Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a public Avengers event, a fundraiser to support recovery efforts after the incident and only two team members were available to attend: Yelena and Bob. The rest were tied up with more pressing matters elsewhere, leaving the two of them as reluctant representatives. Neither was thrilled. Both insisted they had better things to do, but the team needed someone, and that someone was them.

Bob paced the floor in his room, the polished suit laid out on his bed untouched. His thoughts were scrambled. Normally, he didn’t mind big events; he could even enjoy them, sometimes. But this one, a celebration and fundraiser in the wake of so much destruction, destruction he helped cause made his skin crawl. It didn’t feel like a night out. It felt like being on display.

He took a slow breath and forced himself into motion, getting ready in silence. He slipped into the crisp white shirt, shrugged on his jacket, and picked up the tie, fumbling with the fabric as he tried to loop it properly around his collar. No matter how many times he tried, it didn’t sit right. Lopsided, too tight, backwards he couldn’t seem to get it together.

He sighed and checked his phone. Eyebrows lifting, he saw the time they had to leave soon. Sliding his phone into his pocket, he stepped out toward the living room, still fiddling with the tie as he walked. He was so engrossed in the knot that he didn’t see Bucky coming down the hall and bumped into him by accident.

"Oh—sorry!" Bob stumbled back slightly.

Bucky barely flinched, steadying himself with a slight shift of his feet. He gave Bob a wave. "It’s fine."

Then, Bucky’s eyes dropped to the tie in Bob’s hands. He raised an eyebrow. Bob froze when he realized Bucky had noticed his struggle, his face flushing slightly.

"You need some help?" Bucky asked, setting down the small steel case he’d been carrying.

"No, no, I’m fine—" Bob stammered, still trying to salvage the knot.

Bucky gave a quiet huff and stepped forward. Gently, he took the tie from Bob’s hands. Bob hesitated, but didn’t stop him. In silence, Bucky looped and folded the tie with practiced ease, fingers quick but careful. After one last tug, he straightened the knot and let go.

"There you go."

Bob looked down. It was perfect. A clean, crisp knot. He looked back up at Bucky, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Bucky nodded, picking the steel case back up.

As he headed toward the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Keep Yelena out of trouble."

Bob let out a soft laugh, gave a little wave, and watched Bucky exit the room.

Then he took another breath and turned toward the front door. He still didn’t feel ready. But at least his tie wasn’t crooked.

Yelena entered the room in a simple, classy strapless black dress. She tugged the top of it up slightly, muttering something under her breath in Russian with clear frustration. Then she looked up and noticed Bob.

"Ahh, Bob, you look handsome," she said with a smirk.

Bob smiled shyly. "Thank you. You, um, look beautiful."

Yelena’s smirk softened into a small smile, though she sighed and frowned slightly. "Thanks, but I honestly hate wearing these things," she said, tugging the dress down again, clearly uncomfortable. "Not really my style."

Bob nodded hastily in agreement. "Yeah," he said, running a hand nervously over the tie. "It’s, um... not really my thing either."

They both laughed quietly, the shared discomfort creating a strange sort of camaraderie.

Yelena glanced at her phone. "We should probably head out. Our ride should be outside."

Bob nodded, following her out. They walked toward the elevator in silence, but tension clung to the air—not between them, but around them. The looming presence of the party. Of what it represented.

Outside, a sleek black limo waited at the curb. Bob stepped forward and opened the door for Yelena.

"Such a gentleman," she teased lightly.

He rolled his eyes, a small grin pulling at his lips as he climbed in behind her and shut the door.

The drive was peaceful. To calm their nerves, they invented a game: guessing what kind of extravagant or ridiculous things they’d encounter at the fundraiser. Would the older gentleman’s date be a young trophy wife or his daughter? What kind of exotic, unpronounceable food would they serve? They whispered their predictions back and forth like kids at the back of a classroom.

For a little while, Bob almost forgot why they were going.

But then the limo rolled to a stop, and reality slammed back into place.

He gulped, stepping out of the car first and opening the door for Yelena. She stepped out, linking her arm with his without hesitation. The moment they began walking up the steps, the flashing lights of the paparazzi went off like a thousand mini explosions.

Shouts. Questions. Cameras in their faces. Bob squinted against the light, disoriented.

Yelena didn’t slow down. She kept walking, eyes straight ahead, muttering черт возьми

 as she dragged Bob along with her.

"Paparazzi is the worst," she said through clenched teeth.

"Uh huh," Bob mumbled, numbly nodding as they passed through the front doors.

But the interior took his breath away. The convention center had been transformed. Avenger artifacts and memorabilia decorated the space. Vintage architecture—arched ceilings, glass chandeliers, marbled floors—gave the venue a cathedral-like reverence. It was undeniably beautiful.

"Whoa..." Bob whispered.

He turned, brow raised. "You have to admit it’s beautiful here."

She caught his eye and sighed, rolling hers slightly before offering a half-smile. "Yeah. I guess it is."

A voice called out Yelena’s name. One of the government officials. She squeezed Bob’s arm.

"Why don’t you get us some drinks? I’ll meet you."

Bob nodded and watched her walk off, weaving through the crowd with the grace of someone used to this kind of thing. He turned, making his way to the drink table—but then, voices caught his ear.

Not directly speaking to him. Not even acknowledging him. But speaking about... it .

“Thank God it’s gone. I thought it had killed my whole family.”

“I still have nightmares from that day.”

“I was afraid to leave my house for weeks.”

The words were like shards of glass, each one digging in. They weren’t saying his name. They didn’t have to. Bob’s skin prickled, a chill settling in his spine. His gaze darted around. Were they looking at him? Were they doing this on purpose? Could they tell?

He knew— rationally —that probably wasn’t true. But his thoughts didn’t feel rational. Not anymore.

The pressure built in his chest like a vice. His lungs refused to expand properly. He tried to take a breath, but it caught. Another step forward. Then another. But it was like walking through thick mud. His feet grew heavier with every inch. His hands started to tremble.

No, no, not here.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to hide the shaking. He blinked rapidly, trying to distract himself, to focus on anything else. He looked around for Yelena, but she was across the room, laughing politely at something the official said.

His chest constricted tighter.

He turned toward the wall, needing something solid at his back. Something to ground him.

Why am I here? he thought. Why did I agree to this? A fundraiser for the damage I helped cause? What the hell was I thinking?

His thoughts spiraled faster, louder. It was too much. The lights, the voices, the guilt—it was all crashing over him in waves.

Bob pressed his back to the wall and closed his eyes.

He tried to breathe. In. Out. But every breath felt like it got caught halfway. His heart thundered in his chest, erratic and sharp.

They know. They all know.

He felt exposed. Like he was back in the lab. In the containment cell. On the run. Every whisper felt like a weapon aimed right at his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob felt like maybe he hadn't really left that place at all.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯⩜⃝ ⋯⋅๑┈·✦

Yelena was getting fed up. The government official had been droning on, but she wasn’t really listening. Her eyes were scanning the venue, searching—until she spotted him.

Bob was pressed against a wall. His breathing was short, his eyes scanning frantically like he expected someone to jump out at him. She excused herself mid-sentence, weaving through the crowd with sharp purpose. She snagged two glasses of champagne off a waiter’s tray as she passed and closed the distance.

He didn’t see her at first. His gaze kept flicking, desperate and unfocused. But when he finally saw her, she noticed his hand shaking in his pocket.

She stepped up, and held out the glass. He hesitated, then took it with a stiff nod, clutching it like it might anchor him

He blinked and looked up. Her eyes were sharp— seeing him .

Yelena took a step closer, deliberately blocking his view of the crowd. "Hey," she said simply. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Instead, she launched into a story.

"You know that agent actually reminded me of a old mission I had went on. So, Walker and I got sent on this low-level recon mission. Supposed to be easy. In, grab intel, out. You know the drill. Except, of course, it went sideways the second we got there."

Bob glanced up, breathing still shallow but slowing.

"Walker drops his comm into a decorative fountain. Not even five minutes in. Swears it was an accident. I think he just didn’t want to be tracked. So what does he do? Pulls out a pair of binoculars and starts pretending he’s a birdwatcher. In the middle of the plaza. Full tactical gear. Talking about 'spotted warblers' like he’s David Attenborough."

A quiet huff of laughter escaped Bob. Yelena smirked.

"And of course, I’m trying to blend in, right? So I have to act like I’m this patient wife who tolerates her husband’s ridiculous hobbies. Meanwhile, our target is watching us from the cafe. Drinking espresso. Probably thinking we’re the worst spies in the world."

Another chuckle from Bob. He took a sip from the glass. Then another. His shoulders began to lower. His hands stopped shaking.

By the time she got to the part where Walker accidentally triggered a pigeon stampede, Bob was laughing, really laughing. The tension in his chest finally started to ease.

Yelena stepped back to stand beside him, glancing out at the crowd. Bob followed her gaze, and for the first time that night, he didn’t feel like they were staring at him.

"It’s honestly kind of amazing," he said quietly. "How all these people can come together like this, even after... everything."

Yelena bumped his shoulder gently with hers. "I guess that’s the beauty of humanity," she said. "We’re not defined by what breaks us, but by how we rebuild."

Her words settled into him. Heavy, but grounding. He didn’t respond right away.

Then, the music started up. A slow, jazzy tune from the live band filled the room. Yelena twirled her glass in her hand, then downed the rest in one go.

Bob blinked at her. "Was that necessary?"

She grinned. "Absolutely. Now we dance."

"Wait, wait—what?" Bob started to protest, but she was already grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the dance floor.

"I can’t dance," he said, panicked.

"Neither can I," Yelena called over the music. "We’ll suffer together."

They ended up swaying awkwardly with the crowd, her arm slung around his shoulder, his hands hovering nervously at her waist.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Yelena smiled. "Of course, брат."

For the first time that night, Bob felt like maybe he was meant to be there.

Chapter Text

Bob had been awake since 12:03 AM.

He remembered the exact time because he’d stared at the red digits on his bedside clock for twenty minutes after jolting awake, heart racing, lungs refusing to fill all the way, and sweat slick on his back. The remnants of the nightmare clung to his skin like oil, thick and inescapable. Every time he blinked, it flickered behind his eyes.

By 1:00, he’d given up trying to lie down again.

Now, he sat at the edge of his bed, still in the same baggy t-shirt and old sweatpants he’d worn to sleep—if you could call what he did sleeping. His hair stuck up in every direction, pushed back and then forgotten again as his fingers kept combing through it like a nervous tick. His elbows rested on his knees, shoulders hunched, fingers loosely laced together. He stared at the floor, not really thinking, just trying to keep the silence from getting too loud.

Eventually, the dry sting in the back of his throat became too much to ignore. He dragged a heavy hand over his face, exhaled slowly, and stood. His knees popped as he straightened, and he winced at the sound, even though it wasn’t loud. Every small noise felt too sharp in the quiet.

The walk to the kitchen was slow. Not cautious just…heavy. He passed the living room, where the moonlight pushed in through the blinds, striping the floor in soft white lines. The clock on the oven read 2:12 AM.

He pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it at the sink. The first few sips went down too fast, catching in his throat. The coolness helped, though. A small mercy.

But the quiet was creeping in again, thick and oppressive.

So he started making a sandwich. Not because he was hungry—his stomach was too knotted for that but because it gave his hands something to do. Something normal. 

The fridge light made him squint as he opened it, the cold glow piercing through the dull throb already building behind his eyes. He grabbed whatever was easy turkey, cheese, mustard, bread and laid them out on the counter in mechanical movements. His fingers fumbled with the lid of the mustard jar, too much pressure in the wrong direction, and it slipped from his grip. The knife he’d been holding clattered to the ground, echoing like a gunshot in the quiet space.

He flinched violently, stumbling a step back, his spine hitting the edge of the kitchen table. His chest rose and fell in shallow, stuttering breaths. The sound of the knife hitting tile repeated in his head over and over. It wasn’t just a knife—it was metal, it was a bang, it was too loud.

He braced his palms against the table behind him, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. His breath rasped in and out through his nose, the only sound in the room besides the low hum of the fridge.

In and out. In and out. But it wasn’t working. Not really.

And then—
Footsteps. Soft, hesitant. A shuffle against the hardwood floor.

Bob blinked. His head turned toward the hallway, and his eyes lifted.

Ava stood there in the doorway, framed by the dim glow of the fridge light behind him. She wore a hoodie far too big for her, the sleeves swallowed her hands, and a pair of athletic shorts. Her hair was tied up into a messy bun, strands sticking out at angles like she hadn’t even looked in a mirror before throwing it up. She looked half-asleep—eyes puffy, her expression unreadable but alert in that quiet way she always was, like she never fully let herself rest.

They stared at each other for a moment. No words. Just the soft hum of the kitchen, and the shared stillness between two people who didn’t sleep much.

"…Hey," she said eventually, voice low and gravel-soft.

Bob opened his mouth to say something back, but the words didn’t come out. So he nodded, stiff and small, like it was all he could manage. His hand hovered over the sandwich ingredients on the counter, then dropped to his side like he forgot why he was even there.

Ava’s gaze swept the kitchen—saw the dropped knife, the unfinished sandwich, the glass of water already sweating on the counter. Then her eyes returned to Bob’s face. She didn’t say "Are you okay?" because they both knew that wasn’t the right question. Instead, she moved forward a few steps, bare feet quiet on the tile, and said gently:

"You look like you saw a ghost."

Bob let out a shaky exhale, mouth twisting into something like a grimace. "More like a remembered one."

Ava nodded once, like that made sense. Like it was the most reasonable thing to say at 2:15 in the morning in a too-bright kitchen. She just stood there for a moment longer, then pulled open a drawer and grabbed another glass.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, already pouring herself some water.

Bob shook his head. "Go for it."

She leaned against the counter beside him, glass in both hands. And for a little while, they just stood in silence, not looking at each other, but not avoiding it either.

Then, softly, Ava set her glass down and asked, “Do you like tea?”

Bob blinked, caught off guard. “I’m… not sure,” he admitted honestly. “I’ve never really had it.”

Ava gave a small nod, like that made sense. She stepped forward, moving past him gently as she opened one of the upper cabinets. “Then I’ll make you some,” she said, pulling out a box labeled ‘Lavender Dream.’ “Lavender tea. It’s calming. Helps with sleep. And… nightmares.”

Bob nodded, silently appreciating the gesture. Wanting to be helpful, he turned and opened another cabinet behind him, pulling out two brightly colored, mismatched mugs. They were loud and ridiculous—one with a cartoon bear in a tutu, the other with sparkly red hearts and glitter. Alexei had insisted on keeping them around, and Bob hadn’t had the heart to throw them out.

Ava rolled her eyes when she saw the mugs. “Alexei,” she muttered with a shake of her head.

She filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. As they waited for it to boil, the room filled again with quiet.

Then Ava spoke, her voice slower, heavier.

“You know, I know what it’s like,” she said, not looking at him at first. “To be put through procedures. To have people with clipboards looking at you like you’re a broken toy they can’t quite fix.”

Bob looked at her, but didn’t interrupt.

“I was in a lab too,” Ava continued, her voice flat but tinged with something fragile. “Not like the Red Room. This was different. After… after everything, I ended up in a place that wanted to study me. Understand what I could do. Fix me, they said. But they didn’t really want to fix me. They wanted to use me.”

She shifted her weight, fingers tapping the edge of the counter. “They kept me under sedation sometimes. Other times they made me run through obstacle courses. Tests. Always more tests. Pain. Not just physical—the waiting was worse. The silence in those rooms.

She looked up at him, her eyes steady. “When they finally let me go—when I got out—I had no idea how to be normal, I struggled with sleep. But… then this woman recommend tea. Every night. Lavender. It’s stupid, but it stuck with me. A small thing. But after everything… it helped.”

Bob’s throat was tight. His hands flexed slightly at his sides.

“I didn’t know that,” he said quietly.

Ava nodded. “Most people don’t.”

There was a beat of silence before Bob stepped forward. He set the mugs down gently, then leaned back against the counter, his voice low.

“I saw a lot of people die,” he said. “In the labs I was in. Some of them… they looked like me. Or they used to. Until the procedures. The um experiments. They were trying to… recreate something. Perfect it. I was supposed to be their success story.”

Ava stayed quiet, listening.

Bob swallowed. “There was this one room. Glass walls. I could see the others. Some of them didn’t move anymore. And they made me watch. Said it was part of the conditioning. That if I understood the cost, I’d work harder.”

His voice cracked slightly. “Sometimes I wonder if that worked. Because I did get stronger. I did what they wanted.”

Ava took a step closer. She didn’t touch him—she didn’t need to. Her presence was enough.

“You survived,” she said. “That’s not weakness. And it’s not your fault.”

Bob nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak.

The kettle began to whistle, breaking the moment gently.

Ava turned off the heat and poured the hot water over the teabags in each mug. The soft scent of lavender began to rise between them.

She handed him the bear mug.

He looked at it, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said.

He took a small, hesitant sip, enjoying the warmth. The lavender smell was calming, wrapping around him like a blanket. For a while, they just stood there, sipping in quiet.

Then Ava glanced at the counter and raised an eyebrow. "So... what exactly happened with the sandwich? Looks like you just grabbed random things out of the fridge to throw together."

Bob looked at the mess and chuckled sheepishly.

She walked over, picked up the mustard jar, and looked at it like it had personally offended her. "Seriously? Mustard?"

Bob shrugged, taking another sip of his tea and grinning over the rim. "What? You don’t like an everything sandwich?"

Ava scoffed. “Please. You call this an everything sandwich?”

She turned and opened the fridge. “If you’re really going to make one, you gotta use everything. ”

Bob looked at her, caught between confusion and amusement. “What are you doing?”

She gave him a grin. “I’m proving a point. You could never get me to do this in daylight. Only at—” she glanced at the clock, “—3:03 in the morning.”

He followed her to the counter, setting his mug down as she started pulling out a bizarre mix of ingredients: pickles, whipped cream, olives, hot sauce, leftover pasta. “You’re serious right now?”

“Oh, 100%.”

Bob laughed, leaning on the other side of the counter. “This is insane.”

“It’s tradition now,” Ava said with mock solemnity. “The official 3 a.m. sandwich ritual.”

Together, they began stacking absurd layers on top of bread. By the end of it, the sandwich was towering, grotesque, and somehow structurally unsound.

Bob let out a huff. “This looks like something straight out of Scooby-Doo.”

Ava burst out laughing, the sound genuine and unrestrained.

Bob looked up, surprised by the reaction. She was grinning.

“The first week I met you,” Ava said between giggles, “all I could think about was how much you reminded me of Shaggy”

Bob raised a brow. “What?”

“Yeah. The hair. The clothes. And, you know, the meth addiction.”

Bob deadpanned. “Ah, I see. So my tragic meth addiction is what connected me to Shaggy”

“Exactly.” She sipped her tea, eyes gleaming. “You also seem like the type to live in a van.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

He gestured to the sandwich. “Well, why don’t you try your masterpiece?”

Ava recoiled. “Hey, you’re Shaggy”

“No, no. You made it.”

She groaned, but picked up the sandwich. One bite in, and her face went slack.

She set it down carefully, swallowed with effort, then muttered, “That was fuckin awful. ” She darted to the sink, spitting the rest out.

Bob laughed so hard he had to set his mug down.

Ava dumped the sandwich in the trash. “What a waste,” she said, shrugging.

Bob yawned, his body finally relaxing. “Wow. This stuff really works.”

“I told you so,” Ava said, patting him on the shoulder. She rinsed their mugs and set them in the sink.

She paused at the doorway. “Goodnight, Bob.”

He smiled softly. “Goodnight.”

Bob walked back to his room, climbed under the covers, and for the first time in a long time, drifted off into a peaceful sleep. From that night on, he drank lavender tea before bed—or whichever blend Ava recommended.

Chapter Text

The training room was hot with the build-up of hours of movement, sweat slicking both their skin as silence pressed heavy around them. The only sounds that filled the space were the ragged breaths echoing off the walls, the occasional shuffle of bare feet against the mat, and the dull thud of a body hitting the ground.

Bob sat on a bench, hunched forward, arms resting on his knees. His T-shirt clung to his back, and his shorts were wrinkled from repeated movement. He winced as he adjusted his position, a flare of pain lighting up his side where Walker had landed a solid kick earlier in the session. He grabbed the water bottle beside him and took a long pull, water dribbling slightly down his chin.

Across the room, Walker was pacing, dressed in sweatpants and a dark tank top, fists clenched, eyes sharp. “Come on, Bob. Let’s go.”

Bob exhaled through his nose, biting back the wave of frustration threatening to boil over. He stood, rolled his shoulder with a stiff pop, and walked back onto the mat. They’d been at this for hours—hand-to-hand combat, no powers, no enhancements. Just raw endurance, speed, and technique. And Bob was struggling

He got into position across from Walker, fists up, knees slightly bent. Walker didn’t wait. He surged forward, jabbing fast. Bob deflected, parried, blocked—just barely. He wasn’t going for offense anymore. He couldn’t. Walker was quicker, sharper, and Bob’s stamina was waning.

Bob managed to land a hit to Walker’s shoulder, but the momentary success cost him. Walker swept his leg out, knocking Bob’s feet out from under him. He slammed to the mat with a jarring thud, pain flaring up his spine. Before he could recover, Walker was standing over him, arms crossed.

“Sloppy,” Walker muttered.

Bob let his head fall back against the floor with a thud, exhaling sharply through his nose, eyes screwed shut. The frustration clawed at his chest, burning beneath his ribs. He didn’t need Walker’s commentary right now. He needed to catch his breath.

“Get up,” Walker said again, firm and unimpressed.

Bob gritted his teeth and pushed himself up, back into position. This time, as they resumed, Walker didn’t stay silent. He started in on him.

“Your stance is too wide. You’re telegraphing your movements. You keep dropping your left hand.”

Each critique hit harder than the punches. They wormed into Bob’s mind, fed the self-doubt already blooming like rot. He couldn’t get through Walker’s offense. He couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much easier everything used to be when he had his powers. When he was the Sentry. When his body didn’t feel like a limitation.

He remembered the hum of energy under his skin. The speed. The strength. The way the world seemed to slow around him when he moved. Now, he felt slow. Weak.

The words kept coming, picking at him.

Bob’s patience finally snapped. The next time Walker advanced, Bob hit back harder. Sloppier, yes—but with more heat. More anger. Walker caught the change instantly.

“There you go,” Walker goaded. “Come on, Bobby. Hit me.”

Bob landed a solid punch to Walker’s jaw, but it left him open. Walker countered fast, slipping behind and locking Bob in a tight headlock. Bob struggled, twisted, and managed to drive his elbow back into Walker’s nose with enough force to make him stumble.

Walker cursed and reeled back, blood starting to drip from his nose, Bob barely had time to register the small win before Walker recovered and struck out with a quick jab across Bob’s face, then hooked him by the arm and flipped him clean over.

Bob slammed into the mat again, a sharp cry escaping as pain bloomed across his back and jaw. He tasted blood—his lip split from the blow.

He stayed on the mat, fist curling against the floor. The rage burst out in a shout. “Damn it!

Walker didn’t taunt him this time. He stood a few feet away, holding the towel to his bleeding nose, chest heaving.

Bob laid there for a moment, catching his breath, the room spinning slightly. Finally, he pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring through the haze of emotion.

Walker met his gaze calmly, the white towel already streaked red.

Bob’s fists trembled against the mat. He felt a flash of guilt for the hit—but it was buried beneath layers of shame, frustration, and helpless anger. The kind that came from feeling like a ghost of who he used to be.

And the worst part? He wasn’t even mad at Walker.

He was mad at himself.

Bob stood silently, facing Walker. His fists were still clenched at his sides, his body aching. Walker didn’t move immediately. He just stared at him—eyes sharp, thoughtful, like he was analyzing every breath Bob took. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm. Too calm.

“You’re weak,” Walker said, voice even. “You let your anger cloud your judgment. Slows your reactions. Makes you sloppy.”

The words landed like a slap. Something inside Bob cracked. He took a step forward, not to strike—but to speak, to spit out what had been building inside him since the moment he walked into this room.

“Yes, I’m weak!” Bob snapped. His voice trembled. His breath hitched. “And I’m so—so angry!”

The confession rushed out of him, fast and stumbling over itself. “I feel slow and useless, Walker! I used to be powerful. I could throw you across this room with a single punch. Do you remember ? I could feel the energy pulsing behind my skin. It was like… like I was unstoppable. And it felt good.”

He paused, chest heaving, eyes burning.

“It made me feel useful. Like I actually mattered . Like I could protect people. Like I was something . And now? I can’t even counter a punch right. I can’t land a clean hit. I can’t…”

He trailed off, his voice collapsing under the weight of it all. The words were there, caught in his throat like thorns. He turned away, pushing past Walker, and walked to the bench. Dropping down onto it, Bob buried his face in his hands, trying to breathe, to claw back control over the storm inside him.

He fully expected Walker to bark at him again. To throw a towel in his face or order him back onto the mat like nothing happened. But instead, he heard slow footsteps approach and then felt the bench dip slightly beside him.

Walker sat down.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain. Then Walker spoke.

“You think you’re the only one who’s ever felt like that?” he said, his voice lower now, quieter. “Like everything you built yourself up to be got stripped away? You’re not.”

Bob turned his head, not quite looking at him, but listening.

Walker exhaled. “You know how many times I’ve messed up in the field? Screwed up a mission, got someone hurt? How many times I had to sit with the fact that maybe I wasn’t cut out for this after all? More than I’d like to count.”

He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Strength isn’t just power, Bob. It’s not just muscles and throwing people across rooms. It’s how many times you get back up. How well you think under pressure. How you handle being knocked down and getting back up anyway—even when everything in you wants to quit.”

Bob stared at the floor. His hands had stopped shaking, but the frustration still churned in his chest like a storm.

“Sometimes…” he began slowly, voice hoarse, “I wish I could be the Sentry again. Just for a day. Just to feel what that power was like. But… I know I could never fully go back. Not without… the other side coming back with it.”

Walker didn’t interrupt.

“He’s still a part of me,” Bob admitted. “Sentry. I can feel him, even now. Like a shadow that never quite goes away. But I can’t let him fully resurface. I won’t .”

He looked at Walker finally, his eyes raw with honesty. “I don’t trust what I’d become.”

Walker nodded. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to pretend he’s not there. You just have to keep choosing not to be him. That takes more strength than any punch you’ll ever throw.”

Bob let the words settle. They didn’t magically fix everything—but they grounded him. Helped him breathe again.

Walker clapped him once on the back, firm but not dismissive. “Come on. Take five. Then we go again. And this time, don’t fight like the guy you used to be. Fight like the guy you are now.”

Bob nodded, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Okay.”

And for the first time that day, he actually meant it.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was quiet except for the occasional metallic clatter of a spoon against a mixing bowl and the soft hum of a fan overhead. The counter was covered in ingredients: flour dusted every surface like fresh snow, while opened spice jars leaked hints of paprika and pepper into the air. Bob stood near the sink, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted in flour, and his brows furrowed in intense concentration.

The recipe was supposed to be simple. Pelmeni. Russian dumplings nothing fancy. Flour, eggs, salt, water, a meat filling. But somehow, every batch he made either burned, fell apart, or just tasted wrong. He had watched three different videos, followed every step meticulously, and still—failure. A growing pile of misfolded, overcooked dumplings sat on a plate in shame, like small edible reminders of inadequacy.

He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He'd been at this for over an hour, using the cooking to distract himself from the silence of the tower when the others were off on missions. He wasn't allowed out in the field—not anymore. He had chores, books, and hobbies. And none of them ever filled the void for long.

Determined to get it right this time, Bob started again. He carefully formed a well in the flour and salt mixture, cracking an egg into the center and slowly mixing in the water. He was so focused on folding the dough that he didn’t hear Alexei enter. The Russian’s large figure leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes curiously watching Bob struggle.

Then— crash. A glass measuring cup slid off the edge of the table and shattered on the ground.

Bob startled. His chest tightened as if a vice had wrapped around his ribs. He turned sharply to the broken glass, and before Alexei could speak, Bob crouched to pick it up.

He didn’t notice the shard until it bit into the palm of his hand.

“Shit—” he hissed, pulling back as a thin line of blood appeared. He sat there frozen, staring at the cut. It wasn’t deep, but the sting was sharp. What overwhelmed him wasn’t the pain—it was the dam of frustration breaking loose.

Tears welled up before he could stop them. Why couldn’t he even make dumplings ? Why did everything feel like a battle these days?

Alexei’s boots clicked against the floor as he approached. His voice was quiet but firm. “Hey. You alright?”

Bob turned his head slightly, eyes glossy with tears. One rolled down his cheek before he could blink it away. Alexei looked momentarily stunned, not expecting to find Bob on the verge of tears.

Bob stood up abruptly, clutching his bleeding hand against his chest. “I’m fine,” he muttered, voice thick.

Alexei raised a hand, noticing the blood. “You are bleeding. Let me see.”

“I said I’m fine, ” Bob snapped, louder this time. He recoiled from Alexei’s grasp and stormed out of the kitchen, blood dripping faintly on the floor behind him.

Alexei didn’t follow—he just watched him go, jaw tightening.

In the bathroom, Bob flicked on the light and left the door open behind him. He looked down at his hand and grimaced. Blood pooled in the center of his palm, already beginning to dry around the edges.

The sight made his stomach churn. He turned toward the mirror and caught sight of his face.

Eyes red. Cheeks flushed. A mess.

He scoffed bitterly. “Of course.”

He pulled a hand towel from the rack and wrapped it around the wound, wincing as he pressed down. The sting was a reminder he was still here, still in control—barely.

But inside, the old storm still churned. The power he used to have. The man he used to be. And the hollow ache left in its place.

Back in the Kitchen Alexei watched him go, jaw tightening. Then his gaze shifted to the counter.

Among the mess, he recognized the flour, the onion, the spices, and the unmistakable smell of meat filling. A slow smile crept to his lips. Pelmeni. A dish he used to make with his daughters. The memory softened something in his face Yelena’s tiny hands clumsily folding dumplings, Natasha’s proud smirk when hers looked better than his.

He knelt to pick up the shards of the broken measuring glass, sweeping them carefully into the trash. Then he cleaned up the small drops of blood on the floor. After a pause, he reached into a cabinet and pulled out a first aid kit, then made his way down the hall.

In the bathroom, Bob sat on the closed toilet seat, hand towel clutched to his palm. He didn’t look up when Alexei knocked lightly on the doorframe.

“Come on, Bob,” Alexei said in a low voice.

Bob hesitated, but then sighed and extended his hand. Alexei sat on the edge of the tub and gently unwrapped the towel. The cloth peeled away with a stickiness, revealing the shallow but angry red cut.

Bob hissed softly.

Alexei worked with slow, practiced hands. As he cleaned the wound, he spoke—softly, but with weight behind his words.

“You know, rage like this... pressure like this... it always leaks out somewhere. Either you talk it out, or you break something. Sometimes someone.”

Bob didn’t say anything. He just stared at the tile wall.

“I have seen strong men destroyed because they tried to carry everything inside,” Alexei continued. “Strength is not only fists and fire. It is knowing when to let someone help you.”

He finished wrapping Bob’s hand with a fresh bandage and secured it in place. Then he patted Bob’s shoulder firmly, in that uniquely Russian gesture of brotherly approval.

Bob finally looked over at him and muttered, “Thanks.”

Alexei gave a small nod. Then, with a glint of teasing in his eye, he added, “I saw what you were trying to cook. Pelmeni, da?”

Bob gave a weak huff. “Tried being the key word.”

“I used to make them with Yelena when she was little. Come. We finish together.”

Bob stood, a little sheepish, and followed Alexei back into the kitchen.

And for the first time all day, the silence felt less suffocating.

Once they were in the kitchen, Alexei took over rolling the dough out smoothly across the counter while Bob gathered the remaining ingredients for the filling. With his bandaged hand cradled slightly, he managed to measure out the ground meat while Alexei finely chopped onions with swift, confident motions.

"Add little bit of salt, pepper... and these—" Alexei said, pulling out a small tin from a high shelf. "Secret weapons. My babushka’s trick." He winked and tossed in a few unfamiliar spices with an exaggerated flourish. Bob raised an eyebrow but obeyed, carefully mixing them into the meat.

They worked quietly but companionably. Bob couldn’t do much with one hand, but he stayed close, watching and learning, soaking in every instruction. He was listening more than just to cooking advice—he was soaking in the steady rhythm of Alexei's presence.

They portioned the dough and quickly realized they’d need a pasta machine to roll it thin enough.

“Tower has everything. Somewhere,” Alexei muttered, opening cabinet after cabinet until he triumphantly pulled one out.

Bob helped feed the dough through the rollers, cutting circles from the thin sheets. Alexei demonstrated how to fill them and fold the edges, using his thumbs to pinch the edges into a perfect ripple.

“Like this. No air bubble. Press here. Seal it good.”

Bob nodded, mimicking the movement, and slowly started to get the hang of it.

Once the dumplings were folded and lined up on a tray like little soldiers, they dropped them into boiling broth. The smell changed almost immediately—rich, warm, nostalgic. They waited, watching for the dumplings to float.

Alexei continued talking, offering tips, stories, even a few quiet jokes. Bob found himself genuinely interested, leaning in when Alexei described how he used to sneak snacks to Yelena and Natasha when they were kids. It was... comforting. The ache in his chest dulled, replaced by something warmer.

Finally, they scooped the steaming pelmeni out of the pot and onto a plate, letting them cool just slightly.

Bob took a bite. His eyes widened. “That’s... really good.”

Alexei grinned and ruffled Bob’s hair. “Good job.”

Bob immediately swatted his hand away, muttering something under his breath as he fixed his hair. Alexei just laughed, picking up a large plate of dumplings.

“You cook. You clean,” he said cheerfully, walking off with the plate.

Bob blinked, looking at the now completely messy kitchen. Flour still coated half the counter. Bowls were stacked in the sink. Dough scraps and meat flecks dotted the surfaces.

He shook his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips. With a sigh, he picked up a sponge and started cleaning. His heart was full. His stomach, too. But before he started scrubbing, he stole one last dumpling from the plate.

Worth it.

Chapter Text

Bucky first notices it around noon–

He’s not keeping track of Bob on purpose. Not really. But over the past few months, Bob’s presence has become something like the background noise of the tower. Predictable. Gentle. Clumsy. Constant. 

Buckys used to Bob lounging on the couch in the sun, soaking in the warmth like a housecat. Not in the kitchen, tinkering with some new recipe that probably shouldn’t work but always does with a ridiculous amount of measuring spoons. Not even the faint shuffle of socked feet roaming the halls as Bob explored the Tower, poking his nose into every forgotten room and dusty storage closet like the place held some secret it hadn’t told him yet.

But today—none of that.

The silence felt wrong. Off. Bob wasn’t the loudest guy around, but he was... present. He filled the space in his own quiet, distracted way. And now, it was like the Tower had swallowed him whole.

Maybe he went out? Bucky wondered. But Bob would’ve said something. He always does—“Just in case you need backup,” he jokes, every time, even though they both know it’s more about letting someone know he’s alive

Something. Bucky’s stomach tugged uneasily. He abandoned the half-read book on the armrest and started walking the halls, the kind of slow, deliberate search that came from instinct rather than panic.

Gym? Empty.

Training room? Lights off, not even a scuff on the mats.

Common room? Still untouched since breakfast, the blanket Bob had curled up with last night still rumpled on the couch.

Then, the kitchen.

And there—nothing. Just the low hum of the fridge and a stale smell from the sink. Bucky leaned against the counter and rubbed the back of his neck. That itch in his brain grew louder. He opened the fridge absentmindedly, closed it again.

Then he glanced up at the calendar on the wall.

May 8th.

Something sparked. He furrowed his brow. The date was familiar. Not in a holiday sort of way. No one’s birthday, no mission scheduled. But it scraped against memory, like a paper cut you forget until something brushes it.

He stared for a long second.

 But then something tugs at the back of his mind—a memory, faint and sharp at the edges. That name. That file.

OXE. Project Sentry.

Bob Reynolds, admitted: May 8th.

Bucky’s jaw tenses.

Of course.

He runs a hand through his hair—metal fingers cool against his scalp—and exhales through his nose. “Shit.”

He knows what this is. Knows what anniversaries can do. The weight of a day like this doesn’t go away, even when the years stack up. Even when the world moves on. Bucky remembers every damn milestone from his own file. The ones no one else marks but him.

Bob’s probably holed up in his room. Lights off. Curtains drawn. Trying to keep the memories boxed in behind his ribs.

His eyes fell to the fridge again, this time to the takeout menu magneted beside some old postcards. Chinese. Bob’s go-to comfort food. Without thinking, he pulls it down and flips it open, scanning the smudged print. He dials, voice low and familiar with the order.

“Yeah, same as usual,” he muttered to the person on the other end. “Extra dumplings.”

He hung up, set the phone down, and opened the drawer under the microwave, pulling out an old, battered deck of cards. The corners were bent and softened, as if worn down by years of hands needing something to do, something to hold onto.

Twenty minutes later, the food arrived. Bucky tipped in cash, didn’t say a word, and padded down the hallway with two plastic bags and the cards shoved in his jacket pocket.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t have to. He knew exactly where Bob was.

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Meanwhile, Bob sat in his room with the lights dimmed low, casting faint shadows on the walls. The air was still. Heavy. He sat cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, his back resting against the nightstand. In his hands, a Rubik’s cube spun with hypnotic speed, the colored squares clicking in rapid, methodical rhythm. His fingers moved automatically, the same patterns repeated again and again, resolving and scrambling the puzzle with equal ease.

He wasn’t angry. Wasn’t sad, not exactly. The emotion was harder to define—emptiness, maybe. Or a kind of echoing hollowness that came with remembering what led him here in the first place. The memory of the lowest point in his life: agreeing to something he barely understood, a trial drug whispered in a back room, desperation clouding every ounce of his judgment.

That was the beginning of Project Sentry.

And the end of who he used to be.

Time blurred in moments like these. One minute bled into the next, thought into thought, until hours passed without warning. His cube kept spinning, matching his looping mind scrambling, solving, resetting. Always resetting.

Then, a knock. Gentle, but unmistakable.

His fingers froze mid-turn. The cube stilled in his lap. Slowly, he looked up.

Bucky stood at the doorway, silhouetted in the frame. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside holding up two plastic bags. The scent of sesame oil and fried rice drifted through the room.

"Didn’t feel like eating alone," Bucky said casually. He walked over and sat down at the edge of the bed, placing the food on the floor beside Bob. "Wanna join me?"

Bob blinked at him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in the smallest of smiles. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was something. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah."

Bucky stood and headed for the door without another word, and Bob rose to his feet, trailing behind him. The quiet companionship was enough.

They made their way to a small table tucked into the corner of the common room, right beside a wide, floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the glittering skyline of New York. The sun was dipping below the buildings, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple.

They settled down at the table, which quickly became cluttered with containers of lo mein, dumplings, and sticky rice. Bob crossed his legs in his chair and dished himself a bowl, gaze drifting to the view as he ate slowly, thoughtfully.

Bucky leaned back in his chair and shuffled the worn deck of cards idly, the soft flutter of paper filling the space between them. He glanced over at Bob, then followed his gaze out toward the city.

"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?" Bucky said.

Bob didn’t look away from the skyline. He gave a small nod. "Yeah. It is."

They didn’t need to talk about the date. They didn’t need to talk about what it meant. The silence said enough. And for now, that was enough.

After a moment, Bob turned his attention back to the table. Bucky had already begun dealing the cards. They started with a few rounds of Speed, the fast-paced slapping of cards filling the room with a rhythm almost as comforting as the quiet had been. It didn’t take long before the game turned competitive—Bob accused Bucky of cheating, and Bucky scoffed, calling Bob out for "hustling him with that fake innocent face."

The laughter was low and warm, echoing off the glass and bouncing around the room like sunlight. For the first time all day, Bob felt something loosen in his chest. The knot that had sat just beneath his heart—tight, heavy—began to unwind.

Between games, Bucky taught him a new one. A simple, strategic game he’d learned during his service—one that didn’t rely on bluffing or speed, but patience and timing. Bob picked it up quickly, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to beat Bucky at his own memory.

He focused on the feeling of the cards beneath his fingers—the edges rough with age, the way they snapped when he flicked them against the table. His thoughts, which had once spun like the Rubik’s cube in his lap, slowed. The loop broke. The quiet ache in his head dulled beneath layers of strategy, food, and friendship.

They ate until the containers were empty, each helping themselves to seconds and thirds between rounds. Bob found himself smiling more often than not, leaning into the rhythm of the moment: deal, play, tease, laugh.

They never spoke about the date. About what it meant.

They didn’t need to.

Because in the soft hum of the Tower, beneath the golden glow of the city lights, something shifted.

The hollow space inside Bob didn’t disappear.

But for tonight, it was filled—by cards, by food, by laughter.

And by someone who showed up.

That was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning air in New York was brisk, the kind of chilled breeze that bit at the cheeks and crept beneath jackets. The streets were quiet in that just-before-dawn way, a rare stillness in a city that never really slept. The New Avengers walked as a unit down the pavement, summoned at an ungodly hour to meet with Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. No one was happy about it.

Bob trailed slightly behind the others, his steps sluggish, sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He wore a black knit sweater and worn jeans, looking every bit the guy who had rolled out of bed too early and hadn’t had time for caffeine. He blinked his eyes hard, trying to force himself awake as another yawn overtook him.

Walker, further ahead, turned around with a snide look. "Don’t be dragging us down, Bob."

Bob tried to respond, but only managed another yawn. He gave Walker the finger instead, not breaking stride. Walker huffed, but there was a reluctant twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Please,” Yelena muttered, her voice thick with grogginess, “we all don’t want to be here.”

Everyone murmured agreement. Their relationship with Valentina was strained at best, toxic at worst. She had used them—used Bob, especially—as a political tool. Once an enemy, now their handler, she only softened when the public eye demanded it. She’d thrown them into the Avenger spotlight not out of belief in them, but out of self-preservation.

“Why couldn’t she have just sent a message?” Ava groaned mid-yawn, rubbing her eyes.

“She’s doing it on purpose,” Bucky said flatly, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket. “Or something serious is going down.”

Alexei hummed in solemn agreement. "Perhaps she wishes to show us new kiddie toy for cereal meal."

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” he asked innocently. “It is possible.”

They continued walking in relative peace, the group slowly dissolving into smaller clusters of conversation. Yelena, Ava, and Bob ended up walking closer together, slightly behind the others. 

“I can’t believe we didn’t get to eat anything,” Yelena grumbled.

“Literally the worst part,” Bob agreed, tugging his sleeves down as the breeze cut deeper.

Ava nodded emphatically. “My stomach is eating itself. This is criminal.”

As they rounded a corner, the rich, toasty smell of fresh bagels hit them like a wall. The source: a street-side bagel and coffee stand, already open and exuding the unmistakable scent of breakfast salvation. They all stopped in unison.

No words were needed at first just a silent exchange of looks. Yelena raised her brows. Ava gave a tiny, hopeful smile. Bob blinked slowly, then turned his gaze toward the others ahead of them.

They all looked at Bucky.

He noticed the silence and glanced back. "What?"

Bob tilted his head toward the stand. Yelena followed with a meaningful glance. Ava pointed outright.

Bucky sighed, slow and deep, clearly weighing the consequences of letting the team be late. Then he muttered, "Let’s go."

They didn’t wait for him to change his mind.

"Bless you, metal arm," Yelena declared, already walking toward the stand. Ava clapped once, delighted.

As they neared the vendor, the excitement grew. Bob rubbed his hands together for warmth, squinting at the menu. “I’m thinking cinnamon raisin with cream cheese. Classic. Reliable. Sweet, like me.” giving the other two a exaggerated innocent look. 

Yelena snorted. “You wish. I’m going full New Yorker—everything bagel, bacon egg and cheese, hot sauce.”

“That’s intense,” Ava said, eyeing the menu like it held the secrets of the universe. “I might get two. I need one for now and one for emotional support.”

Behind them, Walker and Alexei finally caught up, drawn in by the smell.

Walker rolled his eyes. “You guys are really stopping?”

Bob looked over his shoulder. “Yup.”

Alexei squinted at the stand. “Do they have poppyseed? Poppyseed is best. And perhaps warm coffee... or cocoa.”

Within minutes, the group was huddled around the vendor like kids on a field trip, handing over crumpled bills and counting change. The air filled with the sounds of sizzling eggs, steaming coffee, and laughter—low, sleepy, genuine.

For just a moment, the mission didn’t matter. The politics didn’t matter. It was just them. A bunch of tired, slightly dysfunctional heroes sharing breakfast before whatever came next.

They began to walk again, the only sounds their footsteps tapping against the concrete and the soft rustle of wrappers as they munched on bagels and sipped from warm coffee cups. The food brought a little more life into them, some color returning to their faces as they finally approached the tall, sleek glass building at the edge of the block.

Walker, hands on his hips, tossed his empty coffee cup into a nearby bin as they stepped into the glass-encased lobby. He turned to the group. “So what do we actually think she’s calling us up here for?”

Bucky walked a few steps forward, taking in the sterile, gleaming interior of the lobby. His brow furrowed. “I’m not sure,” he said after a beat, voice low. “This is a new building.”

That made the others pause.

Yelena blinked and pulled out her phone, rechecking the directions. “This is the correct address?” she asked slowly.

A second passed. Then it clicked.

“Shit,” Bob said under his breath.

The moment they turned back toward the door, alarms screamed to life. A deafening klaxon rang out, and with a heavy metallic groan, a barricade slammed down over the glass entrance.

“Shit shit shit,” Yelena hissed, already moving.

They reacted in sync, backs to each other, eyes scanning every angle of the vast lobby. Red lights flared along the walls, and from shadowed doorways, men in all black began to flood in—tactical gear, heavy boots, weapons raised.

“Behind me!” Yelena barked, grabbing Bob’s arm and pulling him behind her, already stepping forward into a protective stance.

Bob nodded, heart hammering, and ducked into cover behind her. From ahead, Walker’s voice rang out—

“And don’t go shooting a gun to cause a distraction again, Bob!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Bob called back, voice cracking.

“Still happened!” Walker replied, ducking behind a pillar as bullets ricocheted.

Yelena didn’t look back. “Stay close,” she muttered. “Like last time.”

Bob gave a hasty nod, his limbs already tense as he followed her lead. Together they moved up the wide stairwell toward the first floor, while down below, Bucky and Alexei engaged the first wave of attackers on the ground level—fists, knives, and shields flying.

Ava disappeared from sight, phasing clean through a marble column and vanishing into the wall.

The New Avengers were under attack but they weren’t going down easy.

The harsh fluorescent lights flicker as Bob and Yelena push their way through the next wave of attackers, bodies moving in sync as though they'd done this dozens of times before. Yelena leads with sharp precision, ducking and weaving between dark-clad figures. Bob trails close behind, slightly less graceful but focused his adrenaline pounding in his ears.

As another armed figure charges at them, Bob instinctively throws out a foot, catching the man off balance and sending him sprawling to the floor. Walker, running up behind them, finishes the job with a swift punch, giving Bob a nod that says, "Not bad."

They press forward, the corridor narrowing before opening up into what looks like a control room, metal panels, glowing monitors, and wires snaking across the floor. The room is oddly sterile, like it was set up in a rush. Yelena immediately moves to the central console, eyes scanning the interface.

"What are you doing?" Walker barks, swinging his arm to knock away a baton from one of the guards that slipped in behind them.

"Trying to figure out what this place is!" Yelena snaps, her fingers flying over the keys. Her Russian accent thickens with the tension. "They’re not here by accident. None of this is!"

Bob lingers near the wall, trying to stay out of the fray, but his mind races. His hands tremble slightly as he keeps an eye on the main monitor that begins to flicker with information. His breath catches in his throat. Graphs, encrypted files, dossiers.

Then something flashes across the screen a document header, barely visible before scrolling out of view.

Something stirs in his memory.

"Wait, wait—go back!" he blurts out, stepping closer to the screen.

Yelena groans. "What, Bob? I'm trying not to get us killed!"

"That name! I've seen that name before," Bob says, eyes wide. He snaps his fingers as if trying to physically grasp the memory. "Come on, come on..."

Walker dispatches the last attacker in the room and slams the door shut, locking it. "Bob, unless that name can tell us how to get out of here—"

"It might," Bob interrupts. "Just—Yelena, scroll back."

She narrows her eyes at him, then does it.

The name appears again. Project I.N.A.— Insurgent Neutralization Assembly.

Bob's voice drops low. "That's it. That’s the group. I saw this in a file at the compound. They're an anti-New Avengers group. Extremists. They don’t think we’re real Avengers. They think we’re frauds, replacements. They want us gone."

Yelena freezes, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Walker exchanges a look with her, then at Bob.

"So this..." Walker says slowly, gesturing around them. "This whole thing was a setup."

Bob nods, his face pale but resolute. "They don’t just want to discredit us. They want to wipe us out."

Yelena’s face hardens. "Then we wipe them first."

The three of them look around the room, the gravity of the situation settling in. They aren't just reacting anymore. Now they know what they're up against.

The gravity of the situation settles in, silence falling between them.

BANG.

A loud crash echoes from the hallway. All three of them turn to the control room entrance. The metal door shakes violently under the force of something heavy.

Walker rushes over and reinforces the lock just in time for it to burst inward. The door swings open with a deafening clang as a squad of armored operatives flood into the room, weapons raised.

"Get down!" Walker shouts, throwing himself in front of Bob and Yelena, his shield raised just in time to absorb the onslaught of bullets. Sparks fly as the rounds ricochet off the front, the air thick with smoke and noise.

Yelena ducks under the shield and charges into the fray, moving with practiced violence, taking down two men with calculated strikes. Bob is frozen for a beat, eyes wide, but then throws himself to the floor behind the console as another burst of bullets sprays past his head.

His hands tremble as he fumbles back to the keyboard. He doesn't know exactly what he's doing, but he knows he has to do something. Every keystroke is shaky but deliberate. He flinches hard when a body crashes near him—one of the attackers, blood seeping onto the floor.

Bob swallows hard. His stomach twists, nausea rising in his throat, but he pushes through it. He keeps clicking, navigating through unfamiliar code until finally, a window opens up: SECURITY FEED.

His eyes scan the grainy camera footage. One screen catches his attention, and his heart sinks.

"Bucky and Alexei," he whispers.

Walker, still deflecting fire, hears him and rushes to his side. They both stare at the screen. Bucky and Alexei are on the ground in a hallway, unmoving. Gas swirls around them. Some kind of high-tech cuffs clamp around their wrists and ankles, glowing faintly.

"That shouldn’t be possible," Walker mutters, jaw clenched. "Not with them."

Bob nods, mouth dry. "Something's wrong with the air... the gas—it weakened them. We’ve gotta move."

Yelena finishes off the last soldier and spins around. "Wow, thanks for all the help!" she calls sarcastically, panting—then sees the footage. Her voice falters. "Wait... what the hell happened to them?"

All three stare at the screen.

Whatever this place is, it’s more dangerous than they imagined.

And they’re running out of time.

Bob continues clicking through the surveillance feeds, more desperate now. His hands twitch over the keyboard. Suddenly, a new screen flickers to life.

Ava.

She's alone. Surrounded.

Struggling against a crowd of black-clad operatives. Her phasing glitching slightly—she's overworked, outnumbered. One wrong move and she’ll be caught.

Bob’s eyes widen. "She’s in trouble—Ava!"

Yelena and Walker snap their attention to the screen. Walker instantly turns toward the hallway. "We’ve gotta get to her."

Bob stands quickly, moving away from the console. "Then go. She needs you."

Yelena hesitates. "We can’t just leave you here."

"You have to," Bob insists, eyes earnest, voice quiet but firm. "I’m not going to help anyone out there. I’m only going to slow you down. I can stay here, keep checking feeds. Maybe even find a way to shut this place down."

Walker frowns. "You better not get yourself killed. Again."

Bob gives a weak, shaky chuckle and forces a smile. "I’ll try to avoid it."

Yelena steps toward the door, then pauses. Her eyes meet Bob’s.

A beat of silence.

He softens. "I’m going to be fine. Go."

She nods once. Then turns.

Walker hits the door control and the two of them disappear into the hallway, the door sliding shut behind them.

Bob is alone.

He takes a breath. Then returns to the console, typing again, the flicker of screens dancing across his anxious face.

The clock is still ticking.

Hes more desperate now. His hands twitch over the keyboard. He keeps the security feed open on one monitor and opens a second tab to dive deeper into the mainframe. He’s never hacked into anything before—he’s just clicking buttons, praying for something useful.

Miraculously, files begin opening. Research documents. Blueprints.

He scans rapidly, catching key phrases. The gas—an engineered compound that weakens enhanced physiology, numbs motor functions, induces unconsciousness. It’s almost like a sedative and paralytic combined. 

The cuffs—originally developed by S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers Initiative—were meant to subdue the most dangerous threats. These versions are upgraded: reinforced, tamper-proof, and resistant even to phasing.

"No wonder Ava couldn’t get out..."

Then, another document pops up. This one makes his stomach drop.

A layout. A room.

A place designed to erase a person completely. Total neural wipe. DNA fragmentation. No trace left behind.

He realizes—this is a kill box.

His hands shake as he scrambles back to the feeds. He flicks through the camera angles until—

There. The execution room.

Bucky and Alexei are being dragged inside, shackled to the floor.

Bob gasps. "No, no, no..."

He flips to another feed—Ava.

She’s surrounded by masked operatives, fighting hard but clearly weakening. Her phasing is flickering, stuttering. She’s outnumbered.

Walker and Yelena are with her—trying to help, but gas is already in the air. The enemy wears masks; they don’t. Bob sees Yelena lunge for one of the attackers, trying to rip off his mask. Walker throws punches but stumbles—off balance. Ava drops to one knee.

The gas is already inside them.

They’re losing.

Bob’s breath catches, heart pounding.

He slams the keyboard. "Come on, think—"

Bob breathes heavily forces himself to slow down, to breathe. He can’t afford to panic. Not now. Not when they’re all counting on him.

He stares at the blueprint of the execution room glowing on the screen—walls layered with dense shielding, only one access door, no windows. The system logs show it’s not active yet. A countdown in the corner of the screen: 8:42 and falling.

Eight minutes.

Bob’s eyes dart across the interface. A line of code blinks near the schematic— PRIMARY OVERRIDE: OFFLINE. But beneath it, he finds another tab, tucked behind nested permissions: Shutdown Protocol. Locked, but accessible with two mechanical keys.

His eyes widen. There’s still a chance.

He clicks deeper, unearthing a file labeled SECURITY KEY ALLOCATION. He scans the list, fingers shaking, until one line stops him cold.

Control Room #3 – Key #2 (Master Switch Access)

He looks around. This is Control Room #3.

Bob scrambles to his feet, knocking over the chair as he bolts to the cabinets lining the far wall. He rips open drawer after drawer, flinging their contents—folders, zip ties, expired ration packs—until he finds a locked case. He doesn’t hesitate. Grabbing a metal stool, he smashes it against the lock with a panicked yell.

CRACK.

The lock shatters. He throws the case open.

There it is. A small, red-handled key labeled MASTER SWITCH – RIGHT.

He stared at it for a beat. Just a simple, unassuming thing. But it could save them all.

Bob lets out a breathless laugh. One down.

He rushes back to the monitor. The other key is stored in Control Room #7—directly adjacent to the execution chamber.

He frowns. He doesn’t have time to search the whole facility. But then he remembers the schematic—every room is connected by ventilation crawlways. He pulls up the blueprints again, this time overlaying the maintenance routes.

A path lights up from his current room to #7. It’s tight and winding, but it’ll get him close enough.

Then another obstacle hits him. If he’s spotted, if the operatives still roaming the halls catch him, he won’t make it ten steps.

He looks over his shoulder at one of the operatives slumped on the floor, a black-clad enforcer in full tactical gear.

A thought clicks into place.

Utah. Him, Walker, and Yelena, disguised as guards to escape that government raid. He remembers the weight of the uniform, the suffocating heat under the mask—but also how no one looked at them twice.

Bob moves fast. He strips the downed operative, pulling on the gear, piece by piece. It’s slightly big on him, but close enough. He clips on the mask, adjusts the straps. His heart pounds harder with each movement, but it’s no longer just fear. It’s purpose.

He picks up the standard-issue rifle, heavier than the ones he trained with at the range—but he’s been practicing. With Bucky. He knows enough to fake it.

He turns back to the security feed. Walker is down on one knee, coughing violently. Yelena’s shoulder slams into the wall as she’s knocked back. Ava is fully collapsed, eyes fluttering, her phasing almost completely gone.

Bucky and Alexei are still unconscious. The machine above them is beginning to whir.

Bob places a trembling hand on the desk, leans over the camera, and whispers a promise to the screen.

“I’m coming. Just hang on.”

He takes one last look at the countdown:

7:19

Bob slams the rifle against the console, breaking the screen.

Then turned into the smoke-filled hallway, breath catching in the tight seal of his ventilation mask. The air was thick, almost oily, and he could feel the strain in his chest despite the filters. 

Every step was heavier than the last, each bootfall echoing faintly against the grimy tile floor as he tried to recall the blueprints he'd scanned moments before. His plan had been to enter the vent system through a narrow opening down this hall—a shortcut that would drop him right into the secondary control room linked to the execution chamber. But his body froze mid-step.

A cluster of soldiers loomed up ahead, their dark tactical armor glinting under the emergency lighting. They were posted directly in front of the ventilation opening. Bob’s stomach dropped. There was no way he could slip past them unnoticed. If he tried to force his way through, he’d blow his cover before he even got close. He clenched his jaw, cursing silently.

He glanced upward, tracking the ceiling vents barely visible through the overhead tiles. If he couldn’t go through the vents, maybe he could follow them from below, navigate using the map burned into his brain. He pressed onward, feigning the purposeful stride of a soldier on assignment.

A voice called out behind him, slicing through the haze. “Hey!”

Bob turned slowly, heart thudding wildly. One of the soldiers had stepped forward. “Where you headed?” the man asked.

Bob tried to keep his voice steady through the distortion of the mask. “Execution chamber,” he said with a firm nod.

The soldier frowned and jabbed a thumb behind him. “That’s the other way.”

Panic and relief nearly made Bob sway. He gave an awkward, sheepish laugh. “Ah—thanks. Smoke’s got my sense of direction all scrambled.”

The soldier chuckled in return. “Yeah, I get that. Come on, I’ll walk you there.”

Bob swallowed hard, nodding again. “Appreciate it.”

The two walked in tense silence for a few moments before, in one swift, fluid motion, Bob raised the rifle he’d been carrying and slammed the butt of it into the back of the guard’s helmet. The man dropped instantly, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Bob staggered for a second, hands shaking, adrenaline flooding his system. He remembered Walker showing him this maneuver in training—one clean strike, right where the spine met the skull. Still, this was the first time he’d done it for real.

He ducked to the side, pressing himself flat against the wall as two more soldiers approached from around the corner. They were dragging figures with them—Walker, Yelena, and Ava, all limp and breathing heavily.

Bob's pulse spiked. He was running out of time.

As the guards argued over which doors to use, Bob slipped across the hallway, ducking into the opposite control room. His fingers grazed the edge of the console just as one of the soldiers spotted the unconscious man Bob had just knocked out.

“Hey—what happened to him?” the soldier barked.

Bob stiffened. He didn’t turn around, just responded through the filter of his mask. “Gas must’ve gotten through his seal. Said he was here to cover the control room. I’m taking over.”

The soldier grunted. “Right. We’ll get him to medical.”

Bob raised a hand in salute before ducking fully inside, the door sliding closed behind him. As it sealed shut, he muttered under his breath, “Why the hell did I salute?”

No time to think. He tore through the room, eyes scanning frantically for the second kill-switch key. This time, it wasn’t hidden—it was clipped to the wall behind the primary monitor, sealed in a small red case labeled EMERGENCY OVERRIDE.

He smashed the glass with the butt of the rifle and yanked the key out, fumbling with the instructions still fresh in his head. Two keys. Two switches. Turned at the same time.

The countdown had already begun. The terminal blinked—2:00, 1:59, 1:58—descending like a ticking metronome of doom.

Bob's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the blinking screen. He didn’t know what this system was truly capable of—only that it was built to erase. And his team was right in its path.

He clenched the key in his hand and whispered, "Hold on. I'm coming."

He moved to the panel and inserted both keys, hands trembling. He was just about to turn them when a sharp CRACK echoed through the room. A bullet sliced across the side of his arm, tearing through fabric and grazing skin. Bob’s cry of pain tore from his throat as he staggered back, clutching the wound. Blood seeped quickly through his fingers.

He turned to see a soldier aiming his rifle at him. "You’re not supposed to be here," the man growled.

Bob didn’t speak. He simply stared, shoulders rising and falling as pain and panic threatened to consume him. But he crushed it down—he couldn’t afford to freeze. He thought of Walker's voice in his head. Yelena’s sarcasm. Ava’s determination. Buckys presences and Alexeis stupid comments. He thought of everything they had taught him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife—standard issue, one Alexei had insisted he carry. In one desperate, practiced motion, he flung it at the soldier. The blade struck the man's hand, causing the rifle to clatter to the floor.

Bob didn't hesitate. He surged forward, tackling the soldier. They grappled violently, punches thrown, boots scraping on the metal floor. The guard got a hit in—hard—against Bob’s ribs, but Bob countered, slamming his elbow into the man’s throat before twisting him into the wall. The man tried to recover, grabbing for Bob’s shoulder punching his mask breaking a piece off, but Bob lifted his knee and struck, then used the butt of his pistol to knock the soldier out cold.

Before he could catch his breath or think about the gas slowly seeping through his mask, another guard burst through the door. Bob dove to the side just in time as gunfire ripped through the air. One round narrowly missed his head, embedding in the control panel behind him.

He rolled, grabbed the sidearm from the first soldier’s belt, and fired. The shot hit the second guard in the leg, sending him crashing to the floor. His mask slipped off as he fell, and the gas overtook him quickly. Within seconds, he was out cold.

Bob’s chest heaved as he turned back to the console. 30 seconds left.

He bolted forward, ready to turn the keys—when yet another enemy entered the room. More bullets flew. Bob ducked behind the desk, shielding himself.

This couldn’t keep happening. He couldn't waste another second.

He spotted the rifle he’d brought in—the one he’d abandoned by the door—and dove for it. The guard turned to fire again, but Bob brought the rifle up first, bracing it against the table. He fired one clean shot. The man dropped.

Bob spun around, eyes locking on the countdown. 5 seconds.

Heart pounding like a war drum, he sprinted to the console, grabbed both keys, and twisted.

1 second.

The red warning light above the execution room flickered—then turned green.

He stood there for a moment, panting, wounded arm hanging limp at his side, the pain barely registering over the rush of adrenaline. He whispered a hoarse prayer under his breath. "Please, please let it have worked."

He limped to the console’s main screen and slammed his hand on the open-door command.

With a hiss and a creak, the execution chamber doors slid open.

And there—through the thick, smoky haze—he saw them. Bucky, Walker, Yelena, Ava and Alexei. Still breathing.

He choked out a sob, slumping against the control panel, finally letting the tears fall. But he knew he still had to act fast.

Bob scrambled across the room, the echo of his footsteps mingling with the slow hiss of receding gas as the vent systems kicked into a partial purge. 

His limbs ached, his wounded arm burned with every movement and his vision was beginning to blur around the edges, but he pushed on, driven by pure desperation. 

He tore the masks off the wall hooks by the control panel and staggered back toward his team. Each breath was heavier now, the fractured corner of his mask leaking in the chemical haze that still clung to the air. He ignored it. He had to.

The first mask went to Bucky, who was slumped forward, unconscious and cuffed to the floor. Bob struggled with the clasp, fingers fumbling, pain shooting down his arm as he forced the seal over Bucky's face. Then Ava, twitching slightly but clearly fading fast. Then Yelena. He cursed under his breath as the mask strap snapped, forcing him to knot it manually around the back of her head with shaking fingers. He Fastens Walkers and Alexei's last.

Each second felt like he was lifting a mountain, his lungs working overtime against the failing filtration of his own damaged mask. The gas was starting to seep into his system—he could feel the way his hands trembled not from adrenaline, but from weakening muscle control. His mind began to fog. Every move was like wading through syrup.

There were only five masks. He had to make the call, and he had already made it. His friends got them. Not him.

With the last mask secured, Bob slumped back against the cold metal wall, sliding down it with a thud. He blinked hard, trying to stay awake, trying not to panic. His chest was heavy, his breath shallow. But there was no time to regret anything. He had done what he came to do. He had saved them.

As the haze overtook his vision, movement caught his eye. Boots. Weapons. Voices. Uniforms. At first he thought they were more guards, and panic fluttered in his chest like a dying bird. But then he recognized the emblem on their shoulders. The same one from the safe house.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s team. Reinforcements.

The cavalry had arrived.

Relief flooded his system even faster than the chemicals, and it was the last thing he felt before everything went dark.

They were safe now.

He had done it.

Chapter Text

Bob slowly drifted toward consciousness, the world around him filtered through a haze of heavy limbs and the hum of fluorescent lighting. The brightness behind his closed eyelids was soft at first, but it gradually intensified until it became impossible to ignore. He blinked against the glow, disoriented. His first instinct was to press himself back into the softness of the bed beneath him. It was warm, too warm, and too unfamiliar.

This wasn’t his bed.

He froze. The realization jolted his mind into motion. The memories returned in a slow, chaotic rush, the timer ticking down, the flash of gunfire, the gas in his lungs, the weight of the mask breaking, the image of his friends unconscious on the floor. His eyes flew open.

He sat up too fast.

Pain flared in his arm, sharp and immediate, and he winced, glancing down to find the wound cleanly dressed and wrapped in white gauze. A bullet graze. Right—he remembered the sting of it, the way it had forced him to turn mid-motion. His other arm had a couple of IV lines inserted, the clear bags above him slowly dripping fluids into his veins.

His head still felt foggy. The chemical gas hadn’t fully left his system yet—it clung to his bones like lead, dragging down his movements, trying to lull him back into unconsciousness. But he fought it, breathing deep, grounding himself in the moment.

The Tower’s infirmary.

Safe.

His eyes flicked across the room.

Everyone was there.

Bucky was in the chair closest to his bed, his vibranium arm propped up on the armrest, head tilted slightly forward, hair falling in loose strands across his face. Ava and Yelena were curled up together in one of the large lounge chairs in the corner, their legs tangled like siblings sharing a space far too small. Walker was slumped against the wall nearby, his chin tucked to his chest. And Alexei—massive, unmistakable was sprawled out on the opposite end of the room, arms crossed, snoring lightly.

A slow, aching smile pulled at Bob’s lips.

They were okay.

He let his eyes slip shut again for just a moment, comfort washing over him like a warm tide. 

But when he opened them again, he felt clearer, more awake. His muscles still ached, but it was tolerable now. Bearable.

Bucky was still beside him.

The rest of the team must’ve left at some point, likely called away on other assignments, but Bucky remained, his vigil unbroken. Bob shifted slightly, sitting up a little straighter, adjusting the pillow behind his back. The motion stirred Bucky.

His eyes blinked open slowly at first, then widened with sudden alertness when they locked onto Bob’s. He sat up, brushing his hair back with one hand, the movement quick and relieved.

"How are you feeling?" he asked immediately.

Bob opened his mouth to answer, but the words barely croaked out. His throat felt like sandpaper. He winced, swallowing hard. Bucky seemed to get it right away. He stood and crossed the room, grabbing a plastic cup of water from the tray by the sink, bringing it back with steady hands.

Bob accepted it gratefully, taking slow sips. The cool water soothed his throat, and he sighed softly, easing the cup back onto the side table.

"I’m... feeling good," he said, voice hoarse but steady.

Bucky nodded once, settling back into the chair beside him. His expression shifted—less relieved now, more serious.

"Thank you."

Bob blinked at him. "What?"

But Bucky kept talking, cutting him off gently. "You saved us. All of us. We wouldn’t have made it out if it wasn’t for you."

Bob opened his mouth to protest—to say he just did what he had to—but the look in Bucky’s eyes stopped him.

"You showed real bravery," Bucky said, voice low and steady. "I’m proud of you."

Bob tried not to smile, but the grin broke through anyway. He ducked his head, fiddling with a frayed string from the edge of the hospital blanket. His cheeks flushed with quiet pride.

Bucky let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Be proud," he said warmly.

Bob looked up at him, smile lingering. "Thanks, Bucky."

Bucky stood slowly, bracing his hands on his knees as he pushed himself up. "I’m going to let the others know you’re awake. You gonna be okay on your own for a bit?"

Bob nodded, his voice quiet but sure. "Yeah. I’ll be fine."

Bucky paused by the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. A small smirk played at his lips. "We’re having Chinese tonight."

He gave Bob a wink and disappeared into the corridor.

The room had settled into a calm quiet again after Bucky left, the soft beep of machines and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead providing a steady background rhythm. 

Bob rested back against the bed, still feeling the aftereffects of the gas weighing on his body like a heavy wool blanket. His mind drifted, still somewhat dazed from everything that had happened, but he was more aware now, more grounded.

The door creaked open, and instinctively, Bob’s eyes snapped toward it. He fully expected Bucky to return, maybe with the rest of the team behind him—Ava cracking a joke, Yelena feigning indifference but clearly relieved, Alexei talking too loud, and Walker offering some half-hearted jab. But it wasn’t the whole crew. It wasn’t even Bucky.

It was just Walker.

Bob blinked in surprise, and Walker looked equally thrown off for a split second. He masked it quickly, though, his expression shifting into something more casual, almost teasing.

"Didn’t expect you to be awake this early," he said, arms crossed, his voice laced with sarcasm but his tone softer than usual.

Bob gave a faint shrug, trying to sit up a bit more. "Didn’t Bucky tell you I was awake?"

Walker shook his head. "Nah. I just came in to see how you were doing."

That made Bob pause. Not because he didn’t think Walker cared—he knew he did, deep down—but Walker wasn’t the type to be open about it. Concern wasn’t usually his leading emotion. He tended to mask it under sarcasm, training critiques, and the occasional insult disguised as advice.

Walker stepped further into the room, glancing around once before pulling up the chair Bucky had used earlier and settling into it. For a moment, he just looked at Bob—really looked at him. Studied him in a way that made Bob feel seen, but also a little self-conscious.

Then, finally, Walker spoke.

"You know, I guess you have been listening to my training."

Bob raised an eyebrow at him. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Walker tilted his head. "You fought like the man you are now—not the one you used to be."

That surprised Bob. Not because the compliment was so grand, but because it was Walker who said it—and said it so plainly.

Bob let out a short huff, part disbelieving, part amused.

"But," Walker added, leaning forward with a smirk, "we still have to work on your technique. Some of those moves were pretty sloppy."

Bob shot him a glare. "Is that really what you’re focusing on right now? I saved you."

Walker held his gaze, the smirk fading as his expression sobered. That look—direct, intense, no-nonsense—was classic Walker. It made Bob glance down again, his fingers automatically returning to the frayed string on the hospital blanket, twisting it between his fingers.

Walker exhaled, leaning back in the chair with a groan as if taking a step back from himself.

"You saved us," he said, the words more grounded this time. "Thank you."

He paused, almost like he was choosing his next words carefully.

"But you’ve got to stop sacrificing yourself like that."

Bob blinked, looking up. Walker’s face was serious, brows slightly drawn.

"It’s not a good thing that you’ve already done it twice. Once is bravery. Twice is a pattern."

Bob let out a soft laugh—quiet, breathy. There was something hollow at the edges of it, like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling rising in his chest.

"I just want to do everything I can to help you all."

Walker leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. He seemed to wrestle with his next sentence, jaw working like he wanted to say it differently but couldn’t find the words.

"You help us by being there," he said. The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t poetic. But they were true, and they cost Walker something to say.

Bob looked up, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Whoa. That was pretty hard for you to get out, huh?"

Walker bit back a remark—Bob could see it—but instead of snapping, he just glared at him with a raised brow, like, Don’t push it.

And then the door burst open.

Both of their heads whipped toward it as it slammed against the wall, the sudden motion jolting the calm of the room. Footsteps echoed in quickly—too many for it to be just one person.

Yelena and Ava entered first, flanked closely by Alexei and Bucky. The two girls made a beeline for Bob’s bed, Yelena reaching him first.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asked, scanning him over with a furrowed brow. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Ava hovered just behind her, eyes darting to the monitor screens and the file at the foot of the bed, scanning the vitals with practiced efficiency.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Bob said, a soft, genuine smile spreading on his face.

Yelena and Ava slightly backed off, the tension in their shoulders easing—but not completely.

Yelena punched him gently on the good arm. "That was pretty badass."

Ava nodded. "If you didn’t do that, I would’ve faded permanently."

Bob chuckled, trying not to shrug too hard. "What else was I supposed to do? Let you die?"

That drew a laugh from both of them.

"Yeah, who else is gonna make disgusting sandwiches at 3 a.m.?" Ava said, grinning.

Yelena chimed in with a smirk. "And who’d be my dance partner at useless events?"

They shared another laugh—one of those warm, genuine ones that only comes from knowing someone through shared experience. There was a bond in those words, an unspoken history.

Behind them, Bucky leaned against the back of the chair Walker was still in, arms folded. Alexei stood off to the side with his arms crossed, a proud smile creeping onto his face as he observed the reunion.

"The bravery you showed today," Alexei said, his thick accent curling around the words, "is not in most men. You—" he paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied Bob, "—you could be a super soldier."

Bob shook his head with a tired huff. "That’s not me."

Bucky stepped forward then, voice gentle. "How are you feeling about standing? Think you’re up to it?"

Bob nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I can."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and Bucky’s hand came up instinctively to stabilize him. The others held their breath slightly, watching as Bob slowly pushed himself upright. His limbs were weak and heavy, but he managed to sit up, planted and steady.

Walker stood next. "We can take you off the IV for now, but you’ll need to sleep with it overnight to make sure you’re fully rehydrated and everything’s stabilized."

Bob nodded again, grateful. Walker, surprisingly gentle, stepped in and began carefully detaching the IV line. His movements were practiced and smooth, re-equipping the site with a clean cap and securing the line for later use.

Bob watched him, then looked around the room—at Bucky, Ava, Yelena, Alexei.

For the first time in a long while, he felt truly surrounded.

He wasn’t just their project or their responsibility.

He was part of this.

He was theirs.

And they were his.

They left the infirmary together, a slow-moving but tight-knit group. Conversation filtered through them light teasing, laughter, bits of concern woven in between inside jokes. It felt easy, for once.

When they reached the common room, Bucky glanced down at his phone, his brow twitching slightly. Without a word, he peeled away from the group and headed toward the elevator. Bob figured he was going down to grab food.

Everyone else moved smoothly into motion. Walker and Alexei drifted toward the bar, pulling bottles down and mixing drinks with surprising synchronicity, Alexei tossing in commentary about Russian liquor that made Ava roll her eyes. Meanwhile, Yelena and Ava raided the cabinets, pulling down bowls and utensils, Bob, feeling steady enough, pitched in where he could—fetching napkins, helping arrange cups.

Moments later, the elevator dinged, and Bucky emerged triumphantly with two large paper bags in his arms.

"Dinner," he announced, lifting the bag like a prize before setting it on the table.

Alexei raised his glass as everyone began gathering around. "A toast," he said, his voice clear and commanding in a way that made everyone instinctively reach for their own drink.

Bob hesitated, eyeing the glass in his hand. He wasn't sure if alcohol mixed well with whatever remnants of meds were in his system, but one sip wouldn't kill him. He lifted the glass slowly.

"To Bob," Alexei declared, looking at him with a kind of proud reverence.

The others turned toward him too, nodding, murmuring their agreement. Yelena grinned. Ava winked. Even Walker lifted his glass with a crooked smile.

It hit Bob harder than he expected. The recognition. The warmth. The camaraderie. His lips pulled into a surprised, touched smile.

"Thanks," he said, voice quiet. "Really."

They clinked their glasses together, a cheer rising that melted into laughter and overlapping conversation.

As they dug into the food, joked, and shared stories, Alexei unexpectedly wrapped his arms around the nearest few people and pulled everyone into a group hug. There were groans of protest, a few curses from Walker, a loud "Alexei, no! " from Ava—but no one pulled away.

They stood there limbs tangled, arms around shoulders, grumbles morphing into laughter.

Bucky was on Bob’s right, one arm draped carefully around his shoulders, deliberately avoiding the injury. Yelena was on the other side, grinning against his arm. Ava leaned into Yelena, and Walker—grumbling—was shoved in next to Bucky. Alexei wrapped around them all like a proud bear.

Bob looked around at this group—his people. His family. Something swelled in his chest, raw and full.

He’d fight for them again and again.

Because there was no one else he’d rather be around.

And in this moment—laughing, sore, alive—he knew exactly where he belonged