swightops

[swightops]

can’t believe this story’s over oml 🥹 it was amazing from beginning to end and it was AN EXPERIENCE 🫶🫶🫶

i absolutely recommend ALL of kinana’s work! can’t wait to see what’s coming in the future but know THAT IM SAT‼️

real people

chapter eighteen (finale)

18+

the final part.

Content Warning: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, angst, mention of pregnancy, enemies to lovers to strangers, fluff, mention of sex, misunderstanding trope bc why not, and omg I am not ready to say goodbye to these characters I want to cryyyyyyyy. super long author's note at the end

Series Masterlist

Series Playlist

"This is nice," Gwen says, her eyes closed as she stands with her arms up, allowing the breeze to brush over her skin. Her loose, white shirt flies behind her and the waves gently kiss at her feet. You're not sure why she keeps saying that - this is nice - but you hardly go an hour without hearing those words pour from her mouth, drenched in contentment.

The sunset has caused the sky to match her hair, the sand cooling down under your palms. You watch as the ice in your sangria melts, letting the sound of the waves relax you. Not that there's anything causing you any stress right now - having been in Mexico for a week now, you're completely zen. But there is one thought that threatens to disturb your peace.

"Do you think he'll be here?" You can't help but ask her.

Her head turns to the side, her eyes fluttering open. She knows who you're talking about without having to ask for clarification. "He's the best man," She reminds you. "Of course he'll be here."

"This early on, though?" You wonder, grabbing fistfuls of sand. "The rehearsal dinner isn't until Friday."

Gwen turns so she's fully facing you, a blank look on her face. "I know what you want to hear, but I'm not going to lie to you," She begins. "He's here. Just landed today, actually."

Your stomach churns and you nod, looking down at your lap.

"What?" She asks you, taking a few steps closer. "Are you really that nervous to see him?"

"I haven't seen him since..." You trail off, shaking your head.

"Then maybe it's about time you did," She says bluntly. "I mean, for Christ's sake, it's been what? Three years?"

"I know, but..." You mumble, feeling dumb. "It's weird. We were together for such a short period of time, and now we've spent so much time apart... but I still-"

"Don't," Gwen cuts you off curtly. "I swear to God, don't say it."

"I wasn't gonna say love," You claim. "I just mean, I won't know how I feel until I see him."

"Well, then," She chirps. "Good thing both of you brought dates."

"He brought a date?" You ask, feeling nauseous at the thought of seeing him with someone else.

"Mhm," Gwen confirms. "But you have Pietro, so you're both in the same boat, which is good.

"Yeah," You utter dryly. "Great."

Gwen stretches before holding her hand out to you. "C'mon, we need to get ready. If we miss dinner again, Sharon will make me sleep on this beach," She says before grabbing your hand and pulling you up to your feet.

The two of you make your way back to the resort, but this time, you're no longer zen. You're a bundle of nerves.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, you turn to the side to get a look at yourself at all angles. Ever since your conversation with Gwen on the beach, you've felt a pit in your stomach and it's weighing you down, making you want to do nothing more than crawl into bed and hide from the world.

There's a knock at the door which makes you jump slightly, before it swings open. "Hey, you," Pietro says as he walks in with a grin. "You look incredible."

Relaxing a little with his presence, you smile at him in the mirror. "Thank you, P," You reply. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yep - just need to use the bathroom," He says as he walks towards it.

"Ugh, please don't clog it again!" You call out as he walks past you.

With a sly grin and a squeeze of your ass, he swings open the door. "I won't," He swears as he walks in, and you know better than to believe him.

"Why do I fuck you, again?" You call out, shaking your head.

Pietro opens the door again and pokes his head through. "Because I'm a damn good fuck, baby," He says with a wink. "Your words."

Rolling your eyes, you fiddle with your hair. "Whatever. Go poop - and hurry, because Sharon will kill me if I'm late!"

While you wait for him, you sit on the bed and decide to scroll through social media. You notice that Steve's got a new story up, so with a soft smile you open it up, expecting to see a photo of him and Sharon - but it's a photo of a gift-wrapped box with a Rolex on top of it. Gift from the best man, the caption reads. With a gasp, you close Instagram and put your phone down. And immediately, you hate how affected you are, just from a mere mention of him.

Fuck, you're screwed.

"I'm ready!" Pietro announces as he walks back out the bathroom.

"Did you wash your ha-"

"Yes, I washed my hands," He cuts you off with a laugh as he walks over and takes your hand, pulling you up to your feet. Moving in closer, he gives you a soft kiss. "You really do look so fucking good."

"No," You say sternly. "I refuse to be late to this dinner, P."

He tilts his head, giving you the soft-eyed, ever-so-slightly-desperate look he knows drives you crazy. "Gimme ten minutes, baby," He mumbles.

You narrow your eyes at him and push him back. "No. You'll mess up my hair and makeup," You whine.

"C'mere," He whispers before kissing you, once, twice, three times.

You melt into it, allowing yourself the respite of his physical comfort from your overthinking head, but then your mind conjures up the image of Sharon's pissed-off expression, which is enough motivation to give you the strength to pull away. "Let's go," You decide firmly. "It's Sharon's wedding week. I'm not gonna stress her out anymore than she already is."

Giving in with a sigh, he nods and takes a step back. "Alright," He says, following you to the door. "Have I told you how sexy you are when you're being all considerate for your friends, and shit?"

The resort has been booked out in its entirety by Steve and Sharon for the week, allowing them to spend a few days with their nearest and dearest before the big day on Saturday. So far, Sharon's been spending the days with her bridesmaids, Steve with his groomsmen, and each evening, everyone comes together to have dinner. It's been fine so far, but today's the first night that all the groomsmen are here - which has you almost shaking as you and Pietro make your way to the dining hall.

"What's wrong? Nervous to see everyone?" Pietro asks you as your heels click against the marble floor. "You've already met 'em all before, right? Oh, wait, shit. Isn't your ex here tonight?"

He swings the doors to the hall open and, of course, it seems you're the last ones to arrive. Thankfully, Sharon doesn't look annoyed in the slightest, as everyone turns to look at you.

"They're here!" Sharon squeals, standing up with her glass of wine raised up. "Come in, sit down!"

Pietro's got his arm around your waist, so when he begins to walk in, even though your feet feel planted to the ground, you can't help but move with him. But your eyes stayed glued to him.

Bucky.

It's like time slows down. He looks so different, but also exactly the same. And he's staring back at you. A small part of you is acutely aware of the beautiful woman sitting by his side, but everyone else melts away into irrelevance when you're looking at him. It's the first time in three years that you've been so close to him - sitting at opposite ends of a 25-seat table - but it feels as familiar as though no time has passed at all.

"Red or white tonight?" Steve asks you as he stands up to pour you a glass of wine.

Ripping your eyes away from Bucky and looking up at Steve, you let out a huff. "Brown," You reply curtly before grabbing a bottle of whisky from the middle of the table and pouring it into your glass.

Steve chuckles before pouring Pietro some wine, and you take a long sip. Next to you, Gwen gently nudges your stomach. "Way to be subtle," She hisses under her breath. "You guys just stared at each other for, like, five minutes."

"Shut up," You whisper, before you smile widely at Sharon who's sitting opposite you. "You look amazing, Shar!"

And she really does - this whole week, she's been glowing. "Thank you," She sings, still standing. Clearing her throat, she taps her glass of water with her fork, getting everyone's attention. "Alright. Everyone is officially here! Besides, like, our family, and everyone else," She begins with a soft laugh. "Steve and I are so, so grateful that you've all taken time out of your incredibly busy schedules to come and spend the last few days before the wedding with us. Ever since Steve and I started talking about getting married, we really had only one priority - to have a relaxed time with our best friends. Mexico has always meant so much to him and I - ever since the school trip episode of Sunset Lake, and all the times we returned together since - so it only felt right to get married here. In four days, Steve and I will be standing at the altar, with all of you there- but until then, we can eat, relax, get pampered, and party!"

Everyone holds up their respective glasses and cheers along with her, and Steve stands up and gives her a kiss. You grin as you watch them, so entirely in love. It makes you yearn for that feeling. Sure, sleeping with Pietro is fun and fulfils your needs, but you haven't felt a deeper connection to anyone since... Bucky.

You dare to steal a glance at him. He's pouring his date a drink- you recognize her. She's from some TV show that was big on Netflix or Hulu last year. Not his usual type, but then again, he's been linked with all sorts of women over the past three years. And he could say the same about you.

Before long, the food is served, so you can distract yourself with hummus and pita. You have conversations with Sharon and Steve, Gwen and Peter, and a few hushed comments fly between you and Pietro, but as it's such a big group, you can't venture out much further than them. Not that you particularly want to.

She finds him funny, that much is for sure. She pulls him arm whenever he makes her laugh, which is often.

"Her name's Jean," Gwen tells you, knowing you too well to not realize what it is you're thinking. "They work together. They've been spotted out at dinner a few times since."

"I feel sick," You utter, grabbing your napkin.

"Don't worry- you have Pietro, so you're on equal ground with him right now," Gwen says in an attempt to comfort you - as if the thing you're upset about is that Bucky is one-upping you.

"Pietro is nothing more than a human dildo to me," You whisper bitterly. "Bucky's actually dating that woman. With emotions."

"That's mean," Pietro chimes in as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, resting his chin on your other shoulder.

"Shut up. You're lucky I let you anywhere near me," You say to him with an eye-roll.

He bites down on his fist and leans in closer to Gwen with his head at your chest. "Isn't she so sexy?" He says lowly, to which she just snorts.

While everyone else continues chatting and drinking, you can't help but fall into the darkest depths of your mind.

He doesn't want you anymore. He probably hasn't for a while. You wonder how long it took him to officially be over you. You thought you might have been starting to get over him until you saw him tonight. All the feelings just came rushing back, hitting you like a truck. The last thing you wanted all those years ago was to become a stranger to him- but it seems like it might be too late.

Suddenly, you feel a kick under the table. You frown and look up to see Sharon giving you a pointed look as she taps her phone. While Gwen and Pietro chat, you look down at your phone to see a message from Sharon.

SharBear

I need to meet you tonight once everyone's in their rooms. Midnight outside reception. It's important. Please!

Without hesitation, you respond.

You

I'll be there.

Your mind is swirling with all the things Sharon could possibly want to speak to you about - has something gone wrong with the wedding plans? Has she suddenly got cold feet? You pace at reception for ten minutes before she finally appears.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, I was waiting for Steve to get into the shower," She says in a hushed voice as she rushes over from the elevator and grabs your hands. "Thank you for meeting me."

"Of course, Sharon," You say, deeply concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's perfect!" She replies instinctively with a chirpy smile, before letting out a sigh and letting her face fall. "But... it might not be."

"What's going on?" You ask her, pulling her away from the worker at the front desk who's giving you odd looks and towards the entrance of the hotel.

She looks around the lobby, making sure nobody's around before she speaks. "I need... I need you to buy me something," She utters.

You frown as you lower your voice. "Like... drugs?" You whisper. "Something to help you relax? Pietro might have a xanny-"

"No, not like that," She cuts you off with a mild look of panic in her eyes as they meet yours. "I need, um... I think I need a pregnancy test?"

Up until now, you would've liked to think that you'd be the calm, collected friend during crises. That you'd be the level-headed leader keeping everyone's panic at bay, coming up with an action plan and swiftly carrying it out without fault. But instead, you suck in a loud gasp and slap your hands over your face. "Sharon!" You let out, your yell muffled by your hands.

"I know, I know, it's crazy," She says as she shakes her hands. "It's just so I can be sure, before I drink myself into oblivion this week."

"That's why you haven't been drinking," You say with wide eyes as everything falls into place in your head. "And you didn't eat the edibles yesterday!"

"I'm just being careful, until I can be sure," Sharon says. "Now, you're my best friend and the one I trust most out of everyone here. I can't trust the resort workers not to leak it to the press, so I can't ask them or even order one online in case they snoop. So it has to be you, Y/N."

Taking in a deep breath, you nod, accepting the responsibility. "Yes. I can do this," You tell her, keeping your voice firm. "I can do this for you."

"Great. There's a pharmacy about a mile away, it's open twenty-four hours. Steve and I stopped there when we landed, to get... condoms," She says, wincing.

"Yes, got it," You say, trying to remain calm. "I'll call a taxi and-"

"No public transport," She cuts in quickly. "Everyone in this city knows the wedding is this week. They all know we're here. If a cab driver recognizes you - I can't handle the scandal, Y/N."

"So what do you want me to do?" You ask her, shaking your head. "It's not like I can walk a mile in the middle of the night!"

Just then, someone walks into the hotel. It's, of course, none other than Bucky, holding a motorcycle helmet under his arm. You can practically see the cogs turning in Sharon's head as she looks at him.

"Sharon, no. No, Sharon," You say gravely, holding her arms tight. But it's too late.

"Bucky!" She calls out, making you die inside.

"Hey," He replies, while you stare at the floor. "What are you both doing down here so late?"

"We, um, have a little issue," She tells him. "Just a little visit from Aunt Flo, you know?"

"Oh, right," He mumbles, and you can't help but feel a shiver at the sound of his voice. Get it together.

"Yeah, so... would you be able to give Y/N a lift to a pharmacy?" She asks him while you grimace. "So she can stock up on tampons, and stuff."

"Sure," Bucky replies. "Let's go."

"Thank you so much!" Sharon exclaims, giving him a hug before coming back to you and placing her hands on your shoulder. "And thank you. I love you."

"You're lucky I love you, too," You mutter, before turning to face him.

He holds the helmet out to you and you take it before following him out, shooting Sharon one last glare on your way.

"So, the pharmacy?" Bucky asks as he taps on his phone.

"Yeah, Sharon said there should be one about a mile away?" You respond, your voice pathetically small.

"Got it. Let's go," He says while sticking his phone with the map on on the handlebar and getting on the bike.

You take in a deep breath before putting on the helmet and getting on behind him, planning to hold onto the handles located behind you for the entirety of the ride - but the second he rides off, you instantly clamber to wrap your arms around him. It may be awkward, but you'd rather that than die before the wedding.

The ride is quiet, save for the sound of the engine. The streets are pretty bare, being in a less-populated area, and the sky is full of stars. After a few minutes, you take off your helmet so as to feel the fresh air on your face, and to get a proper view of the starry night. Soon, you arrive at the pharmacy, and Bucky parks up outside. When you jump off and he sees you without the helmet on, he sighs.

"I would really rather you keep that on during the ride," He says lowly.

"Sorry," You utter, slowly backing away towards the shop. "Want anything?"

He simply shakes his head, and you nod before turning and walking into the pharmacy. Thankfully, there's a box of face masks at the entrance so you grab one and wear it. The man at the counter doesn't seem the type to keep up with celebrity news, but you want to do all you can to keep things under wrap. You walk through the aisles until you get to the shelves with pregnancy tests, and decide to grab one of each of the five brands available, knowing Sharon's the type to want to double and triple check. Along with the tests, you grab a chapstick, for no other reason than to make it feel like a normal shopping trip, though the combination of Sharon's news and being back on Bucky's bike has you feeling like you're having an out-of-body experience.

Just as you put the tests and chapstick on the counter, you feel a presence behind you. You turn your head to see Bucky standing there, holding a bag of chips. And his eyes are on the tests.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Without a word, you toss four ₱500 notes on the counter and take the plastic bag from the worker before stuffing in the tests and chapsticks and walking out the store. When you get out, all you want to do is scream. He thinks you're pregnant, or at least potentially so. And you can't even correct him because then you'd be outing Sharon. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Ready to go?" He asks as he walks out of the pharmacy, as casual as ever. Fucker.

"You're so annoying!" You can't help but explode at him once you rip the mask off your face.

Taken aback, he raises a brow. "Excuse me?"

"If you wanted fucking chips, why didn't you just ask me to buy you chips?" You ask him, frustration dropping from your tone.

"What is your problem?" Bucky asks you, taking a step closer.

"I clearly asked you if you wanted anything, and you said no," You hurl at him.

"I changed my mind," He says flatly.

"You changed your mi- you're such a dick," You hiss, turning away.

"Will you calm down?" He calls out. "It's... not a big deal!"

"Not a big deal?" You all but scream, turning back to him. He thinks you could be pregnant with Pietro's baby. He thinks you're that close - that you'd be that reckless because you're that locked in with fucking Pietro. And he doesn't seem to care.

"Yes, it's not a big deal," He doubles down.

"Whatever," You huff before spinning back on your heel and storming away.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice booms behind you, but you're too irritated to think or act rationally. You simply continue stomping away, too stubborn to accept a ride back to the resort with him. Safety be damned. You have pregnancy tests and chapstick to defend yourself with.

The rumbling of his bike gets louder and after a few seconds, he pulls up next to you. "Get on the damn bike, Y/N," He orders you sternly.

"Fuck you," You spit, walking even faster.

He trails slowly behind you, his bike swaying side to side as he does his best to keep the slow pace. "You're going the wrong way, dipshit," He says, and it feels like the air turns twenty degrees colder.

The old nickname makes you falter in your steps, but you continue moving. "Maybe I'm taking the scenic route," You utter.

He speeds up for a second before turning his bike in front of you, stopping you from going any further. With a glare, he lets out a huff through his nostrils. "Get on the bike. I'm tired, and I don't have time for this," He says curtly.

"Then go back to the hotel and get in bed," You say with your arms folded across your chest. "I'm sure Jean's waiting for you."

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. "What, are you jealous?" He asks, to which you scoff.

"You wish!" You all but yell. "Just go. I'll call an Uber."

"It's almost 1am. I'm not letting you get a cab alone," He says bluntly. "Get on the bike, we'll go back to the hotel, and we can pretend like this night didn't happen."

A dry laugh leaves your mouth of its own accord. "I've heard that before," You mutter bitterly.

Without a word, he holds the helmet out to you. You roll your eyes before grabbing it off him and getting on the bike, as much as it pains you to give in. This time, even though you're terrified, you keep your hands firmly on the handles behind you, refusing to let him think you want to touch him. Although it hurts to be back at square one with him, it's easier to focus on being annoyed at him than to realize he's over you.

Once you get back to the resort, you clamber off the bike and pull the helmet off, putting it down where you were sitting. He sits and types on his phone.

"Thanks for the ride," You mumble like a child being forced to show manners.

He just grunts in response.

The next morning at breakfast, you're inwardly stressing as you try to find the perfect opportunity for you to transport the five pregnancy tests in your bag to Sharon's without anyone seeing.

"Y/N, sit down!" Gwen calls out before grabbing your hand and yanking you down onto the empty seat next to her.

You give her a smile. "I actually just need to speak to Shar-"

"Eat first," She cuts you off sternly as she places a pastry onto your plate.

"Ooh, those look good," The person sitting on the other side of you comments. You turn to see none other than Bucky's date, Jean. "Could you please hand me one?"

Of course she's lovely and polite. Fuck's sake.

"Sure," You reply with a smile as you grab the platter and hold it out to her.

She grabs a square croissant and puts it on her plate with a bashful look. "Thank you. God, this is so surreal," She says with flushed cheeks. "I'm just, like, a huge fan of you."

Damn. She's making it really hard to hate her.

"That's so sweet, thank you," You reply.

"It's just crazy being in a room, practically on vacation, with a group of people I look up to," She continues with awe in her eyes. "Oh, I'm Jean, by the way. I... I'm here with... uh..."

"It's alright. I know you're Bucky's date," You tell her with a soft laugh. "I'm not sweating over a six-month situationship I had three years ago, don't worry."

A throat clear behind you. "Morning, everyone," Bucky says, squeezing her shoulders before taking a seat next to her.

"Oops," You whisper to yourself.

"Morning, sunshine," Jean greets him sweetly with a kiss on his cheek before she turns back to you. "So, I have to ask you: what was it like working with the Norman Osborn? Was it everything I dream about?"

"Oh, and more," You answer her emphatically. "He's just... a genius. It sounds cliché, but that's really the only way I can describe him. Being on set with him alone was flabbergasting, but being directed by him? I genuinely felt like a new woman every day. A new actress, should I say."

"Wow. I am so jealous," Jean says. "And the movie was incredible. You're gonna think I'm lying, but I literally watched it in theatres, like, twelve times."

"So, you're who I need to thank for the box office success," You say teasingly.

"You were so robbed at the Oscars this year," She says with a scoff. "Like, I know the other nominees were great, but none of them held a candle to your performance."

"I was just grateful to be nominated," You tell her, giving her the PR-approved response.

She narrows her eyes, leans in, and lowers her voice. "Yeah, but you were also thinking, what the fuck? Right?" Jean whispers. "Don't worry, it's a safe space."

With a delighted laugh, you lightly push her arm. "Of course not," You say, before whispering, "Maybe."

After spending the entirety of breakfast laughing non-stop with Bucky's girlfriend, much to the surprise of everyone, you soon become acutely aware of the tests in your bag.

As everyone gets up to return to their rooms and freshen up before the day's activities, you pull Sharon to a quiet corner. "Hey," You whisper. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," She answers with a quick nod. "Haven't vomited today, but we'll see how long breakfast lasts."

"Uh, I've got the... things," You utter, giving her a pointed look as you shake your bag.

"Oh! Yeah, great, thank you so much," She says, holding your hands. "How was it with Bucky? I hope it wasn't too awkward? He didn't see, did he?"

Opting not to tell her about how he saw you buying the tests and how you subsequently screamed at him in the street, you nod. "It was fine," You lie. "Do you want them now?"

"Yes," She says, holding her bag open next to yours. "Just... don't be suspicious."

Trying to act casual, angling your bags so that nobody behind can see them, you slowly transport the tests one by one from your bag to hers.

"Fuck, how many did you get?" She asks with wide eyes.

"I figured you'd want to be really sure," You tell her with a shrug as you drop the last one in.

A smile breaks out on her face. "You know me so well," She says, pulling you in for a hug. "Thank you. You're the best."

"Do you wanna take one now?" You ask as you pull away. "I can come with you."

"I'm gonna wait until tomorrow," She tells you. "When Mom's here. I need her with me in case it's... yeah."

"Of course," You say with an understanding nod, though the sentiment doesn't reach your heart. Not having a mom in your life means if you were in Sharon's position, it would be her or Gwen you needed by your side - and for some twisted reason, it has you feeling bitter that you wouldn't be their chosen pregnancy-test aide. You know it's irrational and unfair to feel that way, but you can't help it.

"Okay, let's go back to everyone before they wonder what we're talking about," Sharon chirps as she takes your arm and leads you back to the group.

Jean gasps and rushes over to you when she sees you. "Hey, have you been to the spa yet?" She asks you excitedly.

"I haven't, actually," You tell her. "Been too busy helping Sharon out with wedding stuff."

"You have to come," She says, grabbing your hand. "They are incredible here. Bring Pietro, too - it can be like a double date at the spa!"

Realizing that that means Bucky will also be there, you falter. "Uh, I don't know if Pietro will-"

"If Pietro will what?" The man himself  asks as he appears, hugging you from behind.

"Oh, we were talking about spending some time at the spa," Jean tells him. "You're down, right?"

"Absolutely," He answers.

"So, it's settled!" She exclaims with a giddy grin. "We'll meet you there in an hour."

"Can't wait," You say half-heartedly.

You all but melt into the warm hot tub, closing your eyes and letting all your stress go with the steam. Pregnancy tests. Exes. Forget it all.

"Mind if I join?" An all too familiar voice asks.

Opening your eyes, you see Bucky stepping down into the tub. "Doesn't seem like I have a choice," You mutter.

There's a few moments of blissful silence, and you close your eyes again, electing to pretend as though he isn't there. The sound of Pietro and Jean racing laps in the swimming pool fades into the background, and all you can hear is the bubbles fizzing-

"So, a six-month situationship, huh?" Bucky abruptly cuts into your thoughts. "That's how you look at it?"

You let out a deep sigh, refusing to let him bait you into giving him a reaction. "What else would you call it?" You ask him.

He doesn't answer, but you're not foolish enough to think that's the end of the conversation. "So, you pregnant?" He asks bluntly.

"No," You reply.

"Took all five tests?"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"Were you always this childish?" You ask, opening your eyes to glare at him. "I'm none of your business anymore, Barnes. I haven't been for three years."

He's staring at you. "A heads-up would've been nice," He says bitterly. "Y'know, that 'see you later' actually meant fuck you, I'm done."

"I wasn't done," You correct him gravely. "Though you obviously were."

"Are you kidding me?" He asks with a dry laugh.

"Oh, sorry, all the times you tried so hard to contact me must've got lost in the mail," You say flatly.

"Contact you? And when was the best time? When you were dating your co-star while filming in Australia? Or maybe when you came back and started dating those other schmucks?" He spits.

"You cannot be serious," You say gravely. "Says Mr. 'Dating Three Women At Once'!"

"Really? You of all people believe what the media said?" Bucky asks incredulously.

"Oh, fuck you!" You yell, standing up.

"Fuck you," He returns just as harshly, standing up as well.

He's looking down at you with a look in his eyes you haven't seen since you first met - that day on Steve's yacht when you first debuted your fake relationship to the world. It sends a shiver down your spine. Full of rage and seemingly genuine hatred - and it makes you want to kiss him.

Bucky tries to stay strong, but his eyes betray him, flickering down to look at your drenched, bikini-clad body, the same body he's been missing for three years. He remembers all the places he left marks, and all the places he kissed it better.

"I never forgot how I felt," He says in a hushed, rushed tone.

"You didn't even blink at the possibility of me being pregnant with another man's child," You point out coldly.

"Listen to me," He utters, grabbing your wrist. "I thought about you every single minute. I still do."

"Bucky, shut up," You whisper, highly aware of both Pietro and Jean making their way over.

"Tell me you don't feel the same," He challenges you. "Tell me you don't want anymore. That you don't love me anymore."

"What the fuck, Barnes?" You hiss.

"If you can tell me you don't love me anymore, I won't bring it up again," He says.

You raise a brow.

His jaw clenches for a second. "But if you can't, I'll spend every waking moment getting you back," He finishes.

With a pit in your stomach and a lump in your throat, you shoot him one last glare. "You're too late," You utter before pulling your wrist out of his grip and leaving him there alone.

Friday evening arrives, and with it, the rehearsal dinner. Steve and Sharon's families have also arrived at the resort, meaning there's a lot more people around the table which makes it a heck of a lot easier to ignore Bucky's stares.

"What is going on between you?" Gwen asks you in a hushed voice as you're served by the waiting staff. "He hasn't stopped looking at you all day, with that weird, intense stare. Did you speak to him?"

With a shrug, you pick up your glass of wine. "It's Bucky. He's always weird and intense," You answer lamely.

"Oh, my God. Did he say something to you?" She presses. "You have to tell me. Are you guys... sleeping together?"

"What? No," You answer instantly. "What do you think of me, Gwen?"

"I don't know; when two people with history reconnect, there can be major sparks," She says while cutting into a roasted potato. "All the feelings come rushing back."

Instead of validating her theory with a response, you begin to eat.

"Holy shit. You did reconnect, didn't you?" She hisses. "I knew it!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," You say plainly.

She lets out a sigh. "Look, if you realized that there are still strong feelings between you, that's not a bad thing."

"Not a bad thing? He's got a girlfriend!" You whisper-shout, grateful for the sound of cutlery on porcelain drowning you out.

"Hasn't stopped you before," Gwen lets out before gasping at herself. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I mean - what he had with Natasha wasn't even real-"

"I get it, Gwen, it's fine," You cut in, and the two of you leave it at that.

While you're eating, Sharon gets out of her seat and walks around the table to you, smiling and squeezing the shoulders of everyone she passes on her way. When she gets to you, she brings her mouth to your ear and lowers her voice. "Can you come to the lobby with me?"

Once again, you're filled with anxiety and dread as you follow her out of the room. She holds your hand tight, and neither of you say a word as you walk to the lobby.

"Everything okay?" You ask once you get there, making sure the receptionist is out of earshot.

Sharon takes in a deep breath. "I took the test. Well, all five tests," She begins, a mixture of worry and fear in her eyes. "And... they were all positive."

You slap your hands over your mouth. "Oh, my God!" You all but scream, thankfully muffling your voice with your hands.

"I know!" She exclaims, breathing in and out quickly.

"That's amazing!" You tell her with a wide grin. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," She whispers with teary eyes.

"Have you told Steve?" You ask her, to which she shakes her head.

"Not yet. I just... I don't know how," She admits. "My mom said I should just tell him, but... what if he gets scared? What if it's too much for him and he gets cold feet?"

"Sharon, that man looks at you like you hung the moon and stars," You tell her, holding her shoulders. "He loves you more than anything. The last thing he would do is leave you alone, especially if he knew the truth. Love isn't something you can just... throw away. Forget about. You can only confront it, and accept it... and... denying yourself of it would be the biggest disservice you could do to yourself."

She narrows her eyes. "Are we still talking about me being pregnant?"

You raise your brows, and let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding in. "I don't know," You say in a small voice.

"Okay, well, I want to do something special for him," She tells you. "He's always planning so many nice surprises for me, and I want to do the same. So, I need your help."

"Anything," You tell her.

A sly grin grows on her face. "I love you," She says.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You ask her with a frown. "Like you've done something I won't like?"

"Well, I thought you might need some help setting it up," She begins, glancing behind her. "So, I enlisted another pair of hands. The only other person I trust with my life who wouldn't go to the press."

Before you can ask her exactly who she's talking about, none other than Bucky walks into the lobby with an expectant look on his face. "Hey, Sharon. What is it you needed my help with?"

She looks at you with wide, hopeful eyes. "I don't want him to know it's for me, yet," She whispers to you. "Don't want him to know before Steve. You can tell him the truth once Steve knows."

With a sigh, you swallow your pride. "Uh, fuck. It's me, Barnes," You say flatly, hating every second of this. "As it turns out... I am pregnant."

He looks taken aback.

"And she wants to surprise Pietro," Sharon chimes in. "Can you help her set up the surprise on the beach? At this point, we don't want anyone knowing that doesn't need to, or that we don't trust."

With a nod, Bucky keeps his face free of emotion. "Of course."

You're convinced that you died and this is hell, because you've experienced nothing worse than setting up a 'We're Pregnant!' message on the beach with Bucky, who thinks the pregnancy is yours, and that the father is Pietro.

Bucky seems to have an artistic eye as he sets out the flowers around the words in the sand. You're lighting the candles, wondering how it got to this.

"This is so weird," You mumble.

"Yep," He replies curtly. "Didn't imagine this would be happening three years ago."

"It's been a long time," You say. "A lot has changed."

"You haven't," He says, looking down at the sand. "Still just as gorgeous."

A soft laugh leaves your mouth. "Should you be flirting with a pregnant woman?"

Bucky looks up at you, into your eyes. "Do you love him?" He asks you.

You struggle with the lighter, letting out a frustrated huff before answering him. "It started out as just sex," You say truthfully.

"Like us?"

You snort. "I guess."

"Do you love him?" He asks you again.

"Let's... not do this now," You suggest.

He lets out a long sigh and sits up. "When it ended with Natasha... my first thought was you. Carol told me to wait, at least a few weeks, so it didn't look like I was just jumping between you. I also didn't want to overwhelm you, or take attention off the fact that you won the case," He tells you. "Then you left New York to film in Australia. And the rumors about you and Luke... I just thought it would be best to leave you to it. You were working abroad. It wasn't the right time."

"Then I came back, and you were dating someone else," You remember.

"Wasn't dating her," He mumbles. "Emma and I were just friends."

"Well, it didn't look like that, and I didn't wanna reach out just to hear that you had moved on," You tell him truthfully. "I... I don't think I could have handled hearing that. For it to be final. Outlined clearly. I guess it was easier to live with the vagueness. The hope that... maybe we just needed time, and eventually we'd find each other again. But I couldn't listen to you telling me you were with someone else. I just couldn't."

He lets out a shaky breath. "I felt the same," He admits. "I know I'm a fucking coward for not trying harder. And now I'm too late."

"You're not a coward. You were just protecting yourself," You say lowly, before looking around. "I think we're done. Thanks for your help."

"Of course," He mumbles.

Sending Sharon a quick text telling her it's ready, you get up to leave. Bucky begins walking away, a look of dejection on his face, when you grab his hand. "Hold on. Just... wait here with me," You say, pulling him behind a rock.

"What are we doing here?" He asks you with a frown.

"Just wait," You whisper, looking over the rock. A few minutes pass before Sharon and Steve walk out the hotel.

"What are they doing here?" Bucky wonders. "Want me to stall them while you wait for Pietro?"

"Wait," You repeat, feeling the confusion emanate from him.

As Sharon and Steve make their way down to the beach, you hold your breath. Steve seems confused to the babble leaving Sharon's mouth, until they get to the candles and message in the sand. They stop. He's looking down at it. He looks back up at her, and she's grinning at him. With a laugh, he swoops her into his arms and spins her around.

You turn to look at Bucky, who just looks absolutely lost.

"What... they... huh?" He utters.

"The tests weren't for me. They were for Sharon," You reveal. "And this whole thing was for Steve, not Pietro. Sharon was just really scared of everyone finding out, and wanted Steve to know before anyone else."

Bucky's lips part in shock, and he just stares down at you. "So, you and Pietro..."

"We just sleep together every now and then," You admit. "I just... wanted to bring someone in case you brought someone. Which you did."

"Jean and I aren't... we're just friends," He tells you. "We're working on a film together. I mentioned that I wasn't bringing a plus-one, and she asked if she could come with me so she could network."

"So..." You trail off, your heart racing.

"So..." He echoes, raising a brow. "I still love you. I still want you more than I've ever wanted anything else. If I have to spend another three years proving myself to you, I will."

"Bucky... I... I love you, too," You say, the words finally flying free. "I don't want to waste any more time. But... I have a lot to think about," You tell him. "And a conversation to have with Pietro. But I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. The big day," He says, looking as though he's holding back from doing something he wants to do.

"Yeah. Very big," You say awkwardly. "Well... good night."

He takes a step closer to you, and you forget how to breathe. Looking down at you, he cups your cheek in his hand. "Good night," He replies.

Swallowing thickly, you nod.

How the fuck are you supposed to get any sleep tonight?

The wedding ceremony is beautiful. The love Steve and Sharon have for each other is evident in their vows and the way they look at each other, and you can't help but notice the glow on Sharon's face. However, the reception is when the real fun starts.

You've been pouring water shots for Sharon whenever someone wants to do a round with her, because she isn't ready for everyone to know about the baby yet. As her maid of honor, you've barely had a chance to sit down, having to fight all the small fires that arise to make sure she doesn't realize anything's wrong. You're grateful once the cake's been cut and the dance floor fills up, meaning you can finally relax as the party goes on.

"It's so unfair that you're breaking up with me," Pietro whines as he looks you up and down. "In that dress? You're killing me."

"Get a grip, Maximoff," You say with an eye roll.

"C'mon, let's dance!" He says, pulling you onto the dance floor before you have a chance to say no.

It's an upbeat song at first, one that you can simply clap along to so as not to make a fool of yourself - but then the band switches to a slow ballad.

"Everyone, grab someone you care about and let's dance a little slower," The singer says.

Bucky suddenly appears behind Pietro, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, man. Mind if I steal her from you?"

Only looking slightly intimidated, Pietro nods. "Of course, man. Have fun," He says, giving you a grin before walking away.

As the song begins, a rendition of Can't Help Falling In Love, you smile and shake your head. "Did you request this?" You ask him, placing your hands on his shoulder.

"Who? Me?" He asks with faux innocence as he takes your waist in his hands. "I don't know what you mean."

"Cheesy fucker," You mumble, unable to keep the smile on your face.

This song reminds you of one of the best days you ever spent with him - when you met his family. Losing them was another painful thing you had to deal with when you left Bucky, and getting to see them again is one of the things you're most excited about.

"How is everyone?" You ask him. "Rebecca?"

"She's doing well," He says with a smile. "She's a teacher at our old school."

"I miss her," You tell him. "I miss them all."

"We can see them soon," Bucky tells you. "They've never stopped asking me about you. Ma will probably faint when I tell her you're mine for real this time."

"I'm yours?" You ask teasingly. "Prove it, Mr. Barnes."

He lets out a breathy laugh before moving in closer, holding your body to his, and bringing his lips to yours in a soft kiss. It was everything you've been missing and more. You feel just as safe with him as you did all those years ago.

When he pulls away, he shakes his head. "I can't believe I ever thought I could keep you at a distance. At the start, when I did everything I could to ignore my feelings," He says. "All you ever were was perfect. And I let fear keep me from being with you."

"We both did," You tell him. "And nobody can blame us. We'd never been in love before. Never thought we ever would be. But you came into my life, and... you taught me love. Showed me what it's supposed to be. And I want to spend my life loving you, without judgement, without hiding from the world. I love you, Jamie. No amount of time could have ever changed that. I never moved on, never forgot. I'll always be yours."

"And I'll always be yours," Bucky swears. "I'm gonna look after you, always. I went through life without feeling anything real before I met you. And you made me feel it all. Anger, hate, irritation."

"Damn," You utter lowly.

"Joy, appreciation, love," He adds with a smile. "It's like I was only pretending to feel those things before you made me really feel them. You lit a fire in me. Made me real. You made me real. I want to spend the rest of my life thanking you for that."

"I wish I could tell the Bucky from three and a half years ago that he'd be saying all this one day," You say with a grin. "He'd lose his fucking mind."

"Ah, he was a dick," He says flippantly. "Didn't know a thing."

"He was a dick," You agree, leaning in. "But... he was also really good in bed."

A smirk pulls at his lips. "Yeah? You enjoyed getting hate-fucked by him, didn't you?"

You bite down on your lip, squeezing his shoulders. "So. Much," You utter.

Bucky glances around the thinning-out dance floor and looks back at you. "How about, once we're done here, I take you up to one of the rooms, and fuck you like I hate you?" He suggests, sending a shiver down your spine. "What do you say? For old time's sake?"

With a grin, and ruined panties, you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him before repeating, "For old time's sake."

super long a/n incominggggg

the fucking end.

so here we are. i am so not emotionally prepared to say goodbye to real people. the past eighteen weeks have felt so, so incredible (eighteen weeks??? they went so quick omg), and exactly what peak tumblr felt like for me, back in the method acting and suburban pleasure days. for those who have been following me for a while, you probably noticed i took an extremely long hiatus starting in about 2023, only really posting the odd one-shot here and there. real people was my first series back and . oh my God. the support was instant and overwhelming. it felt like a community again. my love for writing was reignited and, though there were one or two weeks when i hit writer's block and had to rush to get a chapter out, for the most part it genuinely felt like this series wrote itself. the storyline of actors fake dating has been sitting in my drafts for literal years. since before my marvel era. since before my anakin era. since an era none of you knew... my harry styles era. yep. i had a really weak intro drafted of a harry styles fanfic with the same concept. it was just called "real". and that was in like... 2016/17. so to be here now, almost a decade later, with a full series based on 16-year-old kinana's idea written and complete that I'm so proud of is so damn surreal. I genuinely would not have been able to write this without your love and support so thank you to everyone who commented and reblogged and sent me lovely messages week in and week out. you are the reason this series exists. i hope i can continue to bring you more stories. i might take a short break from posting anything for a few weeks, work on some drafts. maybe think up a new series. and work on some old ones. i'll see you soon. i love you all.

masterlist

buy me a kofi <3

[swightops]

yall forgive me for not posting chap 4 this new ep of love island got me MESSED UP IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE TAYLOR OR HUDA NOT CHARLIE 💔💔💔

[swightops]

OH MY GOD??? THIS WAS SO SWEET AND LITERALLY EVERYTHING I NEEDED

save our souls

pairing: bob reynolds x reader

word count: 9.5k

warnings: vague violence and gore and i think that's it other than emotional distress

a/n: bob reynolds soulmate au <333

heavy liberties taken w the void encounter from the movie

reader has both witchy type powers and also trained in the mystic arts. it’s probably a cliche but this is a soulmate au so clearly you can pry cliches from my cold, dead hands.

also i finished and am posting this at literally 4 in the morning so it has not been edited/beta'd so there are probably errors but shit happens man. ending is a little goofy but idk guys i just like to have fun.

Though it was not a truly physical thing, you now knew where the human soul resided. You had never truly wondered, but were now sure it slotted itself somewhere between stomach and lungs. You knew this because yours was being slowly shredded and you could feel dull, throbbing ache of it every minute of every day.

What bothered you most was not the physical pain, but the way you could feel everything you cared about slipping through your fingers like water. Nothing pleased you much, anymore. You used to smile when America made progress with her own sorcery, under the watchful eyes of you and Strange, but now it barely made your lips twitch upward. You were not yet a full shell of your former self, but you could feel it creeping in. Eventually, you would be empty.

It had happened through no fault of your own, truly. Really it had been no one’s fault at all, but Stephen was taking it on as his own and you did not have enough in you to fight it. He was running himself ragged trying to both mentor America and find a cure for you all at the same time. Flatly, you had commanded him to stop, but he had only looked at you with sharp eyes that told you he was going to do whatever it took. It almost seemed to be tearing him apart more than you, but you supposed that came with the territory of being able to feel without inhibition.

Emotion was a double-edged sword. When you did feel it, which was rarely now, it only served to pain you further, like you were being torn apart faster as punishment for humanity. So, mostly, you avoided it. You avoided people you knew you cared about, or had cared about, just to escape the small chance you might feel a twinge of anything at all. 

Stephen was a problem about it. He sought you out almost daily, spellbooks in hand and his mind full of theories on how to piece you back together. Once, he had suggested an ancient binding ceremony that would tie you to him for the rest of your lives. You’d felt a knife-like presence in your chest and heat behind your eyes and that had been the day you decided you could no longer stay at Kamar-Taj, lest he suggest or try something far more radical than he already had. He cared too much, and you knew it would only kill you faster.

That being said, you weren’t sure if you were truly dying or just emptying. It was a far more ancient magic than either Stephen or Wong had ever encountered that had afflicted you, and neither knew exactly what the end would be. The two most likely options were that one day you would die, or one day you would be a shell of yourself wandering the Earth until your physical body gave way. You could not be certain which would be worse.

Wong caved and allowed you to call New York Sanctum home for whatever remaining balance of time you had. Though it was still Stephen’s domain, even he swore he would only make an appearance if strictly necessary. Still, it was hard to be there all alone with no powers or Mystic Arts to call upon. It appeared along with your soul, all of your abilities both inherent and learned were leaving you too. Thus, you spent much of your time wandering the streets of New York where it wasn’t so hard to be soulless. Almost everyone else was too, in a way.

Perhaps that was why, on one cool, breezy day when the darkness took you, you were not scared or surprised. At least, not until pure shadow turned into an unfamiliar cold, steely, and sterile lab that you had never seen before. Abandoned workstations, collections of half-broken beakers and rusted metal components. Shadow distilled down into marks on the walls and a man with pinprick white eyes looking through you.

His head cocked each way several times as the pure white bored into you. Cold creeped down your through like ice, but nothing more. He was somehow nothing and everything as he took you in silently, as though deliberating. You were not sure if he was truly a person or not, or if this was your adventure into some kind of afterlife and he was the Grim Reaper come to collect.

Time was uncertain and unfamiliar wherever you were, but he spoke after some measure of it. “You’re empty.”

You decided then that he must have been trying to collect a soul you did not have. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He continued as though you had not spoken at all. Circled you like a shark. Assessing. “I don’t know what to do with you. Where to put you.”

Had your tongue not frozen to ice in your mouth, you might have offered a few suggestions simply for the sake of speeding things along. You did not enjoy lingering in your strange Limbo with your odd man of pure shadow who behaved like he had never encountered someone in your condition. You wished he had a face for you to analyze as he was yours. Wished he was more than a black hole of nothing while all you had left was laid bare. If this was how you were dying, you would have liked to see your ferryman. 

The room before you flickered so briefly you might have thought you hallucinated it if he’d not let loose a hum that sounded like a wicked smile. For a moment, you saw Titan. Stephen at your side dusting and leaving you behind. Someone begging, pleading that he didn’t want to go. Tony Stark’s haunted face. It was gone the next instant. The cold in your chest turned to fire and ache. Your throat closed around the memory you never wanted to relive.

Your ferryman’s frustration returned as it vanished. “Let me help you. You’re almost there.”

So, that’s what it was. He wasn’t here to gather your soul, he wanted to ruin what was left of it. It was almost a comfort. The end was here. No more avoiding, no more slowly wasting away. If he wanted to break you, you were going to let him. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and waited. A hand closed around your wrist. You expected to be sucked away from everything and into nothing at all, but it only remained there heavy, freezing, and with a softer grasp than you’d have anticipated.

You wanted it, but you would not beg. You would not ask to die, you could still feel enough pride for that. Ice snaked through your blood and seeped into your bones but still you remained. He wasn’t draining you, but freezing you. You wondered if this was the true end of your curse, not dead and not fully empty but half-alive and frozen until the end of time, your only company a man of pure shadow. If you had it in you to cry you might have, but you were also sure the tears would freeze before falling.

What you assumed was his forehead pressed against the side of your face. “Why do I know you?”

His confusion in turn confused you. Until now, you had assumed this was employment or cosmic purpose for him. Now you wondered if he was just as frozen in limbo as you were. Maybe to him, you were shadow too. Your eyes and mouth opened simultaneously, but a great many things happened in quick succession. Before you could manage words, you were no longer alone together. He froze behind you, entirely unmoving.

An unfamiliar woman uttered, “I’ve been here before.”

You recognized the voice of the next man who spoke because the very same one had just been whispering in your ear. “This is where it all started.”

You were beyond confused now, and turned to look at the group that had invaded your purgatory. You recognized none of them except for Bucky Barnes. It took him a moment to put your puzzle pieces together. You looked different now, sunken in and void of light after your months of being put through the mystical garbage disposal. He surged forward as though intent on grabbing you, but the room expanded almost exponentially right in front of your eyes. Shadows held you firm. 

The same voice spoke to you from two places, one muttering in your ear that you belonged here, that he was trying to help you. The other came from across the room, apologizing, nearly begging, telling you he had only wanted to do better, be better. Someone else asked who you were, Bucky responded so low you couldn’t hear him. You were sure whatever explanation he was offering was wrong.

“I know her,” the simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar one muttered. He looked at you then, muted blue eyes that sent a shiver down your spine. “I— I know you from somewhere.” He moved on from your eyes to his counterpart. “Let her go.”

“No.”

The room gave a great shudder as metal ripped and wound itself around everyone in the room except for you, the shadow man, and the very real flesh-and-blood version of him. Adrenaline coursed through you, but you were held fast by an impossibly strong arm wound around your middle. Breath became a near-impossibility but you had grown used to pain. 

The blonde woman who had spoken before said urgently, “Bob.”

The sweater-clad man in front of you looked back at her for a moment. Bob. An unassuming name for who you once might have figured to be an unassuming man. You were learning differently, though. He drug his eyes away from her and spoke more firmly to the man holding you. “Let them go.”

You heard the shriek of metal as it wound tighter.

“You think they care about you?” spoke the shadow.

His hold on you released but you still stood firmly rooted to the spot. You knew deep down you should have tried something. Anything. But what could you do? What would sparks to do an entity who had crushed, at the very least, a known super-solider with metal beams and had held you so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe? You were functionally useless, just an audience for the chaos in front of you.

“You don’t matter to anyone.”

“That’s not true—”

She, the most vocal of them all, was nearly garroted in the next instant. A violent energy seemed to pulse through the room. You could feel it rattle your bones. Bucky called your name, and he met the same fate.

“Stop,” you said, uselessly, fatally. You would have assumed your plea fell on deaf ears if they had not both looked at you.

It seemed for a moment they had simultaneously decided you were the most interesting thing in the room. You had no clue where to look, but you settled for the antagonist of the situation. You began to see the similarities even when one was pure silhouette. A negative of the same man commanding for his friends to be left alone.

“He’s you,” you said, barely a breath. It was almost astounding. You’d have assumed some sort of astral form if not for the feeling of his hands on you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob said. Real, physical Bob. Not the shadow-self you had been first introduced to. “I’m stronger than him, I’m—”

“We’ll see about that,” his other-self nearly demanded.

Flesh, blood, and bone was on the echo of himself in the next moment. The violence thrummed not just inside the room but inside you. Dread settled deep in your gut. You were feeling, without pain, more deeply than you had in months. It was a great wonder and horror all at once. There was a part of you who wished you could spend the rest of your life here if only just to feel real. The part of you that had made some semblance of a hero before knew you wouldn’t. Your fingers sparked, feeling deeply unfamiliar after months of absence.

The room expanded impossibly once more, distancing you from the war waged only in selves. Metal groaned your way and your hands flew up, stopping it in its tracks. It burned away with some effort, oddly stenchless, but you supposed natural rules did not apply in such a space. Nothing more flew your way, so you set off running. Perpendicular to you, the seemingly very nimble woman was dodging flying desks with the same intent. 

Darkness was crawling up the very real Bob’s body. He was destroying himself. Spitting mad and throwing punches wherever they could land, not realizing he was only satisfying the embodied emptiness. He was still being taunted, but you couldn’t tell if he was really hearing at all.

You reached them—him—first. Your hand slammed into his shoulder, something that should have shoved his astral form out of his body, but nothing happened. He rocked briefly backwards at it, but continued to shred his own knuckles trying to harm himself. It seemed even with your powers you were useless here.

“You have to stop,” you commanded, trying to be firm, trying to not sound like you were begging. But you were, and you knew it. Because he was going to kill himself and trap them all in eternity. 

She joined you then, eyes flickering only briefly to yours before she was trying to physically pull at him. She muttered something so quietly you could not hear, right in his ear. He ignored that too, just like he had you.

“Please,” you said, joining the effort to remove him from himself with force. “You’re tearing yourself apart.” You pushed while she pulled, but it seemed all for naught. “He’s part of you. Your soul. You have to stop.”

Everyone else had pulled free of their restraints too, rushing to Bob’s aid. You still talked incessantly, not thinking of most of your words. You knew what it was to be torn apart from the inside out, even if you had not watched it in front of your eyes. You were a lost cause, unable to stop what was happening in you, but Bob was not. Bob was not yet consumed into whole darkness, still had light and, it seemed, very real friends to fight for.

“Just let go,” you told him, still pushing at his shoulders with all your might, wrists aching every time he drew back to bully on himself again. “You’ll be okay. You can stop this.”

You looked into impossibly wild blue eyes once more and then you were falling. Tumbling. Forward and forward. Right into a mouthful of New York City concrete.

⊛

Bucky Barnes appeared on your doorstep five days later. Since your last meeting, he had been branded a New Avenger, and you’d begun to have nightmares. A particularly impressive feat given you’d not dreamt at all, happily or otherwise, since the day you’d been cursed.

“Bob keeps asking about you,” he said, without preamble. You both appreciated and cringed at his directness. You had been trying to ignore and forget about the entire debacle. “Everyone keeps nagging me because I’m the only one that knows you.”

Except you don’t really, you wanted to point out. You’d spent a grand total of maybe two hours together, in battle and out. Thanos for the second time. Tony’s funeral. You chose not to include what you had ambiguously dubbed The Incident.

You stood silent, gripping onto the door. You weren’t sure if you were going to invite him in or slam the door in his face. He looked different than you had known him to, both from before and from his incredibly brief stint as a politician. And, given what he’d walked into at your last meeting, you weren’t sure you much cared to know what he and his rag-tag group of mostly-not-superheros were up to.

“Five minutes,” he bargained quickly. “All I need.”

A little busy, you wanted to say. It was mostly true. Before he’d begun to knock incessantly at the door, you’d been trying to coax Stephen away from tomes and scrolls and into at least a nap. You’d accidentally sent him into a spiral when you revealed you were having nightmares and you were certain he’d not slept in three days. Unfortunately, your valiant efforts to interrupt his intense research were mostly met with him locking you out with magic you were currently incapable of undoing.

“I can wait here all day,” Bucky pointed out.

He meant it, and you knew it was true regardless. You had witnessed him tireless in battle, so you had to imagine he could handle a doorstep for more than a few hours. He entered as soon as you pushed the door aside, slipping through just as you’d withdrawn your arm.

“Don’t waste my time,” you chided as he admired the architecture. “You’re on a clock. Five minutes.”

Bucky turned back to you, looking almost amused. Like he knew you had both an unlimited amount of time but also none at all. It, in turn, did not amuse you. It would likely not have amused you even with a full breadth of emotion available to you. You didn’t often like people invading your personal space and time without notification or reason.

“Bob’s been asking about you,” he repeated. He was trying to whittle at you, that much was clear. He intended to goad you into asking why, into perhaps revealing some secret card he must have expected you were carefully hiding in some secret pocket. You offered him nothing, mostly because you had nothing but also because you did not appreciate games.

“So you said,” you acknowledged. “Would you like to waste your five minutes on repetition?”

His eyes narrowed at you. Challenging, but also curious.

“He doesn’t remember it,” he continued cautiously. “The Void.”

So, that was what they were calling it. An apt descriptor for the complete nothingness of Bob’s other self and the hell-like dimension he’d taken you to.

“Has no clue what went on in there, but remembers you clear as day. Enough to ask who you are. How I know you.”

It might have been smarter to deflect. It might have been wiser to make a smart comment about being memorable, or saying you had that affect on people. Instead you remained in steely silence, letting it sink in. He’d called you familiar. Said he knew you. Now you were the only thing he remembered from what should have been a particularly harrowing experience that should have left you only a minor detail.

Bucky continued after you met him with silence, “Coming from someone whose brain’s been in a blender, I can tell you it takes quite the person to break through all of that.”

“What is this?” you asked finally. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“I don’t know much about your mojo,” he admitted. “I’m just wondering if you might’ve done something in there. Something that can keep helping him.”

Ah. So that was it. He thought you’d left a mark on Bob magically or mystically. Perhaps something that could prevent him from going full Void again. It teetered on amusing. He’d witnessed how utterly useless you had been even with your magic, you wondered what he’d think when he found out you were without it.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help,” you explained. “I’m somewhat… indisposed, at the moment.”

You were expecting disappointment and instead met with suspicion. You couldn’t blame him. Something about the Void had shifted things, made you more useful than in the real world. It had breathed power right back into you for your short stint. In response to his raised eyebrow, you offered him the barest of sparks from your fingers. They fizzled sadly into nothing before even falling to the floor.

“I’m not being obstinate. I truly have nothing to offer you.”

“That’s not,” Bucky began, choosing his words very carefully. “It’s not the only reason I’m here.” You nodded, urging him to continue. “He wants to meet you. Bob. He says… he says he’s been dreaming about you.”

Well. That was certainly interesting. You opened your mouth to respond, but Stephen appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He looked haggard. Harried. Frantic. He ushered Bucky away through a hastily conjured portal that slammed closed in your face the second you tried to follow. You were left alone and vaguely frustrated.

You didn’t have it in you to seethe, so you made yourself too much coffee just to feel something and waited semi-patiently for them to return. The ticking of the clock was almost soothing. Metronomic as you sipped your hot beverage and allowed it to burn at your palms. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. 

At minute twenty-eight a portal reappeared in front of you and Stephen reappeared with Bucky and two additional guests. Bob, looking absolutely awe-struck at what was happening in front of him, and, glued to his side, the woman you recognized from the Void. 

“Hello,” you said, mostly pleasantly. You weren’t thrilled at having Bucky whisked away mid-conversation only to be further intruded upon thereafter, but you allowed Stephen his reasons. After all, he was practically killing himself trying to save your soul.

Bob stepped forward first, directly between Bucky and Stephen like they hardly mattered. The portal closed as soon as his companion followed. He was looking at you, drawing closer and closer like he was going to reach out just to make sure you were real. You retreated as far into your plush chair as you could. You watched the realization of his mistake flicker in his eyes. Literally. The blue that seemed suddenly so familiar flickered into hot gold and then back again.

“Hi,” he said, straightening. His companion watched him worryingly. “I’m—”

“Bob,” you interrupted. “I know.” Your gaze flickered to the woman at his side. “You, I don’t.”

“Yelena,” she offered simply, not divulging further. You didn’t blame her. She seemed about as uncertain about this entire situation as you did.

Stephen looked at you pointedly. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

Not really. Sure, you might not have divulged that you ran into the former Captain America’s best friend in a seemingly alternate dimension controlled by a deeply unstable shadow-self, but you’d given him the barest details. The relevant details. The rest of it seemed unnecessary. It wasn’t like you could take him back to the scene of the crime, so to say. After all, when you’d come to with a broken nose and a mouthful of blood there were no New Avengers to be seen.

“Hardly,” you responded. He was not amused.

But he gave you a look that suggested it was your best bet not to argue, so you didn’t. He took the opportunity to explain that he and Bucky had talked it out. (Yelena seemed to sour at that, but also did not open her mouth to plead any case.) Apparently, it was for everyone’s best interests that you return to Kamar-Taj to see why your ailment had suddenly seemed to improve. (You wanted to argue that it certainly had not, but admitted that a nightmare was a dream even if an unpleasant one.) Furthermore, he thought it was for the best that Bob come along for the ride, lest he turn New York to shadow again.

You were with him only mostly against your will until that last part. Something thudded through you. A knife in the middle of your chest. You were not risking bringing a volatile, half-shadow to the mostly-stable home that America finally had. It spilled out of you like fire and blood both. Cutting through your ribcage and twisting your stomach into deeply unpleasant knots.

“No,” you said. You meant it with crying rage, but pain had stolen air from your lungs and it came out wholly flat.

Stephen looked unamused. “I’m not asking you for permission.”

You opened your mouth to argue again. Bob beat you to speech. “It’s not normally like… that. They told me what happened. In there. But normally it’s all…” He tapped a finger against the side of his head. “All in here. Unless I touch someone.”

Really, you weren’t sure what that was supposed to mean.

“We’ve kind of figured out it was different for you,” Bucky added. “Somehow.”

They explained to you the interconnected shame rooms that had plagued them all. Or, explained the concept. Neither of them seemed keen on going into detail, and you couldn’t blame them. But still, it slotted together some things in your mind. The flash of Titan, Bob’s other-self declaring eerily that he wasn’t sure where to put you. The shame had been shredded right out of you, leaving you only him.

None of it was any comfort. You still didn’t like the idea of taking him there, especially not in the aftermath of Wanda’s attack. Not with America there. But you had never been in charge, and even if you had been you certainly weren’t now. 

“I still think this is a very bad decision.”

Your protests fell on deaf ears.

⊛

Bob was consistently fascinated by your humanness. You were a novelty surrounded by those who could still wield power and, to your great surprise, a man who apparently held the force of a thousand exploding suns. Everyone had really buried the lede there. You often found his eyes on you when they ought not to have been, but he seemed to take the hint that you weren’t interested in him. Not really.

It wasn’t fear. You’d have thrown yourself to his metaphorical wolves in an instant probably just to finally end your own emptiness. In fact, the great pit in your center seemed to sometimes call for him. Sometimes, you swore you heard the call of the Void in your own mind. What bothered you was the constant, searing, knifing-pain in your chest from the last dregs of worry you could scrounge up. It was the reason you didn’t outright tell him off.

There were two final hanger-on emotions inside you. Worry for America, worry for Bob. Entirely against your own will, you sometimes watched him back and wondered what it was like to live always teetering on the edge of great power and destruction. While Wong worked with America at your request, Stephen had taken up the Herculean task of trying to teach Bob to control abilities no one understood. As anyone could imagine, it was not going swimmingly.

Darkness always seemed to surge forward within him whenever he tried to use any power of the Sentry. Hesitance would turn to overconfidence, then to self-loathing whenever he failed to harness abilities at all or failed to control them. Luckily, it seemed to have proven impossible to truly turn the mirror dimension into any version of the Void. Of course, that was not to say it didn’t weigh on Stephen. 

It must have become clear to Bob too, because you found him one night packing with the intent to flee like a bad one night stand. Part of you screamed to let him. The other, quieter, most still-human part of you knew he was going to flee not to his friends in New York, but straight into isolation. You could practically see it on him, the heaviness.

“You’re not a prisoner, you know,” you told him, leaning on the frame of his open door. “You do not need to flee in the dead of night.”

Caught red-handed, he dropped the clothing he had been holding. All Bob seemed to own fit in a duffle bag, and most of it you recognized seemed to be from his time at Kamar-Taj anyway. But really, you should have expected that. You knew only the vaguest details of his life, but you knew that he had given himself over for medical experimentation for a reason. Though you weren’t necessarily a betting woman, you were fairly certain a happy, stable life was not what led someone to such things.

“I thought it might be easier this way.”

That was the other thing. Bob seemed incapable of lying to you. You were sure that it was not a literal affliction of his, but moreso a complete mental block that seemed to occur whenever you did deign to speak to him.

“Easier for who?” you asked. He didn’t respond. “I’m going to level with you Bob.” You heard him mutter please, so you stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind you. “It’s obvious you’re not planning on going to New York, which is the only other place in the world you should be.”

He shook his head. “No. I shouldn’t be there. Not after— You were there. You saw what he— what I did.”

A twinge. A knife. The hurt of it sawed at your ribs. “It might have been you, but it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for your darkest days to be given superpowers.”

His lips twitched. “Didn’t I?”

Stephen would have parroted something about informed consent, but you had long ago coaxed him into getting adequate sleep instead of wasting more of his time on the lost cause you had become. Still, it would have been a good point to make. Bob had not signed the dotted line on a paper that indicated he might end up with the ability to plunge people into their own personal hells just by a brush of skin.

“I don’t think so. Sounded like you just wanted to be… better. I know what that’s like. I just had the better luck of landing here.”

You had been a child, had just discovered you had abilities beyond your wildest imagination, and you’d been running from SHIELD. The Ancient One had found you, whether by fate or pure coincidence, and had become the mentor you needed to control not just what you were born with, but what she had wielded herself.

He was squinting then, searching in the depths of his own mind. “That was the… the bald one, right? She found you.” Bob looked at your face, took in something that must have read clear as day. You’d never told him about that, and she was long dead before he’d even stepped foot on the continent. “Sorry, I—”

“When Bucky said,” you began, then trailed off. It was hard to summon your thoughts. He’s been dreaming about you. You had thought it all memory of his own, the part you played with Void repeating over and over in his head on loop. You’d not anticipated he was seeing your past. “I didn’t think he meant like that. He said you were dreaming about me but I…”

Bob grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“Well,” you said heavily, “we should have guessed you might be able to see into people like that.”

He shook his head at that. “Not people. Just you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Impossible to break. Impossible to breathe through. Just you. Somehow, Bob was combing through just your memories in his dreams. Whether he was watching a supercut of your worst moments, of which there were many, or if he was seeing all the good too, it struck you as odd. Borderline scary. You wondered exactly how much of you was laid bare for him to see.

“Sorry,” he apologized again. A habit you were beginning to tire of. One that had been hard broken in yourself years ago. “I know it’s weird, but I don’t know how to stop it.”

Your mouth felt try, tongue heavy, throat swollen around nothing, lungs in a vice. The emotion itself hurt. The punishment for feeling it was only double. You forced speech past aching vocal cords. “Did you tell Stephen?” Bob shook his head again. You tried to scramble back to the absence of emotion. “You should… we should. First thing in the morning.”

Your only goal in the moment became a mad dash to exit his room. He was apologizing again, reaching out to try and cling, to make you listen. You didn’t have it in you to soothe his anxiety when your own was fighting out of you and turning your insides to ribbons. But his grip was stronger than you figured he intended it to be when it landed on your shoulder. It practically burned through your shirt, not just from the pressure but from his body heat. You had expected ice like before, but he was all fire now.

“It’s okay,” you managed, though it was not. You placed your own palm on his hand both in the hopes he might take the hint to withdraw and to try and make your words seem that much truer. “It’s fine. First thing, okay?”

Bob just nodded again.

You would likely have been ashamed to admit that you slept outside his room that night just to make sure he stayed, but there was no admission needed. The wake-up call you received was Stephen shaking you awake and looking at you as though you’d lost your mind. You offered him no explanation. Instead, you’d surged up with sudden energy and knocked a little too loud on Bob’s door. He opened it so quickly you nearly knocked directly on his chest next.

Much to his chagrin, Stephen was not allotted any time for such blasé things as morning coffee or breakfast. You, jittery with anxiety though suspiciously knifeless feeling, moderated a particularly intense discussion between him and Bob about what exactly such dreams might have meant. To your great frustration, Stephen seemed to make a point to keep a strict poker face the entire time. You could not have told anyone who asked if he was horrified, mesmerized, or somewhere in between. Even when Bob finished his explanation with great hesitation and a not-insignificant degree of mortification that had him blushing from the base of his neck all the way up to his forehead, Stephen said nothing of note.

I’ll look into it.

I’ll look into it.

And then he left like it was nothing of concern. You stared open-mouthed at the place he’d previously taken up. You could not have felt more frustrated if you tried. Bob was apologetic once more, taking your silence as opportunity to plead your forgiveness at the great invasion of privacy that neither of you had asked for. You just slumped, forehead to table, and found to your immense astonishment that you were nearly experiencing frustrated tears, all without the added pain from the inside out.

You shot out of your seat and left Bob with no explanation, chasing Stephen down the hall. He was walking at a leisurely pace. Waiting for you. He was a rat bastard and you were going to kill him. Another emotion you were experiencing without blinding pain in your chest. You grasped at him, stopping him in his tracks as you looked at him furiously. Still, somehow, you felt lighter than you had in months.

Not a question, but a fact. “You knew.”

“I had my suspicions,” he stated. “Needed you both here to know for sure.”

“Well,” you began, tears welling once more. You had seemingly become ill-equipped to handle any emotion at all in your months without much of it availed to you. Still, you feared there would come a rip through center mass, severing all of your organs as punishment for feeling anything at all. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

It had been the very first, most ancient suggestion of them all. The first answer anyone had found that seemed it would cure you completely. You still remembered it, clear as day. The earliest days where you could still feel mostly like real people did, when it only hurt a little to laugh or to cry. When it was no more than a prickle in the very center of your being. This one says you just need to find your soulmate, Stephen had said to you. You had cackled in his face and responded, What am I, a Disney princess? 

Back then, neither of you had taken your affliction too seriously, assuming that with time you would find a more suitable answer. He’d brought it up again when you got worse, a more serious suggestion this time. There were ways you could try. He suggested that America might punch him into several hundred universes until he found someone you seemed to consistently fall for. When you shot that down, he’d suggested a dream journal where you meticulously recorded every man you came across, looking for a statistical likelihood, and you’d broken the news you weren’t dreaming at all anymore. Even then, he’d moved onto more serious ideas. Now he was telling you he really thought that was what would put you back together. The real-life, flesh and blood counterpart of a near-demonic shadow you’d met shortly before eating concrete on fifteenth avenue. 

Still, you were horrified. It was not the suggestion of a soulmate. It was not even the suggestion of Bob being yours. Instead, it was the suggestion that you’d be asking a man who’d been through so much to stitch your soul whole.

“I can’t,” you said. “I can’t do that to him.”

Stephen sighed frustratedly at that. “So self-sacrificial.” He looked you straight in the eyes, hands braced on the sides of your arms. “It all seems to be proximity. He only needs to be nearby, as far as I can tell. There’s no saying it needs to be anything more than what it already is.”

Wasn’t there? The implications of soulmates were clear. Under normal circumstances, it might not have meant making you truly whole, but all the myths were clear: his soul would call for yours, and yours his. Like calls to like, you’d heard before. Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same. All rooted in hundreds and thousands of years of myth, legend, and folklore. All implying that Bob might not just repair what was broken in you, literally, but that he also might be the love of your life.

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” Stephen insisted. Ironic from the man who you’d watched utter the words I love you in every universe. “But between you and I, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to be loved the way you deserve.”

Things were not so simple. If you had once avoided Bob in general, you now avoided him like the plague. You weren’t sure how to look a man in the face and explain that you were afflicted by an ancient curse and he was seemingly the only cure. It was impossible to swallow the idea that you were destined to love someone who you’d hardly even felt a twinge of friendship for. In another, better version of events, you might have found yourself accidentally cured long after you’d already fallen for him. Instead, you seemed to perhaps do things in reverse order, even for how much Stephen insisted it did not need to be that way.

Unfortunately, word had reached both America and Wong via the way of Stephen’s loose lips, and they both had begun to interfere. Portals appeared out of nowhere, sending you crashing straight into him, leaving you floundering for an explanation after the third or fourth time it happened. To his credit, he was taking it like a real champ. He cracked a confused smile most of the time, not questioning why you were suddenly unable to form any meaningful sentence. Still, it was impossible to miss the vague air of disappointment that settled every time you found a new excuse to head in the opposite direction.

He smiled tightly through it until the seventh time you’d found yourselves transported to each other. You had been in the library, manually combing through to find any books that even seemed to mention the vague notion of soulmates when you took one wrong step and ended up smashing into him, sending volumes tumbling to the floor. He looked at them curiously, which would have likely been fine if one particularly recent book was not simply titled Soulmates in the Modern Era. You heated from head to toe and wondered if he could feel it.

“Research,” you chirped quickly, reaching to take it. He jerked back before you could even brush the spine, reading the cover and then flipping it open one-handed.

He skimmed the table of contents with great interest, then looked at you. “Interesting research.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, hoping he would just hand it over. “I have this… thing.”

You waved it away like it was nothing, like you weren’t actively trying to sever your connection to spare him from having to fix you. From being stuck with you. Maybe then he wouldn’t be plagued with your memories as dreams, and you could quietly slip back into the abyss you had grown so accustomed to.

“Doctor Strange said you were sick, is this…?”

Though you cringed at both at the revelation and the way Bob referred to Stephen, you nodded. “It’s related research, yes.”

He looked at you like he was trying to read into your very bones and you were not entirely assured he wasn’t. Still, you staunchly resolved that you were not going to elaborate. It appeared Stephen had already been loose-lipped enough for the both of you. It was meant to be a push, you bet. You were sure the cogs had turned in that insufferable brain of his, and he had determined that if Bob learned the truth he would resign to it. Which, of course, was the complete opposite of what you wanted.

Bob still had a firm grasp on the book, though it was now tucked safely behind his back. It would take a tank or some magic for you to get it back. Unfortunately, you had no access to the former and had only just begun refamiliarizing yourself with the latter. He didn’t seem to be playing keep away to frustrate you, but you certainly thought it was a ploy of some sort, you just weren’t sure what.

“Is it infectious?” he asked, quietly. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Because I can’t get sick, I think. Not anymore.”

If that didn’t crack you in two, you weren’t sure what would. It wasn’t like you had assumed he hadn’t noticed, but you didn’t know it had been whittling at him so badly he had resorted to hypothesizing. 

“No,” you said quickly. “No, it’s not that.” The speed with which you had responded seemed to cut equal to the answer. “I’m just— I’m really busy with all the research.”

“Oh,” he said thoughtfully. “For a cure?”

You tried your best to fake a very convincing smile. “Something like that.”

“Sorry,” he said, retreating to apology again. “I’m being… I feel like I know you, even though I don’t. All the dreams.”

It wasn’t that you had forgotten about them. You knew he’d had them, you knew he was still having them. But you hadn’t considered the fact that someone viewing your life while sleeping might get to feeling like you were a friend. A piece of them, even. You hadn’t considered that, especially for someone who seemed to be destined for you, it might be a version of waking hell to wake up and feel like the meant nothing at all. 

“Don’t apologize,” you said, sharper than intended. He almost winced at it. You softened immediately. “I just— you’re right. You’ve been forced to know me, and I know almost nothing at all about you. I forget, sometimes.”

You watched him almost apologize again, but he seemed to catch himself.

“I think maybe I would like to get to know you,” you added. “Once my research sorts itself out.”

Bob smiled. You thought you might drown in it.

⊛

You stopped avoiding him far earlier than anticipated, both intentionally and unintentionally. Your research had stalled out. There was nothing you could find that even suggested a way to severe that type of connection. You needed more time, which meant you needed Bob. Proximity, and all. It felt dirty to use him in that way, made you feel sick to your stomach because his mere presence allowed you to feel at all. Unintentionally, you found he was a very good cure to boredom and a truly fascinating individual, even pre-Sentry project.

It hurt getting to know him, knowing what your intentions were. It hurt to learn his every expression, hurt to watch him strain with every fibre of his being to try and coax his abilities into being helpful instead of harmful. The irony of feeling so deeply only at his allowance was not lost on you. If he pulled away, decided he was done with your constant push-and-shove, it would be the most fatal double-edged sword you ever encountered.

Weeks had passed since your last manufactured collision, after which you’d promptly chewed both America and Wong out so bad they’d ceased immediately. You had buried yourself in your research after, only to stall out after mere days. Since, then you had been nearly glued to Bob’s side entirely of your own volition. Horribly, he seemed to enjoy it, which made everything all the more crushing. 

There was a strange comfort in failing together, though. Bob had still made essentially no progress with his abilities since arriving, and you were no closer to your own answer than when you’d begun. Just a couple of abject failures wandering around the most mystical place on the planet, learning together everything except what they should have.

Stephen had nearly lost interest in Bob, now that he’d solved the real problem he’d been gunning at. Really, you should have expected it. He was fascinated with what he was fascinated with, cared about what he cared about, and could not be bothered for much else. If Bob became a real threat, he might bring himself to actually be concerned, but for the moment he seemed unamused. He held on for your sake, because of the sharp look you gave him whenever he became exasperated, but you knew that Bob was catching on too.

He admitted it to you finally after a particularly grueling three hours trapped in the mirror dimension. Stephen had stalked off like the toddler he so frequently behaved, Bob had found you reading under a large tree and you immediately recognized the look on his face. It was the same one you had seen the first night you truly talked to him, when he thought he’d escape to anywhere but here or New York. Resignation. A bone-deep tired. He laid down next to you and stared straight up at the sun, a habit you would have chastised him for if it had actually mattered.

“Jealous,” you muttered, nudging his foot with yours. “We lesser beings can’t do that.”

“Not much to see,” he said. “Just habit.” Then, after a deep breath. “You sure there’s not a spell for that, anyway?”

If there was, it was the furthest thing from your mind. “Maybe. Might be my next project.”

But you knew there would be no other projects, and you sensed that he was coming around on that fact too. He nudged the cover of the book you were reading, only to be met with some long-dead language he couldn’t hope to understand.

“How’s this one?”

“Hopeless,” you admitted, slamming it closed and tossing it to the side. A less bitter you might have been worried about how such an old book would fare on the grass, but you were feeling particularly spiteful. Powerfully spiteful, thanks to extended and close-quartered exposure to your deeply affectionate medication. “No closer than I was when I started.”

It seemed to surprise him. “You seem better, though.”

That was one particular thing you didn’t know how to truly explain, so you simply said, “You know, magic.”

He reached over you for the book despite all concepts of it being lost on him. All he really knew was that you were buried in the same subject you always were. Soulmates. You never told him why, never told him that it was the opposite of a cure you were looking for. He was fascinated all the same, despite how in the dark you kept him. Usually, it was enough to placate him when you just declared you were getting nowhere, but as of late he’d been getting more and more interested.

“What is it with soulmates anyway?” he asked, flipping through the book as though it was a question he was only asking casually. Certainly a hard thing to do when you knew damn well he had no clue what he was looking at. 

“What do you mean?”

“All of the research,” he said. “How does it help you? Are you just trying to find them before you…”

Bob had been concerned about you dying, as of late. You guessed that Stephen was dropping more and more hints in the hopes of escaping the vague mentor-mentee thing they had going on. If that taught you anything, it was that you needed to get Bob back into the hands of the New Avengers quickly if you ever did succeed in finding a way to cut your fated thread. You shuddered to think what might happen if you succumbed and Bob was still at Kamar-Taj. Stephen would reveal everything you had been intent on hiding, whether from rage that Bob had not worked it out himself, or out of spite at you. And Bob… you were beginning to think something like that might really cause another New York level incident. 

“No,” you said, fighting to keep your tone light and breath even. “No, I— It’s more complicated than that.”

It ultimately became clear he had been pushing you even when he already knew the answer. Your blood ran cold at the phrase I had a dream. Something surged in your ears and you missed much of his next sentence. He only caught on that you either were not listening or could not listen when you looked at him with an anxiety-ridden expression and said nothing. But then you were also beginning to think it must not have been the memory you were worried about, because he was not looking at you like a bomb had been dropped on his head.

“You were laughing,” he said, once you had sat up. He followed suit. “So I wasn’t sure if it was really a suggestion, but if you’re doing all this research it must be real, right?”

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” you said quietly, pulling up blades of grass. Bob didn’t say anything, only urged you to continue with eyes alone. “It’s not supposed to be a thing that fixes you. It’s not— that’s not how it works, for most people.”

“So you don’t think,” Bob began, then cut himself off. He looked pointedly at his shoes. “You don’t think something like that would fix me?”

The very breath was punched out of your chest. You wanted to reach out for him but that hurt you too. It always did. It was not the Void that scared you away from any brush of skin with Bob, it was the very idea that one day you would never want to stop. You ached for him in a way that you were beginning to think extended far beyond the simple repair of your actual soul. Some days, you thought your blood, bones, and every nerve ending sang for it. Each day, you denied them. But it was different when now it seemed like it was for him, like he was the one who needed it.

Heat and static radiated though your fingertips and down your arms when you guided his face to just look at you. “I don’t think you need fixing.” You recognized a yearning in his face that you had seen mirrored in yours before. “And it’s not— it’s an awful feeling to want someone, even in part, just because you know it might fix something in you.”

“But wouldn’t they want to?” he asked. “Isn’t that the whole point? Someone who wants you, all put together or not?”

You didn’t have an answer for that, and you had the very sobering thought that you were getting far too close for comfort. So, you let your hand fall away from his face and began to plan a very heart-wrenching escape route from the grave you’d dug too deep. 

At your lack of an answer he said, “Is there any other way for you? I’ll do it, whatever it takes.”

The problem was that this echoed a very similar conversation with Stephen that you had adamantly refused to take any further. The problem was that your heart wanted to stutter to a stop and give out entirely at the thought that Bob was telling you he would do anything, and you were spending all your time trying to find a way to make sure he couldn’t.

“Please don’t,” you all but gasped out, pushing yourself up and out his reach. “Please don’t say things like that. Please.”

It was foolish to think you could move faster than him. He was grasping at you. Not hard, but firm. Rooting you in place. A furnace against you, tears glistening in his eyes. “I can’t lose you, don’t you get that? I want to be what you need, so tell me there’s some magic way to make it happen.” From his mouth, your name sounded more like an invocation than anything. It took everything you had not to fall apart right there. “You’re all I dream about. You’re all I want to dream about.”

“Bob, I—”

“I’m in love with you,” he said. “Can’t that be enough?”

He was searing against you and you lost all capability for human language. His forehead against yours, eyes shut, holding you like he thought he could keep you tethered to life just with his own force. But it was as far as he allowed himself to go, even with the so-obvious ache you could see on his face. The smallest twitch of his lips from the effort of keeping himself from pressing them against yours. You damned yourself for it, but you did the work for him. You felt the full body warmth of him. It felt all at once like there was not a centimeter of your body he wasn’t touching. You were surrounded by him entirely.

“It feels right,” he said, still so close you could feel his lips move to form the words. “Why isn’t it?”

“It is,” you promised. “Of course it is. I’m sorry.”

He was on you again, all heat. It clicked inside your chest full and heavy, just like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

⊛

“To recap,” John Walker said, looking simultaneously fascinated and annoyed, “you were literally wasting away, killing yourself trying to destroy the one thing you needed to keep living, all because you didn’t want to be a burden?”

You nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

He rounded on Bob. “And you, you were ready to do, and I quote, whatever it took, to save her and you didn’t stop to think for one second that you were actually soulmates?”

“Also yes,” Bob admitted.

John slumped back on the couch like he’d just taken a beating. “I think I hate you both. And I mean that genuinely.”

“I think it’s downright adorable,” Ava remarked, but you were fairly certain that was just to piss John off.

Yelena was digesting the information and unnecessary commentary, stroking her pet guinea pig the entire time. Bucky, several minutes ago, had thrown his hands up in exasperation and decided he was done listening to the story of the two of you hopelessly pining like idiots. Alexei, to his credit, was enraptured and taking nonsensical notes the entire time.

“So, basically,” Yelena began, and you nearly groaned at what you assumed was going to be another unnecessary recap, “you are mystically married now?”

It was not the question you had been expecting.

“Oh,” Bob said. “Yeah, that too.”

“It’s a binding ceremony, actually,” you added. “A little more involved. Quite literally tying our life forces together. But sure, I guess you could call it that.”

“Outstanding,” Alexei remarked. “Would make fascinating rom-com.”

Frustrated still, John exclaimed, “Did you even learn anything about your actual superpowers?”

Bob shook his head. “No. Still can’t be the Sentry without the other guy.”

“My god,” John dramatized, “I think you’re giving me a stroke. I’m a super-soldier and I think you’re giving me a stroke.”

Everyone else ganged up on him, from threatening to actually call 911 just to make a fool of him or actually somehow inducing a very real stroke. You leaned back into Bob, muttering lowly, “I love you, but are you sure you don’t want to go back to Kamar-Taj?”

“I like them, unfortunately.”

[swightops]

yall im cooking up a rhett x reader fic 🌝 might release it when im done with my current bob fic or maybe when i’m nearing the end

the mood board that’s gonna go along with it 😽

[swightops]

still holding the silence - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - the world is moving on with the New Avengers leading the move. you not so much. warning(s)- typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), mentions of alcohol, language a/n - mentions of multiverse of madness, thunderbolts,CA 4 (?), this will probably become a mini series since this is wayyyy too long (around 3.8K words) but I really couldn't help myself, lowkey a sad x sadder trope hehe, pretty angsty ngl

It's funny how Bucky and his new team seem galaxies away from you, like characters from a fantasy. You shift in your seat on the couch, eyes glued to the huge TV screen. Reruns from the news report earlier today play different angles of the new heroes cycling with new commentary here and there. They seem untouchable, like heroes you only see on screen. 

A laugh mixed with a scoff makes its way out of you as you force yourself to get up and throw out the empty ice cream carton from your hands. You place your spoon in the sink, and as you turn around, you nearly jump out of your skin and see Morgan now sitting on the couch.

The young girl's eyes are trained on the screen before she turns to you, her lips curled slightly downwards. "That guy with the metal arm was at Dad's funeral," she says, and your mouth goes dry momentarily.

You exhale as you sit next to her, the couch dipping and her small body leans onto you. Morgan's quick to curl up in your lap, and you let her. Your fingers comb through her brown hair, and your eyes fall back onto the TV.

"Yes, he was," you finally answer, your voice quiet, almost a whisper. You don't remember your voice always being so small. You used to be louder, snarkier, livelier. Keyword: used to.

Now, everything seems to be muted. There isn't a new adventure or mission every day, and part of you likes it like that. After everything that's happened, you deserve to live a quiet, calm life, not wondering what monster is around the corner.

But then there's another part of you—one that yearns for the life of the New Avengers—your old life. Yes, constantly fighting bad guys was annoying and tiresome, but with it came the Avengers, your friends, your family.

And now?

Now, there was little to nothing to show for it. You look down at the girl curled up in your lap and notice her breathing has evened out. She's fallen back to sleep. Maybe Morgan sensed how sad the news of the New Avengers made you and sought you out to comfort you. Kids are like that, as Pepper told you once. That they could sense things that adults couldn't.

You shake away all your thoughts and lift Morgan up. You really should have scolded her for being awake since Pepper is coming early to pick her up. Guess there's still some of this "parenting" or "adulting" thing you need to get better at. With a last look at the TV screen, your heart squeezes again agonizingly as you look at Earth's newest defenders.

Good luck to them, you think.

You've come to the conclusion that you're a glutton for punishment.

Your fingers run over the silky material of your black dress as you lean back in your seat. Happy's eyes dart back to you for a moment, trying to asses if he should turn the car around back to your apartment.

You can feel his eyes, sense his worry, and hell, hear how loud his thoughts are. Not the exact thing he's thinking, but more so a general "I am worried about y/n, but I don't want to say anything out loud" thought. You aren't as gifted as Wanda when it comes to mind-reading. Or, you aren't as talented as Wanda was at mind-reading. 

The reality of your best friend's death makes you shrink in on yourself as you recall everything that happened with you, Strange, Wanda, and America. Why hadn't you been there for her earlier? Why hadn't you thought about your family after Thanos and the war? You were hurting, so surely they were as well.

No.

There's no point in dwelling on the past. You also aren't gifted with time-manipulating abilities, so there's not much you can do now to change reality.

"You ok back there, Kid?" Happy finally asks, and you lift your head to meet his eyes. There's a furrow in his eyebrows, and you feel bad about making him worry.

"I'll be ok," you reply, short and small. Happy frowns.

"You don't have to go to this, you know," he says. And he's right. You aren't required to attend the New Avengers' "Meet the Future" gala. It's not like you were actually invited.

You figured no one could say no to you if you showed up.

You could also finally talk to Bucky. You know that he and Sam had argued about the New Avengers, and when you tried to talk to the former assassin, nothing but silence came your way. It hurt. Downright ripped what little of your heart you're holding onto.

Realizing you haven't replied, you clear your throat. "I just want to say congratulations to them. That's all."

Happy isn't convinced.

You shrink a little under his flat gaze. "Do you think it's a bad idea?" you ask, voice smaller than before, almost like a child asking their parent if they're in trouble.

"Why do you think it's a good idea?" he says, and you furrow your brows. Happy's been on this crusade lately of flipping your questions back, hoping you do some "self-realizing." He read it in some book and you think it's bullshit.

As annoyed as you are with his questions, you give him props. Why do you think going to this gala is a good idea? On paper, it isn't.

You, former Avenger now turned billionaire philanthropist, who seems to be on the verge of breaking down in all senses, meeting the New Avengers, made up of people you know don't have the greatest backgrounds, whom no one bothered to ask you about. Ask if it was okay, if you wanted to be involved, what you thought—nothing.

"I don't know," you finally confess, and the car stops.

Paparazzi shout and flash their cameras, and you watch multiple investors, politicians, and workers walk up the red carpet and into what was your home, now remodeled for the new heroes living there.

The world seems to mute itself as Happy steps out of the car and approaches your door. He knocks three times.

"Are you ready?"

You knock back once.

"Yes."

Dozens of flashes go off, and the crowd intensifies as you step out of the car and onto the red carpet. You can see reporters call your name and wave you over for an interview, but you ignore them, simply turning to thank Happy for driving you and that you'll call when you're ready to go home. You breathe out before straightening your shoulders and holding your head high as you enter the tower.

"Ms. l/n! One moment!"

"Sunwraith, will we be seeing you join the New Avengers!?"

"Are you supporting the New Avengers tonight?!"

"What do the remaining original Avengers say about these new ones!!"

"What does this new team mean for the Avenger legacy?!!"

Finally, you make your way inside the tower, and you stop. Something, a mix of guilt and joy, you think, floods you as you look up. The tower's lobby has always had a high ceiling, but now, it seems taller, different, scarier. 

"Ms. l/n!" a voice calls out, and you turn your attention to the older woman calling you. Cecilia Anderson greets you, telling you that you look stunning tonight. She's an older woman and a politician who has donated to the Stark Relief Foundation and yours, "New Light." She's nice, has a good heart, and is a little blunt, but company you don't mind.

"Hello," you greet softly, your hand shaking hers. "You flatter me, Ms. Anderson. I love the gold tonight." Cecilia laughs at your compliment, telling you your dress is much more modest and flattering than hers. You let her ramble away for a few minutes, silently nodding here and there and laughing when appropriate.

"Shall we make our way upstairs?" she asks, her eyebrows wiggling up and down in anticipation. Your stomach turns.

"Of course."

Your heart beats wildly in your ear as you make your way towards the elevator. People are staring. They're whispering. They're pointing.

All directed to you.

Cecilia pulls out a small card from her clutch, and the guards nod at her. She turns into the elevator, waiting for you to join her.

But you can't. Your feet freeze as you stare at the ground. The world shifts, and everything sounds murky as you hear their voices around you. Time rewinds, and suddenly, seven years haven't passed since Thanos. You're still you, a hero, an Avenger, Sunwraith.

"Ms. l/n," the guard to your right calls out, and everything snaps back into place. You raise your head and meet his gaze. "You're free to enter," is all he says, and you force a polite smile before bowing your head and apologizing for holding up the line.

You step into the elevator, and Cecilia is saying something, but you're not listening as you press your back to the wall. People fill up the shaft, and you feel them looking back at you. You duck your head down a little to avoid their gazes, and shit, you think Happy was right. You shouldn't have come; this was stupid, so utterly stupid.

What did you think you were going to achieve by showing up tonight? Show people that you're stable, like all this "New Future" shit doesn't bother you? Show the world that you've moved on past the Avengers, that it was who you were, and now you've turned a new leaf? This plan was complete and utter shit. You can turn back now. Leave and pretend this—

The doors open, and people flood out.

Shit.

Your brain goes on autopilot as you step out. Before you know it, you have a glass of champagne in your hand and are shaking all sorts of hands.

Faces come and go as you're dragged from one side of the room to another. Pleasantries are shared, and bad jokes about how you've grown up so much and are much more well-mannered than Tony ever was. Foundation names are thrown at you, and you simply smile and nod. Questions are asked about you and New Avengers, and all you do is give them a cheeky wink and a finger to your lips, and they eat it up.

You don't know how many people you've spoken with, but soon your chest is filling up. You need to get out, breathe some air, and take a moment to remind yourself that you're a person and not some marketing pawn for these people.

"If you'll excuse me, I don't want to fall too behind on drinks," you say, and the older men around you laugh. You're quick to move away from them and out of the main room.

You walk and walk and think you're going the right way toward a balcony, but everything's different, and you're lost. Your eyes start to sting as you come to a crossroads. Unsure which way is the right one, you crouch down. A shaky breath leaves your lips, and your dress suddenly starts feeling too big, like it's not meant for you, like you're a little kid playing dress up.

"Are you ok?" a voice asks, and your head snaps up. A man stands there, his eyes big, worried, and cute if you're being honest. He's biting his lower lip as his right hand tugs at his other hand, and he's starting to shrink in on himself in the looming silence. "I'm sorry! Y..You probably want to be alone, so I don't know why I asked. I.. I'll just leave!" he stutters out, and he flinches when you suddenly stand tall.

"You can stay," you finally say, and some of the tension leaves the guy's shoulders. "I was just looking to get some air, but I'm kind of lost now," you add on, and you try to laugh to seem happy, but it comes out sad and depressing.

"Me too," the man adds and his eyes meet yours for a second before shifting down to the ground. "I can show you the way?" he asks, and his shoulders bunch up again, already preparing himself for your rejection.

It certainly doesn't help that you're just staring at him. Helplessly staring at him, he really wants to look up and meet your eyes, but he can't. Bob knew he was a depressing person; hell, he couldn't really use his powers because of how intensely he went from his highs and lows. But you, your eyes were just so sad. 

Sad in a way that made him sad—like it was oozing out from you and clinging to his newly tailored pants that still felt too tight. But with that sadness came a weird calm, like the feeling he gets when he's curled up in his room, staring out over New York on a cloudy, rainy day.

"I'd like that," you finally answer with a small smile, and Bob catches a glimpse. Seeing you smile makes his chest feel lighter, and he feels like he has accomplished something unthinkable. He nods, and a silence falls between the two of you. It's not uncomfortable or awkward, it just feels right.

Finally, you're able to breathe again once Bob leads you to a balcony. The lights of New York seem to shine a little brighter tonight as you look out over them, and it brings another smile to your lips. You remember nights like this when you and Natasha would sit on the helicopter pad and talk, overlooking the night sky. Sometimes Bruce or Clint would join you, and the two of you would gang up and tease the joining party about something embarrassing they've done recently.

"Do you come to these things often?" Bob asks, and your eyes shift over to him. Honestly, you forgot he was here. He was so quiet and leaning in on himself, as if he feared taking up too much room, as if he were scared of simply existing.

"I used to. Now...not so much," you answer, and he nods, soaking up all your words.

"Do they ever get easier?" he asks, making you laugh. Again, his chest swells, and he feels like he has accomplished something.

"You get the swing of them. At least, I did. You learn when you can escape," you chuckle, and Bob does too. "I used to get trouble for escaping." Pepper used to lecture you on your escape acts while Tony simply made faces behind her, which had you trying to contain your giggle in fear of being lectured more.

"I don't think I ever will," Bob says, pulling at the cuffs of his suit jacket. "All these people and all the talking...I'm not too good at that."

"You seem alright talking to me," you say, facing him so you can see him fully. He's taller than you, only a couple of inches, and his brown curls are slicked back with gel. You wonder what they look like normally. Your eyes fall onto his suit again, and you can tell it's tailored to fit him. Although he's hunched in on himself, you can tell he's fit and that there's muscle underneath. It makes you wonder what he does. He doesn't seem like a politician. Maybe an investor?

Bob flushes under your gaze and words and quickly coughs (or laughs?). "I guess you're just easy to talk to," he says, and you blink.

You? Easy to talk to? When was the last time anyone ever said that to you?

"You think so?" you say, your voice lower than before, and you also start to lean in on yourself. Bob's eyebrows furrow as he watches you curl up from his words, and he starts to worry that he said something wrong.

"Of course," is all he can say, and somehow, like magic, you're peering over at him and uncurling again. "I...I'm Bob," he blurts out, his voice a little too loud and pitchy, and he cringes. A soft laugh comes from you, and he smiles.

"y/n," you say, and Bob can feel himself smile a little more. "So, Bob, why are you here tonight?"

"I'm just here to support my friends. I'm not good at talking, but I already told you that." Bob chuckles breathily, but it's muted in your ears.

"You're friends with the New Avengers?" you ask, and you feel like you're floating outside your body.

Bob nods, unaware of the shift in you. His gaze falls onto the city's lights. "Yeah, they helped, uh, me a while ago, and now...well, we're all a team."

"Oh."

"What about you? Why are you here?" Bob asks, a soft smile on his face, and it confuses you. He doesn't know who you are?

No, he's probably lying. He has to be. He's friends with the New Avengers, Bucky, more specifically.

But, as you look at his face and see the honest curiosity, you know he's not. Like, he's incapable of lying and just wants to know about you. There's a flutter in your chest, relief. Bob has no idea about your past, what you've lost, and who you were.

It scares you just as much as it comforts you.

"I need to go," is all you say before turning and rushing away. Your heels click on the floor as you follow the sound of laughter and chatter back to the main room.

Bob calls your name out from behind you, asking if he said something wrong, and you want to turn, but you force yourself to keep walking. Everything is closing in around you, and your vision is getting fuzzy, with wisps of black coming into your view and growing by the second. The sting comes back to your eyes and fuck, you really shouldn't have come tonight.

"Sunwraith!" a voice cheers, too loud, too staged. You freeze.

The blinding lights of the main room rip the shadows away, and all eyes turn to you. You feel Bob freeze and duck behind the wall, retreating from the sudden shift in attention.

From across the room, the woman who called you out grins. Not kindly—no, the curve of her lips is wolfish, all calculation, like she's watching to see what makes you twitch.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the person who formed the New Avengers, starts walking towards you, the room parting like the Red Sea. It almost seems staged, like she was waiting for this moment all night.

"Or is Ms. l/n more suitable," she purrs, her gaze never breaking from yours, "since you're not avenging anymore?"

A ripple of talk stirs uncomfortably through the room, unsure if this is some show. But all of them are soaking up whatever's about to unfold. They're all watching, waiting for you to reply.

She turns to the audience. "Everyone, don't be shy! We're in the presence of greatness! A founding Avenger. A living weapon of light and death. The Sunwraith herself. Please! Some applause!" And like a commandment, the room fills with claps.

Your fists clench behind you, and your fingernails dig into your palms to create tiny crescent moons. Your codename burns like an old scar being reopened. It brings back memories, and it creates heat running up and under your skin and flowing throughout your body, a change from your usually ice-cold body.

Valentina tilts her head, mock surprise playing on her features. She steps closer to you, and you can smell her perfume; it's spicy and burns your nostrils, like breathing in cinder ashes. Valentina leans in close enough that everyone else can't hear her words.

"Oh, but I forgot," she says slowly, eyes narrowing just enough. "You gave that all up, didn't you? Walked away. Some say burned out, others say buried too many friends. Depends on who you ask." The crowd is still watching, waiting.

You breathe in, and your shoulders fall back. Your spine straightens out, and Valentina whistles low as she watches you puff out your chest.

"Is there a point to this?" you ask, voice steady, low.

She grins widely, "Only that the world doesn't get to retire just because you did." Valentina's grin sharpens, pearly and cruel. "See, I thought you might want a look at what progress looks like."

She lifts her hand theatrically, and your gaze shifts to where she's pointing. And then you see it, see the New Avengers, see Bucky. His presence crashes into you like a riptide. Blue eyes met yours, and your breath stills in your chest.

You knew the chance of seeing him tonight, hell, you were hoping to, but seeing him now, standing with her, letting Valentina dangle your past like bait for a crowd…it's like being gutted all over again.

Valentina clocks your reaction instantly.

"Even James knew how to move on. It just took the right kind of...leadership," she says, her voice still low, keeping the words between you both.

You don't move. You don't flinch. Hell, you don't even think you're breathing anymore.

Valentina tilts her head, eyes dancing with mock concern. "Aww. Did that sting? Or are we still pretending you don't feel anything at all?" There's blood dripping from your palms, and you hope it doesn't stain your dress.

You blink once, slowly, measuredly, and force your lips into a neutral curve. Not quite a smile, but enough to keep your image polished. The lights are still hot on your skin, the weight of every stare pressing against your back like a loaded gun. "I feel plenty," you say softly, voice sweetened just enough to mask the venom underneath.

Valentina laughs—a sharp, brittle sound that cuts through the murmurs in the room. "Someone's PR trained!"

With a swift move, she links her arm with yours and smiles brightly at the audience. "Sunwraith, everyone! A true hero for embracing the future of our world!" Cheers and applause sound throughout the room, and cameras go off as you force that practiced smile of yours to stay.

"You know there's always room for more," Valentina purrs, her teeth still locked in a smile for the photos. "Especially, for America's sweetheart."

"I'd offer congratulations," you say, voice soft and pleasant, "but I think you've got enough people doing that for you." She laughs at your words.

Valentina breaks away and steps closer to the crowd, her smile still pearly white. "Shall we raise a glass, then? To new beginnings? To heroes who show up when it counts?" She glances back at you, and it takes everything in you to keep your composure together.

Champagne is passed around, and people start to move again.

You don't. You stay frozen.

And then, once again, your eyes meet Bucky's through the crowd. You swallow the lump in your throat, and so does he. He starts moving towards you, but you turn and walk away. You can't talk to him, you don't want to anymore.

A shift catches your eye, and your eyes meet Bob's. His back is pressed to the wall, and his eyes are wide with worry and shock. You swallow again and keep moving.

You really shouldn't have come tonight.

[swightops]

still holding the silence (3) - thunderbolts* (b.reynolds)

summary - your first training session with bob has you both finding comfort in one another warning(s) - typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), a/n - IM SO SORRY THIS IS LATE IVE BEEN BUSY AND I FORGOT TO UPLOAD IT AHHHH PLEASE DONT HATE MEEEE! as an apology, I'll upload chapter 4 tomorrow and then 5 on our regular Wednesday 😇

09:37 AM

The Watchtower’s elevator doors part with a ding as you step into the marble foyer, your boots echoing faintly beneath the high, vaulted ceilings. You’re on one of the higher floors, one that was closed off the night of the gala. Your entrance into the Watchtower was thankfully not as eventful as you thought it’d be. You only saw essential personnel on your way up, and you mentally thank Bucky for ensuring no unnecessary people would be present when you arrived. You’re sure that your PR team would freak if they knew you were here. 

Bucky’s already waiting. Leaning against a support column with his arms crossed, face serious, but his eyes turn soft when they land on you. 

“Was half worried you weren’t going to come,” he says, voice low.

You pull your sleeve down. “Yeah, well, I said I’d come, so here I am.”

He nods his head for you to follow, and you do. The silence between the two of you is thick, heavy with things unsaid. Or maybe, heavy with the things you did say, especially last night. 

“You sure you're up to this?” Bucky asks, eyes peering over his shoulder to peek at you. You shrug. 

“No,” you admit, weirdly truthful all of a sudden. “But you are right that he needs someone who understands this Sentry/Void part of him. So, I can call a truce right now if you can.” 

Bucky chuckles, “I’d never win an argument with you anyway.”

You let yourself laugh at his words. 

A door hisses open as Bucky stops and lets you walk in first. The floor is matte black, lined with dampeners and sleek modular panels. A containment field hums faintly while lighting up the room. You follow the many electricity lines to the center of the room, and they land on Bob. He’s wearing dark brown sweatpants and a black crewneck, both looking oversized on him somehow. His hands pull at the sleeves of his sweater, and his hair falls forward as he nods to the person beside him. A head of blonde hair steps out from beside Bob, and you swallow. 

Yelena Belova.

Bucky leans in. “That’s Yelena. She’s been helping keep him grounded.”

“I know who she is,” you say, and Bucky just nods, feeling a little dumb for explaining who Yelena is. Yelena’s eyes met yours, and she smiles politely before she tugs Bob towards you. 

“Hi,” Yelena says. Not unkindly. Just…careful. Years in the Red Room taught her how to hide her emotions, yet you can still see the apprehension in her eyes. Bob shifts from behind her, his hand waving at you softly. He smiles awkwardly, and it almost makes you laugh at how he’s trying to hide behind Yelena and looking at you like a curious kid.

“Hey,” you nod. “It’s, uhh, nice to meet you.”

There's a pause. Tension hangs in the space between all of you. 

“I’ll take it from here,” you say, tugging your sleeve down again. 

Bucky hesitates. “You sure?”

“I think it’d be better if it were just the two of us,” you reason, looking at Bob, and when you see him squirm, you bite your lip. “Unless you’d feel more comfortable with them here. Or just Yelena?” 

Bob flinches before he shakes his head, “No, uhh, I’m fine with just us.” You nod before moving to a nearby chair and dragging it with you to the middle of the room. Bob follows without hesitation, and his eyes met yours—not scared. Just weary. Like he’s waiting for you to be disappointed in him.

Something in your chest tightens, and you peer over his shoulder to wave bye to Yelena and Bucky. They exchange a look, then quietly step out of the room.

“So, uh, you up for trying something?” you say quietly, looking back at the brunette before you. He flushes a little under your gaze before shrugging. 

“I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Good,” you say. “Me neither. Never taught before.”

That draws a faint smile from him before his face shifts. His lips part and then shut, and you chuckle lightly. “Is there something you want to ask?” His eyes widened slightly, embarrassed that you caught him before he looks at you. 

Then he blurts, “I heard what Valentina said. At the gala.” His fingers are tugging at the edge of his sleeve. “Super hearing. Can’t really turn it off.”

You suck in a quiet breath. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice smaller now. “That…wasn’t right. What she did. And what she said.”

“She was making a show of it,” you reply, shrugging. “That’s what she’s good at.”

He looks at you now, eyes sorrowful, like he was the one who said all those nasty things to you. “Still…it felt wrong. You didn’t deserve that.”

You shrug again, but your jaw clenches. “Let’s get started.” You walk back from the chair and motion for him to do the same. He follows, and the two of you stare at the empty chair before you lift your hand. Shadows from the wall come tearing off towards the chair, forming a small ball. It slowly unravels, the shadows fade away, and all that is left is a small metallic pyramid paperweight. 

“Yo-You did that?” Bob asks, his voice a whisper. His eyes are wide with awe, and his lips are parted as he looks from the chair to the walls and then to you. You laugh and nod, your cheeks flushing a little. 

“I’m going to float this. Nothing big. Just…gentle.” You focus. The shadows from the floor rise in thin whisps and then wrap around the paperweight, tugging gently upward. The paperweight floats an inch, floating steadily before you let it down. “You try.”

He stares. “I don’t think I can-”

“It’s ok if you can’t. I just want you to try.”

He furrows his brow and reaches out a hand. His hand shakes for a few seconds, and you both stare. Nothing happens, and Bob deflates. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to use this power,” he apologizes, his shoulders falling in disappointment and embarrassment. 

“Bob,” you call quietly, voice soft. “I’m not expecting you to get it right away. From what Bucky told me, you haven’t had these powers long. Cut yourself some slack.” Your eyes meet his again, and he blinks a few times before trying again. 

And for the next ten minutes, the two of you continue the cycle of Bob trying, nothing happens, and you encouraging him. Biting your lip, you step closer to him, and he peers down at you, standing statue-esque still, curious about what you’re doing. Slowly, you raise your hand to mimic his, and just as your skin is about to touch, you stop.

“Do mind if I touch you?” you whisper. Your heart’s beating too fast, and you steal yourself under his gaze. Just like you, Bob’s sure his heart is beating so fast that you could probably hear it at this point. Swallowing and untrusting of his voice, he nods, and you let your fingers ghost over his. “If just trying to feel it is too hard, try visualizing it.” 

A thin shadow strand leaks ripples from your skin and towards the paperweight. Bob watches with quiet awe as it wraps itself around the object and lifts it lightly into the air. You let it float for a couple more seconds before the shadows drop it and dissolve. With a cough, you step back and nod towards the chair. “You try,” you smile gently, and Bob nods. His shoulders shift back, and his feet shift slightly before he squints. He tries to visualize the shadow that came from your hand, and something under his skin jolts.

You feel it before it happens—a pulse of something too big, too heavy. The paperweight rises barely a couple of centimeters before crashing back onto the chair. Bob’s hands drop from the air, just slightly, like he’s afraid of overreaching. The bolt of energy dissipates before it fully takes shape.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, voice strained. “I thought I had it—I—I felt it, but it slipped.”

You don’t say anything right away. You can see the way his shoulders tighten, the way he shrinks back as if preparing for scolding. As if he expects disappointment. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say quietly, stepping a little closer. “That was good, Bob. That was really good.”

He shakes his head. “You’re just saying that.”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”

Bob swallows and looks down at his hands. “It’s always like this. One second I think I’m in control, and the next I’m not. It’s like trying to hold onto lightning. And when I lose it…people get hurt.” His voice cracks on the last word, barely above a whisper.

You remember the O.X.E. reports. The singular image with the people-shaped shadows on the wall. The phrase “a second presence.” You move closer—careful, slow, like approaching something wounded and wild. “You didn’t hurt anyone today. You’re learning. That’s what this is for.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and it’s a vulnerable, almost childlike expression. “I don’t want to be dangerous.”

You could laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s like looking into a mirror. “No one does.”

Bob studies you. “But, you’re different. You’re Sunwraith, an Avenger. You saved the whole universe and Earth like three times.”

“There was a time when that name meant something else,” you admit, your voice dipping low, like the words still have teeth. Bob blinks, surprised, and you let the rest come out before you stop yourself. “When you see the twin suns,” you say quietly, your eyes meeting Bob’s sweet blue ones, “the shadow that follows will consume you.” He blinks for a second before he fully understands your words. The name isn’t beautiful, it’s an omen. A warning. A curse dressed in praise.

You continue before you can lose your nerve. “You’re afraid you’ll mess up. Hurt someone. Let the other part of you out.” You don’t say The Void, but you don’t have to because Bob knows what you mean. “I know what it’s like and I’ve spent a long time pretending I don’t hear the voice in the back of my head, waiting for me to mess up.”

His brow furrows, the emotion in his eyes shifting. “And you’re not scared of me?”

You pause. “I’m scared for you. That’s different.”

Bob’s gaze drops. He rubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to stop tears from falling. “…You’re nice,” he murmurs. “Even when you don’t want to be.”

“I know a couple of people who feel differently,” you joke, trying to lift the mood.

Bob swallows, his hands falling and trembling at his sides. “Yelena and the others…they’re great. They’re kind. They’re my friends. But they don’t get this. They don’t get him.”

You look at him—really look, taking in all of him. “I do.”

Bob looks at you, and something in his posture changes, like he’s breathing easier for the first time in a long while. “Okay,” he says, nodding slowly. “Okay. Let’s try again.”

You smile faintly and nod. “Ok.”

Bob exhales, and this time, the energy between his fingers is steadier. His eyes glow, a dim golden-white, but they don’t flicker out.

You don’t tell him he’s doing great, even though he is.

You let the silence say it for you.

The elevator closes behind you with a soft ding, and you're alone. Not in the way you used to be, raw and demoralizing, but in a way you chose to be. The kind of alone that lets your breath stretch out past your ribs and into the room.

You kick your shoes off and walk over to the couch before letting your body sink like it weighed a ton. You peer down at your hands, open palms. Your body still hums faintly with the echo of power, leftovers from training with Bob. You should feel drained, but you don’t. You feel…loose. Disarmed. Open.

You think of him again—a 6ft giant full of nerves, always talking softly as if his voice would hurt someone, blue eyes that were scared to meet yours at times, and still too gentle around the edges for someone carrying something so massive inside. 

The Sentry.

You laugh as you think about the name and the man it belonged to before you think back to how Bob looked at you with awe and softness. You let your eyes fall closed. The memory settles inside you, light and quiet. And it doesn’t leave for the rest of the night. 

[swightops]

hehe im back on my rhett abbott brainrot 🫶

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐊𝐘 - 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊

𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7,214

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: returning to the small wyoming town you were raised after a sharp fall from grace, your music career having turned into mindless pop you were forced to churn out by your manager and now ex, a return to home is just what you need, the perfect place to take a break from the life of a pop star, and also to meet some old faces.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of drug addiction, drinking, bad highschool memories, cheating, frustrating miscommunication.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hey pookies, so despite only just finishing one series, i've already started another because im a glutton for self torture. not a huge amount of rhett in this until the end because i wanna get our reader established first, keep an eye out for part two and please message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist.

life was nothing but a series of twists and turns, followed by hard fucking drops.

from the moment of your ‘discovery’ by an agent of a recording company just after graduating high school, you’d been pretty damn certain life was going to be absolute roses from here on out. a promised escape from the country town in wyoming to the beaches and glamour of los angeles.

it was exciting, going from a nobody that occasionally sang in a bar or two in your home town to now having an entire team behind you, helping you pump out records and preen you for live performances across america.

maybe you should have known from the beginning it was too good to be true.

with the money that came from your bursting career, do too came the parties, the drinking, the endless supply of anything you wanted at your finger tips, any and all abuse of your health was brushed aside by everybody around you, to the point that as long as they were able to get you awake enough to sit in a makeup chair and put a coffee in your hand, it didn’t matter what you’d done before.

even with all of this, you’d managed to stay afloat with your manager by your side, the man you’d come to think you’d fallen in love with, he’d been there with you the moment you arrived in hollywood, it was only inevitable that you’d have fallen head over heels like an idiot.

he was just the same as the others, allowing you to put your body through hell every night as long as you were able to make him money in the day time, each time pushing you to harder and harder limits. more hours in the studio, songs written faster.

by the time you were four years into your blossomed career, your music had almost completely lost the soul it had started with, power anthems of love and loss reduced into standard pop that came with flashy music videos and tedious choreography.

it was bound to all come crashing down sooner or later in retrospect.

when you’d caught the man you loved in bed with your makeup artist, you’d thought at the very least that he might have at least tried to defend himself, cook up some half baked lie following the basic premise of “it’s not what it looks like.”

instead he’d only smirked at you, making a comment about how nice you looked, an evident jab based on the fact that your makeup was smeared from the night of partying and your glittery clothes were still on.

despite the fact he was your manager, he seemed to have no problem letting you crash completely.

with the tabloids pumping out images of you running out of the hotel looking the way you did, it wasn’t hard to out the pieces together about your issues, scathing headlines painting a picture of a washed up popstar going into a downward spiral.

maybe he hadn’t actually expected you to fire him, expected that you would actually have made sure you weren’t stuck in any sort of binding contracts from the beginning.

because when you’d opened the door of your hollywood home and saw your own father standing there, you couldn’t have held back the cry that left you.

you hadn’t spoken to him for at least a year, when he’d brought up concerns for your partying, the people around you twisted his words, making it seem like a personal attack in a convincing enough way that you’d cut him off entirely, believing in your heart of hearts that he was trying to jeopardise your career.

the day your father had driven almost three days out to LA to find you, when the tabloids had no doubt finally made their way all the way down to wyoming, that was the day you’d hesitantly allowed him to help you get the therapy you needed.

with a few final comments from your lawyer, the official word out was that you’d temporarily retired into rehab, and that you would be spending some time with family while you recovered.

you thanked the stars that you at least had hired a good lawyer, one that actually gave a damn about her job, you’d even dare say about you.

amanda was fresh out of law school when you’d hired her, a risky move, but one that paid off, considering that your ex was now almost penniless, save for the small settlement that had been offered in order for him to keep his mouth shut.

you’d damn well nearly cried all the tears out of your body when you gave her one final hug before getting in your fathers truck and prepared for the long drive back to wyoming.

you really, really didn’t want to go back home, with the embarrassment of public opinion of you, as well as just an overall dislike for the almost deserted town you grew up in, you knew you had to bite the bullet should you be able to recover, as well as try to salvage the damage to your career.

when your mother died, you offered to move your father to los angeles, more than enough money at your disposal to set him on a gorgeous ranch, but he’d refused, always proud; he’d always said he was born in this town, and he’d die in this town.

it was a pity you didn’t share the same sentiment in the slightest.

the long drive had been worsened by the fact that your body was still recovering from the detox you’d been forced to undergo, weak from the horrible sleep you’d been having, and exhausted from all the med’s you had to take afterwards.

you’d managed to almost entirely pass out within about 45 minutes.

even over the span of almost two days and one truck stop, your father had spoken very little.

there was much between the pair of you to be worked out, so much anger shared mutually that needed to be addressed.

when you hadn’t come back to wyoming for your mothers funeral, your father had never sounded more heartbroken over the phone, one of the only times you’d ever heard him genuinely sound like he was gonna start crying any minute.

in your barely sober state, you’d said some words you’d regretted the moment they left your mouth, the guilt eating away at you every day since then, and probably would for the rest of your life.

when you’d finally spotted the welcome sign for the small town you grew up in almost two days later, you couldn’t ignore the growing dread in your stomach, as the buildings came into view, you suddenly felt yourself becoming very conscious of the designer items you were wearing, having become so accustomed to such things that it became the norm in hollywood, but it was most definitely not the norm in wyoming.

the sunglasses pulled over your eyes couldn’t have helped either, considering the golden versace emblem present on the side of them.

intent on at least trying to hide yourself, you pulled your hood over your head and lowered yourself in your seat slightly, keeping your eyes on the road and willing yourself to not be seen by any locals that might remember or recognise you.

this entire town was filled to the brim with people that were proud, loyal; you didn’t have any doubt in your mind that they wouldn’t have the greatest opinion of the girl who ran off to hollywood and came running back home when it chewed her up and spit her back out.

“dad. can we go straight home. please.”

your pleading seemed to have little affect on your father, who only shook his head as the truck came to a stop outside of a diner you’d remembered from your childhood, fond memories of milkshakes and club sandwiches.

“no can do ducky, you remember what the doctor said.”

he held his finger up, reciting the strict instructions he’d been given when he became your official carer for the extent of your recovery.

“food every three hours, lots of greens and lots of protein, last time you ate was at that gas station, and i’d hardly call spicy beef jerky nutritious, you need a meal.”

you’d have been lying if it hurt your heart a little bit how much care he was putting into all of this, the man you’d always known to live off of steak and cornbread had taken the time to research all of nutritional information and requirements going forward.

and you’d treated him like shit and barely spoke to him for an entire year.

in no position to say no, you only pulled your hood further over your face, exiting the pick up truck and crossing your arms in the hope that your clothes wouldn’t be the deadest giveaway in the world, much less the fact that everybody here knew your dad, and by extent, you.

hopefully, a decent meal would at least do you the service of feeling like you actually had a full stomach for the first time in at least a day.

-

you were thankful you’d managed to keep the meal down, yet you were no less embarrassed when the waitress in the diner looked at you like you were crazy when you asked if they had anything avacado in it, a request you didn’t think was that crazy, seemingly reflecting just how long you’d been away from home.

when you’d arrived at your childhood house on the ranch your father owned, the sounds of horses in the distant pasture welcomed you, a familiar yet at the same time almost foreign sound to you.

one familiar sound however, caught your attention almost like a reflex, your head whipping back around to your father as he gave you a knowing smile.

“there’s no way.” you spoke with shock evident in your voice, only receiving a nod from your father and a shrug of his shoulders.

“i couldn’t find the heart to sell her ducky, you should have known that.”

with that being all the confirmation you needed from your father, you turned back in the direction of the neigh’s you could heard, allowing your feet to move on their own as you walked around the back of the house and to the fenced off area where the horses were kept.

and there she stood, her head shaking as she fussed, seemingly knowing your father was finally home based on the sound of his truck.

the gypsy vanner before you stood proud, her caramel and white colours practically shining in the sun. you thought your father would have sold her, you know how much he would have been able to pick up from selling such a beautiful horse, and with you gone, there was no one around to ride her.

aurora had always had an interesting temperament similar to your own, independent and stubborn, it was no surprise you were made for each other when she first arrived on your farm when you were only seventeen.

you were almost scared to approach the fence where she stood, terrified she wasn’t going to remember you.

even if she did, she gave little response other than staring across at you as you stepped closer, reaching out your arm and running your hand across her head with a visible hesitance.

if she hadn’t recognised you, you knew she would have tried to go for your hand by now, she always did refuse to let anybody ride her except you.

had you know that a reunion with your horse of all things was going to make you this emotional, you would have better prepared yourself.

-

the childhood pictures lining the walls of the living room in your home told a story that brought with it memories that were both happy and sad.

from the ones of you on aurora all the way up to your high school graduation, it was a colourful group of pictures that seemed to out forward a beautiful happy family.

until you seemed to disappear from the pictures suddenly, leaving pictures of your mother and father at barbecues with extended family, your own face very clearly absent.

already you could feel yourself dreading the emotional unpacking that was going to happen during your time home.

much less the actual unpacking judged by the suitcases that had been placed in your bedroom, the one that had barely changed since you left.

as much as you knew it would have been better to rip the bandaid off and unpack everything, you were so exhausted from the long drive you could hardly bring yourself to do anything except flop on the double bed with the bright purple sheets.

when a knock sounded on the open door, you raised your head to see your father standing there, a fluffy blue towel on his arm, and your various new med’s placed in a labelled container ordered by the days of the week.

“i thought you’d be pretty desperate for a shower huh? long drive.”

even with the overwhelming tension that seemed to remain permanent between you two, your fathers friendly smile and attempted crack of a joke had already started warming your heart just like it used to.

“thanks dad.”

it was all you could muster in that moment, the emotion seeming to take its hold finally as you rose from the bed to take the towel out of his hand and put the med’s on your side table.

“i’ll get started on dinner, then we’ll probably head in for the night, i got an early start tomorrow.”

even now in his older age, he worked hard as ever, with the limited hands on the farm because he was always adamant about not hiring more help than he needed, there was only so much one man could do after all.

nodding your head, you walked past him and headed in the direction of where you remembered the bathroom to be, saying nothing else and not looking behind you as you entered and shut the door.

at least the shower was a sanctuary where you could finally let the gravity of the situation finally wash over you, suddenly feeling so real that it came crashing down as soon as you stepped under the water and wet your hair.

your hand held over your mouth was seemingly enough to only let out silent cries, finally here in the cramped bathroom with the horrible water pressure, did you allow yourself to feel the emotion of everything that had led to you being here now.

putting your body through hell only to do it all over again fighting with detox and withdrawals, you could still feel how delicate of a state you were in, still finding yourself shaking on occasion or zoning out when you were trying to focus.

your war was hardly near over, that was the only thing you were absolutely certain of.

-

it seemed that your father had been more than happy to let you sleep in, because when you woke up and saw that the time in the clock read almost eleven in the morning, you were shocked you’d managed to get a solid nine hours of sleep.

maybe being back in a bed that was so familiar had done you a world of good already.

your meds were sat on the side table, along with the glass of water you had guessed your father left there for you, ready for you to take your first round of the day, a mix of tablets meant to stabilise both your body and your mind, a delicious cocktail of chemicals to try and make you feel even slightly normal again.

when you’d finally made your way down to the kitchen, a fresh set of lounge wear on, more designer, the fact made you cringe when you’d opened your suit case and realised that you owned nothing except designer, reminding yourself that you’d have to make time to go out to town to find some new clothes that didn’t cost a stupid amount of money.

with a kitchen that was usually left rather unsupplied, you were shocked to open the cupboard and see an array of healthy snacks and a multiple different choices of health foods, obviously your father had done enough research to stock up, even adding a few of your favourites that your certain amanda had been involved in selecting, because you knew for a fact that your father had no idea what matcha was.

only able to feel thankful for the support around you, you prepared yourself a drink for the morning as well as a small bowl of fruit and yoghurt, a nice light breakfast.

the sun practically called to you, the warmth against your skin being exactly what you needed as you placed your sunglasses on once more and sat at the outside table on the porch, beginning to slowly make progress on your breakfast.

when your father finally emerged and made his appearance from the barn across the dirt driveway, he waved at you and began to walk over, pulling off the gloves he was wearing.

finally walking up the small set of steps, he sat across from you and let out a sigh, the trucker hat on his head being enough to shelf him from the sun, as well as the cover over the porch.

“do you want me to make you a coffee?” you offered, partly out of politeness because you knew your dad always stopped drinking coffee after nine, otherwise he’d get jittery.

“i’m fine ducky, thanks though.”

the nickname was something you’d had all your life, seemingly originated from the fact that you’d always be found down at the creek as a child, trying to beat the heat by standing in ankle deep water and catching tadpoles.

nodding your head, you took another sip of your own drink, staring out into the coast field of your fathers property.

“i gotta go into town and try and get some new tools, just to the hardware supply, thought we could do a little window shoppin’?”

his offer was perfectly timed, as you’d managed to scrape down the last bite of your breakfast, nodding your head as you covered your mouth to avoid talking with your mouth full.

“i was gonna ask if we could go to town, that sounds perfect.”

with a satisfied smile, your father stood and told you to be readied up in about ten, giving you enough time to go back and wash your bowl in the kitchen.

-

town was bustling with life as it always did at this time, so many people going about their daily errands just the same as you and your dad.

while he’d taken the time to occupy himself at the hardware store, you’d excused yourself to have a look at the small boutique next door, opening the door which resulted in a soft ring of a bell.

before you’d had the chance to take a proper look at anything, you’d watched a head poke out of the back room, a smiling staff member greeting you before moving to stand behind the counter set up with a till and computer.

offering up a small smile, you kept your sunglasses on as you ran your hand over some of the pairs of jeans on the shelf in front of you, as well as some of the few leather pieces above them.

maybe they’d look nice with one of your sweaters back him in the-

your name being spoken directly behind you made you almost jump out of your skin, turning your head to see that same staff member standing behind you now, speaking your name out as if it was more of a question than anything.

as you finally turned, her mouth open led with a shocked smile as you finally got enough of a look at her face to recognise her as one of the girls you’d gone to highschool with, though you’d hardly call the pair of you friends.

“oh my god, i thought it was you!”

the southern drawl in her voice only seemed to grate across your brain as she reached forward and pulled you into a hug with no hesitation at all, your arms coming up uncomfortably as she let out a little sound of glee as she hugged you.

“i can’t believe it’s really you, big hollywood star back here! what’re you doin’ here?”

her questions were already putting you on edge, her peppy attitude and tight hug that you didn’t consent for enough to already send your anxiety going.

“i’m uh.. i’m visiting some family.”

your response only brought a look of sadness over her face, her hand flying up to your shoulder as she tried to seem comforting, only succeeding in making you more uncomfortable.

“oh i know, im so sorry to hear about your mama, when i found out i was just heart broken for ya’ sweetheart. it was such a shame to hear you couldn’t make it up for the service.”

the mention of that was enough to send you pulling back, almost bumping into the shelf behind you, your hand coming up in a stop motion which silenced her quickly.

“i’m sorry.” was all you could muster before you found yourself turning quickly, your anxiety to the point now where you can feel your head throbbing and your hands starting to shake.

your first attempt at integrating back into your home town was so far going horribly.

as you made your way to the exit and stumbled out the door, you collided with a passer by, only able to call out another apology as you kept your head low, a hand coming up to your face in some small attempt to alleviate the feeling of eyes in you that you weren’t even sure were real or just your mind tricking you.

finding your way back to your dads truck, you opened the door and practically fell onto the passenger seat, sliding down to try and hide yourself with prying eyes as you lifted your sunglasses to sit on your head, tears already beginning to flow.

you knew she hadn’t meant to upset you, that was what felt the worst about, she was just trying to comfort you and yet came on so strongly that it had sent you spiralling in a matter of seconds.

it hadn’t taken your dad long to get back to the truck opening the door and already beginning to chat to you before he saw the state of your reddened and puffy eyes.

“thought you’d have taken longer that that ducky! i wouldn’t have minded wait-“

as his eyes finally caught the sight of you crying, he quickly got into the seat and chucked the tools in the back, shutting the door as he put a hand on your shoulder.

“what happened? are you okay? did someone say something to you?”

his questions all came at once, leaving you only able to shake your head to alleviate his concerns, your hands coming up as you wiped your eyes.

“i’m okay dad, i promise, i just need to go back home.”

understanding but not pressing any further, your father responded by immediately turning the key and roaring the truck to life, pulling out of the parking space and making fast work of heading back to the house without breaking the speed limit.

-

It had been a good first attempt at the very least, even if it was ultimately a failure; you couldn’t blame the woman from the store, it was natural for people out this way to be overly friendly, it just seemed you’d forgotten that during your time away.

Home was a welcome sanctuary at the very least, a beacon of warmth and familiarity seeming to wash over you as you stepped back inside, wasting no time before going back up to your room and shutting the door, maybe you’d be able to just try again tomorrow, maybe it’d go smoother.

As you father spent the rest of the day tinkering away in the barn, you’d managed to keep yourself occupied with a book, reminding yourself to grab a tv next time you managed to get out into town, at the very least, with the your pride and wellbeing at a stand still you could remain thankful that you’d managed to get out of the lawsuit with your wealth and contract primarily intact.

The meds placed next to your bedside table were the first thing to catch your eye, your psychiatrists words echoing in your head like clock work, reminding you of all the little things you needed to remember, which ones you had to take with food and how many each day.

Your nighttime routine used to consist of expensive skincare, silk sheets and an hour and a half spent on going through your itinerary for the next day, all the appointments and interviews and recording sessions you’d be doing for hours at a time.

There was some part of you that almost felt as if you were in limbo, now all you had to do was take your meds and lay in bed reading, you hadn’t had this much free time in at least five years.

-

When your father had asked if you wanted to come out to the rodeo with him, you’d initially been hesitant, the idea of crowds only filling you with anxiety.

As much as you’d wanted argue, it was hard to deny his argument that it was a good opportunity to get out of the house, insisting he’d be by your side the entire time ready to go if it became too much.

His commitment was so strong, some part of you simply didn’t have the heart to say no, hesitantly agreeing with a smile.

A rodeo clown in his youth, your father was beloved by the community, well known on top of that, there was little doubt that you’d be stopped at least three or four times at the very least by people who knew your father, and by extension, also knew you.

-

With the stetson your father had managed to dig out of his wardrobe and a pair of true religion jeans, here you were, weaving through the crowd as the smell of fried food you’d never been allowed to eat by your personal trainer filled your nose, the sound of echoing rock music playing on the speakers.

Even now already, you were pushing yourself to keep your cool, letting yourself be put as ease by placing your fingers in the shallow pockets of your jeans, running them over the fabric to keep yourself grounded, occasionally bumping shoulders softly with your father.

All of this was something you’d been taught to do to manage your anxiety, even since you were only young, keeping yourself grounded by feeling and looking had always helped profoundly, especially now if ever.

Correctly predicted, it’d only taken about thirty seven minutes into arriving at the rodeo for your father to be stopped by a buddy, exchanging quick hugs and small talk, even allowing yourself to shake the mans hand and laugh at his comment about how he “hadn’t seen you since you were yeigh high!” and gesture with his hand to show how small you were.

After about an hour and checking out everything up for offer, saying hello to a few more buddies, your father led you to where you’d both be sitting in the stands, a corn dog covered in mustard sat in his hand, just as he’d always gotten from your memory.

It’d be hard to lie and say there wasn’t nostalgia to be found here, coming her with your mother and father so many times as a kid, whereas towards graduating highschool you’d attended less and less.

Your mind was interrupted by the sudden blaring of music, an announcer’s booming voice coming through the loudspeakers to hype up the crowd, eliciting cheers as a response when he’d asked the crowd if they were ready.

Unable to hide even the slightest of smiles when you watched your father cheer, you clapped your hands together in show fo excitement, even managing to let out a small cheer.

Each rider came out and received cheer’s from the crowd as their names were announced, some names sounding familiar, others not. A few people you could have sworn you remembered from highschool.

As time went on, even you started getting invested, at one point letting out a resounding ‘oooh’ with the rest of the crowd as one of the riders was thrown off his bull only moments before the buzzer signalled his eight seconds were up, laughing to yourself as he threw his hat to the ground, stomping back towards the gate.

Suddenly you were thankful for your father’s insistence, even if it had partly been due to the fact that he didn’t want to leave you at the house by yourself. For what felt like the first time in months, years even, you felt some semblance of peace, allowing yourself to enjoy something you’d stopped enjoying years ago.

One name out of all stood out to you only slightly more than others, only due to the fact that hid father had been a good friend of your own, even occasional business partner when it came to the sale and exchange of livestock, not exactly a friend as opposed to somebody you just saw a lot of when his father brought him round to your family’s ranch to give royal a hand.

You weren’t sure if Rhett had changed much since highschool, considering you hadn’t seen him since you left for Los Angeles, much less due to the fact you could hardly make out his features from where he was currently positioned behind the gate, sat atop of bull that already seemed to be sufficiently pissed off.

Personality wise, your opinion of royals youngest son had soured towards your graduation, the nickname he’d used to call you echoing in your head, the nickname that stuck so hard that almost everybody in your graduating class began to call you the very same thing.

When tweety bird first began to get thrown around, you’d only laughed awkwardly, hoping it would eventually fade, just like every other nick name did in highschool.

But even when one of Rhett’s own friends, the one you’d been crushing on hopelessly for months, had called you the nickname, hoping to be endearing, it only stung deep in your chest in a way that you couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t necessarily his spreading of the nickname that had caused you to dislike him so deeply; the nickname you could have brushed off as a teenage boy just being a bit of an asshole to make his friends laugh.

What he’d done that really twisted the knife, was tell the aformentioned friend of his, that you’d already found a date for the dance coming up later that year, only when you’d found out from a mutual friend that he’d told Rhett about his plans to ask you out, only for Rhett to shut it down immediately, for what reason, you still had no clue to this day.

It didn’t matter what the reason was, the damage had already been done; by the time you’d found out, the dance had already been and gone, a boring and melancholy event that had essentially been ruined for you by Rhett Abbot for absolutely no discernable reason.

You’d tried to reason with yourself and think of anything you could have done to Rhett in order for him to have some sort of vendetta for you, but there was nothing you could conjure up in your mind that could possibly be the reason why.

Whatever ill will he had towards you certainly hadn’t been helped when you’d spotted him in the hall with his friends, stormed over and told him to eat shit completely unprompted.

The last interaction you’d had with him before you took the final step and got on a bus to Los Angeles only a few days later.

There was a rational part of you reminding yourself that you were an adult now, that there was no reason to still be upset over something that happened when you were both teenagers, but to have had something that important ruined for you for no actual reason other then him just seemingly going out of his way to be an ass.

Well it was hard to call that water under the bridge.

The eighteen year old heartbroken girl in you had to pretend she wasn’t even the slightest bit satisfied when the cream coloured bull finally whipped him off rather unceremoniously onto the dirt ground, the buzzer ringing out only a second later, signalling that he’d failed.

At the same time, the adult that you were told yourself that it was unfair to celebrate the failures and possible physical injuries of a person you hadn’t spoken to in years.

“You remember Royal’s youngest, right Ducky?”

Your father had pulled you out of your own daydreaming with a hand on your shoulder, his other arm pointing to Rhett out on the small arena as he rose from where he landed, only able to quickly jog back towards the gate as the handler’s came in to herd the kicking bull back to its pen.

Nodding with slightly cringed smile, you watched him until he hopped the iron gate, disappearing from sight just as quickly as he’d been thrown out into the ring.

“We should go say hi after! I’m sure Royal’d love to see you!”

As much as you’d wanted to refuse, as much as you might have still had it out for his son, you couldn’t deny that Royal and his wife had ever been anything but sweet to you, inviting you around for lunches with your father a lot when you’d still lived in Wyoming, even Cecilia going as far as to add you on facebook when she’d seen you on tv for the first time, wishing you luck in your new career.

Even you couldn’t deny how good it would feel to give her a big hug for the first time in years.

It’d been a good amount of fun to watch the rest of the riders, to feel a kin ship with the rest of the crowd in the joy you all expressed when a rider successfully stayed on for the required eight seconds; how much you’d felt your heart soar when your father grabbed your shoulder excitedly, raising his arm and cheering with you.

When it finally finished up and everyone began to peel off of the stands, you gripped your father’s arm, letting him guide you out of the small arena.

As the pair of you made a turn towards the rider’s area, a gate marked with a rather large privacy sign that held remnants of familiarity for when you’d been backstage before a show, swearing for a second you felt yourself preparing to be bombarded by a makeup and wardrobe team just as you always had used to.

A tip of the hat to the guy at the gate had seemingly been all your father needed to be let through with you, his close relationships with most of the riders as well as probably their father’s as well carrying weight.

It had taken a bit of walking past lots of trailers and drifting past the chatter of lots of voices, some pleased with their wins, others audibly upset that they’d failed.

One voice that you instantly recognised as Cecilia made your heart jump a little bit, catching her in your vision just as you rounded the corner, standing with her arm’s crossed talking to somebody who you recognised after a few moments when you got closer to be Perry, the eldest of the siblings.

Your father’s voice called out to Cecilia, her head turning and her face forming into a gleeful smile as she waved the two of you over, your face slightly hidden under the stetson, your head downturned as you got closer.

“What’re you doin’ here?” she called out as she finally met halfway with your father, taking him in for a hug and patting him on the back endearingly, your arms crossing sheepishly as you stood slightly to the side.

“Thought you might wanna see who’s back in town!”

As your father, spoke, he turned and held his arm out to you, outstretched hand practically announcing you as you rose your head, only able to smile softly and wave with a hesitant hand, Cecilia’s face twisting for a moment before her eye’s widened and an opened mouth smile came over her features. “Oh my goodness!” she practically squealed out, her hands coming to her face before she stepped forward, opening her arms to place a hand on your arm softly, not quite pulling you in for a hug just for the moment which you silently were thankful for.

Reaching your own arm forward, you placed a hand on her shoulder, the soft fabric of her flannelete shirt being a great bit of texture for you to run your finger tips against for an extra little bit of grounding.

You could hear your father’s happy and satisfied chuckle, seemingly knowing how much it would mean to Cecilia that you came to say hello, considering how much she’d doted over you in your younger years.

“How the hell have you been, babygirl!”

Her voice was layered with a slight hint of emotion, a hand coming up to crush a strand of hair away from her face as she took a step back and put her hands on her hips.

You could only smile and nod, mustering up as generic of a response as you could.

“Takin’ it easy.”

Understatement of the century.

You wouldn’t have been surprised if she knew what had been happening with you, every tabloid in america had seemingly relished in sending your story across the country, all the details of your legal case and rehab.

Her face seemed to soften, her brows upturning as she nodded.

“Thats the way.” she spoke a bit softer, “You look beautiful, honey.”

Her kind words still hit just the way they always had, warming your heart to the core with her motherly nature.

Cecilia gestured to Perry, checking to see if he remembered you which Perry answered with a nod and polite hello, which you returned with a nod of your head.

Taking your arm in her head, it was as if you’d never been gone, Cecilia immediately going back to her old ways as she showed you around the rider’s area, making comments about how the two of had to go horseback riding together soon.

As the unavoidable finally made it’s way known, you felt Cecilia tap your arm, pointing in the direction of a trailer that must have been theirs, the door open and the light on, a figure stepping out with a fresh shirt and slightly damp hair. “There he is, Rhett! Get yer’ ass over here!”

When Cecilia’s youngest son turned his head to the two of you, he seemed indifferent, tired even, not surprising considering what he’d been through less than an hour ago, yet he still slowly began to walk towards his mother, running his fingers through his damp hair.

��You remember your father’s friend with the ranch down the road right?”

From where you stood, you could see Rhett nod, a polite smile coming to his face as he hadn’t seen your face yet, expecting his mother to introduce him to a stranger.

“Look who’s come back down for a visit!”

When you lifted your head, it seemed to take a few moments for him to recognise you, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at you, your own face twisting into an awkward smile as you raised your eyebrows.

“How’ve you been Rhett.”

Your tone was formal, nowhere near similar to greeting an old friend, which of course you weren’t, seemingly putting off just enough stand offish energy for Cecilia not to pick up on it.

Clearing his throat as he wiped a hand across his face, evidently trying to catch himself and pretend like it hadn’t taken him a moment or two to recognise you, nodding his head as he placed his hands on his hips.

“Been good.”

It was clear that the both of you felt the awkward energy, not entirely sure where you stood with each other considering the last words you’d spoken to him years ago, clearly he wasn’t sure if you still hated him or not.

Nodding your own head back, part of you wondered if he’d seen the articles about you, seen the reports from TMZ; some anxiety settling in the back of your mind, if he still held a dislike towards, it definitely wasn’t helped by the paparazzi photos he’d seen of you drunkenly getting into limo’s, or the pictures of you leaving court.

“I watched you ride before.” it was all that you could muster out, your brain panicking when you realised it’d taken you a few seconds of silence to respond to him.

Pursing his lips slightly, he managed a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked over at his mother briefly.

“That bad, huh?” he joked with a chuckle, your brows furrowing slightly as he seemed to take it as snide remark straight away, your head tilting.

“I never said that.” your tone couldn’t be held back, unable to not feel just the slightest bit stand offish as he furrowed his own brows, visibly taken aback slightly by your response.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something in response, his facial expression tellin you it was probably something just as equally snarky as your own, only to be cut off by the sound of your own father’s voice calling you over, Cecilia’s arm twisting out of your own.

It seemed Rhett hadn’t changed much, still holding some sort of idea about you that made it seem like you were a bitch, at least that’s what he’d muttered when you’d walked away from him in the hall that day in school.

“Have a good night Cecilia, drive safe for me okay?” you spoke quickly, wanting to avoid any confrontation that could potentially be rearing its ugly head, turning on foot before she could respond and walking back over to your father who was waving you over.

“Ready to go home, Ducky?”

Your fathers arm curled in yours, a knowing smirk seemingly being exchanged with Cecilia before he turned to walk with you.

“Absolutely.” you responded, a satisfied nod on your head.

Continuing on through the crowd that was growing thinner and thinner as you approached the exit, you finally made it back into your fathers truck, opening your door and buckling yourself in as he got into the driver’s seat.

“I spoke with Royal while you were with Cecilia by the way.” he began, turning the key as the truck roared to life.

“We’ve been invited out to dinner with them tomorrow night.”

[swightops]

still holding the silence - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

The war is over, but peace hasn’t come easily. While the world moves forward, you're still caught in the spaces between memory and reality—haunted by what was, and uncertain of what’s left. You're a ghost among the living, but when Bucky comes to you for help, you find someone who seems just as out of place, Bob. He doesn’t say much, but when your eyes meet, it feels like there's someone else who understands the bottomless pit within you. And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel so far away.

sneek peek:

"Or is Ms. l/n more suitable," she purrs, her gaze never breaking from yours, "since you're not avenging anymore?" A ripple of talk stirs uncomfortably through the room, unsure if this is some show. But all of them are soaking up whatever's about to unfold. They're all watching, waiting for you to reply. She turns to the audience. "Everyone, don't be shy! We're in the presence of greatness! A founding Avenger. A living weapon of light and death. The Sunwraith herself. Please! Some applause!" And like a commandment, the room fills with claps. Your fists clench behind you, and your fingernails dig into your palms to create tiny crescent moons. Your codename burns like an old scar being reopened. It brings back memories, and it creates heat running up and under your skin and flowing throughout your body, a change from your usually ice-cold body.

»»———-<>-———-««

part 1 -> the flashes from cameras blind my eyes too often

part 2 -> alone is when the shadows speak to me

[swightops]

another absolutely banger chapter! there's not enough words to talk about how amazing this series is and the writing is top notch!!!

def one of my fav thunderbolts related fics since the movie came out!! mc and bob just feel so real and seeing their relationship progress is so sweet 😭

there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds [part 4]

masterlist | ao3

warnings: anxiety attack, depressive episode and working through really low days, self-loathing/feelings of uselessness

With the Void incident having occurred Saturday, you had one day to settle back into a normal routine before returning to the tower Monday afternoon.

The thing was, Yelena knew when to expect Bob’s low periods, and this resulted in her taking you aside as soon as you arrived.

“It’s better when he doesn't know,” she admitted somewhat guilty as the both of you talked on the ground floor of the Watchtower. You hadn't expected to be ambushed on your way in, the two cups of steaming tea now settling into room temperature. “Things come back to him sometimes, but it's usually only with bigger accidents. When they do, he spirals.”

She toyed with her gloves, steel knuckles glinting in the little sunlight seeping through the windows behind you. You weren't sure if it was some unspoken rule with Nat and her sister, but they were all about bodysuits and hard edges. And they always managed to look effortlessly beautiful.

You glanced down at your high waisted jeans and knitted jumper before her sigh brought you back to the moment at hand.

“Most of the time he’s oblivious. It's easier.”

You don't particularly enjoy the way her eyes flit up to yours. It's a look of asking, of settling.

“I promised I would tell him,” you said. “I won't break that promise.”

“I don't know what you saw in there. I don't know you.” She drew her shoulders back, power in her stance. “I know Bob. He will blame himself for whatever you went through and it will throw him into his bad days much quicker because he likes you.”

The way she narrowed her eyes had your heart twisting. Nat did the same thing when she was trying to talk you out of something.

“He's done a great job so far.” You tell her this not to cushion your reasoning but because it's true. “He's been very open about his past with all of you. Less with his childhood, but I expected that.”

You glanced down at your hands, frowning as the lack of heat passed through the cups’ sleeves. While your favorite shop brewed the best, their to-go cups didn't hold up well. The time on your watch showed you were about to be late to your meeting with Bob.

“I don't want to trigger a low period,” you continued, “but I have to understand him for me to figure out how to help him with Void. Me understanding him comes with building trust.”

“Don't let him see it.” Yelena wasn't asking as she remained between you and the elevator. “If you want to be honest with him, fine, but don't let him relive it. Keep those memories to yourself.”

The words stung. You’d been taught by the strongest to hold your ground, but against the storm of Yelena’s stare you felt small.

What if Bucky was wrong? What if I’m not helping?

You wanted to be nothing but open to Bob, but that didn't mean you'd let him see things that were going to hurt him all over again. That's why you muted the shame rooms, why you assessed what memory of yours he was about to see and made sure you both warned earth other about anything that might've slipped your mind. Things that neither of you wanted to see let alone be seen.

The first time, you couldn't very well list everything you'd been through. Now you knew better

“Was never planning on it,” you murmured, raising your chin as Yelena looked you up and down. She didn't move from where you needed to go. “It's okay not to trust me, Yelena. It's not okay to make me late. Can I go, please?”

She blew out a short stream of air, her lips barely parting as she stepped aside, arm waving towards the elevator as she looked the other way.

“Thank you. Good luck on the mission.”

As the elevator doors closed, your throat felt tight.

You sipped your lukewarm tea.

Stepping off on Bob’s floor, you found him with his back against the living room windows, head turned to stare down at the streets below. He seemed lost in thought, not noticing your presence as you went to the kitchen to reheat your teas in the microwave.

You let your mind skirt his. It was a deadly quiet thing, tucked into itself. While not unusual, it was a sign he was falling a bit too deep into the wrong train of thoughts. He'd been like this the few times you'd visited only to have Bucky shake his head at you, murmuring some excuse.

You knew about his bad days, you just hadn't been around them. The relationship was still new then and besides checking in mind-wise there wasn’t much you could do.

After Void’s attack, you knew things would change, but you wouldn’t let anything change at the expense of Bob’s comfort. Whatever was happening inside of him, you hadn't missed how easily you'd been swept into his mindscape unlike the others.

Void had wanted you there and he'd gotten you. What that meant, you hadn't figured out yet.

Opening the microwave caught Bob’ attention. You couldn't help but smile as his psyche unfurled into the space, leaving you to draw back into your own little corner.

“Hey.” It was a soft word, barely making it across the room into the kitchen. “I didn't hear you come in.”

Bob's hair was getting close to reaching his shoulders. He’d mentioned how Yelena trimmed it from time to time, sometimes Ava if she wasn't around and he desperately needed it done. If how he kept fiddling with it was any indication, you would bet he was getting to that point.

“You okay?”

You’re not sure why it surprised you that he noticed. Maybe the mask you’d practised all these years was wearing down.

“I thought you hated heights,” you said instead of answering, nodding to the windows.

“I'm getting better with them, living up here. Facing my fears.” He tried to lift his voice up on the last sentence, but he sounded like he was making fun of himself more than anything.

You took his steaming cup out to cool. “You should be proud of yourself.”

He was tired. You could tell by his smile as he got to his feet and shuffled over. He was barefoot today, dressed in some corduroy pants and the first sweater you'd ever seen on him. As he grew closer, you noticed the bags under his eyes.

“Sorry, I let our tea get cold.” It was warm and inviting in its cup again as you held it out for him, popping the lid back on. Yours was half full and barely needed ten seconds to be drinkable again. “Bad dreams?” you asked as the numbers ticked down.

He sipped his drink, chocolate strands sweeping across his cheeks with the movement. “I couldn't sleep. I was trying to remember what happened.”

“I promised I'd tell you today.”

“I know, I just…” His hand went to rub his eye, but you grabbed it, carefully bringing it back down. You held his gaze as the microwave beeped.

“You rub it when you're anxious,” you told him, turning to pop the door open and set your drink aside with your free hand. “Skin turned pink last time.”

He doesn't pull away but he doesn't try to hold your hand back. You swallow and let go.

“Couch?” you asked.

“Sure,” he mumbled, following a beat behind you.

There was a throw pillow between you. Bob took to messing with the edges of it as you crossed your legs underneath each other, finishing off your drink with slow sips.

“I know it was bad,” he began, voice wobbling in a way that made your heart clench, “I just can't remember what I did.”

“I'm going to tell you. Look at me first, though,” you asked him. He did, head tilted down and everything weighed with guilt, even those long, dark eyelashes. “I'm not upset with you. I don't hold you accountable for anything that happened the other day, okay?”

He nodded, jaw moving in a way that let you know he was chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I'm telling you because I promised,” you continued. “And because I didn't mention something that I should've warned you about when it came to my past.”

Telling him about your interaction with the Void and the shame room that had surfaced from it had been the hardest thing yet. But you did it. You sat there and laid the trauma out in the open, hands clasped in the space between your legs.

“I knew we'd run into it, but I should've told you. Seeing that would… It'd make anyone feel like shit. I should've been more open about it.”

“Please, please don't apologize for that,” Bob whispered, rubbing his face harsh enough to worry you. His fingers shook as he pulled away. “I forced you to relive that and you're apologizing to me. That's not how this should be—you should be—”

You watched his chest shudder and uncrossed your legs, leaning into the cushion between you.

“Bob,” you called softly, “I’m alright.”

“This is fucked up. You should be angry at me,” he kept on, hands going for his hair. “I make everything so much worse and you don't—you're not—fuck!”

The curse was a vehement whisper. You could feel his psyche closing in on itself, wrinkling with pressure like a vacuum sealed bag.

For all of a second, you could see those piercing eyes in your mind and a shadow hand around your throat.

“Bob, listen to me.” You were on your knees on the couch now. They brushed his thigh as you grabbed his wrists, squeezing and guiding them from his hair. “Breathe. Take some deep breaths.”

He took a long, shaky inhale as you kept a solid pressure on his hands. With his eyes screwed shut, his chest shuddered.

“I-I can’t,” he wheezed.

“You can.”

It took some time before he found the air he needed. His tea was long since forgotten on the table nearby, but you watched him focus on it, following the outline with his eyes.

When the tension eased from his shoulders, you felt confident enough to speak up again.

“If there was ever a reason for me to be angry at you, trust me, you would know. I can't hide things from you, remember?”

He slowly nodded, zeroing in on your joined hands as he blinked.

“Everything we're doing together is to keep incidents like that from happening again. We're working to a point where you feel in control and until then, I'm here to help.” You nudged his chin up with the curve of your finger, aching at how watery they'd become. “None of this is your fault.”

Something softened the distance between you and Bob at that moment. There was this raw look—one of pure, shaking relief.

You'd gone through that dark tunnel in him and come out with your arms opened wide, no different from his team. That changed things for him, you understood that much.

The rest of the day, you resumed your latest lesson, keeping things easy and allowing him some space to think.

Inspired by his love of the library, you had explained a very important part of your mental fortitude when it came to meditation. You were well aware the concept wasn't new to him—having heard about the quietest place in his maze of shame rooms. This one would be better.

You helped guide him through his happier memories like the one with the library, crushed by how few there were before meeting the New Avengers.

“What's yours like?” he asked as you watched another bookshelf pop out of existence. You were beginning to learn how particular he was when it came to them.

The room’s outline was still hazy, but it was smaller than you would've expected. The entire team would barely fit and Bob was trying to find the right amount of shelves and books to fill it before even imagining wallpaper or flooring.

I modeled it after my first apartment. It was twice the size and filled with things you'd only dreamed of buying at the time but never did out of fear of up and running again. The windows were the best thing about that place. One had a place to sit and just stare out at the city. I was able to keep one measly mint plant alive.

There was plenty more in your safe space, ones that didn't make sense being in a hanging pot. You even had a childhood stray cat wandering around the place from time to time. The real Whisk had long since passed and would never be caught dead inside. You'd tempted her with snacks forever and had never gotten her further than your porch.

“Can I see it?”

Both of you felt the hesitation bubble up. For the first time since you'd introduced yourself to Bob, you felt shy and clumsy in the connection between your mind and his.

Sorry, you hurried to say.

“No, I'm sorry!”

It's not that I don't want to show you it's just…private. And it was in the deepest part of your subconscious where nothing was filtered or neat or made for prying eyes. Which yours should be too. This is just practice. The real one you'll need to meditate on your own time. Put it somewhere deeper. You waved a hand at the murkiness surrounding you both in the small room. That's why this is tricky and not really wanting to stay put. We're not that far in.

“No, I think that's just me.” The trembling smile in his thoughts was infectious. “My imagination is lacking.”

Says the bookworm. You're shocked at the nudge he gives you and laugh into his head. How did you get good at this so fast?

“What do you mean?”

You already can mimic body movement here and pinpoint me enough to touch me. Wanda had teased you constantly for how slow you were when it came to physically finding yourself within your own mind. You're more aware. I’m jealous.

“You make it easy to follow. I feel everything you do so I just mirror it—”

Both of you jolted back into your bodies as a snap reverberated. You watched Yelena step back, clearly shocked by how strongly you reacted to the sound as Bob grabbed the back of the couch, his eyes practically rolling around his head

“Bob? You good?” she asked, her hand landing on his shoulder.

He nodded, eyes shut as he gripped the couch cushion. “Dizzy,” he mumbled.

“Maybe we were in a little too deep,” you chucked, standing to grab him some water.

“I called your names like three times,” Yelena huffed, apologetic. “We're going out to dinner.”

“How’d the mission go?” he asked, thanking you as you held out a cold bottle fresh from the fridge.

“Great. That's why we're eating out,” she chuckled, glancing up at you as you grabbed your jacket off the couch to slip on. “You're invited too.”

“No, it's okay.” You struggled to get the sleeves from being inside out. “I don't wanna intrude on team bonding time.”

“No, come,” she insisted and you froze, eyes widening as she stepped towards you. “I was being a bitch earlier. Let me buy you dinner with Valentine's money.”

“What?” Bob murmured, looking between you both.

“You were not,” you breathed. “You're just cautious—it’s fine. I'd be the same way.”

“No, I totally was and you've been helping a bunch and I don't want you to think I don't trust you because I do.” This was quite possibly the most open you had seen her since officially meeting her over a month ago. “Like, I know how cool you are. Nat talked about you and I've made no effort to get to know you.”

“I mean, I haven't really either and she did the exact same,” you assured her.

“She talked about me?” she mumbled, eyes round.

“Is this a good time for me to change?”

Both of you looked down at Bob who was trapped on the couch with either of you standing over him.

“Yes! Go change. Wear some of your new clothes we got, it's cold out tonight.”

“Okay, mom,” he teased with a wisp of a smile, scooching off the couch as you backed up to give him room. You brushed his elbow with your hand as he stood.

“You really are learning fast,” you told him and he ducked his head, coughing out a quick thanks before shuffling off. You watched him go, eyes drawn to the length of his back as his hand went up to run through his hair.

“Did everything go okay?”

You blinked, looking back at Yelena and nodding. “I think so. I'm trying to show him how to meditate in his own safe space when he's feeling overwhelmed.”

“And Void?” she questioned, whispering.

You crossed your arms loosely, glancing towards the hall.

He has super hearing, you told her. She jerked her head back at your voice in her head. Sorry. I just know he has super hearing with the thoughts that pass through his head. I don't want to worry him.

“It's getting better. I help keep him at bay when he gets too loud,” you explained, but your eyes told the rest of the story.

She nodded. “Did anything else happen with Void?”

No, but I can tell Bob’s retreating into himself a lot more. You thought it might be a sign of those bad days coming around the corner. Can you tell me more about how he is during his depressive episodes?

“He wants to stay in bed. Barely eats. We try to keep him in the main room so he isn't as shut off from everything since we all pass through there for stuff, but sometimes leaving him be and checking in around the clock is the only thing we can do.” You sensed how hopeless she felt as she explained. “He doesn't want to be treated like a child, so we try to give him his space.”

You're doing the best you can. Hopefully, Dr. Arlington will be able to help him with it. Once he knew how to spot these low periods coming, he'd be one step ahead.

“He has been a little better,” Yelena offered, picking up your to-go cups to throw away. You thanked her. “The first month, the episodes were worse than they are now.”

You've given him a home. There's lots of stress being on the streets. It made everything worse.

She nodded, turning and pursing her lips into a smile as Bob appeared from his room. You bit your lip as he fumbled with a beanie, his overcoat a nice mellow brown like his pants.

“You coming?” he asked, sunken eyes a bit lighter as they landed on you.

“Yes,” answered Yelena before you had the chance, “she is.”

It was a cold night as you all piled into a limo, Alexei begging someone to drink with him as Ava swiped through the menu of the restaurant on her phone.

“So you just live with us now, or…?”

You quirked a smile at Walker, shrugging. “Everyday but the weekends.”

“You were here Sunday.”

Bob sank lower in his seat next to you, now aware of everything that had gone down early that morning. You brushed your leg against his.

“Would've been a boring weekend if I hadn't been,” you said, holding Walker’s eye.

“What exactly is your deal though?” His hands opened where they were resting on either of his thighs, gesturing. “Just petty little mind tricks? What color am I thinking of?”

“Cool it, Walker,” Bucky warned from the head seat, eyes slim and unshaking.

You smiled as you looked down at Walker's arm, watching his smug face follow your gaze. He made a choked grunt as he swatted at his sleeve and you scoffed, letting the illusion of the spider vanish from his mind’s eye.

The car pulled to a stop outside the restaurant as he scowled at you.

“It was blue,” you said, leaning over to open the door.

Bob was smiling into his shoulder as he stepped out behind you.

You knew how quickly a depressive episode could hit, but you were still blindsided when Bob refused to see you the following day.

Yelena didn't bother with an “I told you so.” She did drag you along to the newly finished gym floor, wanting to see what you remembered from your training. This was her way of wanting to spend time with you and to really get to know you and you couldn't have been more ecstatic.

Since you stayed around the tower, you made a point to make your presence known to Bob’s mind before being thrown into the ring with the infamous assassin. He didn't say anything as you brushed by him, but it wasn't long before you were dodging fists and getting your ass handed to you on the mat.

It took a few rounds for you to get back into the swing of things. Yelena fought with a familiar style, heavier with her kicks and more likely to block than dodge. The best you got was swiping her feet out from beneath her. Everything else ended in a new bruise.

By late afternoon, you had taken to reading a book on the top floor in Bob’s alcove. Bucky and Ava were there doing research on some rising crime ring, but you weren't in the mood to stick your nose in that mess.

A text from Yelena revealed she'd gotten Bob to eat something and that he was doing better with Cucumber to keep him company.

Confused, you typed out the question before you felt Bob wavering near your psyche. You reached out to ask him instead.

Who’s Cucumber? He didn't say anything, but you got a quick flash of an orange and white guinea pig scuttling over a comforter. He seemed amused by your jealousy before you returned to your book, allowing him to trickle into your thoughts and listen as you read.

You left the tower a while after without a single word from him.

The next day, his bedroom door was open. Everyone was out and he was still in bed when you arrived, hair tangled and eyes distant.

He started to apologize when he noticed you. Shaking your head to silence him, you sat on the floor next to his bed, setting the tea you'd brought on the bedside table.

“He's so loud today,” he mumbled, old tear streaks drying in the corners of his eyes.

“Want some help?”

He sniffed and nodded minutely.

You kept your guard up when you found the writhing dark mass in his head, sweeping it up into a ball and sectioning it off for a while. The weight wasn't easy but seeing the relief on Bob’s face as you took hold of it was enough for you to bury the discomfort.

You could carry it for an hour or two. For him.

“What keeps you going?” he'd asked Wednesday. He had gotten as far as the couch, munching on a piece of toast but not really eating it. You'd brought some of your favorite broth from a place nearby in hopes he might try some. If not, more for you.

“I want to make old friends proud.” You flipped through some files from your other job, refreshing yourself on your next ‘client’ coming up. You had already made sure to leave out anything that might trigger wandering eyes. “Use what skills I have to help people.”

“Why do you care?”

It was an empty question, but you answered.

“I was in a bad spot for a long time. There wasn't room for me to stop and think about what I wanted to do.” You turned to smile at him, happy to find his head resting against a cushion and those eyes blinking at you. “I'm better now and I like helping people however I can.”

“Don't you get tired of it?” he sighed. You couldn't see auras but he felt overwhelmingly blue today—the hue that you saw when a sun glinted off a glacier. “Your job is the same thing, over and over.”

“It was,” you agreed, flipping to another page, “then I got to meet you. You're much more fun to hang around.”

“Even like this?”

You reached out to him in his head, making sure he felt your words as well as heard them. “Even like this,” you promised.

It was the first smile you'd gotten out of him in days.

Thursday had its challenges. Yelena had to drag Bob to get ready for therapy and into your car, a firm hand where you couldn't be.

At the office, you were on the other side of the wall when you felt Void flare up. Dr. Arlington has touched something sore in Bob, enough for that darkness to writhe.

By the time the session was finished, you were sweating under your clothes with a headache getting worse by the minute. Holding Void back wasn't usually so physically draining, but you'd been having an off week.

“This is pointless.”

“No, it's not,” you murmured, parking the car. You had just gotten back to the Watchtower and Bob was brooding.

“I haven't made any progress against Void. He keeps—” his hands were tense as he held them in front of him, gripping at something you couldn't see. “He's everywhere.”

“You've kept it under control.”

“Because of you!” His voice rose, leaving you to wince from the pounding in your head. “Its not me. I can't do anything against him.”

“You're the one holding him back constantly.” You kept your tone neutral as you opened the car door and walked around to get his. He scowled up at you. “If you weren't doing anything, all of New York would be caught in shame rooms. Now come on, I need some aspirin.”

As you gulped water in the kitchen, Bob paced by the window. He muttered to himself, psyche twinging and growing more and more compact. He was tugging at his hair again.

Leaning back against the sink, you eased your mind against his. He paused his muttering to glance at you but continued his back and forth. At least he had energy today.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head, pushing out a heavy breath as his hair went in his eyes.

“Your hair’s gotten long,” you said.

“I'm tired of washing it.”

“Want me to cut it?” You felt him rippling, holding too much in. “It's okay, Bob.”

“Nothing feels okay,” he admitted. “I'm tired but I don't want to lay down. I'm angry but I don't know what I'm angry at.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

You gasped as his mind expanded, nuzzling into yours like a cat into your palm. An onslaught of thoughts and emotions blindsided you.

Hold me. Help me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be asking her for help. She's done too much already. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of me. Nothing matters. She matters. I don't want to be here but I don't want her to leave.

The first thing you thought to do was envelope his psyche with your own, holding him in a different sense, something you weren't used to. His feet finally slowed to a stop, muscles unclenching.

You let him get used to your presence around him before you slowly stepped towards him and offered your hand. When he took it, his grip shook with an intensity you'd never felt but he refused to put any pressure against your skin.

It's okay, you told him, I'm here.

He nodded, sniffing but there were no tears. He refused to let himself cry. He felt less for it and it felt like a knife to your gut.

“Do you know how to?” You hummed, squeezing his hand for an explanation. “Cut hair?”

Yeah. Well, men's hair. You tugged him towards the hall. I wouldn't trust myself with anything fancy, but I can trim it.

You had him wait in the bathroom as you grabbed a chair from the dining room and a pillow from the couch. You ran a brush through greasy tangles and wrapped a towel around his shoulders, getting him as comfortable as possible before leaning him back into the sink to wash his hair.

His eyes followed your face with every action. You pretended it didn't send your heart somewhere high in your throat as a soft playlist echoed from your phone.

You were able to breathe when he closed them, relaxing into the sensation of your fingers against his scalp. Somewhere between the suds and the rinsing, his hand found your leg and stayed there, anchoring himself.

You should move it. There should be a line there, but you knew through the connection that there hadn't been any forethought to it. He had done it unintentionally.

And a small part of you didn't want him to move his hand.

What am I doing?

It was hard. Hard because you knew what you came here to do and you were doing it—you were helping him and training him just as you said you would. You had become a pillar you'd sought to be.

Bob knew he could trust you and despite the chaos pooling under his skin, you trusted him. You couldn't find any part of you that was afraid even in the passing nightmares of Void wanting nothing more than your pain. You'd felt everything for a blink of an eye when your psyche had sunk into him.

You understood why Bob could never find the right words to describe Void. It wasn't this separate thing and it wasn't him, except somehow at the cure of everything Void was Bob.

This entire time with Bob during the week all you've felt were reflections of Void when all you sensed was the sweet man fighting, but that darkness was still in a corner. Still on that horizon, watching and waiting.

And it was desperate. It clawed at your barrier, searched for way in at every chance when you were forced to take over and hold it for Bob’s sake.

But now Void whispered. He knocked. There was a game afoot and whatever he was—a piece of Bob or not—he was patient.

You knew it was only a matter of time before you had to face him again.

“Did it feel like this?”

You blinked, pausing your snipping to glance up at the mirror and meet Bob's rounded gaze. There was light in them again and you're not sure what changed or when.

“You said you were close with Yelena’s sister and Wanda because you were in their heads a lot,” he explained. “Did it feel like this?”

“Like what?” you murmured, swiping some fallen hair off his neck and feeling a shudder work up his spine.

“Like you can only breathe when they're in the room.”

You tried to swallow but there was something stuck in your throat. You focused on the scissors, on evening out the hairs around his ears and your eyes watered because he had curly hair and you were only able to notice it now with all that weight gone.

You found your strength as you finished combing the strands into place and shook the towel around his shoulders clean of debris.

“The way we dive into each other’s subconscious,” you began carefully, “it can be overwhelming.”

He nodded, staring down at his hands as he picked around his nails. “Yeah, I-I've talked to Dr. Arlington about it a bit.”

“That's good. I'm glad you're able to be open with her.” You threw the towel into a fancy hamper nearby, almost sure of the fact it had not been Bob’s choice to have it included in the bathroom. Then again, most of it was undecorated unlike his bedroom. “That's another reason why I wanted you to see her. I want to be able to help you, but I don't want you to believe I'm the only thing that can help. Does that make sense?”

He hummed, nodding. “Sorry. It was a weird question to ask—”

“None of this normal,” you chuckled dryly. “I think a few weird questions are warranted. And you and I have to have our boundaries, especially in our heads.”

“Right.” He blew out a breath and raised his gaze to meet yours in the mirror once more. “I don't want to make you feel like you have to take care of me, you know?”

“I know.” You wrinkled your nose. “You did need a haircut, though. It was getting rough.”

The laugh that escaped him sounded like it took him by surprise. It was only then he paid mind to your handy work, tilting his head every which way to check the length.

“This is really good,” he said and you shrugged, amazed by your average skillset as well but too shy to admit it.

“You have curly hair,” you told him instead.

“It's a lot healthier now,” he explained, running a hand through the tufts. “Maybe my super powers healed my hair genetics or something.”

You snorted at that. “Okay, sure. Where's a broom?”

Bob turned in the chair, a flat look on his face. “They don't have one.”

“What?”

“Alexei made Val buy a Roomba for every floor,” he sighed.

“What?” you laughed.

By the end of the week, Bob was back in a middle ground state. He'd been working on his meditating, building that safe room of his brick by brick. You refused to see it when he offered, wanting him to have that space all to himself just as you had yours.

He'd already allowed you into his bedroom and that had felt a bit too intimate when you stopped and thought about it. But the need for comfort in Bob was high, and his room reflected that in the sweetest ways. He was doing everything he could to fill his designated space slowly but surely, large bookshelves against one wall that were in desperate need of more novels, a fluffy rug beneath a king-sized bed, and a couple of movie posters surrounding a corner dedicated to watching TV on a cozy looking couch that Tony would have burned for even being brought through the door.

Now after another week of easing back into training, you spent your time together by poking and prodding him. Bob wasn’t thrilled, but he wasn't going to question your methods. The point was to defend himself.

Now it was time for you to pull out all the stops.

“We'll make a competition out of it,” you said, sitting cross-legged ahead of him on the floor, “it'll make things interesting.”

“Is having a mind battle not interesting enough?” he mumbled, only a bit amused while picking at the rug beneath you both. It was almost the same shade of brown as his button up. “You’re gonna beat me.”

“We've practiced all week and you've been able to block me out in our lessons.” Those blue eyes shied away at the slightest hint of praise, but unfortunately for him you were full of it. “You're a fast learner, years ahead of me, okay?”

He chewed at the inside of his cheek, hiding a smile as he used his shoulder to scratch an itch on his nose. “I'm not very competitive.”

“Or you don't have the right incentives.” You leaned back onto your hands, pondering. “What's something you want more than anything else?”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth wobbling as you glared.

“There has to be something,” you pushed, squinting atthe man as if ideas would pop up over his face.

“I have a roof over my head,” he said, tone more than grateful. “Friends, food, books—I have everything I could ever want. Minus complete control over my powers.”

“Okay, pivot.” Your hands came together, fingers fanned out as you motioned to him. “We make each other do something we don't want to do but, like, stupid fun.”

He blinked owlishly at you. “Uh, can I have an example?”

“Like if I won, I could dare you to prank Walker.”

A bubble of laughter broke from his throat. “What?!”

“First thing to come to mind.”

“I wouldn't be able to come up with a good prank.” He shook his head. “And I'm a terrible actor. He'd know something was up.”

“It was an example,” you reminded him.

“What's the last thing you would wanna do?”

You sighed, searching for something that would get both of you out of your comfort zones. There was plenty you weren't willing to do, but you had to work with Bob. Something challenging, something that wouldn't be that bad in retrospect but a bit embarrassing. He needed to expand out.

And one thing about the two of you—you hated to be perceived by a group.

“I've got it,” you said in triumph.

Bob's eyes trailed away from the window to meet yours. The smirk you sent him had him swallowing. “Okay, you've got me nervous now.”

“Loser has to sing karaoke in front of the entire team.” Bob's jaw fully dropped. You purred out, an evil mastermind in the making, “And the winner gets to choose the song.”

“Wait, can you sing?” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “That wouldn't be fair.”

“Oh, God no. I can't hold a note to save my life,” you swore. “Can you?”

“My voice breaks when I yell.”

“Perfect.”

“Wait, no, you've had way more experience with this. You're totally gonna win!” he argued through a smile.

“You don't even know that— Okay, fine. How long do you think you can hold out against me?”

He pursed his lips, forehead wrinkling. “Is two seconds to low?” he whispered.

“You are severely doubting your capabilities, Bob.”

“Okay,” he nodded attempting a serious look, “Five seconds.”

You swallowed your laugh and rolled your eyes. “Fine. If I can needle my way past your defenses in less than five seconds, I win.” You pulled out your phone, pulling up the stopwatch. “Close your eyes.”

He did, eyelids drooping shut as he took a breath.

“Throw up your defenses,” you told him. “There are no entrances, no exits. Your mind is only as powerful as you make it.”

“When do I know you're gonna hit me?”

“You won't get warnings in real life,” you murmured.

He nodded, a sharp breath escaping his nose as he rolled his neck and focused in. You watched the skin around his eyes crease, his fingers dig into the fibers of his pants.

Stretching your mind, you hovered ahead of him, just on the outskirts. A shark circling. You attempted a push on one side, felt his attention move. There was only a crumb of regret as you started the clock and rammed into his shield somewhere else entirely.

“Whoa! Shit!”

You drilled, energy sharpening to splinter into the barrier he'd built. Bob grunted, holding his ground well as you pooled all your strength and drove inward.

Stone. Brick. Cement. Your last push had glass shattering as you tore into his mind, hit with his shock as you tapped your phone screen.

Bob was panting as you opened your eyes to check the time.

“That was dirty,” he huffed, raising a hand and circling his head. “I didn't think there was a way for you to get behind me? What was that?”

“Its called strategy,” you grumbled, sliding your phone across the rug for him, “and I told you you were underestimating yourself.”

The timer read 15 seconds.

“Keep it PG 13,” you said, standing and stretching. His gaze followed you up.

“You don't have to—”

“Bob,” you sighed, playfully scowling down at him, “its harmless fun. Walker won't let me live it down, but it's harmless fun.”

“We need a karaoke machine.”

You hummed, shrugging. “I've already got that covered.”

He squinted, shaking his head and breathing out a simple, “Why?”

“You get lonely as a CSI agent so you pick up unusual hobbies or get drunk and make questionable orders. Next question.”

“What's up with the boxes? You movin’ in finally?”

Walker was questioning you as soon as you stepped off the elevator that night with Bucky in tow with an even bigger box. The ex-Captain America was settled into the couch, arms crossed as the TV played on in the background.

In the shared kitchen of the floor, Yelena was helping Bob with the food for the night. They both looked over at your entrance.

“Its the entertainment for the night.” You smiled as you spotted your target refilling her glass of wine. “Ava you're techy, help me.”

“I'm techy,” replied Walker.

“No, you're not,” Yelena called as she opened the fridge.

“And she didn't ask you,” Ava scoffed, pushing off the counter to meet you by the large television on the wall. You waited until Bucky had dropped off the second half before shooing him away to open the goods. “What am I looking at?” You gestured her to squat down to whisper the answer in her ear. “Oh my God.”

“Secrets don't make teams!”

“Not on your team,” you replied to Walker, passing the bundle of wires to Ava and keeping the microphones inside the box and out of sight.

The elevator opened to Alexei. His loud greeting took the team's attention off you and Ava as she fiddled with plugs and you got to work setting up the mini TV screen.

Over in the kitchen, Bob glanced up from lowering the heat of the stove eye as Yelena poked his shoulder and gestured to the women in the living room.

“You know what that's about?”

He shrugged, smiling mischievously as he strained the pasta into the sink. “Can you check on the garlic bread?”

Yelena eyed him as she shoved a heat mitt on and yanked the oven door open.

“Where's the remote?” you asked Walker this as he was sitting next to the empty table.

He gave you a pointed stare before shrugging both arms spread along the back of the couch.

“Make yourself useful,” Ava ordered.

“Tell me what it is.”

“You'll find out in like two minutes!”

A whistle from the kitchen had everyone turning to Bucky who waved the remote in his vibranium hand. You caught it as it flew across the length of the room.

“Thank you,” you chirped, changing the source and smiling as the background of the program lit up the screen.

“Oh, no,” said Walker, shaking his head and wagging a finger as he leaned forward onto his knees. “No, absolutely not.”

“YES!” Alexei shouted, holding his hands up as his laughter filled the room. “American karaoke!”

“It was actually invented in Japan,” you corrected him, fighting not to shrink as all eyes roved to you. “Trivia questions. They can come in handy.”

“I am not singing,” Walker stated.

You shrugged. “Okay.”

“What's the occasion?” Bucky asked, sipping on a bottle of beer as he walked up. You waved him over to show him the mini screen and how it hooked up to your computer.

“I lost a bet,” you answered, chuckling as Ava hummed into a mic, checking the speakers. She gave you a wink and a thumbs up.

“I'm so into this,” she announced to the room. “You better have Rhianna.”

Alexei snapped as he waved an arm at you from the dinner table. “I want to sing the, eh, the Sabrina song!”

“What?!” You shouted it through a laugh. “Sabrina Carpenter? Which one?”

“Oh, God,” groaned Walker, his head in his hands.

Dinner was delicious. Yelena really enjoyed the wine you brought, which was apparently a very rare thing as she hated wine. Ava was all over it. You managed to get Bucky to sip it before he wrinkled his nose and turned away.

Alexei was already half drunk as he told stories over the food. Walker looked like he was nursing a headache as he finished his salad last.

Bob was quiet, sticking to water and listening as he sat a few chairs over from you between Yelena and Alexei. You imagined anyone stuck next to the Red Guardian wouldn't get a word in conversation wise.

As Bucky and Walker handled the dishes, you tugged Bob over to your computer to begin the queue. Ava had texted you her songs as well as Alexei and Yelena had one but she wanted to go last. You were still trying to get Bucky to join. There was already one sitting out and you needed to see the Winter Soldier sing before you died. It felt like a bucket list achievement, at least.

“What have you chosen, my liege? Pop? Rock? Dare I say disco?”

Bob eyed you. A close-lipped smile making his cheeks puffy and adorable. “How many glasses of wine did you drink?”

“Like one and a half. Ava stole the bottle,” you chuckled. “Trust me, I'm much better with some liquid courage in me.”

“I don't doubt that,” he muttered, lithe fingers tapping away at the keyboard. You were stuck somewhere between the way his hands moved and one of those sweet curls framed his forehead before you noticed the song he had queued up.

“Bob,” you muttered.

“What?” he whispered, boyish as he avoided your eyes, smiling at the damn screen.

“Bob, that's a duet,” you hissed, jabbing your finger into his arm. “I said no pity!”

“It's not pity if I'm joining you,” he laughed, pointing towards the wireless mics in the case. “We’ll both be horrible together.”

“But you won.”

“Harmless fun,” he quoted as you passed him a microphone begrudgingly. “Also I would not be able to sing otherwise. It's better with someone there.”

Your heart was dripping down your ribcage at this point, too buzzed and warmed by wine and slate blue eyes. You needed to get a grip.

The second microphone was cold in your hands as you switched it on and double checked Bob’s.

“Are you guys going first?” Yelena was grinning ear to ear. “A duet?”

“It wasn't supposed to be. He won't let me be a loser,” you complained.

“Wait, what was the bet?” Walker scoffed, getting comfy on the couch again as Bucky started the dishwasher in the back.

“Training practice.”

“And he won?”

“Says the guy with a taco as a shield,” Bob called out.

“Which you still haven't fixed.”

“Ugh, start singing already! I hear enough of this everyday,” Ava slurred.

You brought your lips to the microphone. “You're gonna wish I’d never started singing.”

“You won't be worse than Alexei,” Yelena huffed.

As the music started every single face in the room lit up in amusement. Alexei was yelling with his fist in the air and you were this close to jumping out a window.

“Okay, I'm blue and your pink,” Bob noted, voice shaky.

“How original,” you snorted as the eight bar opening crescendoed.

“Ugh, this is gonna be embarrassing,” he breathed. Yelena cheered and Ava looked like that one meme of Leonardo DiCaprio in The Great Gatsby.

Lookin' in your eyes, I see a paradise

This world that I found is too good to be true.

Oh, fuck him, he wasn't even that bad. Maybe a little unstable on some notes but nothing like the pitchy chaos that was about to come out of you.

Shaking out your arms, you committed to the bit and let the wine do the singing.

“Let 'em say we're crazy, I don't care 'bout that!” you belted. “Put your hand in my hand, baby, don't ever look back!”

Alexei was having the time of his life. Walker had a finger to one ear, eyes squinting with the same look of pain as Bucky. Yelena was dancing and pointing and singing along and Ava was busting a lung from laughing so hard.

All of a sudden, over a badly sung song of all things, it felt like a home again in the tower.

And we can build this dream together

Standing strong forever

Nothing's gonna stop us now.

Your voices did not pair well, but Bob was smiling and stumbling through his lyrics trying not to laugh and you were cursing when your voice broke on a high note.

It was horrible and it was everything.

By the end, Bob's face was red and his eyes wet from curling in on himself laughing. You went silent for a good part of the song because Alexei was up dancing and screaming over the both of you. Bucky, the fucker, was recording everything. Screw whoever taught him how to use a phone.

“Delete that!” you shouted as the music faded out. “Live in the moment, Buchanan!”

“I'm in the moment,” he chuckled. “You're awful.”

“Fuck you, I tried to warn you all!”

“You did fantastic! Don't listen to him,” boomed Alexei, clapping you on the back. “So much raw passion. Who's next?”

Ava raised her hand, finishing off her glass of your wine. The empty bottle sat on the table next to her. “Me!”

“You've got to sing guys, come on. This is team bonding time,” Yelena said to Walker, batting a hand towards Bucky behind the couch.

“No,” Walker ground out.

“Want some whiskey?” asked Bucky.

“God, after that? Yes.”

You turned to Bob who was putting his microphone back in the case. “You weren't even that bad.”

“No, I think you were just louder.” He smiled at your scowl before shuffling towards the couch as Ava bounced up, drunk and carefree.

Hey, you called after him, waiting until his eyes met yours. Thanks. It was fun.

He nodded, swallowing and laughing as Yelena clapped at his return, pulling him down next to her and praising him.

“Which Rhianna song do you want?” you asked Ava.

“Umbrella, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you agreed, scrolling the options. “You singing the rap part, too?”

She blinked. “I'd rather not.”

“Come on, Walker. One song!” Alexei crowed.

“I said no!”

Three turns later you're all clapping as Walker puts his entire heart into Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song.”

Bonus (courtesy of @berryberryrad ):

[swightops]

still holding the silence (2) - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - you deal with the aftermath of the gala and find an old friend asking for your help. warning(s) - typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), language a/n - CA 4, thunderbolts, heavy angst as you delve into old avengers stuff, mc is kinda mean at time but hey she's hurting, i promise we'll see our man next chapter LMAO, the plot thickens oooooo

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Famously retired Avenger known as Sunwraith made a surprise appearance at the "Meet the Future" gala, and an even more surprising gesture of support. Appearing alongside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the ex-hero smiled for photos and stood arm-in-arm with the New Avengers leader, prompting speculation that Sunwraith might be quietly endorsing the controversial new team.

Comments:

"Wow, I never thought I'd see Sunwraith at a gala again! This could mean big changes for the New Avengers!" "lol no way Sunwraith actually likes this new team" "The New Avenger literally don't compare to the old ones" "I'm skeptical. Sunwraith was a pure Avenger and she's not a part of this new team?" "I think Sunwraith just wants to support the new heroes. Change is always scary but we need to give them a chance!" "I'm so excited for this new team omgggg"

You groan as you toss the tablet to the side, not wanting to remember anything about last night. Your PR team had already given you an earful about the event earlier today, since your name started trending on social media, and the world wondered whether you truly supported the New Avengers. A buzz distracts your attention from the internet storm as you look down at your phone.

Sam Wilson

[Really?] [Attached: 1 link]

[She set me up] [Bitch]

[You okay?]

[Thinking about it]

Your fingers hover over the keyboard momentarily, deciding if you should send your next text. Fuck it.

[Saw Bucky]

The following minutes drag on as the typing bubbles appear and disappear on the screen.

[Have a mission. Got to go. We'll talk later.]

"Ughhh," you groan, throwing your phone away and dragging your hands down your face. The headline still burns in your head like an unwanted tattoo.

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Your head falls back against the couch as you glance around the big, sterile, expensive apartment. It's not home, never quite home. You try to make it feel like home by hanging up pictures of your family, adding little knick-knacks around the place, and adding pops of color to bring life to the apartment, but it doesn't help.

The silence returns, settling over your shoulders like fog.

There never used to be silence, not after the Avengers.

You get up, not because you have anywhere to go, but because sitting still feels like drowning. You wander to your office, where work waits. Stark Relief documents. New Light proposals. A sticky note from Pepper in her neat, decisive handwriting:

"Board meeting resched. Monday. Don't forget to breathe."

You laugh, humorless and low. Breathing feels like the hardest part lately. You sink into your chair and stare at the spreadsheet open on the monitor. Profit margins. Logistics. Some initiative sent over by the GRC.

No one trained you for this. You were trained to throw punches, to induce fear in those whom Hydra told you to, to let the shadows consume all. You weren't trained to run a company. And no matter how many zeroes are in your bank account or how many buildings bear your name (or Tony's), it still doesn't fill the space they left behind.

You push back from the desk, suddenly too restless, too full. You walk to the window and press your hand against the glass. The city blurs beneath you, all movement and meaning, and none of it belonging to you.

You're a statue in a world that keeps moving.

You flex your fingers. That soft golden glow flickers to life—your power, your legacy, but it flickers.

Dims.

And then fades.

Your stomach growls. Glancing at the desk, you know you won't get any work done. Might as well make dinner.

It’s almost muscle memory now—this recipe, this dish. The kitchen smells before you even start chopping. You pull out different ingredients: chicken thighs, onions, paprika (the Hungarian kind Wanda used to swear by), chicken stock, and sour cream. You line them up like puzzle pieces and smile faintly when you catch yourself muttering the steps under your breath.

You chop slower than usual tonight. There's no rush. No alarms. No missions. You sauté the onions in oil until they're golden, then add the chicken and let the kitchen fill with sizzle and scent. The paprika goes in next, painting the pan in warm red, and something in your chest settles.

You aren’t making this for anyone.

You let the dish simmer before setting a plate. Just one. But beside it, without thinking, you place a second and third. You don’t sit right away. You stare at the plates and wonder if you're crazy.

Then again, crazy might be the only thing keeping you human.

You finish the dish with a spoonful of sour cream, stirring gently until the sauce is velvety-soft. You taste it. It's still good, still rich, still theirs.

“Ms. L/N,” a voice says from above you. FRIDAY. “You have a guest.”

You blink. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“It's,” FRIDAY pauses. Although she's AI, a program designed by code, her voice has always been very human and compassionate. "Mr. Barnes is here."

You sigh, dusting imaginary dust from your hands. “Send him up.”

As you stand, you stare at the empty plates, hoping that magically it eases your racing heart. It doesn't.

A soft ding sounds throughout the apartment as the elevator doors open. Footsteps follow—slow, steady, too familiar. Your breath catches in your chest as you turn to look at Bucky. He stands in all black, his coat damp from the drizzle outside. Hair tied back. Eyes unreadable.

“Hey.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a buzzing in your head.

He shifts, hands still buried deep in his pockets. His eyes shift to the plates on the table. “Were you expecting people?”

You don’t say yes. Just shake your head no. “Why did you come, Bucky?” you ask, folding your arms. “You were perfectly fine with ignoring me before.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s funny,” you snap. 

“I wasn’t ready to talk.”

“Well, I’m not ready either,” you say, stepping back. “So maybe you can go.”

“Wait-” He takes a step forward, and the tension snaps, pulling tight around your chest.

“You don’t get to wait, Bucky,” you say, voice trembling. “You completely ghosted. You let me think that you were done with me. That we don't mean anything to each other anymore."

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You scoff bitterly. “No clever line? No excuse? What, no backup from your flashy new team?”

“It's not what you think,” Bucky mutters.

You roll your eyes. "Spare me, Buck."

He sighs, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lower lip before biting it. “I didn't come here to fight,” Bucky says quietly. “I came because I need your help.”

That makes you laugh, bitter and small. His words sting. It's not about you, it's about what you can do. “Of course you do.”

“I know you met Bob.”

You blink. “What does he have to do with this?”

Bucky steps closer, his hand pulling out a small flash drive from his coat pocket. He places it on the kitchen island before slowly sliding it to you, almost scared that you might run off. "Short story, he can't control his abilities. Powers, memories, it’s all bleeding together. He’s afraid he’s going to hurt someone. And honestly…so am I.”

You close your eyes for a moment. The buzzing intensifies. 

“I don’t know how to help him, and truthfully, there aren't many people I can trust to help him,” he says, and your heart aches. Trust. "He needs someone who understands him in the way the rest of us can't," he pauses. "And...I think you do too...Please, Sunny-"

“Don't,” you say sharply.

He flinches. “I didn’t mean-”

“No,” you say again, pointing a finger at him now. “Don’t say it like I’m still her. Like I’m still that version of me. I don’t even know what I’m doing most days, Bucky. I wake up, I read headlines that praise me or, worse, pity me. I go to meetings for a company I don't think I can run. I sit in boardrooms with people who talk about Tony like he was a brand. And then I come home. And I sit. And I wonder if any of it mattered. And then I wonder if I did."

He swallows hard. “You did. You do."

"And then sometimes I wonder...I wonder if we did the right thing...bringing everyone back. That if maybe we didn't, then they would be here. Misreable, but here!" you admit, and it feels good. To finally say the salty thought out loud.

Silence.

Your watery eyes meet with Bucky's, and you then turn away. "Sorry, that was a lot. Um, if you wanna leav-"

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he cuts in. “y/n, believe me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Just...help Bob. Please. If you want me gone after that, I’ll go. I'll make sure none of this "New Avenger" stuff gets near you again."

You don’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, you speak, barely audible.

“He’s staying at the Tower?”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, maybe the closest thing he’s come to relief since he arrived. He moves to leave, and you're letting out a breath that you didn't know you were holding.

"I know you think you're not who you used to be. But to me, you're still Sunny. You're still you, y/n."

You don’t respond.

The elevator dings and the doors open before they close again, and you’re alone again.

You stand motionless. The air feels different now—thinner, lighter. Bucky took something with him when he left. You're not sure how long you stand there, hands curled into fists at your sides.

You're still Sunny. You're still you, Y/N.

You exhale sharply. A broken sound.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper to the empty room. Your eyes fall to the flash drive, and your fingers grab hold of it before you can really think. They dig into the sides of it as if it’s the only thing keeping you connected to Bucky. Maybe it is. 

The smell of the paprikash hits you, and you’re reminded of your dinner. Almost robotically, you’re serving yourself, and you sit at your dinner table. Just sit and look at the empty table before you. And then, your fingers dig into the flash drive, and with a flick of your wrist, shadows move from the corners of the room, and your laptop is placed in front of you. 

The blob of shadows straightens out before you, and it just stares at you like it’s trying to get deep into your mind and roll your eyes. Deciding it’s better to ignore “it”, you plug the drive in and immediately files pop up. 

SUBJECT: REYNOLDS, ROBERT. aka “The Sentry”

You scroll. Your eyes flick over O.X.E. logs, therapist reports, and medical scans. O.X.E. It rang a bell in your head. Shit, where did you hear about it?

“Extreme power mismatch. Emotional destabilization suspected. Cognitive dissonance under pressure catalyzes the emergence of what is to be described as “The Void.”

There’s a photo of a lab room. There’s a table in the middle of it, but what draws your attention are the two human-shaped shadows imprinted into the wall. Both with their hands up, almost like they were running from something or someone. Another report catches your eye.

“Patient describes the entity as a shadow of the self. A voice. A second presence. Distinct yet intimately fused. The more power he uses, the more it surfaces.”

You swallow.

Your chest tightens. Not because of what’s on the screen. But because of how familiar it feels. You open a video file.

Bob’s there. He’s in big, oversized scrubs, sitting in a doctor's room on some sort of bed. He’s curled up into him just like that night you two met. “It isn’t always cruel,” Bob says. “Sometimes it sounds like the only one who understands me. Sometimes it sounds like…me.”

A long, thin silence follows.

“He came to you because he sees it in you too.”

You jerk your head up. The voice isn’t real. You know that. But you haven’t heard it in a long time. 

“He sees that brokenness in you. Everyone can.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. Your palms burn faintly, powers curling at the edge of your control. The lights in the apartment flicker for a moment. Just a heartbeat.

You clench your fists tighter. “Shut. Up.”

But the voice only sighs—fond, tired. “Don’t you miss how good it feels?”

You slam your laptop shut. Panic clings to your skin, cold and slippery. You rise too quickly and pace around the kitchen, hands trembling. There’s nothing to fight, but your muscles are coiled like you're bracing for impact.

You grip the edge of the sink.

Breathe in.

Out.

The shadows on the floor move with you. They always do. You’ve tried to pretend you’re in control of them. But some nights, you’re not sure who’s following who.

When you catch your reflection in the microwave door, your eyes glow faintly golden, not bright, but unmistakable. A quiet reminder of what lives under your skin. What lives deep down in your core. What calls to you when no one’s around. 

You avert your gaze. You’ve spent so long keeping it in and keeping in control, and yet, it’s slipping out so easily right now. How could you possibly help Bob when you can’t even help yourself?

Another tired breath escapes you before you sit back down at the table and open your laptop. You read more files, watch more videos, and skim over medical reports before a more recent report catches your eye. 

Subject: “Nightfall” Location: New York Casualties: Proximately 4000 people affected, minor injuries reported, no deaths reported Symptoms: Rapid psychological collapse, extreme hallucination, physical shadow assimilation Origin: Unknown energy pulse originating from R. Reynolds, later confirmed to be "The Void" entity. Field Notes: Victims reported being trapped inside 'memories,' often their worst or most shameful. Reports of time dilation, possession, and an unidentifiable psychic broadcast frequency mimicking grief cycles.

You stop there.

You remember that day. You and Pepper had watched from your tablet screen in France, arguing about whether you should take off for New York to stop the madness. At the time, you didn’t know what had caused it, over just as soon as it began, only that it reminded you too much of your own power when it slips, when it pulls too hard.

You keep reading. 

Post-Incident Recovery: Public story reframed as a biological weapon scare. Following the successful suppression of the Void, Director de Fontaine initiated Phase 2 of the Avenger Initiative Reformation. Results: "The New Avengers."

Your jaw clenches.

That’s what this was. Not a victory. Not some earned rebranding. Just a cover-up. A PR move. They turned a tragedy into a stage.

You exhale sharply and look back at your screen. Unable to stop, you keep reading before another file catches your eye. It’s encrypted. “FRIDAY, unlock this one.”

“Right away, boss.”

PROJECT: SENTRY / Source Documentation Archive Authorization: LEVEL BLACK Link Chain: O.X.E. // Archive Root: (REDACTED) Initiative

You freeze.

There’s no explanation. No subject name. No reference. Just:

—secondary prototype derived from archived data. Subject parallels stable. Cognitive divergence unstable. Full severance from original subject history approved. PROJECT CONTINUED UNDER CODE: SENTRY.

You sit back slowly, like any movement might disturb what you’ve just read. O.X.E., no Valentia Allerga de Fontaine, gave Bob his powers.

They built The Sentry. Created The Void. 

You stare blankly at your reflection in the dark screen. Your golden eyes catch faintly again, just for a second, before fading. Deep inside you, the pit stirs again, quiet and knowing, feeding off your unease. 

Bob Reynolds had a darkness within him. Something that matched the one deep within you. And tomorrow, you were going to see it up close.

[swightops]

AMAZING PART 2 EVERYONE SHOULD GO CHECK THIS OUT ‼️‼️‼️

the complete knock (ii) — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. joaquín convinced you to stay in new york as a chance to regroup... and maybe look into who the hell this bob guy is. and just when things could not get any worse, john walker finds you both under the ruse of wanting to talk.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, sequel to this fic right here! a lot of plot. reader is described as female. reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :( joaquín is sooo baby brother. a bit of stalking happens, walker is a punching bag (i love him tho), reader is crazy stubborn, #justiceforsamwilson.

⟢ wc: 21.2k+

⟢ author’s note. bob wears bunny slippers. that is all i had to say.

You should’ve been halfway back to Washington by now. Maybe already unpacking your bag in your bedroom, or sitting shoulder to shoulder with Joaquín on the couch while Sam paced in front of you both, jaw clenched, hands on his hips and brow furrowed like he was about to crack the floor with how hard he was pacing back and forth. He’d be muttering something about how disappointed he was, how you went behind his back and dragged yourself into this morning’s breaking news cycle.

Instead, you were still in New York, sitting across from Joaquín in a café that toed the line between ‘upscale diner’ and ‘hipster brunch spot.’ Somewhere in Mid-Manhattan, near enough to the buzz of the city, but tucked just far enough to feel like a secret. Still, it was too close to the watchtower for your liking, just down the street.

The café had all the trimmings of old New York: polished floors, and red leather booths, but filtered through the lens of reclaimed wood walls and Edison bulbs.

It was early enough that there were only a handful of people occupying the other booths. Old soul music hummed softly from the speakers overhead, and a couple of waitresses bustled between tables, laughing in Spanish. There was a white man across from you who was poking into his own breakfast with a strange mannerism only filthy rich people would have.

The mug of coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. The latte art was so nice that it made you hesitate even to drink it, but you also wondered if you could force yourself to have an appetite after last night.

Joaquín had convinced you to stay just a little longer; said it might help you feel better. He sat in front of you in the booth, wearing an I LOVE NYC shirt, sipping from his cold brew as if he hadn’t dragged you out of bed at five in the morning for a run around Central Park that took an hour and then saw the sunrise. Which then became a detour to Times Square before it got crowded. Which then became breakfast out, because apparently, room service wasn’t “authentically New York enough.”

And now? Now you were here. Staring into a latte you didn’t ask for, stomach coiled too tight to even think about food, wishing you could leave the city already.

You hadn’t said much since leaving the gala. Not in the van, not in the elevator ride up to your hotel room, not even when Joaquín offered to stay. You’d nodded, locked the door behind him, and then downed whatever overpriced minibar bottle of tequila you could find. Maybe two.

You kept replaying it all. The way the crowd went quiet when the cameras caught you with Valentina. The fake smile politeness as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered poison in your ear.

The words still echoed: What’s loyalty really worth?

She wanted you to betray Sam, as if enough people hadn’t already done that.

And then there was Bob.

Fuck that guy.

Fuck Bob.

You went back to nursing your coffee, eyes glazed, ears barely catching the low hum of the voice of the lawyer Joaquín had hired as he explained your legal options. You weren’t sure what he was saying. Something about image rights, team misrepresentation, staying away from De Fontaine and possible lawsuits: you nodded because it was easier than arguing.

Joaquín said you would stay just until noon like this city hadn’t already taken enough energy from you. And you agreed because part of you still hadn’t figured out what to do next.

Besides, it was only eight-thirty in the morning by the time you both got your drinks.

“…And those are just a few steps I’d recommend moving forward,” the lawyer said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as he sat back. “I’ll be honest, this isn’t exactly my usual wheelhouse, but I think we’ve got a decent case if we frame the whole thing as a misunderstanding. Especially if De Fontaine keeps using ‘Avengers’ without clearance.”

His tone was calm. Unbothered. Confident, even. You couldn’t tell if that made you feel better or worse. You probably could have avoided this entire situation if you had stayed home and told Congressman Gary to suck it.

“Yeah, thanks,” Joaquín said brightly, finally glancing up from his laptop.

The man stood, reaching for the sleek red cane that rested against the booth. “Well, you’ve got my number,” he said. “Call if you need anything. I’m happy to keep looking into it.”

“Thanks, Matt,” Joaquín said again, giving him a grateful smile.

“Seriously,” you added, your voice a touch warmer now. Maybe it was the way Matt had actually made the whole mess sound… manageable. “Thank you.”

Matt turned in your direction, that easy smile not fading. “Don’t worry. If you want to push the misunderstanding narrative, you’ll be fine. And if Valentina keeps branding this team as Avengers, there’s a solid case for misrepresentation, especially if your likeness is being used to imply endorsement.”

You nodded. “Right. Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”

Matt paused, as if catching the hesitation in your voice. “You’ll be okay,” he said, then offered a small wave as he made his way toward the door.

Joaquín watched him leave, the bell above the café door giving a soft chime as it swung shut behind him. Then he turned back to you with a grin that was way too proud for someone who’d just hired a lawyer from a newspaper ad. “He seems nice.”

You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee mug. “Where’d you find that guy?”

He pursed his lips, “You said we needed a lawyer. I got us a lawyer. He has really good reviews on Yelp. One of the best in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Hell’s Kitchen? You made that pour man come all the way down here for us?”

“He offered,” Joaquín said defensively, “Matt said he preferred to meet in person anyway. Besides, we need someone who’s not scared of Valentina. The man literally sues billionaires in his spare time.”

You set your mug down a little too hard, making it clink against the saucer. “We have lawyers. Sam knows people. Actual governmental legal teams. With offices. Why didn’t you call one of them?”

“I didn’t realize we needed the god of lawyers to step in,” he muttered, exasperated as he rolled his eyes. “Relax. We’ve got more than enough to blow this thing wide open. The press photos alone are enough to raise suspicion, and the way Valentina keeps parading that ‘New Avengers’ name around? That’s grounds for a cease and desist.��

You leaned back in the booth, rubbing your temple as you exhaled. “We don’t have as much as you think.”

“But we will.”

You didn’t respond, you just turned your head and focused out the window again. Outside, the city moved on without you. Pedestrians marched by in layers of spring coats and scarves, dodging puddles and taxis like it was all muscle memory. There was something comforting about how oblivious they all were, how none of them had been at that gala last night or had their name blasted across every trending tag before noon.

Inside, the warm smell of eggs and expensive coffee lingered in the air, but you couldn’t shake the sourness sitting in your stomach.

Joaquín, thankfully, didn’t push. He went back to typing on his laptop, though you could tell the silence was killing him. His foot bounced under the table. Occasionally, he muttered something to himself, probably reviewing the security cam footage from the gala again, probably rewatching the exact moment Valentina draped an arm over your shoulders like she owned you.

The two of you were dressed down, in civilian clothes (if Joaquín’s tourist merch would count as such), and baseball caps pulled low. Your sunglasses sat folded beside the ketchup bottle and sugar packets, next to the fresh copy of this morning’s Daily Bugle. Your photo was front-page centre. The shot of you in the dress, frozen between Valentina and Yelena, half-turning like you weren’t sure if you wanted to be there or bolt.

At least you looked pretty.

You wondered if Bob had seen it.

The thought hit you suddenly, out of nowhere, and lodged itself in your chest like a splinter. You hadn’t even realized you were still thinking about him, not actively, anyway, but the memory of his face lingered stubbornly. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go. The way he’d said your name, low and careful. Like it mattered. He felt like a scent on your jacket or a song stuck in your teeth. Something stupid and soft that wouldn’t let go.

You pressed a hand against your thigh under the table, grounding yourself. It wasn’t the time.

A waitress approached not long after, balancing two plates in her arms with the practiced grace of someone who’d been doing it since before either of you were born. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she gave your table a friendly smile.

“Three pancakes, three eggs, and three sausages?”

Joaquín perked up immediately, pulling down his headphones and sliding his laptop to the side like he hadn’t been glued to it for the past twenty minutes. “That’s me, thank you.”

“Berry waffles?”

You raised your hand, and she set the plate down gently in front of you before asking if there was anything else either of you wanted. You both politely declined, and she left.

Joaquín didn’t waste a second. He picked up his fork and immediately began cutting into his mountain of food. Syrup pooled fast over his eggs and sausages.

You just stared at your plate. The waffles were warm, the fruit arranged in neat little clusters, but your stomach still felt like it had been twisted into knots. You poked at a strawberry without much commitment.

“So,” Joaquín said between bites, reaching for his cold brew and sipping loudly from the straw just to get your attention like a child.

You didn’t look up, just stabbed a strawberry on your plate.

He tried again. “Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”

That time, you met his eyes. His smile was soft and a little tentative, but he was holding himself like he expected you to throw your drink in his face. His shoulders were hunched, eyes flicking between you and his plate like he was bracing for impact.

“Talk about what?”

He blinked at you, then gave a pointed look. “Last night.”

You frowned, “We already debriefed.”

“I—I know that,” he said, fork mid-air. “I meant, like, talk about it to me. As friends. Just… me and you. Like we usually do.”

You didn’t answer right away. The quiet between you stretched long enough for the sounds of the diner to filter in again; the clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the kitchen, someone laughing faintly three booths over. Then you sighed, setting your fork down with a metallic clink against the ceramic.

“It’s just...” Joaquín tried again, not looking at you now, like the words would land better if he said them sideways. “You’ve been kinda like… a pain in the ass. To put it nicely.”

That drew a faint grin from you, brief, reluctant, but real. No one could needle you quite like him. Maybe that’s why you both worked. Maybe that’s why it always worked. You rolled your eyes, not quite ready to give in.

“I just don’t understand why you got us a lawyer off Yelp.”

Joaquín pulled a face, somewhere between defensive and done-with-you. “It’s not about the lawyer, man.”

“It kinda is, though.”

“No, it’s not. I’m talking about what Valentina said to you.” His voice dipped low, more careful now. “And… y’know. That Bob guy.”

“Can we not?” you muttered. The words left your mouth too quickly. “Not here, Quín.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a second longer, his fork hovering above his plate like he was debating whether to say more. Then he dipped his head, gave a short nod, and went back to his food.

You cut another piece of waffle and chewed slowly. It was good, golden and fluffy, the syrup pooling around the edges—but it didn’t warm you the way it should’ve. Didn’t ease the dull pressure blooming in your chest.

Across from you, Joaquín had only taken a few more bites before he set his fork down and wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a little quieter this time. More careful.

“We’ve done a lot of missions together, right?”

You glanced at him, wary. “Right.”

He nodded, like you’d confirmed something only he knew how to track. “And we’ve both done our fair share of flirting here and there. You know… for the job. Sometimes not for the job.”

You gave him a look, already spotting the slow grin building on his face. “Not this again.”

“I’m just saying, we do pretty well for ourselves. I do especially well.” He smiled. “Like, remember that Peruvian girl from last month—?”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, spotting that dumb smile on his face he only has when he's about to say something stupid. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, remember how I—”

You didn’t even let him finish. “Oh my god,” you groaned, putting your fork down again. “Is there a point to this story? Because I really don’t think I can stomach hearing about that one again.”

He had the decency to look mildly sheepish—just a flush rising to the tips of his ears—but it didn’t stop him from doubling down.

“It was good sex.”

You snorted. “Mediocre at best.”

“You weren’t even there.”

“And yet, I know you need to get laid more. You talk about this girl like she changed your life, and then you follow it up with ‘she liked my jacket.’ That’s it. That’s the story. You slept with her, and she left the next morning.”

“She did like my jacket,” he muttered defensively, half under his breath.

“You need to get laid more.” You repeated into your coffee.

“I need to get laid more?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing. “You need to get laid more.”

You leaned forward just slightly, squinting at him like you dared him to double down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He blinked at you, deadpan. “You know what it means.”

“Enlighten me.”

“It means,” he said, drawing the words out slowly for dramatic effect, “you need to get laid.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. “I get laid.”

“Not enough,” he shot back, mimicking your tone with a mockery of concern in his voice.

You jabbed your fork in his direction. “More than you.”

“Sure.” He waved his hand dismissively, like he’d already let you win for the sake of moving on. He tugged the brim of his cap lower over his forehead, leaning back into the booth. “Can we circle back to the actual point here?”

“Whatever,” you muttered, voice low, flat. You stabbed at your waffles again, syrup pooling under your fork.

He pointed at you then, vaguely, as if trying to name something intangible. “See, this is what I’m talking about.”

You didn’t look at him, but he kept going.

“You’re off. Last night, you took a few hits—I mean, emotionally. I’ve never seen you like that before. Not really.” He scratched at the side of his jaw. “Valentina was just trying to get in your head, you know that, right?”

You let out a bitter, breathy laugh and grabbed the newspaper from beside the salt shaker. “It’s working.” You held it up with both hands and shook it for emphasis. “‘Reformed or Recruited? Meet the New Face at The New Avengers’ Table.’” You slapped it down in front of him, the headline side up. “I could kill her.”

“Okay,” Joaquín said, glancing around the café, lifting both brows. “Maybe don’t say that so loudly in public?”

You ignored him, still staring at the article. “It’s just—she talks like she’s already won. Every word out of her mouth is loaded. Like no matter what you say, she’s already said it in her head and spun it into something smarter. It’s so fucking frustrating.”

Joaquín didn’t interrupt. You kept going.

“She knows things. Things she shouldn’t. About me. About you. About everyone. And the way she talked about Bucky—” Your voice dipped again. “She’s got him on a leash. She has to be blackmailing him. There’s no other reason he’d stick around a group like that. You remember how long it took for him to even trust us? How much work Sam put in for us? And now she’s got him sitting next to Walker and a bunch government rejects that should be facing lifetimes in jail.”

Joaquín was quiet for a second, stirring his drink with the tip of his straw. “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing. Maybe she’s got something from his Winter Soldier days. Something buried.”

“Maybe,” you murmured. “But I don’t know. He made peace with all that. Or he was trying to.”

Joaquín nodded solemnly. Then, with perfect timing and a shit-eating grin, he added, “She probably found his butt pics or something.”

You recoiled, immediately groaning, “Ugh, gross, Joaquín. Come on—I’m eating.”

He laughed into his straw, biting it. “I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”

You tried to keep your glare steady, but your mouth twitched, the corner threatening to pull upward. You hated that he could do that, break through the spiral with the dumbest thing imaginable. But maybe that’s why he was still your first call every time things went to shit.

Joaquín’s voice softened a little. “You know she doesn’t win just because she made the headlines first, right? She wants you rattled. She wants you to think she’s got it all figured out. But she doesn’t. You’re better than her.”

You looked down at your plate, the fruit now limp and soaked through with syrup, and slowly pushed it aside.

“I just hate not knowing,” you said quietly. “Not knowing what she’s playing at. Not knowing what Bucky’s really thinking. Not knowing if any of this is going to matter.”

“It matters,” Joaquín said without hesitation. “And if it doesn’t yet, we’ll make sure it does.”

That finally made you look at him.

He gave you a lopsided smile, stupid, warm, stubbornly sure of you in a way you weren’t even sure of yourself right now.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added. “You’ve got me. And Sam. And probably, like, three semi-legal encrypted files Matt just handed over.”

You huffed out a soft, reluctant laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Yeah, but I’m right.”

You didn’t say it out loud—but maybe, just this once, you didn’t disagree.

Your phone buzzed against the table, and both you and Joaquín froze, mid-sentence, mid-chew. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Your eyes locked on the screen.

The display lit up, just enough for you both to see the name.

Captain Sammy!

Neither of you said anything at first.

You’d been waiting for this. Dreading it, really. That’s why your phone had been sitting so close to your plate all morning, screen facing up, volume on for messages only, buzz setting maxed out. Every scrape of cutlery, every breath between words had you waiting for this.

Joaquín leaned in slightly, eyes scanning your face. “Is it Sam?”

You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

“What’s he saying?”

You didn’t move right away. Your hand hovered over the phone like it might burn you. “I don’t know. I’m… too scared to open it.”

His brows pulled together, and he leaned further across the booth, trying to read the message upside down. “Why hasn’t he messaged me yet?”

“I don’t know,” you repeated, this time quieter, and your thumb swiped across the screen like muscle memory. You tapped into your messages.

Your stomach twisted before your eyes could even process the text.

Call me soon. We need to talk.

You winced.

“Well?” Joaquín asked, watching you too closely. “What’d he say?”

You turned the phone toward him.

He read it, then leaned back slowly. “Woah.”

“I know.”

“No emojis?”

“No.”

“He used proper punctuation.”

“Yeah. Caps. Periods.”

Joaquín let out a long whistle and slouched deeper into the booth like the air had been sucked out of him too. “Shit. He’s so pissed.”

You exhaled hard and tossed the phone facedown onto the table like it might accuse you of something else if you looked at it any longer. Your shoulders slumped, and you dropped your head into your hands, the motion knocking your cap off in the process. It hit the seat with a soft thump.

“God, I’m so fucked,” you groaned into your palms.

“Hey…” Joaquín’s voice softened. No teasing now. Just warmth. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing your wrist. Gently, he coaxed your hands away from your face. “We’re fucked. We’re a team. We both get fucked together.”

You stared at him for a second.

Then winced. “...Dude.”

He blinked, mouth twitching, and then his expression crumpled into a wince of his own. “Yeah, yeah. I heard it as I said it.”

You shoved his hand away, and he laughed. It was the kind of laugh that let you breathe again, even if only for a second.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Do you wanna book a plane home or should we just drive back?”

“Let’s drive,” he said without missing a beat, already pulling his laptop closer. “The longer it takes to get back, the better. We need time to stall.”

“I’ll rent a car.” You thumbed open the app, scrolling through the available options. “Any preferences?”

“I’m not picky.”

You nodded absently, letting the words pass between you like background noise. Your finger moved down the screen, but your mind wasn’t really following. Each name—Toyota, Chevy, Honda—blurred past you.

The pressure had started to settle beneath your ribs now, a slow-building ache that hadn’t let up since last night. It pulsed quietly with every breath. You tried to ignore it, tried to act like you were okay, like you weren’t picturing the message on your phone or imagining the conversation that would come when you finally called Sam.

But you weren’t okay. Not really. You hadn’t been okay since that tower. Since Valentina’s voice crawled into your skull and made a home there.

The sound of Joaquín tapping at his keyboard pulled you back to the present.

“Hey,” he said, his tone cautious, like he already expected you to roll your eyes again. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about last night anymore, but that guy you were talking to—Bob? I managed to get a voice match, and I did some digging for you.”

You didn’t look up. Your thumb hovered over a rental listing. “I really don’t care. Do you want a Honda or—”

“Well,” he cut in, “his full name is Robert Reynolds.”

You froze, just for a second. Just long enough for Joaquín to notice.

“Jesus,” he added, grinning like he couldn’t help himself, “you were flirting with a guy named Robert.”

You lifted your gaze, flat but not without bite. “Shut the fuck up.”

He laughed, light and triumphant. “There’s not much on him. He’s kind of a nobody, to be honest. Valentina must have wiped him or something. He’s got an old Instagram account but hasn’t updated it since before the Blip. Mostly middle school, high school stuff. A couple of mirror selfies. Not much else.”

You didn’t mean to be interested. Not really. But your head perked up anyway.

“Let me see.”

He angled the laptop your way without a word, thankfully.

The screen showed a grid of filtered, slightly overexposed images, pictures that fit from the time they were taken and posted. Group shots at what looked like house parties. Underage drinking and smoking. A photo of a dog. One of the sunset, blurry and underwhelming, captioned ‘summer’ with a cute emoji of the sun. Most of the posts were book covers, titles you vaguely recognized; a few you’d read yourself. The kind of things people share, not for anyone else, but just to remind themselves they were still here.

He didn’t post himself often.

But one picture stopped you.

A younger version of him stood beside someone in a graduation gown. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, his body thinner. He wasn’t wearing a gown himself. Just a hand shoved awkwardly into a hoodie pocket, the other slung around the person beside him. Still, he was smiling—kind of half-hearted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his face. It was the same mouth, same sharp features. But softer.

You stared at it a moment too long.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Maybe something to prove he wasn’t a threat. Or maybe something else entirely.

You could still hear the way he said family, like he believed it, like he needed to.

You hated how easily he’d gotten under your skin. How, even now, some part of him was curling its way around your thoughts, threading through your brain like smoke through a vent. He was weird, and there was something about him that felt too big to look at directly. Like if you focused too hard, he might burn a hole through you.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tried to tell yourself he didn’t matter.

But your hand was already resting on the corner of Joaquín’s laptop, scrolling gently through the next photo. And the one after that.

And you didn’t stop.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until Joaquín cleared his throat.

“He never graduated,” he said, “Dropped out.”

You blinked, sitting up a little straighter, “What?”

Joaquín tilted the screen back toward himself. “I couldn’t find any school records past sophomore year. No GED either. He just kinda... worked odd jobs before disappearing.”

Your eyes scanned what was left of Bob’s social media feed. Just ten posts in total. Ten fragments of a person whose edges were too slippery to pin down. Still, that didn’t stop the strange kick in your chest, like your body knew something your brain hadn’t caught up with yet.

“Disappearing?”

“Yeah. And it gets weirder.”

He clicked over to another tab. The brightness of a mugshot hit you instantly.

“There’s a criminal record,” Joaquín said. “Not sealed, surprisingly. Valentina’s people probably missed it—or didn’t care enough to clean it up.”

You leaned closer as he continued.

“An assault charge from one of his part-time jobs years ago. He attacked a civilian.”

“At work?”

“Yeah,” he said grimly. He tapped the keyboard again, and up came a police scan. Bob, older than in the Instagram posts, but still younger than last night, sat facing the camera with a vacant expression. His cheeks looked hollow, his eyes rimmed with red and shiny with unshed tears. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his lips were split as if he’d been grinding his teeth on them.

“He was on drugs,” Joaquín said, his voice a little quieter. “Methamphetamine.”

You vaguely remember him mentioning he was sober.

“…Jesus.”

“And,” He continued, hesitating only slightly, “he was wearing a chicken costume when he got arrested. Like, full mascot getup. Worked at Alfredo’s Bail Bonds. I don’t even know what that is.”

You frowned. The ache in your chest curled tighter as if the image on the screen weighed something you couldn’t name. Bob didn’t look dangerous in that photo. He didn’t look angry or unhinged.

He looked lost. Like he’d already been falling long before anyone ever thought to arrest him.

“It’s not funny, Joaquín.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” Joaquín glanced at you. And even though the grin tugged at his lips, he raised one hand in surrender. But the humour was still there. You know he didn’t mean anything by it, not really. You could tell he was just trying to lift the mood. “But like… come on. A chicken costume? It’s objectively a little funny.”

You scoffed, reached across the table and closed his laptop with two fingers, giving him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”

“Shut up,” Joaquín said, flashing you that stupid grin again as he tugged the laptop back toward him. “You love me.”

The warm morning sun was finally starting to cast a glow through the window and onto your half-eaten plate of waffles.

Joaquín opened his laptop again and tapped a few keys, lips pressed together now. “I still don’t get what he was doing in that tower last night.”

“He knows Valentina to some extent. We know that much,” you murmured, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He nodded, gaze fixed on the screen, but your voice dropped with the weight of what you were about to say next.

“…He called Bucky family.”

That made him pause. He turned toward you fully, his brows lifted. “Family?”

“Yeah,” you said, quietly. “Like Walker. Starr. Belova. He said they saved him.”

You watched Joaquín’s expression shift, his usual spirit tempered by something more focused, sharper around the edges. He leaned forward a little, propping his elbow on the booth table again as if the change in posture could help him wrap his head around it.

“Saved him from what?” he asked. “When?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know.”

He frowned. “You didn’t ask?”

“I didn’t really get the chance,” you said, your voice catching for half a second. Then you exhaled. “Or—I don’t know. I just freaked out.”

“You freaked out? You?”

You gave a dry, humourless laugh, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your napkin. “You haven’t met him. He just… he threw me off.”

Your voice was quieter now, almost drowned out by the soft rumble of a waitress rolling a cart past your booth.

“I was already on edge after everything Valentina said. Then he shows up, out of nowhere... and he acts... he was really sweet, actually. And I know it’s stupid but I let my gaurd down. Then he said Bucky’s his family, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? ‘Cool, same’? I don’t even know if Bucky considers us family.”

Joaquín rested his chin in one hand, looking thoughtful. “I mean… I probably would’ve asked him more questions. Try to figure out who he is before jumping to conclusions.”

You shot him a look.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, hands up in defence. “The idea of them saving him could be legit. Like—it could go back to what happened in New York a few months ago. The whole Darkness or Void incident. That was a mess. Maybe he got caught in all that and they pulled him out or something.”

“Maybe,” you said, still not convinced. “Lot’s of people got caught up in that. What makes him so special?”

Joaquín exhaled through his nose. “Could’ve been one of those publicity saves. You know how they’ve been staging those lately.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You hated the thought of that being true. That Bob was just another pawn in Valentina’s carefully calculated optics campaign. But there was something else in your gut. That didn’t feel like the whole truth. Bob had looked at you like he knew something. Like he’d seen something you hadn’t yet.

You rubbed at your eyes. “Are there any records of that?”

“No,” Joaquín said, tapping his finger against the side of his laptop. “Not really.”

You sank back into the booth, staring at the streaks of syrup on your plate.

“It doesn’t matter now,” you said after a long breath. “We’ll probably never see him again. Or Bucky, for that matter.”

Joaquín shook his head, his expression tightening. “Don’t say that. He’ll come back.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat. “He can’t stay away from Sam for too long. Those two go into, like, withdrawals if they spend enough time apart. Sam starts getting all twitchy. It’s weird.”

You let out a soft laugh, “Yeah, right.”

Joaquín grinned, kicking you from under the table. “Hey. Fun fact. Bob’s from Florida.”

You raised a brow, skeptical. “What, you think he’s from Miami too?”

“Sarasota Springs.” He said, “Makes sense, I guess… with his criminal record, it kinda tracks. Rich, by the coast, drugged-up suburbia. Perfect place to arrest a meth-head chicken.”

You shot him another glare. “That’s not funny, Joaquín.”

“I’m sorry!” he shrieked when your foot connected with his shin under the table.

He was not sorry—his laugh betrayed him. He kicked you back with zero remorse. The table wobbled with the weight of your childish back-and-forth, your drink nearly toppling as Joaquín banged his knee into the edge, cursing. You stopped before either of you caused a spill.

But then, he froze.

Not the usual kind of still, either. He stopped laughing mid-breath, spine straightening with a jolt, and his eyes cut toward the window in a way that immediately froze your blood. The humour drained off him like a tide pulling back to sea.

Your own posture tightened. “What?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer; he just grabbed his sunglasses and slapped them on, even though you were indoors. That alone told you how bad it was.

“Get down,” he muttered, reaching across the table and sliding the newspaper to you. “Look casual.”

You snatched it without a word, unfolding the pages like you cared about the stock market. Your heart beat too loudly in your ears, and your eyes scanned the ink without registering a single word. Still, you followed his lead, the two of you falling into sync like clockwork.

You tried to guess what had set him off. Your brain jumped straight to Sam, storming through the front entrance, arms crossed like a disappointed dad at parent-teacher night. But no. He was still in Washington, right?

You glanced over the paper’s edge. “What is it?” you hissed.

Joaquín didn’t move much—just lowered his voice to a whisper through clenched teeth. “It’s Walker.”

You blinked, lips parting in disbelief. “What?”

“Shhh. Shut the fuck up.”

You straightened up ever so slightly, trying to look calm, normal, bored, but you angled your head toward the door.

“Where?” you whispered, barely moving your lips.

“By the entrance,” Joaquín murmured, adjusting his cap lower. “With the ghost girl.”

You squinted subtly. “Ghost gi—?”

Ava Starr. You caught sight of her instantly, despite Joaquín not needing to say her name. She stood like someone perpetually mid-departure, her hair pulled back and jaw set tight as she waited at the counter. Her arms were folded, and she was already halfway through her order. Beside her, unmistakable in his broad, self-assured posture, stood John Walker. He wore a sun-bleached military jacket and—God help you—that stupid beret. His eyes weren’t scanning the room yet, just the menu above the barista, but that could change at any moment.

You ducked back behind your newspaper like it might physically protect you. “We should just… lay low until they leave,” you said under your breath, acting like it was all casual. “The last thing we need is getting caught with them. Especially now. If anyone sees us here with them, it’s gonna look real convenient.”

“Okay,” Joaquín murmured, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “But I’m telling you, if Walker starts walking this way, I’m crawling under this booth.”

You almost laughed, but it didn’t quite make it out. Instead, you focused your gaze on your plate, trying to pretend your nerves weren’t crawling all over your skin.

The seconds ticked by with unbearable slowness. Joaquín took a sip of his drink, eyes still hidden behind his glasses and the screen of his computer. For one full, glorious moment, it seemed like maybe—maybe—they’d leave without seeing you.

“Hey, guys,” came a voice behind you. Too familiar. Too smug.

Your stomach dropped.

“Funny seeing you here in New York.”

Your spine stiffened like a board. Across from you, Joaquín let out what had to be the quietest groan of his life, a barely audible sigh that still managed to scream you’ve got to be kidding me.

You didn’t look right away. You already knew who it was. But slowly, cautiously, you turned in your seat, past the half-finished plate of fruits and the folded newspaper still clutched in your hand, to find John Walker standing at the edge of your table.

Hands on his hips, back straight like a soldier reporting for duty. That signature smugness twisted his mouth into a grin that looked about ninety percent forced and ten percent calculated. A politician’s smile, one he’d probably been coached on.

Ava Starr stood just behind him, half-shielded by the oversized sweater and black trench coat she was wearing, and her baseball cap pulled low like you were. She sipped from a takeout cup like none of this had anything to do with her. Still, her eyes flicked over the two of you, sharp and curious. There was intrigue there, and something else. Something like suspicion.

“Walker,” Joaquín said, dragging his sunglasses off and trying on a smile that was just a little too wide to be natural. He leaned back against the booth like he wasn’t one second away from bolting. “Long time no see, man. When—when was the last time we saw each other?”

Walker didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know, Torres.” He tilted his head, pretending to think about it with mock sincerity. “I think it was about two, three years ago? When you pled against me in court.”

Joaquín blinked, just once, then let out a breathy, “Right, right.” A stiff nod followed, and you caught the colour blooming in his cheeks before he turned back to Walker, trying to recover. “Wow. Time flies. How’s Olivia?”

Walker’s jaw flexed, the grin faltering just slightly. “She’s fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Happy wife, happy life, am I right?”

“Ex-wife, actually,” Ava said casually, her voice cool and clipped—and British, you noted, catching you a bit off guard. It was the first time you’d heard her speak. “She took the kid and left him.”

A sip. Deadpan. Not even a blink.

Joaquín flinched like she’d hit him. “Oh—uh. Sorry.”

Walker sighed, running a hand down his face, but he didn’t look particularly angry at her for saying it. If anything, he just looked annoyed, maybe even tired. Like someone who didn’t have the energy to defend himself anymore.

You cleared your throat, eyes narrowing just enough. “Who’s your friend?” You asked it knowing full well who she was. You had files on every single New Avenger. The question was less about gaining information and more about playing the game. Buying yourself time. Pretending this conversation was normal when every instinct in your body said otherwise.

“This is Ava,” Walker said, gesturing toward her with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Ava offered a faint smile, small, and polite, but with an unmistakable edge of sarcasm. It was a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable you were, and she probably felt the same way.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.” You nodded once, tight-lipped.

Joaquín, ever the icebreaker, leaned forward in what was possibly the worst possible moment. “I gotta say—your powers are so cool. Like, if I could have powers, I’d want something like yours.”

You didn’t even have time to stop him.

Ava blinked, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Thanks. The cells inside my body are tearing themselves apart every second. Chronic pain. Constantly.”

He deflated like a balloon with a hole in it, sinking back into the booth. “Oh.”

“Sorry about him,” you said, giving Ava a small shrug. “He never knows when to speak or what to say.”

Ava gave a short, amused nod. “It’s alright. I’m better now, anyway. My cells only tear apart on my command.”

“That’s nice.” You tried not to show it, but the offhandedness of that statement—how someone could say something so gruesome with such ease—did something to your stomach.

Then Walker turned back to you.

“See, I thought I saw you last night,” he said, voice casual in the most deliberately uncasual way. He scratched at his beard.

Your jaw tightened.

Of course he saw you last night. You saw him too. He knew it. You knew it. And the fact that he was pretending like this was just now dawning on him made your teeth itch. Especially since your photos from that gala were currently trending on half the internet. The press had already decided what it meant. You didn’t need Walker playing coy.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling sweetly. “I saw you too. Then you turned and walked the other way before I could say hi.”

Ava snorted into her drink, reaching over to smack Walker’s arm. “You ran off?”

“No—” Walker started, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head and a raised brow.

“You did.”

“I didn’t run off,” he said, defensive now. “I just had business to attend to.”

You didn’t bother replying. He was still talking, but his words blurred into the background as your phone buzzed once again on the table beside you. Sam. Probably asking when you'd be ready to talk or when you were coming home.

You caught Joaquín glancing at the screen, and a silent understanding passed between you both. Time to wrap this up.

You turned back to Walker with a pleasant enough smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Did you need something, Walker? I mean, it’s great to see you—” (lie) “—but we were just trying to have some breakfast before we went home.”

“Home? You’re leaving so soon?”

“We’ve got things to do. It’s a long drive back.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “We can fly you back to Washington. No problem. You’d be home before sunset.”

You blinked once. “No thanks.”

Walker chuckled, a low, dry sound that barely passed for humour. “You should come by the tower anyway. We’ll show you around. It’ll be fun.”

You couldn’t think of anything that had to do with John Walker being described as ‘fun’.

Also, he wasn’t exactly subtle with the way he asked the two of you to go to the tower with them. You didn’t know what was up there waiting for you, and you didn’t want to find out. You just wanted to go home.

“Really,” you said, the word coming out like dead weight. “We’re good. We’ll just get the bill and go.”

Right on cue, the waitress showed up, sliding the receipt onto the table with a bright smile that faltered the second she noticed Walker and Ava still hovering beside your booth. She glanced between all four of you, sensing something off, the way people do when they walk into a conversation that’s gone a degree too cold. Without a word, she walked off, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum.

The table went still for a beat. Then Ava finally spoke.

“We know you talked to Bob last night.”

That shut you up. Just like that, your posture went a little rigid, shoulders tensing into steel as the name settled like a stone in your gut. It landed like a trigger pull. You tried not to be too obvious but you were failing.

Joaquín was worse, he froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just an inch from his lips before he slowly set it down. His eyes darted to you, then back to Ava.

Ava shifted slightly, her voice calmer now, but precise. “We also know you asked about Barnes.”

That got you. You didn’t respond; you didn’t need to. The fact you were suddenly locked in, gaze narrowed, said enough. She had your attention. And she knew it.

Ava scanned the café. Her eyes didn’t linger too long on anything, but you recognized the sweep, measured, tactical. The way a person looks when they’ve been taught to watch for threats before they come through the door.

“We’re not with Val,” she said. “Not in the way you think. Just… give us a chance to talk. Somewhere private.”

You nearly laughed. Or maybe you wanted to. Or maybe you wanted to scream. Somewhere private? As if that didn’t set off every alarm in your body.

You didn’t know Ava Starr beyond what you and Joaquín had pulled from the files: taken by S.H.E.I.L.D. as a child, quantum instability, a near-lethal skill set. You didn’t know John Walker beyond the courtroom footage, the headlines, and everything you watched from the sidelines, a man who still believed he deserved redemption without ever earning it. You also knew he had taken a dangerous dose of the super soldier serum, making him violent and twitchy.

But you definitely didn’t know them well enough to follow them into a quiet place with no exits or no witnesses.

And you definitely did not want to be caught walking around New York City with them. The last thing you needed was another headline featuring your face beside the likes of John Walker. And Joaquín? You weren’t about to drag him deeper into a mess that wasn’t his.

But before you could say any of that, before you could even start lining up all the reasons this was a terrible idea, you heard: “Okay, sure.”

Your head snapped around. “Quín?”

Joaquín had turned his hat backward, that familiar nervous tell masked behind the casual flip. He was already sliding his laptop into his bag, fingers moving with a kind of focused ease that suggested he’d been waiting for this the whole time. Like part of him had been waiting for someone to finally offer an answer, any answer, and now that it was on the table, he couldn’t bring himself to hesitate.

“What?” he asked.

“You can’t just—”

“What?” he said again with a little more attitude, zipping the bag closed. “You’re always saying how much you hate being in the dark. They’re offering answers.”

“They could be lying,” you shot back, sharper than you meant. “This could be a trap, or another setup.”

You said it like they weren’t standing right there, and you didn’t care if they heard. They could take the hint or choke on it.

He shrugged, cool, easy, frustratingly calm. “Then we’ll find out.”

You stared at him, your chest tight all over again. He meant that. You could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way he shouldered his bag like it didn’t weigh a damn thing. That unbearable sincerity, that same stubborn belief in people that made you trust him, was now steering him straight into a situation you didn’t trust at all.

You wanted to snap. Wanted to grab his arm, drag him out of the café and into daylight, anywhere but here. A bitter remark rose in your throat, hot and ready to be thrown—about the last time he leapt before looking, the last time he decided to be a hero and ended up flatlined for two full minutes on a hospital table, blood-soaked and broken and somehow still apologizing for it afterward.

But the words caught in your chest.

You didn’t say it. You didn’t even whisper it.

You just looked at him. Tried to say it with your eyes, with the hard, silent glare you shot across the table—don’t do this.

He didn’t meet your gaze.

Instead, you turned, eyes locking onto Walker and Ava, your voice low and sharp. “How’d you find us?”

Walker raised both hands, a placating gesture you didn’t buy for a second. “We didn’t follow you or anything. Personally, I couldn’t care less about what you two are up to.”

You bristled at the you two, and you hated how they started to drag Joaquín into it.

“But,” Walker went on, “Yelena’s been tracking you since the gala.”

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

He said it casually like it was nothing.

You blinked, stomach lurching. There’d been no tag, no weight in your coat, no itch along your back where something might’ve been placed. You’d showered. Slept. Walked half the city this morning without even realizing it. And that was the point, wasn’t it? You never saw her. Never felt it. Never even noticed.

Because Yelena Belova didn’t need a tracker when she was one of the best Red Room assassins. You only couldn’t understand why she hadn’t killed you when she had the chance.

Unease coiled at the base of your spine. You felt exposed. Like someone had peeled back your skin and left it raw in the open air.

“Please,” Ava said again. Her voice was quiet, almost too calm, but there was something underneath it, something tense and taut like she hated begging for trust. “Just hear us out.”

Your stomach continued twisting, hard. Every instinct screamed don’t go. Don’t let them get you alone. Don’t let Joaquín near whatever this is. But you could already feel the decision slipping away from you.

The elevator couldn't have been any fucking slower.

You swore you could hear the grind of the gears behind the panelling, dragging each second out like a countdown to something awful. The small screen above the door blinked from floors 37 to 38 to 39 with glacial slowness.

You thought this building had state-of-the-art technology remodelled. Why the fuck was their elevator so damn slow?

Your chest was caving in on itself, a familiar panic clawing up your throat and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Every inch of this place felt too polished. You hadn’t forgotten how sharp the Watchtower felt—like walking into a wolf’s mouth made of steel and luxury.

Your brain spiralled—clawing through every possible worst-case scenario like it was trying to prepare you for all of them at once. You hadn’t even gotten to the part where Valentina might be standing on the other side of the doors. You could already see it: that smug, all-knowing smile she wore like lipstick, arms crossed, voice dripping with venomous delight. She’d say something like “Took you long enough,” and you’d want to punch her in the teeth, even as you walked willingly into the trap.

Matt would kill you.

Your lawyer had explicitly warned you to stay away from anything remotely connected to Valentina. Wait it out. Stay clean until the dust settles. This was the very opposite of that.

You rubbed a thumb across your phone screen, opening and closing your texts with Sam. The messages were still left unanswered. You had typed seven different versions of a reply: “I’m okay”, “Just give me a second”, “Long story, I’ll explain later” and deleted them all.

You couldn’t leave him in the dark. You didn’t want to be like Bucky. But how the fuck were you supposed to explain this?

‘Call you soon, busy talking to John fucking Walker’?

Joaquín shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the low heat radiating off his arm. He wasn’t saying anything, but his tension mirrored yours—jaw clenched, eyes locked on the doors, hands flexing at his side. You could see it in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his thigh like he was ready to move, run, or punch someone if needed.

If you were to die, at least you could blame it on him.

Behind you, Walker and Ava stood just a little too casually; coffee cups in hand, speaking in quiet tones you couldn’t catch. Not that you tried. Every nerve in your body was too loud already, the soft hum of the elevator music a scream in your ears.

They were calm. You weren’t. That alone was reason enough to worry.

You glanced at the elevator buttons. No emergency stop. No backup plan. You weren’t sure what you’d even do if you had to fight. You couldn’t land a hit on Ava unless she let you. She could phase her entire body into atoms and probably rip your spine out if she wanted to. Walker? He definitely had a gun. And he was superhuman. You’d go down in minutes. Joaquín too.

No. Fighting was not an option.

But running? That window was already gone. You’d known that the moment they cornered you at the diner. There hadn’t really been a choice. They would’ve followed you all the way back to D.C. if they had to.

So here you were. In a box of steel, crawling toward confrontation, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The air was too still. Too thick. Your reflection in the brushed metal doors looked sick. Unsteady. Tired.

Joaquín glanced at you from the side, like he could sense what was happening in your head without you saying a word. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but there. Just in case.

You should’ve just gone home. Should’ve skipped breakfast, told Joaquín to let it go, and gotten on the first flight out of New York before any of this spiralled.

Your spine ached from tension as you shifted in place, uncomfortably aware that you were still wearing the same clothes you’d gone running in earlier that morning—damp with city sweat and stale adrenaline, clinging wrong to your skin. No time to change, no time to breathe. They hadn’t given you the chance.

The elevator slowed. You felt it before you saw it—an unnatural stillness as it glided to a halt on a floor you didn’t recognize. One that hadn’t been accessible during the party last night.

Your pulse ramped into overdrive. You braced yourself, watching the doors split open with agonizing slowness, and for a split second, you were sure something was about to go horribly wrong.

Because something was there.

A long, black cylinder slipped between the doors just before they finished opening. You didn’t wait. Instinct took over—you lunged back, grabbing Joaquín and yanking him behind you as your heart rocketed into your throat.

“What the hell—?” Ava started to say, already stepping forward, but you weren’t listening.

You were listening for an explosion.

And it came.

A loud pop! cracked through the elevator like a gunshot, sharp and close. Joaquín jumped, slamming into your shoulder, and your breath caught, chest tightening as you threw your arms up. You were ready for anything—smoke, gas, flashbang, worse.

The four of you stood frozen, fists clenched, muscles coiled, every instinct screaming fight.

Then… something fluttered.

Light. Soft. A delicate brush against your cheek.

You opened your eyes slowly, blinked once, twice, and saw colour drifting down around you. Red. Gold. Silver.

Confetti.

Tiny scraps of shimmering paper were falling in slow spirals over your head, clinging to your sleeves, catching in Joaquín’s curls. You glanced down and realized you were still gripping the front of his shirt like a lifeline, your knuckles tight in the fabric. He looked just as stunned as you did, eyes wide, jaw slack.

Behind you, Walker groaned loudly, swearing under his breath. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You finally looked up. And there, standing just outside the elevator, was Alexei Shostakov grinning like a child with a confetti cannon in his hand.

“Surprise!” he boomed, shouting your name, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

You blinked at him in disbelief. Your body hadn’t quite caught the memo that you weren’t about to be murdered (which could still happen), it was still locked in a battle stance, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

Sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows lining the lounge beyond, bouncing off the glossy, marbled floors and catching in the confetti still drifting down like ashes from a very sparkly apocalypse. The room stretched wide and open—modern, luxurious.

Alexei took a triumphant step forward, tossing the cannon aside with a clatter and reaching for your hand like he hadn’t just given you a heart attack.

You didn’t take it, your fingers were still trembling, but he didn’t seem to notice as he tugged you into the room. He waved his arm grandly toward the entryway, where a crooked banner hung overhead: WELCOME TO THE AVENGERS! The lettering was large and smudged, still drying in places, and the fabric sagged slightly in the middle.

Paint-streaked fingerprints decorated the edges, and sure enough, Alexei’s hands were splotched in red and blue. He must’ve made it himself. That realization made your head spin harder than the confetti had.

Your mouth parted, trying to find words, but before anything could come out, Walker stormed forward and beat you to it.

“What the fuck is all this?”

Alexei dropped his hand, puffing out his chest with dramatic offence. “It is party!” he declared, gesturing at you with a broad, proud smile. “For our new member! Did you not read the news?”

He turned to you again and slapped a heavy hand against your back, nearly knocking the air from your lungs. “Congratulations, my friend. We are very happy to have you on our awesome team.”

“No. No, no, no,” Walker muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was already exhausted. He stomped up beside Alexei and grabbed his arm, pulling him gently, but insistently, away from you. “No party.”

“What do you mean no party?” Alexei protested, wide-eyed. “This calls for… what is word? Celebration! She has joined the Avengers!”

“No. We do not need to celebrate, there’s nothing to celebrate.” Walker hissed, his voice strained as he pointed back at you. “This isn’t—she’s not joining the team.”

Alexei looked at you, expression falling. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he said.

Walker guided him off toward the far end of the lounge—a massive open-concept kitchen with gleaming appliances and a dining area you were certain had hosted at least one illegal meeting in the past month.

“Sorry about him,” Ava said, stepping beside you now. Her tone was breezy but fond like she was used to this. “I’d say he’s not usually like that, but I’d be lying.”

She reached over and gently plucked a curl of confetti from Joaquín’s hair. He blushed, mumbling something under his breath that made her grin wider when he tugged his cap back on again.

“I’m gonna go find Yelena,” she added, stepping away. “She’s around here somewhere. Make yourselves at home.”

“Wait—” Joaquín called after her, taking a cautious half-step forward. “Valentina’s not… here, right?”

Ava laughed without turning back. “God, no. She’s probably halfway across the country by now. Besides, she can’t hurt you if you’re with us.”

You weren’t sure if that was comforting or worse. You tried to make sense of what that even meant as she disappeared up a set of spiralling steel stairs toward the upper floor.

The silence that followed made you acutely aware of your surroundings for the first time. This wasn’t just another floor in the tower. This was where they lived.

The room you stood in opened into what looked like a shared lounge and rec space. Through the transparent panels of frosted glass, you could see a massive sunken living room just ahead—an enormous circular couch built into the floor like a pit, all pointed toward a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.

Through the windows, the whole upper side of Manhattan was seen and Central Park stretched out in the distance, green and gold beneath the morning sun.

The marble floors gleamed beneath your shoes. A massive, shaggy rug near the couch looked warm and strangely lived-in. The entire space looked lived-in now that you got a better look at it, cluttered with mismatched mugs, throwing knives, forgotten jackets, guns, socks and someone’s boot kicked off to the side. It was the kind of mess that told you, yes—this was where they really stayed. A home, despite how cold and glossy it looked at first.

“Bet you’ve never been greeted into a home like that,” Joaquín said quietly, almost hopeful.

You turned on him so fast he barely had time to register it before your hand smacked the back of his head, knocking his hat off.

“Joaquín. What the fuck are you thinking?!” you hissed, voice low and sharp, even though you were sure no one was listening. “We shouldn’t be here. We can’t trust these people.”

He rubbed the spot you hit, wincing and bending down to pick up his cap from the floor. “I know. Okay? I know. I’m sorry. I just—I really think we should hear them out.”

“Hear them out?” You blinked at him, disbelief carving out your words like broken glass. “What?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Listen,” he said, eyes flicking around like he was afraid someone might actually be listening. “I don’t think John Walker would willingly try to talk to us if it didn’t mean something. Think about it—that guy fucking hates us. And Bucky doesn’t mess around. If he’s even entertaining working with Walker, it’s gotta be for a reason.”

You stared at him like he’d just lost his mind.

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” you snapped. “No, seriously, are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? Did you not understand anything that happened last night? Bucky’s—he’s not doing this—Valentina said—we already know—he’s being blackmailed—” You struggled to find the words because you really weren’t sure if he even was. “This?” you waved your arms around frantically, “this is literally the one thing Matt told us not to do. He told us to stay clear of anything even remotely tied to Valentina and this fucking tower—”

“Okay, okay—”

“—And now we’re here. Willingly. Jesus Christ, Joaquín. We are putting ourselves in a worse situation by the minute. We need to leave. Now.”

Your fingers closed around his arm as you spun toward the elevator, dragging him with you before anyone could return. The urgency prickled along your spine like static.

Joaquín tried to pull free. “Wait—just wait a second—”

But then your phone started ringing. The sharp, sudden sound sliced through the moment. You flinched, instinctively reaching for it.

You didn’t need to check the screen to know. You already knew. Still, when you looked, your chest clenched anyway.

It was Sam.

His contact photo filled the display—an old picture from last summer’s cookout, blurry and sun-drenched. He had an arm around your shoulders, the both of you mid-laugh, framed by folding chairs, paper plates, and the golden glow of fireworks behind you. Bucky had taken the picture, you could see his thumb in the corner. You could also see Joaquín cut off on the side, the photo taken seconds before he tried to bomb it.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.

“You gotta answer that,” Joaquín said.

“I’ll answer it later.”

“I think you should answer it now.”

You turned your glare on him so fast that he almost took a step back. “I could kill you.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “I’m just saying.”

You flipped him off as you turned away, stalking into the nearest hallway. You didn’t want to go far, you didn’t trust this place enough for that, but you needed space. Air. Somewhere quieter to breathe.

The hallway stretched narrower than expected, cooler too. The light dimmed as you moved in, shadows creeping in like something alive. The apartment’s polished glamour fell away here, replaced with something colder. Raw concrete walls. Steel framing.

You slowed when you noticed what was displayed along the wall.

Glass cases lined the corridor like a gallery—each one holding weapons. Blades, a shield, and a blackened skull mask with a hollow stare. Scorch marks bloomed along the gear like they’d been found in a fire. The plaque caught your eye:

Antonia Dreykov.

You didn’t know who Antonia Dreykov was. But you knew how people treated the dead when they didn’t know how to let go. This seemed something like it.

Your hand drifted to the case before you could stop yourself. One of the smaller knives had been left slightly off-centre, the glass not fully locked. You slipped it free, weighing it in your palm. The metal was cold but familiar. Comforting in a way that made you hate yourself.

You tucked it into your pocket, then took another. Not because you planned on using them. Just... in case. You couldn’t afford to be the only unarmed person in the apartment.

You kept your back to the wall, thumb hovering over the green Accept Call button on Sam’s contact. You weren’t ready. Not for the sound of his voice. Not for the questions. Not for the disappointment he wouldn’t bother hiding.

Because no matter how reckless Joaquín had been to get you here—you still came.

You bit the bullet and answered, bringing the phone to your ear with a shaky breath. “Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.”

His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. Not anger, but the obvious disappointment you expected. Concern, tight and braced behind his words like he was afraid of what you’d say next.

“Sam…”

“Do you wanna talk or should I?” he cut in firmly. “Because I need a very good explanation as to why your face is all over the damn news.”

You exhaled, slow and uneven, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.

You knew he wasn’t trying to berate you. Sam wasn’t like that. His voice didn’t carry malice, not even now, when he had every right to be furious. You knew it looked like you’d gone behind his back the same way Bucky had. And while your intentions had been good, that didn’t matter, not when Valentina had twisted it, splashing your name across every headline like you were some kind of defector.

“I’ll talk,” you said quickly. “I’ll talk. Just… let me talk, okay?”

A dozen excuses lined up behind your teeth. Every one of them was flimsy and easy to knock over. But lying to Sam? You couldn’t stomach it. Not after everything. Not after he’d trusted you.

“I fucked up,” you whispered. The admission stung worse than you expected. “I thought… maybe I could talk to Bucky.”

There was silence on the other end. A pause, heavy with surprise. “Talk to Bucky?” Sam echoed, more cautious than confused now.

“Yeah.” You rubbed at your face, suddenly cold despite the weight of your spring jacket. “I got invited to their black tie event. Congressman Gary sent the invite, and I was going to say no—I swear—but then I thought, maybe… maybe Bucky would be there. And if he was, maybe I could corner him. Ask him what the hell he was thinking. Why he left. Why would he join them after what Ross offered you? And he knew. Bucky knew and I just couldn’t understand why he would... leave.”

You leaned back against the cool wall of the hallway, careful to keep your voice steady. Just far enough from Joaquín’s line of sight. Just close enough to watch him, still poking curiously at things he definitely shouldn’t be touching.

“I just…” You shook your head. “Things haven’t felt right, Sam. None of it makes sense. One minute Bucky’s fighting to get Valentina impeached, the next he’s... working under her? The fuck? He shuts you out and I thought maybe... I could find out why. Maybe I could fix it.”

On the other end of the line, you heard him sigh. He murmured your name, and it made your chest ache.

“You were right, by the way. Valentina’s a total snake,” you said quietly, trying to fill the silence because it made you feel more uneasy. “I came in looking for Bucky and walked out with half the press calling me her newest toy.”

“She really played you, huh?”

“Like I’m her bitch on a leash.”

Sam let out a short, dry laugh that made you feel a little better. “Yeah. She does that.”

“We think she did the same thing to Bucky. Joaquín and I, I mean. Got in his head.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sam murmured. “But listen… I don’t want you carrying my mess, alright? I’ll deal with Bucky. That’s on me.”

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know, kid. I know. And I know your heart was in the right place. But next time… just talk to me first. Please.”

There was no guilt in his voice. Just a quiet exhaustion. A gentleness that somehow made it worse.

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Okay.”

A pause stretched across the line. Then, softer: “Are you two okay?”

Your hand tightened around the phone, glancing down the hallway like the sound of his voice might give something away. You caught sight of the display again—the glass case, the weapons, the skull-like helmet and the burnt suit. You didn’t even know who it belonged to. But you’d still taken the knives.

That probably said something about where your head was at. Obviously not good.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

“Good,” Sam said. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

You hesitated. “Tonight, for sure.”

There was another small beat. “Alright. We’ll talk more then. Maybe we can clean up this mess of yours, yeah?”

“Okay.”

“Stay out of any more trouble.”

You broke a smile, frankly a little panicked. “We’ll try.”

The call ended with a soft click, and you stood there for a second longer, your thumb still resting against your phone as if it might ring again.

You did feel better. Not safe, but... better. Like you’d finally caught your breath after running too long on adrenaline and guilt. The tightness in your chest had lessened, the weight of what you’d said to Sam lifting enough for you to think clearly again.

You slid your phone back into your jacket pocket, already piecing together an escape route in your head. Get Joaquín. Get out of this tower. Back to the hotel and then home, away from politicians and new-age Avengers and whatever the hell this place really was.

But when you turned around, someone was already waiting for you.

Yelena Belova stood by the mouth of the hallway you’d come in from, arms at her sides, not moving. Her blonde hair was loose now, falling messily around her face, not the slicked-back style from last night. She wore a worn grey hoodie and loose pants, a silver chain glinting at her collarbone, and faint smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner still clung stubbornly beneath her eyes. Her hands were tucked deep into the kangaroo pocket of her sweater, shoulders propped casually against the wall like she’d been there a while.

“Hey,” she said, nodding once.

You froze, your entire body tensing instinctively. “Uh… hi.”

You didn’t move toward her. The space between you was the only thing keeping your pulse from skyrocketing. It wasn’t fear, not really—not the kind you’d feel around someone like Walker. It was more like wariness. The same kind you’d feel staring down a loaded gun with the safety off.

She straightened slowly like she could sense your unease. Her hands slipped from her pocket, fingers spread slightly, palms open like a silent I’m-not-here-to-fight gesture.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything,” she said carefully, her voice thick with a Russian accent, stepping forward just once. “Sorry.”

You didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch either, though your muscles stayed tight. There was something different about her, something calmer than the confusion of last night. Something that made you hesitate before writing her off completely. She was a lot shorter than you expected now that you had a better look.

She pointed vaguely to herself. “I’m Yelena.”

“I know,” you said.

“Oh.” She gave a slight nod. “I know you too, then.”

“You were spying on us.” The accusation left your mouth before you could stop it, sharp as a blade. She had been, her eyes on you the moment you’d stepped out of that gala, leading Walker and Ava right to your heels. You decided to leave out the part that you and Joaquín had been spying on them too, before the gala.

Yelena winced, visibly. “They told you about that?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry,” she said again, and this time she took another step forward. You didn’t move back. She noticed. “It wasn’t personal. Everything happened so fast…” she trailed off, not bothering to lie.

You remembered the brief, icy introduction last night. The short nod. The way she kept her distance but still watched. You remembered the moment she looked at you like she already knew what mistake you made by just being there.

“And sorry about my dad,” she added, nodding toward the lounge. Confetti still clung to the floor. “I tried to tell him. But he’s, you know… dense.”

You stared at her for a second, “It’s fine.”

Her shoulders dropped slightly, as though your words had released a little pressure she’d been holding in.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”

She hesitated—just for a second. Then: “Valentina.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want your help,” she said, voice low now, the trace of her accent curling around each word. “To take her down.”

If someone had told you two hours ago that you’d willingly be sitting in the residential level of the New Avengers Tower—with John Walker of all people—you probably would’ve laughed, then punched them in the throat for saying something so profoundly stupid.

But here you were.

Your footsteps echoed on polished floors as you followed Yelena into the common space, sunlight spilling in through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that made the entire room glow. The city stretched far below in every direction. The furniture was modern and the air smelled like lemon polish.

You didn’t sit right away. You stood behind the couch with your arms crossed as Yelena handed Joaquín a small USB stick like it was a grenade. You were halfway through convincing yourself to walk out when he plugged it in. And then… you stayed. Not because you trusted them. Not because they’d earned anything. But because if what they were saying about Valentina was true, if this was the crack in her foundation, you needed to see it for yourself.

So now you were seated stiffly on a sprawling U-shaped couch, the leather cool against your legs. Joaquín sat beside you, his knee brushing yours every now and then as the two of you leaned in toward his laptop screen, silent. He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at every pixelated image, every fragmented document. Your jaw ached from clenching it too long.

“Holy shit,” Joaquín muttered under his breath. “How did you get this?”

“Mel left her laptop open and I snooped,” Yelena said casually, shrugging.

There wasn’t much—a few blacked-out files with top-secret headers, jagged audio clips spliced together, blurry footage from surveillance drones and security cams—but it was enough. Enough to start mapping connections between government disappearances and political scandals, between untraceable funding and medical supply routes that didn’t quite add up. The FBI had been speculating De Fontaine’s place in the CIA for years.

“This confirms it,” Joaquín said quietly, glancing back at the others. “Valentina’s the chairwoman behind the O.X.E. Everything Bucky said… about human experimentation, black-site trials, illegal trafficking, missing personnel…”

Yelena stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her posture was tense and Ava sat on the armrest beside her, fingers curled tightly into her knee, expression locked somewhere between guilt and resolve. Walker hovered by the window, pretending to be disinterested as he squished a stress ball, probably taken from a therapy office.

At least you hoped he was going to therapy. You hoped all of them were, actually. They peculiar group with a lot of... problems. You did not have to be a genius to know that.

The tension between them all was heavy, but not disorderly. Rehearsed, maybe. Like they’d already had this conversation among themselves a hundred times, and now they were looping you in it.

“Great,” Yelena said, straight to the point. “So you’ll give it to Sam Wilson? Say a friend slipped it to you?”

You and Joaquín exchanged a look. Just one. That was all it took. If you handed this over, if you made it official, if Sam went public, it would burn everything down, this false sense of security Valentina had built to the press, this twisted team parading as heroes. This was it. The key. The proof.

And even though part of you wanted to spit in every face in this room and walk away, you also wanted Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to fall. To rot for what she’d done and gotten away with.

“Sure,” you said slowly, “we could.”

“But,” Joaquín added, eyes narrowing, “if we turn this in, you’re all going down with her.”

Walker straightened from where he was loitering, his arms dropping to his sides. “How’s that?”

You glanced at him, your patience thinning. You figured he would understand the most since he was in the Army, a decorated officer at that. But then again, all he ever knew how to do was take orders from someone else, no questions asked.

“Because you didn’t just work under Valentina. You were her operatives. Whether you realized it or not, you were complicit. You consented to all of this. You willingly helped execute illegal missions. You helped bury all traces of O.X.E.. Mind you, an illegal corporatization.”

Walk huffed bitterly, “Thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By stealing? Hiding evidence? Killing people?”

Ava shifted uncomfortably, and Walker’s stress ball nearly popped.

“We were her clean-up crew,” Yelena said finally.

“Right,” you replied, the corner of your mouth lifting bitterly. “Clean-up crew. Wiping traces. Silencing threats. Tying off loose ends. If someone tried to go public with O.X.E., whistleblow, or even just poked their head into the wrong corridor—what then?”

Ava spoke up, quiet and dry. “We were sent in.”

“Exactly,” Joaquín said. “What you’re describing? That’s illegal black ops. Domestic and international interference. Unregistered kill orders. You were running operations that not even the Pentagon would dare put in writing.”

Walker frowned. “Okay, but—”

“You don’t understand,” you cut in, voice tightening. “You show up in these files, in this footage. As long as you're in it, you’re leverage.”

Joaquín leaned back slightly, arms crossed now. “We could have you arrested right now. Everything you just gave us is enough for a military tribunal. Long-term sentences. Treason, obstruction, conspiracy. Pick your flavour.”

Yelena didn’t flinch. “But you won’t.”

You couldn’t help but frown at such confidence. “Is that a threat?”

She let out a snort. “No. You would know if I was making a threat. I’m very clear. You also won’t arrest us.” 

“You sure about that?”

She nodded once. “I’m willing to be. Because if you’re sitting here, reading this, it means you care about stopping Valentina... maybe helping new friends along the way. Because that is what you do. You help people, yes?”

You rolled your eyes, you could hardly consider them your friends.

“That’s what we’re trying to tell you, even if we help there isn’t much we can do to keep you out of trouble,” Joaquín said, “You think you’ve been using De Fontaine? This evidence goes both ways—and if she falls, she’s not going alone.”

“She probably knew you'd kill her if you could.” You said, “That’s why she gave you everything. The tower. The team. The illusion of purpose. Something that felt clean and heroic. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Across from you, the shift was subtle but telling.

For the first time since you stepped into the room, these guys looked… uncertain.

Ava glanced down, studying the tile beneath her boots like it might give her a way out. Walker crossed his arms and chewed at the inside of his cheek, jaw working, but saying nothing. Even Yelena, unmoving as a statue, had a muscle twitching along her jawline.

Silence settled in—tense and humming, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Then Walker broke it.

“If that’s the case,” he muttered, tone flat, “you might as well arrest Bucky too. Y’know—for his Winter Soldier days.”

You didn’t like that. Not just the deflection, but the name. It struck a nerve.

You hated that Walker brought Bucky into it now. Hated even more that the drive you’d been digging through for the last hour or so had nothing about him. No trail. Nothing to explain why he’d joined the team. No answer for why he was there the day everything went to hell—why he was helping them when the sky turned black and New York vanished into chaos for twenty agonizing minutes.

No one had explained a thing. No one had tried.

Joaquín’s mouth twitched. “Bucky was pardoned. Publicly.”

“So was I.”

“Yeah,” you said, “For killing a man in a public square three years ago. But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about everything you’ve done since then. The black ops. The cover-ups. Evidence tampering. Political interference. Murder. Do you think a pardon protects you from three years of new crimes? Of acts of terrorism?”

Yelena scoffed, “Terrorism?”

“Did you or did you not bomb a building in Malaysia?”

“It was just one floor…” she muttered. “and Valentina owned it and the lab. Hardly an act of terror… or what you said.”

“Civilians were hurt.”

She didn’t say anything at that.

No one spoke.

Not because they didn’t have something to say, but because they weren’t sure how to say it anymore.

You could feel it now—how fragile the balance was. The way this whole thing had felt so certain when you walked in. Like the truth would be enough. Like justice could be clear-cut.

But now, it was murky.

You glanced back at the laptop, watching Joaquín continue to open new folders, skimming through them. One of the files showed grainy security footage from the vault they’d mentioned—one of Valentina’s archives. You could make out the three of them, half-lit in the shadows and red emergency lights, walking through sealed crates. Just behind them, in the back of the frame, was someone else. A body dressed in hospital scrubs.

You blinked. “Wait. What’s that?”

Ava followed your gaze, her expression unreadable. “It’s just a test dummy.”

“That looks like a man—”

“We need to focus,” Yelena interrupted, suddenly stepping forward, distracting your view of the screen. “If we waste time worrying about the wrong things, we’ll all lose.”

“You could try for a sympathy pardon,” Joaquín said eventually, eyes back on the drive.

Ava looked up, confused. “Sympathy pardon?”

You nodded. “If you turn yourselves in. Cooperate. Help take Valentina down, publicly and completely. There’s precedent for it. Limited sentencing in exchange for full debriefs. If you start working with the courts instead of hiding behind her money—”

Walker snorted. Loud and dismissive. “Turn ourselves in? For what—saving New York?”

“Congrats,” Joaquín said. “You’re heroes. You and every other vigilante in this city. The only thing that makes you different is that Valentina can market you. And you let her instead of coming clean right away.”

“You might see ten years,” you counted. “Maybe eight. Less with good behaviour. But keep hiding behind her... it’s just gonna get worse.”

Walker paced now, muttering something under his breath.

“Awesome,” he said louder. “Awesome. So this was a waste of time. Thanks a lot, Yelena. Now we’ve gotta worry about these two running off to Wilson with this. Then the press. Then all this?” he waved around the space surrounding you all, “All this is gone!”

Ava raised her voice carefully, almost hesitant, glancing at the short blonde. “What happens to… you know. If we do turn ourselves in? Where will he go?”

Yelena’s expression shifted for the first time.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, quiet now. Her hands drifted to her hips, fingertips twitching like she was resisting the urge to fold in on herself. Her head dipped low, eyes on the floor.

You weren’t sure who they meant. But it was clear from the way everyone avoided eye contact that whoever he was, he wasn’t just another asset.

Joaquín sat up straighter, eyebrows pinching. “What’s Project Sentry?”

Ava flinched. “Lena, I thought you cut that out.”

She moved fast, hand darting toward Joaquín’s laptop. He tried to pull it away, but she was faster—phasing into thin air and reappearing at his side, yanking the drive from the port and slipping it into her pocket like it hadn’t happened at all.

You never even got the chance to see what he was talking about.

You stood up, preparing for a fight. “You can’t pick and choose what gets turned in or not.”

“Are you serious right now?” Alexei’s voice boomed from the hallway as he stormed back in. He had disappeared a few minutes ago under the pretense of “getting snacks for the guests,” and now he returned with arms overflowing—half-crushed bags of potato chips, trail mix, something suspiciously resembling astronaut food.

He dumped the haul onto the coffee table and glared at Yelena.

“Lena, you said you wanted purpose. This—” He gestured around the room like it held meaning. “This is our purpose!”

But Yelena still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s built on lies, Dad.”

That made Alexei bark out a laugh, one with no humour in it—just tired frustration.

“Everything is. The whole country runs on lies. At least we did something good. We saved people. Because we’re the Avengers!”

The word Avengers didn’t sit right in your mouth anymore. It felt hollow coming from them like they’d tried to slap a fresh coat of paint over a burned-out house.

Joaquín’s tone was dry as he leaned forward again. “I mean, technically, there’s enough on the drive to bury De Fontaine for a long time without bringing you guys into it directly. But if any half-decent detective picks it apart, it’ll all start to unravel. Eventually, it’s going to lead back here.”

You saw the doubt flash behind Ava’s eyes.

“And even if Valentina is arrested,” Joaquín added, “then what? The funding still stands. The CIA owns the New Avengers. Someone else just like her will take her place. Same game, new face.”

You were just about to speak, something sharp about this group’s complete lack of accountability and morality, how their so-called heroism was held together by delusion and money when the elevator chimed.

A soft ding. Too soft to mean anything, and yet it sliced straight through the tension like a blade.

You stiffened on instinct.

Joaquín reacted just as fast, snapping his laptop shut with a harsh click that echoed louder than it should’ve. You didn’t move, couldn’t. Your breath caught in your throat as the rest of the room stilled. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound.

A slow, creeping dread tightened in your chest.

“Shit,” Yelena muttered under her breath, almost too quiet to catch.

And then chaos in silence: hands on your shoulders, your back, Ava’s voice in your ear, sharp and focused.

“Move. Now.”

The next second blurred. Joaquín was pulled off the couch beside you, your hands and knees hitting the expensive carpet before you fully processed what was happening. The couch loomed above you. Your back scraped along the base as you were shoved beneath it, knees pressed awkwardly into the floor, spine hunched to fit.

Your breath hitched as the space closed in, dim, and a little dusty, the underside of the furniture creaking against your weight. You could see the stretch of rug in front of you, Walker’s boots retreating as he kicked Joaquín’s bag under the coffee table. He shoved the laptop in after it with even less care.

Above you: Yelena’s fuzzy purple socks. Ava’s boots, planted like guards. Their stance wide. Ready.

The heels came first. A sharp, deliberate cadence—click-click-click—on the marble. The sound bounced through the space with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned their right to be heard.

And then the voice of the very woman you hated most at the moment. Familiar. Arrogant.

“Bob, what do you need a phone for?”

The name alone felt like a gut punch.

Bob?

Fucking Bob?

The shock didn’t register right away. It slid in sideways, a slow prickle along your spine before crashing into you all at once. You hadn’t even considered him—not since the whirlwind of last night, not in the scramble of digging through drives and false leads, not in the silent fear of what might still be buried. Bob Reynolds had slipped your mind entirely the moment Yelena showed you those files.

And now, here he was.

You twisted your head toward Joaquín, who was already looking at you. His jaw clenched tight. Eyes wide. Shoulders wound like a coiled spring. You could see the thought flash behind his stare—both of you thinking the same thing.

Holy shit.

Then you heard it. His voice confirmed that he was there, too. Low, quiet. Soft in that uncanny, almost youthful way. Still his.

“…to talk to people.” he said.

Your stomach sank. For a beat, you could only stare at the ground, your mind racing. An image flitters through your mind’s eye. A dark balcony. Warm fire light. Big suit. Dark, tussled hair. That nice smile of his.

Above you, the sharp click of stilettos came to a sudden halt at his words.

Through the sliver of space beneath the couch, you spotted the edge of Valentina’s pencil skirt. Sleek black, tailored to a blade-sharp silhouette. Her shoes were thin and spiked, gleaming slightly under the overhead lights. Beside her, a pair of soft bunny slippers, nearly swallowed by the cuffs of soft-looking, faded baby blue pyjama pants.

That was him.

Bob.

And someone else. A third pair of feet, neatly poised in polished flats. Pressed trousers. You couldn’t tell who, only that they stood slightly apart.

Valentina’s voice again, laced with sweet condescension. “To talk to people?”

Bob seemed to hesitate now, his voice smaller. “I just thought—”

“What’s all this?” she cut him off before he could finish. “Did someone give Alexei another confetti cannon? Seriously? You know the cleaners are going to start charging us combat pay. Just look at this place.”

A beat of silence.

Then the soft shuffling of someone stepping around the coffee table. You held your breath, instinctively pressing yourself flatter to the floor. Your shoulder brushed against Joaquín’s chest. You felt him suck in a quiet, sharp breath. You wondered what would happen if you were caught.

Above you, the room shifted.

Yelena’s voice came first, Russian-rough and stripped of patience. “What are you doing here?”

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it.

“I’m sorry?”

“We thought you were en route to California,” Ava chimed in. Her tone was light, but the edges were too clean. She was trying too hard. That alone made your stomach twist.

“Oh. Right. California. Mel—?”

“The jet will be ready in one hour,” a smooth, polished voice cut in. Feminine. A little anxious. Definitely not one of theirs. It must be the third person.

You turned your head slightly toward Joaquín, careful not to make a sound. He didn’t move—only lifted his brows, then mouthed: the assistant.

Of course. Mel.

You nodded once, your heart hammering.

“See?” Valentina said breezily. “We’ve got time. So tell me… what’s this mess about?”

A clumsy chorus followed:

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Just messing around.”

“Nothing?” Valentina echoed, with just enough doubt in her voice to rattle the moment.

And then, soft again, Bob.

“Val…?”

“Yes, Bob, honey. What is it?”

“The phone.”

“You want a phone?”

“…yes, please.”

“Okay. Fine. Mel, get him a phone. We have plenty.”

“What kind?” Mel asked.

Valentina exhaled. You could practically feel the irritation coming off the woman in waves, even though you couldn’t see her. “What kind—? Any kind. I don’t care.” There was a pause, and then her voice dipped again into that overly sweet register that set your teeth on edge. “Bob, what colour do you want?”

“Oh. Any colour’s fine. Thanks, Mel.”

“Sure thing, Bob.”

You heard Mel’s shoes retreating. Then the doors dinged again, distant, followed by the mechanical swoosh of the elevator sliding shut.

“So…” Valentina said, dragging the word. “Who’s the banner for?”

Alexei jumped in too fast. “Banner? What banner?”

“The big one. By the elevator.”

More shuffling. A murmur of uncomfortable voices scrambling for footing.

“Oh, that banner,” Yelena said.

“The one by the elevator, yes,” Alexei added, awkwardly.

“Missed it earlier,” Walker threw in, humming with forced casualness.

Your breath caught. They were bad liars. Terrible liars that were going to have you and Joaquín caught. You felt your body instinctively press closer to his, every part of you suddenly aware of how fragile this moment was. If one of them slipped up... shit.

“What’s the deal with that?” Valentina pressed.

Silence.

You could feel the group faltering. And for a moment, you were sure someone would fold.

Then Yelena’s voice again. “We thought… with the headlines today...”

“There might be a new addition,” Ava said, cutting in with a cleaner tone.

“A new team member,” Walker followed, steady, trying to cover the tracks.

Valentina laughed. A quiet little thing, amused and bitter all at once. “Oh, well isn’t that sweet.”

A pause.

Then Yelena pushed: “What’s… what’s the deal with that?”

“Nothing’s confirmed yet. It’s still in the air,” Valentina said. The click of her nails against a screen followed. You imagined her scrolling through messages, “She’s a tough cookie, isn’t she, Walker?”

His answer was dry. “Right.”

“I just thought this team could use someone a little less…” She trailed off, teeth behind her voice.

“Less what?” Ava asked, carefully.

“…like you guys.”

“Like us?” Walker repeated.

“Melodramatic,” Valentina said, and you could hear the malice in her voice. “No offence.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ava asked.

The sound of Valentina shifting again, heels clicking softly against the marble, the dull swish of her skirt brushing behind her. “Well, it’s not a secret that all of you have done some pretty messed up shit. People don’t trust you. And trust is branding. It’s everything. If we bring in someone tied to Wilson—one of Captain America’s right hands—suddenly, we’re legit. We’re palatable.”

You’d already suspected that was her idea, that selling you out had been nothing more than strategy. Calculated. Self-serving. You hadn’t believed a single word of the bullshit she fed you last night, not the part about being “special,” or the vague promises of a bigger purpose. It had all been smoke.

Still, something about hearing it confirmed, hearing her say it so plainly, like she was already pulling your strings, lit a fire low in your chest.

You weren’t her puppet.

You weren’t anyone’s.

And the fact that she thought you were that easy to bend, that she saw you as just another tool to wield when convenient, made your skin crawl.

“And how do you plan on pulling that off?” Yelena asked, her voice a notch sharper now. Less curious, more hostile. Defensive.

“Aren’t you full of questions today?” Valentina didn’t even try to mask the irritation in her tone. “That’s for me to worry about, hun. Not you. Why don’t you all relax? Enjoy yourselves. Kick your feet up. Make the most of it until the next villain of the week shows up.”

Her words lingered like a smirk in the air, condescending, smug, and venomous.

It was only then you realized how cold the floor had become beneath you. The chill was creeping into your skin, seeping through your clothes, biting at your joints. Your hands had curled into fists without meaning to, nails digging into your palms, the tension wound so tight in your chest it hurt to breathe. Beside you, Joaquín was breathing fast and shallow, barely audible, but enough that you could feel it.

You released your fist and your fingers started to move on instinct, brushing against the knife you’d taken from the display case earlier. You hadn’t even realized you’d been reaching for it. The cool metal kissed your fingertips, grounding you. You closed your hand around the hilt, the weight of it settling in your palm like muscle memory.

Across the room, Valentina’s heels clicked softly on the marble as she began to walk away, casual, unhurried. “Where are you guys keeping the liquor now?” she asked airily. “I can’t fly sober, and there hasn’t been a restock in the kitchen since last night…”

Her voice trailed off as she disappeared around the corner.

Then you heard the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, a nervous fidget. “W-wait. Who’s joining our team?”

Walker answered, bone-dry. “That girlfriend of yours from last night. You know, the one you scared off?”

There was a pause.

“Oh. No. It’s not—” Bob stammered, his voice flustered, uncertain. “We’re not… You think I scared her off?”

You hated that something about the way he asked that fluttered against your ribs, like a moth against a windowpane. Ridiculous, considering the circumstances. You bit down on the feeling.

He didn’t get an answer before Valentina returned, heels striking the floor like punctuation. “Found it,” she announced. You heard the clink of glass. “Alright, Mel and I will be gone for a few days. Don’t do anything stupid. And Bob, your phone will be downstairs.”

And just like that, she was heading back toward the elevator. You watched her feet vanish from view. Then the soft ding of the lift. The whisper of the doors sliding shut. Gone.

You exhaled for the first time in minutes. The pressure in your chest finally let go, but you still didn’t release the knife. Even when Joaquín began shifting beside you, his legs uncoiling. Yelena’s voice came from above, low but audible: “It’s clear.”

Joaquín started crawling out from under the couch, but you reached for his sleeve, grabbing him without thinking. Just for a second. He glanced back at you.

Then you nodded. He moved. You followed.

Your hand stayed in your pocket, curled tight around the blade.

“Were—were you there this whole time?” Bob asked, his voice cracking on the question. He stepped closer to the centre of the room, joining the others.

You finally looked at him.

Gone was the suit. Instead: a grey sweatshirt, soft and clean, and thrown over a pair of baby-blue pyjama pants. And on his feet, bunny slippers. Actual bunny slippers. You had thought maybe you made it up in your head. But no. You blinked. Then you looked back up at his face.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hi,” That same, dopey grin split his face and you almost felt your own lips move to return it. But you stopped yourself and pushed the feeling back down, “What are you doing here?” He had that same bemusement from yesterday as if he was just happy to be here. Wherever here is. 

“We were just leaving,” you said, crouching to grab Joaquín’s bag and laptop from under the coffee table. You shoved them at him.

This time, he didn’t argue.

Maybe the brush with Valentina had knocked the fight out of him, or maybe he finally saw the writing on the wall. Either way, Joaquín was already jamming the laptop into the bag and pulling the strap over his shoulder.

“Leaving?” Yelena echoed, surprised.

“But I just woke up.” Bob frowned.

You didn’t answer.

You had heard enough.

Valentina was still a manipulative bitch, and now you had proof sitting on an old drive tucked into Ava Starr’s pocket. But this team? These people? They weren’t exactly running to stop her. Didn’t seem nearly as willing to hand over that evidence now that they knew it’d be trading their own freedom and newfound fame and luxury. You also knew they weren’t being entirely honest with most of it, so what was the point?

And Bucky?

He could eat shit for all you cared.

“You said you’d help us,” Yelena said, voice quieter now, tight, trembling at the edges like a thread pulled too taut.

“No,” you shot back, sharper than intended. “We said we’d listen.”

Joaquín stepped up beside you, his voice steadier. “Unless you hand over that drive, there’s nothing we can do for you.”

Ava’s stance hardened. Her hand flexed at her side. “You can leave,” she said. “But the drive stays here.”

That made Walker flinch. “Wait—what?” he barked, stepping forward. “You’re just gonna let them walk? After what they know? They’ll have us on The Raft by tomorrow.”

Alexei groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I can’t go back to prison.”

“Prison? Wait—what are we talking about?” Bob interjected, blinking between everyone.

“God forbid you ever take responsibility for anything, Walker,” you said coolly, your eyes on the blonde man. “That there are consqueneces for your actions.”

His jaw twitched. You could see the pressure building in him like steam behind glass, his shoulders shaking. “Don’t get smart with me. You think I don’t know about consequences?”

Your fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife in your coat. Cold steel kissed your palm, grounding you. You didn’t flinch as Walker loomed over you, not even when the heat of his breath hit your face.

“I’m sure you were starting to get it once your wife left,” you murmured bitterly.

Walker squared his shoulders like he was about to make good on the threat behind his scowl, or maybe hit you hard enough to knock your teeth out.

“Woah, woah—no fights here!” Yelena suddenly launched herself over the couch, landing between you with a firm thud. Her socks scuffed slightly on the rug as she extended both arms, placing one hand on your chest,.

It was oddly gentle—so soft you almost forgot that those same hands had likely killed thousands. Her palm rested right over your heart. You wondered if she could feel how fast it was beating.

“No fights,” she said again, a note of pleading curling into her voice. “We can’t get blood on the carpet. It’s new.”

Her words were light, but her eyes weren’t. They were serious—tired, even. Like someone who’d already bled for too many causes and was still waiting to find one worth it.

“I don’t want this,” she said firmly, now addressing the whole room. “None of us do. We’re on the same side. We’re just… on different pages.”

“That’s generous,” Ava muttered.

“No. It’s the truth,” Yelena shot back. “Valentina wins when we fight. That’s how she does it—she divides, she confuses, she corrupts.”

You met her gaze. And there it was: the flicker of desperation she was too proud to hide. Not fear, just a weariness, like she was sick of surviving in a world built on grey lines and crossed wires.

“…She’s right,” Joaquín said reluctantly. There was a tightness to his jaw as if it pained him to agree with any of this.

A heavy pause settled. Dust hung in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, undisturbed.

Then Yelena turned back to you, her voice softer this time, almost hollow. “Is there really no other way to stop her?”

You hesitated, your mouth opening before the words were fully formed. You wanted to have an answer, something solid, something certain. But all you could offer was the truth.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly.

Because you didn’t. You weren’t a strategist. You didn’t sit in war rooms or comb through legal loopholes. Your background was in the Navy—flying jets, executing orders, staying alive. Similar to the work of every other person in this room. The closest you’d ever come to investigative work was chasing the Flag Smashers, or trying to clear Isaiah’s name when the system nearly buried him for something he didn’t do.

Your grip on the knife loosened. You hadn’t realized how hard you’d been holding it until your fingers started to throb, blood returning like a warning. You let it fall back into your jacket pocket.

“We’re not lawyers,” you added.

Walker took a step back—not far, but enough. Just enough to mark the shift. His breathing was loud in the quiet, uneven. His fists were still balled tight at his sides, like tension waiting for an excuse to spark again.

But he didn’t come closer. You almost felt bad for bringing up his wife.

Yelena nodded slowly, “Do you think Sam Wilson could help?”

That question hung in the room. It was different from the others. More personal.

You caught it in her voice first, a crack in her composure. Distress, raw and unpolished. Her eyes searched yours, not for strategy, but for hope. She was asking you to believe in something, even if she couldn’t anymore.

And the others were watching too—Ava, still guarded but listening; Alexei, wringing his hands; even Bob, with wide, unknowing eyes.

You looked at Joaquín. He met your gaze and nodded once.

“He could,” he said.

“But will he?” Yelena pressed. She needed an answer that sounded like a promise.

You hesitated, shoulders sinking under the weight of everything unsaid. The silence stretched, heavy with reluctant hope, weak trust and a dozen unspoken things. Then finally, with a sigh that felt like it pulled from the base of your spine:

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “He’s pretty understanding.”

Yelena nodded once, slowly, like that alone was enough to make something shift. Then she extended her arm behind her, her fingers flicking in silent command.

“Ava.”

“What?” came the flat reply, bristling with suspicion.

“Give them the drive,” Yelena said, jerking her chin toward you and Joaquín.

Ava blinked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“Give it.” Yelena didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The words landed sharp and sure, heavy with a quiet authority. Whether it was her posture, the chill in her accent, or the way she stared Ava down without blinking, it worked.

Ava rolled her eyes hard enough that you were sure she saw her own brain. But still, she stomped over, pulling the small drive from her pocket and shoving it into Joaquín’s hand.

He took it wordlessly, slipping it into his jacket without fanfare.

Yelena turned back to you. “I trust you’ll do what’s right.” Her voice softened, “I just… I want to do good. Be good. Like my sister.”

You blinked. The honesty in her tone caught you off guard. You stared at her for a beat, the brows on your face knitting together. There hadn’t been a moment yet where you felt like you couldn’t trust Yelena—if anything, she was the only one in this dysfunctional little collective who seemed a little more grounded in reality than the others. Steady in her beliefs.

You nodded slowly. Not just to acknowledge her, but because you understood. You wanted to be good too. Like Sam.

“Sure,” you said.

“Unbelievable,” Walker muttered. He threw his hands up and stormed toward the spiral staircase, his boots thudding too loudly for the steps.

You met Yelena’s eyes one last time. She raised her brows at you funnily, a silent ignore him written across her face. That earned the smallest smile from you, which she returned, not quite warmly, but not unkindly either.

“Bye, guys,” Joaquín called, already moving past you toward the elevator with an urge to get the fuck out of this place.

“Bye,” Ava called back with a lazy wave.

Alexei flopped onto the couch like a man ready for retirement. “We will see you later, new friends,” he announced, already unlocking an iPad and flicking through apps with surprising focus. Only then did you notice the ridiculous shirt stretched across his chest—his own face beaming up at you.

Of course he owned a shirt like that.

Yelena gave you one final nod as if to say I’ll handle things here. You held her gaze a moment longer before turning toward the elevator.

And there was Bob.

Still standing there quietly by the steps of the sunken living room like he didn’t quite know where to go next. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, and when your eyes met, he gave you a shy little wave.

You raised your hand and waved back.

What a strange turn of events, you thought, stepping into the elevator beside Joaquín.

It felt like your world had been flipped upside down, spun sideways, and then set back upright—all before noon. Great. So much for Walker flying you back to D.C. Not that you were exactly heartbroken about it. At least you were finally getting out, and better yet, leaving with more than you'd hoped for. Thanks to Yelena.

Joaquín pressed the button to the lobby, his movements brisk but silent, like he was still trying to catch up to the emotional weight of the last hour or so.

You both stood in silence as the doors began to slide shut.

And then suddenly they didn’t.

Another body slipped through the narrowing space.

“Jesus!” Joaquín hissed, jerking half a step to the side. “What the hell—?”

“Sorry!” came the quick, sheepish yelp.

It was Bob.

His eyes were wide, hands lifted like he’d just stumbled into a hostage situation instead of an elevator. “Val said my phone’s downstairs…” he offered lamely, voice trailing as he glanced between the two of you. “Hey.”

“Hey, man, ”Joaquín huffed out a breathless sigh, “Scared the shit out of us.”

That made Bob crack a grin. He gestured toward himself like he was still catching up to the social rhythm. “I’m Bob.”

“Joaquín,” came the reply, quick and warm.

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. The three of you must’ve looked like the beginning of a joke: two randos and a guy in bunny slippers walk into an elevator. Bob’s pyjamas looked like they hadn’t seen the outside of a laundry basket in days, wrinkled in all places, but you thought the slippers were undeniably cute.

“Yeah, you’re the Falcon, right?” Bob asked, turning to Joaquín with a genuine light in his eyes.

Joaquín puffed up slightly, the pride flickering across his face before he nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness came easy.

“That’s cool,” Bob said, his grin stretching even wider—until it didn’t. Until it faltered just enough for you to catch the flicker of something behind it. He glanced at you again, eyes darting nervously before he dropped his gaze to the floor. “So um… I guess you know about me now.”

The elevator hummed beneath your feet, descending gradually.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he continued, voice quieter. “I wasn’t sure if… I was allowed. Or if I should. Are you… afraid of me now?”

Your heart thudded once, harder than expected.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Joaquín shift slightly, his body tense, watching, waiting to see what you’d say.

You drew in a breath, trying to steady yourself before you looked at Bob again. His posture had crumpled slightly under his own words. Shoulders curled in. Smile gone.

“Why would I be afraid of you, Bob?”

His gaze lifted, hopeful, but guarded.

“Because of what I did.”

That brought you up short.

You’d thought you’d had enough surprises for one day. Apparently not. Apparently Bob Reynolds had more where that came from, like some twisted magic trick where he kept pulling the rug out from under you, over and over again.

The elevator hummed. The floor numbers kept ticking down, steady and oblivious.

You swallowed. Almost afraid to ask.

“…What’d you do?”

He winced, rolling his shoulder like it physically pained him to answer. “That thing… in New York.”

You blinked, trying to process. When you didn’t respond, he looked at you, hesitant. “You read my file, right?”

“We didn’t… get that far,” you muttered.

But your brain was already scrambling to fill in the blanks. Every major incident in New York flashed behind your eyes—there were too many to count. Alien invasions. Robot uprisings. Sorcerer nonsense. But then you narrowed in. The one that had involved the New Avengers. The one the news had dubbed The Darkest Day. The terrifying grainy footage you’d seen during the hearings. The impossible collapse of light, sound, and structure. The city submerged in absolute darkness.

You stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” Joaquín said slowly, “You’re telling me you’re the one who turned New York into a black hole? You?”

Bob scratched the back of his neck, visibly squirming under the weight of it. Another awkward move, nervous, even. “…I didn’t mean to. I swear.”

And that was the kicker. That was when the full weight of who he was finally settled on your chest.

Bob. The Bob who tripped over your dress last night. The Bob who sat by a fireplace and made you smile until your face hurt. The Bob with an Instagram account full of second-hand paperbacks and soft, orange-pink Florida sunsets. That Bob—was the same man who apparently swallowed half of Manhattan into a void.

And now he was standing in the elevator, right between you and Joaquín, in bunny slippers.

It took all your effort not to show how much that messed you up. It set your heart racing, made it pound a tattoo against the underside of your ribs hard enough that you can feel it all the way up in your throat like it was trying to get your attention: this isn’t normal. This isn’t safe.

But then Bob gave you the exact same, uneasy, shy smile as before. Only this time, it’s much harder to meet it with one of your own. You forced a tiny twitch of your mouth upward, barely there, because Joaquín was right beside him too, and you were almost certain he was freaking out enough for the both of you.

You’d seen the footage. You’d read the transcripts. Sat in on court hearings. Heard survivors speak. The sheer level of devastation. The fear. The unanswerable questions.

And that was him. This man in the elevator. The man who smiled at you like he still hoped you didn’t hate him.

The elevator dinged, and the doors parted to reveal the glossy, open expanse of the lobby. Joaquín stepped out first, more hurried than usual. You followed on autopilot, your head still spinning.

The three of you drifted toward the grand lounge area, hovering near the secretary’s desk, not quite ready to separate. Like no one knew what to say next.

“So,” You begin awkwardly, “Bob. That’s... that’s pretty... uh, how’d that happen?”

He winced again, more out of embarrassment than pain. “Um. I don’t really know. My memory’s been foggy since I went through the experimental program,” he admitted slowly. “It… it comes back in pieces sometimes.”

Your brows rose. “Experimental program?”

“Project Sentry,” Joaquín muttered, eyes narrowing as if the puzzle was finally clicking together in his head.

You blinked. You’d known of De Fontaine’s side projects. Rumours of off-the-books enhancements and reconditioning efforts. Human experimentation. Yelena’s files had confirmed them, but you never knew the name of it. You never knew it was called Project Sentry.

You looked at Bob again. Jesus. Bob was one of Valentina’s experiments. That realization settled cold and sharp in your gut.

“Yeah, that one.” Bob nodded sheepishly. “But I don’t remember all of it. I get flashes. I remember getting injected with stuff... being blonde… getting killed.”

You stared, concerned, “You… remember dying?”

He blinked hard like he was trying to shake the static off his brain, or maybe trying to forget it. Then he looked at you—really looked—and something softened again in his expression.

The corners of his mouth twitched up and a blush grew on his cheeks.

“…Don’t worry, though,” he added, voice softer now, more tentative. “I remember you. Don’t think I’ll be able to forget you, actually.”

This time, you did manage a smile.

God. That line shouldn’t have hit the way it did, but it did. Somehow, it fractured the version of him you were just starting to piece together again. Mysterious World Ending Shadow Guy and Sweet Bob From Party were the same fucking person. And you weren’t sure if that was comforting or horrifying because you were growing flustered at his comment.

From the side, Joaquín snorted. “Smooth.”

You caught the way Bob’s blush deepened, the colour rising visibly along his cheekbones. He ducked his head, clearly flustered.

You shook yours gently. “Don’t listen to him.”

“…Okay,” he said earnestly. Then, after a beat: “So… you never got to the part about the experiments?”

You inhaled, slow and careful, trying to find the right words, trying not to sound like someone who’d had the wind knocked out of them several times over in the span of an hour.

“I don’t think your friends wanted us to know,” you admitted.

“Oh.”

Just that. One word. But it carried something heavy, something almost brittle underneath. A quiet, hollow kind of disappointment.

It stopped you cold.

Part of it was guilt. Upsetting Bob felt like kicking a puppy that didn’t even know what it had done wrong. But the other part, the more rational, still-on-edge part of your brain, reminded you of who you were talking to. Of what he’d done. And maybe it wasn’t a great idea to make someone who once tore a city in half feel unwanted.

“Bob?”

The sudden voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You flinched. Joaquín immediately straightened beside you—his hand half-rising on instinct. Both of you spun, the tension surging through your limbs once more.

A woman dressed in black was already walking toward you, shoes clicking lightly across the lobby floor. She faltered slightly when she took in the three of you together, but her smile held firm. Calm. Polite. Her hands extended a small box toward Bob.

“Um, here’s your new phone,” she said.

You recognized the voice. Mel. Valentina’s assistant. Which meant someone—likely everyone—was about to find out that you and Joaquín were here.

You returned her smile with one of your own, both of you sharing the kind of strained politeness that only came from being on opposite sides of a very expensive, very fragile chessboard.

“Thanks,” Bob said, taking the box carefully. Mel nodded once and turned, gliding away as quickly as she’d arrived.

Bob looked at the box like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then his gaze drifted to Joaquín—just a glance—but when his eyes found yours again, he was flushed and fidgeting, all over again.

“Phone,” he chuckled nervously, rubbing this thumb over the side of the box, “yeah, um… I asked for a phone because I—Walker said I should just ask you—uh,” he huffed, blinking hard as if to gather his thoughts. “I know you’re leaving and all, but… it was really nice to see you.”

He gave a kind of half-shrug like he wasn’t sure what he meant by that until it was already out.

“I honestly thought I wouldn’t—see you again, I mean,” he went on. “I thought I’d messed it up. Back when I brought up… uh. Bucky.”

Yeah. That moment had soured everything fast. You hadn’t thought you’d see Bob again either, not after that mess. For a while, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t want to. But you also knew that no matter how many hours the drive back to Washington took, you’d probably spend all of them scrolling through his old Instagram posts—those quiet book reviews, those blurry sunset photos, that one stupid post about jelly beans you think he posted when he was high.

You didn’t crush on people easily. Even less so on people tied to your work. But with Bob, it had happened fast, softly, then all at once.

His honesty caught you off guard again, and you felt a flush rise to your own cheeks. Joaquín’s head turned toward you, a little too quickly, a little too hopeful, and you could practically hear the gears in his nosy little brain turning. That bastard.

You ignored him.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, eyes on Bob. “It was nice to see you too.”

And God, wasn’t that the understatement of the year?

“Can I—um…” he shifted on his feet, thumb brushing over the edge of the box in his hands. “Do you think I could have your number? For when I finish setting up my phone. In case you… still want to talk.” His voice softened, almost hopeful. “I really did like talking to you yesterday. You can say no, that’s alright.”

You weren’t going to say no. And honestly? You doubted Joaquín would let you. He’d been silently rooting for this since he stepped on your dress—he was a hopeless romantic under all that tactical gear.

Still, that didn’t stop the soft, fluttery weight building in your chest. Like your stomach had filled with butterflies in mid-takeoff. It made you feel… like a teenager. God, when was the last time something had made you feel like that?

“Sure, Bob.”

You must’ve caught him off guard. His eyes widened a little. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “Do you have a pen?”

His whole face lit up in panic. “Uh—no. Wait, hold on—” He spun, glancing around frantically.

Joaquín, bless him, was already halfway to the secretary’s desk, digging through an Avengers-themed mug filled with pens. He came back triumphantly, tossing one to Bob, who fumbled it slightly before returning to you, grinning like an idiot.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his—warm, solid, and really soft—and the moment was small, fleeting, but it sent a pulse through your wrist all the same.

“Where can I write—?”

Bob didn’t hesitate. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater, tugging it past his elbow in one smooth motion before offering his bare arm to you.

You stared.

Not because you were trying to be weird. But holy shit.

He was built like a statue someone forgot to put on a pedestal. Long forearms, defined muscle, a vein trailing up the centre of his arm like it’d been drawn there on purpose. His skin was golden and warm and very, very nice to look at.

“My arm’s fine,” he offered casually, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.

You blinked, pulling your gaze back up to his face. He looked away, sheepish. Maybe he caught you staring. Okay, he definitely caught you staring. But then again, he was also sneaking glances of his own. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a second too long. A tiny flick down your neck, then away.

He had more shame about it than you did.

“Alright,” you said, trying not to grin like a fool. “Don’t move.”

You stepped in, gently taking his wrist in one hand and steadying the pen with the other. The contact sent another flutter up your arm, but you focused, carefully writing your number across the warm stretch of skin.

One, two, three digits at a time.

By the time you finished, you felt a little breathless.

You let go, reluctantly, and stepped back.

Bob was red. Visibly, unapologetically flushed from his cheeks down to the base of his neck. Still, he gave a quick, grateful nod and tugged the sleeve back down, much to your disappointment.

He took the pen from you, fingers brushing again, and gave you a soft, “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll text you. Once I figure this out.” He lifted the phone box with an amused smile. You realized you could have written your number on the box instead, but you refused to say anything about it. His voice was still quiet, but it held a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected to hear again so soon.

“I’ll be waiting,” you said.

He laughed under his breath. Then, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything else, he gave a short nod and turned away. You watched him cross the floor toward the elevators.

Halfway there, he paused. Turned slightly. You thought he was going to say something, another goodbye, maybe a joke, something. But he just gave you a little wave. Kind. A little bashful.

You waved back, lips still curved in a smile.

“And they say romance is dead,” Joaquín snorted into your ear, slinging an arm dramatically around your shoulders as soon as the elevator doors shut.

You groaned, but it came out more like a laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He leaned all his weight onto you like an overgrown, smug barnacle. “You were totally about to kiss him. Don’t lie. I saw the look on your face. So did he. I’m kinda disappointed, actually. Was fully expecting a public display of—you know, soul-consuming makeout rage.”

“Shut. Up.”

“You’re smiling,” he said in a sing-song voice. “You like him.”

“I will kill you.”

“You like him.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. But your cheeks were warm, and the flutter in your chest hadn’t totally calmed down. You weren’t even that mad. Not like you had been this morning when your entire life felt like it was fracturing under the weight of secrets, lies, and political backstabbing.

Now? You were still exhausted. Still confused. But something about Bob—awkward, charming, possibly world-ending Bob—had given you a moment of quiet in the middle of all of it.

“I bet you’re glad we stayed longer.”

“I lost a few years of my life from stress,” you muttered. “But yeah. Sure. I’m glad.”

Joaquín finally stopped leaning on you, but he kept his arm there, resting it across your shoulders like a shield. You fell into step with him, the two of you weaving through the flow of people on the sidewalk, the city alive around you in a way that felt almost… normal again.

Then, softer, “So what now?”

You glanced sideways. His joking edge had slipped off somewhere between steps, and now you could see the fatigue settling over his face. He looked as drained as you felt—eyes tired, jaw clenched slightly like he was holding something unspoken just behind his teeth.

You didn’t blame him. You were both running on fumes.

“We get the fuck out of here,” you said simply.

He let out a hum of agreement, nodding once as if the idea itself was a balm. But then he hesitated, giving you a sidelong glance.

“We’re not telling Sam about any of this, right?” he asked. “Like, the whole… following Walker into the tower part.”

“God, no,” you said immediately. “We’ll tell him I found the drive last night.”

“Perfect.” He grinned, satisfied. “He doesn’t need to know you almost got swept off your feet by a guy in a chicken costume.”

“Joaquín.”

He laughed and pulled you a little closer, and the two of you kept walking, two specks swallowed by the sprawl of Manhattan at noon, leaving behind the kind of chaos you weren’t sure you could ever fully explain. But for now, you had your answer, and you’d get the hell out of here.

[swightops]

still holding the silence - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - the world is moving on with the New Avengers leading the move. you not so much. warning(s)- typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), mentions of alcohol, language a/n - mentions of multiverse of madness, thunderbolts,CA 4 (?), this will probably become a mini series since this is wayyyy too long (around 3.8K words) but I really couldn't help myself, lowkey a sad x sadder trope hehe, pretty angsty ngl

It's funny how Bucky and his new team seem galaxies away from you, like characters from a fantasy. You shift in your seat on the couch, eyes glued to the huge TV screen. Reruns from the news report earlier today play different angles of the new heroes cycling with new commentary here and there. They seem untouchable, like heroes you only see on screen. 

A laugh mixed with a scoff makes its way out of you as you force yourself to get up and throw out the empty ice cream carton from your hands. You place your spoon in the sink, and as you turn around, you nearly jump out of your skin and see Morgan now sitting on the couch.

The young girl's eyes are trained on the screen before she turns to you, her lips curled slightly downwards. "That guy with the metal arm was at Dad's funeral," she says, and your mouth goes dry momentarily.

You exhale as you sit next to her, the couch dipping and her small body leans onto you. Morgan's quick to curl up in your lap, and you let her. Your fingers comb through her brown hair, and your eyes fall back onto the TV.

"Yes, he was," you finally answer, your voice quiet, almost a whisper. You don't remember your voice always being so small. You used to be louder, snarkier, livelier. Keyword: used to.

Now, everything seems to be muted. There isn't a new adventure or mission every day, and part of you likes it like that. After everything that's happened, you deserve to live a quiet, calm life, not wondering what monster is around the corner.

But then there's another part of you—one that yearns for the life of the New Avengers—your old life. Yes, constantly fighting bad guys was annoying and tiresome, but with it came the Avengers, your friends, your family.

And now?

Now, there was little to nothing to show for it. You look down at the girl curled up in your lap and notice her breathing has evened out. She's fallen back to sleep. Maybe Morgan sensed how sad the news of the New Avengers made you and sought you out to comfort you. Kids are like that, as Pepper told you once. That they could sense things that adults couldn't.

You shake away all your thoughts and lift Morgan up. You really should have scolded her for being awake since Pepper is coming early to pick her up. Guess there's still some of this "parenting" or "adulting" thing you need to get better at. With a last look at the TV screen, your heart squeezes again agonizingly as you look at Earth's newest defenders.

Good luck to them, you think.

You've come to the conclusion that you're a glutton for punishment.

Your fingers run over the silky material of your black dress as you lean back in your seat. Happy's eyes dart back to you for a moment, trying to asses if he should turn the car around back to your apartment.

You can feel his eyes, sense his worry, and hell, hear how loud his thoughts are. Not the exact thing he's thinking, but more so a general "I am worried about y/n, but I don't want to say anything out loud" thought. You aren't as gifted as Wanda when it comes to mind-reading. Or, you aren't as talented as Wanda was at mind-reading. 

The reality of your best friend's death makes you shrink in on yourself as you recall everything that happened with you, Strange, Wanda, and America. Why hadn't you been there for her earlier? Why hadn't you thought about your family after Thanos and the war? You were hurting, so surely they were as well.

No.

There's no point in dwelling on the past. You also aren't gifted with time-manipulating abilities, so there's not much you can do now to change reality.

"You ok back there, Kid?" Happy finally asks, and you lift your head to meet his eyes. There's a furrow in his eyebrows, and you feel bad about making him worry.

"I'll be ok," you reply, short and small. Happy frowns.

"You don't have to go to this, you know," he says. And he's right. You aren't required to attend the New Avengers' "Meet the Future" gala. It's not like you were actually invited.

You figured no one could say no to you if you showed up.

You could also finally talk to Bucky. You know that he and Sam had argued about the New Avengers, and when you tried to talk to the former assassin, nothing but silence came your way. It hurt. Downright ripped what little of your heart you're holding onto.

Realizing you haven't replied, you clear your throat. "I just want to say congratulations to them. That's all."

Happy isn't convinced.

You shrink a little under his flat gaze. "Do you think it's a bad idea?" you ask, voice smaller than before, almost like a child asking their parent if they're in trouble.

"Why do you think it's a good idea?" he says, and you furrow your brows. Happy's been on this crusade lately of flipping your questions back, hoping you do some "self-realizing." He read it in some book and you think it's bullshit.

As annoyed as you are with his questions, you give him props. Why do you think going to this gala is a good idea? On paper, it isn't.

You, former Avenger now turned billionaire philanthropist, who seems to be on the verge of breaking down in all senses, meeting the New Avengers, made up of people you know don't have the greatest backgrounds, whom no one bothered to ask you about. Ask if it was okay, if you wanted to be involved, what you thought—nothing.

"I don't know," you finally confess, and the car stops.

Paparazzi shout and flash their cameras, and you watch multiple investors, politicians, and workers walk up the red carpet and into what was your home, now remodeled for the new heroes living there.

The world seems to mute itself as Happy steps out of the car and approaches your door. He knocks three times.

"Are you ready?"

You knock back once.

"Yes."

Dozens of flashes go off, and the crowd intensifies as you step out of the car and onto the red carpet. You can see reporters call your name and wave you over for an interview, but you ignore them, simply turning to thank Happy for driving you and that you'll call when you're ready to go home. You breathe out before straightening your shoulders and holding your head high as you enter the tower.

"Ms. l/n! One moment!"

"Sunwraith, will we be seeing you join the New Avengers!?"

"Are you supporting the New Avengers tonight?!"

"What do the remaining original Avengers say about these new ones!!"

"What does this new team mean for the Avenger legacy?!!"

Finally, you make your way inside the tower, and you stop. Something, a mix of guilt and joy, you think, floods you as you look up. The tower's lobby has always had a high ceiling, but now, it seems taller, different, scarier. 

"Ms. l/n!" a voice calls out, and you turn your attention to the older woman calling you. Cecilia Anderson greets you, telling you that you look stunning tonight. She's an older woman and a politician who has donated to the Stark Relief Foundation and yours, "New Light." She's nice, has a good heart, and is a little blunt, but company you don't mind.

"Hello," you greet softly, your hand shaking hers. "You flatter me, Ms. Anderson. I love the gold tonight." Cecilia laughs at your compliment, telling you your dress is much more modest and flattering than hers. You let her ramble away for a few minutes, silently nodding here and there and laughing when appropriate.

"Shall we make our way upstairs?" she asks, her eyebrows wiggling up and down in anticipation. Your stomach turns.

"Of course."

Your heart beats wildly in your ear as you make your way towards the elevator. People are staring. They're whispering. They're pointing.

All directed to you.

Cecilia pulls out a small card from her clutch, and the guards nod at her. She turns into the elevator, waiting for you to join her.

But you can't. Your feet freeze as you stare at the ground. The world shifts, and everything sounds murky as you hear their voices around you. Time rewinds, and suddenly, seven years haven't passed since Thanos. You're still you, a hero, an Avenger, Sunwraith.

"Ms. l/n," the guard to your right calls out, and everything snaps back into place. You raise your head and meet his gaze. "You're free to enter," is all he says, and you force a polite smile before bowing your head and apologizing for holding up the line.

You step into the elevator, and Cecilia is saying something, but you're not listening as you press your back to the wall. People fill up the shaft, and you feel them looking back at you. You duck your head down a little to avoid their gazes, and shit, you think Happy was right. You shouldn't have come; this was stupid, so utterly stupid.

What did you think you were going to achieve by showing up tonight? Show people that you're stable, like all this "New Future" shit doesn't bother you? Show the world that you've moved on past the Avengers, that it was who you were, and now you've turned a new leaf? This plan was complete and utter shit. You can turn back now. Leave and pretend this—

The doors open, and people flood out.

Shit.

Your brain goes on autopilot as you step out. Before you know it, you have a glass of champagne in your hand and are shaking all sorts of hands.

Faces come and go as you're dragged from one side of the room to another. Pleasantries are shared, and bad jokes about how you've grown up so much and are much more well-mannered than Tony ever was. Foundation names are thrown at you, and you simply smile and nod. Questions are asked about you and New Avengers, and all you do is give them a cheeky wink and a finger to your lips, and they eat it up.

You don't know how many people you've spoken with, but soon your chest is filling up. You need to get out, breathe some air, and take a moment to remind yourself that you're a person and not some marketing pawn for these people.

"If you'll excuse me, I don't want to fall too behind on drinks," you say, and the older men around you laugh. You're quick to move away from them and out of the main room.

You walk and walk and think you're going the right way toward a balcony, but everything's different, and you're lost. Your eyes start to sting as you come to a crossroads. Unsure which way is the right one, you crouch down. A shaky breath leaves your lips, and your dress suddenly starts feeling too big, like it's not meant for you, like you're a little kid playing dress up.

"Are you ok?" a voice asks, and your head snaps up. A man stands there, his eyes big, worried, and cute if you're being honest. He's biting his lower lip as his right hand tugs at his other hand, and he's starting to shrink in on himself in the looming silence. "I'm sorry! Y..You probably want to be alone, so I don't know why I asked. I.. I'll just leave!" he stutters out, and he flinches when you suddenly stand tall.

"You can stay," you finally say, and some of the tension leaves the guy's shoulders. "I was just looking to get some air, but I'm kind of lost now," you add on, and you try to laugh to seem happy, but it comes out sad and depressing.

"Me too," the man adds and his eyes meet yours for a second before shifting down to the ground. "I can show you the way?" he asks, and his shoulders bunch up again, already preparing himself for your rejection.

It certainly doesn't help that you're just staring at him. Helplessly staring at him, he really wants to look up and meet your eyes, but he can't. Bob knew he was a depressing person; hell, he couldn't really use his powers because of how intensely he went from his highs and lows. But you, your eyes were just so sad. 

Sad in a way that made him sad—like it was oozing out from you and clinging to his newly tailored pants that still felt too tight. But with that sadness came a weird calm, like the feeling he gets when he's curled up in his room, staring out over New York on a cloudy, rainy day.

"I'd like that," you finally answer with a small smile, and Bob catches a glimpse. Seeing you smile makes his chest feel lighter, and he feels like he has accomplished something unthinkable. He nods, and a silence falls between the two of you. It's not uncomfortable or awkward, it just feels right.

Finally, you're able to breathe again once Bob leads you to a balcony. The lights of New York seem to shine a little brighter tonight as you look out over them, and it brings another smile to your lips. You remember nights like this when you and Natasha would sit on the helicopter pad and talk, overlooking the night sky. Sometimes Bruce or Clint would join you, and the two of you would gang up and tease the joining party about something embarrassing they've done recently.

"Do you come to these things often?" Bob asks, and your eyes shift over to him. Honestly, you forgot he was here. He was so quiet and leaning in on himself, as if he feared taking up too much room, as if he were scared of simply existing.

"I used to. Now...not so much," you answer, and he nods, soaking up all your words.

"Do they ever get easier?" he asks, making you laugh. Again, his chest swells, and he feels like he has accomplished something.

"You get the swing of them. At least, I did. You learn when you can escape," you chuckle, and Bob does too. "I used to get trouble for escaping." Pepper used to lecture you on your escape acts while Tony simply made faces behind her, which had you trying to contain your giggle in fear of being lectured more.

"I don't think I ever will," Bob says, pulling at the cuffs of his suit jacket. "All these people and all the talking...I'm not too good at that."

"You seem alright talking to me," you say, facing him so you can see him fully. He's taller than you, only a couple of inches, and his brown curls are slicked back with gel. You wonder what they look like normally. Your eyes fall onto his suit again, and you can tell it's tailored to fit him. Although he's hunched in on himself, you can tell he's fit and that there's muscle underneath. It makes you wonder what he does. He doesn't seem like a politician. Maybe an investor?

Bob flushes under your gaze and words and quickly coughs (or laughs?). "I guess you're just easy to talk to," he says, and you blink.

You? Easy to talk to? When was the last time anyone ever said that to you?

"You think so?" you say, your voice lower than before, and you also start to lean in on yourself. Bob's eyebrows furrow as he watches you curl up from his words, and he starts to worry that he said something wrong.

"Of course," is all he can say, and somehow, like magic, you're peering over at him and uncurling again. "I...I'm Bob," he blurts out, his voice a little too loud and pitchy, and he cringes. A soft laugh comes from you, and he smiles.

"y/n," you say, and Bob can feel himself smile a little more. "So, Bob, why are you here tonight?"

"I'm just here to support my friends. I'm not good at talking, but I already told you that." Bob chuckles breathily, but it's muted in your ears.

"You're friends with the New Avengers?" you ask, and you feel like you're floating outside your body.

Bob nods, unaware of the shift in you. His gaze falls onto the city's lights. "Yeah, they helped, uh, me a while ago, and now...well, we're all a team."

"Oh."

"What about you? Why are you here?" Bob asks, a soft smile on his face, and it confuses you. He doesn't know who you are?

No, he's probably lying. He has to be. He's friends with the New Avengers, Bucky, more specifically.

But, as you look at his face and see the honest curiosity, you know he's not. Like, he's incapable of lying and just wants to know about you. There's a flutter in your chest, relief. Bob has no idea about your past, what you've lost, and who you were.

It scares you just as much as it comforts you.

"I need to go," is all you say before turning and rushing away. Your heels click on the floor as you follow the sound of laughter and chatter back to the main room.

Bob calls your name out from behind you, asking if he said something wrong, and you want to turn, but you force yourself to keep walking. Everything is closing in around you, and your vision is getting fuzzy, with wisps of black coming into your view and growing by the second. The sting comes back to your eyes and fuck, you really shouldn't have come tonight.

"Sunwraith!" a voice cheers, too loud, too staged. You freeze.

The blinding lights of the main room rip the shadows away, and all eyes turn to you. You feel Bob freeze and duck behind the wall, retreating from the sudden shift in attention.

From across the room, the woman who called you out grins. Not kindly—no, the curve of her lips is wolfish, all calculation, like she's watching to see what makes you twitch.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the person who formed the New Avengers, starts walking towards you, the room parting like the Red Sea. It almost seems staged, like she was waiting for this moment all night.

"Or is Ms. l/n more suitable," she purrs, her gaze never breaking from yours, "since you're not avenging anymore?"

A ripple of talk stirs uncomfortably through the room, unsure if this is some show. But all of them are soaking up whatever's about to unfold. They're all watching, waiting for you to reply.

She turns to the audience. "Everyone, don't be shy! We're in the presence of greatness! A founding Avenger. A living weapon of light and death. The Sunwraith herself. Please! Some applause!" And like a commandment, the room fills with claps.

Your fists clench behind you, and your fingernails dig into your palms to create tiny crescent moons. Your codename burns like an old scar being reopened. It brings back memories, and it creates heat running up and under your skin and flowing throughout your body, a change from your usually ice-cold body.

Valentina tilts her head, mock surprise playing on her features. She steps closer to you, and you can smell her perfume; it's spicy and burns your nostrils, like breathing in cinder ashes. Valentina leans in close enough that everyone else can't hear her words.

"Oh, but I forgot," she says slowly, eyes narrowing just enough. "You gave that all up, didn't you? Walked away. Some say burned out, others say buried too many friends. Depends on who you ask." The crowd is still watching, waiting.

You breathe in, and your shoulders fall back. Your spine straightens out, and Valentina whistles low as she watches you puff out your chest.

"Is there a point to this?" you ask, voice steady, low.

She grins widely, "Only that the world doesn't get to retire just because you did." Valentina's grin sharpens, pearly and cruel. "See, I thought you might want a look at what progress looks like."

She lifts her hand theatrically, and your gaze shifts to where she's pointing. And then you see it, see the New Avengers, see Bucky. His presence crashes into you like a riptide. Blue eyes met yours, and your breath stills in your chest.

You knew the chance of seeing him tonight, hell, you were hoping to, but seeing him now, standing with her, letting Valentina dangle your past like bait for a crowd…it's like being gutted all over again.

Valentina clocks your reaction instantly.

"Even James knew how to move on. It just took the right kind of...leadership," she says, her voice still low, keeping the words between you both.

You don't move. You don't flinch. Hell, you don't even think you're breathing anymore.

Valentina tilts her head, eyes dancing with mock concern. "Aww. Did that sting? Or are we still pretending you don't feel anything at all?" There's blood dripping from your palms, and you hope it doesn't stain your dress.

You blink once, slowly, measuredly, and force your lips into a neutral curve. Not quite a smile, but enough to keep your image polished. The lights are still hot on your skin, the weight of every stare pressing against your back like a loaded gun. "I feel plenty," you say softly, voice sweetened just enough to mask the venom underneath.

Valentina laughs—a sharp, brittle sound that cuts through the murmurs in the room. "Someone's PR trained!"

With a swift move, she links her arm with yours and smiles brightly at the audience. "Sunwraith, everyone! A true hero for embracing the future of our world!" Cheers and applause sound throughout the room, and cameras go off as you force that practiced smile of yours to stay.

"You know there's always room for more," Valentina purrs, her teeth still locked in a smile for the photos. "Especially, for America's sweetheart."

"I'd offer congratulations," you say, voice soft and pleasant, "but I think you've got enough people doing that for you." She laughs at your words.

Valentina breaks away and steps closer to the crowd, her smile still pearly white. "Shall we raise a glass, then? To new beginnings? To heroes who show up when it counts?" She glances back at you, and it takes everything in you to keep your composure together.

Champagne is passed around, and people start to move again.

You don't. You stay frozen.

And then, once again, your eyes meet Bucky's through the crowd. You swallow the lump in your throat, and so does he. He starts moving towards you, but you turn and walk away. You can't talk to him, you don't want to anymore.

A shift catches your eye, and your eyes meet Bob's. His back is pressed to the wall, and his eyes are wide with worry and shock. You swallow again and keep moving.

You really shouldn't have come tonight.

[swightops]

still holding the silence - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

The war is over, but peace hasn’t come easily. While the world moves forward, you're still caught in the spaces between memory and reality—haunted by what was, and uncertain of what’s left. You're a ghost among the living, but when Bucky comes to you for help, you find someone who seems just as out of place, Bob. He doesn’t say much, but when your eyes meet, it feels like there's someone else who understands the bottomless pit within you. And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel so far away.

sneek peek:

"Or is Ms. l/n more suitable," she purrs, her gaze never breaking from yours, "since you're not avenging anymore?" A ripple of talk stirs uncomfortably through the room, unsure if this is some show. But all of them are soaking up whatever's about to unfold. They're all watching, waiting for you to reply. She turns to the audience. "Everyone, don't be shy! We're in the presence of greatness! A founding Avenger. A living weapon of light and death. The Sunwraith herself. Please! Some applause!" And like a commandment, the room fills with claps. Your fists clench behind you, and your fingernails dig into your palms to create tiny crescent moons. Your codename burns like an old scar being reopened. It brings back memories, and it creates heat running up and under your skin and flowing throughout your body, a change from your usually ice-cold body.

»»———-<>-———-««

part 1 -> the flashes from cameras blind my eyes too often

part 2 -> alone is when the shadows speak to me

part 3 -> i see me in you and you in me

[swightops]

life really is a cycle

tower fics are so back baby

[swightops]

FINALLYYYYY 🗣️🗣️🗣️ (guys im scared something’s coming 😭😭😭) anyway BANGER chapter

real people

chapter fourteen

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

content warning: actor!bucky x actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, angst, smut.

Series Masterlist

THREE MONTHS LATER

Bucky leans back in his chair with a lazy grin on his face. The sun is shining on him, reflecting off his sunglasses as he thumbs the rim of his beer. "I didn't think I'd feel like this so soon," He says, shaking his head. "Not about you."

"You've surprised us both," Natasha replies, smiling back at him. "Y'know, for someone with such a tough exterior, I thought you'd be much harder to crack. But here you are, talking baby names."

"I'm not talking baby names," He claims pointedly. "Just mentioned that it's a name I like."

"Mhm," She hums, tilting her head. "If we do this - and I mean really do this - everything between us will change."

Bucky nods and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head so he can look her in the eyes when he says, "I know, baby. And I'm ready."

"Cut!"

Someone runs up to touch up Bucky's hair while the director joins the two actors on set and begins to give them some notes. When he's done, he calls for a five minute break.

"This is gonna be a long day, Barney," Natasha says with a sigh, still smiling at Bucky.

Usually, he'd smile back and return the sentiment, maybe even compliment her acting or ask how she's feeling about the scene - but ever since they went public as a 'couple' a month ago, Bucky can't stand her. They were good friends before the contract, but now whenever he looks at her, he's just reminded of everything he isn't allowed to have: you. He's trapped, forced to do what he's told and to pretend he's in love with Natasha, when on the inside he's dying.

Missing you physically hurts him. He feels your absence like a hole in his chest. He hasn't spoken to you since New Year's Eve and hasn't seen you in even longer. He knows you're doing well - asks Steve for updates almost every day - but he never thought his heart could have broken the way it did when you said you couldn't be with him.

"Alright, let's get going," The director yells out, pulling Bucky out of his slump. "Places, people. Lights. Camera."

"Action!" Steve yells out while you try to keep a straight face with the wind whipping through your hair.

"Have you - shit - are you tired of watching the same boring old movies?" You ask as Steve films you on his phone, trying to speak louder than the sound of the waves crashing against the boat. "Need some excitement in your life? Thrills? Laughs?"

Steve flips the camera and says, "I know I do!" before flipping the camera back to you.

"Then I've got the film for you: Jagged Edges - coming to a theatre near you this weekend!" You continue.

Steve walks over to stand beside you and holds the phone in front of both of you. "This weekend?" He asks with faux shock.

"That's right - this weekend!" You exclaim. "So grab a friend-"

Steve wraps his arm around your shoulder. "Or lover."

"Or even better, go alone - you're not gonna wanna miss out," You finish before Steve stops recording.

Immediately, you let out a sigh of relief as you drop the fake smile and enthusiasm. Steve takes his arm back off of you while your PR assistant, Emma, walks up to you, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "That was perfect. Let's break for lunch," She says as her hair blows in the wind. "We can get some more content filmed before the interview later on."

It doesn't feel great that you and Steve have to act overly flirty with each other to help with the film's publicity, but he's a kind soul that is incapable of making you feel uncomfortable, which is a refreshing change from some of your previous male co-stars.

"Hey, Steve," You call out to him, grabbing his arm before he has a chance to leave. "How's... uh..."

He gives you a knowing look and moves closer to you. "Bucky's doing alright," He replies, and doesn't give you any more information- because you made it very clear that you don't want to know any more past the fact that he's living and breathing since you started asking Steve for updates three months ago. All you need to know is that Bucky is okay; whether or not he's asking about you isn't relevant.

You're also terrified to hear that Bucky isn't concerned about you or as maimed from the break-up as you still are. Not a minute goes by that you don't think about him, and the only thing stopping you from losing your mind is the comforting thought that he's hurting just as much as you. It might be delusional, but it protects your feelings, and Steve knows that, too.

"Thanks," You mumble.

"You know... if you wanted to speak to him-"

"Steve, stop," You cut him off curtly, as hard as it is. "I don't want to know."

The Oscars have always been one of the most exciting nights of the year for you, but tonight, all you feel is dread. Though you weren't nominated for anything - screw them for snubbing your performance in The Sixth Night - you are presenting an award. And, of course, it's for the one and only category that Bucky fucking Barnes is nominated for.

"It's not a sure thing that he'll win," Gwen assures you. "I mean, he's never won an Oscar before, and he's given way better performances than he did in Harsh Truths. What are the chances this is the year the wins?"

"In case you haven't noticed, the universe loves fucking me over," You mutter bitterly.

"Oh, please," She scoffs with an eye roll. "You're rich and famous; handing an award to your ex-situationship while wearing a custom Schiaparelli before being driven back to your penthouse is hardly anything to cry over."

Knowing she's right, you simply purse your lips and look around the bustling hall. It's that awkward period of waiting as you've already walked the red carpet and are now waiting for the show to start, while celebrities and other industry workers slowly populate the venue. It's the first time you've brought Gwen with you - usually you come solo, but the thought of being alone while having to watch Bucky and Natasha play happy families makes you feel sick. The general public and media still hate you for supposedly cheating on their golden boy, and Thor isn't making court any nicer an experience than it would be, so you feel like you could fall apart any second.

"Hey. You're okay," Gwen says calmly, recognizing the look on your face. She takes your hands in hers and moves her face closer to yours. "This is going to be a good night, okay? I'm here with you- oh, my God, that's Peter Parker."

Your face falls as you glare at her. "G, I swear to God-"

"Okay, okay, I'm not distracted at all," She assures you, tightening her grip on your hands. "I'm here for you. We're gonna have a fun night. And maybe I'll get a selfie with Peter Parker should the opportunity arise."

With an eye roll, you shake your head. "Y'know, if you really want to meet him, I could-"

"I don't want to force it. It has to be fate," She claims with a dreamy look on her face. "Invisible string theory doesn't involve a best friend pulling the string for you."

While she's talking you turn back to look at the door, only to see the last person you wanted to see walking in. And worse, he's got his arm around Natasha's waist while he laughs at something she says. Your stomach drops and your heart pounds in your chest, and for a few seconds, you can't heat anything except your own heartbeat. He looks well - healthy. Worse, he looks happy. Is he really that good at faking it?

He probably didn't have to fake it at all with her, even at the start. They've been close friends for years - he could probably fall in love with her much quicker than he did with you. He probably already is in love with her. It's much easier to go from friends to lovers than enemies to lovers. There's no fighting or resentment. Fuck. He probably loves her.

"Y/N, your eyes are leaking," Gwen points out flatly as she dabs at your cheeks. "Don't let that asshole ruin your makeup."

"He isn't an asshole," You mumble, every part of your body hurting as you see them walking in like a genuine couple.

"He had his chance and he blew it," Gwen says sternly. "He's an asshole."

Bucky and Natasha are walking past you so you quickly look at Gwen and pretend to be in deep conversation. You're fine without him. Show him you're fine without him.

Once they're gone, you can breathe again, but you still have that nauseous feeling in your stomach and a stinging behind your eyes.

It isn't too long before it's finally time for the show to begin, and your heart beats a little faster the more categories they get through. You're backstage, getting your hair and makeup touched up while someone talks you through the process of presenting. You can't focus on a word they say, your mind racing with the possibility of you having to share the stage with Bucky. Though you would be nothing but proud and happy for him to win his first Oscar, you'd rather not have to be that close to him.

"Alright, ready to go?" The stage assistant asks you as she walks you over to the thick curtains. "I'll let you know when it's time."

Breathe in. Breathe out. This is just another performance. You look good. Great, even. He's not gonna win. He's not gonna win.

"That's your cue," The assistant says as she subtly pushes you through the curtains.

The crowd bursts into applause as you walk out onto the stage and to the podium with a wide smile plastered onto your face. "Actors like to think we're the centres of the story, but the truth is, the centre only matters if the edges are strong," You read off the teleprompter as you try not to cringe. "The nominees for this award are the ones who carry the weight - challenging the lead and often stealing the scene. The nominees tonight do so without fuss, without ego, and usually with smaller trailers - but their love for the craft is evident in their performances. Here are the nominees for Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role."

The video starts playing on the television screens behind and above you showing each of the nominees along with clips from their respective films. You keep your eyes on your audience the whole time so it isn't obvious if you recoil when Bucky's clip from Harsh Truths plays - but you still hear his voice and it sends shivers down your spine. Focus on something else. Flowers. Butterflies. Rainbows.

Once the nominees have all been shown, you prepare to open the envelope while the audience applauds. "And the Oscar goes to..." You say before you open the envelope. Your mouth goes dry when you see the name on the card but you keep on a brave face, refusing to give the Internet any ammo for rumors. "Bucky Barnes."

Music swells as you pick up the Oscar from the podium before taking a step back. Bucky's in the second row, so you can see Natasha plant a kiss on his lips and hug him tight. Your stomach is in knots. That should be you, proud of your man, source of his motivation. Stop. Get a grip.

He walks onto the stage and when your eyes meet, it feels like the hundreds of people in the crowd fade into nothing. You hold the trophy out to him and he takes it with a gracious smile, giving you a subtle smile before doing the last thing you expected - hugging you.

"Well done," You mumble into his ear before pulling away and stepping to the side, allowing him to give his speech.

"Wow," He breathes out. "This is absolutely unexpected. Filming Harsh Truths was one of the best experiences of my life. I wanna thank the director, Steven Grant, for pushing me to do my best and bringing this incredible story to life. I'd also like to thank my amazing agent, Carol Danvers, for putting up with me and for constantly championing me. I wouldn't be here right now if not for you. And thank you to Ma, and Dad, and Becky and everyone at home - I hope you'll find my work a little less boring, now. And, uh, finally, I just wanna... I wanna thank the woman I love. Not only do you make me want to be a better actor, you make me a better actor, and I could never adequately repay you for that. Thank you."

Your blood runs cold. Is that motherfucker talking about you? Why didn't he just say Natasha's name? Why cause you to overthink in the most pathetic way?

The music plays again and you do your best to rush off stage without making it obvious that you are aiming to avoid him. And it works - he's stopped by the stage manager backstage while you're free to return to your seat without so much as another glance at him.

The afterparty is just as rough. If not, worse, because Gwen's ditched you to go flirt with Peter Parker, instead. A few people have tried to start conversation with you but you're so numb and down that they gave up after a few minutes. You can't get his words out of your mind. The woman I love. They echo in your head until they're all you can hear. Why would he speak so vaguely, knowing how you feel? Knowing it would kill you?

You thought you were safe here - that he had been invited to the ultra-exclusive party that only winners got invited to - but now he's walking into the room and you're hoping the ground will open up and swallow you whole. Shit. And of course, she's on his arm, looking as perfect as ever. He's smiling back at her - genuinely smiling. She suddenly pulls him closer and kisses him, and you feel like you've been hit by a bus.

Unable to keep up the brave face any longer, you rush to the bathroom, hoping nobody notices the tears escaping down your cheeks as you slam open the door. It's not empty - Sharon Carter's touching up her lipstick in the mirror and all but screams when you burst into the room.

"Fuck, you scared me!" She exclaims, before her face softens when she realizes you're weeping and she immediately drops her lipstick and takes your hands in hers. "What happened?"

You shake your head, the dam fully open as you sob. "Bucky," You manage to let out, hating how weak and pathetic you must look to her. "Bucky."

She pulls you in for a hug, but the comfort only makes you cry harder. "Oh, baby, it's okay," Sharon coos. "You'll be okay, I promise. I know it feels awful right now, but you will get through this. Just remember-"

Before she can continue, the door opens behind you and you curse yourself for not locking it.

"I don't think you should be here right now," Sharon says bitterly as she looks over your shoulder.

"Can you give us a minute?" It's Bucky. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"I'm staying here with her," Sharon says stubbornly, holding you tighter.

"Carter-"

"Barnes," She returns with just as much frustration in her voice as him.

You lift your head off her shoulder and nod at her. "It's okay," You whisper, wiping your cheeks.

She dabs her fingers under your eyes and nods back at you. "I'll be right outside if you need me," Sharon promises before walking past you and leaving the bathroom - but not without shoving past Bucky, first.

You stay facing the wall, resting your hip against the sink, refusing to be the first to speak. He locks the door and walks over, standing in front of you. You're staring at the ground, at his shoes.

"Your shoes are stupid," You spit.

"I like your dress," He returns.

"I look ugly in it," You say, balling your hands into fists.

"That couldn't be further from the truth," He says.

Looking up at him, you frown. "What do you want?"

Bucky swallows thickly. "I wanted to talk to you," He tells you. "Make sure you're okay."

Your eyes narrow into a glare. "You only won because of me," You claim immaturely between sniffles. "I made you famous."

He snorts and his lips pull up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," You double down. "Best Supporting Actor. Bet it hurts that it wasn't Best Actor."

"An Oscar's an Oscar," Bucky replies casually.

"You of all people don't believe that. You didn't even deserve to win," You continue. "Tony should've won."

"Tony?" He repeats incredulously, before his face drops. "What, so he could grope you as he accepted the award? Give me another reason to beat the fuck out of him?"

"You wouldn't need to because you're not my boyfriend anymore," You hurl at him. "In fact, you never were, so why don't you fuck off back to your real girlfriend?"

"She's not my real girlfriend, and you know that," Bucky says lowly.

"Well, you're sure better at acting like it than you were with me," You retort bitterly. "Probably enjoying it more, too."

He takes a step closer to you and utters, "Stop it."

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I being too loud? Are you afraid someone will hear us?" You ask, knowing full well how annoying you're being and not caring. "Am I embarrassing you, James?"

Without warning, he moves even closer to you and cups your face in his hands. "I miss you," He says, making your stomach flip.

"What the fuck?" You whisper, trying to push him back but failing. "What's wrong with you?"

"I miss you," Bucky repeats, looking down at you with a piercing gaze.

"Well, sucks for you," You say, pulling his hands off your face. "You made your choice when you rejected me."

"I didn't reje-"

"I told you how I felt and you said you weren't ready," You cut him off. "So now that you are ready, you don't get to just waltz back in and put me back in your fucking shopping basket again. Maybe I'm not ready anymore. Ever thought about that?"

He says nothing. Instead, he kisses you. Immediately, you melt into it, but as soon as you realize what's happening, you pull back and push his chest back as hard as you can, causing his back to hit the wall. "What the fuck are you doing?" You yell. "I'm not just... you can't just kiss me in bathrooms and then go out and pretend you're in love with her. That's not how this works."

He grabs your hands and pulls you closer to his body. As hard as you try, you can't release yourself from his grip, though you aren't convinced that you're trying your hardest.

"Bucky," You say bluntly, glaring at him. "It's too little, too late."

His hands go to your waist. He turns you so you're nearest the wall and holds you against it. His chest presses to yours.

"I won't be your secret mistress for you to fuck when you're bored," You tell him sternly. "That's not me, Bucky."

Without a word, his hand goes up to your neck, his eyes burning into yours.

At the end of your tether, you exclaim, "Fucking say something!"

A few seconds pass before he finally does. "You're a dipshit," He mumbles. "And I love you."

Though it isn't the first time he's said it, hearing it in person takes your breath away. He doesn't give you any time to recover before he's kissing you again, and this time, you don't have the strength to push him away.

His kiss is hungry and wanting, his hands just as much as they pull up your dress, gathering it around your waist. As his tongue swirls against yours, he lifts you up, positioning himself between your legs. He feels familiar, safe, and like the first sip of water after a long run.

This shouldn't be happening, but you suspect that's what makes it feel this exhilarating. As his boner rubs against your inner thigh, your breaths become shallow. It's been so long, you're not sure you'll last more than a few seconds once he starts fucking you.

"Fuck, I'm not gonna last long, baby," He mumbles against your lips. "Missed my baby so bad."

"Jamie," You utter. "Put it in."

"Be patient," He says as he slips his fingers into your panties. "Gotta make sure you're ready for me."

"You're so annoying," You whine, gasping when he slips two fingers into you.

"What was that?" Bucky asks you with a smug look. "Huh? You're such a fucking brat. Can't even be patient for a few seconds, can you?"

He moves his fingers painfully slowly in and out of you, frustrating you to no end. "Don't be fucking mean," You say as you grip his shoulders tightly. "Just hurry up."

"I think you need to ask nicely," He says with his eyes on yours. "I think my dumb baby's forgotten her manners."

"Jamie-"

"No," He cuts you off curtly, stilling his fingers inside you. "Try again."

With a whimper, you release your pride. "Please, Mr. Barnes, please fuck me," You beg.

A satisfied sigh leaves his mouth as he continues to finger you, a little quicker this time. "Now, that's a good girl," He says. "Sound so fucking pretty when you beg me. What do you want, hmm?"

"Fuck me," You cry out as his fingers curl inside you. "Please, please, Mr. Barnes, please."

"Oh, baby, that's it," Bucky replies, biting his lip as he fingers you quicker. "I knew you could be good for me. Getting close?"

"Please," Is all you can say.

Just as you feel the tension building in your core, ready to snap, he pulls his fingers out of you, and you almost burst into tears.

"Don't look at me like that," He says with a chuckle. "I want the first time you cum to be around my cock. Got it?"

"You're an asshole," You mumble.

"What was that?" He asks with a raised brow.

"Nothing, Mr. Barnes," You say quickly, not wanting to have to wait any longer for your release.

"That's what I thought," He mutters before spanking your ass, sending vibrations through to your pussy. He smirks at the look on your face as your eyes roll back slightly, before spanking you again.

"Fuck," You whimper, thrusting your hips against him.

"Tell me how bad you want it," He utters, giving you another spank.

"So bad," You whisper. "I want you so bad, Jamie. Need you inside me. I missed you."

"I know, baby," He coos as he unzip his pants. "I missed you, too."

"Just this?" You find yourself asking as you lose yourself in a bout of insecurity. "Is... is this all you missed?" What are you doing? Why would you ask a question that has the potential to ruin the vibe and leave you high and dry?

Bucky rests his forehead against yours. His cock is rubbing against your clit. "I missed your laugh," He tells you. "Missed your dirty mind. Missed holding your hand. I missed watching you eat. Holding you when you were upset. Missed how hard you'd make it to not laugh at your stupid jokes. And, yeah, I missed this pussy."

With that, he pushes his cock into, making you gasp. As he bottoms out, you slowly let out your breath. As it's been over three months since you had sex, there's a bit of discomfort as he stretches you out, but that's soon forgotten when he kisses you again, stroking your tongue with his and slowly fucking in and out of you.

Groans escape his mouth as he continues thrusting, making your legs feel weak. You're glad he's holding you up. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good," Bucky moans. "Taking my cock so well."

"Don't stop," You whimper, feeling your core tighten again.

"Oh, shit," He mutters. "Baby, I won't last long if you keep squeezing me like that. Holy fuck."

"I don't care, please cum inside me," You beg, as he rubs your hard nipples over your dress.

"You first, gorgeous girl," Bucky whispers, thankfully remembering exactly what you like as he pulls your dress down and wraps his mouth around your nipple. One of his hands goes down to your pussy, his thumb rubbing your clit in circles as he fucks you faster.

"Oh, Jamie," You cry as you feel your climax approaching. Every nerve in your body is alight with pleasure as you cum, your hips seizing as your hands tug on his hair.

He continues fucking you, shoving his fingers in your mouth to stifle your loud moans. With a grunt, Bucky cums, his thrusts becoming less rhythmic with each rope.

"Fuck," He whispers as he rests his forehead against yours. "That... I swear, I've never cum that quick."

You can't help but laugh. "Shit. Me neither," You reply honestly.

He holds up his hand and you give him a high five before he slowly pulls out of you and gently puts you down onto your feet. You wobble slightly, but do well not to fall to your knees.

As you rearrange your dress, the reality of what you just did dawns on you.

"We shouldn't have done that," You mumble as you run your hands through your hair. "If anyone realizes what we did-"

"They won't," He assures you calmly.

"Sharon-"

"Wouldn't say a word even if she did," Bucky says, taking a few steps closer to you.

"So... now what?" You ask him with a frown.

He lets out a long sigh. "I have five months left of my contract with Natasha," He tells you, making your heart drop.

"Fucking five months?" You ask incredulously. "And, what, we're supposed to just sneak around while you're pretending to be with her?"

Bucky comes closer to you and places his hands on your hips. "I can't be without you, Y/N," He tells you truthfully. "I don't want to be without you. If you're willing to do this, I'll make it work. It won't be long until the contract's over. I'll make time for you - I'd do anything to see you, even just for ten minutes. I love you."

Unable to refuse him, you rest your hands against his chest, and finally tell him what you've been feeling for so long. "I love you, Jamie," You say. The words feel odd coming out your mouth - you've never said them to anyone off-camera before - but it also feels like the most natural thing in the world to be saying them to him. "We'll make it work. We'll get fucking burner phones if we have to, and I won't tell a single soul," You assure him. "I can be patient. And I can keep a secret."

oooooooh.

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

buy me a kofi <3

[swightops]

mcu is SO BACK with the good angst 🤧

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

[swightops]

#inmyLewisPullmanera

amazing series so far and cant wait for the next chapter 🤧🤧🤧

Yellow Soul Masterlist

Summary: Being with your high school sweetheart Perry feels like walking on a constant tightrope, always terrified to plummet to your death. But one winter break in 2016 everything changes when you unexpectedly reconnect with his younger brother, Rhett. In a relationship that’s smothering, Rhett becomes the escape you never knew you needed, offering the kind of refuge you’ve been longing for.

Pairing: Rhett Abbott/Fem!Reader

MDNI - Smut indicated with a *

Chapter One: Mulberry

You return to Wabang with the intention of celebrating Christmas with your boyfriend, Perry. What you discover instead is much more than you would have ever dreamed.

Chapter Two: Amaranth*

A routine Sunday morning turns unexpected as you and Rhett meet in secret away from your families.

Chapter Three: Gourd*

You want to regret Sunday, but you don't. You find Rhett does not regret it either.

Chapter Four: Persimmon*

Things haven't been the same since the fight in Rhett's truck. The pressure is getting to you, and the feelings of self-doubt are not eased as others around you do not reveal their secrets.

Chapter Five: Marmalade

With Wabang in your rearview mirror you can finally breathe again.

Chapter Six: Dandelion

Six years pass and you find yourself back in Wabang.

Chapter Seven: Cornsilk

A night at the bar leads to some unexpected findings, unknowingly you are now tied to Rhett Abbott for life.

Chapter Eight: Pear

With Trevor Tillerson missing, you are pulled back into the tangle of secrets, regrets, and the Abbott family you once tried to leave behind.

+ More To Come!