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Fifty-Six Days After Sozin's Comet, Give or Take

            For the first time in over two months, I was completely alone.

            It was something Katara and I had discussed—that when Azula inevitably figured out she was pregnant, and we were separated, I would likely be on my own, from then on.

            Katara was worried about the prospect of me being in solitary confinement, for days or weeks on end. She’d heard stories of war prisoners who had gone insane that way.

            I told her—no, promised her—that I would be fine. But I couldn’t have expected what came next.

            I was alone for a grand total of two hours, before one of the guards came back down.

            “It’s not breakfast yet,” I muttered to him through the metal bars.

            “The girl,” the guard started, “she’s pregnant.”

            Even though it was the outcome we expected—even though I’d heard the baby’s heartbeat, and Katara and I had known for weeks she was pregnant—hearing the news confirmed brought up an unexpected amount of emotion.

            But he wasn’t done.

            “She’s also claiming to be your bride.”

            His delivery—as if it was unbelievable, that I would ever consider Katara as a bride—made my blood boil.

            “That’s because she is,” I shot back. My heart raced as I spoke, and as I realized why he was there.

            He wasn’t delivering news of the pregnancy. He was there for exactly one reason: to hear me corroborate what Katara had told him, about our betrothal.

            Which meant that Katara had already set our plan in motion, and was working to establish that our relationship wasn’t strictly sexual.

            Everything that came out of my mouth, from then on, had to support this narrative.

            When the guard didn’t say anything, I raised an eyebrow. “What? You’ve seen the latest show by Ember Island Players, haven’t you?”

            He nodded.

            “You think that whole plotline was fiction, with me and her?” I crossed my arms, and slumped back against the wall. “And you can’t believe your own eyes, either?”

            His face flushed at the insinuation—he had, after all, been one of the guards that we would fuck in front of the most.

            Instead of responding, he practically ran away, down the hallway and out of my line of sight.

            A few minutes later, a new set of footsteps appeared.

            I knew who it was, before I even saw his face. I would recognize those steps anywhere. It was the same set of footsteps I’d grown up listening for, and knew to duck for cover, whenever they rounded a corner.

            I fought the knee-jerk urge to drop to the ground and kneel, like I’d been conditioned to do with him, as he walked up to the metal bars on my door.

            My father stared me in the eyes. He held my gaze for a moment, before he finally spoke.

            “Just when I thought you couldn’t possibly disgrace me more, you’ve outdone yourself.”

            His voice was low, quiet, but his delivery held all of the menace and venom I’d come to expect from him.

            “I’m told you’ve impregnated that peasant from the southern Water Tribe—and what’s more, she’s also your fiancée.”

            “You’re half right.” It was surreal, talking to my father about Katara.

            My voice threatened to shake, but I tried my best to hide it.

            “Katara isn’t a peasant—her father is a Chief. In this family, I would know better than to propose to a commoner.”

            “The Southern Water Tribe is our enemy,” he hissed.

            “I thought you were their ruler, now,” I shot back. “Or, did Azula exaggerate your victory?”

            It was meant to be taunt. Instead, my father pulled his mouth into a tight line.

            I then thought of the message from my Uncle.

            I’ve reconquered my tea shop, and I’m playing Pai Sho every day.

            As much as I wanted to—as good as it felt, to stand up to him—I knew I had to watch my step carefully.

            One wrong move, and Katara and I were as good as dead.

            “My mistake, I guess,” I muttered, dropping my gaze to the floor. “I figured, given the current climate—you would recognize the value of having a union in the family, with an influential waterbender…”

            My father stared at me, his expression suddenly unreadable.

            “…unless, you don’t see the point in fostering that relationship.”

            “Enough,” he hissed. “You insolent, disobedient prick—"

            In a split second, as my father launched profanity after profanity at me—as I flashed back to three years ago, when he burned my face during the Agni Kai, and gave me my scar, and sent me on an “impossible” quest to find the Avatar—it clicked.

            “Why bother with the Water Tribes, after all?”

            “What?” he seethed.

            “The Water Tribes,” I continued. The more I thought about it, the more sure I became.

            “They’re not the Earth Kingdom, they were never a threat to you. At least, they were never anywhere near as powerful as them. I have a hard time believing they’re giving you a run for your money. ”

            My father’s eyebrow twitched, giving away that yes—in fact—they were.

            But I knew that wasn’t all of it.

            “Four generations of our family,” I muttered under my breath, “three Fire Lords, and a Crown Prince—and you finally did it, father. You found and slayed the Avatar.”

            As hard as he tried to hide it, a dark shadow cast across my father’s face.

            “Let me guess—not the victory you thought it would be, right?”

            I thought back to the day I’d broken Aang out of Poi Shoi prison—how I’d overheard Admiral Zhao’s plans for Aang. How he would keep him alive, but “just barely,” otherwise the Avatar would have been reborn into the next cycle, and the Fire Nation would have had to re-start the process of searching for the Avatar all over again.

            I later came to find out, that my father had always thought that was a ludicrous plan—that the cost of having to search for a new Avatar, among the Water Tribes, was greatly outweighed by the benefits of having slain the Last Airbender. That Aang’s death would all-but-guarantee the Fire Nation’s victory in the War, as it would be at least a decade before a new Avatar would be identified, much less ready to go up against the Fire Nation.

            Even then, all of that being said—at the mention of “the Avatar,” my father looked like he was about to throw up.

            “How does it feel,” I said slowly, “knowing that even though you killed the Last Airbender, you’ll never be free of the Avatar?”

            “What exactly are you offering me, Prince Zuko?” he seethed.

            “I’m not offering anything.” I crossed my arms. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. If you want to find the next Avatar, we don’t know anything about them, except that they’re born to the Water Tribes.”

xxx

Chapter One

xxx

It was almost bedtime when Hermione heard the knock on her door.

She’d spent most of the afternoon unpacking and decorating. She’d been gifted her own suite, when she was named Head Girl. Paintings hung on the walls from previous owners. The room smelled dusty.

She decided that if she was going to live here for the next year, her room had to be hers.

It didn’t help that Draco Malfoy lived next door.

“Who is it?” she shouted at the door.

“It’s me, Granger. Open up.”

A chill worked its way down her spine. Her new neighbor—who had somehow, against all odds, been named Head Boy. Her stomach churned.

She thought about ignoring it. Leaving Draco hanging. But she knew she’d have to face him eventually.

With that thought in mind, she opened the door.

“What do you want?”

She expected a smirk. Instead, she was met with a furrowed brow and a somber expression.

"Can I come in?”

She crossed her arms. “Here’s fine.”

He cleared his throat, loudly.

He looked skinnier after the War—the hollows under his eyes darker. If he wasn’t such a fair blonde, she was sure she would’ve found a couple of grays in his hair.

Draco Malfoy, the pampered prince of Slytherin, looked like he’d aged a decade since the last time she’d seen him.

When he didn’t immediately speak, she decided to fill the silence.

“You look terrible.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “Well, not sleeping will do that.”

“I hear being a horrible person ages one from the inside out.”

Then he narrowed his gaze on her. “You’re meaner.”

“A war will do that,” she deadpanned.

Silence stretched between them. 

“Malfoy, I need to get to bed—”

“I’m sorry.”

He stammered. Like it physically hurt the get the words out.

She glared at him. “Say that again.”

He braced himself, swallowing before he spoke.

“One apology is all I have in me, Granger.”

“If you mean it, then you know one won’t do. You only owe me about a thousand.”

Malfoy shook his head with a small smile - not quite a smirk, but something close to it. “Maybe you’re right. But you’ll be lucky if you get two.”

God, he was infuriating.

Hermione tightened her grip around the doorknob. “That’s why you came here? To offer me some half-assed apology?”

He shrugged. “Like it or not, we’re neighbors now.  Head Boy and Girl. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other these next nine months.”

“And?”

“I figured it would make it easier for both of us…. If I let you know that I have regrets.”

Well. She hadn't expected that.

Hermione studied him for a moment, stunned, before she remembered who she was speaking to. 

“Regrets don’t change anything.”

“I know.” His voice was rough. “But it’s a start.”

“For who, exactly?” Hermione crossed her arms. “For me? Or is this an excuse for you to feel less guilty?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Maybe a little bit of both,” he conceded.

Hermione nodded. She had half a mind to slam the door shut without another word.

But there was something about the look on Malfoy’s face—the conceited, arrogant prince of Slytherin. He stood tired with slumped shoulders before her, all of his usual maddening bravado gone. 

She could see how—as half hearted as it may appear—this was hard for him. To come to her, Mudblood that she was, with an apology. Treating her as an equal. 

About fucking time, she thought.

But instead, she opted for a small nod. Not quite curt, but close. “Good night, Malfoy.”

“See you tomorrow, Granger.”

And with that, she lightly clicked the door shut. 

Draco stared at it for a long minute - stared at where her hand had been, where it was replaced now by the wooden frame. Knowing she was just on the other side of it.

And before he could think more of it, he walked away. 

xxx

Chapter Two

xxx

By some small miracle, Hermione managed to avoid Malfoy those first few weeks back at school.

Aside from their mandatory meetings as Head Boy and Girl, they were ships in the night, with their comings and goings to their respective rooms. They even had their own common room, designated as a “study space” that only the two of them had access to, that was across the hall from their rooms. But every time Hermione had set foot in it, Malfoy was nowhere to be found.

Until, about a month into the school year, her luck had run out.

Unlike their rooms, the common room had a fireplace. When Hermione walked in one evening, she saw Malfoy curled up on the couch, under three layers of blankets.

She had half a mind to turn around and leave. And then she remembered, it was her common room too—she had as much of a right to be there as Malfoy did.

She also caught a look of his face—pale, sweaty, and clammy.

“Sorry—” she started.

“Don’t be,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

She stared at him. His eyes were bloodshot and watery. He looked like death warmed over.

“You’ve got it too, don’t you?”

She didn’t need to clarify. Those last few weeks, a mystery illness had made its way through the Hogwarts student body. Madame Pomfrey had been working non-stop on the worst cases in the hospital wing.

It also explained why Malfoy was posted up in front of the fire, under three layers of blankets.

“No, Granger. I’m right as rain,” he said with an eyeroll, before he broke out into a coughing fit.

She let out a tight sigh, before she sat on the armchair across from him, not daring to get too close.

“You need to go to the hospital wing.”

He laughed. “And what? Take a bed from a first year?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Surely, you’ve heard? This plague’s been making its way through the first and second years. I seem to be the only unfortunate sod over the age of thirteen to come down with it.”

“And?”

He tightened his jaw. “And I’m not about to take a bed from an eleven-year-old. Pomfrey doesn’t have the space as it is.”

She stared at him, stunned.

Even if it was the last thing she expected to come out of Draco Malfoy’s mouth, she understood his rationale—they were older. They could take care of themselves. He was doing the right thing, suffering in their common room, instead of taking away a bed from a new student.

And with that thought in mind, she took a deep breath. She flicked her wand, summoning a teacup from the cabinet, walking to their tea and herb cart.

“I can’t promise this will do the trick—but my mum always made me echinacea tea, when I was ill.”

“Echi-what?”

“It’s an old Muggle remedy.”

She expected him to protest.

Instead, he just about coughed up a lung, before going, “Screw it. At this rate, I’ll try anything.”

She smirked, filled the cup with near boiling water, and handed him the teacup. “You might want to remove one of those blankets. You’re probably running a fever.”

He took a sip of his tea, grimacing at first, before his eyes landed on Hermione.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared at her. The room felt even warmer than it had a minute ago.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked suddenly.

Hermione pulled her mouth into a tight line. “I’m not in the habit of letting people suffer in front of me. Even if they are a royal arse.”

Malfoy snorted. He took a sip of his tea. “If I didn’t know any better, Granger, I’d think you have a crush on me.”

She scoffed. “Hell would freeze over first.”

And then, she thought about how he’d looked at her, the night he came to her room to apologize.

Like the floor might swallow him whole.

How his eyes lingered on her for a second too long.

“Besides. If anyone has a crush in this room, it’s not me.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, then quickly shut it. For a brief moment, an expression crossed his face, one that Hermione couldn’t quite place.

Embarrassed. Wounded. Thoughtful. Maybe all of the above.

They sat in silence for a moment, in front of the flames. The only sound was the fire crackling and the occasional slurps Draco took from his tea.

After what felt like forever, Draco found his voice again.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

She shrugged. “Let the record show—I still don’t buy that you’ve changed. But I’ll give you this—the Malfoy I knew would have taken that hospital bed from a first year.” She shot him a pointed look. “Consider this my thank you, for not being that person anymore.”

He stared at her for a moment, and she held his gaze. There wasn’t an ounce of joking or sarcasm in her voice.

For a split second, it felt like his heart might leap out of his chest—followed swiftly by the realization that Hermione Granger, of all people, was seeing him. Who he wanted to be—who he’d been since the War ended.

He hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected her to see him. Not like this.

It rattled him.

xxx

Chapter Three

xxx

Once Draco was through the worst of the plague, he and Hermione resumed their joint duties as Head Boy and Girl.

As it turned out, their “duties” consisted mostly of patrolling the corridors at night. And as much as Hermione hated to admit it, it would have been awfully dull if it weren’t for Malfoy’s running commentary.

They were technically meant to split the castle—Hermione patrolling the corridors nearest Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, with Malfoy covering Slytherin and Hufflepuff—but more often than not, they fell into an hour-long loop and ended up right where they’d started, not a student in sight.

They walked in step together—sometimes in silence, sometimes broken by one of Draco’s dry observations about a crooked portrait or a dusty stairwell. Somehow, Draco Malfoy had made those nightly walks through the castle… tolerable.

“Ten galleons if the next one we catch is a Gryffindor.”

“Just because Ron, Harry, and I made a habit of wandering the halls at night doesn’t mean all Gryffindors do,” Hermione shot back with a smirk. “Besides—I seem to recall you getting caught out of bed a few times yourself.”

He shrugged. “Fine. Ten galleons to me if it’s Gryffindor. Ten to you if it’s Slytherin. Deal?”

She shook his hand. “You’ll regret it.”

As it turned out, she was right.

They split up shortly after, deciding to take opposite sides of the castle for a change. Only a few minutes later, Hermione spotted a first-year in green robes heading toward the kitchens.

“Excuse me,” she called. “What do you think you’re doing down here?”

The boy shot her a sullen look, crossing his arms. His name was Peters. “Sleepwalking.”

“Is that so?”

By then, Draco had heard them. Hermione was already leading the boy toward the dungeons.

“Ten galleons, Malfoy,” she murmured with a smirk.

He sighed, then jerked his head for Peters to follow him. “Mr. Malfoy will escort you back to your dormitory.”

As the boy turned away, Hermione heard him mutter under his breath—aimed directly at Draco.

“Bloody mudblood.”

Draco stopped short.

He turned back to Peters, his expression eerily calm, his voice cold as ice. “Say that again, and I’ll be escorting you straight to the Headmistress.”

All the color drained from Peters’ face. He’d clearly expected Malfoy to agree with him.

If she was honest, Hermione had half-expected the same.

Peters’ shock wasn’t lost on Draco.

“That word is outdated,” Draco continued evenly. “And it’s an insult to our Head Girl.” He nodded toward Hermione. “It’s an embarrassment to Slytherin House that you used it. You will not use it under my watch again. Is that clear?”

If Draco hadn’t sounded so lethally calm, Hermione was certain the boy would have protested. After all, until barely a year ago, Draco Malfoy had worn his prejudice proudly. It was deeply hypocritical of him to reprimand a student for a word he’d hurled at her countless times.

But Peters only nodded.

Draco gave Hermione a brief nod. “Thanks for finding him, Granger. I’ll see you back at the common room.”

Hermione stood there, stunned, watching the back of his head as he escorted Peters toward the Slytherin dormitories.

xxx

When Draco re-entered the common room, he was holding a small handful of gold.

“Alright,” he sighed. “A deal’s a deal. Ten galleons—”

“What are you playing at?”

He stopped short. “Pardon?”

Hermione crossed her arms, her earlier shock already replaced by anger. He was a fool—an absolute idiot—if he thought she was falling for this.

“I cannot believe someone changes this much in a year,” she said, laughing harshly. “You—of all people—telling off a first-year for using the word mudblood?”

She shook her head.

Draco let the silence stretch. He had a feeling she wasn’t finished.

“You’ve called me that a hundred times, Malfoy.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I have.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” she snapped. “Because you must, if you think I’m buying that little performance you put on in the hallway.”

“It wasn’t a performance.”

She let out a laugh.

“I’m serious.” He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable.

He wanted to look away—but he didn’t.

“When I said I had regrets, I meant it. And there are things you can’t unsee once you’ve been a Death Eater.”

“Like what?”

His voice dropped. “Like my aunt torturing you.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. The word—Mudblood—was still scarred into her forearm. She turned away.

“I recognized Potter immediately,” Draco continued. “And you know I could have given him up—but I didn’t. I knew it meant his death. And yours. And Weasley’s.” He swallowed.

“Then I watched my aunt torture you. I saw her carve into your arm—and I froze.”

His throat was suddenly very dry. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I know I’ve said horrible things to you over the years.”

“‘Horrible’ doesn't quite cover it,” she muttered.

He nodded. “Even so—I didn’t understand the weight of my words when we were kids. Not really. Not until I saw death up close. And to think that you, Weasley, and Potter could have died—and I would have done nothing…” He exhaled shakily. “I carry that with me every day. Along with the guilt.”

“So what?” she whispered. “You wished me dead once.”

“When I was twelve,” he said softly. “I was a stupid child. Parroting my father. I had no idea what real death meant then.” He met her eyes. “Now that I do—I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Certainly not on you.”

“Why not me?” she asked quietly. “You hated me.”

He gave a faint smile. “It’s easy to hate someone you don’t know—especially when you’re raised to think they’re beneath you.” His gaze flicked away. “And when they’re constantly kicking your arse in class.”

For a brief moment, Hermione considered what he was saying—that his cruelty had been born of jealousy and indoctrination. That he’d been taught to hate before he was old enough to understand the cost of it. That the gravity of his words hadn’t truly landed until the war forced it to.

Malfoy was a lot of things—but he was never a particularly talented liar. And the look on his face was awfully sincere.

Then again—this was Draco Malfoy she was dealing with.

She shook her head.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, forcing the words out.

He cracked a small smile.

She wasn’t a particularly talented liar, either.

“You sure about that, Granger?”

He had her cornered in the common room—not physically, but with his gaze. His eyes followed her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

And with that thought in mind, she turned towards the door. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

xxx

Chapter Four

xxx

As it turned out, the wall separating Draco’s room from Hermione’s was awfully thin.

When she first arrived at the castle, by some small miracle, she’d managed to sleep through the night. Her classes wore her down more than usual, as did her duties as Head Girl. But as she settled into a routine, uninterrupted sleep became a rarity.

George.

Tonks.

Lupin.

She saw their faces every night, sprawled across the Great Hall.

And then came the screams.

At first, she thought they were hers. It was only as the term wore on that she realized she wasn’t alone.

Malfoy didn’t scream the way she did. But in the middle of the night, she could hear him through the wall—his choked cries, his panicked breathing.

It didn’t take long for the realization to sink in: if she could hear him, he could almost certainly hear her.

After one of them had a spell during the night—or both of them, which happened more often than not—she dreaded the next morning. She couldn’t quite name the energy between them. Tense. Awkward. Something like that.

They may have fought on opposite sides of the war, and once upon a time Draco Malfoy had been the face of evil to her. But it was becoming harder to deny the evidence of his scars.

xxx

As the months wore on, sobbing wasn’t the only sound that carried through the wall.

It started quietly one night—his voice low, restrained, desperate, broken up by uneven breaths. He tried to hide it. But she knew what he was doing.

Merlin, she thought.

She’d considered it herself more than once. But knowing Draco would be able to hear every sound she made—every breath, every moan—had been enough to stop her.

Deep down, she couldn’t blame him. They were both adults. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have desires of her own.

Ron was off training to become an Auror. They’d slept together once before she returned to school, then agreed it would be better to put their relationship on hold until she finished her final year. He wrote when he could, but weeks sometimes passed between letters, his work taking him all over Europe.

She missed him terribly. Him—and Harry.

Few of her peers had returned to Hogwarts after the war. She had Ginny, and Luna, sure—but she rarely saw them.

Ironically, the person she saw most was Draco Malfoy.

And she could hear him masturbating through the fucking wall.

It made looking him in the eye the next morning nearly impossible.

“Sleep alright?” he’d ask, innocent as anything.

But she knew what he was doing. His eyes always gave him away.

“You know I can hear you, right?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

She scoffed. “You’re shameless,” she muttered.

He’d only continue to stare at her, feigning ignorance, as though he had no idea what she meant.

xxx

Eventually, Hermione’s resolve cracked.

It happened around the holidays. Ron wouldn’t be coming to the Burrow—he was away on assignment. So was Harry. Her parents didn’t remember her. And she would be spending Christmas alone in the castle.

Malfoy was still at the Great Hall. She had their wing entirely to herself.

And with that in mind, she finally went fuck it and slid her fingers inside herself.

Before that summer, she’d never considered herself a particularly sexual person. Being with Ron had awakened something in her—an awareness she hadn’t quite known what to do with. She touched herself more after that. Then she came back to school and realized Draco could hear everything through the wall.

She’d managed to hold out for four bloody months before giving in.

As it turned out, he hadn’t been at the Great Hall as long as she’d thought.

He returned when she was already halfway through—halfway through her soft, breathy moans, growing more desperate by the minute.

He listened, mortified.

For a moment, he considered retreating to the common room, giving her privacy. But he was exhausted. He needed to sleep.

He drifted off to the sounds of Hermione’s pleasure.

Only later, basking in the hazy afterglow of her orgasm, did Hermione admit the truth to herself.

Christmas dinner ended at nine. That was when she’d started.

She’d always known there was a chance Draco might come back while she was in the middle of it.

She hadn’t cared.

Or worse—her face burned at the thought—she’d wanted him to hear her.

It’s payback, she told herself. For all the nights she’d had to listen to him jerk off as quietly as he could manage.

But deep down, she knew she was lying to herself.

It was supposed to be a mission debrief. But Ava and Walker had made it a shouting match before Bucky even finished the first slide.

She was leaning across the table like she might strangle him with her bare hands. He was smirking, arms crossed, bleeding from the temple, like that would stop her.

“I gave you the signal—”

“You gave me a signal,” he shot back. “Which I ignored, because it wasn’t obviously the signal.”

“You ignored it because you don’t listen to anyone.”

Walker scoffed. “That’s not true. I listen to Bucky and Alexei all the time.”

“Right! Sorry, I should’ve said that you don’t listen to women. Seriously. You’re like if toxic masculinity got a Super Soldier serum.”

Walker snorted. “And you’re like if a wasp nest became sentient.”

Across the room, Alexei groaned audibly. Bucky didn’t look up.

And then Zemo—god help them all—looked up from his tablet, arched one carefully groomed eyebrow, and said, with absolutely no urgency:

“They fight like that because they want to fuck each other. They just need to sleep together and get it out of their systems.”

Silence.

Sharp, immediate, and endless.

Ava blinked.

Walker blinked.

Alexei choked on a peanut.

Bucky stood up and left the room like he’d been waiting for this excuse since dawn.

Zemo went back to scrolling.

xxx

Later that night, she found him.

Leaning against the railing on the shitty motel balcony, arms folded, jaw tight. Just standing there like he was brooding professionally.

The air was warm and thick. Her skin still stung from the last round of antiseptic. Her patience was long gone.

She crossed her arms and leaned beside him. Not too close. But close enough to be annoying.

“Hey.”

He didn’t look over. “Hey.”

She waited. Nothing.

“I wasn’t trying to make you look like an idiot,” she offered.

“You weren’t trying not to.”

She scoffed. “Okay, maybe I was. But only because you were being an idiot.”

That made him glance at her.

“Jesus, do you ever stop?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do the smug voice. The one you use when you think you’ve won.”

“I did win. You would’ve been dead in that alley if I hadn’t phased you out.”

“I was fine.”

“You were bleeding.”

“You were yelling.”

“You were insufferable.”

“You were—”

They both stopped.

There was a pause.

And then she said, dryly, “God, no wonder Olivia left you.”

His jaw flexed. “Keep her name out of your mouth.”

“Oh, hit a nerve?”

“You want to hit something, Ava? Go ahead.”

She turned to face him, eyes narrow. “Fuck you.”

His mouth curved. Slow. Dangerous.

“You first.”

That made her blink.

“What?” she said, voice low.

“You heard me.”

“Was that supposed to be clever?”

“I don’t know. Is that supposed to be a dare?”

Another beat.

“You seriously want to know why we fight so much?” he asked. “Maybe Zemo’s onto something.”

She rolled her eyes. “We fight so much because you’re irritating.”

“Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“No.” He stepped in, just enough to tower a little. “I don’t think so. I think it’s because you want me.”

That made her laugh. Sharp and humorless.

“If I wanted you,” she said, “I’d phase through you and your skinny dick and leave you vibrating in a wall.”

He blinked. Smirked. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna bet?”

“You first.”

He didn’t wait.

Neither did she.

They crashed into each other like a bar fight—teeth, heat, and bruised egos slamming mouth to mouth. His hands grabbed her hips like he was trying to brand her. She shoved him back into the wall like she was proving a point.

Shirts were yanked off, hers first. He barely looked—just shoved it over her head and went straight for her bra like he’d been planning this for months. Zippers came next, fast and graceless. Her nails scraped his ribs. He cursed and bit her bottom lip hard enough to make her gasp.

“Still think you don’t want me?” he muttered against her throat.

She laughed, low and breathless. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

She dragged him toward the bed, pushed him down, and climbed over him without hesitation. His hands were on her immediately, greedy, rough, like he couldn’t decide whether to pin her or pull her apart piece by piece.

Her mouth found his again—hot, open, a little too hungry—and then she was grinding down on him through her underwear, rolling her hips in a rhythm that made him groan.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re—shit—you’re so wet.”

“Get inside me and find out why,” she snapped.

He flipped them with a growl, shoved her panties aside, and didn’t even pretend to take it slow.

The first thrust knocked the air out of both of them.

She gasped.

He froze.

Their eyes met—just for a second.

Holy fuck.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered.

He groaned into her neck. “You feel—Jesus. You feel unreal.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up,” he growled, fucking into her hard enough to make the headboard rattle. “You’re the one clenching like I’m gonna disappear.”

“You wish I wanted you that bad.”

“You do.”

“You’re delusional.”

She flipped them again—sudden, dominant, pissed—and rode him like she was trying to punish him with pleasure. Her hands braced on his chest, nails digging in as she bounced, every thrust sharper than the last.

“Fuck,” he groaned, watching her. “God, you’re fucking filthy. You look—”

“Say it,” she dared.

“You look like a wet dream I hate myself for having.”

Her grin was savage.

“Good,” she said, leaning down, mouth at his ear. “You’re gonna come in me thinking about that for weeks.”

He grunted, grabbed her hips, and started thrusting up into her from below—faster, rougher, losing the rhythm, losing everything.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

“You feel too good,” he groaned. “Why the fuck do you feel this good?”

“Because I’m better than you,” she hissed.

“Fuck you.”

“You’re literally fucking me.”

Their mouths collided again. Sloppier this time. Like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to kiss or bite or scream.

He came first—sudden, with a groan ripped from somewhere low in his chest, pulling her down onto him hard and deep.

She came seconds later—biting his shoulder, moaning his name like a curse, clawing down his back like she could scratch the memory into his skin.

They stayed like that—panting, wrecked, bodies still locked together—for a long moment.

Neither of them spoke.

Then—

“Okay,” she said, still catching her breath. “That was…”

“Fucking incredible,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Jesus.”

She slid off of him and flopped back against the pillows, hair a mess, body flushed.

“Why haven’t we been doing this the whole time?” she asked.

“Because we hate each other,” he said automatically.

She laughed.

“Right,” she said. “Forgot.”

xxx

Newark Airport. Gate B47. 10:17 AM. Flight delayed. Tension high.

Ava sat cross-legged on the terminal bench, hoodie up, sunglasses on, sipping aggressively from a massive iced coffee. Walker was beside her, pretending to scroll through his phone. His thumb wasn’t moving.

To anyone watching, they looked like a couple—maybe a little tense, maybe mid-fight, but close enough to pass. Close enough to sell it.

Which was probably the point.

“I still think they know,” Ava muttered, low enough that no one else could hear.

Walker didn’t look up. “They don’t know.”

“Then why did they assign us as the cover couple again?”

“We’ve been assigned before.”

“Not since we…” She trailed off. “You know.”

He risked a glance at her. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence.

A gate agent announced another delay. Someone’s child started crying across the aisle.

Walker shifted in his seat.

“I mean,” he said finally, voice casual like he’d rehearsed it, “at least we have some… experience now.”

Ava turned to stare at him. “Did you just refer to hate-fucking me in a motel as experience?”

He cleared his throat. “Operational experience.”

“Oh, right. Of course. Strategic boning.”

“That’s not—”

“No, I get it,” she said, deadpan. “We were just training for this exact moment. Very noble of you.”

Walker ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

She smirked. Just a little. Then, quieter: “It was a one-off.”

“I know.”

“You keep looking at me like it wasn’t.”

“I’m not looking at you.”

“You’re literally looking at me right now.”

He turned sharply to stare forward. “You’re paranoid.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Depends. You blushing?”

She kicked his shin under the bench. He didn’t flinch.

A family walked by with a toddler wearing plastic wings. The mom gave them a strained smile—like she thought they were mid-breakup but still trying to hold it together for appearances.

Ava leaned back, arms crossed. “God. We’re convincing.”

Walker didn’t smile, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re naturals.”

“Terrifying thought.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m great at pretending I don’t want to strangle you.”

“Cute,” she said. “I don’t have to pretend.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter:

“Seriously,” she said, eyes on the floor. “You don’t think they know?”

Walker glanced over at Bucky and Alexei across the terminal. Bucky was reading something. Alexei was eating something. Neither of them looked like they cared.

“No,” he said. “If they knew, they’d be way weirder about it.”

A beat passed.

Then—

“You wanna get weird about it?” he added, voice low.

She didn’t look at him. But her smirk gave her away.

“Only if there’s turbulence.”

xxx

Boarding was chaos.

Too many civilians. Too little overhead space. Ava had a go-bag slung over one shoulder and a tactical duffel under the other, and Walker—naturally—was blocking the aisle, arguing with a man in business class about carry-on dimensions.

“You don’t need to shove it up there sideways,” Ava said through clenched teeth.

“I’m maximizing vertical clearance,” Walker shot back.

“You’re maximizing being a dick.”

“Don’t start with me.”

Ava huffed. “You started it when you packed like we’re gone for a month.”

“Says the woman who brought three hair products and a taser.”

“It’s a mini taser, and it has nothing to do with my hair.”

Behind them, Alexei sighed dramatically. “You two argue like you’ve seen each other naked.”

Ava froze. Walker stilled.

Bucky, two rows down, didn’t even look up from his book. “We’re taking bets, by the way. Winner gets to tell Bob.”

“No one’s telling Bob,” Ava hissed.

Alexei smiled like he’d won something. “Noted.”

Walker shoved his bag into the overhead like it had personally offended him.

xxx

They got seats together. Of course they did.

Second row from the back. Middle and window.

The armrest between them was barely wide enough for peace.

Walker crossed his arms. Ava curled into the window and didn’t speak for the first ten minutes of taxiing. She was trying to breathe, trying to forget, trying not to replay that look on his face when Alexei said it. Like maybe it wasn’t just a one-off, and maybe they were bad at hiding it.

They hit cruising altitude.

He shifted beside her. Knee brushing hers.

“You okay?” he muttered.

She nodded. “Fine.”

“You look tense.”

“Gee, wonder why.”

He exhaled. Looked out the window. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

Another bump of turbulence. Small. Forgettable.

But her hand was already on his thigh.

Walker turned his head slowly. “What are you doing?”

“Looking relaxed,” she said flatly.

“That’s not—”

“Are you gonna tell me to stop?”

He didn’t.

She didn’t look at him as her fingers moved—casual, clinical, like this was some field exercise they were running under a travel blanket.

He was half-hard already. Furious about it.

“You’re unhinged,” he muttered under his breath.

“And you’re hard,” she whispered back.

He sucked in a breath through his nose. Stared straight ahead. Seatbelt sign still on. Alexei snoring two rows up.

She undid his fly. Slid her hand beneath the waistband like she owned the place.

“You gonna cum with the team twenty feet away?” she asked softly, lips barely moving.

His jaw clenched.

Her hand moved slower.

More deliberate.

“I hate you,” he breathed.

She grinned. “Good.”

When he came, it was quiet. Barely a twitch. Barely a sound. Just his hand gripping the armrest, knuckles white.

She withdrew just as calmly.

Pulled her hoodie sleeve down like nothing happened.

He turned to look at her—eyes still a little wild.

“You’re evil.”

“Yeah,” she said, smirking out the window. “But you keep sitting next to me.”

xxx

They were supposed to be in separate rooms.

That was the assignment—standard post-mission protocol. Rest, regroup, keep a low profile.

Which made it extra awkward when Bucky rounded the hallway corner and caught Walker and Ava quietly slipping into the same room with all the stealth of two teenagers whose parents were still awake.

Walker had his hand on the door. Ava’s hoodie was off. Her hair was down.

Neither of them looked remotely guilty.

Just tired. Flushed. And already halfway to undressed.

Bucky stopped. Stared. Let the moment sit there.

Walker looked at him.

Bucky raised a single brow. “Really?”

Walker opened his mouth. Closed it.

Ava sighed. “Don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Bucky said. “I was just wondering how long the denial phase is supposed to last.”

Walker frowned. “It’s not—”

Bucky held up a hand. “Nope. Not my business. You’re adults. Just don’t make me write it up in the mission report if you accidentally break a lamp.”

And with that, he turned and walked back the way he came.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Ava turned to Walker, crossing her arms. “Well. That was subtle.”

Walker rubbed a hand over his face. “He definitely knows.”

“He’s known.”

They stood there in silence for a second. Not awkward. Not quite.

Then he said it.

Low. Like it escaped before he could stop it.

“I want you.”

Ava blinked. “What?”

He stepped closer. “You’re mean as hell to me.”

“Yeah,” she said, slowly. “And?”

“And I still want you.”

She didn’t move. But her eyes darkened. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It is a problem,” he said. “You drive me insane. You never let me have the last word. You hit me harder than any enemy we’ve ever had.”

“You pout when I’m right.”

“You gloat when I’m injured.”

“I think you like it when I’m mean to you.”

“I do. And I think you like it when I’m a dick.”

Her smirk sharpened. “Took you long enough.”

He reached for her. Pulled her in. Kissed her like it had been building all day.

Because it had.

Because it always did.

The sex was fast, rough, familiar now—like they'd carved out a rhythm in their chaos. He hoisted her onto the dresser, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. She bit his shoulder. He cursed into her mouth. They undressed each other in pieces, like they couldn’t be bothered to fully separate.

“I hate that I want you this much,” she gasped as he pressed inside her.

He groaned. “I hate that you feel this good.”

She met every thrust with a matching roll of her hips, lips at his ear.

“Don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Good,” she breathed. “Whatever this is… just don’t stop.”

Later, tangled in sheets that definitely weren’t theirs, Walker stared up at the ceiling.

“You’re staying, right?” he asked.

Ava sighed. Rolled onto her side. “For now.”

He nodded.

Didn’t ask what now meant.

Didn’t dare.

xxx

Breakfast at the safehouse was never a formal affair.

Coffee. Protein bars. Something vaguely resembling scrambled eggs.

Bucky was already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, wearing the look of a man who’d seen too much shit to care anymore.

Walker walked in first—hair still damp from the shower, white t-shirt soft and worn in a way that said slept in it.

Ava followed a few minutes later.

She was wearing his hoodie.

Not in an obvious, oversized “I stole this” way. No, she had the sleeves pushed up. Hood bunched at the back. Made it look almost incidental.

Almost.

Alexei was halfway through a bowl of cereal when she sat down beside him.

Walker, without a word, set a coffee in front of her. Just how she liked it. No questions asked.

Alexei blinked.

Paused.

Stared.

“Wait,” he said slowly, “no way.”

Ava looked up. “What?”

Walker raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Alexei pointed his spoon at both of them. “You two. You two. I was joking. When I said you fight like you’ve seen each other naked. That was a joke.”

No one answered.

“Holy shit,” Alexei breathed. “You’ve seen each other naked.”

Ava groaned and dropped her forehead to the table.

Walker muttered, “Goddammit.”

Alexei looked delighted. Like he’d won a game no one else knew they were playing.

“Oh my God,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “I have to tell someone. Yelena’s gonna lose it. Or Bob. Who do I call first? Wait—wait—do I tell Bucky?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from his coffee. “Already know.”

Alexei’s jaw dropped. “You knew?”

“I know everything,” Bucky said, totally deadpan.

Walker glared at him. “You knew and you didn’t say anything?”

Bucky finally looked up. Smirked. “Wasn’t my business. Plus, I figured it was either a one-time thing or a five-time thing and an eventual breakdown.”

Ava lifted her head. “We’re keeping it casual.”

Alexei snorted. “You’re wearing his shirt.”

“It’s a hoodie.”

“It’s monogrammed.”

Walker looked at her. “Is it?”

She yanked the sleeve up. “Shit.”

Alexei was dialing. “Yelena first. Bob second. I need them to witness this in real time.”

Ava stood up. “I’m going to commit a felony.”

Walker followed. “You’re not helping.”

Alexei waved them off. “Do not deprive me of this joy.”

They stormed off down the hallway.

Bucky watched them go.

Then, to no one in particular, he said, “They’re gonna get married.”

Alexei, on speakerphone: “WHAT.”

xxx

Ava was halfway through pretending to read a mission brief when her tablet started buzzing.

Yelena.

FaceTime.

She sighed. Contemplated ignoring it. Answered anyway.

Yelena’s face filled the screen—messy bun, sunglasses on top of her head, smirking like a woman with receipts.

“Hi,” Ava said cautiously.

“Ava,” Yelena said, voice dripping with amused concern. “Sweetheart. What are you doing?”

Ava groaned and collapsed back onto her pillow. “Did Alexei call you?”

“He texted. And then he called. Twice. While laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. I thought you’d been murdered. But no. Worse. You’re sleeping with Walker.”

“Not sleeping with,” Ava muttered. “It was a one-time thing.”

Yelena arched a brow. “According to Alexei, it was at least a two-time thing and an airplane incident.”

Ava threw an arm over her eyes. “Fucking kill me.”

“I mean,” Yelena continued, “no judgment. I’ve made my fair share of mistakes. We’ve all had our weird missions. You black out. Things happen. People get bored. Planes have turbulence. Whatever.”

“Right?” Ava said, sitting up a little. “It’s messy, I know. We’re on the same team. It’s not ideal.”

Yelena waved a hand. “No, no, I’m not judging that it’s a teammate.”

That gave Ava pause.

“…You’re not?”

Yelena squinted, suddenly realizing. “No, I mean—I’m just saying—I’m judging that it’s Walker.”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Okay, but back up. Why aren’t you judging that it’s a teammate?”

Yelena froze.

“…Because I have emotional maturity.”

“Oh my God,” Ava gasped. “You’re fucking one of your teammates.”

Yelena looked off to the side. “I didn’t say that.”

“You are. You are. Who is it? Oh my God—is it Bob?”

“No!” Yelena said quickly. “God, no. Ew. I mean—not ew, he’s great, just—not like that. He’s like—”

“You’re spiraling,” Ava said, eyes going wide. “You never spiral. Who is it?”

Yelena made a face. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it matters. Who is it, Belova?”

There was a long pause.

Yelena exhaled. “Let’s just say… you and I are living dangerously parallel lives.”

Ava blinked.

Silence.

Then slowly—so slowly—realization dawned.

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

Yelena didn’t say anything.

Ava squinted at the screen. “Is it Walker’s emotional support rival? The one with the vibranium arm?”

Yelena took off her sunglasses. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Are you fucking Bucky?!”

Yelena smiled serenely. “Have a great day, Ava.”

“Yelena!”

Click.

Call ended.

Ava stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then flopped back onto the bed and yelled into her pillow. “What the fuck is happening to this team?!”

xxx

The bar was built into the observation deck of the space station—sleek, sterile, and very much not designed for people like them. Too much glass. Too many shiny surfaces. Not enough places to duck for cover if things went sideways.

Which is probably why the Thunderbolts took over the corner booth like it was a bunker.

Yelena was finally cleared from medical, fresh out of the hospital wing with a thin line of stitches at her temple and zero chill about being upright again. Her drink was half gone. She looked relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Across from her, Alexei was four beers deep and starting to pitch a very serious argument about replacing the jet with a motorcycle caravan.

Ava and Walker were squished together at one end of the booth. Definitely not cuddling. Definitely not doing anything weird.

But Ava was wearing his jacket.

And Walker kept unconsciously bumping her knee with his.

Everyone noticed.

No one said anything—until Yelena set her glass down and grinned.

“So,” she said, eyeing them, “are you two gonna make it official, or should we all just keep pretending it’s not a full-blown enemies-to-lovers novella over there?”

Ava didn’t blink. “We’re still in the getting drunk and hate-fucking phase of our relationship, thank you very much.”

Walker raised his glass. “Slow burn. Leave us alone.”

“You’re fifteen stages behind,” Yelena said, mock-scandalized. “Bucky and I are making joint grocery lists.”

Bucky, beside her, took a sip of his drink and didn’t deny it.

Alexei gasped. “Domesticated?!”

“Thriving,” Yelena said smugly.

Ava leaned back against the booth. “Gross.”

Walker nodded. “Deeply unsettling.”

Yelena raised her brows. “Says the couple who’ve been sneaking off for months pretending they’re just yelling in storage closets.”

“We were yelling,” Ava said.

“Just with fewer clothes on,” Walker added.

Everyone groaned.

Even Bucky smiled—soft and low, just for Yelena.

And for the first time in a long time, the team felt like a team.

A very dysfunctional, wildly inappropriate team.

But still—a team.

xxx

They didn’t even make it to the bed.

The door slammed behind them like punctuation, and Ava was already pushing Walker back against it—mouth on his, biting instead of kissing, fingers twisted in his shirt like she might tear it straight off.

He grunted, flipped her around, and shoved her against the wall instead.

“God, you’re such a fucking brat,” he muttered against her neck.

She gasped. “And you love it.”

He dragged his mouth down her throat, teeth scraping over her collarbone.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he growled.

She shoved him off. “Then take me to the bed and shut me up, Captain Discount.”

He grabbed her wrist. Yanked her toward the mattress.

“I’m gonna wreck you,” he muttered.

“Try.”

It was all teeth and nails after that.

She climbed on top first, grinding against him with that cocky smirk that made his hands twitch. He grabbed her hips hard enough to bruise and flipped her beneath him in one motion.

Her legs wrapped around his waist.

He thrust in hard and fast, no buildup, no patience. She choked on a gasp, then dragged her nails down his back so hard he cursed out loud.

“Fucking hell,” he bit out.

“You like it rough,” she said, breathless. “Don’t lie.”

He grabbed her throat—lightly, just enough—and leaned in. “You want to get tossed around, say so.”

“I want you to earn it.”

“Oh yeah?”

He pulled out just enough to make her whine, then slammed back in.

She slapped his shoulder. He grabbed her wrist and pinned it above her head.

“Say you want it,” he growled.

“Fuck you.”

“Already doing that, sweetheart.”

She lunged up, bit his jaw, hard.

He cursed again. “Jesus, you’re insane.”

“Keep going.”

He hooked one of her legs up over his shoulder. Drove into her deeper. She gasped—head tipped back, flushed and furious and loving every second.

“Louder,” he demanded.

“Make me.”

So he did.

He slapped her ass when she got too mouthy. She slapped his chest when he slowed down.

There were no rules. No rhythm. Just heat and spite and hands everywhere.

He told her she was soaking wet for someone who claimed to hate him. She told him his dick was the only thing keeping her from punching him in the throat.

He fucked her through two orgasms and didn’t stop until she was grabbing at his arms and yelling “don’t you fucking dare finish before I say so.”

He waited.

Barely.

When they were both wrecked, sweaty, tangled in sheets on opposite sides of the bed like competitors in a death match, he finally spoke.

Voice low. Hoarse. Almost hesitant.

“You know I’m fucking addicted to you, right?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the ceiling, chest still heaving.

He rolled onto his side, arm slung over his eyes like he couldn’t quite believe he said it.

“This ends one of two ways,” he murmured. “We either burn this place to the ground or it’s some epic, batshit love story people write poems about.”

Ava finally turned to face him.

“You think we get a happy ending?”

He smiled. Not soft. Not hopeful. Just real.

“I think we’re gonna blow up the planet trying.”

She exhaled. “Cool.”

He reached for her hand. She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t say anything else, either.

chapter three

It took fourteen days, but the night came when they didn’t pair us.

That was the first wrong thing.

I saw it on the booking board before he did — Starr – Room 6. Jack – Room 7. And next to him: Sandra.

He stepped up beside me, reading it twice like he expected it to rearrange itself.

“Well,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, because pretending was survival. “Guess we finally broke our streak.”

“Sandra,” he muttered. “Do you know who that is?”

“Yes,” I said, clearing my throat. “Blonde, young—very cute.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Daughter of Scott Lang.”

“Wait—”

The color drained from Walker’s face.

“Cassie Lang? She’s… what, a kid?”

“Turned eighteen last week,” I said.

He went a shade greener. “How long has she been here?”

“About two years,” I said. “Give or take.”

His jaw tightened. “Jesus Christ.”

I didn’t disagree.

He dragged in a slow breath like he was forcing himself to stabilize. “Well,” he said finally, voice thin, “guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“She knows how things work here,” I said. “She’ll handle it.”

I wasn’t saying it for his sake. I was saying it for mine.

He nodded like he was trying to believe me.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Yeah, well. Two weeks was a good run. Thought they’d get sick of watching us steal the spotlight sooner.”

I shrugged. “I carried you.”

“Please. I made us marketable.”

I scoffed, but it didn’t land quite right. Something cold was already blooming in my stomach.

“Just promise me one thing,” he added, tipping his chin toward my new room assignment. “Don’t fall in love with your client while I’m not around to mock you for it.”

“Cute,” I said. “Try not to traumatize Sandra too much with your charm.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s one night. It was bound to happen sometime.”

He meant it. He believed that.

I nodded like I did too. Made a joke about how now I’d finally get a quiet shift. Walked away without looking back.

But something under my ribs felt off-kilter — like we'd been orbiting in synchronization and someone had just nudged the equation a degree to the left.

I turned away before I could admit the unease forming in my chest.

He’ll be fine, I told myself. Sandra — no, Cassie — has a protective order. She’s covered.

That coverage extends to her partner during a session. Eyes on the room. Bouncers tracking vitals. If he spirals, they’ll catch it. If something goes wrong, there’s backup.

It’ll be fine.

I already knew I was lying.

But I walked to Room 6 anyway.

xxx

It was fine.

I’d made it fine.

Or so I kept repeating while I worked.

My client was forgettable — soft hands, trembling voice, the kind who mistook obedience for intimacy. I moved through it like through vapor, going through motions while my thoughts drifted three rooms over.

He’s safe. He’s fine. You’re overthinking this.

I let him kiss my shoulder. I moaned on cue. I smiled when I was supposed to. When it was over, he left a shaky thank-you and an overstuffed envelope. I wiped the lipstick off my teeth, adjusted the silk, and walked out, already calculating how long it would take to meet Walker downstairs.

Only — the hallway went silent as I stepped into it.

Too silent.

Two handlers rounded the corner pushing a gurney draped in a black bag.

No one looked directly at it. That was the rule: pretend death didn’t have your name on it.

But someone whispered it, anyway.

“Sandra.”

My breath left my body like someone had punched me.

Cassie Lang. Protective order. One of the safest people in this place.

In a bag.

No. No.

Before I knew I was moving, I was already searching.

I found him against a wall near one of the side exits, sitting like his knees had given out mid-step. His face was pale — not teary, not shattered. Worse: locked down, military-quiet. Like grief was a room he’d barricaded from the inside.

“Jack.”

He barely looked up at me, before fixing his gaze back on the ground.

“She OD’d,” he said flatly, staring at nothing. “In the middle of it. They drugged her before she got there. Or she came in high. I don’t know.”

The words hit like déjà vu.

Same script. Same cadence. Another voice had said almost the exact same thing, years ago — right before I watched a pair of gloved hands zip up a bag over a face I knew better than my own.

I blinked once. Buried it. This wasn’t then—this wasn’t Price.

This was now.

His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking.

“Jack—”

“I’m fine,” he cut in. “I’ve seen people die on my watch before.”

His eyes said he was lying.

“Don’t be alone right now,” I said, reaching out.

He recoiled like my touch burned. “Starr. I just need a minute. Alone.”

My jaw clenched.

Price had said the same thing on his bad nights. Back when I let him walk it off alone.

I wasn’t making that mistake again.

But Walker was already pushing to his feet, steadying himself like he was willing his spine not to shake.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated. Then he walked away.

I could’ve followed him. Should’ve, maybe.

Instead, I turned on my heel and headed toward the champagne room.

Something in me cracked — a flash of nausea, memory, fury. It passed in a breath. I didn’t have time to mourn or scream. All I could do was move.

I didn’t wait for Brutus. I shoved past the curtain like it had personally offended me.

Sharon was mid-count, bills laid out in clean stacks. Zemo hovered nearby like a smug vulture waiting to feed on weakness. Both of them looked up.

“We had an agreement,” I said, voice like steel.

Sharon didn’t miss a beat. “We had nothing formal.”

“Oh, really?” I stepped closer. “Because Cassie Lang just died on the floor with John Walker in the room, and if that’s how you treat people under protective coverage—”

She stilled. Just for a second.

It hit me then.

She didn’t know yet. I was delivering her the news — that one of her best girls was gone.

I smiled — razor-thin. “Didn’t hear that one yet? Must be a slow night for the almighty Power Broker.”

Her fingers remained on the cash, motionless now. Something was happening behind her eyes — the kind of recalculating you only saw when the stakes changed mid-hand.

“You let him get booked without full protection,” I continued. “You knew he was a risk. I told you he was a risk.”

“He was under your watch,” Sharon said evenly.

“Not with Cassie,” I shot back. “She had a protective order. That meant they were both covered. That was the deal.”

She said nothing — which was as good as admission.

“So here’s what happens now,” I said. “You tell me who’s smuggling in heroin, or I tell every girl downstairs exactly who Kate really is.”

Zemo shifted — ever so slightly, intrigued.

Sharon stared at me. Calm. Too calm. “You wouldn’t burn your leverage.”

I shrugged. “Wanna risk calling that bluff?”

Zemo’s mouth curved slightly, like he was curious to see which one of us blinked first.

Sharon slowly set the stack of cash down.

“We neutralized the previous source,” she said carefully. “Once he was gone, the ODs stopped.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Because when that ginger bouncer disappeared overnight, the heroin dried up just as fast.”

Zemo’s expression sharpened. Sharon’s didn’t — but there was a tightness now.

“How did you know that?” she asked.

I smirked. “You do realize some of us were Avengers, right? Spies. Strategists. Soldiers. You think we turned our brains off when we started spreading our legs for cash?”

For the first time, Sharon looked at Zemo — a fractional, unreadable glance — before flicking two fingers.

He hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want—”

“Leave,” she said, clipped.

He left.

I clocked that. It wasn’t the first time she’d sent him out once things went from numbers to stakes. Filed it away for later.

“You don’t know who it is this time,” I said.

Sharon didn’t flinch. “No.”

“You have eyes up here. But not on the ground.”

She gave the faintest nod.

“You want me to find them,” I said.

She considered. Then inclined her head once.

“Whoever’s bringing it in is costing both of us. Clients panic when talent dies. Revenue drops. Word spreads.”

“Girls die,” I said.

She didn’t argue.

“So here’s my offer,” she said. “You find who’s smuggling the drugs. I’ll put Walker under an official protective order. Full coverage. Unconditional.”

I looked at her. “Your word doesn’t mean much here.”

“Then make me prove it,” she replied.

Not a plea. A deal.

“For him,” I said.

She paused. “For stability.”

I didn’t shake her hand.

But I didn’t walk away either.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll find them.”

“And when you do, I’ll protect him,” she said.

The curtain closed behind me.

And for the first time since Walker showed up, I realized I’d just stepped onto a different battlefield entirely.

xxx

I knew better than to give Walker his space. Once I’d left Sharon, I went straight for his room.

I knocked once. Then again. Louder the third time. “Jack,” I said, voice rougher than I meant. “It’s me. Open up.”

After a long pause, the door creaked open.

He looked terrible. Eyes bloodshot, bottle of liquor dangling from his fingers. His shirt was half-buttoned, collar crooked. He looked like he’d been up for two days instead of two hours.

“What do you want?” he asked. His voice was hoarse, worn down to the wire.

“To check on you,” I said.

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “You can drop it, Ava. I’m fine. Not like it’s the first time I’ve seen someone die.”

“Right,” I said softly. “Because that makes it easier.”

He turned away, pacing a slow line across the room. “You don’t have to play therapist. You’ve got enough shit of your own.”

“I’m not here to play anything.”

He stopped pacing but didn’t face me. “Then what are you doing here?”

I hesitated, then pushed the door shut behind me. “Making sure you don’t end up like him.”

He turned, brow furrowed. “Like who?”

I took a slow breath. “When I first got here, there was a guy I worked with a lot. Price. He OD’d on the job. Right in front of me.”

My throat tightened. “They didn’t wheel him out. I saw it. I saw the way his eyes went empty before anyone even called for help.”

Walker went still. The room suddenly felt smaller, air heavier.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” I said, quieter now. “But I’ve been through what you’re going through. And I know what it does to you if you sit in it alone.”

Walker swallowed, staring at the floor. “Why didn’t you ever mention it?”

“Because I don’t like to talk about him,” I said again. “It was over a year ago. Doesn’t mean it stopped mattering.”

He nodded slowly, something loosening in his shoulders. The mask was still there, but cracked around the edges.

It was then I noticed just how blue his eyes were. Walker was a good twenty years older than Price, but sometimes I forgot that — until moments like this, when the gray in his beard caught the light, and the lines around his eyes looked carved in.

Maybe I hadn’t been giving Walker enough credit. He wasn’t like Price — he’d seen death before. It didn’t shake the ground beneath him the way it had with Price, the first time we’d found another escort slumped over in their own vomit. Walker just looked tired. Like this was business as usual.

Maybe he was fine.

Or, maybe, he was great at faking it.

“You’re right,” he said after a long pause. “I shouldn’t be alone right now.”

The bottle hit the table with a dull clink. He rubbed a hand over his face, eyes hollow.

I hadn’t expected that — the honesty, the way his voice dipped on alone.

For a moment, I just stood there, weighing the silence between us. He didn’t look at me again. Didn’t reach for the bottle either. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, eyes gone distant.

I could’ve walked away. Should’ve. It would’ve been easier — to let him drink, to let him sleep it off, to let the night swallow what it wanted.

But the idea of leaving him there felt wrong in a way I couldn’t name.

“I can stay,” I said finally.

He looked up, eyes bloodshot and unguarded. “You sure?”

I didn’t answer right away. The thought turned over and over in my head — we spend every night sleeping in the same bed anyway.

Just a job. Just muscle memory. What difference did it make if it was tonight?

Except it did. And I knew it.

He gave me a small, crooked smile.

When he shifted back on the bed, I followed. The mattress dipped beneath our weight — too familiar and not familiar at all. The room was dim, the air still thick with liquor and loss. We didn’t touch. Didn’t speak.

He leaned back, exhaustion pulling at him. I stretched out beside him, careful to leave an inch of space between us that felt more intimate than contact ever could.

My mind wouldn’t quiet. Every breath he took sounded louder than it should have.

The heat radiating off him was steady, grounding, dangerous.

I couldn’t even pretend this was nothing.

My heart was hammering, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it. The air between us felt electric, charged with everything we weren’t saying.

He exhaled slowly, the sound brushing the space between us. I knew he was listening—to my breathing, to the silence, maybe to the way the room itself seemed to hold its breath.

It hit me then: this was the first time we’d ever shared a bed without fucking. No escape hatch. No pretense of release or transaction.

Just us. Awake. Crossing a line neither of us could uncross.

He shifted slightly, and without thinking, I reached for him. My hand found his—warm, rough, steady—and held.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t squeeze back, either. Just let it be.

I stared at the ceiling, pulse still racing, and felt the enormity of what I’d done settle in.

What we’d done.

What the fuck am I doing?

His breathing slowed, evened out. Mine didn’t.

It wasn’t sex, or comfort, or absolution—just proof of life. Two people still breathing in a place that kept trying to stop the clock.

And as the dark pressed in around us, I knew this would be the moment I’d replay in my head later.

chapter two

John fell asleep not too long after, before I had the chance to kick him out. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

You just fucked John Walker. Willingly.

I almost laughed. Almost. It caught in my throat instead, sharp and bitter. “It really is the end of the world,” I muttered.

And it wasn’t just that I fucked him.

I liked it.

That was the part that stung.

All those years of trading barbs, of telling myself I hated his guts—maybe it was just the only language we had for wanting each other. Hate and want share the same bones. Strip them down and they look alike.

And once our clothes were off, that line disappeared.

My body still hummed with it. The way he dragged me open with his mouth. The way he fucked me like he’d been starving. The way I screamed his name and meant it.

Shame curled at the edges of the memory. But under the shame, defiance. Because for the first time in years, it hadn’t been for them.

It hadn’t been performance. It was mine. Ours.

He shifted beside me, groaning in his sleep, and my chest went tight.

The smug grin was gone. He looked young. Breakable.

And that’s when the truth hit me, cold and hard—

This place will crush him like a bug.

I’d seen it, time and time again. The women could usually hang a bit longer, in the Armory—maybe we were built of sterner stuff.

But the male escorts? They were the ones that would die of drug overdoses, intentional or otherwise—it had been a revolving door of different male faces in the time that I’d been there.

And I knew that, if I didn’t keep a close eye on Walker, he would be one of them.

With that thought in mind, I knew exactly what I needed to do.

I slowly untangled his limbs from mine, and worked my way out of the bed. I tiptoed across the room, lightly closing the door behind me, so I wouldn’t wake him.

I made my way down the hall. It was late. Most of the girls were either back in their rooms, sleeping it off, save for a couple of stragglers down by the bar.

I rounded the corner, to a curtained section of the lounge. The champagne room.

The bouncer glanced me up and down. “Starr,” he deadpanned.

“Brutus.” I motioned towards the room. “Is she free?”

He crossed his arms. “She’s not expecting you.”

“It’s important.”

When that didn’t work, I took a deep breath. I’d pulled this card only once before, and it had worked—but I didn’t know if I could pull it again.

“Tell her it’s Avengers business.”

He stared at me for a beat, before I held up his hand, motioning me to wait, as he disappeared behind the curtain.

A minute or two passed, and Brutus re-emerged.

“She has five minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said quickly, dipping behind the curtain.

I stepped into the champagne room.

Normally, the champagne room could be counted on to have the highest end clients, with the girls who commanded the highest fees.

I’d been back there a few times, myself—but always as part of a larger party. Usually the nights that I was paired with other ex-Avengers, though none of us went by those names anymore.

But at the end of the night, once the clients had cleared out, the Power Broker would show up, and count the evening’s wages.

Her real name was Sharon Carter, but nobody called her that.

Most of the girls at the Armory didn’t know who she was or how much power she really held—she sometimes went undercover by the name Kate, and would lurk around the bar, pretending to be an escort while she eavesdropped.

Thankfully, I’d known who she was from the jump. And since she knew I could blow her cover, she—for the most part—stayed out of my way.

As I reached the back of the room, I found her exactly where I expected—counting cash, like a banker at the end of the world. Zemo was lingering at her side, murmuring something low. She caught my eye, flicked her fingers, and he left without protest.

She didn’t even look up when she said, “talk while I count. I don’t have much time.”

“John Walker.”

“Ahh,” she smiled, still counting. “Must be fun, being reunited with an old teammate. What’s his whore name—Jack, I heard?”

I felt my blood pressure rise.

“Have you taken him out for a spin yet?” she asked, lips curling. “You two always looked good together—the hate played well on camera.”

“He needs a protective order.”

She waited a beat before responding.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit. I have one.” I crossed my arms. “So does Cassie Lang, and every other high roller here. Walker needs one, too.”

“Well, like you just said—protective orders are for high rollers. Walker’s been here for five minutes—”

“—and he won’t last another five unless he has one.”

And with that, Sharon’s smile widened.

“Wow.” She put the cash down. “You actually like him, don’t you?”

“I really don’t. But he’s family to me.”

She didn’t say anything for a minute—just looked at me, like I was the most curious thing in the world.

“Look. I’ve been here—what—two years, now?”

“Has it really been that long?” she mused.

I ignored her. “You know how this goes. You can’t keep male talent for shit. They drink themselves to death or slash their wrists within three months. And you know I’ve watched it happen up close.”

She stayed quiet for a moment. “Some of them do, yes.”

“I know Walker. I worked with him for years. And I’m telling you—the man puts on a good face, but he’s a walking suicide risk. Or drug risk. Or both.”

She measured her next words very carefully.

“He was an Avenger. Your team typically doesn’t come with the suicide risk.”

“He was in rough shape before all of this. His wife left him—he never talks about it, she took the kid too. He told me the other night I was the first person he’d slept with in two years. So trust me, when I say—if there’s anyone who should get a protective order, it’s him.”

“Like you said earlier,” she said, voice low, “protective orders are for high rollers only.”

I bit back a laugh. She wasn’t wrong.

Protective orders were a perk for the top earners—quiet watchers to keep you from OD’ing or opening your wrists before the next client. It kept the machine running. Kept the cash flowing.

Before I could think too much of it, I pulled my robe to the side. Revealed to Sharon the hickeys that were blooming on my neck.

“I just went another three rounds with him, without a client. And I’m telling you, it was—by a mile—the best sex I’ve had in years. If he can get through these first few months without drugs or offing himself, he’ll be the best male talent you’ll have here.”

She thought on it for a moment. “Good male talent is hard to come by…” she said, mostly to herself. “But we don’t have the resources to spare for another protective order right now.”

“Then talk to the dealers,” I said. “If he asks for anything, sell him the watered-down stuff. Have the bartenders cut him off after two. As for the muscle…”

I hesitated for a second, and then drew a slow breath. “I’ll cover that. For now.”

I knew what that meant. Keeping eyes on him the way they already kept eyes on me. Making sure he didn’t drink himself into the ground or find a razor in the dark. Carrying his watch on top of my own.

Sharon’s eyebrow arched. “You’ll be the muscle?”

“Yeah,” I said, steady this time. “I know what it costs.”

She shrugged. “Fine. But babysitting isn’t in your contract. Don’t expect me to cover you when it breaks you.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Deal."

xxx

They paired us again the next night.

Word travels fast in the Armory. By noon, two different handlers had asked whether “Starr and Jack” were available for a duo; by sundown the answer was yes.

The client was easy—new money and too nervous to look either of us in the eye. We circled him like we were born choreographing mercy. Walker followed my lead without needing the tells: the brush of my wrist, the tilt of my chin, the pace I set with a hand on his shoulder. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. We delivered the fantasy, handed it back with a bow, and left him shaking and grateful.

Another rave. Another envelope thicker than usual. Another note passed to a handler with a little star doodled in the corner and a blocky J written beside it.

By the third client in as many days, the pattern set in: they booked us together, and the room got easier because we did. He learned my breath, the way it meant yes or slow down or don’t you dare. I learned the way his fingers would flex, once, before he went tender. We made it look like grace, even when it wasn’t.

Afterwards, we always went downstairs.

Same stools. Same glasses. Same bartender who slid Walker something that looked like liquor and tasted like water with a ghost in it. Walker pretended not to notice; I pretended not to care. We were both lying, but for good reasons.

The bar noise covered the static in our heads. Laughter, synth-bass, the soft thud of bodies pretending to be fine. I could feel the muscle clocking us from the wall, the same way they clock me on nights they worry I’ll sprint toward the desert and keep going. When Walker’s hand shook against the rim of his glass, the bartender topped mine off and left his alone. Protective order, Armory style.

“Three for three,” he muttered, voice rough with whatever he wasn’t saying.

“Careful,” I said, mouth crooked. “They’ll start thinking you’re good at this.”

“Don’t ruin my reputation.”

We didn’t stay long. We never did.

We drained what we could stand and took the back stairs, where the cameras were lazier and the lights were kinder.

xxx

Upstairs was different now.

The first time had been shock and adrenaline, relief disguised as heat. This was something else—ritual, maybe. Or exorcism.

I barely had the door shut before he had me against it, mouth rough, teeth scraping like he was trying to take something back he’d lost downstairs. I dragged my nails down his spine hard enough to make him grunt, because I needed proof that I could still leave a mark on something I chose.

We didn’t undress so much as tear each other open. There was nothing slow about it. No tenderness. Just hands gripping too tight, breaths coming too hard, bodies moving like we were trying to fuck the client’s hands, voice, breath off our skin.

He said my name once—my real one, low against my throat—and I yanked his hair hard enough to make his jaw go slack and snapped, “Don’t stop.” I didn’t care what he called me so long as he didn’t pull away.

He fucked me like he was trying to ground himself. I met him like I was trying to burn everything out of me that still shook. The bedframe hit the wall hard, again and again, and neither of us bothered to soften it.

I bit his shoulder. He cursed into my mouth. We were breathing like we’d been drowning and finally broke the surface. I didn’t know if it was pleasure or pain driving me forward—I just knew stopping wasn’t an option.

When I came, it felt like rage cracking in my chest. When he followed, he buried his face in my neck like he was ashamed of how badly he needed it.

We stayed like that for a minute—panting, sweat-shined, bruised and shaking—not holding each other, but not pulling away either. Not yet.

Eventually, we peeled ourselves apart, bodies still humming like we’d scraped something raw and weren’t sure if it would scar right or get infected.

He lay there breathing unevenly, staring at the ceiling like he didn’t trust himself to move. I sat at the edge of the bed, spine straight, trying to remember how my hands worked.

We didn’t talk about it.

We just lay there, catching our breath in opposite directions, pretending this didn’t feel like survival.

By the end of the week, the handlers were scheduling us as a pair automatically. The envelopes got heavier. The notes got louder. We built a reputation you could spend.

That’s when I started seeing him.

Not Walker—Walker was right there, radiating sweat and stubbornness and a pulse you could steady a ship to.

The other him. The ghost.

It started with nothing: the way a new client folded a handkerchief into a sharp little square; the way he’d knock twice on the doorframe before coming in. A habit absurd in a place where no one asked permission.

Price—not his real name, which I’d never learned—used to do that. Quick double-tap like he couldn’t shake military manners even if the world shook him first.

I’d feel it flare in my ribs and then shove it back down. Walker would clock it, sometimes—his head tilting a degree, mouth flattening like he heard a frequency I didn’t want to admit was there. He never asked. I never explained. We were good at the things we didn’t say.

On the eighth night, the bartender set two glasses down without looking at us. Walker’s was still the ghost. Mine had a bite.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“So are you.”

He rolled his shoulder. The robe pulled, showing a bruise my teeth had left the night before. He didn’t hide it. He never did.

“Doesn’t feel like work when it’s us,” he said finally, so low I almost missed it.

“That’s the problem,” I answered.

xxx

We went upstairs anyway.

We were getting meaner with it.

Not cruel—never—but urgent, like we were trying to wrestle something bigger than both of us into silence. The anger didn’t aim at each other so much as through each other. He took it like a wall. I met it like a blade. We ended up breathless and steadier. The room stopped spinning for an hour. Worth the cost.

After, I traced the edge of a hickey on his throat—light, thoughtless, the way you test a bruise just to prove you’re still here. He caught my wrist and pressed his mouth to my palm like he’d been about to say something and decided not to risk it.

“Don’t get used to this,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Too late,” he said, not blinking.

We were both lying again.

Downstairs, the handlers were already clipping our names together on tomorrow’s board. Sharon would notice the numbers. Zemo would notice the pattern. The machine loves a hit.

I watched Walker button a shirt that wasn’t his. He glanced up, met my eyes like he could read the warning in them, and for once he didn’t deflect with a joke.

“I’m still here,” he said simply.

Not a promise. A fact.

“Stay that way,” I said.

He nodded. We stepped into the hallway together, shoulders almost touching but not quite. The door latched behind us. The night swallowed us easy.

Somewhere underneath the bass and the velvet and the gold, I could hear a double-tap on a doorframe that wasn’t there.

all the small things you do

by Ninazadzia

xxx

“I close my eyes and all I see is you And the small things you do…”

xxx

By the time we reached the safehouse, it was the middle of the night and well below freezing.

I’d given my jacket to Yelena hours ago—the only reason I hadn’t lost fingers or toes to frostbite was the serum.

“If this isn’t the right place, I’m going to kill Sam Wilson,” she muttered through chattering teeth.

I punched in the code Sam had given me. The keypad was an old SHIELD model—barely the size of my palm, scuffed and scratched, with three metal buttons and a cracked green screen. It took me three tries before the lock finally released with a groan. A green light blinked once on the panel, then went still. The burst transmission was sent.

Somewhere, on some off-site SHIELD relay or Avengers comms desk, someone now knew exactly where we were.

Whether they could reach us? That was another story.

The cabin was maybe a few degrees warmer inside. Barebones. A wood stove crouched in the corner, its metal sides dusted with ash, stacks of firewood leaning in a tarp-covered pile.

A single cot, a cramped kitchenette with dented MRE tins, and one crooked door—bathroom, probably.

No curtains. No rugs. Just wood, metal, and silence.

Yelena slumped against the wall. I could see her breath, curling in tendrils in the air.

“Cozy,” she muttered, sliding down to sit on the floor.

“You complaining?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied, letting out a deep exhale.

She didn’t have to say it out loud. After what we’d been through these last twelve hours, we might as well have been at the Four Seasons.

We’d barely made it out when the first explosions hit the facility.

I don’t know who fired first—ours or theirs—but the sky had lit up like the Fourth of July, and comms went to hell in under a minute. Sam’s voice had crackled through the intercom just long enough to shout the coordinates to the safehouse before it went dead.

The rest of the team got pulled before the second wave. We didn’t.

Yelena and I had been covering the western exit when the snow started. At first it was just flurries. Then the wind picked up, visibility dropped to nothing, and the blizzard swallowed the entire valley. By the time we broke away, the convoy was gone. It was just us, a pair of half-frozen packs, and the promise that if we could get to the safehouse, someone would find us—eventually.

No food. No water. Ten miles through knee-deep snow. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was limping by the second hour, bleeding through her pants. And me—well, I had the serum, which meant I could keep moving even when my body told me to stop.

But her? She’s not supposed to be out in this kind of cold for that long.

Nobody is.

Yelena looked like she was about to doze off.

“Hey,” I snapped, running over to her side. “Let me see your leg.”

I half expected her to protest, to say “can it wait until morning?” So when she didn’t, I knew it was bad.

She winced as she pulled down her pants, finally revealing the deep gash just above her knee.

My stomach dropped. It smelled putrid.

“Jesus, Yelena,” I managed.

I looked at her—she’d gotten hit by a stray piece of shrapnel right when we’d left the compound, nearly twelve hours ago. I noticed immediately she was favoring her left leg, and when I’d tried to ask her about, she’d brushed it off.

“I’ll be fine,” she’d said through grit teeth. “We can deal with it when we get there. Let’s keep going.”

I looked from her knee, and back to her.

I’d always known Yelena was tough—she was raised in the Red Room. I knew she was a fighter and a survivor, through and through. But it hit me then, just how much she was made of steel.

She mustered a laugh. “Pretty, huh?”

I just shook my head. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve carried you.”

“You offered, remember? I told you not to.”

“Yeah, but if I’d known it was this bad—”

“—What? You would’ve insisted?” She scoffed. “Yeah. Like that would’ve gone over well.”

I clamped my mouth shut. She was right, and I knew it.

“I’ll get the first aid kit.”

I dug through the cabinet by the kitchenette until I found a dusty first aid kit, half-empty but better than nothing.

When I crouched back down beside her, Yelena tilted her head lazily toward me. “You look like you’re about to perform surgery.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, snapping the box open. The gauze was sealed, at least. Small mercy.

I peeled her hands away from her leg and inspected the wound. Up close, it was worse than I thought—angry red edges, heat radiating off it even in the freezing air.

I pressed the gauze firmly against her skin, careful—probably too careful—and she smirked like she noticed.

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass,” she said.

I kept my eyes on the wound, refusing to look at her face. I wasn’t thinking about how warm her skin was under my hands, or how she was watching me like she could tell.

My stomach tightened. “This is already warm. It’s been open too long.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what? You’re going to diagnose me with infection, Doctor Barnes?”

“Not funny,” I said sharply, dousing a gauze pad with antiseptic. The smell stung my nose.

She smirked, trying to lean back like she wasn’t in pain. “I’ve had worse. Red Room summers, remember? A little shrapnel isn’t going to off me.”

“This isn’t the Red Room,” I snapped, louder than I meant to.

Her expression softened, but she didn’t argue. She stayed still as I pressed, cleaned, wrapped.

Antibiotics.

My mind kept circling the word like a warning. No internet. No comms.

Just me, a half-assed combat medic course from seventy years ago, and a kit that hadn’t been updated since SHIELD was founded.

“Any medicine in there?” I asked finally, motioning to the box.

She rummaged through it, reading off faded labels, butchering the names.

“…oh,” she said after a beat, almost casually. “Probably should tell you—penicillin and I don’t get along. Nearly killed me last time.”

My stomach dropped. “How bad?”

“Hospital bad.” She tilted her head at me. “So, no penicillin, yes?”

“Fantastic,” I muttered, digging through the rest of the kit.

My hands felt too big, too clumsy as I flipped through a warped SHIELD field manual I found wedged behind some cans. Stop bleeding. Set bones. Stabilize until evac. Nothing for this.

Three antibiotic names jumped out. One circled in pencil—amoxicillin. Useless.

I grabbed the bottle she’d set aside, squinting at the faded label.

“Bactrim,” I muttered.

Broad-spectrum. Non-penicillin. Should work.

“Should,” Yelena echoed, raising one eyebrow.

I met her gaze. “I’m ninety percent sure.”

“Ninety.” She smirked faintly. “I’ve survived worse odds.”

“This isn’t funny.” My voice cracked just a little. “If I get this wrong—”

“—then I swell up. Maybe I die fast. Better than slow infection, yes?” Her tone was maddeningly calm. “You’re stalling because you’re scared.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“You’re not dying on me,” I said finally, voice low, steadying. “Not from this. Not here.”

“I already told you,” she said, softer now. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn right you’re not.”

She swallowed the pills without complaint. I stayed crouched next to her long after, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to the stove creak as the first logs caught. For the first time in twelve hours, we weren’t moving.

And I hated every second of it.

xxx

The fire in the stove had burned down to embers, throwing barely enough heat to keep the room from icing over. My breath fogged in the air every time I exhaled.

We hadn’t talked about sleeping arrangements—just a glance at the single cot, a look from me, an awkward pause from her—and I’d taken the chair without argument. It wasn’t much of a chair anyway. Every time I shifted, the old wood creaked like it was about to splinter.

Yelena lay curled under the blanket, back to me, shoulders hunched. She hadn’t said a word since I finished bandaging her leg, but every so often I caught the faint sound of her teeth clicking together when she thought I wasn’t listening.

Hours passed like that. Neither of us moved, neither of us sleeping.

At some point, she pushed herself upright with a groan and limped toward the bathroom. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.

When she came back, she didn’t lie down right away.

“You awake?” she asked finally.

I opened my eyes. “Yeah.”

She studied me for a beat, like she was deciding whether to bother saying what was already obvious. “You sleep at all?”

“Not even a little,” I admitted.

I didn’t have to say it out loud. Serum or not—it was freezing. We both knew it.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

She crawled back into bed. Another ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed.

My heart started to pound. The question was on the tip of my tongue.

It’s not like that, I told myself. It’s about staying warm. Survival. She needs rest. She’s not going to heal otherwise. She’s already fighting off an infection.

I finally forced the words out, half-muttering: “Would it help if I—”

“—can you just get over here?” she said at the exact same time.

I didn’t think. I just stood, joints stiff from sitting too long, and crossed to the cot.

“Okay,” I said, voice low, and sat carefully on the edge before lying down beside her.

The cot dipped under our combined weight. The blanket was scratchy, stiff, and too small for two people.

“You comfy?” I asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice already softer, sleepier. “No, this works.”

We tried not to touch at first, lying stiff and angled away, but the cot was too narrow. Her shoulder brushed mine. Her knee bumped my thigh. Neither of us moved.

Her knee brushed my thigh again, and I stared at the ceiling like it might give me answers.

Don’t move. Don’t shift closer. Just breathe. The cot is too narrow, that’s all.

That’s all.

The warmth hit slowly, sinking in, her body heat bleeding into mine. Her breathing evened out, soft and steady, and after a while, her head tipped closer, resting lightly against my arm.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling.

The air was still freezing. The room still smelled of smoke and damp wood. But I could feel the warmth of her through the blanket, seeping into every inch of me.

I didn’t let myself think about it. Not too much.

xxx

When I woke up, it was to the smell of hot coffee and half-burnt pancakes.

“Morning,” Yelena said, too cheerfully.

I shot up in bed, disoriented for a second, before I remembered where I was.

Still in the same cabin—in the same scratchy cot. The fire roared now, and outside the wind still howled against the windows.

But the room felt different. Warmer.

Yelena had some color back in her cheeks, and though she was still favoring one leg, she moved with a little more ease as she fussed with the skillet.

“How you feeling?” I muttered, voice sleep-rough.

“About a million times better,” she replied, setting a plate at the foot of the bed. “No promises about these. The mix expired a few years ago.”

I was already halfway through the first pancake before she finished talking. “I’ll take my chances,” I managed between bites.

She smirked, sitting on the edge of the cot. “You were out longer than I was.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say without a clock. But the sun went down an hour ago.”

“Jesus,” I muttered. A whole day gone.

Yelena broke off a piece of pancake and held it up like a toast. “Thanks for not killing me with your questionable antibiotics.”

“Thanks for making breakfast.”

She shrugged, chewing, then glanced toward the fire. The flames had caught properly now, throwing real heat for the first time since we got here.

I set my plate down, leaning back a little. “This is… warm.” My eyes shifted to the woodpile by the stove. “Do we have enough to keep it going?”

“We do now,” she said, too casually.

I turned to look at her. “Yelena—”

“What?”

“You didn’t.”

She didn’t even flinch. “I did.”

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head.

“You were dead to the world,” she went on, unfazed. “And we need the fire. So.”

“You shouldn’t be—” I caught myself, letting the words die halfway.

Her mouth curved, just a hint of a smile. “Relax, Barnes. We’re a team, remember? You needed the sleep. I can handle a little firewood.”

I didn’t argue, but I kept my eyes on her a moment longer than I meant to. She ignored me, going back to her pancakes like nothing had happened.

xxx

The rest of the evening passed in small, practical movements.

We cleaned up what little mess “breakfast” left, each of us moving around the cabin in silence, too tired to bother with conversation. The fire stayed low, carefully fed, the heat barely stretching past the stove.

We took turns with the bathroom. She went first, and when it was my turn, she’d already retreated to the cot, sitting cross-legged and leafing through an old SHIELD field manual like it was a novel.

There wasn’t much privacy—just a thin door and the courtesy of pretending not to listen. She didn’t look up when I came back out, hair damp from the cold water.

By the time we were both done, the light outside had faded completely. We didn’t talk about the fire or how little wood was left.

We didn’t talk about the bed.

When she slid under the blanket, I followed without a word. It felt strange how easy it was this time.

The cot creaked under our weight. We lay stiff at first, angled away, until the cold forced us closer. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, heat pooling between us under the scratchy blanket.

For a long time, there was just the sound of the wind against the cabin walls. Then, quietly:

“How long do you think it’ll be before they come for us?”

I turned my head slightly, looking at the dark ceiling. “Hard to say. Depends how bad it is out there.”

She was quiet for a moment. “What do you think’s going on?”

Images flashed in my head—the first explosions tearing through the facility, the sky lit up in streaks of orange and white, the way the comms went dead all at once.

“Worse than they’re telling us,” I said finally. “Extraction isn’t top priority.”

She hummed, low and thoughtful. “Then we could be stuck here for a while.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But we can’t stay here forever.”

I didn’t have to elaborate—she already knew. The cabin was equipped for a week—two weeks tops, maybe, if the weather was better. But the blizzard showed no signs of letting up.

If the others didn’t find us by the end of the week, we’d have to figure something out.

She shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing mine. “It’s day two, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll make a plan on day six.”

I glanced at her, but she was already closing her eyes, settling into the blanket like it was a real bed.

“Right now,” she added, her voice soft, almost a murmur, “let’s just wait it out. We’ve got time.”

I stared at the ceiling again, listening to the slow rhythm of her breathing evening out.

Day two. Four more days until we’d have to think about leaving. Four more nights in this cot.

I didn’t say anything.

But—now that she was on the mend, and I knew she’d be okay—I didn’t mind waiting.

xxx

By the third day, it felt like we’d been there weeks.

Not in a bad way. Just… everything had slowed.

Mornings started with coffee—burnt, bitter, the kind of instant stuff you only drink because it’s hot, but Yelena handed me a mug like she’d just made us something fancy. We sat on opposite sides of the cot, sipping in silence, trading books we’d scavenged from the safehouse shelves.

At some point, we stopped asking who would cook. Whoever got up first just started. Usually her.

“Your turn to be impressed,” she said once, flipping something in the skillet with too much flair for what was obviously canned potatoes.

I glanced over from where I sat by the stove, half-smiling. “I’m shocked you didn’t burn them already.”

“They’re supposed to be this crispy,” she shot back, smirking.

Dinner usually ended in quiet bickering, the kind that wasn’t really arguing.

“You’re cutting that wrong,” I said one night, watching her hack into a loaf of stale bread with a combat knife.

“Then do it yourself,” she replied, handing me the knife without even looking.

I took it, muttering something about technique, and she grinned, leaning back against the counter like she’d won.

By evening, the cabin smelled faintly of smoke and stale coffee, and the fire crackled low. She read stretched out on the cot, leg propped up on my folded jacket. I cleaned up dishes or split wood, and every so often she’d glance up just to throw some offhand comment my way.

“You chop wood like an old man,” she called once from the cot, smirking over the top of her book.

I didn’t look at her right away. Her smirk lingered just a little too long, and something in my chest pulled tight before I forced myself to glance back at the firewood.

“Need I remind you—I’m 110 years old,” I replied.

“Sorry. I forgot.”

It wasn’t much. But it was a rhythm.

Easy. Familiar.

And every time she glanced up at me, or smirked when she caught me watching her cook, or shoved her book toward me to show me some random passage, I felt it—that pull.

The quiet kind. The one you don’t say out loud.

xxx

By the time we went to bed on our fourth night, it felt inevitable.

She crawled under the covers and wordlessly nestled her head against my shoulder—a far cry from where we started, a few days ago. Given her position, it was guaranteed that she could hear my heart, relentlessly pounding in my chest.

I felt stiff against her, at first. Until she took a deep breath, and as she exhaled, wordlessly pulled my arm so it draped around her waist.

That one movement—innocent enough, but at the same time, loaded—made my pulse race.

She smiled, her eyes closed. “You nervous, Bucky?” she teased.

I swallowed. “Why would I be nervous?” I asked.

She cracked an eye open, smirking. “I don’t know. Am I the first woman you’ve shared a bed with in a century?”

“Well,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant. “That would depend.”

“On what?”

“On how we’re defining sharing a bed.”

Her eyes widened slightly. She didn’t move, but she suddenly felt… closer.

“Oh,” she said slowly, almost under her breath.

“Yeah,” I murmured.

Her fingers found mine then, threading through them casually, like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

“That long, huh?” she asked softly.

I didn’t answer. Not out loud. But the thought flickered anyway—how many nights I’d spent lying awake since meeting her, wondering what it might be like if I wasn’t who I was, if the world wasn’t what it was.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.

About her.

She was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Tell me something.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you actually think we get out of this?”

I exhaled slowly. “I have to think that way.”

“Right,” she said, her voice almost unreadable. “Okay, then.”

She didn’t look at me when she spoke next. “Just wondering… if we didn’t—” She stopped, then tilted her head slightly, her hair brushing my chin. “Would it change anything? For you?”

I hesitated. “Change what?”

She glanced up at me, eyes catching mine in the dim light. “The way you’re holding out.”

My pulse kicked hard in my chest. “Yelena…”

“I mean,” she added, her tone deceptively light, “might as well enjoy what’s left of the world, right?”

For a second, the image flashed in my mind—her pulling me closer, the two of us forgetting everything outside these walls. But I shook my head.

“I don’t want it to be because of that,” I said quietly. “Because we think we’re not walking out of here.”

Her gaze lingered on me, searching.

“It wouldn’t be,” she said finally, so soft I almost didn’t catch it. “Not for me.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer, so I stayed quiet. But I didn’t let go of her hand.

xxx

For a second, I thought it had been a dream. Our conversation, from the night before.

The warmth, the weight of her pressed against me—it felt too good to be real. But when I cracked my eyes open, there she was. Still curled up beside me, her head tucked under my chin, our hands still loosely tangled where they’d fallen asleep.

Her breathing shifted as she stirred, and a moment later, her eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep.

“Morning,” I said, my voice low, rough from sleep.

“Hi,” she murmured back.

For a beat, we just lay there, looking at each other. The quiet stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Then, slowly, like we’d both made the same decision at once, we leaned in. Her lips brushed mine first, soft, tentative.

I kissed her back before I could think better of it.

What started careful turned messy fast—neither of us willing to stop. She shifted closer, one hand sliding up my chest, tugging at my shirt. My arm tightened around her waist, dragging her flush against me, and she let out the faintest sound against my mouth that nearly undid me.

By the time I rolled us, bracing myself over her, we weren’t careful anymore.

Her fingers were in my hair, her leg hooked tight around my hip, and every part of me felt like it had been waiting for this.

“Yelena—” I muttered against her jaw, my breath catching as my hand slid under the waistband of her sweats.

She gasped, hips jerking up into me, and for half a second I froze.

I shouldn’t. Not like this. Not here.

Not when everything outside these walls is still waiting for us.

Then she caught my face in both hands, eyes dark and certain. “Don’t talk,” she whispered, voice rough, needy. “Just—touch me.”

That hesitation shattered.

My fingers slid lower, finding heat and slick, and the soft, choked noise she made in my ear almost killed me.

I stroked slow at first, teasing, just to feel her tremble. Her thighs opened wider, greedy, and I slipped two fingers inside, curling just right. Her nails bit into my shoulders, her hips rolling shamelessly to meet every thrust of my hand.

“Fuck,” she gasped against my neck, her breath hot and uneven. “Bucky…”

I pressed harder, faster, my palm grinding against her clit, and she broke apart under me—half-silent, half-strangled gasps she tried to bite down on, her entire body tightening, clutching me like she never wanted me to stop.

I couldn’t look away. Her mouth fell open, her head tipped back against the thin pillow, and she was gorgeous like this—wrecked and shaking and mine.

I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. My name slipped out of her again, desperate, like a plea, and I groaned, burying my face against her throat.

The cabin door burst open.

“Jesus Christ,” someone barked.

We froze—but only for a second.

“Well, don’t you two look cozy,” Walker drawled.

Thank fucking god—we were still under a blanket. So even though it was obvious what we were up to—at least they couldn’t see anything.

Ava leaned against the doorway, smirking like she’d just caught us with our hands in the cookie jar. “Should we come back later?”

“Don’t encourage them,” Walker muttered.

Ava shot him a sideways look, smirk tugging wider. “Please. Like you’re one to talk.”

Walker scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” she said, a little too fast.

Walker muttered something low, almost swallowed—and looked away, ears just barely pink. Ava’s smirk sharpened anyway.

Yelena’s shoulder brushed mine under the blanket, and we exchanged a quick glance.

Huh.

I looked toward the door, my voice rough. “Give us a minute.”

Walker snorted. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I drag you out myself.”

Ava rolled her eyes, already turning away. “You’re welcome for the rescue, by the way. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The door slammed shut.

Yelena cracked an eye open, flushed and smiling wickedly. “Finish what you started,” she whispered, voice low and wrecked.

I didn’t need to be told twice. My fingers curled deep again, finding that perfect spot, and she tightened around them, desperate. I groaned, pushing her through it as she came hard—biting down on my shoulder to keep quiet, trembling against me while I held her through every shudder.

Her breathing slowed eventually, her face still buried against my neck, and I pressed a kiss to her temple without thinking.

“The rescue team is here,” I managed.

I should’ve felt relieved. I didn’t.

“Hooray,” she mumbled against my skin.

“They’re going to make us move,” I said quietly, my pulse still racing.

She tilted her head just enough to meet my eyes, her smirk softer now. “So? We’ll pick this up later.”

And as her hand slid down to grab mine, still between her legs, I believed her.

Whatever waited for us outside, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

xxx

“When we're done making love And you look up and give me those eyes

'Cause all of the small things that you do Are what remind me why I fell for you”