Chapter 1: Beginning of End
Chapter Text
new york, two-thousand-twenty-eight.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had survived coups, black ops, one very specific god-like man dealing with an almost world ending crisis, and more than one ex-assassin's deadliest glares, But this week?
This week was trying to end her.
Sam Wilson was successfully on his way to winning the copyright case–Young Avengers™, rather on the nose, when half his team are still attending high school–and now every press outlet would now be legally required to call her team 'the Thunderbolts (formerly led by the Winter Soldier, position now up for grabs).' Bucky Barnes had been missing from the public eye for almost three months, which apparently counts as job abandonment according to Congress. Fired. Just like that.
Never mind he might be dead, kidnapped, or brooding somewhere on a mountaintop with a goat and unresolved trauma.
The rest of the team was imploding–Ghost had threatened to phase through the Pentagon’s servers last week, and the Red Guardian was last seen in the Russian Vodka Room with Walker and thirty - odd empty shot glasses between two super-soldiers, with the inability to deal with their serum induced sobriety.
And so Val was speed-walking through yet another dull gray corridor, re-considering her life choices from the past few years and pondering about faking her own death for the fifth time this year.
If only Karma wasn't such a difficult bitch.
Then came the clink of ceramic. Ah. Mel, her timely, almost annoyingly so, assistant was jogging after her, bless her overly competent heart, holding a cup of tea like it was a peace offering, and possibly a bribe. God, could it really get any worse than this?
“Val,” Mel called, breathless but determined, “You look like you haven’t slept since the blip.”
Accurate, She thought, slowing just enough for Mel to catch up. “If that tea isn’t laced with bourbon or classified sedatives, I’m not interested.”
Mel offered a faint smirk and a flash drive.
“No bourbon. But classified intel recieved from our last mission, and also uh... well, it's about the team. You're going to want to sit down for this one.”
Val sighed and took the tea, her tone dry. “If this has anything to do with Captain America, time travel, or another Barnes-related disaster, I’m walking into traffic.”
She kept walking. Of course she was going to read the file. She always did. But a girl could dream.
Mel tried to keep her pace, awkward and bracing herself for the worst.
"It's... all three actually, oh, and the New Avengers or uh, The Thunderbolts now, are gone, with Captain America."
Jesus Fucking Christ.
Two weeks ago, in the middle of nowhere
The lights overhead flickered with a low electric hum. Unforgiving cold seeped in through cracked concrete, and every breath left a thin mist in the air.
The Thunderbolts moved through the space with quiet discipline, practiced and perfected over the many years of ruthless trauma between them.
Yelena sifted through a desk drawer with surgical precision, her expression unreadable, scanning over the contents with silent resignation. Alexei leaned heavily on the wall beside her, lined with old monitors, squinting at notes scrawled in Cyrillic across broken glass.
Walker flipped through a tattered file folder beside a gutted server rack, his jaw tight.
Ava hovered by a long table of yellowed papers and cracked lab equipment, phasing slightly with each slow breath, as if her body couldn’t decide how solid it wanted to be.
There was no fight here and there was no real danger. Which mean't there was also no escape from the truth in front of them.
Just pages and pages of research from a long-defunct Hydra cell and the faint, bitter scent of chemical decay.
Yet the tension hung heavier than if bullets were flying, and Ava wished they actually were, with the delightfully positive, hopeful attitude she had to forcefully generate inside herself these past few months.
Grief hadn't truly ever made her any softer. It had made her quiet and fucking angry.
Just last year, Ava would’ve phased through walls without asking, moved on her own, let silence wrap around her like armor. Because Ava Starr was no stranger to loss. Nobody here was. But tonight, she stayed close to the others. Not for protection–not that any of them needed it.
They were the New Avengers for fuck's sake. But, it was good to have some... presence. And Barnes is one of their own, whether he liked it or not.
Tough shit–we're in this together now, asshole. No more running, right?
Walker moved beside her, tapping absentmindedly against the sidearm on his hip, glancing at the papers with pretend interest.
"Anything useful? None of this is anything new. I mean, just saying... Bucky's brain damage is kinda old news, even for him.”
Ava didn’t look up as she generously slapped him in the face with the closest weapon available–which was another stack of files she’d just sorted through, twice over. She heard him grunt, a muttered an apology under his breath. Yeah, he deserved that.
“Just more ghosts. Hydra’s always good at leaving those behind.”
Walker rolled his eyes, setting the files back down in a neat pile. He watched her for a moment–marvelled at how still she was, how unreadable. Jesus, did he always have to stare like that? “Hey. You okay?”
“I’m always okay,” she replied. It wasn’t deflection. It was just another order. One that was more familiar than anything she'd ever known. Like the kind of statement you say not because it’s true, but because no one knows what to do if it’s not. It was a bad habit every single one of them struggled to break. And someone had to step up and be the sane one of the group. Okay, at least halfway sane.
Walker didn’t press her. Instead, he handed her a second folder. “You read faster than I do.”
That earned him the briefest smirk.
Across the room, Yelena called out, “Found coordinates. Storage facility, maybe. A drop point?”
Alexei grunted, unusually quiet. “Coordinates always lead to another dead end. Or a bunker full of rats.”
As they gathered, Ava held the folder a moment longer than necessary, fingertips tightening just slightly at the corner.
She hadn’t known how grief would feel, when it wasn’t so loud or explosive. When she was young, it was easier to push aside. But pain was pain, and pain was familiar. Another blanket to fill the void. But Bucky’s absence wasn’t silent and it wasn’t empty. It was just a frozen static sense of loss.
Another frequency that never quite faded, always buzzing under everything. But Ava thought it made her sharper. More deliberate, how it seemed to tether her to the others in the way that it already had, even as part of her always threatened to slip away.
Fuck, she really needed therapy.
Somehow, even, in the spaces he’d left behind, they’d found each other. Maybe not as friends, Not yet, But closer still, as fractured people that orbited the same loss, or something with sentimental value that fit along those lines.
She phased through the table, rejoining the group as they moved deeper into the next wing. No one said it, but they all felt it: Bucky had definitely been here. His shadow appeared to have touched everything. And obviously, the fact that the Dora Milaje had already scoured through here three times before them. And it might also have something to do with the proof of signal that cut off at these exact coordinates.
And now they were following it. Just one bitter piece of useless paper at a time.
••
The harsh, bitter snowstorm that lay claim outside was barely noticeable over the rustle of foil and the muted chatter between teammates as they dropped into their seats within the jet. The interior was dimly lit, quiet but not tense, just the hush that came after a dead end. Takeoff had barely cleared the tarmac before Bob dropped plastic containers of Russian takeaway, scattering them across the table, still steaming with the scent of meat, dill, and vinegar. Pelmeni, borscht, greasy pirozhki. Comfort food, if any of them still believed in comfort.
Bob leaned back in his seat, chewing thoughtfully on a beef dumpling. “If you don't mind me saying...not the worst post-failure meal I’ve ever had.”
Yelena gave him a withering look over her half-empty cup of soup. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”
“Uh, It’s my way of saying I’ve eaten worse. Like that time when Walker tried to make gourmet.”
“Hey,” Walker called from across the cabin, feet kicked up, balancing a container filled with pelmeni on his chest. “Those rations were vintage. Collector’s items. And it was one mistake! You said you loved the taste of my cuisine."
Alexei snorted. “Da! Vintage, is like your sense of humor. Dated and American.”
Walker tossed a fork at him. Alexei caught it mid-air, looked pleased with himself, and then used it to steal a bite from Bob’s plate.
Yelena stood near the back of the cabin, tablet clutched loosely in her hand, eyes fixed on the now-blank coordinates screen. Just forest. No heat signatures. No structures. Another ghost trail, scrubbed clean. Her lips tightened with disappointment.
She put the tablet down, pulled open one of the overhead compartments, and withdrew a slim bottle of vodka. She turned it over in her hand, unscrewed the cap, and hesitated. Just for a second.
Bob caught her eye.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her–not with any judgment, but gentle understanding.
Yelena paused, then silently capped the bottle again and slid it back into the overhead compartment.
From the opposite side of the cabin, Ava reached over and grabbed it instead, never one to miss an opportunity. “I’m already dead, again and again every day of my fucking life actually,” she said, voice dry, “so what’s the worst it can do?”
She took a swig straight from the bottle, then leaned back and let the burn settle in her chest.
Yelena didn’t make any feeble attempt to stop her this time.
Walker raised an eyebrow. “You’re really living the full Russian spy fantasy tonight, aren't you?”
Ava didn’t look at him, but the mouse-blonde practically felt the side-eye she gave him. “I was British-American intelligence.”
“Right, right,” Walker muttered. “My bad. Different trauma. Sorry, I guess.”
Kate Bishop’s voice suddenly chimed softly through Yelena’s earpiece. “Any updates?”
Yelena rubbed her eyes, walking toward the back of the jet for privacy. “Nothing. Coordinates led to a clearing. Trees. Maybe an old site that’s been buried, maybe a misdirection.”
“We'll look over it together tomorrow.” Kate assuredly promised.
Yelena hesitated for a moment. “A few hard-drives, what looks like old research on the Winter Soldier project, nothing we haven't already seen before. No signs of a struggle. No fight. Just more dead ends."
Silence.
“Yelena... are you okay?”
She smiled faintly. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Kate didn’t answer right away either. “You just don’t sound like you.”
“Well,” Yelena said, glancing back at the team, all the tired bickering, the noise, and the quiet ache in Ava’s expression as she nursed the bottle, “I don't know. None of us are.”
Kate lowered her voice. “I won’t tell Sam. I promised.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll find him.”
“We better,” Yelena said. “Or someone’s going to have to start sleeping with one eye open.”
Kate gave a quiet laugh. “Still terrifying.”
Yelena ended the call with a small sigh, sliding back into her seat. She didn’t mention the conversation. Didn’t need to. The rest of the team had quieted, lulled into a heavier silence that wasn’t quite sleep.
Bob passed her a container of dumplings.
She took it, offering a half hearted nod in return, mind elsewhere as the team sat in a warm, tired stillness. Full of food, failure, and the kind of loyalty that didn’t require words. The Watchtower, home, awaited them, no longer the empty and void of life. And wasn't that something.
But somewhere out there, Bucky Barnes was still missing.
Ava believed they would find him, somewhat now the designated leader of optimism, when it suited her anyway, and then, she decided, she'd save everyone the trouble and kill him herself. But she, along with the rest of the team, could only hope it wasn't too late by then.
Opposite her, the dark haired woman leaned her head back against the headrest, giving a small groan of appreciation for the burn at the back of her throat, Vodka still in hand. "I think we should tell Sam Wilson." She stated, tilting her head to where Yelena was pouting in her seat, the container of dumplings on her lap.
"You know how much Valentina has been up our asses about him. She's far too keen on blaming us. And if Captain America finds out? We'll be decommissioned, and homeless." She spat, accent slipping through in her frustration.
Alexei pauses, stopping whatever pissing contest he'd started with John to glance between Yelena, Bob and Ava.
"She is woman of power... but Captain America is friend to Winter Soldier. Will be worse, if say nothing." He commented, shrugging a shoulder when Walker, for once, was quick to agree.
"Exactly. Since when do we care about what Valentina says? She wouldn't do that, she's desperate. She needs us." He reasoned, before adding, "Not with Sentry on our team, you reall think Sam Wilson's gonna risk another civil war after the last shit-show? No way dude."
At the mention of his god-like alternative self, Bob laughs nervously, clasping his hands together, "Heh, yeah, I- well, I can’t really be the Sentry, I mean-”
He cut himself off, gaze darting back to the floor, shoulders tense. Walker shifted seats, gentle resting his hand on his shoulder, a gesture of comfort - which seems suspiciously common these days, not that Ava has been keeping track or anything. She didn't catch the rest of the exchange, having shifted her gaze back to the former widow.
Yelena's frown deepened, bringing a hand down the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly, tone dripping with guilt.
"So we tell him the truth... What we should have done from the beginning. Some Avengers we've turned out to be."
The muscles in John's jaw flickered as he pinched his mouth shut.
"Hey, don't sell the rest of us short, we were just following orders. Besides, how were we supposed to know he would be gone this long. We don't even know if he's even in any danger. He could have just extended his vacation or something." Ava hissed, taking another swig out of the bottle.
"His metal arm was literally found in a Hydra Research facility. You think he'd just leave that lying around?" She retorted, voice rising, "There has been no record, no trace whatsoever across the globe. Not even the Wakandans have a clue. If they knew something, then we wouldn't have the Dora Milaje at our throats. According to Bishop and Torres, Wilson doesn't know anything. And-"
Yelena pauses, as if she's about to choke on her own words,
"He promised! He wouldn't leave, not- not like that, not without saying goodbye."
She shot out of her chair, dumplings spilling out onto the floor, deliberately keeping distance from her father, and the sympathy she refused to acknowledge in his gaze, brushing past the others into the back of the cabin, slamming the door behind her.
Alexei winced, muttering under his breath before following after her.
Great, so now everyone's getting emotional.
Life was so much easier when she had nobody to care about. Would these people, her teammates, care so much if it had been her instead?
Strangely, and maybe for the first time in her life, she thought they actually might.
She cleared her throat, throwing the empty Vodka bottle in the bin, having had enough self - pity for the duration of the flight. Walker picked up the abandoned dumplings from the floor, passing them back to Bob, who had busied himself with clearing away the rest of the now cold food.
"Tomorrow we talk with Wilson. He's known Barnes the longest, and we can't track him alone. We will find him, and we deal with Valentina, and any other sorry sack of shit that gets in our way, later.
But first, we can find out what these coordinates are for, and where. John, pass me that tablet."
Chapter 2: Promises
Summary:
Yelena’s hand twitched toward her belt out of habit. Ava stepped in front of Bob slightly. Alexei muttered a soft, Russian curse under his breath.
Walker crossed his arms, a feeble attempt in acting nonchalant. “Captain.”
“Don’t,” Sam cut in, voice low. “Don’t start a fight you can't win, Walker.”
He turned to look at each of them—battered, tired, still smelling faintly of vodka and snow—and then his eyes settled on Yelena. “You lied to me."
“I didn’t lie,” she replied coolly. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Which part?” he asked, stepping forward now. Their eyes locked, and the tension between them was almost palpable. Wilson didn’t move, his expression a careful mask, but his knuckles had closed into fists. “The part where Bucky’s been missing for months, and Valentina covered it up? The part where you've all somehow thought it was fine not to tell me? Or the part where you found his arm in a goddamn Hydra bunker?”
The air snapped taut.
---
Sam Wilson confronts the team, and his guilt. After a compromise, they go through with Sam the day Bucky went missing, and try to find some answers. Oh, and Alpine gets a feature.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
NEW YORK – THE WATCHTOWER
The elevator doors hissed open with a hydraulic sigh.
They’d barely stepped into the corridor before Yelena froze.
So did everyone else.
Because standing there—broad-shouldered, unmoving, shield slung over his back and tension radiating off him in waves—was Sam Wilson.
Captain America.
Helmet off, jaw tight, eyes flicking from one face to the next, Sam looked like he’d been standing there a while. Like he’d waited. And not just to greet them.
His voice was calm, but strained. "Still know my way around. Decor's not bad. Very...comfortable."
Yelena’s hand twitched toward her belt out of habit. Ava stepped in front of Bob slightly. Alexei muttered a soft, Russian curse under his breath.
Walker crossed his arms, a feeble attempt in acting nonchalant. “Captain.”
“Don’t,” Sam cut in, voice low. “Don’t start a fight you can't win, Walker.”
He turned to look at each of them—battered, tired, still smelling faintly of vodka and snow—and then his eyes settled on Yelena. “You lied to me."
“I didn’t lie,” she replied coolly. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Which part?” he asked, stepping forward now. Their eyes locked, and the tension between them was almost palpable. Wilson didn’t move, his expression a careful mask, but his knuckles whitened around the edge, nails digging into his palm. “The part where Bucky’s been missing for months? The part where Valentina somehow thought it was fine not to tell me? Or the part where you found his arm in a goddamn Hydra bunker?”
The air snapped taut.
“We didn’t know,” Bob offered, quiet but steady. “Not really. We didn’t want to make it worse until we had more.”
“You should’ve told me the second he didn’t show up,” Sam said, his voice breaking at the edge. “I thought he was just... avoiding me. Was damn good at that before. Before all this. I thought he was mad. God, I thought—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening, glancing away for a moment to gather himself.
Truth is, the team didn't know Captain America all that well. Sure, they all kept up with the news, the daily article and billboard shit. It was practically routine for them at this point, and anyway, the New Avengers always make time for gossip in the early mornings. For one, they have Valentina Allegra de Fontaine as a boss. And they're allowed to follow through with their diligence as professional heroes and keep up with the latest intelligence and potential threats, (for better or worse and highly entertaining purposes) on their fellow superpowered heroes of earth, including themselves, obviously.
Not that Yelena cared much about what the people of New York said about her, personally. It couldn't be worse than the truth. But on the better days, she was reminded of Natasha, and how proud she would have been if she had lived to see her baby sister fighting the big fight, the one that little girls now call their hero.
'I'm trying, big sister. I'm trying to be more than just a trained killer.'
She also did her best to protect her teammates from the worst of it. Valentina usually had a knack for cleaning up any dirt, keeping their name well - polished across the media, but shit always bled through the cracks. Especially when you're a group of ex - criminals, government assassins and outright murderers the Avengers. As if there was ever any real comparison.
But she knew how hard the others took it, on the bad days. When Walker disappeared for hours, having paced holes into the kitchen floor, phone in one hand, scrolling mindlessly after yet another heated phone call with his ex - wife, Olivia about the example he was setting for his son, and all the hate he'll read about his dad as he grew up.
And Ava, a young woman that been taken advantage of throughout her whole life and discarded, as if she were nothing, like a toy to be thrown in the trash once you found something better, only she had always been treated less than, filled with false promises and used by S.H.I.E.L.D and countless others again and again in the pretense of the greater good at the cost of the little she had left.
Yelena knew what it felt to be treated like you were less than human. She might not have any superior powers like the rest of her team-mates, but she hadn't felt a sense of normalcy since she was a child blessed with oblivious innocence, and neither had Ava. They had that common.
And Bob? Everyone had a space in their cold, bruised hearts for Bob in their new lives. Like an adorable puppy, but better. Human. Kind. Real. Though, Yelena still thought that in another life, he could have been a golden retriever. Soft, irresistible big brown eyes, very huggable. And nobody wanted to see Bob cry.
But sometimes, he allowed the guilt to get the better of him. And on those days they're all quick to share the those freaky reddit theories and most embarrassing media coverages, heck, even Bucky would have had shared a story or two.
But Yelena Belova didn't know Sam Wilson, and she certainly didn't trust him. For a friend of Bucky's and former friend and colleague to her sister, he'd been far too quick to slander their names and file for copyright. Not that he was entirely in the wrong, she knew it wasn't about them, not really, but she knew how hard Barnes had taken the fallout, the way he would stare at his phone for hours, screen empty, or every time he winced from the slightest mention of Wilson. The whole team was quick to notice, and knew not to bring him up around him.
No, Yelena did not like Captain America very much. For all the good that these men carrying the star - spangled shield did, Yelena didn't think they were ever all that good at goodbyes.
She stepped forward, slowly. “We thought we'd find him before it got worse, and someone else, someone worse, could find him first. To consider every other possible alternative. ”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Sam ran a hand over his face, exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. “He’s not with the Wakandans?”
“No,” Ava replied. “And they’re pissed. Whatever happened to him—it’s off the grid. Not even Shuri’s tech is tracking anything.”
There was a long pause.
Then Sam squared his shoulders. The soldier returned to the forefront.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”
Walker blinked. “Wait—what?”
“I said I’m in,” Sam repeated. “You don’t have to like me, and I sure as hell don’t like how this whole team is run, but none of that matters. What matters is Bucky. And I’m not losing him again.”
Yelena shifted her stance, relaxing slightly, but keeping her gaze on him. “We’ll take all the help we can get.”
“You’re going to tell me everything,” Sam said, already stepping past them into the next room. “Every file, every coordinate, every whisper. And if Valentina tries to pull rank, she can come talk to me directly.”
Ava exchanged a glance with Walker, eyebrow raised. “Well. This just got interesting.”
They gathered around the living room like a mismatched puzzle—too many edges, not enough soft pieces. The overhead lights were dimmed, a few tablets glowing faintly between empty coffee cups and folders tossed onto the table.
Bob sat cross-legged on the floor, passing a bowl of popcorn to Alexei, who took it like it was the first food he'd seen in days, even though he'd finished the last of yesterday's leftovers only a few hours ago. Ava perched on the armrest of the couch, tablet in one hand, chewing silently. Walker leaned against the back of the sofa, arms still crossed, eyes narrowed on the evidence, or lack thereof.
Sam stood near the coffee table, helmet off, shield now propped beside the couch. To his right hand side sat a white furred four legged feline, with familiar clear, bright-blue eyes that always reminded Sam of Steve. It's soft, fluffy paws were outstretched, desperate for his attention but not quite reaching far enough. He cracked a smile, closing the distance, an welcome invitation. "Hey, Alpine, been a while, huh? Missed you, girl."
The cat, Alpine, took the opportunity to settle on his lap, kneading her front paws happily, sharp claws catching on his thighs. From the other side of the room, Walker watched the scene with betrayal, muttering something untangible about favoritism and traitorous cats. Sam smirked as a loud purr rumbled from the back of her throat, echoing around the room.
His gaze flickered from image to image—the vibranium arm, detached and discarded and seemingly without fault or signs of trauma or tampering. Then records, photo and video evidence of the timeline Yelena and Ava had scraped together from dead leads and cold trails, and the days beforehand. Sam waited patiently for further intel, expectant on proof of life, anything to give some kind of explanation.
“This all you’ve got?” he asked eventually.
Yelena nodded from her spot on the armrest opposite Ava, looking slightly bashful. For a team of experienced spies, Sam couldn't help but have expected more. So it must be pretty dire, more so than they were letting on. “It’s like he vanished mid-step. No trace, no call-ins. Just… stopped.”
Sam rubbed his temple. “That’s not like him.”
“No,” Yelena said, voice quieter. “It’s not.”
Bob shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth and mumbled, “What we can't make sense of is that there's no signs of any struggle. No bodies, No blood, Nothing. And, well, it's kinda weird he's left his arm behind like that."
Sam ran his hand through Alpine's fur, brows furrowing in thought. "Hydra’s off the grid for years. If they’re back, they’re not the same. Old methods wouldn't work on him they did then. They'd have struggled to subdue him, and there's no way he'd go quietly, not back to that hell. Not after everything he's been through, the work he put in to recover and find his freedom." He stared down at the feline, mind elsewhere for a moment, tone softening, "You don't realise how hard it was for him. To choose that, to accept that for himself. There's no version of Bucky that would make it easy for those bastards."
But the question of the actions of the Winter Soldier were at the traces of everyone's lips. What would have the Winter Soldier done?
He was never given the choice.
But Bucky wasn't the Winter Soldier anymore. The Wakandans were certain of their success in removing the code - words that were once used to control him. But Sam wasn't naive. He knew trauma. He knew recovery. It wasn't linear. There was always the chance of loopholes, setbacks, relapses.
Maybe it just wasn't that simple.
He hadn't had a good read on Barnes in over six months. And truth is, there's a lot he didn't know about him, that he never had the nerve to ask. Regret burned through his skin, irritant and heated, like an itch that couldn't be scratched.
Alexei squinted at the screen. “Maybe it is not Hydra. Maybe it is... knockoff Hydra. Like store brand fascists.”
“No one’s ever really gone,” Ava murmured. “They just go underground.”
The silence settled again.
Sam’s jaw flexed, hands on his hips. "What about the days before he went on this solo clean up op. Which, I can't believe you're all still doing by the way, but not surprised since you seem to just apparantly allow your boss, one of the most corrupt government officials going right now, who's also just downright immoral and inhumane, to walk all over you guys like that. We can save this conversation for later, because we need to deal with this." After a beat, he looked back at the screens, "Anything out of the ordinary? Can you bring up what you've got? We can go back through it with another perspective now that you've got some fresh eyes."
Ava scoffed, hopping down from the couch, commanding the AI to bring up all footage, and reports from his work colleagues, inside and out of the Watchtower (only the areas with cameras still enabled, which was few and far between. They all appreciated their privacy, especially from the cynical eyes of the government, and any other anti - Avengers creeps.
"We've co - existed around each other for months now, the guy followed his daily routine like clockwork. See here." She indicted to the footage on the screen.
GYMNASIUM COMPLEX
16TH FLOOR, WATCHTOWER
04:08
03-09-2028
"I can confirm James Buchanan Barnes arrived at the 16th floor at precisely eight minutes past four in the morning." A monochrome feminine AI voice spoke aloud, as the figure of Barnes came into view, walking out of the elevator, hair still tussed from what was obviously another night of restless sleep, which wasn't unusual for him. He spent most mornings in gym, early enough to not be disturbed, and what Ava liked to call his 'Boring Old Man' Spotify playlist playing quietly in the background as he trained.
"Mr Barnes proceeds to preform his usual warmup routine, consisting of the following;
25 minutes of aerobic plyometrics as a warm-up.
Medicine ball overhead throws- 9 sets of 15 reps
Lateral leap and hop- 9 sets of 15 reps
Farmer’s walk– 16 sets of 25 metres
Box squat- 9 sets of 9 reps."
Ava allowed the AI to drone on, sighing at the supersoldier's dramatically excessive workout routine. Personally, she preferred to start her mornings with yoga and a good sparring session, which Bucky would also often partake in, as did the others on a weekly basis, but she wondered if every serum applicant had to be a total gym freak, or maybe she was just surrounded by the ones that like to show-off and overcompensate.
"See that, John and 'Lexi? He's wearing a shirt. Even with all that sweat, he kept it on. You hotshots can't handle five minutes without undressing in front of the rest of us."
John huffed from his spot, finally uncrossing his arms while Bob turned around, silently passing the popcorn to him from his position on the floor. "I’m not the one who flexes in every reflective surface like it’s a compulsion.”
"Liar! It's the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning. You are obsessed with yourself." Ava retorted, raising her arms in a show to emphasise her point.
"Hey! Can't a man admire his own hard work without judgement? What's wrong with that? You're always telling Bob to have more self - confidence. And please, you know I look good."
Ava scowled, a barely visible flush on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something more, but thought better of it.
Surprisingly, Bob made his presence known again, with a soft murmur, "If I looked as good as you do John, I wouldn't wear a shirt either."
The blonde - haired soldier smiled back at him, accepting another handful of popcorn, their fingers brushing briefly. Ava could practically see his eyes soften as he kept eye contact with Bob, and Jesus, were they all just a bunch of secretly sentimental fools?
“Mirror is there for form checks,” Alexei added, unaware of the tender moment, casually cleaning under his nails with a combat knife, a subtle reminder of both his daughters. “And shirtless training builds morale. Inspires greatness. No shame.”
Ava rolled her eyes. “Inspires something, alright.”
“And yet,” she added, pointing at the paused screen, “Bucky never trains shirtless. Not once. Even when he's dripping sweat, he keeps that damn Henley or long sleeve on like it’s armor. Meanwhile, Bob's out here doing deadlifts in a cable-knit sweater and no one's asking questions.”
Looking back up, John muttered, a little smug, “Just admit that you'd prefer him shirtless too.”
Sam didn’t look away from the screen, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Focus up. We’re not here to judge fashion—or physique.”
The footage continued playing. Bucky moved with his usual mechanical precision: clean lines, disciplined form. But then—
“Wait, play that again, but slow it down.” Sam said sharply.
The AI repeated the instructions, slowing the feed just as Bucky's body subtly jerked mid-motion. He could be seen reaching for the medicine ball again, but instead of hoisting it immediately, he’d paused, his expression briefly twisted—just a flicker—before he dropped his eyes, pressed a hand tightly to his abdomen, and took a shallow breath. Then, like a machine resetting, they watched as he picked the ball up and resumed his workout, pushing harder, faster, almost like he was trying to outrun whatever pain had just struck him.
Sam stared at the image. “Zoom in. Right there.”
The frame tightened, revealing more detail—sweat on his brow, his hand pressing low against his torso, his lips pinched together in what could only be described as a quiet grimace.
Alexei tilted his head. “Is he sick? He pull muscle?” Alexei suggested, sitting forward. “He train with John last week. Maybe something tore.”
"Mhm. Would have to be one hell of a bug, I've known him for years and he's never been sick. Steve used to say the serum prevents all that.” Sam responded, unconvinced. “He’s always been good at hiding pain, but he wouldn’t have surrendered so quickly on a mission for a pulled muscle. We still don’t have a reason he left, or why the arm was left behind. We need to look at every avenue here.”
Ava and Yelena glanced at each other, and John shook his head. “And I’ve watched him tank a concussion that left him unconscious, and he still finished the mission without flinching.”
Sam stepped back from the screen, the pieces turning in his mind. “So whatever this is, it’s not new to him—but he’s hiding it. And handling it.”
Yelena spoke up, “He hides a lot. We all do. But it's not like he's going behind our backs Wilson. There's no secret fight. There's no way he's doing any freelance work behind our backs, not for Valentina or any other organisation. This is Barnes we're talking about."
Alexei grunted in agreement, "Da. He is like loyal housewife. Very good care of team. Goes out only to supermarket or for job. Then he come home. Spend most time here."
Sam didn’t answer right away. Instead, he sat there, watching that frozen frame of Bucky pressing a hand against his stomach, his face halfway between pain and pride, like showing weakness was the greater threat. In another life, for him, it had been. In another time, not so long ago, when something was wrong, he would have called.
The room fell quiet again as the feed advanced to the next timestamp.
KITCHEN – MAIN FLOOR, WATCHTOWER
06:49 – 03-09-2028
Bucky stood at the counter, pouring coffee into a chipped navy mug with the words, with the words, 'My Cat and I talk shit about you' plastered around it. His movements were slow but familiar—muscle memory. He leaned on the counter for a few moments, his shoulders tight. The camera caught him glancing toward the corner where Alpine sat on the windowsill, tail flicking impatiently.
“Subject: James Buchanan Barnes is preparing his morning meal. Black coffee. No additives,” the AI informed.
“Yeah, no surprise there,” Ava muttered. “Same routine every damn day.”
He then opened the cupboard and retrieved a small white bowl, pouring in a scoop of cat food with careful precision. Alpine jumped down and began eating, brushing against Bucky’s leg as she did. He bent down, scratched behind her ears absently, then picked up his mug and walked toward the living room.
No signs of panic. No signs of planning.
“Subject: James Buchanan Barnes has prepared coffee and breakfast for feline. Position moved to the tower's living quarters. No outer communication activity detected,” the AI added, as the video played on.
The screen showed him moving slowly—deliberate, not hesitant. Just tired. A hand drifted again to his lower abdomen, subtle, almost thoughtless, before it dropped to scratch Alpine behind the ears. She wound herself around his leg in return, meowing softly.
“Guess the cat didn’t get the memo he was planning a vanishing act,” John muttered.
“Maybe because there wasn’t a vanishing act,” Ava countered. “There’s no rush, no cleanup, no weird behavior. Just... normal.”
LIVING AREA – MAIN FLOOR, WATCHTOWER
07:17
Bucky sank into the chair by the window with a soft exhale, coffee in hand, a weathered paperback balanced in the other—The Young Lions, Ava recognized. One of those brooding post-war novels he reread every couple of months.
He didn’t glance at the cameras. Didn’t leave any notes. He turned the page, took a sip of coffee, scratched lightly at the edge of his jaw. Like any other morning.
Sam watched in silence. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw was tight.
“This doesn’t feel like someone running,” Yelena said after a moment. “If it were me, I would have taken the cat.”
“Agreed,” Ava muttered. “And probably not left the arm.”
Sam crossed his arms, frowning. “So what are we looking at? An injury? The wince in the gym earlier—what if something ruptured? Internal bleeding? A slow build to something worse?”
“He didn’t look like he was in that much pain,” John countered. “I’ve had worse food poisoning and still made it to mission briefings.”
“No trace of a fight. No sign of a break-in. No external comms. He feeds his cat, drinks his coffee, reads a book, and then just—vanishes,” Ava said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
The footage finally showed the front door unlocking—the rest of the team arriving. Bucky looked up briefly from his chair, offered a small nod, and went back to his book.
Nothing alarming. Nothing deliberate. Just another morning.
But Bucky was gone now.
And to the team, that absence twisted every normal gesture into a question.
A look. A pause. A hand pressed to his side.
They didn’t know what they were looking for, so everything looked like a clue.
The footage now played in the background, muted as it tracked Bucky’s day at the congressional hearing—silent clips of him entering the Capitol building, walking briskly beside a junior aide, expression unreadable as always, almost as if he were in a dissociative state, simply going through the motions, but deep blue-grey eyes still as sharp as ever.
The room had quieted. John had now sunk into the armchair nearest the screen, arms folded across his chest, head tilted back and eyes closed, though his foot still bounced. Ava was on the floor, legs outstretched, fingers idly tapping against the data tablet in her lap. Even Alexei had gone quiet, sprawled across the corner of the couch with Alpine, satisfied with her attention from Wilson, now curled up against his chest like a smug little space heater.
Only the low hum of the AI and the distant crackle of city traffic filtered in through the Watchtower’s thick windows.
Bob, ever soft-footed despite his size, reappeared carrying a pile of blankets in his arms, so quiet nobody, except Yelena, because she always notices, had realised he ever left. He wordlessly distributed them—one over John’s legs, one tucked around Ava’s shoulders, another folded neatly next to Sam, who only gave him a quiet, grateful nod, and finally passing one across to Yelena, who took it gratefully. Bob deposited himself up in a corner of the room with his own blanket and Alpine immediately migrated to his lap, purring.
The sun had since started to rise, casting gold light through the high glass panels. It softened everything. Made the empty spaces feel larger. Made Bucky’s absence feel heavier.
Sam eventually stood, watching the footage with his arms crossed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to Yelena.
“I need to talk to you, alone.”
She looked up from her seat at the kitchen island, still nursing the dregs of cold tea. She gave a slight nod and followed him out onto the balcony, barefoot and wrapped in one of the blankets Bob had brought.
The morning air was crisp, biting through the haze of fatigue. The city below was already stirring—car horns, a bus rumbling down Fifth, pigeons cooing from ledges below. But up here, it was quiet.
Sam leaned against the railing, his gear jacket pulled tighter around him. Yelena hovered a step away, keeping her arms close around herself.
“You holding up?” he asked, his voice low.
Yelena shrugged, then gave a short breath. “Define ‘holding up.’ I’m here. Awake. Not stabbing anyone.”
“That’s a win.”
She offered a faint, tired smile. “You?”
Sam didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the skyline, where the sun was just beginning to crest over the East River. “I keep thinking I missed something. That the last time we talked—I should’ve known he wasn’t okay. Should’ve followed up. Should’ve pushed harder.”
Yelena looked at him, brow furrowed. “You two fought, yes?”
He nodded. “We disagreed, more than once. I was the one to walk out. I know he was upset, probably blames himself." He didn't want to get into further detail, but he remembered the heat inside his chest that day, raw and ugly, somehow different compared to the usual arguments they'd previously had. Deeper, more final. Laced with so much feeling, everything left unsaid between them. "Guess he figured I needed space, because he didn't call after.
I didn’t think he’d—”
“Disappear?”
Sam exhaled sharply. “Exactly.”
Yelena was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t plan this. You saw it. He was feeding the cat and reading sad war books. Whatever happened... it happened fast.”
“That’s what scares me.”
A moment passed between them, the kind that didn’t need words.
"He was lonely. Without you."
Sam swallowed, closing his eyes, but he let her continue.
"We are a team. We are close. But it not the same. You understand, it is hard, to be left behind. But it's even harder still, to be the ones that stay. More than once, we've found him asleep in the living room, or sleepwalking. He would wake up with a name on his lips." She shifted, staring deep into his eyes, knowing, "Sometimes, he calls for Steve. Sometimes he calls for his past - handlers. But most days, he calls for you. It's often he has nightmares, yes, but dreams can hurt the very same."
Sam didn't know how to respond, chest tightening with regret. He understood, why Bucky didn't make contact afterwards, why he chose to hide from the world, take the backseat as Sam fought against his boss, in the lack of impeachment and the copyright case - all the promises they both failed to keep. But there's one promise neither could ever break.
They had just finished attending the funeral of their best friend, who'd chosen to live a long, happy life in the past over five more seconds, without even saying goodbye, Sam and Bucky had watched as Steve's coffin was lowered in front of them, and made a promise to one another.
'Promise me, you'll tell me.' Bucky had said.
"You won't leave me like he did. Not without saying goodbye. I can't I-"
Sam remembered the way he had looked, broken, like he was grieving not only the memories of the life he had lived with Steve, ones he was still learning from, still re-living them, but also the ones they didn't, and now never will.
'I can't do this again Sam. Don't make me do this again.' He had whispered, barely auditable. But Sam had heard, and he'd never expected to feel so much anger, all consuming, for Steve Rogers, and the desire to protect the man he'd left at his wake.
He'd stepped closer, bringing a hand to his shoulder. "I'm never going to leave you behind Buck. I don't give a damn what shit you pull, I won't let you go easy either. I promise you that. And any Wilson promise is ten times better than any catchphrase you come up with, so don't even start, man."
Yeah, well, they'd both made it to the end of fucking line. But Sam was waiting on the other side. And he can be very patient.
The AI’s voice echoed faintly from inside the Watchtower:
“Visitor arrival detected. Identity confirmed: Melissa Hartman. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s administrative assistant.”
Yelena groaned and buried her face in the blanket. “Why is it always Mel?”
Sam straightened with a grimace, gaze still a little unfocused. “Because Valentina never gets her hands dirty. And I don't believe for a second that they aren't hiding anything. We need to find out more information about this Hydra cell. Valentina wouldn't have put Bucky on clean up duty for harmless research. We're missing something.”
They turned back toward the glass doors, the spell of the morning broken. Exhaustion still clung to them like fog—but the day was officially beginning.
And so was whatever came next.
Oh yeah, and he needed to call Shuri.
Notes:
Got myself a computer just so I can add different text, before I write any more flashback scenes or character thoughts.
Thanks for all the love on the first chapter! I appreciate every comment and kudos. Don't worry, I'm not deterred by the A03 curse, life can't get much worse for me. I've been through all seven traumas.
I'll be updating this fic every Friday - next chapter will explain the mission, what the Wakandans are up to, and a meddling Mel. And Bob decides he wants to give time travelling a go.
Chapter 3: Answers.
Summary:
Shuri met his stare without blinking.
“You’re mad,” she said plainly.
“You think?”
She nodded once, like that was fair.
“You should’ve told me,” he said. “All of you.”
Kate shifted guiltily where she was perched on the arm of the couch. Joaquin stopped pretending to fiddle with his gear. Even Cassie looked up from her laptop.
Shuri straightened. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t ready to risk it. Not without confirmation. Not with the wrong people listening.”
“He’s my friend,” Sam snapped.
Shuri’s expression didn’t change. “He’s my family.”
That took the air out of the room.
Notes:
Two Chapters in one week? You can thank my lack of a social life.
I'm also over on tiktok - aethermint :)In tomorrow's chapter Bob and Billy Maximoff meet, and it goes as well as you'd expect.
Chapter Text
Melissa hated Mondays. Which was unfortunate, since in her job, every day was basically Monday with a glock.
The elevator doors slid open to the Watchtower’s lobby with an overly dramatic ding, like it knew it was dropping her into a dysfunctional group therapy session. She squared her shoulders, checked her posture in the reflection, and walked out like someone whose blazer wasn’t three hours past coffee and one crisis away from spontaneous combustion. Hmm, She'd have to file her upcoming crashout away for a later date.
The Thunderbolts were already waiting, lounging across the open space, wrapped up in blankets and looking rather sad and sorry for themselves. Melissa didn't need to look hard to spot the tension; it practically fogged the air. But their exhaustion was more prominent, but she didn't have the energy to feel sympathetic, when she had also spent the majority of this morning combing through the results of last night's endeavours.
Sam Wilson stood against the far wall, arms folded, wearing his full Captain America gear, bar helmet, shield still abandoned next to the couch, like it might give him a chance of moral authority here and making no attempt to greet her. Bold assumption anyway, considering he technically just broke into the tower.
Fantastic. The man is trespassing and still manages to look like a poster.
"Thunderbolts," Melissa greeted, professional and deadpan in equal measure.
"Mel," Ava replied, not looking up from where she sat, cross-legged on the living room floor. "How’s the war against sanity going?"
"Still losing. Thank you for asking." She adjusted her grip on her tablet and ignored the tension in her hand. "Just here for my regular attempt to herd feral cats. Amongst other matters. I'd ask what you're all doing up so early, but know that nothing ever gets past me." She blinked, scratching behind her neck, correcting herself. "And Valentina. Next time, you can just say your please and thank-you's."
Yelena threw her a look. "I sent what we found at base didn’t I? That is my please. So, you bring sedatives or just come to remind us we’re all state-sanctioned disasters?”
Her heels clicked ominously as she approached, still holding the tablet in hand like a weaponized clipboard, or maybe she was just waiting for one of them to try and steal it.
They all knew her. A year in and she was practically the team's reluctant mom—minus any maternal affection and with a violent allergy to stupidity. Still, she liked some of them. In extremely small, manageable doses. Mostly Bucky, if she was being honest.
Today, though, Melissa’s migraine had a primary name: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
Working for Valentina and liaising with the New Avengers was like juggling flaming swords while someone poked you with a lawsuit. Which was still happening, actually—Sam Wilson had filed one over the use of the word “Avengers” in New Avenger promotional material, and after months of gruelling, tedious damage control and court hearings, had finally gained the upper hand. She suspected any-day now she'd be tasked with all the rebrand work, on top of everything else.
Mel had spent far too many afternoons pretending that wasn't her problem while forwarding the paperwork to legal with the subject line: "Not it."
Add to that the fact that Bucky Barnes had vanished off the grid, (do you know how difficult it is to continually cover up the kidnapping of a celebrated congressman, who, by the way, is also apart of the original avengers team, first in line to every single law enforcement agency's surveillance service, and someone that frequently reaches the most trending on every social media outlet? Why doesn't her boss have more than one bloody assistant?)
On top of everything else, She'd somehow been assigned the dual tasks of (1) managing the fallout and (2) finding someone who could convincingly replace a national hero on the team roster. Easy. Like baking a cake without ingredients. Or hands.
What made it worse? Sam had shown up to the Watchtower. Uninvited. Behind Valentina’s back, because apparently, Captain America didn’t need a keycard when righteous indignation was involved.
Really, she was only surprised it took him this long, but still.
Melissa was twenty-seven. She was too young for ulcers, too old to pretend tequila was a coping strategy, and definitely too sober to be dealing with this much testosterone and espionage.
"Bit of both." She walked past Bob, who gave her a polite nod that may or may not have meant he recognized her. It was impossible to tell with him—his resting expression always hovered somewhere between Zen monk and lobotomy patient.
It had been a year. A full twelve months of managing Thunderbolts logistics, spinning their mistakes for the media, and trying to survive both Valentina's erratic demands and the sheer chaos of dealing with six walking red flags and one corporate lawyer on speed dial.
But this morning she had to add 'international incident' to the calendar. Again.
She paused near the center of the room, waiting for someone—anyone—to make this easier.
Instead, John Walker squinted at her. "You look tired. That new?"
But instead of repeating all that, she just said, "No, John, it's not new. It's just my face now."
Walker gave a low whistle. "Harsh."
She turned to Wilson, ignoring Walker for now. "You want to explain what you’re doing here? Or should we just go straight to the part where Valentina starts frothing at the mouth?"
Sam pushed off the wall slowly. "Looking for answers. You gonna give me any?"
Melissa blew out a breath and held up her tablet. "I’ll trade you."
"Excuse me?"
She tapped the screen, and with a small flick of her wrist, the big projection screen in the room lit up behind her.
THE NEW AND YOUNG AVENGERS: UNITY IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY.
Yelena groaned audibly. Ava slumped deeper into the bench. Even Bob gave an uncharacteristically pronounced sigh, which for him was a full-on emotional outburst.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," Sam said flatly.
Mel gave her best ‘I’m suffering too’ smile. "I never joke about logistics."
Yelena arched an eyebrow. “We were promised intel. Instead, we get this with a side of existential dread.”
Valentina's five-star protegeé pinched the bridge of her nose. “No one is withholding intel. You're just getting it... very PR-friendly.”
"Is this another gala? Because I swear to God, if I have to put on one more tux—” Walker practically growled in immediate protest.
“No gala,” She replied quickly, vividly remembering the last one they were asked to attend, and the PR disasters that followed. “This is worse. For me, and the parents of every child in New York.”
Blank stares.
“Valentina wants you all at a youth outreach event.”
More groans.
“She thinks if people see you interacting with the future generation, alongside the Young Avengers—‘mentoring’ or something equally performative—it’ll boost your rebrand."
Ava rolled her eyes. “You want us to babysit?”
“More like not terrify the children,” Melissa muttered.
Alexei perked up. “Do they have snacks?”
“No exploding cupcakes,” Yelena warned.
Sam cut in. “What makes you think you can tell my team what to do? And what the hell does this have to do with Bucky?”
Melissa’s smirk faded. She swiped across her tablet and pulled up a projection—maps, files, surveillance timestamps.
“What you brought back yesterday? Val's been combing through it. Slowly. Carefully. Because some of it’s so redacted, it looks like it was censored by a blackout.”
“Anything on Barnes?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” she said, then quickly added, “No. Kind of. What I can tell you is this: Valentina did not plan for anything to happen to him. This wasn’t a government assigned hit or cover up. It was supposed to be a straightforward retrieval mission. SWORD flagged a storage site—one used for archived material related to the Sentry project and other enhancement experiments. Someone had broken in, and if our intelligence was correct, which it often is, Valentina was able to link the suspect to another high level security breach within S.H.I.E.L.D back in the 90s, In the archives dated back to 1950. What was stolen remains unclear, those secrets buried too deep to uncover. But whatever it was, Carter did a really good job of keeping it under-wraps. So we can assume that it was something dangerous and probably world-changing."
She continued on with a swipe to the right on her tablet. "Val brought Barnes in to investigate and quietly collect the intel before it could be leaked, or worse.”
“Why him alone?” Yelena said, her voice sharp.
“He requested it. Said it felt personal.”
Walker frowned. “What kind of material are we talking about here?”
Melissa hesitated. “The research, what we understand to be Project Genesis, was a comparison study—unofficial, buried—on why no one’s ever replicated Erskine’s original super soldier serum perfectly. And more recently, had samples taken of Steve Rogers, Bucky, Isaiah Bradley, Soviet offshoots...Including the known mutated versions. All stolen from SWORD archives.”
"This is like the Flag - Smashers scenario all over again. When are people gonna learn?" Wilson ran a hand down his face, bone-tired of the same recurring problem in his life. God-Damn that fucking serum.
“Who ran the study?” Ava asked.
“Lead scientist was a former Hydra biologist, level six. But also well known for his experience as an andrologist.”
Silence.
“A what now?” Alexei asked.
“Specialist in male biology and reproductive science,” Mel explained. “We don’t know why. Hydra dismissed him decades ago, and even let him walk with every limb intact. There's no reason stated, but according to our accounts, he was said to have been 'unethical and inhumane.'
Yelena frowned. “Sounds like comic book nonsense.”
Everybody in the room tensed, wondering what kind of experiments he must have done for Nazi's to draw the line at.
Bob shivered, and said nothing.
“And this is where it gets complicated." She hesitated, looking up to gaze around tbe room. He was recruited afterward by Stark Industries.”
The room shifted. Sam’s posture went rigid.
“Come again?”
“Yeah. That was my reaction too, even Valentina had to check twice.” Melissa muttered. “We don’t know the details. Everything past a certain point is redacted. It's only thanks to Wakanda's co-operation that we were even able to get this far. But there are notes indicating the original files might still exist—locked behind Stark-level security. Only accessible through legacy protocols that not even our very best can get through. Even your team-mate, Black Panther tried. She failed.”
“Which means?”
Mel stared at Sam. “Which means we need Pepper Potts. And she’ll be at the Stark Future Foundation Expo next week, which we know your team are already in attendance for. Valentina wanted the rest of you there anyway, for the PR angle. I suggest you use the opportunity.”
Bob raised a hand. “What’s Project Genesis?”
Melissa looked down at her screen. Then up.
“No idea. Every single file just says one word: ‘CLASSIFIED.’”
Sam nodded slowly. “Fine. We’re going.”
He glared at the others, as if daring them to protest him on this.
Yelena flopped next to Ava on the floor, as dramatic as any other Widow before her, but didn't question Wilson's involvement. “God help the red carpet.”
Mel exhaled and rubbed her temples, already gathering herself and heading back towards the elevator. “If anyone sets fire to a teenager, I swear to God I will leak your browser history. We'll be in touch. Expect new wardrobes by the end of the day. And don't forget to smile."
She stepped back into the elevator without a goodbye, the doors sliding shut with the same smug ding they’d arrived with. She caught her reflection once more—creased blazer, tired eyes, the ghost of a headache already building behind her left temple.
The Thunderbolts. The New Avengers. Handling another buried project nobody was supposed to find. And somewhere out there, was Bucky Barnes, figuratively and literally caught in the middle of a science experiment wrapped in yet another government behind the scenes conspiracy.
She opened her tablet again, eyes scanning through the redacted lines like they might suddenly decrypt themselves through sheer irritation. She then received a new message, a file forwarded from her boss, with the introductory title;
NEW AVENGER APPLICATION: BARON HELMUT ZEMO.
Well, looks like Valentina already found Bucky's replacement.
She scanned through the file, then messaged back a thumbs-up emoji.
The elevator began to descend, carrying her back into the depths of damage control, where she would spin lies, draft cover stories, and prep color-coordinated tactical suits for a group of legally-adjacent anti-heroes about to smile for the cameras.
Tomorrow, they'd put on a show and meet the future.
Today, they stewed in the past, and the storm was already rolling in.
The door slammed behind Sam with a force that rattled the frame.
Inside, the Young Avengers looked up, startled.
Cassie was curled up on the couch with a blanket and her laptop. Kamala sat crisscrossed on the floor, half-finished embroidery in her lap. Kate had a bag of chips open, paused mid-crunch.
Joaquin Torres—Falcon—was near the window, twirling a screwdriver and pretending he wasn’t standing next to a partially dismantled drone.
No Shang-Chi. Someone muttered he was still on a Starbucks run, and America was training in New Asgard with Thor.
Sam didn’t say anything as he entered. Just stormed in with that barely-leashed fury in his shoulders, the kind that meant no one in the room was getting out unscathed.
He headed straight for the kitchen where he found Shuri, sitting on the edge of the counter, legs crossed at the ankle, didn’t bother standing. “We’re waiting on Shang’s Starbucks run,” she said mildly.
Sam grabbed the tin of grounds anyway. “Then I’ll make real coffee.”
He poured water with more aggression than the kettle deserved.
“Rough day?” Kamala asked hesitantly from the floor, half-pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping.
“Valentina's assistant just briefed me. About Bucky.”
The air snapped taut. Kamala blinked, confused. Cassie sat up straighter.
But Kate and Joaquin both froze.
“You knew,” Sam said, voice low, directed at them. “You knew he was missing. And no one thought to tell me?”
“Sam,” Kate started, putting the chips down slowly, “it wasn’t like that—”
“Then explain it to me,” he shot back. “Because right now, it looks a hell of a lot like you’ve all been lying to my face. About my friend.”
Joaquin raised his hands slightly, placating. “We weren’t lying, man. We were trying to help—quietly. It wasn’t safe to go wide with it. Shuri asked us to keep it tight while she traced the arm.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Sam snapped. “You’re not in charge. We’re supposed to be a team. That means we don’t leave people in the dark.”
“We weren’t trying to leave you out,” Kate said, quieter now, guilt written all over her. “We were trying to protect him. We didn’t have answers yet.”
Sam ignored her. Turned, steaming mug in hand, and faced the room like he was preparing to throw it at the nearest wall.
Shuri met his stare without blinking.
“You’re mad,” she said plainly.
“You think?”
She nodded once, like that was fair.
“You should’ve told me,” he said. “All of you.”
Kate shifted guiltily where she was perched on the arm of the couch. Joaquin stopped pretending to fiddle with his gear. Even Cassie looked up from her laptop.
Shuri straightened. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t ready to risk it. Not without confirmation. Not with the wrong people listening.”
“He’s my friend,” Sam snapped.
Shuri’s expression didn’t change. “He’s my family.”
That took the air out of the room.
She paused, her voice thinning.
Sam blinked.
“In Wakanda, he wasn’t just a guest,” she continued. “He trained with us. Ate with us. Fished with my brother. He laughed with our children, made friends with our healers. He rested with us, for the first time in decades. And when the world saw a broken weapon, and the rest of Avengers were too wrapped up in the Accords, we saw a brother. I saw a brother.”
She swallowed. “And now he’s gone. On my watch.”
Sam’s anger faltered—but didn’t fade. “Then why keep us in the dark?”
Shuri looked around the room, then back at him. “Because what we’ve uncovered… about Stark Industries, about the files Bucky was chasing for Valentina—it’s dangerous. If even a fraction of it is true, then someone used Stark’s legacy to bury a monster. And that makes it political. Strategic. Fragile.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “You think I wanted to keep this from you? From any of you? But I’ve got the Director of the FBI calling me every morning, and SWORD’s analysts combing through my labs in the states like they own them. I didn’t want the Avengers—either team—stumbling into this and making Bucky a bigger target than he already is.”
Sam didn’t speak for a long moment. The fire in him cooled, not because he wasn’t still angry—but because he understood too well the weight of protecting someone when the entire world was watching.
He finally said, quietly, “We’re supposed to trust each other.”
Shuri nodded. “We are. And I will do better.”
They stood like that—both proud, both protective, both afraid of what came next.
Then Sam exhaled and turned toward the others. “We're going to that Expo next week. Not just for PR. We’re finding out what Stark buried—and how it connects to Bucky."
Cassie raised her hand. “Are we allowed to punch anyone?”
“If they deserve it,” Sam muttered.
Kamala grinned. “Awesome!”
The room had cleared.
One by one, they'd made their excuses—training check-ins, late calls, Shang’s delayed coffee finally arriving. Jokes to cover tension. Nervous glances. Shuri had offered a last quiet apology with a hand briefly on his shoulder, and then she'd gone too.
Now it was just Sam.
He sat on the arm of the couch, half-finished coffee going cold in his grip, staring at nothing in particular. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, humming with the kind of artificial calm that only made things feel more hollow.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
God, Buck.
That stubborn bastard. The only man he knew who could survive war after war and still make snide remarks about Sam’s piloting. Bucky had always smelled like cinnamon and old leather—like something worn-in and warm, the kind of scent that lingered in rooms long after he'd left. Sam hated how vividly he could still smell it in his memory. Like Bucky was about to walk through the door. Like the past year hadn’t happened, and the fact that he'd never once updated that playlist on his phone.
Who ate cereal at midnight and let Sam talk about Riley without judgment. Who once fixed a broken hinge in the Wilson family boathouse and refused to admit he was proud of it.
Bucky Barnes. Friend. Teammate. Pain in the ass. Maybe something else, something more.
Gone.
And Sam hadn’t even known.
That was the part that twisted in his chest, slow and mean. Not just that Bucky was missing—but that he'd been missing, for days, maybe longer. And nobody had told him. Not Valentina, Not the rest of the Scooby Doo Gang. Not even Torres.
What else was he missing?
He looked down at the mug in his hands. Cracked ceramic. He hadn’t even noticed. It must’ve chipped when he gripped it too tight.
That felt right, somehow.
He hated this part of the job. The quiet after the noise. The echo of choices and compromise. Of knowing he'd gotten here by doing the best he could, and it still hadn’t been enough. Bucky trusted him. Had trusted him. And Sam had let the bureaucracy, the press, the brand, the mission—get in the way of just being a damn friend.
Maybe that was what hurt most.
Because Bucky had once told him, half-drunk on Wakandan rice wine, “You make it easy to believe people can change.”
And Sam… hadn’t changed fast enough.
He ran a hand over his face for what felt like the millionth time, and leaned back into the couch with a tired groan to stare at the ceiling. The shield rested in the corner. Polished. Useless. It didn't help you find the people you cared about. It didn’t tell you how to fix the cracks you didn’t know were forming.
It just sat there. A symbol. Heavy as hell.
And somewhere out there, Bucky was alone.
Maybe not for much longer.
Sam closed his eyes.
“I’m coming, man,” he murmured.
No one was there to hear it.
But it felt good to say it anyway.
Chapter 4: Billy Maximoff.
Summary:
Bob Reynolds—aka the Sentry—stood awkwardly in front of a booth, wearing a badge labeled "Guest Mentor." A group of middle schoolers were peppering him with questions.
"Can you really fly to space?"
"Do you glow in the dark?"
"Are you Superman?"
"Do you eat?"
"Yes," Bob said kindly. "Not usually. I don't know. And uh, yes, but not that often."
Joaquin sidled up next to him and clapped him on the back. "You're killing it, man. They're obsessed."
Bob blinked slowly. "They asked me if I could bench-press the moon."
"Could you?"
"...Possibly."
At that moment, a new kid approached, about sixteen, with an unsure look and dark curls under a hoodie. He held a press pass a little too nervously and a small notebook.
"Hey," the boy said to Joaquin. "Um. Sorry. I’m Billy. Billy Maximoff. I was wondering if I could... ask a few questions?"
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun hit the glass walls of the Javits Center like a spotlight, casting golden beams across the long queues of excited kids, teenagers, and exhausted-looking parents snaking around barricades. Inside, the cavernous event hall buzzed with anticipation, walls plastered in bright promotional banners: "Future Heroes Youth Convention 2028!" and "Meet the Avengers, New and Young!" Booths lined the room with holograms of iconic moments in Avengers history, scavenger hunts, merch drops, and VR simulations that let you fly like Iron Man or shrink like Ant-Man.
In the center of it all stood a raised circular platform with the logo of the Young Avengers projected in three dimensions above it, spinning slowly in gold and blue. Rows of folding chairs were filled with every kind of attendee: kids in oversized Kamala Khan t-shirts, teens in carefully curated vintage Hawkeye and God of Thunder merch, college students taking notes for a superhero ethics class, and at least one person cosplaying as Red Guardian with terrifying accuracy.
Sam Wilson walked out from behind the curtain and immediately squinted against the flashing camera lights. He wore his formal Captain America uniform—the one that looked crisp enough for press but still comfortable enough to throw a shield in. He was smiling. Sort of. Kamala had already darted past him to wave frantically to the crowd.
"Hi everyone! We are SO excited to be here today!" Kamala grinned, her hands vibrating with energy, even though she wasn’t actively powering up. Her energy was infectious; the crowd roared back.
Cassie Lang appeared next, flanked by Kate Bishop and Joaquin Torres. Shuri, Shang, America and Riri not present, having their own matters to deal with.
Cassie looked slightly overwhelmed but managed a bright, practiced smile as she waved. Kate wore dark sunglasses indoors in a clear attempt to avoid early press photos, while Joaquin—dressed in his Falcon suit without the wings—tossed a grin to the crowd like he was born to be on camera.
The group settled in at the front table. Behind them, a massive LED screen projected a cheerful introduction video of the Avengers teams, complete with dramatic voiceovers and orchestral swells. Sam resisted the urge to cringe when his face popped up.
The first part of the morning was structured like a panel. A young moderator, barely twenty and clearly trying not to pass out from excitement, led the team through a series of pre-approved questions.
"Captain America, what’s the hardest part about being a leader?"
"Convincing my team to be on time," Sam said without missing a beat, shooting a look down the table. Kamala cackled. Kate didn’t look up from her phone.
"What was your first superhero moment?" someone asked Cassie.
"Honestly? Shrinking down and getting trapped inside a sewage system during an mission. I was stuck for like, two hours. And I could hear Sam yelling the whole time."
"I wasn’t yelling," Sam deadpanned. "I was projecting concern. Loudly."
Then came the audience questions. This was where things always got dangerous.
A girl of about eight raised her hand, beaming. "Do you have a boyfriend?" she asked Kamala, without shame.
Kamala turned a deep red. "Uh. I mean. No. Kinda? It's complicated!"
Another kid, maybe twelve, called out to Kate: "Is it true you used to be rich? Like, mansion rich?"
"Used to be? Excuse you, I’m still rich in sarcasm and credit card debt," Kate shot back, to a round of laughter.
One teenager in the back, dressed head-to-toe in Sam Wilson fan merch, raised a hand seriously. "Captain America—what do you do when people don't respect you like they did Steve Rogers?"
The room got a little quieter.
Sam paused. Then, with a soft but steady voice, he said, "I remind them that being a hero isn't about who came before. It's about showing up for the people who need you. And I’ve had the best teachers in the world."
A boy in a Red Guardian t-shirt whispered, "Badass," a little too loudly.
During the short break, the team scattered. Cassie and Kamala took selfies with fans. Kate stood by the snacks table, subtly downing three cake pops before pretending to be on a call. Joaquin wandered over to a circle of younger teens clustered around a tall man who looked like he belonged in a mythology textbook.
Bob Reynolds—aka the Sentry—stood awkwardly in front of a booth, wearing a badge labeled "Guest Mentor." A group of middle schoolers were peppering him with questions.
"Can you really fly to space?"
"Do you glow in the dark?"
"Are you Superman?"
"Do you eat?"
"Yes," Bob said kindly. "Not usually. I don't know. And uh, yes, but not that often."
Joaquin sidled up next to him and clapped him on the back. "You're killing it, man. They're obsessed."
Bob blinked slowly. "They asked me if I could bench-press the moon."
"Could you?"
"...Possibly."
At that moment, a new kid approached, about sixteen, with an unsure look and dark curls under a hoodie. He held a press pass a little too nervously and a small notebook.
"Hey," the boy said to Joaquin. "Um. Sorry. I’m Billy. Billy Maximoff. I was wondering if I could... ask a few questions?"
Joaquin gave him a nod, but Bob had already turned his attention to the teen.
"Billy," Bob said, his tone softer, more focused, pupils flickering with gold, "You’re Agatha’s student."
Billy’s eyes widened. "You know her?"
"We’ve met. I can feel her energy around you. But also yours. It's... immense."
The two moved slightly away from the noise, sitting on the edge of a low stage. Bob—or was it Sentry— spoke in slow, steady words—words that didn’t patronize or overwhelm.
"I’ve lost people," Billy said quietly. "My brother, I brought him back, but he’s not the same. I don’t think I am either."
"You are more than grief," Bob said. "You are power. A force. But that doesn’t mean you’re alone."
Billy blinked, then let out a breath. "I want to help. Really help. I just don’t know how to ask. Mr Wilson, he thinks I'm not ready. But I am, I know it. I just need to earn their trust."
"You'll know, when the time is right. If that time is now, then so be it." Bob replied, shrugging his shoulder. A year had passed since the Thunderbolts were formed, and Bob still wasn't ready. But he had all the time in the world at his disposal. And he wasn't 16.
The moment hung there, gentle and charged. Somewhere, deep inside, both of them could sense it—the same kind of starlight tethered to something ancient, powerful, cosmic.
Billy looked up. "Do you feel it too?"
"Every second."
The photo shoot was wrapping up when the rest of the Thunderbolts arrived. Walker and Yelena appeared first, clean-cut and polite enough for the press—followed by Alexei and Ava, who had clearly been dragged. Valentina followed, holding a clipboard like it might explode. Mel was nowhere to be seen, which was suspicious.
"No vaporizing, no death threats, no discussing classified ops," she hissed at them. "Smile, wave, act normal."
Walker broke away as soon as he spotted Bob, throwing an arm around him. "Sentry! Didn’t know you’d be here. Looking shiny, great hair."
Bob stood, quietly pleased. Ava hovered behind, giving Billy a once-over that was more analytical than hostile. He smiled nervously.
Meanwhile, Yelena was already drifting toward the snack table where Kate Bishop had holed up again.
"You're popular today," Yelena noted, eyes tracking the teenage boys and girls hovering nearby.
Kate groaned. "I’ve been hit on by three seventeen-year-olds and a literal child gave me adoption papers to sign. I’m dying."
Yelena’s lips twitched. "Would you like me to kill them?"
Kate paused. "Are you... being serious?"
"Only a little."
Across the room, the rest of the team was wrangling their way through a group photo. Sam had returned from an attempted break with two coffees—one for himself, one for Shang—and a mild sense of doom.
Kate was now surrounded by teenage archery club enthusiasts, Yelena hovering like an overprotective guard-dog. Kamala had been roped into a spontaneous cosplay contest as a guest judge with Alexei. Cassie was explaining particle physics to a five-year-old using donut analogies.
Sam took a deep breath and let the noise wash over him. This—this chaos, this hope, this messy blend of hero worship and genuine care—this was what it was for.
"Captain America," someone whispered beside him. A tiny kid in a wheelchair, maybe six, held out a drawing with shaking hands. It was a crayon portrait of Sam with massive wings.
"That’s me?" Sam asked, crouching.
The boy nodded fiercely. "I drew you with extra feathers. So you fly better."
Sam’s throat caught. He smiled, real and warm, and took the drawing carefully. "Thanks, soldier. I’ll treasure it."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of laughter, noise, and sugar. Embarrassing stories were exchanged. Accidental innuendos happened—most notably when Kate tried to explain quivers and arrows to a teenage girl who winked and said, 'Sounds like a date.'
Thankfully looks couldn't actually hurt anyone with the way Yelena was glaring at everyone.
Sam watched the other team, Bucky's team. Walker was now helping a toddler get un-stuck from a cardboard Hulkbuster suit. Ava hugging a young girl who whispered, "I want to be like you," with obvious tears in her eyes. Yeah, maybe they aren't so bad anymore.
He stepped away just as Joaquin rushed past, doing a mock fight demo for a kid in a homemade Falcon costume. Kate trying and failing to pretend she wasn’t cringing behind her sunglasses.
Bob stood a little off to the side, still talking with Billy. The two of them were glowing—literally, faint sparks of cosmic light curling around their hands like invisible threads. Sam twitched at the reminder of Wanda, that wound still sore.
Eventually, both teams were wrangled back onto the panel stage for a joint Q&A. Sam returned with his coffee just in time to hear a question from the audience.
"Where’s Bucky?"
The room stilled.
Sam opened his mouth, but closed it when Valentina rattled off another excuse before anyone else could respond.
Then another voice piped up—this time a teenager in a Captain America hoodie.
"Are you and Bucky getting divorced?"
Half the room gasped, half laughed.
Sam sputtered, clearly flustered, "We are not—he’s not—That’s not—We’re not married!"
"Could’ve fooled me," Kate muttered.
"I feel like a child of divorce." Joaquin whispered. Kamala coughed to cover a laugh.
"Moving on," Sam said with exaggerated calm. "Next question."
From there, the questions only got more chaotic.
"Do you all live together now?"
"Have you read the fanfics?"
"What do you do when you have to pee during a battle?"
"What’s the weirdest fan gift you’ve ever gotten?"
Joaquin leaned forward. "Somebody mailed me a pigeon once. Alive."
"I got a handwritten letter proposing marriage," Cassie added.
"I got a pair of underwear that said 'Team Hawkeye'," Kate said. "Which is flattering, but also horrifying."
Yelena didn’t answer, but the glint in her eye suggested her answer involved blood.
Despite the chaos, the atmosphere stayed warm. Fans asked serious questions too—about grief, about legacy, about what being a hero really meant. And each Avenger, in their own awkward, funny, or heartfelt way, tried to answer honestly.
By the end of the day, the team was sprawled across the green room couches, exhausted and wired.
The kid in the wheelchair, still at the front, looked over at Walker and Bob, then Sam, then everyone else.
"You’re all kind of weird," he said.
"Thanks!" Kamala said brightly. "We try."
Eventually the once-bustling convention hall was now a hollow shell of its earlier chaos. Confetti clung stubbornly to the floor, half-deflated balloons bobbed at odd angles, and the distant hum of cleaning drones buzzed like lazy wasps in the rafters. Gone were the crowds of overexcited children, the press, and the too-cheerful handlers with clipboards.
Only the New Avengers and a few stragglers remained—namely Sam, Yelena, Ava, Alexei, Bob, and Billy. Kate and Joaquin had just said their goodbyes, exhausted but upbeat, escorting Billy to the exit until he'd quietly slipped away and circled back. Kamala and Cassie had left hours earlier to rejoin their families. Walker had already returned to base for visitation with his kid.
Valentina had issued orders via a terse voice message: “Back to the Tower. There been a new development. We’ve got a new addition.” No elaboration, naturally.
But Sam hadn’t left just yet. None of them had.
They lingered on the now-empty stage, lounging in chairs, nursing bottled water or lukewarm coffee from a forgotten catering tray. The overhead lights had been dimmed, and the hush in the room felt sacred, like the breath before a storm.
Bob sat quietly near the edge, fingers twitching absently, as if still feeling the echoes of cosmic energy. Billy hovered nearby, notebook forgotten in his hands.
“We need a plan,” Sam said eventually, his voice low, but firm. “If we’re going to figure out what the hell happened to Barnes.” He sighed, rolling the paper coffee cup between his palms. “Nearly three months. That’s how long he’s been gone. Valentina lied. Again.”
Ava scowled. “She always lies.”
“But this time it matters,” Sam said. “Because this isn’t just another mission. This is Bucky. And a lot can happen in three months. We don't even know if he's alive. All we have is dead ends. But now we know—Project Genesis. Files buried deeper than anyone expected, which means they're valuable enough. That's the best angle we've got, and if there’s even a chance that’s connected…”
“We’ll need access to the Stark archives,” Yelena said. “Howard’s research.”
Alexei, uncharacteristically quiet, grunted his agreement. “We ask Stark’s widow. Pepper. Very politely.”
Ava shot him a look. “Because that’s gone well for everybody in the past.”
“She’s more likely to listen to me than Valentina,” Sam admitted. “Or she might listen to Shuri and Riri. They’ve worked together before. Between the Stark files, Wakandan tech, and Cassie’s Pym Particles…”
“We might have enough to build a trace,” Ava finished. “Or a doorway.”
Billy, seated cross-legged on the floor, finally lifted his head. “A doorway?”
Yelena gestured vaguely. “To the past. To wherever this trail leads.”
Billy blinked. “Why not just… go to Howard Stark directly? I mean—if you could. Go back. Ask him what Project Genesis really is."
Everyone froze.
The silence was thick—then disturbed only by the soft buzz of Bob’s power.
Something shimmered faintly around his fingertips.
Yelena turned slowly. “Bob—Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
“I didn’t—” Bob’s voice was alarmed, startled. “I wasn’t trying to—he just said it and I—”
The air vibrated. Billy scrambled back on instinct, eyes wide.
Reality bent at the edges like old film stock overheating in a projector.
“Wait—” Sam stood, voice sharp. “Everyone stay calm—”
A golden light flared from Bob’s chest, threads of raw power unraveling, seeking, responding.
“I just thought it,” Bob whispered. “That we should go. That we could…”
And then the world cracked.
In a blinding second, Sam, Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and Bob vanished—snatched out of time like stitches ripped from a seam.
Billy was knocked backward by the shockwave, landing hard on the floor. When he sat up, gasping, the stage was empty. The lights flickered. The others were gone.
The only sound was the distant hum of a vacuum drone, still cleaning up glitter.
And above the main screen, the New Avengers logo flickered—fuzzy and distorted—as if caught between channels.
A single word echoed in Billy’s mind, unbidden, tangled in the leftover static of cosmic threads.
1955.
Notes:
I feel like Bob and Billy would get along really well in the MCU. Next chapter we're headed to the 1950s... and then we'll find out where Bucky's been all this time :)
Chapter 5: Back In Time.
Summary:
Sam and the others accidentally find their way back in time. Sam is not amused. Back in 2028, another Avenger goes missing.
Notes:
So sorry for the lack of updates, I've been pretty swamped with work, and life in general. Expect a regular update every Thursday/ Friday. Now we're getting into the plot.
Also, comment below what ships you want to read in this fanfic! I have a habit of shipping everyone. There will be a lot of Stucky and Sambucky in this, as well as Winteragent, but platonic (could be read as ship)
Chapter Text
It was not like stepping through a doorway.
In Sam's opinion, it felt more like he had been struck mid - flight, right in the middle of nowhere, then torn from existence and rewoven somewhere else. But this time without the dramatic 'turning to dust' thing, and zero explanation.
Blinding light had cracked through the air without warning, turning the empty youth convention center into a chaos of panicked superheroes and the sound of reality tearing. Then it was just silence. Only the recognisable sound of their own heartbeats for comfort and a never-ending case of bad fucking luck.
When the five of them landed, they hit the ground with varying levels of grace, if any at all, because as Yelena would often say, when it came to classic superhero posturing.
But between them all, it was difficult to shake off the unmistakable sound of a rubber band snapping echoed through their ears. That was, if said rubber band was on the other side of the universe.
Bob was the last to fall, half-conscious, and surrounded by a golden aura that flickered weakly around his shoulders, almost like static, while Yelena cursed in Russian, clutching her arm as she rolled onto her side, closing her eyes as she took a deep breath. In, out.
Yoga was surprisingly therapeutic for the New Avengers, and the team were all basically yoga professionals. After the Void incident nearly a year ago, Valentina was quick to offer up the idea of them co - existing with eachother in the Watchtower, to solidify their claim as the New Avengers and all that, and Ava Starr of all people had suggested Yoga to Bob, a therapeutic physical activity to ground himself should he need something to ground himself, more than just a reminder to breathe. When Ava's morning routines became lessons, Yelena and the others couldn't resist their curiosity. And of course, all the competitive potential. Over time it simply became a team exercise. Trauma always had funny ways of bringing the team together like that.
But what Yoga did not teach them, was patience. And right now, Yelena needed to be patient.
"That better not be a broken rib," Ava muttered, coughing against the dirt as her body flickered in and out of phase, her powers disrupted by the unexpected transit.
On the other side of her, Sam pushed himself up with a groan, vision swimming. His head rang like it had been dunked in cold water, or worse, something like unauthorised time travel. His suit was torn at the shoulder and covered in dust and grime, from whereever they'd landed, which was definitely not where he was five seconds ago, but still unmistakable.
Alexei lay sprawled out, blinking at the gray sky. He was the first to come to awareness, opening his mouth in shock. "Was that...bomb?"
"Neither," Bob said weakly, trying to sit up, energy depleted. He looked around, clutching his head. "I... I think I did that."
They were lying on what had once been the polished marble floor of the youth convention center. But now, was a dusty open stretch of cracked pavement surrounded by weeds. The air smelled different than it had five seconds ago, back at the Youth Convention. There was less smog, more soot particles. And the sounds, they were wrong.
Instead of the typical background chatter of post-blip 21st century in New York City, they heard the sharp bark of early car horns, the rhythmic clack of leather shoes on concrete, the metallic groan of an old trolley somewhere in the distance.
Yelena was the first to really look around.
"Guys," she said slowly, dragging herself to her knees. "Where the hell are we?"
It took a moment. And then another. And another, as they picked themselves up and walked carefully down what should have been 49th Street.
The buildings were still there—but they were shorter, boxier. Billboard advertisements still stretched across the brick walls but instead of the vast sizes across towers, in big, bold technical colours, were simple, delicate chipped paint and mid-century fonts: Camel cigarettes, RCA Victor, Lucky Strike. Posters warned about communists and Nazi's. Women in calf-length skirts and gloves walked by with their heads down. Men in fedoras. A small child, perhaps a teenager, Yelena couldn't be sure, her eyesight blurred, she watched as they passed her by, whistling a Frank Sinatra song while tossing a newspaper onto a stoop without fear.
It was June, 1953
They just didn’t know it yet.
Sam adjusted the strap across his chest and walked forward stiffly, his presence commanding attention in all the wrong ways. For a moment he thought he was in a dream. Maybe it was some of that Harry Potter type shit. Whatever this was, he knew it was definitely part of the big three. Had Wanda's son followed through with her vengeance?
Sam knew he could have done more for the kid. Sure, Wanda might have grown up fast, but in his eyes, she was still a kid that didn't get a choice. Who had been dealt one bad card after another and left to pick up the pieces of the life she could have had. If not for Hydra, the Avengers and the Accords. Not even in that dreamworld, could she live happily ever after, let alone ease her pain, just another nail in the coffin.
Sam Wilson had made plenty of mistakes in his time, and not being there for Wanda Maximoff when she needed him the most was one of them.
He might have done his best to brush off the dust and subtlety blend himself into this unfamilar society, but the suit didn’t help—red, white, and blue. The shield on his back gleamed in the sun like a beacon. He was also surrounded by a bunch of white skinned dumbasses dressed in literal comic-worthy costumes. People turned to stare. And they sure as fuck didn’t stare with any admiration.
They were staring at him.
Like they were watching a myth walk by—wearing the wrong skin. The same prejudice, the bland racism every black man, woman and child had to endure every damn day, however, was familiar to him at least. Times had changed, but not enough.
He could hear the whispering, accompanied by looks of bewilderment, downright scorn. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as a child tugged on her mother’s sleeve, only to be pulled away to the other side of the payment. A man scowled and adjusted his hat before walking on, pace faster than it had been a moment ago. Okay, so this is how it's going to be.
“Is that… Captain America?” one voice murmured.
“No. Can’t be. Cap’s dead. He died in ’45.”
Sam kept walking, jaw clenched.
Yelena caught up beside him, eyes narrowed. "You notice how everyone’s looking at you like you stole a national treasure?"
"Yeah," Sam grunted, pausing until the others caught up with them. "Starting to get the idea."
Bob trailed behind, holding his head down. His mouse-blonde hair was almost singed at the ends, golden eyes still flickering with residual energy.
"I...Uh- I think I did this," he said again, more urgently.
"I felt it when Billy said it. You know, When-When he said, ‘Why don’t we just go ask Howard Stark ourselves?’ And then something inside me snapped. I didn’t mean to—"
"You what?" Ava hissed, turning around ton face him, blatantly ignoring the bystanders. "Are you saying you ripped us through time because a teenager made a dumb wish?"
"I didn’t mean to! I can barely control this! I swear, I didn’t know I could do that. I didn't know he could do that either. Not- Not yet."
Sam whipped around, eyes wide.
"Wait," he said slowly. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying we’re in the past?"
Bob nodded. "I think… I think we’re in 1953."
Everyone froze.
"Hm. Very specific choice." Alexei spoke, still grinning like a Cheshire cat as he glanced up at a passing street sign: 6th Avenue and W 48th.
"Not completely," Bob said. "But I felt our powers intertwine. And it, well, I just know. I don't know how else to explain it. But...But look around, guys! See any smartphones? Any of Val's Avengers billboard? Electric cars? This is… crazy old. Like, world war two kinda old. And...And I feel it. Inside –" He made a circled gesture around his stomach area, "There's this energy in here. It’s different. Lighter. And the air is less suffocating."
Sam ran a hand over his face for what felt like the millionth time in the past 24 hours.
"Okay, Okay. Yeah – No. This can’t be happening. We can’t just - we can’t be here. I can't believe this, I'm drawing the line here."
Look, Sam wasn't a prideful man, but he was able to recognise credit where it was due.
Jesus, he'd served, done his time in the U.S Air force and then some, He'd been and still was, a well - polished VA Counselor AND Avenger. (Sam thinks all that volunteer work came hand - in - hand, especially after the aliens, Steven Grant Rogers. America’s favorite son, built in war and broken by it, who had become a monument to everything America hoped for, and everything it asked of its soldiers. Meeting Steve Rogers for the first will always be the turning axis - point in his life.
Sam had dealt with aliens, with robots, Stark included, Hulks, and beings that could rip through reality like tissue paper. Listen, he’d fought literal gods. (Well, maybe just the one, he'd missed Loki's reign of chaos, but still. One was a pretty big deal for the Falcon.) But this–this was different. This was time.
This was Steve’s time.
And standing here, in the sticky heat of 1953, felt like being thrown face-first into a memory that was never his to begin with. It was the crack of leather shoes on pavement, the disgusting stench of cigarette smoke, and the sidelong looks that lingered too long on his skin.
It mean't that Steve Rogers was back in his life all over again, The very same man who had looked him in the eye, handed him the shield, and said, “It’s yours.” Then turned around and left. (And he had almost forgotten about the weathered wedding ring on his finger.)
Sam swallowed hard. The past had always been Steve’s escape route. And now it was going to be Sam’s prison.
And he’d never said it out loud–not to Bucky, not even to himself–but he hadn’t forgiven him. Not fully. Because what kind of man builds a brotherhood in fire, then walks away and lets you carry the ashes? Part of him wondered if Steve had given up on him, during the blip, that he'd moved on in those five years, Sam knew what grief did to a man, and he couldn't imagine what he'd have done in his place.
But what kind of friend disappears like that? Not the kind of friend that Sam had once known. He's had five years to get over it though.
But now? His heart was hammering. From fear, just as much as fury. From something old and sour in his chest, something he’d done his best to bury the day he accepted the shield, and he'd gotten a glimpse of Bucky's real smile. Because Sam hadn’t just taken up a legacy - he’d also taken up a grief.
And turns out that grief had a sidekick, along with a zip code. And a whole - ass street corner.
Another car drove by, going 20mph at best, it's engine gave off a steady, low rumble - nothing too loud, but deep and mechanical, and the smell of gasoline and warm oil that faintly mingled with the city’s scent that momentarily stilling their guard - were those hot pretzels? A man leaned out the window, and spat on the ground near Sam’s feet, and muttered, “Freak show.”
Alexei instinctively stepped forward, but Sam held him back.
"Don’t. We need to keep our heads down, and figure how what to do next. We can't cause any trouble here. You got that?"
Ava faded slightly, pressing herself into the shadows of a doorway whereas Yelena stared down the street like it was some twisted museum diorama, radiating her childlike excitement. The same look in Ava's eyes only not as obvious, she was always the better spy between them, less expressive, less weaknesses.
"Okay. Okay, so we’re in the past," she starts, trying to keep calm, "What the hell do we do now?"
"First," Sam said, taking a breath, "We stop drawing attention. Bob, can you take us back or not? Please tell me you can take us back. If not, then I guess we're going to be stuck here for a while."
Bob closed his eyes, focusing. His hands glowed faintly. His jaw tensed.
Again...nothing.
"I... can’t," he whispered. "It’s not working. I told you, I don’t know how to do it again. I can't control it, I'm so sorry."
Sam huffed, glaring up at the familiar skyline now rendered unfamiliar. The Empire State Building stood proud and monolithic. No Avengers Tower, not for another century.
"Great." he said again, voice tight. "Then we'll start by blending in. We figure this out. We find an alternative. Bob, you came for here for Howard Stark, so we can start there.
"
Yelena arched a brow. "Blend in? We look like walking neon signs."
Alexei smirked. "Speak for yourself. I always look like I belong in an old war movie."
Ava exhaled sharply, brushing dust from her jacket. "This is insane. But kinda cool. Think we can get off the street now? There's a diner to the right, looks to be quiet enough."
"As I was saying," Sam added, narrowing his eyes at the team, "We find Howard, and bring ourselves up to date with this timeline. There's no doubt he’s here, so if he’s working on anything related to Project Genesis—we need to know. Maybe we were sent here for a reason."
Bob looked up, shrugging his shoulder, “Or maybe I just broke the laws of physics and stranded us in the past with no way home.”
“Let’s go with reason,” Sam muttered. “For now.”
Behind them, the wind rustled a discarded newspaper, and what looked to be a copy of the The New York Times and as it drifted past them, Sam bent down and quickly snatched it up, scanning over the headlines and date, in bold print he read exactly this:
ROSENBERG EXECUTIONS STILL SET FOR NEXT WEEK DESPITE APPEALS
Lawyers Seek Clemency for Convicted Atomic Spies; Case Sparks Global Outcry
SENATOR MCCARTHY LAUNCHES NEW INVESTIGATIONS INTO ARMY INFILTRATION
Televised Hearings Stir Public Controversy.
JUNE 11TH, NINETEEN FIFTHTY-THREE.
He read the headlines twice, then once over again. It was like watching history unspool in front of him, except this time he wasn’t in the safety of hindsight—he was in it, breathing the very same air. These weren’t stories from textbooks anymore, this was actually happening.
And Ethel Rosenberg wasn’t a name in bold under a black-and-white photo, she was a woman about to be executed in real time, that was caught in a fever that couldn’t be reasoned with in a country that was drowning in paranoia, and afraid of another war. With yet another government more concerned about making an example than seeking truth.
In the back of his mind, he wondered how Steve could sit by, turn his back on the fight - to watch the world burn slow and doing nothing to stop it. Sam didn’t think he had the same luxury of detachment - not with skin like his, and not in a world like this, where people were still paying the price.
“Hey, gimme that!” Alexei stole the paper from his hand without asking, eyes scanning the page with far less concern for Cold War politics and far more interest in a headline lower down.
“‘Marilyn Monroe to star in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,’” Alexei read aloud with a delighted grin. “Ah! I like this timeline already.”
Yelena leaned over his shoulder. “Who is Marilyn Monroe? Is she blonde? I do not trust blondes.”
“You’re blonde,” Ava deadpanned, yanking the paper next.
Yelena gave her a snarky, fond look, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Exactly.”
Bob trailed behind, blinking up at the neon signs like a child at a theme park. “There’s so much color,” he murmured. “Everything’s so… shiny.”
But Sam could barely register them, his steps steady but heavy as the star on his chest, the headlines playing over and over in his mind. McCarthy’s name alone was enough to put him on edge. He’d learned about the Red Scare and the hearings back in school – how careers were ruined, lives destroyed, people pushed to the edge or worse, all on the back of whispers and accusations.
Now he was walking through that exact landscape with a former red - room assassin and her psydo-father who's also a former soviet operative associated with Hydra, a traumatised women who could disappear at will, and a former meth addict turned human experiment with godlike powers with an on and off switch—and he, a Black man in a Captain America uniform, was the most suspicious one of them all.
Safe to say, Sam wished he'd never gotten up at all this morning, and he had a feeling it was only going to get worse.
“This is not the right era for any of us,” he muttered under his breath, scanning the street, carefully avoiding eye - contact.
“Come on,” Yelena said, tugging his arm gently. “You’re thinking too much. There’s a diner on the corner. You’ll like it. They have pie.”
“I don’t want pie,” he said automatically.
“You need pie,” Ava added, giving him a push. “And somewhere to sit before you make yourself combust.”
Sam didn’t argue, he followed them through the chrome doors of the diner, the bell overhead chiming like a shotgun shell. He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, the cool air and smell of coffee hitting him immediately—comforting and familiar in a way that made him ache.
~~~~~~~~2028~~~~~~~~~~
Back in their original timeline, over in Harlem the police cruiser rolled up slow, lights flashing but without sirens. Just another fender bender as far as dispatch knew. Word was that the driver in one of the vehicles had already been taken by medics— an elderly white man, mid-80s, heart attack at the wheel. Still alive, but barely.
Officers Bishop and Ruiz stepped out of the car, tired from the heat and too many petty calls back-to-back but alert, hand drifting towards their clocks. It was that time of year were the streets were buzzing, festivities only around the corner, and so was the number of fatalities, even though it wasn't even December yet.
The two officers approached with caution, for according to the ambulance crew, the second vehicle was still idling when they'd arrived.
Upon inspection, it was clear the accident had been a head on collision, if the beat-up grey sedan, parked up crooked and halfway onto the curb, passenger door ripped open, was anything to go by.
“No plate hit on initial scan,” Bishop said, squinting through the windshield, “Registered to a–looks to be a Maria Torres? Harlem address. Definitely the guy who hit him, maybe the guy had an vindictive ex - wife, and a grandson to spare.” He added, looking over into the back seat with a grimace.
"You know how women are, Jerry, just can't win eh?"
Ruiz leaned in with a sharp grin. “Don't I know it. Emily's still not speaking to me after the other night, fuck's sake. Keys still in the ignition. Engine’s warm. Think the driver fled?”
Bishop shrugged, shoulders relaxed. “Could’ve panicked, taken all the shit with him.”
Ruiz nodded slowly as he rummaged through the front. “Just a young kid that borrowed grandma’s car. Probably scared and stupid. No insurance, undocumented I bet.”
Bishop opened the driver’s door on the other side, taking a seat. “Yeah, or he just doesn’t wanna end up on the evening news. Heart attack or not, nobody wants to be blamed for killing an old man. How 'bout we put your money where you're mouth is and and shake on it?”
"Hah, thats easy money for sure."
It looked normal, as far as normal gets in New York in 2028. There was a half-eaten empanada crushed up on the passengersnsear and an opened water bottle in the cup holder, but nothing illegal.
Then Ruiz checked the backseat.
“Yo, Check this!” He reached in and pulled up a canvas duffel bag, clearly military-grade and heavy - weighted.
He unzipped it halfway and froze, fingers twitching with awe. Holy shit, this is god-damn gold-dust, man. Wait until I tell Phillips about this. He'll rock his shit!"
Inside was a folded wing harness, with the and the Falcon insignia tucked along the strap, unmistakable, and very expensive. Bishop could guess it cost a few lifetimes of wages for him, at the very least.
He stuck his hand in, feeling through the bag and fishing out an ID card.
TORRES, JOAQUÍN M.
U.S. Passport. Government-issued tags. Emergency contact: Wilson, Samuel T.
“…This ain’t no runaway kid,” Ruiz said quietly.
Bishop exhaled. “Shit. That’s one of them. The Avengers. We gotta call this in, let the big boys handle this one.”
They both stood there a moment, the noise of the city raving on behind them. Bishop zipped the bag back up, going over the evidence again as his partner scouted for any sign of forced entry, or even a trace of blood. It was almost like the guy had disappeared, made the getaway to save his own skin, and left the damage behind for everyone else to deal with. Sounds real familiar.
Whoever this Torres was—wherever he went—he left everything behind, even his fancy get-up.
Ruiz grabbed his radio, brows furrowing in thought.
“Dispatch, this is 82-4 responding at Lenox and 145th. We’ve got an abandoned vehicle with sensitive materials. Requesting federal liaison. Repeat—potential enhanced asset involved. ID found on-site. No sign of the driver.”
There was a pause before dispatch crackled back.
“Copy that, 82-4. Agents are being looped in now. Stay put.”
Chapter 6: The Waitress.
Summary:
The team split up for breakfast and clothes. They meet some new faces. Or maybe they're more familiar than they think.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Manhattan, June 11th, 1953
The morning show on WNYC crackled faintly from the corner shelf radio, wedged between a tin napkin dispenser and the ceramic cat someone’s cousin brought back from Coney Island a few weeks ago. Static came and went with the weather, but the voice of the announcer rang out crisp and cheerful, just the grating amount that made every customer wave down the waitress for a refill of Goldie's Lunchonette's finest.
“It’s just after eight on this fine Thursday, and here we are, folks! Good morning, New York City! This is Thomas Reed with your WNYC hour - keeping your coffee hot, your headlines hotter, and your enemies overseas.”
The girl behind the counter had a skip in her step and a smear of strawberry jam on her apron. Her blouse, slightly wrinkled from the morning rush, was inside out, and the hem of her cotton skirt swayed as she moved in rhythm with the chatter from the dated radio mounted above the pie case.
She was humming along, off-key but delighted anyway, twisting a ballpoint pen between her fingers. A napkin sat folded by the register, half-covered in little doodles, well, roses, mostly, but also a very dramatic woman in a cherry coloured hat, that appeared to be sipping coffee with theatrical contempt. The girl's nose scrunched up in concentration, having almost missed the familiarity of the woman winking up at her.
Almost.
“Coming up this morning: we have a preview of "Ulysses" with Silvana Mangano and Kirk Douglas and the latest after a three-run blow off of Wilhelm that secured a 6-5 victory for Milwaukee over the Giants in baseball, and a special address from Agent Margaret Carter, the lady with the lipstick and the iron jaw.”
"Ach! First the Dodgers fumble, now the Giants! We should just hand the World Series to Milwaukee and be done with it!"
Overhearing the older gentleman, the young woman, who looked barely over the age of twenty, with striking, delicate features and a vivid expressiveness that lit up her entire face. She had short, light-brown cropped hair that was tucked casually behind one ear, a little unruly from the summer heat and long hours at the diner. But there was something effortlessly magnetic about her. The way she'd laugh with her whole body, like someone who refused to be worn down by any man, or the decade, even if both try their best, hand to hand.
"Oh come on, Mr. Feldman. You don’t give up on a marriage over one bad supper, do you?" She watched as he took a handkerchief from his pocket with an unmistakable sigh of disapproval.
"What if the supper’s every night?" He retorted, brows raised.
She glanced down at him with a bright smile.
"Well, sir, then you learn to cook your own brisket and count your blessings, as me' daddy says." The pot beside her hissed, but the brunette didn’t flinch. She flipped it in her hand like a vaudeville act and swung by table five with practiced flair.
“Would you like more coffee, Mr. Feldman?”
The old man grunted, signalling a hand down at his empty cup with disgruntled resignation, but not without giving her a second glance over, “Only if it’s fresh. The last cup tasted like boot polish, dear girl.”
She only grinned back at him with all teeth on display. “Well, lucky for you, Mister, I’ve switched to shoe shine just this morning!” She topped him up without missing another beat, winked, and slid a napkin under his saucer like a magician. Practiced and perfected, after all, she wasn't the youngest of four for nothing. And as far as she was concerned, she knew every card to play at the table.
Across the counter, Miriam, her co-worker, best friend and partner in crime; stood elbow-deep in dishes, muttering about lippy customers and damp menus–she loved that girl, and she really did, but she could be a bit of a naysayer sometimes. Especially when it came to men.
“Liz, did you hear what Franny said about the butcher’s boy?” Miriam leaned in over the counter opposite her, setting aside the wet cutlery to dry.
“What! Oh, don't tell me, the redhead?” Liz whispered back.
Miriam nodded, eyes wide, the noticable flicker of hazel green speckling within her gaze she saw that always became more apparent in the early sunlight. Fawn-eyed, she thought suddently, should be the more appropriate description. Her best friend was the kindest girl she'd ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and growing up in the shadows of her elder sisters, especially during the war, had given her sharp edges she didn't know how to soften. Oh how lucky she was, to have a friendship as strong as theirs, that could put together all those uneven parts.
"Apparently he’s been ‘delivering meat’ all up and down the eldest Delancey, if you know what I mean.”
She gasped, choking on a laugh, and almost spilled the cream across the counter. “Miri! That’s vile!”
“And true,” Her friend added, triumphant, brushing a stray lock out of her eyes. “She saw him sneaking out the fire escape with no shoes.”
“Maybe he was just being polite. Didn’t wanna track any juices into her fancy carpets.” She snickered.
“Foyer, my tuchus. You know she's got hardwood and a photo of Bing Crosby next to her bed!”
“But first, some local news: Forty-three arrests last night in Harlem after protests near the police precinct on 135th. No injuries reported, though one officer is said to have suffered a torn sleeve and bruised ego.”
“Over in Queens, construction resumes on the Van Wyck Expressway after last week’s cement mishap that stranded a Packard mid-pour. The driver has confirmed there was no casualties, other than his ego, and his wife claims he hasn’t spoken to her since...”
Elisheva didn’t notice them right away.
She was halfway through another doodle–this time it was a duck smoking a cigar on a napkin by the register–a homage to the man in booth four who had been chain-smoking since seven, when the bell over the door jingled again. She glanced up absently, the pen still in her hand.
"Great, three more customers." Her friend huffed, and put the kettle back on.
There was a tall man that walked in first, broad in the shoulders and dressed in a zippered coloured jacket that didn’t quite match the season. His skin gleamed in the window light, deep brown and handsome in a quiet sort of way. He had a calm expression, polite, tired, and carried himself like he was used to being watched, yet still confident, unusually so, for a fella she'd never seen twice before.
Beside him, stood a young blonde woman with styled, short hair and cheekbones sharp enough to butter toast. Elisheva watched as stepped lightly across the tile floor, and survey the diner. Her dark green jacket looked strange-ish, a little out of place, and definitely not American–oh golly, was she one of those greasers?–she also had that tired-but-unbothered air that made Lizzie peg her as someone who absolutely stole ashtrays from right under your nose, in the most ginchiest way.
And the big one. The bear of a man who walked in with shoulders like a snowplow, and a heavy smouldered face full of charm and chaos, like someone the street boys 'ought to avoid crossing with. Or maybe a man that, like so many she knew, had lived through nightmares and didn't expect to make it to the other side. She sure didn't miss the way his eyes lit up at the pie case like he was seeing heaven either, though.
Meanwhile the radio crackled on, switching to another subject - the anticipated engagement of Nancy Whitehouse, formally announced this morning at the Plaza Hotel. The waitress straightened immediately, giving her friend a subtle shove to the shoulder to do her job.
“Welcome, Welcome!” she sang out, directing the group to the biggest table near the back, almost tripping over herself once she got another good look at each of them. How could these men have such terrible fashion sense? What were they even wearing? She eye-balled the unusual colour schemes, but quickly composed herself to avoid any disrespect before making her way over, heels skittering against the floor.
“Well, Isn't it warm out there? My name's Elizabeth, but you can call me 'Lizzie, and I'll be your waitress today. Please, take a seat! Seen anything you fancy on the menu...or maybe a few minutes to take a look?"
Miriam rolled her eyes, still behind the counter, but she looked a little tense. “You’re too cheerful. You should be studied.”
“I just like people,” She said, pouring sodas into tall glasses with foamy tops for table two beside the window, occupied by the regulars, twin sisters; Evelyn and Elaine. “Everyone has their own charm and a story to tell."
It was clear that these regulars didn’t think so, if their reactions could be any more obvious. They stared, glared and cursed, as if the newcomers' mere presence within the space was a disturbance of peace, a personal act of defiance and aggression. Mr. Feldman lowered his newspaper two inches. The Evestein sisters whispered behind gloved hands. One man coughed dramatically into his soup, with a glare that pierced through them.
Lizzie made the easy choice to pretend not to notice, and tried her best not to stare like the rest. She grabbed three menus, another pen, and swanned over like she had all the time in the world.
“Welcome to Goldie’s. Can I get you anything? How about some coffee?”
“Yes, please,” the tall man said. His voice was low and steady, one might even say soothing.
“Tea, if I may.” said the blonde. Her accent was clipped, European, maybe, …but she smiled with just enough charm to pass for someone halfway local. Queens, perhaps.
“Two coffees, and one tea then,” Lizzie said brightly, flipping the pencil between her fingers. “Unless you’re more the soda kinda' crowd. I don’t recommend mixing them, unless you’re trying to forget your twenties.”
The big man, already leaning halfway over the counter –gave her a childish grin.
“You have any pie?”
“Are you kidding! 'Course we do!” She replied back, matter-of-factly. “Cherry, apple, or lemon meringue that may or may not have seen a war. Even serve pancakes. The American special. Best of the best, as my boss says.”
The big one looked delighted. “I’ll take all of it! Cherry pie, pancakes, and coffee. Make it double pancakes. I'm starving.”
“Just the coffee for me, please.” the quieter one said, a little sheepish.
The blonde leaned on her elbows. “Do you have anything with vinegar?”
Lizzie didn’t even blink at this point. “Uh...Sure. How about some pickles? We’ve got plently of those.”
The woman let out a short, unexpected laugh. “Pickles. Yes. They are my favourite.”
Lizzie jotted it all down on the corner of a napkin with half a doodled duck and a pack of lucky-strikes already on it, and passed the order onto Miriam, who had clearly been listening in and served up the beverages for her. "Mary, fourth table to the left. I don't think she's blinked once the whole time they've been in! It's a good thing the boss is away... because you know what he will say if he finds out." She gently reminded her, voice laced with worry. It was true. They both knew how paranoid their boss could get, if the last fiasco was anything to go by, and all the fellow did was mention McCarthy in conversation. What happened next wasn't her story to tell.
Miriam didn't ask where they were from either. Neither did she mention the way the man’s jacket had no recognizable insignia, or how the woman’s boots looked better suited to a bunker than a lunchonette.
No, she just tilted her head with dampened interest and said, “You think they need some help?”
Her friend looked at her, shrugged, and gestured back to the three strangers, that looked so endearingly out of place. She knew better than to presume, her Mama raised her to be a sensible young lady after all–and so she was–but she'd also remind her to follow her heart, if said mind be in doubt.
Besides, her older sisters took all the smarts for themselves, and Elisheva had a reputation to keep.
And so she brought the coffee over first, setting the mugs down with the kind of careful choreography she’d practiced on her bedroom floor in front of the mirror, the same cracked one she'd had since she was six years old, pretending she was in a scene, maybe a screwball comedy where the girl for once, always had the last word. Lizzie always loved a good fairytale.
“Three cups, extra hot, and no lipstick on the rim. I’m considerate like that,” she said brightly.
The tall one handsome in a 'newsreel about brave soldiers' kind of way–offered a polite smile. He seemed the kind of man who said thank you too softly and meant it. The big guy, by contrast, laughed, wide and toothy like someone who’d never been told no in his life. He downed half the coffee in one go and announced, “Delicious! See 'Lena, This tastes like real American patriarchy!”
The blonde woman, young, too, though with that dangerous glint in her eye like she'd seen a lot more of the world, arched a brow, and to her shock, slapped the man on the side of his head. "Ignore this man. He means no disrespect. I'm sure you're very theatrical,” she said to Lizzie, almost amused, but sincere.
It took a moment for her brain to catch up with her, and to pick up her jaw.
“Oh, um, only when people are looking,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, though it fell right back out again. “You’re... in a show, right? Or dancers? Or doing some weird little downtown bash for the rich folks?”
The three exchanged a look that was too quick to catch the meaning of, but too familiar to be a coincidence, given the family dinners she was often subjected to, with the recent addition being her sister-in-law and her...secretive companions. It made Lizzie’s heart jump in her chest. She lived for that kind of look. Secrets and drama and maybe dangerous - who could tell?
“We’re… between places,” the tall one said carefully. “Looking for somewhere to stay.”
Lizzie hesitated. Glanced back toward the counter, then leaned in just slightly.
“Look,” she said, trying to keep her voice conspiratorial, “I’m not supposed to say anything to strangers, but technically you’ve ordered pie, so that makes you… pie-trons.”
The short-haired woman snorted into her cup.
“There’s a place, an apartment complex,” Lizzie went on. “It’s farside, over in Brooklyn. Kind of old, but well kept, my parents still help manage it. Used to be full before the war, but it’s been mostly empty since…since afterwards. When all the boys came back changed or didn’t come back at all, and sent all the poor mothers and daughters astray. And you’ve got the look,” Lizzie added, not unkindly, “Not Hollywood, and it's still Brooklyn, folks there are good people, I swear by it, so you'll sleep just fine, but 'ought to be careful all the same. You can stay there a few nights, if y'all looking for a place to stay 'tween shows."
They all stared back at her, surprised and uncertain, as much as she was at herself. How could she be so stupid? What if she'd read it all wrong? Maybe they were actually–
"Why would you do that?"
"Yelena–"
"It's very kind offer. Yes – we go after our friends get here. They come also? You have room service in this hotel?"
The blonde woman, apparantly called Yelena, narrowed her eyes, holding the cup of tea in her hands, steaming her face, as if she was trying to read her mind, or maybe her soul. Or both? Lizzie guessed it was both. But entertained her all the same. "Why? Why not? It's not a hotel. Just empty rooms. Owners are sentimental fools, really. I just want to help...and my shift finishes at noon. So I could show you around some. Don't worry, you ain't special. I have friends stay over all the time! Nosy family, believe me."
Just in the nick of time, her friend arrived with the plate of pancakes, a stack full of chopped bananas, coated in syrup, enough to feed a family or two. And balanced on her other hand, was a portion of pie and pickles. She looked between them all, and lingered on the bigger one. "Breakfast is ready! Sorry, Elisheva, my friend–didn't mean to offend you. She's an inspiring actress, but she means no harm. Big heart, this girl. And you won't be overstepping. Belongs to my Zayde, the third floor anyway. We had a big family, once. He's a stubborn old man. You'd be doing me a favor. Just think on it. Enjoy, holler if you need anything else!"
The sweet, dark-skinned fellow smiled, briefly, as he relaxed his shoulders and tilted his head down in thanks. "Thank you for the offer, I'll discuss it with my friends, we're still waiting on two more. They haven't gone far." His gaze shifted back to her, eyes still crinkling with evident suspicion. "Elisheva? Earlier, you said your name was Elisabeth."
Yelena rolled her eyes, stifling a groan. "She's Jewish, Samuel. And it's still 1953. What is taking Ava and Bob so long anyways? We shouldn't have let Bob out of our sight!" She made a reach for the pickles, and snuck a pancake from her father's plate to share with the other man, who o winced in silent apology. "This is really good. The banana tastes different. But good. Thank you, both of you."
“…unconfirmed reports suggest that the blast occurred at a private residence in Los Angeles early this morning,”
The radio crackled, volume raised up after having drawn everybody's attention, including their new friends.
“Though details remain classified, officials say the explosion was ‘contained’ and ‘accidental,’ and that Captain America's sweetheart–Miss Margaret Carter–reportedly present at the scene–is confirmed to be alive and well and has already returned to active duties.”
Lizzie turned away, took the empty cutlery with her, and disappeared into the kitchen, Miriam followed behind her with an uncertain smile.
“We sincerely regret the delay in today’s planned broadcast. Miss Carter has long been a respected figure in international defense and–well–less inclined toward the spotlight than one would expect.”
Sam glanced sideways at the radio, pushing his coffee aside. “That cannot be coincidental. I only know as much as I read about her at the Smithsonion, but I'm sure she was never the type for press tours."
Whatever Alexei had to say was inaudible, mouth stuffed full and his plate empty, but he nodded enthusiastically. Yelena leaned her chin on her hand, impatient.
"We should be out there, not sitting here." Sam sighed, leaning back against his chair. "Who knows how long we'll be stuck here. But if there's someone that can help us. It's Stark. The SSR is still active, and S.H.I.E.L.D might be new enough, strongest, but I doubt it'll will be any easier to infiltrate. There's got to be a way in without disrupting the timeline..."
Steve might have been able to live happily ever without causing a world ending crisis, but Sam didn't have that same respite, and no matter what he thought of Bucky's team, he knew they'd stand next to him in agreement on this.
"But if there isn't, then we'll do whatever it takes to get back. To get him back. The trail begins with Stark, so we'll start there. "
Yelena downed the rest of her tea. "We will get back home, all of us. Nobody gets left behind. Except maybe Walker–Oh Shit!" Her eyes widened in realisation, and glistened with tears, as if she had only just noticed the absence of her teammate. "Who's going to look after Alpine! She'll be so upset." She sniffed, wiping a few stray tears away. "And she hates John! Daddy, he's going to throw her to streets and then we'll have to kill him."
Her psydo-father figure hushed his youngest daughter, whereas Sam glanced around the diner with years-practiced and very forced nonchalance. "He will not do that, 'Lena. He is good man. He does think so. But he is. Where do you think Alpine sleeps at night? He has cat bed. In his room. But I did not tell you this, Da?" Alexei squeezed her hand in comfort. "They are fine."
"Are you seriously me that Walker, out of all of you, is keeping Alpine in his room? Unsupervised?" Sam asked, arms now folded across his chest. "That's...That's–" Didn't make sense at all. That guy was an asshole who couldn't even take care of his own kid. It was difficult to see past the man that publicly murdered a civilian, with millions watching live, including his own wife, and had bloodied the shield without any hesitation. If there's still a home and my team to get back too after this.
Before anyone could say more, the bell above the door chimed again, and in walked Ava and Bob, looking almost like two well-dressed tourists straight out of an old museum brochure. Bob had swapped his casual modern clothes for a old fashioned summer suit and polished shoes, hair slicked back in an attempt at respectability. Ava wore a modest blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, her hair twisted up in a 1950s bun that looked surprisingly natural on her. It was strange, seeing her without the suit, but Sam could pinpoint the Wakandan technology on her left wrist. Months back, Shuri had made extensive advancements to the former S.H.I.E.L.D operative's containment suit, and was able to create a retractable design with increased enhancements, and substantially reduce the incredible pain she was suffering from because of her ability.
Bob held a battered briefcase whereas Ava carried a bag signed Ginsberg & Sons Tailors, as well as someone's wallet.
Yelena sniffed, secretly relieved. “If you took any longer we wouldn't need a time machine to get back to 2028."
“You’re welcome,” Bob said with an oblivious smile. "Or uh...not?"
Outside, an immaculate cherry-red 1951 Hudson Hornet idled at the curb, glinting in the summer sun like a peppermint candy with attitude. It wasn't the vehicle that caught his attention, as vintage as it was, much to the dismay of his nephews, the not-so-little-anymore gearheads they've become.
Standing beside it was a man in an expensive tan suit and raspberry-red pocket square, hat tipped slightly as he chatted politely with a man delivering soda crates.
Ava followed his gaze and nodded toward him. “That’s Mr. Jarvis. Gave us a lift. Said he couldn’t bear to see a ‘lost cast’ wandering the garment district and offered his services. Apparantly, he's a formidable chauffeur.”
“He’s with you?” Sam asked, more curious than suspicious.
“Not really,” Bob said, awkwardly sitting down next to Yelena to eye up the rest of her half - eaten Pancake. “He just happened to be leaving the tailor’s when we were arguing about the cost. Did you guys eat already? Can I...have this?”
Yelena made a shrugging notion, before slinking off to the bathrooms to change her outfit.
The man entered a moment later, holding his hat to his chest.
“Do forgive the interruption,” he said warmly. “Your friends seemed in need of directions, and perhaps some guidance on trousers. I’m Edwin Jarvis. It's a pleasure to be acquainted.”
Sam stiffened slightly, not outwardly, but just enough that the others noticed. That voice–shit, that voice. Calm, Polished. British. He knew it, of course he did. Sam had heard it for years, back when everything was new and exciting, the Avengers still lived together at the StarkTower, and the biggest threat was getting on the Hulk's green-side. It was a different format, sure, but unmistakable.
This was the face that had inspired Tony Stark's computer system, J.A.R.V.I.S, the had been modeled after this man. He was the original, and he was also Sam's direct link to Howard Stark.
With him, he didn't even need to involve S.H.I.E.LD and Peggy Carter. Maybe things didn't have to get difficult after all. Worse than they already were.
Sam didn’t say anything. Just tucked it away for later.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking his hand with casual politeness. “We appreciate the ride. I'm Wilson. Samuel Wilson.”
“Of course,” Jarvis said. “You’re quite lucky, by the way, Mr Wilson. That tailor usually doesn’t entertain walk-ins, but he rather liked the idea that you were part of some experimental drama company.”
“Oh, we are,” Ava deadpanned, passing the suitcase over to him, wings and weapons stored inside. “Very dramatic. Lots of fake blood.”
Jarvis chuckled, tipping his hat to another customer as they rushed out the door in fright. “Quite so. You should consider the Bowery for performances. My wife once watched a one-woman show there about haunted cheese. Reviews were mixed, but the snacks were excellent.”
Lizzie popped up from behind the counter, and Sam hoped she hadn't been eavesdropping like he expected. “I knew they were actors Miri!”
Bob gave a modest bow. “We’re part of a touring piece called Masks & Men. New genre. Kind of heroic slapstick.”
“Period satire with a twist,” Ava added, smug.
“A musical!” said Alexei, for absolutely no reason.
Jarvis looked politely impressed. “Oh! How wonderfully strange. Are you performing here in Manhattan?”
Sam gave a practiced nod. “We’re rehearsing in a borrowed space, in Brooklyn. Top floor of a building a few blocks from here. One of the locals offered it.”
Lizzie waved a hand sheepishly. “It’s the building my parents manage. Top floor’s been empty since the war. Quiet, rent’s free if you don’t touch the water heater." She rushed over to clear the rest of the table, and gave the butler a wide smile. "Hi, Mr Jarvis! Are you coming over tomorrow for the supper? Mama's making Meatloaf again. There's gonna be apple pie too. And you know how much she appreciates your help in the kitchen. And your stories!"
“Ah, Miss Elisheva,” Jarvis greeted with warmth, evidently more so, as he graciously took the plates from her hands, "Let me help you with that. I passed your parents on my way here, actually. Quite convenient–you know my employer's office is not far from that block, and he is a busy man.”
“You with Stark Industries?” Sam asked lightly.
Jarvis hesitated, then smiled. “Something adjacent, yes. I handle more personal affairs. Errands, logistics, meal prep, dry-cleaning sabotage. Depends on the day.”
Alexei tilted his head, “Aha! You sabotage dry cleaning? I knew I am best chauffeur.”
“Only when it’s deserved,” Jarvis said primly, eyes narrowed on the Red Guardian with quiet intrigue.
Ava laughed. “I like this man."
“I’ll leave you to your dramatics,” Jarvis said, placing his hat back atop his head, dishes placed in the sink. “But should you need a proper kettle or directions to the nearest pharmacy with patience for eccentric customers, I’m often parked nearby, and dearest Elisheva is the most gracious of hosts. I trust that you won't take her goodwill for granted. She can be rather minacious when she wants to be. I still remember the time I found those snails in the soles of Miss Carter's favourite pair of heels!"
Sam watched as they embraced with laughter, then nodded.
“Thanks. Really.”
Jarvis’s eyes twinkled faintly. “Always happy to assist the arts.”
With that he uttered his goodbye and returned to the gleaming Hudson. It pulled away down the block a moment later, humming like a jazz tune played just for them.
Yelena returned, dressed in high-waisted cigarette pants in a deep forest green, tailored almost to perfection and cropped just above the ankle to reveal a pair of shiny, modest black pumps. Sam was amazed at how well the fit highlighted her lean frame and the silent threat she always carried in her posture. Opposite, Bob stared in blatant awe.
Her blouse was a crisp white cotton with subtle pinstripes, sleeveless but with a delicate Peter Pan collar that added a touch of deceptive innocence. Soft enough to pass in polite company.
Yelena leaned into Ava, who whistled at her in approval and raised her brows. "So, Do you think he knows we’re not actually actors, or should we kill him?”
“No,” Ava said. “But if he does, he’s far too polite to say, at least, in present company.”
Sam stood, taking the suitcase in hand and giving the team a once-over.
“Well,” he said, “We’ve got a floor, we’ve got a cover story, and we’ve got Jarvis.”
Alexei scratched his chin. “What do we have Jarvis for, exactly?”
Sam pursed his lips, exasperated.
“A reminder,” he said, pointedly towards the short-haired brunette, “That we still have a show to look forward to. Ava and Bob, if you can please handle the bill, Alexei and I need to change. Ma'am, might I ask for the directions to the address? We better be on our way. We've travelled far."
••
Sam tossed the last of his borrowed clothes into the sink, wiped a hand across the steamed-up mirror, and stared at the man looking back. High-waisted slacks. Short-sleeved button-up shirt, but his tie slightly crooked. He tightened it neatly with a sigh, and stared down at his suspenders.
Suspenders. Jesus, he looked like the picture of his great-grandfather, that was hung in the middle of his sister's empty spare room.
Next to him, Alexei adjusted his own suspenders with exaggerated frustration, fidgeting like a toddler at his first communion, his superhero outfit discarded on the floor. He was muttering something in Russian about polyester and chafing, "This is why we lose Cold War, yes? Pants too tight."
Sam shook his head, and gave him a judgemental side-eye. “You're the one that runs around wearing that old costume. You of all people can't complain about slacks."
“It has sweatpants, underneath” Alexei stubborn replied, picking it up from the floor. "Give me the case."
Sam snorted and unlatched the suitcase on the bench beside the sink, half-listening as Alexei wandered off to find a mirror big enough to admire himself in.
He popped the clasps open–
–and held his breath.
The suitcase was empty.
Gone. Everything. His wings. His shield harness and pack. His Captain America shield. The tools Shuri had packed into the lining. Yelena and Alexei's extra stash of weapons. Not even a damned thing left inside.
His pulse shot up like a match to gasoline.
Just empty velvet lining and the faint scent of cologne.
He ran a hand across his neck and felt the knot in his chest tighten, dread crawling its way up his spine like ice water. Things just got a lot worse.
"Alexei!" he barked.
The big man poked his head back in. “What?”
“Did you open this case? Did anyone open this case?”
“No.” Alexei said. Then paused. “Only earlier, when we put guns in.”
Sam clenched his jaw and stared again at the hollow cavity where his last piece of home should’ve been.
“Oh,” he muttered, eyes wide as realization settled in like a punch to the gut.
“Shit! Jarvis!"
Notes:
It took a while for me to finish this chapter but finally did. Sorry for the wait, if anyone is still reading this fanfic! But I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
If you came from my Tiktok account, Aethermint, then you probably know who Elisheva is. If you don't...then know that she and her family is vital to the plot.
You guys are in for a treat! Next chapter I'll be introducing Steve and Peggy. And we also go back to 2028, to find out where Torres is at.
Chapter 7: Woman and Wolves.
Summary:
Peggy glanced at the piles of files stacked in uneven towers on her desk, the ink still drying on the latest report, and the look of determination on Rowley's face. “Not likely,” she admitted, soft but stern, “I’ve got too much to do. I can’t leave now. ”
There was a faint, resigned exhale. “Right. Of course. Work.”
“Darling…” she began, but he cut her off gently.
“It’s fine, Peg. Just – don’t forget tomorrow night, alright? Dinner at the Barneses. It’s the one thing we do every month. You could at least show up for that. And Becca's going to be there with the kids. They love you.”
Peggy closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her temple. “I know. I’ll be there.”
“They'll keep that table set whether we show or not,” Steve reminded her, his voice dipping into something more wistful, in the way he always did when he was thinking about Sergeant Barnes. “It’s important to them. And to me.”
“Alright.” There was a pause, the sound of him breathing on the other end, and then, softer: “I’ll see you tomorrow, Peg, I love you.”
The line clicked dead before she could say it back.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Peggy Carter was not having a good day.
The air in her office was irritatingly thick with the scent of overworked typewriters and the faint, lingering tang of burnt coffee for the past hour–she was on her third cup now, but only to be left lukewarm and neglected. Outside the frosted glass of her door, the steady hum of the SSR’s final days continued on, clipped footsteps and muffled phone calls echoed throughout the corridors.
The nameplate was still fresh and bullet-free, now that she was a co-director of S.H.I.E.L.D, but the brass upstairs had yet to know any better.
Christ, If only the transition didn’t feel like dragging a grand piano up a hill in high heels.
The paperwork was endless and so was the constant interruptions. She’d barely closed the file on one dead lead before another folder was slapped on her desk, red tabs shouting urgent in block letters, and all the while her agents most recent reports sat like an unopened dare in her in-tray.
One in particular however, Nicole Rowley, from Ohio, had been operating as an agent for S.H.I.E.LD since 1949, and has been an unflappable presence in black gloves with expression that never seemed to softened. I used to be her. Or perhaps she used to be me.
The strange woman had an uncanny knack for vanishing into shadows and returning with pieces of the Red Room’s secrets in her pocket. Lately however, those fragments had started pointing toward a ghost from her past with the name of Dottie Underwood.
Two days ago, they’d been close – a little too close. One of the Red Room’s targets had been living under a false name in Queens under their protection in exchange for information. Peggy had been halfway to the door to prepare him for further questioning when the radio call came through: he’d been found dead in his own home, no witnesses, no struggle, Neat, clean, and in the wicked way that made her skin crawl. She'd should have known it had likely been a trap all along. A moment earlier, and she'd have been killed in the blast alongside the corpse.
But when it came to Dottie Underwood, Peggy Carter got stupidly reckless.
Peggy pressed the heel of her hand to her temple, forcing herself back to the present. Howard was away at some science convention in Chicago that had something to do with alloys and ‘a room full of men who think they’ve invented the wheel’, as the foolish genius had put it–and Phillips was upstate, knee-deep in logistics. That left her here, stubbornly tethered to her desk and doing all the work.
She pretended to read the next page of the case file, but her mind was already straying. It always did when Dottie Underwood’s name came up.
Because there were criminals, and there were enemies, and then there was Dottie who was something in between, as if she were a category all her own of the worst. The woman was a living contradiction: assassin, saboteur, and solemn proof of the existance of the Red Room. By every measure and with every bone in her body, Peggy ought to hate her. Yet she couldn’t. Not entirely.
Once, when she couldn't sleep, she'd handcuffed herself to the bed, in the same way she'd seen them do to those little girls back in Austria, and how she'd evidently been able to catch her rival the first time around. Just to imagine what it felt like, to grow up with such cruelty.
Some children were born to carry the weight of blood spilled, and others were sculpted into the blade that inevitably take their own. Either way, the earth always drank her fill.
They’d danced that strange waltz in 1946. When she was nothing more than an ambitious secretary in the SSR trying to prove Stark's innocence, and the Russian Spy had been her nosy neighbour. Dottie had a way of testing her limits without quite crossing the line into annihilation. In another life, without all the blood between them, Peggy could almost imagine they’d have worked together.
There was a wit there, an edge to her thinking, a soldier’s discipline hidden beneath her sly, uncertain smile that she sometimes recognised from her own reflection.
But she hadn't known the woman Dottie had been before the Red Room, only the pieces she was able to map together in her absence. She doubted anyone alive did. But sometimes, when their paths had crossed, She was sure she'd seen glimmers, small, sharp flashes of something human. A remark too quick to be scripted brief hesitation so slight that you’d miss it if you weren’t paying close enough attention.
Dottie Underwood was infuriating, and dangerous, and… oddly compelling.
And she'd never admit it aloud, but she genuinely admired the sheer tenacity of the woman. No matter how many times the net closed in, Dottie had been able to slip through, not because of luck, but because she was that good. And deep down, Peggy knew that skill could have been pointed anywhere, toward justice as easily as toward chaos. She was like stratch you couldn't itch without consequence.
The thought stirred something uncomfortable in her: the sense that, under different flags, they might have been formidable allies. Maybe there was still a possibility. After all these years, the woman had still stayed close by.
She flipped another page in the case file, jaw set, hair slightly looser than she liked but not enough to stop. If the Red Room thought a string of assassinations would keep her from finding Dottie Underwood, they’d badly underestimated how long Peggy Carter could run without a good night’s sleep.
The brunette had just reached for her pen when the door creaked open without a knock. A tall, flame-haired woman stepped inside, shirt buttoned neatly at the throat and a faint perfume that clung to her in the stuffy summer air.
“Miss Carter,” she greeted evenly, her faint Midwestern accent sharpened to near-neutral. “Nicole Rowley, from Ohio, Ma'am,” she greeted with a small smile, and closed the door behind her.
“Rowley, Yes – Please do take a seat,” Peggy gestured toward the chair across from her desk without looking up from the file. “Tell me you’ve got something worth more than a dead end and another corpse. We mustn't let this happen again.”
Nicole sat without the faintest rustle of fabric, hands clasped together to rest on her lap. “I’ve been following the trail from the Queens address. Our man was definitely on someone’s watch list. Could be the Soviets, could be that Underwood woman you mentioned...There are signs she’s been in the area within the last forty-eight hours. But she’s covering her tracks better than before. It's likely someone's helping her.”
Peggy’s pen stopped mid-line. “Helping her? You believe she went back to the Red Room?”
“Logistics, money, forged papers… possibly even official clearance,” Nicole said matter-of-factly. “She’s not just running anymore, She’s moving with purpose now. But I have reason to believe there's something she wants, or someone. Which is why I suggest we–"”
Before Agent Rowley could finish, the desk phone rattled loudly in its cradle, the ring sharp enough to cut through the haze of exhaustion. She gave her a look that clearly said stay put and snatched the receiver.
“This is Carter speaking,”
"Pegs?"
There was a pause on the other end, then a familiar voice, warm but edged. “Peg, it’s me."
Her shoulders softened a fraction. “Roger, darling. What is it?”
“I was wondering if you were planning on making it home in time for dinner tonight,” he said, obviously trying for casual but not quite masking the disappointment beneath. She'd always found him easy to read, heart on his sleeve and about as mysterious as the press that had been lurking outside the office this morning. It was an endearing quality that she loved about him. Except at times like this.
Peggy glanced at the piles of files stacked in uneven towers on her desk, the ink still drying on the latest report, and the look of determination on Rowley's face. “Not likely,” she admitted, soft but stern, “I’ve got too much to do. I can’t leave now. ”
There was a faint, resigned exhale. “Right. Of course. Work.”
“Darling…” she began, but he cut her off gently.
“It’s fine, Peg. Just – don’t forget tomorrow night, alright? Dinner at the Barneses. It’s the one thing we do every month. You could at least show up for that. And Becca's going to be there with the kids. They love you.”
Peggy closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her temple. “I know. I’ll be there.”
“They'll keep that table set whether we show or not,” Steve reminded her, his voice dipping into something more wistful, in the way he always did when he was thinking about Sergeant Barnes. “It’s important to them. And to me.”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I said I’ll be there. I need to go.”
“Alright.” There was a pause, the sound of him breathing on the other end, and then, softer: “I’ll see you tomorrow, Peg, I love you.”
The line clicked dead before she could say it back.
Peggy set the receiver back into its cradle a touch too carefully, then looked up to find Nicole Rowley watching her, silent as a cat in a warm window. Her expression was unreadable, but her attention was razor-sharp.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” Nicole asked, in a clear display of polite concern, but otherwise non - imposing.
“Nothing that concerns the case,” Peggy said briskly, pulling another file toward her. “Now—let’s get back to Underwood. You think she wants me. I think you're right. We have unfinished business, and she'll be difficult to outwit. I suppose you have something in mind?”
The flame-haired woman arched her brow, and her gaze shifted to the file before her.
"I've read the files you wrote in 1946, and everything you didn't say. And here's what we already know. When the SSR had her in custody, she didn't break. Nobody got a single word out of her except you. Impressive." She picked up the framed photograph on her desk, of Steve Rogers, her Steve, at Camp Lehigh, before he'd been given Erskine’s serum. "So you're her weakness. She's obsessed. She'll do anything to get your attention, even sabotage her own mission. Whoever she's working with won't like that."
She took the picture from her hands and set it back in it's place beside her typewriter. "For someone that's only been in the agency for three years, you sound quite sure of yourself, Rowley."
Agent Rowley's blue-green eyes twinkled with what one might suggest be esoteric knowledge, if she didn't know any better.
"Three and a half years, Director."
She pursed her lips. "Yes. I admire your proficiency in the arts, and well, we can agree that it is clear you can hold your own in and out of the field, and your accomplishments exceed mine in that regard. You also have substantial intelligence on the Soviets, don't you?"
It was formidable, how talented she was, Peggy couldn't take that away from her. And she'd earned her trust, saved her life even, on more than one occasion in the past. But there was too much left unsaid, too many secrets, and not her place to say them.
"My partner trusts you, and I trust his judgement. But If you're suggesting using him as bait, then I must ask you to leave."
"No, not quite." Rowley leaned back against her chair, gaze flickering back to Steve.
"But I think it's time to end your engagement–"
"Excuse me? I don't–"
"And exchange your vows. Publicly."
Peggy’s eyes narrowed, ready to tear into Rowley’s brazen suggestion–
The phone rang again.
Peggy lifted the receiver with a glare. “Carter.”
“Mrs. Carter, it’s Jarvis. I look the liberty of following up on that unusual signal Mr. Stark was tracking in Manhattan in the early hours of this morrow.”
Peggy straightened. “And?”
“Well I… happened upon a rather odd group of strangers,” Jarvis said delicately, "They claimed to be part of some travelling show, though they were in possession of rather expensive equipment. Advanced and most certainly illegal. One item appears to be a set of mechanised wings– Oh, such beautiful craftsmanship, quite unlike anything I’ve seen, not even within Howard's private experimental workshop. There were also… Ah, several unconventional weapons. Russian in design, though not of any vintage I recognise.”
Her brows knit in confusion. “I see. Thank you, Jarvis. Where are they now? Have they escaped?”
“I left them at the diner,” Jarvis admitted, “But I've removed the equipment for safekeeping, only that I did so–ah–without their permission. Given that Mr. Stark is away, I thought it prudent to bring it to the house so you could examine it yourself. You are, after all, the director.”
Peggy’s gaze flicked to the pile of files on her desk. Mechanical wings and Russian weapons, and strangers with a cover story that didn’t hold up. This had trouble written all over it. Could these be the assailants Dottie Underwood is working for? But why? For Revenge? What are we missing here?
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said.
“Excellent. I’ll have the items laid out for you, and lunch.” Jarvis cheerfully replied before ending the call.
Rowley, still seated across from her, tilted her head. “Strangers with advanced weapons? Sounds like our kind of afternoon.”
Peggy slid the receiver back into its cradle. “It’s nothing you need concern yourself with, You're needed here.”
“That’s precisely why you should let me come,” Rowley countered smoothly. “If Underwood’s watching you, better to have someone in the field who’s not on her list.”
Peggy hesitated. She disliked giving in to Rowley’s persistence, but she wasn’t wrong, They did work well together, and the thought of walking into something potentially dangerous without backup grated at her instincts.
Finally, she relented with a sigh. “Fine. But you follow my lead.”
This time, her blue-green eyes glinted with smug triumph. “Of course, Director.”
••
New York City, New York
June 11th, 2028
' Industrial Garments & Handling Facility'
Also Known As
'Institute for Supranormality Research Facility'
For the past three weeks, All Joaquin Torres knew was nothing.
Nothing except excruciating pain.
Dr. Malus moved through the sterile glow of the laboratory with the slow patience of a man savoring a secret. The soft hum of refrigeration units and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights filled the silence like a lullaby for his work. Behind him, his assistant kept a hesitant pace, note-board pressed tightly to their chest as though it might shield them from the enormity of the conversation.
“You understand,” Malus said, his voice smooth, enriched with blooming confidence, “that what we are doing here is not deviation, nor is it malignant, but continuous evolution, in it's simplest form. Many Amercians before us, including Dr. Erskine himself, who sought perfection of the body. And there is the Soviets, Men like my former colleague, Dr. Miklos Kozlov, who sought perfection of the machine. But My purpose, My success...” He trailed his gloved fingers along the glass of an observation window, where the silhouette of a young man, lay half-shrouded in straps and dim light. “Has always been to harmonize them in order to alter the very destiny of mankind. To unmake life as the world knows it, and have it remade in my design.”
The assistant swallowed, and looked between the observation room and his boss. “Through the, uh, gene work, sir?”
Malus’ lips twitched into a sneer. "Ah, The gene is only a key. Just as the serum is only a vessel. But together… together they will give us soldiers who do not falter, who cannot resist their own design. Soldiers who obey instinct that has been engineered and reborn into something more than its own origins."
The assistant shifted uncomfortably, and his eyes directed away from the Hybrid subject in front of them, but he nodded fiercely nonetheless. "It's incredible, sir. And you've achieved it all... Here are today's reports. To confirm, there's been extensive progression with Patient Zero since it's last session with you."
The Amercian scientist chuckled and fixed his glasses, "Yes, yes, as predicted. Give me all the charts for the Genesis ward. Have you compared the gestation development as well?"
"Of course. Depite the multiple setbacks, development has improved by at least twenty five percent. However there appears to be a steady decline with incubation."
There was a shadow of movement that passed behind Malus’ pale eyes, but he did not look toward the other wing of the facility. He did not need to, for he already had the information he needed. “Patient Zero has grown… recalcitrant. It's body is strong, but it's will resists. It's eats little, and is now solely dependant on enteral nutrition. It drifts between silence and bouts of rage, few and far between. Which is why,” he lowered his voice as he continued, “The Falcon Hybrid proves invaluable. The subject's suffering has not been wasted. It is an instrument, as I've warned from the start, but it must be played correctly.”
He flicked through the pages of data as he spoke. “Interesting. The boy, Joaquin Torres.” Malus murmured, his tone delicate, as if speaking to a beloved pet. “Wilson would have been the ideal choice, yes, but this boy–Our Young Falcon– will be the instrument to shape our work, our legacy. It still clings, despite everything it has endured, desperate for any scraps of kinship or perhaps fragments of duty as a mentor, after it's repeated failures. If the Falcon screams loudly enough, if he bleeds long enough, then even a broken wolf will rise, given the right circumstances. It will crawl from his hollow, if only to shield another. It's instincts will reawaken. His… maternal drive, if you will.”
The assistant’s breath caught in his throat, but Malus was already moving again, his coat whispering against the floor. He lingered before the control panel again, and watched the trembling pulse of Torres’ vitals mapped in green and red. “Those before us lacked vision. Pity, hm? Don't fear what you don't understand. I am here to be your guide.
He finally glanced back at his assistant, eyes sharp as glass. "Have this one prepped for analysis, and returned to the cellars. Do not forget to bring the recordings to the Genesis ward. It's time to reassess Patient Zero."
Notes:
I was very disappointed with Malus's appearance in the MCU, so I brought him back to life as the comic-worthy version. This chapter is only one piece to the puzzle. There are many plot twists to come. Expect the unexpected in this story.
Also, who's interested in Peggy X Dottie? Literal parallels to Bucky and Steve aren't they? I watched Agent Carter to write this chapter. Now I'm eyeing up Agents of Shield.
Chapter 8: The Suitcase.
Summary:
"Ava, We're in the middle of a hijacking, can you believe that moron just gave me the keys? Of course, I am...professional at this." Oh no, Ava could already see the competitive twinkle in those dumb eyes.
Don't say it. Don't say it.
"I think we should make this a game. Whoever wins gets best assassin bragging rights until Bucky gets back.
Ugh! Now she has no choice but to rise to the bait, and if anything happens, she's going blame it on her stubborn english roots. Ava made a noise of protest; She stuck her tongue out and pulled a face. So mature. "We're in New York City Widow. You aren't special sweetheart. All the boys love a young blonde bitch, you realise?"
"Ow–OW! That HURTS!"
"WATCH IT! Slow down–God! Okay, Okay–FINE. I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry!"
Okay, so the drive was going to be an ordeal and a half.
Chapter Text
The bell over Goldie’s Luncheonette's door gave a sharp ting as Sam held it open, ushering the others out into the bright early afternoon light, and the street hummed with ordinary life as it always did, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil Sam Wilson was experiencing right now.
Somehow, his day had managed to from what the actual fuck is happening to why the actual fuck is this happening and he felt at least ninety-nine percent sure that this wasn't just another sleep-deprived nightmare.
Or maybe it could be some sort of relentless, ridiculously expensive exercise that the goverment has orchestrated to test his fucking sanity. Again.
So on the off-chance that he really was experiencing just one big hallucination of his darkest insecuri– his problems over the last three years, then the Sam Wilson from ten years ago, that struggled to sleep for any longer than four hours per forty-eight– Yeah, he would probably have something to say about this.
Sam’s chest tightened with anxiety.
You're fine. In. Out. In. Out. That's it.
Because tucked into the trunk of Jarvis’ car, on his way to his all-time world-evolutionary infamous boss, practically gifted away with a red ribbon on top – was a suitcase full of things that did not belong here. His wings, his shield, his suit. The patriotic stitched stars and stripes of a future not yet imagined, now thanks to him was already gone, dead and buried, alongside Yelena’s and Alexei’s guns, metal stamped with modernised Soviet inscriptions that could easily be read as evidence of enemy infiltration, and a one-way ticket to join Julius and Ethel Rosenberg's at their timely execution.
Sam pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling.
Jesus. My suit. My wings. If anyone sees those–if Howard Stark gets his hands on my shit, then we'll be trapped here, and things will be so messed up here that there's going to be no goddamn future to return to.
The knot in his gut pulled tight, any tighter and it'd be chasing it's own tail. Here, in 1953, Captain America was a dead man. A fallen symbol. Steve’s face hung in windows and newspaper headlines like a saint in stained glass, frozen in glory. And Sam Wilson—Sam Wilson was an intruder. An echo from a future that hadn’t happened yet.
"Captain? Captain!"
Alexei’s heavy boots thudded down the steps beside him, breaking his spiral. The Russian cracked his knuckles, muttering, “Stark butler will take it straight to boss. Rich men always lock their toys in treasure rooms. We break in, we take it back. Easy.”
“
Easy
?” Sam’s voice came out sharp and bitter. “That’s my suit, Alexei. My life. And we’re not talking about some rich guy with toys. We’re talking about Howard Stark. Founder of Stark Industries Howard Stark. If his people get even one look at this tech, the timeline could split wide open. Do you understand what that means?"
Alexei frowned, the bravado faltering just a little. Yelena shoved her hands in her pockets and gave Sam a long, unreadable stare.
“Sam,” she said, voice quiet, "Panicking will not glue wings back to your back. We will make a plan.”
"We are the
Avengers!
And you are not
Captain Amercia
for nothing."
Sam inhaled through his nose, trying to steady himself, but his thoughts kept racing. If Jarvis opened that suitcase, if S.H.I.E.L.D and their pet Hydra scientists underneath saw that suit– if the shield ended up in the wrong hands–it could alter everything, and every fight, every war, every death would be rewritten. He wasn’t supposed to be here. None of them were supposed to be here. And every step they took felt like a crack in fragile glass, waiting to shatter.
Shit. Shit!
Shiiiiiiitt.
Bob hovered just behind them, silent, as if he were afraid his very presence might worsen the fracture. Well, he was right about that. There was an storm of golden power pushing against his ribs, that apparently calmed whenever he was needed. And he guessed his darker side even he knew how precarious this was.
“Alright,” Sam said finally, deliberately walking away from the group as he spoke, “We need to split up. We can’t all move as one, it's too obvious and the guy's bound to have called us in. Ava, Yelena– you two are gonna' track Jarvis. Follow his car, it won't be hard to miss. You know what to do.
He glanced at Yelena, whose smirk made the word ‘quiet’ sound like a dare. “Figure out what he does with the case and who else knows about it.”
The blonde nodded, already itching for action, while Ava gave a stiff, reluctant shrug of her shoulder.
“And Red Guardian?” Alexei asked.
“You, Me and our dysfunctional humanised tardis over here will head over to the apartment and stay low. While we…” He trailed off, staring at the sidewalk, the scuffed concrete that looked the same in 1953 as it would in 2028.
“…while we sit around and figure out what to do next. We don't need any more problems.”
For a long moment, nobody said anything else.
Then Bob placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder; gentle, grounding, his voice a murmur like distant thunder. “We’ll fix it, Mr Wilson. We’ll set it right. If I can get us here, then there got to be way I can get us back. I'll do whatever it takes to fix this. I-I swear.”
The weight on his shoulder never felt heavier then it did now, and every breath of air tasted like ash and dust.
"Yeah...I'm counting on you, man. And if you're team trusts you then I guess I can too. Let's get out of this street. People are staring again."
He stopped, turning around to face Ava and Yelena. "If anything happens, just get out of there. We're not leaving anyone behind. Jarvis is a good man, but you can't trust him. You can't trust anybody here with the truth. It's dangerous, for them and you."
Yelena curled her lip, staring up at him with scarcely concealed anguish, as Ava eyed up the line of empty cars across the street, "Yes Captain, because the last time the Avengers went on a world-ending time travelling expedition, my sister died. I get it." She winced at her own harsh words, despite the truth in them.
"Sorry. See you when we get back."
Sam caught her wrist before she could step out of his reach, and let go just as quick.
"Nat was my best friend. And I know she'd haunt my ass if anything happens to you," His gaze softened, shifting to Ava to look her in the eyes as he added, "And Buck would never let me hear the end of it, if he were here."
At that, something in the two of them yielded; his words gentle when their eyes glistened with a tenderness, full of emotion that not so long ago, both had once been conditioned not to name.
"...Are we allowed to go now?"
Sam gave a last glance toward the avenue where Jarvis’ car had gone.
Yelena adjusted her clothes, as though she were already preparing for the break-in. Ava gave him a look–serious, firm–as if to remind him she could handle this. Then, without another word, the two women peeled off toward the curb, eyes fixed on the street where cars hissed and coughed like iron beasts.
Sam felt an ache rise in his throat as he watched them go. He wanted to call them back, keep the group together, but together, the risk was even greater.
He swallowed hard and turned to the others, as the waitress from earlier rushed outside to join them.
“Alright,” he clapped his hands, “Let’s get this show on the road."
▪︎▪︎
You do know how to hotwire one of these, right?” Ava hissed, crouched near the drivers side, glancing up and down the street, while Yelena sat in the front seat.
The Ford Deluxe they were arduously hijacking still sat gleaming beneath the early-afternoon sun, parked at a slant just outside a corner auto shop. Its chipped, rounded fenders caught the light, chrome polished to a near mirror-shine, and even though neither woman were into vintage cars, Ava thought it looked indistinguishably old enough for their retrieval mission.
“Of course,” Yelena replied, tugging the door handle, which didn’t budge. Ava sighed and phased through. “I do this all the time. I am good at it.”
Before Ava could roll her eyes, an attractive middle-aged man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and grease-stained trousers approached them, a rag slung over one shoulder that made it clear he worked in the shop. He had the kind of face that looked perpetually tired, lined from years of long hours that Ava could definitely relate to. His gaze narrowed at the sight of two young women sitting inside the car.
“Can I help you ladies?” he asked, suspicion sharp in his voice.
Ava’s mouth opened–and before she could reach for the knife in her shoe, Yelena was already moving. She straightened her dress, flashing the man a dazzling, unbothered smile as if she belonged here and he were the intruder.
“Ah! There you are,” she said, tone bright with faux-relief. “I was beginning to worry.”
The man blinked. “…Worry?”
“Yes,” Yelena said smoothly, covertly slapping her companion's knee, as she checked the passengers side pockets for any trace of ownership inside. “I am Donny's wife. Haven't we met?” She jabbed a thumb toward the steering wheel with casual possession. “This is my darling's baby. And he—” she sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes in the universal language of long-suffering woman, “—he promised he would have it ready an hour ago. You know how husbands are. Always making us wait.”
Ava lifted her eyes to the worker, lashes sweeping upward in a slow, deliberate flutter, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips as she took him in.
The man smirked back at her, shifting his rag in his hands but nothing more, so Yelena leaned closer conspiratorially, tilting her head just right. Her American accent was sweet as honeysuckle, warm and silky-smooth. “And oh, how silly of me! I forgot to pick up the keys. But… you wouldn't be so kind as to fetch them for me, would you?”
Something in his posture eased, his confusion giving way to awkward gallantry. He scratched the back of his neck, mumbled something about “his missus,” and dug into his pocket. With only the faintest hesitation, he pressed the keys into her hand.
“Ma’am,” he said stiffly, as if reassuring himself. “Always glad to help. Don knows I'll pass by tomorrow to pick up the dough, and don't you worry, she's as good as new again.”
“Aren't you a true gentleman!” She patted his shoulder like she were blessing him, the put the keys into the ignition, and the vehicle roared to life. The man dipped his head and walked away.
Hazel eyes met her own olive green, smirk firmly in place. "Ava, We're in the middle of a hijacking, can you believe that moron just gave me the keys? Of course, I am...professional at this." Oh no, Ava could already see the competitive twinkle in those dumb eyes.
Don't say it. Don't say it.
"I think we should make this a game. Whoever wins gets best assassin bragging rights until Bucky gets back.
Ugh! Now she has no choice but to rise to the bait, and if anything happens, she's going blame it on her stubborn english roots. Ava made a noise of protest; She stuck her tongue out and pulled a face. So mature. "We're in New York City Widow. You aren't special sweetheart. All the boys love a young blonde bitch, you realise?"
"Ow–OW! That HURTS!"
"WATCH IT! Slow down–God! Okay, Okay–FINE. I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry!"
Okay, so the drive was going to be an ordeal and a half.
Still, the Cherry-Red Corvette they followed wasn’t hard to catch up with and keep within their sight. Howard Stark's cherished butler drove cautiously and effortlessly politely for traditional New York traffic, and the distinctive Stark insignia on the bumper might as well have been a beacon. As for the man himself, if Ava looked a little bit closer, she might be able to read the sign on top of his forehead that said—
The car lurched and sputtered to a halt every time she pressed too hard on the gas, and the stick shift grated like a dying animal.
“This car is terrible! It's like coffin on wheels, ugh, next time we choose fancy. We are superheroes now and we deserve nice things” she complained loudly, jerking the gear into place with enough force to nearly snap the stick. Beside her, Ava sat stiffly in the passenger seat, pale hands clutching her hair after Yelena had tried to rip it from her scalp, like it wasn't her own fault for being so sensitive all the time.
In the past fifteen minutes Ava had instinctively phased four times when Yelena had grounded the clutch wrong, missed the lights or driven down the wrong way round, and the car reacted everytime by nearly tossing them both through the windshield.
“Relax,” Yelena assured, though her knuckles were white as well. “We are blending in. Perfect American ladies. Look.” She tipped her chin toward a man in a fedora crossing the street and waved in the most awkward, robotic fashion possible. The man gave them a strange glance and walked on.
Ava groaned, sinking lower in her seat. “Yeah. Totally inconspicuous.”
At last the Stark mansion (or one of many, he is stupidly rich) loomed before them, it's iron gates stretching tall and elegant, practically begging to be robbed, or even better, blown to smithereens. Ava whistled low, and they stopped at the end of the street as the man opened the gates, not even a guard on site to welcome him in.
Oh, this Howard Stark was a confident man.
The gates themselves were no joke—for an amateur. Ava could see rows of barbed wiring, the feel of an electric hum faint but present in the air. And beyond them sprawled the manor, its brick façade gleaming with prosperity and unsheltered wealth. It distinctively reminded the curly-brown haired avenger-level assassin of the pot of cream in the fridge, back at the Watchtower. Unguarded and for the taking. Because who would even thinking of stealing Alpine's cream?
Howard Stark was one of the richest, smartest, and well-respected men of this post-war generation. No man could ever attempt to outsmart him, and it's clear he knows it.
But I'm no man. And Yelena can eat shit!
"Okay. So...You're going to follow—Ava?"
Ava was already gone; her body dissolved into nothingness as she slipped through the gate like mist. Yelena sighed, getting out of the car to lean casually against the steering wheel, with a lit cigarette already in hand, as if she were simply a bored girlfriend waiting in the car.
Inside, Ava phased past the current of electricity, feeling the tingle brush her skin even in ghost form. She slipped through the door, the world re-solidifying with a cold rush in her lungs.
The security system she assumed was designed by Stark himself, still early on in time if her knowledge was correct, clicked faintly in her ear, each current of the alarm running through circuits like veins. She reached with her ability, fingers brushing wires until the power fizzled, and the red light above the panel dimmed to black.
As she waited outside, Yelena’s cigarette flicked to the ground. She rolled her shoulders, marched forward, and scaled the gate like it was nothing. By the time she landed, the alarms were dead silent.
“Nice trick, Ghost Girl,” she whispered as she slipped through the front doors the other woman held open, so far without detection. They carefully made their way down the hall, steps silent on Stark's polished wood flooring, until they both froze, eyes narrowing with adrenaline; Yelena's finger pointed ahead. From the kitchen came the sound of clattering pans, and what Ava suspected to be the faint whistle of a kettle, rising in volume with every passing second. She recognised the sound of Jarvis’ voice, polite and cheerful as he had been back at the tailors, preparing what looked like afternoon tea for his boss.
A lifetime ago, her father once told her this; 'Before you walk into a room, you must look twice. For in every room, there will always be empty chairs, reserved for tables still waiting to be discovered; the stories yet to be told.'
She scanned the room, noticing a gun in the butler's back-pocket. An alarming detail for such an unappealing target, but hardly surprising from what they knew about him. Her gaze wandered as Yelena crept closer into view in the corner of her eye. She'd somehow located and picked up a weapon of her own, her aim precise to the mark, finger on the trigger.
But Edwin Jarvis betrayed not the slightest notion to turn his back. And Ava, as observant as ever, discerned two quiet truths:
The pistol was prepared, though it would yield nothing more than a harmless blank.
And on the table, three cups of tea had been set.
Ava had enough field experience to recognise that this was a trap. She'd worked for HYDRA, and Valentina was still her boss. Whether the man knew it or not, he was bait, same as them.
Only, Ava wasn’t so certain that the invitation was meant for just them.
Without warning, she grabbed Yelena's wrist, snatching her away from the kitchen's false, warm light; gracelessly phasing them straight-through the floor. They both landed on their feet, but Ava felt the price of her actions rippling through her body. "We have to move. Now." She grunted, taking the lead when the spotted a corridor ahead, steering with the precision of instinct rather than plan. Her pulse guided her feet, even though her stomach churned with intangible alarm.
Not the exit—not yet. Something told her that the energetic hum of machinery seemed safer than whatever was waiting for them upstairs. "Suitcase should be in here. Men of science like Stark don’t let their toys out of sight. They’d sleep with them if they could. We'll find it in his lab."
The empty estate loomed around them like a fortress disguised as a home, its walls steeped in decades of wealth and loneliness. Heavy oak doors groaned as they passed through, the faint scent of polished wood and old leather filling the air. Across the walls were portraits of Howard Stark and his ancestors and...was that a pink flamingo? All staring down from gilded frames as if measuring every step the intruders took.
Ava didn't know much about Howard Stark. In her days working for S.H.I.E.L.D; posed as HYDRA, it was all about Alexander Pierce and Nicolas Fury. Howard was dead, Carter's grave in the cemetery was still fresh, but a long time coming. He was a scientist, yes, a man that her own father had admired, but he was never involved with quantum physics; Ava could appreciate his work in theoretical and engineering, however. But it was his son, Tony Stark, that would later understand concepts like the Quantum Realm, and save her ass.
He was also the founder of Stark Industries– a titan of technology and weapons manufacturing in this century, for better or worse. Ava didn’t care to imagine what a man like him might do with a weapon like her.
To the sides, doors led into rooms that spoke of both refinement and innovation: a library with rows of leather-bound tomes and scientific journals, a study cluttered with blueprints and schematics, and a drawing room where trophies and curiosities from Stark’s life gleamed under the subdued glow of sconces, but it was not what they were looking for.
Ava’s eyes scanned the hallways, searching for the tell-tale sign of a laboratory behind walls or a faint glow of panels beyond closed doors to show them the way. Yelena followed, her blonde hair brushing against the edges of polished railings, as the pair navigated past lounges with plush chairs and high-backed sofas, their movement careful, their breaths measured, until Yelena stopped.
"Come on. Lab's got to be in the basement. There's another floor below us. I can feel it."
Yelena stood her ground, picking up the nearest vase, antique and heavyweight, and passed it to Ava. "Phase through and get the suitcase, and meet me upstairs. I'll clear the entrance."
Ava raised her hands with a sharp huff. "I'm not going in there. That's not even a laboratory! We don't have time for this, Yelena."
She shot Ava a look, one brow arched in exasperation. “I don’t know—kinda hard to miss the giant sign that says Danger. Do Not Enter. Stark Laboratory.”
"Fine. Just stay close. Someone's coming."
"Yeah, Yeah. It won't take long. There's only one team. Two women. I saw them drive in while you were mooning over Iron Man's dad."
She gritted her teeth and forced herself forward, tuning out the blonde’s pleasant derisions just as she tried to suppress the smirk that always betrayed her whenever Yelena were near. With one last glare over her shoulder, she let her body dissolve into shimmer and static, slipping through the locked door with ease.
The laboratory beyond was nothing out of the ordinary, abit old-fashioned but well kept, not even a speck dust out of place. There faint tang of oil and metal stamped in the air, which meant it was still in use. Although there was some areas that had been retrofitted with shelves and steel tables, a strange clash of polished mahogany and Stark’s mechanical obsessions. And to her surprise, there was no bed.
Seems he gets out more than his son ever had the chance too.
There it was. Sitting in the middle of a heavy oak table, absurdly casual for all the fuss: Captain Amercia's suitcase.
Ava solidified, pressing on the Wakandan device as it settled her into place. Even after all these years, her ability still made the hair on her arms prickle, but she didn't miss the agony she used to feel. She didn't hesitate, flicking the latches open with a satisfying click. Inside lay the gleaming wings–Wilson's Captain America wings, folded neatly and untouched.
Nestled against the padding beside them were a pair of batons, sleek, black, and all too familiar. Yelena’s Widow batons. Ava understood the weight they carried, one of the few things she had left of her sister. Ava’s mouth curled at the corner. “Well, hope you won’t mind me borrowing them,” she muttered, fingers closing around the cool grips. Set against her 1950s outfit, they looked more than a little ridiculous
She shut the case, hoisted it under one arm, and turned toward the way she came.
The door creaked open before she had the chance to phase back through it.
Edwin Jarvis stepped inside with an expression caught between surprise and suspicion. “Miss…?” he began politely, though his sharp eyes had already recognised her from earlier, the suitcase in her hand. And hopefully her weapon all too well.
"You should know who you're working for isn't–"
Ava didn’t hesitate. She snapped one of the Widow batons free and thrust it forward, cutting him off before the man could finish. The blue crackle of its charge lit the room with it's vicious strobe as she struck, aiming to drop him before his voice or fists could carry. And damn, drop he did.
The second Stark's right-hand man hit the ground, she was already moving, bolting down the corridor. She felt her pulse thundering in her ears, but her grip on the case never wavered– Yelena was waiting for her upstairs, and so was the fucking future. All she had to do was move fast, stay sharp, and get out–
A shadow cut across the hallway.
A woman stepped into view. Ava narrowed her eyes, zeroing in on the SSR jacket she wore proudly; high-waisted trousers; polished boots—wait. Was this the one and only Margaret 'Peggy' Carter standing before her? Holy Shit.
Ava set her admiration aside, taking the defensive position as the auburn-coloured hair swarmed her vision, her attack immediately hostile, giving Ava no room to defend herself. Her eyes, not the english-brown she remembered from the photographs, snapped to the baton in Ava’s hand first, then to the suitcase. Interesting. Ava almost thought she saw a flash of recognition in those eyes.
The SSR Agent moved like lightning, striking out first.
Ava barely managed to block the knife from cracking against her arm. She retaliated fast, lashed out with her free hand, but the woman caught her wrist, twisted, and slammed her into the wall. Air whooshed from Ava’s lungs, the baton was had been holding clattering to the floor.
The Agent's knee pinned her in place. “Who do you work for?” she demanded. Her voice devoid of emotion, nor did she carry the slightest hint of a British accent.
"Ask me out for dinner then maybe I'll tell you." Ava let her body flicker, pain burning through her ribs as she phased backwards. Agent Asshole's balance faltered when her grip closed on nothing. She slipped through her like smoke, spun, and re-materialized with her fingers wrapped tight around the second baton, blue sparks dancing hungrily along the shaft.
The woman whirled, but not fast enough. Ava jammed the weapon into her ribs and squeezed. Electricity tore through the agent’s frame. Her body seized, eyes wide with shock, a strangled cry escaping before she crumpled to the floor, still conscious.
Ava had seen John, who had no excuse as a super-soldier, get knocked out quicker. She kicked the woman on her back to get a closer look at the name-tag, and retrieved the baton beside her. Agent Rowley.
Rowley’s stunned gaze landed on the baton, confusion washing over her features, “Those—Ugh. Those aren’t yours,” she rasped, voice fraying as she tried to push herself up, “How do you–where did you get—?”
Ava stared down at her, lips pressed into a thin, flat line. Her answer came more indifferent than she meant. “Scavenged them off a dead body.”
Rowley’s face flickered with...something. but Ava didn’t wait. She stabbed her with another shot of electricity, then disappeared up the stairs, and phased through the estate's main front door.
Outside, Yelena was locked in combat with the real Peggy Carter, in the very flesh, the clash of fists and guns as enticing as ever. Peggy appeared to fight with a soldier’s precision and a deadly wit, but Yelena had far more experience, and way more fun. Her taunting, relentless as Ava could barely tolerate herself, had already driven her back against the gravel. A final strike sent Peggy stumbling, doubled over, and Yelena snatched the upper hand, pointed to shoot. Peggy raised her hands in surrender, spitting out blood.
“About time,” Yelena complained when Ava appeared, gleefully taking the opportunity to thrust the Widow baton into one of the three founders of S.H.I.E.L.D while she had it. Yelena shoved the gun aside and reached for the familiar weapons Ava was having too much leisure with.
Her smirk was contagious again. “You playing with my toys?” The blonde-assassin quipped, yanking them back without ceremony. “Adorable. Next time, try to smile less, hmm? It's kinda weird, Starr.”
Ava glared, but said nothing. She stormed over into the car as ordered, gates left open from the butler's hasty backup-plan. Her chest still heaving, adrenaline sharp enough to diminish the bitter taste of crimson on her tongue. Ava tossed the suitcase onto the seat beside her, skipping into the drivers seat with a careless grin.
The engine roared to life, and then the world shattered around her.
A deafening blast swallowed the car, fire and steel twisting her vision in an instant. Ava’s ears rang, the air burning her lungs as the force of the explosion hurled her sideways.
She fought to stay conscious, to reach for the suitcase, anything, but her throbbing limbs refused to obey. Through the haze of smoke and fire, Ava could make out another shape closing in on her until she stood, calm amid the wreckage, hand out- stretched.
"Y-Yelena...Lena–"
"Help...Help me up. P-Please." Ava cried out, blinking away the tears that swarmed her sight. But it hurts.
Everything hurts. Everything burns.
Her body strained for a response, for a promise of safety, the protection she had begun to believe was mutual. But the hand curled possessively around the suitcase.
“The Red Room thanks you for your service.”
And then everything went dark.
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