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    Summary

    It's only when Bucky brushes past her, the skin of his arm cool as it connects with the rosy warmth of hers, that she understands what she has done. She can see it as he moves through her apartment, gliding through the space with a carelessness that feels nothing like him. It's in the back of her mind, like she's pulling out one of her own memories instead of one of his. Blood. Death. The pain of turning, so rich and vibrant that she aches with it secondhand.

    When she turns to him, there's acknowledgment on his face, like the vision she just had was in surround sound, that it was something he was privy to as well.

    You really are a shitty psychic, Darcy, he says, and the smile from earlier is gone. Only teeth remain, sharp and threatening. You didn't see this coming?

    Language:
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