Bucky's Anchor

Chapter 7 - The Grey Between Black and White

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep refused to come, and my mind raced with the events of the past few days. Steve and Natasha's words echoed in my head, each argument pulling me in different directions.

Steve's conviction was unwavering. He spoke with the kind of moral certainty that made you want to believe in something bigger than yourself. He made you want to fight for the right to make your own decisions, free from outside control. But Natasha's words were just as compelling. She understood the world's complexities—the nuances, the gray areas that Steve sometimes overlooked in his pursuit of doing what was "right."

I threw back the covers and sat up, the room suddenly feeling too small, too stifling. I needed to clear my head. I needed to think.

Slipping into my workout clothes, I quietly left my quarters and headed to the training gym. The halls were dimly lit, the facility quiet at this late hour. It was a stark contrast to the chaos in my mind.

When I reached the gym, I headed straight for the punching bag. Wrapping my hands, I squared off with the bag, trying to channel my frustration into every punch. The rhythm helped, the physical exertion drowning out the noise in my head. But only for a moment.

"Every choice has consequences," I thought. "But this... this choice could shatter everything we've built."

My fists connected with the bag over and over, but the questions wouldn't stop. What if siding with Steve meant being hunted as a criminal? What if siding with Natasha meant losing the very thing that made us who we were?

I hit the bag harder, feeling the sting in my knuckles even through the wraps. I could still hear Steve's voice in my head: "If we don't stand up for our right to choose, then what are we fighting for?" And Natasha's calm, calculated response: "This isn't about giving up control. It's about compromise."

My anger turned to exhaustion. I leaned against the bag, my breath ragged, my forehead resting against the cool surface of the leather. For a brief moment, I let myself feel the weight of it all. The pressure to choose a side. The fear of what that choice would mean.

- - -

I needed a different perspective, so I sought out Wanda. I found her in the common area, sitting on the couch with her knees drawn up to her chest, staring out the window. She glanced at me as I approached, her eyes tired and full of the same uncertainty that I felt.

"Can't sleep?" she asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.

I shook my head, sitting down beside her. "I thought maybe you could help me make sense of all this," I admitted. "Steve, the Accords... what are we supposed to do, Wanda?"

She let out a small, bitter laugh. "You think I have the answers?" She shook her head. "I'm more afraid now than I've ever been. Of what I can do, of what happens when I lose control."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Wanda had more power than most of us, and with that power came fear—fear of herself, fear of what others could make her do. "Do you think signing the Accords will help with that?" I asked cautiously.

She looked away, biting her lip. "Maybe. Maybe it will show them that we're trying to take responsibility, to be better. Or maybe it will just put a target on our backs. I don't know, Emily. I just... I want to feel safe. And right now, I don't."

Her vulnerability made my chest tighten. She was just a young woman trying to find her place in a world that feared her for the power she wielded. I reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. "We'll figure this out," I promised, even though I had no idea how.

Leaving Wanda, I decided to talk to Clint. I found him in the training room, shooting arrows at a target with his usual precision. He glanced at me as I entered, his expression unreadable.

"Clint," I began, not really sure what I wanted to say. He kept shooting, his movements fluid and automatic, but I could tell he was listening.

"You're here because of the Accords," he said flatly, not bothering to look at me.

"Yeah," I admitted, crossing my arms. "I don't know what to do. I need... I need to know what you think."

He finally stopped and lowered his bow, turning to face me. "It's not about what I think, Emily. It's about what you can live with. That's the only advice I can give you."

I frowned, frustration bubbling up inside me. "But what if I make the wrong choice? What if I end up regretting it?"

Clint shrugged. "Then you deal with it. Look, every decision we make has consequences. Sometimes we screw up. Sometimes we have to live with that. But at the end of the day, you have to be able to look yourself in the mirror and accept what you see. Can you do that if you don't follow your gut?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He was right. This decision had to come from within me, not from Steve, Natasha, or anyone else. It had to be something I could live with, no matter the outcome.

- - -

I wandered through the halls aimlessly, lost in thought. What Clint had said resonated with me, even though it hadn't given me the clarity I was hoping for. Could I live with myself if I turned my back on Steve? Could I live with myself if I didn't sign the Accords and everything went wrong?

I found myself back at the window in my quarters, staring out into the night. The city was alive with lights, each one representing a life—a life that could be impacted by the choice we made.

I wanted someone to tell me what the right choice was. I wanted a clear line to follow, a simple answer to the chaos. But all I had were shades of gray and the knowledge that no matter what, there would be fallout. People would be hurt. Relationships would be fractured.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. What do you believe in, Emily? My mother's voice echoed in my mind, from one of our many conversations about duty and honor. At the end of the day, you have to decide what you stand for. Not what others tell you to stand for. You.

I opened my eyes, a small sense of resolve beginning to form. Maybe there wasn't a "right" choice here. Maybe there was only the choice that I could live with.

I walked over to the desk, grabbing a pen and paper. I started writing, laying out my thoughts, my fears, and my hopes. By the time I was done, the sky outside was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. I set the pen down and read over what I had written, my heart heavy but a bit more certain.

I knew what I had to do. And it terrified me.

With a deep breath, I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket. I had made my choice, and now I had to live with it, whatever the consequences might be.