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“Disgraced Ex-U.S. Agent Strikes Again,” one headline blared.
“New Avengers? Or Just Old Problems in a New Coat?”
“Sentry Spotted with Known Liability: Has He Lost His Mind Too?”
Yelena clipped them all and taped them to the fridge like they were third-grade art projects. Bob, of course, added glitter. And googly eyes. The Hydra diplomat in one photo now had sparkly devil horns and a mustache.
John stood in front of it all, arms crossed, jaw locked.
“This is harassment.”
“You’re trending,” Yelena said sweetly. “Embrace it.”
All John did was maybe shove the Hydra guy through a glass wall. But in his defense, the man definitely called them “depowered PR stunts in Kevlar” and had the nerve to scoff while doing it. John’s response was swift, unfiltered, and, according to Alexei, “the most American thing I’ve seen since deep-fried butter on a stick.”
By morning, the press had eaten it alive and decorated the wreckage with hashtags.
#UAgentUnhinged.
#HydraGlassGate.
#CanceledWife.
Ava didn’t give him the silent treatment—far from it.
She leaned against the common room doorway, mug of tea in hand, wearing the smallest, most amused smirk he’d ever seen.
“So,” she said. “Diplomatic immunity. Is it still diplomatic if the diplomat is unconscious?”
“Go away.”
“You could’ve threatened him. Or glared. Or done that growly thing you do with your voice where you sound like a war crime in a baseball cap. But instead…”
She made a small explosion gesture with her hand.
“Glass wall.”
John muttered something deeply unrepeatable.
From the couch, Bucky didn’t even look up from his book. “I swear to God, if we get benched again over this, I’m switching teams. I’ll go back to Wakanda. I’ll herd goats. Happily.”
“You wouldn’t last a day,” Yelena chimed in, plopping down beside him with a mouthful of popcorn.
“I would live peacefully in the mountains. Alone.”
“You’d get bored and try to arm-wrestle a goat.”
“I’d win.”
A beat.
“...Would you?”
John groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I said I was handling it. ”
Then Bob happened.
The very next day, Bob—his hair defying gravity like he’d just fought a thunderstorm and won, eyes faintly glowing gold—strolled out the front doors of New Avengers HQ directly into the blinding flash of twenty news cameras.
He was wearing aviators, flip-flops, and a black t-shirt with white bold letters that read:
“I STAND BY MY CANCELED WIFE.”
No context. No prep. No warning. Just radiant, unapologetic chaos.
Inside HQ, John froze mid-sip of his coffee as the footage hit the monitor.
“What the hell is he doing,” he whispered.
“Damage control,” Bob chirped over comms. “You said you weren’t apologizing, so I’m launching a sympathy offensive.”
“I’m going to launch you.”
“One of the reporters cried. It’s working.”
Out in front of the cameras, Bob turned, still smiling that soft, sweet, glow-within-glow smile—but his eyes gleamed golden. Sentry golden. The kind of light that said: You are all ants, and I am in a benevolent mood today. Mostly.
“I think,” he said gently, “that we should all let this one go.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering something far above them.
“Because I would really hate to accidentally melt a satellite. Or… something.”
The laughter from the press corps died. Everyone nodded. Cameras powered down. Someone fainted.
Inside, John dropped his forehead to the table with a dull thunk.
“Why does he keep calling me his wife?”
Ava didn’t miss a beat. “I mean, you do act like an overworked husband with a tendency toward public outbursts.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to. I’m thriving. ”
She sipped her tea with all the dignity of a long-suffering partner at a comedy roast.
Yelena, still scrolling, held up her phone and said with zero sympathy, “By the way, the shirt’s sold out.”
“Of course it is,” John muttered. “Of course. ”
Alexei wandered into the room mid-chaos, shirt half-buttoned, holding a protein shake and looking vaguely pleased.
“I saw the headlines,” he said, voice booming. “Finally. They recognize your potential for destruction. This is good.”
John looked up, defeated. “Bob made a t-shirt.”
Alexei squinted at the screen. “Huh. Bold font. Nice kerning.”
“Why does everyone think this is normal?! ”
Bob entered the room right then, still wearing the shirt, hair still spiking in three directions like he'd survived an electrical storm and liked it.
He grinned. “Hey, babe.”
“ Stop calling me that! ”
Bob just sat beside him and handed him a smoothie.
“You’re welcome, darling.”
-
The glitter-covered headlines were still taped to the fridge.
The t-shirt saga should have died down.
But it did not.
In fact, it escalated.
Because by Day 4, everyone except John had a shirt.
Yelena was the first to strut into the kitchen that morning, wearing a cropped pink version with #CanceledWife printed across the back in cursive. She paired it with combat boots and a smug expression that could level cities.
“I had mine custom-fitted,” she said, grabbing toast off the counter. “You know. For agility.”
John gave her a long, exhausted look. “You’re the reason I’m being memed as America’s disgraced husband.”
“You’re welcome.”
He didn’t even have time to sigh before Ava walked in.
He clocked the smirk immediately and groaned. “No. No. Don’t tell me—”
Ava tugged off her hoodie, revealing a sleek black tank top version of the shirt. It had tiny embroidered knives stitched beneath the lettering.
“Limited edition,” she said casually. “Bob said I get a tactical discount.”
“There’s a tactical line?” John asked, already regretting it.
Ava took a slow sip of coffee. “Only for emotionally repressed killjoys. So… you’re next.”
Before John could argue, Bucky appeared, somehow holding both a mission report and a mug that read: “My teammate got canceled and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.” He was, of course, wearing the standard tee underneath his thermal, sleeves rolled up like he was about to teach a class in practical disappointment.
John’s eye twitched. “the fuck, Barnes?”
“I’m tired, man,” Bucky said, not even looking up. “Just let it happen.”
“You all suck.”
“Oh hey,” Bob called from somewhere behind him. “Speaking of sucking—”
He walked in carrying a full cardboard box overflowing with shirts, his smile bright enough to cause migraines. His hair looked freshly electrocuted, and his flip-flops slapped joyfully against the tile.
“Shirt drop was so successful, we restocked!” he beamed. “I added flair. We’ve got glow-in-the-dark, retro fonts, and a Valentine’s Day edition that says ‘My Disaster Valentine.’ Want it in baby pink or rage red?”
John slowly stood, eyes wild. “I swear to God—”
Yelena, mouth full of toast, muttered around her bite, “You’re already the brand, Walker. Might as well get royalties.”
Bob grinned even wider. “I put your face on a mug.”
John froze. “ What. ”
“You should just wear one,” Ava said, swirling her coffee. “Embrace the chaos.”
“Absolutely not.”
From somewhere down the hallway, Alexei bellowed, “DO WE HAVE SIZE XXL? I WANT ONE FOR SAUNA DAY.”
That was it.
John dropped heavily into a chair like the world had finally broken him. Bob plopped into the seat beside him, set the box down, and leaned back with a proud sigh.
Yelena strolled past them, still wearing her cropped #CanceledWife tee, and paused just long enough to toss a slice of toast onto John’s plate.
“Face it, sweetheart,” she said, voice syrup-sweet and laced with mischief. “You’re a movement now.”
John didn’t move for a moment. Then, quietly, deadpan:
“I will set this place on fire.”
Bob beamed. “That’s the spirit. Let me print that on the next batch.”
-
Two days ago
The kitchen was quiet, long after midnight. The only light came from the glow of the fridge and the faint, flickering headlines still taped to it—each one a testament to the latest disaster bearing John Walker’s name.
He sat at the counter, elbows on the table, a melting ice pack clutched to his shoulder. His phone was face-down. The smoothie beside him was untouched. Across the screen earlier, the news anchors had dissected his every move—every grimace, every outburst, every misstep. They called him unhinged. Dangerous. A liability. Again.
Footsteps padded in soft across the tile. Bob appeared, barefoot, hair a mess, still faintly lit from within like he hadn’t quite powered down yet. He blinked once, glanced at the drink, then looked at John.
“That for me, or your emotional support smoothie?” Bob asked as he padded into the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed.
John didn’t look up. “Dunno. I forgot I made it.”
The smoothie sat on the counter beside him, untouched. The condensation had already soaked a slow ring into the tabletop. It was the color of something vaguely nutritious and the texture of something no one actually wanted to drink. But it was there—like he was trying, even if he didn’t know why.
Bob didn’t press. He dragged a chair out from under the table and flopped into it backward, the wrong way, legs slung over the back, arms crossed across the top rail. The chair creaked, loudly. On purpose.
John still didn’t look at him.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” John muttered. Then, quieter: “Just thinking.”
Bob tilted his head. “Dangerous habit.”
John exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “They’re not wrong, you know. I lose my temper. I make things worse. I’m not exactly team mascot material.”
“You’re not a mascot,” Bob said, stretching his legs. “You’re, like… a raccoon with a flamethrower.”
John shot him a look.
“A chaotic little rage beast,” Bob added cheerfully. “But effective. And kinda weirdly cute when you’re not actively punching things.”
“I am begging you to stop talking.”
Bob grinned and leaned forward on his arms. “What if I made a shirt?”
John blinked. “What?”
“Just something simple,” Bob said, eyes shining now with that dangerous, gleeful spark he got before launching into any new brand of chaos. “Like, ‘I stand by my canceled wife.’ Big bold letters. Maybe some glitter.”
“That is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Perfect. It’s going to sell so well. ”
“Bob, I swear—”
Bob just leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, and reached out—not dramatic, not flashy, just a quiet, grounding gesture. He let his fingers brush against John’s forearm. Warm. Steady.
“You’re not alone in this, Walker,” he said softly. “Even if you think you deserve to be.”
John didn’t look up. But he didn’t move away either.
-
Three days later, the mission was chaos. Smoke coiled into the sky, alarms wailed in the distance, and John was bleeding from somewhere, but they were standing. They’d won.
And then, in full view of the cameras and a dozen horrified reporters, John ripped off what remained of his uniform’s shredded overshirt.
Underneath was black cotton. Bloodstained. Ash-dusted. Lettering cracked with heat.
I STAND BY MY CANCELED WIFE.
The field went silent for a beat. Then Bucky, staring at him with something like stunned disbelief, muttered, “He wore the damn thing.”
“I’m proud,” Ava deadpanned, brushing soot off her shoulder. “He’s accepted the brand.”
Yelena just raised her phone and took a photo. “This one’s going on the fridge.”
Bob, of course, looked positively glowing.
“I love this so much,” he whispered, awed.
“No shit,” John said flatly—but there was no real heat behind it. Just the weariness of a man resigned to his fate.
And maybe—just maybe—a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Back at HQ, the headline made the rounds by morning:
“From Liability to Legend: U.S. Agent Saves the Day in ‘Canceled Wife’ Tee.”
It was framed like a redemption arc. Like the chaos had been part of the plan all along.
Bob printed three copies and taped one beside the others on the fridge, lining it up like it belonged in a museum. Yelena added glitter without a word, humming to herself. Ava walked past John and set a fresh drink beside him—just within reach, just in case. She didn’t say anything.
He took it.
No commentary. No snark. Just a small, exhausted sip.
And when the team gathered in the lounge that night—mismatched mugs raised, thermoses clinked together, Bucky’s protein shake clashing proudly with Yelena’s vodka—John didn’t argue.
He raised his glass too.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But if we’re making merch now, I get final say on font.”
Bob beamed at him like he’d just proposed.
“The choice is yours to make.”
Ava muttered from behind her mug, “Please pick something less ugly.”
John rolled his eyes. But he didn’t disagree.
Not this time.