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elenarayofavalon · 14 hours ago

Text

it is finally done

Symphony

Read on AO3.

Tags: Robert "Bob" Reynolds, Original Female Character(s), Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, Alexei Shostakov, John Walker, James "Bucky" Barnes, Sam Wilson, Thunderbolts, Bob x Original Female Character, Coping with Grief, OC is an Empath, Another Tower Fic, Watchtower Shenanigans, This is part of a much larger fic I'm writing with my friends, but I'm writing this because I needed to get it out, or I would explode, and then who else would feed you all this tasty Bob content?, Sam is OC's Adoptive Father, Bucky is the Best Uncle, Yelena is a Good Friend

Word Count: 6,360 words

Summary: Daffodil grew up with the Avengers after a past riddled with trauma and tragedy; after Endgame, she's trying to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and rebuild when she meets the Thunderbolts at the insistence of Uncle Bucky. She isn't prepared for how quickly she gets attached to them, nor is she prepared for Bob Reynolds, someone who understands how she feels more than she knows.

Chapter 1: Symphony

Daffodil bets money every time she steps into the communal kitchen that none of the Thunderbolts have eaten a decent meal since they moved into the Watchtower. Of course, she doesn’t exactly blame them with all the shit they’ve gone through.

Yelena and Bob frequent the kitchen for simple meals like spaghetti or hamburgers or chicken alfredo, seeing as they’re the few team members who don’t burn water. The same could not be said for Walker, Ava, or Alexei. Those three set the kitchen on fire every time they so much as glance at the stove, which is probably why they live off of frozen dinners and microwave mac n cheese.

The heavens open up and sing when Uncle Bucky steps up to the oven range. The last time he made peanut butter pie, Daffodil slid to her knees and hugged his legs like he’d hung the sun in the sky.

Only problem? Uncle Bucky rarely cooks in the Watchtower kitchen.

That might explain why when Daffy goes to slice her tomato, she cuts her thumb instead, with a dull blade as the culprit.

“Shit!” She shoves her thumb and the knife under the faucet, muttering curses that would send her father into cardiac arrest.

“Can’t find your way around a knife?” John smirks and tosses his soda in the bin. “We gonna have to start giving you safety scissors to cut your veggies now?”

“I might be able to handle a knife if you freaks would keep them sharpened!” Daffy sticks her tongue out at him. “Don’t any of you ever cook something other than instant mashed potatoes and boxed rice?”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

Daffodil quirks a brow and opens the cupboard above the sink. A pitiful little moth flutters from the empty vessel and she swears she hears it crying.

“Look at this! Moth families are in poverty!”

“That’s not my fault! Maybe Mr. Moth should assess his options and switch jobs to better support his family.” He digs through a drawer for the first-aid kit.

“How dare you! Mr. Moth is doing his best.” Daffodil grabs a paper towel and squeezes it around her mutilated thumb. “Careful with that Neosporin. Don’t press too hard.”

“This isn’t my first time, Daffy.”

“That’s what she said.”

“You are impossible.”

Five minutes later, Daffy finds the knife sharpener and transforms a block of sad kitchen cutlery into weapons of war. When she finishes, she returns to her mission of slicing and dicing her tomato.

“What’re you making anyway?” John pokes his head over her shoulder. “Enough to share, I hope?”

Daffodil points to the grocery bags on the counter: ground beef, lettuce, sour cream, cheese, guacamole, hot sauce, and homemade tortilla shells.

“Oh, hell yes.”

The Thunderbolts wander into the kitchen like a litter of hungry puppies as soon as the smell of cooked meat wafts through the halls. Daffy puts Walker on microwave duty with the tortilla shells since it’s the only appliance she trusts him to operate.

“Ah, yes, finally! A good cook is in the house!” Alexei cheers from the lounge. “We will eat well tonight!”

“Who says I’m sharing?” Daffy taunts.

“Are you kidding me? There is always enough to share with your favorite uncle.”

“Yeah, but that still doesn’t explain why you think she’s sharing with you.” Uncle Bucky claps the Russian’s shoulder in passing. “You’ve got enough for me, right, Ducky?”

“You people are animals.” Daffy groans, adding taco seasoning to the beef and leaning back to headbutt her uncle. “But of course you can have some.”

“I will literally drag Ava to the store with me to get more if it means you will share with all of us.” Yelena pleads.

“No worries. There’s plenty. I always buy extra for you guys when I cook here.” She smiles.

Yelena eyes the frying pan and starts gathering toppings to line up across the bar when Daffy switches off the burner. Ava sets up plates and utensils while stealing cubes of tomato.

There is one person unaccounted for and Daffodil represses the question of where he is lest Yelena look at her like she’s on an episode of Bachelorette. Instead, she busies herself with putting the meat in a bowl and setting the grease aside to cool. “Dinner’s ready!”

The Thunderbolts descend upon her taco bar, fighting each other to get a plate as if they’re starving wolves. Walker elbows Yelena, who smacks Alexei, who squeezes in front of Ava. Daffodil vaguely wonders if Valentina feeds the poor heroes.

“Did you make these tortillas yourself?” Ava asks around a dollop of sour cream. “They look homemade.”

“They are. Don’t judge me if they taste bad, it’s only my second time making them.” Daffy chuckles.

“I have never put a bite of your food in my mouth that I could not swallow.” Alexei wraps his arm around her shoulder. “You make good food. Just the right kind of food for a hungry team of heroes.”

“Hungry is right.” Bob’s soft timbre shudders down the hall as he comes into view.

Daffodil hates him.

She hates the way he makes her lips tip up and the stress melt off her shoulders. She hates when he steps closer and her body naturally opens to welcome him in the conversation. She hates how her eyes latch onto his and the world falls away for a breath because his presence hugs all of her broken pieces into a mosaic of hopeful daydreams – daydreams she has been scared to hold onto since her parents died thirteen years ago.

Daffodil hates that Bob loves her so effortlessly, because all she can do is fuck everything up.

“I was starting to worry you might be getting chased by a feral street cat.” She hands Bob a plate and ignores the soft pang of affection he emits every time he gets close.

“That was one time.” He nudges her arm.

Daffodil’s soul stitches itself together when he smiles at her.

“One time is all it takes to worry. That means your chances are statistically higher than the average citizen.” Daffodil chances a glance up at him again, wondering what it would be like to stop holding back – to stop being afraid.

She looks away as soon as his eyes meet hers.

“What are we watching tonight, Dinner Gang?” Ava asks, plopping into her usual spot in the middle of the sofa. “My personal pick is Top Gun.”

“We watched that last time!” Yelena says around a bite of taco. “Holy shit, Daffy, this is delicious.”

“I learned from Uncle Bucky.” She shrugs, shifting the attention away from her and watching everyone’s eyes pop out of their heads.

“So the peanut butter pie wasn’t a fluke?! The man is just Gordon Ramsay and never told us?” Walker scrapes up some lettuce and cheese that fell out of his shell. “You owe us.”

“It’s called following the recipe.” Uncle Bucky grouses, stuffing another bite in his mouth.

“It is an inherited family trait, how wonderful!” Alexei laughs.

“Everyone shut up and figure out what we wanna watch or we’re watching Top Gun again.” Ava whines, but pauses on the remote long enough to give Daffy a thumbs up.

“I vote we watch Sing 2 because I don’t want to be emotionally devastated by Top Gun again.” Daffy proposes.

Somehow the only open seat ends up being beside Bob. Either Yelena conspired with Ava, or maybe the universe just laughs at her every failed attempt to act normal around him.

Daffodil bites the bullet and sits by him and Ava rewards her with Sing 2.

“A kids movie?” Walker pouts.

“It’s actually pretty cute.” Bucky offers for her benefit.

Daffodil munches through two tacos before she can fully relax. Having Bob in her vicinity is a recipe for an accelerated heart rate, which wouldn’t be so bad except she’s aware he can literally hear it.

By the middle of the movie, she scoots a little closer – their sides touch and she forgets how to breathe when his arm hugs her shoulder. Bob’s love suffocates her, wrapping itself around her like a hot towel she desperately wants to clutch tighter.

Daffodil only manages three minutes against his chest before she gets up to collect peoples’ plates.

“Hey, you were the one that made dinner. We can do the dishes.” Yelena scoots forward to stand.

Daffodil shakes her head and her magic stretches out like a rubber band to fill Yelena with the warm comfort of trust. She hates fucking around with Yelena’s feelings, but if she lets herself get lost in a pool of Bob she will drown.

She hates that he makes her feel like it’s worth drowning.

“Oh, it’s alright.” Daffy smiles. “I don’t want you to miss any of the movie, it’s one of my favorites and the good part is coming up.”

Why are you running away? Yelena’s eyes ask.

I’m afraid. Daffy sighs and then ruffles the assassin’s hair before taking her plate. But I’ll try again soon.

“Fine. But next time you’re not getting out of it.”

“Deal.”

Daffodil hums along to the songs echoing into the kitchen and then focuses on pouring the grease into a cup. Once it’s properly stored, she falls into the comfortable rhythm of washing dishes.

Bob pads up behind her and brings sweeping waves of uncertainty with him.

“Let me help?” He asks.

Daffodil cannot tell Bob no.

“Sure. Dry what’s already in the rack, I’m running out of room.”

“Thanks for cooking it.” He grabs a towel and sets to work. “It’s not often we eat so well. I think everyone just gets tired of the long days.”

“No doubt about it. Walker and I checked the cupboards and they were so empty you’ve left moth families in poverty.” She tuts, smiling into the grimy pan as she scrubs. “I’m surprised they haven’t started a rebellion.”

“Moth families?” Bob laughs.

Why does he laugh so easily for her? More importantly, how does she know she’d fight the universe to save that laughter for herself?

“There was a sad little pantry moth that flew out when we opened the door. He didn’t even have any crumbs to take home to his family. What’s he supposed to do in that kind of economy, huh?” Daffodil flicks a few droplets in his direction.

“Hey!” Bob snorts and whips the towel at her shoulder. His expression dampens abruptly and it gets quiet before his next words fall as soft as snowfall, “You know, if you visited more frequently, I’d be glad to go grocery shopping so you have things to cook.”

There it is again. His emotions aren’t just feelings anymore, they’re so intense they talk. Please. They beg. Please stay. I miss you.

When did Bob become so necessary? Right now her ability to breathe hinges on whether or not he’ll tilt his head up to look at her. If he’ll say those words out loud and create a reality out of his screaming emotions.

Instead, his brows furrow and his desires are clouded by prickling concern. “Daffy? You okay?”

She blinks and turns from him in a flush.

“It’s hard to stay here right now.” The words tumble out.

It’s a half-truth. A smoke bomb in the maze of her pain she’s too afraid to traverse in his company.

“...have we done something wrong? Something to make you uncomfortable?”

“No. I love hanging out with you guys. I consider you all my family.” Daffy continues, scrutinizing a speck on a plate she’s well aware is a soap bubble. “This isn’t my first time in the Avengers Tower, though.”

Comprehension dawns on his features.

“You…you knew the Avengers. That’s right. God, I didn’t mean to…shit, I’m so sorry.” Daffodil can taste the shame swimming over his shoulders.

“Don’t.” She shakes her head. “Don’t do that to yourself. You didn’t know. I’d love to visit more, really. But even though the Watchtower isn’t exactly the same, their ghosts are still here.”

How often she’s tried to explain to her father how she can still feel Tony in the renovated lab – residue of his determination and guilt drips down the walls, fading every time she steps inside.

One day she’ll step inside and the last particles of her uncle’s snarky laughter will fail to greet her.

“The training room is the worst.” Her lips tremble.

She hands him the last dish and all but sprints down to the training room in question. He’s right behind her, a quiet but competent companion.

“People don’t realize how much emotion they leave behind in a room. Even softer emotions. They leak into the carpet, hang in the wallpaper, and I’ve even found a few hiding under the bed.” She chuffs, stepping up to an old punching bag and grazing her finger along the worn leather.

A pinch of laughter, a handful of fury, and a swarm of fortitude. All of it belongs to Steve, woven into the bag like a tapestry with Walker’s anger, Alexei’s vitality, and even Yelena’s sorrow. Every day, Steve’s thread frays a little more.

Natasha’s longing saturates the rest of the room, down to the sweat in the old mats. Longing for a better life, for a family, for a home.

“You…feel them all around this place. It’s like they’re still here even though they’re gone.” Bob frowns. “Can’t you turn it off?”

“Even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to. It’s as comforting as it is painful.” Daffy sighs, plopping on the floor and raking her nails against the hardwood, desperate to unearth another memory.

“Do we make it worse? I mean…do we make it harder to feel them?”

“No. Everyone’s emotions feel different. Like their own unique scent or fingerprint.” She pats the space beside her and Bob sits – his elation punches her in the stomach as she holds his hands. “You, for example. Your uncertainty feels like a tide rolling in, afraid to fully breach the sand. Alexei’s feels like more of a dance, tiptoeing forward and back in rhythm.”

His thumbs graze her skin and he catches her eyes.

“What do your emotions feel like?”

Daffodil breaks.

Her ruddy sculpture of broken pieces totters and tilts.

What do her emotions feel like? Has she ever told anyone? Ever shifted the delicate balance to impress her feelings on another to share? God, it’s all she’s ever wanted. To offer up the desires of her heart to someone she loves and ask them to hold it.

Just for a little bit.

“Hey, I’m here. You can cry – I can handle it.” He whispers, thumbing a tear from her cheek. “I know you must miss them. Let me carry your emotions with you for a while.”

Grief opens its bottomless maw and Bob offers Daffodil the safety of his arms when her cries ring through the Tower.

“They feel…heavy.” She hiccups, clutching the fabric of his shirt.

She wants Tony.

She wants his quippy remarks and hidden snacks throughout the lab. Or sleepless nights when she wandered into his lab with a sleeping bag until the mutterings of his tech jargon lulled her eyes shut. By morning, Tony would still be tinkering away, or she would be tucked back in her bed.

Usually Steve was the culprit, and on the following morning he ate breakfast with her. He always made time for Daffodil – without fail. The mundane would become mesmerizing as he shared tales of the past over a plate of eggs and bacon. Steve was the sole reason Daffy passed American History her sophomore year.

Bruce helped her pass Chemistry. She texted him every day to ask where he was since Thanos – a string of one-sided questions and updates on life that begged him to answer, or at least let her know he wasn’t gone like everyone else. Daffodil always found him on the roof, one of his favorite places to relax. If he felt frustrated about a particular science struggle, she offered her ears to listen while he talked out formulas, offered possible problems in measurements, and Daffodil sat there and listened.

Natasha would have hurt when Bruce left, too. She asked Nat to train with her extensively every day after Ultron, the first time Bruce disappeared, knowing without it being said that she needed a distraction. Daffodil felt Nat’s absence like a lure bobbing atop a stagnant pond, always searching for fish but never finding a catch.

Daffodil added her to the list of people she never got to say goodbye to.

Clint and Thor’s absence hurt even knowing their general whereabouts. It’s worse knowing they’re still around and she still doesn’t see them. What she wouldn’t give to hear another of Thor’s Asgardian drinking songs, or melt into Clint’s arms after a bad day at school.

Every memory, every shared laugh, every tear stain, every snappy quip pours through the Tower as her magic spreads her sentiment out to Bob and the Thunderbolts in the living room.

Shock colors her features as she calms down and a group hug swallows her. Bucky and Alexei sit behind her at Bob’s side, both taking turns rubbing her shoulder. Yelena and Ava take post at her legs, resting their heads on her lap as Yelena hums a lullaby and Ava pats her knee. Then there’s Walker, usually awkward as hell but sitting at Bob’s other side and murmuring soft reassurances.

“We’re here. You don’t have to hold it all alone.”

Daffodil isn’t sure when her body goes limp and her exhausted body succumbs to sleep, but three more words reach her before she submits to the void.

“We love you.”

. . . . .

Daffodil refuses to return to the Watchtower for weeks. It’s not that she fears being weak in front of them – she’s an empath, for heaven’s sake – it’s that she fears belonging.

Half of her family died. She knows they’d want her to move on and make friends and laugh again. She knows they want her to keep fighting and dream new dreams, and forge a new family to bridge the gap in her heart.

So why does it feel like a sin to move on? Why is she so scared to be happy?

“You’ve got that look on your face again, babygirl.” Sam comments over breakfast. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

Daffodil shrugs, knowing her dad is tapping into his VA therapy skills for her benefit but having no idea how to answer him.

But his concern floods her senses and she knows she has to try.

“I still miss them.” She starts, because that’s the easy part. That’s always the easy part. Everything after that gets messy. “I don’t know what to do without them.”

Daffodil knows it’s stupid. It’s been four years. Four years to mend and recover. Four years to move on and find something new to aspire to. Four years of constant distraction so she wouldn’t have to face the influx of regret and guilt and emptiness that plagued her every time she thought about six cold graves in the ground, six empty places at the table.

Six infinity stones that fucked with her universe.

“You don’t have to know.” Sam reaches across the table to squeeze her hand. “You spent years with these people, Daffodil. Years to build your schedule around them and plan for the future. That’s not something you recover from overnight.”

“It’s been four years, Dad.”

“And for all four of them you’ve tried to ignore it.” Sam chuckles whenever her eyes widen. “I notice more than you think. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you wanted to get an education – and I know Bucky appreciates you helping him get on in Congress – but it was the most obvious display of escapism I’ve ever seen.”

Daffodil goes quiet. Her father knows more than he lets on. And if he does, maybe the others do too. Maybe they won’t hold it against her for maintaining her distance.

“I’ll go visit them today.” She decides at last.

“Good.” He pats her hand one more time and then finishes his breakfast. “I know they’re not going to replace the others, but it’s okay to get close again. Even if it hurts.”

Daffodil grins and hugs her father on the way to put up her plate. With a smirk, she looks at him over her shoulder.

“I’m impressed. Did you borrow Uncle Bucky’s speechwriter?”

“You could say that. I hear we’re a favorite of hers.”

Daffodil finds Asterin draped over the couch when she finally makes it to the Watchtower. Her head snaps up as she raises a finger at Daffy.

“You, ma’am!” Asterin begins. “I have a bone to pick with you!”

Maybe she should have stayed home.

“What did I do? I just stepped off the elevator.” Daffodil scoffs, tossing her bag onto the other end of the couch.

“You had an emotional breakdown without me!” She throws arm across her forehead. “With everyone on the team except me! And there was even a group hug?! The betrayal!”

Daffodil smiles when Asterin peeks out from under her arm with a smirk. It elicits a laugh at the very least, and she tosses a pillow at Asterin’s face.

“It wasn’t planned, I assure you.” Daffodil waves her off. “As it stands, it appears I’ve run everyone off. Where is everybody?”

“On a mission. I got here about thirty minutes too late to go with them; Bucky said they were dealing with clean-up and should be done within the hour.” Asterin leans over the couch and finishes chugging a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Didn’t take you for a day drinker.”

“Long day. Needed to relax.” Asterin shrugs, before pointing towards the fridge. “Plenty more in the fridge and on the top shelf. I grabbed the alcohol. Bob stocked the pantry on Thursday – he knows you like to cook.”

His thoughtfulness slaps Daffodil in the face despite his absence and she heads to the fridge for a screwdriver and a frozen margarita.

By the time the Thunderbolts return, Astern and Daffodil both belt out lyrics into a brush and a wooden spoon.

“I’m just a man! Who’s trying to go hooome! Even after all the years away from what I’ve known!” They both drag out the lyrics, languid movements dramatizing the moment as Walker drops his shield with a thunk.

“What the hell did we walk into?” He looks between Daffodil and Asterin, both of whom pay no attention to the rag tag team in the midst of their emotional musical display.

“Judging from the bottles, I’d say this is a party I’m sad I missed.” Yelena snorts, grabbing a Buzzball and throwing it back. “Give me a few minutes and then I’ll tag in.”

“Yelena!” Daffodil chirps at the end of the song. She tackles the assassin in a bear hug and rests her head on her shoulder. “I love you guys so much. I missed you.”

“Oh, you’ve definitely been drinking.” Yelena snorts, rubbing Daffodil’s back. “We missed you too.”

“Yay, Drunk Daffy! She’s my favorite.” Asterin giggles, flopping over the side of the couch. “How was the mission, guys? Anyone need the med bay?”

“Standard procedure. Nothing bad. Mostly scrapes and bruises.” Bucky waves the girls off with a bemused grin. “And even if we did, I’m not trusting you with a needle in your current state.”

“I am the vision of sobriety!” Asterin whines as she turns over too far and faceplants onto the carpet. “Fuck.”

“Uncle Bucky!” Daffodil’s next target is her uncle, who chuckles as he pulls her into his arms. “Please don’t be mad at me…”

“Why would I be mad at you, Ducky?” He coos, patting her hair.

“I dunno…” Daffy huffs, closing her eyes briefly to soak up her uncle’s attention. “I didn’t visit you guys for a while…”

“I would never be mad at you for that. If anything, I’m jealous. Have you tried wrangling this circus of monkeys?” He ruffles her hair.

She misses this feeling of normalcy and banter. She misses her happy Avenger family and how no matter who was in the Tower, it was always home. God, she wants the Thunderbolts to feel like home, too.

It’s just too fucking scary.

“Daffodil, this is splendid! You’re so candid this way. We should all drink together more often.” Alexei pours himself a glass of vodka and throws it back.

“I second that!” Ava whoops, dancing to the new playlist Yelena has on in the background.

Daffodil blends into the music and laughs from her belly. Walker hangs out with Bucky and Alexei, the girls all dance while singing at the top of their lungs, and Bob?

Nothing could stop Daffodil when she finally catches sight of him stepping off the elevator.

“Bob, you’re here!”

“Yeah, I was a little late. Oh, hey!” He beams as his arms are suddenly full of her.

Daffodil loves him.

She loves the way his eyes sparkle when he glances her way. She loves the fire crackling in her toes when she sees him, like her feet can’t wait to jump over and get close. She loves how his eyes always travel to her lips like he’s waiting for her to finally, finally tell him that she wants to stay by his side forever because she’s always wanted to – to draw out the words like a ballad only she can sing.

Daffodil loves him so much she wants to be better, to be everything he deserves.

“Asterin said you filled the pantry for me.” She doesn’t even think twice about wrapping her arms around his neck. “That mean you’ll help me cook sometimes?”

“If you want me to.” Bob smiles and cups her hands against his cheeks. “You were in quite a state last I saw you. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine! Really! Just emotionally constipated.” She promises, stretching her fingers up to play in his hair. The excitement under his skin hums and she giggles. “Your hair is really soft. Mine is too! Wanna feel?”

But before he can answer she’s tugging his hands into her long, curly strands. Daffodil leans into his probing fingers with a sigh, enjoying the scalp massage while it lasts.

“You’re right, very soft.” He shakes his head as she gazes up at him. “We should get you some water.”

“No.” Daffodil refuses, swallowing thickly as his emotions threaten to submerge the Watchtower. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I may lose my nerve.”

“Lose your nerve?”

She kisses him. It’s quick and barely lasts more than a few seconds, but she kisses him.

“Sorry. I, um…” She pulls back with her neck buzzing and glances behind her as she stumbles back. “I can leave you alone now.”

“Wait, come back.”

Bob brushes her cheek and leans back in. He takes his time – he drops his hand to steady her at the hip while he reorients Daffy’s center of gravity. He kisses Daffodil the same way a summer breeze sways against blades of grass.

Delicate, intentional, curious.

He rewrites her genetic code; it’s as if she’s known him since before the world was born. Her hands settle against his chest when they pull back, breaths shallow.

The Thunderbolts sit on the couch opposite of the accent wall hiding them; Walker’s playful jibes creep around the corner, but they remain otherwise oblivious.

All except Uncle Bucky, who stares Bob down from the corner with a glare that promises death. Daffodil sobers up the moment his feed tromp in their direction.

“You break her heart and I’ll break your goddamn neck. Void be damned.” The threat is quiet but assured. When he turns to Daffodil, his expression melts into a lopsided grin. “I won’t tell Sam, but I demand video footage when you finally tell him.”

It’s so antithetical to how Uncle Bucky should react. Nevermind that she’s cursed to doom everyone around her to an early grave, but to have Uncle Bucky believe she’s deserving of someone like Bob?

“Do you think Dad will be disappointed in me?” Her face crumples, her nose twitching. “Do you think he won’t want me anymore when he finds out?”

“He might tease you a bit after he finishes the Obligatory Dad Freak Out.” Uncle Bucky laughs, slacking his stance. “But he will never not want you, Ducky. Of that, I’m certain.” When he hugs her and she cries, he rolls his eyes. “I forget how emotional you get when you drink.”

“You’ve seen her like this before?” Bob clears his throat.

“Are you kidding? Sam and I were the ones to take her out drinking with her friends for her 21st birthday. Asterin and Ned went with us.” Uncle Bucky steps aside to grab a glass of water and hands it to Daffodil, who drinks it obediently. “You think she’s affectionate now? She kept crying over every small thing, things like accidentally bumping elbows with Sam or grabbing Asterin’s fork by mistake. Kept saying, ‘I don’t ever want you to be sad! I just want you to be happy!’”

Daffodil finishes her water just as Uncle Bucky completes his impression of her voice.

“But I do want you to be happy.” She pouts, looking at the floor.

“It’s not a bad thing, Ducky, it’s adorable.”

Thus reassured, she hugs Uncle Bucky’s metal arm and steadies her muddy thoughts with daydreams of cuddling up to Bob. As if reading her mind, Bob’s hand rests at her waist.

“Is it okay if I love him?” She murmurs.

“You asking yourself or me?” Uncle Bucky raises an eyebrow.

Damn him. Damn her uncle and her father for knowing her so well.

“I don’t know anymore.” She groans, before the voice of Patrick Wilson serenades her from the lounge. “They’re watching Phantom of the Opera! It’s my favorite, come on!”

She drags Bob to the last available couch and curls into his side with a blanket draped over her. Yelena smirks in her direction, but Daffodil sings along with the movie, unaware of her friend’s taunting expressions.

Daffodil cries at the end, just like she does every time she watches it, only this time she’s not alone. This time when she cries it is without shame, and Bob pauses every few minutes to dab them away with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Alexei, Uncle Bucky, and Asterin conspire to torture the Thunderbolts with Sweeney Todd as the next musical movie choice. Halfway through the movie, the alcohol loses its potent grip on Daffy's brain – though, perhaps it’s less sobering up and more of the feeding people human meat pies that does the trick.

A peek up at Bob reveals he’s engrossed in the movie before him, half mixed between horror and fascination, offering Daffodil the perfect time to escape out onto the roof for some air. When she steps out into the cool, autumn wind her shoulders droop and a smile paints her lips. She sits on the edge of the balcony, legs dangling over New York between the safety bar around the edge.

Another set of footsteps pad up to her.

“Running away again?” Yelena asks.

“Not intentionally.” Daffodil chuckles, patting the spot beside her. “Actually, I just needed some air.”

“Sounds like you’re sobering up.” Yelena takes the offered seat and leans her chin on the safety bar as she looks over the city. “You finally going to make a move?”

Daffodil doesn’t say a word, not sure if she wants to tell Yelena about the impromptu kiss earlier.

“Do I deserve to?” She asks instead.

“What do you mean, Daffy?”

“Do I deserve to move on? Why do I deserve to have a normal life when they didn’t live to get that chance?”

Yelena doesn’t need to ask, and Daffodil doesn’t have to explain. Yelena lost Nat, too, after all. Daffy loses her thoughts to the drowning chorus of cars down below.

“Because they died to give us that chance.” Yelena finally says, looking at her with eyes twinkling in the darkness. “And we’d be rude as hell to shit on it.”

Daffodil presses her forehead to the cold metal and lets the sounds of the city suffocate the guilt still pooling in her chest. A strain in her nostrils grows into a dull ache as she struggles not to cry – three times is quite enough for one day, thank you.

“Do you want to see him? See what he was like?” Daffodil asks, pulling her Iron Man necklace from her yellow hoodie.

“Show me.” Yelena nods.

Daffodil turns around and clicks the sides of the little Iron Man helmet. The eyes glow and beams out a hologram of Tony himself onto the floor of the balcony. Tony’s hologram stares dead into her soul, the same way he did on that last, fateful day.

She misses him. It’s like her heart draws in a shuddering breath as he reappears in front of her for the first time in four years, brown hair askew and contrasting the high-end blue blazer resting on his shoulders.

“Everyone wants a happy ending, huh, kiddo?” The cold numb prickling of nostalgia sweeps through Daffodil’s nervous system, swirling into a volatile hurricane as it clashes with the warm longing of being home again. “If you got this message, Dandelion, I’m sorry to say your ending wasn’t quite as joyful as I’d hoped.”

The following sigh as Tony’s hologram steps closer hollows out the rest of Daffodil’s fragile psyche.

“I’ve been where you’ve been, Dandy. No family, alone, no one to rely on but myself. And even if you’re the only one left after the dust settles, I want you to know something.” She doesn’t know how the hologram figures out how to gaze at her with such precision, but he does. “None of this is your fault.” His eyes crinkle with mischievous intent. “Not even the fact that I’ve been calling you the wrong flower for years. It’s not your fault. I don’t doubt there will be hundreds of reasons for you to ask ‘what if,’ but it’s done now. There’s nothing you could do.”

“But there was.” Daffy whispers, hugging herself in an effort to smush together her broken pieces. “You were right there.”

“Knowing your stubborn ass, you don’t believe that for a minute, but I made this message to remind you as many times as you need that it’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up, kid. Keep living. Even when it hurts, keep living. Keep doing the things you want to do, even if you’re not sure what they are anymore.”

Yelena hugs Daffodil’s arm and leans against her shoulder. Tony smiles at her one more time.

“You’re part of our family, our home. Always have been. So go kick ass, Dandy. And do it with my fucking seal of approval.”

Round four of tears is inevitable but Daffodil doesn’t care. She tucks the charm back in her hoodie and wails into Yelena’s shoulder with Tony’s dead eyes glowing behind her eyelids.

Daffodil doesn’t know when she fell asleep, but between the copious alcohol in her system and listening to Tony’s message she is not surprised when she wakes up staring at a familiar ceiling inside the Watchtower.

She’s really got to stop falling asleep crying on people.

When she lifts her head, it’s clear Yelena took charge of her sleeping arrangement.

Bob lays beside her snoring in short bursts through his nose – a glance around reveals Uncle Bucky and Asterin on one couch with Walker, Ava, and Yelena splayed across the other.

Alexei’s feet hang on the trio’s couch as he lays belly up, snoring at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach.

She grins and decides to make breakfast for everyone, but not before giving herself another look at Bob’s sleepy face. Since no one’s awake, one kiss on his forehead seems innocent enough, and she settles into the kitchen with practiced ease.

Several batches of pancake mix later, everyone stirs from their well-earned slumber. Asterin wakes first with Uncle Bucky, who truthfully probably only pretended to sleep this long for her comfort.

Daffodil giggles when Asterin thunks her head against her shoulder.

“How you doin’ this morning?” She yawns.

“Better than before I fell asleep.” Daffodil confesses. “How about you? Need something to eat? I’m making pancakes.”

“You’re a fucking saint.” Asterin praises, picking up a whole pancake with her hands and chomping into it like a savage. “Shit. Needs syrup and butter.”

As she puts a plate together, Bob creeps up behind Daffodil and she almost paints the ceiling with a half-cooked pancake when his arms circle her waist – she succumbs to the weight of his presence and lets him kiss her cheek.

“Smells good.” He hums, grabbing a towel and swiping a few crumbs from the counter into the trash bin. “Want me to get you something to drink?”

“Orange juice, please.”

Daffodil serves the pancakes just as Walker and Ava stumble in.

“I knew there was a reason we kept you around.” Ava snags a plate and drowns it in syrup. “We’re gonna have to pay you before long.”

“Keep the moths fed and I’ll consider it adequate.”

“Moths?”

Walker snorts in his cup of milk. Bob giggles.

“I feel like I’m missing crucial information.” Asterin pouts around a mouthful of breakfast.

“I’ll explain later.” Daffodil rolls her eyes and finds her seat at the dining table, but not before Bob pulls out her chair for her.

Uncle Bucky smirks and Yelena winks at Daffy as she joins the breakfast squad. Alexei’s snores still echo in the background as white noise.

It’s not Tony. It’s not Tony throwing a napkin across the table or Bruce subtly offering her an extra fry. It’s not Natasha communicating to her entirely through facial expressions or Clint doing trickshots with his leftover food into the trash can. It’s not Thor shattering his mug and crying, “ANOTHER!” or Vision explaining that it is scientifically impossible to have fecal matter for a brain.

No, it’s not quite her family as she knew it.

But it’s a start.

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elenarayofavalon · 2 days ago

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May I request a Bob Reynolds x Villain!Reader who -despite being a villain and doing villain things- they treat Bob really well,?

Like- if they heard about how Walker treats Bob, they'd already be planning to go after him first or smthng,?? Idek,,, just food for thoughts()

ferra (r.r.)

synopsis : You’re a weapon, feared, used, and long past redemption. The jobs don’t feel like victories anymore, just noise between silences. Then you meet Bob Reynolds. Too quiet, too powerful, and far too familiar. You should have walked away. Instead, you saved him, and now you’re in deeper than you meant to be.

pairing : bob reynolds x reader

content : slight angst, action, villain!reader (?),

warning/s : violence, swearing, mentions of past trauma

word count : 3.5k

A/N: thank you sm for the request! @d3adbr3inc3lls teehee i hope u like this one !!

You weren’t born a weapon.

But metal always loved you more than people did.

You learned that early, maybe too early. When your mother screamed and the bullet bent before it hit her, twisting midair like it had changed its mind. You remember her terrified face more than anything else. Not the blood. Not the man who ran. Just her, backing away from you like you’d grown claws.

You were seven.

That’s how it started.

Your power didn’t manifest gently. There was no warm glow, no magical accident. It wasn’t kind. It was messy and sharp and loud. You were loud. You cried for days afterward, not because you hurt someone—but because no one ever held you again.

By nine, you stopped flinching at sirens.

By eleven, you stopped waiting for help.

By thirteen, you were untraceable. Gone like smoke through every foster file, every underground program that wanted to “train” kids like you. The labs wanted you. The recruiters whispered your name like it was prophecy. The mercenary networks put a price on your head before they even met you.

Not because you were dangerous.

Because you were useful.

You learned quick that the world didn’t care if you were scared. Only if you were strong.

So you became strong.

By sixteen, you stopped caring about names altogether. You didn’t need one when they called you “the Iron Witch,” “the ferromancer,” “the girl with the gods-damned mind-magnet hands.” You didn’t care what they thought, as long as they feared you. Fear was safe. Fear made people back off. Fear paid the bills.

And the bills were always coming.

You’ve twisted steel into chains and walls and coffins. You’ve stopped bullets mid-flight, melted guns into slag while still in their owner’s grip, crushed skulls inside helmets without lifting a finger. You’ve dropped tanks from the sky. You’ve walked through warzones and left no survivors. You’ve been paid in gold, blood, and silence.

Because someone asked you to.

And that’s the thing about power. Once people know you have it, they stop asking if you want anything else.

No one ever asked what you wanted.

Not peace. Not forgiveness.

Certainly not love.

For a while, you thought you didn’t want anything else. You made a home out of silence. Built your bones out of iron and called it evolution. You convinced yourself that this—this mercenary, steel-skinned, blood-washed life—was freedom.

But freedom starts to rot when it’s just isolation in a prettier cage.

Then came the nights where even metal couldn’t drown out the silence. The weight of your own armor started to feel like a coffin. The kills got too easy. The jobs got too clean. You stopped sleeping well. Stopped laughing. Stopped pretending you liked the person you saw in the mirror. All you saw were sharp edges. All you heard was the sound of your own breath and the hum of weaponized walls.

You started to wonder if you’d always feel this alone.

And now?

Now you’re standing in a half-collapsed weapons facility in the Balkans, chasing something that might be worse than all the other jobs you’ve done put together. A “graviton pulse stabilizer” with phase-bending capabilities—something the wrong buyer could use to rewrite physics. To erase the laws of reality like a chalkboard. You don’t even want it. You told yourself you took the job because it was dangerous, and because if you didn’t get there first, someone worse would.

That’s the excuse you gave yourself.

But really?

You came because the Thunderbolts were coming too.

Because he was coming.

You wanted to see what second chances looked like.

You wanted to see him.

Bob Reynolds. The golden boy turned nuclear ghost. You’d read about him. Watched the footage.Somehow both the strongest and the most unstable of the bunch. You heard the whispers. The rumors. The fear that trembled behind closed doors.

He wasn’t what they called him.

Not just “The Void.” Not just a bomb in human skin.

No. You’d seen his file.

You saw the way he disappeared from fights more than he started them. The way he volunteered for backline duty, always carrying what the others needed. The way he stood slightly behind the rest, as if afraid of taking up space. The way he looked down in every surveillance clip, like the camera might flay him open if he met its gaze.

Someone like that… you understood.

Power that big didn’t come without breaking something first.

You wonder what broke in him. And whether it was the same thing that broke in you.

You move silently through the rusted remains of the upper floor, your boots gliding over warped steel catwalks. The old facility breathes around you—metal pipes groaning, floor beams shifting beneath the weight of history. The air is heavy with the scent of damp concrete, rust, and something darker beneath it—gunpowder, old smoke, dried blood trapped in stone.

Your fingers ghost along the wall. The pipes hum beneath your skin. There’s iron in the paint, copper in the wire, fragments of old blood in the dust. It listens when you touch it. The whole building does. The girders shiver at your passing. The screws twist a little looser, as if happy to see you.

This broken, half-dead ruin of a war machine. And for now, you’re the only god it worships.

But you didn’t come to rule, you came to watch.

You came to find the one man who might understand what it feels like to be a weapon no one asked to make.

You came to see if there’s still something in this world that doesn’t turn to steel when you reach for it.

And if there isn’t?

Then at least you’ll know.

Far below, across the fractured ribcage of the facility, something shifts.

Not the team. You’d recognize their weight—too heavy, too clumsy, too loud in the way soldiers always are. This is something else. Quieter. Hesitant.

You pause at the edge of a collapsed stairwell and feel the breath of metal shift through your lungs. It tells you before your eyes do.

He’s close.

Bob doesn’t hear her at first.

He feels her.

The echo of something magnetic. Not literal magnetism—he’s immune to that. But something more primal, like a thread tugging at the corners of his awareness. His skin prickles beneath the sleeves of his black tactical shirt, the borrowed Thunderbolts insignia feeling suddenly too snug across his shoulder blades. The weight of the portable containment unit slung across his back should ground him, but it doesn’t.

Something’s off.

He’s not one to say that aloud—he’s already the weird one, the twitchy one, the backliner with a temperamental nuclear god curled up in his ribcage—but he knows what it means when his instincts twist like this.

He’s being watched.

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and slows his steps. His boots scuff against the concrete, careful and measured. The corridors here are tight, long-abandoned, gutted of anything valuable decades ago. Walls of peeling paint, corroded metal, broken signage in Cyrillic. The lights on his suit flicker faint blue against rust and shadow.

He doesn’t call for the others.

If something’s waiting for him, it’s not for them.

He rounds the corner. And there she is.

Propped casually against the metal frame of a broken doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smirk blooming like a bruise across her mouth.

She’s not dressed like the mercs they were briefed on. No heavy gear, no visible weapons. Just combat boots scuffed silver at the soles, black utility pants cinched with magnetic buckles, and a dark fitted jacket with plates of reinforced alloy glinting faintly beneath the fabric. She looks like she built her own armor and made it look good doing it.

Her eyes are lit with something half-feral, half-amused.

“Hey, cutie,” she says, voice silk-wrapped iron. “Bob, isn’t it?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

He blinks like a man short-circuiting.

“You have something I want.”

The containment unit on his back suddenly feels very, very heavy.

He shifts slightly, posture tightening. “We can’t just give it to you.”

“I figured you’d say that.” She shrugs, lazy and unbothered, like she’s got all the time in the world to toy with him. “But I thought it’d be polite to ask first. You seemed like the polite one.”

“How do you know who I am?” he asks, quiet but direct.

She grins wider. “Oh, Bob. You don’t know how many people watch you. Most of them are scared.” Her gaze rakes him—slow, analytical, amused. “I’m just… curious.”

He swallows hard. The hallway is too narrow. The air too thick. And her presence is loud without raising her voice—metal curls toward her like ivy to sunlight. The rusted screws in the wall vibrate when she shifts her weight. Even the broken pipes seem to listen.

Then—

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cracks through his comm. Distant, somewhere on the west wing. “Do you copy? Got movement near Sector C.”

His head turns slightly, just for a second. But when he looks back—

She’s gone.

Just a faint vibration in the walls. A memory left in the air.

He breathes out slowly.

And for some reason, it almost feels like disappointment.

Bob stands frozen, his chest heaving slightly, still staring at the empty space where she stood a second ago. His ears ring from the silence she left behind, sharper than any explosion. Then the comms crackle again—Yelena’s voice cutting in, crisp and impatient.

“Bob? You’re lagging. Talk to me.”

He forces a breath out, fingers tapping his earpiece.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“You sound weird.”

He hesitates, gaze still searching the shadows.

“Just… thought I saw someone.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then, with the unmistakable smirk in her tone:

“Was she hot?”

He doesn’t reply. Because yes. She was. But it wasn’t just that.

She felt like an unfinished sentence—both unsettling and magnetic. Something about her clung to the edges of his thoughts, even after she’d slipped back into the dark like she’d never been.

He breathes out through his nose, tension tightening between his shoulders.

That’s when the first shot cracks through the air.

Far off at first. Then closer.

It’s followed by another. And another—until the air is vibrating with it. A shuddering percussion of automatic gunfire rattling through the steel skeleton of the building.

“Contact! Third floor west—twelve targets, at least!” Ava’s voice bursts through the comms, loud over the staccato gunfire. “Unknown affiliation. They’re not on our list.”

“Copy that.” Bucky, already moving.

Bob spins toward the source of the noise, his boots scuffing over cracked concrete. His grip tightens on the sleek black pack strapped to his chest—the one carrying the weapon they were sent to retrieve. He can feel it pulsing faintly beneath the reinforced layers, like something alive is trying to wake up.

The hallway stretches ahead in ruin, flickering lights casting erratic shadows across warped steel beams. Dust filters down like ash from the upper levels, stirred by the footfalls of something heavy. Bob breaks into a run, rounding the corner—

And freezes.

Dozens of them.

They move like a hive— dark armored figures flooding into the space from a breached service door, their weapons raised. No symbols. No identifiers. No hesitation. They aren’t part of any team he’s briefed on. These guys don’t want the weapon for a mission, they want it for power.

Bucky is already engaged, trading blows with two attackers. Ava blinks in and out of visibility, phasing through solid walls and reappearing behind enemies with knives drawn. Yelena throws a flashbomb that sends sparks scattering. Alexei grabs a man by the torso and slams him into the ceiling like he’s swatting a fly.

Bob ducks behind a crumbling pillar, heart pounding, trying not to crush the pack as stray bullets ricochet dangerously close.

Another burst of gunfire—closer now—sends debris raining over his head. He risks a glance toward Ava, just in time to see a sniper lining her up in their sights.

And then the bullet stops.

Not misses.

Stops.

Frozen in midair like it hit a wall made of thought.

Time doesn’t stop. But for a moment, the air feels thick with static—every sound distorted, every motion just a fraction too slow. Bob’s eyes snap to the origin.

And there she is again. Unannounced. Unbothered.

Standing in the chaos like she belongs to it.

The bullets hover around her like planets orbiting a sun. She doesn’t even flinch. Her hand is raised lazily, her fingers poised like she’s playing a piano only she can hear. Her coat—black leather, long and battle-worn—flares around her knees. Dust settles in her hair like a crown.

She turns her wrist. The bullets drop.

One by one. A clattering rainfall of lead hitting the floor.

Bob stares. Not just at what she can do, but at the way she chooses to do it.

She stopped them.

She didn’t retaliate. Didn’t redirect. Just… stopped it all.

“She’s not with them!” Bob shouts, rising from cover. His voice is loud, cutting through the gunfire—but whether the others hear him or not, they’re too deep into the fight to pause.

Walker’s already mid-charge. His shield slices the air in a clean arc, sailing toward her like a buzzsaw.

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t need to.

The shield twists midflight—snatched from its path and slammed down at her feet with a sharp clatter, controlled like it never belonged to him in the first place.

She doesn’t speak.

But her expression shifts—irritation blooming across her face like a storm cloud.

Her eyes flick to Bob.

Walker doesn’t back down. He lunges again, faster this time, less thinking, more brute force.

And that’s when she lifts her hand, just two fingers, and the metal beneath Walker’s boots rises.

A spike of iron twists out of the floor like a fang. It slices through his tactical vest and cuts a shallow line across his ribs, stopping just short of real damage.

He stumbles back, wide-eyed.

“Enough!” Bob’s voice breaks through again. He pushes forward, hand out, trying to reach her before this gets worse.

She doesn’t raise another weapon. Doesn’t retreat.

She turns to face him fully for the first time.

And in that moment, Bob sees the truth that the rest of the team is missing.

The set of her shoulders. The control in her stance. The restraint on her face.

She’s helping them.

She’s choosing not to kill them.

Before he can say anything else, the wall behind her explodes—mercs breaching from the south wing. Three of them, armed with heavy artillery, firing wildly.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, she yanks an entire sheet of ceiling metal down with a sweep of her arm, twisting it into a makeshift shield that curves around Bob, Yelena, and Ava before the bullets can make contact.

The noise is deafening. Rounds hitting steel like a drumline.

And she holds it.

One hand. Breathing steady. Eyes locked on Bob the entire time.l

He watches the metal glow faintly red from the heat of impact, then cool beneath her control. When the storm dies down, she lets it fall with a thunderous slam.

She’s covered in dust now. Smudges of soot on her jaw, blood on her sleeve—someone else’s, he thinks.

She takes a single step forward.

Bob does too.

Then Walker, furious, yells from behind them, “She’s right here and you let her go? What the hell do you even do, Reynolds?!”

And before Bob can answer—before he can even breathe—

The shield twitches.

Lifts.

Spins in the air like it remembers who really listens to metal.

And flies straight back at Walker.

But it stops—midair—hovering just an inch from his sternum.

Held there by invisible strings.

She’s glaring now, shoulders tight, mouth hard with fury.

“You want to try that again, asshole?” she snaps.

Bob doesn’t think. He moves—crossing the few feet between them and grabbing her wrist before she can hurl the shield with lethal force.

Her pulse thrums under his hand.

Her gaze flicks to his.

And just like that—the metal drops.

The air stills.

And in that space between violence and choice, something clicks.

They’re the same kind of dangerous, but maybe not to each other.

The moment her fingers leave the edge of Bob’s wrist, she’s moving again.

No words. No thanks. Just a flick of her eyes toward the scattered remains of the facility and the sharp metallic whine of something rising.

Bob whirls around just in time to see the security vault breach open—twisted apart like a peeled tin can. The weapon they were sent to retrieve, the one tucked behind five layers of biometric locks and reinforced alloys, floats to her open hand.

It’s not what he expected.

No glowing core, no sleek casing. It looks almost ancient—cylindrical, faintly humming, etched with equations even he can’t parse in the second he glimpses it. Like it doesn’t belong in any timeline.

“Wait—!” Bob starts.

But she’s already backing away, the weapon cradled against her hip like it was always meant for her. She gives him a look—equal parts regret and something warmer, softer, like she had considered staying.

Then she vanishes.

Metal peels back from the ceiling above her, forming a narrow escape tunnel. She rises with it—her shadow trailing like smoke—until the darkness swallows her whole.

This time, she doesn’t leave a bullet behind to stop.

Two hours later. Thunderbolts debrief room.

Val paces in front of the team like a drill sergeant with a caffeine addiction, tablet in one hand and sarcasm in the other.

“So let me get this straight,” she begins, boots clicking sharply across the metal floor. “You all fought off an unknown mercenary group, nearly died, and then let some goth scrapheap Barbie steal the very weapon we were sent to secure?”

Yelena slouches in her seat. “Technically, she helped.”

“She robbed us.”

“She saved us, then robbed us,” Ava offers flatly. “Important difference.”

Alexei grunts. “She was… very fast.”

John scoffs, arms crossed. “She made me bleed.”

“Good. You’re overdue.” Yelena doesn’t even look at him.

Val pinches the bridge of her nose. “You guys are unbelievable.”

Her eyes dart to Bob. He’s seated at the far end, hands folded too neatly, staring at the dark smear of dried blood on his boot like it’s got answers.

“And you,” Val barks. “Our backpack boy. The hell were you doing while she made off with the prize?"

Bob looks up. Quiet. “Trying not to get anyone killed.”

“Oh, well, round of applause,” she snaps. “Maybe next time you try a little harder not to help the enemy.”

“She’s not the enemy,” Bob says without thinking.

Val freezes. “Oh no?”

“She didn’t shoot us. She stopped them from killing us. She had our backs.”

“She had our weapon.”

Val’s voice rises. “For all we know, she’s going to sell it to the highest bidder or crack open a wormhole in her living room. We don’t know anything about her—”

A door hisses open behind them.

They all turn as a figure steps through the threshold, calm as a gunshot in the dark.

Long coat. One eye.

Nick Fury.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just strolls in, takes in the chaos, and raises a brow.

Val gestures wildly toward the screens behind her, which are replaying grainy footage of you stopping bullets mid-air and folding a blast door like paper. “Do you know what this is? Who the hell helped who out there?!”

Fury doesn’t flinch. He steps forward, tilts his chin at the paused screen.

“We call the subject: Ferra,” he says evenly. “Real name: unknown. Age: estimated early twenties. First surfaced in Moscow when she was around thirteen, leveling a black market tech ring in under five minutes. SHIELD’s been tracking her ever since.”

Yelena blinks. “You mean you knew she existed this whole time?”

Fury nods. “She’s a ghost with a kill record that puts most of your dossiers to shame. She doesn’t work for anyone. She doesn’t like anyone. Which means if she showed up, it wasn’t for the money.”

Bob straightens. “Then why?”

Fury glances at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Val sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re telling me SHIELD’s Most Wanted just walked into our mission, saved your asses, stole the target, and now we’re just—what—gonna go look for her like a goddamn scavenger hunt?”

Fury just turns to the team, hands behind his back.

“Next mission’s simple. You find her. You figure out what she wants. And if there’s even a chance she’s planning to use that thing—”

He meets Bob’s eyes again.

“—you stop her.”

Silence settles again.

Bob exhales slowly.

And for the first time since she vanished, something flickers behind his sternum.

She didn’t hurt them. She chose not to.

And whatever came next…

He wasn’t going to let her face it alone.

A/N : first request! :>>> lmk what u think!

A/N 2 : not proofread yet ik im sorry

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