Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Ava had to pick between being back in the Vault and being here, she would have picked the Vault in a nano-second. The incinerator would have been merciful compared to this fresh hell.

At least it would have had the decency to kill her quickly.

Instead, she sweltered under these hot studio lights beating down on her, while they also made the leather couch she was seated on unbearably hot, too. All for some bullshit live interview none of them wanted to do. As she felt yet another bead of sweat trickle down the side of her face, presumably taking some of that awful blush and spray they caked her with, she wondered if this was what an ant cooked by a cruel child’s magnifying glass felt like. It didn’t help that whatever psychopaths Mel had hired for their public relations team had stuck her some black fitted strapless dress that made her feel like she was one sneeze away from a disaster, in addition to her hair forced into a tight ponytail. So she not only felt exposed and uncomfortable as hell, but she had to pretend that she wasn’t in front of a crowd.

Yeah, that was the sort of petty revenge someone like Val would come up with.

She glanced over at Yelena, who somehow seemed much more at ease with the situation than she was. Clad in a short, black silk dress, the widow just sat somehow poised and relaxed at the same time, her legs crossed and while she wasn’t quite smiling at the audience, she seemed to have a warm expression on her face. Was it just the Red Room training, or was she really as confident as she looked? Maybe it was just because she at least got shoulder straps, albeit thin ones. Either way, Ava tried not to let her irritation show.

Meanwhile, the men had it so easy, by comparison—they had flat dress shoes, matching black pants and blazer; the only real variation seemed to be their choice of shirt. Alexei had opted for a loud red button-up with the top few buttons undone, while Bucky had gone with a basic blue shirt and red tie, as if he were appearing at one of his Congress meetings, though both looked tense, though for Alexei, it seemed that he was too excited and unsure what persona approach to take, while Bucky just hated being on camera as much as she did.

Walker, it seemed, was the odd one out. Decked out in a black dress shirt and tie that somehow even managed to make his dirty blond hair seem browner than it actually was, he fiddled with his cufflink, seemingly to distract himself. Ava could concede that he at least had put more thought into his wardrobe than the other two—the stylists had wanted to, of course, go with more of a red-white-blue ensemble, but Walker had refused it, which naturally led to shouting and a tantrum, until Bucky had stepped in and took it for himself.

Given that she had been being tortured at the time by some sadistic waxers, Ava really couldn’t have given a shit, but now, as they all literally had the spotlight on them, she did distantly wonder why Walker had thrown such a hissy fit in the first place. In the vault, he couldn’t shut up about being Mr. Red, White, & Blue; sure, it hadn’t ended well, but with a fresh start on offer, why change his mind now?

“So, the New Avengers,” The host—some James man who smiled too widely and looked far too comfortable with himself—began, “it seems you’ve made quite a name for yourselves—well, bought a used name for yourselves.” The pun earned some chuckles from the audience, but the smile didn’t seem to reach the man’s eyes. “And saved the city to boot! It’s safe to say New York is grateful for your help, but I have to ask, how did you feel, debuting the team? I’m sure you had been working on it for a while, but did the crisis force you to come out sooner than you planned?”

Naturally, this was a question that the producers had prepped them on—apparently the show’s people had talked to Mel’s people about the planned topics, which Ava appreciated. Talking in front of this many people was nerve-wracking enough as it was without having some railing to guide them. She patiently looked to Yelena and Bucky: as the two defacto leaders, it had been agreed they’d take point here, even if they both hated it; the producers weren’t particularly thrilled with it, either, given they had wanted her to talk about her criminal background and her powers, but both Bucky and Yelena had nipped that in the bud.

“Well, it’s . . . yes, it was surprising,” Yelena said.

“Needless to say, nothing went to plan,” Bucky added. “But nothing really ever goes how you’d expect, right? This was just one of them, but I’m glad that this team was still able to rise to . . . to step up.”

“As are we, Congressman Barnes,” James Something nodded sagely while the audience cheered. “But that brings up another question on people’s minds: when did you become involved with this New Avengers team? Was it before you ran for office, or after? You seemed pretty concerned about Ms. De Fontaine’s research during Congressman Gary’s impeachment case. What changed?”

Bucky blinked, but then took a deep breath and nodded: they had decided to hue as close the truth as they could. It just seemed safer. “I was . . . I was the last to get involved,” he hedged. “Thanks to Congressman Gary’s investigation, this team . . . Avengers caught my attention and because I was worried for my Brooklynn constituents—” Some clapping and whoo-ing at the shoutout; Bucky awkwardly waved to the crowd, but a soft smile flashed across his face. He may hate the job, but he clearly loved his neighborhood. “—and so I took a look at things and wound up finding this team. They had heard about the threat to New York and wanted to help, so I . . . joined them: I’m old, but I can still throw a punch, if it helps my town.”

“Old? C’mon, you don’t look a day over 100,” The host snorted and the audience whistled. “Pushing 110 and you still got a full head of hair: what’s your secret?”

“. . . Cyro-sleep and being kidnapped by an evil organization helped,” Bucky said; James Something blinked while the audience awkwardly chuckled. “. . . And moisturizing, I guess.” Bucky quickly added.

“I should have known,” James said, pivoting to Barnes’s tip. “Guess my wife was right after all. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me that I need to exercise and eat right, too.”

“Why, did you already try the evil organization?” Yelena quipped and the audience laughed loudly. James Something clapped and chuckled good heartedly.

“I work for GNB, miss,” He laughed. “Already there and all I got for it is grey hairs.”

“You don’t look a day over 100,” Bucky repeated, a tight smile on his face, and the audience applauded the call-back.

“Touche, Bucky, touche,” James laughed jovially, before he pivoted, his tone becoming more serious. “But seriously, Congressman Barnes, now that you’re an Avenger, do you think you’ll have time to complete your term? I can imagine you’ll be pretty busy.”

“You’re not wrong,” Bucky’s tone firmed. They had all heard him practicing this answer for the past week, after a few heated calls with his chief of staff or whatever they were called. “After discussing it with Congressman Gary and the Speaker, we decided that it would be best if I finish out the term. After the incident with President Ross and his resignation, there have been a lot of challenges we’ve needed to grapple with, and triggering another special election, especially in the same seat as before, when I ran, would only distract from our efforts. The Speaker has been kind enough to relax some of proxy voting rules, so I can still make my constituents’ voices heard when I’m not able to be there for a floor vote, but I will also be committed to this team and making it the best it can be.”

More applause, while Ava had to resist chuckling. He certainly hadn’t sounded so accepting of that idea earlier; he had wanted to resign almost immediately after they moved into the tower and they were satisfied Val wasn’t going to kill them in their sleep, but that Gary man was able to be pretty persuasive, much to Bucky’ chagrin. The fact that it added a further public check on Valentina and offered them a pipeline to get her impeached and arrested if she fucked them over was hard to argue against. Plus, he had seemed drawn in to the idea of his local congressional office being a place people could reach them completely unfiltered by Val and being closer to the community.

Doesn’t mean he had to be happy about it, it seemed.

“And re-election?”

“I’m focused on giving my current term my all right now,” Bucky replied, though more rigidly than before. “As for the future, we will take whatever course is best for the good people of Brooklyn.” More whoops and a few scattered chants of “run, run, run” came from the crowd. Bucky smiled and waved again, but it looked more forced; the price of being a hometown hero, Ava supposed.

Maybe she would have an idea of what that felt like, before this Avengers stint was over.

She doubted it, but she couldn’t deny that the idea of having a home that celebrated her wasn’t unappealing.

“Well, here’s to the future then, Congressman.” James saluted in that silly American way, with his palm facing downward, while the crowd applauded again. “And to think, you would be teaming up with Captain Walker of all people, too!” The applause fell silent almost immediately.

“Well, it’s a small, weird world we run in,” Walker said; his voice sounded coarse. If he was irked by the crowd’s reaction, he managed to mask it better than she’d have expected. “But I always wanted to work with Bucky here, even when . . . well, in the past, and he is a great leader, and I think this team will do a lot of good.”

“Do you think Sam Wilson would agree?” James Something rested his arms on his desk and tried to fake innocence. “It seems that President Ross asked him to put together the Avengers, and he is the acting Captain America—”

“There’s no ‘acting’ there,” Bucky said firmly.

Walker glanced over at Bucky and nodded slowly, though he seemed tense. “. . . Yeah, Bucky’s right. Sam is Captain America. No ifs or buts.” He paused, as if he was trying to gauge the crowd’s reaction, but they remained silent. “And he’s doing a great job. I mean, stopping a war? Saving D.C.? Seems like Captain America to me. And it would be great to work with him. We all just want to help people, at the end of the day, right? So we can figure it out.”

Ava almost smiled, especially since she knew that the interviewer would be fuming by that answer. While she wasn’t familiar with the whole Captain America succession fight, she knew enough that any positive answer was only going vex a pot stirrer like this idiot. The rest of them may give Walker shit about how short his stint was as the hero, but that didn’t mean they were going to let some random talking head do it.

“Speaking of figuring things out . . . ,” James began, but whatever expression he saw on Bucky’s face, he appeared to reconsider his words. “. . . the public’s been dying to know more about this man here. Alexei, right?”

The Russian hero smiled broadly and nodded, “Da, but you can call me Red Guardian!” He jumped to his feet and flexed; he gave an encouraging wink to the crowd, who cheered him on. Ava was almost jealous that he could somehow feel so at home in front of all these strangers. Whether he was intentionally overacting to distract them away from Walker or he was just that excited to be the center of attention, she couldn’t tell, and from the grimace on her face, neither could Yelena.

“Red Guardian, huh?” James clacked his notecards on his desk. “Isn’t that a limo company?”

“One and same,” Alexei grinned, still on his feet. “Red Guardian, protecting you from boring evening and from the darkness. No fear when we are here!”

The crowd hollered and thundered applause, while Alexei raised a cupped hand to his ear and mimed “louder” to the crowd, who happily obliged him.

“WOW,” James chuckled, though his eyes looked colder; he didn’t strike Ava as someone who enjoyed sharing the spotlight and the idea that Alexei had somehow managed to steal his crowd from him clearly crossed some sort of line. “That’s some energy you got there. So tell us, how does a limo driver wind up joining the Avengers?”

Alexei excitedly launched into a PR-approved version of the story: mainly, that he was some old Soviet hero who moved to America to be closer to his daughters (whatever edits PR made, he didn’t need to fake the somber expression when talking about the other Black Widow; Yelena even reached over and held his hand), started over and wanted to keep helping people, his daughter’s team needed backup, and so on—frankly, while Ava had come to find him more on the endearing side of annoying, she couldn’t help but tune it out. She already knew the real thing, so why bother?

Instead, she found her focus drifting to Walker. He still seemed uncharacteristically rigid, but he was breathing steadily and deliberately. She supposed that, besides Bucky, he had arguably the most media experience—even on the run, she remembered the clips circulating of his rallies and interviews and he seemed pretty at home in front of people, a far cry from the man sitting next to her. For all his “peaked in secondary school” energy, he seemed more self-conscious, almost scared, than she figured he’d be.

She sighed; at least this fucking waste of time was almost over and they all could be away from the microscope for a bit. Maybe a movie at home? Those had been kind of nice, even if Bucky wouldn’t sit through the whole thing. Some take away could at least get him to stick around for part of it, and Bob would feel less guilty for picking some childhood favorite something or another—honestly, she barely remembered the ones he had shown them so far; they weren’t bad, they just didn’t stick to her, but she did remember how nice it felt to just sit there and be, making quips with Walker while Alexei loudly asked questions and Yelena shushed them all . . . .

“And then there’s this lovely woman—Ah-va Starr,” James Something said, and she was rushed back to reality. Fuck.

“It’s A-va, actually,” She automatically corrected and had to fight back a wince. On the one hand, fuck this guy, but on the other, pissing him off would only drag this shit out longer. “Like the letter.”

“My apologies, Ms. Starr,” James said smoothly, clearly opting to avoid saying her name altogether. That suited her fine; she didn’t like him saying it. “I’d hate to have you haunt me!”

Now that was the best idea he had had all evening. “Only if you’ve been bad,” She replied smoothly, a smirk easing its way across her face. The image of him pissing himself and panicking certainly boosted her spirits. “Have you been up to no good, James?”

James gave an exaggerated nervous tug on his collar while fanning himself. The audience laughed and hooted. Ava blinked before she sighed; that probably had sounded more innuendo than she had intended. Bloody perverts, the lot of them.

“I’m sorry, it’s just your accent makes your threats sound so charming,” James chuckled. “Did you grow up in England?”

Ava opened her mouth and paused. What had they discussed about this, again? She really didn’t want to share more of her past than she had to. “My mum was,” Ava finally hedged. “She and I were close and I picked it up from her. She always loved her home and shared it with me, when she could.”

“That’s very sweet,” the host said. “I’m sure she’d be proud that you’re carrying it forward.”

“Thank you.” And fuck you. She may well be, but he was the last person she wanted to hear that from.

“Is she where you got your . . .” James waggled his fingers. “Going ghost powers from?”

Ava robotically chuckled and the audience followed suit, though with more enthusiasm. “I’m afraid that’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Please. Give me a reason.

“Yeesh, forget I asked, Ms. Jane Bond,” James quipped and the audience laughed. This was growing tiresome. “So how did you get caught up in this whole thing, then? After all, you were wanted all over the world—what made you want to join the hero side?”

“Valentina brought me in.” Another hedge, but she had to give him something, before he pushed much further into it. “And yes, I’ve not always been . . . the law and I were at odds, at times. But I met an Avenger, Scott Lang—”

“A friend of the show, for sure,” James interjected.

“—As I’m sure he is. But meeting him and his family, it . . . left an impression. It changed my life. It . . . helped me. I owe them more than I can say. I wouldn’t be sitting here, without them.” That was certainly true enough.

“And if that’s not looking out for the little guy,” James nodded. “I don’t know what it is. He mentioned you, actually, in his memoir. Have you read it?”

“He wrote a book?” Ava asked. Had she known that? Honestly, even she couldn’t tell if she was being sardonic or if she actually hadn’t known. Either way, the audience laughed and that covered her.

“I know, we couldn’t believe it at first, either,” James chuckled. “But it was really good! If you haven’t, give it a look.”

“I will, I will,” She raised her hands in a pacifying gesture. “I’ve been a little busy with the Avengers thing, but I’ll get right on it.”

“And how is that feeling?” The host asked. “Being an Avenger?”

“Unreal,” She said honestly. “For the longest time, my powers . . . they felt like a curse. Like all they could do is hurt me and other people, but . . .” She looked around at the others—her friends, as fucking weird as it was to call them that—and smiled. “But here, with these people, they’re able to do some good. Protect people. And that makes me happy.”

The audience clapped, though honestly, Ava barely heard it; she had felt a reassuring hand on her lower back that, through the thin material of the dress, nearly sent a shiver up her spine, and that was before she felt another hand pat her on the shoulder. Bucky and Walker, by the feel of them; she still wasn’t sure how to feel about others touching her, but at least, in this moment, it felt nice. Weird, but nice.

“That sounds like an Avengers answer if I’ve heard one,” James said. “What do you guys think?” The crowd followed their cue and intensified the applause. “Though one more question before the break: who was that man with you at the press conference? This ‘Bob’? Is he a New Avenger as well?”

Ava’s eyes widened; while she had mostly ignored the PR team’s briefing, she was certain they had said the show knew Bob was off limits. So what the hell? She didn’t dare glance over to Bucky or Yelena—that would look guilty as fuck. Should she answer? Or would they?

To her surprise, it was Walker that spoke up, “How about we let civilians have their privacy, yeah? I think a lot of people in this city went through some dark things that day they had to fight like hell to beat, and he was one of them. Let’s let them have some peace from all that.” The crowd seemed torn, based on their murmurs. They were curious, but Walker reminding them of what they must have seen in the attack seemed to get them to reconsider. She glanced at Walker, who had a tight grin on this face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Besides, you have three super soldiers, a spy, and someone who can phase through anything, and you ran out of questions for us already? I’m hurt.”

Some appreciative chuckles from the crowd. “When you’re right, you’re right, Captain Walker,” James replied smoothly, but something in his tone set Ava on edge.

Honestly, she was not a fan of how he said Walker’s name either.

“Captain Walker, I’m sorry about the separation,” The host pivoted and Ava thought she saw John visibly flinch. “I know from experience, it’s never easy. But good on you, still wearing your ring—most men I know, they would’ve set it aside, once the writing was on the wall.”

“Well . . . you know, never . . . never, uh, give up,” Walker mumbled and Ave’s nails dug into her palms.

“So, you think there’s still chance you might reconcile?” James asked casually, as if he didn’t notice the sudden tension radiating from her and Yelena.

“Tha-that’s not wh . . . I mean,” Walker fumbled. “I mean, that’s not . . . it’s her decision.”

“So you’d like to reconcile? Be with your son?”

“What I’d like doesn’t really apply here,” Walker said, his tone ice. “All I want is what’s best for them, whatever that is. With me or . . . or without me. I wear the ring because . . . .” He swallowed. “Because she gave it me, and I don’t want to forget that.”

A few idiots in the crowd awe’d, but the room had grown quieter, as people seemed uncertain which way the tone of the conversation would go.

“That’s noble of you, John—Is it okay if I call you John?” the smug fuck said, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “John, I know that you’re trying here: I mean, from killing a man in the streets to saving New York—twice, even!—you’ve come far, and we’re rooting for you. In fact, you may be happy to know that you’ve quite a few supporters online cheering you on.”

Walker seemed truly unsure what direction to go: probably anger, knowing him, but the thought of support seemed to give him some pause. “What?”

“You didn’t know?” Dead Man Walking asked. “You’re pretty popular with many men who see you as an inspiration: decorated war hero, a Captain America unafraid to get his hands dirty, who defied political correctness to stop terrorists—there’s a lot of people who say that you’re the Captain America the country needs more of.”

“Sam Wilson is Captain America,” Walker numbly said. “I just said that—I’m not Cap anymore.”

“But plenty of people out there think you should be. What do you have to say to them?”

“That they’re . . . they’re wrong,” Walker said, but he sounded deflated. How had a producer not stepped in? “Sam Wilson is Captain America. He proved it and he’s doing a good job.”

“But the government made you Captain.”

“And now they recognize Sam, just like I do!”

“I think John has been more than clear, James,” Bucky interjected cooly, as he got to his feet. “This interview is over.” He gestured to the rest of them to get to their feet, which they did without question . . . all except John. Alexei gave a sad smile to the crowd and gentle wave to acknowledge them, which was just as well, since Ava couldn’t have given less of a shit about them. “John, come on.”

“One more question, John, if I may,” Fuckface said, as if his guests weren’t ready to murder him. What the hell was his problem? “Your supporters have stuck by you through it all—your time as Cap, the death of your friend, the discharge, even taking your side in the separation and speaking to your defense—do you really not have any words for them?”

Alexei reached for Walker’s hand, but he brushed it away as he hoped to his feet. “What do you mean they took my side?” He demanded. “Have they been harassing her? Have you been encouraging this?”

The host blinked, as if he was only now realizing that Walker was angry. “No, I haven’t, but is it surprising? They think all you’ve done is be what they think a man should be: strong, unapologetic, doing what needs to be done without worrying about tripping over others’ feelings, not letting your wife tell you what do—why wouldn’t they project onto you? You’re an example to them.”
Walker looked like he might murder the man and Ava, for one, was more than willing to let him. “You’re telling me that the men backing me just want to be able to tell someone to make them a God damn sandwich?” He hissed, before he turned to the audience and yelled. “Do I have that right?”

The room was dead silent. Even the host seemed to be holding his breath and paling. Apparently, he was suddenly remembering what happened last time Walker got angry in public and realizing he may have misread how he’d react to his supporters.

“If you incel fuckers are listening,” Walker hissed quietly into his wired mic. “Then fuck yourselves: I don’t need your ‘support.’ I’m not Captain America for the same reason I’m separated . . . it’s my own fault. I didn’t . . . I didn’t step up, not in the way she needed, not in the way the country needed. I became too focused on . . . I focused on the wrong things.”

He shook his head. “You want to be a man? Step 1: own your shit. No one owes you shit, and fuck you if you only do the right thing because you think they’ll owe you for not acting awful. They already have an asshole on their body—they don’t need another one in their lives. Take it from me. Step 2? Be better. Try. Be there. Listen. Step 3? Care more about someone else than your fucking bitch ego or tiny dick. Step 4? Make your own damn sandwich—fold a fucking sheet and wash a fucking dish like a grownup and stop whining like a spoiled brat. GOD, just . . . just grow up, loser.”

“Life’s short. People have actual shit to worry about." Walker's mouth became a thin, grim line. "And leave my family the fuck alone.”

The crowd jumped to their feet and roared their approval. Walker stormed off the stage without even looking back at the host, who shot the rest of them a nervous look; if he was looking for sympathy, he couldn’t have liked what he found. Ava just gave him an icy glare and Yelena ignored him completely; she just looked apologetic to the crowd and joined Alexei in thanking them for their support. Bucky meanwhile, leaned close to the host and cooly said, “Our lawyers will be in touch,” before following Walker’s lead. Honestly, Ava wasn’t sure if they even had lawyers yet, but she figured it was better than her saying she was going rip his tongue out through his chin.

By the time they left the stage, Walker had already ripped off his mic and was shoving it back to the flustered-looking tech worker. An apologetic looking production assistant ran over to them; she was saying words, but Ava tuned them out; if their assurances were worthless before, they were certainly worth less now. She just gave a stiff, polite nod as another tech worker approached and began to help her undo her mic; she’d have done it herself like Walker, but somehow, with this hellish deathtrap of a dress, the idea of flashing her tits didn’t seem like it’d help matters.

Once unmic-ed, Bucky whipped out his phone and dialed Mel—while she had been Val’s assistant and likely had tried to help kill them, she also was the only reason Bucky had been able to find them, and helped them find Bob, so she quickly became the only person from Val’s camp they had any sort of trust with and at Bucky’s insistence, Val had appointed her their main liaison. If anything, Val had seemed relieved at the prospect of not having to deal with them directly—and the feeling was more than mutual. Alexei still wished he had gotten to at least break some of her bones: he didn’t seem to take threats to Yelena lightly.

“Mel,” Bucky said calmly. Ava thought she could hear Mel’s anxious tones through the phone, but she couldn’t make out what she was saying. “I know you didn’t know. No one’s blaming you, okay? These guys lied, or their boss’s a shitbag. You did what you could. We’re just gonna have to talk about how we’re going to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Never again, Mel.”

He reached up and squeezed the bridge of his nose as he braced himself. “How bad is it?” He noticed Ava listening and mouthed “Find John.” Of course he’d make her have to track him down. What was she, his keeper? She rolled her eyes, but nodded; Bucky shot her an appreciative smile, before focusing on his call and waved over Yelena. “Huh huh,” He grunted. “That’s . . . interesting.”

Well, that was a clear dismissal if she had seen one. Leaving them to their coordinating and Alexei, who was smoothing things over with the crew while Ava could hear Fuckface trying to salvage the rest of his show, she ducked through the studio door into the hall. She kicked off her heels—she absolutely hated the clacking sound they made, especially with no one else around. Maybe it was a carryover from her previous life, but alerting everyone to your presence for no damn reason seemed pointless. If it were up to her, she’d have left the fucking things, but they were rented and even she didn’t feel comfortable having some assistant take the blame if they didn’t turn up.

That didn’t make her feel less like she was taking a walk of shame straight out of some movie.

The clown makeup certainly didn’t help matters.

Fortunately, finding John turned out not to be too difficult. Knowing him, he had to go somewhere where he’d not just be alone, but away from prying eyes, which pretty much eliminated the streets and most of the rest of the building—leaving the parking garage her best bet. Based on the scuffed shoe marks on the floor towards the stairwell, he must’ve taken the stairs down or jumped down, to cool off. Given they were on the 38th floor, she didn’t feel particularly like following his lead. A quick lift ride where she pointedly avoided the quizzing glances of her fellow travelers later, and she soon found herself standing amongst the cool, silent garage. After being trapped under those spotlights, the cool evening air felt heavenly—even if she still wished she had trousers or honestly anything between her pants and the breeze.

“Walker!” She called out. “You here?” Her voice echoed throughout the level. Most of the cars were gone, but there were some stragglers. She headed down the ramp to the next level, the smooth pavement feeling cool on the aching soles of her feet. “Walker!” Another level, another empty lot. Had she been wrong? Maybe he had gone up? He didn’t seem like the type to like heights, not like Yelena, but maybe . . . no, she couldn’t doubt herself now; if she was wrong, she’d just ask Alexei to jump up and check. John may be a prat, but he wasn’t going to run off like some child and not tell them.

It took two more levels for her to find him. He was sitting on the concrete, his back resting against a pillar, and staring at his phone, an unreadable expression on his face. “There you are,” Ava said; she tried to keep her relief from showing. While the pavement had felt nice on her feet, the texture was quickly wearing out its welcome. He didn’t look away from his phone or even gave any indication that he had heard her. She sighed but kept her pace even as she approached. She wanted to look nonchalant and also obvious—given his probable mental state, she figured surprising him wouldn’t be helpful. “You got a nice spot here. You come around here often?” She said, forcing some levity into her voice. Again, no response, but she thought she saw his eyes flick towards her; he knew she was here. Progress. “Is it okay if I sit for a bit? These shoes are awful.”

A subtle nod. Good. She hissed in relief as she rested her bareback against the cool pillar and slowly slid down, just barely remembering to tuck whatever passed as a skirt under her as she touched down in her haste. “You picked a good place; anywhere else, and I’d probably be flashing my pants to some hobo. Apparently, Mel’s stylist thinks a paper towel tube is enough to pass as a dress.”

No reply. That was fine, even if she wished he’d make some snarky comment. She really wasn’t used to carrying the brunt of a conversation. She quickly pulled her phone out and sends Bucky a quick text saying where they were. He replied almost immediately. “Apparently Mel’s already sent a car for us. The others are coming down—Alexei’s disappointed, since he apparently wanted to find what’s-his-face’s car and—I’m not exactly sure what he wanted with it. Bucky didn’t say, but nothing good, probably.”

Not even a chuckle. Maybe time for another tact.

“Thanks, by the way,” She said softly. “For the save. When he asked about Bob, I just . . . froze. Couldn’t think of a reply that would work. You . . . you really helped today, Walker. I know Bob will appreciate it, too.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Walker finally mumbled; for all his cockiness, she wasn’t used to hearing him so despondent. “If I wasn’t there . . . .”

“Then he would have asked about Bucky’s past or me or Yelena—none of us are clean, Walker. He was a hack looking to get some viral clip. He would have kept digging, whether you were there or not. But we faced it as a team, together.” She stared at her palm, before slowly closing her fist. “We’re not alone anymore. And it’s fucking weird, you know? Having people get mad on your behalf. I don’t know how to handle it, honestly. It feels good, but . . . kind of scary, too. To have people caring for you like that. To know you.” She glanced over at him. He was still staring at the phone. “You might know more about it, but me, it’s still pretty weird.”

He didn’t reply.

“Do you mind if I ask you what you’re looking at?” She asked, partially just to fill the silence.

“. . . I’m texting Olivia,” He admitted quietly.

“Oh . . . .” What the hell could Ava say to that? Good? Seems healthy? Don’t? “What about?”

For some reason, he snorted. Ava didn’t think she had been joking, but if it made him laugh, she’d work with it. “Just . . . apologizing.”

“For anything in particular?” Ava asked, her tone light. “Or is this one of those ‘for everything’ sorts of texts?”

“. . . For everything,” He sighed. “For ruining her life, even when I wasn’t in it.”

“Come on Walker,” Ava said. “It’s not like you told those eejits to go after her. You had no way of knowing some losers would make you some incel hero. You’re an asshole, they’re fucking pathetic—there’s a pretty big difference.”

Another snort; maybe she was making some progress. “I guess,” He conceded that much, even if it didn’t sound like he actually believed it. “But if those are the type of people who root for me . . . just . . . a lot of angry, bitter, selfish men . . . it says a lot.”

“Walker,” She turned to face him, her bare shoulder against the pillar. “Walker, I want you to look at me. Please.”

Reluctantly, he looked away from his phone and glanced down at her; she swore she could see some water in his eyes. “Walker, I’m only going to say this once. So listen.” He nodded. “I haven’t known you that long, but I can tell you that, even at your worst, you weren’t like those fuckers. Were you selfish? Yes. Were you bitter? Yes. Angry? Yes. No one is saying you became the best person, but if you really were like those . . . whatever, you would have been like Bob’s father. You would have been a bully, punching and tearing down everyone around him to make himself feel big.

“A man like that wouldn’t have fed two strangers before himself. A man like that wouldn’t have protected someone who broke his arm. A man like that wouldn’t have followed someone else’s plan without a fight. A man like that wouldn’t have risked being crushed just to give someone else a few more seconds to escape. A man like that wouldn’t have held a sobbing man and made him feel safe.

“No Walker, Bob’s father was that type of man these assholes admire, and when you saw him, you punched him in the face on sight. You may not have become a good husband or the best father, but you want to be better. That makes you better than every one of those fair-weather fucks who say they support you just to hate others. And you told them to fuck off and be better.

“Those are things only a good man does, Walker.”

He opened his mouth, but closed it again, his lower lip trembling. Slowly, Ava reached over and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “So, whatever they say, whatever you say, we know who you are, and we like that person. We make fun of him, but we like him. Is he perfect? Fuck no, but neither are we. So you can focus on the bad things, no one’s stopping you, but when you focus on the bad, we’re going to focus on the good, and just remember that we both may be right.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts do for each other.” He snorted and she smiled softly at him. “It’s part of what may make this trainwreck work.”

“. . . Okay.” He rubbed his eyes, but he seemed to be sitting a little straighter. “Okay.”

Ava released his arm and leaned back against the pillar. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“That Ava Starr has a heart? Heaven forbid.” He chuckled gently. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

They sat in companionable silence for a minute or two. The excitement of the day really was catching up to her, but she couldn’t deny that there was something pleasant about the moment. “Think if we asked, Bucky would bring the car down here?” Walker asked.

Ava snorted. “And pay these fuckers for parking? No, I don’t see that happening.”

“Well, you say it like that, that’s fair,” Walker shook his head. “I didn’t know spite was involved.”

“It’s involved in everything we do, Walker. We’re literally called Avengers—avenging is spite with a prettier name.”

Walker snorted again and slowly got to his feet. He offered her a hand. She rolled her eyes but still took it. It would have been embarrassing if she had tried getting to her feet on her own in that damn dress. That was all.

The ride back to the tower was a silent one; once she and Walker had climbed into the back of the limo, Alexei just handed them each beer while she quickly undid the damned ponytail. From the empty cans already resting on the floor, it seemed the party had already started. Briefly, Ava wondered if super soldiers could even get drunk, but she shrugged off the thought as she took another sip. A mystery for another day. Fortunately, traffic wasn’t too bad for the evening, so it only took them a mere half hour to get back, even if it felt like an eternity. Mel was waiting in the lobby for them, nervously tapping at her tablet. When she opened her mouth to greet them, Bucky shot her a tired smile but shook his head. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, Mel. It’s been a long night. Thanks, though.”

Mel had frowned, but nodded. It was clear that she wanted to say more, perhaps even apologize again, but as pissed as Ava was about the whole thing, even she knew it wasn’t fair to take it out on her. She just wordlessly handed her the heels and gave her a tired nod. She’d have offered her the rented dress, too, if she could’ve. But that had to wait. Sleep came first.

When they reached their floor, Yelena immediately went to go check on Bob, with Alexei close behind, which was probably a good call. Odds were, the ever-supportive friend that he was, he probably watched the show and if he felt guilty that the host had used him to get under their skin, well, it would be a good thing to dissuade him of that notion. Yelena was good at that— better than Ava was, at any rate. Sure, she had given a pep talk to Walker, but Walker was . . . well, Walker. Talking to Bob sometimes felt like it required a different type of honesty, of vulnerability, that she just didn’t have, at least not to that degree. Alexei could, even Walker, in his own awkward “I’m the older brother figure you never had” sort of way, but Yelena, he always listened to.

It was surreal that, just a week or two earlier, they all had been standing in that same room confronting Val and Bob. Yet there was hardly a trace of the fight left, and a sort of domestic feeling had settled into the place. The bedrooms were up the stairs next to the bar, or at least some of them—Bob, Yelena, and Alexei had set up shop up there, while John, her, and Bucky had preferred to spread out on the floor below; they each felt better having more space to themselves. Yet, they all congregated to this communal space every morning and every evening, before bed. A small kitchenette had been added, in addition to the television and L-shaped couch and coffee table—Val certainly seemed like she had wanted to leave an impression. Work was still happening on the lower floors for a mission briefing and tech center, but slowly but surely, this portion, at least, was beginning to feel more like home.

Ava glanced over to Walker, who was looking at his phone, the small frown back on his face. She had to fight back a sigh; whether it was social media or . . . well, either way, it didn’t bear looking at this late. Bucky saw her expression and nodded in understanding. Without a word, he made himself scarce. She didn’t know if that was considerate of him, or annoying: on the one hand, he trusted her, but on the other, it still felt like he was dumping another one of his leadership duties to her. Since when was she the designated manager for Walker, like Yelena was to Bob?

Still, someone needed to say something. It was only fair. “Did she text back?” Ava asked quietly.

John blinked away from his screen and hastily pocketed his phone. “Ah, yeah. . . yeah she did.”

Ava raised an eyebrow at the pause, “And?”

“She’s uh . . . she’s disappointed we didn’t punch the guy before we left.” He smiled softly and shook his head incredulously.

“Her and me both.” Ava snorted. “She was watching? That seems encouraging, yeah?”

“Yeah, she saw the whole thing—apparently the crowd got pissed after we left and heckled the fuck out of him.” He walked over to the living room couch and took a seat, his blazer left abandoned on the floor.

“God bless New Yorkers,” Ava chuckled as she followed him to the couch. After hesitating a moment, she scooped up the jacket and laid it down on the cushion next to her; it was a rental, after all. “How did she feel about the . . . rest of it?”

He sucked in a breath and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “She thanked me for the apology. Said she appreciated it. That she’s sorry she didn’t tell me about the . . . assholes harassing her online, but seeing me stand up to them made her happy. That she thinks you guys are . . . good for me.” He began to fiddle with his ring; whether on purpose or as a nervous habit, Ava wasn’t sure. Based on the conflicted look on his face, she could sense there was a “but” coming. “But. . . ,” Ava winced. “. . . but that she would rather we talk through our lawyers for now. That I shouldn’t contact her for a while.”

“For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry, Walker.” Ava reached and tentatively rested a hand on his shoulder. It was surreal that, even just a few years ago, she couldn’t even have offered her friend that much. “Did she say why?”

Walker hesitated; he gave her a look that, in the darkness, she couldn’t quite read. “Apparently I’m confusing her.”

Ava blinked. The fuck was that supposed to mean? “I mean, you confuse us too, but we still talk with you.”

He snorted appreciatively, but shook his head. “I dunno, I guess it’s like . . . since this whole Avengers thing happened, she says she keeps seeing glimpses of me. Of who I was before all the . . . before I took the serum. The man she loved. But then, she sees these other parts she’s not sure she knows and it’s . . . confusing. Like she knows me and she doesn’t, you know?” Ava really didn’t, but she nodded anyway. “And because it’s me, she wants to believe I’m getting better. That I can get back to . . . being me. But after seeing how I fell apart after my discharge, she doesn’t know if she could go through it, if it happens again. If the Avengers doesn’t work out, or if I get hurt, or worse . . . not with our son in the mix.”

“Walker . . . ,” Ava began, but she wasn’t really sure how she was planned on ending the sentence. She had never met the woman, and the only Walker she knew was the grumpy, sarcastic jackass sitting in front of her. Somehow, it was hard to imagine him being any different. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Walker . . . were you ever that person?”

“What?”

“I mean,” She fumbled for the words before giving up. “I mean, what John Walker did she fall in love with? If he wasn’t you, then what was he like?”

Walker blankly stared at her.

“Don’t look at me like it’s obvious, Walker. I only just met you and I had barely heard of you until last week, so how the hell would I know?”

He opened his mouth, and closed it again, as he mulled over her question. She felt a little satisfaction from having to make him think—it wasn’t so obvious, after all.
“I guess . . . ,” He said quietly; he pointedly stared at the coffee table, rather than look at her. “I guess I was less selfish. . . .”

Ava waited for a few seconds after he trailed off, until she crossed her arms. “Is that the only difference?”

“Well fuck, Ava, I don’t know!” He snapped. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have fucked things up. I wouldn’t . . . .” He took a breath and as he exhaled, it almost seemed like he was deflating. “. . . I wouldn’t have disappointed her.” Ava waited a second. “I wouldn’t have . . . scared her.”

“. . . Being in love is scary, I think,” Ava said quietly. Walker glanced over at her, but didn’t reply. She took a shaky breath; she hadn’t wanted to share much of her past, but it seemed inevitable, given the subject. “My father . . . he was a scientist. With S.H.I.E.L.D. At least until Hank Pym got him thrown out. I loved him so much, but after that . . . he changed. He was obsessed with getting his reputation back, with getting our life back, and he sacrificed everything to try. All our money, our home—he used it all, just to prove he was right.” She squeezed her upper arm and bit her lip. “He was barely the person I remembered, but when one of his experiments went wrong, I still loved him enough to go after him.” She shot Walker a sad smile. “. . . I didn’t want him to die alone. I didn’t want him to think . . . I don’t know. That we didn’t love him. But it exploded before I reached him, and, well,” She briefly allowed herself to try and phase through the couch for a second, before bringing herself together again. “. . . I changed, they died.

“But, even now, when I think of him . . . I just remember that he tried, as daft as that sounds. That, in his own way, he loved us, even at the end.”

“Starr, I’m sorry . . . ,” He began but she shook her head.

“It’s done, Walker. I can’t change it. I miss them and I love them, but I can’t fix it.” She sighed. “What do you want, Walker? Forget the moron, forget about finding the right answer, and just . . . think about it.” She raised her fingers, slowly cocked an imaginary pistol, and pointed it at him. “Gun to your head: do you want to be back with her?”

Walker gave her a serious look, and for the life of her, she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. She assumed yes, what fool wouldn’t want his life back? But then, maybe there was more to this than he was saying, too. Still, all she could do was hold steady, even if part of her was regretting taking the gun metaphor too literally—she was tired, but she’d be damned if she let her hand lower even a millimeter before he answered.

“You uh, you forgot to turn the safety off,” Walker muttered. She just blinked.

“Are you fucking joking?”

“No, you just,” He mimicked her cocking the fake gun and pointed at her, his fingers an inch away from her face. “Gun to your head, when’d you turn off the safety?”

“You are such—I know how to shoot a bloody gun.” She glowered. “You literally saw me shoot a person who was trying to kill you, if you recall—you’re welcome, by the way.”

“Right? After all that, you’d think you wouldn’t be so sloppy,” A soft grin broke across his face.

“It was a fucking metaphor, you brat,” She rolled her eyes but kept her aim steady. “Don’t make me shoot you for real.”

He raised his free hand in surrender as he lowered his imaginary gun and mimicked holstering it. Despite herself, a snicker escaped her lips, which only made the insufferable idiot grin wider. This man was ridiculous, and sometimes it was even on purpose. Was this more like the Walker Olivia had known, or had his sense of humour just gotten as fucked up as his life had?

“Now are you going to stop acting like a child and answer the question?” She demanded; she made a show of turning the imaginary safety off and pushed the imaginary barrel of her imaginary pistol even closer to his grinning face. “Ignoring everyone else’s opinion, what do you want?”

Though Walker kept his hands up in mock surrender, the grin faded as he seriously considered the question. Or at least she hoped he was being serious about it; she wasn’t kidding about shooting him. Finally, he slowly nodded, “I . . . I’d like my family back. I’d like to be in my son’s life. I’d like to be . . . someone Olivia can be proud of, again.”

Ava nodded solemnly and withdrew her imaginary pistol, clicked the imaginary safety back on, and holstered it in the imaginary holster on her thigh. Walker chuckled at the performance and she smiled softly. “Was that so difficult?”

“Believe it or not,” Walker groaned as he leaned back into the couch. “Yes.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think that’s a good goal.” Ava leaned back and curled her legs beneath her. The day was really catching up with her.

“Yeah?” Came the tired reply. Not for the first time, Ava realized how fake his overconfidence was. The man sought validation more than he admitted, whether it was about his headgear or about this. Not enough to be annoying, but humanizing, nevertheless.

“Yeah.” She looked up at the ceiling. How long would it take for her to feel at home here, under it? “You’ll get there.”

“Thanks . . . Ava,” He mumbled; clearly the exhaustion was catching up to him, too.

“. . . You’re welcome.” She could feel her eyes beginning to drift closed as well, and she tried to resist—really, she did. In the back of her fading mind, she remembered she had to prepare her hair. She remembered she needed to clean off the mess of makeup they had caked on. She remembered that she should get out of the bloody dress.

And yet, the last thought that crossed her mind before sleep took her?

She liked how he said her name.

Chapter Text

Ava always had a love-hate relationship with mornings.

On the one hand: it was always a pleasant surprise that she hadn’t dissipated during the night and lived to fight another day.

On the other: resurfacing from sleep was a process, and morning people, whether they were S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists or Bill Foster, refused to respect that process.

Morning people were truly some of the least empathic people she had ever met.

Bar none.

ssssssssssslllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppp

Case in point: whichever of the jackasses she lived with that decided to savour every. Single. Fucking. Molecule of their coffee as loudly as possible.

ssssssssssslllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppp

Deep down in the dim recesses of her brain, she knew being a jackass was the point. She knew that they were trying to goad her awake. Piss her off enough that her brain would just flip all the lights on and force her up in order to exact vengeance.

ssssssssssslllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppp

Fuck them. She wasn’t giving them the satisfaction. Wordlessly, she tried to wriggle closer into the cushions and tightened her grip on the blanket.

ssssssssssslllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppp . . . .SMACK, SMACK

Was that smeg-head actually smacking his lips? No, surely not.

ssssssssssslllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppp . . . .SMACK, SMACK, SMACK

She had to respect his commitment to the bit. She’d make sure to express that appreciation when she was murdering him and everything he loved. Which, given this evil, was probably nothing.

Yes, she would murder the very concept of nothing.

That’d show the prick.

ssssssssssslllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppp . . . .SMACK, SMAAAAAAACK, SMACK

The question was, which was it? Bob? No, the sweet boy wouldn’t have the bullocks. Alexei? The man was just naturally loud: he’d never resort to this passive aggressive bullshit. He barely knew the meaning of the word.

No, that only left . . .

ssssssssssslllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrr—

“ARE YOU QUITE DONE?” Ava sat up, blanket firmly in hand, and opened her eyes, angrily blinking away the morning sunshine, only to see . . . Bucky? She closed her eyes and shook her head groggily. Surely the Winter Soldier of all people wouldn’t be so immature. But when her eyes opened, there he was, still there, sitting leisurely on the couch, his feet resting on the coffee table, holding a steaming mug in his weird cyborg hand. He was dressed in his usual morning attire of a moisture wicking top and tight exercise trousers: whether from his military or Hydra days, the man took his morning fitness seriously. He had his hair gathered into loose ponytail, his 5 o’clock shadow on display, and while he would rarely stoop to Walker’s shite-eating grin, his lips were very much in an amused smirk as he looked up from his tablet.

“Morning.” He took another, much quieter sip. “Late night?”

“Fuck off,” Ava groaned as she flopped back onto the cushions and put a pillow over her face.

“Didn’t see you at warmup. Figured I’d come check on you.” There was a slight teasing tone in his voice; while he was hardly the most emotive man, he definitely had a more expressive range than she had been led to believe.

“Can’t you just die in another train accident and leave me alone?” She muttered.

“Probably. But I’ve already died three times now. Don’t see the fourth time being the one to stick. I’m lucky like that.” She didn’t need to open her eyes to know Bucky did that nonchalant shrug of his. The man somehow even made himself impervious to bullying. It was unfair.

“. . . Fine.” She reluctantly took the pillow off her face. Now more awake, she noted that there wasn’t a trace of makeup on it and her skin felt substantially less gross. “Did you clean my face while I was sleeping?”

Bucky blinked and cocked an eyebrow. “No . . . why?” She sighed. She can’t even complain, since she barely had any idea of how makeup worked either, having never really used the stuff. It didn’t really come up when she had spent most of her time wearing a suffocating helmet that covered her entire face or being in a cell. Besides, the only people who saw her were scientists and people she had to kill, so there wasn’t much point. And Bill Foster had been an incredibly knowledgeable man, but that was a little out of his area of expertise. As it was, having him nervously explain the “facts of life” to her had been painful enough for both of them.

Maybe Yelena had seen her slumped over and helped her? That would explain the blanket, but Ava was still annoyed that she fell asleep out in the open like that. She knew she was safe, but her instincts still felt on edge, regardless.

“. . . Nothing.” She shrugged but wrapped the blanket around her bare shoulders like a shawl. She couldn’t overstate how much she hated feeling the open air on her exposed skin. “Did everyone else make it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky took another sip as he scrolled. “Think Alexei and John are still sparring; I guess he still was frustrated about last night and needed to punch something.”

“Alexei is good at that.” For an older man, he seemed to be surprisingly capable, when he wanted. Enthusiastic, sure, but he took training seriously and she was glad that he was more than willing to keep Walker busy. Hopefully that’d avoid him stewing on the mess for too long.

“How’d the talk go?” Bucky asked.

She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t his Walker asset and that if he wanted to know to just ask the man himself, but instead, she just sighed and leaned back into the couch. “Obviously he wasn’t thrilled.”

“Obviously.” Bucky nodded; from anyone else, it would have sounded sarcastic.

“He feels guilty.” She didn’t elaborate; the petty side of her was morbidly curious how long it’d take him to lose his patience with playing 20 questions, but much to her chagrin, he still seemed unphased.

“About anything in particular or in general?”

“Both.”

Bucky hummed into his mug. “. . . He shouldn’t.”

“I told him. He disagreed. Repeatedly.”

“Well, you tried.” Bucky shrugged again and looked back at his tablet. “Appreciate it.”

She blinked. “Do you think that’s all he said?”

“Did he say anything else?” Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Ava rolled her eyes. “That’s for you to ask him about.”

“Okay, I will.” He nodded at her and leaned back against the couch. With a flick of his wrist, he returned to scrolling and pretending she wasn’t sitting there. Ava glared at him. She knew exactly what he was doing: the bastard had turned her own strategy against her, and damn his greasy hair, it was working. She wanted to throw the details into his smug face, but as much as her pride and chagrin demanded it, she found herself surprisingly reluctant to do it. Maybe she was still tired, maybe it was just that Walker had looked so damn sad about the type of supporters who had projected onto him, but either way, she figured Bucky didn’t need to know about that. Not right now. But she had to give him something, if only to prove she had been able to.

“. . . He reached out to his ex.” Or was that current, since they weren’t divorced? It seemed to be a gray area, but given Olivia had currently blocked him from her life, it did seem like “ex” was more fitting label, at least with Walker out of earshot. “To apologize. She told him not to contact her and leave it to the lawyers for now. Apparently she watched the show and liked what he said, but he was ‘too confusing’—” Ava added air quotes and rolled her eyes; it still sounded like a twat excuse to her, but then, few would describe her as the most empathetic of their merry band. “—or something, and he seemed pretty upset.”

“Fair enough.”

She was torn: she wanted to mention Walker’s decision, his goal of getting his family’s trust back, but even to her, that felt like something better to come from the git in question. The only reason she had even shared the Olivia text (well, besides showing off that she could) was that it seemed the most likely to come up, either with the lawyers they may or may not have—she had forgotten to ask, and was reluctant to, now—or the media, if some of the fucking vultures found out.

“Do you think we’ll need to deal with it?”

Bucky gave a tired sigh. “. . . Probably. If only for optics. I doubt they’ll let it go, so we may have to get ahead of it, before they make their own conclusions.” He shrugged. “Probably why Mel called a meeting about it this afternoon.”

Ava groaned and hit the back of her head against the couch. “Do we have to be there?”

“Why, got somewhere else to be?”

“Oh, ha ha, Barnes.” Ava rolled her eyes. “It’s saying shit like that that got you into this problem to begin with.”

“Seems like it got me out of it, too, if I recall,” He sipped again. “Let’s just hear her out.”

Fuck this guy. But before she could tell him as much, her stomach growled and she grimaced. That’s right, she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before; they hadn’t had time before the show, and while she was used to going without, she had to admit that the past two weeks of scheduled meals had begun to become a habit. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, especially if (or more likely when) this whole thing got bullocksed-up and she’d have to return to life on the run.

Maybe it would be better to not have experienced this respite, after all. Not if it would just remind her of the things she couldn’t have, once it was inevitably gone.

Bucky glanced over at her and she just crossed her arms and shot him a defiant look, daring him to comment. Unfortunately, he wasn’t like Bob or Alexei—a glare would scare them off. Walker or Yelena? They would just roll their eyes and drop it. But Bucky just stared right back at her as if she weren’t doing anything and sighed wearily. “Come on,” He said as he slowly got to his feet and tucked his tablet under his arm as if it were a newspaper. “I think there may still be some eggs leftover.”

Ava watched as he walked away without so much of a backward glance. Was he that confident that she’d just follow along? The presumptiveness chafed and she contemplated just staying there, if only to show him that she wouldn’t just let him tell her what to do. She damn well knew where the damn kitchen was and she’d eat if she damn well pleased, thank you very much.

If she wanted people telling when and what to eat, she’d have stayed in the lab.

“Walker made the eggs,” Bucky casually called over his shoulder as he reached the lift. “Added some turmeric or something. Dunno know what, but whatever it was, really was something.”

Ava groaned irritably, but fortunately, the elevator doors’ ding eclipsed it. Living and working with Walker could be frustrating at the best of times—sure, they were friends, but that didn’t mean she appreciated him blaring Dave Matthews and Mumford & Sons while airdrying his laundry in the fucking hallway like some college freshman—but as much as she hated to admit it, the man knew his way around a kitchen and it would make him insufferable if he wasn’t easily the best cook she had ever had the misfortune of meeting.

Perhaps it wasn’t exactly a fair contest: easy to be the best when the rest of the contestants barely had idea of what game they were playing. She had never learned to cook (hard to really have much opportunity to do so, growing up as lab experiment or a fugitive), Bucky and Alexei’s definition of fine dining was takeaway instead of the usual microwaved or canned food, and Bob was more familiar with cooking of a . . . different sort. Only Yelena, with her Widow training, had any experience of what to do, but being able to and wanting to are two very different things, it seemed.

When Walker had found out, he had had such a fit. Ava almost chuckled, despite her annoyance. The first morning after their move-in, he had walked into the kitchen, only to find Yelena and Alexei just sipping beers (for their daily grain intake and staying hydrated, they said), Bob munching on a burned pop tart, Bucky partaking in the saddest piece of toast she had ever seen, and she . . . well, she hadn’t even tried; she had just been eyeing Bob’s other, less-burned pop tart and biding her time to steal it. At first, he had just stared at them and shrugged, as if it didn’t bother him at all, and wordlessly began to fry an egg and prepare some vegetables to sautee while they just stared at him in shock, which only pissed him off more.

“The fuck’s y’all’s problem?” He had glared as he gutted the bell peppers that Ava hadn’t even known they had had in stock.

“Nothing,” Ava had said quickly as she successfully snagged the distracted Bob’s remaining pop tart. “Just didn’t know you knew how to do that.”

“Why,” Walker had snapped as he focused on adjusting the egg, “because I’m separated?”

“I mean, kinda, yeah? Bit off-brand, innit?”

The rant that followed was impressive, she’ll admit, even if she had tuned it out. There was just something about seeing that little vein above his eye get all tense that amused her. Of course, whatever he had said during it, by the time she had started paying attention again, he had been angrily shoving a plate of scrambled eggs, bell pepper, and toast in front of her, after already slamming identical meals in front of the others. Since then, he had forced everyone to have to learn how to cook one meal each and they just rotated. They weren’t eating the equivalent of divorced parent cigarette butts anymore, but the days it was Walker’s turn to cook were everyone’s favorite.

Not that they’d ever admit that to his face.

“. . . Fine,” She muttered as she reluctantly got to her feet and walked to the lift, adjusting her hair and dress while she went, but she kept the blanket shawl on. Bucky was wise enough not to comment; he just held the door open and patiently waited for her to board, as if it had been inevitable.

A short, silent ride later, she and Bucky stepped out onto their floor. From what she could tell, it had been designed to be the actual housing space for the former Avengers, with a full kitchen, island with barstools that flowed directly to a dining area to their left, and immediately to their right sat another living room with a couch, centered around a large widescreen TV—sure, the equipment on the floor was out of date, but it was Stark tech: built to last and even if not fashionable, it was higher quality than any she had ever had access to, so who cared?

Between the dining table and the couch was a hall that led to the flats; spacious by New York standards, each had its own full bath, bedroom, and mid-sized living area for them to customize how they saw fit. Not that any of them had much: whatever possessions she had stolen had been long since pawned, most of Walker’s possessions were in a depressing storage unit back in Georgia, and Bucky was a minimalist though she didn’t know if that was because he chose to do so or because he always seemed like he had a foot out the door. She liked him well enough, but he hadn’t been in the Vault with them, and unlike Alexei, he had no attachment to any of them, beyond what Val had socially pressured him into, so part of her was suspicious that one day he’d just disappear from this failed experiment.

She did at least clock that he had set up a bookshelf some musty-smelling old sci-fi paperbacks, their pulp pages long faded yellow. Some nights, when he wasn’t reluctantly flipping through some packet from Congressman Gary, she’d see him sitting in the common room, flipping through some Edgar Rice Burrough novel, a melancholic look on his face. While he didn’t seem to have the same “man out of time” thing that Steve Rogers was often described as being, it seems that he was still sentimental, in his own way. It was almost sweet, in a way, if not surreal, especially when he and Walker would talk books in front of her. Whenever it did happen, she’d wish that she had moved up above the lounge area with Yelena and them, but quickly return to her senses: whatever co-dependent surrogate family nonsense would only be even more sickeningly sentimental.

Sometimes, it’s better to stick to the nerdy devils you know.

To her surprise, Bob was sitting at their dining table, his phone resting on the table, headphones on and a furrowed look on his brow, as he was scribbling in a notebook determinedly. A half-eaten piece of toast and empty glass sat to the side. It was odd to see him up before her, much less so engaged, even though he still seemed to be in his pajamas. Between him and Bucky, she was quickly feeling overdressed in her own home.

God, she couldn’t wait to be out of the damn thing and back into her normal comfy sweats.

“Mornin’, Bob,” Bucky said. Startled, Bob jumped in his seat (Ava was relieved his glass was empty) and glanced their way as he took out an earbud. “Any breakfast left?”

“Uh, yeah . . . I mean, yes,” He stuttered. “Walker left some. But I put it in the fridge. Didn’t think anyone else was . . . Sorry, I should have asked first.” He shot Ava an apologetic look that she could only describe as puppy-like. She smiled and waved off his apology.

“All good, Bob, nothing a microwave can’t solve,” Bucky replied calmly as he made his way behind the island. “Appreciate you cleaning up. How are the messages coming along?”

“Oh,” Bob blinked at the pivot but nodded firmly, a more dutiful look crossing his face. “They’re going fine; I’m about halfway through yesterday’s batch.”

“Great work,” Bucky said as he unwrapped the tinfoil-covered plate. Ava seated herself at the island and tried to look bored. It helped that she was, but she was still mildly curious about what messages they were talking about. “Anything interesting so far?”

“It uh, it seems a lot of people liked what you said last night.” Bob flipped through his notebook. “Mr. Edward Brubaker on DeKalb Avenue apparently wants you to run again. So does a Mr. Simon at 555 Vanderbilt Avenue and a bunch of others. Ms. Wilson apparently wanted you to punch out the ‘the smug sonofabitch with your metal commie hand.’”

Bucky snorted. “Anything else?”

“Mr. Kirby of 2425 Pennsylvania Avenue wanted to let you know he thinks you should vote for some public school finance bill he didn’t say the name of, but Ms. Miller said you shouldn’t because it’ll affect some property tax,” Bob shot Bucky a hapless look. “. . . It got a little confusing. They talked for a long time. They both want a follow-up, though.”

“Honestly, the bills confuse me too, but I get the idea,” Bucky shot him a reassuring half-smile. “Did anyone from a Congresswoman Jack Monroe’s office reach out?”

Bob’s eyes widened and he flipped the notebook page as he scanned his notes. “Ah, yes, looks like Steve from her office called; apparently she’s offering a, uh . . . ‘1.5% budget increase for New York in a public transportation bill’ if you call for the state to do some hearings on an auction system for a . . . ,” he squinted at his writing. “. . . on New York’s ‘proposed cap and invest’ program. I think.”

Ava yawned as the microwave dinged. This was significantly less interesting than she had hoped it would be. Judging by the slightly vacant expression on Bucky’s face, he wasn’t exactly enthused either. He bought himself time to reply by searching for bread to make some toast, but sadly for him, after Walker had reorganized the kitchen, the bread was within easy reach. Bob just stared at Bucky expectantly while the former Winter Soldier let out a heavy sigh.

“Okay Bob, this afternoon, I’m going to need you to call Steve back, and tell him I said to eat shit unless they go to 3%, okay?”

Bob blinked but nodded, a resigned smile fixed on his face as he scribbled a note to himself. “. . . I’m sure he’ll respond kindly to that.”

“It’ll be okay, Bob,” Bucky set the reheated plate just out of Ava’s reach, and she couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or if he was just not paying attention. Either way, she stuck her tongue out at him when he wasn’t looking. “They’re expecting it. If anything, they’ll be confused if you don’t say it.”

“. . . That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You and me both, Bob, you and me both.” Bucky snagged the toast and shoved the plate closer to Ava. Still too little, too late, but better than nothing, as she greedily grabbed it. As cynical as she was about this whole thing being sustainable, she was going to eat while the eating was good, at least today. The smell of the eggs was too tempting.

Damn Walker; he was going to get her used to this “eating three meals a day” nonsense and worse, he was going to be insufferable about it.

“That should be enough for now, Bob.” Bucky leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “Take a break and if there are any others, we’ll go over them later. Unless there was anything else?”

“Ah, I think there was one more,” Bob said as he scanned his notebook. “A Ms. Cunn Leengus from . . . 6969 Rocksteady Drive apparently wanted to schedule an appointment to . . . .” He flushed and quickly shut the notebook with a resounding clap and Ava choked on her toast. “. . . You know what, on a second look, I don’t think that was a serious message.”

“. . . Probably not.” Bucky shot what he must have thought was a sympathetic smile; it was hard to tell through her tears as she tried to dislodge the bread. “Still have to log it, but yeah, probably won’t be seeing ‘Ms. Leengus’ on the voter rolls next year.”

Bob chuckled to cover his embarrassment as he gathered up his things. “Yeah, it . . . it seems pretty obvious, when you look at it. I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention.” He looked up with an apologetic smile, as if he were attempting to disarm the situation.

“Bob, it’s okay, these things tend to flow together after a while. Besides, there are . . . weirder names. Best to not assume, yeah?”

“. . . Right.” Bob nodded to them both as he walked over to the lift. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Thank you, Bob; you’re being a big help.” Ava took a deep breath, relieved at the rush of fresh air that filled her lungs: crisis averted. As colour began to return to the world, she dimly wondered where Bob was wandering off to; presumably to track down Yelena, or maybe to check on Alexei, but apparently he had a whole separate side gig job as Bucky’s assistant or something, so what did she know?

“So,” she said as she raised the last forkful to her mouth; Bucky had been right, whatever Walker had done to the eggs this morning was making them sit nicely and she felt the unfamiliar sensation of being full. It was still a weird concept, but not an unpleasant one, too. “how long as Bob been working for you? You’ve known the man, what, a week?”

Bucky’s arms stayed crossed as he shrugged his shoulders. “Weirder things have happened.” Ava just glared at him, which made him sigh. “A few days; it took a second for the paperwork to get through.”

“. . . Are you waiting for me to ask why, or were you getting to that?”

“During a meeting with Mel, Yelena and she asked me to take him on, while they rebuilt his past on paper. Help him feel useful and busy, since he’s not exactly field ready; and even if he was, he’d be a panic attack away from some conspiracy theorist tying him to the attack and bringing us all down. Given his . . . mood swings, if he doesn’t get to it right away, the voicemails aren’t going anywhere. He can go at his own pace, I don’t have to listen to them, and everyone wins.”

Ava was morbidly impressed with the reasoning, even if she found it a tad manipulative. Then again, if it kept the void at bay and them alive, she found “well-intended” manipulation the far more preferable option. “Fair enough.”

“It’s better than a dancing chicken mascot, at least. Gives him a life outside of us.” He shot Ava a glance. “Something you should consider, honestly. Getting a life outside of this tower.”

Had he been Walker, she would have assumed he was making fun of her. “You should lead by example, oh mighty leader.”

Bucky snorted. “. . . Touche.” He straightened up and began to walk towards his room. “Get cleaned up, get some rest. Meeting’s upstairs at 16:00.” He looked back at her. “Be there.”

She sighed and waved dismissively, her other hand still keeping her improvised shawl in place. “With bells on.”

Bucky didn’t even grunt to acknowledge her as he shut his door behind him; and just like that, she was blissfully alone again. While she hardly longed for the desperation and loneliness of the Blip years, she was more than happy to get some time to herself to just exist. What to do with that time was another matter entirely. What did she like to do? Hobbies hadn’t exactly been encouraged in the lab, much less when you were fleeing from the FBI and former S.H.I.E.L.D. rent-a-henchmen and raised by a grumpy science nerd. And her friends, as much as she had come to appreciate them, didn’t really have any themselves: sure, Alexei had his Red Guardian collection, but that somehow seemed sadder than not having one to begin with. Yelena’s had been drinking and mac n’cheese, but it seems that sometimes pet care managed to sneak into the mix. Walker’s was apparently cooking, which suited her fine, since she wasn’t at all tempted to try and pick up the ladle for herself.

Where did that leave her? Did she even like anything? Or was that just something else fate had denied her?

As if summoned by her souring mood, the lift doors dinged open and John F. Walker emerged, drenched in sweat and his hair askew. Decked in a sleeveless muscle shirt and sweatpants, he had his elbow and wrist compression sleeves on, which looked ridiculous, but every time she pointed out that face, he’d just pretend she hadn’t said anything. More important, he had his earbuds in and was mouthing along to the lyrics while he danced onto the floor, blissfully unaware of the mocking ammunition he had so kindly offered her. It seemed someonewas in surprisingly high spirits.

Let’s fix that.

She crumbled up a napkin into a tight ball and lined up her shot, but she held her fire: the right opportunity would come along, and she’d be ready. Sure enough, lost in his music and his subtle dance—if that’s what his shifting his weight was intended to be—, he didn’t notice her sitting there, just off to the side of the room and away from the main walking space. She dimly wondered what he was listening to that captured his attention that much. She hadn’t really given music too much consideration—sure, American R & B had been popular when she as a child, and even boy bands like Backstreet Boys and West Life brought back a nostalgic smile to her face every once in a while, but it had been long enough that she wasn’t sure how’d she feel, listening to them as she was now.

Maybe there was something to just leaving the good things a memory: they couldn’t disappoint you that way.

She waited until he had walked past her, as his mouthing lyrics turned to a whistling interlude to strike. One eye closed, she subtly adjusted her aim: she had one shot at this, and the window was closing fast. A quick, controlled breath and a rapid flick of her index finger, she watched as the ball soared through the air, before hitting the back of Walker’s head with an accuracy that would do Hawkeye proud.

The reaction was instantly worthwhile. Walker’s eyes shot open and he honest to God yelped. There was something fun about fucking with him. She simply liked it. Especially when he got that tired, resigned stare after he had accepted he had been had.

Maybe that was her hobby.

There were weirder.

Walker just sighed and shot her that tired glare. “. . . Why?”

She gave a hapless shrug and didn’t bother replying. He knew damn well why.

As Bill Foster would say, why did people climb Everest?

He rolled his eyes and flipped her off as he trudged back to his room.

The day wasn’t off to a bad start, it seemed.

—

The briefing room was still a work in progress, Mel insisted and it was hard to disagree.

Apparently, Mel wanted to have a big rectangular room with computers and monitors lining the walls, glass windows to peer out at the city, a big automatic door with their Avengers “A” symbol at its center, and a wide lift that would open into the room, with couches and smart chairs ringing around the center of the room in some sort of Camelot “ring of equal partners” symbolism motif. Something that just said: the home of Earth’s mightiest heroes.

If there was one thing you could fault Mel for, it clearly wasn’t lack of ambition.

Ava was just happy the room finally had chairs. Last week, they had to all make due with folding chairs the construction crew had left lying around. None of their merry band were particular about comfort, but it would be nice to feel like the whole enterprise wasn’t being literally held together by shoestring and playing make-believe.

She crossed her legs and leaned back into her office chair with a sigh. While not technically necessary, she had decided to wear her usual ghost suit. Somehow, it just felt more professional and, in a weird way, comforting. While she and the others had come to terms with Mel’s actions, that didn’t mean that, in the cold light of day, that Ava would let her guard down around the other woman.

At the first sign of betrayal, she would be more than happy to rip her heart out.

“So, uh,” Mel began awkwardly. Clearly she also was still skeptical of them, but Bucky said they all had to play nice, so she persevered, though her eyes flicked nervously towards Bob, who sat awkwardly slumped in his chair, as if he wasn’t comfortable being there, either. Yelena clearly saw the exchange and, without breaking pointed eye-contact with Mel, casually rested a hand on Bob’s shoulder, which made him sit up straighter. “Uh, thank you all for coming today. I know it’s still early days yet, but I just wanted to say congratulations on the progress so far. This isn’t an ideal situation for anyone, but we’re making the best of it, and I’m happy to say that so far, people seem to like you, too.”

She tinkered with her tablet and the projector next to her cast a slide onto the wall behind her that seemed to have some sort of chart on it, but the font was too small for Ava to read. “Based on our research, over 25% of people have a positive impression of you, followed by 24% negative,” she gently coughed, “. . . and only 51% have no idea who you are or are just neutral.”

“. . . And that’s . . . good?” Bob asked gingerly.

“Believe it or not,” Mel nodded to Bob, but pointedly avoided meeting his gaze, “yes, that’s not bad these days—we’d rather of neutral than negative right now, especially with a group that has . . . your reputations: if people are neutral, that means we have room to move the needle and increase the positive impression, with more time and exposure.”

“Or it could get worse,” Walker muttered. Apparently he also felt like the meeting required wearing uniform. His freshly pressed U.S. Agent kit looked brand new, which, for all she knew, it may well have been. However, his ridiculous taco shield was still leaning against his chair within easy reach. She supposed it was better than nothing, but with Bob not remembering and no one else on the team seemingly strong enough to bend it back, they really had to think about getting him a new one, before he hurt someone unintentionally. Or himself, more likely.

“I won’t lie, Mr. Walker,” Mel replied smoothly, “that is a distinct possibility, with this group’s tendency to . . . improvise. Long story short, the ones that like you think you’re different in a positive way—more down-to-earth, more street-level than the previous Avengers. They’re sympathetic with your stories and are pulling for you: they see you as relatable. The ones that don’t like you dislike you for the similar reasons: they think your powers are too similar, that you can’t handle bigger threats or center stage, and that you’re . . . charitably, we’ll say unreliable, given your previous . . . ‘lines of work’ and ‘temperament.’”

Ava glowered, but she couldn’t exactly refute the points either, which only irritated her further.

The air quotes that Mel was adding felt unnecessary.

“And last night?” Yelena asked, her hand still on Bob’s shoulder. “How did that . . . how did it move the . . . .” She paused, reaching for the word.

“Needle?” Bob offered. Yelena snapped her fingers and nodded.

“Yes! The needle.” She looked back at Mel. “Well? Did it help or hurt us?”

Mel and Bucky shared a look, which told Ava that they had already discussed it, but for courtesy, he was still there, either as support or to pretend he was hearing all this for the first time. She wasn’t sure if she cared or not, but somehow, it felt like both: she was annoyed at feeling like she was some school kid sitting with the teacher and the headmaster, but she also didn’t care enough to make a big deal about it. For now.

“For the most part, it helped,” Mel said carefully, and Ava already prepared herself for the inevitable “but. . .” that seemed to stalk every bit of good news they’ve gotten so far. “It helped that the interviewer came off like an asshole, and you handled it well—everyone online and in the focus group responded positively to how you acted. Mr. Shostakov, you especially made a splash—you came across like you liked them and they liked you back. Keep it up!”

Alexei smiled and for once, he actually looked slightly more bashful than brash. Bob reached over and offered a high five, which he gladly reciprocated, the bashful smile giving way to his more familiar grin. “As for you, Yelena and . . . Ms. Starr, for your first public-facing interview, you both did a great job; the audiences seemed to think you may have come across as a little stiff, but you were sympathetic and pushed back against him, which got you high marks. Again, I’m just so sorry you all had to be put on the spot.” The ashamed look on her face seemed genuine, which was a pleasant surprise. “You handled it as well as you could. Thank you."

“And me?” Walker chimed in, a trace of bitterness in his tone. “I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

“Well, Mr. Walker—a”

“Don’t call me that,” He scowled.

“Okay, Captain Walker,” Mel rolled her eyes, “You . . . definitely left an impression.” Walker sardonically smiled as he shook his head. Mel looked down at her tablet and sighed. “Your public image is . . . complicated. Probably the most out of the team.”

“No shit, Sherlock; is water wet, too?”

“Don’t be an ass, Walker,” Ava sighed. He shot her glare, but turned his gaze back to Mel.

“Walker, I work for Val de Fontaine,” Mel deadpanned. “I survived D.C. Literally nothing your peanut brain can come up could hurt me. So please let me finish, before you continue your self-pity party for one, okay?”

Walker’s scowl deepened, but he crossed his arms and slumped into his seat. Close enough to pacified.

“Thank you,” Mel nodded. “As I was saying, your image is complicated—the host was an asshat, but he wasn’t wrong about your base of support. Research-wise, you polled best with conservative white men, particularly young adult and gen X, but with single men in general, you had a niche. Unfortunately, between them and you . . . just being yourself, you’ve turned off a lot of the other possible areas of support you may have.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Walker snapped. “I didn’t get into this to be popular. People hating me doesn’t stop me from saving their ungrateful asses.”

“It does, though,” Mel shook her head, not unsympathetically. “The government may be acknowledging you and this team as Avengers, but without the people’s support, that’s only going to last so long, and as the team’s manager and as someone you helped, I’m not going to let you drag whatever little credibility this team has down just because you’re a stubborn ass. Do you understand that? My job is to save you from yourself, so let me do my job. Please.

Walker reluctantly nodded. Mel sighed.

“Look, I get that you’ve had it hard and honestly, I think deep down, you mean well, and that’s the part I’m talking to right now, okay?” Another nod. The feeling that they were being lectured by a teacher only set in further, but Ava didn’t particularly mind. Walker needed any dressing down he could get, and if it took any potential ire of herself, then cheers. “So yes, you were mostly popular with the type of people who would be brand poison . . . but that’s been changing.”

“What?” Walker’s arms uncrossed while Bucky nodded slowly.

Mel tabbed quickly on her tablet and another slide came on, this time with an embedded video. A click later and the clip began to play; it appeared to be shaky cam footage of Walker rushing people into buildings during the Void attack. Another click and a new video started playing with a vaguely familiar-looking middle-aged woman emotionally recalling how Walker had thrown himself under a falling slab of concrete to bide time for her to escape—how he had selflessly saved her life.

Ava blinked. She remembered that moment, but honestly, she hadn’t really been paying attention to the how or the why the situation had happened. She had just seen that Walker needed help and, stupidly, rushed to help the idiot. Based on the surprised expressions on the others’ faces (well, except Bucky), the others were having similar thoughts.

So that’s what he had been up to.

She glanced at Walker, whose face was neutral, though his eyes were slightly widened, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe the kind things the viewers were saying.

“Thanks to your actions during the fight, people are beginning to remember the more heroic side of John Walker, if only a bit; it’s got people remembering why they may have picked you as Cap to begin with. If we keep it up and play our cards right, we may be able to get you back to that place, or at least closer to it.” Walker slowly nodded, his face still carefully neutral, but Ava could swear she saw a slight tremble in his hands. Whether because he was moved or because he was frustrated for some reason, she couldn’t say.

“And then there’s last night . . . .” Mel’s fingers danced across the tablet’s screen and the projector moved onto the next slide: it was riddled with embedded videos and screenshots of social media reactions to the show. Hashtags like “WalkerDefenseSquad,” “IStandwithWalker,” “GrowTheFUP,” “I’llTakeThatWithWalk,” “ToHellWithIncels,” “LoveAMr.Independent,” and “DoItYourself” were listed as trending, and numerous people, men and women, young and old (all of whom seem to be sitting in cars for some reason) were talking about Walker’s rant and voicing support for him standing up to James Something, and for calling out toxic masculinity. “Thanks to your speech, a lot of groups who wrote you off are seeing you in a new light, Captain Walker. And with it, there may be a new way for these New Avengers to add more legitimacy to our name, if we can keep this good will going. Find a way to take you from being seen as ‘right-wing divorced dad’ to a ‘daddy,’ if you get what I mean.”

“. . . What the actual fuck is that supposed to mean?” Walker asked, his voice dry.

“Basically, we want people to worry less about being crushed under your boot to wishing they were being crushed between your thighs.” Mel had a grin on; at least she was having fun. To Ava, it sounded like the liaison was having a stroke, and judging by the confused and horrified expressions of their teammates, most everyone else was just as in the dark as she was.

Except Alexei, for some fucking reason. He was just nodding knowingly, as if he understood what she was on about.

“This was not what we talked about,” Bucky groaned into his hands. “Mel, what the hell?”

“I’m sorry, Bucky, but there is a real opportunity here to sell people not only on Walker, but on this team. Not necessarily only in a sex appeal way, but we can’t disregard that side of things, either.” She shrugged, not even a degree of shame on her face. “You gotta feed the beast sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, and it likes to eat sexy.”

“And how exactly do you propose we do that?” Bucky tilted his head and crossed his arms, his usual dry skepticism on full display.

“Are you suggesting they do some kind of calendar shoot?” Bob asked, befuddled.

Mel tapped her chin, “Let’s not rule that out, but that feels more like a future idea, once we’ve earned more credibility, but I like where your head’s at, Mr. Reynol—Bob. Keep those ideas coming.”

Bob flushed, though his eyes darted towards Yelena and his flush deepened. Ah, well that confirmed Ava’s pet theory. Though, only someone as dense as Walker and (regarding herself, at least) Yelena could be blind to Bob’s crush on the widow. Still, always nice to have something concrete to throw in Walker’s face when gloating. She turned to smirk at the dense man in question, but when she did, the image of him doing some ridiculous pose in a speedo while attempting to be “smoldering” made her snort loudly, and everyone looked at her, confused.

“. . . I had to sneeze,” She said lamely. They wouldn’t get it. Fortunately, they seemed content to just move on.

“Have you driven on icy road?” Alexei asked suddenly. He was leaning forward his chair, his eyes light. Whatever he had in mind, he seemed excited about it.

“. . . No, can’t say I have,” Mel said, eyebrows raised skeptically. “Why?”

“It’s no problem, we can fix that.” Alexei waved dismissively. Ava and Walker shared a confused look; why the hell would anyone want to do that? “But on road, when wheels begin to slip—can’t grab road because of ice, driver may want to panic—take foot off gas and let car try to slow. Or worse, they turn away from slide: that only get you hurt. But you still need to reach home. But you can’t without slipping. What do you do?”

“Call you to drive me.” Mel deadpanned.

Alexei laughed heartily. “спасибо, but we talk business later. When on icy road and car slip, you do not let go, you do not slow down: you turn into slide. It rights car and you get home.”

He looked around the room, expectantly, only to shake his head at the blank stares. “Is good analogy.”

Yelena sighed. “Dad, I’m sure it’s good. Real meaningful. But for us, can you explain it more?”

“John is in change right now.” Alexei gestured to Walker. “His image is like car on icy road—is slipping in different direction than expected. To get home safe, he should turn into slide.” He paused, gauging everyone’s reactions. “John talked directly to the people last night. He was honest. And the people liked it—for he is good, if grumpy man. So he needs to talk to the people more, directly. More often. The more they see, the more they like. Bob, what are those people you watch on phone—blodders?”

“Bloggers or streamers,” Bob answered automatically, but he had a thoughtful expression on his face as he considered Alexei’s suggestion.

Alexei snapped his fingers and nodded, probably unintentionally mimicking his daughter. “Yes, steamers. Maybe John has show or video or thing, and the people see him and team there.” He glanced at Mel. “New Avengers are more ‘down to earth,’ correct? This very earthy.”

Ava’s first instinct was to refute the idea, but bit her tongue: partly because even she could tell the context wasn’t right for that, and also because deep down, part of her agreed with it. Speaking from experience, as insufferable as the man seemed on a first or even second impression, after that third or fourth one, you began to see the positives to him. Maybe hearing from him directly, instead of through clips online could really help other people appreciate the less shitty parts of him, too.

Mel was nodding slowly, tapping her lips in thought as she turned her gaze to Walker, who looked immensely uncomfortable.

“I’m not fucking doing that.” He stated firmly. He glared defiantly at them. “That’s a stupid idea.”

“I don’t know, Walker,” Yelena gave him an assessing glance, before looking to Bob, who nodded in agreement, “you may want to give it a shot. You may surprise yourself.”

“No, I’ll just make a fool of myself, and I don’t know about you, but that’s not exactly my idea of a good time.” He got to his feet, his arms crossed. “I’m not going to just volunteer for some bullshit blog and be a punchline. The fuck would I even talk about? Guns?”

“Maybe,” Ava shrugged. “You like them, no? Or you could talk about cooking or those books you and Bucky are always gossiping about. You know, things.”

Walker gave her an irritated look. “You’re in favor of this nonsense? Seriously?”

She was tempted to snap back, but she took a breath before replying. One of them had to be the mature one, and it looked like it was going to have to be her this week. Did he think she was just shooting smoke up his ass the night before? “Look Walker, you’re a self-sabotaging prick, no one is denying that, but when you get out of your own way for two minutes, you can be not awful to be around. We see it, those people in those videos see it, even Mel sees it. Maybe if more people get to see it, they will actually respect you.”

He blinked, his irritation giving way to a look that, had it been anyone else, Ava would have thought it was insecurity, but he looked away before she could get a clear view. “. . . No one would want to hear about any of those things.”

“Walker,” Bob said. “Come on, man: there’s a guy whose whole channel is him just talking about his coin collection. The guy has like 100,000 subscribers; sometimes it’s not what you talk about, but how you talk about it.”

“So it doesn’t matter what you talk about,” Yelena nodded, “it just matters that you’re the one saying it.”

Walker stiffened and he turned back to face them, the defiance firmly in place. “Like I said,” Walker said firmly. “No one would want to hear that.”

“Even if it’s just one person,” Mel said calmly. “One person tunes in, Captain Walker, that’s one more than you have now. And that person has friends, has family, they will talk about your content with. You don’t need the world, just one person can be enough to help you . . . lean into the slide?” She glanced over at Alexei, who nodded approvingly, a smile on his face. “We lose nothing by trying it, Walker.”

“Idiots, every one of you.” He shook his head and looked back at Ava, as if he hoped she’d disagree, but she just nodded and gave him a pointed look.

She wanted to say “Remember the goal,” but she didn’t want to air that out in front of everyone, so she instead just waggled her ring finger. He flinched all the same, though for once, it didn’t bring her any satisfaction. “It’s worth a try, Walker.”

He stared down at the ground, his hands instinctively touching his ring. After a few seconds of silence, he reluctantly nodded.

“. . . . One episode. That’s it.” He raised his gaze and looked firmly at Mel. “Is that acceptable to you?”

Mel smiled and nodded as she pulled out her phone and started texting, “Yes, that’s certainly a start. We’ll get to planning it right away.” The woman seemed genuinely happy about this and again, Ava was finding herself having to admit that perhaps she wasn’t trying to stab them in the back. Alexei looked mighty pleased with himself and was already beginning to spout off ideas to Walker about the episode topic, while Bob wandered over and had his phone out, ready with streamer examples. Bucky remained seated, but when Walker looked to him, a cry for help clearly in his eyes, the former Winter Soldier just shook his head and gave him a thumbs up. Walker’s glare at the betrayal was enough to make Ava smirk.

Who knew if this would work. But whether it did or not, she knew they would face it as a team.

It was a nice feeling.

Chapter Text

“Why am I here?” Ava asked, exhaustion spilling through every syllable. Yelena stared at her and shrugged.

“Like, existentially?” She asked. “Or literally?” Her tone was casual but it irked Ava nevertheless: the widow knew damn well what she meant. The two were standing in a store aisle, surrounded by more food items than Ava had ever seen in one place, but their large, friendly packaging somehow seemed offputting, especially under the soulless fluorescent lights beating down on them. Most people probably didn’t pay attention to the lights’ soft, ever-present hum, but to Ava, it made an ever-familiar soundtrack that took her back to the parts of her childhood she’d rather not dwell on. She just tugged at the hem of her hoodie and tried not to think of how naked she felt wearing something other than her suit. How Yelena just looked at ease in her leggings and zip up hoodie, she had no idea.

“As in, why the hell did you make me come along? This has nothing to do with me.” Ava found herself looking around them, eyeing the other customers, all of whom appeared to be ignoring them. There was just something about being around other people made her feel unsettled. As much as she had always wished she could just be out in the world, doing normal things without worrying about her body falling apart or being captured, now that she was actually doing it, she was finding it hard not to fill ill-at-ease. Exposed.

“And it has something to do with me?” Yelena raised an eyebrow before she returned to looking at the shelf, muttering something in what Ava assumed to be Russian as she attempted to read Walker’s handwriting from the crumpled paper in her hand. “I don’t care about this shit either, but it needs to be done. You want us to go hungry?”

“. . . Why didn’t we just order this stuff? It could be delivered.” She had seen Bob and Alexei do it enough times to know that much.

“Because I was bored and you were bored, so why not?” Yelena hummed, satisfied, as she found whatever it was she was looking for and plopped it gracelessly into the cart. “And we haven’t gotten to . . . you know, we haven’t gotten to hang out before. Do I need another reason?”

Going for the sentimental approach. That was unfair, but dammit, part of her felt pleased by the interest. She was going to have to work on shutting that down, but for now, she supposed it was probably best to play along, if only to get this over with sooner.

“I don’t really hang out with much of anyone,” She sighed. “Nothing against you.” Except that getting Yelena alone was surprisingly difficult: when she didn’t have Bob tailing her like a shadow, Alexei was looming, boisterously trying to make up for lost father-daughter time, or Mel had her pulled aside, trying to coordinate some initiative or another—but even Ava knew better than to say that aloud. Yelena had already called her a bad person. No reason to add petty to the list.

Well, except when they were making fun of Walker.

As frustrating as it seemed, having Walker around as a third wheel they could take the piss out of certainly had done more for their . . . could it be considered a friendship? Ava wasn’t sure, and she knew Yelena well enough by now to guess that she certainly had no idea either. But regardless, whatever their dynamic, Yelena made a fair point: they really hadn’t had much time for a one-on-one time together, and Ava was still unsure of what to say. She at least had learned enough to know she couldn’t (or at least shouldn’t) share the first thought that popped into her head—almost guaranteed to be come across as too sarcastic and she found herself wanting to actually try, even just a little.

Yelena just grunted as she pushed the cart down the aisle. “Any reason?” She glanced back at Ava. “For avoiding us?”

Ava fought the need to roll her eyes. Who was she, her mother? “I’m not “avoiding” anyone.” She shrugged. “After training and briefing, I just prefer being . . . I just need to be by myself for a bit. Is that such problem?”

The widow shrugged in that frustratingly casual way of hers—as if she knew it wasn’t a big deal, but somehow, the silence made you feel like it was. Like she was patiently waiting for you to fill the quiet while not openly disagreeing with you. Ava wondered if that was why Alexei never shut up—hard for Yelena’s tactics to work if there wasn’t any silence to begin with.

“Is it a problem?”

“I never said it was,” Yelena said, eyes firmly squinting on the list. “этот человек, he knows he can’t write for shit. We have phones, just text the list like normal people.” She shoved the paper into Ava’s hands. “Can you read this?”

Ava just raised an eyebrow skeptically, but uncrumpled the paper and squinted at it. “. . . That says ‘brown sugar.’ Not exactly uncommon.”

“‘Brown sugar’?” Yelena shook her head. “How the hell was I supposed to know that? What difference does it make?”

“Presumably a lot,” Ava held the note closer to her face. “He underlined it three times. One white sugar, one brown sugar.”

“That feels racist, somehow,” Yelena mused.

“ . . . How?”

“When he writes it, it does,” the widow amended and Ava snorted. There it was: even when he wasn’t around, Walker was making it easier to do small talk and she was grateful for it. Otherwise, she’d find herself at a complete blank. What did women her own age talk about? She hadn’t had female friends for most of her life and she was struggling to crack the code. She honestly only really had Hope to call back on, and that seemed . . . unhelpful, given how much of the time she had known here, she had spent trying to kill her, her loved ones, and steal from her father. Not exactly the best start to friendship. That said, the Pym-Lang clan did give her a starting point she supposed could work.

“How is your . . . family?” Ava immediately winced at the lame question.

Yet, Yelena tapped her chin thoughtfully as she considered it. “You’ve met my . . . father. You know of Natasha already. Not much else. One’s dead, the other one whined his way onto a superhero team, so you can guess which of them is happier.”

Ava immediately felt tempted to make a joke about it being the dead one, but that seemed in poor taste.

Progress.

Bill would be proud.

She took a quick breath, and nodded, conceding the point. “. . . Fair enough.” They walked in silence for a while as they worked their way down the list—with Ava acting as the translator, the process seemed to go quicker and Yelena seemed more relaxed. They may not have been speaking, but there was a companionable silence, not unlike the quiet hours spent with Bill as he drove them around the country back when she was on the run. What would he have thought of this whole New Avengers nonsense? She snorted quietly to herself.

He probably would have just laughed and something like “I knew you could do it,” the sentimental bastard.

“Ava, you in there?” Yelena asked, a trace of concern leaking into her carefully tailored “bored” tone.

Ava shook her head, as if shaking off a shiver. “Where else would I be?”

The widow shrugged again, “Your mind was somewhere else.” Another layered glance. “. . . Anywhere you’d want to talk about?” Sometimes, Yelena’s perceptiveness could be a real pain in the arse. Yet, when it came to Bill, Ava was hesitant to lie. It somehow felt like it was insulting to him

“. . . I was just thinking about my . . . ,” Ava hesitated. What was Bill Foster to her? The only adult that had given a fuck about her after her parents’ deaths? The lone, brave scientist who sacrificed his career to try and heal her condition, like some sort of reverse Dr. Frankenstein? Yet, at the moment, the only word she could find that tasted right on her tongue was “. . . my father.” At Yelena’s confused look, she elaborated. “The man who raised me after . . . well, I was just thinking about what he’d think, seeing us now.”

The admission may have tasted right, but it certainly made her ears curdle. How weak, that must have sounded. Yet, to her surprise, Yelena just gave her an understanding look.

“And what would he think?”

This bitch. Still, a small smile tugged at the corner of Ava’s lips. “. . . He’d be proud, I think.”

“Dads are like that, I guess.” Yelena shrugged. “Well, my dad is.”

“Yeah? He was there when it happened.” Ava said.

“Not then, before when . . . .” Now it was Yelena’s turn to hesitate as she gave Ava an assessing look, clearly weighing whether to tell her or not. Judging by the way she winced, Ava could guess that she had granted permission to the disclosure. “when my sister and I broke him out of jail. First time we had seen him since we were barely children and he was so . . . impressed with us. Proud.” The words seemed to taste bitter on her tongue, judging by the look on her face. The idea that Alexei had been in jail was hardly a surprise, somehow, but by the tone, despite how close they had seemed, there was clearly more to the story. She’d have to tread carefully, but it was hard, both because of her curiosity and because she wasn’t truly confident she knew what was socially expected to say in this sort of situation.

“He does seem pretty proud of you,” Ava finally settled on. It had been a surreal thing, watching the two bicker in the car. The clear affection under the words, the teasing and reminiscing . . . could her father have been like that, had Pym not blacklisted him and the accident not taken him from her? Would he have wailed the way Alexei had, when he had thought Yelena had died? She didn’t know if it hurt to even consider it or not. “He must have been happy to be there with you.”

Yelena scoffed, but nodded. “He was and I was, honestly, but . . .” She shot Ava an assessing glance; Ava tried to remain still while the assessment occurred. Whatever the widow had seen, she must have passed, because even though Yelena looked away, she continued to mutter. Ava strained her ears to catch it. “When I was a kid . . . he was everything. He made me feel . . . he was my dad. I was so . . . Me and Natasha, we had both been young, but he and our mother . . . they raised me. Us. For a mission, but I was the only one that hadn’t known that’s all it was. Natasha, she had known, but me . . . . To me, they were my home. The only one I remember. They were my family, but when we had to stop playing house, when the job was done, they just . . . .” She waved a hand dismissively while blowing a raspberry. “Fucked off. Alexei and mot . . . Melina. And then Natasha for S.H.I.E.L.D. and a new family.”

Ava blinked. Well, she certainly hadn’t expected Yelena to share all of that. It was hard to square the ever-eager and sometimes-annoyingly-doting Alexei she had met with the man that Yelena was describing, but she knew enough not to comment on it.

“I’m glad he’s here. I am. I know . . . they had their reasons. I know that.” She gestured to her head. “This understands, but here?” Her hand drifted down to point at her heart and shrugged. “Maybe one day.”

“. . . Thanks for sharing.” Ava meant it, but it took every effort not to have it sound sarcastic. She didn’t feel comfortable hearing all that, but she didn’t want Yelena to not feel uncomfortable talking about it, either.

Yelena just nodded and raised her hood. “Yeah, well, I promised Bob I’d try not to shove down as deep.” She snorted. “It was a shit strategy, anyway.”

Ava snatched something off the shelf that seemed close enough to whatever Walker had scrawled on the list while she considered what to say next. Bob. None of the others really knew what to make of his and Yelena’s co-dependence thing they had going. It wasn’t obnoxious, per se, and if it made Yelena feel healthier, than maybe that wasn’t a bad thing—God knows they all needed it. She still hadn’t quite forgotten how it had stung when the widow had said she wasn’t a good person. Sure, she had been right, but it still hadn’t felt good, coming from her given that they were . . . well, not friends exactly, but something close enough to it. Still, they all were curious about whatever the two had going on. Was it a coping thing? A sex thing? A sponsor thing? Or was Yelena just doing it to keep the Sentry at bay?

“Only if you’re shit at it,” Ava said, feigning nonchalance. “Me, all the bad shit passes right through, so you know, no bodies stick around long enough to bury.”

Yelena snorted, “Ah yes, repression is a skill issue. Why didn’t I think of it?” A scoff but an appreciative half smile regardless. “That sounds like something Walker’d say.”

An actual giggle leaked out of Ava’s otherwise stoic face. “. . . Bitch,” She scoffed. “Don’t you ever accuse me of that again.”

“Maybe that was too harsh,” Yelena conceded, the smile still tugging at her lips.

“Just for that,” Ava said as she rested her hands on the cool metal cart. “Bob. What’s going on there?” She had leverage and guilt, now was the test to see if it’d work.

“How are those the same thing?” Yelena sighed, her face carefully neutral. “Are you saying Walker’s your Bob?”

Fuck that, but Ava wasn’t going to let the widow flip the conversation that quickly, not when she had found a vulnerability. “Okay, you know that’s not even close, so come on, out: what’s going on with you two?”

“It’s nothing,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “God, what are you, my . . . .” She paused, an emotion Ava couldn’t quite recognize flashed across her face, before she turned back to the shelf. Ava’s stomach dropped, but before she could ask if she had pushed it too far, Yelena continued. “. . . I don’t know. It’s just . . . he’s . . . fun, I guess.” There were many words Ava would use to describe Bob, but “fun” wasn’t one of them. Sure, she liked the guy, but he reminded her too much of a sodden lost puppy to think “party animal” but whatever floated Yelena’s boat. “He’s just so . . . normal—” Again, not the exact word Ava would use. Were they talking about the same person? Was she fucking with her? “—and I just . . . like how I feel around him. Like I’m not a fuckup. Like I could say anything and he’d just listen, you know?” She didn’t. “And it’s just . . . nice. Everything else is crazy and I don’t know what it is, but it’s just nice, and I haven’t had anything just nice in a . . . well, it’s been a long time.” The widow glanced over her shoulder, almost shyly. “Does that make any sense?”

“. . . Do you really think I’d know?” Ava asked dryly. “Walker’s the only one that’s actually dated anyone. Ask him.”

Yelena laughed; after the serious moment, it was a pleasant sound to hear. “Isn’t that just the fucking saddest thing? Walker, the relationship expert?”

“Don’t forget high school sports star,” Ava added. “He never shuts up about that.”

“God, I know,” Yelena raised a fist and lowered her voice. “‘Go badgers.’”

Ava actually laughed. “Bears, but yeah. The man’s ridiculous.”

Yelena smirked, which made Ava’s blood chill. “You remember the team name?”

What was she trying to imply? “Easier to remember then the West Chess-a-poke Storm or whatever your football club was.”

“West. Chesapeake. Thunderbolts.” Yelena rolled her eyes. “And you know it’s soccer. You’ve literally called it soccer.”

“I don’t remember that.” Was she being a bit of a shite? Sure. But fair was fair. “I just can’t believe he’s going to try being some kind of . . . video person.” Sure, she had been supportive of the idea in principle, but now that they were actually going to try it, it seemed surreal. Walker seemed to be just as thrown off by the idea as the rest of them—if anything, he was more conflicted about the whole thing now than when it had been pitched. It had been odd, seeing the normally over-confident man fidget as he, Mel, and Alexei had brainstormed topic ideas. Starting off with a cooking tutorial was certainly a decision, but it was an interesting one.

She did feel bad, since she had been the one to push him into it, but still, he hopefully would find a way to make his peace with it before he got on camera. As annoying as he was, the idea of the public roasting him was even more so.

That was their job, thank you very much.

“Yeah, that was pretty weird,” Yelena shrugged and pushed the cart forward. “But what the hell? It can’t make his reputation any worse, and if it gets him out of the gym, all the better.” True. At first, it had been kind of funny, seeing how much fun the super soldiers had had with the workout equipment in the Avengers’ training rooms—even Bucky’s eyes had widened and a surprised thin smile had crossed his face when he had to struggle slightly to pick up a barbell. And fair enough: it was rare they had anything that could actually challenge them and she could appreciate that, but that didn’t make the sparring and constant workouts as the team avoided the public any less time-consuming.

“I’m sure when the call about the art heist came in, they were excited. Punching mannequins probably doesn’t have the same feeling.” The look that Alexei and Walker had shared the minute the call came through had been hilarious. Without needing to say a word, their hands had shot in the air and they scampered off to get their kits before anyone else could claim it, and Ava couldn’t blame them. Being an Avenger certainly had sounded exciting, but no one had prepared her for how much fucking boredom there was in it. It wasn’t like there was a world-ending threat or a giant monster attack every other day and unlike the previous Avengers, they didn’t exactly have lives of their own to focus on in the downtime, besides Bucky, who was either dealing with his day job or palling around with Sam Wilson and that sidekick of his.

“Yeah,” Yelena pulled her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the notifications. She snorted, but a small, tender smile crept in, however much the hood tried to hide it.

“. . . Any update?”

Yelena blinked and quickly pocketed her phone. “Guess da—Alexei thinks they have a good plan in place. Apparently Walker made it.” That had been something of a surprise: ever since they had met, Alexei would go out of his way to praise Walker, which had certainly confused him. From what she could tell, he still had no idea of what to make of it, but he didn’t exactly brush him off, either. Yet, despite the topic, there was something nice about seeing how happy getting texts from her father made her. “He says hi, by the way.”

Ava snorted. “Tell him I say hello and to not let Walker bullocks it up.”

Yelena rolled her eyes but dutifully completed the text. “Apparently he wants us to do something nice for him.”

“I’d think buying the shit he asked for is nice enough.”

“Guess he’s feeling more nervous than he let on.” Yelena shrugged. “Or so Alexei thinks.”

“I don’t know about that . . . .”

“Which one? Walker being nervous or Alexei thinking?” Yelena raised an eyebrow. Honestly, the answer was definitely the latter, but she couldn’t tell if Yelena was in a “taking the piss” mood about her father or a defensive cub one.

“Walker. With his confidence? He’ll be fine.” She sighed and began to make her way to the end of the aisle. Something nice, huh? She had no idea what the idiot liked, besides cooking and cactus fruit. Were they supposed to get him some sort of pastry? Did he even eat carbs or was he one of those meatheads that didn’t? Her gaze wandered over the aisles, when she paused. Positioned at the end of the aisle was a turnstile that held possibly the perfect solution to their conundrum.

She gingerly waved Yelena over; she could swear that she heard the widow huff, as if she had already been planning on catching up with her away and didn’t need the reminder. Still, when Ava wordlessly pointed to the item that had caught her eye, the surprised laugh from Yelena told her all she needed to know.

Hopefully it’d fit Alexei’s bill.

—

The rocking of the transport back to the tower felt cathartic, especially after a successful mission. John found his eyes drifting closed, only to have a pothole knock him against the van’s side and startle him back to full awareness.

It had been a long morning: after the call had gone out, He and Alexei had narrowed down (with Bob’s help from the tower computers) the thieves’ likely escape route, especially after they had figured out the thieves had stolen an armored truck to ferry the goods throughout the city, under the guise of a bank vehicle. Sure, it was an old one—to John’s knowledge, Hammer Industries had been barely functional for years, even pre-Blip, much less fielding and maintaining their armored vehicle division—but most people wouldn’t look twice at a Goliath National Bank truck. Still, even if it was Hammer tech, an armored truck was no joke: bullet-resistant optical plastic and glass windshields that could resist a whole clip of armor-piercing rounds from a 10mm, canted at a 45-degree angle designed to deflect incoming fire; every side of the truck made of threatened, hardened steel and ballistic fiberglass cloth; Kevlar reinforced tires lined with a plastic liner that meant that, even if shot out, it could still flee for miles, and a steel ramming push bar that would thwart most any blockade attempt.

It had been a conundrum for sure.

And by far the most interesting thing to happen in weeks, on the action-front.

Fortunately, the Avengers had two things going for them.

One: the thieves wouldn’t want to raise attention and so would have to maintain the illusion they were just on a routine trip so long as hell hadn’t broken loose, meaning they were restricted on their routes and speed—even if they could bowl over every civilian driver in the city on their way out of town, it would ultimately slow them down far more than help.

Two: they didn’t count on going against two super soldiers.

So after Bob had helped them find and plot out the thieves’ escape route, it had been easy to set up distractions and funnel them to a more remote side street. Did it inconvenience some locals as well, having traffic rerouted? Perhaps, but it allowed time for John to establish a stake out and position Alexei along the street. Timed right, he had dashed out and lifted the front half of the truck off the ground, just enough to leave the wheels spinning impotently in the air, while Walker had leaped from his post above and between his 45mm armor rounds, him hurling his backup shield (the taco was hardly aerodynamic enough to do the job) into the windshield and delivering a powerful kick to it, had managed to shatter it just enough to neutralize the driver and their guard. Alexei had then hurried to the cargo hold door and while John had quickly called out to “Ghost” to infiltrate the hold to distract the guards inside, he forced the door open and finished the job.

After hours of planning and coordinating, it had only taken a minute to capture the thieves.

They had barely been able to get a shot off.

If John was honest, even he was a little surprised how quickly the conflict had resolved. Missions were often like that, even back in his military days: hours of preparation, of tension, only for the actual chaos to pass in a sudden brief release, and then all that would remain is that ever tense silence as your body began to actually process what had just occurred. By the time it had, you would often already be on your way back to base. Some would be returning to celebration, others to regret, and most to some bittersweet mixture of both, but in John’s experience, the return journey was often filled with silence as the adrenaline wore off.

This mission would be no different . . . if Alexei wasn’t there.

John honestly still wasn’t completely sure how he felt about the older super soldier. If you looked merely at the surface, he came across as a loud, self-important man who seemed to care more about being seen as a hero than just doing the deed, but from the getgo, it was clear to John that wasn’t all he was.

If he was, his daughter wouldn’t trust him to the degree that she did.

Even if Yelena had groaned when Alexei had loudly forced his way into their quest, during that time in his limo, it had struck all of them how . . . normal it had felt. For all her protesting, it had been surreal to see Yelena revert from the person they saw in the Vault to just being a kid, embarrassed their dad met their friends. Not that they had been her friends—as Starr had said, they had been disposable delinquents tossed into the same sinking boat.

Yet, despite all that, Alexei had seen something in them.

And whatever his cynicism, whatever his past experiences, John had to admit that it had still felt good. Besides the Hoskins, everyone else who had said he had potential had eventually tossed him aside for not being enough: the military, his hometown, his parents, his country, Val . . . Olivia . . . . And yet, this crazy ex-Soviet propaganda piece took a look him and didn’t see the mistakes. He called him the second coming of Captain America and just gave him that empathetic look, like when he said they had much in common, he actually meant everything he was saying. He was trying to be a good teammate; he was trying to be a good dad to his daughter; he was trying to be a good mentor.

Whatever the results, that was just so fucking rare in his life.

And yet, against all odds, he now found himself on team filled with such people. Maybe none of them were good people perse, but they were generally honest people, and that had to count for something. They didn’t hide their disdain or annoyance, they didn’t shy away from criticizing each other, and whatever their feelings, they still came back for each other.

He was as surprised as anyone.

That said, even as empathetic as Alexei was, it still disturbed John that Alexei seemed to think he was on the same path. It made him almost want to shave his beard, just to get a little distance from that particular image (he would have, had Mel and Starr not intervened: apparently the beard was good for his PR). There was much he didn’t know about Alexei’s past and to be honest, he kind of preferred it that way. He had enough trouble carrying his own baggage, much less his too.

Sadly, Alexei seemed to feel differently.

“Now, on first trip to Latervia, they didn’t know what to make of Red Guardian,” Alexei rambled. He was sitting forward, his helmet in his hands. “It was new idea. They weren’t in Soviet but were a . . .” He paused and his brow furrowed as he tried to find the right term. “Like moon. They were around us and part of us, but they were not us.”

John sighed; there was no ignoring him. “. . . Satellite?” He said. “Satellite nation?”

Alexei nodded, satisfied. “It is close enough to get idea. Still, the prime minister, he take one look at my costume and his eyes got wide as plates as we shook hands! I almost crush hand by mistake—I still was getting used to serum strength. You know, it take time to adjust to new force. But then, during ceremony, thief steals woman’s purse a street away. No one else know, but I hear because my new hearing. So I did not think, I just run away to chase thief. The prime minister just yelled after me. He understood when I drag thief in front of him.” He barked out a laugh. “Dreykov, he was so angry. He tell me, ‘we not make you super soldier to stop petty thieves.’ And I ask him, ‘why not?,’ and he say—" Alexei snickered again. “He say, holding purse, ‘because there are no thieves in U.S.S.R.’”

Alexei laughed again. “He could be funny man, before he throw me in jail.”

John just stared at him. Maybe it was a cultural difference in humor, but John really couldn’t see the joke. Perhaps sensing John’s confusion, Alexei’s laughter subsided and he fixed another look at him, that damn assessing look that seemed to see more than he should. “. . . A lot changed, after I was picked for serum. I did not . . . think of how much would. Before, I was just soldier. My father, he always wanted me to be soldier, so that is what I did. I wanted to help people. It seemed good life, and I was good at it. So when Dreykov, he picked me, I said yes. Like Captain America from Великая Отечественная война. It seemed dream. I could be hero, I thought. I did not think how much I would have to learn again. From moving to toilet to holding things and hearing, everything was different. I broke so many things. My own heartbeat kept me awake. It was . . . crazy.” He shook his head and chuckled. “You only have it for short time and already used to it. You are talented man, Captain.”

John blinked and looked at the floor. The compliment felt . . . weird. Especially since no one had picked him for the serum; he had stolen it and taken it because he had been . . . well, he wasn’t sure exactly what had possessed him to take the vial from those Flag Smasher terrorists. Maybe it had been fear that he wasn’t enough as he was. Maybe it was wanting to level the playing field, to fight fire with fire—if those fuckers were going to have powers, he needed them too—or maybe it was just plain envy. Maybe he thought that, somehow, it would make Bucky and Sam accept him. A stupid thought, but as wrong as everything went after taking it, as much as it amplified the good and the bad, he wasn’t sure he regretted taking it, either. Despite dwelling on that question for the past 4 years, he wasn’t sure he even had an answer to it.

“. . . I didn’t think you would be a fan,” John said. “Of Cap, I mean. Especially back then.”

“Of course I was.” Alexei said simply. “He was common man who became hero for others. He fought against Hitler and Red Skull, enemies of Russia. He did not abandon his men, like his capitalist handlers wanted. He seemed . . . a hero. Someone anyone could be, if they tried. And I wanted to try. Similar to you, I think.”

Not for the first time, John wondered what Alexei knew about history. What he had been allowed to learn. Had he gone to school? How much of the world had he seen, behind that iron curtain? It seemed weird to think that, for all the conflicts he had studied in school and at West Point, this man had both lived them and also could not have been further from them, too.

“. . . Did you have a shield?” John asked. His left forearm throbbed but he ignored the phantom pain. He was used to it, by now.

“Ah, yes! It was beautiful and felt so light. Not vibranium, but some sort of fancy metal.” Alexei clapped. “I had to leave behind when Dreykov, he sent me on undercover mission where . . . “ He hesitated and his face fell as he stared down at his hand. Clearly whatever it was was a painful memory, and as curious as he was, John didn’t want to pry. “Well, it was the last mission he gave me, before he betrayal. The world, it was changing. The Union, it broke, the wall fell, and he put me on sidelines when my country needed me most. I do not know if he . . . thought me useless, or just thought I would get in way for what he planned. He hid me and took away Red Guardian, and when I succeed as Alexei anyway, he took both Red Guardian and Alexei away and banished me to jail. And I helped him do it, like desperate fool.”

“Why?”

Alexei scoffed and shook his head. “Because I wanted . . . I didn’t want to feel useless, anymore. I wanted to help others. I wanted to serve. I wanted to . . . matter. Because I was . . . selfish and scared.” He let out another scoff and leaned his head back. “I wanted to protect others again and I wanted to be loved by them again, and all I did was give up everything to do it.”

John was really unsure of what to say. He wasn’t used to Alexei being so candid, especially not without the aid of vodka, but then, maybe he really did see them as kindred enough spirits that he thought John would understand.

He wasn’t wrong about that.

“Are you nervous for your show?”

Where did that come from? “What?”

“Because you are good man, Captain.” Alexei shrugged, as if it were simple. Starr had said something similar, but he didn’t believe it anymore from him than he did from her.

“I think you’re gonna have to spell it out for me a bit more, chief.”

“Why did you want to be Captain America?” Alexei asked.

“I was ordered to.” John answered briskly. And it was true enough. It had been presented as an assignment; it wasn’t like they had some sort of “your mission, if you choose to accept it” thing. His C.O. had just clapped him on the shoulder and told him his new orders and his new training regiment to prepare for the new designation.

However, Alexei just scoffed and waved his hand dismissively, which frankly pissed John off and his hands clenched. Noticing the tension, Alexei sighed. “Fine, orders. But how did you feel? Excited? Honored? Proud?”

“. . . Yes.” John answered through gritted teeth.

“And why?” Alexei pressed. “For title? For fame?”

“No!” John snapped. Alexei merely raised an eyebrow and sat back in his seat, arms crossed. The silence echoed and suddenly John thought he could notice his own heartbeat, like Alexei had been talking about. “I just . . . I just wanted to help people. Be a leader. Serve my country. I didn’t care about the fucking action figures or posters or the dog and pony show shit. I just wanted . . . to do the job. Do right by people. That was all.” And he had somehow managed to fail at all of those things.

Yet, Alexei just nodded, satisfied. “We have much in common, Captain Walker, but in that, you are better man. I fell in love with the attention. The roar and applause of the crowd. You are not man who craves those things, for good and for bad. So yes, a good man. And a good man, he can feel nervous showing people that he is good man. So I ask again, are you nervous?”

John flushed and he stared down at his feet again. Alexei could say that all he wanted, but that didn’t make that shit true. Even if part of him really wanted to believe it. “Well, the last time I got in front of cameras, I got discharged and kicked to the curb, so yeah, you could say that I’m not exactly thrilled to be doing that again.”

“It takes brave man to admit he is afraid.” Alexei nodded.

“I’m not scared.”

“I’m sorry,” Alexei continued as if John hadn’t said anything. “people can be cruel. They can be unfair. Even if you give them everything, it may never be enough, and they will blame you for not having enough to give. And it never ends, not really. Always another test, always another need. Another chance to fail. And that failure, when it happens, it will be what defines you.” He sighed wearily and for once, John was struck by how long Alexei had been doing this. Unlike Cap and Bucky, he had never been frozen. He had just grown, served, changed and lived. What must that be like, to live that long with the serum?

As if sensing what he was thinking, Alexei looked down at the transporter’s floor and sighed again. “Are you happy to be alive, Captain Walker?”

John’s body tensed and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There was something in that question, something beyond the tremble in his voice, that set him on edge. “What?”

“The scientists, Captain Walker,” Alexei chuckled but there was none of his trademark mirth. “The scientists, they thought the serum would use me up in less than 10 years. It killed everyone else in days, so it seemed long time—10 years seems forever, when you are in prime of life. What is a shortened life, if it lets you make those 10 years matter? They said that serum makes you more—but it doesn’t make new cells.

“Melina, she had to explain it to me, because it didn’t make much sense—she is brilliant woman, the most brilliant—but the body, it only has a number of cells to use. The serum, it makes your cells stronger, faster, but they replace more quickly. Like battery. Part of trade for strength is you use it up faster—you shine brighter, but for half as long. Melina, she was quite upset by this. You never would have guessed it, if you met her when I had, but she is truly a loving woman. She doesn’t think so, but she never was good at giving herself credit. Not on the good things.”

The sad smile returned. “I am 75 years old, Captain Walker, and I was supposed to be dead at 40. And in these extra 35 years, I have only been happy to be alive for five.” He held up an open hand, as if to illustrate the number. “Just five.”

John’s mouth opened and he wanted to say something, anything. What had Alexei seen in those shame rooms? Who was Melina? How did it feel? Did he think that would happen to him, too? But all that came out was: “. . . What made those years different?”

Alexei smiled, but with more warmth. “Going to terrible soccer games and a boring job and coming home to a brilliant woman whose scowl hid the most beautiful smile, and two daughters. One was serious and quiet, but loved more fierce than a lion, and the other had a smile and warmth that put sun to shame. They made me happy that I was still alive, Captain. Even if I was selfish fool at the time. Even if they scared me. I was lucky man. And I was luckier still, to see them again and get second chance.

“But even second chance, I made mess of.” He sighed and before he closed his eyes, John thought he could see them watering. “The five years, my family and I, we were gone. Dead. I don’t know if it was true death or what it was. But when we got back, I found out my daughter, she was dead. True dead. And in the years we had, I never told her I loved her.” He gave a sad shrug. “I just never able to say the words. First, because of pride, and then because I was so scared I would mess it up, you know? I always thought ‘you will have another try,’ but we were gone, before I could, and then she was gone, before I could.”

He took a breath. “She knew. I know she knew. But when you’re father, that doesn’t feel like enough. You could give them everything every day for your whole life and it would never be enough. You could tell them you love them every day for your whole life, and it would still never be enough. But not even once? When you realized you meant it? You will regret it forever. And that regret, it eats you. You make more mistakes. You feel worthless and you push people away, because you think they’ve figured out you are worthless. That they don’t need you. That you would just make things worse by being there. Because the best parts of them, of their lives, they have nothing to do with you, and you do not want to ruin that for them, too.”

John’s stomach clenched. Even if it confirmed for him that Alexei wasn’t Yelena’s biological father, that hit a little too close to home, in ways he truly didn’t want to consider right then, but he was finding it difficult to shove the guilt into the shadowy back of his mind, the more Alexei talked. “I’m sorry.” He said lamely. He had some experience comforting parents of fallen soldiers, but however genuine his condolences were, somehow, it felt wrong to say those things here. Too rigid, too cold, for whatever this moment was, for whatever their relationship was. Maybe Sam Wilson would know what to say; Steve Rogers definitely would have.

Yet, Alexei nodded in appreciation at his words. “Thank you, Captain. I am sorry to be venting, but Два сапога пара. You understand.” He really didn’t, but given Alexei’s mood, it didn’t seem prudent to say so. “You want to be worthy of your son, yes?”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation there.

“And you want to be in his life?”

He hesitated. That was the question, wasn’t it. Of course he wanted to be in his life—there wasn’t a doubt in his mind about that—but would he even want him to be? Olivia seemed to think not, but . . . . He gave Alexei a look. “If he wants me to be.”

“That is not the question,” Alexei said, not unsympathetically. “Take from me, you cannot assume they do or do not. What you can know is: do you want to be?”

Again, John couldn’t help but be reminded of the conversation he had with Starr after the show. She had asked the same thing. “Gun to your head, Walker, what do you want?”

“Yes.”

Alexei nodded. “Then you are already wiser man than I, at your age.”

For some reason, John felt . . . pleased that Alexei seemed to think so. He knew he wasn’t his brother, but he distantly wondered if his parents would have felt the same way. If they ever would, again. “You really think so? Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Wise people never feel like they are wise,” Alexei shrugged. “The price of wisdom is knowing you don’t know much. Being smart is similar, but different. Smart, that is the brain,” He pointed to his head, and then gestured to his chest. “Wisdom is heart, and you, Captain Walker, have good heart.”

John scoffed and rolled his eyes. Now it was getting ridiculous. “What makes you so sure about that?”

“Because you fed my daughter when you had no reason to,” He said simply. John gawked at him. Was that really it? “In our country, when someone prepar—when someone makes food ready for you, it is great kindness. It may be small thing to you, Captain, to find and skin fruit for another, but that means much to us. It shows much.” He paused and a nervous look crossed his face. “Do not tell her I said so; she told that in secret.”

Ridiculous. John shook his head in surprise. He remembered Yelena giving him a surprised look when he handed her the cut fruit, but he had just assumed it was because she expected him to keep it for himself or to have poisoned it somehow. Well, he thought, how about that?

“. . . Thanks.”

“It’s nothing.” Alexei said. “You will do fine. Первый блин всегда комом, remember.”

“Okay, I have to say, you know I have no idea what you’re saying, right?” John sighed.

Alexei blinked before laughing, “I forget sometimes. It is sometimes easier to just say in . . . but maybe unhelpful, sometimes. It’s means something like ‘first pancake is always blob.’”

“. . . That’s not as helpful as you think it is.”

Alexei sighed, as if it were obvious. “First pancake is always blob, so that second one is better, third one better than that one—first time never goes well, but you learn and improve each time. It is not hard idea.”

“Well, when you say it like that, no, I guess it isn’t,” John replied irritably. How the hell was he supposed to guess that? He wanted to defend himself, but it just didn’t feel right, given the tone of the conversation. He took a breath and tried to release most of the irritation out with the exhale. No good would come from pushing it, especially after the kind things he had said.
They rode the rest of the way to the tower in a comfortable silence. Alexei stared up at the transport ceiling and John scrolled through his phone, pointedly avoiding Twitter, looking for any sort of coverage the heist bust may have gotten. Would Olivia hear about it? Intellectually, probably not, but yet, part of him hoped that she still may. Maybe see that he had meant what he had said about doing good.

Still, as the transport dropped them off, he hadn’t received any message from her. Not surprising, given her preference for the lawyers to be their go-betweens, but yet, a small part of him was disappointed, even if the smarter part of him conceded she may have other shit to do than browse her phone all day. Which led to the unfortunate thought that he used to know how she liked to spend her days and her evenings—quick walk around the neighborhood after work or dinner with the girls, if they were free, a nice brewed tea and a little late night while she read, and be in bed by 11, outfit already set aside on the chair in front of her vanity and her lunch already prepped in the fridge. What did she like to do now? Was it the same, or had he ruined that for her, too?

Despite the pep talk earlier, John could feel his mood souring and was frustrated to find himself unable to reverse course, which only worsened his mood faster. Why was he like this? If Alexei noticed, he was wise enough not to comment or try to improve his mood—clearly, he had picked up more father tactics than he had let on. If John had been back in Custer’s Grove, no one would have minded their own fucking business, well-meaning or not. The ride up the elevator was a quiet one, but somehow not an awkward one, though it was chaffing to hear Alexei quietly humming under his breath.

When the doors opened to show the living room, he was surprised to see Starr sitting on the couch chatting with Bob while Yelena was standing in the kitchenette, putting something in a cabinet. He had to fight another flare of irritation; as nice as it was that they had restocked, it was hard not to feel territorial over the kitchen and its layout. She wasn’t a dumb person and she probably followed the system, he wouldn’t put it past her to reorganize things and that also chaffed.

“Welcome back,” Starr called over from the couch. It was still odd, seeing her in something other than her phasing suit thing. Sure, living together, he had seen her in other outfits—it seemed like she and Bob shared similar fashion sense, for some reason—but that didn’t make it any less weird. Just as weird was someone telling him “welcome home” after . . . well, it was weird, but a nice weird.

“Good job on the bust,” Yelena chimed in. “Mel was pretty happy about it.” She gestured to some kind of half-full snack basket sitting on the island. “She had this delivered. Said it was for you two.”

“. . . Did she order a half-size?” John asked dryly.

Only Bob had the decency to look guilty. “What?” Yelena asked, her face the picture of surprised. “It looks full to me, but I know you Americans, so greedy with your portions.”
Starr snorted and John shook his head. “Oh, fuck off with that. I know you’re from Ohio, Ms. Chesapeake Valley.” Still, he sat by the kitchenette and took a protein bar. For some reason, they seemed to be the only things not pilfered.

“ Делать из мухи слона,” Yelena rolled her eyes and Alexei chuckled heartily. On the one hand, John knew they likely did this to piss him off, since Starr and Bob didn’t seem to mind, but on the other, he didn’t feel like trying to learn Russian enough to understand them. If he did, it would feel like they won. Won what, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he refused to give them any satisfaction out of principle.

Alexei also reached over and retrieved what looked like a candy bar from the basket. He unwrapped it and, with a second’s hesitation, broke off a piece and held it out to Yelena, who was still at the counter. She looked at the piece, and up at his face, before she nodded and took it. Alexei smiled widely and he looked tempted to hug her, and Yelena seemed to, too, but neither reached out first. Still, John reluctantly felt a bit happy for Alexei at the progress. It was clear they both loved each other, but people were complicated, it seemed.

John dimly wondered if that would be him and his son, one day. Would he look as old as Alexei, or would the serum keep him young, while his son caught up to him? How would Olivia look? He sighed into the protein bar. Alexei had been right; he really hadn’t thought about the consequences of the serum. The changes it brought weren’t all physical, it seemed.

“Bob was a big help,” Alexei nodded to the man and toasted the remainder of his chocolate bar to him. “Good work.”

“Always happy to help.” Bob smiled. John tried not to roll his eyes. He liked the guy, but he couldn’t help but be reminded of a wet puppy when he saw him. Still, he was one of the team, even if he didn’t consider himself a member. They had voted on it in front of him and even with a unanimous vote—even Mel reluctantly voted aye—he still hadn’t accepted it yet. Still, he was trying to find ways to get involved, and that was progress. “We ordered take out; got your usuals. Cashew chicken, right, Walker?”

“Got it in one, Bobby,” John raised his hand in acknowledgement. “Thanks. For the assist, too.”

Bob nodded and John found himself thinking back to what Starr had said about his father. How he had acted the way everyone assumed he did. He had begun to wonder if that had been why he had been the only one impaled by the Void. Somewhere in his mind, behind that pleased smile, did Bob agree with those guys? Did he see an abuser in him, a bully like his father?

If he did, was he wrong?

It was a sobering thought.

He was tempted to ask him about it, one day, but also afraid to. Fortunately, it seemed Bob still didn’t remember what had happened in the Void and Yelena had told them not to bring it up, and as the resident Bobby-expert, her rule was law, as far as the rest were concerned. John was all to happy to oblige, since it meant he had an excuse not to find out.

For now, he was going to let himself try and enjoy the fact he was surrounded by people who didn’t hate him.

Starr got to her feet and was holding a paper bag, which confused him. Didn’t they had finish unpacking? Hopefully it wasn’t anything frozen. It wasn’t lost on him that, compared to everyone else, he was the only one who had any real domestic experience, not counting Alexei’s brief few years of homeownership in the early 90’s, so he had to remember to grade on a curve, as frustrating as it was. She looked a little uncomfortable, which wasn’t encouraging. But before he could ask, Yelena’s phone buzzed. The food had arrived.

“Bob, could you help me carry it up?” Yelena asked and of course, Bob hoped to his feet immediately. John snorted; the boy was down bad. Not that it was a bad thing—unless it made things awkward on the team or increased the odds of the Void showing up again, if it didn’t work out. He’d have to talk to him about how to handle rejection before it came to that. Or if it came to that, judging by Yelena’s smile. If he was reading it right. Who could say, with spies? He sighed. There was something so high school about this whole thing and he wasn’t sure he enjoyed it.

He was beginning to see why Bucky lived apart from them, a lot of the time.

“And I will go freshen up.” Alexei stretched and patted his belly with a satisfied smile. He glanced down at Walker. “Good work out there, today.”

“You too.” He instinctively raised his hand for Alexei to bump, but froze before he could fully close his fist. His heart hurt as he turned it into a high five. If Alexei noticed anything odd, he didn’t comment. Instead, he just returned the high five with enough enthusiasm, it almost knocked John off his stool, and made his way upstairs.

Shaking his now stinging hand, John noticed Starr giving him an assessing look. Shit. “What was that?”

“Nothing I want to talk about.” He said bluntly. He tried to keep irritation out of his voice; it wasn’t an unreasonable question, logically, and it was unfair to be mad at her for asking.

That didn’t make it easy.

“How was the shopping day?” He asked instead, desperate to change the subject.

She shrugged and sat on the stool next to him, resting the paper bag on the counter between them. “Fine; we got whatever we could read through your scrawling. Did you learn to write by watching chickens?”

“It was readable.” He muttered. “I thought you were trained spies. Shouldn’t have been that hard, codebreaker.”

“We shouldn’t have to decode something just to buy bloody sugar,” She snapped back. “Two different kinds, I may add. That how you grew up? Rich kid who needed two whole kinds of sugar?”

John couldn’t help himself: he snorted. “You know they taste pretty different, right? You can’t just swap ‘em out and expect it to taste the same.”

“Who cares? It’s sugar. You make it, it’ll taste good.” She rolled her eyes.

“. . . Was that a compliment?”

“To sugar, yes.” She scoffed and John chuckled.

“Should have guessed.”

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the counter in front of her. “How about you? How was working with Soviet Santa?”

John actually let out a laugh at the name and he didn’t care that Starr just smirked, all too pleased with herself. “Not bad.” She raised an eyebrow. “Talked a lot but . . . he’s good. Trying, but good.”

Star whistled. “High praise, from Walker Texas Ranger here.”

He rolled his eyes. “You think that’s the first time anyone’s used that one? Please. Disappointing, Starr.”

“You don’t deserve effort, Walker.”

“Now you’re just quoting my first football coach.” He shook his head, but lazily grinned. He had to admit, his mood was improving. “How about you? How was Alexei Jr.?”

Starr snorted, an easy smile crossing her face. “Not bad.” She leaned forward and propped her head up on her hand. “Talked a lot but she’s good. She’s trying, but good.”

“. . . You are remarkably unhelpful.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” She shrugged.

He sighed. He had no idea what else he had expected. “Glad it went well, then.”

“. . . I hope they can figure it out.”

John glanced down at her and raised an eyebrow. She nodded up towards where Alexei had headed. He frowned, but nodded in understanding. “I think they want to. In their own ways.”

“. . . At least he’s here.”

John remembered Alexei’s grief when he had recalled Yelena’s sister, and nodded again. “At least she still is, too.”

“You can’t take that for granted.”

“Nope.”

The companionable silence between them stretched out for a minute or two, until he finally asked. “What’s with the paper bag?”

Starr sat up, as if she had only suddenly remembered that it was there. “Right. That.” She slowly shoved the bag in front of him, the stiff paper crinkling loudly. “Yelena saw this at the store. Thought you may want to use it for your whatever.” She waved dismissively. “The video thing.”

Okay, that was weird. He wouldn’t have expected her to care about it like that, but given Alexei’s comments, it wouldn’t surprise him if he had put her up to it. Still, the gesture was well-intentioned, clearly, and honestly, the corners of his eyes burned a little. Had it really been that long since anyone had anything like this for him since . . . no, he was not going to think about that. Not after the near-miss with Alexei earlier.

“Well then, I’ll have to thank her.” He said as he opened it the bag. Inside seemed to be a firm dark fabric, which was curious. Was it some kind of rag? He reached in and began to draw it out. No, it was definitely an . . . apron. “Okay, I didn’t expect that . . . oh my God—” He gawked. Printed across the front of the apron was what could only be described as a blatantly unlicensed crude cartoon version of him holding a spatula and a plate with his taco shield on it, with a speech bubble that said “I’ll feed all you fuckers.”

For the second time that day, his mouth fell open, but he didn’t have the words to speak.

Starr gave him a curious look. “You okay, Walker? If you want to return it—well, it was a bodega, so they probably won’t take it back, so you may have to just have to grin and bear it.”

He just slowly shook his head and continued to stare at the miracle of New York bootleg merchandise, until he began to laugh. Star just stared him as he leaned back and spread it out wide.

Lemar would have thought it was hilarious.

Hell, he’d have probably bought one for himself and Mrs. Hoskins (the swear obviously covered with tape), just to fuck with him.

It was the stupidest thing he had seen in a long time, and he loved it. So much better than those stupid posters and action figures. Maybe he would go and sign a few, just to fuck with people.

When Yelena and Bob came up a minute or two with the food, he had already draped it over his neck and Starr was just shaking her head at the sight. Bob burst out laughing while Yelena, for some reason, seemed confused when he thanked her for the gift. He was still wearing it when Alexei trotted down the stairs, his hair still wet from the shower; naturally, the old super soldier thought it was amazing and demanded they go see if they had made a Red Guardian version, which Yelena adamantly vetoed.

It had truly been a shit past few years since he had taken that serum.

Was John happy to be alive?

In that moment, for the first time in 1,400 days, he could say yes.

Chapter Text

James Buchannan “Bucky” Barnes: Steve’s friend. Soldier. Brainwashed Hydra Agent. Assassin. International fugitive. Avenger for two seconds. Dead man. Temporary superhero.

Congressman.

Chaperone.

Yeah, he’d be the first to admit his resume wasn’t exactly something he was proud of. The fact was that the only job he had actually enjoyed had been being Steve’s friend, but even then, all he had done is cause Steve trouble and derail his life twice, so he couldn’t even say he had been particularly good at it. Even though Steve had never seemed to mind it, it still didn’t sit right with Bucky that somehow, at some point, their roles had reversed.

Back when they had met, it had been up to him to keep Steve safe—the guy’s heart was at least two times bigger than his common sense and ten times bigger than he was, so he certainly had needed the help staying out of trouble, and Bucky had been more than happy to provide it. Being Steve’s voice of reason and his shield hadn’t always been easy, but it had always been fulfilling. It had made him feel proud that he could use his strength for something good; he had never been the smartest or most compassionate guy, but Steve had always made him feel like he could be more. Like he was more than just another Brooklynn punk too dumb to fight with words instead of fists. And when the call went out to fight the Nazis and serve, well, that had just seemed to be the same idea on a broader scale: use his fists to protect a world of Steves from the worst bullies imaginable.

Whatever had happened later, he still remembered the pride he had felt wearing that uniform, the awe and envy on Steve’s face whenever he had seen him walking around in it. How people’s looks of suspicion had turned into looks of respect and admiration. The confidence it gave him.

Dammit, whatever else had happened, it had felt good to be needed. Respected. Proud.

And then the serum.

If you had asked Bucky who, out of everyone he had ever known or heard of, deserved to become a super man, Steve would unquestionably have been his first and only answer. The kid was smart, kind, empathetic, and knew right from wrong: he hadn’t a selfish or ambitious bone in his body. Well, except for one thing, it seemed: Bucky. The loyalty between them went both ways, even if Steve hadn’t been able to back it up, physically—not that Bucky wanted him to, and not that Steve ever let that stop him from trying, if it came to it. Whether it was bullies in the neighborhood or asshole teachers in school, the two had fought back against them all. They had been closer than brothers and, on his lower days, it killed Bucky to worry that, maybe, Steve might have assumed that he thought of him as burden.

Someone he had to look after because he couldn’t look after himself. That maybe he had thought he had to take the serum to become someone worthwhile.

As far as Bucky was concerned, the serum hadn’t change a thing that mattered.

Steve had always been a hero. The only thing that had changed was that now even the superficial and the petty couldn’t deny it any more.

Yes, after the serum, as happy as he had been for his friend that people were finally seeing him as the hero he was. However, from the moment Steve had rescued him from the Hydra base, it hadn’t lost on Bucky that he had become the protected instead of the protector. And with that change came a slew of complicated feelings. Of course, chief among them was pride; he had always been proud of Steve, but seeing him take charge, be respected by everyone, and treated as the leader he was—damn, that been something else, especially in the wet, hellish battlefields that had become home. It had felt like seeing the sun again after a long, miserable winter, and even if it had inadvertently led him to Hydra’s clutches, Bucky didn’t regret a single second of his time in Steve’s Howling Commandos.
Dum Dum, Falsworth (they had to fight over which of them would be called James, but eventually they just opted for last names. The others had still loved teasing them about it, though), Gabe, Jim, Jacques, Sam, Pinky, Juniper and Steve, he had never felt so comfortable with a team before. The mutual trust, the camaraderie, the empathy . . . there truly had been nothing quite like it, since or even before, really. Sure, he had been under Hydra’s control for most of his life—not exactly much time for team building and trust falls, with those guys—but even free, perhaps especially then, he had struggled to find something even close to the sense of belonging he had had with them.

The sense of purpose.

Back then, it had been so simple: survive. Kill Nazis. Stop Hydra. Sure, they had all known that eventually the battles would end and they would have to return to everyday life. Find dreams and jobs beyond the fogs of war, but that future had seemed so far ahead, obscured by the mists of time and possibility, that it hadn’t warranted thinking about much, at least not to him. Even before the war, he had bounced from job to job, never really feeling at home in any of them—in some ways, as sad as it was, the army had been one of the best things to happen to him. It had taken all the ambiguities, all the aimlessness, out of his life. The others, as much as they had bonded, they all had such a clear look in their eyes, as if they could see through the fog and the futures that lay beyond its hazy wall, and it gave them strength to push through to the other side. Even Steve, who arguably had lost control of his life and had nothing to go back to, still seemed as clear-eyed and determined to escape the fog as the rest.

Not Bucky.

He almost felt safer in that fog, in that . . . void. It was simple. It was predictable in its own way. It was a place he could feel useful. And in his lower moments, he almost would wish he didn’t have to one day leave it.

Clearly, God had a sense of humor.

How to describe those Hydra years? Painful, immensely; terrifying, frequently; soul-wrenching, truly. Being broken down and rebuilt as someone so completely . . . empty had been . . . words couldn’t truly capture it. And yet . . . in the deepest, most guilt-wracked part of his mind, he could admit that there had also been something almost . . . liberating, in a way: he had been made a tool in its most blatant, literal sense. The questions of the future, of purpose, those had been torn from him, for bad and for good, and he’s still ashamed to admit that at his lowest, when they had finally broken James Buchanan Barnes into pieces, he had almost been relieved to let him go. For the pain and the fear and uncertainty to disappear, and hopefully take the shame and guilt with it.

And yet, the guilt had been the one thing that had lingered.

Even if the memories of his actions faded, the guilt would remain. In some ways, the guilt had left a deeper impression on his soul than his own identity had. Trapped in that eternal fog, that void he had wished, he couldn’t remember his name, he couldn’t remember his home, but he could remember that he had done terrible things, and know in his heart that he would go on to do even worse in whatever future lay ahead.

And Steve.

In a place beyond consciousness, he had remembered Steve.

His friend, his brother, he had pushed through the fog, grabbed his hand, and led him out of the mists and for the first time in over 70 years, he finally got to see what lay on the other side.

And it had terrified him.

Of course the return of his memories, the good, bad, lonely, loving, and everything in-between, had been traumatizing enough, but the prospect of living a life, of trying to chart a course forward, that had been truly haunting. And in some ways, even after being rebuilt, dying, and defeating a mad titan, he was no closer to escaping that ghost of a question than he had been back before the war.

What do you want, Bucky?

What do you deserve?

He still struggled with that question. Steve had seemed to think that he deserved the world, forgiveness, a chance, and it made his heart hurt that, even after everything that had happened, he had still believed in him that much. Even after he had chosen Sam as his successor, Bucky knew it hadn’t been a slight. Steve had wanted him to be free from someone else’s expectations for once. To have the chance to finally be his own man, after so long being someone else’s soldier.

It had been the very best of intentions from the very best of men.

He couldn’t have understood that he had cursed him, not blessed him.

For a while, after Steve was gone, Bucky had been able to find some purpose in hounding Sam about giving up the shield and John’s misuse of it, and all the mess with Zemo and stopping the Flagsmashers, and for a while, that had helped. He got the pardons, he got the clean slate, but as the adrenaline faded and the noise died down, he found himself sitting in an empty apartment, and the specter appeared, just like it had every other minute he had a moment to breath.

What do you want, Bucky?

Honestly, it had been a Godsend when the party recruiter had reached out to him about running for the open seat. Apparently the representative had been recruited by the Ross administration and suddenly, Brooklyn needed someone and for reasons he still couldn’t comprehend, the party thought that someone should be him. To say he was unfamiliar with politics was an understatement; he had only managed to vote once before going to war and the president’s name was the only one he recognized on the ballot—he hadn’t exactly been the most informed citizen, to say the least. Of course, Steve had followed it all and tried to help explain it, but it had gone in one ear and out the other and if Steve couldn’t do it, there was no way a school teacher would have stood a chance.

Surprisingly, when he had explained this to the woman, she had seemed thrilled. They were always looking for new talent, for people to learn more about the system and play an active role in their communities, she had assured him, and that with his connections to the district, maybe he’d like to learn a new way to get involved beyond fighting. He’d be lying if it hadn’t sounded at least a little appealing, phrased like that. Of course, he knew she had an angle (everyone did), but it offered a path. Something to do. Respect. Having his name mean something beyond the infamous Winter Soldier and the blood-stained past it represented.

God, he wished he could have talked with Steve about it.

He probably would have thought it was hilarious, especially after seeing him attempt public speaking.

He also probably would have been proud.

And as tedious and annoying as it was, having to raise money for the campaign and do a crash course on pretty much every issue (and lord there were just so fucking many of those), there had also been something sort of exciting, too. Like he was actually working to build something up, for once. Like he had a goal. People, constituents, and staffers looking to him for things besides shooting a gun. And that almost made dealing with the insufferable egos and assholes worth it.

Almost.

He had probably been the one most surprised when he had won the election in a landslide—or at least, the party folks said it was. Of course, they told him, it was a special election, so the turnout was low, but still, it was a good start. Honestly, the staff were just relieved that the president turning into a hulk and resigning hadn’t impacted his own support much, though it did mean that by the time he was sworn in, the whole House had been in upheaval, what with needing to confirm a new VP and trying to anticipate the new president’s agenda, if they would carry on with Ross’s platform or pivot to something new.

Unfortunately, Ross hadn’t picked his VP wisely, it seemed.

The new platform was definitely more hawkish than Ross’s: while they were abiding by Ross’s treaties and international commitments, there had been a renewed skepticism of the superpowered communities and with the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. long gone, the new administration wanted to take a harder stance. The fact that Wilson “Kingpin” Fisk had ridden a similar anti-vigilante wave to become mayor of New York wasn’t lost on them: the winds were shifting and the new president’s cabinet reflected that.

Most notably, a Ms. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

In Bucky’s humble opinion, the woman was a walking mess of conflicts of interest and reeked of the type of cloak & dagger backrooms that had consumed his life. She clearly couldn’t be trusted and it was baffling to him that their so-called torch bearer had selected her, much less to lead the CIA, and it was equally confusing that their Senate majority had approved her. Narrowly, but still. Party loyalty only should go so far. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only party member skeptical and when he had caught wind of an investigation into her, he had sprinted over to offer his help.

It hadn’t hurt that, by and large, he had had nothing else to do.

Oh sure, there were plenty of bills being floated around. Information packets and proposals were dropped off at his office constantly and with a majority as thin as theirs was, every vote counted, so they had tried to involve him heavily at first. But quickly, once the novelty of the Winter Soldier had worn out its welcome (and he wasn’t sorry to see it go) and they realized he wasn’t particularly ambitious or of the wheeling and dealing sort, they had more or less left him alone, beyond the occasional soundbite, photo op, or a floor vote.

It was truly numbing just how high school the damn place felt.

Or just how boring the process of bill development was. Sure, staffers and lobbyists took on the brunt of the actual writing, but to have to read and comprehend all of it, trying to spot the bullshit or con—he quickly learned that anything private interests touched was ripe with it—was tedious and hurt his brain. While he hadn’t exactly wanted to return to a warzone, a world where he had to act excited over a fucking line graph was a world he didn’t want to be in.

So, ironically, his congressional life had become a mirror of his Winter Soldier life: wait until called upon, act as a visible show of force when needed, take out opposition, root out dissent, and “pull the trigger” when the time came. The only difference this time was it wasn’t brainwashing that made him go along with it, it was boredom. It was aimlessness. It was just routine, day in, day out, and as numbing as it was, there was something depressingly comforting in its familiarity. No one expected more from him, not even himself.

Sure, Sam was always there, his family was always delightful, and Joaquin’s enthusiasm was infectious, but they existed in a whole different world to him now, and as much as he enjoyed talking with them or going to cookouts, it just didn’t feel the same. Like he was going through the motions, but what those motions were, he didn’t really understand. And sadly, it seemed most of his new colleagues had preferred him that way.

All except Congressman Gary.

Congressman Harry Gary (Bucky quickly learned that few people were allowed to call him by his full name) was from a district out in Missouri that covered St. Louis and from what his staffers told him, was rising star amongst the party, despite not having much weight in his own state. The man seemed to be everywhere and know everything that happened in the House: every packet, every bill, every rumor, it somehow reached his ears, but more incredulously to Bucky, he seemed to love the work. Even amongst congressmen, Gary was uncommonly enthusiastic for the actual nitty gritty work, and it had been equally surprising that, despite Bucky’s growing reputation for apathy, when he offered to help with the investigation, he had taken him seriously. Treated him like a partner and trusted him to help, not as a tool to be used, but as a teammate to collaborate with. However boring the content, Bucky had truly appreciated the gesture and for the first time in a long time, he had actually wanted to do something: help Gary take down de Fontaine.

So, naturally, he had fucked the whole thing up.

“Well now,” Congressman Gary mused quietly, “it certainly can’t be my excellent presentation that’s making your mind wander, so what else could it be?”

Bucky straightened up in his office chair and shook his head to clear out the cobwebs. They were in the congressman’s office and judging by the warm orange light outside, approaching dusk. His stomach growled and he tried not to think about the power bar in his desk, or the fact that Alexei was supposed to be making vareniki tonight.

“Sorry,” He mumbled as he leaned forward. “Just . . . thinking.”

“Somehow, I doubt it’s about public transportation funding allocation,” Gary chuckled and leaned back against his desk. “What’s on your mind?”

Bucky tried to keep the guilty look off his face. Even though he was old enough to be the man’s grandfather, there was something about Gary that reminded him of a schoolteacher and it was difficult to not instinctively confess.

“It’s nothing,” He tried, but sighed at Gary’s skeptical eyebrow raise. “. . . It’s just been a . . . crazy couple of weeks. A lot to process. You know.”

Gary nodded solemnly. “Understandable. Not every day an impeachment falls to shit so quickly, after all.” He let out a laugh at Bucky’s wince. “I’m just pulling your chain, son. While I wasn’t exactly thrilled to see months of work go up in flames, especially after we baited the press about possible charges, it wasn’t your fault: I know it, and leadership knows it. If anything, you were the only one on the investigation actually doing a damn thing, outside of my office.” He shrugged. “We’re smart, sometimes the bad guys are smarter. All we can do is learn, and get them next time.”

“. . . Thank you, but . . . ,“ Bucky began but Gary cut him off with a shake of his head.

“No buts, son,” He sighed. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. 24-hour news cycles are a blight on this country and its attention spans, but in this one instance, they aren’t always a bad thing.” He smiled grimly. “My support can take this hit and bounce back: yours might not, but fortunately, your fingerprints were nowhere on this thing, so we all live to fight another day.”

Bucky had been curious why Gary had never added him to the investigation committee openly. Initially, he had just assumed it was because he was a freshman, but now . . . . “Now,” Gary continued. “What’s really eating at you?”

It wasn’t any one thing in particular, but . . . “I guess I’m just . . . .” He sighed. He had trouble talking to therapists; this wasn’t feeling any easier. “It just feels like I’ve lost control.”

“Have you ever really had it?” Gary asked, not unkindly. The comment hurt, nonetheless.

Bucky snorted. “That’s part of the problem.” Another sigh. “I guess I’m just feeling this . . . weight.”

Words failed him, but Gary was somehow giving him a knowing glance, as if he recognized what he was talking about. How, Bucky had no idea, but he was still nodding, nonetheless. “You have had to take on a lot of responsibility, haven’t you? Monitoring Ms. Fontaine, your work here, that Captain America friend of yours, and now leading this new . . . super team.” Gary crossed his arms, which only furthered the teacher aura. “Being a leader, it’s difficult at the best of times. People looking to you for a plan, for guidance, for direction . . . and when you don’t have these things for yourself, it’s only that much harder to provide them for others. And yet, you can’t let them know you don’t have these things, or it affects the group, so you have to make it work, even if it hurts you. And it’s never enough.” He gave him a sympathetic look. “It can be a lonely thing, can’t it, son?”

Bucky’s eyes widened and he swallowed. “I . . . I just was wondering if Steve ever felt like this.” God, it sounded pathetic, saying it out loud. “Back in the war, he had this unit. I was part of it.”

“I remember the exhibit,” Gary smiled. “It sounded like you were a close bunch.”

“In a way,” Bucky said distractedly. “I was just thinking about how Steve . . . how it must have been for him. Steve, he was a strong guy. Strongest I ever met. Even before the . . . And he just . . . . he just made it look so easy.” He leaned forward in his chair, his forearms resting on his knees. “But now I have these people looking to me and I just . . . I feel like I’m scrambling. It was barely supposed to be one time, and I couldn’t even come up with a plan for that. We just wung it. And then we got tricked into this Avengers thing—” Which of course made things tense with Sam, which didn’t help matters at all. “And everybody is looking to us, so it’s not just the team, it’s . . .”

“Everyone . . . . It feels like you have to lead the world,” Gary huffed out a breath and shook his head. “That’s a tall order, son. Would be for anyone. Even Steve Rogers.”

“And I’m not Steve.” Bucky chuckled. “I wasn’t then, I’m not now. I led these people into a trap and made Fontaine untouchable, and we’re just stuck in this stand-off that no one wants us to be in. Sam and Steve would have known better. Even Stark would have. I can’t be these people’s Steve. I can’t even be my own.”

“Do you like them?” Gary asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Humor me,” the congressman said, arms still crossed. “You owe me that much. What do you think of this team?”

The honest truth was that he was still unsure about them. Besides Bob, none of them were green, that much was true, and they could hold their own in a fight. They were lacking in the powerset department, sure, but their personalities aside, they had been able to fall in line and support one another fairly smoothly. Their mental health stability was a risk, especially John and Sentry, but with some work and time, those edges could be smoothed out . . . probably. But he got the sense that wasn’t what Gary was asking about.

“They have . . . potential.” He hedged. “They might not act like it, but they are the types that would throw themselves onto a grenade for others. If they had to.” It was the highest praise he could give. “And that’s something that we can work with.”

“That’s reassuring, Bucky,” Gary nodded, “but I mean, do you like them as people? As people you can trust?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

Understandably, Bucky didn’t trust easily, but honestly, he had been like that even before Hydra, so even if they didn’t have the wrap sheets they did, he would have had a hard time feeling connected with them. That they all had experienced Val’s vault together and bonded together (plus Alexei being Yelena’s father and all), it was a little . . . difficult to find an in, exactly. The last time around, with the Commandos, he had been one of the guys and had bonded with them, even before Steve had arrived to save them. And after that, they just had to fall in line behind Steve. It had felt simple.

Now, he was the Steve and he had no idea how to approach this situation. Should he try to befriend them? Should he try to stay above the fray, so his words would have more weight? Did he even want to know them as people or should he keep it solely professional, whatever that meant in this situation? Would that step on Yelena’s toes? She had seemed to be the de facto leader when he had captured them. Would they resent him if he overstepped her? As it was, it was hard not to feel like a chaperone dealing with a gang of high schoolers: kind of difficult to be friends, coming from a dynamic like that.

Even if he hated it, Bucky wished he could ask Sam for advice, but he was still sore over them being branded the New Avengers, as unfair as that was. It wasn’t like they had signed up for the job! He supposed they could have walked off, refuted Valentina, but everything had happened so quickly and if anything made his mind go dumb, it was a TV camera shoved in his face. But even still, after seeing them perform and knowing their pasts, how desperate they had been for clean slates, even Bucky found himself reluctant to steal the only shred of positive legitimacy they had thrown their way. It felt cruel. Hell, he was trying to move past the Winter Soldier stigma by being in Congress, so who the fuck was he to judge?

Sam didn’t quite see it that way. He could accept them being a temporary check on Valentina, maybe even them buying him the time to recruit his own team, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be his endearingly passive aggressive self about it.

“I don’t know if I need more friends.” He finally said.

Gary snorted, “Son, as the chairman of the Oversight, Investigations, and Accountability subcommittee, I can tell you that just isn’t true. Especially in your case. There’s no such thing as too many friends, in jobs like ours.”

“Why?” Bucky scoffed. “It’s not like I’m going to be here long.”

The congressman sighed. “This again.”

“Yes, ‘this again.’” Whatever he had said in the interview, as far as he was concerned, the subject was hardly closed. “You want me to finish the term? Fine, but you and I both know I’m not good at this. I can’t play these games and I’ve been a pawn for longer than you’ve been alive, and I don’t feel like signing up for more.” He glanced out the window and took a long breath through his nose. “What am I even doing here, Harry?”

“Serving the interests of the fine people of Brooklyn, last I checked,” He said; coming from anyone else, it would have sounded sarcastic. “And doing a not-bad job of it, for your first term. Congratulations on that gambit with Monroe, by the way: that 3% increase is going go pretty far, when all’s said and done. The Senate shouldn’t mess with it too much, from what I’m hearing, so you should be good to go.”

“I had no idea what I was even saying!” Bucky sighed and rested his head in his hands. The cool metal felt nice on his forehead, but it did little to alleviate his growing headache.

“It’s a negotiation, Bucky; you negotiated, and you got what you wanted. That’s rarer than you’d think in this business. A lot of the time, the bill falls apart before it even stands a shot of passing. Having 535 cooks in the kitchen will do that. Not even counting the lobbyists and public interest groups that all want their say.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Good question,” Gary smiled sympathetically but he shrugged. “The reasons are different for everyone here, even if, for many, it often boils down to some version of power or influence. There’s no accounting for taste of many voters, sadly.” The smile turned grim. “Well, we can speculate, but that’s a conversation for another time, I think. General rule of thumb is you can question their judgment, not their motives. If you don’t learn that, you’ll never get a bill passed, Bucky.”

That sounded asinine. “Sounds like shit advice, to me.”

Gary laughed. “In most contexts, yes, you’d be right, but you’d be surprised how much can get done, if you act like the other person is listening in good faith. Do it enough and you may trick them into doing the right thing, every once in a while.” He gestured to the packet. “Like passing this bill. Or running a team. Look at your friends Steve and Stark.”

Bucky wanted to protest, but bit his tongue. Acting like a hot head wouldn’t help him here. “Then what’s your reason?” He asked instead. “For doing this?”

Gary paused and looked at Bucky, considering. Finally, he just shook his head and sighed. “Harry Gary.” He said quietly. “Son, do you know why my parents named me Harry?”

Bucky blinked. He certainly hadn’t expected that pivot. “Because they have a weird sense of humor?”

Another chuckle. “That was certainly true, no question there, but at least originally, that wasn’t their main reason. Or so they said.” He smiled wistfully, as if he was seeing a pleasant memory. “No, they named me after Harry Truman.”

“. . . Who?”

“Funny, coming from a man named after James Buchanan,” Gary snorted. Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell him he didn’t know who that was, either. History had never been his strongest subject. “I suppose I deserve that. He was a little after your time, after all. Missouri senator, he went on to be VP for FDR’s fourth term, only to wind up in the Oval Office two months in after he died.” He sighed. “Truman is a complicated figure, in a lot of ways. Most people in this business were, are, and will be. But what made him so near and dear to my folks was he pushed for civil rights, even back when the Southern Democrats held a lot more sway in his party. FDR had been afraid to cross them, because it would imperial his New Deal and reform legislation, so he mostly accommodated them, however much Eleanor fought him on it.

“Harry ‘I told them the truth and they thought it was hell’ Truman was less shy about it: when congress wouldn’t act on it, he took it upon himself and desegregated the armed forces and banned discrimination in federal agencies. Because he did that, my parents met. And even then, they had to keep their relationship secret for another 20 years, because it was illegal in Missouri. It took the Supreme Court, nominated by elected presidents and confirmed by elected senators, ruling interracial marriage legal for the bans to go away, and even then, the letter of the law vs the spirit it’s enforced with . . . well, you’re a smart enough man to know the difference, even if you may not be able to truly understand it.” He looked over Bucky’s shoulder, a weary, haunted look in his eyes.

“They had a hard, fear-full life. Every election, every vote, every bill, threatened to upend them and our family apart. Maybe segregation by race was illegal, but you’d be surprised how easily you can have the same effects, if you’re creative enough and mask it enough. The devil and hatred hide in those mundane packets you find so boring, buried in the details they assume most people won’t be bothered to read.” He gestured to the packet sitting on his desk. “Yet, in the face of all that, my parents had love. They managed to have each other. They had me. But they shouldn’t have had to live in that fear in the first place.

“So Bucky, I do this because decisions are made every day, big and small, that affect every single aspect of every single life in this country, and they will be made by whoever’s in the room, and growing up the way I did, I decided that was going to be me. Because my grandparents and great-grandparents fought and died so that they could have their voices heard, and people like me or my parents never had the luxury of choosing not to. Because while I disagree with Ms. Fontaine about many things, she’s not wrong about this: that often, you may be stuck between a not-as-good guy and a worse guy, and that can be the difference between you surviving or losing everything. They are never equally bad. There is hatred and greed all around us, and it’s people like you and me that can hold them accountable, but only if we have the numbers and bills to back us up. We have the majority now, but a bad news cycle, an apathetic midterms, a half-assed special election, and that can change, and people can get hurt or worse.”

Bucky could only stare. What could he say to that? “I . . . see,” He tried lamely.

Yet, Gary nodded anyway. “So you see, son, I don’t think your jobs are that different, at their heart. With your friends, you may save us from monsters and supervillains, but here, we help keep people safe from monsters and supervillains who are even more dangerous, in their mundanity. In one, you fight, in the other, you whip up votes and keep your Avengers recognized and funded, even if one day you get too old to land a punch.” He gave Bucky a smile. “But more importantly, Bucky, you have a good heart. You may be clumsy with it, but you want to do good, and I can see you have the potential to be fantastic at this, if you want it.

“So I just want you to think, Bucky, is where do you think you can do the most good, and if they are as mutually exclusive as you seem to think they are. What do you want out of your life?”

What do you want, Bucky?

He was getting real tired of that question.

Gary didn’t wait for an answer; he seemed like he didn’t expect one, anyway. Instead, he just stepped away from his desk and clicked off his presentation. “I’ll have my people email you a revised packet and we’ll talk more about it next week. I’ve kept you from your friends long enough.”

“They’re not my . . . ,” He trailed off. He could count the number of friends he had on one hand, and whatever Gary thought, he preferred it that way. “They’re my team. Coworkers.”

“I never said they weren’t.” Gary raised an eyebrow. “I’m just saying that those two things don’t have to be mutually exclusive. And maybe you might feel better, if they weren’t.” He clapped Bucky on the flesh-and-blood shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Give my best to Captain Walker for his what’s-it tomorrow. My kids are looking forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Ava glanced down at her hand, and then back at the card sitting at the center of the table, where Bob had ever-so casually tossed it.

It mocked her.

“Fuck you.” She muttered as she reluctantly drew four cards. Of course they were all different colors.

“Don’t forget a fifth card,” Bob said; if he heard her curse, he ignored it. “You forgot to say Uno.”

“The fuck I will,” She snapped. “You have eyes and you can count: why the hell do I have to tell you I have one card?”

“It’s the rules,” He shrugged, that infuriating unphased smile still on his face. She couldn’t tell if he was still suicidal or if he had just faced death by Uno cards shoved down his throat so many times before that it had no effect.

“Do you see a referee here?” Ava made an exaggerated look around the room. Bob just pointed at Yelena, who had been smirking into her glass of sparkling water. Ava wasn’t sure why she was looking so pleased, given that she was holding what looked like half the deck. Admittedly, that was partially because both she and Bob had ganged up on her after she had tried to pull an early lead, but once comfortably vanquished, Bob had turned his sights onto her, like the traitorous wanker he was. All he had offered by way of apology was a half-hearted shrug, as if that was just the game. Well, she would not be there to save him the next time Walker gave him shit.

But that would potentially make Walker happy, and she couldn’t have that, either.

Bob, that smug bastard: he had put her in a moral quandary and was sipping his tea like he had no idea that’s what he was doing.

Speaking of Walker . . . Ava temporarily set aside plotting Bob’s demise and distantly wondered how the taping was going. Earlier that day, Mel had showed up with an intern and whisked him away to the upper floor lounge area to do a run through and get things set up—not that there was much to set up. It was just a bloody cooking tutorial, so as long as the kitchen area was stocked, it should be fine. Though they had had to herd a surprised Alexei down here, along with Bob and Yelena, who had both come much more willingly. It was honestly the first time Ava had seen Alexei in a muscle shirt, and while she had noticed some of his tattoos before, she hadn’t known he was nearly covered with them, though some looked pretty faded. How had he gotten them? She thought that super soldiers were more durable and healed quickly—shouldn’t they have been flushed from his skin already?

Yet again, she realized that she hadn’t the slightest idea of how her teammates’ abilities worked.

Still, it seemed that she wasn’t the only one surprised by the tattoos: Yelena’s jaw had fallen at the sight of spider webbing on his elbow, the bird on his left arm, the eight-point stars on his shoulders, among so many others—when he saw her expression, he had mistaken it for awe and had stripped off his shirt, to showcase the rest. Horrific, yes, but seeing Yelena look close to throwing up at the double-headed eagle, the eyeballs, and more had made it worth it. The most confusing tattoo had been the head shot of a black-haired woman near his heart with the word “love” under it—who the hell had that been? The idea of Alexei in a relationship with anyone seemed . . . surreal, to put it politely. Yet, Yelena’s face had softened at the sight of it, like when he had pointed to some names on his upper right arm. While she could guess whose they may be, she also quickly had decided she didn’t care enough to speculate.

It was none of her business, after all.

Still, with Bucky opting to stay down in DC for the weekend and them banished to this level, they had had to pass the time somehow, and Uno had seemed easy enough, compared to the other card games Bob suggested. Alexei had had the patience for two rounds, but after he had gotten hit with another draw 4, he had sworn in Russian and stomped over to the couch to take a nap instead. He only revived when the intern had rushed down the sample pie Walker and Mel had crafted during tech rehearsal, and that was just to steal half of it for himself before he trudged back to the couch. It had smelled good, but she hadn’t touched her piece yet. She wasn’t sure why: Alexei had enjoyed his with abandon, while Bob and Yelena looked quite content, but for some reason, she just hadn’t felt hungry, which was odd. Since Walker had been too distracted to make breakfast, she had only eaten a piece of toast, so it wasn’t like she hadn’t the appetite. Was she just tired?

She glanced over at the clock and winced. It was almost time for the stream to begin. Walker had made them all swear not to watch it, which they of course agreed wholeheartedly and truthfully they wouldn’t tune in. He of course had said nothing about “accidentally” having the TV on and it “coincidentally” being preset to whatever nonsense site their intern said it was on, and the remote had “unexpectantly” disappeared. What else were they supposed to do? Get up and manually turn it off? Read? Go outside? Unreasonable and cruel, each alternative. He’d understand, surely. Besides, they had barely seen him that day and he had skimped on cooking, so it was a fair punishment.

“Uno,” Yelena’s said, her voice carefully neutral. Ava shook her head and stared. True enough, Yelena had somehow managed to get rid of her hand, and judging by the dismayed look on Bob’s face and size of his hand, he was just as surprised by the development as she was. When the hell had that happened? Her gaze darted to her own hand: how had she gone from 6 cards to 14? Had she really been too distracted to notice? Bob shot her a pleading look, silently begging her to stop Yelena, but she could only offer him a hapless shrug. While she had garnered some useful cards, there was no way she could field them in time, not with the green 7 as the current card. Reluctantly, she just set down a yellow 7 and hoped. Yet, Yelena just smirked and slapped a wild draw 4 atop of the pile.

“Dammit.” Bob slammed his cards on the table and crossed his arms. For such a meek man, he certainly had a competitive streak, when he wanted. Which, given their team, was probably a good thing; judging from the satisfied, smug look on Yelena’s face, she certainly didn’t mind. At least it meant he felt comfortable enough around them to show he was annoyed, that seemed like progress of a sort. A healthy sort, she wasn’t completely sure, but who among them could be? She tossed her pile on top of his and shrugged, as if she didn’t care about the loss.

“So . . . ,” Yelena leaned back in her chair and stretched. “Another match?”

“You’re on.” Bob quickly scrooped up the cards and began to expertly shuffle them. He could be dexterous when he wanted to be. Ava wondered if he was familiar with card counting, as well. Given his past, it wasn’t out of the question that he may have at least dabbled in it.

“Pass.” Ava yawned and glanced over at her piece of pie. She should at least try it; after all, if it hadn’t killed her teammates, it was probably safe to eat. How soon was the stream? “Think I’ll just watch you two tear one another apart, instead.” She leaned forward and rested her head in her hand. “Entertain me.”

Bob snorted while Yelena rolled her eyes, but wordlessly took the cards Bob slid over to her. However, right before Yelena could make her first move, the elevator door dinged and a flustered looking intern hurried out, clipboard clutched to his chest and his other hand rested on the lit-up earbud, which they were listening intently through. Ava and Yelena shared a confused glance, but before they could ask, the intern hurried over to them.

“Ms. Starr, Ms. Gold has asked for you.”

“. . . Who?” What kind of nonsense last name was Gold?

“Mel, Ava.” Yelena rolled her eyes. “Mel wants you.”

Right, because that was so obvious. “Did this so-called ‘Ms. Gold’ say what she wanted?”

The man grimaced, like he was tempted to elaborate, but thought better of it. “There seems to be a technical difficulty Ms. Gold wants your help with.”

“Then ‘Ms. Gold’ is going to be sorely disappointed.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. She still had her phasing suit on from their training earlier—run by Alexei again, since Walker was out—and still smelt terrible and she knew she wanted to be nowhere near that film set. “Besides, fixing problems is what she has you for.”

“Stop being shitty and just go.” Yelena reached over and snagged the plate with her pie on it.

Bob shot her an apologetic look. “You weren’t playing this round, anyway, right?”

Ava glared at them both. They weren’t wrong, but it was the principle of the matter: she wasn’t just some henchman Mel could order about. Whatever the woman’s desire to help them, she had to know who was actually in charge here. If they gave in to her on small things like this, it wouldn’t be long until she got the mistaken impression she could order them about. They weren’t just O.X.E. shadow ops anymore. Plus they had tried to murder them, which certainly changed things, but it seemed Yelena still wanted them to play nice for now.

Fine.

She could do nice.

Ava scowled and got to her feet. “Oh, right away, gaffer. I’d hate to displease.” Yelena and Bob looked confused. Good. If Yelena, Alexei, and Bucky could just throw out Russian terms whenever they wanted, it was always satisfying to throw them off with some words of her own. Of course, that left Bob and Walker stuck in the crossover, but she wasn’t feeling particularly sympathetic today. She got to her feet and made a curt bow, which only made Yelena roll her eyes again before she glanced down at her hand: she was acting like Ava had already left, clearly, while Bob winced.

The intern looked relieved. “Great. Follow me to the elevator, Ms. Starr.”

“I think I know the way.” Did this kid think she was a fucking twit? She pointed to the elevator doors. “Could this be it? The big metal ones? That I get in every day?”

The boy at least had the decency to look embarrassed. With a ginger nod, he numbly walked up and hit the “up” button and walked inside. Suppressing her own sigh, Ava followed him and with a parting one-finger salute, they were stepping out into the living room area. The windows blinds were down and Walker nowhere to be seen and a frustrated Mel was standing next to a camera set up on a tripod a few paces away from the kitchenette island. Ava shot the intern a questioning look, but before he could elaborate, Mel dashed over.

“Just the person I wanted to see.”

“I’d have thought that would be the host,” Ava deadpanned, “but what do I know about show business?” She crossed her arms. “What do you really want, Mel?”

Mel looked like she wanted to be annoyed by her tone, but her frustration seemed to win out. “The table read and run through went fine, but now that we’re about to start, Walker’s beginning to get . . . in his head about it.”

“Well, at least he’s not up his arse. Seems like in his head is an improvement.”

“Funny.” Mel gave her an unimpressed look.

“Fuck off.” Ava sighed. “So Walker’s getting nervous. What do you want me to do about it?” This honestly felt more like a Yelena job; pep talks were more her and Alexei’s thing. Like father, like daughter, not that she’d appreciate the comparison.

“Nothing much. Maybe make some jokes at his expense or something,” Mel sighed. “You piss him off but he seems to listen to you.” Well, she could at least vouch for the first part of that statement. “Just distract him enough he’ll sound normal.”

“I thought we wanted people to like him. How is him being himself supposed to help?”

For whatever reason, Mel clapped and pointed at her. “That. Bring that exact energy. Just keep it PG13 and we’ll be good.”

This was getting surreal. The fuck was PG13? Still, getting permission to tease Walker almost seemed to take the fun out of the idea, but who was she to refuse a direct order? “Where is the man child, anyway?”

“Bathroom.” Mel shrugged nonchalantly, but gave her a pleading look. “. . . He’s been in there for a while.”

Ava gawked at the implication. “I’m not checking on him.”

“Come on, Ava,” Mel clasped her hands. “Do me a solid here and I’ll owe you one.”

Ava sighed at the desperation in Mel’s eyes, and reluctantly nodded. “Fine, but only because I’m going to make you regret that offer.” Mel brightened up, either numb to the implied threat or oblivious—knowing her work with Val, the first was far more likely—, and released Ava’s hands. Ava gingerly wiped them on her pants and began to make her way upstairs, muttering to herself. When did she become this white boy’s babysitter?

At the top of the stairs, a distressed intern glanced over at her and a relieved look crossed their face. Seriously, why did everyone assume she would know how to make Walker see sense? The man barely knew what the word meant. She reluctantly nodded and rolled her eyes as the intern backed away, clearly pleased to be relieved of duty.

“Oi, Walker!” She wracked her knuckles against the w.c. door. “You okay in there? Mel was thinking about putting together a search party to find you.” She thought she heard him swear through the door. “You need bog roll? Your pie give you the shits?” The intern’s face flushed but she didn’t care. This was getting fun. “Or are you wanking in there? Did you assume we wouldn’t notice, or is us finding out a part of it for you? You seem like the type who’d have a humiliation kink.” She knocked on the door again; she thought she heard rustling. “It’d explain a lot of your life, honestly. Maybe Mel can relate—there’s no other way she’d survive working for Val this long, right? Do you two talk ab—”

The door flew open and an irate Walker just glowered down at her, his face red—it almost matched the red in his beard. He was wearing an under armour t-shirt and jeans, and his ever-present compression sleeve on his left arm—she genuinely didn’t know if he thought it made him look cool or if was some sort of fitness tactic she was too lazy to look up. More noticeably, he was wearing the apron she had found, though it dangled on him, untied, giving him a slightly disheveled appearance. She just gave him an unimpressed look. “. . . I didn’t hear you wash your hands.”

“Fuck you.” He muttered but he did turn around and head to the sink. She quickly waved the intern away, who more than happily raced down the stairs.

“You were the one giving themselves a quickie in the loo,” Ava called after him. “During work hours, too. How very European of you, Mr. ‘Captain America.’”

Walker just growled to himself as he dried his hands and turned back to face her. “What are you doing here, Starr?”

“Coming back for you. Like I always do.” She deadpanned.

He scoffed. “No, you always come back for an ulterior motive. What is it this time?”

She smirked. He knew her well. “Mel now owes me a favor of my choosing. What more do I need?” The smirk faded as she gave him an assessing look as he tied the apron behind himself (she noticed the apron’s speech bubble had some tape over it, so it just said “I’ll feed all you ers,” which seemed worse, somehow). He seemed generally put together, but he had a slightly manic-ness in his movements. She wondered if he had slept that night. “She seems . . . nervous about your thing.”

“I told her it’ll be fine,” Walker said firmly.

“And yet here I am.” Ava shrugged. “It’s not me you have to convince.” She gave him a sideways look. “. . . Are you fine?” She asked quietly.

Walker scowled and looked ready to give her his usual bluster, but there must have been something in her look that made him reconsider. He took a deep breath through his nose and slowly released it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m . . . fine. Just a little . . . .” He paused, considering his words. “Haven’t done this sort of thing in a while. Feels like the lead up to a game, you know? All the talking’s done, and you just got to wait before you hit the field.” She didn’t understand, but nodded anyway; the sentiment was clear enough, even without firsthand experience.

“That quiet before the game starts . . . ,” He hesitated, before he sighed. He had clearly come to some decision. “. . . It always kinda freaked me out. A bit. I’d just think about what we were gonna do, the plays we couldn’t take back, how things could go wrong . . . you know. But I was captain, so I couldn’t show it—I could be mad, I could be a dick, but I couldn’t be scared, right? So I’d just hide out in the locker room and listen to music and try to pump myself up, get over it. Except back then, when I was nervous, Olivia would . . . ,” a pained look crossed his face, “. . . well, she’d always sneak in and just be there. Even if we didn’t say anything, she’d just give me this look and the pressure felt . . . well, it’d feel lighter.”

He lightly toyed with the ring on his finger, even if he pointedly tried to avoid looking at it. “That’s . . . uh, that’s not gonna happen this time. I made sure of that.” A rueful smile crossed his face. “So I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

Ava looked at Walker, though he avoided meeting her gaze. Honestly, she was a little surprised he had shared that with her. Admittedly, her thought hadn’t been the most helpful, even she’d admit. It was hard not to roll her eyes at how Norman Rockwell the image was: of course the popular high school quarterback had had a vulnerable side that only the head cheerleader could comfort. But that thought felt unfair, even to her. Even if she couldn’t relate, he was clearly hurting and it didn’t feel right, kicking him while he was down.

She tentatively reached out to him, only to think better of it. Touching other people still felt odd, after so long in isolation, and she was worried if she was misreading the social cue—would that be comforting or would it make him feel more uncomfortable? So instead, she just reluctantly raised a fist. “Go bears.”

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, that clearly hadn’t been it. Walker gave her a befuddled look. She immediately regretted everything. “. . . That was your team, right?” She asked. He slowly nodded, the confused look still on his face. What a dense sod. Still, in for a pound and all that . . . it’d be more embarrassing to change course, now. “Go Bears. You can do it. Rah-rah.” Why did every football chant she had ever heard suddenly leave her mind? Sure, most of those were more focused on taking the piss, but better than whatever bullocks this was. “Gooooo team. Go maul the fuckers.” She raised her hands in the air. That seemed generic enough to work, judging by the slow look of recognition dawning on Walker’s face. “I know it’s not lead cheerleader shit, but you get what you get.”

Walker was speechless and she was tempted to punch him. That been humiliating and the least he could do was act like it had been helpful. As Ava’s hands curled into fists, a smile broke across Walker’s face and he lightly chuckled as he shook his head. She raised a fist but stayed her hand. “That was a terrible cheer.”

“Fuck yourself,” Ava retorted. “That was an amazing chant.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall.

“I could make a better one in my sleep.”

“Then do it; better than when you’re awake and we have to deal with you.” She rolled her eyes but felt her lips twitch into a reluctant smile. This was so stupid. “How are you feeling now?”

“Not inspired, that’s for damn sure,” Walker said. “If anything, I’m less motivated than I was before.”

This time, she reached over and shoved him before she could second guess it. For some reason, he just chuckled again. Good, she had read the cue correctly, that time. “Then go down there and get this over with. You’d hate to disappoint your one non-asshole fan.”

“Oh yeah?” He gave her a teasing smirk. “And who’d that be?”

Ava hesitated; she hadn’t had anyone in particular in mind, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a half-assed “your mum” (partially because it felt lazy, but also she got the general impression they may not be on the best terms and she only just got him out of his funk). “You’d break poor Bob’s heart,” She improvised. “And then Yelena would have to break yours, literally.”

“. . . Fair point,” He sighed. “Yeah, I could see that happening.”

She was briefly tempted to ask him what he thought was going on with those two, but quickly squashed the urge: outside of him having the emotional intelligence of a spade, it just felt so childish. Instead, she just gestured to the stairs and he sighed. “Rah. Rah.” She shook her hands as if there were pompoms in them. He snorted back a laugh and made his way down the hall; the interns and Mel applauded as he made his way down the stairs; Ava could picture him doing that stiff acknowledging wave that public figures so often did, and she rolled her eyes. Still, she supposed she should get back downstairs and rejoin the others—maybe she could talk Alexei into rejoining the Uno match.

With a firm nod to herself, she got to the stairs, but before she could take a step, she saw Mel notice her and wave her down. Walker had taken his place behind the kitchenette island and was setting out different ingredients (including the different sugars they had worked so hard to track down) and utensils, while one intern had station themselves behind the camera while the other worked on the clip-on microphone. Mel waved her down again and Ava sighed: she was briefly tempted to sink through the floor, but she knew that would just piss Mel off and she’d hate to cash in her favour so early.

“What?” She hissed to Mel after stomping her way down the stairs; Walker had cast her a confused look, clearly wondering why she was suddenly pissed, but she had just waved him off. “I was just leaving. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Mel shot her an appreciative smile that was too little, too late. “I mean it, but could you stick around? In case we need help again?”

“With what?” Ava gestured to the kitchen area. “You got him, he’s getting ready. What else is there?”

“Just trust me on this.” Mel said, her hands raised in surrender. “Maybe nothing. If it is, then you get two favours. Humour me.”

Ava crossed her arms and shifted her weight, trying her best to keep her temper from flaring. She just wanted to leave, but . . . the favour was tempting, but she’d be lying if she wasn’t slightly worried that the video thing would go wrong. Not that was particularly sure what she could do about that, but a small part of her would feel slightly guilty if it went south and she could have done something to help salvage it. It was probably because an angsty, pouting Walker was no fun for literally any of them.

“Fine.” She shook her head and took a step back. “Your word.”

“Cross my heart,” Mel nodded, before turning back to the interns. “Everything ready?”

“Walker’s mic is hot,” Intern 1 gave a thumbs up.

“Camera’s on, and we got people in the wait room.” Intern 2 called over from the laptop.

“You good, Walker?” Mel called over. “Everything set up?”

Walker had just finished setting down a bowl with some washed granny smith apples stacked in a bowl, and there was now a frying pan sitting on the stove to the right of them. He looked up from the island and shot them that crooked smile of his, but it seemed hesitant to her, compared to his usual smugness. Maybe she was just seeing things, though, since Mel just shot him a thumbs up. “Okay, we’ll go live in 15 seconds. Remember the main points: thank them for the support, you wanted to do the show to thank them, plug the team, buy licensed merch. You got this!” She glanced back at Intern 2, who began to count down. Once he hit 5, he mouthed the final few seconds, counting them off on his upraised hand, before making a figure gun to Walker.

They were live.

“Uh,” Walker opened; he attempted a wave, but it looked stilted, the smile hollow. “How y’all doin’?” The silence that followed echoed throughout the room and Ava felt her guts clinch. Sure, the talk show was hard enough as it was, but she had never considered just how different it’d be not to see the people you were talking to and judging by the awkward look on his face, it seemed he hadn’t either.

Mel sighed quietly and cupped her hands. “Fine, John! How about you?”

Walker blinked, caught off guard by Mel’s intervention, but the smile began to look less forced. “Glad to hear it, Mel. It’s been . . . a weird week, but been having a lot of those, lately, so maybe it’s normal? I dunno.” He glanced down. “I’m, uh, wearing an apron. Been a while since I had to. This one is, uh, a gift . . . from a friend.” He paused. “I guess I have those again. Like I said, it’s been a weird few weeks.”

Ava snorted before she could stop herself. She wasn’t used to Walker self-depreciating; that was more of a Bob or Bucky thing. Walker must have heard her, because he began to relax a little more.

“But yeah, apparently somebody just drew it up and sold a bunch of them,” He pointed to the tape. “We, uh, did have to cover it up a little bit. Mel said we couldn’t say the word on the stream, which I think is stupid, but she’s the boss, so fine. Not like you can’t guess what it says, anyway. She also wanted me to say buy official licensed merchandise, and yeah, that’d be nice, but c’mon, this is hilarious. So go do what you like. Live and all that.” Mel sighed and Walker pivoted. “But yeah, we apparently got some cool stuff too. I don’t know, I haven’t looked. That’d be weird, right? Looking at your own merch? ”

Of course, she knew that Walker would be the exact type of person to do that, but she bit her lip. This didn’t seem to be going too badly, from what she could tell. Bit stream of conscious style, but that seemed to be okay. She dared to glance over the intern’s shoulder to see what the chat comments were saying. They seemed to be generally amused by him so far, though there were a few people chiming in with “murderer” and “fascist” before the Intern quickly tapped a few keys and removed them. How they were keeping up with the rapid comments, Ava couldn’t even begin to guess.

“Um . . . , yeah,” He looked up at the camera and froze again. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he seemed to forget what he wanted to say.

“Why are you wearing an apron?” Mel called again.

He shook his head and looked down, almost as if surprised he was wearing it, despite having just talked about it. The hair on the back of Ava’s neck stood up. Something was off. “Right, that, well, last time I was . . . I talked about . . . ,” He rested his hands on the kitchenette island, but Ava could see his fingers gripping the lip of the counter. What was bothering him? He was making a bloody pie. “We, uh, we talked about cooking.” He finished lamely and winced, almost like his head hurt. Even he could tell this wasn’t landing; it was like now that he had to look straight into the camera, his walnut-sized brain had gone blank. He seemed . . . sluggish. Why? This seemed to go beyond mere stage fright.

Suddenly, Ava felt Mel’s hand on her back and heard her hiss “Get in there, for the love of God.”

“What the hell do you expect me to do?” She hissed back. With his enhanced hearing, Walker should have been able to hear them, but for some reason, if he did hear them, he did a good job acting oblivious to it.

“Strip? Dance? Shit? Literally anything to shake him out of whatever the hell this is.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Denied.” Mel said bluntly, before she shoved Ava forward and into the camera’s line of sight. Ava could just gawk back at her. That bitch. Meanwhile, Mel just shot her an apologetic frown and pointed at Walker, who still seemed appeared zoned out. As surreal as the moment was, it was disconcerting to see him so dissociated with the situation: the fact that Walker hadn’t even acknowledged her, much less reacted to her stumbling into his shot was alarming, and her concern won out over her anger at Mel, at least for the moment. But what the fuck could she do? What if she walked up to him and couldn’t snap him out of it? They were live; they’d see the failure and know this wasn’t a bit, and he’d be humiliated, or worse.

If words weren’t getting his attention, maybe feelings would.

But what?

Casually, she brushed her suit off and straightened it, taking her sweet time. Maybe if she acted like it was deliberate, it’d buy them time, or at least her time to figure something out, since Mel was being of absolutely no help whatsoever. Ava gazed over the ingredients, most of who had to be room temperature by that moment, so they probably wouldn’t get his attention. Maybe something cold? That at least wouldn’t hurt him. Well, compared to her pouring boiling water on him, as tempting as it was—besides, as a supersolider, he’d probably barely notice the pain—and more importantly, it’d take too long. No, something really cold was a better shot, especially with the freezer box right behind him.

That decided, she feigned nonchalance and casually walked around the counter; she tried not to turn her head and look at the camera. For this to work, she had to act like it was planned, and if she looked, she knew it would break the illusion. Yet again, Walker didn’t stir: his mind had apparently skived off, it seemed. When this was over, Mel was owing her triple, but also, they were going to have to get to the bottom of whatever this shit was. They couldn’t afford him freezing up during more opportune moments. As annoying as it was that Mel had kept her around just as bait for the wolves, she couldn’t say that the instincts were off-base, which was irksome in its own right.

She didn’t even acknowledge Walker was there as she passed behind him. If she was going to sell this as a bit, she could only acknowledge him once whatever she pulled out of her ass was in motion. She just prayed that someone had remembered to stock the freezer and give her something to work with. She exaggeratedly stroked her chin in thought as she steeled her nerves and eased the freezer door open. A drawn out look to her left and to her right to really sell it, a silent prayer sent to any god that would listen, and she looked inside; she tried not to wince as the wave of cold air hit her straight in the face. Fortunately for her, there were a few options to pick from: one or two ice packs, a small pile of frozen veggies, a half-eaten pint of ice cream, though whose it was, she couldn’t even begin to guess. Probably Bob’s, and as tempted as she was to use, she needed something faster to work with. The ice cubes could be a possible solution, but that felt like it introduced too many variables. No, the only viable path was through the frozen veggies.

Her mother would be so disappointed, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

She spotted a bag of frozen peas and quickly snatched them. A smirk firmly forced on her lips, she gently set it on to Walker’s head; he was nearly half a foot taller than her, but she managed to make it work without resorting to her tiptoes, for which she was grateful; her pride wouldn’t have tolerated it, otherwise. As if it were an afterthought, she quickly retrieved two glasses and plopped some ice cubs into them, before pouring some water from a pitcher she found in the fridge. Keeping her deliberate pace, she took a long, loud sip from her glass as she set the other in front of Walker, who still hadn’t stirred. She tried to glance at Mel over the lip of her glass, but no luck: the lighting just made it too difficult to see her expressions, beyond a shadowy silhouette.

At least the water was refreshing.

Ava casually leaned forward against the counter and bored, rotated her glass to swirl the water around, and listened as the ice cubes colliding against each other and the brim in a satisfying way. She glanced up at Walker, who still seemed to be zoned out, but the bag of frozen peas on his head seemed to be helping in some way: he was moving his head slightly, like a tranquilized dog trying to shake something off its back. Thinking quickly, Ava plucked some semi-melted ice cubes from Walker’s glass and, with her free hand, raised her finger to lips, as if shushing the audience, before she reached over and gently pushed the ice cubes into Walker’s hand; his hand instinctively closed around them.

Now that seemed to do something.

As the ice melted in his hand and the condensation from the pea bag began to drip down Walker’s face, he began to stir more strongly, and Ava couldn’t deny that she had felt a sense of relief flood through her as his eyes refocused and looked more alert.

Whatever that episode had been, Walker was back.

He blinked slowly at first, as if he were reorienting himself. “. . . What the he—Starr?” He slowly plucked the bag of semi-thawed peas from his head and shook his wet hand dry, “what are you doing here?”

She gave a hapless shrug, “I live here. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m working,” He gritted his teeth as he held out the peas as if they had offended him. “Do I even want to know about these?”

She felt her lips threaten to twitch into a smirk, “Must have been that infamous tower ghost they’re always talking about. Mischievous bugger. Just when I wanted bangers and mash, too—it must have known you were hot-headed enough to heat them properly.”

“. . . How considerate of it,” Walker rolled his eyes as he threw the peas back into the freezer.

“Like you’d know cultured food, Walker,” Ava retorted while resting her elbows on the counter. “It’s better than this cliché apple pie nonsense you have going on.” She gestured to ingredients he had prepared. He looked tempted to ask her how she had known it was an apple pie, before his eyes rested on the stack of apples and the pie tin and he just sighed.

“. . . Just go away,” He said as he pinched the bridge of his nose in a way that would make Bucky proud, if he ever knew about it. She doubted he’d watch this. “

“Can’t.” Ava grinned and straightened up.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Oh, the second one, for sure,” She crossed her arms and shifted her weight. She was still worried about . . . whatever that episode had been, but now that he was closer to his usual self, pushing his buttons just felt more normal. She had no idea if this was helping Mel or hurting her, but given she had already promised three favours, she couldn’t really care less. “So you may as well get this show started. Pretend I’m not even here.”

He snorted, “Easier said than done.”

She rolled her eyes, “And since when have you ever done literally anything the easy way?” He glowered down at her, but she just cocked an eyebrow and dared him to find an example. After a second, her challenging expression unchanged, she gestured towards the camera. “Eyes on your adoring public; God forbid, they think you forgot about them.”

“Oh, you can just fu—” His eyes widened as he caught himself. He shook his head as if it’d help him forget she was there. “. . . At least make yourself useful and heat up the oven to 425.”

“How much?” She approached the oven as Walker turned back to the camera and opened his mouth to address the audience again, before she interjected. “Even the bloody sun would think that was too hot.”

He didn’t even bother looking back, but he groaned loudly anyway. “Fahrenheit and you damn well knew that.”

“How was I to know?” She dutifully turned the knob to until it said 425. “Anyone with a brain would have assumed Celsius. Like everywhere else in the bloody world.”

“Welcome to the one place on earth that has its shit together,” He snorted, but even from the side, she could see he had an amused smirk that took the bite out of it.

“Oh, you really don’t want me pulling that thread,” Ava scoffed. “Besides, there’s a few other countries that use it, so you’re not even right in that.”

He just gave her a flat look. “Why are you talking like you didn’t make us use Fahrenheit to begin with?”

“Oh, my mistake, let me pop right off in my time machine, shall I?” She rolled her eyes. “And I’ve told you I’m not even British.”

“That accent begs to differ, go’ve-na,” Walker smirked as he began to organize his ingredients. “Anyways, thank you for your patience, y’all, like she wa—”

“Oh, don’t even think I’m going to let that one go,” She said, hands on her hips. “I literally told you I grew up in Argentina last week.”

“Yeah, like the Boys from Brazil,” He shook his head irritably. “Doesn’t mean they weren’t German.”

Her jaw fell. This man was infuriating. “Do you even hear yourself, when you talk? Or are you spared the pain and just hear a dull buzzing sound?”

“I’ve been hearing a dull buzzing sound but it’s whenever you’re speaking, so,” he shrugged. “make your own conclusions. I can’t hear them anyway.” Somehow, he anticipated her attempt to kick him in the shin and lifted his foot, which only made her more irritated. “Speaking of making, about this pie.”

“Oh sure, let the U.S. Agent teach us all about apple pie,” Ava rolled her eyes; in the back of her mind, she could hear her mother threatening her that her eyes would get stuck like that, but as much as she loved her mum, her mum had never had to deal with John. F. Walker. “What’s next week, baseball?”

Walker at least had the decency to look slightly sheepish; he glanced away and muttered, “. . . Football.”

She barked out a laugh, “Footie? Good for you. I was concerned you were going to waste your viewers’ time, but at least they’ll learn one helpful thing from this.” She held up her hand to cut Walker off before he even began. “I know you meant the American rugby knockoff. I was just giving myself a few seconds to imagine a world where you weren’t an idiot.”

“And I imagined a world where you stayed on topic; guess we’re both disappointed.” Walker snapped, before he paused, as if realizing he had just basically admitted he was a moron, and groaned. “Oh God dammit.”

“No takebacks, Walker,” Ava grinned and casually leaned against the counter behind her and crossed her arms. “Just embrace that moment of self-awareness.”

“Oh fu—screw you.”

“The bold, defiant words of a defeated man,” Ava shrugged. “Truly, it’s sad to see it, but immensely satisfying.”

Walker looked like he wanted to retort, but he took a deep breath instead and focused back on the camera. “Speaking of immensely satisfying, apple pie—.”

Ava began to slow clapt the segue and whistled. “What a professional, ladies and gents.”

“Will you just—?” He threw his hands up in the air. “Okay?”

“No,” She shrugged. “Use your words. I know you have them somewhere.”

“Are you sure you didn’t steal them? Wouldn’t be the first thing.”

“Can’t steal what was never there, Walker. Like your brain.”

“Or maybe you just weren’t good enough to find them.” He shrugged. “Must be all that ‘bangers and mash’ turning your brain to mush.”

Now it was her turn to groan, “The sharpness of your wit couldn’t cut through paper.”

“Seems to do fine enough against you, so if anything, that says more about you than it does me.”

The absolute cheek of him. Unfortunately, before she could deliver her scathing retort, the oven beeped: the preheat was done. Walker raised an eyebrow to her and gestured pointedly at the ingredients and she reluctantly sighed and gestured for him to proceed. She’d get him back later, but for all her teasing, he had been right that they were dragging this out unnecessarily.

“Anyway,” Walker said, his focus purely on the camera in front of them. Despite herself, Ava did feel pleased: compared to that baffling stage fright earlier, he seemed much more himself now. “So we have the oven set for 425 Fahrenheit,” he shot a glare back at her and she just stuck her tongue out, “but we’re not gonna keep it there. That’s just for the first 15 minutes: after that point, we’re gonna take down to 350 for the last 35 to 45 minutes, or so, but before we can worry about that, we’re gonna have to actually put the thing together.

“So we’re looking at two phases here,” He raised a hand to count them off, “First, we have to make the filling, and second, dealing with the crust and getting the filling in there. The filling’s going to be simple enough: you need half a cup of unsalted butter, half cup of brown sugar, half cup of white sugar, about 3 tablespoons of flour, and a fourth a cup of water.” He gestured to each of the ingredients in front of him as he said their name. “Just remember the golden rule: measurements in cooking are suggestions—you feel that shit in your heart, but in baking, it actually matters; if you want the thing to be edible, don’t . . . f around with it. Don’t mess around, won’t have to find out.

“Speaking of . . . ,” he jerked his head in her direction while he picked up a measuring cup to illustrate, “if any of you are watching from England or wherever, the measurements are different. A U.S. tablespoon holds about 14 and half ml, but British ones, for some reason known only to crazy people, holds like almost 19 ml, and that difference adds up. Same with cups: some people like to say a cup is 4 oz, but we normally say a cup is about 8 oz, so double check these before you try it at home.”

“You really know your onions, eh, Walker?” Ava kept a teasing tone, but part of her was genuinely surprised he seemed to know what he was talking about.

He paused and set the measuring cup down. The absolutely gormless look he shot her made her bite her lower lip to keep from laughing. “. . . We’re baking a pie; the hell would onions have to do with it?”

A snicker escaped, which only made him look more baffled; he even tilted his head like a confused dog, and it was too much. Another snicker slipped out, and Walker became even more flustered. “What’s so damn funny? You’re the one being crazy.” He snapped and turned to face her. “I don’t know what sort of messed up pies you grew up with, but here in the ole’ U.S. of A., we don’t put God damn onions in there.”

The dam burst: Ava cackled and smacked the counter, which only made Walker look to the camera and raise his hands. “What the fu—hell am I missing here?”

“I-It means,” Ava forced out as she tried to calm down; her sides hurt. Had she laughed this hard before? This place was making her soft. “You’re acting clever, you eejit.”

“How the hell was I supposed to guess that?” He demanded; she could imagine him stomping his foot like a petulant child and another cackle forced its way out. “Just say clever.”

She shook her head and took a deep breath to calm herself down. “D-did you skive off when they taught idioms at uni?” Ava rolled her eyes. “I’m taking the piss, git.”

“Piss?” Walker blinked, his confusion briefly overcoming his irritation, and he looked back at Mel, who even through the lighting Ava could see was biting her cheek. Clearly, she at least was cultured enough to know what it meant. “Can we even say that? They gonna have to edit that out?”

Mel looked down at her tablet to avoid his gaze, but the device couldn’t hide her shaky grin. “The viewers say we’re fine. Just keep going.”

Walker rolled his eyes and shook his head as he grumpily reached for the measuring cup again. “‘Taking the piss’,” He muttered; he could do a surprisingly decent impression of her, not that she’d ever admit that to his face. “. . . What sort of kinky shit is that supposed to be?”

“I’m making fun of you, you tosser.”

“And piss somehow equals fun in England?” A smirk touched his lips while he filled the measuring cup about a fourth of the way with water “No wonder they need so much damn tea.”

Now, personally, Ava didn’t really care that much about tea—sure, it tasted fine, but it wasn’t like she had had much of it growing up, between the orphanage and S.H.I.E.L.D. labs, but like hell was she going to give John F. Walker (the “F.” standing for “fucking,” from what she could tell) the satisfaction of knowing that; even if England wasn’t her home country, she wasn’t going to let this smug prick win. “Yes, because real drinks are more than sugar and protein powder.” She leaned over the counter and propped her head up, as if bored. “Besides, tea? I thought you were more original, Walker.”

“I’m sorry,” John scoffed. “I was Captain America, not Captain UK or whatever ‘wankers’ call it.”

Ava raised her free hand to her mouth in a fake gasp, “You were Captain America? I had no idea! How could I have missed that news the two whole minutes it lasted? Must have been in the loo.”

Walker glared down at her; unfazed, she just smirked up at him, but she hoped it looked more playful than meanspirited. She knew the Captain America incident was still a sore point and she was plenty mean, but not that mean. It had been meant to annoy him, not hurt him, especially not in front of his live stream or whatever Mel had called it, but even she could admit that she didn’t always know quite where the line was between the two.

He continued to stare at her, an unreadable expression on his face and despite her sustained smirk, her stomach clenched. Had she pushed too hard? Should she—well, definitely not apologize, but say something else? Bring the focus back to his stupid video? That was what Mel had wanted her to do, right?

Before Ava could make up her mind, she was distracted by a soft exhale. The corners of Walker’s lips twitched into a small, soft smile as he made what could only be described as a scoff and a snort, and suddenly, Ava found her train of thought slowing.

He shook his head slowly and . . . was that some fondness? That couldn’t be right. “Uh, no . . . no, it-it was more like ten minutes. It was pretty nice . . . until it wasn’t. But the first nine minutes . . . ?” He trailed off, and his gaze seemed to unfocus, as if whatever he was looking at wasn’t in the room with them.

“Do you miss it?” She heard herself quietly ask, but it sounded distant, like it was coming from someone else. What the hell was she asking?

“Honestly?” He shook his head, as if trying to shake a memory loose, but that slight softness to his face, that slight glimmer of self-awareness that appeared every so often, remained. “Parts of it. Lemar getting the attention he deserved. The people we helped. Serving with him.” Ava blinked; what the hell triggered this sort of vulnerability? “This was his favorite recipe to make. Well, eat; he always made me cook more, even in high school. But he liked it, so I guess I was doing something right.”

“Or he was just being nice,” Ava instinctively replied, and then winced. That definitely felt like it was more cutting than intended.

To her surprise, Walker just chuckled fondly. “Yeah, he just may have been. He always was too kind for his own good. His family’s the same way. Just the best people.” He began to set aside the measuring cup, satisfied the water was sufficient and began to reach for the bag of flour. “And Mrs. Hoskins makes a peach cobbler that’ll make your soul leave your body. Add some ice cream and you may as well die: you’ll never taste anything better.”

Ava continued to look nonchalant, but she couldn’t help but be distantly reminded of Scott Lang, of all people. Him and that family of his. Sure, she hadn’t gotten to interact with them much, beyond trying to kidnap them and fight them, but even when things had calmed down (well, before the Blip fucked everything to hell), when Scott would wax on about his daughter or Hope or even Dr. Pym or his ex-con hanger-ons, he would wear a soft smile just like that.

Not for the first time, she couldn’t help but wonder: if the Blip hadn’t happened and Lang hadn’t disappeared, could things have gone differently? Could she be able to recount memories with that look on her face, too?

The memories she had with Bill Foster, the less painful ones, held some treasured moments, but too many of the rest left her wincing in shame to really look back on them fondly. In hindsight, even she could see that she often be cruel to him and he would just take it, with that ever-patient gaze that made her feel vulnerable. Sure, she had been dying at the time—not that she was exactly normal now—, but that still didn’t make her feel any better about it. Seeing his patient, kind face get that disappointed look when she tried to target Lang’s daughter, it was gutting. How hurt he had looked as she had thrown his promises to fix her back in his face when he refused to go along with it.

Nothing had felt the same after that.

Even after Pym’s wife had healed her enough to stabilize her molecules and take the chronic pain away, whenever Bill would show her kindness, whatever he would say to her while they were on the run up until . . . until the end, in the back of her mind, she would still just see that same disappointment. Like he had finally seen her for the terrible person she actually was, and it had shaken him.

She had loved Bill like he was her father, but that only made the memory all the more painful. Yes, he had seemed to have forgiven her, but even now, she still felt like she had come up short to what he had hoped she’d become. It wasn’t helped that her condition still hadn’t stabilized fully. She still needed the suit to avoid her molecules falling apart completely, especially in high pressure situations, and to her regret, even on the run, even with the world in chaos after the Blip, Bill had still committed himself to improving her suits, coaching her—anything to keep her safe. He had given her literally everything he had had: his career, his every waking thought, his life, and what had she given him in return? Nothing but lost years, grief, and disappointment.

She suppressed a shudder at the memory of that . . . whatever Yelena had called it. Shame Room? The memory of her threatening Lang’s child and Bill looking like he had never truly seen her before. The rage and desperation on her face as she had yelled at him and essentially accused him of betraying her. The shame that ate away at her guts at the knowledge that, even if she could go back in time and choose differently, she knew that she still would have gone after the little girl if Bill hadn’t stopped her. That, if left to her own devices, she would have thrown away every value he had ever tried to teach her to survive.

Maybe he shouldn’t have ever wasted his time on her to begin with.

Maybe Walker could relate, in his own way. He certainly seemed to have a list of people he had let down close at hand. Her eyes flicked to the gold wedding band he still wore. Even when baking, he wanted to keep it on. Perhaps it was out of guilt? A hope that maybe his wife won’t send him divorce papers? Or maybe it was just habit, plain and simple.

“Starr, you there?”

Ava blinked and stared up at Walker. The flour bag was unsealed and he was holding out his open hand to her, as if he had asked her to hand him something. Slightly flushed in embarrassment, Ava straightened up and looked at him.

“What, captain?” She forced.

“Was just asking for the tablespoon.” He pointed at the big—well, it seemed big compared to its siblings—metal spoon sitting on the counter. She quickly scooped it up and shoved it into his waiting palm. She was slightly surprised to feel how calloused the underside of his hands still felt: with all that healing factor, she had figured that his body would have replaced them. Maybe there were more rules to whatever the serum did than she had thought. “. . . You good there?” She shook her head and quickly pulled her hand back; she must be exhausted, with how much her mind had been wandering.

“I will be, once we get this over with.” She sighed. “Unlike you, some of us have actual things to do besides bake the cake for your pity party.”

“As I recall, you invited yourself,” John sighed. “Besides, we’re making a pie. Totally not the same thing.”

“Oh really, soldier boy?” She rolled her eyes. “You tell me the difference, then.”

He gave her a baffled look, which made her feel more comfortable. That was closer to normal. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m sorry.” She rested her hands on her hips. “Not all of us got to eat much of either, growing up. Humour me.”

Ava almost smirked at the conflicted expression on Walker’s face, his annoyance at war with his empathy. She could see a trace of guilt; while she hadn’t provided too many specifics, he had at least gotten the gist that her childhood hadn’t exactly been typical . . . even now, she could count the number of times she had eaten either delicacy on one hand.

Or possibly any hand. With how obsessed her father had been with his work and how much he had funneled into it, she hadn’t had many opportunities for such things, even before the accident.

“Pies have a dough crust that is filled with whatever sort of pie you’re making—key lime, pecan, apple, they all got a very different thing goin’, but still pie. Cake, you have to mix into a batter first before you bake it—it can have stuff in it, too, but it’s usually spread all over the inside, not just between two layers, like a pie is.”

Ava blinked; she hadn’t expected a real answer. “. . . Nerd.” She coughed into a cupped hand.

Walker rolled his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, exasperation etched on his face. “You are such a brat.”

“Not as bad as being a prat.” She lightly backhanded his stomach and pointedly ignored the feeling of his abs through the fabric. “You’d know all about that.”

“Okay, that one you have to be making up.” He shook his head ruefully. “Just because you say a word doesn’t make it real.”

“All words are made up,” She retorted lazily as she flicked some dust off her sleeve. She probably looked silly, still wearing her phasing suit while Walker was decked out in his backyard grilling apparel. “But just because you’re less cultured than a yogurt cup doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

When Walker didn’t reply, Ava glanced back at him. He was giving her a considering look that, while not unpleasant, still made her feel unsettled. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged and resumed scooping out flour from the bag. “Just didn’t expect the yogurt fact. Seemed a little too highbrow for you.”

“Oh, really?” She rolled her eyes. “I was raised by scientists, but sure, do go on how out of character it is for me.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that.” Walker raised his free hand in mock surrender, though if his middle finger lingered a hair longer in the air than the others, she decided to ignore it. “It’s just I think I’ve become pretty familiar with your comebacks by now, and that’s a new one. What, were you just sitting, waiting—no, praying for the day when I’d set you up for a yogurt pun to show off? Seems like you’re more of a nerd than me.”

She glared at him and briefly considered shoving him, but she had to be the bigger person—at least until the camera turned off. “Don’t be jealous just because I’ve read a book in my life, Walker. Maybe you should try it.”

“Graduated West Point.” He shrugged modestly, as if she would have any idea what that was. “Lotta reading. Didn’t do too shabby, for the officer’s track. Made it to captain, and all.”

And how did that go? but the retort died on her tongue. That was clearly a low blow and for all the teasing they were doing, it was more on the lighthearted side. Instead, she just sighed and saluted him, her palm facing outward. “Well, excuse me, Captain Walker. Permission to piss off?”

“Denied.” He snorted, and a grin crossed his face, though he didn’t take his eyes off the ingredients he was organizing. “I do have a first name, you know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She shook her head, but for some reason, seeing him grin like that made the corners of her mouth twitch upward. She couldn’t deny that it was nice seeing Walker have less of a stick up his ass, especially with how gloomy he had been lately. “Pretty sure it’s just ‘Captain.’”

“It’s John and you damn well know that.”

“Ah yes, the most generic of names, for the most generic of men,” She sighed. “How ever could I have forgotten such a unique cowboy name as ‘John Walker’? Apologies, you must be tired after your long day of filming with John Wayne—does he really talk like that or is it just a choice?”

To her utter surprise, instead of getting mad, Walker actually laughed. Not just a sarcastic chuckle like he usually did: it was brief, but damned if it didn’t make her jump. Was it really that funny?

“This coming from Ava Starr? You sound like a 70s David Bowie groupie.” The laugh died down to a small chuckle. “You should really get off your high horse there, Ava.”

Despite herself, Ava felt her cheeks warm, though from annoyance or . . . or whatever, she didn’t particularly care. Okay, hearing Walker use her first name like that definitely hit differently. Sure, perhaps it was because he used it so rarely compared to the others, but still, she’d rather die than let him know she didn’t mind how it sounded when he said it.

“Don’t think I will, thanks.” She turned her back to the camera and the smirking Mel, and just leaned against the counter and casually crossed her arms. “You’re just mad it likes me more.”

“Knew you were a horse girl as a kid.” John snorted, before he paused. “Wait, I thought I was the cowboy?” He cocked an eyebrow, an amused smirk on his face.

“Oh, shut up.”

Walker laughed again and dammit, maybe it was because it was novel, but something about making him laugh made her feel accomplished somehow. She didn’t appreciate losing the round, but there’d be plenty of time to make him regret that later.

“Don’t you have a pie to start? You’re boring the poor viewers to tears.”

“Oh, we’re not deleting any of this,” Mel unhelpfully called over. “The chat is saying take all the time you need. Don’t worry about us.”

“Pillocks, the lot of you.” Ava shook her head.

“Okay, what even is that one supposed to be?” Walker asked.

“It means idiot,” Ava said. “I’d have thought that obvious, but given you’re a pillock, maybe I overestimated you.”

“I thought eejit was idiot.”

“So is pillock. Just because you’re not smart enough to know the difference between synonyms and cinnamon doesn’t mean everyone else in the world isn’t.”

“Seriously, how many different words do you even have for idiot?”

“For you?” She cocked an eyebrow and smirked at him. “Nowhere near enough.”

The super soldier opened his mouth like he was going to retort, but for some reason, whatever thought he had had, it seemed to just trail off. He closed his mouth, but the odd expression on his face lingered. “. . . You good there, Walker?” She asked, forcing some levity into her voice. “Cat got your tongue?”

His eyes widened with surprise, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak. Still, her words seemed to snap him out of whatever had given him pause, but instead of replying, like a sane, normal person, he impulsively scooped up some flour from the bag and flicked it in her face. “Wh-what the bloody hell was that for?” She sputtered as she brushed the offending flour off her face and ran her fingers through her hair to shake any strays loose—she was not taking a hair shower because John Fucking Walker decided to act like a child.

Yet, for some reason, the lummox looked as confused as she was. “I don’t-I’m not . . . ,” He began, before a familiar smirk crossed his face, though it looked forced. “I mean, I’m so sorry. Accidents happen. Must have been a ghost made me do it.”

Using her own excuse against her? She couldn’t fault the tactic, but two could certainly play at that game. She finished brushing her fingers through her hair—that was probably the best it was going to get, without a mirror—and she turned to face him. “You may be right, Walker. In fact, I think I may have feel something too . . . .” She slammed her wrist on the counter and cupped the flour bag.

“Starr, don’t . . . ,” John said, his persona slipping back to something more normal, but it was too little, too late.

“I wish I could, I really do,” Ava said, her insincerity dripping, “but the ghost’s got me.” She faked pulling her wrist back, only to push the bag of flour even closer to the edge. “I tried, but it’s too strong for me. I mean, if even a super soldier couldn’t resist it, how could a mere mortal like me do it?”

“There’s nothing ‘mere’ about you and you know that,” John said. Before his weird . . . whatever that was, she probably would have taken it as a compliment, but she couldn’t dwell on the past. Not when pettiness was available.

“Oh dear,” She said, a smirk on her face as she shoved it over the ledge, pointedly ignoring Mel and the camera. But before she could blink, Walker had somehow managed to shift into action. One second, the bag was in mid-air, its contents beginning to tumble out in spectacular fashion, and the next, the bag was resting upright in Walker’s palm. Had he always been that quick? She found it hard to believe that he could have been holding back during the vault escapade, but she couldn’t deny that perhaps she had underestimated him.

Unfortunately, the cocky fuck seemed to know it. He leaned down to look her in the eye. “Super. Soldier.” The smirk on his face was, frankly, the most self-assured, shite-eating grin she had ever seen.

It was time to change that.

She immediately reached out and touched the bag and, with a thought, phased intangible. Compared to the pre-Janet Van Dyne days, it was barely noticeable, much less painful—oh sure, the pain was still present, but it was a fraction of a fraction of its former self, and after years of feeling like her body was constantly trying to tear itself apart from the inside out, it had become less than nothing. Perhaps becoming desensitized to it still wasn’t a good thing, health-wise, but much like the rest of their situations, a pragmatic win was still a win.

Or maybe it was just enough that John F. Walker lost.

It was odd, when she phased. Intellectually, she understood that quantum energy had mutated her cellular structure to make it unstable and, in a fashion, always ready to fall apart if she lost control or if she was out of the suit—that, in a way, her mind was literally controlling her matter or at least keeping it from wandering off. Yet, when she was in phase, besides the pain intensifying, it didn’t feel like that. The best she could describe it was that it felt like she was moving normally, but that everything else was slower, somehow. Clearer. She still felt her weight and her center of gravity—she didn’t phase through the floor unless she wanted to, which she chalked up to her instinct, but it was like it slowed her less. She could still see the world around her, but when she interacted with it, it felt akin to two separate images layered on top of each other, never able to fully interact, but still sort of existing in the same space. Except unlike the top picture in that scenario, when she rested against the bottom picture, she just . . . pushed through it, as if it were some kind of projection. Like she and the world were some kind of radio stations: they existed together, just on different enough frequencies they didn’t interact.

Learning how to bring items with her into the phase had taken years of practice, the best S.H.I.E.L.D. could afford, and so many years of pain and sleepless nights, where nightmares of phasing through the bed and floor or just unraveling would keep her up.

They were almost all worth it, because she got to see John Walker’s dismayed face as he watched the flour bag pass through his hand and explode against the floor in beautiful fashion.

Another blink and she reappeared. “You were right, Walker, that was some ghost. Better be careful.”

“Right,” Walker sighed. “Because that was proportional.”

“The ghost certainly thought so,” She smirked up at him. With that, she raised her hand and shot him a backwards V as a mock salute. Another thought and she went intangible again. With a wink that she knew he couldn’t see, she stepped through the island and past the crew, only letting the phase drop as she got to the back of the room.

Ava turned around just in time to hear Walker loudly and say, “. . . Fine, that one was a swing and a miss. You might think it’s funny and a joke, but the other person decides if it is, not you. So when it doesn’t work, you gotta man up and clean up. Of course, for most things, that isn’t LITERAL, Starr!” He cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled across the room. Ava dutifully traced a tear drop down her cheek with her middle finger before just flipping him off. “Yeah, I see you back there, gloating.”

“Almost like that’s the idea,” She called back before laughing to herself. Her point made, she turned on her heel and headed towards the exit.

Right before she allowed the door to hiss close behind her, she heard Walker say to the camera. “So before we actually make this damn thing, I’mma gonna have to show you boys how to clean up flour. 1st rule: be grateful to God that carpet kitchens aren’t a thing anymore. 2nd rule: if yours still is, then curse whatever god that’ll listen before begging for their help.”

Ava shook her head, but a fond smile twitched at the corners of her mouth all the same.

She had a feeling he’d be fine.

—

Contrary to popular belief, Alexei had kept his room in the tower fairly spartan. Just enough of his clothes to last him to laundry day, a dresser with his essentials and a collection of photos he had brought with him, and a nightstand with a lamp that he rarely turned off, even if he wasn’t fully conscious why. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the dark, but perhaps because, after spending 20 years in the Seventh Circle gulag and another 18 years before that in the Red Army, there was something satisfying about him getting to decide when lights out was.

Still, part of him still hadn’t accepted this tower as home just yet. Partially, because this turn of events still seemed too good to be true, but also because he honestly wasn’t really sure what home was supposed to feel like. Sure, he had had his rental back in DC, he had certainly decorated it with keepsakes and let his possessions (he actually had things now. What a world) spread out, but it had still felt so . . . empty. It was a place where he would sit, It wasn’t like he even had much of a childhood home to compare it to. Sure, he had had one growing up, but his father had always made it clear that it was a temporary situation—he was a great man, but not a sentimental one. He had raised Alexei to be strong, to succeed: his father, he had known that the only real path to a good future was through the Red Army. He was hardly heartless, but in their tiny village, there were only two paths of service, and neither led to money or friends: either succumb to the mines and be forgotten in the dirt, or earn glory and honor in the army, and being too tied to a home would have made either option even more painful. More burdensome.

It had been wise.

He certainly had succeeded far beyond even his father’s hopes: military commendations, being chosen for the super soldier program, saving countless civilian lives and earning widespread adoration, shaking the hands of General Secretaries and Premiers and seeing the respect in their eyes—truly, it was unbelievable, and he had loved every second of it. He had loved being loved; he was man enough to admit that. Yet during that entire time, he hadn’t had a place to call home. The barracks, the labs, they were mere shelters, and it wasn’t like his family would write to him—once he had legally become a man, they had pushed him out of the nest, afraid they’d hold him back.

Maybe one day, he’d have the courage to go visit and see if they were still alive. At least find out how they passed. See if they had believed in him, or if they too had bought into the lies Dreykov had spread before tossing him in that hole to rot.

No, as surreal as it was, the closest thing he had to a home had been that two-story house in West Chesapeake Valley, Ohio. At the time, it had felt like a punishment: being banished to some obscure suburban outpost, put on a shelf, and left to rot, but even at the time, he had found it fulfilling. Not because of the work—God, definitely not the work—but because of the teammates. Every giggle Yelena made, every shy smile Natasha gave, before he had every truly recognized it, they had made him feel . . . loved. Different from the kind he had received as Red Guardian, but no less pleasant, even if it confused him at the time, especially given that he was by far the biggest liability to their mission. He was awful at deception—it just didn’t come naturally to him, and he genuinely worried that he would ruin everything just by being himself.

Yet, she hadn’t felt that way.

Melina. The feared Iron Maiden of the Red Room. A famous enough black ops agent that even he had heard tale of her, and yet despite the difference in skill sets, they had been stuck together and forced to play house.

She had had hated it.

Well, she had hated him. The job, he was fairly sure she could have accomplished far more quickly, left to her own devices. She certainly had been of that opinion, early on, and even with her training, the resentment and suspicion bled through, and he could hardly blame her, since he had felt the same way. Yet he tried. He tried to be himself: the encouraging captain, the playful fool, the supportive teammate—every role he had had ever had, he used to try and prove to her he wasn’t a waste of time. And somehow, for reasons he still didn’t couldn’t believe . . .

“Ah, любовь, you should have seen her,” He smiled fondly into the phone. It had been an eventful past few days, between Captain Walker's stream which, from what Alexei could tell, had been a success, and the celebratory dinner interrupted by what could only be described as the most ridiculous villain he had ever seen. “Our girl, she, ah, put the fool under her belt.” Sure, it sounded better in their mother tongue, but he was too proud to care. “The man's big wheel--he drove, ah, a really big wheel--no, really--and Yelena, she broke it. He looked so surprised!" He chortled at the memory and again wish he had had his camera. He would have loved to have captured the look of pride on Yelena's face before she carefully hid it. "It was crazy.” This was all true and he never needed an excuse to talk up his daughter, but he could still feel the words he truly had on his tongue, yet he found himself unable to let them pass his lips.

I wish you were here.

He understood why she couldn’t. Intellectually, at least. It was the agreement they had made shortly after their reunion: she would look after the widows they and Natasha had rescued from the Red Room after they had destroyed Dreykov and his secret empire, while he would look after Yelena, best as he could. “She needs you. She loves you. Trust me, it’s better this way,” Melina had said at the time. He hadn’t believed her at the time, but it seemed, as with everything else, she had been right. If only he had listened, maybe Yelena wouldn’t have felt so alone for too long.

He just wished that she would give herself more credit, versus just giving it to him. The light he saw radiating off Yelena as she rallied her friends and saved Bob, he could see Melina’s heart shining through, the one she insisted she wasn’t capable of having.

Neither of his girls were good at believing him when he told them about the beautiful things he saw in them.

He never was good with words, when it mattered.

Still, for now, he just enjoyed hearing the sound of her voice on the other end of the line. He could listen to her talk for hours about anything. He may not understand much of what she said—their trips to the museums back in their Ohio days were treasured memories, but not very educational ones, despite her best efforts. It had been enough for him to see that small, confident smile on her lips as she eagerly explained some exhibit or another to him. Though that was more than 30 years ago, when he closed his eyes as he listened, he could imagine they were back there, Melina glowing while Natasha and Yelena tucked in bed, waiting for them at home.

“Hmm hm,” He grunted agreeably as she described how another of their girls had been accepted into university. It had been no easy thing, tracking down the girls he had scattered around the world, and in some cases, even harder to convince them Dreykov was truly gone. So many had thought it a test of some kind, or a lie; in some cases, it had taken years to try and guide them out of the tangled labyrinths that Dreykov and the Red Room had stranded them in. Still, as painful as it clearly was for Melina, after all she had done to make their brainwashing possible, the look of relief when she had managed to save another person really was something to see.

Whatever she said, it was clear to Alexei, she was meant to heal people, not hurt them.

Like mother, like daughters.

Yet, as much as he loved to hear her, there was a . . . there was something in her voice that set him on edge. He could hear how she tried to mask it, but for all his faults, he had always been able to see through her false cheer.

“Melina, what’s wrong?” Of course she then tried to play dumb, to deflect. It was a familiar routine, and generally, the nostalgia of it would be amusing, but after seeing how much Yelena had buried, he felt nervous, especially when he couldn’t see Melina’s face. As talented a woman as she was, even she couldn’t play dumb for long; he had far more experience at it. “Please, любовь, just . . . bодить за нос, do not mislead. Please. Is something wrong?” He paused, and almost let a breath when he heard her sigh, as she always did when she decided to lower her walls. “Are you okay? Safe?” She said yes, and another breath of relief passed his lips. “And the girls?”

A pause.

His heart fell.

It was always a tragedy when they failed. As much as they wanted to, they hadn’t been able to save them all, and with the chaos of the Blip and their disappearance, even some of the girls and widows they had been able to find had dived between the cracks and went to ground. Natasha had done her best, from what they had been able to gather once they were returned, but even she had been able to only do so much for their near-impossible task.

He steeled himself. “Which one, любовь?” He waited patiently, but even he wasn’t prepared for what she had said.

“Antonia? She’s missing?” He slumped in his chair and he raised a hand to his face as he tried to get his emotions under control. Every one of their girls was important, but Antonia . . . she had been Natasha’s. For so many years, Natasha had thought she had killed the poor girl, that she had used her as collateral damage against Dreykov, and when she had discovered she had survived and had been subjected to the Red Room, she had committed herself to rehabilitating her. But being on the run from the law, the attack on earth, the Blip . . . by the time he, Melina, and Yelena had returned and found her again, Antonia had built a life for herself as a mercenary. They had had little choice but to accept it, on the condition she check-in, just so they knew she was safe.

Melina hadn’t heard from her in weeks.

“We’ll find her, Melina,” he said firmly. “Yelena, we are Avengers now. With Winter Soldier, we have . . . we have information web. We have friends. We can do this.

“We will find her. As family.”

Chapter Text

Bob didn’t sleep any more.

Not in the traditional sense, at least.

It wasn’t for the lack of trying, that was for sure. The first few nights after they had moved into the tower, he would just lay in the bed and stare up at the ceiling, praying for exhaustion to take him—they had had been through so much, and by all rights, he should be running on empty, and yet, no matter what tricks he tried (distracting your brain by thinking of random things, white noise, hell, he had tried counting sheep), it didn’t change a thing. Initially, he just assumed he had insomnia—it was hardly the first time he had had it and he had been through a lot, lately. So, after a few hours of trying, he’d inevitably given up and started to wander the building. The place was impressive during the day, but at night, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find its empty hallways and utter silence slightly eerie. Yet, even with the creepiness, it still beat just staring at those empty walls in his bedroom; it wasn’t like he owned anything but the clothes on his back (and even if he did, they would have either been incinerated in that vault like he had been supposed to be, or blown up in that Malaysian lab by Yelena), so there was nothing to decorate with or make it feel even remotely homey. So far, it looked like a slightly fancier cell, and he had had more than enough of those for now.

Inevitably, after he had padded up and down the halls, up and down the stairs, he had begun to notice that no matter how hard he pushed himself, his heart rate and breathing just didn’t change. Even when he ran, his breath didn’t hitch, his lungs didn’t hurt, and everything just . . . stayed the same. Desperate, he tried going to the gym and even if he looked ridiculous in Bucky’s extra exercise gear (he and Bob were about the same height, even if they differed dramatically in everything else), he’d hop on the various machines and desperately try to push himself, to feel even slightly tired or at least try to break a sweat. Weights, cardio, those weird rope whipping things, an old tae-bo tape—he tried it all. Yet, no matter what he did, nothing happened—his body simply just absorbed whatever he put it through and continued as if he hadn't do anything. The weights felt like nothing, the treadmill’s max felt barely quicker than a walk, and he could swing the coiled rope as if it were a piece of string.

It scared him.

Sure, he wasn’t the only enhanced person on the team: besides whatever enhancements Ava and Yelena had had, there were three actual super soldiers, too: people literally engineered to exceed every human vulnerability and strength . . . but even they had limits. Even they got exhausted, if they went long enough without sleep or pushed themselves too hard. Whatever had changed inside of them, they were still human at the end of the day, and humans, like all other living things, needed to rest eventually.

Except him.

He didn’t need food. He didn’t need water. He didn’t need sleep.

. . . Was he truly still alive anymore, or was he just doing some kind of sick imitation?

He didn’t want to bring it up to the others; it’d only make them worry, and he had already caused them enough trouble. As it was, Walker and Bucky kept glancing at him wearily when they thought he wasn’t looking, as if they were expecting the Void or the Sentry or whatever had attacked them to show up at any moment. His memories of the incident were still pretty fuzzy and based on the others’ vague allusions to it, he wasn’t in a hurry to get them back. Still, it was clear to him that the others saw him as some kind of time bomb. And, given that he seemed to be unfazed by pretty much anything, he couldn’t help but wonder if they had a point. Maybe they had good reason to be afraid of him.

He was already afraid of himself, so how could he blame them for being scared?

Yet, he still didn’t want to say anything to them since, for now, they kept their suspicions to themselves. To his face, they were kind and welcoming, and they included him, and he had really grown to appreciate those efforts. He’d hate to do or say anything that could make them abandon him. So he just tolerated the night as best he could, though with every day that passed, he was growing more and more afraid each time evening fell and the others turned in. Inevitably, he’d be the last one standing, though he’d go through the motions of going to bed, if only to persuade the others he was fine, but that only took a short while, and the nights, he noticed, were so long when you had no one to share them with. Often, after he had exhausted the building’s halls, he’d find himself sitting on a balcony and just staring out at the city below. There was something peaceful, almost companionable, about it: the City That Never Sleeps and neither did he. The lights and distant sounds of horns and laughing and shouting would trickle up to him and make him feel less alone. There was life out there, even if it was out of his reach. It was real.

Sure, sometimes as he sat on the balcony, the intrusive voice in his head would whisper he should take just that one step further, but he ignored it every time. He remembered the way the wind had raced across his skin as he had tumbled through the air, the feeling of nothing around him—like a stone tumbling through a hollow ocean. Besides, he knew that the fall wouldn’t kill him anymore, anyway. The most it’d do is knock him out a while, if his crashlanding in back in the desert was any indication. And as tempting as that was after a week of sleepless nights, his more rational side would always bring up the property damage, that someone else could get hurt, or what would the others think if they found him in a crater on sidewalk outside?

No, it was better to just stay put.

Still, Bob had never appreciated just how boring the night was, without sleep to break it up. He’d try to pass the time by pulling up a show, but he’d at most get an episode or two in before it just felt frustrating. Like he couldn’t get his body to slow down enough to relax and just go zen enough to enjoy it; instead, his mind would just wander, all too often to dark places, and he’d immediately try to shift gears and distract himself with something else. It seemed cliché, but truly, the demons and negative thoughts just seemed so much stronger at night, so much more persuasive. It was like having a Val in his head whose sole job was to make him question every single life decision, relationship, and word he had ever said and make him feel like shit about it—and this Val had a lot to work with, which certainly didn’t help. But hey, if he had been less of a fuckup, she’d have nothing to work with, so it was probably his own fault.

As shoddy and unfulfilling as it was, he had thought that he had found at least some kind of nighttime routine that would keep him busy enough without drawing the attention of the others: balcony, walk around the building, count the tiles, watch some old sitcoms, count the tiles again, try another episode, balcony, be back in bed by sunrise and just wait until he heard other people move around before he could emerge from his room and pretend.

Of course, he hadn’t counted on Yelena noticing.

In retrospect, Bob realized how stupid he must have been: there were security cameras and inevitably, someone was going to notice him wandering around every night, and inevitably, someone was going to mention it to the one person they could trust to talk to him about it. So when Yelena had taken him aside one day and casually asked him how he was sleeping, he had known the jig was up. It wasn’t that he wanted to lie to her, it was more just he hated making her worried—she had enough on her plate as it was, and she had already stuck her neck out for him more than enough times. Yet, as mundane as she made the question sound, she had asked it with that knowing look on her face. The one that somehow managed to see through him and comfort him at the same time, that made him feel that, whatever he said, however weird, she’d somehow understand.

So he told her.

It sounded simple, yet the fact that he actually had someone he could talk with now was weird, and weirder still was that she seemed to think talking to him helped her, too, which felt impossible. You just make it worse. No, he knew that, given enough time, he’d find some way to screw it up, or that he’d say something that would make her wake up from whatever this altruistic state was—she’d remember he was a burden soon enough, but until then, he might as well try not to make it any worse. So he told her, and she nodded in that empathetic way of hers, and asked if he wanted to sleep with her.

For the first time since the serum, he had thought his heart had stopped beating. His face must have showed it, because Yelena had flushed as her words caught up to her and for a second, she looked less like she had the weight on her shoulders, less like a former assassin, and more like she was just a normal person who had just put her foot in it.

It was beautiful.

She was beautiful.

Bob didn’t know what to do with that realization. He hadn’t really thought that of anyone before, and it honestly seemed weird. Not in an unpleasant way, but in a “what now?” sort of way. Especially since he had already been feeling it for a while, but it was just so weird to consciously think it, to be aware of it. Was this something that everyone felt? It wasn’t like he had much to compare it to: back in middle school, when other kids were starting to figure out crushes and feelings, he had gotten a little distracted by the wonderful world of morphine addiction. It had made sense, at the time: he was hurt in a car accident, and morphine was supposed to help it hurt less—it’s just the pain wasn’t always physical, and the sources of it weren’t always internal. Other people, life—it was all pain, and when you were in pain, you took your medicine.

That was just common sense.

So how could he have really felt these emotions, when there was no one he had ever felt comfortable around? The other kids were cruel or apathetic, his family was . . . well, it just seemed like hell really was other people and he was just damned to be stuck there: that was just the way it was. You either adapted or you didn’t, and while both sucked, one at least seemed to hurt less. So why fight it? There was something almost . . . soothing about letting go, just letting the current of the world take you and guide you along to wherever you were meant to go. Sure, the current may bash you against rocks the whole way, but that was to be expected, because life is pain. And if you just kept hitting the rocks over and over again before you just grew numb to the bashing? That’s what the medicine was for. As “healthy” a mindset as that had been, the type of people who agreed with it weren’t always ones you could feel comfortable around. You might be able to find mutual understanding on a level that few others could obtain, but trust rarely accompanied it for . . . obvious reasons. Naturally, it had been hard to strike up friendships amongst each other and honestly, none of them had cared all that much. It just hadn’t felt important, back then, compared to their other priorities.

So yeah, this was a new feeling.

What it was, Bob honestly had no idea. In some ways, it seemed to be several feelings standing on top of each other wearing a trench coat, like they were pretending to be one big feeling. He knew he felt safe around her. He knew that she had a dry, deadpan sense of humor that somehow never failed to make him want to laugh. He knew that she’d get this affectionate, caring look on her face when she held that guinea pig of hers or when Alexei did something nice or ridiculous and that just seeing her happy somehow made him want to smile. He knew that when he made her smile, he felt somehow proud of himself. He knew that when she did laugh, even on a bad day, it made him feel at least slightly better. He knew that whenever she held him, he was always slightly disappointed when she’d have to let go.

He knew all of that.

He just didn’t know what all that was.

Still, as curious as he was about the feeling(s), it didn’t matter right then that she technically invited him into her bed. Because, when she apologetically gave him that quiet, sheepish grin, he had known she could have asked him to sell his kidney and he’d have done it, no questions asked. That understanding was enough for now.

The first night they tried to sleep in the same room, it had been so awkward. They didn’t want anyone to know they were even going to try it, much less why they were, so in the evening, they had gone to their separate rooms. He had followed his usual rituals: brushing his teeth, changing into his over-sized sleep shirt and shorts, and lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling while he counted the minutes until he heard Alexei’s snores echoing from down the hall. The others probably found them annoying (Yelena certainly had), but Bob honestly found them somewhat comforting; there was something almost reassuring about the noise. Its reliability. Any time he heard it, it reminded him that he wasn’t here alone, that the past few weeks hadn’t been some cruel dream.

Plus, as distracting as it could, Bob found it just so endearingly normal. There were many things he appreciated about his new friends, but one of the most treasured among them was the way Alexei managed to make Yelena act like an exasperated teenager who was tired of her dad embarrassing her. He got the impression she never had that experience before—not that any of them really had, besides Walker, from what he could tell—and he was happy for her that she and Alexei got to make up for lost time. Seeing her roll her eyes and try to hide that subtle, pleased smile—so subtle that he doubted she even realized she was doing it—made him feel pleasantly warm, like he was feeling a waft of sunlight trickling between a crack in the curtains on a cool day. It was such a nice feeling, such a nice change of pace, that it helped him ignore the feeling of jealousy that churned in the back of his mind, every so often.

Alexei made being a dad seem so . . . effortless. Whatever their past, he clearly loved Yelena and it just made him wonder if he had been someone else, maybe his father could have been more like that. Intellectually, of course, he knew it wouldn’t have mattered at all, and yet, the feelings lingered nevertheless. He’d never admit to them though; that wasn’t anyone else’s problem, and what could they do, be less affectionate? That would be cruel and stupid. No, for now, he’d just enjoy the reassuring snores and let it lie.

Once the snores began, he was able to tip-toe out of his room and gently knock on Yelena’s door. She had told him to just come in whenever, but that felt . . . wrong. Like some kind of breach of privacy. So that first time and every night that followed, even if the knock annoyed her, even if it possibly made her mad at him, he still did it; it was one of the few things he risked. He’d hear that whispered “come in” and tentatively turn the knob. He’d hate that he kept acting so self-conscious, but he supposed that it’d annoy Yelena more if he acted too casual about entering her space, so he’d keep choosing the lesser of two evils.

The idea that she may truly not consider him sharing her space as a big deal was painful in its own way, even if he wasn’t sure why.

Yelena’s room was still pretty bare, partially because she didn’t appear to own much, and partially, he suspected, that she still hadn’t considered this place home yet. None of them had, really; this whole Avengers thing felt too precarious, too new, and he wondered if they would ever feel truly comfortable here (hell, he still wasn’t 100 percent sure why they insisted he stay with them to begin with). Yet, Yelena would look up from whatever book she was reading that night—she told him that she was trying to avoid her phone, especially at night when her thoughts turned . . . well, needless to say, he had understood—and wave at him while she’d give him a nervous smile that tried to appear more confident than it actually was. It was the most surreal thing, seeing this normally unflappable woman seem so unsure. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not, but he admitted that he appreciated seeing that he wasn’t the only one who felt like this was weird.

Initially, he had wanted to just lay on the floor (he had even brought an extra pillow and comforter with him), but Yelena had just shaken her head and gestured to her bed. In a movie, this probably would have been sexy, but in reality, it had just felt nerve-wracking. Even if it was just literally for sleep, he had never slept in the same space with someone he actually cared about before, and judging by the subtle tension in Yelena’s gestures, she probably hadn’t either, and they were both blindly fumbling through this uncharted territory together.

Still, it was Yelena’s space: she set the rules, and if she wanted him there, then there’d he be. At first, he had tried to climb on top of the comforter and just lay down, but she rolled her eyes, muttered something in Russian that sounded more aggressive than it probably was, and flipped the blanket back so he could slide under it. The stretch of silence that echoed throughout the room after that had almost felt physically crushing; he had no idea what to do with his hands or how he should lay down—had he been a stomach sleeper before the serum? Side sleeper? Somehow, he genuinely had no memory.

Meanwhile, Yelena had just shot him a more welcoming smile, nodded and had returned to her book. He hadn’t quite made out the title in the lamplight and he asked, if only to escape the oppressively heavy silence. She had turned the book over and read the title aloud, but he honestly couldn’t remember it. Between Yelena, Walker, and Bucky, he was becoming increasingly aware of just how limiting it was to only have a 6th grade reading level: he had barely scrapped by 8th grade and dropped out of high school before he could even attempt reading anything beyond Holes, and after the morphine, well, there had been other things to focus on. Maybe during the sleepless nights, he could try reading something heavier. More adult, so he didn’t sound like an idiot next time he asked. So that maybe he’d be able to understand her answer.

Yet, he had just nodded along, as if he recognized it, and just said “Sounds like a good one,” and then he had immediately wanted to die. But she had just chuckled and said, “It’s pretty boring so far, but it’s getting better,” and he didn’t feel as bad about it; if he had made her chuckle, clearly, he was doing something right. He had just shrugged, and asked her to read a bit to him, let him be the judge. Of course, she had tried say he wouldn’t know anything about what was going on, but he had just shrugged again, and had gestured for her to go on. She then rolled her eyes, but not in that way she did whenever Walker said something or when Alexei exasperated her; there was always something teasing about it, and he had to just smile softly as she began to read aloud.

Of course, true to her word, he didn’t follow or remember a word of it, but honestly, he couldn’t have cared less, then and now. Just seeing her read, that soft, excited look on her face in the lamplight, the way her hands tenderly held the book, and realizing that she felt comfortable sharing that moment with him, it was enough to make him feel . . . safe. Safe was the word. And that maybe, just maybe, against all logic and reason, she might also feel safe around him, too.

It was so weird how Yelena made the night feel less dark, just being there.

For once, he had barely noticed the time pass until she had yawned and reached for the bookmark. She had looked him and asked if he was ready to sleep; he had to struggle to keep the dread from twisting in his guts. Suddenly, the lightness of the moment had dimmed and he was almost tempted to say no, if only to delay the loneliness for a little longer, but she was clearly tired, and it wasn’t fair to make her stay up just because he was feeling anxious their idea wouldn’t work. That was selfish and she had already taken up such a big part of her night for him already, so he had just nodded slowly to her. She set the book on the nightstand, but before she turned off the light, her free hand found his and clasped it gently. “It’ll be okay, Bob.”

How did she always see through him so easily? Was he just that obvious? Either way, he had wanted to believe her. Either way, even if he would just wind up counting more, slightly different-looking ceiling tiles, he knew that it had already been one of the best nights of his life. He wished he knew if that was sad or not. Still, he had just nodded and squeezed her hand back, and with a click, the room was plunged into darkness. As his eyes had begun to adjust, he had felt her shift her weight on the bed as she got settled in, though her hand never left his. With a quiet inhale, he had begun to do the same, but he had opted to lay on his side—he told himself it was just because he didn’t want to stare at the ceiling, but he knew that it was really because he just wanted to be able to open his eyes and remind himself Yelena was there.

All the while, he had felt the gentle pulse of her heartbeat through their intertwined hands.

As Yelena’s breath slowed and she drifted off, he began to feel afraid: he had felt her body rhythm change, yet his remained as stagnant as ever. He had wondered if she had felt its steady beat, if it had distracted her as she had fallen asleep. Part of him had felt jealous she could so easily drift off, but the other part of him had been happy for her. She hadn’t had the easiest life, and she deserved all the peaceful nights she could possibly get. The one benefit of not being able to sleep was that he could see how content she looked, the pillow head beginning to form, the soft snore (much quieter than her dad’s but with every bit of its reassuring consistency), her mouth hanging open. It had just looked so normal but he knew it was anything but.

Even now, he wasn’t sure at what point it happened. Maybe he had just wanted to avoid counting the tiles or sheep again, but at some point, he had found himself counting Yelena’s heartbeats. It had probably been stupid, but he hadn’t wanted to leave, and he hadn’t wanted to flip over and stare up at the empty ceiling again, so focusing on the slackened hand resting under his it was. Maybe it was the nice, cool temperature of the room (she and Alexei seemed to prefer it cooler, which he could appreciate, growing up in Florida), maybe it was the soft, steady rotation of the fan, maybe he finally did the counting trick right, but whatever it was, for the first time since the serum, Bob found his eyelids getting heavy. His body seemed . . . not heavier, exactly, but more distant. It wasn’t like he was disassociating, but the longer he counted, the slower his thoughts were getting, the more his eyelids dropped, until suddenly, he was blissfully out.

It wasn’t sleep, at least, not in the way he had known it before. It almost felt more like . . . meditation of some kind. He was in some sort of limbo, but it wasn’t scary; he could still feel his mind wandering, but it felt numbed, like a limb his doctor anesthetized: no control or feeling, but just enough sensation that he could still be distantly aware of it. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, and he could only be gently pulled along as his mind slowly floated away. He was dimly aware when it had landed in a dream, but he didn’t have enough consciousness to resist as it absorbed him into its world, leaving his mind behind to patiently bob in place.

He seemed to be standing in a big ballroom of some kind; his friends were all there, and they looked happy, or at least as happy as he had ever seen them. He wasn’t sure what the occasion was, but they were dressed up fancy, even though the faceless people around them were adorned with random costumes and garb, some dressed as if they were in one of those Sherlock Holmes movies, while a few wore astronaut suits, and some guy was wearing the back of a frighteningly realistic horse costume in reverse and had a jockey sitting on his shoulders.

But all that paled compared to the sight of his friends, happy and whole.

Alexei’s facial hair looked groomed and he was trim in a red suit; he had an electric guitar gripped in his hands and was fingering what sounded like some Bruce Springsteen song; Bucky was playing drums, wearing a sleeveless tux, his cyborg arm glinting under the strobe lights, an unrecognizable grin on his face, while Mel sang vocals, decked in a form-fitting black gown like some kind of lounge singer, a fuzzy boa draped around her shoulders. Yelena’s guinea pig was sitting on top of an amp, its tuft of fur shaped like a pompadour, and a tiny electric bass clutched in its little paws as it jammed along. Meanwhile, in what was possibly the weirdest part of the scenario, Ava and Walker were on the dance floor, doing a slow dance, though Ava kept smirking as she purposefully stepped on Walker’s feet with her high heels every other step and he kept swearing at her, but he was grinning back as he kept fake dropping her and she cackled each time, refusing to let go of his shoulders and threatening to take him down with her.

And then there was Yelena.

She was standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching their friends, a bemused smirk tugging at her lips. Unlike the others, she was wearing her tactical suit and she looked uncomfortable with the surroundings for some reason. Bob wasn’t sure why, but she looked lonely and that didn’t seem right. Without a conscious thought, he had reached out for a punchbowl that had appeared to his left and scooped his hand inside; it felt like jelly for some reason, but when he lifted his hand out of the bowl, he had a cup in his hand; he scooped the same hand again and somehow had two cups now, gripped in what dimly seemed like too many fingers, but he wasn’t counting. All he knew was he was at prom or something and one of his friends was hurting, and that didn’t feel right; that wasn’t what TV had showed him. He tried to walk towards her, cups in hand, but suddenly, the astronauts rushed the dance floor, and try as he might, he just kept being jostled between people, the drinks threatening to spill with every bump.

Walker and Ava were still working together but they had somehow teleported on the stage and now seemed to be figure skating in place, Walker swinging Ava around, while Bucky was headbanging, his long hair covering his face, but the drums sounded like a lounge song, but Mel was now dressed like she was leading a metal band. Suddenly, Bob was kicked from behind by the legs dangling from the weird horse man’s costumer and he flew through the air. The others noticed and tried to reach out to him, despite being on the other side of the room, but somehow, his flight abruptly stopped, the drinks still steady in his hand. A glance up at his rescuer, and to his surprise, it appeared to be Yelena, but she was now wearing some black dress, her hair looked like she had just rolled out of bed and he dimly remembered thinking it looked pretty, before he felt the world shudder, as if an earthquake had happened nearby and the aftershock was finally catching up to them. He tried to ignore it, but the tremor passed through, stronger this time. He shook his head to brush it off, like it was some annoying insect buzzing near his ear. But before he could turn his attention back to Yelena, an even stronger tremor came through, spilling the drinks. Instinctively, he bent to the floor and tried to scoop the puddle up back into the cup, only be bumped into from behind, and he fell through the puddle in the floor into . . . nothing.

After what could have been seconds or an eternity, Bob’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He groggily glanced over his shoulder. To his distant surprise, there had seemed to be some sunlight slipping between the gaps in the blinds.

He had slept through the night.

Bob had shaken his head in disbelief as he slowly reclaimed control of his limbs and sat up. It almost hadn’t seemed possible. How long had it been since he had been able to sleep? Months? Years? His sense of time had become so skewed that even he had no idea. Maybe Mel could tell him how long ago he had enrolled in the project, but even if she had, he didn’t remember sleeping all that peacefully before that—sleeping on the streets of Malaysia between hunting for a fix and hiding from dealers he owed money to wasn’t exactly helpful for rest.

Suddenly, he had been interrupted from his musings by a groggy cough. “. . . Sleep well?” He had glanced down and seen Yelena slowly uncocoon herself from the blankets that she had somehow enveloped herself in during the night. Her hair was in disarray and she had to slowly reach up to wipe at her eyes from whatever eye gunk had showed up overnight, and he swore that there was still a trail of drool down the side of her face.

He had had to fight back a smile as he gently scoffed, and slowly nodded. “. . . Yeah, I—I actually think I did.”

Yelena had snorted, but she then sleepily returned the nod, that small smile peeking out from behind her wrist as it unconsciously crossed her lips. “Well . . . good.”

So that became their routine: wait until Alexei fell asleep, tip toe to Yelena’s room and knock, get settled, listen to her read part of her book, drift off as he lay in the dark, serenaded by the snores of Yelena and her father, wander whatever confusing dream his brain cooked up, and wake up when the sunlight poked through. Sometimes, Yelena would wake up first, but either way, neither left until the other was awake. It wasn’t a formal rule—they honestly had never discussed it, but instinctively, it just seemed . . . wrong to sneak out. As it was, it was hard not to feel like teenagers trying to sneak around an overprotective parent and busybody siblings. He wasn’t even sure why they were keeping the arrangement a secret from their friends, but he didn’t mind it. They surely would ask questions that neither of them wanted to answer or think about, so it was for the best it was left well enough alone.

Part of him suspected that they had some idea it was happening anyway, but much like their concerns about him, they were at least kind enough not to ask it to his face. Maybe they didn’t want to question it, since he was finding it easier to focus and be a little more involved. With the sleep, a more familiar routine, he was feeling less like a ghost just wandering the halls, and more like a person. Bucky trusting him to screen his calls also became an important part of his day. He had duties, things he could actually do to help, and even if it could be stressful at times, it was also . . . nice to feel like a part of the team beyond just lip service. He hadn’t really had anyone expect anything of him before—well, expect anything beyond disappointment. Whether it was his parents, his teachers, his sponsors the one or two times he attempted rehab, or even his dealers, most people learned to give up on him, the more they got to know him.

So, this was a weird change of pace.

Nice.

But weird.

It almost made Bob feel more anxious, in all honesty: when people expected things from you, you could let them down, and he had far more experience doing that, and he truly didn’t want that to happen this time. These were good people, whatever that Val woman had said, and somehow, he had fooled them into thinking he was good, too, and he couldn’t risk a backslide proving them wrong, not now, not ever. Who knew how long their patience would last? Honestly, if it weren’t for his evenings with Yelena, he would have found the pressure crushing. But, no matter how crazy the day, it paled in the face of seeing Yelena laugh was he’d recount some crazy phone conversation he had had or describing the exasperated, dying-inside looks on Bucky’s face when he’d pass along bundles of packets that Gary man would have forwarded to the tower. Whenever a call or a situation got intense, he had begun to think about how he would spin it in a way that’d Yelena would find funny when he told her about it later, and bafflingly, that actually seemed to help defuse the stress before it could get too large.

He didn’t know if it was healthy, but it was helping, so he wasn’t going to think about it too hard.

It was working.

Until the night it didn’t.

The night he woke up to find Yelena gone.

He had been caught in the throes of a dream—this time, Ava, Bucky, and Walker were playing soccer, while Alexei was bellowing from the sidelines as he waved his clipboard around, and Yelena was in goal, and there was a large cat with a bird on its head that was trying to steal the ball away from Ava while Walker just cackled on the ground and Bucky tried to distract it with a cat toy—when something . . . shifted, for the lack of a better word. Something just felt off and he became increasingly conscious of his mind tugging him backwards, trying to recall him out of this dream. Before he knew it, he was rapidly resurfacing, and the minute he breached the surface, his eyes flew open. But just because he was back, didn’t mean his mind kept pace and for a few disorientating seconds, he tried to remember where he was. Half-asleep, his open hand instinctively groped around the mattress for Yelena’s; they must have shifted at some point. Nothing to panic about . . . until it was clear she just wasn’t there.

Immediately, his mind snapped back into place and he gathered himself, any trace of sleep purged as he tried to expand his hearing. He had gotten so used to suppressing his enhanced senses that he had to consciously try to listen for Yelena’s heartbeat or her footsteps. Surely, she had just gotten up to use the bathroom or something, maybe even just some water—nothing to be freaked out about.

But something felt weird in the air.

The darkness around him no longer seemed comforting; it had returned to its ominous hue and there seemed to be . . . something out there in it. What it was, he couldn’t say and frustratingly, Alexei’s snoring, while usually endearing, was making it difficult for him to parse out the sounds. Perhaps he should have spent more time practicing rather than just trying to ignore whatever changes had lingered after the incident, but as guilty as he felt, there was no use for that now, not when Yelena could be hurt.

There’d be time for guilt later.

Bob slid out from the covers and lowered himself to the floor; perhaps he could have used whatever speed he had to try do a hasty search of the level, but he wanted to get a sense of the situation before rushing in. He didn’t want to risk making whatever situation worse, especially if Yelena was already trying to deal with it.

He gently treaded to the door, the carpet cushioning his footsteps and he distantly cursed himself for not learning how to do that levitating thing he could before, but he suspected that knowledge was locked by a door he couldn’t risk opening. Not without people getting hurt again. Instead, he was just grateful he could still see in the dark and presumably, was still bullet proof, so he could at least throw himself between Yelena and any weapons; she’d be mad, but he was at least pretty sure he could take a lot more damage than she could. Not that he’d do anything different if he wasn’t bulletproof. People needed her more than him.

Hell, he needed her more than him.

As he got closer to the door, he could see that it was slightly ajar and from the footstep indentations in the carpet, there was only person who had left the room: whatever Yelena had sensed, it was away from here. As silently as he could, he pushed the door open just enough he could slip through the gap; it was more challenging than he’d expected, since he had try and keep his strength in check and stop the door from flying open.

Out in the hall, the pitch blackness remained, and the noise from Alexei’s snores only reverberated more loudly. Bob was conflicted; should he try to rouse the super soldier? If he did, it’d take time and probably tip off whatever invader they had, if the snoring abruptly stopped. No, he was on his own, and . . . what was that?

As Bob poked his head into the darkened hall, he could see a looming dark mass, huddled in the darkness. Alexei. He was silently making his way along the wall, knife drawn and a determined look on his face. At first, Bob was baffled; how could he be right there when the sounds were still coming from his room? Distractedly, he listened to the sounds again and to his surprise, there seemed to be a subtle familiarity about them.

It was a loop.

Somehow, Alexei must have recorded himself sleeping before and started to play it, so that people would become accustomed to it, specifically so that they wouldn’t know if he was actually asleep or not. It was more paranoid than Bob’d have expected, but he supposed it made sense: between the military, the serum, and prison, Alexei was probably a light sleeper.

He probably had known about their sleeping arrangements the whole time.

Despite the situation, Bob had to shove the embarrassment to the back of his mind and try to take a step forward into the hall. As surreal as it was, somehow, Alexei heard him and looked back, the cold expression giving way to a relieved one as he somehow recognized him through the darkness. Wordlessly, he held a finger to his lips and gestured towards the stairs with his head. Bob nodded and gently trodded up to where Alexei was. Cautiously, he peered down the stairs and was relieved he could see the top of Yelena’s head bob up and down as she silently descended the staircase. He wasn’t thrilled that she was so far ahead, but at least she was okay.

For now.

He took a breath and tried to calm himself; he was tempted to speed down there, but even with Alexei there, he couldn’t risk getting in Yelena’s way. Alexei must have guessed what he was thinking, as he gestured “stay” with his open hand, before he placed the knife between his teeth and slowly reached to the light switches on the hall wall. Of course. If they had been infiltrated by anyone, like back at the Vault, the lights would blind them and buy them some seconds. Would he wait until Yelena reached the bottom of the stairs to flip the switch?

The decision was taken out of their hands, as suddenly they heard a thud and the sounds of a scuffle breaking out, followed by two clattering sounds as it sounded like two guns being knocked to the floor. Bob didn’t even wait for Alexei’s signal, he just instinctively moved. It was an odd feeling; in a lot of ways, he didn’t feel like he was moving any faster so much as it just seemed that his steps were taking him further than they should, and that everything else was just simply . . . slower than it should be. Faster than a blink, the stairs fell away and as his feet touched the cool lounge floor, the lights, as if they were in slow motion, began to flare to life.

His eyes didn’t need to adjust as he took in the scene before him. Yelena’s handgun lay halfway across the room, but she still had her knife in her hand; however, her wrist was pinned underneath a woman with long black hair that appeared tightly coiled to the back of her head, dressed in what looked like a somehow darker version of Yelena’s widow suit. The two were wrestling on the floor, struggling for purchase against the smooth surface, and while they seemed to be evenly matched, the lights flicking on seemed to make the dark-haired woman wince for a second and that was all Yelena needed. She lifted her legs to shake the woman loose and with a twist, delivered such a swift kick to the woman’s side that it had looked fast, even to him.

The woman grunted in pain as she was sent flying towards the kitchenette island where just last week, Walker had been filming his show, but instead of slamming into it, the woman managed to twist herself upright and use her momentum to propel herself over the island and land smoothly on the other side, facing Yelena. Now that she was standing still, Bob could make out the traces of grey in her hair, and while she didn’t look very old, she was definitely older than he’d expect for someone in the espionage business, even if she apparently hadn’t lost a step, despite it. The bigger surprise though was the expression on the intruder’s face: there was no anger or coldness. If anything, she seemed almost . . . happy?

“. . . Melina?”

As one, all three looked up the stairs at Alexei as he slowly walked down them, his eyes wide, but a disbelieving smile was beginning to stretch across his face as he absentmindedly pocketed his knife. Bob glanced back at the woman—Melina, apparently—but she seemed to have forgotten he and Yelena were in the room, based on the somber, but affectionate look on her face as she beheld the supersoldier.

“Сколько лет, сколько зим,” she whispered as she tentatively moved out from behind the kitchenette island. Bob had no idea what she said; if he was honest, Yelena and Alexei’s penchant for randomly dropping Russian phrases was sometimes a little frustrating. Still, even if he had no idea what the actual words were, he could see in her face that it had been positive. Before she could say another word, Alexei raced across the room and enveloped her in a huge bear hug. The fearsome woman giggled into his chest as he whispered something into her ear that sounded like О, какие люди, which Bob took to mean he was happy to see her, too.

Which was good, because if Yelena’s taunt body language was any indication, he was the only one. Bob didn’t even need to see her face to know she was glowering and he had to suppress a shiver at the thought of that rage ever being directed at him. There was much he admired about Yelena, but truly being on the receiving end of her anger was something he prayed he’d never experience. Part of him wanted to go to her, maybe put a supporting hand on her shoulder, but he already knew she’d literally shrug it off, as if it were an inconvenient fly; plus, he didn’t know why Yelena was so angry at this woman. Maybe it was perfectly justified. Maybe he’d just make her feel betrayed or angrier.

You always made it worse.

No, he figured it was better to step away and just try to pretend he didn’t exist until things calmed down. He couldn’t just flee upstairs, not until he knew Yelena was truly not in danger, but he couldn’t stay here, either. He just couldn’t. Praying everyone was distracted enough, he slinked over to the couch and seated himself, so he could give them some distance before he could muck everything up more. It was a struggle to force himself to sit down, rather than lay on the floor like he wanted; besides the fact that they’d find him easily and then he’d have to answer questions he’d rather not be asked, so it seemed like the safest option.

He did grab a blanket he could twist, to keep his hands from shaking too much.

“What are you doing here?” Yelena demanded, her voice chillingly level. Bob thought he heard Alexei open his mouth but whatever he saw in Yelena’s expression, he must have thought better of it, because he didn’t interject. Knowing him, he had been going to say something like “don’t be so rude to houseguest” or whatever, but at least he had wised up enough to recognize that that wasn’t going to work. Besides, the woman had broken in: that seemed like it would cancel out any obligation to be nice, but Bob was never the brightest when it came to etiquette. “Did you know she was coming?”

That must have been directed at Alexei, because he said, “We talk about it, but I didn’t know when—why sneak? We would have let you in—”

“Speak for yourself,” Yelena interjected.

“Please, Умничка,” Alexei pleaded, “Just give her chance to explain.”

“I’ve given her plenty of chances.” Bob hadn’t heard Yelena’s voice be that cold. He twisted the blanket and tried not to rip it. “It was her choice not to use them.”

“. . . You are correct,” The woman—Melina—said. Her voice was quiet; in any other context, Bob would have described as unassuming; somehow, her voice seemed to be perfectly neutral. No tone, no hint of emotion was apparent. It was almost unsettling, all the more because he had heard some emotion when she had seen Alexei. She was choosing this, but why? “You did. I . . . I wasn’t prepared to use them. I didn’t deserve to.”

“‘Prepared’? ‘Deserved’?” Yelena scoffed. “Don’t bодить за нос, Melina, I’m not brainwashed anymore. No thanks to you.” Bob’s eyes widened and he had to fight the temptation to interject. Brainwashed? “You don’t get to play the martyr.”

“Yelena—” Alexei began.

“Don’t.” Yelena and Melina snapped. Whatever their differences, both women could apparently at least agree on that. Yet, as Alexei dutifully fell silent, neither of them appeared to know what to say next.

“. . . I’m sorry.” Melina said quietly, before bitterly chuckling to herself. “I’m still not used to being able to say that and actually mean it, but for whatever it’s worth, I truly am. Sorry.”

“Good for you.” Yelena snorted. When the other woman didn’t say anything, she continued. “Is that what you came here for? Applause?” Bob heard Yelena start to slow clap; it echoed mirthlessly throughout the room. “Congratulations. Now you can fuck off, like you always do after you get what you want.”

“Enough.” Alexei’s tone was quiet but cold. It was surreal, compared to his normally lighthearted, eccentric tone. Yelena had crossed a line, but even Bob knew that she wouldn’t back down.

“Go ahead, Alexei,” Yelena snarled, “take her side. She’s the one that left us, remember? Left you?” She let that hang in the air, before sighing. “But no, of course, I’m the one who’s wrong. Like always.” Bob heard her begin to step closer to him and his heartrate began to spike. “Fine. You two ‘catch up’ or whatever. Bob and I will sleep somewhere else tonight.” He fought to keep his breathing regular. One, two, three, four, hold. One, two, three, four, hold. one, two, three, four, hold, one,two,three,hold,four,one,two,three,fourhol—onetwothreefouronetwothreefouronetwothreefourhold . . . hold . . . one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three . . .

As much as he wanted to help her, he prayed, prayed she wouldn’t involve him in this.

There was no way that’d help any of them.

You always make it worse.

“Yelena.” Even if it was just a word, the desperation in it seemed to make Yelena pause. “Please.”

“. . . What did you actually come here for, Melina?” Yelena whispered. “Now that we’re Avengers, we’re finally worth your time?”

“Yelena, you are grown woman,” Melina sighed. “You are wise enough to know it’s not like that.”

“I don’t think I know much of anything, ‘mama,’” Yelena said coldly, but she didn’t take another step away, either. “It’s not hard to guess. The last time we talked, Natasha was still here. We disappear. She dies. You disappear. We become Avengers. You reappear. It doesn’t take a ‘grown woman’ to notice a pattern.” Bob heard her take a step closer towards Melina, away from him, and he had to fight both the relief and guilt that came with it. He was so selfish while Yelena was clearly in such pain . . . . “So what can the Avengers do for you, Melina? That’s the reason you came back, right?”

There was no denial, and Bob felt himself lose a piece of hope he hadn’t even known he had.

Yelena scoffed. “Of course. Even the ‘iron maiden’ felt like shit asking for a favor, so you had to sneak in here, hope you can play it off like a test or some excuse, cozy up to Alexei, and try and ask later. Don’t insult either of us and just ask. Isn’t that what ‘grownups’ do?”

“. . . It is not only reason,” Melina said quietly; her voice seemed pained at the admission. “But yes, I would . . . like your help.” Another snort. “. . . It is for Natasha.”

The silence returned while Yelena processed this. “. . . What?”

“It’s for Natasha.” Melina repeated, her voice a little stronger. “She left us with a duty. A duty to your sisters. A duty that I relieved you from, so that you could live your life, like she would have wanted.”

“. . . How do you even know what she would have wanted?” Yelena whispered, but there was no bite behind it. Just a weariness that made Bob’s heart ache.

“Because she and I . . . are alike,” Melina said. “And I know that she would not want the sister she loved wasting her life fixing her mother’s mistakes. That you deserved far more than that. A life of your own. No matter how selfishly I wanted you to stay with me, I had already stripped you of that for long enough, whether I knew it or not. The world needed you. You both.” She swallowed. “You both are light; you didn’t deserve to stay trapped in darkness because of me. Because of the things I have done, helping that man.”

“любовь. . . ,” Alexei whispered, his voice painfully tender.

“So I’ve . . . been keeping the other girls safe. Helping them build their lives. Move on. You remember, as we freed them from the Red Room’s control. So many weren’t prepared, when their wills came back. Were so scared.” Melina chuckled sadly. “They did not know what to do. You and your sister, you gave them hope. That there could be life after Red Room. Beyond Dreykov’s control. And when you became Avenger, they were so proud. . . . I was so proud.”

Yelena grunted; Bob could picture her just crossing her arms and shifting her weight the way she did when she felt uncomfortable, but he didn’t dare to turn his head to see if he was right. “. . . You don’t know.” Yelena said, a callous edge in her voice. “You have no idea what it’s been like these past few years. How could you? You never asked. You never even texted. Even if he told you, you never asked me.”

“You are right.” Melina said softly. “I do not know. There is much I . . . do not know. I forget that, sometimes, away from you two.”

“Keep your pride.” Yelena said simply. “I don’t need it. Da—Alexei doesn’t need it, but just because he accepts it, it doesn’t mean I will. Don't think that all is forgotten.” She sighed as she tried to gather herself. “So again, what do you want? ‘For Natasha’?”

“One of the girls, she’s . . . had a harder time than the others,” Melina said; if she had a reaction to Yelena’s tone, she was doing a good job of hiding it. “While we were . . . gone, she had to fend for herself before we could help her; by the time we got back, she had had a life for herself, and we couldn’t get her to change course. So we let her be, so long as she chec—told us what she was doing, so we’d know she was okay. So we could keep promise to Natasha. But she’s gone dark. She went off the grid weeks ago and there has been no trace of her. We are—I am worried that . . . that something’s happened.”

“. . . Which one is it?” Yelena asked, her voice suddenly neutral. For as short a time as Bob has known her, even he could tell she was perturbed by this, as if she already knew the answer, but was dreading hearing it confirmed.

Melina took a quick breath before saying, “Antonia.”

Bob heard Yelena suck in a breath while Alexei whispered something in Russian under his breath, presumably to Melina. “Taskmaster? Dreykov’s daughter?” Yelena asked

Bob blinked. Taskmaster? Why did that name sound familiar and why was Yelena so disturbed by it?

“Da,” Alexei said somberly. “She is strong warrior, but she is still young.”

“What was she doing, the last time you heard from her?” Yelena asked, a trace of dread in her voice, though it just as easily could have been read as concern. “I doubt it was something . . . public-facing.”

“She was serving as mercenary,” Melina said. “She worked for multiple clients, but the last we heard from her, she was operating in U.S.., for a client out of New York, but there could have been others. She . . . didn’t share much. She didn’t talk, not like she did with Natasha. But the Red Room intelligence network isn’t what it was, and this country’s too big for me to search by myself. Not if there is limited time. So please, Yelena, can you help me find her?”

“. . . Mercenary.” Yelena said quietly. “Risky life.”

“It is all she had known,” Melina replied, regret trickling into her otherwise steady tone. “Out of our control or no, we were too late to help her find another path. She did not want one, even if we could find one. She is as life made her, and she did not want to pretend otherwise. Even if she wore a mask, she was . . . proud of her abilities. Had accepted who she was.”

“It’s okay, любовь,” Alexei said soothingly. “I fought her. She was difficult opponent, even without move-copying, and I am sure she has only gotten stronger since. She is probably fine, and we will feel silly, when she is found.”

Move-copying . . . like she could copy other people? That rang a bell, too . . . a sudden flash of an armored, masked woman zipped through his mind. His eyes widened. Copying . . . mask . . . strong . . . mercenary . . . BANG . . . the thud of a limp body falling back onto the floor. Vomit burning the back of his throat, the sounds of him retching as he had had to process the idea that he had just seen someone get murdered in front of him.

Back at the shredder room, could that have been . . . ?

Oh fuck.

And Alexei clearly had no idea.

Which meant that Yelena hadn’t told him.

Oh, fuck.

“She did try to kill us,” Yelena said quietly. “Tried to kill you. Do you think we should just . . . let that go? What if she tries again?”

“Yelena,” Alexei continued. “I understand you are hurt, I understand that she did wrong . . . and it is . . . not enough time passed, but can we try to find her? If not for your mother, for your sister? Natasha, she wanted her safe, and since she is . . . no longer here, maybe we can try to keep Natasha’s promise in her place. Just this time. As family and Avenger, it is duty to help.”

Bob’s grip on the blanket tightened and he had to take a deep and force himself to relax his grip, before it became too obvious that he was freaking out. What would Alexei do if he found out that Ava had . . . and that Yelena had kept it from him? Would he leave? Bob may not have known him long, but he was a nice man, and whatever awkwardness they had, even he could see that Yelena loved him deeply, and he honestly had no idea what she would do if she had to pick between him and their friends. But unless they all lied, he was going to find out the answer, whether he wanted to or not.

“. . . We’ll run it by the others in the morning,” Yelena finally said quietly, and Bob’s breath hitched. “Bucky should be here, and we can see what he says. I can’t make any promises.”

“It’s all we ask, yмничка,” Alexei said softly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.” Yelena grunted. “I still think this is a waste of time.”

“Still, it is time we waste together,” Alexei replied, “and that is never waste. Especially now that we are all . . . mostly here.”

“Thank you, Yelena,” Melina said quietly.

Yelena swallowed. Even Bob had to wonder what she could say to that.

The secret must be killing her.

“Just get some sleep,” She finally said. “Sun’s up in a few hours and you know how Bucky is.”

“Oh yes, Winter Soldier,” Alexei said; his tone had shifted back to his more typical lighter sort. “Have you ever met him? He is talented but quiet man—you will like him.” That must have been directed at Melina, who whistled at the name. “And Captain Walker, he is impressive man; he reminds me of young Red Guardian. Wait until you see Ghost, she can go through things and it is crazy.” He laughed and Melina chuckled, dryly but affectionately. “You will be so, uh, curious by her. But she is kind person, and Captain Walker and she and our Yelena are good friends—.”

“Dad,” Yelena groaned and compared to the tension earlier, it felt refreshingly exasperated. “Just go the hell to sleep.”

“Aye aye,” Alexei chirped. “Come, любовь, I show you upstairs. You must be tired from your . . . trip.”

Melina chuckled warmly, “Not entirely; I think I have some energy in me . . . if you can find it.” Okay, the situation was still dire, with the lying and all, but this had taken a turn for the gross and it was almost enough to make Bob forget how stressed he was. Alexei just chortled appreciatively and Bob could hear the sounds of them beginning to go up the stairs. He dared glance over his shoulder and saw the two adults making their way up, their heads huddled together as they whispered . . . well, whatever they were saying, he wanted no part in, and judging by the way Yelena was gripping the bridge of her temple, neither did she.

“Just go to fucking sleep, dad.”

Alexei grunted, but it didn’t sound promising. Well, whatever happened, it wouldn’t be Yelena’s fault.

“Thank you, Yelena,” Melina called down from the top of the stairs, her tone seemed serious, as if she were ignoring the shift in mood. “I know it’s not easy . . . I know I don’t make it easy . . . but thank you for your help. For what it’s worth—you may not believe me and I wouldn’t blame you, if you do not, but it is truly . . . nice to see you. See the person you’ve grown into being. So thank you, for that, too.”

Yelena just grunted and waved dismissively. Melina reluctantly nodded, the smile on her face took on a sadder hue, but she continued, undaunted. “And please tell your friend over there that I look forward to meeting him, too. Make good choices, until then.”

“Mama,” Yelena groaned and then froze, as if she hadn’t planned on saying that aloud and it only caught up to her after it had escaped. There was no taking it back, as both Melina and Alexei looked surprised but pleased by it, which only made Yelena groan again and turn away from them. Yelena’s parents just smiled fondly at Yelena before they gave him a small wave goodnight. He tentatively nodded back, but it felt wrong, since he had barely exchanged any words with the woman, but it felt rude to ignore the gesture, as well.

Yelena said nothing as she approached the couch, but the look on her face was grim, and Bob was really not sure where to begin. Any words that had popped in his head seemed inadequate for what just happened, so he opted for silence and hoped it’d help. When she got next to him, she looked down at the spot next to him, silently asking for permission to sit. He was confused by the request—why did she feel she had to ask?—but somehow appreciative of it, too, and he quickly nodded. Despite the tense situation, there was something comforting about feeling her beside him.

“. . . Are you okay?” She finally asked. Her voice sounded raspy, even though she had just been using it.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically; given what had just happened, he really didn’t think it was helpful to take the focus away from her. Besides, he was fine. He hadn’t run away. He hadn’t made it worse. No one had gotten hurt. It had deescalated without getting . . . yes, this was fine. He had been uncomfortable, but who wasn’t? He could live with that. “What about you?”

But she just shook her head and looked at him, a serious look on her face, and he immediately felt guilty. It had been a stupid lie; of course she’d not accept it. He had hidden away on this couch and not said a word the entire time—not exactly the picture of “fine.” “. . . I felt a little uncomfortable.” He conceded. “I’m sorry that I . . . I didn’t help. I just . . . didn’t want to get in the way.” Make it worse

Yet Yelena shook her head firmly, “It wasn’t your job to help, Bob. That was . . . my problem to deal with, and I’m . . . sorry it woke you up.” She shot him a small smile, but it didn’t seem to reach her eyes. “Were you able to get some rest?”

He just stared at her. As much as he appreciated Yelena, even he could admit that her tendency to put herself second was sometimes a problem. For someone who insisted she was a terrible, self-serving person, she was consistently one of the least selfish people he had ever met.

It was times like this that reminded him that that wasn’t always a good thing.

Before he could reply, she shook her head. “Of course you didn’t. What am I thinking? If Walker wasn’t so dense, even he’d have woken up.”

“It’s not like that,” He quickly interjected. “It just . . . what did you mean by brainwashing?” That hadn’t been what he had planned on asking her, but there was no taking it back, now. And he wasn’t sure he even wanted to take it back, even if he could. For all her talk about not bottling up pain, she still hadn’t gotten used to being the one sharing. Not that he could cast any stones for that, but it was only fair.

She shot him a look so weary that he almost regretted asking. Even if sharing was supposed to be helpful, she had to feel safe first, and that only came from trust and it would be crazy if she actually trusted him that much. What had he done to deserve it?

“. . . The Red Room,” Yelena sighed and looked at her bare feet. Her arms were crossed and whether consciously or not, she slouched into herself and he had to fight the instinct to lay a comforting hand on the small of her back. “It is—was—a . . . well, it was a place where children were kidnapped or sold, and groomed to become tools for a pathetic, tiny man. He thought himself an important man, someone who could control the world, if he wanted, and we were supposed to be the levers which he used to do it.”

She hesitated and for a second, Bob thought she looked tempted to look at him, but if that was the case, she clearly thought better of it and pressed on. As if she was afraid of what she’d see. “Everything in my life that I can remember, that man controlled. He’d say he gave it to me.” She scoffed softly to herself. “He’d say he gave me a father. He gave me a mother. He gave me a sister. He gave me a house, a childhood, clothes, food . . . my entire life was his to give and his to live, and I was the last one to know. Alexei, Melina, even Natasha, they all knew of this man. They all knew our family was a lie, but I was just a kid—I was too young to remember anything before them. They were the only thing I had ever known.” A fond smile crossed her face, but Bob wasn’t sure she was aware it was there.

“. . . My first memory is of meeting Alexei,” She admitted. “It was probably for some stupid test—I didn’t know that, but they must have been testing to see if I could work with him. Like some sort of . . . show try-out. They just had me watching a movie when this giant walked in. He seemed so . . . weird. His face looked different from the other people I had seen. Kinder, somehow. Like he could laugh. Like he would listen to you. He just made me feel . . . safe. He was silly and different and when I said whatever I said, he acted like it was important and like he was . . . like he thought I was important. Like I could fall asleep and he’d still be there when I woke up, you know?

“And Natasha, she didn’t say much. She didn’t know what to do with me or Alexei—we weren’t widows; Alexei barely knew more about deep cover than I did,” She chuckled, a hint of fondness trickling in. “She and . . .. Melina, they understood each other. Me and him, not so much, but they tried. Even if they thought I was burden, they tried, and I don’t think Dreykov thought they would. Even if it was fake . . . for a moment, they seemed to think it was real enough to matter, and that was the best part of my life. Whenever things got bad, however deep the void became, I would think of those memories. Remember I had had a life before the emptiness. I had had a home. I had had a family. And then I’d do the next job. The next training, and it’d start over again.

“But to Dreykov, that wasn’t enough. He had us in body, he had us in spirit, but he was such paranoid man, he wanted us in soul, too. Too much freedom in our minds, and maybe we would run for freedom for real. And after Natasha ran off to S.H.I.E.L.D., it proved his paranoid fears, and he . . . well, he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “He gave us chemicals that subjugated us. Took away every thought, every memory, and just made us . . . empty. Our thoughts were his. Our actions were his. And I was just stuck in this sort of . . . limbo. My body moved, my eyes could see, but it felt like . . . someone else. Until someone exposed me to the cure.

“But those chemicals . . . he wasn’t the one who made them. He was clever, but he wasn’t smart, and Melina, she was smart, but she didn’t think. The science, it swept her up, and she had long lost the ability to ask things like ‘why’ and ‘should,’ and so she made it for him. Because he wanted it and because she could. Dreykov, he could be a persuasive man, but I don’t think he had to do much to convince her. Widow training or no, that just may be who she is.”

“And your dad loves her.” Bob mused quietly.

Yelena snorted but nodded. “Somehow, yeah. And I think she loves him, or the closest thing she can do.” She fell silent and stared off into the corner of the room, her eyes vacant. “The Red Room . . . Dreykov . . . their job was to make people empty. And she was there longer than most . . . . In some way, part of me can’t . . . blame her. Not fully. She may even love us. I understand that, I do, but . . . I don’t think I can forgive her for it. What she did. What it took from me. From us. Even Natasha . . .” Yelena turned away from him and pulled her legs onto the couch and hugged her knees. “Melina, she may have made the chemicals for Dreykov, but Natasha, she ran off and proved to him why he needed to use them. She never looked back. Joined S.H.I.E.L.D., made friends . . . a life. And I can’t blame her for that, either, but it’s sometimes hard to . . . .”

“To forgive her, too.” Bob finished quietly.

Yelena nodded slowly, as if she didn’t trust herself to speak. Bob took a breath and tentatively rested a hand on her lower back. Even without the enhanced strength, it still marveled him just how fragile she felt. When she didn’t protest, he began to slowly, gently rub circles on the small of her back. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, Yelena.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not being sure if you can forgive them for everything. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“But I love them,” She murmured, a pained frustration in her voice. And in that moment, she just sounded so young.

“And that’s great,” He sighed. “Your family loves each other, even if they don’t always know how to show it, and that’s good, but . . . they hurt you, too. Even if they didn’t do it on purpose. You can love them, you can respect them, you can think they’re the most important, precious people in the world, you can understand them and want them in your life—all of that can be true. But none of those things means you have to forgive and forget all of it or something.” He took a shaky breath and pointedly just focused on the back of his hands. “Today, tomorrow, 100 years from now—there’s no deadline or anything. If you can and if you want to one day, good, but even if it never comes, it doesn’t mean you don’t love them. It doesn’t mean they’re bad people. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. People are . . . complicated. It’s okay if you are, too.”

Yelena didn’t say anything, but she didn’t pull away either, which he hoped was a good sign. He had been afraid that he had overstepped, but if he had, she wasn’t giving any sign.

“. . . Did I scare you?” Yelena asked quietly, and Bob blinked. Of all the things he had expected her to say, that wasn’t one of them.

“You mean earlier? No, of course not.” He tried to force some levity in his tone, but she clearly wasn’t in the mood for it and the words felt like lead on his lips. “I’m not some little kid, Yelena. I can . . . I think I can hear someone arguing without being scared.”

“You flinched.”

He stopped rubbing and stared her, even if she couldn’t see his confusion. “What?”

“When I walked near you before. You flinched.” Of course she had noticed.

“That was . . . .” He honestly wasn’t sure how he had thought that sentence would end, but if he had had an idea, it was gone now. Given what she had just shared with him, it seemed unfair for him to deny it, but it still made him feel like a pathetic coward. “. . . It was so . . . tense, and I was a little . . . afraid you were going to pull me into it.” It sounded even dumber when he said it out loud. “That’s all. It’s okay.”

Yelena slowly shook her head. “If you were afraid, then it’s not okay, Bob”

“You were just frustrated,” he said as he resumed rubbing her lower back, if only so he had something else to focus on. “It was a crazy situation. You don’t need my permission to be frustrated. I’m not . . . I’m not made of glass or something.”

“I don’t,” Yelena quietly agreed, “but you shouldn’t have to be afraid of me being mad, either, Bob.” She turned to face him, that serious look on her face that made him feel like she was seeing too much, and his hand reluctantly fell away from her and rested on the couch. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he could have sworn his fingers had been tingling, but it must have been his imagination. She just stared at him for a few seconds, her face neutral. “Bob. I want to promise you something, okay?”

Where was she going with this? Yet, he nodded slowly.

“I will never be mad at you, Bob.”

“. . . You can’t promise that.” He said quietly. “You shouldn’t.”

“Because you ‘make things worse’?” She raised an eyebrow and he winced. Said aloud, it sounded so . . . so childish. So stupid. He was an adult, right? Seeing what she wanted, she just shook her head. “No Bob, you don’t.” That was a lie, but he didn’t have the heart to call her on it; honestly, he just appreciated she still denied it. “And even if something is your fault . . . I won’t be mad. I may be mad at the situation. I may be frustrated at what happened, but I promise, I won’t be mad at you.”

“. . . Why?” He blinked, and despite himself, he noticed the corners of his eyes burning. He fought the temptation to wipe at them; no need to draw more attention to them.

“Because I trust you, Bob,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I trust you that you mean well, even if we disagree.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For the first time since the serum, he actually felt winded, like he had been punched in the gut, and it was still surreal to him that even with just words, this woman could do what bullets couldn’t.

“Do you trust me?” She asked quietly. He wanted to. He really, truly wanted to, and any sane person would have such an easy time saying “yes,” but he wasn’t sane, was he? What she was saying . . . it didn’t sound like him. He liked that she trusted him, but he didn’t like that it felt like she trusted a version of him that he didn’t know. That he wasn’t convinced was real. Could he even be that person she thought he was? That just felt like a good way to let her down.

His silence must have spoken volumes, because she just nodded slowly, and he felt terrible. But to his surprise, instead of being mad or disappointed, she just nodded again and leaned against him. Her hair still smelled faintly of some kind fruit shampoo—cherries, maybe? Whatever it was, the second he breathed it in, he found himself begin to relax. “It’s okay, Bob,” She murmured, a trace of exhaustion in her voice. “You don’t have to. There’s no . . . deadline . . . just, just promise me something, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Just promise . . . you’ll talk with me. Or someone. Just don’t . . . shove it down.” Her eyes were getting heavy. She must have been so tired, after the whole mess. “Okay?”

“. . . I’ll try.” It felt like the most honest answer her could give.

Her eyes were closed but that small smile came back. “All I ask.” She fell silent and her breathing began to even; she was about to fall asleep and she was still leaning against his shoulder.

“Do you want to go back upstairs?” He asked quietly. She mumbled something and shook her head. “. . . What?”

“No,” she repeated. “Probably fucking.”

He flushed. Of all the things she could have said, that wasn’t in his top 5 guesses. “Your . . . parents?”

Yelena yawned and nodded. “Been long time, they get . . . pent up. I don’t want to hear it.”

Well, that made two of them. “. . . Fair enough.” He snorted and shook his head. If they were staying here . . . . He glanced down at the blanket in his hands and, keeping his shoulders still, gently laid it over Yelena as best as he could. Next, he grabbed the nearest pillow and set it on his lap; Yelena barely acknowledged it as he slowly shifted his shoulder and guided her down so that her head rested on it. “That okay?” He asked as she readjusted herself. She murmured something that sounded like a yes, so he just nodded to himself. With that taken care of, he found his mind wandering to the reason this whole mess of a night had happened to begin with. “. . . What are you going to tell your dad?” He mused quietly.

“. . . Dunno,” Yelena mumbled to herself and he looked down at her. Despite the situation, she seemed . . . peaceful. “I’ll think of some . . . thing.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Bob agreed. Without second guessing it, he rested his arm on Yelena’s blanket. Somehow, even he was feeling a little . . . tired. “And maybe Ava or . . . Walker . . . might know.”

Yelena mumbled again, but it was trapped by the pillow and before he could ask, a small snore trickled out. He just stared down at her a while, dimly marveling at how surreal this whole thing was, as he often did, when it felt too much like a dream. There were times when he had to wonder if he was actually still back in the vault, blissfully dreaming away, and every time, however surreal it was, he prayed that wasn’t true. Prayed to who, he wasn’t particularly sure, but even if he didn’t deserve it, he was . . . happy with his life. With his friends.

With Yelena.

It would be too cruel, if this was just a dream.

Just before his own eyes drifted shut, he couldn’t help but think maybe, at least tonight, he hadn’t made it worse after all.

They’d see what the morning held, but for now . . . peace.

For the first time, he wished the night was longer.

Chapter Text

It was the click of a camera that woke Yelena up, but was the muttered curse that immediately followed that made her open her eyes.

As she slowly blinked through her crusty eyelids, she gradually saw her voyeur. Standing on the other side of the living room table was a sheepish-looking Alexei, still clad in his robe and boxers, his phone held out. He stood frozen, as if he somehow hoped the stillness would make her unable to see him, like she was some dinosaur from Jurassic Park. If her eye boogies were any indication, she probably didn’t look much better, but she resented the implied comparison anyway.

“. . . What are you doing?” She murmured as she burrowed further into her blanket cocoon; her own voice sounded raspy and distant to her. The pillow was softer than she expected, and she wasn’t inclined to raise her head and expound any more energy than she had to.

Alexei coughed awkwardly as he slowly slid his phone into his robe pocket and shrugged, “Nothing, nothing. Just checking . . . text message.”

She fought the temptation to roll her eyes. “You’ll be deleting that photo.”

“Yes, of course, of course, little one.” He waved dismissively. It was frustrating that the more time they spent together, the less he seemed to fear her. Before she could retort, she felt the warm cushion behind her head begin to stir and even in her groggy state, she suddenly remembered their situation: her head was practically in Bob’s lap, where she had clearly slept all night. And her dad now had photographic proof of it.

Fuck.

“Good morning, Bob,” Alexei said, his tone light, as if there was nothing odd going on, which somehow made her feel worse. She didn’t dare glance up; instead, she found herself taking a page out of her father’s book and holding still, as if that would make both men forget she was there, and she hated herself for it.

In the back of her mind, Yelena supposed there were worse things that her father could have found out. Such as their teammate and her sort-of friend had killed one of his surrogate stepdaughters in a trap set up by his new boss.

But this was a close second.

She heard Bob yawn softly, in that gentle way of his that reminded her of her guinea pig, “Morning.” He wasn’t normally this drowsy, and she doubted he actually slept all that well—sitting straight up with your head tilted back hardly seemed comfortable, serum or no serum—so she figured that he was likely faking for both their benefit, which was irritating, mostly because it made her feel guilty. He’d have been fast asleep upstairs if it wasn’t for her and her stupid family drama. If her mother hadn’t . . . . .

Her mother was in the tower.

But if Alexei was here, where was . . . ?

Yelena immediately sat up, which sent the pillow to the floor in the process and made Bob jump. Just another thing to feel guilty for. The blanket pooled around her waist as she cast a hurried look around the room; it was hardly subtle, but it was a desperate situation.

“If you’re looking for your mother,” Alexei commented drily, “she is downstairs having breakfast with rest of team. Said she wanted to try one of Mr. Walker’s omelets.”

She had to fight the groan that was building in her chest. It was bad enough her . . . colleagues had met Alexei, but Melina was a whole other level, if only because she had a photo album of baby photos, even if half of the photos were staged, and almost zero filter in anything that didn’t involve the widow network tangentially. Who knew what stories she could be telling them? Worst of all, she couldn’t discredit any of them, since she had been so young at the time, and she just knew Alexei would back Melina up on anything she claimed Yelena didn’t remember. Sure, they had bigger problems right then, namely that she and Bob would have a harder time getting Ava and Walker alone enough to try and coordinate their stories to figure out a plan, but first thing in the morning, this seemed just as important.

Plus, her parents had seen her sleeping with Bob. Well, not sleeping sleeping, but . . . sleeping? Resting? English was such a stupid language, there had to be a word for whatever this situation was.

. . . God, that was going to be a fun conversation.

The idea of . . . partners was honestly uncharted territory for her “family.” Natasha hadn’t gotten involved with anyone that they had known of (or at least before they were Blipped away), Alexei and Melina already had each other, in a weird, sort of fashion, and as for her . . . the inclination had never really come up before. Granted, rescuing the rest of the widows, working for Val, and flirting with alcoholism and depression really hadn’t present much opportunity to even think about it, but the truth was that she honestly hadn’t even considered it before. She understood the concept intellectually, but she just never had . . . felt any interest in the idea. Maybe the Red Room had just broken her, maybe she had just internalized the idea that no one else could be relied on, maybe she had just gotten tired of being at someone else’s beck and call, but whatever reason, it just seemed moot. Simply not for her, and that was fine.

More than fine, honestly, given how much control over you love gave another person. She could see how Melina’s absence had affected Alexei, however much he denied it (he literally found a way for a need to break his skin so he could ink her face above his heart—along with her and Natasha’s names, but this wasn’t time to try and unpack all of those feelings), and even Melina, a woman once considered the epitome of the Red Room widow program, had somehow been so ensnared in its web that she had held on to Alexei’s unwashed Red Guardian suit for 20 years just so she’d have something of his to remember him by. To keep him close after Dreykov had imprisoned him beyond her reach. She had even named a pig after him simply because it had reminded her of him. It seemed nearly impossible to reconcile the iron maiden, the woman who had helped Dreykov subjugate them, with someone who could possibly be so sentimental, especially over someone that . . . well, someone like Alexei. Yelena loved the man, she could admit that much to herself, but he had so many faults that it just didn’t compute that someone as coldly rational as Melina could have fallen for him.

To be fair, it seemed both Alexei and Melina were just as surprised and confused about their relationship as she was, though they seemed less inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Even Walker, a man who, near as she could tell, cared more about what other people thought of him than anything else, still managed to love someone else enough to get married and have a child with them, even if that love hadn’t been enough to stop him from imploding the whole thing. Meanwhile, Ava and Bucky never mentioned anyone and she couldn’t imagine that either of them had had much experience with it. She certainly didn’t feel comfortable enough even broaching the topic of love with them, much less Walker or Alexei; the closest she had dared was back at the grocery store when Ava herself had brought Bob up, and even then, it had felt awkward. It seemed whatever Yelena had said about the subject had been enough to pacify her at the time, but she knew the ghost wasn’t truly satisfied, and she couldn’t imagine that her parents would be, either. Sure, Alexei had known they were close, but sleeping together out in the open like this would make even him curious.

She could hear Melina now.

Who is Bob?

Why was Bob in her bed

What is Bob to her?

Honestly, she still had no idea and she wasn’t in a particular rush to find out. It wasn’t like she wasn’t enjoying whatever this was—if anything, it was the main thing keeping her sane—, but she was . . . afraid of the answer, for the lack of a better word. Especially if her answer and Bob’s were different. She was the one who had insisted they stick together, and as much as it was for his own safety, there was an equally large selfishness to it.

As stupid as it sounded, as surreal as it sounded, as unhelpful as it sounded, she was pretty sure that she could no longer imagine a life that didn’t have Bob in it, and God, did she hate how pathetic that was.

It was inexplicable. They had literally only spent a day or two together. There was no reasonable explanation and she knew that she ever talked about it with anyone, they would just find it baffling or chalk it up to some sort of trauma-bonding. Even Walker and Ava seemed to think it was weird, and they had been there since the beginning. If they couldn’t understand, what hope did she have of making Melina comprehend it, when she herself didn’t? The others at least didn’t openly question it, because they knew Bob listened to her and they seemed to think she had some secret way of keeping the Void at bay, but she knew they still wondered.

Ironically, the only one who had sort of just taken the whole thing at face value had been Alexei. Whether it was out of fatherly guilt or genuine understanding, he didn’t ask about it; he didn’t even act like it was odd that they were spending so much time together. If anything, he seemed to enjoy having Bob around and he went out of his way to include him in discussions, and each time he got roped in one of Alexei’s chats, Bob would just get this silly expression that seemed both embarrassed and happy that just made her feel better for some reason. To most everyone else, he probably came across as wishy washy, and as much as that take pissed her off, intellectually, she couldn’t totally blame them. If you didn’t know him, he could seem perpetually nervous, socially awkward, and fragile.

But she did know him.

And the damnedest thing about it was that he seemed to know her, too.

At first, she had just been trying to keep him alive, in some cases in spite of himself, but then he had looked at her with a degree of empathy she hadn’t thought possible and somehow put her thoughts to words, as if he had read her mind. His eyes had held no pity, no deception: just a genuine understanding, to the degree that the words almost felt . . . unnecessary. And yet, words or no words, she had felt heard all the same. With Natasha gone, Alexei was probably the only other person alive who truly understood her, but even if he understood, even if he loved her, he didn’t always hear her. He made assumptions. He put her on a pedestal. Yet, as much as he seemed to care, it felt like he wouldn’t listen to her as she actually was sometimes. Generally, she loved him for it: that as broken as she was, he seemed to think she was as bright and pure as the sun, but then there were the low moments, where it had just made her feel truly alone.

Like only her void saw her as she truly was.

There was some philosopher who’d said something to the gist of “if you fight monsters, be careful to not become a monster yourself, because as you look into the void, the void looks into you, too.” Yelena had no memory of where she had first heard that phrase, though judging by their discussions, Mel and Bucky could probably at least tell her if she remembered it correctly. She didn’t care enough to ask them, because the idea itself seemed to make sense enough for her, the way she remembered it: that the things you do unto others do things unto you, too, whether you’re aware of it or not.

And she had done many, many bad things.

Yet, those lonely nights lying on her bathroom floor or staring out to the horizon, the longer she had gazed into her void, the less she seemed to actually perceive it. She could feel its eye on her, reading her every thought and action, but when she looked into its maw, it may as well have been a blackhole: the longer and harder she tried to understand it, the more of her it would suck away and put beyond her reach, until she had just felt . . . empty. Hollow.

Nothing.

But somehow, even then, that emptiness, that void had always found more to take from her, and no one else had ever seemed to realize that she had been reduced to a walking husk of herself. It seemed pointless to pretend to be any more, to expect to be anything more than that, and so she just leaned into it: she would stare at her phone, eyes unfocused, as she’d sit, drink, ignore well-meaning texts from Kate and occasionally Clint, and just wait for the next task. Those tasks from Val, as tedious as they could be, were the only things that would give her life even some semblance of meaning and yet, even on the job, she had begun to just robotically go through the motions until even that seemed as empty as she was. And with it, her last refuge from the void’s gaze died: there was no longer any safe place to hide from it

And yet, when Bob had looked her, for the first time, she realized that she may not actually be alone in that hell, after all. That maybe hiding from the void until it took all of you didn’t have to be the only answer, even if she hadn’t any clue what the other answer could be. Any other time, it would have seemed laughable that anyone would have thought she could help them, especially for anything more than shooting, but when he had asked her how to beat the void, he had just seemed so earnest, so open to her, that she had found herself at a loss of how to reply. Yet, even then, when she had shown she had no more idea than he did, he had just . . . laughed. Shot her a small smile. Joked with her.

Turns out, Bob had a wry sense of humor, too.

She got the impression that not many people knew that.

Fewer still had probably heard that.

In the back of her mind, despite the encroaching threat of Val’s forces, Yelena had found herself pleased that she had been the one to make him smile. It had almost been enough to make her think that maybe, just this one time, she could keep someone safe.

Well, they had all seen how that had turned out.

She had tried to keep him alive. She really had. She literally had tied him to her back to keep him out of harm’s way, and in the end, she still hadn’t been able to make him believe she could keep him safe. Whatever connection they had, whatever she had said, he had still been all too willing to throw away the life she had fought so hard to save. That she had had to watch as he was shot by firing squad to buy them time, and feel each bullet as it killed him, along with a hope that she hadn’t even known she had had. Even if Bob had wound up surviving because of Val’s experiments, Yelena hadn’t known that at the time.

Neither had he.

And when she beheld him as the Sentry, the way that he had looked at her—them . . . it had been hard not to feel like the Bob they had known, the one with the quiet smile, even quieter laugh, and eyes that saw too much and not enough, may have actually died in the desert after all. The sadness in his eyes as he denied that she understood him chilled her to her core. He just looked so . . . resigned. Resigned to being alone, like she had said they were . . . . She had lost him in every way that mattered.

No, worse than that.

She had failed to save him in every way that had mattered.

Failed to save him from the vault.

Failed to save him from Val.

Failed to save him from being alone.

Failed to save him from himself.

In a truly twisted irony, it was Bob himself who kept them safe by pulling his punches. From the first blow, the power difference had been clear: she could only stare as her father was sent spiraling out the window with a simple gesture, as Walker’s gun was melted in his hands, as Ava was caught in mid-phase, as Bucky was beaten with his own arm. Maybe Natasha could have seen a way out. Maybe actual heroes could have found a way to fight back. Them, all they could do was flee, lick their wounds, and thank God that Bob now thought they were so far beneath him that they weren’t worth the trouble.

And somehow, in all the lives she had lived up to that point—innocent daughter, Red Room assassin, saboteur, cleaner, fixer for hire, perpetual loose end—, she had never felt like more of a failure. There was no Natasha to help clean up the mess, to drag her back from the despair of overwhelming odds like she had when they took on Dreykov. No, this had been on her and she hadn’t even been able to last a day in her sister’s shoes. Alexei had been wrong about her. Natasha had been wrong about her.

Yet, against all logic and reason, Bob still believed in her. Maybe he had just been so desperate as to clutch at any straw that passed by, but he had let her in. Let her find him. Let her see the hurt. Let her comfort him. Let her hold him. Let her pull him back from the darkness.

Let her save him.

Most everyone else in her life had left her and thought it for the best: her sister, her mother, her father—they had all assumed she just didn’t need them. That they made her weak, weighed her down. They left her alone and essentially considered it their gift to her, and all it had done is make her feel alone. She knew that Bob felt the same way as they did—that she’d be better off without him, that he’d just drag her down. Yet, he stayed. He listened to her and he stayed and she treasured him for that. That he listened to her, was happy to stay with her, even without his memories of the incident seemed surreal—how could he see her as someone worth trusting, after everything?

Alexei, Bob . . . what version of her were they seeing? Whoever that woman was, she didn’t know her, and Yelena was afraid she never would, but if that mirage is what made them stay, she was fine playing along, even if it just made her scared of how fucking fragile the illusion probably was. One day, the spell would break and they’d see that she was just a broken, empty shell, and be disappointed, but until then, she’d selfishly enjoy them being there. Make her feel full, make her feel filled, make her feel lighter.

None of them expected this New Avengers thing to stick, but she was going to enjoy it while it lasted. Enjoy the sounds of Walker and Ava bickering, Bucky’s deadpan comments, Alexei’s comforting laugh and blind faith, Mel’s awkward but well-meaning encouragement, and Bob’s . . . well, himself.

She wasn’t sure why she had suggested he sleep in her room. Of course, she had wanted to die the second she had realized how she had phrased the idea, but fortunately, he had been kind enough to ignore it, even if he had just awkwardly stared at her, a disbelieving look on his face at the time. He must have thought she was insane, but despite his clear skepticism, as always, he listened to her. She wasn’t even sure why she had thought it would help him sleep; from what he was describing, the problem was with his literal biology—not something a simple placebo could fix. Yet, the more he had talked about his nights, the main thing that had struck her was just how lonely he must be feeling, how . . . inhuman. So maybe she had just thought that, worst case, he’d remember she wasn’t afraid of him, whatever he was now. That he’d have someone there with him during the night to remember he was real.

Of course, seeing him awkwardly knock and slink into her room as if he were intruding on her was funny, even if it frustrated her: she had been the one to invite him in, this time, so why did he assume he was annoying her by being there? Intellectually, she understood, but it still made her feel guilty for putting him in that position. Of course, she hadn’t expected him to ask her to read to him. Honestly, she wasn’t the biggest fan of reading—she hadn’t ever really done much of it before, but with their fresh start, she wanted distance from her phone and the memories it held. That, and she saw the way it drained Walker (and that was going to be a conversation for another day; they couldn’t have him spiraling because of fucking memes again. Maybe she could have Ava bully him away from it; he seemed like he listened to her, if only out of spite) and one of them being brain dead was enough.

Yet, when Bob had looked up to her, the bedroom lamp reflecting in his eyes, and asked again, she had known she couldn’t say no to him, however embarrassing it’d probably be. Yet, as she had read, she had found that she didn’t feel embarrassed at all, somehow; lying there as Bob listened, that quiet smile on his face that she was 99% sure he was unaware of, it had just felt . . . good. Like they were sharing some sort of meaningless secret and it didn’t matter for any other reason beyond it was hers and he seemed like he thought it was worth hearing.

When she had woken up that next morning, she genuinely couldn’t remember ever sleeping better. At least not since Ohio. Even better was that Bob said he had as well—either because he had or because he was too kind to say otherwise, but either way, he hadn’t had that lonely, haunted look in his eyes he had most mornings, so she had counted it as a win. So began their routine; she wasn’t sure why they had wanted to keep it a secret from the rest of the team; they probably wouldn’t have cared. Maybe she just hadn’t wanted them getting the wrong idea, maybe she had just liked the secrecy of it, maybe she just didn’t want them asking questions she didn’t want to answer or think about.

Maybe she was afraid the mirage would shatter and Bob would realize her selfishness sooner than she had thought.

Of course she wanted him to be close with everyone else, to have a life beyond the tower, his past, and his own head; she wanted him to know the void hadn’t taken all of him and that others could see him. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t worry that he may leave her behind, once he did. Like the others had, before. Sure, she’d still have Alexei and his mostly-endearingly smothering, she knew that much, but it wasn’t the same, even if she couldn’t really explain why that was.

Ava had tried to ask her once what she thought of Bob, and she really hadn’t known how to answer. Whatever things she had supplied only seemed to confuse her teammate, which only made her feel more confused, too. Bob was fun to be around: he had a dry, sardonic sense of humor and a thin filter, and he’d have this grin on his face as he’d recount his misadventures, even if it tended to lean towards self-depreciating. He’d get this excited look when she could get him to talk about his hobbies or things he liked, but he’d also look surprised too, like he was confused why she’d want to know. He didn’t get nervous about silence and he could just sit and be and that was just . . . nice. There wasn’t any pressure to be more or less than she was, and she got the impression she could say anything or nothing, and he’d hear her out all the same. She could just . . . relax. Rest. The demons were still in the corners of her mind, the void still hung in her sky, but when Bob was around, they just seemed smaller, somehow.

And apparently she could use his lap for a headrest and not even think it was weird.

. . . That was certainly a new wrinkle she had zero plans of unpacking.

“Yelena?” Bob asked; by the tone, it was probably not the first time he had.

She blinked. Alexei and Bob were giving her odd looks, which meant that she had probably zoned out. It was hardly the first time she had gotten lost in her thoughts, but she still had to get used to the idea she wasn’t living alone anymore. That other people could and would notice. Did the others have that problem?

“You awake, little one?” Alexei asked tenderly and she felt a sudden surge of nostalgia for the Ohio years, but she swiftly shoved it to the back of her mind. Even without her mother being there, it was complicated enough as it was, and she was not digging into that this morning.

There was a lot she was avoiding, it seemed.

“Yeah, yeah,” she yawned as she shook her head to rid herself of sleep’s cobwebs; her tongue felt weird. “I’m up.”

Alexei chuckled, “I’ll fetch a coffee, yeah? Then we go down to eat.”

Right. The actual reason she and Bob were stuck on the couch. “No, we’ll grab downstairs.” She fought back another yawn; she still wasn’t used to getting this much rest, and the wakeup process was a real pain. Of course, that only made morning people like Walker and even Alexei (surprising everybody) even more irritating.

“Worried your mother is sharing all your embarrassing secrets?” Alexei grinned, bemused. He was lucky or wise he was out of arm’s reach. Say what you would, he wasn’t unintuitive when he wanted to be.

“I’m sure your mom wouldn’t . . . ,” Not even Bob could finish that assurance with a straight face and she sighed.

“That has nothing to do with it.”

Alexei hummed in agreement, though it had a skeptical note, so she threw her pillow at him. He caught it easily, but he still smiled and despite herself, she snorted. “What’s the worst she could say?”

“Oh, I can remember some good ones,” Alexei stroked his unruly beard, a fond grin on his face. “Bob, did you know that—”

“Finish that sentence at your own risk.”

Alexei just laughed, “You forget that I lived with your mother for 3 years; I’m used to be threatened by widows.”

That was a fair, if unsettling point, but she’d never concede that to his face; she’d just have to find another way to get to him. “Whatever,” she huffed and Bob chuckled; she shot him a tired glare and he just gave her a small grin in return and she rolled her eyes. Damn his eyes. Also the fact that apparently he could wake up without looking unkept—was that a serum thing or had he just been born like that? Unfair, either way.

“C’mon,” Bob got to his feet and she almost fell to her side with his absence, but caught herself in time. He held out a hand; if he noticed her shift, he was wise enough not to acknowledge it. With a sigh, she clasped his hand and let him pull her up; dimly, she wondered if he even felt her weight, and the control he must have to do just to not crush her hand. He was a quicker learner than he gave himself credit for. She looked forlornly back over her shoulder at her fallen blanket cocoon; once her mother was gone, she owed herself a nap. Alexei had already crossed the room and was summoning the elevator—she knew Ava liked to call it the “lift” or whatever, but she was 83% sure that was just her fucking with them.

Wordlessly, all three of them shuffled aboard and as the doors closed, Yelena winced at the smell: Alexei definitely had that morning dad smell and she wished he had showered beforehand, but of course he hadn’t thought to; she should at least be happy that he had remembered to brush his teeth, this time. If Bob was bothered or had noticed, he gave no sign and Yelena wondered what the serum may have done to his sense of smell; every other sense of his seemed to have been enhanced, so why not smell? If so, that poor man; it would drive most anyone insane. How did he stand it? Even with the minimum Widow Program enhancements she had undergone, it was only a fraction of what he was capable of, so if it was annoying for her, it must be suffocating for him. Right?

As the elevator began to slow to a stop, Yelena’s stomach kept going down, leaving the rest of her behind as it took whatever lingering exhaustion she had had. Upstairs, confronting her mother had been all fun and hypothetical, but now that it would actually happen, she felt on edge. Plus the looming question of what to do about Antonia still was nowhere close to being answered. She distantly recalled promising Bob she’d come up with something, and she was still drawing a complete blank, but she couldn’t let Bob know that. He trusted her, he was counting on her to come up with a plan that would avert an implosion—she had promised and however juvenile it was, she didn’t want to break it. Not after they had already let Natasha down by failing Antonia so badly.

Nope. Couldn’t think about that right now.

Without so much as a notice, the elevator eased to a stop at the lounge floor, but before the doors could open, Yelena instinctively reached over to the “doors close” button and held it down with as much force as she could safely apply. To their credit, neither Bob nor Alexei commented on it or even lifted an eyebrow at the gesture. Most would assume she was crazy, but both of them seemed to know her well enough to guess and just leave it be while they waited. Waited for what, even she didn’t know, but whenever she knew, it seemed they were content.

“Is okay. We, uh, we just sit tight,” Alexei murmured to her and she winced, remembering he had said the same thing when he had followed after her back at Melina’s house all those years ago, when Natasha wanted them to take down Dreykov and wrote off their whole past together as a lie. Back when, for a moment, Yelena had just been a little kid again, praying her older sister didn’t actually hate her. The memory was bittersweet, to say the least, especially given how things ended up.

This time would be different. She was better than back then. She had grown some, Alexei had grown some. She had Bob in her corner and coworkers that could be described from a certain point of view as being close enough to count as friends. She had faced down Nat’s so-called best friend and she had helped save New York’s Christmas. This was her home turf. Melina was the guest, the one out of the loop this time.

She could do this.

“ . . . and this museum, Yelena got us banned.” Melina’s voice could be heard even through the elevator doors, and immediately, Yelena’s determination deserted her. She eyed the lobby button; who was to say they had to get off? Maybe she could just push Alexei out and keep going. Hit the lobby. Catch a cab. Go to JFK. Start a new life literally anywhere else. Maybe adopt a cat; she’d miss her guinea pig, but sacrifices would need to be made. Bob’d understand. Maybe he’d come. She could start that crafting business she had never wanted. White women online made it look easy enough; surely it couldn’t be too hard to sell her wares, literally or figuratively. Or maybe start one of those spin cycle classes; on TV, those instructors always got to yell at people, and she liked that idea more.

As if sensing her thoughts, she saw Bob’s hand slowly reach into her field of vision and cover the L button. She glowered at him and he gave her a hapless shrug, but with a quiet, amused smile on his face as if he had seen the new life she had imagined and she just sighed instead. That wasn’t playing fair and he knew it.

Reluctantly, she nodded and gestured for him to open the doors while she pointedly ignored Alexei and his bemused smile; he clearly remembered the museum Melina was talking about. “Ah yes,” he murmured as if to himself, but loud enough for the whole elevator to hear. “Ah yes, when Yelena tried to ride dinosaur skeleton. It was impressive climb. Even Melina was proud, after her anger calmed down.”

“Dad.”

“Yes, little one?”

“Shut up.”

Alexei just chuckled quietly to himself and shook his head, but he held up his hands in surrender; however, the closed doors didn’t stop the unmistakable sounds of Walker and Ava guffawing from bleeding through, and Yelena just wanted to pinch the bridge of her nose. She considered the Ohio years to be the best part of her life, but there was something maddening about hearing them shared with others, especially by Melina. It wasn’t rational, she knew, but it still felt disrespectful, somehow. With a sigh, she released the “doors close” button and let the doors open with a soft “whoosh” sound.

The first thing she saw was her mother sitting at their table, with Ava and Walker crowded behind her. Dressed in her widow tactical suit from last night, Melina appeared well-rested and comfortable, as if it were only logical that she should be in her kitchen, talking with her . . . team. She was flipping through a green photo album while explaining each photo, just as Yelena had predicted. Meanwhile, Bucky had seated himself on the couch and was nonchalantly flipping through the newspaper—close enough to still hear everything, but distant enough to have some plausible deniability that he hadn’t actively been seeking out dirt on her, like the way Ava and Walker clearly were. Both were still dressed in their pajamas, with Walker still clad in a big fluffy robe over his t-shirt and shorts, and Ava’s hair was in a messy bun and she was in sweats and a t-shirt; there was something almost domestic about it that, any other time, she’d have found endearing, but with her mother there, it just felt . . . wrong.

“Morning.” Yelena said, her tone ice.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at the chilly reception, but nodded in acknowledgement, while Ava and Walker merely waved in her general direction, their focus on the pictures sitting in front of them. It was disconcerting to see them on remotely the same page, and the fact that it was at her own expense only made it more annoying. She’d have expected as much from Walker, but where was Ava’s loyalty?

As if sensing her thoughts, Ava at least had the decency to glance in her direction; Yelena crossed her arms and scowled while Bob awkwardly waved to her. To her credit, Ava’s eyes widened slightly and she quickly shoved Walker away from the table, over his surprised protests. “Don’t just stand there, you muppet,” she hissed as she waved dismissively towards the kitchen counter, her gaze locked back onto the photo book, “make yourself useful, yeah?”

Walker glowered at her, but she ignored it; with a scowl, he turned back to the kitchen and stomped over to the stove as he muttered to himself. Normally, Yelena would have laughed, but with her mood, the most she allowed was her lips to twitch into a slight smile. Even with the situation, seeing Ava “take the piss” (or so she’d say) out of Walker was still amusing, and it almost made her more annoyed at Melina for dampening the moment. Was it the mature thing to feel? Probably not, but fuck maturity; she didn’t get to be a teenager because of that woman, so she may as well make up for lost time today.

“Sleep well?” Melina asked calmly as she turned another page in the book, a thoughtful smile on her face. Satisfied, she looked up from the photos and nodded towards them, though Yelena dearly wished she hadn’t seen her shoot Alexei a quick smirk and a wink.

“Fine,” Yelena said curtly as she ignored Alexei’s quiet chortle. “You look like you’ve made yourself at home.”

“Your friends have been very welcoming,” Melina said, her tone light.

“We would have been even more welcoming if we had known you were coming,” Bucky said dryly as he turned the page, pointedly not looking back at her. “Maybe left the door unlocked.”

“It was no bother,” Melina waved dismissively, “I did not want you to trouble yourselves.”

“Yet somehow,” Bucky kept his tone bored, but it was clear he wasn’t actually reading the print, “despite your consideration and our very locked door, I’m troubled.”

“Winter Soldier,” Alexei laughed as he rested a hand on Yelena’s shoulder, though she knew him well enough to recognize it was forced, “I will talk with her about calling ahead, but come now, our family has been reunited. This is happy occasion!” Alexei was an idiot, yes, but he knew how to read a room…at least well enough to see the tension. Bucky remained unmoved: he stayed silent, expecting an answer, and turned the page again.

“In your defense,” Melina said, “I’ve been doing this long time. It is difficult to keep me out, if I want to get in.”

“You will be sharing how that happened before you leave,” Bucky stated as he flipped another page with a practiced ease. It was clearly not a question.

“Of course, Soldier,” Melina nodded in his direction, “I have already written some notes for you to review.” Bucky grunted and went back to reading. He appeared to be pacified, but Yelena had come to know him well enough to see that he was still irked by the situation.

Well, he could join the club. They had jackets.

“Thank you, friend,” Alexei smiled at Bucky, who continued to pretend they were no longer there. “Captain Walker, do you have Sriracha?”

Walker raised his gaze from the skillet in front of him and glanced over his shoulder back at them. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but . . . why?”

“Because this is reunion! Tonight, I will make us feast worthy of such occasion.” He squeezed Yelena’s shoulder and shot her a quick conspiratorial grin and despite her shit mood, Yelena’s lips twitched upwards. “Alexei’s Stupendous Macaroni & Cheese is on the menu.”

“. . . And what does that have to do with Sriracha?” Walker asked again, though by his tone, he seemed to have already guessed.

Alexei, however, seemed oblivious to Walker’s clear disgust. “You are clever man but cannot guess? It gives dish zest. Life can always use more ‘wow,’ yes?”

“Absolutely not,” Walker deadpanned.

“Do not judge until you’ve tried, Captain,” Alexei grinned; he was used to be people doubting him and had built up a frustratingly resilient immunity. “Is good for you. Take from Melina and Lena, it is good for you.”

“There isn’t a single part of that that’s good for you.” Walker rolled his eyes and looked to Yelena, as if pleading with her to back him up. Unfortunately for him, he would find no such support.

“It’s good for you,” She raised her shoulders, her arms still crossed, “You heard the man.” Walker just groaned while Ava chuckled at his chagrin. Honestly, if Melina wasn’t sitting there, a slight grimace on her face at the thought of the dish, this wouldn’t be a bad morning, all things considered. “Not a fan?”

Alexei’s grin shifted into a confused frown as he looked at her. “Love?”

Melina raised her hands in a pacifying gesture, which only irked Yelena more. Of course Melina would hate her favorite meal. It was fun and a cherished memory from their time in Ohio. No wonder she didn’t actually like it. “Love, I appreciate you, but that was . . . never my favorite of your meals.”

“Come now, you just haven’t had it in long time,” Alexei waved, “you will see, is better than you remember.”

Melina smiled—she probably assumed it looked fond, but to Yelena, it looked forced, clear as day—as she got to her feet and approached them. “It is not the only thing better than I remember.” Alexei chuckled knowingly while Ava gagged and Walker snorted skeptically.

Yelena wanted to hurl herself down the elevator shaft behind them.

She was about to turn on her heel and give it a try when she felt Bob place a supportive hand on her lower back. It was disconcerting, sometimes, how he always seemed to know what she was thinking, and as much as she truly appreciated it, it still made her feel weird when he gave her what she wanted before she asked—or even knew to ask. Which was just as well, since he seemed to have no idea how to react when she’d try to thank him or acknowledge it, as if he were uncomfortable with the attention, which only made her feel more weirded about it, herself. They were simultaneously the most comfortable around each other while also being the most awkward with each other, and she truly couldn’t tell if that was normal or not.

How fucked up did they all have to be that somehow Bucky “I killed JFK & became a congressman after” Barnes was the most socially adjusted one of their team? Everyday, she was guessing and bullshitting her way through this new life and social situation, and he was there, somehow not a mess like the rest of them; the fact he had a life outside the people in this room was prove enough of that.

It wasn’t fair.

As if sensing where her thoughts were, Melina looked away from making goo eyes with Alexei to Bob, who Yelena felt tense. “And you must be Bob Reynolds. It is nice to meet you in light of day.”

“. . . Same to you,” he said; a trace of uncertainty bled into his tone, as if he were trying to listen for what Melina wasn’t saying, and Yelena felt a little pride, at least until Melina’s eyes darted down and clearly noted Bob’s hand on her back; most would have missed the look. Bob must have seen it, though, as he reluctantly removed it and despite the more pressing matters, in the back of her mind, Yelena had to admit that she missed its weight.

“Thank you for taking care of my daughter,” Melina said, though her tone seemed distracted, as if her mind were elsewhere. Yelena could practically hear the gears turning.

“I’m not hel. . . if anything, she’s helping me,” Bob said, an awkward chuckle trickled into his voice. “So nothing to thank me for, really.” Melina waved dismissively at the modesty, which pissed Yelena off; she was already annoyed that Bob sold himself short, but to have it disregarded certainly didn’t help. She opened her mouth to say as much when Melina suddenly snapped her fingers, as if she had remembered something.

“You are what they call a ‘Florida Man,’ correct?” Melina mused and Bob stiffened; Walker barked out a laugh for some reason. What the fuck?

“. . . I’m from Florida, yeah,” Bob said weakly; he clearly had some idea of what she was alluding to, but didn’t want to admit to whatever it was until he had to. What the hell was a Florida Man?

“I thought I recognized you,” Melina smiled as she fished a phone out of her hip pocket. A few quick taps and she held out the phone to him. “Was this . . . ?”

Bob barely had to glance at the screen before he let out a long, tired sigh. To Yelena’s surprise, his cheeks were flushed, as if he were embarrassed, as he reluctantly nodded. “It, uh, it wasn’t my proudest moment.”

“Okay, enough,” Yelena snatched the phone out of Milena’s hand and shot a glare as the former Widow raised her palms in surrender. “What are you . . . ?” She blinked. On the screen was a mugshot of Bob; while he was a bit baby-faced by nature, the photo looked even younger, like he was barely 21, though he was sporting a blackeye and a long scratch across his cheek. Based on the tufts of feathers that lined his shirt, she guessed he had been wearing that ugly chick suit from the shame room. As silly as the ensemble looked, what struck Yelena was just how dead Bob’s eyes were: even through the screen, she could see the sheer emptiness in them. While he was hardly doing cartwheels now, he at least had a soul to him, some energy. This looked like someone had woken him up and propped him upright; that if they let him go, he’d just collapse like a marionette.

She could remember seeing the same look on her own face in the mirror.

However, as different as Bob appeared, the headline was even more surprising: “Later, Gator: Florida Man Arrested For Attempted Robbery.” Her eyes widened and her jaw fell while she saw Bob put his head in his hands. If the article could be believed, he had tried to rob a Wendy’s by . . . tossing a baby alligator through the drive-thru window. She looked from the article back to him, and he shrugged helplessly. She felt Alexei look over her shoulder and before she could put the phone to sleep, a loud, hearty chuckle escaped him, and she glowered while he just clapped Bob on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face. Naturally, this caught the attention of Ava, who looked up from the photo album like a hound that had caught a whiff of prey, and Walker and Bucky shot them near identical befuddled glances, eyebrows cocked to the exact same angle and their frowns that seemed to beg to know why they were being included in whatever this was. Any other time, she’d have laughed at the similarity.

“Where did you find this?” Yelena demanded; one look at Bob’s ashamed, flushed cheeks was proof enough that it wasn’t faked. Before she could blink, Ava disappeared and reappeared right next to them; to Melina’s credit, she barely reacted to the sudden appearance while Bob jumped back and Alexei nearly tripped. But before Ava could steal the phone from Yelena’s grasp, Yelena quickly put the phone to sleep and Ava glared at her, before she shot an interrogative glance to Alexei, who was still chuckling to himself.

“It wasn’t difficult,” Melina shrugged; if she heard Yelena’s bite, she ignored it, “your fans online did much of the work: there are not many photos of your . . . friend,” Yelena wanted to kill her, “but of the few that are out there, they were able to take his likeness and search for matches. This is just one of a few different incidents, of course, but it’s getting some following online. I’ve tried to, how to say . . . dirty the waters some, but it’s getting increasingly clearer to your amateur detectives each day. I can only fool and distract them for so long. I am sure that Relations person will know of it, if she is not already.”

“. . . If I said I had been on meth,” Bob sighed, “would that help at all?”

“That part was well documented,” Melina replied, not unkindly—or at least, as close as she came. “You may want to talk with that Ms. Gold to help for the strategy—that is hardly my area. Still, your reputation probably wouldn’t be saved much either way. If they fail to find one incident, there are multiple others to take their place.” She held out her hand to Yelena, clearly wanting the phone back. Yelena was tempted to just snap it in half and throw it in the trash, but even she knew that wouldn’t affect the digital records, however cathartic it would feel in the moment. Still . . . she just pocketed the phone, starting down Melina the whole while. Melina just rolled her eyes, as if she found the gesture childish, which only made Yelena stick out her tongue at her. “I thought the karate tournament was particularly memorable.”

“So did Sensei Dan,” Bob said tightly. “At least when he woke up.” Yelena blinked and looked over at him, while he pointed avoided her gaze. She’d have to get the whole story later; Ava and Alexei seemed far too interested, but it was clear to her that Bob wasn’t enjoying this particular trip down memory lane.

“So you can Google, like everyone else in the world,” Yelena said; she tried to keep her tone bored. “What is your point, Melina?”

“That your friend, Bob, is going to wind up in the public eye the longer he is affiliated with you,” She shrugged, “and that your public is going to start asking why and how he is here. And those may lead to questions you do not want asked. Such as why he bares some resemblance to that shadow figure that attacked the city and why you would house him.”

The room filled with a silence that was only interrupted by the sound of Bucky setting his newspaper aside as he shifted and gave Melina an assessing look. Yelena didn’t dare look over at Bob, but she could feel him tense up and fought the temptation to reach for his hand. Instead, she kept her focus on her mother and stopped herself from slapping that feigned concerned look off her face. It was all the harder because Yelena knew she had a point.

Not for the first time, Yelena regretted her wish to be more public-facing. How could she have forgotten for even a second that the public was shit? Bob had been as confused as everyone else when she had insisted he stay with them; she had been able to pacify Bucky, Mel, and Valentina that it was to keep an eye on him since, near as she could tell, they were the only ones who could keep Bob’s dark side from going nuclear, but the truth had been somehow both more and less complicated than that: he was one of them, public be damned. He had been cast aside and almost killed by Val the same as the rest of them; none of them could have escaped the vault without the others and that included Bob; he had fought the void, same as them, and before they were Avengers, they were Thunderbolts first and foremost and as Ava was so fond of alluding, the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts didn’t leave anyone behind.

Of course, all of them (except Alexei) had trouble actually accepting that notion, Bob in particular. He didn’t remember enough of the incident to know about his connection to the void, but even without it, he had already been viewing himself as a liability to the team just by being there, no matter what she said, and to have Melina of all people toss that grenade right in his face pissed her off something fierce.

To her utter surprise, it was Alexei who spoke first. “Because Bob is part of team.” His voice was steady and it still contained that trace of warmth he usually had, but he rested a hand on Bob’s shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Love, I know you mean well, but we have discussed this. He is not problem, no more than me or Captain Walker or Ghost. You are right, as always, but we will think of plan, eh? With you, my genius, Melissa, we will think of smart solve, if it comes.”

Melina gave him a smile that didn’t quite chase the concern from her eyes, but she nodded her assent, and Yelena let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she had been holding. “No offense intended, Bob,” Melina said quietly. “I just get . . . worried about these two. You understand.”

Bob snorted but nodded, “Yeah . . . yeah, I get it. You and me both.” For a second, he and Melina made eye contact and, whatever she saw in there must have sufficed, as she looked away and nodded again, as if she had confirmed something. Not for the first time, Yelena wished that Natasha was there: she had always seemed to read Melina’s mind.

“If you’re satisfied,” Bucky said firmly as he got to his feet and crossed his arms, “then maybe you could tell us what you actually came here for. Somehow, I doubt it was just a housewarming visit.” Ava rested her elbow on Yelena’s shoulder and leaned against her nonchalantly, but her eyes were firmly on Melina. Even Walker had turned to them, clearly waiting on Melina’s response, an unreadable expression on his face.

Melina ignored them and looked directly at Yelena and for the first time in her life, there was a pleading look in her eyes; it was almost unnerving to see, and for a second, Yelena thought she had misunderstood it. For all her confidence, Melina was unsure. Out of the corner of her eye, Alexei glanced up to Alexei, who nodded to her. Whatever was said, it looked like it would be up to her to say it.

“She’s here to ask for our help.” Yelena said quietly, yet somehow, it seemed to her like her voice echoed throughout the otherwise silent room. “She wants to find someone.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asked, his tone level. “On whose behalf? Her own or the Red Room’s?”

“The Red Room is destroyed.” Melina murmured.

“Wouldn’t be the first time we thought that.” Bucky shrugged, his gaze steady.

Melina nodded slowly, though she didn’t look away from Yelena’s face. “It is for Widow Network. Former Red Room left homeless around the world when Dreykov was killed. We,” she gestured to herself, Yelena, and Alexei, “were helping care for them, after the Red Room’s fall. Wake them from their sleep, help them build lives.”

“How kind of you.” Walker said skeptically. “And how does that involve us?”

“One of these girls, she has gone missing,” Melina said; there was much more to the story, but Yelena appreciated that Melina kept it simple. She really didn’t want to relive those memories right now. “The last we heard from her, she was operating in this country as mercenary. She has worked for those cultists at A.I.M., some work for O.X.E., but the last client she mentioned to us before disappearing was a crime boss—the one they call Owl.”

“Owl?” Bucky frowned. “Lee Owlsley?”

Melina nodded, “That one, yes. She refused to say much, but she said he operated out your Chinatown.”

Bucky glanced around the room, gauging if any of them recognized the name, only to let out a small sigh at the blank looks on their faces. “We went over this. You aren’t just hired guns anymore: you need to familiarize yourselves with the local players. It was in the packet—” The way he immediately winced remembering the packets he had forced into their hands shortly after they had moved in would have been hilarious if she had any idea why it bothered him; he had written the damn things, hadn’t he?

“. . . I’m halfway through it,” Walker offered, like the brown-nosing bitch he was.

“Oh, shut up.” Ava rolled her eyes. “Teacher’s pet.”

“I’m not really giving out gold stars here, John.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes; she noticed he seemed to do that a lot. When he opened them, his exasperation was gone and he was all business.

“Lee Owlsley. Son of Leland Owlsley, known organized crime accountant who went missing about 12 years ago. Word on the street was that he tried to take over a Steel Serpent heroin network operated by a crime lord, Madame Gao, and got bumped off in the attempt. Lee came back and joined up with a rival family, the Maggia, where he climbed the ranks and made a name for himself. Rumor has it he may have had some enhancements done, but whatever they were, he grew a rep as an enforcer and drug runner, and when Gao disappeared, he claimed the Steel Serpent factory for Maggia, at least until he declared it was his.

“Whether he had something on Silvermane, or maybe the rumors of his enhancements weren’t exaggerated, but the Maggia and he seem to have some kind of understanding: technically the heroin network is still under the Maggia, but it’s solely operated by the Owl Gang—” Ava let out a snort and Bucky just gave her a flat look until she tried to pass it off as a cough. “and that should be enough to take them seriously. Weird name or no, in this business, no one gets that kind of treatment without some power backing them up.” He nodded to Melina. “If he had a Red Room assassin working for him, it would explain part of it.”

“Yes, our girl, she was quite strong,” Alexei nodded firmly, but he gave Yelena’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Sure, he probably intended it to be comforting, but they were getting uncomfortably close to the mercenary’s identity and Yelena’s stomach clenched nervously. “She even gave me a, uh, run for cash, eh? You remember, Lena?”

“If you’re asking about who could kick your ass, you’re going to have to be more specific,” Yelena said flatly. “That doesn’t really narrow it down much.”

Bucky ignored them and kept his gaze on Melina. “Did this operative of yours have any aliases she was known by? Owlsley doesn’t have many known associates, but we may have some lead on her.”

Melina shook her head and held out her hand towards Yelena, silently asking for her phone; initially, Yelena was tempted to toss it away, but with everyone watching, it felt more rude than satisfying, even if it’d buy her a second. With a sigh, she shoved the phone back towards Melina and tried to keep her face serene, or at least bored. “In the Room, she was known as Taskmaster; from what she told us, she kept that name, even after Dreykov and Room died, and worked building network during Blip.” She showed Bucky her phone; if the lack of recognition in his face bothered her, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she turned and showed Walker next, whose eyes widened slightly before he shook his head. Yelena’s stomach sank further: she wanted to curse his inability to school his face, but she hoped that Melina would misunderstand his reaction as just surprise. Given her training, it would be a tough sell, but Yelena could be persuasive when she had to be, if it came down to it.

It didn’t help that the second Ava saw the image, Yelena could feel her body tense. Fortunately, she had a better poker face than Walker and managed a bored, neutral expression, but Yelena couldn’t help but wonder if she had played it a little too cool. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she shrugged, her voice level. “Did she work with S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Not that we know of,” Melina said as she showed the photo to Bob who, to his credit, had managed to remain completely calm during this conversation, though Yelena just knew he wanted to say something. While he wasn’t exactly a saint, he did have a heart and whatever Yelena had said last night, he was probably bothered, seeing Melina worried. Yet, whatever misgivings he may have had, he just haplessly shrugged.

“I’ve never heard that name before,” he hedged before he turned to Bucky, “Steel Serpent, though . . . I know about that one.” He didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t have to. She and Bucky shared a knowing glance while Walker raised an eyebrow, as if confused what they were communicating about. Leave it to him to try and butt in on a conversation, even a silent one.

“This Owl,” Alexei said quietly, “do you think we should pay him visit? See what he knows?” The room seemed to chill at the suggestion. There was a logic to it, but even though they were mostly new to heroing, picking a fight with a mob boss, especially one so highly connected, seemed like it would be almost guaranteed to spiral out of control and they actually had to care about the fallout, now. If they shook this man down, who would get hurt because of it?

Especially over a false lead.

She prayed that Bucky would say something; he wanted to be leader, he could be the bad guy here. Alexei respected him enough that his word could be enough to rein him in. Maybe he’d buy them time to find another way.

“No.” Bucky shook his head.

“Winter Soldier!” Alexei snapped. “Do not be neither fish nor meat!”

Yelena winced while Ava and Walker shared a confused look; they couldn’t understand it when Alexei shifted into Russian, and the honest truth was that neither did she, some of the time. Sure, she spoke the language, she understood his words individually, but she had grown up as a brainwashed assassin: idioms were cultural and Alexei sometimes forgot that she and even Bucky had no context for half of the ones he’d spout. This one, from what she had gathered, meant sort of wishy washy; judging by the way his eyes narrowed, Bucky had understood it just fine.

“I understand you’re upset, Alexei, but we have to think about this.”

“What is there to think?” He said firmly. “We just ask him question; is no problem.”

“Alexei, you are smarter than this.” Bucky sighed, clearing fighting to keep his temper in check. “Okay, let’s say we try that plan. How would you feel about an Avenger breaking onto your turf, rattling your cage, then leaving as if nothing happened? And that’s the best case scenario—what if that Avenger has to rough up your operation a bit? Then you look weak and like you caved to us, and what that gets you is a bunch of paranoid men with bruised egos that now have something to prove, one of which may have enhancements. Worst case, you get into a fight, make a power vacuum, and we get a gang war, Fisk involved, and our ability to act in New York stripped, and we lose the tower, maybe the name, as an added bonus.

“Can you accept that risk?”

The silence hung heavily in the air. Alexei gritted his teeth, but didn’t retort. He at least seemed to be considering that point, which was a relief, but even Yelena had to admit it didn’t sit right: that for all their power, for all the good they were supposed to try to do, that their hands could be tied against men like Owl as he preyed on people like Bob . . . it seemed like farce. Intellectually and philosophically, she understood, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

“The Soldier is right, Love,” Melina said quietly.

“Melina . . . .”

The Iron Maiden shook her head softly and for once, to Yelena, it looked like she meant it. “Love, you know how much this means to you both. I do not want you to lose it because of my failure.”

“There has to be something we can do,” Bob said quietly. “Maybe O.X.E.’s network?” Melina looked at him with renewed interest and Yelena wanted to elbow him in the side as she felt Ava stiffen beside her. Damn his bleeding heart.

“Yes!” Alexei clapped and pointed at Bob. “Melissa, she could find something.” He looked at Yelena, a hope in his eyes, and it killed her. She did her best to avoid looking at him directly; hopefully he was too caught up in the euphoria of a direction to notice, but how could she shake him off the trail?

“Bucky . . . ,” Walker said, a trace of uncertainty in his tone, and Yelena blinked. “What if we tried this Owl guy, first?”

“I’m sorry, Walker, did you not just hear the list of reasons why that’s an awful idea?” Bucky glared; patience wasn’t a strong suit of his (or any of them, really), but it did seem that he had Walker on a shorter leash than everyone else, which wasn’t surprising, given their history.

“I know, I know, and you’re right,” Walker said as he raised his palms in surrender, “but you know if we tell Mel, Val’s going to find out, on purpose or accident, and then we all get screwed anyway, because she—,” he gestured to Melina, “broke in, we didn’t report it, and it ties us to the Red Room—it’s not a good look, any way you slice it, and Val may cut and run from the optics, anyway. So maybe us ‘introducing ourselves’ to the local scumbags may be an easier sell to her, and your hill buddies.”

Welp, Yelena could admit she certainly hadn’t expected sense to come out of Walker’s mouth, much less sense that also pulled her ass out of the fire for a minute. From the thoughtful look on Bucky’s face, he was apparently equally surprised, but seemed to be genuinely considering it.

“Winter Soldier,” Alexei said quietly, “let us at least try. Please.”

Bucky gave him a steady, unreadable look before he turned his gaze to Yelena, “it’s your call.”

“What are you talking about?” Yelena said.

“Do we go talk to Mel or do we introduce ourselves to Owlsley?” Bucky said, his gaze unwavering. “It’s your family, it’s our risk, and it’s your call. I’ll back you, either way.” Walker nodded and crossed his arms, though whether it was to match Bucky or because he just felt like it, she couldn’t guess. Ava bit her lower lip; only once or twice, enough she could try to pass it off as an itch, rather than the nervous tick it was, but she also nodded firmly, and Yelena’s stomach clenched. They were all looking at her, and even with Bob at her side, the pressure was numbing: two very different courses of action, one that led to answers and pain, and the other that led to a distraction that risked spiraling out of control, and she now had the reputations for everyone involved to worry about, not just her own, anymore. Damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t.

But what choice did she have?

Honesty, she supposed, but she had never been tempted to board that particular boat before.

Why start now?

“Let’s go make a new friend,” Yelena said, fighting to keep her voice firm. “Show them we’re serious.” She had hoped by saying it aloud, she’d warm up to the decision; that somehow, released into the air, it would seem less risky, but to her frustration, instead of validation, all she got was more uncertainty: Bucky slowly nodding his head while Walker and Ava grimaced, but nodded along as well, while Alexei slapped her lower back affectionately

They seemed confident.

Now if only she didn’t feel like she had doomed them all before they started.

Chapter Text

Bucky missed Ebbets Field.

Of all the changes that New York City had undergone since he had left for war, it was the one that most people could at least understand. It had been a national treasure, one of the great baseball stadiums—sure, it may not have been Wrigley or God-forbid, Yankee Stadium but it had been a community fixture for as long as he could remember. In the sprawling urban jungle of the boroughs, it had been a watering hole where the city’s residents would come together and for a few hours, bask in the glow of larger-than-life sports personalities, experience the whiplash of success and defeat, and witness the epic battles of wills that you could normally only hear about on radio—but as amazing as that was, there really wasn’t nothing like beholding the game with your own eyes. And afterwards, you would leave and that coliseum would just sit among them as they went about their lives, as certain as the sun, the ghosts of plays and cheers past still roaring silently through its empty halls—but you could still hear and see them all the same, if you looked at it right.

With the eyes of a Brooklynite.

Yes, he had been a transplant: a country bumpkin from Shelbyville, and the fact that he couldn’t remember almost anything before Brooklyn didn’t refute that truth—yet, at Ebbets Field, unlike school or the streets, that didn’t matter. Sitting in those stands, upper or lower deck, he was just one of thousands of Brooklynites cheering the Dodgers (they affectionately called them Dem Bums) on as they hoped that maybe that year they would go all the way. They rarely did, but that was okay: whatever their faults, they were their team, through thick and thin, and Brooklyn was as much their home as it was Bucky’s.

Well, it had been.

Finding out that they had fled for L.A. not long after the 1955 World Series win—the one where they had managed to rip it away from the fucking Yankees on their home turf (that he had been on ice when it happened still hurt more than it should; he hoped that Steve at least had been able to catch it, his second time around) had been a real kick in the teeth, but somehow the fact the Ebbets Field had been demolished and replaced with apartments only a few short years after as a result of the flight had somehow hit him in his heart. Sure, compared to all the other things he had missed, compared to all the other things he had lost, it may seem inconsequential, but whenever he walked past the Ebbets Field Apartments, he would just feel . . . empty. Now when he beheld the building, he had no idea what sort of ghosts inhabited its walls—the ones he had known had long been banished beyond the veil, just like everyone else he had grown up with.

The New York he had known was long gone and as he walked amongst the city’s concrete arteries, he wondered if he’d ever be able to find its heart again. The city still had a pulse, there was no denying it: its rhythm was loud but steady, but somehow the beat rang hollow to his ears. Yet he forced himself to live here, whether out of sentiment, some sort of tribute to Steve, or just flat out having nowhere else to go, he wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, he remained.

And if he kept finding excuses to be down in D.C., well, that was his own business. Wasn’t his fault that the kind people of Brooklyn elected him.

Today, in one of the few windows of time he had been staying in the tower overnight, he wound up waking to a clusterfuck. Somehow, the mother to one of his team managed to break into the tower, overridden their security, and sneak all the way to the top of the building without being detected, and she just showed up to their breakfast table and acted like she was supposed to be there. All apparently to ask them to shake down their contacts for some mercenary who may or may not be working with the mob or their “corporate sponsor” (de Fontaine’s term; it made him want to vomit, as a hero and a congressman who hated privatization) which meant he had to go talk to a crime boss and do it without Mel finding out. As much as he knew she had her heart in the right place, she wore it on her sleeve, however much she tried fronting being of de Fontaine’s ilk. Normally, it was amusing, but now, it just meant more of a pain in his ass.

Sam would laugh his smug ass off, if he ever found out—Bucky still wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him or not. He supposed it depended on how it ended, really.

Right now, it wasn’t looking likely.

He tugged the bill of his baseball cap with his non-metal hand and glared at the blue sky through his aviators. The day was feeling unseasonably warm and as much as he appreciated the shade, the long sleeve shirt he had to wear to cover his prosthetic wasn’t doing his body temperature any favors. It seemed silly that some glasses and a baseball hat would somehow disguise him, but Sam and Steve swore by it, and he admitted it had helped a bit back in Europe. He tried to bob his head as if listening to music from the earbuds in his ears as he tried to casually stroll down Chrystie St; to his left sat Sara D. Roosevelt Park—a long but narrow stretch of nature that slashed through lower Manhattan, only interrupted every few blocks by streets, it was a popular spot for joggers, families, and white collar workers alike for its greenery, playgrounds, and sports venues like basketball courts and soccer fields, but for his purposes, it stretched as far south as Chinatown, and the Owl’s territory.

Between Mel's info and his own network, Bucky had gleaned that the Owl had set up shop about a decade ago at 191 Canal St. above a jewelry store that acted as a front for his more discrete enterprises. The location used to be home of the Chinese Hand Laundry Alliance had its base. From what he could recall, they had formed in the early 1930s to essentially act as a union for Chinatown’s laundry workers to fight against some bills the Board of Aldermen had tried to pass—while he couldn’t remember the specifics, he did remember seeing quite a few of their demonstrations and their fun events, though the Feds had started sniffing around once the group had started backing Communism—mainly in China, but the Feds didn’t exactly make the distinction. While the organization had lasted until the 2000s, between the federal scrutiny, the War, changing economy, and the damage done by closing Park Row to civilian traffic, its power had greatly diminished until it finally had to close its doors and abandon the building.

So, much like his namesake, the Owl had swooped in and took over the empty nest.

Since then, he had become something of a local celebrity: he had brought back the recreation events the alliance used to put on, and was recurring guest at the alderman’s office, speaking on the neighborhood’s behalf. Coupled with his distinct green suits and cloaks and tufted brown hair, he had cultivated a distinct figure any way you sliced it, which made Bucky weary: sure, it was only natural for Owl to try and win the locals over, especially since most had to know what he was truly doing there—Madame Gao had been a fixture of New York for decades and her crime ties were an open secret. The fact that Owl had had nothing to do with her disappearance had probably been his first and most important saving grace, but Bucky couldn’t ignore that the man had worked to set down roots here—if he ever did become the Avengers’s problem, deposing him wouldn’t be without consequence.

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

“Unit 1,” Bucky said to himself as he casually glanced down at his phone, “are you in position?”

“Yes, Soldier,” the Red Guardian said calmly. It was surreal, seeing how calm and professional he was being so far, but given that he was the reason they were doing this thing, it was the least he could do.

“Unit 2?” Silence. “Unit 2. Confirm.”

“Yes.” Came the curt reply. Yelena hadn’t exactly been thrilled when he had ordered her to come along, and whatever excuse she had said, it was clear it was because she hadn’t wanted to leave her mother back at the Tower “unsupervised,” and while he could sympathize, this exercise had been her call, and he wasn’t going to let her get out of seeing it through, no matter what stories she feared her mother would share with the others.

“You have eyes on the target?”

“The intel is good.” Yelena said curtly. “Is where you said.”

“Received.” He tossed the apple he was carrying in the air and caught it lazily. “Approaching. Wait on my signal.” He wanted to keep the conversation as vague and quick as possible. The closer they got, the safer he wanted to play it: he still didn’t know if Owlsley was enhanced and he didn’t want to tip him off that something was up, should hearing be one his abilities. Instead, he switched over to a Bing Crosby playlist that Mel had texted him. While it didn’t have as much jazz as he usually preferred, there was something appealing about the voice and the tinny big band sound that accompanied it. If an emergency happened, he’d still hear Alexei and Yelena through the music, but it’d at least help muddy the conversation for any eavesdroppers.

Half a block later, at Chrystie and Hester, he turned left and stepped into the park proper. This was the last stretch of the park before Canal Street cut it off and Forsyth Plaza took over, and it was a popular one: it housed something called NYC Footy. Before him was a large-ish soccer field, outlined with a brick-red rubber running track, and just beyond them were stone benches, presumably for the spectators, while across the field from him loomed a large white building that, near as he could tell, housed numerous organizations and, if he remembered right, a high school, but maybe they were on the other side of it. At least at this time of day, it seemed pretty empty outside of a few scattered sunbathers laying in the grass; judging by the sound of it, far more popular seemed to be Hester St. Playground just behind them. Bucky didn’t particularly care, in this situation—on the one hand, less people meant fewer distractions and he would stick out, but on the other, this was the Owl’s turf at the moment, so it was probably moot anyway. All it meant was that he had to hope he could walk out as smoothly as he walked in.

Fortunately, Yelena seemed to be correct: their quarry was already there, seated at one of the stone benches, basking in the shade. True to the rumors, he did indeed look ridiculous: the bright green suit, the ruffly red tie, and cloak wrapped around his shoulders despite the heat, he almost looked like he was taking a break from hunting down Jack the Ripper. Just as notable were the bushiness of his sideburns and the tufts of brown hair that he seemed to have gelled upwards on both sides of his face—he seemed to have embraced the Owl nickname with the level of enthusiasm that only the truly confident and vindicative could possess, which further confirmed Bucky’s suspicions about his power set. Undoubtedly, Owlsley knew he was there, but he at least waited to look up from his book until Bucky was close by.

“Mind if I sit?” Bucky asked casually, gesturing to the empty stone bench to Owlsley’s left. He tried to exaggerate his accent by a hair, to sound a little gruffer. “The shade and all.”

Owlsly gave him a smile and nodded. Bucky touched the bill of his cap in thanks and slowly eased himself down; the stone felt nice and cool, especially after walking in the hot sun. “Thanks, pal.”

“Think nothing of it,” Owlsley replied smoothly as he turned the page. His voice was lower than Bucky would have guessed, with a subtle accent he couldn’t quite place, which wasn’t surprising: New York born, but he had spent much of his life out of the city, so it wasn’t surprising it had taken on its own sound.

“85 in September,” Bucky shook his head with disgust, “What’s this world coming to?”

“I hesitate to speculate.”

“Probably better off; was never too good at speculating, me. Probably why Wall Street didn’t work out for me.” Bucky barked out a laugh. “You here to watch the game?” He jerked his head towards the field.

“I think, Mr. Barnes, you would do us both a service if you tell me why you are here,” Owlsley said as he turned another page. “Congressman and an Avenger? I’d have thought that a busy man such as yourself would have better things to do than hike all the way down here from your tower.”

Bucky sighed as he rolled the apple around in his hand before he took a loud, crunchy bite out of it; out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Owlsley wince at the sudden noise. Heightened hearing. Good to know.

“Was it the accent?” He asked through the apple as he chewed. “I thought it was a bit much, but I couldn’t help myself. Have a little fun with it, lean into type. You know.”

With a sigh, Owlsly slowly looked away from his book and shot Bucky a patient smile. “What can I do for you, Mr. Barnes? Have I done something that merits your . . . visit?”

“I think you and I both know that’s a loaded question, Owlsley,” Bucky said casually, “but no, I’m not here for you. I’m more interested in a mutual friend.”

“I can already say I haven’t the foggiest idea of who you could mean,” Owlsley said, equally as casual, “I was under the impression that, as most of your friends have passed away, there’s no one left we could have in common.”

Bucky ignored the barb for the obvious feint it was; between the army and the Hill, he had already had enough experience with bullies to know you never give them the response they want: ignoring their attempts to dig under your skin certainly seemed to get under theirs real quick. “Give yourself more credit, Owlsley, you clearly are a man of the community. You must have plenty of friends.”

“Quite right,” Owlsley smiled, baring his teeth, and to Bucky’s surprise, they appeared subtly sharpened—not to the extent of fangs, but definitely not natural. “People have been known to listen to me from time to time. Perhaps this will be one of them.”

“No doubt they listen; you’re probably as wise as an owl,” Bucky said plainly; it was risky, but given how much Owlsley had adopted the moniker, he hedged the mafia boss would find it endearing rather than an insult. If it worked, it could relax him, but if not . . . .

Fortunately, Owlsley just chuckled dryly. “For someone in your positions, you’re not one for tact, are you?”

“Guilty,” Bucky shrugged, “They usually put me on the ‘hard way’ jobs. Suits my persuasion style better.” He took another bite of the apple, but chewed softer than before. “But like I said, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here for something that might benefit us both.” He casually pulled out his phone and acted like he was texting, but he angled the screen just enough for Owlsley to see the photo of Taskmaster that Melina had supplied; it was with her mask on, but it was all the Widow would allow. “Do you recognize my friend here?”

Owlsley kept his expression cool; he was too experienced to let any obvious sign of recognition through, but the potential for the benefit was enough to not lie, either. “As you said, Mr. Barnes, I have quite a few friends. Perhaps that is one of them, perhaps it’s not. My memory can’t keep track of them all, you understand.”

Expected, but still tedious. “It happens as we get older,” Bucky pocketed his phone and leaned back against the bench. “So, let’s talk about someone you do remember, instead. I’ve heard around the woods you’re not a fan of the mayor. That right?”

Now that got a reaction out of him—well, as much of one as this type allowed. Owlsley’s bemused smile narrowed until his lips were pursed, and he gave Bucky a reassessing look. “Not many are, these days.”

“True, but I think this one’s from a little further back,” Bucky said neutrally. He didn’t look at Owlsley directly. “I can imagine that if someone were to make his life difficult, you may not be disappointed.”

“That depends,” Owlsley said quietly, “on how it’s done.”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Bucky waved calmly, “I think we both know that you have much more of a claim to him than I do, all I’m saying is that . . . perhaps we can make it easier for you to get to him.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Alexei begin to wander into the park. He walked casually, as if he were just out for a stroll, but his track suit looked spotless—honestly, besides the yoga mat he had at his side, he looked a little close to the Rent-A-Bro type, but that worked, for what they were going for. Bucky casually raised his open hand in Alexei’s direction; Alexei nodded and began to do some stretches in the soccer field.

“Friend of yours?”

“Of course,” Bucky forced a thin smile. “A man of your reputation? I’d never do you the discourtesy of showing up alone. Especially in this part of town.” Mel and he had wondered if the show of force would help Owlsley save enough face in the community that they didn't assume he had turned rat; if so, it'd open the door to him helping them.

Owlsley hummed thoughtfully. “. . . Okay Mr. Barnes, I’m listening.”

“As you know, my friends and I are a problem for him: we’re not some vigilantes and his task force can’t stop us, not with the feds backing us, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t make the taskforce’s job that much harder. Really make a show out of how wasteful this whole expensive mess is. Maybe some reporter winds up with some very interesting paper trails. Maybe Fisk’s a political black eye, maybe worse; maybe the public will be much more open to becoming interested in seeing him fall a little further, maybe just far enough that, well, who knows what could swoop down after him?”

Owlsley mulled over the implications of this while Bucky tried not to hold his breath. It had been a tricky thing, trying to find an in for Owlsley that didn’t involve actually giving him anything—making Fisk’s life difficulty was on their list anyway, if only because he kept trying to push them out of the city—or risk sounding like they were taking his revenge away from him, but it all hinged on whether that would be enough or if the Owl would want a more . . . offbook commitment.

“That sounds like a nice possibility, I’ll concede,” Owlsley said. “Being informed about who our leaders truly are is important for civic responsibility, after all.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“And perhaps while your ‘friends’ are so busy being civic minded, perhaps they keep their eyes on their higher calling,” Owlsley said. “It seems to be a full-time job, after all. I would hate for them to have things that don’t concern them added to their already full plates.”

Bucky expected as much: of course Owlsley would ask for a blind eye, which is something he already knew Mel wouldn’t allow him to grant, nor would he want to. Still, it was clearly a redline for the man and they had come this far. “I think that, so long as those things stay in their lane, that they fall under other people’s jurisdiction. Like you said, no reason for us to ask for more.”

Owlsley gave Bucky a careful look: he clearly heard what wasn’t said. Essentially, the best Bucky could offer was to leave him alone unless he made himself their problem. While it still didn’t sit right with him, Bucky could see this was the best he could offer that could feasibly not make this a huge waste of fucking time. The mob boss slowly closed his book and slowly leaned back into the bench.

“I do feel that your friend looked familiar. Perhaps they have . . . been a friend of the neighborhood from time to time.”

“A real civic-minded type.”

“Communities come in all shapes and sizes,” Owlsley said. “It has been a while since they’ve been in town, to my knowledge. We were not the only neighborhood they engaged with.”

“That right?”

“AIM enjoyed their assistance from time to time, before your friend found our streets a little more profitable. However, we were hardly exclusive—we knew that going in—and they would take sabbatical from time to time. Sable International more often than not, but the most recent leave of absence wasn’t too long ago, to my knowledge. Whatever it was must have been profitable; we haven’t heard hide or hair from them since.”

“Any idea who this generous new friend could have been?”

“Oh who can keep track, these days?” Owlsley sighed. “It feels like every week there’s some new upstart trying to make some name for itself. But no, if I remember correctly, this was less of a job and more of a clean up operation. Your friend, they were quite the custodian.”

Now that caught Bucky’s attention. “Were?”

“I am just one man, Mr. Barnes,” Owlsley sighed as he got to his feet, “and this town is vast. Perhaps your boss can help narrow it down further.”

Well . . . fuck.

Bucky had been afraid of that.

“For what its worth,” Owlsley said as he adjusted his blazer, “you strike me as a good sort, Mr. Barnes. Pragmatic. Once you do settle on running for reelection, do reach out, won’t you?”

“As much as I appreciate the offer,” Bucky said neutrally as he gestured around them, “10th district,” and then pointed at himself. “9th.”

Owlsley actually openly chuckled, “I think I like you, Mr. Barnes. Let me know when that MRA becomes a little too empty, yes?”

Bucky grunted. The MRA, Members Representational Allowance, was where the funds came from to pay his near daily travel back and forth from DC and New York, let him rent his offices, and keep his staff paid, which now included Bob’s stipend and he’d be lying if that bottom line was looking a little tighter for the year than he’d have expected. $1.9 million really didn’t go as far as it used to.

Just another thing he couldn’t wrap his brain around.

“Have you heard of Jimmy Walker, Mr. Owlsley?”

“Our illustrious former mayor? You insult me, Mr. Barnes.”

“In my defense, it was a hundred years ago,” Bucky flashed a bitter smile.

Owlsley looked at Bucky, a musing frown on his face. Most people, including Bucky himself, didn’t really know how to react to the “man out of time” thing came up. “You know that they say, Mr. Barnes? They say you become a New Yorker when what was once there before is more real than what is here now,” Owlsley said as he tapped his book before sliding it into the inner pocket of his blazer, “and if that is true, then you just may be the truest New Yorker in this city.”

For some reason, Bucky didn’t have a retort for that. He just nodded and Owlsley returned before he began to walk out of the park. Alexei waited until Owlsley was good and out of sight before he began to roll up his yoga mat, while Bucky rolled the apple core in his human hand, pondering what he had learned. Before Alexei could begin to approach the bench, Bucky double tapped his earpiece again. “Did you hear all that, Unit 2?”

“I heard that this was a waste of my fucking time,” Yelena hissed.

“In my defense, this was your call,” Bucky said calmly, “and we did get our next lead, and you didn’t have to snipe anyone. A win’s a win: take it.” Though, as Bucky heard Alexei agreeing with him, he knew that their reassurances fell on deaf ears.

“I’m heading back.” He heard her hang up, without even using her sign off.

Bucky sighed, “Unit 1, go after them. I will meet you both back there.”

To his credit, Bucky could see Alexei nod to himself before he casually finished packing up and departing the park. For a few seconds, Bucky just sat in there as the ambiance of New York just gently enveloped him. The sounds of traffic, the laughing of kids, multiple languages being spoken around him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend no time had passed at all, at least until some helicopter or phone would interrupt the illusion.

Sure enough, as if right on cue, his earbuds began to ring—it horrified literally everyone else he knew, but he insisted on keeping his ringer on and set to sound like an old rotary phone. It calmed him, and if it annoyed everyone else and confused Sam, all the better.

“Mel,” he said with a sigh. “I was just about to call you.”

“Meeting go that well, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Thought so, but I’m going to need a little more to go off of,” Mel said, her voice level, “like was this a Red Wedding?”

“I still don’t know what that means,” Bucky said, “and you know that. But if it means we all died or are at war or whatever, no, we’re not.”

“A win’s a win,” she said; he was inclined to agree. Bucky thought he could hear the sound of her typing through the earbuds.

“About that,” he sighed again, “I think we’re going to have to play a game, Mel.”

“. . . in the Saw sense, or the Monopoly sense?”

“Funny,” he deadpanned, “but I think you know this one. It’s called ‘All the things that I should have told James upfront before he wastes our time and capital on something he should have known already.’ Heard of it?”

“ . . . it depends,” Mel said carefully, “am I playing the Winter Soldier, the congressman, or the Avenger?”

Despite himself, Bucky snorted. Mel sighed, “What do you want to know?”

If only she had been this forthcoming during the investigation. “Taskmaster.”

“. . . So here’s the thing . . . .”

*****

Ava isn’t sure what it is that brings her to Walker’s room. With the piss-poor mood she was in, maybe she just thought seeing him jump out of his skin whenever she snuck up on him would cheer her up. Sure, based on the pleading look Yelena had shot her as Bucky dragged her away for the operation, she probably was supposed to be keeping an eye on that Melina woman, but honestly, she wanted to give the older widow a wide berth at the moment: she had played it as cool as she could this morning, but the woman had this disarming, knowing look in her eye that made Ava shiver, as if she was somehow being sized up for vivisection. Besides, Walker had just shrugged and waved as Melina asked Bob to show her around, so if Yelena got mad, she could at least drag him down with her.

The whole floor felt too quiet with everyone else gone; even if their local extrovert lived upstairs, they could normally hear him up and about, and while she’d never admit it to his face, there had been something reassuring about his bellowing and stomping. Even Walker’s God-awful music or humming, as much as she was loathe to accept it, at least made the place feel less like a tall mausoleum, and yet to her chagrin, his room remained completely silent. She glared at the closed door. What cheek of him, trying to pretend he wasn’t home while she was out here having to deal with this mess by herself.

Especially since she had technically saved his life when she had killed Melina’s foster daughter.

He owed her.

Instead of knocking, she simply phased through the door: time slowed as she took a quick breath and stepped into the door—its molecules seemed to just trickle out of her way, like drops of water parting at her wake; she knew it’d flood back into the space she left behind, if it actually moved at all (perception was a weird concept that Bill had tried to explain to her, but she just had to shrug it off, since it seemed moot), no harm, no foul.

To her surprise, Walker’s unit looked impeccably organized and barebones. There were a few photos and newspaper clippings uniformly placed along the walls and dressers, along with a bookcase, mostly filled with various novels, though it seemed there were also a few biographies and the like, as well. Maybe it was the military training, maybe it was him having most of his shit in a “sad boy” storage locker down South still, but the fact that there didn’t seem to be a hair out of place, from the delicately folded towels and blankets to thin carpeting just didn’t sit right. In a way, she was almost disappointed, even if she wasn’t sure exactly why.

Just as disappointing was that he hadn’t been sitting in his lounge: he had missed her entrance completely, and that didn’t seem fair to her. Annoyed, Ava tilted her head and she turned her glare to the closed bedroom door. Either he was there or he was taking a shit and she knew which option she preferred to walk in on. As she stepped through the door, the distant thought of “what if he’s having a wank?” drifted through her mind and she almost stopped right there—yes, she was still in the door, but she figured her dying in there as some sort of door-woman hybrid would be better than seeing him doing . . . that.

With a silent sigh, she steeled herself and tentatively leaned forward, just enough to peak beyond the wall. Much like the living room behind her, the bedroom was equally spotless: the queen-sized bed made tightly, to the point that it looked like the mattress was one sneeze away from exploding, like some sort of overwhelmed corset. There were no clothes visible and the only adornments the dresser had were picture frames, though who the people were, she was too far away to even guess. The man himself was laying on the bed, still in his bathrobe and sweatpants, his phone resting on beside him while he had a well-creased paperback in his hands; judging by the yellowed pulp pages, it was an older one (she thought she could smell its musty scent from here).

A second later, she let her molecules settle back into place and crossed her arms. “Have you no shame?” She tsked and shook her head.

Walker’s reaction was everything she had hoped for, and more. At the sound of her voice, he leapt so quickly, the novel flew out of his hands and he almost fell off the side of his bed as he got briefly tangled in his bathrobe. “Jesus,” He gasped as he shook the bathrobe off his face; he glowered at her, “the door was fucking locked for a reason.”

She shrugged as she bent down and picked up his fallen novel—something called Gladiator—before smirking, “And I cannot fathom what that would be. Afraid people may find out you know how to read? I’d be ashamed, too.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He rolled his eyes as he pulled himself off the bed. As he got to his feet, Ava was again reminded just how much taller than her he was. She had to crane her neck slightly to look him in the eye; she’d hate to miss that flustered, pissed look on his face. He held out his hand expectantly, presumably for the book. Well, fuck him: she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction just yet. Instead, she absentmindedly flipped through some pages: she wasn’t actually reading it as her eyes skipped over every other paragraph. “I have other things to do than entertain you.”

“You tell yourself that.” She turned the page with a dramatic hand flourish, before she resumed acting like he wasn’t there and getting huffy. “This book that important?”

Faster than Ava could blink, the book was pulled from her hands; her guard had been so low that she hadn’t the presence of mind to clamp down on it as he tore it from her. With a grunt, he tossed it back on his bed, near his pillows. “Mel asked me to read the damn thing,” he said, as if that answered her question.

“Glad she’s giving you the important jobs,” Ava said as she leaned back against the door frame. “Are you sure she didn’t just want to keep you busy so she could do literally anything else?”

“What do you want, ghost lady?” Walker rolled his eyes and her eyes narrowed. For some reason, she was annoyed he had dropped the banter so quickly. Probably just because she was appreciating the distraction from the actual issue weighing her down—bickering and teasing was a safe spot. Easy, casual, could literally be with anyone, but leave it to Mr. “Kill a Man in Front of Everyone and God” to just barrel in. She thoughtlessly wondered if he took the same approach while . . . .

No wonder his wife left him.

“Can’t it be enough I graced you with my presence?” She crossed her arms.

Walker scoffed mirthlessly. “You tell me. Not like you’ve been bored enough to come wandering by, before.” He gave her a knowing look—it was different from Yelena’s mother’s, but no less able to make her sweat. “You that rattled by what’s-her-name finding out?”

She glowered and didn’t say anything. Was she really so transparent? If even Walker had figured it out, then Melina certainly must have.

Ava hesitated too long to reply and Walker rolled his eyes again. “It doesn’t exactly take a detective to guess that, Starr.”

“Then by all means, Columbo,” she narrowed her eyes, “tell me what else I’m thinking.”

Unfortunately for her, Walker disregarded the glare completely and just snorted. “Columbo’s your go-to detective? Really?”

Ava rolled her eyes, “I’m not going to apologize for not growing up with cable, rich boy.”

Walker opened his mouth before he just closed it, as if he had decided it wasn’t worth biting. What was with him today? Then again, she wasn’t exactly sure why she was, as Mel would say, rage baiting to begin with—well, she knew that it was at least partially because seeing that little vein in Walker’s forehead was always made her feel better. “Fine. Columbo. Whatever. Have you considered just telling her? She’s Red Room—probably more than a few bodies in her closest. Pretty sure she’d understand.” He stuck his hands in his robe pockets and turned away from her, only to turn back, his eyebrow cocked and his right hand out, “‘Just one more thing, Yelena’s mom: I did it. Sorry.’” He relaxed his stance and held out his hands as if to say “see? Easy.”

She snorted. “That was a shite Columbo.” Easier to focus on that than his point.

“Well, yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “because Columbo wasn’t the one confessing to murder most of the time, but maybe I missed that episode.”

“It wasn’t murder.” She said curtly. “It was a job.”

“There you go,” Walker said, satisfied, “my point exactly. Val gave you a job, you did that job. It was a shit job, but Val’s a shit person, and what other choice could we have? What other life? If anyone would understand, it would be Alexei and what’s-her-name.”

A logical, fair point. That only made her feel worse, somehow. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and stayed quiet and tried to ignore Walker’s expectant look, like he was waiting on her to say something. Finally, he sighed, “Look, if it helps, you could say you did it to save my life. Val put a hit out on me, you stopped her. If anything, he’d probably be more mad I almost killed Yelena.”

It was a surprisingly generous offer, coming from him: giving her credit for saving him, and jumping under the bus with his own confession. Like he said, they probably would be fine with whatever had happened, or at least understanding, so why was she so reluctant to tell them? It made no earthly sense and that, more than anything, irked her. Why should she be the only one feeling guilty about the whole affair? Why did that damn sword she looted feel like it weighed like a body whenever she equipped it? Why did the memory of just how resigned and bitter Yelena had looked in the desert cross her mind and make her guts clench?

“. . . Do you regret it?” She asked quietly.

“Almost killing Yelena?” Walker stroked his beard and shrugged. “Not really. It was a job; she was there to kill you, if you remember, so, you know, you’re welcome. But I’m glad I didn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Ava had never thought about it like that: in a manner of speaking, they had both inadvertently saved each other. It was a weird coincidence, that. Undaunted, she shook her head, but instead of looking him in the eye, she glanced at the floor. She cursed her own cowardice. “You know what I mean.”

Even looking at his feet, she saw his body tense. Heard the sound as he inhaled through his nose. “. . . That’s really how you want to play this?” He snapped, his voice low. It almost sounded like a growl. “I try to help you and you throw that ‘innocent man’ shit in my face? That it?”

Ava took a breath, and stared him right in the eye. She had seen Walker annoyed, before; she had seen him angry; she had seen him irritated; she had seen him hurt—hell, often, she had been the one to provoke those emotions.

She had never seen him mad.

Till now.

His eyes were narrowed, his shoulders back, and the glower he shot her way almost made him look unrecognizable from the man who had just tried a Columbo impression to amuse her. She didn’t feel threatened: in fact, she almost felt a flash of guilt for asking, but it was overshadowed by her own irritation. He was one to talk—how the hell did he expect her to talk so calmly about this, when he fell to pieces the minute she turned the tables?

“You know damn well what I mean,” She repeated quietly. “Do you regret cutting that man’s fucking head off with your bloody shield, Mr. ‘Captain America’?” He tensed at the title, but she couldn’t care less right then. If he was going to make her face her shit, then fair was fair.

Walker clenched his fingers and she distantly wondered if he squeezed hard enough, could his nails make his palms bleed. “It’s just a question: yes or no, Walker?”

Her tone was ice, which only seemed to make him angrier, but to her surprise, he closed his eyes and took a long, deep inhale through his nose, before slowly exhaling through his mouth. He repeated the cycle as he tried to keep his temper in check, which was more than she expected from him, honestly. As mad as she was, she waited him out patiently. Finally, when he opened his eyes, he looked more familiar: still angry, still hurt, but it was the Walker she knew. She let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she had been holding, and gave him a steady look. The tense silence in the room seemed almost to make it harder to breathe.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked away from her, as if he were considering her question. After what felt like forever, he hissed out a sigh, a far cry from the almost violent breathing he had been doing seconds before. “Do I regret, as you so eloquently described, cutting his head off? Yeah, I guess I do. Do I regret that he’s dead?” He looked up and met her gaze defiantly. “No.”

Ava gritted her teeth and tried to keep calm. Sure, she had bloody hands herself. Sure, she was no one to talk, but . . . “How the hell can you still say that? After everything that’s happened?” She wasn’t sure why that lack of remorse was bothering her so much. Realistically, she knew none of them were saints, but it would be nice if they tried to be better. Tried to earn some of the legitimacy they’ve found draped upon them. Did it really mean so little to him?

She couldn’t accept that.

“What’s changed?” He asked quietly, and he leaned back; the look in his eyes had changed. The anger was gone, and all that was left was a sort of weariness.

“What are you on about?”

He shook his head, and she could almost hear the sound of his walls going up. Her heart sank. “Forget it. You apparently know the story. Every-fucking-body knows the story. Has an opinion. You, Congressman Barnes out there, Sam Wilson—so what could I say that matters?” He shrugged. “I’m not going to lie to you. I don’t regret that the bastard’s dead. I just don’t. I regret how it happened. I regret not listening when . . . I regret a lot of things that day. That terrorist being dead isn’t one of them.”

Ava opened her mouth, though she didn’t know what she wanted to say; fortunately, she was spared when he just raised his hand to preempt her as he shook his head. “I’m done talking about it, Starr.” She closed her mouth and pursed her lips. She wasn’t satisfied with that, and she knew for a bloody fact he wasn’t either, but there was no point in forcing the issue. She could see that much. Ava reluctantly nodded. She could let it go. For now. “So what’s actually bothering you?” He asked bluntly. “That wasn’t your first kill; what’s different this time?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Why was she being like this? She had killed many people on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s orders—a lot of them probably weren’t evil. But an assignment was an assignment, a job a job, and both were the prices for her not dying. Did she regret those? The honest truth was not really; as much as that answer would probably disappoint Bill or even Scott Lang, she had done what she had had to to survive. That’s all there was to it. Whether it had been Val or Fury or whoever giving the orders, if success had meant she delayed dissipating another day, she would take it.

So why was this the one job she felt ashamed of?

Surprisingly, Walker wasn’t looking at her with judgment; he had just folded his arms and waited.

“. . . I never met anyone that knew the other ones. The targets, I mean.” She admitted quietly; she was almost as surprised as Walker at the confession. “That’s all.” The temptation to play with her hair, anything to distract herself from this conversation, was strong, but she clenched her hands and resisted it.

To her surprise, Walker just nodded. “. . . Yeah. That’d be different.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “It’s weird, sometimes, to remember they were people before . . .”

She nodded slowly. He understood. At least, she thought he did. “I just . . . .”

“You don’t want to disappoint them. Alexei. Yelena’s mom,” He said, not unkindly, but she flinched all the same.

“Fuck you,” Ava snapped. “I’m not a child. I don’t care what they think.”

Walker looked at her, and she wanted to squirm, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. She glowered back and hoped her face looked as defiant as she wanted it. Without breaking eye contact, Walker slowly shook his head firmly. “Starr . . . Ava,” she felt a chill down her spine at her name, “. . . I know what you’re going through, okay?”

She snorted; four years later and he decides to try that Captain America shit on her? If he was actually capable of it, he wouldn’t have been living out of a fucking storage locker. Walker’s eyes flickered as the anger began to flare up again as she kicked some kindling into its embers, but he took another breath through his nose and slowly released it and kept his focus on her.

“Look, I know you don’t believe me, but could you just fucking listen for five seconds before you just be a bitch about it?” She kept her face neutral: not eager but not dissuading him from speaking, either. As if sensing that was the best he could expect, he slowly nodded. “. . . The woman who raised me, she, uh, she . . . believes in me,” Ava noted he didn’t say his “mother” and she couldn’t help feeling slightly curious about the arrangement, however angry she was. “Whatever it was—losing Cap, losing the pension, losing Olivia—she always thinks the best of me. Says how proud she is.” He hesitated, as if he were wondering whether he could trust her with the information. “. . . Even when I was a kid, if I got in trouble, she’d always just look at the teacher or whoever, and say even if I did it, I must have had a reason. I could do anything and she would say I was a good person . . . and well, it meant a lot.” She wanted to cock an eyebrow; the golden boy got in trouble, huh? Well, before the . . . obviously.

“And I lied to her.” He blinked a little too quickly, but he glanced away before she could get a good enough look. “Her son is—was my best friend. I . . . failed. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t even get justice for him.” Walker scoffed bitterly. “Some Avenger, huh? Couldn’t avenge him when it mattered. But when that grieving woman looked at me, so lost, it felt like . . . I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t let her think I was a fuck up like everyone else already did. So I said I got them. She still doesn’t know, and I don’t know if I can ever tell her.

“The thought of not being able to go back to that house . . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve lost everything else. My friends, my wife, my son, my career, my sister, my parents . . . I couldn’t lose them, too. Can’t.”

Ava just stared at him. What he was describing . . . . “Do you think you’d ever tell her?”

“I dunno,” he muttered. “She has a right to know, but she’s had that peace for years. I don’t know if ripping it away would help.” A sigh. “. . . Or maybe I’m just being selfish. Or a coward. Both, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

She was surprised to find that part of her wanted to walk up to him, maybe lay some kind of hand on his shoulder—that seemed like a thing most people would do in this sort of situation. What would his ex had done? Somehow that cheering trick didn’t seem like it’d work twice. But then she remembered she was frustrated with him and squelched that thought. “So if you’re too much of a drip to confess, where the hell do you get off, telling me what to do?”

Walker shrugged, though he clearly had to bite back a scathing retort. It was infuriating how he kept not reacting the way she expected; it was throwing her off, which only infuriated her more, since she couldn’t tell if he was deliberately trying to or not. “I think you care about what Alexei thinks of you.”

“Piss off.”

“I think that you appreciate him,” Walker continued as if she hadn’t said anything, “that for all your eyerolls, you like how he talks to you. That he treats you like—”

“Finish that sentence and I will rip your heart out,” she said, her quiet tone belaying her fury. How fucking dare he even suggest . . . ?

Walker just stared at her, unmoved by the threat. He crossed his arms and even without speaking, his meaning punched her in the gut, anyway. “So you’re saying that he’s some kind of father?” The words lingered in the air, and despite their mirthlessness, they felt like they were crushing down on her. “Sorry to disappoint, but I already had two fathers, and they’re dead and gone. Not looking for a third, especially that idiot.”

“I think you think he’s loud, but in a way that lets you know he’s there. That you think he’s embarrassing, but in a way that shows he’s trying,” Walker said quietly, undaunted. “That you think he has no filter, but that you like how it means he treats you like everyone else. That you think he’s an idiot, but that you liked how much he wanted us to be a team—that he saw something in you.

“And I think you think if you tell him, that goes away. Like he’ll treat you like a stranger or just some teammate and that you won’t feel . . . .” He didn’t say it, but Ava heard the “at home” loud and clear and she winced, but she turned away from Walker before he could see it. Showing her back to him felt bad, but the thought of him seeing her shaken was worse.

“And what makes you so fucking confident, ‘detective’?” She said, trying her best to keep her voice level.

“You know,” Walker said; she didn’t have to turn around to somehow know his hands were back in his robe’s pockets, like he really was some tv detective, “it’s a funny thing. Everyone assumes Yelena’s the heart of the team, but I don’t think so. No, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s you two. Alexei and you. Because I think you and he both wanted this to be a team—he’s just the only one who believed it could be, and I think you appreciate him for it.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You’re right,” Walker agreed, but in that irritatingly Columbo-esque tone that said one thing but meant the opposite, “I don’t, but I’m not an idiot, either. I was in the back of that death trap with you, Starr—I saw just how fucking sad you looked when he talked about it. You wanted it, too; you just thought you couldn’t have it. And now you do, you don’t want to be shut out.”

Just how closely had Walker been watching her? Her stomach clenched; he really was such an odd combination of observant and socially awkward, but this time, she was struggling to refute him. Somehow, without Yelena there to help, she didn’t think she could gaslight him off this theory. “Are you stalking me or something?”

He snorted, “Don’t flatter yourself, ghost lady; I just saw what I saw, that’s all. You’re the one confirming everything.”

Ava almost barked out a laugh, but she managed to keep it to just a scoff. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Yet, she felt her shoulders sag slightly; she just felt so tired of pretending, and if Walker had already figured out that much . . . “. . . And what would you do, if you were me?” Any other time, she couldn’t have cared less about his opinion, but at least at this moment, he seemed to have some more experience with this sort of thing, loathe as she was to admit it.

“Honestly,” Walker mused, “I still think Alexei’s going to understand. He’s seen things, he’s done things—he won’t blame you.”

“And if you’re wrong?” She hated how small her voice sounded.

“If I’m wrong . . . I’ll take the blame, too.” He sighed. “Technically the only reason she was there was because of me, anyway. He can’t be mad at both of us. Not for long, anyway.”

“Yelena would—”

“Take our side. Well, your side,” he amended. “Pretty sure she’d throw me to the wolves for shits and giggles.”

Ava snorted, her lips twitching upwards despite herself. As surreal as it was, talking to Walker was actually making her feel slightly more confident about this whole thing and she genuinely didn’t believe it. Didn’t think Yelena would, either, which only made her adamant she’d never breath a word of it. “Probably.”

“Yeah . . . ,” Walker sighed. “Anything else on your mind?”

“Nothing your piss brain could understand.” She turned around, arms still crossed, and smirked at him.

“. . . I don’t know what I expected,” he sighed as he raised his palms in surrender, before he gestured to the door. “Now if you’re done . . . ?”

She blinked; not that she’d admit it, but it felt weird that he’d kick her out so quickly, before she glanced back at the book sitting on his bed. “Right. Your ‘homework.’”

“Right, and I’m not losing honor roll because of you, so . . .” he gestured again to the door and she snorted, but she made no attempt to leave. “Fine. Be that way. Stand there or enjoy the floor. I only got the one bed.”

“Is this the Southern hospitality I’ve heard so much about?” She cocked an eyebrow.

“We don’t exactly roll the red carpet out for people that break in, Starr.”

“That seems to be a you problem,” Ava said; she briefly looked at the bed and considered joking about it being big enough, but even to her, that sounded like too much like flirting and she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. She had to suppress a shudder at the thought and, with a reluctant nod, she turned to the door and flipped him off as she phased through.

The minute she stepped into the quiet living room, she sighed; whatever amusement she had felt before seemed to have been left behind in the bedroom (lord, she didn’t like how that sounded), and now, she suddenly found herself with nothing but time on her hands until inevitably, Bucky dragged Alexei and Yelena back to the tower after their goose chase inevitably didn’t lead them anywhere.

She briefly toyed with the idea of trying to find Melina and Bob—Yelena definitely would want her to chaperone that team up, right? Probably, but she honestly didn’t feel like it. He was a big boy, he could figure it out; plus, he probably just wanted to ask Yelena’s mom a bunch of things about her, so if anything, she was doing Bob a favour by ignoring his plight. Put like that, she was only being a good friend, really.

Right.

Onward, then.

*****

Yelena’s day had started off terribly and somehow, it’s only gotten worse.

Having to boil her tits off in a sniper’s nest and not getting to shoot anyone certainly hadn’t helped

However, the current cause for her bad mood, besides literally everyone alive and breathing in this whole damn city, was her phone, which for some reason, no one was answering. She didn’t have whatever burner phone Melina was using that week, Walker appeared to have better things to do than look at his phone despite doomscrolling being 70% of his day, Bob wasn’t picking up, and to her dismay, Ava was nowhere to be found, too. Some friend she was. Were they friends? Well, if they were, they certainly aren’t anymore.

Guess if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.

No wonder Bucky was always pissy.

She tried to hoof it back to the Tower, but she still hadn’t figured out the damn bus system in this damn city, and so she had to make due with fast walking up Bowery before split off into 3rd Avenue. She could swear that she heard Alexei calling behind her, but she was in no mood for him today. She’d apologize later (maybe), but for now, she had to try and get back to Bob before Melina did anything too weird to him—or to Ava, too, now that she thought about it. She did love Melina, she did, but she also knew that, for the Widow, sometimes her scientific curiosity overruled lesser concerns and she did not want her to treat her friends like lab experiments.

After all, she had had little problem doing that to her own daughters; what had changed?

Yelena almost stumbled off a curb before she dashed across the street, her sweaty top sticking to the sweaty part of the small of her back—it was that contradictory feeling of cool and awkwardly hot that just somehow seemed to be the worst of both worlds, and her cap did nothing, whatever Bucky claimed.

Perhaps she was being a little unfair to Melina: Alexei wouldn’t believe in her for no reason, much less hope to bring her to the tower at some point, if she couldn’t be trusted. Intellectually, she knew this, but even without the Taskmaster of it all, not being there to act as a go-between really set her on edge. What was she saying to Bob? Walker would be fine, and if push came to shove, Ava could handle herself, but Bob . . . Bob required care. Not because he was weak but especially after Valentina had managed to manipulate him, she couldn’t help but be worried what the best of the Red Room could make him think.

Make him remember.

Yes, that had to be why her stomach felt queasy. It was just out of concern that Melina may make Bob remember the Void. That was all.

Meanwhile, the stupid owl essentially blabbed to Bucky that Taskmaster had been on a job for Val and that she was no more and Alexei had heard it—another reason why she didn’t want him to catch up to her. Because of his renewed attempt at fatherhood, he inevitably would want to talk about it, which she absolutely didn’t—after all, a quick death and an unmarked grave was pretty much the expected retirement plan in their business, so what was there to say? It was just an unnoteworthy fact of life. She squashed any feeling of regret: they had offered Antonia a way out. They had fought to get her a different life, like the others in the network, but she had refused. She had made her own bed and it shouldn’t be a surprise that someone made her lie dead in it.

No, there was no helping Antonia now, whatever Natasha may have wanted, but she could at least try to come up with something that at least mitigate the possible fallout and she honestly had no idea how Alexei would react to the news that Val and his teammates essentially killed her, and a small part of her didn’t want to find out. As frustrating as he could be, she was enjoying having him in her life again, in a place where they both were feeling “full” and “filled” and she could admit to herself that she didn’t want to see that progress disappear again, if he pulled away.

She got the feeling that Ava probably wouldn’t want that to happen either.

And it wouldn’t, if the bitch would just answer her damn phone.

Panting, Yelena stormed through the glass automatic doors of Avengers Tower (brand new; she was impressed that the door was the first thing Val had had repaired), and the security guard—a taller man (at least compared to her) who had a baby face but held himself like a football player less accustomed to stepping to others than vice versa, jumped to his feet, startled. She pretended not to notice his smart phone tumble from his hands and glowered at him while she collected her breath. “Ele. . . vator . . . now.”

He hesitated and she cursed herself for not having her stupid ID on her. “Look, I’ll take the . . . heat from Mel, just bring the . . .damn . . . thingie here.” She squinted at the nametag. “Devin.”

Devin blinked as he pointedly tried to avoid glancing down at his desk, where Yelena knew he had a panic button. With a haggard sigh, she pulled out her phone and summoned up the press release that Val had put out, her dazed and confused face right smack dap center. She pointed at the phone back to her own face three times. “We good?”

“I don’t know . . . Ms. Gold said . . .”

“Mel also says that we need you. She can be wrong. More important,” Yelena made a show of looking around the lobby, “she’s not here, but I am, so that makes me your boss, yeah? So pull down the damn elevator.”

Devin looked like he was so tempted to hit that panic button, but for his sake, she was happy that he apparently had had enough change of heart and sense to just give in and hit the down arrow instead. “Good boy.” If she had been Ava, she probably would have knocked some things off his desk as she walked past, but that was where she and Ava differed: Ava was essentially a stray cat in human form with the attitude to match.

As she got on the elevator, she shot a glance over her shoulder to see if Alexei had wandered in after her, but fortunately for her, Devin hadn’t cost her enough time for him to catch up. She instinctively picked the top floor: besides needing a shower from being boiled alive and her mad dash ho—here, she figured she’d find Bob or one of the others lounging there. While the tower was, as Walker described, enormous, much of it was still under construction and the parts that were finished were mostly operations-related: a brig for prisoners, multiple labs that none of them were smart enough to use, a forge and weapons room, the medical bay—supposedly Val had some goal of turning it into some for-profit specialized hospital wing for the various super-powered vigilantes in the city, at least until Fisk instituted his crackdown. The basement was still being investigated—supposedly there was supposed to be a vault of some kind down there, but until Ava could be bothered to help poke around, not much headway there.

All that to say there were only so many places they could be.

And yet, to her annoyance, when she stepped out of the elevator, there wasn’t a soul in sight. The blankets she and Bob had used were still haphazardly tossed over the back of the couch, and there were two half-empty glasses of water resting on the living room table; some dishes were still soaking in the kitchenette sink, so someone had been there recently—and unless Walker and Ava suddenly decided to hang out, it must have been Bob, but where the hell could they have gone? The pit of her stomach clenched as the thought of Melina in one of the labs but she shook her head to try and shake the thought loose: that wasn’t a possibility. Surely.

She took a breath and tried to focus herself. First things first: get out of the sweaty clothes. Shower. Find Bob. Maybe murder her two “friends.” Explain what happened in a way that didn’t make her dad distrust her. Easy.

Suddenly, Yelena felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. With a frown, she dug it out; had Ava finally noticed her calls? . . . No. No, all it was a message from Alexei that made her heart skip: “Team Meeting, meeting room. Now.”

She couldn’t remember the last time he had ever sent a text that didn’t have at least one emoji or exclamation point.

Fuck.

For some reason, she numbly glanced around the room, as if expecting Bob or anyone else to materialize, but nope, she was on her own. Hardly an unfamiliar feeling, but still, she would have felt better if she at least had a co-conspirator to share a confused look with. Without a word, she slipped her phone back in her pocket and briefly debated about at least going to change clothes. It’s not like she didn’t know what the meeting was about, so she may as well drag her feet, right? Make them wait on her. It’s not like they were discussing anything newsworthy.

Mercenary with shit deal killed by other mercenary with shit deal. Somehow, the world would continue to turn.

She fast walked up the stairs and dashed to her room, removing her top as she went. The sweaty sports bra was bigger pain in the ass, especially since she was trying to remove it quickly, and wrestling with the fucking thing was the last thing she wanted to be doing. After bending her elbow at an angle that would have impressed that Spider-punk, she was able to at least get one arm through the band and free from its prison, with the other escaping immediately after. She contemptuously through it across the room where it landed in the hamper, followed by the top. The leggings, she decided to leave, partially because the moisture wicking had done its job and partially because pulling on a new pair was a pain, especially as sweaty as her legs were. With a sigh, she grabbed a rag and wiped off the remaining sweat and, not for the first time, was grateful she had kept her hair shorter; once done, she pulled out fresh clothes, which, after hesitating, included a red Ohio State t-shirt. Her parents’ fake alma mater. Maybe it was a cheap emotional manipulation gambit, but maybe it’d make them feel . . . better, somehow? She had no idea, but she was making this up as she went, so, better than nothing.

Another hand-run through her hair and she felt as ready as she could be. Well, almost . . . she glanced at her dresser and scooped up a thin, beaded bracelet. It was just a stupid, cheap thing, but Natasha had given it to her during one of their check-ins before the Blip. She had grinned when she had handed it to her; apparently, she had given Yelena a similar one when they were kids. Yelena genuinely had no memory of it, but she still felt pleased as her sister rolled it onto her wrist, anyway.

So much, lost to time and petty, paranoid men.

Supposedly, Yelena thought as she made her way down the hall, there was a multiverse. Different universes where every possible difference, every possible outcome existed. Maybe there was one where Nat got to have the peaceful life she wanted. Be a teacher. Marry some nice-enough contractor that Alexei and her would tease mercilessly behind their backs. Maybe Melina was also there, smiling politely through what’s-his-name’s half-forced jokes about HGTV, biding her time to ask for a free estimate on a garage repair.

As the elevator doors closed, she could swear that she could see these imaginary versions of themselves sitting in the living room, the imaginary Alexei in mid-brag about something Imaginary Yelena was working on, while Imaginary Melina smiled fondly, and Imaginary Nat letting out a happy laugh, the kind that always ended with her snorting.

If it did exist, and she hoped—would have prayed, if she believed that did anything—it did, then she hoped they were happy.

She could handle this shit better, if they at least were.

When the doors opened, Yelena wasn’t surprised to see that she was the last one there, sans Bucky. Alexei was standing in the middle of the circular room whispering to Melina, while Walker and Ava, both in uniform for some reason, were standing awkwardly off to the side. Resigned to this as she was, Yelena couldn’t even muster up the energy to glare at Ava, who, at least, had the decency to look sheepish. She tried to send an apologetic look, but Yelena pointedly brushed it aside. Instead, her gaze fell to Bob, who was sitting in his usual chair, trying to look casual, but the concerned look he gave her showed he had guessed the meeting’s intention, just as she had.

She tried to shoot him a reassuring smile, but her muscles felt sluggish; judging by the way Bob frowned, she guessed it had looked as good as it had felt. “What’s all this about, then?” She said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I was trying to get a shower in.”

“Little one . . . ,” Alexei frowned as he trailed off. His eyes looked so sad that it almost made Yelena want to drop the act, but she held firm. Why, she wasn’t entirely sure, but she had committed to it and she couldn’t drop it without it feeling like she had lied to him.

“What, Alexei?” She forced. “The owl lead was deadend, so what? Always another one.”

“Yelena, maybe through earpiece, you did not hear . . . ,” Alexei shook his head, before he looked around the room. “Team, we are to, ah, debri—talk about mission.”

“The conversation with the mob guy?” Bob asked, playing dumb, which she appreciated. “Di—did it not work out?” He glanced from her back to Alexei. “Yelena just said it was a deadend. Did he, uh, talk?”

“Comrades,” Alexei said somberly, but he was looking solely at Melina, “The Owl man, he did tell us. He play word game, but he, he did say much, in the game. He said . . . he said Taskmaster is no longer . . . .” He gave a heavy sigh, and rested a hand on Melina’s shoulder as she bowed her head. “You know.”

Walker opened his mouth to say something, and Ava glowered at him, as if somehow guessing what he had been planning to say, and he coughed, “I’m sorry, Alexei.”

“Is . . . not surprise, captain,” Alexei shook his head and despite the stoic front, Yelena felt her heart drop at just how resigned he looked, “life is, it shows us where crawfish hibernate, but . . . thank you.”

She had no idea what that idiom meant, however profound it must have sounded to the others, who just nodded as if they understood the Russian phrase. Still, the sadness was clear enough.

“Thank you, love,” Melina whispered, and Alexei nodded while giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. “I . . . knew, I think, but part of me still hoped . . . .” She shook her head and shrugged.

“Did he at least say who might have, you know . . . ,” Bob asked quietly. Ava pointedly looked just above Alexei’s shoulder—close enough that you had to be as far removed as Yelena was to notice.

“The man, he said . . . ,” Alexei began but suddenly looked uncertain as to how to phrase what he wanted to say.

“He seemed like O.X.E. may have had something to do with it.” Yelena said bluntly. The room turned to her, as if they had briefly forgotten she was there, probably because she hadn’t moved any closer to the rest of them. “And if O.X.E. is involved, then that means Valentina.”

“So Valentina may be responsible?” Bob asked, “If she gave this Taskmaster some dangerous mission or something, that’d be on her, right?” Yelena could have . . . well, not kissed him, but given him a good hug for that.

“Maybe,” Alexei said, “but it will be hard to find out without . . . .” He gave a pained look as he gestured around them. “Risking this. And even if we do . . . what do we do with knowledge?”

“No.” Melina shook her head firmly. “It is not worth that.”

“But love, if . . . !”

“No,” Melina said as firmly as Yelena had ever heard her. “I will not have you throwing this chance away because of this.”

“She’s right.” Yelena said quietly, but her voice seemed to echo throughout the room. Alexei and Melina looked at her, surprised; probably because it was the first time she had ever taken Melina’s side on something. “Alexei, Antonia tried to kill you, kill us. She refused to get out when you tried. Threw it in your face. She worked for bad people, and if she got killed in the job . . . what other way could it end? It could have happened to any of us.” Her tone sounded cold, even to her ears, but she had to get him to listen, somehow. “And we would have deserved it, just like she did.”

“Yelena . . .” He said, firmly; the tone he took when he wanted to try to sound more parental, when a scolding was sure to follow, but she shook her head.

“No, Alexei, I know you want to do the hero thing, but we’re not heroes, all right? You know that? We kill in darkness, we get killed in darkness—who are we to judge? How can we?” She took a breath and tried to avoid looking him in the eye; she knew there was no hiding how fucked up the Red Room had made her, but she didn’t want to see that look of pity, of guilt on his face, the one he got whenever she showed that raw part of herself. “Can’t . . . can’t we just mourn her? Let it go?”

“It is a tragedy,” Melina said slowly, before she nodded to Yelena, much to her surprise. “Let us mourn it as such. Natasha, she would . . . she would understand.”

Yelena risked a look at Ava, who had paled. She looked tempted to say something, anything, and perhaps for the first time, Yelena got the sense that she must have been feeling guilty. She seemed regretful when she asked about her, back in the desert, but with everything that had happened since, Yelena had just assumed that Ava had just moved on, but if she hadn’t . . . .

Maybe she needed the closure as much as Alexei and Melina did.

What a fucking time to grow a conscious.

Yelena shook her head slowly, though Ava didn’t see it. Instead, her focus was solely on Alexei and Melina. “Alexei, I . . . ,” she trailed off, her voice suddenly sounding dry. Alexei and Melina looked directly at her while Yelena cursed the woman; meanwhile, Walker had an indecipherable look on his face. “I just . . . .”

Whatever she wanted to say, the words just seemed to get stuck in her throat. Alexei took a step towards her, “What’s wrong, little one?” Despite everything else going on, Yelena had to fight hard to squelch the childish jealousy that he also called her that, but judging by the look on her face, the term of endearment seemed to make Ava uncomfortable, too.

“I . . . .” She tried again, but the more everyone focused on her, the more she seemed to lose her nerve. “I . . . I—”

“I did it.” Walker interrupted.

You could have heard a pin drop.

“ . . . What?” Alexei asked quietly. Walker shook his head, as if he was regrouping, but he had a defiant scowl on his face, while Ava’s baffled expression matched Bob’s and probably her own. What the actual fuck was he doing?

“I killed her,” he repeated. “And she knew. That’s what she was trying to say.”

“Walker, you don—” Ava began, her shock turning to anger.

“I ‘don’t speak for you,’” he finished her sentence and shot her another weird look before turning back to her parents, “yeah, fine, but it is what it is.”

“When did this happen?” Melina asked quietly.

“During Val’s big purge.” Walker’s eyes flicked to Bob before focusing back on Alexei. “I was clean up and, well, she wanted someone to clean up me, too. She picked them, Taskmaster, to do it. We fought. I was the one who walked out. It was that simple.”

“What?” Bob asked, but only because Ava seemed too stunned to say it herself. “That’s not—”

“Not fair? Probably not, but she was hired to kill me and she nearly did. So I’m sorry for your loss, Alexei, but I can’t say I regret it.”

Alexei looked pained, but he nodded thoughtfully, “. . . I understand, captain. I just . . . I wish for many things. Wish many things could be different. This will be just one more.”

“How did she die?” Melina asked.

“Like a warrior,” Walker said quietly. “On her feet. It was quick, it was painless. She probably didn’t even feel it before . . . .”

“What the actual fuck are you saying?” Ava finally forced out; she grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face her. He looked down at her, a grim, determined look etched into his face. “It was me that bloody shot her. It was my job, you don’t . . . you can’t take that on. You have no right, do you understand that?”

“She was there to kill me.” He said quietly. “If you hadn’t, I would have, after I was done doing my job of killing her.” He nodded towards Yelena before looking back to her parents. “Val hired me to kill Yelena. I nearly did before . . . if Taskmaster wasn’t so hellbent on me, they may still be alive. So I killed her, whether I pulled the trigger or not.”

“This was in the vault?” Alexei asked, but he didn’t look at Walker; no, he was looking straight at her, his eyes wide. “You knew? This whole time?”

Yelena’s heart broke and it took the last pillar supporting her cold front with it. She couldn’t bring herself to speak as her lower lip trembled; the look of disappointment, of grief, of pain . . . she couldn’t handle it. Not from him. He stepped away from Melina and slowly approached her. “You were there?”

“Dad, I . . . ,” she managed to say, but the other words failed her. It felt like if she said any more, she wouldn’t be able to stop a sob from escaping. “I’m . . . ..”

To her shock, he enveloped her in a strong hug.

“It must have been so hard,” he murmured, his chest rumbling, “mourning her all alone, all this time.”

Yelena was blinking rapidly, but that wasn’t able to stop the tears from trickling down her cheeks as she shuddered and tightened the hug. She suddenly felt like a child again, the child she had been before the Red Room, before . . . before she had lost her. “I am sorry,” Alexei said quietly; she could swear she could hear some tears of his own in his voice, but her eyes were too tightly screwed shut to see. For a second, the rest of the world was gone, and she only could focus on the warmth that tried to stop her from trembling. “I’m sorry you had to mourn another sister alone.”

That broke her.

She hadn’t ever considered that. Not consciously, at least. It had been much easier to just . . . blame her. Blame the world. Blame it as a cruel fact of life. Put those feelings in the bin with the rest and just . . . bury it down.

That worked as well as it always had.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Ava said, though her voice may as well have been miles away.

“It’s not your fault,” Melina said softly, with the most empathy Yelena had ever heard from her, “you may have pulled the trigger, but this de Fontaine killed her. It is simple as that.” Yelena heard her draw a breath as Alexei loosened the hug enough that she could look around him. Ava looked shocked, as if she had expected, or even wanted, them to be angry with her.

“But . . . .”

“There is none,” Melina said, “you’ve offered us closure . . . both of you,” she nodded to Walker, who returned it. “That is more than most of us get, in this life. So thank you. I am glad . . . I am glad that if she had to die, it was with people like you.”

Ava looked so confused, so lost at that. Like she couldn’t understand what Melina was saying. Surprisingly, Walker reached over and rested a hand on her shoulder and it was a testament to her shock that Ava didn’t immediately brush it off, or even comment. She just slumped a little and stepped back, as if a weight had been put down.

“I’m . . . I’m, uh, sorry,” Walker mumbled awkwardly. “About before.”

But Alexei briefly released an arm from the hug enough to wave it aside. “How like Captain America,” he said softly, a sad smile on his face, “to take blame so friend doesn’t get in trouble.” Now it was Walker’s turn to look stunned. “I told you. Good man.”

The room fell silent, but to Yelena’s surprise, it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. The more rational part of her wanted to push away from Alexei, maybe call Bucky to explain what was going on, since he may be investigating O.X.E. and doing the work, but she knew there’d be time for that later. For now, she just wanted to lean into the hug and wallow in this comfort, if only for a little longer.

Melina had said that, if the end had had to come, she was glad it had been with these people.

Yelena couldn’t disagree.