Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The town was eerily quiet.
Not the kind of quiet you’d expect from a sleepy rural village at dusk — this was the kind that pressed down on you. Thick. Unnatural. Wrong. Windows were shuttered, cars abandoned mid-errand, doors left ajar like the occupants had fled in panic. Even the birds had fallen silent.

That, Natasha thought grimly, was to be expected when a sorceress was terrorizing anyone who so much as peeked outside.

The Quinjet touched down on the outskirts with a soft thump, the only sound in an otherwise breathless evening. Dust kicked up around the landing gear. The faint humming of cloaking tech fizzled out as the back ramp lowered, and the Avengers moved out in practiced formation.

“Clint, Nat — surveillance,” Steve ordered quietly, shield already in hand.

“Copy,” Natasha replied, slipping into a shadow with Clint already scanning rooftops.

“Thor, Sam, Tony, Bucky — we take main. Wanda, with us. Bruce and Peter — hang back, keep an eye out for civvies and assist evac if it turns messy,” Steve added.

Bruce gave a tight nod. Peter, already suited up, fiddled with his web-shooters nervously. “Got it,” he said, voice pitched slightly higher than normal. Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder as they stepped into the street.

“Deep breaths, kid. We’ve faced worse.”

Peter didn’t answer. His eyes were scanning everything. Cracked pavement, flickering streetlamps, and the faint pulse of something magical in the air. The static buzz of his Spidey-sense pressed behind his eyes like a migraine that hadn’t quite arrived yet.

The comms buzzed with check-ins as the team swept through the empty town.

“West alley: clear.”
“Rooftops: nothing.”
“Checked area nine — no one here.”

It was like the entire town had been swallowed whole. Peter crouched beside a battered mailbox, testing the vibrations of the ground with one hand.

Then Natasha’s voice cut in, sharp and alert. “Something’s just popped up on our signal. Main Street. 300 meters from Bucky’s position.”

“On my way,” Steve responded instantly, already moving.

“Me too,” came Sam’s voice, followed by Thor’s gruff, “Aye.”
“Heading there now,” Wanda murmured.

“Copy that,” said Bucky. “I’ve got sights on a figure. Looks like they’re using some kind of magic. Energy signature’s... unstable.”

They converged on Main Street in under a minute, boots pounding against cobblestone and asphalt alike. Dust hung low in the air, thick with the stench of sulfur and something sweeter — like rotting lavender.

In the center of the square stood a lone figure, long hair billowing in the breeze, hands aglow with a sickly, shimmering light. Purple mist swirled at her feet, curling like tendrils.

She didn’t even turn to look at them.

“What do we do?” Peter asked quietly, voice crackling through the comms.

“We go in with the element of surprise,” Tony replied, stepping forward with his trademark smirk and jets powering up. “Classic Stark style.”

He lifted off the ground — and then everything went sideways.

A blast of blinding light radiated from the woman’s hands, lancing across the square before anyone could react. It wasn’t concussive or violent. It was wrong. Like someone had peeled open your soul and dipped it into ice water and fire at the same time. It crashed over the team like a wave, knocking some to their knees.

The light soaked into their skin. Into their bones.

Peter cried out and stumbled back, clutching his chest. “What was that?!”

“It’s in my head,” Wanda whispered, eyes glowing faintly as she staggered.

Tony caught Peter’s arm, steadying him. “Hey, hey, kid—breathe. You’re alright.”
“I feel fine,” Peter mumbled, still wide-eyed. “But my Spidey-sense is going nuts.”

Everyone turned toward the witch — and this time, she was looking directly at them.

Her eyes were black. Not dark. Not shadowed. Black. Voids. Endless.

“Well done,” she said, her voice sweet as syrup and just as cloying. “Took you long enough. But your arrival was… expected.”

The Avengers tightened formation instinctively.

“I’m guessing you’re the ‘terrorize-the-town’ type, not the ‘negotiate-peacefully’ sort,” Clint said dryly from his rooftop position.

She smiled. “Terror is such a harsh word. I’ve simply… delivered what was owed.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Steve said firmly, stepping forward. “Drop the spell.”

But the woman only laughed — a sound too light, too knowing. “Oh, I’m not staying, darling. I’ve had my revenge. My work is done.”

Her form began to dissipate, purple smoke peeling from her limbs like burnt paper. “Good luck tonight,” she said, and then—she was gone.

Just like that.

No dramatic exit, no fireworks. Just a whisper and a void.

A long silence followed.

“Well,” Thor muttered, adjusting his grip on Mjolnir, “that was odd.”

“Odd?” Sam repeated, eyeing the scorched cobblestones. “That was freakin’ ominous.”

“I don’t feel any different,” Bruce offered, rubbing his arms. “Maybe it’s just a scare tactic?”

“Then why is my Spidey-sense going full DEFCON 1?” Peter asked, eyes darting around like the threat was still here.

Tony put a hand on his shoulder again. “Relax. If anything goes down, you’ve got fifteen backup plans and Iron Dad at your six.”

Wanda, however, was staring at the air where the witch had stood. Her expression had grown stormy.

“What was that magic?” Steve asked her gently.

She hesitated.

“Soul magic,” she finally said.

“Am I too optimistic to say it is to help with PTSD or something nice?” asked Sam.

Wanda just looked at him, “Soul magic, as in pain and emotional torture.”

A chill ran through the team. Even Clint had gone quiet on comms.

“What did she mean by ‘Good luck tonight’?” Sam asked. “Is it, like, a delayed thing?”

Wanda shook her head, slowly. “I don’t know. But I felt it. Whatever she did… it’s not over.”

Far above them, clouds gathered, turning the late afternoon into a sudden, spectral twilight.

And somewhere just out of sight, the spell waited for nightfall.

Chapter Text

Going to bed was, surprisingly, normal.
Dinner had been quiet. A little tense, sure — but the kind of tension that lived in the background like an old scar. Nothing said aloud, but everyone’s eyes drifting back to the witch’s final words: Good luck tonight.

Still, routines mattered. Routines grounded people.

So Natasha brushed her teeth. She watched part of a Bond movie — something about car chases and exploding pens — just long enough to mock his terrible aim and call him an amateur under her breath. She did a perimeter check out of habit, though she knew the tower's security was tight.

And then, like muscle memory, she pulled back the covers and slid into bed.

The mattress was too soft. The duvet too heavy. The sheets smelled like fresh detergent and chamomile fabric spray — luxuries she still hadn’t quite learned to trust. Still, she settled in, reaching instinctively to place a glass of water on the bedside table.

Sometimes she still woke up choking on a scream. The water helped.

Sleep came quickly, which was both a blessing and a curse.

Because with sleep came memories.

Natasha opened her eyes to a place she hadn’t seen with open ones in years.
The lighting was dim — never enough to see clearly, but just enough to feel watched. The walls were metallic, cold and windowless. A dozen narrow beds lined the room in tight formation, barely large enough to fit the small girls sleeping on them. Handcuffs glinted at each wrist, metal digging into thin skin. The blankets were a joke — a whisper of warmth against the Russian winter chill.

It was familiar. Unwelcome, but familiar.

The Red Room.

Natasha had dreamed of this place countless times. Usually, she woke up in her old body — knees aching, stomach hollow, chest filled with the panic of a girl who knew what would come next.

But not this time.

This time, she was watching.

The realisation made her freeze. She looked down at her hands — unshackled. Adult. She wasn’t reliving the memory through her younger self’s body. She was... a ghost. A spectator.

And she wasn’t alone.

Across the room, faint and glowing with a ghostly shimmer, stood her teammates.

Peter was near the back, looking lost, his gaze fixed on the small forms in the beds. Steve was at the center, tense, fists clenched like he was about to punch the memory into submission. Wanda stood beside him, eyes dark with unreadable emotion. Sam moved closer to Bucky, both of them scanning the scene with hard-set jaws. Clint was a few paces away, already signing something profane at Sam — though even his hand gestures were eerily muted, like someone had turned off the sound in the dream.

None of them could hear each other.

None of them could hear her.

Perfect, she thought.

She didn’t want them to.

The memory started.

Younger Natasha jolted awake at the sound of a buzzer. She rolled upright without hesitation, hands out, palms facing up — waiting for the cuffs to be removed. A stern-faced woman moved down the line of beds, unlocking each girl in turn. No words. Just orders.

Natasha watched her younger self move with robotic precision — making her bed, tying her hair back in a bun, standing straight with her eyes down.

A machine in training.

The memory flickered, then resumed.

Breakfast — stale bread and gray broth. Ballet — movements rigid, injuries ignored. Combat drills — bruises forming like clockwork. Target practice. Medical tests. Control.

To the others, it must have looked like something from a dystopian film.

To Natasha, it was Tuesday.

She turned slightly, watching as her teammates processed what they were seeing. Peter looked like he might be sick. Wanda reached out instinctively toward one of the sleeping girls, only to flinch when her hand passed through. Thor had gone stiff with rage.

Some of them were starting to realise what this was.

And slowly — far too slowly — their ghostly eyes turned toward her.

Sympathy. Horror. In some cases, something like guilt.

Natasha kept her face blank. She could handle horror. Guilt. Even pity. But sympathy? That was harder to swallow.

She hoped it was fear.

The memory stuttered — and shifted.

Now she stood in a smaller room. Sterile. Lit harshly from above. Her younger self was kneeling on the floor, hair damp from sweat, hands shaking slightly.

A man stood in the corner, hood over his face, arms bound.

Natasha’s chest tightened.

She remembered this day. Of course she did. She remembered how her legs felt like they were full of lead. She remembered the pistol they handed her — the weight of it heavier than any other she’d held before.

A graduation of sorts.

One that would stain.

The girl took the weapon.

Natasha turned away.

Even now, after all this time — she couldn’t watch it again.

She heard the silence stretch, taut and suffocating.

Then the gunshot rang out.

The scene vanished in a blinding flash.

Natasha shot upright in bed, gasping for breath.
The glass on her bedside table wobbled dangerously as her elbow knocked against it. She grabbed it with trembling fingers, drank, then set it down carefully.

The room was dark. The walls were warm. There were no cuffs on her wrists.

But her heart was pounding like it used to in that room. Like it had every time she woke up from one of those dreams.

Only now, it wasn’t just a dream.

The others had seen it.

They saw her.
They saw all of it.

Natasha pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to suppress the ache growing behind her eyes.

Down the hall, she could hear the soft creak of someone pacing. A door opening. Quiet voices murmuring in alarm.

They were waking up, too.

Whatever the witch had done — it had started.

———————

The silence in the kitchen was broken only by the low hum of the fridge and the clink of a spoon against ceramic as Peter stirred cocoa powder into a mug. He wasn’t really tired—none of them were. Something about the witch’s magic had left them uneasy, jittery, like they were all waiting for something to happen, even though it already had.

Natasha hadn’t said anything when she came into the room. She looked… steady, but too steady. She always had a kind of calm about her, like a panther lying in wait. But this was different. She was too controlled. Too still.

Clint noticed it first. “Nat?”

She didn’t look at him. She opened the fridge, grabbed the milk, poured it into the mug Peter passed her without question, and leaned against the counter.

“You saw it,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet, flat.

Steve straightened in his chair. “What was it we were seeing exactly?”

“My past. Not just memories. I was in it. All of you were watching.”

Tony, who had been hunched over a tablet and pretending not to care, set it down immediately. “You mean… the spell?”

Natasha nodded once.

Wanda stood from where she’d been curled up on the sofa, worry flickering across her face. “It’s soul magic,” she said again. “Deep magic. This kind doesn’t just hurt—it haunts. She anchored it to your souls somehow. We’re being forced to witness the pieces of ourselves we try to bury.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “And we all saw your memory?”

“That's invasive,” Sam said, “Especially as these are basically your worst memories.”

Clint stepped forward, his voice softer now. “Tasha… what exactly did she make you relive?”

There was a beat of silence. Natasha closed her eyes. “The Red Room. A day I’ve tried to forget. The day they gave me a gun. And told me to prove I could use it.”

No one spoke for a moment. The grief sat thick in the room.

“I always knew it was bad,” Steve said, not looking away from her. “But I didn’t… I didn’t know it started that young.”

“I was nine,” she replied flatly.

Peter sat his mug down quickly, too quickly—it sloshed over the rim. “That’s—what the hell kind of magic does this. No, more importantly, who the hell does that to children?”

Wanda crossed her arms tightly, eyes narrowed in thought. “We can all agree that was hell, but I think we will all get a turn.”

“So what, we all get our own public trauma before breakfast?” Tony asked, trying to make it sound light but failing miserably.

“Yes,” Wanda confirmed. “Each night. A different memory. A different person.”

“Can we break it?” Bucky asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Wanda admitted. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Natasha glanced at them—at Clint’s worried eyes, Steve’s guilt, Peter’s furious, youthful energy—and for the first time since waking, her voice softened.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I’m not a child in a nightmare. I’ve lived it. Survived it. You’re just catching up.”

Clint shook his head. “Doesn’t mean we like watching you suffer.”

“You won’t have a choice,” she replied. “None of us will.”

Sam gave her a nod. “Still, you won’t go through it alone.”

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to. Just the way her grip eased on the ceramic mug told them enough. There was comfort in being seen, even in the worst moments.

Peter hesitated, then looked around. “So, um… who’s next?”

No one answered, but they all shared the same uneasy thought: whoever it was, no one was getting a good night sleep tonight either.

Chapter Text

Despite everyone’s best efforts, normal didn’t come easy that day.

They moved through routines like actors hitting marks. Sam stuck to his workout, Clint loitered in the kitchen pretending not to burn toast, and Tony ran diagnostics three times on tech that didn’t need it. Steve wandered more than anything else — checking security feeds, reviewing training reports he’d already read. Mostly, he checked in on Natasha.

She didn’t say much — didn’t have to. One look told him the others had done the same. She carried herself like someone used to being alone with her pain, but the faint crease in her brow when he offered to spar told him she appreciated not being left there.

The fight ended the way it usually did: Steve flat on his back, blinking up at the ceiling and smacking the mat in surrender. Natasha stood over him with a raised brow and a look that almost counted as smug. Almost.

Later, Steve found Bucky in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and brow furrowed in concentration over a pot. He pressed a kiss to Bucky’s forehead as he passed, stealing a carrot off the chopping board and earning a mock glare.

They didn’t talk about the curse. They didn’t need to.

Evening came far too fast. Everyone lingered longer in the common room than usual — gravitating to one another like magnets repelling the inevitable. When they finally began to drift to their rooms, there were quiet hugs, shoulder squeezes, muttered “good lucks” and “see you in the morning”. Sam and Clint tried to lighten the tension by placing half-hearted bets on who might be next, but the looks from Wanda and Bruce shut that down quickly.

In their room, Steve and Bucky lay together in the quiet. After the serum, Steve always ran warm — Bucky, ever since the ice and the experiments, always ran cold. Sharing warmth was second nature now. They curled together like puzzle pieces worn to fit.

“Night, Buck,” Steve whispered.

“Night, Stevie.”

Sleep came quickly.

When Steve opened his eyes, he was standing on a rickety metal walkway high above a snow-covered ravine. The train thundered through the mountains, and the scene clicked into place like a nightmare he'd had a thousand times.
The Howling Commandos were charging forward. A younger Steve led the way — shouting, determined, hopeful. And beside him—

“Bucky,” Steve breathed, already aching.

Beside him, spectral Bucky reached for his hand, tried to speak — but no sound came. Steve clenched his fists helplessly and turned back to the memory.

He knew what was coming.

The fight inside the train was chaotic. Gunfire. Shouting. Explosions. Steve watched himself lunge forward, too late, as Bucky slipped from the broken side door, fingers clutching at the frame before falling.

Again. Always falling.

The scene changed.

They were on a freeway now, traffic streaming by. Steve recognized the exact curve of the road — the way the sunlight hit the glass. A familiar car drove into view, and then—

The Winter Soldier appeared.

He hurled himself onto the vehicle, ripped the steering wheel straight through the windshield. It was brutal, efficient. Sam’s horrified expression would almost be funny — if Steve wasn’t so deeply, miserably aware of what came next.

The fight played out in full. When his younger self finally ripped the mask from the Winter Soldier’s face, the silence in the spectral plane was deafening.

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

The next scene was darker — literally and figuratively.

Steve recognized the room instantly. The light of a desk lamp, the thin manila folders in his younger self’s hands. Hydra documents. Medical reports. Weapon logs.

Everything they had done to Bucky.

The younger Steve’s face crumpled as he read. Horror. Rage. Guilt.

The current Steve stood frozen, unable to look away from the devastation on his own face.

He didn’t realize he was crying until he tasted salt.

He jolted awake with a strangled gasp, sitting up so fast he startled Bucky beside him. The room was dark, quiet — too quiet.
“Steve?” Bucky’s voice was rough with sleep, worried.

Steve dragged in a breath, then another. He swiped at his face.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Bucky shifted to sit up beside him, their knees touching under the blankets. He didn’t press — just sat there, shoulder solid against Steve’s.

Eventually, Steve reached out, laced their fingers together.

“I just… I hate that you saw that.”

Bucky squeezed his hand. “We all saw everything eventually, pal. That’s the curse.”

A beat passed.

“But I’m still here. You brought me back. That matters more.”

Steve closed his eyes. Let himself lean.

————-

The knock at the door wasn’t a surprise. Last night, the only reason the others hadn’t come straight in after Natasha’s memory was because Steve had told them she’d want a moment alone—and he’d been right. This time, they didn’t wait. The team filtered in one by one, quiet and careful, giving Steve space to breathe while still being there.

No one spoke at first. Then, finally, Steve broke the silence.

“Nat… how did you get through yours without breaking?”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Emotional distance,” she said simply, her voice steady.

Tony folded his arms, glancing between them. “Honestly? I thought yours would’ve been the plane crash, Cap. But… I guess you’re more human than the world wants to believe.”

There was no sarcasm this time. Just a soft kind of honesty.

Peter slipped in behind the others, a little late but holding a steaming mug. He handed it to Steve without a word.

Steve blinked, voice rough as he accepted it. “Just what I needed. Thank you, Peter.”

Peter shifted awkwardly, then glanced around the room. “Um. I had an idea. For tonight. If… if you want. We could all do a big sleepover in the living room? Y’know. Strength in numbers. Or pillows.”

He winced, as if expecting teasing, but was met with quiet nods and murmured agreements.

A silent understanding settled between them: no one should face the spell alone again.

Chapter Text

The day passed under a strange hush, as though the Tower itself was holding its breath.

Routine had dissolved by this point—no training, no meetings, no structure. The kitchen became the center of movement, with people drifting in and out, looking for caffeine or comfort or simply the presence of someone else. Thor lingered in the common area, sipping coffee from a mug that had “Asgard’s Strongest Avenger” printed in glitter. It had been a gift from Peter, who now pretended not to notice Thor used it daily.

Thor didn’t directly speak to Steve that day. The Captain, still raw from the memory of losing Bucky on the train tracks, was spending most of his time stress-baking in the kitchen. Every surface was slowly filling with trays of cookies and banana bread, and Bucky hovered nearby, subtly redirecting Steve’s anxiety with snark and affection. The two moved in a rhythm that didn’t require words.

Thor, meanwhile, communicated in his own way.

Mjölnir began appearing in increasingly inconvenient places: balanced across the toaster, lodged in front of the fridge, tucked awkwardly beside the coffee machine. Each time, Steve would sigh, walk over, and lift the hammer effortlessly—only to find it blocking the microwave next. By the fifth time, Steve finally looked over at Thor, eyebrows raised.

Thor gave him a small, satisfied smile. He said nothing aloud, but the message was clear: You are still worthy, even when broken.

Steve blinked, a little thrown, and then quietly went back to his cookies.

Elsewhere, chaos bloomed.

Clint and Peter had dedicated themselves to building the greatest pillow fort ever created on Earth. Or, as Peter declared, “The Fortress of Softitude.” Clint insisted on calling it “Pillowverwatch.” Neither would budge, so a compromise was made to rename it weekly.

Tony, of course, got involved the only way he knew how: over-the-top spending.

“I have acquired sixteen different brands of ethically sourced, hypoallergenic, memory-foam pillows,” he announced, strolling in with several drones trailing behind him carrying boxes.

“Tony, we’re not building a mattress store,” Sam muttered, though he was already carving out a corner inside the fort for himself.

As the sun dipped lower and dinner was demolished (pizza, again—no one had the energy for anything else), Thor found himself settled on the couch, feet tucked under a soft blanket, watching Peter attempt to sleep upside down on the ceiling.

But even with the jokes, and the comfort, and the makeshift fort, the tension hung thick in the air. Everyone knew what was coming. Another memory. Another ghost of the past.

“Would it bring comfort,” Thor rumbled, “to watch that most enlightening documentary on the animals of Midgard?”

“Which one?” asked Wanda from her beanbag.

“The one where the small otters hold hands while they sleep.”

Peter perked up. “Oh! Deep Sleep: Creatures of the Night! FRIDAY, play that one!”

As soothing narration filled the room, shoulders slowly relaxed. Clint passed out face-first on a pillow. Sam muttered something about raccoons before snoring. Even Tony, usually last to drift off, fell asleep mid-comment about platypuses being nature’s prank.

Thor’s eyes closed last.

And opened in the middle of a nightmare.

The air shifted.

Gone was the warmth of blankets and friends and pizza grease. Instead: cold metal, flickering light, and the scent of smoke and blood.

He knew where he was immediately.

Aboard the Statesman. His people’s final refuge. His greatest failure.

Around him, the rest of the team began to appear—ghostly observers once more, flickering in and out of clarity like pale reflections. They didn’t speak. None dared to.

They could only watch.

Thanos stood like a god in the middle of the chaos, his cruel hand raised, calling forth death after death. The Asgardians fought valiantly—bravely—but they were no match. Heimdall collapsed after summoning his last ounce of strength to send the Hulk to Earth. Thor screamed his name, only to relive the moment again. And again.

And then—Loki.

He stepped forward. Pretending to kneel. Pretending to serve. Trying to stab the monster.

Trying to save Thor.

But it wasn’t enough.

They all saw it—Thanos’s hand crushing Loki’s throat, the life leaving his eyes, the limpness in his limbs.

Thor collapsed to his knees in the memory, just as he did in real life.

His team watched as Thor shouted and fought and failed. As his brother died. As his people died. As the God of Thunder, the son of Odin, was left drifting alone among the stars with nothing but loss behind him.

Then, silence.

Thor’s eyes blinked open.

Back in the pillow fort. Back in the living room.

He sat up slowly, careful not to disturb anyone.

There were no words. Nothing that could be said.

Thor rose, folded his blanket, and walked silently to the balcony. He stood alone, gazing out at the city lights, at a world he had once believed he’d rule—and now only protected.

He didn’t cry. Not tonight. But his hands shook slightly where they rested on the railing.

Behind him, the rest of the team began to stir.

They would follow him, eventually.

But for now, they let him have this moment.

Because tomorrow, someone else would break.

And tonight, Thor needed to breathe.

—————

The living room was quiet when Thor reappeared. He didn’t storm in or crack the floorboards with his footsteps like usual. He simply stood in the doorway, arms limp at his sides, Mjölnir nowhere to be seen. His shoulders were lowered, hair half-tied and uneven like he’d tried and given up halfway through.
Bucky looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening a knife that didn't need sharpening. “Thor,” he said gently. “Hey.”

Thor didn’t respond at first. He blinked slowly, eyes glassy. “They were my people,” he said finally. “All of them.”

Nat stood and crossed the room, placing a careful hand on his forearm. “And you fought for every last one of them.”

Thor’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t pull away. “And still... I failed.”

“You didn’t,” Steve said firmly from the couch. “You lost people, yes. But you didn’t fail.”

Clint leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Thor, none of us could’ve stopped that. It wasn’t you—it was Thanos. We’ve all lost to him.”

“You kept going,” Wanda added softly. “You brought the survivors to safety. You built a home in New Asgard. You gave your people hope again.”

“But Loki—” Thor choked, voice suddenly smaller. “Loki died still trying to prove he was good.”

Tony, surprisingly quiet all night, stood. “Loki was... complicated. Like, textbook complicated. But he died fighting the guy who wanted to erase half the universe. That’s not nothing.”

“He was trying to save you,” Sam said. “And from what I know? That means he was more than the trickster.”

Thor’s eyes shimmered. “He always wanted to be seen. To be respected. Even when he was doing... terrible things.”

“And he was seen,” Peter piped up from where he sat under the remains of the pillow fort. “We saw him change. At the end, he was brave.”

Steve stepped closer. “Thor, grief doesn’t make you weaker. It makes you human. Or... close enough.”

A few quiet chuckles followed that, and Thor managed the smallest smile. “He would have hated this. Everyone sitting around saying nice things about him.”

“That just makes me want to say more,” Clint said cheerfully. “Loki wore a cape indoors. Respect.”

Thor let out a half-laugh, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “Thank you, my friends.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” Nat said gently. “Not the guilt. Not the grief.”

Thor nodded slowly. “Then let us carry it together.”

And this time, when he sat, it was in the center of the group, and he let them stay close.

Chapter Text

Today, the team didn’t even pretend normalcy. No training, no mission briefings, no attempts at scheduled mealtimes or movie marathons. The only thing anyone managed to stick to was making sure Peter got to school on time. Tony volunteered to take him—not for efficiency’s sake, but because the kid’s voice had been tight with worry all morning, and Tony figured they could both use the time.

They rode in silence for most of the drive, Peter fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Just before he jumped out of the car, backpack slung over one shoulder, Tony leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Peter’s forehead.

“Knock ‘em dead, kid,” he said gruffly.

Peter blinked at him, surprised but clearly touched. “I’ll try not to punch Flash,” he promised, voice lighter already.

On the way back, Tony pulled into a Walmart and spent twenty minutes pretending to browse before filling his cart with fifteen boxes of Pop-Tarts. The cashier gave him a strange look, but didn’t comment beyond a slightly awed, “Could you sign my lanyard?”

Back at the Tower, Thor was sitting on the common room sofa, staring into nothing. He didn’t move when Tony approached, just blinked slowly like a tired lion. Tony dropped the Pop-Tarts next to him and moved on without a word.

The grateful look Thor gave him—barely a flicker of expression—was worth it.

When Peter came home, his energy was down from his usual bouncing-off-the-walls level. Tony kept things steady by pulling him into the lab to work on a new version of the web fluid, this one more elastic and less prone to temperature failure. They geeked out over tensile strength ratios and got sidetracked into AP calculus homework—Tony still wasn’t sure if it was assigned or if Peter just did that for fun.

He didn’t say anything when Peter swung out of the lab window for patrol. He just stood there for a moment, watching the city skyline, then exhaled and headed upstairs.

The bin in the communal kitchen was almost full of Pop-Tart wrappers. Thor, at least, looked less haunted as he debated with Steve over whether elevators counted as “worthy,” since Mjölnir didn’t stop them from going up. An ongoing debate that had never been fully resolved.

Tony inserted himself into the argument with a smirk and way too many physics facts, because the day had been too heavy and he needed to feel like himself again.

They ate spaghetti carbonara for dinner—Tony’s own recipe, thank you very much—which everyone inhaled like they hadn’t eaten in days. Pillow fort followed, now practically a ritual, with Peter webbing a corner of the ceiling for maximum blanket support and Clint declaring himself “King of the Cushion Realm.”

Eventually, the team’s chatter quieted. One by one, they drifted to sleep, nestled in sleeping bags and couch cushions and each other. Tony lay on his back, arms behind his head, listening to the rhythm of their breathing.

And then he opened his eyes.

The first thing he felt was cold.The second was terror.

He was in the cave.

Not a metaphor. A real, damp, echoing cave lit by the flickering firelight and the low hum of car batteries. His hands were bound. His chest felt heavy. And somewhere in the distance, he could hear the clank of metal being dragged across stone.

He knew exactly where he was.

The team appeared around him, just as confused as they’d been for every other memory. Their eyes scanned the grimy walls, the flickering lightbulb, the crude surgical scars across past-Tony’s chest. Peter made a quiet noise, already unsettled.

“Why is he…?” Steve started, then stopped.

Tony didn’t answer. He was already watching. Already remembering.

Past-him woke up disoriented, confused. Yinsen was alive, kind and calm, and the sight of him knocked the breath right out of Tony’s lungs.

He barely had a second to process it before the doors slammed open and masked gunmen entered. They barked threats in a language half the team didn’t understand, but the hostility was universal. Tony flinched when his past self was dragged to his feet.

The waterboarding was worse than he remembered.

Each time his past-self’s head was shoved under the water, the panic bloomed fresh. He couldn’t stop the way he held his breath in real-time, like he was there again. He could feel Peter’s eyes on him but didn’t look away.

He couldn’t.

Yinsen’s quiet courage filled the room. The arc reactor. The suit pieces built in secret. The way Yinsen talked about his family like they were still alive. The moment when past-Tony realized they weren’t.

Every second felt like it lasted an hour.

And then—Yinsen’s sacrifice. His smile. His words.

“Don’t waste your life.”

The memory faded with the sound of gunfire and Tony’s own hoarse screams. When he woke, his face was wet. Not from tears—those had already fallen—but sweat, adrenaline, and the choking grip of panic creeping in fast.

He was shaking.

It took all of two seconds before Peter, half-awake and blinking, crawled over and threw himself onto Tony with a soft, “Mr Stark?”

Tony didn’t answer, just held on.

“I got you,” Peter mumbled sleepily, forehead tucked under Tony’s chin. “You’re okay. You’re back.”

The shaking eased. Slowly. But it did.

Around them, the others stirred. No one spoke yet. They just shifted closer, wordless support wrapping around Tony like a second blanket. And for the first time since Afghanistan, since Yinsen, since everything, Tony let himself feel what it was to not be alone.

—————-

Tony didn’t move for a long time.

The memory was still clinging to him like soot—smoke in his lungs, sand in his mouth, the phantom pain of wires digging into raw skin. His hands were clenched so tightly around Peter’s back that the kid should’ve complained, but he didn’t.

Peter just held on.

The silence was soft, like snow. No one rushed him. No one dared break the moment.

Eventually, Peter shifted and pressed himself even closer into Tony’s side, squirming until he was tucked right under Tony’s arm, blanket dragged with him. “You know you’re my favourite hero, right?” he mumbled, voice muffled against Tony’s chest.

Tony huffed a shaky breath. “Thought that was Cap.”

“Nah. Too much spandex.” Peter tilted his face up just enough to peek at him. “You pulled yourself out of a cave with nothing but scraps. That’s way cooler.”

Tony blinked down at him. His throat felt tight.

Clint, half-covered in a sleeping bag, threw a thumb up from the other end of the fort. “He’s right. I mean, not about the spandex thing—Steve rocks it—but yeah. You came out of that cave and built yourself into Iron Man. No super serum. No royal bloodline. Just a box of junk and a brilliant, stubborn brain.”

Bruce gave a quiet, thoughtful nod. “You built a functional arc reactor. A miniaturized arc reactor. In a cave. With a car battery keeping you alive. I know grad students who panic if their soldering iron is slightly the wrong wattage.”

Natasha leaned forward, her voice softer than usual. “You didn’t just survive. You made something that changed everything. You took that pain and used it to help people.”

Tony swallowed hard. “I didn’t help Yinsen.”

“No,” she said gently. “But you helped the next ten thousand people who were going to die from your weapons. You have saved Peter. You have saved us.”

Thor’s voice rumbled from the floor where he’d stretched out like a sunbathing dog. “You are as worthy as any warrior I have known, Stark. Perhaps more so, because your strength was forged rather than born.”

Tony stared at the ceiling. He didn’t know what to say.

“I remember a mission we did together, I think the one near Salt Lake City,” Steve added quietly. He was sitting against the wall, knees drawn up, shield resting beside him. “You’d just redesigned your suit—again—and wouldn’t shut up about the boots having forty percent more flight stability. I thought, this guy’s going to get himself killed.” He smiled faintly. “But you didn’t. You saved a SHIELD quinjet full of people that day. And then again the next day. And again the day after that.”

Tony still didn’t speak.

“You know,” Steve said, voice dipping lower, “you really took Yinsen’s advice to heart.”

Tony turned to look at him.

“Your life isn’t wasted,” Steve finished.

For a moment, Tony just stared.

And then—he nodded, once. A small, tight thing. But real.

Peter curled tighter beside him, not saying anything else, just pressing his palm against the arc reactor like he could guard the spark itself.

Bruce passed him a water bottle without comment. Clint threw a blanket over both of them. No one got up. No one left.

The pillow fort stood strong around them, lit with fairy lights and softened by the presence of people who stayed. People who knew now—who’d seen him at his worst—and chose to stay anyway.

Tony leaned back, closed his eyes, and for the first time in hours, he let himself breathe.

Chapter Text

Wanda spent her morning curled up in one of the window seats, Pride and Prejudice balanced in her lap. Nat had suggested it a few days ago—“It’s got sarcasm, angst, and a ridiculous number of long walks. You’ll love it.” And she did. Elizabeth Bennet reminded Wanda of herself, fiercely loyal and a little too used to being misunderstood.
After lunch, Steve made the group announcement that everyone—except Peter, who was at school—was going grocery shopping.

“I fought literal aliens last week,” Sam groaned, reaching for his jacket. “And now I’m fighting pensioners in the cereal aisle?”

“You say that like it’s not harder,” Bucky muttered.

Tony was already halfway to the garage. “Come on, team bonding! Field trip! Buy snacks and capitalism!”

The trip started relatively normal. Steve spent the first twenty minutes marvelling at the price of eggs and making grumpy 1920s comparisons (“In my day, milk was delivered and it was five cents!”). Tony, completely ignoring the shopping list, decided they probably needed one of everything and was using two trollies. Nat trailed behind him, sneakily putting things back.

Wanda wasn’t really paying attention. She was texting Vision, who was still in Wakanda for a summit. He was due back tomorrow, and she hoped he’d make it home before it was her turn to face the nightmare. She missed him. Not just his presence, but his voice, his way of asking strange questions about humanity, the quiet stability he gave her when her mind ran away with itself.

She paused her text to record a short video: Bucky dramatically ranting to Sam in front of the milk section.

“I’m not paying that much. I’ll buy a cow, Sam. I swear to God.”

Sam, biting the inside of his cheek, looked like he might burst laughing any second. “Bucky, where are you gonna keep a cow? The tower barely has room for your trauma.”

She sent the video to Vision, smiling to herself.

Back at the tower, Wanda made herself a warm drink and leaned against the kitchen counter. Her magic stirred gently at her fingertips—a quiet habit she hadn’t realised she’d formed when she was anxious. Something tugged at her thoughts.

“FRIDAY?” she asked softly. “Where’s Tony?”

“In the lab, Miss Maximoff,” the AI replied. “He’s... unsettled.”

Wanda considered that. Then, without quite knowing why, she poured a second cup, added a drizzle of honey, and made her way downstairs.

When she arrived, Tony was pacing. The screens were on, but unfocused—various designs floating idly, no real work being done. He didn’t even notice her until she stepped fully inside and placed the drink on the nearest table.

He stopped, blinked at her. “What’s that?”

“A peace offering,” she said, and hugged him quickly. He didn’t hug back, not right away. But when she pulled away, he accepted the drink.

“It was my mum’s favourite,” she told him, voice quieter now. “Mursalski. Mountain tea, with honey. Great for headaches.”

He looked down at it, almost bashful. “Thanks, witchlet.”

She smiled at the nickname and let herself out.

As the elevator rose, Wanda marvelled at how much had changed. Not long ago, she would have killed Tony without a second thought. Now... now he trusted her enough to drink something she handed him without hesitation. And she cared enough to notice when he was hurting.

Half an hour later, Peter arrived home to find Wanda levitating grapes into Clint’s mouth. The archer leaned back on a barstool, arms outstretched like a basking lizard, trying to catch them mid-air. Peter grinned and immediately joined in, attempting trick shots off the wall. Soon, Sam, Nat, and even Bucky were in on the chaos.

The game only ended when the dinner alarm blared.

Steve, predictably, made everyone pick up the grapes before they were allowed to eat. “Teamwork,” he said sternly, while Tony snuck one off the floor and popped it into his mouth.

After dinner, Bruce declared it movie night and voted for Hot Tub Time Machine. Sam spent the first ten minutes whispering to Bucky that the actor playing Blaire looked weirdly like him.

“Sebastian who?” Bucky scowled. “Never heard of him.”

But Wanda didn’t make it far into the film. Her head slumped sideways against the armrest, and the next time she opened her eyes—

She wasn’t in the lounge anymore.

She was in their old apartment.

It was warm, golden-lit, cluttered in a way that felt lived-in. Her mother was clearing plates, singing softly in Sokovian as she moved about the kitchen. A small girl—herself—ran into the room, dragging her mother’s hand through to the next room.

There, her father sat cross-legged on the floor with a battered deck of cards. Young Wanda handed him a mug—Mursalski—and they all settled into a card game that quickly devolved into Pietro cheating and little Wanda pouting dramatically.

The spectral forms of the other Avengers hovered near the edges of the scene, confused. No other nightmare had started happy.

The confusion didn’t last long.

A whistle. A shriek. An impact.

The building rocked, dust and darkness rushing in like a wave. Screams. Crumbling concrete. The walls seemed to fold in on themselves. Through the chaos, the image flickered—her mother, her father—

Gone.

Then—Pietro. Her brother grabbed her, pulling her under the bed. The second shell landed. It didn’t explode.

Time passed in ragged, terrifying stillness. Wanda’s small hands clenched tightly around Pietro’s. The words on the side of the dud missile burned into her eyes.

STARK INDUSTRIES

And the memory shattered.

Only one image followed. Pietro again. His eyes wide, chest riddled with bullet holes. His expression peaceful in a way that haunted her. Wanda stared, unable to look away. The building behind him was only five blocks from their old apartment.

Five blocks.

She woke up with a gasp—but no sound came. Her breath hitched in her throat, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. Her face was blank. No tears. No screams. Just silence.

She slipped from the room before anyone else stirred.

The hallway lights were dim, her footsteps muffled against the carpet. She thought of calling Vision—but the line had stayed quiet. He hadn’t gotten back in time. He wasn’t here. And that was okay. It had to be okay.

She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

So she walked quietly to the kitchen and made another cup of tea, the same blend as before. She held the mug in both hands and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.

Wanda remembered something her mother once said when she and Pietro got into trouble: Grief is like a mountain—sooner or later, you have to climb it. But no one said you couldn’t rest on the way up.

Maybe that was what tonight would be. A rest.

Just for a little while.

————-

Clint found her first. Wanda was already in the kitchen, seated at the counter with her legs curled under her, three-quarters of the way through her mug of Mursalski. The steam rose gently from the cup, curling around her hands like a familiar spell. She didn’t look up as he entered, but he didn’t expect her to. Clint didn’t say anything—just leaned his elbows on the counter next to her and rested there in companionable silence. He knew better than to press her with questions. She’d talk if she wanted to. If not, his presence was enough.
A few minutes later, the others began filtering in, one by one, like some unspoken signal had gone off that their witch needed them.

Tony arrived last, his hoodie zipped halfway up, eyes still puffy from restless sleep. He paused in the doorway when he saw her. “Hey,” he said, voice scratchy. “I… Wanda, I’m—”

“You don’t need to say it,” she interrupted softly, but not unkindly. She finally looked up at him, her dark eyes unreadable. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Tony leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as though he could physically brace himself against the weight of his guilt. “I designed those weapons,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t matter if Obadiah sold them behind my back. My name was on the side of that missile.”

Wanda stared into her mug. “ When I was younger, the only thing I thought about when I looked at that missile was the name. Stark. And now…” She gave a weak laugh, humourless but honest. “Now I trust that man with my life.”

Tony looked at her for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. “Thank you. For the tea earlier. It helped. I didn’t say it at the time but…” He trailed off and then shrugged. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Wanda said. She offered the faintest smile. “That’s why I did.”

Before anyone else could speak, Peter entered, hair sticking up in odd directions and wearing mismatched socks. He blinked blearily at the group, then spotted Wanda. Without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped her in a hug so firm and sudden she nearly dropped her mug. She stiffened for half a second before relaxing into it, her eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Peter mumbled into her shoulder.

“Me too,” she whispered back.

For a few minutes, no one said anything. The team just lingered in the kitchen—Nat leaning against the fridge with crossed arms, Sam and Bucky sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the table, Bruce nursing a cup of his own tea. It wasn’t silence, not really. It was presence. And sometimes, that was enough.

Eventually, Steve checked his watch and sighed. “Alright. I’m going out for a run.”

Sam groaned. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Sure,” Steve said with a smirk. “Just not when everyone else does.”

He clapped Wanda gently on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re stronger than you know,” he said simply, before heading out the door.

One by one, the others dispersed again—some returning to their rooms, some to the common area, all moving slower than usual. Tony stayed back just long enough to top off Wanda’s tea before giving her hand a gentle squeeze and heading out.

When Wanda was alone again, the silence no longer felt heavy. It felt held.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was quiet when Bucky wandered in, the kind of quiet that felt soft rather than empty. Wanda sat at the counter, her phone loosely balanced in one hand, a half-eaten waffle in the other. She wasn’t scrolling — just staring into some far-off place that clearly wasn’t the compound. Bucky hesitated in the doorway. Comforting people wasn’t his strong suit, but he didn’t want to leave her sitting there alone with whatever thoughts were running circles in her head.

“You want to go for a walk?” he asked, voice low. “While you’re waiting for Vision to get here?”

Wanda blinked, almost surprised he’d spoken, then gave him a faint smile. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

They took his motorbike into the city, the ride quiet except for the hum of the engine and the winter air rushing past. In Central Park, they strolled without a real destination, letting their conversation drift from small things — Wanda’s newfound appreciation for peanut butter M&Ms — to heavier topics they didn’t dwell on for long. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all, and Bucky found himself appreciating that more than anything. Silence with Wanda wasn’t awkward; it was just… peaceful.

When it was time to head back, Bucky detoured. Instead of pulling into the compound garage, he rode straight to the Avengers’ landing strip. The moment the bike stopped, Wanda spotted Vision’s ship descending. She didn’t even wait for the ramp to lower fully before running forward. Bucky stayed by the bike, helmet in hand, and watched Vision take her hand in his. She smiled in a way that lit her whole face, and Bucky felt his own lips twitch upward. Then, quietly, he turned back inside.

Steve was in the bedroom when Bucky got back, halfway through pulling on his training shorts. He glanced over his shoulder and, not yet registering who it was, shouted, “Oh my God — who just walks in on people changing?!”

“Relax, it’s just me,” Bucky said dryly.

Steve turned, realised, and smirked. “Well, you have seen me in less clothes.”

Bucky chuckled and leaned in for a quick kiss, but Steve caught him by the waist before he could pull back, deepening it. Bucky let himself be pressed against the wall, the kiss slow and unhurried — no rush, no expectations, just the warm press of Steve’s mouth on his. When they finally broke apart, breathing uneven, Bucky brushed a few gentler kisses along Steve’s neck.

“Don’t you have training?” Bucky murmured.

“Training can wait,” Steve replied, which earned him a raised eyebrow.

“I heard training was with Natasha,” Bucky said. “She’ll have both our heads if you’re late.”

Steve groaned but conceded the point, slipping out toward the gym — though not before Bucky caught his hand and pulled him back for one last lingering kiss.

With Steve occupied, Bucky made his way to the kitchen for lunch duty. Bruce was already there, and the two of them worked side by side in companionable quiet. No forced chatter, no probing questions. Bucky liked that about Bruce — his presence was steady, unintrusive.

After lunch, Sam managed to rope Bucky into going for a run. Their usual back-and-forth started almost immediately, good-natured insults traded without heat. When Bucky got bored, he sprinted ahead, lapping Sam five times before stopping to wait. Sam called him a show-off, Bucky smirked, and that was that.

Back at the compound, showered and in fresh clothes, Bucky stumbled upon Vision, Peter, and Thor in the lounge playing an extremely chaotic game of piggy in the middle — with Mjölnir as the ball. Tony walked in mid-chaos, froze at the sight, and looked momentarily panicked before sighing and warning them not to break anything worth more than 10 grand. Bucky laughed and followed Tony into the kitchen to help prep dinner.

That night, the whole team piled into the pillow fort. Vision recounted his time at the Wakandan summit but kept circling back to asking how, exactly, the Avengers had managed to land themselves in their current magical predicament. Clint and Peter’s dramatic reenactment of the spell-casting had Bucky laughing so hard he buried his face in Steve’s shoulder.

Eventually, everyone drifted off. Bucky settled into the warmth of Steve’s arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For a few blissful moments, that was all there was.

Then he opened his eyes.

The room was familiar in a way that made his stomach knot instantly — stark white walls, cold metal floors, the faint hum of machinery. Empty now, but he knew exactly what was coming. The restraining chair sat in the middle, waiting like an open jaw.

People in lab coats burst in, dragging a younger version of him — hair shorter, eyes sharp with confusion and fear. They shoved him into the chair, buckled restraints across chest, wrists, ankles. The mask came down over his face, and Bucky felt his own breath go shallow. He didn’t need to watch. He already knew.

His past self jerked violently as electricity tore through him, muffled screams echoing off the walls. Somewhere in the periphery, he caught glimpses of his teammates’ spectral faces — horror, disbelief, anger.

A voice began reciting the trigger words in Russian, steady and merciless. Bucky shut his eyes, but it didn’t block out the sound.

When he opened them, the Winter Soldier was standing, eyes vacant, receiving his first mission. The details didn’t matter — some petty assassination — but Steve’s expression did. Guilt. Horror. Helplessness.

The scene fractured, giving way to flashes of cryo-freezes: the bite of cold air in his lungs, the ice closing over him, the long dark. Then one freeze stood out — the day he saw Steve again. The sudden flood of memory, unbidden.

“But I knew him,” his own voice said, desperate.

The man in the lab coat ordered a wipe.

Bucky woke with a strangled cry, shoving his face into the pillow to muffle the sound. Steve was already stirring, hand finding Bucky’s back, rubbing slow circles.

“It’s okay,” Steve murmured, though they both knew it wasn’t.

By the time Bucky’s breathing had evened out, the rest of the team was awake. No one crowded him, no one pushed for details. Peter crossed the space without a word and hugged him tightly, eyes wet. Steve’s arms came around Bucky straight after Peter moved back.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered. “For not looking for you after… after the bridge. For not finding you sooner.”

Bucky shook his head. “Not your fault.”

No one spoke after that. They just stayed — quiet, solid, together — until the night gave way to dawn.

—————————-

The kitchen was already warm by the time Steve padded in, hair still damp from his shower. The smell of coffee drifted through the air, mingling with something sweet and buttery. Bucky stood at the stove in a loose henley, sleeves pushed up, flipping pancakes with methodical precision.
“You know,” Steve said, leaning against the counter, “you don’t have to do this. It’s your nightmare night. You’re allowed to take it easy.”

Bucky didn’t look up from the skillet. “I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. Cooking’s easy. Besides, you’ll all eat better if I’m in charge.”

Steve smiled. It was so Bucky — turning hurt into action. He didn’t argue further, just rolled up his own sleeves and started setting out plates. “Alright, Sergeant. I’ll help.”

The radio was on, low in the background — some oldies station playing a familiar, lazy tune. Bucky hummed along under his breath as he poured batter into the pan, the sizzle filling the quiet spaces between them.

At one point, Steve slid up behind him, fitting himself along Bucky’s back as naturally as breathing. His hands found Bucky’s waist, warm palms settling just above the waistband of his sweats. Steve dipped his head, brushing a soft kiss against the side of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle and turned, resting his arms on Steve’s shoulders, hands hanging loosely. They swayed without thinking, moving in slow, unhurried steps that matched the rhythm of the music. Every so often, one of them would lean in for a quick kiss, light as a whisper.

Steve’s hand slid up to the nape of Bucky’s neck, fingers brushing the short hair there. The world felt far away for a moment — just the smell of pancakes, the warmth of the stove, and the steady beat of the song on the radio.

Eventually, Bucky pulled away, glancing over his shoulder at the pan. “Pancake’s gonna burn,” he muttered. Instead of grabbing the spatula, he slid the metal fingers of his left hand under the pancake and flipped it in one smooth motion.

Steve leaned back against the counter, watching with an amused expression. “Show-off.”

“Gotta keep breakfast interesting,” Bucky said, smirking faintly.

Peter was the first to wander in, hair sticking up on one side making it clear he hadn’t brushed it yet, and headed straight to the kitchen. He yawned, rubbing his eyes, then spotted Bucky at the stove. Without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s middle.

“You doing okay?” Peter asked quietly.

Bucky hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah, kid. I’m fine.”

Peter didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he let it go. “Alright. You’re still making the best pancakes, though.”

“That’s the plan.”

Peter grinned and dropped into a seat at the breakfast bar, pulling a battered Spanish textbook from his bag. He flipped it open and started muttering conjugations under his breath, pencil tapping on the page in time with the music.

Steve poured coffee into two mugs, sliding one toward Bucky, who took a grateful sip between flips. Gradually, the rest of the team trickled in — Sam, hair still damp from his shower; Natasha, tying her hair back; Bruce, looking like he’d been to the lab already. Each of them paused for a moment to greet Bucky before finding a seat.

When the stack of pancakes on the counter grew dangerously high, Bucky finally set down the pan and joined them. Steve followed, sliding into the seat beside him.

Breakfast was easy, the kind of quiet comfort that came from years of shared mornings. They passed syrup and fruit across the table, teasing each other between mouthfuls. Even Sam kept his comments to gentle jabs, nothing sharp enough to stick.

Steve kept an eye on Bucky, noticing the way his shoulders slowly uncurled as the conversation carried on around him. The tension from the night before hadn’t vanished entirely — Steve doubted it ever truly would — but it had softened under the steady warmth of routine.

When Peter finally packed up his notes, he gave Bucky another quick hug before heading out to meet Ned. “See you later, Mr. Barnes. Don’t forget, you promised to help me with that history thing.”

Bucky snorted. “You mean the one that’s due Monday?”

Peter grinned, already halfway to the door. “Exactly that one!”

The rest of the team lingered a little longer, finishing their coffee and chatting idly about the day ahead. Steve brushed his knee against Bucky’s under the table, a silent reminder that he was there.

Bucky met his gaze for a moment, then looked away — but not before Steve caught the small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Chapter Text

Breakfast had been quiet by Avengers standards, just the faint hum of the radio in the background and the occasional clink of cutlery. Sam stayed long enough to finish his plate and exchange a few quips with Bucky before deciding he needed some air.

Usually, he’d run with Steve or Bucky — sometimes both if he was feeling ambitious — but today felt different. After the night Bucky had, Sam figured those two could use some alone time without their resident Falcon wheezing in their ear about 1940s slang.

The run wasn’t particularly strenuous, just a steady loop through the city streets that let him fall into a rhythm. His breathing and footsteps lined up with the beat of the music in his earbuds, and for a while, the repetitive motion felt like it scraped away the tension that had been coiled in his chest since last night. The cold air nipped at his face, but the sun was warm on his back. It wasn’t peace exactly — Sam didn’t think he’d had peace in years — but it was something close.

When he got back, the first thing he noticed was Peter’s Spanish revision still spread across the kitchen table. Loose pages, highlighters, and a mug that looked like it had been abandoned mid-thought.

Sam started stacking papers together with a shake of his head.
“Because I want to use it, Bucky! Not because I’m going soft toward him!” Sam called over his shoulder as he caught Bucky leaning in the doorway, smirking like he knew better.

It was a lie, of course. Peter had a way of worming into everyone’s affections, and Sam was no exception. But nobody called him out on it. Truth was, they were all guilty of the same thing.

The rest of the morning was a patchwork of small, easy moments. Checking in on Bucky — usually through thinly veiled insults that both of them knew were harmless — sparring with Steve until his shoulders burned, and stealing Clint’s stash of emergency chocolates from the vent behind the fridge.

“That’s not cool, Wilson,” Bucky said, but his grin betrayed him.

“Please,” Sam scoffed, breaking off a piece for him. “I’m doing this man a favor. Chocolate’s bad for his blood pressure.”

By the time lunch rolled around, Wanda and Vision had somehow decided sushi was the day’s experiment. None of them had made it before, but Sam had to admit, it wasn’t half bad. Around the table, conversation flowed easily, the steady give-and-take of teasing that meant everyone felt safe enough to be the butt of a joke.

Clint, however, was not in a forgiving mood.
“Natasha Romanoff, you stole my chocolates,” he accused, pointing a chopstick at her like it was a weapon.

Nat didn’t even look up from her plate. “If I wanted your chocolates, Barton, you wouldn’t know for a week.”

Sam stifled a laugh as Clint launched into a full rant about stealthy redheads and chocolate etiquette. Sliding a glance toward Bucky, Sam held up the very chocolates Clint was searching for. They both broke, collapsing against the table in helpless laughter. Clint caught on halfway through his tirade, spotted the evidence, and immediately demanded them back.

“You people are worse than college roommates,” he grumbled, grabbing the box.

The afternoon passed quickly. Tony decided to skip the lab and parked himself next to Sam in the lounge, where the conversation meandered from everyday annoyances to the weird reality of being “the normal guys” in a team of superpowered individuals. Clint and Nat joined them halfway through, making the dynamic even more ridiculous.

Eventually, Tony peeled off to pick up Peter from school, and Sam drifted into the gym. Steve was there, casually bench-pressing something that looked like it belonged on a construction site, proving most of the points from the 'normal people' superhero talk earlier.

“You trying to impress me, Rogers?” Sam asked.

Steve didn’t miss a beat. “Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

By the time dinner rolled around — early, because Peter had a longer patrol that night — Sam was more than ready to force Bucky and Steve into finally watching Star Wars. Peter had set up the projector before he left, and Sam waited patiently for the moment.

When it came, and Darth Vader dropped his infamous “I am your father” revelation, Steve’s face was so priceless Sam nearly fell off the couch.

Later, after the film and the lazy conversations had melted into the soft rustle of blankets in the pillow fort, Sam felt his eyelids drooping. Peter crept back in through the window, quiet as a mouse, but Sam was already halfway to sleep.

When Sam opened his eyes again, he wasn’t in the fort.
The air was full of movement and shouting, the metallic tang of adrenaline sharp in his nose. He recognized the gear immediately — EXO-7 Falcon program — and with it, faces he hadn’t seen in years.

Old colleagues. Old friends. Dead friends.

His chest tightened. He knew exactly where this was going, but part of him was still glad to see them again.

The mission played out like a film he’d watched too many times. An injured soldier, a coordinated extraction. The feel of the harness against his ribs, the rush of wind in his ears as they took to the sky. For a moment, it was almost perfect.

Then the gunfire started.

One of the Falcons took a hit. Sam saw the burst, heard the scream over comms, and then — nothing. She fell. The world seemed to tilt as the others kept flying. Sam knew there was no surviving that fall, but the helplessness still burned fresh in his chest.

The scene shifted.

More missions. More names. More people he’d trained with and laughed with shot out of the sky or carried back with injuries too severe to fix. And through it all, Sam stood powerless, forced to watch.

The final memory hit like a punch.

Nighttime. Just him and Riley, their comms chatter quieter than usual. The flash of an RPG. The scream of tearing metal. Screams, maybe from Riley, maybe from him. Riley falling, falling—

By the time younger Sam got there, he was dead.

Sam felt his knees give out. He barely registered the spectral outlines of the Avengers watching — all of them silent, their faces heavy with something between grief and anger. He hated that they had to see this. Hated they were seeing his memories, his vulnerability.

When Sam woke, his throat was tight and his eyes stung. The pillow fort was empty. The soft glow of the kitchen lights spilled into the hallway, and voices murmured low.
He dragged himself to his feet and padded toward the smell of coffee.

The others were already there — unusual. Normally, Sam was one of the first up. This morning, they seemed to be waiting for him. Steve was leaning against the counter, arms folded, his expression somewhere between “I’m fine” and “I’m going to punch someone.” Bucky sat at the table, idly spinning a mug between his hands, watching him in that way that wasn’t pity, but wasn’t casual either.

Peter was the first to move, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around Sam without a word. Sam froze for half a second, then returned the hug, squeezing the kid’s shoulders just enough to let him know he was solid.

Nobody pushed him to talk. They didn’t need to. The quiet was its own kind of comfort, one Sam wasn’t used to accepting but found himself grateful for all the same.

—————————

Breakfast was basic — Cheerios and cornflakes set out on the counter alongside the milk. No pancakes, no omelettes, no Stark-level spread. Just simple, no-pressure food. Everyone ate in silence, respecting the unspoken agreement not to push Sam before he was ready. He appreciated it, but it also made the air feel thick, as if everyone was holding their breath.

He sat at the head of the table with his bowl, staring into the pale swirl of cereal and milk. He kept his expression neutral, even when his mind kept flashing back to the sound of gunfire and the copper tang of blood in the air.

Steve was the one to break the silence, his voice quiet but sincere.
“I didn’t know your time in the military impacted you so much,” he said.

Sam gave a short laugh that held no humour. “That’s what happens when your friends die in front of you.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it fell flat. No one laughed. He hadn’t expected them to.

Bruce looked genuinely surprised. “I didn’t even know you had trauma.”

Sam shrugged, lifting his spoon as if the topic was nothing. “You guys have been through worse. I wasn’t going to add my own load to you. Plus, I dealt with this kind of stuff for a living. I know how to manage it.”

The table exchanged looks, the kind of silent communication that came from years of working together. Bucky set down his mug with a quiet thud and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“Helping people with trauma doesn’t mean you don’t deserve help yourself,” he said. His tone wasn’t confrontational — it was steady, the kind of voice that could cut through stubbornness without raising volume.

Tony, who had been swirling his spoon lazily in his coffee, finally spoke up. “It’s not a competition, Sam. You’re part of this team — you don’t get to decide your pain isn’t enough to matter. You think if Peter had a bad night we’d tell him ‘sorry kid, someone else had it worse’? Not happening.”

Across the table, Natasha gave Sam a pointed look. “You always tell us to talk about it, Wilson. Don’t be a hypocrite. It clearly hurt you, and we want to help, like you help us.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. His spoon hovered over his cereal, his eyes fixed on the table. The stubborn part of him still wanted to brush it off, to retreat into the easy role of team counsellor, the one who listened and offered advice without ever asking for anything back. That had always been safer. Cleaner.

But these people weren’t just colleagues. They weren’t even just friends. They were family — the kind that wouldn’t let you disappear into your own head and pretend you were fine when you weren’t.

Peter, who had been unusually quiet, spoke up from Sam’s right. “You’ve helped us through a lot, Sam. Even when we didn’t think we needed it. You don’t wait for us to ask.” His voice was soft, but the earnestness in it made Sam glance over. Peter looked him straight in the eye. “So… we’re not gonna wait for you either.”

Something in Sam’s chest loosened. He didn’t quite smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual. “I’ll… share more. Just… not right now. I’m kind of tapped out.”

“Fair enough,” Steve said, giving him a reassuring nod. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Bucky reached across the table and gave Sam’s wrist a brief squeeze before pulling his hand back to his coffee. It was quick, almost casual, but Sam caught it, and knew Bucky was showing his support.

The conversation drifted after that, returning to safer topics — Tony rambling about a half-finished suit upgrade, Clint complaining about the lack of decent cereal choices in the pantry, Peter mumbling about a Spanish quiz he hadn’t studied for (if the revision notes were anything to go by, he had studied). The heaviness in the room didn’t vanish entirely, but it softened into something warmer, easier to sit with.

Sam sat back in his chair, watching them talk, the quiet murmur of voices washing over him. He still wasn’t ready to unpack everything from last night, but maybe — just maybe — he didn’t have to do it alone.

Chapter Text

Clint had a normal morning.
Well, as normal as a morning could be when you’d just spent the last week watching your teammates relive their most gut-wrenching traumas, fully aware that yours was coming up within the next three nights. Normal didn’t really cover it. More like waiting for a firing squad and hoping they were bad shots.
So yeah, Clint was on edge.
But he couldn’t show it. He knew his place on the team: the cool, unattached guy who drifted in and out, disappeared without explanation, and came back with chocolate. It was a role he leaned into — if people thought you were untouchable, they didn’t ask why you kept your walls so high.
Besides, the chocolate part wasn’t inaccurate. The first thing he did that morning was spend hours relocating his stash. No way was he letting Sam get lucky twice. Last time Wilson had stumbled across the cache, Clint had had to endure three whole days of the man strutting around, popping truffles like trophies. Not again.
Of course, Peter was onto him. The kid had the same vent-crawling tendencies and a nose for secrets. Clint could hear the faint scrape of fabric on metal behind him, proof Parker was stalking his every move. So Clint did what he did best: turned it into a game. He led the kid on a ridiculous chase, doubling back through ducts, dropping down ladders, tucking chocolate bars into decoy hideouts. Peter would catch up eventually, sure, but for now Clint was enjoying himself too much to care.

By the time he finally dropped out of the vents, it was about 10:30. He landed in the lounge to find Sam sitting on the sofa, staring into space, jaw clenched tight.
Clint wasn’t great at feelings. He never had been. But even he knew silence like that wasn’t good. He fished in his pocket, tossed a Mars bar onto Sam’s lap, and kept walking.
“If I’d known all I had to do to get chocolate was have my trauma revealed in a public nightmare,” Sam said dryly, “I’d have done it sooner.”
Clint paused, glanced back. The faintest twitch at Sam’s mouth told him the man was joking — kind of. They both chuckled, but there wasn’t much humour in it. Clint didn’t push. Sometimes the best comfort was leaving it at that.

The gym was busier. Nat was already sparring with Steve and Bucky, moving so fast it was like watching three knives clash in midair. Clint, wisely, gave that circus a wide berth. Instead, he grabbed his bow, set the simulation to Level: Hard, and spent the next forty-five minutes shooting at holographic aliens and robots.
Clint wasn’t a tech guy. Most gadgets gave him a headache. But this training program? He had to admit it was fun. Targets that moved unpredictably, cover that crumbled, dummies that fought back. It wasn’t a battlefield, but it was close enough to scratch the itch.
After a shower and lunch, Nat demanded a full-team training session. Clint grumbled but went along. It ended, embarrassingly, with Peter somehow outshooting all of them on the paintball field.
“Beginner’s luck,” Clint muttered, peeling neon green paint off his vest.
Peter just grinned.

The afternoon was quieter. Clint and Nat holed up in the armoury, cleaning their weapons. Knives, check. Bow, check. Arrows, check. Katanas: check… but unlikely to be used. It was soothing work, the kind that kept his hands busy and his brain quiet.
Dinner was simple. Or, it would’ve been, if Sam hadn’t incinerated the sausages. The smoke alarm went off twice. By the time they sat down, most of the food was charred on the edges, but no one complained. They’d all had worse.
And then — as always — everyone drifted into the pillow fort.
Clint and Natasha did their usual perimeter sweep before settling in. Both chose spots near the door, weapons tucked out of sight but easily reachable. Clint knew Nat had more hidden knives on her than he could count, but he didn’t mention it. Routine was comfort. Routine meant safety.

The fort was warm, filled with the steady breathing of his friends, the occasional shuffle of blankets. Clint closed his eyes slowly, lured into sleep by the weight of trust.

The dream began in a living room.
Two boys played there, leaping over the sofa, almost breaking the lamps. Clint froze. He knew this scene. He knew that laugh. That crooked grin. Himself — small, careless, wild. And his brother Barney, years younger, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Clint almost cried. It had been so long since he’d seen Barney look like that — before the weight, before the fights, before the distance.
A woman entered. He didn’t know her face anymore, but the ache in his chest told him she mattered. She carried sadness in her every step.
She sat the boys down and spoke.
Their parents had been in a car crash.
Barney asked if they were all right. She couldn’t meet their eyes. The pause said everything.
“They’re gone.”
The shock on his younger self’s face was worse than any battlefield horror. That moment — the split second when childhood died.

The dream jumped.
Flashes of circus tents. Flying trapeze. The thrill of danger mixed with hunger and fear. Learning to shoot, to fight, to survive.
Another shift. SHIELD. A younger Phil Coulson, calm and steady, offering him a choice: rot in crime, or try something bigger. Clint remembered the way his heart had pounded. He’d said yes.

And then—
Loki.
The scepter pressed to his chest. That awful, invasive tug. His body no longer his. His bow drawn against his colleagues, against Fury. His fight with Natasha on the helicarrier — her desperate voice calling his name, his own blank eyes staring back.
The memory blurred, faded.

Clint woke with a gasp, clutching his bow, heart hammering. He was on his feet before he even realised it, every nerve screaming danger. He couldn’t stay. Couldn’t let them see.
He scrambled into the vents just as the others stirred awake.

——————-

Clint stayed wedged in the vent long after his breathing had slowed. The metal was cool against his cheek, familiar, safe. He’d spent half his life crawling through ducts and shadows — the small spaces had always been kinder than people.

Except now there was a faint rustling behind him. A soft, “Uh… Mr. Barton?”
Clint groaned. “Kid, I swear—”
Peter’s face popped up through the grate, upside down. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and he looked far too awake for the early hour. “You know, waffles are downstairs. With syrup. And… everyone’s kind of waiting for you.”
Clint scowled. “Not hungry.”
Peter tilted his head, still hanging by one hand. “Yeah, I used to say that too when Aunt May made broccoli soup. But this isn’t soup. It’s breakfast. With family. And…” His voice softened. “You don’t have to sit up here alone.”
The sincerity in his tone chipped at Clint’s defences. He let out a long sigh. “You’re annoyingly persuasive, you know that?”
Peter grinned. “Thanks, I practice.”

Ten minutes later, Clint shuffled into the kitchen, hair mussed, bow still clutched like a lifeline. The table went quiet.
Natasha was the first to move. She stood, crossed the room without hesitation, and simply placed a hand on his shoulder. No words, just steady pressure. Clint swallowed hard. The smallest touch from her was louder than a speech.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” Steve said gently. “We didn’t know your pain went back so far.”
Bruce nodded. “Childhood loss… it leaves scars as much as anything HYDRA or aliens could do.”
Clint looked away, throat tight. “Doesn’t matter. I survived.”
“It does matter,” Natasha murmured, her hand never leaving his shoulder.
Thor’s voice rumbled low. “Brother caused you great suffering. For that, I offer my apology in his stead.”
Clint forced a bitter laugh. “It's fine. Actually it isn’t. None of it is. But… he changed. In the end, Loki died a hero. That’s what counts.”
Silence hung, not heavy but thoughtful.
Tony cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, Barton, you’re allowed to lean on us. You don’t have to keep crawling into air vents every time things get rough.”
“Though,” Sam added with a smirk, “if you keep hiding chocolate up there, I might let it slide.”
The table broke into quiet laughter, easing the tension. Natasha guided Clint into a chair, finally letting her hand fall away once he was settled. Peter slid a plate toward him — waffles drowning in syrup — and gave him a small, hopeful smile.
Clint placed his bow carefully by his chair, not yet ready to move away from it. Tony noticed but just smiled and didn’t push.
Clint stared at the plate, then at the circle of people watching him not with pity, but with patience. For the first time since the nightmare, he let out a breath that didn’t feel like it cut him in half.
“Alright,” he muttered. “But nobody better touch my waffles.”

Chapter Text

Bruce headed down to the lab after breakfast. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t worked out the odds — a clean fifty-fifty chance of being tonight’s nightmare victim. Half of him hoped the spell would hit Peter next; the other half hated himself for thinking that. Worrying, however, wouldn’t get him anywhere except closer to hulking out, so he buried himself in work.

Peter had gone to see his aunt May for the day. The kid had been staying at the tower for the duration of the spell, but Sunday was sacred — May meant pancakes and normality, and Peter clearly craved both. Bruce didn’t begrudge him that, though he did sorely miss Peter’s constant chatter in the lab. The kid had a way of making even the driest equations sound exciting, bouncing from one thought to the next until Bruce forgot to be anxious.

The morning was… tolerable. No exceptional breakthroughs, and the lab only almost exploded once — which was, in fairness, after Tony had arrived and gotten bored enough to start “improving” Bruce’s carefully calibrated setup. Bruce muttered about focus, Tony muttered about genius, and in the end they both laughed it off when nothing important caught fire.

Lunch was surprisingly relaxed. Clint wandered in first, claiming his usual seat. Bruce noticed Sam making a move toward it and, with nothing more than a single raised eyebrow in Sam’s direction, ensured Clint got to keep his favorite spot. Clint’s grateful smirk was small but real, and Sam rolled his eyes but took another chair without complaint.

The afternoon was scheduled for training. Peter was back by then, strolling into the living area as though it was perfectly normal to be upside down on the ceiling, thumbs flying over his phone screen while he texted. Bruce nearly dropped his tablet. “Gravity still applies, you know,” he muttered, and Peter only grinned, flipping down onto the couch in one smooth motion.

Training itself was a mix of Natasha’s punishing warm-up drills, sparring rotations, and a final mock fight that had everyone breathless and bruised. Bruce, as usual, stayed on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, monitoring vitals and jotting notes on endurance and technique. He tried not to chuckle too loudly every time Steve got his ass handed to him by a high schooler with barely a year of proper combat training. Then again, Peter fought with a kind of instinctive grace, his moves crisp and precise, not unlike Natasha’s. Maybe she had been giving him tips behind the scenes. Bruce made a mental note to ask later.

Dinner was loud and messy, everyone teasing Sam about his cereal obsession and Tony about his lack of table manners. For once, Bruce managed to enjoy it without the creeping dread pressing too hard on his chest.

Afterwards, Peter found him back in the lab, fiddling with a half-finished model on the computer. “Just you and me left for the spell to hit,” Peter said, leaning casually against the bench.

Bruce offered him a wry smile. “I’m not really looking forward to tonight… whoever it is.”

Peter nodded, unusually subdued, and they slipped into a companionable silence. They worked side by side until Peter left for patrol. Tony appeared not long after, dragging Bruce into a bizarre debate about thermal radiation and bananas — and by the end of it, Bruce was actually smiling.

When it was finally time for bed, Bruce shifted his sleeping bag a little away from the others. The motion didn’t go unnoticed — Steve’s brow furrowed, Natasha’s eyes narrowed, Clint tilted his head — but no one said anything. Bruce appreciated that. Words would only make it worse. He knew if he got too upset, too fast, there was a very real risk he’d lose control. It took everything in him not to retreat to one of the hulk-proof rooms preemptively. But doing that would’ve been like admitting defeat.

Sleep, when it came, was not restful.

He opened his eyes to see a lab. Not just any lab — the lab. The fluorescent lights hummed, sterile and cruel, bouncing harshly off the gleaming equipment. He knew exactly where this was, and his stomach dropped like lead.

He wasn’t surprised. The others, watching silently from the dream’s periphery, didn’t look surprised either. They’d guessed this would be it. But that didn’t stop the pitying glances sent his way, or the sudden tightness in his chest. His heart hammered, too fast, too dangerous.
He watched as his younger self — hair shorter, eyes brighter, posture stiffer — gave the all-clear. Elizabeth and the other scientists began the experiment. Machines whirred, data scrolled. Bruce’s throat clenched. He wanted to shout at them, to stop it, to tell himself to run. But dreams had rules, and this one was merciless.

The green laser passed over younger Bruce’s eye. For a split second, it was just a line of light. Then the agony began.

The nightmare slowed it down, stretching every moment into an eternity. The pain tore through him — bones cracking, skin burning, blood boiling. He could hear his younger self screaming, the sound raw and jagged. The scientists’ faces twisted in horror, eyes wide, hands frozen over their instruments.

And then Hulk erupted.

Bruce flinched as he watched the monstrous reflection flicker in the glass — eyes glowing, skin splitting, muscles swelling. The memory blurred, because younger Bruce hadn’t been conscious for most of it. But the nightmare filled in the gaps with cruel creativity. He saw people thrown against walls, metal crushed like paper, blood spattered on white lab coats. Confusion read as rage, and fear read as fury. The Hulk had fled, but not before leaving bodies behind.

Finally, the scene shifted.

He was human again, naked and trembling, skin slick with sweat, body aching like it had been torn apart and stitched back together wrong. His first transformation back. His first taste of the guilt that had never left him.

Bruce’s pulse spiked. His breath came in sharp gasps. His heart thundered like a war drum in his chest. The scene faded to black, but the sound remained — the echo of screams, the ringing of alarms, the beast’s roar.

He jolted awake, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His hands shook violently.

Without thinking, he bolted. He stumbled to his feet, half-running, half-falling through the tower until he reached the nearest hulk-safe room. The heavy door sealed shut behind him with a hydraulic hiss.

Only then did he let himself collapse against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold concrete floor. His arms wrapped around his knees, trying to make himself smaller, safer. He pressed trembling fingers to his temples and whispered, “I’m not him. I’m not him. I’m not him.”

Each repetition was a lifeline, keeping him grounded, keeping the monster at bay.

—————————

Minutes blurred into hours — or maybe only seconds. His breathing slowed, but the tremor in his hands didn’t stop. He knew, deep down, that no amount of logic would ever erase the truth: Hulk was inside him, waiting.

What terrified him most wasn’t losing control. It was the gnawing suspicion that a part of him wanted to.

He didn’t notice the quiet footsteps at first. Didn’t notice the careful way the door creaked open — overridden by Natasha, no doubt.
“Bruce.” Her voice was soft, steady. No sudden moves, no judgment. Just presence
.
Steve followed, arms folded but expression gentle. Thor lingered behind them, gaze heavy with something like respect. Clint leaned casually against the wall, though his eyes were sharper than usual.

They didn’t rush him. Didn’t crowd. Natasha crouched just close enough that he could see her hand, palm-up, resting on her knee — an offer, not a demand.

“You’re still you,” Steve said quietly. “Even when it feels like you’re not.”

Thor nodded. “Strength is not only destruction. It is also the power to protect. You have done both.”

Bruce swallowed hard. “Sometimes… sometimes I think I want to lose control. Because Hulk… he doesn’t feel weak. He doesn’t feel afraid.”
“Wanting strength doesn’t make you a monster,” Natasha said. “It makes you human. And Bruce, you are already strong.”

He looked at them, at all of them, and something in his chest loosened. Not gone, not healed — but not alone, either.

And then he saw Peter.

The kid was standing hesitantly in the doorway, half-hidden, brown eyes wide. He didn’t say anything, but Bruce knew that look. Recognition. Fear. Guilt.

Bruce managed a shaky breath. “You okay, kid?”

Peter’s smile was quick, practiced. “Yeah. Totally.”

But Bruce had seen enough masks to know when one was being worn.
The silence stretched, heavy with something unsaid.
Bruce let his head rest back against the wall, closing his eyes. Peter’s night, he thought grimly, was going to hurt, but now he let himself rest.

Chapter Text

The morning after Bruce’s nightmare was strangely subdued. No one was avoiding him—exactly the opposite, in fact—but there was a conscious sort of space being given, like everyone collectively decided not to crowd him. Bruce appreciated it, Peter could tell. He still looked a little haunted, shoulders tight, smile faint and apologetic, but by breakfast time the Tower’s kitchen was filled with chatter again.

Tony was leaning against the counter, flipping a pancake one-handed, and Peter was perched on a stool, pretending he didn’t think Tony would burn it.
“—and that’s why you never trust Rhodey with a coffee machine. The man treats buttons like enemies to be conquered.”

“Right,” Peter grinned, “and that’s coming from the guy who literally programmed the coffee machine to insult people?”

Tony raised his spatula like it was a weapon. “That machine was designed to inspire greatness. It’s not my fault some people can’t handle being told they’re basic.”

Peter smirked. “So humble, Mr. Stark.”

Their banter set the pace, and soon Sam was laughing at his own joke, Natasha was sipping coffee with that look that said she was listening to everything, and Clint was trying to sneak more bacon without Steve noticing. For a moment, it almost felt normal.

But Tony, as ever, didn’t stay light for long. “So, kid,” he said, as if it were casual, “you still planning on going to school today? Because if memory serves, it’s technically your turn tonight.”

The mood flickered, just for a second. Peter tightened his grip on his orange juice.
“Yeah,” Peter said after a beat, forcing cheer into his voice. “I should. Can’t exactly skip my Spanish test, right? My teacher would murder me.”

Clint snorted. “Of all the reasons to risk your life, a Spanish test is not one of them.”

Wanda, who had been quietly watching, chimed in. “I can drive you, if you want. I just passed my test.” She sounded both proud and slightly mischievous, like the idea of being trusted with an American car was its own victory.

“Sure,” Peter said, relieved for the excuse to leave. “Thanks, Wanda.”

The drive was… well, Wanda was technically fine at driving, but she braked too hard and liked weaving through traffic like she was dodging Sokovian tanks.

“So,” she said lightly, “school. Friends. What’s it like?”

Peter blinked at her. He knew she was making an effort—trying to bridge the gap, be a big sister—but his thoughts weren’t really on the conversation. Every time he looked out the window, he didn’t see passing cars, he saw flashes of the nightmares: Wanda with a family she lost, Bruce’s first transformation, Bucky’s hands painted red. And soon, all of them would see his.

“Peter?” Wanda’s voice pulled him back.

“Huh? Sorry, I zoned out.”

Her lips quirked. “Clearly. I asked if it’s true you’re always late to chemistry.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. Just sometimes.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You shouldn’t worry about tonight. I’m sure your nightmare won’t be anything we haven’t seen before.”

It was meant as a kindness. Peter even smiled, but inside, his chest clenched. If only you knew.

Before he could spiral, Wanda poked his shoulder. “So, how’s the Spanish revision?”

He groaned dramatically. “Terrible. Wanna quiz me?”

“Claro que sí,” she said, her accent hopeless. They both laughed, and Peter let himself get distracted by practicing phrases with her until they pulled up outside Midtown. Just before he opened the door, Wanda’s voice softened, almost uncharacteristically gentle.

“Be strong, malý brat,” she said.

Peter froze, then nodded, throat tight.

Ned was waiting at his locker, already mid-rant.

“—and she knocked it off the shelf! My mom! My mom, Peter! Do you know how long it took me to build that Star Destroyer?”

Peter smiled, adjusting his backpack. “Uh, like, four months?”

“Five,” Ned groaned, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “Five months of work! Gone. Gone, Peter!”

“Dude, just rebuild it. You’ll make it even better.”

That seemed to spark something. “You’re right. Wednesday, my place? We can fix it together.”

Peter hesitated. Wednesday felt like another lifetime away, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah. Definitely.”
He wished he could skip time.

Classes blurred. Words and numbers slid past him without sticking, his pencil tapping restlessly against the desk. By third period, his math teacher had clearly had enough.
“Parker,” the man said sternly after class, “stay behind.”

Peter obeyed, slouching.

“You’re bright. You’ve got potential. But you’re not paying attention. Some kids would kill for the opportunities you have. Not everyone’s so lucky, you know.”

Peter stared at him, heart tightening. If you only knew. If you knew what I was when I was a kid, you wouldn’t call it lucky.

He muttered something noncommittal and left before his thoughts could betray him.

Lunch with Ned and MJ was better. They’d pulled him into a quiet corner of the cafeteria.
“So?” Ned prompted eagerly. “How was Avengers Sleepover Nightmare Edition?”

Peter groaned into his sandwich. “Sam, Clint, and Bruce got hit. It’s… it’s rough.”

MJ raised an eyebrow. “And you’re next.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, forcing a shrug. “It’ll be fine.”

“It will,” Ned said quickly. “They’ll be fine with whatever it is.”

Peter smiled weakly. If only they knew how far from fine it really was.

The ride home with Tony was full of chatter.

“So my teacher made me stay behind at break,” Peter complained. “Said I was wasting potential. Totally unfair.”

Tony glanced at him over his sunglasses. “Want me to have him fired?”

Peter laughed. “No! Definitely not.”

“Offer’s on the table. Consider it a perk of living with me.”

Peter rolled his eyes, then launched into describing his Spanish test. In return, Tony described his day full of soul-sucking board meetings. It was normal, grounding, and Peter clung to it.

Dinner was Chinese takeout, cartons spread across the table. Steve had insisted everyone sit together, and Peter found himself between Natasha and Clint.

The laughter felt real, right up until Clint, mouth full of lo mein, asked, “So, Peter, you’re the only one left. What do you think your nightmare’s gonna be?”

The table stilled.
Peter’s chair scraped back as he stood. “I’m going on patrol.”

“Kid—” Clint began, but Peter was already halfway to the door.
“Sorry,” Clint called after him, guilt in his voice. Peter didn’t doubt it was sincere, but he couldn’t stay.

Three muggings and one attempted assault later—quiet, by New York standards—Peter finally perched on top of Avengers Tower, mask pushed up so he could feel the night air. The city stretched beneath him, glittering, loud, alive. He breathed it in like it could steady him.
When he finally slipped back inside, the Tower was quiet. Everyone was already gathered in the lounge, waiting.

Peter smiled at them anyway, because they deserved it, then ducked away to pull on his worn “Hello Kitty” pajamas.

When he came back, he curled up on the couch, heart pounding, and let his eyes drift shut.

Chapter Text

The night was clear, but the stars were hidden by thick, choking smoke. Ash drifted across the sky like snow, carried on the faint breeze, glowing orange where the fires reflected against it. The ground was littered with jagged metal, pieces of fuselage and engine casing twisted into grotesque shapes, forming a labyrinth of scorched shards. The air smelled of oil, blood, and something burning that Peter could never name but would never forget. He knew this night. He had been barely two and a half at the time, but it was etched into him like scar tissue.

The apparitions of the Avengers stood scattered around him, all confused. They looked like themselves, but spectral, semi-translucent, anchored only because the spell demanded they be witnesses to what Peter had buried. None of them could speak, but Peter could feel their stares: questioning, unsettled. They probably assumed this was some normal childhood trauma, an accident, a tragedy.
Something survivable.

But Peter knew better.

Black figures in masks moved through the wreckage like shadows with weapons. Their silhouettes had haunted him more nights than he could count. One figure paused near a bent strut of wing, their voice muffled but sharp.

“The Parkers’ bodies have been found. But their son is missing.”

A second replied without hesitation. “Then we better find him. We can’t have one surviving.” Peter’s chest constricted.

The apparitions stirred uneasily. Tony’s gaze darted to him, a flicker of dawning horror in his expression. His lips moved soundlessly: I thought they died in a car crash.

Peter tore his eyes away, heat burning behind them. He wished, more than anything, that no one was seeing this.

A small sound broke the silence—a whimper, muffled and desperate—coming from behind a piece of burning engine. The masked men pivoted toward it, boots crunching over debris. They crouched, and from the shadows, they pulled a small boy. He was tiny, smudged with soot, his arm cut and blistered from burns. His eyes were too big in his face, wild with terror. Peter had to clench his jaw. Watching his own body—his own self, fragile and helpless—being yanked upright by rough hands was worse than any nightmare he’d had before.

The apparitions’ faces mirrored his horror. Natasha’s hands curled into fists. Steve’s jaw tightened. Bruce winced like the sight physically pained him. “Dispose of him,” one of the men said coldly.

The boy struggled, weakly, thrashing against arms that held him like iron. The barrel of a gun gleamed in the firelight, aimed straight at his head. “No—” Steve lips read, before stopping, reminded this was only memory, and no one could hear him. At the last second, the figure holstered the weapon. Instead, they slammed the butt of it against the boy’s skull.
He crumpled instantly, small body going limp.

The apparitions gasped, helpless to intervene. Peter forced his face blank, but his heart hammered so loud it drowned the crackle of fire.

The wreckage dissolved into darkness.

When the memory reformed, the air was sterile, bright with buzzing lights. The room had tiled walls, an operating table in the center, metal trays of equipment along the sides. Peter stiffened. He didn’t need to see more, but the memory played regardless. The doors slammed open, and a woman in a white coat strode in, dragging a smaller figure beside her. It was Peter again, quite soon after the previous memory. His cheeks were tear-streaked, his lip trembling.

“M-my parents,” the boy stammered, “where are my parents?”

The scientist crouched to his level, smile too wide, too sharp. “Do you trust me?”

The boy hiccupped. “Mummy said… to trust doctors.”

Peter flinched violently, guilt and fury twisting together. Don’t trust her. Don’t say that. The apparitions turned to him, understanding dawning, pity mingling with horror. Natasha’s eyes widened—she knew, faster than the rest.

The scientist hoisted the boy onto the bed. A needle gleamed. Before Peter could brace himself, the injection went in. The boy screamed. His back arched off the table, tiny fingers clawing at the air as something unnatural burned through his veins. Peter bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, but the scream still rang in his ears, layered with echoes of his own memory of pain. The boy sagged, unconscious.

As the memory blurred, the scientist’s sleeve slipped, revealing an armband. A many legged, red symbol. The HYDRA insignia.

The apparitions all stared. Tony’s mouth opened but no words came. Steve’s fists shook at his sides. Natasha looked like she might actually be sick. Peter looked down, refusing to meet their eyes, especially Bucky's.

The world shifted again.

This time the room was bare except for a rubber mat. A toddler-sized Peter was shoved inside by a guard. Another adult followed. Training. The agent struck first, a brutal blow that sent the boy sprawling. No hesitation, no mercy. And again. And again.

Hours ticked by on the wall clock. Two hours of fists, kicks, orders barked in clipped Russian, while the boy dragged himself upright each time only to be knocked down again. Steve’s apparition trembled, fury radiating from him.

Tony had tears forming, and Steve seemed to be shouting, though he knew he couldn’t change it. He wasn’t the only one.
Peter didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Another room, another year. He was seven now, taller but gaunt, eyes already hollowed. The same woman as before guided him onto a chair. Tubes connected to his arms. Vials of liquid, glowing faintly, were pushed into his veins. Peter’s younger self barely flinched at the first jab, but when the burning hit, he cried out sharply, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Tony was vibrating with anger, jaw tight enough to crack. Peter did nothing. He wore the indifference like armour, but his nails dug crescents into his palms.

The boy slumped unconscious again.

The memory jumped. Now a warehouse.

Seven-year-old Peter dropped from rafters, gun in hand, landing silent and efficient. Three men stood around a suitcase. Shots rang out, sharp and final. The men crumpled before they’d even drawn weapons. The boy snatched the suitcase, leapt through a window, and was gone.

The apparitions stared at him like they didn’t recognise him at all.

Peter clenched his jaw.

Back in the training room. The boy had grown stronger, older—nine, maybe. He had his trainer on the mat, a knife pressed to the man’s throat.

The doors banged open. The Winter Soldier entered. His eyes were blank, his expression an empty slate. Behind him, a handler barked orders. “He trains with you now.”

Peter glanced toward Bucky’s apparition. The man’s face was a portrait of horror and guilt as he watched his younger, brainwashed self advance on the child. Peter knew Bucky didn’t remember this,

The fight was brutal. The boy darted across walls, clung to the ceiling, but eventually the Soldier’s strength won. He had the boy in a chokehold. The memory dissolved before the knife cut deeper.

Another mission. Another building.

Ten-year-old Peter clambered along walls while the Soldier set up his rifle. They moved together with practiced rhythm, communication clipped and precise. The target fell quickly. But stray gunfire grazed the boy’s shoulder. He cried out, tumbling down.

For a heartbeat, something flickered in the Soldier’s eyes. He rushed forward, ripping cloth to staunch the wound, muttering Russian under his breath that almost sounded like comfort. He got the boy to the extraction point.

When handlers tried to separate them, the Soldier resisted, shoving men aside to stay with him. Then the trigger words came. The light in his eyes vanished. He stood down.

The handlers sneered. “Too attached. Wipe him.”

Bucky’s apparition looked shattered. Peter forced himself not to react, even as his pulse spiked.

The final memory was chaos.

A HYDRA base, aflame. Sirens wailed, smoke poured through corridors, gunfire echoed in the distance. The boy—no longer quite a child, but not yet grown—sprinted through the carnage.

Out of the haze, a figure appeared.

Maria Hill.

She locked eyes on him, sharp and assessing, as though seeing a light that even Peter didn’t know existed, then gestured. “With me.”

And for the first time, he obeyed someone not wearing HYDRA’s insignia. The boy ran after her, disappearing into the smoke.

The world dissolved to black.