tw: descriptions of violence, death, and blood.

          The streets of Boston bustle with the vibrant energy of city life, each corner teeming with its own stories and secrets. I move through the crowd with a sense of purpose, blending in with the pace of everyday society. In times like these, I seemingly slip through the sea of faces, unable to be pinpointed or recognized by the average person. But part of me knows that someone is watching, desperately awaiting for their moment to get their hands on me. However, my steps are quick and determined, yet my senses alert to every subtle shift in the atmosphere.

It has been nearly a week since the revelations that had shaken my world to its core. The betrayal, the deceit, the god-awful truth–it still feels raw, like an open wound that refuses to heal. Despite the passing of days, the words remain etched into my mind, haunting me in every thought. I am still processing every word, every feeling, and every aspect of my past after finding out about Blake. I've found myself grappling with the implications of my newfound knowledge. The truth about Blake, about the depth of my father's betrayal, it's like the pieces of a puzzle clicking into place, revealing a picture I never wanted to see. Yet, in the quiet moments of contemplation, I've come to realize that perhaps I've always known deep down. Maybe it was buried beneath the layers of denial and brainwashing, obscured by the facade of normalcy I've clung to so desperately.

But now, faced with the stark reality of my past, I can no longer hide from the truth. And knowing that, it reminds me of the person I was shaped into and the person I became due to someone else's malevolence. But amidst the pain and the rage that has been ignited, there is a glimmer of defiance, a resolve to reclaim my identity and rewrite the narrative that has been imposed upon me. I know what I have to do, even if it means bringing back all the worst parts of me.

Because if there's one truth about war–it's adapt or die.

The city pulses around me, contrasting the turmoil that rages within. Faces blue together as I navigate the crowded sidewalks, my mind consumed with thoughts of Blake and the tangled web of confusion that surrounds him. But amidst the chaos, there's a sense of clarity–a silent assurance that I'm on the 'right' path, moving forward one step at a time. However, I know that this path isn't linear and there isn't an easy way to move about it. It's complicated, rough, and I know that there is one thing for certain–I will not be the one to fall in the end.

But my feet stop as I come at the forefront to the stone building where Dr. Beckett's office is. As I break the threshold,  a sense of anticipation fills me. Our sessions have become a lifeline of sorts, a safe space where I can unravel the tangled threads of my past and confront the demons that still haunt me. And I can choose what I share with her about the present. With each session, I feel myself growing stronger, more resilient, ready to face whatever challenges come next. Pushing open the door to the familiar office, I'm greeted by the warm smile of Dr. Beckett. Her presence is a comforting anchor in the storm, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that follows me wherever I go. But honestly, these sessions haven't been going in the direction I'd like them to go.

As I sink into the familiar embrace of the armchair, I can't shake the feeling that settles over me like a suffocating fog. Our sessions have also been a sanctuary of sorts, a place where I can unleash the tangled mess of intrusive thoughts and emotions that churn within me. But today feels different/ tinged with an undercurrent of tensions that leaves me on edge.

Dr. Beckett offers me a warm smile as she settles into her own seat, her kind eyes seem to have an ulterior motive to them. "How have you been, Avalon?" she asks, her voice as gentle as a summer breeze.

I offer her a halfhearted smile in return, though it feels brittle on my lips. "I've been managing," I reply, my voice betraying none of the uneasiness I feel towards the doctor.

Dr. Beckett's smile falters slightly, her gaze piercing as she leans forward ever so slightly. "Avalon, I've noticed that we've been skirting around certain topics lately," she says, her voice calm but firm. "I think it's time we address those topics head-on, don't you?"

My heart rate quickens at her words, a flicker of irritation igniting within me at her persistence. Every fiber of my being screams to maintain control, to keep the simmering rage at bay. "I don't see how that's necessary," I reply tersely, my jaw clenched as I struggle to maintain composure.

Her expression remains unchanged, her eyes holding mine with an unwavering intensity. "Avalon, we both know that avoiding these issues won't make them disappear," she says, trying to get me to loosen up, but her words are gently prodding at a festering wound. I knew from the moment I came in here that she would want to talk about Red. What she was and the things she did–without evening needing to articulate it. But she continues, "Let's talk about the Red Ghost."

Her question hangs like a weight, its significance not lost on me. As I struggle to find the words to respond. I feel the anger rising within me like a tempest threatening to consume everything in its path. The memories of the Red Ghost–as she was then–of the atrocities committed in her name, leave a bitter taste in my mouth. It's a calling to the darkness that still lurks in my soul, waiting for the moment it becomes unleashed. It's not fear that grips me but a seething resentment at the memories that refuse to fade. But despite the guilt that weighs heavy on my conscience, I refuse to allow it to break me. Deep down, I know that there's no escaping the truth any longer.

Dr. Beckett's gaze remains unwavering, her probing questions like needles digging into old wounds. "The Red Ghost," she repeats, her tone gentle yet insistent. "Tell me about her. About your time as her."

I can feel my composure slipping, my patience wearing thin. Every part of me wants to push back, to shut down this line of questioning. But I know it's futile. The doctor is relentless when she sets her mind to something.

Don't be shy, Lonnie. You know exactly what she wants to hear about. The one mission that plagues our mind.

"Dr. Beckett," I start, my voice strained with the effort of keeping my emotions in check. "I've told you before, I'm not interested in rehashing my past as the Red Ghost."

She looks at me, her gaze steady and unyielding. "I understand, Avalon," she says as calmly as she can," but it's important for us to confront those past of ourselves that we'd rather keep hidden."

I clench my fist, feeling the tension radiating through my body. "Why do you keep pushing this?" I snap, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. Multiple times during these sessions, I've noted that talking about Red isn't what I want. I sense her being triggered by talking about her and I don't want another unexpected visit. "You know how I feel about it."

She crosses her legs, placing her pen softly down on her notepad. "Because I believe it's necessary for your healing process," she replies firmly. "You cannot continue to bury those memories and expect to move forward."

I bite back a retort, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on me. Part of me knows she's right, but the thought of having to relive those dark moments fills me with a sense of dread. But I don't mind hearing it said aloud once more. Still, as I try to silence Red, I know I can't avoid it forever. She is me, and as crazy as it sounds, Red isn't what I'm ashamed of. It's the acts of violence we committed as one.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to meet her gaze. "Fine," I concede reluctantly, "What do you want to know?"

As if the therapist already knew what she wanted to ask, she says, "Tell me the one thing that haunts you from your time as Red."

It's the one mission I never dared to speak aloud to anyone. The memories of the screams, the heat from the fire, it all rushes to me like a painful, unhealed wound. Before I can speak, I can feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to consume me whole. But I push it down, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. "There was one mission," I begin, my voice low and filled with a darkness that calls me home. Anxiously, I begin to tug at my sleeves, keeping myself grounded in the face of unwanted memories, but I cannot stop now. "The mission that haunts me to this day. The one that plays on a continuous loop wherever I go."

I close my eyes, trying to block out the images that flash through my mind like an old picture film. But it doesn't help, it's like I'm living it in real time. Fire, blood, screams, chaos. I can almost feel the blood that dripped down my fingertips that day. "Romania," I say, my voice threatening to fail me after years of speaking freely. "I was sent to find Andrei Crauiveanu, a man who had betrayed Johann Schmidt and had stolen documents pertaining to the Winter Soldier program."

Dr. Beckett leans in closer, her gaze intent. She seems more interested in the story than the person right in front of her. She wants a story of a killer, not the victim who was caged inside. "And what happened?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the memories that threaten to overwhelm my healing mind. "I found him in a remote village outside of Gǎrâna," I continue you, my words coming out in a rush. "But he sent his men after me, trying to stop me before I could reach him."

I stop abruptly, knowing that this story paints my history. This mission gave me my reputation. It showed my mark. All of it. This tale, etched into the annals of my past, is the cornerstone of my legacy. It is the mission that defined me, that branded me with the indelible stain of my actions. In my mind's eyes, I vividly remember the inferno that engulfed the village, a relentless tide of destruction that was unleashed by my hand. The flames devoured everything in their path, leaving naught but ash and ruin in their wake. It's the one moment that tore through my soul, leaving scars that still ache with every recollection.

But their screams. They were visceral and gut-wrenching. They pierced through the chaos, a symphony of agony that lingers in the recesses of my mind. Every cry for help, each plea for mercy, they echo in my mind every waking moment, a damning reminder of the atrocities I have committed during my reign. But beneath it all, I recall the acrid stench of smoke, mingling with the sickening scent of burning flesh. And it almost makes me sick.

As Dr. Beckett's questions pierce the veil of my memories, I feel Red stirring within me, a dark presence waiting to be unleashed. With every horror flashing through my mind, unable to take control of the overwhelming surge, she only grows stronger. I try to piece together how I want to use my words, just until I can feel her looming beneath the surface, waiting eagerly to seize control.

Truly, it is not my story to tell. It's hers.

"Avalon?" Dr. Beckett questions, noticing the heavy silence that has fallen over the room.

But I know this is something I have to do myself. I have to own up to my actions, to take accountability of what I have done. Truly, the only way out of this is going through and admitting my wrongdoings. But this isn't your fault. We didn't ask for this life. You don't have to tell this story, Lonnie. "Sorry, Red's trying to make an appearance right now," I admit, trying to keep my alter ego at bay. Closing my eyes, I prepare for the switch, listening to the steady sound of my own heartbeat. Before I make my exit, I make my last remarks. "If anyone knows this story best, it's her."

Loosening my reins, Red surges forth with an intensity that leaves me reeling. It's as if a switch has been flipped, and I find myself on the outside looking in, watching my alter ego take control of the situation. Red is primal, ruthless, and unapologetic, driven by a singular focus on her objectives and unencumbered by moral constraints. Everything about her demeanor is commanding, her presence dominating, as she has always exuded an aura of danger and unpredictability. And I can see from within now, how the doctor has been able to pick up on subtle shifts over our sessions. But now, I don't have to speak for her.

Dr. Beckett's eyes widen in surprise, her professional demeanor momentarily flattering as she grapples with the sudden shift in dynamic. It has always been painfully boring to sit through these sessions as Avalon spoke of her life how it is now. Though I am happy for her, I tend to get bored trapped within the recesses of her mind–moments like these are what I live for because I feel.. somewhat free?

"Ah, Dr. Beckett, you want to hear about Romania?" I question her, it resonates with a chilling calmness, devoid of remorse or hesitation. " It was quite the spectacle, I must admit. However, it isn't good for Avalon's psyche."

She simply nods, not needing to use her words to urge me forward. "There was no stopping me. But there were too many obstacles, and only one of me," I stop for a moment, allowing Avalon to compose herself from within. She fears that this mission coming to light will undo her pardon, but if I have anything to do with it, it'll be the last thing the American government will ever do. I prop my feet up on the coffee table before I go on, "One little match sent the entire village into chaos. I remember their screams, their cries out for mercy as the townspeople began to burn. It was worse when they tried to escape."

Beckett's pen stops moving for a moment, freezing mid-sentence. She looks up at me with an expression I cannot read. Fear? Astonishment? She takes a second before she asks, "What did you do, Red?"

I don't react. I just admit what I did.

"I killed anyone who tried to run. It didn't matter who they were. I remember the chaos, the fear in their eyes as they realized their fate was sealed," I admit, starting to recognize that this behavior was unprecedented. But I cannot change the past. I did what I did to survive for as long as I had. "I was covered in blood of the innocent and the damned. Anyone in my sight was slaughtered and I didn't feel a thing. I killed them all."

Dr. Beckett watches me closely, her expression a mixture of fascination and concern. "And then?" she prompts softly, urging me to continue. However, I notice that she doesn't seem scared of the horrors I've caused. She seems more...sympathetic?

I feel Avalon's dread course through me as I get into the grisly details of that autumn night. "I found him," I say, quietly, and I almost feel a pang of regret. "I do remember the satisfaction of watching the realization on his face. He knew his sins caught up to him. And I killed him, slowly, making sure he knew that his blood was on his own hands."

The doctor continues to write aimlessly in her notebook, and I tend to take things into my own hands. I sigh, "By the time I left that village, it lay in ruins. It was a testament to the power I wielded and the lengths I would go to fulfill my mission. But I don't follow orders anymore." Those last words take me by surprise, though. After years of abiding by orders and requirements, I no longer feel the satisfaction of harming others in the name of a malevolent power. However, I will face evil if it means to protect Avalon and those she cares about.

I met Dr. Beckett's gaze again, expecting her to find something to accuse me of. To bound me to a life inside an institution. But I only find her listening, waiting to see if there is any more I have to say. And I take that as an invitation to be blunt.

"As much as I may try to deny it, she and I are one and the same," I continue, my voice tinged with a bitter acceptance of the truth. "But I'm not truly evil. I was created to do evil things. I didn't have a choice but to execute orders."

The admission catches me off guard, the words lingering in the air like a heavy fog. After years of blindly obey commands, of serving a cause I no longer believe in, I find myself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I've been causing mass destruction for as long as I can remember. But now, it seems that everything I've done was for nothing. I committed these heinous acts for what? At what price?

But I brace myself for judgment or condemnation. I sigh, holding my head in my hands, trying to figure out what it is I'm feeling. Dr. Beckett's silence only tempts me to speak a truth. And so I do, the words tumbling from my lips with a raw honesty that I have long kept buried, locked beneath doors I haven't dreamed of opening. "I may have done horrible things in the past, and I know I am still capable of doing them. However, I refuse to have them define me," I declare, my voice steady, almost in sync with Avalon's own thoughts, "I will face evil head-on, just as I always have, if it means protecting those we love."

As I finish my monologue, I feel Avalon's presence flickering with the determination I'm all too familiar with. It's time for her to take the reins again–I've enjoyed this dynamic of ours, but she can take things from here.

With a practiced ease, Red yields control, relinquishing her hold on the forefront. It's a seamless transition, like slipping into a familiar coat, as I step forward to confront the aftermath of our shared history. In the blink of an eye, I find myself back in the driver's seat, my sense sharpening as I adjust to being in command of our vessel. It's a relief, tempered by a sense of duty and responsibility to address the revelations that have been laid out in the open.

Opening my eyes, adjusting to my new perspective, I stare back at Dr. Beckett, my expression steady but harrowed. There's an unspoken understanding that surges between us, a mutual recognition of the complexities that define my existence. But that doesn't ease the irritation that courses through my veins. Instead of thinking rationally, I issue a warning.

"This little game you're playing ends now," I assert, my voice tinged with resentment. "I won't be dragged back into my past, reliving every painful moment. I've had enough."

However, even as I speak, a part of me acknowledges Dr. Beckett's genuine intention to help. "I know you're trying to help, but pushing me to talk about these things isn't fostering trust," I add, my tone softening slightly. "If anything, it's eroding it."

There is a tense silence between us, fraught with a tension I've never experienced within these four walls. It calls to the underlying conflict and lack of interest in the person that sits before the therapist. I can sense her frustration, her desire to delve deeper into my past, to unearth truths I haven't dared to speak. I envy her persistence, but that persistence only turns sour once I realized it wasn't benefiting me. If I'm honest, it only fuels her own curiosity.

But as the weight of her expectations bears down on me, I feel that same surge of defiance rising within me, a fierce determination to resist her probing inquiries. It's the same feeling I got when I escaped Hydra the first time–the first time I realized I deserved to live freely, without indoctrination.

"Can't you see that I'm trying to become someone I'm not?" The words come out rushed, only filled with a frustration and desperation I barely can portray. "I'm not the person you want me to be. I never will. I've lost too much. Done more bad than good. And no amount of rationalization will ever change that."

***

          I stand in front of my front door, with the weight of my therapy session still fresh on my mind. We have an agreement now to meet every two weeks. It wasn't an easy justification, but I found myself wanting space–wanting to breathe–without the constant reminder of the things I've done without the consent of my now conscious mind. Dr. Beckett understood, or at least she agreed to give me the space I claimed to need. An apology was offered for the paths she pushed me down, ones I have been reluctant to revisit. However, I feel like my reluctance is valid; after all, I was the one who lived this life, who committed these unspeakable crimes. Despite everything, she did mention progress, a word that felt foreign on my lips but not unwelcome. I know I have been trying my best to sort things out on my own, and there are things that I don't want to speak of yet. Yet, this is all a part of the healing progress.

I fumble with the keys, the metal cool against my fingertips. As I turn the key in the lock, a familiar sensation washes over me, sending a shiver down my spine. It's that inexplicable feeling in my chest, the one that always seems to accompany his presence. With a sigh, I close the door softly, my hand lingering on the handle for a moment longer than necessary. Dropping my bag by the door, a practiced motion by now, I let the silence envelope me. It's a comforting blanket, but it does little to ease the tension knotted in my shoulders. Knowing he's here, somewhere, makes this day a little more bearable–but I only wish it was everyday.

"James?" I call out, my voice carrying through my empty homestead. However, there is no response, but I know that my instincts rarely fail me. I know that he's here–somewhere–just out of sight. Taking off my coat and hanging it up, I begin to wander throughout the house, my sense seamlessly guiding my way.

As I move through the house, I notice something different, something changes. Everything has been put back together, renewed and revitalized. It's as if a breath of fresh air has swept through the space, leaving behind a sense of serenity and calm. When I first arrived here, everything was old, untouched, and lacked the liveliness I craved. Now, it seems that my vision–our vision–has come to life, bringing this place into the twenty-first century. Every step I take reveals his handiwork, the care and attention he's poured into this place–and yet, even this small gesture, it means the absolute world to me. It's as if he's stitched pieces of us into the very walls; a nod to our resilience and a future I'm still grappling to understand.

My steps slow as I absorb the transformation, each room telling a story of time passed and a future to unfold. The walls, once barren, dust cover, and peeling, now embrace warm hues that seem to hug you as you walk by. The floor, polished to a shine, reflects the soft lighting that fills every corner with a gentle glow. For the first time in nearly a century, I have brought back the light to this place and finally, it feels like home. Not the one I remember, but one I can learn to love again.

And there, in what was once the embodiment of disuse, the office stands reborn. My father's office, a room that held so many harrowing memories, so many unspoken words, now breathes a new life. The door is slightly ajar, and as I push it open, I see him, Bucky, making his final touches. He has poured himself into this project, dedicating every moment he's here to revive this space. Around him, the shadows of my past mingle with the light of the present, creating a new sanctuary not just of work, but of peace.

This very room was once forbidden to all that lived here. But it was the place where I faced the wrath of my father. Bruised, beaten, and unable to fit into the mold he desperately wanted me to fill, this room felt like a death sentence–a place where dreams were not nurtured but suffocated. Each corner, each piece of furniture, was a silent witness to the battles I endured, a tribute to a spirit that was nearly crushed under the weight of expectation and disappointment.

Now, as I stand in the doorway, those memories–though never fully erased–seem distant, like echoes from a life that is no longer my own. The transformation before me speaks volumes of the journey I've undertaken. It's no longer a room that signifies pain and a desperate longing for approval; instead, it symbolizes creativity, life, and an undeniable sense of peace.The very essence of it has shifted from a place of confinement to one of limitless possibilities.

Bucky, understanding the depth of pain and the strength it took to move beyond it, has meticulously worked to turn this once daunting space into an area that fosters growth and happiness. I once dreaded ever seeing this damn house again, whether I voiced those thoughts or not, but now, it's like I've traveled through space and time. And I'm standing in this room for the very first time. His attention to detail, his sensitivity to the past it held, and his vision for what it could become has not just renovated a room but has helped heal a part of my soul.

It is a room that once tried to erase me from existence completely. Now, every piece of me lies out in the open. 

He looks up, noticing my presence, and a soft smile spreads across his face. It's like he's been waiting for me all along. "I was hoping you'd be the one to finish it," he says, stepping aside to reveal the last piece that has yet to find its place–my doctorate degree from Boston University. It must've been hidden away, tucked somewhere deep within the closet that sits in the far corner of the room. He must've found it and knew that it would be the piece of my life that I'd want to experience again.

This degree, the frame delicately placed in my hands, is more than just a piece of paper. It's a symbol of my resilience, my dedication, and the immense challenges I've overcome. Graduating high school early was a feat in itself; I was barely sixteen, my intelligence pushing me through at a pace that left little time for the distractions of a typical teenage girl. My academic journey didn't stop there. With a relentless drive and an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I expedited my college years, diving deep into my studies with a focus that was deemed rare for someone my age.

By the ripe age of twenty-one, I had achieved what many spend decades striving for–a doctorate. It wasn't only the early completion that marked this as a significant accomplishment; it was the years of research, late nights, and the countless sacrifices made along the way. This degree represents a young woman who, despite facing adversity at every turn, refused to be defined by the looming shadow of her father/ Instead, I chose to carve out my own path, to rise above and beyond what was expected of me, to prove not only to my father, but to myself, that I, too, was capable of greatness.

However, if I knew then what I know now, I don't know how things would've panned out. And I don't think I would've been the person I am now.

As I carefully hang the frame, aligning it just right with the other decor in the room, I feel a sense of satisfaction wash over me. It's a small gesture, but it hold the weight of significance–a culmination of hard word and perseverance, encapsulated in a single piece of parchment. This frame was the missing puzzle piece, fitting perfectly with the mementos and old photographs that line the walls. Pictures of my brothers, my mother, the friends I've made over the years, and educational accomplishments. But now, it lacks Lorenzo's existence. And that's exactly what he deserves.

Turning to face Bucky, who stands watching me with an expression filled with pride and admiration, I find myself at a loss for words. There is so much I want to articulate, so much gratitude and affection swirling within, but it all feels inadequate in the face of this moment. No words would be able to express how much all of this means to me. I've never had a love like this–a life like this–and it feels...perfect.

Instead, I offer him a grateful smile as tears brim my eye, hoping it conveys the depths of my emotions better than any words could. "Thank you," I say softly, turning my attention back to the display on the wall. It's my life laid out in the open, everything that was once hidden away, completely stripped from the very fiber of my being. But I know that never again will it be taken from me.

And then, as I turn to face him once more, my breath catches in my throat as I find him on one knee before me. My heart begins to swell with emotion, threatening to overflow with the sheer weight of what I feel. The air between us vibrates with an unspoken promise, a tension filled with anticipation and the echo of every moment we've shared. There is a depth in Bucky's eyes, a solemnity that speaks of the gravity of this moment, yet his gaze is alight with something fierce and tender. It's as if the world around us fades, leaving nothing but the space we occupy, charged with our shared history, our battles, our triumphs, and the unbreakable bond that has tethered our souls together through unimaginable storms.

Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to muster the courage to speak the words he dares to speak. In his eyes, I see the reflection of our entwined souls, a fusion so deep, it surpasses mere physical existence. And as he is about to speak, the air seems to thicken, charged with the weight of his words, a palpable anticipation that makes my heart beat a frantic tattoo against my ribcage.

"Avalon," he begins, and his voice is more than sound; it's a physical caress, wrapping around me, pulling me closer into the gravity of his world. "When we first met, we were mere echoes of who we are today. Shaped by darkness, we moved through the world not living, but executing orders. Our paths crossed on mission, our interactions feeting, impersonal. We were pawns in a larger game, often placed against each other, fighting battles that were never truly ours."

He pauses, his eyes lost in the memories that still haunt him, visible in the furrow of his brow and the slight tension in his jaw. "I spent years as an operative, not knowing that I had a life before the one I was forced into. And when I finally came to, I was lost, haunted by the things I had done. I feared facing you more than anything. I feared you'd see me only as the monster they turned me into–the one who came close to taking your life, not once, but multiple times."

His hand, holding the ring box, trembles slightly, not from nervousness, but the intensity of his emotions. He and I both know that the life we were given wasn't fair–that we deserved to live life without the pain and suffering we had endured. Composing himself, he continues, "But then, you found me in Budapest. Despite everything, you saw beyond the assassin, beyond the mission. You saw me, the person I struggled to remember. You understood the depth of the darkness I was emerging from because you, too, were fighting your way out. It wasn't only about survival; it was about reclaiming the essence of who we were and who we could be again."

His gaze softens, a twinkle forming in his eyes as he tries to keep his emotions at bay. A tender smile graces his lips as he speaks. "You see, Avalon, you have always been my compass, my guiding light in the darkest of times. Wherever you go, I will follow, bound together by a love that transcends time and space. It has been a privilege to love you, to know you, and to stand by your side through every trial and tribulation."

I stand in disbelief, my heart thundering in my chest, my hands covering my mouth in complete awe. I know he isn't finished, but I am taking in every word like it's the last. It's a moment I've dreamed of, a moment I never dared hope for–a love that doesn't wound, a love that doesn't choose power over me. For so long, I've waited, silently yearning for a connection that transcends the pain of my past, a love that heals instead of harms. And now, as Bucky stands before me, professing his unwavering devotion, I realize that this is it. This is the love I was meant to find. A love that ignites my soul and promises to stand by me through every victory and defeat. It's a love that feels like coming home, like finding the missing piece of my heart that I never knew was lost.

"From the moment I gave you a piece of my heart, it wasn't just to save your life; it was because my soul recognized its counterpart in you. Even if I didn't realize it then," he says, every word like a sweet symphony to my ears. I anticipate his next words, knowing that this is it, this is the finale. He cannot keep his smile from growing brighter as he begins, "And so, I'm here before you now, knowing that I have made a promise to protect you, a promise that I intend to keep for as long as I draw breath. So, today, I'm not just asking you to marry me. I'm asking you to let me continue to be the protector of your heart, as you have been of mine. Will you let me love you, cherish you, and stand by you, for all the days of our lives?"

As Bucky's words wash over me, my heart soars, and a rush of emotions overwhelms me. Tears brimming my eyes, happiness swelling within me until it feels like I might burst. This moment, his words–they've everything I've ever dreamed of but never dared to believe could be real. My vision blurs with tears before they escape me, each tear for the love, the pain, and the battles we've both fought to get here. I can see the sincerity shining in his eyes, feeling the meaning of his words settling in my soul. It's a promise of forever, a vow of unwavering love and protection. And in this instant, I know without a doubt that my could only ever be a resounding yes.

A laugh escapes me, a sound so full of joy and relief that it surprises even me. My hands shake as I reach for him, eager to close the distance between us, to affirm the bond that has been our destiny from the very beginning. "Yes," I whisper, my voice choking with emotion. "A thousand times, yes! There is nothing I want more than to be with you, to love you, for the rest of my life."

The ring he slides onto my finger sparkles, a beautiful symbol of our commitment, but it's the look in his eyes that captures all of my attention–it's pure love, a reflection of my own heart. Bucky rises to his feet, closing the gap between us with a step that seems both hesitant and determined. His hands, strong and sure, cradle my face, thumbs gently wiping the tears of happiness that continue to stream down my cheeks. The world around us narrows down to this singular, perfect moment. Our eyes lock, a silent conversation flowing between us, speaking of battles fought, darkness endured, and the unbreakable down that has led to this moment of pure, unadulterated happiness.

Then, as naturally as sunrise follows the dark, our lips meet in a kiss that seals out promises, our pasts, and our futures together. It's a kiss that speaks of a love hard-won, evidence to the strength of two hearts that refuse to be apart. The kiss, soft yet fervent, is a declaration, a vow made not before witnesses but in the quiet sanctity of our shared soul. It's gentle, a whisper of touch, yet it holds the power of a storm, a culmination of every emotion, every tear, every laugh we;ve shared. It's the kind of kiss that changes the essence of our very beings, melding two souls into one in advance as old as time.

Pulling back, the world comes into sharp focus once more, our breaths mingling in the space between us. The ring on my finger catches the light, a beacon of our commitment, but it's Bucky's eyes that keep me captive. In them, I see our future, bright and brimming with possibilities. Love, so profound and all-encompassing, fills me to the brim, leaving no room for anything else.

Wrapped in Bucky's arms, with his love grounding me and the promise of our future lifting me, I've never felt more alive, more cherished. The kiss, this proposal, is not just the beginning of a chapter but a continuation of a love story that defies time, pain and all odds. And as we stand here, heart to heart, we'll face it together, with love as our greatest weapon, This is a love I would go to war for. This is a love that I would go against my good nature to protect.

a/n : brb while i literally SCREAM IN HAPPINESS!!!! i've been anticipating this moment since i started reconstruction and im so happy ive finally brought it to life. however, there is more in store for bavalon!! now... TIME FOR TFATWS ;) -k