It's been almost a week since my first therapy session with Dr. Beckett. Although I have discovered what the man's name was, I have yet to piece together any memories involving him. I'm still grappling with the blank spaces in my memory, but this is a phenomenon that I've dealt with for a while now. However, I'm still trekking through this new phase of my life, even if these quiet moments of mine drive me insane. Like I said before, many years ago, the term 'safe' isn't something I'm accustomed to. In my life, I have endured a harsh regime dictated by my abusive father. In the hands of Hydra, I was a weapon. And I lived a life on the run. Now I'm standing still, and I don't have to run away like I always have. It's foreign, bemusing, and difficult to swallow.

Today's mundane task is putting the groceries away. As I carefully organize the food in the kitchen, I notice how much has changed since I've been back here. The room, once lifeless and dull, is filled with vibrant colors, chaos, and cleanliness. Just how I want it to be. My fingertips graze the newly cleaned countertops, the familiarity beneath them fills me with a deep sense of contentment. Even with my prolonged absence, I am content in knowing that I can find my place here, once more.

This house, once filled by the echoes of a bygone era, has been reformed into the life that I have yet to fully grasp. I find comfort in the small tasks such as these, but also, to keep myself occupied from the battle that lies within. They help me navigate this transition, and try to make sense of this life I'm supposed to lead.

As I place the last item in its designated spot, I stand there for a moment, contemplating whether or not I should return Bucky's call or his multiple messages. It's a constant struggle to overcome the hesitance and resistance that's built up within me, to break this pattern of avoidance. I know I can't keep ignoring his messages forever, and at some point, I'll have to face that conversation. But for now, the weight of my past and the secrets that have surfaced feel almost unbearable, and it's easier to pretend they don't exist.

My eyes linger on the pack of cigarettes that I impulsively bought earlier in the day. The small, rectangular box taunts me from the countertop. I had hope that maybe the smell or the action of lighting one might trigger something in the dark recesses of my mind, providing some insight into Blake. But atlas, I was wrong again. Its presence is a reminder of another one of my futile attempts. They beckon me to give into temptation, their siren call urging me to give in and try them.

The temptation gets the best of me. A spark of curiosity, fueled by my frustration, compels me to pick up the box. With a heavy sigh, I retrieve a single cigarette from the pack, my hands trembling slightly as I bring it to my lips. Lighting it, I inhale deeply, allowing the smoke to fill my lungs, the acrid smell filling my senses. The smoke dances around me, and I close my eyes, hoping to find a hint, a clue, or even the slightest glimpse of a memory. But as the minutes pass, and the cigarette slowly burns out, I'm left with nothing but a bitter taste in my mouth and a growing sense of disappointment.

There is no sudden revelation, no recognition, nothing. Just a lonely woman, lost in thought, and the fading wisps of smoke.

Putting the cigarette out on the bottom of my shoe, I slump down into the dining room chair. I rub my fingers across my forehead, straining to think of anything that would help my predicament. But then, slowly emerging from the depths of my mind, I feel something–or someone–stirring within me.

Red's presence emerges, entering my mind like an old friend. A sense of relief washes over me. Its been weeks since I heard from her. Ever since the war, she's been radio silent. Over the years, we've learned to coexist, to find a middle ground between us. However, I've noticed that I've picked up some of her habits—good or bad—and sometimes, it feels like we're no longer two separate entities. We're two sides of the same coin. And right now, I am grateful that she's still here.

Her voice fills my headspace. "It's that bad, huh? I never thought I'd see you at a point like this," Red's voice has a sympathetic tone to them. She's become more in tune with herself, something that I know must've been difficult on her end.

"You have no room to talk, soldier," I say, almost defensively. Instinctively, I reach for another cigarette and light it again. As I prop my feet up on the table, dragging the cigarette from my lips, I maintain eye contact with the distant memories painted on my walls. I continue, "You've done a lot worse. I'm dealing with it."

Red observes me from within, her tone still gentle. "I'm just making an observation. You've been avoidant to all things in your life, Lonnie." There's a slight pause, a beat of silence as her words linger. Then, her voice comes through again, her voice inquisitive, "Is there anything I can take care of for you?"

I scoff at her words. I know I've requested her help on numerous occasions, but I cannot rely on her when things get tough. Exhaling the smoke from my lungs, I inquire about her whereabouts. "My question is, where have you been?"

"Meditating," she responds. The soft laughter in her voice makes me smile inwardly. At least one of us didn't lose their liveliness–or their sense of humor. "Kidding. You haven't needed me. I've been letting you adjust."

My relief at feeling Red's presence again after a long absence is immense. Although she lives inside my head, she seems to understand me. She speaks with a comforting familiarity, despite her primary defense mechanism being sarcasm. It's like she's coming forward now, trying to make me feel better about this new life of mine. In a way, she's like my internal guardian, my protector, a side of me that deals with the darker parts of my past. Without Hydra's influence, the world feels foreign, overwhelming, and evidently, I feel lost. Even so, having Red nearby provides a glimmer of hope, a reminder that I am not alone on this journey.

"Red, I'm all alone here. I don't know how you made this work," I admit, a touch of vulnerability in my voice. I take another drag of the cigarette, closing my eyes, and tilting my head back slightly. Surprisingly, this is kind of nice.

"I didn't have a choice, but you do," she responds, reminding me of my freedom of choice. There is another pause. It seems like she's deep in contemplation, trying to find the right words to say. The only sounds that fill the house are distant rumblings of passing cars. Then, with a hint of curiosity, she continues, "You really don't want to answer his calls, huh?"

"Red, shut the fuck up." I immediately sit up, my gaze directed at the wall as though Red is standing right before me. I wasn't prepared for her to bring Bucky into this conversation. I have my reasons for avoiding him, even though I can't quite explain them. With a frustrated groan, I retort, "I don't need you meddling in my business."

"Okay, I'll be over here," she replies. She finds amusement in prying into things that she doesn't understand. She chuckles, backing off, "Here as in your brain because I literally can't go anywhere else."

Restless and consumed by an insurmountable mix of emotions, I find myself in dire need of an outlet. It's driven by desperation, a longing for a routine, for something that makes me feel a sense of normalcy. I yearn to find a way to extinguish this pent up aggression on someone or something–but violence is not the answer to my problems. Red's comment of avoiding Bucky has stirring emotions with me that I'm not ready to face. So, I made a simple decision; to go outside, get some fresh air, and try to gain the control I've been wanting.

I pull open the front door, stepping into the bright afternoon light. Although I feel like I am taking three steps back, the world around me continues to move forward. Life moves on, I think to myself, knowing that it's oblivious to the internal struggle that's happening within me. I feel the anger and frustration rising within me, threatening to burst through the seams of my very being. It is fueled by an endless list of questions that I'm afraid to know the answers to.

Avoidance has become my default. In my mind, if I continue to ignore the things that bother me, eventually, they will disappear. My only hope is that they bury themselves deep within me, so that I no longer have to carry the burden of the unknown. I've been dodging my past, refusing to confront the memories that could either set me free or shackle me to a life I'd rather forget. And although I'm curious about Blake's existence, I don't think I'm ready to open that door yet. Not now, at least. I don't think I ever will be.

The autumn sun bathes the world in its cold embrace, casting elongated shadows across the yard. I take in the sights before me, listening to the distant children playing, birds chirping overhead, and a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. It feels ordinary, natural, and soothing in nature. Even if my life was meant for chaos, I cherish these moments when I am free to just be myself and not be manipulated by others.

My gaze falls upon the weathered shed at the edge of the yard. A place where my father's tools and cherished relics were kept locked away and out of sight. Without a clear motive in mind, I approach the shed, noticing the old lock that has been tattered with time. My hand grips onto the lock, my thumb grazing the rough surface. Then, with a quick and powerful motion, I break the lock, my super-soldier strength rendering the task nearly effortless. The scene inside shows an assortment of long-forgotten possessions that once belonged to my father. But my eyes catch onto an old axe tucked away in the far right corner, partially covered by unopened boxes. It's time to release this pent-up aggression, to feel the physical strain of chopping wood, a challenge that doesn't involve hurting anyone directly.

Without further hesitation, I grab the axe, tossing it between both hands as I adjust to the weight of it. I step back out into the yard, breathing in the crisp New England air, before heading towards the stack of logs against the shed. Each swing of the axe sends a satisfying jolt throughout my body, the thud of steel against wood reverberates through the yard. I begin to lose myself in the rhythm, the repetitive motion providing a much-needed solace. My thoughts have been temporarily freed of the turmoil that once consumed them. With each swing, I can channel my frustration, anger, and confusion into a tangible task. It's better to take these feelings out on an inanimate object than on a living, breathing being. But sometimes, I wish I could.

Every swing, I imagine a piece of my past, fragmented and splintered, like the logs before me. I focus on the sound of the impact, the feeling of the axe beneath my hands, and the satisfaction of the wood splitting in two. Yet, even as I chop these logs–knowing that I have no need for it–I know that it's a temporary relief from what I'm avoiding. However, if I don't try to distract myself from the things that are causing me trouble, I would drive myself mad just standing still. The questions, the memories, and the unspoken fears remain, lingering at the edges of my consciousness. But somehow, amidst my own battle, I know there has to be a way to fight this. To figure out all the missing pieces to my puzzles. Regardless, as I said, there are things that I'm not ready to piece together and a life ahead of me to figure out.

***

The day had consisted of a whirlwind of emotions, followed by spending the evening cleaning my bedroom. Keeping myself distracted from the things that haunt me has been the only thing to keep me sane. As I stand in the newly cleaned room, the weight of the uncertainty of the future presses down on me. Nostalgia mixed with anxiety fills the room, now bathed in the haunting glow of the moonlight. This place is a reservoir of memories, holding key moments to my younger self, the dreams and aspirations I once nurtured in these walls. A blend of old books and cleaning supplies envelops me in a soothing embrace, like a well-worn timeless classic waiting for rediscovery.

My bed is adorned with a simple, well-loved quilt. It calls out to me, and I feel a peculiar mix of vulnerability and safety as I crawl beneath the sheets. The moonlight seeps through the curtains overhead, casting delicate shadows over the quilt and onto the floor below. These intricate shapes accentuate the cracks and flaws on the walls, reminding me that, like the room itself, I carry hidden marks of my own history. I close my eyes, slowly taking a deep breath, allowing myself to succumb to my exhaustion. I'm aware of the hushed symphony that takes tune outside, the whispers of rustling leaves, and the rhythmic hum of the distant city.

As soon as I get comfortable, my eyes open again, my thoughts going back to Bucky's multiple phone calls. He's my lifelines to the present and my way to anchor myself to this reality, but I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. I briefly contemplate reaching out to him, to explain my radio silence, but I'm met with my own strange hesitance. It's not about avoiding him or causing any unprecedented issues; it's about the fragile balance I've found in my disjointed existence. Maybe it's the fear of reconnecting. Or the fear of explaining to him my past. Either way, I'm not quite ready to face him yet.

I turn on my side, pulling the quilt underneath my head for more support. I lay there in stillness, my heart and mind entangled in the complexities of my past, present, and uncertain future. My childhood room, once my intellectual sanctuary, now holds the forbidden secrets that may reveal themselves throughout the night.

I find myself in the heart of Boston, a beautiful haven also known as the Common. The tall trees sway gently in the wind, their leaves creating an appealing symphony in the breeze. The dappled sunlight plays hide-and-seek on the grass beneath our feet as we lounge on a well-worn blanket. Today couldn't be more perfect, especially when I'm here with him. Blake Ftizgerald, the man I've known since we were young kids in the streets of Brookline.

Blake hums a melody, its origin lost in a dreamlike haze that surrounds us. I feel the rise and fall of his chest as my head rests gently on it. This moment feels foreign, lost in the serenity of a life I've always dreamed of. Nothing could tear apart this fragile, delicate connection that we've created throughout our lifetime. If there was any moment I could live in, this would be the one I'd live day in and day out. His fingers trace idle patterns through my hair, creating a sensation that's comforting and familiar. This moment is a euphoric moment that eludes the world we've created together; a moment that transcends time itself.

Blake's voice cuts through the fabric of our shared reality, "You know, one day I'm going to marry you," he declares, his voice carrying the weight of a promise. My heart flutters as I look up at him, my head laying on his chest. He paints a picture of our inevitable future because we've always talked about how one day, we will be united as one. "That is a promise, Miss. Rawlins."

"Mrs. Avalon Jane Fitzgerald... has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" I say, happily, echoing the sentiment of love that is in his voice. He leans down, placing a tender kiss on my head before taking another drag of his cigarette. The smoke rises, carrying the essence of our shared dream and promise with it.

He looks down at me, his eyes filled with warmth, longing , and serenity. "It's all I've ever wanted," he whispers, a soft smile taking place on his lips. He brushes a piece of my hair back that has fallen in my face, a tingling sensation courses through my body. The world around us seems to disappear, like we are the only two people that exist. The only things that seem to stay are the distant sounds of the humming city and the sounds of our hearts beating.

"You're the girl of my dreams," he confesses, his words carrying a profound truth that resonates with my soul. The smell of cigarette smoke and his cologne entangles itself with the scent of blooming flowers. I prop myself up, leaning in and giving him a kiss on his cheek. Time itself has been nothing but good to me. And I know a life with Blake Fitzgerald is going to be everything I dreamed it would be.

I revel in this moment. Being with Blake, the man I love, in the city that I've grown fond of. Nothing will ever change, nor would I ever want it to. But as quickly as this moment happens, it feels like a black hole is sucking away everything that I've built here and...

I jolt awake, my eyes snapping open at the abrupt sound of glass shattering downstairs. The lingering fragrance of cologne, cigarette smoke, and the soft hum that filled my headspace quickly dissipated, leaving me in the disorienting darkness of my bedroom. The moonlight casts eerie shadow through the window, adding more suspense to the uninvited disruption of my slumber.

I sit up for a moment, caught between the remnants of the dream and the grim reality of the present. The echo of Blake's voice and the warmth of our shared moment still lingers in my mind, but it is quickly replaced by the urgency of the situation at hand. The knife I purposefully left on the nightstand catches my attention as I get up from the bed. As I hear more shuffling downstairs, I tighten my grip on the knife.

I sneak out of the room, silently thanking myself for not closing the bedroom door before I went to sleep. I move with silent urgency, the adrenaline coursing through my veins activates the dormant soldier within me. My training takes over as I navigate the familiar terrain of my house. The moonlight filters in through the windows, creating a monochromatic palette that helps with my visuals. The source of the disturbance is unclear, but my instincts tell me to fight. I recognize the nuances of an intruder, but I am confused as to who would have my address on their hit list.

Cautiously, I descend down the staircase, my steps slow but steady, making sure that they don't creak beneath me. Every muscle in my body tenses as I peer around the staircase wall, trying to catch a glimpse at the one who has disturbed my peace. But a sudden crunch beneath my shoe sends a shiver down my spine. Glancing down, I discover the source of the sound–an empty, broken vase shattered into fragments. Someone wasn't looking when they walked by the table. The broken porcelain echos in this quiet space, amplifying the high tensions in the air.

My senses kick into overdrive, and I bring the knife closer to me, the cold steel offering me some semblance of reassurance. The darkness that hangs over this place conceals the intruder's identity, and leaves me to navigate this dark corridor by instinct. Without creating more of a disturbance, I carefully step over the shattered vase, to avoid giving away my location. I silently brace myself for the confrontation–and inevitable end–to the one who dares enter this house. I won't show them mercy, I won't hold back, and they will meet their maker.

As I approach the living room, I catch a glimpse of movement. A figure, obscured by the shadows, moves with a familiarity in my space. A peculiar sensation tightens my chest, suggesting that their presence here is no mere accident. I can't recognize them without seeing their face; my focus sharpens as I observe the back of the intruder. Tall, short hair, muscular. Taking a few steps into the room, my training kicks in, and I remain poised, ready to confront whoever this unexpected guest may be.

Curiosity mixes in with caution as I silently approach them, preparing a witty remark that hangs on my tongue. Their head moves slightly, causing me to freeze for a moment. Even in the faint glow of the night sky, the silhouette remains a mystery to be unraveled. It's the gut feeling that's telling me that this event was planned out, going according to their plan.

With a quick and controlled movement, I make my move, pressing them against the wall and holding my knife to their throat. The room, once filled with a tense silence, is now filled with the struggle between the two of us. It is a dance of death, and it will be their blood on my hands. But I have to know who it is. As I wait for the opportune moment to reveal their identity, a flicker of doubt kicks in. I have been trying to prove to myself that I'm not this killer anymore, but my actions are revealing otherwise. Who could have sent them, and why?

As I press the knife to the intruder's throat, I can't help but let out a low, threatening murmur. "You have no idea who you're dealing with," I warn, distaste for their intrusion evident in my words.

In the midst of my warning, I hear the light switch flicker, illuminating the entire room. At this moment, I realize it's not just anyone. It's the person I've been longing for. The one that I love. The one person I've been avoiding. There's no surprise in his eyes–just the steady acknowledgment of the situation. His expression shifts from determination to concern, and for a moment, we lock eyes in a silent exchange of emotions. The tension in the room is palpable, and I find myself at a loss for words. With a trembling hand, I lower my knife, allowing it to fall to the floor.

"I've been trying to reach you," Bucky says, his words laced with worry and concern. "I was worried. Why didn't you answer?"

My mind races to form an explanation, a valid reason for my silence. The memories of the mystery man, the dream of Blake, and the lingering questions about my past all swirl in my head. The weight of the unspoken truth bears down on me, and I manage to stammer, "I... I don't know."

His eyes search mine, searching for answers, and I'm left grappling with the conflicting emotions that surge within me. The room feels charged with unspoken words and unresolved tension, and I'm torn between the past I can't remember and the present standing before me. To avoid having to speak of what truly bothers me, I take a step forward to close the little distance between us. The uncertainty and turmoil threaten to swallow me whole, but in this moment, I choose simplicity. To be vulnerable. I wrap my arms around Bucky, seeking solace in his familiar embrace. His warmth, the steady rhythm of his heart beat, becomes my anchor in the storm of my thoughts.

"I know, Princess," he reciprocates the gesture without question. His words offer me comfort, despite how chaotic this reunion has been. "I'm here now."

In the shelter of his arms, I find refuge from the uncertainties that surround me. Although there is more to question about my past than I ever led to believe, I find comfort that knowing my present doesn't have to change. For a brief moment, the world fades away, and all that remains is the reassurance of his existence.

We stand here, two souls intertwined, navigating the balance of a past that eludes me and a present that keeps me sane. The answers to my mysterious past may be elusive, but at this time, there is no reason to dwell on them. Perhaps, for now, the act of holding on to what I have is enough.

a/n - hello my beautiful readers! this update took a little longer than expected, but it is finally here! we learn a little bit more about our girl lonnie's past, a little moment with blake, and ofc our boy bucky finally showing up!! I hope you guys enjoyed it. let me know what you think!! until next time (: -k