The roar of the engine fades as Bucky pulls in front of Dr. Beckett's office building. In the quiet solitude of the car, my foot taps anxiously against the floorboard. The rhythmic sound seems to punctuate the uneasy stillness that surrounds me. It's as if the vibrations in my soul reflect the internal tremors, an inadvertent representation of what's billowing beneath the surface. The familiar knot of apprehension tightens in my stomach, a reminder that therapy, however helpful it may be, is unnerving.

Bucky turns to me, concern etched across his features, as I remain frozen in place. His gaze, warm and steady, meets mine silently offering support. Yet, despite the comfort of his presence, I can't shake the unsettling feeling that churn within in. The building looms over it, its almost suffocating façade, threatens to consume me. I take a deep breath, attempting to steady the storm that threatens to unleash, before I face whatever lies beyond the car's door.

The car's engine hums softly, an audible reminder of the momentary refuge it provides me. Running behind schedule is dooming to my anxiety. I swiftly exit the car, leaving Bucky with a brief kiss on the cheek. The brisk New England air nips at my skin as I hurry towards the entrance of the office building, each step echoing with a sense of urgency. The familiar routine of therapy awaits me, but today, as it is only my second one with this therapist, feels different–charged with an unspoken tension that leaves me unsettled. Bursting through the doctor's door and stepping inside, the feeling that the unexpected will happen hangs heavy over me.

I stumble into the office with a hurried demeanor, closing the door softly behind me. I take my seat in the plush chair across from Dr. Beckett, who is waiting patiently for my arrival. "I'm sorry for being late," I apologize, my voice carrying a touch of breathlessness. The therapist, holding a gentleness to her, gives a reassuring smile to my apology.

"Life has a way of getting ahead of us. No need to worry about it," Dr. Beckett insists, folding her hands on her lap. I smile kindly towards her, crossing my legs and getting comfortable in the chair. "Let's catch up on how you've been since our last session."

As I settle into my chair, I take a moment to collect my thoughts. All my thoughts are safe here - where they won't be judged, and the feelings that linger won't harm me. In this room, there's a sense of tranquility, and I can easily relax despite my chaotic existence. Here, I can lay bare the fragments of my mind without fear of reproach. "Well, things certainly have been interesting, to say the least," I admit, choosing my words carefully, in hopes of not condemning myself. "I've been trying to navigate through my memories and the unprecedented feelings that come with them. The progress I've made seems to be stagnant. Though, every step forward is a victory in and of itself, isn't it? "

The doctor nods, her empathetic gaze fixed on me. A few notes are jotted down in her notebook before she starts asking another question. "Absolutely, Avalon. Progress isn't always linear, and it's essential to acknowledge these victories, no matter how small they are. Now let's take it a step further. How have your recent interactions been? Especially with those you're close to?"

The air shifts, and I find myself treading on the delicate ground of discussing my relationship with Bucky. I'm not afraid of talking about it, but it is a conversation that I haven't had the luxury of having very often. "Well, Doc, there's Bucky, my boyfriend. He's a stabilizing force in my life, a reminder that there can be normalcy amidst the chaos," I say, my tone tinged with a blend of playfulness and a guarded sincerity. "He's got this knack for being both the anchor and the storm. But hey, that's the fun part, isn't it? Never knowing which version you'll get."

Dr. Beckett leans forward, a subtle curiosity etched in her features. She twirls the pen between her fingers, a thoughtful expression on her face, "Bucky, you say? It seems like he's become a significant part of your life. How does it make you feel, knowing that you have someone that you can rely on in this way?"

Momentarily, I pause to consider the complexity of my emotions towards him.The paintings on the walls catch my attention as I try to find the right words to describe them. "Around him, it's like chaos takes a backseat for a while. Like I can breathe without the weight of the world on my shoulders," I manage to say, the hesitance in my words still lingering. I continue, "But it's also terrifying. Terrifying because I've never desired something to be real as much as this, and the fear of losing it is always there."

She takes notes, her pen dancing across the page gracefully, capturing the essence of my sentiments. As much as I dislike talking about my feelings, this is also a step forward, since I come off as a reserved, quiet person.Even now, I struggle to communicate these feelings because I don't want them to be used against me. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, wary about how my vulnerability will affect the remainder of this session.

She nods, her pen hovering over the notepad as she smiles warmly towards me. "It's understandable you feel that way, given your circumstance. Let's explore that fear a little further. Do you think it's rooted in your experiences, or perhaps something else?"

I consider her question. I know it's true. Had it not been for my insatiable curiosity, I wouldn't be in this position. Maybe I would've lived a normal life, blissfully unaware of the darkness that lurked beyond my time. But no, my curiosity led me down a twisted path. But then again, ignoring it all would mean going back to my father's twisted plans for me. It all comes full circle, though. I lived a life that I am ashamed of, but I would've lived a life dictated by my own father if I didn't. And part of me doesn't regret the decision that I made because it made me stronger. It made me the most feared assassin of the ages. And I would do it again in a heartbeat. The question is: would I suffer at the hands of my father or would I suffer at the hands of Hydra? As messed up as it sounds, I wouldn't trade the chaos I've been through. It's shaped me, for better or worse. At least it's my story now, not some sick script my father had in mind. So, yeah, it's a screwed-up journey, but it's mine.

"Like my past with Bucky?"

She shakes her head, leaving me confused with her question. She puts the pen down, "Before Bucky."

Dr. Beckett's question runs deep into my soul. It unearths the roots of my fears. I take a moment to review my life in retrospect, tracing intricate lines of pain and longing that have shaped me. It's not just about Hydra or the horrors of my life as an assassin; the fear runs deeper, entrenched in the wounds of my childhood. I've long forgotten the horrors I suffered at the hands of my father during my youth, but they still linger, like a soft whisper in the wind.

"My fear isn't only about the missions or the brutality of Hydra," my voice is soft, choosing my words with care, "It stems from a childhood where the love I needed was elusive. I grew up in an environment where conformity to my father's desires was not a choice but a survival tactic. My mother, a prisoner of my father's control, couldn't offer me the comfort and protection I craved. She, too, was a victim, caught in the cycle of abuse and control."

My voice falters, my gaze fixated on the clock that sits on the corner of her desk. Breathe. Those difficult memories flash before my eyes, and I close my eyes tightly, trying to push them away. "My father, a figure of authority, wielded his own manipulation, verbal abuse, and on special occasions, physical force to assert his dominance. I learned early on that my defiance invited pain, and so, I contoured myself into the shape that he desired. The love I sought from him was replaced with fear and anguish. Every word he said, every order he beckoned, became a blueprint I had to follow to avoid his wrath. Until I couldn't live up to his standards."

The talk of my father leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I recall the relentless pursuit of his foreboding approval, a futile quest that left me battered and bruised, both emotionally and physically. "The pain he inflicted on me became a language I understood all too well. It became easier to endure than to resist. I bore the marks of his disapproval like a twisted badge of honor, a reminder of the cost of my own defiance."

Dr. Beckett listens intently, her pen poised to capture the very essence of my narrative. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the wounds of my past threatening to break open. I can feel the tears that begin to brim my eyes, causing me to blink a few times to stop the dam from breaking. I lived those years thinking that this kind of behavior was warranted. But I know that no one should live a life in fear of their father. But I did.

"In my life, love was a distant concept, buried deep within the walls of my home. I've always longed for a love that doesn't hurt. It's no wonder that the love I've found outside those walls became a fragile sanctuary, one that I'm afraid to lose. I lost it once before, and I don't know if that was my fault. But I've found it again, and I don't know what I'd do without it."

My confession hangs in the air, a heavy truth laid bare in this office. It's a truth I never imagined would escape my guarded lips, but here I am, surprising myself once more. The dread of losing the love I've found, the fear that it, too, will be cruelly snatched away, is a specter that haunts my every step. I was in love once, and although I don't remember Blake, I sense that he was my safe place. However, as the unforgiving march of time reshaped my existence and my father, in his cruel decision, remade my life without consent, the uneasiness tightens its grip on me. The dooming worry seeps in–will I be able to hold onto this love I've found?

Dr. Beckett's lips begin to move, her words blue into an unintelligible murmur. I try to focus on them to decipher what she's asking, but I can't understand. In an unprecedented occurrence, an indescribable shift occurs within me. It's as if the air thickens, and a distant hum fills my ears. An eerie sensation akin to free-falling is created by the surroundings as they warp and shift. All sounds become muffled background noise, and the ringing in my ears amplifies, almost reaching a painful crescendo. There is a momentary blurriness to my vision, colors swirling like chaotic whirlpools.

Closing my eyes, I try to anchor myself by concentrating on my heartbeat. Every thud echoes louder in my ears, resonating through the strange, disorienting void. When my eyes open again, the room feels different. It's no longer me sitting in the chair. The presence of Red, my alter ego, a former assassin turned guardian who was born in the essence of evil, now commands the forefront.

As the transformation unfolds, the muffled symphony of distant sounds sharpen, and I become distinctly aware of Dr. Beckett's voice piercing through the disorienting haze. This transition unfolds with practiced ease, like a switch being flipped. I settle into the uncomfortable chair, my posture mirroring Avalon's reserved demeanor. The room, usually a sanctuary for confessions and revelations, feels different under my influence–a tinge of mischief lingers in the air.

The doctor's voice cuts through the haze, her concern palpable but understandable. "Avalon? Did you hear me?"

I chuckle, a low, throaty sound. "Oh, Doc, you're barking up the wrong tree. She has taken the backseat for a moment. You're stuck with me–Red," the room seems to tense with a newfound energy, my words echoing with a hint of amusement. "Sorry about the mix-up. Avalon's got this pesky habit of zoning out when things get a bit too heavy."

Dr. Beckett's eyes widen in surprise, and she glances down at her notes, trying to make sense of this unexpected shift in personalities. We haven't had the pleasure of introductions yet, but that's only because this isn't a place I'd like to be. But Avalon certainly needs it. "Red, is it?" she inquires cautiously, as if to not activate another shift.

Go easy on her, Red. She's here to help.

"The one and only, Doc. So, let's cut through the therapeutic mumbo-jumbo, shall we?" I flash a grin at Dr. Beckett, leaning back comfortably with a casual confidence. "Red at your service, the unsung hero of this psyche. Ask away, Doc. I'm an open book... with a lot of footnotes."

The doctor instinctively flips to a brand new page. She folds her right leg across the other, staring at me with an inquisitiveness but also professional interest. My eyes narrow towards her, as if trying to decipher any ulterior motive beneath the pen and paper.

"Red, it's not everyday I get to meet the other side of someone. I'm only here to understand," she finally speaks before taking another moment to get her bearings straight. She raises a brow, a subtle challenge in her gaze, "What brought you here? What prompted you to specifically step in for Avalon?"

I lean back, crossing my arms across my chest, and nonchalantly rest my feet on the glass coffee table that sits between us. Dr. Beckett certainly doesn't waste time, seizing this opportune moment to speak with me. However, I don't plan on making this interaction a walk in the park, to say the least.

"You're probably wondering how I fit into Avalon's grand narrative, right?" I question her. The doctor nods in response, acknowledging her own curiosity. Avalon and I have a dynamic that's both intricate and effective, a dance of survival within her own mind. After a sly smile, I go on, "Well, let's just say I'm the insurance policy. Whenever things get tough, which they always do, I am the one who steps up. Call it a survival mechanism, a self-preservation routine, or whatever fancy term you prefer. It's my job to keep Avalon from drowning in her own psyche."

Dr. Beckett, who is undeterred by the unconventional nature of our interaction, prompts me for further clarification. "And how does Avalon perceive your dynamic? Does she welcome your presence, or is she resistant to it?"

I get up from my seat and begin to walk around the room with a casual confidence. My fingers graze the multiple plaques that are on display on the mantle overhead. I sigh, almost boredly, "We weren't always like this. Avalon and I, we're two sides of the same coin. She represents the good. I represent the bad. But let's not oversimplify it. Good and bad are subjective, Doc. I'm the pragmatist, the one who does what is necessary. Avalon, well, she's the idealist. Believes in redemption, in second chances," I assert, my voice carries a note of indifference but also, irritation. God, why do I have to do this right now, Avalon? I turn to Dr. Beckett, locking eyes with her briefly. "It's not all black and white. Life rarely is as simple as it seems. I'm not some malevolent force lurking in the shadows anymore. And Avalon isn't a beacon of pure goodness. We're more like shades of grey, dancing on the spectrum of morality. So, if you're looking for a neat little classification to box us in, I'm afraid you won't find it here. We're messy, complicated, and chaotic. That's what makes us, well, us. And if I were you, I wouldn't get on our bad side."

The therapist leans back in her chair, bringing the notepad closer to her. "Fascinating," she murmurs, quickly jotting down her last few notes before dropping the pen softly down on the paper. "The intricacies of the mind never cease to amaze me. Thank you, Red, for shedding some light on your role in Avalon's life."

The corner of my lip twitches as I look to the doctor one last time, "Anytime, Doc. Just remember, understanding us is like trying to grasp smoke with your bare hands. It's not an easy feat," I wink before making my exit, leaving our doctor to ponder on the enigmatic duo that she's dealing with.

I never want to do that again.

***

As I saunter out of Dr. Beckett's office, a familiar aura of confidence envelops me. The air around me cackles with a newfound energy, sliding into the passenger seat of Bucky's car and shutting the door softly. The car begins to move through the quiet New England street, the rhythmic hum of the engine becomes a backdrop to my thoughts. I've never experienced something like that before, I think to myself, that kind of... felt weird.

Bucky has been sending me sidelong glances ever since I got into the car. His concern is palpable, etched into the furrow of his brow, but I remain a mysterious force of nature–all smirks and evasion. He noticed the change of our demeanor; the subtle nuances that mark the transition of Avalon to her fiery alter ego. As the cityscape passes us by, a blur of lights and shadows that match the whirlwind that storms inside me.

"Everything alright?" he asks, keeping his eyes on the road. I glance over at him, vaguely understanding why Avalon has become so fond of him.

"Oh, just peachy," I respond with a smirk, trying to keep up with my facade. He's going to figure it out. "Just another day in the life of Avalon Jane."

Bucky remains silent after my comment, sensing more withering beneath the surface. My attention is focused outside the window, my gaze fixated on the passing scenery. The image is blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors and shadows. The truth of the matter, the therapy session that I unwillingly attended, stirred emotions within me that aren't true to my nature. In fact, I don't think I've ever felt that kind of way. Having to discuss my own feelings, to become protective of the other person that exists in this body, is unnatural. However, I feel at ease knowing that Avalon and I have grown to coexist with each other–and I know damn well that she'll defend me.

Despite Bucky trying to hold a conversation with me, I mumble under my breath, not wanting to engage until Avalon decides to make her appearance again. This isn't a situation meant for me, but I know that today was rough for her. The talk of her upbringing and how cruel her father was to her, it breaks even my cold heart. As the scenery turns from extravagant infrastructure to greeny, an unsettling feeling grows within me, threatening to consume me. These feelings aren't mine, but I feel the ache of wanting to destroy everything in my path. To destroy a life that was taken from us. And to be free of the chains that restrained us for years.

I begin to mumble inaudibly, growing frustrated that I cannot stop these feelings from bothering me. It's not in my nature to be upset–or to be emotional at all. But here I am, slowly becoming more human than I ever thought would be possible. A restless energy pulses through me, and the façade of confidence I've maintained starts to crumble. My fingers, tapping rhythmically against my legs, betray an inner turmoil building within my cool interior.

Unwillingly, I lose my grip, trying my best to keep myself together through this car ride. He's catching on and I can tell through the glances that he gives me. My frustration simmers beneath the surface, a quiet storm threatening to unleash its fury. Bucky's attempts to engage me in conversation are met with gruff, mumbled responses. The rhythmic tapping of my fingers, once a confident beat, now falters, a subtle admission of the disquiet seeping into my stoic demeanor.

These emotions, alien and unwelcome, claw at the fringes of my consciousness. Bucky's concern is palpable, but I resist the urge to let him in. A silent battle rages within me, the clash of emotions threatening to breach the carefully constructed walls of detachment.

In the hushed confines of the car, I find myself yearning for the familiar numbness that shielded me from the complexities of human emotion. The realization that I'm becoming entangled in Avalon's world, grappling with sentiments I once considered irrelevant, unsettles the very core of my being. This journey is uncharted territory, and the discomfort of navigating these unexplored depths casts a shadow over my composed exterior. The enigma of emotions, a puzzle I thought I'd never face, now unravels before me, revealing a vulnerability I'm reluctant to acknowledge.

Bucky's perceptive glances don't escape my notice. He senses the unraveling threads of composure, and the weight of his concern adds to the internal turmoil. The car continues its journey, but the landscape outside becomes secondary to the storm brewing within. I'm trapped in a paradox, a realm where emotion clashes with stoicism, and the battle plays out in the subtle nuances of my increasingly agitated demeanor.

Despite my attempts to conceal my presence, Bucky is attuned to the subtle shift in Avalon's demeanor, recognizing the departure of her usual composure. His voice finally breaks the charged silence, his voice steady and intrigued, "Red, I know it's you." His words cut through the muted atmosphere of the car, laying bare the truth I've been trying to conceal.

I look at him, questionably, trying to act like I have no idea what he's talking about. He gives me a look before his gaze goes back to the road ahead, "You mumbling under your breath isn't exactly sneaky." There's a certain distinctness to his gaze, a mix of apprehension and curiosity that prompts a reluctant admission.

I meet his gaze briefly, my cool facade momentarily giving away a begrudging acknowledgment. "I don't want to hear it, Barnes. You try having two personalities," I mutter, maintaining the air of nonchalance that typically defines me. The truth of my presence, however, remains a secret, lingering beneath the surface. I take a deep breath, wanting to explain things more, "She had a rough session today. I came out unexpectedly."

Bucky's response is measured, a blend of empathy and resolve, "You know you could've told me. I'm here for the both of you, you know that." The serenity in his voice is prominent, and I can sense his genuine concern for us. Yet, my reluctance to be honest with him always remains. I know he cares for Avalon–more than I can comprehend–but I've navigated a lifetime without the support of others. And exposing my own vulnerability isn't my forte.

In the muted hum of the car's engine, the acknowledgment of my existence outside Avalon's shadow carries a weight of its own. The journey continues, but now it's not just the landscape outside that captures our attention; it's the unspoken understanding, the recognition that we're navigating uncharted territory together, one mile at a time. We haven't interacted much since our time with Hydra, but I know in Avalon's world, this means more to her than meets the eye. In fact, being able to be honest with each other is more than she would expect.

As the miles roll beneath the wheels of the car, the internal struggle intensifies. Bucky's acknowledgment hangs heavy in the air, and my futile attempt to keep up the charade falters. The rhythmic tapping of my fingers becomes more erratic, mirroring the storm brewing within. The whirlwind of emotions, not entirely mine, threatens to overwhelm the carefully constructed walls. She knows what to say. Whereas, I'm at a loss for words. I cannot explain what she's feeling or how she wants to go about this situation. Avalon, this is your chance. Please take it.

Suddenly, I feel a surge of warmth, a gentle force nudging against the barriers I've erected. It's Avalon, making her presence known with a quiet strength. The transition is swift, a seamless shift from Red's composed exterior to the vulnerability that defines me. And finally, Avalon transitions to the forefront of this situation. Thank you, Avalon. You know how to explain these feelings.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice cracking with the weight of suppressed emotions. The admission hangs in the space between us, a raw authenticity exposed in the dimly lit interior of the car. Bucky's expression softens, his concern evident as I finally allow the floodgates to open. "Today wasn't my day. I needed Red's help."

Tears stream down my cheeks, a release of pent-up sorrow and frustration. The haunting memories of my father's cruelty resurface, a visceral reliving of the pain that shaped me. The memory of every battle I faced against him feels fresh in my mind, a reminder that even the strongest individuals cannot escape the trauma that follows it. In this moment of vulnerability, Bucky pulls the car over to the side of the road, acknowledging that this situation calls for his undivided attention.

His touch is gentle as he reaches out, offering comfort in the face of the emotional tempest. The weight of his presence is a balm, grounding me in the reality that I'm not alone. The sobs escape, each one carrying the burden of years of silent suffering. It's a cathartic release, a shedding of the layers that shielded me from the world. Showing weakness in this form isn't ideal, but it is the only relief I can receive from this moment.

In the cocoon of the halted car, the night embraces us, bearing witness to the unraveling of emotions that have long been contained. Bucky's steady presence and the quietude of the surroundings create a space for healing—a moment where vulnerability becomes strength, and the fractures in my soul find solace in the embrace of understanding.

"I know," he says, trying to soothe the past that haunts me, "I wish I could take this pain from you."

I attempt to speak, but the words catch in my throat. The weight of the past, haunting memories, and the vulnerability I've concealed spill out. At that moment, all I can manage is a broken whisper, "I just want it all to stop. I wish I could forget the pain my father caused me."

a/n : sorry for the delay!! I had a little bit of writer's block, but here's a new update!! I hope you like it. let me know what you think of this one :) -k