𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗖𝗛 | bucky barnes

пять.

пять. (pyat') — five.

two days later. january 21, 2024.

For the first time in almost 19 years, Mace Wilcox was scared.

She didn't want to say out loud what she had done.  She found where Carson's wife lived — her first name was Helena, but most people called her Ellen.  She found that she had a son, worked at a clothing shop, and was part of two book clubs. 

But going there, telling Helena Carson that she was the one who had killed her husband?  Confessing it out loud?  She felt that made it too real.  She didn't want it to be real.  Ever.

But James — Bucky — had told her that was the first step. And if she told him that she was afraid of her past being too real, he'd probably say something along the lines of, "Making it real is one of the first steps to really being forgiven."

He was poetic, she'd give him that.

When he talked, Mace listened. She'd put her chin on her hand and take in every word he'd say. She'd look into his eyes and watch them with intent. Because she was still so curious— was the killer still in there? And every time, she would watch so closely. And the answer was always no.

The Winter Soldier was gone. The only thing that was left was James Buchanan Barnes. And he was not a killer.

Mace needed something to motivate her. She needed something—someone—to do it all for. To really try for. So she did it for her mother. Because she knew that this would be the something her mother wanted for her. Not revenge. Not death. Her mother kept her away from that for a reason. Not anger. But avenging herself. No one else could do that for her.

And maybe, just maybe, she was doing it a little for Bucky, too.

— —

Helena Carson lived in a small house in northern New York. It was white on the outside, and rustic looking. Some of the paint on the wood was peeling, but it mostly added to the vintage look of the house. It had a porch with a swing, and on one side of the house, vines were growing. Mace could see a large garden in the backyard. There was a single car garage to the side of it, and a long, winding driveway to get up to the door.

Mace parked her car on the side of the road and walked up to the door. She bit her lip and held her hand up to knock— then didn't move. She put her hand down, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"It's already real, Mace," she muttered to herself. "All you have to do is say it."

Mace knocked on the white, wood door three times.

She heard footsteps shuffling inside the house—only one. She didn't hear any voices, or any other noises.  Just one person.  And herself.

"Hello?" said a soft voice.  The woman was older looking, but her hair was still dark.  She had soft, friendly eyes.  She had smile lines around her lips and pink cheeks.  She looked like she was happy once.

"Who are you?" asked the woman.

"Are you Helena Carson?"  asked Mace.

"I am," said the woman.  "Come in."

Mace did as the woman asked, but only stepped just inside the front door.  She knew she didn't deserve to be let in.  Mace didn't know why Helena had allowed her in... maybe because there wasn't a revengeful glow in her eye anymore, and Helena could see that.  No determined stare.  She didn't hold a defensive stance, and if something came for her in that moment, she would not be ready.  There wasn't a single weapon on her. 

Helena looked at her.  "So who are you?"  she asked.  Mace could tell by her voice she was a sweet woman. Mace was so, so sorry.

"My name is Marcella Wilcox," she answered. 

Mrs. Carson scrunched her brows in thought, lines showing on her forehead.

"Do I know you?" she asked.

"No," answered Mace. She paused for a second. "But your husband did."

Helena stepped back a bit—an amount that Mace didn't seem to notice.

"My husband is dead," she said.

"I know," said Mace. "I, um, I..."

"Yes?"

Mace took a deep breath, still looking the woman in the eyes.

"I killed your husband, Helena."

Helena's face didn't look friendly anymore. It looked sad. Disappointed, almost.

"What?" she said, her head tilted.

Mace bit her lip. "He was a means to an end," she explained. "I was stuck on revenge, and needed information that he had. He wouldn't give it to me. So I ... I killed him."

Helena scrunched her brows again. "And did you get what you wanted?"

Mace felt a lump build up in her throat.  She swallowed, then answered Helena's question.  "No.  I thought that ... I thought that the ends justified the means... I thought that once I finally got my revenge, it wouldn't matter."

Mace had thought her decision over so many times.  The night after she had attempted to kill Bucky, she rethought her decision over, and over, and over again.  And now she was overthinking it once again. 

Should I have done it?

No, he didn't deserve it.

But maybe it would make me feel better? Satisfied?  Finally, I'd have what I wanted my whole life.  The Winter Soldier, dead.

But James is not the Winter Soldier anymore.  You know that, Macie.  You can see it in his eyes.

She would argue with herself so much.  She was completely torn.  Somewhere inside her, the Black Widow she once was still existed, telling her that nothing mattered but her revenge, her satisfaction, herself. Her mother was dead because of that man.  The ends always justified the means.

But the real Macie Wilcox knew that the psychologically conditioned widow inside her was wrong.

"But when the time finally came, I couldn't do it. Everything I did was for nothing." Mace knew she couldn't just finish like that. Telling Helena her husband's death was for nothing. She couldn't end her sentence like that.

"I am so, so, sorry, Helena.  Truly."

"Get out of my house."

She was angry.  Mace could tell.  And honestly, she didn't blame her.  She knew how that felt, all too well.   

"Helena, I'm —"

"Get. Out," the woman said, teeth clenched.  She sounded threatening, yet looked like she was about to cry. 

Mace stepped out of the door as Helena Carson walked forward to close it. 

"Mrs. Carson, I really am so —"

But before she could finish her sentence, Helena shut the door in her face.