#while she was doing weapon maintenance...

The FBI had always been the best option, the most reasonable one. A stable job, a flawless structure, an opportunity to put his talents to use. It was the best option.

Dex liked his work. He liked the sense of pride blooming in his chest whenever people stared at the three yellow letters stitched onto his uniform with wide, almost dazzled eyes. A soothing warmth purred low in his stomach—the feeling of doing something good, something meaningful, something that mattered.

The hardest part had always been the coworkers, the interactions. It was like an athlete being forced to go through reporters and their intrusive stares just to earn his medal. Dex felt like that athlete. He only wanted to do his job, follow orders, act, then go home. But on the way there, he also had to greet the idiots swarming in the department, offer them coffee whenever he made one for himself, pretend to care while someone rambled about their kid’s first steps.

He had a list ready inside his head, similar to the one he used at Brooklyn Suicide Prevention Center—a neat little A4 sheet, organized into rows and columns highlighted with neutral colors. He forced connections to form across that imaginary page, stopping his lips from parting too quickly and saying something wrong.

It was exhausting, draining.

Sometimes he locked himself inside a maintenance closet, or the bathroom if it was clean. He took deep breaths, trying to steady the subtle tremors in his hands. In those moments, his eyes instinctively searched for a loose nail on a stall door—a sharply tipped brush, a toxic spray can. He let them search for a weapon, because for a brief second it soothed his mind. Then he walked back out, wiping the last beads of sweat from his forehead.

He liked his work. But sometimes it was hard, really hard.

However, within that fog, there was something stirring excitement inside him.

You had been introduced to the department exactly two months ago. Hattley had walked in, her tired eyes and permanently irritated expression accompanying her as always, and rested a hand on your shoulder to draw everyone’s attention toward you. She stated your full name, your CV—and what a CV it was, complete, impressive. That was the first thing that caught Dex’s attention, like a slimy tentacle finally wrapping around its prey before sending out the seven others. Hattley had looked almost proud presenting you, like some rare collector’s item—a knife, a card, a stamp. A smile, rare on her face, had brightened her features for a second, and it was enough to convince everyone of your capabilities.

Dex watched the scene from afar, leaning against the section of wall he often used as support. Arms crossed, he’d initially thought it’d be annoying—bothering. But then the days passed. You didn’t work directly with him, though you wandered the same floor. Agent Nadeem was supervising you while you got used to the agency’s endless offices. Ray was a coworker Dex frequently dealt with, so those were the circumstances in which he saw you—or during meetings, or coffee breaks. He’d also crossed paths with you once outside the building. You hadn’t noticed him.

Actually, you never really noticed him—that’s what he thought. He watched you, observed you perhaps far more than he should have allowed himself to. Yet your eyes rarely met his, and whenever they did, he almost fled from your line of sight.

The first few days, once he realized how he was behaving, he’d wanted to slap himself.

“Got a soft spot for the newbie, Dex?” Mark had asked while taking over his shift, bumping his shoulder in what was supposed to be a friendly gesture. Dex tried changing the subject but Mark was clingy, irritating, intrusive. “Since I’m such a good mate, I’ll tell you a secret,” he’d continued despite Dex’s obvious disinterest. “This guy is not a real one, if you know what I mean.”

Dex hadn’t reacted outwardly, making Mark sigh before wandering off to bother someone else instead. But once home, Dex searched your name online.

He understood your trans identity almost immediately, and somehow it had only increased the admiration he felt toward you. Because he wanted to believe you both were similar—no matter how far your life experience must have been from his, you had suffered and he did too. You fought against yourself, your demons—he did too. And maybe that if he was similar to you in this case, he could be in others.

You were so sociable, so comfortable. His eyes couldn’t stop analyzing your movements, trying to understand them, absorb them.

But the thing that fascinated him most was your natural authority. You earned respect without raising your voice or resorting to threats. People gravitated toward you because they instinctively trusted whatever it was you radiated. You handled weapons, hand-to-hand combat, paperwork, and human beings with equal ease.

You were so talented, and it fascinated Dex.

During the monthly training sessions held in a privately rented gymnasium, you were impressive as always. You helped Margot climb the rope, every single one of your bullets hit the target during shooting practice, and you slammed Ray to the floor with admirable effortless strength. Usually Dex avoided those pointless sessions as much as possible, considering they were optional, but to everyone’s surprise he signed up—just to watch the spectacle.

And because of that, he didn’t even notice that his own shots landed within the exact same crater every time, nor that he’d been among the fastest to climb the rope, nor even that he’d nearly dislocated Mark’s shoulder during the mock arrests. No, all he saw was your hand gently patting someone’s back in encouragement, the sweat sliding down the exposed curve of your neck, the lines your muscles drew beneath your skin with every movement. That was all he saw, with an expression that was absolutely not subtle.

One day, you spoke to him. He remembered it vividly.

It had been late in the evening. The sun was particularly inspired that day, painting magnificent palettes of color across the sky. Only a few people remained in the break room. Dex was grabbing coffee to survive the field mission waiting for him in less than an hour. The overly strong-smelling liquid was pouring into his paper cup when you detached yourself from the group you’d been talking with for a while.

The second he saw you approaching, Dex tried to run away like he always did, but the coffee hadn’t finished pouring yet.

“Hey, heading to Red Hook?” you asked with a smile, leaning so naturally against the wall.

Dex made a superhuman effort not to let his eyes drift toward the curves your arms created when you crossed them over your chest. Yes, he was heading to Red Hook—for a narcotics arrest operation. He was wearing his SWAT uniform, a khaki set that attracted far too much attention for his liking.

“Yes,” he answered simply, already feeling panic rising inside him.

The coffee machine finally stopped pouring. Dex grabbed the cup with visibly trembling hands and quickly escaped the situation.

You had watched him leave, brows slightly furrowed, a faint amused smile on your lips. Poindexter was always like that around you. It was strange, but you didn’t take it personally.

The foam ball traveled at a steady speed between the wall and his hand. A barely audible sound marked the impact against the clean white surface before Dex caught the object again without even looking at it.

He was bored. He was on call, which meant sitting around the office waiting for a potential emergency in his sector. He wasn’t alone—the FBI offices were never completely empty—but throwing a ball wasn’t exactly disruptive.

Another sigh slipped past his lips. Dex stared at the ceiling, lazily rocking his rolling chair while never missing a single throw. That ball—that distraction—was always tucked away at the bottom of his work backpack. Not large or solid enough to concern security, but substantial enough to occupy his restless mind during moments like these. He only took it out when he was alone in a room. He didn’t want to attract attention in a potentially dangerous way. But maybe the exhaustion mixed with the complete absence of events for too long kept him from hearing your footsteps approaching the office he’d been assigned to.

He heard the handle. His eyes snapped toward the metallic object lowering just before the white neon light flooded the room. You appeared in the doorway precisely as the ball flew past your head before bouncing neatly back into Dex’s already outstretched hand.

“Oh wow—trying to kill me, Poindexter?” your voice smiled while you leaned casually against the open doorframe.

Irony always took longer for him to process when you were breathing the same air as him. Dex straightened up immediately, like a child caught doing something forbidden. The ball squeezed tightly in his palm, he tried regaining control over the panic rapidly building inside him.

You were here. He’d been caught throwing an object. You were here. Why were you here?

“Huh—no, no, of course not.” He awkwardly cleared his throat. “What are you—doing here? I mean, it’s late.”

Benjamin Poindexter had always been somewhat of an enigma to you. He kept to himself, avoided social interactions like the plague, and yet he remained one of the agency’s best agents to date. Avoid forming attachments, never bring your private life to work—those were unavoidable rules drilled into all of you the hard way from day one. Working for the FBI demanded constant emotional and intellectual effort. Trust was one of its central pillars, yet everyone was taught to expect betrayal eventually.

Even served on the prettiest silver platter, beside the finest dishes imaginable, a knife remained a knife and a fork remained a fork. Useful, necessary—but their steel prongs stayed sharp. Ready to feed mouths in need, or stab a butler in the back.

Dex looked like he’d mastered that art of the table called “FBI”. He offered parts of himself whenever required, then bared his teeth the second someone tried to polish him smooth.

“Hattley wants some files on her desk by six in the morning, so here I am.” Your hands lazily gestured toward yourself before crossing over your chest again, unintentionally drawing even more attention to that area. 

Your gaze wandered around the room opening before you. A space no larger than a small bedroom, suffocated by heavy filing cabinets storing old case reports. A desk organized down to the millimeter whenever Dex was on duty. A computer screen that was barely ever used. A cold coffee cup dreaming of its past warmth. And in the middle of that landscape stood Poindexter. He was looking at you again with that same intensity that had unsettled you since day one. You felt like you were watching a child stare at their favorite teacher. At first, you’d assumed maybe he was simply curious about the fact that you were trans—because yes, nothing truly remained secret inside the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That slightly too-wide stare whenever you entered a room had seemed like the kind of unhealthy curiosity you’d unfortunately grown used to. The kind that led to invasive questions or offers to “experiment.”

But eventually you realized it was different. Poindexter had never attempted any sort of approach. Quite the opposite—he physically avoided you while unconsciously seeking a connection he couldn’t control.

During conferences, whenever you spoke, his gaze burned through your entire body. Not like a fleeting warmth. His eyes scanned you with such intensity that you could almost feel spikes piercing through the deepest layers of your organism. Tiny injections of unknown substance.

“You?” you shattered the silence beginning to wrap its suffocating hands around the room. Dex visibly swallowed. You watched his Adam’s apple ride the tight elevator of his throat.

“On-call duty.”

You already knew that. You’d checked the on-call schedule earlier just to see who would be keeping you company during your late-night work. But conversation had to start somewhere.

The blue foam ball had absorbed the faint sweat coating Dex’s palm. He sat up straighter again, his back cracking pleasantly with the movement. You were looking at him, and he felt like he was being evaluated for an exam he hadn’t prepared for.

His office suddenly seemed even smaller. The walls had judgmental eyes. And something kept whispering in his ears. Pathetic, you can’t even hold a conversation, this is embarrassing. He wanted to slap himself hard enough to restart the machine inside his head—the one responsible for telling him how to behave in public. What to say. What to do. When to smile, when to speak, when to let others speak.

But the machine malfunctioned whenever you were nearby. It was as if Dex only had a flashlight for company, and you were some living Vantablack swallowing every trace of light from his pathetic little beam. It terrified him. He hated feeling those hands regain control the moment you turned off the light. Or rather—to be honest—the problem was that he adored it. And that was dangerous, because uncontrollable. He’d spent years keeping those hands restrained, those hooked nails tearing into his flesh and making him feel like he could finally breathe. The blood pouring from those wounds was his oxygen. But he kept it far away from himself, only allowing enough to surface that he could still maintain control over it.

Your footsteps echoed too close to him, dragging him violently out of the spiral of his thoughts.

“You’re pretty good with this.” Your hand rested naturally against the back of his chair, your warmth radiating enough to flush his skin. “Aim. Shooting.”

He was suffocating. He was certain he must’ve been visibly sweating by now, maybe even breathing too heavily. You were so close. Everything felt dark.

“You know, I read some of your files. Not to be weird, but you’re talented, Dex. Actually, I was… kinda impressed.” Your eyes lingered on the top of his head, perhaps a little too long on the different shades of blond threading through his hair.

You were sincere. Truly sincere. Some considered it a bad habit, but you liked skimming through the files of the people you worked with. If someone was going to stab you with a fork, you might as well know who sharpened it.

There weren’t many attachments in Poindexter’s FBI file. Mission reports, handwritten notes from former military superiors, a few photographs of him in various uniforms—basic military gear, then higher-ranking attire, FBI SWAT equipment, civilian clothing. And buried beneath all the praise-filled reports, you’d also found two or three pages heavily blacked out. But you recognized the logo printed at the top of each one. The department responsible for government employees’ mental health and psychological evaluations. It didn't surprise you. Everyone had mandatory evaluations every three months—including you.

“Impressed?” he somehow managed to say.

“Yeah, impressed.” You stepped away from his chair, his warmth beginning to affect you too. Instead, you leaned against the corner of his desk and sat there absentmindedly.

Dex looked like he’d just walked into a wave of scorching wind. His hair was slightly disheveled—remarkable feature considering how meticulously arranged it usually was. His chest, hidden beneath a white shirt and sweater, rose and fell at an obviously uneven pace. You didn’t worry about it. He often reacted like this around you—maybe you’d simply grown used to it.

His trembling hand brushed against his forehead, trying to restore some illusion of control—or confidence. “Thanks, but I think you’re the one supposed to incite impressiveness.” Maybe he should stop talking. But exhaustion made words slip too easily past the filters he normally forced them through.

You chuckled softly, fatigue making you easier to approach—to hold in a hand like his. “Well, I’ll take the compliment, thank you. But I’m not the one with an FBI SWAT uniform in my wardrobe. And I definitely can’t throw a ball like you do.”

He wasn’t only talking about work, but you couldn’t know that.

Dex finally loosened his grip on the poor suffocating ball, staring at it for a moment. “I can—show you, if you want.”

A genuine smile spread across your lips. “I’d love to.”

In the whistling silence of the FBI offices, a faint echo began bouncing through the room, interrupted by quiet laughter and all those mute little things the human body created. A breath caught because of a perfectly controlled gesture. Sparks trembling deep within irises. The tightening of the vital organ called heart. Poorly organized paperwork waited peacefully for your return, abandoned on the desk that belonged to you. The surveillance camera kept performing its usual mechanical sweeps across the spacious main office where you were technically supposed to be working. It scanned the room robotically, imprinting the digital landscape into its artificial memory. If it had possessed intelligence—and a soul—it might’ve noticed your reflections in the glass. Standing close together. Maybe it would’ve appreciated the smile brightening your face with every flawlessly executed throw from your coworker. And if it had been truly attentive, perhaps it would’ve heard the child buried deep inside Dex laughing loudly and freely because you were there, and you were so kind to him, so attentive, so interested.

His flexible wrist moved with a precision that couldn’t help but captivate you. You wished you owned glasses capable of altering reality itself, just so they could show you the numbers activating beneath your eyes. The angles, distances, perfectly measured equations producing such precise results every single time. It was math. Purely math. Nothing supernatural or magical. And yet watching the ball strike the exact intended point again and again made mathematics suddenly feel like the closest thing to magic—when mastered that perfectly.

Dex struggled to swallow properly. His mouth had gone dry. You listened to his explanations with such genuine interest that it made him dizzy.

“Your fingers need to be aligned around the ball, like—imagine there’s two lines here.” His fingers fought to control the tremors shaking his entire body while tracing imaginary lines around the blue sphere. “And you just have to remain still while throwing it.”

Your brows furrowed in concentration, forming a fixed wave between them. Your fingers followed his instructions perfectly, settling along the invisible lines you tried to picture beneath the spongy texture. You glanced toward the man sitting in front of you, leaning too far forward in his chair. He was already watching you, though his eyes immediately darted back toward the ball once your gaze met his.

“And it makes it curve, doesn’t it?” Your question visibly surprised him. He hadn’t expected you to understand the movement’s physics so quickly.

“Yes. Like crazy.” The smile on his lips made his voice vibrate softly. “Have a try.”

You turned away from Dex, pushing yourself off the desk to face the wall he’d been throwing toward. The wheels of his chair squeaked quietly as he rolled backward for a better view of you. His trained eyes scanned your entire body—not to admire it, but as a security scanner analyzing data to ensure everything aligned correctly.

Your shoulder sat too far back. Your elbow wasn’t raised enough. The distance between your face and the ball was wrong. Dex’s mouth parted instinctively, wanting to correct your entire posture so everything would be perfect, so you’d succeed, so you’d realize he was a good teacher.

But you spoke before he could.

“Whatcha think? Am I doing good or bad?”

His eyes returned to your face, truly looking at you this time rather than the calculations clouding his vision. “Don’t arch your back. Lift your elbow a little more and bring the ball closer to your face.”

You adjusted your stance, trying to follow the new instructions. But judging from the restrained expression on Poindexter’s face, you understood it still wasn’t right. “Maybe you should adjust it for me?” Dex’s strangely colored eyes widened before he could stop himself, making you chuckle softly. “If it’s okay for you, of course.”

“Yeah—yeah, it’s okay,” he corrected himself quickly, nearly tangling his own tongue.

Once again the chair squeaked as his weight left it, almost like an incomprehensible complaint. He took advantage of the moment you looked elsewhere to wipe his sweaty palms against his thighs. His tangible silhouette moved behind you, casting an additional shadow beside your own against the wall. You heard the air scrape painfully through his throat when he breathed, the moisture in his mouth, even his faint heartbeat.

His right hand wrapped around your wrist with barely restrained weakness, adjusting it so slowly you briefly wondered whether Poindexter had the ability to turn you into porcelain and feared you’d shatter beneath the slightest pressure. It was unsettling in a way you couldn’t properly describe. To be touched without sexuality being the reason. Without it existing anywhere inside the gesture.

“You must be able to see the ball in your peripheral vision, if that helps,” his voice murmured above your shoulder. The position was now perfect. Dex stepped back to admire the structured line your arm created.

You understood the silent permission and refocused. If you really concentrated, you could almost see the faint crater formed where that ball had struck the wall countless times before. That was your target. A deep breath filled your lungs before you held it to eliminate any unwanted movement. Then you threw.

The ball nearly hit the exact spot, grazing it. You let out a quiet groan of fleeting disappointment. But for a first attempt, it was already impressive. You knew that.

You stepped forward to retrieve the small object rolling across the floor, attempting a pathetic little escape. Behind you, Dex stared at the precise point where the ball had struck the wall. You’d miscalculated the shift of impact caused by your arm movement. But you’d still nearly hit the target—good thing.

“Seems pretty fair for a first try,” you said while straightening up. “If I beat you in a single throw, it wouldn’t be funny, would it?” Your outstretched hand captured his softened gaze, an expression you’d never seen on his face before. He looked comfortable. Less tense.

“I guess.” His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your palm to get back the ball.

A comforting silence attempted settling between you both—bringing along its oversized pillows and heavy blanket. You let it happen, while Dex no longer seemed capable of noticing it. Something told you comfortable silence was a recurring concept for the awkward man standing before you. A familiar subject he’d stopped recognizing long ago because it had followed him everywhere.

But suddenly, the artificial sound of a notification echoed through the room, making both of you turn toward its source. An email had appeared on your coworker’s computer. One he had to answer. 

And suddenly reality caught up with you like a slap softened by a cotton glove. 

You had work too. A lot of it.

As if your thoughts had tangled together, your gazes met again, the same expression carved into marshmallow-textured marble. Disappointment. Melancholy. Peace. The moment was over. But at least it had existed somewhere within those cold walls.

“Maybe we could do this again one day?” you asked.

“Yes, I’d love to,” he answered, unconsciously regurgitating your own words without you noticing.

marvel masterlist

images : Pinterest

"bonding nights" had become a thing for the team, and somehow you always ended up having to drag Bucky to them. Bob had once called you "the mom of the group" when you were delivering dinner for them the third time that week. the comment prompted a full blown discussion on whether that made Bucky "the dad of the group" and ended when you quietly commented, "he's my daddy."

to Bucky's awe and exasperation (the man was constantly oscillating between love and hate for the team), you developed a special bond with each of them since the time you met them. you often accompanied them on their random chores and tasks if you had time. .

with Yelena, you accompanied her to knife stores - who knew that was a thing? - whenever there was a sale on one of their collections. she also liked to frequent arms and gun shops to "keep up with the trends" every few weeks. you went to make sure she didn't steal anything and got into trouble.

with John, you were helping him win back his ex wife and son, driving him to therapy and going over his notes any time he was about to meet Olivia. it was going good, she was taking it slow and while that drove John crazy, you were helping him get over the turmoil in his mind and keep him focused on the goal at hand.

with Ava, you went on shopping trips when she expressed interest in "picking out a new-ish wardrobe" in front of you. you were currently in the process of finding her comfortable shoes and maybe some more footwear for special occasions so she didn't have to constantly borrow Yelena's.

with Alexei, you went on the garage trips where he got maintenance done on his limousine. he had a hard time explaining the modifications made to the vehicle and much preferred your calm stance that shut the workers up.

with Bob, you did everything and anything. he was your sous chef in the kitchen and often accompanied you on your grocery store trips for the team (these people were a disaster at basic responsibilities). you found that amongst the team members, Bob was surprisingly the most intuitive when it came to day to day stuff. he was still hesitant about his superpowers, but maintaining the Tower? he considered that a "superjob" for him.

once every couple of weeks, you would bring Alpine with you to the Tower and all hell would break loose.

Bucky would often spend the ride over to the Tower theorising what kind of havoc Alpine would wreak on the team. so far, he's been right about breaking some of the expensive liquor bottles kept in the bar during her climb to the top shelf, knocking and breaking Yelena's phone, scratching the expensive couch, breaking bowls filled with snacks, and chewing on the TV wire that put the movie night to a swift end.

safe to say, she was a menace.

"what gadget do you think she'll break tonight?" Bucky asked, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on your knee, glancing back at the transport box where Alpine was currently resting. like the calm before a storm.

"you enjoy her destruction way too much, you know?" you mused, lips curled up, amusement evident in your tone. "almost makes me wonder if you train her to be a menace."

Bucky gasped, the sound full of indignation, betrayal, and dramatics. "how can you accuse your husband of such a ridiculous crime? she's a cat, she gets up to all kinds of notoriety, doll."

"she doesn't do that at our home."

"the Tower is a new environment for her. she's just exploring."

"mm hmm," you play with his fingers. "say what you want, but I saw you give her a treat when we found her after the TV cable fiasco."

"I was just making sure she had eaten something. the cat chewed through wires babe!"

you laughed, shaking your head.

"is that why you have her treats in your jacket?" you pointed out, one hand slipping in his pocket, the sound of crinkled plastic filling the space. Bucky's eyes remained forward, as if the empty streets could not be left unattended for even one second, but his lips were twitching as if he was suppressing a smile.

"just wanna make sure our cat is properly fed, doll," Bucky shrugged in a picture of non chalance.

"right," you dragged out. "wouldn't want her to go hungry."

"never."

"so she doesn't chew over cables."

"I don't think she'll be doing that tonight."

Alpine chose that moment to wake up from her nap and purr, her eyes set on you and Bucky in the frontseat. you reached over, rubbing her head using the little space given in the box.

"no? so what do you think she'll be doing tonight?"

"probably push down a few trinkets or tech."

"I see," you hummed. "gonna bill them to Valentina again?"

his smirk could only be described as satisfactory.

"it's only fair."

~

as always, Bob was the one to coax Alpine out of her box with some clicks of the tongue and long, unyielding stare that she returned with full force.

they were starting to develop a weird eye contact language of their own.

when she walked over to his outstretched hand, he curled the other one around her body, lifting her with ease and taking her to his plush armchair in the corner of the common area - the one facing the window - and "debriefed" her about what's been going on in the Tower since the last time she visited.

you smiled at the sight, setting down the casserole of food next to the bags of snacks that Bucky kept earlier. with how much money you set aside in your monthly budget for food for the team, it might as well have been you feeding 5 grown up kids.

Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist and brought his lips to your temple, kissing it once, before whispering in your ear, "she seems pretty preoccupied today." Bucky's eyes roamed over a desk next to the kitchen.

"maybe she won't be a menace after all."

"I love that cat to death," Ava interrupted your conversation. "but she is always a menace. it's her middle name."

"are we doing this or not?" John asked from the couch. "movie night, let's go kids!"

"need five more minutes!" Bob said without looking up from Alpine who was currently playing with his shirt buttons.

"stop hoarding the cat, Bob," Yelena said in what sounded a lot like a whine, but you knew that if you probed, she would deny the accusation.

"and Alexei, stop hoarding the snacks," John snatched the Cheetos packet from the bigger man, who was sprawled out on the sole armchair facing the big LED screen in the living room.

"get your own!" he boomed.

"hey, hey!" you tried to intercept, but Bucky beat you to it.

"there's enough snacks for everyone and ten more people," he said, stern in his stance and final in his tone. "stop fighting."

"fine," Alexei grumbled.

"Bob are you done yet!" Ava shouted across the room.

"jesus, you all don't need to shout every chance you get," Bucky murmured and rubbed his temples, fighting off a headache.

"he's right, we can all try to be a little softer around here," you suggested, tugging him down in the only loveseat amongst the seating options in the area, bought specially for you and him after Yelena and Alexei saw it on display in one of their trips into the city. he immediately wrapped an arm around shoulder.

"good luck trying to implement that," Yelena dared, accent thick and drawled out while posing the challenge to you. you simply shook your head with a sigh. she grinned at her victory and held out a blue dish. "I've got Alpine's food."

immediately, you heard a curious meow? from the corner of the room before a white furball zoomed past everyone to settle in front of Yelena, who was now smirking in another victory over Bob, who was the last one to settle at the gathering.

"let's get this thing started," John said through a mouth full of cheetos. "I'm dying to see this movie."

"we couldn't tell," Ava quipped.

even Alpine sat down and turned her attention to the TV when the lights dimmed and the classic WB music started playing.

Bucky covered the two of you with a blanket, tucking you in his side and putting his other hand on your thigh, rubbing it slowly. your head fell down on his shoulder, breathing in his scent, an intoxicating mix of cedar and spice. his warmth, the low lights, and the silence around the room save for the tense music from the movie pulled you to a restful state, your eyes closing and your body leaning more into Bucky, who seemed to have realised that you were ready to sleep through the movie, and continued to massage your shoulder and thigh, your body muscles relaxing under his ministrations.

before sleep could fully take you, though, a clatter from behind you pulled you back to consciousness. your head snapped towards the sound to see Alpine standing on a desk, one of the prototypes for a new gadget from the facilities downstairs - probably something to do with GPS tracking, it seemed - laid on the floor, the cover separated, wires jutting out, and a few pieces scattered around. Bucky chuckled lowly beside you, Alpine staring at him almost expectantly, before pushing another prototype to the floor, her gaze snapping back at Bucky, who immediately stood up and gathered her in his arms.

"oh my god," you said in the silence that followed.

the only sound in the room was the quiet murmur of whatever it was Bucky was telling Alpine in his hold, though you swear you caught the phrase treat later and narrowed your eyes at your husband's back turned towards you and the rest of the team.

he let her go after another moment of what you can only assume is him patting her on the head, turning back to the room with a neutral expression.

"sorry about that, she won't do it again," he said, sitting back down at you.

"tonight. she won't do anything else tonight," Bob said.

"I'm just happy it wasn't my phone," Yelena grumbled.

"don't worry, Val will be billed for that," Bucky commented off-handedly, arm back over your shoulder.

everyone in the room smirked at that, a satisfied nod from Alexei pulling your attention.

"you are all enjoying this too? menaces, all of you," you said.

"you love us," Yelena grinned.

you let out a laugh and John resumed the movie.

"you're bigger trouble than Alpine," you whispered to Bucky, lips grazing his stubbled cheek.

"you love me the most," his grin was boyish, full of mischief and charm rolled into a dangerous expression.

you kissed his lips.

"how can I not?"

🌊Mualani: (Playing Poppy Playtime)🌊

"Awe he's so cute!!"

"Huggy wuggy?" You raised your eyebrow at her.

"Is that his name? That's adorable. Can we give him hugs? Like is that something we do later on?" She turned to look at you, a sweet grin spreading across her face, "Are there others like him?"

You nodded, not wanting to tell her that he actually tries to kill you multiple times, "Yeah, there's a pink one called Kissy Missy. And little ones in a bunch of different colours."

"What?! That's so cute!!"

*Barely half an hour later*

"EEEEEEEEEEE!! WHY IS HE CHASING ME? I SAID YOU WERE CUTE HUGGY!!" Mualani squealed, backing away from the towering blue creature that had sprouted thousands of teeth.

"RUN RUN!!" You shouted in between howls of laughter. It really shouldn't be so funny to see your girlfriend turn on a plushy in a a game, but she was so angry you couldn't help it!

"I'M RUNNING! HUGGY I HOPE YOU KNOW I TAKE BACK WHAT I SAID! YOU DONT GET HUGS! TAKE THIS! HIYAH!!" She pulled the box down standing up from her chair as Huggy fell to the depths of the factory.

"You go babe!!"

She wrapped her arms around you, celebrating her small victory, "I like your hugs way better anyways. He's dead right? He won't eat me?"

"......welllll."

"WHAT?!"

✨Albedo: (Playing Dead space)✨

"So then you cut off their limbs and they die?" You smiled at Albedo, watching the confusion cross over his face while simultaneously popping a piece of popcorn in your mouth.

"I'm sorry, do you mean to tell me, this maintenance man, takes on creatures that are reanimated flesh? And for some reason, said maintenance man continues to do this for the entirety of the game and survives?"

"Yep." You try to keep your face neutral, knowing full well if you start to giggle you won't be able to stop.

"I'm a alchemist, with a vast knowledge of potions, weaponry, and combat methods, and I wouldn't be able to take down a entire ship of necromorphs. The possibilities for survival are extremely low. Why even try?"

"What if I was on it?"

"...If you were on it?" His eyes left the loading screen to meet yours, "If you were on the ship?"

"Mhm. What if I were on the ship, would you try?"

"I'd fight to the death."

You paused, feeling your heart skip a beat at his utter lack of hesitation, "See, maybe he has his reasons..."

🌿Kinich: (Playing Resident Evil 2)🌿

"You want me to pick this guy?" Kinich moved the cursor over Leons profile, looking over the game character with a almost annoyed expression.

"Yes! He's one of the main faces of resident evil, the like -hot one-." You beamed at him, setting a bowl of candy on his desk for the two of you to share. You'd brought a blanket too, making sure to cover you both up while he debated further over who to play.

"The hot one..." He glared at the screen, "What makes him the hot one? Aren't most of the guys in these games considered attractive?"

"Yeah, Chris Redfield is pretty popular too, but Leon's like the rookie police officer. He's sweet and yet he knows how to fire a gun, plus you should check out his cake. He's got a bakery!"

Kinich sighed, wishing he'd never had to hear you utter check out his cake, in his presence, "...I don't think he's that incredible."

"...are you jealous?"

"No."

"You just picked Claire! You are!"

"No, I just think we should give her a chance."

"Mhmmmmmm...well just to be clear, you're sweet and a badass too, and super handsome, and funny, and-"

"Okay, I get it. I get it, thank you." He tried to brush it off like it was no big deal, but his light blush gave him away. He liked knowing what you thought of him.

Extra: (I could not get this out of my head so here it is)

*Wanderer and You playing Little Nightmares 2 together when that scene happens IYKYK*

Wanderer: "Catch me, catch me oh fuck"

You as six: "Gotcha!!"

...extremely awkward silence...

Wanderer: "Why aren't you pulling me up?"

You: "I can't! What's happening?!"

*The two of you watching dumbfounded as Six/You let him fall into the abyss*

You: "Oh my god."

Wanderer: "You betrayed me."

You: "I swear I didn't know that happened. I'm so sorry."

Wanderer: "That was the final betrayal."

You: "No."

Wanderer: "Humanity has failed me again."

You: "Wanderer no- EEEEEK!"

*Wanderer tackles you, play fighting you for your crimes while you laugh hysterically and beg for mercy*

It made sense on paper.

Still, as you zipped up your tactical bag and adjusted the Kevlar vest over your hoodie, a tension curled low in your gut. Not fear or dread, but more like the prickle of being watched by Fate. And Fate was wearing Bucky Barnes’ scowl.

Voices carried in from the corridor, raised just enough to bounce off the gray walls. Val’s smooth, too-calm tone layered against a sharper edge: Bucky’s voice, low and tight, frustration bleeding through gritted teeth.

“...it’s already cleared, Barnes. You’re wasting time.”

“She’s not cleared to go alone. The intel’s soft.”

“She requested it. She’s capable. It’s recon, not retrieval.”

“She’s reckless when she thinks she’s right.”

“She’s alive because of that.”

“She’s mine. I won’t let you risk her.”

That last one hit like a bullet in the air, sharp, unguarded, and final. It stopped everything, even the hum of the lights. Silence hung for half a beat before his boots started toward you.

You didn’t turn when the door slid open. Instead, you slid a knife into the sheath inside your boot and said, without looking, “Tell me you’re here to say goodbye like a normal boyfriend, not break into the jet and zip-tie yourself to a seat.”

He was behind you a heartbeat later, close enough for his body heat to ghost across your back, but not touching. You could feel the tension radiating off him like static, hot, bristling, and feral. When you finally turned, you met the look that had been clawing at your instincts all morning.

His jaw was clenched, shoulders squared, but his eyes weren’t angry. They were afraid. Of losing you.

“Seriously?” he asked, voice low, dry as frost. “You’re really gonna leave now? A week before Christmas?”

You grinned, tilting your head like it didn’t ache your heart to do it. “It’s two days, baby. Not like Santa’s coming early.”

He didn’t smile.

He never did when he was afraid.

His arms folded across his chest, muscles tense under the dark henley he’d been wearing when you slipped out of bed that morning. There was still a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. You shouldn’t have looked. It made your throat sting.

“This isn’t a joke,” he muttered. “The intel came in too fast. It doesn’t smell right.”

“Nothing ever smells right to you,” you said, lighter than you felt. “Except gun oil and burnt toast.”

“Don’t deflect.”

You looked away first. Back to your bag, to the straps, the zippers, anything to focus on besides the aching in your chest. Because God, you didn’t want to leave while he was looking at you like he was trying to memorize you just in case.

But you’d trained your whole life to be the one they sent in first. You had to go. You had to believe in your own survival, because if you didn’t, the doubt would eat you alive.

“You’ll be here when I get back,” you said, forcing a grin. “Probably yelling at an inflatable snowman for blinking too loud.”

“I’m not gonna fight with you,” he said, softer now. “I just—”

You looked up at the crack in his voice when frustration turned to fear.

“I just don’t want this to be the last time I see you.”

You heard the truth, the fear, and the love under all the sarcasm. Neither of you said those three words easily, but he was saying it now, the only way he knew how.

You stepped closer, reaching out to smooth down the collar of his shirt. It was pointless, a stalling tactic, but you needed the contact.

“Promise me you’ll keep your comms hot,” he said, eyes locked on yours like he could will you to be careful.

You gave him the grin he hated most, crooked, flippant, and infuriating.

“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. I got this.”

He exhaled through his nose, and shook his head like he’d heard that lie too many times.

“You always say that,” he muttered. “Then I end up stitching you up while you flirt with me through the pain.”

“Exactly.” You winked. “That’s our thing.”

Before he could argue, beg, plead, or break, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It lingered a heartbeat too long.

Then you grabbed your bag and walked out.

Behind you, Mariah Carey kept singing.

“...all I want for Christmas… is you…”

*****

You were gone.

The hangar felt hollow without you in it, like the building itself knew something was missing. The wind outside had gone still, held its breath the moment you disappeared into the sky. The only sound was the fading whine of the jet’s engines, growing thinner by the second as they vanished into the thick gray clouds.

Snow had started again. Sparse flurries, dry and sharp, drifted against the reinforced windows, but Bucky didn’t move.

He stood just beyond the edge of the tarmac, boots planted, arms crossed tight over his chest, fists balled so hard his knuckles ached. His shoulders were locked in place, because he knew in his bones if he let himself breathe too deep, he might break apart right here on the runway.

His eyes tracked the jet until it shrank to a speck, then until it was nothing.

You hadn’t looked back at him before takeoff. You never did.

And he understood. God help him, he understood. You were built for forward momentum: clean exits, no hesitation, no sentimental glances over your shoulder. The mission always came first.

But still, he wished you’d looked back. Just once. Just for him.

“You gonna pace a trench into the floor,” came a voice behind him, casual and too damn loud for the moment, “or go drink about it?”

Bucky didn’t turn.

The scent of cheap peppermint stirred into burnt coffee hit him first. Walker. Smug and uninvited, the human equivalent of static in Bucky’s already frayed nerves.

He grunted, low in his throat. It wasn’t a greeting or even an answer. It was a warning.

Walker, of course, ignored it.

“Suit yourself,” he said, sipping noisily from a red-and-white striped mug. “Just don’t bleed on the rug when you start tearing walls down.”

Bucky tuned him out. He didn’t have the energy to waste on people who hadn’t loved and lost to the extent he had. 

The walk back inside felt colder than it should have. Not because of the temperature, it was always freezing in this part of the base, but because you weren’t there to add the heat with a look or a quip or that goddamn smirk that drove him crazy.

The corridors were half-decorated for Christmas. It was a tired effort, scattered at best: paper snowflakes hung lopsided from command room doors, someone had twisted tinsel around the fire suppression pipes, there was a discount-store wreath taped to the med bay entrance, its bow already curling at the corners.

It was supposed to feel festive. Instead, it felt like someone had dressed a morgue in holiday drag.

Carey’s voice trailed faintly from the cafeteria down the hall, warbling out that same cursed song. Your song.

“All I want for Christmas is you—”

Bucky’s jaw clenched hard enough to make the nerve behind his molars twinge. He knew you’d queued it up just to mess with him. It was the kind of petty sabotage you excelled at. Death-defying in the field, chaos in human form, and still committed to pushing his buttons every damn chance you got.

And the worst part? He loved that it worked. And he hated that it worked.

The comms room was empty when he entered. The glow from the monitors cast long shadows across the steel floor, bathing the space in an icy blue-white pallor.

He sat down at the central console without thinking. His movements were automatic, muscle memory. He’d done this enough times before: missions you were on, extractions he wasn’t a part of, surveillance that kept him tethered to you through screens and signals.

And there you were, your signal blinking to life on the leftmost monitor, a small green dot pulsing steady over the European grid. Your flight path was stable. Altitude and heart rate within safe parameters.

No spikes, no distress. Not yet at least.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched over like a man trying to shield a wound. His eyes locked on that tiny light like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

SPARK. 

All caps, and all attitude, just like you.

The name glared back at him from the digital interface, a handful of letters that made up his world. He hated how small they looked on the screen.

You were always larger than life when you were near him, loud, bright, sharp-edged, and warm in your own firecracker way. Even when you were pissing him off. Even when you were reckless. Maybe especially then.

He could still smell your shampoo on his shirt. The warmth of you hadn’t fully faded from his skin. You’d stood too close, kissed him at the corner of his mouth instead of square-on, like you knew it would leave him off-balance and aching.

You always knew what you were doing. You always left him wanting more.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, willing his pulse to slow.

You’d joked like it was nothing: two days, quick recon, low-risk. You’d even promised to be home before Christmas, like you believed it, so he should believe it, too.

But Bucky had seen the op file and knew how weak the intel was. He knew the name on the target list: Lukas Dvorsky, former Hydra, expert in vanishing. A man who made people disappear, quietly and permanently. Hydra might have been dismantled in headlines, but Bucky knew what still slithered beneath the surface, and how ghosts like Dvorsky didn’t stay buried.

And still, somehow, you’d convinced Val to clear you for a solo run on the guy.

Bucky didn’t know what infuriated him more, your insistence, or her permission.

He should have stopped you. He should have grabbed your arm, dragged you back into that locker, and said what he wanted to say:

Please don’t go.

Please don’t leave me behind again.

Please don’t make me wonder if I’ll ever see you alive.

But he hadn’t, because you hated being told what to do. You didn’t like being needed, and needing you, loving you, had always been his most dangerous secret.

Now you were airborne, half a continent away, chasing a ghost who could be nothing… or everything.

He reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the screen like he could touch you through the glass. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until his hand pressed flat against the data feed.

“She always comes back,” he murmured, voice hoarse, low enough that even the room didn’t hear him.

The green dot blinked steadily, unbothered and oblivious.

“Always.”

But the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen and his jaw didn’t unclench.

Because beneath the soldier, beneath the scars, beneath the man who had learned to endure loss without flinching, there was a voice whispering that one day, you won’t.

And that would be the day he didn’t survive, either.

*****

They told you it would be light security, a quiet recon run. In and out, ghost work. You should have known better.

No one ghosts out of Hydra and resurfaces with clean hands. Lukas Dvorsky had been off-grid for half a year. He slipped off the radar like smoke, with no chatter, no sightings, and no fingerprints. Then, three days ago, he lit up a thermal scan in Bratislava, tucked deep inside a gutted textile mill on the edge of the industrial district.

It didn’t feel right, but the op file had been thin. You’d studied the blueprints: three floors, one access stairwell, partial power, half-collapsed roof. Two posted sentries, a clean line to the server room, encrypted drives tucked behind reinforced casing. It looked simple, but simple was often a lie.

You were crawling on the third floor now, low to the ground, shoulder jammed against cold concrete, tucked behind a rusted-out loom that reeked of grease and dust and something sharper underneath, stale water, mildew, maybe even old blood. The rot clung to your skin and every breath stung.

Your left shoulder screamed when you moved. A hot, electric throb bloomed under your vest and radiated down your ribs with every shift. Your shirt was soaked through. You didn’t know if it was sweat or blood or both, but the fabric clung like a second skin. It chilled fast in the air, making you shiver.

It had been ten minutes since you'd been shot, maybe less. Time got slippery when pain kicked in.

You hadn’t even registered it at first, just the way the impact jolted you off balance, the flash of heat, the sudden dead weight of your arm. You remembered stumbling into the stairwell, dragging your body up the cracked steps with one hand, and realizing your left arm wasn’t working properly, something inside had torn or dislocated.

Your gun had jammed. You didn’t even hear the click until after.

The whole op had unraveled too fast for you to adjust. You were always quick, adaptable, slippery, and chaotic by design, but even chaos had limits.

Outside, past the broken panes of a shattered office window, snow drifted down in slow, weightless spirals. Light caught in the flurries like ash swirling through cold firelight.

You reached for your comms. The light on the unit flickered green, faint and unstable.

You pressed it anyway, and murmured into the mic.

“Minor hiccup,” you whispered, jaw tight. “Not to worry. Maybe I’ll bring back a souvenir.”

It was a stupid lie.

You were bleeding out behind a rusted machine in a half-collapsed factory, surrounded by the worst kind of ghosts. Hydra never really died; it just changed faces and addresses. You were sure now that this hadn’t been a recon target; it had been a trap.

Your sidearm was a paperweight. Your knife was still good, but it wouldn’t hold out long in a firefight. You’d stashed the encrypted drive in your boot, intact, at least; your one small victory. 

A foreign voice echoed down the hall, male, careless and amused. Laughter followed, sharp and close.

You pressed your back tighter to the loom, and sucked in a slow breath. Every inhale burned.

The room around you was all rust and decay: machinery long dead, cracked walls layered in peeling paint and graffiti in a mix of Czech and Slovak. There was a crude drawing of a skull next to a phrase you couldn’t translate. Somehow, it felt fitting.

Your good hand shook as you pulled your knife free.

You’d had worse days, but you weren’t sure you’d survive this one.

Somewhere deeper in the building, a radio crackled to life. You heard static first, then, faint and warbling through the bad wiring, a familiar voice began to sing.

“I’ll have a blue Christmas… without you…”

Elvis. Of course it was Elvis.

You nearly laughed, but bit it back. Blood coated your tongue.

You remembered playing that exact song last week just to annoy Bucky. You’d danced barefoot through the kitchen, singing off-key with dramatic flair. He’d leaned in the doorway with a scowl like he was planning to throw you off a roof, muttering something about “holiday propaganda.”

You’d sung louder, hips swaying, arms thrown wide.

He’d caught you mid-chorus, grabbed your waist, hauled you in like you weighed nothing, and kissed you breathless. The kiss left you boneless and a little pissed off that he could melt your brain that easily.

He’d said, “You better be here for Christmas, my Spark.” You’d smiled against his mouth and promised you would.

Your vision swam for a moment. Your face was hot, and your fingers cold. You leaned your head back against the loom, trying to breathe through the ache in your ribs.

There was no clean way out. There might not be a dirty one either. You’d taken down at least two men, but there were more, maybe four, maybe ten, maybe more than you could handle with one working arm and a body on the verge of shutting down.

And the worst part wasn’t the blood or the pain or even the thought of dying here.

The worst part was Bucky.

If you didn’t call this in, if you didn’t say something, he’d wait. He’d wait and hope and look for you, maybe forever. And Bucky Barnes did not come apart cleanly when he lost something.

He would come. You knew it. He’d come, and he’d tear through every wall in this place to find you, and if you were already gone, it would kill him slowly.

You couldn’t let that happen.

You pressed your lips to your forearm, trying to muffle your voice. The comm sparked again, weak and crackling. There was no confirmation tone this time, just static. You had no way to know if it connected, but you had to try.

“Bucky…” you whispered. Your voice sounded distant to your own ears, slurred at the edges. “If you’re hearing this… don’t come.”

You dragged a breath into your lungs, sharp and blinding.

“It’s not worth it.”

Elvis sang on in the background, a crooning ghost to what you thought could be your last words.

You smiled faintly, lips cracked, blood dripping slowly from your chin now, warm and sticky.

“Don’t make Christmas sad, baby.”

Then the static swallowed your voice whole. The signal went dead.

*****

He heard your last words on a loop, like a record needle caught in a groove:

“Don’t make Christmas sad, baby.”

Then a low, hissing void of silence where your voice had been; static stretching into endless and empty infinity.

The comms room fell still. Even the hum of the servers seemed to fade.

Bucky didn’t blink. His breath stuck somewhere between his lungs and his ribs, like the air around him had shifted and the world had exhaled and forgotten how to breathe again.

A single heartbeat passed, then another. The monitors kept glowing. Your signal, the dot labeled SPARK, still hovered on the map mocking him. It didn’t blink. It didn’t move.

Behind him, a keyboard clicked, calm and methodical.

“Could be interference,” Yelena said. She sounded too casual, too steady for how the ground had just crumbled beneath him. “We can run a ping. Bounce it off the nearest relay—”

But Bucky was already on his feet without a word.

He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. He didn’t slam it. He was controlled in a way that meant danger. His mind was full of the silence that came before hell.

The hall stretched ahead of him in a blur of too-bright lights and cheap Christmas cheer.

His boots hit the tile in hard, rhythmic strides, each step echoing like a ticking clock.

Twinkling fairy lights blinked from the ceiling, casting colored reflections on polished floors, and tinsel sparkled around the doorframes. Someone had hung glitter-covered ornaments from the fire alarms.

It all felt wrong, like a cosmic joke. The world didn’t understand that you were out there, alone and bleeding, maybe dying, while this place still smelled like gingerbread and artificial pine.

His name rang out behind him, clipped and sharp: “Barnes! Stand down. That’s a direct order—”

Val’s voice. He didn’t slow down or even turn.

She might as well have been shouting down a hallway in another country; none of it reached him. Not now when everything inside him had gone quiet.

It was the silence that came with war, the silence that had lived in his bones for decades: cold, focused, and absolutely lethal.

He entered the gear room like a shadow with a mission.

Bright fluorescents buzzed overhead, stark and sterile. Rows of lockers lined the walls. The scent of metal oil and cleaning solvent hung thick in the air.

Bucky grabbed gear with practiced efficiency: no hesitation, no wasted motion. Body armor. Tactical belt. Spare mags. Extra knives. More than he needed, but not enough to make him feel ready. He didn’t bother double-checking. His hands moved on their own, as if they’d been waiting for this moment.

The metal of his left hand caught the light, a quick gleam of gold and black across the shiny silver surface of the table.

Your voice still echoed in his head, softer now, frayed and worn through.

“Bucky… if you’re hearing this…”

“Don’t come.”

“It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t make Christmas sad, baby.”

He froze and closed his eyes for one breath.

His jaw clenched so tight it ached. His right hand pressed flat against the tabletop, slow and controlled, until the steel beneath it groaned under the pressure. He stayed there, knuckles white, chest heaving once.

She always jokes when she’s scared. She always tells me to stay when she knows I’m already gone.

His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

“I swear to God, if she got herself killed—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence; the words fractured in his mouth. They tasted like blood and copper and something worse: fear.

He holstered the last pistol, clipped it into place with a sharp snap, and stood tall.

His movements shifted, then. Calm turned to dangerous, purpose settled into his shoulders, with every muscle coiled and ready.

He stepped out of the room, gear slung over one shoulder, duffel tight in his fist.

You’d promised. “Two days,” you’d said. Just a simple recon, low risk.m You’d left your fuzzy socks under the bed and a wrapped bottle of whiskey on the counter with a note that said “Don’t open without me.”

He thought of that stupid little bow, red and shiny and off-center. He remembered laughing because you’d stuck a Santa sticker on it like a goddamn child.

You were coming back. You always did. He believed you.

You were the only reason he still bothered with the holidays. You were the only reason he’d let you convince him to hang lights last week, stringing them in lopsided rows across the window while you sang Elvis at full volume just to annoy him.

Now that bottle was still sitting there, the apartment was probably still warm with the scent of your shampoo, your lotion, or your stupid tea.

His grip on the duffel bag tightened until the strap dug into his palm.

His hand clenched around the duffel strap, tight enough that his knuckles ached.

“I told her we’d be together for Christmas,” he muttered. His eyes narrowed, sharp and cold as the wind outside. “I meant it.”

Then he disappeared into the hangar, into the dark, and into the storm.

Part 2: Rescue

"Out where, sir?" Moxxie asked without looking up from his filing.

"There's a bar down the street. Decent drinks, mediocre atmosphere, and they don't ask questions when things get stabby." Blitz grinned. "I figured we could use some team bonding or whatever the fuck HR would call it."

"We don't have HR, sir."

"Which is why I can call it whatever the fuck I want! Now get your asses up, we're leaving in five!"

Millie perked up immediately. "Oh, I love that place! They got those little fried cheesey things!"

"They also have a thirty-percent mortality rate for new customers," Moxxie pointed out nervously.

"Yeah, but we're not new customers, so we're fine!" Blitz turned to you. "You're coming too. Can't leave you here alone, you'd probably accidentally summon something or break something expensive."

"I wouldn't—" you started to protest.

"Red-hot coals—bare hands—Your decision-making is clearly questionable." He was already heading for the door. "Come OOON!"

Loona emerged from the break room, phone in hand, looking deeply unenthused. "Do I have to?"

"Yes! It's TEAM bonding, Loonie! You're part of the team!"

"Ugh, fucking fine." She slouched toward the door, still scrolling through her phone.

Millie linked her arm through yours with a bright smile. "Don't worry, sugar! It'll be fun! Maybe!"

"That's not reassuring," you said weakly, but let yourself be pulled along anyway.

The bar was called "The Scorched Liver," which should have been your first warning. The second warning was the bullet holes in the exterior wall. The third was the demon slumped unconscious outside the entrance.

"Is he okay?" you asked, pointing at the body.

"He's fine, that's Jerry. He's always there," Blitz said dismissively, stepping over Jerry without a second glance.

Inside was... well, "dive bar" was generous. It was dark, smelled like sulfur and cheap alcohol, and was populated by demons who looked like they'd murder you for looking at them wrong. The floor was sticky, the walls were stained with substances you didn't want to identify, and the music was some kind of hellish rock that made your teeth hurt.

"Isn't this place great?" Blitz announced proudly.

"It's... atmospheric," you managed.

Moxxie leaned in close. "Stay near us and don't make eye contact with anyone. That's a good general rule for Hell, actually."

The group claimed a table near the back—well, "claimed" was putting it mildly. Blitz told the demons already sitting there to "fuck off or lose kneecaps," and they immediately vacated. Apparently, I.M.P. had a reputation here.

"First round's on me!" Blitz announced. "Except for you—" he pointed at you, "—I got no idea what humans can drink here without dying, so you get... I dunno, water?"

"We have Beelzejuice!" the bartender called over—a massive demon with four arms and horns that almost scraped the ceiling.

"What's Beelzejuice?" you asked nervously.

"You don't wanna know," Loona said, not looking up from her phone.

"It's made from fermented honey and it glows!" Millie said cheerfully. "It's real good!"

"I'll have water," you said quickly.

Blitz cackled. "Smart choice, tits!"

While Blitz was at the bar, you noticed a dartboard in the corner. It was being used by a group of rowdy demons, but they seemed to be wrapping up their game.

"Do you... do you guys play darts?" you asked hesitantly.

Moxxie's face lit up. "Oh! Yes, actually! I'm quite good at it. Requires precision, steady hands, mathematical understanding of trajectory—"

"Nerd shit," Loona translated.

"It's not 'nerd shit,' it's skill!" Moxxie protested.

"I've never been very good at darts," you admitted. "But it might be fun to try?"

Millie grinned. "Oh, we should totally play! Girls versus... Moxxie!"

"Why am I a separate team?!"

"Because Loona doesn't wanna play and someone's gotta give us a challenge!" Millie was already standing, pulling you with her.

The dartboard was old and pockmarked with holes, some of which looked suspiciously like they came from bullets rather than darts. The demons who'd been playing before left with a few grumbles and pointed looks that made you shrink closer to Millie.

"Okay, sugar, you ever played before?" Millie asked, handing you a dart. It was heavy, the tip wickedly sharp.

"A few times. I was always terrible at it." You hefted the dart experimentally. "Like, embarrassingly bad."

"Well, let's see what we're working with!" Millie stepped back, gesturing at the board.

You lined up your shot, aimed carefully, and threw.

The dart sailed past the board entirely, embedding itself in the wall with a solid thunk.

"Oh crumbs," Moxxie said.

"Well, that's... that's definitely bad," Millie admitted.

Blitz, returning with drinks, nearly dropped them laughing. "Holy SHIT! You missed the ENTIRE BOARD! That's almost impressive!"

"I told you I was bad!" you protested, your face burning with embarrassment.

"Bad? That's not BAD, that's like... weapons-grade incompetent!" Blitz was wheezing now. "How do you miss something that BIG?!"

"Leave her alone, sir," Moxxie said, retrieving your dart from the wall. "Everyone starts somewhere. Here—" he handed it back to you, "—let me show you proper form."

He demonstrated, his movements precise and controlled. "You want to keep your elbow at ninety degrees, wrist straight, and release at the apex of your throw. It's all about consistency and follow-through."

You tried to copy his stance. "Like this?"

"Almost. Here—" he gently adjusted your elbow, "—and your feet should be like this—" he tapped your foot with his, showing you the proper position. "Now, don't throw hard. Darts is about precision, not power."

You threw again. This time the dart hit the board!

The very outer edge of the board. In the no-points zone.

But still. Board contact.

"Hey, that's improvement!" Millie cheered.

"That's pity points at best," Loona muttered from the table, not looking up from her phone.

"Oh, shut it, Loonie!" Blitz called over. "Let her have her small victories before she inevitably fails again!"

"You're very encouraging, sir," Moxxie said dryly.

"I'm a FUCKING inspirational speaker, Moxxie. Now throw your dart so I can watch you be boring and competent at something."

Moxxie's throw was, predictably, perfect. Dead center. Bullseye.

"NERD!" Blitz shouted.

"It's not nerdy, it's SKILLED!"

"Same thing!"

Millie took her turn next, and while not as precise as Moxxie, she still hit a respectable score. "We're gonna need to practice, sugar," she said to you with a grin. "Can't have the boys beating us!"

"I'm one boy. Singular. This isn't fair teams," Moxxie protested.

"Life ain't fair, Mox!" Millie kissed his cheek, making him flush.

You took your next turn, and this time, with Moxxie's coaching still fresh in your mind, you actually hit a scoring zone. Only five points, but still.

"Look at that! You're learning!" Moxxie seemed genuinely pleased. "Try to keep that same form. Consistency is key."

"Absolutely, thank you Mox," you said with a small smile.

Blitz had wandered over, drink in hand, positioning himself specifically to heckle. "You call that a throw, Moxxie? My grandma could throw better than that, and she's been dead for sixty years!"

"I got a bullseye!"

"Yeah, but it was a BORING bullseye! No flair! No style!" Blitz gestured dramatically, sloshing his drink. "You gotta put some fucking PASSION into it!"

"It's DARTS, sir, not interpretive dance!"

"Everything's interpretive dance if you try hard enough!"

The game continued, and you slowly, painfully, began to improve. You were still the worst player by a significant margin, but you were hitting the board more often than not, and even scored a decent throw that landed in the twenty zone.

"Holy shit, did you see that?!" you said excitedly.

"I saw it, sugar! You're getting the hang of it!" Millie high-fived you.

"Pure luck," Loona commented from the table.

"Loona, you haven't looked up from your phone once, how would you even know?" you shot back before you could stop yourself.

There was a moment of silence. Loona's eyes slowly raised from her phone, meeting yours with an expression you couldn't read.

Then she snorted. "Huh. She's got a spine. Didn't expect that."

"Character development!" Blitz announced proudly, like he'd personally taught you to talk back.

Moxxie lined up another shot, and Blitz leaned obnoxiously close to him. "Gonna choke, Mox? Gonna embarrass yourself in front of your wife and the human?"

"Sir, please, you're in my throwing space—"

"Ooh, 'throwing space!' So official! So PROFESSIONAL!" Blitz made exaggerated air quotes. "What's next, you gonna file a workplace complaint? Oh wait, WE DON'T HAVE HR!"

Moxxie threw anyway, hitting just off-center. "See? You made me miss!"

"I didn't touch you! That's all your own sad, limp-wristed incompetence!"

"You were BREATHING on me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, should I just STOP BREATHING?! Should I DIE for your PRECIOUS CONCENTRATION?!" Blitz gasped dramatically. "Moxxie needs SILENCE and RESPECT for his little dart game!"

"It's called BASIC COURTESY!"

"Never heard of her!"

You couldn't help but laugh at their bickering. It was absurd and chaotic, but there was something almost... fond about it. Like this was their routine, their normal.

You were lining up your next throw, tongue poking out in concentration, when you felt it.

A hand.

On your ass.

A very firm, very deliberate grab.

You froze.

Your brain short-circuited, unable to process what had just happened. The dart fell from your nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor.

"Well, hey there, sweet thing," a gravelly voice said from behind you. "Ain't seen you around before. You new?"

You turned slowly. The demon behind you was tall—maybe six and a half feet—with green skin, too many teeth, and eyes that made your skin crawl. He was grinning down at you like he'd just won a prize.

"I—" you started, but your voice wouldn't work properly.

"She's with us," Moxxie said sharply, stepping forward. His hand was on his hip, where you knew he kept a concealed weapon. "Back off."

"Relax, little guy, I'm just being friendly." The demon's grin widened. "Real friendly."

His hand moved toward you again.

It never made contact.

Millie's fist connected with his face with a sound like a gunshot. The demon staggered backward, blood spurting from his nose.

"KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF HER!" Millie snarled, and you'd never heard her voice like that before—absolutely feral.

The demon recovered, wiping blood from his face. "You BITCH—"

He didn't get to finish.

Blitz had appeared from nowhere, grabbing the demon's arm and twisting it at an angle that made you hear something crack. "Oh, you think you can just TOUCH people without asking?! That's RUDE AS FUCK!"

"What's it to you?! She's just some—"

Blitz's knee connected with the demon's stomach, doubling him over. "She's with US, you grab-happy piece of shit!"

The demon's friends—because of course he had friends—started getting up from their table. Big, mean-looking demons with scars and weapons and very bad intentions.

"Oh, you fuckers wanna GO?!" Blitz's grin was manic, dangerous. "BRING IT ON, SHIT-STAINS!"

Everything happened so fast.

One of the demon's friends threw a bottle. It shattered against the wall next to you, making you scream and duck. Moxxie immediately grabbed you, pulling you behind him.

"It's okay! It's fine! Just stay behind me!" Moxxie was saying, but his voice was high and panicked because you were panicking and that was making him panic more.

Millie had produced a knife from somewhere—where had she been hiding a knife that big?—and was currently using it to stab the demon who'd grabbed you. Repeatedly. With enthusiasm.

Blitz had tackled another demon, and they were rolling across the floor, fists flying. "THAT'S RIGHT, COCKBITE! SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT!" He landed a punch that made a sickening crunch. "EAT SHIT AND DIE!"

The entire bar erupted.

Suddenly everyone was fighting everyone. Bottles flew. Tables shattered. Someone went through a window. The bartender was shouting something about property damage but no one was listening.

You watched, eyes wide with horror, as Millie twisted her knife in a way that made the demon scream. Blood sprayed across her face and she was smiling, actually smiling, covered in gore and looking absolutely delighted.

Blitz had gotten his hands on a broken bottle and was using it to slash at another demon's face. "COME ON, FUCKFACE! MY GRANDMA HITS HARDER THAN YOU!"

"Oh my god," you whispered, your hands coming up to cover your mouth. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

"Don't look! Just don't look!" Moxxie was trying to position himself between you and the violence, but it was everywhere. "This is fine! Totally normal! Just a regular bar fight!"

"THAT DEMON'S ARM CAME OFF!" you shrieked.

"Yes! That happens sometimes! Very normal in Hell!" Moxxie's voice was getting progressively more high-pitched. "Oh, crumbs—you're panicking. You're really panicking. Please stop panicking, you're panicking and that's making ME panic and I need to NOT panic right now!"

A demon lunged toward you. Moxxie shot him. Just—pulled out a gun and shot him, point-blank, no hesitation. The demon went down hard.

"MOXXIE!" you gasped.

"I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, BUT HE WAS GOING TO HURT YOU!" Moxxie looked like he might actually cry. "This is—this is so bad, you shouldn't be seeing this, why did Blitz bring you here?!"

Blitz, hearing his name, looked over. He was covered in blood—none of it his, you desperately hoped—and holding a demon in a headlock. "You okay over there?!"

"WE'RE FINE!" Moxxie shouted back. "JUST FINISH YOUR MURDER SPREE SO WE CAN LEAVE!"

"ON IT!" Blitz twisted, and there was an audible snap. "THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR HAVING WEAK-ASS VERTEBRAE, DIPSHIT!"

Millie had moved on to a second demon, her movements fluid and practiced and absolutely terrifying. She moved like violence was a dance she'd perfected, every stab and slash precise and brutal.

You'd known what they did. You'd seen the weapons, seen Millie and Moxxie come back covered in blood. But knowing and seeing were two very different things.

These were your... friends? Acquaintances? The people housing you? They were murderers. Actual, efficient, enthusiastic murderers.

And they were doing this because someone had touched you.

Loona, you noticed distantly, was still at the table, still on her phone, completely unbothered by the chaos around her. A bottle flew past her head. She didn't even flinch.

"Is this—is this normal?!" you managed to gasp out to Moxxie.

"Define normal!" Moxxie shot another demon who got too close. "For Hell? Yes! For you? Probably traumatizing! I'm so sorry!"

The original demon—the one who'd grabbed you—was on the ground now, Blitz standing over him. You couldn't see what Blitz was doing, but the demon was screaming.

"YOU LIKE TOUCHING PEOPLE?! HUH?! YOU LIKE THAT?!" Blitz was shouting. There was a sickening crunch. "TOUCH HER AGAIN AND I'LL RIP OFF EVERYTHING YOU GOT AND SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR THROAT! WE CLEAR, ASSHOLE?!"

Millie had finished with her opponents and was making her way back toward you, flicking blood off her knife casually. "You okay, sugar?"

"Am I—am I OKAY?!" Your voice came out strangled. "You just—there's so much blood—the stabbing—"

"Aw, hun, I know it looks bad, but this is just how we handle disrespect in Hell!" She smiled at you, sweet and cheerful, with blood dripping down her face. "Can't let people think they can just touch what's ours!"

"What's yours?!"

"Well, yeah! You're part of the I.M.P. family now! One of us!" She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Blitz had apparently finished with the original demon and was walking back over, shaking blood off his hands. "Alright, I think we've made our point. Time to go before the cops show up."

"There are COPS?!" you squeaked.

"Yeah, but they're lazy. We got like... five minutes." Blitz grabbed his coat from the table. "Loonie, come on!"

"Finally," Loona sighed, standing and pocketing her phone.

Moxxie was still holding your shoulders, looking at you with deep concern. "Are you alright? Do you need to sit down? You look very pale. Well, paler than usual. Do humans go into shock? Is that a thing?"

"I'm—I'm fine," you lied, your voice shaking. "I just need... air. I need air."

Blitz took one look at you and his expression shifted to something like concern. "Shit. Okay, Moxxie, get her outside. Millie, grab my coat. Loona, if you see any cops, bite them."

"I'm not biting cops for you."

"FINE, just distract them or whatever!"

You were ushered out of the bar in a rush, Moxxie on one side and Millie on the other. The cool night air of Hell hit your face, and you sucked in huge gulps of it, trying to calm your racing heart.

Behind you, you could hear sirens starting up in the distance.

"Well," Blitz said cheerfully, like he hadn't just hospitalized multiple demons. "That was fun! We should do team bonding more often!"

"Sir, I really don't think—" Moxxie started.

"Moxxie, shut the fuck up, I'm having a moment." Blitz looked at you, his expression unreadable. "You good?"

Were you good? You'd just watched your... coworkers? Friends? You'd just watched them brutally assault multiple demons because one had grabbed your ass. You'd seen Millie stab someone with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely enjoyed it. You'd seen Blitz beat someone bloody with his bare hands.

And they'd done it to protect you.

"I... I don't know," you admitted quietly.

"That's fair," Blitz said, surprisingly gentle. "Come on, let's get you home before you pass out or something."

As the group started walking back toward I.M.P., you noticed that Millie and Blitz were positioning themselves on either side of you, like bodyguards. Moxxie was scanning the street nervously, one hand still near his weapon.

They were protecting you. Still protecting you, even now.

You were in Hell, surrounded by demons, living with assassins who'd just proven exactly how violent they could be.

And somehow, impossibly, you'd never felt safer.

Timeline: Jazz goes from 4 months to 6 months pregnant (No I’m not gonna use weeks even though that would be better)

Don’t think I’ve forgotten that Jason is still a revenant and needs to routinely participate in violence like a fucked up chronic illness to remain sane. I hope you haven’t either. I got other shit to talk about.

They’ve all made and will make sacrifices for Danny (and the continuation of all existence, but mostly for Danny). That’s just Jason’s cross to bare.

ANYWAYS

Since the Todd Phamily no longer have godlike OP superpowered Danny to rely on as they all fall back on being simple support, they all need to step up to the plate.

So by night, they train.

Jazz is obviously their heaviest hitter, but she’s still adjusting to her powers that are still coming in and not always reliable. She spends most of her time trying to get a handle on them, and she already got hand to hand training from Maddie.

Jason goes full Bat and League of Assassins training on Sam and Tucker. No more hiding behind Danny if push comes to shove. It’s time to be Knights.

By Day, Jazz is picking out the businesses that cause the most disorganized crime offenses that are fucking with her Haunt instincts, Rich girl businesswoman Sam is going to those businesses to negotiate a buy out, while Red hood stands menacingly in the background to ensure those buy outs are as cheap as possible. Fingers crossed people make things difficult so Jason can get his prescribed Violence out of his system.

Every once in a while, Jason has to go to Wayne dinners and sibling hangouts to give proof of life and keep the Bats disinterested in sniffing around, but he’s working on slowly reducing the patrols he’s doing with the Bats so it doesn’t become jarring when he drops that he wants to completely focus on Crime Alley and do no patrols outside of it because Fatherhood is a full time job. Once Danny arrives, balancing crime alley, his gang, his Todd Phamily, the bat family, and bat patrols on top of a literal screaming baby will not work.

Tucker is on full time “make Crime Alley un hackable to outsiders”, “be our guy in the chair”, “cheaply and efficiently find a way to build and provide maintenance to Red Hood’s gear”, “build security for the new Todd Phamily Complex safe house” and it becomes obvious real quick that that is the work of, like, 5 people.

They brainstorm how they’re gonna get everything done before Danny arrives since time is ticking.

To make this whole operation work, they need to specify Day Job/Make Money roles and Night Job/Danny Protection Squad roles.

The Day Job/Make Money roles they successfully make a plan for.

To Manage Crime Alley and Make Money for Red Hood Inc. (they start calling it that as a joke. It's not a legal business. And they're gonna run it more like a government), Sam is going to be in charge of business and finance, because there needs to be some use for that Business Degree her parents forced her to double major with if she wanted them to pay for her to study Environmental Science.

Jason is going to be in charge of gang enforcement since he needs the violence and he's already the "face" (hood) of Red Hood's Gang.

Tucker will be in charge of development for weapons and security.

Jazz is going to be in charge of personnel. With her abilities connecting her to her Haunt, she can tell when people have negative intentions towards it once they cross her boarders. Add that with her ghost core feeding off of her human obsession with psychology, she's developing minor empathic abilities that best allow her to determine who is trustworthy, motivated, skeptical, or enthusiastic for jobs they hire and when they lie. So she is in charge of vetting any gang grunt, legal business manager, runner, pimp, etc.

But when they try to brainstorm the Night Job/Danny Protection Squad roles, to make Crime Alley a safe haven/fortress for Danny when he is born, the math is not mathing.

They have 3 months. They need more skills, they need more people, they need more time

Time to call up Clockwork