#insane on its own and insane for the yaoi implications

[still-scribblin]

girl this is crazy 😭🤚🏼 i have nO WORDS !!!!!

the way you write every detail too like them on the elevator going to the tower ?!?!?! i was nervous along with reader (and may i just say i really really love her relationship with joaquin!!!!! also that call with Sam god I love Sam he's so father 🥴🤌🏽 amd reader really did sound like a child of divorce pls lmaooo i wonder what yelena thought hearing all that sksksksksk +++ i love love the highlight of yelena's skills!!! i love me some yelena so true!!!! there's a lot of good good things i very much enjoyed in this fic but i my brain is too scrambled and lowkey i'm scared of Mel seeing reader and Joaquin in the lobby and what that could mean 😭🤚🏼 no pressure at all because ik writing is difficult and 20k+ words excluding part 1 is insanity actually (+ keeping this fic canon compliant and all that military legal mumbo jumbo you may have had to look up + godd matt murdock my beloved,,, havent watched any wpusode of daredevil at all but it's always nice to see him!) i could nEVER but i was wondering if we're doing a lil open ending thing or are we seeing our parents get back together in this timeline??? like will there be another installment or is our imagination the limit? hehehe also can i just say i love how well thought out the "real world" implications were when reader and joaquin saw the files,,, and ngl i found joaquin so hot when he was muttering all that legal shit ggrrrrrr im down bad for him its insane 😭🤚🏼 (and just randomly remembered,,, i got so soft when yelena let her guard down and mentioned wanting to be like and honor natasha and reader mirroring that with sam LIEKKKKK those are parents right there!!!!!)

+++++ the texts with bob and the friendship with joaquin and Sam's approval !!!!! (also obvi reader and joaquin are skilled and highly trained bUTTT in my heart of hearts ik damn well Sam's not 100% believing they got the drive on their own considering the mess at the gala lmao)

also lastly joaquin clocking sambucky and their addiction ,,, "withdrawal" "Sam gets twitchy" ik we said he's giving lil bro vibes here and i agree, but chronologically speaking first child joaquin has been tHROUGH THE TRENCHES !!! he witnessed all that weird gay ritual shit!!! do not cite the old (men yaoi) magic to him he was there when it was written! (or finalized bc lawrd knows sambucky's been doing their weird dance since bucky ripped the steering wheel off of sam's car lmao)

anywayy gahhh i really love this you're brilliant!!!! thank you for writing and sharing 🥹🫵🏽🩷

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.

text messages with bob!

[bugpoasting]

watched the monkees fairy tale episode and um. yup its just as much as y'all have gassed it up that was Insane