lilith @lily-lilith26 - Tumblr Blog

The Nightingale, Prologue

description: In 2012, after the Chitauri attack on New York, Tony Stark and Bruce Banner get a call from Nick Fury. SHIELD has uncovered a forgotten HYDRA base chock-full of security measures, encrypted files, and of course, a cryo-pod. When the subject is taken out of cryo-suspension, they come to the realization that this super soldier isn't so foreign after all. Grace Rogers, sister of Steve Rogers, has been held captive by HYDRA and used alongside the Winter Soldier for years (but they don't know all those details yet).

In the 1940s, Grace Rogers, a Brooklyn nurse, is attempting to ignore the tension between her and her brother's best friend, Bucky Barnes. When they finally give in, Grace's happiness is fleeting as she navigates joining the frontlines as a medic, losing loved ones, an affair rooted in vulnerable desperation, and grueling torture after she is kidnapped by HYDRA while on a covert mission.

Grace, brainwashed by HYDRA, becomes the Nightingale, a weapons developer and the brains behind all of the Winter Soldier's missions, all the while not remembering that her now literal partner in crime is her presumed dead fiancée.

a/n: I have been crafting this in my head since I started watching Marvel like 8 years ago...and no, it's not the most original, but it is very detailed, pretty close to canon (aside from the OC part), and fleshed out. I hope you enjoy Grace as much as I do!

read on ao3 here

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower

Alone in his lab, Tony Stark stood over his red and gold Iron Man suit, tinkering with the battered motherboard and quietly muttering to himself. During the recent Chitauri attack and Tony’s subsequent missile-fueled trip through an interdimensional portal, his suit had taken damages that required a complete revamp and recalibration of the electronic system. With ACDC blasting, he didn’t notice Pepper standing in the doorway until her voice cut through the noise. Or, rather, he pretended not to notice.

“Tony,” she called, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. She waited a beat, then glanced at the man standing on her left.

“Stark,” SHIELD Director Nick Fury growled, almost shouting over the music.

Tony cursed to himself. He could already feel the migraine building at the base of his skull. “Can’t hear you,” Tony shot back, imploring Nick and Pepper to leave him be. “Busy.”

“JARVIS, cut the music,” Pepper said, louder this time. The music died abruptly, allowing silence to fill Stark’s lab, with the only audible noise now being the electricity of the suit cracking beneath Tony’s mechanical manipulation. “Tony.”

Tony sighed and lifted his safety goggles onto his forehead. He blinked, attempting to allow his eyes to adjust to the harsh LED lab lights. “What, Fury? If this is another lecture about the ‘collateral damage’ from the New York invasion, save it. I’m already funding the clean-up.”

Nick walked down the steps, his expression unchanged as his boots thudded across the floor until he was eye-to-eye with Tony across the workbench.. “This isn’t about the invasion. It’s about what we found.” Tony cocked an eyebrow. “SHIELD has been doing some…reconnaissance after the attack on New York, trying to figure out if there are any entities that may pose a threat domestically. You know, before we refocus on our intergalactic visitors.”

“If you’re trying to suggest that I’m a threat, you can save it, Fury. I explained to the military the parameters of my suit when I first came forward with–”

Nick held up a hand. “No, Stark, come on. You really think I would come in here and…it’s not important. What’s important is the HYDRA base we found. An old HYDRA base in the Caucasus Mountain Range. Heavily fortified, sealed files, encrypted systems we haven’t seen since the Cold War.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Let me guess – you want me to crack some codes? Maybe you need a few fancy gadgets to help your guys storm the place?”

“Not exactly.” Fury leaned in, narrowing his eyes. “Inside that base, we found a single cryo-pod. All that security, all those reinforced walls, for one frozen asset.”

Tony scoffed, his mind flicking back to the image of Steve Rogers, a living star-spangled relic from another era. “Great. And you want me to play Dr. Frankenstein?” Tony started to move his lab goggles back down over his eyes. “Come on. We don’t need to do this again. Just let it be, keep the thing on ice.”

Fury’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a request, Stark. Banner’s on the Quinjet, already prepped. I want you up there and ready to go in fifteen. We need to know what – or who – HYDRA thought was worth protecting this much.”

Tony met Fury’s one-eyed stare, the two men locked in a silent standoff for a beat longer than necessary.

“Fine,” Tony said, breaking his stare and pushing off the workbench.

With that, Fury turned and strode back up the steps, his coat snapping behind him like a war banner. Pepper lingered a moment longer, her eyes catching Tony’s. He gave her a quick, reassuring nod, and she turned to follow Fury out of the lab and back upstairs, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floors.

Tony glanced back at his damaged suit, his jaw clenching. Wonderful. Can’t wait.

October 20, 1936: Brooklyn

“Thank you,” spoke Steve Rogers, just eighteen and still painfully thin despite the layers of his late father’s old black suit, stood stiffly at the front of the church, his hands clenched at his sides as he forced a tight, strained smile. His eyes were bloodshot and hollow as he forced himself to nod and murmur his thanks to each passing mourner.

Beside him, his sixteen-year-old sister, Grace, stood in an old black dress, the too-large sleeves swallowing her whole. The dress had been their mother’s, as well as the old wool shawl draped over Grace’s hunched shoulders. She stared down at her scuffed Mary Jane shoes, also hand me downs from her mother. Grace forced herself to look up intermittently and accept a hug from each random stranger attempting to remind Grace how her mother would be proud of her.

“Thank you,” Steve uttered, his voice hoarse as he forced himself to meet the tired, sympathetic eyes of the gray-haired woman passing by. “Thank you for coming. It... it means a lot.”

The woman offered a faint smile as she reached out to squeeze Steve’s hand. “She was a good woman,” the woman whispered. Grace wanted to roll her eyes at all of her mother’s mourners. Funerals were nothing more than a chance for people to prove just how caring and neighborly they were. None of these people showed Sarah, Grace’s mom, the same kindness for more than a week after their dad died during the first World War.

Steve, who was now not only the man of the house, but Grace’s only protector, forced himself to swallow the lump rising in his throat. He took a shuddering breath as he noticed Grace crossing her arms stubbornly. He forced himself to stand a little taller, if that was possible, his shoulders squared as the next mourner approached.

“Thank you,” he whispered again, his voice coming out low and broken as his eyes flicked to the thin, trembling form of his sister beside him, her glassy eyes still locked on the dirty floor beneath her feet. “Thank you for coming.”

Grace flinched at the sound of his voice each time until the church emptied out. The overcast sky had turned to a fine, misty drizzle by the time the siblings turned onto the uneven sidewalk leading back to their small Brooklyn apartment.

Steve walked a half-step ahead of his sister, his shaky hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-large black overcoat, his shoulders hunched.

Beside him, Grace walked with her head down, her dark hair falling in curls over her too-pale cheeks, her own shaky hands clutching tightly at the frayed edges of her mother’s shawl, almost pulling herself into a hug, as if it was her mother instead of the shawl wrapped around her. Around her neck was a silver heart locket. Also from their mother. Grace wanted to have the heirloom piece buried with their mother, but Steve begged her to keep it, stating that she would regret it if she didn’t. She knew he was right.

Steve didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the wet pavement. He could hear the almost silent gasps that slipped past her cracked lips as her chest heaved with every step.

He knew she was crying.

He could hear it in her hitching breath and small sniffles. He could see it out of the corner of his eye in the way she kept clutching tighter at the shawl, almost white-knuckling the fraying threads as she refused to look up beyond her own two feet.

But he didn’t say anything.

Grace was too stubborn to cry in front of him. She always had been. Even as a little girl, she had hated the thought of being seen as weak, especially because she didn’t want her brother — her frail, always-sick brother — to see through the cracks in her carefully-constructed emotional armor.

So Steve pretended not to notice. He forced himself to keep walking, his breath coming in short bursts, reminding him that he needed to pick up some more ephedrine for his asthma.

They reached the narrow brick building that housed their two-bedroom apartment just as the rain began to pick up again, the heavy droplets splattering against the pavement and filling the empty streets with a percussive echo.

Steve fumbled for his keys as he forced himself to keep his head down. He unlocked the creaking door and stepped aside to let Grace slip past and fumble for the light switch as Steve kicked the door shut behind them.

Grace had shed her shawl and was now sitting on the old couch in the living room, methodically folding the shawl and placing it in her lap. Steve shrugged out of his own coat and silently moved to the kitchen to fumble with the old stove, then to fill the dented tea kettle with cold tap water.

Steve reached for two chipped, mismatched mugs that cluttered the shelf above the sink. Grace pretended not to notice Steve periodically turning around and checking on her, each time giving her a half-smile, half-frown.

The tea kettle whistled, and neither of the siblings spoke as Steve absentmindedly mixed two mugs of dime-store hot chocolate with the water. The last time they had shared watered-down hot chocolate must have been three or four winters ago, but it felt right for the moment. Steve shuffled into the living room and handed his sister a mug, the less-watery mug of drink.

Steve reached for the dial of the battered radio before sitting down next to his sister, who was now clutching the shawl to her chest in between sips of hot chocolate. The radio crackled as quiet, slow jazz filled the apartment. Grace still wasn’t looking at Steve, but she leaned against his shoulder, her closing her eyes.

Neither of them spoke. They just sat there, side by side on the overstuffed couch unmoving, until Steve noticed his sister had slipped into a slumber, probably the first time since their mother’s death. He was tired and wanted to move her to her bed, but he wanted to make sure she was able to rest uninterrupted. So he stayed there.

That is, until the front door slowly creaked open. Steve looked up to see Bucky Barnes, his best friend, slowly make his way into the apartment, still dressed in black from the funeral, where he had been the first guest to arrive and last guest to leave.

“I figured you might need someone to relieve you from big-brother duties,” Bucky spoke softly, gesturing to the sleeping Grace, who was still gripping her mother’s shawl.

“It’s fine, Buck, she’s just sleeping,” Steve whispered.

“Yeah, well, you like you could use some of the same thing. No offense,” Bucky said, offering Steve a half-smile. Steve opened his mouth to protest against his friend’s offer, but Bucky beat him to it. “I’ll make sure she’s alright. Go.”

Steve nodded, and slowly let his sister fall into a sleeping position on the couch. Bucky placed a thin quilt over Grace and softly took the shawl from her hands before smoothing it out and placing it on the kitchen table, right next to where one of the many bouquets of sympathy flowers was resting.

Steve looked back at his sister, who was still asleep on the couch, and Bucky, who was turning down the radio and finding a spot on the ratted recliner in the corner, before heading to his own room to sleep off the heaviness of the day.

August 16, 2012: The Quinjet

The Quinjet’s engines hummed steadily, cutting through the frigid air as it approached the snow-covered peaks of the Caucasus Mountains.

Within moments of touching down on the snowy ground, the hatch to the back of the jet was opening with a hiss. Tony Stark followed Bruce Banner and Nick Fury, who were exchanging hurried questions and comments about the state of the base.

Inside, Tony found himself leaning against the metal frame of the makeshift lab set up in the cargo hold, his eyes darting between screens displaying HYDRA’s old base schematics and the cryogenic containment unit strapped down in the center of the bay. The reinforced glass chamber was engulfed in layers of steel restraints and plastered with biometric locks.

Banner stood across from him, his gaze fixed on the manilla folder in his hands, rapidly thumbing through the translated HYDRA documents Nick had handed him back on the jet. His dark brows furrowed as he digested the top-secret Soviet information.

“HYDRA pulled out all the stops for this one,” Bruce muttered to himself, pausing to adjust his glasses before looking up at Tony. “These are encrypted files dating back to the 1940s. Whatever – or whoever – this is, it’s not your run-of-the-mill science experiment.”

Tony crossed his arms, eyes locked on the dark cryo-pod. “I’m starting to get the feeling we just signed up to open Pandora’s freezer.”

Bruce huffed a small, humorless chuckle while attempting to show Tony the files. “It’s more than that. HYDRA didn’t just freeze this person – they built this fortress specifically to keep this asset hidden away. The amount of redundant security protocols, environmental stabilizers, and suspension systems… it’s overkill, even for them.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before glancing back to the pod. The silver casing was covered in thick, frost-covered glass, with the faint outline of a human figure barely visible through the layers of ice and condensation. “So what are you saying, Banner?”

Bruce hesitated as he threw aside the file folder. “I’m saying that whatever’s in there is important enough that HYDRA didn’t just want to keep it frozen or locked away – they wanted to keep it forgotten.”

Before Tony could respond, the Quinjet's door whipped open once more, and Nick Fury stepped into the cargo hold. He glanced at the pod, his one good eye narrowing as he took in the layers of reinforced metal and ice.

“Tell me something good,” Fury barked, folding his arms as he came to stand beside the two scientists.

Bruce adjusted his glasses, now swiping on a tablet to pull up live biometrics of the cryo-suspended subject. “Vitals are stable. Whoever’s in there is in deep cryogenic stasis – no signs of cellular degradation or neurological damage. But there are some certain…irregularities.”

Fury cocked an eyebrow. “Irregularities?”

Bruce hesitated, glancing at Tony before continuing. “The brain scans are off the charts. This subject’s neural activity levels are more intense than anything I’ve seen before, even compared to Rogers. Whatever HYDRA did to this person, they pushed the boundaries of human cognition and memory storage.”

Tony snorted, forcing a smirk. “Great. So we’re defrosting a genius. Just what I needed – another overachiever trying to one-up me in the lab.”

Fury either ignored or missed Tony’s smart-ass comment, his eye still locked on the frost encasing the pod. “I want both of you ready to contain this situation if it goes sideways. Whatever is locked in there has been kept hidden away for a reason.”

Tony felt his arc reactor hum a little louder against his chest, almost as if it had noticed the creeping sense of unease taking over Tony’s body. He tried to ignore the tightening in his chest as he glanced back at the pod, catching a brief glimpse of the curled figure encased in the ice.

“Alright,” Tony said, forcing his voice into a casual tone as he tapped his arc reactor, the cool, blue light reflecting off the glass. “Let’s crack this thing open.”

April 5, 1937: Fulton Street Diner

“I’ll be back in ten, Myra!” Grace called as she ducked out the back door of Fulton Street Diner, eager for a break.

The hinges groaned in protest as the humid spring air swept over her face, not helping with the thin layer of sweat that was already building on her forehead. She fumbled for the crumpled, half-empty pack of cigarettes jammed into the pocket of her too-large apron, finally feeling the burns on her fingers from her less-than-cautious handling of hotcakes. Grace stood beneath the buzzing alleyway light, its intermittent flickering giving her a headache.

That’s at least what she wanted to attribute her headache to. It could be from the light. Or it could be the three-page essay, two arithmetic sets, and chemistry diagram drawing that Grace had waiting for her when she got home. Or it could be the rent that was due in six days and the fact that Steve’s health issues led to him being let go from yet another factory job. Or it could be the itchy stockings she had been wearing since she got ready for school this morning. Grace would like to think it was just the stockings.

Grace pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack, and she placed the stick between her teeth while she fumbled with the tiny, dented metal lighter she had swiped from the lost-and-found bin behind the counter. She cupped one hand around the flame as she inhaled, allowing the bitter, stale smoke to fill her lungs and settle in the pit of her empty stomach.

Grace closed her eyes as she exhaled the smoke in a slow, even stream.

The faint, muffled strains of The Mills Brothers drifted from the battered radio behind the diner counter and could be heard through the walls as she took another drag, her head tipping back as she forced herself to relax.

“Didn’t know you were a smoker, Rogers.”

Grace’s eyes snapped open, her pulse spiking as the deep voice pulled her from her moment of peace. She fumbled with the cigarette, nearly dropping it as she attempted to hide it behind her back. She locked eyes with the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing in the middle of the alley, his soft, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he stepped closer with a smile plastered on his face.

Bucky Barnes crossed his arms over his broad chest, one eyebrow arched in amused disbelief.

Grace ignored this as she took another deliberate drag.

“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” he teased. “Aren’t you supposed to be saving up for new shoes?” He playfully nudged her worn shoes with his own boots. “You’re wasting your money getting smokes instead.”

Grace rolled her eyes as she forced herself to stand a little taller. “Oh, give it a rest, Barnes,” she muttered. He was going to tell Steve, and then she would get another lecture, but she didn’t think there was anything wrong with her having a small moment of reprieve during the day. “You’re not my dad.”

Bucky chuckled, his head tipping back as he leaned against the brick wall beside her. “Yeah, well,” he shot back, “I’m pretty sure your dad wouldn’t want you wasting your hard-earned tips on a bad habit.”

Grace snorted. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, her voice coming out low as she exhaled another thin stream of smoke into the humid aid between them. “My dad’s not around to say anything about it, is he?”

Bucky’s smirk faltered briefly as he looked away for a moment.

“Yeah,” he murmured, as he plucked a cigarette from Grace’s pack. “Guess not.”

Grace’s eyes widened as she watched Bucky tuck the cigarette between his own lips, his eyes flicking to the dented metal lighter clutched in her hand. She hesitated for a moment as Bucky leaned in. She flicked open the lighter for her friend as Bucky took a drag, lighting the end of his own cigarette.

His broad shoulders relaxed as he exhaled, tipping his head to the side. “We’re not telling Steve about this,” he said, smirking around the cigarette resting between his teeth. “He’d have both our heads.”

Grace let out a huff of laughter, resigning herself against the brick wall again. “Fine. But you owe me a pack.”

August 16, 2012: Undisclosed Region in the Caucasus

The heavy steel doors of the cryo-chamber groaned as they slid open, thick layers of frosty fog emitting from the protected core. The pod’s core was a monstrous thing in and of itself – six inches of reinforced glass, thick metal clamps bolted to the floor, and biometric locks glowing faintly through the icy fog.

“Alright, let’s see what HYDRA thought was worth all this security,” Tony muttered, his fingers flying over the glass screen as he initiated the defrost sequence. The pod’s hidden mechanisms whirred, thin jets of steam escaping as the internal temperature slowly began to rise.

Bruce stepped closer. “Vitals are stable,” he spoke, eyes cautiously monitoring the pod. “Core temperature is rising. We should have a visual in a few minutes.”

The glass slowly began to clear, the thick layer of frost cracking and melting into thin paths of water trickling down the curved surface. Tony’s eyes narrowed as the faint outline of a human figure began to take shape – small, slender, and curled into a fetal position with wrists and ankles bound. Dark, curly hair floated in icy strands around a pale, hollow face.

Tony took a sharp step back. Bruce stepped forward. The figure came into full view – a young woman with her eyes closed, her lips tinged blue, and her fingers clenched into tight fists. A weathered red star could be seen on the left sleeve of her otherwise all-black uniform.

“This is who all the security was for?” Tony muttered, that sense of unease climbing again. “A 20-something-year-old girl?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed as he leaned in closer, trying to make sense of the faint readings flickering across the control panel. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Tony’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking back to the girl’s face, her dark lashes resting against her pale cheeks. “Okay…okay,” he mumbled, thinking of any explanation. “The neural activity readings. She had to have been some kind of test subject…but this isn’t what they did to Rogers.”

Bruce shook his head. “No. It’s more than just physical enhancement. Her brain activity is…I don’t know…But why keep her here, tied-up, frozen, and locked away?”

A few feet away, Fury furrowed his brows as he watched over the scene. He shook his head slowly as he, along with the two scientists, realized that the cryo-pod’s inhabitant was someone who looked no more than six or seven years out of high school.

Fury took a slow, measured step closer to the pod, his one good eye narrowing as he leaned in. The stabilization of the girls’ body temperature allowed her muscles to relax, and her head lolled to the side, giving them a better view of her face, but only Nick seemed keen on paying attention to this aspect of the girl.

For a moment, Fury’s breath caught in his throat, his mind flicking back to the small folder holding the information of SHIELD personnel that worked on Project Rebirth – the project responsible for the creation of Steve Rogers. He remembered one of the old, grainy photographs – a young woman, dark-haired and wide-eyed, standing with her arm around a pre-serum Steve Rogers. He remembered it so vividly because it was the same photo the Smithsonian had used for her memorial in the Captain America Exhibit.

Grace Rogers.

The name whispered through his mind like a ghost as he took a deep breath, but before he could fully process the thought, the girl’s head twitched, and her lips parted in a faint, almost imperceptible sound that was muffled by the thick glass.

Bruce stiffened, his eyes widening as the girl’s head jerked to the side again, her chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths as she slowly started pawing at her restraints.

“Tony,” Bruce whispered. “She’s… she’s trying to say something.”

Tony’s jaw tightened, and he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears as a choked sob escaped the girl’s mouth.

As the last of the cryo-fluid drained from the machine, the girl’s eyes suddenly flew open wide with fear and darted around the room as she thrashed against the restraints. A guttural, animalistic scream tore from her throat.

“Jesus,” Bruce whispered, his own pulse racing as he stumbled back a step.

Tony felt his fingers tighten around the edge of the control panel, his mind racing as the girl’s scream echoed through the frigid, sterile chamber, her limbs still straining against the steel-lined restraints.

Fury took another slow, steadying breath, his good eye locked on the girl’s terrified expression.

He didn’t say it, but he knew. He knew exactly who she was. He knew he would pretend to not be sure about this "theory". Most importantly, he knew that Steve Rogers had no idea his little sister was alive.

June 28, 1938: James Madison High School, Brooklyn, NY

The crowd in the small, stuffy high school gymnasium had already begun to thin by the time Grace finally made her way down the narrow, creaking wooden steps at the side of the makeshift graduation stage. Grace forced herself to stand a little taller, her jaw clenched and her head held high as she scanned the small crowd for the familiar, too-thin, too-pale figure of her older brother.

She spotted Steve first, with his narrow, hunched shoulders standing out against the rest of the mass. He was still clutching his cap to his chest, and his bright eyes were shining with pride as he pushed his way through the crowd.

Following behind him, Bucky towered over the rest of the crowd and looked just as proud as Steve.

The siblings met in the middle of the gymnasium in a hug, and Bucky joined in, easily enveloping both of the Rogers.

“You did it,” Steve spoke, his voice shaking with the force of his barely-contained pride. “I’m... I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Steve,” she said as Bucky released his hug. “I...I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, you two,” Bucky interjected, pulling Grace’s graduation cap off of her head and clutching it to his chest in feigned dramatics. “You know I can’t handle the waterworks.”

Grace let out a hearty laugh. “Shut up, Bucky,” she muttered. “I’m not crying.”

Bucky offered Grace a faint, crooked grin. “Alright, alright,” he teased as he clapped Steve on the back. “Let’s not turn this into a sob fest. We’re supposed to be celebrating, remember?”

Grace smiled back. “Celebrating?” she asked, her head tipped to the side in a rare, defiant gesture of pride. “On whose money?”

“I might have a few nickels to spare,” he shot back. “And besides, I still owe you one, right? Consider it a graduation present.”

Steve let out a faint chuckle as Bucky squeezed his shoulder. “You just don’t want her holding it over your head the next time you drag us out to Coney Island,” Steve warned his friend, smirking.

Bucky just grinned. “You know me too well, Rogers, and Gracie here, too,” he muttered, poking the girl in the side.

Grace rolled her eyes at the nickname. “Barnes, how many times have I told you not to call me–”

“Oh, hey,” Steve whispered, cutting her off. “Isn’t that Amos? The kid from your English class? The one who used to walk you home after study hall?”

Grace froze in place as a slow, burning blush crept up the back of her neck.

“Oh, shut up, Steve,” she muttered while attempting to turn around and spot the boy her brother was talking about. “He was just being nice.”

Bucky snorted. “Nice?” he teased. “Kid was practically drooling every time you walked past him in the hallway.”

Grace’s eyes went wide with embarrassment as she turned back around, locking onto Bucky’s amused face as a fresh wave of heat flooded her cheeks. “Enough, Buck,” she muttered.

Steve just smirked as he leaned in and said, “Well, it looks like he’s coming over here to say hi.”

Grace’s breath hitched in her throat as she turned and locked eyes with a brown-haired boy who was, in fact, walking towards her. Behind her, Bucky and Steve shared a knowing grin.

“Hey, Grace,” Amos spoke, offering Grace a toothy grin. “I... I just wanted to say congratulations on making valedictorian. You... you really deserve it.”

Grace felt her cheeks flush even darker, and she hoped no one noticed her trying to smile through her nervousness. Amos and her had been in class together for years, and she was always helping him finish homework, especially during baseball season.

“Thanks, Amos,” she said, swaying on her heels. “That... that means a lot.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we can go to the pictures together sometime now that you don’t have all that schoolwork,” the boy propositioned, to which Grace eagerly (almost too eagerly) nodded her head. “Okay, swell…I’ll see you around, Grace.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, Steve and Bucky burst into barely-contained snickers, much to Grace’s dismay.

“Can it!” Grace playfully shoved the boys, who were now making kissy noises. “Both of you.”

August 16, 2012: Undisclosed Region in the Caucasus

The air in the hold felt colder than ever as the girl in the pod thrashed violently against her restraints, her eyes scanning the room, her chest heaving with panicked breaths. Her fingers clawed at the air, and her nails scraped against the now cracked glass as guttural screams tore from her throat.

“Jesus,” Tony muttered, stumbling back as the girl’s head snapped, her fear-stricken eyes locking onto him for a single beat.

Bruce flinched and silently slowed his irregular breathing in an attempt to avoid turning into the other guy; the girl’s screams echoed through the chamber, her limbs straining against the restraints as she twisted and writhed, her head jerking back and forth like a cornered, rabid animal.

“Get the sedative,” Tony barked. “Now!”

Bruce lunged for the medical kit on the workbench, his fingers fumbling with the latch as the girl let out another almost inhuman scream, her muscles locking up as her eyes rolled back in her head and her fingers curling into fists. With one swift motion, she snapped her hands free of the restraints binding her wrists and took a swing at the glass, the only thing between her and the panicked scientists.

The girl’s head snapped back again as she cocked her arm to give another blow. Her voice cracked as she let out a stream of harsh, guttural Russian. The glass started to form cracks as she had now broken free from the restraints binding her ankles and was attempting to kick her way out.

“Пожалуйста, нет!” (Please, no!) she gasped, her eyes darting around the cramped chamber as if searching for some hidden enemy in the shadows. “Я не вернусь!” (I will not go back!)

She shattered the front panel of glass as Bruce handed Tony the tranquilizer. “Damn it,” Tony muttered, his heart pounding as he took another cautious step forward, wary of seeming threatening as he struggled to figure out how to reach her. “Just hold still, sweetheart.”

With a quick, desperate lunge, Tony jabbed the needle into the girl’s neck, just in time for him to avoid facing her rage. His thumb pressed down hard on the plunger as the clear liquid flooded her body. The girl’s head fell, her muscles locking up as her eyes rolled back in her head, and as Tony lowered her to the ground, she looked at him with pleading eyes as a single tear fell down her cheek.

For a single moment, the room fell silent, with the only sound being the faint, echoing click of the syringe falling to the metal floor.

“Jesus,” Bruce whispered, his own pulse racing as he ran his hands through his hair and stepped closer to Tony and the now-unconscious girl. “What the hell did they do to her?”

Before Tony could respond, Nick slammed on the door to the cargo hold, opening the makeshift lab up to the freezing air.

“Get her on the Quinjet,” Fury snapped, his voice sharp and commanding as he stepped over the shattered glass of the syringe. “Now. Before she wakes up again.”

Bruce stumbled to gather their materials as Tony hoisted the girl’s limp body onto the nearby stretcher, her dark hair falling in tangled, sweat-soaked curls.

They rushed her down the ice-covered corridor and out onto the snow-covered landing pad where the Quinjet waited, its engines already whining in the thin, frigid air.

As they loaded the girl on the jet, securing her wrists and ankles with metal restraints once more, Fury stepped up beside them, reaching for his radio.

As the Quinjet roared into the air, Fury turned to Tony and Bruce, his jaw set, his voice grim. “I have a theory,” he muttered, his one good eye glancing back at the girl. “But I need you two to confirm it before we bring Rogers into this.”

Tony felt his stomach twist, a prickling sensation creeping down the back of his neck. “What theory?”

Fury hesitated. “Her appearance matches Grace Rogers – Steve’s sister. She was declared MIA not too long after Rogers went into the ice, but they never found a body, and SHIELD’s records on her always seemed a little too…convenient.”

Bruce felt his blood run cold, his eyes pausing on the girl’s limp form as his mind raced to process the implications of what Fury had just said. “Wait, you’re saying this is…?”

Fury met Bruce’s perplexed gaze. “I’m saying that if I’m right, we just found Steve Rogers’ little sister – and she’s been in HYDRA’s hands for the better part of seventy years.”

May 10, 1940: Brooklyn, NY

The cramped, cluttered apartment was dark and silent for the first time in a while. Grace assumed that Steve was out somewhere with Bucky, which allowed her to have a moment to just breathe without having to mind someone else any attention. She stood hunched over the chipped countertop and placed her medical bag down as she took a slow breath.

The long, grueling shift at the hospital had left her exhausted and achy, her eyes stinging with the strain of too many hours spent awake. Thanks to the program offered by the Kings County Hospital, she was going to be able to follow in her mother’s footsteps as a nurse. And all it took was three years of long, grueling hours and emotionally taxing on-the-job experiences. Almost two years in and she was starting to realize why her mother slept all the time.

The sharp, metallic clang of a fist pounding against the apartment door sent a jolt of panic through her body, and she whipped around as the faint stench of whiskey drifted in through the cracked door frame.

“Grace!” came the low, slurred voice from the hallway, with a bitter anger lacing the shout. “Grace, I know you’re in there! Open the damn door!”

Grace’s breath hitched in her throat, her fingers clenching into tight, white-knuckled fists where there were permanent marks in her palms from her fingernails. She debated ignoring her high school boyfriend’ angry calls to open the door, but she knew he wouldn’t leave until he had seen her.

“Grace!” he snarled, his voice low as he shook the door handle with force. “Open the damn door! I know you’re in there!”

Grace hesitated for just a moment, and then, without thinking, she reached for the door handle and opened it with a smile, attempting to discourage Amos from getting any more upset than he already was.

Amos swayed into the apartment clutching a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Grace’s face as he let out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter.

“There you are,” he slurred, his voice low. “My sweet, little Grace. Too good to come see me after work, huh? Too busy patching up little kids and their ouchies to bother with your own boyfriend?”

Grace’s jaw tightened as she instinctively stepped back. “Amos,” she whispered. “You’re drunk. You need to leave.”

Amos’s gaze narrowed, his fingers gripping hard around the neck of the whiskey bottle as he took another stumbling step toward her.

“Oh, I need to leave?” he snarled, his voice coated with bitterness as he reached for her. He clamped around her wrist with a bone-crushing force. “I’m not going anywhere, Grace. You’re not gonna just walk away from me. You hear me?”

Before she could react, his free hand shot out, the back of his calloused, whiskey-slick knuckles crashing against her cheek with a sharp sting that sent a wave of white-hot pain shooting up the side of her head. Grace wobbled back, crashing against the edge of the kitchen counter as her eyes filled with tears.

It had become a routine since Amos was fired from his carpentry job nearly five months ago.

“Amos,” she choked. “Please...stop.”

Amos let out another sharp, bitter bark of laughter, his eyes narrowing with a violent spark of anger as he reached for her again, clamping down around her shoulders as he shoved her back against the counter.

The sound of the apartment door swinging open behind them sent a fresh wave of panic racing through Grace’s chest, her glassy eyes snapping open as the too-familiar sound of Steve’s footsteps echoed through the living room.

“Grace?” Steve called, his voice panicked as he rushed into the kitchen, his face going slack with shock as he locked eyes with his sister, her frame still pinned against the kitchen counter by Amos’s rough hands. “Grace, what...what the hell is going on?”

Before Grace could react, Bucky shoved past Steve, tearing through the apartment as he grabbed Amos by the collar and yanked him away from Grace, his fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists as he shoved the smaller boy back against the wall behind them.

“Get your hands off her,” Bucky snarled, his voice dangerous as he gripped Amos' throat. “Or I swear, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Grace stumbled away from the kitchen counter, not daring to look away from Amos and Bucky.

Amos let out a choked whimper, his eyes switching nervously between Bucky’s furious face and Grace’s frazzled expression as he tried to wrench himself free of Bucky’s iron grip.

“Bucky,” Grace whispered as she reached up to brush a trembling hand over her stinging cheek, a fresh wave of shame and fear crashing down. “Let him go.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched his eyes still locked on Amos’s. For a moment, no one moved.

Then, with a low growl, Bucky released his grip on Amos’s throat, shoving the smaller boy back against the wall.

“Get out,” Bucky snarled. “Get out, and don’t come back. You ever touch her again, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Amos let out a faint choking noise as he scrambled to his feet. He stumbled toward the open apartment door, too shocked to look at Grace. The apartment door slammed shut behind him and the faint sound of his unsteady footsteps faded into the hallway.

Finally, Steve stepped forward, his face still flushed with anger as he reached for his sister.

“What the hell were you thinking, Grace?” he snapped. “You’re smarter than this. You should have more self-worth than to let someone treat you like that.”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears as a new blush, a blush of embarrassment, taking over her face.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, Steve. I know.”

Bucky glanced at Grace's downcast face as he took a slow, deliberate step toward her. “Steve,” he muttered, shooting his friend a sharp warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “Take it easy?” he spat. “She let him into our home. She let him hurt her for God knows how long.”

Grace’s breath hitched in her throat. “Fine,” she choked as she shoved her way past her brother. “Fine. You want me to go? I’ll go.”

The apartment door slammed shut behind her as Bucky shot Steve a disapproving glare. “Real nice, Steve,” he muttered, his voice bitter. “Real nice.”

Bucky knew where she would go. The narrow, dimly-lit alley behind the diner she worked at in high school.

He found Grace leaning back against the brick wall, her eyes closed as she inhaled from a cigarette, just as he had seen her many times before.

The soft noise of footsteps on the pavement behind her sent a panic through Grace as she whipped her head around to see Bucky stepping into the pale, flickering circle of light where he joined her against the wall

They just stood there, Grace staring down and Bucky staring at her.

“How long?” Bucky muttered, breaking the silence as he watched the girl he had known since they were both barely tall enough to reach the counter of this very diner. “How long has this been going on?”

Grace hesitated for a moment, not meeting Bucky’s gaze. “Two months,” she whispered, lying through her teeth and hoping Bucky didn't press her for the real timeline.

He should have seen the signs. He should have known. He should have put the pieces together sooner.

But he hadn’t.

Now, he didn’t say anything else about it all. Instead, he removed the cigarette from Grace’s fingers and took a slow drag.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Grace didn’t mind someone seeing her cry.

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The Quinjet’s engines roared as they let the Caucasus Mountains fall away behind them, the turbulence jostling the medical gurney strapped to the center of the hold.

Grace lay slumped against the restraints, still unmoving, though Tony made sure to check every few minutes.

Bruce sat across from him, adjusting his glasses, as he sifted through the files from the cargo hold.

Nick Fury stood at the far end, silent.

Finally, he turned to Tony and Bruce. “Alright,” he muttered.. “I suppose you two deserve some answers.”

Tony’s head snapped up. “Yeah, that would be nice,” he muttered. “What the hell did we just pull out of that bunker, Fury?”

Fury hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said, his voice grim. “But if it’s what – or who – I think it is, then we have a lot of work to do.”

Bruce spoke up. “You said she’s Rogers’ sister?”

Fury nodded. “I don’t have confirmation yet, but based on what I know about Grace and what I’ve seen here…she might be.” Fury looked back at the girl. “She was part of the medical staff for Project Rebirth, recruited before she was deployed to the frontlines as a nurse. She worked under Howard, assisting Dr. Erskine with the early stages of the super soldier serum project.”

Tony froze. “Wait, hold on,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. “You’re saying my dad worked with her?”

“Maybe,” Fury said. “If this really is Grace Rogers, then yeah – Howard knew her. They worked together...she studied under him.”

Tony’s fingers flexed at his side. “But my dad never mentioned her,” he muttered. “Not once. Not in any of his journals, not in any of his notes…nothing.”

“She was young – barely 23 – and a woman. SHIELD wasn’t exactly eager to admit that they had someone like her on the payroll, even off the books. She wasn’t the clean-cut, all-American hero type. She was a nurse – a field medic – not a soldier. Howard probably kept her involvement quiet to protect her, keep her off the radar,” Nick explained.

“So you’re saying she might have…” Bruce questioned. “What? That she… survived?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility,” Fury maintained. “But I need proof. I need a DNA match before I even consider telling Rogers about this. We can’t afford to get his hopes up based on a hunch.”

“Alright,” Tony muttered, his jaw tightening as he glanced back at the unconscious girl, the vibrations of the engines humming through his feet as the Quinjet cut through the freezing, gray sky. “Let’s get the DNA test done, then.”

May 17, 1940: Brooklyn, NY

Grace Rogers silently trudged down the cobblestone streets of Brooklyn after another long day at the hospital.

She had barely spoken to Steve in days, their argument over Amos still echoing in the back of her mind like the sting of a fist against her cheek. She had been avoiding their apartment as much as possible, spending her nights in the overcrowded nurses’ dormitory at the hospital and her days bouncing between the bustling noise of the emergency ward and the too-bright, too-clean sterility of the operating theater.

She hadn’t seen Bucky since that night in the alley behind the diner, his silent comfort still burned into her memory as clearly as the bitter taste of the stale cigarette smoke. She had half-expected him to come by the apartment, to try and talk to her, to try and coax her out of whatever dark, lonely place she had retreated to in the aftermath of her breakup with Amos.

But he hadn’t. And Grace wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

She reached the building that housed her and Steve’s apartment but hesitated for a moment before heading inside as she caught a glimpse of the flickering streetlight out of the corner of her eyes.

Then, without thinking, she turned on her heel and headed for the diner alley. She knew it was a bad habit, but she opened her pack as soon as she reached the end, ready for her hazy moment of silence before she went home and faced her brother.

“Long day?”

Grace whipped her head off of the brick wall and locked eyes with a broad-shouldered figure. The man gave a half-hearted smile as he reached up to scratch at the stubble along his jaw.

“Bucky,” she whispered. “What...what are you doing here?”

Bucky just grinned, fully this time as he tipped his head. “I was in the neighborhood,” he replied. “Thought I’d grab a cup of coffee. Figured you might be here.”

Grace fought back a smile as Bucky took his place next to her on the wall, holding a cup of coffee that had likely been made by Myrna this morning. She never made two batches in one day, just hoped no one would drink it all before they closed.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Take a load off. You look like hell.”

Grace let out a chuckle. “That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?” She asked, gesturing to the cigarette between her fingers. Bucky held out his flimsy paper cup and Grace accepted, taking a slow sip.

It had become a quiet, unspoken routine. After her long, exhausting shifts at the hospital, Grace would take the long way home and find Bucky, already leaned up against the brick wall with two cups of weak, watered-down coffee.

They would stand there for hours. They rarely spoke, their conversations limited to half-formed thoughts or stories from the emergency department and shared, knowing glances.

But that was enough. It had become a kind of silent understanding, a mutual, wordless agreement to just be there for each other, to share the quiet ache of loneliness and exhaustion without judgment or expectation. And without mentioning Steve.

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The steady hum of the monitors filled the sleek, glass-walled lab, the harsh, sterile light shadows across the polished metal countertops and flickering computer screens.

Grace lay strapped to the gurney, her lips parting only for quiet mumbles as the sedative began wearing off.

Tony leaned against the edge of one of the counters as he eyed the DNA scanning sequence displayed on one of the computers. The flickering screen rapidly scrolled through lines of genetic code as it processed the blood sample he had hastily collected on the Quinjet.

Bruce stood beside him, glancing nervously between the girl and the screen.

Nick Fury stood at the far end of the lab, his jaw set, his gloved fingers flexing at his sides as the sequence continued to flash and click.

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours as each new line of genetic code was processed. Finally, with a soft, mechanical beep, the screen froze, and the final results flashed onto the display.

SUBJECT: DOE, JANEMATCH: 99.9%RELATIONSHIP: SIBLING – ROGERS, STEVE

Tony felt his stomach twist, his pulse spiking as the confirmation hit him like a physical blow.

Next to him, Bruce scrolled through the page, attempting to find something indicating a mistake in the reading.

“Holy hell,” Tony said flatly. “It’s really her. It’s actually her.”

“Jesus,” Bruce said to himself. “What the hell did they do to her?”

Tony went into skeptic mode. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered as he glanced back at Bruce, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Why the hell would HYDRA freeze Steve’s sister? What did they want with her?”

Nick interrupted the frenzy with an announcement. “I need to make a call. Rogers needs to know about this.”

Tony scoffed and waved Nick away. “Yeah, yeah, good luck with that. We’ll be here hoping she doesn’t wake up.”

Tony felt an all-too-familiar tightness in his chest, a creeping sense of betrayal and disbelief that his father – the man he had spent his entire life trying to live up to – had kept this from him.

“I don’t know about you, Banner,” Tony muttered to the other man. “But I wish I called in sick today.”

March 17, 1940: Behind the Diner

Tonight, it was raining. Hard. Grace’s cigarette had been put out by the heavy drops, and Bucky’s paper cup was getting soggy. But he didn’t say anything, just stayed there, waiting in the cold until Grace seemed to breathe a little easier.

He glanced over at her, her shoulders not so tight anymore. “You’re not walking home in this, are you?”

Grace managed a faint smile as she forced herself to meet his knowing gaze. “I’ve walked through worse,” she spoke softly. “It’s just a little rain.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. Her and her pride.

“Grace,” he started his rebuttal. “Don’t be stubborn. My place is just a few blocks from here. You can crash on the couch. It’s better than catching pneumonia.”

Grace hesitated for a moment as she felt a faint blush creep up in the nape of her neck.

She should say no. She should laugh it off, wave him away with a half-hearted excuse about needing to be up early for her shift at the hospital, just like she always did. She should thank him for the coffee, toss her cup into the ever-overflowing dumpster, and slip back out into the rain-soaked darkness.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she took a slow breath and looked back up at the taller man, who was now using his jacket as a makeshift umbrella for the both of them. Besides, he was just a friend lending a hand. And a couch. And a jacket.

“Alright,” she whispered as the blush creeped to her cheeks. “Alright, Bucky. Lead the way.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, his shoulders relaxing just a little as guided her out of the alley, ensuring that his jacket was covering her more than him.

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower, Communications Room

Nick Fury paced the length of the small communications room, his boots clanging against the polished marble floor. He reached for the phone clipped to his belt and took a slow, steadying breath.

He had made countless difficult calls in his career – informing families of fallen agents, negotiating hostage releases, calling in airstrikes on targets too dangerous to let live – but this one felt different. More personal. More complicated. Finding Steve’s sister all preserved and ready to enter the new century would have been great. But finding her all preserved in a HYDRA base was a different story.

“Rogers,” he spoke evenly. “This is Fury. Are you alone?”

There was a brief pause, followed by the faint sound of a television clicking off in the background.

“Yeah,” came Steve’s voice, his tone tinged with an underlying note of confusion. “I’m alone. What’s going on, Fury?”

“I need you to come to Avengers Tower,” Fury said grimly. “Now.”

There was another brief pause, this time followed by the muffled sound of Steve’s feet clanging against the floor as he moved away from the television. “What’s going on?” Steve asked again, his voice tense. “Is something wrong?”

Fury hesitated, then forced himself to speak. “I need you to come to the Tower,” he repeated. “It’s… it’s about your sister.”

There was only silence on the other end for a few moments, but Fury knew Steve’s mind was starting to race.

“My sister?” Steve asked carefully. “What…What do you mean? What happened? Did you find something?”

Fury pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t explain right now,” he said, tightening his grip on his phone; “Just…get to the Tower. Now.”

Fury heard Steve exhale loudly. “I’ll be there in ten,” Steve said before hanging up and dropping his phone onto the edge of the kitchen counter. He stumbled back a step, wondering what news Fury could possibly have about his little sister. Steve steadied himself. “Ten minutes.”

September 3, 1940: Bucky’s Apartment, Brooklyn, NY

The first time Grace stayed over at Bucky’s apartment, it felt strange, unfamiliar, even though she had done it countless times during their childhood. But that was when Steve was there. When there were no unspoken understandings.

The surprisingly tidy living room was filled with the scent of old leather, and Grace curled up beneath the quilted blanket Bucky had tossed over her shoulders without a word.

She had fallen asleep listening to the radiator in the corner and the white noise of the rain pounding on the ground outside. She had woken to the quiet sound of the radio and the unmistakable scent of burnt coffee drifting in from the kitchen as Bucky leaned against the door frame, offering her a crooked grin.

“Morning, Gracie,” he had spoken, his voice gravelly as he reached for a chipped coffee mug to pour her a cup. “Hope you like your coffee strong and bitter. It’s the only way I know how to make it.”

Grace smiled, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and chiding him for the use of that nickname. She took a sip of the coffee and made a face up at Bucky. “And burnt, apparently.”

From that night on, it became a habit that neither of them ever bothered to question or analyze too closely. They began bypassing their silence in the alleyway and instead began taking smoke breaks on Bucky’s balcony, though those had become fewer and farther between. Bucky would pour a cup of weak, watery coffee and sit beside her on the couch as they shared the comfortable silence.

Grace always stopped by after her days at the hospital, but she didn’t always sleep over. However, when the rain was coming down too hard, or the wind was blowing too sharp, or sometimes for no reason at all, Bucky would catch her elbow as she went to leave, tipping his head to the side and offering her that same crooked grin.

“Stay the night, Gracie,” he would murmur. “You know my couch is comfier than your cot at the hospital.”

Grace would pretend to roll her eyes at his use of her nickname as she fought off the heat from her pink-tinged cheeks.

“Oh, fine,” she would mutter. “But only because I’m too tired to argue with you, James.”

He would chuckle at using his real name and reach for the old deck of cards on the shelf above the stove. He would shuffle the worn, dog-eared cards with practiced ease.

“Alright, Gracie, but don’t think I’m going to take it easy on you just because you’ve had a rough day. I’m in it to win it.”

Grace would let out a low laugh and sigh as she reached for her mug of coffee. He had gotten better at making sure it didn’t burn.

They would play cards for hours as they shot each other sharp, teasing glances over the water-stained tabletop. And sometimes, when the games dragged on into the early hours of the morning, when they had moved to the couch over a game of War and the weak light of the streetlamp was their only source of light, Grace would find herself leaning into Bucky, falling asleep not out of exhaustion, but out of comfort.

Bucky would sit there, quietly and contently observing the girl leaning against his shoulder. And without quite realizing what he was doing, he would reach up to brush a strand of Grace’s curls behind her ear as she faded into slumber.

In moments like that, Grace would let herself hope for more rain, more stolen moments over cards, more nights spent curled up on Bucky’s sagging couch as the creak of the radiator and the crackling jazz tune drifted into the air around them.

In moments like that, Bucky would find himself looking at her for just a little too long, his softening eyes lingering on her long eyelashes and pursed, sleeping lips.

But he would never tell her that.

August 17, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The automatic doors to the medical lab hissed as Steve Rogers hurried into the room so brightly lit you couldn’t tell it was creeping into the early hours of next day. The sharp, chemical scent of antiseptic stung his nostrils, and the faint, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor echoed in his ears as his eyes raced around, searching for Fury until he finally processed the sight of the figure strapped to the medical gurney in the center of the room. A small female figure with dark curls, twitching under the bright lights.

Grace.

It was her, unmistakably.

She shook with each breath as the last traces of the sedative slowly wore off. Her head lolled to the side as her eyes fluttered, not quite opening yet.

Tony and Bruce stood beside the gurney, watching the encounter nervously. Steve had yet to acknowledge them, and they stiffened as he took a slow, unsteady step forward.

Fury lingered in the corner instinctively tracing the holster on his hip. This wasn’t going to be one of those happy family reunions.

Steve caught his breath as he carefully examined the figure, sure that he was dreaming.

“Grace?” he whispered. “Grace… is that you?”

Grace’s head jerked to the side, as her eyes popped open.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, her glassy, unfocused eyes locked onto Steve’s, and her lips parted in a faint, breathless whisper as a flicker of recognition flashed across her pale features.

But then the flicker was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp burst of panic as she strained against the thick, metal restraints as the heart monitor started beeping frantically in time with her ragged, uneven breaths.

“No, no, no,” she gasped, her voice panicked as she lifted her head and jerked it back, slamming herself on the gurney. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly. “Где я? Что происходит?” (Where am I? What’s happening?)

Steve watched helplessly as his sister thrashed around.

“Grace,” he whispered again. He reached for her shaking hand, his heart breaking at the sight. “Grace, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Grace paused her thrashing for just a moment to take a double-glance at Steve, a big man who now seemed so small. In an instant, her eyes darted away again, her pulse spiking as the heart monitor continued to beep frantically, and she began attempting to twist away from the brother she did not, or could not, recognize. She writhed against the restraints, clawing at the air as she let out a choked, animalistic sob.

“Пожалуйста, нет!” (Please, no!) Her chest heaved. “Не трогай меня!” (Don’t touch me!)

Steve felt his heart shatter as he stumbled back a step, and he watched his sister’s contorted, panic-stricken face as she thrashed against the restraints, continuing her screams in Russian.

“Jesus,” Tony muttered, his own pulse spiking as he reached for the edge of the gurney. “We need to sedate her before she hurts herself.”

Bruce stumbled forward, and he reached for the small, glass vial of tranquilizer on the nearby workbench. “Steve,” he spoke hurriedly. “You need to back up. I’m sorry.”

Steve couldn’t do a thing as he watched the two scientists stick her with a needle and inject the sedative.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times. The day he would be reunited with his sister. He never imagined it like this.

February 28, 1941: Bucky’s

It had been snowing this time, and Grace and Bucky had already completed the methodical dance of pretending like she was thinking about leaving. It wasn’t like she was avoiding Steve, or that she really needed a free cup of joe. She just wanted to stay.

Grace leaned back against the cushions, her fingers still wrapped tightly around the not-so-awful mug of coffee Bucky had pressed into her hands as soon as she walked through the door.

She had barely managed to kick off her damp, second-hand shoes and shrug out of her flurry covered coat before Bucky had tugged her down onto the couch beside him, holding his own cup of coffee in hand.

“Long day, Gracie?” He had teased, shuffling the deck of cards as he had done so many times before. “Or just a long walk?”

Grace had managed a half-cocked smile as she forced herself to sit up. “Both,” she had muttered. “But don’t let that fool you, James. I’m still going to kick your ass at rummy.”

Bucky had let out a low, comfortable laugh at that. “Oh, we’ll see about that, Gracie,” he had spoken, fighting against the burning lump rising in his throat. “We’ll see.”

They had played cards for hours, just like always. But now, the battered deck of cards lay forgotten on the coffee table. And they still weren’t tired.

Bucky reached for the dial on the side of the radio next to the couch, and the familiar strains of the jazz tune faded into a slow, mournful ballad, the crackle of the singer’s voice echoing softly through the room.

Grace let out a quiet scoff to herself in response to hearing the change in genre.

“What?” Bucky poked. “You got something against Billie Holiday, Gracie?”

Grace shook her head smiling, that blush creeping back up her neck. “No,” she said softly, forcing herself to look away from the man. “I just...I didn’t think you were the sentimental type, James.”

Bucky gave a crooked grin before he reached for her, tugging her to her feet.

“Come on, Gracie,” he invited, one hand nestled into the curve of her waist as he began to sway to the ballad. “Dance with me.”

Grace let out a chuckle at Bucky’s poor rhythm, but placed a hand on his shoulder and began to sway along. She took a clumsy step to the side, her frame crashing against his shoulder as she let out an embarrassed squeak.

Bucky just chuckled. “Here,” he whispered as he gestured down, guiding her feet onto the tops of his thready socks. “Just follow my lead.”

Grace didn’t have any air left in her to laugh, so she just offered him a toothy smile, caught off guard by the out-of-routine intimacy.

“Maybe one day, Gracie,” he whispered as he tipped his head down to rest his chin against the top of her head. “I’ll teach you to dance the right way.”

Grace smiled, shaking her head against Bucky’s chest, now so close she could hear his heartbeat.

“What?” Bucky lifted his head and looked down at her, smirking coyly. “You don’t think I have what it takes?”

Grace felt the blush rising again. “No…I didn’t say that…I just–”

Then, all at once, the moment shattered as the creaky radiator cut through the air, and both individuals stepped away from each other.

Bucky let out an uncomfortable chuckle, his own cheeks now creeping with pink as he reached up to scratch at his stubble.

“Sorry,” he muttered, shooting her a nervous glance. “I, uh... I guess I’m just tired. Long day. You know how it is.”

Grace looked back at the man, forcing herself to blink away the tears that tempted the corners of her eyes as she shot him a reassuring smile.

“Yeah,” she whispered, swaying on her heels ever so slightly. “Long day.”

They stood there another quiet beat as the Billie Holiday ballad finished.

Finally, Bucky broke the silence. “Take the bed, Gracie,” he offered. “I’ll take the couch.”

Grace hesitated for a moment. “Alright, James,” she whispered. “Alright.”

August 17, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

Tony and Bruce stood around a hologram display in the observation deck, carefully reading through files found in the Caucasus. Steve was quietly sitting in the corner of the room, eyes downcast while he listened to the scientists try to process the information they were seeing.

“JARVIS, pull up the image files,” Tony muttered.“I want to see what HYDRA was doing to her.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replied. The lines of text vanished from the display and were replaced by a series of grainy photographs, each more horrifying than the last.

The first image flickered into focus as the pair of scientists leaned in closer, their gazes locked on the nightmarish scene captured in the photo.

Grace knelt on the metal floor of a small cell, her sweat-soaked hair clinging to her cheeks as she clutched her bloodied hands to her chest. Her eyes were filled with terror as she looked at the camera, with the photo presumably taken by one of HYDRA’s scientists. There was what looked to be a puddle of vomit on the ground in front of her.

Steve looked up for a moment, then instantly regretted it. His heart sank into his stomach and he himself was fighting back vomit as he tried to force himself to look away before the next photo appeared on the display.

This photo showed Grace with a thick mouthguard in, which was barely noticeable due to the large metal headband surrounding her temples. Grace was bolted into a chair, restrained by her arms, legs, and neck.

Steve started sweating when he noticed Grace’s fingernails were torn off.

“Oh my God,” Bruce whispered to himself. “They were…”

Tony tightened his grip on the edge of the table. “Electroshock. Trying to condition her. Reprogram her.”

The image flickered again, replaced by a third photo – Grace was strapped to a hospital bed and there was a thin tube leading a steady stream of blue liquid to an IV in Grace’s arm. The serum. In the photo, Grace was contorting her body as if she was possessed, and you could tell she was in pain as she threw herself backwards and attempted to claw at the skin around the IV.

Steve felt his pulse spike as he remembered back to the pain he felt during his own injection. “Where the hell is Fury?” he interrupted. “He has a lot of nerve…some sick show-and-tell for my kid sister who doesn’t even recognize me?” Steve paced towards Stark. “And then he just leaves? Now I’m supposed to trust you two to–”

“Rogers–” Tony started, holding his hand up to calm Steve down, “I need you to–”

“You need me to what ?” Steve swatted Tony’s hand away. “I need you to do something helpful instead of–”

“Steve,” Tony said firmly, gripping Steve by the shoulders. “We are helping. Fury is sorting through everything else we found in that lab. It was a big lab. It was all just for her, okay? We have no clue what we are getting ourselves into, and we’re not trying to get anyone killed in the process, including your sister. Now either take a breather or go sit down.”

Tony released his grip on Steve as an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Bruce, ever the mediator, broke the silence. “Steve, we don’t have to keep going with the photos right now,” he said softly, not making eye contact with the blonde man.

Steve swallowed hard and shook his head. “No…I…I get it. I’m sorry…I just–”

“I know,” Bruce said, “but these photos will help us help Grace.” Bruce looked back at Steve, who was sitting in the corner again, face buried in his hands. “Just…don’t be afraid to step out.”

Steve’s eye twitched as he looked back up from his hands, nodding in response to Banner as the display flicked to the next photo.

This time, the photo showed Grace staring back with empty eyes. She had a muzzle on, but Steve had seen those eyes many times before. He had seen them when he told her about Bucky’s fall. He had seen them when he yelled at Grace unnecessarily. He had seen them at their mother’s funeral. Grace looked small in comparison to the dark emptiness in the background of the photo. She was in some kind of aircraft, and she had her arms wrapped around her torso – almost as if she was hugging herself. She might have been wearing a muzzle, but this didn’t hide the spot near her left ear where there had clearly been a chunk of her hair ripped out.

The image flickered again. This image showed Grace hunched over in her metal cell again, but this time, you could see the detailed outline of her bruised and battered spine through her hospital gown, and if you looked past her protruding elbows, you could see every single one of her ribs. She wasn’t looking at the camera anymore.

Tony thought back to his own time of isolation, back in the cave. He looked a bit like that when he returned. He looked starved too.

The next photo was a stark contrast between the previous. Grace stood in the front of her cell, her eyes full of rage and her lips curled into a snarl. Behind her was the lifeless body of what looked to be a HYDRA doctor, his white coat soaked with blood. There was no real weapon visible in the scene, but Grace clutched onto what looked like an ink pen.

Bruce knew what it was like to be that angry.

Bruce was so distracted by his own thoughts that he almost didn’t look up for the last photo of the sequence. In this photo, Grace was in a different room, this one also all metal, save for the twin-sized, blood spotted mattress she was sitting on. She still had empty eyes, but she was crying. The muzzle didn’t cover the large metal collar around her neck, chaining her to the wall behind her. Grace was sitting curled up tightly, but it didn’t change the fact that you could tell she was naked.

Steve leaned over the trash can on his right and threw up.

March 10, 1941: Fulton Street Diner

The small, crowded diner was loud with the clatter of plates and the low murmur of a dozen overlapping conversations. The air was thick with the greasy smell of fried eggs and coffee, but it was much better than the smell of the dumpster in the alley behind the diner.

Bucky leaned back in the cracked vinyl booth, one arm stretched across the backrest. Grace sat beside him, her head tilted as she stirred the whipped cream remains of her chocolate milkshake with a long, silver spoon. It was Bucky’s birthday, but he had bought the shakes, insisting the Rogers siblings save up for new coats or shoes.

Steve sat across the booth, frowning slightly as he watched the two of them. He noticed Grace’s faint, wistful smile. He noticed the way Bucky’s arm hovered just a little too close to her shoulder, his fingers brushing the fabric of her dress each time she shifted in her seat.

He had been noticing the small, quiet changes for weeks now. The way Bucky’s gaze lingered on Grace a little too long when he thought no one was looking. The way her eyes lit up when he walked into a room. The way she tried to hide the nervous tinge that crept into her cheeks whenever his name came up in conversation.

It had started as a nagging suspicion. But now, sitting here in the cramped, noisy diner, watching the two of them share a small smile over celebratory milkshakes, he couldn’t pretend to not see it anymore.

Steve set his milkshake spoon down with a decisive clink. Both Bucky and Grace glanced up, their small, secretive smiles fading as they caught the perplexed look on his face.

“You two…” Steve said with a mix of concern and frustration. “You’re not...you’re not getting ideas, are you?”

Grace stiffened beside Bucky, her spoon clattering against the side of her glass as her eyes widened, the color draining from her cheeks. Bucky’s easy, lopsided grin faltered, his arm slipping from the backrest as he straightened in his seat.

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky said, forcing a strained chuckle as he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the edge of the table as his fingers twisting together nervously. “What are you talking about?”

Steve let out a slow, heavy breath, his gaze meeting Grace’s before looking back at Bucky.

“I’m not an idiot, Buck,” Steve said curtly. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. The way you act around each other. I know you’re close, but this…,” he said, gesturing between the two, “whatever this is, it’s a bad idea.”

Grace looked down at her milkshake glass.

“Steve, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky said, still forcing a smile.

Steve scoffed. “I know my sister, and I know you. And I know that whatever this is, it’s a mistake. A disaster waiting to happen.”

Grace felt an ache bloom in her chest.

“Steve,” Bucky said. “You’re my best friend. I’d never do anything to hurt you or Grace. You know that.”

“But you have to admit that it would be insane to think this is a good idea,” Steve said, finally starting to relax. “To think that this...wouldn’t end horribly for both of you.”

The words hung in the air as Grace eyed Bucky through her peripheral vision. Then, she looked up and forced a smiled at her brother. “You know I’m smarter than that, Steve.”

And then Steve stood, feeling accomplished enough to leave the pair alone. “I know,” he said before teasingly pointing at Bucky. “But this guy…this guy takes stupid with him wherever he goes.”

They all laughed, Steve louder than the other two, before he slipped out of the aisle and out the front door of the diner, leaving Bucky and Grace sitting in silence – a silence that was no longer comfortable.

August 29, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

Steve sat in the observation room, his eyes fixed on the monitor displaying a live feed of his sister. Grace was currently asleep, the only time she was out of her restraints. Banner told Steve that they would have to take things as slow as possible, but even progress this small made Steve feel hopeful. Tony and Bruce shuffled into the room, Fury following behind them.

Nick set a small box on the table in front of Steve before sitting down.

“We found something while clearing out the rest of the cargo hold,” Nick explained. “Back at the base where we found her. They were still clearing out some of the lower levels, and found a crate stashed behind a false wall in one of the holding cells. That box was in there. It looks like HYDRA kept some of her personal items. Things they didn’t bother to destroy.”

Steve leaned forward and pulled the box closer. “Personal items?” he muttered. “Like what?”

Nick hesitated. “Photographs. Letters. A few pieces of jewelry. We thought…well, Banner thought maybe they could help with the memory reconstruction. Give her something familiar.”

Steve felt his breath catch in his throat as he slowly pulled the lid open to reveal neatly stacked black-and-white photos and yellowed letters nestled inside.

Steve meticulously emptied out the box’s contents onto the table, noticing the smeared ink and familiar, flowing script that covered the pages of stationary. “I don’t see any jewelry.”

“Give me a minute, will you, Rogers?” Nick muttered. He carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small drawstring pouch. From that, he pulled out a silver locket. The thin chain was knotted as though it had been worn regularly. Also hanging off the chain was a silver ring, its small diamond glistening under the harsh observation deck light.

Steve inhaled sharply. He reached for Grace’s necklace – the necklace that was once their mother’s. He thumbed the diamond nestled in the hillock of the ring, silently remembering how Grace showed it off to everyone she met. How Bucky wished he could have bought her a nicer one.

Bruce and Nick watched Steve examine the jewelry while Tony curiously sifted through the photos. Stark looked up to ask about one of the photos but paused when he saw what was in Steve’s hands. “Is that…?”

Steve looked up quickly, pulling himself out of memory lane. “Her engagement ring,” Steve said with a wistful smile. “The locket was our mom’s...I…I don’t know…” He took a deep breath. “I have no idea how she managed to hold onto them all these years.”

Tony looked at the all-American super soldier as he passed Bruce a photo. Bruce examined it, finding a much softer, much brighter Grace. She was wearing a polka-dotted dress and laughing unabashedly as a tall, clean-cut man enveloped her in an embrace from behind. The man, who Bruce recognized as the late Sergeant Barnes, was smiling into Grace’s rosy cheeks. Banner smiled sadly at the photo.

“Maybe…maybe that will help,” Bruce reassured Steve. “Maybe it will help her remember.”

March 11, 1941: Bucky’s

The door to Bucky’s small apartment creaked open, the hinges groaning in protest as Grace stepped inside. Bucky followed close behind, reaching past her to flick on the living room light.

Grace dropped her coat onto the back of the couch and reached for the deck of cards still on the coffee table from their last game.

Bucky closed the door quietly behind them. He ran a hand through his hair, silently anticipating the tension after yesterday’s conversation at the diner.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Grace cracked a smile and let out a nervous bark of laughter. “I can’t believe Steve,” she said, her voice high and thin, the words tumbling from her lips. “He thinks... he thinks you and I... that we...”

She couldn’t finish the sentence, her words dissolving into another burst of shaky, half-hysterical laughter, her hands clutching at the fabric of her dress as she swayed on her heels.

Bucky blinked at her, his brows furrowing, his lips parting slightly in confused, wary surprise. But then, slowly, a lopsided grin crept across his face, his own shoulders relaxing just a bit as he let out a chuckle.

“He thinks we’re sweet on each other,” Bucky said, each word dripping with forced, incredulous amusement. He leaned back against the kitchen table as he shook his head, his eyes sparkling with exaggerated mirth. “Can you imagine? You and me?”

Grace pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, muffling her uncertain laughter. “Insane,” she managed. “Completely insane.”

Bucky let out another humorless laugh, his head tipping back as he forced the words out. “What, you think I’m gonna start bringing you flowers? Writing you love letters? Whispering sweet nothings in your ear?” He shook his head, looking back down at Grace with a dull pain in his chest. “C’mon, Grace, you know better than that.”

Grace eked out a half-choked snort as she forced herself to match his easy, joking tone, to pretend that the idea of falling for him was this ridiculous. “And what, you think I’m gonna start batting my lashes at you, swooning like some lovesick girl in a dime-store novel?” she shot back, her eyes narrowing in exaggerated suspicion. “Please. I’d rather fall down a flight of stairs.”

Bucky laughed quietly as he forced himself to ignore the ache in his chest and push away the simmering warmth that spread through his veins every time she looked at him.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, that’d be just like you, wouldn’t it? Tripping over your own two feet instead of admitting you might actually like me.”

Grace’s breath caught, her eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before she shot him a defiant glare. “Please,” she smirked. “I’m not that clumsy.”

They both fell silent then, the faint, echoing sound of their forced laughter lingering like the ghost of the Billie Holiday ballad they once danced to. They stood there, their eyes locked.

And then, slowly, Bucky’s eyes slipped away from hers, and his hands slipped from the edge of the table as he turned down the narrow hallway that led to his bedroom.

“Get some sleep, Grace,” he muttered quietly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Grace watched him go, her heart still racing as she sank into the couch behind her.

And as the door to Bucky’s room clicked softly shut, Grace convinced herself for just a moment that it really was all just one big joke.

August 31, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The harsh lights of the medical lab shone down on Bruce as carefully adjusted the portable EEG scanner bolted to the side of the medical gurney, glancing between the readouts on the monitors and a trembling Grace sitting on the bed, strapped into restraints.

Grace forced herself to take a breath as she scanned the room. Her sweat-soaked hair clung to jagged scars that criss crossed her cheeks.

Bruce gave Grace a small, reassuring smile as he fidgeted with the tablet housing the two-way translation program patched together by JARVIS.

“Alright, JARVIS,” Bruce muttered. “Translate, real-time. Keep it simple.”

“Of course, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS replied. “Beginning real-time translation now.”

Bruce took another look at Grace, who was staring back anxiously, her fists white knuckling the sheets of her makeshift bed.

“Okay, Grace,” Bruce spoke softly. “I brought something for you. Something I thought might help you remember.”

Grace’s eyes met Bruce’s for a moment as she tried to comprehend the second voice translating Bruce’s words.

Bruce reached into the small case sitting on the edge of the nearby workbench, careful not to look away for too long as he pulled out the silver locket.

“This is yours,” Bruce said gently. “You wore this. It…it meant a lot to you.”

Grace stared intently at the necklace, eying the diamond of the ring dangling from the flimsy chain. Her fists unclenched and her chest heaved as memories of another life – a life she couldn’t quite place – flickered at the edges of her fractured mind.

Then, without warning, without even realizing what was happening, Grace’s mind went blank and her fists balled up again. She let out a choked yelp, snapping her head back as she threw her body against the gurney’s mattress. The necklace fell from Bruce’s hands and clattered on the floor as he rushed to Grace’s side. She spasmed violently against the thick, padded restraints bolted to the side of the gurney.

“Нет!” (No!) she screamed, her restrained limbs shaking. Grace’s fingers clawed at the air as she continued thrashing and snapping her head back. “Перестань! Я не буду!” (Stop it! I won’t!)

Bruce felt his heart skip a beat at the sight, and he looked up to the observation deck, hoping to signal someone else down for help.

“ты меня обманываешь!” (You trick me!) she screamed, her voice broken as she continued throwing herself back, now aiming for the metal sides of the gurney. “мне жаль…” (I’m sorry…)

Tony burst into the room, lunging towards one of the small syringes of sedative hilted on the wall above the workbench. He could feel the arc reactor humming in his chest as he carefully jabbed the needle into the side of her neck.

As Tony pressed down on the plunger, Grace clawed at his wrists and pleaded in a soft whimper, “Мне очень жаль…Я не хотел. Пожалуйста…не надо больше.” (I’m so sorry…please, I didn’t mean to. Please…no more.)

Grace let out one final sob before collapsing, and still holding onto Tony, she gasped out, “ты заставляешь меня... я больше не хочу причинять себе боль.” (You’re making me…I don’t want to punish myself anymore.)

August 3, 1941: The Rogers’ Apartment

Tonight, Bucky had come to Grace. He was pretending like it wasn’t because he didn’t trust him and Grace to be all alone. Pretending like he wanted Steve to be there as a reminder that Bucky shouldn’t say out loud exactly what he had been thinking for moths.

Steve was setting up Scrabble at the table as Bucky silently watched Grace sip coffee out of a chipped porcelain mug. She stared blankly at the small black-and-white television sitting on the counter.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe. “You know, Gracie,” he said. “If you keep drinking coffee this late, you’re never gonna get any sleep.”

Grace glanced nervously at Bucky. “Maybe I don’t want to sleep,” she uttered in response. “Maybe I’ve got too much on my mind.”

Bucky slowly stepped closer.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his eyes locked onto Grace’s. “What’s on your mind, Gracie?”

Grace swirled the mug of coffee around. “Nothing,” she whispered as she watched the coffee slosh around before forcing herself to look up and speak a little louder. “Just… just thinking about the future, I guess. Thinking about what comes next.”

Bucky took another step forward. “What, you thinking about finding a nice fella?” he teased. “Settling down? Getting a little house in the suburbs? A white picket fence, two kids, a dog?”

Grace tilted her head ever so slightly. “Maybe,” she spoke, not playing into Bucky’s remark. “Maybe I’ll settle down. Maybe I’ll find some nice guy to marry, raise a couple kids, live happily ever after.”

Bucky cautiously leaned in closer. “What about me?” he murmured, not teasing her anymore as he held eye contact with the curly-haired woman standing just a few inches in front of him. “What if I want to be that guy?”

Grace felt her mouth run dry as she searched to find the words to say. But instead, she let out a forced laugh, the sound barely reaching her cheeks as she looked away, stealing a glance at Steve in the next room.

“Don’t get any ideas, James,” she whispered, looking back at the taller man with a halfhearted smile. “I’d eat you alive.”

Bucky reached for the stubble on his jaw as he stepped back. “Yeah,” he said, giving Grace a lousy attempt of a reassuring grin. “Yeah…I guess you would.”

August 31, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

Back upstairs, Bruce breathlessly took a seat at the table and rested his head in his hands while Tony stood next to Steve, who was solemnly staring down at his now-sleeping sister.

“What the hell was that?” Bruce muttered to the other men. “What just happened?”

Tony clenched his jaw before turning around to face Banner.

“I thought… I thought the locket might help,” Bruce explained. “I thought it might trigger something – a memory, a connection – but…but I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect her to…to react like that…I mean, what was that – some kind of…some kind of PTSD panic attack?”

“That was more than just a panic attack,” Tony said. “That was…that was something else. That was a full-blown meltdown. Like…like she was–”

Tony beelined to grab the tablet sitting on the table in front of Bruce. “She said something about punishment…I don’t – JARVIS, read that translation back to me.”

“Yes, sir. Ms. Rogers apologized for her reaction to the necklace and said ‘stop it, I won’t,’ followed by ‘you trick me’, ‘please, I didn’t mean to’, and ‘no more’,” the AI voice recalled. “The last thing Ms. Rogers said before going unconscious was, ‘You’re making me. I don’t want to punish myself anymore.’”

Steve’s gaze was still fixed on the limp body of his little sister as he listened to JARVIS emotionlessly recite his sister’s cries for help. He hesitated a moment before turning around. “You think they conditioned her to hurt herself if she starts to remember?” he offered in a low voice. “Like…like a failsafe? Some kind of self-punishment protocol?”

“It’s possible,” Bruce said. “It’s…it’s possible they built some kind of trigger into her conditioning.”

Tony fidgeted with the tablet. “Yeah,” he spoke curtly. “something to force her back into line.”

“We’re going to have to be more careful,” Bruce said to himself. “If we push her too hard, if we show her the wrong thing…we could send her even further back into her conditioning.”

Steve looked back down at his sister. “Yeah,” he whispered. “A lot more careful.”

December 11, 1941: The Rodgers’ Apartment

The windows of Grace and Steve’s apartment shook with every gust of wind that whipped through the snow-covered streets below. The soft, metallic clink of ice-laden power lines mingled with the radio, but this time, it wasn’t a slow ballad or a soft jazz tune. This time, it was the sound of dread settling over the city.

“...American forces in the Pacific continue to regroup after the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor earlier this week, as President Roosevelt prepares to address the nation once again...”

Grace Rogers sat curled up on the couch wrapped in her mother’s shawl. Steve was in bed, sick with the flu as Grace listened to the radio, attempting to digest the waves of shock and fear tumbling through her mind.

A soft creak came from the kitchen as Bucky practically tiptoed into the living room.

“Hey,” he whispered, lowering himself onto the couch beside her.“You, uh…you holding up okay, Gracie?”

Grace looked over at Bucky, whose face was riddled with worry.

“Yeah,” she murmured back. “Yeah…I’m…I’m fine. Just… just trying to wrap my head around it, y’know, James? It…it doesn’t feel real.”

Bucky frowned slightly. He could see Grace force herself to exhale.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah… I know what you mean. It… it doesn’t feel real.”

The two of them sat shoulder-to-shoulder in suffocating silence, both looking down at the ground. For a moment, Grace thought she might collapse into him and cry.

Then, without warning, Bucky gently reached for her hand.

“Gracie,” he spoke softly. “I’ve been…I’ve been thinking about something.”

Grace snapped out of her daze and looked into Bucky’s blue eyes as he rubbed his thumb over hers.

“About…about enlisting,” he continued, Grace already furrowing her brows in confusion. “You know…joining up. Doing my part. Going over there and…and fighting. Making a difference.”

Grace’s eyes glossed over as she struggled for the words that had caught in her throat, the words that might keep him from leaving, the words that might make him stay.

“Bucky, you…you don’t have to—” she started, shaking her head softly. “You don’t have to go. You…you don’t have to put yourself in danger like that. You don’t have to—”

Bucky leaned his head in, tightened his grip on her hand. “I don’t have to?” he whispered. “What are you saying, Gracie? Are you saying you want me to stay?”

Grace looked down at their interlocked fingers and gave a slow blink, allowing a tear slide down her pink cheeks.

She wanted to look up at him and tell him that she needed him to stay for her own selfish reasons, that she didn’t want to roll the dice and gamble on the chance that he may not come back.

But instead, she forced herself to look away.

“I just…I think it’s really brave of you,” she uttered with as much sincereness as she could muster. It was brave of him to want to go. Of course James Barnes would want to go, would want to put his life on the line for others. She took a breath before continuing, “To… to want to make a difference. That’s…that’s really brave, Bucky. Really brave.”

Bucky’s heart dropped at the use of the name ‘Bucky’, and he bit his lip to fight back asking Grace to give him a split second of honesty, to tell him what she was obviously hiding. Instead, he softly let go of Grace’s hand and leaned back into the couch.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice strained and broken. “Yeah…thanks, Gracie.”

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1, 3:41 a.m.

Grace’s eyes slowly fluttered open, her chest rising and falling in short bursts as she softly stirred under the blankets haphazardly piled around her. For just a beat, she mistook the metallic hums of the air vents for the tinny crackles of Bucky’s old radio.

Then, she looked down and saw the heavy restraints laying unbuckled next to her.

She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t under a pile of too-thin quilts and asleep on her too-creaky bed. Her eyes flicked around for some kind of familiarity until she caught a glimpse of silver on the ground below her. She forced herself to sit up and untangle her limbs from the heap of white blankets that reminded her of her days at the hospital in Brooklyn.

Grace delicately stepped down from her cot and reached for the silver locket. She exhaled softly at the sight of her engagement ring and carefully clasped the necklace around her neck. She thumbed the engravings of the silver heart, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, she felt at peace.

Then a voice came from out of nowhere. “Мисс Роджерс, вы хотите, чтобы я позвонил доктору Баннеру?” (Ms. Rogers, do you want me to call for Dr. Banner?)

Grace jumped at the sound and stumbled back into the makeshift bed. She looked around the dark room for the source of the foreign voice, but she found no one.

“What…?” she whispered. “Who…who’s there?”

“Мисс Роджерс, хотели бы вы сейчас говорить по-английски?” (Ms. Rogers, would you like to speak in English now?) The voice spoke.

“Please, I…I don’t want any trouble,” she said in a panicked voice. “I just want to go home.”

Grace caught sight of the glass door on the far side of the room as she pressed her fingernails into her divots in her palms.

“Please wait while I call for Mr. Stark.”

Grace looked around, now frantic. “Stark?...I don’t…I don’t understand…” A light flicked on from above. “I…I have to go…I have to go home.”

Grace dashed to the door and rattled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “Please,” she croaked. “I’ll just leave. Please, please just let me go home.” She shook the door with force.

Upstairs, Tony was already in action as Bruce lifted his head from the table. Tony glanced downstairs to see a terrified Grace banging on the glass door of the medical lab room.

“What…,” Bruce said, still half asleep. “What… what the hell is happening, Tony?”

“Sir,” JARVIS replied. “Ms. Rogers is awake. Her heart rate is spiking, and her EEG readings are irregular. She appears to be speaking in English, and she is in a highly agitated state”

It was Steve’s turn to panic, and in just a few seconds, he went from eyes closed and head resting against the wall behind him to bolting in the direction of the lab. “Where is she?”

“Steve, Steve, wait–” Tony called, Bruce following closely behind.

Grace’s pounds on the door echoed through the stairs, muffling Tony’s warnings to Steve. “Rogers, do not go in there, you don’t know what she–”“

The door to Grace’s room hissed open and Steve stumbled into the room, locking eyes with his sister’s as she backed against the wall. She looked back at him as if he was a ghost. To her, he was.

“Gracie,” Steve whispered as he slowly made his way across the room. “Gracie, it’s me.”

“Steve,” Banner warned from behind. “Don’t.”

Grace let out a pitiful cry, her face twisting in betrayal. “You don’t get to call me that,” she spat. “You…you left. This..this is your fault, Steve. You…you let him fall! You…you took him from me, and then you left and–”

“Gracie, please,” Steve pleaded, still making his way to his sister, who was pressed against the wall. “I’m here. I’m here. I didn’t let him go. I’m here. You’re here. We’re safe. We’re safe.”

Bruce slowly reached for a syringe, its vial already loaded with sedative.

“No!” Grace screamed. “No, you…you promised me, Steve! You promised me you’d keep him safe!” She pointed her finger at him. “You lied! You…you lied, and then you left me all alone! Where were you, huh?”

Steve reached for his sister only to be shoved away.

“Gracie, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I should have protected you. I’m so sorry, Gracie. I’m so sorry.”

Grace shook her head, her vision clouded with angry tears, and when she looked up, she saw a man with dark features standing slightly behind Steve. She froze.

“You…you…,” her voice dropped as she locked eyes with Tony. “Howard? But you…no, no…no, this can’t be real,” she whispered to herself, no one daring to make the next move. “It’s not real.”

Then, without warning, Grace lunged in Tony’s direction. “You…” she snarled, “you liar! You coward!” She scratched him across the face, blind with rage. She shoved him backwards. “You weak, pathetic excuse of a–”

Steve attempted to pull Grace off of Tony, but she had her fingers locked in the man’s hair, still screaming while she violently yanked at him, “I trusted you! And you couldn’t even–”

The needle sunk down into Grace’s neck, and as Bruce injected the sedative, she collapsed into Steve, but her gaze never moved from Tony. “I…I needed…,” she murmured through gasps, “you promised…but you…you…” Steve held her as Grace’s legs went wobbly. “You selfish…”

Her eyes rolled back in her head as she crumpled onto the floor completely. She softly let out whimpers until she lay motionless, her head only supported by Steve’s arms.

No one moved until Bruce spoke up. “Get her back in restraints.”

January, 1942: Postal Exchanges

Letter #1: Bucky to Grace (Day 3 of Basic Training)

Dear Gracie,

I’m writing this from a bunk that feels like it was designed specifically to break my spine. The guy next to me snores loud enough to scare the coyotes away, and the food here is some kind of science experiment gone wrong. If I survive this, it’s gonna be a miracle.

You’ll be happy to know I haven’t tripped over my own feet yet, despite the drill sergeant trying his best to run us into the ground. The guy’s got lungs like a bullhorn and a face that looks like he’s been chewing on nails since birth. Makes me miss your sweet disposition and the way you only yell at me when I deserve it.

Steve’s letters keep telling me to keep my head up and “show ‘em what Brooklyn’s made of.” Thought about signing his name up for the next drill just to see how far that patriotic spirit takes him.

Tell him I’m fine and that I haven’t punched anyone (yet). Miss the way you two keep me grounded. Feels weird not having you around to tease me about my hair or yell at me for burning the coffee.

Take care of yourself, Gracie. Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone. If you do, make sure Steve’s around to keep you from accidentally burning down the apartment.

Write me back, alright? Just so I know you haven’t gone and joined the circus without me.

Yours (platonically),James

Letter #2: Grace to Bucky (Day 5 of Basic Training)

Dear James,

I can’t believe you’re really gone. The apartment feels too quiet, and Steve keeps moping around like someone kicked his favorite puppy. I tried to cheer him up by making breakfast, but I burned the toast and nearly set the whole kitchen on fire. Steve says you’d never let me live it down, so I guess I’ll just have to perfect my cooking before you come home.

I still can’t wrap my head around you being a soldier. I keep picturing you barking orders and terrifying some poor recruit who can’t figure out which end of the rifle is up, though I know it’s probably the other way around. All the girls in the neighborhood keep asking about you. I’m trying to keep them at bay, but you know how they get when someone mentions your name.

Steve keeps telling me you’ll be fine, but he doesn’t see how you can’t sit still for two minutes without starting a fight with gravity or some poor, unsuspecting piece of furniture. If you get yourself injured because you tripped over your own gun, I’ll never forgive you.

I miss you. It’s not the same here without you. Keep your head down and your fists up. And please, don’t let the drill sergeant break that big head of yours.

Write me back, James. I’m starting to forget what your handwriting looks like.

Your friend (and nothing more),Gracie

Letter #3: Bucky to Grace (Week 2 of Basic Training)

Gracie,

Didn’t think I’d be so desperate to hear from anyone, but getting your letter made this hellhole bearable. I read it twice, mostly because I couldn’t stop picturing you nearly setting the apartment on fire. Makes me almost wish I’d been there to see it. Almost.

Steve’s right, though—you really should stay away from the stove. We both know you enjoy my cooking better anyways.

Training’s getting tougher. They had us out running for hours yesterday. Thought I was gonna die right there on the field. Guess I’m not as tough as I thought.

They gave me some downtime today, so I thought I’d write you again. There’s a kid here, probably not much older than you, who talks about home the way you do—like it’s this place you hate but one you’d fight the whole world to protect. Makes me wonder if that’s how you still feel about Brooklyn. Can’t imagine you anywhere else.

Bet Steve’s still trying to make sense of the quiet. Bet you’re still telling him he worries too much. I can practically hear you saying it, even from here.

I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. And quit trying to scare off the neighborhood girls—it’s flattering, but you know I’d rather hear about what you’re up to than any of them.

Write soon, alright? I’m starting to forget what your laugh sounds like.

Always (but not in that way),James

Letter #4: Grace to Bucky (Week 3 of Basic Training)

Dear James,

I’ve read your last letter about a hundred times. Steve caught me grinning at it like an idiot and made some crack about how you must have finally admitted you’re not as big adn bad as you pretend. I told him you’re still trying to make basic training your personal playground.

I keep telling the girls at the diner that you’re a pain in the neck, but they still swoon when I mention your name. One of them actually asked me to send you a handkerchief she embroidered. I told her you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you got it.

Steve’s taken to fussing over me more now that you’re gone. I think he’s scared I’m gonna up and disappear too. He won’t say it, but I see it in his eyes. You’ve gotta come back and tell him to quit hovering—he’s driving me crazy.

Keep writing me, okay? It’s the only thing keeping me from losing it. Just don’t go getting yourself hurt, Buck. I don’t think I could handle that.

Your friend (and nothing more),Gracie

Letter #5: Bucky to Grace (Week 4 of Training)

Gracie,

If you tell Steve I actually miss his worrying, I’ll deny it. But I do. He’s always been too good for this world. Makes me feel like a real ass for leaving you two behind.

That handkerchief thing made me laugh so hard I nearly got caught by the sergeant. I don’t need some stranger’s embroidery. But yours? Maybe. Just make sure it doesn’t smell like smoke.

Keep your chin up, Grace. Knowing you’re waiting makes this place feel less like hell.

Yours (but not like that),James

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

The heavy, reinforced door clanged shut behind the men as Tony, Steve, and Bruce shuffled into the observation room. Footage of Grace’s motionless form was displayed on the monitors mounted on the walls.

Tony slowly lowered his hand from the fresh, jagged scratch marks running down the side of his face. “Jesus Christ, Rogers…did you teach her that one?”

Steve didn’t look at Tony. “She called you Howard,” he muttered. “She…she looked right at you and called you Howard.”

Bruce watched as Steve stood up straight and turned towards Tony, the super soldier's face dripping with disgust as he said, “She was…she was blaming him for something. She said he lied to her. That he…that he promised her something, and then he left her.”

Steve’s jaw tightened as he played through the scene in the lab.

“She said he abandoned her,” Steve continued. “She said he left her. Lied to her. Used her and then left her.”

Tony’s head jolted up, his eyes locking onto Steve’s.

“Don’t,” Stark snapped. “Don’t you even start with that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve scoffed.

“I know what I just saw,” he shot back. “She didn’t just call you Howard. She tried to claw your eyes out. She was screaming at you like you’d personally betrayed her. Don't you think HYDRA would teach their agents to be a bit more covert than that? That...that wasn’t just a glitch in her programming, Tony. That was real.”

The corners of Tony’s mouth twitched in aggravation.

“And what exactly are you implying, Rogers?” he spat. “You think my father did something to her? Took advantage of her? That he abandoned her? Like she said, you weren’t there.”

Steve stepped forward, his fingers flexed at his side.

“Yeah? Well, I know Grace,” he argued. “I know she wouldn’t have just let herself be used like that. Not unless she thought he would come back for her.”

Bruce quickly stepped between them, his eyes shifting nervously.

“Hey,” he interrupted as he cautiously raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here. None of us have any idea what happened. For all we know, she’s just confused, latching onto the first familiar face she saw.”

Tony’s ground down his jaw as he stared at Steve.

“Why did she suddenly switch to English, huh?” Bruce pressed. “She hasn’t said a word of it since we pulled her out of that cryo-pod, and now she’s rattling off full sentences like it’s 1945. What triggered that? What made her suddenly remember how to speak English?”

February, 1942: Postal Exchange

Letter #6: Bucky to Grace (Week 5 of Training)

Gracie,

Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m starting to miss Brooklyn. The way the subway rattles beneath your feet, the smell of fresh bagels in the morning, the way the summer air sticks to your skin like syrup. Mostly, I miss the people. The way Steve never knows when to quit and the way you always manage to trip over the same crack in the sidewalk on the way to the diner alley.

I caught myself thinking about that day we spent at Coney Island last summer. The way you dragged me onto that rickety old Ferris wheel, your hand clutching mine like you thought the whole thing might collapse beneath us. I kept telling you to look at the view, to stop squeezing my fingers like you were trying to break them, but you just kept staring at the bolts and cables like you were expecting them to snap any second, rattling off something about objects in motion.

I still remember the way your laugh echoed in my ears when we finally got to the top, the way the wind whipped your hair into a tangled mess, the way you clung to my arm like you never wanted to let go.

It’s a good memory. One of my best. I keep coming back to it when things get tough out here, when the nights get too long and the days feel like they’ll never end.

I know you’re just a letter away, but it feels like you’re a world apart. Write me back, Gracie. I need something to look forward to.

Yours,James

Letter #7: Grace to Bucky (Week 6 of Training)

Dear James,

I got your letter today. Read it twice, then once more just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it. I’m glad you still remember that day at Coney Island. I do too. I still have the picture you took of me with my hair all wild and my face flushed from the wind. I remember you making some wisecrack about me looking like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket. I should’ve thrown you over the rail.

Steve asked me why I was smiling so much when your letter came. I told him it was because you’d probably tripped over your own feet again and written me a whole letter about it. He just rolled his eyes and called you hopeless.

I miss you, James. I try not to think about it too much, but it creeps in sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world feels too big and the apartment too empty. I miss the way you make the walls feel a little less close, the way you can turn a bad day into something worth laughing about.

Don’t get too cocky about that, though. I still think you’re a pain in the neck.

Come home soon. I’m starting to forget what it feels like to have someone tease me until I’m ready to throw something.

Yours,Gracie

Letter #8: Bucky to Grace (Week 7 of Training)

Gracie,

I’m sitting in the mess hall, crammed between a bunch of sweaty, exhausted recruits who look like they’re about to drop dead into their slop. The food here still tastes like cardboard, but I’m too tired to care.

Your letter got me through another rough week. I must’ve read it a dozen times, just sitting on my bunk, trying to picture the way your face scrunches up when you’re trying not to smile, the way your eyes light up when you’re pretending to be mad at me. I’d give just about anything to see that right now.

Sometimes, when I’m running drills or cleaning my rifle for the hundredth time, I catch myself thinking about you. You’re like sunshine. I keep telling myself to cut it out, to keep my head in the game, but it’s like trying to quit breathing.

Tell Steve I’m fine. Tell him I miss him, but not as much as I miss you. And those cigarettes.

Write soon, Gracie. I’m starting to think I might not make it through this place without your smart mouth keeping me sane.

Only yours,James

Letter #9: Grace to Bucky (Week 8 of Training)

Dear James,

I read your last letter by the window, the one that creaks whenever the wind blows just right, the one you used to bang your elbow on whenever you tried to sneak in after a late night at the bar. I could almost hear your voice in the words.

Steve’s started asking me why I keep looking out the window like I’m expecting someone. I told him I’m just trying to catch the mailman, but I think he’s starting to get suspicious. He always did have a way of seeing through me, even when I was trying my hardest to keep things to myself.

I miss you. I try not to say it too often, but it’s the truth. I miss you in a way that feels too big for my chest, like it’s going to split me open if I don’t see you soon.

I hope you’re still keeping that big head of yours out of trouble. I hope you’re still smiling, still cracking those dumb jokes that make me want to hit you.

Write me back soon, okay? I need to know you’re still out there, that you haven’t forgotten me in all that dust and noise.

Your sunshine,Gracie

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1 & Observation Deck

As Bruce cautiously stepped inside the lab doors, the door hissed shut behind him, causing Grace to flinch. She sat curled up in her cot, still restrained from the events of a few hours prior, and she stared blankly at the cold, metal wall in front of her, her eyes still bloodshot and unfocused.

“Grace,” Bruce started, stepping closer to the cot. “Grace, can you hear me? It’s Bruce. Dr. Banner.”

Grace didn’t respond.

“Мисс Роджерс,” JARVIS chimed in. “Доктор Баннер пытается поговорить с вами. Хотите ли вы ответить?” (Ms. Rogers, Dr. Banner is trying to speak with you. Would you like to respond?)

Grace flinched at the sound, her head popping up to meet Bruce’s gaze before darting away again. She muttered something in Russian.

“JARVIS, can you translate that for me?” Bruce said, stepping even closer and offered her a glass of water.

“She said, ‘Please, just leave me alone,’” JARVIS replied.

Bruce hesitated before slowly backing away from the woman, and without another word, he slipped back out of the room.

Upstairs, Tony, Steve, and Nick huddled around the table as they watched the footage from Grace’s outburst.

The video showed Grace lunging at Tony, clawing at his face as she shrieked about betrayal, lies, and broken promises.

Nick let out a low, dry chuckle, his one good eye narrowing as he watched Grace yank Tony by the hair while Steve attempted to pry her away.

“Well,” Nick muttered. “Can’t say I blame her. Stark does have a face you just want to punch.”

“Are you serious?” Steve snapped as he intently eyed Fury. “You think this is a joke? That’s my sister you’re talking about. She’s not some…some lab rat you can make jokes about.”

Nick didn’t bat an eye as Steve scolded him.

“Relax, Rogers,” Fury said. “I’m just saying, the girl’s got some fight in her. You should be glad. It means she’s still in there.”

Steve rolled his eyes, about to argue, when Tony interjected.

“Yeah?” Stark asked. “Well, maybe she wouldn’t have to be fighting like this if your organization hadn’t just let her fall into HYDRA’s hands in the first place.”

Fury tilted his head in amusement. “Watch it, Stark.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t have to be fighting like this if it wasn’t for your award-winning dad and his–” Steve started.

Bruce stepped into the room just as Tony opened his mouth to fire back.

“Guys, come on,” Banner spoke over the bickering. “This isn’t helping. We need to stay focused. We need to figure out what triggered this. You can rip each others’ heads off all day long, but you’re never going to get your questions answered if you don’t help Grace.”

February 27, 1942: Brooklyn, NY

The snow had come down hard the night before, blanketing Brooklyn in a thick, sparkling layer of white that crunched with every step. Grace pulled her woolen coat tighter around her shoulders, and one gloved hand clutched tightly around the paper bag of groceries she had just picked up from the corner market.

She had nearly reached the front steps of her apartment building when something cold and wet exploded against the side of her head, the shock of it sending a spray of powdery snow down the back of her collar.

Grace whipped her head around with a mix of surprise and irritation. Her fingers tightened around the paper bag as she looked for the source of the snowball.

“Hey!” she shouted, her voice high and sharp, her eyes narrowing as she turned in a slow, wary circle, her boots slipping slightly on the icy pavement. “Who the hell—”

Another snowball whizzed past her ear, narrowly missing her head as it shattered against the iron railing of the stoop beside her.

Grace let out an outraged huff, her cheeks flushing a bright, angry pink as she turned, her eyes still searching the snow-draped shadows beside her building.

“Alright, you little punk,” she muttered, her breath puffing out in short, furious clouds as she took a step onto the icy street. “You’ve got about three seconds to show yourself before I—”

A third snowball arced through the air, this one hitting her squarely in the chest and knocking the paper bag from her hands, the contents spilling out onto the cobblestone in a clattering, chaotic mess of canned soup.

Grace let out a small, startled yelp, her arms flailing as she staggered back, her feet slipping on the ice beneath her boots as she struggled to regain her balance.

“That’s it!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the brick walls. “You’d better hope I don’t catch you, you—”

But then, a familiar, rough laugh cut through the frozen air, the warm, crackling sound of it stopping Grace dead in her tracks.

For a moment, she thought she must have imagined it, that her mind was playing cruel tricks on her, that the long, lonely weeks of waiting had finally driven her mad. But then she saw him, his tall, broad-shouldered form half-hidden in the shadows, his dark hair mussed and tangled from the wind, his bright, blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he stepped out into the glow of the streetlight, his lips curled into that familiar, crooked grin that made her knees feel weak.

“James?” she whispered.

His grin widened as he took a steady step toward her, his gloved hands slipping into the pockets of his thick, woolen coat as he tilted his head, stopping for a moment to examine the scattered groceries at her feet before locking onto her flushed face.

“In the flesh,” he said, taking another step towards her. “Miss me, Gracie?”

Grace felt her legs turn to jelly as she took an unsteady step toward him.

Then, with a small, choked sob, she broke into a run, her boots slipping and sliding on the icy pavement as she hurled herself at him, her arms outstretched.

Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise, his own breath escaping him as Grace slammed into him, her body crashing into his frame with enough force to knock him off balance.

As his boots slipped on the slick pavement beneath his feet, they tumbled backward into the snow, a sharp, breathless yelp escaping Bucky’s lips as his back hit the cold, powdery ground with a thud, the breath knocked from his lungs as Grace collapsed on top of him, staring at him with a grin.

At first, they just laid there, all tangled together in a heap of limbs and damp, snow-covered clothing, their eyes locked.

Then, slowly, a small, trembling laugh bubbled up from Grace’s chest. “You...you jerk,” she whispered, her breath hitching, her hands still clutching desperately at the front of his coat as she leaned down, her nose brushing his, her lips hovering just inches from his own. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Bucky let out a rough, breathless chuckle, his arms wrapping her into a hug, and as he buried his face in the soft, dark curls at the nape of her neck, he whispered, “Missed you too, Gracie,” his breath warm against her skin. “God, I missed you.”

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

Bruce adjusted the thin, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he entered the lab, the cameras buzzing softly, following his path as the doors shut behind.

Grace didn’t look up as the doors shut.

Bruce hesitated before attempting to address her again.

“JARVIS,” he said quietly. “Can you translate for me? I don’t want to scare her.”

“Of course, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS replied. “I am ready when you are.”

Bruce steadied himself before beginning his questions.

“Grace,” he asked. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

JARVIS translated his words into steady Russian, as Grace searched around the room for another voice.

“что...что ты имеешь в виду?” (What... what do you mean?) she asked. “я...я не понимаю.” (I... I don’t understand.)

And as JARVIS translated back to Bruce, Grace frantically looked around the room again. “что это? кто это?” (What is that? Who is that?) she asked.

“The voice you’re hearing,” he assured her, “That’s JARVIS. He’s...he’s not a person. He’s an artificial intelligence, a computer. He helps us with things around the tower. Security, communication, translation...that sort of thing.”

Grace fidgeted with her blankets as she listened.

“And...and I should probably tell you,” Bruce continued. “It’s... it’s not the 1940s anymore. It’s 2013. You’ve...you’ve been in cryo for a very long time, Grace.”

She looked at him with confusion, almost as if she wanted to say something back.

“Alright,” he spoke. “I know this is all very confusing. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to wake up in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, and...and to not remember how you got here. I just...I just want to help you. I just want to help you remember who you are. If... if you’ll let me.”

JARVIS continued translating as Bruce studied Grace’s face for any signs of hostility. She hesitated, and then, slowly, she gave a hesitant nod.

February 27, 1942: Brooklyn, NY

The snow crunched beneath their boots as they made their way back to Bucky’s, their gloved hands still tangled together.

Bucky glanced down at Grace, giving her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze as they reached the front steps of his building.

Grace stumbled slightly on a patch of ice, her breath hitching, her hand tightening around his as she let out a small yelp.

“Easy, Gracie,” he chuckled, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist. “Wouldn’t want you breaking that pretty neck of yours before we even make it inside.”

Grace let out a giggle, and that familiar heat crept up her spine.

“God,” Bucky muttered, mindlessly kicking the door shut behind them and helping Grace shrug off her coat. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be out of that goddamn training camp. I swear, if I had to spend one more night on that thin, lumpy cot with Collins snoring two feet away, I would’ve shot myself just to put myself out of my misery.”

“Was it really that bad?” Grace prodded with a smirk on her face. “I thought you were supposed to be tough, soldier. I thought you liked a challenge.”

Bucky smiled as he made his way to the couch.

“Oh, I like a challenge,” he started his rebuttal. “But basic training? That’s just cruel and unusual punishment. Half the guys in my unit could barely run a mile without collapsing, and don’t even get me started on the food. I think they’re trying to kill us with canned beans and powdered eggs.”

Grace plopped next to Bucky on the couch, reaching for the quilt that had accompanied her through many rainy nights.

“You poor thing,” she teased. “I had no idea you had it so rough.”

“You wouldn’t last a day, doll,” he said through a toothy grin. “I’d give you an hour, maybe two, before you started crying for your warm, comfortable bed and your nice, quiet apartment.”

Grace’s cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink.

“Maybe you’re right,” she murmured. “I’m not exactly cut out for military life.”

Bucky’s grin softened as the room filled with silence.

“You should stay the night,” he muttered. “Take my bed. It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than that lumpy old couch, and you’ve got a long walk back to your place in the morning.”

“But you just got home,” she whispered. “You should take the bed. You’ve been sleeping on a cot for months. I’ll be fine out here.”

Bucky reached out for her hand again, instinctively tracing her wrist with his thumb.

“Gracie,” he softly urged. “Take the bed. I insist.”

Grace hesitantly released his hand and made her way to his bedroom, shooting him a sweet smile before she gently closed the door behind her.

And maybe it was because she couldn’t hear the creak of the radiator, or maybe it was because it didn’t feel right to not be sleeping on his couch, but as Grace lay down to sleep, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Bucky had said earlier. About his breath on her neck or his hands wrapped around her waist as he murmured, “Missed you too, Gracie. God, I missed you.”

And she couldn’t fall asleep.

But it was probably the radiator.

She tossed and turned, trying each pillow in hopes that sleep would find her.

But Grace was still thinking about his laugh that felt like home and their collapse in the snow that felt like it was driven by the force of the past two years. She was still thinking about how they lay tangled together in the powdery white, their breath mingling in the laughter.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she adjusted the blanket.

It had been so easy, so natural to fall back into the familiar rhythm of his presence. All it took was a few moments to fall back into their familiar patterns of nicknames and teasing. And it felt right.

But it wasn’t, and she knew it.

She opened her eyes, swung her legs over the edge of the creaking bed, and slowly rose to her feet.

She took a small step toward the door and pursed her lips, silently cursing herself for even thinking about going out there to him.

Grace sat back down.

Then, again, she stood up

She walked to the door, then stopped.

This was a mistake.

She sat back down.

She should never have agreed to stay the night. She should have insisted on going home, should have forced herself to turn around and walk back out into the snow-covered streets, should have kept her distance.

But she hadn’t, and now here she was, sitting on the edge of his bed, her pulse racing, her mind spinning with a million different thoughts, wishes, and regrets.

She stood back up.

She would just go out there and insist he take the bed. She was used to the couch anyways.

The door loomed before her as she gathered the courage to reach for the doorknob.

But then, before she could open the door, it creaked open, and in the faint flickering of the streetlamp from just outside, there he was.

Neither of them moved as they locked eyes, both surprised at the others’ presence.

Bucky took a step into the room, his calloused hands reaching up to brush a curl out of her face as closed the door behind him, the faint, metallic click of the latch echoing softly.

Grace felt that familiar blush creep all the way to her ears as Bucky stepped even closer, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.

“Gracie,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, his eyes flicking down to her lips. “I was just... I thought maybe you needed...”

But before he could finish, Grace met him in the middle, her hands slipping beneath the woolen fabric of his sweater as she pulled him down, her breath warm and shaky.

In an instant, Bucky had his other arm wrapped snaked her back, and she followed his lead towards the bed behind them, their breath coming in desperate gasps as they grabbed at the hem of each other’s clothes.

Grace felt the metal frame behind her knees, and Bucky’s breath hitched as Grace pulled him down. He held the delicate curve of her neck, keeping those dark curls out of her face with one hand as he lifted her back onto the mattress with the other.

He moved his hands to the fabric of her dress, his thumbs brushing lightly against her shoulders as he slipped the material down her arms, his breath coming in jagged bursts, and Grace tugging at his hair in response to his stubble brushing against her neck.

Bucky’s solid frame covered hers, and she clung to his sweater, pulling at the fraying edges in an attempt to get it off of him. Bucky whispered her name, his rough hands running over the back over her thighs as he pulled her closer.

“I love you,” he murmured into the crook of her neck. He tightened his grip on her, his fingers digging gently into the bare, flushed skin of her sides. “God, Gracie, I love you.”

Grace felt the red that was once localized to her neck spread down her legs as Bucky softly groaned in response to her lifting her hips in search of friction.

“I love you,” she whispered back between soft pants. She pulled him closer, wrapping her arm around the back of his neck as he softly nipped at her neck. “I love you, James.”

Grace gently pawed at the belt holding up his gray slacks, and she heard him give a faint whimper before pulling away from her neck and meeting her eyes.

“Gracie…are you sure?” he whispered.

She bit her bottom lip as she nodded, running her thumb over the stubble right under his bottom lip.

Bucky’s gentle whispers coaxed Grace to finally be the one to let someone take care of her, and Grace’s mewling panting followed Bucky to the high he had been holding out on for so long as the warmth of soft gasps and the faint creak of the mattress ushered them into morning.

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