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THUNDERBOLTS TOWER SHORT FIC: you got injured.

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It had been a week since your last mission—the one where you’d gotten injured pretty badly; a nasty cut to the leg.

You’d convinced the team you were fine, or at least tried to. But to no surprise of course, no one bought it.

They didn’t baby you—that wasn’t really your team’s style. But they had their own subtle ways of showing concern; someone always brought food to your room without you asking. John hadn’t nagged you about training in days. Bob made sure your favorite drinks always ended up in the fridge after his grocery runs.

Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, mentally bracing yourself to stand. You knew you were pushing it—the wound still burned when you moved the wrong way—but you couldn’t keep being dependent on the team. You had to get back to normal.

You grunted as you pushed yourself upright, pain immediately stabbing through your leg. Almost immediately, Ava phased through the wall. She didn’t even flinch as she gently pushed you back down onto the bed.

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N?”

“Walking?” You answered simply.

“What for?”

“I just wanted a snack from the kitchen, Ava. And didn’t we talk about knocking first—”

Ava immediately cut you off, “Nope. That went out the window the second you decided to violate your healing instructions. Didn’t Val tell you to rest?”

“And you just do whatever Val tells you to?”

“Y/N.” Her tone was flat now, her usual sarcasm gone.

You sighed, letting your head fall back in surrender. “Fine. Sorry.”

Ava smiled, and phased back through the wall, only to return seconds later with snacks in hand.

Your eyes lit up as she handed them to you. “How’d you know?”

“A thank you would suffice.” Ava replied.

“Thanks, Ava.”

Later that night, when the team inevitably found out what had happened, Alexei gave you a long, loud, exhausting rant about the importance of listening to your body, taking care of your physique, and not doing “reckless nonsense.” Bucky crossed his arms and just stared at you like a disappointed father. The worst kind of judgment.

You were sat on the couch as the team towered over you.

“Y/N, I will literally duct tape you onto your bed.” Yelena threatened as she rummaged through one of the cabinets for duct tape.

“You disrespected your body, your vessel! When I was your age, I fought with a shattered rib, in the coldest winter St. Petersburg had seen in decades. No food, no backup, nothing!” Alexei started, whenever he started ranting you knew it’d last atleast half an hour. You opened your mouth. He raised a finger.

“Don’t interrupt. I am educating you.”

You groaned into a pillow as he continued his rant.

But as you finally tucked yourself into bed, a quiet smile spread across your face. You didn’t have a biological family anymore. But you had them. The Thunderbolts.

And for once, that felt like more than enough. But dear God you were terrified of the possibility of being taped onto your bed by Yelena.

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omg.. finally my first writing post here 🫩🫩 i hope yous enjoyed that, english isn’t my first language so i’m sorry for any mistakes i may have made..

if you have any scenarios you’d want me to write about, do tell me :33 i love writing about my beloved found family

(as Baron Helmut J. Zemo)

The house was suffocating in its stillness. The curtains hung heavy, filtering the afternoon light into muted streaks across the bed where Zemo lay half-reclined, one arm bent lazily behind his head. The ankle monitor pressed uncomfortably against his skin, its silent weight an ever-present reminder of how far his world had shrunk. Sure, it was vastly better than the raft - where the 4-by-4 cube reinforced by tempered glass held him like a caged bird. He had been granted freedom in exchange of co-operation by the dark haired, talkative, self-absorbed, barely tolerable lady whose impulsion to have her name be pronounced correctly would likely surpass all priorities - heck, even if the world were to be headed steadily to its own demise. Miss de Fontaine seemed to have conveniently forgotten to mention the exact parameters of this 'independence' i.e., the clause that required Zemo to be on house arrest for at least a year before he would be permitted to taste any hint of actual freedom.

He had already exhausted the stack of books left within reach, their dog-eared pages now abandoned in a loose pile on the floor. The chessboard sat untouched in the corner, its unfinished game mocking him with frozen strategy. Even the bottle of wine at his bedside had long since lost its appeal.

Restlessness crept into his posture—the slow shifting of his legs, the idle graze of his fingers against his lips - and occasionally coiling around, toying with the slim chain of gold (a family Heirloom) around his neck. The way his eyes roamed the ceiling as though searching for cracks. Boredom was an enemy he could not outmanoeuvre, and it gnawed at him with quiet persistence.

The faint creak of the floorboards outside the door stirred him from his reverie. His gaze shifted, sharp and alert now. The only movement made was that of his hand reaching for the 9 millimetre that had been tucked underneath the pillow. This time, it was the baron, himself who had deliberately failed to mention having it in his possession. And once it idled steady in his grasp - he didn’t move. Whoever had found their way here—ally, intruder, or something in between—would soon break the monotony.