Chapter Text
A soul mate is not a given. The universe is ancient. Infinite. Huge.
In trillions and trillions of lives, the odds that anyone has their other half living five blocks away is…
Minimal.
Everyone knows the odds are small. So people care less and less. Populations keep growing, and time keeps going, and most people figure that their soulmate either is long dead before they meet, has yet to be born for another thousand years, or is off galaxies away. Then, it’s easy to take comfort in the hope that they will find them, in whatever comes after life.
You think it’s why most people believe in an afterlife at all. Otherwise, you’re all alone.
But you don’t believe in an afterlife.
It’s hard to, with what you’ve seen.
You do manage to believe in soulmates, but only because you’ve met two pairs. That alone is a statistical anomaly. And you’re not a lucky person, so that’s probably the best you’re going to get. Watching Clint and Nat be happy from afar, and wondering if it really is that easy. If you meet your person—or alien, because apparently that’s on the table now—and they’re just ready for you. If they will just want you. No matter what.
Nobody’s ever wanted you. The Team likes you, but Tony had told Steve you’d be a risk to take on. Banner had wanted you in the lab, but not his lab. Nat was certain you needed practical training, but you’d seen her face when she was the one who had to train you.
You hadn’t been able to control it, then. You’d destroyed the whole gym, and gone in containment for a week while they sorted Nat out. You’d gone and apologized after. You’d had to. If you didn’t, the guilt might turn in on you and eat you alive.
“I didn’t mean to.” You’d mumbled, shuffling on your feet, and Nat had sighed.
“I know you didn’t. I talked to Steve about getting you a therapist-“
“I don’t need a ther-“
Nat had cut you off with a flat look and snap of your name. “Yes. You do.”
“But-“
“Either you go to therapy, Золотце, or you take a leave.”
“A-“ You’d swallowed. “A leave?”
Nat had sighed, and you usually hated sympathy, but this didn’t feel like that. It felt like a better version of a reflection. Where she was seeing all the hideous and twisted parts of you, but wasn’t running. She was stronger, then. You would’ve fled yourself if you could work out how.
“I don’t want to leave.” You’d mumbled, fixing your gaze on your hands in front of you. “I- I’ll be better, I promise-“
“We don’t need you to be better.” Nat had said softly, and a lump had started to form in your throat. “We just need you to feel better. That’s why you’re doing therapy.”
You’d given in. You couldn’t go back to being alone. Purely and entirely alone, afraid and alone, trapped in a million windows and never looking anyone in the eyes.
And therapy had been fine. Not really useful, but enough for you not to be put on leave. And Nat probably hadn’t meant abandoned and tossed out, but that didn’t stop your brain from making it that. From watching the shadows on your teammates faces, and noticing how Wanda never lingered in the same room as you alone, and making the worst from nothing.
But you were good at making the worst of nothing. It was why your therapist had quit. She’d brought up your soul mark, and you’d said something along the lines of well they’re probably either long gone in a gruesome death, or won’t be alive until after I’ve died a gruesome death.
She’d asked why it had to be a gruesome death, and you’d shrugged and responded probably because you think you’re going to die in a woodchipper accident, and now that’s all I can think about.
That hadn’t been the final straw.
She’d winced and asked you to stop talking about death.
You’d apologized—you’re really good at apologizing—and added in that she probably wouldn’t die in a woodchipper accident, and you’d personally be more worried about something like a car crash or cancer that sneaks up on her. Overall she seemed to be living a pretty boring life, which was why you actually liked sitting with her. If you lost control, nothing that bad would happen.
She’d quit the next morning, and you’d gotten a talk from a very tired looking Steve about manners.
They hadn’t put you on leave, though. Apparently, you had enough control now to not be a liability.
Although it’s a low bar.
They don’t make stable team members sit in the Quinjet with Bruce.
“Uno.” You hum, and he sighs.
“I don’t know how you win every time. You’d think I’d get one game right, after two years.”
“You’d think wrong.”
“Apparently.” Bruce is still drawing cards, and you give him an amused look.
“Not one yellow or seven?”
He shakes his head. “I think Tony rigs the decks against me.”
“Tony’s not here.”
“Then it’s you-“
“I don’t know how to rig a deck. The universe just hates you.”
“The universe has always hated me.” Bruce mutters. “This is just cruel.”
You can agree with that.
He’s getting his ass kicked, and he’s not even in the field.
“Do you remember what we’re doing here?” You ask, glancing at the painfully blank screens on the wall. “I know Steve told us like, five times, but I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“I don’t think he was expecting you to pay attention.” Bruce’s tone is dry, and you shoot him a glare.
“I always read the briefings, you know. It’s not my fault this got called last minute-“
“I didn’t say it was.” Bruce shrugs, finally placing down a yellow five. “Deep breaths.”
“Wasn’t going to lose it.” You mutter, and drop your plus four on the pile. “I win.”
Bruce sighs. “Of course you do. Rematch?”
You nod, and glance back to the screens. “Will they be able to reach us? If they need us? I haven’t heard anything over the coms, and maybe coms are down-“
“Coms aren’t down, the jet is just on power save because Clint forgot to refuel it.” Bruce frowns, his voice dropping slightly. “And hopefully they won’t need us. We are only here as a precaution.”
“But-“
“This is a rescue mission.” Bruce says your name carefully, re-dealing the cards. “However it is… complicated. And if it goes wrong, Tony insisted we be here,”
“Oh.” You nod slowly. “The found Barnes?”
Bruce gives you an amused look. “I thought you weren’t listening-“
“Steve and Tony are both very…. loud.” You mumble, bowing your head, and Bruce sighs.
“I see.”
“Sorry-“
“You can’t help it.” Bruce dismisses you. “And it is not your-“
“Come in, Quinjet.” Sam’s voice crackles over the speakers, and you both freeze. “This is Falcon, do you copy.”
Bruce gives you a worried look—and you can almost see the green-tinted fear starting to roll off of him, but you’ve learned it’s not polite to comment on—and clears his throat.
“Quinjet, are you-“
“We copy.” Bruce calls, and you’re starting to scratch at your hands. At your mark.
It’s oddly itchy, today.
“Sam, is this a code-“
“Nah, y’all are good. Shit was actually kinda easy. Just tellin’ you we’ve got the cyborg.” There’s a long pause before Sam says your name. “Maybe, uh, put on the glasses. I’d put on the glasses.”
You swallow and nod, before realizing Sam can’t see you. “Did Tony-“
“They’re in the top compartment.” Tony’s voice fills the air and you nod, scrambling to your feet. “And I’d wear the gloves, Pitch. Only got the one jet and team. Can’t afford the risk.”
“I- I could just stay back-“
“Don’t be dramatic. Put on the gloves, they’re next to the glasses. We’ll be back in five.”
The line clicks off, and you scramble to your feet. The glasses are supposed to block you from seeing people—although they only every really dull it—and the gloves mean that if you mirror, it’ll be weaker.
You usually just try not to look at or touch people at all. But if Tony’s being this careful, it must be bad. So you shuffle to a corner, scratching at your wrist—it really itches, and the skin around your mark is starting to raise like a hive, so maybe you’re having a reaction to something—and cast your gaze down when the doors open.
Something might be wrong with your mark. It’s turning blue and black like a bruise, and it almost hurts. You try not to pay too much attention to it, ever, but that’s almost impossible when it feels like it’s being branded with a fucking poker or something-
“No!”
Your eyes shoot up at the sound of everyone’s unified scream, and see them all staring at you. You didn’t even do anything, you’re just sitting here with the glasses and gloves, glaring at the word on your wrist that seems to think the world is ending, bothering no one-
“Buck, don’t-“ Steve clears his throat, shaking his head. “Sit with me.”
You frown. Steve isn’t looking at you anymore. He’s staring at something to your right. Some one. With a deep, bored voice that sends shivers through your whole body.
“You’re standing, Stevie.”
Now you feel too hot. Sweat is gathering on your palm, and something seems to be crushing into your skull, and maybe you’re just sick. You haven’t been sick in years though. Not since the experiments.
You’ll have Friday check your vitals when you get home. With the taut, electric tension in the jet, now doesn’t seem like the time to bother anyone.
“Then come stand with me.” Steve’s still talking to the person next to you, everyone else looking between you wearily.
“I think I’d rather sit.” The man’s voice is flat. Your heart feels like it’s going into overdrive. “Been a long day of you idiots trying to drug and shoot me-“
Tony scoffs. “We thought you were going to shoot us-“
“Yeah, I got that, I just-“ The man sighs, and now you feel like you’re being cleaved in half. “I need to sit. And this seat is open. It’s not a big thing-“
“It- You can’t sit next to her.” Nat’s voice is soft, and you can sense her apologetic expression. She doesn’t need to do that. You don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone to sit next to you either. “She shouldn’t have had to be here anyway, but someone’s a fucking dickhat who thinks he knows best-“
“Hey, how was I supposed to know he’d be docile-“
“Because I told you, Tony-“
“You’re bias, Steven. Maybe it wasn’t my best idea-“
“It was horrible.” Nat drawls, and you really wish they’d just go home. You feel like you’re about to pass out, and you really don’t want to do that in front of everyone. “Barnes, at least for now, you need to stand with Steve.”
“You can sit with me, too.” Clint calls from across the jet. “Just- Not there.”
You can hear Barnes sigh, then a shuffling sound that means he’s probably walking away. Smart choice. You might be dying, and who knows what will happen then.
Nat takes the spot at your side, as the jet takes off, and her voice is low enough for no one else to hear.
“You okay, Золотце?”
You nod, still frowning at your mark. You always try not to look at it too much. It usually just makes you bitter and heavy, like an oath you know won’t be fulfilled.
“Are you-“
“I’m sure.”
“You look…” Nat sighs, and you glance up to see her scanning over you with a frown. “Your coloring is off, and-“
“I don’t feel well.” You mumble. “I’ll be fine.”
Nat nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. You don’t miss her gaze flicking to your wrist, or the deepening of her frown. She lets it go, though. It’s a small, useless victory, but Nat lets it go.
You don’t feel better, as the flight continues. And there’s an odd, prickling sensation over your skin as if you’re being watched, your eyes watering as the pain only grows worse. Intolerable.
It’s a moment of weakness, when you look up. You were about to shout at Barnes to stop staring at you—because you’re not the one who made him move, and you know the gloves and glasses look stupid but you have to wear them—but the words die in your throat.
The pain vanishes. Dissipates into nothing as you stare at Bucky Barnes, with his longer hair and slightly sunken face, every feature incredibly exhausted and impossibly handsome at the same time. When your gaze flicks back down to your wrist, the mark is settled. And you’d believe you’d imagined everything all together, but the color.
The color is different.
Your whole life, it’s been black. One word, in English—which alone was rare, most people get a language that they can’t even read or translate—marked on your left wrist.
Now it’s blue. Deep, navy blue.
Fuck.
You almost blurt it out. Almost scream that you should either get impossibly close to Barnes right now, or be locked away from him forever. You only just manage to bite it down.
He doesn’t need to know he’s been doomed with you. Whatever his word is, it’s probably nothing pretty. And if he’d felt that same sickness that had been ripping you apart, if he’s putting together what this means, he’s not saying anything at all. Not even glancing to his wrist to check-
Barnes doesn’t have a wrist to check. Steve had told you he’d lost his left arm, so his mark would’ve gone with it, and he’ll have no way of knowing. He might not even remember his word.
You’re not going to tell him. Not now. He’s staring at you, but that’s reasonable. He was just screamed at for trying to sit next to you, he’s probably curious.
He shouldn’t be.
No one’s better off being next to you. Nat’s only there because she’s braver than most, and she knows you never mean it.
Clint had showed you his mark for her, once. It’s in Russian, but he’d told you it meant strong. And Nat’s, in English, read persistent.
Yours has always read loyal.
And you’re not going to tell him. He wouldn’t want to know. Not now. Not when he’s just got back.
So you’ll keep this to yourself. You’ll swallow another frantic shout of soulmate, you’re my soulmate, and it won’t make a difference. Almost everyone goes their whole lives without theirs. You’d planned to go yours the same.
This won’t change anything.
No matter how much you want it to, it won’t.