Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Netflix and The Duffer Brothers. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Six
Warnings: Mature Themes
Word Count: 2394
“He’s not as bad as I thought he’d be.”
Robin’s whisper was faint as she and the elder of the two climbed into the backseat of Steve’s car, her shoulder bumping into Annette’s. The latter turned her watch away from the mosaic of colours outside of her window as Steve pulled out of the Buckleys’ driveway and cocked an eyebrow at her sister, confused as to who she was talking about. Annette hadn’t been able to concentrate since they left the grocery store yesterday; her eyes trailed solely on the no longer peaceful landscape that was once a dismal Hawkins, Indiana. Everything has changed for her, and the weary town no longer seems all too heretical.
“Who?” She questioned.
“Steve. I mean, he was pissed as hell at you the other day after you two had your blow-up at the diner,” Robin shrugged, her voice still hushed, “The things he said, yikes.”
Annette wrinkled her eyebrows at Robin, tilting her head, “What did he say?”
“That you should’ve stayed in California and that I was better off without—”
“He said that?”
“Well, yeah, but it was like the heat of the moment, I don’t think he meant it.” Dustin’s voice tolled in, his neck craning over the farthest seat, “He tends to get really passionate.”
Annette scowled at the younger boy, a new surge of emotions swelling through her. Whatever corner she believed she and Steve may have rounded made a sharp turn back the way she came. It didn’t make sense; it felt like everything he had said to her yesterday was just a lie now. The delicate foundation they had begun to develop, even for just a friendship, was splitting underneath her feet. She felt like a fool, of course Steve would run his big mouth behind her back and offer her a charming smile as an olive branch the next day.
Part of Annette wondered whether it was true: whether Robin would have been better off if she had stayed in California over the break. Would she have ever had to tell Annette about all of this weird Dungeons and Dragons, sci-fi, insanity that now plagues Hawkins? If she didn’t come back, would it have been too late? How many times has Robin almost died at the expense of whatever this is? So many questions plagued Annette’s mind, so many she knew deep in her heart would never be answered. It didn’t matter, though. She was here now, and she was Robin’s sister, her family—not Steve Harrington.
Even in all of this, with the world as they knew it in peril, all that seemed to be on her mind was the reminder of how much she hated Steve Harrington. Every time she thought they could be on the uphill track, one or both of them threw a wrench into their track, and they ended up running right back down that hill.
“You good, Annie?” Steve’s voice grated as she stepped out of the car at the Lipton house.
“None of your concern, Harrington,” she snipped, pushing right past him, handing Robin her bag of groceries, her shoulder bumping into his with a thud.
“Woah…What the hell…?” Steve questioned, following close behind, “What the hell is your issue, Buckley?”
“My issue? Please, Steven, don’t be ridiculous,” Annie sneered, turning to face him, “I should be asking you that.”
“Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe your big mouth did. Hearing that I should have stayed in California or that Robin was better off without me here?”
“She told you that?” Steve asked, cocking an eyebrow at her with a sigh, his voice deflated.
“Yeah, she did, because believe it or not, Robin and I are sisters, and we talk. Which means that if you run your stupid, big, ridiculous mouth—”
“Hey!” Max’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, “If you two are done, we’ve got a man wanted for murder to feed.”
Annette pursed her lips and turned to send one more glare to Steve, before her breath hitched in her throat. They were centimetres away from one another, his breath fanning across her face, mingling with hers. The chill of December inched up her neck, whispering threats of longing and remembrance into her ears. He was so close. One more step, and she could remove the crown that sat upon his head and switch it with her own. There weren’t many times in life where Annette felt like she didn’t have any power, where the pen she wielded like a sword was dry of any ink, and she was left to her own devices at the will of others. But right now? All she could feel was the warmth of his skin so close to hers, twisting itself through her mind and body until it lifted her from her knees. Steve was no altar to worship; he was a heretic promising better.
“Let’s do everyone a favour,” she whispered, voice unperturbed as nerves weaved through her body, “Let’s go back to not speaking.”
“Annie—”
“No speaking.”
—
Annette stood a few feet back from Robin, watching in suspense as the group shared their latest news with Eddie. She stressed away at the chipping nail polish on her fingers, both she and the innocent man trying to absorb everything they were saying, as well as whatever the hell just happened between her and Steve. Why did she care so much? People were dying in Hawkins, and all she could think about was what Steve Harrington thought of her. She wrenched away from her sister and paced along the rancid floorboards, the heels on her boots kicking at dirt and debris that was coating them. Superheroes, monsters, alternate worlds, and boy problems, what a spring break for her.
“Yo, Robin, your sister cursed too or something, or is she always pacing?” Eddie’s voice bellowed, drawing Annette from her thoughts.
“She’s just learning about all of this, too. It’s a lot to take in.” Robin sighed, turning to glance at Annette over her shoulder, “You good, Annie?”
“Oh, yeah, just peachy,” Annette mocked, throwing her hands up, “You know, just hearing about monsters and a girl who has superpowers and the fact you’ve all been dealing with this for years and somehow no one else knows about it!”
“Well, the Russians do!”
“Not helping, Robin.”
“Listen, Annie, we know it’s hard to take in.” Steve’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard for the blonde, and the glare she sent him was just as violent.
“I said no talking!” Annette barked, stopping her pacing and tossing out a sharp finger at the man.
Before Steve or anyone else in the room could retort, the sounds of sirens trumpeted throughout the shack. Everyone traded a few quick glances of dread before waving at Eddie to hide under his tarp. Annette reached forward and squeezed Eddie’s shoulder reassuringly before they departed, stuffing into Steve's car once again. It felt like half of her spring break would be spent in the cramped leather seats of this BMW once more, but the sharing of breath and whispers of pointless promises was no longer there.
All that she felt in this car now was scorn, dread, and trepidation for what might be to come. Everything she had learned about what had transpired over the last few years in Hawkins started to weigh laboriously on her pious soul, ravaging the devotion she had that it was nothing more than a dead-end town with nothing fascinating. A place that she could rescue fellow crusaders from and show them all that the rest of the world had to offer. Maybe part of her was greedy, hoping that Robin would see it too, and follow her to California in the fall.
Who was she to try to save people? Let alone her sister, who seemed to be doing just fine on her own without Annette constantly worrying about her. She’d saved the world before; who was Annette to take her away from a world of heroism? What was she keeping them from? All she was doing was pulling them down the path she had grown to hate, desperate to return to the cozy comfort that was Hawkins, a place she had grown almost to miss.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Annette whispered as Steve’s car drew up to the trailer park, “What the hell is happening here…”
“Is that Nance?” Robin whispered, slanting over Steve in the front seat.
“Nance? Nancy Wheeler?” She doubted, peering out the window, “Don’t tell me she’s in on all of this shit too.”
“Her brother is dating the girl with superpowers,” Max clarified, “She is killer with a gun and was a part of the first fight against the Demogorgons with Steve and Jonathan—”
“Jonathan Byers?”
“We’d love to explain it even more, but I think Nance needs us,” Robin sighed, “Jesus Christ…”
Annette creased her eyebrows before rising out of the car, the others following suit and waiting for Nancy to catch their eye. The two girls were friends, always being sociable and running in the same groups during school. But the idea of Nancy Wheeler being a sharpshooting badass who deals with monsters and has a brother who dates a superhero seemed just to be another thing for Annette to add to the list of things that don’t make sense in this town. She had to suspend her belief at this point, as it seemed that around every corner there was something new waiting to shock her to her core and shake her beliefs.
Annette followed close behind the group as they jogged over to where Nancy stood. Steve shrouded her in a hug, and something plunged deep in the blonde’s chest, like she should care that he was wrapping his ex-girlfriend in a hug. The tension of disbelief crashed down around her, and it took everything in her not to turn heel and run back to the car. Would anyone blame her for throwing in the towel? This seemed to be an unravelling mess that she had nothing to do with, the only stakes being Robin’s involvement.
“Annette…I didn’t realize you were home,” Nancy droned, turning to face the blonde, “Quite the time to return.”
“Yeah, well, who doesn’t love a good dramatic return home?” Annette chuckled, strolling forward and taking Nancy in her arms, “It’s good to see you, Wheeler.”
“Yeah…What all do you know?”
“Too much, frankly. But enough to know that whatever is happening in this town, nothing seems like a coincidence,” Annette sighed, “But I’m new to all of this, so…Theories?”
“Let’s go sit,” Max proposed, nodding over to the empty picnic table, “Nancy can tell us whatever the hell she saw, or learned.”
With the group in agreement, they shuffled over towards the splintered picnic table, far away from the earshot of police officers. Annette stuck close to Robin, sliding into the spot next to her. Maybe it was a habit, perhaps it was a desperate ditch for solace, she didn’t know, but her hand slid into her little sister's and gave it a delicate squeeze. She felt like she was living in a horror movie, all of the answers lost to her alone, while everyone else knew exactly what to do and how to act. She felt defenceless amidst all of this.
There were times back in California when she would reminisce on Hawkins, recalling the good times that overshadowed the bad. Her excitement had been palpable when returning home for Christmas break, giving her a time to both remember the good but also staunchly confront the reality that this town wasn’t for her. The frostiness of winter had been a smack across the face of frigid memories, only to defrost under the touch of the one she couldn’t seem to forget. His voice now felt like an echo, causing blood to rush to her head in both fury and desperation. She was begging to forget, beseeching with whatever religion she had created for herself to wash her hands of his touch.
After hearing everything that Nancy had to say about Fred, about how he had felt off ever since arriving at the park, and Max’s theory about Ms. Kelly, that dreadful feeling that had been tugging at Annette’s stomach returned. This place, the dirt felt like it was shifting underneath her feet, and the trees were leaning in once again. They were listening, trying to hear what they were theorizing and how to send it back to whatever evil was plaguing this town.
“So, everything seems to be happening in the trailer park?” Steve questioned, looking around the area and then back to the group, “Should we really be hanging out here then?”
“No, probably not,” Nancy agreed, “We should get out of here.”
“Wait, Nance, where are you going?” Annette questioned as the Wheeler girl turned away from the group, “Shouldn’t we stick together?”
“Yeah, I just…I want to check something out. It’s a total shot in the dark, but nothing feels impossible right now.”
“You shouldn’t go along,” Steve argued, “I’ll go with you. Here, Robin, you can drive—”
“She doesn’t have a license,” Annette grumbled.
“Why don’t you have your license?” Steve questioned, turning to Robin.
“I’m…poor!” Robin defended, “Annie can drive!”
“No, no, she is not driving my car—”
“Here he goes again,” Annette scoffed, rolling her eyes as he bickered with Robin about whether or not he would trust her to drive the car, “So childish.”
“Y’know what, fine, us ladies will stick together,” Robin grumbled, tossing Steve back his keys and grabbing Annette, dragging her by the sleeve over to Nancy, “Unless you think you need to protect us.”
“Wait, don’t leave me alone with these two,” Max pleaded, staring over at Annette, “...Can we keep, Annie?”
Annette raised an eyebrow at the Mayfield girl, tilting her head. There seemed to be a genuine need for her to be there in her eyes, and the sister in Annette couldn’t stand leaving her alone now. Not with everything going on. Robin was her sister, but there was something about Max that was desperate to protect this other young girl, to keep her safe. With a begrudging huff, Annette split away from Robin and Nancy and walked over to Max, ruffling her hair.
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Netflix and The Duffer Brothers. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Five
Warnings: Mentions of Religious Guilt, Mentions of Past NSFW themes, Mentions of Violence
Word Count: 1887
“I think he’s an alright guy.”
Annie mumbled the words under her breath as she followed the group into the shed. The scent of mildew and fish assaulted her nose, creating a grimace along her nose and mouth. The others seemed unbothered, which she guessed was because they’d deal with much worse. Her feet echoed across the rotten wooden floors, haunting every step she took further into the world her sister had become so accustomed to. Annette just wished she had worn better shoes.
“Didn’t realize you were such an Eddie fan.”
“You sound jealous, Harrington,” Dustin muttered, earning an eyeroll from Annie.
“I’m not jealous, I just didn’t know him and Annie even knew each other,” Steve grumbled in return, elbowing at Dustin’s side, “What’re we even looking for? Not like there are many places for him to hide in this shed.”
“Definitely sounds like jealousy,” Max chimed in, with Annie sending her a quick glare as she poked around behind a few different crates.
“Nothing to be jealous of,” Robin interrupted, “Don’t let this faux camaraderie fool you, these two have wanted each other dead since elementary. Give it an hour before they start bickering again.”
Annette shook her head with a sigh as she kicked at a couple of empty boxes on the floor. Mindless bantering erupted behind her between Steve and Dustin, but she saw the glimmer of something wet caught her eye like a diamond in front of a crow. She swished the flashlight in her hand over to it, eyebrows knotted together. The denim of her skirt teased at the skin on her knees as she bent down, picking up the can of emptied out spaghetti-o’s. The sauce was still wet; not even the edges had begun to crust from time. Annette swept the flashlight's beam over the rest of the area, noting empty beer bottles that still had that same glimmer of fresh wetness along their rims. Someone was here, recently too, and she guessed it wasn’t Reefer Rick making a quick dash from a group of young kids and adults who he could make a sale off of.
“Hey, guys?” She began, “I think I f—”
Annette didn’t have the chance to alert the group of her findings, not when a figure leaped from underneath the tarp that Steve had just been poking at with an orr. A yelp sprang from her mouth, and the cold steel flashlight that had once warmed her hands tumbled onto the floor, clanging against the rotted timber of the floor. A mess of dark, curled hair pounced across her vision as who she assumed was Eddie Munson plowed Steve against the wall, the varying flashlights catching the crude edges of a broken beer bottle.
As far as reintroductions go, Annette couldn’t complain. She hadn’t much of an opinion on Eddie besides his niceties and vain teasing, but seeing him aim the brutish ridges of a makeshift harpoon into Steve’s neck sent a shiver down her spine. The anxieties from earlier crept into her mind once more, wondering if perhaps he was capable of murder, and Annette had just helped make her life-long rival a victim. Dustin Henderson saved the day, though, a pattern that seemed to be constantly repeating throughout the day.
“Eddie! Eddie, buddy, hey! It’s Dustin,” He reasoned, holding one hand out and beckoning Annette to come around so Eddie could see them all, “That’s Steve Harrington, and this is Max, the one who never wants to play DND, and you know Robin, from band, and her older sister, Annette, you went to school with her…Eddie, please…”
Annette watched on with her chest heaving, dread creating bumps along her skin as she waited for the sharp edge of the bottle to pierce the skin on Steve’s neck. Three days back in Hawkins, and she had already come in contact with the possible supernatural. She could now be both an accessory and a witness to a second murder in this previously forgotten and untouched town. She’d begun to wonder if she should have stayed in California over the break or gone to Daytona Beach with Georgia and her other friends. But no, instead she wanted to give in to that longing for the past and all that he had to offer.
Her thoughts were cut short as Eddie took a few steps back, blundering against the poorly besmeared walls of the shed and sliding down them. His grip didn’t slacken on the makeshift harpoon, but what Annette had initially believed to be him shaking with rage and bloodthirst removed its hideous mask, revealing nothing but fear. It was pure, raw, and unadulterated fear that made her heart crack down the centre for him. He was innocent; there was no way he had done this. It didn’t matter what the news said or what the police believed; looking at Eddie’s shaken expression, Annette knew he was a victim in this, too.
“We’re here to help,” Annette stated, testing the waters as she walked forward, nodding for Robin to go towards the Munson boy as she walked over to Steve, “Though I can’t blame you for wanting to kill this guy. I’ve had the thoughts for years.”
Eddie offered a weak shudder that she had assumed might have been a laugh before Dustin took over the pep talk. Annie focused her attention back towards Steve, her large crystal eyes wide with worry as she examined his face. Her fingers were light and warm along his neck, moving strands of hair away from the side to get a proper look at it. Even with the others in the shed, each fretting what Eddie might do next, she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Annie had never seen Steve scared before, not like this at least. The righteous figure that was once the King of Hawkins High’s mask had begun to crack, the marble rifts showing soft and vulnerable skin underneath it.
“You okay?” Annie whispered, her voice low as the others continued to coax Eddie out of his self-inflicted fetal position, “He didn’t seem to get you at all…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright,” Steve nodded, wincing a little as she ghosted a touch across the thick of his neck, “Just startled me a little.”
“Yeah, well, when was the last time someone had a shank to your neck, huh?” Annie chuckled, her voice light and unwavering as she looked up at him.
“Hey, if you two are done with whatever this is,” Dustin said, pulling Annette and Steve’s attention towards him, “Eddie’s going to explain what happened. Everything that happened.”
—
Annie followed behind the group, her steps falling in line with Steve’s as they strolled the aisles of the supermarket, gathering various snacks and things upon Eddie’s request. It still didn’t feel real. Nothing about this felt real; the idea of unearthly beings roaming below the surface of Hawkins, waiting for the first blood to spoil the dusty concrete. The dirt roads were no longer unassuming; they didn’t bear untold secrets or gossip now, but brutality and death plagued every brush of the wind. Even the aisles of the supermarket seemed foreign, the sales trivial now that Annie knew what lingered at arm's length.
“You okay?” Steve’s voice parroted, his shoulder nudging against her arm, “You seem a little out of it there, Buckley.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m okay,” Annie nodded, worrying at the skin of her bottom lip, “Just a lot to take in, I guess.”
“Yeah, it’s no easy pill to swallow,” he chuckled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “There’s nothing I could say to make it easier, but I mean I’ve survived this long. We’re the best group to handle it.”
“A group of teenagers and a couple of adult friends take on alternate dimension beings; it seems like a great team.” Annie’s tone was shorter than she intended, resulting in the tense air that had subsided briefly between the two returning with a vengeance.
“I told her to tell you, last winter,” Steve continued, nodding towards the back of Robin, “But she didn’t want to worry you, or get you involved and put you in danger or whatever. I don’t have siblings, so I don’t get that.”
“You and Dustin seem brotherly, at least,” Annie hummed, attempting to alleviate the thick, suffocating air that haunted every interaction between them. Unspoken wishes and whispered empty promises weighing Annie down by the neck, tugging her further into the depths of this town. “Who knew you had it in you to befriend a bunch of so-called nerds?”
“They did,” Steve chuckled, grabbing a box of Bopper bars from one of the shelves, “I didn’t get much of a choice, to be honest. I knew about all this stuff the first time it happened, but it wasn’t until Dustin that I really got involved. A lot’s changed since high school.”
The words were loaded, heavy, like the bullet in a pistol as a game of roulette was about to begin. Annie’s steps faltered as she looked up at Steve, his eyes focused on the ground ahead of them as they continued to follow the group out towards his car. The hate that had festered in Annie’s heart for so many years ached with poison and disease, begging to be drawn upon and used as fuel for whatever it was that seemed to lock these two into a stalemate.
Worship can so easily turn into torment when left untouched and untreated for ages, forever warping and changing into resentment. Guilt created this idea of desire, a longing that needed to be fed and nourished, even. Every minute that Annie spent alongside Steve again added fuel to that fire, stoking the flames of passion and need. It further blurred the lines between hate and yearning, slowly painting over the stark red lines that kept the two on opposing paths.
The heavy silence persisted as Annie watched every twitch and change in his facial expression when the group piled into the car, each holding various bags. Whatever unspoken promises her and Steve had made when their hate turned into something passionate a few months ago, only seemed to further dilute into an unknown the longer they spent together. Every stolen glance, every gentle brush of the knuckles, even the sarcastic quips and comments seemed to hold something much more profound than either needed, either anticipated. He had once been the paragon of all things wicked in her life, standing for all she opposed. Guilt crept into her heart every time she found herself smiling at him, her zealous worship of everything he was not corrupting into an abandoned faith of her own making.
“So, like, do you think Eddie is just going to eat this cereal dry, or do we think Rick happens to keep milk in his fridge while M.I.A?” Robin questioned, her dulcit and familiar tones tugging the chains around Annette’s feet, pulling her from the cage of her thoughts.
“Really?” Annette chuckled, twisting in the front seat to turn and face her sister, “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“It’s a fair question,” Steve chimed in, nodding back at Robin, “I, personally, wouldn’t be caught dead eating dry cereal like that.”
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Netflix and The Duffer Brothers. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Four
Warnings: Mentions of Grief and Death
Word Count: 2275
“I can’t believe that about him.”
Annette shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as Max spoke. The heavy burden that had fixed itself to her heart returned, weighing down any solace or relief she had previously felt in the last few hours. The way the younger of the two spoke about all she had witnessed and what she felt the previous twelve hours made Annette queasy—the idea of a serial killer in Hawkins like Ted Bundy? It didn’t sit right; it was almost too clean of an explanation for her. This place was cursed, she knew that, but not like that—the people were good.
“What?” Max questioned, turning to look at the girl, “You think Eddie’s innocent?”
“I know Eddie, well, knew him. He’s always been odd, but he’s never been violent,” Annette contested, shaking her head, “I don’t know…Something just feels weird about it. It’s too much like this old case from like thirty years ago.”
“So your theory is some sort of copycat killer?”
“Yeah, I guess so. It’s a long shot, and probably sounds insane.”
“You have no idea…”
Silence fell comfortably over the two as they drove through Cornwallis. Unspoken understanding settled, and both Max and Annette knew not to broach it. Both were aware that Billy was a bad person, but both seemed to feel…guilt, about his death. Maybe it was just Annette, but part of her knew that this shared silence was built on that bond. Nothing ties people together more than losing someone, and the knot that tied them together was tight enough to rot in the middle, each twist keeping it from growing past their control.
Annette pulled into the Henderson house driveway, and Max didn’t hesitate to jump out of the passenger’s seat, claiming she’d be quick. Whatever this Dustin kid had or knew had Max on edge the entire ride, something that didn’t make it past Annette’s noticing. She didn’t know the boy, only that he was friends with that Byers boy who went missing all those years ago. Time ticked by, the minutes dragging as Annette waited patiently, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Max’s theory might be correct. The more she sat with it, the more she realized you never really know someone until they’re at their worst, and maybe that’s where Eddie was in his life. So why couldn’t she believe it? Why was she so against the idea of Eddie Munson just being the deranged satanist people always seemed to think he was? The thought fell from her memory as Max and Dustin Henderson ran out to the car, flinging up the doors to Annette’s car.
“We need to get to Family Video, stat,” Dustin huffed, throwing his bag onto the other seat in the back. “Hi, by the way. Dustin Henderson, nice to officially meet you, Annie.”
“It’s—It’s Annette, hi, but why? Why’re we going to Family Video?” Annette questioned, twisting in her seat to look between both Max and Dustin, “What’s going on?”
“I wish we could tell you, Annie—”
“Annette, and you will tell me, because I’m the one driving you two right now!”
“Dustin…” Max whispered, catching the blonde's attention as the two teens shared a look, “We can tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
—
The silence was no longer comfortable as the three moved through Hawkins. Annette had rolled down the window, the balmy spring air cooling the sweat that had begun to tingle at her hairline and cheeks. Monsters, evil doctors, superheroes…all of it in Hawkins, right under her nose. For nearly two decades, Annette Buckley had prided herself on her observational capabilities, her cleverness, all of the things that she should have used to know that something was wrong in Hawkins, that her sister was involved in it too. All the times Robin avoided questions, evaded explaining what it was she and Steve even got up to together, it all seemed to make more sense, even if everything Dustin told her was downright asinine.
How could she have missed it? The boy being found in the lake, only to show up alive and well just days later, the mysterious death and the military personnel at the DoE, and the mall fire, all of it adding up to be something so much bigger than just a small town with some shitty luck. What she couldn’t wrap her head around more was the fact that she believed it, that no part of her analytical, fact-based mind could she find a reason not to believe the stories Max and Dustin were telling her. All of those queasy, uncertain feelings over the years about everything that went on in Hawkins made sense now; it all made sense.
Robin was involved. She had put herself into danger, direct lines of danger, and Annette was all the way across the country, blissfully ignorant of all of it. She never even saw the signs that Robin had been genuinely traumatized, hiding behind quick jokes and cheap laughs to keep Annette at bay and hide the reality she was living. All of it, so blatantly obvious and right in front of her like a billboard on Sunsent Boulevard. The paragon of brilliance, reduced to nothing more than blissful ignorance of her own making.
“Are you coming in?” Max asked, shaking Annette’s shoulder as they pulled into a spot at Family Video.
“Hm?” Annette hummed, turning to face Max as she flicked off the car, “Oh…Yeah, yeah, I’ve gotta talk to Robin.”
“Your sister tell-all may have to wait,” Dustin interrupted, coming up next to Annette’s open window, “As emotional as I’m sure it will be, we have to find Eddie.”
“Okay, Henderson, I’ll be in in a second…”
She watched with bated breath as the two kids ran into the store, disrupting whatever Steve and Robin were talking about. There was so much to digest, cementing in her stomach like a weighty brick, tethering her to the car. The shame of leaving eroded her mind and body, whispering words of dismay and depravity, reminding her what it meant to be such an immoral sister. She left, left, even when something was nagging at her brain to tie herself further to Hawkins and stay with Robin, to protect Robin. She claimed such righteousness, claimed to be such a martyr for the people of Hawkins outside of the town's borders, but all she was was a scared, selfish, self-righteous coward who couldn’t face her own fears of what lurked behind the shadows in the woods.
Robin had to face it all alone, with no one but Steve Harrington to carry the burden of trauma. It should have been her to be the guiding light for her sister. Instead, she was years behind on something that nearly took her sister as a victim. And for what? To chase a fake dream she convinced herself of, creating a religion of ambition that she didn’t even believe in.
Annette rushed out of the car, pushing through the front door of Family Video and around the counter, throwing her arms around Robin with abandon. That unfamiliar silence from before crept into the store, the only noise being the soft tones of whatever movie was playing on the television. Robin was stiff under her touch, clearly unfamiliar with the touch of Annette’s hugs.
“I wish you’d told me…” Annette whispered, gripping the lapels of her little sister's blazer, “I would’ve come home, I would’ve been here for you.”
“It’s not exactly easy to explain to your sister who lives across the country that I fought an extra-terrestrial being and got tortured by the KGB…” Robin whispered, “Plus…we didn’t ever know who was listening.”
“When I was home—”
“I wasn’t going to keep you from California,” she sighed, twisting to face Annette, “You were chasing your dream, remember?”
“As touching a moment as this is—”
“Shut up, Henderson,” Steve’s voice cut through the air, “Give them a minute.”
“No, he’s right,” Annie sighed, pulling back from Robin, squeezing her shoulder, “Whatever you guys need to do, I want to help. I can help.”
“Annie, no—”
“This isn’t up to you, Harrington,” Annie interrupted, pointing a finger at him, “I refuse to let my dorky ass little sister be cooler than me. Consider your little group of four a group of five now.”
“What’s better than one Buckley?” Robin grinned, leaning over towards Annette.
“Two.” Annette chirped back, mirroring her sister's smile.
“...I regret this already.”
“Shut it, Harrington.”
—
Annie gazed out the window of Steve’s car, her eyes taking in how different the trees looked now as he flew down the North Highway towards Lovers Lake, where this Rick Lipton was allegedly living, and where Eddie Munson was staying. The roads seemed different, more menacing, as her imagination ran rampant about what hid just below the surface. Nightmares of vines and dark matter, animals like dogs whose faces open up with hundreds of teeth, all living in the sleepy town of Hawkins that Annie had abhorred so much.
The trees no longer seemed to be tilting in, whispering things to her or stealing her secrets. No, now they seemed to be forming a wall, a shield around her that was guarding her from the evil that constantly seemed to be whispering promises of obliteration and doom.
“You okay?” Steve asked, his voice cutting through to her mind and drowning out the bickering from the other three in the backseat.
“Hm?” Annie hummed, turning to look over at the boy, “Oh, yeah, sorry. It’s just a lot, I guess. I can’t really seem to look at this place the same anymore.”
“I get it. You try to see this place as normal, though, it’ll just keep proving you wrong,” Steve chuckled, rubbing at his temple, “I’m sorry I never told you, though.”
“What? Why would you be apologizing? You’re not her keeper,” Annie chuckled, leaning her head back and admiring the way his jaw clenched a bit when he smiled, “Unless that’s why you’re hanging out with her. Is our mom paying you?”
“That would be the dream, but no, I hang out with her willingly,” Steve laughed, shaking his head and sneaking a not-so-subtle glimpse over at Annie, “She was a mess with you gone.”
Annie’s smile faltered at the last comment, remembering all the times Robin would call, clearly crying. All the times where she would pretend not to notice the tear stains on the letters she would send, neglect the minor signs and hints that her sister needed her, and she couldn’t face the reality of the destruction she left in her wake. All of those months gone felt like a blur, a fever chase of a pipe dream to outrun a reality that she made. Annie should have been there for Robin, but all she could do was focus on becoming the Annette she had already dreamed of—a pious path, thwarted by the guilt of previous worship.
“I’m glad she had you…Don’t let that go to your head, Harrington. Your hair’s already big enough as it is.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Madam President,” he shot back, a playful edge to the mocking tone, “Glad to have you home too.”
“She is?”
“...Yeah, she is.”
“Hey, dingus, we’re here. Turn left.”
Annette pursed her lips, hiding the smile behind them as the car turned into the driveway. She sat back a bit while the others clambered from the vehicle, already bickering about how they were going to go about figuring out if Eddie was even here. There was so much that tied this group together, unspoken bonds of unsung heroism that would keep them together for years to come. All of them were fighting for something bigger, to make this place better. They were all doing the things that Annette hadn’t had the guts to do all those times before. It may not have been a sin, but the guilt that ate at her heart continued to remind her how cowardly she was.
The blonde followed the group, hanging back a meter or so. She hadn’t seen Eddie in a while, and even then, they weren’t exactly friends. He was a super-senior who spent his time in the theatre playing some nerd game and smoking pot in the forest, always making snide comments at her with a playful tone. She never minded him, even tried to help him in classes—but that was where her knowledge of the boy ended. He was sweet, but something still nagged at the back of her mind. Maybe he was what everyone always said? Perhaps they were all wrong, that this wasn’t part of whatever this supernatural plan was, and Eddie was just evil.
“He’s not in there, Henderson, we were wrong. C’mon, let’s go try and find out another way to find him.”
“You just want to give up, Steve.”
“Yeah, you would think that, but no—”
“If you two are done squabbling,” Robin sighed, walking in front of Annette with a smile, “I think our dear Annie here might’ve just been the perfect addition to our group.”
“What?” Annette questioned, twisting her eyebrows together and looking up at her sister, “What’re you talking about?”
“Turn around.”
Annette scoffed and turned around to face wherever Robin was pointing. A shittily built shed sat a few meters away, slanting with rotting wood. She let out a soft sigh, resting her hands on her hips. Whatever lay ahead of them in the shed wasn’t going to be as simple as Robin was making it out to be, but Annette knew what she signed up for. Or she thought she did.
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Netflix and The Duffer Brothers. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Three
Warnings: Suggestive Comments, Mentions of Grief and Death
Word Count: 1986
“I just think he’s being dramatic!”
The look her mother gave her told Annette all she needed to know. It didn’t matter what she thought, or even what Steve had told Robin happened; she’d crossed a line. There was no defence she could take that wouldn’t expose both of them for what happened back in December, for both of their evident lapses in judgement and craving for the touch of someone who cared about them, even if it wasn’t in a way they expected, or understood at the time. Annette knew what would come next.
“You need to apologize.”
Her mother’s tone was absolute, no delicate wavering in her breath or hitch in her voice. Annette groaned and spun around on the barstool, grabbing her mug and storming off up the stairs back to her room. With every waking moment she spent in Hawkins, that regret that had gnawed at her soul over the last year seemed to wither. Nothing was going her way, and no one was giving her a sign to abandon her dreams, come back to Hawkins and find a dead-end house at the end of a cul-de-sac. Why was she so desperate for a reason to stay?
The sound of a door slamming in the room next to hers rattled the oil-slick coffee in her mug, shifting it on her bedside table. Annette glared at the shared wall. Robin was doing this on purpose, trying to goad her into coming out and confronting her, explaining why she felt the need to rile up Steve, and how she had been back in Hawkins for less than two days and already managed to stir up trouble.
That’s what she thought, until the banging at her door began.
“Go away!”
“Annie, I just wanna talk!”
“Talk to the door!”
“Annnnnnnie!”
“Oh my god, Robin!”
Robin and Annette rarely fought outside of the standard sister squabbles. They were amicable people, relying on one another when either of them needed a pillar of strength to keep their knees from giving way underneath them. Being the older, Annette had always taken on Robin’s heaviest burdens, being the shoulder that she could use as a crutch when things got bad—especially in her first few years at Hawkins High. But when they did? It wasn’t like either to concede with ease.
Annette swung her legs over her bed and walked back over to the dingy wooden door, swinging it open to see her sister, dressed in her work vest with a sheepish smile on her face. Annette lowered her eyes at the younger girl, not trusting whatever her sudden, shy demeanour was meant to be. A beat of silence passed between the two before Robin opened her mouth.
“I don’t care what happened between you and Steve.”
Annette’s face dropped.
“What? Nothing happened, I don’t know what he told—”
“Last night. I don’t care. I know you two don’t get along,” Robin rambled, her hands moving with every word she spoke, “I just—I want you to have a peaceful break, here, back home, with me. I—I just don’t want things to be tense between us.”
Annette watched with lowered eyes as Robin spoke. She read every minuscule twitch in her lips and shudder in her breath; it felt like she was searching for any sign that she knew something, and didn’t want to say it. The seconds ticked by, inch by inch, crawling towards the truth that hung heavy over her head. She wasn’t sure if it was regret, guilt, longing, a mix of all three, maybe. It didn’t matter, because until the moment when it bubbled to a head and burst in her face, all Annette cared about was keeping Robin in the dark about this.
“...I’m sorry for upsetting your friend. I suppose I was…out of line,” Annette grumbled, scuffing her slipper against the ground, “I won’t do it again.”
“Thank god we got that out of the way, c’mon, you can drive me to work.”
“Is that why you came to talk to me? You need a drive to work?”
“See you in the car!”
—
Annette rubbed her fingers across her forehead as the dusty streets of Hawkins blew past her window, the sound of Robin’s humming filling the car. Something heavy hung in the air today; the trees seemed to be bending away from the roads, avoiding whatever it was they had last heard. Cars seemed scarce, and no children rode through the streets—it was spring break, Hawkins should be crawling with children running around, racing to Lovers Lake or the arcade. A grave weight pressed down on the dome surrounding the town, the invisible shield between it and the rest of the world.
Annette’s stomach flipped over itself, the hair along her arms standing at attention. The wind was dormant, the sun sat high in the sky like a warning of what could happen when it dipped below the treeline. What lurked in the shadows of Hawkins? What was Annette missing about the town she called home for nearly twenty years? The borders seemed impossibly far now, even as she watched them out of the front of her car, goading her with the vast emptiness of the rest of Indiana.
Approaching Family Video, the warm spring air became frigid. Even without his eyes on her, Steve could leave goosebumps all along her pallid skin. All it took was knowing his presence was near, and Annette was back to the December night, wishing he would kiss her where the cold was its worst. The car came to a screeching halt just before the curb when Robin’s piercing gasp pulled her from her thoughts.
“Are you trying to crash through the front of my job? I know you hate Steve, but Annie—”
“Sorry, got distracted,” Annette chuckled warily, flicking off the engine of the car. “Do you guys have a bathroom I can use?”
“Not for customers, but…Yeah, come on in. But play nice.”
Annette waved off the final words that dangled in the air and stepped out of her car, following close behind Robin as they walked into the store. The bell chimed as they entered, and the frigid whisper of unspoken secrets breathed down the blonde's neck. Only a beat was shared between the two before Annette split away from her sister, following where the latter pointed to the back room. It didn’t take long for her to find it, hidden behind a stack of damaged VHS sleeves. She rested her hands on the cool porcelain of the sink, staring at the heavy bags that had begun to weigh below her large eyes. Her mother used to call her a doll, but all she saw now was a discarded relic, incapable of bestowing gifts of hope, prayer, and knowledge onto any who turned to her.
The weight of returning to Hawkins seemed an agonizing one to her. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes seemed distant, and whoever it was that stared back at her wasn’t the Annette she was or who she thought she’d become—she was a shell. Maybe this was what was disguised behind the mask she wore back in California, hiding behind dusty textbooks and frantic pleas for success.
Annette split from the sink and walked back out into the general common area of the break room, steadying her breathing. She glanced to the side, noting the locker with ‘STEVE’ written along the top of it—the thought of peeking, even just a little, gnawed at the edges of her mind. She knew it was wrong, she knew it could end badly, but the temptation hung heavy over her head like a carrot. She risked a few steps forward, the sound of her feet on the tiles echoing off the walls as a reminder of her shame. The shadow of it didn’t take her far, though—not when Robin’s gasp seemed to travel like the wind through her ears like a cry for help.
“Robin…Robin!?” Annette tore through the hall back to the front, where Robin and Steve stood agape in front of a TV, “Robin? What is it?”
“You picked one hell of a week to visit, Annie…” Robin whispered, taking her sister's hand as she walked up beside the two. “Look.”
Annette wasn’t sure how to feel as she stared up at the flickering screen, watching as the poor reporter delivered the next heinous event that had plagued Hawkins. First, it was that missing boy a few years ago, then it was the destruction of the Department of Energy, and last year? The mall fire. It felt like that dreadful morbidity that she had felt creeping in the corners of her mind had led her to this moment, watching as a murder unfolded in front of her eyes.
“Who do you guys think did it?” Steve asked, pulling Annie out of her trance once more.
“Some sick fuck,” Annie shrugged, squeezing her sister's hand one last time before letting go, “This town has been through enough, probably shook someone too much.”
“Yeah…This town has a way of breaking people.”
“Stay for my shift, Annie. Mom and Dad probably don’t want you home alone now, not with this news,” Robin pleaded, twisting her sister to face her, “Plus, really, what else do you have to do?”
“...I’m going to the library.”
—
Annette pulled at the peeling skin around her nails, sighing softly as she turned onto Kerley and into the trailer park. It had been a while since she’d seen Maxine, nearly two years. But something inside of her screamed and kicked at its cage, begging her to go to the trailer park and find the girl. Maybe it was the sisterly instinct, knowing that if she had been the one to lose Robin, she would’ve found attraction to tragedy too—and if she remembered anything about Max, it’s that she had a knack for trouble.
“I can’t let anyone in, ma’am. This is an active crime scene,” the officer sighed, leaning on the car door, “It’s just protocol.”
“No, I understand that, officer.” Annette replied, a tight smile on her lips, “I’m friends with Max Mayfield; she lives here, I just came to pick her up, get her out of here. Her mom’s working.”
“In and out, no lingering, got it?”
“No lingering, got it.”
Annette rolled up her window once more and continued her drive into the park. It didn’t take much deducing for her to find where the redhead was living, the quick paces of her rushing from the door making it that much more apparent. She quickly stumbled from her car, following her towards her bike.
“Max!”
The younger girl stopped in her tracks, turning slowly towards where Annette now stood. Silence hung heavy between them, unspoken grief tying them together by the heartstrings. While the relationship was inconsequential, there was still a shared respect between both Max and Annette. The latter stood between many moments of wrath from Billy. She was a sister—she understood the unfathomable love shared, even without respect. Max had grief about Billy; that was obvious to Annette as she stared at the heavy bags under her eyes and the vacant look in her eyes.
“When did you get back?” Max asked, voice quiet.
“Two days ago, I was going to come see you.”
“Why? It’s not like we were friends. You dated Billy for all of what, ten minutes?”
“Still, I cared about you, Max. Care about you. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Netflix and The Duffer Brothers. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Two
Warnings: Suggestive Comments
Word Count: 2366
“I’m just saying he’s an asshole.”
Annette sighed as she picked at the peeling skin on her fingers, wincing as the delicate layer skinned away from the flesh, exposing a pink, wet surface underneath. Tammy Thompson’s piercing laughter resounded throughout the kitchen of her parents' house, mocking Annette with the noise. The two girls had been friends since kindergarten, giggling in corners and whispering about aspirations that transcended the borders of Hawkins, Indiana and further out into the vast unknown. Tammy wanted to become a singer, much to Annette’s protests, and her parents' money carried her far enough to Nashville. The latter, though? Her hopes and dreams sat on her shoulders alone, weighing her down to the ocean floor where the anchor was lodged.
“You haven’t seen Steve Harrington in a year, and you’re still on about how terrible he is?” Tammy disparaged, handing Annette a glass of lemonade. “If your sister is so convinced he’s a great guy, maybe she’s onto something.”
“Robin’s word about him means close to nothing to me. She hasn’t spent nearly as much time with him as I have. Kindergarten to senior year, I had put up with his shit,” the elder Buckley remarked, twisting on the stool and following Tammy out to her backyard, “It’s probably a trauma bond from the mall fire.”
Heavy was the head that wore the crown, but heavier was the sword carried by those trying to knock it down. Annette had wielded it with vigour and intent, striving for Steve’s neck with each passing year in Hawkins. She harboured the unbloodied, crude, cutlery like a badge of honour even in California. Any niceties she could have mustered for the boy fell mum since last December, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two—that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance. There was no outrunning the past now, not when the path led right back to this godforsaken town.
This was only the third time Annette had come home to visit since moving to Stanford. The third time that she has risked letting sentimentality plunge its vice grip further into her spine until eventually she tethered herself wholly to this place—to him. Once back in the fall, for Thanksgiving, once during the Christmas break, when the holy spirit seemed to have forsaken her on the side of Larrabee Street, and now, where there was no pious relic or figure that could save Annette from whatever was to transpire over the next seven days.
“You could always try to make peace with him, for your sisters' sake, that is,” Tammy offered, cutting through Annette’s thoughts as the two sat down in the padded lawn chairs on the deck, “I know if I had the chance to have Steve Harrington over for dinners like you did, I would so—”
“I don’t need to hear where your depraved mind is going with the rest of that sentence,” Annette interrupted, sending a sharp glare towards the blonde, “Your desperate crush on him has forever perplexed me.”
“God, you’re starting to even sound like those pretentious Stanford students.”
“Not all of us can rely on Daddy to get us a record deal,” Annette teased, a playful grin on her lips. “I love it there. It doesn’t constantly smell like cow shit.”
“No, just marijuana and bad decisions.”
“Jealousy is a disease, Tammy!”
—
The nighttime roads of Hawkins felt more alive than Annette remembered. The lights flickered ever so scarcely, but she couldn’t see the skeletal shops that plagued her very presence. They were taunting her, tugging at the yearning in her heart and reminding her that she was the one who fled, that they lingered with bated breath for her return. They wanted to devour her whole, swallow her flesh, blood, and bone until all that was left was the neglected hunger that burrowed a hole in her heart. She carved it herself, taking the sword that was mightier than the pen and chipping away until its beating ceased.
She pulled off to the side of Lovers Lake, flicking the lights off with intent as she clambered out of the car. Distant giggles from young couples mingled with the cool Indiana air around her, brushing through her hair as she sat on the hood of her car.
The moon sat high in the sky tonight, its face staring down at Annette with a knowing smirk on its glowing features. Every unspoken thought and unheard prayer that lay heavy on her mind and in ink on the pages of her journal whispered itself into existence. They hung in the air for a moment before letting the stars reclaim them, carrying each breath and syllable to the moon's ears and letting it glow brighter because of it. The lake resonated each heartbeat back to Annette, mocking her, like everything else around her.
“I wish I didn’t hate him. I wish I hadn’t left. I hate that I’m restless no matter where I am. I wish I had a still spirit, pliable for the world to mould.” The sound was heavy as it rolled off her tongue, the weight of them tugging her eyelids shut as the darkness around her consumed them. A laugh reverberated from her chest as she closed the leather-bound book, tucking it beside her with a shake of her head. “Tammy’s right. I do sound pretentious.”
It’s not that she hated California or Stanford. But what she had thought they would be through journaling and tours was merely a fraction. It was the facade that seduced people from towns like Hawkins into its barbed trap and tunnelled through them like a parasite, leeching off their minds and bodies. It wasn’t a place that felt like home; it was too tidy, too put-together and superficial. Even the hallowed halls of Stanford didn’t seem to quell the scalding lust for the untried and unfamiliar that bellowed in the hearth of Annette’s gut. All she found there was gossip of what happened the weekend prior, reminders of her own inadequacy, and the relentless reality that there were things she didn’t know.
But she was Annette Buckley; she knew everything.
There was no sanctity to Hawkins, though. There was nothing here that was meant to be chased or worshipped like a zealot at an altar. All there was were dead ends and dusty vestiges that reminded everyone here that this place was a dead end, that the only way out was to turn around and try again. Annette got lost, though, wandering back trails that only ever led her back to the massive wall that was Hawkins. Every path led back here, but now her knees were bloodied and bruised from her devotion to the ichor of thought and the christening of new miles that flayed her down to the bone.
Tucking her journal away, Annette climbed back into her car and travelled down the same road she’s always known to Old Cherry Drive.
—
Annette flowed with the rest of the sports fans and patriotic teenagers through the veins of the beast towards the heart, the thumping of shoes echoing its beat. Her wide crystal eyes scanned across the Hawkins High gymnasium until she saw Robin, who was excitedly waving at her from across the gym. She sent one back in kind before following the rest of the procession towards the stands, tucking her purse tighter into her side as she squeezed past a few younger students to the top. A smile dared to crack through the porcelain mask she wore as she watched Robin giggle with a couple of her band friends. She wondered if she followed them around the halls, too.
Annette’s pleasure didn’t last nearly long enough as the familiar quaff of Steve Harrington’s hair perforated her view from across the way. She knew she didn’t have the right to be peeved that he’d show up here; he was the captain of the Hawkins Tigers when they were students, and was Robin’s alleged best friend. Only this time, the heat that rose in her cheeks was quickly smothered out by the sight of Brenda Roberts, who had Steve’s hand resting on her lower back.
What was either minutes or a millennium passed by, and the gym quieted down as Principal Higgins walked over to the mic. But even though Annette had come to support Tammy and Robin, she couldn’t peel her eyes off of his smug face as he and Brenda whispered to one another under the echoing screech that was Tammy’s singing. How his cocky grin seemed to have Brenda’s cheeks so red that Annette could see it from the other side of the gym, how with every smile she gave him, Steve seemed to be more focused on her than what was in front of him.
It was only at the end of the game when Annette peeled her eyes from him, watching as the curse of the Tigers broke with the final shot from Lucas Sinclair. She followed suit and jumped from her seat, clapping and cheering like the rest of the crowd as everyone celebrated. This was a new age for Hawkins High, with the screaming noise of victory finally returning to its halls just before Spring Break—a final hurrah. Following the same way she came in, Annette lingered outside, waiting for Robin.
“Hey!”
Her sister's voice cut through the electric air around the school and startled Annette, tugging her from the venomous dream she fell into while remembering the look on Steve’s face when Brenda grabbed him for a hug at the end of the game. Why did she care so much? This is good, this was meant to be good, because it meant he wasn’t thinking about December, that there was nothing left unspoken between the two once and for all.
“That was SO cool, wasn’t it? Lucas is awesome. I met him last summer, and he’s friends with Steve and a few other little weirdos around here. He dated Max, Billy’s sister, if you remember her,” Robin rambled, readjusting the strap on her trumpet case, “Shit, sorry, I probably still shouldn’t mention him but um, Steve and I are gonna go grab shakes if you wanna come—Shit, no, probably shouldn’t have said that either.”
“Robin!” Annette laughed, grabbing her sister by the shoulders, “You’re doing it again. It’s fine, really. Billy and I dated for like five minutes…Isn’t Steve here with Brenda?”
“Yeah, but like I don’t think he’s really into her,” Robin shrugged as she followed Annette to her car to drop her instrument, “He’s been so weird about dating since like five or six months ago—”
“What?” Her voice sliced through the air, abruptly cutting her sister off, “Why?”
“I don’t know, he just says he hasn’t found something with warmth or whatever yet and feels guilty,” Robin shrugged, knitting her eyebrows quizzically at her sister, “Why do you care? Figured you’d be happy to know he’s miserable and alone.”
“I am!” Annette shot back, voice breaking, “Totally am. Will help me sleep better at night knowing that…I’ll come with you guys for shakes.”
“Okay…C’mon, hurry up and drive. I want the good booth, we’re gonna meet him there.”
—
“...he hasn’t found something with warmth or whatever yet and feels guilty.”
The words echoed around Annette’s head as she sipped at the chocolate milkshake, waiting for Robin to return with the vice that had managed to warp her mind once more. What did he mean by that? The warmth? Why did he feel guilty? Was this because of her? Is he still thinking about what happened that night?
“When I said bring anyone, I meant like that Vicky girl, not your sister.”
Nevermind. He can choke.
Annie rolled her eyes and craned her neck up to see the face she remembered to loathe staring down at her with his hands on his hips. She plastered a sickly sweet smile across her pallid features and scooted to the side for Robin to slide in next to her. She didn’t even have to say anything to know her very presence was now grating on every nerve in Steve Harrington's body. Only to amplify when Robin excused herself to the bathroom, Annie guessed it was because the tension was too thick for even a knife to cut between the two.
She watched with anticipation as Steve dropped into the booth across from her, whiskey brown eyes avoiding the quizzical crystal ones that she watched him with. Oh no, she wasn’t going to let him get off the hook too easily.
“So, saw you at the game with Brenda.”
“What’s it to you, Buckley?”
“Oh, nothing, just thought it was interesting since you used to say she was about as interesting as watching paint dry like a year ago.”
“People change, Annie.”
“Annette. But still, bringing her to the championship game that the Tigers end up winning a year after you are no longer on the team? Can only imagine the bruise on your ego right now.”
“I liked you better when you were thousands of miles away.”
“Cut the bullshit, Harrington. Why’d you bring her?”
“That’s hardly any of your business, Annie.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
“What?”
“Do you feel guilty about what happened last December?”
“No, Annie,” Steve snapped, shutting the menu in front of him and giving her his full, undivided attention, “In fact, I regret it because you’re still incapable of growing up past the stupid cliches and social hierarchy of high school.”
Silence fell over the two like a heavy blanket. The clock ticked, loudly, violently, as heat rose in her cheeks. Was it embarrassment? Anger? Annie didn’t know. But with each heavy minute that went by, her eyes strained, and her chest tightened. She broke first, slamming a five-dollar bill on the table and pushing from the booth with a new fire in her step. She blew past Robin out to her car and flicked the headlights on, speeding down the old haunted aisles of Hawkins until the diner was nothing more than a memory she never wished to revisit.
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Netflix and The Duffer Brothers. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter One
Warnings: Suggestive Comments
Word Count: 2419
March, 1986 - Hawkins, Indiana
“I think he’s still a prick.”
A delicate laugh shook through the car as the verdant trees of Hawkins shot past the car window. The brown tones melted into a married blur, as though a watercolour painting had come to life. Gentle sounds of Don McLean echoed from the speakers in the front seat, the chiding of Melissa Buckley overriding American Pie as she spurned her youngest daughter for the use of such vulgar language. This was how the entire ride from the airport had gone—Robert Buckley was subjecting the whole family to his deplorable singing, Melissa scorning Robin for her tongue, and Annette Buckley, relishing in the warmth that being with her family yielded in her chest.
“I was hoping that we could get your sister from the airport in peace, but you insist on grating my nerves, Robin!” Melissa admonished, shaking her head, “I don’t know if Steve appreciates you cussing in his car, but I know I do not!”
“Don’t mention the Harrington boy around Annie, Mom, she might just pop a vein in her forehead,” Robin teased, rolling her head to look over at the older of the two, hand reaching out to poke at her forehead, “I can see it starting to swell now—”
Annette whacked her younger sister's hand, a sharp glare piercing the air between them. Even after all these years, the detestation that corroded her heart strived under a faraway eye. With each highfalutin asshole that comes across her path, she always thinks back to the absolute King of them all—Steve Harrington. Especially with the newfound bond he shares with Robin, Annette can’t help but detest the very ground that he stands on. No matter how many miles she put between herself and Hawkins, the festering loathing ran through each inch between the two. At least, that’s how Annette saw it, and she vowed that as long as she stared at the same sky as he did, nothing could deter her from the abhorrence she felt.
Quarrels transpired between her and Robin, squabbling about whether or not it was a good idea for the latter to get entangled with such a stain upon Hawkins, as Annette anointed him. It ultimately delved into a topic neither dared to broach, with Robin frequently neglecting to mention who she would go on all these fun adventures with throughout Hawkins, who would drive her to get burgers now that Annette was no longer there. And Annette? Well, she knew better than to ask—why waste her breath when she already knew the answer?
“He brought us KFC the other night for dinner, he’s alright in my books,” Robert shrugged as he turned onto Old Cherry Road, the familiar sights of her childhood suburb muffling out the praises her dad sang about the boy she hated, “And we are home, sweet home! Robin, help your sister with her bags?”
Robin muttered about the ridiculous number of things Annette had packed as the two ambled out of the car, minor bickering ensuing between them. The gentle breeze of spring in Indiana danced through the knit cardigan that Annette wore as she followed her parents and sister into her childhood home. It was like stepping back into a memory, into one of the dozen upon dozen of photos Annette would spend hours flicking through of her life back in Hawkins, of the life she ran away from at full speed.
The glow around her was like the feeling of a warm candle, the delicate sounds of the wind knocking against windows, and the rasp of her footsteps on wooden floors, all breathing down the back of her neck like a reminder of all she feared. It was the same as when she had returned to Hawkins during Christmas break, that feeling of regret tickling her spine as if it were taunting her. Why was she so frightened of this place? The question plagued Annette day in and day out, sitting solemn on her chest after every phone call she made home, after every letter she received from Robin with photos stuffed inside the envelope.
“Mom’s making meatloaf for dinner,” Robin lamented as she strolled up behind Annette, causing her to flinch at the hasty intrusion on her thoughts, “Dad just filled your car's tank up too…”
“I’ve been back in Hawkins for an hour, and you’re already trying to get me to take you for food? Have you seriously not gotten your license yet?” Annette sighed as she hauled one of her suitcases up the stairs, “Or has your new best friend been your chauffeur?”
“Mom and Dad said I can only get it if I can pay for it, and unfortunately for all of us, Family Video doesn’t exactly pay the big bucks,” Robin scoffed, following her older sister into her room and dropping a duffel bag onto her twin bed, “Plus, maybe I figured if I pleaded my sob story to you you’ll drop out and move back home!”
“Yes, because I’m going to drop out of Stanford because my loser little sister refuses to get her license,” Annette chuckled, flicking Robin’s forehead before tugging her sweater off, dropping onto the bed next to her sister, “Really great argument you’ve got there.”
“Maybe I just miss you,” Robin mumbled, fiddling with the skin on her finger, “Miss movie nights, sneaking out to get burgers after Mom burns another dinner—Maybe hoped you might miss me too.”
“Robin…You know I miss you,” Annette sighed, bracing herself on her elbow, “But don’t you also want me to be happy? Following my dreams?”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Following your dreams.”
A smile played along Annette’s lips at her sister’s comment. Something was captivating about the way Robin couldn’t contain the words that burst through the dam of her brain, blundering over its syllables until the thought became whole. What might inhibit the average person was the very fuel in Robin’s bones, urging her forward, barrelling towards the finish line of whatever thought sprang into her mind. Annette envied her, the careless winds under her sister's wings that carried her through the high-topped trees of Hawkins, untouchable from the thorny weeds on the ground that stabbed her.
“I am. California is beautiful, there are so many different people there,” Annette sighed, a dreamy desire disguising the dampened dread that drenched her heart, “I met people a part of the AIDs movement, and even went to a rally in support of them. I felt like such a hippie! There was this gay bar my friend Georgia and I went to—”
“Friend?” Robin questioned, eyebrow raised.
“Yes, friend. As fun as the bar was and as lovely as everyone I met was, I don’t bat for that team,” Annette chuckled, watching with a careful eye as a cloud emerged over her sister’s eyes. Gears were shifting behind them, working out a kink in her mind that not even Annette could guess. She knew Hawkins wasn’t as progressive as the rest of the world, but she never would’ve expected it from Robin.
“So, you don’t miss your friends here in Hawkins?” Robin prodded again, rolling onto her stomach next to Annette, averting her eyes, “What about Anna? Tammy?”
“I miss them too—but Anna’s at Purdue, and Tammy is off living her dreams in Nashville. But she told me she’ll be here for the break, so I’m sure I’ll see her…” Her voice trailed off, studying the distracted look on Robin’s face, “I feel like you’re just trying to convince me to move back to Hawkins now, tugging at my heartstrings.”
“It’s lonely here without you,” Robin sighed, flipping once again onto her back, head thudding against the pillows, “I can only take so much Hawkins High bullshit without having you here to help handle it! Do you know how many problems Kaminski gives me? I’m going insane!”
“You could also just do your homework.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
—
The familiar spring smells of Hawkins flooded through the car as it hurried down the empty road of Cornwallis. The old roads of home felt like rows in a graveyard, the past lying in wait in its casket, breath escaping its lungs as she haunted each aisle, daring it to wake up. This place felt like a ghost town to Annette, despite the flesh-and-bones that paraded down its streets and breathed in the fresh Indiana air. Something lay dormant beneath it all, tormenting her with its silence. Maybe it was because of the mall fire the year prior, the death toll haunting Annette all the way across the country. She knew all of them, was friends with Heather, cordial with the chief, but she knew Billy. The lesson she learned? You can’t fix people. Didn’t matter how badly you wanted to, because at the end of the day, flesh and blood can’t alter flesh and blood, and no guilt can change that. She didn’t fly home for the funeral.
Hawkins felt empty now, the heartbeat of the small town stuttering under the weight of it all. Maybe this town was cursed; perhaps it wasn’t. Annette wasn’t the one to ask. All she knew was there was a draw to it; Hawkins was like getting a hit of a drug you’d been yearning for, only to swear that’s the last time. Being back in it had a fire rushing through her veins that hadn’t been tapped into in six months, since that night.
“Steve’s working tonight, so I won’t need a pick up, by the way!” Robin shouted as she hurried out of her sister’s passenger seat.
Annette nodded, lifting her eyes from the wheel to see the fire burning in the store ahead of her. Hot and irate, scorching her heart and spreading ash through her throat, causing her to choke. His eyes poured into hers through the glass, and the fire went cold like a winter’s night.
—
December 1985 — Hawkins, Indiana
“God damnit!”
Her voice echoed up and down Larrabee Street, the trees absorbing the sound and mocking her with it. The vicious winds of Indiana winter nipped at her pallid cheeks as she kicked the tire of her car, cursing the battery. Each passing moment felt like torture as she curled back into the driver's seat, wishing she had taken her father’s advice and not left the car lights on while sitting in front of Loch Nora. Why would she, though? She was Annette Buckley; she knew everything. At least that’s what she mockingly said to herself while tugging her coat tighter around her already frigid arms.
Annette’s bones only warmed when a pair of orange lights arose from the top of the hill, two halos on twin angels coming to save her from the hellscape she had found herself in. Annette scurried from the front seat, waving her mitten-clad hands in the air to try and get the driver’s attention. The unfamiliar hue of a burgundy BMW came into view, and she finally felt a win on the horizon, enticing her with a fate filled with warmth and the kindness of a stranger. Until the car kept coming closer, and the benevolent hue of the golden headlight halos turned into red rage.
“No fucking way…”
“Well, Madam President, it seems you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a situation…” his voice drawled like a cruel joke as he pulled up next to her on the opposing side of the road, impudent grin only spurring her annoyance on further, “If only there were a kind citizen to help you out.”
“Don’t be a prick, Harrington. If you’re just going to sit there and mock me, please continue on your way. I don’t need to deal with your shit tonight.”
Steve sighed and raised his arm to check his watch, muttering something to himself that Annie couldn’t make out. Much to both her anguish and longing, he reversed his car and repositioned so the front of his was damn near touching hers. Annie watched on in anticipation as he popped his trunk, hauling out the spark plugs needed to boost her car back to life. The silence that surrounded them was heavier than the snow that fell over the barren trees. It felt like they were watching on, leaning in, trying to hear the newest gossip that they could rustle up throughout Hawkins. It felt like high school all over again, everyone watching their every move until one—or both—eventually stepped off the high horse they sat on. It was hard to see the cracks in their armour from such a height; the vultures needed them to fall.
“I’ve always wondered when the day would come when you needed me,” Steve huffed as he popped the hood of Annie’s car, passing her a flashlight to hold, “Never thought it would be on the side of the road, though.”
“Trust me, this isn’t ideal. Part of me hoped you’d keep driving and leave me to freeze to death instead.” Annie stated, pointing the flashlight where he was working, “But I also knew you’d be too much of a prideful ass to let a moment like this go to waste.”
“Oh, yeah, because you know me so damn well, don’t you, Buckley?” Steve sneered, winding the sparkplugs back over to his car.
“Are you telling me I’m wrong? Has being out of high school for seven months really changed King Steve that much?” She retorted, trailing behind with the flashlight, “Don’t tell me you’ve grown up now, Steven.”
“Clearly you haven’t.” his voice was faint, but the grave winter air bore it right into Annie’s chest, slamming it against her heart like a brick.
The next few moments passed by in silence as Steve finished attaching what was needed. When he nodded to her, she was quick to shove the flashlight back into his hands and storm over to her car, slamming the door behind her. Her breath danced in front of her mockingly, goading her as she watched him remove his gloves and coat in what she could only assume was the warmth of his car's heater. Every muscle in her body twitched from the icy chill that began to frost the corners of her windows. His eyes remained on hers, and she knew he was waiting. It felt like bait on a hook, each passing second testing Annie’s resolve.
The slam of her car door echoed up and down Larrabee Street, the trees absorbing the sound and mocking her with it.
❛ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪᴇʀ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.❜
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Netflix and The Duffer Brothers. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Prologue
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1206
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people’s hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
For nearly twelve years, Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington have remained at odds with one another. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Annette’s younger sister used to say they defied the odds, ‘Madam President’ and ‘the King’ should’ve been the high school sweethearts—always met with a devastating gag from the older of the two—a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
June, 1985
“I think he’s a prick.”
The delicate drawl of the younger sister’s voice grated on the elder as the locker door shut beside her. Robin’s tone was vindictive and cutting; there was no changing this opinion now—Annette knew that. It was a never-ending cycle for the two. Robin would show up at her older sister’s locker, muttering about whatever was causing the end of the world as she knew it, and then trail behind her older sister like a kicked puppy as she handed out the latest ads for whatever rally the student council was hosting that week. Hawkins was in a never-ending circle of the same things again, and again, and again. It was enough to drive any sane individual past their breaking point. It seemed Annette Buckley was the last sane person in this god-foresaken town now.
“Kaminski isn’t that bad, Robin,” Annette sighed as she smiled at the passing students, signing her name across blank yearbooks as she went, “If you listened to what I told you—”
“Your notes are a yawn fest, Annie,” Robin argued, kicking at the linoleum tiles beneath her feet, “And I did use them! It’s not my fault he can’t teach for shit.”
Annette’s laugh was subtle—practiced—under her breath as she continued to pass out the invitations, nodding as she went with that signature presidential smile that seemed to be perpetually fixed to her face. Paint washed away, this facade was forever. It was the same old story, small town girl, big dreams that were continuously cracking at the glass dome around her, threatening to shatter it with one more nudge. Straight A’s, friends aplenty, ample extracurriculars, and a destination laid out at the end of her pristine tunnel. California. Stanford was waiting just a few short months away, with bated breath and beaming brilliance, an opportunity to grow past the bordered walls of Hawkins, Indiana.
“I don’t know what to tell you then, Rob,” the girl shrugged as she pushed through the front doors of Hawkins High, “I pulled a 98% in that class, my notes should be pristine and ample.”
“Using words like 'pristine' and ‘ample’ is exactly why Mom and Dad will forever cherish you, and expect subpar trumpet playing from me,” Robin chuckled as she snatched the yearbook from Annette’s arms and flipped it open to sign her name in massive bubble letters, before promptly returning it to her older sister. “Do you know what Mom’s doing for dinner?”
“M—Hey!”
Annette gasped as the chip in her path to freedom rushed up to her. Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington donned a cheeky grin and a twinkle of irritating mischief in his eyes as he ambled up to the sisters, hand reaching forward and snagging the yearbook in her arms just as Robin had not even a minute before. Annette huffed in aggravation at the mere presence of the King of Hawkins High. He was reckless, idiotic, and cocky—all things that Annette fought her whole life to avoid being her entire life.
“Just wanna sign your yearbook, Madam President! Are you coming to Kathy’s party tonight?”
“I do not condone underage drinking, Steven,” the blonde sighed, tugging her notebooks closer to her chest, away from his grabbing hands.
“No, I forgot, you’re not allowed to have fun, Annie. You’re going to be an absolute hoot at Stanford,” Steve snipped, nodding at the sticker on the back of the girl's notebook, “Someone’s proud.”
“Some of us are destined for greater than Hawkins, Harrington. Have a great summer!” The pasted smile slapped itself back onto her face as she ducked around the boy, with Robin following close at her heels.
The rest of her and Robin’s walk to her car was in begrudging silence, even chipper Robin knowing not to push Annette after a run-in with that boy. She let out a deep sigh as she sank into the driver's seat of her car, Robin struggling into the passenger seat with a tight smile, wondering when it was okay to talk again without being cussed out. When the silence persisted, the younger sister reached into the glove box and pulled out the one thing she knew would bring a smile to Annette’s sour face.
“Y’know, we still have this movie rented if you wanna watch it before the rally…”
With a click, the soft intro of ‘It Might Be You’ from Annette’s favourite movie filled the empty ambiance of the car. With each passing beat, the presidential mask slipped from her vision, and a gentle smile replaced it, one only ever really seen by Robin. Annette leaned back with a sigh and nodded as she twisted the ignition. Odd thing it was, to be known so completely that even just the music that filled the vacant air was enough to warm a frigid heart.
“Mom’s making meatloaf.”
“Again?”
With a gentle sigh, Annette twisted her neck to regard Robin, “I’ll tell Mom I’m meeting with Tammy, and tell her you’re coming with. Then, why don’t we go get burgers at the mall?”
“You, my dear Annie, are officially back to being the best sister in the world.”
“I wasn’t already?”
“Lost the spot when you made us all watch The Empire Strikes Back again the other day.”
“You’re going to miss watching it when I’m gone in three weeks,” Annette chuckled, pulling the car out of the high school lot with a sharp turn to the right, “And you’ll be stuck watching Maude and Harry with Mom every night.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“It’ll be fine! You’re starting at Scoops next week, the summer will fly by, and I’ll be visiting for winter break before you even know it. It’ll be like I never even left.”
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
❛ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪᴇʀ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋ ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.❜
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Artists always use love as a muse, the deeply interwoven and woven vines of two people's hearts. Being able to look at someone and cherish everything about them, regardless of how unsightly and rotted it might be. Loving someone was like the sensation of the sun breaking through parted blinds and warming unblemished skin. But there was something profoundly intimate about hating another person. Noticing every diminutive detail and scrutinizing it with a microscope, memorizing every fold and crease about a person and loathing even the finest crack in their armour. It was beautiful to hate someone. It was the vulnerable feeling of nighttime, the cold creeping in as the sun rested in its grassy bed for the night, and the frigid moon set all the unseen and unspoken truths alight.
Annette Buckley and Steve Harrington. He was arrogant and pompous; she was studious and argumentative. It was written in the stars that they would score one another with conniving cuts of the tongue until the end of time. Or, for Annette, at least until she left this town and never had to see his stupid smile again. Some claim they should've been the high school sweethearts, a love story for the ages of Hawkins! Not for Annette, though; all she saw in him was wasted potential.
That is, until her car breaks down over Christmas break, when the heat of the car felt like a frigid freeze amidst the shared breath of the two-that night haunted her like a nightmare, following her around as a shadow of remembrance.
Until now, in the Spring of 1985, where the story begins.
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Nine
Warnings: Mentions of Death
Word Count: 2248
January 17th, 1945
Steve came back from the raid with the others today. All of the Howling Commandos accompanied him, their hands hanging low as they approached where Peggy and I sat. They didn’t even have to speak; I knew what happened. They were one short. All of them had returned, with the odd bruise or cut along their face or body. But they were alive. There was still breath in their lungs and blood pumping in their veins. Not him, though. Bucky didn’t make it. I don’t think words could ever really describe that feeling. But I’ll do my very best. It does me no good to keep it all in my head.
It’s like having your head pushed underwater but still having air in your lungs. You can breathe, as easily as on any other day, but with each flickering moment, the water starts to drown you. It floods your senses and drowns out every other feeling except for the sick trickle of it down the back of your throat. It’s ice cold, like being stabbed in the senses repeatedly by a sickle of ice.
I would rather take a million rounds of torture than feel this way. To feel the entire world around me freeze in place as I searched for whatever possible bond there may be in this whole fucked up universe, just to see if I can tell he’s alive. That he’s somewhere calling for help, that the air is still in his lungs, and the pumping of his heart continues. But I know that isn’t possible, and I know that he won’t return to me through these doors. He’s gone, and yet I’m still here.
The bastard owed me a dance, too.
“How’re you holding up?”
Her father's gruff voice pulled her from the intense words she smeared across the page, the ink bleeding as the tears escaped her eyes. She hadn’t cried when Steve returned. She hadn’t cried when her father signed off on the death note that would be sent to his family. But now, as she poured out the isolated feelings in her chest, the salty reminder of her own humanity rushed down the page with them.
“I never was very good with the whole emotions thing,” he sighed, wincing as he took a seat next to the girl, “That was always more your mother's forte.”
She shook her head and wiped the tears that continued to streak a valley down her cheeks. His rough and calloused fingers ran along the supple skin of her cheeks, wiping away all he could. It didn’t help; it didn’t create a dam that would block the rush of water that threatened her with every breath. Something about it all didn’t feel real yet, but the waterworks didn’t stop, no matter how hard she tried. The hiccups racked her body with violent shakes, and her father took her into his arms, his war-ravaged frame providing a safe comfort around her.
“I’m sorry, Clara. I’m so very sorry.”
—
Her footsteps echoed around the secluded room that the King of Wakanda had given her for the time being. Just a few feet away, Bucky was sitting with Shuri, going over tests and results from whatever research she was conducting with the rest of her staff to see what they could do to help the man recover from the torture HYDRA put him through. To see if there was anything they could do to remove the Winter Soldier from his broken mind.
Selfish thoughts shot around her mind at a rapid rate, reminding her that she, too, was a victim who was looking for some slice of solace or comfort in the world that was adamant on destroying her with every step she took. Clara had just gotten Bucky back, but why was the world trying to rip him from her grasp once again?
“Hey,” Steve’s voice echoed around the room, catching the girl's attention, “How’re you holding up in here?”
Clara let out a scoff at the question before dropping down onto one of the couches. She pressed her fingers to her temples and tried to massage the kinks out of the fabric of her reality and bring herself back down to earth. Every time she thought that maybe, just maybe, she would be able to catch a break from the hell she’d been living, another curve ball knocked her flat on her ass. It wasn’t fair, and the suffocating weight of that burden had begun to close its soul-sucking fists around her throat once more.
Sure, she had Steve, she had rekindled her relationship with her son and met her granddaughter. She was able to live in peace thanks to the pardon that the US government had granted her and was given at least a few cards to try and build a house with—but the play she’d been dealt was the shittiest one she could fathom. Her entire life, Clara had played the game as she should, done everything she was supposed to, and every time she thought she had the upper hand, a card shark managed to snatch it from her grasp.
“Am I allowed even not to be?” Clara scoffed, running a deft hand across her face and leaning back in her seat, “I mean, he’s being given a chance of freedom from HYDRA’s shackles, I should be in there cheering him on, but I’m here, thinking about myself and what I want.”
Steve sighed and nodded along before taking a seat next to her, resting a friendly hand on her knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. If anyone could sympathize with her, she knew it would be him. Steve and Bucky were childhood best friends, platonic soulmates by the very definition, and he, too, had just managed to snag him back from the jaws of defeat. But now, Bucky Barnes' lover and best friend both felt the vile giggle of jealousy and selfishness tickling at the back of their necks like an ugly witch.
“I get it,” Steve whispered, looking over at the blonde with sympathetic blue eyes, “Hell, I think I might be the only person that gets it. But this is what’s best for him, Clara, you know that.”
It was true, even if she didn’t want to accept it.
“I know it is. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though. It still feels like I’m losing him again. Who knows how long it’ll take?” Clara bemused, resting her head on Steve’s shoulder, “We just got Bucky back. Why is it fair that the world gets to retake him?”
The two sat like that for what felt like hours as they waited for one of the Wakandan scientists to get them. And as the time ticked by, all Clara could think about was that night where they danced together for the first time, getting lost in one another's touch and heat.
—
“Who taught you how to dance like this?” Bucky’s New York drawl teased as the two swayed back and forth to the music, ignoring the dozens upon dozens of eyes glued to them.
“A lady never tells her secrets, James,” Clara chirped back, lifting her deep brown eyes to meet the steely blue of his, “But if you’re so inclined to know, my grandmother taught both Charlie and me to dance whenever she watched us. Told us that it was proper time we learned how to be a real lady and gentleman.”
“I can’t even imagine Charlie dancing with a girl.”
“Don’t put that image in my mind.”
Their laughter mixed in perfect tandem as they continued their delicate game. His hands respectfully held her, and she caught him checking to see if her father was still watching from time to time. Clara knew her father didn’t exactly approve of Bucky, saying that his daughter deserved someone even better than a soldier. But Clara couldn’t help the way her heart stumbled over itself whenever their hands brushed or eyes met, or the lingering feeling his presence gave her deep within her stomach.
Clara’s very essence yearned for the man, and ever since the two shared their first kiss back in Brooklyn, it had only grown in desire. Everything about Bucky was perfect to Clara, and the only thing that stood in the way of their happy ending now was the war they both fought in. One day, though, she knew deep in her heart that they would dance together again in a room of their own, with nothing but the sound of their breath as the music.
—
“Captain Rogers? Ms. Phillips? Sergeant Barnes would like to speak with you.”
Both Clara and Steve took to their feet and followed the young Princess into the large lab where Bucky sat on a hospital bed, his face grave but content. Clara knew what that meant, and her heart ached at the very notion that he would be gone from her life once more. She fell back from Steve’s side, waiting closer to the doorway as the Captain took the lead.
The last few weeks felt like a sick joke now, the universe dangling him in front of her like a carrot to steer her away from whatever semblance of peace she had found. Clara knew that this was what was best for him, that whatever Shuri was offering would bring him solace in a world where all he knew was war and death. But that evil crone of selfishness reared her ugly head once more and whispered disgusting notions in her ear.
He just doesn’t want to be with you anymore.
Steve and Bucky’s exchange fell on deaf ears as Clara zoned out of reality. Her eyes stared blankly at the cryo machine that stood just a few feet away from her, flashbacks of her own time on ice shooting through her mind. She remembered the painful numbness that it caused right before she lost consciousness, and how it always seemed to snap her mind back to its proper state a millisecond too late. Bucky was going back under again, and she would be left on the other side with nothing more than his memory to hold onto.
“Clara?”
His smooth tone tore her from her thoughts, and she caught the gaze of his cold blue eyes. Steve had stepped out of the room, leaving the two alone to talk. While she was thankful to have this moment alone with Bucky, she had hoped Steve would stick around just for her own sake. The poisonous rot of selfishness and cowardice seemed to be taking a firm root within Clara’s soul, and it was all because she couldn’t handle the world around her alone. She knew what it felt like to be left in the dark, and it seemed to be creeping around the corner once more.
“You look lost over there, doll, you alright?” Bucky asked, taking a few steps towards her with hesitancy, clearly unsure of where her mind was at.
“Just…realizing that I get to brave the world without you again, Buck.”
“I know, Clara,” he sighed, bringing his flesh hand up to her cheek and running the calloused skin across hers, “But when I get out, I’ll be better for you. We can have that dance.”
The tears broke through her mental dam before she could fight back, the quiver in her lip adding to the pathetic feeling that brewed in her heart. She wanted to fall into his arms and let him hold her up, but her knees held themselves frozen in place. Of course, she wanted him to go under and fight back against what HYDRA did to him, but where did that leave her? A technical widow with no prospects? A pardoned criminal who was once one of HYDRA’s deadliest assassins? Why did she have to face the world alone after fighting it for so long? What penance did she have to pay to whoever she wronged so terribly that this was her punishment for existing?
“I’m going to miss you.”
“Then you better be waiting for me when I get out. I mean it, Clara. You still owe me a dance.”
—
Clara couldn’t watch him go back under and had excused herself to the opposite wing of the Wakandan palace. The tears in her eyes had frozen as she felt vile at herself, knowing that she had let selfishness and greed overcome her better judgment. Everything in her knew that this was what was best for everyone, even her. But the yearning that ached in her chest only grew with each passing minute that he wasn’t near.
“Um…Mrs. Daniels?”
Clara’s breathing halted in her throat at the name that echoed around her mind. No one ever called her that—she assumed that no one would ever dare to touch the topic of her marriage to the late Arthur Daniels now. But some gentle woman’s voice carried the title with such grace that it almost felt like a gentle reminder of her humanity—she had lived a life before, she wasn’t just the knife in HYDRA’s back pocket.
Turning on her heels, Clara met the gaze of a beautiful young woman. Her features were soft; she couldn’t have been more than in her early thirties. She even appeared to be around Clara’s physical age—twenty-five is where she believed she currently sat, but then again, she hadn’t ever really considered those implications.
“Please, call me Clara,” she responded, wiping the remaining snot from her nose. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, well, sort of,” she chuckled nervously, rushing forward, “I’m Carmen Beltran. A scientist who has been studying the super soldier serums at the level of decreased aging speeds. We’ve never met…But I believe I’ve met your son.”
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Nine
Warnings: Mentions of Childbirth and Trauma
Word Count: 2802
June 12th, 1947
I gave birth today. A beautiful, healthy, perfect baby boy came into the world with my strength. The labour was long, drawn out, and a pain that I don’t think I could or would ever wish on someone. But part of me doesn’t care, not as I hold him now, his soft breaths in rhythm with my heart as he coos in his sleep. The doctor said the birth went as smoothly as he could have hoped, no hiccups or complications that worried him at all. He said I had my father's strength, but I knew where it really came from.
My mother had two kids, both with painful and long labours that turned her off from the idea of having more than just one. But two Phillips babies were born, my brother and I being her reward. She told me in great detail what labour was like, and how strong I would have to be to do it—and she did not exaggerate. This pain was unbelievable.
I named him James, well, Arthur and I called him James. But everyone knew that it was I who picked the name, but no one dared speak the why into existence. I don’t blame them, but the conversations Arthur and I had were honest, and he knew why I chose to do what I did, and why it was important to name the baby James.
“He’s beautiful,” Arthur hummed from next to her, leaning forward in his seat to admire the two, “He looks just like you.”
She chuckled a low laugh before placing the leather diary to the side, focusing her attention solely on the baby in her arms. His soft coos were rhythmic and gentle, like the sound of music wafting from another room. His skin was smooth to the touch, and his body had the perfect amount of plumpness to signify a healthy baby. He was perfect; everything about this moment should have been perfect. But when she looked down at him, and then up at the man who gave her this miracle, an aching pain throbbed in the root of her chest.
She knew it was selfish, cowardly, all-around deplorable to wish there was someone else here with you. To pray that this may have all just been a dream and that she would soon wake up to the sound of his breathing, the smell of his skin, the brush of his fingers—and not the touch of another, and a baby who had the eyes of a man she didn’t love the way she loved him. It haunted her, stalked her every move like a shadow, the guilt that plagued and rotted away at both her heart and mind. She should be happy; she survived the war with her family, was married to a man who would keep her in comfort for her whole life, and now has a healthy baby boy that she gets to call her son.
But it wasn’t right. None of it was, because it wasn’t with Bucky. Her heart didn’t belong to Arthur the way it did to the Barnes boy, and both of them knew it, but neither would uproot that tree until the time came when it would blow up in their faces. Their marriage was a ticking nuclear bomb, waiting for the trigger to be pulled.
“You look tired, my love,” Arthur hummed, reaching out to take James from his wife. “You should be resting.”
“I can’t sleep,” she sighed, fiddling with the pen in her hands that left tell-tale inky scars across her porcelain skin, “My mind is too busy.”
“Want to talk about it?” Arthur asked, gently rocking the baby in his arms.
She lifted her worrisome gaze to the man, seeing his concerned and creased eyes scanning her every move. He knew something was wrong, and that it wasn’t just exhaustion. Something was twisting itself into the roots of her brain, and she wouldn’t share it, both of them knew this. They loved one another, but she wasn’t in love with him, and sometimes, things can only be shared between people who are in love.
“No. Not right now.”
—
Clara thumbed at the photo in her calloused hands, feeling the sharp edges graze along her skin with each flitting movement. While the majority of her memories were in reach, there were so many blank spots that she still felt like there were holes in her brain. There were gaps between years and moments that she couldn’t discern as dream or reality—moments with Bucky that seemed too good to be true. Their love was sacred, so it only made sense that it would be rotted away with poisoned envy.
But as she admired the photo in her hands, the love they shared didn’t seem so outlandish and impossible. She could still feel the fleeting trace of his fingers along her cheek and down her arm, and the warmth and pressure of his lips on hers was so familiar. It hadn’t even been a day since he was last with her, since she felt the plush skin of his lips move across hers like a forbidden dance that neither could cease.
“I have a team of scientists looking into ways to get your full memories somehow back,” James began, catching Clara’s attention and pulling it away from the photo album. “We may need to run some tests on you, though. Draw blood, brain scan, things like that.”
Clara sighed and placed the photo album to the side, tucking the one photo of her and Bucky into her pocket. She had spent years in a lab with Fury, drawing blood, analyzing her levels, and scanning her brain for anomalies. They had done everything in the book, every test that they could think of to see if there was something, anything, that they could do to unlock what HYDRA had stashed so far away in her mind. She’d given up hope and prayed that one day things would just return naturally, and she wouldn’t be half of a whole anymore.
The diaries she had found in an archive had unlocked pieces of her mind, shedding light on a few of the dimmer moments that her brain couldn’t unravel. But Clara was still missing herself, and she was terrified to find it one day. Maybe, though, with James’s scientists, she had a shred of light left in every darkening tunnel that seemed to her only path forward.
“Would you be able to help Bucky?” She asked, her voice weak from the threat of tears that lingered in her throat.
“Helping Sergeant Barnes would put my career at risk and the safety of my team,” James responded curtly, walking over to the couches with a teacup in hand for her. “You wouldn’t be asking a light task of me, Mom.”
Hearing that word fall from his lips felt like a warm caress across her face. All her life, she had either been desperate to prove something, or had any autonomy that would give her that choice stripped from her bones. Her life had never been hers to live, even before HYDRA kidnapped her. There was too much pressure around her to be the perfect wife, a good daughter, and an even better mother—it didn’t matter what; everyone just expected Clara to succeed.
The daughter of a nurse and a Colonel, straight A student, friend to just about anyone who crossed her path, life had dealt a hand of aces to the girl. But Clara couldn’t play cards, and she was tired of everyone trying to guess her hand before she knew it.
“He deserves it just as much as I do, if not more,” Clara argued, her voice calm and neutral. “Surely, if things go well, a pardon would be in place for him. He didn’t have a choice in the things he did, just as I didn’t.”
“But you have to understand, Barnes bombed the UN—”
“No, he didn’t.” Clara’s voice came out harsher than intended, her back going straight like a cat’s when a threat was near.
She didn’t like James immediately jumping against Bucky, as if he were there or knew anything about what had happened in Vienna. Everything that had happened in the last week had been entirely out of Bucky’s control, even out of Clara’s. But to so easily go against him? To push back against Clara on something that had landed her in jail because she defended it so fervently.
“Okay, okay. Whether he did it or not, Barnes’s case is different than yours. You stayed out of the public eye, you didn’t cause waves.”
“James, everything that he did, I did just the same. If he was HYDRA’s fist, I was the knife in their boot. The poison in their fangs, everything he did, I twisted the knife. If anyone here doesn’t deserve a pardon, it’s—”
“Stop that, Mom, stop. You didn’t do any of that, the person who did all of those things? HYDRA created her.”
“So, you agree with my logic. Just as I didn’t do the charges that are being laid against me, neither did Bucky. James, you have to understand.”
“Dad?”
Clara’s spine went rigid, and she dropped down behind the couch, gripping the photo album in a way that could give her an advantage to use as a bludgeoning weapon. Every nerve in her body prickled with electricity, on edge and ready for whatever came her way. The entire energy in the room shifted into something threatening, as an assassin readied herself behind a leather couch, and her son watched on in shock and apparent fear.
When the sounds of feet padding forward echoed through her ears, Clara lifted her head from the resting position she had it in on the couch. Just a few feet away stood a young girl, somewhere in her early twenties, standing at the threshold of the living room. She had long, chocolate brown hair, alabaster skin that glowed under the warm candlelight of the room. Her eyes were voids of dark ebony, mirroring that of her own. She was gorgeous, a beauty that seemed ripped out of time, not quite fitting in with the modern times.
“It’s alright,” James soothed, standing from his seat and raising a hand for the girl to stay where she was, “Everything’s alright.”
Clara rose from her position, her fingers still gripping the book until they turned a sickly shade of white. It was written into her DNA now to be on guard; everything around her was a threat until she deemed it wasn’t. Even this girl, her beauty and apparent charm were disarming enough to have Clara wonder what she had rumbling around in her mind. She had a face that she knew men would wear in lockets, carrying her close to their hearts as they braved the front lines. She knew because she was that girl, a cut-out picture of her slid into a pocket watch held close by Bucky. Her father had seen it once and only gave the two a sideways look before walking off. This girl…she had a resemblance to Clara that shocked her.
“Who’s this?” the girl asked, her voice a soothing tenor that had Clara’s head tilting to the side with intrigue.
“Clarice, this is Clara Daniels, or I suppose Phillips. She’s your grandmother.”
“My what?” Clarice whispered, her voice barely above a tremor. Clara stood as still as a statue, her body turning to stone like a victim of Medusa as Clarice stared at her, “But I thought—”
“Yeah, I did too,” James agreed, walking towards his daughter. “But it’s her. Straight from the photo albums, well, I suppose not the blonde part.”
Clara placed the photo album to the side, blinking away the icy tears that threatened to freeze a ravine down her cheeks. She stepped around the couch, holding her hands up in desperate innocence, hoping and praying that Clarice was genuinely ignorant of the horrors she had committed. It seemed her outing as the Shadow wasn’t in the girls' knowledge, but even still, Clara wouldn’t blame the girl for being hesitant. The blood that stained her hands was as red as a blood sea, and as scarred as a beaten animal.
“Hi,” she cooed, voice shaking with her own nerves, “I wish I could say I know all about you, but unfortunately, I only just met your dad as well.”
“So, it’s true,” she nodded, her eyes turning to glass, “You’re the Black Mamba they taught us about in history class.”
“Yes—but Clarice, you have to know that wasn’t me,” Clara pleaded, her voice desperate, “I didn’t have a choice to do what I did.”
“I know,” Clarice nodded, a small smile pulling at her lips, “I actually…God, this is embarrassing now, but I’m writing my thesis on you and James Barnes. I’m getting my masters in history, and I’m doing my research on the illegal and dangerous usage of supersoldier serum.”
The fear in Clara’s eyes morphed into affection. The girl who stood before her didn’t feel frightened in her presence; she didn’t worry that Clara would snap and become an erratic killer like so many historians so loved to paint her as. No, Clarice was curious about what Clara had seen, the life she had lived. She wasn’t a threat, she wasn’t even slightly nervous; all Clarice seemed to want was a direct lens into her grandmother’s brain, to study it.
“Can I…Can I ask you a few questions?” Clarice asked, tugging at her bag straps nervously.
“Clarice—” James interjected.
“No, no,” Clara raised her hand at James, turning back to Clarice, “I’d love nothing more.”
“In the morning. We’ll have breakfast and tea.”
“It’s a date.”
—
Clara fiddled with the flip phone in her hand, twisting it around in circles and flipping it on and off. She had been given it a few weeks ago by Steve, and he told her he would only use it in case of emergencies. She knew it was a precaution because of the accords, but part of her hoped he would still use it now. With each ticking minute, she wondered what was happening in Serbia, if the two were even still alive as they fought off the other supersoldiers and Zemo.
She let out a disgruntled sigh and stood from the marshmallow-soft mattress, walking towards the large balcony that stood looking over the vast field and lake surrounding the property. This house was something out of a dream, and Clara had to stop herself from pinching her skin and just believe that it was real. Everything that stood around her, the trees, the breeze, the ripple of the lake, none of this was a trick.
Until the phone rang.
Clara rushed back to her bed and grabbed the phone, flicking it open and staring at the unknown number that popped up on the screen. There was only one person in the world who could know this phone number, and he was allegedly in Siberia right now. Clara hesitated, her finger hovering over the accept button as all of the possibilities raced through her head. Without hesitating any longer, she clicked the green phone icon.
“Hello?”
“Clara, Sam told me what happened. Are you okay?”
Steve’s voice was calming, soothing the anxiety that crept up her neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. What about you guys? What happened?”
“It’s a long story, not something I can tell you over the phone.”
“When can I see you guys? Where are you?”
“Look outside.”
Clara leaped from her spot and tore through the double doors to the balcony, watching as a silent jet swirl down onto the yard in the back. Gentle blue lights glowed from underneath it, and a door lowered. The air blew from her lungs, and she grabbed a cardigan off the chair and leaped over the balcony, landing with a thud on her feet. It hadn’t even occurred to her that anyone could be watching, and seeing a woman launch herself off a balcony might have been worrying. But she didn’t care, all she cared about was the fact he was standing there, waiting for him—just like he promised.
Her feet kicked up grass and dirt as she sprinted, throwing her body at him without a second thought. He winced, one arm wrapping tightly around her waist as she buried her face into his gruff neck. His scent was a mix of pungent blood and sweat, but it felt like an intoxicating perfume that she wanted to get lost in. He was alive, he made it out, he walked free from the horrors of Zemo, of whatever that man had planned for him.
“What happened?” She whispered, glancing at the clothed end of his arm, “Who did this?”
“Stark,” Bucky sighed, reaching his good hand up and resting it on her cheek, “Come with us. I have so much to tell you…”
“I…” Clara hesitated, looking back at the house behind her and the two people that slept soundly, unaware of what was happening just outside of their door, “I promised…”
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Nine
Warnings: Mentions of the death of a loved one
Word Count: 2567
October 11th, 1942
Bucky arrived with the newest recruits today. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d ever actually get to see him again when I got my orders—no one knows when their last days will be when in war. I certainly don’t, so I had accepted the fact that the last day I saw him was actually the last day I would ever see him. So when he rolled up with the rest of the soldiers, I couldn’t help but feel excited, even if I never wished to see him in these circumstances.
When he walked in, I actually dropped the meds I was holding, and I thought that Florence was actually going to string me up by my toes. I couldn’t help myself from running across the base and throwing myself at him. I looked like a pathetic, lovesick schoolgirl, but just seeing his face again after this last month was like being granted a wish from God.
He smelled the same, felt the same, touched the same—he was the same. He was my Bucky, even if I wasn’t the same as I was when I left at the start of September; he was still the same. I pray that this place doesn’t change him like it’s changed me, and that he can walk away from it without the same damage I’ve taken. But that’s a pipe dream—because unlike me, he will actually be out on the front lines while I tend to those who couldn’t stand it.
“How many of those books do you think you’ve gone through in your life?” a voice echoed through the empty bunk, catching her off guard.
She twisted around and met the ocean blue eyes that had her heart skipping a beat again. He should be over with his fellow soldiers, bonding and preparing to lay their lives down on the line for the sake of others. But instead, he stood at her bunk door, a telltale smirk spreading across his handsome features, looking at her as if she hung the moon and stars. He had that pretty-boy look to him that made him seem almost out of place in the ranks of the 107th, let alone to be a sergeant in their midst.
“I’m not sure. I keep a box of all of the ones I’ve gone through under my bed,” she shrugged, tucking a stray hair that fell from her curlers behind her ear, “Why? You want to read about my mundane everyday activities, Sergeant Barnes?”
He chuckled and shook his head at the title, taking a few more steps into the barracks, “I’d read anything that you wrote, even if it were just a grocery list. Though, if you wrote about Thomas Martin in one of them, I’m not sure I want to read that.”
She let out a breathy laugh at the memory of one of the boys who had a thing for her in high school, and that she, too, had a crush on. He was the student council president and popular among the girls, but amidst all that, he had taken a liking to a particular girl. She wouldn’t lie, she had a bit of a thing for him too, and they even went to the Winter Dance together in eleventh grade, apparently much to Bucky Barnes' dismay.
This was before she had gotten as close as she did with Bucky, but according to Steve, the elder of the two had always had a thing for her. Those flirty remarks and brushes of his hand against her lower back weren’t just rebellious acts of scandal to tease her, but genuine attempts to get her attention. It took her years to realize it, finally, and even longer to make him hers.
“I’ll make sure to strike those weeks from the record of my life,” she shrugged, standing to meet him halfway and shivering at the way he wrapped his arms around her, “Y’know, if you had asked, I would’ve gone with you to the dance.”
“I was a punk without the spine to ask a pretty girl like you.”
“You took Rose Wilson! She is Hollywood beautiful.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t get me like you do.”
—
She stared at the empty grey walls of the cell, pulling at the chains that strapped her wrists together. Ross claimed she was too dangerous to be left uncuffed, a similar reasoning to the one he used when they had put Wanda in a jacket to keep her confined. The others paced their cells freely, mumbling about the ridiculousness of this outcome, the pushback being something unfair and dictatorial. Part of her agreed, while the other part of her wondered if this was what she would encounter for the rest of her life. Anytime she goes against what others want or believe, would she be chained up again? Forcibly confined to a cell, waiting until Steve came to save her once again? Was this what her freedom would be?
She didn’t know how long it had been since anyone spoke, but the sounds of Sam grumbling in the cell next to her were almost comforting. Usually, she found his quips irritating, grating to her ears in a sibling-like rivalry. But right now, she appreciated the mellow tones of his voice, even if it was him complaining to himself about the tyrannical actions of Stark and the government that now locked up their heroes.
“The more you complain, the more pissed off you’ll get, Sam,” she reasoned, leaning her head back against the metal wall of her cell, “Trust me, it never makes anything better.”
“When you give advice like that, you really do sound like a Grandma, Clara,” he hollered back, the slightest sound of a smile evident in his voice.
“Well, then listen to this grandma for once, alright?” Clara sighed, yanking at the chains again.
Silence fell over the cells again, the only noise Clara could hear was the thrumming of her blood and the pulse of her heart. It was deafening, the hush that pervaded the enormous area. Everything around her felt cold, rigid, too sterile to be natural. All of the cells that HYDRA kept her in when she was taken out of cryo were always soiled, and the walls and floor of the underground lairs were dingy. The small details she recalled were dry blood and a stench of death that was permanently seeping through the cracks.
With every ticking moment that lagged by, Clara wondered if Bucky would come back. If he would follow through with his promise and be back for her. She wondered if she had made the right decision in staying behind to keep Tony and the others from following, or if she should have gone with Steve and Bucky to fight the supersoldiers and beat Zemo before it was too late. Every possibility fired through her mind at a pace that was almost too much for her to bear, and the tears brimmed her haunted eyes. With each passing minute, she hungered for him back, even if she knew it was heedless. He wouldn’t have been kept in the raft; the government would have taken him somewhere and kept him locked away forever. For all she knew, Tony was bluffing, and there wouldn’t be anywhere safe for Bucky to be.
“Clara?” Sam called. The blonde raised her head from between her knees and sniffled, brushing the tears from her eyes.
“Yeah?”
“You have a visitor.”
Clara’s heart leapt into her throat, the young girl that still lived in her heart, who would follow Bucky and Steve through Brooklyn peaking around from the hiding spot in the back of her mind. Maybe it was him, or maybe Steve and he had succeeded and proved that it was Zemo who had done all those things—perhaps it was finally time for them to go home. She had been trained not to feel hope, that there was no light at the end of the tunnel of her life—but maybe, just maybe, life would prove them all wrong. Perhaps the sun would finally rise on the endless night that her last decades had been.
Clara stood from the metal bed of the cell, the clanging of her chains echoing against the steel walls around her. The same haunted eyes that wept with the ghosts of her love blew wide as the echoing footsteps came closer to the window. It was only one pair, but it was enough for her to know that the universe had different plans for her now.
“James?” She whispered, wrapping her fingers around the bars.
“Well, bailing my nearly hundred-year-old mother out of a massive floating raft prison was definitely not on my bucket list,” the man sighed, stepping into the light, “But I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
“What’re you doing here?” Clara questioned, tilting her head at the man.
“Being a…U.S. government-level scientist comes with its perks, y’know,” James chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as if this was well-known information. “Though I could only really extend my diplomatic immunity to…family. So, if we go, it’s just us.”
“What about—”
“I don’t know about Barnes and Rogers,” James admitted, his face falling before Clara could even finish her question, “I’m sorry. All I can offer you is a place to lay low for now. And, maybe even a granddaughter to meet.”
Clara stared at the man in front of her, studying each line and crease in his face. He seemed weary, but youthful and eager at the same time. There was something familiar about his face, like she was gazing at a slightly malformed mirror. He had the same eyes as her, the same hidden canyon of thoughts that seemed to be haunting her every move constantly. Both of them had a sorrow to them, lingering at the edges of their foiled and aged paper. He’s seen things, done things, things that he didn’t want her to know. But she knew that, all from the look in his eyes.
It was an instinct, a sensation deeply seated in her stomach and heart, that ached when she looked at him. Clara felt a strange stirring in her soul because, with each passing moment, with each second that ticked by, when she looked at him, she could see the way his eyes appeared frozen in time. It didn’t make sense, knowing so much about him with barely a few words being exchanged over the past few weeks.
She’d always wanted to be a mother, to have a family and share a bond that can forever go unspoken. Clara had envisioned nights in the 40s, curled up by the fire with a baby in her arms and a lover by her side. First Christmases, first birthdays, first steps, first words—she had dreamed of it since she was a little girl watching her mother carry her brother around. It was a common desire for women in the 40s, but there was something deeper that resonated with her about it. Something that seized her heart in a way that surpassed what was expected—she wanted to prove something to herself and others. But with the war, and with Bucky being gone, she didn’t think that would be in her cards. Until Arthur, and those dreams seemed a bit more feasible, even if they were bleaker, more dismal, and not fully there.
“Okay,” she nodded, not trusting that frozen look in his eyes, but knowing there weren’t many other places someone like her would be safe, “I’ll come with you.”
“This feels personal.”
“Shut it, Sam.”
—
Clara had never visited Upstate New York. Her family never had that money, and she wasn’t lucky enough to have any distant rich cousins who happened to own property. Plus, the area wasn’t exactly what it is now. It felt the repercussions of the war, the economic and industrial shift. Everything changed after the war, but even then, Clara still dreamed of what it would be like to have a place like this to escape to. Somewhere where the trees would keep her company and the wind would whisper sweet nothings to her at night.
“So, a scientist's job with the government gets you a chalet in Lake Placid, hm?” Clara hummed as she stepped out of the car, the brisk air of the fall tossing her hair.
“And a condo in Manhattan, but who’s counting?” James shrugged as he pulled her bag from the back of his car, “Ever been to Lake Placid before?”
“No, I didn’t exactly grow up well off,” Clara sighed, looking around at the silent road around her, “Daughter of a nurse and a war Colonel doesn’t exactly lead to a cottage on the lake.”
“Grandpa always said you were dry,” James chuckled, fishing his keys from his pocket and unlocking the large wooden green door of the house, “Says you got it from your mom.”
Clara felt the lump form in her throat at the mention of her mother. The two of them were close, thick as thieves and nearly inseparable in childhood. Clara idolized her mother, saw the way she held herself and strived to be like her—witty, loving, invincible. Well, she thought she was unstoppable, but it seemed every person had their Achilles heel. Hers was cancer, a weak system, and the inability to heal herself miraculously. Seemed Clara managed to live her life in the opposite of her mother, as each thing that killed her mother, her daughter now had tenfold.
But her father? All Clara knew about that man was strength, a strength that pushed past the physical, but sank its teeth deep into his soul, his very being. Chester Phillips was strength personified, the essence of his life growing from the weakness that was buried even further deep. She never saw her father cry when she was a child, and the first time she saw him shed a tear was a single droplet falling like the threat of a thunderstorm. It was her mother's funeral when the final rose was tossed onto her casket.
“And you?” Clara asked, her voice barely above a whisper as the door shut behind her, “Where did you get your humour from?”
“I don’t know,” James sighed, turning on his heels to face her, “Never got to figure that out.”
Clara walked past the man, the sounds of her shoes echoing throughout the massive lakefront house. She took in each inch of the enormous chalet, the wooden panelling, the stone work that stretched across the walls. Every part of this massive house seemed to be seeped in nostalgia and warmth, the smell of wood enveloping her senses. She walked to the back of the living room, staring out of the large window and at the expansive lake. Glancing to the side, she noticed a large book on the side coffee table, with her initials etched into the leather.
“What’s this?” She asked, grabbing the soft leather.
“Go ahead,” James sighed, placing the woman's bags down with ease, “Open it.”
She glanced back behind him and flipped to the middle page, nearly dropping the entire book onto her foot. His eyes stared back at her in black and white, a delicate grin across her face as she admired him. She remembered this day, both dressed to the nines. It was just a dance, and they weren’t even going together. But she couldn’t help smiling at him, and even now, over ninety years later, Clara still felt her heart skip a beat at his smile.
“I’m assuming you know who he is,” Clara commented, turning her attention back to James.
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Eight
Warnings: Mentions of hunger, fighting, and trauma
Word Count: 2336
December 25th, 1945
I visited the Barnes family today after dinner with my parents and brother. I’d visited Bucky every year since we met before the war, and it didn’t feel right not to go this year just because he wasn’t around anymore. I hadn’t seen them since the funeral, out of fear, I think, and it was starting to weigh on me. It wasn’t fair to just disappear from their lives now, not after they had lost him and Steve.
Rebecca has gotten so thin, it pained me to see that his death has continued to take such an intense toll on her. Winnifred looked just as sickly. I promised George that I would bring some food for them. They’ve never been able to say no to my cooking, or my Grandmother’s at that—I’ll have to get her to bake some bread for them. This winter is so cold, they need to have more meat on their bones.
I suppose I’m not one to talk, my own appetite hasn’t been the same since the war, and money has been relatively scarce too. Things have gotten a bit expensive now, and it’s been hard to pick up extra shifts just because I feel tired all of the time. My brother has been trying to convince me to move in with him and his fiancée, but I don’t need him to take care of me—that’s supposed to be my job. My father has been pushing for me to find a husband finally, but I don’t think he quite gets that part of me died with Bucky. I don’t think I can give my heart to anyone else.
She placed her pen to the side as the hot tears began to slip down her cheek. Slamming the thick leather book shut, she leaned back in her kitchen table chair and let the nippy chill that crept in through the walls of her apartment tickle her neck like a threat. She felt like it had eyes, watching her every move, every shaking breath that rattled her lithe frame. It had been like that ever since the war—she couldn’t help but constantly look over her shoulder.
Being connected to Captain America was dangerous during the war. Still, everyone assumed she’d be safe since the Nazi regime fell along with the Red Skull and HYDRA—there shouldn’t be any other threats lingering in the shadows. Peggy had offered to supply officers to be stationed near her apartment building out of precaution, but she refused, deeming it a waste of their time. She didn’t want to feel like a burden to Peggy or her father, especially not with what they were both trying to build alongside Howard Stark. She was just a war nurse; no one would suspect her of any sort of threat, even with her close relationship to Steve.
She pushed back from the table and flicked off the kitchen lights, walking towards her front door to commence her nightly routine. Shadows flickered in her periphery, and she whipped around, fingers lingering on the deadbolt of the door as she stared at the snow that fell outside her window. With the agility of a cat, she took a few steps forward, straining her eyes to look past the hectic flurry of white that danced across her vision. She looked down at the streets below, seeing a few hooded figures hurrying along—Civilians. She shut the curtains.
—
“What’s he like?” Bucky asked as she, Sam, and he hunkered by the windows inside the terminal that Steve had them in.
“Who?” Clara questioned, knitting her eyebrows together as she observed the tarmac, waiting for the signal to go.
“Your son. James.”
“I know you’re not trying to talk about all of that now, of all times,” Sam scoffed, fiddling with his goggles as Steve jogged from the sides.
Clara jabbed the man in the side with her elbow before glancing at Bucky. He had his eyes soulfully trailing on her, watching every slight movement in her face and the way her eyes seemed to avoid his. Sam was right in a way; it wasn’t really the time to hash out something like that, but it mostly stung because Clara didn’t have an answer. The hole in her heart that was once filled with rushes of adoration and devotion seemed only to have a hollow ache, yearning for the feeling that once was.
“I don’t know, really,” Clara conceded, fidgeting with the button on her hood. “I didn’t get the chance to find out.”
A grave silence hung over the three once more, like a building threatening to topple. She knew he meant well, but hearing Bucky ask about the child that Clara never got felt like a knife probing at her back, threatening to break the skin and let the misery of her past torrent at her feet. It didn’t reach her throat, though, getting interrupted by the signal of Clint’s arrow flying through the air. Clara split from the trio and shattered through the glass a few feet away, flipping through the wreckage and landing atop a baggage vehicle, catching the others' attention.
“I think you’ve caused your son irrevocable mommy issues, Clara,” Tony shouted from the ground as the others disbanded and the fight began.
“You had no right bringing him into this, Tony,” Clara hissed, unsheathing a baton from her thigh and leaping onto the solid ground, dipping away from the first blast he shot, “Your meddling is why we’re here.”
“Ironic, coming from the ex-HYDRA assassin and woman who nearly toppled half of their enemy organizations,” he fired back, earning a scoff from the girl, “And, didn’t you act as Fury’s spy for a few years too?”
“Your accords put my pardon in jeopardy, Stark,” Clara contested, aiming a shot from her pistol at his foot, “Or did that slip your mind too?”
Clara didn’t get the chance to hear another one of Stark’s snarky retorts before he shot off towards Wanda and Clint. She cursed under her breath and watched as T’Challa began his sprint towards the terminal where Sam and Bucky were. The ache of the last few days had already settled into her bones and soul, and the idea of this going any way South made Clara realize—this wasn’t the life she wanted. This wasn’t where she wanted to be, but life had a funny way of terrorizing her.
Her steps were quick as she darted closely after the man, sliding on her thighs and taking him out at the ankles. She rolled from underneath him before his weight could land on her, cursing as she did so. She didn’t want to fight anyone here, no one here deserved that—everyone was right in their own ways, even if neither side could seem to see that. Perhaps it was due to her detachment, that feeling of isolation in a group that was meant to accept her as a teammate and friend. Or maybe, after decades of fighting, Clara yearned for peace.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Clara admitted as T’Challa swiped at her cheek, nearly missing her eye, “Jesus—”
“You picked the opposite side,” the King sneered, swiping at her side once again with his claws. She was quick, dodging his attack and landing a harsh blow of her baton against the side of his mask, “You don’t seem to really be backing away from it.”
“Call it me hoping for a redemption,” she shrugged, wincing as he finally landed a blow to her side, “Some of us weren’t exactly dealt an easy hand.”
“Clara, duck.”
The blonde dropped to her knees as two arrows shot over her head, knocking the King of Wakanda back multiple feet. She twisted around to see Clint atop a mountain of crates, giving her a knowing grin and nodding towards where a Spider-looking man swung closer to where Sam and Bucky were. Clara put her hands on her hips and let out a deep huff, exhaustion already threatening her body. Not physical—no, HYDRA removed that from her body decades ago—no, this exhaustion came from a deeper part of herself.
She felt like she was back in the 40s, post-war, staring at the patients who complained to her about the pains in their bodies and minds, arguing that she needed to get the doctor to prescribe them something harder—something to numb it all. She wondered if this was how they felt, if this exhaustion was what they were begging for her to kill. It made sense, because as she stood on the tarmac, watching as the only family she had for the last few years tear one another apart, she too wished someone would numb it all.
“You know, maybe we could’ve just sorted this out over a drink,” Clara grumbled, jogging towards the flight of stairs to get to the two men, “Maybe even a nice family dinner, like adults. But no, we have to fight on an airport tarmac.”
“I think a family dinner may have been worse,” Steve huffed over the coms, grunting as he apparently took a blow, “More knives would’ve been present.”
“Yeah, well, the news reporters wouldn’t know anything about it.”
Clara slid across the airport terminal floor, weaving behind a column and watching as this Spider-Man being stopped one of Bucky’s punches. It startled her, leaving her dumbfounded as she drew her gun from her holster, aiming it at where he stood. Whoever this kid was, he had abilities that Clara never would have known about otherwise, and right now, he stood on the wrong side of the history books from her perspective.
As he hollered out after Sam when he grabbed him, Clara sheathed her gun. He couldn’t have been more than a teenager—who was she to shoot at a young boy? That familiar nauseous feeling sank deep in her gut, and she leaned against the column, face nuzzled deep into her hands as the reality of the situation continued to settle in. This was ripping the world she knew in half, taking everything that she had fought for and pitching it to the curb.
Is this what justice was? It felt unfair to question whether she was doing the right thing by defending Bucky. But after the life she had lived, everything felt wrong when it came at the expense of an unloaded clip. Love still thrummed in her bones for the man, and it fuelled the fight that still tickled at her back and reminded her why she took this side. She had just gotten him back; was her own solipsistic timidity worth losing him again?
“Hey, come on,” Bucky’s voice cooed, drawing Clara from her reflective state as he stood above her, “You good?”
“Yeah,” Clara lied, giving him a tight smile and standing beside him, “I’m fine.”
It felt like a blur, all that ensued after that. Punches were flying, insults were shouted, and the entire time, all Clara could think about was how this never should have happened. Both Steve and Tony had points; they both had agendas that worked against one another like oil and water, but all she cared about was Bucky. It was selfish, it was cowardly, but the only thing that kept Clara fighting was the fact that if she stopped, she might lose him again. It had been less than three days, and every time she looked over and saw his face, it felt like the first time.
Maybe that’s what love was meant to be: to be the thing that kept you fighting even when the fight felt like the weight of a thousand boulders. It felt like the decades upon decades of abuse, of pain, of killing, all led to the moment she got to see his eyes crinkle in a smile again, like the waters of the ocean. All she had lost felt distant now, too far out of reach for her even to try and grasp on to, and all that remained was him.
Decades had gone by, and still, Clara’s heart beat only for Bucky. The selfish wiles that plagued her mind still lingered, but they shadowed in comparison to the monster that was the adoration she had for that man. All that mattered to her was his safety, his security, and the fact that after all of this was over, she would have him back. They would have a fighting chance to rectify all that had been stolen from them when HYDRA set their eyes on the two.
“Are you coming with?” Steve called over the coms as he and Bucky jogged towards the jet, “I can’t ensure your safety here if you don’t.”
Clara grunted as she landed a devastating baton swipe against Nat, sending the assassin a few feet away. She turned her attention to where Bucky and Steve ran, noticing the way Tony also locked eyes on them. If they didn’t get out of here, the Doctor—Zemo—would have the Winter Soldier project on his side, and all they fought for would be for nought. He would have Bucky in the palm of his hands, and Steve wouldn’t stand a chance, no matter the gall he had.
“Make the choice quick, blondie,” Sam quipped in her ear, earning an all too familiar sharp glare from her, “We’re running out of time here.”
Clara shot a final electric spike at T’Challa as she darted from his gaze, narrowly avoiding Nat’s matching one as she caught up to the other two supersoldiers. With Wanda clearing the wreckage, the three had a fighting shot at really getting out of here, and Tony may finally be able to see that Steve had a plan—that he was onto something bigger than the accords. A screeching sound nearly knocked them all off their feet, and the watch tower that Wanda held came close to crushing them beneath it.
“Who would’ve thought that three 1940s war veterans would be what brought the Avengers to their knees,” Nat’s voice quipped as the three approached the jet, “Gotta say, you lot know how to make it cinematic.”
“Nat—”
“Save it, Clara. I know none of you are going to stop,” she sighed, raising her arm, “Just don’t make me regret doing this.”
The electric bullet whizzed past Clara’s head and landed just behind her, knocking T’Challa off his feet. The three had the opening, and each darted into the jet before it was too late and they would become victims of both the accords and Zemo’s plans. It was now or never, and Clara wasn’t ready to give up as the swell of her heart thumped out the dream that she had when she was a girl back in New York, pining over a boy. This could be it.
“You okay?” Bucky asked as he knelt next to Clara, swiping his thumb across the small wound that bled from her cheek from T’Challa’s claws.
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Seven
Warnings: Mentions of Death and War
Word Count: 2076
October 1st, 1945
We had a funeral for Steve and Bucky today. Neither had recoverable bodies, so we laid empty caskets in each of their spots. Steve rested next to his parents, while Bucky was the first in his family's plot. I stood with Rebecca most of the time, holding her close as she cried for the loss of her older brother. I asked Charlie to stay over tonight, just the thought of not having him in my life made me sick to my stomach. Seeing the way Rebecca mourned for her brother, it only made me realize that he was really and truly gone.
Charlie’s asleep next to me now, snoring like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He has new scars and crow's feet from his time in the war, but he was alive. My apartment feels empty; I don’t know if I’ll be able to spend much time in it with how quiet it is. Bucky and Steve would always come to visit with Mary, and not having the two of them around made the halls feel too quiet. My life felt too quiet now, even with the shouting and celebrations that continued in the streets.
It wasn’t fair. Neither of them deserved this fate.
“You’re still up?” Charlie’s groggy voice grumbled from next to the girl, shaking her from the depressive state that held her by the throat.
She hadn’t realized she’d started crying, not until now at least. Looking down at the diary in front of her, the salty tears smudged a few of the words where the ink was still drying. So much of her life felt new, like the ink on the page that now bled across the pages. Even though she still had her brother, her father, and her best friend, half of her had died in the war. Her heart felt off that train with Bucky, leaving a gaping wound that still refused to heal.
“Sorry,” she whispered, wiping the tears from her cheeks and placing the diary to the side, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Charlie sighed, sitting up in the bed and studying his older sister's face, “It’s been a hard day.”
“Isn’t it my job as your sister to be consoling you?” she teased, hoping to clear the air of the tension that began to swell.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” the younger of the two argued, opening his arms for his sister, “You can talk to me about it, you know? I won’t judge.”
She chuckled with a shake of her head, “Aren’t you the diplomat?”
“You loved him, Clara. It’s okay to be sad.”
—
She gnawed at the skin on her fingers, staring out the window of the small car Steve settled on. There was a grave silence between the four as the outside world sped past them. Three super-soldiers from the 1940s were crammed into a car with a veteran, about to face down some of the most influential people in the current history books. Clara didn’t like it, not when all that was flickering through her mind was the look on her son’s face when she had run from the office to fight the man who now sat next to her.
Clara could have run. Part of her wondered if she should have—if she should have taken the out that James gave her and run for the hills. She had every right to; she had given enough of herself to the history books, she had authored her own story into the pages and could have easily escaped without a trace. Sure, the world knew her face now, but they didn’t need to follow her like the shadows that terrorized her dreams.
“Stay here,” Steve ordered, glancing mostly between Bucky and Sam, “And behave.”
“He would make an excellent father,” Sam scoffed as Steve withdrew from the car, leaving the three to toil under the intense weight that hung above them, threatening to fall.
“He was always good with kids,” Clara sighed, breaking her own vow of silence before readjusting against Bucky’s legs, “My little brother adored him.”
“Can you move your seat up?” Bucky asked, staring at the back of Sam’s head.
“No.”
Clara rolled her eyes and clambered out of the front seat, the frigid breath of history breathing against her neck with each passing second. Every minute she spent next to Bucky felt like an eternity, each breath bloated with unspoken truths that neither had the gall to say. It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair to any of them—Clara could barely stand it. She spurned Steve’s dagger gaze as she walked to the edge of the vacant parking garage, gazing out over the edge at the bustling streets around it.
She dragged her phone from her pocket, staring at the black device with trepidation. She hadn’t looked at any of the tabloids since the day Steve told her about Peggy’s passing, where people were speculating whether or not it was right for her to be fighting alongside the Avengers. When Nat released all of HYDRA’s files to the public, Clara’s past became public domain, but as far as they knew, she had vanished when SHIELD fell. Now? Now she was an Avenger, hiding like a coward behind a newly discarded mask. Pulling up the first news article she could find, Clara scanned each word carefully.
Clara Phillips—Hero, or Recluse?
Previously believed to have been a casualty of war, only to be then revealed as one of HYDRA’s most deadly weapons, then thought to be dead once more, was recently resurfaced under the guise of an Avenger. But how much can that really be trusted? Clara is responsible for the death of hundreds, maybe even thousands, and the corruption of the American government—shouldn’t the public be allowed to know just what she knows? Maybe this is the new Avengers—corrupted, infiltrated by killers and—
“Clara?” Steve’s voice called, ripping her from the venomous words of the reporter, “Come on.”
“I was able to steal one of Stark’s newer designs for your suit,” Sharon explained as the blonde walked over, “He made a new mask, if you choose to wear it still.”
Clara gazed at the package Sharon carried and offered the girl an appreciative smile, “I can only imagine the trouble this is going to cause you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Sharon shrugged, “Good luck, all of you.”
Clara took the package and made her way back to the car, climbing into the back next to Bucky. When Steve started the car, she tore open the wrapping and pulled out the hood of the suit. She ran her fingers along the hard edges, noting how it would connect to the neck of the upper-body piece. The mask wouldn’t be able to be ripped off—she could choose to wear it and conceal her identity, and no one would be able to tear it off easily.
She should have known that this fairytale would eventually come to an end. One day, her past would catch up to her, and she wouldn’t be able to hide from it like she had been. The mask was just a weak attempt to hide from her reality, and Clara knew that. It was selfish of her, but she almost wished that she hadn’t taken up the mantle of this shadow Avenger, that she had stayed hidden in her shitty apartment in Washington and never stepped foot near the Smithsonian. She would’ve been able to rot away in hiding, hidden from the truth of her own life—From Bucky.
“Are you going to wear it?” Bucky asked, his voice startling Clara still.
Stealing her gaze from the hood, she curved her neck to look him in the eyes. They were a doorway to the life she once had, unlocking the padlocked doors of what HYDRA had robbed from her all those decades ago. The way he would look down at her before kissing her, how his gaze always softened whenever she entered a room. How the two would graze their fingers across one another at the diner, or when they were walking down the street. How she would stitch his and Steve’s knuckles up whenever the latter got into a fight, and the former would end it. All it took was one look from him, and she was a teenager back in Brooklyn with a schoolgirl crush on one of her best friends.
“I don’t know, if I’m honest,” she confessed, voice breaking as she ripped her eyes from his, “It feels wrong to, now that everyone knows. Especially with the accords…I’m fighting against them, but am I really if I continue to hide?”
“It’s your choice, obviously,” Bucky pointed out, pressing his knee against hers, “But if you ask me, I think you’ll make more of a point without it. HYDRA stole your identity once, don’t let the fear of what they did to you do it again.”
Clara lifted her gaze once more to meet his, a swollen beat skipping between them. Her breath snagged in her throat, and she nearly leaned in; she almost closed the gap between the two, just like he did for the first time nearly eighty years ago. Clara thought he almost did too, for a split second, she could have sworn he was shifting closer, craning his neck and fluttering his eyes in that same way he always used to. But neither shattered the barrier that stood firm between them, keeping them apart just enough to prevent them from slipping back in time.
“The blonde suits you.” Bucky complimented, clearing his throat and leaning back in his seat, staring at the front of the car with a newfound interest, “Why’d you change it?”
“Call it a desperate attempt at reclaiming my autonomy,” Clara scoffed, pulling at a strand of her hair, “Guess it just stuck.”
The rest of the ride took place in silence, both Bucky and Clare stealing the odd love-lorn look at one another. If she didn’t know better, it was like they were back in the 30s when they had first met, swiping glances at one another in the hall at school or the diner with Steve. Every time he grinned, warmth would flare across her cheeks, inching down her neck and leaving her a heated mess in his wake. It didn’t make sense, even with everything that the two had survived at the hands of one another and HYDRA, he still managed to make her heart skip a beat every other minute. His charm still lingered, that all-too familiar flirtation that danced at the end of his words, catching Clara in a snare.
“If you senior citizens are done gazing into one another's eyes,” Sam interrupted, catching Clara’s lethal glare in the rearview mirror, “We’re here.”
It took every ounce of restraint in her body not to reach the front seat and smack the smirk off of Sam’s face. Clara heeded closely after Steve, crawling over the front seat and lingering beside the trunk, Bucky’s company drawing her closer. She couldn’t take more than a couple of steps away from him before she felt tugged back to his side, yearning for the familiar feeling of his presence. It seemed the feeling was mutual, Bucky followed like her shadow—each step she took matched with his.
“Wanda,” Clara sighed merrily, splitting from her post next to Bucky and hurrying towards the girl, enveloping her in a tight hug, “Are you alright?”
“I’m okay, Clara,” Wanda hummed, smiling at the girl with heavy eyes. “It was time to get off my ass.”
“Glad to see Stark didn’t break your spirits, Phillips,” Clint teased, ruffling the girl's hair as though she weren’t multiple decades his senior. “Did he try to sway you?”
“You could say that,” Clara whispered, pursing her lips at the thought of James, “Don’t know if we’ve got the time to unpack all of it though.”
“We don’t,” Bucky announced, nodding his head as an announcement rang through the parking garage, “They’re evacuating the airport now.”
“Stark,” Sam nodded, “Gotta be his doing.”
“Stark?” A man’s voice interjected, catching Clara by surprise. She hadn’t even noticed the new addition, having been too engrossed in Bucky to notice.
“Guess we have to suit up now,” Clara nodded, glancing over at Bucky with anxiety in her eyes, “Ready for this fight?”
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Six
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 2549
August 31st, 1942
He kissed me today. On August 31st, 1942, James Buchanan Barnes kissed me. And it wasn’t a flippant kiss that meant nothing, that was just an impulsive move on his end. But a real kiss, with his hands on my cheeks, lips against mine. There was a shared heat with our bodies as close as they were and I felt the blush rise through my entire body. It was odd—I’ve been kissed before, but not like this. There was something much deeper in this kiss.
Him and I had gone to see a film, and then grab a scoop of ice cream at the fair before I had to get home. I have a shift in the morning at the hospital, but it all seemed to be unimportant when Bucky had his arms around me and his lips on mine. There were so many things unsaid between the two of us, building and bubbling for years, only now coming out.
I’ve loved Bucky for years, and now I have him at my fingertips.
“You’re kidding!” Mary’s voice screeched from over the phone, leaving Clara in a small fit of giggles in her bed. She twirled the cord around her finger and leaned her head back against the pillow, tugging her lip between her teeth.
It still hadn’t felt real, the way that he felt. She knew that other girls had had Bucky even closer to them, and had felt his hands in places she couldn’t even imagine. She knew the way girls looked at him, and she wouldn’t ever blame them—he was beautiful. She wondered if he kissed the other girls in his life like he had kissed her—was he kissing other girls? Clara’s heart sank to her stomach and churned with anxiety. Maybe she was just another one of his girls.
“I know that silence. You’re contemplating something. Don’t overthink it, Clare! He’s been totally smitten with you for years!” Mary squealed, the giggle in her voice evident that she was just as excited as Clara was.
“You can’t blame me for being nervous! He’s always been such a flirt, how am I supposed to react?” Clara reasoned, staring out the window at the hazy night sky of New York City, “How am I supposed to act normal around him now? This has totally changed the entire dynamic of our friendship! And what about Steve?”
“You’re seriously thinking about Steve and the others when your lifelong crush just kissed you after a date? Oh my God, Clara, you’re ridiculous!”
—
Love was a double edged sword. One could wield it, and create a beautiful dance between two people. Or it could slice too deep, cutting too deep into the body and leaving a wound that was too deep to heal. Slicing through the heart, the blood pumping through the laceration and pooling throughout the body and overcoming the senses. For some, that wound will continue to pulse and quiver until it becomes all too much—for Clara Phillips, Bucky Barnes was that wound.
Her steps were as quiet as a mouse, tapping along the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse. She nearly slowed to a stop when approaching the entrance, stopping shortly after Sam and Steve walked through the threshold. She felt like she was back in the apartment in Romania, standing just a few feet away from him, away from the arms of the man she loved so dearly. She had seen him in pain, in agony, and in absolute bleak misery. This man had been dealt a hand in life not even the devil should have had access to.
But Clara…Clara was given the matching set. Her deck is painted in obsidian, red diamonds staining the cards and leaving her with the winning hand. She was the cleaner of the Winter Soldiers dirty laundry—the one who set his table for slaughter. The Black Mamba was the snake in the grass that cleared the way for the trained assassin, only ever shedding blood across a blanched canvas when it was too risky to wait. She taught Widows, showed them the best ways—but she couldn’t always recall these moments. Until she met his eyes.
When those deep-ocean blues met the murky brown mud of hers, like the water meeting land for the first time, it felt like an eruption in her mind and soul. Her life from before, their times together and the love they shared. The moments were so tender that it made her blush with even just the thought. He was so beautiful, the type of beauty that couldn’t be replicated, that could never be seen again. The way his lips turned when he spoke, the way his eyes softened or hardened depending on who was around. Now? Now, his eyes were wet and wild—a fearful animal backed into a corner.
“Bucky…” she whispered, walking through the threshold behind Steve, her heart skipping every other beat, “Hi.”
“No…” he shook his head, pursing his lips, “No, no, no, no you’re not supposed to be here. You should be—”
“We don’t have time for that,” Clara interjected, pushing past Steve and bending down next to the disheveled veteran, “We’re in some deep, deep shit, Bucky.”
“What’d I do?”
“Enough,” Steve continued, interrupting the lovers quarrel that was seemingly brewing, “We’re going to need a lot of information out of you, Buck.”
“Yeah, that guy seems like a real talker.” Sam’s quip earned a sharp glare from Clara, and he raised his hands in faux innocence.
Clara twisted to face Bucky again, and it felt like her heart’s wound had begun to gape once more. The blood that pumped spewed from the wound, flooding her senses and mind with nothing but pumping pain and memories of a love that once was. More than anything, she wanted to reach forward and wrap her arms tightly around his thick neck, holding him close until all of the pain in his muscles and body melted away.
The way his lips were chapped, how defeated he seemed—Clara knew this was no Winter Soldier that sat in front of her. This was Bucky, a man entirely destroyed by time and pain. Her heart ached, knowing the pain that haunted his soul. Everything that the two had faced, all that they had endured with one another at each other’s side, even without knowing it. Time had kept them together when even their love was far apart.
“The doctor, he wanted to know about Siberia, where I was kept,” Bucky continued, his eyes locked to Clara’s. It felt comforting, knowing that the two, even after all of these years, found a source of love that kept them together. That kept them from straying too far, “Where…we were kept, actually.”
Clara dropped her eyes to the ground before standing, twisting her body around with her nose pinched between her fingers. Of course—it should have been obvious. Whatever it was the doctor wanted all of this time was just an excuse to get to the others, to have an army of Winter Soldiers on his side. Not even Clara and Bucky could hold them back—no matter how close the two got to it, the group of them together always overpowered the might of the two.
“What? What is he talking about?” Sam questioned, taking alternating glances between the two, “Both of you have got to explain things better and faster—”
“He’s not the only Winter Soldier,” Clara finished, turning back towards the three men, “They created an entire project out of it. They were the most elite death squad, could take down whole countries and you wouldn’t know. I helped train them, so did Bucky. That’s who that Doctor is after, not us. He just needed Bucky as a means to an end.”
“And why not go after you too?” Steve questioned, “You both went through the same thing. Both have the same information.”
Clara took a few steps away from the trio, gnawing at her bottom lip so intensely that the sharp taste of copper exploded on her tongue. It would be easier to tell them, to stop the speculation and just let the truth be free amongst all of them. Clara’s position with HYDRA was a case unlike Bucky’s—she wasn’t just a mere weapon, a killer to tie up their loose ends. No, Clara was their judge, jury, and executioner. The difference is, while you can cock a gun and shoot a bullet with ease—it’s a lot harder to get a snake to sing its song.
“Bucky’s the easier target,” Clara finally answered, the swollen beat of silence becoming too much for her to bear. “Say the words, there’s the Winter Soldier. A snake hides lower in the grass, afterall. A snake requires its charmer to dance.”
“Quit it with the cryptic metaphors, Clara,” Steve snapped, his voice stern enough that Clara immediately turned to face him, “This isn’t the time.”
“I’m not being cryptic,” Clara shot back, walking towards the others once more, “I wasn’t just HYDRA’s weapon, I was his. My trigger isn’t just words, it’s cadence, tone—it was too dangerous for me to be able to spill HYDRA’s secrets if anyone found out. Want to know why I’m not worried about someone finding out my trigger? Because it can only be him.”
Clara’s voice cracked at nearly each syllable as she pointed at Bucky. Tears stung the reddened eyes of the girl, her jaw shaking and lips trembling with every word. The truth behind how deadly the Black Mamba was bubbled to the surface, why Clara couldn’t remember most of her life and why it seemed everything was locked behind an impenetrable fortress. All of this was because her entire life was hidden behind a few words, only ever to be spoken by James Buchanan Barnes—the Winter Soldier.
She learned this two years ago, shortly before her first mission alongside the other Avengers. She had expressed her worries to Nick Fury, worrying that she could fall into the wrong crowd and they could figure out what was going on with her—what made her tick. The following conversation nearly had her running for the hills, forgetting everything that she had worked for and going back into the life of a nomad, like she was when she was known as Eileen.
“The Doctor must not know. Or he didn’t realize Clara was there,” Sam hypothesized, “So you really meant all those snake charmer jokes, huh?”
Clara rolled her eyes before crossing her arms and giving all three men a once over, “Stark isn’t going to let this go easy. And we need to get to Siberia before that guy does and he wakes up the others. Though, a grey shirt and jeans isn’t really how I imagine Captain America will win in a fight against Iron Man.”
“I’ll make a call.”
Clara’s stomach twisted into knots as Steve backed out of the room, Sam following close behind. A silence that was swollen with unspoken confessions waited to pop—but neither knew who held the pin for it. The blonde took a few steps forward, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she bent down, pulling the mechanical weight off of Bucky’s arm. She leaned forward and examined his injuries, keeping her eyes off of his. If she caught his gaze, Clara wasn’t sure what she would do.
“You dyed your hair.”
Clara let out a soft chuckle at Bucky’s comment before standing straight up once more. She gave a shake of her head before wiping her hands off on her pants. It wasn’t fair, how easily he spoke and the smoothness of his tone. Even after everything that had happened the last few hours, he managed to make her heart skip a few extra beats. Nothing about this was fair, to either of them.
She had fought tooth and nail to find some sort of peace, finding some sort of solace to keep her own demons at bay. But now, with his skin so close to hers that she could feel the heat that came off of it. So many nights, Clara had lost sleep with the thoughts of him, with the possibility of ever being near him again in a way that was intimate. The two of them together, away from the chaos of their lives and away from the pain that haunted their history.
“I never went a day,” Clara sighed, running a hand through her hair, “I never went a day without thinking about you. Wondering where you were, what you were doing—if you were okay.”
“So you became an Avenger?”
“I did what I had to do to survive,” Clara defended, her back immediately feeling tense, “I was working for a man named Nick Fury—but then I came across Steve. I needed safety, I needed a place where I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder. Only recently…Recently that was taken from me.”
“I took everything from you,” Bucky whispered, “They just kept…”
Clara felt nausea creep into her stomach, whispering terrible things to her. The torture Bucky underwent, the things he faced were things that not even Clara could imagine. Her memories were still locked deep in a cage, buried under sand so deep and dense that not even the smallest whisper could slip through. It wasn’t fair—in the most simple of terms, nothing the two faced, together or apart, was fair. They gave their lives for their country, gave their all to a cause they believed in. And now? Now they couldn’t trust their own minds.
It was a burning itch inside of her to drop into his embrace, to fall into arms that she knew could keep her safe, hide her from the cruelty that looked to exploit them at every turn. Silence felt more like a blanket to them rather than something that kept them apart. Now, as their eyes met and her heart pounded, it felt like the rest of the world didn’t matter all that much. The fight that awaited them the moment they stepped out of that door, the way that their lives were going to continue to be forever threatened. Clara couldn’t stop the tears that slipped from her dark eyes, and Bucky seemed to notice.
“You don’t need to blame yourself for that,” Clara argued, shaking her head, “Bucky, what happened to you, I don’t blame you. I blame them.”
Clara reached out a hand to help him to his feet, shivering at the heat his hand sent shooting through her nerves. Everything about Bucky seemed to light the girl on fire, bringing her to life without her even having to reach the grave. He was a walking match, and his flame lit her wick and made her pliable to anything and everything he wanted. The love she had for him was unmistakable—it had beat the test of time.
“You should’ve had a life, lived a life that you wanted—not the one they forced on you,” he argued, reaching his flesh hand up to rest on her cheek, “I…I took that.”
Before her lips could part, before the air between them grew too thick to manage, Sam popped the bubble. His voice echoed across the warehouse that they were ready to go, and she couldn’t allow herself to yield to her heart, not when reality was knocking on her door once again. She pursed her lips and took a step back, the feel of his skin breaking contact leaving an icy wake behind on her delicate skin.
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Five
Warnings: Fighting and use of Weaponry
Word Count: 2778
September 17th, 1942
I told my father I was being stationed with the 107th today. That I followed in moms footsteps with her dreams of helping people. It was the first time we had had an actual conversation about her since she died. I told him why, and not even he fought back against me. I knew he might have, any normal father would when their daughter tells them she is going to be a part of the war.
But my father isn’t normal when it comes to the war. As a Colonel, he knew a thing or two about the importance of good men and women in the war effort. My brother enlisted, so who was he to get upset with me for doing my part too?
The only thing now was telling Bucky and Steve. They’re meeting me at a diner by the Barnes’ place after Bucky gets back from dropping Rebecca off at school. I wasn’t sure how to tell Bucky…him and I had something going on. But I fear the war is getting in the way, and is only further doing so now.
“Why do you look so nervous, doll?” Bucky’s voice cooed as he and Steve slid into the booth across from where she sat.
She stared at him with wide and wet eyes, her heart skipping when those deep blues met hers. Just days ago, she had seen them up close, so close she could notice the small specks of light blue that delicately decorated the iris’s. She’d been so close that their breath mingled and their noses touched, until there was no more room for closeness, and his lips had met hers. He had walked her home from a movie with friends that night, stayed respectful the whole night with his hands tucked into his pockets. But now? The distance between them felt insurmountable.
The brunette fiddled with the bag that she kept next to her, her nurse's cap sitting pleated within it. Inside of it sat the key that would lock the door to her life in New York City, to the life she had one day hoped to have. Dancing, revelry, art, a family. She was the daughter of a Colonel, it wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibilities that men were lining up for her hand. But that wasn’t what she was after, none of them were what she wanted nor who she wanted. He was from a good family, Bucky Barnes, she had hoped that, maybe, her father would give his blessing to them. But she was never that lucky.
“I was given my orders,” she choked out, pulling the cap out from her bag and laying it on the table, “I'm off to Europe in two days.”
“What?” Steve gaped, putting down the menu he had been so intent on studying, “You’re being shipped out?”
She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. She knew out of the two that it would likely get to Steve the most, her being drafted. Her leaving, though? That would hit Bucky more than anything. At least, it would if he meant what he had said about her. If he truly saw something between the two that he had never seen before. She didn’t know why he had decided to confess it like he did, but all she knew was that it set something inside of her aflame.
But then she got the news—and she’d be a fool and a coward to try and fight back against them in any capacity. Hell, her father would’ve disowned her, even if he really didn’t want her to go. This job was the girl's closure after her mothers death, a chance to mean something. Even if that meant giving up any other dream she had.
“Clara Phillips, a war nurse,” Bucky hummed, his eyes betraying the cool exterior he put on for her, “Always knew you were destined for more than this place, doll.”
—
Ever since she was younger, Clara yearned for some sort of security. She pleaded with whatever god was listening that she would feel peace in her life—that she’d be able to live worry-free, and with love and kindness around her. Despite the militaristic upbringing, there was a softness to Clara that not many people got to see from the outside. Hidden beneath the stone and the ice, a tender heart beat the rhythm of a lovesong.
One person knew that song. He knew how to play her record and sing along with the tune, the harmonies and melodies singing with every beat of her chest. James Buchanan Barnes had managed to find the strings needed to pluck the lovesong from the young girl and get her to fall for his charm and wit. Every upturn of his lip and sparkle of his eye left Clara singing a tune under her breath, dancing to the love that cooed between them.
They danced a rhythm only the two of them knew, their moves falling in tandem and creating art with their connection. It was always brief, neither jumping too far past that point of no return. They knew the love that was shared, but still, both Clara and Bucky managed to love one another without the fear of no return—until that moment came. Until he was taken from her, until she had to live every dream she had with him with another man. Clara lived the life that she and Bucky would have had, until their love forced them together once more.
As if fate was giving them a second chance.
“Fuck!”
Clara winced as his metal arm made contact with her ribcage, sending her sputtering to the side. She grabbed a hold of the few tables around her and caught her weight, recentering her balance before turning back towards the man. Clara saw in his eyes that this wasn’t him, the Soldier had come back with a vengeance. She knew that look, it was like an echo in her mind and a constant reminder of everything she had done. No matter how much white she wore or how hard she scrubbed her hands, the blood was permanent, and all she had done would haunt her until her dying breath.
Taking a few steps back, Clara caught the man's attention once more. She could see the gears working in his brain—her face was one that he was trained with, that he knew. She was a coworker, a confidant, the two were the daggers that HYDRA held at the ready, but right now, it seemed that the two daggers were pointed at one another.
“Soldat…” Clara snipped, tugging a knife from her thigh holster, “Khvatit etogo.”
She hoped her command was stern enough, and that her voice was familiar enough for him to listen. He faltered, giving her enough opportunity to advance forward. She hooked herself around his waist, twisting her legs around his neck and swinging herself upward—like a snake up a tree. When she was on his shoulders, she used her legs to squeeze before leaning down and gripping his metal arm. The leverage she had gave her the advantage in a flip, her body weight flying forward as she released the tension in her legs.
The two flipped forward, her super-soldier strength coming in handy as he went flying forward against one of the cement columns. Silence fell over the building as the soldier crumpled on his back. Clara stood to her feet again, looking up to see James standing by one of the doors. His face was unreadable, she couldn’t tell what emotions he was feeling after seeing his mother do a snake-judo flip to a supersoldier and possibly deactivating his brainwash.
Though she wasn’t given much more time to think about it. The last thing she remembered was a screaming pain against her spine, and the taste of copper in her mouth as she met a similar fate against a wall of concrete. Then everything went black.
—
“The 107th is back!”
The sounds of yelling caught Clara’s attention as she mulled over some unfinished paperwork from the day. The sounds echoed in her ear as the rest of the world faded away, because all that mattered now was the fact that the 107th was back. He might be back, he might be walking back in with the currently killed-in-action Steve Rogers. Clara dropped her pen and shot up from the stool she sat on, pulling back the flap of the med-bay and seeing the large group of men march back into camp.
Her heart skipped a dozen beats as she charged forward, low heels stamping in the mud as she rushed towards where the crowd was gathering. Men hollered and cheered, celebrating the return of the previously-dead regiment. Her father stood to the side as Steve Rogers smiled at Peggy, and just to the side stood Clara’s beating heart. The sounds of shouting men went numb in her ears, and all that she could hear was the pounding of the blood in her ears and the beat of her heart.
He was here. He was alive.
“Bucky?” Clara called, hushing a few of the yelling soldiers.
Clara’s steps forward were tentative and deliberate, as if one wrong move would send this entire moment crumbling. It didn’t feel real, as his face became more detailed with every step she took. Even without her glasses on, Clara could see every blemish and bruise that covered his body. He seemed to stand stronger, as if something new was coursing through his veins after being rescued. It didn’t matter though, all Clara saw was the love that had been missing from her life for the last however long.
He now stood only a few feet away from her. Tears brimmed her eyes and she abandoned all caution, pushing through the soldiers and throwing her body at the boy. When Bucky’s hands landed on her body, Clara melted into his touch. She was like butter on a hot summer's day, seeping into every part of him. The two fit together like a puzzle piece, slotting into one another's lives so unbelievably well that it didn’t seem real—or fair. The odds weren’t in their favour, why would the war give them the reprieve of love that was stolen from so many?
“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, salty tears slipping into her mouth, “My father said there was no chance you’d be back. But you’re here. God, Bucky, you’re here.”
“Clara…” he sobbed, a broken sound that tore right through her, “Everyone’s watching.”
“I don’t give a damn, Bucky, you’re alive,” she repeated, taking a step back and taking his face in her hands, “That’s all I care about.”
The world fell away once more, and it was just the two of them here. It was like that night in New York, when the cool heat of summer still clung to the air as fall approached. But now, the chill of winter was threatening to creep into their bones, but with every breath they shared, he breathed heat into her body. Her heart was lit in flames, stoked by the very presence of James Barnes. Another beat passed before she stretched upwards, her lips—
—
“She’s waking up,” Sam’s voice echoed, causing pain to throb through Clara’s skull, “She looks as miserable as always.”
“Fuck you, Sam,” Clara winced, squinting her eyes in an attempt to gain her barings, “Where the hell are we and why does it smell like sewage?”
“Currently waiting for the cyborg to wake up,” Sam shrugged, offering her a hand to sit up from the slab of cement, “You feeling alright?”
“Oh, just dandy,” Clara grimaced, standing from her position and stretching her back out, finally giving her surroundings a proper once over. It didn’t take long for her to regain her strength, the serum working fast to get her back to top-shape, “Met my son for the first time in decades, nearly got arrested, had my lover from the 40’s whip my face into a wall of cement. Isn’t this the life every girl wants?”
“Clara,” Steve sighed, walking through the archway to where she stood, “I’m sorry I didn’t have your son take you I just figured—”
“I’m a fugitive right now, I’m in no place to play pretend mother to him,” Clara nodded, her heart clenching, “How is he?”
For as long as Clara could remember, and that wasn’t all that much to be fair, she had always wanted to be a mother—a good mother. Her own mom had died when she was fresh out of high school, and Clara had made a vow when she was first sick that she would be just as fantastic of a mother. Helena Phillips was a woman of kindness and grace, and all Clara wanted to do was be like her mother. She’d always pictured it with a nice boy, someone she did genuinely love, and they would settle down somewhere outside of the city. She liked the hustle, but when it came to a life with family, she didn’t want it to be in the city. She knew that life—she wouldn’t give her children that life.
Life was giving her second chances recently, and even as they stared her in the face, Clara didn’t think she deserved them yet. Or ever, for that matter. Not with everything she’d done and the shadows that followed her everywhere she went. Not when the skin on her arms went up whenever certain words were spoken or whenever times in history were debated. Clara didn’t see herself as worthy of a life worth living, but the world didn’t seem done with her.
“What happened?” Clara asked, rubbing the tension in her arms out, “What triggered him?”
“The doctor,” Steve said, hands firmly placed on his hips, “He managed to infiltrate the interview. We’re just waiting for Bucky to wake up.”
“Who is this doctor?” She continued, “Because if he managed to learn Bucky’s trigger words than Steve it’s not safe for me to be around you—”
“If he wanted you too, he would’ve come for you,” the Captain contested, shaking his head at her words, “I know you’re worried about it happening again, but we’re all here to protect you.”
“And him?” Clara pushed, gesturing vaguely to where Bucky was on the other side of the wall, “They’re not just going to let all of this go, Steve. This isn’t going to end well for anyone.”
“What would you have me do, Clare?”
Clara stared at Steve for a moment with nothing on her lips. She didn’t actually know, she couldn’t think of any sort of alternative. Bucky wasn’t safe in the hands of the government, and now the rest of them were standing outside of the law on it as well. It wasn’t a secret that Clara wouldn’t have signed the accords, tony and the others hadn’t even tried to convince her. She had lived her life by the rules of others for too long for them to even think that would be a possibility. But now? Now she was sitting in an abandoned warehouse, waiting for her past-love to wake up. Especially since he had just tried to kill all three of the others around him now.
Clara remembered what it was like to train with Bucky, the two of them going at one another for hours while under the control of HYDRA. They’d fight and punch and kick until one or the other would have no choice but to give up and surrender—narrowly avoiding death in some cases. Clara won when they fought strategically, using the lithe frame she had and the acrobatics she learned in the Red Room—Bucky having the upperhand when it came to brute force.
But that wasn’t them fighting, it was the agents HYDRA built from the ground up. They had wiped all that once was from their souls and created the machines they needed. Bucky became the fist of HYDRA, a killing machine that was only regarded and known as brutal, and borderline a myth. Clara was the snake in the grass, the hidden poison in tea that would kill silently after exploiting her victims for all they were worth.
“I could take him,” she reasoned, “I–I could get in contact with James, I could hide out with him and his daughter and Bucky could be there too—”
“Clara be rational,” Steve hissed, “That man may be your child but he isn’t your son right now. He doesn’t know you, you don’t know him. You can’t just show up at his door-step demanding he take in two ex-assassins!”
After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?
Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.
Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.
Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.
DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.
STATUS: Unedited
Chapter Four
Warnings: Fighting and use of weaponry, mentions of torture and death
Word Count: 2743
September 4th, 1932
My parents and I moved to Crown Heights last week and I hate it. Dad said it would be better for Charlie and me to be closer to our Grandmother, but I think they just wanted to because the rent is cheaper here than in Lower Manhattan. Dad says it’s easier for Charlie and me to get to Grandma’s when Mom has to stay late at her job at the hospital. I don’t understand, though; we managed just fine before. They don’t know how hard it is to make friends in a new place.
I liked Lower Manhattan; it was pleasant and quieter than anywhere in Brooklyn. Plus, I was close to Eleanor. Having to make a bunch of new friends now feels like an impossible task—what if I don’t like anyone, what if no one likes me? Dad’s no help because he’s been busy with work, and Mom’s been working overtime. I’m getting tired of Nana’s porridge every night, and we haven’t even had it for two weeks.
There’s a nice-looking boy on the walk to school, though, he’s always with this taller boy—I think their names are Steve and James. I don’t know, Steve is in my class, but he doesn’t talk much, except when kids are acting up. He always comes to school with a new bruise, as many of the others bully him. They’re friendly, though, he and James.
Maybe I’ll say hi at lunch.
“My sister keeps a diary.”
She looked up at the unknown voice, coming face to face with the boy she thought was named James. He had a halfway smile on his face, and his hands were stuffed into his pockets. She gave a weak smile and shut the leather book, tucking her pen away into her backpack. Behind the tall boy, the blonde of the two seemed to approach with a similar smile on his face rapidly.
She had spent most of her lunch periods alone, aside from the odd time she’d see Charlie across the way in his classes. He was two years younger than she and had already managed to make more friends in a week than she could have ever imagined. Perhaps it was easier to transfer schools when you were younger. Whatever it was, she was slightly jealous of her younger brother.
“I’m James, but you can call me Bucky,” he introduced, sticking his hand out. “I think your little brother has become friends with my sister. Charles, right?”
“Yeah, but everyone calls him Charlie,” she nodded, pursing her lips and nodding at Steve, “My name's Clara. Clara Phillips.”
—
Clara stood in the abandoned apartment with her tongue tightly gripped between her teeth, gnawing at the skin. She stayed close to the shadows, as she and Steve had agreed. It didn’t feel real, how close she was to seeing him once again. It was like the world had brought her nightmares and her dreams to life and rolled them into one, sucker punching her in the stomach with it. She almost had to step away, abandon everything and run into hiding again. She could do it, change her name, her hair, everything. Lord knows she’d thought about it ever since the internet had caught wind of who she really was, and not the mask she hid behind.
Just across the hall. He was so close, she could walk ten feet and be in the same room as him again. She wondered what it would be like to see him that close. To see the dark blues of his eyes and the way his nose sloped. It had been years since they were together, and the last time it happened was when she had managed to escape HYDRA. Clara knew that it was partially his doing, her kidnapping—the pain she held from that gnawing away at her and rotting in her heart. It wasn’t fair of her to be upset with him for that; he was being tortured day in and day out—who knows what they forced out of him.
“Clara, Steve gave the signal for you to head in.”
Clara was supposed to go into Bucky’s apartment shortly after Steve let them know he was there, but it held her back, the guilt. It was like poison was slowly seeping into her heart and tainting everything she remembered about him. She felt the words of her past self slithering through the grasses of her mind like a snake waiting to swallow her whole. It was like the Red Room all over again, where they woke her up just to torment her with images of her past. She had been there for a few years, just before they deployed her back to HYDRA to be the femme fatale killer that they had hoped she’d be. That’s where Anastasia was born.
“Clara, now.”
She winced at Sam’s words before ducking out of the room, noting the multitude of footsteps that were hustling into the building. Bile rose in her throat, but she couldn’t just stand there idly; she either had to face Bucky or deal with the soldiers marching up the stairs. Truthfully, Clara was never a fan of soldiers, but she hated confronting her past even more.
Giving her head a shake, she slipped the knife from her pocket and ducked into the apartment. The wind was nearly knocked from her lungs as she saw the outline of his body, the silhouette of the man she loved. The salad she’d managed to choke down for lunch rotted in her stomach, twisting and churning and threatening to make a reappearance. Her eyes met Steve’s, and Bucky seemed quick to note a new presence. As his feet turned, Clara felt her heart shred itself into a million pieces.
He looked so tired.
“Hi, Bucky.”
Clara couldn’t read minds, and right now she wished she had the powers Wanda did because there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to peer into his brain and know what he saw. What was she to him, now? After decades of her doing the cleaner, nastier work and him leaving a trail of blood in their wake, what could they be? Both had the super soldier serum coursing through their veins; both underwent atrocities at the hands of HYDRA.
But he was her first love. He was her first kiss. He was her first for everything.
But what was she to him?
“Clara.”
Her name sounded like a religious hymn off his lips. Every muscle in her body ached and yearned to run forward, pull him in close and refuse to let go. He stood barely five feet away, and yet it felt like miles. Everything about him made her heart scream in anguish—images of him in pain, of her fighting tooth and nail to get to him before they forced her into the ice box. It was like a montage of broken pieces fitting together to make a collage of heartbreak and hurt. They had endured decades of horrors—all because he loved her.
“You know us,” Clara reasoned, “Let us help.”
“I read about you in the museum,” Bucky whispered, his voice echoing in her mind, “You got married. You had a son.”
“I did,” Clara nodded, “Named him James.”
“I took that from you—”
Sam’s warnings of a breach fell on deaf ears before the grenade came flying through the window. Everything moved faster than Clara could recount, but her hands moved just as quickly. She grabbed one of the cinder blocks from the ground just as the door broke down, and she hauled it over her head at the first soldier brave enough to walk through the door. Bullets came flying forward, and she was sent reeling backwards, the cold metallic feeling of Bucky’s arm heating her skin as her nerves were set ablaze.
She grunted as she rolled onto her knees, jumping back to her feet and landing a solid strike at one of the other soldiers who burst through the back door. Bullets flew and punches were thrown, all three super soldiers leaving their marks across the small Romanian apartment. Clara winced as a bullet skimmed her side, causing her to stumble against the wall. She let out a soft gasp and rested her hand on the mark, feeling the sticky warmth of her blood. She cursed under her breath before regaining her composure, watching as Bucky flipped Steve.
Fear lit in her heart at the possibility of this being a mistake—that he wasn’t entirely here, and the Winter Soldier had somehow broken through. She jumped over the table and kicked his shoulder, only to freeze when he punched next to Steve’s head, his eyes locked to hers. Every time she met his eyes, Clara’s breathing became short and her lungs grew tight. He didn’t seem to waste any more time, quickly turning and getting a running start past her, launching himself out of the window and to the building across the way.
Clara watched on, still paralyzed where she stood. It was a mistake, coming here. She should have listened to Natasha and stayed away; it was too much. Her heart could barely beat as she watched him flee, only picking up pace when she saw a mysterious figure jump out at her once-lover.
“Who the hell is that?” Sam asked.
“Sam, Clara got hit—”
“I’m fine,” Clara hissed before following Bucky’s style, running out and launching herself across the alleyway, landing with a swift blow to the cat-shaped figure’s side.
Catching her by surprise, the figure made a quick turn and sliced across her face with razor-sharp claws. Clara let out a yelp and fell to the side, shocked by the strength that came along with the attack. She stumbled to her knees, the hot feeling of blood slipping down her face. At that very moment, she missed her mask. Even if her identity was known, it kept face attacks at a bare minimum—if only she could get it fixed before fleeing.
When she regained her senses, the two others on the rooftop were already off to the other end of the building. She cursed under her breath before running after them, watching as the two jumped after one another and onto the street level.
“Whoever the hell that is packs a killer hit,” Clara grumbled, wiping her cheek before twisting herself over the edge of the building, “Nearly took my god-damn eye out.”
“What, they scratched you like a cat?” Sam laughed in her ear.
“The more you talk, the more I wonder why Steve keeps you around,” Clara quipped back, ducking around civilians as she chased after the others, “You’re like a parrot.”
“Black Mamba still has her bite, I take it?”
“Would you two focus?” Steve chastised as he fell in stride with Clara, both ducking to the underground, finally starting to keep pace with Bucky and the man dressed as a Panther.
“Yeah, Clara, do as the Captain says.”
“I’m going to rip your wings off one day, bird-man,” Clara countered, letting out a yelp as she ducked out of the way of multiple cars.
It became an all-out chase until Bucky nearly crushed them all by collapsing part of the underground road. She hissed as rock sliced across her already bleeding wound before ducking into a roll, both she and Steve knocking the unknown man off of Bucky. It became a standoff before the police screeched to a halt around them, the whirring sound of Rhodey sending a dreadful chill down Clara’s spine.
The dread only grew in her stomach as she stood next to Steve, watching as the unknown figure removed his helmet. Her eyes widened as T'Challa's face was revealed—did she just get scratched by the new King of Wakanda? With Rhodey’s blasters pointed and the guns of the police levelled at the group, Clara knew better than to react. She raised her hands, dropping to her knees before they laid a hand on her.
“Looks like you two really didn’t want to sign those Accords, huh?” Rhodey quipped as the cuffs were secured on Steve and Clara, “Congratulations, you guys, you’re fugitives.”
—
“You’re keeping him like a prisoner,” Clara hissed as Natasha approached them with Everett Ross. “He’s a victim, same as I am—”
“And yet you didn’t bomb the UN,” Ross quipped back, “Unless you have something you’d like to confess to us, Miss. Phillips.”
Clara bit her tongue and met Nat’s gaze. There seemed to be a bit of remorse in the redhead's trained eyes, but not enough for Clara to give immediate forgiveness. She had come so close to having him back, to having him in her reach once more after ninety years. She had thought that it was a fever dream, and that she would have to live out however long super-soldiers live without ever knowing if he was okay. Clara felt the tears well up in her eyes—but those tears would have to be saved.
It seemed Tony arranged a visit for her.
“Why is he here?” Clara asked, stopping in her tracks as she approached one of the glass rooms in the facility. In it stood James Daniels—the son she couldn’t raise.
“He reached out after Lagos,” Natasha whispered, resting a hand on Clara’s arm, “Tony thought you two might have some catching up to do.”
“And it’s timed ironically with the Accords,” Clara argued back, “If this is him trying to get me to sign those things—”
“Take his grace, while you can,” Nat countered, nodding towards the room. “Go. It might be easier than watching Barnes.”
Clara watched in annoyance as the Widow walked off. The blonde steeled her stomach and pulled open the door, clearing her throat to announce herself. The man turned on his heels, and it felt like the moment when she saw Bucky—all of the air was gone from her lungs, but her heart clenched in a way it hadn’t before. There he stood, her boy. The boy who was born just as the sun set, who had his mother's eyes since the moment he was born. He looked older than her, and nearly had her knees giving out.
It’s like looking in the past. When you look at old photos, they often appear younger, but the edges are wilted and rotting from time. Except, it was she who looked young, and he looked like he had stepped out of time. Nothing felt right about this moment. Nothing could have prepared Clara for it either; she had never thought it would happen. She had prayed that maybe, even with her identity revealed, he wouldn’t want to seek her out. It might have been selfish, but it felt easier to live her modern life separate from her life before. She wasn’t that girl anymore; she didn’t even know if she existed.
“I met you at Stark’s party,” James whispered, his voice hoarse, “You said your name was Helena. I knew it, though…I always knew it.”
“I didn’t…I didn’t want to cause you any problems,” she whispered, voice quivering, “You had a life of your own, a daughter…It didn’t seem fair for me to come in after that many years.”
“I…” his voice trailed off, and it seemed neither had much to say. Or more so, they didn’t know what to say. How are you supposed to react when seeing your son, who was barely a year old when you last saw him? How does one respond to that, knowing that you should have reached out years before, but were too cowardly to?
“I assume…you know what happened.”
He nodded, taking a seat at the table. Clara let out another shaky breath before following suit, taking the one just beside him. Reaching her hand out, he let her slide it into his. It fit perfectly, like two halves of a whole. This boy had half of her in him, half of what made her. He still held the good parts of her that she believed to be dead and buried, along with whatever life she had once dreamed of having.
“What’s her name?” Clara asked, squeezing James’s hand.
“Clara,” Nat yelled, storming through the door, “He escaped.”
Her heart felt torn in half. Before her sat the son she had loved for ninety years without ever knowing, his calloused hand wrapped around hers as they finally, finally, became mother and son, even for just a few moments. But just a few levels away, the love she had kept in her heart was being victimized once more. Turning her wet eyes back to James, he gave a nod before she jumped up from her seat, only to knock the life out of her once more with just a few simple words calling after her.
