Chapter Text
You felt the alcohol surge through your veins, seizing the part of your brain that held common sense. Normally, you controlled every inch of your blood, but tonight, there was something mind-numbingly peaceful about surrendering to the alcohol’s slow burn and feeling lighter. Freer.
Which is exactly how you ended up seventy-five percent done with your own bottle of Jack Daniel's, your body hanging upside down from the Avengers tower couch, just one wrong move away from collapsing onto the floor.
Bucky sat across from you, tilting his head in comical concern. It gave you a perfect view of his exasperated expression.
The room was spinning before you. Just barely in your peripheral vision, you caught Yelena lining up and shooting down another row of shots.
You felt like a teenager again, the only difference was the people in front of you (and the legality of your drinking). But beneath the buzz, something prickled, a reminder that this lightness was temporary.
Someone knocked over a can, and the sticky sound of the liquid meeting floor made the group collectively groan, though no one moved to clean it up.
The bass thumped in your chest. You couldn’t tell who had control of the playlist. You weren’t even really listening any more. But someone clapped along off-beat. Probably Alexei.
The room swelled with life, and for once, you didn’t feel on the outside of it. You didn’t feel like a monster, or a relic, or a weapon that needed to be caged. You were just another body in the mess of it all.
Surrounded by people who were too cruel for kindness yet too merciful for true monstrosity.
Yelena slumped on the couch beside you, her face flushed with tipsy satisfaction. She bumped her shoulder into you, hard enough to jostle your balance.
“Careful,” she said, smirking. “You fall? I’m not helping you back up.”
“I’ll take you down with me,” you slurred. You gave a little kick with your legs before squirming around to settle them across Yelena's lap, your shirt edging upward with the motion.
You twisted your head and saw Bob crouched on the floor, fiddling with the speaker, his cheeks red. He glanced up. His eyes held that soft, familiar worry he always wore when looking at you, like you were something fragile. He turned his head to face you as he rose. His gaze held yours a beat too long, tightening something in your chest. You looked away first.
You reached for your bottle, only to find it empty. Then came the critical mistake: your eyes met Bob's again. Silently, he lifted a water bottle toward you in offering.
You rolled your eyes but snatched the bottle anyway. With exaggerated flair, you unscrewed the cap and took a deliberately loud gulp. Yelena latched onto your ankle and gave it a shake as she flashed you a mocking thumbs-down, her verdict on your 'responsible' drinking.
“You’re boring now,” she declared. “I thought you were cool and dangerous.”
“She still is,” Bob’s voice, quiet, came from behind you, prompting a snort from Yelena. You twisted just enough to glance back. He stood by the speaker, watching everything unfold from his usual place — on the sidelines. Always observing, only loud when it mattered.
“Bob, come sit down,” Yelena said. She patted the open space on the couch behind your back. He moved slowly, careful with his long limbs as he settled beside you. The couch dipped under his weight, and the shift made your back fall naturally into his side. Without thinking, you let yourself lean into him, head brushing his collarbone, his familiar scent settling around you.
Across the room, Walker huffed. “You guys are ridiculous. This is why no one takes us seriously.”
You snorted and turned toward him. He was sprawled on the seat beside Ava, drink in hand. You blinked at him for a moment, brain buzzing from the alcohol, and a question played in your mind. When did he get here?
You remembered the door sliding open, and Walker standing there like he was about to scold all of you for drunken behavior. He'd taken one look at the mess; half the team already drunk, the other half super soldiers who were just partaking in the drinking on instinct and immediately frowned and crossed his arms over his body.
“No, thanks.” He'd said stiffly, tossing his hands up and turning to leave.
But then Yelena had raised her shot glass like it was a challenge. “What’s the matter, Captain?”
Walker had muttered something under his breath, and then you remembered it: Ava, tossing him a beer.
He’d caught it on instinct.
She’d said, “Drink or leave, I don’t care. But we’re not stopping.”
You remembered the way he’d hovered by the door after that. Like someone waiting to be invited in even after saying they didn’t want to be. Then, he’d cracked the can and sat down.
Didn't say much after that, but he stayed.
You blinked yourself back to the present, gaze landing on him again. He looked grumpy, yes. Like someone who’d never admit he belonged here, but didn’t want to leave.
Before you could say anything, before anyone could, really. It happened.
BEEP.
One sharp, electronic tone sliced through the room, severing the music and silencing the chatter. The comfortable atmosphere ruptured. In response, Yelena let out an exaggerated groan and flung her head back against the cushions.
“Nooo,” she whined. “I’m off the clock.”
“I don’t think the Avengers get to be ‘off the clock’.” You said as you sat up, or at least tried to.
Your body protested the sudden lurch, but Bob’s hand was instantly there, a solid anchor at your back. Around you, the room snapped into action.
Yelena fished out the tablet from under an empty box and squinted at the glowing screen. Her brows pulled together. “Some black market warehouse,” she read aloud.
Walker stood up slowly, his beer can forgotten. “Party’s over.”
The warmth turned heavy. Like the buzz was starting to wear off. Your breath faltered as you leaned into Bob’s side. You felt the warmth radiate off his body. “I’m gonna sober up,” you muttered.
You peeked over your shoulder as you stood, watching the rest of the team take their own leave to prepare for whatever came next. They knew the drill. Fun never lasted long.
You reached the kitchen mostly by muscle memory, even as the world spun. The fridge light bathed you in a glow when you opened it, you scanned over the contents before pulling out a bottle of water.
Bob stood a few paces behind you, standing in the doorway, arms crossed.
He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. Which was good, because you weren’t and if he did, you wouldn’t know how to answer.
You took a long sip. Then another, until you came to terms with the fact a whole bottle of Jack Daniel’s would need more than just water to filter out
“God, I do not want to fight today.” you grumbled between sips.
“If I could fight for you, I would.” Bob said softly. You let yourself want it, before cold clarity struck: Void or Sentry fighting for you would unleash far worse problems than it solved.
You smiled at that, small and strained. Trying to ignore the sharp pang curling deep in your chest.
The kind that comes when you realize being seen is scarier than being alone.
You pivoted toward the drawer. The one you weren’t supposed to use for this any more. Fingers brushing aside utensils, grabbing the one thing you knew would work.
Steel met skin. You hadn’t even lifted it fully before Bob’s breath caught behind you.
He crossed the room in an instant. He moved toward you without hesitation, reaching out to gently cover your hand. His eyes flickered between yours, searching for your intent.
You rested your hand over his, then slowly attempted to ease it away from your grip on the knife.
“I just need a prick.” Your voice cracked, fingers tight around the knife’s handle. “I can draw the alcohol out like that.”
His gaze dropped to your palm. You knew what he saw. The constellation of scars left by desperate nights and poor decisions.
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” His words came out hoarse, like they’d scraped his throat raw on the way up.
“I’ll hurt either way,” you said, not looking at him. “At least this way is fast.” You pressed the blade’s tip lightly against your skin, but his hand didn’t budge.
“Can I?”
“What?”
“I can do it.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I’ll go slow. I’ll—If I do it, I can make sure it’s just a prick.” His voice cracked, the fear beneath the calm slipping through.
You stared at him. He wasn’t just scared for you. He was terrified of what you were willing to do to yourself.
You nodded, the movement jerky. Your fingers loosened, and you let him take the blade.
You led him to the sink, he moved behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his heartbeat frantic against your spine. His left hand cradled yours, palm upturned, while the right hovered with the blade.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair by your ear. “You can tell me.”
“I trust you.” You whispered.
You hissed, but his thumb was already there, circling the sting before the blood could well. His heartbeat steadied yours, breath matching breath, until the knife clattered softly into the sink.
The pain was sharp. Controlled.
A drop of crimson beaded from your palm, then flowed as your powers flared. The alcohol bled out with it, burning faintly as it fled your system.
You turned your hand over slowly, palm still tingling. The crimson drop traced down your wrist before you wiped it away on a paper towel. The sting was fading, but the ache in your chest wasn’t.
Bob stayed behind you, close but not touching now, like even that moment had cost him something.
“I should go get ready,” you mumbled, eyes still on the sink. He didn’t stop you. Just nodded once and moved his body to let you have space.
Your boots echoed faintly against the tile as you slipped out of the kitchen, leaving behind the hum of the fridge and the ghost of Bob’s hands on your skin. You didn’t pass anyone, just the sound of people hurrying to sober up and get ready in their own rooms.
Plus the sound of your own pulse, still erratic.
By the time you reached your door, the weight of it all had settled in your chest.
You peeled off the remnants of comfort: your oversized shirt, the feeling of warmth from Bob’s chest pressed to your back. For a moment, you stood there in just your underwear, letting the cold air of the room kiss over your bare skin.
Then you reached for the suit.
It waited at the end of your closet, folded: matte black lined in deep crimson. You stepped in legs first, the fabric clinging tight as it slid up your thighs. You adjusted the knee guards, then pulled the upper half over your shoulders. The polo-neck wrapped around your throat. Reaching behind you, you found the zip and drew it up your spine. The torso zipped up smooth, sealing you in, chest compressed beneath the armour-mapped ribbing.
The deep V-cut that peekaboo’d across your chest left the barest section of skin exposed. You used to be a seductress , you thought, a vampire of the night . But now you were an Avenger again. You should probably start dressing like one.
You shook the thought off as you reached for your gloves.
Fingerless, open-palmed. You flexed your hands through the fabric, you could already feel the hum of power waiting beneath, blood stirring in your fingertips.
You slid a holster on each leg before thrusting a curved blade into the right, and two smaller ones into the left. You walked over to the mirror and saw the black, calf-high boots beside it. Thick soles built to absorb impact. Reinforced for breaking ribs. You crouched, the suit tightening across your joints as you reached for one. You slipped your foot in and tugged the boot up over your calf.
You rolled your ankles, flexed your toes. Everything fit.
You caught your reflection in the mirror as you fastened the final buckle, and quickly decided you were missing something. You crossed the room in three strides and dropped to your knees by the dresser, yanking open the second drawer with a strong tug. Your fingers closed around the small makeup bag at the back.
You skipped the mirror entirely. Just popped open the eyeshadow pot, and dipped a finger into the metallic pigment and swept it across your lids in swift strokes. You blended it in with the edge of your finger until your eyelids gleamed like shiny metal.
Then came the lipstick. Glossy crimson, so dark it was almost black. The colour of blood that had sat on your tongue countless times before. You dragged it over your lips, then dabbed the edges with the tip of your finger. With a quick swipe of mascara, you were finished.
You glanced one last time in the mirror and then turned away from the ghost in the glass. No more time to hesitate.
You strode down the hall, the light at the end of the corridor blinked red. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.
The elevator ride up was brief. As the doors slid open, the rooftop's frigid air hit you like a slap. Simultaneously, the Quinjet gusted wind, whipped your hair across your face.
Yelena already sat inside, boots swinging, and her hair gelled into a slick back. Bucky and Walker were locked in a heated argument, likely another debate over mission plans. Bucky stood behind the pilot's seat, bracing one hand against its headrest while pinching the bridge of his nose. Eventually, he crossed over to the copilot seat, the discussion raging on.
Off to the side, Ava scanned over the mission brief on the tablet in Yelenas hands.
Bob was sat on the furthest away seat, body tucked into the straps of the aircraft seatbelt. His eyes scanned the skyline but when you stepped into the Quinjet, he turned. His gaze met yours and lingered.
“Finally,” Walker barked, readjusting his grip on the yoke. “Let’s move.” The door hissed closed behind you and the rest of the world shut out.
You dropped into the seat next to Bob. Buckling in, your elbow nudged his bicep. The fleeting contact sparked a sudden, unsettling question: Since when did his every touch pull in your focus like this?
The Quinjet lurched, engines roaring, before settling into a steady cruise. You sat in silence, staring out at the evening sun stretch out in the sky. Bob didn’t speak, his shoulder bumped yours with every subtle tilt of the aircraft.
“Alright, listen up,” Walker called over his shoulder as he reached cruising altitude. "ETA to site: thirty minutes. We’ll scope the place out before blowing up shit.”
“I’m actually going to blow shit up just to spite you.” Yelena said, lounging in the row across from you.
Bucky let out a tired sigh“Let’s just keep it clean. In and out.”
Alexei snorted. “Where is the fun in that? I say we storm the place.”
“Yeah, and get killed by black-market tech,” Ava replied, setting the tablet down beside her. “We don’t even know what they’re transporting.”
The voices faded to a low hum around you, background static to the thoughts spiralling in your own head. You anchored yourself in the thrum of engines beneath your feet and the crisp air from the vents, until the warmth radiating from Bob’s arm against yours pulled you in, undeniably soothing.
You didn’t speak, but at one point, he shifted slightly, angling himself just enough so your knees brushed.
Thirty minutes passed in a blink.
A dull warehouse compound came into view, no lights and roof panels rusted and uneven. No external movement.
You unfastened your seatbelt as the Quinjet touched down with a soft jolt, the momentum pulling you forward slightly. Beside you, Bob was already rummaging into the pack he’d stashed, searching through its contents until he pulled out a familiar, worn book.
You smiled. Of course, he brought it.
You didn’t need to ask why he wasn’t coming with you. The risk of calling on his powers, the risk of him becoming something else, was too great. The Void. The Sentry. Whatever name it took, it wasn’t worth unleashing.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t part of this.
Even if he couldn’t step onto the battlefield, he was still one of you. Still an Avenger. Still family. And you’d make damn sure he knew that.
You watched him flip the book open, thumb brushing the folded corner of a page. He didn’t look up.
You leaned in, voice low, just for him. “Be good.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “I will.”
You swallowed, nodding once and patting him lightly on the shoulder before stepping out of the Quinjet to join the rest of the team.
Bucky was already moving ahead, crouched low near a stack of rusted shipping containers. You swept your eyes over the compound. It was quiet. Too quiet. No patrols, no guards.
Walker’s, who had split up with Alexei, voice crackled in your ear from the comms. “No signs of movement from this angle.”
Bucky’s voice came next. “Go in, grab the tech, and get out. If anyone starts shooting, you know what to do.”
You approached the side of the warehouse, now separated with just Yelena. Every step synched with your breath, your pulse steady beneath the suit. It was different now, no hunger fogging your mind.
At the wall, Yelena pulled a thin blade from her side and wedged it under the lockbox on the side door. It sparked once, then clicked open.
“You’re up,” she said, tilting her head at you.
You moved in silence, slipping past her and into the dark with practiced ease. Inside, it smelled of mildew and dust.
You crouched behind a column, eyes adjusting. Two figures paced near a crate stamped with a Stark Industries logo caught your eye. One held a bulky rifle across his chest, the other dragged a wheeled cart stacked with glowing tech components. Great, tech enhanced mercenaries.
A sharp pulse rippled through the air. You staggered slightly, your balance shifting as something inside your chest twitched.
You hissed through your teeth, gripping the beam as the vibration clawed at your blood. It didn’t hurt, but your control wavered for just a second. Enough to feel the sound stabbing through your brain.
You clicked the comm on your ear down, voice a sharp whisper: “Ava, status?” No response, you looked behind you expecting to find Yelena, but it seemed she’d gone out on her own path.
Time to do this yourself.
Your body kicked into training as you crept closer, quiet and low. The thrum of the ultrasonic hum still echoed in your bloodstream, but it wasn’t enough to slow you down.
You lunged.
The first merc never saw you coming. Your elbow smashed into his temple, and as he staggered, you followed with a swift sweep to the back of his knee, dropping him like dead weight. You slammed your fist into his throat before he could call out, and he went limp with a groan. You resisted the muscle memory urge to finish him off with a quick slice to the throat.
The second turned fast, rifle raised. You ducked under the barrel, spun, and drove your boot into his ribs. Blade drawn, you darted forward and slashed across his thigh, just enough to draw blood.
You could feel it. The pulse in his leg, the blood leaking. With a single thought, the blood coiled up like smoke, you pulled it toward your hand. The red strand twisted in the air between you.
You stepped toward him slowly, the blood still hovering in midair. Then you closed your fist. The blood lashed forward, crushing into his head with enough force to crumple him to the floor, out cold.
“Two down,” you said into the comm. “Room is—”
Pain.
White-hot, searing pain.
It hit you from behind. Your body arched forward instinctively as the heat carved across your back, spreading like liquid fire. Your knees buckled, a broken scream tearing out of your lungs.
You rolled onto your side, gasping. The world tilted around you. You caught a glimpse of the attacker, another merc, armour thicker than the others.
He stepped forward with intent. No words, just another beam charging at his wrist. You moved on instinct, rolling behind cover as the next blast hit the floor where your head had been. Everything smelled like burning flesh.
Your comm crackled. “Report!” It was Ava.
You couldn’t answer, the pain was too strong, and her voice was muffled over the sound of your beating heart. A second blast clipped your shoulder, and this time it was worse. The beam carved through the edge of your suit, searing the exposed skin beneath. With a grunt, you twisted and slashed at the air behind you. Your power responded instantly, blood rippling from the cut on his thigh.
The blood twisted midair and shot backward in a sharp arc, wrapping around his weapon-hand. He shouted in surprise, stumbling back, trying to raise the cannon again. You were already pushing yourself up. You were shaking and panting, but upright. He swung wildly, but you ducked under it and brought your blade up. Another cut, chest this time.
More blood.
You reached out with your non singed hand and closed it into a fist. His blood locked in his body and stilled before constricting around his lungs like a noose. He gasped. Then gagged. You released him and he slumped forward onto the concrete floor. You staggered back, the floor met your side hard, jarring your wounded shoulder. You groaned as your vision dimmed at the edges. Once you opened your eyes again, you could see a pair of legs beside you.
“Hey, hey. Stay with me.” The voice was low and urgent. Familiar.
“Bob,” your head rolled to the side. His face swam into focus, pale with worry, his blue eyes wide. You coughed out a weak laugh, hysterical with pain or blood loss? You didn’t know. “Hi.”
He shook his head in disbelief, arms attempting to cradle around you in a way to anchor himself. “You’re okay, I’m here.” You coughed up a clot of blood from your throat, feeling the clump dribble down the side of your lip. “You shouldn’t have come,” you said quietly, voice ragged.
“I could see your vitals on the Quinjet, I wasn’t going to watch you die.”
Ava’s voice chimed on the comms: “Someone check on Vamp!”
“She’s here,” Bob replied. “I’ve got her.”
The silence on the other end of the line was brief, but heavy. Footsteps resonated nearby. The others were close. Bob looked up and called out. “Over here!”
Yelena appeared first, crouching beside you and giving you a once-over. Her brows furrowed. “Jesus. You smell like burnt toast.”
“Do I look hot?” You managed a bloody, fractured smile. Bucky crouched beside you, his head bowing as his gaze swept your wounds.
“Let's get her to the Quinjet. Now.” The tremor in Bucky's voice was a silent plea. Don’t die here. Not like this.