one bomb and the world learns how to light a dozen.”

He paces, agitated. “Japan isn’t backing down. They’re already trying to split the atom.”

“There are other ways to end a war than dropping a sun on a city,” she growls. “If you build this… prepare for more.”

Howard stops. “More what?”

She looks him dead in the eyes.

“War.”

He tries to laugh it off. “Between who? Us and the emus?”

She glares. “Don’t mock them. They had excellent guerrilla tactics.”

He rolls his eyes.

“But no,” she continues coldly. “After this, there’ll be two superpowers left standing. America. And the Soviets. And how close do you think they’ll stay?”

“You’re saying the Soviets are going to turn on us? We’re allies.”

“I’m saying,” she says, stepping around the desk, “that if you use nuclear weapons now, the Soviets will build them next. And the arms race won’t stop. Ever.”

She storms past him and yanks the door open.

“And you,” she adds, not looking back, “will regret being part of it for the rest of your life.”

The door slams shut behind her, leaving Howard alone, staring at the shattered teacup on the floor.

[London - December 22, 1944]

Snow falls in soft, lazy flakes, dusting the black rooftop in silver. The base below is quiet, lights flickering in windows, muffled laughter rising occasionally from inside. It’s the first of three days they’ve been given off—a miracle, really—and no one wants to waste it. But Bucky and Ileana aren’t in the mess with the others.

They’re up high, away from the noise, sitting side by side on the edge of the roof. A worn wool blanket is draped over their shoulders, their knees touching, breath curling in white wisps into the cold air.

“You know,” Bucky says quietly, “when I was a kid, Christmas was the one time my Dad would let us have the fireplace on all night. Even when we couldn’t afford it.”

Ileana turns to him, smiling. “We didn’t have fireplaces on Iricys.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Right. You had heat spheres or... what was it?”

“Thermogenic pulses.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It was less cozy than it sounds,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. “Our solstice celebration was more about stargazing than fireplaces. But we sang. Danced in the snowfields.”

Bucky looks at her for a moment, thoughtful. “Did you ever dance... just because?”

She tilts her head. “No occasion?”

“No occasion,” he says, standing. His gloved hand extends toward her. “Come on.”

She raises an eyebrow. “To what music?”

“We don’t need music.”

She watches him, curious, but something in his voice, the way it trembles just slightly, makes her rise and take his hand.

They step onto the open stretch of rooftop, boots crunching in the snow. He pulls her close, one arm around her waist, the other holding her hand gently.

There’s no beat, no rhythm, but the sound of their breaths and the whisper of the snowfall. But it’s enough.

They move slowly, swaying to a song only they can hear. The city sleeps around them, war tucked away for just a moment.

Ileana smiles as she rests her head against his shoulder. “You’re getting better at this.”

“Had a good teacher,” Bucky murmurs.

Then, as the snow deepens and the world holds its breath, he stops moving. Steps back.

Still holding her hand, he slowly lowers himself to one knee.

Her breath catches.

Bucky pulls a small box from his coat, velvet damp from the cold. He opens it to reveal an elegant golden ring—one he must’ve kept hidden for months.

“I’m your soulmate,” he says, voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes, “and you’re mine. I don’t need this name on my wrist to prove it.” He gently touches her left wrist, where his name is etched into her skin like a scar.

“I know who I belong to.”

Ileana stares at him, lips parted, snow catching in her lashes.

And then she smiles—radiant, full of starlight and wonder—and lowers herself to her knees to match him.

“Yes,” she whispers, before he can even ask.

Their foreheads press together, laughter soft and breathless between them.

The ring slides onto her finger like it’s always meant to be there.

Above them, the snow keeps falling, but the rooftop is warm now—filled with something untouchable, immortal, and entirely their own.

Chapter Text

[London, SSR Base - January 1945]

The snow hasn’t let up for days. Slush cakes the boots of agents moving through the corridors of the London command post, but inside the war room, it’s all paper, tension, and stale coffee.

General Phillips presides at the head of the long steel table, flanked by Agent Carter and Dr. Ileana Smythe. Howard Stark leans back in his chair, legs crossed, drumming his fingers against a mug. The walls are lined with maps, pins stuck in like scars. Every red dot marking the destruction of another HYDRA base.

The conversation hums with intelligence updates, Hydra movements, information from Zero Quadrant, and the ongoing mission to take down Red Skull.

Then the door opens.

A junior officer steps in—young, pale, visibly tense. He doesn’t speak at first. Just crosses the room with a manila folder gripped tight like it might bite. His whisper to Phillips is inaudible, but the room still quiets in a ripple of instinct. Something’s wrong.

Phillips opens the folder.

He scans the pages once. Then again. His fingers go still.

The drumming stops. Peggy’s eyes narrow.

Phillips doesn’t look up when he says, “Clear the room.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence until Stark raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I said, clear the room.” His voice has that rare edge—the one that cuts through chatter and ego alike.

Peggy frowns. “Sir?”

“Clear the room,” he repeats, louder this time. “Everyone out. Now.”

Howard opens his mouth to protest, then thinks better of it. He, Ileana, and Peggy exchange a look—confusion and concern—and start to gather their belongings. Agents file out without a word. Chairs scrape. Doors swing open, then shut.

Ileana moves to leave.

Phillips doesn’t look at her. Not yet.

“Dr. Smythe,” he says. “You stay.”

She freezes. Just watches him with that stillness she carries like a second skin. “Why?”

He finally looks up. And she sees it—the sorrow behind the iron. The pain he can’t quite hide.

“You should sit down.”

Her throat tightens.

“No,” she says quietly. “Just tell me.”

He hesitates.

Then lays the papers on the table and slides them toward her.

TO: SSR COMMAND, LONDON BRANCH
SUBJECT: BARNES, JAMES BUCHANAN. SERGEANT.
MIA DURING MISSION IN THE ALPS. BODY UNRECOVERED. PRESUMED KIA.

“When?” she asks. Her voice is flat. Controlled. Too controlled.

“Just hours ago. Over the Alps.”

She nods. Once. Then again, slower. Like she’s memorizing the shape of the pain.

“I see.”

“I know he was your…”

“Don’t,” she says quietly. Not cruel, just final.

Phillips shuts his mouth.

She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t fall apart. She just stands there, staring at nothing, as if her mind is trying to find the thread of a world that still makes sense without him in it.

Silence blooms between them. Heavy. Absolute.

Ileana’s voice, when it comes, is steady.

“Thank you.”

Phillips stands there, helpless. “If you need…”

She cuts him off with a look. Not cruel. Not cold. Just done.

“I have work.”

Then she turns and walks out, back straight, head high. Her footsteps echo down the corridor.

[Ileana SSR Quarters - London, England]

The door closes behind her with a soft click.

She doesn't move at first.

The hallway outside is still filled with retreating footsteps. The silence that follows is thick, unnatural.

She stands frozen just inside the door; In her hand is the report. Stark white. Folded. Crumpled from how hard she’s been gripping it.

She doesn’t need to read it.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—M.I.A. Presumed K.I.A.

No body. No coordinates. Just gone.

Her stomach has been rotting with dread since it happened. Not the moment she was handed the report. The moment before—hours before—when the phantom pain ripped through her chest like a nerve severed mid-signal. That sickening, unbearable instinct.

Like a limb lost. A life cut from her body.

And now she knows why.

She walks to the cot without a sound, sits on the edge of the mattress as if she moves too fast, the floor might cave in. The papers are still in her hand. She lets them fall to the floor.

They flutter like leaves and settle.

She stares down at them. At it.

The ring on her left hand is everything she has now of him.

He slipped it onto her finger just weeks ago. Three days before Christmas, and then he handed her every single one of his emergency ration bars. She smacked his shoulder for that, and he laughed. Said, “I figured I’d come prepared to bribe you with chocolate if you said no.”

Now she can barely look at it.

But she does. She raises her hand slowly and stares.

Her fingers tremble. Her breath catches.

She presses the ring to her lips.

“James,” she whispers.

The sound of it breaks something open.

Not restrained. Not graceful.

Just grief, brutal and guttural, slamming into her with the force of truth finally catching up. Her body folds inward, fists at her mouth to stop the sound, shoulders shaking as the sobs hit. The ring presses into her skin like an anchor.

She doesn’t scream.

She doesn’t wail.

She just breaks.

Quietly. Entirely.

Because the one thing she couldn’t live without has vanished into snow and silence.

And she knew it before they told her.

Because it didn’t just feel like a limb was gone.

It was.

The corridor is quiet, but Howard walks it like a man with too much noise in his head. He’s looked everywhere else—labs, briefing rooms, even the damn kitchen. She’s not in any of them.

She wouldn’t be.

He reaches her door and knocks gently. Nothing.

He tries the knob.

Unlocked.

He pushes it open, just enough to see her.

She’s sitting on the edge of her cot, her back to him, curled in tight like her body’s forgotten how to hold itself upright. Her shoulders rise and fall in short, broken rhythms. In her hand, he sees it, a small flicker of gold. A ring. Pressed so tightly to her lips, her fingers have gone white.

And that’s when it hits him.

His gut sinks.

“…Lee,” he says softly.

She doesn’t respond.

She’s not ignoring him. She just can’t.

Howard steps in, quiet for once. No quips. No sharp edges. He closes the door behind him and comes to sit beside her. Not close—just near enough that she knows he’s there.

He doesn’t speak for a while. He lets the silence hold her.

When she finally breathes again it’s sharp, ragged—he doesn’t flinch.

“I felt it,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Hours ago. Like someone cut me open. And I knew… I knew it was him.”

Howard doesn’t say he’s sorry. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. Crisp, monogrammed, probably absurdly expensive.

He offers it without a word.

Her hand closes around it slowly, like it’s the first thing that hasn’t shattered beneath her touch.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” she says, barely holding the words together. “No body. No wreckage. Just gone. Like he never…”

“He was real,” Howard says quietly, cutting through the fog. “He was yours. Don’t let some damn piece of paper take that away.”

That’s when she finally turns her face, red-eyed and raw, and looks at him like she’s trying to find air.

Howard doesn’t hug her. He knows better. But he sets his hand on the cot beside her, palm up.

She takes it.

Fiercely.

Like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered.

And he lets her hold on.

Because he’s her partner. Her friend. Her best friend. Her brother. And this—this grief—is the kind of thing you don’t walk through alone.

Chapter Text

[London - January 1945]

Steve pauses outside the door, hesitating. It’s open a crack, but he knows better than to walk in uninvited. He draws a breath, knocks twice.

“Enter,” comes the voice from inside—icy and clipped.

Swallowing hard, Steve pushes the door open wider. She’s standing with her back to him, dressed in one of her usual black dresses, silhouetted against the light pouring in through the window. Her left hand moves restlessly, fingers working at something he can’t quite see.

She glances over her shoulder, visibly annoyed by his silence. Her blue eyes are red-rimmed, dulled.

“You’re just going to stand there? Not say anything?” Ileana asks.

Steve exhales and steps in, shutting the door behind him.

She turns her face away again, eyes fixed on something out the window. “How did it happen? I didn’t bother to read the rest of the report.”

“He… fell,” Steve says.

Ileana shakes her head, unconvinced. “Mm, that explains nothing. How did it happen, Rogers?”

It spills out fast and raw, “I was too slow. There was a HYDRA soldier with one of those cannon weapons. He aimed it at me—I dropped my shield. Bucky grabbed it, took the hit, but he got knocked out the opening. I tried to pull him back in, I swear, but the enemy shot again and… We were high up. Thousands of feet. The ravine below. We searched, top to bottom, but the only thing we found was his tags.”

She nods once. Quiet for a beat.

“Why?”

Steve doesn’t answer. He clenches his jaw, stares at the floor.

“Twelve missions. Twelve.” She finally turns to face him, voice sharp. “Why did you order me to stay behind in the first place, Rogers?”

“I saw something,” he admits, reluctantly.

“Saw what?”

He fists his hands at his sides. “You… your eyes. They turned blue. Glowing. Like the HYDRA weapons—during that mission in Denmark. I know I wasn’t imagining it. Between that and your abilities… It just doesn’t make sense.”

She hums, thoughtful, then speaks with a bite. “So you didn’t bother to ask? A simple question. ‘Why do your eyes glow blue?’”

He looks up. Her lips are drawn tight, irritated. Her hair is unkempt. She’s not even wearing her usual red lipstick.

“Why…” he begins, but she raises a finger, silencing him.

“No. You don’t get to ask any more questions now. It’s my turn.” Her voice tightens. “Did you think I was a threat? After all this time? We worked together that whole year. I was with your best friend. I have my own team out there saving hundreds—thousands—of lives. Did you see me as a threat?”

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. “I thought you were with HYDRA.”

She exhales, furious. “HYDRA? You’ve got to be… You didn’t trust me just because I have glowing eyes and didn’t want to ask why? You were made what you are today with glowing blue fluid! You know, James said we should wait to tell you until after he spoke to you. But now he doesn’t get that chance. Did you even give him a chance to tell you the news?”

Steve frowns, remembering. “He was trying to tell me something before the mission, but I…”

She cuts him off, bitter. “But you interrupted him. Told him you’d talk about it later? You hadn’t given him the time of day in months, Steve. Months! He had to track you down just to demand answers! You want to know what he was going to say? What he was going to ask you?”

She unfists her hand and drops something on the desk between them. Steve’s eyes fall to it—a ring. A simple gold band with a round pearl and two small diamonds on either side. He swallows hard.

“We were engaged,” she says quietly. “He asked me on the rooftop right before Christmas.. He was going to ask if you’d be his best man. We wanted to get married as soon as possible. Small ceremony. James was going to request leave so we could go back to Brooklyn—after this mission.”

She looks away, jaw clenched.

“You think that serum made you a superhero?” she whispers. “You think that’s all it takes? I warned you. It takes more than that. It takes trust. Trust in yourself, trust in your team—and you just broke mine. Officially.”

Her eyes flash white. “I’ll never give you the answer you want now.”

“Lee… I’m…”

"Lee’s gone,” she snaps. “So is Raven Warrior, for that matter. She died with her fiancé because you saw her as a threat.”

Her voice falters—just once—and she turns away quickly so he won’t see it. “You didn’t trust your own teammate enough to ask a bloody question.”

Steve doesn’t argue. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a chain. One of Bucky’s dog tags. He lays it gently beside the ring.

Without another word, he turns and walks out, closing the door behind him.

Peggy steps through the make-shift door of the Whip & Fiddle Pub, the heavy wood creaking slightly on its hinges. The pub is dimly lit, quiet but for the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glassware. At the bar, Steve sits alone, nursing a beer. His shoulders are slouched, posture weary, but his grip on the glass is steady.

He doesn't look at her right away.

“Doctor Erskine told me the serum wouldn’t just work on my muscles and my reflexes,” Steve says quietly, eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. “He said it would work in my cells, create a protective system of healing, of regenerating. Which means...” He turns to her now—somber, but clear-eyed. “I can’t get drunk. Did you know that?”

Peggy approaches, her gaze soft. “Your metabolism burns three times faster than average. He thought it could be one of the side effects.”

Steve almost smiles. “Probably didn’t want anybody stealing his schnapps.”

She sits beside him, hands folding neatly in her lap.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says gently.

“You read the report?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Yes.”

“Then you know that’s not true.”

“You did everything you could.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. “I got in over my head. Bucky waded in and pulled me out, just like he always did. And the one time he needed me to return the favor, I couldn’t…” His voice catches. “And the one person who probably could have, I took them off missions.”

“I doubt it’s that simple.”

Steve stares at the glass again. His knuckles are white where he grips it.

“All I had to do was…” He swallows hard. “Hold him. I couldn’t even hold him.”

Peggy waits, then asks, “Did you believe in your friend? Respect him?”

He finally looks at her.

“Of course.”

“Then stop blaming yourself,” she says, firm but kind. “Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it.”

Steve doesn’t reply. He stares down at the beer, haunted.

A silence stretches between them before he speaks again, voice quieter now.

“Did you know they were engaged?” he murmurs. “Almost a month, and I never even gave him the chance to tell me. On top of it all, I broke her trust.”

Peggy says nothing.

Steve sets his glass down with finality. “As soon as I finish this, I’m going after Johann Schmidt. I’m going to burn out every hole there is for him to hide in. And I’m not going to stop until he and all of HYDRA are captured or dead.”

Peggy nods once. Then she reaches across, takes his beer, and drinks it down in one smooth motion.

“Let’s go then,” she says.

Howard doesn’t knock. The door creaks open into Ileana’s quarters—a Spartan room tucked behind the radio operations hall, dimly lit and war-weary. On the desk: field maps, a German Luger, medical records annotated in ink and blood. On the bed: a half-packed satchel and a neatly folded SSR field uniform, not her Raven Warrior armor.

Howard steps inside, arms folded. “You’re going back into the field.”

She doesn’t look up. “I’m going back to my team.”

There’s weight in the distinction, and he knows better than to argue.

“Zero Quadrant?”

She nods once. “They’ve got a lead near Kraków. We think some of the camps are moving prisoners underground.”

He watches her tuck a pair of gloves into the satchel. “You sure you’re not going just to punish yourself?”

Her hands still for a moment, then resume folding. “Every time we show up, someone lives who wouldn’t have. That’s not penance. It’s purpose.”

Howard’s silent. He takes a breath before changing the subject.

“I heard about Rogers.”

She finally glances at him. Her expression is unreadable. “What did you hear?”

“That he’s not speaking to anyone.”

Ileana exhales slowly and turns fully toward him. Her eyes are tired, but resolute.

“He didn’t trust me.”

Howard frowns. “What do you mean?”

“We were storming a HYDRA base. I wasn’t blocking the connection to the power. My eyes lit up blue.”

“Like the stone,” Howard murmurs.

She nods. “That’s why he took me off missions. That’s why he looked at me like I was one of them.”

Howard winces and sits down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his jaw. “Hell of a thing. Kid sees a little glow and forgets you’ve pulled him out of the fire a dozen times.”

“He sees that blue and connects it to HYDRA,” she says, and her voice drops into something bitter. “And he sees me glow the same shade. And maybe that’s all it takes.”

Howard doesn’t argue. Instead, he stands and walks toward the window, looking out at the gray London skyline, blanketed by clouds and war.

“Maybe we should have told them, the team,” he mutters. “About the stones. About the way they react to you. I should’ve…”

“No,” she interrupts, firm. “That’s not on you. Steve made a choice. He looked at me and saw a weapon. Not a friend… and because of that, I lost my fiancé.”

There’s a silence that sits heavy between them. Then Howard turns back to her.

“Still,” he says, “be careful out there. You're not…”

“Invincible?” she finishes. “Aren’t I, though? I’ve lasted this long. My people longer.”

Howard pulls something from his coat pocket and hands it to her: a small silver lighter, engraved with a faded emblem of STARK Industries.

“Light up the night if you have to,” he says. “And give 'em hell.”

Ileana takes it, turning it over in her fingers.

“I always do,” she says, and for the first time in days, there’s the faintest flicker of a smile.

Chapter Text

[Southern Poland - January 1945]

The air in the old stone cellar is damp, the walls lined with makeshift maps and scattered intelligence reports. Lantern light casts flickering shadows on the faces gathered around the crude table. There’s tension in the room—long familiarity edged with the weight of too many wars, too many years.

Victor Creed leans back against the far wall, arms crossed, his brown eyes glancing from face to face with a predator’s calm. Jimmy sits forward, elbows on his knees, the stub of a cigar clenched between his teeth but unlit. He hasn’t said a word since they arrived.

Ileana stands with one hand resting on the table, the other on her hip. Her black coat is still dusty from travel. She’s older than any of them in truth—though her skin doesn’t show it—and her voice carries that same weight when she finally speaks.

"Schmidt’s trail went cold in Warsaw," she says. "Our sources inside the Nazi command say he’s been reassigned under a different name. We think he’s continuing his experiments, somewhere with access to… subjects."

“‘Subjects.’” Mariana spits the word like venom. “Say it plain. Prisoners.”

All eyes turn to her. Virago—her codename, though Jimmy’s always hated it—sits with a posture too still, her gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against her thigh. She’s beautiful, soft-featured, porcelain, with dark red hair tied back in a loose braid. But it’s her eyes that give her away—the deep, storm-lit green of someone who’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and didn’t flinch.

“I think I found him,” she says at last. Her voice is low, steady. “He’s operating under the name Doctor Shaw now. The real Shaw disappeared in ‘41. Too convenient. The new one’s been documented arriving at Auschwitz last month.”

Jimmy lifts his gaze. “You sure?”

“I saw the manifest myself. And there’s a shadow unit under his control. Not just regular SS. They’re moving people. Testing things. This isn’t just eugenics anymore. It’s weapons research.” She looks at Ileana. “We both know what that means.”

Victor chuckles dryly. “Means he’s trying to make more of us. Or worse.”

“And if it’s Schmidt,” Jimmy mutters, “then he’s already done it before. Power Stone tech. More resources. This ain’t just Nazis being Nazis.”

“No,” Ileana agrees. “This is bigger. He’s gotten involved with HYDRA.”

Mariana straightens. “I can get us in. I’ve been rotating between partisan cells, building routes in and out of the camps. We use a Red Cross drop as cover. I go in as a medical assistant. You follow in two days. Low profile. We isolate Shaw and extract him alive—if possible. If not…”

Jimmy finishes for her, “Then we burn the place down around him.”

Victor shrugs. “Not like I haven’t done that before.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” Ileana warns, voice steel-edged. “Schmidt isn’t just a man. Not anymore. He’s obsessed with ascension. Power. He’d burn the world to reach it.”

Mariana meets her eyes. “Then let’s make sure he burns first.”

Silence follows. The weight of the plan settles into their bones. It won’t be easy. It won’t be clean. But it never is.

Jimmy finally stands. The wooden chair creaks under the shift of muscle and weight.

“When do we move?”

Mariana doesn’t hesitate. “Two days. Sunset. Be ready to disappear.”

Victor bares his teeth in a feral grin. “Always am.”

Ileana nods once. The lines at the corners of her eyes deepen.

“Then it’s decided.”

And in that cold, hidden place beneath a war-torn country, four ghosts prepare to walk into hell—again.

[New York City - 1902]

The wind cuts sharp down Mulberry Street, knifing through the gaps in heavy wool and finer velvet. Gas lamps hiss against the falling snow. Ileana adjusts her shawl around Mariana’s shoulders for the third time, scolding her softly as they walk.

“You’ll catch your death in that neckline, child.”

Mariana, all of thirteen and already as proud as a lioness, huffs and lifts her chin. “I told you, I’m not a child anymore. Papa says I’ll have suitors soon.”

Ileana snorts quietly, tightening the wrap. “Suitors won’t matter much if you’re too frozen to curtsey.”

They’re on their way to midnight mass at Saint Patrick’s, the old one down on Prince Street. The bells toll distantly, echoing between the alleys and fire escapes.

Then Ileana stops.

It’s subtle—a shift in air, a scrape of boots where there shouldn’t be. She catches Mariana’s arm and pulls her slightly behind.

“Don’t speak,” she whispers.

From the opening of the alley, three men emerge. Shadowed eyes, long coats, and that slow, confident gait of predators. One whistles low.

“Pretty pair for the snow. Fancy coats, too.”

“Let us pass,” Ileana says evenly.

The one in front smiles. “Oh, I think we’ll have a dance first.”

The lunge is sudden. Mariana screams, jerking back as Ileana throws herself between. A knife flashes, catches her just under the ribs—and the man jerks back, startled.

Blood should pour. It doesn’t.

The wound is already sealing. Muscle knits, skin shivers, and the knife comes away clean.

“What the…”

Ileana’s eyes narrow, glowing faintly white in the shadows.

“Leave,” she growls.

But one of the men grabs Mariana.

And that’s when the girl changes.

Her breath rattles in her throat. Her lips peel back over newly-formed fangs—four sharpened canines that shine under the gaslight. Her green eyes slit into something cat-like. She doesn’t scream. She snarls.

“Don’t touch me,” she rasps, voice shaking with something inhuman.

The man stumbles back, hands bleeding from where she scratched him with black claws. Then she’s on him—teeth sinking into his shoulder, forcing him to the ground with strength she shouldn’t have.

Ileana stares for half a second—just half—and then finishes it. One precise punch to the third man’s throat crumples him. The first one runs. Ileana lets him.

When Mariana pulls back, her face is flushed, eyes still slitted. Her breath fogs the air like steam.

They stare at each other.

“You…” Mariana whispers. “You healed.”

Ileana blinks, chest rising fast. “You bit a man.”

They both burst out laughing—half hysterical, half gasping for air. Snow swirls around them, soft and pale. The body groans beneath Mariana, still alive.

Ileana kneels and touches the girl’s face, brushing blood away.

“I thought I was here to protect you,” she murmurs.

Mariana grabs her hand. “Maybe we’re supposed to protect each other.”

They don’t go to mass that night.

They walk home hand in hand through the snow, not bleeding or bruised, eyes sharp and strange. Neither one has any real name for what Mariana is—not yet. But in the silence between their footsteps, something ancient takes root. A friendship that will last decades, if not centuries.

[Auschwitz - January 1945]

Snow drifts down like ash.

The camp is quiet in the way graveyards are quiet. Silent watchtowers loom over the fences. The air stinks of smoke, metal, and fear. Mariana crouches at the edge of the perimeter, her red hair tucked under a stolen officer's cap, the frost biting her porcelain skin. Her green eyes burn through the dark like twin lanterns.

Behind her, Jimmy adjusts the collar of his uniform. His claws have been retracted, but the tension in his shoulders says it wouldn’t take much. Victor flanks them, bristling—less quiet, more of a storm caged behind a smirk. Ileana follows silently, her expression made of stone.

They slip through the wire.

Mariana leads. Her senses prickle. They’d tracked Schmidt to Poland—intel intercepted through resistance channels, whispers of experiments carried out under the guise of the Reich’s science division. But now? Now there’s no sign of him.

What they do find is worse.

The barracks are barely more than wooden skeletons in the frost. Bodies too small and too thin huddle inside—children. Dozens of them. Skin tight on bone, shaved heads, numbers tattooed into soft arms. But some of them, their eyes glow.

A girl levitates a spoon absentmindedly between her fingers. A boy’s skin glimmers silver under moonlight. Another child presses his palms together and sparks dance between them.

Advanced Humans. Children.

Victor snarls under his breath. “What the hell is this?”

“Not a camp,” Mariana says softly. “A collection.”

“Schmidt’s little pet project,” Jimmy mutters. “Weaponizing kids.”

They move deeper into the barracks.

That’s when they find him.

The boy is maybe ten. Shadowed blue eyes. Pale skin. Filthy uniform clinging to his frame. But around him, the metal beds twist—contorted into strange, violent shapes, like someone had screamed through the steel. His hands don’t stop shaking. Chains around his ankles have been shredded like paperclips.

Ileana kneels in front of him.

“Hey,” she says gently. “What’s your name?”

He stares at her, uncertain.

Then: “Max.”

“Max,” she echoes, voice low, soothing. “Did someone hurt you?”

His eyes flicker to the twisted metal, then away. “They wanted to see how much weight I could bend.”

Jimmy winces. Mariana closes her eyes. Victor’s fists curl, but he doesn’t speak.

Ileana reaches out, slow and careful, until her hand rests on his arm. “You’re safe now. We’re going to get you out.”

The boy’s lips tremble. “He said I’d be special. He said if I was strong enough, I’d never be cold again.”

“Who said that?” Jimmy asks, crouching beside her.

Max lowers his eyes.

“Doctor Schmidt.”

A silence falls between the four of them. Mariana’s jaw clenches. “He was here.”

“But he’s not now,” Victor growls.

Jimmy stands. “Then we keep looking. But not tonight.”

“No,” Ileana agrees, her voice sharp now. “Tonight, we save who we can.”

She rises, icy eyes scanning the room. “Get them ready. Blankets, boots, food if you can find it. We’re not leaving a single one behind.”

Victor’s eyes narrow. “Even the sparky ones?”

Ileana turns to him.

“They’re children.” Her voice cuts like a blade. “And they’re ours.”

Victor nods once. No argument.

As the snow thickens outside, the team moves like shadows—wrapping tiny bodies in stolen coats, whispering comfort in languages none of them speak fluently but all understand.

Later, when the fires are set to the barracks and the guards lie unconscious in the snow, a line of small figures disappear into the trees.

Max walks beside Ilieana.

He doesn’t ask where they’re going.

He already knows.

Anywhere but here.

Chapter Text

[Safehouse - Outskirts of Kraków]

The old farmhouse is damp with cold, the stone walls doing little to hold out the early morning chill. But inside, the air is warmer than any of the children have felt in months. A fire crackles in the hearth. Blankets are stacked high. Fresh bread and boiled potatoes steam in the corner of the kitchen, and someone has found a battered gramophone playing a quiet lullaby in Polish.

Mariana sits on the floor with Max, her back against the wall. The boy leans on her side—not fully trusting, not fully distant. His fingers twist a coin he brought with him. It floats between his hands now, spinning and spinning in midair.

Ileana moves through the room like a ghost turned nursemaid—checking fevers, doling out medicine, whispering calm in half a dozen languages. She lifts a child in her arms and disappears down the hall to coax sleep from terror.

Victor stands at the window, arms crossed. The curtains are closed, but he listens—always listening. For boots, for planes, for the old evil that hasn’t given up the chase.

Jimmy returns with two duffel bags of medicine slung over his shoulder, stomping snow off his boots.

“Still quiet out there,” he says. “If Schmidt caught wind of us, he’s not acting yet.”

Mariana doesn’t look up. “He’s regrouping. He won’t come in guns blazing when he can wait and pull the next knife in private.”

Victor grunts in agreement. “Coward’s always been a snake.”

“Snakes bite,” Jimmy mutters, then glances toward Mariana. “We can’t keep them here forever.”

“I know,” she says.

Ileana reappears, quiet as a breeze. “We could take them to Marseille, then split to ships from there. But it’s temporary at best.”

“We don’t need temporary.” Mariana finally rises, her eyes burning as she walks to the kitchen table, where a battered map lies open. “We need permanent. We need Havin.”

Jimmy tilts his head. “You sure about that? Place isn’t even finished yet. Half the shelters are still tents, and we’re still laying power lines.”

“We have doctors. Fresh water. Sunlight.” Mariana points to the tiny hand-drawn dot off the Indian Ocean coast. “And most of all? We have no Reich. No soldiers. No camps. No one to twist these kids into weapons.”

Victor comes over, eyes narrowed. “It’s remote.”

“Exactly.”

“They’ll find it eventually.”

“Then we’ll make sure we’re ready before they do.”

Silence settles around the table. The fire crackles behind them. A girl sneezes in her sleep nearby.

“They deserve somewhere to heal,” Ileana says softly.

“They deserve somewhere to live,” Mariana corrects.

Jimmy sighs, then nods. “Alright. We start planning transport.”

Mariana’s voice hardens. “And when Schmidt resurfaces?”

Victor smiles like a blade. “Then we make damn sure he wishes he’d stayed in whatever hole he crawled into.”

The others sleep—most of them, at least. The room has quieted into that strange stillness that only comes after too much fear. Children nestle in clusters under wool blankets, the fire burned low to coals.

Max sits alone near the edge of the hearth, knees pulled up to his chest. A coin hovers just above his palm. It spins slowly in the air, perfectly balanced, neither rising nor falling. Just moving. Just obeying him.

Ileana kneels beside him, soft and deliberate, careful not to startle. She wears no boots, just stockings. No creak on the floorboards. Just the hush of a woman used to speaking with the wounded.

“You can’t sleep?” she asks gently.

Max doesn’t look at her. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“Alright,” she says, folding her legs beside him. “Then we can talk.”

The coin dips—just slightly—then straightens again. He’s still learning to control it, but there’s power there. Purpose.

“I want to ask you something,” she continues. “Have you heard anyone mention a place called Havin?”

Max shakes his head. His eyes flick up to hers—suspicious, guarded, older than they should be.

“It’s a place we’re building,” Ileana says, keeping her voice even. “Far away from all this. It’s warm. Safe. Has fruit trees. A school. A medical wing. We even have a few goats.” She smiles faintly. “Terrible-tempered creatures, but the milk’s good.”

He squints, not in disbelief, but in wary interest. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because we’d like you to come. Just for a little while. To see if it feels like home.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “No.”

“No?”

He finally turns to face her fully. “I don’t want to go there. I want to stay here. With you. With the ones who found me.”

The coin spins faster, a subtle edge of tension in the air.

“Alright,” she says softly. “Then how about a deal?”

His eyes narrow. He’s used to bargains costing more than they promise.

“You come with me to Havin,” she offers. “Just for a little while. I’ll stay with you. Every step. If you hate it—we’ll leave. Together. You decide.”

He stares at her, caught between disbelief and longing. “You’d really come?”

“I go where I’m needed,” she says. “And I think you’re worth showing the world to.”

There’s a long pause. The coin stops spinning. Just floats, still and gleaming, in front of his chest.

Then, almost in a whisper, Max says, “Can I… can I have a new name?”

Ileana tilts her head. “Why?”

He presses his lips together. “They called me their name. A number, mostly. But the other one… the one I was born with… It’s broken now.”

Her heart tightens, but she nods.

“Then what name would you like?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Erik. It was my mother’s brother’s name. He disappeared before the soldiers came. She said he was brave. Like a storm in the forest.”

Ileana smiles, something warm and proud behind it. “Then Erik it is.”

He hesitates again. “And Lensherr. It was my father’s name. But only she ever said it with love.”

Ileana places a hand gently over his, stilling the coin. “Erik Lensherr,” she repeats. “It suits you.”

The boy—no longer Max—lets out a breath that sounds like something breaking free.

The coin finally falls into his palm.

Erik doesn’t flinch. He just closes his fingers around it and leans against her side for the first time.

Chapter Text

[En route to SSR Field Base - January 1945]

The jeep rumbles low over uneven ground, its shocks groaning under the weight of the children packed shoulder to shoulder. Blankets cover thin limbs, wide eyes blink out at the forest, but no one cries. Not anymore. Not after what they’ve seen.

Ileana crouches beside the vehicle, hand over the radio’s receiver, straining to hear through the crackle.

“...repeat, 60th Ukrainian Regiment en route to sector Bravo, estimated arrival within two hours…”

She straightens slowly, wind stirring the edges of her coat. The air smells of mud, frost, and distant smoke. Her gaze lifts to the others.

Victor slings his rifle over one shoulder, watching her with surprising calm. Mariana tightens the straps on her pack with impatient fingers. Jimmy’s knuckles are white around a map he’s been holding for miles.

“They’re here,” Ileana says.

Victor’s brow twitches. “The 60th? We heard.”

“Sector Bravo. They’re close. We’re closer.”

Mariana’s eyes light up. “That’s our window.”

“It’s the window,” Ileana confirms. “If we reach them with proof… photos, records, testimony. They can move on the camp. We can make it public before anyone buries it.”

She looks toward the children. The youngest are already dozing against each other in the jeep, too exhausted to stay awake.

“They’ll never make it fast enough on foot,” Jimmy says quietly.

Ileana nods. “Which is why you’re going ahead.”

“What?” Mariana steps forward. “No. No, no, you’re going. You’ve got the voice, the contacts…”

“...and the older children need someone to lead them,” Ileana interrupts. “Someone they recognize. Someone who can speak in any language.”

“You’re not safe out here.”

“None of us are.”

“Infiniti…!”

“I’m not arguing,” she snaps, but not unkindly. “We don’t have time for it. We split. You take the jeep and the smallest ones, everything we’ve gathered—maps, the ledgers, the photos. Get to the 60th and then meet back at the SSR. Hand it over. Make them see.”

Victor studies her face. “You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t question it again.

Mariana still looks like she wants to fight, but Jimmy places a steadying hand on her shoulder. “She’s right, Virago. If this falls apart, it can’t be with everything in one place.”

“Wolverine, we can’t just leave her!”

“I’ll take the back trail with the older ones,” Ileana continues, already checking the compass, gauging the light. “It’ll take longer, but we’ll keep off the roads.”

There’s a long silence.

Finally, Mariana swears under her breath and throws her pack into the jeep. “If you get lost and finally figure out how to die out there, I swear to God, I’ll resurrect you just to kill you myself.”

Ileana smiles faintly. “Fair enough.”

She turns to the children waiting under the trees—silent, wary, older than they should be.

“Come,” she says gently. “We’re walking.”

Victor helps her distribute what little gear they can carry. Jimmy checks the radio again, then hands it over. “Just in case.”

Ileana meets his eyes. “Thank you.”

He just nods. “See you at the rendezvous.”

The engine groans as the jeep pulls forward, leaving a trail of churned mud in its wake. As it vanishes around the bend, Ileana turns to the forest, the children, the narrow path ahead.

She shoulders her pack. Her voice is quiet, but it carries in clean German.

“Let’s go. We have a war to end.”

[SSR Field Headquarters - January 1945]

Snow crunches under worn boots as Ileana crests the final rise, the canvas tents of the SSR Field Headquarters coming into view at last. She’s pale from cold, lips split from thirst, but she keeps moving. Behind her, the older children stagger under too-thin coats, the youngest being carried in quiet arms. Not one of them has spoken for miles.

The guards don’t question her when she reaches the edge of camp. One of them runs ahead.

Inside the main command tent, the atmosphere has already shifted. Victor’s voice had apparently done its damage hours earlier. Jimmy’s steely silence and Mariana’s cold fury filled in the rest. The brass were left shaken, reeling. But that was before she arrived.

The flap opens.

Ileana enters.

She is soaked to the bone, ash still caked at the seams of her sleeves. Her presence is not a plea—it’s a reckoning.

Colonel Bradford rises from his seat at once, fury mounting. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing bringing civilians here without clearance? You’ve completely overstepped…”

“You overstepped us,” Ileana says, calm and blistering. “For months, years!”

General Hanley doesn’t stand. His eyes narrow as he studies her, calculating. “Your team has gone off-book. They’ve left with foreign soldiers to engage in an unauthorized assault. Are you aware of what they’ve…”

“I ordered them to,” she cuts in. “Because while you sat here debating jurisdiction, an extermination was still in progress.”

There’s a stunned silence.

Ileana steps forward and picks up the soaked satchel on the table that Zero Quadrant left behind. She turns it over, spilling a bundle of documents, photographs, diagrams—proof.

“They’re heading to Auschwitz with the 60th Ukrainian Regiment. We gave you everything—intel, intercepted orders, transport manifests, survivor testimony. You chose not to act. That blood is on your hands.”

Major Simms shifts uncomfortably. “There’s procedure…”

“They built crematoriums. Burned people alive. Children.” Ileana doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. “There’s no procedure for that. There’s only complicity.”

The flap rustles. A medical officer appears with wide eyes, scanning the children now huddled at the entrance. The oldest—maybe fifteen—clutches the hand of a smaller girl. Another one leans against Ileana’s coat, eyes glassy with exhaustion. The room quiets. Even Bradford falls still.

“These children walked here,” Ileana says. “They’ve watched their families die. Their homes turn to ash. They don’t care about your maps. Or your excuses. They care that someone finally showed up.”

Victor’s report is still open on the table, pages marked and fingerprinted. Jimmy’s handwriting loops beside a photograph of a burned-out warehouse, and Mariana’s annotations follow the ink—methodical, damning, unignorable.

Hanley finally speaks. “You’re expecting a full deployment. Immediate engagement.”

“No,” Ileana says. “I’m expecting you to grow a spine.”

Silence.

She looks each of them in the eye.

“You can sit here and worry about protocol while the camp burns,” she finishes. “Or you can move. But if you wait too long—history will remember that, too.”

The children are ushered toward the medical tents. Ileana doesn’t move to follow them. Not yet.

She’s still watching the table.

Still waiting.

Let them decide if they’re cowards—or if they’re finally ready to act.

General Hanley leans back slowly in his chair, the light from the overhead lamp catching on the deep lines carved into his face. The tent is dead silent but for the faint rustle of the canvas in the wind outside.

Then, at last, he exhales.

“Colonel Bradford. Prepare the second and third detachments. Medical units, too. Full support.” He looks over at Simms. “Notify Supreme Command that we’re engaging. Retroactively authorize everything.”

Bradford blinks. “Sir, are you…?”

“I said move.”

Chairs scrape. Boots pound the earth. The command tent erupts into movement as orders are barked, maps unrolled, and radios come to life. Ileana doesn’t flinch. She watches as the machinery of war stirs to life around her—finally.

Hanley remains seated. “You understand what you’ve done, Dr Smythe.”

“I do,” Ileana replies, straightening. “I just hope you understand what you haven’t, until now.”

He holds her gaze for a long beat.

“Get warm. Eat. We leave within the hour.”

Ileana nods once. She turns toward the entrance where the medical team is leading the children out.

She pauses.

“I want your word, General.”

Hanley glances up again.

“That when this is over, it’s not buried. Not redacted. Not forgotten.” Her voice is low. “We make it known what happened in those camps. What we let happen.”

Hanley’s jaw tenses. He looks toward the children now being guided into tents by medics with blankets and canteens. His eyes linger there.

“You have it,” he says finally. “On my name.”

Ileana gives the faintest nod.

The air cuts sharp as she exits the tent. Snow clings to her coat, half-melted from the body heat of the march. Around her, the SSR camp has transformed. Soldiers are hurrying to gear up, medics readying stretchers, headlights blinking on one by one.

Ileana exhales slowly, watching her breath curl into the frozen dark. She moves through the camp, boots crunching over ice, eyes scanning the organized chaos until she spots them—the children.

They’re huddled together under a makeshift awning. Blankets. Water. Bread. Small rations that they can handle. One girl clutches a stuffed bear someone must’ve handed her from the supply box. Another boy stares straight ahead, his eyes blank. Shell-shocked. Too young to understand what he’s survived.

Ileana crouches in front of them, moving slowly so she doesn’t startle anyone.

“You’re safe now,” she says gently in German. “The soldiers here are friends. You’re going to get warm, and food, and beds.”

A hand reaches out. Erik. Ileana takes it without hesitation, her voice softer now. “You were so brave. All of you. Just a little longer now. I have to go deal with the brass. I swear to you I will be back.”

Erik nods once, almost imperceptibly. His hand squeezes hers before releasing. Ileana stands.

She walks over to the edge of the perimeter where the fresh snow has been untouched. Alone again, finally, she takes a breath and closes her eyes. For just a second.

She thinks of Victor—probably snapping at some poor lieutenant. Of Mariana arguing with the field medics that she is qualified to perform surgery. Of Jimmy, rifle slung, half a smile on his face, already slipping into the ruins like a shadow.

Of James. At the bottom of a ravine.

Her eyes snap open.

A flicker of motion catches her eye.

Colonel Bradford approaches, gloves tucked under one arm, something grim in his expression.

“You’re not going to like this,” he says without preamble.

“I haven’t liked anything in a while,” Ileana answers.

He almost smiles. “Hanley’s greenlit the liberation, but he’s holding you back. Says you’re too compromised, too valuable.”

“Meaning I’m trouble,” she mutters.

“Meaning you’re a political asset now. Press is sniffing around. And once this breaks…” Bradford lowers his voice. “They’re gonna want a face.”

Ileana looks away, jaw clenched. “Let the 60th be the face. Children are still out there. Zero Quadrant is still out there.”

“I know. And your team will get them. You’ve done your part.”

“No,” she says, sharper than intended. “I haven’t.”

There’s a long pause.

Bradford’s voice lowers again. “Then do the part they don’t see. Keep the children calm. Get them talking. Locations. Names. Family members, if any survived. No one else can get that from them the way you can.”

He hesitates.

“You’re the one they trust.”

That silences her.

The fire she carries doesn’t go out, it just shifts direction.

Ileana finally nods. “Fine. But I’m not standing in line and being a press asset.”

She turns back toward the tents. Her coat snaps behind her in the wind.

Bradford calls after her, “They’re not gonna like this when the papers come out.”

She glances over her shoulder. “Then they shouldn’t have left the camps standing.”

And with that, she walks into the shadows of the medical tent—where the children wait.

Where her real work begins.

The tent flaps close behind her with a sigh of canvas and wind.

Ileana exhales for what feels like the first time in hours.

Her boots are soaked. Her gloves stiff with frost. The chill has long sunk through her coat, down into her bones, but it’s not the cold that’s making her hands shake.

It’s the voices.

Echoes of children, barely above whispers, recounting what no child should know: the selections, the ovens, the “doctor with the needle,” the roll calls that thinned each day. One boy had spoken of a dog that only attacked the ones who cried.

She unbuttons her coat with methodical fingers and hangs it on the back of the camp chair. The tent is dim, lit only by a single oil lantern and the ghost of early morning beyond the seams. Her cot sits untouched—she hasn’t dared sleep yet.

Instead, Ileana drops into the chair like gravity has finally caught her.

There’s mud on her hem. Her hands hover over her face, but she doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t want to feel how hollow she’s become.

The reports are in her satchel. Names. Locations. The sketch of a furnace layout one of the older boys remembered with military precision. A girl named Róża had drawn a picture of her sister’s bunk and said the doctor ‘took her because her eyes were different.’

The files burn through the leather flap like they’re still smoldering.

Footsteps crunch outside.

She doesn't flinch.

It's Mariana who storms through, tracking in mud and fury. Her coat’s still blood-splattered from the rescue, but she doesn’t slow. Not when Ileana’s been hiding behind maps and silence for days.

“You’re going to start talking,” Mariana says flatly.

Ileana doesn’t look up. “No, I’m not.”

Mariana plants herself in front of her. “You’ve been shutting everyone out. Avoiding the team. Avoiding me. You bark orders like a machine and disappear the moment the fires are out. What the hell is going on with you?”

Ileana breathes through her nose. Controlled. Composed.

Mariana narrows her eyes. “You don’t get to be the cold one. That’s my job.”

That gets a reaction. Ileana finally glances up—expression unreadable, but her voice is thin. Frayed at the edges.

“I lost him.”

Mariana frowns. “Who?”

“James Buchanan Barnes. I found my soulmate,” Ileana says. “And then I lost him.”

Something quiet shifts between them.

“You’re immortal,” Mariana says slowly. “Like me. Your people are called immortals. You told me when I was a kid that they have soulmates forever. That’s… not supposed to happen. Not like this.”

“No,” Ileana says. “It’s not.”

They stare at each other. One advanced. One alien. Centuries apart in origin, but tethered by the same curse: to keep living when others don’t.

Mariana lowers her voice. “How?”

“Fell from a train,” Ileana says. “HYDRA. Mission gone wrong. His body was never recovered.”

Mariana exhales through her teeth. “That’s not death. That’s a question mark.”

“It’s a sentence,” Ileana snaps. “Because I felt it. When he went. I felt something in me tear—something that was only ever his. I didn’t even know it was real until it vanished.”

She finally looks Mariana in the eye—and the glow in her irises is faint, haunted white. Not power this time. Grief.

“And to top it off?” Ileana says. “Rogers saw the blue glow of the power stone in my eyes and didn’t trust me. Thought I was something HYDRA built. Like their damn weapons. He didn’t even ask. Just looked at me like I was a threat.”

Mariana clenches her jaw. “Did Barnes know what you are?”

“Yes. And he didn’t care.” Her voice softens. “He said… we’d figure it out. Together. He wanted the Transference. I was the one who wanted to wait, let him think about it longer.”

Silence stretches between them like a wound neither of them can close.

“How do you survive that?” Mariana finally asks. “How do you survive knowing you’ll live forever… without him? I can barely handle a week without Jimmy.”

Ileana’s voice breaks. “I don’t know.”

Mariana steps closer, her anger cooled, her presence grounding.

“We don’t get to stop,” she says gently. “Not with what we are. So if you can’t carry it alone, then don’t. Let me carry part of it with you. We’re supposed to protect each other, remember?”

Ileana nods once. Barely. But it's enough.

They say nothing more. They don’t need to. Two immortals, standing in the ashes of a war, each holding the pieces of someone else’s forever.

And outside, the wind keeps moving.

Chapter Text

[SSR Briefing Tent – A Few Days Later]

The heavy canvas of the command tent groans under the weight of snow piling on the roof. Inside, the air crackles—not with cold, but with tension. Maps are cleared, chairs pulled back. The war isn't over, but this battle—the liberation of Auschwitz—is. The fallout begins now.

Ileana stands at the head of the table beside Victor, Jimmy, and Mariana. None of them are in uniform. They don’t need to be. The work they’ve done speaks louder than any insignia.

General Hanley is already seated. Colonel Bradford stands at his side. A few other brass mill around, tight-lipped and silent.

“We appreciate your discretion,” Hanley says at last, his tone clipped. “The children you retrieved are being treated at the forward aid stations. We’ve moved them away from the main camps.”

“For their safety,” Victor growls. “And yours.”

Hanley nods. “We understand. The advanced ones—those with… differences—will be transferred off-record. Kept out of the press.”

“We’re withdrawing them,” Mariana cuts in. “You don’t get to spin this into propaganda. These children aren’t weapons. They’re survivors.”

“We’re not asking for control,” Bradford says carefully. “We’re asking who the world’s going to see. Someone has to speak for what happened. Someone has to give it a name.”

There’s a long beat.

All eyes turn to Ileana.

She doesn’t flinch.

“I will,” she says.

Victor’s head turns, sharply. Mariana frowns. Jimmy doesn’t say anything—but he watches her, jaw tight.

Hanley leans forward. “You?”

Ileana nods slowly. “You want someone for the papers? Someone who can speak fluent English, French, German, Polish, Russian? Someone who survived it, led the mission, brought the evidence, saved the children?”

She looks Hanley dead in the eye.

“Let Dr. Ileana Smythe be the one. Raven Warrior.”

There’s a long pause before recognition dawns.

“You’re her,” Simms breathes. “The one from the reports. You were with the Howling Commandos.”

“Raven Warrior was a Howling Commando while I ran Zero Quadrant,” she says. “I was never a ghost. I’ve been here the whole time. Just not where you were looking.”

Silence.

She reaches into her shirt and places something on the table.

Dog Tags.

Those belonging to Raven Warrior. Dr. Ileana Smythe. O-3556281. Hverfisgata 10 Reykjavik 101 Iceland.

“The face you want?” she says, voice quieter now. “Let it be hers.”

Hanley frowns. “And what about you?”

She draws a breath.

“After this, I go back to Iceland. That’s where I’m from. That’s where they’ll say I was buried. Because the man I loved—James Buchanan Barnes—was killed in action. And I never came back from that.”

Jimmy turns his face slightly. His jaw flexes, but he stays silent.

Ileana meets no one’s eyes now. She stares past the table. Past the cold. Past the war.

“Let that be the end of her story.”

Hanley doesn’t argue. Neither does Bradford.

They know a closing chapter when they hear one.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Hanley says finally. “The press will get their hero. The rest—stays buried.”

Ileana nods once. “That’s the deal.”

Mariana takes a step closer. “You sure about this?”

“No,” Ileana says honestly. “But I’m done being used. This time—I write the ending.”

Victor grunts approvingly. “About time.”

Jimmy’s voice is low. “He’d have been proud.”

She doesn’t answer. Just nods again.

Outside, the snow has stopped. The clouds are clearing. But inside this tent, it’s still winter.

And Ileana walks out into it without looking back.

Chapter Text

[Southwest of Madagascar. Indian Ocean - Three Days Out from Port - March 1945]

The boat creaks and groans with the weight of the sea. Its engines thrum low and steady, a rhythmic heartbeat beneath the floor. Most of the children remain below deck, tucked into hammocks or curled in corners, lulled by the motion of the waves and the strange quiet that comes with safety.

Food is served in silence. Broth. Bread. Soft, warm things that don’t come with fear attached. They eat slowly, suspiciously at first. Some of them keep their backs to the walls. Some count the exits. All of them flinch when the wood shifts too sharply, or when boots sound overhead.

Erik doesn’t flinch.

He just watches.

He’s sitting near the stairs, legs drawn up, a dented tin plate untouched in his lap. The others give him space. They’ve already sensed it: he’s not one of the small ones. There’s something in his silence that unnerves them.

Ileana leans against a beam a few feet away, arms crossed. Watching him as he watches everyone else.

“You’re not eating,” she says after a while.

He shrugs. “I’m not hungry.”

She doesn’t press. She never does.

The ship rocks gently, a lull that’s almost kind.

A smaller boy—Yasha, maybe six years old—spills a tin cup of soup trying to navigate a bench. The noise is small. Contained. But he freezes, eyes wide. Chest heaving like he expects to be hit.

Erik is already moving.

He kneels beside the boy without hesitation, mops up the spill with a rag, then hands the cup back without a word. The younger boy stares. Waits.

Nothing comes.

Erik nods once, then returns to his corner.

Ileana meets the boy’s eyes from across the deck and gives a soft smile. It’s enough. Yasha sits, trembling, but doesn’t run.

Later, on the top deck, Erik joins Ileana at the rail. The night wind is warm here, salted and clean. Stars sprawl above them, undimmed by war or smoke.

He finally speaks.

“They don’t know what they are yet.”

“No,” Ileana agrees.

“But I do.”

She turns slightly. “And what are you?”

He stares out at the dark water. “Something different. I can feel it. Not just the metal. It’s in my bones. My blood. Like gravity leans the other way when I’m near.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know.” He glances up. “That island... is it really ours?”

“It will be,” she answers. “Not just for survivors. For those who need to become something more than what the world tried to make them.”

He’s quiet again.

Then: “Will it have schools?”

“Yes.”

“And people like you?”

She smiles faintly. “Not exactly like me… I’m a little different. But there will be people like you. Plenty of them.”

Erik nods, as if filing that away.

“I’m not going to stay there forever.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“I want to learn. Everything. So when I leave, I can make sure no one ever builds a place like that again.” His voice trembles—not with fear, but with rage held in check.

“You’ll have time,” Ileana says softly. “You have your whole life.”

Erik turns the coin in his fingers again. The same one from the safehouse. It spins once, just barely off his skin.

“Maybe that’s the scariest part,” he murmurs.

And then he slips it into his pocket and stands beside her, blue fire in his eyes, watching Havin rise on the horizon as dawn breaks over the water.

[Havin]

Bone claws slices through the hanging vines with clean, precise strokes. Jimmy moves forward steadily, the underbrush parting under his weight and will. Behind him, Mariana follows—bare-armed, boots caked in red soil, her porcelain skin streaked with sweat and dirt.

She's not even winded.

“Place is a damned jungle,” Jimmy mutters, shoving a palm frond aside with a grunt. “You sure this spot’s good for the medical shelter?”

“It’s close enough to the freshwater spring,” Mariana says, stepping around him. “Far enough from the coast to be safe, but near enough to evacuate if we ever need to. And the air's clean. No contamination. It’ll do.”

Jimmy watches her for a beat. Hair coiled up in a twist. Dirt smudged across her cheekbone. Fury coiled beneath every movement, barely contained.

“Can’t stop picturing ‘em, can you,” he says quietly.

She stops mid-step. Doesn’t look back.

“No.”

He walks up beside her and gazes out over the clearing. They’d burned the brush here a week ago, then cleared the ash. What’s left is open ground, warm and damp underfoot. Still wild. Still growing.

“It’s not gonna be enough,” she says finally. “A roof over their heads. Blankets. Soup.”

“I know.”

“They won’t sleep. Not at first. Not without the nightmares.” Her jaw clenches.

Jimmy doesn’t say anything for a moment. 

“We’re not trying to make them forget what happened. Just give them the space to survive it.”

She nods once. “Some of them will hate us.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says. “That’s okay. Hate’s a step up from fear.”

They start walking again. A pair of local builders—advanced humans with subtle gifts, one with plant manipulation and the other with heat-shaping hands—have already started laying the foundation for the first longhouse. Wood’s local. Tools, scavenged. Supplies, smuggled in quiet and off-grid.

Mariana watches the vines twist gently around a support beam, forming a trellis. Her eyes narrow. Then she gestures to the builder.

“Not there. If that support fails in a storm, the whole wall will collapse.”

The builder hesitates—then nods. Adjusts. The trellis reshapes itself slowly, obediently.

Jimmy smirks. “That bedside manner of yours needs work.”

“I’m not a nursemaid.”

“No. You’re not, you’re my wife.”

“And always will be.”

He huffs, “Good.”

She glances out toward the northern bluff, where crates of salvaged medical gear and blankets are being offloaded from a second skiff. In the distance, a single black bird cuts across the sun, then vanishes into the canopy.

Mariana shields her eyes.

“They’ll be here by sundown.”

Jimmy grunts in reply and starts unstrapping the canvas from a crate. “Let’s make sure they know it.”

The boat cuts through the calm waters as the sun begins to tilt west, casting a golden sheen over the island’s jagged cliffs and dense greenery. Palm trees sway lazily in the wind, the air thick with salt and the slow rhythm of hammers striking wood.

Ileana steps off the transport barefoot, her black linen dress damp at the hem from sea spray. She walks with purpose, even here, even now—hair tied back, face bare, no need for pretense. She’s lived two thousand years and more, built empires and watched them crumble. But this—this little patch of land in the Indian Ocean—is something else. Something new.

A sound cuts through the breeze. Small footsteps. Then arms wrap around her waist.

Erik.

He says nothing, just holds her tightly. Ileana’s arms circle him without hesitation, her fingers resting on the back of his head. His silence says everything—he's safe now, but still searching.

A crunch of gravel draws her gaze upward. James Howlett strides toward her, sleeves rolled to the elbows, boots muddy, a toolbelt slung over his shoulder. Behind him walks Mariana—Virago to anyone who knows her temper. Dust clings to her like war paint, her dark red hair tied back with a strip of muslin. Her green eyes flick quickly to Ileana, assessing, confirming, and then relaxing ever so slightly.

“Welcome back,” Jimmy says, wiping his hands on his trousers. “We weren’t sure when you’d make landfall.”

“I had to make a few stops,” Ileana replies, lifting her satchel. “Smuggled penicillin and copper wiring through Lisbon. Don’t ask how.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Mariana says dryly. “You bring the ledger?”

Ileana taps the satchel. “Every penny. We’ve got enough to finish six more cabins and run clean water to the infirmary. But the generator and long-term provisions… still light.”

They begin walking together through the camp. Children play nearby—hesitant still, but laughing now and then. Chickens roam freely between the cabins. In the shade of the trees, someone is tending to the vegetable beds. Erik trails beside Ileana, his small frame mostly silent, though his eyes move constantly.

Jimmy glances down at him. “Doesn’t say much, does he? But he watches everything.”

“He asked to help with the wiring,” Ileana says softly.

“Good,” Mariana replies. “He needs work. Focus. Purpose.”

“He wants to stay,” Ileana murmurs. “Not just here. With us. With people who won’t leave. Who’ll let him be angry when he needs to be. Who won’t flinch at what he can do.”

They stop at the edge of a cleared field. Stakes mark future walls. A blackboard leans against a tree, rescued from a ruined schoolhouse back in Europe. 

“You still think this island’s enough?” Jimmy asks her quietly.

“No,” Ileana admits. “But it’s the first thing I’ve done in a long time that feels right.”

Erik edges closer. His eyes land on the field, on the pieces of what might become a life. He glances up at her.

“Will there be books?” he asks.

Ileana doesn’t blink. “There will be everything. Eventually.”

Mariana leans her weight on one hip. “We’ll talk numbers after dinner. I want to know exactly what we need before monsoon season rolls in.”

“You’ll have it,” Ileana assures her. “I’ve sent word to Wakanda and Calcutta. I’ve friends there… old ones. They still owe me.”

They walk deeper into the island, past cabins in mid-construction, past a string of drying clothes, past the scent of simmering broth and smoke from the cook-fire. The sounds of hammering continue, alongside quiet laughter and cautious songs.

It’s not a city. Not yet.

But it’s starting to feel like a home.

The building is small, barely two rooms and a crooked roof. It sits at the edge of the treeline, with hills rolling out behind it like waves of dry grass. The windows have no glass. The door hangs a little to the left. It doesn’t look like much.

Ileana stands beside Erik in the brittle sunlight, arms folded, watching his expression.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

“I know,” she says. “It’s not much of a school.”

Erik turns his gaze to her, eyes sharp with something that isn’t quite judgment. Just quiet assessment. Like he’s weighing hope against experience and finding it light.

She looks back at the building. “This land… Havin, it wasn’t always ours. But the moment we realized what was happening—how the war was treating people like you and the others—we moved fast. Bought what we could. Built what we could.”

His silence stretches out beside her.

Ileana continues, softer now, “The world won’t make it easy for people to go back. To normal life. For the ones who’ve been changed… or hurt… or just born different—it’s going to be harder than anyone wants to admit.”

Erik’s shoulders stay rigid, his hands curled at his sides. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t have to.

“I want this place to be a haven,” she says. “Not perfect. Just safe. A place where no one has to hide what they are. Where learning isn’t a punishment. A place to begin again.”

He still says nothing.

But the glance he gives the horizon says everything.

Ileana catches it. Feels the weight of it settle in her chest. She exhales slowly and shifts the subject.

“We’ll be teaching everything we can manage—maths, sciences, languages, the arts. It’s patchwork, but it’s a start.”

Erik’s gaze returns to her. “Languages?”

She nods. “Language is power. Communication, identity, survival.”

He hesitates, then asks, “What languages do you speak?”

Ileana smiles faintly. “What languages do you want to learn?”

He looks at the mountains behind the school, the stretch of sky above them. “As many as possible.”

She nods once, approving. 

Then, in English, she says, “We’ll start with English first, then.”

Chapter Text

[Havin - July 1945]

The cicadas are loud today.

Erik finds her near the cliff’s edge, watching the horizon again. She always ends up here before something begins. He hesitates for only a second.

“I want to leave.”

Ileana doesn’t turn around. Her voice is calm, unreadable. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

That throws him a little. He expected resistance. A lecture. Something heavier.

“You were?”

She finally looks over her shoulder. “Of course. You’re too restless for permanence. It’s in your nature.”

Erik shifts his weight, frowns. “You said this was a safe place.”

“It is. And it will always be here. But safety isn’t the same as growth.”

He doesn’t answer that. His fists are clenched at his sides.

“I’m not leaving because I’m ungrateful.”

“I know that,” she says gently. “You’re leaving because you’re ready. Besides, I promised you, if you wanted to leave, I’d go with you.”

That settles him, recalling that promise made in the night after he was found.

The waves crash far below them, steady. Ileana tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and nods toward the path. “We’ll go to London. I have a house there. Quiet, well-kept. Not far from Regent’s Park. You’ll have your own room. Your own key. Even your own kettle, if you insist.”

Erik blinks. “You have a house in London?”

“I have several.” She gives a dry, sideways smile. “But that one’s the least haunted.”

He huffs a short laugh despite himself. Then it fades. “What about here? The others?”

“I’ll be back and forth,” she says. “Jimmy and Mariana can run Havin without me for a while. You and I have work to do.”

He tenses, wary. “What kind of work?”

“School.” She doesn’t flinch when he scowls. “Before you argue—I mean both kinds. You’ll attend a proper one during the day. History, maths, all the usual things. I have contacts who can make the paperwork disappear.”

“And after that?”

She looks him squarely in the eye. “After that, you’ll learn from me. Everything I know about your power. About the world you’re walking into. About how to survive it without losing yourself.”

Erik considers this in silence. The sea wind tugs at his sleeves.

“Will I get to use it?” he asks. “My power?”

“You’ll get to practice it,” she says. “But only under my supervision. You still lack control.”

He almost protests—but then stops. He knows she’s right.

“I’m not going to pretend to be normal.”

“I’d never ask you to.”

Their eyes meet again. And this time, there’s something else in Erik’s. Not just anger. Not just grief.

Intent.

“What’s the school called?”

“St. Cather’s. In Camden. You’ll hate the uniforms.”

“I already do.”

Ileana smiles. “We leave in three days. Pack what you need. Leave what you don’t.”

Erik nods slowly, gaze turning inland, to the modest cabins, the gardens, the sound of other children laughing over something simple. He’ll miss it. But not enough to stay.

“I’m ready.”

“No,” Ileana says softly. “But you will be.”

Ileana finds them behind the main cabin—Jimmy leaning against a post, smoking in silence, and Mariana hunched beside a crate of garden tools, cleaning dirt from her nails with a small curved blade. They look up as she approaches.

She doesn’t speak right away.

They know something’s coming.

“Erik and I are leaving in the morning,” she says plainly. “We’re going back to London.”

Mariana’s brow furrows. Jimmy takes another drag from his cigar but says nothing.

“I need to get him settled. He wants to learn, and he needs more than what we can give him here. I’ll be enrolling him at St. Cather’s—small, boring, expensive. The kind of place that won’t ask too many questions.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “You enrolling as his mother, or his terrifying immortal aunt?”

Ileana snorts. “Depends who’s asking, Dad.”

That earns a half-smile from him. Mariana stands, brushing her hands clean.

“And the SSR?” Mariana asks.

“I’m going to tie off our presence there. Scrub what we’ve left behind. If anyone comes sniffing around Havin, they’ll hit a wall. We’re ghosts to them now. I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s a brief silence.

Jimmy speaks, low and even. “You’re not running, are you?”

She looks at him hard. “No.”

“Good,” he says. “Because we need you here.”

“And you’ll have me,” she says gently. “I’ll be back. When it matters.”

Mariana crosses her arms, clearly not thrilled. “You trust us to hold it together.”

“I trust you both to do more than that,” Ileana says. “You were never meant to follow me forever. You’re leaders now. You’ve proven that. This place—these people—they’re in good hands.”

Jimmy frowns. “What about the United Nations? Are we still interrupting the Charter?”

Ileana nods. “It’s the only way.”

Jimmy exhales smoke into the cool evening air, the ember at the tip of his cigar glowing briefly before dimming. “Then I guess we’d better make it count.”

Mariana’s gaze sharpens. “You’re still sure we can get in without the press catching wind?”

Ileana’s mouth curves, just faintly. “They’ll be sent away before we arrive. Itex will take care of everything. We’ll be in and out before anyone notices the air’s shifted.”

Mariana tilts her head. “And when they ask who we are?”

“I’ll tell them the truth,” Ileana says. “The Shadow.”

Mariana shakes her head, muttering something under her breath, but Ileana catches the flicker of approval in her eyes.

“Files ready?” Jimmy asks.

“They will be.” Ileana’s voice hardens. “Enough leverage to burn every government in that room to the ground if they don’t sign. They’ll push back at first, but they’ll fold. Fear is faster than reason.”

Mariana leans on the crate again, watching her closely. “You think they’ll keep their word?”

“No,” Ileana says simply. “But it buys time. And time is all we need.”

Mariana glances away, jaw tight.

“And Erik?” Jimmy asks.

“I’ll teach him myself. He deserves more than just a roof and a locked door. He deserves a life. Balance. Control. I owe him that much.”

There’s a long pause.

Mariana finally steps forward, her voice low. “You will come back? Not just then, right?”

“When you need me,” Ileana says. “Or when it feels like something’s about to begin again.”

Jimmy flicks the ash from his cigar and nods. “Then I guess we’ll keep the fire lit.”

Ileana steps closer to them both. She reaches out—not her usual careful distance—but real, tangible closeness. She puts a hand on each of their shoulders.

“I’m proud of you,” she says. “Both of you. Don’t doubt that.”

They nod in unison, even if Jimmy doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

As she turns to go, Mariana stops her. “Ileana...”

She pauses, looking back.

Mariana’s voice is steadier than expected. “We’ll hold the fort. Just come back whole.”

Ileana’s smile is brief. Tired. But warm.

“I’ll try.”

[Havin - Outside the Older Boys’ Cabin]

The sky has begun to burn—a deep orange glow bleeding down the horizon, setting the treetops on fire with color. The last rays of sunlight stretch long across the camp, casting gentle shadows across the well-worn paths and quiet gardens. The wind stirs the air, scented faintly with earth, pine, and smoke.

Ileana stands still at the edge of the stoop outside the boys’ cabin, her arms folded loosely, head turned slightly toward the land she’s helped cultivate. She surveys it for a moment—the orchard rows, the training field in the distance, the small greenhouse with the thatched roof.

A light smile touches her lips. This is hers. Theirs. Built out of ruin, made into something better.

She raises a hand and knocks twice on the doorframe.

“Erik?”

There’s a shuffle inside, then the door opens. Erik steps out with a small bag already slung over one shoulder. His expression is calm, but his eyes scan behind her warily.

“How long will this trip take?”

Ileana tilts her head. “By plane? Ten, maybe twelve hours.”

He sighs. “And we’re not taking a plane, are we?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Would you like to?”

“No,” he mutters.

A moment later, footsteps crunch the gravel path behind her. A tall figure approaches—broad-shouldered, quiet, moving with the practiced stillness of someone used to being watched. He looks to be in his thirties, though it’s hard to tell. His skin is a warm copper-brown, and two smooth, dark horns curve from his temples back over his crown. They shimmer faintly in the fading light. His clothes are plain: a soft charcoal sweater and worn leather boots.

Ileana turns slightly. “Erik, this is Itex. He’s going to take us directly to my house in London.”

The man nods once, calm and measured. “Evening.”

Erik’s posture tenses. “How’s he getting us there?”

“He’s an advanced human,” Ileana clarifies. “A teleporter. The first I’ve ever worked with.” She gestures toward him. “He prefers to let the results speak for themselves.”

Itex steps forward and extends both hands, one to Ileana, one to Erik.

Erik stares at the hand for a beat, unmoving.

Then, Itex gently turns his wrist up, letting the numbers show. His voice is quiet, deep. “I know the feeling.”

Something shifts behind Erik’s eyes. Recognition. Not pity. Just understanding. Real and earned.

He takes Itex’s hand.

And in an instant—with a flash—they’re gone.

[Ileana’s London Home - Parlor]

The world returns in silence, the air shifting as if exhaling them into the space.

Erik finds himself standing on a richly patterned rug beneath the soft glow of a crystal chandelier. Cool light spills through sheer blue and lace curtains, dancing across pale green walls and gilded trim. The air smells faintly of polish, old books, and dried English lavender from a vase on the central table. The room is elegant—luxurious, but not ostentatious. Everything is precisely placed, lived-in, and still somehow untouched.

He says nothing. But his eyes scan—sharp, practiced. A parlor piano rests against the wall beneath a painting, silent but not forgotten. Nearby, a tall chess table stands on delicate legs, a game already mid-play atop its surface. The set is old, likely antique. Hand-carved.

He gestures toward them quietly. “You play?”

Ileana smiles. “Both. The piano and the board.”

She glances toward Itex. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Always.”

And with a soft hum of air and light, he vanishes.

Ileana turns back to Erik, her voice soft. “If you ever want to learn either, I’d be glad to teach you.”

Erik nods, murmuring, “My father taught me chess. My mother—piano.”

Ileana smiles softly in understanding, not pressing.

She gestures toward the open glass doors leading to the corridor. “Come on. Let me show you your room.”

They ascend the wide staircase, footsteps quiet on the polished wood. The walls of the upper hall match the soft, light palette of the rest of the house—blues and greens that shift with the daylight. She opens a door at the far end.

The room is airy, quiet. A full-sized bed of dark mahogany stands against the wall, crisp white sheets tucked in tight beneath a deep, slate-blue quilt. A large cubist painting hangs across from the bed—fragmented color and motion locked into a frame. A dresser rests beneath the window, and a slim closet is built into the wall.

It smells clean. Settled. Safe.

Ileana turns to him, her voice gentle but firm.

“This room is yours for as long as you need it,” she says. “And anytime you need it again, it will be here.”

A pause.

“But there are ground rules.”

Erik nods. Of course there are rules. Everything comes with conditions—restrictions, bargains, consequences. Always a price. He stands still, arms loose at his sides, but his eyes never leave her face as she begins.

Ileana raises her hand and counts them off on her fingers.

“One. To anyone you meet, I’m your Aunt Leena. That’s who I am to you, and nothing else. Keeps things simple. Avoids questions we don’t want to answer.”

She lifts another finger.

“Two. No one comes over unless I know them personally. No surprises. No unannounced guests. This is for both of our safety.”

A sharp glance.

“This especially includes unknown girls. I don’t care how nice they seem.”

Another finger.

“Three—you’ll do your homework every day after school. You’ll eat every dinner. No skipping, no bargaining.”

Her expression hardens as she continues.

“Four. Training starts before school. 5 a.m. sharp. We go until an hour before you have to leave. Then again, at 7 p.m., after dinner, until 9. That’s your time. Lights out at 11.”

Her hand lowers slowly.

“Five. Weekends are yours. But if you’re going out, you tell me. Leave a note if I’m not around. The war’s not over. And it never will be for people like us.”

She looks him over, waiting to see if he’ll flinch, challenge her, rebel. He doesn’t. He just watches her with quiet intensity.

“Any questions?”

There’s a long pause before Erik speaks, voice low and even.

“You’ve always said you’re different. From me. From them. The advanced ones.”

A beat.

“What are you?”

The air stills between them.

Ileana meets his gaze without hesitation, no flinching, no smile to soften the truth.

“I’m not like them,” she says quietly. “I’m not like you either. I come from a world very far from here. One most people couldn’t find even if they had the stars mapped to the inch.”

She walks slowly to the window, her fingers brushing the curtain aside just enough to let a beam of London twilight spill across the floor. Dust rises, swirling.

“I’m older than I look. Much older. I’ve lived for over two thousand years. I often choose this shape—this face, this age—because it’s easier for people to understand. Easier for me to manage.”

She turns back toward him. “But make no mistake. I’ve seen empires rise and fall. Fought in wars your history books don’t mention. Loved and lost and built again.”

Erik stares at her, trying to measure what that even means. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink for several seconds.

Then:

“Are you a god?” he asks, skeptical but not mocking.

“No,” she answers without hesitation. “I bleed if I want to. I feel. I grieve.”

His voice is low, tentative. “You don’t age?”

“Not the way humans do. And even then—only if I choose to.”

He hesitates again, weighing his next question.

“Have you killed?”

A pause.

Then, softly: “Yes.”

His jaw clenches slightly. “People like me?”

“Some like you,” she says honestly. “But not for being what you are. Only for what they did with what they were given.”

Erik nods, slowly. Processing. A silence settles in, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Why are you here?” he finally asks. “Why… this world? This war?”

Her eyes darken a little, and for a moment, she looks every bit her two thousand years.

“Because something terrible is coming,” she says. “And I’ve made mistakes before. This time… I won’t look away.”

Erik studies her a moment longer.

“You’re training me for that.”

“Yes.”

“To fight whatever it is?”

“No.”

“To survive it?”

Another pause. Then she answers with something almost like affection—almost like a promise.

“To survive it and to change the world.”

Erik looks away, nodding once. It’s not surrender. It’s acceptance—quiet, deliberate, and a little wary.

“All right then,” he says. “Aunt Leena.”

Chapter Text

The morning light through the tall dining room windows is pale and still. The breakfast is simple—toast, eggs, tea—but Erik barely touches his plate, he’s still getting used to food. He watches Ileana instead as she folds the morning paper and sets it aside calmly.

“I need to go out today,” she says, buttering a piece of toast with no urgency. “There are some loose ends I need to handle with the SSR.”

He blinks. “The same ones you dealt with in Poland?”

She nods. “More or less. I’m helping them… clean up, you could say. Cover stories. Erased records for Zero Quadrant. Until the war’s over, I’ll be working with them on and off.”

Erik leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Why are you telling me this? Isn’t this the kind of thing you keep secret?”

Ileana lifts her eyes to his, steady and cool. “There won’t be any secrets between us, Erik. Not unless they protect someone else. If you ask me a question, I will give you the true answer. Always. And I expect the same from you.”

He studies her a moment, uncertain. But there’s something in her tone—something final and binding—that tells him she means it.

He nods slowly. “All right.” Then, after a beat: “Who did you lose? To the war. Who did you lose?”

She sets her tea down carefully. Her fingers rest against the porcelain rim. For a moment, the air between them holds absolutely still.

“My fiancé,” she says quietly. “My soulmate. James Barnes.”

Erik doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The silence between them shifts, not into discomfort but acknowledgment; grief recognized, even if not fully understood.

When the quiet stretches long enough, Ileana rises and begins to gather the dishes.

“You should get to know the house while I’m gone,” she says, voice composed again. “You’re free to go wherever you like. Every room is open to you—except mine, unless you’re invited. I’ll respect your space the same way.”

Erik nods. “Understood.”

“There are maps in the table drawer in the parlor,” she adds, tilting her head toward the next room. “Study them. They’ll help you learn the area.”

She moves toward the sink, but pauses as he speaks up behind her.

“Thank you.”

It’s quiet. Honest.

She doesn’t turn around, but a small smile touches her lips.

“You’re welcome.”

The clack of her heels slices through the hum of typewriters and clipped voices. SSR agents glance up from their desks as Ileana moves through the corridor, an apparition in tailored black. Her dress is clean and severe, falling just to her calves. The sharp cut of it, the absence of color, the deliberate sweep of her hair—everything about her says finality.

Peggy Carter pauses mid-step, files in hand, blinking at her. The lipstick is gone, the warmth drained from Ileana’s face. She offers no greeting, only a curt nod as she passes. Peggy doesn’t call after her.

The office door shuts with a soft click. Then the lock slides into place.

Ileana exhales. Not loudly. Just a release, as if finally alone with the ghosts that never really leave.

She rests against the door for a long moment, lids shut tight. Her hand rises to her chest and curls around the chain that never leaves her neck. Cool metal presses against her skin—one worn dog tag, one gold ring. She grips them hard. Then lets go.

They disappear back beneath the fabric of her dress.

She moves to the desk—her desk, at least for now—and sits. The surface is already stacked with folders marked ZERO QUADRANT: CLASSIFIED. Inside, names. Missions. Powers. Failures. Some of these people never came back. Some never should’ve existed in the first place.

No one else is cleared to touch this. No one else can clean it up.

She opens the first file, black marker poised in hand.

And she begins.

A sharp knock rattles the door handle—followed by the twist of it, a little impatient. It doesn’t budge.

“Lee?” Howard Stark’s voice filters in, light and amused in that way of his that always sounds like he’s half-joking, half-waiting to be let in on something.

She flicks her eyes toward the door, sighs softly, then rises and unlocks it. As the door opens, she gestures him inside with a graceful wave of her hand.

“You’re back, then?” he says as he steps in, one brow arched.

She nods. No smile, but not cold either. Just tired.

They take the two chairs in front of her desk. He glances at the stacks of redacted files and winces slightly. “Cheery décor.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she murmurs.

There’s a pause, then she adds, “I took in one of the children.”

Howard’s brow furrows in momentary confusion, until realization dawns. “From the camps?”

She nods again. “One who lost everything. Quiet kid. Smart. Reminded me of myself.”

“Over two thousand years ago?” he teases, grinning.

She shrugs. “Give or take a decade.”

He chuckles and reaches into a brown paper bag. “Well. I brought a present.”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow as he produces a bag of fries and two wrapped sandwiches. “You really don’t know any other food besides grease, do you?”

“It’s comfort food,” he defends, holding out a sandwich to her. “Which you clearly need. You’re looking a little… ancient.”

She snorts under her breath despite herself and takes the sandwich. “Charming.”

They settle into a quiet rhythm as they unwrap and eat, her desk cleared just enough for a corner to share lunch. Files are pushed aside for the more important matter of french fries and weary companionship.

Between bites, Howard updates her. “Steve’s on the warpath. Said he’s going to burn HYDRA to the ground. He’s chasing down everything—every lab, every bunker, doesn’t sleep. Barely eats.”

Ileana’s jaw tenses. She chews slowly. Swallows.

Her eyes stay on the desk as she presses her lips together, then gives a simple nod. “Of course he is.”

Howard watches her for a long moment, the glint in his eyes fading as he sees her expression harden. He knows the signs. He sets down the fry bag and folds his hands in his lap.

“He’s not doing it for revenge,” he offers. “Rogers, I mean.”

“I didn’t ask,” Ileana says flatly, not looking at him.

Howard shifts, leaning back a little. “Still figured you’d want to know.”

Her eyes flick to him then, cold. “What I want is for Rogers to stop pretending he’s the only one who ever lost something.”

Howard blinks. “He lost Barnes too, Lee.”

“No,” she snaps. “I lost James. We were engaged. Soulmates. The kind the universe doesn’t let happen more than once. Rogers—he had him for twenty years. I had him for one.”

Her voice stays quiet, but the heat behind it scorches.

Howard nods slowly, watching her. “He’s hurting.”

“He’s selfish,” she retorts. “Running around Europe like a one-man wrecking crew while people like me clean up his mess. You know what he left at that last site? Civilian injuries. SSR scrambling for explanations. Wreckage. That’s not a hero, Howard—that’s grief weaponized.”

He sighs, clearly debating whether to poke the bear. “You think he’s doing it on purpose?”

“I think,” Ileana says icily, “that Rogers never once stopped to think someone else might be bleeding too. And maybe that’s the worst kind of arrogance.”

She finally looks away, jaw tight, eyes glassy but furious. She clutches the chain at her neck, fingers wrapped hard around the tag and the ring.

Howard says nothing for a moment, letting her breathe.

Then, gently, “You still want to know if we find anything.”

Her nod is sharp, immediate. “Yes. No matter what. If there’s anything left of James, I want to know. I will know.”

Howard rises, quieter now. “You’ll be the first I tell.”

She nods once, and then her mask slides back into place—cold, composed. The fury buried under layers of self-control.

Howard lingers at the door, hand on the knob, but something in what she said tugs at him. He turns halfway, brow creased.

“Soulmates?” he echoes. “You’ve used that word before, but…” He trails off, searching her face. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Ileana stiffens.

She doesn’t speak right away. Her hand is still clutching the tag, but slowly she lifts her left wrist and peels back the cuff of her sleeve. There, faint but unmistakable, etched into her skin is a name he can’t read: James Buchanan Barnes.

“I wasn’t being poetic,” she says, voice low but firm. “On my world, we’re all born with it—the name of the one person who completes you.” she swallows. “For me, it was him.”

Howard’s eyes widen slightly as he steps closer, gaze locked on the inscription. “That’s been there your whole life?”

“Yes.” She tugs the sleeve back down. “And on his wrist, he had mine. Ileana. I told him as soon as I could.”

Howard sinks slowly into the chair again, this time not trying to lighten the air. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more,” she says.

Then, quieter: “When he realized what it meant, he wasn’t afraid. We took it slow. He was too good for someone like me.” Her voice falters slightly, only slightly. “I didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love. But I did, I did love him. I’ll never stop.”

Howard runs a hand through his hair, eyes tracing the grain of the desk. “And Rogers never knew?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “He knew James loved me. But not this. Not what we were. And I wasn’t about to explain it—not after the fall…”

Howard looks up, voice almost gentle. “You think you’ll ever find that again?”

“No.” Her answer is immediate. Unflinching. “People like me—we don’t get second chances. The bond is once in a lifetime. And mine’s already over.”

The silence after hangs heavy, brittle with everything unsaid.

Finally, Howard nods. “I’m sorry, Lee.”

She doesn’t thank him. Doesn’t need to.

Instead, she quietly opens the next file on her desk. Her fingers shake, just slightly, before they steady again.

“Close the door on your way out,” she murmurs.

Howard does.

[SSR Headquarters - August 1, 1945]

Peggy and Howard barrel into Ileana’s office without knocking, breathless and grim-faced. The door bangs against the wall as they come to a halt. Ileana doesn’t flinch. She’s seated, pen in hand, calmly redacting another file with precise, lethal strokes of black ink. She doesn’t even look up.

“We’ve got it,” Howard says, voice clipped. “Swiss Alps. That’s where Hydra’s burrowed in. Schmidt—he’s there. The Commandos are moving in, SSR taskforce too.”

“We leave in an hour,” Peggy adds quickly. “Howard’s flying. This is it.”

Only then does Ileana set her pen down and glance up. Her expression is unreadable, eyes calm but impossibly tired.

“And you’re here because?”

Howard steps forward, hands braced on the desk. “Because we need you. Raven Warrior-level need you.”

Ileana exhales slowly, then reaches into the drawer beside her and slides out a folded piece of paper. She pushes it across the desk.

It’s a field report. Dated yesterday. The location listed is Iceland. Subject: Raven Warrior sighting. Confirmed.

Peggy frowns. “What is this?”

“I went back,” Ileana says. “Tied off the loose ends. Left a shadow behind. Raven Warrior has returned to Iceland. That’s what the files say now. That’s what people will believe.”

Peggy blinks. “But you're Raven Warrior.”

“I was,” Ileana corrects, evenly. “And I’m here now. Leena. In London. Doing my job.”

“But we need you!” Peggy snaps, voice rising.

Ileana’s expression sharpens like a blade.

“You have Rogers,” she says coldly. “You chose Rogers. And Rogers doesn’t want me on his team.”

The silence stings. Howard shifts awkwardly. Peggy looks away.

“If you want Schmidt taken down, go. You don’t need me,” Ileana finishes, voice cool and final.

Howard lets out a frustrated breath. “This is personal, isn’t it?”

She looks at him sharply. “Everything is personal when you’ve lost everything.”

Peggy opens her mouth—then thinks better of it. She nods, tight and reluctant.

“Fine. But for the record,” Howard says, lingering at the door, “Rogers is a damn fool.”

Ileana doesn’t reply. Her pen is already back in motion.

The door clicks shut behind them.

The streets are quieter than usual.

There’s a weight in the air—one of reverence, of mourning—as Ileana walks the short distance to the SSR building. Men tip their hats, women clutch newspapers to their chests, the black-and-white headline screaming what everyone’s already whispering:

“CAPTAIN AMERICA DEAD: Heroic Sacrifice Saves Millions.”

The same words echo faintly behind storefront windows, radios crackling with urgency and awe. “...Steven Grant Rogers gave his life yesterday in what is being called a final act of unmatched bravery…”

Ileana says nothing as she walks. Her heels click against the pavement, the wind tugging at her dress. Her expression doesn’t change, not even when two young agents outside the front entrance pause in conversation and look her way, falling respectfully silent.

Inside, the building is somber. The usual chatter is absent. No barked orders, no racing typewriters. Just hushed voices and lowered gazes.

She climbs the stairs slowly, her hand brushing along the rail as if to keep herself tethered to the moment.

When she reaches her office, the door is already slightly ajar.

Howard sits slouched in the chair across from her desk, coat wrinkled, hair disheveled, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten on a napkin beside him. A bottle of something stronger than coffee is within reach, though not yet opened. He looks up as she enters.

“He really did it,” he says hoarsely. “Put the plane in the ice.”

Ileana closes the door quietly behind her, then crosses to her desk. She sets down her bag, her gloves, then sits.

“Any word?” she asks, voice level.

Howard shakes his head. “We’re sending recovery teams and I’m going to try myself as well. But it’s… It’s the North Atlantic.”

Ileana leans back in her chair. Her face is unreadable, carved from porcelain and shadow.

“I warned him,” she says softly. “Told him this was bigger than he understood.”

Howard scrubs a hand down his face. “I think he knew. That’s what pisses me off. I think he knew exactly what he was doing.”

There’s a long silence between them. The clock ticks once, twice.

“I didn’t want him dead,” she says at last. “Just… not to be the one holding the gun.”

Howard gives a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Well. He found the trigger anyway.”

She nods, once. Then leans forward and picks up her pen again, the same one she’s been using for weeks. Without another word, she returns to redacting.

Howard watches her for a moment.

“You feel it, don’t you,” he says finally. “Even when you hate ‘em. You feel it.”

Ileana doesn't look up. But she answers, quiet and flat:

“Yes.”

The ink flows, merciless and black.

Chapter Text

[Ileana’s Home - August 6, 1945]

The cellar is quiet at first—just the low hum of the radio warming up, the rumble of distant sirens, the steady breathing of the two figures who descend the steps too calmly.

The overhead bulbs flicker once before steadying. Erik sits on the bench along the stone wall, arms crossed, as Ileana crosses to the metal shelf by the radio. Her fingers hover over the dial.

She turns it up.

“…repeat, a bomb unlike any seen before was dropped just after 8:15 a.m. local time in the city of Hiroshima, Japan. The device—what scientists are now calling an ‘atomic bomb’—was deployed by the United States Air Force…”

Ileana stops moving.

The announcer continues, calm and clipped, as though he’s reading the weather report.

“…casualties remain unconfirmed, but early estimates suggest tens of thousands may be dead. The city has been leveled. President Truman confirmed in a press briefing that the weapon was developed under a secret government program known as the Manhattan Project…”

Erik looks up sharply. “What’s an atomic bomb?”

Ileana doesn’t answer right away.

She lowers herself slowly into the old leather chair near the table, her eyes still locked on the radio as if it might spit out something else—something less horrific.

“It’s…” Her voice catches, then steadies. “A weapon. Not like the others. It splits the very atoms in matter. Rips them apart and uses the energy that’s released to destroy everything.”

Erik blinks. “That’s… science?”

“No,” she murmurs. “That’s war. It’s what men build when they decide their fear is worth more than another’s life.”

The radio keeps going. Words like ‘radiation,’ ‘total devastation,’ ‘civilian center’ swirl in the air.

Erik’s voice is quiet. “They used it on people?”

Ileana doesn’t look at him.

“Yes.”

A long silence follows. The sirens are quieter now, distant. But the air in the cellar is heavier than it was before.

Erik’s fists clench at his sides, metal nearby humming faintly in response.

“They said the Reich were monsters,” he says, his voice shaking. “But this…”

Ileana finally meets his eyes.

“This is what happens,” she says softly, “when people believe victory is more important than humanity.”

He swallows hard.

“They’re going to do it again, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know,” she says. But her expression says she fears the answer.

Erik doesn’t say anything after that. He just sits, quietly watching the ripples move across the metal basin beside him. The war outside has quieted.

But inside the cellar, a new one has begun.

The kitchen smells faintly of toast and tea, but the mood is heavier than the quiet clinking of cutlery suggests. The morning light filters in pale through the lace curtains, muted by the ever-present London fog.

Ileana sits across from Erik, her tea untouched, fingers curled around the cup like she’s drawing warmth from it. Erik watches her, eyes sharper than most boys his age, dark hair still mussed. He’s been up for a while. Neither of them slept much.

“I think you should stay in today,” she says gently. “I don’t know what the streets will be like.”

Erik frowns. “Because of the bomb?”

Ileana nods, slowly. “People are going to talk. Shout. Celebrate, maybe. Mourn. Maybe all at once. I don’t know how it’s going to feel, and I don’t want you caught in the middle of it.”

He pushes a piece of toast across his plate. “And you? Are you still going in?”

“I have to.” Her voice is soft but firm. “There’s work to finish. Files. Clean-up. Loose ends. And…” she pauses, eyes flicking toward the window, “I need to know what else they’re planning.”

Erik studies her for a moment, then asks, “Do you think they’ll do it again?”

She doesn’t answer right away. “If they think it ends the war faster,” she says finally, “yes. They might.”

He swallows. “That’s not winning. That’s just... being the last monster standing.”

Her eyes meet his across the table—fierce and proud.

“I didn’t say I agreed with them.”

Another silence passes.

“I’ll stay inside,” Erik says. “But I want to listen to the radio.”

“That’s fair,” she nods. “If anything changes, you call me. I’ll be back by six.”

He nods.

As she stands to leave, reaching for her bag and gloves, Erik glances up again.

“Be careful,” he says.

Ileana pauses in the doorway, glancing back. Something in her gaze softens.

“You too, Erik.”

The moment Ileana steps into the SSR base, the sound hits her like a wave—laughter, cheers, the shuffle of boots and heels dancing, the clatter of celebration echoing off the cement walls. Someone pops open a bottle. Glasses clink. Someone whistles Yankee Doodle. Another sings off-key.

The war, it seems, is ending.

But all Ileana feels is hollow.

Eyes forward, spine straight, she cuts through the revelry like a blade—heels clicking down the hall, ignoring the hands that reach out to pat her arm or call her name. Her face gives nothing. Not joy. Not grief. Not yet.

Peggy sees her pass and hesitates—mouth opening, then closing. She doesn’t follow.

Ileana reaches her office, unlocks the door with a shaking hand, and slips inside before anyone can stop her. The door clicks shut behind her, a soft finality against the noise outside. She turns the lock.

Then—finally—lets herself breathe.

She presses her forehead to the wood, chest tight. Her hand rises slowly, mechanically, finding the familiar weight of the chain beneath her dress collar. She pulls it out—Bucky’s dog tag glinting faintly in the morning light. The ring he gave her, dulled with time, spins lightly on the same chain.

Her fingers close around them both. A breath catches.

She does not cry.

Not yet.

Instead, she slides down into her chair, placing the dog tag on the desk in front of her like an anchor. Her hands tremble as she reaches for the next folder of redactions.

Outside the world celebrates peace.

Inside her office, Ileana mourns a future that will never come.

[Ileana’s Home - August 8, 1945]

The sirens scream through the city again, louder this time, like the sky itself is wailing.

Ileana is already moving when the first echo pierces the night. She doesn’t need to knock—Erik is waiting in the hallway, pale and quiet, dressed in his too-big shirt and worn pajama trousers. Wordlessly, they descend the narrow stairwell into the cellar, familiar now, routine.

The reinforced door shuts behind them with a heavy thud.

Ileana flicks on the overhead bulb, dim and flickering. The cellar hums faintly with layered memories: sweat from training, chalk from past lessons, the faint metallic tang from Erik’s practice.

Before she can cross to the radio, it clicks on.

Erik’s hand is still faintly raised, fingers twitching.

Static cracks, then a low voice breaks through. No music tonight. No commentary. Just numbers. Facts. Cold, distant horror.

“....Nagasaki. 3:02 a.m. A second atomic bomb has been dropped by United States forces…”

The announcer doesn’t finish the sentence before Ileana sinks down next to Erik against the cellar wall, knees folding beneath her. Her robe pools at her sides. She doesn’t speak. Neither of them does.

The radio continues.

“Casualties unknown. The blast radius is reportedly greater than expected. The mission was confirmed successful. The President will speak at dawn.”

Silence stretches between them.

Ileana’s hand rests flat against the floor, grounding herself. Erik’s shoulders press into the wall, eyes blank as he stares across the room. Neither of them looks at the other.

He finally whispers, barely audible over the static: “How many more?”

Ileana doesn't answer.

She just closes her eyes.

The all-clear sirens cut through the stillness like a blade—shrill, final. A relief that feels anything but.

Erik and Ileana stand in unison, wordless again. Neither speaks of bed, nor sleep. Instead, their footsteps echo softly down the hallway until they reach her glass-walled sunroom—a room that feels too fragile for the world they live in.

Moonlight spills in across the tiled floor. The garden outside is quite, silvery with dew, untouched by bombs or headlines.

Ileana sinks onto the couch. Erik follows, curling beside her before lying down fully and resting his head in her lap. She smooths a hand through his hair, absently, gently. He closes his eyes, but doesn't sleep.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

Then, across the room, the telephone rings.

It cuts through the hush like a warning. Neither of them startles. Erik lifts his han, and the receiver drifts to Ileana’s outstretched fingers with ease, the cord snaking behind.

She answers.

"Yes?"

There’s no preamble on the other end. Just Howard’s voice, fast and broken. “Lee… God, I-I’m sorry. You were right. You were always right about the Manhattan Project. About what it would become.”

He breathes hard into the line, the sound of someone trying not to drown. “I thought—thought we were ending wars, saving lives, stopping monsters like Schmidt. But we… we became them. I helped make this. What we did to those cities…”

Silence stretches for a second too long.

Ileana’s hand tightens around the receiver.

Then, softly: “I forgive you.”

Howard exhales. It’s shaky. Fragile. “You do?”

“I do,” she says, voice even. “Because guilt’s already killing you. And because if I don’t forgive you, you’ll never forgive yourself. But, Howard… never again. No more blind genius. No more telling yourself it’s for the greater good when it’s just easier to look away. I know you have to do what you do, but there’s more out there… there’s more peace than ruin.”

There’s a rustle on the line, like he nods even though she can’t see it. “Never again.”

She hangs up gently.

Outside, the first birds begin to stir, unaware that the world has changed. Inside, Erik hasn’t moved.

“Was that Mr. Stark?” he asks quietly.

Ileana exhales, fingers brushing through his hair once more.

“Yes. And he finally learned what it costs.”

[Ileana’s Home - August 25th, 1945]

The knock is soft but deliberate.

Ileana lifts her gaze from the fire. The rain has been steady all evening, tapping at the windows like restless fingers. She doesn’t rise right away—waits, listens. Another knock follows, accompanied by the creak of a boot against wet stone.

Then she stands.

The front door opens with a whisper. Howard Stark stands beneath the gaslight, collar turned up, rain dripping from the edge of his umbrella. His hair is damp, his face drawn and tired.

She says nothing.

He doesn’t expect her to.

She steps aside. He walks in.

The door closes behind them with a hush. Rain continues to patter against the glass. Upstairs, the floorboards creak faintly—Erik, still half-awake in his room, tossing in restless sleep.

Howard shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the old stand in the entryway. He doesn't glance up the stairs.

“Coffee?” Ileana asks, already heading toward the kitchen.

But he shakes his head. “No. Thank you. Not tonight.”

She pauses—mildly surprised—but gives a quiet nod. Leads him instead to the parlor.

The fire there is smaller, banked low in the hearth. Shadows flicker across the bookshelves, the dark wallpaper, the old piano no one’s touched in months. Howard sits down in the worn green armchair, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees. He exhales like he’s been holding something in for days.

“I just got back,” he says, voice rough. “North Atlantic. Been searching for weeks.”

Ileana stays standing. The fire crackles softly. She studies him without blinking.

“We didn’t find Rogers,” Howard says. “But we found something else.” He takes a breath, “They’re calling it the tesseract. Glowing blue cube.”

Her gaze darkens. Slowly, she crosses to the window, fingers brushing aside the curtain. She watches the rain as if it’s speaking to her.

“It’s the power stone,” she says quietly.

Howard blinks. But he nods. 

She turns back, fingers absently trailing to the chain around her neck. The ring gleams faintly in the firelight—her engagement ring. Next to it, a worn, scratched dog tag. BARNES, JAMES B.

“Do you think it’s ready?” Howard asks. “Ready for you to absorb?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tighten slightly around the chain. Then she lets it fall back against her chest.

“No,” she says.

Howard waits. The shadows shift behind him.

“I can feel it,” she murmurs. “The stone is patient. None of them are ready yet.”

Howard frowns. “None of them?”

She nods. “Not the power stone. Not the others.”

“But they will be.”

She lets out a soft sigh. “Within a few decades.”

He leans back, eyes on the fire. His hands are quiet in his lap now. The quiet stretches between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“You’ll be here for it,” he says, not a question.

She doesn’t answer. But they both know.

After a moment, he stands.

“I should let you rest,” he says, straightening his tie out of habit. “Tell the kid goodnight for me.”

Ileana walks him to the door. Opens it without a word.

The rain is lighter now, just a mist. Howard steps out, lifts his umbrella again.

He pauses on the steps.

“Goodnight, Lee.”

She watches him, unmoving.

“Goodnight, Howard. Keep it safe.”

Then the door shuts softly behind him.

Upstairs, Erik finally turns over and slips into sleep.

Chapter Text

[Ileana’s Home - August 26, 1945]

The morning is gray and damp, the rain still clinging to the windows in beads that catch the pale light. The kitchen smells faintly of porridge and strong tea. Erik sits at the table, shoulders hunched, pushing his spoon through the bowl without taking a bite. The scrape of metal against ceramic is the only sound.

Ileana moves about the kitchen in her quiet, deliberate way—refilling the kettle, folding yesterday’s newspaper, setting bread to toast on the rack over the stove. She doesn’t look at him right away, but she notices. She always does.

Finally, Erik breaks the silence. His voice is low, uncertain. “What’s a power stone?”

The spoon stills in his bowl. He keeps his eyes on the porridge, as if asking it instead of her.

Ileana’s hands pause on the newspaper. She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she folds it once more, sets it aside, and takes the chair opposite him. For a moment she just studies him, the soft lines of his face, the way his fingers grip the spoon too tightly.

“Who told you that word?” she asks gently.

He shrugs. “Heard you. Last night. With Stark.” His gaze flicks up, searching her face. “You said it was a stone he found. The power stone.”

A long breath leaves her. She leans back slightly in her chair, resting her hands on the table. Her expression doesn’t soften, but it steadies.

“The infinity stones,” she says at last, her voice even. “There are six. Each holds a piece of creation itself—power, space, reality, time, mind, soul. They’re not weapons. They’re… truths. Fragments of the universe.”

Erik frowns, brows drawn tight. “And the power stone?”

“It burns brighter than suns. Enough to level worlds. Enough to split gods.” She holds his gaze. “And one day, it will be mine to carry.”

He blinks. Confusion shadows into wariness. “Yours?”

She nods, quiet but sure. “I am what’s called a stone child. My blood, my bones—they were made to house them. Not yet. Not for years. But eventually… I will take them inside me. All of them.”

The words hang between them, heavy as the rain outside.

Erik’s spoon slips against the edge of the bowl. He doesn’t touch it again. 

His voice is hushed, almost cautious. “And if you can’t?”

For the first time, a faint smile flickers across her mouth. Not warm—resigned. “Then I burn. But if I succeed… then I keep the universe from burning instead.”

He studies her, searching her face for any crack, any sign that she’s exaggerating. He finds none. Finally, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, as though holding himself together. 

“Why tell me?”

“Because you asked,” Ileana says simply. Then, softer: “And because you should know what kind of house you’re in. What kind of woman you’re learning from.”

Silence lingers again. This time, Erik doesn’t look away. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, and picks up his spoon. Takes a small bite of the now-cold porridge.

Ileana watches, then rises without a word to pour them both tea.

[SSR Headquarters, London - September 2, 1945]

There’s a knock, but Ileana doesn’t look up from the typewriter. Her fingers strike each key with precision, every word deliberate.

“Come in,” she says, voice flat.

Ileana pauses, staring at the first sentence she typed.

“What is it, Agent Carter?” she asks without looking.

Peggy hesitates. “Just thought you’d want to hear it in person. It’s done. Over. We won.”

Ileana exhales through her nose. “It’s never over. Not really. This one just ended with a new beginning… one we can’t come back from. That bomb didn’t win a war. It rewrote humanity.”

Peggy’s smile falters. “They were the enemy, Dr. Smythe. We had to end it.”

That draws Ileana’s gaze, sharp and direct. She rises slowly, turning to face her.

“Wait until you see the numbers. Then say that again with a straight face.”

Peggy straightens, but her jaw clenches.

“My estimate?” Ileana continues, eyes cold. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dead. Ninety percent civilians. Families who wanted nothing to do with this war—vaporized. Children melted into walls. Pregnant women obliterated mid-step.”

Peggy looks away.

“I haven’t even started on the radiation,” Ileana says. “The children born next will carry that blast in their bones. Their blood. Cancer will eat them alive before they’re ten.”

She picks up a report from the desk and tosses it aside. “The Allied army is finally dismantling the last of the camps with the proof gathered from Zero Quadrant. And me?” She yanks the fresh page from the typewriter and signs it with a steady hand.

“I’m done.”

Peggy blinks. “Done? What do you mean, done?”

“I mean, I resign,” Ileana says. She places the paper neatly at the center of the desk. “Post-dated over a month ago. I warned Howard. He regrets ever touching that project. I don’t blame him. But I blame Oppenheimer. Groves. Roosevelt for starting it. Truman for finishing it. And every man who called it a necessity.”

Peggy’s throat tightens. “This is about Barnes, isn’t it? I… I need to tell you something. Before Steve crashed the plane, he said…”

“Don’t.” Ileana’s glare cuts through the room like a blade. Her eyes glow faintly, white flickering over her irises. “Don’t say his name.”

Peggy swallows. “I just thought… I thought you might want to know what he…”

“Do you feel like you lost a love you could have had?” Ileana asks, voice like ice.

Peggy nods.

“Let me know,” Ileana says, stepping closer, voice low and lethal, “when your soul is split in half. When the one person who saw you for exactly what you are—the one who chose you—dies because his best friend didn’t trust you to protect him. Because he thought glowing blue meant evil. Because he couldn’t see past a color.”

Peggy’s eyes glisten, tears threatening.

“When he tried for weeks to ask his best friend to be his best man at his wedding. An engagement he didn’t even know about. So you had to tell him when he was dead and then remind the man that it’s not only his fault for acting like a pretentious superhero who knew better than anyone, but for claiming he was his friend in the first place. Then, and only then, you can tell me what that Spangled Arse said. And you, Agent Carter… you claimed to be my friend, but you never even managed a ‘sorry.’”

She strides past Peggy without another word and slams the door behind her.

Peggy stands alone in the silence. After a moment, she sinks into the nearest chair, pressing her fingers to her eyes, trying to keep the tears in. She reaches for the paper on the desk.

To: SSR Senior Personnel
28 July 1945

By this time, I, Dr. Ileana Smythe, should have been Dr. Ileana Barnes. For that reason and many others, I officially resign.

Good luck,
Dr. Ileana Smythe

Raven Warrior of Justice

[Ileana’s Private Lab - September 1945]

The lab is quiet but restless.

Rain taps against the windows, faint and rhythmic. The lamps on the workbenches cast shadows across journals, wires, and beakers, all pushed aside tonight for a single object at the center of the table: an aged, folded handkerchief, sealed in a glass container.

Ileana exhales slowly. Her hair is pulled back in a loose twist, and a silk dressing gown hangs over the blouse and trousers she’s been wearing since dawn. She hasn’t changed. She’s barely eaten. The only thing she’s done is wait—for the war to end, for the right time, for her hands to stop shaking.

Now, the handkerchief waits too.

She breaks the seal with a hiss and lifts the glass lid. The fabric inside is still faintly damp at the edges, stained a shade of bright blue. A smell lingers—salt, rust, something metallic that doesn’t belong in the ocean.

Erskine’s formula.

Or what’s left of it.

Ileana gently lifts it with tongs and sets it on a sterile tray. Then she begins to work.

Not with a centrifuge or any machine Howard left behind—but with a delicate, ancient process. Something older than the microscope, older than penicillin. Older than herself. She murmurs to herself in a language not known to this world, her fingers hovering just above the fabric.

A shimmer answers.

Energy moves through her palm, reading the residue, translating it into a language only her kind can comprehend. Light curls upward like steam. It hovers, shifts, rewrites itself in midair until symbols flicker—data not just of chemicals, but of intent.

She closes her eyes.

The answer comes in fragments. A metabolizing catalyst. A nervous system binder. Protein enhancers laced with a stabilizing agent found in Earth-grown roots. But more than that… something delicate. Something human.

Her breath hitches.

It wasn’t just a serum. It was filtered through emotion, empathy. Through morality. It directly affects the areas of the brain that process emotion. The intention embedded in the energy signature is what made Steve Rogers into Captain America—not the raw strength, but the soul it amplified.

She leans back, eyes burning.

“It’ll never work again,” she whispers. “I may hate him. But he was a good man.”

She sets the handkerchief down gently.

Behind her, the clock chimes softly. Midnight.

Ileana doesn’t move.

She sits there, alone in the silence of the lab, head bowed—not in failure, but in reverence. Because she understands now. The formula was never just science. It was a mirror—a gift designed to strengthen what was already inside.

And there aren’t many left who would’ve passed the test.

Not anymore.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her STARK lighter, flicking it on and holding it at the edge of the handkerchief. It catches.

Staring into the flames like they might hold more answers, she finally shakes her head and drops the singing remnants into a bowl of water. Dousing it.

Tossing the final darkened corner into a bin, she says, “Rest easy, Abraham. Your secret’s still safe.”

[October 3, 1945]

Morning light in London is thin and colorless, the kind that clings to damp streets and curls of chimney smoke. Ileana stands at the small desk in the sitting room, fastening the clasp on her black leather satchel. Erik is curled in the armchair by the window, reading, his hair still rumpled from sleep.

“I’m going back to Havin for the day,” she says, adjusting the strap over her shoulder. “I want you to stay inside. Study.”

He peers over the top of the book. “What about school?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Call it a sick day.”

He smirks faintly, as if to ask why she’s not telling him everything, but before he can, the air in the corner shimmers. Itex steps through the ripple, tall and neatly dressed. He nods once to Erik in greeting.

Erik returns the nod, though his grip tightens on the book—still not entirely comfortable with the way Itex simply appears without so much as a knock.

“Ready?” Itex asks.

“Ready,” Ileana says.

In a breath, the house is empty again, and Erik returns to his book.

Havin greets her with its dry heat and the golden light of morning on cedar beams. Inside the meeting hall, Mariana and Jimmy are already at the long table, poring over maps, lists, and coded ledgers. Victor leans against the wall, arms folded.

“I’m staying here,” Victor says as soon as she enters. “Storehouse Three was done sloppy—half the bracing won’t hold through the rains. I’ll redo it. Keep the place running.”

Ileana nods. “Do it right this time.”

“Always,” he says with a crooked grin.

She turns to Mariana and Jimmy. “We’re set?”

“Set,” Mariana answers, her voice clipped.

Itex moves to the center of the room. The air around them ripples and, in an instant, Havin vanishes.

They reappear in San Francisco. The Pacific air is cool and salted, heavy with the tang of fog drifting in from the bay. The street outside the Veterans Building is lined with flags—stars and stripes, Union Jacks, tricolors, hammers and sickles—all hanging limp in the haze. 

Through the tall windows, the echo of applause still lingers from moments earlier when the United Nations Charter was signed. Banners ripple faintly, announcing Peace Through Unity in gold serif letters.

Inside, the corridors are hushed now, the press of reporters long since removed. They find the great conference room, its polished walnut doors closed. Inside, the delegates remain—jackets loosened in the stuffy heat, silk ties askew, the air thick with cigar smoke and the faint smell of whiskey poured to celebrate history being made. A stack of signed copies of the Charter rests on the far table.

Then the air shifts.

It’s not a sound. It’s absence. A vacuum that presses against the skin—followed by a whisper of displaced light.

They appear in the center of the room like ghosts—four of them.

Wolverine stands first: heavy boots, shirt sleeves rolled, eyes cold beneath a rugged brow. Virago glides in behind him like smoke, her red hair twisted into a coil at her neck, emerald dress flickering as if catching firelight.

And then—Ileana.

She steps forward slowly. The marble seems to yield under her heels. A long dark coat, almost military in cut, buttons gleaming. She carries a leather satchel—not bulky, but dense with history.

Gasps echo. Chairs scrape.

“Who the hell are you?” a delegate from Britain barks, trying to sound authoritative, but his voice cracks on the edge of it.

Ileana meets his gaze. She smiles. Slowly.

“The Shadow,” she says simply

Ileana walks directly to the long oak table, where the representatives of the founding nations sit. She places the satchel down and begins to withdraw documents. Not folders—dossiers. Thicker than war files, heavier than shame.

She lays them out one by one: files on war crimes not discussed at Nuremberg. Records of genetic experiments in Eastern Europe. Proof of Allied cover-ups. Soviet disappearances. British colonial atrocities. American internment camps. Every country represented. Each page a mirror.

Gasps turn to denials.

“You forge these?”

“You dare…!”

“This is a threat…”

“No,” Ileana says, her voice sharp and level. “This is a reckoning.”

She fixes her gaze on the room.

“You will include protections for those with abilities—The Advanced—in the charter. Explicit. Binding. No camps. No experiments. No hunting us. No revealing us. Nothing.”

Silence.

Virago leans in, voice like cut glass. “Refuse… and these documents go not to the press, but to your own people. To your enemies. You’ve all seen what happens when truth ignites revolution.”

The French delegate stands. “You would bring down the world order—over them?”

Wolverine’s claws slide out, grisly, bone white. 

“We’re not asking,” he says.

They try to argue. The Soviets bristle. The British demand proof. The Americans talk of procedure. But none of it matters. Because every delegate sees the truth in Ileana’s face: the war they just survived would be nothing compared to the one she’s holding back.

One by one, the shouting fades.

One by one, they sit.

The signatures come quietly. Each stroke of the pen is heavier than the last. No ceremony. No anthem. Just ink and fear and the weight of an unspoken truce.

When the last signature is written, Ileana gathers the papers in silence. Itex touches her elbow.

They vanish the way they arrived: without fanfare. Without forgiveness.

And history continues—edited.

But not unchanged.

Chapter Text

[Ileana’s London Home - October 1945]

The air carries the scent of Earl Grey and roasted beans, swirling gently between the drawing room and the glass sunroom beyond. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting lacey golden patterns across the table where Ileana and Howard sit, mugs warm in their hands.

Erik lounges in the sunroom nearby, a book open in his lap. He’s quiet, absorbed.

Howard leans back in his chair, dark circles still under his eyes, but his suit pressed, his smile familiar.

“I’m heading back to the States,” he says, “Defense contract came through. I'm setting up the company in California—Los Angeles, Malibu, right on the water. Going to take a while, I’ll be starting in New York.”

Ileana lifts her mug. “You always did like your sunshine and seclusion.”

He chuckles. “Well, what’s the point of being a genius if you can’t have both?”

She smiles faintly, but doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Howard studies her face, then tries anyway. “Come with me, Lee. You’d like California. We could use you. God knows I could.”

She looks out toward Erik without answering. The boy flips a page, unaware of the weight pressing against the room.

“I can’t,” she says finally. “Not yet. Erik’s still finishing school. Still building himself. I won’t uproot him. He needs time, and he deserves it.”

Howard nods, slowly. He was expecting this. Still, the disappointment lingers around his eyes.

“Alright. I figured you’d say that, but it was worth a try.”

She offers a more genuine smile. “It was.”

He sets his coffee down. “Just… stay in touch, alright? Write. Call. Don’t vanish off the face of the earth.”

“I promise,” she says. And she means it.

Howard brightens slightly, as if the promise eases something. “I hired a man named Edwin Jarvis. He’ll be my butler. Brilliant fellow. His wife, Ana, is coming with us too. You’d like her—sharp as a tack, wicked sense of humor.”

“I look forward to meeting them someday.”

“You will.”

Ileana smirks then. “By the way, I’ve stolen your last name.”

Howard blinks widely. “Stark, you’re Lee Stark now?”

“Leena Stark.”

He chuckles. “Well, Leena Stark, welcome to the family. Officially.”

The front door swings open, letting in the late morning sun as Ileana walks Howard to the threshold. Erik pads in from the sunroom, barefoot, still holding his book. He pauses a few feet away, silent but watchful.

Howard lingers just outside, adjusting his coat as he turns back toward them.

“You’re a lucky kid,” he says, giving Erik a meaningful smile. “Having an aunt like Leena? She’s one of the best there is. You hang onto her.”

Erik meets his eyes, calm and steady. He’s quiet for a moment, then nods.

“I know.”

Howard’s grin softens. He ruffles Erik’s hair lightly, then steps back.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he tells Ileana.

“I won’t,” she replies.

He gives a final wave and turns, heading down the front walk toward the waiting car.

The door closes slowly behind him with a soft click.

Inside, the house is still again. Erik looks up at her, book hugged to his chest.

“I’m glad you didn’t go,” he says simply.

Ileana looks at him, surprised by the quiet sincerity of it.

“So am I,” she says.

[October 1945]

Ileana steps in, heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, her long black coat dusted with London rain. The secretary gestures nervously toward the closed door of the office. Without waiting, Ileana opens it and walks in.

The headmaster, a thin man with spectacles and a receding hairline, stands quickly.

“Miss Stark, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Ileana closes the door behind her, composed but cold. “You said there was an incident with Erik?”

“Yes, unfortunately. He was caught in a physical altercation with another student. One of the older boys.”

Ileana’s eyes narrow slightly. “Why?”

The headmaster hesitates, wringing his hands together as he lowers himself back into his chair.

“Well… we believe the fight may have been provoked. But that doesn’t excuse…”

“I asked why,” Ileana cuts in, her voice low and sharp. “Not whether it was excused. What did the other boy say or do? Because I know it was not my nephew.”

He clears his throat, avoiding her gaze.

“There was… an issue. Some of the children noticed Erik’s… his… the numbers, ma’am. It was visible during gym class. The boy in question made a comment.”

“Comment,” Ileana repeats, tone gone icy. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

The headmaster shifts uncomfortably. “He referred to it as... identifying property. Miss Stark, you have to understand…”

But she’s already standing.

“No. What I understand is that a child in your care was harassed, targeted, and dehumanized, and you’re more concerned about Erik defending himself than the fact that one of your students compared him to property.”

The headmaster blanches. “I-I assure you, disciplinary action will be taken…”

“I want that boy expelled,” she says flatly. “Immediately.”

“Miss Stark, please be reasonable…”

She leans forward, planting both hands on his desk, her voice low and venomous.

“Do I sound unreasonable to you? Because I assure you, I haven’t even started.”

There’s a long pause. The headmaster swallows and nods, almost imperceptibly.

“I’ll see what can be done.”

Ileana straightens.

“Good. Because if your institution can’t guarantee Erik’s safety—or his dignity—I will find one that can and take my funding with me.”

She turns on her heel and walks out the door without another word.

The heavy wooden doors swing open, and Ileana Stark steps out, her jaw tight, eyes still burning with restrained fury. Erik is waiting on the bench just outside, small and tense, hands fidgeting in his lap. He looks up quickly when he sees her, searching her face for what comes next.

Ileana softens the moment their eyes meet.

She stops in front of him, smoothing her coat, then crouches slightly to his level.

“How do you feel about ice cream?”

Erik blinks. “Now?”

“Now,” she says, voice calmer. “You’ve had enough of school for one day.”

A cautious, slow smile begins to form on Erik’s face.

“Ice cream,” he repeats.

Ileana nods, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “My treat. You pick the place.”

Erik stands, eyes brighter now. “Even if it’s the one with the weird green flavor?”

Ileana smirks, offering him her hand. “Especially if it’s the one with the weird green flavor.”

He takes it without hesitation. They walk off down the path together, her grip steady, his posture just a little taller than before.

[November 1945]

Frost crystals edge the windowpanes. The sky outside is a pale wash of winter light. Inside, the quiet is broken only by the soft clink of utensils and the flipping of a book beside Erik’s plate. He eats in silence, his focus split between breakfast and whatever history he's reading.

Ileana watches him for a moment over her tea, then clears her throat gently.

“Erik.”

He looks up, wary but listening.

She takes a breath. “I’ve never really celebrated the holidays,” she says, tone even. “Not properly, not... in the way people expect. But I thought—if you’d like—we could this year.”

Erik frowns slightly. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

“I want to,” she says firmly. “You live here. This is your home. And you’re my family now.”

That freezes him more than the late November air ever could. 

He blinks. “Family?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat. Then he says quietly, “I’m Jewish.”

“I know.”

“You still want to…?”

She cuts him off with a nod. “Yes. That’s part of what I meant. Hanukkah, Shabbat, all of it. If you want, you’ll teach me. We’ll do it properly. On your terms.”

He stares at her, stunned. “You don’t mind?”

Ileana’s smile blooms, bright and rare. “Erik, I was around when half the holidays on this planet were invented. I’ve never celebrated any of them the right way. I’d like to start now—with you.”

Erik opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He just nods, swallowing hard.

Then, a little stunned: “Okay. Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“Good,” she says, lifting her teacup. “It’s settled then.”

Erik blinks again. “You were there when they were invented?”

Her grin widens. “Oh yes. Saturnalia was a party.”

He chokes on his breakfast, coughing as she pushes his glass of water toward him.

“Happy Hanukkah, kid,” she says, patting his shoulder. “We’ll start there.”

[December 7, 1945]

The menorah glows in the window, each candle flickering in its rightful place. Erik stands beside it, carefully lighting the shamash before the last candle. His hands are steady. Ileana watches from behind, arms folded loosely, her usual elegance softened by a genuine attentiveness.

As he recites the blessings, her lips move silently with him—still learning, still listening.

Later, at the table, Erik explains the story again—not because she doesn’t know it, but because he wants to. This version is his, shaped by grief, history, and memory.

“It’s not just about the miracle,” he says, tapping the page of a book she got him on the first night. “It’s about surviving when no one thought you could. About resistance.”

“I understand that part very well,” Ileana murmurs. She offers him a soft smile. “Thank you for teaching me.”

He shrugs, but his cheeks are pink.

She gestures to the final gift in front of him—wrapped in dark blue paper, tied with silver thread.

“For the eighth night,” she says. “Open it.”

He tears the paper carefully, then pauses, stunned.

It’s a portable chess set. Hand-carved, clearly old but meticulously restored. The pieces are smooth under his fingers, each one unique—stained wood and cool ivory, nestled in a leather-lined box.

“It folds,” she says, crouching beside him. “So you can carry it with you. No matter where you go.”

Erik’s voice is quiet. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did. You said you used to play. With your father.”

He nods slowly. “I haven’t since...”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“I thought maybe,” she says gently, “we could learn to play together again. We could use my set or yours. Whenever you like.”

Erik runs his thumb over the rook, blinking fast. “You got me books, and chocolate, and this. For eight days.”

“It’s tradition,” she replies. “And you’re worth celebrating.”

He swallows hard, then leans over and hugs her—quick, fierce, wordless.

She closes her eyes and holds him close.

This time, there’s no past between them. Just the warmth of candlelight, and family made, not born.

[December 1945]

The fire crackles gently. Outside, snow has begun to fall, dusting the glass roof. Erik and Ileana sit on opposite ends of the low coffee table, a half-finished chess game between them. A tin of chocolate coins sits nearby, mostly empty.

Erik moves his knight with a decisive tap. “That’s check.”

Ileana eyes the board, but her expression is thoughtful, distracted.

After a pause, Erik asks, “Were there holidays on Iricys?”

Ileana stills.

“There was only one,” she says finally, voice quieter than usual. “When winter reached its peak. The coldest night of the year. The crystal mountains would shimmer—almost glow under starlight. We would gather outside and hum. Not songs. Just… vibration from the throat. It echoed through the ice. You could feel it in your bones.”

“That sounds… peaceful,” Erik says.

“It was,” she admits. “Once.”

He looks up at her. “Would you ever want to do it again? Here?”

The question hangs in the air.

Her jaw tightens.

“No,” she says quietly. “Not all holidays bring comfort. That one… it belongs to another world. But I don’t belong to it anymore. Not the way I used to. That holiday—those nights—they’re part of a life that feels like it belonged to someone else. I’m not ready to go back there. Not even in memory.”

Erik nods slowly, absorbing that.

“I understand,” he says.

They lapse into silence again. The fire pops.

After a while, Ileana leans forward and nudges a piece across the board.

“Checkmate,” she says quietly.

Erik stares at the board, then groans. “What? How?”

She shrugs, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “You distracted yourself.”

He huffs and leans back. “So did you.”

Her eyes drift to the falling snow. “Yes,” she murmurs. “But I came back.”

Chapter Text

[January 14, 1946]

The house is silent. No music from the radio, no sound of dishes in the kitchen. Just the ticking of the old wall clock downstairs and the faint creak of wood settling in the cold.

Erik notices the absence of movement right away. By now, Ileana is usually preparing to go down to the cellar with him or fixing breakfast—always in motion, always present. But this morning, the quiet is different. Still and heavy.

He stands outside her bedroom door, hesitant. Then he lifts a hand and knocks gently.

A pause. 

Then, softly: “…You can come in.”

He eases the door open. The powder-blue room is dim, lace curtains drawn against the pale winter light.

Ileana lies on the bed, already dressed in a wool skirt and soft blouse, but the white linens are in disarray—sheets and quilt tangled on the floor, like sleep had refused to take her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and her eyes, when they glance to Erik, are tired.

She doesn’t move. One hand is curled against her chest, clutched tight around a thin chain.

He steps closer and sees it: a military dog tag in her grasp. An engagement ring still threaded beside it. The tag and the ring are pressed between her fingers, the small pearl on the band resting against her lips.

Erik doesn’t ask.

Quietly, he climbs onto the bed beside her, curling onto his side, facing her, not touching but close enough that she knows he’s there. The mattress dips slightly with the added weight.

The minutes pass. Neither speaks.

Eventually, her hand lowers. Her gaze shifts to the ceiling. Her voice is quiet when it comes.

“James,” she says. “That was his name. James Buchanan Barnes. Most people called him Bucky... But not me.”

She draws in a breath and lets it out slowly.

“I met him in ’43. Brooklyn boy. Smart mouth. Kind heart.” A faint smile touches her lips, but it doesn’t last. “He thought he could dance. I corrected him. On our first date, I danced him in circles. That didn’t stop him. One day, he finally caught up.”

Erik listens, still and quiet, the way someone does when they’re hearing something sacred.

“He saved me all the chocolate from his field rations.” Her eyes glass over slightly, but no tears fall. “Wrote terrible poetry, but I always listened. Thought I was impressed.”

A silence.

“I loved him. More than I thought was possible.”

She looks at Erik, then, just briefly.

“Grief doesn’t end,” she says. “It just changes shape.”

Erik nods slowly, understanding in the quiet way that only someone who’s known loss can. He shifts just slightly, laying his hand close to hers. Not touching, but close enough.

[January 30, 1946]

The scent of cocoa drifts through the quiet house as morning light filters through the frost-dusted windows. Streamers—hand-cut from newspaper and stitched with string—flutter gently in the kitchen draft. A paper crown sits askew on Ileana’s head, another folded neatly beside the breakfast plate across from her. The old wooden radio hums softly in the corner, but otherwise, it’s still.

Footsteps on the stairs.

She glances up just as Erik rounds the banister and freezes on the bottom step.

His eyes take in the room: the streamers, the tilted cake in the center of the table, the extra chair pulled out just slightly. Then he sees her—sitting at the table, arms folded, wearing a ridiculous crown.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first.

“…How did you know?” he finally asks, quiet and stunned. “It’s my birthday. How…?”

“I located your birth certificate,” Ileana replies, rising smoothly. “Among a few other things.”

He just stares at her, blinking. She lifts the second paper crown and gently sets it on his head. Erik doesn’t move.

“Come sit,” she says softly. “Cake for breakfast, just this once.”

He moves like he’s unsure whether to smile or cry, sinking into the chair. The cake is slightly off-kilter, slumping to one side. But the chocolate smells rich and warm, the icing glistening under the soft glow of the overhead light. Twelve candles stand waiting.

Ileana picks up her STARK lighter and lights them one by one. The small flames flicker, reflected in Erik’s wide eyes.

“Make a wish,” she whispers, settling beside him.

He stares at the candles. Then he closes his eyes, takes a breath, and bows his head. The flames vanish with a single puff.

A beat of silence. Then Ileana reaches beneath the table and slides something across the wood—a simple manila envelope, unwrapped, its edges worn.

“What’s this?” he asks, voice low.

“Open it.”

His fingers tremble just slightly as he lifts the flap.

Inside are photographs. Black and white, a little bent at the corners, but whole.

His mother, smiling at something off-camera, hair pinned back, her eyes unmistakably his. His father, tall and solemn in his overcoat. And then—him. A baby in his mother’s arms, his father behind her, bundled against the cold, eyes bright and round with curiosity.

He doesn’t speak. He just stares, as if afraid the images might vanish if he blinks too long.

Ileana watches him with careful silence, her paper crown still crooked, her hands folded in her lap.

“I had some contacts dig,” she says softly. “Quietly. I thought you should have them. Not just in memory.”

Erik’s voice is barely there. “I didn’t think anything survived.”

“Very little did,” she answers. “But this did. Enough.”

He doesn’t look at her, not yet. Just stares at the photo—his past held in paper, proof that it was real.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“Thank you.”

She reaches over and rests her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Erik.”

Erik looks at the last photo again, swallowing hard. “I don’t remember her voice.”

Ileana reaches out, her fingers barely brushing the back of his hand. “You don’t have to remember everything. Just… know that she was real. And she loved you.”

He blinks quickly, nods once. Then leans into her just slightly, still clutching the envelope.

The cake sits forgotten on the table. The air smells like chocolate and wax.

And for a brief, fragile moment, he feels like a child again—not a weapon, not a survivor. Just a boy, in a paper crown, with a tilted cake and someone who remembered.

[March 1946]

The library sits nestled between buildings that still bear the marks of the Blitz—scorched brick, boarded windows, silence where neighbors once stood. But inside, the air is warm and still. Dust motes drift through light that filters in through high windows. Books survived where so much else didn’t.

Every Thursday, they come. Erik hangs his overcoat on the brass hook near the entrance and strides ahead with purpose, scuffed shoes soft on the worn wooden floor. His hair is neat, his shirt collar slightly askew. He knows where he’s going.

Ileana follows with quiet grace, gloves folded in one hand, hat pinned perfectly in place. She wears the era well—elegant but simple, always precise. She watches him disappear between the shelves like a bloodhound on the scent of wonder.

Lately, he makes for the science section. Today it’s astronomy again.

He settles on the floor, cross-legged with a thick navy-blue hardback. “What’s this one?” he asks, showing her the spine. Modern Studies in Celestial Mechanics.

“Equations and theories,” she says, crouching beside him. “Not many photographs.”

“I don’t need photographs,” he says. “Tell me about the real thing.”

She smiles faintly, smoothing her skirt before sitting on the nearby bench. “Which planet are we visiting today?”

“Jupiter,” he says without hesitation. “Did you ever go there?”

Her eyes wander to the tall arched window. “I’ve stood on Ganymede’s ice,” she says softly. “Watched the auroras over the equator. You can’t breathe there, of course. Suit hissed the whole time.”

He stares at her with awe only half-masked by pretense. “And Iricys?” he asks after a beat. “Have you been back?”

Her expression changes, almost imperceptibly.

“No,” she says, gently. “Not in a long time.”

“How long?”

“Two thousand years.”

He blinks, then tilts his head. “Why?”

“I left,” she replies simply. “And when you've been gone that long… going back isn’t the same as going home.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that. He doesn’t press.

Instead, he flips to a diagram of Jupiter’s magnetosphere, tapping at it with one finger. “Do the moons really mess with the tides?”

“They do more than that,” she says, leaning in. “They crack the ice. Pull the oceans underneath. Whole seas boil and freeze in cycles. It's like watching a planet breathe.”

He is quiet after that, lost in the diagrams, mouthing the longer words. She doesn’t disturb him.

Around them, the library breathes in peace and paper. A few other patrons murmur softly at distant tables. Outside, the world is rebuilding. Inside, Erik is discovering the stars.

When the grandfather clock chimes the hour, he closes the book and tucks it under his arm.

“Same time next week?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Of course.”

They walk home through streets still rebuilding, chimneys scarred with soot and signs of repair everywhere. But there are crocuses coming up between the cobblestones. Erik talks about tidal forces and habitable zones. She lets him.

She never interrupts.

[December 1946]

The scream tears through the quiet of the house like a blade. Sharp. Shaking. Ileana jolts upright in bed, heart slamming against her ribs. Another scream follows—raw, terrified—and then a violent crash.

Erik.

She’s out of her room before she finishes the thought, bare feet silent on the cold wood of the staircase as she descends to the floor where he sleeps. The hallway is dim, lit only by the distant flicker of a streetlamp through gauzy curtains. She stops just outside his door.

Metal groans.

She feels it before she sees it—her skin prickling faintly with the charge of it. Nails twisting from the floorboards. The radiator rattling. The old iron light fixture above humming like it might explode.

She hesitates. Just for a moment. Then she breathes in once, pushes the door open, and steps inside.

The room is in chaos.

Every screw, every hinge or loose coin, every sliver of metal—rising, floating, trembling in the air. The boy in the bed is thrashing, tangled in his sheets, his face soaked in sweat, his mouth twisted around another scream.

"No! No—Mama! Don’t do it! Don’t—don’t do it, don’t…"

Ileana doesn’t speak. She crouches low by the doorway, watching the floating debris swirl in slow, erratic orbits. Her eyes turn to Erik. Twelve years old, impossibly small in the oversized bed. His hands curled into fists, clutching at nothing.

She moves slowly, calculating the paths of the flying metal, her breath steady and deep. One quiet step at a time, she crosses the room. Then she lowers herself to the floor again—this time beside his bed, pressing her back to the wall just underneath the window.

She closes her eyes.

And then she begins to hum.

Soft. Unassuming. The melody rises like something ancient, older than this house, older than London, older than war. The tones slip like silk into the static-heavy room, curling under the scream still caught in Erik’s throat.

The metal begins to sink.

Pen nibs click gently to the floor. Screws spin in slow spirals before settling. The bedsprings groan but hold.

Ileana keeps humming, her voice gaining a thread more clarity, then begins to sing. The words are in a language unknown to this world—a lullaby her grandmother sang to her when shadows stretched too long across the ceilings. When the ache of her mother’s absence left her sleepless and crying in the dark.

“Ne csukd be szemed, kisfiam... Az álmok jönnek már...”

Her voice wavers on the last note, nearly breaks, but she doesn't stop. The final bit of metal, a single pence, falls with a soft clink near her knee.

Erik gasps in his sleep—then exhales.

He stills.

The room is quiet now—the air tastes of iron and polished wood. Ileana stays right where she is, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes watching the slow rise and fall of the boy’s chest.

Only when she's certain the nightmare is done does she reach up and tug the blanket back over his shoulder. Her voice is nearly inaudible as she finishes the lullaby, fingers gently brushing his sweat-damp hair back from his brow.

She doesn’t leave. She stays on the floor all night, watching him sleep—guarding him from the ghosts neither of them can escape from.

Chapter Text

[March 1947]

The city is quieter now. The war is over, but echoes linger in the bones of buildings and in the hush that settles after dark. Streetlamps hum faintly along the road, casting soft pools of gold. But here, in the garden behind Ileana’s narrow townhouse, there is room for silence.

They lay the blanket over the damp grass. Erik drops down first, folding his arms behind his head. Ileana follows, more precise in her movements, tucking her coat beneath her and wrapping another blanket around her shoulders. She doesn’t feel the cold the way he does, but she mimics the gesture anyway—for his sake.

Above them, the stars emerge in patches between the drifting clouds. London is never dark enough for a proper sky, but still, they find what they can.

“There,” she murmurs, raising a pale hand. “You see that V-shape above the chimney?”

He follows her finger. “Yeah. That’s Cassiopeia, isn’t it?”

“Not to the Shi’ar,” she says. “To them, it’s The Talon of M’kraan. Part of their creation myth. They believe the universe was born from a crystal housed within that formation—too massive for human instruments to detect, but it’s there. Locked outside time.”

Erik looks at her sidelong. “That’s a real thing? The crystal?”

She nods once. “And very much alive.”

He lies back, stares upward again. “What else?”

Ileana traces a slow arc to the left. “That cluster there—that’s known as Ryehk’s Embrace in the Centaurian tongue. To them, it’s the resting place of fallen warriors. They believe the stars carry the last heartbeat of every soul.”

Erik’s brow furrows. “Fallen warriors?”

She nods. “The Centaurians sing to their dead. Even in space, they say the song always finds its way home.”

Something flickers in Erik’s face. Wonder. A little grief.

“And that?” he asks, pointing near the roof. “That band across the sky.”

“That’s Kree space,” she says flatly. “At least, it used to be.”

He senses something colder in her voice now. “You’ve been there.”

“I’ve been taken there,” she corrects. “Not the same.”

He doesn’t push. He knows better.

They sit like that for a while, side by side in the dark, the stars reflecting faintly in Erik’s eyes as Ileana points out more constellations—some real, some half-lost to ancient alien languages. The Eye of Skrullos. The Chains of Zenn-La. The Three Moons of Tarnax IV. Each story darker than the last.

At one point, Erik breaks the silence. “Did any of them… ever look up at us?”

Ileana glances at him. “Who?”

“These empires. These people. The Shi’ar, the Skrulls, the Kree. Did they ever… wonder what was down here? What we were doing?”

She’s quiet for a beat. Then: “They noticed. But they didn’t care. Most of them at least.”

That lands harder than he expects.

“But you cared,” he says.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“I was running,” she says finally. “I was being called to this planet… to find my soulmate.”

He nods slowly, not looking at her.

Above them, the stars burn—cold, distant, ancient. Scars across the sky. Ileana watches them in silence, her gaze unreadable. Erik lies back down and pulls the blanket higher, listening to her hum something low and unfamiliar. A tune with no melody he recognizes—probably from another galaxy.

[June 1947]

It happens on a gray afternoon, just after the grocer’s.

They’re walking home—Erik with his jacket too short at the sleeves, Ileana elegant as ever in charcoal jacquard, a silk scarf tucked neatly beneath her collar. The street is narrow, lined with soot-streaked brick and iron fences. Their Victorian house waits three blocks ahead, ivy curling up its stone frame like fingers.

They pass a man with a flat cap and sunken cheeks, leaning against a lamppost like he owns the street. He squints at Ileana.

“Foreign bitch,” he mutters. 

Then he spits—just beside her heels, close enough to be deliberate.

Erik freezes. The paper bag in his hands twists violently.

But Ileana doesn’t stop. She walks on, heels clicking calmly over the cobblestone. Her voice is cold and low.

“Don’t,” she says.

Erik doesn’t move. The air hums with the strange static that always comes when he’s close to breaking. A metal sign down the road trembles faintly. He’s thirteen, and still learning how to hold all of it in.

She turns back, just enough to meet his eyes.

“Not here,” she says.

He breathes, sharp and shallow. Then he follows.

Their house creaks with warmth that night. Lace curtains flutter at the edge of the drafty window, and Erik sits curled in the velvet armchair, a mug cooling in his hands.

Ileana sets down her book. 

“You wanted to punish him,” she says.

He nods. “You didn’t even look at him.”

“I didn’t need to. He needed me to shrink. He needed my rage.”

“I could’ve made him stop,” Erik mutters. “I should have.”

“No,” she says, firm. “You should learn when to be seen, and when to be felt.”

He frowns.

“You want to hurt a man like that?” she continues. “Don’t stoop. Don’t touch. Find his pride. Make it rot.”

Erik watches her closely now.

“How?” he asks, bitter. “By letting people spit on you?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “By making them regret it. Shame—it’s cleaner than blood. And it lasts longer.”

She folds her hands. “You want to learn how to burn a man down, Erik? Do it with words. Do it so well he thanks you while he’s choking.”

He stares at her.

“Language,” she says, tapping the table. “Is a weapon. Learn his history better than he does. Learn his fears. Learn the truths he pretends not to know. And then, the next time someone tries to make you feel small, you show them exactly how insignificant they are.”

Erik says nothing.

But from then on, he doubles down on his studies. His posture shifts. His words sharpen.

And the next time someone sneers at Ileana in the street—he doesn’t lift a finger.

He dismantles them with a sentence.

And she watches, quietly, as he begins to understand what real power is.

[August 1947]

The room smells faintly of old parchment and pinewood polish. A worn globe spins lazily on its stand beside the desk where Erik sits, legs crossed, pen poised. His brow is furrowed in concentration, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth as he copies down a phrase in Russian for the third time.

Across from him, Ileana stands with her arms folded, watching. Not critically. Not like the teachers Erik remembers from before or even the ones he has now. Her gaze is patient, precise, curious—like she’s measuring something deeper than language retention.

“You need Spanish, Russian, and French first,” she says, voice quiet but certain. “They are the bones. Everything else is muscle.”

“I’ll learn the others too,” Erik replies without looking up. He’s taller, leaner, still angry, still quiet. But there's something else in him now—purpose, or the beginnings of it.

Ileana doesn't smile, not exactly. But her expression softens. She moves past him, brushing her fingertips against the windowsill as she walks. “Good,” she says. “You’ll need them.”

Weeks pass.

Erik’s notebooks begin to fill—first with vocabulary lists, then with sentences, then with strange little paragraphs that seem to be stories, then poems. He keeps the poems to himself, folding them in thirds and tucking them in the pages of other books, behind drawers, under the mattress.

One day, Ileana is sweeping under his bed—not snooping, just cleaning—and a scrap of paper slips out.

She doesn't unfold it right away. She stares at it, recognizes the slant of Erik’s handwriting, the uneven pressure of his pen. Her fingers close around it, gentle as if it might vanish. After a moment, she slides it into her dress pocket and says nothing.

That night, when Erik returns from the garden, he finds a blank leather-bound journal on his desk.

No note. No explanation. Just the journal, thick and silent, waiting.

He touches the cover. Runs a thumb along the spine. He glances toward the door, where Ileana has just walked past, humming quietly in French.

He doesn’t say anything, either.

He opens the journal and begins to write.

[November 1947]

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the worn wooden floors of Ileana’s study. A thin blanket lies draped over Erik’s shoulders, his knees tucked beneath him on the couch, a pencil still stuck behind his ear from earlier lessons.

Ileana sits opposite him in her armchair, a book cracked open in her lap. Her voice carries gently across the room, speaking in clear, lyrical Spanish.

“Because the cherry tree has blossomed and the swallows have returned.”

Erik follows every word with his eyes, lips silently echoing her mouth. It’s a children’s book tonight—one they’ve read before, about where the animals in the forest live. But he listens like it’s new.

They finish the story, and she closes the book with a soft thud.

“Next?” she asks, already reaching for the next on the stack.

“French,” Erik says, voice steady, curious.

She smiles and selects a slim volume of poetry. The kind that rolls off the tongue like honey. Her accent shifts—elegant, smooth. Erik leans closer without realizing.

“What temper at the prospect did not wake to happiness unthought of…?” 

When she pauses, Erik picks up the next stanza. Slowly at first, careful with his vowels. But she doesn’t correct him. Just waits. Lets him find the rhythm.

Later, they move to Russian fairy tales. Darker stories, stranger turns. The room quiets as Erik reads aloud now, his voice lower than it used to be, his accent clumsy but eager.

Ileana watches from her chair, chin resting against her fist. Her eyes glint with something unspoken. Not pride, not quite. Something deeper. Older.

By the end of the night, he’s still reading. He doesn’t notice when she stops translating. He doesn’t need her to.

She leans back and listens.

Chapter Text

[February 1948]

The basement smells faintly of old iron and cedar, warmed by the flicker of a single shaded lamp near the stairs. Piles of junked metal line the stone walls—tangled wires, rusted bolts, twisted forks and radio guts, each piece carefully salvaged, sorted, cleaned. There is purpose in every heap. Not chaos. Not for her.

Ileana kneels on the rug beside Erik, who sits cross-legged in his worn flannel pajamas, jaw tight, hands hovering mid-air. In front of him, a copper maze has been soldered into shape, suspended between two brass rods. From a thread, a small steel ring dangles—his current opponent.

“Thread the ring through the maze,” she says softly. “Without touching the sides.”

Erik doesn't answer. He lifts the ring the way she taught him—though he doesn’t know that’s what she’s doing. Teaching. Framing it as a game was easier. It helped him breathe through the fear.

The ring twitches, begins to move forward. It jerks to the left, overcorrects. Almost grazes the copper.

“Breathe,” she murmurs. “Slow. Match the rhythm of the room.”

He does. Shoulders relaxing. The tremble stills.

She stays silent as he threads the ring along the tight bends. It becomes a kind of meditation—no loud thoughts, no surge of rage, just precision. Feeling. Control. At the end, the ring slides neatly into the final loop with a soft metallic clink.

Ileana doesn’t praise him. Just says, “Again. Eyes closed this time.”

He groans, but it’s mostly show. “You’re changing the maze next time, right?”

“I always do,” she says.

He closes his eyes and lifts the ring again, slower now, unsure. It drifts a little too high, veers off-center.

Beside them, another setup waits: floating coins suspended in spiral formation, bobbing slightly in the air. On the far table, a bowl of nails gleams under candlelight—tonight’s final “game,” maybe. Maybe not. She’ll know when he’s ready.

The ring clinks against the copper, and Erik flinches.

“Start over,” she says gently. “Don’t force it.”

He resets, and she watches. Quietly, she adjusts a wire in the next maze, making the spiral just a little tighter. No harder than he can handle. But harder, still.

She doesn’t speak of the future. Doesn’t tell him how his gift could level cities, or how someday he’ll be hunted for what he can do.

Instead, she lights a candle and settles back onto the rug beside him. She watches the ring rise again, trembling a little less this time.

“Good,” she says. “Again.”

The candle’s flame shivers slightly in the draft that comes from the old coal chute, but Ileana doesn’t glance up. Her focus is on Erik—jaw clenched again, brow furrowed, his hands lifted just inches from his knees. His fingers twitch now and then, unconsciously mirroring the motion of the steel ring as it drifts forward through the maze.

She notes it all. Every stutter in the ring’s path, every shift in his breathing. His control is better tonight. Smoother. She can feel the metal responding not to force, but to attention.

He makes it halfway before the ring taps the side again—just a kiss of sound, but enough. He exhales sharply, frustrated.

“Don’t let it push back,” she says. Her voice is soft, but cool. “It’s just a thread of metal. You’re the current.”

He snorts. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Then stop feeling. Try listening instead.”

He sighs, resets. The ring falls limp on its thread, pendulum-still.

She doesn’t move, only watches. The copper wires of the maze shine faintly in the low light, shaped like a jagged sine wave, designed to be too delicate for brute force. Erik has tried brute force before. She remembers the bent nails. The imploded radio. The headache that lasted hours after.

But this—this quiet repetition, this stillness—is harder. That’s why it matters.

He lifts the ring again.

This time, no tremor.

Ileana leans back slightly, weight on one palm, eyes never leaving the ring. “You used to break things.”

“I still do,” Erik mutters, eyes shut.

“You used to break them because you wanted to scare the world back.”

His jaw works. He says nothing.

“But now you’re learning how to make it listen.”

The ring drifts forward again. It clears the next corner, just skimming the edge—but not touching. Not quite.

“I’m not like you,” Erik says after a moment.

“No,” she agrees. “You’re not.”

She doesn’t elaborate. He can sit with that. It's not meant to diminish him—only to mark the difference. The difference between someone born into power and someone forged in the wreckage of it.

The ring reaches the end again, steadier this time.

She reaches forward and stops it with her fingers, cool against the steel.

“Enough,” she says.

He opens his eyes and lets out a breath.

She stands slowly, candle in one hand. “Get some sleep. We’ll try the coins tomorrow.”

“Harder?”

She nods once. “Always.”

He grins at that, a little crooked. It’s the only praise he needs.

As he pads barefoot toward the stairs, Ileana turns back to the other games, resetting each one with a careful touch. Behind her, the ring still swings slightly on its thread—less now. Less each time.

[May 1948]

The bell above the door jingles as they step inside. The windows are fogged from the inside, shelves leaning like tired old men. The place is a labyrinth of books: floor to ceiling, haphazard stacks, sagging with the weight of too much language.

Ileana doesn’t speak. She never does when they arrive.

Erik is fourteen, and already he moves through these places like a cartographer, fingers trailing over cracked spines, eyes scanning titles like coordinates. He drifts from the front—cookbooks and gardening—to the older, darker shelves in the back, where the philosophy is stacked three rows deep and no one bothers to alphabetize the names.

He crouches. Pulls out a copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra with a split spine and underlined margins. Then, a battered Heinlein paperback with half the cover torn off. She sees his fingers linger on both. She doesn’t comment. Just waits near the poetry section, thumbing through Yeats with the same distant reverence she uses on weapons or ancient maps.

He appears beside her ten minutes later, arms full—four, five, six books—barely able to carry them.

“This one has a note inside,” he says, like it’s a secret. “Someone wrote to someone else. ‘Meet me where the stars begin.’”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “That one, then.”

“You said I could get three.”

“You can. But take that one too.”

He doesn’t argue. He never does when it comes to books.

At the till, the clerk eyes them both with mild curiosity—this foreign woman in a dark dress, all high cheekbones and ice, and the boy beside her with eyes like burning metal and hands that never quite sit still. She pays in cash, always. Leaves a little extra for the damage they didn’t cause.

Outside, the fog has thickened, pressing in around the streetlamps like wet cotton. Erik clutches the books to his chest, already flipping one open, reading as they walk.

“You’ll trip,” Ileana says without looking at him.

“I won’t,” he says, eyes skimming a paragraph, devouring it.

She glances sideways, just once. Watches him read with that feverish, obsessive focus—the way some boys chase trains or firecrackers. She says nothing. Just slows her steps so he can keep pace.

[September 1948]

The kitchen smells like something between vinegar and a campfire. A pot rattles on the back burner, steam curling toward the high ceiling, while Erik stands at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, spatula in the other like he’s bracing for combat.

Ileana pauses in the doorway, taking in the battlefield—flour scattered across the counter, an open jar of mustard seeds tipped over, onions in uneven chunks abandoned on the cutting board. A loaf of bread has somehow fallen to the floor.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks.

Erik doesn’t turn. “It’s not an occasion. Just… dinner.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, stepping over the bread and picking it up. “And what is dinner?”

“Sauerbraten,” he answers, voice tight.

Her eyebrows rise. “Ambitious.”

“I watched my mother make it once. Or… maybe more than once. I remember the smell.” He glances over his shoulder briefly before flipping something in the pan. It’s not a bad flip—except the meat lands half on the edge and nearly slides to the floor before he shoves it back in with the spatula.

“Smells… strong,” she says carefully, pulling out a chair.

“Strong is good.”

The next twenty minutes are a mix of sizzling, muttered curses in German, and the occasional loud clank of metal against enamel. When he finally sets a plate in front of her, the presentation is grim—blackened meat, overcooked potatoes, cabbage that looks like it surrendered a long time ago.

Ileana picks up her fork, the smoke still curling faintly between them.

He watches her, chin lifted, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “You don’t have to pretend you like it,” he says quickly. “I just… I wanted to see if I could make it.”

She cuts off a piece, takes a bite. The flavor is… charred. The meat is dry. She swallows without flinching. “You can make it. Next time you can make it without burning it.”

One corner of his mouth quirks. “You hate it.”

“I’ve eaten worse.” She takes another bite, slower this time, meeting his eyes. “But next time, I’m cooking.”

He leans back in his chair, pretending to look offended. “So you don’t trust me now?”

“I trust you to make an effort. I don’t trust you not to poison us accidentally.”

That gets a laugh. She lets it hang there for a moment before setting down her fork.

“After that,” she says, “I’m teaching you how to cook. Properly. No guessing. No… whatever this was.”

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of relief under the act. “Fine. But I’m not making soup.”

“Soup is the first thing you’re making,” she says, standing to clear the plates. “It’s harder to burn.”

He snorts, leaning back against the chair as she rinses the dishes. “I’ll find a way.”

Chapter Text

[February 1949]

It’s the cold that Erik notices first. The draft inside King’s Cross snakes under his coat and into his bones. The place smells of wet stone, coal smoke, and a dozen kinds of perfume from the crowd jostling past.

Ileana stands beside him, dark coat buttoned to the throat, eyes moving constantly—not nervously, but like a predator keeping track of every shadow. She’s here, but her mind is a step ahead, planning their path, gauging exits.

The girl they’ve come for arrives exactly as promised—alone, clutching a battered satchel to her chest, scarf wrapped so high it nearly hides her eyes. Magda. Her gaze flits between the faces in the station until Ileana raises a hand in a small wave.

Magda doesn’t run to them. She approaches slowly, shoulders drawn up, weight on the balls of her feet like she might bolt if anyone looks too closely. Up close, Erik sees the faint sheen of sweat on her brow despite the chill.

“This is Erik,” Ileana says quietly. “He’s going to walk with you. We’ll take the streets, not the Underground.”

Magda nods once. “Not far?”

“Not far,” Ileana says.

They move quickly, weaving through the station crowd. Erik walks beside Magda, not too close, matching his pace to hers. She keeps glancing over her shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he says, though he’s not sure he believes it himself.

Magda’s reply is a whisper in a sharp, foreign accent. “I was safe before.”

He looks at her, confused, and she seems to take that as permission to continue.

“My sister—she said the camps were behind us. That it would be better now. Then she saw… she saw what I can do. And she told them.” Her jaw tightens. “The government.”

Erik swallows. “Why?”

“She was afraid.” Magda’s eyes don’t meet his. “Fear makes people do things they swore they’d never do. Even to family.”

Something ugly coils in Erik’s stomach. He thinks of the guards. The trains. The fences. He doesn’t say anything, because he knows if he opens his mouth, the wrong thing might come out.

They walk in silence after that, the words clawing at Erik’s thoughts.

Ileana’s Victorian townhouse is narrow and white-washed, tucked between two taller buildings. 

She ushers Magda inside with a quiet, “Upstairs. Second door on the left. There’s food on the side table. Lock it if you want.”

Magda hesitates, eyes flicking to Erik again. 

“Thank you,” she says, and disappears up the stairwell.

The door shuts. Erik follows Ileana into the parlor.

“She-her sister…” He can’t finish.

“I heard,” Ileana says, walking.

“Could you forgive that?”

She glances at him, unreadable. “Fear shapes people, Erik. Some turn into shields. Others into knives. You survive by learning which is which before it’s too late. I know you’ve experienced that yourself.”

He doesn’t answer. He only walks into the sunroom, picking up his book, thinking of Magda’s wide green eyes and the way she never quite unclenched her hands.

Magda is already awake when Erik comes downstairs. She’s sitting at the kitchen table in the same clothes as yesterday, scarf coiled tight, fingers tracing the rim of a chipped mug.

Ileana is by the stove, pouring coffee into a thermos. She glances at Erik. “Eat something before we leave. You too, Magda.”

Magda murmurs something in Sokovian—thanks, maybe—and accepts the plate of bread and cheese. She eats in small, quick bites, like she’s expecting someone to take it away.

The windows are fogged from the cold outside. Erik sits across from her. “You sleep okay?”

She gives the smallest shrug. “Better than some places.”

Ileana sets down the thermos, leans against the counter. “We’ll head out in five. It’s an easy trip to Havin.”

Magda’s eyes lift at that word. “What’s it like?”

Erik starts to answer, but stops, because he’s not sure how to describe it. Havin isn’t just a place—it’s a pause in the world, a space where you can breathe without looking over your shoulder.

“You’ll see,” Ileana says instead. “Itex should be here soon. We’ll wait in the parlor.”

Erik and Ileana rise from their seats and move slowly down the hall, Magda following quietly behind them. Teacher and ward step inside the room first, looking around.

Magda is about to follow when the air in the middle of the room ripples.

It happens fast—light distorts, and a tall figure blinks into existence, long coat settling around him. Magda spins toward the sudden presence, hands flaring with an unnatural, searing red glow.

“Magda…!” Erik starts, but the blast is already flying.

Ileana moves like she’s known this would happen. One sharp step forward, intercepting the bolt midair. It hits her full in the shoulder. She staggers, smoke curling from the blackened tear in her dress.

Magda’s face goes white. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Ileana straightens, breath steady, the singed fabric falling away to reveal skin already knitting back together, pink and raw but healing before their eyes. 

“It’s fine,” she says, voice calm. “Look.”

Magda stares, trembling, as the last trace of the burn fades. “You-how…?”

“That’s my gift,” Ileana says simply. “I heal. You didn’t hurt me.”

Erik steps closer, lowering his voice. “She’s fine. You just got surprised, that’s all.”

Magda swallows hard, her shoulders loosening just a fraction.

The man in the long coat raises both hands in apology. “Itex,” he says, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m… not used to anyone being in the front room when I arrive.”

Magda glances between them all, uncertain, but she nods faintly. Ileana’s expression softens as she turns to Erik.

“Go get your bag. We’re heading for Havin.”

The world tilts and folds in on itself, and then they’re standing on Havin.

The air here is warmer, touched with salt and the scent of green things growing. The ground beneath their feet is soft sand that gives way to the worn boards of the dock. The sea stretches out in glittering blue, the island’s high cliffs sheltering the small harbor like a cupped hand.

Magda’s eyes go wide. She turns slowly, taking in the people moving along the paths—mutants of every kind. A boy with feathered wings folded tight against his back, a woman whose skin gleams like polished copper, a tall man carrying baskets who nods to Ileana without hesitation.

No one stares at her. No one flinches from her.

“Welcome to Havin,” Ileana says simply, her voice quiet in the bright air.

Itex is already gone, the ripple in the air marking his departure. Ileana adjusts the strap of her bag, gestures for Erik to follow, and leads them up a winding path toward the village square.

The buildings, once barely more than shacks made of wood, are now stone, three stories high.

Jimmy’s there, sleeves rolled up, leaning against a crate of supplies. Beside him, Mariana is checking a clipboard, pencil tucked behind her ear. Both look up as Ileana approaches.

Without preamble, Ileana unslings the thermos from her bag and presses it into Jimmy’s hands. “Brought you coffee.”

He unscrews the lid, inhales deeply. “You’re a saint.”

Mariana raises an eyebrow at the singed patch on Ileana’s dress but doesn’t comment. Her gaze flicks to Magda, then to Erik, reading the tension still lingering in the girl’s posture.

“This is Magda,” Ileana says. “She’ll stay with me and Erik tonight. Tomorrow we’ll see about placement.”

Mariana nods once, her expression softening. Jimmy takes a long swallow from the thermos and sighs like a man whose day just got ten percent better.

Magda stands a little straighter under their calm regard, as if beginning to believe—just maybe—that she’s safe.

By the time the sun dips low over the water, Havin has quieted. The island’s energy shifts after dusk—work pauses, voices soften, the air thickens with the scent of cooking fires and the distant crash of waves.

Ileana’s home sits at the edge of the village, where the packed-dirt road gives way to grass and a cluster of wind-bent palms. The small stone building looks weathered but solid, its pale walls glowing faintly in the lamplight from within.

Inside, the air is cool and faintly scented with the sea. Magda lingers near the threshold, clutching the strap of her small bag as Ileana gestures toward the bedrooms.

“You’ll take the one at the back,” Ileana says. “Window faces the garden. Erik, you’ve got the one across the hall.”

Magda nods, murmurs a quiet thanks, and slips inside to set down her things. She runs her fingers over the smooth walls, the small shelf with folded blankets, the neat bed already made. It’s more than she expected.

When she steps back into the living room, Erik is there, leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and the sitting area. He looks at her, then glances around the house.

“Last time I was here,” he says, “these were all wooden buildings. No stone. No proper floors.”

Magda blinks. “When was that?”

“Few years ago. Before the war ended. Before… everything changed.” He shifts his weight. “Indoor plumbing wasn’t even here yet. You had to walk to the pump in the morning if you wanted water.”

She smirks faintly. “So it’s modern now?”

He shrugs. “Modern enough. Better than a camp, anyway.”

The bluntness makes her flinch, just slightly, but Erik catches it. He pushes away from the doorframe, softening his tone.

“It’s safe here. People don’t… ask questions they don’t need to. You’ll see.”

She studies him for a moment, searching for any sign of doubt. There’s none—only a quiet certainty that comes from having been here before.

Ileana appears from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, and sets a pot on the table. “Eat,” she says. “Both of you. Then sleep. Tomorrow we’ll talk more.”

As they sit across from each other, Magda lets her shoulders ease, just a fraction. Erik doesn’t press her with questions, and she doesn’t offer answers. For now, it’s enough that the walls are solid, the food is warm, and the door is shut against the night.

The lamps are low, the house quiet except for the gentle hiss of wind through the trees outside. Erik sits cross-legged on his bed, the thin blanket draped over his knees, when Magda appears in the doorway.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

She shakes her head, stepping inside. Her auburn hair is still damp from washing, curling slightly at the ends. “It’s… too quiet.”

He nods, understanding. “You get used to it.”

She sits on the edge of his bed, fingers tugging at a loose thread in the blanket. For a long moment, neither speaks. Then—softly, as though saying it too loudly would make it worse—she says, “My name’s Magda Maximoff. My sister’s name is Natalya.”

There’s a pause. Her voice hardens just slightly. “She’s the one who told the Sokovian government about me. About what I can do. I thought she’d been protecting me, but…” Magda cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “She handed me over. Like I was… dangerous. Or shameful. It was just like before.”

Erik doesn’t speak right away. He’s seen betrayal cut deeper than any blade.

“They came for me in the night,” she says, staring at her hands. “I ran before they could get me. I don’t know if she regrets it. I don’t know if I care.”

Erik lets out a slow breath. “I know what it’s like. To lose family and still feel the wound they left.”

Her eyes lift to him. “Is that how you met Ileana?”

“In a way.” He leans back against the wall. “I was in Auschwitz. You’ve heard of it?”

She nods, “I was at Sárvár in Hungary. That’s where they took my family. Only my sister and I made it out.”

“Ileana saved me,” Erik says simply. “And others. Jimmy and Mariana were there too. And Victor, try to avoid him. They took us out before the camp could…” He stops, not needing to finish. “I’ve been with her since. Call her Aunt Leena, but really I’m her ward. Still…” he smirks faintly, “she’s bossy enough to be family.”

That earns him the smallest of smiles from her.

After a beat, Magda asks, “Why do you think she’s done all this? Built this place?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I think it’s to make up for something she’s seen. Something she couldn’t stop. But I don’t think it matters why anymore. What matters is… this is what it is. A haven. And you’re in it now.”

She sits with that for a while, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the shore. Then she nods, slow and deliberate, as if committing the word to memory.

“A haven,” she repeats.

Magda stands slowly, smiling lightly at Erik. “Goodnight,” she whispers.

He nods back, and with that, the girl heads down the narrow hall to the small bedroom Ileana gave her. The door closes with a soft click.

Erik stays where he is for a while, listening. The island night has its own kind of silence—layered, alive. Wind curling around the eaves. Palms whispering. Somewhere far off, the low murmur of the surf, steady as a heartbeat.

He hears the faint creak of her bedframe as she lies down. For a moment, he imagines she’s curled into herself the way she’d been sitting on his bed—small, guarded, ready to spring up if anything moves too quickly.

Time stretches. Eventually, the shift of her breathing changes—slower, heavier. She’s asleep.

Erik rises and pads softly to the front room. He sits in the armchair by the window, the one with a view of the beach beyond the stone wall. Moonlight glints off the waves. He can just make out the black line where water meets sky.

His eyes drift to the hallway.

He’s not on watch because Ileana told him to. She didn’t have to. It’s instinct now. You watch the ones who’ve been hunted. You keep them safe while they sleep.

The sea’s rhythm fills the night, the steady breath of an island that’s kept so many secrets. Inside, the house is still.

Magda doesn’t stir until morning.

Chapter Text

[March 1950]

Rain taps softly against the parlor windows, a steady rhythm beneath the low hiss of the fireplace. The lamplight casts long shadows across the worn chessboard between them.

Ileana sits with her back straight, one elbow on the armrest, fingers loosely curled around a glass of red wine. Erik leans forward in his chair, brows knitted in concentration, his fingertips resting lightly on the top of a rook.

They’ve played this game for years—most evenings when the world outside feels too loud. When Erik was younger, every match was a siege, his king running for cover while she methodically cornered him. Survival was his only tactic, and even then, it rarely lasted long.

Tonight feels different.

He moves his rook. Calm, precise. Not a desperate swing, but a calculated shift. She watches the line as it opens. Subtle.

“You’ve been thinking two moves ahead,” she says, settling her wine back on the side table.

He smirks without looking up. “I’ve been thinking three.”

She studies the board again, suspicion stirring. There’s a pattern here—one she didn’t see forming until now. The trap isn’t for her pawns or even her knights. It’s for her queen.

When she realizes it, she feels an unfamiliar ripple of surprise.

“You’re not just trying to survive anymore,” she says slowly. “You’re hunting me.”

He glances up at her then, the faintest edge of a grin playing at his mouth. “Maybe I’m tired of losing.”

“Or maybe,” she says, leaning forward, “you’ve finally decided the best defense is offense.”

The next few turns are sharper, quieter. The rain fades into the background. She counters his moves, but the board feels narrower than before, the air taut between them. He’s learning not just from her wins, but from her mistakes—and using them against her.

When it happens, it’s not flashy. No dramatic sweep of a piece. Just a quiet click as his rook slides into position.

“Check,” he says.

It’s not mate—she wriggles free with effort—but by the time she turns the tables, she knows it was too close for comfort.

He leans back, folding his arms, satisfied. “Getting closer.”

She takes a slow sip of wine, letting the firelight catch in her eyes. “Close enough to make me nervous.”

That makes him smile, wide this time. The board between them resets with the soft scrape of stone on wood, and she sees it clearly now: the shift from boy to strategist.

The game has changed.

[June 1950]

The school’s hall smells faintly of polish and flowers, the rows of chairs filled with parents and bored younger siblings. Sunlight pushes in through tall windows, bright enough to make the gold tassels on the graduates’ caps gleam.

Erik stands in the line of black-robed students, expression carefully neutral. He’s practiced that look—polite, but forgettable. Just another name in the program. Still, Ileana can see the way his shoulders square as the headmaster calls, “Erik Lehnsherr,” and he steps forward.

He crosses the stage without hesitation and accepts the diploma with a firm handshake. The hat tilts slightly on his head as he turns, and she catches the faintest twitch of his mouth—yes, he still thinks it’s ridiculous.

When it’s over, they spill into the courtyard, the spring air smelling of lilac and cut grass. She finds him standing by a stone column, pulling the cap from his head and running a hand through his hair as if to erase the evidence.

“You didn’t trip,” she says, coming to stand beside him.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

She studies him for a moment, then adds quietly, “You could’ve been first in the class, if you’d wanted. But you played the middle. You did exactly what I taught you.”

He smirks faintly. “And here I thought you’d want me to stand out.”

“Not yet,” she says, eyes steady on his. “When you’re ready to be seen, the world will have no choice but to notice.”

He pauses, the weight of that sinking in, something proud and sharp twisting in his chest.

[August 1950]

The rain hasn’t stopped all day, thin and cold against the parlor windows. Erik’s been upstairs for hours, the floorboards above her head creaking in short, impatient bursts. Once, she hears a door slam.

She doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong—he’s been tearing through the house all morning looking for it.

After supper, Ileana steps out into the back garden. The lamps spill a faint amber light across the paving stones, the air sharp with the smell of wet brick and coal smoke drifting from neighboring chimneys. By the wrought-iron bench under the hawthorn, she spots a dark blue shape half-hidden beneath it, edges curled from damp.

Kant: Critique of Pure Reason. The copy she’d bought him in Charing Cross months ago, when he’d lingered too long in the philosophy aisle, pretending not to look at the price.

She brushes the rain from the cover and carries it back inside. The house is warm, the ticking clock in the hallway loud in the quiet. She climbs the narrow stairs to his room and knocks. 

He calls quietly, “You can come in.”

Ileana enters without fanfare, crossing to the desk below the window that she bought for him on his Birthday from a local carpenter.

The desk is littered with paper, notes scrawled in his cramped handwriting, the ink blotched where his hand had pressed too hard. She sets the book square in the middle. No comment. No gesture to say she’d found it.

When she passes by later, the door is cracked open, and he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, bent over the book. He doesn’t look up. She doesn’t step in.

But the pacing has stopped. And that’s enough.

[November 1950]

The fog hangs low over London, muting the gaslight into pale gold halos. The streets are slick from an earlier drizzle, the air thick enough to cling to their coats and hair.

Ileana carries her paper bag in one hand, the steam of hot chips curling up into the cold. Beside her, Erik keeps his own bag tucked under his arm, hands deep in his pockets.

They don’t say much. No need.

A tram rattles by in the distance, its bell muffled to a dull chime. They pass shuttered shopfronts and stacks of milk crates waiting for morning delivery. She glances sideways once, just to check on him—he’s taller now, towering over her in height, but it’s the rhythm she notices.

His steps fall in line with hers. Not hurried, not lagging—just there, without effort. He adjusts when she does, weaving past puddles, slowing when the cobblestones grow uneven. It’s unconscious, she’s sure of it.

They round the corner toward their street, the glow from the bakery at the end still faintly warm in the fog. She feels the weight of the day settle into something easier.

No speeches. No plans. Just the quiet press of the city around them, and a boy who keeps pace.