Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sort of serious, lot of cracky and fun, this is a new challenge no Thunderbolt is ready to face.

Marriage is neither heaven nor hell, it is simply purgatory. Abraham Lincoln

“This is the best day of my life! Hello, everyone! Lindy Lee here, and I’M GETTING MARRIED in just a week!” Lindy announced into her phone, streaming live to her followers. She was dazzling in a pre-party dress—majestic, but carefully chosen so as not to reveal the final bridal gown. Her figure was accentuated perfectly, nails polished to perfection, hair flawlessly styled, and her face radiated the kind of confidence and beauty that belonged on a magazine cover. She was a woman just beginning to taste the thrill of truly living her best life. “This weekend is THE BIG DAY! Jason and I couldn’t be more excited, so stay tuned for more videos. Bye for now!”

Lindy let out a contented sigh as she finished recording the reel, slipping her phone into her pocket. She gathered her papers for the civil marriage registration, carefully placing them inside her folder, a small smile playing on her lips. Today was the day, and excitement bubbled inside her. She descended the steps alongside her parents, who enveloped her in warm hugs, before turning to her fiancé. She kissed him softly, feeling a surge of elation. Even though their union had begun at her parents’ urging—“You’re almost thirty, you need to settle down,” they had said—she had come to love him truly, genuinely. And she knew she owed this happiness to her parents, who had stood by her through even the darkest, most unstable moments of her life.

It wasn’t that she had been a rebellious daughter or anything. She had gone to university, built a career as a researcher, and accomplished much on her own. But there had been a turbulent period in her early-to-mid twenties—what was supposed to be a month-long vacation after college had stretched into six months in Asia, filled with questionable decisions and restless nights. Pressured by her parents’ insistence to marry young, she had strayed from the path she once envisioned for herself. But that was all behind her now. Lindy was a brand-new woman, ready to settle down. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing at all.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot proceed with your request,” the attendant repeated, her voice flat. Lindy felt as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped over her, freezing her in place. Jason let out a sharp scoff, glaring daggers at the woman.

“What do you mean you can’t? We brought the papers, we paid the fees, we made an appointment, and we’re both ready!” Lindy felt a flicker of relief that Jason had voiced exactly what she was thinking, but the attendant, clearly weary of dealing with these situations, let out a long exhale and finally explained herself.

“I can’t proceed… because she’s already married.” The attendant pointed at Lindy, and in that instant, her world tilted—finally, a reaction that matched the gravity of the words sank in.

“EXCUSE ME?! That’s nonsense! I AM NOT married!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with disbelief. Her parents hovered behind her, murmuring that it must be some kind of mistake. The attendant chewed her gum lazily before swiveling the monitor toward Lindy, revealing in bold letters: State: Married. Lindy’s eyes widened in horror. She leaned in, almost wanting to rip the screen off, checking and double-checking that she wasn’t reading it wrong. Then she turned to Jason, paling.

“Jason… this is… this is clearly a mistake! I—I AM NOT MARRIED. I can’t be! I was against it before I even met you.” The words tumbled out, and she winced as they landed, realizing how badly they sounded. “Oh no… that sounded terrible. Really terrible! But it’s the truth—I-I can’t be married!”

“Well then, explain yourself, because this sounds… terrible,” Jason said, his scowl deepening. His gaze shifted to the attendant, a mix of frustration and disbelief. If only this were a mistake, he thought, willing it to be so. “According to your records… who is she married to?”

The attendant tapped at the keyboard. “Let’s see… Lindy Lee, married to Robert Reynolds in Malaysia, five years ago.”

The words hit Lindy like a physical blow. She stumbled back several steps as the name echoed in her mind. Robert Reynolds… she knew that name. A man with brown curls and piercing blue eyes. A broken man. The thought of somehow being married to him—it was more than she could bear. Her knees felt weak, her chest tight, and the world seemed to tilt around her.

Lindy Lee wasn’t just tipsy—she was wasted. Completely, gloriously wasted. That’s how she met Robert Reynolds. She had wandered into the bar alone, hoping to meet new people, to let loose, to forget for a while about her family’s suffocating expectations—and maybe even to push back against them a little. Between drinks, laughter, and scattered flirts, she noticed him across the room. Robert Reynolds was cracking jokes, his antics drawing effortless laughter from everyone around him.

It was strange, though—he wasn’t physically imposing, nor conventionally handsome. But the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he owned the room, was captivating. Lindy found herself drawn to his drunken antics, to his piercing dark blue eyes that sometimes looked gray in the dim light, pupils dilated and wild. And then, eventually, he noticed her.

It wasn’t that she had consciously sought a long-term relationship with Robert Reynolds, or even wanted to be friends at first. It was just… circumstance. They were in the same bar, at the right place, at the right time. And on one of those reckless, wasted nights—when she was willing to defy every expectation, to throw caution to the wind—she simply said, fuck it, and married a very intoxicated Robert Reynolds.

After several nights together, fueled by drinks and reckless curiosity, Lindy had finally given in to exploring what made Robert tick—what put him on that drug induced high, confident edge. Those were dark times for her, quite literally; she often woke with little memory of what she had done during the parties, piercing things together only from the stories of others. If anyone had asked, she and Robert were something like casual fuck buddies. She never felt anything deep—she didn’t even understand why he drew people to him like moths to a flame. It was those… highs.

When Robert was in one of his elevated states, he did things no other man had—but that was just a phase. He wasn’t always like that. And when he suddenly disappeared from bars, parties, and their shared hotel rooms, Lindy didn’t chase him. She simply moved on, letting him slip from her life entirely, erasing him from memory as if he had never existed.

The last thing Lindy remembered before everything went black was her name being called—then pain, and then nothing. Eight hours later, she woke to a throbbing headache and a suffocating sense of nightmare clawing through every bone. Groaning, she pushed herself up on the couch, instinctively touching the spot where her head had collided—and then memory struck her like a punch, and panic surged.

“Jason!” she called out, voice trembling, realizing she was alone. Her parents had probably moved her to her room. Sweat dampened her hair and skin as she desperately searched for a coherent memory, anything that could make sense of what had happened—but there was nothing.

That son of a bitch. She thought bitterly. He always handled alcohol and drugs better than she ever could. He was… an addict. And somehow, against all reason, they were married. "This is all his fault". She mumbled darkly to herself, anger and disbelief churning in equal measure. "He surely knew, there was no way I could consent, he-he- he did that and then dissapeared?! How am I going to fix this?!" She kicked her bed leg and groaned. "FUCK! Ah! No, calm down Lindy, calm down."Lindy took a shaky breath and glanced at her phone. There was a single text from Jason, and just reading it made her stomach churn. It was resolute and detached:

"I think we need some time while you manage to explain this and make sense of it all. My parents are quite ashamed, so I’ll be helping them delay everything they had already invested in."

Her eyes prickled with tears. The message was perfectly impersonal, carrying the unspoken weight of a warning: this needs to be fixed. She knew Jason’s parents were far more traditional than hers; she could imagine the fury simmering behind that poised text. Wiping her tears away, she typed a simple reply:

"I’ll fix this and make sense of it, dear. I promise."

As much as Lindy wanted to collapse into tears and despair, she knew the longer she sat frozen, the worse everything would get. Forcing herself into motion, she began throwing clothes into a suitcase, her mind racing a mile a minute. If he doesn’t appear as deceased on the document, that means he’s alive. Alive somewhere—Asia, America, God knows where—because that idiot could’ve sold his own father for drugs. So I need to start at the last place I saw him… in freaking Malaysia. Ask around the bar. Hunt him down when no one else ever bothered. Maybe he died but no one knows, so maybe I even need find a body. Something.

Her thoughts spiraled faster as her hands worked. When she finally glanced at the clock—4 a.m.—she almost laughed. Perfect. Her parents would never let her go if they knew. They’d smother her with reason and disappointment, and her image with them was fractured enough already. So she packed only the essentials, scrawled a note with a crooked smiley face that read:

Went to fix this mess.

"Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 89B to Kuala Lumpur. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes time. Thank you."

Lindy exhaled heavily, clutching the small black notebook she had brought along. Inside, she had obsessively scribbled down every detail she could remember about Robert—his physical features, his quirks, what he drank, what he used, the way he spoke—anything that might make tracking him easier. She cursed herself for not having a single photo. Even her memory of his pale face and the shadows under his eyes was beginning to blur around the edges.

With a frustrated groan—the tenth one since she’d started this process—she shuffled forward in the boarding line and handed over her pass and ID. Once on the plane, she tried to distract herself, flipping open a magazine she’d grabbed at the Airport stores. But before long, it was abandoned in the seat pocket ahead of her, forgotten, while she returned to obsessively combing through fragments of memory that refused to stay whole.

After another forty minutes, the rumble of the engines forced Lindy to stop scribbling. With a long, heavy sigh, she gave up, tucking the notebook into her purse before turning to the window. Her own reflection stared back at her, tired eyes already shadowed with fresh bags. Resigned, she finally reached for the magazine she’d abandoned earlier. It was going to be a long flight, and she couldn’t afford to waste time.

The first article was a glossy feature on the New Avengers. Lindy scoffed aloud. Like many others, she had perceived them off as a joke when they first appeared—sure, they had saved everyone, but in her mind it had always seemed more like luck than genuine talent.

Her eyes skimmed over the lineup: assassins, mercenaries, and more than a few questionable faces. She was about to snap the magazine shut when something caught her. A familiar jawline on the edge of a photograph. Her pulse spiked. Frantically, she flipped the page wide open—

—and there he was.

Robert. Looking about thirty-two. Robert with those stupid curls and piercing blue eyes. Robert in bizarre clothes, standing beside Yelena Belova in the article—her hand gripping his as if dragging him along. Robert, tall and languid, looking almost exactly the same as he had back then. That Robert. The very man she had been chasing.

And here she was—on a twenty-six–hour flight to Kuala Lumpur—staring at him in glossy print.

Lindy’s left eye twitched. Then, abandoning any shred of composure, forgetting her education and reputation, she threw her head back and screamed, raw and furious:

“ROOOOBEEERT!”

“Achoo!” Robert quickly covered his nose and mouth out of habit. He and Yelena were lounging on the couch, eyes half-glued to the TV. She glanced at him, not so much because of the sneeze, but because of the worried expression that had flashed across his face—like he’d just sensed some disturbance in the Force.

“You okay?” she asked casually, leaning lazily against the sofa, one hand dipping into the popcorn bowl.

“Yeah,” Robert said with a nervous grin. “I just… thought I heard—nah, it’s nothing.”

Yelena gave a little shrug and nestled back against him, none the wiser. She had no idea of the storm that was about to break loose.

Chapter Text

“Marry your best friend. I do not say that lightly. Really, truly find the strongest, happiest friendship in the person you fall in love with. Someone who speaks highly of you. Someone you can laugh with. The kind of laughs that make your belly ache, and your nose snort. The embarrassing, earnest, healing kind of laughs. Wit is important. Life is too short not to love someone who lets you be a fool with them. Make sure they are somebody who lets you cry, too. Despair will come. Find someone that you want to be there with you through those times. Most importantly, marry the one that makes passion, love, and madness combine and course through you. A love that will never dilute - even when the waters get deep, and dark.”

― N'tima

It had been six months since they were announced as the New Avengers, and Yelena’s life had spun a full 360. She had traded shadows, blood, and questionable missions for public appearances, morally cleaner assignments—at least cleaner than the old “clean-up jobs”—and a team that was slowly beginning to feel like family. As much as she would never admit it out loud, life at the Watchtower had settled into a pace that felt… steady. Familiar. Almost comfortable.

The team had fallen into their own rhythm when it came to mornings. Everyone woke at the hour that suited them best—partly as an act of rebellion, since Walker, obsessed with his military routines, often expected them all to rise at dawn alongside him. Bucky and Yelena were the more flexible ones, usually up around seven. Ava and Bob tended to drift in around nine, while Alexei was always the last to emerge, often sleeping until ten.

Breakfast was almost impossible to share under such conditions, but they had come to an unspoken agreement: dinner was a must. No matter what, they gathered in the evening. To keep things fair, they’d even drawn up a chore chart with fixed schedules, assigning two people each night to cook or pick up food. The pairs rotated: Alexei and Bucky, John and Ava, Bob and Yelena. It was chaotic at times, but it worked—and it gave their mismatched team a strange sense of home.

Training was non-negotiable. Unless there was a mission, everyone gathered at 3 p.m. sharp—everyone except Bob, who usually just sat on the sidelines, quietly watching. It had been Bucky’s idea, his firm reminder that they were a team now and needed to function like one. He wasn’t wrong.

The first few months had been a nightmare. Training sessions felt less like teamwork and more like a contest of who could last the longest, each of them too used to working alone to trust anyone else. But over time, the chaos had begun to settle into something useful. They started leaning on one another’s strengths: Walker with his brute strength and agility, Alexei as the group’s tank who absorbed the hardest blows, Ava with her lightning speed, and Yelena with her precision and flexibility. Bucky, the most balanced of them all, had become the glue—able to adapt, adjust, and work with anyone.

They had also silently agreed that Sundays were for downtime. Not officially, not written anywhere, but it stuck—around the same hour, they’d all end up in the common room, each absorbed in their own thing yet lingering together like it was second nature. Today was no different.

A lighthearted movie played on the screen, more background noise than actual entertainment as everyone lounged in their own little bubbles of comfort. The living room was a sprawl of mismatched habits: Walker stuffing his face with something protein filled and texting his ex-wife over his son, Alexei nursing his vodka like it was holy water, Ava half-reclined with her phone glowing in her hands, and Bucky sipping slowly at his coffee as if nothing in the world could rush him while reading the Newspaper.

Yelena, for her part, had claimed her spot on the couch with arms folded behind her head, using them as a makeshift cushion. Right beside her sat Bob, legs folded up in his familiar crouch, a thick book balanced in his hands. He looked perfectly at ease, hunched over the pages, curls falling a little too close to his eyes as he read with quiet focus.

It wasn’t unusual to see them like this anymore. Over time, it had become… natural, almost expected, for Yelena and Bob to share space. Walker, of course, never missed a chance to jab at them about being “joined at the hip,” a remark that usually earned him a sharp glare from her and a panicked, fumbling laugh from Bob. But lately, neither of them bothered reacting. The jokes had lost their bite, their awkward sting. They just let the comments slide and carried on with their own quiet rhythm.

So now they sat there—close but not pressed, separate but strangely synced—as the movie flickered on, and the rest of the team carried on with their distractions. 

Besides, Yelena had little to no time for such idiocies. Feelings, rumors, awkward jokes—they were distractions she couldn’t afford. Her plate was already full: adjusting to life as a public figure when half the world barely tolerated the New Avengers’ existence, living under the constant shadow of comparisons to the originals, and most importantly, keeping Valentina off their backs. Especially off Bob’s back.

If there was one thing Yelena had learned fast, it was that Valentina de Fontaine had a talent for circling Bob like a vulture. Whether it was trying to “assess his potential,” digging for leverage, or just being her manipulative self, Valentina’s interest in him was a danger Yelena wasn’t about to underestimate. Bob was powerful—too powerful—and fragile at the same time, a paradox that made him both an asset and a target. The last thing he needed was Valentina tugging at his strings.

After they’d pieced it together—after realizing Bob had lost everything from being both the Sentry and the Void at once—the team made a collective, unspoken choice. His amnesia wasn’t for the world to know, not yet. Not until they had some grasp on how to handle it, how to shield him from the vultures who would see his fragility as an opportunity. And he was better of the publick eye for now.

But Valentina was not a woman who tolerated being denied.

She had poured resources, time, and political capital into Robert Reynolds—an investment, as she liked to call him, as though he were a stock she could cash in on whenever she pleased. To her, he wasn’t a man, or a teammate, or someone fumbling to rebuild himself from the ruins of two collapsed psyches. He was her strongest asset, a trump card she could parade across the boardroom or battlefield alike.

And she was growing impatient.

The only leash keeping her at bay was the New Avengers themselves, each of them standing between her ambition and Bob’s precarious stability. Well—that, and the lingering memory of the one time Sentry’s golden light had flared in anger. The one time his hand had closed around her throat, reminding her all too vividly that her “asset” could crush her as easily as she boasted about owning him.

So no—things didn’t need to get messy with feelings. Or with stupid comments about her and Bob sitting too close. Or with whatever flutter tried to crawl up her chest when she caught him smiling quietly at his book and seeing the lighting making his skin look like it was glowing. She shoved all of that the way down like she once told him. There were enough battles to fight without adding feelings to the list.

Chapter Text

“If variety is the spice of life, marriage is the big can of leftover Spam.” – Johnny Carson

Yelena took another sip of her black coffee, silently praying it would wash away the exhaustion clinging to her body after yet another restless night. Insomnia wasn’t exactly rare in this building—everyone carried their own scars, their own ghosts—and she was no exception. When her nightmares became unbearable, she usually fought them off with warm tea or, if that failed, a late-night talk with either Bob or Bucky. They lived on her floor and often woke when her night terrors dragged her from sleep. More often than not, it was Bob she turned to; he had a way of grounding her when the shadows grew too heavy.

But last night had been different. There were no frozen Russian forests in her dreams, no suffocating memories clawing at her. Instead, her night was shattered by the grating sound of some lunatic shouting outside at four in the morning. A hater, no doubt, stuck in the past and screaming at ghosts they didn’t understand. Yelena had rolled over, pulled the pillow tighter against her ears, and decided she wasn’t about to waste another second of her life dealing with people stuck in the past.

If the public wanted to obsess over what they weren’t, Yelena couldn’t be bothered. She wasn’t Natasha. Walker wasn’t Steve Rogers. They didn’t have a Hulk. A Russian soldier, according to some, had no place on the team. And Bucky—well, the world loved reminding him of the blood on his hands. Not even Bob escaped the scrutiny, though his only “crime” was existing, his presence alone enough to spark endless questions about who he was and why he belonged.

In the beginning, they might have woken up to argue back, or at least investigate the noise outside their windows. But after months of it, the shouting of haters had become nothing more than static—background noise to their lives. Let Valentina or Mel handle it with security protocols; none of them had the patience left. Still, even when ignored, the noise wormed its way under their skin. Annoying, persistent, like a buzzing fly you couldn’t quite swat.

And so here she was—annoyed, exhausted, and wishing someone had been thrown in jail for being such a bitch. From what Yelena remembered through her half-conscious haze, it had been a woman yelling outside. When Bob wandered in, still yawning and sporting his ridiculous bedhead, she realized he’d been spared her sleepless night, blissfully unaware of the noise. Bucky, on the other hand, sat impassive as ever. If he’d heard anything, he wasn’t saying.

Alexei, Ava, and John had been spared the ordeal—living on a separate floor meant the noise rarely carried that far, and besides, John hadn’t even slept at the tower; he was coming straight to Valentina’s meeting after visiting his son. All in all, it seemed Yelena was the only one nursing a foul mood.

And of course, Bob noticed. He always noticed.

“Yelena, are you okay? Trouble sleeping? Nightmares?” His concern was immediate, his tone soft but insistent. He’d guessed right on the first try, as usual. The sincerity in his voice chipped away at her irritation, just a little. “You should have told me,” he added quickly. “I don’t mind keeping you company when you can’t sleep.” He’d leaned on her that way plenty of times himself, and now he looked eager to return the favor.

Yelena shook her head, dismissive but faintly touched. “Nothing serious, Bob. Just some idiot screaming like a banshee at dawn.”

Bob tilted his head, puzzled by the “banshee” comment. He figured it was just another one of those situations—people outside, hating on the New Avengers. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He, like most of the world, had grown up loving the original Avengers. Their stories had shaped him, inspired him. Sure, this new team wasn’t as flashy or iconic, but did that really matter? They risked their lives, fought for others, and—rough edges or not—they were good people. The fact anyone could despise them was beyond his comprehension.

Not that he’d have been much help in such confrontations. His only run-in with a heckler had been a disaster. Someone was screaming insults at Walker from the street below, and curious, Bob had leaned out from the sidelines to take a look. The man froze when he noticed him, brow furrowed like he was trying to place him, then shouted with growing outrage, “Who the fuck are you?!” The silence that followed had been so absurdly awkward that Bob ducked back inside immediately, deciding he wasn’t built for heckler duty.

“Were they really that loud? I heard nothing,” Bob admitted, rubbing at his eyes. Truth was, he’d slept like a baby—still riding high on the fact life had been going so well lately and how Yelena had actually accepted the hoodie he’d gifted her.

Yelena smirked over the rim of her mug. “No shit. You were snoring loud and clear.”

“I was not!” he protested with a laugh, his chuckle low and almost boyish. Yelena giggled, shaking her head.

It was strange, seeing him in such a buoyant mood. Refreshing, too. The cheer softened that sickly edge in his features, like it pushed the shadows away from his eyes. He almost looked different—lighter, brighter, as though the weight that usually hunched him down had loosened its grip. She’d swear he even sat taller beside her, holding his own mug like he was finally part of something ordinary.

“I guess that explains why you’re only just getting your coffee now,” Bob teased. Normally she was up hours before him.

“Mhm. Whoever it was, the cops must have dealt with them. But you can bet I’ll let Val hear a thing or two about those haters ruining my beauty sleep,” Yelena said, her voice dripping with irony. Valentina was notoriously strict about appearances, always trying to polish them up for public approval, so the comment stung with a hint of rebellion.

“You don’t need beauty sleep,” Bob replied casually, almost offhand, and for a moment she opened her mouth to retort ignoring the warmness on her chest—but the words vanished as Ava and Alexei joined the conversation, launching into plans for the day: training, missions, and things Bob usually wouldn’t bother with.

Yet Yelena noticed something different today. Amidst the usual chatter, there was a subtle energy in him— Whenever the conversation drifted toward topics where he felt out of place—despite repeated assurances he wasn’t being excluded—Bob usually tucked himself into a corner with a book. Present enough to hear, yet quietly separated from the banter. But today was different.

Even as Alexei boasted about the day’s training course and Ava tossed her usual snide remarks, Bob didn’t shrink away. He wasn’t running a talk show, but he listened attentively, offering the occasional wry comment that even made Ava genuinely laugh. Arms crossed over his chest, back perfectly straight, he recounted his disastrous high school gym experiences and how they’d translate to utter failure in a training course.

Yelena couldn’t take her eyes off him. For the first time in a while, he looked… almost charming, in a way that tugged at something deeper in her chest, she felt a strange mix of fascination and caution, drawn in yet wary for reasons she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Before she could dwell on it, the living room door swung open, and Bucky stepped in, instantly pulling everyone’s attention.

“Guys, sorry to interrupt the gym stories, but it’s almost training time,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. “We’ll manage two hours at most before we need to get ready for the meeting.” The easy chatter dissolved, replaced by the familiar rhythm of their daily routine, though Yelena’s gaze lingered on Bob for just a heartbeat longer than usual.

“Ok, you heard him—you can chat about high school later,” Yelena cut in, steering Alexei and Ava toward the door to make things easier for Bucky. They nodded and rose from their seats, but then, breaking from his usual pattern, Bob stood as well.

“I’ll go too,” he announced, tone clipped but oddly determined. “Feel in the mood for some exercise.”

That made Bucky’s brow arch instantly. Bob rarely joined them, and when he did, he lingered on the sidelines with a book in hand, never truly part of the grind. Their eyes met across the room, both uncertain how to handle this sudden change.

“Bob, maybe it’d be safer if we plan a lighter session later, if you really want to try,” Yelena offered, her voice soft, almost protective. She didn’t want him deflated before he even began.

To her surprise, Bob only chuckled, warm and unbothered. “Relax, I’m not about to run your training course. But I do remember a harmless treadmill that probably won’t kill me if I give it a shot.”

The casual humor of it disarmed them, though Yelena’s chest tightened with a flicker of unease she couldn’t quite name.

Yelena had tried to coax Bob into exercising before, thinking the extra activity might do him some good—at the very least give him something to do when left on his own. But the results had been… less than promising. The closest he’d come was a short-lived attempt at yoga with Ava, which ended with him toppling flat on his back twice before muttering that he needed “more suitable hobbies” and promptly retreating to his books.

So seeing him suddenly interested in exercise now wasn’t exactly normal. Still, Yelena tried to convince herself it couldn’t hurt. She clung to the silver lining.

“Well, sure, that wouldn’t hurt. Someone has to abuse that thing today anyway, since Walker’s not here,” she quipped.

The remark earned a round of chuckles from the group, even a rare smirk from Bucky. Bob just shook his head in amusement and fell into step beside her as they followed the others down the hall, both trailing behind the pack.

“The only thing I might regret about using it is not being able to watch you train,” Bob admitted with disarming ease.

Yelena blinked, caught off guard. A faint warmth touched her cheeks before she managed to school her expression, though the surprise lingered in her eyes. He seemed to notice and felt compelled to elaborate.

“You’ve got a very unique fighting style,” he went on. “Watching you is always… fun. If I could move like that—” he gave a low whistle, shaking his head.

Her lips curled into a flattered smile despite herself. She rolled her eyes and swatted his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

“Ow,” he said, rubbing the spot in mock injury. “Not praising, noted.”

“Oh, by all means, keep going,” she teased back, the joke earning them both an easy laugh.

Neither of them noticed the subtle glances exchanged by the rest of the team, quiet observers to the growing rapport sparking between them.

When they arrived at the training room, Bob peeled off from the group just as he had promised, heading straight for the treadmill tucked against the far wall. The rest of the team clustered at the center, where the open mats waited.

Normally, their sessions began with sparring in pairs or running full-blown combat simulations—exercises designed to sharpen coordination rather than flex raw strength. Bucky was relentless about that point: teamwork was their edge. They weren’t the biggest or the strongest compared to some foes out there, but they could be the smartest, the most adaptable, the most resourceful.

As Ava stretched her arms with a yawn and Alexei loosened his shoulders with the enthusiasm of a man who lived for competition, the philosophy behind those words felt tangible in the air. It wasn’t about who could win a fight alone—it was about how they covered each other’s weaknesses and played off one another’s strengths.

Meanwhile, Bob adjusted the treadmill settings with almost comical seriousness, like a man preparing for a marathon rather than a cautious jog. The contrast was striking: while the others geared up for combat drills, he was choosing his own quiet challenge at the edge of the room.

At first, Yelena kept one eye on Bob, half-expecting him to fumble with the controls and face-plant if the treadmill speed jumped too high. But when he settled into a steady rhythm without incident, she let her vigilance fade and turned her focus back to the training mats. For the next two hours, sparring, drills, and teamwork exercises consumed her attention, and she forgot about him entirely.

By the time they wrapped up, Yelena was certain Bob would already be back in his usual corner, nose buried in a book after giving up on the treadmill. But no such sight greeted her. The others had already gone ahead to shower before their meeting, leaving the room quieter than usual. Just as she was about to head out herself, the faint hum of the treadmill reached her ears, steady and unbroken.

Curiosity tugged at her. She turned toward the sound, steps carrying her to the far end of the room. Her eyes narrowed slightly, more intrigued than concerned, instead of finding Bob casually walking, Yelena froze at the sight of him sprinting on the treadmill. Panic flared for a moment—half-expecting him to collapse face-first—but then she realized he wasn’t just managing, he was thriving. His pace was steady, powerful even, each stride carrying him like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Is he high on caffeine or something? she wondered, baffled. Bob was many things, but an active gym-goer had never been one of them. She opened her mouth to ask, but before she could, he tapped the controls and slowed the belt to a stop. Hopping off the machine, he looked fresh as a rose—sweat dripping, yes, but his breathing fast without being ragged, his grin alive with energy.

“Hey,” he greeted, still buzzing from the run. For a second, Yelena could have sworn a faint glint of gold flickered in his irises—but it vanished before she could be certain.

“Hey,” she answered, stepping closer, her hand brushing his arm as if to steady him. “You good?” Bob nodded, smiling easily, tilting his head when he noticed the faint wariness in her stare. She shook her head quickly and forced herself to relax, though the unease lingered at the back of her mind.

“Anything wrong?” Bob asked softly, his blue eyes fixed on hers. Yelena shook her head, reassured when the faint golden hue she thought she’d glimpsed in his irises didn’t return.

“No,” she replied, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I just didn’t expect you to run that fast. You should race Walker—I bet he’d faceplant hard and curse the whole way down.” Bob tried not to laugh, but a chuckle slipped through anyway, warm and unguarded.

“Anyway,” Yelena added, stifling a yawn, her exhaustion still clinging to her, “thanks for handling dinner—even if it’s just ordering the pizzas. Hopefully this meeting won’t drag too long.” He hummed in response, but then his expression shifted, shoulders squaring as he looked down at her, a spark of something restless flickering behind his eyes.

“You know,” he began, voice steady but charged, “I still don’t get why I don’t get to meet Valentina.” The sudden seriousness caught her off guard. “I know I’m not a superhero like you guys… but I do have some questions for her.”

“Maybe another time, Bob. When she called, she already sounded irritated—and she is a bitch. Better if you don’t know her.” Yelena repeated.

Bob made a face of discontent, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he didn’t push further. He shrugged, the gesture careless on the surface, though his eyes held a flicker of stubbornness.

“She can’t be that bad,” he said more firmly. “I can handle it. I’m not a kid.”

Normally, Yelena would have doubted him. Valentina’s sharp tongue and condescending nature could slice anyone open, and Bob wasn’t exactly the most secure person when it came to criticism. But right now… she believed him. There was something unusual in the steadiness of his tone, like for once he wouldn’t flinch from Valentina’s venom. It wasn’t enough to set off alarm bells, but it wasn’t his norm either.

“We’ll see. Maybe sometime this week, if she’s not too busy.” She softened, adding, “And I know you’re not a kid. You’re just… usually less interested in this kind of thing.”

“Then stop treating me like one.” Bob didn’t meet her eyes; he stared straight ahead as they walked toward the elevator. The audacity of the line made Yelena blink. He faltered for a second, fingers worrying at his sleeves, but the resolve in his voice didn’t weaken.

“I have the right to know,” he said. “It’s weird that someone like me is allowed to live here if Valentina’s as—” he searched for the word “bitch”but felt weird to use it, “—as you say. I feel left out of something bigger, and it’s annoying.” He tugged at his cuffs. “I know it’s not your fault, but you’re my friend. Why keep something so stupid from me? I meet jerks all the time; I can handle insults and backhanded comments.”

Yelena sighed and pressed the elevator button, the sound small in the hallway. She’d known this conversation would come eventually.

“You’re right,” she admitted at last, choosing her words carefully. “Just… not today. I’ll set up a meeting so you can face her. Promise.” She squeezed his hand for a few seconds to underline it as they stepped in to the elevator. Bob hesitated, troubled, then nodded. As she moved to pull her hand back, he clung to it—steady, unwilling to let go. Yelena stared at him; he met her look without shame.

“Thanks, Yelena. It means a lot that you’ve got my back.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned a little closer, as though about to share a secret. His eyes stayed fixed on hers, steady and unblinking, and though no words came out, the quiet weight of his hand over her smaller one stretched the moment unbearably long. Each passing second made it more flustering, more difficult to breathe.

Yelena’s thoughts tangled. Why is he holding on like this? Why is he suddenly so bold, so upfront? And why is he looking at me like that? Was it her imagination, or was there a current, a pull in the air between them? She parted her lips, ready to demand an answer—or maybe something else—when the elevator dinged.

The sound shattered the spell. She pulled her hand back quickly, frown tugging at her brow.

Yelena hated what she couldn’t understand, and emotions were just another weapon she couldn’t master. The confusion needled her as she stepped out of the elevator, muttering a brusque, “See you later,” before leaving him behind. She might have imagined it, but Yelena was almost certain she heard a faint sound of discontent as the elevator doors closed behind her and he retreated to his room. Shaking her hands as though to rid them of the lingering burn from his touch, she forced herself to think of anything but Bob.

Still, the questions pressed in. Why had he suddenly become so bold, so attentive? Ever since he’d gifted her that hoodie, he’d carried himself with a new confidence. Normally, she would have welcomed it—she liked seeing him self-assured. But not when it made her act stupid, not when it left her overthinking every glance and every touch.

She shouldn’t be worrying about whether that pull between them was real or just in her imagination. She should be worrying about the fact that Bob wanted to meet Valentina—the very woman they had all been protecting him from. That was the real danger, the conversation they’d have to bring up in this meeting or the next, before the entire situation spiraled out of control.

Yelena opened the door to her room, peeling off her training clothes and stepping into the shower. She let the hot water run over her skin, trying to wash away the fuzziness, the warmth, the confusion. She needed her head clear. There were more important things to worry about than the way Bob Reynolds was starting to make her feel.

Lindy had spent the entire day posted by the lamppost, stubbornly clinging to her vigil. She’d taken a few breaks—once to use the bathroom, where she might have dozed off in a stall and earned herself a scolding from the owner and a chorus of annoyed customers. She didn’t care. Her accidental nap from three to four hadn’t cost her anything important, she was sure of it. So here she was again, back at square one.

Her once-flawless appearance had crumbled under the weight of exhaustion. Her hair was tousled and greasy, her dark Prada sunglasses barely concealing the heavy bags under her eyes—imperfections her polished face had never dared host until today. A permanent frown etched her expression, and in her hand sat her third cup of coffee, lukewarm and bitter.

She waited. She seethed. She hated how the damned tower looked deserted, as though no one inside had any reason to eat, breathe, or live like ordinary people. Did they never step outside? Did no one ever go in? Were they recluses, ghosts behind glass? The thought made her grind her teeth in frustration.

Her hand hovered over her phone, ready to harass-call her lawyer again and demand some loophole for a legal meeting, when at last—finally—movement caught her eye. A figure approached, a real, living human being emerging near the tower’s edge. Her breath caught, heart hammering as the hours of waiting coiled into a sharp, sudden anticipation.

Pizza delivery. Of course. At this point, Lindy didn’t care who it was—she was desperate. Before the teenager could even press the intercom, she grabbed his hand, halting him mid-step.

“Wait a damn second! Why are you here?”

“Uh… delivering pizza,” the boy replied, blinking at her, confused and distinctly unimpressed. Lindy rolled her eyes at herself. Brilliant question, really. I need sleep. Shaking her head, she switched tactics.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you let me deliver it instead,” she said, slipping a crisp bill from her purse. The boy frowned, suspicion warring with temptation. Lindy felt sweat prickle under her sunglasses as her eyes darted nervously toward the tower’s camera. “Three hundred,” she urged. “Come on. Hand over the pizzas.”

He hesitated, clearly calculating the cost of his job against the wad of cash. Then his gaze flicked back to her glasses. “And your shades.”

Lindy’s frown deepened. “They’re for women! What would you even want them for?”

“I like them,” he shot back. “That, or let me finish my job.”

Her stomach knotted. Those sunglasses had been a gift from Jason—one of the last things she wanted to lose—but the urgency clawed louder than her pride. “Fine,” she hissed. “Take them. But I need the uniform too.”

The teen stared, bewildered. She snapped, “Don’t ask questions! I’ll buy you regular clothes. I’m paying you here!” Either uncaring or a little high, he shrugged and agreed. Moments later, he was walking away richer, dressed in fresh streetwear, while Lindy stood huffing under the weight of warm pizza boxes and the ill-fitting uniform slung awkwardly over her arm.

She needed to change, but there was no time to waste. Patience for polite explanations was long gone; she wasn’t about to beg some stranger for a bathroom just so she could slip into a delivery boy’s uniform while leaving twelve pizza boxes in their care. Normally, Lindy Lee was the epitome of grace and dignity. But right now? She was too close—too close to grasping the root of her nightmare. She refused to let something as trivial as appearances ruin it.

So she ducked into a narrow alley, wedging herself behind a dumpster. The stench made her gag, and the scuttling of rats pricked at her nerves, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself through the indignity.

“Ew, ew, ew!” she hissed under her breath, wrinkling her nose as she wrestled into the pizza delivery clothes. They clung with the faint odor of teenage sweat, making her seriously consider aborting the mission entirely for a hot shower. But no—this was bigger than her comfort.

By the time she was done, her discarded designer outfit was folded in the corner like the discarded skin of another life. She hefted the stack of pizza boxes with a huff, muttering curses under her breath about whoever could possibly need this much greasy food.

She tugged the cap lower over her messy hair and tapped the intercom. A gruff male voice answered—definitely a guard. Hopefully not the same one who’d caught her shouting at four in the morning.

“Delivery,” she said briskly, lifting the pizza boxes for the camera. After a beat, the security door buzzed open.

She was supposed to take the order all the way up to the second reception on one of the higher floors, but the thought of lugging twelve boxes any further than the elevator made her want to scream. As soon as she was inside, she decided, the pizzas were going to be abandoned.

What mattered now was access. Which floor could she get to? Who might she run into? She ducked into a shadowed corner, peeking out in hopes of spotting someone recognizable. At first—nothing. Empty halls, faceless employees in motion.

Lindy groaned under her breath. If she approached the wrong person, they’d toss her out before she got anywhere near Robert. She needed someone higher ranked, someone she could appeal to—or at least someone soft enough to take pity on her. There had to be one.

Her scheming was cut short by the echo of heavy footsteps, a voice rumbling through the corridor and snapping her out of her thoughts.

“I know I’m late, I’m not an idiot, Ava! The train was delayed,” the voice snapped, echoing closer. Lindy ducked behind a corner, heart quickening, but she recognized the tone instantly—it was John Walker, the so-called temporary Captain America, barking into his phone. “Like it matters!” he continued, jaw tight as he paced toward the elevator. “It’ll be the same shit as always—another boring meeting asking about Bob!” That caught her attention. Lindy peeked carefully around the corner, watching him jab the eighth-floor button like his sanity depended on it. “I might be calmer if you hung up, you bitch!” Walker growled before the doors slid shut.

Lindy scoffed under her breath, unimpressed. His attitude didn’t surprise her, but his carelessness handed her exactly what she needed. Bingo. She waited until the elevator returned empty, giving it a few minutes just in case, then stepped inside with the pizzas balanced in her arms. With a nervous finger, she pressed the eighth-floor button.

The boxes were abandoned the moment the doors closed. She wrung her hands together, restless, her reflection staring back at her from the steel walls. She didn’t understand why she felt so nervous—she was the victim here. Robert had no choice but to agree to end this marriage and help her clean up the mess. And yet, a heavy, crawling sensation twisted in her gut. As the numbers climbed higher, she couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that something was about to go very, very wrong.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing what looked like a communal living room. It was clearly lived in—magazines scattered across the table, a half-finished mug on the counter, jackets draped carelessly over chairs—but there was no one in sight. No Robert. No Avengers.

Lindy guessed they were all tied up in the meeting John Walker had mentioned, which gave her the perfect chance. She darted through the room quickly, scanning for a door until she spotted a bathroom tucked off to the side.

Once inside, she locked it and pressed her back against the door, listening hard for footsteps. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat loud enough she swore it could give her away. Adrenaline burned through her fatigue, keeping her awake, sharp, almost jittery. Every ten minutes she cracked the door open a fraction, ready to slip out at the first sign of someone passing by. The plan was simple: wait, watch, and seize the first opportunity. It wasn’t graceful, but it didn’t need to be. This time, she wouldn’t miss him.

The meeting hadn’t dragged on as long as they feared. Walker stumbled in an hour late, which shaved down the session to barely another hour. Valentina, surprisingly, had been more lenient than usual. Yelena’s mention of possibly telling Bob the truth about what had happened six months ago—so long as no one expected him to jump into missions—seemed to temper her sharpness, shortening the ordeal.

Besides, Valentina had Mel frantically combing through security footage for something that clearly preoccupied her. Distracted, she let the team off easier than usual.

Afterward, the group lingered for a few minutes to discuss Bob’s request to meet Valentina. It wasn’t a decision to make lightly, so they agreed to save the deeper conversation for another day. For now, Bob had already ordered the pizza, and none of them were eager to let it go cold.

But when they filed out toward the living room, expecting warm boxes stacked on the table and Bob waiting with his usual nervous smile, they were met with… nothing. No Bob. No pizza. Not even the faintest whiff of melted cheese. Yelena’s brow arched, a ripple of unease threading through her exhaustion. Something was off.

“Oh, don’t tell me he forgot. I’m starving,” Walker groaned, throwing his hands up like the world had wronged him.

Ava shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass, clearly still simmering over their earlier phone call. “Didn’t you already eat with your kiddo?”

“Yeah—five hours ago! I’m a super soldier, I metabolize calories faster than—”

“Look at me, I’m a super soldier,” Ava mocked in perfect imitation, rolling her eyes. Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hungry and irritated, he caught Yelena’s glance. She was only half-listening, her focus sweeping the room with a predator’s patience as if she could will Bob to materialize. Her leadership was faltering under the edge of unease.

“Enough, you two,” Bucky cut in, his voice flat but firm. “If he didn’t call it in, we’ll do it ourselves. Thirty minutes, tops.”

“Ah, I’ll go for the good stuff in the meantime! I’m thirsty! Captain—beer for you, da? Ava, tequila?” Alexei called out cheerfully, listing everyone’s usual drinks in a booming attempt to cut the tension. His heavy steps echoed toward the bar.

But before he reached it, the elevator chimed.

Yelena turned sharply, relief flickering over her features when she spotted the familiar mop of brunette curls. “Hey, where were you?” she asked, her tone lined with confusion. Bob had texted her he was heading to the second reception for the pizzas half an hour ago.

He scratched his chin, looking uneasy. “I went looking for the delivery girl. They said she’d come in and left the pizzas at the second reception, but when I got there—no boxes. Then I checked the entrance. Nothing there either.”

A silence stretched, tension prickling through the air. The simple act of getting dinner had just twisted into something else entirely considering security wouldn't have told them they had a delivery if they hadn't opened the main gates.

“Maybe it’s just a fan who wants to meet us,” Walker offered, smugly certain, and so far off reality that the rest of the room stared at him, unimpressed.

Before Ava could bite his head off, Bob spoke up, his voice tentative. “Maybe… she just got lost?”

“Or maybe it’s someone crazy with a bomb,” Bucky countered flatly. His jaw tensed, his instincts sharpening. “Either way, we should check the security feeds before making assumptions.”

The room was shifting into strategy mode when Walker suddenly threw up a hand. “Shhh. Do you hear that?”

Yelena frowned, scanning the space. At first, she heard nothing. But then the super soldiers stilled, their expressions flickering as they caught it before she finally did too.

A soft, unmistakable sound.

Snoring.

Someone was snoring in their living room.

Confusion rippled across their faces. How the hell had someone gotten in here—and had the nerve to fall asleep?They froze, the entire team exchanging wary glances before quietly following the faint sound. Step by step, the trail led them straight to the bathroom.The decision was unspoken—Bucky reached out and pulled the door open.

The delivery girl tumbled forward, crashing into the floor. Apparently, she’d fallen asleep leaning against the door. She scrambled upright almost instantly, panic flashing in her dazed eyes as she tried to catch up to reality.No one reached for a weapon. It was clear at a glance this woman wasn’t a direct threat. If anything, she looked like she needed help. Her clothes reeked faintly of sweat and stale perfume, her hair was a mess, and the heavy bags under her reddened eyes made it obvious she hadn’t slept properly in days.

For a second, she scanned them all with wild, cornered energy—until her gaze landed on Bob.That was when her face twisted. Her body stiffened, her jaw clenched, and her expression soured into a scowl so sharp it cut through the room. Bob, caught in her glare, blinked back at her in utter confusion.

“You.” Her voice was a hiss, raw and small and full of venom. Before anyone could process it, she lunged—hand arcing for his face as if to slap, scratch, do anything to land a hurt he would remember. The last few days had shredded her: sleepless nights, nightmares of being disowned, endless travel in filthy conditions, humiliation and fear. And there he was—Robert—looking exactly as she’d stored him in memory: aloof, almost disarmingly placid, a face that didn’t seem capable of causing real harm.

“I’m going to kill you, Robert!” she spat.

Everyone snapped into action. “Hey!” Bucky was the fastest—his metal arm closed around her waist, firm and unyielding, shrugging off her frantic blows. Walker and Ava slid up to flank Robert and Yelena, protective barriers of muscle and glare. Yelena stepped closer, clutching at Robert’s sleeve as if to anchor him. Robert stood frozen, bewilderment written across his features.

“I’m going to kill you and spit on your grave and demand a death certificate!” Lindy screamed, thrashing wildly. She smashed at Bucky’s armored arm to no avail. Around them, the room filled with stunned, angry looks. Alexei only loosened his grip on his vodka bottles long enough to blink in astonishment—this wasn’t the behavior he expected toward someone he’d taken to liking. Nobody could explain why this frantic, exhausted woman was bent on violence toward one of the gentlest men in the room.

“Alexei, call the police,” Yelena said, her voice cold and flat. Threats toward Bob weren’t negotiable—no explanation, no excuse would make them acceptable. The order snapped through the room; Alexei’s hand went for his phone.

“Wait—no, no! I take it back, don’t call the police! DON’T CALL THE POLICE!” Lindy shrieked, panic cracking her voice. She twisted in Bucky’s iron grip and pleaded, frantic. “Let me go and I’ll explain.”

“You wish,” Walker growled, stance rigid, not lowering his guard for a second. Ava’s expression was a hard, disbelieving stare, like she was watching someone unravel before her.

Lindy’s desperation turned louder, more raw. She clawed for any thread that might buy her a hearing, shouting until every head in the room turned toward her. “W-Wait! Don’t—he knows me. I’m Lindy Reynolds!”

The name dropped into the air like a bomb. For a beat, everything froze: the hum of the training room, the rustle of clothing, even Bucky’s steadying grip. Time seemed to stop as the team stared at her, the claim hanging between accusation and the possibility of a far stranger truth.

The silence was heavy, suffocating. Yelena’s chest tightened, her gut twisting with a bitter sting of disbelief that flared into something sharper—betrayal. Bob looked stunned, bewildered, like the words hadn’t even registered. But the very possibility—that there was truth behind them—was absurd, painful, unbearable. Her jaw clenched, and before anyone else could break the moment, her voice cut through the stillness, sharp with offense.

“I’m sorry, Lindy who?!” Yelena blurted, her voice sharp with disbelief. The room went silent. Every head turned toward the stranger again, like the situation was too surreal for doing anything but stare. Lindy lifted her chin, meeting the weight of their stares without flinching.

“Reynolds,” she declared. “Lindy Reynolds.”

Yelena’s gaze snapped immediately to Bob. He looked frozen in place, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights—jaw half-open, hands twitching at his sides. Her stomach sank. Oh, he better have a good explanation for this. Because this woman did not just stroll in here and claim to be his wife.

Chapter Text

"Any married man should forget his mistakes, there's no use in two people remembering the same thing."

Growing up, Bob wanted many things out of life: to go to college, to study engineering, to buy his own car, to pull his mother out of their abusive household and help her manage her alcoholism and mental illness. He dreamed of stability, of freedom, of a future where things finally made sense.

Marriage, however, was never on that list.

Not because he despised the idea—Bob had nothing against marriage as an institution—but because it simply felt alien to him. His reasons were stacked and unshakable. For one, his only examples of it—his parents—had left him with a bitter impression of what marriage could be: a battlefield, not a sanctuary. Second, he doubted he would ever find someone who could love him enough to want to marry him, let alone someone he wouldn’t end up disappointing. Third, his life was far too chaotic—wrecked by drugs, instability, and self-destruction—to allow room for vows or permanence. And lastly, perhaps most painfully, he refused to bring a child into the world only to risk repeating the cycle of neglect he had endured himself.

So, for Bob Reynolds, marriage was never a dream. It was a distant, impossible concept—something meant for other people, people better than him. The idea of a stranger storming in and screaming that they were married was absurd—unthinkable. And yet… there was something faintly familiar about her. A flicker of recognition he couldn’t place, like a shadow at the edge of memory.

Her declaration had shocked them all enough that Bucky loosened his hold, allowing her to slip free. She wasted no time putting three paces between them, glaring as though she’d just stared down a seasoned assassin. Then she advanced on Bob again, fury radiating off her with every step.

She didn’t get far.

Yelena stepped forward, planting herself squarely between them. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her scowl almost as sharp as Lindy’s. “You stay away from him,” she warned, her voice low and cold.

Relief washed through Bob—until Yelena turned that same burning stare on him.

“And you,” she snapped, “better start explaining yourself.” Every eye in the room bore down on Bob now, the silence more suffocating than Lindy’s accusations. Yelena’s voice had already cut through once, but the echo of her demand still lingered, pressing him for answers he didn’t have.

Bob blinked, wide-eyed, his mouth opening and closing as if the words had been stolen right out of his throat. “I—I don’t… I don’t even know her,” he stammered, the denial shaky but earnest. His brows knitted as he looked between Lindy’s furious face and the others’ searching stares. “I swear, I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Lindy laughed bitterly, still pinned by Bucky’s iron grip. “Never seen me? Robert Reynolds, you married me! Five years ago, in Malaysia.! Don’t you dare stand there and pretend you don’t know who I am!”

"I don't know who you are!" He barked equal parts annoyed and desperate. Even as he said it, the contradictions hung in the air. The stranger had walked in and spotted him instantly among the group. She had called him by his full name—information that wasn’t public knowledge, something only the team and Valentina’s files should contain. And worse, this wasn’t the first time Bob had sworn ignorance only for the truth to catch him later. They all remembered the vault, and how he’d promised he knew nothing—when in reality, he had known more than he dared to admit.

The air bristled with a strange, almost bitter déjà vu.

Walker was the first to scoff. “Sound familiar? Guy swears he doesn’t know a damn thing, and surprise, surprise—turns out to be a lie later-ow!” His voice dripped with accusation harshly cut by Ava's kick for almost talking too much, Bob quirked a brow confused about to retort when Lindy's acussations brought him back to the problem at hand.

"Oh don't play dumb, you know what you did!" He looked confused, offended even at the acussations and too dumbfounded to manage out coherent sentences. Yelena exhaled through her nose, they should have been taking his side. Bob was theirs—awkward, quiet, painfully kind—and the instinct was to protect him. But there was a catch they all knew too well: Bob was prone to doing things he couldn’t remember later. Sometimes minor, sometimes terrifying. And that meant the possibility, however small, wasn’t entirely impossible.

And then there was her.

The woman radiated the kind of chaotic energy they had seen in Bob when they’d first pulled him out of the vault—frantic, unhinged, driven by something even she couldn’t quite control. Looking at her, it wasn’t hard to imagine the two of them colliding at some low point in his past, in some haze of poor choices.

God only knew what Bob had been into during those years in Malaysia.

“Thanks, Yelena. It means a lot that you’ve got my back.”

That was what Bob had told her that very morning. The memory made Yelena still her anger, fighting to keep a cool head. She couldn’t just bite Bob’s head off because some random woman had barged in claiming to be his wife. For all they knew, this could be an elaborate lie, a ploy. Bob had forgotten things before, yes—but he had also been targeted before.

Still gripping his sleeve like an anchor, Yelena squared her shoulders and turned her scowl full force on Lindy. “You could be making all of this up. Frankly, you sound like a deranged street lunatic, and I wouldn’t trust a word out of your mouth. I say we call the police anyway.”

Lindy’s face flushed with outrage. She jabbed a perfectly manicured finger toward Yelena, the large diamond engagement ring glinting accusingly in the light. The sight twisted bitterly in Yelena’s chest. Was that an old gift from Bob? Or some prop to make the act more convincing?

“You have some nerve saying that with that nest on your head!” Lindy spat critizicing her hair with her pride wounded. “If you think you can talk to me like that, you’re the crazy one!”

Bucky’s grip tightened as he felt her thrash, dangerously close to launching herself at Yelena. He expected Yelena to back off after pressing her buttons like she usually would, but the look in her eyes made his stomach turn—cold, sharp recognition.

“It was you,” Yelena snapped, finger stabbing toward Lindy her own bags under her eyes more evident as she spoke out loud her crimes. “You were the one screaming outside at four in the morning.” Her voice was ice, thick Russian accent as she glares at her. “Listen, I don’t care who you think you are! We’re the Avengers. We have jurisdiction over any slimy little white-collar contacts you think will protect you. So you better leave right damn now.”

"Don't you mean the B-Vengers?" Lindy spat condescending, getting a communal glare from the team.

“I—uhm—” Bob stammered, but both blondes rounded on him in unison.

“You shut up!” they barked.

Bob staggered back two steps, startled. Alexei gave him a heavy pat on the back, a silent piece of advice: Don’t get between two angry women. Not if you value your life. Alexei’s broad hand closed firmly around Yelena’s arm as a precaution, anchoring her before the shouting boiled over into something worse. The blonde in front of them was already thrashing, spitting accusations, and Yelena’s eyes burned with a fury that promised she wouldn’t hold back if given the chance.

That was when Bucky barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a gunshot.

“Enough!”

The room stilled for a beat under the sheer authority in his tone. He leveled Yelena with a hard stare. “You stay with Bob. Ask him what he knows.” Then, with a sharp motion, he gestured toward their uninvited guest. “And you—come with me.”

Without waiting for protest, he signaled to Walker and Ava. Both moved without hesitation, falling in step as Bucky corralled the furious woman out of the living room. It was obvious to all of them that nothing useful would come from letting her and Yelena claw at each other. If there was any truth in her story, they’d dig it out the old-fashioned way—away from Bob, and away from Yelena’s wrath.

“Yelena, I’ll let you go now. Promise not to fry alive son-in-law, da?” Alexei quipped in his usual booming humor, trying to cut the tension. But his joke landed flat. Bob winced, and Yelena turned a hard scowl on Alexei that could have cut stone.

“Then let me. Stop acting like I’m going to snap,” she snapped back, voice edged but steadier than before. Oddly, she did feel calmer now that the stranger was gone, but the weight of her words hadn’t left her. Her chest was still tight with unease, her mind circling back to the accusations. The ring. The name. The way the woman had looked straight at Bob as if she knew him to his bones.

Yelena folded her arms, grounding herself in that stance, half defensive, half demanding. She glanced sideways at Bob, taking in the way he stood—shoulders hunched, confusion etched into every line of his face. He looked guilty and lost at the same time, and that only made her heart pound harder.

“Well?” she said finally, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the silence. “Explain. What do you know?”

Bob swallowed, visibly struggling. His hands tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie like he could hide inside it. “I—I don’t know what to say. I swear, Yelena, I don’t know her.” His words came fast, almost tripping over each other. “I’ve never seen her before, not that I remember. And I would remember—something like marriage? I… I’d remember that.”

She tilted her head, gaze narrowing. “That’s the problem, Bob. You don’t always remember, do you?”

The words hung heavy between them. Bob flinched, and for a moment, he couldn’t meet her eyes. His silence filled in more blanks than any denial could. Yelena exhaled slowly, forcing down the sting of frustration. She wanted to trust him—God, she wanted to—but the image of that woman’s diamond ring still burned in her mind. And she couldn’t ignore how easily Bob’s past could have spiraled into a blur of drugs, blackouts, and choices he didn’t remember making.

Those were the big lows—the hollow stretches after a high, when the world went dim and Bob’s memory turned to static. Yelena knew the pattern too well: the sudden confidence, the restless energy, the reckless brightness that made him feel invincible… followed by the crash, the blank spaces he couldn’t fill no matter how hard he tried. If she had to guess, the only explanation that fit was brutal in its simplicity: he’d married the woman while riding a high, then forgotten the entire thing once the low devoured him. If he married her. That last word clung like a lifeline in her mind—if—a thin strip of denial she wasn’t ready to let go.

Part of her wanted to grip that denial until her knuckles went white. It was easier to believe the woman was lying than to accept the idea of a ceremony, papers, vows said by a version of Bob who didn’t even remember being there. Easier to think “Lindy Reynolds” had forged documents or dug up some bureaucratic mess than to picture Bob, wild-eyed and euphoric, saying I do to a stranger in a place he could barely pronounce.

Another part of her wasn’t so merciful. That part simmered, imagining Lindy gone—pushed out of their lives with the same force she’d barged in. The woman had stormed their home like a bomb, and Yelena could still feel the aftershock thrumming in her bones. Rage wanted an outlet. It flicked through her like a blade: how dare this stranger tear open the fragile peace they’d built, drag Bob into a past he couldn’t defend or even remember.

And beneath the anger, a colder calculation coiled. If this was real, it wasn’t just messy—it was dangerous. Valentina would smell blood in the water. Lawyers, headlines, leverage—Yelena could see the chain reaction already snapping into place. She folded her arms tighter across her chest, trying to anchor herself against the undertow of feeling. Whether she liked it or not, the next move had to be careful, deliberate. Find the truth. Protect Bob. And if the truth matched the nightmare? Then she would do what she always did—stand between him and the fallout, no matter how hard it burned.

Bucky left Lindy with Ava in the interrogation room and took the long way around with Walker, the two of them playing “good hosts” with a bottle of water and a paper plate of food. It was diplomacy as delay—time to soften her edges while the team dug for leverage. The water glass would give them a clean saliva sample if it came to that; the food was a distraction meant to lower her guard. Walker peeled off toward the living room to hover by the door, while Bucky slipped into the comms alcove and woke their in-house database. He kept the interface on silent—no one on the team tolerated that eerie synthetic voice that always sounded one step away from judgment.

The search was quick, the results cold. Lindy Reynolds Lee. Married to Robert Reynolds. Five years ago. The registry listed Malaysia—no venue, just a date—and an electronic transmittal to U.S. records about a month after the ceremony. Official stamps. Proper routing. No obvious tampering. Bucky’s gaze tracked the date again, heartbeat hitching as it overlapped with the window Bob had described—the timeline of the Sentry experiments. The pieces aligned in a way that made his gut sink: if the document was genuine, then Lindy wasn’t spinning a story.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. It still didn’t make sense—why there, why then, why her—but the paper trail didn’t care about his confusion. It sat there, blunt and undeniable, and Bucky wasn’t one to judge by reputation or appearances—but nothing about Lindy Lee fit the picture of someone who would have crossed paths with Robert, let alone married him. On paper, she was the only daughter of an old-money, traditional American family; polished, well-connected, and raised to move through the world with a certain cultivated ease. She’d gone to university, graduated, even done a respectable stint as a researcher. On top of that, she’d built a glossy life online—an influencer with the curated shine high society adored: immaculate styling, brand partnerships, charity events, the whole porcelain package. (Bucky, the unapologetic old man that he was, tried not to wince at the word influencer.)

The more he scrolled, the less it made sense. Her recent feeds were a highlight reel of expensive smiles and careful lighting—openly showing her involved with another man, the kind you could take home to traditional parents without a single raised eyebrow. She looked like she belonged at art auctions and black-tie galas, not in the proximity of a man like Robert Reynolds—faded hoodie, a book half the time, a history full of missing pieces. If there was a Venn diagram of their lives, Bucky couldn’t see the overlap. I guess that's what she needs to clear for us...

When Bucky stepped back into the interrogation room, he expected tension—just not this.

Lindy had already drained the water and coffee they’d offered and demolished the food. She’d also uncapped an expensive-looking lipstick and used it as a marker, scrawling across the whiteboard behind her in glossy, furious strokes. The board was covered in a rough timeline: May → August, dotted with the names of bars and neighborhoods, lines threading them together. She turned as he entered, eyes sharp, and jabbed the lipstick at a point on the line.

“See? I was in Malaysia from May to August,” she said, voice tight but controlled. “Robert shows up here—” a neat dot—“and then disappears here.” Another dot. Between them, she’d drawn a thick, aggressive question mark that bled crimson against the white. “My guess? He got me high and married me somewhere in July or August, right before he vanished.”

Bucky forced himself to keep his face neutral. He couldn’t deny what he’d just pulled from the database: a legal marriage certificate, properly transmitted, the date brushing up against the start of the Sentry experiments. It hurt to admit, but Lindy didn’t look like a liar—unhinged, exhausted, yes; armed with a grudge, definitely—but not delusional. And whatever else Bob was, he had a past full of holes big enough to lose vows in.

Ava stood with arms crossed, unimpressed. Walker looked outright irritated.

“Right,” Walker drawled, folding his arms tighter. “Bobby made you marry him. Sure. He can barely work up the nerve to hold Yelena’s hand, and you want us to believe he railroaded you down an aisle?”

The jab landed, and for once Bucky found himself grateful Walker had taken Bob’s side. Even so, the thought lingered—unwelcome and heavy—that they might all owe this woman an apology. If the paper trail was real, then the mess didn’t belong only to her. It belonged to Bob, too. And that truth, as much as Bucky hated it, didn’t care who they preferred to believe.

Bucky cleared his throat to announce himself. Ava and Walker turned, bracing for the Winter Soldier to return with a thick dossier—photos, background pulls, proof she was an agent sent to pry into Project Sentry. Instead, he carried a single sheet of paper. One. He gestured for Lindy to sit. She obeyed, lowering herself into the chair across from them. Bucky took the seat between Ava and Walker and laid the paper flat on the table, squaring its corners with quiet precision.

“You’re right,” he said, voice even. “There was a marriage in Malaysia five years ago. This is a copy of the certificate.”

Walker blinked. “There is?” His confusion curdled into shock.

Ava leaned in, eyes narrowing as she read. “Come again?”

Across from them, Lindy lifted a trembling hand as if to say thank you—or finally. Relief flashed through her face, bright and raw, before exhaustion dragged her shoulders down. “See?” she breathed, the edge in her voice giving way to bone-deep fatigue. “I’m not crazy. I told you I was telling the truth.” She sagged into the chair, like a string pulled taut for days had finally snapped.

Walker stared at the page as if it might rearrange itself into a more palatable answer. Anger began to simmer under his stunned expression—not at Lindy now, but at the idea of what this meant. For all his flaws, he was a traditionalist; marriage, to him, was a line you didn’t cross as a joke or a casualty of chaos. The thought of a teammate—his teammate—tangled up in vows he couldn’t even remember wrenched something unsettled in his chest.

Ava’s jaw worked once, a tell she rarely let show. She kept scanning the print: names, dates, the Malaysian registry notation, the electronic transmission to U.S. records a month after. No obvious tampering, no sloppy forgery. Just the kind of bureaucratic stamp that didn’t care about heartbreak. Bucky sat back, watching their reactions as the truth landed. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. They were past speculation now. Past the luxury of disbelief.

Bucky set the certificate back on the table and folded his hands. “This only proves there was a ceremony,” he said evenly. “It doesn’t tell us how or why you both decided to get married.” He put weight on both, holding Lindy’s gaze until she flinched. “And if you think Bob is the type to prey on women and pull a stunt like that, then you don’t know Robert Reynolds.” On that point, no one argued—not even Walker, despite the knot in his jaw. Whatever else Bob was, a predator wasn’t it. This smelled like a disaster, not a scheme. “So,” Bucky continued, voice cooling a degree, “what do you remember?”

Lindy opened her mouth, then shut it. When she finally spoke, it was a whisper frayed at the edges. “I—I don’t know… nothing.”

Walker’s patience snapped. “What do you mean nothing? You have to remember something.” She tensed, eyes dropping to her hands, thumbs pressing hard into her palms. A hot sheen of tears gathered, and she tried to blink them back—failed—tilting her chin up in a brittle attempt at pride, as she realized the three antiheroes sat across from her—unyielding, ready to defend Robert against anything—while she sat on the other side of the table exhausted, grimy, and utterly alone. “Come on, think, Lindy!” Walker pushed, words landing too hard, too fast. “You’re an adult. You can’t pretend ignorance and dump this on Bobby. Marriages don’t implode one way. So think.” Across the table, Ava shot him a look; the jab felt too close to home, and from the flicker in Bucky’s eyes, he knew it too. She drew breath to intervene, but Lindy beat her to it, the dam breaking.

“I don’t know, okay!?” The words cracked. “I don’t know!” She glared at Walker, then at all of them, fury and humiliation burning through the exhaustion. Tears slid freely now, her lower lip trembling, though she held the sobs down like she could smother them by will alone. “I don’t know how, or when, or why I did it. I just know it happened. I found out a week before my wedding, and it’s ruined my life.” Silence fell, sudden and heavy.

Ava’s posture softened first, arms loosening from their defensive fold. Walker looked away, swallowing whatever lecture he had left. Bucky studied Lindy’s face—the smeared mascara, the stubborn set of her mouth, the ring that flashed every time her hands shook—and cataloged the pieces: a legal record, a timeline that lined up, a woman in free fall. No tidy answers. No villains that fit cleanly. He slid a tissue box across the table—not dramatics, not pity, just a practical offer—and spoke in the same measured tone he’d use defusing a bomb.

“Then we work with what we do have. You were in Malaysia from May to August. You met Robert somewhere in that window. He disappeared near the end of it. We’ll verify the issuing office on this certificate, pull travel logs, bar cameras, anything we can get that helps us prove it was done under the effects of illicit substances and it can be invalidated.”

He held her eyes with his own gaze, a bit less cold now. “And we’ll talk to Bob—carefully. If there’s a memory there, we’ll find it. But no one’s putting this on you alone. Or on him alone.”

Lindy’s shoulders sagged—the smallest surrender—and she nodded, once. Walker exhaled, shame prickling under his earlier bark. Ava reached for the pen, circling the dates on the copy like she was drawing a perimeter around a wound. The interrogation room felt less like a court and more like triage. No one was innocent. No one was a monster. And somewhere between a signature in Malaysia and a missing month of memory, a truth waited—ugly, complicated, and finally within reach.

“I—I don’t know, Yelena. I truly don’t remember anything—almost anything—from Malaysia,” Bob admitted, shame coloring his voice. Alexei sat nearby, posted against the wall: close enough to listen as a teammate, far enough to give them the privacy of a couple they insisted they weren’t. “It wasn’t my brightest time,” Bob went on, swallowing hard. “I was… almost broken. I didn’t care what happened to me. I just wanted easier, cheaper drugs. I remember parties—bits and pieces—but I can’t place her anywhere in my head.” He pressed his fingers to his temples as if he could squeeze clarity from fog. The harder he tried, the emptier it felt.

“I swear,” he said, voice cracking wondering if kneeling would be too much, “I would never consciously do that—marry someone—and then just leave like it didn’t matter. I know there’s nothing between her and me. I’d remember if I felt something for her.” The reassurance was meant for both of them, but as the words left him, a new fear surged—if feelings could be erased, if Lindy’s claims were true, could he ever forget Yelena too? The thought made his stomach twist. Yelena exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. She knew he wasn’t that kind of person. But the lack of memory didn’t help.

“Bob,” she said, voice low but firm, “I’m hoping this is one big drug-fueled misunderstanding. And honestly? I hope the ‘marriage’ turns out fake, because that’s easier to fix than a legal mess if it isn’t. But if what she says is true, there are things you need to be careful about.”

“I—I’m sorry,” he said, at a loss for anything else. He sagged forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, wondering why life had chosen now—when things were finally good—to spin out beneath his feet. Bitterness pricked behind his eyes. He braced himself for yelling, for an insult, even a slap; he’d been hurt for less than this.

Instead, the cushion beside him dipped.

Yelena’s hand found his. The contact jolted through him—hope and terror knotted together. He looked up and found only compassion in her gaze, the familiar warmth she offered whenever he went dark inside. The tight breath he’d been holding slipped out. He tightened his fingers around hers.

“Hey,” she said softly, steady as a guardrail. “It’s alright. We’ll sort this out, okay? We always do.” We. Not you. The word struck him hard, easing something tight in his chest. His shoulders loosened; his eyes softened.

“O-okay. Good.” A shaky smile ghosted across his face as he leaned a fraction closer, as if the space between them was a small bubble where the world couldn’t interfere for a minute. “What do I have to be careful about, though?”

“I think it’s something we need to discuss with the others,” Yelena said at last, choosing each word like she was laying down stepping stones over thin ice. “Maybe tomorrow. But it ties to what we talked about this morning—and to today’s meeting with Valentina.”

Bob’s brows knit. The fragile calm he’d built with her steadied hand wavered. “Because of… her?”

“Because of everything,” Yelena replied, gentler now. She dropped onto the coffee table opposite him so they were eye level, elbows on her knees, fingers laced. “Look, I want to protect you from every bad thing with teeth. I do. But after this? It’s clear you need the full picture to protect yourself too.” He pressed his lips together, waiting. Yelena exhaled through her nose, as if bracing for recoil. “Six months ago, when we pulled you out of a vault after something went catastrophically wrong. We kept the details soft because you were… raw. But Valentina’s been circling you ever since, and the timing of Lindy’s appearance is much of a coincidence. If she’s real—if that certificate holds—then someone will try to use her, or you, as leverage.” A beat. “Valentina most of all.”

Bob swallowed. “So what’s the ‘full picture’?”

“Pieces,” Yelena said, steadying her tone. “The part you know: lost time, highs and crashes, gaps that feel like someone cut scenes out of your life.  Something that changed you. It broke things and stitched others together wrong. That’s why Valentina wants to get to you, to keep you in a box or on a leash. It’s why we keep her at the door.” She watched his face for signs of panic, scaled her words back when she saw his throat work. “And it’s why I was… defensive today.”

His eyes searched hers. “Defensive how?”

Her mouth twitched—half self-mockery, half warning. “I nearly broke your ‘wife’s’ nose.”

He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a flinch. “Right.”

“I’m not proud of it,” Yelena admitted. “But when something threatens you, I don’t think—I move. That’s useful in a fight. Less useful when there are marriage certificates and cameras.” She reached out, palm up, inviting rather than taking. “I don’t want to keep you in the dark anymore. I never was okay with it. But back then we didn't know how to deal with it and time passed, now is been long and complicated enough, this must be told." She looked over Bob's shoulders, Alexei nodded solemnly he had shared her posture since the begginig, they had been out numbered by John, Ava and Bucky.

He placed his hand in hers, tentative like doing a handshake and staying still all at once, in reality it was just his nerves. “So what happens tomorrow?”

“It depends on whatever conclusion they reach with that girl,” Yelena said, working hard to sand the bitterness out of her tone. She trusted Bucky to wring the truth out of the situation—fake or not, he’d bring back something they could use.

“No matter the conclusion, everything can be fixed, Bob,” Alexei offered, deciding it was safe to speak now that Yelena’s temper had cooled. He clapped a meaty hand to Bob’s shoulder. “You just divorce American woman and marry Yelena later, da?”

“Uhhm—”

“Ugh, shut up,” Yelena snapped, not in the mood for his brand of optimism. She shot him a glare that could peel paint. Bob, grateful for the distraction and mortified all at once, was equally grateful that she didn’t notice the faint flush creeping up his cheeks.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—to steer the room back to sanity when the elevator chimed and Walker stepped in. Alone. He looked wrung out: shoulders tight, expression somewhere between confused and annoyed.

Yelena released Bob’s hand and rose in a single motion, posture snapping into focus. “Well?”

Walker raked a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose. “Short version? She’s not lying about the paper.” He lifted a palm, forestalling the immediate protests. “Bucky verified what he could on short notice. Certificate lines up with a Malaysian registry entry and a U.S. transmittal date. No red flags in the document itself.”

Yelena’s jaw set; Bob’s stomach dropped.

Walker continued, tone clipped. “But that’s all we can confirm right now. No venue, no witnesses listed in the copy she has, and no usable memory on her side beyond a timeline of bars and neighborhoods. Ava’s pressing for travel logs and surveillance pulls—airport cams, hotels, the usual.”

He glanced between the two of them, reading the tension like a weather report. “Bucky’s keeping her in the room for now. She’s exhausted, not hostile. If this was a scam, it’s a weird one. If it’s real… we’ve got a legal knot and a PR grenade.”

Alexei grunted. “So: knot and grenade. We cut knot, bury grenade.”

Yelena ignored him, eyes never leaving Walker. “Next step?”

“She’s taking a bath on Bucky’s floor,” Walker reported. Yelena’s expression soured, like the idea of offering amenities to their intruder was personally offensive. Walker didn’t say out loud that they all felt a little guilty for making the woman cry—they were supposed to be hardened operatives, after all—so he offered the half-truth instead. “She said she’d be more cooperative after a shower and some sleep. She’s already checked hotel bookings on her phone. Oh—and we need a change of clothes.”

Yelena stared at him, scandalized. “No way. I’m not letting her use my clothes.”

“You’re the same size,” Walker pointed out, too tired to sugarcoat it.

“Forget it.”

“You know Ava doesn’t keep much besides suits,” he tried again.

Yelena folded her arms, immovable. “Then one of you lend her something.” Her tone left no room for debate. Without waiting for a response, she caught Bob’s hand and tugged him toward the elevator. “Come on, Bob. Let’s order dinner before we all kill each other.”

Walker didn’t miss how neatly she’d removed the possibility of Bob offering one of his oversized shirts. He shook his head and dropped onto the couch with a defeated sigh.

“Women,” he muttered, then lifted his chin at Alexei. “Now I want that drink.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Alexei rumbled, already moving toward the bar like a ship’s quartermaster answering a storm. The clink of glass and the soft rush of poured liquor filled the living room, trying—and just barely failing—to drown out the day’s chaos.

Lindy had been in the bathroom forty-five minutes when Bucky started to wonder if a welfare check would be intrusive or just common sense. He hovered outside the door, listening to the steady hiss of the shower and the occasional clatter of bottles. The steam creeping from under the threshold was reassuring, but his mind—trained to find worst cases—supplied a dozen grim possibilities anyway. You could do a lot with a length of hose and a locked door. He glanced at his watch. Forty-seven.

Objectively, the situation was a mess; subjectively, he suspected Lindy was drowning in a thimble. A quick search had already painted a picture he had little patience for: polished heiress, curated feeds, the kind of New Gen polish that lived and died by ring lights and follower counts. Spoiled, image-obsessed, dramatic—the archetype that captioned “worst day of my life” because a barista spelled her name wrong. That didn’t make her a villain; it just made her a headache. And right now his headache was fogging up his hallway and monopolizing his shower like she was filming a luxury skincare ad.

He pressed his palm to the door—warm. Water still running. No thud, no silence, no instinctive curl in his gut that meant move now. He exhaled and leaned back against the opposite wall, eyeing the folded stack of towels he’d set out: clean, soft, utilitarian gray. He imagined the alternative—some “it-girl routine” with petals and scented oils and a soundtrack—and rolled his eyes at himself for even picturing it. This was a safe house, not a spa. Forty-nine.

At fifty minutes, he knocked—knuckles firm, not friendly. “Lee,” he called, voice cutting through the rush of water, “it’s a quick shower, not a spa. Come out already.”

There was a pause. The water snapped off. For a heartbeat he heard only the damp hush of the room and a faint, shivery breath on the other side of the door. Then the soft scuff of feet on tile, the whisper of a towel yanked free, the hollow clunk of a bottle set down with a little too much force. He could picture the scene without wanting to: smeared mascara chased down the drain, eyes pink from heat and crying, pride reassembled in the mirror one piece at a time.

“Two minutes,” her voice came at last—raw but steadying. “I’ll be out in two.”

Bucky checked his watch again, irritation cooling into something grimmer and more useful: a timetable. “Make it one,” he said, and stayed posted by the door until he heard the lock turn. 

Bucky checked his phone, half-expecting a “handled” from Walker and instead getting a single, utilitarian text:

Ava doesn’t have clothes. Yelena refused. Bob’s out getting food. I don’t have anything clean.

He exhaled through his nose. Translation: you lend the stranger something. Fine.

He looked around his room—a soldier’s space, pared down to essentials. No frills, no clutter. The bed was hospital-cornered, the nightstand held a book and a charging cable, and the closet was a dark wall of black and gray. He pulled the door open and started sorting by habit: clean, durable, nothing sentimental. A plain black tee. Another, just in case. Sweatpants—black as well—with an elastic waistband that still had bite. She was smaller than him by a mile, but the drawstring would do the heavy lifting. He snagged a fresh pair of thick socks; floors in this part of the tower ran cold when the HVAC turned over.

He hesitated at the shelf of hoodies. Most were interchangeable to anyone else, but he knew which ones had history stitched into the seams. He chose the one with the least ghosts—a soft, washed-black zip-up that had survived a dry cycle like a champ and didn’t smell like detergent strong enough to strip paint. He gave everything a quick once-over, checking for loose threads, a scuffed cuff, anything she could twist into an insult about standards. Not for her—he didn’t care what she thought—but for himself. He had standards.

His phone buzzed again—nothing new, just the earlier message glaring back at him like a checklist he hadn’t finished. He pocketed it and crossed the hall. Steam still curled in lazy strands under the bathroom door. He set the stack on the neatly made bed in the guest room across from his, the one that existed for nights like this—tired plumbers, shell-shocked witnesses, a place to stage people he didn’t trust inside his space.

“I’m leaving clothes on the bed,” he called, voice even, professional. “I’ll be back in ten to escort you out of the tower.” Escort, not walk. Words mattered. Boundaries mattered more.

He stepped back into the hall, door left open a respectful inch so the steam could vent. The shower had gone quiet; he caught the muffled scrape of the lock turning on the bathroom and the soft rhythm of feet padding against tile, then carpet. He stayed where he was—hands loose at his sides, shoulders relaxed, posture that said I’m not a threat while every nerve mapped the corridor. Years of practice made the stillness look easy. It wasn’t.

Lindy spent the first twenty minutes scrubbing herself back into something human and the next twenty trying to book a room on her phone with pruned fingers and a rising pulse. Each time she tapped “Confirm,” another denial flashed across the screen—card declined, try again, contact your bank. She frowned, thumb hovering, then tried a second card, a third. Same result. No room reserved. No soft bed materializing from the ether. Home was nearly an hour away and she’d burned the last of her cash on coffee and a bad decision with a pizza boy. Not enough left to hire a driver, not tonight.

She stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam curling around her ankles, scrolling one more time as if sheer insistence might force a booking through. Nothing. The screen’s polite Please contact support felt like mockery.

That was when she saw the clothes.

Someone—soldier neat—had laid them out on the guest bed: a simple stack in blacks and gray. Hoodie on top, T-shirt beneath, drawstring sweats, thick socks, the corners squared like they’d been placed with a ruler. Suspiciously male, painfully plain. She made a face and lifted the T-shirt to her nose despite herself.

No cologne bomb. No teenage musk. Clean. A faint mix of soap and bleach, like a laundromat done right. Her shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Fine,” she muttered, conceding to practicality over pride.

She dressed quickly, easing the shirt down over still-warm skin, then tugging the sweats up and cinching the drawstring tight. The waistband bit and held; the legs puddled over her feet until the thick socks tamed them. When she slid into the hoodie, it swallowed her—soft, washed black, sleeves too long by a small, comforting country mile. She shoved her hands through, rolled the cuffs twice, and glanced at herself in the mirror.

The woman staring back looked… less feral. Hair towel-damp and combed back with fingers. Skin pinked from the heat. Eyes still rimmed a little raw from earlier, but clearer now that the city’s grime and the day’s adrenaline had been sluiced away. The ring on her finger flashed when she adjusted the hood—obnoxious proof of everything she was here to untangle. She stared at it for a second too long, jaw tightening, then let her hand fall.

The phone buzzed in her palm—another automated email about her failed booking. She scrolled through her banking app, blinking at the hold notices and fraud flags stacked like dominos. Perfect. Either the system didn’t like a flurry of international activity, or someone had nudged a switch. She couldn’t tell which possibility made her angrier.

Her gaze drifted back to the bed: corners tucked with military precision, not a wrinkle out of place. Whoever owned these clothes lived in straight lines and clean edges. The hoodie smelled like a quiet closet and discipline, not luxury; it felt honest in a way that grated and soothed at once.

She gathered the towel, folded it out of reflex, then hesitated at the threshold. It cost her something—more than she liked to admit—to accept help from strangers in a tower full of people who didn’t want her here. But cold air touched the damp at her collarbone, and exhaustion pulled at her bones like gravity. Pride could wait. Survival won.

She slid the phone into the hoodie pocket, squared her shoulders inside the borrowed fabric, and took a breath that reached the bottom of her lungs. Time to face whoever was waiting on the other side of the hall—the man who’d lent the clothes, the soldier posted like a shadow, the team that looked at her like a problem to be solved. Time to keep going until someone answered the only question that mattered: What did we do?

She stepped into the hall and found him there—posted like a statue beside the door, shoulders squared, hands empty, eyes anything but. The Winter Soldier. Congressman Barnes. The cold focus of his stare made her spine go taut; instinct tugged her gaze away before she pulled it back with effort.

“Thanks for the clothes,” she said, smoothing the hem of the oversized hoodie. “I’m not used to dressing like I’m attending a funeral, but I’ll manage.”

“I am,” he said, dry as concrete. The corner of his mouth didn’t so much as twitch.

Right. Funeral clothes. The thought skittered down her back. How many people had he killed in boots like these, in a jacket like this? The rational part of her brain reminded her of the headlines—deprogrammed, pardoned, trying to make amends—but the other part, the one raised among glassed-in dining rooms and hushed judgments, recoiled. She’d been taught men like him were the rot under the floorboards. And now she was standing here, wrapped in his laundry.

She cleared her throat. Pride would have to wait. “Before you escort me out… could I borrow a phone? My credit cards—everything’s getting declined. My bank apps are acting up.” She lifted her device; the lock screen still flashed another failed booking like a taunt. “I know you want me gone. So do I. I just need to call my bank and… figure it out.”  Bucky decided to end this quickly. He pressed a phone into her hand—a compact Japanese flip model with scuffed edges and a stubborn hinge. No touchscreen, no glare of icons—just buttons and a small, honest screen. It was already more tech than he liked, and yet the look on her face said antique.

Lindy turned it over like it might have a secret compartment, then eased it open with a careful click, as if the whole thing might detonate if she used too much force. “I thought these didn’t exist anymore. My grandpa—” Bucky’s expression didn’t move. The line flattened between his brows. She caught herself, eyes dropping. “Right. Sorry.”

She keyed in the number by feel, the soft plastic buttons giving under her thumb, and crossed the hall to lean against the opposite wall. Steam from the bathroom still threaded the air. The hoodie he’d loaned her held a faint, clean smell; the sleeves fell over her knuckles. She tucked one thumb under a cuff and listened to the dial tone, willing this to be a one-call fix.

A click, then the tinny voice of a menu. She pressed numbers, answered security questions, repeated her name, spelled it twice, gave the last four of a card and then another. Her voice stayed polite and tight around the edges. Behind her, Bucky stood at an angle—watchful without looming, the kind of stillness that said I’m not listening, I’m listening to everything.

“What do you mean canceled? By who?” A minute ago, Lindy’s mouth wore an arrogant scowl; now it thinned to a hard line. She flicked a glance at Bucky, then turned her back on him as if the angle alone could grant privacy.

“I see. No—thank you. I’ll… fix it.” The sigh that followed sounded scraped from the bottom of her lungs.

Without missing a beat, she ended the call and dialed another number, voice dropping to a hush as it connected.

“Dad?”

...

The call lasted a full five minutes. Bucky would’ve liked to say he gave her privacy—that he didn’t eavesdrop. But he wasn’t here to keep her company. He was here to keep an eye on her. And a super soldier failing to use his hearing when it mattered wasn’t prudence; it was negligence.

The picture that formed was exactly the one he expected.

A polished daughter from a traditional family, being taken apart in clipped, parental tones. Credit cards canceled as punishment, the threat of disownment not just implied but enforced. Every time she tried to explain the last five days—panic, flights, dead ends—the voice on the other end cut her down. No space to breathe. No grace. When she said she was with strangers and needed help, the answer didn’t change.

By the time the call ended, Bucky had three takeaways:

1. She was being groomed for trophy-wife perfection, and her parents were livid she’d detonated that future by marrying Robert.

2. She was a disaster at adulthood if she’d leaned on parental money and authority this long.

3. Her fiancé? A coward. He didn’t even pick up.

Lindy tried him three times anyway—nothing. Then she sent a text. Another. When it became clear no cavalry was coming tonight, she hung up and stared at the handset like it had betrayed her. Her lips flattened to a line. A tremor touched her mouth—so slight most people would’ve missed it. She was trying, hard, to keep her face intact. Even in front of a stranger.

“Ahem,” she said, voice steadier than her eyes. “I have a friend who lives nearby. I’ll crash there.”

Bucky regarded her for a beat. She was standing in his hoodie, sleeves rolled twice, stock still but vibrating with humiliation and stubbornness. Pride had teeth; he recognized the bite marks.

“Give me the address,” he said.

Her chin lifted an inch. “I can get there on my own.”

“Yeah? Does this friend live on a bench in Central Park?” Bucky’s reply was curt, brutally honest. He could hear the lie in the pause before she’d said it; no one endures a parental freeze-out and five unanswered calls to a fiancé if there’s a safe couch waiting nearby. “We can’t afford you getting lost just to save face,” he added, unyielding. There was also Valentina to consider—if Lindy drifted, someone would fill her head with the worst possible ideas.

“Stay in a guest room. Tomorrow is safer for fixing your situation.”

Lindy drew a breath like she meant to argue, pride coiling for one more round. Then her shoulders sank. She looked down, chastened and suddenly smaller inside the oversized hoodie.

“Okay.” A beat of silence stretched, awkward and sincere at once. “Thank you,” she added, reluctant but real.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, already guiding her down the hall. He opened the door to the spare room—bed made tight, fresh linens, a folded towel on the chair. No frills, no traps, just a place to stop falling.

She’d eaten already; exhaustion claimed the rest. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she set the ringed hand on the bedspread like it weighed a mile, slipped beneath the covers, and was out in seconds—breath deepening, the edges of her face softening in sleep.

Bucky stood in the doorway a moment longer, listening for trouble and hearing none. He switched off the light, pulled the door to a two-inch crack.

Yelena and Bob actually found the pizzas on their way to the elevator. When the doors slid open, there they were—abandoned inside like evidence, the middle boxes lukewarm, the top and bottom stone-cold.

“For someone impersonating a delivery girl, she didn’t even commit to the bit,” Yelena grumbled.

“Maybe they were heavy for her,” Bob offered, trying to be fair as he gathered the stack with ease.

They carried the boxes back to the common room, where John, Ava, and Alexei were mid-drink, their hushed conversation thinning the instant Yelena and Bob stepped in. Yelena shot them a slit-eyed glance—later—and set the pizzas on the table.

“That was quick. I’m starving,” Walker said, snapping open the top box. He recoiled. “This is cold.”

“They’re the original order,” Bob said, apologetic. “If we call again, we’ll wait longer.”

Ava plucked a slice from Walker’s box without looking at him. He scowled. “If you’re so bothered, go heat them up,” Yelena said, not budging from the couch as she took a bite.

Walker shoved the box into Ava’s hands. “You do it. Least you can do after stealing from my box.”

“Yeah, no. Try again in ten years,” Ava replied, already chewing.

Alexei lifted an entire pizza like a taco and took a heroic bite. Yelena pretended not to notice.

Bob opened the box they shared and quietly picked the mushrooms off his slices, setting them along the cardboard edge for Yelena. She didn’t comment, just claimed them with an easy flick of her fingers, their small ritual settling between them like a familiar blanket.

For a minute, it almost felt like the earlier’s chaos hadn’t happened at all—just a weekend dinner with their usual brand of disorder: Ava’s deadpan theft, Walker’s theatrical suffering, Alexei’s questionable table manners. Yelena leaned back, shoulder brushing Bob’s, and let the noise wash over her. The pizza was cold, the room was loud, and somehow, for a few blessed breaths, everything felt normal again.

Bucky took longer than anyone expected. By the time he finally walked in, Yelena was on her fifth slice, and Bob—quietly confessing he hadn’t eaten since breakfast—was demolishing his second pizza. Alexei perked up the moment the door swung open.

“Hey! Bucky, come ’ere—we saved you two Meat Lovers,” he boomed, pointing at a pair of boxes flanked by a bottle of vodka like a ceremonial guard. Bucky didn’t argue. He poured a glass, tossed it back in a single, steady motion, and reached for a slice. He looked every bit his hundred-odd years for a heartbeat—shoulders loaded, eyes dulled—before his face settled back into the soldier’s mask.

“You sent her away already?” Yelena asked, tone light but edged. “Took you an eternity. Did you walk her home or something?”

Bucky chewed, swallowed, took a breath. “She took an hour-long bath,” he said dryly. He took another bite, then dropped the bomb with the same flat calm he used for weather reports. “She didn’t leave. She’s in the guest room.”

Three heads snapped toward Yelena and Bob at once. Bob tensed, hands hovering like he could ease a storm by gesturing calm down. Yelena turned slowly, affront flaring into a clean, hard line.

“She is what?” Her glass clicked onto the table, sharp as a gavel. “Bucky, you were supposed to escort her out, not adopt her.”

“She had nowhere to go,” Bucky replied, as if stating the temperature. He reached for another slice, refusing to flinch under Yelena’s stare.

Ava scoffed on Yelena’s behalf. “Oh, really? Miss I can buy the whole world couldn’t book a hotel and decided to bunk with the Temu Avengers?” Yelena shot Ava a quick, grateful look that she tried to disguise as a blink. The solidarity helped… a little.

John chimed in, deadpan brutal. “Yeah, I don’t love dealing with whiny, spoiled brats. We’ve got enough with Ava.”

Ava cut him a look that could cauterize wounds. “Keep talking, Captain Protein. See what happens.”

Alexei lifted his vodka and declared, buoyant as ever, “We reject the motion to keep here someone who does not recognize our Avengers’ greatness!” Bucky sighed, long and even, as if he’d been expecting the chorus. He set the slice down and gave the room a steady look, parceling out facts like rations.

“Her cards are on hold—family pulled the plug. Fiancé’s ghosting. Bank needs time to clear flags. It’s late. Security prefers straight lines, not strays wandering Manhattan.” He jerked his chin toward the hall. “She’s asleep. Door cracked. I’m on watch.”

Yelena opened her mouth, then shut it, fury beating against the sides of a cage labeled practicality. “So what? We run a halfway house now?”

“No. We keep her here unless we want trouble,” Bucky said, efficient as ever. “And we try to be the better person by helping someone who needs it.” He almost winced at his own words, but forced himself to follow the example that still anchored him—Steve would have wanted this. “She may be spoiled, annoying, and very loud, but she’s not in a good place. The sooner we unravel this, the better for everyone.”

John scoffed. “We’re always the worse person. That’s why we’re here, remember?”

“Not anymore,” Bucky countered. “Come on. We at least try.” He was their voice of reason—mostly ignored, sometimes heard.

Yelena set her slice down, gaze cutting sideways. “I’m not comfortable with a stranger sleeping here. We don’t know her intentions.”

“All the more reason to keep her where we can watch her,” Bucky said. Then it hit him—they hadn’t asked the one person this all revolved around. He turned to Bob. “You okay with this?”

Bob’s shoulders tightened. He tugged at his sleeves like he wished he could disappear into them. Being asked meant choosing, and choosing meant upsetting someone. He felt Yelena’s focus on the back of his neck—warm, expectant, dangerous—and cleared his throat.

“Uh… I guess it’d be heartless to throw someone out on the street,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t want that to happen to me.”

Silence grazed the room’s edges. Yelena’s jaw ticked once; the flare in her eyes cooled by a degree. John rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Ava leaned back, unreadable, a hint of approval ghosting her mouth. Alexei lifted his glass like a gavel and declared, “Democracy! We keep tiny loud woman. We watch. We solve.”

Yelena exhaled, arms folded tight across her chest, but she knew better than to punish Bob for a decision he’d made with his heart. “Fine. Whatever,” she said, as if it didn’t needle her at all. It did.

She was already sketching contingencies—maybe a “nightmare” tonight that would justify keeping Bob in her room, just in case. A trap set quietly: an extra chair wedged under the handle, her knives within reach, a phone on silent but facedown and ready. Call it paranoia; she called it insurance.

People she loved had a way of disappearing. Nat. Melina. Names that still hollowed her out when she let them. She’d be damned if she lost someone else because she hesitated to look obsessive. If overprotective looked a little unhinged from the outside… so be it. Let them think she was excessive. She knew the cost of letting your guard down—and she refused to pay it again.

Chapter Text

“6 months, 2 weeks, 4 days,
and I still don’t know which month it was then
or what day it is now.
Blurred out lines
from hangovers
to coffee
another vagabond
lost to love.”
                                                                 ― Charlotte Eriksson

Yelena surfaced from sleep in a slow, unsteady climb. One hand felt warmer than the rest of her, a small, steady heat anchoring her to the present. She blinked through the dimness, let the room take shape—soft wash of the bedside lamp, the neat line of her boots by the door, the shadowed edge of the dresser—and finally glanced down at her arm.

Bob’s fingers were laced with hers. Not tight. Not pleading. Just there—loose, sure, unyielding in that gentle way of his. He’d dozed off at some point, slumped against the barricade of pillows he’d stacked to sit upright, chin tipped to his chest, mouth slack in a peace he rarely wore. The angle looked uncomfortable; the sight tugged at something in her chest she refused to name.

For a beat, confusion pricked. Why did I make him stay? And like that? Then memory snapped back into place, clean and unkind. The so-called scam that turned out to be an actual marriage certificate. The pizzas abandoned in the elevator, cold on top and bottom. Valentina’s clipped meeting. The interrogation the harder truths. None of it a carb-induced hallucination. All of it real.

He was here because she’d told him she couldn’t sleep. Because she’d asked, quietly, if he’d sit with her until she fell out. Because she’d known—almost counted on—the fact that he would drift first. Somewhere between talking through what they’d do tomorrow and what they couldn’t undo from six months ago, his nerves had spiked, and her hand had found his, thumb brushing over the bones until his breathing evened. She’d told him what the others wouldn’t say out loud: no one hated him for this. They were angry at the mess, not at him. He’d nodded, not believing it; she’d squeezed once, and he’d believed her instead.

Now, in the quiet, she took inventory like a soldier. His shoulders: tense, even in sleep. The light sheen at his hairline: coming down from a too-bright day. The pulse at his wrist beneath her fingers: steady—good. Her own body: coiled but cooling, the familiar post-adrenaline ache settling in behind her ribs. The room smelled like laundry and soap and the faint, comforting bite their late dinner.

Carefully, she shifted their grip, easing his hand to a better angle so he wouldn’t wake up numb. He murmured something that wasn’t quite a word and settled deeper, trust as unconscious as breath. She stared at their hands a moment longer—hers small and scarred, his big and careful—and allowed herself one private, unguarded thought: I need to protect this, at all costs.

Morning would demand plans: verifying Malaysian records, locking down Valentina’s access, deciding what to say to a woman sleeping down the hall in borrowed clothes. There would be forms and phone calls and the kind of restraint she hated. But not yet.

She finally eased her fingers from his and checked her phone. 6:00 a.m.

Was waking everyone at this time after yesterday cruel? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely. The sooner they told Bob everything about the Sentry project, the better—ideally before the other woman woke up or tried anything. Bucky would normally be up by now; she doubted he’d slept much with Lindy under their roof and had likely spent the night half on watch. John, a walking military campaign, probably rose at four to glare the pizza into digesting.

Yelena opened the team thread (the one without Bob) and typed:

Yelena: We need to talk to Bob about the Sentry project. He found out some things. Help me wake the others.

The typing bubble pulsed once, then—

Walker: What things? Jesus. As if this couldn’t get worse. I’ll meet you with Ava and Alexei in thirty at the gym.

She exhaled through her nose, pocketed the phone, and glanced back at Bob. He hadn’t moved—still angled against the pillows, breathing slow, hand where she’d left it on the blanket. For a heartbeat, she let herself feel the weight of what came next: ripping the gauze off a wound they’d all kept covered, letting the air hit it, trusting it would heal cleaner with daylight and truth. Then she stood.

Yelena slipped out of her room in silence, tugging on the new hoodie—the one Bob had given her—like armor. The corridor was dim, the tower in that breath before morning when even the HVAC seemed to whisper. Bucky’s door—directly across from the guest room—stood open wide, Lindy's open just a crack, just as she expected.

She peered in and had to bite back a laugh. Gramps. He’d planted himself on the edge of the bed, back straight, boots on, pistol within reach—then dozed off in the classic sentry’s slump, chin tipped a fraction, the kind of “sleep” you learned in trenches. She remembered Alexei conking out mid-channel-surf with the remote welded to his hand and felt a traitorous flicker of fondness. Still, she wasn’t suicidal enough to tease the Winter Soldier awake.

She edged to the hinge and pushed the door just enough to make it creak.

The effect was immediate. Bucky’s eyes snapped open in the same heartbeat his hand found the gun, muzzle up and steady before the brain finished cataloging the threat. Ice-blue focus locked on Lindy’s door across the hall—still, as he’d left it. The barrel dipped once the data caught up and read no movement. Only then did Yelena step into his line of sight, smile easy and infuriating by design.

“Yelena,” he rasped, voice rough with two hours of bad rest. “What the heck are you doing?”

“Waking you up. We need to talk to Bob. Now.”

He blinked the last of sleep away, irritation passing like a cloud. “About?”

“The Sentry project.”

That sobered him more effectively than a bucket of ice. The muscles in his shoulders squared; the pistol disappeared under the pillow, then into a lockbox with two quick clicks. He grabbed the room key, turned, and reached to pull his door shut—then paused, eyes cutting back to the guest room.

“Wait. What about Lee?” He dropped his voice, as if the very syllables might rattle her awake.

Yelena scowled. “What about her? You don’t expect her to sit in on this, do you? What is wrong with all of you?” The words came out hotter than she intended; the image of three super-soldier acting like idiots suddenly “being nice” to a loud blonde bimbo in borrowed clothes scraped her nerves raw. First Bucky letting her spend the night, then Walker getting her clothes (he wouldn't even get her a gauze, the little shit!), and later Alexei agreeing to letting her stay when  Bob said so.

Bucky gave her a flat, unimpressed look. “If we all go, she’s unsupervised. That’s dangerous.”

A prickle of heat rose under Yelena’s collar—the sting of realizing she’d gone reactive. She refused to concede the point out loud. “Lock her in. Who cares? We’ll be back before she wakes.”

“We can’t—” he started, doing the responsible thing, already hearing the lecture about protocols and liability in his own head. Yelena didn’t say a word, but her silence held every hard question at once: What other choice do we have? Who watches her if we all go? How do we keep her from wandering into trouble? Is this really worse than the things we’ve already survived? The answers weren’t pretty, and none of them were safe. Bucky exhaled through his nose, a soldier’s compromise in one long breath. “Fine,” he muttered.

He eased down the corridor to the guest room and listened first—habit, discipline. A slow, even rhythm of sleep. No shifting, no whispered calls, no phone glow under the door. He slid the twin key from his pocket—an old Stark contingency for maintenance and emergencies—and turned it carefully in the outer cylinder. The bolt seated with a soft mechanical snick. Inside, the woman didn’t stir.

“This better be quick,” he said, low, pocketing the key again. “Or we add abduction to the list of issues with her.”

Yelena’s mouth twitched—half a smirk, half impatience. “Don’t worry. It’ll be quick. We’re telling him the truth. That’s all.”

They padded down the corridor and stopped outside Yelena’s door. She set her palm against the wood for a heartbeat—measuring the quiet inside, steadying herself. Across from her, Bucky lifted an eyebrow when he realized they were at her room, not Bob’s. He gave her a look; she gave him one back. That was the whole conversation.

What’s going on here?
You don’t care.
You’re right.

It was how they worked. Yelena and Bucky kept a good rhythm precisely because they didn’t crowd each other. They spoke in shorthand and silences, ran on a “mind my own business” policy, and kept their boots on the ground. No probing, no gossip, no indulgence in the mess that wasn’t mission-critical. Once the deadpan exchange settled, the why of Bob spending the night in her room stopped mattering. The only thing that mattered was the next step.

Yelena turned the knob and slipped inside. The air still carried the faint warmth of sleep and laundry soap. Bob was where she’d left him, half-upright against a small fortress of pillows, the blanket rucked at his waist, lashes casting thin shadows on his cheeks. For a moment she stood there, taking in the sight—unarmored, unguarded, the trouble of yesterday blurred off his face by exhaustion—and felt the familiar protective spark coil tight in her ribs.

“Hey,” she said softly, just above a whisper. “Up. We need you.”

His eyes opened—blue, clear, confused for only a second. He blinked, found her, and the confusion settled. She tugged on the sleeve of his hoodie, the same one he’d given her, a quiet full-circle she didn’t comment on.

“Gym,” she added. “Team talk. Truth talk.”

He nodded, already pushing the blanket aside. She waited while he slid his feet into his shoes, then held the door for him. Outside, Bucky had taken root at the opposite wall, eyes on the corridor, posture relaxed in the way that meant nothing gets past me. No questions. No commentary. Just a silent pivot to fall in behind them. They reached the gym to find Walker already drenched in sweat, breath steady, hands on his hips—clearly mid-workout when her message pinged. Ava and Alexei trailed beside him, both looking as sleep-starved as Bob; Bucky only looked tired because Yelena had yanked him off sentry duty.

Yelena shut the door and gestured to the mats. Ava dropped onto one with theatrical annoyance. “Can we get this over with? I’d like another hour of sleep before Mr. Winter drags us through drills.”

Bucky ignored her. Walker scoffed. “Really? You’re going back to bed after this? How lazy can you be?”

Ava didn’t bother sitting up. “I didn’t realize acting 80 was a requirement to be a super soldier.”

Walker’s jaw set. “And I didn’t know being a bi—”

“Shut it, both of you,” Yelena snapped, dropping to the mat beside Bob. She wasn’t in the mood for their usual bickering. “We don’t have much time before Lee wakes up.” She refused to use the woman’s first name—or Bob’s last. “And we have to talk about something important.”

The room sobered a notch. Walker folded his arms but stayed quiet. Alexei settled cross-legged, surprisingly alert. Ava propped herself on her elbows, gaze cutting to Bob, then to Yelena.

Yelena drew a breath, steady and deliberate. “No euphemisms. No soft edges. We tell Bob what we should’ve told him months ago. The Sentry project—what it was, what it did, and why Valentina wants him in a box.” Her eyes flicked to Bucky, then back. “We keep this contained. And we do it now.” Bob swallowed, hands knotted in his sleeves, but he didn’t look away. Bucky shifted closer, a quiet show of ballast. The fluorescent hum above them filled the thin space where arguments usually lived.

...

When they finished, when the last clipped detail and grainy footage settled, Bob sat very still and tried not to be sick.

For a heartbeat he wanted to laugh—loud, wrong, defensive. Him? The man in the camera feed descending a staircase like a manufactured messiah, seams of gold and blue flickering over his skin? Him folding the team without breaking a sweat, a blow here, a blur there, bodies skidding across polished floor? Invincible. Stronger than anything they’d ever fought. He almost choked on the absurdity. Bob, who counted mushrooms off his pizza for Yelena; Bob, who forgot to eat; Bob, whose hands shook on bad days. The word “Sentry” felt like a costume someone else wore in his shape.

But then they showed the Void.

That was the part that made belief creep in like cold water under a door, of course he would find a way to fuck up super powers and make it worse, he always did. The base form—Sentry—wasn’t standing alone. It cast a shadow with teeth. A darker silhouette threaded through the reports, a thing with edges that didn’t map to a human outline. The descriptions: a presence that unspooled people, that pulled them into nightmares that smelled like their childhood trauma and sounded like their parents’ angriest nights and most shameful memories, then whispered that none of it mattered, that they didn’t. Bob’s stomach rolled. It was like someone had ripped a page from the diary he never wrote—his mother’s slurred accusations, his father’s quiet, weaponized disappointments, hurtful words and physical beatings—then fed it through a machine and projected it with powers never seen before, casting the same ilussion of vunerability he always felt when he was in front of that man.

Sentry came with a price tag. The Void was the interest.

He stared down at his hands, half expecting to see a gold corona rising from his skin. Nothing. Just scar lines he didn’t remember earning, knuckles a little raw from clutching his sleeves. The room around him sharpened by degrees: Yelena steady at his shoulder; Bucky, a wall of quiet; Walker’s jaw tight; Ava’s gaze cutting sideways to clock every twitch of his breath; Alexei uncharacteristically still, like even jokes knew to wait.

“I—” The word scraped his throat. He closed his mouth, tried again, smaller. “That thing in the video… that’s me?” He asked for corroboration, unsure. 

“No,” Yelena said, immediate and firm, and it helped that she didn’t pause. “It’s something in you. We keep it controled. We keep you safe.”

He nodded, too quickly, as if agreement could rearrange physics. A fragment surfaced—heat, brightness, a feeling like being every star in the sky and the vacuum holding them all—and then flipped, a cold drop through a trapdoor into a room that stank of bleach and fear. The edges of the memory blurred the moment he reached for it. He let it go and swallowed against the nausea.

“So when I go… bright,” he managed, eyes on the mat, “that is Sentry. And when I go… wrong…”

“Void,” Bucky supplied, even voice carrying no judgment. “Which we haven’t seen in six months. We plan to keep it that way.”

“And Valentina wants the bright without the wrong,” Ava added dryly, “as if she can order à la carte.”

"A-And what? She expects me to be a nuke? Some hero? I-I can't even save myself when needed." He told in panic. 

Yelena’s hand found his wrist, warm and real. “You are not a weapon. You are Bob. You, and only you decide what happens to you—not her.” He breathed in. Out. and held back on to her, nodding, anchoring himself like he always did when it came to the unknown.

Bob’s voice barely made it across the mat. “Did… did I kill anyone?”

Silence pressed in. Walker glanced at Bucky; Ava stared at the floor; Alexei’s mouth tightened around a word he didn’t say. They all knew there’d been no civilian casualties in Manhattan. Before Manhattan was the question no one wanted to answer first.

Yelena didn’t look away. She never did.

“Maybe two researchers,” she said, plain and steady. “I’m not sure.”

Bob’s throat worked. “How—”

“When Valentina had me on cleanup,” Yelena went on, “a lot of those sites were Sentry project. One lab was wrong the moment I stepped in—.” She drew two small shapes on the mat with a fingertip, as if she could trace it away. “There were shadows burnt into the walls. Like the ones Void leaves when it… absorbs people. You weren’t a shadow anymore by then, your body was gone from the lab. My best guess? It took them too long to bring you back. The bodies never came back with you.”

She didn’t add the last thought out loud—that if they hadn’t died, the alternative was worse: trapped in nightmare loops, minds unraveling forever. Her jaw twitched; she pushed the image away.

Bob’s breath stuttered. He folded forward a little, palms flat on the mat, fingers splaying as if he needed more surface to hold on to. “I’m a monster.” The words landed like a verdict. Bob’s hands fell to his lap, slipping free of Yelena’s grasp as if surrender had weight. He stared at the mat, breath shallow, the silence crowding in.

“How can you just—” His voice cracked. He shoved to his feet and began to pace, the corners of the gym turning into a tight orbit. “How can you coexist with me like this? Like I’m not a bomb under your breakfast table?” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting, thoughts tripping over themselves. “M-Maybe you didn't, maybe you kept me close AND kept it from me because it scared you.”

Yelena flinched, the smallest tell—guilt, not agreement. Bob didn’t wait. “It makes sense,” he rushed on, cutting a path across the rubber flooring. “Why I live here rent-free. Why you… hang out with a waste of space like me, the lack of addiction cravings, the fact I don't get drunk anymore, the muscles,  why everybody freezes when I step out of a dark hallway. Don’t think I haven’t noticed!" He póinted out each thing that had been eating him away in these past 6 months, as if daring them to deny it.

Walker, of all people, moved first. “Well, your eyes do look freaky in the dark— Ava I swear to god!” Ava’s fist shot toward his shoulder; he caught her wrist on reflex, released it before the situation escalated, and planted his feet. not willing to endure more hits to silence him now that Bob knew the truth. “I’m not gonna lie,” he said, looking at Bob instead of at the impending murder-stare of the ghost girl. “Look, you’re creepy in the dark, WAY CREEPY. I’ve seen your eyes do a little glow, and we all know you could kill us with a flick of your finger. But that doesn’t mean we want you locked in a closet or hidding underneath the bed like some sort of boogeyman, you think you are alone Bobby, but you are not.”

The room blinked at him—surprised that he’d said something honest without barbed wire wrapped around it. Even Bob stilled.

“Walker’s right,” Yelena said—dry, reluctant, true. “He’s usually an asshole, but he’s right.” She stepped into Bob’s path and set a hand on his shoulder, halting the anxious figure- he’d worn into the mats. “Look at us, Bob. Really look. Do you honestly think we’re the people who get to lecture you about how to be a hero? About being a better person?”

He blinked—and this time he looked.

Yelena: a Black Widow who’d been trained to kill before she could vote. Ava: the Ghost, wanted in more countries than most people had stamps in their passport—thief, survivor, weaponized by necessity. Walker: America’s cautionary tale in a uniform, tempered now by hard lessons and a heavier conscience. Alexei: the Red Guardian, a blunt instrument of a vanished state who still wore his patriotism like armor. Bucky: the Winter Soldier—name enough—carrying a century of scars and a ledger that could never truly be balanced.

The pit of human contradiction and moral downfall, standing shoulder to shoulder—and every one of them was looking at Bob, not like he was a bomb, but like he was theirs, dangerous, unstable and broken like they were. If this was the island of misfit toys, he realized with a shaky breath, they’d just made him mayor.

“You’re good, Bob,” Ava said, smirking around it so it wouldn’t get too earnest. “Welcome to the Loser's team.”

“As leader of the group,” Alexei announced his self proclaimed tittle, chest swelling, “I approve this official welcome of the Sentry to the New Avengers!” He threw his arms wide like he expected a trumpet fanfare.

“No one voted you leader,” Walker muttered.

“I lead with spirit,” Alexei replied, undeterred.

Bucky’s mouth twitched—the closest he got to a smile, not bothering to remind them who the actual leader was. “You’re with us,” he said simply.

Yelena squeezed Bob’s shoulder once, firm and grounding. “That’s what matters. We are together, if we loose, we loose together, if we fuck up, we fuck up together.”

Something unclenched in Bob’s chest. The room didn’t change—same humming lights, same scuffed mats—but the space inside him shifted, making room for the impossible idea that he wasn’t a monster trying to pass as a man. He was a man—flawed, frightening on the edges some days—standing with other flawed people who’d decided not to leave him behind but to welcome him, permanently.

“Okay,” he said—and the word didn’t wobble. He swallowed, tried again, warmer. “G–Guys, I… thanks.” Color edged his cheeks; the low that had been tugging him under receded another inch. “Really. I mean it.”

Yelena’s hand squeezed his shoulder once—quiet, certain. Bucky gave a small, soldier’s nod. Ava’s mouth ticked like she might ruin the moment with a joke and then didn’t. Walker grunted something that translated to approval. Alexei, incapable of letting sincerity breathe for long, threw his arms wide.

“Group photo later!” he declared, then attempted a dramatic shinigami stance that looked like a bear trying yoga.

Ava groaned. “Over my dead body.”

“Is pose of heroes,” Alexei insisted, already framing an invisible camera with his fingers.

Bob laughed—small, honest, unforced—and felt the sound settle his ribs. However strange tomorrow looked—Malaysia, paperwork, Valentina’s shadow at their door—he knew this much with clean certainty: whatever came, he wouldn’t face it alone.

“—ome on, how many times do we need to have this conversation?” Jhoane’s voice was worn thin, heavy with resignation and exhaustion.

“But Mom, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.” Lindy kept her tone steady, even as her heart raced. “If I get on this research team, my future could be set. Forever.” She wasn’t the begging type, but for this she might make an exception. She’d just finished university with top marks; the offer on the table was an internship at the most important molecular bioengineering lab operating right now.

“Lindy,” her mother sighed, picking each word like it was a chore, “you have nothing waiting for you in Malaysia. What you’re talking about is a childish fantasy. Your father paid for your education so you could become a proper member of the community—not to chase these… delusions about science and experimentation in third-rate countries.” She didn’t even try to hide the condescension. Lindy drew a breath through her nose, biting back the instinct to fight fire with fire.

“It’s not a fantasy,” she said, calmer than she felt. “It’s work. Real work. Peer-reviewed, cutting-edge, legal work meant to seek something better for humanity. I earned this.” She let that hang for a beat, then softened it. “I know it’s far. I know it’s not the life you pictured. But it’s mine.” On the other end of the line, china clinked against a saucer; her mother was likely standing in the good kitchen, framed by the same glass-front cabinets where Lindy had memorized the reflection of disapproval as a teenager. When Jhoane spoke again, the sweet veneer was back, brittle as sugar.

“And what, exactly, do you think you’ll be over there? A hero? You are a Lee. People watch what you do, we don't want them thinking you are one of those crazy lab rats.”

“N–No, not a hero—a researcher. Are you even listening to me?” Lindy’s voice snagged on the edge of desperation. Across the table, her mother pressed two fingers to her temple like the conversation itself was a migraine. It usually was, whenever Lindy said anything that didn’t fit the family template.

Jhoane took a measured sip of wine. Crystal chimed softly against her ring; the bottle was expensive, the glass delicate, and it was—what—her seventh pour in ninety minutes? “Dear,” she said, voice warm and withering all at once, “wouldn’t you rather settle down and find yourself a good man? Someone honorable. Hardworking.”

The picture landed in Lindy’s mind like a lock clicking shut: the polished husband, the charity luncheons, the immaculate calendar full of things that never felt like hers. She swallowed.

“No. I don’t care about marriage,” she said, the words steadier than her pulse. “I want this.” The internship offer sat open on her laptop, the lab’s letterhead bright and impossible. Molecular bioengineering. Real work. A door that didn’t open for girls like her unless they shoved.

Her mother set the glass down with gentle finality. “Well, I’m sorry, Lindy, but you can’t always have what you want. We’re not paying for this.”

The scowl crept in before Lindy could smooth it away. She stared at the grain of the dining table—how many arguments had soaked into this wood? “I already paid for flights,” she pressed. “I said yes. I booked a hotel, I—”

“Cancel it,” Jhoane said, almost bored. “Or we will.”

Air left the room. Lindy felt the old, familiar resignation trying to pull her under, the one that always rose when no came wrapped in manners. She looked up anyway, refusing to drown without one last reach. “Can I at least have my graduation trip there? A week. Some of my friends are going—”

“Sure, sure,” her mother murmured, already half rising, already done. “Sweetie, I’m a bit sleepy. We’ll talk to your father later, okay?” Her mother pushed back her chair and stood, a subtle sway in her posture that Lindy recognized like a weather pattern. Lindy kept her eyes on the table grain, willing the moment to pass. It didn’t. When she finally looked up, Jhoane was already there—five centimeters from her face—close enough that the perfume couldn’t mask the sharp, sour edge of wine.

“If you go on that trip,” her mother said, voice low and too calm, “you will ruin your life and you'll be left alone.”

Lindy jolted awake with a gasp, sweat slicking her hair to her temples. For a disorienting second she braced for the glitter of her mother’s crystal and the graveyard of wine bottles around the favorite chair—but the ceiling above her was unfamiliar, the air cleaner, the light harsher. Not home. The Watchtower. The New Avengers’ guest room. The reality she’d chased and now regretted slammed back into place. 

She covered her face with both hands, forcing her breathing to settle. The nightmare’s edges—her mother’s breath of Merlot, the words ruin your life—receded, only to leave the same conclusion in their wake: she’d done a spectacular job of detonating things. Cards frozen, fiancé silent, pride shredded. The bed’s sheets were crisp and impersonal; the hoodie draped over a chair smelled faintly of soap and steel. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and checked the room’s digital clock: 7:30.

Time to move. Sitting here would only thicken the humiliation.

She swung her legs to the floor and stared at the crack of the door Bucky had left for airflow and surveillance, it was gone. Logic, she told herself. She’d at least slept, which meant she could string thoughts together again. There was a path through this—and it started with Robert. If she could get five uninterrupted minutes with him. If his guard dog of a girlfriend would allow it.

Yelena. The memory of the cutting look and clipped voice slid under Lindy’s skin like a splinter. She made a face. God, that woman is a bitch. Efficient, controlled, terrifyingly protective—a wall with knives for bricks. Fine. Let her be a wall. Lindy didn’t need permission to knock.

She stood, cinched the sweatpants tighter, and shrugged into the oversized hoodie. Borrowed cotton, borrowed time. She smoothed the bed out of habit—tight corners, no evidence of panic—and gathered her phone. The screen still showed the cascade of failed bookings and unanswered texts. She shoved it into the pocket and squared her shoulders.

She checked her phone and tried Jason one last time. Nothing—same dead line, same unread texts. It had been nearly a week, and worry was starting to gnaw at the edges of her anger. She pressed her fingertips to her temple, breathed through the headache, and made a clean decision: talk to Robert, get the facts straight, and move immediately to end this—annulment if possible, divorce if necessary. No more detours, no more theatrics. Secure the meeting, sign the papers, and reclaim whatever was left of her life.

Lindy gripped the handle, twisted, and—click. A clean, unmistakable lock.

She blinked at the door like it had personally insulted her, then scowled. Oh, they did not.
“Hey! You locked my door!” Her voice ricocheted down the quiet hall. “Anyone? Congressman Barnes! Robert! Yelena! Somebody open this door!”

Silence. She tried the knob again as if sheer indignation might pick the lock. Nothing. She balled a fist, slammed it once, then hissed, “Ow,” shaking out her knuckles. Right—she wasn’t built like a battering ram unlike them. Her eyes landed on the bedside lamp. Fine. She yanked the cord from the wall and hoisted her improvised gavel.

“OPEN UP! Or—or I’ll— I’ll do something! This is unethical and illegal! I can sue you for—open. the. damn. door!”

Clang. Clang. Clang—CLANG.

The last strike rang wrong—metal-on-metal, not wood—and she jerked back. The door had opened without a sound, and her lamp had just bounced off a steel shoulder instead of oak. Barnes filled the doorway, unimpressed carved into the lines of his face. He looked from the lamp to her grip to the recently hit spot on his arm. Lindy’s mouth snapped shut so fast her lips disappeared giving her a comiccal appearance with the lamp still raised in what would have been another hit. 

“Good morning,” he said mildly, as if they were discussing mail. “Lamps stay on tables.”

Lindy’s hand flew to her mouth, shock still buzzing in her fingertips as the realization landed: she’d just clocked a man with a body count and a metal arm. An apology rose on instinct—then pride slammed a gate on it. Hold on. I’m the victim here. They locked me in a room. Her shoulders squared, chin tipping up in a doomed attempt to look taller.

“You had no right to lock me up. None of you.” The words came out clean; the echo of them trembled. Barnes’s stare didn’t. Impassive, glacial, unblinking—the kind of look that made people confess just to fill the cold. Her throat tightened. She forced a swallow, found her voice again, and sanded the edges. “I—I’m willing to let that go,” she said, choosing each syllable like stepping-stones across a river. “If you let me speak to Robert. Yesterday I was… unhinged.” Her mouth tugged at the word; it tasted like admitting a bruise. “But the only way this gets fixed is if I talk to him. Calmly. Five minutes.” She lifted her palms, empty and open. “May I?”

Barnes didn’t move for a beat. The silence stretched long enough for her to hear her own pulse in her ears. Then he shifted—small, deliberate gestures: a glance at the corridor, a check of the sightlines, a tilt of his head like he was pondering the idea.

“You’ll get the conversation,” he said at last. “On the condition you keep your voice even and your hands to yourself.” His tone remained neutral; the conditions were not negotiable. “You say what you need to say. He says what he needs to say. You do not corner him. You do not threaten him. If the temperature rises, I end it.”

Lindy held his gaze. “I can do civil,” she said, steady as she could make it. “I’m asking for a chance to end this like adults.” A beat. Then a single, almost imperceptible nod. “And for the record,” she added, quieter, because the truth sometimes bought leverage, “I didn’t swing the lamp at your head on purpose. I swung it at the door.”

“Noted,” he said, deadpan. “The door appreciates your restraint.”

Bucky led her down the corridor at a measured pace, and Lindy followed in tight-lipped silence, taking in the clean lines and armored calm of the Watchtower. It felt less like a building and more like custody—never mind that her parents had flipped the financial kill switch and Jason had gone silent. She’d begged already, in texts that read more like depositions than apologies. None of it mattered. There was only one way out: get Robert to agree to an annulment and put the signed papers in Jason’s hands, and prove this was a bureaucratic nightmare, not a betrayal.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that Robert wasn’t alone. He sat on a low couch, fingers wrapped around a mug, talking animatedly to Yelena. Lindy stopped at the threshold and forced herself to be strategic. Picking a fight with the woman who clearly had Robert’s ear—and his everything else—would be suicidal. She could dislike Yelena all she wanted; she couldn’t afford to be stupid about it.

Yelena looked at her in the doorway and went still in that animal way of hers—eyes hard, shoulders coiled. Then, without ceremony, she shifted and draped one thigh across Robert’s lap, a wordless stake in the ground. The warning in her look said: Mine to guard. Lindy rolled her eyes despite herself. Possessive much? And he—God—he was exactly as she remembered him sober: stupid, startled pink flush, hands hovering, unsure where to land, a shy half-smile he couldn’t quite assemble.

“Bob,” Bucky said, neutral enough to pass for polite, “You’ve got a visitor.”

Robert’s gaze flicked up, startled, then cautious. Lindy pasted on her most civilized expression and stepped forward, palms open, voice even. “Robert. I’d like five minutes. I want to clear this up—properly.” She glanced at Yelena without flinching, acknowledging the reality rather than challenging it. “No drama. Just signatures and facts. Alone, if possible?” Lindy asked, every syllable polished to etiquette.

Robert didn’t answer—Yelena did. “No.” Her stare was a blade. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.”

Lindy’s mouth tightened. She turned a pointed look on Robert—really?—but he only lifted a helpless shoulder.

“I don’t hide things from Yelena,” he said, shyness tugging at his voice. “And what I told you yesterday is still true. I don’t… remember you.”

Lindy pressed two fingers to her brow, exhaled. “Fine. Don’t remember me. I don’t care.” She stepped closer, setting a small black notebook on the coffee table between them. “Can you remember this?”

She opened to the first page. Neat, obsessive handwriting flowed across it—addresses, street names, the shorthand of a city mapped by nights rather than bus routes. She turned another page: a list of drinks, the specific way he’d ordered them, the bartender with the dragon tattoo who never carded after midnight. Another page—names of people they’d drifted near for a week and then never saw again. And then sketches: doorways and neon signs, the tiled entry to a club she’d only found once; a wristband design from a rooftop bar; a flyer’s typography reproduced with eerie accuracy. Ticket stubs and receipts were taped in, edges yellowing, a breadcrumb trail glued to paper. Bucky and Yelena had to pretend not to be a little bit impressed at it. 

Robert leaned in despite himself. His fingers hovered, then settled on the margin, careful not to smudge the graphite. Page after page flicked by under his hand. Something complicated moved behind his eyes—confusion first, then a flinch of recognition that didn’t quite become memory. Beside him, Yelena’s gaze followed the columns, the pencil lines, the desperate precision. Her thigh still anchored across his lap, but her eyes had sharpened from threat to assessment.

Lindy tapped one entry. “Jalan Sultan, Blue Lantern, back staircase. You said the bouncer’s name was Vic—or Rick—something clipped. We went twice. You disappeared for forty minutes and came back with a nosebleed and a smile.” Flip. “Petaling Street, the place with the paper lanterns and the cat that sleeps on the register. You called the cat ‘ma’am’ and tipped it for the drinks.” Flip. “Chili vodka at the bar with the chipped counter. You told the bartender you were allergic to remorse.” Her voice stayed even; her knuckles whitened on the spine.

Robert swallowed. His thumb found a sketch of a doorway—half-peeled posters, a hanging light with missing slats. He touched the bulb’s drawn glare like he could step through it. “That looks… familiar,” he admitted, bleak.

Lindy turned to a page near the center—more weathered than the others, taped and re-taped. A mid-July date circled twice. “This night,” she said quietly. “You kept looking at the ceiling like you were waiting for something to fall. You told me your head was ‘too loud’ and then said it was fine, that the bright made everything quiet.” Her eyes lifted to him. “Does that mean anything to you? I’m not here to drag you through it,” Lindy said, softer than before. “I’m here to end it. But I need you to recognize something so the courts don’t decide for us and we can follow a trail. This notebook is everything I remember. If a detail rings true, say so. If it doesn’t, say that too. Then we sign an Annulment.

“This guy—here.” Bob tapped a grainy flyer Lindy had sketched and labeled, finger landing on the bouncer with the dragon tattoo. He squinted, a line cutting between his brows. “I went there a lot. Ten times, maybe. I think… I think he’s the one who gave me meth when I lived there.”

Lindy’s exhale was almost a finally. “Okay. And the drinks?”

Bob scanned a column of cocktails she’d listed in meticulous script. “I used to like these,” he admitted, shame and a ghost of fondness tangling in his voice. “They put me in a good mood.” He turned another page and stilled at a graphite doorway—peeling posters, a crooked light. “This one. Last party I remember being at even if I don't remember what I did during it.” His hand rose to his temple like trying to unlock it, it hurt. “I was wrecked the next day.” He hesitated, something sharper pushing at the edge of recall. “I was in the street throwing up after waking alone in my room, then… a guy in a coat came up to me and—”

Yelena’s palm covered the back of his hand, a small, deliberate pressure. She shook her head once—no. He looked at Bucky behind Lindy making the same 'no' motion with his arms crossed over his chest. It was careful and unmistakable: do not say anything about the Sentry project.

Lindy’s gaze snapped to her. “And what? Why are you stopping him?” Irritation flared under her composure.

Yelena withdrew her hand but didn’t soften. Arms crossed, voice cool. “Because it’s not information you need. And because this is getting us lost in the weeds. A divorce is simpler than an annulment.”

Lindy blew out a breath, frustration skating into candor. “It is simpler,” she conceded. “But my fiancé…” She swallowed, the word sour. “He won’t take a divorce well. An annulment he might forgive. He’s… traditional.” The last word landed like a weight. “If we can qualify—lack of capacity, intoxication—then he’ll see it for what it was and not… what he thinks it is.”

“Isn’t this just making everything needlessly long and complicated?” Yelena snapped, the words sharper than she intended. “He doesn’t have to agree to your terms just because you couldn’t control your drinking.”

The temperature in the room dropped a notch. Lindy flinched, spine stiffening, but before she could fire back, Bucky stepped between them with the quiet finality of a closing door.

“Yelena’s right,” he said, voice level. “We don’t bend over backward to satisfy an impossible standard just to keep a white-collar fiancé comfortable. Take the reasonable path, or leave it.”

Lindy’s jaw worked. Frustration cracked her composure; shame bled through after it—raw and unguarded enough that even Bob blinked, a flicker of sympathy cutting across his features. It was a familiar look—the kind he wore when an old memory put him back in a kitchen with the lights off waiting for his parents to stop shaming him. 

“You don’t understand,” Lindy said, and the words came too fast, too thin. “My family, my friends—my world—they’re traditional. If I can’t annul this, I’ll be branded a divorcée before I’ve even started my life. Doors close. People stop answering. It sounds stupid to you, but it matters where I come from.” Yelena’s eyes rolled to the ceiling like she couldn’t believe they were litigating reputation politics at eight in the morning. Lindy’s mouth shaped something sharp in reply.

“Lindy.” Bucky cut in, not unkind, but immovable. He shifted so both women had to look at him. “I was born in 1917. If anyone here understands ‘traditional,’ it’s me. I’ve lived through several versions of it.” His tone softened just enough to carry weight instead of judgment. “And I can tell you—firsthand—that exhausting yourself to keep appearances is a losing game. You will bleed for an image that won’t bleed for you.”

The fight drained out of Lindy’s shoulders. She opened her mouth, then shut it again; the argument she wanted to make rang hollow even to her. Her eyes glassed despite her bite on the inside of her cheek. She hated how easily the tears came these days, how thin her skin felt under all this scrutiny.

Bob glanced between them, uncertain, then spoke—quiet, careful. “Would it help if we had a clear memory of where the ceremony happened?”

He didn’t pretend to know the law, but he’d picked up the gist: an annulment meant proof—both parties incapacitated, a venue, a date, ideally witnesses. After five years, security footage would be dust, staff long gone, and any paper trail spotty. It would take time—investigation neither of them really had. But he remembered something else. An ability he avoided unless it happened by accident. He had used it once with Yelena, and—terribly—across all of New York six months ago. The thought made his stomach turn, but it also lit a narrow path forward.

“If that kind of detail would settle it,” he said, looking down at his palm as if it might answer him, “I… might have an idea.”

Yelena’s attention snapped to him. She knew exactly which “idea” he meant; worry creased her brow. How would Lindy react to having her memory touched? Could she be trusted with the knowledge of how he could touch it?

Lindy frowned. “Yeah, fine, a location and date would help, but how do you plan to get something that specific?”

Bob’s fingers curled, then uncurled. Yelena moved to step in—“Bob, don’t”—but Bucky’s hand settled on her shoulder, steady and unmistakable. He gave a small shake of his head.

This isn’t your call.

Bob swallowed. He kept his voice quiet. “Are you ashamed of that day? A lot? Would you say… the most ashamed?”

Lindy gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “There hasn’t been a single day this past week I haven’t regretted it—even without remembering it.” She blinked, uneasy now. “Why are you asking me that? You’re freaking me out.”

Bob exhaled, already bracing for the part she wouldn’t like. Still, if this could get her what she needed, he’d take the risk. He offered a small, apologetic smile. “Just… don’t be afraid, okay?”

Explaining would only invite panic and delays; she wanted fast results, and for once, he could deliver them. He glanced once at Yelena and Bucky—Yelena torn but nodding, Bucky steady as bedrock—then reached out and lightly took Lindy’s left hand, fingertips brushing the cool band of the wedding ring.

And then he went in.

A beat—then the room snapped into place around her.

Memory Lindy blinked at the mirror above a cracked sink. Her face swam back at her, slick with sweat, pupils blown wide so the hazel was barely a rim. The high was gone, but the poison still hummed in her blood; a sour wave surged and she pitched forward, retching until her ribs ached. When the spasm passed, she clung to the enamel edge, vision watering, the shame as raw as the bile in her throat. She didn’t know how she’d gotten here. Again.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Something rough scraped her lips and cheek—gritty as sand. She frowned, looked down, and found the culprit: a makeshift “ring” cinched around her finger, the sliced halo of a plastic bottle cap pressed into her skin. Annoyance flared, and she tore it off, flicking it into the stained basin. Cockroaches scattered from a crack in the tile, disappearing behind a loose section of wall like a black tide. Perfect. She was pale, shaking, and sitting in what barely qualified as a bathroom, while the last of the chemicals wrung her dry.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, massaging for stray scraps of the night before. Her clothes didn’t help—no bra, just an oversized shirt and panties—and even those felt like borrowed mistakes. Lindy shuffled out of the bathroom on unsteady legs and nearly crushed a picture frame lying face-down on the cracked tile. She crouched, picked it up, and turned it over.

A cheap, glossy photo beamed back at her: Happiest memories – R & L. In it, she wore a short, bargain-bin white dress and an absurdly bright smile while clinging piggyback to Robert’s shoulders. He sported a rented tux, crooked bow tie and all, beneath a dollar-store floral arch. The lighting was harsh, the backdrop wrinkled, the whole thing outrageously staged—and yet both of them looked… happy. Stupidly, blazingly happy.

She groaned, setting the frame on the nightstand amid a scatter of bottle caps, receipt stubs, and smeared lipstick. Definitely Robert’s idea. He’d joked about it often enough; she would never have gone hunting for a novelty photo booth on her own. A flush of shame burned through her as she took in the rest of the room—the thin curtains, the uneven lamp, the motel carpet that crunched faintly underfoot.

The blankets on the bed heaved with slow, oblivious breathing. A dark mop of curls peeked from the tangle: Robert, dead to the world. For a beat she hovered there, watching the rise and fall of his back, the innocent calm of sleep making last night’s choices feel even more reckless.

Enough. She turned away and dressed methodically, gathering herself in careful, practiced motions—button, tuck, smooth—like she could layer her dignity back on with every piece of clothing. Her hands trembled anyway. What would anyone say if they saw her like this? The perfect daughter from a traditional family waking up in a cut-rate motel beside a man she sometimes barely recognized, with a prop wedding photo on the nightstand and the taste of bad decisions drying on her tongue.

Memory Lindy gathered her things and slipped out without looking back. The moment she caught the sour tang of vomit on her underwear, the truth settled like a stone: she’d hit rock bottom—drunk, high, and blank on the details. Shame burned hot enough to steady her steps. If this was where the night had ended, then leaving was the only way to keep from sinking further. She shut the door quietly behind her and chose, at last, to walk away.

As if seated in the front row of a horror film, Lindy watched herself from the outside—an unwilling spectator to her own past. The third-person view made everything more grotesque: the way she jolted awake, the clumsy hands, the dull glaze in her eyes as she dressed in slow, fumbling motions. Shame washed through her twice—first for what she had done, and then for seeing it laid bare like this. Maybe she hadn’t merely forgotten; maybe her mind had sealed the door out of sheer self-preservation.

Her gaze snagged on the photo she’d lifted earlier. At first she’d dismissed it as a cheap, staged joke. Now, standing apart from the scene, she turned the print over and felt her stomach drop. Embossed in gold along the back were the words: kapel kecil pencinta—clearly the name of the place. Not a gag. A souvenir.

She set the photo down, the room pressing in around her. Had it always been this dark? She moved toward the bathroom—one more clue, one more scrap—when the edges of the scene thinned like smoke. The light bled out, the walls dissolved, and the memory let her go. She was back—heart pounding, hands empty, the three words burning bright in her head like a street sign: Kapel Kecil Pencinta.

...

“—you think she’s okay?” The voice was soft with worry. Robert.

“I don’t know. She’s good at being a drama queen—she might’ve died from it.” The Russian drawl was unmistakable. Yelena.

"If that happens then Bob is lawfully single, aren't you happy Lenna?" Russian male, she didn't know his name. 

"Oh my god, stop with that already." Yelena sounded tired. 

“What did you actually see? Did you notice how you two got married? Were there vows? Puppy eyes? All that  crappy jazz?” Another woman—dry, amused. Lindy didn’t know all their names, but Ghost rang a bell. Ava.

“Do I hear a hint of condescension, Ava?” That clipped, self-sure tone—John Walker. Of course.

“Please. Everyone here knows marriage is massively overrated,” Ava shot back. “Who in this room would lose sleep over it?”

“I dunno—those of us who can actually get married?” The quip landed, smug and needling.

“Enough. She’s waking up.” Congressman Barnes—flat, controlled.

A spike of pain pressed behind Lindy’s eyes. Her body felt weighted, limbs slow to answer. She managed a breath, then another, forcing her lashes apart. Light bled in at the edges; the room sharpened by degrees. Faces hovered at a cautious distance: Robert, anxious and earnest; Yelena, coiled and watchful; Walker, bristling; Ava, bored on the surface and too alert beneath; Barnes, granite-still, Alexei; present, curious.

Lindy swallowed against the dizziness and coaxed her voice into existence—thin, scratchy, but there. “Could you all,” she rasped, “argue a little quieter? Ow—my head. What… what happened?” She tried to sit; a spike of pain knocked the breath from her, and she sank back with a wince. Robert edged closer, guilt stamped plainly across his face.

“You kind of passed out,” he said, as if gentling the wording might soften the fact. “Bucky says you’re fine, though.”

“Fine,” she muttered—right as the memory snapped into place like a whip. She stabbed a shaky finger in Robert’s direction. “W–Wait. What did you do? You did something and I was— I was there. Back in that room. I saw a name. I don’t know how to pronounce it.” Robert blinked, startled by the speed of her pivot from fear to accusation to dawning comprehension. Before he could answer, Bucky was already offering a pen and a clean sheet of paper.

“Write what you saw,” he said. “Don’t chase the rest.”

Lindy took the pen with trembling fingers. The room gathered in a hush as she scrawled the words exactly as they’d appeared in gold: kapel kecil pencinta. Not only did she writte it she also used the same callygraphy type and little golden flowers around then name, just as it appeared on the brand.  She turned the paper around.

Bucky and Yelena spoke at once translating for the others. “Little Chapel of Lovers.” Alexei squinted at the page. Walker rolled his eyes like romance had personally offended him. Ava looked unimpressed by the whole production, but her gaze sharpened a fraction.

“Local name,” Bucky said, already filing details in that quiet soldier’s mind. “Likely a boutique photo studio doubling as a quick-wed registry. We have a place to start, a lead.”

“N–No, it’s not that. It’s not just a lead.” Lindy’s voice steadied as she reclaimed the page. She bent over it, pencil moving in quick, exacting strokes—blocking the letterforms, thickening downstrokes, hatching the negative space around a looping heart-and-vine motif. She shaded the gilt ribbon she’d seen on the back of the print, then ghosted in the shallow emboss that had caught the light. The more she drew, the calmer she became, certainty settling over her like a fitted coat. “This is the place. I’m as sure of this as I am of my own name.” She didn’t look up. “Give me twelve minutes—fifteen at most. We can find it through an image search from the logo. The typography, the crest, the motto—it’s distinctive.”

Yelena snorted softly. “A little too confident, don’t you think? You’re not worried about poisoning the well?”

Lindy shook her head, resolute. “I have a photographic memory. When I’m not drugged, I don’t lose what I see.” She sharpened the pencil against the edge of the paper and began refining the curls of a stylized K, then underlined the Malay: kapel kecil pencinta. The sketch was already slipping from rough replica into eerie realism—stroke weight right, baseline slanted just so, the kind of detail only someone who’d stared at a thing under bad fluorescent light would know to include.

Across the coffee table, John and Ava traded a look—half unimpressed, half conceding the evidence in front of them. “We’re really trusting a doodle?” Walker muttered.

“It’s not a doodle,” Ava said dryly, eyes tracking the crisping lines. “It’s a logo. Which means the internet has probably seen it before.”

"We’ll capture it at high resolution, crop the mark, and run it through every reverse-image tool we have. If we get a match, we move to the registry’s hours, point of contact, and chain-of-custody for certificates.” Bucky stated.

“Woo,” Walker deadpanned. “The thrilling world of municipal paperwork.”

“Thrilling is not getting sued for mishandling someone’s records,” Bucky shot back, unbothered.

Yelena’s gaze lingered on Lindy for one more beat, then slid to Bob. “You two—no more head trips today,” she said, firm as a locked door. “We have data. That’s all we chase.”

“Agreed,” Bob said—relief and leftover adrenaline wrestling in his voice. He’d been terrified the memory he’d coaxed her into would turn up nothing useful, that he’d dragged her through shame for no reason. He’d kept to the corner while she relived it, giving her whatever privacy that room could afford. When all he’d first seen was a dim motel and a bad decision, dread pooled in his stomach—what if they had to do it again? But the chapel name had surfaced, clean and solid. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as everyone slid into motion. Alexei clapped his shoulder and gave a thumbs-up; Bob managed a shy grin, a little steadier on his feet.

“In the meantime, I’ll go get my documentation,” Lindy said, pushing to her feet and wincing as she touched her temple after her sketch was done. “Robert, you should do the same.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. “W–What?”

“Documentation,” she repeated, the word clipped. “The basics: a photo ID, proof of residency, any medical records that mention substance use. Anything that helps establish capacity—or lack of it.” She didn’t bother to hide her impatience at his blank look. “Please tell me you have your paperwork.”

Heat crawled up Bob’s neck. He glanced away, ashamed. “Uh… not really.”

Lindy stared. “What do you mean, ‘not really’?”

He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, frowning a bit at her tone. “I mean I… sort of don’t have a current ID. Or, uh, a lease. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Her laugh came out brittle. “You live in a skyscraper with the New Avengers and you don’t have an ID!?” The outrage in her voice was unmistakable.

Yelena flinched—not at Lindy, but at herself and the rest of them. It hadn’t occurred to any of them, in all these months, to make sure Bob had the simplest anchors of a life: an ID, a file, proof of address—something he could hold up and say, This is me. I exist here. The basics. The barest human decency. Because he rarely went out, because Valentina smoothed every bureaucratic wrinkle, because emergencies always outran errands, they’d let it slide and he never asked.

She caught the same realization flicker across the others’ faces, then looked back at Bob. His shoulders had rounded, chin dipping—already braced for what it looked like: a grown man with no paperwork, no official footprint, nothing that wasn’t borrowed. The lab might have opened the door and let him walk, but the chain they’d wrapped around his life hadn’t fallen away. It had just gone invisible.

“Robert, I swear to God—I’ve tried to be patient, but I cannot fathom how any functional adult lives the way you do!” Yelena’s mouth was already opening—something sharp on her tongue—when Bob got there first. He straightened, shoulders squaring with an authority that silenced the room.

“Functional adults have everything handled?” His voice was calm, but it carried. “Great. Then there’s your answer. I’m not a functional adult!” He spat at Lindy, looking taller than any of them remembered in the past months.

The words cracked across the space like a dry branch. For a heartbeat, no one moved. He could have said more—could have emptied the chamber: I was kidnapped. Experimented on. Dead or not-quite for God knows how long. Everything I owned is ash. My family is a ghost story to other people. He didn’t. There was a dignity in the restraint that felt new on him, as if admiting that was beneath him. 

His gaze dropped to Lindy, steady, resolute. “Go do what you need to do,” he said, voice cooling into something businesslike. “We’ll have the papers in a few days.”

Silence stretched—a taut wire humming between all of them. They knew his limits. For all of Bob’s softness and patience, there was a line. Push it hard enough, and something in him surged forward to do the pushing back. None of them wanted the Sentry here. Yelena reached for his hand, fingers closing around his knuckles—not possessive, not performative, just present. She held his eyes and drew one slow breath, exaggerated enough for him to see it. In for four. Out for four. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Bob’s jaw worked. The frown lingered, then loosened; the cords in his neck softened as he matched her rhythm. In. Out. The temperature in the room dropped a degree. Across from them, Lindy stood stunned, anger short-circuiting into something like awe. Because for a flicker of a second, she could have sworn his irises shifted—blue thinned by a wash of gold.

Chapter Text

“I called my parents and asked if I could come home, but they wouldn’t even speak to me. It was bad enough that I’d married a Jew, but now I wanted a divorce as well? My father made Mother tell me that in his eyes I had died the day I eloped.” 

-Water for Elephants.

Bob was angry. Yelena could spot it from a mile away—not the loud kind, not Alexei’s table-thumping or Walker’s barked retorts, not Ava’s barbed sarcasm or Bucky’s glacial stare that made people look away first. Bob’s anger did what he did when he was hurt: it vanished. He thinned at the edges. He made himself small until the room forgot to bump into him.

After Lindy left—with Bucky’s warning about discretion and a contact card she pretended not to need—Yelena set dinner on the table and watched Bob bypass the whole scene with a soft “not hungry.” No sulking, no eye contact, just a quiet retreat down the hall. She knocked twice that night—habit, not hope—and when the silence inside his room didn’t change shape, she told herself he was asleep and let it go.

Morning didn’t improve the story. He skipped breakfast. That, more than anything, tugged at her. She rapped her knuckles on his door; when there was no answer, she reached for the handle and the door swung inward before she could turn it. He stood there, barefoot on the cool floor, hoodie unzipped over a bland T-shirt, hair flattened on one side like he’d slept hard or not at all. His face was composed in a way that didn’t belong to him—too smooth, too still.

“Yes, Yelena?” She’d half prepared for sulking, a flinch, anything. The calm irked her, needled under her skin for reasons she didn’t bother to examine. She went with facts.

“You didn’t come down for breakfast,” she said, curt. “In case you missed the memo.”

“I’m not hungry,” he replied, same tone, same still surface.

She’d seen him skip meals before—lows that made his eyes gutter out, nightmares that left him gray around the mouth. But this wasn’t that. This was containment. A lid screwed on tight something else.

Her gaze flicked past him: bed half-made; the book he’d been reading snapped shut with the ribbon marker yanked too far in; a glass of water left untouched, a ring of condensation drying into a pale halo. The room had been tidied like a crime scene in contrast with the usual messiness laying around. Even though there was certain coldness to his eyes a ghost of a smile tried, failed, and died for her. “I’ll eat later.”

“No,” she countered, as if negotiating a hostage deal. “You’ll eat now. Two bites at least. You can take it to go.” A pause. “And then I go with you to the DMV.”

He exhaled, jaw tight, eyes sliding past her to some unhelpful point on the wall. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’ll handle my paperwork alone.” The words were flat, but the heat beneath them was obvious. He could already picture it: the fluorescent purgatory of the DMV, the numbered ticket curling in his damp palm, the clerk asking for forms he didn’t have, the look that said how does a grown man not know this? Better to endure it by himself than feel managed.

Yelena absorbed the refusal without flinching. “Not a babysitter,” she said, tone easing off the steel. “A friend.” She tipped her head—the slight angle he never quite learned to guard against—and let her mouth curl into something light. “Nobody deserves to die of boredom in line alone. I want to go. What do you say?”

He hesitated. That telltale flicker—eyes cutting away, shoulders lifting, a breath he pretended he didn’t take. She was playing fair: no orders, no pity, just an offer shaped like a rope tossed into rough water. After a beat, he nodded, the motion small but real.

“Fine,” he said, surrender in the word but resolve in the cadence. “I just want this done.”

A smirk tugged at her mouth—victory, but a quiet kind. “Perfect. First, breakfast. Then DMV. Then records office. Then anything else on Ava’s cursed checklist.” She let her gaze sweep his hair with theatrical disapproval. “Shower, too. Meet me in ten in the living room.”

He rolled his eyes and huffed, irritation softened by the edges of a smile. “You’re bossy.”

“And you have bedhead,” she shot back, stepping closer to tug at a rebellious curl with two fingers. “Also, you are not getting an ID photo with that tragic nest. Deal with it.” She pivoted toward the door, already ticking boxes in her head. “Wear the hoodie without the coffee stain.”

He groaned as if she’d asked him to bench-press a tank, but the resistance was pro forma now. “Yes, ma’am.”

Yelena wasn’t a paperwork expert by any stretch. Twice on the elevator ride down she nearly texted Valentina to make the whole mess disappear—then remembered why they were in this position and stuffed her phone back into her pocket. No shortcuts. No strings. The old-fashioned, boring way. It would be slower—especially since Bob owned approximately zero documents—but a little persuasion and a lot of stubborn could pry open doors that refused to budge.

By the time he reappeared, hair damp and an empty folder hugged to his chest, she’d packed a small, contraband breakfast: microwave waffles folded like sandwiches, dripping honey into a napkin. She handed him one and jerked her chin toward the garage. They stepped into the cool hush of the underground lot where a car waited nosed toward the ramp—sleek, unremarkable, the color of a shadow. Bob eyed it as they approached.

“Yours?” he asked, skeptical. The thing was aggressively plain: matte black, no decals, no personality. Not Yelena’s usual brand of menace.

“On paper? No one’s,” she said, unlocking it with a lazy flick. “In practice? Ours today.” She slid behind the wheel and tossed her braid over her shoulder. “It blends, it starts, it doesn’t argue. That’s all I need.”

Bob ran his palm along the door as if the car might bite, then climbed in, careful with the syrup. The cabin smelled faintly of vinyl and disinfectant—agency issue. Yelena adjusted the mirrors with muscle memory and glanced at him. He’d already folded himself small, seat belt clipped, elbows tucked so he didn’t smudge his folder.

“Eat,” she ordered, easing them up the ramp. “Honey is bribe currency if we have to sacrifice the napkin at the altar of a cranky clerk.” He huffed, but took a bite. Warm sugar softened the line of his mouth. Outside, morning stretched pale and unforgiving across the city; inside, the engine purred and the world narrowed to the soft thud of tires 

“What’s first?” he asked, already bracing with a sour tone.

“DMV,” she said, with the fatalism of a soldier naming a battle. “Then city records. Then the clinic. If any of them gives you a hard time, you look at me and breathe. I’ll do the sharp edges.”

He glanced over, a sideways wry smile ghosting his cheek. “You always do.”

“Perk of the job,” she said, half a shrug. “And of friendship. Also I promise not to let them take your photo with honey on your face.”

“My hero,” Bob muttered—still prickly, even as the sarcasm fell flat. He knew the guilt would land tomorrow morning, heavy and familiar, when he replayed all the ways he’d snapped at Yelena. But right now the irritation hummed under his skin, unwilling to be reasoned with.

Yesterday had started like a sunrise: energy to burn, a rare, clean certainty that he could try—really try—to be the Sentry again, to earn his spot with this odd, patched-together family. Then life reminded him, with vicious efficiency, how threadbare his adult scaffolding was. No ID. No tidy archive of his own. Nothing that said this is me except the people who believed it. For a wild moment he’d considered going “home” to rummage for old documents, and the thought hit like a bad smell—thick, stale, repellent. That house was a museum of every door that had ever shut in his face.

So here he was, chewing a cold (admittedly perfect) microwave waffle he didn’t want, running on less than a day’s worth of fractured sleep, time moving both too fast and not fast enough. The city slid past in gray slices. Paperwork waited like a trench he had to crawl through one form at a time. He wanted clean results now, signatures and stamps and the hiss of a laminator spitting out proof that he existed. Lacking that, he took another bite, swallowed, and stared through the windshield while the engine purred and Yelena drove—a small, stubborn promise at his side that he didn’t have to do the slow parts alone.

Yelena didn’t rise to the bait. If his mood stung, she hid it well—and somehow that made it worse. Guilt pooled in Bob’s stomach, thick as syrup. She kept her hands steady on the wheel, let the wind shiver through the cracked window, and only cut him a quick, measuring glance.

“Did you sleep?” she asked. Not accusing—just taking stock.

He kept his eyes on the road unfurling ahead of them. “Not really,” he said after a beat. “I kept trying to think of a faster way through this.” His mouth flattened. “I thought about going… to my old house. For papers.” A beat. “Then I threw that idea out.”

The word old house dragged tension into the car like a cold draft. Yelena didn’t press. “We’ll manage,” she said. “Maybe it won’t take as many days.”

He huffed a humorless sound. Streetlights strobed across his face, carving him into brief, sharp planes before smoothing again. “I know you’re trying to help,” he added, softer. “I just—” He broke off, searching for a cleaner sentence than I hate feeling like a child in an adult costume. “I want this done.”

“I know.” Her tone made the words carry. “That’s why I’m here.”

Silence settled—an easier kind. The city’s morning traffic braided around them. He took another bite of waffle he didn’t want, swallowed, and forced his shoulders to loosen.

Chapter Text

I am dust particles in sunlight. I am the round sun.
To the bits of dust I say, Stay. To the sun, Keep moving.

-The Big Red Book.

Bob wore a path into the carpet, restless energy snapping through him like static. The clock on his wall glowed 4:00 a.m.—another night surrendered, another promise of sleep he couldn’t keep. After yesterday’s debacle, no one had pressed him for details when he’d slunk back into the tower; Alexei had tried to salvage the evening with Bob’s favorite dish—Bucky at his elbow, both pretending not to watch him too closely. Bob managed two dutiful spoonfuls before mumbling that he was exhausted and disappearing to his room.

Exhausted, yes. Sleep, no.

He’d thrown himself into bed and done an hour of slow-motion wrestling: toss, turn, sheet-kick, stare. Finally the coil snapped and he hurled the pillow at the wall with a soft, useless thud, then got up and started pacing, counting the steps the way he used to count ceiling cracks as a kid. How to do this without turning his life into a spectacle? How to go back—to the house that wasn’t a home—without dragging anyone into it, least of all Yelena? The idea of her in that doorway, catching the stale breath of his past, turned his stomach.

He could do it alone. Bus lines stitched the city together at this hour: a transfer on 86th, a walk from the stop where the streetlights always flickered, the third stair that squeaked no matter how you stepped. He pictured himself slipping out with the first hint of light, before Bucky rose, before Alexei’s kettle screamed, before Yelena knocked and read the truth in his face. A quick travel, a few hours there and back. In, out in two days tops. Documents, proof—anything with his name on it—stuffed into a backpack and gone.

They’d worry. He’d deal with that later.

Or he could do the sensible thing—wake Yelena, loop in the team, and endure the ritual: an hour of arguments, wary looks traded over his head, and a compromise that ended with someone shadowing him anyway. It wasn’t that he hated being cared for. It was the intensity of it—the way their protection wrapped around him like bubble wrap, kind and suffocating in equal measure. The worse things got, the tighter they pulled, and something in him pushed back. Not out of spite, but from a sharp, aching need to prove he could do more than be managed. That he could be more. Not more—most.

He stopped pacing. The decision clicked into place with the clean finality of a door latch.

If he went alone—if he faced that house, took what he needed, and came back in one piece—maybe they’d finally loosen their grip. Maybe they’d see a man who could be treated like a normal adult: capable, accountable, worth planning with, not planning around. The thought steadied him. If crisis was what woke the Void, then this wouldn’t be a crisis. This would be procedure. Lists. Locks. A backpack. In and out.

He knew the fastest way to Sarasota Springs was by car. Yelena’s pool Nissan—the same model he’d driven for a delivery gig once—was perfect: quick, quiet, forgettable. He’d never officially checked out a tower vehicle, but he knew the drill. Months ago, he’d mapped the whole process while plotting a surprise donut run for Yelena—only for Alexei to inform him the shop had closed years ago. Still, the recon had paid off: who to ask, which forms got ignored before sunrise, where the keys lived.

He headed for the security office. Morning shift meant Ramírez: bored eyes, fast hands, a decent guy if you didn’t waste his time. Bob knocked. The door cracked, fluorescent light washing over the hallway.

“Bob?” Ramírez asked, curiosity prickling through the usual monotone.

“Hey,” Bob said, easy. “I need a car—the Nissan Yelena checked out yesterday.” No stammer. No sweaty palms. No nervous looks.  Good signs so far.

Ramírez leaned back, gaze drifting toward the gray key cabinet on the wall. “There are rules about just handing over keys, buddy.” The word buddy made something in Bob’s jaw tighten, it must have made something more noticeable show because  Ramirez’s posture stiffened a fraction. “I mean,” the guard amended quickly, “not without a solid reason.”

“It’s for Walker. Family trip,” Bob said, as if it were the most ordinary request in the world. “He asked me to grab the keys. If you’d rather I wake him up and tell him you said no, I can—he’ll eat your face off before breakfast.”

A beat. Then a sigh. “Yeah, no. Uh—got his ID?” Bob gave him a look that said it’s four a.m. and you know how he is. That did it. Ramírez swiveled, unlocked the cabinet, and plucked a rubber-tagged fob from its hook. He dropped it into Bob’s palm.

“Bring the paperwork later,” he muttered, already second-guessing himself. “And don’t lose it. If these go missing, it’s my hide.”

“Understood,” Bob said, pocketing the fob. He nodded once and headed for the garage, steps steady, plan solidifying with every stride.

That went better than he’d dared hope, and the smooth win fed something steady inside him. Tiny victories, stacked like coins, made a kind of path. If he kept moving—quick, clean—he could be back by tomorrow, paperwork in hand, no alarms tripped, no worried faces waiting in the lobby. No dragging his friends—or Yelena—through a door he never wanted them to see.

He slid into the Nissan and set his bag on the passenger seat, the worn canvas thumping against the glovebox. The cabin smelled faintly of stale coffee and the citrus wipe security used on shared cars. He adjusted the seat, mirrors, hands settling at ten and two out of old habit, and turned the key. The engine caught with a modest hum—no drama, just readiness. Dashboard lights winked: fuel full, tire pressure fine, a soft beeping until he clicked the belt. Good

The garage gate shuddered, then lifted in a slow mechanical yawn. He eased out, letting the front bumper nose into the gray of pre-dawn. The tower fell away behind him, all glass and quiet power, and the city unspooled ahead—delivery trucks idling at red lights, a jogger in a neon windbreaker ghosting past a darkened storefront, a bakery bleeding warm light onto the sidewalk as someone flipped the sign to OPEN. He rolled a shoulder, felt the old muscle memory of driving lock into place: the measured pressure on the accelerator, the feather-light correction as the car floated over a seam in the road, the way the world steadied when you had a destination and a lane.

Urgency sharpened his focus without tipping into panic. He was alert, not brittle. The plan repeated in his head in clean bullet points: out of Manhattan before rush hour crushed the bridges; cut north-west on the parkway; fuel if needed at the cheap station with the peeling blue awning; phone off until he cleared county lines. At the house: back door, left hinge squeaks—lift and push; kitchen junk drawer—old mail; hallway cabinet—medical forms; bedroom desk—bottom drawer, tape underside; grab the shoebox in the closet if it still existed; in and out in under fifteen. Back on the road. Return before anyone fully realized he was gone.

He hit a green wave on Tenth and took it as permission. The car responded like a well-trained animal, nimble through the empty lanes. Every small competence soothed him: the smooth merge, the clean lane change, the quick glance that caught a cyclist before the turn. He hadn’t driven much since the vault and the aftermath—not because he couldn’t, but because life had narrowed to rooms and routines, soft cages. Now the horizon opened, and with it the hum of a feeling he rarely trusted: capability. He was not fumbling. He was not the soft center everyone needed to wrap in careful hands. He was a man in a car with a plan, and the clock was on his side.

At the last light before the ramp, he checked the rearview. The tower’s spire knifed the sky behind him, pale against the first smear of pink. For a moment he pictured Yelena’s expression if she woke and found his room empty—the tight crease between her brows, the curse in Russian she saved for bad ideas and people she cared about. He placed that image in a mental box labeled LATER and eased onto the ramp.

Somewhere past the last glittering blocks of Manhattan, idling at a long red light, he caught his own reflection in the windshield—a smear of city light across glass, half of his face washed in sodium glow, the other swallowed by the dark. For a heartbeat he understood exactly what Walker had meant by “creepy.” The shadowed half of his face seemed to deepen into ink, and in that black a single iris burned faintly gold. He blinked at himself like at a stranger, throat tightening at the wrongness—and then, unbidden, a thought: Would this scare him? That man? Would that little glint finally put fear into the man who’d taught a house to hold its breath? I hope it does. He thought a bit darkly.

His fingers tightened on the wheel, leather creaking under his grip. The light flicked green and he rolled through the intersection, the Nissan humming as lanes widened and the skyline fell behind. If he was honest, the reason he’d never taken this drive before—never made the simple, adult trip to collect a birth certificate, a school ID, any scrap with his name—wasn’t logistics. It wasn’t time, or money, or the thousand soft excuses a person can stack into a barricade. It was them. It was the kitchen that always smelled like old beer and lemon cleaner, the ashtray on the counter, his mother’s “We're fine here, baby” sliding out on a slur even if it was clear they weren't fine; it was the sharp, brittle silence that came after his father said “Bobby” in that particular tone. Paperwork hadn’t kept him away. People had.

Now, though, the power scale felt tipped in his favor. The thought arrived cool and measured, not a reckless dare but a quiet inventory of facts. If his father swung, the most likely outcome—judging by the footage he’d seen and the strange ease in his own bones lately—was a cracked knuckle on the old man’s hand and nothing more. That knowledge didn’t make him hungry for a fight; it simply peeled the dread away from the drive. The old choreography of flinching and appeasing lost its power when you knew the punch wouldn’t land.

The more those intrusive what-ifs circled—What if he shouts? What if he grabs? What if he tries the old trick with the shoulder, the doorway, the shove?—the steadier Bob’s hands became. There was a foreign confidence stitched into his posture now, something that didn’t puff or strut, just held. His shoulders sat back. His breathing lengthened. The car’s rumble felt like a chord he could tune to.

And a treacherous curiosity, small but bright, flickered to life. Not bloodlust. Not revenge. Just the keen, clinical interest of a man who’d been told his whole life he was fragile and now knew better. What would their faces do—his mother’s damp, apologetic startle, his father’s practiced sneer—when the boy they’d shoved out at fifteen walked through the door built broad, steady, unflinching? When the voice that used to crack came out level? 

He let the questions sit without feeding them. He wasn’t going for theater. He was going for paper—birth records, school IDs, medical slips, anything with his name in ink that hadn’t been scrubbed by Valentina’s long reach. Still, he couldn’t help the private, almost scientific anticipation: the moment of observation when the experiment changes because the subject is no longer the same.

The road lifted into a shallow overpass. Morning pulled a clean line of light along the guardrail. Bob adjusted the mirror, caught his own gaze, and didn’t look away. In, gather, out, he reminded himself. If the past tried to reenact itself, it would find the stage altered and the actor unrecognizable.

...

He was a quarter way there, driving on muscle memory—hands at ten and two, eyes flicking mirror–road–speedometer—when the back seat rustled. In hindsight, of course it would be her. For all the rumors about Black Widows being incapable of attachment, Yelena had attached herself to him with a ferocity he didn’t know how to name.

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirped. She sat up like a jack-in-the-box from beneath a cargo blanket, blond hair escaping her hoodie, grin wickedly pleased with itself. The timing—empty road, pale ribbon of dawn, his guard finally down—was perfect. The effect was disastrous. Bob didn’t scream or flinch; he locked. Every tendon went taut. His grip clenched, and the steering wheel came away in his hands with a sick, rubbery tear, bolts shearing like brittle candy under a strength he hadn’t meant to use.

Yelena’s joking expression evaporated. “Oh my god! How did you—how did you wreck the wheel?!”

“You scared me,” he said, voice uncannily even over the keening of adrenaline in his ears.

The Nissan drifted immediately, as if it had been waiting for permission. Without front control it nosed right, bumping the rumble strip—thub-thub-thub—then kissed a wire fence. The posts shuddered, one snapping, a metallic whine dragging under the chassis. He pumped the brake in staccato bursts, feeling the ABS chatter beneath his foot. The car slewed another few feet and tapped a sapling hard enough to crumple the hood with a hollow whump. Airbags didn’t deploy; the impact wasn’t fast enough. They just rocked forward against their belts and then stillness swallowed the road.

They sat in the hot, shocked quiet. A bird scolded from somewhere in the brush. The engine ticked as it cooled. Yelena’s hair was wild, her chest rising too fast; she checked him with a soldier’s glance—face, limbs, pupils—before registering the steering wheel in his lap, the finger-deep indentations his hands had pressed.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said finally, releasing the mangled ring of plastic and metal. The calm in his tone didn’t match the fizz of panic under his skin.

Yelena didn’t answer. Her gaze had snagged on his eyes. Not a flicker this time. Gold burned steady where blue should be, a molten halo banked but unmistakable. She swallowed once, slow. The assessment finished, the conclusion clicked into place with a profanity she didn’t voice, only thought with perfect clarity: Oh, shit. In hindsight, it was a stupid risk even with a normal driver. Yelena had pictured cheap laughs and a pressure-release—maybe a yelp, a panicked little zigzag, then Bob steadying the wheel while they shouted at each other about why she’d stowed away. Controlled chaos, vented nerves.

She got the opposite.

What stared back at her wasn’t just Bob. It was Sentry-tinged: voice pitched low and even, eyes holding that molten ring of gold, a composure so unnaturally calm it felt like standing in the eye of a storm. The destroyed front end was proof of it. There was no swerving save; there was a wheel ripped clean off. Yelena popped her seat belt and was out of the back passenger side in a breath, boots crunching on pebbled glass as she circled the Nissan. “You okay?” she demanded, already scanning for—blood, limping, pupils.

Bob stepped out with his backpack slung over one shoulder, brushing glass dust from his hoodie like snow. No visible injuries, just a shallow scrape on his front shirt ripped, skin intact not even a scrap,  and a thousand-yard stillness in his face. The fence wire pinged in the morning breeze; the crumpled hood ticked as it cooled. 

Guilt slid hot into Yelena’s gut. “B—Bob, I’m sorry.” The words came out raw. “I swear I didn’t think you’d react like that. I thought—” She broke off, swallowing the rest. I thought you’d laugh, curse me out, and we’d move on. Instead she’d just snapped their six-month streak—no incidents, no golden eyes—in half with a dumb prank.

He didn’t let her fill the silence with excuses. He straightened, shoulders settling into that unfamiliar, immovable line, and looked down at her. That gaze wasn’t the warm, cinnamon-Bob she knew. It wasn’t cruel, either—just cool, focused, stripped of apology. He didn’t ask if she was hurt (her own stupid risk, anyway). He didn’t fidget, didn’t soften. He just…held.

“You shouldn’t be here, Yelena,” he said—flat, contained. Not angry; disappointed. At the situation. At himself for not preventing it. “How did you even know? How did you follow?”

Her first instinct was to swat the question away on principle. If this hadn’t been her fault, she wouldn’t have dignified Sentry with an answer. But guilt had sanded down her pride. She huffed, jammed her hands into her hoodie pocket, and told the truth.

“Your footsteps are heavy. You weren’t sleeping—you were pacing at two in the morning, long enough to make even the ceiling click. And the way you looked yesterday?” She tipped her chin toward the horizon, the pale thread of daylight. “I figured you’d try something heroic and stupid on your own like you did in the vault. So I hid in the car at three and passed out in the back.” If reading him that easily bothered him, he didn’t show it. He just let out a long, measured breath, gold steady in his eyes.

Wind worried the fence wire. The bent hood ticked as it cooled. From the ditch came the wet, marshy smell of frost-soft earth. Yelena shifted, suddenly aware of the faint tremor in her hands—the leftover charge of almost and what-if. She forced them still.

“Look,” she said, voice pitched low, careful. “You can hate the execution. I deserve it. But I wasn’t going to let you walk into that house alone.”

He studied her, that Sentry-stillness making the pause feel longer than it was. “I don’t want protection,” he said at last. “I want space to be a grown man, not a project you all pass around.”

“Then let me treat you like one.” She met his steadiness with her own. “I’m not here to drag you back by the hood. I’m here to witness. If you say ‘stay out,’ I stay out. If you say ‘five minutes,’ I count five. If you say ‘leave me,’ I leave. But if someone lays a hand on you, I break it. Those are my terms.”

“Why are you so set on helping me? I don’t—I don’t get it.” The question slipped out smaller than he meant, a hairline crack in the composure he’d been holding since the crash. He started walking again, eyes on the shoulder of the road, like it would be easier to hear the answer if he didn’t have to meet her gaze.

“Because I care.” Yelena didn’t make a speech of it. No flourish, no joke to soften the edges. She closed the distance in three brisk steps and caught his hand, tugging him to a stop so the words would land while he stared at her. “That’s our thing. We help each other. Besides I promised you you wouldn’t be alone.” Her brow pinched—not angry, just emphatic, like she was speaking to both him and the gold burning steady in his eyes. “Privacy when you want it, backup when you need it. That’s the deal. Take it or take it.” She offered seriously.

He tilted his head, listening for the catch that wasn’t there. The gold flickered—brighter, then banked—and his grip tightened, not in panic, but like he’d decided to believe her over his inner demons once more. They climbed the gravel lip back to the road together, his hand still steadying hers as if they were stepping off a curb instead of crawling out of an almost.

“Sometimes I forget how stubborn you are,” he said, a trace of wryness sneaking back into his voice.

“Get used to it, golden boy. I’m not going anywhere.” The corner of her mouth kicked up. She freed her hand once they were level and pulled out her phone, screen already alive. “So, Uber?”

Ava finished her morning yoga, rolling up the mat with precise, economical motions before padding toward the living room, toweling sweat from the back of her neck. Alexei was already demolishing his first breakfast; Walker looked halfway through his third. She would never understand the man’s compulsion to live on a timetable drafted by an army that had tossed him aside. At first, her disdain for John Walker had been public—tidy talking points about “the guy who murdered someone with the shield.” And yes, the spectacle had been obscene. But murder, in itself? She had no illusions there. Steve Rogers didn’t survive World War II by politely declining the job.

What grated now wasn’t the act, it was the context—and the man. Six months around Walker had turned a headline into an equation. Wake at four. Make the bed to regulation. Lift. Eat. Run. Eat again. Drill. Eat again. Team drills. Ice bath. Protein. A life stacked like sandbags against a flood. Watching him move like that—religious, relentless—made something old and sore press against her ribs: a memory of little Ava Starr believing that if she could just be the perfect S.H.I.E.L.D. asset, follow the rules, the pain would stop. As if discipline could bargain with people who’d only ever seen her as a weapon.

She watched Walker shovel in another rice cake, like it could keep the past at bay and thought, not without surprise, that she finally understood why he’d cracked in public. Not because he was a monster, but because he was a man carrying orders inside his bones with nowhere to set them down.

Maybe that’s why he got under her skin. Maybe that’s why she made a sport of swatting the back of his head, jabbing his bicep, dropping a dry one-liner that basically meant: wake up, idiot—no one’s making you be a soldier anymore. He did other things—read, watched dumb documentaries, even learned to make a decent omelet—but the cadence of service still ran his life like a metronome, and the constancy of it was almost as grating as the complaining.

“Can you believe Ramirez' reaction this morning?” Walker groused, loading peanut butter and fruit onto a rice cake with drill-sergeant precision. “He came up in the middle of my set and pointed at me saying I shouldn't be here. What an id—hey!”

Ava had already slipped the rice cake from his fingers and taken a bite, stealing it sucessfully. She dropped into the chair opposite, eyes innocent, mouth anything but.

“Sorry. Post-workout. If I don’t eat now I’ll disappear,” she said, deadpan while mocking his own words.

“No kidding,” he shot back. She got it, the Ghost.

Alexei chuckled, delighted as ever by their routine. If Yelena and Bob were his soap opera, Walker and Ava were his favorite morning comedy. “Do tell—what did Ramírez want again?” he asked, leaning in with nosy uncle energy. With Bucky out at a meeting, Alexei had appointed himself interim chaperone of the chaos.

Walker huffed, snatching another rice cake like he was pulling a buddy out of enemy fire. “He went all pale,” he grumbled. “Said I wasn’t supposed to be in the tower, then paced and muttered something about a car.” His tone said he couldn’t be bothered to care.

Ava traded a look with Alexei over the table. The Red Guardian’s brows rose in interest; Ava’s flattened. “Am I the only one hearing wrong all over that?” Security didn’t spook easily, and they almost never interrupted them—especially Walker—without a reason. As the thought landed, a second oddity clicked into place: the silence. No Yelena–Bob chatter bleeding in from the couch. No half-whispered arguments over tea leaves in the kitchen. No twin silhouettes slouched a palm-width apart in front of the TV, pretending not to orbit each other. The quiet felt…vacant.

“Where are Bob and Yelena?” she asked.

Walker shrugged like it was obvious. “Uh, their room? Where else?” He yelped when she kicked him under the table. “What?! Everybody knows they sleep together sometimes.” He didn’t even bother to clarify he meant literally, not figuratively.

“Not for this long, stupid.” Ava was already flicking through their group chat. No replies. No check-ins. Radio dark. She cut her gaze to Alexei. “You seen them?”

“Now that you mention it—nyet.” He brightened with a grin that made her want to throttle him. “Maybe they ran away to marry—my little girl and the Sentry! Their couple power will be legendary-!”

“Hey—come back to this realm.” Walker snapped his fingers at Alexei, cutting off whatever delusional father-of-the-bride fantasy was about to spiral. The tone—tight, sober—yanked the room into focus. He turned to Ava, jaw set. “You think they went to Bob’s house? Or he went to Valentina?”

It wasn’t a wild guess. The mood swings, the DMV dead end, Valentina’s “legal John Doe” stunt—none of it had sat right. Bucky’s last marching orders had been clear: keep an eye on Bob; don’t let pressure or pride shove him into something that flips the switch. Walker rubbed his temple. He was the earliest riser. He should have clocked the signs sooner so this mess would fall on him no doubt.

Ava’s mouth flattened. She’d already lined up the facts in her head, neat as puzzle pieces. “It fits the pattern,” she said. “No records, no ID, and the one place that still has proof is the last place he wants to go. He’d try to get there fast, quiet, without us.”

“And Yelena would rather swallow glass than let him go alone,” Walker added.

Alexei lifted both hands like a referee. “Then we go. We are family. We drive, we bring donuts, we—”

“I’m calling Bucky,” Ava cut in, phone already in her palm. Things were past cute. Past plausible deniability. They were at the stage where every minute counted.

Walker’s hand shot out, covering the screen and taking her phone on a higher level. “Wa-W-Wait! Don’t call Bucky yet.” Panic flickered, not about blame—about failing the assignment. “We can fix this. We’re not six. We ping them first, get a read, then escalate. Maybe Yelena took him out to clear his head. Maybe they’re at a DMV satellite. Maybe they’re— in a date.”

Ava stared at him, blank as a wall. Really? Her eyebrow said it for her. Still, she didn’t yank the phone back. She respected triage even if it was to save his dumb honor.

“Look, we don’t have to call Bucky for everything. This is ridiculous.” Walker had his phone out before Ava could arch an eyebrow. “I’ll call Bob. He’ll stammer something dumb and we’ll be done.”

He paced a tight line in front of the living room as the call rang… and rang. The sterile recording cut in. He yanked the phone away from his ear, jaw flexing. “And he didn’t pick up. Great. Great!” Ava didn’t move. Arms folded, expression neutral, she let the silence do the judging.

“Wait—maybe I call Yelena,” Alexei said, already thumbing through contacts. “She always answers for Papa.” He put it on speaker. The ring tone trilled, steady as a metronome. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two. He pulled the phone back and frowned at the screen as if it had personally betrayed him. “Darn. Maybe no signal?”

“Or no phone,” Ava said. “Or they killed location services and tossed their SIMs. Which, for the record, Yelena learned from me.” She pushed off the console and set her palms on the edge, voice crisp. “We assume competent evasion. We plan accordingly.”

Ava reached for her phone as she finished, but Walker still had his palm casually planted across the top edge, keeping it just out of reach. The height advantage wasn’t lost on her; she could have broken his wrist for the principle of it. She settled for a glare sharp enough to skin a man.

“Wait—Ramírez,” Walker said, snapping his fingers as the idea landed. “He wasn’t rattled for nothing. He knows something. We lean on him, get whatever spooked him, pull the car’s last coordinates. If Bob ditched it, the GPS log will show where. Then we track the car and find them. Ha! In your face.!” Walker leaned in smugly locking his classic American blue eyes on hers.

God, that smug smile. Ava drove an elbow into his midsection—controlled force, just enough to fold him half a step. When his hand dipped, she plucked her phone free and slid it into her pocket in the same motion.

“Fine,” she said, voice cool as a scalpel. “It’s 10:00. I’ll give you both until noon to produce exact locations—street, mile marker, or front porch—so you can protect your macho ego. If we’ve got nothing by 12:01, I am calling Bucky.”

She didn’t wait for a rebuttal. The sour weight in her gut had been coiling since dawn; she chose to treat it like caffeine instead of prophecy. On her way past the security bay, she flicked two fingers at Ramírez, who looked up from his monitors with the guilt of a man who’d heard his name too many times in ten minutes.

“Uh… would you look at that—no signal, no data.” Yelena stared at the dead bars on her screen and hummed, unimpressed. She’d hoped one call could conjure a solution to being stranded on a nowhere stretch of road; apparently, God had other plans. Beside her, Bob didn’t wait for miracles. He just kept walking—long, purposeful strides, jaw set—like distance itself had offended him and he intended to correct it.

She fell in a step behind, hood up against the wind, studying the lines of his shoulders. He wasn’t angry in the way she knew—no muttered apologies, no anxious jokes. This was colder, steadier; it dragged her back to that day in the tower when he’d fought them without blinking. She shook off the flash of memory refusing to think that could happen again.

“Bob? You with me?” she tried, lighter than she felt. “You get any signal?”

He tugged out his phone—screen a spiderweb of cracks, casing bowed from the impact. “It met the front end of the car,” he said, almost offhand, and slid it back into his pocket.

Yelena winced. Another little tally on the guilt ledger. “Okay. I’m sorry,” she said, because she was, and there was no use pretending otherwise. “Let me find us a ride, alright? We’re not hiking two days like a pair of pilgrims.”

She stepped ahead of him, pivoting to face oncoming traffic, and shoved her hood back. The tank top beneath her hoodie bared enough skin to turn heads; she wasn’t proud of the tactic, but kindness rarely stopped on sunburned blacktop. She lifted an arm and flagged as a battered pickup rattled past. No luck. Another car; another whoosh of wind, exhaust, indifference.

Bob’s gaze flicked from the empty road to her, a crease forming between his brows. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, softer now but still remote—a shoreline a few feet farther away than usual.

“It’s a tool,” she replied, eyes on the next approaching set of headlights. “I use the tools that work.”

A sedan slowed, curiosity doing what decency didn’t, then thought better of it and sped up again. Yelena dropped her arm with a sigh, then glanced at Bob more directly. The gold in his irises hadn’t vanished entirely; it pulsed faintly when shadows passed over his face. He kept walking, boots grinding in roadside grit, until she stepped into his path and planted a hand on his chest.

“Hey. Look at me.” He did. “I’m trying to help and make this fast. Help me help you.”

Something in him eased by a millimeter, enough for the edges of his voice to warm. “I know. I just—” He searched for a word, failed, shook his head. “Let’s keep moving.”

“Bob, it’s unreal that you plan to just walk the whole way—hey! At least let me—ugh!”

He didn’t even slow. Yelena watched his back recede and finally had to admit a truth she’d been stubbornly ignoring: his legs were longer, and Sentry-Bob didn’t wait. When they’d walked together before, she’d imagined they moved at the same pace; turns out he’d simply been matching hers. Not today. Today he ate distance like it owed him money.

She pulled up short, chest heaving, pride prickling. Fine. If he wouldn’t come to her plan, she’d bring the plan to him. The handful of curious drivers who’d eased off the gas earlier had all decided against stopping once they clocked the tall, no-nonsense shadow stalking the shoulder beside her. Alone, though? Alone she had better odds.

“Okay, Golden Boy,” she muttered, shoving her hood back and lifting her arm toward the next glint of chrome on the horizon. “You keep marching. I’ll flag a ride and drag your stubborn ass into it.”

She planted herself on the gravel edge, eyes tracking the road, every inch of her posture broadcasting competent, not-desperate. The wind worried at the loose strands of her hair; tire heat wavered up from the asphalt. Behind her, Bob’s footsteps faded to a low, steady rhythm, relentless as a metronome. Ahead, a pair of headlights blinked through the shimmer. Yelena squared her shoulders, raised her hand higher, and let the hunter in her go very still.

It took forty minutes—long enough for the sun to climb a finger’s width and for impatience to settle between Yelena’s shoulder blades—before a cargo van lumbered into view, signal blinking, engine coughing like an old smoker. It rolled to a stop in a sigh of brakes and hot rubber. The driver leaned out the window: mid-forties, salt-and-pepper stubble, grease under his nails, a half-smoked cigarette pinched between two fingers. Not her first choice. Not even her tenth. But his eyes were steady, curious rather than predatory, and he’d already eased over without her having to throw herself into the road. Good enough.

“Break down?” he asked, voice roughened by road coffee and nicotine.

“Tree won,” Yelena said, tipping her chin back along the highway. “We just need a lift partway—near Sarasota Springs. I’ve got a friend up ahead who’s very stubborn and very allergic to being helped.”

The guy—Jack, according to the laminated badge clipped crookedly to his pocket—flicked ash out the window and nodded. “I can take you a few exits closer. I’ll even swing by your stubborn friend if he’s not a knife guy.”

“Only with bread,” she deadpanned. “And he sulks more than he stabs.” Or normally, he sulked rather than stabbing, now she wasn't so sure.

Jack huffed a laugh, unlocked the doors, and jerked his head at the cargo bay. “He can ride in the back. Keep the door latched; the hinge is a diva.”

Yelena slid into the passenger seat, cracked the window to thin the smoke, and sank her sunglasses against the bridge of her nose. The van smelled like rubber, motor oil, and stale peppermint. As they rumbled forward, she scanned the shoulder. A hundred yards on, a mop of dark curls and a square set of shoulders cut against the light. She pointed, sharp as a command.

“There. That’s my idiot.”

Jack coasted to the edge of the lane and gave two polite taps of the horn. Yelena added a whistle—two notes, piercing and familiar—and watched Bob turn. In the gold-washed angle of sunrise, his irises flashed amber, the color there and gone like a coin flipped in light and his skin seemed to glow, it made her guts do a weird flip-flop she opted to ignore for now.

She hooked her thumb toward the open cargo door. “Come on. Don’t be stubborn. Back seat.”

He stood there a beat, weighing pride against practicality, eyes ticking from Yelena to the van to the long ribbon of road. She pasted on a diplomatic smile for Jack, then leaned out her door and reached—pinching the back of Bob’s hoodie at the collar the way she might catch a stray cat heading for a ledge.

“I have inhaled grease and secondhand smoke for five minutes for you,” she hissed under her breath, face close enough that he could feel the heat of her words. “Get. In.”

Bob exhaled through his nose, a patience-frayed sound, and glanced past her into the cargo space: milk crates, ratchet straps, a coil of orange extension cord like a sleeping snake. The gold in his eyes cooled a shade. He lifted himself up with one hand on the frame—careful not to bend it—and swung inside, settling on an inverted crate as if he’d always known how to fold himself into small spaces.

“Attaboy,” Yelena said, gentler now, and shut the door with a double-check on the latch.

Jack flicked his cigarette out the window, ground it harmlessly under the toe of his boot, and pulled them back onto the highway. “Couple miles,” he said. “No funny business. I’ve got a wrench and a fast elbow.”

“Respectfully noted,” Yelena replied, letting a sliver of relief loosen her spine. She glanced over her shoulder through the metal grate. Bob met her eyes, braced forearms on his knees, the set of his jaw still iron but not locked. She tapped the bulkhead twice—a small, private code: with you. He nodded once. The van hummed. The road unspooled. And, for the first time since the crash, forward didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like progress.

In hindsight, small talk had never been Yelena’s weakness—only her patience for it. Widow training made “social when necessary” as natural as breathing; sincerity was optional. So she let Jack’s idle chatter roll, answering when it served the moment and swallowing the rest. The van droned along the highway slower than most cars, tires humming, a loose ratchet strap in the cargo bay ticking time against metal. Each mile, the sun climbed and the cab warmed, bringing up the scents of motor oil, coffee dregs, and the cold smoke that lived in the seats.

Jack tried the usual routes. “Sarasota Springs, huh? Family there?”
“Work,” she said, minimalist, and turned her mouth into an apologetic curve that ended most follow-ups.
“Where you two from?”
“City,” she replied, which was true enough to pass.
He tapped the wheel, a sidelong glance. “You and the tall guy—together?”
She angled her sunglasses lower and let the beat stretch until the question died on its own unwilling to talk about her feelings, specially when Bob DID make her feel after years of being an emotionless robot. “We travel well,” she said finally, which was also true and told him nothing.

When he drifted into weather talk and highway complaints, she gave him more—names of exits, a sympathetic grunt at construction delays, a dry joke about the world’s worst gas-station coffee. It kept him friendly and the ride steady. Every so often she checked the wire grate to the cargo bay. Bob sat on an upside-down milk crate, elbows on knees, head tipped back against the wall. He looked asleep—breath even, shoulders loose—but she tracked the subtle things: how his fingers flexed when the van hit a pothole, how the gold in his eyes dulled to a faint ring when the light shifted. Not dangerous. Not spiraling. Just tired and holding.

Jack circled back to curiosity. “So, Sarasota. Big plans?”
“Paperwork,” she said, letting the word land like a yawn. “Riveting stuff.”
He chuckled. “Government offices. My condolences.”

Guilt buzzed under her ribs like the loose strap behind them. She should have known better than to spook him; should have been the calm in the car instead of the spark. So she paid the toll here—fielding questions, keeping the driver content, making the road smooth—while Bob got the quiet he wouldn’t ask for. When Jack finally switched on the radio—classic rock fuzzing in and out—she tuned it to tolerable and marked the mileposts in her head. Four exits to the station she’d spotted on the map. Coffee. Water. A plan.

As they neared one of the last gas stations, Jack eased the van off the highway. The stop had everything a road-weary driver could want: a squat café with sun-faded pastry photos in the window, a low-budget motel with peeling paint, and a row of pumps glinting under a stuttering fluorescent canopy. If they hadn’t found a ride, Yelena realized, this was where she and Bob would’ve spent the night—stiff-backed on a plastic bench, sharing a burnt coffee and a headache.

She twisted in her seat to check on him. Bob still wore that Sentry stillness—eyes closed, body upright, like a statue that had chosen not to breathe too deeply. Not asleep, not alert, hovering in a controlled half-state that worried her more than visible panic ever could. By her count, he was pushing seventy-two hours without real rest—since Lindy, since the DMV, since Valentina’s call had knocked the floor out from under him. Every instinct in Yelena’s body wanted to shake him out of it and make him lie down. Every lesson she’d learned warned her not to startle a cornered animal, even if the animal was a man she's grown attached to and the corner was just his own mind.

Jack jogged inside the mini-mart. When he came back, a beer sweated in his hand. The wrong drink at the wrong hour. He took a long pull, then slid behind the wheel with the loose-limbed ease of someone officially off duty.

“Bad news,” he announced, thumbing condensation off the label. “I’m fried. Figured I could push on and nap later, but that’s not happening. I’m gonna crash here for a few hours.”

The line of Yelena’s shoulders firmed. She exhaled through her nose, polite smile locked in place. “Safety first,” she said, though her stomach dipped—there went the blessed momentum. “That’s okay—we’ll keep moving,” Yelena said, clipped but polite. The ride had been slow, smoky, and two quarts of grease past tolerable, yet it had saved them hours. Gratitude didn’t cost her pride.

“You could sleep here,” Jack drawled, rolling the cold beer between his palms. “I don’t mind. Or…” He leaned in, breath sour with hops and entitlement. “We could leave your friend and grab a room at the motel, honey.”

Every muscle in Yelena went still. She knew this shape of man across borders and languages—the lazy lean, the oily grin, the math that made her safety his decision. A clean right hook would fix the geometry.

Metal screamed first.

Bob’s arm punched clean through the van’s steel partition, fingers spearing past warped lattice like foil. In one smooth, terrible motion he palmed the driver’s headrest—and John’s skull beneath it—and pressed. The seat hinges shrieked. Bolts pinged loose and rattled across the floor. The whole chair arched backward as if begging. Yelena’s stomach dropped; the gold in Bob’s eyes had gone bright and depthless, a furnace behind glass.

Jack’s smirk collapsed into panic. “What—the fuck—!” His voice strangled as the seatframe caved, trapping him in a half-reclined choke. He clawed at the arms that weren’t there; all the force lived in Bob’s hand and the humming line of his shoulders, perfectly still except for the tiniest tremor in his fingers—the kind that suggested he was measuring pressure in millimeters and consequences in funerals.

"Bob, let him go!" Yelena warned, pale. He didn’t hear her at first—not really. The driver’s leer was too familiar, too close to old rot Bob had spent years trying to outgrow. His fingers closed around the man’s collar and lifted. Metal screamed as the crown of the man's head slammed the van’s roof; the driver’s head thunked hard, a stifled yelp tearing loose as his legs pedaled uselessly in the air. He didn't care the man was pale, had helped them with a ride and had probably pissed his pants again, any sort of fault towards his Yelena was inexcusable

“So this is your routine?” Bob asked, voice level and winter-cold, a brutal counterpoint to the heat burning in his eyes. “You troll back roads predating tired girls and herd them into cheap motel rooms?”

The man went gray. “H-hey— I didn’t— I was kidding, it was a joke—”

“B-Bob! Let him go—you’re going to kill him.” Yelena was out of the passenger seat and moving before she finished the sentence, boots crunching over gravel. She yanked the rear doors wide, hopped into the cargo bay, and wrapped both arms around Bob from behind, forearms locking over his biceps. Her cheek brushed the seam of his hoodie; she felt the coiled heat in him like a live wire under skin.

“Would that be so bad?” The words came soft, almost curious—Sentry-soft, the kind of softness that wasn’t softness at all but a steadying of the hand before you pressed harder knowing you would demolish the object in your hold.

“It would be when you don’t mean to.” she shot back, breath quick against his shoulder. “Because you are not this. You are NOT  a murderer.” She tightened her hold, bracing her heels against the ribbed floor, every inch of her remembering the posture she used when the Void crept in—anchor points, leverage, voice pitched steady and low. “You hate what comes after. You know you do.”

The driver gagged, hands clawing at air. Beer stung the van with a sour barley reek. A single bead of sweat slid down the man’s temple and dropped onto the floor with a neat, obscene tick.

“Look at me,” Yelena said, softer now, angling her body so he couldn’t not. “Look.”

He did. Gold burned bright as a furnace door cracked open—and faltered. The line of his jaw twitched. The tremor in his fingers—so slight and so dangerous—stilled a fraction.

“Please,” she said, and the word wasn’t a tactic so much as a truth. raw desperation trying to reach him and fear of facing rejection like she did the first time he became the Sentry in the Avengers tower. “For me.”

Something in him finally let go. The molten flare in his eyes cooled from furnace-gold to a tempered honey, and the pressure of his hand slackened—not mercy so much as precision—granting the driver a narrow ribbon of air. The man sucked it greedily, ragged gulps hitching in his chest, eyes bulging with a terror that smelled of stale beer and panic. Bob didn’t raise his voice or snarl. He just turned his head the smallest degree, and the warning in his gaze did the rest. “If you ever try to prey on a woman like this again,” he said—quiet, iron-flat, certain—“I will kill you.” The promise wasn’t shouted; it was measured, the kind of sentence you believed because the speaker obviously didn’t need to prove it twice.

Whatever fight the driver had left shorted out. His face went sallow, lips working soundlessly as the world tunneled, and then he folded—lights out, spine gone slack—crumpling  and sliding on his hold like a rag doll. Bob released him completely and stepped away without looking back at him or Yelena. The metal he’d warped kept the imprint of his fingers,crescents sunk into the van’s thin steel; the cabin held that aftershock stillness that follows a near-accident, breath and heat and the faint tick of cooling engine parts.

Yelena jogged the last few steps to catch up, then latched onto his forearm and planted her feet. “Wait. Stop.”

He did—abruptly, obediently—but the muscle under her fingers was strung tight as cable. Bob stared past her at the road, jaw working, the afternoo sun cutting a hard line along his cheekbone.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, breath still sharp from the sprint. Worry crowded with irritation in her voice. “What’s going on with you?”

His gaze slid down to meet hers, unreadable and steady. “You heard him,” he said, level. “You know exactly what he was about to try.” There was no apology in it—only a cold conviction, like he’d been born to pass judgment on men like that and had simply done what the moment required.

Yelena blinked at the quiet certainty, thrown by how unfamiliar it felt on him. “I’m not talking about the creep,” she shot back, fingers tightening at his sleeve. “I can handle creeps. I’m talking about you.” She tugged once, enough to pull his attention fully onto her. “You’ve been… off. Since the registry. Since Valentina. Since—” She exhaled, fighting for the right word. “Since her. This isn’t your usual ‘go quiet and read a book’ mood. You’re coiled, you’re picking fights with the air, and now you almost crushed a man’s windpipe when you know I could’ve broken his nose myself.” He wasn't looking at her but Yelena could tell he was hesitanting. "You have to tell me what's going on, please, it's just US."

Whatever spark of softness he’d let slip was gone by the time the wind shifted. He rolled his shoulders once—like a boxer setting his stance—then tipped his chin toward the roadside motel and the squat café beside it. “It’s getting late,” he said, voice steady again, sealed up. “The team’s probably losing their minds. We’ll stay here, message them we’re okay, and tomorrow we'll move at first light.”

Yelena studied him a beat—the squared jaw, the careful evenness that meant he’d shoved whatever was fraying back into a locked drawer—and chose not to pry it open. “Fine,” she said, falling in beside him. 

Walker was having a rotten day even by his own grim standards. He’d marched down to Ramirez’s desk ready to breathe fire—and left with a knot in his gut. Under a mix of not-so-subtle threats and the kind of intimidation only a super soldier could radiate without raising his voice, the guard admitted it: Bob had taken a car that morning using Walker’s name as cover. Solo. No sign of Yelena on the footage from the garage; she never crossed any lobby cameras, and the night log was clean. That told Walker two things—Bob had planned this, and someone on security was going to be doing inventory duty for the next decade.

From there, the trail got worse. The Nissan’s GPS feed cut out on a county road an hour north—older unit, no cabin cams, no live diagnostics. A quick call to the local precinct filled in the rest: a single-vehicle incident had been reported at roughly the same coordinates. No airbag deployment ping, no emergency call, and—most important—no blood at the scene. The car had suffered front-end damage against a fence and a tree, but whoever was behind the wheel had walked away. The officer’s tone on the line had been bored, matter-of-fact; to him it was just another abandoned vehicle. To Walker, it was a flare in the dark. Bob alive. Bob moving. Bob off the grid.

“Shit,” Walker hissed as he snapped his phone shut, jaw flexing. He could already hear Bucky’s voice in his head—You’re supposed to be watching the house, not starring in a procedural. He didn’t want to make the call. He wanted to fix it. Prove that when things tilted sideways he could steady them without dragging the old man back from whatever meeting he was in. But every minute Bob stayed unaccounted for pushed them closer to the edge they’d all sworn not to walk again. The image of gold-lit eyes in a dark room flickered at the edges of his mind, and he swore again, softer.

Walker found them exactly where he’d left them: Ava prowling the far side of the living room like a caged cat, Alexei planted on the arm of the couch with one knee bouncing, halfway into his jacket as if motion alone could fix the morning. The TV was on mute—news crawl, live traffic map—because none of them were actually watching it.

He didn’t bother sitting. “Bob’s off-grid,” he said, voice flat. “GPS died on a county road north of here. Car’s wrecked—front end only. No blood. No tow. He walked away. Based on direction of travel and the time he left, I’m ninety percent sure he’s heading for his old place.”

Ava’s mouth twisted. “Per-fucking-fect.” Her eyes cut between the two men, sharp as glass. “So do we keep playing junior detectives, or can we call Bucky now and save ourselves the part where Florida phones to ask why the sun just went out?”

Walker bit back the reflex to snap. He could take the jab; what he couldn’t take was losing the window where this was still a search and not a containment. “Alexei—anything from Yelena?” he asked instead, clinging to the one variable that might keep this from tipping. “Texts, missed calls, a passive-aggressive meme? Anything.”

Alexei checked his phone again, huge thumb flicking the screen like it had personally offended him. He grimaced. “Nothing. Last ping in the tower last night. After that—silence.” He hesitated, lowering his voice in a way that made Walker’s shoulders go tight. “If she is with him… she keeps him from the dark. Da. But if she is not—”

“Don’t even say that,” Walker warned, the words coming out harsher than he meant. The thought of the Void wasn’t abstract to him—it had a shape and a temperature. It smelled like metal and old rain and it dragged you backward through the worst days you’d ever lived. He’d seen Lemar die three separate times inside that darkness. He wasn’t eager to audition for a fourth.

Ava lowered her phone, jaw set. “She’s not answering me either,” she said. Their private thread—where they actually said the quiet parts out loud—showed two blue ticks and silence. Ava blew out a breath that made her bangs lift. “All right. It’s time.” She stood, thumb hovering over Bucky’s contact. “I’ll tell him exactly what we know. The sooner we move, the better.”

Alexei groaned, half a father, half a bear denied his nap. “We call James every time, we look like children who cannot cross street alone.”

“Because every time we don’t call James,” Ava snapped, “we get a flaming dumpster on skates.”

“Wait—Ava.” Walker stepped in, palm up. She shot him a look that read explain yourself, Captain America (adjacent) and planted herself in front of him, palms up, voice frayed with impatience.

“Wait—what is this martyr routine? Why are you so hell-bent on doing everything yourself?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “What are you trying to prove?”

Walker’s jaw flexed; the muscle jumped twice. “Nothing, all right? No… thing.” The bluster drained a notch and something raw slipped through. “I feel guilty. I should’ve clocked it first. I feel it was my responsability, I was up at least 5 hours before all of you guys, and I didn't even think it was odd Yelena and Bob weren't here.” Ava’s shoulders eased a millimeter—there it was, the crack she expected—but Walker wasn’t finished. He raked a hand through his hair and glanced between her and Alexei, words finding shape as he spoke. “And—look—the more I chew on it, the more I think we owe him a vote of confidence.”

Ava opened her mouth—counterargument locked and loaded. He lifted a palm, not to silence her, but to buy one more breath.

“Just hear me,” he said. “He’s been… wrecked about this. About not being treated like an adult. About feeling like we run his life on rails. If the first thing we do the minute he steps outside alone is scramble a search party, what does that say? It tells him we don’t trust him to cross the street without a chaperone.” He paced once, tight orbit around the coffee table map, then stopped. “He asked for room. He asked for dignity. If we don’t give him any, we’re the ones proving his point.”

Alexei folded his arms, thoughtful for once. “I do trust son-in-law wouldn’t go looking for trouble,” Alexei said at last, voice softer than his usual bluster. He scrubbed a broad palm over his beard, eyes fixed on the empty doorway as if Bob might reappear there on cue. “But I fear he is in a dark place without anyone to steady him.” The admission landed heavy; even Walker glanced over, surprised by the gentleness in it.

Alexei squared his shoulders, the old soldier peeking through the doting father. “He deserves more freedom, da. I have said this from the beginning—tell him what he is, give him the choice, let him stand with us as the Sentry when he is ready.” His mouth pulled into a small, proud smile. “And besides, I am certain my Lenochka is with him. I have a feeling.” He tapped two fingers to his temple, then to his chest. “Here. And here.”

Ava’s retort stalled on her tongue. Logic had kept her poised to call Bucky and escalate—trackers, calls, a full sweep—but Alexei’s words, coupled with Walker’s argument, cracked that resolve. She paced once, thumbs worrying the edge of her phone, and forced herself to look at the question without anger or fear.

Was it the safest plan? No. But safety wasn’t the only metric. Respect mattered. Trust mattered. Bob had asked for room to handle his own life—for once—to move through a bureaucratic maze without a handler shadowing his every step. And if Yelena really was with him—Ava could admit it, if only to herself—then the odds bent their way. Call it love, call it ferocious friendship, call it whatever mystical “soulmate” nonsense the internet gushed about; spend a week around those two and you knew they recalibrated around each other. Yelena steadied him when he tilted toward the void. Bob softened the edges of her ruthlessness until it became precision.

Ava slowed her pacing, jaw unclenching. “All right,” she said, eyes moving from Alexei to Walker. “We do this the careful way.” She tucked the phone into her back pocket instead of dialing. “We give him space, assume Yelena’s with him unless we get proof otherwise. We gather information—quietly. No sirens, no cavalry. If we step in, it’s because we have something concrete, not because we panicked.”

“Good.” Walker exhaled, tension loosening across his shoulders. “A vote of confidence, not a free fall.”

Alexei thumped the back of the couch, satisfied. “Da. We trust our boy—and my Lenochka—until they give us reason not to.” And he trusted that it wouldn't be necessary at all, or at least he hoped for it. They all did. "On any case I better go ask Ramirez to follow Yelena's steps from yesterday until she is gone, just to make sure she is fine." Alexei told them, making his exit to tie the ends needed in Yelena's side, after all they had been so wrapped up in finding about Bob they forgot a bit to follow up on Yelena's foot steps. 

Left alone with John, Ava immediately regretted not volunteering for the Ramirez errand. It wasn’t that she disliked Walker—well, not only that—it was that they almost never occupied the same room without a task or a timer in fight between them. Training, mission briefs, shared meals in the watchtower kitchen—fine. This? This was new. And new made her itch.

Insulting him or hitting him for talking against her idea to talk with Bucky would have been easier than letting the silence yawn, but she was, allegedly, an adult. So she tried conversation instead—especially since, for once, she had something worth saying that implied him acting like a mature adult as well.

“You know,” she said, arms folded, eyes on the security feed that wasn’t doing either of them any favors, “it’s…surprising you’re being decent to Bob today and decided to be the better guy out from all us.” He shoot her a dirty look.

“Gee, thanks,” Walker muttered, collapsing onto the couch like a man who’d missed three meals and a run. The fatigue pulled the polish off him—creased shirt, scuffed boots, jaw working. For once, he looked less like a statue of a soldier and more like a person holding the line because someone had to. Ava grimaced the second the words left her mouth. That was supposed to be a compliment; somehow it crawled out sounding like a cheap shot. No wonder Walker’s expression pinched. She dragged a hand over her face and tried again, forcing herself to be—ugh—earnest.

Yelena texted the group chat a brief, carefully crafted message: With Bob. Safe. On the road to his house for his documents.

Simple. Efficient. And utterly omitting the small, terrifying fact that Bob—no, Sentry-Bob—had nearly killed a man a few hours ago. There was no reason to worry everyone just yet. The situation was under control, or so she told herself. The man he’d confronted had been a creep, and Bob had reacted instantly—too fast, too sharp, the way only something inhuman could. She’d barely managed to stop him before he snapped the guy’s neck. Thankfully, the driver fled without a word as soon as he woke, walked in to the cafe and spotted Bob, he tensed, pale as a ghost, his hands shaking as he scrambled into his van and sped off down the road. No police, no witnesses, no mess to clean up. For now.

Inside the small roadside café, things were calmer. Yelena had chosen a corner booth with cracked leather seats and ordered their old comfort meal—their thing—stacks of fluffy pancakes drowning in syrup, ice cream melting over the top despite it being dinner time. It was tradition. Something simple, human, grounding. But Bob wasn’t eating. He sat across from her, arms crossed tightly, shoulders drawn in, gaze distant. He looked… haunted. His golden eyes, so unnaturally bright under the dull lights, were fixed somewhere past her, far away.

It wasn’t just that he was quiet—Bob had always had quiet days—but this was different. He felt like someone else entirely. The warmth she knew, the awkward jokes, the easy smiles that cracked through his stoicism, were gone. What sat across from her now was all edges and silence. A man carrying too much weight on his chest, unwilling to share even a piece of it. His jaw was locked tight, the muscle twitching every few seconds, like he was holding back words—or something worse.

Yelena watched him carefully, trying to catch a glimpse of her Bob in there somewhere. “You’re seriously not going to touch this? You are leaving me with this caloric bomb all alone?” she asked finally, gesturing to the pancakes she ordered for them. “You love pancakes. You make fun of me for ordering them for dinner usually but now suddenly you’re too cool for syrup?”

He didn’t look up. Just muttered, “Not hungry.” That answer—so flat, so unlike the man she knew—hit Yelena harder than she’d expected. It wasn’t just the words, it was how he said them: hollow, like the sound came from somewhere deep and empty. She leaned forward, her elbows against the table, lowering her voice so that only he could hear.

“Bob… what’s going on with you?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking under his skin as his gaze drifted toward the window, out into the fading light. For a long moment, the only sound between them was the hum of the flickering neon sign outside and the faint clatter of dishes from behind the counter. Then, without looking back, he muttered through clenched teeth,

“Nothing, I just am not! Stop trying to make me eat.”

The words came sharper than he meant them to, and Yelena’s shoulders stiffened at the sudden edge in his tone. For a second, she just looked at him, startled, and then her expression softened into something wounded but composed. Bob’s eyes flicked up—he’d seen the hurt—and almost immediately his anger seemed to crumble into regret.

“Sorry,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I really am not hungry, I’m not pretending to look strong or anything. My body just… doesn’t feel hunger, and I’m not in the mood. I just wanted this to be a quick trip, that’s all.”

There it was again—that quiet exhaustion beneath the words, that restlessness that had been eating at him since they left the Watchtower. He wasn’t just tired; he was fighting something unseen, something that lived in his skin and bones. Yelena sighed, leaning back in the booth.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice gentler now, no trace of the sharpness she could have used. “Maybe it’s your powers acting up. I can get that. But you need to tell me when something’s wrong, Bob. I’m not a mind reader.” She tapped the table for emphasis, eyes fixed on him. “Besides, the point of a quick trip was to avoid being caught, and that’s already out the window. So let’s try to make the best of it, yeah?”

She reached across the table, her hand finding his. The gesture was natural, unplanned, and for a heartbeat he froze—like her touch reminded him what it felt like to be cared for. Her hand was warm, grounding. She gave it a small squeeze, and slowly, he exhaled. The tightness in his shoulders eased just a fraction, his golden eyes softening as he looked from their joined hands back to her.

“I booked a room,” she continued, as if nothing monumental had just passed between them. “I don’t have money for another, but it’ll hold us over until we figure out what to do tomorrow.”

He nodded once, but his jaw set again. “We’re not getting more rides with strangers.”

The stubbornness in his tone made her groan quietly, half amused, half exasperated. “Still mad about that?”

He gave her a look. The kind that said you already know the answer, before the started moving towards the room making her leave the half eaten pancakes forgotten in the table.

The room was… disappointing, but it served its purpose. A narrow box that smelled faintly of bleach and old carpet, with a single bed that looked like it had survived at least two decades and a handful of questionable tenants. The sheets, at least, were clean—freshly replaced, if the scent of detergent meant anything—and that was enough for Yelena. The bathroom’s cracked tiles were half-concealed under laminated signs about conserving water and not flushing “foreign objects.” The tiny TV on the dresser buzzed softly with static, and the couch in front of it sagged like it had given up years ago.

Still, it was a roof, and it was quiet. After the day they’d had, quiet was luxury.

Yelena tossed her hoodie onto the bed and sat down, testing the springs. They squeaked but held. She wasn’t here for comfort—she’d slept in worse conditions on missions, and a creaky bed wasn’t about to scare her. What she did want was for Bob to unwind, to let himself rest. He’d been wound tight since the moment they hit the road, and now that they were alone in this worn-out little motel, she hoped maybe he’d let himself breathe.

But no—of course not.

“Take the bed,” he said suddenly, his tone flat but polite, that strange quietness still shadowing his voice. “I’ll crash on the couch.”

She looked up, frowning. “What, too shy to sleep with me now?” The teasing tone came easily—automatic defense, really—but she still tried to make it sound light. The corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile.

His reaction, though, wasn’t what she expected. Bob didn’t even crack a smile. He tilted his head slightly, golden eyes flicking toward her for a moment before drifting away again. “Not really,” he said, settling onto the couch with a heavy exhale. “I just… I’m not sleepy.”

Yelena studied him in silence. The dim motel light cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the hollows under his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. He wasn’t tired—he was restless. Like his mind was running laps behind that calm exterior, burning through worry and guilt and the thousand quiet thoughts he refused to say aloud.

“You haven’t slept in days,” she pointed out softly. “You can’t keep this up forever.”

He shrugged one shoulder, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead of him. “I’ll manage.”

“Sure,” she muttered under her breath, pulling off her boots. “That’s what all men say right before they pass out on their faces.”

He gave a quiet huff of amusement—barely a laugh, more like the ghost of one—but it was enough to make her glance up. There was something fragile about it, something almost normal, and she didn’t want to ruin that fleeting peace. So instead of pushing, she simply climbed into bed, turning on her side to face him.

The old TV flickered on, painting his silhouette in cold light. He sat there, elbows on his knees, gaze distant and unfocused. The sight made her chest ache.

“Bob,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “If you can’t sleep, at least talk to me. It’s better than sitting there looking like a brooding cryptid.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, finally, his voice—low and tired:

“Maybe later.”

Yelena sighed, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders. “Fine. But if I wake up and you’re still sitting there, I’m dragging your ass to bed myself.”

That made him glance her way at last—just a flicker of warmth in those golden eyes and a tiny bit of arrogant amusement. “I’d like to see you try,” he said quietly.

She smiled into the pillow. “Oh, you will.”

Yelena had never been one to struggle with sleep. Even back in the Red Room, when rest was more of a luxury than a need, she’d learned how to drop into it like a switch—trained exhaustion, instant shutdown. But tonight? Tonight her brain refused to cooperate.

She had tried everything. Changed positions a dozen times, flipped the pillow to the cool side, even pulled the blanket up over her head to block out the faint hum of the motel’s ancient mini-fridge. It wasn’t the bed, though it creaked like an old ship. It wasn’t the smell of mildew clinging to the carpet. It wasn’t even Bob’s pacing—though that was definitely not helping. He’d been moving back and forth from the couch to the window like a caged animal, as if sitting still might let something dark and unbearable catch up to him.

No, what really got to her was the light.

It wasn’t bright—nothing close to that. But every few seconds, her eyes would catch the faintest shift in the dark, like the room itself was pulsing with a ghostly heartbeat. At first she thought maybe the neon motel sign outside was flickering through the curtains, but when she peeked toward the window, the blinds were still. The light wasn’t coming from outside.

She frowned giving up sleep after an hour of trying, eyes narrowing as she adjusted, letting them adapt to the dark.

And that’s when she saw it.

Bob.

He wasn’t glowing like some comic book cliché, no harsh glare or flickering aura. It was subtler—an almost imperceptible shimmer, like his skin was catching light that wasn’t there. A faint golden undertone that rolled gently with each breath he took. If she hadn’t been staring directly at him, she might’ve missed it entirely. But now that she saw it, she couldn’t unsee it.

Her heart gave a slow, uneasy flutter.

He stood near the window, shoulders tense, hands clasped behind his back. The glow was faintest there, but it pooled softly at the edges of his jaw, along the veins of his forearms where the light seemed to hum under his skin like something alive. It wasn’t just energy—it was him. Something bleeding through the fragile barrier between Robert Reynolds and the being inside him.

She swallowed hard, her thoughts running a mile a minute.

Was this new? Or had it always been there, hiding in plain sight until the pitched darkness made it visible?

Maybe this was what she’d glimpsed earlier on the road—the way the sunlight had hit him and seemed to bend, almost refract, around him. She’d brushed it off as her imagination then. Stupid thinking or maybe too much lack of sleep. But now, with the room bathed in quiet black and his outline edged in that gentle, impossible gold… there was no denying it.

He was glowing.

Not a beacon. Not a spark. More like a pulse, steady and alive.

She sat up slowly, careful not to draw attention. He didn’t seem to notice—either too lost in thought or deliberately ignoring the weight of her gaze. Yelena bit her lip, debating whether to say something. A part of her wanted to tease him about it, make some sarcastic comment about being a human nightlight. But she knew better.

He’d been wound tight all day, bristling at any mention of his powers. Whatever this was—it wasn’t the time to poke at it. So she stayed quiet.

Leaning against the headboard, she watched him for a while longer, letting the silence fill the space between them. The glow softened slightly, like he was dimming without realizing it, as though even his body was learning to self-contain again. She exhaled through her nose and finally let herself lie back down. The light was still there, faint and steady, but now that she knew what it was, it didn’t bother her as much as him being restless did.

“Bob… why don’t you try lying down for a bit? Maybe sleep will come if you just let it.”
He opened his mouth to argue; she cut him off with a small, impatient lift of her hand. “I know you said you’re not sleepy — fine. Consider it wishful thinking. Besides, I’m miserable tossing and turning over here; we can do it together and feel calmer.”

He regarded her for a long, quiet moment, those strange golden eyes unreadable in the dim room. Then, with a reluctant nod, he crossed to the bed, curled onto the far edge and turned his back to her. Yelena watched him settle, the tight line of his shoulders softening just enough to show he’d chosen to trust her, however little.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She didn’t like the Sentry-side of him — that austere, ironed-down silence that made everything feel like it might fracture — but tonight she needed the real, messy Bob. Swiveling so she could see his silhouette against the thin motel light, she swallowed a question she’d never imagined asking first. “Hey… you’re not holding a grudge against me, are you?”

It felt strange, the roles reversed — him usually the one worrying, her the one reassuring —specially when she had been knew to living with others and more emotionally detached to all of them, but she needed to know. If he was angry, she’d rather face it than lie awake wondering.

Bob's silence was final. “No, Yelena. Good night.” He didn't look at her as he said it, but she chose to trust him and turned away, letting the stillness settle. Without the pacing or the weird flicker of light, exhaustion finally caught up with her; she slept straight through the night—seven blissful, uninterrupted hours—hoping, privately, that he had done the same.

Morning found her warm and half-buried in the thin motel sheets. She woke with her cheek pressed to his back, curled against him for the heat he always ran with on cold nights. It was a little comfort amid the chaos: his steady warmth, the faint creak of the old bedframe, the pale light through the curtains. What spoiled the peace, though, was the way he lay—motionless, rigid as if he’d been carved from the same wood as the headboard.

She nudged him gently. “Bob? Did you sleep?”

A single, flat answer, barely more than a breath: “No.”

She felt the word like a cold draft. How many days had it been now? Certainly more than any sane body should go without rest but something told her the earlier this was over the better for him so she decided not to comment on it.

“Okay, we should leave,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm as she pulled on her hoodie. The room felt heavier somehow, like the air itself had picked up on her frustration. Maybe she had been naïve—or arrogant—to think her presence alone would be enough to make him rest. It never used to fail. Back then, when his nightmares clawed at him and he’d wake up shaking, just sleeping beside her seemed to calm him. But this version of him—this silent, distant, glowing Sentry—was like trying to reach through fog.

She told herself not to take it personally, to unclench her jaw, to keep her promise of staying with him without pushing too hard. But the ache in her chest didn’t listen. Something was gnawing at him, something that ran deeper than fear or exhaustion, and she hated that she couldn’t fix it.

By the time she grabbed her phone and keys, he was already standing by the door, ready to move like a machine that hadn’t powered down all night. She followed him outside, blinking against the early light. The parking lot was quiet, the chill biting at her exposed hands. She checked her phone—finally, a sliver of signal. Maybe she could call an Uber, get them closer to the next town, grab breakfast and plan their next move—

“What do you think of—wait, what the heck?!”

Before she could finish, Bob had crossed to one of the parked cars and, with terrifying ease, pried the door open. Metal creaked under his grip like cheap plastic.

“Bob!” Yelena stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, torn between wanting to scream and wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “You’ve officially lost your mind,” she said, crossing her arms. “And you’re glowing while doing it. Why didn't just wait until I called a freaking Uber?”

“I don’t want any more third parties getting involved in this,” he said, tone iron-clad, jaw set with that soldier stubbornness she knew all too well. “We either go this way, or I go this way.”

Yelena folded her arms, glare sharp. “You realize this is called stealing, right?”

He didn’t flinch. “It’s not like we haven’t done worse.”

That made her snap her mouth shut. Damn him—using her own words against her. He’d heard her say that a hundred times during missions, whenever she’d justified something morally gray for the sake of survival. Hearing it from him now felt like karma biting back.

“Everyone here has done bad things”

That's what she had told him, and she hated herself for it, no, she hated that usually morally aligned Bob was acting like this now, Bob didn’t even hesitate. With unnerving efficiency, he reached under the steering column, found the right cables, and hotwired the car in under a minute. The engine came to life with a cough and a growl.

Yelena groaned and climbed in beside him, dropping into the passenger seat like she was boarding a bad decision in motion. “You know, the scary part isn’t that you can do that,” she said, pulling her sunglasses down to hide her exasperation, “it’s how good you are at it.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “Told you before—old habits, drugs make you do lot of shady things.” She hummed, forgetting that, ok, maybe he wasn't THAT morally aligned, maybe she was still butthurt over this whole trip going south, she really didn't know much of what he did on his drug addiction past. 

“Yeah, well, some habits get you arrested.” She flipped open the glove compartment and fished out a worn wallet, her headache blooming as she glanced at the driver’s ID. “Okay, fine, we get this over with and then we return it to…” she squinted, “…Jerry Hills.” She sighed, sinking deeper into her seat. “Poor Jerry. Probably woke up today thinking his biggest problem was traffic.” Bob said nothing, just tightened his grip on the wheel. The car rolled forward, engine humming under the weight of everything unspoken between them.

Yelena fiddled with the dial until a soft hum of static gave way to a half-decent radio station. The music wasn’t great—some tired old ballad—but it was enough to cut through the heavy silence weighing down the car. She kept her eyes on the road for a while, watching the gray ribbon of asphalt stretch endlessly ahead, but the tension beside her refused to loosen.

Bob’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Every few minutes, his grip tightened, the faintest groan of the old plastic betraying the strength behind it. His gaze kept drifting—never long enough to be dangerous, but long enough for her to notice. Each time, he seemed to sink somewhere deep in thought, a place darker than the road ahead. When he came back to himself, his jaw clenched tighter, his eyes flashing faintly gold like his body was barely containing something volatile.

Yelena sighed quietly, thumbing her phone to send Alexei a quick text: We’re fine. Still on the road. She added a small thumbs-up emoji—partly to reassure him, partly to convince herself—and then turned the screen off.

When she looked back at Bob, the glow was there again, soft and ghostlike along his collarbone where the sunlight caught it. He didn’t notice, too absorbed in whatever storm was brewing behind his eyes.

“Bob,” she said finally, voice low, careful. “I’m going to ask you something, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” That earned her a sideways glance—suspicious, but not rejecting. She took it as permission to go on. “What are you going to do when you see your parents?”

He froze. Not dramatically, just… all at once. His posture stiffened, his shoulders locked, the small signs of restlessness gone in an instant, then a certain darkness emited from him, a seriousness that made the bags under his eyes more noticeable.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Just get in, grab my documents, and go.” Of course. Evasion disguised as resolve. She exhaled through her nose, fighting the urge to reach over and shake him.

“Bob,” she began softly, “look, maybe they’re not even home. Maybe you get in, get your papers, and that’s the end of it.” She paused, waiting, but his eyes stayed locked on the road. “But if they are there… you can’t just walk in, pretend they don’t exist, and push through like none of it matters. That’s not healthy.” Her words hung in the air like dust motes in sunlight—delicate, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

Bob’s tone was sharp enough to cut the air. “What if I do?” he shot back, his voice low but steady, the kind that carried the weight of a lifetime’s worth of swallowed rage. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, leather creaking under his fingers. “Why should I have any consideration for what they want now? They never gave a damn about what I wanted—what I felt.” Yelena could hear the venom in his words, the years of silence and guilt condensed into one defiant statement. The sunlight through the windshield made the gold in his eyes brighter, almost unnatural. The glow wasn’t comforting now; it was like watching a storm flare to life behind glass.

She didn’t interrupt him. There was no point. The dam had already cracked.

“They can’t stop me,” he continued, voice dropping into something darker—colder. “I’m not the helpless little boy they used to push around. I can push back now. And if they pressure me…” He pressed the wheel again. “…then I will.”

It wasn’t a threat—it was a confession.
Raw. Dangerous.
And heartbreakingly honest.

Yelena sat there, trying to measure her breathing, to keep her face still even as something uneasy twisted in her chest. She could feel the line between Bob and Sentry blur with every word and mile as they approached that house. His anger wasn’t the loud kind—it was quieter, heavier, the sort that burned from the inside out.

She’d seen that fire before—in herself, in others. It didn’t end well.

Her fingers twitched at her side, wanting to reach for him but stopping halfway. What right did she have to tell him not to hate, when she had lived off her own vengeance before? What right did she have to pull him back from the edge when she’d danced on it herself against the Red room? Alexei? Barton?

Still, she couldn’t just let the hatred consume him. “All that hate…” she murmured, turning her gaze toward the road ahead. “It’s poisoning you, Bob.”

“Then stay away.”

The words came out cold, like metal left in winter air—flat, detached, and sharp enough to cut through whatever fragile calm they’d built on the road.

Yelena froze for half a heartbeat, her hands tightening around her knees. She was used to venom, used to pushing people until they snapped; she’d done it to Walker, to others, because that was how she dealt with pain—cut first, bleed later. But hearing him speak like that? That was different. That was Bob, the kindest heart she knew, turning all that light inward and letting it burn.

She took a slow breath in.
Then another out.
No flinching. No retort. Just the rhythm of someone deciding to endure instead of fight.

Without a word, she reached over and turned the music up a little—just one decibel louder, enough to cover the silence he left behind. The song didn’t help much, but it filled the air between them, softened the ache in her chest. If he regretted what he said, he didn’t show it. His expression stayed fixed on the road, his knuckles pale where they gripped the steering wheel, the gold in his eyes flickering faintly under the sunlight like a warning.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” she said at last, her tone gentler than before. “I know it sucks, Bob. I know you want to shut down and do this alone, but that’s not how you heal. You have to live this process. You have to go through it.”

He didn’t answer, but his shoulders tensed—just barely. Enough to show he’d heard her.

Yelena watched him out of the corner of her eye. For all his strength, for all the power that shimmered beneath his skin, he looked small in that moment—like a man still trapped between guilt and grief, not knowing how to walk forward without destroying everything in his way.

“I think when you finally face them,” she said softly, leaning back into her seat, “you’ll do the right thing.”

It wasn’t just optimism—it was faith. The kind she rarely gave anyone, much less someone who’d just told her to stay away. But she meant it. Because beneath the anger, beneath the brokenness, she still saw him—the man who once smiled at her jokes, who cared too much, who always fought to protect rather than punish even if the world tried to tell him he made things worse. He didn’t speak again, but she caught the faintest exhale, a sound that might’ve been relief—or maybe defeat. Either way, it was something.

So she let the car roll on through the fading light, music humming quietly between them, her words lingering in the air like a promise, because so long Yelena Belova breathed on this earth, Robert Reynolds wouldn't be alone anymore. 

Author’s Note 2: I am so sorry I had to leave the meeting on a bit of a cliffhanger. I thought I’d be able to fit everything into one long road trip chapter, but the fallout from the next confrontation deserves its well-written consequences and personal growth—and the remaining three hundred words just aren’t enough to do it justice.

Chapter Text

Lindy woke up to the furious pounding on her apartment door, the kind that made her heart jump before her brain could catch up. For a second, she thought she might’ve dreamt it—her head still foggy, her pillow damp from the tears that hadn’t stopped since… well, since her life imploded two days ago.

The sound came again, sharp and insistent. She groaned, dragging herself upright from the lumpy couch she’d half-slept on. Her back ached, her face felt swollen, and the entire place smelled faintly of dust and instant noodles. She rubbed her eyes, muttering something halfway between a curse and a prayer, and looked around the apartment—the boxes still unopened, the walls empty, the air hollow enough to echo back her misery.

It had been barely forty-eight hours since everything fell apart, and somehow it still managed to surprise her how quickly “rock bottom” kept getting deeper.

Last night, she’d cried until she couldn’t anymore, until her body had run out of tears and her throat hurt from trying not to sob too loud. At one point, she’d sat on the floor clutching her phone, staring at Bucky’s number on the screen. Her thumb had hovered over the call button for nearly an hour. She wanted to tell him everything—that she was done, that her engament was over, and her marriage with Robert didn't matter anymore.

But shame had a funny way of swallowing words. The idea of calling him, of admitting that all the drama she’d stirred, all the righteous anger and pretending—had been for nothing… that was unbearable. She couldn’t face that yet. Maybe next week. Maybe when she could talk about it without crying. Maybe when she stopped feeling like she’d been gutted.

For now, she had to survive.

What she couldn’t afford was to wallow—not when the rent was due and her bank account mocked her with a sad three hundred dollars. She’d already done the math: that money had to stretch across the month, which meant no takeout, no comfort food, and definitely no drinks to drown her thoughts.

So she’d spent the day before glued to her phone, calling everyone she remotely knew from her old job. “Colleagues” was the polite term. “Barely tolerated acquaintances” was more accurate. Most of them didn’t owe her anything, but a few at least remembered her name—and her family’s. Those were the ones she pinned her hopes on.

But something was off—deeply, unmistakably off.

Lindy had made dozens of calls, sent countless messages, and still… nothing. Not even a solid maybe. Every conversation followed the same pattern: polite greetings, awkward small talk, a flicker of recognition when they realized it was her, and then the evasion began. A tone shift. A vague excuse. Suddenly, they were “restructuring,” or “at capacity,” or “really sorry, wish we could help.”

By the third call, she started feeling the prickle of unease in her stomach. By the sixth, that prickle had turned into a cold, crawling certainty that this wasn’t coincidence.

The first two people she’d called had once begged her to work with them—back when they were fresh out of university, full of plans and ambition. Their parents ran established labs and pharmaceutical firms, and they had seen her as a golden ticket: top of the class, sharp under pressure, the kind of mind you wanted on your team. Back then, she’d smiled, thanked them, and declined. She had dreams of field research, of working abroad, of making a difference instead of being trapped behind a corporate desk.

Now, years later, all she wanted was a desk. A steady paycheck. A reason to get up in the morning.

She had called those same classmates again, her voice steady, humble. She’d told them she didn’t care about the pay or the position—she could clean glassware, run samples, do menial data work if she had to. She just needed something. And yet the moment she mentioned her name, their tone shifted.

The first had stammered, “Ah, I’ll have to check with HR, we’re kind of—uh—undergoing a lot of changes.”

The second? She’d gone quiet for a few seconds too long before saying, “Let me get back to you, okay?”

No one got back to her.

By the end of the day, Lindy was staring at her silent phone, her jaw tight. It wasn’t just professional rejection—it was avoidance. Like she’d suddenly become radioactive. She sank back against the wall, rubbing at her temples. It didn’t make sense. She hadn’t worked in the field for a while, sure—but she wasn’t disgraced. She hadn’t stolen, cheated, or broken any laws. The only thing she’d done wrong was…

Her stomach dropped as a thought flickered through her head.

No. No way. He didn't.

Have a nice life!

Of course he would.

Jason Morietti didn’t need to raise his voice to destroy someone—he only had to lift a finger. She’d seen it before: quiet phone calls, polite smiles, the soft-spoken menace of “I’ll handle it.” And he always did. She had never thought much of it back then—had even admired, in a twisted way, how he could make problems disappear so efficiently because she had been in his good side, and used that power to have her spoiled like a princess.

But now she was the problem.

She could still see it—the last argument in perfect, ugly clarity. His disbelief when she’d tried to argue he was being ridiculous, the silent rage that flashed when she slapped him, the way his cheek had gone red beneath her hand. She hadn’t even realized she’d done it until afterward, and even though admittedly, she didn't regret it, she knew it had been a dumb action. He’d just stood there, jaw tight, eyes dark, too calm. The kind of calm that meant something inside him had shifted with her.

She didn’t need proof—she felt it. The silence of her phone, the sudden cold politeness of people who used to admire her, the subtle shift from sympathy to avoidance. Jason Morietti didn’t have to tell anyone not to hire her; all he had to do was suggest it. A few words whispered in the right ears, and every door she could knock on would quietly lock itself.

Her heart thudded dully in her chest as she sank to the floor beside the couch, staring at the cracked plaster of her wall. He wasn’t just done with her—he was erasing her. And the worst part was… she’d always known he could, rage just made her act stupidly. That was the kind of man Jason Morietti was. Charming in public, ruthless in private. And she’d been the perfect fiancée—obedient, quiet, the woman who smoothed his image and swallowed her doubts. Until she hadn’t. Lindy pressed her palms over her face, trembling with the mix of humiliation and fury that burned in her chest.

He probably wanted her to beg. He wanted her to come crawling back, apologizing, saying she’d overreacted, if anything to patch his wounded pride by see her crawling.  But she wouldn’t. Not after everything. He could take her job, her reputation, her career—but not her dignity. She’d find another way to survive. Somehow. The knocking came again, louder this time, rattling the thin wood of the door.

“Alright, alright!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she pushed herself up, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled from sleep. Whoever it was better have coffee… or a damn good reason for waking her from what little peace she had left.

“Delivery!” The knock came again, too loud, too early, and too sharp for her mood. Lindy swung the door open mid-knock, catching the delivery guy off guard. His fist froze midair before dropping awkwardly, and his face shifted from irritation to awkward sympathy the moment he got a good look at her. She didn’t blame him—she probably looked like a ghost who’d given up halfway through haunting. Hair in a loose, greasy knot. Sweatshirt two days old. Eyes swollen and dull from too little sleep and too much crying. He cleared his throat, fumbling with a clipboard. “Uh… Lindy Lee?”

“Unfortunately, that would be me,” she said flatly, leaning against the doorframe.

“Sign here, please. This was sent by your parents.” He hesitated, glancing at the stack of taped-up boxes behind him. “Says it’s your belongings.” Lindy blinked, her brain catching up a few seconds late. Her belongings.

He motioned to the labels—her name scrawled on old cardboard, half of them marked with the insignia of Jason’s estate. Recognition hit her like a slow bruise. There were the things from her childhood bedroom, mixed in with the ones she’d brought to Jason’s manor. It was all there, sealed away, exiled from two homes in one delivery.

Her throat tightened. “You can just leave them by the door,” she murmured, signing her name with a shaky hand.

The guy nodded and began stacking the boxes carefully beside her door, casting another uncertain glance her way before heading off with a muttered, “Have a good day.”

She stood there for a long moment, staring at the cardboard wall that now separated her from everything she used to be. Her parents hadn’t called, hadn’t written, hadn’t even sent a note inside the box. Just… her things. Their version of closure. Lindy crouched down, dragging one of the smaller boxes closer. The label read Bedroom—Private. She opened it to find a few framed photos, some clothes, and a book she’d lent Jason once. Her hands lingered on the photo of her parents smiling beside her at graduation.

It was almost funny—how even this, in their world, counted as a gesture of love, almost.

No angry calls. No “how could you.” No “come home.” Just a shipment of things, neatly packed, as if to say: You’re no longer our problem, but we didn’t forget you existed. Not completely. She let out a long, hollow breath and whispered to herself, “Thanks for the reminder.”

She dragged the boxes inside one by one, gritting her teeth with every lift. The rational part of her wanted to just toss them out, to leave them rotting by the trash as a statement — I don’t need your leftovers. But pride didn’t pay rent, and sentiment didn’t fill a fridge. So she stacked them neatly against the peeling wall of her apartment and told herself it was just temporary.

She’d sort through them later. Sell what she could. Stretch whatever she made until she found a job — any job. Maybe Jason wouldn’t go as far as blacklisting her from everywhere. Maybe. The thought alone made her stomach twist with anger. To study for years, to burn herself out chasing excellence only to end up here — alone, broke, boxed out of her own field because her ex couldn’t handle rejection and a slap to the face.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, kicking one of the boxes hard enough to make her foot sting.

“Meow!”

She froze.

The sound came from the same box she’d just assaulted. Frowning, she crouched and pulled at the tape. When she peeled back the flaps, her jaw nearly hit the floor. Inside, nestled inside a small plastic kennel, was a cat. A pristine white cat with ice-blue eyes that stared back at her with the detached judgment of royalty. The animal blinked once, slow and imperious, before letting out another soft, indignant meow.

Lindy just gaped at it, the pieces clicking together far too fast. “They did not,” she hissed, voice breaking between disbelief and fury. “They actually did not.”

Her parents — or worse, Jason’s perfectly polished assistants — had packed a living animal into a moving box.

Lindy dropped to her knees, tearing the flaps open the rest of the way and carefully lifting the kennel out. Inside, the white cat blinked up at her, glassy blue eyes reflecting a confusion that punched straight through her anger. She fumbled for a bowl, poured water from a bottle she’d half-finished that morning, and placed it on the floor. The poor creature didn’t hesitate — she drank like she hadn’t seen water in a day.

When Lindy dared peek inside the kennel again, she spotted the glint of a collar — her collar. The one she had picked out, the one she’d chosen because she’d thought the little diamonds matched the cat’s eyes. She ran her thumb over the tag, her name neat cursive still engraved on the metal.

Once she’d had her fill, the cat looked up, licking the last drops from her whiskers before padding over and leaning her head against Lindy’s calf. A soft, familiar rumbling started — a purr that vibrated straight through her skin.

“They abandoned you too, huh?” Lindy murmured, stroking the silky fur. The cat pressed closer, unbothered, trusting, forgiving — like she didn’t realize she’d been discarded along with the rest of Lindy’s life. The rational voice in Lindy’s mind screamed that she couldn’t afford this — she barely had enough for herself, let alone another mouth to feed. But reason didn’t matter right now.

Because as she purred, Lindy felt something inside her chest crack wide open. Jason's white cat, the one she had gifted as anniversary gift was here forgotten by him, and then by her parents like she didn't matter, like she wasn't a living being who despite everything loved them and wouldn't understand why her family had turned on her, before she realized, Lindy was crying again. 

She knew she was projecting her own pain onto the small creature, but she couldn’t bring herself to treat the cat the way everyone else had treated her. With a trembling hand, she scooped the cat into her arms, pressing her face against the soft fur while silently wiping her own tears. The warmth radiating from the cat felt like a small, stubborn ember of comfort in the icy void her life had become.

“Don’t worry, Alpine,” she whispered, pressing the little animal closer to her chest. “I’ll give you a tour of the apartment.” For the first time in days, Lindy felt a tiny, hesitant spark of hope. It wasn’t much, but it was enough — enough to remind her she wasn’t completely alone. She hugged Alpine tighter, feeling her heartbeat sync with the cat’s steady purr, and let herself breathe again, just for a moment.

Yelena’s stomach betrayed her somewhere between their last conversation and the exit sign pointing toward Sarasota. The sound was embarrassingly loud in the silence that had settled inside the car — thick, tense, and heavy like a storm cloud that refused to move on. She shifted in her seat, watching Bob’s profile as he drove, his focus unyielding, his jaw tight. He hadn’t looked at her once since their talk, just followed the road with that eerie precision, like he didn’t need signs or directions — just instinct and memory.

Normally, this would be the point where she’d start blasting some chaotic playlist to fill the air, maybe throw a sarcastic jab to get him to roll his eyes, or hum something off-key just to annoy him until he cracked a smile. But not now. Now, it felt like a glass wall stood between them — she could see him, hear the soft rumble of his breath, but couldn’t reach him.

She turned toward the window, watching the sun glint off the hood of the car. Her stomach growled again, a pitiful protest, and she grimaced. They’d left at dawn, skipping breakfast, and she hadn’t realized how long it had been until now. She glanced sideways at him. He didn’t look tired, didn’t look hungry — hell, he didn’t even look human sometimes. His expression was a mask of calm detachment, hands steady on the wheel, as if he really could live off thin air, sunlight and bottled tension.

Yelena sighed, leaning her head against the window, feeling the hum of the road beneath them. She wanted to speak — anything, a joke, a complaint, a curse, something — but every word she thought of sounded either pointless or like it might spark another argument. So she stayed quiet, watching the endless stretch of highway blur past.

She had been on the verge of drifting off, half-praying that sleep would smother the ache in her stomach and the ache in her chest at the same time. The hum of the car, the steady rhythm of the road — it was almost working. She wasn’t needed for navigation; Bob drove like a machine, his eyes fixed and sure, like he could trace the route blindfolded. So she had decided she might as well curl up and shut her brain down.

But then the car slowed, the motion shifting from smooth to deliberate. Her eyes snapped open, disoriented. They couldn’t be there yet — she knew this stretch of road too well. The view outside confirmed it: cracked asphalt, a peeling sign, and a gas station that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer since 2003.  She sat up straighter, frowning, about to ask what was wrong when his voice cut in — quiet, neutral, but not unkind.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you? I don’t think there’s any other place for food nearby, so…” She blinked at him, caught off guard. His eyes stayed on the windshield, not daring to meet hers, but the gesture itself — stopping for her — nearly made her forget how to breathe. Her first instinct, of course, was defense.

“I’m good,” she said quickly, trying to sound stubborn instead of grateful, Russian accent thick and cold.

He finally glanced at her, his brow twitching in mild annoyance, and for a fleeting second, she saw something almost human in his expression — a crack in the Sentry mask. “Your stomach’s been growling for an hour now,” he said flatly.

She crossed her arms and turned toward the window, pretending to be deeply interested in the sad, flickering gas station sign. Bob let out a sigh that carried the weight of someone who’d spent all his patience reserves on her over the last hours. Without another word, he stepped out of the car. Yelena watched him through the rearview mirror, the way his shoulders moved — tense but purposeful — as he disappeared into the tiny store. A few minutes later, he came back, wordlessly sliding into the driver’s seat.

He didn’t look at her when he placed a bottle of cold brew on the dashboard — her brand, or at least something close enough — and a neatly wrapped sandwich beside it.

“If you don’t want it, throw it away,” he said, his tone clipped, like he wanted to erase the softness of the act before it could register. Then he started the engine again, the car humming back to life.

Yelena stared at the sandwich, at the condensation on the bottle catching the morning light. For a man who claimed he didn’t feel hunger or warmth or anything at all and that wasnted to act like some human acts were beneath him, he somehow remembered her favorite coffee a made an effort even if slightly detached. 

Pride tugged at her—every instinct told Yelena to snub the gesture and keep her distance—but hunger and common sense won. She barked a curt, “Thanks,” the sound half-complaint, half-gratitude, and tore into the sandwich. The first bite was exactly what she needed: warm bread, salty filling, something ordinary and honest in a day that had been nothing but chaos. With each chew a little of her bad mood unknotted; the edges of the morning’s tension softened. For a moment the world narrowed to the simple act of eating, and she let herself believe this could be a truce—a tiny, fragile peace offering after everything.

When the last of the bread vanished she wiped her fingers on the napkin, cleared her throat, and leaned forward. The road lay flat and empty ahead; Bob’s profile was a tense silhouette against the windshield. He had been driving in a rigid silence for hours, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between memory and the lane. Yelena chose her words carefully, practical and small, the kind of question that could anchor both of them back to the moment.

“I know you’re not in the mood,” she said, voice low so it wouldn’t crack the thin calm between them, “but I need to know—what do you want me to do when we get there? Stay by the car? Sit in the driver’s seat so we can leave if things go sideways?”

Bob’s hands tightened on the wheel as if answering might turn his control to dust. For a second he looked as if he would shrug it off, as he did with most things—stoic, closed-off, unwilling to hand over an inch of vulnerability. If this had been anyone else, he probably would have let the silence swallow the question and gone on driving. But she was Yelena; she had this terrible habit of getting under his defenses and she had won his heart over before he could try to reply. She’d help him once—softened him with her compasion—and now the armor was thinner and prone to cracking at minimun effort.

He inhaled, slow, visibly forcing himself to stay composed. The confusion in his voice when he finally spoke was real, not an act. “Why would we run?” he asked, the words flat but edged with something that could be read two ways: bafflement, and a darker, arrogant sense of invulnerability, like the idea or running was laughable to him.

Yelena fought the urge to scoff. There was a fine line between confidence and hubris, and while she loved seeing Bob assured of himself, arrogance carried its own dangers. She knew better than to let a retort slip out now; with Walker’s ego bouncing around the team and her father’s delusions of grandeur still lingering, there was already more than enough friction in the world. Choosing diplomacy over provocation, she leaned slightly forward, voice calm but steady, trying to appeal to reason rather than ego.

“If you plan to just get in and out, that’s fine,” she said carefully, eyes tracking the road and the subtle shifts of his expression. “But if someone notices, or if any strange activity pops up, I can be your girl in the wheel, ready to get us out of there. I can help make sure no one causes trouble while you handle what needs handling inside.”

Her words hung between them, layered with practicality, a mixture of awareness and strategic foresight. She wasn’t just offering to sit quietly; she was offering a safety net, a contingency in case his plan ran into resistance. Bob’s posture stiffened for a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgment that her logic wasn’t entirely unwelcome, though his jaw remained tight. The tension of the road pressed around them, the hum of the engine a muted reminder that they were racing toward a confrontation neither could fully predict, and yet she felt the faintest relief in the subtle softening of his rigid shoulders, evidence that she had, at least, been heard.

“We’ll see,” Bob said finally, his tone quiet but clipped, the kind that signaled the conversation was teetering on an edge he didn’t want to cross yet. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, on the endless stretch of cracked asphalt ahead, knuckles white against the steering wheel. Truth was, he’d rather avoid any confrontation altogether—especially with the police or any form of authority. Yen ye wasn’t worried about being caught by his parents; deep down, he knew his father wasn’t the type to call the cops anyway. The old man had always preferred his fists, or his gun, to settle disputes in his crumbling version of “home.” And if fifteen years of absence had changed him at all, Bob suspected it wasn’t for the better.

He could still recall it with painful clarity—the cycles of chaos and calm that made up his childhood. His father, half-drunk and mean, could turn from shouting and punching to guilt-ridden in the span of a single hangover. There were days when he seemed to remember that Bob was his son, not just a convenient target. Days when he’d offer a gruff apology, take him to the mall, buy him a comic or one of those intricate puzzles that kept him busy in the attic—his so-called room. For a fleeting moment, those gifts had felt like peace offerings, like maybe things were changing. And then, like clockwork, the same storm would come back stronger each time, and Bob would be left standing there again, the silent audience to a one-man show where the finale was always pain.

Back then, he’d thought he might grow up to be like him—not the abuser, but the man who changed, only to become worse with time. And maybe, in some ways, he had. The difference was that now, the power was his. Now, he was the strongest being on earth—or close enough that the distinction hardly mattered—and he was beginning to question if “human” even applied to him anymore. The strength, the invulnerability, the intoxicating rush of knowing that nothing could truly harm him—it was like a drug he couldn’t quit. It fed something deep inside, something that whispered that maybe this was what he was always meant to be.

He could feel her gaze on him long before she spoke—a steady, probing weight against the side of his face. Yelena always had that look, like she could dissect people just by watching them breathe. He’d learned to tolerate it, maybe even respect it, but right now, with the road narrowing and his chest tightening the closer they got to the town, he didn’t appreciate being read like a page she wouldn’t stop turning.

Her silence stretched for a few miles until he finally gave in, if only to appease her—or to stop the way she seemed to silently judge him for being so damn guarded. “Fine,” he muttered. “If you hear shooting or cops, we leave in the car.”

She exhaled, somewhere between a huff and a half-hearted laugh. He knew she caught the condescending tone buried beneath his words, but—mercifully—she didn’t press. For a brief moment, he thought they’d ride in silence again. Then, out of nowhere, she asked quietly, almost hesitant:

“How was your mother like?”

The question hit him harder than he expected. For a second, his foot nearly eased off the gas. The town’s edge was beginning to show now—small buildings lining the road, cracked signage, the kind of place that looked like time had forgotten it decades ago. Her timing was terrible, and maybe that was what irritated him most.

He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even glance at her. His jaw tightened, his hands flexed against the steering wheel. When he didn’t respond, she spoke again, her tone softer but still steady.

“Sorry, I was just curious. You seemed… fonder of her. And since I won’t get to meet her…” That did it. He turned his head just slightly, enough for her to see the sharp scowl forming on his face. If he hadn’t been driving, she knew he would’ve looked her dead in the eye with it.

“What do you want to meet her for?” he asked, his voice low, almost defensive.

She blinked, taken aback, but not cowed. “You know my dad,” she pointed out plainly, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did—Yelena didn’t believe in boundaries, not the emotional kind at least. She saw curiosity as connection, and she wasn’t used to being shut out.

“That’s different,” he said finally, voice clipped, eyes back on the road. The commercial district was unfolding around them now—storefronts with peeling paint, a diner that looked like it hadn’t changed since the eighties, and an empty gas station that mirrored the one from miles back.

“Why is it different?” she pressed, her tone gentle but firm—the same tone she used when disarming someone mid-fight. It wasn’t meant to provoke, but to cut through the armor.

Bob kept his eyes on the road, the landscape unfolding in a blur of muted colors—faded signs, cracked sidewalks, an old grocery store that hadn’t aged well since he’d last been here. His silence hung for a moment too long, long enough for Yelena to realize he was wrestling with what to say, or perhaps deciding if she deserved an answer at all.

“Your father is… not like my parents,” he finally said, the words low and uncertain, like he was pulling them out one by one. His gaze shifted briefly toward the right—toward a hardware store whose front sign was still half-broken, the same as it had been when he was a kid. The smallest flicker of recognition passed through his expression before he blinked it away.

Yelena leaned her chin into her palm, studying him. She noticed how his eyes lingered on certain corners, certain buildings—like ghosts lived there, visible only to him. This wasn’t about her curiosity anymore; she just wanted to understand what shaped him, the man who could carry both the light of a god and the pain of a broken boy in the same heartbeat.

“I’m starting to think you have a very warped idea of how Alexei is,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of something—tiredness, maybe even regret. Her lips curved in a humorless smile. “Remember he’s not as nice as you make him out to be.”

Bob let out a short, rough exhale—half sigh, half scoff—and the motion cleared something from his throat. “I’m not saying he’s the perfect dad,” he said, voice edged but not cruel. “Far from it. He’s loud, he’s dramatic, he probably breaks more stuff than he fixes, and there was also the whole thing with the red room. But he stayed. When things went to hell in New York six months ago, he didn’t walk away—he went into the Void to pull you out. You can hate the way he does things, hate his methods, hate the theatrics, but he tried. He actually tried. And he isn’t even your father by blood. That’s more than mine ever managed to be.” The last words carried a quiet sting of something like resentment—less toward Alexei than toward his own parents—and for a second his hands tightened on the wheel as if he could steer past that memory.

The confession hung between them in the car, warm and exposed. Yelena watched him, softening; she’d told him the worst of Alexei once in a sleepless hour, and Bob had listened then in silence. Now, hearing it reframed—seeing how he measured loyalty against blood and abandonment—made her chest ache for both of them. She opened her mouth to say something gentle, some small balm to the ache, but she shrugged instead and let a rueful half-smile slip out.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice low and careful. “You don’t have to tell me everything right now. I was just curious—that’s all. It would’ve been nice to know.” She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, surrendering the topic like a flag. “Though I let you know about my parents once, so I thought—” Her sentence trailed off; the apology in it was small but real.

Then the car lurched to an abrupt stop. The sudden jolt threw Yelena forward; she smacked the back of her head against the seat with a little stifled cry. Instantly she swivelled toward Bob, concern flaring in her eyes—heart-rate quickened, breath short. The calm between them shattered like glass; whatever moment of quiet they were sharing had been interrupted, and the road outside rushed back in.

Yelena’s brow furrowed, a mix of frustration and unease tightening in her chest. “Why did you stop like that? Is everything okay?” Her voice was careful but insistent, scanning the street ahead. There were no cars, no pedestrians, not even a single stray dog to justify slamming on the brakes. Only the run-down bar stood before them, its faded neon flickering weakly in the afternoon light. Two men lingered at the entrance: one clearly a security guard bulky and tall like a tower, the other a regular civilian; lean, lax, chatting casually. Nothing to indicate danger—or so she thought. She followed his gaze, and that’s when her stomach sank. His eyes glimmered again, golden and predatory, the kind of look that made her chest tighten and her pulse quicken.

“Uh… earth to Bob?” she tried again, louder this time, leaning forward slightly. He didn’t even glance at her, his focus locked on the security guard, unwavering.

“Stay here. I won’t be long,” he said, voice calm but taut with unspoken intensity. He started undoing his seatbelt.

Yelena’s eyes went sharp, and she leaned across him, planting a firm hand on his shoulder. “Uhm… no. Sorry, how about no? You look ready to murder someone again, and the whole runaway chauffeur act? Only works once.” Her voice sharpened with a mixture of humor and worry. “So you better tell me—who is that person, why are you staring at him, and why do you suddenly want to talk to him?”

Bob’s golden gaze didn’t waver from the security guard, following him with that same feline precision she had seen before—a predator tracking its target, ready to pounce at the slightest misstep. Yelena swallowed hard, the unease coiling tighter in her stomach. Whatever was about to happen, she knew it wouldn’t be quiet, and she might not like what she saw next.

Yelena’s heart sank the moment Bob left the car, his stride confident and dangerously casual. “Relax, it’s an old classmate. I just want to say hi,” he called over his shoulder, as if that explanation should erase all the alarm bells going off in her head. Before she could protest, he stooped and picked up a pebble from the cracked pavement, flicking it toward the alley beside the bar. The stone soared unnaturally fast, clanging against something metallic—probably a trash container—producing a sharp, echoing clang that immediately drew the attention of the two men.

Both of them turned, confusion written all over their faces, and walked cautiously into the alley to investigate. Yelena froze for a split second, realizing the mistake she had made in giving him the benefit of the doubt. Her vote of confidence evaporated instantly as she saw him follow them into the narrow, shadowed corridor. Oh shit, was all she could think as she jumped out of the car, trying to catch up without making her presence known.

She took a quick glance at the men. None of them could possibly be Bob’s father—she had seen him in the Void, knew his mannerisms, his face too well. These guys were younger, more like Bob’s age, yet that didn’t ease her worry at all. She stayed low, keeping just behind Bob, feeling the tension coil in her chest like a spring ready to snap.

The alley smelled faintly of garbage and stale beer, the dim light barely cutting through the shadows. A conversation drifted from ahead, loud enough for her to catch a few words. She exhaled quietly, thankful that no one had been hurt yet, but knowing the chaos could erupt at any moment.

“-No way! Look, Jay, it’s Bobby! Bobby Reynolds is back! He isn’t dead!” the security guard exclaimed. Yelena groaned, rolling her eyes despite herself. Ah crap baskets, she muttered under her breath. Just the way they said his name—like some headline—made it clear this wasn’t going to be a quiet encounter.

“Shit, dude, you’re right—it’s him!” Jay’s voice was oddly cheerful, full of nostalgia and excitement, but from Bob’s stiff posture and the subtle flare of his golden eyes, Yelena could tell they weren’t exactly on friendly terms. Still, the two men greeted him like he was some long-lost friend, and maybe he hadn’t been lying. Maybe she was just overthinking it, or she wanted to desperatedly hope for that.

“Where did you go, man? And dude, what did you do to yourself? You don’t look like someone who’s been living on the street anymore,” Jay added, his tone teasing but genuine, eyes scanning Bob like he was some wild story come to life. Bob let out a low hum, a subtle acknowledgment that he was letting them talk, letting the chatter flow over him. Yelena noted how he shifted slightly, the gentle pull of his sleeve betraying his rising tension, a quiet prelude to the storm she could feel simmering under the surface.

“No kidding—you’ve grown a little,” the security guard chimed in, his voice carrying the weight of someone used to being physically imposing. He had the build of a jock, broad shoulders, confident stance, and a certain arrogance that screamed he was used to dominating spaces. Bob, in contrast, might have seemed casual with his loose layers, but Yelena could sense the raw power coiled beneath them. His muscles were thick, his energy palpable, radiating something far stronger than mere size. Despite the measured pull on his sleeve, she knew it wouldn’t take much to unleash him—and she wasn’t sure anyone there could handle it.

“A lot, man. Kurt, remember in high school how scrawny he was? He used to fit in lockers no problem!” Jay’s voice rang out, the laugh in his tone casual, like it was some private joke among them—but Yelena knew better. The joke had always been at Bob’s expense.

Stepping forward, she tried to intervene, raising her hands slightly. “Hey, maybe tone it down—”

But it was too late. Jay’s whistle cut through her words, and he gave her a leering look that made her scowl. “Would you look at that? Bobby came back, not dead! And he got himself decent company!” Bob didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn. Yelena could almost feel his awareness, the way he always knew, and his silence was unnerving, almost heavier than the chatter around them.

Kurt chimed in next, clearly trying to recover some composure but failing miserably. “No way… how did you manage to pull a girl like her? Wait—she looks like that Russian baddie from the New Avengers team!” He paused, blinking rapidly, as if reconsidering his words. “Nah, impossible. No way that hottie is with you. Where in the world did you snag this girl?”

Yelena’s jaw tightened, her hands clenching at her sides. Every word was like a slap, and she wanted nothing more than to shove them into the nearest wall. Bob, however, remained unnervingly still, silent, his golden eyes flickering ever so slightly, a warning she could feel deep in her chest.

It seemed Bob’s stillness had finally gotten under their skin, particularly muscular Kurt. His frown settled as he took in the unblinking blue eyes with their faint golden rings—something he had not noticed before. A scoff of derision escaped his lips, meeting Bob’s stoic, unflinching gaze. “What? You came here just to stare at us like some creep? Or do you feel too important now to even talk to your ex-classmates?” he spat, dripping with contempt.

Yelena’s stomach sank, finally understanding why Bob had insisted on stepping out of the car. If this encounter had lasted five minutes and it had gone like this, she could only imagine the torment these two had subjected him to in high school. And yet, for all their bravado, Bob exhaled slowly, his voice calm, steady—utterly unlike the nervous, hesitant kid they once knew. The change was stark, undeniable, and their reactions told the story.

“I came to say hi,” Bob said, his tone even, measured, and chilling in its composure. “See if you had changed… but you’re just as I remember you: a pair of assholes.”

Yelena flinched as Kurt’s jaw clenched, and he lunged forward, attempting to shove Bob in a blind surge of bravado. But Bob’s reaction was instantaneous. His hand shot out, catching Kurt’s hand and twisting it backward with precise, terrifying strength. A sickening crack echoed through the alley, Kurt backed of yelping in pain as he stumbled back his hand looked oddly mishaped and sickeningly limp. For once, Yelena didn’t move to stop it. These guys had asked for it—and Bob was delivering, silent but absolute, the weight of his power undeniable in every controlled movement. She might step in if he got near anyone's throat, maybe.

“What the fuck, man! You broke his hand?!” Jay’s voice cracked in panic, his face draining of all color as he stumbled backward. Kurt clutched his mangled hand against his chest, his breathing ragged, pupils blown wide in shock. The terror in Jay’s eyes flicked to Yelena as if pleading for her to intervene, to stop whatever this was spiraling into. She only crossed her arms, her expression flat and unimpressed.

“I warned you to drop it,” she said tiredly, voice calm but cold. “You couldn’t keep your mouths shut.” She knew, deep down, that the right thing would’ve been to pull Bob back, to tell him to stop and prove he was better than the men who’d hurt him. That’s what Bucky would’ve said. But Bucky wasn’t here—and these idiots had dug their own grave, and Yelena wasn't as black and white as Bucky was, she believed in letting people who were hurtful getting what they deserved.

Bob took a slow step forward, his expression unreadable, though his silence weighed heavier than any words. Kurt, pale but defiant, sneered through the pain. “You’re a fucking creep, Reynolds!” he spat, voice trembling but still laced with venom. “No wonder your parents kicked you out all those years ago.”

Yelena winced, instantly recognizing that as a mistake. She reached for Bob’s arm, but she could already feel the hum of power radiating off him, the anger at Kurt's jab enough to unlock the telekinesis, the alley was filled with that eerie pressure that filled the air when his powers surged. The moment the insult left Kurt’s mouth, his feet lifted off the ground.

“What the hell—?!” Kurt’s voice broke into a strangled yelp as he floated upward, thrashing helplessly in midair. His panic only fueled Bob’s silent resolve. Before Yelena could speak, Kurt was flung backward—straight into a large metal trash container beside the bar. The lid slammed shut on impact, rattling with a loud, echoing clang. He lifted it with his powers, he wasn't done.

“Bob—” Yelena started, but Jay barely had time to turn before he, too,  was lifted by invisible force. His screams cut short as he was hurled into the same container with bone-jarring force. The dumpster rocked violently, the sounds inside devolving into terrified shouts and pleading.

Bob stepped forward, unhurried, his hand hovering slightly as if to feel the resistance of the metal before he pressed it down like foil. The container began to groan under the pressure of his palms, the top bending inward as though a giant source of gravity was pressing down on it. Yelena’s heart thudded in her chest. She peeked inside the small gap—both men were crammed together, terrified, still breathing, but on the brink of full-blown panic.

“Bob,” she said softly, stepping closer. “I think they’ve had enough.”

He didn’t look at her. His golden eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, reflecting satisfaction, maybe even a trace of cruel irony, and to Kurt and Jay his face through the small hole he left for air, looked shadow absorbed with glowing creepy golden eyes. “Don’t worry, guys,” he said evenly, voice disturbingly calm as he quoted them with the same irony they spoke all those years ago. “I’ll come back to get you out later.”

Yelena could hear the men’s muffled cries for help, the frantic trashing against the warped metal. And yet, as Bob turned back toward the car, there was no rage left in his expression—only a grim, eerie calm. The kind of calm that came from reclaiming power he’d never had as a boy locked in a locker, praying for someone to let him out for hours, he served justice in a way he deemed adequate, she looked at the container conflicted, before she followed him.

“Bob, hey — wait.” Yelena sprinted the few steps, breath burning in her chest. He had already started toward the car as if nothing catastrophic had just played out, as if two grown men weren’t wedged in a metal coffin half the size of a closet. She caught up, planted both hands on her hips, and forced her voice low but tense. “We can’t leave them like that.”

He turned, expression bland, like a man debating whether to change radio stations. The gold at the rim of his irises was a thin strip now, not the molten flare from earlier, but it made her skin itch. “I left them a hole to breathe,” he said casually.

Yelena’s patience, which had been threadbare all day, pulled tight. “Bob—” she started, but the word caught in her throat because she could see how shut-down he’d gone: posture squared, jaw clenched, every line of his body honed to not-anger. It was the face he made when he wanted to be unreadable — and that scared her more than the flare-ups ever had.

“They will be fine,” he insisted. “Someone’ll come by to empty the trash before the shift in the bar stars. They’ll be found. It’s not like I killed them.”

“You crushed Kurt’s hand, Bob.” Her words were blunt and precise; she was trying to wedge reality between him and his righteous haze. “You broke several bones. You compressed a metal container on two human beings. Oxygen depletes. They can panic. They could—” She stopped herself from finishing the worst imaginations. They both knew how claustrophobia spiraled. She had seen it once in training; she had felt it in nightmares. Her voice got small. “They could suffocate.”

He shrugged, almost bored. “Good, if Kurt learned anything from being cranked up and violent his whole life, maybe he’ll think twice before messing with someone smaller again, not like he will be able to use that hand again.”

A flare of anger burst warm and bitter in Yelena’s chest. She understood the ledger of it — the years of locker-room cruelty, the boy pushed into lockers — she understood the hunger for a justice that left no bruises on the avenger’s conscience. But understanding didn’t make the sight of those men struggling inside a crushed dumpster any easier to stomach.

“You don’t get to decide who deserves to breathe,” she snapped. The words were sharper than she intended. Around them the bar’s clatter felt suddenly distant and obscene, like life carrying on while a mess of metal and panic clung to the alley’s shadow.

Bob’s face hardened in a full golden look that wasn’t quite pain, wasn’t quite triumph. “They aren’t worth my worry,” he said flatly, then softer, as if trying to argue himself into gentleness: “They hurt me. They hurt other people. I showed them once on their life what they did countless time to countless people.” He let out a short, irritated exhale and turned away toward the car. “They’ll be fine,” he repeated over his shoulder like a mantra. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Yelena slammed the passenger door with more force than she meant to, the sound an exclamation point. As he pulled away, the alley shrinking in the rearview, the sounds of muffled banging and panicked voices followed them like a scent she couldn’t escape. She felt her stomach twist with a shame that wasn’t hers and with anger for a man she loved — or thought she did — who had let power calcify into judgment.

She stared at the taillights until they blurred into the road and repeated to herself, against the ache in her chest, a truth she didn’expect: She diskliked the Sentry.

Bob? She appreciated him the most — more than she ever planned to, more than she ever thought she could after everything she’d lost. Since her sister’s death, she had built walls so thick and so high that even the idea of letting someone close felt impossible. She’d mastered the art of distance — of teasing, fighting, surviving — anything that kept her from feeling that raw, unguarded kind of affection again. But Bob had slipped through anyway.

He hadn’t forced his way in; he never could. He’d just been there — steady, quiet, patient in ways that disarmed her. He didn’t demand she heal or open up, he simply stayed until she forgot she was supposed to keep him out. It was in the small things: the way he listened, the way he remembered how she liked her coffee, how he somehow understood when she needed to be left alone and when she didn’t. And before she realized it, he was no longer just a friend, no longer just the man she saved from a vault. He had become something far more dangerous — someone essential. Someone who had rooted himself into her life so completely that imagining her world without him felt like trying to breathe without lungs.

The Void, she could even make sense of. That version of him was a wounded animal, all dark hunger and self-loathing, wearing his despair like a second skin. It was ugly, yes — but pain she could recognize. Pain she could talk to, fight against, even forgive and bring back to the light. There was humanity in that brokenness.

But the Sentry… the Sentry terrified her.

He wasn’t the man she teased in the mornings or argued with over missions. He was judgment without hesitation. Wrath with a steady hand. Justice shaped by the mind of someone who believed utterly — dangerously — that his perception of right and wrong was absolute. He was the kind of power that didn’t ask, “Should I?” before acting, only “Why shouldn’t I?”

And maybe that was the real horror — not that he was cruel, but that he believed he wasn’t. That when he crushed someone’s hand or silenced their breath, he did it with conviction that he was fixing the world. Yelena looked at him from the corner of her eye as the car hummed back onto the highway, his face calm, the faint light of the dashboard reflecting on his jaw. The man she needed in her life was in there somewhere, buried under the certainty, under the righteousness and the divine control. But right now, what sat beside her wasn’t Bob Reynolds.

It was the Sentry — and the Sentry didn’t need anyone at his side.

“Fuck!”

Lindy stormed out of the glass building, the sharp click of her heels echoing her frustration. The midday sun hit her face, hot and merciless, and she yanked open the top button of her blouse just to breathe. Without a second thought, she crumpled her résumé and tossed it straight into the nearest trash can.

That was it. She was done.

Three interviews in one day. Three rejections. Her pulse hammered in her temples, equal parts anger and exhaustion. The first two had been disasters of her own making — she’d submitted everything under her maiden name, Lindy Lee, thinking it wouldn't matter so much when they were jobs on common places, not even high end positions or politically aligned places. But apparently, no one wanted to touch her résumé, not even with tongs, Jason had made sure of it. The polite smiles, the vague “we’ll be in touch,” the too-sweet tones — she knew the routine by now.

The third interview had almost given her hope. Almost.

She’d used the name, ugh,  Lindy Reynolds this time — a risk but legal enough, but she’d figured being a little bit less honest might finally work in her favor. And for a moment, it had. The man interviewing her had actually seemed impressed. He’d raised his brows at her credentials, practically glowing at her record. “A researcher? Applying for a secretary job?” he’d asked, half teasing. She’d laughed it off, spun him the story about wanting something close to home, something simple while she “figured out her next step.”

He had smiled — charmed, even — until he asked for identification.

Then came the flicker in his expression. The polite cough. The way he said her name again, slower this time, as if confirming he’d read it right.

“Lindy Reynolds… or is it Lee?”

"Is Reynolds now, I married uh, not long ago, have not changed my ID" She offered desperate. And that was the moment she knew. The charm drained out of his voice, replaced by the same bland dismissal she’d already heard twice that day.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lee—uh, Reynolds. We can’t move forward with your application.”

Now, standing outside in the heat, her throat felt tight, her eyes burning but dry. Lindy let out a humorless laugh, bitter and low. “Of course you can’t,” she muttered, staring at her reflection in the glass doors — the woman with the flawless résumé and the blacklisted name. She turned and started walking, each step heavier than the last.

Lindy sat on the curb for a moment, head spinning, lungs tight. The ache behind her eyes throbbed as if the world itself were pushing against her. She’d been sending résumées endlessly in the last hours, knocking on doors, forcing herself into cheap blazers and pretending she still had confidence left — but every time, it ended the same. Rejection. Polite smiles. Averted eyes.

Now she was running out of time, and money, and whatever scraps of dignity she’d managed to hold onto.

She stared at the trash bin where her résumé had landed, the edge of the paper peeking out like a white flag. Maybe that was fitting — surrender. She considered, for the first time in her life, lowering her standards to anything. Minimum wage jobs, convenience stores, late-night deliveries, cleaning offices, it didn’t matter. She would take anything that kept her off the streets. Because if she didn’t find something soon, she would be on the streets.

Her throat tightened at the thought. Jason’s resentment had been bad enough, but she hadn’t expected him to burn every bridge behind her, to make sure that anyone who looked her up saw her name attached to ruin. She’d thought he’d moved on, how stupid she was to think he would be reasonable about this — apparently, his bitterness had roots deeper than she’d realized.

Anger welled up like bile. She kicked the trash bin hard enough to send it rattling against the pavement. Pain shot through her toe, and she cursed loudly, clutching her shoe and half-laughing at how pathetic she must look. A once respected enough researcher — now sitting on a cracked sidewalk, talking to herself, and hurting from a damn garbage can.

“Perfect,” she muttered under her breath, sitting heavily on a nearby bench. The city moved around her — cars, footsteps, chatter — but it all felt distant. She stared down at the pavement, watching her shadow stretch across the street, thin and useless, eyes looking blank for a moment. I’m nothing now. Why do I even bother trying? No one cares what happens to me… and I don’t think I do either.

Her chest sank with the thought, hollow and cold. She rubbed her temples, closing her eyes just to stop the spinning world. When she opened them again, her shadow was gone.

It took her a second to realize why — a sleek black limousine had pulled up right in front of her. The kind of car that didn’t belong anywhere near people like her anymore. She blinked, confused, squinting through the tinted glass just as the window began to lower. Inside sat a woman she’d only ever seen on screens and headlines — Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the Director of the CIA, the woman who practically owned the New Avengers. Elegant, unreadable, and looking directly at her.

“Lindy Lee Reynolds, isn’t it?” Valentina’s voice was smooth, deliberate. “Come in. I’ll give you a ride.” Lindy froze, mind blank. Her first thought was that she was hallucinating — that maybe she’d finally cracked from stress and exhaustion. This couldn’t be real. There was no universe where Valentina de Fontaine was offering her a ride in a limousine when she had been unreachable days ago when Lindy still had her money, connections and power.

“Uh—I don’t… I don’t understand. Why—what?” Before she could stand, a man in a dark suit stepped out from the driver’s side — tall, professional, his expression unreadable. He placed a firm hand on her arm, not roughly, but in a way that made it clear refusal wasn’t an option. Her heartbeat quickened. She looked at Valentina again, who smiled that faint, predatory smile — the kind of smile that said she already knew the end of this story, and Lindy was just catching up.

“Please,” Valentina said smoothly. “I insist.” The words were polite, but the tone wasn’t a request.

Lindy swallowed hard. Her instincts screamed caution, but curiosity and desperation tangled together in her chest. With a shaky breath, she nodded, stepping toward the car. The chauffeur opened the door, and she slipped inside, the scent of leather and power filling her senses. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

Lindy must have been wound tight because the moment she sat down, Valentina let out a soft, amused laugh — elegant, cutting, and somehow genuine. “Relax, Lindy,” she said, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “You’re not in trouble. I’m trying to help you.”

Lindy’s spine stayed straight, her hands folded stiffly on her lap. The interior of the limousine was all polished black leather and faint perfume — expensive, suffocating. She wanted to believe Valentina, but nothing in the woman’s tone made her feel safe. The word help sounded like the setup to a trap.

Her mind spun, and she couldn’t help noticing the way Valentina had said her last name — Reynolds. It didn’t escape her. The blood drained from her face. She remembered Bucky’s low, sharp warning just some days ago — Do. Not. Tell. Anyone. About your marriage with Bob. The words had stuck like barbed wire in her mind. And now this woman — this power broker — already knew.

“Champagne?” Valentina offered, reaching for a crystal bottle resting in the compartment between them.

“No, thank you,” Lindy said quickly.

“Purified water, then?”

“No.”

Valentina tilted her head, smirking. “Are you always this untrusting? I imagined you were different from your Instagram stories.”

That hit harder than it should have. Lindy blinked, taken aback, then lowered her gaze. She’d almost forgotten about that life — the glossy photos, the glowing captions, the thousands of likes. The parties, the brand deals, the smile she’d learned to fake so well. That world had vanished the moment her engagement to Jason collapsed into scandal. After that, she’d stopped posting altogether. What was there left to share when your life became a cautionary tale?

“I just don’t get why you’re helping me,” she said finally, voice quieter, heavier. “And how do you know about my… other last name?”

Valentina chuckled — the kind of laugh that came from someone who already knew she had the upper hand. “Oh, darling, you weren’t exactly subtle. You were screaming outside my Watchtower at four in the morning, remember? Cameras, security feeds — you gave quite the performance.”

Lindy’s stomach dropped. “That— you saw that?”

“Everyone in the top floors did,” Valentina said without shame, swirling the untouched champagne in her glass. “A woman shouting about betrayal, about justice, about ‘the asshole’ — well, it caught my attention. You sounded like someone who had nothing left to lose.” Lindy swallowed hard, throat tightening. “And that,” Valentina added, leaning slightly forward, her sharp smile softening just enough to seem human, “is exactly the kind of person I like to recruit.”

The car fell silent except for the hum of the engine. Lindy stared at her, unsure if she’d just been offered a lifeline — or sold her soul without realizing it.

“Uh, I don’t—” Lindy stammered, shaking her head as her heartbeat quickened. The car was too quiet, too clean, the kind of silence that demanded answers she didn’t have. What made people like Bucky or the New Avengers any different from someone like Valentina, really? They all lived in that shadowy gray area where morality bent for the sake of purpose. And yet… something in her gut screamed that being here was wrong — dangerous. It was the kind of instinct that had kept her alive before, the same whisper that told her not to sign bad deals, not to trust charming smiles wrapped in expensive perfume.

“I think I can walk to my apartment, miss, I—”

Valentina raised one elegant hand, the motion soft but absolute. It was the kind of gesture that silenced rooms full of generals. “You could,” she said smoothly, “but you won’t.” Then, with a faint clink of crystal, she set her champagne flute aside and reached into a sleek black folder beside her. From it, she pulled out a single foiled sheet of paper — delicate at the edges, worn with time. She unfolded it with care, eyes glinting with something between mischief and nostalgia.

“I didn’t want to have to pull this card,” she said in that calm, lilting voice of hers, “but I think it’ll save us both a lot of time.” Lindy frowned, confused, her nerves sparking as Valentina cleared her throat and began to read aloud — formally, almost ceremoniously.

“Dear Lindy Lee,
I am pleased to confirm your acceptance of an internship as an assistant in molecular biology research in the Department of Molecular Genetics and Microbiology, within the OXE Group Health Division. Main research laboratory—”

Lindy’s breath caught. Her face went pale, her pulse thundering in her ears. “W–wait— that’s— that’s my internship acceptance letter,” she managed, her voice rising an octave. “How the hell do you have that?”

Valentina didn’t answer. She just handed the letter over, her lips curving in amusement as Lindy snatched it with trembling fingers. The paper felt fragile — aged, but unmistakably real. The logo, the embossing, the signature at the bottom in elegant ink: Director of Oxe group. Ángela Filántela Doventernia.

She hadn’t seen that name in years. The last time had been the day she’d been offered a future — before it all crumbled. Lindy looked up at Valentina, confusion twisting into shock. “This… this was confidential. You— you couldn’t possibly have access to—”

And then it clicked. The realization hit her like a cold slap.

Her eyes darted between the letter and Valentina’s composed, smiling face. Her lips parted. “Ángela Filántela Doventernia…” she whispered, almost to herself. She repeated it slower, piecing it together. It was an Anagram. “Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.” Her voice cracked in disbelief. “You— you were the director of the OXE Group?”

Valentina’s smile deepened, sharp and knowing. “Am, dear,” she corrected softly, “not were. You don’t destroy something like OXE. You let it evolve.”

Lindy sat frozen, staring at her — the woman who had once funded the kind of science that promised to save lives and, somehow, make the greatest improvement humanity had seen was sitting right in front of her.  And suddenly, Lindy understood why her stomach had turned the second she saw that limousine. This wasn’t a coincidence. Valentina hadn’t just found her. She’d been watching.

“B–But, I thought you only had a guidance role in the board, not that you were actually the owner of OXE Group,” Lindy stammered, her brows furrowing in disbelief. Her voice cracked slightly — not out of fear, but from the sheer absurdity of what she was hearing. She’d read enough about Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to know the public version of her résumé, the carefully edited façade she presented to the world. Director of the CIA. Strategist. Political liaison. But not this. Not a scientific empire hidden beneath a fake Anagrammic name she made up. 

Valentina smiled — that kind of knowing smile that both charmed and unsettled at once. It was the smile of someone who had already anticipated every question. “Ah, well,” she began smoothly, crossing one leg over the other, “a woman must learn when to tell a little white lie to keep her place at the table.” Her tone carried no shame, only an almost feline satisfaction. “You see, the CIA has very strict policies about outside ventures. Ownership of independent research institutions would have been grounds for removal… and the men in my line of work just adore finding reasons to demote ambitious women.”

She raised her glass in mock toast, her tone turning wry. “So, I gave them a different version of the truth. I ‘advised’ the board, but the board always answered to me. Everyone wins.”

Lindy blinked, trying to process the layers of manipulation. “So, you just—lied to the CIA?” she asked, disbelief dripping from every syllable.

“I protected something valuable,” Valentina corrected. Her gaze shifted out the tinted window as if watching memories replay in the dark streets. “You see, Lindy… I, like you, am more than my official title. The CIA is politics used for a greater good — OXE was my passion. Knowledge, progress, discovery — the thrill of the unknown.” She turned her attention back to Lindy, her eyes gleaming with genuine excitement. “I miss the lab. The smell of ethanol, the hum of centrifuges, the silence that comes before a breakthrough. It’s addictive.”

Lindy didn’t know what to say. Part of her — the old Lindy, the woman who used to dream of discoveries and breakthroughs — felt a flicker of connection. But she pushed it down fast, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m not really that much of a researcher anymore,” she said quietly, trying to sound indifferent, though the bitterness in her tone betrayed her. “That part of my life’s… gone.”

“Not much of a researcher, you say?” Valentina’s tone was light, teasing even, but there was a sharp glimmer in her eyes — the kind that always came from knowing more than the other person in the room. She reached for another document from the sleek folder resting on her lap, unfolding it with manicured precision. “That’s curious,” she continued, scanning the page with feigned nonchalance. “Because this résumé says otherwise.”

Lindy tensed.

“Top of your class,” Valentina read aloud, her voice lilting like she was narrating a fairy tale. “Graduated with Academic Excellence, never missed a class — my God, not even one? Three major scientific projects, each of them innovative enough to be cited by university research departments. Laboratory assistant for the Department of Molecular Genetics. Not to mention… a published article on regenerative protein synthesis.” She arched a brow and looked up, smiling as if she’d just finished listing the achievements of her favorite pupil.

Lindy shifted in her seat, her jaw tightening. “Okay, fine,” she said, holding up a hand to stop her. “I get it. That was the past. Alright? I’m not that person anymore.”

Valentina leaned back, unconvinced. “Oh? And who are you now, then?”

“I’m…” Lindy exhaled, searching for the word, her voice cracking just slightly. “I was a socialite,” she muttered bitterly, crossing her arms. “Was being the key word.” She added with a dry, humorless laugh. “Turns out academic excellence doesn’t mean much when your last name makes people shut their doors.”

“Well, Lindy… my door is wide open.” Lindy blinked, unsure she’d heard correctly. Her gaze flicked toward Valentina, half expecting a smirk, a hidden clause — something. But the woman’s expression was calm, composed, the kind of serenity that only came from knowing she already held the upper hand. “You’re far too intelligent to waste away as someone’s trophy wife,” Valentina continued, her tone silken, persuasive. “It’s a pity, really — your parents, even the Moriettis, couldn’t see past the pretty face. But I do. I see the mind behind it. You could be so much more, if you wanted.”

Lindy lowered her eyes, jaw tightening. If I wanted. God, she wanted to — wanted to feel useful again, wanted to stop being pitied, whispered about, avoided. But something about this woman — about her precise timing, her words — made Lindy’s stomach twist. She didn’t know if she should be grateful or terrified. Her apartment wasn’t far now; she could see the familiar corner building at the end of the street through the car window. The sight should’ve brought comfort, but it only made her feel more exposed, more trapped. Her fingers fidgeted on her lap, knuckles pale.

“I— I don’t know,” she managed at last, her voice small, shaky.

Valentina regarded her with the patience of a cat watching a bird convince itself the trap wasn’t real. She reached into her sleek black coat and pulled out a simple business card — unmarked except for a number embossed in silver. No logo, no name. Just digits.

“Think about it, dear,” Valentina said softly, offering the card with a faint smile. “We could achieve great things together. A glorious purpose, for the greater good of humanity.” The words made Lindy’s blood run cold. That phrase — she had written those exact words once, years ago, in her handwritten request to join the OXE internship program.

I want to be part of this research because I believe in human innovation, by pulling at the right ideas, we can attain a glorious purpose for the greater good of humanity.

She had been naïve then — a young woman’s hope. Coming from Valentina, it sounded like something else entirely. Lindy stared at the card for a long moment, her reflection flickering faintly on the tinted glass. Her pulse thundered in her ears. And yet, despite the unease crawling under her skin, her fingers reached out and took it.

“Good girl,” Valentina murmured, her satisfaction subtle but unmistakable.

By the time Lindy stepped out of the limo, her hands were trembling. She walked the short distance home in a daze, the card clutched tightly in her fist like it might vanish if she let go. Every step made her stomach churn harder. The words glorious purpose echoed in her head like a curse. She didn’t stop shaking even after she locked the door behind her, even after the bath meant to wash off the anxiety, the confusion, the creeping sense that she had just crossed an invisible line she might never come back from.

By the time she slipped into bed, Alpine had curled up beside her — soft fur brushing her arm, a warm weight grounding her in a world that suddenly didn’t feel safe anymore. Lindy stared at the ceiling, eyes wide in the dark, the business card glinting faintly on her nightstand. Sleep didn’t come that night — only the nauseating certainty that she’d been seen, cornered, and gently pushed toward something she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

It didn’t take too long for them to reach the quiet rows of houses near where Bob’s parents lived — a modest, aging suburb tucked at the edge of town. The drive had been swallowed in a heavy silence, one that thickened the closer they got. Yelena hadn’t said a word since the alley incident, her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights as if counting them could keep her thoughts from spiraling.

She understood why he’d done what he did — his logic was brutal but not wrong. Someone would have found them within an hour anyway: the overflowing trash bin, the screams, the trail of chaos they’d left behind. Still, the memory of it all — his restraint, the tension in his jaw, the way the world seemed to hold its breath around him — left her unsettled. The more she thought about it, the tighter her chest felt. It was easier to stay quiet than risk another argument that could ignite at any moment.

The car hummed down the narrowing streets. Houses began to look more run-down the deeper they went: peeling paint, sagging porches, unkempt lawns strewn with old bicycles and forgotten toys. The kind of place that had stories baked into its cracked sidewalks. Yelena glanced at the mailboxes, each number bringing them closer, but none sparking recognition.

She tried to remember the fragments she’d seen through his vision — the brief, distorted flashes from when they’d been in sync, nothing that could help her pinpoint the house from the outside. She rubbed her temple, frustration gnawing at her composure. A soft vibration from her phone broke the stillness. She glanced down. A message — a simple How are you two? from Ava keeping watch. She typed back quickly: Almost there. The screen’s glow cast a faint light over her face, reflecting in her eyes before she tucked the device away.

For a few more minutes, the car moved through the quiet streets, the only sounds being the low rumble of the engine and the faint creak of leather whenever one of them shifted. The silence between them wasn’t peaceful; it was brittle, stretched thin with all the things left unsaid. Bob drove with both hands on the wheel, his expression unreadable. The faint streetlight shadows cut across his face, sharpening the tired lines around his eyes and his dark bags. He hadn’t looked at her since they got in the car.

Then, finally — without warning — his voice broke through the quiet.

“Who are you texting?” Yelena blinked, caught off guard. His tone wasn’t accusatory exactly, but there was an edge there, something halfway between curiosity and tense weariness. She turned her head toward him, studying his profile in the dim light — the way his jaw flexed slightly, the tension buried beneath his calm.

“It’s Ava,” Yelena began, her voice careful. “She sent me a text—” Bob cut her off with a sharp scoff, the kind that carried both disbelief and irritation. He let out a low, ironic laugh, and Yelena froze, staring at him with a glare sharp enough to slice through metal. That expression — the mix of sarcasm and arrogant defiance — made her blood simmer.

“What?” he said, his tone biting. “She’s telling you to babysit me, isn’t she? Making sure I don’t screw everything up? Because that’s all you ever worry about. That I’ll ruin it for everyone.” Yelena’s scowl deepened. She knew Bob could be paranoid sometimes, imagining himself a burden until someone reassured him otherwise. But this wasn’t paranoia — this was deliberate. This was him being a jerk, and golden glow or not, someone had to snap some sense into him, and she would because she cared about him.

“Stop. Doing. That,” she snapped, letting each word land like a hammer. Her chest rose and fell as she fought to keep calm, to steady the tremor in her voice. “Stop acting like we’re against you. You know we’re not!” She took three slow breaths. “I’m trying,” she continued, softer but unwavering. “I’m really trying to be here for you. I get it — you’re stressed, you’re tired, you’re… dealing with everything. But that doesn’t give you a free pass to act like an idiot. Or to hurt people!”

Bob’s gaze darkened, fixed on the porch at the end of the street, as if the world beyond it was the only thing grounding him. “You don’t get it." He corrected, stopping in front of his old childhood house. "You don't understand what I’m feeling right now,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You had a horrible childhood, sure. But no one from your family ever actively damaged you — the people who were supposed to protect you? They didn’t hit you and abused you the way mine did.” The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken pain, resentment, and the fragile thread of care Yelena refused to let break.

For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. The words were heavy — not shouted, not cruel, but filled with something so raw it made the air in the car thicken. She stared at him — He wasn’t glowing anymore, but something about him still radiated with restrained energy, a silent storm waiting for somewhere to break.

Her first instinct was to bite back — to tell him he didn’t get to play whose pain was worse — but when she saw his reflection in the window, eyes locked on the house in front of them, something stopped her. His voice had that tremor she’d only heard a few times before — the one that came right before he said something he’d been holding back for years.

“Bob…” she started, her voice softer now.

He didn’t look at her. “You don’t understand,” he said again, quieter this time. “When I was a kid, every time I thought maybe it was going to stop, maybe things were getting better — it got worse, and the worst of all was they made me believe I made it worse. My dad would… he’d find new ways. My mom would tell me he was trying, that I just had to be good, that I had to deserve peace, she always took his side even though I would get myself beaten up trying to protect her.” Yelena felt the burn rise in her chest — anger, pity, heartbreak all tangled together. The kind of pain she recognized because it lived in different corners of her own mind. She wanted to reach for him, but his jaw tightened as if he could feel the thought before she acted on it.

“Every time I think I’ve moved past it,” he continued, “every time I try to build something decent, something good — it’s like I can still hear them. In the house, in my head.” The house looked… ordinary. But the kind of ordinary that hides trauma in every corner — shutters half-broken, curtains drawn too tightly, a front yard that seemed frozen in the moment someone stopped caring.

Yelena’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t have to go in there if you don’t want to.” He finally turned to her, and the look in his eyes made her chest tighten. There wasn’t anger anymore, just quiet resignation.

“Yes, I do.” There was a finality in those words that made her heart ache. She wanted to stop him, to tell him that he didn’t owe his past a damn thing — but she also knew that for him, facing it wasn’t about obligation. It was about survival, about showing himself he could finally overcome his old demons.

After that heated exchange — what could easily be considered their first real fight since the Watchtower — Yelena felt something shift between them. Beneath all the frustration, the biting words, and his towering defenses, she thought she might have found a crack in Sentry’s armor. Not the golden, indestructible one — but the one around his heart. Her gaze softened as she looked at him. There was something raw there, something human peeking through the layers of guilt and anger he’d built to keep the world out. And maybe, just maybe, she could reach it.

Without thinking, she reached for his hand. Her fingers brushed his knuckles first — tentative, almost hesitant — but when he didn’t pull away, she slid her palm fully into his. To her surprise, he let her. His shoulders eased, his expression softened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he actually looked at her. Not through her. At her.

Yelena held that look. She wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone. That she was still here, no matter how bad things got — willing to stand beside him or give him space if that’s what he needed. But the words never came out. The fragile calm that hung between them shattered a heartbeat later when a sharp woman's yelp split the air, followed by the unmistakable crash of breaking glass — or porcelain. The sound jerked them both back to reality, the world suddenly moving again after those still, suspended seconds.

Bob moved before Yelena could even process what was happening. It wasn’t thought — it was instinct, pure and unfiltered. The same instinct that had once made him flinch at raised voices or sudden touches, the kind that came from years of waiting for something to hurt. She had seen that reflex before — the way he used to tense when someone reached for him too fast, or how he’d duck his head during rough affection, as if expecting a blow. Alexei’s patience had helped soften those edges over time, but the scars never really disappeared.

This, though — this wasn’t the instinct to hide. It was something older, more primal. It was the kind of reflex born not from fear, but from the desperate need to stop the fear — to destroy whatever could cause it. The sound of shattering glass had ripped through the air like a trigger, and Yelena realized too late what it meant. That noise — breaking, screaming — was the soundscape of his childhood. The memory of his mother’s cries, of chaos echoing through cheap walls.

By the time she blinked, Bob was already out of the car. “Bob—wait!”

She scrambled after him, her boots slapping against the pavement. The door didn’t even slow him down. It slammed open under his telekinetic shove, wood splintering against the frame. The scene inside was a blur — a middle-aged man in the living room, frozen mid-motion, his back turned to them. And then, before Yelena could even yell, the man was lifted clean off the ground, pinned in the air as invisible force coiled around his throat.

Bob’s face had gone blank — terrifyingly blank — his golden eyes flickering like the light of a storm barely contained. Whatever he saw in that man wasn’t a stranger. It was a ghost from his past, a thousand moments of helplessness compressed into one unbearable second. 

The woman who had screamed was now wailing in panic, clutching her phone with trembling hands. Yelena didn’t think—she lunged forward, pinning her wrist and forcing her to drop it before the call could connect. The woman shrieked again, too loud, too desperate, and Yelena’s instincts—honed by years of surviving impossible situations—took over. She grabbed a pressure point at the side of her neck, a quick, precise motion that made the woman slump unconscious against the floor. Yelena exhaled sharply, hating that it had come to that, but there was no time for guilt.

Her gaze darted back to Bob.

The living room was chaos—glass shattered across the carpet, a coffee table overturned, the air heavy with dust and fear. Bob stood in the center of it all, glowing with that unearthly gold light, his expression a twisted mix of fury and anguish. The man he held in his telekinetic grip was contorted painfully, his body bending at angles that shouldn’t have been possible, muscles straining against the invisible force crushing him.

“W-What—what is this?!” the man gasped, his voice breaking between sobs and screams. “Please—please, stop!” Yelena’s heart pounded. She could feel it—this wasn’t control, it wasn’t reason. It was trauma bursting out of him like a wildfire, burning everything in its path. She crouched briefly beside the unconscious woman to make sure she was breathing, then straightened, taking a cautious step closer to him.

“Bob,” she said firmly, keeping her tone calm despite the storm brewing around him. “Let him go. Please.” He didn’t even seem to hear her. His jaw tightened, his golden irises blazing brighter as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing at the man who was now crying out in pain.

“You don’t know,” Bob’s voice came low, shaking, torn between rage and despair. “You don’t know how long I waited to finally give you what you deserved, you fucking piece of shit!” The words came out like venom, and for the first time, Yelena caught a flicker of something behind them—fear, hurt, years of humiliation and betrayal wrapped in a single breath.

The man dropped to his knees with a strangled sound, the telekinetic pressure still holding him in place. His eyes darted up to Bob’s face—terrified, pleading—and it was only then Bon noticed.

The color of his eyes. Chestnut brown. Not blue. Not his father's.

His golden eyes flicked back to the man—truly seeing him for the first time. Not the monster from his memories, not the ghost of the man who had tormented him—but someone else entirely. A stranger with chestnut-brown eyes, wide and terrified, someone who may have looked a little bit alike but was not him. Bob froze. His breath hitched, and she saw the moment the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. The glowing light in his eyes dimmed, fading from burning gold to their usual amber hue. His expression fell apart—first confusion, then horror.

“I… it’s not him,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’re not—” The invisible force holding the man collapsed instantly, releasing him. The man crumpled to the floor, gasping, his limbs shaking, too weak to stand before he too passed out from the shock.

And as that crushing realization settled in, the rest of it began to come into focus like a cruel joke. His brain, finally catching up with the adrenaline, began to notice all the details that should have been obvious from the start—the kind of details that only made the emptiness sharper.

The strangers he just hurt who weren't his parent's, the living room was tidy, warm even. The furniture wasn’t broken or stained. There wasn’t a suffocating smell of alcohol clinging to the air, no mountains of empty bottles crowding the corners, no half-dead plants slumped over from neglect. The walls didn’t echo with resentment or the sharp edge of violence. Instead, it smelled like dinner—real dinner—something home-cooked and comforting.

His eyes roamed over the small dining area. A half-served meal sat abandoned on the table, two plates still steaming faintly. A shattered dish lay on the floor, a casualty that caused him to storm in. Family photos hung neatly on the walls, showing the couple smiling in sunlight, arms wrapped around each other in snapshots of simple happiness. A life untainted. A life untouched.

Bob’s chest ached at the sight—because this wasn’t his house anymore.

His house had been chaos, a battlefield dressed as a house. His father’s shouting, his mother’s quiet crying, the silence afterward that hurt even more. He could still remember the texture of the couch fabric against his skin when he hid behind it as a kid, the sharp sting of fear whenever footsteps got too close. But this place… this was peaceful. It was normal. Something he never had.

And in that stillness, he understood.

Whatever was left of his old life had long since been erased along with his documents and identifications, he was oficially nothing. The house he grew up in was gone. His parents—whatever had become of them—had vanished uncaring about the fate of their son, just like everything else tied to the boy he once was. The people who had broken him had simply moved on, leaving him behind with the ghosts they’d made and always carried along.

He felt hollow.

Bob’s hands dropped to his sides, fingers twitching faintly, as if trying to hold on to something that wasn’t there. His throat tightened. For a heartbeat, Yelena thought he might say something—but he didn’t. He just turned away, his shoulders rigid, his expression locked behind that distant stillness that scared her more than his anger ever did. He walked past her and out the door, his steps heavy but measured, the golden light long gone from his eyes.

Yelena lingered for a moment, glancing back at the couple—the woman unconscious on the couch now, the man once trembling on the floor, clutching his ribs and whispering nonsense through his tears also unconconcious. The guilt settled in her chest, thick and bitter.

Pulling out her phone, she typed quickly, thumbs moving with a soldier’s precision:

“Ava. We need a cleanup team at this address. No questions.”

She sent the message before the weight of it could catch up with her, hoping they would come cover up this mess by the time she and Bob where gone.

Then she followed Bob outside, hurrying after him into the night. The air was colder now, sharper, and she could almost see the way it clung to him—how every breath he took looked heavier than the last. She didn’t dare leave him alone with the storm inside his mind. Not tonight.

When she finally caught up to him, he was standing by the curb, motionless, staring at nothing and everything all at once. The light washed him in pale gold, a dull echo of the glow that used to burn behind his eyes. His shoulders were tense, his hands buried deep in his pockets, and though he looked calm, Yelena could tell that wasn’t the truth. It was the kind of stillness that came from forcing every feeling into a cage and locking the door.

For a fleeting second inside that house, he had let the mask slip—he had looked lost, hurt, human. But once the night air touched him, he had pulled the armor back on. The same armor he wore whenever he became the Sentry. Yelena was starting to realize that this was how he survived—by becoming the part of himself that didn’t break, the part that could look at destruction and not fall apart with it. The Sentry was his shield, his emotional anesthesia. And in Bob's case, emotional wounds could be enough to warrant Sentry to take over in order to protect himself.

She stayed a few feet behind him, studying the rigid set of his back, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. The wind rustled through the trees, the faint sound of a television leaking through one of the neighboring houses, life continuing unbothered.

“I’m sorry,” Yelena said softly, her voice carrying just enough weight to pierce the heavy silence between them. Bob didn’t respond—not right away. His jaw flexed, muscles tightening and loosening in quiet restraint, but his eyes stayed fixed on the house in front of him. Or rather, the empty shell of what used to be a home. His stare was so intense it almost seemed as if he could will it to turn back time, to bring the ghosts of his parents, his childhood, his lost sense of belonging back into existence.

Yelena swallowed the lump forming in her throat. The stillness was suffocating, more painful than shouting could have been. She could feel what it must be like to stand there—to face the physical proof that your past had moved on without you, that life had continued and forgotten you entirely just as it happened to her when she blipped, only worse because he was entirely alone now. “I can’t imagine what it feels like,” she said carefully, stepping a little closer, her tone soft but steady. “But I know it hurts. What should we do now?”

For a long moment, Bob didn’t move. Then his shoulders sagged slightly, and he let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh, but something heavier. “I don’t know. Go back, I guess.” His tone was flat, deliberate. “This whole trip was a waste of time.”

Yelena frowned, watching him retreat behind that emotionless facade again—the one she was learning to recognize as a defense, not indifference. He didn’t even glance back at the house. He didn’t search for signs of what had happened, didn’t check if there were any traces of his parents or his childhood left behind. To him, it was already gone.

He turned and walked toward the car without another word, his movements brisk but heavy. Yelena followed a few steps behind, her chest aching with empathy and a twinge of frustration. He was shutting down—again—and she could only watch him do it. The way he moved, the absence of anger or grief, felt wrong. It wasn’t detachment; it was exhaustion, the kind that came from years of expecting disappointment.

Once inside the car, the air felt colder somehow. Bob stared ahead, gripping the steering wheel but not starting the engine yet. Yelena hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper when she finally spoke. “Don’t you want to… investigate? Maybe find out what happened to—”

“No.” The answer was immediate, cutting her off cleanly. His tone wasn’t cruel, just final. “I came for papers. It didn’t work out, so…” he trailed off, exhaling through his nose before forcing the car to start. “Let’s just move on.”

The engine rumbled to life, but the silence inside the car only grew heavier. Yelena turned to look out the window, feeling the weight of all the things he wasn’t saying pressing against her ribs. Outside, the neighborhood blurred by—a quiet graveyard of memories—and for the first time, she wondered if what haunted Bob most wasn’t the loss of his past, but the proof that the world could forget him so easily.

“Ok, you rule,” Yelena conceded with a reluctant sigh, sinking back into her seat. The sky outside had turned a soft amber, the sun dragging the day toward dusk. The shifting light painted Bob’s profile in warm tones, though nothing in his expression reflected that warmth. He drove in silence, the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but heavy—like a storm gathering behind calm clouds.

She let him take the wheel, her earlier tension giving way to quiet resignation. There was a part of her that wished she could just reach across the console, rest her hand on his arm, ground him somehow—remind him he didn’t have to carry every wound alone. But the look on his face told her it wasn’t the right moment. Maybe once they were back at the tower, once the walls were familiar again, she could try.

For now, the silence pressed in, so she turned her attention to the window. The scenery had changed; this wasn’t the same route they’d taken before. He’d veered away from the main streets and shopping districts, into quieter roads lined with old fields and sleepy neighborhoods. The horizon opened wider, dotted with a few scattered trees, and soon a low, aging building came into view—a school, its faded letters barely legible on the sign. Curiosity nibbled at her restraint until she couldn’t hold back. “Is that your old high school?” she asked softly, hoping to draw him out, even just a little.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, voice quiet but flat. No warmth, no nostalgia. Just acknowledgment.

Yelena’s eyes flicked toward him. His expression didn’t change, but the way his fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel told her the memories weren’t pleasant. The building passed in silence, swallowed by distance. Then, just as she was about to turn her gaze elsewhere, she noticed it—the faintest flicker in his golden eyes, like sunlight glinting on glass. His stare had fixed sharply on something past the school grounds, a reaction too subtle for anyone else to notice but impossible for her to miss.

“Bob?” she murmured, shifting forward in her seat, following his line of sight. Whatever it was he’d seen, it had cut through his emotional armor, if only for a second—and that was enough to make her pulse quicken.

Yelena frowned slightly, following his gaze until she saw what had caught his attention—a small, shabby convenience store tucked between two crumbling buildings. Its neon sign flickered weakly, buzzing like a dying insect, and half the letters were burned out. The windows were dusty, the posters on the glass yellowed and curling from age. A narrow side alley stretched beside it, littered with overflowing trash bins and a few soggy cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly against the wall. The air around it looked tired, like time itself had forgotten the place existed.

She blinked, confused. Out of everything they’d passed—houses, schools, fields—this was what made him react? It didn’t make sense. But when she glanced at him again, she saw something different in his expression, something subtle yet startlingly rare: ease. His shoulders, always drawn tight, had loosened just a little. The edge in his jaw had softened. For the first time that day, Bob didn’t look haunted.

“And this place is...?” she asked carefully, trying to read his tone before she ventured further.

He blinked, almost startled, as if remembering she was there. A half-smile ghosted across his face, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still carried a trace of warmth. “This is where I spent most of my days when I wasn’t at home,” he said quietly, his voice taking on a distant, reflective tone. “One of my safe places, you could say.”

Yelena tilted her head, looking between him and the decrepit little store. Safe place. The word felt heavy coming from him. She could imagine it now—the kid he used to be, wandering in here after school just to get away from the shouting, the smell of cheap alcohol, the constant tension hanging over his house. She could almost see him sitting by the corner shelf, maybe talking to whoever worked the counter, pretending for a few hours that the world wasn’t as cruel as it really was.

“The other safe place was the attic,” he added after a pause, his tone quieter, darker. Yelena remembered. The attic from his memories—cold, cramped, echoing with the sound of angry voices from below and in comparison to this not that safe. She’d seen it in the fragments he’d reluctantly shared. That space hadn’t been a refuge, not really; it was just the furthest he could get from the chaos. Which meant this store… this had been his escape.

“I know it looks shitty,” Bob said, forcing out the words that carried both embarrassment and distant affection. His golden eyes softened as he looked at the flickering lights, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint nostalgia. “But back then, it was… quiet. Nobody yelled here. Nobody hit anyone. They’d just let me sit in the back alley and read comic books until closing time.”

Yelena’s chest tightened. She turned her gaze back to the store, suddenly seeing it through his eyes—not as a forgotten dump, but as a sanctuary built out of small mercies. A few borrowed hours of peace in a world that hadn’t given him much of it.

“It doesn’t look shitty to me,” she said softly. “It looks… safe.”

He looked torn for a moment, as if weighing whether to let her in or keep the walls firmly in place. That constant battle—between wanting to connect and needing to protect himself—played out quietly behind his golden eyes. In the end, something softer won. Maybe it was guilt for how cold he’d been lately, or maybe he was simply tired of acting like he didn’t care. Either way, he sighed and glanced at her with a faint, almost awkward attempt at normalcy.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, his tone low but less guarded than before. It wasn’t really a question—more like a peace offering disguised as one. Before she could answer, he gave a subtle nod toward the nearby store’s trash bins. “If you want, I’ll get you something to eat. Come on.”

Yelena blinked, unsure if he was serious, but followed when he started walking toward the alley beside the old convenience store. She’d learn on this trip that his Sentry way of caring didn’t always look pretty, but there was a strange sincerity beneath it. When they stopped near one of the large commercial bins, she looked up at it—it was tall enough that she’d have to jump to sit on top. She gave a quiet, exasperated huff under her breath, muttering something in Russian about her height.

Before she could make an attempt, Bob turned to her. “Here,” he said simply. And without another word, his hands found her waist. Yelena froze instantly. Her breath caught in her throat, the sudden warmth of his touch startling her. He lifted her effortlessly—as if she weighed nothing at all—and set her gently on the lid of the trash bin. The world seemed to pause for a moment; the air around them felt charged, thick with the unspoken awareness of what he’d just done.

“W–What are you doing?” she managed to stammer, her voice cracking slightly between disbelief and embarrassment. Her pulse was a drum against her ribs, and she hated how flustered she sounded. If she hadn't been so flustered and this had been anyone else she would have given them hell for a clasic helping short people behavior.

Bob, ever composed, didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did, and chose not to tease her for once. “Just giving you a lift, make things easier.” he said simply, as if that explained everything. His tone was practical, but there was a flicker of arrogant amusement in his eyes that was infuriatingly charming, something she caught just before he turned away. She would have scowled if he hadn't acted so natural about it.

By the time she gathered her wits, he was already walking into the dimly lit store. The sound of the small bell above the door jingled faintly as he disappeared inside, leaving her perched on the metal lid with her heart still stumbling in her chest. She pressed a palm against her sternum, exhaling shakily. Get it together, she told herself, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

Of all the ways she’d imagined him trying to make peace… lifting her onto a trash can hadn’t been one of them. And yet, somehow, it was the most Bob thing he could’ve done since this mess started.

She waited in that narrow alley longer than she expected, legs swinging idly from the trash bin as the hum of a distant streetlamp filled the silence. The first few minutes she figured he was probably just arguing with the cashier or taking his time making some complicated sandwich. But by minute seven, her brows began to knit together. By ten, it was officially weird.

Yelena hopped off the bin with a small grunt, landing lightly on her feet. She dusted her hands off her pants, muttering under her breath, “He better not be picking another fight.” and started toward the store.

The bell above the door jingled faintly when she entered, the sound swallowed quickly by the thick, stale air inside. The lights flickered unevenly, casting long, crooked shadows over shelves lined with dusty cans and faded packaging. She spotted Bob immediately—standing near the counter, shoulders slightly hunched as he spoke with the owner. The old man behind the register wasn’t frail, exactly, but there was something worn in the way he leaned against the counter, the years visible in the creases around his eyes. His voice, rough and aged, carried a kind of sincerity that caught her attention.

“—sorry, kid, truly. I thought you were dead. Everyone did. But if you really want to see them… go there.”

Yelena froze mid-step, her curiosity piqued. See who? His parents? She wondered, moving quietly closer, trying to make sense of the exchange. Neither of them had noticed her yet.

Bob’s back was to her, and she couldn’t see his expression fully, but she could feel the shift in him. His posture wasn’t rigid or defensive, like it had been lately—it was heavy, like the weight of something suddenly returning to his shoulders. She noticed how the faint, golden glimmer that had lingered in his everything ever since the Lindy incident—just two days ago—was gone. The furious, blazing energy that had both frightened and fascinated her was dim now, almost extinguished.

It didn’t make sense. Just earlier that morning, he’d carried himself with that trademark Sentry confidence—effortless, magnetic, almost arrogant and certainly agressive to the injustices he had to face in his youth. And now… he looked small. Human. Exhausted.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said, his tone quiet but steady. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills, ready to pay for whatever he was buying.

But the man behind the counter stopped him, shaking his head with a faint smile. “No way, son. It’s my treat.” He pushed the money back toward Bob. “Despite everything, I’m happy for you, Bob. Really. You look great… and I’m just glad you’re alive.”

The kindness in his voice caught Yelena off guard. It wasn’t pity, and it wasn’t obligation—it was simple, genuine warmth. The kind you didn’t see often, especially directed at someone like him.

Yelena’s lips parted in surprise before curving into a small, soft smile. It was such a rare thing—to see someone treat Bob like he deserved something good. In every situation they’d been through, people had looked at him with contempt, pity, or suspicion. Never affection. Never recognition that he was more than the storm and old demons he carried inside him.

She watched quietly as Bob hesitated, clearly uncertain how to respond to such open goodwill. There was a flicker of something almost boyish in his face, a vulnerable gratitude he tried to hide as he nodded once even when he looked down.

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice rough, taking the small paper bag the man offered. 

When he turned and his gaze met hers, Yelena froze. His eyes — those strange, shifting eyes that always betrayed his state of mind — were no longer glowing. The gold that usually burned around his pupils had receded, leaving only the deep, stormy blue of the man he used to be. It should’ve been comforting, a sign that he was calming down, grounding himself again. But the way his skin looked pale, almost drained, told her otherwise.

Her small smile faltered instantly. The lightness she’d been trying to hold onto slipped from her face, replaced by a thin line of worry. “Yelena… for how long have you been here?” he asked quietly. His voice didn’t carry that usual sharpness; it was softer, hollowed out.

She frowned, confused for a second. “I just got in,” she said gently, tilting her head. “You were taking a while, so I thought—” But he wasn’t listening. His eyes were somewhere else, like he’d drifted out of his own body. It unnerved her. His hearing—his awareness—was usually impossible to slip past as the Sentry, yet he hadn’t noticed her enter or even approach. That alone made her uneasy, wondering if he was going back to Bob, wondering if the Void would be what follows close  behind.

She glanced toward the counter where the old man still stood, watching the two of them with cautious curiosity. The familiarity in his eyes told her he knew Bob well — maybe from long before he became Sentry. She opened her mouth to greet him, maybe thank him, maybe just try to understand who this man was to him—

But before she could say a word, Bob sighed, part conflicted, part relieved, and took her hand. His grip was firm, almost grounding, but she could feel the tremor beneath his skin. “Let’s just… go.” She blinked, startled by the sudden pull, but followed without resistance, glancing back only once to give the shopkeeper a small, polite nod of gratitude. The man smiled faintly, a quiet farewell, and Yelena caught the glimmer of something wistful in his eyes and a smile at their hands before the door shut behind them.

The evening air hit colder now, the sun low enough to stain the street in amber and shadow. Bob didn’t speak as they walked back to the car, his hand still loosely holding hers — not out of affection, but like he needed the anchor. When they got in, he handed her a small paper bag without looking. Inside, she found a bottle of water, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and a rice bar. Simple, but thoughtful. She glanced up at him again. His posture had sagged against the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other slack at his side. His jaw worked like he was trying to keep something buried, but his eyes — blank, distant — betrayed him, he looked like 3 days worth of exhaustion had finally catch up to him.

“Bob…” she said softly, placing the bag aside. “Are you okay? You look—” She hesitated, unsure if he’d even let her finish. “Do you want me to drive?”

He shook his head faintly, his gaze unfocused, lost somewhere in the dying light. “No.” The word was almost too quiet to hear. He inhaled deeply, his hand pressing against the steering wheel, knuckles tightening just enough to turn them white. For a long moment, he didn’t move. The car remained still, engine off, and Yelena could almost hear the weight of whatever was going through his mind. The silence pressed heavy in the small space between them — not hostile, but unbearably fragile. Finally, with a low exhale, he turned the key. The engine rumbled to life.

“I have…” he started, his voice caught between hesitation and resolve. “I have to go to one last place.”

Yelena looked at him, concern deepening. “Another one?” she asked quietly, but there was no anger in her tone — only worry.

He nodded once, eyes fixed ahead, as the car began to roll forward under the orange wash of twilight dimming darker. “Then we can go back.”

Yelena’s gaze lingered on the faint reflection of his face in the car window — the tension in his jaw, the stillness of his expression — and her mind wouldn’t stop circling the same uneasy thought. Was he going to see them to get revenge? The possibility made her chest tighten.

She remembered how furious he’d been earlier, how that restrained, controlled façade had cracked for just a moment, showing the raw power simmering underneath. If it had been his father standing before him in that house, she wasn’t sure the man would still be alive. Bob had always seemed like he carried the world’s weight in his chest, and sometimes it scared her how easily he could lift it, how small everything else became when his anger surfaced.

Yelena didn’t believe in preaching forgiveness — not anymore. Not after everything she’d been through. The very idea of letting go of certain things almost felt insulting. If someone told her to forgive Thanos, the being responsible for her sister’s death, she’d laugh in their face. If someone dared to suggest she should forgive Dreykov — the monster who tore away her childhood, her choices, her self — she’d consider it mockery. Some people didn’t deserve absolution. Some wounds didn’t heal without a price.

But Bob… Bob wasn’t like her.  The difference was, she could have killed her monsters and still been human afterward. Bob, on the other hand, wasn’t just a man. He was power incarnate — something too vast and terrible to fit inside flesh and bone. He could unmake the world if he wanted to. The thought alone made her uneasy, because she knew what that kind of rage could do when it was given form, when it wasn’t restrained by guilt or conscience.

She watched him drive, silent and motionless. He wasn’t glowing anymore, but that didn’t make him safer. It made him unreadable. Yelena bit her lip and turned her eyes toward the window again, pretending to be absorbed by the blur of the landscape. She told herself not to interfere, not to pry, but the fear gnawed quietly at her: the fear of what he might do if he decided that vengeance to regain was all he had left.

Because she knew herself — knew how easily pain could turn into fury, how easy it was to mistake justice for destruction. And if she, a normal person, could fall into that darkness without hesitation… what chance did someone like him have to stay above it? That’s what frightened her most — not his power, not his anger, but the fragile, human restraint that held it all back. The fact that it could vanish in an instant.

And yet, even now, she couldn’t help feeling something like awe for him. Despite everything — the grief, the rage, the ghosts — he hadn’t let himself cross that line. Not yet. Not even when it would’ve been so easy. Yelena folded her arms, silently exhaling as the car rolled through the dimming light. He’s still holding on, she told herself. For now. But she couldn’t stop wondering what would happen when — not if — that hold finally slipped.

As they drove farther from the center of town, the streets grew quieter, the glow of shop signs fading until only the dim streetlights remained. The hum of the car filled the silence between them. Yelena leaned her head slightly toward the window, watching as houses became fewer, then scattered, until even those gave way to the pale stretch of fields and mist. The air outside seemed heavier here, untouched by the warmth of the city. When the wrought-iron gates came into view, she finally understood where he was taking them. The cemetery.

The realization hit her like a sudden chill spreading through her chest. That was why his presence—Sentry’s fierce, unbreakable energy—had quieted. There was no danger left to fight, no shadow to brace against. The threat was gone. The threat was already dead.

Bob slowed the car to a stop, his hands lingering on the steering wheel longer than necessary. The headlights cast long, cold beams against the gravestones, and Yelena felt her throat tighten. She turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the quiet around them demanded reverence.

“I’m sorry,” she said. It was the third or fourth time she’d said it today, maybe more, but it still came out the same—soft, genuine, useless. She didn’t ask whom he was here to see; she already knew it wasn’t a friend or comrade, it was family, it was confirmation he was probably the last member alive of his family.  He didn’t meet her eyes. His jaw flexed, a single nod acknowledging her words before he exhaled slowly, as if even breathing here required effort.

“Do you want to be alone?” she asked quietly. The question carried both caution and care, the kind she rarely allowed herself to show. She expected him to nod again, to push her away with that silent stoicism he used when emotions cut too deep. But instead, he just shook his head once, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the cool air without a word.

Yelena hesitated for a second, watching his silhouette framed by the faint light before following him out. The wind stirred the overgrown grass around the gravestones as she fell into step behind him, letting him lead the way—silent, steady, and unreadable as always.

Once they arrived, finding the graves didn’t take long. It dawned on Yelena that part of the reason Bob had lingered so long back at the store wasn’t small talk — the man there hadn’t just been catching up. He had been giving Bob directions. The quiet tone, the subtle nod, all of it had meant this. And by the way Bob walked now—steady, deliberate, as if retracing steps—she realized he had been told where to go.

The cemetery grew denser around them, the scent of damp earth and wilted flowers heavy in the air. Finally, he stopped before a small plot tucked behind a weathered oak. Two headstones lay side by side, simple and unadorned. The engravings were rough, as if carved by someone who wanted to finish quickly, to avoid lingering on loss. No dedications, no epitaphs or mentions of their child. Only names and dates:

Robert Reynolds
Anne-Marie Reynolds

Yelena felt her chest tighten. The dates told their own story—deaths that hadn’t occurred long after his disappearance. Likely during those years when Bob had been locked away in that facility in Malassya, cut open and remade into something inhuman. They had died while he was a ghost in a cage.

When his gaze settled on the stones, dull and distant, he exhaled shakily—a sigh that sounded like it had been trapped inside him for years. Yelena watched him closely, unsure of what to do. She could read the loss in his stance but not in his face. By what little she’d gathered through this trip, despite everything—despite the pain, the anger—there had been love there once. And losing that, no matter the history, had to carve deep.

“I had to make sure it was true,” he said finally, his voice rough and quiet, like the words were pulled from somewhere far beneath the surface. “To make sure they were really gone.” Yelena didn’t interrupt. She only stood beside him, letting the cold wind fill the silence he left behind. “The man at the store… he used to let me hang around when I was a kid,” Bob went on, his eyes fixed on the names. “When I asked him about them, he told me they were here.”

Her fingers twitched slightly, torn between wanting to reach out and knowing he might not want that kind of closeness. Sentry’s overwhelming aura was gone, but the distance—the emotional armor—remained somehow. “Do you know what happened?” she asked softly. He didn’t answer right away. The pause stretched long, heavy as the air around them. 

“Murder.” The word fell from his lips like a drop of ink in water—quiet, dark, and spreading fast through the air between them. Yelena’s gaze lowered immediately, her expression softening into something cautious and heavy. If murder was involved, and if he sounded this cryptic about it, she doubted it had been clean or coming from a third party. A part of her feared they had just been victims of each other, of their co-dependent abusive relationship. “Don’t worry, Yelena. It’s fine.”

The way he said it made her chest tighten. She’d heard that tone before—back in the attic, when they were in the Void and he’d told her the same lie right before falling apart in front of her. It wasn’t reassurance; it was surrender dressed as calm. And she found herself wondering if she was about to see that same collapse again.

He crouched down slightly, brushing the cold stone with his fingertips. “I never bothered to contact them,” he murmured, almost to himself. “While I was gone in Malaysia, before the experiments... I didn’t even try.” His voice caught, roughened by something that wasn’t quite grief and wasn’t quite guilt—more like a mix of both, buried too deep to name. “It was naive of me to expect them to still be here, if they hadn't been dead they would have been gone somehow.”

Yelena said nothing. There was nothing to say—not to that kind of pain, not to the raw edge of guilt and anger tangled so tightly they could barely breathe on their own. And Bob… he wasn’t finished. She could tell by the way his jaw clenched, by the way his eyes darted anywhere but toward her. So she let him speak—let him spill everything out into the cold night air, because maybe this was the only way he’d ever find closure. The dead couldn’t hear him anymore, but maybe saying it aloud to her was enough.

“I always imagined they’d end like this,” he said finally, voice hollow, but trembling at the edges. “I always imagined he’d lose his grip and kill her… or that she’d snap first and do the something to him. And that whoever survived wouldn’t last long after.”

His tone was steady at first—clinical, detached—but then it cracked. “I never really… placed myself in that picture. I don’t know if it’s because I never wanted to go back or because I knew I didn’t belong there. Even in that kind of story, I didn’t fit. Like I didn’t deserve to be noticed by either of them—not even as another casualty.” He tilted his head back, eyes searching the gray sky as though it might offer him absolution. The wind cut through the trees, rustling leaves that sounded like whispers in the dark.

“They were horrible people,” he continued. “They brought out the worst in each other, and when there was nothing left to destroy, they’d come for me—circle around me like vultures after they’d torn each other apart.” He huffed a bitter, humorless laugh. “I should be glad they’re gone. I should be happy.”

His fists clenched tight at his sides, knuckles whitening, veins standing out in the dim light. Then his voice rose, raw and fractured.

“Then why? Why do I feel so angry—so damn empty about this?!” His breath hitched. The lamps around the cemetery flickered wildly, shadows jerking and twisting with the pulse of his fury. The air seemed to vibrate, like even the world held its breath.

“How could I keep expecting something—anything—from people who only ever let me down?!” His words echoed off the stones, sharp and cracking under their own weight. “I can’t even show them what I’ve become. I can’t even enjoy that I’m finally the best version of myself even if to show them wrong, because of course—of course—their final act had to be destroying each other! Even in death, they found a way to make it about them. To make sure I’d never get the chance to prove them I was worth something!”

Somewhere between the controlled rage and the storm of justified anger, the cracks began to show. His voice faltered, the sharp edges of fury softening into something rawer—something broken. He didn’t even seem to notice when his eyes began to glisten, when a tear slipped down his cheek and disappeared beneath the tremor in his jaw. Then, as if his body needed an outlet his words couldn’t give, he turned and drove his fist into the old oak behind them.

The sound was deafening—a sharp crack, followed by the low groan of splintering wood. The tree shuddered, cracked, and leaned, surrendering to his strength and pain alike. And when it finally fell, so did he—not physically, but inwardly. The dam he’d held together for years gave way. His breath hitched, and a choked, trembling sob escaped him—then another, and another—each one heavier, unrestrained, as though years of silence were clawing their way out of him all at once.

Yelena didn’t think. She didn’t need to. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, pulled by something deeper than instinct. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her cheek against his back, feeling the tremors in his chest and the uneven rhythm of his breathing. Her embrace was firm, grounding, and unspokenly gentle—like she was tethering him to something solid while the world tilted beneath him.

He froze for a second, his body tense and shaking, then exhaled shakily as if her touch gave him permission to fall apart.

“H-How… how could they do this to me?” he whispered, voice breaking in a way that carved through her.

Yelena’s heart clenched, and the weight of his pain made her cry for him. She knew he wasn’t talking about their deaths. He meant everything—the years of abuse and neglect, the manipulation that had hollowed him out long before the Sentry project ever touched him. He meant the gaslighting, the constant shame that had shaped his insecurities, the addictions that had numbed his pain, and the experiments that had turned that broken man into a weapon.

She didn’t have an answer—because there wasn’t one. Her own upbringing, no matter how artificial or engineered, had never been cruel in that way. Even the Red Room hadn’t taught that kind of betrayal. And though she could never have children of her own, she couldn’t imagine ever doing to them what had been done to him. Some wounds had no explanation. Some evils couldn’t have one.

So instead of trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed, she simply stayed.

She held him tighter, her arms firm around his waist, feeling every ragged breath against her chest. Her silence spoke the only truth that mattered—that he wasn’t alone, not now, not anymore. Gradually, she felt the tension in his body shift. He turned slightly, his own hands finding hers, gripping them as if to anchor himself in her presence. The sobs came slower then, quieter, as if the storm was passing and he leaned his forehead to hers, eyes closed, breath evening slowly.

And when it did, what remained wasn’t just grief—it was release. Years of pain uncoiled from where Bob had locked them away. For the first time since this trip began, he wasn’t carrying it alone.