NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
2015

THE aftermath of killing was worse than June remembered.

She laid on the floor of the Quinjet, curled tightly into a ball with a heavy blanket tucked around her shoulders and bunched in her fists. She cried rivers. June remained as still as a statue and made no noise, but her cheeks glistened with rolling tears and her hair was lank with moisture. She felt physically ill, though that was likely because as soon as Bucky got her onto the ship she had lurched into the small bathroom and vomited until her insides we left a hollow web of catacombs and burning nerves.

Her body was dying but her mind was restless. June felt phantom hands touch her, seize her, throttle her. Her lips seared where Carpet had torn into them. Every time she closed her eyes, his hungry face filled her vision, and the agony June felt as she relived every horror linked to him was almost unbearable. Her only solace was found in remembering the fear in his eyes when she shot him, the shock of who she was whiplike in its bite. She revisited the image of his head bursting in a cloud of red over and over, trying to emblazon its truth into her brain. He's dead. He's gone and dead.

Bucky sat beside her, leaned back against the wall with his elbows on his knees, looking anguished and unsure. Her back was to him. He didn't dare touch her. She was inconsolable. But he wanted to do something.

He stayed near as if to keep the invitation for comfort open, and spoke to her gently, assuring her that they were almost back in New York, almost back to the others. June wanted to tell him he was enough for her, that his presence was enough and she would be all right without the rest of the team, but the words wouldn't come. Her voice was trapped beneath tears, all her courage and moxie having deserted, replaced with deep, carving fear. If she began to calm down, a vicious image of Carpet ignited her mind, memories from both the Hydra Underground and the gala. Blood beading down his lips, the stench of alcohol heavy on his breath. Always too near, and always too familiar. June had considered her job of repressing most of these memories a good one, and generally successful. The flood of what broke past that mental barrier was choking her.

"We're almost there," Bucky said softly, brushing a finger across her arm. June flinched. He pulled away. She felt her cheeks burn, and she turned her eyes into the blanket. It wasn't his fault, but June couldn't stomach human touch at that moment. It all felt like Carpet.

"Twenty minutes 'till we land," Jack Odion's voice broke their tired isolation. "How's she holding up?"

June though one look at her would be enough to tell. Bucky shook his head. "I dunno."

Having been so consumed with the mission, June had never introduced herself to Odion. He seemed kind, had found the shock blanket and even tried to hunt down something for June to eat. Amid her haze, she made a note to thank him.

June felt Bucky move, then rise to his feet. He began speaking, hushed as if to prevent her from hearing, but that was futile. June heard everything.

"Something happened," he muttered, and June realized he was talking through his comm. "Carpet . . . she knew him."

There was a muffled reply through the comm. "But we knew that. He was a sponsor." Steve.

"It's not like we thought . . . . Back in Moscow, he . . . hurt her."

"What do you mean? Was it assault? Did he—"

"Yes, like . . . that."

"Oh, God . . . did he know who she was?"

"No."

"Where is he now? I'll track him myself if I have to—"

"She shot him. He's dead, but . . . she's catatonic right now—won't talk." The worry was thick in Bucky's voice. June could tell he was pacing, dragging his hands through his hair, swinging his arms restlessly. "I don't know what to do," he went on, still hushed, but it still didn't matter. "This has never happened before, and I'm no good—"

"James," June croaked. She stretched out a hand.

He twisted around, laid eyes on her, and shut off his comm immediately. In two strides he was knelt at her side, fingers clutching hers with vice-like rigidity. "Yes? What is it?"

It hurt to talk—June's lips were still raw from Carpet's abuse—but she whispered in a shaking voice, "It's okay. I'm gonna be okay. I just wasn't expecting it to be him."

Bucky shook his head furiously. "You're not all right. You're not—"

"Please, James," she cut him off, face twisted in earnest, her arms trembling as she clasped her other hand over their intertwined fingers. "Please don't make me feel weak. This isn't weakness. I killed him . . . I killed him, okay? It's not a weakness. Look," she pulled away slightly and began to sit up, her guts still writhing, legs searing. Bucky watched her in terror but did not interfere. He kept her hand folded tightly in his own as she settled against the wall, sweat beading her forehead and snaking down her temples. "Just get me to New York," June grimaced. She threw off the shock blanket.

Jack's head popped out of the cockpit. "Already done, agent. Brace for landing, you two, we've got a narrow strip."

• • •

STEVE was waiting at the landing hangar when they arrived at Stark Tower.

June hobbled off the ramp and he was at her side at once. He searched her face intently, gaze lingering on her marred mouth, but he did not seem to know what to say. June met his eyes and wordlessly implored him not to make her talk about Carpet at that moment; he must have caught on because Steve did nothing but sigh, run a hand over his face, and say very softly, "Barton's hurt."

June's eyes widened. "What?"

"He'll be fine," Steve assured her, lifting a hand. "Nat's with him, and Helen Cho is patching him up. She's got this machine that regrows human tissue from existing cells."

"No surgeries? He won't even need stitches?" June asked, perplexed.

Steve smiled. "Not a single one. It's amazing."

Though she still felt awful, Steve's grin always prompted return. June hoped acting at ease would help put her at ease—there were far more dire things at hand. She saw Bucky approach in her peripheral, followed by Jack, whom she had not gotten a good look of until she turned to greet them. His dark hair was buzzed on the sides and cropped cleanly at the top. Most striking about Jack were his eyes. Bright blue and vast, they took away from the brooding effect his heavy brow and olive skin laid over him—his eyes were wicked in their intellect.

June gave Jack what she hoped looked like a genuine smile. "It's good to finally meet you. We could never have pulled last night off without your help."

"Nah," Jack waved her off, "you did all the work, agent. I didn't shoot the target, that's for sure."

June chuckled weakly. "Oh, well . . . it was still great to meet you."

She watched Steve pull Bucky into a brief, but tight hug and pretended not to notice their quick glances her way. She knew, once again, she would be the topic of great concern and likely barred from future missions once again. It wasn't as if she sought these slip-ups, they just kept happening! On top of everything else, she faced earning the reputation of the team basket case, which irritated her to her very core.

"Do you want to see him?" said Steve, pulling June from her thoughts.

She blinked away her daze. "Clint? Yeah, of course. Is everyone else back?"

"Gang's all here."

"Great. I want to hear everything about Sokovia." She maintained the brightest smile she could pull together.

Steve folded his arms. "Do you mind a little spoiler?" When June shook her head, he continued, "We got Strucker."

The smile fell. June's hands flew to her mouth. She eyed Steve in disbelief, her heart throbbing, legs threatening to fail her. After a few moments, she lowered her palms. "He's dead?"

"No," Steve corrected her quickly, "but he's contained. NATO has him, they're trying to get a trial set up."

"I don't think someone like him should get a trial," said Bucky, his jaw twitching. He stood behind June, his chest brushing her shoulder, but the usual feeling of security that came with Bucky's presence did not befall her; rather, a swaying uneasiness pushed at her, a rolling wariness of someone drawing so close, something warning June not to allow it.

She folded her arms tightly around herself. The discomfort refused to subside. In an attempt to mask her growing restlessness, June urged, "Let's see Clint already," and prayed she seemed normal.

Steve conceded and led the way to the elevator. June said nothing during the ascent and pretended not to notice when Bucky turned his focus on her.

The elevator slid to a smooth halt, not on the infirmary floor, as June had expected, but at Bruce's lab. As soon as the doors parted, June dashed out, following the hum of several familiar voices that never before had been more welcomed.

"Oh, he's flatlining," said Tony's voice. "Call it. Time?"

June broke into a run. "What?" She skidded into the side room, eyes wide with worry.

"No, no, no," Clint waved Tony off from where he was sprawled across an examination bed. "I'm gonna live forever. I'm gonna be made of plastic." Clint looked toward the doorway and let out a slightly tired laugh. "Oh, heya, Junie. Welcome to the party."

Still unsure, June gave a wave. "Hey. What, uh . . . what is this? What happened?"

Tony passed Clint a frothy green smoothie. "Here's your beverage. Master marksman right here got shot, as we knew he would."

"I'm deaf."

"That doesn't apply here," Tony retrieved another smoothie and offered it to June. When she took it, he leaned in close, whispered, "We need to talk," and turned back around in one fluid motion.

"Mr. Barton," Dr. Helen Cho spoke up with a pointed look at Clint, her deep brown eyes calm and soft, "there's no plastic. You'll be made of you. Your own girlfriend won't be able to tell the difference."

Clint took a lazy sip of his drink. "Well, I don't have a girlfriend." He didn't seem bothered.

"That, I can't fix."

June darted forward and peered down at Clint's waist, where a series of blue lasers beamed down from an overhead projector and glided across a square of Clint's skin, pink and bubbling. "Helen?" June said. "How does it work?"

Helen glanced at June, an easy smile on her petal-pink lips. "The machine creates tissue, essentially. His cells are bonding with simulacrum, but they have no idea—it's all instantaneous."

"I'm gonna be the most advanced bitch on this team," Clint said, mostly to himself.

June stifled a laugh. "Well, it's amazing, doctor. You're legendary."

Helen wrinkled her nose in an embarrassed smile. "Don't speak too soon, there's still a chance that he'll grow a third arm out of his stomach."

"Fuck yeah," said Clint, "I'll take that."

Helen adjusted something on a tablet connected to the machine, rolling her eyes but laughing all the same. "I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Barton." She looked over at Tony. "This is the next thing, Tony. Your clunky metal suits are going to be left in the dust."

He said with similar edge, "Well, that is exactly the plan." He began to turn away, hooking June's arm through his own, before glancing back around. "And Helen? I expect you to see you at the party on Saturday."

Helen pursed her lips. "Unlike you, I don't have a lot of time for parties." She was silent for a moment before opening her mouth hesitantly, her eyes shifting noncommittally between Tony and her tablet. "Will . . . Thor be there?"

Tony pulled June to the door. "Oh yeah, baby, he will be."

• • •

WHEN Tony finally halted on the floor's veranda, with the blaring city traffic below to drown out their conversation, he took June by both shoulders and forced her to look him in the face.

"What the hell happened in Venice?" he demanded, his voice uncharacteristically stern. "Cap said—"

June's panic swelled. "Said what?"

"That you knew Carpet because he'd hurt you in Moscow," Tony finished. His grip grew tighter. "Tell me that didn't happen. Please. Tell me you didn't go through that."

"Tony, I—" her lip began to tremble, the horror in Tony's face making everything worse, "I didn't think it would matter. I—I never knew it was him—"

"June!" He gave her a slight shake, his eyes wild. "Why would something like that not matter? This isn't about a mission! This isn't about hitting a target, this is serious."

"It's been years!" she insisted. "I was fine until now, it just caught me off-guard—I'm not—I'm not broken because of it. Honestly, it's not the worst thing that happened in the Underground—"

Tears began to roll down her cheeks and she made no effort to stop them. Her breaths came in short, wheezing gasps—an ugly, feral sound. Tony looked her over, eyes glistening, and pulled June into him. He cradled her head against him, whispering various attempts at comfort. June clung to him tightly, shaking as if in a seizure, her breathing so shallow and so scarce she began to see black splotches over her vision.

"She's hyperventilating," Tony said to someone June couldn't see. She felt herself being pulled away from him by a firm grasp she thought she recognized. Expecting Bucky, she ripped her arm away, trembling from head to foot. Her own reaction scared her and flushed with embarrassment she turned to face him.

She found only Steve.

The abrupt fear ebbed. She hiccuped in another shallow breath and her vision grew steadily darker. June felt herself sway, tip back, and lose awareness for a moment. She never hit the ground, however, but felt herself being lifted off her feet, a pair of arms around her back and behind her knees.

Nothing made much sense after that; she got the idea that there were suddenly many bodies around her; something cold and metallic grazed her face, but left just as quickly; gradually, things became quieter, until most every voice and all activity were muffled aside from the footsteps of whoever held her now. It was the most unaware she had been in a while, and a familiar disconcertment came with it.

The next thing June knew, she was in a bed. Not her own. Not Bucky's. There was a distinct smell of rubbing alcohol prickling her nose, drawing her back to the land of the living. Bright evening sunlight burst through a window to her left, blinding even through her closed eyes, and an uncomfortable chill permeated the light sheets she realized were tucked around her.

"Where am I?" she asked aloud, her voice cracking and faint.

"Med wing," Steve's voice replied softly.

"Where's James?"

There was a bit of a pause. "Waiting outside."

With a shuddering breath, June opened her eyes. Steve snatched up every ounce of her attention. His pale eyes searched her feverishly, a piece of gold hair illuminated by the sunlight falling across his forehead.

"What happened?" June husked. Her head swam and her stomach lurched with emptiness.

Steve sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You were talking with Tony about Carpet and you started to hyperventilate. You fainted."

June winced. "Oh, god . . ."

"It's not anything abnormal," Steve said quickly. "It's a common reaction—you have PTSD, for God's sake, you're allowed to be upset."

"Steve," June moaned, "it's worse than that. I thought you were Bucky back there and I . . . I was afraid. Of him." She took a haggard breath and her throat burned, throwing her into a fit of coughing. Steve started to get up, but June waved him away. After a few moments the fit subsided, and she went on, eyes bleared and watery, "It happened on the jet, too. He touched my arm and I flinched. I couldn't help it."

Steve's brow knit. "Why do you think you felt like that?"

June kept her stare glued to the ceiling. Her hands balled into fists around the sheets. "I don't know." It was deathly quiet for a beat. Somehow, June knew what Steve would ask next.

"Do you think," he began slowly, "that Bucky ever . . . When he wasn't himself—"

"No," June said. She locked eyes with him. "I only ever saw him once back then. We never spoke."

Relief washed Steve's face. "Okay. Thank God."

"It's all muddled, though," June whispered. "After Carpet did what he did last night, it's like . . . this wall . . . that I spent five years building up, just . . . evaporated. Everything Hydra ever did to me, every beating, every drug—I felt it all again. And when I looked at Bucky . . ." she smeared tears from her cheeks and shut her eyes tight, "I didn't see Bucky."

"You saw the Winter Soldier," Steve finished.

"I felt him. Memories of D.C. hit me—I didn't mean to," June said with a tearful exhale. "Christ, I didn't understand what was going on. It's just . . . God, Hydra's in everything. Oh—and I have no way of explaining it to James," she sat up with a moment's struggle, "because all he did was touch my arm for a second . . . I just don't understand. I don't get it. This shouldn't happen. I don't understand." She put her head in her palms and dragged her fingers through her hair. "I can't let James think I don't trust him."

"He knows you do, June," Steve said softly. He looked like he wanted to say more—to do more. "None of this is your fault." He stood, then sat back down on the edge of the narrow bed. June inhaled sharply.

"I'm sorry I haven't made this easy."

"It's not your fault," he repeated.

June sighed heavily and lifted her head to find Steve just inches from her, eyes so laden with concern she thought she might die. June lifted a shaking hand and grasped Steve's fingers in her own. Oh, she should have said something, but the words would not come. She held his hand so tightly she felt his pulse beat along with her own. The months they lost during their feud seemed eons in the past—the anger, the fury she had felt at the time was inconceivable. Her best friend in the world was here now, in front of her, ready to bear the load at her side. It was more than she ever could have asked for.

"Thank you," she whispered, finally inspired.

Steve's lips curved gently, a crease deepening between his eyebrows. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, softer than the beat of a butterfly's wing. "I'm always here, Junie."

"I know."

"You're not broken."

"I hope not. I love you. You're the best friend I've ever had."

"I love you too, June." 

Some feeling came back to June's fingertips; blood ceased its roaring in her ears, and the crazed hammering of her chest calmed somewhat. Steve had her back again, for certain now. It was a good feeling to have.

• • •

AN hour later, June felt steady enough to walk to her room; Bucky was waiting for her outside in the hall, as Steve had promised. He held back when she first stepped out, face unsure, hands knotted together behind his back. June swallowed hard.

"You okay?" Steve said in her ear.

"Yes," June whispered back. "Yes."

He pat her shoulder and nodded. He took a step around her and approached Bucky, clapping one hand on Bucky's arm and holding the other to his face. "What about you? You all right?"

Bucky cracked a weak smile and nudged Steve in the chest. "Still kickin', aren't I?"

Steve chuckled and gave Bucky an affectionate shake. "I—" He broke off. His comm beeped, and Steve raised a finger to his ear. "I'll be right up," he replied to whomever in his firm "Captain" voice he reserved for authority. "Maria Hill," he explained with a gesture upwards. "Apparently NATO requires more paperwork than expected."

"We'll be all right," June assured him, and significant relief crossed Steve's face. She tried with all her might to say without words, I'll be okay alone with him. She hoped he got the message.

Steve nodded, never breaking his gaze, and turned toward the elevators down the hall. "Wish me luck," he called.

"Good luck," June and Bucky replied in unison.

A few seconds later, Steve disappeared beyond the corner. Bucky shoved his hands deep in his pockets, perhaps in an effort to appear laid-back, but it was unsuccessful. "Are you . . . Should I—"

"Walk me to the room?" June interrupted him gently, face hopeful.

Bucky seemed to relax. "Yeah. Yeah, of course, doll."

Even as they walked side by side, Bucky kept distance between them, hands still buried in his jacket pockets. He glanced at her every few seconds, icy eyes so unexpectedly soft, so heartwrenchingly gloomy, that June wanted nothing more than to comfort him and work out what was wrong. She more or less knew.

Before June could say a word, however, Bucky cleared his throat.

"You know I would never hurt you," he said, "don't you? I know when I was . . . different . . . I couldn't make that promise, but now I can. I would never hurt you."

June surprised herself, practically melting at his sincerity and despite her tremendous instability (or maybe even because of it) felt a blooming stain of love spread over her chest.

Love. She was sure it must be. It terrified her.

A brief, quiet elevator ride and they reached June's room (though in recent weeks it had just become theirs). Her hand went for the glowing security pad, but stopped short when Bucky spoke again.

"Are you afraid of me, June?" he asked, and June could picture the drawn line of his lips, the furrow of his brow. "Did you ever stop being afraid of me?"

His tone wasn't accusatory, or even upset. Just resigned and concerned and like it knew the answer. June sighed and turned back around. "I was afraid of the Winter Soldier," she said evenly. "Never of you. I've known the difference since the first time I saw you in Siberia."

Bucky lifted an eyebrow. "You . . . remember that?"

June matched his expression. "And you do?"

"Of course I do," Bucky said. "You were the best-lookin' thing I'd seen in about ten years. I remembered when I saw your face up close. In D.C. I think."

June wrinkled her nose. "Right before you stabbed me."

"Right before I stabbed you," Bucky agreed with a grin. "I mean, not that that's funny—"

"I got you back, don't worry."

Bucky's hand moved to his thigh, where June knew there was a scar. "Sure did." He smiled at her, a painfully charming grin that rendered June practically useless. "You need to get some rest, ma'am. I'm guessin' Tony will want you at that party."

June rubbed her eye. "And you."

"I don't think so," Bucky cracked another smile, but it vanished after a moment.

"We'll talk about it," June said unconcernedly. Bucky was going to the party, just as long as she had anything to say about it. Emboldened by the realization that she was in love with him, June flounced a few steps closer to him and took his hands in her own, pulling him close to her. She awaited any signs of panic, but remained steady. Talking with Steve had helped. "I'm better now. You can sleep in here tonight—I know you were wondering that." They touched foreheads, their noses brushing ever so lightly. "Now that I'm looking at you, you're not even a little scary."

"What, you're sayin' I've gone soft?" He feigned indignation. A piece of hair fell from behind his ear and tickled June's cheek.

"As a puppy," she said, too late to stop the girlish giggle that escaped her lips.

Bucky held June's gaze for a few moments, beaming down at her from beneath long, dark lashes. "You good to kiss me now, doll?" he asked softly, never breaking his stare.

June pretended to think. "If I have to." Laughing, she drew him down to her. Their lips met comfortably, familiarly, assured by dozens of unions before. The embrace was slow, and June began to get used to it until Bucky's hand rested on the small of her back and sent her chest kicking all over again.

He tipped his head away. "Don't get too excited, now, you're in bad shape for this," he said, his voice coming from deep in his throat. June let him wrap her in a hug; she anchored herself to him and buried her face in the front of his jacket. "You gotta sleep," Bucky told her. "Just call me if you need me."

June squeezed him tighter and hid a laugh by kissing his shoulder. "Svet moyey zhizni, you cannot work a cell phone."

Bucky grumbled at that. But he did not disagree.

note.
PLEASE READ!!
hey guys!! thx so much for reading! this was a muuuuch quicker update, i need to get more consistent with them.

anyway! i mentioned a surprise in the last chapter so I'll elaborate. i want to hold a headcanon contest! (i use contest loosely bc i am going to feature anyone who enters lol)

the idea is to create a list of headcanons surrounding June—it could be about her and buck (or anyone else you ship her with) or her life with the avengers, or even her life before hydra. i just really wanna know what you guys think! ill even confirm some of they're right!!