Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus)

It's changed... Something deep inside shifted. Life. Death. Heaven. Hell. They no longer matter. They don't own my soul. [#Fallen|#Lelaliah|#MC|#RP|#OC]

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

"𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙤𝙨... 𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙚."

🗡 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝑹𝑷
🗡 𝑶𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓
🗡 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔
🗡 𝟐𝟏+ 𝑹𝑷 𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰

♡︎/⟳

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶." ~ 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘤𝘢 𝘍𝘪𝘵𝘻𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬

[ᵀʰᵉ 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙒𝙞𝙙𝙤𝙬 @AvengingShrew]

"𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝."

⧗ 𝑵𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒂 𝑨𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒏𝒂 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒂 𝒂𝒌𝒂 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑾𝒊𝒅𝒐𝒘
⧗ 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆 & 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒈𝒖𝒏
⧗ 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝑹𝑷

♡︎/⟳

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

< proposal-" She began, her golden gaze flicking over him as she began to fill her borrowed flute with champagne. "- you know? In other words, you do a job and I pay you. I thought you'd know simple vocabulary."

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

"Who are you? What are you doing? How did you get in?" Waving the bottle at him as she speaks. "So many questions..."

Pausing, she lifted the bottle, biting down on the cork, and with a tug on the neck, she pulled it free, spitting the cork off to the side. "Yes, business >

[ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ @WintersMisfit]

"what do you mean business proposal?" James asks, the bottle slipping from his hand as she pulls on it.

"how did you even get in here?"

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

Just—lies back, clicking her tongue as she stares into the dead of night, waiting for sleep to claim her.

Joke.

She doesn't sleep. Can't sleep.

Oh, sweet boredom.

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

@VexingEmbers "I— This doesn't add up." Blinking at her in a flutter of raven lashes. "What kind of voodoo juju does my brother have you under?"

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

@VexingEmbers "Are we—" She swallows thickly, fighting back the taste of nausea. "—talking about the same Lucifer? Fallen angel? Ruler of Hell? Prince of Pride?"

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

@VexingEmbers Her reaction was instant and without thought: a gag that could be heard all across the nine realms of Hell.

"LUCIFER?!"

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

"Yeah... I still fail to see why." Giving the bottle a firm tug towards her. "So, that will be a no from me. Besides, I have a business proposal and aren't deals made over drinks?"

[ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ @WintersMisfit]

"because I don't know you and you don't live here." a frown, his hand on the body of the bottle.

"let go."

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

"Why not?" She asked simply, looking him dead in the eye as she snatched the bottle back once more, her grip now tightening around its neck, ironclad.

[ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ @WintersMisfit]

He's quick to march over, snatching the bottle from her grasp and putting it back.

"listen here lady, I don't know who you are or how you got here, but you can't just swan in here acting like you own the place."

[𝑮𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝑭𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 @MyDearGimlet]

"𝙂𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙚."

♕ 𝑰𝒎𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒏 𝑭𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒌𝒂 𝑮𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒚/𝑮𝒊𝒎𝒍𝒆𝒕
♔ 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝑹𝑷
♘ 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝑹𝑷

♡︎/⟳

[𝑮𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝑭𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 @MyDearGimlet]

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀───── ⋆⋅ ♕♔ ⋅⋆ ─────
“𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔”
sᴏʟᴏ ʙʏ
#sʜʀᴇᴡ
⠀⠀⠀ ⠀───── ⋆⋅ ♕♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

The cold bit through Ginny’s coat like it was nothing more than a flimsy cardigan. She pulled it tighter all the same, though the gesture was more habit than comfort. New York at night was a strange sort of animal — loud in places, eerily silent in others. She found herself drifting through it without a destination, her boots crunching against icy pavement, her fingers numb in her pockets.

She had left the apartment because she couldn’t breathe inside it. The walls had been pressing down on her, her nerves rattling in her chest like loose screws in a jar. One argument — well, not even an argument, more a tangle of words and misunderstandings about babies — and suddenly everything felt fragile. Like one wrong move would topple the whole house of cards she and Bucky had been balancing on.

So she walked.

Every few blocks, she ducked into a diner or café, the kind of places that never closed, where the hum of neon signs and the hiss of coffee machines promised some version of refuge. She ordered pie she didn’t eat, coffee that went cold before she could finish, and sat at corner tables while her mind spun itself into knots.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒇?

The question wouldn’t stop. It looped endlessly. She knew — she 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘— there was no reason to be concerned. But reason didn’t matter when her body wouldn’t stop whispering doubts into her ear. When her nerves wouldn’t shut up long enough to let her breathe.

She imagined Bucky at the apartment, pacing just like she was pacing now, cursing himself for letting the topic slip, maybe angry at her for vanishing into the night. The thought of his face — confused, worried, hurt — made her throat tighten. But she couldn’t bring herself to face him. Not yet. The thought of his eyes searching hers for answers she didn’t have was unbearable.

By the time the sky began to lighten, hints of pale grey bleeding through the black, she was half-frozen, her legs stiff from hours of wandering. When she reached their building, her steps slowed. Her stomach flipped as she stared at the familiar stoop. He could still be inside. Waiting. She had no way of knowing. The thought of walking in and finding him there — his face tight with worry, maybe even relief — made her pulse jump. She wasn’t ready.

So she didn’t go in. She walked past the entrance, past the ache of home tugging at her, and kept going until she found herself pushing through the door of a low-key pharmacy a few blocks down. The place smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust, its shelves stacked high with things no one really wanted to buy but everyone eventually needed.

The bell above the door chimed as she stepped inside. For a moment, she stood there frozen, staring at the rows of brightly colored boxes. Then her hand moved before her brain could catch up. One test. Then a second. Then a third. Overkill, maybe, but the thought of trusting just one answer felt laughable. They were heavy in her hands, heavier still when she paid for them and shoved the bag deep into her coat pocket.

Outside again, the city waking up around her, she cursed herself. She wasn’t supposed to fold. She wasn’t supposed to 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 answers this badly.

When she finally did return to the building, her nerves spiked again. She paused outside the apartment door, holding her breath, listening for signs of life. Nothing. No footsteps, no movement, no creak of floorboards. Relief swept through her. He’d gone. She was safe.

Inside, the silence was thick, pressing in from all sides. She locked the door behind her, shrugged off her jacket, and pulled the little bag from her pocket. The boxes landed on the kitchen counter with a dull thud, sitting there like bombs waiting to detonate.

Ginny stared at them, her chest tight. Her mouth was dry, her stomach twisting. She pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it with more flair than she meant to, and dragged the smoke deep into her lungs. The nicotine settled her nerves, but only just.

She paced the apartment with the cigarette between her fingers, smoke curling in her wake. Every step was restless energy. She hated herself for the way her hands shook, for the way her throat closed at the thought of seeing those little windows filled in.

Finally, she stopped pacing. Enough waiting. She snatched the boxes from the counter and marched into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.

The sound of cardboard ripping filled the space as she tore open the packages, her hands unsteady. She lined the three tests up on the counter, side by side, neat and orderly, as if that would somehow make the chaos in her head easier to handle.

She sat on the toilet, cigarette still dangling from her lips, and forced herself to follow the instructions — pee on the stick, set it back down. Again. Again. Three in a row, the ritual mechanical and absurd.

When she was done, she pulled her jeans back up, flipped the toilet seat down, and sat with her elbows on her knees, smoke curling up from the glowing tip between her fingers. Her eyes never left the line of tests.

The seconds stretched. Her heart pounded so hard she swore it echoed in her ears. She tapped ash into the sink, biting the inside of her cheek, her mind spinning through every outcome, every conversation that might follow.

At first, it was only dread. 𝑰𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓. 𝑰𝒕’𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉. 𝑾𝒆’𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅, 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔. 𝑯𝒆’𝒔 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒚, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰’𝒎… 𝒎𝒆. 𝑾𝒆’𝒅 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏.

But the longer she sat, the more the thoughts began to twist. Curiosity snuck in, quiet and insistent.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒅? 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒇… 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒅𝒐 𝒊𝒕?

She tried to push it down, but the images came anyway: Bucky’s big hands cradling something impossibly small. His grin — nervous and crooked but real — when he told her she wasn’t alone in it. The idea of a life where there was more than just surviving the next crisis.

Her chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear alone. It was something warmer, fragile, dangerous. Hope.

She could almost see it. Their apartment cluttered with bottles and blankets. Sleepless nights, yes, but not empty ones. Bucky sitting on the floor with a tiny bundle in his arms, his hair falling into his face as he whispered something soft.

It wasn’t all rosy — her mind supplied just as quickly the other side. The fights. The exhaustion. The loss of freedom. The pressure crushing them both. But the two possibilities tangled together until she didn’t know which side scared her more.

She dragged on the cigarette again, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, her foot tapping against the tile.

𝑰𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆. 𝑾𝒆 𝒈𝒐 𝒐𝒏. 𝑾𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒔. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆… 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅? 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒅?

Her throat tightened as the realisation settled. She didn’t know which answer she wanted. And that terrified her more than either possibility.

The bathroom filled with silence and smoke, the only sound her uneven breaths. Three little sticks sat on the counter, lined like soldiers awaiting inspection, their verdict just seconds away.

Ginny leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and whispered into the haze: “God help me…”

And then she moved, dared to peek, bracing herself to see the truth staring back.

The seconds crawled. Then the minutes.

The bathroom smelled of nicotine and nerves. Ginny’s cigarette burned down between her fingers, the ash long and fragile, ready to collapse. She leaned forward, elbows digging into her knees, eyes fixed on the little plastic sticks lined up on the counter.

Her chest tightened as the faint lines began to bloom, soft at first, then sharper, undeniable. She squinted, leaned closer, held her breath.

One.
Two.
Three.

𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

Negative.

For a long moment, she just stared, blinking like maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her. But no. Each test was clear, the single bar stark and absolute. Not pregnant.

Her shoulders sagged, a rush of air tearing out of her chest. Relief hit her first — fast, overwhelming. Her lungs filled more easily, her body uncoiled, like she’d been holding herself braced against a storm and finally realised it had passed.

“Thank 𝑮𝒐𝒅,” she muttered, dragging on the last of her cigarette before stubbing it out in the sink. Smoke curled up like the last thread of her anxiety burning away.

It should have ended there. It 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 have been enough. Negative meant safe. Negative meant normal. Negative meant she and Bucky could go back to figuring themselves out without a baby thrown into the chaos.

But as she sat there, staring at the little sticks, the relief curdled. Something heavier slid in beneath it, quiet and traitorous. 𝑫𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕.

Her throat tightened as the realisation struck. She wasn’t supposed to 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 that. She was supposed to be grateful, not gutted. But there it was, creeping in like cold through a cracked window.

She bit the inside of her cheek, her eyes stinging though she didn’t know why. “Bloody idiot,” she whispered, shaking her head at herself.

Still, she couldn’t stop the flood of what-ifs. She pictured Bucky again, holding that impossibly small bundle, his face split between terror and joy. She imagined the warmth of a family that wasn’t borrowed or broken, a kind of home she’d never dared dream about. She imagined little fingers wrapped around hers, the sound of laughter filling their apartment, the knowledge that maybe — just maybe — they weren’t as doomed as their pasts made them feel.

And it hurt. Because now she knew she wanted it — at least some part of her did. The tests told her no, and she was left torn in half: relieved and robbed all at once.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, leaning back against the wall, the tile cold through her shirt. She laughed once, sharp and bitter, at the absurdity of it all. Hours ago, she’d been terrified at the thought. Now she was gutted that it wasn’t real.

Her gaze drifted back to the counter. Three little sticks, lined up like soldiers delivering their verdict. 𝑵𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆. 𝑵𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆. 𝑵𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆.

She stood, restless, her body buzzing with too many feelings at once. She gathered the tests up, stuffed them back into the empty boxes, and shoved them deep into the trash. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the trick. Pretend it never happened. Pretend she never cared.

But the hollow ache in her chest told the truth.

Ginny moved through the apartment on autopilot, opening windows to clear the smoke, splashing water on her face until her cheeks burned. The clock ticked in the kitchen, each minute closer to Bucky’s return.

She pictured him walking in, seeing her pale and restless, asking what was wrong. She pictured herself lying, brushing it off, telling him she was just tired. Because what could she say? 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑰 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆.

No. She couldn’t say that. Not now. Not yet.

She sank onto the couch, tucking her knees up, staring at the city beyond the window. The world carried on outside — taxis honking, people shouting, life rolling forward like nothing monumental had just tilted inside her.

But Ginny knew something had shifted.

She wasn’t pregnant. That was the fact. But the shadow of the idea lingered. A door had been cracked open, and she couldn’t close it again, no matter how hard she tried.

For the first time in hours, she let herself close her eyes. The exhaustion pressed in, heavy and irresistible.

Tomorrow would come. Today, Bucky would come home. And she’d have to decide what pieces of the truth she was willing to share.

But for now, she let herself drift in that strange space between relief and longing, her heart caught on a single, impossible thought…

𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆… 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒂𝒚.

⠀⠀⠀ ───── ⋆⋅ ♕♔ ⋅⋆ ─────
ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ
⠀⠀⠀ ───── ⋆⋅ ♕♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

[𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑨˙⋆✮ @buriedintel]

𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑵𝒀 𝑬𝑫𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑲🥃
𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑰𝑼𝑺 , 𝑩𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑬💰
𝑷𝑳𝑨𝒀𝑩𝑶𝒀, 𝑷𝑯𝑰𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑰𝑺𝑻🥃

𝐌𝐒/𝐌𝐕
𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒/𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑/𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊

♡︎/⟳

[ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ @WintersMisfit]

⠀⠀⠀⠀═══════✪═══════
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝑻𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒘𝒐
⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑾𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚
⠀⠀⠀⠀═══════✪═══════
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
The recruits scattered for their water bottles, some collapsing onto the gravel with grateful groans. Bucky gave them all of thirty seconds before blowing the whistle again.

“Break’s over. Up!” His grin was sharper now, boyish mischief threaded through authority. “You think the enemy’s gonna give you time to sip on mineral water and check your TikToks? Please.”

A few chuckles slipped through the line, quickly stifled when his brows shot up.

“That wasn’t a joke. Move it!”

They scrambled back into formation. Bucky planted himself squarely in front of them, arms folded.

“Next exercise: battlefield retrieval. You think missions are about throwing punches and lookin’ mean? Wrong. Most of the time it’s about getting your buddy out before he bleeds out.”

He strode to the side and pointed at a sandbag dummy lying sprawled in the dirt. “That’s Private O’Malley. He’s six-two, two-forty, and dumb as a rock. Took one in the leg and can’t move. Your job? Get him to cover before the rest of his squad eats lead. Fast.”

The recruits eyed the dummy with varying levels of horror.

“What are you waitin’ for? Roses and chocolates?” Bucky barked. “First pair, go!”

Two recruits sprinted forward, fumbling with the dummy’s weight. Bucky blew the whistle. “Too slow! You’re already dead. Drop him. Next!”

The next pair tried dragging O’Malley by the arms. Gravel scraped, sweat beaded, and they barely made it halfway before Bucky’s whistle cut sharp.

“You think enemies are gonna pause while you two play tug-of-war? Out! Next!”

He crouched low beside the next pair as they tried their hand. His tone softened, almost conspiratorial. “Listen—center of gravity. Get under his arm, lock it on your shoulder. Don’t drag, lift. Think of it like dancin’ with a real lousy partner.”

The recruits adjusted, heaved the dummy upright, and staggered toward the marker. Bucky’s grin spread. He clapped once, loud and approving.

“There it is! That’s how you save a man.”

He straightened, turning back to the others. “Lesson’s simple: don’t leave anyone behind. Not your squadmate, not your partner, not even dumb ol’ O’Malley. Because out there?” He jabbed a finger toward the horizon. “You’re all each other’s got.”

He let the silence hang a beat before the whistle shrieked again. “Next pair! Show me you’ve got the guts to carry your dead weight.”

[ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ @WintersMisfit]

⠀⠀⠀⠀═══════✪═══════
⠀⠀⠀⠀𝑻𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑶𝒏𝒆
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝑩𝒚 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆
⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ᴬ ˢʰᵒʳᵗ ˢᵒˡᵒ ᵇʸ #ᵂⁱⁿᵗᵉʳ
⠀⠀⠀⠀═══════✪═══════

The recruits had already started whispering before the whistle blew. They’d expected Romanoff herself to run them through drills, maybe Barton if they were unlucky. But the man standing in front of them wasn’t either. He was younger than they’d expected. Twenty-one at most, dark hair slicked back, a cocky tilt to his mouth that looked like trouble. Still, the crisp roll of his sleeves and the Lieutenant’s bar pinned to his chest carried weight enough to shut them up.

“On your feet!” Lieutenant Barnes barked, Indianan accent rough around the edges. The line straightened instantly. Whatever boyishness sat in his face, his tone was pure steel.

“You think this is training? What you’ve been doing is playin’ soldier.” He paced down the line, boots crunching sharp on the gravel. “You’ll follow orders, you’ll move when I tell you, and if you can’t keep up, you’ll be scraping your lungs off the ground before I let you ring out. That clear?”

A nervous cough came from the end of the row. Barnes pivoted fast, closing the distance in two strides. He leaned in, grin playing at the edge of his mouth. “Somethin’ funny, private? Share the joke—I could use a laugh.”

The young man shook his head quickly. “No, sir.”

Bucky let the smirk sharpen. “Good. Save the comedy act for Saturday nights. Out here? You do what I say, when I say it, and maybe you walk away with all your teeth.” He stepped back, gave a sharp whistle. “Down. Push-ups. Now.”

The recruits dropped, groans already starting. Barnes crouched beside one who was struggling, tone dropping low enough for just a few to hear.

“Yeah, it burns. That’s the point. You think the enemy is gonna wait for you to catch your breath? Build the muscle. Build the grit. Build trust. You’re not here to look pretty—you’re here to make damn sure the person next to you doesn’t die.”

He straightened, folding his arms, letting a grin tug at his mouth again.

“Romanoff asked me to make soldiers outta you,” he called out. “So that’s what you’re gonna be. By the time I’m through, you’ll march like the 107th, fight like Howlin’ Commandos, and maybe—maybe—I’ll even buy you a drink. But don’t hold your breath.”

The whistle shrieked again. “On your feet, recruits. We’re just gettin’ started.”

Boots scraped as the recruits scrambled back up. Some of them were already sweating, but Barnes didn’t give them a second to breathe.

“Form up. Double line.” He clapped his hands once, sharp as a gunshot. “You’ve had it easy. I don’t care what kind of fancy Red Room sparring Natasha’s run you through—if you can’t hold formation under pressure, you’re as useful as wet paper.”

One of the younger recruits muttered under his breath, too low for most to hear, but Bucky’s ears caught it.

“Somethin’ about my methods not modern enough for you, pal?” he said, turning on his heel and stalking over. His tone had bite, but his eyes were lit with something dangerously close to amusement. “That’s cute. You want modern? Try dodging bullets with nothing but a helmet that don’t fit and boots that eat your socks alive.”

The recruit swallowed, eyes darting away.

Bucky chuckled, low and warm, before clapping the kid on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Relax, kid. You’ll learn. Or you’ll puke. Sometimes both.” He turned back to the group. “Now—pairs. You’re gonna practice covering fire and movement. The one running gets low, the one firing keeps ‘em alive. You mess up? You both start over. And if I see one of you take your sweet time like this is a Sunday stroll in Central Park, I’ll personally run you ‘til your legs beg for mercy.”
He blew the whistle, and the gravel yard erupted into motion.

Bucky paced the line as partners scrambled, shouted commands slicing through the noise. His voice carried the sharpness of authority—but the grin never quite left his mouth. When one pair nearly collided mid-run, he cupped his hands and hollered, “What is this, a dance hall? You wanna waltz, you can take me out Saturday. Otherwise—eyes front!”

Even the recruits struggling hardest couldn’t hide their smirks. He was tough, no doubt about it, but there was something magnetic in the way he barked and teased—like he was daring them all to push harder, faster, better.

When the last pair finished, panting and red-faced, Barnes gave a sharp nod.

“Not bad,” he said, pacing slowly in front of them. “Not good either, but hey—I didn’t expect miracles. Romanoff calls you her recruits. I’ll call you somethin’ else when you earn it.” His grin widened. “For now? You’re just mine.”

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

@VexingEmbers Making no move to lower her arms, her head tilting instead in that curious way.

"Daddy? I thought your dad drowned. I don't recall Lucifer approving any damned for leave."

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

"Getting champagne." And as if her helping herself wasn't obnoxious enough, without a glance towards him, she plucks open the fridge with a simple "Duuuh" added for emphasis before snatching the bottle of bubbly from its chilled hiding place.

[ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ @WintersMisfit]

"erm, excuse me miss."

Yes he's following, highly offended by the fact she's just marching through the place like she owns it.

"the hell you think you're doin'?"

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

@VexingEmbers "I'm just making sure if I'm saying hello with a hug or a shot. In your case, both!" Arms flinging open for the brunette. "Bring it in, shorty."

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

"So, you do have more." Dimissing anything he said with silence as she headed for the kitchen. Surely, he kept the champagne in the fridge.

[ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ @WintersMisfit]

"Nope, not for you." He answers, his tone one of confusion more than anything. "Can't believe you just did that."

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

@AnodyneBerceuse < Her wings flicked with mock offence, though, invisible to the naked eye. “And here I was thinking you’d roll out a carpet, not a chemical attack. Missed me that bad, or were you just itching for target practice?”

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

Sneezes in @AnodyneBerceuse's direction.

[Ԝɑƙɑ𝗁ꪱᜒડ𝗈 𝖭𝗈𝗋ꪱᜒƙ𝗈 (Hiatus) @FallenRighteous]

@AnodyneBerceuse She blinked through the Lysol haze, one hand dramatically fanning the air. “Everywhere and nowhere, darling. Fell off the face of the earth, bounced a bit, broke a few things—standard Tuesday.” >