Untitled

Your little girl squeals, tiny socks slipping on the hardwood as she jumps up and down. “Cap’in M’erica!!! My FAVORITE!”

Bucky sighs into his mug, defeated. “Sweetheart, you know your daddy used to be an Avenger, right? I fought aliens. Saved the world. Twice.”

She blink-blink-blinks up at him. “But Cap’in M’erica is SHINY.”

Bucky stares at the TV, at Walker’s polished suit and perfect new shield. “…Yeah. He’s shiny.”

You walk in from the kitchen just in time to see your daughter launch herself onto the couch, cuddling her foam Captain America shield like it’s a stuffed animal. “Mama, he’s on TV! Cap’in M’erica!!”

Bucky mouthes at you: Why him? Why not Sam? Why not me?

You shrug. Toddlers are weird. Toddlers develop devotions with the intensity of a cult.

But god, it kills him—because she’s so earnest about it. Every time Walker appears on the screen, she gasps. She claps. She runs in circles. She calls him “my hero,” and Bucky can practically feel decades of therapy unraveling inside him.

Still—he’d do anything for his babygirl.

Which is why, three days later, he finds himself outside a PR event at the Avengers complex, holding a toddler dressed head-to-toe in a miniature Captain America suit.

You’ve braided her hair into two proud little pigtails. She insisted on star stickers across her cheeks. She’s holding her tiny plastic shield like she’s about to go to war.

“She looks cute,” you whisper, brushing lint from her shoulder.

“She looks like betrayal,” Bucky whispers back.

You nudge him. “You’re doing this because you love her.”

He groans because you’re right, and because he’s already decided he’ll pretend to tolerate Walker for as long as his daughter loves this phase. Even if it takes years.

The door opens and an assistant peeks out. “Sergeant Barnes? Captain Walker can meet with you now.”

Bucky resists the urge to flee.

Your daughter, on the other hand, lights up so hard she almost combusts. “HE’S HERE?!”

You set her down and she sprints across the room on chubby legs, only slowing when she sees him—John Walker, in uniform, looking genuinely startled at the pint-sized superhero staring up at him like he hung the moon.

“Oh,” Walker says softly. “Hi there.”

Your daughter is starstruck. Utterly frozen.

Then—

“You’re shiny.”

Walker glances at Bucky, confused but smiling. “Uh… thank you?”

She thrusts her shield up at him. “I’m Cap’in M’erica TOO.”

And something Bucky will never admit happens to him—his heart softens. A little. Because Walker kneels down, eye level with her, and says:

“You know what? I think you’ve got the stuff.”

She SCREAMS. Pure joy. Throws herself forward and hugs him so hard Walker nearly falls over.

Bucky stiffens, instinct kicking in, but Walker only steadies her, gentle and surprised. “Hey—woah—okay, strong one.”

“Dada he said I got the stuff!” she calls over her shoulder, vibrating with happiness.

Bucky rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, baby, I heard.”

Walker rises, walking her over by the hand. “Sergeant Barnes,” he says, offering the other. “Didn’t know you had such a big fan in the house.”

Bucky shakes his hand because his daughter is watching and because he’s a good father. “Yeah, well… she likes shiny things.”

Your daughter tugs on Walker’s glove. “Can I see your shield?”

Walker crouches again. “You wanna hold the real thing?”

She gasps like he offered her the Holy Grail.

Bucky swallows. “Careful with it, sweetheart. It’s heavy.”

Walker doesn’t even hesitate—he holds it with her, letting her grip the edge while he supports the weight, and she beams like she’s holding the sun.

“Dada, look! LOOK! It’s the REAL SHIELD!”

Bucky stares at her bright eyes, flushed cheeks, the way she’s glowing with pure childhood magic.

And… he melts.

“Yeah, baby,” he says quietly. “I see you.”

Walker glances up at Bucky, something warm passing between them. Not friendship—God, no—but an understanding. The kind only men who have both served and lost can feel.

“She’s a good kid,” Walker says softly.

“She is,” Bucky admits.

“And she really loves Captain America.”

Bucky exhales. “Yeah… I guess she does.”

There’s a pause—awkward, but not hostile.

Walker shifts, then clears his throat. “If she ever wants to come to a training session… see the shield in action… just let me know.”

Your daughter explodes into excited babbling, tugging on Bucky’s pant leg. “Dada PLEASE?! PLEASE can we see it in ack-shun?!?”

Bucky groans, defeated, smitten, done for. “Yeah, okay. We can do that.”

She cheers so loudly the assistant down the hall startles.

And when Walker waves goodbye and leaves the room, your daughter hugs her foam shield to her chest and whispers:

“He’s my hero.”

Bucky lifts her up, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You can have lots of heroes.”

She pats his face clumsily. “You’re my daddy.”

Bucky blinks fast.

Yeah.

That I’m bored. You bored? Wanna cause problems? look.

You raise one eyebrow. He raises two. You narrow your left eye dramatically for no reason at all. He squints like he suddenly forgot how to see. Sam, unfortunately in the middle of pouring coffee, mutters, “Oh hell. Not this again.”

John turns, confused. “What? They’re just… staring.”

“Oh buddy,” Sam sighs. “You’re about to have a bad day.”

Because Bucky decides this is the moment to start whatever bit he thinks you’re doing—lifting both hands slowly like he’s conducting an orchestra, then pointing at you, then at the fridge, then back at you.

You have absolutely no idea what this means.

So naturally, you pretend you do.

You flick your fingers twice—like jazz hands but menacing—then tap your forearm, then mime placing something gently on the counter.

Bucky’s eyes widen like you’ve just delivered the most profound psychic message of your marriage.

Walker looks between the two of you. “Are you—are you guys telepathic or something?”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time: “Yes.” “No.”

Which only makes it worse.

Sam groans into his mug because he knows you’re about to double down, and both of you, in your infinite immaturity, absolutely commit.

Bucky nods gravely. “We trained for years.”

You nod back with equal severity. “Ancient Wakandan bonding ritual.”

Bucky blinks twice—slowly—which you assume means go bigger, so you raise your hand dramatically and swipe it through the air like you’re cutting through invisible fabric.

John flinches.

You are delighted.

Meanwhile, Bucky continues his totally-improvised, makes-no-sense gestures. He holds up three fingers. Then one. Then wiggles his thumb like it’s trying to escape his hand. You respond by tracing a circle in the air and pointing at the toaster like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Somehow, you and Bucky stay in perfect rhythm. Every gesture he makes, you answer confidently—even though neither of you knows what the hell you’re agreeing to.

To be honest, you're just riffing at this point.

It’s performance art.

Walker steps back uneasily. “Sam, are you seeing this?”

“Oh, I see it,” Sam says. “I’ve been seeing it for months. Therapy starts at ten if you want in.”

Bucky slams his vibranium palm flat against the counter, startling everyone. “It is done.”

You nod solemnly. “The pact is sealed.”

Walker stares. “What pact? With who?”

You shrug casually. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Captain.”

Bucky snorts. Sam chokes on his coffee. Walker looks one second away from spiraling.

But then—because the universe loves you—you and Bucky reach for the same bowl at the same time, pause, and share a look that accidentally syncs your next fake-psychic sentence perfectly.

Bucky: “Two hours.” You: “The extraction begins.”

Walker makes a strangled noise. “Extraction of WHAT?!”

“Can’t say,” Bucky says, poking his temple like he’s checking for WiFi. “Private channel.”

You nod, tapping your forehead like you’re turning up the volume. “Encrypted.”

Walker looks visibly alarmed. “Sam, what extraction? Are they planning something? Are we compromised?”

Sam waves him off. “We’re only compromised because you asked them a question.”

And that’s when you strike.

You turn your back to the guys, whisper loudly, “Initiate phase four,” and slam the cabinet shut.

There is no phase one through three.

There will be no phase five.

But John Walker jumps like you’ve just armed a bomb.

Bucky, bless him, plays along instantly. “Phase four?! You’re sure?”

You spin dramatically. “It’s time, James.”

Sam mutters, “Jesus, here we go.”

Walker’s face contorts. “What does phase four do?”

You and Bucky both shrug at exactly the same time.

You honestly don’t know.

He doesn’t either.

But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is the way Walker’s eye twitches as he tries to decode absolute nonsense coming from two people who are stone-faced serious while making gestures that belong in an interpretive dance competition.

Bucky lifts his hand again, makes what could only be described as “crab claw motions,” and you answer with a gentle circular wave like you’re blessing the kitchen with chaos energy.

Walker decides this is the breaking point. “Okay, that’s it. I’m telling Fury—something weird is going on.”

“Tell him what?” Bucky asks, leaning forward. “That me and my wife just think at each other sometimes?”

Sam: “You guys don’t think at each other.”

You and Bucky together, perfectly timed: “We absolutely do.”

Walker sputters. “Then what were you just saying?!”

And here, the two of you lock eyes—deeply, lovingly, mutually idiotic—and without missing a beat, you answer in perfect harmony:

“Lunch.”

Walker looks like he wants to scream.

Sam is wheezing.

You and Bucky high-five under the counter.

But Walker hasn’t fully learned yet.

Later that day, he passes you both in the hallway. Bucky lifts a hand—wiggles two fingers, makes a circle, taps his chest twice. You haven’t the faintest clue what that’s intended to be, but you raise an eyebrow, tap your own shoulder, and hum approvingly like he’s shared a brilliant battle plan.

Walker trips over his own feet trying to interpret it.

Your marriage? Strong.

Your communication? Absolutely nonexistent.

Your dedication to fucking with John Walker?

The first thing you notice about John Walker is that he doesn't hesitate.

Not when the ceiling above you cracks like thunder. Not when everyone around you screams. Not when the lights in the building flicker red and the smoke gets thick enough to turn breathing into a chore.

He moves through chaos like he has already accepted it as part of his body.

You're on the floor behind an overturned reception desk, one hand pressed over the shoulder of a teenage boy you don't know, trying to keep him from looking at the blood on his sleeve. There are at least twelve of you trapped in the lobby, maybe more. It's hard to count when your ears are ringing and every breath tastes like plaster dust and panic.

A woman is crying somewhere behind you. Someone keeps praying.

Then the wall explodes inward.

You flinch so hard your teeth click together.

A metal arm punches through smoke first then a man follows it.

Bucky Barnes looks exactly like the news makes him look, severe, focused, dangerous in a way that is almost quiet. He takes out the first armed man before you even fully process he's there.

A shadow slips in behind him, bending light around herself like the world is simply deciding not to notice her.

Ava Starr, Ghost.

She moves through gunfire as if she's made of static and vengeance, disarming two men in less time than it takes you to blink.

Then someone comes through the broken opening like a thrown shield made flesh.

John Walker.

He hits the ground hard, shield raised, shoulders broad enough to make the space behind him feel safer by sheer stubborn physics.

"Everybody down!" he barks.

You're already down, but you duck lower anyway.

Gunfire cracks through the lobby. John plants himself between the hostages and the attackers without a second thought. Bullets strike his shield, sharp metallic pops that make several people cry out. He doesm't move back, not an inch.

Bucky is a blur of black and vibranium.

Ava flickers in and out like a ghost story with fists.

John takes the center.

That's what you notice.

Bucky and Ava move around the room, precise and terrifying. John stays in front of you. In front of all of you.

He absorbs the danger like he believes there's no other reasonable place for it to go.

"Exit's clear!" Bucky calls.

John glances back, just once, eyes sweeping over the group.

His gaze catches on you.

You don't know what he sees. Dust on your face, blood on your sleeve that isn't yours, fear you are failing miserably to hide.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head. "Not mine."

His eyes dip to the boy beside you.

"Can he walk?"

"I can," the boy says, voice shaking.

John nods once. "Good. Stay behind me."

It's ridiculous, really, the way your body believes him.

The lobby is still burning in places. There's glass everywhere. The alarm is shrieking overhead. But John says it like an order to the universe itself, and some traitorous little part of you thinks, 'Okay. Behind him. That is where safe is.'

He gets you out. All of you.

One by one through the smoke, past rubble, over broken marble and twisted metal. He carries an older man when his legs give out. He shields a mother and her daughter when part of the ceiling caves. He snaps at a paramedic to check the boy's arm first, then acts annoyed when someone tries to look at the cut running down his own temple.

"I'm fine," John says, with the exhausted tone of someone who has said those two words so often they have become less of an answer and more of a locked door.

Bucky gives him a look.

Ava, standing nearby with arms crossed, says, "You are bleeding on your boot."

John looks down.

There is, in fact, blood dripping onto his boot.

He grimaces. "Not a lot."

Bucky sighs like a man praying for patience.

You're sitting on the back of an ambulance with a thermal blanket around your shoulders when the crowd starts to gather.

At first, it's just phones.

People filming. People whispering.

The New Avengers are here. The Thunderbolts. Whatever the world has decided to call them this week.

You've seen this before on TV. The way people look at them like they are either saviors or weapons, and nothing in between.

John stands a few feet away, one hand on his hip, the other wiping blood from his eyebrow with a strip of gauze someone finally convinced him to hold. Bucky is talking to an officer. Ava is lingering near a pillar, pretending she is not watching everyone at once.

John looks tired.

Not physically, though he should. He looks tired in the soul. Worn down in places no bandage can reach.

Then a man steps out of the crowd. He is middle aged, expensive coat, expensive watch, holding his phone up like it gives him courage.

"Well, look at that," he says loudly. "They'll let anybody play hero now."

John goes still. It's fast, so fast you almost miss it. His shoulders tighten. His jaw shifts. His chin lifts half an inch. The posture of a man putting armor over a bruise.

The man grins, encouraged by the attention. "Tell me, Walker," he continues, "how many people have to die before they stop giving you a shield?"

The air changes.

Bucky turns his head.

Ava's eyes narrow.

John doesn't move.

He smiles, it's awful. Not cruel, not smug, just empty. A practiced, hollow thing dragged onto his face because the alternative would be letting everyone see it land.

"Sir, you need to step back," John says polite and controlled.

The man scoffs. "What, gonna bash my head in too?"

Something hot and furious opens in your chest.

You don't know John Walker. Not really.

You know what the news says. You know what people say. You know the headlines and the arguments and the endless footage clipped and replayed until every human being involved becomes a symbol for strangers to throw stones at.

But you also know what you just saw.

You saw him stand between bullets and terrified people. You saw him carry a stranger out of smoke. You saw his hand shake for half a second after he set that little girl down, then disappear into a fist before anyone else could notice.

You saw him save your life.

And this man, this smug, polished little mosquito in a wool coat, thinks he gets to turn that into entertainment.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you slide off the ambulance. The thermal blanket falls from your shoulders.

"Hey," the paramedic says, startled. "You should sit down."

You don't.

John notices you moving and immediately looks over.

"Ma'am, stay back," he says.

Of course he calls you ma'am while bleeding and being verbally crucified in a parking lot.

You ignore him.

The man barely glances at you. "This doesn't concern you."

You step between him and John. "It does, actually."

John freezes behind you.

The man blinks like the concept of interruption has never personally happened to him before.

You point toward the smoking building. "I was in there."

His mouth opens.

You keep going.

"So were a dozen other people. Some of them were children. And while you were out here doing whatever this is," you flick a hand at his phone, "he was inside getting shot at so we could live long enough for you to perform your little sidewalk sermon."

The crowd goes quiet.

A phone lowers.

The man's face reddens. "You don't know what he's done."

"No," you say. "I don't know everything he's done."

John makes a soft sound behind you. Not quite a breath.

You glance back just enough to see him looking at you like you have sprouted wings, antlers, and possibly an axe.

Then you face the man again.

"But I know what he did today. Today, he saved people. Today, he saved me. And I am so tired of watching people act like a person's worst moment is the only thing they are ever allowed to be."

The words come out sharper than you expect.

You are not a loud person. You don't enjoy confrontation. You believe in kindness so stubbornly that friends have accused you of being built out of open windows and bad survival instincts.

But kindness is not the same as softness. Sometimes kindness has teeth.

The man's grip tightens around his phone. "He's dangerous."

"So are half the people you call heroes when it's convenient," you snap. "The difference is you've decided he deserves to keep bleeding for your comfort."

Bucky's eyebrows lift.

Ava looks, very briefly, delighted.

John says nothing.

You can feel him behind you, broad and silent, like he doesn't know what to do with the strange and fragile thing you have just placed in his hands.

Defense... from you. A stranger with dust in your hair and fury in your lungs.

The man looks around, maybe searching for someone to agree with him.

No one speaks.

You step closer, lowering your voice.

"You want accountability? Fine. You want consequences? Fine. But if a man can put his body between hostages and bullets and still not earn one decent breath before you start throwing stones, then this stopped being justice a long time ago."

His face twists. "You're naïve."

You smile then, small and humorless. "Maybe. But at least I'm not cruel and calling it wisdom."

Ava makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh. Bucky coughs into his fist.

The man's mouth shuts. For one deeply satisfying second, he has nothing.

Then a police officer gently but firmly guides him back, muttering something about clearing the area.

The crowd begins to loosen. People look away. Phones drop. The spell breaks.

You exhale. Your hands are shaking, you hate that. You turn around, and John Walker is staring at you.

Not casually, not politely. Staring.

His eyes are blue, startlingly so through the grime and blood on his face. There is disbelief there. Suspicion too, maybe. A man waiting for the punchline because life has taught him every kindness comes with a hook buried in it somewhere.

"You didn't have to do that," he says. His voice is lower now, rougher.

You shrug, suddenly aware that you're standing barefoot on gravel because somewhere between the building and the ambulance you lost one shoe.

"Yes, I did."

John looks down at your feet.

His brow furrows. "Where's your shoe?"

You blink. "That's what you're focusing on?"

"You're standing on glass."

"I just publicly yelled at a man for you."

"I noticed."

"And your response is foot safety?"

His mouth twitches, it's barely there. Almost nothing.

But it is the first real expression you have seen on him that doesn't look assembled out of discipline and old bruises.

"Seems important," he says.

You glance down.

There is, indeed, broken glass near your foot.

"Oh."

John steps forward, then stops himself, like he is not sure he is allowed to come closer.

That does something strange to your chest. He just walked into gunfire without hesitation, but he hesitates over offering you a hand.

So you make the choice for him. You hold out your hand.

John looks at it then at you.

Behind him, Bucky suddenly becomes very interested in the sky. Ava turns away with the faintest smirk pulling at her mouth.

John takes your hand carefully.

His palm is warm, calloused, larger than yours by enough to make your brain briefly forget its normal duties.

He guides you away from the glass and back toward the ambulance.

"You should sit down," he says.

"You should let someone look at your head."

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on your boot."

His eyes narrow slightly. "Ava told you that?"

"She announced it to the general public."

Ava calls from several feet away, "And I was correct."

Bucky adds, "Usually is."

John sighs through his nose, but this time the sound is almost human, almost amused.

You sit back on the ambulance, and the paramedic immediately returns with a look that says she is deciding whether you are brave or deeply inconvenient.

John lets go of your hand slowly. Like he forgets for half a second that he's supposed to.

Then he clears his throat and steps back. "Thank you," he says.

You look up at him, at the blood drying near his temple, at the armor, at the shield, at the man underneath all of it who seems genuinely baffled that anyone would stand between him and a blow.

"You're welcome, John."

His name changes something. You see it happen.

His face goes very still again, but not like before. Not armor this time. Something softer. Caught off guard.

"You know my name," he says.

You raise an eyebrow. "You're on the news a lot."

The hollow smile threatens to come back.

You stop it before it can.

"But that's not why," you add.

He waits.

You tilt your head toward the building. "Bucky yelled it when the ceiling started coming down."

John blinks.

Then, to your surprise, he laughs. It's short, quiet. Rusty at the edges.

A laugh unused to daylight.

"Right," he says. "Yeah. That tracks."

The paramedic starts checking your pulse. You let her.

John lingers.

Not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that the space beside the ambulance feels different. Safer... warmer. As though some part of him has been assigned there and refuses to clock out.

Bucky walks past behind him and murmurs, "You're welcome, by the way."

John doesn't look away from you. "For what?"

"For not recording that."

Ava appears on his other side. "I considered it."

John's ears go faintly pink.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too much.

His teammates like him.

That's obvious now.

In the way Bucky needles without malice. In the way Ava watches the crowd like she's ready to haunt anyone who tries something. In the way John rolls his eyes but doesn't tell them to leave.

The world may hate him but they don't, and for some reason, that matters to you.

Maybe because you know what it is to be misunderstood in smaller, quieter ways. Maybe because you have always hated watching a mob mistake cruelty for righteousness. Maybe because he looked so alone for one split second before he remembered how to pretend he was not.

John shifts his weight. "You really okay?" he asks.

There is no performance in it now. No Captain voice, no soldier edge. Just concern.

You nod. "I think so."

"Good."

A beat passes.

Then you say, "Are you?"

His expression closes by instinct. "I'm fine."

You give him a look.

He gives you one back.

It's absurd, the two of you sitting there in the middle of smoke and sirens, having a silent argument with your eyebrows.

Finally, you say, "That answer needs better writers."

Bucky snorts.

Ava fully smiles.

John looks betrayed by both of them.

Then he looks back at you, and something in his face gives. "I will be," he says.

It's not the truth, not completely. But it's not a lie either.

So you accept it for now.

The first time you met John Walker, he looked at you like kindness was a trap.

You remember that now, almost a year later, standing in the quiet of your apartment while he looks at you with that same stunned, careful expression.

Like you are something precious. Like you are something impossible. Like any second now, the world will laugh and tell him he misunderstood.

It's funny, in a strange, aching way, how clearly you remember that night. The smoke, the sirens, the blood on his boot. His hand in yours as he helped you away from the broken glass, hesitant despite the fact that he had thrown himself through gunfire without blinking.

"You didn't have to do that," he had told you then.

And you had told him, "Yes, I did."

You hadn't known it at the time, but that had been the beginning.

Not the dramatic kind, no music swelling, no lightning striking the pavement. No universe tilting on its axis with enough theatrical flair for Yelena to make fun of later.

It had simply been John Walker staring at you as if you had defended him in a language he didn't speak.

And maybe, somewhere deep in your chest, something had answered.

I can learn.

After that, you started seeing the team more often.

At first, it was accidental. That was what you told yourself, anyway.

You ran into Bucky at a coffee shop near the Avengers Tower, and he invited you to stop by because apparently "the others have been asking about the woman who yelled at a civilian with the energy of a tiny angry courthouse."

You had stared at him.

Bucky had sipped his coffee. "That was Ava's description," he added.

Ava denied it when you brought it up, but not convincingly.

Then one visit became two. Then two became you showing up with pastries and coffee because Alexei once said the compound coffee tasted like "sad water from government shoe."

Then you somehow became part of the rhythm of them.

You learned that Bob liked quiet corners and old cartoons.

You learned that Ava pretended not to care about dessert, then always took the last piece of whatever you brought.

You learned that Bucky had the emotional range of a locked drawer until someone trusted him enough to sit beside him in silence.

You learned that Yelena was, in fact, the human equivalent of a knife wearing lip gloss and a suspiciously soft heart under too many layers of sarcasm.

You learned that Alexei had no indoor voice, no conversational brakes, and once referred to you as "the civilian mascot of our morally complicated circus."

And John.

John became your favorite accident.

He was the one who waited by the elevator when you were leaving late. The one who remembered how you took your coffee after you mentioned it once. The one who stood closer to street side traffic when walking beside you, pretending it was just the natural direction his body had chosen.

The one who texted you after missions with the most painfully neutral messages imaginable.

Made it back.

Don't worry.

Team's fine.

And once, after three hours of radio silence that had made your stomach twist itself into a sailor's knot:

I am also fine. Since you asked Ava. And Bucky. And Bob.

You had typed back:

Maybe answer your phone next time, Walker.

He had replied:

Yes ma'am.

You had stared at those two words far too long.

Everyone noticed, of course they noticed.

You weren't subtle. You tried to be, but whatever dignity you possessed apparently packed a suitcase and fled the country whenever John walked into a room.

You smiled too quickly when he showed up. You watched him too closely when he thought no one was looking. You laughed at his terrible, dry jokes, even the ones that deserved no mercy.

Once, during dinner at the compound, John reached across the table to take the pepper shaker, and your entire brain went briefly silent when his sleeve pulled tight around his forearm.

Yelena, sitting across from you, had slowly lowered her fork.

"You are looking very respectfully," she said.

You choked on your water.

John blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," you said too quickly.

Yelena smiled with every tooth. "Yes. Nothing. The air is full of nothing. So much nothing staring at your arms."

Bucky coughed into his napkin.

Ava looked at the ceiling like she was begging it for strength.

John, somehow, looked down at his own arm in genuine confusion. "What's wrong with my arm?"

Yelena stared at him, then at you, then back at him. "My God," she said softly. "He is not pretending."

You kicked her under the table.

She kicked you back harder.

John only frowned. "Who?"

"No one," you said.

Yelena leaned toward him. "You are very brave in combat and very stupid in romance."

John's face went blank.

You nearly died on the spot.

"What romance?" he asked.

Yelena sat back, delighted and horrified. "This is going to be terrible. I love it."

And still, he didn't see it.

That was the part that hurt the most.

Not because John was careless. He wasn't. He noticed everything about you. If you were tired, he knew. If you were upset, he found a reason to linger. If you were quiet, he sat with you until quiet stopped feeling lonely.

But the idea that you could want him? That you could look at him and not see a warning sign?

That seemed to exist outside the borders of what John Walker allowed himself to imagine.

So you told yourself friendship was enough. You told yourself it was better that way. You told yourself you could survive being close to him without wanting to touch the soft, guarded place beneath all that armor.

It worked... mostly.

Until tonight.

Tonight, you had stayed late at the compound after what was supposed to be a quick visit. Yelena had dragged you into helping her taste test three different brands of frozen pierogi because she claimed "national security depends on knowing which one is least depressing."

Bob had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. Alexei had started telling a story about fighting a bear that changed details every seven minutes. Ava had vanished and reappeared twice, each time stealing more snacks.

John had sat beside you the whole night.

Not too close, never too close. But close enough that your knees brushed once, and he apologized like he had accidentally set fire to your coat.

By the time you finally stood to leave, the windows had gone black with late night rain.

"I'll walk you home," John said immediately.

You gave him a look. "John."

He was already reaching for his jacket. "It's late."

"I live three blocks away."

"Then it'll be a short walk."

"I have pepper spray."

"I've been pepper sprayed before."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"It was training."

"Again. Not surprised."

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious.

So you let him, you always let him.

The city was slick and shining under the streetlights, rain turning the pavement into black glass. John walked beside you with his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looked almost normal like this. No helmet, no shield. Just a man in a dark jacket walking you home because he worried.

For a few minutes, everything was peaceful.

Then a voice cut through the rain.

"Hey."

You felt John stiffen before you even looked.

A man stood near the entrance to your building, smoking beneath the awning. You recognized him vaguely. He lived somewhere on the second floor and had once complained to the super because someone's delivery boxes were "ruining the aesthetic of the lobby."

His eyes moved from you to John, then narrowed. "You okay?" he asked you.

The question itself might have been fine, the tone was not.

John's posture changed instantly. His shoulders squared. His expression flattened. His chin lifted in that awful, familiar way. The armor came back on.

"I'm fine," you said.

The man did not move. "You sure? You know who that is, right?"

John's jaw tightened.

You felt your temper rise. "He's my friend."

The man scoffed, eyes still fixed on John. "That's one word for it."

John's voice was measured when he spoke. "We're just heading inside."

"Oh, I bet you are."

Your stomach turned.

John took half a step back.

That hurt more than the man's words.

That tiny retreat. That silent decision that he would rather make himself smaller than give anyone another reason to hate him.

"Don't," you said.

John glanced at you. "It's fine."

It was always fine. He was always fine. Bleeding on his boot. Bruised under his ribs. Smiling like the knife did not go in.

Fine, fine, fine.

You were sick of that word.

The man snorted. "People like him don't change. You should be careful."

Something in you snapped clean in two.

"No," you said.

Both men looked at you.

You stepped closer to your neighbor, rain dripping down your hair, anger hot enough to burn through the chill.

"No, you don't get to do that."

His eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"You don't get to stand outside my apartment and talk about him like he's some stray weapon I brought home by mistake."

John said your name softly. A warning... a plea.

You ignored it.

"You don't know him."

"I know enough."

"No, you know headlines. You know clips. You know whatever version of him lets you feel morally superior while you smoke under an awning and harass people at midnight."

The man's face flushed. "I'm making sure you're safe."

"No, you're not," you snapped. "You're making sure he knows there's nowhere he can go without someone reminding him they hate him."

John's hand brushed your arm. "Hey. It's okay."

You turned on him, furious now because he meant it. He really meant it. He had swallowed so much cruelty that he thought choking was normal.

"It is not okay."

John went silent.

The man gave a humorless laugh. "You're defending him pretty hard."

"Yes," you said. "I am."

"Why?"

The answer rose so fast it almost escaped whole.

"Because I lo…"

You stopped.

John froze.

The rain seemed to pause with him.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because you had almost said it right there in the street. In front of a cruel man and wet concrete and John Walker's shattered disbelief.

Because I love him, you absolute idiot.

You swallowed hard.

"Because I care about him," you finished, voice shaking.

John stared at you.

The man looked between you both, suddenly less certain.

You stepped toward your building door and pulled out your keys with trembling hands.

"Move."

This time, he did.

John followed you inside without a word.

The lobby was too bright, too quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while rain tapped against the glass doors behind you.

You did not speak in the elevator. Neither did John.

But you could feel him beside you, tense and rattled, whatever careful distance he always kept between you both now charged with something dangerous and tender.

By the time you reached your apartment, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your keys.

John bent down before you could, picked them up, and handed them back.

His fingers brushed yours.

You both stilled.

Then you unlocked the door and stepped inside.

John followed only as far as the entryway, of course he did.

Always careful. Always giving you room. Always standing at the edge like he had already decided he did not deserve a place inside.

You turned on a lamp, flooding the room in soft golden light. Your apartment looked painfully normal. A blanket half folded on the couch, a mug in the sink, a stack of books on the side table. The ordinary shape of your life, suddenly holding a confession by the throat.

John stood near the door, rain darkening his hair, his hands flexing once at his sides.

"You didn't have to do that," he said.

You almost laughed. It came out broken.

"There it is again."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"The same thing you said the night we met."

His face shifted. He remembered, of course he remembered.

"You didn't," he said quietly.

You looked at him for a long moment.

At the exhaustion in his eyes. At the tension in his shoulders. At the man who could face down monsters, governments, gunfire, and gods, but could not survive being cared for without trying to apologize.

"I'm so tired of it," you whispered.

John's expression tightened. "Of what?"

"Everyone hating you."

His gaze dropped.

You stepped closer.

"And you letting them."

His eyes snapped back to yours. "I don't let them."

"Yes, you do."

His jaw worked. "You don't understand."

"I understand enough."

"No," he said, voice roughening. "You don't. You see what you want to see."

You stepped closer again.

"I see you."

He shook his head once, sharp and pained. "You see pieces."

"I see enough pieces to know they're not rot."

That made him go still.

His face went quiet in a way that made your chest ache. Then he laughed once, without humor. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why?"

"Because you're kind."

You blinked.

John looked away like the words cost him.

"You're kind," he repeated, quieter. "And you think that means there's something worth saving in everyone."

"There usually is."

"Not everyone."

"Yes, John. Everyone."

He swallowed hard, then looked at you with something raw in his eyes. "You don't know what it's like to be someone people are right to hate."

The room went silent.

Your anger softened. Softened into something fiercer.

You crossed the remaining space between you and grabbed both his hands.

John looked down, startled.

His hands were cold from the rain. Larger than yours. Rough with old calluses and fresh scrapes. You held them tightly before he could pull away.

"Look at me," you said.

He doesn't.

"John."

His eyes lifted.

There he was.

Not the soldier. Not the headline. Not the shield. Not the public wound everyone kept pressing their thumbs into.

Just John.

Terrified of wanting. Terrified of being wanted back.

You took a shaky breath.

"I need you to listen to me."

His voice was barely there. "Okay."

"I didn't fall for an idea of you."

His fingers twitched in your hands.

You kept going before fear could eat the words.

"I didn't fall for the version of you people argue about online. I didn't fall for the shield or the uniform or whatever the world decided you were supposed to represent."

His breathing changed.

"I fell for the man who waits until I'm inside before he leaves. The man who remembers how I take my coffee. The man who lets Bob have the last pastry even though he thinks no one notices. The man who checks Ava's corners without making her feel watched. The man who argues with Bucky like it's breathing but still trusts him with his life. The man who acts annoyed when Yelena teases him, but always listens when she gets quiet."

John looked wrecked. Beautifully, terribly wrecked.

"And I fell for the man who saved me almost a year ago and then looked shocked when I said thank you."

Your throat tightened.

"Somewhere along the way, I fell for you."

He stared at you. Not breathing, not moving.

You wondered, wildly, if you had broken him.

Then he whispered, "No."

It hit like a slap.

But before you could pull back, his hands tightened around yours.

"No," he said again, and this time you heard it.

Not rejection... fear.

His eyes shone with it.

"No, you don't."

Your mouth parted.

John shook his head, almost frantic now. "You don't. You can't. Not you."

"John."

"You're good," he said, voice cracking at the edges. "You're good in a way I don't even know how to stand near half the time."

Your heart twisted.

He tried to pull his hands away, but you held on.

"You look at me like I'm..." He stopped, throat working. "Like I'm not what I am."

"And what are you?"

His expression hardened, but only because it was the last shield he had left.

"Rot."

The word dropped between you. Ugly and heavy.

Something he had carved into himself long before tonight.

You stared at him.

Then your grip tightened.

"Shut up."

John blinked.

You stepped closer, almost chest to chest now.

"I mean it. Shut up."

His eyes widened slightly.

You could feel his breath against your face.

"You don't get to talk about the man I love that way."

The words were out. This time, you didn't stop them.

John's entire face changed. A crack through stone. A door blown open. A man standing in the ruins of his own disbelief.

"The man you..." he breathed.

"Yes," you said, voice trembling but clear. "The man I love. And he is stubborn and infuriating and has the self preservation instincts of a brick thrown at a tank, but he is not rot."

John's hands turned under yours, slowly, until his fingers curled around yours properly.

Like he needed to hold onto something. Like he needed proof you were still there.

"You don't have to fix me," he whispered.

"I'm not trying to fix you."

"Then what are you doing?"

You looked at his mouth.

Then back to his eyes.

"I'm going to kiss you now."

John went perfectly still. The silence that followed was not empty. It was alive, a wire pulled tight between you.

His voice came out low and shaken. "You don't have to."

You nearly smiled. "There you go again."

His mouth parted, maybe to apologize, maybe to argue, maybe to give you one last exit he clearly did not want you to take.

You didn't let him. You rose onto your toes and kissed him.

For one impossible second, he didn't move.

His lips were warm and still under yours, his whole body held in that careful, aching restraint he used around anything he thought he could damage.

Then he made a sound. Small, broken, wondering. And kissed you back.

Not hard at first.

Tender.

So tender it nearly undid you.

His hands loosened from yours only so he could touch you with careful reverence, one palm finding your waist, the other hovering near your face before his knuckles brushed your cheek. Like he was asking permission with every breath. Like he was afraid the wrong move would wake him.

You answered by leaning into him.

That was all it took.

John's restraint fractured.

He stepped closer, backing you gently into the wall beside the entryway, one hand sliding to the side of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. The kiss deepened, slow and hungry and aching with everything neither of you had been brave enough to say.

Months of almosts bloomed at once.

Almost touching his hand during movies. Almost leaning into his shoulder during late-night rides. Almost telling him to stay when he walked you home. Almost saying I love you in the rain.

Now there was no almost.

There was John's mouth moving against yours like he had been starving quietly for so long he forgot hunger could end.

There was your hand fisting in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer because space suddenly felt insulting.

There was the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of him pressing you into the wall, the trembling inhale he took when your fingers slid into his damp hair.

He kissed you like he was trying to be careful. He kissed you like careful was losing.

Your other hand found his chest, right over the frantic beat of his heart.

John broke the kiss first, but barely.

His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was uneven. His hand still cradled your face as if he had forgotten how to let go.

"I'm scared," he admitted.

The honesty of it was almost more intimate than the kiss.

You opened your eyes.

"So am I."

His thumb moved once against your cheek.

"You shouldn't be with someone like me."

You kissed him again.

Shorter this time, but no less fierce.

When you pulled back, his eyes were closed.

"Stop deciding what I should want," you whispered.

His lashes lifted.

You held his gaze.

"I know who I love."

John looked at you for a long time.

Then something in him gave, not breaking, not collapsing, just surrendering the fight he had been losing anyway.

He leaned down and kissed you again.

This time, he didn't hesitate. This time, he let himself want.

And you felt it in the way his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close enough that your feet nearly left the floor. You felt it in the way he exhaled against your mouth, like your name was trapped somewhere inside his chest. You felt it in the way he kissed you with tenderness sharpened by need, with disbelief slowly melting into something warmer.

Something dangerous.

Something alive.

When you finally part, the rain is still tapping at the windows.

The city still hates him. The world still has its teeth out.

But John Walker stands in your apartment with his hands on your waist and wonder in his eyes, and for the first time since you have known him, he looks like he might actually believe he's allowed to keep something good.

You brush your thumb along his jaw.

"Hi," you whisper, because apparently your brain has abandoned you completely.

John lets out a quiet, breathless laugh.

"Hi."

Then his smile fades into something softer. Something almost too fragile to look at directly. His hand comes up slowly, knuckles grazing your cheek. He touches you like he is still checking that you are real.

"You really love me?" he asks.

Your chest aches.

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

"Yes."

His eyes close.

The word lands somewhere deep in him. You can see it in the way his throat works. The way his shoulders drop by the smallest fraction, like he has been carrying a weight so long he forgot what it felt like to loosen his grip.

Then he pulls you into his arms. Careful and shaking, holding you like he is afraid to believe too loudly.

You wrap your arms around him without hesitation, pressing your cheek against his chest. His heart is beating fast under your ear, wild and human and painfully alive.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then John lowers his face to your hair.

"I don't know how to do this," he admits, voice rough.

You close your eyes. "Do what?"

"This." His arms tighten around you. "Be loved by you."

Your breath catches.

John pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's no armor left in his face now. No practiced smile, no hollow bravado. Just him, raw and terrified and trying so hard not to run from the thing he wants most.

"But I'll try," he says. "Every day. I swear to God, I'll work every day to be the man you deserve."

Something inside you breaks open from the ache of him still thinking love is a finish line he has to bleed toward.

You lift both hands to his face, holding him there before he can look away.

"John."

His eyes search yours.

You shake your head, gentle but firm.

"You already are."

He goes still.

You feel the words reach him slowly, like sunlight finding a locked room.

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

So you say it again.

"You already are the man I deserve."

His face twists for half a second, overwhelmed by it, by you, by the impossible mercy of being chosen without having to beg the world for permission first.

Then he kisses you again. Tender and deep, full of the kind of want that has stopped apologizing for existing. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and you rise into him easily, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

He kisses you like he is learning a new language.

Like your mouth is teaching him the word stay. Like maybe, just maybe, he can.

John holds you in the soft light of your apartment, breathing like someone who has finally reached shore.

And when he presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, voice barely above a whisper, he says, "I don't deserve you."

You smile against his mouth.

"Yes, you do."

This time, he doesn't argue, he only pulls you closer. Like a promise. Like the first safe place he had not had to earn.

He knew it was insane. He knew divorce wasn’t a sport. He knew healing didn’t come with a scoreboard, and there was no prize for being the first person to look normal again. But this was John Walker we’re talking about, and Olivia moving on like a functional adult meant that she was beating him at life. And John was nothing if not competitive. As far as he was concerned, Olivia had points on the board and he didn’t.

John had government-monitored rage incidents and a search history full of “how to not hate your ex-wife’s boyfriend.”

Every other weekend, John would pull up to pick up his son, prepared to be mature, steady, and reasonable. A father, a grown man, a person who had done therapy-adjacent breathing exercises with Bob and therefore considered himself emotionally evolved.

Then the front door would open, and Olivia’s new boyfriend would be there.

The guy wasn’t even easy to hate.  If he had been smug, John could have worked with that. If he had been condescending, or handsy, or one of those guys who tried too hard to prove he was comfortable around another man’s kid, John could have filed him away as an asshole and let the anger fester without feeling guilty. 

The boyfriend’s name was Nathan, and Nathan wore clean sneakers and quarter-zips and had the calm face of aman who had never once been dragged into an international incident. He had neat hair, good posture, and a normal job. John didn’t know what the job was, because asking would imply interest, and John refused to be interested in Nathan on principle.

Nathan opened the door with his son’s bag on his shoulder, “Hey, John,” like they were neighbors.

Nathan remembered the stuffed dinosaur. Nathan knew the diaper bag needed the blue cup, not the yellow one, because the yellow one leaked if it tipped sideways. Nathan crouched to zip up tiny sneakers with patient hands while Olivia gathered a jacket from the hallway closet. So every time Nathan handed over the bag, John felt the score shift. Bing bing bing! 2-0!

Olivia: one emotionally stable boyfriend who knew the snack schedule.

John: one tactical vest in the trunk.

Nathan smiled at him one Saturday morning with a mug in his hand in John’s old kitchen.

He had signed the papers. He knew the house was Olivia’s now in every way that mattered. But his body hadn't received the update. Some stupid, territorial part of him still recognized the front hall and the little hook where his keys used to go. And then there was Nathan standing barefoot on the tile with coffee like he had spawned there naturally.

“Morning,” Nathan said. “Good to see you, man.”

John almost laughed. “Yeah,” he said instead. “You too.”

It came out flat enough that Olivia looked at him tilting her head.

His son squealed from the living room, and John stepped around Nathan to get him.

The kid launched himself at John’s legs with complete, reckless trust, and for half a second the whole world rearranged itself around the feeling of small hands gripping his jeans, his son shouting, “Daddy!” like John had never been anything other than wanted.

He bent down and picked him up.

There. That helped. That always helped.

For three seconds, the scoreboard didn’t exist. Then Nathan came out with the diaper bag.

“Packed extra wipes,” Nathan said. “He had a thing with the applesauce earlier.”

When John took the bag, his hand closed around the strap too tightly. “Great,” he said.

Nathan smiled politely. If he had been insincere in any capacity, John couldn’t spot it. “No problem.”

John wanted to bite through concrete. He hated that Nathan had packed the wipes. He hated that Nathan had been there for the applesauce thing. He hated that he knew there had been an applesauce thing at all. He hated that Nathan’s mug said something stupidly wholesome on it, probably from a farmer’s market. He hated that nobody was doing anything wrong.

Still, he knew Olivia was allowed to date. Nathan was allowed to be nice. Their son was allowed to be comfortable in the house he lived in, and in fact, John was relieved that he was. But that must mean John was allowed to feel complicated about it, too, right?

He was not, however, allowed to turn the whole thing into a personal war.

When he buckled his son into the car seat and glanced back toward the porch, Olivia and Nathan were standing side by side in the doorway. Olivia lifted a hand in goodbye, and Nathan did too.

John lifted his hand back because he wasn’t a monster. Then he got into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and sat there for one second too long with both hands on the wheel.

Winning. She’s winning!!! The thought flashed hot and stupid behind his eyes.

His son babbled a Bluey song in the back seat.

John looked at him in the rearview mirror and forced his grip to loosen. “Yeah, buddy,” he said, calming down almost immediately. “We’re going.”

He drove away like a normal person.

He made it three blocks before he muttered, “Goddamn Nathan,” under his breath like it was a curse.

His son repeated, “I call him Nay-fin because he has pet fish!”

John winced. “Don’t do that.”

“Nay-fin!”

“Buddy, please.”

“Nay-fin, Nay-fin, Nay-fin.”

By the time John pulled into traffic, he was considering whether crashing the car very gently into their mailbox when he came back counted as a setback.

—

There had been incidents, but not capital-I Incidents.  John would have made that distinction very clear if anyone had been brave enough to stand in front of him and call them that. 

They were simply… small things. Stupid things. Yes, he might’ve put a dent in the elevator panel because the doors stalled. Yes, he might’ve cracked a mug in the kitchen because Ava had asked him if he was “coping”. Yes, he might’ve punched a training dummy hard enough to take out half a weapons rack, which, in his defense, was what training dummies were technically for. 

If anyone saw them as individual, isolated incidents, none of it would be considered catastrophic. Nothing made the news, no one got hurt, no country issued a statement. No blurry civilian footage hit the internet with his name trending in all caps. But together, apparently, it made his teammates raise an eyebrow.

Bob noticed first, which made it worse. Bob didn’t make accusations or corner John and tell him to get his shit together. He just stood in the training room after the dummy incident, staring at the wreckage with those worried eyes like the dummy had a soul. Later, he told Yelena that he thought John was “having a hard time.” Yelena told Mel because of course she did. Mel told Valentina because she was contractually obligated to, and Valentina, naturally, couldn’t have cared less. John breaking things barely registered as a crisis to her. It was just another line item in the budget, somewhere below ammunition, blackmail, and whatever Alexei kept charging to the company card under “team morale.” Then Bucky overheard. 

So Bucky Barnes, of all people, ended up standing in front of him with his arms crossed and that irritatingly calm look on his face, like he had become the emotional adult in the room through some administrative error. Bucky, who had once looked like therapy was a foreign intelligence operation. Bucky, who had trauma spanning two centuries and nine decades. Bucky, who now apparently had the nerve to look John in the eye and say, “You need help.”

John laughed because the only other option was putting his head through drywall. “You’re lecturing me about anger?” he asked, because there were very few moments in his life where the universe felt this committed to humiliation.

Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t take the bait. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

“That’s rich.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Bucky didn’t sound smug or superior. He sounded like someone who had already crawled through the same swamp and hated recognizing the mud on someone else’s boots. John hated being read like that. He hated that Bucky could stand there, calmer than him, more put together than him. His life had to be spectacularly fucked if the Winter Soldier was now the emotionally stable one.

“I’m fine,” John said.

“You punched an elevator,” Bucky replied.

“It got stuck.”

“For eighteen seconds.”

“It was still stuck.”

Bucky blinked at him in a way that made John want to throw something just to justify the conversation. “You hear yourself, right?”

Unfortunately, John did. He could hear exactly how insane he sounded. He could hear the pattern Bob had noticed. He could feel the way everyone had started looking at him, measuring the distance between him and the nearest breakable object in the room. It made his skin crawl.

Bucky sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I don’t care if you’re pissed. Be pissed. But we can’t have another international incident involving you.” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping, and John hated how serious he looked. “So you’re off missions unless you do a couple of crisis de-escalation training sessions.”

There it was, the leash. It didn’t belong to Val this time, who made him go on various suicidal black ops mission. It wasn't even the military’s. It was his own teammate’s.

“You can’t do that,” John said.

“I can.”

“Since when?”

“Since the team agreed.”

The team, huh? Is that what this has come to?

John’s nostrils flared. For one stupid second, he wanted to swing at him. Not really, and not all the way. It was just an old reflex, the urge to make the nearest solid thing pay for how cornered he felt.

Bucky saw it. “Don’t.”

John hated him for that, too. He hated everyone because they were right. John had been angry for weeks, if not months. He had been angry before, but this wasn't battlefield angry. Not useful angry. Not the kind of anger that pointed toward an objective and burned through it. 

This was different. This was ugly, sour, domestic anger. Divorce anger. Nathan-knows-where-the-extra-wipes-are anger. It had nowhere honorable to go, so it kept finding walls.

“Who am I seeing?” John bit out.

“Someone I worked with during recovery,” Bucky said. 

John scoffed. “Great. So you’re outsourcing me to your therapist?”

“She’s not a therapist,” Bucky shook his head, “she does oversight, that’s all.”

“Your anger babysitter, then.”

Bucky looked exhausted. “You’re really making my point for me.”

John stared at him. Bucky stared back. Neither of them moved, and then John snatched the file out of his hand because apparently that was what his life had become. Mandatory rage oversight, arranged by Bucky Barnes, because even a former Russian asset had managed to become more emotionally regulated than him. Fantastic. Wonderful. Humbling in a way that made him want to chew glass.

“Fine,” John said.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Fine?”

“I’ll go to the stupid sessions.”

John looked down at the file. Your name was printed neatly across the top, along with your credentials. He hated the font. He hated the folder. He hated the idea of sitting in a room while some calm, professional woman asked him where he felt his anger in his body. He felt it in his fist, obviously.   He tucked the file under his arm and turned to leave.

Behind him, Bucky said, “For what it’s worth, she helped.”

John swallowed. That was it: proof standing right behind him that a man could crawl out of worse things and still become steady enough to lecture somebody else.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Well. Good for you.”

Then he walked away, already certain you were going to be the worst person he had ever met.

—

Two days later, John attended his first mandatory rage counselling session in an empty conference room on the thirty-second floor of the tower.

He had spent the entire morning in a foul mood about it. He had woken up angry, showered angry, gotten dressed angry, drank coffee angry, and glared at the file Bucky had given him angry.

The conference room was empty when he got there, because of course he was early. Not because he cared. Not because he was nervous. John didn’t get nervous about talking to some government-approved feelings babysitter in a glass-walled room with a bad view and a table long enough to host a hostage negotiation.

He was early because being late would have given Bucky something to say.That was all.

He stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching the city move beneath him like he had somewhere better to be. Which he did. Literally anywhere. A mission, a sparring mat, a shooting range, his truck. Nathan’s front porch, even. Jesus, that was how bad this was. He would rather stand in Olivia’s doorway and watch her boyfriend hand him the diaper bag than sit in a room and answer questions about his anger.

The door opened behind him.

John did not turn right away. It was petty, but he had already committed to being difficult, and there was no reason to abandon the theme this early.

“John Walker?” Your voice was not what he expected.

It was steady, but not cold. Professional, but warm. He turned, already prepared to be unimpressed, already prepared to hate the woman who thought she was brave because she could sit across from an angry man and ask him to breathe.

Then he saw you. And his first thought was: She’s cute.

John actually felt his brain snag on it.

You stood in the doorway with a bag on one shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm, dressed like someone who did home visits all the time. In this case, Tower visits. You looked composed without looking stiff, kind without looking naive.

John blinked. Then, he forced himself to snap out of it.

No. Fuck no.

That meant nothing.

He was just touch-starved, that was all. Recently divorced and hadn’t gone on a date in a while. A pretty woman walked into a room and his brain did the humiliating male thing it had been biologically programmed to do. That didn’t mean anything, right? That wasn’t a crush. That wasn’t even a thought worth dignifying.

He was just being a guy. A tired, divorced guy with bad impulse control and a mandated appointment.

You gave him a small smile, “Thanks for meeting me here.”

John looked around the empty conference room. “Didn’t really have a choice.”

“No,” you said, setting your bag down near one of the chairs. “You didn’t.”

Huh. He had expected you to soften the blow, to say something like, I know this isn’t ideal, or I understand this must be frustrating, or some other fluffed little statement designed to make the whole thing feel less like punishment.

John narrowed his eyes slightly. “That’s it?”

You glanced up from your folder. “Were you expecting me to pretend this was voluntary?”

“No.”

“Good. Then we’re already starting from a place of honesty.”

He hated that he almost smiled.

You pulled out a chair, but you didn’t sit at the head of the table. You sat along the side instead, leaving the chair across from you open. Not a power move, as John had learned to read. For a second, John had to remind himself that you had no reason to take an interrogation setup. John stayed standing.

“I understand Mr. Barnes spoke with you,” you said.

John scoffed. “That what we’re calling it?”

“What would you call it?”

“A threat.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Was it effective?”

John stared at you. You looked back, patient but not passive, pen resting lightly between your fingers.

He hated that question, but the answer was yes. Bucky threatening to bench him had been effective. Bucky telling him he was becoming a liability had worked because John could argue with feelings all day, but he couldn’t argue with being taken out of the field.

He pulled out the chair and sat down. “I’m here,” he said. “That’s what matters, right?”

“It’s a start.”

He leaned back, folding his arms. “And what, you’re gonna fix me?”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look wounded or challenged or impressed.

You just looked at him for a second, thoughtful in a way that made him feel more seen than he wanted to be, and said, “No.”

John blinked.

You opened your folder. “I’m going to help make sure you stop throwing government property through walls.”

For one full second, John could not decide whether to be offended or laugh. Offended won, but only barely. “It was one wall.”

You looked down at the page. “According to the report, it was two walls, one elevator panel, one training dummy, a mug, three chairs, and a decorative glass installation.”

“The glass was ugly.”

“I’ll add that to the mitigating factors.”

He did smile then, and you saw it. Even more unfortunately, you were kind enough not to look victorious about it.

Instead, you made a small note. “I want to be clear about something before we start.”

John’s shoulders tensed. “Here we go.”

“This isn’t therapy,” you said. “If you want a shrink, get a shrink. I have a recommendation list the size of a novella, but I am not that.”

His eyes narrowed. “I know.”

“Good. Then you understand I’m not here to hold your hand through a breakthrough.”

John stared at you.

You continued, voice even. “I’m not here to humiliate you. I’m not here to decide if you’re a good man or a bad man. I’m not here because the director of the CIA cares about your emotional well-being.”

John let out a humorless breath. “At least you know that.”

“Oh, I know that very well.” You clicked your pen once. “I work risk management and crisis de-escalation. I used to work in personal coaching, but now I work for corporate. I am not new to enhanced individuals. I’ve worked with soldiers, fighters, mercenaries, people who can turn a bad mood into a property damage claim. My job is to make sure you don’t cause another PR incident.”

“So I’m a liability.”

“You’re behaving like one.” you said. “Unlike therapy, I’m allowed to be harsh. I’m allowed to be direct. I’m allowed to be mean if mean keeps you from putting your fist through another wall. Got it?”

John leaned back, arms crossed. He still looked pissed off, obviously. That seemed to be his default setting. But now he looked interested too, against his will.

“So what?” he said. “You train me like a dog?”

You looked him dead in the eye. “If that worked, Mr. Walker, Mr. Barnes would've brought treats.”

For one second, he only stared. Then he laughed. You made a note.

His eyes dropped to your pen. “What are you writing?”

“That you’re trainable.”

—

By the second meeting, John had convinced himself the first one had been a fluke.

It was a weird day. He was in a bad mood and drank too much coffee. Of course John had noticed you were pretty. Anyone with a heartbeat and a preference for women would have noticed. That wasn’t a character flaw, nor was it a problem. That was certainly not the beginning of a little crush on the woman assigned to make sure he stopped damaging government property like an overgrown toddler with security clearance.

Except then you walked into the conference room again, two days later, with your bag on your shoulder and your folder under your arm, and John’s first thought was, oh, good.

Not, oh, fuckin’ great, therapy. Not, look, the feelings police have arrived.

You smiled at him. “You’re early again.”

John looked down at his watch like this was news to him. “Traffic was light.”

“You live in the building.”

“Elevators were fast.”

“You took the stairs,” you said, “I ran into Mr. Reynolds in the lobby. He mentions something about you always taking the stairs after the… elevator incident.”

His eyes ticked a bit.

You sat down across from him like you hadn’t just dragged him by the collar into the truth with one hand. “So. We can start with why you feel the need to lie about it. Panels in this building cost taxpayer money, and frankly, John, you are not interesting enough to justify a renovation budget.”

John leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. “Are you always this charming?”

“Not always,” you said. “Sometimes I’m much worse, but I try to save that for people with better excuses.”

He hated that you were funny. He hated that your voice stayed even when he pushed. You let his attitude lay itself on a silver platter, looked at it, and then kept going like it was mildly inconvenient rather than intimidating.

John hated that you were basically a leash on him. He hated the way you could walk into a room, say his name once, and suddenly everyone expected him to behave like a domesticated pet with paperwork. He hated that you were basically a corporate muzzle with a company badge. Most of all, he hated that it worked. He hated that you were good at crisis de-escalation, that when you told him to sit down, he sat.

That session was worse than the first because he talked more. Not willingly or gracefully. John didn’t spill his guts; he leaked under pressure and acted indifferent when anyone noticed the puddle. But you were good. 

You didn’t say, “Tell me about your feelings” like a shrink would. You asked practical things. What happened before the elevator stalled? What did he think before making the decision to do it?

He told you the elevator made a noise. He told you the noise reminded him of a transport door jamming during a mission that went badly.

You nodded.

John hadn’t realised until now, just how much that helped.

By the end of the session, he had only snapped at you twice, which apparently counted as improvement.

“That was progress,” you said, clicking your pen closed.

John scoffed. “Barely.”

He stood too quickly, because staying seated under your steady almost-smile felt too intimate. He picked up his jacket, glanced at you, then glanced away.

“Same time next week?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, and then, because his mouth had apparently decided to ruin his life, he added, “Works for me.”

Works for me. Like he was looking forward to it. Like this was a coffee date. Like he was not going to spend the next ten minutes in his room mentally punching himself in the face.

That night, he dreamed about you.

The first dream was almost merciful because it was vague. Your voice, mostly. The conference room, dimmer than it should have been, the blinds drawn over the glass walls. Dream-you said his name in his ears, and it sounded sensual.

John woke up annoyed at himself. 

Fine. Whatever. People had weird dreams. That meant nothing.

Then it happened again. And again.

By the fourth dream, his subconscious had apparently lost all interest in being PG-13.

In the dream, you were still in the conference room, but you weren’t sitting across from him anymore. You were on the edge of the table, folder abandoned somewhere behind you, your knees bracketing his hips as he stood between them. His hands were on your thighs, warm through the fabric of your skirt, and he knew even then that he should not be touching you. He knew there were rules.

But dream-you did not care.Dream-you looked at him with your head tilted, eyes steady in that same infuriating way you looked at him in real life, except there was nothing professional in it now.

“You’re very good at pretending you don’t want me,” dream-you said.

John’s hand tightened on your thigh.“I’m not pretending,” he lied.

Dream-you smiled, and hooked one finger beneath the collar of his shirt and pulled him in like he weighed nothing at all.

The kiss was filthy. It was hungry and open-mouthed, your fingers in his hair, his body crowding yours back over the table until the folder slid off the edge and papers scattered across the floor. He could feel your legs tighten around him. He could feel your breath break against his mouth when he dragged one hand under your shirt and you said his name like you were giving in.

John woke up hard, furious, and staring at the ceiling like God owed him an explanation.

“Nope,” he muttered to the dark.

Fuck!  

He spent the morning in the gym punishing a punching bag for crimes it did not commit, then took a cold shower and told himself, very firmly, that this was normal. He had been through a lot. You were pretty, direct, and unfortunately the person his idiot brain would latch onto after being emotionally starved for a year.

That didn’t mean anything.

It especially didn’t mean anything when he got dressed for the next session and changed shirts twice.

The fifth meeting was where you noticed.

Not the dreams, obviously. Christ. He would have walked into the Hudson before admitting those. But you noticed something.

“You seem tired,” you said.

John’s hand tightened around his coffee cup. “I’m fine.”

“You have shadows under your eyes.”

“I have a face.”

You paused, then you smiled down at your notes, and it was so small he almost missed it.

“Okay,” you said. “You have a face. Gotta do better than that if you want to be on the full mission roster again, John. I might have to tell Barnes you should work strictly recon only.”

He hated you.

Liar, liar, liar.

Still, he was starting to like the rhythm of the session. You didn’t chase him when he dodged, but you also didn’t let him disappear completely. You remembered details from the last session without having to flip at your notes. You asked about his son without making it feel like a test. You said Olivia’s name carefully, like you understood there was history there but didn’t assume the whole story.

You asked about Nathan once, asking how much of a liability he made him.  John groaned so hard you actually laughed.

“I’m sorry,” you said, still smiling. “I shouldn’t laugh.”

“No, go ahead. My pain is hilarious.”

“It is a little pathetic that you hate him mostly because he packs a good diaper bag.”

“I don’t hate him.”

You looked at him and lifted an eyebrow.

John sighed. “Fine. I hate him a little.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s there.”

You didn’t write that down right away. You let it sit.

See, you never rushed to dissect the truth. You didn’t pounce like you had caught him revealing evidence. You just let the truth breathe for a second. Then you said, “Because he’s where you used to be?”

John stared at the window. His reflection looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders too tight. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Maybe.”

It was the first time he had admitted it without turning it into a joke.

You didn’t say that was progress immediately, which was good, because he might have thrown himself through the window. Instead, you said, “That makes sense.”

John looked at you. His muscles loosened so suddenly it almost pissed him off. That was all he wanted, apparently. Not permission. Just someone saying the feeling itself was not insane.

Then, after the talking part of the session, came the training part of it. That’s the whole point of these meetings, right?

You weren’t gentle with him. You didn't treat his temper like a tragic creature that needed to be understood by candlelight. You treated it like a workplace hazard. Like bad wiring. Like a loaded weapon left too close to civilians.

“Again,” you said, tapping your pen against your clipboard. “You’re in a hallway. Civilian contractor panics. He raises his voice and gets too close. You do what?”

“Tell him to back the hell up.”

You sighed. “Try again.”

He looked at the ceiling like he was praying for patience, which was funny because you had been fairly sure God had blocked his number.

“I create distance,” John said tightly. “I keep my hands visible and lower my voice.”

“Beautiful,” you look pleased. “Look at that. A whole adult sentence.”

“Do you have to say it like that?”

“Yes,” you said, sipping your cold brew. “It’s how I stay awake.”

You circled him once, unimpressed, watching the set of his shoulders, the way his hands curled when he got annoyed, the way he always shifted his weight forward like every conversation was one rude comment away from becoming a contact sport. “There,” you said.

“What?”

“That.” You pointed your pen at his right hand. “You made a fist.”

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me when I’m literally looking at the problem. That’s embarrassing for both of us.”

John looked down. His hand was, in fact, half-curled. He didn’t even realise. He flexed his fingers open, irritated.

“That,” you said, “is the part we fix. Not your childhood. Not your marriage. Not whatever patriotic hellscape lives in your frontal lobe. That. The two seconds between insult and impact. That is my jurisdiction.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice just enough. “When someone escalates, you do not match them, do you understand? You don’t get to make it a dominance contest because your ego gets lonely. You create space, you name the behavior, and you give one clear instruction.”

He looked unconvinced.

You sighed. “For example: ‘Step back. Lower your voice. We can talk when you’re calm.’ See? Simple.”

“I know how to talk to people.”

“You know how to issue commands,” you corrected. “That’s not the same thing. Golden retrievers know how to bark. We don’t make them hostage negotiators.”

His mouth twitched up into a smile before he could stop it.

You caught it instantly. “Oh, good,” you said. “There’s a sense of humor under all that rage.”

“Are we done?”

“No.”

You made him run the scenario again. And again. And again.

You played the panicked contractor. Then an angry civilian. Then a reporter shoving a phone in his face. Then a teammate ignoring his order. Every time he got too mad, you stopped him. Every time his posture turned threatening, you pointed it out. Every time his voice dropped into that dangerous register, you made him start over.

“Less divorced drill sergeant.”

He tried again. 

“Better. Still terrifying, but now in a way HR can plausibly defend.”

John looked like he wanted to throw your clipboard through a wall. But he didn’t.

By the end of the session, he had forgotten to be hostile for nearly ten whole minutes.

—

Unfortunately, everyone else noticed him being weird about these sessions before he did.

It happened after the eleventh meeting.

He had put on some fancy cologne. Maybe he had sprayed once more than usual. Maybe twice. Maybe he had stood in front of the mirror afterward, frowned, and changed his shirt because the first one looked too tactical and the second one looked like he was trying too hard, which meant he had landed on the third shirt, which looked like he was trying exactly the right amount.

Whatever.It wasn’t a thing.

He walked into the common area afterward feeling, unfortunately, good. The session had gone well. You had smiled at him twice, called him out on his bullshit once, and told him he handled a frustrating call from Olivia better than he would have a month ago. He had pretended that meant nothing when it meant everything. 

He was still thinking about it when Yelena looked up from the couch and sniffed the air.

John stopped walking. Ava, sitting beside her with a bowl of cereal, paused mid-bite.

Yelena sniffed again. “Oh,” she said. “Interesting.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Ava looked him up and down. “That’s a lot of… smell.”

“It’s cologne,” John said flatly. “I wear cologne.”

Yelena leaned back against the couch, pleased. “People wear cologne. You are marinating in it.”

Ava looked him over, not unkindly. “The training went well?”

John pointed at her. “Don’t.”

Yelena’s grin sharpened. “Oh, it went very well.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You wore the good shirt,” Ava pointed out.

“Oh!” Yelena made a delighted little sound. “He knows it is the good shirt.”

John felt heat crawl up his neck. “I don't know what the hell you guys are talking about.”

“You have many shirts,” Yelena said. “Most of them say divorced military action figure. This one says”—she waved a hand vaguely—“please think I am emotionally available.”

Ava snorted into her cereal, which by the way, she was eating at four in the afternoon.

John stared at them both, wishing briefly and sincerely for a mission, an explosion, a portal to hell, anything. “I don’t have to stand here and take this.”

John left before he could prove exactly why Bucky had sent him to counseling. But he did not slam the door.

—

John had a dentist appointment that day, and he only found out his regular dentist was on leave while he was already in the chair.

Great.

He already hated the dentist on a good day, but most people did, though. Nobody liked being tilted back beneath a blinding light while someone told them to relax with cold metal in their mouth. Nobody enjoyed lying flat and useless with their mouths forced open, unable to swallow properly, unable to answer questions, unable to do anything except stare at the ceiling tiles while the scrape of instruments were shoved in there. It was an inherently vulnerable place to be.

The angle of the chair was bad enough. The bib against his chest, the plastic suction tube pulling at the corner of his mouth, the hygienist’s polite voice telling him to open wider, the scrape-scrape-scrape of metal against enamel was worse.

He had one hand curled around the armrest and kept telling himself he was being ridiculous.People did this every day. Accountants did this. Schoolteachers did this. 

John was already in a bad mood when the hygienist leaned back, pulled off her gloves, and said, “Dr. Hayes will be in to do the final check.”

John went still. Hayes?

It was a common last name. That was what he told himself first. It could be anyone. New York was full of Hayeses. Thousands of them. Maybe millions.

Then the door opened.

The dentist stepped in wearing scrubs, gloves, a mask, and magnifying loupes pushed up over his forehead. For one glorious, stupid second, John didn’t recognize him. The mask hid enough. The entire situation was absurd enough that his brain tried to protect him by refusing to connect the dots.

Then the dentist looked at the chart and said, “Hey, John.”

John’s soul left his body.

Nathan.

Nathan Hayes, D.D.S., apparently.

John knew he should’ve listened to what he did for work.

Of course Nathan was a dentist. Of course Olivia’s boyfriend had a respectable job where he helped people and owned tiny mirrors and probably lectured about gum health with sincerity. Of course John had somehow ended up flat on his back, jaw aching, beneath the one man in the city he least wanted to see, while said man held a small, gleaming instrument between gloved fingers. There were levels of hell, apparently. This was a new one.

Nathan’s eyes crinkled above the mask in what John assumed was a smile. A normal smile. A professional smile.

“Dr. Miller’s on leave this week,” Nathan said. “I know this is a little weird. I can keep it quick.”

A little weird. Ha!

John stared up at him, pinned by the chair, pinned by the light, pinned by his own body’s immediate reaction to being trapped.

The overhead lamp hummed. The air smelled like mint paste, latex, antiseptic, and the sterile bite of metal, though it just smelled like a fresh magazine of bullets. The tray sat beside Nathan’s elbow, lined with instruments John’s brain catalogued before he could stop it: Probe. Mirror. Scaler. Suction tube. Polisher. Little hooked things. Silver points. Thin handles. Glass jar on the counter. Cabinet door half-open. Exit to the left. Nathan on the right.

John’s fingers tightened around the chair until the vinyl creaked.

He wanted to break something, but he didn’t, not even in a million years, want to accidentally hurt Nathan.

He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He just wanted out. Out of the chair, out of the room, out of his own head, out of being compared and found lacking by a scoreboard nobody else knew existed.

Nathan just adjusted the light and asked, “You okay?”

John felt the breath catch in his chest. “Fine.” It came out too flat.

Nathan paused, just barely. The hygienist glanced between them. He didn’t push, though. He nodded, lowered the loupes over his eyes, and said, “All right. Open for me.”

John almost laughed because there was no way this was his life.

No way Nathan’s gloved hand was braced near John’s chin, steady and gentle, while John’s whole body buzzed with the urge to move, to sit up, to take control of the room by force simply because lying still felt unbearable.

Still, opened his mouth.

The first touch of the dental mirror against his teeth made his spine twitch.

Nathan told the hygienist something about the back molars. He heard the scrape of the instrument traveled through his jaw in a way that felt too invasive and too loud. John stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through his nose, but even that felt wrong, like he was barely holding the lid down on a volcano.

Then, Nathan’s phone rang. 

He said something about being done anyway, and told the hygienist to take over as he went outside to take the emergency call.

Then he heard Olivia outside the room.

He caught it by accident. The door wasn’t shut all the way, dammit. It’s not like he was actively trying to eavesdrop.

“Hey, Liv. Everything okay?”

Nathan’s voice was quieter now, but John could still hear it, because the serum made sure there was no privacy from the things that would ruin him.

“Yeah. No, I can help. Give me twenty minutes. Is he still fussy?”

John’s vision narrowed around the ceiling light. His son.

Olivia had called Nathan because she needed help with his son, and Nathan had answered like that was normal. Like he was allowed to be the easy call. Like John was not sitting there twenty feet away with mint on his tongue and a paper bib on his chest.

The hygienist said something about rinsing. John did it automatically.

He wanted to break something. A tray. A light. The plastic cup. His own knuckles if that was what it took to keep the feeling from becoming bigger than the room.

Then your voice came back to him. You weren't there, but he remembered your advice: Name the feeling before it names you.

John squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.

Fear. Loss. Control. No. Lack of it.

That’s it. He felt out of control. His normal dentist already made him feel out of control, and Nathan holding metal near his mouth while Olivia trusted him with John’s son made him feel like control was a house fire and he was standing there with a cup of water.

His hands shook once against the chair.

He breathed in. Four counts. Held. Out for six.

He had mocked the breathing exercises when you taught them to him. He had called them tactical breathing with better marketing. You had looked at him and said, “Mock it while you do it correctly, then. You think you’re helping the team with that mouth?” He had almost smiled. He had done it badly on purpose. You had noticed. 

Now he did it the way you had taught him. Again. Again.

By the time Nathan came back in, John hadn't broken anything.

By the time Nathan finished the appointment, John hadn’t said anything cruel.

By the time he got to his car, John could finally breathe normally again

He sat behind the wheel with both hands gripping it, staring through the windshield at nothing. His mouth tasted like fluoride. His teeth ached. His heartbeat was still too fast. He hadn’t shoved the tray over. He hadn’t crushed the armrest. He had recognized that he was standing on the edge and backed away from it.

So why did he feel like he was breaking apart?

—

He did not remember deciding to drive to your place.

Your address was in the file, because you, for some reason, hosted emergency sessions for selected individuals. Because you were a professional and John had no business using that information because he felt like he was coming apart.

But the thought of going back to the tower made his skin crawl, and you were the only person he could think of.

When he reached your building, there were two cop cars outside.

John stopped on the sidewalk, every nerve going cold.

Then the door opened, and two uniformed officers came out, speaking quietly into radios. Behind them, you stood in the entryway with one hand on the doorframe, your hair a little loose, your shoulders set. You looked… tired.

You looked up and saw him. “John?”

It was not your session voice. It was just your voice, surprised and worried all the same.

His throat tightened so suddenly he almost looked away. “I need to talk about something,” he said.

Your eyes moved over his face, quick and careful. He watched you read him the way you always did. “John, this isn’t—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I know it’s not appropriate. I just—” His voice cracked, and he hated that it did. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And because you were kind, you sighed and stepped aside. “Come in.”

The second your apartment door shut behind him, the effort of holding himself together finally gave in. He did not explode. Instead, he just stood there in your entryway, too broad for the narrow space, breathing too hard through his nose, eyes burning.

You turned toward him.

He reached for you before he could stop himself.

It was not a romantic gesture, at least not yet. Not like this. But it was too desperate to be anything casual. His arms came around you, and for one terrible second he held on like you were the only real thing left in the world.

You went still.

He felt the professional calculation, the boundary, the line drawn and redrawn in the beat between one breath and the next. Then your hand settled between his shoulder blades.

You hugged him back just enough to keep him from falling apart.

He closed his eyes. His face turned slightly toward your shoulder, not buried, but close enough that some aching part of him wanted to stay there. He wanted to press closer. He wanted to let the day end inside the mercy of your hand on his back.

He pulled away first because he had to. Because if he didn’t, he might forget himself.

Your eyes searched his face. “Sit down,” you said gently.

He did.

You brought him water.

He sat on your couch like a man trying not to collapse through it, staring at the glass in his hands while you took the chair across from him. 

“What happened?” you asked.

He laughed once. “My dentist was out on leave.”

You blinked.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. “Nathan was covering.”

Your face changed. “The Nathan?”

“Yeah,” John said. “The Nathan.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He let out a breath that almost shook. “Oh.”

Then it came out of him in pieces: The chair. The light. The tools. The fact that everyone felt a little powerless at the dentist, but for him it had been worse, because he could hear too much and see too much courtesy of the serum and his body kept cataloguing exits and weapons like everything was a threat courtesy of the military training. He talked about Nathan holding tools in his mouth. Olivia’s voice outside. Nathan saying he could help with John’s son.

He stopped there.

For a second, all he could do was stare at the water glass.

“I wanted to break something,” he said, voice low. “There were so many things in that room. And I knew where all of them were, and I hated that I knew. I hated that my head went there.”

You were very still.

“But I didn't want to accidentally hurt him,” John said, and that broke slightly on the way out. “I didn’t. I don’t. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s good to Olivia. He’s good with my son. He’s just—” He swallowed hard. “He’s there. And I hate him for being there, and then I hate myself because he’s just being a good boyfriend and a good dentist and I’m sitting there thinking about breaking the tray.”

He dragged a hand over his face. “I felt like I was losing control.”

You didn’t rush him. You didn't jump in to make him feel better. You didn't perform comfort.

Then you said, “But you didn’t.”

John shook his head. “It felt like I did.”

“John.”

He looked at you.

Your voice was gentler now, but no less firm. “You were in a setting that already makes people feel vulnerable. You had someone in your personal space holding metal instruments, and then the person holding those instruments was someone tied directly to a major emotional trigger. You recognized that. You recognized that you didn’t want to hurt him, or yourself. You used the breathing exercises. You left without escalating the situation.”

He looked down.

“You came here,” you added, trying to hide the painfully obvious amusement and failed. You chuckled a little, “And we do need to talk about that boundary. But the dentist’s office was not a setback.”

He stared at you.

“It wasn’t even an incident,” you said, almost proud. “Because you handled it.”

Oh. Right. This was the point.

Still, tears came before he could stop them. Not many, but a few hot and furious tears that blurred his vision before he wiped them away with the heel of his hand. “Fuck,” he muttered.

You tilted your head and gave him a box of tissues, and that somehow made him want to cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For crying?”

“For showing up here.”

“I’m glad you looked for someone,” you said, a faint smile along your lips, and it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

John looked at you. Someone, you had said, someone?

That was a polite way of saying it. It was professional, safe enough to sit between you without making him admit what was probably painfully obvious on his face.

That someone had been you.

He could’ve driven around the city until the anger burned through the soles of his shoes. He could’ve wandered Manhattan like a lost man, fighting the urge to snap a street sign in half or put his fist through the nearest lamp post. But he had not done that. He had come to you.

You.

And there was a hint of something in your face when you said it that he couldn’t quite read. Professional concern, sure. But beneath it, he could’ve sworn he caught something warmer. Something that had no place in reports or progress notes or mandated training in empty conference rooms.

Fondness, maybe. Affection?

No.

No, he couldn’t do that to himself. He couldn’t convince himself of that. That was just heartbreak in a bottle, because there’s no way you feel the same about him, right?

Right?

—

After a while, when his breathing stopped sounding like it was trying to crawl out of his chest, John started noticing your apartment.

He didn’t even mean to. He just needed somewhere to put his eyes that weren't you.

The place was warmer than he expected. You didn’t seem like the sort of person who arranged throw pillows for emotional fulfillment, but there was a lived-in clutter that was almost charming. Books were stacked near the couch, a mug was abandoned by the sink. A cardigan was draped over the back of a chair, one sleeve turned inside out. Shoes had been kicked off by the door like you’d come home in a hurry and forgotten.

It was endearing, how human it all made you.

Of course you were human. You had a kettle. You had overdue-looking mail on the counter. You had a slightly crooked lamp and a blanket folded badly over one end of the couch. You probably had preferences about laundry detergent and favorite takeout and stupid little routines you did when no one was looking.

Then he saw the photos on the wall.

Sam Wilson, smiling beside you with VA badges around both your necks. You with Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, caught mid-laugh. You with Natasha Romanoff in a theme park somewhere. And beside them a photo of you standing next to the late King T’Challa of Wakanda, doing a peace sign together.

Huh. 

Apparently every person designed to make John feel like an underqualified replacement came with a personal connection to the old guard.

“You know them too?” he asked.

You followed his eyes and nodded. You looked almost embarrassed for a second. You, who had no problem calling him a patriotic parking violation to his face, suddenly shy because he had noticed your wall of impressive friends.

“Oh,” you said. “Yeah.”

He turned back to you, eyebrows raised. “You said that like it’s normal.”

That you knew two of the other Captain Americas, and yet you didn’t tell me. 

For once, he wasn’t really angry about it. For lack of a better word, he felt blank. Like great, nothing I ever do will impress her. 

You looked down at the mug between your palms, thumb brushing the handle in a small, unconscious circle. 

“I used to work for Homeland as a hostage negotiator,” you said, as if it was nothing. “Then I worked with Sam at the VA for a while. Y’know, reintegration and risk assessment.” You glanced toward the photo of Sam again. “Sam was better with people than I was.”

Yeah, tell me about it, John wanted to say, but kept his big mouth shut for once and listened.

“He still is,” you said. “He could sit down beside someone and make them feel like they had room to breathe. I was more…”

“Mean?” John offered.

You looked at him with half a scowl. “Practical,” you corrected. “After that, he asked if I could consult with Steve and Nat on a few things.”

You shrugged, like any of that was casual. 

His eyes flicked back to the photo of Bucky and Steve. “So that’s how this became your… niche?”

You huffed a small laugh. “Enhanced individuals with authority issues? Yeah, it pays very well.”

“Oh,” John said. It was a stupid answer, but the only one he had.

You looked down again, and he could have sworn you were hiding the beginning of a smile, and not even a professional one. Not the weaponized one you used when you were about to call him a liability in three syllables or less. This one was private. As if you were amused by him and trying to be decent about it.

He looked toward the door, partly because he needed to put his eyes somewhere else, and partly because the police cars outside had finally pushed their way back into his mind. The flashing lights had been turning the street blue and red for long enough that he had almost forgotten to ask the obvious question. “What were the cops about anyway?”

You sighed and looked down. You were anxious, and that set off the slightest alarm in his head. “You’ll probably see it on the news.”

John straightened. “What happened?”

You were quiet for half a second too long. Then you said, “I was on the subway earlier.”

John waited.

“There was a shooter in my train car,” you said. “I had to talk him down.”

Shit.

For a second, John couldn’t speak. His mind gave him the picture before he could stop it: Crowded bodies pressed too close together, nowhere to go, doors shut, the violent metallic shriek of the tracks. He saw a gun in someone’s hand pointed to you, standing there with nothing but your voice and the infuriating calm you used on guys like him when they were too angry to know they were scared.

Anger rose in him so fast it scared him. Not at you, but at the world. At the train. At the man with the gun. At the fact that you had been there, trapped underground, while he had been sitting in a car losing his mind over a dentist appointment like an idiot. At the fact that someone he…

Someone whose apartment he had come to, had been in danger.  You had been in danger, and he hadn’t known. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been able to do a single thing with the useless, violent instinct that roared awake inside him now.

His eyes moved over you before he could stop himself: Your face, arms, torso. He was searching for blood. Bruises. A limp. Anything that signalled that you were anything but okay. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, John.” His name sounded different when you said it like that. You weren’t irritated. You were trying to reassure him. 

It made the anger worse for a second because he had nowhere to put it. He couldn’t hit the past. Couldn’t storm onto a train that had already stopped. Couldn’t grab time by the throat and drag it backward until he was there between you and the danger.

He could only sit on your couch with his hands curled uselessly around his knees. And he could tell you knew what was happening, too. But you weren’t in a great state of mind right now, so maybe you couldn’t waste your energy to tell him to come down.

So he did a new-ish coping mechanism. He cracked a joke. “Kids these days, huh?”

He hated that that was what he said. He hated it even more when shook your head.

“No,” you said quietly. “He was a vet. Vietnam, I think.”

John’s attempt at humor died immediately. “Oh,” he said.

For a while, the room was silent.

The anger didn’t  leave him. It lost the directionless edge and became… more familiar. 

He looked at you again, at the fatigue under your eyes, the tension still sitting in your shoulders. He wondered how long you had been holding yourself still while he ranted about his stupid Nathan. 

You had let him into your apartment while your own hands were still shaking.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

You gave a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re not my shrink, John.”

“You’re not mine either,” he said. “And yet.”

That got him half a smile.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, studying him with that careful, cutting attention he had learned to dread. “Why do you wanna know?”

John swallowed.

Because you were in a train with a gunman. Because I care. Because the thought of you being scared makes me want to tear the world apart, and that is exactly the kind of thing you keep trying to train out of me.

He said none of that. He wasn’t brave enough. Not yet. “I’m asking as a friend,” he said instead.

Friend. The word felt small the second it left his mouth. But it was the only one he was allowed to use. Even that felt like reaching across a line.

You looked at him. Then your eyes dropped briefly to his hands. When you looked back up, your eyes had changed a little. 

“Yeah,” you said finally. “Yeah, I am.”

John nodded once. He didn’t believe you completely. You seemed to know that, because your mouth curved faintly.

“Mostly.”

It was not what John wanted.

He wanted to do something. To fix something. To stand in front of something. To put his body between you and every terrible thing that had already happened, which was useless and stupid and exactly the kind of impulse you would probably write down in your notes with a little disappointed frown. So he just sat there, close enough to notice the tremor had started to fade from your hands. 

And because you also used humor as a distraction, you gave him a sad smile. “The gunman has nothing on me, John,” you said, “I’m actually good at my job.”

John chuckled.

That, you were. 

—

The next meeting was supposed to be easy. You had prepared a mandatory mission readiness evaluation for John. It would maybe take forty-five minutes, and be made up of observation notes, updated risk profile, and recommendation to Barnes by end of day. You had printed the forms. You had set up the conference room. You had brought three different colored pens because, apparently, somewhere between Homeland, the VA, and corporate risk management, color-coding had become very important.

Then your sister called. Which was how you ended up standing in the middle of a government training room with a clipboard in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in your mouth, and your four-year-old niece sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath the evaluation table, coloring a dinosaur pink.

Her parents were both paramedics. This meant their lives existed in a state of organized chaos: Shifts changed and childcare fell through, so you had babysat her before. Sometimes, someone got stuck transporting a patient across town. Someone else got called in because two ambulances were down and the city, apparently, was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and exhausted women with emergency medical certifications.

Your niece’s name was Mina. She was four and a half and you loved with all of your heart. 

You really did, but not in the way people were when they wanted credit for liking children. You didn’t coo or perform sweetness. You didn’t become a different person around Mina.

You were still you, efficient and as practical as a legal memo. But your hand automatically moved the juice box farther from the forms before Mina could knock it over. You noticed when she chewed on the end of the crayon and swapped it out without hesitation. You opened her apple slices one-handed. You brushed purple crayon dust off her cheek with your thumb, and Mina leaned into it without even looking up, like that touch was ordinary. 

“Yes, I can take her for an hour,” you had said to your sister on the phone. “No, I cannot take her for six. I have work. Actual work with unstable adults.”

Your sister had said something frantic.

“Fine,” You had sighed. “And no, that was not a dig at your child. Mina is emotionally more regulated than half my roster.”

And now here you were. Mina was under the table, humming to herself as she gave a stegosaurus what appeared to be purple lipstick. Her plushie sat beside your shoe, slumped with the weary dignity of a stuffed rabbit who had survived a lot of childcare emergencies.

“You can use blue,” Mina said, holding a crayon up toward you without looking away from her dinosaur.

“I’m working.”

“You can work in blue.”

“I can’t evaluate a federal asset in crayon.”

Mina looked up at you, deeply unimpressed. “Why not?”

Hm. That was a good question.

“Because,” you said finally, “corporate is joyless.”

Mina nodded like this made perfect sense (it didn’t) and went back to coloring.

That was when John appeared in the doorway. He stopped dead when you looked up.

He looked at you. Then at Mina. Then at the juice box on the table. Then at the open packet of baby wipes beside your neatly stacked mission readiness assessment forms.

For several seconds, nobody said anything.

Mina looked him up and down with the suspicion of a tiny secret agent. John looked like he had walked into the wrong room. 

You took the protein bar out of your mouth and said, “Before you speak, choose your words with the same caution you should be bringing to crisis de-escalation.”

His eyes came back to yours. “She yours?”

“Do I look like I have time to produce children?”

His mouth twitched.

You pointed your pen at him. “No.”

Mina crawled out from under the table just enough to examine him properly. She had your sister’s eyes, which meant she could look judgmental without trying. It was honestly impressive and slightly unsettling. 

John noticed her staring and immediately adjusted. He shifted his weight back and lowered himself just a little, enough to seem less like an unwelcome wall.

“Hey, buddy,” he said. His voice was gentler than you expected.

Mina narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

“John.”

She looked at you. “Is he in trouble?”

John’s eyebrows rose.

You took a slow sip of coffee. “Constantly.”

Mina nodded with grave understanding, like she too had dealt with federal compliance issues. Then she held up her stuffed rabbit. “Auntie works with people in trouble.”

John’s gaze flicked up to yours. “I’m not in trouble,” John told Mina.

Mina considered this, then looked at you for confirmation. You tilted your hand. “He’s in evaluation.”

“What’s eval-vul-wation?”

“It means we check whether someone can behave in public.”

Mina looked back at John. John looked at you like he was trying very hard not to smile.

Mina held up her stuffed rabbit. “This is Mr. Bun. He has anxiety.”

John’s attention shifted immediately to the rabbit, not fake attention and patronizing adult attention. He gave her real attention, serious enough that Mina seemed to approve of it.

“Mr. Bun,” he said solemnly. “Good name.”

“He gets scared when people yell.”

John’s eyes flickered to you, and you just smiled brightly. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t train the rabbit.”

He didn’t quite laugh, but some of the tension left his mouth. His shoulders settled by a fraction. He looked down at Mina’s coloring page and, without thinking about it too much, picked up a green crayon she had abandoned near his boot.

“What’s the dinosaur’s name?” he asked.

Mina looked pleased, because this was apparently the correct question. “Princess Stomp.”

“Strong name.”

“She bites bad guys.”

“Useful skill.”

“John,” you said.

He looked up, innocent in a way that did not suit him at all.  You went back to your clipboard immediately.

“Mission readiness evaluation,” you said. “Slightly modified.”

“Modified how?”

“My niece is present, so we will do our written evaluation first and the practical one next week. It means no shouting, no tactical demonstrations involving doors, no threats, no furniture damage, and no saying anything that will get repeated to my sister in law while she’s holding trauma shears.”

John looked at Mina, and she smiled back at him with a colourful crayon mark smeared on her cheek.

John looked back at you. “Trauma shears?”

“Both my sister and her wife are paramedics,” you said. “Which means Mina can identify a tourniquet, tell you why you don’t move someone with a suspected spinal injury, and constantly asks grown adults why they look tired.”

Mina, without looking up, confirmed, “He does look tired.”

John stared at her.

You pressed your lips together to hold back a smile. “See?” you said. “Gifted.”

John cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

Mina looked at you. “He’s lying.”

You sighed. “We’re working on that, honey.”

John gave you a look. You gave it right back.

This should have been irritating. One more stupid thing shoved into an already overpacked day. Instead, John stood there with his hands loose at his sides, and Mina pushed a spare coloring page toward him like she had decided he was permitted to exist.

“You can color if your work is boring,” she told him.

John looked at the coloring page. Then at you. He picked up the green crayon.

Oh?

“You do realize,” you said, “If you draw during a mission readiness evaluation, I will include it in the report.”

John looked down at the paper. “What if it’s good?”

“That’d be more concerning.”

Mina leaned over to inspect his work after approximately fifteen seconds of scribbling. “That’s not a dinosaur.”

“It’s a tank.”

You looked up from your clipboard. “John.”

“What?”  he asked defensively. “It’s not armed.”

“It has a turret.”

“It’s decorative.”

Mina frowned. “Make it a turtle.”

John paused. Then, in grave resignation, he drew legs and a head on the tank. Mina nodded approvingly. “Better.”

You stared at him. John did not look at you, but the tips of his ears had gone slightly pink.

You wrote something down.

John tried to look annoyed, but he was terrible at it with a child in the room. 

He was not awkward with Mina. He was good with her. He listened when she spoke, even when she was explaining that Mr. Bun couldn’t sit near the door because he hates doors. He didn't laugh at her or rush her. When she dropped a crayon, he bent and picked it up without comment, placing it back beside her little hand like it mattered.

John Walker, who could turn a hallway into a warzone, somehow knew not to make a four-year-old feel small.

You hated that your heart noticed before your brain could tell it to stop.

John seemed to notice things you did for her, too: The apple slices you had cut into careful half-moons because Mina liked them that way. The way you reached down without looking when she leaned against your calf, your hand landing briefly on the top of her head before returning to your clipboard. The way you were brisk with her but never careless. Practical, but never cold.

You told Mina not to wipe her hands on your trousers, then handed her a napkin before she had to ask. You fixed the little cardigan slipping off her shoulder with one hand while reading John’s file with the other. You were not nurturing in an obvious way. You were efficient love. Competent love.

The kind that remembered snack preferences, packed extra socks, and still said, “No, you cannot lick the marker, even if it smells like grapes, because capitalism is trying to kill you.”

John watched you do it and felt his brain go very still.

Oh shit. 

His crush had been manageable when it was only about you being hot. It was easier when he only thought of sinful things when he looked at your mouth. But this was worse.

This was you with a child leaning against your leg. You with crayons and classified paperwork sharing a table. You telling Mina no with the same clean confidence you used to tell John to unclench his fists.

John’s mind, apparently determined to ruin his life, supplied an image of you in a kitchen, feet kicking over the edge of a counter as he cooked dinner. 

Oh, no, he thought. No, no, no.

No, because now he was thinking about coming home to you, and not even in the fun, stupid, crush way. Not in the she’s pretty when she’s mean to me way. Worse. So much worse.

Desire was simple. Embarrassing and inconvenient, sure. But it was simple. This was not simple.

Now he was thinking about the sound of your keys in a lock. About your shoes kicked off by the door. About you by a dining table, practical and beautiful, telling him not to hover while you cut apple slices into moon shapes because a child liked them better that way.

Now he was thinking about your coffee going cold because you got distracted helping a child zip up her cardigan. About your hand landing automatically on a child’s head when she leaned into your leg. 

And then his mind went somewhere sweeter. His son.

Oh, God.

John imagined bringing him around you. He imagines the way you would speak to him like he was a person, not a prop in John’s life, not a fragile little extension of his failures. You would be direct with him, gentle in that dry, practical way that made care feel less like pity and more like a crutch. 

You would remember what he liked. You wouldn’t let John dote, like he always did . You would probably look at him over his son's head after you woke up in his bed and say, “Stop making that face, John. He’s eating cereal, not defusing a bomb.”

Oh, no. Because that was it, wasn’t it?

He didn't just want to sleep with you. He wanted to build a life with you.

He wanted mornings, errands, and arguments about nothing. He wanted your jacket over the back of a chair. He wanted a second chance at something he hadn’t even let himself admit he still wanted.

Family. Not the perfect kind. A patched-togethed, difficult one. 

And that was when John realized, with a stomach-dropping horror, that this was not a crush.

It had probably stopped being one weeks ago. Maybe it stopped being one the second you let him sit on your couch after the subway and asked for nothing from him but the truth.

He wanted to be with you.

“John?”

He blinked hard.

You were watching him, clipboard lowered, a bit concerned because he usually didn’t space out this long. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

You clearly didn’t believe him. Before you could say anything else, though, Mina tilted her head, looked from him to you, and said, “I think he likes you.”

John forgot how to breathe.

Mina hugged Mr. Bun to her chest. “Like likes you.”

John cleared his throat, desperate for a way out. “I don’t think she’s qualified to make that assessment.”

But you weren’t laughing. You just looked down at your clipboard, and there was… a flush on your cheeks. 

For the first time since he had known you, you looked shy.

John’s heart did a stupid little flip. 

Mina leaned against the table, peeking over it, pleased with herself.

You lifted the clipboard like it could still save you. “Back to the evaluation.”

John nodded once, and neither of you looked at each other for the next several seconds.

Mina sighed as if she was the only adult in the room.

—

By the time the written evaluation was done, the room had settled into a strange middle ground, where your printed leg forms sat beside Mina’s half-finished coloring page, and John sat still, trying not to look too pleased while you reviewed his final notes.

You read in silence for a moment, pen tucked between your fingers, your mouth composed in that way he had learned meant you were thinking rather than judging. Mina was near your chair, humming softly to herself while trying to fit Mr. Bun into your tote bag. She was failing, but Mina wasn’t one to give in easily. 

John kept his eyes on the floor for as long as he could. It lasted maybe three seconds before he looked at you again.

You had that slight crease between your brows. The one that appeared when you were concentrating. Your jacket sleeve had ridden up your wrist, and there was a faint crayon mark on the side of your hand where Mina must have gotten you earlier. You hadn’t noticed. Or maybe you had and decided it wasn’t worth the battle.

Finally, you lowered the page.

Mina seemed to notice as she appeared beside your knee and leaned her whole weight into your leg. “Is John done?”

You set your pen down and rested a hand lightly on top of her head without looking. “He is.”

“Did he do good?”

John raised his eyebrows.

You looked at him for half a second, then down at Mina. “He did,” you said.

Oh. 

Good. John let out a deep breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.

Mina nodded, satisfied, then looked up at him with a thumbs up. “Good job.”

He swallowed a smile. “Thanks, Mina.”

You seemed to notice his voice changed for her. It made you pause for just a breath while packing your clipboard into your bag.

John wanted to offer something. Anything. He wanted to stay in the orbit of this little half-chaotic scene for a few seconds longer, which was insane because he had spent most of the session being dismantled by a woman with a toddler snack container in her bag. “I can walk you to the elevator.”

You paused again, just enough for him to wonder if he had overstepped. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Sure.”

His heart made a hopeful jump.

Mina immediately lifted both arms toward him. “Uppies.”

John froze.

You looked down at her. “Mina.”

“My legs are tired.”

“You have been sitting on the floor for an hour.”

“They got tired from coloring.”

“That’s not how legs work.”

Mina only held her arms higher.

John’s gaze flicked to you, careful now. He was asking without asking.

Your eyes softened, assessing, like you were checking a bridge before letting a loved one cross it. Then you nodded. “My sister said any Avenger I trust is allowed to give Mina uppies.”

Any Avenger I trust.

You said it lightly, like it was just logistical. Like it didn't matter. 

How well had he done on that assessment?

Because you’re not just tolerating him. You’re not just professionally managing him. You trusted him.

He must have looked as pathetic as he felt, because your smile softened by half an inch before you covered it with impatience.

“Well?” you said. “She’s not going to levitate.”

John crouched in front of Mina. “You sure?”

Mina nodded fiercely. “Uppies.”

So he picked her up carefully. Mina settled against him immediately, one arm looping around his neck, Mr. Bun squished between them. John adjusted his hold with the caution of a man  who knew kids were not fragile exactly, but precious. 

Your eyes glittered before you could stop it.

John saw it. He looked down at Mina quickly, like that might save him.

Mina rested her cheek against his shoulder and pointed toward the door. “Elevator.”

You cleared your throat and reached for your bag. “Bossy,” you murmured.

John looked at you over her head, a helpless sigh at his mouth. “She learns from her aunt.”

You shook your head and started walking out of the conference room. 

And John followed you out with Mina in his arms, feeling trusted and doomed in equal measure.

—

That night, John Walker paced into the common room like a race car doing 200 laps in the Indy 500.

He wasn’t even sure when he had started. One minute he had been standing in his room, staring at his own reflection in the dark TV screen with his arms crossed, and the next he was out here, walking the same ugly little path around kitchen island like a man trying to wear a trench into corporate flooring.

Do not ask out your crisis de-escalation trainer. He turned at the window and came back. Do not ask out your team-mandated crisis de-escalation trainer.

He stopped, dragged both hands over his face, and made a noise between a groan and the beginning of a breakdown.

Because, sure. Fine. He could admit it now, in the privacy of his own head, where nobody could testify against him later.

He liked you.

No, actually, that was stupid. That was insulting. He didn’t just like you. Liking you would’ve been manageable. Liking you would’ve been noticing your mouth when you smiled, or standing a little straighter when you said his name, or feeling vaguely pathetic because you wrote a note down and he wanted it to be good.

This was worse. This was full-body, humiliating, high-school-level idiocy with the added horror of being a grown man with a divorce, a child, a government file, and a history of public property damage.

He liked you so much it made him feel unstable. He liked you so much that your approval pulled a physical reaction out of him. It got under his ribs. It made him want to show up on time and do the exercises properly. It made him want to be better in a way that had nothing to do with mission clearance and everything to do with the way you looked at him when he managed not to be the worst version of himself.

John resumed pacing.

And then there was the other problem. The worse problem. The problem so embarrassing he almost said it out loud just to hear how pathetic it sounded.

He hadn’t asked a woman out since high school.

High school.

He had no idea how to do this now. What did people even say?

Hey, I know you were assigned to me because I’m a liability, but have you considered dinner?

No.

What if he was bad at it? What if he came on too strong? What if he didn’t come on strong enough? What if you gave him that calm face and told him this was inappropriate in the same voice you used when he had to restart a de-escalation scenario?

John stopped again and stared at the ceiling.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“Jesus is not here.”

John turned.

Alexei stood in the doorway wearing a robe and sweatpants. He had a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, like he had wandered in for a snack and discovered live entertainment.

John stared at him. “What are you doing?”

“Eating cereal.”

“At 9PM?”

Alexei looked down at the bowl as if this explained itself. “Yes.”

John exhaled through his nose and turned away. “Forget it.”

“No, no.” Alexei stepped farther into the room, eyes narrowing. “You are pacing.”

“I’m not doing this.”

“You are thinking about woman.”

John’s shoulders went rigid. How the fuck did he know?

Alexei gasped, delighted. “Ah! It is woman.”

“No.”

“It is the trainer woman.”

John closed his eyes. Great. So everyone knew before he did.

Alexei pointed his spoon at him. “Crisis lady.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Oh-ho.” Alexei’s grin widened. “You defend title. Very serious.”

John turned back. “I said forget it.”

But Alexei had already moved to the kitchen island, and John was suddenly reminded that Alexei had never once taken a hint as anything but a challenge. “So ask her out.”

John stared at him like he had suggested setting himself on fire for morale. “I can’t just ask her out.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s my crisis de-escalation trainer.”

Alexei shrugged. “So be very calm when you ask.”

John blinked at Alexei, who looked pleased with himself.

“That’s not—” John stopped, dragged a hand over his mouth, and tried again. “There are rules.”

“Always there are rules.” Alexei waved his spoon. “Rules for missions. Rules for weapons. Rules for not microwaving fish in common kitchen. Rules can be respected. This does not mean you die alone.”

John hated that there was a point somewhere in there. Sure, you were his trainer, but you weren’t his counselor. You weren’t his therapist, or his doctor, or some sacred keeper of his deepest psychological wounds You were corporate. A well-paid professional brought in to stop enhanced idiots from turning emotional dysregulation into infrastructure damage. And honestly? People dated at work all the time, didn’t they? Accountants dated other accountants. Lawyers dated other lawyers. Half of corporate America was probably one badly timed office romance away from an HR seminar. So, yes, there were rules. But this wasn’t impossible. It wasn’t simple, but it wasn’t forbidden by the laws of God and man either.

“She’s assigned to me,” he said anyway. “It’s not like I can just show up and say—” He cut himself off.

Alexei leaned in. “Say what?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“You want practice?”

“I will walk into traffic before I say it to you.”

Alexei nodded sagely. “Bad opening line.”

John glared.

Alexei ignored him and set his bowl on the counter. “You go to her. You say, ‘Hello. I like you. I understand this is problem. Can this be problem later, when you are not making me less angry?’”

John stared at him for a long second. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

Alexei shrugged, just a little. “You are allowed to want things, Walker.”

John’s throat tightened. For a second, the common room felt too quiet. The city glowed cold beyond the windows. John stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for his own life and too old to be this scared of a woman saying no.

Alexei picked up his spoon again. “Worst case, she says no.”

John looked at him.

“If you do nothing,” Alexei said, pointing at the floor, “you keep moping. Then we all suffer. I am already suffering.”

John looked toward the hallway.

He thought of you in the conference room. He thought of Mina announcing his feelings to both of you like she had been appointed by the God of crayons. He thought of the flush on your cheeks. 

Maybe he was being stupid. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

Maybe he was about to ruin the one thing in his life that had started making him feel like he could actually become something other than angry.

But then again, maybe he wasn’t.

John grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.

Alexei’s eyebrows shot up. “You are going now?”

“Yes,” John was already heading for the door. “Before I change my mind.”

—

By the time John reached your building, the bravery had started to wear off. That was inconvenient, considering he had already parked.

He sat in his car with both hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at your apartment building like it was an enemy compound.

He wasn’t going to lie, he considered leaving. 

He should’ve gone home. He should’ve sent an email, which was what normal people with impulse control probably did when they developed feelings for the person assigned to help them stop behaving like an angry forklift with a gun license.

John let his head fall back against the seat and shut his eyes.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “You can still not do this.”

Then he pictured Alexei’s disappointed face if he came back.

Nope. Not coming back to that.

John got out of the car.

The air was cold enough to bite through his jacket, which helped a little. It gave him something else to focus on besides the fact that he was walking toward your front door. He had faced down armed men with steadier hands than this.

By the time he reached your door, he had rehearsed and discarded six different openings.

Hi.

Too casual.

Can we talk?

Too ominous.

I know this is inappropriate.

Great start, Walker. Lead with the lawsuit.

I have feelings for you.

Jesus Christ, no. Absolutely not. Was he twelve? Was he about to hand you a folded note in the homeroom?

He stood outside your door for three seconds too long, staring at the chilled paint on the frame. Then he raised his hand and rang the doorbell before he could lose his nerve.

The apartment stayed quiet.

For one second, relief flooded him. You weren’t home. Great. Perfect. Act of God. He could leave and pretend he had made an attempt. 

Then the lock clicked.

John’s spine straightened.

The door opened just enough for you to look out, and he immediately forgot every reasonable thought he had ever had.

You were in home clothes. You were wearing a loose sweater, your hair gathered messily away from your face, one sleeve slipping down your wrist. 

Your eyes widened slightly when you saw him. “John?”

“Can I ask you something?” he said abruptly

Your brow furrowed, and you glanced behind you into the apartment before looking back at him. The hallway light caught the side of your face, and John thought it was the most angelic sight he had ever seen. “Why are you here?”

John opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Amazing. Wonderful. He had made it all the way across the city and failed at the first hurdle.

Your eyes moved over his face, reading him. He watched concern take over. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I’m not- uh— this isn’t a crisis.”

You sighed, relieved. “Okay.”

“It’s not that kind of thing.”

“John.”

He swallowed. You were already drawing the line. He could see it happening. The professional part of you stepping forward because that was the safe thing, the right thing, and he knew it. He respected it.

He hated it.

“I know,” he said. “I know this is probably crossing every line.”

Your face went still.

Behind you, he could see the dim gold light of a lamp. There was a small pair of tiny shoes near the wall outside your unit, Mina’s, probably, because her parents were still clocking in a late shift. 

“Mina’s asleep,” you said quietly. “So if this is going to be loud—”

“No,” John said, too quickly again. He lowered his voice at once, almost wincing. “No. I’m not here to be loud.”

Your eyes flicked back to him, and your pupils in them softened. “This,” you said, still quiet. “Is usually not the beginning of a calm conversation.”

“I know.” He looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”

And he meant it.

John took one step back, creating more space between you before you had to ask him to.  

He couldn’t make this worse by standing too close to you in a hallway like a man who didn’t understand how doors and boundaries worked. “I can leave,” he said. “I should probably leave.”

You didn’t say yes, though. In fact, you looked like you wanted him here.

Huh.

You didn’t step back and close the door. You didn’t give him the clean professional dismissal he had probably deserved. “What do you need to ask me?” you asked.

John let out a short breath.

This was it, then. The line was right there. He could still back away from it. He could make something up. He could say this was about his next session, or his evaluation, or some bullshit about the remaining paperwork. He could spare both of you.

Instead, he looked at you and found he was tired of being brave in every direction except the one that mattered.

“Okay,” he said, more to himself than to you.

Your mouth twitched into a small smile. “That’s not a question.”

There was that dry little edge he was so fond of. Fuck, he was done for.

“No,” he said. “It’s me trying not to make an idiot of myself.”

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

You chuckled, looking over your shoulder again, listening for Mina. Your unit remained quiet. When you looked back, your voice dropped even lower. “John, whatever this is, you need to say it carefully.”

Did… did you know? 

“I know.” John gulped.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your fingers tightened around the doorframe. “I am still assigned to you.”

He nodded once. “I know.”

Your eyes searched his face.

That was another thing you had taught him, even if you had never meant to. How not to crowd. How not to fill the room just because he was nervous. How not to make the size of his feelings everyone else’s emergency. So he stood there, hands visible, shoulders tense but back, voice low.

“I’m not asking to come in,” he said. “I’m not asking you to make this easier for me. I’m not asking you to pretend this is normal.”

You tilted your head in curiosity, and he took another breath.

“I just need to say it.  And then you can tell me to shut up, and I will.”

For a second, you said nothing.

The silence was deafening. He could hear someone’s television through a wall somewhere down the hall. A car moved along the street outside. 

John immediately lowered his voice even more.

“I like you,” he said finally.

The words came out rough.

“I like you,” he repeated, because apparently he needed to make sure he had really done it. “And I know this is inconvenient.”

You didn’t smile, but he could tell you felt something.

It was not nothing.

It was so clearly not nothing that John felt his chest loosen, just a fraction.

“I don’t like you because you’re nice or some shit,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re actually pretty mean to me.”

You looked down, cheeks burning with a smile you couldn’t help anymore. He almost smiled back, but he was too terrified to let himself have that much.

“And not because you’re helping me,” he added. “Not only that. I mean, yeah, maybe that’s part of it. You got stuck with me at a bad time and somehow made me feel less like a walking lawsuit, so I’m sure there’s some stupidpsychology in there.”

Your eyes narrowed faintly. “That was self-aware.”

“Don’t start.”

“Sorry,” you whispered, not sounding sorry at all. “Continue.”

Fuck, you were awful. He still adored you, though.

John looked away for half a second, then back at you. “You don’t let me get away with anything,” he said. “And I know I need that. I know that’s the whole point of why Barnes brought you in. But it’s not just that. You don’t look at me like I’m already a lost cause.”

Your face grew very still again.

This time, he knew it was because he had gotten too close to something real.

“You see me,” he said, and the words were quieter than he meant them to be.

Your breath caught on something that almost became a laugh.

He looked at you then. Your hand was still on the door. Your thumb moved once against the painted wood, a nervous motion. Your hair had slipped loose near your temple. You looked like you were trying to keep every feeling behind your teeth, and for the first time since he had known you, it didn’t quite work.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” you said.

“I know.”

“You really shouldn’t have.”

“I know.”

“You’re making this difficult for me.”

His heart flipped. “Am I?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

The hallway seemed to shrink around the two of you. 

Your voice, when you spoke again, was very quiet. “Yes.”

Oh.

John forgot how to breathe for half a second.

“You need to understand,” you said, “that me saying that doesn’t change the rules.”

“I know.”

“I can’t encourage this.”

“Of course.”

“I can’t say anything that blurs the line.”

“You’re not.”

You looked back at him then, and the look on your face nearly ruined him. 

You were being so careful.

You were so obviously trying to do the right thing, but the right thing looked like it hurt a little.

“And I can’t invite you in,” you said.

He nodded. “I’m not asking.”

“But I also…” You stopped. You closed your eyes for one brief second, like you were annoyed with yourself. When you opened them again, your voice had become a teeny bit more professional. “I also don’t want you to think I’m… dismissing what you’re saying.”

John swallowed.

Again, not nothing.

“Okay,” he said, because his vocabulary had apparently been reduced to one-word responses.

Your mouth softened. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” He nodded once, then again. “I know there are rules. I’m not asking you to break them. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want. But if there’s a way to transfer me to somebody else, or close this out, or whatever has to happen so this isn’t…” He grimaced, searching for the least terrible phrasing. “A whole ethical disaster.”

Your lips pressed together. He could tell you were fighting a laugh. 

“A whole ethical disaster,” you repeated quietly.

“Is that not the technical term?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s vivid.”

“I’m trying to respect the seriousness of the situation.”

“You drove here at night to confess feelings to the woman.”

That time, you did laugh. Then your eyes widened slightly, and you glanced back into the apartment unit.

Both of you froze.

From somewhere inside came the faintest sleepy rustle, then silence again.

You turned back to him, relieved.

It was stupid, how much that he wanted you, even when you were just standing there in the doorway, trying not to smile because Mina was asleep, because rules existed, because the world was inconvenient.

John said the next part before could stop himself. “I’d like to take you out.”

This time, there was no joke to hide behind this time. No self-deprecation. 

Your eyes changed again, and he saw the answer before you said anything.

And then your gaze dropped, just for a second, like you needed somewhere safer to look. When you looked back up, you had pulled yourself together.Mostly.

“John,” you said softly. “You can’t ask me out while I’m training you.”

“How many remaining?” He asked.

“Four.”

John stared at you. “Four,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He looked briefly toward the ceiling like patience might be stored there. He thought the next session was the last, but apparently three more had been added for whatever fucking reason. He assumed Barnes had something to do with it (he was right).

You folded your arms loosely, still half-hidden behind the door, and there was something almost teasing in your eyes now. The kind that kept both of you on the correct side of the line while acknowledging that, unfortunately, the line was very much there and both of you could see it.

“You survived worse,” you said.

“People keep saying that to me.”

“Maybe you should start believing them.”

“I’d rather complain.”

“Ha.”

He looked at you again.

Your emotions were unguarded second, and he could see the things you weren’t saying. It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t you reaching across the line.

But it was interest.

John lowered his voice. “What happens after?”

You went quiet.

Inside, Mina slept on, blissfully unaware that the adults were being stupid in the hallway. Thank god.

You looked at him for a long second, and he watched the argument happen behind your eyes. He watched you measure ethics against honesty, professionalism against whatever had just happened between you. He watched you decide exactly how much you could give him without breaking the rules you clearly cared about.

Then, finally, you said, “After four sessions, you can ask again.”

John nodded like you had just handed him coordinates for rescue. “Yeah.” He breathed out. “I can do four sessions.”

Your smile broke through.

Suddenly, he felt the bright, aching, want-to-be-good-for-you feeling climbing up under his ribs and made a home in his heart. The same feeling that made four sessions feel less like a punishment and more like a mission he intended to pass with honors.

He stepped back, giving you the space again.

“I should go,” he said.

“You should.”

Neither of you moved.

Your fingers were still curled around the edge of the door. His hands were loose at his sides. The hallway light hummed above you. Somewhere inside your apartment, Mina made one tiny sleepy sound and then went quiet again.

You lowered your voice even more. “And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Call me first next time, like a normal person.”

“I can do that.”

You lifted an eyebrow.

“I can learn to do that,” he corrected.

You smiled again and he felt hopeful. “Goodnight, John.”

He swallowed. “Goodnight.”

Then, before either of you could make it worse, you stepped back and closed the door gently, careful not to wake Mina.

John stood in the hallway for one second after the lock clicked.

He didn’t move.

For once, it was not because he was frozen or furious or trying to wrestle his way out of his own head. He just stood there, staring at your closed door while his heart skipped several beats, in a good way. 

He could do four sessions. He could wait. He could earn it.

He could do it right.

For you, he wanted to do it right.

John turned toward the stairs with the stupidest smile of his adult life pulling at his mouth.

And for the first time in a long time, John wanted to be patient.

He didn’t throw anything through a wall that week, or any of the weeks after. 

He did, however, spend the next day thinking about you the entire drive to pick up his son. 

And when Nathan helped carry the diaper bag out to the car, John managed to take it and say, “Thanks, man,” without sounding like he was chewing glass.

Olivia noticed.

She gave him a small, knowing look while he buckled his son into the car seat. “You seem better.”

John tightened the strap, smoothed a hand over his son’s little jacket, and tried not to smile too much.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

—

Eight months later… 

John was standing in your kitchen wearing an apron Mina had picked for him.

It had tiny unicorns on it.

He had argued, briefly, that he was a tough superhero and he didn’t need to wear the unicorn apron. Mina had stared daggers at him, held it out, and said, “Chefs wear aprons.”

So now John was wearing the Unicorn apron.

And for the last six months, that was your life.

He had held up his end of the bargain: he asked you out after the sessions were complete, kissed you on the first date, and never looked back. 

You stood beside him in your apartment now, trying not to laugh while he stirred soup on the stove. His son and Mina were in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the rug, making Mr. Bun and a toy dinosaur get married under a blanket fort. Mina had been another last-minute addition, because your sister and her wife had a last-minute shift. John had only looked at you and said, “Good. More taste-testers.”

You kissed him then and there.

Olivia and Nathan came over, too.

That should have been strange. Maybe it still was, in tiny little ways. But it was also sweet. Nathan brought dessert. Olivia brought wine. 

Somehow, against all sense and probability, you and Olivia had become friends. And not even polite co-parenting-adjacent friends. Not awkward, mature, “we are all adults here” friends.

Actual friends.

It made no sense. You two were polar opposites.

Olivia was soft-spoken where you were snarky. Olivia asked gentle questions; you asked questions like you were trying to locate immediate weakness. And yet there you both were, basically best friends. 

Olivia had started texting you pictures of terrible PTA emails. You had started sending her voice notes about work drama with all names redacted for legal reasons. The two of you had brunch without John once, which had made him pace the kitchen for twenty minutes until you came home and told him, very sweetly, that you weren’t going to break up with him because his ex-wife aired all his dirty laundry. Because “remember, there was nothing Olivia could say that wasn’t already in your file, honey.”

John made up for it by teaming up with your sister to make fun of your cute little snores. But anyway. 

It was strange, but it had become one of the best things in his life, because his son had more people loving him in one room than John had ever known how to ask for. 

“I can’t believe you finally learned how to make vegetables taste good,” Olivia said, poking at her plate.

John pointed his fork at her. “Don’t sound shocked.”

You leaned toward Olivia and said, “He needs praise or he gets difficult.”

Olivia nodded solemnly. “I remember.”

John looked between you both. “I hate this alliance.”

“No,” Nathan chuckled. “I don’t think you do.”

He was right. He loved it.

He loved watching you and Olivia lean over the table together, laughing quietly while Mina and his son bartered potato cuts like tiny criminals. He loved that Nathan could ask him about his dental health without making it a big emotional event. 

And when John mentioned wanting to join a veterans support group, it felt… easy. 

“After listening to your subway thing,” he said, glancing at you. “And everything else. I think it might help.”

Your hand found his under the table first.

Olivia smiled at him sincerely. “I think you’d be good there, John. And I think it’d be good for you.”

Nathan nodded. “Sometimes it helps to be around people who understand without needing the whole story.”

You just kissed him on the cheek. “M’ proud of you, sweetheart.”

John looked down, thumb brushing over your knuckles, clearly trying not to get emotional about everything. 

Then his son looked up from his peas, very serious. “Do you get snacks at support group?”

John blinked. “Probably.”

His son nodded, satisfied. “Then you should go.”

Everyone laughed.

Later, in the kitchen, while the kids were distracted and Olivia was explaining something to Nathan, John caught you by the waist and pulled you gently toward him.

“Hi,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Hi.”

Then he kissed you.

It was supposed to be quick— it was most definitely not. Your hand curled into the front of his shirt, and John smiled against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe he got to have this. You, in his arms. Dinner in the next room. His son laughing. Olivia and Nathan not annoying him. Mina yelling something about Mr. Bun requiring surgery.

“John,” you whispered, laughing against his mouth. “Children.”

“They’re busy.”

You rolled your eyes, but kissed him once more before slipping out of his hands.

Near the end of the night, his son got sleepy and serious, leaning against John’s side while Mina sat on the floor beside him with Mr. Bun in her lap.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

He pointed between himself and Mina. “Are me and Mina cousins now?”

Oh. 

John looked at you. You looked back, before glancing at Olivia. Olivia looked like she was trying not to cry, which immediately made Nathan look concerned, because Nathan was Nathan.

You smiled first, a wordless permission without making it a whole thing.

So John shrugged, easy as anything, and kissed the top of his son’s head. “Sure,” he said. “Think of it that way, kid.”

His son beamed.

Mina nodded once, very pleased. “Can I be the in-charge cousin?”

“No,” you and John said at the same time.

Olivia laughed. Nathan smiled. The kids immediately began negotiating cousin rules on the carpet.

For once, nothing in his life felt like a scoreboard. It didn’t even feel like a competition.

It just felt like family.

You had heard about the ‘New Avengers’ that Valentina had founded. It was stupid. So incredibly stupid. Sure, the world needed a new defence system, but the Avengers were never even close to functional, and there was no way this new team would be anywhere close. 

No offence to Yelena and Bucky, though. You had known Bucky ever since you fought with Team Cap and you had been a major part of his adjusting to the real world. He certainly wasn’t perfect – and he would be the first to tell you that – but Bucky was probably the most experienced of the new team.  

You had met Yelena when Natasha had died. You were visiting her grave when Yelena had very hostilely approached and asked how you knew her. You got to talking and while you still don’t know much about her, you knew you liked her. She was blunt and sarcastic and protected those she cares about fiercely.  

You didn’t know pretty much anything about the other members of the Thunderbolts (an odd name, you thought) but you had no desire to interact. The Avengers became your family since Fury recruited you to help sort out Tony Stark, but your life with them had never been easy.  

As soon as everything was sorted out with the Infinity Stones, you had left. You had moved to a suburban neighbourhood in Cambridge, looking for a quiet life. You hadn’t found anyone to share that life with yet, but you held out hope.  

Now, gazing into the tinted glass doors of the entrance to the old Avengers tower, you were replaying every memory you had made with the Avengers here. Good and bad. This tower had been the site of some major growth for you but also held secrets and traumas that you had hoped to never revisit. 

You didn’t want to go inside, but you knew you had to. As strong as your desire was to get away from this Tower as soon as you could, you wanted to talk to Bucky. 

A few weeks ago he had texted you but neglected to inform you it was him until about ten minutes into a one-sided conversation where you left him on read out of pure confusion as to who was texting you about “coming back home – if you could call it that” and “I might not be there when you get there but I think you might appreciate sealing off that chapter of your life.” 

When he finally realized you might be intrigued by a total stranger texting you such things, he declared who he was and you immediately called him.  

The conversation was brief and awkward, but you had ultimately agreed to come back to New York for a night and Bucky would introduce you to the new team. You knew he definitely had an underlying motive – whether it was to recruit you or send you a help signal to get him the hell out of there under the disguise of an old Avenger revisiting her glory days, you weren’t sure.  

You forced your legs to carry you through the doors before you lost your nerve and walked away forever. The tower felt industrial and cold, no longer welcoming and disarming like it had been with the Avengers.  

You were receiving suspicious glances from construction workers and supervisors in suits but no one stopped you. You wondered why until you noticed a chain of people leaning to their neighbor and whispering behind their hands.  

They recognised you.  

As much as you hoped for everyone to forget you, your name would be etched in history as one of the most powerful Avengers ever.  

—— 

They had called you Nova Blast. You hated it. It was accurate, sure, but it felt showy and childish compared to what your actual abilities entailed. 

You were human – technically. A lot of scientists thought your DNA would be severely mutated now, but you had never let anyone poke and prod you to write it down in some little chart. Not even Bruce.  

You had incredible abilities that allowed you to give even Wanda a run for her money. You had the power to harness energy and manipulate it however you liked. This often manifested in the form of streams and blasts of light.  

When you were first “revealed” to the public, it was when Loki attacked New York. You had knocked down an entire Chitauri ship alone, and the sheer amount of energy you used caused a cloud of light that blinded the next three blocks – hence, Nova Blast. This blinding, however, included your fellow Avengers and Tony never failed to point out the tiny scar on his leg from where he fell over a sidewalk crack when you had temporarily blinded everyone.  

The media and dubbed you Nova Blast and almost immediately there were t-shirts, music, artwork and so much more with your name plastered on it.  

You had always hated attention, even before you were a superhero and exposed to the public eye in that degree. So that much scrutiny and inspection, was practically your kryptonite.  

—— 

You tried to keep your head down as you made your way to the elevator, expertly dodging people who tried to approach you. You quickly pressed the button to the floor where the common room was – if it was still there. There was a chance Valentina had redecorated. That thought settled in your stomach and unsettled you as rose. Even if you never particularly liked the tower, seeing Valentina alter it in any way would’ve been too much for you. This was still the Avengers tower, and she had no right to erase the history of it.  

You were snapped out of your reminiscing when the elevator dinged, signaling you had arrived. You stepped out of the elevator, relieved to enter the common room.  

You didn’t take another step forward, however, and just stood still, taking in the space. You hadn’t been anywhere near this place for nearly four years. Your eyes darted around and you took in every detail that had changed.  

It felt darker. It smelled like industrial cleaning products. It felt…stuffy.  

You blinked and realised tears were slowly falling, silently down your cheeks. You wiped them away fervently and pulled out your phone. You shot a text to Bucky.  

Y: Bucky, where are you? I’m at the tower like you asked.  

B: Sorry. Still en route from mission. 

Y: How far are you? I can’t stay here all day.  

B: About twenty minutes.  

B: And we both know you have nothing better to do.  

His words stung but they weren’t entirely false.  

Y: Rude. Just hurry up. 

B: Thanks for coming, Nova.  

Y: Well, I didn’t have anything better to do, right? 

You shoved your phone into your back pocket before he could respond, tuning it on silent, and wiped away the last trace of tears before forcing yourself to step further into the common room.  

----- 

You ignored the buzzing that came every thirty seconds from your phone, knowing it was Bucky asking if you had already left. It had been ninety minutes since he had said ‘about twenty minutes’ but you were too tired to leave. The train ride back to Cambridge was almost four hours and it was already 7:30 in the evening. You frankly didn’t have the energy to go back tonight, so you were wandering the halls trying to find an empty room. 

When the Avengers had lived here there was a bounty of guest rooms in case people were staying over. They hardly ever got used, except maybe if there were trainees doing internships with the team, but it was still odd to walk through the halls and see offices after offices instead of cosy bedrooms. You finally stumbled upon doors that didn’t have glass windows and assumed they were where the Thunderbolts stayed.  

It was probably an invasion of privacy – no, definitely – but you were curious. You opened doors unceremoniously, knowing no one was home.  

The first room was clearly Bucky’s. Everything was neat and tidy, and there were black-and-white photos of him and Steve throughout the room. The bed was made and there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. You rolled your eyes at his cleanliness and thought to the state of your own home; certainly not to his military standard. When you were getting to know Bucky you realized he liked routine and adhered to the standards he accepted when he enlisted all the way back in the 1940s. Bucky liked to reminisce and found that he could actually adjust better to the modern world by grounding himself in past traditions. 

The next room, you guessed, was Yelena’s. It wasn’t quite as pristine as Barnes’ - she apparently had a habit of leaving projects half-finished and strewn about on her floor, from dirty laundry to what looked like a watercolor painting of a skyline. You let out a puff of air at that one. You did not peg Yelena as an artist. 

----- 

It was thirty minutes later when you found yourself gravitating towards the kitchen. It was just past 8:00 and you were bored of snooping. After setting your bag down in what appeared to be an empty bedroom, you returned to the kitchen to scrap together a meal.  

You found a yoghurt and some fruit in the fridge and decided it would do. You made your food and settled at the counter and dug in. You were messing around with your powers, unfolding and refolding a basket of napkins, when a noise startled you to drop one off the edge of the marble countertop. You hoped it was Bucky and pulled your phone out to text him, just to double check. 

Y: Are you back yet? 

B: Valentina cornered us when we got back. In a briefing. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. 

You rolled your eyes at his consistent post-poning.  

B: Find a room to stay in. It’s late. Sorry to do this to you. 

Y: Already settled in one.  

Y: Also, I’m eating your food. 

B: Can’t say I didn’t expect that. 

You put your phone down and titled your head suspiciously, wondering who had made the noise. They were all supposed to be on a mission.  

You went to the common room to investigate but it was almost pitch black. You couldn’t feel the light switch on the wall so you made your own light source with your powers.  

You flicked your hand and sent a stream of light that seeped into the walls themselves. It gave the room a soft, yellow glow. You widened your eyes at what it allowed you to see. 

A jet-black silhouette of a person standing in front of the window. You approached cautiously and prepared to defend yourself if needed with energy dancing on your fingertips. 

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” you asked sharply. 

The silhouette flinched and turned. When it was facing you, your eyes widened further and your jaw dropped. This...man, if that’s what it was, was completely dark – void of any life. You couldn’t even see the whites of his eyes. 

You expected him to attack and raised your hand between you and him. “I’m not going to ask again.” 

He took a step towards you and you were about to fire in his direction before you heard a meek whisper.  

“Help me...please.” 

His voice was strained and almost sounded like he was fighting through something to get the words out.  

“Ye-yelena. Is she here?” he asked timidly.  

Your eyebrows furrowed at his inquiry. “You know Yelena?” 

“Please. Is Yelena here? He’s back again and I don’t know what to do.” the shadow in front of you was clutching its stomach. You narrowed your eyes and spotted tips of brown hair an inch above his shoulder.  

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” You decided this person wasn’t a threat but stayed on edge. This was definitely like nothing you’d ever seen before. You stood in front of the being for a few moments in silence while trying to piece this together. 

You didn’t know what to do, so you decided your only option was to fight darkness with the opposite: light. And luckily, you had just that. 

You conjured a sphere of energy in your palm and slowly lifted your hand out to him. He flinched backwards but you didn’t give up. 

“Can I try and help you? I just need you to tell me who you are.” You kept your voice steady when you questioned him, but technically, you didn’t need the answer. You had realized who this was. 

Bob Reynolds. Sentry. The Void. All his names flooded into your mind. 

“B-bob. I don’t think you want to get any closer.” his voice was becoming shakier and weaker.  

“Ok. Do you want to take my hand?” 

“I don’t think you should do that. You don’t know what could happen.” 

“I know exactly what you can do.” in the back of your mind was the fear of what would happen if you couldn’t get this under control. You knew what happened to people who got sucked into the Void. “But I’m not scared.” Lie. “I’m just here to help you.” True. 

Bob’s arm steadily raised towards your outstretched hand. As his hand got closer to yours, you swore you could’ve felt your breath being sucked out of your body and a darkness encroaching on your vision. But you didn’t back down.  

When his fingers entertwined with yours you sucked in a sharp breath. You could feel all his pain. You didn’t know why, but it felt like all his trauma and sadness was transferred to you.  

You tried to keep focus and keep your head above water. You conjured more light in your other hand and placed it above his in yours. Slowly, his hand started to regain normal color.  

You tried to keep thinking happy thoughts and a reassuring smile on your face as it seemed to help. But it wasn’t feeling right to you. It only felt like your pain was increasing. For every inch of his skin that was being revealed from the shadow, your pain was amplified. Perhaps you were solving his problem by giving it to you, but you didn’t have it in you to stop and leave him in his pain.  

After what felt like forever – but was really only two minutes – Bob Reynolds stood before you, back to normal. Bob swayed slightly on his feet after the darkness finally receded from his skin. 

You loosened your grip on his hand slowly, terrified that if you let go too fast he would disappear back into that endless shadow. Your chest ached violently now, like someone had reached into your ribs and wrapped cold fingers around your lungs. 

But Bob looked…better. 

Not completely okay. Not even close. Still pale. Still exhausted. Still carrying that haunted look behind his eyes. 

But human. 

“You’re alright,” you whispered, more to reassure yourself than him. 

Bob stared down at his own hands like he’d never seen them before. His breathing came in uneven bursts. “You…you pulled me out.” 

“I think so.” 

“No one’s ever done that before.” 

The words sat heavily between you. 

You finally took a proper look at him now that the darkness was gone. Chestnut hair curling slightly at the ends. Broad shoulders hunched inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. A face that would’ve looked kind if pain hadn’t carved itself into every feature. 

He looked terrified of himself. And somehow that hurt worse than seeing the Void. 

“You should sit down before you collapse,” you said quietly. 

Bob blinked at you as though he’d forgotten you were there. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.” 

“You apologize a lot.” 

He gave a weak shrug. “Usually because I’m causing problems.” 

Something in your chest twisted. 

God. You knew that feeling. 

You guided him carefully toward the couch in the common room. The yellow glow you’d embedded into the walls still illuminated the room softly. 

Bob sat gingerly on the edge of the couch like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch the furniture. You stayed standing for a second, watching him. 

“You...you don’t recognize me?” you finally asked. 

He frowned apologetically. “Should I?” 

You almost laughed at that.  

Fair enough. You’d been gone for years. 

You pulled your phone from your pocket and unlocked it. After scrolling for a moment, you held it out toward him. 

“This might help.” 

Bob took the phone carefully. 

It was an old photo Tony had forced everyone into taking after the battle against Ultron. You remembered complaining the entire time because Clint had spilled coffee on your shirt ten minutes earlier. 

The team stood together in the old common room. 

Steve smiling faintly. Natasha leaning against the counter. Thor grinning like an idiot. Bruce halfway through blinking. Tony pretending not to care. 

And you stood in the center beside Wanda, arms crossed while Sam made bunny ears behind your head. 

Bob stared at the picture for several long seconds. 

Then his eyes widened slightly. 

“Oh.” 

You raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re her.” 

“That narrows it down.” 

“The Nova Blast.” 

You physically winced. Bob immediately noticed. “You hate that name.” 

“So much.” 

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“You were an Avenger.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

That earned the smallest huff of laughter from him. The sound surprised both of you. You sat down across from him now, folding one leg beneath yourself. 

“I left after everything with Thanos,” you explained. “Needed out.” 

Bob nodded slowly like he understood more than you were saying. 

“I get that.” 

Silence settled for a moment. 

Not awkward. Just careful. 

Bob handed your phone back gently. “I’ve heard about you.” 

“That’s concerning.” 

“Yelena said you were scary.” 

You snorted. “Yelena thinks anyone emotionally stable is suspicious.” 

“She also said you punched a Leviathan out of the sky once.” 

“In my defense, it was a very emotional day.” 

That made him laugh again. A real laugh this time. Quiet, but genuine. 

You found yourself smiling before you could stop it. It felt strange. 

You had expected tonight to dredge up old grief and awkward reunions with Bucky. Instead you were sitting in the dark with Bob Reynolds at nearly nine o’clock discussing alien invasions. 

Life was weird. 

Bob rubbed nervously at his palms. “I didn’t think you’d be nice.” 

You frowned. “Why?” 

“You’re…you.” 

“That explains nothing.” 

“You’re powerful.” 

The way he said it made your stomach sink. Like power automatically meant danger. Like strength and kindness couldn’t coexist. You understood that mindset too well. 

You leaned back against the couch cushions. “You know, when I first joined the Avengers, Thor accidentally shattered all the windows in the kitchen because I startled him.” 

Bob blinked. “What?” 

“I came around the corner too fast. He thought I was an assassin.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“I wish.” 

Bob stared at you for another moment before smiling faintly again. 

You continued, “Tony used to hide behind Bruce whenever I got angry.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

“That’s because Tony lied constantly.” 

Bob laughed softly into his hand. The sound warmed something deep in your chest. 

Because it sounded rusty. Unused. Like laughter was foreign to him. 

“You really don’t act like an Avenger,” he admitted. 

“What’s an Avenger supposed to act like?” 

“I don’t know.” His gaze drifted downward. “Confident. Important.” 

You looked at him carefully. 

“Bob.” 

He looked back up. 

“I once cried in a Walmart because there were too many cereal options.” 

His eyebrows lifted. 

“Thor had to come get me.” 

“You’re serious?” 

“Dead serious.” 

A smile slowly spread across his face. 

“You’re weird.” 

“You’re one to talk, shadow man.” 

The smile faded a little at the mention of it. Immediately, his shoulders tightened again and you regretted the joke instantly. 

“Sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay.” His voice dropped quieter. “I just never know when he’s gonna come back.” 

You stayed silent. Bob turned his stare towards the dark windows. 

“I can feel it sometimes,” he admitted. “Like something under my skin. Waiting.” 

Your chest tightened painfully because you understood. Not exactly – but enough. 

“There were days after Sokovia,” you said slowly, “where I was terrified to use my powers.” 

Bob glanced at you. 

“I thought if I lost control again, I’d hurt people.” 

“You?” he asked softly, sounding genuinely shocked. You almost laughed. 

The world saw legends. 

Not panic attacks. Not nightmares. Not guilt. 

You rubbed absentmindedly at your wrist. “Wanda and I destroyed half a HYDRA base in under four minutes once.” 

Bob blinked. 

“And afterward I locked myself in my room because I thought maybe I enjoyed it too much.” 

He stared at you carefully now. 

Not with fear – recognition. 

You continued quietly, “Power feels good sometimes. That’s the scary part nobody talks about.” 

The room went still. Bob swallowed hard. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” he confessed. 

You frowned immediately. “Why?” 

“Because part of me likes being Sentry.” 

The vulnerability in his voice nearly broke your heart. 

“You know what I think?” you asked gently. 

He shook his head. 

“I think bad people usually don’t spend this much time worrying about whether they’re bad.” 

Bob looked at you like no one had ever said that to him before. 

Maybe no one had. You suddenly wondered how often anyone really listened to him. 

Not monitored him. Not feared him. Not analyzed him. 

“You’re not scared of me,” he said after a while. 

It wasn’t a question. You considered lying. Instead you answered honestly. 

“I am.” 

His face fell slightly. 

“But I’m scared of myself too sometimes,” you added softly. “So I don’t think fear automatically means someone should be abandoned.” 

Something shifted in his expression then. 

Tiny. Fragile. Hopeful. 

Hours passed without either of you realizing. 

The common room lights eventually flickered back on automatically sometime after ten, but neither of you moved. 

You talked about everything. 

About Steve. About loneliness. About insomnia. About how strange it felt trying to exist after spending years saving the world. 

Bob confessed he didn’t understand how to talk to people most of the time. 

You admitted you’d once ignored Sam’s calls for two months because depression had hollowed you out so badly you couldn’t stand hearing concern in someone’s voice. 

Bob talked quietly about feeling empty even when surrounded by people. 

You told him about Cambridge. About quiet mornings and bookstores and how strange peace felt after constant chaos. 

At some point he relaxed enough to stop perching nervously on the edge of the couch. 

Then at some point after that, he started smiling more. 

Then laughing. Real laughter this time. 

You were halfway through telling him about the time Scott Lang accidentally destroyed Tony’s espresso machine when the elevator doors suddenly opened. 

Voices spilled into the common room first. 

Yelena’s unmistakable sarcasm. Walker complaining. Alexei loudly demanding food. 

Then silence. Complete silence. 

You turned your head toward the entryway. 

The entire Thunderbolts team stood frozen near the elevator. 

Bucky at the front. Yelena beside him. Ghost, Walker, and Alexei behind them. 

All staring directly at you and Bob sitting together on the couch. 

Bob was still mid-laugh. 

The room looked like someone had pressed pause on reality. 

Yelena blinked first. 

“…What the hell?” 

You leaned back casually. “Nice to see you too.” 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed immediately. “You’re still here?” 

“You said twenty minutes.” 

“That was—” 

“Nine years ago, yes.” 

Yelena looked between you and Bob with growing confusion. “Wait. Hold on.” 

She pointed aggressively at Bob. 

“You’re talking.” 

Bob’s smile vanished instantly. His posture curled inward again. You noticed immediately. 

“It’s okay,” you murmured quietly to him. 

Bucky caught that. And then he really looked at Bob. 

At the fact Bob was sitting near someone voluntarily. At the fact he looked calm. At the fact he wasn’t hiding. 

Astonishment crossed Bucky’s face. 

“Holy shit,” Walker muttered. 

“You made friend,” Alexei announced proudly to Bob like he was congratulating a toddler. 

Bob looked horrified. You burst out laughing. To your surprise, Bob laughed too. 

That seemed to break everyone’s brains. 

Yelena stared at him open-mouthed. “You laugh?” 

“Apparently,” Bob muttered. 

Bucky slowly walked further into the room, eyes still fixed on you. 

“You’ve been with him this whole time?” 

“Pretty much.” 

“Nobody died?” 

You scoffed. “Rude.” 

“That’s not a no,” Walker muttered. 

“John,” Ghost warned. 

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “Nova.” 

“Barnes.” 

“You couldn’t behave for one night?” 

“I think I behaved remarkably.” 

Yelena ignored both of you entirely as she approached Bob cautiously like she was observing a rare animal. 

“You are smiling,” she said suspiciously. 

Bob immediately stopped smiling. 

You elbowed him lightly. “Don’t let them scare you.” 

“That sentence applies to all of us,” Ghost commented dryly. 

Bucky finally looked around properly. “Where the hell have you been?” 

You shrugged. “Exploring. Your room is disturbingly clean, by the way.” 

“I knew it,” Yelena said triumphantly. “I told him she would snoop.” 

“You left watercolor paint open on your floor.” 

Yelena gasped dramatically. “You went in my room?” 

“You literally have glitter on your ceiling.” 

“That is decoration.” 

“That's a biohazard.” 

Bob looked between all of you with quiet disbelief. 

You noticed. 

“They always argue like this,” you told him. 

“It’s comforting,” he admitted softly. 

Something about that statement visibly affected the room. 

Because they all heard it too. 

Bucky’s expression shifted subtly. Yelena looked genuinely stunned. Even Walker stopped looking annoyed for half a second. 

Because clearly this was unusual. Very unusual. 

“How long have you two been talking?” Ghost asked carefully. 

You checked your phone. 

“…Four hours.” 

Yelena nearly choked. 

“Four hours?” she repeated. “Bob barely talks to us for four minutes.” 

Bob looked embarrassed. 

You frowned at that immediately. “Well maybe no one’s asked him the important questions.” 

Walker crossed his arms. “Like what?” 

You looked offended. 

“Like whether he thinks penguins have knees.” 

Alexei pointed excitedly. “THEY DO.” 

“Thank you!” 

“This is not helping my confusion,” Walker complained. 

Bucky looked exhausted already. “I leave you alone for one evening and you emotionally adopt the most dangerous man on Earth.” 

“That sounds dramatic.” 

"I mean, you did offer to make me cookies, like, twice.” Bob pointed out. 

“And you accepted. They were delicious.” You countered. 

“Oh, cookie!” Alexei exclaimed and left to go find them in the kitchen. He came back ten seconds later with three cookies in each hand and two stuffed in his mouth.  

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is somehow the least surprising thing you could’ve done.” 

You grinned smugly. 

Then you noticed Bob had gone quiet again. The team’s arrival had clearly overwhelmed him. You softened immediately. 

“You okay?” 

Every single person in the room noticed how naturally you asked it. 

No fear. No hesitation. No monitoring. 

Just concern. 

Bob looked at you for a second before nodding slowly. “Yeah.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows lifted slightly at that. Because Bob answered you. 

Quickly. Honestly. 

You stood from the couch and stretched slightly, your body aching from the earlier encounter with the Void. Now that adrenaline had worn off, exhaustion settled heavily into your bones. 

Yelena immediately noticed. 

“You look terrible.” 

“Thank you.” 

“No, worse than usual.” 

You flipped her off affectionately. 

Bob frowned suddenly. “Wait.” 

You looked over. 

His expression tightened with concern. 

“You’re hurt.” 

The room quieted again. 

You tried to shrug it off. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re lying.” Yelena accused. 

Bucky looked instantly alert at that. 

“What happened?” 

You hesitated. Bob answered for you quietly. 

“The Void came out.” 

Every muscle in the room tensed. Walker swore under his breath. 

Yelena immediately stepped closer to Bob. “Are you alright?” 

Bob nodded once. Then looked at you again. 

“She stopped it.” 

Bucky stared at you sharply. “You did what?” 

You shifted uncomfortably under all the attention. “It wasn’t a big deal.” 

“The hell it wasn’t,” Walker snapped. 

You rolled your eyes. “Can everyone relax? He was scared.” 

“And you touched him?” Ghost asked carefully. 

You nodded slowly. 

Bucky looked genuinely horrified now. “Nova—” 

“He needed help.” 

The room fell silent again. Bob stared down at his hands. 

“She wasn’t scared after,” he said quietly. 

Your chest tightened. Because that sounded important to him. Important enough to remember. 

You walked over and squeezed his shoulder gently. 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” 

Bob looked up at you slowly. Then nodded once. 

Yelena exchanged a look with Bucky that you couldn’t quite decipher. Something between confusion and cautious hope. Eventually, Alexei broke the tension loudly. 

“Good. Wonderful. Everyone alive. We celebrate with frozen pizza.” 

“That’s not a celebration,” Walker argued. 

“Is for depressed people.” 

“That’s…actually fair,” Ghost admitted. 

You laughed quietly. And to your surprise, Bob smiled again. 

Bucky noticed that too. You could practically see the realization forming in his head. 

That maybe bringing you here hadn’t been a mistake. Maybe Bob needed someone who understood what it felt like to carry something dangerous inside yourself. 

Someone who understood guilt. Isolation. Fear. Someone who didn’t look at him like he was already doomed. 

Yelena suddenly slung an arm around your shoulders. 

“You are staying,” she declared. 

You blinked. “I am?” 

“Yes. We are having girls night.” 

“That sounds threatening.” 

“It is.” 

Bucky groaned immediately. “Don’t drag her into your chaos.” 

“Too late,” Yelena replied. 

You looked toward Bob instinctively. He noticed. 

“You should stay,” he said quietly. 

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. For a second, neither of you looked away. 

Then Yelena smirked knowingly. 

“Oh,” she said. 

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.” 

“I say nothing.” 

“That’s worse.” 

Bob looked deeply confused. 

Alexei leaned toward him dramatically. “This is flirting.” 

Bob nearly choked. 

You covered your face with your hands. “I’m leaving.” 

“No you’re not,” Bucky sighed. “You already unpacked, didn’t you?” 

“…Maybe.” 

“You’ve been here one day.” 

“I’m adaptable.” 

Bob laughed again softly beside you. 

And weirdly enough, hearing that sound made the entire awful tower feel a little less cold. 

It’s late when the knock on your door comes. You hesitate, waiting for her to knock a second time before slowly opening the door, acting like you hadn’t known she was going to come around. Of course you’d known. Wasn’t that why you’d changed into your decent underwear? And had an ‘everything shower’ earlier that evening? In fact only twenty minutes ago you’d brushed your teeth, and Yelena mumbles something about the minty taste in between kisses.

It doesn’t take long for you to both end up in your bed, your sheets freshly changed that morning. That was one of the first things you’d done when you’d heard Yelena was going out that night. Her nights out tended to follow similar patterns, all of them ending up with her in your bed. Eventually your kisses head downward, down her torso, across her thighs and then between her legs. Soon Yelena is moaning, her head tilting back as she gasps. Yelena is always quieter than you so when she has to bite her lip to suppress a particularly load moan you take that as a victory.

Next it’s your turn and Yelena’s head dips between your thighs, and now it’s you who’s gripping the clean bed sheets, who’s moaning and whimpering beneath her touch. You orgasm and it feels so good, it always does when it’s Yelena, and then her head is laying next to yours, looking sleepy and adorable. Her hand reaches out to take yours and you press a kiss to her knuckles, smiling when she giggles. You only ever hear Yelena giggle when she’s in your bed like this.

In the morning she’s gone. She’s always gone before you. No matter what time you wake up, Yelena is always awake first and sneaks out, leaving you alone in the now cold bed. At first you’d wondered if she was waiting for you to fall asleep before heading back to her own room, so you’d waited until you’d heard the evening of her breath, signalling she’d fallen asleep. You’d tried to stay awake, to savour having her here with you, but inevitably you’d drifted off too. And then she was gone again. Like she had some kind of superpower.

At breakfast with the other New Avengers, Yelena always avoids your gaze, pretending it didn’t happen. It had upset you the first time. For you it had been beautiful. You’d known you preferred girls pretty much your entire life, but you’d never had a girlfriend. Your first kiss had been with a boy, back when all your friends were having their first kisses, and you’d wanted to fit in with them. It still made you cringe to remember the taste of his tongue in your mouth.

With Yelena, it was different. Every kiss and touch left you wanting more. You’d been more open about your sexuality now you were older and if it were up to you, you’d make it official. Yelena would be your girlfriend. But the two of you never talk about your nights together. For a while you’d wondered if Yelena even remembered those nights, whether she was really too drunk until one day in training when you’d grabbed her wrist and her cheeks had immediately flushed. She’d yanked her arm out of your grip and quickly turned away, grumbling about wanting to work the punching bag now instead. Yelena remembered. She felt the chemistry too. Her denial just ran deep.

“I invited Kate round tonight,” Ava says. “I thought we could all play drinking games or something.”

“Count me out,” Bucky says.

“I figured as much. Everyone else will come though, right?”

John and Bob nod their easy agreement, and your eyes swivel to Yelena. Alexei’s away visiting Melina for the next few days, so the only two left are you and Yelena. You haven’t really drank that much with the rest of them. It’s not that you dislike alcohol; you just don’t really see the point. Sure, you don’t mind a few drinks on a night out but they’re few and far between in your line of work. Besides, it’s not like Yelena is going to-

“Sure,” Yelena says. “Sounds like fun.”

Ava turns to you and you find yourself nodding mutely. “Perfect. I’ll see you all in the common room at seven then?”

Everyone goes about their daily tasks, most heading towards training. As Yelena stands up you open your mouth to speak to her but she brushes past you, not even acknowledging you. Yelena always gets like this the morning after. After a few days she goes back to normal and starts talking to you again, but for a while she simply pretends that you don’t exist. As if that will somehow push her feelings away.

One night you’d worked up the courage to ask her why she came to your room whenever she was drunk. Her response had been simple, “I wanted to kiss a pretty girl.”

Every time you remembered her words, it made your heart beat faster and your cheeks burn. You were her pretty girl. The one that she truly trusted with her sexuality. Everyone in the compound knew that you were gay but Yelena had never-

“Will you two please get it over with and just kiss already?”

John’s words jolt you out of your thoughts and your head snaps up. “What?”

He studies your expression for a moment before nodding thoughtfully, “Oh I see. You already have, huh?”

“I- What? What are you talking about?”

“You and Yelena. I mean, it’s kind of obvious.”

Sometimes it was easy to just think of John as the grumpy one in the group. It was only when you were out in the field, or moments like this, that you remembered he was chosen to be Captain America for a reason. He was more observant than you gave him credit for. You clear your throat, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John stares at you for a long moment before standing up from the table and nodding, “My mistake then.”

As he leaves the room you realise he’s also more tactful than you give him credit for too. It makes you wonder though – if John’s caught on, how many of the others have? Are you the one giving away the secret? Are you making it obvious? You know Yelena would be so embarrassed if you outed her before she was ready, and you decide to try and be a bit more subtle. For her sake. You’ll both make it official when she’s feeling more secure, when she’s ready to tell everyone.

For the rest of the day you avoid the others, deciding that you’ve earned a day off. You tidy up the common room ready for later, then retreat to your favourite spot by the window to read. The day passes peacefully though the closer seven o’clock comes, the more anxious you get.

Last time you’d drank with the others you and Yelena had barely made it back to your room. You’d gone out to use the bathroom, and the moment you came out you’d found Yelena waiting for you. Before you could open your mouth, her lips had been against yours, her hand in yours, and you’d just about made it back to your room before she began to unbutton your pants. It had been lucky that no one had walked in on you. When the others had questioned your whereabouts the next day, Yelena had told everyone you’d had one too many and she’d had to help you back to bed, which they seemed to accept.

At five you start getting ready, taking another long shower before dressing in something nicer than your day clothes. It’s almost embarrassing how much you want to impress Yelena but she has such awesome taste in clothes. She always looks so good and well put together. You want her to think the same about you.

It takes you so long to pick an outfit that you end up in the common room thirty minutes late. You’d taken out every item of your clothing, throwing them on your bed, debating the merits of all of them. They’d suddenly all seemed so babyish, so unlike the image you wanted to project. Finally you’d settled on something comfortable but that you thought Yelena might like. Everyone else is already seated, and the only spot left is in between John and Ava. Yelena sits opposite you, very close to Kate, you can’t help but notice.

Kate isn’t part of the New Avengers. Controversially, she’s actually part of the Young Avengers, put together by Kamala Khan with the approval of Sam Wilson, and they acted alongside the Avengers. It was something you’d overheard Yelena teasing Kate about constantly, “They count you as young? Seriously? Me and Y/N should swap too in that case.”

Kate is cool though and despite the copyright issues, and the whole ‘who are the real Avengers’ issue; there have never been any hard feelings. It’s just that your stomach flips over whenever you see her near Yelena in a way that it never does when Yelena is hanging out with Ava. It’s just you being paranoid though. Because whose bed does Yelena end up in? There’s nothing to worry about.

Everyone pours a drink and you all clink glasses, cheering before Ava announces the first game. “Truth or dare,” She grins.

“I’m nowhere near drunk enough for that,” John complains. “We should start with something easier like ‘never have I ever’.”

“I didn’t think you could even get drunk with the super soldier serum,” Bob says.

“He’s right though, ‘never have I ever’ is a starting game,” Yelena says. “I’ll go first. Never have I ever… Had a one-night stand.”

John, Ava and Bob all take a drink, and your heart feels lighter for the first time since you saw Yelena sitting next to Kate. If she doesn’t consider what you guys do to be one-night stands then there must be feelings involved. It must be something deeper.

Kate’s up next and she thinks for a long moment before announcing, “Never have I ever used a fake ID.”

Yelena and Bob take a drink. Bob goes next, “Never have I ever… Been married.”

“That feels targeted but okay,” John says, taking a drink.

The game continues for a few rounds until Ava announces that everyone should now be sufficiently drunk, therefore they can all start playing Truth or Dare. John rolls his eyes but doesn’t complain this time, and the game begins with you. “Truth,” You answer without hesitation. No way are you risking a dare.

“Who was your first kiss with?” John asks.

“Boy named Henry in Middle School. It was disgusting and confirmed that I am, in fact, a lesbian.”

Everyone laughs and the game quickly moves on to Ava, who chooses dare and you dare her to recreate any TikTok dance. It turns out that Ava doesn’t know any so after spending a full ten minutes looking through her phone she just rolls her eyes and says she’ll take a drink instead. Next up is Yelena who immediately chooses dare – you’re not surprised.

“Okay,” Ava says with a wicked smile. “I dare you… To kiss the prettiest girl in the room.”

You raise your eye-brows, giving a nervous laugh as you glance at Yelena, “Give her a different one, that’s not fair.”

“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” Yelena says in a breezy voice.

Yelena reaches over slowly, brushing her fingers over Ava’s cheek and then tucking a strand of Ava’s hair behind her ear. Your heart pounds fast in your chest as Yelena leans closer, her lips almost touching Ava’s when she suddenly pulls back with a cocky grin. Of course she wouldn’t pick Ava, not when you were sat right there. You’d been paranoid to think otherwise.

Yelena moves to sit in front of you and you try to keep your expression neutral though your heart starts pounding again, your hands turn sweaty and you can’t meet anyone’s gaze. Yelena’s hand cups your cheek and her face moves in front of yours, and it’s really going to happen, she’s finally going to kiss you in front of everyone-

You hear her laugh and when you look up her hand has already moved away from your cheek as she turns to face Kate this time. What is she doing? Why is she dragging this out so much? Yelena’s hand cups Kate’s cheek now, her thumb tracing over Kate’s bottom lip before Yelena suddenly leans forward and kisses her.

Yelena kisses Kate. Right in front of everybody.

It’s not even a light peck that lasts less than a second; it’s a proper kiss that to you seems to go on for a lifetime before eventually Yelena pulls away, grinning as she moves to sit back in her spot. She doesn’t even glance in your direction as she announces, “Okay Kate it’s your turn. Truth or Dare?”

“Uh I pick-”

You’re on your feet before Kate can even answer, tears streaming down your cheeks. Alcohol always makes you feel everything so intensely. You’re pretty emotional anyway, always wearing your heart on your sleeve, but alcohol makes it so much worse. You bite your knuckles to try and suppress your sobs, not wanting the others to see. If you can just get to your room-

“Y/N!”

A voice calls out to you but it’s not Yelena’s. Of course it’s not Yelena’s; you’re not even her pretty girl, just one pretty girl amongst many, nothing special-

“Y/N.” It’s John and he puts his hand on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you when you turn to cry into his chest.

“Did you know she was going to do that?”

“No, I don’t think anybody did. Maybe even Yelena didn’t.”

“How could she do that to me?” You sob. “After everything-”

“I don’t know everything that went down between you and Yelena, and you don’t have to tell me, but let’s not think about that right now. Let’s go sit somewhere, just you and me, okay?”

“Y/N.”

It’s a female voice that you recognise immediately but you bury your face in John’s chest, not wanting to look at her smug face. Kate isn’t deterred, “Hey, is everything okay?”

“I think she needs some space right now,” John says.

“Do you want me to get Yelena?”

“No!” You cry.

“No, I think that’s a bad idea,” John says. “You head back, I’ll look after Y/N.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, she’s in good hands, I promise.”

You finally lift your head from John’s chest to meet Kate’s gaze. There’s no smugness there, just sympathy. ‘You’re not special,’ you want to snap, but what’s the point? It was Kate who’d been chosen as the prettiest girl in the room. You weren’t the one Yelena had kissed.

Kate heads back to the common room whilst John takes you through to the small meeting room with the large windows, another one of your favourite spots in the Tower for looking at the city. New York is still bustling and you look outside, wondering how many other girls are as heartbroken as you right now.

John is a gentleman, sitting quietly with you as you cry, listening patiently as you go over the same questions again and again, his hand running steadily up and down your back. You’re not sure how long you both sit there but it must’ve been hours. John doesn’t rush you or give any indication that he has somewhere else to be. “I’m sorry,” You sniffle.

“Don’t be,” John says. “I have a younger sister, she’s called- Never mind. Anyway, you remind me of her. I’d want someone to sit with her if she was this upset.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not, you’re my Avengers sister,” John says. “I’ll always look out for you.”

“Why did she do that, John?” You ask even though you’ve already asked it a dozen times already. “Why wouldn’t she just kiss me?”

“I don’t know,” He repeats. “I think Yelena is amazing but I get the feeling you never really get beneath the surface with her.”

“I thought I had,” You mumble. “I thought I was special.”

“Y/N… You are special. And really pretty. Yelena was crazy not to kiss you.”

“Kate’s pretty too though.”

“Of course she is. And so is Ava. Any one of you could’ve been kissed but given everything going on between you and Yelena, she either should’ve kissed you or not completed the dare.”

“Maybe she didn’t want to be outed in front of everyone,” You suggest tearfully.

“Maybe,” John says gently. “I guess the only person who truly knows is Yelena.”

Eventually exhaustion catches up with you and John walks you back to your room, ruffling your hair and reminding you that his room is just down the hall if you need him. For the first time you’re seeing him in a completely different light and you’re grateful that if anything came out of this it’s your ‘Avengers big brother’.

You’ve just changed into your pyjamas and wiped off your now ruined make-up when the door knocks. For a moment you think it’s John, come back to check on you one more time or bring you some water or something. You’re almost gobsmacked to find Yelena waiting there, propped up against the doorframe, just like any other night when she’s had a few drinks.

“Yelena-”

Before you know it her arms are around your waist and she presses a kiss to your lips. “Those pyjamas are so cute,” She mumbles between kisses. “You look so pretty.”

It would’ve been so easy to melt into the kisses. To forget about the hurt, the betrayal, to let her love you, to let her make you feel good. But that comment shattered any spell she could’ve placed you under and you pull yourself out of her embrace, “Not pretty enough apparently.”

Yelena grins and reaches out for you again, her expression faltering when you take another step back, “What do you mean?”

“Are you serious? You actually don’t know why I’m upset?”

Yelena hesitates, her eyes searching yours, looking genuinely confused. Finally she sighs, “No… No, don’t tell me this is about the game-”

“Are you kidding me? You embarrassed me, in front of everyone-”

“How did I embarrass you?”

“You didn’t kiss me!”

“I didn’t kiss Ava either but she didn’t storm off in a flood of tears.”

“Ava’s not the one you’re paying late night visits to!”

Yelena groans, “I knew you’d get like this.”

“Get like what?”

“It’s not… This isn’t serious, Y/N. I thought you knew that. Why do you think I sneak out before you wake up? I just want some fun when- I mean, it’s fun, right? We have fun, don’t we?”

“Even if we’re just friends with benefits, you still should’ve kissed me. It’s not like you do this with Kate so you should’ve-” You pause. Yelena doesn’t say anything and that’s when the penny drops. “You… You’ve been messing around with Kate.”

“Y/N-”

“Behind my back.”

“It was not behind your back, it just wasn’t something I really advertised. God, I mean… It’s not like we’re dating.”

“I just assumed that was because you weren’t so open about the fact you were gay, Yelena. It… I always thought it meant something more than just sex. I always thought-”

That it was just you. That you were special. That Yelena loved you.

“Let’s not do this,” Yelena says. “Let’s just… Come on, I just wanted to kiss you.”

“Why? Has Kate gone home for the night?”

“Don’t be like this, please don’t be like this. I’m sorry I kissed Kate, okay? It didn’t mean anything, it was just a dumb game.”

“You think she’s prettier than me, you prefer her to me, you’ve been messing around with her and I had to find out from a stupid game of Truth or Dare!”

“I don’t- For God’s- You’re both just as pretty as each other, okay? But I wanted to wind up Ava and so I decided to carry on down the line to really sell it. It doesn’t mean that I like Kate more. One of you had to be left out.”

“Are you even sorry, Yelena?” You ask. “Because I’m hearing a lot of excuses and not a lot of apologies.”

“I’m sorry that you’re upset, yes, but I don’t think I did anything wrong! If you created some fantasy in your head that this is more than just sex then I don’t know what to say.”

“So you just… Don’t care about me? At all?”

“I never- For God’s- Obviously I care about you! I care about everyone in this tower, all of you.”

“Forgive me for thinking that those late nights actually meant something. That I meant something to you.”

Yelena shakes her head, and then shrugs. Usually she’s pretty drunk when she’s in your room but you get the impression now that she’s more alert than she’s letting on. Eventually she holds her hands up, “You knew I was drunk when I came here. What does that say about you?”

You open and close your mouth several times before hissing, “Don’t you dare try and imply I was taking advantage of you, Lena.”

“Stop acting like I owe you something Y/N. You knew what this was.” Yelena rolls her shoulders back, stretches and then groans. “I’m going to bed.”

“Just like that?” You ask quietly.

“I’m tired and honestly I’m getting a headache.”

Yelena doesn’t move and you wonder what she’s waiting for. Your heart pounds as you meet her gaze, neither of you moving or saying anything. Seconds go by, maybe even minutes, as you both just stare at each other. It’s Yelena who caves first as she nods, silently leaving your room and closing the door quietly behind her.

You climb into your bed, pulling the duvet over your head and you start crying again. Had Yelena really been in this bed with you just twenty-four hours beforehand? If only you had known it would be the last time. Your tears are those of hurt and grief – you will never share another intimate moment with Yelena again. Part of you knows she’s right. That she’d never implied this was anything more than sex. You’d let yourself believe you were special, that you meant something more to her. Either way, you can’t forgive her for not telling you about Kate. For kissing Kate instead of you in that stupid game.

The next morning Yelena acts as if nothing happened. Despite the awkward atmosphere in the kitchen, Yelena eats her breakfast in her usual nonchalant manner. Ava gives you glances across the table, trying to figure out what upset you so much last night whilst Bucky seems none the wiser, having not been clued in to your tears or the games that took place last night. You’re not sure what to do with yourself once you’ve finished eating when John taps your shoulder, “Hey. Wanna train with me today?”

You nod, grateful for his discretion. You’re slightly less grateful when you begin the military workout he puts together for you, but you know he’s only trying to keep you distracted. And it works wonders. Once you’re both done for the day he suggests the two of you go out for dinner, and you readily agree, especially when you overhear that Yelena’s going out for a few drinks.

John takes you to a sports bar across town. Not really your scene but he does pay for the food which is a bonus. Afterwards instead of going straight home he suggests that the two of you go bowling, another perfect distraction. It’s difficult to bowl with how much your limbs are aching but again, he pays and you nudge his arm on the way home, “I could get used to having a big brother.” He grins back at you.

That night you change into your pyjamas and climb into bed. You’ve just settled down when you hear a knock at your bedroom door. For a moment you sit in silence before reaching over, flicking your bedside lamp off and pulling the covers up to your chin. There’s another knock at the door, quieter this time. You hold your breath and listen. After a long moments silence you eventually hear footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

There is nothing Islam Makhachev chases more than adrenaline in this world. The engine rumbled in his body as he pushed further on the throttle, the city turning into blurred lines as he accelerated. His heart thrummed in his ribcage, and for the first time in a while, he smiled at his freedom. 

Removing his helmet along with the balaclava, Islam made his way to the path he knew by heart. Yours. He gently knocked on your bedroom window; the thrill of sneaking you out made his heart beat even faster. 

Hearing the knock on your window made you smile. After taking one last look in the mirror and making sure you’d lock your bedroom door, you opened the window. There he stood with a smile on his face. You took his outstretched arm as you climbed out the window. 

“You look beautiful, as always.” Islam greeted you with a hug. The moonlight cast a soft glow onto his face as you kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” You replied shyly. “Let’s go, I want to show you somewhere.” He said softly, bringing your hand with his. 

As you two walked to where he had parked his motorcycle, you chatted about your day. He gave you a spare helmet and helped you fasten the clip while you admired him.  Something was exciting about going out at night dates with him — something freeing. “You ready?” He asked, his voice slightly muffled by his helmet as he climbed on the motorcycle. You nodded, hugging his waist. Islam started his bike, and it let out a loud rumble. 

Islam sped through the city, his hand occasionally squeezing your hand that was around his waist. Eventually, the motorcycle rolled to a stop. He brought you to a bridge that overlooked the whole city, which twinkled like the stars. You flipped open your visor, looking at the view in awe. Islam helped you down the bike and unclipped the helmet, his hands tender and caring. “Wow..” You breathed out, a smile gracing your lips. 

“You like?” Islam asked tentatively, his gaze locked on you. “Of course! This is beautiful!” You beamed up at him appreciatively. He chased your smile like a man starved, always finding ways for you to smile at him, even for a moment. 

When you smiled at him 2 years ago, he knew that he was screwed. You saw him outside the convenience store you worked at, crouching to pet some cats. You head outside after grabbing some cat food, crouching next to him and offering him the food. Islam glanced at you in surprise before hesitantly accepting it. 

“Is your cheek okay? It looks bruised.” You commented, petting the cat's head as he feeds her.

Islam turned his head to look at you, startled that you were initiating a conversation. 

“Um… yeah. It’s from training.” He mumbled softly as he tried to focus his gaze back on the cat. 

“You should put some ointment over that. I think we have some…” You trailed off, getting up and motioning for him to follow you. 

Islam shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. 

But his cheek was really starting to hurt, now that you’d mention it. He followed you in the store as you searched for an ointment in your bag. You pulled a chair near the register and motioned him to sit. 

“My brother boxes, so I keep this in my bag in case he needs it.” You explained as you stood in front of him and opened the container. “Would you rather do it yourself?” You extended the container towards him.

He shouldn’t have felt disappointed in the question, but he took the container nonetheless.

“Thank you…” He trailed off, and you gave him your name. He whispered it softly, testing.

“And you?” You asked, smiling softly.

“I’m Islam.” He returned your smile as he put on the balm.

Since that day, he often visited the store. One time, he reasoned that his hand hurt and insisted that you put the ointment for him. You obliged happily, his heart hammered as you brushed his cheek. Ever since then, you have always tended him. He’d stay longer, chatting with you, helping you close up, and accompanying you home. The two of you got closer over the year, and he first confessed with a huge box of candy that you liked. 

“I… was wondering if I could take you out? Tonight?” Islam had asked shyly, Your eyes that were once glued to the assortments of candy snapped up to his.

“Wh– Yes!” You exclaimed enthusiastically before clearing your throat. “Yes, I’d love that, Islam.”

Islam grinned, his heart beating fastly at your smile. “I– uh, I have to go, but 10 pm? I’ll knock on your window?”

“10 pm. Don’t be late.” You smiled brightly, buzzing with excitement. 

From then on, he always knocked on your window every Saturday at 10 pm sharp. Bringing you around the city as it sleeps. 

Islam never talked about the store or you to his friends; he decided that he wanted to keep the moments to himself. Khabib warned him the moment he caught Islam looking at you with a softened gaze, and the way he would smile at you like a man in love (he was). Something about how you weren’t part of their culture, but Islam didn’t care about that. Not when you were the first person to tend to him after he was bruised after training, and definitely not with the way you cared about him despite all his flaws. 

Islam felt the guilt gnawing at his chest because he wasn’t able to show that you were his in daylight. But you were always sweet and understanding about it, knowing that your parents and his wouldn’t allow it. After all, love does blind people.

The two of you sat on the ledge of the bridge, with snacks, hot chocolate, and stories of your days shared. It was a private moment, one where it felt like only you and he existed. Islam smiled at the glimmer of your necklace, the pendant caught by the moonlight. The same necklace he had bought for your first anniversary. In return, you gave him a journal filled with your drawings. He kissed you for the first time on top of a hill that night, the kiss so tender, much like he was with you.

Hours passed like seconds, and soon you’d have to go back to pretending like you weren’t a thing. It hurts, having to keep a secret so tender. And it made you wonder how it would’ve been if only the rules didn’t exist. 

But that was all part of the fun, wasn’t it? To have something so special that only you knew. 

“Isu, you alright?” Khabib's voice snapped him out of his daze. He realized that he’d been zoning out the moment you stepped into the small cafe he was in. Khabib followed his line of view before sighing. 

“Don’t tell me you still have a crush on her.”

“No! Of course not. She’s way out of my league anyway.” Islam declined quickly, as Khabib nodded at his response. 

“Good. Because she’s-”

“Off-limits, I know. You’ve said that so many times.” He rolled his eyes at Khabib’s lecture. 

“Just don’t want you risking your career over a crush.” Islam could only hum in acknowledgement. If Khabib were to know about your relationship, he would’ve shipped him to America and drowned him with training. Khabib started to yap about some nonsense, and he had to pry his gaze away from you. 

Islam likes risks, but this time he wasn’t risking losing you. 

The next week, he knocked on your window again. This time, he brought a bouquet of your favorite flowers. The two of you rode off into the night, sitting outside the convenience store where you work.

“Khabib asked me if I still have a crush on you,” Islam told you, huffing a laugh as he remembered the moment.

“What? In the cafe?” You asked, laughing alongside him.

“Yeah, I told him you were out of my league.” He smiled at you fondly.

“Well, obviously.” You teased, your hand brushing a crumb from his lips.

“Wow, I'm so lucky to have such a humble girl.” He smirked, taking your hand in his. 

“You know, I actually–” Your words were cut off as someone called out his name.

“Wait. Islam?” A man's voice rang out as Islam quickly dropped your hand and stuffed them in his pockets. 

You glanced down at your hand that was once in his, a sting in your heart blooming before you quickly brushed it off. You glanced towards the source of the voice. 

Khabib was approaching your table. You quickly put your hood up and stood from your seat, deciding to leave before Khabib realized that Islam was with you. Islam looked panicked; he was unsure of what to do. 

A hand on your shoulder stopped you from going further away. Islam rose from his seat, removing Khabib's hand quite forcefully before placing himself in front of you.