THE LONDON CATHEDRAL WAS NOTHING SHORT OF... INSANE. Calla's eyes had wandered up to the pinnacle of the ceiling and were tracing the fixtures lined with gold leaf and stained glass. She was sandwiched comfortably between Sam and Natasha, whose silent gaze drifted around the crowded room full of presumably all of the people that Peggy Carter had impacted during her life - just incase. As Natasha liked to constantly remind them, "looking over your shoulder has to become a second nature."

But, as much as Calla wanted to be supportive for Steve (she knew exactly what it felt like to lose a loved one), she found her mind desperately wandering for a place that didn't make her want to curl up into a ball and mutter various explicatives under her breath, that the good church-goers of London probably didn't want to hear.  As soon as Calla had stepped through the dark oakwood doorway of the cathedral and her flats pitter-pattered against the marble floor, it was the noise that had caught her off guard, first. The hard soles of her black, patent leather shoes connecting with the floor; the soft clacking that echoed all the way up into rafters and washed over the room like a tidal wave. 

 Now, she didn't know what PTSD was supposed to feel like, but if she had to guess, that would be the feeling. It catches you off guard when you least expect it - when all you're trying to do is exist in a world that pretty much sucks most of the time. It grips your lungs and wrings all the air out of them, holding them flat for a few seconds afterward as you attempt to wheeze and gasp for breath. Your legs go numb - no stabbing pins and needles, no jolts of pain - just motionless. You're stuck in place, and nothing and no one can move you along because you're trapped, until your mind has had enough fun and lets you go for a while, so you don't attract too much of a scene. And yes, the heavy, unsteady feeling slowly travels to your heart, but by then you've found that you can move your limbs again and your lungs rise and fall with each shallow breath you take, so you try not to pay any mind to the fear that has begun to course through your veins.  Suddenly, Calla felt like she was that goddamn little, shaking ten-year-old girl again, attending her mother's funeral with a monotonous priest and a few middle-aged, balding, male coworkers from her mom's work whom had obviously had a little too much to drink. All within the span of no more than six seconds. And then she quickly picked up the pace and followed along behind Natasha and Sam and smushed herself in between their warm shoulders.

So . . . sue her for being just a tad bit preoccupied.

As a crowd began to surge through the center aisle, Calla noticed Steve holding a section of the Union Jack cladded coffin, before the pallbearers drifted off to take their seats like everyone else. As Steve filled the gap next to Sam, Calla forced her gaze to flicker over to him, trying to muster up her best attempt at a reassuring smile. It probably looked more like a pained grimace, but hey - it's the thought that counts, right?

"And now, I would like to invite Sharon Carter up to say a few words," the priest's sturdy voice boomed out over the pews. 

Callas eyebrows raised upon seeing the blonde-haired agent walk up to the stage. "Didn't her and Steve, like, bang?" she muttered under her breath with widened eyes, no doubt catching the eyes of Sam and Natasha, who audibly cleared their throats to distract the people sitting around them. 

"Dude, you're like twelve, how do you even know this?" Sam replied, hand traveling up to his mouth to stifle the smirk that had appeared. "But yeah, probably."

Natasha, however, promptly poked Calla in the side as the girl had begun to snicker, sending her chest toppling forward onto her knees with a grunt. "Violence is uncalled for, Nat."

Sharon walked up to the podium, taking a breath before looking down at her hands. "Margaret Carter was known to most as a founder of SHIELD . . . but I just knew her as Aunt Peggy."

Calla's eyes immediately snapped to Steve, who had taken a visibly surprised breath, and her hand clamped over her nostrils so that the impending laugh would be trapped in her throat. "Oh, my-"

"She had a photograph in her office: Aunt Peggy standing next to JFK. As a kid, that was pretty cool, but it was a lot to live up to - which is why I never told anyone we were related," Sharon's eyes moved to Steve, "I asked her once how she managed to master diplomacy and espionage in a time when no one wanted to see a woman succeed at either; and she said, compromise where you can. But where you can't, don't. Even if everyone is telling you that something wrong is something right. Even if the whole world is telling you to move . . . it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree, look them in they eye and say 'no, you move.'"

Calla took a shaky breath, turning her cheek just barely to the side so that she caught Sam's and Steve's attention. She had finally realized what she wanted to do. "I'm gonna help you get Bucky back. I-I want to see him just as much as you do . . . but I-I'm not fighting against the Accords. And I'm not advocating for them, either. If I have to watch my friends - my, um, family - fight each other over something that you all refuse to fix as a team, then I'm gonna do my part to at least make sure none of you hurt each other like the stubborn idiots you're being," the teen whispered, and shifted back toward the front of the room. 

Natasha squeezed her hand after that.

-•-•-

After the ceremony ended, the pews quickly thinned out - even Sam went to go start up the Quinjet - until the only people that remained were Steve, Natasha and Calla in the afternoon-sunlit cathedral that had the overwhelmingly potent scent of frankincense. 

With a sigh, Steve stood up and walked into the middle of the aisle, and Natasha was quick to follow him. Calla, however, felt like absolute death at the moment (well, and in most moments, but that's not important right now). With each person that left the cathedral, the teen knew that they were closer and closer to going their separate ways. Natasha - Calla's newly realized guardian - would be off to Vienna to sign the Accords, while Steve, Sam and Calla would be off on a Bucky rescue mission.

Calla heard Steve shift on his feet. "When I came out of the ice, I thought everyone I had known was gone. Then I found out that she was alive. I was just lucky to have her."

"She had you back, too," Natasha replied, her usually stoic voice appearing softer.

Steve exhaled. "Who else signed?"

"Tony. Rhodey. Vision."

"Clint?"

"Says he's retired," Natasha said as a barely audible chuckle fell from her lips, knowing full well that the man could never stay still for too long. 

"Wanda?"

Natasha sighed. "TBD. I'm about to head off to Vienna for the signing of the Accords. There's plenty of room on the jet," she offered, her voice just a little bit louder than before and Calla knew that the offer was still open for her, as well. But she couldn't take it. "Just because it's the path of least resistance doesn't mean it's the wrong path. Staying together is more important than how we stay together." 

It almost sounded as if the woman was trying to convince herself of that, too. 

Calla placed a hand on the back of the sweaty pew she had been sitting in, and turned around to offer one last unreadable look. "I know you can't change your mind about the Accords, Steve," the teen spoke evenly, "but we don't stand a chance if we can't work something out. As long as there're two sides of an argument, there will always be a loser."

"What are we giving up to do it?" Steve sighed as he shook his head, seemingly unconvinced. "I'm sorry, Nat, Cal. I can't sign it."

Calla nodded, already knowing that there was no chance of ever convincing him of bending his morals just in the name of staying together. He would always fight for what he believed in. It was one of the things that Calla admired most about him, but could never relate to. She wasn't as fortunate as him in that aspect. They had both lost so much in life, but the one thing that Calla could never move on from was losing her mom and sister, just like Steve had lost Bucky.

But . . . Steve still had a chance to get his fallen friend back. Calla didn't. All she had left were the Avengers, and there was no way that this fight would end well. God, all Calla wanted was for her family to just stick together and continue saving the goddamn world together like they were fucking supposed to. 

Calla closed her eyes, rubbing a stiff hand over them as she scrunched up her nose in existential frustration. A heavy hand landing on her shoulder, however, snapped her back to reality: Steve.

The girl's eyes overtly glanced around the room, no doubt looking for Natasha, but Steve just continued to hold her shoulder. "She had to leave - but she told me to tell you to remember what she mentioned last night - whatever that means. I take it you two had a talk?"

'. . . Just be safe.'

Though the whole situation made her feel like she had just downed a whole bottle of NyQuil during the day, a small grin managed to tug at her features. "Yeah," she chuckled, "yeah, you could say that."

Steve smiled. "Come on, kid. Let's go get Buck back."

-•-•-

a/n;
i want to fuckin
h*g one miss calla
wolfe-romanoff pls

are ya'll ready for
some buckycal
content >:) they're
soft buddies