Hell hath no fury, indeed.

That kind of awareness settles into you like a quiet weight, familiar and unwelcome. You have to tell yourself to breathe through it, steady and practiced, letting the cold recede just enough to remind yourself where you are. Like usual, the common room hums around you—too bright, too open, full of other people’s energy and unfinished arguments. Whatever control you do have, you keep it here, contained, folded neatly behind your ribs.

Alas, the conversation you’d been trying so hard not to be a part of, as always, does not wait for your introspection.

When you finally decide to look up, across the room, Yelena is pacing like a caged animal, hands slicing the air with every step. “But we are the Avengers. The government said so.” She says it plainly, like it should end the argument by sheer force of logic. It almost makes you smile, a brief curl of your lip forming. 

“How does Sam Wilson not understand that?”

She’s exasperated and confused. And honestly? You get it.

Bucky leans back in his chair, metal arm catching the light, expression flat and tired. He lets Yelena’s words hang in the air, not rushing to fill the space. A familiar weight settling in his chest, a familiar dread, something older and harder to name. When he was the Winter Soldier, loyalty used to be simple. He hadn’t had a choice who to be loyal to, and who to betray. Other people meant nothing to him – unless they served his mission…unless they served the purpose of the people who controlled him. 

And then, even when Steve found him, loyalty to him had been easy. At one time in Bucky’s life, it had a face and a voice and a shield – a stupidly handsome face with golden blonde hair and a voice of utter self-righteousness that was nothing but deserved. Then that shield had been passed to Sam, who had undoubtedly become one of Bucky’s best friends—and by God, Bucky hadn’t had lots of those. In his eyes, his loyalty like the shield was passed from hand to hand, from friend to friend with absolute certainty. 

Now, today, that loyalty feels fractured, split between the friend he trusts and the team sitting in front of him, both asking something different of him without ever saying it out loud. 

It’s times like this when he thinks of Sam, of the way responsibility sits on his shoulders, of the choices he made and the consequences that have come with it. He understands that choice more than anyone here, and maybe that’s what makes this all the worse. Understanding doesn’t make it easier to stand in the middle, watching as lines get drawn that Bucky never wanted to cross in the first place.  

It’s overwhelming. 

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes flicking briefly toward you, your shared gazes meeting for just a second, before settling back on the room. “Well, he does have the shield.” He murmurs. 

Walker straightens immediately, jaw tightening as he gestures to where his shield leans against the wall. “Well, I got a shield too.” He’s indignant and petulant, the words coming too fast and too sharp. 

You know better than anyone, Walker’s defensiveness is reflexive — a familiar armour pulled on the moment he feels himself slipping back into the shadow of what was taken from him. As silly as it sounds, that second rate shield that everyone teases him about isn’t just a piece of equipment. You remember the night John had told you, in utter confidence, because if you tell anyone this, I’ll never talk to you again, he’d threatened, just what it means to him: It’s proof that I still matter. 

Underneath it all, Walker isn’t as complicated as everyone makes him out to be. That shield is his proof that he hadn’t been erased by a decision that he’s never fully recovered from – that he’s not going to be remembered solely for the worst decision of his life. Every time the real shield is mentioned, it scrapes against old humiliation and unfinished grief, and he reaches for the only thing left that lets him stand tall – that makes him feel some part of whole.   

Bucky finally looks at it. Really looks. “That’s not a shield.” It’s not the shield, is what he’s implying. And you can see the hurt flicker in John’s eyes, if only brief, as he covers it with casual arrogance. 

Anything to hide how he really feels. 

“Yeah, it is a shield.” John protests, tone firm with an assertiveness only he could make sound so not convincing. 

Bucky scoffs. “It’s a shitty shield.”

“It’s a great shield, Bucky.” Once again, there’s hurt there. 

You’ve known both Bucky and John long enough to recognize the fault lines between them. You were there in Madripoor, there with Bucky and Sam before any of this new avengers bullshit started.

The two men before you have a history that is knotted with resentment, bruised pride, and moments of uneasy cooperation that never quite settled into trust. You can see how quickly competition turned personal, how grief and expectation sharpened every interaction, and how neither of them was ever really fighting the other so much as the weight of what Captain America meant — and what it took from them in return. Whatever fragile equilibrium exists now wasn’t earned through forgiveness, but through exhaustion and shared loss, a mutual understanding that some wounds don’t heal so much as they stop bleeding.

You glance at the shield. Then at John. Then back at the shield. He holds a tightness in his jaw, and in a way, he’s bracing for you to take Bucky’s side, bracing for your verdict. 

“…It’s a shield, your shield,” you offer mildly, voice calm, careful rather than amused. “Not Sam’s, not Steve’s. It’s yours John. That’s what makes it count.”

It’s not a defence or a correction; you’re acknowledging him.

John exhales, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders as he shrugs. “See? At least someone’s a neutral party.” But both you and John know, this was more than neutral. Thank you, his eyes shine. For believing in me. 

And for once, it doesn’t bother Bucky at all, seeing the relief that floods Walker’s presence. 

Yelena, who’s now more than mildly annoyed by the interruption, spins back toward the center of the room, mumbling something about not wanting to be subjected to this mushy shit. She couldn’t care less to soothe Walker’s bruised ego or to settle the tension between the two super soldiers like you always seem to. She doesn’t know how you do it, nor does she really understand why you try at all. 

They’re grown men…let them handle themselves, she thinks to herself. But then again, maybe that’s why no one comes to Yelena for advice or comfort. Except for maybe Bob. And that’s another mystery in and of itself.  

“Okay,” she continues, decidedly moving along, “so if he puts together a team, and then the team is called the Avengers, who are the real Avengers?”

John rolls his shoulders, already bracing himself. “Well, that’s the question the internet has been asking, and judging by the very nasty memes that I’ve read, they don’t think that it’s us.”

You stifle a giggle at the idea of John scouring the internet for memes, and make a mental note to ask him about it later. 

At the thought of the public’s less than ideal reactions to the new avengers formation, you spare a glance toward Bob in the corner.

He’s half-hidden behind a book he isn’t reading, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s trying to fold himself into the furniture. You brush your telepathy against him—not intrusive, just a quiet I’m here—and feel the static ease.

A huff from Yelena brings your attention back to her. “Weren’t you going to talk to him?” She asks Bucky.

“I already did.” He replies, his answer clipped.

“And?” She tilts her head toward him in an attempt to feign the illusion of patiently waiting for his response. 

“It went poorly.” Is all he can say about it. Bucky doesn’t elaborate further, and knowing Sam as well as you do, you’re not sure you want him to, but maybe you’ll try anyway.

You turn your head toward Bucky. “Poorly, like raised voices poorly, or like international incident poorly?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Somewhere in the middle.”

John has abandoned the argument entirely, now poking at a control panel on the couch with growing irritation. “I don’t know what any of these buttons do. It’s unbelievable they didn’t mark any of them.”

Yelena ignores him, waving her hand at him as a dismissal. “You know he’s filed for copyright of the name?”

Bucky’s brows knit together. “Did he?” It doesn’t surprise him that Sam would do something like that. He’d always been thorough. 

“We’re losing credibility.” The blonde woman grimaces. 

Ava, standing near the back with her arms crossed, doesn’t miss a beat. “Which we had very little to begin with.” 

You jump in, leaning further forward. “And now there’s this huge space crisis, and no one’s telling us about it.”

John freezes mid-button-mash. “We’re running out of space? It’s impossible. This building is enormous.” He stops himself when he realizes the look he’s getting from each of you is one of disappointment. Had he really said something that stupid? 

“What?” He asks. 

“Outer space.” Yelena shakes her head, placing a strong emphasis on the first word. She enunciates each syllable carefully. 

John’s face deflates in realization. “Ah. Outer space.”

Something tightens in your chest. You take this moment once again, as your gaze drifts—inevitably—to the corner of the room.

Bob still sits half-curled into himself on a low couch, the book that was once open in his hands, is now closed, eyes no longer tracking the same line over and over. Now, he’s looking at you…looking for you. He’s trying to be small. Trying to disappear. The hum inside him—bright and wrong and endlessly restrained—scrapes at the edges of your senses.

You reach out carefully with your telepathy. Not probing, just a gentle presence.

You’re okay, you send. I’ve got you.

His shoulders drop by a fraction.

Suddenly, Yelena stops pacing. “Run a threat analysis.” She requests into the tablet she’d been holding. “I want a full report.”

“Running threat analysis,” the machine replies.

The common room doors slide open with a hydraulic hiss.

“Hello, team!” Alexei enters like gravity bends slightly around him, chest out, grin wide, boots thudding against the floor. He’s wearing something that’s aggressively red, orange, and yellow, and far too tight.

Bucky squints at him. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“I heard about Sam Wilson. He’s dumb, litigious man, but I am smart. I am smart man. I have smart solve.” Alexei points proudly to the logo on his chest. “Avengerz.” He gestures, spreading his arms. “Avengerz. With a ‘Z,’ there is no copyright.”

Yelena lets her head fall into her hands as she groans. “No.”

“So soft too. Feels like the bottom of baby seal.” Alexei grins, strolling over to you and Yelena. “You want to… you want to savour that?”

She dismisses him. “I don’t want to touch your baby seal butt.”

“I have one for you.” He smiles at his daughter. He’s beaming at this point. 

She grimaces. “I don’t want it.”

Then Alexei turns to the group, sweeping across you all theatrically. “I have one for you.” He points to Bucky, then lists you each off one by one. “I got you one. I got you one.” He points dramatically around the room. “And for you, Bob, in the corner hiding, pretending to read the book. We’re all matching. All part of super team!”

Bob startles, book dipping. His cheeks flush. You slide off the table and cross the room without comment, stopping beside him. Your shoulder brushes his—an intentional attempt at grounding him.

“He was reading,” you say evenly. “He just reads… slowly. Very thoughtfully.”

Bob huffs a quiet laugh, relief flickering through him like a candle catching.

The machine cuts in again, sharper this time. “Unidentified craft entering orbit.”

The humour drains from the room. “You should get a satellite image,” Bucky says, already standing.

“Uh.” Yelena stumbles to get the tablet close enough for it to register her voice. “Get a satellite image. And fire up… I was gonna say that. And fire up the jets.”

You step closer to the screen as it begins to populate. “That’s not a normal entry vector,” you murmur. “No heat bloom. No weapons lock.”

Alexei crosses his arms. “We wouldn’t need to fire up the jets if we had a Sentry who could fly.”

Bob winces. “I know… Sorry. Sorry, guys. Can’t be the Sentry without the, you know, other side. I did the dishes though.”

You turn to him immediately. “Hey. That’s not—” You stop, soften your voice. “You don’t owe anyone heroics. Or dishes.”

He meets your eyes, something fragile and grateful there.

“And what are we gonna do,” John says, “just like ride Bob into the sky?”

There’s a pause. Not long — just long enough for it to become dangerous.

Yelena stops pacing.

She doesn’t turn right away. Just slowly lifts one eyebrow as she looks over her shoulder, gaze flicking from Bob, to you, and back again. The corner of her mouth curls like she’s found a joke she’s been waiting weeks to make.

“…I mean,” she says lightly, “if we need an expert, from what I’ve heard through my bedroom wall, (Y/n)’s got plenty of experience taking the golden god for a ride.”

The room freezes.

Bob chokes. Not subtly. His book slips from his hands and hits the floor with a soft thump as he turns violently red, neck to hairline. He brings a hand up like he might physically shield himself from the conversation.

You stare at Yelena. Flat. Unblinking.

“Wow,” you say calmly. “That was a bold choice. Saying that out loud.”

John’s brain visibly reboots. His mouth opens. Closes. He’d known you had a thing for Bob, he just didn’t know you’d actually gone and done anything about it. But judging by the look on Bob’s face, you’d definitely followed through. He sends you a look that says we’re so gonna talk about this later. And you know he’s going to hold you to it. 

Bucky turns his head sharply away, shoulders shaking as he coughs to cover a laugh. It’s not funny, but it is…who is he to lie?

Ava’s lips twitch despite herself.

And Alexei? Alexei erupts, not quite understanding his daughter’s implication.

“Yes!” he roars, clapping his hands together. “Exactly! Strong grip! Excellent endurance! These are very important qualities for aerial teamwork!”

“That is—” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “—not what that meant.” It’s kind of endearing how out of the loop he can be sometimes. 

Yelena shrugs, unapologetic. “What? I support healthy, physical intimacy in relationships. Very progressive, you know? Women on top and all that….”

Bucky clears his throat loudly, interjecting, “We are absolutely not unpacking that.”

Alexei is still nodding enthusiastically. “I still think the riding idea is very solid. Very inspiring. Can you imagine, Red Guardian riding on top of Sentry, cresting over the clouds?”

Yelena holds back another groan. “This is why we are Avengers with a ‘Z.’”

The satellite image sharpens again, the tablet beeping in her palms. Joke’s over, you suppose—and for that, you’re very grateful.

“Satellite image populating. Extradimensional ship entering atmosphere.”

The word extradimensional sends a chill racing down your spine. “Extradimensional? What does that mean?”

John squints. “It’s a… it’s a cool ship.”

You stare at the image—sleek, elegant, impossibly controlled. You don’t get the feeling this is an invasion. It looks more put together than that, more like an arrival.

Your fingers curl unconsciously, frost blooming along the floor. “Whatever that is,” you say quietly, “it’s not here by accident.”