Radioactive | Bucky Barnes

THE AVENGERS: CHAPTER NINETEEN

The world was quiet.

In the place where Rhiley drifted, there was no time. No fire. No pain.

Only silence—and the heavy warmth of a distant memory.

She stood in the snow, the kind that fell gently, not with a storm's fury but with the stillness of an untouched morning. The white blanketed the world around her, and for a moment, she forgot why her chest felt so hollow. The wind carried a sound—footsteps crunching softly behind her.

She turned, and there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes. Smiling that crooked smile, the one that tugged up more on the left than the right. The one she hadn't seen since the war tore everything apart.

He wore his old uniform—worn leather and army green—and snow dusted his dark hair. His hands were gloveless, red with cold, and he offered her a flask that smelled like gasoline and warmth.

"You've always been the fire, Angel Eyes," he said, voice low and even. "But even fire needs something to come back to."

She didn't answer, just looked at him, her heart aching in a way no battlefield ever managed. "I thought you were gone."

"You thought you were gone," he corrected gently.

Rhiley blinked, and in that blink, the snow was gone, and she was standing in a familiar corridor—sterile white walls, humming fluorescent lights, and the distant beep of monitors.

She was watching herself.

In a hospital bed.

Wires webbed across her skin, oxygen tubing curled against her nose. Her hair was damp with sweat, and even in unconsciousness, her brow was furrowed, like she was still fighting. Still burning.

Someone was sitting beside her. Steve.

He didn't speak. Just held her hand in both of his, staring at her like he was willing her to wake up with sheer force of hope. There was something in his face that wasn't Captain America, wasn't the leader, wasn't the soldier.

It was the friend. The boy from Brooklyn had already lost too many people and wasn't ready to lose one more.

"They say the chances of you waking up are," he whispered after a while. He couldn't finish his thought -- the facts.

And then she blinked again.

Now it was Natasha. She stood, arms crossed, leaning against the wall as if she couldn't sit still. Couldn't breathe properly. She looked everywhere but at the bed.

"You're not allowed to leave," Nat said finally, quietly and tightly. "Not after I started trusting you. Not after I... God, Rhiley, not after all of this."

She stepped forward, brushed Rhiley's hair from her forehead with unexpected tenderness, and left without another word.

Next came Bruce, awkward and careful, as if afraid his very presence might wake the beast. He left a stack of books on her nightstand. None of them were about science.

Clint followed a few hours later, whistling softly as he slumped into the chair. "You didn't just scare the bad guys out there, you know," he muttered. "You scared the hell out of us, too."

And finally, Tony.

He didn't come in at first. He just stood in the hallway, looking through the window like she was a specimen he couldn't understand.

But when he did finally step in, he sat at her bedside and stared.

"You got a hell of a secret, Sparks," he murmured, trying to laugh but failing. "And I'm gonna find out what it is." He stared at her for a long time. "You feel familiar. And I hate it."

Then he was gone, the door hissing shut behind him.

Inside her mind, Rhiley drifted through it all—watching, listening. She felt tethered by a thread. Not ready to wake up. Not ready to leave, either.

The snow returned.

And James was still there. "You're not done," he said. "But you're not alone."

She nodded, just once, eyes glistening.

The fire hadn't gone out.

It was only resting.

-

-

-

The world came back slowly.

First, as sound.

A rhythmic beeping. The low murmur of machines. The occasional shuffle of footsteps just beyond a closed door.

Then came the pain—not sharp, but deep and distant, like the echo of a wound long since sealed but not forgotten. Her body was heavy. Her skin tingled. Breathing hurt. Not because her lungs were broken, but because she wasn't sure if she was ready to be awake.

A voice.

Familiar. Warm. Quiet in that way people speak when they've been keeping watch for too long.

"Rhiley?"

She blinked.

Just once.

The light above her was too bright, but there he was. The blue of his eyes was the first color that made sense. Steve Rogers. His hair was a little messier than usual. His uniform jacket was tossed over the chair behind him. His hands were clenched together, white-knuckled, like he'd been holding himself still for hours. Maybe days.

When she didn't respond, he leaned closer. "You're safe. You're in the hospital. You've been out a few days."

Her lips parted, dry and cracked. "Few...?"

He smiled faintly. Relief broke across his face like sunlight after a storm. "Four. Almost five." He gently reached for the water on the nightstand, lifting it to her lips with care. "Sip."

She obeyed, each swallow slow and burning, but she managed to get it down.

"You scared us," he said quietly once she leaned back again. "You... scared me."

She turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him. Her voice was hoarse, but there was the faintest curve of a smile. "Wasn't... the plan."

He let out a breathy laugh, filled with every emotion he'd kept bottled inside. "Yeah, well, next time give us a little warning before you decide to light yourself on fire and nearly become a myth."

She shut her eyes, just for a moment. "Did it work?"

"The portal's gone," he said softly. "You stopped it. You gave Nat time to close it. You saved a hell of a lot of people, Rhiley."

Silence settled between them.

Until she asked the question that had been echoing in her chest since the second she opened her eyes. "Did anyone... did anyone see?" She already knew the answer -- she had lit up the entire sky of New York. 

"Yeah." He nodded slowly. "Thor and Loki recognized it. Phoenix Force." A beat. "They're scared of it."

She swallowed, then winced. "I am, too."

Steve reached for her hand—not with hesitation, but with quiet certainty. His fingers curled gently around hers, grounding her. Not like fire. Like Earth.

"You're not alone," he said. "Whatever this thing is... you're still you. And I'll be here to help you hold on to that. Always."

A single tear slid down her cheek. Not from pain. Not from fear.

But from being seen.

"James used to say that," she whispered. "And he didn't know what this was." 

Steve's expression changed—softening, deepening. "I know."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was shared. Understood.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Rhiley didn't feel like she was burning.

She felt like she was home.