𝑵𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝑹𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒂𝒏

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀───── ⋆⋅ ♕♔ ⋅⋆ ───── “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 ⠀⠀⠀ ───── ⋆⋅ ♕♔ ⋅⋆ ─────

"𝙂𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙚." ♕ 𝑰𝒎𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒏 𝑭𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒌𝒂 𝑮𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒚/𝑮𝒊𝒎𝒍𝒆𝒕 ♔ 𝑪𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝑹𝑷 ♘ 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝑹𝑷 ♡︎/⟳