Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Watchtower's common room basked in the amber glow of sunset, wrapped in that particular post-mission quiet where heroes decompress in their own ways. Dinner was still hours away, leaving everyone to their individual rituals. 

Bob Reynolds sat cross-legged on the carpet, journal spread open before him like an altar.

His own ritual involved stickers, dozens of them scattered across the coffee table and floor in a cluttered mess.

“Today was good,” he sang to himself in a sing-song voice, pressing a holographic star upon his checklist.

“Did all the dishes.” A constellation sticker found its spot below the star on the page.

“Organized the fridge.” A black hole followed soon after.

“And finally finished The Picture of Dorian Gray — though I didn’t really like it.” This time, a googly-eyed rock.

Walker glanced up from his bent shield, the polishing cloth paused mid-swipe. “You know they make apps for that, right?”

“True, but apps don’t come with scratch-and-sniff stickers.” Bob peeled off a strawberry and took an experimental whiff. “Hey, this one actually smells like real strawberries. Want to try?”

"Pass." Walker returned to his shield with renewed vigor.

Bob shrugged and continued his work, but footsteps interrupted his focus. Bucky Barnes approached, tactical gear still clinging to him like armor he couldn't quite shed. His gaze swept the room—Walker at his polishing, Alexei regaling Ava with tales involving seals and questionable life choices while she listened with her usual quiet attention, and Bob surrounded by what looked like a craft store box had toppled over and spilled its contents on the floor.

"Hey Bob." Bucky settled into the chair across from him, his metal arm catching the dying light. "How are you doing?"

Bob's hand froze halfway to a glittery unicorn sticker, "Oh. Hi. What's... what's up?"

"I just asked how are you doing?" 

"Oh, right. Pretty good actually." Bob placed the unicorn carefully on his page. "Been keeping busy with the journaling and maintaining the Watchtower. Oh, did you hear they finished those temporary bedrooms? Perfect for overnight missions if you need to crash here sometime."

"That's nice." Bucky's tone stayed carefully neutral. "How's therapy going?"

Something shifted in Bob's expression—just a flicker of wariness. "Dr. Worth?" His voice remained steady, but his hand stilled over the sticker pile. "It's... going well. He says I'm making progress. Why do you ask?"

"And your medication?"

The room's ambient noise—Alexei's booming voice, the whisper of Walker's polishing—seemed to fade as the silence around Bob grew thick as syrup. His hand hovered over his stickers, suddenly uncertain, before he forced his brightest smile.

"Oh you know. Taking them according to what Dr. Worth prescribed," he said, but the words came out too quickly, "Morning and evening doses. Even made a color-coded chart for the fridge. Yelena helped design it”.

"Are you sure about that?" Bucky reached into his jacket, producing two prescription bottles with a pharmacy label, date and instructions on it. There was still some condensation on them. "A few pills are missing from the first one but the second is untouched. The first should have been empty and the second half-gone by now."

For just a moment, something flickered across Bob's face—surprise, maybe even panic—before the confident mask slipped back into place. He barely glanced at the bottles.

"Oh, those. They’re the backup supply." Bob waved a dismissive hand, his tone taking on an almost condescending edge, "I keep a bottle with me in my bedroom and take my doses there”.

"Bob." Bucky folded his arms, "Last time, you told me you only got two bottles and that you always store them in the fridge. I don't recall you or Worth mentioning any backup prescriptions."

The mask cracked. Bob's journal snapped shut, stickers rustling like autumn leaves. His confident facade wavered for just a second before returning, but now it felt brittle.

"I can explain—"

Bucky nodded, "I'm listening." 

"Well, you see, the thing is—" Bob was already moving with inhuman speed. He vaulted over the couch in one fluid motion, heading for anywhere that wasn’t here.

"Don't let him out of the room!" Bucky shouted, already rising from his chair. "Someone stop him!"

He made it five steps before Walker's shield caught him in the midsection—gentle but immovable. Bob stumbled backward, arms windmilling, straight into Ava's waiting embrace.

"Got you," she said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. She knew it wouldn't hold him long—not with his strength—but maybe it would buy the others a few seconds.

Then something strange happened. Bob didn't break free—he passed right through her, like she'd involuntarily phased. Ava gasped, her arms suddenly empty as she solidified again.

"What—how did you—" She stared at her hands, completely bewildered.Bob stumbled forward, thinking he was free, only to crash directly into Alexei's chest.

"Друг," Alexei said, wrapping Bob in what appeared to be a friendly embrace but functioned as a perfect restraint. "Not so fast."

"Let me go, Alexei." Bob twisted with surprising strength. 

"Not a good idea while you're panicking." Alexei replied, tightening his grip as Bob began to struggle, "Wow, it’s like wrestling an angry bear”.

Walker and Ava moved in to help secure him.

"Release me!" Bob's voice shifted, losing its meek edge, gaining something sharper. Alexei grunted as Bob's elbow found his ribs.

Bucky stepped forward, metal hand extended. "Easy, just calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

The words hit like a shockwave. Not metaphorically—literally. 

A pulse of invisible force erupted from Bob, sending all four of them flying backward. Walker slammed into the wall, Alexei crashed over into another sofa, Ava phased reflexively as she tumbled, and Bucky's metal arm sparked against the floor.

Bob stared at his hands in horror. "I didn't—I don't—"

The shock lasted maybe three seconds. Then he bolted. Walker and Bucky recovered first, launching themselves forward in perfect sync as Alexei joined them after a slight delay. They tackled Bob just as he reached the new door that had the large new Avengers logo on it, all three hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Ava materialized beside them, still shaking her head in bewilderment. "Okay, seriously—how did you phase through me like that earlier?"

"I don't know!" Bob's voice cracked from beneath the pile of super soldiers, “I don't know what I did! I don’t want to be here!”

“Bob.” Bucky panted while attempting to solely use his non-mechanical arm to pin him down. "We're trying to help!"

“I'm managing fine. I–!"

The new door in front of them slid and clicked open as Yelena stepped inside, taking in the sight: Three grown men panting in various states of dishevelment piling on top of a thoroughly freaked out Robert Reynolds.

Her brow arched, "What the Hell happened here?"

John, still pinning one of Bob's arms, said flatly, "Bobby here hasn’t been taking his meds".

"They're gross and dry and make me feel awful. I have to take 12 of them a day. TWELVE!”. Bob emphasized that last number loudly.

Yelena sighed, stepping closer. She crouched so her gaze was level with his. 

"Didn't you tell me you wanted to get better?" Her voice stayed gentle but firm. "Isn't that why you talked to us about seeking help? Bucky spent considerable effort finding you the right therapist. If you won't do this for yourself, do it for the people who care about you."

The transformation was immediate. Whatever rage and fear been building inside Bob cleared and his expression softened, turning almost shy.

"Okay," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

The three men released him cautiously, expecting another escape attempt. Instead, Bob accepted the prescription bottles from Bucky, shook out his six pills from the one that was already open and dry-swallowed them without protest. His face contorted like he'd bitten into a lemon, but he finished his recommended dose for the evening.

Walker blinked slowly. "How—?"

"That's my умничка," Alexei beamed, clapping Walker's shoulder. "I don't know how she did it either but next time, we skip the wrestling and let her talk to Bob."

Yelena wasn't watching their amazement. Her focus remained on Bob, who had gone statue-still, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else.

"I'm so sorry for the trouble, everyone. I-I need to head back to my room for a bit." His voice had flattened to something mechanical—a stark contrast to his earlier artificial confidence. "Don't worry. I'll take them properly from now on. Promise."

Bob rose unsteadily and left the area with quick, awkward steps, his cheeks burning red with embarrassment.

"Should we go after him?" Walker asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I mean, after all that... we don't want him to you know…"

"I'll talk to him," Yelena said immediately, already moving toward the door. "Give me a few minutes yeah".

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

KNOCK KNOCKS

Two raps on the door. A familiar rhythm to Bob.

"Come in."

Yelena eased the door open. Traces of sunset bled through the blinds, painting the room in deep amber and shadow. Bob sat hunched at the edge of his bed facing her, blanket pulled over his head, shoulders folded inward. In his hands: the two-faced rabbit plushie she'd bought him weeks ago—one side white and serene, the other shadowed and fierce. He clutched it against his chest, fingers buried deep in its soft fur.

"What are you doing, sleepyhead? It's too early for bed."

Nothing. Not even the slight shift of fabric that would indicate he'd heard her.

She crossed to him, settling onto the mattress beside him with careful distance. From her jacket, she fished out a crumpled packet of gummy bears. When she held them out, he finally looked up through the blanket's shadow. Wet lashes clung together in dark spikes over his blue eyes.

"Here." She offered the candy, the plastic crinkling softly. "For the medicine taste."

His fingers trembled as he accepted the packet, holding it like it might dissolve. "Thanks."

"What happened out there?"

He worried the wrapper's edge between thumb and forefinger, tearing small deliberate holes in the plastic. The sound was barely audible, but in the quiet room it felt loud as thunder.

"Why'd you stop taking your meds Bob?"

His jaw worked silently, muscles tensing and releasing beneath pale skin. 

"I’m so sorry I've been lying to you when I promised not to." Shame darkened his voice until it was nearly inaudible. "I ticked off those dates on the fridge, made it look like I was taking my meds but I broke your trust. If you want to break up with me, I understand."

"I'm not happy you lied to me," Yelena said, her voice steady as stone. "But I'm not breaking up with you because I’m unhappy." Her hand found his shoulder through the blanket—solid, warm, grounding. "But Bob, why did you lie to me?"

"I tried to take them for the first few days but they tasted like chalk and metal and make me feel wrong. Sluggish. Like I'm moving underwater. So I just stopped”.

"You could have crushed them into food. Mixed them into juice or soup. You're smart enough to solve a taste problem in less than five minutes."

A hollow laugh escaped him, bitter and self-aware. "Yeah. Silly me."

Her light blue eyes narrowed, studying his face with the same intensity she'd once reserved for enemy targets. "That's not the real reason."

He shrank deeper into the blanket's cocoon. "You don't want to know..."

"Bob." She didn't raise her voice—didn't need to. The single syllable carried all the weight of her patience and determination. "Look at me."

He did, and fresh, new tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over.

"If I tell you," he whispered, voice cracking on every word, "you'll abandon me or lock me away somewhere. That's what people always do when they realize who I really am."

"I won't tell anyone until you're ready alright?" she said quietly, the promise settling between them like a shield. "Just…breathe first."

He obeyed, drawing ragged air into his lungs and releasing it slowly, until the tremor in his chest gradually eased.

"Now. The real reason?"

His fist pressed against his sternum, knuckles white with pressure. "Worth says the meds will level me out eventually, that the fog will lift but…they don't stop them." The words came out fractured, each one a struggle. "The Sentry. The Void. Even medicated, they're still here in my head whispering and the fog just makes it easier for them to slip in when I'm not paying attention."

Yelena shifted closer on the mattress, studying his profile in the dying light. "What do you mean by slip in?"

"Some days I lose hours completely. I'll be making coffee and then suddenly it's midnight and there's a dent in the kitchen wall shaped like my fist." His voice barely carried across the small space between them. "Other days I remember everything, but it wasn't me making the choices. My hands moving, my mouth speaking, but the thoughts aren't mine."

His grip tightened on the plushie until his knuckles went bloodless. "I used to find peace in being too drunk or high to think clearly. But now? The idea of blacking out when I could wake up to find New York in ruins?" He swallowed hard. "That frightens me more than anything".

"I haven't seen you become the Sentry or Void, though. You haven’t looked different".

"But have you noticed me not being myself?"

The question hung in the air between them as Yelena's mind began turning over recent weeks, searching for moments that were off…

One afternoon Bob had wandered into the training room while the others were sparring. Nobody expected him to suddenly pipe up with interest in joining them.

"Mind if I get in on this?" he'd asked, dressed in the clothes he usually wore to exercise in the indoor gym, "Looks like fun."

Alexei had beamed with pride, clapping him on the back. John had smiled reluctantly and offered to start him slow, showing basic defensive positions.

Bob had only smirked. "Don't need the basics. I've fought on the streets before. Just throw me in."

The confidence was jarring. When he squared his shoulders and rolled them back, chest puffed out. It felt off but no one had questioned it at the time. They were just relieved and happy to see Bob engaging with combat instead of shying away, finally testing what he was capable of.

And he was indeed ridiculously powerful. Val hadn't exaggerated when she'd boasted he was all the former Avengers rolled into one. Everyone had witnessed it in that first fight: A single punch hurling one of them into the wall hard enough to leave a crater; an invisible shield absorbing their attacks; melting the gun clean out of John's hand with nothing more than a glance. All while holding back. 

Whatever he was truly capable of, no one had yet seen the full extent of it — and thankfully, he seemed intent on keeping it that way too for now.

But raw power without discipline only went so far. His footwork faltered. His guard dropped. He left himself open in ways a trained fighter never would. Yet the lack of polish came with its own menace because Bob didn't fight clean.

Yelena remembered too clearly: John had him pinned, the match nearly over, when Bob suddenly lunged and sank his teeth into John's shoulder. John's curse echoed off the walls, Alexei doubled over with laughter, and Bob had only grinned—blood staining his teeth, eyes bright with satisfaction.

It was ugly, reckless, but effective. And for the first time, Yelena realized how dangerous Bob could be if he ever chose to wield his abilities without restraint.

What's more – and this was something she’d also noticed from the first time she fought him – Bob learned fast. With each exchange he grew sharper: footing corrected, stance steadier, mistakes absorbed with unnerving speed. Through it all, his focus stayed locked on John. He circled him repeatedly, looking more smug with every hit he landed, relentlessly until he finally claimed a round and Ava had to intervene before one could seriously injure the other.

From the sidelines, Yelena had watched with growing unease.

"What made you so confident today?" she'd asked once the sparring ended.

Bob had shrugged, wiping the sweat dripping down his temples with a towel. "Good weather, I guess."

That was all he'd given her.

Another memory: The kitchen at midnight. Yelena had gone there to get some water but stopped short at the sight of Bob and Alexei already there.

Bob stood rigid at the sink, hands braced against the counter. The harsh overhead light carved his face into sharp angles, jaw clenched tight. Alexei lingered by the table, uncertain, shifting his weight.

"Bob?" Alexei tried, voice pitched cautiously. "Are you all right? Standing there at this hour—it's unsettling."

When Bob answered, his voice was different. Slower. Precise. Cold.

"You pretend well, Alexei. The friendly father routine. Do you do it to make up for the years of abandonment? For leaving Yelena and Natasha to the Red Room?” 

Alexei froze. "How do you know that?"

“I saw everyone's worst memories that day in New York. Including yours. She still carries the scars of what you allowed to happen. Do you regret it every day? Telling yourself it was for the best, letting them be trained as assassins, having their bodies and minds torn apart? Or is it easier to pretend you abandoned them for noble reasons when you were really just afraid of getting attached to them at the time?”

The words landed with devastating precision. Alexei flinched, color draining from his face.

"That is not—Bob, I..." His breath hitched, shame flickering raw in his eyes.

As Alexei staggered back, Bob blinked. His shoulders sagged. He looked down at his hands as if waking from a trance.

"Why am I in the kitchen? What time is it?"

His voice was his own again—fumbling, confused.

"You were sleepwalking," Alexei said hoarsely. "Yes. That must be it."

Bob rubbed his eyes, muttering apologies, and shuffled toward his bedroom.

From the shadows of the doorway, Yelena had watched it all. Alexei leaned heavily against the counter, shaken. And Bob—sweet, bumbling Bob—had no memory of the words that had cut Alexei open.

"I chalked it up to mood swings, but now that you mention it..." Yelena's voice was thoughtful. "Yes. I have noticed."

Bob's laugh came out hollow, broken at the edges. "I knew it." His grip tightened on the plushie until his knuckles went white. "And there's more."

"What now?"

Color crept up his neck, staining his cheeks with something more fragile than shame. "I love you, but it isn't just me who loves you. They do too. The Sentry, the Void. They've noticed you."

Something cold and sharp settled in her stomach. The words hit her harder than she expected, dredging up old fears she'd thought buried. Being wanted, being watched—it made her skin crawl in ways that had nothing to do with Bob and everything to do with years of being treated like property. "Noticed me how?"

"They love you too. They want you in their own ways." His voice splintered on the words. "Maybe it's still me, filtered through them, but it feels real. I'm so scared that it will make everything worse."

Yelena’s hand slipped from his shoulder. The room felt smaller, air thinning around her. She rose from the mattress, crossing to the window, pressing her palms against the cool glass. Outside, the Watchtower’s lights blinked against the dark city like faint, borrowed stars. Since Natasha’s death, everything had felt temporary, fragile. Even this secret thing with Bob—something she wasn’t sure she could explain, or if it would last.

Bob’s grip on the stuffed rabbit tightened until his knuckles blanched. His voice was small, breaking.

“I’m sorry. Did I upset you? I know it’s not fair—asking you to accept the selfish part of me. Or the part that tried to end the world. It’s too much. I don’t want to drag you into this. Maybe it’d be better if you—or I—just… walked away before I hurt you.”

Yelena froze, breath sharp in her chest. Slowly, she turned, steady despite the ache rising in her throat. Her fists had curled at her sides without her noticing; she forced them open.

“There it is,” she said, almost cold. “The Red Room taught me not to get attached. That anything precious gets taken. And now you’re trying to take yourself away from me before I even get the chance to decide.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“You tell me there are other parts of you that want me, and I’m supposed to just accept that and leave you? No. That’s not your choice to make, Bob. It’s mine.”

“I’ll always give you a choice.” His voice cracked but grew firm, conviction burning through the tremor. “That’s why I told you. I could have kept quiet about the Sentry and the Void noticing you but that would’ve been another lie. And lying again honestly feels worse than letting you walk away. You deserve the truth and nothing but the truth from me from now on, even if it costs me”.

That brutal honesty—unguarded and trembling—was the reason she trusted him at all.

“I’m already in love with someone who could level cities if he lost control,” she said, her mouth tugging into something not quite a smile. “Someone who blacks out, someone the world would lock away if they knew. And yes, Bob… you do scare me.”

The words slipped out before she could swallow them back. Silence thickened, pressing in on both of them. His shoulders sagged, chest rising unevenly as though the air itself weighed too much.

“But what scares me more is being alone again, like you”.

The admission left her raw. For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then she crossed back to him, each step deliberate, and sank onto the mattress.

He flinched when she reached for the blanket. With slow, steady hands, she peeled it back from his head and shoulders, revealing his pale, tear-streaked face, the rabbit still crushed to his chest.

His eyes widened, fragile hope flickering there in the dim light, as though he’d been bracing for her to recoil instead.

She didn’t. She stayed close enough to feel the warmth of his trembling body, her presence firm against the weight of his fear.

“I don’t have a purpose anymore,” she admitted, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “The Red Room gave me one. Natasha gave me another. And now, even as an Avenger, I’m only fighting alongside everyone because it’s all I was trained to do.” Her hand lifted, pressing flat against his chest, steady over the frantic rhythm of his heart. “The only thing that feels real—the only thing that makes sense—is you.”

His eyes fluttered closed, breath shuddering at the contact.

“I knew what I signed up for the night we kissed,” she continued, resting her neck against his shoulder steady as bedrock, “You’re broken, messy, too-powerful, over-apologetic and…I still care about you. If the Void stares at me, I’ll stare right back. If the Sentry gets dramatic, I’ll laugh in his face. And if you try to leave me because you’re scared like today,”—her mouth curved sharp, a warning and a promise—“I’ll remind you why we’re together.”

A laugh broke from him then, cracked but filled with wonder. Relief poured through it. She wasn’t running.

“You’re not the only one with inner demons,” she added softly. “I have mine too.”

His hand found hers, fingers weaving tight. Wonder softened the harsh lines of his face. “So you’re… okay with loving the other parts of me if they show up too?” He tapped his temple nervously.

“Yep. I don’t care how many parts of you there are. I’ll try love them all the same”.

In truth, her words were uncertain but not exactly lying. TThe thought of Sentry’s bravado or the Void’s cold stare hovering at the edges of Bob’s love made her skin prickle. But wasn’t love about accepting someone’s worst parts too? She’d try. She had to. Especially the worst parts. They needed the most love.

His laugh came again, freer this time, before he pulled her close and kissed her. Soft at first, then desperate, filled with relief that tasted like gratitude and coming home.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her skin. “I love you, Yelena.”

The room quieted around them, no longer suffocating but steady. Outside, twilight deepened into violet night. 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Four rapid and loud knocks interrupted the stillness.

"Yelena? Bob?" John's voice carried through the door, steady but softer than usual. "You okay in there? Sorted things out?"

Bob's body went rigid beneath her touch. Yelena gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before answering. "What is it?"

A pause, then: "You left your journal and stickers scattered downstairs. Thought you might want them back."

When she cracked the door open, John stood in the hallway holding Bob's journal with the colorful sticker sheets balanced carefully on top. He offered them without ceremony, his expression unreadable in the dim corridor light.

Bob stared at the book as Yelena passed it to him, his face cycling through anxiety and hope. "You didn't read it, did you?"

"No." John's answer was flat, matter-of-fact. "Why would I want to know about your daily routine in the Watchtower?"

Relief flooded Bob's features as he clutched the journal against his chest, protective and grateful. "You didn't have to put it quite like that, but... thank you."

John studied him for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them, before nodding once and disappearing back down the hallway. His footsteps faded into the building's ambient hum.

Bob stared down at the journal in his hands, bewildered. "He didn't have to bring this back."

"No," Yelena agreed, settling beside him again, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. "But it was thoughtful of him."

For the first time that night, something fragile but genuinely warm flickered to life in Bob's eyes.

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

For a few days, everything seemed fine. Bob kept his promise, swallowing his pills without protest and Yelena had checked on him via video calls. He’d had no further spirals, no missing hours, no strange flickers in his voice. Yelena had almost convinced herself he'd been overthinking it—that his fears were just fears.

Then her phone rang.

Friday afternoon, she was walking back toward her home, still shaking adrenaline from a solo mission when Bob's name had lit the screen. 

He rarely called her directly unless it was an emergency—he preferred clipped texts or nervous audio messages.

Her stomach clenched as she answered. "Hey, Bob. Is something wrong?"

"Not at all." His voice came through lighter than she'd ever heard it. Confident, almost playful. "I was wondering—are you free tomorrow afternoon? There's a funfair in Prospect Park, though we could make a date of it. I was going to surprise you by heading there myself but security doesn't exactly let me walk out unnoticed. I could fly out, skip the guards, but you and everyone else told me not to use my powers and…I respect that”.

The tone alone put her on edge. Bob was never this smooth.

"A funfair, huh?" Yelena paused, staring at the exterior wall of her apartment building, "Suppose I could use a break."

"So that's a yes?"

She could almost hear the smirk actually threading through the receiver.

"Sure," she said, wary but curious.

"Great. Meet me tomorrow at noon. The Watchtower."

He ended the call.

The next day, Yelena arrived on time. The elevator doors slid open, and she froze.

Bob was waiting for her on one of the couches, but not the Bob she knew. His posture was loose with the kind of ease he rarely wore, shoulders relaxed instead of hunched defensively. His hair was combed back, sleeker somehow and she could swear it appeared less dark brown and had more of a dirty blond hue to it, catching the light in ways that made her blink twice to be sure she wasn't imagining it.

And his eyes. His eyes weren't the familiar dark blue she'd grown used to. They shimmered with a golden sheen.

Yelena recalled John’s observation had sparked an uncomfortable discussion among the team (sans Bucky as he was out doing something on his own again) occurring a few days after they'd escaped the Void's realm. John had been blunt: 

"Did you guys ever notice how Bob can…alter reality? It’s likely only subconsciously but…think about it. He magically emerged from that place wearing new clothes. The loose blue shirt and brown pants along with sneakers materializing from nothing? He should have still been in his…uniform but nope, the clothes remained long after we all left and he still wears it sometimes too”.

It was the only set of clothes he’d had for a while until a few days later, he was given 3 sets of casual wear courtesy of Valentina. Everyone was silently trying to skirt around the unavoidable topic but now that it had been brought up…

"Yeah Genius we all saw it," Yelena had spoken with some sarcasm. "The question is what we do about it."

The implications hung heavy in the air. Bob's documented powers were already beyond their understanding—flight, strength, energy manipulation, telepathy. Adding unconscious reality alteration to that list crossed a line none of them were prepared to face.

"If he doesn't know he can do it," Alexei had pointed out, "maybe that's for the best yah?"

"Some things are better left unsaid," Ava had concluded, ending the discussion with finality. "At least for now."

In the end, they'd reached an agreement. No one would mention the clothes. No one would ask questions that might lead Bob—or worse, the Sentry and Void—to realize the true scope of their abilities. God knows what they would do if they knew they could reshape the world around them with a single thought .

Back in the present, Yelena slowed her steps, studying the rest of Bob. The clothes themselves looked different too. He wore azure blue jeans, fitted instead of baggy, and a short-sleeved yellow shirt with similarly coloured blue lines at the edges that stretched over lean muscle she'd half-forgotten existed beneath all that shapeless fabric. 

The muscle wasn't the surprise—she'd seen glimpses of it when he was exercising in the gym. It was more the certainty in showing it, especially today when they were going out in public.

He caught her staring. His grin, sharp, cocky, almost careless, split his face with a confidence that hit her harder than she expected, "You like the fit, sweetheart?"

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not Bob.”

“Of course I’m him.” He frowned and spread his arms in mock offense, tilting his head so the light traced the strong line of his jaw. “I’m just the better-dressed version.”

"Can you…change back to him?"

"No." His answer was immediate. "This is the only time I get to be out. Don't worry though—Bob's fine, just resting in his headspace, not being tormented by the Void”.

"Are you sure he's okay with this?"

"Very sure." His grin returned, sharper now. "Actually, he's the one who suggested I take you out today. Said I deserved some time in the driver's seat." The words rolled off his tongue smoothly. "He wanted you to get to know this side of him too”.

The words rolled off his tongue smoothly as he gestured to himself grandiosely.

The corner of her mouth betrayed her, twitching before she smoothed it away. She hated giving him the satisfaction. But the truth was, he wore this confidence too well.

Bob had mentioned Him first during a round of Never Have I Ever —that he discovered that there was a third aspect of him besides the Void that existed. 

Therapy had helped him piece it together: They were manifestations of an undiagnosed Bipolar disorder likely birthed from Project Sentry. The Void was his depression; this other version, the one who’d borrowed his name from that said (very illegal) project, was the mania. She’d rarely seen Bob’s delusions of grandeur or manic episodes and had only glimpsed this aspect of him twice, back at the penthouse and that other time in the training room. And now here he was to spend an entire day with her presumably.

“Shall we?” The Sentry asked, extending his hand as though the answer were already his.

She took it.

This wasn’t Bob, the man who frequently curled into himself and avoided going outside to crowded places unless he felt bored in the Watchtower (which was rarely to say the least). This was his other face: larger-than-life, brazen, the side he feared she couldn’t accept. 

I don't care how many parts of you there are. I'll try to love them all the same.

Her own words echoed in her mind, spoken that night when he'd been afraid she'd run. She'd meant them then. She meant them now. He’d promised to take the meds for her. Why shouldn’t she keep to her own promise—to love every side of him?

===

They approached the fairground's entrance, the temporary gates framed by colorful banners and ticket booths. The sun was a warm gold colour slipping toward the horizon. Beyond the gates, the Ferris wheel creaked lazily against the pale sky, striped tents glowing under strings of bulbs already flickering to life. The air was thick with sugar, grease, and warm asphalt drifting from within, where more game booths than rides caught Yelena's eye.

"Sun's out. Nice day, isn't it?" The Sentry tried to bring up a casual chat 

Yelena didn't respond, face partially sullen. She'd been silent before and since their arrival, and he wondered why.

"Hello?” He waved a hand in front of her face, “You don't look happy to be here".

"Well, last time we spoke you looked down on me, told me you didn't trust me anymore, then slammed me into the ceiling."

"You tasered me with enough energy to knock out a grown man. I had a reasonable reaction," he countered. "Besides, I hurt you the least out of everyone. I saved your—"

A football came flying from the park area beside the entrance. In a blur, his hand shot out, plucking it from the air. The leather slapped into his palm with practiced ease.

"Whew." He held it aloft, spinning it lazily on one finger. "See? There I go saving you again."

A boy playing in the grassy area nearby waved and shouted, "Mister, can I have my ball back?"

"Sure thing." Sentry yelled back. He set the ball down, nudged it with his foot—what looked like a casual kick.

It wasn't.

The ball screamed across the grass and smashed into a tree beside the boy. The trunk split with a deafening crack. Birds burst skyward. Gasps rippled from other families waiting in line. Children cried. The ticket booth operators craned to see what had happened.

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering a Russian curse.

"Oops," he said brightly, entirely unbothered. His grin didn't waver. He caught her hand in his. "Time to go in."

Before she could argue, he was pulling her through the entrance gates and into the fair's whirl of neon and laughter.

Everywhere, there was color and noise: the metallic jangle of rides, bright shrieks of children, the smell of butter and powdered sugar thick in the air. He walked through the place like he owned it, her hand caught in his, pulling her through the crowd as if the world had opened just for them.

He stopped in front of the strength hammer game, eyes lighting up. The barker waved at the mallet, calling over the din: "Step right up, test your strength! Ring the bell, win a prize!"

Yelena arched an eyebrow. "Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin was wicked. "Don't embarrass everyone else?"

Before she could answer, he had the mallet in his hands. It looked absurdly small in his grip. He swung once, testing the weight. The wood groaned in protest.

Then he brought it down.

The puck shot skyward with a scream of metal, slammed into the bell so hard it bent. The crowd gasped. Someone whistled low.

The barker's jaw dropped. "That's not supposed to—"

He handed back the mallet with that same wicked grin. "Guess you'll need a stronger bell."

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose, but her lips betrayed her with the faintest twitch. "You're insufferable."

"Admit it," he said, nudging her as they walked away. "You liked that."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a show-off."

"Only for you."

The rest of the evening unfolded in a blur of games and carnival rides: A shooting gallery where he shattered three bottles in one shot before being politely asked to stop; winning a stuffed bear the size of a child, then presenting it to her with mock solemnity; dragging her to the bumper cars where he forgot his own strength and sent two teenagers spinning across the floor. They crawled out dazed while he only laughed, throwing her a conspiratorial look.

“You wanna go on the Ferris wheel?” Yelena asked.

He shook his head, “Why would I? It’s not the same as flying and I get bored with sitting still”.

Later, at a ring toss, Yelena claimed a victory: Three perfect throws landed every ring around the bottles while he watched with genuine admiration. The prize she won? A cheap yellow knockoff Labubu —all wrong proportions and slightly cross-eyed.

"Ewww those went out of fashion two years ago," he observed, scrunching his nose at the bootleg prize.

"Heh. The smug little gremlin kind of reminds me of you…” She pressed it into his hands, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Keep it."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really?”

She nodded.

"Funny, I would have thought this was more like you." He turned it over in his hands disapprovingly but kept the critter in his pocket anyway.

Yelena should have been annoyed. Maybe she was. Though, somehow, she found herself almost smiling back. 

When the fair finally quieted and the sky darkened to a blend of blue and orange, they sat down on a bench at the park's edge, away from the crowds of people. Lights flickered on the rides behind them, the Ferris wheel turning slow and steady against the arriving stars.

"So," he said, tilting his head, "did you enjoy yourself today?"

Yelena crossed her arms. "You nearly destroyed a bell, two cars, and a man's pride. I'm not sure 'enjoy' is the word I’m looking for".

He smirked. "But you're not frowning."

She gave him a look that wasn't quite denial.

His gaze stayed steady on her, but something shifted underneath. The smirk slipped. "Don't tell me you still hate me? For that first fight at the Watchtower? Sure I hurt you but like I said earlier, I made sure you barely got a scratch…”

The fairground noise blurred behind them, distant and hollow.

Yelena studied him in the half-light. The Bob she knew would've apologized three times before asking her that. 

“That day in the Vault…” Yelena’s voice faltered, then steadied. “We’d barely met, and I already felt something. Even before I saw your worst memories. There was a pull I didn’t want to admit.” Her mouth twitched, half a smirk. “Not a soulmate pull. More like…I thought you were cute. Sad puppy cute. With bite. It amused me”.

His brow lifted, surprised into a low laugh. “That’s good to know. So why did you push me away?”

“Huh?”

“You said I could trust you and suddenly you…changed your mind and said I couldn't do that. You got pretty dismissive of me afterwards…” 

“Yeah, that I did.” She sighed guiltily, arms folded again, gaze shifting to the dark silhouettes of other rides flashing in the distance. “I was stressed trying to get us out of that place and I have attachment issues. Always had them. I planned to leave you and everyone else the moment we got out of that hellhole.” She exhaled through her nose. “So I told you not to trust me. Figured if I made the break first it’d hurt less, we could go our own separate ways and never have thoughts about one another ever again".

“And when I threw those words back at you…” he pressed.

“I hated you for it. More than I should have.” She crumpled the paper in her hands and tossed it into the bin. It landed with a dull thunk, “Shouldn’t have been surprised—you only gave me the words I deserved but I hated it anyway. And after we lost…” Her voice thinned, bitter. “…I lashed out at everyone. I really hated you in that instant although I hated myself much more”.

She let the silence stretch, then exhaled. Her arms dropped. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing his forearm—warm, solid beneath the thin fabric. 

“The hate didn’t last though. Not after I thought it through. Still…” her voice dipped, “I’m a little scared of you.”

His posture shifted, “Is there anything I can do to make you feel less scared?”

For the first time all evening, his easy confidence was thinning at the edges—like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh it off or admit he heard her. And in that crack of silence, she glimpsed her Bob, fragile and unguarded, staring back through that other persona.

Yelena’s mouth pressed into a line. “I don’t know. Just don’t push me away like that again. Don’t throw my words back at me like a weapon. If you want me here, then let me be here. You did want me, right? Would you have left Valentina if I hadn’t said those things?”

His grin came slow, sharp at the edges. “Those words— no one can be trusted, we’re all alone —Bob already believed them before you ever spat them out. That’s who he is. Suspicious, paranoid… but show him a little kindness? Stroke his ego? He's all yours. He’ll roll over, beg, bleed, even die. A lovely little lapdog he is”.

Yelena shivered, unbidden, at the memory of Bob distracting the soldiers and collapsing in a hail of gunfire so she and the others could escape. She dreaded to ponder how Valentina could have easily twisted (and would one of these days again twist) that same desperate hunger for affection in Bob against them.

Sentry continued to speak, his tone dropping condescendingly, “I’ve carried those same thoughts too. And now…I see why he clings to you. Perfect little pair, the two of you are a tragedy waiting to happen: Bob’s a coward, he’ll run the second he believes a relationship is falling apart. And you? You push people away the moment they seem to get too close to you. Funny that you’re begging me not to push you away when one day you might do the same to him again . Hypocrite”.

Yelena’s jaw tightened. She looked past him at the glowing midway lights, refusing to let him see the sting.

He tilted his head, studying her. Then the edge softened. “And yet, when it mattered, you didn’t run. You searched for him in the dark. You said yes when he confessed, even when you had every reason to say no. Maybe you’re braver than either of us believed.”

The hurt lingered, but so did the weight of his words. She narrowed her eyes, mouth curling into dry humor. “Are you sure you’re Bob’s ‘ideal hero’ self? Because right now, you aren’t much like Bob”.

“Well… Bob doesn’t see himself in either of us either. It’s very confusing. He thinks of the Void as a separate entity, even though it’s been a part of him since his awful childhood. And me? I’m the part of him that he feels the most connected to and yet tends to forget about, the version he wishes he could be but never believes he deserves”.

Yelena arched her brow in disbelief, “An egotistical smug showoff?”

An unbothered and joyful laugh escaped him.

“No. Strong, worthy of love, happy. That’s all he’s ever wanted.” His eyes flickered, shadowed with memory. “For years, he chased happiness in bottles and powders. Every pill, every hit, he tried to convince himself that numbness was bliss because the pain was gone. For a while, he almost believed it.” A trace of bitterness edged his tone. “But even in the haze, he knew better. Numbness wasn’t joy. And he hated himself for chasing it anyway, because it was all he had.”

His grip on her hand tightened, then eased as he lifted it, brushing her knuckles with a slow kiss. “Perhaps you can give him that real happiness he seeks.”

Yelena met his gaze, skin still warm where his lips had touched.

“You make it sound like I’m meant to fix him,” she scoffed, “I can’t. That’s not my job. Some days I can barely keep myself together. Happiness isn’t a prize or a pill. And like you say, I don’t know if we’ll last — we’re both good at pushing people away. Still… if, right now, we can make each other happy? Isn’t that enough?”

Her mouth curved, wry, daring him for an answer. 

Sentry hummed low in his throat before straightening, sliding off the heavy conversation as if it were a discarded coat.

“Ah this is a Bummer. I only wanted to know why you hated me. Not go into some deep psychological spiral. Guess I killed the mood, didn’t I?” He ran a hand through his hair, “Ah well. Nothing a good dinner can’t fix.” 

It was almost disarming, the way he shifted from raw honesty to casual charm in a heartbeat, as he tugged her away from the rides and flashing lights. The fair had started thinning out by the time they crossed the park and ducked into a diner just off the main street. Neon buzzed faintly in the window and red vinyl booths that smelled faintly of grease and coffee. The air-conditioning hummed overhead, a contrast to the lingering warmth outside.

Sentry held the door for her with an exaggerated flourish, grinning when she rolled her eyes and walked in.

The waitress brought menus and Sentry didn’t even glance at his before ordering two cheeseburgers, fries, and a milkshake.

“Woah, that’s not all for you is it?” Yelena questioned.

“You’ll thank me when I finish yours too.”

“Not happening.” Yelena flipped through her menu with more patience before making her order quickly.

Dinner arrived quick and steaming. Sentry attacked his food like it had personally wronged him, while Yelena ate at her usual measured pace. He caught her staring once, lips twitching as if he’d scored another point.

“You keep glaring like you’re annoyed,” he observed while chowing down a mouthful of fries, “but I can see through it. You’re enjoying yourself. You really did enjoy yourself with me today although you’re not really saying it aloud”.

She stabbed a fry through a smear of ketchup, voice dry. “No. You’re mistaking tolerance for enjoyment. I tolerated you”.

“Mm. Tolerance is Step One.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice so the hum of the diner almost swallowed it. “Step Two will definitely be harder but I’ll get you to truly like me one of these days”.

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t push it.”

For once, he didn’t laugh at her. “Well, other than that rather…depressing heart to heart talk earlier, Did you…?”

“Did I…what?”

“Did you really like being with me?” His fingers toyed with the edge of his empty plate, restless energy hidden under his posture. 

She hesitated, caught off guard by the earnestness under the swagger. The truth balanced on her tongue, heavier than the bite of burger she hadn’t finished, “Oh my God, you really don’t want me to hate you, don’t you?”

“WelI…I am a part of Bob. Hate me and you hate him too”.

Yelena’s hand stilled around her fork. She met his gaze, blunt as ever.

“Fine. I kinda hate you,” she said simply.

Something flickered in his expression—guilt, quickly masked.

“But…” She set her fork down, reached across the table, and pressed her fingers lightly to his wrist. “If I really hated you, I wouldn’t have taken your hand or gone out with you today”.

“I’ll take that answer as a Yes.” He did a fist pump with his right hand as the corners of his mouth tilted up, not into the smug grin but something smaller, more human. His left hand turned under hers, palm open.

===

Later that night, once they had eaten and paid the bill, the city lights slid past in streaks of neon and shadow as the black sedan they were seated in cut through the traffic. The partition window at the front was rolled halfway down, and the driver—an OXE agent in a dark suit—kept his eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The hum of the engine filled the silence.

Yelena sat stiffly, arms folded, gaze fixed out the window. She could feel his stare on her from the next seat over, burning against her skin.

“You know,” he said at last, voice pitched light with an edge of pride, “I could’ve flown us home. Would’ve been faster, if you’d just said the word—”

“No.” Her answer was sharp, clipped, cutting through the hum of tires on asphalt. “We can’t risk the Void emerging. The last thing anyone needs is another apocalypse-class event because you got careless with using your powers”.

The agent’s green eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, but said nothing.

“You know that Countess is a liar as much as I do.” His tone soured, the pride slipping into a simmer. “The Void didn’t emerge because I used too much of my power during that fight. He came out because I was killed . That Bitch had some kind of bomb buried in my head a-and triggered it somehow even though I knocked it out of her hands. That’s when the Void took over and you know… Voided everything.”

Yelena shifted her gaze from the window, “So what triggered you to take over?”

He leaned back, the passing glow of streetlamps bathing his jaw in hard lines of light. “The first time? Bob died. I stepped in. Then I died, and the Void rose up. Dying seems to be one trigger.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what about now? Bob hasn’t been dying as of late under our watch but he’s told me he blacks out—losing hours or minutes at a time. He also mentioned he is used to it because it would usually happen after an “episode” but because you both exist within him, it’s concerning for all of us. Not to mention that you’re here right now so…Why are you here instead of Bob?”

For a moment, the only sound was the engine’s steady growl, the faint static of the OXE agent’s comms crackling slightly in the front seat.

“I’ve got a theory,” The Sentry murmured, voice dropping. “It’s not about the use of powers. Other than well…death. It happens simply because of him. His lack of real control over his emotions. When Bob's spirals downward mentally, the Void gets his turn. But today?” His gaze flicked sideways, sharp, too bright. “Today he was excited. Genuinely. About seeing you. About this date. That’s why I’m here. His sudden uplift dragged me out as surely as his despair calls to the Void.”

Yelena blinked, the truth sinking in heavy.

Sentry’s grin softened, “Aww don’t be sad Lena. Is it such a bad thing that I’m here instead of him? The Void’s such a downer. At least I’m the fun one”.

"Wait." Her voice immediately turned ice-cold, an abrupt realisation coming over her, "Earlier you said Bob wanted you take me out today, that he wanted me to get to know you. Now you're saying you took over because of his emotions. Which is it? "

Sentry shrugged, unrepentant. "Does it matter? I'm here either way."

"It matters because you lied to me." Her arms crossed tighter. "Bob didn't give you permission, did he? You just... took over”.

"As I said, he was genuinely excited about seeing you. I didn't steal anything—I was summoned by that happiness. He was happy ," Sentry insisted defensively, "And honestly? He got to feel that joy without the anxiety that usually ruins everything for him. Win-win."

“So what now?” she said, voice flat. “He’s not supposed to be happy or sad at all or else you or the Void happen? That’s already too much to ask of anyone”.

His grin thinned, settling into something more thoughtful. He lowered his voice, careful enough that the agent up front couldn’t catch every word. “Maybe that’s the problem. You and everyone are so focused on prevention. Don’t let him sink too low. Don’t let him soar too high. Don’t let him feel too much or he’ll break. Take more drugs and hope the meds silence the both of us in his head when they really don’t but, what if prevention isn’t the answer?”

Yelena’s brow furrowed. “…What are you suggesting?”

“Balance.” His eyes gleamed faintly in the wash of neon. “Satiation.”

Her gaze remained steadfast. “Satiation?”

"You starve an animal, it claws harder. Feed it, it settles. The Void drowns in sorrow because that's all he knows. I burn bright on adrenaline because it's the only space I get. What if—" his fingers drummed against his knee, restless "—instead of starving us, he let us out sometimes? Willingly. Controlled bursts. Enough to keep us steady. Maybe then we wouldn't have to claw our way to the surface whenever he tips." He leaned back, voice quieter now. "Call it balance. Call it compromise. Maybe it's the only way any of us ever get peace."

Yelena's expression hardened. "You make it sound reasonable. But letting either of you 'slip out' whenever you want? That's Russian Roulette with other people's lives".

His smirk returned, crooked and unrepentant. "And isn't that what makes it exciting?"

The casual way he said it—like danger was just another thrill—made her stomach turn.

From the front seat, the OXE agent cleared his throat. "We're back."

“Thank you,” Sentry said smoothly, already moving to guide her out of the car. His grip lingered just a second too long on her arm before he let go when they stepped into the building.

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

Growing up in the Red Room, Yelena never had space for feelings, much less love. Affection was weakness; attachment, ammunition for enemies. Even her body had been taken without consent, reshaped into something utilitarian. When that wasn’t enough, her handlers went further, stripping away her ability to choose before she could even understand what choice meant. Now, nearing thirty, independence and intimacy felt like uncharted territory.

The closest she had come to love was the bond she’d shared with her adopted sister Natasha—and Natasha was gone. She had loved her adoptive parents, Alexei and Melina, too, though knowing what they had done and allowed had soured those feelings. Still, she tried: visiting when she could, answering calls, sending gifts for birthdays and Christmas—small gestures meant to bridge years lost while she was Blipped out of the world.

One December, a few years back, grief and rage gave her a mission. She traveled to Ohio to erect a gravestone for Natasha, abandoning her goal of freeing other Black Widows once she learned they were all already freed by the time she returned and, at the grave, she arranged an assortment of stuffed animals, cards, and flowers. Once that was done, she tried to whistle the secret tune she and Natasha had shared. Nothing answered—except a sudden sneeze from beside her. She turned to see her (still current) employer Countess Valentina Allegra de Fontaine holding a tablet with Clint Barton’s photo pulled up. With her usual smug half-smile, Valentina claimed he was the one responsible for Natasha’s death. Then, almost casually, mentioned a client who was very eager to see him removed...

The ache of loss pressed on her, sharp and unrelenting. Part of her knew Barton wasn’t truly to blame, yet she needed someone to focus her anger on. Convinced he had caused Natasha’s death, she hunted him with ruthless precision: grappling across rooftops, exchanging blows with allies and enemies alike, anything to silence the storm inside her.

Then, when she finally cornered him within an ice rink, she fought with all the lethal precision drilled into her by the Red Room. Barton was skilled, but rage sharpened her edge, and soon he was on the ground, weaponless, breath ragged. She closed in for the killing blow—

And then he whistled.

The sound cut through her rage like glass, the secret tune only she and Natasha had ever shared. Her body froze. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t Barton lying there, but Natasha—laughing, alive, reaching for her. Hearing it stopped her in her tracks as sorrow and longing shook her to her core. And in that instant, Barton conveyed what he had been trying to tell her all along: he hadn’t killed Natasha. She had loved him, and she had loved Yelena too. She had never stopped thinking of her, even when she vanished from the world. She had sacrificed herself not only to save Barton, but to bring Yelena—and everyone else—back. Nothing either of them could have done would have prevented it. Distraught, Yelena spared Barton, intentionally failing her mission, and allowed herself, at last, to mourn.

Freedom from the Red Room and closure over Natasha’s death should have brought her peace. Instead, it left her adrift. She continued to fill her now purposeless days with mercenary work, drawn to dangerous, high-paying jobs that might well kill her. Violence was familiar; it dulled the storm inside better than silence ever could. When she wasn’t working, she drank, swallowing bottle after bottle of vodka until grief, longing, and regret blurred into nothing. A part of her almost welcomed the risk, morbidly hoping one day that a bullet, a blade, or a fall would finish the work for her and carry her back to Natasha—because ending it herself was the one line she couldn’t cross.

It wasn’t only feelings of purposelessness and loss she was trying to drown but also the very ideas of love itself. Alexei had once suggested romance might fill the emptiness inside her, make her happier, and she had tried—clumsy encounters in bars, hurried kisses in the dark, whispered promises like secrets—but nothing held. They simply washed over her like the wine and spirits she swallowed to numb herself and soon, she came to assume that her time in the Red Room had also broken the part of her that could have loved a significant other beyond repair…

Yet that explanation never sat right. She had met another ex-Black Widow to build a family and life for herself despite sharing the same scars. If it was possible for her, then why not for Yelena?

One sleepless night in Prague, scrolling through social media, she stumbled on a word that fit like a key in a lock:

Aromantic Asexual. 

For most of her life, she experienced the world without romantic or sexual attraction. The relief was immediate and profound. Perhaps she wasn’t broken after all, just different (Or at least, that was what she wanted to believe) and for a long while, this understanding brought her peace...until Bob entered her life and complicated everything.

Her first attempt to drive him away had backfired spectacularly. Worse, it hurt everyone around him more than it helped. So she made a choice, and with it, a promise: They would stick together. She would protect the lonely and abandoned man from being used the way she once was: Shaped into leverage, treated as nothing more than a living weapon. It was as much about saving him as it was about sparing herself from watching someone else become what she had been forced to be.

And what’s more, thanks to Valentina’s clumsy, last-minute attempt to salvage her reputation, the two of them had been pushed even closer together as teammates.

‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’, as the saying went.

A friendship with Bob had seemed manageable. Safe. Comfortable. Predictable. But something unexpected had taken root between them—a bond that defied neat definitions. It wasn’t romantic desire driving her toward him, but a deep, steady love that tugged at her in ways she hadn’t foreseen. Protective, consuming—this was a connection that she could not properly describe. She loved and cared for him fiercely, wholly, but on her own terms, in a way that didn’t mirror typical ideas of romance.

So when she noticed Bob’s feelings for her intensifying from platonic to romantic, panic took hold. She tried to maintain her boundaries by making her sharp comments more frequent, small defensive but joking jabs meant to keep him at arm’s length. Not because she didn’t care but because she couldn’t yet articulate that her love existed outside of the conventional. 

She had hoped he would let his intimate feelings for her fade, that he would never act on them, sparing them both the risk of a mismatch neither could navigate. But they didn’t.

And when Bob finally spoke those three words, her instinct had been to push him away as she believed he deserved someone who could love him better. She laid out her aromantic asexuality like evidence in a court case, certain it would settle the matter and explained her limitations with clinical precision—no children, no traditional romance, no fairy-tale ending where true love’s kiss would transform her into a woman capable of loving normally. Told him that whatever picture of love he carried in his head, she didn’t belong in it.

She thought that would end it.

Instead, Bob had only smiled—that soft, fractured smile of his—and shaken his head. He told her he didn’t need her to fit a mold or chase expectations she’d never asked for. He wanted her exactly as she was, including whatever shape her affection took, even if it didn’t resemble what the world called normal and they began a relationship: Slightly awkward, somewhat imperfect, but theirs.

A few weeks ago...

One of the first things they discussed was setting boundaries—the most important being that no one else needed to know about them yet, not until they were ready. After that came the harder conversations: what intimacy meant for them, what she could give and what she couldn’t, what he wanted and what he didn’t.

"I need to explain stuff better," she said one evening, legs tucked beneath her on his couch. "About being AroAce. I don't think I got it really right before."

“What do you mean?” Bob looked up from his book, giving her his full attention in that way that still surprised her sometimes.

"When I first found that label, I thought it was simple. Black and white. You either feel romantic and sexual attraction or you don't." She picked at the hem of her shirt. "But it's not that straightforward. There are... Different types."

"Okay," he said softly, closing the book completely. "Tell me."

"I've been reading more about it on the internet, trying to understand myself better." The words felt strange in her mouth—when had she ever cared about understanding herself? "Some AroAce people are completely repulsed by romance or sex. Some are indifferent. Some can enjoy it under certain circumstances, even if they don't feel the attraction that usually drives it."

Bob nodded, waiting.

"I think I'm what they call sex-neutral. Maybe even sex-favorable with..." She gestured vaguely between them. "With you. I don't crave it or fantasize about it but I can enjoy the physical sensations like kissing you. And more importantly, I like the closeness it creates between us."

"And romantically?"

She was quiet for a long moment. "That's harder to explain. I don't feel romantic attraction the way movies and books describe it. No butterflies, no desire for candlelit dinners or grand gestures. But what I feel for you..." She met his eyes. "It's still love, Bob. Deep, fierce love".

"So you do love me?" he said, and there was wonder in his voice.

“Yes. Not in the way you love me, but yes. I’m still figuring out what it means, what category it even fits into. Maybe I’m Demiromantic—only capable of romantic feelings after forming a deep bond with someone. Or maybe what I feel for you exists in a category all its own.” She shrugged lightly.

Bob leaned on her shoulder,  “Does it really matter what we call it?”

“Sometimes I think it does—for understanding myself, for knowing I’m not broken.” She glanced down, then back up at him. “Other times, I think labels are just ways to make other people comfortable with what they don’t understand.”

"You're not broken," he said firmly. "And if you are. We’re two broken people in love trying to get better together”.

She leaned into his warmth, still marveling that she could want this kind of closeness without it feeling like a trap.

Later that same week, a different conversation unfolded with the same careful honesty that was becoming their trademark.

"Can I ask you something?" Bob's voice had broken the quiet one evening, tentative, like he was afraid the words themselves might hurt her.

She'd raised a brow. "You already are."

That shaky laugh of his slipped out, then faded. His cheeks pinked, and he looked away before forcing himself to continue. "If you're AroAce, and with your surgery... can you even—" He swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do sex? I mean, do you even want to? Or have you ever? God, this is so awkward to ask."

One of her hands unconsciously tugged at the collar of her shirt. She knew this topic would have inevitably come up at some point. The bluntness should've stung, but it didn't. What struck her wasn't the question itself, but how he asked. Not assuming. Not demanding. It was so rare she almost didn't know how to answer.

"I never had the opportunity for sex Bob. At all. Red Room girls weren't given 'chances.' Still, I've touched myself. Before and after the procedure. Pre-op, the urges came often. Post-op, less. Not gone, but dulled. My body can still feel pleasure. I just don't crave it the way most women do."

Bob's gaze lifted, cautious. She forced herself to meet it. "But with you... I don't mind trying. If it's what you want."

The silence stretched. She shifted, legs parting slightly in invitation—graceless, half challenge, half shield.

Bob flushed, the red climbing his neck. "I'll only want it if you want it too. I don't want this to feel rushed. Or like I'm taking something from you when you don't want to give it."

Her chest pulled tight. Slowly, she closed her legs, shaking her head. "Good thinking, Bob. I'm not in the mood right now anyway. So... maybe another time."

A small, relieved smile flickered across his face.

Time passed. Bob never brought up sex again until he'd approached her after a mission, wearing a bathrobe loosely tied over his bare chest, hair mussed from a shower he had likely taken minutes ago.

"Evening," he said, voice low, casual, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

Yelena froze mid-step, towel in hand. She blinked at the expanse of his chest visible through the gap in his robe, water droplets still clinging to his skin, the scent of his soap drifting toward her.

"It's cold tonight. You should put a shirt on." She stepped past him toward the living room, completely missing the way his face fell slightly.

Only later did Yelena feel embarrassed by the whole thing because she'd realized he was trying to flirt with her and she hadn't picked up on it. The details hit her like a delayed punch—the way he'd positioned himself in the doorway, the deliberate casualness of his voice, that smirk. He'd been making an overture, and she'd responded like he was reporting the weather.

It was then that during his next attempt he'd tried being more forward with his advances and, of all places, Yelena lost her virginity not in some romantic candlelit bedroom cliché but in the Watchtower gym...

It was just the two of them that day. After the mission, everyone else had gone off to their own routines, leaving Bob and Yelena their first real private session together. She’d only meant to join him for a workout, not to short-circuit his brain when she strolled in—towel slung over one shoulder, water bottle in hand, dressed in a black crop top that showed off her toned abs and yoga pants that clung like a second skin.

Bob’s mouth fell open as he drew a shaky breath. He nearly dropped his water bottle. 

"You good?" Yelena asked, one brow arched.

"Y-yeah," he stammered, cheeks flushing. "I've just never seen you in a crop top before."

She smirked faintly. "I only wear them for exercise. Or on lazy days. Stomach out in combat? Not practical. Stomach out when I'm sweating buckets? Practical."

Bob nodded quickly, though a bead of sweat was already sliding down his temple. "Yeah. Same. I, uh—sweat easily."

He wore a loose tank top and shorts, and the way his eyes kept flicking back to her exposed midriff made her sigh.

Yelena's mouth curved as she unscrewed her water bottle. "Oh, do you wear crop tops too, then?"

Bob nearly choked on his own breath. "What? No—I mean—well, not that there's anything wrong with—" His ears flushed red as he stumbled over the words, hands flailing for an explanation.

She took a slow sip of water, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Relax. It was a joke."

They warmed up on mats, stretching and doing jumping jacks before jogging in place, then returning to seated stretches. Yelena corrected his form when his hamstrings refused to cooperate, kneeling beside him to press down gently on his shoulder. "You're not even close. Like this."

Bob tried. He really did. He mirrored her movements, staying a half-second behind, his gaze constantly flicking from the floor to the defined lines of her body. All he could focus on was the press of her hand against him and the fine, glistening sheen of sweat that already coated the exposed strip of her abdomen from their warm-up. 

"Bob?" Yelena finished a set of high knees, her breathing steady and measured, "You ready for the weights?"

Bob didn't answer. Heat pooled low in his stomach. His throat was going dry. His own pulse was hammering wildly against his ribs while he stared transfixed at the damp trail leading into the waistband of her leggings

In his earlier life, he would have loved to snort at least five lines of coke from her abs in some private motel room while they lay together.

"Bob, you're distracted," she said flatly.

His cheeks turned scarlet. "I'm sorry, I just—" He fumbled for the small towel tucked into his shorts. "You've got... erm, can I...?"

Yelena followed his gaze down to her stomach.

She frowned. "Could I what?"

He swallowed hard, lifting the towel an inch. "Wipe you down. Your abs. They have sweat on it...I’d like to clean them, if you’d let me…?" His voice cracked at the end, more plea than demand.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Yelena leaned back on her hands, tilting her head. "You're asking if you can clean my torso? That's what you're working up the courage for?"

Bob winced. "It sounds stupid out loud."

"It is stupid," she said, but there was no sharpness in it. Only dry humor. "But at least you asked."

She leaned backward, gesturing to herself. "Go on then."

Bob's breath hitched. Carefully, reverently, he lowered the towel to her skin. He dabbed first, tentative, wiping away the sheen of sweat across the plane of her stomach. The terry cloth was soft, but he could feel the firm muscle underneath, the heat radiating from her. His hands trembled. When he finished, he lingered, eyes searching hers for the signal to stop.

Yelena didn't move.

His hands settled lightly on her waist. His touch was tentative at first, almost unsure, but then he bent forward, hesitated a breath from her skin, about to press a kiss just above her navel. 

His voice came raw, almost whispering against her. "May I...?"

She recognized the tone instantly. Desire. Not the kind she usually encountered. Not the kind she ever yearned for. Her body didn’t answer that call the way others’ might. Still, the tremor in his hands, the rawness in his voice, spoke less of lust and more of fear—fear of doing wrong, fear of losing her. That she understood.

Her fingers slid into his hair, ruffling gently before holding him there. She looked down at him, lips curving faintly. “Go on.”

He closed the distance, pressing his lips to her stomach. Salty, warm, intoxicating. Each kiss grew bolder, his tongue tracing the curve of her abs. She froze at first, breath catching, then a soft gasp escaped her, hands threading through his hair.

“Bob…” she murmured.

He lifted his gaze. “Is this okay?” His voice was rough, vulnerable.

She nodded, tightening her fingers in his hair. “Yes. More than okay.”

Encouraged, he explored her with deliberate, grounding touches, hands firm on her hips, lips trailing teasing nips along her abdomen. When he hovered above her waistband, his breath fanning over her skin, his eyes were wide, uncertain, a hidden desire shining behind them.

“Bob?” she murmured, voice unsteady. “Tell me what you really want.”

He swallowed, cheeks flushed, eyes shimmering with longing, “I… I want to taste you. To make you feel good. I don’t want to get it wrong. I don’t want to… mess this up.”

Her expression softened. 

She studied his face for a long moment. There it was again—That fear outweighing his lust. He wasn’t only begging for her permission to eat her out—he was begging not to fail her. That distinction hit her harder than the words themselves. She couldn’t promise to mirror desire the way others might, but she could promise him this: his need for greater intimacy wouldn’t scare her away.

She framed his face between her palms, tilting his gaze to hers. “Bob,” she said with quiet certainty, “you’re not going to mess this up. Just breathe. And do it.”

With those words, he pushed her leggings and underwear down her thighs in one swift, decisive motion. The cool air of the gym hit her already damp core, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his mouth.

He delved between her folds like a starving man and she was the first meal he had tasted in a decade. His tongue pressed firm and relentless, sweeping from her entrance to her clit in a single, unbroken motion that buckled her knees. Her head fell back against the floor, breath ragged.

Next, his hands gripped her thighs, holding her open and guiding her against him as he worked with feral precision. His tongue lashed and struck, unflinching and eager, tracing every responsive curve and every sensitive spot that he had learned drew a gasp or a shudder. He circled her clit with sudden, sharp movements before sinking into a brief, fervent suction that pulled a high-pitched whine from her lips. Every motion was immediate, desperate, and unhesitant.

“You taste perfect Lena.” He moaned against her, the vibrations an exquisite torture, “You like how my tongue feels on your pussy?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her hips rocking against his mouth.

“Good.” he said, and then he was back at it, his tongue plunging into her as deep as it would go. 

He’d confessed to her once about the lengths he'd gone to fulfill the gnawing ache of his addiction in the past, about how nothing had been off-limits when he needed a quick fix so having sex or performing acts of sex in exchange for various drugs hadn't been out of the question either, and his experience with intimacy really showed. 

The wet sound of him fucking her with his mouth kept filling the room, louder now and Yelena’s arousal, a steady build, suddenly crested into a crashing wave. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, fingers tangled in his hair, no longer guiding him, only holding on as the sensation consumed her. It started deep within, a coiling, tightening pleasure that radiated outward in shuddering waves, her entire body tensing before a deep, rolling release washed through her, leaving her trembling and weak against the floor.

Bob alleviated his ministrations, soothing her through the last pulses of her climax with soft, lapping kisses. He rested his forehead against her thigh, his own body shaking with the force of his want. 

As her breathing steadied after her first orgasm, Bob found himself continuing to tremble with want, his body aching for more. He lifted his head, his lips glistening, his expression stripped bare of everything but deep, awe-struck hunger.

"Yelena," he whispered, his voice rough as he crawled further up her body, "I want... I need...." He swallowed hard. "Can we... have sex? Are you ready for that?"

She hesitated, every nerve alive to the heat between them. It wasn’t fear, but a shiver of awareness—the delicate line she was about to cross. This wasn’t just about flesh or desire; it was about how much of herself she could offer and still remain whole. Her pulse raced, quick and uneven, each breath tasting of anticipation and restraint. She let the choice linger on the edge of her lips for ten seconds before she said it aloud, savoring the tension, the thrill of giving herself to him in that suspended, fragile moment.

"Alright."

Bob planted a kiss near her navel before easing his shorts down, baring himself—thick and veined and so intensely, vulnerably there. He shifted carefully between her thighs, the blunt head pressing against her without entering yet. He froze, his eyes locked on hers pleadingly.

It was a silent question. The last chance to turn back.

She answered it by wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, opening herself to him completely.

It was all the permission he needed.

He pushed into her with one deep, relentless thrust, filling her so completely it stole the air from her lungs. She cried out, a sharp, surprised sound that melted into a long, low moan. He was everywhere—the stretch, a perfect, aching burn. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his entire body trembling with the force of his restraint.

What followed was more tender and careful than she'd anticipated, considering how he had devoured her earlier. Bob moved with reverent attention to every sound she made, every shift of her body beneath his. He paused often, checking in with occasional questions like "Okay?" and "How does this feel?", reassuring her that they could stop anytime she wanted. 

She'd surprised herself by refusing, encouraging him to continue as he worshipped her with a desperation that made her chest tighten and she guided him when she needed to, her hands steady on his shoulders, her voice soft in his ear. 

Maybe it was because this was her first time that he moved with such care, every touch deliberate, every motion purposefully gentle. He wasn’t just trying to please her—he needed her to feel good, because her pleasure was his own. That selflessness, that desperate eagerness to give rather than take, was so very him and it was endearing to her. 

Yet sometimes, in fleeting flashes, the gentleness faltered. His thrusts would grow deeper, more insistent. His hands would grip her with a tightness that bordered on possessiveness. His eyes seemed to gleam brighter, or his skin chilled far too cold against her fevered warmth. For varying seconds he would feel like someone—or something—else. But then the softness returned, as if those things she’d blinked and seen had only happened in her head.

She had let it slip past in the haze then, choosing not to question it.

Her eventual climax didn't crash over her; it unfolded, a deep, rolling tremor that started in her core and radiated outward in relentless waves. Her inner muscles clenched around him, milking his length, and she sobbed his name into the crook of his neck as the pleasure went on and on.

His rhythm faltered. Her contractions gripping him. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his chest, and he drove into her one last time, his own release crashing through him. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of him deep inside, and he collapsed onto her, his full weight a grounding, comforting pressure.

When it was over, they lay entwined on the mat, their ragged, syncopated breathing the only sound in the gym. Bob's weight shifted slightly as he propped himself up on one elbow, searching her face with worried eyes.

The intensity had banked, replaced by a soft, dazed wonder. He brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead.

"Are you okay? Was that... did I hurt you? Did you enjoy it?" The questions tumbled out in a rush.

"God, Bob," she breathed, a small smile playing at her lips, "I had no idea you could be like this."

He paused, pulling back slightly to meet her gaze. "Like what?"

She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “So… intense.”

For the barest instant, he flinched at the word—intense. It was too close to dangerous, too close to what he feared. She leaned forward before doubt could take root, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was hers to give. He sighed into it, his hands moving instinctively to cradle her as if she were the most fragile thing in his universe.

When Yelena finally broke away, her breathing uneven, there was a faint red flush dusting her cheeks, whether from exertion, shyness, or both.

“Well,” she sighed blissfully, “that certainly wasn’t the kind of warm-up I was expecting.”

Bob let out a nervous laugh, the sound caught between relief and disbelief. “Did you… did you like it, though?”

Her smirk was small but sure, and she reached up to ruffle his damp hair affectionately. “Oh, I definitely liked it.”

Yelena said it with such matter-of-fact certainty that his chest ached. For all her inexperience, for all the hesitation he thought she might carry, she sounded almost… proud.

Bob didn’t say it aloud but for someone who had once told him she couldn’t love him the way he craved, the way she kissed him and stayed close afterward still felt exactly like love.

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

Evening, Present Day

The Watchtower common room lay silent and hollow. No John’s animated chatter. No Alexei humming old Russian melodies in the kitchen. Just the two of them with the steady thrum of the building and the whisper of their footsteps against polished floors.

Yelena paused at the corridor junction, glancing back with a soft smile. “Well, goodnight then—” 

His hand caught her wrist before she could take another step. Before she could finish the thought, he pulled her flush against him, his mouth crashing onto hers and swallowing whatever protest might have followed. The kiss bore no resemblance to Bob's tentative touches—this was all certainty and raw hunger, like lightning striking twice in the same place. His hands bracketed her waist, dragging her close until she could feel his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his shirt.

When he pulled back, his grin cut sharp through the dim light. “Christ, Lena, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

For a moment she was motionless, caught off guard. Then instinct? defiance? Both? Made her lean in again, palms pressing against his chest. Not to push him away, but to maintain herself against what he was pulling her into.

“Woah. We just finished dinner. You sure you want—?”

His grin widened, predatory. “You should worry about yourself. You’re the human one here.”

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head toward the security camera mounted above. Her voice dropped to a tense whisper. "You realize we may have an audience if anyone walks in on—"

"That," he murmured, his voice a low growl against her jaw, "only makes it more thrilling."

Her deadpan stare was immediate. "Not for me it doesn't."

He pressed her back until her shoulders met the cool wall, his body caging hers in place. The heat of him seeped through, his lips grazing the line of her throat. "Yet you're not running."

"You're not giving me the chance, pinning me like this."

He chuckled, a rich, satisfied sound, and kissed her again—slower this time, more deliberate, tasting her hesitation like a challenge.

Her pulse thudded hard against her ribs. She turned her head, forcing a breath. "No. Your room. Now. Not out here."

"Why? Don't tell me you're suddenly camera-shy. We weren't exactly discreet in the gymnasium a few weeks ago, surveillance equipment and all..."

"That was different—we were alone then. There are maintenance crews and cleaning workers walking around these halls at night."

"Doesn't that make it more exhilarating?"

She huffed, glancing toward the couches. "If you haven't noticed, these sofas weren't built for athletics. And I don't even want to think about those carpets. Your room, however, has certain… advantages."

He studied her face, expression unreadable as storm clouds, before his grip gradually softened at her waist, becoming almost gentle.

"Fair enough," he conceded.

With effortless strength he swept her into his arms, carrying her toward his room as the door clicked shut behind them. The only light came from a single, low-wattage lamp on the far nightstand, casting the room in warm, dim gold that clung to the curves of the furniture.

A sudden, furious rattling shattered the quiet. The cage bars clanged like a prison break in progress, followed by a chorus of sharp, indignant squeaks that made it unmistakably clear they were not alone in the room.

“Really? You pick now to throw a tantrum, little one?” Sentry grumbled.

Yelena stifled a laugh. “Is he mad you didn't feed him or something?"

"Oh right—” Sentry grimaced, running a hand through his hair, “I forgot to give the little creature his dinner…" 

The timing was ridiculous, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. 

"Yeah, and unless you want Cucumber traumatized, I'd suggest moving him out of the room for a bit as well." she quipped, one brow arched.

"I’ll be right back in less than ten seconds." Bob set her down in the center of the bed, then scooped up the small cage in a blur and hustled it into the hall. True to his word, he was back within that small amount of time as he shut the door behind him.

When he turned back to her, the humor had slipped away. Haloed in the lamp's gold light, he stood over her like a prince about to kiss a sleeping princess awake. The room narrowed to the space between them; his voice dropped, low and commanding.

“Alright. Now that that’s done… strip. Do it slow. Let me see every inch of you.”

Warmth spread across her chest and up her neck. She was still in her faded black short-sleeved top tucked into snug zipperless jeans, the knees dusted slightly with dirt from the bumper cars.

Her fingers, suddenly clumsy, went to the hem of her shirt, lifting it inch by inch. The cotton peeled away from her skin, baring her midriff to the air before she tugged it over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath, the faint outline of her lace bra caught the light.

His eyes dropped there, a faint, approving smirk touching his lips.

“The pants next,” he murmured, his voice husky.

She turned slightly, giving him a profile view as she popped the button and slid the denim down over her hips. The fabric resisted, snug from the day's wear, then gave way, sliding down her legs to pool around her ankles. She kicked them away, left in her black bra and panties, skin glowing in the dim light.

Her breathing quickened, her entire world narrowed to this room, to his commanding presence.

"Now, touch yourself," he ordered, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a visceral thing that coiled in her stomach. "Show me how badly you want me."

Her hands trembled as she reached down, one sliding over the flat plane of her stomach, the other slipping beneath the delicate lace of her panties. Down past the gentle curve of her belly, through the neat thatch of curls until it found her folds and entered them.

A moan escaped her, soft and involuntary. Her eyes fluttered shut as her fingers found her clit. So wet. Slick and hot, already swollen and eager. A breathy sigh escaped her as she circled the sensitive nub.

Although she couldn't see it, she was certain she could feel his gaze on her like a physical touch, hot and possessive, and it heightened every sensation, making her movements more desperate. Her moans grew louder, less controlled, echoing softly in the quiet room as her own touch became almost unbearably electric after the long build-up. She arched her back, her hips giving a faint, reflexive roll against her own hand.

"Eyes on me, Lena." His growl cut through the haze, sharp enough to drag her back. Her eyes snapped open, locking with his as he stripped his shirt away in one fluid motion. The lamplight spilled across him, gilding the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp taper of his waist.

It was only then that she noticed the glint of his belt buckle, low at his hips—hidden beneath his shirt until now. The metal clinked as he unfastened it, the sound loud in the charged silence. In one forceful motion his jeans and briefs were shoved down, cast aside like they meant nothing.

He stood over her now, utterly bare, unapologetic in his nudity. His cock jutted forward, thick and unyielding, raw proof of his arousal. He was magnificent—a statue of controlled power poised above her.

Then, with a swift shift, he was on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled between her parted thighs.

"I'll take it from here," he said, his voice rough with raw need. "I want to feel you come on my cock, not your fingers."

Before she could even process the words, he grabbed both her wrists, pinning them above her head on the pillows. The sudden loss of contact between her legs was a small agony, yet the feeling of his strength, of being completely in his control, was a different, more profound pleasure. He held her there easily, his grip firm without being painful. He leaned down, his body hovering over hers, heat radiating into her skin.

He dipped suddenly, claiming a kiss. It started tender, a soft meeting of lips, then quickly deepened. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she lost herself in the taste of him, in the sheer authority of the act. Yelena responded by tangling her hands in his hair. The kiss was messy, teeth clashing, tongues sliding together in a wet, frantic rhythm.

Mmmnpfh—the sound vibrated between them as their mouths moved in sync.

His free hand trailed down her arm, over the slope of her breast, his thumb brushing a taut nipple through the lace, making her arch her back with a sharp cry. He unhooked her bra seconds later, and soon his mouth was on her breasts, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers pinched the other. He sucked hard, and Yelena let out a moan that was half curse, half plea.

He continued downward, over the quivering muscles of her stomach, and finally hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties.

In one swift motion, he tore the flimsy lace, rending the fabric aside to expose her completely. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room.

"Hey, those were expensive!" She weakly protested as he laughed against her mouth, the sound ragged with heat. The world narrowed to the pressure of his hands and the heat between them. When he finally pulled back, both of them were breathless. His gaze burned down her body, taking in the sight of her glistening, open folds. He released her wrists, though she kept them there, obediently stretched above her, not wanting to break the spell.

"You are so beautiful like this…" he whispered, a stark contrast to his earlier commands.

He positioned himself at her entrance between her thighs, the coarse hair of his legs brushing against her sensitive skin, before shifting forward. She gasped slightly as she felt the broad head of his cock pressed insistently against her entrance. He was teasing her with a promise of what was to come—letting her feel the immense possibility of him without the penetration. Not yet.

"Please, Bob, please…" Yelena whimpered, pushing herself forward, though his hand held her firm.

"Uh-uh," he chided softly. "I set the pace. You take it."

For several heartbeats, she held his gaze—dark, unflinching, his breath hot against her cheek—before he finally pressed forward. Slowly, inexorably, he pushed into her, sinking deeper and deeper. The stretch was unbearable and exquisite all at once, already pushing her to the brink of pain and pleasure as every inch claimed her insides.

"God, you're still so tight, Lena," he rasped. "Relax for me. I won't hurt you."

The command unraveled her. She melted beneath him, every muscle softening, her very will yielding to the promise in his voice.

"Good girl."

The rhythm began with a surge, his hips slamming into hers, cock spearing her open with one devastating stroke that stole the air from her lungs and arched her spine off the bed. A ragged cry tore from her throat, a guttural sound wrenched from somewhere primal. His groan answered hers, vibrating through his chest and into her bones. He was so much, too much…

When Bob had made love to her in the gym, he had been careful, treating her like she was breakable. Now she understood why he had been so achingly restrained that first time. The tremors of hesitancy that belonged to Bob were gone; in their place was certainty, dominance and sheer unrelenting hunger. This manic side of him was something else entirely as he moved rapidly inside her like wildfire through dry grass—consuming, relentless, leaving her breathless beneath the onslaught.

She felt the contrast in every detail. His fingers biting into the flesh of her hips, promising bruises that would bloom purple by morning. His thrusts were delivered at a frantic pace no human man could sustain. She wanted to curse him, to shove him back, to regain control—yet her body betrayed her, arching into him, opening to him, yielding even as her mind reeled. He was not the careful lover she knew, instead a selfish, demanding god taking what he believed was owed. And she was letting him.

"Every gasp. Every shudder." His voice was a growl against her ear, each thrust punctuating the words. "All of it belongs to me. This perfect, dripping cunt is mine."

Yelena tried to moan her approval, though the sound caught in her throat.

He seemed intoxicated by the wordless sounds spilling from her lips, his arrogance swelling with every broken moan. Worship. That's what he heard. That's what he drew out of her, more and more, until his own groans deepened with delight. His hands roamed her body with ownership, cupping her breasts and pinching to provoke her whimpers before sliding down to her hips to pull her down harder onto him. He was pounding into her now with the velocity of a jackhammer, every stroke of his massive length bruising her insides and shaking the entire bedframe. Each pump was a claim, each deep grind a brand. The air grew thick with the rhythm of their bodies: wet slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, his guttural grunts, her choked cries.

With every kiss burning deeper, every thrust pressing harder, every touch demanding more than the last… The force of him was practically stretching her raw. Tears welled in Yelena's eyes before she could stop them. She hoped he wouldn't notice. She told herself she could take it. After all, wasn't she trained for this? To obey when commanded, to be used as a tool?

The Red Room had gutted her from within, etching its claim into her very anatomy—sterile, weaponized, perfected by warped standards. When violation of the body proved insufficient, they pillaged her mind as well, stripping away thought until only obedience remained for years. Now, though technically free, Valentina still wielded her like a blade.

Different hands, same chains. Different rooms, same cage. She had survived the Red Room's butchery only to find herself paraded in another market, her scars repurposed into selling points. Valentina's "marketing meetings" about the New Avengers were little more than appraisals, measuring trauma like currency, packaging pain for public consumption.

The secrets Yelena carried about Project Sentry should have tipped the balance—blackmail sharp enough to cut them both down. Yet leverage meant little when survival was carved into her bones, leaving her convinced she existed only to be spent and discarded once her edge dulled.

Years of conditioning had reduced her world to a single instinct: Endure.

Desire, choice, even selfhood had been scoured away, replaced with reflexive submission. She had been trained to persist, to outlast, even when body and mind screamed in protest—because she learned early that resistance always meant death.

Which was what made this intimacy so disorienting.

In Sentry's arms, those echoes pressed close. There was familiar weight in surrender, the ache of being taken. Yet something fundamental had shifted. She had chosen this fire, stepped into it not as a weapon or tool—as herself. There was strange comfort in this voluntary yielding, disturbing in its familiarity yet precious in its freedom.

Her thighs tightened around him, pulling him deeper despite the sting, letting his fire consume her, letting it be hers to give. He could take from her all he wanted; there was nothing left inside to ruin anyway.

No warmth. No future. Only a barren womb.

The ache sharpened and she gave into it, a shudder tearing through her as release crested and broke. His followed close after, less measured than hers, a guttural surrender that left them both gasping.

Yet before the afterglow could settle, Yelena felt the softness of the mattress below her vanish as the room seemed to tilt and warp around them. Books slid from their shelves to drift like paper boats. Sheets unmoored, a lamp toppled and spun lazily toward them.

"Блядь!" The curse ripped from her throat as it missed hitting her by a hair's breadth, raw panic twisting her chest. The Labubu came tumbling after, spinning end over end through the weightless dark—mercifully farther off this time.

Gazing around in surprise, she realized they were levitating mid-air alongside scattered objects. Her discarded clothes from earlier brushed against her skin, weightless in a way that made her stomach lurch. Even her tears, freed from her lashes, hovered like tiny glass beads, catching the dim light as they hung suspended between them.

A breathless, careless laugh emerged from the god above her. "Fuck, that was wonderful. Let's go aga—"

Sentry's words drifted off, his arrogance faltering as he saw her tears adrift in the weightless air. His thrusts stilled, his chest heaving as he traced their source. Then he cupped her face, thumbs brushing away the floating and falling droplets from her cheeks. Around them the chaos drifted, yet his gaze anchored her.

"Lena? Are you all right?"

His voice carried vulnerability that belonged closer to Bob.

She tried to swallow the sob lodged in her throat.

"I am." It wasn't entirely a lie—her insides still ached from his force, the floating left her dizzy—yet she could endure it. She had endured worse. And part of her wanted the ache that drowned out everything else clawing at her mind. "Please… keep going." She flexed around him, her core tightening around the length still buried inside her, a silent plea for him not to stop.

He shook his head. "No. This won't be any fun if you're crying. I can't."

Already she could feel them sinking, the buoyancy surrounding them faltering. Panic rose sharp in her chest—not only at the fall, at the thought of losing the only thing presently numbing her.

"No! I'm fine," she blurted, voice raw. "Just keep—woah!"

Her movement tipped their balance. The world spun; they tumbled sideways, bodies colliding with the left wall in a muted thud before drifting free again. Breathless, Yelena blinked and found herself on top of him, her knees clamped to his hips, her palms spread across his strong shoulders for balance.

The floor was gone. The bed was gone. There was only him—his heat, his chest rising beneath her hands, his body suspended with hers in a weightless void.

His hands steadied her waist, mouth curving into that maddening smirk.

"Well… you've got me beneath you now. What will you do about it?"

Her pulse hammered. Bob would have asked her. Bob would have given her space to choose. Here, in this strange suspension, she realized she still could. What if she decided differently right now? What if she stopped submitting and claimed this moment as her own? The thought unsettled and ignited her—a chance where she could truly exercise her free will. Her voice trembled, though the words came out steady.

"I want to take the lead this time."

Shock flashed across his features before it hardened into hunger. "Do you now? If so, you'll have to fight me for it."

His hips bucked, a sudden surge that nearly tipped their balance. She pressed into his chest, forcing him still.

"Не смей," she hissed.

That hesitation was all she needed. Using the momentum of his thrust, she twisted, and their bodies rolled in the air. In the shimmer of weightlessness he landed on his back, startled, golden hair fanning around his head like a halo. His cock slipped free with a lewd sound, and he growled at the loss.

Yelena refused to let him reclaim control. She swung her leg over his hips with purpose. Reaching between them, she wrapped her hand around his slick length and guided him in, sinking down in one long motion until his length filled her completely. A cry tore from her lips as he filled her, matched by the guttural groan that rumbled from his chest. The sound that escaped her was neither pain nor surrender.

The pace now belonged to her. She rolled her hips in slow circles, rose, and came down again in a steady rhythm. Wet, obscene sounds filled the floating silence. His hands clutched her thighs as if to hold her still, yet she leaned forward, hair spilling down, their foreheads nearly touching.

"You had your turn," she whispered, breath ragged. "Теперь моя очередь."

He answered with a rough laugh, voice breaking on her name. "Yelena… Christ…" His grip tightened on her waist, testing her again, trying to wrest some control back, torn between holding her and letting her go. She caught his gaze, daring him. She ground down hard, cutting him off with a sharp gasp that turned into a low, dangerous smile.

"Тише, солнышко."

The glow beneath his skin pulsed outward, and they rose higher. Sheets drifted past in lazy folds, a pen spun like a compass needle, and a cushion wheeled by as though caught in invisible currents. Her hair lifted around her face in a golden halo, brushing against flushed cheeks. His body gleamed like a figure carved from light, suspended beneath her.

She anchored her palms to his chest and moved with fierce precision. Each drop onto him felt unreal, as though she were impaling herself on lightning. Every nerve lit. The glide of his cock inside her was sharper, wetter, unbearably deep—and yet, with every thrust, the sharp ache she'd been feeling began to dull. Strange warmth spread through her body, softening the sting, turning each motion into something she could lean into rather than resist. She barely had time to wonder at it before he caught her lips again and she moaned into his mouth, messy, reverent, desperate.

Her thighs tightened around him as they spun in midair, carried in unpredictable directions while their bodies wrestled for dominance. It was chaotic, yet somehow they never struck the walls; Yelena suspected the god beneath her was steadying their trajectory even as he tested her. His hips bucked, a sharp surge that nearly unseated her. She braced hard against his chest, refusing to yield.

He smirked at her defiance, eyes blazing. "You really think you can keep me like this?"

"Молчи," she hissed, grinding down until his groan broke into a curse.

It was tug-of-war with flesh—his strength against her precision, each twist answered, each thrust countered. Yet gradually his grip shifted, not to overpower, rather to anchor. He was holding back, letting her press the advantage. She realized with a shiver that he could have flipped her at any moment, pinned her the way he had before—yet he didn't. He wanted to see how far she would take it.

The glint in his golden eyes gave him away. He was loving this, maybe even more than she was.

Her pace quickened, building into louder, wetter slaps that echoed in the floating hush. Their moans tangled with the rustle of sheets drifting past, the faint thud of objects colliding like muffled drumbeats. Every plunge wrung a sound from him—a groan, a curse, her name dragged raw from his throat.

"Fuck, Yelena… yes… You feel so good… don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Her release hit first. It tore through her in a white-hot wave, and she cried Bob's name as her nails carved crescent shapes into his sides. Her body seized, clenching around him in merciless pulses. The weightlessness made it unbearable, stripping away gravity, leaving only pure sensation exploding through every nerve.

That was all it took. His restraint snapped. He drove up into her in frantic, desperate strokes, undone by the grip of her climax. With a roar, his body arched, spilling into her in hot, unrelenting bursts. Each pulse dragged another groan from his chest as a sudden explosion of light flared from him in a blinding wash of gold. Yelena squeezed her eyes shut, half in awe, half afraid of being seared by his brilliance.

She had never dreamed Bob could unmoor the world itself, undo gravity as though it were nothing. The odd man was full of impossibilities, and she didn't care to ask how or why. Not now.

All she wanted was to sink into him, to feel their limbs entwined, breaths mingling in the hush, while droplets of their release drifted around them like tiny planets caught in the orbit of a massive star.

Eventually, Sentry's glow dimmed and gravity returned in a slow pull, dragging them—and the scattered wreckage of the room—back down. They landed in a crumpled heap on the mattress. His arms remained wrapped around her, possessive yet tender, as if afraid she might float away again. Yelena sagged against him, blonde hair plastered to her damp face, thighs trembling as she gasped against his throat.

"Told you," he murmured.

Her lashes fluttered. "Huh?"

"Valentina was a liar," his lips brushed her temple. "I used my powers, a decent amount of them, and the Void did not emerge."

"Ugh." She groaned, weakly glaring up at him. "That still doesn't mean you should turn off gravity in the middle of sex."

He chuckled low, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. "And yet," he teased, voice warm with satisfaction, "you didn't stop. Nor did you tell me to."

"That's because I wanted this." The bite in her words was softened by exhaustion.

"Tell me the truth. Did the spinning make you nauseous?"

"Oh sure, weightless mid-air sex. Totally normal. Why would that make me sick?" She huffed against his skin, lips curving faintly. "All right… I felt it a little. I was too busy holding on to care. Otherwise? No."

That made him grin, boyish and delighted. "Good. That means you can get up for another round, right?"

Yelena groaned and buried her face in his chest. "I'm tired. My legs feel useless. You'll have to settle for twice tonight."

His smug laugh rumbled against her ear. "Very well. You'll build stamina eventually." He pressed a kiss to her damp hair. "One day, you'll be able to keep up with me because I'm pretty sure I can go for about six more rounds."

She snorted in response.

The grin he gave her was unguarded, boyish, delighted. He pulled her closer, nuzzling her hair, kissing her temple. "You know, today was a great day. Next time… let's go somewhere bigger. Coney Island, maybe. And next time—" his voice dropped to a husky promise, "—we fuck in the sky, among the clouds. Wouldn't that be exciting?"

Yelena huffed, half laugh, half exhausted groan. "Exciting? More like terrifying. You drop me halfway over Brooklyn and next thing you know, cleaners will be scraping me off of a hot dog cart".

He kissed her forehead, "I'd never drop you. I'm Superman. Faster than a speeding bullet."

She rolled her eyes, though her lips softened into a small, reluctant smile. "We'll see."

The silence stretched between them, warm and close. Bob's softness had always been an anchor—fragile, hesitant, yet deeply cherished. This overwhelming confidence was his as well, more arrogant perhaps, yet no less a part of the man she loved. She sank into him and found she could not resent him as she had earlier in the day. Even within the eye of his storm, she had not been swept away. She had chosen how to ride it. In yielding, she had not vanished—instead uncovered herself anew: alive, decisive, present. Dominance and surrender, control and trust, braided into a single truth. Though she had no powers of her own, within his tempest she discovered another strength—the quiet, undeniable power to steady him, to move him, to make even a god yield.

Yelena stirred first, blinking into the spill of pale morning light that slipped through the blinds. She turned her head. Beside her, Bob lay half-drowsing, lashes still heavy, chest rising in a slow, steady rhythm. For a moment she only watched him—the softened edges of his face, the mess of dark hair falling across his brow.

When his eyes finally opened, deep blue yet rimmed with fatigue, she greeted him.

"Good morning, Bob."

He flushed faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Morning, Yelena."

Her voice was quiet, steady. "How much do you remember from yesterday?"

"More than last time," he admitted after a beat. "The fair. Dinner. Those burgers. That hideous Labubu knockoff you won." His mouth pulled into a crooked, uncertain smile. "I felt like me and not me at the same time. It's… strange. I've been remembering more lately. I don't know if that's good or bad. What do you think?"

Yelena propped her chin on her hand, studying him with the kind of patience that always unnerved him. "I'd say it's good—if you're not losing memories as much as you used to."

His gaze flickered, conflict written plain across his face: fear of what still lurked inside him tangled with fragile hope that she would stay—that she would love him even after how rough he had been with her last night. He felt exposed. Achingly so.

She leaned forward, silencing his thoughts with a slow, deep kiss, her mouth lingering against his as if to anchor him. It was an answer in the only language that mattered: acceptance.

When they broke apart, Bob's blush deepened. "Sorry if I… overdid it yesterday. And, uh—" He gestured awkwardly toward the corner where a lamp lay in pieces. "For breaking stuff."

Low amusement hummed in her throat. "Don't worry. Lamps can be replaced." Her lips curved faintly as she added, "Though explaining it to Valentina? That's another story."

Groaning, he yanked a pillow over his face. "Just tell her I had a nightmare and threw things around. She'll believe that. Anyway, go freshen up first. I'm staying here a bit longer."

Yelena shook her head as she pushed the blanket aside and swung her legs off the bed.

"Ленивец," she playfully muttered, gathering up the scattered clothes from the night before. "I should be the one sleeping in after all that."

She padded into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind her. Hot water spilled over her skin in steady sheets, steam rising to curl around her. Tilting her head back, she let the heat sink into her muscles, washing away the remnants of the night.

It wasn't until she was toweling off in front of the bathroom mirror that she frowned. Something about her looked different… yet what was it?

Had she… put on weight? No. That was laughable. Not overnight.

Her reflection blinked back at her. Still the same face, though her body… the differences weren't glaring, not at first glance, yet they were there. Breasts fuller, hips rounder, arms and thighs stronger. Muscle definition carved a little deeper across her stomach. And—she leaned in, eyes narrowing—yes. Taller. By at least three inches.

"What the hell…" she whispered.

Her mind flicked back, unbidden, to that moment where her body had felt strange—the heat, the closeness, that peculiar tingling that had raced through her veins like static and how Bob hadn't felt quite as overwhelming inside her…

'Did he… change me subconsciously?'

For a second, old instincts clawed up. The Red Room. Bodies and minds altered, controlled, shaped into weapons. She had never been asked. Never been given a choice.

This… wasn't that. And Bob hadn't done this to her on purpose.

She touched her reflection again.

Her hand hovered over the mirror, fingers grazing the faint changes. Maybe, deep down, he'd wanted her to feel stronger. Safer at his side. Maybe even beautiful. She only wished he had asked first. Yet she'd also recalled her promise to the others that she would keep his reality-warping secret buried for now.

Her lips twitched into a faint, almost reluctant smile.

"At least he didn't give me Barbie doll proportions." She sighed under her breath. "Then we'd have a problem."

She pulled on the rest of her clothes, noting with a wry glance that her underwear hadn't survived the night. The fit was snug, her bra needing to be loosened by three notches, yet otherwise… she was still herself.

[To be Continued]

Chapter Text

Sometime Before…

At night, Bob lay back against the warm sheets, the pills already dissolved in his system. They dulled his nerves, but they didn’t silence the voices. Not when they wanted her.

I am the only one strong enough to hold her, to guard her, to deserve her.

You don’t love her. You love the idea of her, the reflection you built in your head.

The words overlapped like broken radio signals, whispering directly into his skull. He pressed a hand hard against his temple, as though pressure alone might shut them out. It didn’t.

I’ll love her so completely she’ll never doubt again. She’ll never want for anything.

She’ll leave. They always leave. Better to push her away now—before she abandons you like the rest. But if she stays… if she stays forever… oh, that light of hers will be delicious to covet. 

The contradictions made his stomach twist, nausea rising that had nothing to do with the pills. He sat up, sheets tangling at his waist, knuckles white as they clutched around the headboard.

“Why her?” His whisper cracked. “Why Yelena? I already promised to give myself to you both every month. Isn’t that enough?”

The voices swelled. Protection and possession. Longing and fear.

We are you. You are us.

Is it not fair that we only wish to share what you have?

Power prickled across his skin, static buzzing through the air as though even the Watchtower braced against the storm inside him. Sliding down the headboard, he buried his face against his knees, hands clamped hard over his ears. It didn’t help. The demands pressed from within, curling tight around his ribs like a vice. He could feel them battling through his skull, hungering for her, through him.

Shudders wracked him. Both wanted Yelena completely, each in their own consuming way. He was just the bridge, the unwilling man caught between the God and the End.

He had believed he could contain them—with pills, with silence, with therapy—but it wasn’t enough. His love for her had only drawn their obsession, made her their prize alongside him...

Terror tore his words in a rasp. 

“I can’t keep this from her forever. I have to tell her before either of you takes everything”.

The thought struck heavy, final. This news might not save his lover from the other halves of himself but hiding the truth would certainly make things worse…

Back in the Present…

Steam escaped from beneath the bathroom door in lazy tendrils, carrying the scent of lavender body wash as Yelena's voice drifted through the running shower water—humming a song he didn’t quite know the name of. He’d have to ask her what it was later. Perhaps it was a song native to her homeland or one he’d never heard of before.

Bob remained sprawled across his bed, muscles still heavy with satisfaction. The aftermath of their passion lay scattered around him—evidence of a beautiful crime. His copy of The Creative Act: A Way of Being had somehow ended up spine-down beneath a tangle of sheets, while his carefully organized collection of Penguin Classics and small plushies formed small hills across the room. His model aircrafts and vehicles that had occupied the days in his room fared no better, lying in various states of destruction. A P-51 Mustang fighter had lost a wing entirely, while a vintage Corvette's rear axle jutted at an unnatural angle next to a throw pillow that was perched impossibly on his highest bookshelf, defying both gravity and memory. A broken lamp‘s ceramic base had shattered against the hardwood floor.

Rising with a reluctant groan, Bob began to restore his room back to the way it was. Each plushie he’d placed back on to their shelves (even the ugly Labubu) and each book found its proper place among his eclectic collection: Dog-eared self-help volumes that promised better sleep and confidence nestled beside a leather-bound book containing various fairytales and mythologies. Next, he moved onto re-arranging his model vehicles. The delicate work he’d taken weeks to complete had been damaged in minutes. 

Strange how that didn't bother him as much as it should have.

Methodically, he sorted the casualties into two piles: One for the salvageable and the other for the unsalvageable. The repetitive task grounded his racing thoughts until something caught his peripheral vision—a glint of metal nestled in the shadow between his bookcase and the wall.

His fingers closed around what felt like a fallen screw, but when he brought it into the light, his blood turned ice cold.

It was a tiny surveillance device no larger than a postage stamp, its lens spider-webbed with cracks but unmistakably functional.

How long had it been there? Days? Weeks? The implications crashed over him in successive waves: Every private moment, every time he'd been able to simply exist as himself without the weight of being Sentry or the Void—

"What's in your hands, Bob?"

Yelena's voice sliced through his spiraling thoughts. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been mulling over the camera. She'd dressed faster than Bob expected but water still beaded her bare shoulders and damp hair was slicked back from her face in a way that made her cheekbones appear razor-sharp.

His throat constricted around words that wouldn't come. When he finally managed to speak, his voice sounded foreign. "I found this. By the bookcase. It must have been jarred loose when we—you know".

Three steps brought her close enough to snatch the object from his trembling fingers. Yelena examined it with cool professionalism, turning it over to reveal the tiny serial numbers etched along its edge. Her expression darkened.

"Valentina." The name emerged as both curse and certainty.

"You sure?" Though even as he asked, Bob suspected the same.

"Who else?" Yelena's laugh held no warmth, only bitter recognition. "She can't let go of what she thinks she owns. Of course she'd want a front-row seat to your most private moments. Even what we did last night." Her eyes found his, unflinching. "She saw everything we did, Bob. Everything."

Nausea rolled through his stomach. The intimacy they'd shared, the vulnerability, the words whispered against skin—all of it recorded, catalogued, stored away as ammunition for some future war.

"Then we're completely screwed." Bob sighed.

Yelena was already shaking her head, tossing the broken device onto the rumpled sheets with dismissive force. 

"Nyet. We’re only screwed if we let her weaponize it." Her voice carried the strength of someone who'd survived worse betrayals. "She'll likely try blackmail first when and if there’s a need to—threaten to release footage, make headlines, create a scandal. But what's the worst that happens? The world discovers that two adults had consensual sex? That the mysterious White Widow has feelings for The Sentry?"

Bob's hands found the back of his neck, kneading tension that seemed to live there permanently now. "Headlines mean attention and scrutiny though..."

"Then we try not to make it a weakness." Yelena moved closer, so close that he could smell the lavender-scented shampoo still clinging to her hair, "If she thinks this gives her power over us, she's miscalculated. We control the narrative, not her”.

The certainty in her voice should have been comforting, but doubt gnawed at him with persistent intensity. Before he could respond, his phone chimed with a digital reminder: OXE Mandatory Medical & Ability Assessment - 11:00AM.

Bob groaned, “Almost forgot about that…”

Yelena examined his unhappy expression, “You don’t like it?”

"Yeah. I hate doing these monthly checkups but I don't have much choice." Bob pulled a My Chemical Romance t-shirt over his head—a relic from another thrift store adventure that felt distant now. 

“What do they even do to you there? Make you run on a hamster wheel like Cucumber?” She laughed.

His movements carried the stiffness of someone preparing for battle. “Sort of. They make me run on a treadmill. They hook me up to machines. Sometimes they ask me to demonstrate my abilities."

"Do you?" The question came carefully, as if she understood the weight it carried.

"I do but…I do it in small amounts or try not to." He met her gaze, seeing his own fears reflected in her light blue eyes. "Because honestly, I'm terrified of what the results might show. What I might be really capable of when I stop holding back." The admission hung between them like a confession. "Probably as terrified as you are."

Outside their window, New York continued its relentless pulse, millions of people going about their lives, unaware that their greatest protector was also their greatest potential destroyer. Unaware that in the shadows, someone had been collecting his most intimate moments, stockpiling them until a certain time was right.

The broken camera lay on the bed between them—small, silent, and somehow still threatening despite its shattered lens.

"Well…We should get some breakfast now." Yelena's voice cut through the heavy silence that had settled over them, "I can't think straight on an empty stomach, and dwelling on that camera there won't change anything."

Bob glanced at his phone again. It was past nine in the morning, "I stocked the kitchen last week. There’s pancake batter, some eggs, cereal boxes—"

"Do you think we could make scrambled eggs and pancakes?" Excitement flickered in her eyes, chasing away some of the worry he’d seen in them.

The request was so sudden and so innocent that it nearly undid him. 

"S-Sure, we can do that.” Bob stammered.

They made their way through the Watchtower's sterile corridors, their footsteps echoing differently now. Yelena walked with her usual grace, but her posture seemed off. Bob couldn't quite place it. Maybe the way her shoulders seemed to sit higher or that the hem of her shirt was a bit higher up on her torso than it was yesterday…or maybe not? The stress was probably getting to both of them.

The communal kitchen next to the common room was empty, glass and steel caught the morning light streaming through the tower’s tall windows. The air still carried a hush, broken only by the soft clatter of bowls and utensils as Bob and Yelena worked side by side.

Bob cracked eggs into a ceramic bowl, his movements a little uneven but steadying with each try. Whisk, salt, splash of cream—it wasn’t elegant, but it was familiar. Beside him, Yelena was all precision, measuring pancake batter and checking the recipe card twice before pouring careful circles onto the hot griddle.

The kitchen smells like vanilla, butter, and warmth as the whisk’s steady scrape, the soft hiss of butter hitting the pan, the golden puff of pancakes swelling on the griddle created a pleasant, natural melody around them.

“You’re good at this.” Bob said, nudging the eggs with a spatula, watching them firm.

“You don’t have to flatter me. Pancakes are foolproof breakfast meal. It's hard to mess up unless you lose focus.”

She flipped one cleanly, but some of the uncooked residue still landed on the apron she’d scavenged from a drawer.

“Wow, I realise I haven't done this in a long time—proper cooking.” Yelena chuckled lightly.

Bob glanced at her, then back at the pan. “What was the last food you made yourself?”

“Cup noodles.” Her lips twitched as she poured another round of batter. “What else?”

“I see,” Bob murmured, easing the eggs into soft folds. “Well… you could always come here for breakfast or lunch or dinner and eat with me”.

That earned him the faintest smile. “That’s a generous offer, Bob. Maybe once we figure out how to deal with that camera problem. Who knows how many others are hidden around…”

When the food was done, they plated everything with care. Yelena stacked the pancakes in a crooked tower, drizzling syrup until it gleamed. Bob slid fluffy mounds of scrambled eggs beside them, the butter still glistening. The spread looked almost too domestic for the sterile Watchtower kitchen: pancakes, eggs, coffee and scattered berries.

They sat across from each other in the dining area that had been tacked onto the kitchen which consisted of brutalist benches bolted to the floor and a long slab of stone for a table, all clean angles and no comfort. To Bob the furniture appeared as though it hadn’t been store-bought but transferred from the prison cafeteria. Still, it was the only place to sit and eat so they made do and the delicious food they cooked more than made up for their seating.

As the minutes passed, Bob noticed the way Yelena’s neutral expression seemed to shift to a frown. She nudged berries around her plate instead of eating them, her fork scraping faint lines across the surface of her tray.

"Hey." He set down his fork. "You okay?"

"Of course." The response came too quickly, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've barely eaten anything, and you keep looking..." He searched for the right word. "Sad isn't right. Troubled, maybe?"

"I'm fine, Bob. Really. Just processing that camera we saw earlier." She cut a neat triangle of pancake, chewed it as fast as she could. "It's a lot to take in."

Her shoulders continued to remain tense, and she wouldn't quite meet his gaze. Bob knew better than to push though—Yelena would share what she wanted to share, when she was ready. Still, the distance between them felt oddly wider than it was yesterday.

They finished breakfast in relative silence, cleaning dishes with the same care they'd used to cook. When the last plate was dried and put away, Yelena checked her phone and sighed.

"I should go. Let you prepare for your appointment." She moved toward him and planted a kiss on his lips which he leaned down to accep, "Good luck today".

Her kiss was soft and wonderful, but when she pulled back, Bob again felt that strange sense of displacement he had earlier—as if she were occupying space differently than she had before. He couldn't quite figure out what was wrong yet...

"Take care of yourself, Bob. Doing that is more important than mulling over whatever Valentina has in store for us".

She waved him goodbye as she went down the elevator, leaving him standing in the pristine kitchen, sunlight painting geometric patterns across the floor. He touched his lips. He always missed her when she left.

The breakfast dishes sat clean in the drying rack, but there were still crumbs on the counter, a small puddle of syrup that had dripped from the bottle. Bob found himself grateful for the mundane task ahead—wiping surfaces, putting ingredients away, restoring order. Something normal to occupy his hands while his mind processed everything that had happened since dawn.

What he didn’t think twice about was that when Yelena had kissed him goodbye, the top of her head had reached his chin instead of his collarbone…

Chapter Text

==

OXE LABORATORY, Location Unknown

==

The observation room was dim, lit only by the pallid glow of monitors. Data crawled across steel-blue screens in endless columns: vitals, biometric charts, blood analysis, psychological profiles. Threaded between the clinical reports were slides that didn't belong—marketing dossiers stamped:

[CONFIDENTIAL] NEW AVENGERS INITIATIVE – ASSET OBSERVATION DOSSIER

On one monitor, Robert Reynolds’s blank expression stared back in high resolution. The caption beneath had once read “The Golden Guardian of Good with the Power of a Thousand Exploding Suns.” but now, in its place: “Watchtower Tactical Operator” A downgrade from savior to functionary.

Beneath it, a bullet point further stripped the shine away in cold shorthand: recovering addict, dissociative symptoms, C-PTSD, childhood trauma. A third logged him flatly as “the only successful test subject of Project Sentry.”

The words rolled onwards:

Yelena Belova, White Widow: The Reformed Assassin. A soft PR smile paired with internal notes about volatility, her fierce protectiveness of Reynolds flagged as leverage.

Ava Starr, Ghost: The Brooding Loner. Grainy phasing stills sold her anonymity as “brand intrigue,” while the footnotes warned against provoking her.

John Walker, US Agent: The Anti-Hero America Wasn’t Ready For. Scarlet file stamped liability, his volatility rebranded as controversy.

Alexei Shostakov, Red Guardian: The Old Hero. Smiling portrait annotated with “ego easily manipulated” and “paternal influence.”

James Barnes, Winter Soldier: The Ghost of War. Somber, cult appeal for the public; internally flagged as “conscience risk — unpredictable if opposed.”

Each file doubled back on itself. Polished slogans mirrored by Internal Use Only tabs. Relationship diagrams wired across each other like circuitry.

Dr. Havelock tapped the screen with his pen, voice flat. "The Professor's orders are clear. Push him harder. We've plateaued three times already because of his refusals. It's time for accurate results."

Dr. Kessler scoffed. "And how exactly do you propose we 'push' the subject? He's stubborn as hell. Half the time he stops on his own terms, no matter what protocol dictates."

"Then we adapt the protocol." Havelock's lips curved slightly. "Stroke his ego—just enough. Make it about proving himself, about being the strongest, about wanting to know if he has the strength to protect those he loves. He won't walk away from that kind of bait."

Dr. Moritz shifted, arms folding tighter across his chest. "Isn't that dangerous?" His voice faltered, then steadied. "You've read the files. What if we accidentally bring out the other one? The Void?"

Kessler cut him off with a snort, a dismissive flick of his hand. "Then we don't let it surface. Simple."

"Simple?" Moritz's reply was scathing. "That's not a plan, that's wishful thinking. Talking him down is the only thing that's kept him under control so far. Keep him calm, keep him focused—that's our leash. That Belova woman has been more effective at calming him than any of us, but she won't always be around, and without her? We've got nothing."

For a moment, silence settled, heavy as lead. The monitors kept ticking, the artificial pulse of a man who wasn't even in the room but dominated every word.

At last, Havelock spoke again, his tone cool and measured. “Then we walk the line carefully. Should any instability emerge…” He let the pause stretch, scalpel-sharp. “We invoke consequence. Remind him who pays the price when he falters. That guilt—and the illusion of domesticity—has kept him compliant this long.”

A muted chime cut through the hum of the monitors. Kessler glanced down at the alert scrolling across a secondary screen. “The transport has arrived. Our Subject is here.”

The van's engine hummed beneath Bob as they reached the laboratory—wherever that was. He had long since stopped trying to guess the location. The reinforced windows admitted only thin blades of sunlight, reminders of a world outside but never enough to place it. He focused instead on the vibrations through the floor, the steady rattle of metal against metal, anything to blunt the weight of what waited for him.

The facility was unchanged. The corridors reeked of disinfectant. They handed him the standard uniform: plain white cotton shorts and a T-shirt. He changed behind the flimsy curtain, its transparency an unspoken reminder of how little privacy he had, then stepped into the testing chamber.

Though he had only been here three times before, the room's dimensions seemed to shrink with each visit. Windowless, washed in institutional white, bristling with instruments whose purposes remained opaque even to him. Beyond the glass, silhouettes shifted and murmured in cadences behind several screens, every gesture recorded, every breath observed.

The routine began predictably. Blood first—always blood. They drew a vial, the needle sliding in without ceremony. Then came the health check: height, weight, blood pressure. He stood rigid while they marked him at six-foot-two, as always. The scale read 195lbs. He'd gained six more pounds of muscle mass since last month.

"Any changes to your regimen, Robert?" asked Kessler, eyes never leaving his tablet.

"No. Same as always," he replied, though a cheeky corner of his mind wondered if his night with Yelena counted as additional exercise.

Vision tests followed. Charts that blurred into meaninglessness for anyone else resolved crisply to his sight; he read the smallest rows without strain. Hearing tests came next—frequencies pitched to the edge of human capacity, each one caught.

He hadn't mentioned it to them yet, but through the muffled glass, he was able to hear their voices.

"Consistent twenty-five acuity." said Havelock.

“Thirty-two kilohertz above baseline — hearing well beyond human tolerance,” Kessler remarked, dismissive, as though even excellence bored him.

X-ray scans came next. He lay flat on the cold metal table while the machine hummed and clicked, slicing him into digital cross-sections. The sound reminded him of an enormous insect crawling through his bones.

Next the treadmill. Walk, jog, sprint, faster, faster—his body accommodated each demand with infuriating ease. Sensors mapped everything: his stride, his breath, the efficient thrum of a heart that barely quickened. It was almost boring, this endless proof of what he already knew.

"Able to maintain speeds that would challenge a racecar," Kessler remarked.

"Heart rate decreased significantly since last session," Havelock noted.

Bob stared straight ahead, refusing to glance at the glass. He didn't need to; their eyes pressed against him all the same, dissecting every movement. The treadmill slowed beneath his feet at a signal, the machinery winding down with a mechanical sigh. He stepped off, sweat barely touching his brow, his body showing none of the strain they had hoped for.

He might have walked straight to the bench—except a reinforced door to his right slid open with a hiss. Beyond it stretched a sleek indoor track, a perfect oval of pale, unmarked surface. It gleamed under the sterile lights, custom-built and waiting only for him.

He was unsettled by the sight.

"Robert," Havelock's voice carried through the intercom, calm and measured. "That track was designed specifically for someone of your capabilities. A controlled environment. We'd like to see what your true speed potential looks like."

Bob's eyes narrowed. "Weren’t the treadmill readings already high enough?"

"High, yes," Kessler's voice cut in, clipped, impatient. "But incomplete. You've been holding back. Everyone knows it."

The words prickled. He glanced between the track and the observation window, his pulse quickening despite himself.

Then Moritz spoke, hesitant but insistent. "Robert... Valentina misled you. She told you restraint was the only way to keep the Void at bay. That was her fear speaking, not fact. You've had better control over yourself since the therapy began. More stable than the files suggested. Stronger. Better."

Bob stiffened, the old warning echoing in his skull: Never use your power. Never let the Void out. Another voice rose against it—the memory of what the Sentry had whispered to Yelena only last night. Valentina had killed him once, and it was that betrayal that had drawn the Void, not the powers themselves.

Still, doubt clawed at him. "I don't know..."

Havelock's voice slid back in, cool and precise. "You've disciplined yourself for months. The therapist's work has given you control. This is your chance to prove it—to prove to everyone you're no longer unstable. After all...you are better than anyone else. We'd simply like to see it."

The words landed like a hook. Challenge wrapped in flattery. Pride stirred, hot and undeniable. Bob found his feet carrying him toward the track.

"You know what?" he muttered, adrenaline beginning to surge. "Fine. Let's see what happens."

He crouched at the starting line, muscles coiling tight. Behind the glass, the scientists leaned forward in anticipation.

He sprinted. The world blurred into streaks of color and light. His feet barely grazed the track as he accelerated, faster and faster until the air screamed against his skin. One lap. Two. Three. Each faster than the last, each circuit burning away another layer of hesitation. The surface beneath him vibrated, sensors sparking, monitors failing to keep pace.

And still he pushed harder.

When at last he slowed, coming to a halt at the finish line, his chest rose and fell with only the faintest exertion. He could hear the stunned silence from the observation room even through the glass.

"Jesus Christ," Moritz’s professional mask slipped, "The sensors clocked him at three hundred miles per hour on the first lap—by the third, they couldn't track him at all."

Bob stood there, exhilaration pounding through his veins, tangled with fear. He had never moved like that before. Never so fast, never so easily. Bob’s pulse still thundered from the run, though not from exertion. The terrifying part was how much of him wanted to do it again. He forced himself to breathe in, breathe out, steadying the rush he felt before it consumed him.

The strength trials followed in quick succession.

The sandbag loomed first, thickly reinforced and layered with exotic composites designed to withstand blows that could level steel. Bob struck once, twice—controlled punches that made the bag’s chains groan and rattled dust from the seams. Behind the glass, the scientists urged him to go harder. Reluctance tightened his jaw, but when he finally drove his fist through, the reinforced casing split with a bone-shaking crack. Sensors sparked, the bag tore free of its restraints, and it collapsed in a heap at his feet.

“Sorry.” Bob muttered toward the glass, shaking out his hand.

"Not a problem," came Havelock's precise reply. "We'll have another one ready for next month”.

Next, crates were stacked heavier and denser, each packed with lead. Bob hefted the first as if it were empty, then the second, then the third. By the fifth, the load would have snapped a human spine, but he carried it across the chamber effortlessly.

“Now throw them,” Kessler ordered, clipped and impatient. “At the target marks on the walls. As usual.”

Bob hurled the crates against the padded wall, each impact echoing like a cannon blast. The wall groaned under the repeated collisions, faint impressions denting the target marks. By the final throw, sweat clung to his brow, though his breathing remained maddeningly steady.

Then came what he hated most.

A projectile—an iron rod—was fired at him, propelled with enough force to punch through steel. Instinct flared. His hand shot up and the rod froze midair, suspended in the invisible hold of a telekinetic barrier. He lowered it gently to the ground, pulse quickening.

The scientists pressed for more. Heat this. Bend that. Ice cubes, steel, wires—they pushed them into his hands one after another, demanding demonstrations. With tight concentration, he gripped the steel and heated it, his hands glowing faintly. The metal turned molten, white-hot and liquid, but his skin remained unmarred. He coaxed it into a crude sphere.

“Very good,” Moritz was almost impressed. “Do you think you’d like to fly for us today?”

“No. I've had enough.” Bob let the warped metal fall from his palms with a clang.

Silence hung for a beat. Then Havelock’s calm voice cut through: “Fine. End the trial.”

He was escorted out, led down the sterile corridor into a small office where his regular clothes waited. He dressed in silence, but his ears once again caught their voices through the thin glass.

“He’s frankly a miracle,” Havelock said, measured as always. “The serum continues to enhance his body in unpredictable ways.”

“His powers might continue to evolve, perhaps even accelerate. Each day could make him stronger than the last.” Kessler added detachedly, though a sliver of intrigue did slip through.

Bob’s thoughts churned, though not entirely from fear. The words ought to have chilled him, yet his heart beat faster for another reason. Fear was there, yes, but woven with it was a keener thread—excitement. The dangerous thrill of realizing his strength, of how easily he had broken every barrier in his path.

He dressed in silence, tugging his shirt back into place, when the door opened and two guards stepped in. No words were needed; he knew the routine. They fell into step at his sides, guiding him down the antiseptic corridor toward the offices where the debrief always ended.

They rounded the last corner and froze.

The Professor was already waiting. He stood in the corridor ahead, tall and still. His hands were folded behind his back, expression unreadable.

Bob had long since stopped caring about the man's actual name—Dr. Something-or-other with too many letters after it.

"Robert. Overall, excellent results across the board. Good job.” He clapped once, “But before we conclude today's session, I need you to undergo one more trial."

Bob stiffened, every muscle tightening. "No. I've already said I've done enough today."

The Professor's eyes narrowed.

"This one is different. Urgent. It will only require a minute of your time. We cannot end the session without it."

His tone carried no room for refusal. The guards shifted beside him, waiting. The sterile hum of the corridor seemed suddenly louder. Bob's breath caught, a knot of reluctance twisting in his chest.

He didn't want to. Every part of him screamed not to but the Professor's gaze didn't waver.

Without another word, the Professor turned and led him down the hall. The guards followed at a distance, their boots clicking against polished tile. They stopped at an unmarked door. The Professor opened it, gesturing Bob inside.

The lab was empty. It was all bare counters, various instruments and equipment scattered here and there, and the oppressive silence of a room waiting to be filled. The praise from earlier still rang hollow in Bob's ears, another measurement in an endless catalog of his abnormality.

"So, what do you need me to do?" Bob asked, brows drawing together.

The Professor gestured toward a metal counter. A glass flask sat near the edge, white and unremarkable except for a small scratch on ist side. "Touch that. Command it to float."

Bob stared at the object, then at the Professor, incredulous. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Tactile telekinesis," the Professor replied, already scrolling through notes on his tablet with the distracted air of someone discussing the weather. "We've observed that you possess some form of touch-based force projection. It explains your flight capabilities—you don't actually fly in the traditional sense. Instead, you displace air molecules, generating localized buoyancy effects in yourself or objects you've made contact with. We've documented several levitational episodes during periods of emotional elevation. I'd like to see if you can replicate the effect without that emotional trigger. Your coupling field extends approximately two meters at peak manifestation."

"And how," Bob asked, his voice carefully controlled, "have you observed these episodes?"

The Professor glanced up from his tablet, pale eyes showing mild surprise at the question. "Direct observation, naturally. We maintain comprehensive environmental monitoring."

Bob's stomach dropped into free fall. Images flashed through his mind—Yelena beneath him, her back arching as his feet left the ground last night. Yelena, leaning into him in rare unguarded tenderness on another morning, planting a kiss that had sent his body literally soaring off the ground before gravity reclaimed him with a stumble. He'd laughed about it then, breathless, and she'd laughed with him.

"Environmental monitoring," Bob repeated slowly. "From where?"

"Various sources," the Professor replied with casual indifference, already turning back to his data. "Valentina provides access to surveillance feeds from the Watchtower. When subjects refuse to participate in controlled testing, we're forced to rely on uncontrolled activation events. It's not ideal from a scientific standpoint, but it's expedient."

The words hit Bob like physical blows. His mind supplied the images unbidden: Yelena beneath him, her back arching as his feet left the ground. Another morning, her kiss sending him soaring before gravity reclaimed him with a stumble. They'd laughed together, breathless and unguarded.

And these men had watched it all. Recorded it. Analyzed it as lab data.

Heat flooded Bob's face—shame so acute it felt physical. Every private moment, every vulnerable touch, reduced to metrics on a spreadsheet. "Localized buoyancy effects." "Emotional elevation." Clinical terms that stripped away everything that mattered, that made those moments theirs.

His hands trembled at his sides. He couldn't look at the Professor, couldn't bear to see that indifferent expression while his most intimate memories were catalogued like specimens.

The floor beneath Bob's feet gave a subtle tremor. On the metal counter, instruments began to vibrate with increasing intensity. A pen rolled off the Professor's clipboard, hovering for a suspended moment before clattering to the ground.

"You and Valentina have been watching me after all…" Bob said, each word clipped and deliberate through gritted teeth.

"Meaning?"

"I found a hidden camera in my bedroom." He folded his arms, shoulders tight. "You know about it, don't you?"

"Well… yes," the Professor replied without looking up from his tablet. His tone was measured, almost bored. "Your privacy is of course respected within reasonable parameters but when you show reluctance to demonstrate abilities voluntarily, alternative observation methods become expedient."

"Expedient." Bob's voice had dropped to sounding barely recognizable as human. "You keep using that word."

The air around him thickened, charged with invisible pressure that made the fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The Professor's white coat rippled as if touched by unfelt wind, his collar tugging upward with increasing force.

"Mr. Reynolds, I need you to remain calm—"

"You want me to be calm?!" The word exploded from Bob's throat as the pressure around them intensified. "You watched me. You watched us. In my bedroom. In my private moments!"

The pen lifted from the floor, spinning slowly in midair. An invisible force closed around the Professor's throat for a few seconds and he gasped for air.

Bob blinked hard, forcing it back as he realized what was happening. The Professor coughed slightly.

Bob's hands shook. He hadn't meant to... "Oh God, I'm sorry."

"This," the Professor wheezed, tugging his collar flat again, "is why we monitor you so closely. You don't grasp the limits of your own strength, and that ignorance is what makes you dangerous to yourself and us."

Bob's chest heaved. "If so then, tell me," he said hoarsely. "That drug you gave me—what did you do to me?"

The Professor smoothed his coat, indifferent composure restoring itself. "We introduced a series of catalytic agents designed to amplify the baseline capabilities of human physiology into your bloodstream via a syringe. The specific compounds and their interactions remain classified, Mr. Reynolds."

"Classified?"

"For your protection as much as ours." The Professor made another notation on his clipboard, as though Bob's near-homicidal breakdown was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "Knowledge of the enhancement process could be... dangerous in the wrong hands. Dr. Martinez and Dr. Webb would agree, I think. Though of course, Dr. Martinez can't agree to much of anything these days."

Bob frowned, confusion cutting through the haze of fury. "Who?"

The Professor's eyes glinted. "Not surprised you don't remember them. They administered the Sentry Serum to you in Malaysia. You sort of made them vanish from reality."

Something stirred in Bob's mind:

A surgical room. His once-frail body strapped to a table. One lab coat adjusted the restraints. Another murmured instructions he couldn't make out. Heat flooded his veins. He remembered slumping back, and then—nothing.

"But not for long." The Professor continued, "They returned the same day every citizen in Manhattan did—restored physically when the Void receded. But they weren't the same. Unlike the others, they spent months trapped inside. Webb clawed his way back to something resembling sanity, though the nightmares never stopped but poor Martinez..." The Professor shook his head with pity. "He never truly returned. Physically present, yes, but his mind remains catatonic. Lost to the Void, I suppose. I wasn't there the day you and your other selves were 'born,' but I've seen the footage. Every angle. Every second. I've also interviewed those who survived long enough before they were killed."

"Killed?" Bob's voice came out hollow.

"Oh yes." The Professor smoothed the front of his coat. "Despite the Void issue, you survived the trial and passed out before it could erase everyone in that building. This meant Project Sentry was finally a success—but witnessing what they'd created fractured the team. Some argued you should be kept alive and studied. Others insisted you be sealed away and disposed of before that thing surfaced again." He paused, letting the word sink in. "The latter opinion won. So they all agreed: You would be placed into cryo sleep, then discarded somewhere to die quietly alongside the other failures. Another dead body in a box."

Bob staggered back, throat dry, a flicker of black curling at the edges of his vision like smoke.

The Professor's tone remained calm, "And here is the cruel irony of it: In erasing the evidence that you survived the procedure, they sealed their own fates. Project Sentry was deemed a failure, and with too many rumours already spreading about its inhumane practices, Valentina decided the safest course was not just to discontinue the project but to cleanse it entirely—the reports, the results, the scientists themselves."

He clicked his pen once, the sound crystal clear in the silence.

"Nearly every employee tied to Project Sentry was silenced. Officially, accidents. Unofficially, assassinations. And do you know who carried them out?"

Bob's stomach twisted. He already hated what the words were building up to.

The Professor's eyes glinted as they lifted from the notes, "Your friends, Three of the New Avengers. Valentina gave the orders, signed their paychecks, and they obeyed. Ava. John. And your beloved Lenochka."

"Stop talking." Bob's voice cracked. There was fury in it, a warning.

The Professor leaned forward slightly as if savoring the strike.

"You cling to them as if they’re righteous but in the end, they're no different from you—Weapons, Mr. Reynolds. Killers dressed up in costumes. Their bloodstains scrubbed clean, repainted as heroes for Valentina's charade".

"I said stop!" Bob's voice broke in echoes, as though two men were speaking at once. "Don't you dare talk about them like that!"

The room convulsed. Lights stuttered and burst. The instruments on a nearby counter rattled violently before crashing to the floor. The Professor's body rose from his chair, feet dangling, throat cinched by the unseen grip.

The crash summoned the guards inside. Guns raised, they froze at the sight—their superior suspended midair, the room trembling with barely contained power.

"Stand down!" the Professor rasped, impossibly composed even as bruises darkened his throat.

Bob blinked, forcing his emotions down as he noticed the weapons pointed at him. Not that they could do any damage to him but still...

The pressure released. The instruments clattered as they fell and the Professor dropped back into his chair, ragged but alive.

The guards hesitated. One muttered, "Sir—"

"It's fine." The Professor waved off their concern with infuriating calm, "You see, Mr. Reynolds? Exactly as anticipated. Pressure exposes what lies beneath. Your powers are escalating—and so must our tests. Today’s session is concluded. Until next month".

The guards who'd entered closed in around Bob, leading him away. He didn't resist. His muscles twitched, his head swam.

Bob wasn't a child. Bob wasn't entirely stupid either. From the start he'd known the people he met in that basement weren't saints—being marked for termination meant  they were all involved in something horrible or had blood on their hands. Later, Valentina had even ordered him (or at least the Sentry) to arrest them or kill them. But he hadn't. He could tell himself now it was mercy, but that would be a lie—back then, that part of him simply hadn't cared enough to bother. They weren't worth the effort. And yet, they had saved him in the Void when they hadn't needed to. Calling them nothing but killers erased everything else. It erased the single act of kindness that mattered most—choosing to pull him out when they could have left him to rot.

It didn't matter whether their bonds were built on lies or truth. He told himself that again and again. They were like family to him and he prayed he could keep them that way.

When they finally returned him to the Watchtower, Bob rode the escalator up, trying not to think of the way the Professor had looked at him on the way out.

Not with fear.

With satisfaction.

As if Bob had finally given him exactly the data he'd been hoping for today.

The day, however, wasn't done with him yet. When he returned to the Watchtower, a package waited outside his bedroom door. No courier, no signature—just his name in black ink.

He tore the wrapper open.

Inside lay a folded hoodie, the fabric soft beneath his fingers. The colors hit him first: bold gold and deep blue—the same palette as the uniform Valentina had once paraded as his colors, the costume he had never asked for. Across the back, stitched wide and unmissable, was the new Avengers insignia. On the chest, smaller but deliberate, sat a segmented "S." The Sentry's mark.

A note rested on top, written in Valentina's looping script.

Robert, Take this new uniform as an apology for the hidden cameras and for sharing the footage with my employees. I did so only for your safety and for proper record-keeping, nothing more. I hope you'll appreciate the gift. Wear it casually, if you wish—but I'd like you to put it on for the next mission briefing. Think of it as showing the world who you are—and who you belong with. Yours, V.

Bob stared at the embroidered "S," his thumb brushing the threads before folding the hoodie and shoving it deep into his bedroom cupboard, where her cameras couldn't reach and her plans couldn't touch him.

The hoodie was soft. Comfortable, even. But it wasn’t for him—not really. It was for the cameras, for the headlines, for an image Valentina wanted to polish and sell.

Maybe he’d wear it one day to remind himself how hollow her “gifts” really were.

He glanced up at the ceiling corners, the light fixtures, the smoke detector. Started checking behind picture frames and under the desk lamp. If there was one hidden camera, there would be others. And now that he had the free time and knew what to look for, he wasn't going to stop until he found every single one.

[To Be Continued]

BONUS MATERIAL aka the Files the Scientists were reading that I wrote out for fun which is meant to act as a sort of in universe ‘character’ sheet written by a secret someone watching them which is part accurate but also part inaccurate:

[CONFIDENTIAL] NEW AVENGERS INITIATIVE – ASSET OBSERVATION DOSSIER
Prepared for Contessa V.A. de Fontaine by [REDACTED].

Last Updated: [REDACTED]

FILE 1: ROBERT REYNOLDS

Codename: Sentry
Status: ACTIVE - Monitored 24/7 in the Watchtower
Threat Level: High
Marketable Role: [The Golden Guardian of Good with the power of a Thousand Exploding Suns] Watchtower Tactical Operator

Notes:

• The only successful test subject of Project Sentry.
• Recovering addict; Recently diagnosed with a history of C-PTSD, Bipolar II Disorder, Schizophrenia and (possible) DID.
• Experiment has resulted in manifestation of two extreme personas (or emotional states?) which he describes as The Sentry and The Void  [Refer to Dr Worth's Reports]
• The “Manhattan Incident” marked the Void’s first full emergence—officially covered up as an extraterrestrial threat that was repelled by the New Avengers.
• Recent behavior suggests stabilization. He is engaged in therapy, group integration, and limited mission support. Currently confined to tactical oversight and recon support via Watchtower systems rather than the frontline "Hero" role originally intended.
• Internal Use Only: Treat with extreme caution. Maintain emotional security to prevent Void resurgence. Neither we nor Reynolds fully understand the scale of his power which may rival [REDACTED]. Attaches quickly to allies, making him loyal but vulnerable.

FILE 02: YELENA BELOVA

Codename: White Widow
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Low–Moderate
Marketable Role: The Reformed Assassin
Notes:

• Former Black Widow assassin. Defected post-Red Room collapse. 
• Possesses sharp instincts—Ruthless, sarcastic, and fiercely protective of certain teammates, especially Robert [Refer to File 1] and her Adoptive Father Alexei [Refer to File 5].
• Internal Use Only: PR goldmine. Attractive, complicated, and emotionally compelling but doesn’t respond well to manipulation. Observed to have trust issues and keeps certain levels of emotional distance from people depending on how well she knows them. Not afraid to turn against leadership.

FILE 03: AVA STARR

Codename: Ghost
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Moderate–High
MARKETABLE ROLE: The Brooding Loner
Notes:

• Former SHIELD asset who was afflicted with “molecular disequilibrium” since childhood after a lab accident. Her condition of fading in and out of reality is managed by her having to constantly wear a specialised suit of armour.
• Other than Robert [Refer to File 1], she’s the only other person with a unique power set that allows her to be both invisible and intangible.
• Either speaks rarely or doesn't say much and is a bit awkward at conversation, but observes everything.
• Claims to like being left alone but often joining the group whenever they are together suggests otherwise.
• Internal Use Only: Minimal threat unless cornered. Do not antagonize. Extremely difficult to track if she chooses to vanish as she’s prone to disappearing and reappearing on her own terms. Has been noted to avoid press. Prefers anonymity. Not viable for front-facing PR.

FILE 04: JOHN WALKER

Codename: U.S. Agent
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Moderate
MARKETABLE ROLE: The anti-hero America wasn’t ready for
Notes:

• Former Captain America replacement. Public image heavily damaged after prior violent incident.
• Aggressive, impulsive, and deeply insecure. Overcompensates with bravado and rigid moral code.
• Works well with others in missions but loosely tolerates teammates emotionally when out of the field. However, his relationship with everyone has been improving gradually.
• Internal Use Only: Possible liability. Responds to chain of command, but barely.

FILE 05: ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV

Codename: Red Guardian
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Low
MARKETABLE ROLE: The Old Hero
Notes:

• Soviet-era super soldier. Aged but still very strong. Loves validation and camaraderie.
• Functions as emotional glue in a team. Disarming presence. Uses humor as deflection.
• Strong bond with younger members. Protective, even paternal. 
• Internal Use Only: Could be marketed more as a charming “dad hero” or “team dad”. Much like Robert, he could possibly be manipulated by ego boosts or flattery. Has moments of surprising clarity.

FILE 06: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES

Codename: Winter Soldier [Formulating a possible rebrand to White Wolf based on a suggestion from marketing. Still up for debate]
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Moderate
MARKETABLE ROLE: The Ghost of War
Notes:

• A 100+ year old former American WW2 Soldier turned former HYDRA assassin turned present day Freshman American Congressman and presently a member of the New Avengers who usually fills in for the leader role when John or Yelena isn’t available on missions.
• Has a surprisingly strong cult following (but not politically)
• Highly principled. Will not tolerate manipulation of teammates. Difficult to lie to.
• Occasionally communicates with Sam Wilson who is rumoured to be building his own team of Avengers at present
• Internal Use Only: Observe and handle cautiously. Most emotionally grounded and analytical of the group. 

OBSERVED TEAM DYNAMICS