lapzoli

[lapzoli]

put way too much effort into this shitpost but I've wanted to draw this and dirk for awhile soooo

[lapzoli]

The live action for how to train your dragon was really good , exactly what I want from any live action

[lapzoli]

Don’t Smile

Pairing College!Bucky Barnes x Roommate!Reader

Synopsis You were so tired of being an option he would’ve never of chosen. It’s just as ironic a song had been playing while you beat yourself over and over again for not being the one he wanted

Word Count 3.4k

Themes + Warnings hurt with slight comfort , unrequited love (kinda) , angst , slight fluff , THE OTHER WOMANNNNNN

— Don’t smile “You’re supposed to think about me everytime you hold her” - Sabrina Carpenter

The apartment is too quiet.

Except for the soft crackle and warm hiss of the vinyl player in your room, spinning a fragile thread of sound through the stillness.

The night had wrapped itself around the apartment building like a dark velvet curtain, cool spring air seeping through the cracked window in your room, brushing against your skin like a whispered reminder of everything you were trying to push away. The needle of the vinyl player had long since lifted, but the echo of “Don’t Smile” still clung to the walls—a haunting lullaby for the broken.

The gentle piano intro seeps into your skin, weaving between the shadows and the fading streetlight leaking through your blinds.

The voice—soft, hurt, aching—wraps around you like a ghost.

“You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her…”

The lyrics hit different when you’re alone in a room that suddenly feels too small and too empty.

Your chest tightens. The cold from the cracked window crawls up your spine, but you don’t close it. You want to feel the sting. You want something real to remind you you’re awake, not dreaming.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, clutching the edge of the mattress, heart pounding louder than the music.

You can hear them—Bucky and the girl—in the room two doors down. Laughing. Touching. Whispering.

You imagine her head resting against his shoulder, his fingers tracing invisible patterns along her arm, lips brushing her temple.

That should be me.

You pressed your fingers against your lips, biting the inside of your cheek until the taste of copper filled your mouth. You tried to swallow the sting, tried to push away the images—the way his bare skin had brushed against hers, the way his voice had lowered when he whispered “doll,” the way the girl giggled in his arms like she owned a piece of him you’d never get back.

The thought echoes in your mind, a mantra that twists your stomach in knots.

You close your eyes and press your palms over them, trying to erase the image.

But it’s stubborn.

You think about the times you almost said something.

Almost told him how you felt. Almost warned him that you weren’t okay with this casual parade of strangers through your shared space.

Almost hoped he’d see you—not just as the roommate who did the dishes, or the one who gave him coffee when he forgot to buy any—but as something more. Something real.

You bite your lip until it bleeds, but the pain doesn’t distract you.

Because every time you close your eyes, it’s the same scene:

You.

Alone.

Watching him fall asleep beside someone who isn’t you.

And the silence between you grows louder than any scream you could let out.

You curl into yourself, a fragile, trembling knot of want and regret.

The music swells. Long gone, Long stopped playing. Just repeats in your head

“I don’t wanna see you smile like you mean it, no…”

Your breath catches.

But the ache wasn’t just jealousy. It was years of quiet yearning, of watching from the sidelines as Bucky did everything but look at you the way you looked at him.

You wished you could scream, but instead you swallowed the noise, wrapped yourself tighter in your sweater, and tried to disappear into the shadows of your room.

But you weren’t invisible.

Not to Yelena.

Not to Peter.

Your bed is cold. You sit up and drag the blanket off. You throw on sweats, a sweater, and the only shoes in reach—the fuzzy matching slippers Peter got everyone as a joke for Valentine’s Day. Yours are pale blue with little stars on them. They squeak slightly when you walk.

They’re soft, comforting, a small thread connecting you to the others in this messy shared life.

You slide them on, grateful for the softness against your aching feet.

The music keeps spinning, but the words blur into a soundtrack of your broken hope.

You stare at the door, heart hammering, knowing that soon you’ll have to leave this room. Leave the apartment. Leave the people who don’t see the storm you’re drowning in.

But not yet.

Not until the last note fades away, leaving only the cold and the silence.

And the whispered promise you wish you could say out loud:

That should be me.

The living room is dark except for the flickering glow of the TV, abandoned long ago.

Peter’s slumped on the couch, eyes half-closed, his face slack as the last YouTube video loops on the screen—some random clip of a baby otter clumsily trying to climb a rock.

He’s supposed to be asleep, but his brow furrows like he’s holding something back.

From the cracked door of her room, Yelena’s silhouette appears—a careful, cautious shape framed by the dim hallway light. She steps out quietly and crosses the floor with silent steps, settling on the arm of the couch beside Peter.

Her eyes drift toward your closed bedroom door, narrowing.

“Do you think she’s okay?” she whispers.

Peter blinks slowly, almost reluctantly. “She left the music on. And the door’s closed, but she’s not in here. I heard... something. Sounds.”

Yelena’s gaze sharpens, voice low but urgent. “That’s not just something. She’s hurting.”

Peter’s hand twitches, the tip of his thumb brushing against the couch fabric nervously.

“She’s been pretending. You know it. We both know it.”

Yelena’s lips twitch into a half-frown. “We can’t just let her walk away like this. Not tonight.”

The two of them exchange a look loaded with worry, something heavy and unspoken hanging between them.

Meanwhile, in your room, you’re already sliding on your fuzzy blue slippers—the ones Peter made sure everyone had to “keep the peace.”

You pull on your oversized sweater, its sleeves falling past your wrists, a cocoon to hide in.

You take a deep breath, wipe your eyes, and open the door.

“Hey,” Yelena’s voice is gentle but firm, stopping you just outside.

Peter’s blankly staring at the tv screen while on the couch. Hoodie tangled around his arms, mouth slightly open. Even half-asleep, his eyes shift over the second he hears your door click shut.

“Where are you going?” Yelena asks, eyes searching yours like she’s trying to read a secret you won’t give.

“You okay?” he mumbles.

“Wanda’s,” you say quickly. “Her heater broke, and she asked me to come help. You know, a quick fix.”

It’s a lie. A dumb one. You know yelena and peter knows it.

Peter’s voice is softer than you expect. “It’s cold out.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” you lie, voice cracking just a bit.

Yelena calls out, barely above a whisper, “Don’t forget to text. And if Barnes comes after you, trip him.”

You offer them both a tight-lipped smile. “Copy that.”

Behind you, faint but crystal clear through the thin walls, comes the sound you’re trying to block out—the quiet giggling, the soft kisses, the murmurs that Bucky and the girl share in his room.

A cruel soundtrack to the lie you tell.

You swallow the lump in your throat as your heart screams that should be me.

Yelena’s brow tightens. Peter looks like he wants to argue but knows it’s useless.

Neither of them presses further.

They know.

And as you step outside into the cold spring night, the door closes softly behind you, leaving a silence heavier than any words could be.

The window slid open with a creak, and Bucky leaned out into the chill, shirtless, skin dappled by the glow of the hallway light behind him. His eyes scanned the street below until they found you—shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, fuzzy blue slippers silent on the concrete. You looked like you were trying to disappear into the night, swallowed whole by the cold.

He blinked once, twice, like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Doll?”

Your name cracked against the air, soft but strained, like a question laced with panic.

You didn’t turn around.

Inside his room, the girl stirred on his bed, clearly annoyed. “Bucky, come back. What are you doing?”

He barely heard her. The second she touched his shoulder, he flinched away, eyes still glued to you disappearing down the street like you were slipping out of a dream.

“Doll?” he called again, louder. You were at the edge of the sidewalk now, shoulders shaking—not from the cold, he knew—but you kept walking.

Bucky stepped back from the window like he’d been hit.

“Fuck.”

He said it under his breath, guttural, sharp. The panic flared hot in his chest now.

He grabbed the hoodie hanging on the back of his desk chair—his favorite gray one, the one that smelled like late nights and everything soft—and yanked it over his head. Out of habit, he reached for the cologne on his dresser, misting himself once, then twice. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until he was already shoving the cap back on.

“Bucky, seriously?” the girl whined. “You’re going after her?”

But he didn’t answer. His bare feet hit the hallway floor hard as he bolted for the front door. Yelena’s bedroom door creaked open just enough for her and Peter to watch him barrel out—hoodie half-on, no shoes, heart pounding.

The second Bucky hit the street, the cold slapped him in the face. The air bit at his chest, but he didn’t stop.

“There you are,” he muttered, spotting you ahead.

“Hey—hey!” he called.

You flinched but didn’t stop. He ran faster, slipping a little on the damp pavement until he caught up, breath coming out in visible gasps.

“Doll,” he said again, closer now, voice breathless and warm. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. “Wanda’s.”

“At midnight?”

“She needed help,” you replied flatly. “Her heater’s out.”

He caught up to your side, walking backward in front of you to block your path. “It’s forty degrees out and you’re in slippers,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “C’mon. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you bit, gaze flashing. “I’m fine. She texted.”

Bucky’s heart cracked wide. He saw it then—really saw it. The red rims of your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers were digging into the sleeves of your sweater like you needed to hold yourself together.

“Please,” he said, voice dropping. He shrugged out of his hoodie in one quick motion and held it out to you, arms extended like it was an offering. “It’s freezing. Just—just come back inside.”

You stopped walking, but you didn’t take the hoodie.

Behind you, Yelena and Peter watched from her bedroom window. Neither said a word. Their breath fogged the glass as they pressed closer, eyes wide.

You shook your head slowly. “I’m not coming back.”

“Why?”

“I told you why.”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice cracked. “That’s bullshit. Wanda didn’t text you.”

You swallowed hard. The silence stretched.

He tried again. “Just talk to me. You don’t have to walk away. Not like this.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him. His cheeks flushed from the cold, his hoodie hanging in his hands, the soft scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a ghost of something you never had.

And you thought of her.

Of the girl still waiting in his bed. Of her lips on his neck. Of his voice, saying “doll,” just like that, but not to you.

“That should’ve been me,” you whispered so quietly it could’ve been the wind.

“What?” he asked, stepping closer.

You blinked fast, backing away. “Nothing. I’m going.”

“Why?” he asked again, almost begging now. “What did I do?”

You laughed, bitter. “You really don’t know?”

“Then tell me,” he pleaded.

And the words clawed at your throat. You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her.

But you couldn’t say it. Not when you knew how it would end.

You stepped back. “Wanda’s waiting.”

You turned, leaving him standing in the cold, heart cracked wide open, hoodie still in his hands, barefoot on the pavement. The door to your shared apartment slowly creaked open behind him.

But Bucky didn’t look back.

He just watched you walk away, and for the first time, he didn’t smile.

—

Bucky stood there, hoodie limp in his hands, staring at the spot where you vanished.

Your slippers were still scuffing quietly down the sidewalk, barely audible now—but the sound stayed with him like an echo in his chest. The cold bit through his skin, his breath fogged in uneven puffs, and for a second, the world tilted on its axis.

“…fuck.”

He said it once.

Then again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Seriously?” came the annoyed voice behind him.

He didn’t even need to turn around to know the girl was standing there in his bedroom doorway, one of his shirts tugged over her frame, arms crossed like this was an inconvenience to her night.

“You’re just gonna chase her? Like, that’s so rude—”

He turned over his shoulder.

Yelena was standing in her bedroom doorway across the hall, arms folded, one brow arched with that signature unamused stare that could curdle milk. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Peter appeared a second later behind her, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing the hoodie you’d stolen a thousand times. His face fell the second he saw the door open, saw the empty street behind Bucky.

He sighed—long and slow, like something inside of him cracked.

Head shaking. Disappointed. Tired.

And that was what did it.

That moment.

That second of stillness.

Yelena staring. Peter sighing. The girl huffing behind him.

The ache in his chest sharpened like glass.

Fuck.

He shoved back inside, heart in his throat. The girl tried to follow him, muttering something about “being done with this bullshit,” but he didn’t care. Didn’t listen. His mind was already sprinting faster than his bare feet had outside.

He stumbled into his room and yanked open his drawer for socks, pulling the first pair he could find. Slippers—no. Shoes. Jacket. Hoodie still clutched in one hand.

His keys?

Where the fuck are his keys?

He rifled through his desk, knocking over an empty mug and a few pens, until his fingers curled around the lanyard.

“Where does Wanda even live?” he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his hair.

His mind reeled.

He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the damn cross street.

And then he realized—he hadn’t memorized her address. He’d never needed to.

He didn’t even know if you were really going there.

Bucky grabbed his phone with shaky fingers and pulled up your name.

[doll 🐻]

His thumb hovered. Then he hit call.

The ring echoed once. Twice.

He was already bolting down the apartment stairs, phone to his ear, heart hammering as the cold swallowed him all over again.

Three times. Still ringing.

“C’mon, c’mon—pick up,” he whispered. “Just let me explain—”

Four times.

Voicemail.

He cursed so violently it echoed down the block.

He turned toward where he last saw you walking and broke into a jog, feet slapping the pavement, hoodie tucked under one arm, phone pressed to his ear as he called you again.

Still no answer.

He whispered into the wind like it might carry the words to you:

“Please. Come home. Just come home.”

The cold hit harder with every block.

You hadn’t grabbed a real coat. Just a threadbare sweater, some old sleep leggings, and your fuzzy matching slippers that all four of you owned. Bucky’s had the little rip on the side from when Peter tripped over the couch trying to prank him. Yelena’s were the wrong size because she bought them in a rage while hungover. Yours? Yours were just worn in all the places love hides.

You didn’t even feel your fingers anymore.

You tugged your sleeves tighter, breath fogging, trying to blink away the sting in your eyes.

Behind you—somewhere back there—he’d called your name.

Doll.

Of course he did.

You’d imagined it so many times. Whispered, reverent, like he’d finally figured it out. Like he meant it the way you meant everything. But tonight, it was just salt in the wound. A cruel echo against the air.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Again.

You didn’t have to check to know who it was.

You didn’t look. You couldn’t.

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

The streets were quiet. It was past midnight, and spring hadn’t bothered to warm up yet. The chill curled up your sleeves and dug into your spine, and still—you kept walking. Wanda’s building was a ten-minute trek. You didn’t even know if she was home. You just needed to be anywhere but where he was whispering doll to someone else and offering you hoodies like bandages over broken bones he caused.

The final block felt endless. The cold wind bit your cheeks raw, and your toes had gone numb. You finally reached her stoop and buzzed, praying she was awake.

A soft shuffle, then the door clicked open.

You pushed inside like a ghost.

Warmth hit your face, but it didn’t sink in. Not really.

Wanda appeared from the kitchen in one of Vision’s sweatshirts, brow furrowed. “Hey. What are you—?”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, trying to smile, trying to be casual when your voice cracked. “I just—uh, I needed to get out for a sec.”

Wanda didn’t ask. She didn’t have to. She just nodded once, quiet understanding in her eyes, and stepped aside to let you pass.

Vision peeked around the corner, blinking slowly. “Are you alright?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just… needed air. I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s okay.”

Behind him, Pietro appeared shirtless and yawning, bleached hair sticking up in five directions. “Hey,” he said softly, surprised but not unkind. “Didn’t expect you.”

“Me neither,” you said, and it was the closest to the truth you’d said all night.

Wanda pressed a warm mug into your hands. You hadn’t noticed she was already making tea.

“I’ll grab you blankets,” she said quietly.

You whispered a thanks and sank into the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest, still wearing the fuzzy slippers, still shaking.

Your phone buzzed again.

And again.

You didn’t look.

You just turned the ringer off, shoved it under a pillow, and stared at the wall.

Outside, somewhere in the dark, you knew Bucky was looking for you.

You knew because your heart was still beating.

And it only ever beat like that for him.

(You’ve got mail!) this was molding in my drafts so I wanted to post it because yes..AND HONESTLY I WANTED TO MAKE IR LONGER BUT I DEADASS DIDNT KNOW WHAT TO ADD LIKE I LOST THE WAY I WAS PLOTTING IT I ONLY HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS. but this was one of my fav songs off sns and just listening to it made me levitate 🧘‍♀️

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @theycallmeanxiety

[lapzoli]

When Trust Falters

Summary: The interrogation continues with little progress. Some of the other Avengers return from a lengthy mission and are roped in to what has happened. However, alarms sound throughout the compound before they can come to a definitive decision.

Word Count: 3k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

They didn’t speak and you didn’t either.

Steve looked like he wanted to. His mouth opened slightly then closed again. You wondered what it must feel like to be righteous, to lead, and then realize you’d been walking around a blind spot for months.

You sat in that cold, overly clean room and tried not to feel. Because if you started, you weren’t sure you’d stop. Your hands rested flat on the table; still, but not calm. You’d learned the art of stillness from months of being unseen. You let them look and stew in whatever guilt had finally crawled up their backs. It wouldn’t change anything anyways.

Then Steve leaned forward, his voice just above a whisper. Too soft. Too kind.

“You’re not the first person to be hurt by us.”

Don’t. You almost said it aloud.

“But you’re one of the first,” He continued, “who didn’t… really lash out. You just disappeared.”

You looked past him at the mirror. You wondered which cameras were live. If Bucky was watching.

That thought burned like ice in your chest.

“We want to help now,” He said.

Now.

Now.

You gave a thin, breathless laugh that felt like old wounds. “You want to help,” You repeated, dragging each word out like it physically hurt. “Now.”

“Yes.”

You smiled. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t even bitter. It was hollow, like something that used to be a smile but forgot how.

“It’s too late for that.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. She never did. She spoke like she always had; quiet, sure, and clipped.

“Maybe. But we still have to try.”

You looked at her. She had always been efficient. So precise and practically unshakeable. But she had never looked at you like this. Not when you passed her reports. Not when you stood quietly outside meetings, waiting to be dismissed. Not when you sat alone in the cafeteria with the coffee you made too sweet because you never acquired the taste for bitterness the rest of them drank like water.

And now she was looking like you mattered.

Now.

You tried not to hate it.

“Why?” You asked. “Because I’m useful again?”

Steve looked down for a second. You could see that flicker of shame. That single confirmation that somewhere, deep inside, He knew you were right.

“We can’t fix the past,” He said.

“No,” You whispered, voice starting to shake, “But it’s the only thing I remember.”

The words cracked in your throat as it came out. They didn’t say anything and you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. But your jaw ached from clenching.

Steve took a breath, trying to move forward and guide the conversation into safer territory. “Do you remember what they had you working on?”

You blinked slowly. And something inside you curled tighter.

“I remember everything,” You responded. But it wasn’t a boast. It was a curse. A confession.

“Then tell us,” Natasha said.

You tilted your head slowly toward her.

“Why would I?”

Her voice didn’t change. “Because it’ll help people.”

You stared at her. And then let your eyes drift to Steve, then back to the mirror.

“You mean like I tried to?”

Neither answered.

“I tried helping people,” You murmured. “It didn’t make anyone care.”

“That’s not true,” Steve said.

“Isn’t it?” Your voice sharpened. “Name one time someone asked how I was doing. Not my reports, not the things I fixed. Me.”

Your heart was pounding, loud and deep. Like something had just shifted inside of you and wouldn’t fall back into place.

Steve’s silence was confirmation enough. And something inside you broke a little more.

You stood up, the chair legs scraping hard across the floor. Too loud. The sound grated through the silence like a scream in disguise.

“I was always easy to ignore,” You whispered. “You didn’t even see me go.”

Steve stood too as a reflex. He still looked at you like there was a version of this where you came back willingly. Like there was still something left to preserve.

“I see you now,” He tried.

That made you laugh again. Shaky, choked.

“That’s the problem.”

Natasha rose more slowly. She was eerily calm as she looked at you like she was reading the map of everything you never said. Every sharp edge you’d grown to survive.

“Then tell us what they’re planning,” She said. “Not for us, for the ones like you. The ones still in it.”

Her voice wasn’t cold. It was still that same steady tone. But the words hit harder than if she’d shouted.

It made your chest ache. Because you knew the ones she meant.

The girl in the security room who brought you tea without asking questions. The technician who fixed your tablet with trembling hands and called you “ma’am” like you were someone important. The kid who made sarcastic comments in code and flinched whenever a voice got too loud.

The ones still in it. Still useful. Still hoping someone might come.

But yet, tell them. That should’ve been easy, right? But these people had left you behind. Forgotten you. The Earth’s mightiest heroes treated you like a support beam they never looked at twice.

But that organization? Your new group?

They were the ones who brought you coffee. Who asked what music you liked. Who looked you in the eye and saw you. Who made room at the table like you’d been meant to sit there all along. Who said you were brilliant like it was a given.

And they’d done it too well. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d needed that until you had it.

Your jaw tensed as you glanced at Natasha, then at Steve, and then away again. The air felt too tight, like the room was closing in, pressing you between two truths you didn’t know how to hold at the same time.

“I…” You swallowed. “I can’t.”

Steve’s expression didn’t change. Not visibly, but something in his shoulders shifted.

“You don’t trust us,” He said.

“I don’t trust anyone,” You answered, but it came out quiet. Weak.

A beat passed.

“You still believe in them?” Natasha asked.

You looked down at your hands.

“I don’t know,” You said honestly. “I think some might bad people. I think some may be dangerous. But they… they saw me. I wasn’t invisible there.”

“And that’s enough?” Steve asked. Not accusing. Just… tired.

“No,” You said. “But it’s more than I had here.”

The silence that followed was thick and brittle. No one knew how to break it without shattering something.

Finally, Natasha sighed.

“We’ll give you time,” She said. “Think about what you want. Not just from us, but from yourself.”

She left.

Steve stayed a second longer.

And you hated the look in his eyes, full of regret. The kind that comes too late, when the apology doesn’t fix the damage, just decorates it.

“If you ever want to talk,” He said, “I’ll listen.”

You didn’t reply. And a few moments later, you were alone again.

The door closed behind Natasha with a soft hiss.

Steve followed, slower. Neither of them spoke as the lock slid back into place and the reinforced door sealed shut, leaving you behind that cold pane of glass.

You sat where they left you, elbows on the table, staring down at your hands like they were someone else’s. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t cried. But you looked wrecked all the same.

“She’s not going to talk,” Natasha said quietly.

Steve exhaled, folding his arms across his chest. “Not yet.”

“She’s too far in.”

“Or too far gone.”

Natasha’s jaw twitched. She didn’t like that word, gone. Like you’d vanished and they were only now realizing they hadn’t checked if you were still breathing before assuming you’d just… slipped away.

“She’s conflicted,” Natasha said. “It’s not loyalty to them. It’s grief. Attachment. It’s what happens when you give someone who’s been starving for scraps and give them a feast.”

Steve looked through the glass again and you still hadn’t moved. His chest tightened.

“We gave her nothing,” He said.

Natasha didn���t argue. Because they both knew it was true.

You weren’t a spy. You weren’t enhanced. You weren’t charming or flashy or forceful. You didn’t make your presence known. So they’d let you fade into the background like it was easier that way.

“She thinks we only care now because she’s a problem,” Natasha murmured.

“Is she wrong though?”

That silence was longer.

“She used to leave sticky notes on mission folders reminding me to eat,” Steve said suddenly. His voice was rougher now. “I never really… said thank you.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change. But she looked a little further away, like she was sifting through memory, rearranging the past.

“She covered for me once,” She said after a moment. “When I missed a deadline, didn’t make a show of it. Just rewrote the timestamps and said it was her fault.”

Neither of them had noticed then what that meant. They did now.

Steve leaned against the wall and sighed heavily. “If we’d shown her half the loyalty she gave us, maybe she wouldn’t be sitting in that room.”

Natasha didn’t say maybe. She didn’t need to. The truth already hung between them like smoke. You weren’t some enemy agent. You were the girl they forgot to notice until she was on the other side of the war.

The room had been silent for a full ten minutes before the jet touched down.

Tony was the first one through the doors, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, and already rattling off something.

“—so if we patch the vibranium relay through the lower array, we might actually get the satellites to stop hiccuping like it’s 2003. You’re welcome in advance.”

Clint followed, dragging a duffel bag behind him and muttering something about overcooked rations and who even funds these missions. Wanda walked quietly between them, hair pulled back, eyes tired but sharp.

They weren’t expecting the others to be waiting.

Natasha was standing by the window, arms crossed. Sam sat perched on the edge of the long table, brows drawn, and eyes locked on the floor. Steve stood near the central display, shoulders stiff, like he hadn’t moved since they’d returned. Bruce lingered by the back wall, tablet forgotten in his hand.

Bucky was the only one not pretending to be still. He was pacing, measured and slow. Like he wanted to punch a hole through the wall but hadn’t chosen which one yet.

Tony blinked once. Twice.

“What happened?” He asked, all levity gone. “You look like someone died.”

Wanda stopped walking.

Clint raised a brow. “Okay, who broke the coffee machine?”

No one answered. It was Steve who finally spoke.

“We found her.”

Tony frowned. “Found who?”

Steve didn’t clarify, didn’t need to.

Wanda’s eyes widened first. “Wait. Her?”

Bruce gave a slow nod. “She was with that group we’ve been tracking.”

Wanda’s brows knit together. “So she was taken.”

Natasha shook her head, and the answer was heavier than any twist of magic.

“No.”

Tony set the coffee down surprisingly gently.

“You’re saying she joined them?”

“She was… welcomed,” Sam said carefully. “Not recruited. Not brainwashed.”

“She didn’t want to come back,” Bucky added, voice flat but not angry.

Clint blew out a breath. “You’re kidding.”

“She’s not a villain,” Bruce said. “But she’s not sure who she is anymore.”

Wanda stepped closer to the table, almost like she needed to anchor herself. “What happened to her?”

“She was alone,” Steve said. “Too long, too quietly.”

Clint ran a hand through his hair. “We all were, at some point.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, staring at the far wall. “But most of us got pulled out.”

There was a pause.

Tony folded his arms. “Okay, but what–what does this mean? Are we calling her a threat now? Is she under house arrest? Are we pretending we didn’t just spend years walking past her in hallways like she was a vending machine?”

That stung more than anyone admitted.

Steve stayed still. “She hasn’t given up any intel. Won’t confirm what she knows.”

“Would you?” Sam said. “If the people you worked under for years are now treating you like a liability?”

“She didn’t ask to be pitied,” Bucky said, cutting in sharply. “She asked to be seen.”

Wanda looked down. “She was always… so quiet. But kind.”

“She used to bring Clint snacks during recon briefings,” Bruce added absently.

Clint blinked. “Wait, that was her?”

Bruce nodded. “She made sure the lights in the lower hallway stopped flickering, too.”

Tony muttered, “…I thought that was FRIDAY.”

Another period of silence fell, not because there was nothing left to say. But because everything left to say was too late.

Steve finally looked around the room. “We have a choice to make. We can treat her like a defector. Or we can treat her like someone we failed.”

“She’s not a weapon though,” Wanda murmured. “You can’t just… activate her when it’s convenient.”

Tony exhaled and rubbed his temples. “You all act like we didn’t find her practically embedded in a hostile network and are treating this like some moral drama show. She might’ve turned.”

“Or maybe,” Bruce countered, tapping on his tablet, “We pushed her far enough that the only place left to go felt like the enemy.”

Silence again.

Clint leaned back in his seat. “I just don’t get how someone could be here that long and none of us saw it. That kind of loneliness doesn’t just happen.”

“She didn’t make herself visible,” Tony muttered, almost like that made it better.

“She didn’t have to,” Bucky said sharply.

The room turned slightly toward him. He paused, his pacing stopped and something shifted in his posture now. A stillness. His brow furrowed.

“Where is she?” He asked.

Clint blinked. “Who?”

Bucky didn’t look at him. He looked toward the hallway.

“The one who always finds a way into these conversations,” He spoke quietly. “The one who keeps suggesting we let this go. That she’s not worth the effort.”

Natasha’s head tilted slightly. Her eyes narrowed. “She didn’t check in after the last mission.”

Wanda glanced around. “You’re right. I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

“She was supposed to be here,” Sam added. “She’s on this clearance level.”

Tony blinked. “Wait, are we talking about your girlfriend or the girl who’s got half the intel we need?”

Bucky ignored him. He was already moving toward the door.

Steve straightened. “FRIDAY, locate–“

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because just then, the alarms screamed through the compound. Red lights strobed against the windows. Bruce’s tablet flashed.

“Security breach,” He whispered. “Lower levels.”

The room exploded into motion. And Bucky was already moving.

The sirens screamed as Bucky sprinted down the stairs, the flashing red lights strobing across his face in intervals of dread. Each step deeper into the compound felt wrong. Off. The holding corridor wasn’t in chaos when he reached it. It was silent. Too silent.

Bucky entered with his weapon drawn but lowered. His boots echoed on the floor, every step slow and careful.

The first cell: occupied. He peered through the reinforced glass and met eyes with one of the lower-level tech runners. She sat rigid on her cot, hands folded neatly, eyes wide. Startled, but still here.

The second cell: occupied. Another agent. Mid-level. Cautious, but unmoved. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the bench. There was sweat on his brow.

The third: empty.

Bucky stopped. The cell door was ajar. The panel light blinked green, access granted. No signs of a struggle. No chaos. No noise.

He moved on, only to find a pattern of some cells empty and some still secured. His fingers curled around his sidearm. Each open door seemed colder than the last. Calculated and spaced, certainly not random.

By the last cell, he was already expecting it but he approached anyway. The key figure, one of the highest-ranking field operatives they’d managed to capture, was gone.

Gone, like he’d never been there at all. The cell was spotless. Bucky stared at the empty cot, jaw tight.

In the distance, Clint finally caught up behind him. “What’ve you got?”

Bucky motioned with his head. “Most still in custody. The rest… not.”

Clint frowned, stepping beside him. “All the big players?”

“Gone.”

Clint muttered a curse under his breath.

“They knew exactly who to take,” Bucky said quietly.

“And exactly how much time they had to do it,” Clint added. “This wasn’t panic. This was a checklist.”

Steve’s voice buzzed through the comm. “Bucky, talk to me.”

“They’re not here,” Bucky answered, low and sharp. ��Cells are open but they weren’t breached. They were opened.”

Above, in the lab, Bruce’s voice overlapped with static. “I’m pulling logs right now. No firewall trip. But access was granted at 16:42. Whoever did this had a working clearance badge.”

Natasha’s voice snapped through next. “Someone internal. Has to be.”

Sam was already checking feed from the lower cameras. “No one’s on footage near the vault. Looks like the hallway cams dropped offline for just under ninety seconds.”

“That’s surgical,” Clint muttered, eyes scanning the corridor. “Too precise to be a coincidence.”

“So, no fight,” Natasha said over comms. “No rush, which means they knew no one was coming.”

Steve’s voice was clipped. “We were all upstairs.”

“Together,” Wanda added, her voice distant, like she was putting the timeline together aloud. “All of us.”

“Except one,” Bucky muttered, backing out of the row of cells.

There was a beat of silence on the line.

Then Sam said it, flat and grim: “She wasn’t at the briefing.”

Bruce spoke cautiously. “She’s still on compound security, though. Logged in at the east wing. Camera shows her… still there.”

“Still?” Natasha echoed. “As in hasn’t moved since this started?”

Bruce hesitated. Tony cut in.

“Making something in the kitchen. No signs of distress, looks calm.”

“That’s too calm,” Bruce said.

“She’s always calm,” Wanda murmured. “But this feels…”

Steve cut in. “We don’t know it was her.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But it happened while we were all looking in the other direction. And she made sure to be the only one not looking with us.”

The red lights continued to flash overhead.

And the cells that remained open, the air was cold in the way where something warm had been. They hadn’t just lost captives. They’d lost control.

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