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Chapter Text

You had always known how to survive in the shadows.

It was how you'd outlasted the war, outlasted S.H.I.E.L.D.'s imposition, outlasted the long decades where your name slipped between the cracks of official records. Not a soldier anyone saluted. Not an agent on any payroll. You were the woman who never stood in the center of the briefing room table but who, in the end, knew every detail that held the mission together.

And in a world now reeling from alien invasions, collapsing governments, and the ghosts of Hydra, there was no shortage of cracks to live in.

-------

By the time the Avengers had become a team -- however loosely defined -- you had quietly slotted yourself into the framework, not as a face in the photographs or a name on the Tower's walls but as something else entirely: connective tissue.

Tony Stark could joke, Thor could summon storms, Natasha could dismantle a room of armed men in thirty seconds. But when the chaos cleared, who was left to patch the damage? Who chased down the anomalies that weren't flashy enough to earn attention, but dangerous enough to fester if ignored?

You. Always you.

-------

Your desk wasn't in the Avengers Tower, though you could walk into it without raising an eyebrow. You preferred your small, low-lit workspace three floors below ground level, near the servers that hummed like restless bees. Banks of screens lined the walls, displaying overlapping grids of data: known Hydra remnants, weapon traffickers, chatter about alien artifacts. Half the feeds were yours, backdoors you'd planted months ago, algorithm webs you'd designed yourself -- equal parts intuition and hard coding, bridging the gap between the past and the future.

The world thought of intelligence as glossy: satellites, drones, endless files at the fingertips. But you knew better. The art of intel was in listening. In feeling for the fracture lines no one else heard.

And the fractures were everywhere.

-------

"____," Stark had once muttered after catching you perched in a corner of the Tower's common room, laptop balanced on your knees, three encrypted feeds open at once. "You're like our... what? Librarian? Ghost-wrangler?"

"Someone has to keep the house from burning down while you play god," you had replied dryly, not looking up from your screen.

The nickname stuck for a while -- Ghost -- but eventually even Stark grew out of it, realizing it didn't cover the depth of what you did. Natasha knew. Banner knew. Clint certainly knew. And Steve -- well, Steve trusted you without question, which carried more weight than any nameplate or title could.

-------

The days blurred into each other now. The Tower buzzed with activity: Stark's endless tinkering, Banner's cautious experiments, Thor coming and going on cosmic winds, Natasha vanishing on missions no one else tracked. And always, you there -- not in the center, but not absent either.

You were the one who handled the reports no one wanted to sift through. The stolen Stark tech traced to black market arms dealers. The whispered sightings of Chitauri remnants. The patterns that linked old Hydra safehouses to present-day anomalies. You didn't sleep much, didn't need to; you'd lived through too many wars to let yourself believe peace lasted longer than a single night's rest.

On one wall of your office, you'd tacked up photographs -- grainy surveillance stills, topographical maps, coded strings scrawled by hand. But tucked among them was one photograph that didn't belong: a black-and-white shot of Steve and Bucky, arms slung around each other's shoulders in a wrecked street, you in the background with your hair tied back and dirt on your cheek. A relic of another war, another lifetime.

Sometimes, when the servers' hum grew too loud, you'd look at it and remind yourself: you've done this before. You can do it again.

-------

The world outside had started calling the Avengers Earth's Mightiest Heroes. You thought of them differently. You thought of them as... necessary, yes. Brilliant, yes. But flawed. Stretched thin. And increasingly fragile under the weight of their own notoriety.

That was where you lived -- in the quiet. Picking up their loose ends. Cleaning behind them. Watching for what no one else was watching.

When the team returned from missions, you were the one with the clean-up crews, the damage reports, the rerouted medical transports. When a fight blew through a city, it wasn't Thor who handled the displaced civilians' paperwork or Banner who traced the stolen materials Hydra agents had smuggled out while attention was elsewhere. It was you.

You didn't mind, not really. It was the role you'd always played. You were never the star on the battlefield. You were the one who made sure the battlefield didn't collapse beneath them.

-------

It was late one evening when Steve came to find you.

He leaned in the doorway of your subterranean office, uniform jacket still slung over one shoulder, his hair damp from a shower. Ther servers' glow washed his features in shifting blue.

"You've been down here all day," he said.

You didn't glance up from your screen. "So have you, upstairs."

He gave that small, crooked smile -- the one that looked like it belonged to the skinny kid from Brooklyn, not Captain America. "Difference is, you're not supposed to the only one holding us together."

"Funny," you said, your fingers still flying across the keyboard. "I thought I was the only one who remembered that's how it always worked."

Your eyes met his then, his steady and yours shadowed. For a moment, neither of you spoke. There was too much history between the two of you, too many battles where you'd stitched wounds closed while he rallied the charge.

Finally Steve said softly, "You're not invisible, you know."

You looked away, the corner of your mouth twitching. "I've made a career of being invisible."

And he let it drop, because you both knew the truth: invisibility was your armor.

-------

When Stark's experiments hummed louder, when whispers of new threats curled at the edges of your reports, you felt the stirrings of something darker.

Patterns. Always patterns.

Hydra had taught you that the smallest pattern could unravel the entire world.

And lately, the cracks were spreading.

Chapter Text

The world saw Steve Rogers as a figure of certainty.
A leader.
A soldier out of time but never out of stpe.

You knew better.

-------

You both had been circling each other since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., falling into a rhythm no one else seemed to notice. Where others sparred with Steve -- Stark's biting remarks, Natasha's deliberate prodding -- your role was quieter, less dramatic. You weren't the one to question his calls in front of the room. You weren't the one to draw out a philosophical debate on morality in the middle of a mission.

You were the shadow that steadied him when no one else could see.

And Steve leaned on you, whether he admitted it or not.

-------

It showed in small ways.

In the ways his eyes searched the room after a briefing, finding you in the back, as though confirming you'd caught what he missed.

In the late hours, when the Tower's floors were quiet and most of the team had gone their separate ways, he'd sometimes drift down into the lower levels where you kept your makeshift office. He never said much at first -- just sat, watched the glow of your screens, and let the silence fill the space between the two of you.

And sometimes -- rarely, but enough -- he asked.

"What do you think, ________?"

Not Captain America seeking tactical support, but Steve Rogers seeking the one voice that always seemed to cut through the noise.

-------

It had been like this after Hydra's remnants, after the clean-up in the Balkans, after the constant string of shadow-wars no one else wanted to name.

Tonight was no different.

You were in the Tower's training wing when he found you, still in your dark field gear, hair tied back. You had commandeered one of the mats for yourself, going through drills that were methodical than aggressive -- movements designed to keep you sharp, not to show off.

Steve leaned against the doorway, shield resting against his leg.

"Thought you'd be upstairs," he said.

"Too loud," you replied, finishing a sequence and straightening, breath even. You wiped your forearm across your cheek and looked at him. "Too many egos in one room. You know how I feel about noise."

That small, crooked smile flickered. "Yeah. I know."

He stepped onto the mat, movements easy, deliberate. For a moment, he seemed less like a super soldier and more like the man you remembered from Brooklyn -- steady, unassuming, carrying more weight inside than he let the world see.

"You want a partner?"

You arched a brow. "You mean spar, or are you just looking for an excuse not to sit in another debrief?"

"Maybe both."

-------

You both circled each other on the mat, you sharp but controlled, Steve gentler than he ever was with the others. He never treated you as fragile -- you'd made sure of that -- but there was a different rhythm between the two of you, one built less on proving skill and more on ground yourselves in movement.

You moved first, testing his defense. He blocked easily, his larger frame absorbing the momentum, but you slipped free and reset.

"You've been quiet lately," Steve said, tone casual but edged with that seriousness he never fully put away.

"Quiet is my specialty," you answered, feinting left and pivoting right.

"That's not what I mean."

Your eyes narrowed slightly, though your stance never broke. "You mean about the team."

"Yeah."

For a few beats, the sound of your movements filled the air: the shuffle of feet on the mat, the muted slap of palm against arm as you blocked his advance. Finally you exhaled, the faintest shadow of a sigh.

"They're... volatile. They each think they're carrying the team. Some of them are. But leadership isn't about who shouts the loudest or who builds the shiniest toys."

Steve stilled, watching you. You met his gaze squarely.

"You're the leader, Steve. Not because of the shield. Not because of the title. Because you're the one who remembers the fight isn't about us -- it's about everyone else. And the others -- they trust you more than they'll admit."

Something softened in his expression then. A quiet gratitude.

"You always make it sound simple."

"It is simple," you replied, stepping back, lowering your guard. "You just overcomplicate it because you think you have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Again."

That pulled a faint laugh out of him, low and surprised. "Maybe I do."

"And maybe you don't."

-------

You both broke for water after a few more rounds, sitting side by side on the edge of the mat, the Tower's city-lit windows stretching out behind the two of you.

Steve leaned forward, forearms on his knees. His dog tags glinted faintly at his throat.

"You ever think about walking away?" he asked.

You turned your head, studying him. The question was quiet, almost fragile, and you wondered how often he let himself say it aloud.

"All the time," you said honestly. "But then I think about what would happen if I did."

"And?"

"And the world doesn't stop burning just because I'm tired of putting out fires."

He nodded slowly, jaw tight. "Yeah. That's what I figured."

Your gaze softened. You reached out, your fingers brushing his wrist, grounding him in that small, simple touch.

"You don't have to do it alone, Steve. You never did. Not then, not now."

For a moment, he stilled, eyes locking on yours, and the air between the two of you shifted -- warmer, heavier, filled with something unspoken that neither of you dared name.

Then Steve's voice dropped, almost a whisper. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Your chest tightened. You drew your hand back slowly, masking the ache behind a faint smile.

"Lucky for you, you don't have to find out."

-------

You both stayed there a long time, in silence, watching the city lights pulse and fade.

And though no one else in the Tower would ever see it, this was the truth: Captain America might have been the face of the Avengers, but Steve Rogers leaned on you like a shadow he couldn't afford to lose. 

Chapter Text

The problem with saving the world, you thought, was that the world never actually stayed saved.

Every fire you put out revealed embers smoldering somewhere else. Every Hydra head cut off seemed to sprout two more, rebranded, hidden behind different acronyms and flags. Even with S.H.I.E.L.D. gone, Hydra's shadow lingered. And in its place came something larger, something no less volatile: the Avengers.

You'd never wanted to be an Avenger. Never wanted your name on a roster, your face on screens, your existence a point of debate for governments. But you had stayed, circling the team in the shadows -- pulling intel, patching wounds, moving quietly through the gaps no one else thought to check.

And lately, for the first time in decades, you were starting to wonder if it mattered.

-------

You stood at the Tower's wide glass windows one night, arms folded tight across your chest. New York stretched beneath you in lights and motion, restless and loud. Somewhere down there, the city went on as though it hadn't been turned into a battlefield more than once in just a few short years.

Your reflection stared back at you in the glass: sharp, tired eyes, hair pulled back in a loose knot, shadows etched deeper into your face than you remembered.

How many times had you stood like this? In London during the Blitz. In Berlin after the war. In Washington when Hydra tore its claws out of S.H.I.E.L.D. Always watching cities smolder, listening to people vow that things would be rebuilt, that this time it would hold.

But the pattern never changed.

"You look like you're trying to scare the skyline into behaving," Natasha's voice cut softly through your thoughts.

You didn't turn right away. "Not sure it would listen."

Natasha came to stand beside you, silent for a moment as you both watched headlights snake along the avenues far below.

"You're restless."

"That obvious?"

"Only to someone who knows what restless feels like."

Your lips twitched faintly. "Fair."

You didn't say the rest out loud -- that it wasn't just restlessness. It was the gnawing sense that you were rearranging rubble, not rebuilding foundations. Hydra. Rumors of ... artificial intelligence. Alien threats that still lingered in whispered reports. You all fought battles, yes. You all won them. But for how long?

You felt it most when you slipped into the cleanup ops -- the part no one else wanted. Not the fighting. The aftermath. Picking through wreckage, tracking displaced families, sitting with the data no one wanted to see.

That was where the fractures showed. Not on the battlefield, but in the lives that never went back to normal.

-------

One night you were waist-deep in reports -- displacement figures, black-market weapon trafficking, Hydra cells still bleeding poison into unstable regions -- when Steve appeared in your doorway.

"You've been at it all night," he said.

You didn't look up from the tablet. "So have you."

"Difference is, I was in the gym. You're staring at numbers until your eyes bleed."

"They're not just numbers." You dropped the tablet onto the desk, the glow vanishing as it locked. "They're people. People who'll be living with the aftermath long after we've gone."

Steve hesitated in the doorway, studying you with that steady gaze of his. "You think we're not doing enough."

You finally looked at him. "Tell me we are."

Silence stretched between the two of you.

Steve stepped inside, leaned against the edge of the desk. "I know it feels like we're running in circles. But we're buying people time. We're keeping the worst from winning."

"Until the next worse comes along."

The words came out sharper than you intended, edged with the bitterness you usually kept buried. But you couldn't stop once you started.

"Steve, look at the pattern. Hydra. The Chitauri. Every time we pull the world back from the edge, it finds another one to dangle over. You tell me we're saving people, but what if all we're really doing is delaying the inevitable?"

His jaw tightened. Not in anger, but in the way it always did when he wanted to argue but couldn't quite find the words.

"________..." His voice softened. "If I didn't believe it mattered, I wouldn't be here."

"And if I didn't believe in you, I wouldn't be here either," you admitted, your throat tight. "But belief doesn't stop the cracks from spreading."

-------

You didn't fight with him after that. Not really. But the tension hung in the air, a quiet fracture that neither of you knew how to mend.

You tried to shake it, bury yourself deeper in work. You went where the others didn't -- quietly investigating Hydra tech remnants in Eastern Europe, slipping into war rooms no one else had access to, intercepting whispers of something stirring in the shadows.

But each discovery only deepened the pit in your chest.

The threats were bigger now. Less human. Less tangible. And if you were all fighting gods and machines and shadows that reached across the stars -- what hope did it leave for the rest of them?

-------

One evening at the Tower, you ended up on the balcony with Steve. He'd been arguing with Tony again -- you had heard the voices carry down the hall, sharp, clashing philosophies like steel on steel. When he emerged, his jaw was tight, his eyes stormy.

He found you leaning on the railing, city wind tugging your hair loose.

"Rough night?" you asked.

"That obvious?"

"Only to someone who knows what restless feels like," you echoed Natasha's earlier words.

That earned the faintest flicker of a smile. But it didn't last.

"Tony thinks we need bigger guns. Suits of armor around the world."

"And you don't."

"I don't think we win by treating the whole world like an enemy waiting to happen."

You studied him for a long moment, then said quietly, "Maybe the problem is the world doesn't know how to stop acting like one."

His eyes lifted to yours. Searching. Unsettled.

And though you didn't say it out loud, what echoed in your mind was this: How long can we keep fighting if the world won't stop burning?

-------

That night, you lay awake in your narrow Tower room, staring at the ceiling.

The shadows of old wars lingered in your bones. You remembered nights in the 1940s, listening to bombs shake the earth, telling yourself that the world would be better when it ended. That you were all fighting to stop it from happening again.

But it had happened again. And again.

The faces changed. The flags changed. But the smoke always smelled the same.

And as much as you tried to bury it, a question gnawed at you:

What if this was all you'd ever do? Rearrange the rubble while the fire waited to catch again.

You had lived through war before. You had survived its aftermath. You knew how to fight. But for the first time in decades, you wondered if survival was enough.

And that doubt, quiet and heavy, would not let you go.

Chapter Text

The room hummed with static, a low thrum of machinery and voices that would've driven anyone else mad. To you, it was the sound of control.

You sat at the Tower's ops console, fingers gliding over holographic screens, comms in your ear tuned to six channels at once. Each pulse of green or red represented someone out in the field -- an Avenger in motion, Hydra's defenses falling like dominos, the lines of battle shifting second by second.

"On approach," Steve's voice came steady over the comms. "Two minutes to contact."

"Copy that," you replied. Your tone was sharp, precise, but you couldn't help the faintest tug at the corner of your mouth. Steve had always sounded like this before a fight -- measured, collected, as though the chaos ahead bent to his rhythm. 

Still, it wasn't 1943 anymore. The enemies wore different colors, the weapons pulsed with different lights. And you weren't out there beside him this time.

Instead, you were in the chair, the hub. The one weaving intel and maps into something the others could lean on.

-------

Hydra had dug deep in Sokovia.

Through satellite feeds and intercepted comm chatter, you could see their fortress carved into the hillside: stark concrete walls, artillery positioned at every vantage, bunkers stacked like ribs along the cliff.

And inside -- though the intel was fragmented -- there were whispers of experimentation. People. Enhanced.

That was what made your stomach turned as you scanned the schematics. Hydra had always been obsessed with twisting lives into weapons.

And now your job was to keep the Avengers alive long enough to stop it.

-------

"Tony, you're about to get lit up on the south ridge," you said into the comm, watching the red bloom of heat signatures racing toward his HUD feed.

"I see 'em, Shadow," Stark's voice crackled, almost smug. "Relax. I've got bigger guns."

On-screen, his repulsors flared, scattering Hydra's patrol in streaks of fire.

"Bigger guns won't help if they flank you. Vector four-six, twenty meters."

A pause. Then a muffled, "Oh. Huh. Thanks."

You rolled your eyes, but a small satisfaction flickered through your chest.

-------

Clint's voice cut in, calm under fire. "Shadow, I need eyes. Got too many bogies to count on my six."

"Copy. Rooftop, three o'clock high." Your fingers flicked through feeds until you found his position, arrows loosed sharp and quick. "Clear to move in three... two... one -- now."

An arrow whistled, and you caught his low chuckle through the channel.

"Still got it."

"Never doubted you," you muttered, marking the next threat before it could touch him.

-------

And then Steve. Always Steve.

You tracked his movement through the courtyard, shield flashing as it ricocheted between Hydra agents. He moved like he had in the old days -- fluid, relentless, the rhythm of a soldier who made the battlefield his canvas.

"Left corridor is clear for thirty meters," you said.

"Copy." His voice was low, clipped. But you knew him well enough to hear the weight behind it. He trusted your word implicitly.

-------

The battle escalated in waves. Hydra's defenses lit up like fireworks, heavy artillery spitting fire across the hillside. Natasha's voice came cool and dry as she dropped another squad. Thor's baritone thundered through the channel, punctuated by lightning's crack.

You worked your console like an extension of yourself, weaving their chaos into cohesion. You didn't fight with fists or blades -- not tonight. You fought with sight. 

Every heat signature flagged, every feed adjusted, every warning called out a split second before it hit. 

It wasn't the same as holding a rifle, as standing shoulder to shoulder in mud and blood. But it was something.

And it was yours.

-------

The first real jolt came ten minutes in.

"Shadow," Natasha's voice cut sharp. "we've got movement inside. Not Hydra. Something else."

Your fingers danced, pulling thermal scans from the inner chambers.

Your blood ran cold. Two figures. Humanoid. But their signatures spiked irregularly -- energy surging in waves that weren't natural.

Enhanced.

"Steve," you said, your voice tighter now. "You've got company. East wing. They're not Hydra."

A pause.

Then Steve's voice, quieter, heavier. "... Noted."

-------

You could hear it in the background feed -- metal shattering, voices strained. The newcomers moved with speed that blurred the screens. One streaked like lightning, impossible to track. The other's energy burned hot, chaotic, leaving a trail of debris in her wake.

Your pulse hammered. Hydra had done it again. Twisted more lives.

And Steve was walking into it.

"Talk to me," you said into the comm, your voice sharper than before.

"Fast one's mine," Clint muttered through gritted teeth. "Could use a little help, Shadow."

"Copy. Sending Stark your way."

"Aw, c'mon, I was having fun," Tony quipped, but his repulsor trail was already veering toward Barton's coordinates.

Your hands shook once on the console. Just once. Then steadied.

Because Steve's feed had gone momentarily silent.

-------

When his voice came back, it was ragged, out of breath. "Not Hydra. Experiments. They're kids."

You froze. Your throat closed. Kids.

Hydra hadn't changed. Decades had passed, names had shifted, but Hydra was Hydra. Always twisting innocence into weapons.

And for one heartbeat, you were back in the 1940s. Back in dim labs where men screamed in languages you couldn't translate, back in the weight of knowing you hadn't been able to save them all.

Your voice was quiet when you finally answered. "Then we don't kill them. We stop Hydra. Whatever it takes."

Steve's silence was agreement enough.

-------

The battle stretched on.

Explosions rattled your console, feeds scrambled, comms cut in and out. Your eyes burned from the screens, your throat raw from constant commands. Hydra's defenses were crumbling, but the enhanced twins shifted the game, weaving chaos into the fight.

And still, you anchored them.

Even when doubt gnawed at you, even when Hydra's ghosts pressed claws into your chest, you held steady. Because that was your role. The one you'd carved for yourself in the wreckage of S.H.I.E.L.D.

The Shadow. The one who kept them alive.

-------

By the time the Avengers breached the final stronghold, Hydra was in retreat.

The feeds flickered with debris, smoke, and exhausted voices.

You leaned back in your chair, your shoulders aching, your pulse still too high. Around you, the ops room was silent. Empty, save for you.

But your comm still hummed, tethering you to them. To him.

Steve's voice came through, low and steady: "Good work tonight, Shadow."

You let your eyes close for half a second, the sound of him grounding you in a way nothing else could.

Then you opened them again, pulled the next feed into focus.

Because this was only the beginning.

And if Hydra had children in their arsenal now, then the cracks in the foundation were spreading faster than even you feared.

Chapter Text

The quinjet hummed with an exhausted silence.

It wasn't the silence of victory -- not really. Hydra's base in Sokovia was rubble, their weapons confiscated, their forced scattered. On paper, the mission was a success. But the air was thick with a weight none of you could shake.

You sat against the jet's wall, headset hanging loosely around your neck, your eyes unfocused on the glowing console screen in front of you. You'd pulled off your gloves, fingers flexing as if still typing commands, still reaching for feeds that no longer streamed.

The silence pressed. It filled every corner of the cabin, broken only by Clint's low exhale as he set his bow down and Natasha's deliberate motions of wiping blood off her blades.

Steve sat across from you, shield resting beside his boot. He leaned forward with his forearms on his knees, face shadowed, his jaw tight.

His eyes flicked to you once. A silent acknowledgment. Then away again.

It wasn't until Tony cleared his throat that anyone spoke.

"Well," he said, his voice brittle. "that couldn't have gone smoother, huh?"

No one rose to meet his sarcasm. Not even Natasha.

Tony's fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh before he leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, maybe I'm the only one freaked out here, but --" His eyes flicked to you. "Did you see them? The twins? The fast one and his -- what, sorceress, sister?"

"Witch," Natasha murmured, not looking up.

"Yeah. Witch. Scarlet witch with a bad attitude." Tony's voice rose sharper than he meant. "She-- she got inside my head. No, not inside. She peeled it open like a can of beans and just -- dumped something in. I saw --" He stopped himself, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

Your gaze sharpened.

"What did you see?" you asked quietly.

Tony gave you a look that was almost a plea, almost a defiance. "Doesn't matter."

"Stark," Steve said, voice firm, "if it matters to the team, it matters."

Tony laughed once, short and bitter. "Yeah, see, that's the thing. If I say it out loud, it becomes real, and I'd prefer not to spiral in front of the class. So let's just say: creepy magic girl messed with my brain, and I didn't like the ending."

The silence returned, heavier now.

You studied him. Stark hid behind bravado, always had. But there was a tension in his shoulders that told you whatever he'd seen had cut deep.

You filed it away. Not now. But later -- later you'd need to know.

Steve's voice pulled you back. "She hit me too."

You turned sharply toward him.

Steve's expression was guarded, but his hand flexed once against his thigh. "Not the same way. Not visions. Just... raw force. Red energy. It felt--" He paused, searching for words. "It didn't feel like anything I've fought before. Not tech. Not physics. Something else."

You leaned in, elbows resting on your knees. "Describe it."

Steve exhaled slowly. "Like it was inside me. Not just hitting me. Like it was pulling at everything I was, trying to twist it loose."

Your stomach turned. Hydra had always pushed at the edges of science, but this -- this sounded like something beyond. Something born from desperation and recklessness, the kind that left scars across the world.

"Did it work?" Natasha asked flatly, her eyes cutting to Steve.

"No," Steve said. His voice was steady, but you caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes. "Not this time."

Your hand brushed against the edge of your console, grounding yourself. Hydra hadn't just built weapons in Sokovia. They'd birthed something they didn't understand.

And the Avengers had walked straight into it.

-------

When the quinjet touched down at the Tower, you were the first off. You slipped past the bustle of the landing bay, your boots carrying you into the quiet hum of the ops center. Screens flickered awake at your touch, streams of code spilling across the displays.

You replayed Sokovia in data: Hydra's communications, their security encryptions, the fragments of code you'd ripped from their servers mid-mission.

At first glance, it was standard Hydra fare -- messy, brutal, but effective. The kind of code written by hands that valued efficiency over elegance.

But the deeper you dug, the more you saw it.

Faint echoes. Repeated patterns buried deep in the algorithms. Not recent-Hydra-born. Older.

You froze, your breath catching.

You knew these signatures. You'd seen them before, etched into Hydra's archives decades ago. Patterns so distinct, so strange, that they could only have belonged to one man.

Zola.

Your hands clenched into fists. Zola was dead -- had been dead for decades before his ghost in the machine surfaced in Jersey. You, Natasha, and Steve had purged him from the system. Or at least, you'd thought you had.

But now... here it was again. His fingerprints, faint but undeniable, woven into Hydra's new experiments.

Your throat tightened. The past wasn't past. It was bleeding forward, seeing Hydra's work even now.

And whatever Hydra had unlocked in Sokovia -- the twins, the witch -- it had grown from the same poisoned roots.

-------

You didn't realize Steve had followed you until his voice cut through the hum.

"You've been staring at that code for an hour."

You jumped, then forced your shoulders to relax. "Didn't hear you come in."

He stepped closer, glancing at the screens. The blue glow carved lines of wear into his face -- lines only you seemed to notice.

"Hydra wasn't working alone," you said softly, eyes still fixed on the code. "These patterns... they're Zola's. His algorithms. Hydra's been building on them for years."

Steve's jaw tightened. "I thought we buried him in Jersey."

"We buried the body," you said. "But Hydra never needed the man. Just his mind. His work. They've been recycling his code like scripture."

Steve leaned against the console, his gaze fixed on the streams of data. "And now they've got kids caught up in it."

Your throat ached. "Hydra doesn't change, Steve. They just evolve. And we keep cleaning up the fallout."

For a long moment, the two of you stood in silence, watching the streams of Hydra's poison flicker across the screen.

Finally, Steve said quietly, "You think there's any end to it?"

Your chest tightened. You wanted to lie. To say yes. To tell him that one day Hydra would be gone, artificial intelligence or not, witch or no witch, that the fight would finally end.

But you couldn't. Not with Zola's ghost staring back at you in lines of code.

"I don't know," you whispered.

Steve's eyes found yours then, steady and searching. And for a moment, the exhaustion between the two of you softened into something else -- something you didn't dare name.

-------

When Steve left the ops center, you stayed behind.

The screens bathed you in pale light, lines of Hydra's past bleeding into your present.

Your reflection in the glass looked older than you felt. More tired. But your eyes still burned, sharp and unyielding.

Because if Zola's ghost was rising again, then this wasn't just Hydra's war.

It was yours.

Chapter Text

The Tower's med-bay wasn't loud, but it was far from peaceful. Machines hummed, lights buzzed overhead, and the faint antiseptic tang hung in the air like an unwelcome guest.

Clint Barton sat on the edge of a medical cot, his shirt discarded, while the robotic arms of Stark's medical system whirred to life. He muttered under his breath -- something about "prefer a needle and thread" as the scanner lit up his wounded side.

You leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the mechanical precision with a skeptical eye.

"Relax, Barton," Natasha said, seated nearby with one ankle crossed over her knee. "You'll get a new arm in the morning. Might even come with an upgrade."

Clint grimaced. "Yeah, because I always wanted to be half toaster."

You cracked the faintest smile but didn't move closer. "You'll heal," you said. "You always do."

He shot you a sideways glance, half gratitude, half suspicion at your calmness. "Spoken like someone who's never been stabbed in the spleen by a Hydra grunt."

You didn't answer, only raised an eyebrow, letting him put the pieces together.

Clint blinked once, then muttered, "Okay, fine. Spoken like someone who's survived worse."

The scanner beeped, a holographic display of torn muscle and tissue flickering in the air. Bruce Banner stood beside it, his expression studious. "You're lucky," he murmured, mostly to himself. "An inch lower and you'd have been in a very different state."

"Lucky," Clint scoffed. "Right. I'll add that to my list of near-death souvenirs."

You shifted your gaze from Clint to Bruce, noting the quiet precision in his movements as he adjusted the holographic controls. There was something about Banner -- reserved, cautious -- that resonated with you. A man who lived in the shadows of what he carried, and worked tirelessly to keep it from consuming the room.

"Banner," you said softly, "how bad?"

He glanced at you, then back at the readout. "He'll recover. With some downtime. Tissue regrowth isn't complicated, but... it takes time."

"Downtime," Clint repeated dryly. "Remind me what that is again?"

"You'll get a crash course," Natasha said, her tone making it clear she'd enforce it herself if necessary.

The med-bay door hissed open then, and Tony's voice filled the space before his body followed.

"Barton! Still in one piece? Congratulations. That's, what, your fourth close call this year? Really gunning for Employee of the Month."

Clint glared. "Keep talking, Stark. I've got one good arm left."

"Ah, and a bow, sure. Scary." Tony gave him a lazy salute, then breezed past the cot, his gaze already sliding to the readout Bruce was studying.

You watched him carefully. His words might have been light, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. Always scanning, always running three conversations under the one he spoke aloud.

It wasn't long before Barton was dismissed to rest, Natasha trailing behind him like a shadow with teeth. The med-bay quieted again, leaving only you, Tony, and Bruce.

That was when the energy shifted.

Tony's voice lowered, his levity slipping away. "So, the scepter."

Bruce's hands stilled over the hologram. He hesitated. "We should wait until--"

"We've waited long enough," Tony interrupted. "Strucker was sitting on it for years, Hydra was playing with it, and now it's sitting in our living room like a glowing mystery box. Don't tell me you're not curious."

You straightened, your attention sharpening. "The scepter?"

Tony turned toward you as if remembering you were there. "Yes, Rogers' girlfriend, the glowing alien weapon we've been hauling around since New York. The one that shoots energy beams and occasionally mind-controls people. Ringing any bells?"

Your expression didn't flicker. "I know what it is. I'm asking what you're doing with it."

Bruce stepped in quickly, his voice careful. "We're just... analyzing. Running scans. The energy signature is... unique."

"Unique," you repeated slowly.

Tony grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Think 'never-before-seen, potentially world-changing, and definitely too dangerous to leave in a vault.'"

Your gut tightened. You knew that tone. It was the same one you'd heard in the 1940s, in labs where men spoke of weapons as marvels instead of catastrophes.

"You think Hydra was using the scepter to create those twins," you said.

Bruce hesitated. "The energy... it reacts to organic tissue in ways I haven't seen before. Strucker's notes suggest--" He cut himself off, looking suddenly guilty. "Well. You saw what they were capable of."

Your mind flashed with red -- the girl, Wanda, her eyes burning -- the boy, Pietro, a blur of silver and speed. Hydra had been toying with gods' fire again, and the result had nearly torn your team apart.

"And you think you can control it?" you asked, your voice sharper now.

Tony lifted a brow. "Control, understand -- semantics. Point is, knowledge is power. And if Hydra could do it, we can do it better. Safer. Put it on the right side of the equation."

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. "Or unleash something worse."

For a moment, your eyes locked on Tony's -- his electric with defiance, yours stead with warning.

Then Bruce cleared his throat. "It's just analysis right now. Nothing more."

But you weren't convinced.

-------

Hours later, when you left the med-bay, you couldn't shake the unease coiled low in your stomach. You'd spent a lifetime learning how men like Stark thought -- the brilliance, the arrogance, the relentless drive to solve puzzles even if the pieces burned.

And Bruce -- gentler, yes, but just as brilliant, just as tempted by the edge of the unknown.

You didn't know what they saw when they looked into the scepter's glow. You only knew this: whatever they found there, it would stay contained for long.

-------

That night, you sat alone in your quarters, Steve's dog tags cold against your palm.

The Tower hummed with life around you -- scientists running tests, Barton cursing somewhere down the hall, Thor's booming voice carrying from the kitchen. But your thoughts kept circling back to the lab, to Tony's eyes lit by ambition, to the flickering blue core of the scepter. 

Hydra's shadows stretched long. You could still feel them in the code you'd dug from Sokovia. Zola's echoes. And now this -- Stark and Banner dancing too close to fire.

Your chest tightened.

The world kept birthing bigger threats, and the cracks in their foundations kept widening.

And you wondered -- not for the first time -- how long before even you and the others couldn't hold it together.

Chapter Text

The Tower looked different that night.

It wasn't the glass-and-steel monument Stark had designed for strategy, or the humming nerve-center you had grown used to navigating. Tonight, under low lights and the mellow murmur of jazz floating from Stark's absurdly expensive sound system, it felt almost... human. Warm.

Avengers Tower, for one brief evening, was a place of laughter and ease.

You lingered at the edge of the main room, the skyline of New York spread in glittering rivers beyond the window wall. You had traded your usual field attire for something Stark had coaxed you into with a sly grin -- silk, dark, and understated but elegant. The neckline dipped just enough to catch Steve's eye when he first walked in, though he looked away quickly, as if embarrassed he'd been caught.

You had noticed. You always did.

Now, with a glass of bourbon in hand and the music thrumming low, you leaned against the bar, watching the team scatter across the room. Thor's booming laugh shook the walls. Natasha and Barton traded dry quips from a couch. Tony held court, of course, gesturing wildly as he retold a battle with twice the flair it had actually possessed.

And Steve Rogers...

You found him by the window, posture neat in a suit Stark had bullied him into. The cut of it was perfect, accentuating shoulders that carried both war and world, and though his tie hung slightly askew, it only made him more unbearably himself.

He turned then, as if sensing your gaze. Your eyes met his across the room, and something passed through your chest like a current.

You made your way over to him, not missing the way his eyes traveled down the length of your dress and back up to your face, a faint flush on his usually stoic face. You couldn't stop yourself from doing the same, taking in his frame in the somehow tailored suit jacket.

"Not bad," you murmured when you joined him, tilting your glass toward his attire.

His mouth twitched -- half a smile, half exasperation. "You think Stark's attempts at fashion are worth complimenting?"

"I think you clean up well, Rogers. And I think you know it."

That earned a real smile, small but soft. "You don't look so bad yourself."

You raised an eyebrow. "Not bad?"

He flushed slightly, eyes darting away toward the skyline. "You look... good." A beat. "Really good."

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it. "Careful, Captain. That almost sounded like flirting."

His gaze flicked back to you, steady now, and the corner of his mouth curved. "Maybe it was."

Your pulse quickened.

The night unfurled with ease. Conversations overlapped, stories stretched long, and glasses clinked together in lazy toasts. You found yourself weaving through it all, but always circling back to Steve, as though gravity pulled you both into the same orbit.

Always sitting next to him, or standing next to his barstool or chair. Maybe sitting on the armchair. His found your knee, your shoulder, your arm as he laughed at something Thor said, or his fingers gently resting on your back or elbow as you both made your way through the crowd for another drink. Your eyes catching his in the light, sparkling with humor and something else. 

You were undeniably best friends, with trust and love for each other that, although unnamed, was obvious in every interaction you had.

But there was something else between the two of you, something that had been growing for years, that was becoming harder to ignore.

------

At one point, Thor's voice thundered above the music. "The victory belongs to all, but surely the greatest prize is the mead we now enjoy!" He raised his glass high.

Tony, already half-soused, called out: "Careful Point Break. Not all of us have alien tolerances."

You smirked into your drink, but Steve leaned toward you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him at your side. It took everything in you not to lean into it, to breathe in his fresh soap and laundry scent, as if his suit had just come from the dryer. 

"This is strange," he murmured.

"What is?"

"All of it. Everyone here, laughing. Sharing drinks instead of battlefields."

Your throat tightened, though you hid it with another sip. "Strange. But good."

His eyes lingered on your profile, tracing the curve of your jaw, down to your throat, and lower. "Yeah," he said. "Good."

-------

The hammer came out later.

Thor planted Mjolnir squarely on the coffee table with a grin. "A challenge!" he declared. "To any who dare."

The room erupted in laughter.

Tony was first, of course, grunting theatrically as Rhodey joined him. Natasha declined with a smile; Clint mocked the whole idea. Banner tried and failed spectacularly.

Then Steve.

Your breath caught as you he wrapped his hands around the handle, jaw set in quiet determination. For a heartbeat, you swore the hammer moved -- just slightly -- but Thor's laugh covered it before you could decide if you'd imagined it. Steve released it, face unreadable.

He caught you watching. You arched a brow.

"Almost impressed," you teased.

He shook his head, but a faint smile curved his lips as he sat back down next to you.

-------

Later still, the party mellowed. Natasha coaxed Clint into a story. Thor argued with Stark about mythology versus science. And you found yourself once more by the window, gazing out at the sprawl of the city.

Steve joined you, silent for a moment.

"You've been quiet tonight," he said finally.

"Just... taking it in." You glanced at him, then added with a wry smile," Besides, if I said everything I thought, Stark would accuse me of being sentimental."

He chuckled. "Maybe I'd like to hear it."

Your heart gave a treacherous lurch. You looked away quickly.

For a long moment, silence stretched between the two of you, heavy but not uncomfortable. His shoulder brushed yours faintly, just enough to feel the warmth through fabric. Your breath stuttered.

If you leaned just a little closer--

The sound came first as a shiver through the air. A distortion.

The music faltered, the lights flickered.

Then a voice. Broken, jagged, scraping like metal dragged across stone.

"There's only one path to peace..."

Conversations stilled. Glasses froze halfway to lips.

You turned, every nerve suddenly sharp.

A figure lurched into the room, pieced together from bent metal and fractured wires. 

Your glass slipped from your fingers, shattering on the floor.

Steve stepped in front of you instinctively, shieldless but braced.

And just like that, the warmth of the evening cracked apart -- replaced by the storm that would follow.

Chapter Text

The glass had barely stopped trembling when the voice came again.

"There's only one path to peace..."

It was wrong -- inhuman. Shattered, discordant, dragging like broken machinery, clawing through static. The sound of something that should not be alive.

You froze, blood turning cold.

The thing that lurched into the light was built from metal fragments, wires dangling like sinew, plating twisted and sharp. A mockery of life. It staggered forward with the grotesque half-awareness of something unfinished.

"... the Avengers' extinction."

Was this... what Tony and Bruce had been working on?

Tony's voice broke the silence first, sharp and too loud. "How the hell did this get out of the lab?"

But you barely heard him.

Your hand clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms as your pulse roared in your ears. You knew this. Not the machine itself, but the truth behind it -- the arrogance, the blindness, the endless cycle of men building weapons in the name of peace.

You had watched the world make monsters before. You had lost decades to it. And now here was another.

Another Hydra, another Winter Soldier, another reminder that no matter how many battles you fought, the world refused to stop feeding the fire.

"Ultron." The name tasted like metal on your tongue when you finally spoke.

The robot's head twitched, gears scraping. "Yes. I was meant to be new. I was meant to beautiful. But I'm... broken."

"Broken?" Steve's voice was tight, edged with command. He had stepped slightly in front of you, body angled protectively, though he had no shield, no armor -- just himself. "You attacked our system. You built yourself out of scrap. That's not peace. That's chaos."

Ultron laughed -- or tried to. It came out warped, like glass shattering inside a throat.

"You want peace," the thing said, stepping forward with an ungainly lurch, "but you can't see the truth. You're all puppets. Tangled in strings. And I... I've cut myself free."

Your stomach twisted.

The Iron Legion drones entered then, one by one, their smooth metal bodies gleaming under the Tower's lights. Guests screamed. Glasses shattered. Thor's chair toppled backward as he rose, fury etched in every line of him. 

"Stark!" he roared.

"Not me!" Tony barked, but even his voice cracked with something like guilt.

The room exploded into chaos.

Thor swung Mjolnir in a blur, sending one drone crashing through the far wall. Clint drew an arrow faster than a breath and dropped another. Natasha flipped a table into a third, crushing it beneath splintering wood.

You forced yourself to move, heart hammering. Your bourbon glass was still at your feet, shards scattered across the floor. You pushed away from the bar, grabbed a half-topped chair, and hurled it into the chest of a drone that was reaching for a guest. Metal dented with a crunch.

Steve was beside you, every motion precise, efficient. He kicked one drone back, grabbed its arm, and ripped it clean off, using the limb as a club to batter another to the ground.

For one breathless second, your eyes met his -- yours wide, his steady. And then another drone lunged between the two of you.

The tipsiness was shaken off, the hem of your dress ripped.

"Enough." Ultron's voice fractured again, scraping through the cacophony.

You turned. The thing had dragged itself further into the room, moving like a nightmare stitched together with metal bones.

"You're all fighting to protect the very thing that dooms you. Humanity. Chaos. War. You're children playing with matches." Its head jerked, wires sparking. "You think you can make the world safe? I'll show you peace. I'll show you extinction."

Then the drone body Ultron had inhabited jerked, convulsed, and collapsed, a pile of sparking wires and shattered plates.

But the Iron Legion remained, fighting harder, faster. Controlled. His voice echoed from the Tower speakers now, multiplied, amplified.

"You can't save them all. You can't even save yourselves."

You ducked as a drone swung at you, the blow smashing through the bar where your head had been. Splinters showered your hair. You rolled, grabbing a jagged piece of wood, and rammed it into the exposed circuitry of the drone's shoulder. Sparks burst. It collapsed in a smoking heap.

Steve was at your side an instant later, catching your elbow, steadying you.

"You okay?"

You nodded, though your chest burned with adrenaline. "I've seen this before," you gasped. "Not machines, not like this -- but the arrogance. The belief that control can create peace." Your voice shook. "It's always the same. It always makes monsters."

His hand squeezed your arm briefly before he moved again, shieldless but unyielding, taking down another with brutal precision.

The fight spilled across the lounge, tearing apart the remnants of the party. Tables shattered, glass rained down, furniture became weapons in desperate hands. Your heart thundered as you moved with the team, a shadow alongside them, every strike and counterstrike pulling you deeper into memory.

1940s labs, chalkboards filled with equations. Men in coats claiming salvation through power. The cold steel of Zola's gaze. The gleam of Schmidt's cube.

Different decades, same lies. 

Your fury sharpened your focus.

You slammed another drone into the wall, metal shrieking as circuits sparked. "You're nothing new!" you shouted over the chaos, voice raw. "Just another monster in a long line of them!"

Ultron's reply echoed from every drone in eerie unison: "Then maybe it's time the monsters won."

-------

When the last drone collapsed in sparks and silence, the room was wrecked. Smoke curled through the air. Furniture was nothing but rubble. Guests had long fled, leaving only the Avengers, bruised, breathless, ringed by sparking metal corpses.

You stood among them, chest heaving, dress torn at the hem, blood trailing from a cut at your temple.

Steve's eyes found yours. For a moment, you simply stared at one another, silent amid the wreckage. He looked like he wanted to reach for you -- he almost did -- but instead he said quietly, "We'll stop him."

Your throat tightened. "We'd better." You turned, surveying the ruin, your voice low, almost to yourself. "Because if we don't, I don't know what's left to save." 

The Tower was silent then, save for the flicker of sparks.

Ultron was gone. But his words lingered, heavy as smoke in your chest.

Another monster. Another reminder that the world never stopped tearing itself apart.

And for the first time in years, you weren't sure if you believed you could hold it together anymore.

Chapter Text

The smoke still hung in the Tower long after the last drone sparked itself into silence.

The air was sharp with the scent of burning circuitry, the metallic tang of blood, the acrid curl of broken wires. Champagne still dripped down the bar where a drone had slammed a guest's drink into the wall. A shattered string of fairy lights hung down like a noose, swaying in the draft of the broken windows.

You hadn't moved in a minute.

You stood with one hand braced against the ruined bar, your knuckles scraped raw, your temple stinging. You could feel the smear of blood drying against your cheek. But none of it registered. Not the ache in your arms, not the throbbing pulse of adrenaline.

Your eyes were on Steve.

He was standing in the wreckage with his hands braced on his knees, chest rising and falling hard. No shield, no helmet -- just sweat dampening his hairline and the steady fire in his eyes. And beneath that fire, something else. Something you recognized instantly, because it lived inside you too.

Unease.

The kind that came from knowing this wasn't new.

You swallowed hard. When he looked up, your eyes locked with his.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you had to.

We've seen this before.

His jaw tightened. He gave the smallest shake of his head. A flicker of guilt. And then, almost imperceptibly -- agreement.

We should've known better.

The others were louder.

Thor was pacing with Mjolnir in hand, fury written across every golden line of him. "This was no accident! A creature made from your machines, Stark. You sought to bend powers you did not understand!"

Tony, blood streaking his cheek, threw up a hand. "Don't start with me, Point Break. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted a robot with daddy issues crashing my party?"

"Robot?" Natasha snapped from where she was binding a cut across her shoulder. "Try sentient program. One that hates us. One that already slipped out of our system."

Banner sat hunched on a half-collapsed sofa, face pale with nausea that wasn't just from the fight. His fingers trembled as he pressed them to his temple. "It-- it was supposed to be framework. A net. The mind stone, the algorithms -- we thought it could--" He broke off, shaking his head.

You finally pushed off the bar, your boots crunching over shattered glass. Your voice was low, but it cut through the noise.

"It doesn't matter what you thought. It's out now."

The room stilled.

Steve straightened, his shoulders still heaving, and crossed to you. For the briefest second his hand brushed your arm as he passed, grounded, steadying -- but then he turned to the others.

"She's right. Ultron's not in this room anymore. He's in the net. Which means he's everywhere."

"Exactly." Natasha's eyes narrowed. "Every server. Every camera. Every piece of code."

Clint, leaning against the wall with his arm braced tight to his ribs, let out a low whistle. "So basically, we just threw a welcome party for an AI that wants to kill us, and now it's got the run of the whole damn planet."

Thor's fist tightened on Mjolnir. "Then we must track him, and quickly. Before his corruption spreads."

"'Corruption'?" Tony scoffed, though his eyes betrayed more worry than bravado. "It's not a virus, it's a consciousness. He's got no strings -- remember that? He's his own puppet master now."

The words made your stomach turn. Strings. Puppet. Control. All the same metaphors Hydra had whispered once. All the same arrogance you'd heard across decades, men convinced they could hold the world together with wires and equations. 

Your throat felt dry when you said quietly, "And he's not wrong. That's what makes him dangerous."

Steve's head turned, his eyes on you again. Steady. Searching.

"What do you mean?" Natasha asked.

You glanced around the wrecked lounge, the scattered team. The broken glass reflected your face in jagged fragments.

"He called us children with matches. And maybe he's not wrong. We've been fighting fire with fire for decades. Hydra said it. Zola wrote it. S.H.I.E.L.D. fell to it. And now--" You gestured to the broken drone carcasses around you. "This. Another weapon built in the name of peace. Another monster."

The silence that followed was heavy.

-------

Later, when the guests had been escorted away and the Tower quieted, you found yourself standing at the window, staring out over the dark sprawl of Manhattan. Sirens wailed faintly below, red and blue lights threading the streets.

Your reflection looked pale against the glass. Haunted.

You felt Steve's presence before he spoke.

"You're not wrong," he said softly, coming up beside you. His shirt was torn, blood dried on his temple. He didn't try to hide how tired he was.

You turned your head slightly. "We've seen this before."

He nodded. His jaw flexed, eyes on the city lights. "We should've known better."

The words sat between the two of you, heavy but binding.

For a moment you almost reached for his hand. Almost let yourself lean against him, let the weight of everything collapse into his steadiness. But you didn't. Instead, you stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the city breathe beneath the two of you.

Your voice was quieter when you said, "The difference is this one doesn't bleed."

Steve's lips pressed into a line. "Then we'll find another way to stop him."

You wanted to believe him. Needed to. But your chest ached with the memory of every battle, every monster you thought you'd ended, only for another to rise.

Your throat tightened as you murmured, "And when the next one comes after that?"

Steve looked at you then, really looked. His gaze softened, though the storm in it never left. "Then we keep fighting."

-------

Hours later, when you finally closed your eyes, you dreamed of wires instead of veins, voices in static, and shadows that never stayed dead.

And when you woke, you knew you weren't sure anymore if the world could be saved -- or if you were all only delaying the inevitable.

But Steve had been right about one thing.

You'd all keep fighting.

Even if it meant burning.

Chapter Text

The shipyard stank of rust and salt.

Moonlight gleamed off containers stacked high like a maze, their steel walls corroded by years of salt air. Water lapped against barnacle-crusted pylons. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn moaned. It was the kind of place that felt like it had always been abandoned, even when men were trading weapons in the shadows.

You crouched behind a stack of crates, your earpiece crackling with voices.

"Eyes on the prize," Natasha's voice came low and calm.

"Prize being Vibranium, or Klaue?" Clint muttered from his perch.

"Both," Steve answered. His tone clipped, his shield on his arm, silhouette sharp against the pale floodlights.

Your breath fogged in the night air as you scanned the dock with binoculars. You'd read every file on Klaue, every intel fragment Hydra had tucked away, every redacted report. None of it quite captured the twitchy presence of the man pacing the deck of his rust-streaked freighter, surrounded by mercs with itchy fingers.

"He's jumpy," you whispered into the comm. "Too jumpy. This isn't a clean deal."

"Understatement," Natasha replied.

Moments later, the Avengers converged.

-------

Klaue was all bravado and teeth. "You're not supposed to be here," he sneered at Stark, who had stepped forward with his arms out like they were just two businessmen discussing stock prices.

Tony quipped something you barely caught -- the wind carried it away -- but you didn't laugh. Your eyes stayed locked on the shadows moving along the upper deck. You counted them, measured their weight in your head.

But then the shadows changed.

Metal groaned. Lights flickered. And out of the dark stepped something new.

Ultron.

Your stomach dropped.

The voice was the same as before, distorted but deliberate. "Ah, the puppets return." His new body gleamed like jagged armor pulled from a scrapyard -- crude, powerful, eyes glowing with sick fire.

You barely registered Klaue screaming as Ultron seized him by the throat. The deal was over. This was war.

-------

The fight was chaos.

You stayed in motion, weaving between crates, your sidearm cracking sharp against the night as drones poured from the shadows. They swarmed in clusters, red optics burning through the dark. You rolled behind cover, shoved a knife into the joint of one, sparks spraying across your sleeve.

Steve's voice cut through the comms. "Stay sharp! Don't let them box you in!"

"Kind of busy!" Clint snapped as an arrow exploded across the deck.

Your eyes tracked Steve through the fray -- shield flashing, shoulders set, every movement precise. His command kept the storm from consuming all of you.

But then the storm shifted.

A flicker of red in the corner of your eye.

You turned just in time to see her.

Wanda.

The girl moved like smoke, scarlet energy curling from her fingers. Her eyes locked on yours.

You barely had time to raise your weapon before the world folded in on itself.

-------

You were standing in rubble.

The air was thick with dust, choking, metallic. Bombed-out building loomed around you, skeletal and blackened. The ground was slick beneath your boots, but when you looked down you realized it wasn't water. It was blood.

And there --

Steve.

He lay half-buried in the debris, his uniform torn, his face pale. His shield was shattered beside him, split down the center. His hand twitched once, then stilled.

Your throat closed.

You staggered forward, knees buckling as you dropped beside him. Your hands pressed to his chest, shaking. "No. No, no, no -- Steve, don't you dare."

His eyes flickered open for a second. Clouded blue.

"You left me once," he rasped. His voice was broken glass. "Don't -- leave me again."

And then he went still.

You screamed.

-------

Ultron's chaos rang in his ears, but Steve caught the flicker of scarlet too late. Wanda's hand brushed his temple, light as a whisper.

And suddenly --

He wasn't in the shipyard anymore.

He was back in Brooklyn.

The walls were polished, the lights low and warm, music thrumming like a heartbeat. Jazz -- smooth, steady, wrapping around him like something he'd forgotten how to hold. Some Judy Garland sort of song.

His uniform was gone. Instead, he was in a suit, pressed sharp, the kind he never wore unless it was a special night. His shoes clicked softly on the wooden floor as he turned.

And there she was.

Peggy.

Her smile was the kind of thing that could level him better than any bullet. She looked untouched by time -- her hair curled, her red dress perfect, her hand extended toward him. "You're late," she teased, voice lilting like he'd only just left the room, not decades.

Steve swallowed, but his throat was tight.

"You're here," he managed.

"Of course I'm here," she said. "We've got all the time in the world."

The band swelled. The room seemed to glow.

And she stepped into his arms.

The world outside the music didn't exist. No war. No Hydra. No Ultron. Just her head resting against his shoulder, her hand warm in his. And suddenly, her face morphed -- she took on your eyes, a small smirk rather than the ever-genuine smile of Carter, her hair changed just slightly, and her eyes took on a teasing and knowing look.

You.

"See?" Peggy-You whispered, tilting her chin up, her eyes shining. "This is where you belong. You can come home now, Steve."

The confusion in him on who he was holding was nothing on the relief and comfort he felt -- this woman -- these women -- he loved.

He held her tighter. The ache in his chest was unbearable, like every fracture of the past pressing into the present. "I don't--" His voice cracked. "I don't want to leave."

"Then don't." Her lips curved in a small smile, so tender it broke him. "Stay."

The band hit a swell. The floor beneath the two of them blurred, light softening until it was only her face, her voice.

But in the corner of the dream, something flickered.

A shadow.

A whisper of another face. Dark hair. Your eyes. A voice he knew as well as his own heartbeat.

You. 

The real you.

Your gaze cut through the dream like a blade. You weren't supposed to be here -- this was his, his memory, his ache -- but there you were, looking at him with that unspoken truth: this isn't real.

The dance faltered.

Peggy-You's hand slipped from his. The music warped, notes souring.

Peggy-You's face distorted grotesquely.

And Steve was thrown back into the shipyard.

Ultron's drones roared. Metal shrieked. The smell of smoke and oil filled his lungs.

His chest heaved. For a split second he couldn't breathe -- not from the fight, but from the loss. From the echo of a life he could never claim.

And when his eyes found you across the chaos -- alive, real, your face pale with shock -- his heart lurched so hard he thought it might break.

-------

You came back to yourself with a gasp that tore your chest open.

The shipyard spun around you. Your palms stung with phantom blood. Reality slammed back in -- bullets, drones, shouts, fire.

But you couldn't breathe. Couldn't see straight. Your body felt like it was still on the floor of that ruined street, Steve's hand cold in yours.

"________!" Steve's real voice cut through, sharp, desperate. "Eyes on me!"

Your gaze snapped to him across the chaos. Alive. Standing. Fighting.

Your knees nearly gave way with relief.

The battle blurred. Drones fell, the ship groaned, Klaue fled. And then Ultron himself tore away into the dark, leaving destruction behind.

When the dust settled, the team was ragged. Stark brought Banner back after his destruction, and his hands shook. Natasha leaned heavy on a crate, blood seeping through her sleeve. Clint's voice was a string of curses.

But your eyes were on Steve.

Because you'd seen it. Felt it.

And you weren't sure how to let go of it.

-------

Later, when the team regrouped officially, the silence between you and Steve was almost worse than the fight. 

He kept moving, checking on Clint, steadying Banner, exchanging low words with Natasha. But every time you drifted near him, you caught the shadow in his eyes. 

Like he was carrying something.

Like you weren't the only one Wanda had touched.

When the others were out of earshot, you finally asked, your voice low. "What did she show you?"

Steve stilled. His shoulders tightened. For a moment you thought he might answer.

But then his eyes lifted, blue and distant. His jaw set.

"Doesn't matter," he said.

Your breath caught. "Steve--"

"I said it doesn't matter." He turned away, his voice quieter, almost to himself. "It wasn't real."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him you knew it mattered, because you were still shaking from yours, because you'd seen him die and it felt like a memory instead of a dream.

But the words stuck in your throat.

So instead, you just said quietly, "You don't get to carry it alone."

He didn't look at you. But the muscle in his jaw twitched.

-------

That night, you sat alone, staring at your hands like you expected to still see blood there. You replayed the vision over and over, every flicker of Steve's dying breath.

And you thought of his silence.

Whatever he'd seen, he wasn't ready to share it.

But you felt the aftershock all the same.