[WARNING: TIMELINE INTERFERENCE LEVELS HAVE INCREASED TO 0.005 FROM <0.000001]
Yipbea: Are you alright? You sound...
Yipbea: Upset.
Builder: Mm? No, I'm not upset. Don't worry, hero!
Yipbea: ... Okay!
(OOC Notes! 1, don't worry about the differences with the third image that's what happens when you do doodle art at midnight while playing regretevator. 2, yes Bea has canonically interacted with Divine Hatred Builder. Don't worry about it :>)
if you leave something behind (you gain something too.)
pairing: bucky barnes x multiverse! reader
summary: you’re a TVA agent—meant to observe, never interfere—but you fall for him in every universe. every iteration. every version of james buchanan Barnes. and across centuries, across collapse and convergence, that love stays. steady. inevitable. written into the code of the multiverse like a rule it can’t break. (multiverse!) inspired by past lives (2023) and the ministry of time. for an expanded explanation and playlist, click here.
word count: 15.7k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, heavy angst w/ a happy ending, oral (f and m receiving), creampie, piv, praise, overstimulation, hair pulling, breast worship, use of pet names, mentions of death and loss
This is it.
The glamorous, sparkling career of a TVA precision-field agent.
Emphasis on “precision.” Emphasis on “field.” Emphasis, mostly, on “agent,” because the term “analyst” was deemed too misleading after what happened in 1806 Prussia (one rogue spreadsheet, a very confused Napoleon, and three weeks of bureaucratic bloodshed).
You’re not like the Minutemen, stomping into timelines in those tactical chic jumpsuits, pruning anomalies with the self-satisfaction of people who still think “delete” is a solution. You’re not an auditor—thank God—squinting at branching event charts and muttering about entropy coefficients over cold tea.
No. You’re the needle. The thread. The hand that sews.
Your job is surgical. Your presence is a whisper. Where others correct by erasure, you correct by inclusion. You enter the timeline. You become part of it. You don’t push the dominoes over—you walk by, breathe funny, and trust the air will tip them just right.
There’s no glory in your work. No medals. No mission logs, either.
Everything you do is redacted—even from you. You carry the residue of other people’s lives under your fingernails, and sometimes forget which memories belong to whom.
Sometimes you wake up choking on grief that was never yours. You learn to live with that.
It’s the first thing they ask you in training, during the psych filters: Would knowing the future help you grieve less?
No one answers yes. Not honestly.
You understand now why. There’s no solace in foreknowledge, just the burden of it. Knowing that someone dies doesn’t stop you from loving them. It just makes every moment feel like a countdown.
You specialize in delicate convergences: moments in history so precariously balanced that a sneeze in the wrong direction could avalanche into centuries of collapse. Your handlers call them “softpoints.” You call them “the edge of the knife.”
Sometimes you’re a midwife in 1421. Sometimes you’re the barista who smiles just enough to make a physicist reconsider her route to work. Sometimes you’re a corpse at the right place, the right time, to remind a man of the past he keeps trying to forget.
Right now, you're really fucking hungover.
You started having the dream again.
Not a dream, exactly. A memory with the edges worn smooth. At first it came in pieces—clipped sounds, filtered light, the low hum of something old and mechanical beneath your feet. You dismissed it. Just timeline residue. A misplaced echo.
But it kept returning.
Always the same: a red-brick apartment building. New York—no file, no mission tag—in winter. Brooklyn, more specifically, from your view of the bridge. You’re on a stoop. Someone calls your name and you turn just in time to see a shadow disappear around the corner. A laugh rides the wind, low and familiar.
You wake up before you follow. Every time.
Your mouth tastes like floor polish and betrayal. Your eyes open one at a time, not out of coordination, but protest. Your skull seems like it's determined to play a high-stakes game of ping-pong against itself.
You groan.
This is how your days usually start.
You sit up slowly, bones cracking like old film reels, and assess the carnage around your quarters.
Clothes: on the chair, on the floor, one boot in the sink.
Timepad: blinking faintly on the nightstand, still charged.
Your hair is somewhere between “ungovernable” and “formerly respected.” You run a hand through it and immediately regret that decision. Your reflection in the tiny wall mirror is a damning indictment of last night’s choices. Smudged eyeliner. A smear of something neon-orange near your jawline. You shower quickly — TVA-issued water pressure: inconsistent, ironic. You pull on a button-up and slacks instead — neutral, inoffensive.
You’ll blend into whatever century they throw you into next. For now, you settle for looking like you might belong in the TVA cafeteria line.
By the time you lace your boots (twice — the first attempt ends in a mild panic attack and a missing sock), the hangover’s down to a dull roar. Your breath smells like expired mint gum and broken dreams, so you down two cups of black coffee and chew on one of those flavorless temporal hydration tablets like it might save your soul.
You do your job. Reliably. Unremarkably. The way they like it.
And sometimes you drink enough that for a few hours, you don’t remember how you got here. Or how you’ve always been here.
You toss your timepad into your holster, slap a mediocre patch on your face to cover the worst of the under-eye shadows, and mutter something vaguely threatening at your own reflection.
Time to go.
Three mugs deep into lukewarm cafeteria coffee that tastes like regret and the glue holding office furniture together, you’re hunched over yet another Form G-17 — “Suspected Non-Nexus Deviation: B-Class Branch.” Your fourth this week. You’ve logged more hours categorizing existential anomalies than actually interfering with any, which is particularly unusual, for you anyway. You've been dormant for much longer than you're used to.
The previous G-17s included such branch classics as “cow develops rudimentary consciousness,” “Steve Rogers blinks twice during a televised 2013 speech instead of once,” and “Loki starts a book club.” (Unauthorized self-improvement remains a hot-button issue.)
This one, though—this one’s different.
The case file reads:
CASE FILE: #616-BE0
MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Convergence
LOCATION: Siberia, USSR
DATE: February 1955
SUMMARY:
A low-grade temporal softpoint has been detected. Origin ambiguous. Energy output consistent with pre-convergent instability. Divergent potential is not yet sufficient to trigger a Nexus Event, but the timeline is exhibiting signs of local timeline ‘fraying.’ Mission parameters suggest passive stabilization through presence, not correction. Duration: 3 hours. Environmental hostility high.
NOTES:
Embed into local context. Observe anomaly behavior. Maintain temporal camouflage. Apply Softpoint Integration Protocol if deviation escalates.
You stare at the file.
Cold, quiet dread coils low in your stomach. Siberia. February. 1955. No glamour in that assignment—just ice and silence and the kind of untraceable damage that leaves timelines limping.
Across from you, Casey is organizing his pen caddy by weight again. You catch a glimpse of the sticky note on his lunchbox: “Please do not eat my croissant. Please.” The second “please” is underlined three times.
You stole that croissant yesterday.
Honestly, he should thank you. It was a little dry.
You turn your eyes back to the file and eye the temperature index: -43°C. S. “Oh good,” you mutter to no one. “Toe amputation weather.”
You stand, suit creaking as you shift, and tug on your tie with practiced resentment. You snap your timepad into place on your wrist. The UI pings with a mild hum — dull orange light, sanctioned and soulless.
Casey looks up.
“Heading out?” he asks, hopeful. He always wants your desk when you’re gone. You have the only chair that doesn’t squeak like a dying goose.
“Yup,” you say. “Brad flagged something ‘mildly interesting.’ We’ll see if it’s another raccoon wasted off shrooms.”
“Or a bear,” Casey offers.
You click your timepad open, keying in the Siberia coordinates. “Or a hallucinating bear.”
Casey nods gravely.
The door opens, temporal energy flaring in its signature burnt-orange halo. You take one last swig of your bad coffee, grimace as it hits your tongue, and mutter, “Let’s go see what broke this time.”
Then you step through.
The light swallows you whole.
And you forget, for a second—just a second—that you were ever anything else.
EARTH-616 | SIBERIA, 1955
The walls groaned when the wind pressed against them. Not urgently. Not like they were in danger of collapse. More like an old man muttering in his sleep.
You didn’t trust the ship, not entirely. It had been retrofitted for temporal operations, but barely—still more icebreaker than chronal vessel. The insulation was patchy in places, and every vent exhaled a little breath of cold that bit at your ankles. If the TVA had a top-shelf of deployment crafts, this wasn’t on it. This was bottom-shelf. Dusty. Dinged up. Probably cursed.
Still. It was warm. Warm enough.
Outside, Siberia stretched like a battlefield already lost. White, endless, blank. Indifferent to watchers, to wanderers, to time itself. It didn’t care that the threads of history bent here. That the TVA had deemed this place a convergence zone—a softpoint where multiple outcomes were forming brittle overlaps. No Nexus spike yet. But something was pulsing.
You leaned back against the wall and let the thermos rest against your chest. The rhythmic thump of the engine hummed through your bones. You liked that. The vibration reminded you that you were still solid. Still here. Still someone with a job to do.
Observe. Do not interfere.
And yet. A flicker on the monitor caught your attention.
Unidentified movement—Quadrant C. Low thermal. Not vehicle. Not patrol. One heat signature. Steady. Moving through the storm.
Human-shaped. Probably.
You didn’t move yet. Just watched. Let it crawl across the display while you listened to the wind.
You checked your timepad again. No nexus flare. No spike. But there was a pulse. Faint, irregular. Like the anomaly was alive.
You didn’t believe in fate. But you believed in gravity. In the way some people pulled history around them like cloaks. This place? It felt pulled.
The door behind you hissed open, then shut again with a metallic shudder—just a shift in cabin pressure, but your body went still anyway. One hand tightened around the cooling thermos; the other hovered near your holster. Not paranoid. Just prepared.
You took a breath. Let it sit in your lungs like steam.
The blip on the monitor moved nearer. Still approaching. Still steady in its course.
Somewhere out there, in that wide, white nowhere, something was walking toward you.
Before you can focus or fixate on the blip, you hear the bang. It’s not the ship groaning this time. Not the distant thunder of ice shifting. This is far too close for comfort. Inside.
You didn't run. Running was noise, panic, a rookie move. Instead, you moved swiftly and fluidly, silent as frost.
The corridor narrowed as you descended, metal groaning beneath your boots, the walls sweating condensation from the sudden temperature drop. Ahead, you heard clear sounds of intrusion—boots scraping against metal, something sharp and metallic snapping like bone.
Voices shouted orders in Russian, clipped and urgent.
You pressed against the wall outside the sub-hold entrance, flicking your wrist to pull up the heat signatures on your timepad. Four—no, five—distinct signatures flickered on screen, scattered and frantic, like dropped matchsticks.
Far more than the single blip you'd tracked earlier.
You move anyway.
Quiet. Calculated. Not to neutralize—just to see.
Inside, the hold is chaos: crates overturned, equipment flickering, something sulfuric in the air. A soldier stumbles into your path, disoriented, eyes wrong—like the mind inside doesn’t fit anymore. You sidestep, smooth and practiced, letting him fall without intervention. Another crashes through the smoke and doesn’t even register you.
Your breath clouds the air. The hold smells like ozone and rust and something sharper—like old blood sealed in with frost. And then you see it.
In the corner of the hold, something hums—low, persistent, and thoroughly annoying. Not a cryo chamber, thank god. You've had enough encounters with frozen bodies this fiscal quarter.
Instead, it's a pulse field generator—standard TVA gear, uncomfortably grafted onto mid-century Soviet tech. You frown deeply, which is practically your default expression at this point. This thing was supposed to be dormant.
According to the updated log, this thing is officially a Temporal Dissipation Node—a fancy TVA euphemism for a safety valve that bleeds out timeline tension. Supposedly passive, no-contact. The kind of setup they drop into delicate softpoints, relying entirely on subtlety and minimal human interaction.
This node, however, isn't subtle at all. It's malfunctioning, stuttering irregular pulses instead of smooth ones. Perfect. You crouch, eyes narrowing as you spot obvious manual overrides and Soviet tampering. Wonderful. Someone's been messing around inside the casing.
“Great,” you mutter under your breath, tasting bitterness that has nothing to do with your morning coffee. “No wonder they didn’t send backup. Needed someone expendable.”
Before you can fully embrace the gravity of the situation, the far wall explodes inward in a decidedly dramatic fashion—metal screeching, smoke filling the room. You whip around, baton raised instinctively, already calculating how much paperwork this will generate—
—and freeze.
Because someone's standing there. Just standing. Breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here through the ice.
His hair is long and damp at the ends, curling slightly where the frost is starting to melt. His clothes are frayed at the edges—standard-issue Soviet combat gear, only half-zipped, soaked through. There’s snow clinging to the edges of his sleeve. His stance is wide, solid. Familiar in a way that makes your blood run cold.
But it's his eyes that hold you still.
Not the metal arm, titanium and deadly. Not his sharp-edged stance, nor the rifle slung almost forgotten across his back. It's the eyes—pale blue, intensely focused. Clear. Too clear.
Just staring.
Like you’re an answer to a question he hasn’t been able to phrase. Like he’s seen you before and forgot until now.
And maybe—you freeze, stomach folding in on itself—maybe you forgot too.
The Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes.
It’s not recognition, exactly. Not full-blown. But something in you shifts, quiet and tectonic. The sensation of stepping into a half-remembered dream. Or maybe it's the ache you’ve been waking up with lately, the dream you can never hold onto, just shapes and colors and a voice you almost know.
You’ve heard plenty about Bu—the Winter Soldier from hushed whispers in break rooms and blurry security footage in restricted archives. Never once did you picture him looking so… aware.
At the TVA, he’s quietly regarded as a tragedy. Not a threat, not a glitch—just a sorrow too persistent to be useful. His story, in every version they’ve managed to scrape together, is one long unraveling. Grief braided into duty. Identity shredded and rebuilt, over and over, never the same way twice. He’s the man who keeps losing himself and somehow finding his way back—bloodied, wrong, resilient.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t replicate well. His story’s too heavy to echo cleanly across timelines. The trauma calcifies too early or never forms at all. He fractures, or fades, or dies too soon. The man doesn’t scale. Whatever makes him who he is—the loyalty, the guilt, the staggering, stubborn will to keep trying—it’s never quite transferable.
The few variants that do emerge feel more like flickers than full lives. Glimpses. Reverberations. None of them last long. Some of them are never quite right.
In all your missions, all the cautious mentions of him across different centuries and realities and debriefs and documents, you’ve never actually met any versions of him.
Not directly. Not face-to-face. You’ve seen the aftershocks he leaves behind—cratered timelines, corrupted code, confused agents muttering about ghosts with metal arms. You’ve traced the outlines of his story across so many fractured worlds, each one slightly wrong. The scent of smoke where he should’ve stood. A silhouette in archival footage. A name carved into a resistance wall in a language long dead. But never him. Not until now.
It should be insignificant. It shouldn't matter. There should be no correlation, not even a twinge of paths intertwining.
Except now he’s standing in front of you, and it feels like being struck clean through the chest with something invisible and ancient.
In one smooth movement, he dispatches a soldier—a precise blade across the throat. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Then his eyes sweep the hold again, landing on you and locking in place like he couldn't stand to take his eyes away.
You take in the rest of him.
His face is younger, but that's to be expected. Well, not young, exactly—but preserved, like a man caught mid-sentence and left on pause. Strong jaw, a haunted set to his mouth, cheekbones that look sculpted more by winter than by genes. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week and hasn’t cared in far longer. You run a mental calculator, it must've been only about a decade since… the thing.
But it’s the eyes again—flicking over you, sharp and clinical. Blue, frostbitten, edged with something you’d almost call suspicion, if there wasn’t so much… exhaustion in it.
And finally—his silence. Not blank, not confused. Just... watchful. Like he's seen this play out a hundred times already. His head tilts slightly. Just a fraction. Like he’s cataloging the shift in your body language.
Realization hits you with an unpleasant jolt: he’s uncertain. Of the timeline. Of the mission. Of you.
Whatever brutal conditioning was poured into him hasn’t fully rebooted yet. There’s still too much of the man bleeding through the programming. His breath’s too ragged. His movements, a fraction too slow. His gaze—not vacant, not robotic, but… blinking too hard. Like the world’s coming in too fast, too bright, too much.
Your timepad buzzes insistently, a sharp vibration at your wrist—twenty minutes and some change until convergence. You lower your baton slightly, resigned, and open your mouth.
“Look—”
But your sentence is abruptly cut short as a shadow drops from the walkway above, gun raised. Before you can react, a powerful arm wraps across your mouth, hauling you sharply back against a solid chest. The bullet punches into the floor exactly where your head had been, sparking furiously.
“Quiet,” he rasps. His voice is rough-edged, wind-scoured—hoarse from disuse or screaming into nothing or god knows what else. The metal arm presses lightly against your abdomen. Not pinning. Just… grounding.
You nod. One motion. A signal that you understand. That you’ll play along.
There’s a beat—one heartbeat, maybe two—before he releases you. The contact disappears like breath off a mirror. Quick. Clean.
Two more figures drop from above—armed, definitely not TVA or Soviet. Fantastic. A third-party complication. Just what this mission needed.
Bucky moves first, a blur of ruthless precision. You watch him take down an attacker effortlessly: elbow, weapon disarm, throat strike. Smooth, clinical, deadly poetry.
The air shudders again—an ugly crack in the hull overhead. Your timepad screams: fracture line detected. asset instability threshold imminent. Everything’s shaking. You grab his arm and mutter, “We have to move.”
He hesitates—but only for a second.
Then he runs.
You don’t speak as you sprint through the corridor, ducking falling beams and sparking lights. He stays right at your heels. Like he’s guarding your back on instinct. Like he hasn’t figured out yet that you aren’t the one who needs protecting.
You hit a collapsed hallway and double back, darting into a maintenance shaft. The walls here sweat condensation. Bucky’s chest is heaving from exertion, breath coming too fast.
You glance back.
He’s stopped.
He’s leaning a hand against the wall, eyes shut. Not from exhaustion. From something else.
His metal fist clenches tight—so tight the plating groans—and he presses it to his temple like he’s trying to block something out. His whole body shakes, just once. A full-body flinch. Like his brain’s short-circuiting.
“Hey,” you say, softly now. No command. Just presence. “Hey.”
Nothing.
“Bucky.”
It slips out before you can catch it.
And it works.
He startles. Freezes. His eyes snap open—and they find yours instantly.
Something ancient and aching floods his expression. Not anger. Not threat. Just confusion. Recognition. Fear.
Not of you. For you.
His lips part like he’s going to speak—but no sound comes out.
You move toward him. Slowly. Hands up. Nonthreatening.
You reach him slowly, each step cautious. His back is against the bulkhead now, shoulders rigid like he’s trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. You stop just short, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
The lighting flickers, painting sharp angles across his face. For a moment, he looks nothing like a weapon. He just looks... young. Tired. Worn raw from too many ghosts.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” you say quietly. “I swear. I’m not.”
His jaw twitches. His eyes won’t leave yours. That look again—like he knows you. Like he’s trying to dig the truth out of your face with nothing but instinct and desperation.
“I know this place is loud,” you continue, softer still. “I know your head must feel like a war zone right now. But you’re doing fine. Better than fine.”
A sharp breath. His fingers twitch at his side, metal knuckles flexing like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. Or to run. You’re not sure which would be worse.
And then the timepad on your wrist pulses—a slow, resonant tone. The kind it only makes when a divergence has been successfully reabsorbed. You glance down.
Of course. That’s what this was. The system was waiting for the moment he didn’t break. For the second he chose not to collapse, or kill, or disappear. A single, improbable outcome unfolding exactly as needed.
It was him. He was the pulse.
You let out a shaky exhale. The node in the hold must’ve gone inert—no more timeline bleed, no more irregular pulses. Outside, the storm’s intensity drops by half in minutes. The hull creaks as pressure stabilizes. Everything’s slowing down. Calming.
It’s over.
The right call now would be to leave. Every protocol you’ve ever memorized is screaming at you to disengage, to extract clean, to leave no mark and make no memory.
But.
You’ve already—fuck, you’ve already. The moment he looked at you like that—like you were familiar, like you mattered—it was over. You are so utterly, catastrophically screwed.
“I don’t know what they told you,” you say, and your voice barely clears your throat. It’s quieter now. Like you’re afraid of scaring him back into whatever shell he crawled out of. “About this place. About this mission. I don’t even know if you’re going to remember this tomorrow. But I wanted you to know—”
You don’t finish.
Because he speaks. Throat raspy with disuse, voice shaking.
“Will I see you again?”
The words are kind. Barely voiced. He had to haul them out of someplace deep and rusted shut. They land heavy—denser than sound has any right to be. And fuck, if that doesn't knock the wind out of you.
You blink. “What?”
He steps forward—just one measured step—but it’s enough to change the air between you. Close now. Close enough to see the uneven skin at the corner of his mouth, the wind-chapped crack at his lower lip. Close enough to notice how his left hand shakes, barely-there tremors betraying the tension he’s trying to lock down.
He doesn’t say it again. He doesn’t need to.
You could lie. You could make it easier. There are a dozen lines you’ve used before—smooth, forgettable, safe. But you don’t reach for any of them.
Instead, you smile. It’s lopsided, weary, born of too many years being the one who leaves first. It’s your shield and your surrender.
“Only if you start talking more,” you say, a half-hearted tease wrapped in something much more fragile. You flip open your timepad as the breach activates, casting soft gold light against the hallway walls.
The portal hums. Warm. Waiting.
But your heart’s a thunderclap now. Relentless. You’re already tucking away the tilt of his head, the way his gaze softened—not like surrender, but like a question. Like maybe he’d found something in you worth staying awake for.
And you know better—god, do you know better—but your feet don’t move. You hesitate. Just a second. Just enough to feel it. Then you step through.
You don’t look back. You never do.
But the image of his eyes—ice-clear, impossibly human—follows you like a ghost you didn’t mean to keep.
.
You wait for the hammer to fall.
You expect it in the usual ways—a recall order, a message from Oversight, a polite but unambiguous invitation to report to Subsector 8 for disciplinary review. You expect the breach notice, the system ping that says unauthorized designation use or noncompliant field contact, maybe even timeline contamination: agent-induced.
You expect something.
Because you said his name.
Because you looked at him like a person, not a variable. Because you touched him. Not in passing—not incidental. You chose to.
You’ve seen people get demoted for less. Scrubbed out. Timeline reassigned, memory wiped, consigned to desk duty or worse—shunted into the Void or the Nullspace, that softly brutal end-of-line where broken things go to dissolve.
And you—you—let your guard down in the middle of a convergence zone and called the Winter Soldier by his name. That’s not oversight. That’s not mission drift. That’s a lapse.
And yet… nothing happens.
Not a single alarm. No reprimand. No haunting message from Internal Realities. No pulled credentials. No veiled threats in Performance Management.
Instead, your timepad pings three days later with a new assignment.
Business as usual.
You run it back a dozen times, trying to parse the angle—waiting for the catch. It never comes. You go on a mission in Year 3830 where the only threat is a sentient vine and a mild temporal rash. You document a collapsing micro-timeline in 1994 Missouri. You sit through three mandatory debriefs and a cross-departmental cultural sensitivity training that somehow lasts six hours.
Nothing.
Work. Work. And work. Then, just… more work.
You fall back into the rhythm, the TVA's particular brand of unremarkable eternity. The recycled coffee, the endless corridors, the clipped dialogue, the dozens of agents who all look slightly frayed around the edges in the same way. The paperwork is never-ending, the bureaucracy divine in its pettiness. Time moves strange here—like chewing on tinfoil. Sometimes it gallops. Sometimes it forgets you entirely.
But there’s something different now.
It’s you.
You keep seeing him flashes of him—in flickers and echoes, half-formed thoughts you don’t realize you’re having until they hit the page. Go to start reviewing your field notes only to find entire paragraphs written in shorthand about the moment he tilted his head. About the way he said Will I see you again?
You shouldn’t care. You really don’t care. It’s just a glitch in your focus. Just… inertia. A simple interest.
Still, you pull up his file. James Buchanan Barnes.
It’s a fractured thing. Not quite whole, like someone took sandpaper to the edges. Parts redacted, others duplicated. A timeline that can’t seem to decide if it wants to be linear. No two missions involving him look the same. There are strange annotations. Personal tags from long-retired analysts. Notations like non-repeatable trauma pattern and event recursion index unstable.
Some entries are missing dates.
You read through anyway. Not for duty. Not even for curiosity, really.
You just want to.
And then, one standard TVA cycle later, it lands. Another assignment. This time the seal is embossed in gold—Causal Preservation Division. Low-risk, softpoint reinforcement. Routine.
You flick through the details:
CASE FILE: #456-TH9
MISSION CLASS: Softpoint Reinforcement
LOCATION: British Isles, Kingdom of Latveria Borderlands
DATE: JUNE 1602
ASSIGNED COVER: Itinerant Herbalist, non-native, licensed under local superstition codes
SUMMARY:
Objective is limited to passive timeline stabilization: ensure delivery of a restorative tonic to a six-year-old child suffering from swamp fever. This act preserves a familial survival event critical to a downstream medical lineage. Mission does not intersect with major temporal figures.
You are not to interfere with core narrative threads. You are not here for Bucky Barnes.
(But the file doesn't say that last sentence. You just write it down anyway.)
You frown at the file. It feels… small. Intentionally. A clean mission. An easy one, all things expected. No soldiers, no storms. Just a timeline that needs a nudge.
Still, you hesitate.
Not because it’s dangerous. Because it’s not. And because part of you wonders—quiet, insistent—if he’ll be there again. Not as the Winter Soldier. Maybe as something else. Someone else.
The TVA says every mission is randomized.
But it never quite feels like that, does it?
EARTH-456 | BRITISH ISLES, 1602
The first thing you register is the smell. Damp earth. Horse sweat. Pine sap and someone nearby frying something questionably birdlike in lard.
Your boots sink into wet loam as the time door closes behind you with a dull sigh. It’s quiet here, beneath the canopy—just birdsong and the faint crackle of something cooking over a badly constructed fire pit.
You scan the clearing.
They call it a "camp," but it’s more aspirational than functional. A few makeshift tents, some scattered crates stamped with the royal crest—recently liberated, if the smashed locks and missing inventory are any clue.
You move quietly, cloaked in the nondescript garb of a traveling herbalist—dirt under your nails, satchel full of fake tinctures, a few well-placed knives.
You watch from the shade of the trees as he crouches beside the firepit, running a cloth along the edge of a short dagger. His hair’s tied back, rough and practical. There’s mud up to his knees and blood on his knuckles, dried like old guilt.
He doesn’t see you, not yet.
Later, after setting up a modest stall in the village square (all intentional smoke and drying herbs, designed to blend in more than stand out), you’re told by a fellow field agent to visit the pub.
“The mead’s surprisingly tolerable,” they say, nudging your satchel. “Also, your contact’s not due for another twelve hours, so don’t just sit there and brood. Blend in.”
You go.
The pub is suspended in a towering yew, three stories up a gnarled trunk, accessible only by a ladder that looks like it hates everyone who uses it. The structure groans in the wind but holds, its branches creaking like tired bones. The inside smells of firewood, old ale, and something herbal—probably the same bitterroot tincture you’ve been pretending to peddle all day.
The mead is surprisingly tolerable. You settle into a booth carved into the wall, lit by low-burning lanterns. It’s warm. Quiet. You sip and let yourself feel anonymous.
Right up until the door slams open in that unmistakably theatrical way only someone with a chip on their shoulder and too much presence can manage.
You look up—and still, somehow, you’re not ready.
He’s changed, of course. That’s the constant.
His hair is pulled back in a low tie, streaked with ash and caught with a bit of red cloth. He wears a leather cloak patched with scavenged velvet. The left arm, impossibly, is still metal—but shaped like something out of myth. Not sleek. Not sterile. Forged. Etched in old runes that flicker faintly in the lantern light.
A blacksmith’s nightmare. A knight's inheritance.
And then there’s the way he moves—like someone used to silence, used to watching the world from its edge and only stepping in when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t walk so much as arrive, and the moment he does, the tavern seems smaller. Quieter.
His eyes—those same pale, searching eyes—find yours almost immediately.
He pauses, mid-step. The look on his face isn’t surprise. It’s that ache of recognition, buried too deep to name. Like catching your reflection in a mirror that doesn’t quite match.
He walks toward you without invitation. Controlled. Coiled. Not hostile. Just inevitable.
“My lady, you shouldn’t be out this late,” he says, voice worn at the edges, smoke-scoured and rough from a life that’s clearly involved too many cold nights and too few comforts. “Not alone.”
You take a slow sip, meet his gaze. “It’s always late here. And rarely alone.”
He studies you. Not just your face, but your posture, your stillness. The way you speak like you’ve been somewhere else too long to fully belong here.
Something flickers in his expression. Not memory. But something adjacent.
He lowers himself into the seat across from you without asking. He’s still damp at the collar—rain, or sweat, or both. He’s got a scar running from his jaw to the hollow of his throat, clean and straight like a blade meant to silence. But his voice doesn’t shake.
“Have we met?”
You offer a small, unreadable smile. “I don’t believe so.”
But he keeps looking. You can feel him doing it—mapping the angles of your face against some invisible sketch, something etched into his bones that refuses to fade.
“You look lost.”
“Just passing through.”
His mouth pulls tight at the corner, like that answer doesn’t satisfy. You can tell he doesn’t believe you—but he doesn’t press.
He nods toward a table in the back, where a small crew drinks from shared mugs and watches the door. They wear scraps of stolen uniforms and carry themselves with the weight of people who’ve stopped pretending they’ll live long lives.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again.
You glance at them. “Neither should you.”
His silence is telling. It confirms what you already guessed.
He’s part of something. A resistance, sure, but not just that. He’s the center of it. The calm in the chaos. The one who moves supply through enemy lines and burns bridges behind him. His coat bears a crest he’s tried to remove—once royal, now repurposed. His fingers twitch when he’s still too long, and there’s something so profound in how the others look at him when they think he’s not paying attention.
This version of him is no less dangerous. But more visible, somehow. More known. To these people, he’s a savior. To himself, probably a liability.
Always the same story: a man pressed into myth by the weight of his own regrets.
And still, he looks at you with that same protective wariness. Like something in him knows you don’t quite belong here—and wants to guard you anyway.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “I’ll walk you home.”
The words strike you harder than they should. Like something remembered from a dream that felt real long after you woke.
The night outside is so still you can hear the wind whispering between the boughs.
He pauses under the lantern hanging from a bent branch. Looks at you, shadow-draped and silent.
“Why are you here?”
You should lie. You want to lie.
But instead, you say it softly. “Because I said I would be.”
He blinks. The words hit something deep. Maybe he doesn’t understand them. But he feels them.
You step a little bit further into his space. Just enough to reach up, cup his jaw gently, feel the sharp edge of his breath catch in his throat. And then you lean in and press your lips to his.
The moment your lips touch, the rest of the world just blanks all around you. Not gone—just irrelevant. The pub, the low burn of lanterns, the sound of rain tapping against the wooden slats—it all slips away. All that remains is this. All that matters is this
His mouth is warm, unexpectedly so, and still. Cautious. As if he’s holding still for a test he doesn’t know the answer to.
You’re the one who moves first. Just slightly. Just enough to let it mean something.
And gods—it does.
Every hour you spent since Siberia rewatching that moment when he looked at you like he knew you. Every line of his file you traced with your eyes long after you were supposed to close it. Every anomaly he left in his wake, the hollow prints he pressed into timelines like fingerprints you couldn’t scrub clean.
You’d told yourself it was curiosity. Professional interest. A harmless fixation. Just trying to cover your own ass in the event that the TVA catches up to you, foolish, foolish girl. But now you know better.
Because kissing him feels like gravity finally catching up to you.
He doesn’t pull away.
His hand twitches—just once—like he might lift it, might anchor you there with the metal one, or with the other, the one that remembers touch. But he doesn’t. He just breathes against your mouth like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like no one’s kissed him like this in years.
Like no one’s ever kissed him like they remembered him.
The kiss is brief. You make yourself pull back before it deepens, before it turns into something hungrier, something you won’t be able to file away as incidental.
But you linger close.
He sends you off with a kiss to your forehead.
You complete the mission in silence.
The child is easy to find—just as the file described. Freckled nose, limp in his mother’s arms, fever-bright. You hand over the tonic with a reassuring word and a warm enough smile to pass for human. The woman weeps when the boy stirs minutes later, the color already returning to his cheeks.
And just like that—it’s done.
Softpoint reinforced. Future intact.
The door opens in a grove just outside the village, where moss curls over tree roots like sleeping hands. Golden light hums at the edges of the breach. You don’t look back. You’ve learned your lesson there.
But as you step through, the last thing you hear—carried faintly on the wind—is his voice.
“I never got your name,” he says into a room that’s not as empty as he thinks it is. Not yet.
.
You try to stay detached. Try to mark each version of him like a data point—distinct and catalogued, filed neatly beneath coordinates and context. But it never works. The lines blur.
There’s the one with the scar over his brow and the wild dog stare, who watches your hands like they’re a threat and touches you like they’re a prayer.
The one in 2049 who doesn’t speak until the third encounter but holds out his hand like he’s known you forever. The one who plays cello in a city that shouldn't exist, who smiles only for children and flinches at thunder. The one who dies before you can reach him. You stay by his body anyway, until the timeline resets.
Each time, it’s different.
Each time, it’s him.
You start to think: maybe he’s not a variable. Maybe he’s the constant. The fixed point the multiverse can’t help but echo. A gravitational pull in human form—tethered to something your soul must have signed onto long before the TVA ever handed you a timepad.
You wonder if the multiverse is trying to teach you something. Or if it’s punishing you instead—showing you every version of the thing you can’t quite keep. Like a lesson in longing, rerun on loop.
You try not to hope. But the hope comes anyway. It always does. Soft and bright, a bruise you press on just to feel.
Then you get your next assignment.
The file is clean. Neat. Sanitized in that way TVA summaries always are—euphemisms in place of grief, percentages instead of people. But you read between the lines. The divergence happened on the train. Or rather, didn’t.
You read it twice. Three times. It doesn’t change.
This Bucky Barnes didn’t fall. The train held. The mission succeeded. Captain Carter rescued him and helped dismantle the remains of Hydra’s European cell before the war even ended. He was never captured. Never reprogrammed. Never dragged through a Hydra chamber like something to be melted down and reforged.
You try to imagine him without the weight.
You picture Bucky Barnes smiling easily, untethered to the guilt of fifty years of carnage he never chose. A man who still cracks his knuckles but not because they ache with remembered pain. One who walks into sunlight without flinching.
You wonder what that would be like.
So you go.
Of course you go.
You always do.
EARTH-838 | LONDON, 1944
You’ve never liked the long assignments.
Short ones are surgical—get in, disrupt or observe, slip out before the timeline notices the echo of your footsteps. This one, though, is different. Your mission folder is three times thicker than usual. Paper-clipped pages in brittle brown envelopes. Dossiers printed on carbon-smudged letterhead. Photographs tucked inside, blurred by time and memory.
You’re embedded with the 107th, slotted in as a specialist from Intelligence, the kind who shows up with forged credentials and a quiet knack for being in the right place just before things go wrong. Your cover holds. Mostly. They think you’re here to coordinate logistics for Hydra base strikes. They’re not entirely wrong.
The first time you see him again, he’s making a sarcastic remark about British rations and butterless toast. He’s not in uniform—just a pressed shirt with rolled sleeves and a cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers, a smear of grease on his wrist. He laughs when Howard Stark tosses a wrench and almost breaks a window.
It’s different sound from what you've heard over the years.
But then Bucky Barnes notices you.
Not all at once. Not like in the stories people tell themselves after the fact—love at first glance, magnetic fate, sparks across a battlefield. No, it starts in pieces. A glance held a beat too long during mission briefings. A muttered thank you when you slip him a replacement knife requisition that definitely wasn’t cleared. The way he starts lingering near your tent in the evenings, offering lazy conversation while the others clean weapons or sleep.
“You always write that fast?” he asks once, elbow braced on the flap of the entrance like it’s casual, like he didn’t cross half the camp just to talk to you.
You don’t look up. “Only when I’m trying to drown out poorly played harmonica.”
He grins. “Hey, Dugan’s doing his best.”
You snort. “His best sounds like a wounded mule.”
He laughs again, quieter this time. You feel it settle between your ribs like a warm coin. It’s nothing. Just noise. You tell yourself that.
Weeks pass like that. Quiet orbit. You take longer walks to the mess hall because he always times his exit to meet you halfway. He asks questions—about where you're from (a place you name off a pre-approved list), what brought you to London (the war, obviously), if you believe in fate.
You lie when you can. You dodge when you must.
But not everything you say is false. You like coffee too bitter and books too sad. You write letters you never send. You don’t sleep well. You’ve lost people.
He listens. He remembers. He starts showing up with extra coffee. Offers to walk you back to your quarters even though it’s technically against regulations. You start lingering in his doorway.
He never pushes.
And you hate it—how much you want him to.
The first time he touches you, it's an accident. Your fingers brush as he passes you a pen. Your skin sparks. It’s stupid, how much you feel it.
He notices.
"You ever get that sense," he says one night in the empty mess, voices low, "that you’ve known someone longer than you’re supposed to?"
Your breath catches.
You laugh it off. "I get that about my dentist."
He grins. But his eyes stay on yours too long.
You’re not supposed to fall in this one.
But God, it’s so easy. So familiar.
Bucky tells you about his family. His sister. The stoop of his childhood apartment and how he used to sneak Steve a flask when the nurses weren’t looking. He draws out your laugh like it’s a map, like he's been trying to find it for years.
And all the while, you feel it coming.
One night, two months in, he walks you back and you don’t stop at your door. You let the silence linger. The city is dark and rain-slicked, war planes humming overhead like ghosts.
"You’re not like anyone I’ve met before," he says, leaning against the wall.
You smile sadly. "You’ve said that to a lot of girls, Sergeant."
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. "But none of them felt like déjà vu."
You almost kiss him. But not yet.
The war ends not with silence, but with song.
London spills into the streets like a wound unstitched—men and women dancing in front of blown-out buildings, children painting flags onto brick walls, sailors kissing strangers with the urgency of borrowed time. The city doesn’t sleep. Neither do you.
You’ve stayed longer than planned.
Your official timeline expired a couple of hours ago. But your timepad’s been blinking quietly in your coat pocket since sundown, like a secret you’re not quite ready to confess. For long-term infiltrations, the TVA grants a small window of flexibility—two to three extra hours, soft margin. Enough to wrap up loose ends. Enough to say goodbye without saying it.
Bucky doesn’t know. He’s too busy laughing—really laughing—face lit by the amber glow of the pub sign behind him, arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He’s had two pints and a victory cigar, and you’ve never seen him look so alive.
He’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open at the throat, hair mussed from the wind. He smells like tobacco and soap and something citrusy he must’ve stolen from Stark’s ration stash. His hand grazes your shoulder as you step outside the crowded pub and into the cool night air. He’s warm, even in the London chill. Always warm.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, suddenly serious, voice low in your ear.
You turn, startled by the shift. “About?”
He runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking to the cobblestone street, then back to you. The revelers blur behind you—drunk joy and blurred music, a world gone soft at the edges.
“You could come with me,” he says. "To New York. Brooklyn."
Your stomach drops.
“We’ve got peace now. There’s gonna be rebuilding. A hell of a lot of it. I know it’s chaos but… I don’t know. I thought maybe…” He trails off, then forces a laugh, too bright. “Forget it. It’s dumb.”
You step in close. The timepad at your hip vibrates again—EXIT NODE ACTIVE. TEMPORAL STABILITY REACHED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. You ignore it.
“Say it,” you whisper.
“I’ll get a job,” Bucky says.
His Brooklyn accent is thick with hope, slipping out between the cracks like sunlight through boarded windows. His voice is rough and low, but urgent—like if he stops speaking for even a second, this moment might collapse under the weight of everything it’s not allowed to be.
“You’re so… so fucking smart it gets me dizzy sometimes. I watch you in a room and—Christ, I’ve seen tacticians, I’ve seen war heroes—but no one moves the way you do.”
He’s closer now, just a breath away, like proximity might be enough to anchor you to this place.
“I’ll get us a place of our own. A tiny walk-up with drafty windows and floors that creak every time you step wrong. The kind of place where no one knows our names, but we’ll learn the neighbors’. I’ll fix the heater when it breaks. I’ll learn to make your coffee the way you like it—two sugars, not too sweet, extra hot. I’ll write it down if I have to. You won’t even have to ask.”
He swallows, his voice breaking just a little.
“I’ll make pancakes on Sundays, even if I suck at it. I’ll burn the first batch every damn week and pretend I meant to. We’ll fight about the dishes and who left the radio on. I’ll learn to fold the sheets the right way, your way. I’ll leave notes on the fridge. I’ll rub your feet when you’ve had a long day, even if you pretend you don’t want me to.”
His eyes are wet now, but he doesn’t blink them away. He wants you to see.
“I’ll build a life where you can rest,” he says, so softly it barely carries over the celebration in the street. “No secrets. No war. Just mornings and bad coffee and a bed we don’t have to leave unless we want to.”
His hand lifts, hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t dare. He’s unraveling. And he’s never been more sure of anything.
“You walk around like you don’t belong to anyone,” he whispers. “But you belong somewhere. You belong with someone who sees you.”
His eyes search yours, bright and raw.
“Darling,” he breathes, “I just want—”
You don’t speak. You want to. You want to say yes so badly your teeth ache with it.
Instead, your hand reaches for him—cups his cheek, thumb brushing the scrape of stubble there. You lean in before you can stop yourself.
The kiss is molten.
Not soft, not chaste. It’s everything you aren’t supposed to want: greedy, aching, desperate. It tastes like smoke and honey and war’s aftermath. You can feel the imprint of his hands at your waist, grounding you, like he already knows you’re slipping.
You gasp against his mouth when he deepens the kiss, his hand moving to cradle the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. And you—you clutch at his coat, fingers fisting in the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. The city roars around you—drunken songs, laughter, heels on cobblestone—but none of it touches this moment. It belongs to you. To him.
He kisses like he’s starved for something he can’t name.
Like every version of himself has been waiting for this.
Somehow, you make it back to his quarters—barely remembering how. The door slams shut behind you and he’s on you again, mouth warm and insistent, hands trembling now as they trace your jaw, your hips, the shape of your spine like he’s mapping it to memory. You let him. You want to be remembered.
“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs against your throat, breath hot. “Tell me I’m not dreaming you.”
You tip your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not dreaming.”
You pull his shirt free from his waistband, palms skimming over bare skin, warm and ridged with scars you recognize from dossiers—scars you’ve imagined tracing with your mouth, with your hands, in every universe that told you not to.
Bucky's mouth finds the edge of your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss feels like a confession, like an apology, like a promise. "You're so fucking pretty," he moans into your skin, moving and moving and moving, until you feel his thigh part yours, giving you just the right amount of friction to drive you crazy.
Your shirt's off in turn, and all at once, he drifts down to your tits, cupping them with both palms and burying his face in them. For a moment, your brain short-circuits—he's groaning, tender kisses against your nipples and sucking, nipping at the swell of your breasts. "You taste so good, darling. God, I can taste you all day."
You pull on his hair—hard. "Bucky, please. Give me more."
"Ask and you shall receive."
You're rewarded with a beautiful view of him shedding the rest of his clothes off. You can't—won't—look away. It never ceases to amaze you, how pretty his cock is. You lick your lips as he gives it a stroke, slow and soft and positively ready for you.
Then Bucky leans forward, capturing your lips again with a certainty that makes your heart near burst out of your chest.
Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and you smile when he wrenches his head back, eyes shut in almost agony. Bucking against your hand, like he can't get enough of it. He says your name, and despite yourself, you grin before pulling yourself away from his kiss to lower your head, tongue swiping out to taste what leaks from him at the tip.
"Oh, god," His hands come to twist around your hair, the pull making your eyes water with something delicious, something filled with need. You keep going deeper, until he hits the back of your throat and you both moan. "You're so good to me. So, so good."
He's babbling now, as your lips stay wrapped around your cock and you're pressing the flat of your tongue against his veins, a hand stabilizing you underneath. "Sweetheart, you're perfect. I'm going to—oh, yes, right there—god, I'm gonna marry you. We're never gonna stop doing this. I'm never gonna get enough of you."
You take him there, all the way up, until he's almost to the edge and he has to ground his hands against your cheeks and pull you off. He looks down at you with that goddamned earnest look that makes you fall in love with him in the first place. "Not—not like this. I want to be inside you."
Of course, of course. "Of course, James."
He pushes you onto your back, and you can't help the giddy feeling in your chest, seeing how much of a mess you've made of him. His cock's shining with your spit and saliva, your wetness all over him. When Bucky sees where you're looking, he licks his lips. A preliminary swipe against your folds when you, very intentionally, thrust forward against his hips impatiently.
"So eager."
You glare at him, lips curling even as he takes both of your thighs until he's slotted between them. "There's no need to be a tease—Oh."
He sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, and you're moaning, jaw dropping as his cock disappears inside of you. You're so full. You've never been this full before and it makes you pant, sighing breathlessly, and when his thumb finds your clit, you whine and clench around him. Both of you moan in harmony.
His pace speeds up from there, hard and fast, and it's intensified by the way he looks at you. Eyes dissecting you carefully, trying to remember every expression, every second, every move that makes you keen further into his touch.
"Look at me, baby, please," Bucky growls and you do. "Look at me when you make me come."
You can't look away, feeling the stars gather up behind your eyes as your own orgasm catches up to you—fuck, it's nothing compared to how his release feels inside of you, the warmth, the way he feels so strong under your fingertips. His chest vibrating, mouth falling open in a prolonged, beautiful groan. He pushes himself deeper inside of you, until you feel his release slipping out of you onto the mattress.
You press a kiss to his forehead and let yourself fall asleep like that—him inside of you, tangled up in him.
The light is different when you wake up in the morning.
Soft, pale, almost shy. It seeps through the parted curtains like it doesn’t want to intrude, spilling over the uneven floorboards and up the rumpled edge of the blanket half-draped across your hip.
His arm is still around you. Heavy in sleep. Warm. Bucky Barnes is still asleep.
You don’t kiss him goodbye.
Instead, you whisper something he won’t hear. “I wish we had more time.”
And then you activate the timepad.
.
Time passes strangely in the TVA.
There are clocks, yes. Digital ones on walls, analog ones in desks, internal ones ticking behind your eyes. But none of them matter. Days don’t pile up here—they just... repeat, under different names. Tuesday is a fiction. Sunday doesn’t exist. Lunch breaks happen when the lights flicker just right, and sleep is what you do when your body gives out mid-report.
You stopped counting after the first month. You stopped pretending to count after the second.
Instead, you worked.
Harder than anyone. Longer than anyone. You took missions no one else wanted—scrubbing nexus events off apocalyptic wastelands, ghosting through centuries where empires rose and fell before you’d even finished breakfast. You volunteered for side branches, anomaly audits, recursive sync loops. Anything to keep moving.
It didn’t go unnoticed.
A plaque went up in the Hall of Merit. "Agent of the Month." Your name, etched in fake gold. Mobius clapped you on the shoulder with a proud little smile. Brad brought you the worst celebratory cupcake you’ve ever tasted. (Vanilla. Dry. Sprinkles like gravel.)
You smiled. You always smile.
You don’t let yourself say what you’re really thinking.
That all of it—all the assignments, all the accolades, all the long nights pinning divergent strands back into place—is just inertia. Just mass multiplied by pain. Because you know what happens when you stop moving.
And you’ve tried. God, you’ve tried.
You dodge his branches when you can. You pass them off to junior agents, citing temporal redundancy. You tell yourself it’s not cowardice if it’s protocol. You let yourself believe it, for a while.
Until the file lands on your desk.
CASE FILE: #2149-BE0
MISSION CLASS: Collapse Softpoint Reinforcement
LOCATION: Earth-2149 — Brooklyn, United States / Geneva, Switzerland
DATE: April 2018 (Post-Outbreak +1 Day)
ASSIGNED COVER: Civilian logistics runner, no official alignment, false survivor credentials
SUMMARY:
Objective is to reinforce critical softpoint during global collapse event: ensure Scott Lang, Peter Parker, and T’Challa successfully board Wakandan quinjet. This evacuation preserves three downstream nexus threads essential to limited multiversal salvage.
Do not interfere beyond softpoint parameters. Infected superhumans active.
You stare at it for a long time. You could say no. You should say no.
But your hand moves anyway. Signs the form. Accepts the mission.
No backup. No reassignment.
Just you.
EARTH-2149 | BROOKLYN, 2018 (+1 DAY POST-OUTBREAK)
Out of all the missions you've had so far, you think you hate this one the most. Which is saying something. Zombie apocalypse timelines are the worst.
The air reeks of ash and ozone. You’re used to strange skies by now, but this one feels wrong in your bones. The light doesn’t fall the way it should—too sharp at the edges, like the sun’s been split into shards and you’re walking through the aftermath.
You arrived forty hours ago. Standard infiltration and alignment. The assignment brief was brutal in its simplicity.
Bucky doesn’t make it out of this timeline. He dies at Camp Lehigh. He buys them time.
And you’re supposed to let that happen.
Your first glimpse of him isn’t how you expect it to go. It's just the slightest sliver of a profile through the cracked door of an old deli, combat boots pacing, rifle slung over his back, the metal arm glinting dull and scratched. He’s talking to Parker—low and firm, the kind of voice meant to ground someone younger, more fragile.
When you step into the light, he turns toward you like he was already waiting. Eyes blue, shadowed. Jaw set. And there it is again—that look. Recognition.
Your breath stutters. You don’t say anything. You just nod, like you’ve been here all along. Like you’re meant to be here.
You don’t know if you can watch him die.
Not when you’ve held versions of him in your arms, heard him laugh half-asleep beside a campfire, watched his hands shake after battle and pretended not to notice.
Peter introduces you. Some random, uninteresting name you chose at random from the bottom of a pre-approved TVA list. He doesn’t flinch when Bucky says it aloud. But something shifts behind his eyes—quiet and aching and gone before it settles.
You get through the introductions. Kurt, smiling nervously. Sharon, bloody but unbowed. Okoye nods once at you, sharp and appraising. Happy makes a joke that doesn’t quite land.
For the next two weeks, you stay with them.
You don't mean to get close to Bucky in this one. (You mean it this time. Seriously.) For the first couple of days, you try your best to stay away. You do your best to focus on the mission and he's… he's just another person in the crowd. You think that would make it easier, when he—when he eventually—You can't even say it.
But it happens one morning, anyway—fog pooling low across the park, the air thick with that awful, metallic smell of rot. You’re both on perimeter watch, standing on opposite ends of a shattered greenhouse. He catches you glancing toward the skyline, what’s left of it, jagged teeth against the pale pink sky.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he says, voice low, scratchy from disuse.
You blink from your thoughts. “In a doomed, post-apocalyptic sort of way.”
He huffs a laugh. Almost smiles. “I was gonna say the same.”
Silence settles between you, but it’s a companionable thing. Not awkward. Not forced.
You speak first this time. “You always this poetic?”
“Only when I’m tired. Or scared.”
You glance at him. “Which is it now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair, and says, “Both.”
You don’t touch. You don’t need to. It’s all there in the space between you—heavy with implication. Unspoken, but not unfelt.
You sleep on opposite ends of the same room. He never touches you. Never asks. But some nights you wake up to find his jacket draped over your legs. Once, during a particularly bad storm, he nudged a cracked thermos of lukewarm coffee toward you without a word.
He doesn’t have to say anything. You feel it.
All of it.
And the worst part—the most unbearable—is knowing it’s temporary. You feel the convergence approaching like a bruise beneath your ribs. Two days now, maybe three, before you lose him again. Before he dies. Before you vanish back into the timeline like a ghost leaving no fingerprints.
You try not to show it. You smile when Peter cracks a joke. You run drills with Sharon. You help Kurt fix a busted radio, even though it’s hopeless.
But every time you look at Bucky, your heart tightens in your chest like it’s trying to keep him there.
And then it's here.
The journey to Camp Lehigh was fucking gut-wrenching.
You've lost practically everyone—Sharon, Hope, Kurt, Happy, Okoye. It sits in you like a shard of ice. Not grief—there’s no time for grief. Just weight. Just the bitter gravity of survival. The quinjet is prepped and waiting. The remaining survivors—Peter, T’Challa, Lang’s floating head in a jar—are already climbing aboard. You’ve done everything the mission brief demanded. You met the moment. You held the line.
You’ve done everything the mission brief said—down to the minute, the location, the final headcount. And you… you’re standing beside Bucky.
And still, you’re standing beside him.
Bucky’s chest rises and falls with the kind of steadiness that makes you ache. His metal arm glints in the firelight, streaked with ash and blood, fingers twitching in a rhythm you can’t decipher. There’s soot on his cheek, a rip in his sleeve, and when he turns to you, there’s something too clear in his eyes. Not fear. Not even pain.
Resolve.
You taste it in the back of your throat: the copper of a timeline ending.
“We have to go,” you say softly, not to him, not really. Just to the air.
Bucky doesn’t move.
He turns his head slightly, enough for you to see the hard line of his jaw. The wear around his eyes. There’s something about this version of him—familiar, but not calloused like the others. Still earnest enough to believe in sacrifice. Still sharp enough to choose it without flinching.
You hate that.
“I’ll hold her off,” he says, and you feel something break, neat and irreversible, in your chest.
“No,” you breathe. Too fast, too raw.
His brow furrows. “Someone has to. You said it yourself—if we don’t get the jet off the ground, we lose everything.”
“That doesn’t mean it has to be you.”
He smiles, and it’s that same damn smile that’s followed you across time. The one that says it’s already decided.
“I think it always was.”
You want to scream. You want to tell him he’s not disposable, not fated, not just a name on some cosmic itinerary that keeps getting torn out and rewritten. You want to confess that you’ve met him over and over, and every time he’s left a bruise somewhere deeper.
But the timepad at your hip begins to beep.
MISSION END: T-MINUS 2 MINUTES
You ignore it.
“You’ll make it,” he says gently, like a goodbye.
“No, I won’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”
There’s shouting near the quinjet ramp. Peter calling your name. Bruce waving you over. The others are loading in. You should be there. The moment is closing. The window is narrowing.
You don’t move.
Instead, you step forward and press your hand to his cheek. Your skin is cold from the wind, but he leans into it anyway. His eyes flutter closed for half a second—just long enough for you to memorize it.
Then you kiss him.
It's a kiss that says remember me. Your hands fist in his jacket. His mouth moves against yours like it’s something he’s missed without knowing. You drink in every inch of him—the scrape of stubble, the roughness of his palms against your back, the low sound he makes when you wrench away against every fiber of your being.
“I’ll find you again,” you say. It's a promise.
He nods once. His hand lingers at your waist for a breath longer than it should. Then he turns back towards Wanda.
You watch him go. You always watch him go.
The quinjet door hisses shut behind you. The engines roar to life. The pad at your side flashes, like some sick, fucking joke—
Mission Successful. Extraction in Progress.
You don’t look back at the ground. You’ve learned that much, at least. Looking back doesn’t stop the bleeding. But when the jet lifts, when the trees blur below and you can’t see him anymore—
You swear something rips loose in you.
And this time, you don’t think it will grow back.
.
You’ve seen him in snow.
In bloodied ice, in rusted Soviet hulls, in the shadow of burning quinjets and crumbling castles. You’ve seen him with death behind his eyes and guilt threaded into every line of his face. You’ve seen him careful, methodical. Kind in all the ways no one notices—quiet in a world that demands noise. Someone who doesn’t ask for gentleness, but gives it anyway.
And now you’ve seen him in the dark, too. In 1602, under soot-smudged moons and flickering gaslights, a knife twirling between clever fingers. He hadn’t known you—not really. Not as the woman who’d held his gaze in a cryo chamber. Not as the silhouette slipping into the quinjet before he turned to face the Scarlet Witch. But he’d looked at you like he wanted to.
The thread stays taut between you, no matter the timeline.
So when you get the assignment to go—
It doesn’t land with ceremony. No formal debrief. Just a flicker on your desk monitor, a soft chime that cuts through the static hum of the TVA’s perpetual fluorescent haze. You almost miss it. You almost ignore it. Because everything still hurts.
The kind of hurt that doesn't pulse—it seeps. It rots like an old willow tree. You move like you’re wearing someone else’s body, like your own bones are too loud. You haven’t even been able to sleep—not really.
You open the file with a numb hand. Just another procedure, you tell yourself. Just another timeline. Until you crunch the numbers.
CASE FILE: #616-SV1
MISSION CLASS: Passive Observation
LOCATION: Bucharest, Romania
DATE: March 2016
ASSIGNED COVER: Independent tenant, upper flat
SUMMARY:
Subject Barnes, James B., presumed alive and in civilian hiding following HYDRA data exposure and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. Timeline approaching critical inflection. Target is not actively breaching; no temporal instability present. Assignment is preventative: monitor for signs of deviation or catalyst behavior.
Do not engage. No interference unless softpoint destabilization occurs.
You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. It’s hard to tell this deep in.
There’s a reason TVA protocol avoids revisiting timelines. Too risky. Too messy. History isn’t built for recursion. But this—this is a spiral. A closed loop. Like something unfinished trying to write its own end.
And now you’ve been assigned to watch him again. After all this time. After what you felt splinter through you like glass. You should tell someone. Flag the conflict of interest. Recuse yourself.
You don’t.
You just shut the file and begin packing for Bucharest.
EARTH-616 | BUCHAREST, 2016
You land in Bucharest in the dead quiet of early morning, the sky still purpled with sleep.
The city feels brittle—like something trying very hard not to splinter. Your cover’s thin again: traveling contractor, repair work, nothing that draws attention. You rent a room across from a narrow building with stained windows and a faulty streetlamp that flickers at 2 a.m. every night like clockwork.
And you wait.
The first time you see him again, he’s carrying plums.
You’re leaning on a railing, nursing coffee that’s more soot than bean, watching the street in that not-watching way you’ve perfected over decades. And there he is. Gray hoodie, boots worn to the stitching, a canvas bag slung across one shoulder.
He walks like someone trying to be smaller. Eyes down. Shoulders rounded. Every muscle still taut beneath the fabric, but pulled inward. Controlled.
You almost don’t recognize him like this. Then he glances up. Brief. Casual.
But it slams into you anyway.
Because there it is—that flicker. That impossible, unplaceable pull. Like gravity, but sideways. Like someone whispering your name in a language you forgot how to speak.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t linger. But you feel it. That taut little wire between your ribs goes taut again, humming faint and low.
You’ve seen him across centuries, across madness and ruins and impossible skies. And now, here he is, just... buying fruit.
You observe him for seven days. No contact. No breach.
Each morning, he walks the same path. Plums one day. Bread the next. He pauses at the corner every time—checks the shadows, the mirrors. Still sharp. Still trained. But dulled at the edges like he’s trying not to be. Like he’s tired of being a weapon, and doesn’t quite know how to be anything else.
He never takes the same route home.
You map them all anyway.
There’s like a rhythm to his caution. It’s not paranoia, per say. It’s more like preservation. You can tell the difference after so many encounters. You’ve watched enough shattered timelines to recognize when someone’s not trying to escape the world—just survive another backbreaking day of it.
And through it all, you pretend not to ache. Keep your hands close to your sides and release the tension at the tips of your fingers.
You keep the timepad dim, tucked under your coat like a second heart. The updates are clean. No deviations. No instability. He’s not a threat. Not a spark.
Just a man. Still whole, somehow. Still holding.
But you find yourself watching anyway. Not for fractures or fault lines—but for the quiet, ordinary proof that he’s still him. The way he double-checks his change at the fruit stall. The soft apology he gives a stray dog he nearly bumps with his boot. The habit of pausing in the stairwell, just long enough to listen for another pair of footsteps behind him. You memorize all of it like it’s going to disappear.
You don’t. Of course you don’t.
Until the night you lose him.
It’s raining. Thin, indecisive drops that fall more like static than water. You’re two streets behind, just enough distance to not spook him, when someone yells, and a car backfires, and you look away for a single goddamn second.
And he’s gone.
You circle three blocks. Then six. Nothing. It’s only half an hour later when you feel the grip.
Quick, precise. A hand closes over your arm and pulls you sideways—into a narrow alley between buildings that still wear their war damage like it happened yesterday. The air gets knocked out of you just as your spine hits the coarse and tiny pinpricks of the wall. And then he’s there.
Close. Too close.
Hood down. Eyes sharp. Rain slicking through his hair.
You don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Because he’s looking at you like he’s been waiting.
“You’ve been following me,” he says, voice low, rough. No heat in it. Just truth.
Your mouth opens. Closes.
He tilts his head, studying your face like he’s comparing it to something half-forgotten. Then he says, quiet, like a memory. “Siberia. 1955.”
The words gut you.
“I remember,” he says. “You said my name.”
His name. That night. The way he shook—like his own mind was something turning against him. The tremor in his breath. The metal arm pressed tight to his temple, like he could hold back whatever wave was cresting inside. And then your voice, just a whisper: Bucky.
And it worked.
He startled like the sound reached deeper than his programming. Like it found something still human.
You don’t mean to—but you reach up and press your hand over his where it still grips your coat. His fingers tighten for a second. Then release.
You look at him. Really look.
The rain has soaked through everything, and he’s shivering. Not from cold. From memory. His breath ghosts in the narrow space between you, and his eyes—God, his eyes—don’t look like a stranger’s.
It looks like home.
He takes a step back and mutters, “Come on.”
You follow him through back alleys and slick cobblestone streets to a squat building with iron balconies and doors that stick. His apartment is a few flights up, small and clean in the way that feels practiced—surfaces scrubbed, not decorated. A cot, a kettle, a folded stack of shirts too neatly pressed. No photos. No noise.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you watch the space, like he’s trying to guess what you’ll say.
“Not what you expected?” he asks eventually, voice rough.
You shake your head. “No. It’s exactly what I expected.”
He scoffs. Sits on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees. “How do you know me?”
And you could lie. You could stall. But you’re tired of running out of time.
But you’re tired of running out of time. Siberia. The hold. The pulse. The kiss in 1602. The quinjet, the gaslight, the plague-soaked rooftops and the boy who lived because you were there. The mission you botched. The rules you broke. The dozens of timelines where he didn’t make it. The handful where he almost did. The way it was always him. And when you finally stop—when the words have left you empty and open and raw—he doesn’t flinch.
He exhales, long and exasperated. His fingers twitch against his knee. Then he looks at you—really looks, and you can feel the moment shift.
“When I saw you again,” he says, voice quieter now, but steadier, “on the street… it wasn’t like remembering something. It was like finishing something.”
You blink. “Finishing?”
He nods. “Yeah. Like… you know when you’ve had a song stuck in your head for days? Not the lyrics—just the feeling of it. The rhythm. The echo. And then one day it comes on the radio, and your chest just—unlocks. Like something you didn’t know was broken gets put back together.”
He glances down at his hands, then back at you.
“That’s what it felt like. Seeing you.”
You stay silent, afraid to interrupt the thread he's following.
“At first I thought I was losing it,” he admits. “Some hallucination leftover from Hydra. A ghost memory I couldn’t place. But then you moved, and—Jesus—I knew it wasn’t just in my head. The way you looked at me. Like you knew me. Like you weren’t afraid of me.”
His jaw clenches, not from anger, but from something deeper. Held longer.
“I’ve seen that look before,” he says. “Fear. Disgust. Pity, sometimes. I’m used to people stepping back. Or pretending they don’t see me. But you… you didn’t flinch. Not even in the alley. You looked at me like I was—” He falters, and then tries again. “Like I was real. Like I had a name worth saying.”
Your chest aches.
He laughs, a short, unsteady breath. “God, and hearing you say it again—Bucky—like it was the first time all over. I don’t know why that hit so hard. But it did. It felt like… like I’d been underwater for years, and suddenly someone opened a window.”
You don’t say anything.
You’re still trying to breathe around the weight of him.
“I don’t remember everything,” he says. “Not clearly. Flashes, maybe. Cold metal. Smoke. That light—on your face, in that hallway. But I remember how I felt. I remember peace. For like… five seconds. It was the only thing that made sense.”
His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“I think I’ve been looking for that feeling ever since.”
You don't answer—not with words. There's nothing left to say that would hold the weight this moment needs. So instead, you cross the small stretch of floor between you, and sink to your knees in front of him.
Your hand finds his, trembling with some emotion neither of you dares to name, and he lets out a sound—half-breath, half-confession—as your fingers thread together.
“Okay?” you murmur.
He nods, once. But it's not enough. His hands rise, hesitant, then hungry—one brushing the curve of your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’s still afraid you might vanish. Like if he touches you too hard, you’ll be another dream, another phantom gone by morning.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft—his lips just ghosting yours, like he's asking permission. But the second you respond, the second you lean in and kiss him back with everything you’ve carried through centuries of almosts, it shatters something in both of you.
He surges forward.
Kisses you again, deeper this time. More desperate.
Your back hits the wall with a muted thump, and suddenly his hands are everywhere—one splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your jaw. He kisses you like he’s starved for it, like he’s trying to map your mouth, your breath, the corners of your teeth. Like he's trying to memorize you from the inside out.
And then—God—he breaks away just enough to kiss the line of your jaw. The soft spot beneath your ear. Your temple. Your forehead.
“You’re real,” he breathes against your skin, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”
His lips trail lower, find the bend of your knee as you hitch your leg around his waist. He presses a kiss there too, just because he can, like it means something. Like everything means something.
You’re both breathing hard now, hands roaming, hearts pounding in rhythm too fast to be calm, too synchronized to be coincidence. He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. The space beneath your eye, where something like grief still lingers and gnaws at you, bit by agonizing bit.
He's so gentle. Gentle all the way through until he manages to shove you to the bed, kissing his way down the column of your throat and then it shifts. His hands find their way inside your jeans and he gasps, shakily. "You're so wet, fuck—you're so wet. For me?"
You nod, breathless.
It's another slow dance, as he rolls your jeans off, only to quickly find his way back like he can't stand to be parted from you. His fingers find your entrance, the rough pads of them swiftly finding your entrance and spreading the heat, the wetness around, like he's playing with his meal.
Then Bucky brings his mouth, that beautiful, beautiful mouth, to your cunt to replace his fingers and you swear you may have just died. He's so—he's so passionate, devouring you with a hunger until your spine's arching off the bed, your hands tangling in his soft brown hair. He doesn't stop licking and sucking.
"Bucky, please—oh god, please, don't stop."
You get closer and closer to the edge, hips rutting against his jaw. You feel everything so, so deeply. The way his stubble leaves goosebumps in its wake, his hands digging into your thighs to keep you in place—and then, he slides a finger back inside you as he hums, satisfied with the moans he's wrenched out of you.
It's like coming home. Your orgasm's like a strike of lightning, crying out as you release, close to tears as he laps up the rest of your orgasm.
When he finally stands to start taking off his clothes, you've been reduced to nothing more than a boneless heap on his bed. Your knees are wobbling slightly, but you force yourself to get up anyway, helping him shed the rest. "I'm–here. Let me help."
Bucky smiles. Softly.
"You're so sweet. You're too good for me."
You think you lose another shred of your sanity.
The look in your eyes lights something up in him. He joins you back on the bed and you can feel him, the weight of him, and it's all so familiar. He rests heavy on your thigh and your heart feels like it's about to come out of your chest.
"Bucky, please."
His cock slips inside of you, with a gasp and a groan, and suddenly, Bucky's locking his hands with yours. "Promise me you'll stay."
It's almost overwhelming, but he keeps you grounded. There's just so much of him. There's his teeth on your neck, the burn of his stubble on your collarbones, the way he sucks off marks against your skin and looms over you, like he never wants you to leave him again. His strength is addicting, the way he pushes you so close to breaking.
He says your name again. "Promise me."
You tell yourself—you're never letting him go again. You wrap your arms around him like something fierce, kissing him as he thrusts deeply, hitting the spot that makes stars light up behind your eyes. "Bucky—fuck—I—"
Your name falls from his lips with a groan. "Sweetheart, I'm—"
"Me too," You nod, whining when his pace quickens and it—you don't mean to, but it makes you clench around him. "Let go for me. It's okay."
Bucky looks at you, his grip around your hands tightening, and suddenly, it's a rolling wave of pleasure, over and over and over until you're trembling. You can feel him, his warmth, so fucking much of it, it's addicting. He's still groaning, hips thrusting, like he's trying to carve a home out of you.
You’re not sure how long you stay like that—twined together in the stillness, forehead pressed to his, breath shared in the hush of a room that suddenly feels too charged, too fragile to last.
You don’t want to break it. But you have to.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice threading through the quiet like a thread pulled taut. “They’re going to try to take me away.”
His eyes snap open. “What?”
You rest your hand against his chest, feel the beat of his heart stutter beneath your palm. “The TVA. They monitor softpoint drift. I’ve pushed too many lines. Stayed too long. This—” You gesture softly between you, “—this isn’t sanctioned.”
He stares at you like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. Because he knows you’re not wrong.
“Let them try,” he mutters, jaw tight. His hands tighten where they rest on your waist, grounding. Possessive in the way a storm anchors to the sea. “I won’t let them.”
You smile—sad, crooked, fond. “You might not get a choice. But I will. I always find a way back.”
He swallows hard. “You promise?”
You nod. Press your lips to his again—like sealing a vow with your breath. Then you whisper against his mouth:
“I’ll come back. I always come back.”
His eyes close for half a second. And when they open again, they’re full of something wild. Unspoken. Undeniable.
“Next time,” you say, voice shaking with certainty, “next time I’ll stay.”
THE NULL SECTOR | TVA DETENTION LOOP C-9
You broke protocol.
Not for the mission. Not for the stabilization of a softpoint. For him. For a man with a haunted gaze and a heartbeat you should never have memorized.
And the TVA caught up to you.
They always do.
They didn’t drag you out of the field. There was no team of Minutemen, no sirens or threat display. Just a pulse through your timepad, a freeze-frame of motion—and then static. You never even got to say goodbye. Just watched as his apartment in Bucharest faded from view. The world around you disassembled. You didn’t fall through time; it collapsed around you.
And then: nothing.
But nothing wasn’t quiet.
Nothing was the absence of coordinates. A place with no variance, no measurement, no entropy. A sealed chamber of cognitive suspension—standard punishment for agents who breach emotional integrity clauses.
They called it “nullspace” in the manual. But that word doesn’t tell the whole story.
Sometimes you remembered his voice. Sometimes you forgot your own. Time didn’t move here. Not in any way that mattered. You floated in it—bodiless, unraveling, stitched together by a thousand what-ifs that all ended in silence. At first, you tried to count days. Then heartbeats. Then regrets.
You stopped when you couldn’t tell which were yours and which belonged to the lives you’d watched but never lived.
You thought of his hand on your back. His voice rasping low when he asked you to stay. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—not every Bucky, but that Bucky. The one who knew without knowing. The one who held out hope like it was a knife and an offering both.
Maybe they’d left you there forever.
But something changed.
When the light shifts again, it’s not like waking.
It’s like surfacing—like clawing your way out of a dream that was also a coffin. You blink against it, vision blurred and lungs tight with the phantom taste of ozone.
The TVA fell, you realize. Or maybe it evolved. The pruning stopped. The sacred timeline shattered. The multiverse stretched open like a wound and you—like so many others—were set loose without fanfare.
Just a blinking cursor on a timepad.
You’re on a bench. Clean metal. White walls. No restraints. Just a single timepad laid neatly on the seat beside you, like it’s been waiting.
You reach for it cautiously. No alerts. No directives. No timeline embedded. The screen flashes once and then settles.
“Welcome back, Agent.”
“Status: Cleared.”
“Assignment Log: Vacated.”
You sit in the silence that follows, your fingers trembling.
“You are free to go.”
They’ve never said that before.
There's no debrief. No memory wipe. No analyst knocking at your door to escort you back to a cubicle and a world of recycled coffee and unread reports. Just… release.
It doesn’t feel real. Then you notice the neatly packaged case file.
When you wrench it open, your eyes gaze upon a few simple words. Your name. Not your alias. Not your designation. Your name. Next to a birthplace.
Earth-616. Brooklyn.
And suddenly that dream… that dream you've always had isn’t a metaphor. It isn’t psychic bleed or misaligned memory. It’s real.
The stoop. The red-brick building. The muffled laughter on the wind. It wasn’t timeline residue.
It was home.
You see it all now: the way the sun hit the side of that building in the dream—your building. The stairs you must’ve climbed a thousand times before the TVA unmade you. The shadow rounding the corner wasn’t just any figure. It was him. That version of him. Bucky Barnes in his sergeant uniform, calling for you before you could catch up.
And you never did. Until now.
The words fall into your chest like stones. Every suppressed instinct, every redacted name, every unexplainable ache when Bucky looked at you like you were someone he’d loved in a dream—all of it clicks into place.
You were never a ghost in the machine. You were a person. You were his.
You stare back at the screen of your timepad. At the quiet, singular prompt at the bottom:
“INPUT COORDINATES.”
Your breath shakes.
For the first time in your life, there’s no mission waiting. No protocol. No watchers behind two-way glass. Just the choice you were never allowed to make.
You don’t hesitate.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
You're not sure when you first fell in love with him. Maybe it was the 1940s, maybe it was in 1602, maybe it was earlier than language and names.
But you’ve always been sure about how he looks in silhouette—how his shoulders hunch slightly when he’s thinking, how his hands twitch when he’s fighting the urge to reach for something he knows he’s not allowed to want.
And maybe that’s why you keep searching for him in the in-betweens.
In lives that never finished writing themselves, in branch timelines that evaporated before they touched soil. You comb through the TVA archives like a woman possessed—not for intel, not even for closure, but for slivers. A timestamp where his name is scribbled in the corner. A blurry photo of someone with his gait. An anonymous field report that ends with, “target disappeared into snow.”
Everywhere, he disappears. And still, you follow.
You love Bucky Barnes the way fire loves oxygen: recklessly, instinctively. Not just for who he is now, but for every life he never got to live.
For the kid in Brooklyn who dragged Steve out of alley fights, for the soldier who fell off a train and was turned into a ghost, for the man who woke up decades later in Wakanda with a name that felt too big for his mouth. You love him for the quiet moments the world didn’t see—chopping wood in the forest, feeding stray cats on apartment balconies, the way his thumb brushes over his dog tags when he thinks no one’s watching.
Bucky, who made you laugh over terrible coffee in a mess hall in 1943. The one who handed you a damp handkerchief in a zombie-scarred train depot, saying nothing as you wiped blood off your hands. The one in 1602 who watched you from beneath a soot-black hood, eyes squinting through torchlight, and still let you pass.
You remember something he once said—maybe it was in 1955, maybe in 2016, maybe in a fever dream. “People like us… we don’t get soft landings.” And you think that’s the tragedy of it.
He has always been built to break. And you—you keep getting assigned to the wreckage.
There’s a concept you came across once, while embedded in a minor deviation out of Seoul, 1957. Not part of the assignment—just a detail on a bookstore receipt someone left behind.
In-yun. Fate through friction. The belief that even a passing graze between strangers means your souls have already brushed, thousands of times before.
It’s nonsense, by TVA standards. Sentiment dressed up as spiritual determinism. No measurable coefficient. No supporting data. But you haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
You’ve crossed paths with James Buchanan Barnes in more than a hundred timelines. You’ve logged the hours, cataloged the events, archived the footage. On paper, it’s coincidence. Strategic convergence. The mathematics of softpoints aligning with the gravitational pull of significant individuals. He is, after all, a heavily-indexed Variable.
But paper doesn’t account for the way he looks at you—each time new, each time the same. Like he recognizes your silence before you speak. Like your presence reads to him not as anomaly, but inevitability.
He's not supposed to remember you. He can’t. And still, he always sees you.
That’s the part that undoes you.
You ache because in every timeline, you find him. In every universe, you lose him.
But you think—no, you know—if you had to live and comb through thousands more universes just to stand in front of him again, in the year 2026, you’d do it. You’d do it a thousand more.
Because even if all he says is, “Took you long enough,” you’d still believe it was worth the wait.
EARTH-616 | BROOKLYN, 2026
The year is 2026. This Earth breathes uneasily in peacetime. Stark’s foundation has pivoted to disaster relief and neural rehabilitation tech. Wakanda opens its fourth embassy—this one in Seoul. Post-Blip survivor benefits have just passed preliminary legislation in three states. And James Buchanan Barnes—former assassin, occasional Avenger—has just won his election for the U.S. House of Representatives.
Redistricting helped. So did the veterans’ vote. So did the way he looked people in the eye when he told them he remembered what it was like to be used, to be weaponized, to be hollowed out and told to smile for the cameras. But mostly, it was him. The myth re-forged as man.
You pinpoint him at the VA in Brooklyn. Technically off-duty, technically supposed to be celebrating. But of course he’s here. Rolling up shirt sleeves to take constituent questions. Translating bureaucratic-speak into something that feels like compassion. He looks like a U.S. History textbook illustration—white dress shirt, tie slightly loosened, blazer draped over the back of a chair.
And somehow still the same soul you’ve met in a hundred different guises. The same gravity. The same ache. Like no matter the universe, he’s always trying to make something right.
Stepping into the lobby, boot heels echoing on tile, and the force of him pulls you forward before you’ve fully decided to be brave.
He’s facing away, head slightly bowed in conversation with a nurse, his hair still too long for Washington norms, tucked neatly behind his ears. The sight of him hits low in your stomach—familiar and wild, as always. The sound of his laugh, rare and rumbling, sends a tremor through your ribs.
“Excuse me,” you say, steadying your voice like it’s just another assignment. “I’m a deeply concerned constituent, and I’d like to register a complaint about your policies.”
He turns.
And the moment lands like gravity reasserting itself.
His eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then go soft in that way only you’ve ever seen—like he’s witnessing a miracle he doesn’t trust yet. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.
You only just open your mouth to say something else when he’s already in front of you. And then—
He kisses you.
Not tentative. Not questioning. Just real. Like this has always been the ending he was holding out for. His hand cups the back of your neck like he thinks you might vanish again if he doesn’t keep contact. You let yourself press into it—mouth to mouth, memory to body. The weight of the years falling off both your shoulders.
You pull back, breathless. Smiling.
“You came back,” he says, wonder tucked beneath the rasp of his voice. “You came back.”
Your hands are on his chest now, smoothing fabric just to touch him, to confirm he’s real. “Took me long enough,” you echo, and his smile breaks wide and unguarded, rare and all for you.
Then he stills, just a little.
“You staying?” he asks.
You don’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
And that, his laugh, short and disbelieving, his forehead pressed briefly to yours like a prayer, is the softest landing either of you has ever known.
Summary: Ten years ago you left Wanda and the Avengers to heal your broken heart. You never stopped being a hero, just as you never stopped being in love with her. But life had to go on.
Now, after all that time, she is back and with her is a young woman needing help and an enemy that may not be as afraid as Wanda to lay a claim on you.
Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Powered!F!Reader - Scarlet Witch x PoweredF!Reader - Past Wanda Maximoff x Vision
Warnings: Angst, drama, mentions of cheating, fluff, violence, smut, Switch!Reader, internalize homophobia, hurt, comfort, Wanda being a complete mess, anger management issues, jealousy, Requited/Unrequited love, idiots in love, swearing, mentions of alcohol. More tags as the story progess.
Author's Note: This story is a continuation of Dirty Little Secret I was really surprised at the response I got for the story, I did all the tags you guys ask for but if I forgot someone please do not hesitate to tell me. Thank you for the support.
Okay, this chapter had some tricks in it that are surronding Reader and Wanda, this is their story and this time around Reader would need to make the right decision if she wants to get what she wants and what she needs.
Please, do remember English is no my mother tongue so forgive my grammar, spelling and funny mistakes.
The universe started with a spark of bright golden light.
Loki Odinson had seen it several times, he had witnessed the birth and death of multiple universes and timelines that were destined to perish in a myriad of colours that would soon be forgotten. He had sat on the throne, and while he was not a King himself, he could recall the faces of all of those poor souls that disappeared into the nothingness, just as he could remember the beauty behind the first spark of life.
However, what he was experimenting right now was nothing like it.
Whatever, or whoever had decided to intervene had messed up with his own spell and everything had exploded into nothingness. A single spark of red, green and golden then, nothingness. Black spaces that disappeared without any traces left behind.
Loki started at the empty space that was Wanda and Y/N’s basement before he sighed. He sat down shaking his head, a headache approaching just as he thought on the oncoming conversation he would need to sustain with the Avengers.
“Fuck.” The word rolled out of his lips in such a natural way, he could do nothing but leaned back against the wall.
What the hell just happened?
What did he do?
What did Wanda and Y/N do to get this reaction?
The silence soon became deafening, Loki located the book Strange had died trying to recover. He frowned while leaning over to pick it up, the spell was done correctly with all the right wording as well as the right drawings on the ground. So, why did it go wrong? His eyes scanned the pages, re-reading the passages over and over until his heart dropped at one particular line, something he had overlooked the very first time he read that passage.
“…this, however, may be counterproductive if there is a magical or multiversal energy interference, the amount of energy converging at one point may created an unexpected result and…”
Loki knew the rest by heart, he knew there could be troubles but…well, how many energies were involved in the spell? He had counted on those signatures coming from Wanda and Y/N, he had even counted on his but…was there anybody else out there? Was there anybody else at the other side of the multiverse?
“Shit.” Loki stood up fixing up his clothes before flickering his hand to open a portal. He needed to face the consequences of his acts, and the first stop would be the Avengers Tower and Steve Roger’s office.
The former Captain America was going to enjoy telling Loki ‘I told you so’, just before hitting him in the face.
With one last glance to the basement, Loki turned around and left the place.
He never worried to test the energy fields around, or to tap into the timelines flickering in front of his eyes. It never occurred to him that, as soon as the explosion happened, a new singular timeline appeared right before his eyes just to blend itself with the other timelines flickering in front of Loki.
No one but the Watcher could see it, The Watcher stood in the sidelines furrowing his brows and waiting.
The world would either collapse in itself, or it would fix the anomalies by itself.
Either way, he was watching history, and the future of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.
_________________________________________
Darkness had always been your friend.
You were born in it, and it had been your weapon and your refugee in the hardest of times. That was the main reason you didn’t panic at first, everything around you was filled with the purest form of darkness with a single touch of coldness that sneaked inside your clothes. The hairs on your arms stood up, a shiver went right through your muscles making you groan as you finally experience the pain in your body.
Your mouth opened inhaling deeply filling your lungs with gusts of cold air, your chest contracting itself just before you started coughing. It was then you opened your eyes, and the darkness that you had experienced moments ago was nothing but you woke up from unconsciousness.
The first thing you noticed were different white dots in the sky winking back at you. You tried to grasp a single thought, seeking around your mind for a coherent idea but it was almost impossible to do so when the rest of your body was finally receiving different stimulus in the way of pain and coldness.
“Y/N!” A familiar voice called to your left, you tried to sit up but a single hand placed itself on your shoulder pressing you to the ground.
“Ease there, pal, you were really hurt back there.”
Even if you didn’t get a chance to sit up, your world started spinning around. The voice was so familiar, yet so different to what you were used to; with some reluctance you turned your face to the right and soon you found yourself looking at yourself.
The other woman offered a tentative smile, though the way she was squinting her eyes and the pursed of her lips told you she was just as confused as you were at the moment. Soft footsteps approached you, America Chavez was wearing a single cut on her cheek and a bruised eye, this time around you didn’t let you counterpart to stop you, you sat up to check over the teen kneeling beside you.
“America, are you alright?” Your eyes rolled back for a moment, your knees fell harshly on the ground while you held yourself with a single hand placed on your leg.
“Y/N, please…” America winced lightly glancing at you then at your counterpart. “I think you were the one that suffered the most…”
“It was my fault, actually. So, sorry?”
You blinked a couple of times, shaking your head made the headache worse and the dizziness settled on your lower abdomen. You lifted your face blinking a couple of times before checking America over, the young woman softened her features with her cheeks colouring pink while her lips tried to offer a single smile. You tried to ignore the other Y/N for as long as you could before turning around to settle your eyes on her.
Just like America, she was wearing a single cut on her forehead with her clothes dishevelled but otherwise nothing else. With some reluctance you lifted your eyes looking deep into those eyes that you knew so well.
“This is the weirdest shit I have ever had to live to date.” You finally said shaking your head, “I hope it is the last weird shit ever.”
“Agreed.” Y/N tilted her head furrowing her brows while giving you a quick glance. “Before this happened, I’m afraid I was in your body fighting with someone that got lucky…so…”
“So, that’s why I feel like this?” You cracked smile, your counterpart nodded mirroring the smile on your face. “Okay, got it, so…what the hell is going on?”
America and Y/N glanced at one another then at you, it wasn’t until then that you decided to take a good look at the surrounding area. The place in itself was nothing strange, yet you got a feeling that this was not your universe or even that of your counterpart.
The sky was completely dark filled stars but as you got to observe them above your head you realized there were not your stars. The constellations you had come to know thanks to Natasha and Carol had been changed and were replaced by different forms you did not recognize. With a single frown you lowered your eyes to find yourself in a plain of land filled with dried grass that extended beyond what the eyes could see. It was an empty land, with nothing beyond the darkness of the night without any moon it was hard to actually see something that could give you an idea of your location.
The sound of whistling called your attention, and soon you found yourself being wrapped tightly by two pair of arms. Before you could protest or ask what they were doing, you experience the sharp bite of wind, A cold, merciless breeze that soon turned into a whirlwind that left as suddenly as it had come.
“Wh-what the hell?” Your eyes opened wide, your teeth chattering while America and Y/N leaned back wincing.
“We need to move.”
You furrowed your brows shaking your head, “move where? I can barely see you two, how are we going to see the path or…where the hell are we?”
America sighed standing up, she stretched her hand to you offering a tender smile.
“You haven’t figured it out?”
You stood on weakened legs, your mouth opened ready to protest until you finally realised it. While it was true there was nothing much to see beyond the darkness and the starry night, you could see America and your counterpart just fine. It took you but a few minutes until, you lifted your hand and the shadows followed you giving you a good glance of what was around you.
“We can manipulate shadows, the night in itself is darkness and filled with the main source of our power.” Y/N stated matter-of-factly while standing before you, you nodded curtly feeling foolish for not even thinking about it.
“Are you guys going to tell me what’s going on?”
America grabbed your hand, then turning to Y/N she shrugged also grabbing her hand as well.
“We may as well update her while we continue walking.”
“We saw lights coming from what we think was a village a few kilometres away, were trying to get there until these weird whirlwinds came in and we couldn’t carry you anymore.” Y/N explained shrugging. “We’re guessing once we get to some sort of place filled with civilization we will know more…”
“Why didn’t you try to travel through the shadows?” You asked ready to do so when the warning tone from your own voice stopped you.
“I couldn’t do it without leaving America here, and I have a bad feeling as soon as I tried it…so…” Y/N shrugged looking ahead of her, “I always follow my instincts, they have never failed me.”
The comment sent a sharp pain straight to your heart.
Your instincts had never failed you either.
Nothing else was said after this, the three of you were following the direction America had pointed out but you were just lost not really knowing if this was the right path or just a wild guess. The temperature was dropping even more, soon your teeth were chattering alongside those of America and the other you. You felt a sharp pain through your head, whatever had happened before you woke up had left your body quite bruised and right now all you wanted was to find a bed, an analgesic and something to eat. For a brief moment, an intrusive thought came forward in the form of Wanda, panic rose through your chest and filled your mind but before you could ask anything about her your counterpart spoke.
“I still don’t understand how everything came to be,” she spoke with a tone of voice you were familiar with, you let your eyes wandered around the landscape holding onto every word resounding into the darkness of the night.”
“I remembered when Wanda and I saved America the first time, and then trying to safe her from these creatures chasing her down.” Y/N trailed off with her memories making her falter, with a single shake of her head she continued, “I know I was out for a while, so you can guess how surprised I was to wake up in the arms of someone that wasn’t my wife…”
“Not really.” Your reply was filled with coldness, tension building up in your body, “I have always had the luxury of waking up alone in my bed.”
America winced lifting her head to glance at you, her dark eyes begging you to listen before jumping in whatever discussion you wanted to start.
“Agatha Harkness.” The name reached the inside of your mind with the memory of the file you read on her, not only that, but also the different videos you saw surrounding her story inside of Wanda’s world.
“That was the woman you woke up to every day, Y/N.” America chimed in shyly, she lowered her gaze squeezing your hand tenderly. “She had been dragging Scarlet and Wanda around, draining them of their powers and leaving them defenceless for quite some time, and since…well, since Y/N was under her spell…”
You opened your mouth to speak, you wanted to say something but finding your counterpart’s eyes on you whatever argument you had built inside your mind came crumbling down and soon you were given their side of their story. Little by little the story started making sense, the building of a different world and the intrusive dreams you were having in the last couple of weeks, the purple and red magic surrounding you on that day as well as the mixed-up realities that ended up with you thrown into another’s body. You had always known that Wanda was special, and powerful, you never imagined just how much.
America had been a part of the plan, of course. Her powers would be very beneficial to someone like Agatha, and your powers would make sure no one would ever find her. Everything was about the most basic reason of all: Power. You pursed your lips disgusted; you were dragged into a confrontation with Wanda because there was a woman chasing after power. You had been running from Wanda for more than ten years, and all it took was this woman to ruin everything.
And now, now you were walking down the darkness of the night with a girl that could travel through different universes and your counterpart, a woman that got the life you had dreamt of a long time ago.
“Life is not fair.” Y/N stated glancing at you out of the corner of her eyes, “but it is what we have, and we must…”
“…deal with it, take what it is being offered and try to be happy with it.” You finished shaking your head.
“Ah, so not everything is lost, I see.” Y/N allowed a single smile to break on her face, you pursed your lips snorting.
“You don’t know the story.”
“But she does, that’s why she told you those very same words, didn’t she?” Your counterpart stopped all of a sudden, you let out a heavy sigh before turning to face her.
America was standing in between the both of you, her brows knitted together with her gaze travelling around the terrain before settling on the both of you.
“Look, I know that you and Wanda had a different experience than mine, I’m glad you did because…” You trailed off holding onto your emotions, “I don’t wish on you the pain I went through…”
For the very first time ever you saw your own face breaking into a broken-hearted smile, with those eyes losing all light and those lips curving into a crooked smile. It was you looking back, and you understood right there and then that you weren’t the only one.
“You forgive her?” You asked with a hint of hope in your voice, you hated how the question left your lips and how your counterpart understood what you meant.
“How could I not if my heart beats for her?” She replied clenching her eyes closed, her hands rested upon your shoulders before you found yourself looking into your eyes. “There is a difference, though, isn’t it?”
“You guys were not together…” You started but she merely tilted her head.
“You know it wouldn’t matter if we were a couple or not, she chose someone else when we have always chosen her.” Y/N squeezed your shoulders lightly. “The difference is that I gave her a chance because I want to do so, you didn’t because…”
“I don’t believe in second chances! If I have done so she would have broken my heart all over again when she went into her imaginary world with Vision!” You exclaimed enraged, surprising Y/N and America.
The other woman furrowed her brows, she was ready to argue back with you and asked questions about the imaginary world. It was quite evident a lot of things had happened in this strange world and Y/N could only imagine the pain and rage engulfing your heart at the moment.
America could see darkness surrounding the three of you her eyes opening wide almost losing into the shadows until her eyes caught glimpses of red and purple right ahead.
“Guys?” America stuttered lifting her hand and pointing to the distance.
You two stopped your discussion turning around to see the same sparkles of red and purple. It was a formation of dusty colouring breaking into the darkness of the night sky, you turned to the left to see Y/N frowning with determination and America shifting nervously from one foot to the other.
“It’s not that far away, I mean it could be at least one kilometre?” Y/N faced you holding onto the previous tension of your conversation with her, you clenched your fist shrugging.
“Looks that way.”
“Are we…” America started but you lifted a hand to silence her.
“Before we jump in to do something I think we need more information, we don’t even know what we are going to find over there.” You looked out of the corner of your eyes; the lights were still gleaming pretty much intensely but you could tell your two companions didn’t want to stay still and do any planning.
“What do you propose?” Y/N asked lifting her chin, “you know pretty well those sparks of crimson are Wanda’s, and we know this woman, this Agatha has been using purple magic. Are you really suggesting we stand here or keep walking in circles?”
“No! All I am asking is to first think about what we are going to do! We’re not even sure where we are much less what we are going to find there.” You asked back lifting your hands in the air and stepping back, the pain you had forgotten in favour of the discussion came back making you winced.
“Look I know you guys think the world of Wanda, and that’s cool, I guess your Wanda,” this time around you pointed to your counterpart trying to remain calm, “she is all love and kindness and that’s fine. The Wanda in world had a total breakdown that enslaved a bunch of people in a reality she created for herself and that microwave she called husband, so forgive me if I’m not going to jump in without any additional information.”
Your tirade echoed through the night, your voice carried by the wind with a dropped in the temperature. The moon that had been travelling with the three of you flickered all of a sudden, and the darkness grew around the three of you. America didn’t miss the flickering lights of crimson and purple, but she couldn’t stop herself from grabbing your hand in hers, the warm she shared with you made you shivered and with some reluctance you lower you stare to her. Even in such a darkness you could see her brown eyes gleaming with emotions.
“You still love her.” America mumbled squeezing your hand tenderly.
You clenched your jaw tilting your head to the side, America bit her lower lip glancing from you to Y/N.
“I don’t know why this has to be so complicated, but she needs you.” America took a deep breath stepping closer to you. “Wanda is sad, and I know she messed up and that forgiveness should not be given just because you feel that way. But she really needs you, she and Scarlet.”
“Look, I don’t know what happened between the both of you.” Y/N stepped in making sure you could not look away from your own eyes. “But the woman I love is out there, being it in this dimension or another Wanda Maximoff would always be MY Wanda and I won’t leave her out there to get hurt. If not for you, then at least do it for me.”
It was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by darkness and coldness that your heart finally gave in. With a nod, your dropped your shoulders in defeat missing the smile coming from America but never missing the satisfied glance coming from your counterpart. The three of you finally turned to the source of the magic, and without a simple plan you three started making your way to the source.
You were not prepared for what was waiting for you over there.
Agatha Harkness smirked at the woman kneeling before her.
In less than a year she had made it possible to crumble away the legend of the Scarlet Witch while placing herself as the most powerful witch in the multiverse. Her smile never faltered, not even when the world spined around changing into a familiar setting; a place and time Agatha had suffered before but that now she could alter with a single flicker of her hand.
The place was filled with passersby ignoring the presence of the two women; nobody seemed to care that one of them was on her knees with a single neck shackle made of light red and blue tied to a crimson necklace Agatha wore on her chest.
“What do you think about this arrangement, dear?” The dark-haired woman asked, her eyes dropping to the kneeling Wanda who was shooting her a stare filled with anger. “Personally, I think this could be more lively, but don't worry soon enough we will have a show to die for.”
Her laughter was accompanied by a flash of violet, and soon the scene changed and they were transferred to a great marketplace located at the centre of the village. Everyone had reunited around four pillared pyres that were guarded by at least ten knights all dressed in black.
Wanda lifted her face, her ears twitched hearing the sound of angry screams cursing someone she couldn't make out yet. Agatha stirred in excitement; her smile grew until it was a crooked grin with just a hint of madness behind it.
“Here they come…”
The crowd spread around just as four figures came in walking on naked feet wearing red robes and bruised faces. The hatred and fear coming from the crowd was quite evident as the torches and the pitchforks drew wild patterns above the townspeople’s heads. The light of the torches ignited the night, Wanda tensed under the grip of the woman standing beside her, the hairs on her arms raising up while her eyes narrowed to follow the events unfolding in front of her.
The four women were pushed forward, each one of them had a single knight standing behind them with heavy hands they were dragged to the four pillars tied to them facing the crowd. It didn’t take her too long to guess what was about to happen, and what exactly were those pillars; the pyres had been set up to ensure everyone could see the women died. The crowd cheered cruelly, laughing and cursing while the four women glared at the people with more bravery than they actually felt.
“This was my coven.” Agatha spat out, her hands sparkling with a mixture of red and purple, “they saw my power, they read my intentions and instead of supporting me they dared to try and stop me…”
“I wonder why.” Wanda couldn’t hold the sarcasm behind her voice, Agatha pulled harshly on the ropes holding her neck making Wanda fall on her back.
“You really are more daring than your counterparts, dear. I would be careful, if I were to be honest I don’t need you alive.”
Agatha caressed the necklace smirking at Wanda, the woman couldn’t hide her anger and the magic that was pulsating inside her was not enough to protect her from Agatha’s anger. Soon Wanda let out a scream of pain, her body twitching painfully until he couldn’t keep her eyes open and all she could think about was the searing pain on her limbs.
“It has been so long since I was just a lowly witch like them, afraid of fire and the angry crowd. I grew to be magnificent, to have power beyond anyone’s imagination…” Agatha continued with his rambling observing with gleaming eyes as the Major of the town stood forward proclaiming the sins of the four women.
“I just had to find you, Wanda, you and that so-called Scarlet Witch.” Wanda took a deep breath, half hearing the woman while watching with horror as the night above her head flickered from one setting to another.
“It was not easy, you know?”
Agatha flickered her hand to the right and soon Wanda was on her knees watching as the world around her changed. It was like watching a movie in a dome. The world changed to day and night flickering images of Agatha dragging her burnt body through the ground whispering spells that only she could hear. The image soon changed showing the passing of time, Agatha looking around the world and stealing the magic of others while seeking something out of desperation.
She finally found it after more than a century.
Wanda opened her eyes at the familiar setting, Kamar Taj stood under stormy winds and heavy snow. Agatha sneaked around, distracting the inhabitants of the temple by provoking landslides that would certainly have killed innocent people if it hadn’t been by the protectors of the temple. She had enough time to steal a single book.
“Y-you…you stole the..th-e…the Drakhold.” Wanda leaned forward resting her hands on the ground, she was shocked to find the snow under her hands was real and that everything she was seeing was not an illusion but a real event.
Her mind was trying to comprehend what was really happening. Her knowledge of the Darkhold had not been as broad as it had been for Strange and even Loki. But she did know one thing or two about the origins of her powers, Chaos Magic had been called and it gave her the power to bend reality and life in ways not many could access to. The darkness inside her had been contained by her family and her loved ones, but the same could not be said by others, apparently.
“I did.” Agatha finally answered tilting her head, soon the scene changed and they were taken to a place Wanda was familiar with.
Westview.
“Yet, I was still not strong enough, or the only one with powers beyond our imaginations.” Agatha made a face, stepping forward strolling down the streets with Wanda following her. “When the Avengers showed up it was quite evident that people with powers could no longer be hidden. It was my time to shine until you, my dear Wanda, showed up.”
Wanda saw herself in a building in Sokovia, it was a place she was familiar with yet the story that was unfolding in front of her had nothing to do with what she had lived once. Her other self struggled to control her powers, to live her life, to be who she was supposed to be but failed every single time. Agatha had never been too far from those events, and whenever Wanda failed, Agatha would clutch the young woman closer to her. The red and purple magic intertwined without anyone noticing.
“What did you do?” Wanda asked, finding herself in the middle of the square in Westview. It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining right above their heads and not a single cloud in sight.
Agatha smirked, her eyes changing colours to one of deep crimson, “I finally became who I am supposed to be, and soon my dear I will have all the power to bend the universes at my will. And now, I will finish what I started all those months ago with your pathetic counterpart and you will help me out with this.”
The world suddenly exploded around them, Wanda clenched her jaw closed, lifting her eyes to the sky to see the runes above her head.
“You…” She gritted her teeth, her eyes closing right away trying to gather her thoughts and power to stop the woman standing beside her.
Agatha chuckled darkly, her gripped on Wanda tightened allowing the influx of memories to invade the mind of the redhead. It was a life she was no familiar with, a suffering she had not experiment in the same way but that generate in her an understanding of the mess this world was in. She could see the moment Agatha entered the story, the failures and the almost victories until finally she got what she wanted.
A weakened Wanda Maximoff without anyone in the world to stand by her side.
Power.
And a way to get away with her plan.
“You…you won’t win.” Wanda finally got out; her eyes gleaming dangerously at the other woman who made a face rolling her eyes.
“I already did, dear. You just haven’t realized it yet.” Agatha let go of Wanda stepping away.
The brunette straightened up lifting her arms in front of her, her hands creating a purple mist while the necklace she wore zealously around her neck gleamed with intensity. Those eyes that moment’s ago had been brown, were now a deep black and the world around Wanda trembled under the electric shift of power the witch was gathering around her.
“Now, I have all the pieces in place, in my world…under my rules.” Agatha stated tilting her head to the side, “I will bend everyone to my will…and you, Wanda, will be nothing but a bad memory.”
The sky above their heads changed into darkness, the temperature dropped and Wanda felt the heavy weight of the atmosphere overwhelming her. She could sense her counterpart weakening inside the prison Agatha had chosen for her, her thoughts were still a mixture of memories she couldn’t quite place while the heavy emotions running through her soul threaten to overwhelm. Wanda could read the intentions behind the woman standing before her, she could read the hatred and violence behind those dark eyes. Lifting her chin to the sky, and her eyes showing off her own magic she decided if this was going to be her end, she would face it with defiance.
The ball of energy flickered in Agatha’s hand, the world stood still and the with smirked ready to give the final blow.
Agatha was so concentrated in her final goal, she never noticed she was no longer alone and what she though was illusions of her own invention were actually three people she didn’t think would be a problem until one of them stood right in front of her shielding Wanda from an imminent dead.
You had crossed the protective barrier around the strange town with a single thought in mind. Your intention was to get this over with and go back to your life on Norway, your heart beating fast while your mind protest for the easiness in which you were trying to go back to a life in which you were ignoring the woman that had never left your heart. It looked easy, just do your thing and then fixed whatever mess you were in and then…go back.
But the universe and the Powers That Be decided that it wouldn’t be just as easy as a flickered of your hand.
As soon as the three of you crossed the barrier you were face to face with flashes of memories that presented you with a film of the lives of Wanda and Agatha. The stories of the coven and the search for power, as well as the fall of Sokovia and Wanda’s struggles with her powers and her life.
“This is so wrong.” Y/N stated clenching her fist while stepping forward until she was finally standing beside you, the both of you stood on an empty street hearing the sounds of muffled conversation.
“Any plan?” You finally stated ignoring the piercing pain in your heart, your counterpart shrugged nodding to the darkened street that was flashing a mixture of red and purple.
“I think the best approach is a straightforward one.”
“Humph, so go there and just start fighting?” You replied with your lips breaking into a single smirk.
“Yep, pretty much.”
“That doesn’t sound like a solid plan.” America mumbled unsure, she furrowed her brows turning to you and then to your counterpart.
You turned to America placing a hand on her shoulder, “but it is what we have. You are going to stay here and wait.”
“But…I can fight! I can help!” America stepped back frowning, “I won’t be left behind…”
“I know you can fight, kiddo.” You replied tilting your head, “and that’s why you are staying behind.”
America opened her mouth to protest but Y/N came forth shaking her head.
“You are our backup, America. If anything were to happen to us and Wanda…” Y/N stated dropping her gaze for a moment, she turned to you until finally she locked eyes with America. “You need to do anything you can to ensure Agatha won’t scape, you understand?”
America pursed her lips, a part of her understood the mission but another part wanted to go straight ahead and face the woman that had been chasing her through the multiverse. America clenched her fists before nodding curtly and stepping back. You offered a single smile, your hand squeezing comfortingly the shoulder of the teen.
“There would be time, America, for now just watch our backs.”
“I will.”
“Good then, let’s go.”
You nodded curtly allowing your powers to spread in front of you, there was resistance when trying to reach the shadows and for the very first time you understood what your counterpart meant about your instinct. Everything in your body was screaming danger as soon as you came into contact with the shadows, your body shivered under the piercing weight of a million needles. You clenched your jaw closed stepping into the shadows with a single thought in mind.
Wanda.
Without any hesitation and moving through the invisible obstacles in that universe you appeared right before Wanda and Agatha just in time. Your eyes went black with your right arm lifting in front of you and creating a protective barrier just as Agatha’s hand came into contact with your shadows.
There was a flickering of power, the older woman snarled a curse lifting her left arm in the same fashion and launching a second attack. Your eyes opened slightly only for your shadows to slithered away grabbing the woman’s midsection to pull her away.
The world crumbled for an instant; Agatha was completely shocked to see not only you but your counterpart standing right in front of her. The woman straightened up, sweat rolling down her forehead while her right hand closed around her necklace and her other hand summoned the Darkhold.
“You really are a pain in my behind, but at least I won’t have to go around looking for you.” Agatha stated tilting her head to the side, her annoyance giving way to a confident smile. “Now, how about the two of you are good girls and give up, I would hate to spend my time submitting you to get what I want.”
You spread your feet positioning yourself in a fighting pose, your eyes narrowing slightly while the woman in front of you got her magic ready. But before Agatha could do anything at all, another set of shadows grabbed her arms putting them back making her woman lose her grip on the necklace and the Darkhold, your body tensed when Wanda stood up behind you, her voice quivering slightly as she pronounced your name with reverence and love.
“Hey, I hope you didn’t forget about me, Agatha dear.” Your counterpart said winking at Wanda while flickering her hands away, Agatha grunted freeing herself with a blast of energy and stepping a few feet away.
“Hn, I didn’t expect this.” She stated summoning the Darkhold, the world around the four of you changed, shaping itself in a familiar setting you had come to hate in your mind.
Westview.
Agatha never wavered in her confidence, if anything it seemed to grow the same way her magic was doing at the moment. You took a fighting stance, your shadows flickering around waiting for your command. You glanced out of the corner of your eye, Wanda had been trying to stand up but her knees and feet seemed uncooperative. Before you could offer any help, your counterpart came in wrapping her arms around Wanda while placing her forehead against Wanda’s one.
“Hey, love.”
“Hi.” Wanda replied with easiness, Y/N sighed in relief before placing a single kiss on her wife’s cheek.
“I miss you.” Y/N said softly, your heart shrank with emotion when your mind caught up with what was really happening.
You furrowed your brows, sweeping around the place until your darkened eyes fell on Agatha who was smiling playfully at you, her right hand playing absentmindedly with the necklace.
“Where is…Wanda?” The question left your lips before you could stop it, Wanda and Y/N both glanced at one another before they set their eyes on you.
A sinking feeling settled on your lower stomach, you were afraid of the answer when you realized this Wanda was trying to look everywhere but you. Tilting your head, you finally got a good look at your surroundings where the suburban houses filled out the imaginary world; the Wanda you had come to know from another universe held onto your counterpart tightly though right now her green eyes had been focusing straight ahead of you.
“Where is she? Wanda?” You asked again, this time around there was a demanding undertone that the other woman couldn’t ignore.
“Agatha has them under her control, she is using a powerful and dangerous book, Y/N.” Wanda could tell her answer was not of your liking, she stepped forward ready to join you and her wife in the fight glancing at you out of the corner of her eyes.
“You don’t know where she has Wanda?” You asked again never taking your eyes off of the older woman standing before you.
“I have my suspicions but I’m not sure how to interfere with that.” Wanda winced trying to ease out the pain on her neck, you frowned pursing your lips while taking a closer look at Agatha before your eyes found the same house you had come to know as Wanda’s place.
“Well, then let’s get this over with and get Wanda back.” Your arms stretched to the sides, the silent command spurred into action the shadows around you flying straight ahead to try and get Agatha.
Before your counterpart and the other Wanda could help you out, the creatures summoned by Agatha launched their first attack. A great explosion was heard while you evaded the flashing balls of power sent over by the witch.
The fight soon broke over, you didn’t notice it but the dome surrounding this part of the universe tremble sending waves of energy all through the world until they came into contact with the timeline and America. The young woman lifted her head, her eyes gleaming brightly as she tapped into her powers; bouncing on the balls of her feet she waited. America could hear the sound of explosions and the muffled sound of conversations and screams, she glanced at her hands thinking about the lessons she had been learning in the last couple of months. She closed her fists, opening them again before lifting her face. This people had been putting their lives on the line for her, they had been trying to protect her without expecting anything in exchanged. It was about time she helped them.
With a glance to the sky, America took a deep breath closing her eyes for a brief moment. As soon as she opened them, her lips curled into a single smile.
Time for payback.
The street had been completely destroyed during the fight.
There were no more homes standing up, or nice cosy gardens decorating the suburban setting. The world soon became a mixture of nothingness with the flickering holograms of reality that you could not touch. Agatha had learnt a thing or two since fighting with Wanda, you could see her ability to hold onto her powers while also making use of those she had stolen from your Wanda.
You shook your head hating the thoughts running around in your head, the overwhelming emotions that seemed to try and govern your decisions. You tried to focus your energy on what was right in front of you, the problem you were facing went beyond your own emotions. There would be a time for you to deal with them.
Agatha lifted her left hand above her head before letting it fall fast to her side, the sharp pain of your skin being pierce made you grunted. You could feel the wounds on your arms, your eyes igniting in a deep black that soon went right ahead to engulf the witch in front of you.
At some point, Agatha had become faster than your attacks, she stepped aside flickering her hands and soon two more creatures appeared out of nowhere.
“Is that all you got?” You asked almost losing your concentration when you heard the voice of your counterpart in the back.
“Get away from my wife!”
Agatha smirked grabbing her necklace, tilting her head she settled her eyes on you.
“Oh, dear, you would be surprised with the number of tricks I can bring on you.” Agatha stepped forward, her feet never touching the ground. “I could make your dreams come true; I can be what Wanda never was for you.”
You pressed your lips together taking into a fighting stance.
“You know nothing about my dreams, and I am certainly not looking for a replacement.”
Agatha snorted her hand gripping tightly on the necklace, soon a red mist grew from the space between her neck and chest and the world around her turned crimson. Agatha stretched out her arms and the whole world vibrate around you changing in the blink of an eye.
“Are you sure? I can tell by the pathetic way you are always looking at her, but the way you talk about her that there is nothing else you want more than her…” Agatha’s voice rose above the new scene, your eyes flickered around while your stomach dropped when you realized where she had taken you to.
For a brief moment you could make out the screams and grunts of the fight going on right outside this small world. You took a deep breath trying to get a hold of your powers ignoring the runes glowed above your head a clear sign that this was still being controlled by Agatha. You creased your brows knowing that your options were limited if the other woman decided to use her magic at its full potential. She was playing with you, leading you on and one until it was quite clear she was mocking you by placing you right in front of a memory that had broken your heart at some point.
It was playing in slow motion, the video and the room with everyone just as shocked as you were to see Wanda in the arm’s of another. The passing of time, every single moment that you had suffered the betrayal while facing your sadness alone in a world of pure darkness. Your fit closed, the shadows on your feet stirred violently sensing your anger when you heard Agatha laughing. Mocking you.
“How did it make you feel knowing she was happier with a man?” Agatha purred making sure to be as far away from you as she could. “How did it feel knowing you were never going to be chosen in this world? In this universe? I bet it pierce your soul knowing you were the one destined to be alone.”
“Shut up.”
“I can make it go away, I can help you out…say the words, and I will make sure you get what you want.”
Your knees gave under your weight, furrowing your brows you tried to close yourself to the mocking film playing around you trying to focus on the fight. Agatha chuckled tilting her head, this time around the runes above her head pulsated and the two creatures grew before your eyes attacking viciously at your counterpart and Wanda making sure that your conversation and fight with Agatha wouldn’t be interrupted. Agatha centred her eyes on you, her hand grabbing the necklace while the same video seemed to be on replay.
“She won’t be a problem for you anymore, and after I’m done with you…you won’t have to worry about the pain of your broken heart, dear.” The laughter sent shivers down your back, but it was everything you were waiting for.
Your lips curled into a smile, your right hand twirled clockwise and the shadows broke into waves catching up with the witch. Just as you had located her, ready to give her a lesson, the woman was ready to use the magic Wanda and Scarlet were giving to her to make sure the next stage of her plan could be completed.
It never happened, though.
Your attack never stopped reaching out to your objective, while Agatha tried to return the hit she was surprised by a sudden punch to her face. The punch glow white, and her body bounced back and forth until she lost the hold on the necklace, America Chavez didn’t stop there and your shadows went straight to hold onto the witch to bring her down.
Everything happened so fast, your eyes went from America to Agatha and finally to the object on the ground. The necklace bounced on the ground, and without thinking too much you went right ahead to grab it. The object was warm to the touch, you could tell by the vibrations that magic had been contained between the object and this magic could only belong to one person. You closed your hand around it, you could sense Scarlet deep inside your mind. It didn’t take you too long to recognize the woman that had been haunting your dreams as of late, right with her you could also sense Wanda trying to hide, trying to survive.
“NO!”
The scream coming from Agatha was everything you needed to drop the necklace and stomp on the piece of jewellery creating an explosion that blew you and everyone around you away.
“Humph…” Your mouth opened letting out a shaky breath, your body hurt all over while your eyes got use to the sparkling lights that appeared before them when your head hit the ground.
“Y/N!!” You tried to sit up, a pair of arms held onto you for a brief moment until you were capable of making out the figure sitting beside you.
America had her brows creased; her eyes shone with worry while she tried to hold you up. The fighting was still ringing inside your ears, your counterpart was finishing the last of the dimensional creatures while you could spot her Wanda holding back against Agatha. For a brief moment, panic rose inside you the sudden need to throw up became almost to much just as you leaned forward trying to stand up your eyes looking frantically for the women that had been haunting your dreams and reality as of late.
“They are unconscious…” America started but she could not finish her sentence as you stood up without any warning.
“Wanda…” Her name escaped your lips without meaning to, at that moment with your body exhausted and your mind already carrying the weight of so many memories and thoughts all you could do was staggered forward until you reached both women.
You stood on shaky legs glancing from Wanda to Scarlet, both of them unconscious wearing the same bags under their eyes and the bruises all over their faces and arms. You hesitated not really knowing where you should focus your attention until, as an afterthought you went to Wanda. Turning her to the side you ensure she was comfortable, her lip had a deep cut and her forehead had traces of a scratch that left her with blood and dirt. She looked thinner than you remember, with her face wearing still the same defeated expression she wore to your home all those months ago.
“Wanda.” You said her name again, this time around firmer and demanding, your hand trying to help her out until you heard her exclamation of pain. “Wanda, are you alright?”
The young woman stirred in your arms, her eyes flickering slightly until she opened her lips and let out an exclamation of pain. You put her back on the ground, turning around you could see Scarlet was stirring awake as well while the fight seemed to have no end.
“Y/N…” You turned to see Wanda’s eyes fluttering open, her green orbs looking back at you with sadness and tenderness that had your heart beating a tad bit faster.
“Hey, are you alright?” You leaned in but Wanda looked away helping herself up, you tired to assist her but your body froze for a moment unsure on how to proceed with the woman sitting before you.
“I…I am a little sore.” She replied, her eyes never leaving the form of Scarlet, Wanda furrowed her brows glancing at her hands then back at the other woman. “She…she is…Scarlet Witch.”
Her words trembled as she pronounced them, her face lowered thinking to herself knowing full well your attention was on her. She remembered the moment she had separated herself from the legend, the words of Agatha had haunted her at that moment when she realized there was something inside her giving her powers a deeper meaning. She had hated that idea, and the world that had been created out of it.
When Wanda finally dared to look up she found herself looking into your eyes. Her heart stirred with emotion, the words that wanted to pour out of her mouth entangled around her throat for she knew it was not the time for a heart-to-heart conversation. She wished everything had turned out different, but after her confrontation with Agatha and everything she had discovered whiled trapped in that reality she knew what she needed to do.
“Can you…help me up?” She asked shyly, you nodded curtly stretching your hands for her to take them.
She was cold under your touch, and a little sweaty.
Her cheeks coloured pink, and her eyes glanced everywhere but at you. You felt a piercing pain going through your chest, but you ignored it while helping the other woman up. For a brief moment, you thought she could walk on her on until Wanda’s legs trembled and almost gave up on her. You caught her just on time, her body pressing against yours making your traitorous heart stopped for a brief moment.
“How convenient, Wanda.” Scarlet was on her knees; she had sweat falling down her face breathing hard and glaring at the two of you though her eyes were completely focused on Wanda. “You…you don’t do nothing, yet you get to be with her.”
Wanda tensed in your arms, she took a deep breath while pushing you away taking one step at a time until she was standing before Scarlet. You lifted your eyes to see America just as focused on the two women as you were, the sound of the fighting was till rumbling in your ears but it was almost impossible to pay attention to something else that wasn’t the scene playing out in front of you.
Wanda held herself up, conscious of the hatred inside the eyes of Scarlet.
Inside her own eyes.
“We don’t get to be with her.” Wanda mumbled dropping her shoulders, tears gathering in her eyes as she spoke. “I’ve been trying to make amends but I just…”
“You always failed, and you make it worse.” Scarlet spat out lifting her chin in defiance, her position on the ground was not an inconvenience. If anything, it gave her the power that Wanda couldn’t show at the moment.
“I tried to reach out to her, to make her world and mine…to…”
“I know.” Wanda offered a weakened smile, looking out of the corner of her eyes she could see you had your attention on the both of them. “I tried to do the same. I just…I can’t do it alone, and I’m tired of failing every time. I don’t…”
Wanda swallowed down her tears, she leaned in lifting her left hand until she was cupping Scarlet’s cheek. Red mist appeared in Wanda’s hand, and soon her eyes as much as those of Scarlet were shining brightly.
“It hurts so much.” Scarlet said letting the tears rolled down her cheeks. “I just…
“I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want to be without her.” Wanda finally said her own tears falling down her face.
You clenched your jaw, looking away for a moment while your chest felt a myriad of butterflies fluttering inside.
“But I can’t keep fighting alone, or divided.” Wanda stated, she wiped away Scarlet’s tears before adding. “I think we need to be one, you saw just how powerful we are together and…”
“You need to fix this, or we would never…”
“I know, but this may not end the way you want it.”
Scarlet drifted her attention to you, her eyes found those of yours and in there you could read everything you had been so afraid to interpret the first time. There was pain and sadness, emotions that broke into her heart in ways you could only imagine, and then there was love. You looked away stepping back under the intensity of such a stare, you missed the broken smile on Scarlet’s face and the defeat she wore while facing Wanda again.
“I know, I think we will cope when the time for that comes.” Wanda nodded in understanding; her hands gleamed brighter than ever while Scarlet placed her hand on top of hers.
“I promised you I won’t give up.”
“Good, then let’s do this.”
The crimson mist grew around them glowing with a bright, red light making you trembled under the intensity of the magic. You could see America kneeling down, her eyes going wide open as they stare the scene unfolding before her eyes.
Wanda and Scarlet were no longer two different entities.
Standing before you was a single woman, her head was adorned with a red crown that made match with the bodice and the black leggings. Wanda stood there with magic coming from her hands, her eyes a deep shade of red that gathered the power you had always known she had in her. The woman stood still for a moment, she glanced at her body and her hands before her face lifted to stare at you.
You tried to hide your expression, your lips parting to speak but not words came out. Wanda hesitated before nodding her feet moving slowly until she turned around making her way to the fight.
“Is she gonna be okay?” America stood right beside you, squirting at the woman now using her magic to help her counterpart in the fight against Agatha.
“I think so…” You trailed off finally realizing that even though the both of them had finally become one, Wanda was still wearing the bruises and the exhaustion on her face.
“Are you okay?” America asked quite concern, you turned to her offering a half smile.
“I will be.” You sighed scratching the back of your neck. “Stay here and be careful.”
“What are you gonna do?” The teen asked slightly scare, you offered her a half smile turning towards the fight that was a tied between the Wandas and Agatha.
“What we came to do, just stay out of trouble and be ready to help us go back home, okay kiddo?”
America doubt there was anything she could do, but she didn’t contradict you. With a single nodded of her head she watched as you ran towards the fight, your shadows already creating a protective barrier around you and Wanda. Something, America though, you probably were not aware of.
Loki rolled his eyes once more, he was tired of hearing the fight going on in the meeting room while he stood by the window waiting for the right moment to intervene.
The world outside was highly active, Monday had always been one of the busiest days in the calendar and that day was not the exception. The young god leaned forward, his fingertips touching the window while his eyes observed the golden and green lights of the timelines. His eyes soon fell upon the one he did not recognise, a red line that he could not tamper with but that he was certain contained the answers to the questions everyone in the room were posing.
Loki turned around his eyes finding those of Billy who had not leave his side ever since Pietro brought him into the Avenger’s Tower. The young boy had his eyes narrowed, his hands playing with invisible threats only he could see.
For a brief moment, Loki stood there observing the child with growing curiosity. Billy was tapping the air with his fingertips, concentrated in something only visible to him. Loki frowned with his mind already forming an idea of what exactly was happening.
“Billy, what are you doing?” The question was low enough for the child to hear it but not for the rest of the room to notice it.
Billy lifted his face this time around his eyes went wide opened showing off the innocence of his age, but also the brightness he had inherited from both his mothers.
“Mommy always says to follow my instincts.” There was conviction in his tone, his hands tapping still as if waiting for something.
“And, what are they telling you?” Loki knelt to be on the same height of the child, Billy tilted his head creasing his brows before answering.
“Uncle Loki, momma and mommy need my help…look!”
Loki looked in the direction Billy was pointing to, he gasped with his eyes wide open and a smile forming on his lips.
“Billy you are a genius.” Billy offered a timid smile glancing at Loki shyly.
“Really?”
“Yes, and I think thanks to you we are going to be able to help Wanda and Y/N.” Loki could see the excitement in the little boy, he couldn’t help but smile back.
Without giving to much attention to the room, Loki sat right beside Billy closing his eyes before letting his magic to spread around. Billy was slightly confused at first, he had continued working on invisible threads trying to get into contact with them. Now there was something different, with his uncle sitting beside him Billy could sense the magic. He pressed his lips together before sitting down and, imitating Loki, he closed his eyes and just went with his instincts.
Whatever power she had tried to drain from Wanda and even Scarlet was no longer active to give her the stamina or even the strength to keep up with the fight. She was not even up to sustain the world she had created by tampering on the Chaos magic she could barely tolerate.
Wanda Maximoff gathered her power while circling the woman in front of her, she could feel the hurt she had created for her counterpart had reached out beyond the boundaries of the multiverse and it was something she would not tolerate. Beside her she could sense Y/N, a close shadow that was ready to jump in when necessary to offer protection and support; Wanda couldn’t help but smile.
“You won’t win.” Agatha tried to put up with a fight, she tried to hold onto the last threads of power inside her to get into the fight but she could no longer hold onto her powers for far too long.
You came from behind her your hands wrapping around her wrists while your shadows covered her feet spreading through her legs and body. Agatha was struggling, her eyes going wide open just as she started chanting in a language you did not recognize. Wanda opened her eyes wide, she stepped closer spreading her arms and chanting just the same, the runes trembling right above your head just before a myriad of images surrounded you breaking the darkness before going completely white.
“NO!” Agatha let out a guttural exclamation, her elbow hitting you square in the face but whatever strength she had in her to fight was haltered by your counterpart finishing what you started.
Wanda knew at that moment why she had been feared by Agatha, the power that was held inside her sent electric waves through her body. The power concentrated on her hand, and soon a single jewel showed on her palm while her counterpart continued with the ritual. The runes appeared right above her head, and without any indications, she started chanting as well.
You stepped back falling on your ass, blood rolling down your nose just as you saw the black figured being swallowed by the jewel. There was a moment of flickering lights and then, it stopped. Both Wanda’s stood right in front of the other, the jewel resting comfortably on the hand of Y/N’s wife.
The jewel took into a purplish colour, falling to the ground with a single thump.
The world went silent.
The darkness around you grew, with the stars twinkling right above your head.
Everything was still, with only your hard breathing breaking the tension around your ears. Your body was aching, your mind filled with memories of the past and the present all of them pilling up to overwhelmed you line of thoughts. You closed your eyes trying to forget and wait for everything to be back the way it was in the last year.
But you knew it was just an illusion.
Your world had been shaken up the moment Wanda and America showed up at your doorstep. The fight with Agatha brought back the memories you had tried to forget, it brought with it the truths you were not ready to face. You had always thought that you could outrun your motions, but the world has always taught you this was not possible. Not for someone like you, and certainly not for someone like Wanda.
When you opened your eyes you saw Wanda, your Wanda staring at you, but before anything could be done or said her eyes rolled back passing out of exhaustion. You caught up to her on time, her body falling on yours your face a mask of pure concern just as you ensure she rested comfortably on the ground.
You knew everyone was looking at you, but you decided to ignore them while checking Wanda over to make sure nothing else happened to her.
“Are you alright?” The other Wanda came to you, her voice sent shivers down your back, you didn’t dare to lift your eyes for fear of revealing far too much.
Instead, you nodded taking deep breaths while feeling the ground under your knees, without thinking too much about it, your hand brushed Wanda’s hair tenderly. The attention you were giving to her was something you never thought you would do again. The woman standing beside you shifted her weight and soon she was sitting right beside you; this time around you did turn around only to see her staring at you with big, curious eyes.
“She is still unconscious, but I believe she is no longer two halves of the same person.” Wanda lifted her face to the sky, her lips parting slightly. “Her magic is still erratic, but I believe she would be okay.”
“What about Agatha?” Your question entangled in your throat, scrunching up your nose you decided to conceal your emotions not ready to face the conversation or to address the white elephant hanging around you two.
“She will be trapped in this jewel until you and her decided what should be done with her.” Wanda handed over the jewel, you pursed your lips in disgust before grabbing the artifact.
“The book she had with her, it is the Darkhold, isn’t it?”
“It is.” You nodded this time around locking your eyes with hers.
“Are you taking it with you?”
Wanda broke into an easy smile shaking her head, “it’s not mine but yours. It would be better off in your world, where it belongs.”
“It should be destroyed.” You leaned back resting your hands on the ground.
“It should, but that would be your prerogative not ours.”
Your eyes drifted around the place before they settled on America and Y/N, both of them were engaged in a heavy discussion and you could teel this was the moment America had been waiting for a very long time. The feelings of guiltiness and sadness had been quite evident in her when you two met, right now this was the chance the young woman was waiting for to make amends. To reach for forgiveness.
“So, any idea how we are going to leave this place?”
Wanda nodded leaning back until she pointed to America and your counterpart.
“She is ready to use her powers, I believe she is the only one that can help us right now.”
Not sooner had Wanda said this the world started to tremble, the light of the stars flickered until they disappeared one by one. You straightened up with Wanda standing up as soon as she noticed this.
“I guess…we should try it right now.” You stood up turning to glance at the darkened world, everything was coming in and out of reality with the ground shaking for small periods of time.
“It was a matter of time.” Wanda placed a hand on your forearm, you couldn’t help the tension on your muscles the other woman softened her features stepping closer. “You will be back, and she will need help to recover from this.”
“I know.”
“Are you ready for that?” The question caught you off guard, you knew what was expected of you and what you could do with the woman that had broken your heart at some point.
You could hide behind that excuse until the end of time, but it would run out of any validity at some point. Sooner or later, you knew you would have to face Wanda and decisions must be made. The Wanda standing before you softened her features, her words would made your mind pound with the imminent decisions you would need to make.
“How deep is your anger, and how deep goes your love for you to not face what your heart already knows?” Wanda leaned in and you found yourself in a embrace you didn’t know you miss. Her voice was just a whisper, but it was everything you needed at the moment. “I won’t tell you what to do, but I will tell you my love to follow your instincts. They had never failed you.”
America glanced around the group with a nervous smile.
She glanced at her hands then back at you and Y/N, the words of encouragement were ringing inside her head while she tried to gather the courage to move onto the next step.
“Just think about it, kiddo.” Y/N stated grabbing the hand of her wife, America almost winced at those words because her mind had been a myriad of thoughts since they delegate the task of going back home on her.
You fixed the unconscious woman in your arms, putting her closer to you while looking over at America. The young woman closed her eyes, ready to open the portal when Wanda stopped her.
“Wait, America.” The redhead stepped closer placing her hand on America’s shoulder. “Remember, it is more than opening a portal, is about opening the right one.”
“I know, I know…it’s just…easier said than done.” America pursed her lips, she took a deep breath closing her eyes.
“Then, let yourself be guided by your emotions and what you remember of the place you want to go to.” Wanda squeezed the shoulder of the teen tenderly, and for that brief moment America felt it.
It was vague but it was there.
The same kind of energy she had felt on Wanda and Y/N, it was familiar yet different. She had felt it when she first fell upon that universe, the twins had carried with them a strange kind of energy that seemed to engulf the best of Wanda and Y/N.
America closed her eyes and, without thinking to much, she followed the familiarity of that energy. Her mind bringing over the memories of her time in that land, finally easing out her fears and trusting in the women she had surrounding her.
The young woman clenched her fist, and with a single punch she opened the star-shaped portal.
wolcred 4.4 fic (I SWEAR it's wolcred I promise it's been 20k+ words and they haven't even been in the same scene yet but shhhh it'll get there)
presenting -> aureia's life exploding in the worst way possible. Contextually she did just get blown up by a smoke bomb in the plaza in front of the Ala Mhigan palace. bc her timeline moves forward it's been 11 years since the Calamity and her desertion from the Empire.
Aureia rolls across the pavement, smoke in her lungs and acid in her throat.
She lands on her stomach and coughs, aching from an impact she does not remember taking. Her ears ring, her head aches, her vision blurs—in this moment nothing exists save the roiling smoke engulfing her. Another cough racks her body, suffocating pain flaring through her lungs. A weight presses on her chest as though she were being crushed by debris.
Her eyes stream. Her lips part and she tastes iron on her tongue, blood welling from a split in the dried skin. The buzzing in her ears swells in a crescendo, a symphony to the sound of war. Her fingers curl inwards, scraping against rock and stone, pulling dirt beneath her fingernails.
From the pounding in her head, she is certain the Echo is at fault, sweeping her away in another poorly timed vision. But this is no vision, no Blessing, no gift. The blast was real and not even Hydaelyn will see fit to interfere now.
Please. She pulls in a ragged breath, then another. Please. If you can hear me now at all… Please… help me…
There is no answer.
A shadow emerges from the depths, cruel light glinting off the daggers at his hips.
No. Her thoughts are sluggish, but panic strikes through her chest like a knife to the heart. It can’t be.
Thud.
Boots on flagstones, coming closer.
Thud.
“Kira, Kira, Kira.”
It can’t be him.
“Nothing to say, hm?”
Anyone but him.
“Nothing at all?”
In a panic, she drags herself forward. A stinging rip ripples down her forearms as her skin scrapes against stone.
“Is this how you treat family after all this time?”
Too late.
A boot collides with her stomach. Pain bursts through her body, bright and hot as the momentum flips her onto her back. She opens her eyes, staring dumbly at the swirls of smoke and the dizzying spires of the royal palace stretching high above. The shadow looms over her, a flash of a grin vanishing as dark hair falls across his face.
Just a shadow. A memory. He can’t be real. He can’t be here.
He is dead, after all. She killed him herself.
“Oh, I see. You thought me dead, didn’t you?” Without warning, he drops—a knee slams into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. “You should have taken a closer look. Done your due diligence. They trained you better than that—”
“Get—off—”
“Ah—ah—ah—” A whisper of steel hisses in her ears and a cool, sharp edge presses against her throat. “Not until you say hello. It’s been so long—”
She whimpers, trying to throw him off her. His knee digs deeper into her chest.
“Eleven years by my count. Where is your sense of propriety? Elgara would not be pleased.”
At the mention of their mother’s name she may as well been drenched with a bucket of ice water. She grits her teeth, a snarl rumbling in the back of her throat as clarity finally rushes back in. The city. The sense of dread, the apprehension—a part of her was screaming that something was wrong, but she didn’t stop to listen. She was too busy feeling sorry for herself.
She should have known better.
“If you think you can touch the Eorzean Alliance, you’re a fool,” she croaks. “You won’t get through. Even if you tried, they’ll stop you—”
He laughs. “No one can stop me, Kira. Not you. Not your beloved Alliance. Not even those as powerful as Raubahn Aldynn or… oh, I don’t know, Aymeric de Borel, hm?” Ruby eyes glint. “If I had orders to kill every last one of them, I could do it. You know that. You know the shape it would take. For it would be the very method you would choose if you hadn’t folded to your cowardice—”
“Shut up—”
The dagger digs into her throat, breaking skin. “Would you like to know a secret?”
“No.”
He leans in close, dark hair falling about his shoulders. For the first time since she stabbed him in the chest, she has a clear view of his face. Pale skin weathered by a life spent outdoors. A thin, ragged scar across his forehead—she was with him in Golmore when a guerrilla huntress struck him in the face. He is older now, like her, with more lines between his brows and creases around his eyes. The beard is new, but some things remain the same. The curved, cruel mouth of their father and the calculating, arrogant brow of their mother.
And just like their parents, he tastes the sweetness of victory all too soon.
“Your Alliance?” he whispers. “They can keep their lives for all I care. The Emperor will claim them soon enough. I am not here for them. I’m here for you.”
Her lips twist into a dark smile. “Good. Hello, Kal.”
She pulls her knee into her chest and kicks him in the chin.
How would htp!Tango go with the bit from Limited Life episode 4 when he's running from everyone?
How would it be different from the actual scene?
(not canon to HTP ofc because the timelines don’t match up but HEY i like angst)
"tango!" skizz calls desperately, peering out over the ocean. he could’ve sworn he’d heard tango’s voice when he came this way, but the range of amplification their voices get from the proximity mod can be a little tricky sometimes-
“skizz?”
tango’s voice crackles out of skizz’s communicator; he must be in range, after all. but skizz doesn’t relax just yet. crouching by the water’s edge, he scans the waves intently. his grip tightens around his axe.
"alright, where are you, dude?" he asks, voice low. he keeps the horizon in his periphery; he can just barely make out the horde of yellow names off on the distant shore, digging and searching for tango.
“r- right below you.” tango’s voice is shaky; probably from the adrenaline. being hunted by almost the entire server isn’t exactly a picnic. “where- is impulse with you? or- or etho?”
skizz shakes his head, even though he knows tango can’t see it. “no dude, they’re running interference, okay, but it won’t be long before the others see me over here.” he swallows. “you gotta let me kill you.”
there’s a brief silence.
“okay.” tango’s voice is barely audible. the tone of it gives skizz pause; that sounds like more than just nerves. “okay, o- okay, fine, i’m- i’m fine with that.”
“are you?” skizz asks, his brows furrowing.
“i…” there’s a shuddering exhale. “i don’t- i’d rather it be you, if- if i’m honest. the others, they might…” he breaks off, making a distressed sound in the back of his throat. “y- you know.”
there’s definitely something wrong. skizz’s heart is starting to pound, but he keeps his voice steady. “alright, yeah. this is gonna stick it to them so bad.” he lifts his communicator up and peers through its lens. “can you give me a quick tag, buddy?”
tango doesn’t reply, but skizz sees the flash of a gamer tag beneath the ocean before it vanishes again. tango’s not taking any chances, apparently. not that skizz can blame him.
“you’re pretty deep underwater, dude,” skizz informs him regretfully. “and i don’t- ugh, i don’t have my stupid shovel.”
tango inhales sharply. “i- i can’t- uh, can you…?”
“okay,” skizz murmurs. he knows tango won’t be harmed by water like a real blaze, but it’s uncomfortable even on the best of days and that’d be a lot to ask of him right now. “alright, i’ll come to you. stay put, okay?”
“okay,” tango whispers.
“there a hole for me, buddy?” skizz asks, putting his axe away.
“yes.”
“alright.” skizz straightens up, folding his wing tightly against his body. even one wing will cause a lot of drag underwater and he’s already not looking forward to soggy feathers. “i’m on my way, just hang on.”
taking a deep breath, skizz dives into the ocean.
salt stings his eyes as he swims towards the sand at the bottom. it’s darker down here than he’s expecting for midday, only the faint glow from his halo allowing him to see. he starts digging as soon as he reaches the bottom, hoping he’s in the right place. he’s acutely aware of how long he can hold his breath for and the last thing he needs is a stupid drowning death to steal even more time from him-
a figure enters his field of vision, making him jolt. it’s scott, his freshly yellow timer barely visible in the deep. still holding his breath, skizz equips his axe.
scott actually rolls his eyes. “i’m not gonna kill him, don’t worry.” his voice carries well underwater, and he doesn’t seem to have trouble breathing. must be due to those recently acquired gills of his.
well, that’s fortunate. skizz nods quickly and puts his axe away before resuming his digging. to his surprise, scott floats down next to him and starts helping, his webbed fingers making easy work of the sand. after a couple seconds, they’ve cleared enough sand for skizz to see a hold in the underlying stone, with a faint light beyond it. lungs burning, skizz dives for it.
he makes it through right as the first damage hits him, head breaking through the water with a gasp. kicking against the current, he finally emerges from the ocean. gravity once again takes hold of him. he flops onto the damp stone floor quite ungracefully, his wing heavy and pulling him slightly off-balance.
skizz hauls himself to his feet, dripping wet and catching his breath, and looks around the cave tango’s carved out for himself. it’s tiny, with just three blocks between them, and lit only by the glow of tango’s blaze rods. they’re redder than usual and roaring with flames, whirling above his head in agitation- the way a blaze spins before it starts shooting fireballs.
tango himself doesn’t seem to be doing any better. he’s crouched against a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, claws digging into his skin. his pupils are blown, so much so that it almost makes his wide eyes look completely black. his chest is rising and falling rapidly, and the noise that comes with each breath sounds disturbingly like a blaze. his mouth hangs slightly parted as he pants, lips drawn back to show his sharp teeth- like a wolf does. but there’s no ferocity in his expression; just sick fear.
altogether, the sight sends a chill down skizz’s spine. it’s like he’s looking at an animal; a cornered, terrified, wild animal. there have been things in the past tango’s reacted strangely to, sure, but skizz has never seen it this bad before. god, he wishes impulse was here.
“hey, tango,” skizz says softly.
for a moment, tango just stares at skizz. then his eyes dart to the side, to the hole in the stone. belatedly, skizz realizes what’s got tango so concerned.
“scott,” he calls carefully, keeping his gaze on tango, “just uh, just stay out there, okay, dude?”
a dark shadow passes by the hole before vanishing. “you’re fine, just get on with it!”
skizz swallows. he stays where he is. “tango, buddy, you okay? talk to me.”
tango’s gaze cuts back to skizz. “is martyn…?”
“no, no martyn,” skizz assures him.
tango takes a shaky breath. “i killed him,” he says hoarsely. “he- he’ll want revenge. and- and the other yellows- you have to kill me, before they find me. skizz, please.”
“hey, hey, hey, it’s alright,” skizz soothes, despite the way his heart feels like it’s twisting itself into a knot. he never thought tango would fear the other players so badly; these are his friends. “you got it. what do you- uh, how do you want me to do it?”
“TNT?” tango asks quietly. “if you light it…”
“alright, yeah, i got some TNT,” skizz says, rummaging through his inventory and pulling out a block of it. “here, uh- you wanna just take that?”
warily, tango teaches a clawed hand out and takes the TNT. he sets it down right in front of him, flush against his folded knees.
“tango?” skizz prompts gently, pulling out his flint and steel. “i need to hear you say it, buddy.”
tango shudders. “do it,” he whispers, turning his face away. “you can kill me, you- i- i just want it to be over.”
“okay, thank you,” skizz murmurs, taking a cautious step forward. “that’s right, dude. after this, it’ll all be over. i’ll come find you at spawn, okay?”
“okay."
“i’ll see ya there. now, count to five for me?"
tango swallows. “one…”
skizz lights the TNT. the sound of sizzling fills the air as the TNT starts to flash.
"t- two..."
putting the flint and steel away, skizz turns and dives back through the hole, into the ocean. tango's voice still sounds from his communicator.
"three..."
kicking madly, skizz swims towards the surface, where scott is waiting.
"four-"
BOOM.
skizz breaks the surface, gasping for breath. he glances back down and sees a new crater at the bottom of the ocean, water and sand churning into a froth. treading water with one arm, he holds his communicator up and looks at the chat.
Tango blew up.
scott gives skizz a sidelong look. "i know how hard it is to let a teammate kill you," he says, his voice low, "but that seemed..."
"scott, buddy," skizz says tiredly, heading for the shore, "keep this between us, will ya?"
The way I see the Dan thing is that CW saw many timelines where Danny slowly slips into bad habbits by loosing his integrity, not talking to Jazz, drifting from his family and other stuff. But he's too Bound to Rules to interfere directly so he engeneers a sacrificial timeline that lets him steer things to the better by influencing Danny, Jazz and Lancer. So he meddles to make Dan something Danny would strongly want to avoid becoming but could still defeat.
^^^
It’s something that’s only really occurred to me kinda recently. But yeah, Clockwork is probably more involved with Dan existing than we see.
I’ve mentioned it in tags, but a theory I have is that Clockwork more or less created Dan so that the Danny we follow ends up being, well, more heroic! I’m not saying the events that would lead up to Dan’s existence wouldn’t happen without interference, but it makes more sense if they only got that escalated because there WAS time shenanigans.
It’s been a bit since I’ve seen TUE, so I might get some details wrong, but. In basics—Dan (Dark Danny, but for sake of ease we’re calling him Dan) exists because of the following factors: he cheats on a Very Importanf Test; Lancer organizes a meeting with Maddie and Jack at, of all places, the Nasty Burger; Jazz, Sam, and Tucker are also there, I think to defend him?; there’s an explosion caused by sauce vat getting too hot; they literally all die, deader than Danny; Danny goes into Vlad’s custody; Danny convinces Vlad to take out his emotions or kill them down by taking out his ghost half (which is my best interpretation of how exactly they thought it would works-fun fact, this is probably why there’s so many theories and headcanons about ghosts feeling things more strongly in fanon, cause I honestly don’t know what else they expected would happen if they WEREN’T aiming to separate his ghost half); the ghost, now called Dan, kills off the human half, takes out VLAD’S ghost half, and absorbs it, not necessarily in that exact order but yeah; Dan devastates the world in a little under ten years.
Now, cheating on the CAT? Requires the answer sheet that Danny only gets because he’s fighting one of the villains Clockwork sent back. It could’ve happened anyways—but it didn’t. We don’t see how else he could have gotten them. We also don’t see how else that explosive vat gets that close to a heat source.
I don’t know WHY Lancer would choose a fast food chain restaurant. Maybe it’s because he wants to help and see if he can get Danny a retest, or help, or what have you, rather than, idk, expelled, and so meeting officially at school wouldn’t work. Point is, he chooses there. If I recall, I think that bit of exposition came from Vlad? Who wasn’t even THERE. And Danny? He’s used to lying. We can’t actually say if that’s the full truth. I’m not sure why Vlad wouldn’t be told the truth, later, even if Danny gave a different story to the police—or it’s close enough that Danny wouldn’t feel like bothering.
Keep in mind, all those major parts? Danny getting the answers, the meeting, the explosion? All happen. The only reason they don’t die is because Clockwork saves them.
An interesting thing is that Dan takes Danny’s place to ensure he cheats, to ensure this happens.
Which… why? Even if Danny now knows, thanks to inexplicably alive Vlad in the future, why is Dan so persistent that it HAS to go like this? To ensure he exists?
I think it’s cause THAT’S what happened the first time. Dan does what he does, knows who Clockwork is, recognizes the time medallions, because this is LITERALLY what happens. Dan believes he’s inevitable, that he’s in a stable time loop, because Clockwork was interfering the FIRST time. It’s possible that Dan, back when he was Danny, knew he became a villain. And maybe, in some timelines, he becomes a tragic hero. There’s a whole bunch of fanfic where this happens. Particularly crossovers. But in Dan’s, he decides to stop fighting it. Fighting it caused the mess, right? Might as WELL embrace it.
So he convinces Vlad, doesn’t tell him the whole truth, gets separated into parts, kills his human half, absorbs Vlad’s ghost half, and leaves Vlad alone. Because he knows that he meets Vlad in the future. And so he needs to be left alone, so that the loop continues. He knows he needs to develop that ability to warp into other versions of himself, so he does it. He knows he gets a ghostly wail—possibly already developed it, but lost it when he first got separated into a full ghost—eventually, so he’ll be patient. He knows he’ll get a round two, and better yet, he’s seen the script. He knows what to say, what to do, and knows what Danny is going to say and going to do.
And it all goes… pretty much according to plan. Even Danny getting the wail early can be brushed aside or accounted for—Dan might’ve forgotten, between all the murders and destruction, lost some ability when he lost his human half. Maybe it’s just a slight variation, but everything else is still happening.
The major difference? For Danny, Clockwork saved everyone.
For Dan, he didn’t.
It’s a story about timelines. We’ve seen alternate timelines, things effected by time travel, how even if it’s sucks there IS a way things are supposed to go. It’s entirely possible that Dan IS from a stable time loop. He might even have his OWN version of a Dan stuck in a thermos that Clockwork takes.
This explains Dan’s motives, more or less. These qualities, of being sure he’s a villain because he’s seen it, would also make him good at being a sort of… time enforcer? Danny did a couple of time travel stints, but didn’t seem to care much for it. Dan would understand necessary things might be unpleasant for a stable future.
But why would Clockwork even BOTHER? Because in Dan’s timeline, the timeline I propose above, then Clockwork is the whole REASON this happens. Heck, Dan might even be trying to destroy Earth, cause that would destroy the Ghost Zone, which would probably destroy Clockwork.
Simply put? Basically, your idea above, anon. Danny is a heroic character, but as much as fanon likes to push aside some of his… less desirable traits, some of which CAN be attributed to canon bad/weird writing as well as the time in came out at, Danny does have faults. He has flaws. And those can be pushed. Danny hears constantly that he was a villain, especially at the start. His grades suffer, his goals suffer, his relationships with EVERYONE suffer. That has to take a toll. There’s probably quite a few timelines where he turns bad all on his own. There’s probably even more where something or someone does take him out. There’s some where him never facing himself caused him to not develop more heroic qualities or abilities or something. Despite everything, he’s an optimist of sorts. It might not be perfect, but if he tries, it’ll work out for him, something that’s kinda developed and proven because he’s a protagonist in a kid’s cartoon. A true loss would effect him greatly.
Dan is the epitome of all the ways Danny’s stress would elevate any loss that shattered his optimist that he ended up with.
Danny is the epitome of having to LITERALLY face the worst version of yourself, and somehow both lose AND still win. He’s a hero who literally defeated himself at his worst and most powerful.
And that, THAT is the kind of hero Clockwork wants…. For whatever reason Clockwork wants a hero like that. We don’t even know if this is their ‘prime’ timeline. It’s just the one we see. This could very well be the ONLY timeline where Danny stays a full hero character. We do not know.
TLDR; I like Clockwork, but he’s a little sus and probably engineered Dan’s entire existence to the point that DAN HIMSELF is compliant in his own ruining of his younger self, and there’s now at least a split timeline between Timeline Where Clockwork Saved Danny’s Support Network and the timeline where he DIDN’T.
An Attempt to Explain Noah’s Character part 1: Clearing Up Some Misunderstandings Caused by Mistranslations
First thing first, there are two main English translations for Nemo/Noah’s Profile: the Reddit one and the one in Beast’s Lair. No matter how bad his Profile is, I think it was too overblown by Sakurai+Arcade haters. Especially when a mistranslation made him creepier than he should be. (He’s still creepy but in a more pitiable way. I’ll explain in a later post.)
There are two major points that I need to address:
1. ペア and “Shipping”
The word ペア appears twice in Nemo/Noah’s Profile
(Profile 2) 無意識にマスターとのペアものをほしがりまくる。
(Profile 3) セーターでもマグカップでも、なんでもペアでないと気が済まない。
Let’s focus on the Profile 2 one first because it’s the one that affects him the most. The sentence in both translations are translated as something along the lines of:
“He unconsciously wants to pair Master up / to be paired with Master”
BOTH TRANSLATIONS ARE WRONG!!!!
It should have been:
“He unconsciously wants to have paired/matching things with Master”
This is because the translations are assuming that ペア and もの are not compound word ペアもの (paired things). This mistranslation caused people to think that Noah is a shipper both metaphorically and literally, while in reality he’s just a collector of matching things. Because, you know, he was tasked by God to collect a pair of every animals to be put into the Ark.
If you check Nemo’s and Noah’s lines and a certain stage in Chaldea Summer Garden, both of them made mentions of お揃い (matching) and ペアルック (paired look). The mention of sweaters and mug(cup)s in his Profile 3 reinforces that yes, it’s only limited to goodies. Though admittedly, the Profile should’ve used ペアグッズ (paired goods) in order to not fool the (machine?) translation.
Ah yes, speaking of Profile 3 one, there is no mention of Noah considering unpaired things to be “unforgivable offense”. He’s just displeased at worst. The sentence literally translates to: “From sweaters to mugcups, he’s not going to be satisfied until they are in a pair”
Moreover, if his writer(s) intended Noah to be a matchmaker, the Profile would’ve used マッチ instead of ペア. Those two words have different connotations in Japan.
2. Was it a retcon that he was barred to enter instead of defeated the moment he entered?
What Noah said in Babylon post-Raid section:
この地に召喚された時､僕はビーストVIに引き裂かれていてね - “When I was summoned into this land, I was torn apart/cut off by Beast VI”
What his Profile said:
ビーストVIの妨害によりノア単体の召喚はかなわず - “due to Beast VI’s interference Noah can’t be summoned alone”
The sentences explain each other, and the latter specifically points out that Noah can’t be summoned as a single entity in Arcade “timeline”. Well, without some sorts of vessel or connection, as we’ve seen with Lion King (who only appeared because she’s tethering on the connection between Ozymandias and Medjed, and she had to use regular Lancer Altria vessel on top of that), Tiamat (who had to make a Larva vessel), Nebuchadnezzar II (who had a Caster Gilgamesh clone body prepared by Draco), and King Hassan (who tagged along with Proto Merlin). Proto Merlin is an exception because she’s Proto Merlin.
Well, it’s a matter of phrasing, really. Being “barred” doesn’t always mean that it’s a harmless prohibition.
Ectober Haunt 27/ Ectober Week 3: Cobweb vs Burial
Rating: G
Words: 978
Characters: Clockwork, Sam Manson, Tucker Foley
Other tags: Ghost lore, Clockwork can’t just explain things, coming to terms with death, restless spirit
Clockwork needs to explain to Sam and Tucker how they can help Danny, but he has to find a way around the rules that the Observants have made for him.
Read on AO3 here.
The signs were all there from the very beginning. The wild power swings, the shifting moods. The fear and denial and paranoia. The inability to stop moving, stop pursuing a goal. If anyone had treated Phantom like a regular ghost, they would have realized that something was wrong with him immediately. Perhaps his half-human nature had kept him together when any other ghost would have reached the breaking point.
Unfortunately, the symptoms of suddenly becoming half-ghost were strikingly similar to the traits of a restless spirit.
Clockwork had known the whole time, of course. He had hoped that the timeline would work out in a more fortuitous manner, so that he wouldn’t have to interfere. It had been a possibility, though a slim one. Now the boy’s friends were at his door, looking for answers.
He opened the door as Sam put her hand up to knock. She glared at him. Her makeup was sloppy, smudged, put on more to keep up appearances than because she wanted to wear it.
“What’s wrong with him?” she demanded. Tucker held back, glancing around as if expecting that Danny would swoop down upon them at any moment.
Clockwork appreciated that Sam was trying to get to the point, but if she tried to fix things without understanding what was going on, the outcomes could be unpleasant. “Please, come in. He cannot enter here so long as I do not wish it.” Clockwork moved aside and ushered the humans into the tower.
Every second he could see possible timelines rising and falling. Each hesitation or lack thereof led to another possibility. Most differences weren’t actually important, but they were differences worth acknowledging. Whether Tucker took the blue seat or stood up did not actually matter - there were good outcomes and poor ones from each branch. Much more concerning was Sam’s impatience. If she took him for being too pompous, she would try to find her own answers. Incorrect answers, which would probably end with her dead and Danny unable to be saved.
Tucker took the green seat, as it happened.
“I cannot tell you what you need to do,” Clockwork said. This would have been much easier if he could have just told the poor children what they had to do, but the damnable Observants prevented him from outright explaining “ghostly secrets” to humans. Clockwork’s form shifted smoothly from elderly to middle-aged as he spoke. Normally he didn’t bother controlling his form, letting it go from one age to another randomly. Humans and younger ghosts were more unnerved by it, so he made more of an effort around them. “I can only explain the situation so you understand.”
“I’m listening,” Sam said, arms crossed. She did not take a seat.
“Have you ever read Antigone?” Clockwork asked. This got a scowl from Sam. He knew she had, and she knew he knew she had. “What was the reason that Antigone betrays her father’s wishes?”
“To bury her brothers. What does that have to do with… with Danny?” There was a hint of understanding in the way her eyes widened, but she needed something a little more concrete.
“Are you saying we need to bury Danny?” Tucker interjected. “But he’s not dead! Well, not entirely.”
Clockwork shook his head. “Listen before you jump to any conclusions, please.” He tapped his staff on the ground. “The ancient Greeks believed that most ghosts were the result of bodies left unburied. This is not true, but it also was not entirely wrong.” That was as close as he could get to truly explaining a restless spirit with the Observants' bindings on him.
The human children reacted in different, but equally interesting ways. Sam sighed to herself and crossed her arms tighter, so that she appeared to be hugging herself briefly. Tucker was more expressive. He leapt up and stomped in front of Clockwork.
“Danny isn’t deceased, though! Sure, he died in the portal, but he came back! Is everyone who came back to life some ticking timebomb?”
“Tucker, that’s not true.” Sam said softly. “You know it. He didn’t just die and come back to life. He’s not alive. He’s not dead, but he’s not really alive, either.”
“But that-” Tucker turned to her with hands raised like he meant to gesture, but he dropped them when he saw her face. She was uncharacteristically reserved. Downcast eyes were the only real sign of what Sam was feeling. Clockwork wasn’t the best at judging emotions, but if he had to guess he would say it was a bitter acceptance.
“You’re right,” Tucker admitted to her. “I didn’t want to think about it, but… he really did die, didn’t he?” The fight went out of him, and he gently put a hand on Sam’s arm. She pulled him into a hug. Clockwork did not listen while they whispered about their sorrow. It wasn’t his place. Instead he watched the timelines around them rise and fall while he waited for them to come to a decision.
Sam’s eyes were red when she turned back to him. “What do we need to do? Some kind of funeral?”
“Perhaps,” Clockwork answered. He tapped a clock, turning its face into a screen. Danny’s bedroom showed on it, with all his many rockets. “In many cases, when a body cannot be found, someone will use a proxy.”
“But we have to bury something?” Tucker asked.
Clockwork shook his head. “There are cultures that don’t utilize burials like yours. Fire and water work as well as earth.”
Sam reached up and tapped the screen, her finger lingering on a Saturn V rocket booster. “I think I understand. It’s about the ritual, not the body. Something to tell the soul that it’s not really alive anymore.”
“It’s possible,” Clockwork said noncommittally. She was so close to the truth. Hopefully, close enough to make it work.
