The Viper || BUCKY BARNES [2]

10 ― Guilt

ONE MONTH LATER
2016 ― Upstate New York

Holland Stark was sitting in her room at the Avengers Facility in Upstate New York, curled up on the far edge of her bed, the dim light of the television flickering across her face like a cruel spotlight. She was watching the news again—watching them dissect her, accuse her, define her in words that left bruises. They were saying what they always said. Eleven Wakandans were dead. And no matter how many times she heard it, it didn't get easier. If anything, the guilt festered deeper.

Steve had tried—more than once—to convince her to stop watching. But Holland couldn't. She needed to hear it. All of it. The headlines, the commentary, the tightly veiled disdain laced beneath the anchors' polished voices. She needed to carry it. Because she had caused this. At least, that's what the pit in her stomach told her.

And now, the whole world knew she was a Stark. The name alone painted a target on her back, thanks to Tony's endless baggage and scandals—but for Holland, it was different. Being a Stark didn't shield her. It made her an even easier scapegoat. The media latched onto her like a symbol. The first image in every broadcast. The name in every headline.

But she saw it clearly—what others refused to say aloud. It wasn't just about her powers or Sokovia or even HYDRA. It was about her. About the fact that she didn't look like the rest of them. That she was a biracial woman with fire at her fingertips, with a history she didn't ask for, carrying a name they didn't think belonged to someone like her.

The dog whistles rang loud beneath the surface: unstable, aggressive, volatile. They used softer words with others—called Tony reckless, called Bruce conflicted—but with her, they sharpened their tone. It was always her temper. Her lack of control. As if the destruction was somehow more dangerous when it came from her hands. As if her power wasn't just a threat, but a prophecy fulfilled.

"They were operating outside and above international law," the voice on the screen said, sterile and smug. "Because that's the reality, if we don't respond to acts like these. What legal authority does an enhanced individual like Holland Stark have... to operate in Nigeria, especially after everything she's done in the name of HYDRA—"

The screen went black. Holland didn't move. Didn't blink. She didn't have to turn around to know it was Steve who'd turned the TV off. She could feel him in the doorway—his quiet presence always speaking louder than his words.

"It's my fault, Steve," Holland said, her voice cracked and low, like she'd worn it out repeating that phrase in her mind a thousand times already.

"That's not true," he said gently.

"Turn the TV back on... they're being very specific." Holland's gaze remained fixed on the dark screen, as if it might flicker back to life and punish her all over again. The mention of HYDRA made her stomach churn. The world could never forget what had been done to her, and Holland wasn't sure she could either.

Steve stepped inside, the bed creaking softly beneath his weight as he sat beside her. He didn't crowd her, didn't push. Just sat there, patient as always. "I should've clocked that bomb vest as soon as he came after us," he said quietly, his guilt bleeding into the silence between them.

"Rumlow said Bucky..." Holland whispered. Her eyes brimmed with tears, her throat tight with the weight of memory. "And it sent me back to the forties, specifically to the moment where he gave me his dog tags as he proposed, and said to keep them until we could swap, and he'd give me a ring, I'd give him his tags back. I got distracted, and people died because of it."

Steve looked down, his expression haunted. "And when he said Bucky, I was a 16-year-old kid in Brooklyn again. It's on me."

Holland finally turned to face him. Her eyes, red and glassy, met his with quiet devastation. "It's on both of us," she said.