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Chapter Text

The first thing that tipped Bob off that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be was the confused expression that flickered over Loki’s face when their eyes met.

Honestly, before that, Bob thought he was in another one of those… Shame Memories. Trauma Daydreams. Depressive Shared Flashbacks. Whatever they were called. It’s not like he had a lot of control over them- occasionally he’d still stand a little too close to Ava, or shake hands with Walker, or high-five Alexei, and… whoops. Most of them had taken to standing a few feet away from him. He couldn’t fault them for that.

And sure, if he had thought about it for more than a few seconds, the whole ‘shame visions’ guess sort of fell apart. He was alone in the tower when this particular flashback started. None of his teammates were even in this room right now to be potentially traumatized by this memory (barring the possibility that Yelena wasn’t stowed away in the rafters right now. He wouldn’t put it past her). Also, he had been feeling pretty okay for the day. Nowadays his powers only really set off without him meaning to if it was a Bad Day.

And yet, despite all odds, here he was. In… he supposed it was Stark Tower, at this point in time, considering the giant windows overlooking the familiar carnage of the Chitauri New York attack. And here he was. Making eye contact with Loki.

And that eye contact is exactly what gave him pause. Generally, his Misery Remembrances played out like movies- exactly how they originally happened, without acknowledging the viewers at all. So at first, when Loki looked at him, Bob had turned to look over his shoulder.

Nothing.

So Loki was looking at him.

The Trickster God’s brow furrowed, and he jerked his chin up to gesture in Bob’s direction. “Who…?”

“Nice try, Rock of Ages.” The Back of the Iron Man Suit and Therefore Presumably The Tony Stark snorted. “We’re not exactly going to fall for ‘look over there’.”

“Terribly sorry to interrupt,” a pleasant, vaguely British voice sounded from the ceiling. Bob jumped in surprise, bringing his hands together to worry at the seams of his sleeves. “But it does appear as if there is another in the room. Directly behind you, twenty feet.”

It’s almost impressive how exactly half of the Old Avengers turned towards him. In a split second, he had a bow and repulsor trained at him- as well as the equally-as-threatening calculating gaze of the first Captain America.

“Woah, woah!” He put his hands up in surrender immediately. It had a good track record of helping him not get shot by a ragtag group of superpowered vigilantes in the past.

“Who are you?” Captain America demanded, his grip tightening on his shield.

“Uh.” He gulped. “Bob.”

Iron Man raised an eyebrow judgmentally. “Bob.”

“Uh, yeah. Bob, that’s me, I’m, uh… Bob.”

“‘Tis a trick,” Thor said, not turning his gaze away from his brother for a second. “An illusion conjured by my brother to help him escape.”

“I’m not so sure.” Hawkeye tilted his head. “He seems too solid. And JARVIS probably wouldn’t have mentioned his sudden appearance if he didn’t have a heat signature, weight… or whatever other indicators he can measure.”

“Uh,” Bob raises one of his hands a bit higher to gesture vaguely with it. “I can confirm I’m not an illusion.”

“The possible illusion doesn’t get a vote.” Iron Man scoffed, but he lowered his repulsor to stride forward and gently prod Bob in the shoulder. “But he is, in fact, solid.”

“Alright, new plan,” Captain America took over with a decisive nod, tightening the straps of his shield. “Thor, Barton, Hulk- you three can take care of Loki. Widow, Stark, and I will figure out what’s going on with… Bob, here.”

Obligingly, Thor hauled his brother up by the wrists- and the god had gotten so caught up in the melodrama of Bob’s appearance that, by his shocked expression, he seemed to have forgotten he was being held hostage- and shoved him towards the elevator. Barton picked up the scepter and followed, pointing Hulk towards the stairs, much to his chagrin.

Black Widow and Captain America joined Iron Man by Bob, who had hesitantly lowered his arms as the tension seemed to dissipate a bit.

“So if you’re not an illusion,” Iron Man began conversationally, “how exactly did you infiltrate a high-security, multimillion dollar home built by the best weapons manufacturer of this generation?”

“I don’t.. know.” Bob was starting to feel deja vu at the situation. “I just sorta… showed up here. I’m not sure how.”

“You’re not sure?” Black Widow asked flatly. “You accidentally snuck past dozens of SHIELD field agents and into close quarters with at least two spies, three superhumans, and whatever Stark is?” She gestured to Iron Man, who gave her an unimpressed look.

This close, Bob could see similarities between her and Yelena. The two weren’t physically related, of course, but they shared characteristics- the way they stood. The hand always resting on a weapon. The carefully blank face. Though all those probably had to do more with the traumatic assassin program than the same fake family.

Bob distantly registered his hands were shaking.

He took a single step away from the three Avengers, which instantly put all three on guard. “Sorry! Sorry.” He tugged at the hem of his sweater. “I just wouldn’t stand too close. I’m a little on edge, right now, I think, and I don’t want to accidentally, um-“ he wiggled the fingers of one hand in their direction. “ fwoosh you.”

“Don’t suppose we could get a little more information on what ‘ fwoosh ’ing us means?” Iron Man said incredulously.

“Voiding you.” Bob replied automatically, only realizing how little that specifies or comforts after all three heroes manage to tense up even further. “Look, I realize how weird this and how this isn’t probably comforting but I actually don’t know how much I can say, here. Like, how much is safe to talk about. I think I might have… dimension hopped? Time travelled?” He laughed nervously, looking out the window at the ruins of New York once more. “I’m not from here. And I don’t want to accidentally mess something up by saying something off.”

The Old Avengers exchange an unreadable look, seemingly debating amongst themselves what that was supposed to mean. Eventually, Black Widow nodded decisively and looked back at Bob. “If you are telling the truth- and understand, that’s a pretty big if - then we do need to be careful. And if you’re lying, which is a lot more likely, then we have a pretty different set of questions for you. But regardless, we’re going to take you in.” Her hand came up to rest on her Widow Bites almost unconsciously, not that Bob needed any more convincing. “Whatever your story is, you can tell it to Nick Fury.” 

Chapter Text

John woke up to the sound of gunfire.

This wasn’t unusual. Before he was with the team (the Thunderbolts. What a stupid name.) he regularly woke up on active battlefields, both when he was in the military and during his short-lived run as Captain America. After he joined the team, and they started living together in the tower… well, most of the time the gunfire he awoke to was phantom. It was looped constantly in his ears, along with the sickening crunch of Lemar’s head against the wall, along with the deafening clang of a dropped, bloodied shield, along with the quiet click of the door closing between him and his wife for the last time.

But this gunfire- this was real. Real and active, in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. He heard distant, ever-familiar shouted orders.

John bolted upright like a man possessed, taking in the sights around him. Cots lined the tent walls, neat despite their situation. Nurses and field medics flitted between soldiers with bandages and painkillers and bottles of water.

Oh, fuck no.

Sound blurred as his ears started to ring, and John’s head swiveled to the side to stare at the body he knew would be there. That was always there, with him.

Beside his cot, Lemar was slumped.

For a terrible moment, John was convinced that this was an awful amalgamation of nightmares. The echoes of Afghanistan, populated by the dead body of his best friend.

He had to fight himself to focus. To take note of the steady rise and fall of Lemar’s chest. To recognize the lack of blood, and the army fatigues instead of the Battlestar suit.

It wasn’t a nightmare. But that made it worse. Because that meant John was back in Afghanistan .

“Hey-” John’s voice cracked. He was too quiet. Wherever he had just woken up, his body had apparently not had water in a bit too long. He swallowed, before making out a louder “Hey. Lemar, hey!”

Lemar snapped to attention instantaneously, the way only soldiers could. He took in his surroundings quickly before turning to John. “You’re awake.”

“Lemar.” John said. His voice was trembling. He’s pretty sure it’s never done that. Lemar clearly caught that fact immediately, and he frowned in concern. “This isn’t going to make any sense, and I’m not asking because I think I have a concussion, and I can’t tell you why I’m asking this, but I need to know. What’s the date?”

Lemar squinted suspiciously at him before giving a light shrug. “May 4th.”

Okay. John closed his eyes. He knew the answer, but he had to ask anyway. “Year?”

Lemar’s concern audibly grew. “2012.”

“Right…” Bob. It was the only explanation. John swore that, when the Sentry Project was still in the works, Valentina had been given a form that asked ‘What powers do you want him to have?” And she just wrote ‘Yes.’ on it. Time travel was a new one, but it was definitely not a power that any of the rest of them had. Neither was it one they had confirmed Bob didn’t have. So now John- and presumably Bob, and Bucky, and the rest of them- were back in 2012 of all places. Separated. Alone.

…Able to change things. To fix them.

John had a second chance.

“Right.” John repeated, shifting to the opposite side of the cot that Lemar was sitting at. He swung his legs over and tested his weight, grabbing at the bedframe for purchase as he shakily stood.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Lemar stepped around the cot, catching and supporting John by the arm. “What’s going on with you? Where are we going?”

We . Without question or hesitation. God, John had missed him. “Out. Leaving. I need to get home.” God, he still had a home. Olivia was still there. His son hadn’t been born yet, but he was a possibility. He wasn’t gone, wasn’t taken away. John had a second chance .

May 4th, Lemar had said. The Chitauri attack had just happened. John didn’t know if Olivia was okay, if she had been affected at all by the attack. He had never thought to ask, the first time around. No wonder she had left.

“Right now?” Lemar asked, snapping John back to the present. “You have to go home right this second? Our contract only lasts two more months.”

“Now.” John nodded. “I can’t- I’m not reliving this. I haven’t lost anything yet, I’m not going to again. I refuse.”

“Wh- John.” Lemar hauled him over to a corner cot, more secluded from the previous, and sat him down. John was in no state to fight it. He doesn’t remember exactly what got him this roughed up, but it must’ve been bad. Maybe Medal-of-Honor bad. “John. What are you talking about?”

“I need to go. ” John insisted.

“ John! ” Lemar hissed, panic lacing the edge of his voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to figure it out fast, preferably while keeping it to yourself. We can not desert. Not two months away from the end of this contract. Not when you , last I checked, were about to get promoted. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted since sophomore year? Where is this coming from?”

John opened his mouth to retort but slowly closed it again as words failed him. This was what he wanted since sophomore year. And he wasn’t US Agent anymore. He wasn’t Captain America, if he ever even was. And he certainly didn’t have the super soldier serum running through him anymore.

In one accidental move, a lot of John’s identity had just been stripped away. Agent. Vigilante. Hero, if he was having one of the few days where he felt good about himself. Thunderbolt . All those labels were gone. But the one he had kept close to his chest, the one he had always put all his self-worth in- soldier . That was still here. That was now.

And he was going to give it all up?

Yes? Part of his mind said incredulously. Of course we are. We saw where this path led us. Olivia, gone. Our son, gone. Lemar, gone. And our team is back here too, we need to get to them.

Why? Another part argued. We don’t need to leave yet. Olivia waited, the first time. Our son doesn’t even exist yet. We can save Lemar. And the team is fine. They don’t need you. And they especially don’t need this version of you, with no powers, less training, no shield.

John blinked slowly, coming back to himself. Lemar was looking up at him expectantly from where he had crouched beside the cot.

“Sorry,” John said slowly. “Don’t know what came over me.”

Chapter Text

Fuck.

Ava’s hand shook as her entire body spasmed with pain. The gun she had been holding slipped straight through her fingers and clattered to the ground. She shouted, keeling over, bracing herself on her knees in a desperate ploy to remain standing.

Everything hurt.

No, hurt wasn’t nearly a strong enough word. Every bit of her was in complete and utter agony, and unfortunately it was an agony she was well acquainted with. Each molecule tearing away from each other, shredding the very fabric of herself, and stitching themselves back together.

She hadn’t felt this pain in nearly 10 years, and she hadn’t quite realized how much she was taking advantage of that.

“Uh-”

Ava looked up. A bloodied, roughed up operative was scrabbling against the floor where he had been slumped up against the wall, doing his best to get up- or maybe just crawl away. He was talking, seemingly half to himself and half to her, interrupted by labored breaths. “You seem- you seem busy. So I’ll just… let myself out, if you don’t mind-” He twisted too far to one side, clearly pulling at where a large red stain was spreading over his torso, and cut himself off with a groan.

Ava took a deep breath and straightened again, reaching over to scoop the gun up from where she had dropped it.

She remembered this guy. May 2012- an assignment to chase down and eliminate a rogue SHIELD agent who was selling information to Klaue. And while she held no love for SHIELD, the specific information that this guy had been selling- home addresses, family names, relationships and connections- were a danger to genuine innocents.

She held no love for SHIELD, but she held no pity for this man, either.

She shot.

A small speaker attached to the neck of her suit crackled to life. “Ghost, report?”

She stared at it incomprehensibly, the situation catching up to her in increments. 2012 mission. Her phasing, out of control again. A distantly familiar voice from one of her SHIELD handlers calling her in.

Damn it. She mentally added ‘time travel’ to the list of bullshit she’s had to deal with as a ‘New Avenger’ or whatever. Then, hesitantly, added it in her other mental list of ‘Bob’s super powers’. That particular list was getting a little out of hand.

She raised a wrist, holding down the button that would start her transmission, and spoke into the speaker there. “Ghost, checking in. Target eliminated.”

“Excellent.”  Her handler sounded smug. She wondered, distantly, if it would mess up the timeline too much to kill him early. He died in a few years anyway. The man was one of SHIELD’s many, many ‘secret’ HYDRA employees, and when his affiliation was revealed sometime in 2014, he had ended up killing himself to avoid capture. “Report back to base, we have a new target ready for you.”

“Of course.” She pulled her helmet back into place. “Any update on that cure?” She asked, barely keeping the sarcasm from her voice. She knew there wouldn’t be.

“No new advancements.” The handler didn’t even have the decency to sound sorry. “We’ll update you when we have them, Ghost.”

“Right.” She cut off the transmission and walked through the wall, clenching her jaw as her molecules essentially disassembled themselves and reassembled on the other side.

The only pro of her fucked-up, unstable phasing was that she didn’t actively have to think too hard and actively turn on and off her abilities. Which was helpful, considering the waves of pain that would crash through her and thoroughly interrupt her thoughts.

She fumbled with her communicator, letting muscle memory take over and guide her to her old base while she focused on pulling up her contacts. It didn’t take too long to find who she was looking for. Her contacts list was embarrassingly short.

The line rang pleasantly twice before the phone was picked up.

“Foster.”

“Bill,” she gasped as a particularly rough spike wrenched her shoulder.

“Ava.” He sounded on guard immediately. “What happened? How can I help?”

“Are you-” Her hand phased out and slipped through the button, turning off her mic for a moment. She cursed, shook it out, and tried again. “Are you still in contact with Hank Pym?”

“No.” Bill said, his voice short and dangerous. “And I understand what he did, but we agreed revenge was not the way to go-”

“This isn’t about revenge!” She hissed. “I’ve got reliable intel that he can help. With my condition.”

“It’s possible.” Despite his optimistic words, Bill sounded very unsure. “But why would he help?”

“He’ll want to.” She promised. “If this intel is correct,” and it was, considering it came from the  future, “then it’ll not only heal me, it’ll bring his wife back.”

The line was silent for so long that for a split second, Ava thought he had hung up. Then- “I’ll contact him. But if this is a trick-”

“It’s not.” Ava would be offended that he thought she’d use Hank’s wife against him, but considering she almost kidnapped Scott’s kid that one time, she didn’t actually have much ground to stand on. “Contact him.”

The line beeped, signaling that he did actually hang up this time, and Ava took a deep breath as she stepped into her old briefing room.

Her handler was waiting with arms crossed and a tablet open, but Ava decided to take a page from her old self’s book and ignore him as she took off the outer layers of her suit and stumbled into her quantum containment chamber. She felt the energy wash over her and exhaled softly as several muscles that she didn’t even remember tensing began to relax.

It wasn’t true relief. Not even comparable, now that Ava knew what life was like without the pain. but it was something, and she would take it.

She turned, arms neatly tucked behind her back, ready to report- and her voice died in her throat. The handler’s tablet was open to a rather familiar file. She snapped her eyes away from it before she got caught staring, her mind caught in a loop repeating the few lines she had seen.

The Asset compromised last mission. Returned to cryo, to be wiped again in 72 hours.

Shit.

She wondered, staring blankly into the eyes of her handler through the glass of the quantum containment cell, if that file happened to have the coordinates of Bucky’s cryo tube.

Chapter Text

Alexei had only blinked, and he was suddenly about to lose an arm wrestle.

The prison around him was loud as his fellow inmates hollered, likely expressing their shock at how far down his opponent had managed to push his arm. Alexei frowned. That just wouldn’t do. He could figure out what was going on later, but for right now- he didn’t lose .

He pushed a small percentage of his serum-enhanced strength into his arm, turning the odds instantaneously and cracking his opponent’s arm against the standard-issue table. The other inmate yelped, pulling his arm back and massaging at his elbow, looking at Alexei with thinly veiled anger. Alexei just smiled mockingly.

The buzz of a makeshift tattoo machine vibrated across his left shoulder. He turned to look at it. The silhouette of an eagle.

His brow furrowed. That… That was an old tattoo. He had gotten that years before he had even left Seventh Circle, and to his memory that was a decade ago. He had gotten it to express a longing for freedom, fifteen years after his false imprisonment-

Fifteen years.

He looked around the prison again, picking out faces of inmates. Afanasy, imprisoned for assassination, had been released 2015. Armen, imprisoned for aggravated assault, released 2013. Ilya, imprisoned for mass murder, tried to escape in 2014 and had been killed in the resulting firefight.

Alexei may have been the muscle in every mission since his serum was administered, but he was far from stupid. He had to have been good enough in the Soviet Armed Forces to get noticed in the first place. So despite it not making any sense, Alexei was pretty sure he had time traveled to 2012. Which he did not know he could do. Which means he didn’t do it. The abilities given to him by his (knockoff) soldier serum had been extensively researched and documented, both by him and the scientists who had given it to him.

He thought back, trying to remember if the Thunderbolts had encountered anything strange recently. To his knowledge, there was no way to time travel at all- but he had also heard that aliens and magicians were becoming more frequent sightings out in the world.

Ridiculous. Aliens, sorcerers, magic . What happened to good old-fashioned enhanced humans. He didn’t need any fancy telekinesis or anything, and neither did the Winter Soldier or Captain America.

Although he had to admit that Sentry’s powers were very cool.

Alexei stood abruptly. He’s lucky the tattoo artist that had been doing his piece was used to him jolting about and moving, because he managed to pull back the needle before a stripe of ink ruined the silhouette.

Alexei needed to get out. It was 2012, he needed to go find his family- Yelena was part of the Red Room again, was chemically subjugated- Natasha was still alive - he had to get to them-

He eyed the exits. His sudden standing had caught the attention of the guards at attention near the gates. several of them had their hands poised to raise and fire their weapons at a moment’s notice.

Perhaps not now.

He slowly sat again, and the tattoo artist began again without a word.

It wouldn’t do to go out into the world with a half-finished tattoo, anyway.

And he needed to remember how he got out the first time around.

From what he remembered, it was going to require outside help. He only made it because Natasha and Yelena had hacked in electronically, and were waiting in the yard with a getaway vehicle. And because Yelena had accidentally chased all of the guards inside with that snow avalanche.

He couldn’t count on them this time. Yelena was indisposed, and Natasha clearly had no interest in reconnecting with him- at this time, or in 2016 when she was essentially forced to free him in search of the Red Room. Not that he was much help with that, anyway. And she hadn’t contacted him again, after. Hadn’t spoken to her again until it was too late.

That was fine. He’d do better this time. She didn’t want to come to him, he would come to her - with her freed sister in tow, ideally. Maybe they could take down the Red Room again, a few years earlier this time. Call it a bonding experience.

But first he had to get out.

Most of his contacts were on Dreykov’s side. Alexei really didn’t think he had said anything too outrageous. A party that kept spouting it was ‘for the people’ should actually be for the people, is that too much to ask? But noo, treason they had said. Treason, they had imprisoned him for.

Treason. Him? The Red Guardian , treasonous, that was the outrageous claim.

No matter.

Who could he contact that would be able to realistically get him out of here?

She was the scientist, the strategist. I was the muscle.

Melina. Melina Vostokova, she had helped them the first time. She could help them again.

He wasn’t entirely convinced he would be able to get her on his side. Natasha had convinced her, the first time. But based on Yelena’s outburst, Melina hadn’t really known what she was doing with the chemical subjugation- and she had the capability to reproduce that Red Dust that saved Widows before.

She could help. He would just have to talk to her.

And… and he did want to see her again. They had broken off, after the fall of Dreykov, but he still held a certain flame for her.

But that would come after. After he was freed, after he got back to his daughters.

He was the one who had delivered them to the Red Room, and damn him if he wasn’t going to be the one to truly free them this time.

“Alexei Shostakov!” The intercom buzzed. “Mail room!”

Yes. Alexei turned his head to watch the tattoo artist wipe away the blood from his now finished eagle silhouette. Yearning for freedom. That he was. And he, and his family, would get it.

Chapter Text

All things considered, the room they were keeping Bob in was pretty nice. Also, rather stereotypical.

No pictures, no screens, just plain white walls and a door that practically blended into the wall. And, of course, a large mirror stretching across the room on his right side- very obviously a two-way mirror, and one he was trying very hard not to continually look into. He had no idea if anyone was watching him through there. Someone was definitely watching through the camera mounted in the corner, though. The Avengers had seemed pretty unsettled by his ‘threat’ of Voiding them- and by his immediate refusal to explain what that meant. He wasn’t handcuffed, though. He supposed he wasn’t very physically threatening.

If only they knew.

Despite his best efforts, he was staring blankly at the two-way mirror when the famous (or infamous, depending on who you asked) Nick Fury swept through the door.

“So,” he placed a hand on the interrogation room table, the other neatly tucked into his trenchcoat. “I’ve been told you think you’ve… time travelled?”

“Yeah, that’s- um. Yes.”

Fury didn’t respond at first, instead giving Bob a critical once-over. Bob resisted the urge to start fidgeting with his sleeves again. It was a long few moments before Fury continued. “A strange choice of cover story. And why should I believe ‘time travel’ even exists.”

“I-” Bob’s voice cracked, and he spread his hands helplessly before trying again. “I don’t know. I think the Avengers did it at some point? It was a bit unclear how they stopped that one guy. And I was…” he trailed off, remembering his hazed, drug-seeking late 2010s and early 2020s, “busy. But I think time travel was involved. Technological, though, not… whatever this was.”

“Right.” Fury said dryly. “And do you have any… proof? Of this claim?”

“I’m not really sure how I would prove that? I didn’t exactly do it on purpose the first time, I can’t just… do it on command.”

Fury raised an eyebrow judgmentally. “Intel.”

“Oh. Oh! Like, future events and stuff! Um… I’m not sure if I can do that.”

“And why not?”

Bob glanced at the two-way mirror again out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t super lucid for a lot of these years, but even he remembered the monumental leak of SHIELD, the organization behind the Avengers, being heavily infiltrated by Nazi organization HYDRA.

And based on what he had seen the few times Bucky had bad days, he did not want to get on HYDRA’s radar.

“A couple reasons?” He offered weakly. “You guys are a super secret spy organization or something, right? I have no idea what you guys do and don’t already know. Also,” he looked down, “I wasn’t paying attention to the world too much in my… um… original run through.”

“So you have nothing.”

“Nothing I can tell you.” Bob shrugged, and then, quieter, added “ nothing that wouldn’t incriminate me further .”

He couldn’t exactly pull out the information of Natasha Romanov’s family when, as far as he was aware, Fury didn’t know about them- and at this point in time they were all involved with an assassin organization. Mentioning black ops specialist Ghost would make him look like he was digging around in SHIELD files, and mentioning anything regarding the Winter Soldier would absolutely be a red flag. Walker was probably the most normal one he could mention- except that he was just a normal soldier, at this point.

The few big events that Bob did remember wouldn’t work as evidence either. At best, they wouldn’t happen for several more years. At worst, Bob couldn’t remember exactly when they happened. A lot of the 2010s were a blur for him. And all of them, anyway, sounded completely fake. He couldn’t imagine ‘ The Avengers broke up because Captain America’s childhood best friend killed Iron Man’s parents ’ or ‘ A big purple alien from outer space invaded to collect six rocks that gave him the power to kill half the population ’ would go over well.

Although, now that Asgard and the Chitauri have been established, maybe the alien thing wouldn’t be as big of a hurdle as before.

But he definitely didn’t want to give HYDRA any information on the six superpowered rocks that could kill half the world.

“Here’s what I think,” Fury leaned forwards, interrupting Bob’s train of thought. “And stop me if you’ve heard this before.” He took a deep breath, and Bob found himself tensing up unconsciously. “Wayward teenager. Rough past, bad homelife, a mom who passed down her mental illness but no coping mechanisms.”

Apparently Bob was right to have tensed up.

“Turns to drugs and oddball jobs to make it by. Travelling aimlessly to try to find something, some purpose, but always ending up falling short.”

The Void echoed in Bob’s ear. The most shameful thing of all was thinking you could be anything more than nothing.

“Then you get approached. Or found. Or picked. But someone offers that they can help you, that you can be part of something.”

Valentina. I still want you to be my guy. And isn’t that what you want? To be picked? To be chosen?

“And all you have to do is what they ask.”

You need to do what I say, Robert.

Why?

Fury was looking at him expectantly. He was too close to the truth for comfort. Way too close. Bob took a shaky, steadying breath. “You looked me up.”

“I looked you up.” Fury leaned back, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, unaware of how much difficulty Bob was having keeping himself in check. “Now why don’t you tell me who actually sent you.”

“No one!” Bob’s hands were shaking. A little voice in his head was reminding him just how easy it would be to raise a single hand and pin this pompous, asshole know-it-all against the wall. Show SHIELD who he actually was. “Actually, genuinely, honestly, no one sent me, you have to believe me here. It’s not how it looks, I know how it looks-”

“Did they give you something?” Fury interrupted, looking irritated. As if this was just an errand to mark off his to-do list.

“Wh- what?”

“If you aren’t an agent of some kind, you dropped off the radar remarkably well a year back, but even that doesn’t get rid of birth certificates, social security, bank statements- and I’m guessing whatever organization picked you up gave you some sort of super serum.”

Bob’s not sure if he would call OXE’s ‘medical study’ a super serum, but-

“Did it give you some sort of stealth abilities? Endurance? Strength?” Fury sizes Bob up. “You don’t look sixteen, but I’m sure everyone’s seen the ‘before’ pictures of Rogers’ procedure.”

“Sixte- I’m thirty .” Bob said incredulously. Past-him was sixteen right now. That was weird to think about. Next summer, he was going to get that chicken-mascot-twirling-a-sign job.

“Right.” Fury interrupted, fake pity lacing his voice. “Time travel. But I see you didn’t account for the basic ability to run a facial recognition scan or that you have records, despite whatever your organization told you. I’ll leave you for now, and when someone comes back, perhaps we could try giving them a real explanation.”

He swept away, all dramatics and leather, and left Bob staring at the door, a war of emotions in his head, blinking away the gold in his eyes.

Chapter Text

It took a week for John to be patched up well enough that they sent him back again.

During that time, he had gotten his hands on a small notebook, barely the size of his hand, which he used to vigorously write down all the major events that happen that he remembers- the SHIELD data leak, the Avengers breaking up, the arrival of Thanos, the blip, the return. Then, the major events pertaining to himself- his Medals of Honor, his return home, his taking the mantle of Captain America, Lemar’s death, the subsequent loss of the title, Olivia leaving. Everything he could think of, when it happened, how it happened- what he could change to stop it from happening again.

By the time he was done, there were eight pages left in the notebook. Each of these, he dedicated to scribbling down everything he knew about his team members’ whereabouts in 2012.

It didn’t take up the eight pages. His… the team was secretive, a fact only exacerbated by the entire team not being very proud of their past. Yelena was part of the Red Room’s Black Widow program, and mentioned breaking out at some point, but he had no idea when. Or where the Red Room is. Or what it is.

Ava constantly talked about growing up in labs, and he knew she was an ex-SHIELD black ops agent, but it was unclear whether those two stretches of time were concurrent, overlapping, or otherwise.

Bob had vaguely alluded to ‘traveling’ during this time- addicted to meth and aimless, and, perhaps even worse for John’s particular goal, completely unnoteworthy. He would be next to impossible to track down.

Bucky, John knew, was the Winter Soldier right now. That was a whole can of worms that he had no interest in opening.

The only one he could solidly pin down was Alexei, who spoke frequently and freely of his time in Russia’s Seventh Circle Prison.

John kept this little notebook on him at all times and didn’t show it to anyone- including Lemar, who, he suspected, was becoming more and more concerned and suspicious of him. Which wouldn’t be good, in the long run, but at the moment John was more concerned with forgetting anything important- or losing something that was essentially a guidebook to the future. His future, specifically.

It stayed in the very bottom of his pack when he went back to the active field in the 75th Ranger Regiment.

He checked his gear for the thousandth time, running more on muscle memory than attention. A strike team of six- including him and Lemar- were being sent on a night raid to a nearby settlement. When it was first discovered, it seemed to only be families and refugees, but there have since been rumors of them harboring a member of the Taliban.

The US couldn’t have that.

The War on Terror, John figured, was good in concept but exceedingly harsh in practice. Many of the people he’d seen out in the field were innocents, who should have been nowhere near a warzone.

He wondered exactly how many of the people he’d killed even knew they were harboring a terrorist.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a signal to advance, and he shouldered his gun, stepping out from behind the rock outcropping he was using as shelter and rushing towards the site. The night was quiet.

It wouldn’t be for long.

He carefully opened the door of the second building to the right, his gun barrel first into the building.. Lemar was at his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other two teams of two doing the same to two other tents.

He crept through, his gun trained neatly in front of him even as his eyes flicked around wildly to try to catch sight of anyone who may be attempting to sneak up on him. Lemar split off after the first intersection, checking any spare rooms behind them so there was no chance of a sneak attack.

Room one, clear. Room two, clear. John was barely giving cursory sweeps through each room, glancing once for signs of life before moving to the next, wishing this was over.

Unfortunately, a single glance was all he needed to spot the small family huddled in the corner of room three.

He froze in the doorway, his night-vision goggles trained on the family. The laser sight attached to his gun was hovering on the wall a foot to away from the father, who was crouched over the mother and son, covering as much of them as possible. All three were shaking.The son, who John couldn’t imagine was older than three, was muffling gasping breaths in the bunched fabric of his mother’s dress.

John closed his eyes for a single brief second, centering himself. Distantly, he heard the sound of gunfire from one of the other groups. Based on the crackling report from his earpiece, the terrorist had been found, and had attempted to fight back. The secondary team he had come with was converging on their location to help, with Lemar and John having directions to stay behind and dispatch the harborers.

With prejudice.

John glared at the cowering family as if they were to blame for everything wrong with the world. He was already unhappy enough with being stuck back in one of the worst times in his life, he didn’t want to relive what made it the worst. And he had done a lot of thinking, since his failure as Captain America. Since he joined a group of assassins and found a little too much in common with them. Since Olivia had left him.

He really, really didn’t want to start slipping into justifying atrocities as justice again.

He moved into the room- only about a yard, but it felt like miles- and quietly unlatched the window to his left. It slid open, just next to soundless- certainly not loud enough to alert Lemar down the hall. He retreated back to the window, angling himself perpendicular to the doorway.

The father untensed the slightest amount, one of his spread arms dipping ever so slightly. His brow furrowed. Behind him, the mother was staring wide-eyed at John.

John pointedly aimed his gun further away, and, ever so slightly, jerked his head in the direction of the window.

That was all the sign the family needed, and the father herded his wife and son to the window with a quickness that John has rarely seen. In a flash, the mother was through, and the father was passing the son through. And then the father. And then they were gone from sight.

John sighed quietly. Room three, clear.

He turned, closing the door behind him- just in time to spot Lemar heading towards him from the other end of the hallway.

“Building seems clear. You see anything?” Lemar asked. John really hoped it was just his own paranoia making that question sound more pointed than it needed to be.

“No,” he confirmed anyway. “We’re clear.”

Chapter Text

The debriefing went quickly.

Despite it happening so long ago, Ava had great memory, and rattling off a mission report was second nature. Even if she didn’t remember the specifics of getting to the building, there didn’t need to be much fluff around ‘the target is dead’.

Eventually, her handler was satisfied. The tablet was tucked away under one arm, the agent gruffly informed her that she would be contacted within the week for another mission, and he was gone.

And she was left. Sitting in her old quantum containment chamber. Nothing to do but think.

She assumed the rest of her teammates were back in 2012 as well- more because that would be just their luck than due to any fact-based rationalization. In which case they should all attempt to meet up as soon as possible. The most obvious rendezvous point would be the Watchtower, which was currently (problematically) Avengers Tower. Or Stark Tower. When had that rebrand officially taken place?

Walker and Bob could both get themselves there. Neither had any need to stay under the radar of intelligence organizations, since they weren’t even on the radar in the first place. Walker could… what, fake an injury? And come back to the U.S. from his deployment. Bob… Ava had no idea where Bob was. But besides maybe money, he would have no issues potentially walking onto an airplane and hitching a ride that way.

Alexei and Yelena would likely be more difficult, but inevitably one would break out from their predicament- whether it’s Yelena from the Red Room or Alexei from prison- and find the other.

Which left Bucky as her responsibility.

This isn’t necessarily a problem. Both were working for HYDRA, right now- Ava accidentally and Bucky against his will. But she’d be the most likely to be able to find his location and retrieve him.

The problem was that he was still the Winter Soldier.

Excluding the leaked HYDRA files and some very unpleasant-looking flashbacks from her time’s Bucky, she had no idea about the Winter Soldier. Especially not how to deal with him. Would he try to attack her on sight? Would she need to use his code words? She didn’t particularly want to do that. She didn’t even know Russian.

Bzzt .

She’d deal with that dilemma later.

Ava raised the small comm screen on her wrist. A message from Bill was flashing across the screen.

Contacted. He wants to talk to you .

Figures.

Now? She typed back.

It only took a few moments for him to respond. Ideally .

Ava looked outside of her containment chamber with disdain. She’d have to deal with her phasing again. That would not be enjoyable. And she’d have to be face to face with Hank Pym again. Even less enjoyable.

Her wrist buzzed again, and she looked down to see that Bill sent her an address.

Nothing for it, then.

She stepped out the door, stumbling as a wave of pain washed over her once more, a particularly bad phase ripping through her torso as if revenge for her momentary reprieve.

She momentarily considers getting back into her suit before deciding against it. Unlike her future suit, this one did little to actually stem the pain. It just helped her control it, but thanks to future memories she had that well in hand.

She did put on the boots, at least, and a sweater over her undersuit before she stalked straight through the wall in the direction to the address.

It was only a few minutes walk from her- a small library, mostly empty. She was able to hold herself together for just long enough to send a quick nod of acknowledgement to the librarian before ducking into an isolated study room and waiting.

Hank Pym arrived twenty minutes later.

She had forgotten how harmless he looked. She’d be a fool to underestimate him, of course, but Pym truly looked like the worst he could do was give a disappointed glare and sternly instruct someone to get off his lawn.

She smiled innocently at him. “Pym.”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to pull,” he said, “but it isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You used an old SHIELD contact of mine to tell me my wife is alive. If it isn't a poorly-conceived practical joke, I fear for your sanity.”

“Well first of all, that’s not what I said, and definitely not what Bill should have relayed.” She tilted her head. Pym was still standing, likely his attempt at an intimidation tactic, which would probably work better if Ava couldn’t kill him in a second. Also, if his eyes didn’t light up in clear interest when Ava’s phasing got the better of her, and she knew afterimages were following her every movement. “I said that you could help with a way to cure me. Getting your wife back was a footnote in my message, to be honest.”

Pym slammed his hands down on the table. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” She studied him. “You’re a scientist, Pym. What do you know of the theory of time travel?”

Confusion flitted across his face. “That’s also impossible.”

“Impossible like turning a human into the size of an ant?” She hummed in contemplation. “Impossible like shrinking billions of billions of billions of molecules smaller than an atom?” She pinches her fingers together in front of her eye in demonstration, using the movement to pretend to squish Pym like a bug. “Nothing seems impossible anymore in 2027.”

“2027. You expect me to believe you time travelled back 15 years .”

“I did.”

“Prove it.” Pym challenged, crossing his arms.

This, Ava could do. She might not remember much about her old missions (they all blurred together) or the exact whereabouts of most of her team (consequence of working with superspies) but she spent years stalking and learning everything to do with Hank Pym.

“Scott Lang.”

Pym’s arms dropped. “Excuse me?”

“It’s 2012, right? He should’ve just pulled off that VistaCorp job. A bit Robin Hood, for my tastes, but it got him on your radar, didn’t it? You’re thinking of making him the next Ant-Man.” She see-sawed her hand. “He’s a fine choice, by the way. A bit unserious, but surprisingly good at it. I certainly underestimated him the first time, and likely would have paid for it if your wife didn’t take pity on me and heal me.”

Pym stared at her for a few moments. Ava could practically see the mental leaps and calculations he was doing.

Eventually, slowly, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat in it. “I’m listening.”

Ava smiled. “Good.”

Chapter Text

It took a bit of bribery for a letter to get out.

Originally, Alexei’s plan was to find out if any of the guards were Red Guardian fans, and use that to his advantage to get one of them to send a letter for him.

None were.

In fairness, he wasn’t totally expecting it to. He had been a bit.. humbled, regarding his past fame, with the Thunderbolts. It’s hard not to, when on a team with the Winter Soldier, and become aware of exactly how short and insignificant his run as a superhero was.

Especially after it ended with that undercover mission that blew up in his face.

Especially after it ended with Yelena and Natalya being sent to the Red Room.

Regrets, and all that. He was fixing it. It’s fine.

But luckily, he did know the Winter Soldier. And the guards were very much fans of the Winter Soldier.

It was a weird kind of hit to his pride to use someone else’s fame to bargain with, but after a week or two, he managed to convince one of the guards that he did actually know the famed super soldier. Sure, he might have lied a bit and said they met during his Red Guardian days, but he figured it was more likely to believe than post-recovery Bucky Barnes blowing up his limo.

Which he was still upset about. He kept forgetting, but eventually, he was going to bill Bucky for that limo. It was his tactical one! That was not cheap. 

Regardless, the guard was convinced, and the letter was sent out to Melina Vostokova’s farm. It wasn’t signed, but it was delivered with one of the few Red Guardian figurines that people who were his fans. Not subtle, maybe, but he was never one for subtlety.

Prisoners of the Seventh Circle weren’t allowed to send letters, unless given special permission. They also needed that permission to meet with people- but while Alexei didn’t have permission for mail, he did have permission to meet with guests.

Sure, technically that permission was only ever used because Dreykov liked to visit and gloat (such a gloater, Dreykov. Sure, Alexei might boast about his accomplishments, but he didn’t do it to the people he had defeated in epic battle. That was just rude.), but that didn’t mean Alexei couldn’t use it to his advantage.

So two and a half weeks passed since he first time travelled before he was sitting across a visitation barrier from Melina.

His love.

Priorities.

Melina was important, but she was safe. She didn’t need help.

His daughters did.

“Alexei.” Melina spoke first, her accent familiar and lilting. They were speaking English- a leftover habit from their undercover work, but they discarded their American accent awhile ago. It was always so annoying. Why did Americans pronounce their vowels like that? “Imagine my surprise when I got your letter.”

“Melina.” He leaned forward against the desk. “How good to see you.”

“You didn’t seem to think so when you never contacted me after our mission.”

He raised a hand to gesture to the prison around them. “Was busy.”

“Yes, I suppose you were.” The corner of her mouth twitched upwards.

“You were busy too, I’ve heard.”

Melina’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Oh?”

“Still working for Dreykov, I’ve heard.”

Melina’s smirk was gone, her expression settled into a frown. “Now how did rumors of that get into Seventh Circle, hmm?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “But it’s going around. That and your special.. project.”

“I’ve no clue what you mean.”

“Yelena is one.” He said quietly. Melina stiffened at the name of their pseudo-daughter. “Yelena is in the program, she’s the one they’re using that on. Do you want that?”

Melina looked away, her eyes studying the wall as if searching for something. “Want is a strong word. It’s my duty.”

“Such devotion to a group that has done nothing but hurt you.” Alexei sighed, a clear picture in his mind of the tear tracks down Yelena’s face at the dinner table when she was yelling about her childhood, her world and family being a lie. Natasha leaving them all behind as soon as she was able, dooming her family to their own mistakes. But who could’ve blamed her?

Not when they left her first.

“These are bold words for the famed Red Guardian.” Melina snapped. “You’ve done nothing but be betrayed by the groups whose ideals you endorse.”

“And look where that has landed me.” He ignored her shocked intake of breath. That was probably the closest to actual treason against the communist party that he’s ever gotten. “Tell me, my love, did you enjoy our mission? Truly? Did you ever consider the family yours? Real?”

“Irrelevant.” Melina shook her head. “It was a mission, that’s all.”

“It was not. You know that.” Alexei leaned forwards, pressing his forehead against the plastic barrier. “Natalya is free, she is safe, but Yelena is not. We can help Yelena, родная.”

“You’re speaking of betrayal.”

“I’m speaking of fixing one.”

Melina finally turned to look back at Alexei, making eye contact through the barrier. Her eyes were cold and steely, but he thought- hoped- there was a flicker in there of something. Regret, maybe. Conscience.

The old Melina- future Melina? Had recognized her mistake. But Alexei had never been good with words, not like his daughters or his love. He had always been the brawn- and now, watching Melina’s expression harden into something neutral and unfeeling, he felt a deep fear that it wouldn’t be enough. That he’d failed, again.

The guard stationed behind Melina raised an arm to knock on the wall twice. The signal to wrap it up, that the visitation has ended.

Melina nodded in acknowledgement and braced herself against the desk, pushing the chair back as she stood. “Good-bye, Alexei.”

“Melina.” He backed away from the glass as she stepped around her chair and began to leave. He knew his voice was bordering on desperate, but- “Melina, wait! Stop!”

The guard on his side appeared behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him up. He started forward anyway. “Melina! Родная, please-”

Another guard grabbed his arm, and the two began to pull him away, back into the prison. He could, he knew, push forwards. He was still a super soldier.

He did not. He let himself be pushed back, and watched the back of his wife retreat.

She did not look back.

Chapter Text

The next in was Natasha.

At first, Bob didn’t notice her. His gaze was glued to the table in front of him as he tapped out the 4-7-8 breathing patterns that Walker had talked him through one night, when they were both up after nightmares. Walker had stopped calling him Bobby after that night.

It had been a few sleeps since Fury had come in. He had no concept of how long it had actually been, as the overhead lights had been kept on the entire time. He was pretty sure this was considered cruel and unusual torture.

At least, at some point, they had tossed him a blanket. And some granola bars and water bottles. That was nice of them.

But he hadn’t been given anything to do, aside from ruminate on Nick Fury’s words and battle his own nightmares and try to remind himself that he wasn’t invincible and he wasn’t alone either and going Sentry or Void on the Avengers was probably the quickest way to ensure he’d never see any of his friends ever again. Or the quickest way to see if there was an actual surefire way to kill him.

He was trying to not let that last thought become tempting.

4-7-8.

4-7-8.

“Having a good time, there?”

Bob startled, tucking his hands into his lap. “Not really.”

“Not surprising.” She stepped out of the doorway and around the table, sitting in the seat across from him. “You know, we could probably get you in a much nicer room.”

Room. Ha. He wondered if this blank interrogation room was going to show up in the Void.

Probably.

“I’m sure you could.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “You know, I think this is considered torture. By the Geneva Convention, or something.”

“Being kept in one room isn’t considered torture.”

“Not the room, the-” he waved his hand at the ceiling. “The lights thing.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t ask. That was… sort of good. Good because it seemed she didn’t know about that, and Bob didn’t want his own psychological torture tainting Yelena’s image of her sister. Only ‘sort of’ good because that really seems like the type of thing SHIELD should be keeping track of.

“Anyway,” he shrugged, “I’m sure that nicer room is dependent on me giving you intel that I don’t have.”

“It doesn’t have to be an organization. Just a name. A description. Whatever you can give us. I’m sure we could help you a lot more than whoever’s digging into SHIELD secrets.”

“Well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it? No one’s digging into SHIELD secrets.” No one who didn’t have them, anyway. HYDRA hardly had to dig into files that they owned. “And I wasn’t sent.” His hands tightened into fists. “Besides, I’m not sure SHIELD help is much help at all.”

“What do you know about that sort of thing?” Natasha’s voice was cold.

Ava, working as an agent in exchange for a cure that will never come.

“Nothing, I’m sure.” He scoffed. “I wouldn’t know anything about being emotionally manipulated to do something for ‘the greater good’.”

“That seems awfully emotionally charged for someone who doesn't work for anyone.”

Bucky, strapped to a chair and tortured by people with the SHIELD logo emblazoned on their gear.

“I didn’t say that.” Bob made eye contact with Black Widow. Her eyes narrowed. He knew his pupils were rimmed with a pale gold. “I said I wasn’t sent .”

“Gotta say, I’m not seeing too much of a difference.” Natasha’s hand was resting on her gun holster.

Yelena, under chemical subjugation after their agents freed one Black Widow and left the rest.

“Your sister misses you.”

“ Excuse me? ” If looks could kill, Bob would be dead twenty times over. If he could die.

“You wanted proof that I’m not from here, didn’t you?” His head rolled to the side casually. A bit mockingly, if he was honest, but why shouldn’t he be a little condescending? “Your sister misses you.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Wow.” He snorted. “For a superspy, that was pretty unconvincing. And do not tell that to her when you see her next. As if Yelena needs further reason to feel out of place.”

And there was a gun trained on him.

“How do you know that name?”

“What, you wanted proof that I know things I shouldn’t, and now that I give it to you, I’m a threat?” Bob leaned towards the barrell. It wouldn’t do anything anyway. Tried and true bulletproof. “Sounds about right.”

Natasha’s grip tightened on the trigger.

“I can have my past thrown in my face,” Bob continued, “But yours are off-limits? Not nice to be reminded of things you’re not proud of, is it?”

He stood up. Natasha’s gun readjusted to be aimed squarely at his face. It feels nice, he thought, to be the threatening one in this situation for once.

His mind conjured up a perfect recreation of Yelena, eyes squeezed tightly shut in one of her Void Rooms, as the Red Room training replays over and over again.

“You could’ve helped her, you know?” He said quietly. “When you got out? You could have helped all of them. But you didn’t. Why didn’t you?”

Natasha shot.

The bullet clinked harmlessly onto the table. Sentry looked down at it, then back up at Black Widow. Her eyes widened to an absurd degree. Her hands shook.

“Ow.” He said blankly.

In a flash, she’s moved to the door, fumbling with the lock behind her back as she kept her body facing towards him. He didn’t make a move towards her, just watching as she slipped out through the smallest crack in the door possible.

The door shut, and he was alone again.

Shit .

He slowly sat again, bunching the fabric of his sweater together in clenched hands.

This wasn’t good.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his eyes shut tightly, willing the gold to go away. He wasn’t sure which was worse, that he was falling back into the Sentry mindset, or that he was doing it while in an observation room that could be accessed by a Nazi organization that has shown historic interest in subjugating super-powered individuals.

He needed someone there. To drag him down, or pull him up- whichever direction he’d end up going.

He wondered if SHIELD would let him phone a friend.

… Probably not, after the show he just put on.

A few hours later, the lights shut off.

Chapter Text

“Walker, John.”

John stood up, shuffling past the two or three other people in the hallway to make his way into the closed-off office.

This was humiliating.

He had received the note earlier today that psych wanted to talk to him. Not a good sign. John had only ever heard of that happening in situations where the soldier in question had already had a psychotic break.

John had not had a psychotic break.

He was pretty sure.

No, he was definitely sure. His memories were far too lucid to be fake.

Crunch of Lemar’s head. Clang of a bloodied shield. Click of the final door.

He was fine. Obviously.

It was a little extra embarrassing that he couldn’t even convince himself.

He stepped into the office.

It didn’t look like any of the shrink’s offices he had seen on TV, and that was really his only frame of reference- unless he counted the psych eval he did way back when he was recruited. Instead, it just looked like a standard office- a man (a doctor, presumably) behind a desk, already impatiently clicking a pen against a clipboard. An uncomfortable looking chair slightly askew in front of John, presumably from when the last person had gotten up and not bothered to tuck the chair back into its spot.

John sat.

“Walker. Do you know why you’re here?”

“No clue.” He scoffed. “I’ve been doing just fine.”

“I’m sure.” The doctor agreed placatingly. “But we’ve had some reports that you’ve been acting strangely, both in and out of the field. Anything to say about that?”

“I’m not sure how much I could say without knowing what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Let’s keep it civil.” The doctor said, looking at John reproachfully. “In the field, we’ve received complaints of low attention, erratic behavior, and even failed mission objectives?”

John’s grip on the plastic armrests of his chair tightened. “I don’t fail missions.”

“They’re only reports.” The doctor soothed. “And even if they were true, the mission objectives were minor secondary. Hardly even an infraction on your record.”

“Infractions I will not receive,” John pointed out, “because I don’t fail missions.”

Except for that family he let escape. Which, technically, they were a mission objective. But no one had seen that.

Right?

“Nonetheless,” the doctor continued, “your actions off the field are what are most concerning.”

John rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. He was starting to get the feeling that this was going to be utterly pointless. “Such as?”

The doctor raised an eyebrow at him, before reaching into a drawer in his desk. He tossed something onto the table. John froze.

His notebook.

His gaze flicked between the doctor and the notebook, stock still. Had he-

“I think three medals of honor is perhaps a bit self-congratulatory.”

He’d read it.

John reached for it, only for it to be snatched up and flipped through carelessly by the doctor. “Now, it’s hardly illegal to be prone to flights of fancy, and if you wish to write self-aggrandizing fiction of yourself becoming Captain America, I suppose you can do that. But I do fear it’s more than that.”

“It’s… fiction.” John said awkwardly, wincing internally. Fleetingly, he wondered if that hit to his pride was actually worth it.

“I don’t think it is.” The doctor shook his head. “The beginning, sure- it could look like that. But then the events themselves start to get concerning. Half of humanity’s destruction?”

John sighed. Sure , he figured. Let’s go full send on aspiring author . “What, so horror authors are all on the edge of committing atrocious acts?”

The doctor gave him a pitying smile. “The death of half of the newly titled Avengers?”

“It’s… unrealistic for all the heroes to live until the end.”

“The death of First Sergeant Hoskins?”

John froze.

Crunch. Clang. Click.

“See, most of the beginning of this notebook indicates an overactive imagination, or perhaps some hero revenge fantasy. The death of First Sergeant Hoskins- that seems like something larger. Following it with your disgrace, with the character representation of you losing everything? You can see why it would be worrying.” The doctor closes the notebook and pushes it across the table, tapping it for good measure. John twitches. He’s not sure what to say to that.

“And that’s not even including the rest,” the doctor continues. “The written plans to actively execute preventative measures against these fictional events?” He raises an eyebrow. “Kill Alexander Pierce, the secretary of defense?” To dethrone HYDRA. “Steal something called ‘the Cosmic Cube’ from U.S. government holdings?” One of the few infinity stones he actually knew the location of. His subsequent plan to bury it as deep as possible in the middle of nowhere wasn’t a fantastic one, but it was better than its whereabouts being documented for Thanos and his lieutenants to find.

Okay, yes. John could see how unhinged his notebook would look to someone who had no idea what he was talking about- or even to someone who did. But in his own defense, he had absolutely no resources, power, or authority in this timeline- and even at his peak in the other one, he was still held to the whims of the US government.

John looked up after the prolonged silence. The doctor was looking at him expectantly. John couldn’t do much more than shrug.

He shook his head. “And it does appear that the reports of you being… for lack of a better word, obsessed with this book are accurate. Combined with your behavior in the field? It doesn’t paint a good picture.”

“It’s… fiction.” John repeated weakly.

“I think you know that wasn’t very convincing.” The doctor closed the notebook and slid it across the table towards John, who grabbed it immediately. “Unfortunately, this is starting to look like debilitating paranoia and PTSD. Including the book? Possible delusions, of grandeur and otherwise.”

John tensed. PTSD . That was one that Bucky had thrown his way often. Not out of malice- honestly, out of anything, it seemed to be out of concern- but one that felt like a slap to the face every time anyway. None of the rest of the pseudo-diagnoses sounded good either, but that one in particular struck a nerve “I do not have-”

“Here’s what we’ll do.” The doctor interrupted smoothly. “How about we send you home for the next two months? You can see your wife, regroup a bit- and when your contract renewal date comes back up, we can redo a standard psych eval and see about getting you back on the field?”

John’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He knew damn well that if he went home, he was forfeiting that promotion. They’d probably let him back, of course, but he’d essentially be starting over again with these sorts of notes on his file.

He also knew damn well that he didn’t actually have a say in this. The doctor was staring at him with steel in his eyes, and, undoubtedly, that damning note was already input in the computer.

The military was efficient like that.

“Right.” He forced a polite smile, pushing down the rage behind his eyes that was threatening to jump across the desk and deck this presumptive doctor. “I’ll be back in two months, then.”

“Yes, see you in two months.” The doctor nodded. “Your flight back to the US is already organized.”

Of course it was.

He stuffed his book in his pocket, making his way out of the office.

At least this way, he might have time to come up and implement better plans to stop the future.