Chapter Text
The world never stopped rebuilding after Sokovia, after the Blip, after the Thunderbolts. It just kept stacking fresh scaffolds over the same cracked foundations and called it progress.
Twelve months after the mission that turned mercenaries into something almost respectable, the United Nations ratified a treaty called the Enhanced Responsibility Accord 2.0. Every powered strike team would answer to a joint council, every op logged, every casualty accounted for.
Sam Wilson signed first.
He’d refused the idea of a “replacement Captain America” long ago; now he wore the title like an oath, not a costume. His partner in the air, Lieutenant Joaquin Torres—new wings, new nerves, a grin that refused to die—became the second Falcon and the heart of the sky. Together they rebuilt the Avengers around a promise: no more gods on pedestals. Just soldiers, spies, and survivors who could still look people in the eye.
When the newsfeeds said New Avengers, people saw a second-chance lineup:
Sam Wilson, the human Captain.
James Barnes, the quiet Winter Soldier who finally stopped running.
Yelena Belova, weapon-turned-guardian with a smirk sharp enough to draw blood.
Ava Starr, once the ghost in the machine, now the best infiltrator on any continent.
Alexei Shostakov, Red Guardian, eternal loudmouth.
Bob Reynolds, the unstable sun kept steady these days by careful focus — and, some whispered, by a friend who could always pull him back from the edge.
Joaquin Torres, Falcon, the man who made even impossible airspace look easy.
And John Walker — U.S. Agent — the soldier the world had learned to fear, still trying to learn how to be useful without breaking anything.
They called him the field spine: the man who made chaos hold formation.
The Quinjet
The hum of the engines was the only thing keeping John anchored. The mission tablet in his hands blinked through briefings—terrain maps, heat signatures, local militia reports—but his focus kept sliding. He’d read the same paragraph six times.
A photo tucked behind the screen looked back at him: a four-year-old boy with a crayon-stained smile and his mother’s eyes.
Jack. The kid still called every Sunday, still asked when Dad would come home for good. John hadn’t figured out how to answer that yet.
He rubbed the edge of the picture until the paper softened. Lemar’s voice ghosted through the back of his head—steady, joking, impossible to silence.
You can’t save everyone, brother.
He set the tablet down before the thought soured any further.
Across the bay, Yelena was halfway through annoying Bucky into speech.
“Old man, admit it—you are jealous that I age better.”
Bucky didn’t look up. “You heal slower.”
“Da, but I dance better.”
Alexei roared with laughter, the sound echoing through the hull.
Ava sat by the window, silent, calibrating the regulator on her suit. Near the cockpit, Bob murmured something about atmospheric density; Joaquin leaned over his shoulder to check the readouts, their voices low, moving in the same rhythm without thinking about it. The rest of the team pretended not to notice. Whatever understanding lived between those two, it was quiet and private, held carefully out of the spotlight.
The whole plane hummed with that mix of tension and family that only soldiers understood.
Sam turned from the cockpit. “Alright, listen up. Joint op with the Army. We play nice, we follow protocol, we don’t scare the locals. Got it?”
Yelena raised a hand. “Define nice.”
“Try not shooting anyone who isn’t trying to shoot you,” Sam said.
Laughter, half-nervous, half-genuine. John didn’t join in.
He kept his gaze fixed on the clouds rolling below, on the faint reflection of himself in the glass — older around the eyes, jaw set in permanent apology. He could hold a line under fire but not a family together. The irony didn’t escape him.
Sam dropped into the seat across from him.
“You good?”
“Fine,” John lied.
“Army’s sending a field lead. Says she’s got authority in-zone.”
“Since when do we take orders from the Army?”
“Since we agreed to rebuild bridges instead of blowing them up,” Sam said, tone light but the edge clear. “Her name’s Sergeant Delilah Boudreaux. Call sign Bayou. Special Forces. Reports say she’s sharp.”
“Special Forces.” John rolled the phrase over like grit between his teeth. “Means she’s either brilliant or a nightmare.”
Sam smiled. “Maybe both. You’ll manage.”
The intercom crackled: “Approaching forward base. Two minutes.”
John exhaled, stretched the stiffness from his shoulders, and pushed the photo of Jack back into his vest pocket where Lemar’s dog tag used to hang. The empty space still ached.
The Forward Base
Cold air knifed through the open ramp. Spotlights carved white circles into the mist. Soldiers moved like ghosts between supply crates, voices clipped and distant beneath the thrum of rotor blades.
The team descended the ramp in formation — Sam and Joaquin first, Yelena and Bucky behind, John bringing up the flank.
That was when he heard her voice — low, even, with the lazy rhythm of someone born in heat and humidity.
“Appreciate y’all comin’ out this far. Hope you packed your patience — this ground’s a mess.”
She stepped into the light.
Helmet under one arm, combat braid down her back, eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses that caught the glare and threw it right back at them. Compact frame, shoulders squared, boots planted like she owned the tarmac. The patch on her sleeve read U.S. Army Special Forces.
The air changed; even Alexei stopped cracking jokes.
Sam extended a hand. “Captain Wilson, ma’am. Appreciate the hand-off.”
“Sergeant Delilah Boudreaux,” she replied, shaking his hand with a soldier’s firmness. “Most folks just call me Bayou.”
Her accent wrapped around the word like molasses hiding a blade. Then her gaze slid sideways, straight to John.
“U.S. Agent,” she said, almost a question.
“Depends who’s askin’,” he answered before he could stop himself.
She smiled — slow, deliberate. “Then I guess I’ll find out firsthand.”
The smile wasn’t flirtation so much as challenge. She turned to signal her unit, barking quiet orders, and every soldier within earshot snapped to attention.
John realized he’d been standing still too long.
The Briefing
The command tent smelled of canvas, jet fuel, and wet earth. A generator rumbled somewhere outside, shaking the lanterns that hung from the frame. Maps covered the plywood walls—red circles for threats, blue for allied checkpoints. Army techs murmured into radios, their clipped replies a rhythm of control and caffeine.
Sergeant Delilah Boudreaux moved through it like she’d been built for this environment. No wasted motion, no apology in her stride. She’d stripped off her gloves and tucked them into her belt; a faint smear of oil marked her wrist. Every few steps someone straightened unconsciously—habit or respect, John couldn’t tell.
He took up position at the edge of the table where a topographic map was weighed down with a combat knife. Sam stood beside him, arms folded. The rest of the team found space along the perimeter—Ava scanning, Yelena crouched with a protein bar, Bucky pretending disinterest.
Delilah didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. It carried, low and steady, across the static.
“Objective’s a research compound eight klicks east, built into an old mining grid. Intel says a Hydra splinter’s testin’ vibranium composites for weapon shells. We move at dawn, two-prong approach. My unit takes the northern ridge. Avengers provide air and internal extraction.”
She marked the map with a grease pencil, the line precise as a scalpel. Her accent softened the edges of every word, but the content was pure steel.
John watched her hand move—fast, decisive—and felt the small, unhelpful jolt that came with it. It had been a long time since someone’s confidence felt like gravity.
Sam nodded. “We’ll handle aerial insertion. Torres and I will drop Ghost for recon.”
Delilah glanced up. “Falcon, right? The young one.”
Joaquin straightened. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. You and Ghost keep eyes on thermal readings. Hydra likes to bury surprises.”
Then, to Sam: “Captain, your call on air timing, but I’d prefer boots on the ground inside four minutes of first breach.”
Sam met her tone without flinching. “We can do that.”
Yelena whispered behind John’s shoulder, “I like her. She’s terrifying.”
Bucky muttered, “Reminds me of someone,” and John didn’t have to ask who.
Delilah circled the table, stopping beside him. Up close, he caught the smell of cigar smoke and rain-soaked nylon. She rested both palms on the map, leaning in.
“U.S. Agent,” she said quietly, “your record says you know close-quarters work better than most. I want your team on inner-corridor sweep once we breach. We’ll keep chatter minimal.”
He nodded, careful. “Copy that.”
Her gaze flicked over him, measuring. “You alright with takin’ orders from an Army sergeant?”
He met her eyes. “Long as the orders make sense.”
Something like amusement sparked in the curve of her mouth. “Good answer, sugar.”
He felt the word land like a finger tracing a scar. She didn’t mean anything by it—probably called half the base that—but the sound crawled under his composure anyway.
Delilah straightened. “Any questions?”
Alexei raised a hand. “If we encounter tanks, may I throw them?”
Without missing a beat: “If it helps, darlin’. Just make sure you throw ’em away from me.”
Laughter rippled around the table. Even John’s mouth twitched, a muscle memory of a smile. She’d turned tension into focus without breaking stride; that, he respected.
The meeting dissolved into movement—soldiers checking gear, Sam coordinating flight routes. Delilah stood at the map again, rewriting times in neat block letters. John lingered longer than he meant to.
Outside, rain began to fall in soft static against the canvas. He told himself he was cataloguing details: troop count, weapon loadouts, weather. But his eyes kept finding her, tracing the curve of concentration in her face, the faint smudge of grease near her temple.
She looked too young to have command presence that heavy. Twenty-something, maybe. Fifteen years and an entire war younger than him. He shouldn’t notice that, shouldn’t feel the pull of it. His son was four. He was old enough to know better.
She glanced up, caught him looking. For a heartbeat neither moved. Then she tilted her head, a silent What? that made his throat tighten.
John cleared his voice. “Your team ready for a combined op?”
“They’re soldiers,” she said. “We don’t wait to be ready.”
He had nothing to say to that. It was exactly what Lemar would’ve said.
When she turned back to the map, he stepped away, pretending interest in his own gear.
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley. The storm would break by morning; the fight would start not long after.
John looked at her silhouette against the lamplight—steady, fearless, alive—and felt the old fear coil deep in his chest.
Don’t get used to her, Walker.
You know what happens when you care.
The storm didn’t stop; it only changed rhythm. By midnight the rain had thinned to a soft percussion on the metal roofs, steady enough to count but not loud enough to drown his thoughts.
John lay on his bunk, staring at the dull light that leaked through the canvas seam overhead. The cot creaked every time he breathed. Around him the rest of the Avengers’ corner of the base slept—or pretended to. Yelena’s music whispered through earbuds, a faint metallic buzz. Bucky snored like a distant engine. Somewhere beyond the wall, a radio operator laughed at something he couldn’t hear.
Sleep wasn’t coming. It never did before a fight.
He reached into the pocket of his fatigues, felt the soft edge of the photo again—Jack with that open grin, four years old and fearless. The same grin Lemar had worn every time he said We got this, brother.
John blinked once, hard, and sat up.
Outside, the air smelled of mud and jet fuel. Lamps swung lazily in the wind. He pulled his jacket tighter and walked until the sound of the base thinned to a hum. The perimeter fence glistened with rain. Somewhere in the dark, a lighter snapped.
A small orange halo flared near the supply crates. Delilah.
She was half in shadow, hood down, a cigar balanced between two fingers. The ember glowed each time she drew in. Smoke coiled around her face, mingling with the mist.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked, voice low enough not to carry.
He shook his head. “Never could. Not before missions.”
She smiled without looking at him. “Means you’re still human.”
John leaned against a crate a few feet away, keeping the rain off his eyes. “You always smoke before a fight?”
“Family tradition.” She tipped the cigar slightly in salute. “My mama used to say smoke keeps the ghosts quiet.”
“Does it?”
“Sometimes.” She looked at the glowing tip. “Most times they just learn to share the air.”
He found himself watching the way her hand moved, steady despite the wind. She didn’t seem nervous, just alive—like someone who’d made peace with the cost of the job.
“You from the South?” he asked, already knowing the answer from her drawl.
“Lafayette. Born, raised, escaped, came back.”
She blew a thin ribbon of smoke sideways so it didn’t hit him. “You?”
“Georgia. Small town. Haven’t been back much.”
“Too many memories?”
He gave a short laugh. “Too many people remember me.”
That earned him a glance, soft but sharp. “That uniform do a number on you, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And I helped.”
Rain hissed against the gravel. She didn’t rush to fill the silence; that alone made him look at her again.
Delilah flicked ash into a puddle. “You know what I like about the rain, Walker? It evens the playing field. Doesn’t matter who’s rich, who’s strong—everybody gets wet.”
“Never thought of it that way.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re still busy blamin’ yourself for the weather.”
The words hit closer than he expected. He turned away, jaw tight. “You don’t know me.”
“Not yet,” she said easily. “But I read reports. Man fights like the world’s gonna end if he blinks. That kind of pressure breaks bones.”
He almost smiled. “You giving me therapy now?”
“Just observation.” She drew on the cigar, exhaled slow. “You’re wound up so tight you squeak when you move.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure, sugar.”
The nickname again—soft, unarmed, not teasing so much as familiar. For a second, the ache behind his ribs eased.
They stood that way for a long minute, the quiet between them stretching but not uncomfortable. She smoked; he watched the fence lights refract through the rain. Somewhere in the distance a generator kicked on, and the world seemed to breathe again.
Delilah broke the silence. “You got people waitin’ for you back home?”
He hesitated. “My son. Four years old.”
“That’s a good age.”
“Yeah. Hard to explain what I do.”
She nodded. “You just tell him you help keep the bad nights away. Kids get that.”
John looked at her profile, the steady line of her jaw. “You got anyone?”
“Got a team. Got a dog. That’s plenty.”
He wanted to ask more, but the radio near the tent crackled with a distant voice calling status checks. The sound snapped him back to the mission.
Delilah stubbed the cigar out against the crate, set the spent end carefully in a tin. “Get some rest, Walker. Tomorrow’s gonna be long.”
He almost said You too but stopped. She’d already turned toward the shadows, braid swinging against her collar as she walked away. The smoke lingered after she disappeared, faint and warm against the cold.
John stayed under the overhang until the rain slowed to drizzle. He stared at the damp ground where she’d stood and told himself it was nothing—just camaraderie, soldier to soldier.
Then he felt the tightness in his chest again and knew he was lying.
Dawn came in layers of grey. The rain had stopped, leaving the ground slick and the air thick with diesel fumes. Steam rose from the vehicles in uneven curls. Every sound carried: boots in the mud, metal buckles snapping shut, the muted click of rifles being chamber-checked.
John stood near the edge of the launch zone, helmet under one arm, scanning the tree line. His pulse was steady, but his mind was already moving three steps ahead—entry angles, fallback routes, the weight of responsibility. Beside him, Delilah finished tightening her vest straps. Her braid was tucked into her collar, eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses again.
“Five minutes,” she said. No shouting. Just a fact delivered into the wind.
Her unit moved because she’d spoken, not because she’d raised her voice. A line of ghosts in matte camouflage fanned out toward the ridge, each one taking their place like gears in a clock.
Sam and Joaquin checked flight gear at the far end of the field. Ava phased through a comm tower to test her regulator. Yelena and Bucky argued quietly over knife placement. The air before a fight always felt too thin, as if the world were holding its breath.
Delilah glanced at John. “You take the inner corridor when I call breach. If comms drop, you stick to hand signals. Copy?”
He nodded. “Copy.”
“Good.” She gave a small grin. “Let’s wake the neighborhood.”
The convoy rolled out under low clouds, tires whispering against wet ground. The terrain grew meaner—abandoned machinery, half-collapsed mine shafts, puddles that mirrored the sky. Through the cracked windshield John could see the compound rising out of the valley, a nest of concrete and rusted fencing.
They dismounted a hundred meters out. Delilah went first, crouching to study the mud. She touched two fingers to a footprint, then raised her hand—halt. John froze. The air changed, faint static crawling along his arms.
“Trip sensors,” she murmured. “They buried them shallow.”
Ava phased through the brush and reappeared with a handful of tangled wire. “Confirmed.”
Delilah gave a quick nod. “We’ll cut right—three-meter spread. Torres, take high eye.”
Joaquin shot upward, jetpack thrumming low. His voice came over comms. “Two tangos on the east tower. Motion only.”
“Copy,” Delilah said. “Barnes, Belova—suppress on my mark.”
She didn’t count down. She just moved.
One moment she was crouched; the next she was a streak through the trees, rifle tight to her shoulder. Two muffled shots—metal pings—and the tower went silent. Yelena’s grenade arced over the fence, blossoming into white flash. John blinked through it, following her lead toward the breach point.
Inside the gate the ground was chaos—Hydra mercs scrambling, alarms rising. Delilah never flinched. She barked coordinates over comms, calm as a range instructor:
“North wall clear. Two down. Move.”
Her sidearm barked twice; another shape crumpled behind a crate. She didn’t even look to confirm the hit.
John’s boots splashed through standing water as he covered her flank. She advanced in tight bursts—shoot, signal, move—each motion a textbook in efficiency. He’d fought beside legends who couldn’t keep that kind of rhythm.
“Corridor clear,” she called. “Agent, on me.”
They slipped into the narrow hall that cut through the heart of the compound. The lights flickered. A siren wailed somewhere overhead.
John felt the old rush: adrenaline sharpening every sense, the taste of metal in the back of his throat. But she was the still point beside him, pulse invisible, breath even. When a guard turned the corner, she didn’t hesitate—two steps forward, elbow strike, disarm. The weapon clattered once against the wall and went silent.
She caught the rifle, checked the chamber, tossed it back toward him. “Loaded.”
He nodded, barely able to get the word out. “Thanks.”
They reached the main door just as Sam’s voice crackled over comms: “Compound secure. All teams hold.”
Delilah pressed a palm to the scanner panel. Sparks jumped. “Hydra’s tech is older than my mother’s car,” she said. “Give me ten seconds.”
The lock released with a hiss. Inside, the lab smelled of ozone and failure. Stacks of equipment still hummed, lights blinking weakly. She stepped through first, rifle low but ready.
John followed, eyes tracking her in the half-light. She moved like a metronome—no hesitation, no panic. Every decision precise. For a moment he forgot to watch the corners; he was too busy watching her.
When it was over—no more movement, just wind through the broken vents—she turned to him. “All clear.”
Outside, the team was regrouping, voices filtering through static. Delilah lifted her radio. “Bayou to command: objective secure. Minimal resistance. Zero friendly casualties.”
Sam’s voice came back, dry with approval. “Copy that. Good work.”
She exhaled, lowering the weapon. For the first time he saw her shoulders relax.
John wiped rain and sweat from his face, still catching up to the fact that she’d read the entire field ten steps ahead of him. He’d thought he’d seen calm before; he hadn’t seen this.
She caught him looking again. “What?”
“You make it look easy,” he said.
Delilah shook her head, small smile returning. “Ain’t easy, sugar. Just necessary.”
She walked past him toward the light spilling through the broken doorway, boots splashing through shallow puddles. The first sunlight of the day hit her armor, turning it gold around the edges.
John stood for a second longer in the shadow, pulse still hammering, and realized that whatever line he’d drawn in his head between admiration and something more had just been blurred beyond repair.
The last echoes of gunfire faded into the hills. In their place came the small sounds that always followed a fight: boots sloshing through mud, clipped orders over the radio, the soft clatter of empty magazines being gathered and counted. The adrenaline drain left John’s limbs heavy and his ears ringing.
The extraction zone was a shallow basin behind the compound. Morning fog pooled there, thick enough to hide the scars of the battle. Sam and Joaquin were already setting perimeter beacons while the soldiers loaded crates of captured tech onto flatbeds. Bucky stood watch at the ridge, weapon still slung across his chest but muzzle down—a veteran’s posture: ready but tired.
Delilah was everywhere at once. One moment she was checking on a wounded private, the next she was coordinating with Ava over the comms about the transport schedule. She didn’t shout; she didn’t need to. Her voice carried just enough authority to fill the space without echoing. When she passed, people straightened out of instinct.
John watched her from the back of a Humvee where he’d parked himself to change out a cracked magazine pouch. His hands still shook faintly; the tremor wasn’t fear anymore, just the tail end of adrenaline and something he didn’t want to name.
Sam approached, wiping dust off his gloves. “You good, Walker?”
“Yeah,” John said. “Just recalibrating.”
Sam followed his line of sight and smiled, half-teasing. “She runs a clean op. You could take notes.”
John snorted. “Already did.”
Sam clapped his shoulder once and went to help Bucky with the evac call.
Delilah finished her rounds and came over, boots sinking slightly in the wet soil. She removed her helmet; the braid had come loose, streaked with mud and a few stray leaves. She looked more alive than anyone had a right to after a firefight.
“Everyone accounted for?” she asked.
“Zero losses,” John replied. “Minor scrapes.”
She nodded, satisfied. “That’s how it oughta be.”
For a moment she just stood there, studying the smoke curling up from the ruined compound. The rising sun turned the haze copper. Then she glanced sideways at him.
“You move well under fire,” she said. “Quick without bein’ careless. Not many keep pace with me first time out.”
He shrugged, trying to downplay the warmth that crept into his chest. “I had good leadership.”
Her smile was small but real. “Flattery’ll get you nowhere, sugar.”
He answered before thinking. “Didn’t sound like flattery.”
That earned a quiet laugh—one she didn’t try to hide. She tipped her chin toward the transport trucks. “Come on. Command wants a sitrep before we lift.”
They walked side by side through the churned mud. Every few steps someone saluted her or offered a brief “Ma’am.” She acknowledged each with the same casual nod, no ceremony, no pretense. John realized that was part of her power: she never tried to be larger than the people around her, and somehow that made her loom all the more.
At the command tent, she began dictating the after-action report to a young lieutenant. John lingered just inside, listening. Her debrief was precise, concise—no embellishment, no bravado. “Enemy strength: low. Primary objective recovered. Recommend follow-up recon within forty-eight hours to confirm withdrawal.”
When she finished, she caught his eye again. “Something on your mind?”
He shook his head. “Just wondering how you stay that calm.”
Delilah slid the cigar from her vest pocket, unlit for now, rolling it between her fingers. “Practice,” she said. “And a whole lotta bad nights that taught me panic doesn’t help.”
He believed her. He’d lived the same lesson, just never carried it as gracefully.
Outside, rotors began to spin up. The base vibrated. She started toward the noise, then paused long enough to look back at him. “You did good today, Walker.”
“Did my job.”
“Still counts.” She gave him that small, knowing smile again. “Try gettin’ used to a win once in a while.”
Then she was gone, stepping into the wash of the chopper blades, the cigar now between her teeth as if to punctuate the point.
John stood there until the dust stung his eyes. He told himself it was just another op. Just another capable soldier.
But when the helicopters lifted and her silhouette blurred into the morning light, he realized the truth sitting heavy in his chest:
he hadn’t felt this alive—or this afraid of losing it—in years.