My eyes flutter open, and the world around me is a blur of light. Everything feels too bright, too sharp, yet somehow distant, like I'm floating between reality and something else. Panic begins to bubble in my chest as I struggle to remember where I am, what just happened. The last thing I remember is falling–my head hitting the cold, unforgiving concrete–and then...the dream, or whatever that was. My body is still sluggish, as if I'm not truly back in it yet.

Am I safe? Am I still there, caught in the in-between?

I try to move, but my limbs feel foreign to me, like they belong on someone else's body. I blink hard, trying to bring the room into focus, but the harsh lighting makes everything hazy. My heart races, a dull ache throbbing in my skull. I feel disoriented, caught between the remnants of my fight with the Flag Smashers and the haunting memory of...her. The voices, the rage–it's all too much. Everything swirls together in a disjointed haze, leaving me breathless, vulnerable.

Slowly, I shift my head, trying to get a grip on my surroundings and try to figure out my best escape plan. And that's when I see him. Bucky. He's slumped in a chair by my side, head down, shoulders tense but unmoving. He looks like he's been sitting there for hours, waiting, guarding. A wave of relief washes over me, but it's tangled with someone else. Guilt, maybe? Or something deeper I can't quite place.

He's here, waiting for me.

The room is quiet around us, and I can hear the gentle hum of the world outside, but it feels out of place, like we're in some sort of bubble, separated from reality. I don't speak. I'm not sure if I can. My throat feels tight, dry, and the words get stuck somewhere deep within me. Bucky stirs slightly, his breath catching for a moment as he opens his eyes, blinking away the exhaustion. His gaze snaps to mine, and for a second, there's nothing but silence between us. His relief is evident, but there's something in his expression too, something raw and unspoken.

The silence is thick, not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything unsaid. I can feel the question lingering on his lips, the concern swimming around in his blue eyes. The exhaustion in his features makes him look older, wearier. I don't need to ask how long he's been sitting there. It's written all over him–how his body is tense, but his shoulders sag as if the weight of the world has been pressing down on him for hours. And I wonder if this is how it always is for him, always waiting, always carrying the burden.

But something in me pulls away from that thought, like it's too dangerous to linger on. My mind flashes back again to the fight, to the blood, the chaos, and then...my mother's words, venomous and cold, her disapproval burned into my memory. That world feels too close, too real still. My mind dwells on it, unable to shake the feeling of being trapped, of finally understanding why things happened the way they did. But I know it was always meant to be, even if I believe I could've changed the outcome.

I try to sit up, but my body protests, muscles aching from the tension. My hand is still resting on Bucky's, my fingers barely curling against his. The contact feels too intimate, like it's grounding me in a way I'm not sure I want right now. But I can't pull away either, not yet. Because you know the outcome of the choice you're bound to make. Anyone that protests our decision will be met with one choice; to be left behind.

His voice, soft and raspy me, cuts through the silence. "You're okay."

He says it like its a fact, like he needs me to believe it. But I'm not sure if I really am. I don't feel okay–I feel like the soldier again, just waiting for my next mission. The disorientation, the echoes of that other world–it still clings to me, making it hard to breathe, to react. Hydra, my mother, everything I tried to bury is now clawing its way to the surface, threatening to drown me, to pull me back in.

I don't trust my words yet, so I don't answer. Instead, I glance around the room. It's small, safe, far removed from the chaos outside. But it doesn't feel like enough. I can feel the pull of something darker, something unresolved. Boston. Hydra. My roots. It's where I need to go. I can't stay here, not like this.

Finally, I muster the courage to sit up, my head still spinning, and Bucky is watching me carefully, like he's expecting me to break. But I'm not that girl anymore. I'm not fragile, not after everything. And yet, the weight of what I'm about to do feels heavier than anything I've carried before.

The moment feels fragile, like the world might crack open and swallow me whole if I speak. But the words are there, pressing at the back of my throat, threatening to escape. What am I supposed to say? That I just spent an eternity in the space between life and death, confronting the ghost of a mother I wish I'd never seen? No. I push it down, locking it away where it can't hurt me–at least, not right now.

"How long was I out?" I question, groggily. My voice sounds distant, even to me.

"A while," he answers. He's watching me closely, too closely, like he's trying to read what's really going on behind my words. But unfortunately for him, I'm good at masking my true feelings. "You scared the hell out of me. You hit your head pretty hard."

"I'm fine," the lie slips out easily, though the pounding in my head and the lingering chill in my bones tell a different story. But I need to focus on what's in front of me, not the mess that's swirling inside my head. I squeeze his hand, assuringly, "I've been through worse."

His gaze sharpens. He knows me better than that. "WWhat happened out there? You... you weren't yourself."

The coldness of that world creeps in again, the sound of my mother's voice taunting me with every word I try to piece together. But again, I force it down, burying it somewhere deep, somewhere he cannot see. "Just got a little careless, I guess. Forget how chaotic these missions tend to be," I say with a faint smile, trying to make light of it. But his eyes don't leave mine. He sees right through me.

"Lonnie," he says, more softly now. There's something in his voice, like he knows exactly what's going through my mind, but he doesn't want to be direct about it. "You're not telling me something." It's not an accusation, but a concern, a worry seeping through the cracks of him.

I swallow, my throat tightening. He's right. There's a lot I'm not telling him, but the words won't come, not yet. "I just...I don't know, Bucky," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I guess it's just been a while since I've been knocked out like that. It's unsettling, you know? Not being able to control anything, just... gone."

His expression softens, but there's still something simmering beneath the surface, as if he knows I'm holding back. "That wasn't your fault."

I shrug, but the disappointment sits heavy in my chest. "Maybe not, but I shouldn't have let it happen. My reflexes, my focus. I'm slacking."

His hand reaches for mine, and I let him hold it, the warmth of his touch grounding me. But I stil can't shake the nagging discomfort, the unease creeping beneath my skin. It's not just the mission–it's everything that has unfolded within my unconscious mind and in reality. But I'm not ready to face all of it, not yet. And definitely not ready to tell him about Boston.

After all, with this madness inside, I can't bear to destroy him, too. 

***

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS | THREE DAYS LATER

The familiar scent of Boston's street fills the air, the crisp autumn breeze brushing against my skin as I walk through the city, yet it all feels foreign. I've been back for only a few days, but everything seems...off. The city I once knew, the place that I thought would put me back together, has become a concrete maze that I cannot escape. Bucky had asked me to go back to Louisiana with him after Europe, but I declined, brushing it off as a need to be back home.

But this isn't home.

It's a graveyard of memories, and I can't shake the feeling that I've come here to bury something–or maybe to dig something up.

I pass familiar spots, coffee shops and quiet corners where I used to escape my demons just for a moment, pretending I had a life outside of the shadows. But now, the shadows are all I see. It feels like they're closing in, thickening around me with every breath I take. My mind races back to that fateful night in Europe, the old thud of my head hitting the cement, and the haunting image of my mother. I try to push it away, trying to forget how long I was out–hopeless and unable to protect myself. The assassin in me wouldn't allow that.

I shake my head, dismissing the thought as I turn down another street. But it's useless. It seeps its way back in, like an itch I cannot scratch. I'm spiraling, and I know it. I've been here before, dancing on the edge of madness, and this time, I'm not quite sure if I'll come back from it. I haven't told Bucky. I couldn't. Not yet. He wouldn't understand why I needed to come back here alone. He wouldn't allow me to face Blake alone if he knew what I was planning.

I stop at the edge of my street, staring ahead at the place I should call home. I watch the leaves fall, the peaceful sense mocks me. My hands tremble, and I close my fists to stop the shaking. I wonder if this is how things will always be, and if I will forever try to keep myself together. But I cannot dwell on those things. Not right now, at least. For now, I make my way home, wanting nothing more than to lock myself away with my thoughts for a little while longer. 

As I reach the front door, I stop and look at the world I've come to know, much different than I had expected it to me. Though it has been welcoming, I seem to have lost my place in it, but that may have been my own doing. The knob is cool on the palm of my hand as I push the door open, and as I'm walking in, it feels like I'm bidding farewell to all I knew. But maybe, this is just temporary--at least, the human part of me hopes so. 

But as the door shuts behind me, a deep, unsettling quiet settles in, filling every corner of my thoughts. The familiar world outside fades, replaced by shadows that seem to draw closer with passing seconds. I glance around the room, seeing it for what it truly is now–shelter, eys, but a prison of my own making. Even when Bucky and I've gutted it, redone every corner to shine in a better light, the walls still hold the echoes of the past. And that makes me remember the shackles of torment brought by my father's hands. No amount of change can take away the pain, but I can let myself forget again. I know exactly what to do to make it all go dark. But that would mean going back to the coldness, the emptiness–and completely forgetting those I've come to care for. Of those that I love. 

I settle by the window, unmoving, as if time itself has paused around me. The world outside is quiet, painted in muted tones as dusk begins to creep in. It is a steadfast race to madness, and there's no changing the outcome–even if I wanted to take hold of my fate. Outside the leaves fall in golden-brown clusters, slowly building on the sidewalk and drifting in spirals across the sidewalk. There's something about watching them fall that keeps me anchored here, as if each leaf carries with it the weight of a memory I cannot shake.

Bucky's name lights up on my phone, the soft vibration momentarily breaking the slice that blanketed me. I stare at the screen, the ringing so familiar now it barely registers. He's tried to reach me again and again. But I just... I can't. If I answered if I heard his voice, I'd have to remember who I'm supposed to be. But here, in this silence, there's nothing but me and this hollow ache, this feeling, that's I've started to embrace.

The feeling is one I haven't let myself touch since I escaped Hydra all those years ago, back when I was in Washington D.C., wandering without an identity. Back then, I was something caught between Avalon and the assassin, unnamed and unrecognized. It was a hollow freedom–a taste of the unknown with no plausible foundation, no anchor. Nothing. I was a shadow in my own skin, trying to flee from a life I didn't fully understand, haunted by fragments of a past I couldn't remember. A life that I had no meaning of understanding.

And here I am, years later, feeling that same emptiness surrounds me, as if I've come full circle to find that I never truly left. It's as if I've been stitched back into a role that's always waited for me. Like a stranger within myself. The world continues on, and I remain seated, a quiet observer once again, the weight of the Red Ghost settling over me like a long-lost shroud.

The dark quiet stretches, pressing in, threatening to suffocate me. With it, comes the unmistakable reminder: I was never meant to be free. The silence, the detachment, the chill creeping in–it's a language I know, once I was forged into. 

So, I let the call slip away, swallowed up by the dusk. I don't move an inch. Even as the night slips over the neighborhood and street lights blink on, casting elongated shadows through the glass, I remain still, waiting for something that may never come. It's strange, really–this silence should be unbearable. Yet, it feels like the only thing keeping me together, the only space where I don't have to pretend.

As I sit here alone, the words slip out without thinking, but there's an urgency in them that feels raw and unfiltered.

"Red, where are you?" I murmur, the sound almost swallowed by the thick silence of the room.. My voice trembled, low and pleading, but firm enough to hang in the air, lingering just beyond the shadows. I glance around, feeling the weight of the quiet pressing in on me, and for a moment, I think she might answer, that I might feel her presence flicker within the void. But there's nothing–just the empty quiet echoing back, but I know she's there.

The room feels colder, each shadow inching closer, wrapping around me as though feeding on the stillness. Here, I don't have to be Avalon, the human trying to forge a new life, or even the weapon Hydra molded. I am just...me, an existence somewhere between human and something else, between light and dark. I stand from my seat, pressing my fingers against the walls, the rough texture grounding me as I feel the aspect of everything I am slipping away, peeling back layer by layer, until all that's left is a hollow I barely recognize.

My voice echoes in the stillness, a quiet plea wrapped in tension. "Red?" I whisper, searching the shadows of my mind. "Are you there?"

Silence answers first, pressing down on the edges of my sanity. I close my eyes, I expect Red's familiar voice to echo, her sharp wit or even a half-sneered retort. It was her guidance that had always steered me when I faltered, keeping me tethered to what I meant to become. And now, there's nothing–only the dim hush that fills the corners of my mind, as if Red herself has receded into the shadows. But now, that tether feels thin, almost fragile, like it could snap in a single breath. My pulse races, my mind reaching out for that familiar shadow inside.

The silence presses in, an unbearable ring in my ears, and for a split second, I feel the panic rising, clawing its way up my throat. "Red!" My voice shatters the stillness, desperate and hoarse, echoing back from the empty corners of the living room. There's no response. I'm met with nothing but the hollow quiet, a void where Red should be. She's always there, always a breath away, ready with a scathing reminder or a reckless push, but now...nothing.

I stumble back, breathing fast, feeling the reality twist around me. The room seems to close in on me, the walls seemingly closing in on me. I let out a strangled scream, and without thinking, I grab the nearest object–a glass bowl–and hurl it across the room. It shatters against the wall, shards scattering like fragments of my own fractured self. "No," I growl, gripping my head in my hands, tears streaking down my face. "You don't get to leave me! I don't want this!" But it's too late. It's already in me, in the marrow of my being.

The lamp goes next, hitting the floor in a resounding crash. I feel the anger bubbling over, an emotion so pure and unfiltered I can hardly contain it. I scream, my voice trembling as I fling anything within reach—books, picture frames, anything to puncture the silence that's invaded my mind. Each shattering object fuels the sinking truth: there's no division anymore. I've absorbed all of Red's rage, her defiance, her dark clarity.

My breath comes in gasps, each one tearing at my chest as I drop to my knees amidst the wreckage. My hand scrapes over shattered glass, but I don't care; the sting of it, the warm trickle of blood, only feeds the anger churning inside me. The pain is grounding, a reminder that I'm still here, still alive–and yet, it feels hollow, like I'm caught somewhere between who I was and the monster I've seen myself becoming. I look down at my bleeding hand, the red seeping between my fingers, and something within me snaps.

"Answer me!" I scream, slamming my fists against the floor, glass embedding deeper into my skin. I can feel the tears, hot and relentless, but they only fuel my fury. I am not her puppet, her shell, her–whatever this is. I'm not just an assassin, not just a vessel for vengeance. And yet, as I kneel here in the mess I've made, it hits me that Red isn't gone. She's me–woven into every fiber, into every scar, into every piece I've tried to bury.

I sit back, bloodied hands trembling, eyes blurring with tears. The anger wanes, leaving a hollow ache in its wake, a twisted understanding that maybe...this was always where I was headed. It's a startling recognition, like staring into a mirror and seeing both my face and hers–the monster and the human, all fused into one singular self. I've crossed the threshold I once thought impossible, stepped into the very space Red inhabited, and now I am her...and more.

Now, I am all that she was–every brutal truth, every quiet whisper urging me on. Red was the keeper of my rage, the curator of my scars, and now, with her silence, I can finally own all what we are.

I am both Avalon and the Red Ghost, human and monster, the ghost they created and the fury they unleashed. And there's no turning back now. 

***

          I wake up on the sofa, face pressed against the coarse fabric. It's the same feeling I'd wake to in the Hydra cells, my sense wrapped in a gritty fog, trying to remember if the pain is real or only a ghost of what's been done to me. My fingers brush across my knuckles, swollen and split. There's dried blood on my palm and smudges on the floor where I must've fallen asleep.

I sit up, robotic, scanning the room–the broken glass, overturned furniture, streaks of blood on the hardwood floors. My body aches, but I focus on the sting, familiar and grounding. Rising to my feet, I stretch out the stiffness, one last attempt to shake off whatever pieces of the past cling to me. My bare feet carry me to the bathroom, and when I finally lift my eye to look at my reflection, I almost don't recognize the face staring back.

I stand there, locked in a silence stare off with the reflection before me. Hollowed eyes, dark rings etched beneath them from nights of fractured sleep, skin pulled tight over sharp cheekbones–a face that's seen far too many battlefields and not enough daylight. It's not the face of someone alive, not truly; it's the face of someone caught between.

Gone is the person who used to look back at me, the one who once dared to have a little hope in this world. All that's left is now a solder–cold, empty, eyes as lifeless as the steel they once trained me to weld. The faintest lines of exhaustion tug at the corners of my gaze, but they're overshadowed by something deeper, something that chills me. There's a haunting look there, one that even I can barely stand to face. It's the look of someone who's been stripped down to nothing but their purpose, and even that is a splintered thing.

I press my fingers against the glass, wondering if there's anything left of the human I used to know, or if I've become nothing but the ghost Hydra made me. The monster, the weapon, the empty vessel they molded to kill. There's a part of me that wants to smash the mirror, to erase that dead-eyed soldier from existence, but instead, I force myself to continue on, to only focus on tending to the open wounds.

I pull away from the mirror, the chill of that reflection still biting at my mind, but I let it slip away as I turn back to the task in front of me. The pain is an anchor, grounding me to the present–so I lean into it, holding onto the familiar, sharp edges of discomfort as I pull a clean cloth from the drawer, soaking it in antiseptic. 

Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet seat, I lift my arm and begin wiping the streaks of dried blood from my skin. Wincing as the cloth digs into fresh scrapes. It's a methodical process: clean, disinfect, asses. Each movement I make is deliberate, a silent rhythm I've known the entirety of my existence. Hydra trained us well–my father trained me well–drilled into us the importance of treating wounds fast and with precision. And for a long time, I followed it without a second thought or pointless protest.

I pull a needle and thread from the kit, hands steady, no longer feeling the sting as the needle pierces the skin of my forearm. It's muscle memory at this point–just one stitch after another, like pulling the seam shut on torn fabric. Each stitch tightens over an old scar, joining a tapestry of past wounds like a map. But there's no sound, no reaction, not even a flinch. I'm numb to it now, just as I was back then. It was survival then. It's survival now.

My mind drifts, almost detached as I finish each stitch, to the secret camps Hydra would set up. The dim, cold spaces where they'd expect us to stitch ourselves up without as much as a blind. Then, the last time I found myself in a similar situation–Maria Hill had just saved us from Crossbones in Washington. I was nearly spent, injured, and corners, holding myself together with whatever strength I had left. But even then, I was worried about everything but myself.

That rescue was more than just a mission. For a fleeting moment, it felt like purpose, like a glimpse of what freedom might actually be. But I shake it off, closing the door on the memory before it can settle too deeply and pull myself out of this hole. That was then, and whatever purpose I thought I'd felt is buried beneath everything I am now.

As I finish tying off the last stitch, I place down the needle and take a slow breath, grounding myself in the pain that brings me back in the present. My eyes drift over the room, the broken glass, the overturned furniture, and the faint stains on the floor–everything shattered and silent, a reflection of what's inside. This mess, this emptiness, I know how to clean it up. Just like I always have. 

a/n : you have no idea how much I've missed writing this story. however, you all aren't prepared for what's coming next... until next time :) -k