LOST GIRL | ❝Time has a wonderful way of showing us what really matters❞
PRE-THE FIRST AVENGER → POST: INFINITY WAR | BUCKY BARNES
A HERO OF HEROES BOOK
Plot: Orenshi
Cover by: soulofstaars
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June 2, 1888
CHARLOTTE WAS LITERALLY SHOVED BACK TO REALITY. She blinked furiously, not realizing she was falling until she had stumbled back onto the ground, her head landing on a blanket spread across uneven ground. It took some time before her vision finally cleared and she could see the world around her, but even as she rubbed at her eyes and felt the ground around her, she instantly knew that she was still alive.
She hadn't died.
Before she could start to spiral—the realization that she wasn't dead came with more implications and questions than any one mind could reasonably handle at the same time, especially with no support—she was forced into the very real present now, locking eyes with a young child who was staring at her like she had grown an extra head.
"Mum, what's wrong?" the little girl asked, and Charlotte, still reeling from the shock of not being dead, fell into autopilot; it was a comfort to know she still had her usual maternal instinct.
"Nothing, sweetheart," she said, taking the little girl's hands in her own, looking around, "So, uh, what is it that we're doing?"
"We're having a picnic, mum," the little girl responded, motioning towards their small spread, giving her a toothy grin, "Why are you being so silly?"
"I-I don't know," Charlotte replied, laughing breezily, everything coming second nature to her despite her predicament, "I guess it's just an extra happy day. Where's your brother?"
She didn't have the time to wonder how she knew that her daughter had a brother before something barreled into her from behind, nearly knocking her back over, lips pulling into a smile as peals of laughter filled her ears.
"William, honestly!" she cried, pulling her son into her lap and tickling him, "You could've knocked me over into the food!"
"Mum's right, Will, stop being a baby," her daughter huffed, reaching over to pinch her little brother who cried out, swatting at her hands.
"Martha," Charlotte chastised, shooing her daughter's hands away, "There's no need for that. William, you need to be more careful, and, you, young lady, need to learn to be patient. You learn to be more careful as you grow up, he's not as old as you."
Martha grumbled, but reached out to rub at the spot where she had pinched her brother, as much of an apology as she was probably going to give at the moment. She had been that way since she was little, always finding other ways to show her remorse rather than saying the two words that Charlotte always had to wrestle out of her.
"Where's your father?" she asked, because she was certain he was supposed to be with them, but, then again, she couldn't remember much from that morning.
"He's at home, ma, remember? He got hurt at work?" William said, and Charlotte was suddenly bombarded with memories that were somehow her own.
She tightened her arms around her son as flashes of her husband's broken hand filled her mind, late night fights about money and work and getting food on the table echoing in her ears, and it was a wonder that she was able to catch up with all of this at once.
