The Mimic - One-Shots

Walk away

Overview: A sort of compilation of y/n being pulled/walked away from some of the worst moments in her life. (I feel like I need to write a notes app apology for this)

Word count: 935

Warnings: Angst, blood, manipulation.

*****

Y/n, barely six, curled up in the rubble. Tears pouring down her cheeks. Freshly introduced to the gruesome life ahead of her.

Y/n, finally snapped out of mind control, sitting beside her dying lover. In complete and utter shock of the scene in front of her. Unsure of what to do, unsure of how to react.

Y/n, shattered mentally and physically, rocking on the rubble-covered ground. The corpse of her lover in her arms. Her entire world had shut down.

*****

"Come on, princess."

"I've got you, y/n."

"Come on, y/n. Time to go."

*****

The little girl took the man in the suit's gloved hand.

The bombs had exploded just moments before. The apartment was completely destroyed. Her home. Her safe space. Her parents. Everything was gone. She had failed to stop the bombs, and now everything was gone. It was all her fault.

A thick layer of smoke plagued the air, probably saving the young girl from the horrific scene just a few feet away. It filled her heaving lungs, forcing heavy coughs between her sobs. It was far too much to process for such a young child.

She was covered in dirt, bruises, and cuts from the explosion. Hell, the girl was lucky she hadn't been seriously injured. Her ears were ringing far too loud for her to hear her own sobs. The only reason she was aware of her tears was from her blurred vision and damp cheeks, but even then, it could've easily been blood. There was only one voice. One person. That she could hear and see amidst the terror.

The man in the suit.

He was pristine. A complete contrast to the chaos around them. Not even a tiny speck of dirt was visible on his suit. His posture perfect and his mannerisms calm, he had no reaction to the sight of the distraught child. "We have to leave, sweetheart. Before the police arrive. They'll blame you for what happened. For failing." He explained, the lies flowing out as easy as water.

Y/n was hoisted to her feet by  Natasha.

The flames continued to eat away at the field around them, complete and utter destruction at y/n's hands. Members of the team writhed on the ground in pain, limped toward the quinjet using one another for support, all because of her. Bucky had a knife in his chest because of her.

Her mouth hung open in complete and utter shock. Unable to form words. Unable to process anything. Her outfit was covered in blood, yet she couldn't distinguish whether it was hers, Bucky's, or a mixture of everyone on the team. It didn't matter. All she knew was that her lover was dying because of her.

Natasha kept her hands on y/n's shoulders, pushing her forward and toward the quinjet. She herself had a steady drip of blood trickling from her forehead, but she ignored it. Her main priority was y/n. She had to get her away from the situation as soon as possible.

Whenever she tried to turn her head and look back at Bucky, Natasha pushed her head back toward the quinjet. It wasn't even a rough push, but it was enough. She knew better than to look back, but she couldn't help it.

Bucky was back there. Her lover, her soulmate. He was back there, laying on the cold, rubble-covered ground.

Dead.

This was unlike any other time. She wasn't in shock. Her ears weren't ringing. She wasn't frozen in fear.

Unlike any other time, nobody could coax her to stand up and walk away. Nobody.

Steve had to physically pull y/n away from Bucky's body. He had to keep a gentle tone as Sam wrenched her hands away from his best friend. It was an experience that would be ingrained in Steve's mind until the day he died. Completely nauseating and surreal. There was no room for being numb. He felt every emotion, just like everyone around them, just like y/n, and there was nothing he could do but keep walking out of the battlefield.

Y/n had been thrown over Steve's shoulder, a bruising grip on her already-tattered body to prevent her from escaping. Her shrill, grief-stricken screams echoed across the entire battlefield, like a broken alarm that never stopped sounding. She cussed and called Steve names that would've gotten her punched if the situation had been different. Venomous, bitter words mixed with desperate begs and broken sobs. It was like a nightmare that nobody could wake up from.

Her arms and legs thrashed around as if she was drowning, desperate to claw her way out of Steve's grip. Fists pounding against his back, elbows smacking his head with force, and knees knocking the wind out of him with every swing. The poor man was taking a beating, but he refused to put her down or take any help.

Steve just continued to limp away from the battlefield. Away from his best friend. Shaky, shivering breaths forced their way into his lungs, squeezing past the almost suffocating lump. No matter how hard he tensed, he couldn't stop his jaw from wobbling, and with every knee to the stomach, a broken sob escaped his mouth.

A very select few had seen Captain America cry. Especially to this extent. It was jarring. An abrupt awakening to such a dim reality.

Distant sirens could be heard as they-

Left the apartment.

Boarded the quinjet.

Left the battlefield.

Yet there were two things in common with all of these moments.

Y/n would never be the same, and nobody would ever look at her the same again.