The Viper || BUCKY BARNES [2]

Prologue

2014 ― Washington, D.C.

For the last two years, since defeating Loki in New York, Holland had been living in Washington, D.C., with Steve Rogers. They shared a modest two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, far from the chaos they were used to, but peaceful enough for what they both needed. Holland had been helping Steve adjust to the modern world, but even after three years, it was clear he still carried the weight of a time long gone. Some wounds didn't heal with time, only with understanding—and Holland understood him in ways others couldn't.

Their friendship had deepened over the last two years, becoming something rooted in comfort, shared memories, and unspoken loyalty. It had gotten to the point where Holland, always the meddler when it came to Steve's love life, was constantly trying to set him up on dates. He endured it with quiet amusement, but she never stopped trying.

She'd also taken him to see Peggy. Holland and Peggy were never particularly close, but there was mutual respect between them—two women shaped by war and intelligence, both founders of S.H.I.E.L.D., both survivors in their own right. For years, Peggy had been the only person from Holland's old life still living, and she knew how much that meeting meant to Steve. So she stepped back and let him have that time, never intruding.

In between civilian life, they still worked missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. Holland often got paired with Natasha, which she welcomed. Natasha had always been one of her favorite recruits—smart, efficient, and lethal. Over time, the two of them had grown genuinely close. Holland now considered her to be her closest female friend, someone who understood what it meant to carry secrets and scars, and to keep surviving anyway.

Steve sometimes joined them on missions. Other times, he went out alone. Holland understood. Steve needed to feel useful. He didn't know how to live without a war to fight—it wasn't his fault. He had died in the middle of one. He never got to come home and learn how to live in the quiet, without violence humming beneath his skin. Holland recognized that kind of restlessness. She'd lived with it herself.

But no matter how far she tried to move forward, Bucky still haunted her dreams.

It had been nearly seventy years since he fell, but his memory clung to her like a phantom pain—aching, ever-present, impossible to soothe. She knew it was reaching a point of being unhealthy. She told herself she should let go. But some connections were stronger than time. She knew their souls were tied together in a way not even death had severed. Soul-ties didn't vanish with grief. They lived on. Quiet. Heavy.

Some nights, Steve would hear her wake up from a nightmare—gasping, trembling, sweat-soaked. Other nights, he'd hear the quiet sound of her crying behind the closed door. He always came in to check on her. No questions. No pity. Just presence.

He would sit with her, quietly reassuring her that she was safe. And when he stayed, the nightmares didn't feel quite so sharp.

Sometimes Holland told Steve what she had dreamt about. Other times, they sat in silence—no words, just the quiet understanding that came with shared pain. And that, in its own way, was enough. After years of waking up alone, of carrying the weight of her nightmares about Bucky in solitude, Holland now had someone beside her. Someone who didn't need explanations to understand. Steve was there for her. Always.

At this point, she knew Steve was more than just a friend. He was her brother in every way that mattered. She had lost one brother when Howard was killed, and somehow, fate had given her the other one back. A second chance at something she thought she'd never have again—family.

One ritual emerged in the stillness after her nightmares—running. It had started one night when Steve found her crying but unwilling to talk. Instead of pushing her, he simply offered, "Do you want to run?" And she had nodded. That first night, they took off toward the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, their figures lit only by streetlights and moonlight, footsteps steady against the empty stretch of concrete.