CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE—October 2039

Bucky, Steve, and Sharon were on their way to visit Sam Wilson in his new position at Avengers Campus D.C., or 'ACDC' as Tony joyously named it. Soothed by the jazz Steve put on the radio, Sharon drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat, leaving the boys to sit quietly.

Bucky faced no alternative but daydreaming while the road and trees whisked by the window.

He walked himself through the ceremony's blocking, thinking over Natasha's run-down of his presentation. Bucky was set to induct new Avengers into the group after Thor's retelling of the Stone War. The Asgardian's version, though there would be a script in front of him, was sure to be an animated, long-winded, and often off-topic story.

"Dagger will go first," Natasha had started, swiping through the memos and costuming outlines, "you've got a little speech in between each—" Bucky groaned "—yeah, glad I'm not you—and then Cloak, followed by Nate, who's finally chosen the name—"

A thud drew them to the window at NYHQ. Bucky watched Samantha pick herself off the lawn and brush off. Did Missy knock her down? Did Tony? Until he focused on the little burnt spots in the grass, his weight had shifted to the balls of his feet, ready to run down.

Once he saw Sam's excitement, he knew all three were getting along. Tony's deal with Missy and the advice returned was working.

"Ronin," Nat finished. "I don't know why he bothers," she added, returning to her tablet.

Bucky barely heard while watching the brain-storming family on the lawn. "What?"

"Sam. She'll never be part of the team, and Tony would never allow her to fight."

"She's learning."

"Learning to use powers and learning to fight with a team are very different things." Nat popped an eyebrow up, hair gently swishing in a signature 'I know' shake of her head. "I tried to train her, but if you can't learn the rules of combat, you can't coordinate with teammates. You know that. One-man shows don't run very long here."

"She woke Wilson, replaced my arm, vaporized a wave, survived space—"

"The self-sacrificing, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, solo gig worked for Tony, but that was thirty years ago. Look around. She doesn't belong here."

"She's been fine with Bruce in the lab…"

"Not the way he tells it." Nat did not elaborate.

He'd let it go, but when Bucky looked outside, he saw Missy and Sam working together. He saw the potential for Tony to coach his daughter and, maybe one day, trust her enough to put that coaching into action.

Plus, Sam smiled more. That had to be worth something.

He had hope where Natasha had none. He didn't understand why she had no hope. Nat had been so sympathetic to Samantha at Cooper's wedding. What changed for her?

His reverie was broken when the monolithic building rose above a silver gate. By far the ugliest of the Avengers' buildings, in Bucky's opinion. Perhaps he was biased against the properties further from his home, or perhaps his nostalgia for the Hudson was stronger than he realized, but he frowned at ACDC all the same.

Wilson's lucky I like him.

Bucky stretched his back before shutting the car door. He heard the creak of vertebrae, reminding him of his real age.

"I could have run here faster," he grouched.

"Yes, but Sharon couldn't." Steve walked around to open his wife's door. "You want to go find our host, Buck?"

Bucky turned to the garage at the lower level to find Sam Wilson already jogging down steps to the front of the complex.

"What took you so long?" Wilson called. He jumped onto the crackling gravel with raised arms to present his new kingdom to friends. "You like my crib? It's understated, right?"

"It's not exactly a—" Bucky got distracted from his insult.

A middle-aged woman with a bright red bag and black hat stood at the top of the stairs holding her phone at them.

He hadn't expected press. Stark had come to some mutually beneficial arrangement so long ago that Barnes hardly remembered the last time someone snuck a picture on Avengers' property. Out in the real world was different, but even more odd was only one person taking pictures. What the hell did she want?

Bucky turned back to Wilson who tossed a hand up.

Wilson waved her off with a short flick. "Damn gossip columnist. Ignore her. She's a nightmare." Wilson gave Bucky a quick hug.

The woman disappeared around the building.

"Car cramp those ancient legs? Need to go take a constitutional? A turn around the gardens?"

Bucky rolled his eyes and gave Big Sam a smack on the back as Steve and Sharon caught up.

"Wow, Sam, you've really rolled out the red carpet." Sharon smoothed her sweater over her hips. "Bathroom?"

Wilson bowed. "This way, my lady, good sirs," and he walked them off back up the stairs.

"What show caught your fancy this time?" Steve joked, ascending the stairs.

Wilson used new turns of phrase when he watched more TV. He was bored here. Retirement didn't suit him.

"Ha-ha," he faked, "You guys almost missed her. Hurry your old butts up."

"Missed who?" But no one heard Bucky's mumble.

Wilson brought them all inside to a welcoming, cozy suite of living rooms off a main hall on the top floor. The view of the surrounding city beyond the lawns was spectacular.

Books were everywhere. Bucky wondered whether or not Wilson still read at his enhanced level in step with all the scientist around him. If so, Lil' Sam would be proud; he'd have to tell her.

A bustling noise rolled out from the kitchenette to Bucky's left.

"Babe, they're here," Wilson called.

Steve and Bucky exchanged confused glances.

A woman with pristine, dark skin and silver-streaked hair popped her head around the corner. "My god, I am so glad to finally meet you all. Wish it were under better circumstances…"

The woman smiled and swung polite nods to everyone. The way she bounced to attend to the chairs and the set up of the coffee table showed energy enough to be a super-soldier like Rogers and Barnes. Bucky's first thought was what a nice match she made for Sam Wilson; energy to keep Falcon in line was key.

"Seeing as this is our first check-up on Sam, we're not too behind. I'm Sharon," came the polite response accompanied by a handshake, "my husband, Steve, there, and that's Bucky."

"Danielle," the woman replied, making her way around.

Wilson beamed, carrying in two fists full of cups to the coffee table. "Danielle and I met a few years back, only went on a handful of dates…"

"This is—" Steve and Bucky started together "—the Danielle."

"Oh, so I'm memorable," she blushed.

Wilson held out a hand. "Cool it."

Danielle gave Wilson a peck on the cheek before she took a seat.

Wilson flushed, sitting up straighter. "It was complicated back then—schedules, classified trips, but after I got transferred, I didn't have all that."

"When we first met, my son was just getting started at grad school. It was tough financially, so I moved to Cambridge with him. You see, at the time, Sam and I hadn't been seeing each other long enough to try the distance thing."

"Ah, makes sense," Sharon breathed. "How old's your son?"

"Lucas? Almost 24, very smart, went to Harvard before he got the fellowship here."

"You're joking," Bucky snapped.

Danielle didn't notice his tone.

"I know, doesn't look old enough to have a grown boy, right?" Wilson petted his beard a moment, grinning "We'd lost touch, but when I arrived here—right there on the roster. Sommerson. Crazy thing."

"That's great, Sam." Steve grinned back while his teeth sat clenched.

"What the hell," Bucky snorted. He felt his chest tighten and his mouth run dry. It was like getting laid out on the football field; the impact winded him. His fist gripped over his knee.

"I know," Wilson exclaimed, "Hell of a coincidence, right? Shame he'll be leaving—"

"Lucas Sommerson? That little shit—" Bucky watched Danielle go stiff at his outburst. "—that's your son? Come on…"

"Buck!" Steve tried.

Wilson bolted up. "Hey, man. Don't talk to her like that. What's gotten into you?"

"Samantha's date from the wedding?" Sharon chirped to help her husband piece it together. Her jaw slacked as she turned back to Wilson. "Oh—" her hand went to her mouth "—you were injured."

"They dated, Sam—I mean, Lil' Sam and Lucas, at Harvard. You were in a coma," Bucky blurted.

"And?" Steve prodded, watching his friend's face closely.

"Sam Barton? Coop's awkward roommate?" Danielle laughed. "They never dated. Samantha was a bridesmaid. Cooper is one of Lucas's best friends. They were around each other a little and they were paired to walk in the wedding party." She paused with a hard swallow, reading the group's expressions.

Steve wouldn't stop staring at Bucky. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."

"Ok," Wilson cut in. "So no big deal. Lu never mentioned her to me. He didn't tell Dani. Maybe Lil' Sam…didn't understand…or something."

"Yes," Sharon added, "I think we are all just a little shocked at how many coincidences there are."

"Yeah," Steve seconded. "Maybe take that constitutional Sam offered…" It was not a suggestion.

It also was not his place to break Samantha's confidence, so Bucky bit his tongue.

"Sorry I called your son a little—" the double door squealed open for the incoming object of his ire "—shit, ma'am."

"That'll teach that prick Stark not to sabotage my work," Lucas fumed, looking tired. "Sorry, Mom. Finished packing my desk." Tall and gangly as ever, he approached with a round wave. "Hello again, everybody. Met most of you at Coop's—"

"Excuse me." A tooth nearly crack under pressure of Bucky's clenched jaw.

"We would have barely recognized you without the suit," Sharon joked while he retreated through the same squealing doors.

Bucky unintentionally held his breath until he could see the grass and smell the dirt. A deep breath revealed something more familiar, the mandatory addition to each Avenger's Campus by Pepper Potts, the herb garden. Tony insisted the tradition remain.

Back before the explosion, when Tony would go on his tirades about nothing at all, Pepper would go pinch off a sprig of lavender, roll it in her fingers and hold her hand below her husband's nose.

Tony instinctively derailed his thoughts to say "you smell lovely, honey. What is that?"

He knew damn well what it was.

Bucky knew damn well it worked, too, so he bent down to claim his own sprig, rising to find he was not alone.

"Lily Vox," the woman said, jabbing out the hand not carrying her bright red back, "from the Counter Post."

"Never read it," Bucky responded curtly.

"Captain Barnes, would you care to comment on the murder of two security guards at Harvard Medical School the same night Tony Stark gave a speech on campus?"

A switch had flipped. Samantha's life was alive, for once, full.

Sam spoke with her friends everyday, introduced Missy to Tyrone and Tandy over the holo-comms. Her father found any excuse to invite Sam to come help him: test an off-site Iron Man suit for functionality, sauter something by hand, give her flying pointers.

Sam could follow his problem-solving mumblings and even expand on them, like a real team. She was the only person in the building who found all his stories new and exciting, a sad perk of so long apart

Sam went to sleep every night elated, nervously gabbing to Missy until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.

Sam had lived her ideal lifetime in a week, not tracking which days were which.

From the dead of sleep she heard it: the sizzling sound. Like a crackling fire it soothed her, until the sparkling hola-hoop dropped Sam to the floor.

The weightless feel of falling tossed her stomach in a sickening lurch. She landed on hardwood, still covered in her blanket. She panicked before her sleepy eyes focused.

The entire room was scattered with earth-toned tapestries and tall, natural glass cases filled with artifacts from previous eras. Few dark-wood furnishings completed the unwelcoming decor. Crumpled on the floor, Sam felt like a small child in a museum.

The deep voice scared her.

"Samantha Stark," a precisely groomed man barked from behind a tall case, emerging with a bored look. "Welcome."

Too early. "Is it six on the eighth already…" Sam mumbled in her fog.

"It is seven am on the fifth of October." Strange sneered in annoyance. "Would six have been better?"

Earlier? "No," Sam admitted rubbing her eyes. "No, it would not."

"Charming. Coffee is this way." He seemed grumpy enough to need it too.

Strange motioned to a far hall, gnarly scars threaded across every finger.

Sam hugged the comforter to her chest, aware she wore no bra, no shoes, and no socks. She scraped herself up, afraid to turn around and knock over a priceless object. Her bare feet made awkward thuds on creaking wood.

I sound like an elephant. Is he floating? He doesn't make any noise.

The heavy fabrics of Strange's tunic and cape swung gently when he arrived at their corner. He noticed the delayed move of her gaze from his feet to his face.

"I've seen med residents get off a 72-hour shift look more alive than you," the doctor noted.

"You said there was coffee." Sam furrowed her brow before adding, "sir."

Strange let out a small snort.

"I'll be here all day," Sam mumbled. "I think." A month ago, she clambered for lessons with this Master of the Mystic Arts, but now, Sam mourned a day without helping Tony.

They came to a pair of tufted-leather arm chairs aside a tiny table topped with a clay pot and two smaller clay cups. Ancient and unadorned, the set was attractively simple but looked too delicate to use. Strange's smooth pour was like a dance on broken legs; the scars down his digits looked red and angry.

We're going to need at least three pots, Sam thought.

It was black with no creamer on the tray. She did not care.

"Thank you," Sam said, lifting the offering. The cup was so small, Sam downed the hot liquid in two gulps. "So. What's on the agenda today? Levitation? Teleportation?"

"Lecture and memorization." He refilled her coffee.

"Should have brought my notebook," she mumbled, savoring the second cup for a whole five sips. Not that I had a chance to grab anything…

"You won't need it."

Odd. Now this sounds like regular school. "How would that teach me mystic arts?"

"Romanoff mentioned you try to control every lesson." Strange pursed his lips and adjusted the drape of his tunic, irritated. "Your studies so far have been wildly erratic. Samantha, you have followed no class schedule properly for over a decade—"

"They moved too slow. I already knew—"

"—and you need discipline. Perspective. That's why you're here. Not everything is your choice to know or skip."

"You don't know me."

"I have known everyone who knows you for longer than you've been alive."

"They don't know me," Sam huffed. "I am a patient person…sir. Like you probably found, in your medical studies, the basics do not satisfy curiosity. Sue me for not wasting precious time when I could be contributing to innovation."

"And yet you wait," he added, eyeing her carefully, "for Tony's affection."

Sam slammed down her cup.

She shocked herself doing it. She hadn't meant to do that. Thankfully, the clay remained intact.

"I'm sorry," Sam breathed.

Strange continued to watch her, unfazed. His inscrutable gaze lingered.

"You looked lovely at the Barton wedding," the doctor suddenly said.

Sam's insides went cold. A creeping fear sparked at her core.

"That was the first photo I've seen of you since you were very young."

The explanation did not wholly diminish her anxiety. Sam accepted a fresh pour.

"We'll begin," Strange nodded, taking his first sip.

"That'd be great." She drank, too, lowering her face to the black liquid.

Her eyes saw red. No wood, no tapestries, no glass cases. The world surrounding her vanished.

All around her lay dust. A red planet with huge, rusted metal monuments crumbling in the distance.

She smelled earth and decay; sedentary air coated her throat. Her skin was weighed down by heavy-draping clothes. Grit clung to her face. Her muscled ached as if pummeled by blows for hours.

Sounds were muffled. Her ears rang. Her body pulled up from the ground, out of her control.

A red metal man slammed down in front of her. His shield appeared in time to block a storm of purple lightning.

Iron Man stood chest-high at the armored feet of a giant. The giant.

Thanos appeared stern, and the two fought while Sam tried to get her barrings. She couldn't turn her head or lift her arms. She was not herself.

"All that for a drop of blood," Thanos groaned with an unsettling, wide smile.

Beaten and bloody, Tony hammered the giant with everything his suit could muster. The clash of armor and weapons merged with the ringing in her ears.

Tony was losing, and Sam fought against Dr. Strange's memory, trying to help. She knew the ending, but that didn't matter. A tightening in her chest told her Strange felt the same; he was anxious for Tony's safety, his survival.

Yet this body sat watching, doing nothing, while Tony's nano suit failed to keep regenerating after such damage.

Thanos snapped the blade from Tony's fist and drove it deep through his side until the sharp tip dripped red from his back.

Sam's soul screamed so loud in protest the noise merged with the squeal of ringing in Strange's ears.

The ringing consumed the Titan's words before it subsided enough for Sam to hear. "—I hope they remember you."

"Better me than you," Tony grunted, blood rolling down his chin. His breath caught.

He coughed, a wet sound with no strength behind it.

Sam witnessed her father collapse in defeat. His face drained of color. His eyes went dark.

The ringing tone returned. She could feel these lips moving.

"Spare his life," Strange called, "and I will give you the stone."

"Don't," Tony pleaded. He was pathetic, weak, leaving Sam's heart skewered in her paralysis. She could do nothing.

Instead, her right hand reached for the sky. The pull in her chest tightened as a stretched rubber band, drawn to a single point.

Her fingers closed on something rough, and the band snapped.

The brilliant, green light of the Time Stone swept into view, pinched in her fingers. Her father lay out of focus on the red dirt between them.

Sam felt heavy, tired, and tasted the tang of blood. The red planet became mute as she watched the Titan take the stone and place it on the thumb knuckle of an enormous, armored glove.

The glow of the jewels were mesmerizing. All the good and all the evil of the universe molded into tiny, beautiful specs of color. She lost herself in their light.

Sam blinked and almost dropped the cup in her hand, her real, movable hand. She was panting, eyes dry from straining, throat scratched by screams she had released there in her real time.

Hell of a tea set. The chill of seeing Tony rolled through her. Sam felt the damp of tears on her cheeks.

Growing up, she heard endless retellings of the heroic War of the Stones, the Battle on Titan, and Danver's Victory in the Garden. They taught pieces of it in history classes. The very ceremony Bucky would preside over in the coming month presented the tale annually, beneath a fifty-foot high statue of Captain Marvel.

The visceral experience of Strange's memory, however, made her insides churn.

"You wanted Tony alive…for the right outcome."

The doctor took a long drink from his own cup. Sam refused to drink at the same time.

"You were paying attention." Strange took a few considered breaths, and Sam recognized a familiar expression: pity. "You see, the universe also has—for lack of a better term—a feel at certain pivotal moments. That day, the feeling was…atrophy. There was no saving the whole."

Fitting that the surgeon's analogy for the destruction of half of all living things would be a dying limb, a phantom reminder of his failures.

"Sometimes, you have to lose a battle to win a war," he whispered to his coffee.

"But then the Green Witch found him. She…it saved him." Sam couldn't decide whether she was making a statement or asking a question. "Tony called it an alien. But you knew he'd be ok."

"Yes." Strange shifted in his chair. "I've had the opportunity to discuss your previous training with Ms. Romanoff. I find it…interesting that you show little aptitude for fighting."

"I was at a medical school, too, ya know." Sam rolled her eyes as she wiped her face. "Did you relish the chance to break bones instead of mend them?" She gestured to his hands. "Did you want to scar people instead of heal them?"

"No," Strange allowed, "but the world has a way of presenting chances—"

"I don't need to plant my fist or foot on anyone to do damage," Sam muttered.

"That is true," the doctor allowed, "but the chances can be to protect, as well as fight."

Strange took his time to empty his cup. He refilled both before clearing his throat. "Drink up."

As he sipped, Sam could see pitying eyes watch her over the clay rim. It would be rude to argue, but her stomach had not settled from the last memory.

She looked down into the dark liquid. It eclipsed her vision as she lifted it close.

Blackness. Nothingness.

The lurch struck her before the warmth touched her lips. The feeling was more violent than teleporting with Cloak, and falling was never pleasant. A stomach full of naught but coffee did not help.

The fluff of her pillow busted out of its side from the weight of Sam's landing. Her hands were empty. Her comforter lay wrapped around her waist, the way she used it as a skirt if not wearing pajama pants, except…when had she tied it?

"Was it an informative day?" Missy stepped forward from her default spot against the wall.

Sam thought hard. Her heart and head were pounding. Her body felt as weak as it did after her longest training sessions. One memory couldn't do this…

"Did he feed you or shall we get you something?"

Her cheeks were crusted in salt, tight when she had she cried?

"We had no indication when the wizard would return you, so I waited."

Sam rung her shaky hands. The room wasn't right, or maybe she wasn't right. Am I hungry?

"You've been hanging out with Tony too much. He's a sorcerer." Faint glimpses swept through her brain like ghosts passing through walls.

Plants, weird plants. Buttons and nobs. The stars. Heat. Sun.

The ringing sat low in her aching head.

"What time is it?" Her projected window was off; Missy needed no soothing impression of outdoor life.

"Nine thirty three and twenty seconds."

Sam stood. A couple of memories in two hours? "Alright, sure, breakfast sounds good."

Missy flashed a perfect, white smile. "Breakfast for dinner then. I think the kitchen can oblige."

Sam checked the clock. The little digital light read 9:33 with the red PM spot ablaze.

She hadn't been gone two hours. She'd been gone fourteen.