There were things they never told the Avengers about you.

Not about the shadows you moved in. Not about the bodies you left behind. And definitely not about you connection to the Winter Soldier.

You weren’t a ghost story. Ghosts linger. You vanished.

Back when HYDRA ruled the dark parts of the world, you were fire to his ice—Bonnie and Clyde with blood on their hands and matching kill orders. Missions. Memories. Marriage. You were never apart. Not by choice. Not by failure. (©TRS0525CAI)

Until one day, you were just… gone.

No body. No comms. No loose end to tie up.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Asset’s wife burned alive in a collapsed safehouse. Vaporized by Stark tech. Executed by HYDRA for disobedience. Pick your poison.

—

You didn’t flinch when the elevator dinged. You’d been briefed, trained, conditioned past the point of jump scares.

But the second Steve Rogers said, “I want to introduce you to the newest member of the Avengers,” you felt something under your skin twitch—like muscle memory was about to wake the dead.

You stepped into the main briefing room of the Avengers Compound, your boots silent, posture perfect. Cold. Efficient. Controlled.

“Everyone,” Steve said, standing proud in front of the team like he was announcing a bake sale, “meet our newest recruit.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. Natasha shifted almost imperceptibly. And Bucky?

Bucky forgot how to breathe.

Because you walked in like you’d never slit a throat with him before. Like you didn’t once carve your initials into the drywall of a stolen safehouse beside his. Like you weren’t the woman who whispered “Till death do us part,” with blood on your hands and fire in your eyes.

“Codename’s Vex,” you said simply. Your voice was familiar and wrong all at once—like a melody played off-key.

Bucky was unraveling from the inside out.

Because you’re here. And alive.

But you don’t even look at him.

You scanned the room like he’s a stranger. Like he’s just another suit in a lineup of gods and broken men. Your gaze paused on Steve, then flickered to Natasha, and finally settled on the empty chair across from the wall monitor.

“Where do I sit?” you asked, voice smooth, expression unreadable.

But it’s not your voice. Not the way you used to talk. Not the venom-laced flirtations. Not the sweet nothings between bloodstains.

Steve gestured to a seat near Bucky, and Bucky—bless him—didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. Just stared. Jaw clenched, breathing shallow. His heart was beating like a war drum inside his chest and you can’t hear it.

You used to be able to hear it.

He watched your gloved fingers wrap around the edge of the chair. He knew exactly what those hands have done. With him. For him. To him.

His mind’s already running a reel of you at full power—black tactical gear, wicked smile, your body pressed against his after a hit like nothing else in the world mattered. You were sharp edges and soft lips. Chaos wrapped in skin. His matching monster.

You were supposed to be dead.

That’s what they told him. That’s what they let him believe.

And now you’re sitting three feet away, looking right through him, asking for your mission brief like none of it ever happened.

You don’t remember.

But he does.

And if Bucky Barnes was anything, it's a man who doesn’t let go of ghosts. Especially the ones he used to call wife.