Webslinger Holland

Yelena: You weren’t sure how Yelena had convinced you that making holiday cocktails counted as “team bonding,” but somehow, here you were— standing behind the Watchtower’s bar surrounded by bottles, sugar, and about six different kinds of alcohol.

The two of you leaned against the counter, peering into an old recipe book specifically made for holiday drinks.

“Okay,” you said, consulting the recipe for the hundredth time. “It says one ounce of peppermint schnapps, one ounce of vodka, and—”

“—four ounces of vodka,” Yelena interrupted confidently, already reaching for the bottle.

“No,” you sighed loudly, trying to take the bottle from her, but it was no use. She was already pouring. “We’re making Christmas drinks, not hospital trips.”

She smirked, pouring with dangerous precision. “I am Russian. I know what I am doing.”

“Famous last words,” you muttered.

The first drink was an unholy combination of cream, peppermint, and way too much alcohol. Yelena took a sip, blinked twice, and immediately coughed.

“Okay, maybe not perfect." Yelena coughed once again and grimaced. "It tastes like toothpaste and fire.”

You held back a laugh as she pushed the glass away. “Want to try again, mixologist?”

“Da. We improvise. I am excellent improviser.”

That second attempt wasn’t half bad. The third— with some crushed candy canes, a touch of cream liqueur, and the right amount of vodka — actually tasted festive. You both clinked glasses and tasted the final result.

“Oh,” Yelena said, pleasantly surprised. “This one does not make my throat cry. It’s good!”

You smiled, proud. “A Christmas miracle.”

Yelena grinned at you, cheeks faintly flushed. “You know, for all your soft music and cookies, you are fun at Christmas.”

You rolled your eyes. “High praise.”

“Mm, yes. You make drinks, I make chaos,” she declared, throwing her arm around your shoulders. “Together, we make perfect team.”

You smile, cheeks flushed from laughter and alcohol. “Deal.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “Also, do not tell Alexei I used his good vodka.”

“Too late,” comes his booming voice from down the hall, and you both immediately dissolve into laughter.

Bucky: The Watchtower had never smelled like this before. The warm smells of cinnamon, vanilla, and butter filled the kitchen; the kind of warmth that had no place in a cold concrete building meant for mercenaries and missions. You’d been in the kitchen for nearly an hour, sleeves rolled up and hair pulled back, humming under your breath to Bing Crosby while snow gathered softly on the windows outside.

You were focused— the sort of calm focus that only came from the perfect blend of music, candlelight, and half a glass of wine. And you didn’t even hear him come in.

Coming in from training, Bucky lingered in the doorway for a while, watching you work steadily. He’d meant to pass through, maybe grab a post workout smoothie and leave. But you looked so peaceful. And that was a rare thing to see around here.

You silently turned around with another tray of cookie dough in hand, opening the oven to slide the tray inside and set the timer. You wiped your hands of any flour remaining.

He finally spoke when you reached for the oven timer. “You look like you’re running a bakery in here.”

You jumped slightly, turning to see him now leaning against the counter. "I'm just getting things ready for the Christmas party."

He glanced at your spread— the flour on the counter, the variety of cookie cutters, a rolling pin, and a mixing bowl that hadn't found it's way to the sink yet. Off to the side, freshly baked cookies rested on a cooling rack just waiting to be eaten.

"I figured—" your voice drew him back. "Who doesn't like homemade Christmas cookies?"

“Didn’t mean to interrupt then,” he said, his voice warm, a little rough around the edges.

“You’re fine,” you said, holding up the glass bottle. “You want some? It’s a decent wine. Probably the only decent thing Val stocked for the holidays.”

He chuckled, crossing the room to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Sure. Little early for me, though.”

You poured him half a glass and slid it over. He took it, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he looked around the kitchen. “You’re really doing all this for Christmas?”

“Mmhmm.” You gestured to the counter— trays of cookie dough lined up like little soldiers waiting for the oven. “It's our first Christmas as a team. I want it to be special.”

He smiled faintly and stared fondly. "I like that."

The timer dinged, and you moved quickly, sliding on oven mitts. Bending down to get the cookies out of the oven, you pulled them out and placed them on the counter.

"Those look good," Bucky pointed out. "Perfect actually."

“Sugar cookies,” you said happily. “The old-fashioned kind. The ones you can decorate later.”

"You gonna decorate them?" Bucky quirked an eyebrow and watched the way you bowed you head, nodding shyly.

"Wanna help?" You wondered, almost testing the waters.

Bucky's lips tugged into a smile. "I'd love to."

You handed him a piping tube, your fingers brushing his briefly and you felt it, that tiny spark of quiet warmth between you.

For the next few minutes, the kitchen filled with soft laughter and Christmas music. Bucky helped you transfer cookies onto the cooling rack, moving carefully with his metal hand, and you couldn’t help smiling at the sight of it: the world’s most dangerous man delicately handling sugar cookies like they were glass.

And when the next song came on— I’ll Be Home for Christmas— he didn’t leave. He just stayed there, leaning on the counter beside you, quietly humming along as snow kept falling outside.

John: The living room looked like Christmas exploded with tinsel on the couch, garland half-hung, and you sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a glowing chaotic mass of Christmas lights.

The movie It’s a Wonderful Life played softly on the TV, half-distracting you while you muttered at the cords under your breath. You had a system—loop, twist, pull—but somewhere along the line, the wires decided to fight back.

That’s when John wandered in, still in a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, hair damp from the shower. He stopped dead in his tracks.

He watched for a moment, enjoying the way you rose to your feet with arms extended holding out the tangled cord. It wrapped around your arms, twisted across your stomach, and swung around your ankle.

He leaned against the doorframe, chewing on a piece of peppermint candy. “Well,” he drawled, “looks like the lights won this round.”

You looked up, grinning despite yourself. “I almost had it.”

“Uh-huh.” He walked over, coming over to further inspect the mess. “You’re supposed to hang ’em on the tree, not wrestle ’em.”

You rolled your eyes and kept working, tugging at one stubborn knot. “I just need to get these untangled before the tree gets here. Valentina says it's supposed to arrive at 5 o'clock."

"Hmm," John hummed, glancing towards the clock and taking note of the lack of time left. "You've got plenty of time."

"Har. Har," you joked.

He chuckled at himself and reached to help, but a wire looped around your arm as you tugged to undo the mess. The whole string jerked—and you toppled sideways right into him. He caught you easily, steadying you against his chest with one hand wrapped around your waist.

“Easy there, elf,” he said, voice low and teasing.

Your cheeks warmed as you looked up at him. “Maybe the lights did win.”

He smiled, eyes glinting. “Yeah, but you put up a hell of a fight.”

He gently took the strand of lights out of your hands and began working steadily. He managed to disentangle the strands in seconds—somehow, effortlessly—and went to plug them in. The whole string came to life in a soft, golden glow.

You blinked at it. “How did you—”

“Military precision,” he said with a mock salute.

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. “Show-off.”

“Hey,” he raised his hands in mock defeat. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t electrocute yourself before Christmas.”

You shot him a smile. “Thanks, Captain.”

He gave a half-grin, brushing some tinsel from your hair. “Anytime. Once that tree comes, I'll help you string the lights and decorate the tree. Don't want you to start fighting the ornaments next.”

You laughed, looping the first strand around a branch as George Bailey’s voice floated from the TV — “Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan!”

John looked over, smiling faintly. “Yeah,” he murmured, “guess it ain’t such a bad life after all.”

Ava: The common room was quiet for once. There was no arguing, no blaring music, no Yelena daring John to do something stupid. Just you, the soft crackle of the fire, and the gentle rustle of fabric as you worked on customizing stockings.

You’d made one for everyone— deep red, stitched by hand, each with a name in neat gold thread. It had taken you days to get them all finished.

You made each one a little unique: Yelene's had tiny reindeer, Bucky's had stars, Bob's had snowflakes, Ava's had bells, Alexei's had cookies, and John's was doused in glitter just to piss him off.

You stood to your feet and began to hang each one on the mantlepiece. The last one in your hands read Ava.

You hesitated for a second, smiling faintly at the thought of her reaction.

“She’ll never admit it,” you whispered to yourself, “but she’ll like it.”

“You talk to yourself a lot,” came a voice behind you— quiet, a little teasing.

You turned, startled, to find Ava standing in the doorway. She had that half-invisible shimmer about her, fading in and out like light through glass.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you said, laughing softly.

“Perks of being me.” She stepped closer, gaze moving to the stockings. “You made all those?”

You nodded, hanging hers in place between Bob’s and Yelena’s. “Yeah. I figured we should all have one. Makes it feel more… like a home.”

Ava stared at hers for a long time before speaking again. “No one’s ever made me something like that before.”

You smiled, stepping aside so she could see it better. “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

She reached out carefully, tracing the stitched letters with a faint, almost disbelieving touch. Her hand flickered slightly, like she was afraid it wouldn’t stay real.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just a stocking.”

She gave you a small smile, rare and genuine. “No. It’s more than that.”

You sat beside her on the couch, the firelight washing the room in amber and gold. For a few moments, you both just watched the flames dance, the row of stockings swaying gently above.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked quietly. “Before all of this?”

You glanced at her, then at the names on the mantle. “Sometimes. But then I look at that,” you said, nodding toward the line of stockings, “and think… maybe this is better.”

Ava’s smile deepened— soft, almost wistful. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“At what?” You wondered.

“Making broken things feel like they belong somewhere.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just leaned back beside her, both of you letting the silence say the rest.

The stockings swayed again as the fire popped — six names catching the light, each one proof that somehow, against all odds, this strange team had found a home.

Alexei: The smell of cinnamon and pine fills the tower's lounge, and you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch surrounded by red fabric, fake white fur, and an oversized belt buckle. You hold up the unmistakable red coat with an expectant look on your face.

But Alexei looms in front of you with his arms crossed in defense.

“No. Absolutely not,” Alexei declares, glaring down at the Santa suit you’ve just held up. “I am Red Guardian, not—” he waves a dismissive hand, “— the fat mascot from Coca-Cola commercial.”

You sigh dramatically. “Alexei, it’s for the team Christmas party. Just one night. You’d make a perfect Santa.”

“Perfect Santa?” He snorts, settling back into the armchair like a sulking bear. “You think I am old and round enough to play him, da?”

You grin. “Exactly. And jolly. Sometimes.”

He narrows his eyes. “You are not helping your case.”

You set the suit aside and reach for the plate of cookies you baked earlier—soft, warm, perfectly golden. You hold one up. “I’ll give you cookies.”

His expression flickers. He looks away as if to appear uninterested. "—what kind?"

"Russian tea cakes," you say sweetly, leaning forward a little. “Your favorite. Fresh from the oven.”

Alexei eyes the plate suspiciously, as if you’ve weaponized baked goods before. “You think you can bribe the Red Guardian with cookies?”

“I think I can persuade him,” you counter, standing and moving closer. “Come on. You’d make everyone laugh. Even Bucky might crack a smile.”

He grumbles something in Russian that definitely isn’t festive. You drape yourself across his lap before he can protest, kicking your feet up. His hands settle on your waist to hold you in place.

“Please, Alexei?” you say, drawing out his name like a coaxing tune. “Just wear the suit for a few hours. Hand out gifts. Say ‘ho ho ho’ a few times. Maybe smile a little for the kids in the photos.”

He huffs. “This is manipulation.”

You offer him a cookie and he opens his mouth to accept it. “This is negotiation.”

He chews slowly. His expression softens immediately. “Hmm. Is good. Too good.”

“So you’ll do it?” You perk up.

He pauses, looking down at you on his lap like he’s already regretting agreeing to this. Alexei sighs, defeated. “Fine. I will be Santa. But I draw the line for Walker sitting on my lap. I want none of it!”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

“Good. He is not child. He is grown man with bad haircut.”

You beam, sliding off his lap and holding up the bright red coat. “You’re going to look adorable.”

“I will look magnificent,” he corrects proudly, snatching the suit from you along with the plate of cookies. “The Red Guardian—Santa edition!”

You laugh, watching him march toward his room muttering about “saving Christmas for Mother Russia.” When the door closes, you catch your reflection in the window—cheeks flushed, smile soft. This was going to be fun.

Bob: The living room was a battlefield of colorful wrapping paper and ribbon. You'd since lost your first pair of scissors in the mixup and now desperately searched for your second pair.

You sat cross-legged in the middle of it, surrounded by chaos—torn wrapping paper, mismatched bows, and several crumpled rolls that had died valiantly in your attempt to make everything look nice.

An old jazzy tune played softly from a nearby speaker, but your patience had long since expired past enjoying it.

You groaned as another piece of tape stuck to your sleeve instead of the paper and you struggled to hold down another flap. “Oh, come on—”

A low voice interrupted. “Need a hand?”

You looked up. Bob was just standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his hair looked a little messy, and eyes warm with amusement. He didn’t look like he’d slept much, but there was a calmness about him that made the whole room feel quieter.

You tried to wave him off. “I’m fine. I’m just… struggling artistically.”

His gaze dropped to the package in your lap—something roughly the shape of a small box but wrapped like a crumpled mess of paper. “That doesn't look right," Bob blankly pointed out.

You snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He walked closer, crouching beside you. “Who’s that one for?”

“Yelena,” you sighed. “I thought I’d get creative with the ribbon. But it looks like I used a weed whacker instead.”

He picked it up carefully, turning it in his hands. “You mind?”

You handed over the tape like it was a baton of surrender. “By all means, Mr. Sentry.”

He didn’t say anything—just set to work. His hands moved with slow, steady precision. For him, the paper folded perfectly, the tape was hidden beneath the creases, and the ribbon tied in a clean, flawless bow. No waste, no noise. Just quiet skill. It was like magic.

When Bob finished, he set the package down beside you. It looked like something straight out of a high-end boutique.

You blinked. “You’re kidding me.”

He shrugged. “Used to do the wrapping every year." He hesitated for a heartbeat. "Just kinda got used to it and got good at it."

You softened a little, the warmth in his voice tugging at something in your chest. “Yeah. No kidding. You really are good at this.”

“Guess it’s the one kind of control I don’t mess up,” he said lightly, though his eyes flickered with something deeper for a moment.

You reached for another box. “Okay then, show me again. But slower this time. I want to actually learn, not just be shamed by your perfect corners.”

He smiled faintly—small, shy, but genuine—and slid closer, his knee brushing yours as he demonstrated how to line up the edges. His hands guided yours once or twice, wordless, gentle, and steady.

You could feel your cheeks flushing with color, but you were certain he didn't even notice.

Before long, the pile of “presents from a war zone” transformed into beautifully wrapped gifts, stacked neatly beside the couch. Each one decorated with a nice bow and a handwritten address tag.

You leaned back against the sofa and exhaled. “You make it look easy.”

He gave a quiet little laugh. “It’s just paper.”

“Yeah,” you said, watching the firelight catch in his hair, “but you make it mean something.”

For a long moment, the two of you sat there in the soft glow of Christmas lights—the air warm, the music still playing faintly.

Yelena: Your aunt’s backyard is bursting with music, color, and laughter. The smell of grilled carne asada drifts through the air; kids run between tables with sparklers; your cousins are teasing each other in rapid Spanish over who gets the next dance.

There were so many familiar faces, not just family but friends and neighbors too that you completely lost sight of Yelena within seconds of arriving at the event.

You weave your way through the crowd, politely saying hello to cousins and friends alike. There, in the center of it all, is Yelena.

She’s got a drink in one hand, a half-eaten empanada in the other, and she’s talking to your cousins like she’s known them her whole life. They look like they adore her and are trying to teach her Spanish while she teaches them English.

“Sí, sí, I understand,” she says, nodding seriously as your cousin rants in Spanish. “He is… how do you say… un idiota completo?”

Your cousin howls laughing and high-fives her.

"I like your hair," one of your teenage girl cousin says. She gently touches the blonde braid in admiration and Yelena practically beams in excitement.

"Thank! I do it myself," Yelena claimed.

You make your way over to them and lean into her side. “You’re switching languages every five seconds,” you claim with a smile.

Yelena smiles back at you. “Is called Spanglish,” she says proudly. “I am natural.”

“Natural disaster, maybe,” you laugh.

She narrows her eyes playfully, leaning in close. “You mock me, but your family loves me.”

As if on cue, your little cousin darts past yelling, “¡Lena! ¡Ven a bailar!”

Yelena gasps dramatically. “See? They summon me!” She sets her plate down and grabs your hand. “Come on, mi amor, we dance!”

Before you can argue, she’s dragging you into the crowd. The music is fast, bright with horns, drums, and voices raised in unison. Yelena doesn’t know the steps, but it doesn’t matter. She spins you, twirls herself, claps wildly on the beat. Her hair catches the lights, her laughter blending into the song.

“This music—!” she shouts over the rhythm, breathless and smiling so wide it makes your chest ache. “It makes my heart— how do you say— explode in Spanish? In a good way!”

You laugh, stepping closer so she can hear you. “You like it that much?”

She nods fiercely. “It's alive! All of it! You, your family, this food, the dancing— it feels like… like life doesn’t end, it just keeps singing!”

Your uncle cheers and spins her around, and she goes with it, cackling, not caring who watches.

Later, when she finds you again, hair mussed and cheeks flushed, she wraps her arms around your waist from behind. “Your cousins teach me new words,” she murmurs against your ear. “None I can say in front of your abuela.”

You giggle, turning to face her. “You had fun?”

Yelena grins. “Mucho. And next time?” She brushes her thumb along your cheek. “You teach me all the songs. I want to know every word that makes you smile like that.”

And when the next song starts, she pulls you back into the crowd — her accent a mess, her rhythm wild, but her joy utterly, contagiously real.

Bucky: The Watchtower kitchen smells like heaven on earth with sizzling oil, sautéed onions, toasted garlic, and cooked peppers. The meat cooked steadily in the pan, getting stirred on occasion to get rid of any pinkness. You worked effortlessly, listening to an old Spanish ballad on your phone that you used to listen to as a child.

And Bucky’s been hovering since you started cooking, pretending to “help” but mostly just watching like a hawk circling prey. He watched each of your movements with precision, mouth practically watering at the almost ready meal.

"Smells good," Bucky tried to keep his cool. He laced his hands behind his back.

You couldn't hide the smile from creeping onto your face. "You always say that."

"That's because it always smells good," Bucky insisted. He nonchalantly stuck his hand out to grab some of the meet, but you slapped his hand away.

"Behave," you warn him with a wooden spoon.

He leans against the counter, eyes glued to the pan. “You sure that’s not done yet?”

"No, it's not done yet and if you keep asking, it'll take even longer," you tell him.

He approaches you from behind and wraps his arms around your waist, placing his chin on your shoulder. You were about to swat at him with your wooden spoon when he reaches again, but he’s too quick to stop and snatches a fried plantain off the plate and stuffs it in his mouth.

"Hey!" You stare at him in shock.

The change in his face is instant. His eyes go wide, then flutter shut as he chews slowly, savoring the flavor. The little crease between his brows melts away.

“Oh, my god,” he mutters. “That’s—” He pauses, swallows, then points to the rest of the plantains on the plate. “That’s the best thing I’ve eaten in… hell, maybe ever.”

You let him take another one and you watch him eat— the way he slows down after a few bites, like he’s trying to make it last. There’s something tender in the way he eats your cooking like he's almost shy.

"Good?" You inquire with a small smile.

"So good," Bucky agrees.

"It's better with guacamole," you slide the bowl of fresh guacamole to him and his eyes light up even more.

He eagerly steps forward and starts to help himself to the spread, despite the fact that the rest of the meal isn't quite finished yet. And from the way he looks at you between bites, soft and lingering, it’s clear that he's fallen in love with you and your cooking.

John: It was a quiet weekend in the tower; most of the team was off doing their own things. You are sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone when John flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh. He studies you for a second.

"How come you never speak Spanish around me?" John wonders.

You barely glance over at him. “Because you don’t understand it?”

He looks mildly offended, but stretches his arms over the back of the couch. "You probably don't know this, but I took Spanish for two years in high school."

Now you look over at him with a slightly judgmental look on your face. You didn't seem impressed, but he continued nonetheless.

"Aced both classes," John claimed he didn't want to brag, but had no problem doing it. "Practically fluent."

"Really?" You draw out sarcastically and it flies right over his head.

“Yeah,” he says, puffing out his chest a little. He seemed so proud of himself. “Go ahead. Hit me with somethin’.”

You set your phone down, tilting your head innocently. "Está bien… entonces dime, cariño— si vas a seguir presumiendo, por lo menos apréndete a decir mi nombre sin que suene como si estuvieras leyendo el menú."

He looks at you blankly, blinking once then twice. You wait for a response back, raising your eyebrows expectantly.

“Uh…” He quickly pulls out his phone and pretends to look busy. “Right. So that was, uh… something about… me being the strongest on the team, right?"

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. You grab your phone again. “Wow. Fluent, huh?”

"Hey, it’s been a while, okay? Give me a break. I just need to warm up.” John claims.

"Okay. Repeat after me," you say sweetly, leaning forward to capture his gaze. "Me encanta cuando mi novia me gana en todo.”

He smirks slightly. "That sounded sexy."

"John," you scold with a frown.

"Alright, alright!" John threw his hands up in defense. His attempted accent made you cringe. "Uh— May en-can-tah... when my novia... uh, gana en toda."

"Todo," you correct.

"Thought that was a dog," John said confused.

"I think that needs to be the end of our lesson today," you need to leave before you burst into laughter so you rise to your feet.

"Come on," John calls out. “Next time, though? You talk in Spanish all you want, baby. I’ll figure it out.”

You grin, looking over your shoulder at him. “You sure?”

He nods, still cocky. You come back over to him and lean down until you're close enough for your breath to brush his ear: “Eres tan guapo cuando no tienes idea de lo que pasa.”

He smirks, clearly thinking you just complimented him. “Yeah,” he says smugly. “Knew it. You're totally into this.”

You roll your eyes. “You have no idea what I just said.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, grinning. “You said it like you meant it. That’s good enough for me.”

Ava: Your grandmother’s living room is filled with sound: laughter, the murmur of Spanish conversations, the distant strum of a guitar from one of your cousins in the backyard. The air smells like tamales and coffee and something sweet baking in the oven.

Ava sits beside you on the couch, her posture small but comfortable, her hands wrapped around a warm mug. She’s quiet, the way she always is when she’s paying attention. Her eyes moving from one family member to another, absorbing every little detail.

Your aunt gestures animatedly, recounting a story about her mother coming to the states for the first time. You translate bits for Ava softly, leaning close so only she can hear.

“She was talking about how my abuela didn’t know any English,” you explain, smiling. “She was trying to ask for butter, but instead she accidentally asked for a shoe.”

Ava chuckles — the kind of soft, genuine laugh that makes her shoulders ease. “That sounds like something you'd do.”

“Yeah, but she never stopped trying,” you say, glancing toward the old woman sitting proudly at the head of the table. “She built everything we have now from scratch.”

Ava nods slowly, eyes warm. “You talk about her like she’s a superhero.”

“She kinda is,” you reply, nudging her lightly. “All of our stories start with her. We're only here because of her.”

Ava takes another sip of coffee thoughtfully. “I never really had this. Family gatherings. Stories that feel… like this.”

You tilt your head, watching her expression soften under the warm light of the room. “You do now.”

She smiles— small, but it reaches her eyes. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do,” you say. “You’re part of it. That’s how my family works— once you’re in, you’re in forever.”

Your uncle calls out suddenly from across the room: “¡Ava! Ven acá, tenemos otra historia!”

Ava startles a bit, looking at you helplessly. “What did he say?”

You grin. “He wants to tell you another story.”

She blushes, setting her mug down. “He’s going to make fun of me, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” you say, laughing, “but that just means he likes you.”

She finds the confidence to stand and walk over to him without you. She listens quietly as your uncle launches into another tale. His hands moving, his voice rich and alive.

She doesn't know what he's saying, but it doesn't matter to her. She listens to him like she can understand him and that's all he cared about. She catches the rhythm, the laughter, the emotion behind every word and holds it dearly close to her heart.

Alexei: You made him promise in the car. It was your cousin's wedding and you did not want to make a spectacle in front of the entire family. Coming to park the car, you’d turned in your seat and pointed a firm finger at him.

"I want you to behave tonight," you explained plainly. He looked confused.

"I always behave." Alexei claimed.

"No," you quickly correct him. “Alexei, it’s my cousin’s wedding, not a mission. No wrestling, no toasts, no stories, no recuiting. Got it?”

He nodded understandingly. “Da. I will be picture of class.”

That lasted about twenty minutes.

The wedding is small and elegant. There were beautiful decorations, florist arrangements and candlelight and soft music. All the exact opposite of Alexei.

He’s the first to laugh loudly during the officiant’s opening remarks, clapping your shoulder with enough force to jostle you in your seat. “Ha! He makes joke, da? About forever love? He is funny man.”

Your family’s heads all turn. You want to sink into your seat.

The moment you step into the reception hall, Alexei’s booming laugh cuts through the music. He’s shaking hands, clapping backs, kissing cheeks, and shouting “¡Felicidades!” like he’s part of the wedding party.

You tug at his arm, whispering through gritted teeth, “Alexei, tone it down a little—”

“Tone what down? I am mingling!” he insists, beaming at your aunt as he compliments her earrings in his thick accent. “Beautiful! Sparkly! Like small disco balls for ears!”

He doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and simply doesn’t care, because by dinner he’s got your uncle howling with laughter over stories from “Soviet training days,” embellishing each one until they sound like fairy tales. He's got a beer in one hand.

“And then bear! Big bear, huge, comes out of snow— I punch him right in nose!” Alexei tried to reenact it.

Your younger cousins crowd around him, eyes wide. “You fought a bear?” one of them gasps.

Alexei grins, clearly pleased with his captive audience. “Of course. But bear was fine! We are friends now.”

You catch your mother’s look across the table which was half alarmed, half amused.

Later, when the music starts, you’re convinced he was finally settled down, but you shouldn't have put that much faith in him.

He’s already on the dance floor, spinning your little cousin around while yelling, “This is my favorite song! I don’t know it, but I feel it in my soul!”

You’re laughing too hard to be mad anymore. He spots you, waves you over. “Come, dorogaya! We must dance before dessert!”

You shake your head. “I don't think you know the steps!”

“Then you teach me!” he shouts cheerfully, grabbing your hand and dragging you out of your chair. “Look, no fighting, no drinking too much, just dancing with my beautiful woman— perfectly civilized!”

He twirls you into a clumsy salsa, both of you laughing as he stumbles through the steps. He's a lot sometimes, but you wouldn't change it for the world.

Bob: It was the sound of clinking pots and pans that caused Bob to jump out of his bed, grab his notebook, and rush into the kitchen. There, he found you getting things prepared for dinner. He sat down at the kitchen island and flipped open his notebook to take notes.

You just brought out the cutting board and began dicing a white onion. He watches for a moment like he’s studying a scientific experiment.

"What’re you making today?” he asks, watching you cut more.

“Arroz con pollo,” you say with a smile. "Mom's old recipe."

He immediately flips open his notebook, scanning the first blank page. He writes the title of the recipe to the best of his ability.

As you start to remove ingredients from the cabinets, Bob makes note of what things you're taking out. He grabs a little container of herbs, reads the label, and jots it down in his notebook.

When you move to the stove to put on a pot of water, Bob follows with his notebook. He looks up to see the pot full of water and the bag of rice next to it. You turn on the stove.

“So,” he starts, “what's the water to rice ratio?”

You shrug. “I just— kinda eyeball it.”

He freezes mid-scribble. “Eyeball it?”

“Yeah,” you say casually, pouring a stream of rice straight from the bag. “You just… know when it’s enough.”

Bob blinks, clearly trying to process that. “But… what if your eyes are wrong?”

You laugh so hard you almost drop the spoon. “They’re not wrong, Bob. Sometimes you just know how much to add.”

He flips the notebook around to show you a neat list that he made:

Rice — ? cups Water — ? Salt — ? (instinct)

"Oh honey," you say in admiration.

He gestures helplessly. “This—this is chaos. You don’t even measure?”

You grin, stirring the pot. “Nope. It’s all about feeling.”

He stares at you like you’ve just admitted you cook by divine intervention. “Feeling? But I can’t record feeling.”

You lean toward him with a teasing smile. “Guess you’ll just have to hang around until you figure out my system.”

He huffs, running a hand through his hair— half frustrated, half smitten. “I’m gonna need weeks of observation.”

“Good,” you say, tasting the sauce and motioning for him to try. “Then you’ll be here more often.”

He steps closer, takes the spoon, and tastes carefully. His brow softens instantly. “That’s… perfect.”

“Told you,” you tease. “No measuring required.”

He sets down his notebook, pretending to grumble as he writes ‘trust her instincts’ in big letters. “You’re going to ruin every recipe book I own,” he says quietly, “but I think I’m okay with that.”

You smile as he checks the stove temperature, still trying to make sense of your method. It’s endearing how his need for precision melts into quiet awe every time you make something by hand.

Later, while you plate the food, you find his notepad on the counter. At the bottom of the page, under his frantic scribbles, he’s written:

She doesn’t measure. She just knows.

Yelena: In the training room, it was so quiet that you thought nobody was in there. You stepped into the doorway with the intention of turning off the lights that someone clearly forgot to turn off, but something stopped you.

Yelena was training in there. She was sitting on one of the mats, stretching forward with the precision of someone who could snap bones just as easily as tendons. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail, a few wisps escaping at her temples where sweat had already begun to gather.

You'd naturally stopped to watch her, clearly amazed by her flexibility. Her expression was unreadable in the mirror, focused and almost bored as if the warm-up was an inconvenience on her way to something more dangerous.

She reached further, spine long, gloved fingers brushing the tips of her toes until the movement made the muscles in her back flex and roll like coiled ropes under pale skin.

You caught her eye in the reflection for half a second. You tried to look away quickly. Her gaze flicked to you, sharp and teasing all at once, before returning to the mirror.

“You staring,” she said without missing a beat, lowering her leg and rolling her shoulders back with infuriating calm. “If you want to learn, you ask.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. No excuse, no joke. Just air and a faintly strangled noise that made her smirk grow wider.

“Ah,” she added, turning fully now, her hands braced on her hips. “So the cat has your tongue.”

"No," you claimed. You straightened your back and stuck your chin up. "The cat does not have my tongue, thank you very much."

“Mm,” Yelena hummed with a teasing smile still gracing her face. "Whatever you say. I still think you were staring."

You, again at a loss for words, could believe her. So you simply turned on your heel and left her to her stretches, not catching the way her gaze flickered up to watch you leave in the reflection of the mirro.

Bucky: You were already on your way to the training room with the upcoming mission briefing in hand. While you could hear the soft clank of metal coming from the weights, you were not anticipating the sight that would greet you as soon as you walked in.

The sight alone made you halt in your steps. Any thoughts or words you had prepared suddenly felt lost as if they flew right out of your head; you forgot what you came to tell him.

He was just there, lifting weights like it was the easiest thing in the world. Your gaze trailed down the length of his back, memorizing the stretch of his muscles with each lift. And seeing the sweat gliding down his back almost made you start to drool.

His reflection met yours in the mirror before you had a chance to look away. He smirked to himself; something you didn't manage to catch and he set the barbell down. He rolled his shoulders as he caught his breath; his metal arm flexing.

He turned around to finally face you, tossing a towel over his shoulder. His chest still rising and falling with each breath.

“Didn’t know I had an audience,” Bucky said, tone deep and lazy.

You swallowed hard, trying to form words. You pointed to the data pad in your hands. “I—uh—was just—”

He took a slow step toward you. His blue eyes looked sharp and amused. “Just what? Checkin’ my form? You can come closer if you wanna see better, doll.”

Your brain short-circuited halfway through trying to reply. His grin widened.

"N—No, no." You quickly snapped out of your daze. "I was just—coming to tell you that the—mission report is in. So—" you awkwardly handed him the data pad. "Here. Take it."

While Bucky did take the data pad from you, he also quirked an eyebrow at your abnormal behavior. You cleared your throat awkwardly and dismissed yourself before you could do anything else embarrassing. But as you left, Bucky's eyes trailed down your retreating form.

John: You'd been looking for him. Not having thought to check the training room, it was one of your last stops on this whole rabbit trail you went on just to find him in the Watchtower. Coming into the space, you could hear the sound of his fists hitting the punching bag, confirming your suspicions.

In the moment your eyes landed on his figure, all time seemed to slow down and you took in the sight. The sound of his fists hitting the heavy bag was hypnotic: quick, powerful, precise. Every strike landed with purpose, sweat glinting on his forearms and collarbone. You didn’t mean to stop and stare, but your body had other ideas.

As if he could sense your presence, John stopped punching. He didn't even turn around, just held the bag still and kept his gaze to the ground.

“You know, you’re not exactly subtle.” John's voice was laced with a teasing smirk.

You jumped, surprised that he caught you. He peered over his shoulder, smirking devilishly and you struggled to form an excuse.

Your mouth opened, words tumbling out half-formed. “No—hey, I—just—I wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” He stepped closer, tilting his head, teasing glint in his eye. “Gonna admit I look good?”

You finally gathered your composure. "No," you said firmly, but your initial reaction was convincing enough.

He grinned, low and pleased. “You don’t have to say it,” he said, dropping his gloves onto the bench. “I already know.”

You rolled your eyes, forgetting how big his ego often was. And you suddenly remembered why you were looking for him in the first place.

"Came to tell you there is a meeting tonight at seven. Don't be late," you told him. You turned to walk away and he turned to face the punching bag again.

He smiled to himself, prideful over the fact that he'd left you speechless for the first time. It wouldn't be something he'd soon forget, nor something he would ever let you forget.

Ava: There was one thing that was certain: Ava trained a lot differently from the rest of them. While the others trained for strength, precision, and speed, Ava opted to train for endurance and stability. And unlike the others, her training was never loud or showy.

You watched silently as she phased through holographic projections like smoke. Her body moving in clean, lethal arcs. You'd watched her grow more confident in her powers and ability, something you greatly admired in her.

She blinked back into view right in front of you, her breath controlled, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been standing there for a while.”

You startled. “I—uh—sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“You didn’t.” She stopped you. Her voice was low, almost curious now. “I just didn’t think I was that interesting.”

Your brain scrambled for a response, but nothing came out except a weak, “You—uh—you move really… well.”

She caught the faint blush ghosting your cheeks. Her lips twitched, just shy of a smile. “Careful,” she said softly. “Flattery sounds a lot like staring.”

You froze again, but her gaze softened, almost playful.

“It’s okay,” she added after a pause. “I don’t mind if it’s you.”

Alexei: You were not expecting to walk in on this. A massive obstacle course was set up in the training room, equipped with balance beams, hurdles, speed ladders, and such. It looked like something designed for elite agents. And there was Alexei… lumbering his way through it like a determined bear in a track suit.

He tried to sprint between cones, feet slapping the mat too hard, breath already heavy. When he attempted to vault over a low bar, it wobbled dangerously, and he caught it at the last second with a triumphant, “Ha! See? Graceful like panther!”

You tried not to smile. “Just… passing through.”

"Sure, sure." Alexei waved off, still panting and trying to catch his breath. "Although that's not what I'd call it."

Those words landed like a punch, heavy with intention that caused you to freeze. There was a glint in his eyes, like he knew something about you that not even you would share.

"What—" You almost laughed, feeling suddenly caught. "Oh, I wasn't—"

He raised his eyebrows, showing off that all knowing smirk of his.

"No need to hide your admiration. I know the Red Guardian is...overwhelmingly attractive," Alexei smirked, already posing and flexing like it was a performance.

“Pretty sure that’s not the word I’d use,” you muttered back.

“Come, come,” he beckoned, “feel the muscle! You will understand!”

Your face burned, and that only made him laugh louder.

Bob: As you walked past the training room, you heard the treadmill humming steadily and his strides gently thumping against it. It made you stop in your tracks and head back to the entrance, convincing yourself that you just wanted to check on how he was doing.

Peering around the corner, your gaze found him from across the room. He was running on the treadmill, smoothly and effortlessly. Bob looked calm as if every step was an anchor against the storm inside him.

Maybe it was the way the light caught the beads of sweat sliding down his face or the way his shirt was clinging to him in a way that felt unfair. He had a ring of sweat around his collarbone, soaking his shirt. You couldn’t look away from the sight.

When his pace slowed and he finally looked up, you panicked inside, too late to hide the fact you’d been staring. You tried to distract yourself with the nearest object, but just ended up looking lost.

He blinked, breath still even, confusion flickering across his face. “Hey,” he said gently, brow furrowing. He jumped off the treadmill. “Everything okay?”

You froze, eyes wide. “I—yeah—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He tilted his head, still looking a little puzzled and stepped forth. He placed his hands on his hips to help catch his breath. “You weren’t interrupting or anything.” He smiled slightly. “You just… looked surprised.”

You tried to speak again, but nothing coherent came out. He swallowed thickly, sending a nervous smile and nodding his head. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat beginning to rise.

“Was I doing something wrong?” he asked, almost sheepishly.

You managed a tiny shake of your head, heart hammering and cheeks flushing. “No. Definitely not wrong.”

That earned a shy, uncertain smile. “Oh. Okay.” He looked down at his hands, gesturing to the treadmill behind him. “Guess I’ll, uh… keep running then?”