Radioactive | Bucky Barnes

THE AVENGERS: CHAPTER TWELVE

FLASHBACK

Outside, the air bit at her skin, and her boots echoed against the stone steps. She lit another cigarette, letting the smoke curl between her fingers, then paused.

She wasn't alone.

"Couldn't let you disappear without saying goodbye," James's voice said softly.

Rhiley turned her head, startled. He was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, that same damned smile on his face.

"You ditched your date."

He shrugged. "She had a friend. He's taller. I think they'll be fine."

Rhiley huffed. "You've got guts, Barnes."

"I'm impulsive," he corrected. "There's a difference."

They stood there for a beat. Then—

"You said something earlier," he began, "about no man respecting the person you are."

Rhiley tensed. "Don't repeat it. I was being honest, not fishing."

"I know," James said. "That's why I wanted to say something."

He stepped a little closer, not enough to threaten, just enough to be real. "You don't need to be easy to love. You just need someone strong enough to try."

Rhiley looked away, overwhelmed by the weight of the words. No one had ever tried to see past the sharp parts before. Most people flinched.

But James just stood there. Waiting. Giving her space to speak or leave.

She flicked her cigarette aside and muttered, "I don't do relationships."

"I don't do promises," he said. "But I do chances. So... maybe I'll see you again?"

She hesitated, then allowed herself the smallest smirk.

"Maybe."

Then she turned and walked off into the dark.

And for once, she didn't feel like a ghost.

-

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Rhiley hadn't moved in hours.

She sat on the floor of the darkened storage room just off one of the lower decks, back pressed to the cold wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her fingers still bore the dried stains of Phil's blood, smudged now from her picking at them absently, over and over again. She could've washed them. She didn't.

The memories of the past wouldn't leave her alone. 

Now and then, someone passed by outside the half-opened door. But no one stepped in. Maybe they knew better. Or maybe they just didn't care.

She preferred the silence.

Phil's voice still rang in her head. You're stronger than this, kid. You've seen worse. But he wasn't there to say it now. Not really. Now, it was just a memory looping in the empty places.

"I wanted to die, and he saw it." That's what she told Steve.

It was the truth.

Phil saw all the cracks. And he'd never tried to fill them, never tried to fix her, just... stood with her. Held the pieces in place until she learned how to carry them again.

Now they were breaking loose.

She looked down at her side—her utility belt still fastened. She pulled out the only thing that had brought her comfort in the last few hours. The worn napkin from their diner, the one Phil had scribbled on like a makeshift blueprint. Her handwriting beside his, an idea for a crazy off-the-books op they joked about over pancakes. "Operation Hash Browns."