Chapter Text
In all honesty, getting back to work after the grit of it all wasn't as difficult as Mel thought it would be.
But she guessed that was to be expected from a city and its people who'd seen enough alien invasions to last them a lifetime.
She wondered what post-work social conversations were like for people on Park Avenue who'd probably received their fifth—sixth?—HR email this year about the office being, quote, 'temporarily non-operational due to unforeseen superhero-related structural complications'. Which was corporate-speak for it got blown up - again.
While it was a digressing thought, it was a welcome distraction nonetheless as she continued to sort through the ever-growing email thread that had investors on the fence, construction slow, and Val fuming. She'd just managed to placate one such donor with the promise of a new PR stunt that highlighted team solidarity when she heard the ding of the elevator.
The team flooded in.
From her corner, Mel could hear them—complaining, joking, buzzing with that specific brand of post-mission adrenaline that meant someone had definitely blown something up and they were all very pleased about it.
The communal floor was an exercise in controlled chaos—Tony Stark's old design aesthetic meeting Val's paranoia. The kitchen blended seamlessly into a bar that probably cost more than most people's apartments, all sleek surfaces and hidden storage.
Mel had claimed her usual corner spot, an oversized armchair tucked against the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline. She'd pulled the matching ottoman closer, feet propped up as she balanced her laptop on her knees.
The afternoon sun cut across the polished marble floors, and she'd angled herself to avoid the glare while still soaking in the warmth—a necessary luxury for someone who spent at least 18 hours of their day looking at screens of various sizes.
The rest gravitated toward the central common area, a sunken living space with modular furniture that could be rearranged depending on whether they were debriefing or watching movies. The massive sectional had seen better days, worn in by countless hours of use, and the coffee table bore the ring-stains of too many beer bottles (courtesy of Alexei) and abandoned mugs.
Bucky had moved behind the bar, the way he often did. From there, he had a clear view of the entire floor—the elevator, the windows, every entry point. He pulled a bottle of water from somewhere beneath the counter, but Mel knew he wasn't really focused on that.
Sure enough, the way Bucky looked at her now, standing behind the bar, he probably had full view of the awkwardness radiating off her in waves.
Things had been tense. To say the least.
She'd always prided herself on her sense of self-awareness and the ability to get things back on track after they had massively derailed—it may have had something to do with being an only child, or maybe experiencing those numerous alien invasions she was thinking of before.
OR Val's constant reminders that she was "expendable but useful" (inspiring stuff, really)—none of it seemed to work when there was a super soldier glaring at her every time she so much as breathed in his direction.
She guessed she couldn't really blame him. She had asked him to come, knowing there was a trap in place.
But what she didn't know was that he would actually show.
Why had he shown up?
It's not like he had any particular reason to trust her word. He'd approached her at the Gala thinking of her as someone pliable, someone conflicted, and offered her an out wrapped in banter and a charming smile—which she assumed may have worked if she herself wasn't skilled in the art of schmoozing.
One had to be, especially when dealing with moneyed elites and the worst that politics had to offer.
She'd left him then, standing there under the salvaged giant A of the old Avengers Tower, the golden light casting shadows on his face. Politics had clearly taken a toll on him. He seemed worn down by the performance of it all.
One would assume that mundanity would be something to cherish after having lived life as the Winter Soldier—Hydra's secret weapon—and someone still trying to acclimate to the contemporary world without all their memories.
But it seemed that wasn't for him, and she supposes that despite the dangers of the position, the lies, the mistrust- mundanity wasn't for her either.
"How are you getting any work done if all you've done is stare at Bucky since we got here?"
Yelena's voice cut through the room like a knife.
Mel's brain performed some kind of emergency shutdown-restart sequence. Had she been staring? She'd been aware of him—there was a difference. A professional, situation-monitoring difference that definitely didn't involve noticing how his jaw clenched when he was annoyed or how the afternoon light hit his—
Okay, she'd been staring.
Mel assumed the mission debrief—an overstatement, really—had run its course, and now the petite assassin was looking for a new target to take apart.
The rest of the team paused. John froze mid-yawn. Bob turned to her with the same wide-eyed look he wore at every mission briefing.
"Do not embarrass poor Mel, Lena," Alexei said, in his booming voice. "It is fine, Mel. We do not question you being iPad child or you staring at the Winter Wolf."
"I wasn't staring."
It was all Mel could come up with, muttering it under her breath while avoiding looking at the root of her embarrassment. Really nailed that one, she thought. Truly putting that expensive Pol-sci degree to good use.
Completely unfair that he wasn't the one getting called out for staring at her. But that sounded childish enough in her own head that she decided to keep quiet about it.
She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. "Anyway—Val and I have been speaking to Senator Hughes. He was a major donor to some of her earlier campaigns and the new tower. He'd like to see more of his money's worth, and by that I mean more of you guys on TV screens, Instagram, TikTok—what have you. I'll have the details drawn up for our next briefing."
The groans were immediate and resounding. Bob let out a long, suffering sigh.
Alexei, however, whooped with joy—the only one who seemed perpetually excited for this aspect of their work.
See? Bringing things back on track.
"There's been no actual progress in the team's functionality," Bucky said, arms now crossed.
His metal arm glinted in the last rays of the setting afternoon sun. Unlike the glare from her screen, Mel didn't look away. "But you and the higher-ups deem it necessary to plaster our faces on every cereal box out there. Is this really the best use of our time and skills?"
His tone was sharp, and the disdain was palpable—aimed squarely at her and her mention of excruciating hours playing besties with New York's finest (read: bloodthirsty) media houses.
Mel felt her jaw tighten. While she did agree with him about it being a waste of the team's time, she didn't particularly enjoy his implication about "higher-ups"—once again reiterating that she had limited control over what she could and couldn't do.
"It's all about maintaining an image," she said, keeping her voice level. "The people are aware of what powers you all have and what you can achieve with them. But are you relatable to them? That's what maintains their faith in you. You aren't the larger-than-life heroes they're used to—the ones in capes who swoop in and disappear. You guys have checkered pasts, and that resonates with them."
She could see he wasn't satisfied. Could practically feel him gearing up for an argument. She rushed through the next part before he could interrupt.
"Look, I know this doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but you're here now. You do what you do in the open for these people, and unfortunately, they do get a say in who they want to be saved by. They've stood by idly for way too long, letting things just happen to them. Sometimes a sense of control, no matter how flimsy, gives people reassurance."
"So it's all about control then."
The words cut through the air—half accusation, half dare. Something dark and volatile flickered behind his eyes, and she was acutely aware of the others watching, waiting to see who would break first.
But he possessed this infuriating talent for making everything else fade to static, for forcing her attention onto him and him alone until the room disappeared and there was only this: the razor's edge they were both balanced on.
And she found herself at a loss. Because, well, she'd read the reports, hadn't she? About the lack of control he'd had over what he'd done and what he'd been told to do for most of his life. The missions, the conditioning, the decades of someone else pulling his strings.
The weight of that hung between them, unspoken.
"If it gets Valentina off my ass quicker and leaves me more time to try out new places in the city, I'm okay with going through whatever new charade you've both managed to cook up," Yelena supplied, breaking the tension. Actually helpful for once.
Mel tore her gaze away from Bucky and brought it back to the others.
She knew they were nowhere close to trusting her—viewing her as nothing more than Val's extension, or worse, her pawn—but they tolerated her. For now, that was enough.
"Great." She forced a smile. "I'll have the draft sent over to you guys by tomorrow morning. We were thinking something with BuzzFeed—something to give the 15-25 demographic something to talk about. Apart from how bangable you all are."
The last bit set off a chorus of reactions—protests, laughter, someone demanding to know their ranking. She was smiling as she watched them descend on the giant screens in the corner to pull up the quiz that had apparently already ranked them.
But when she glanced back at Bucky, who was still watching her with that same shadowed look she'd seen at the Gala, Mel knew their conversation was far from over.