Silhouette in Bloom

by Sai518

Summary:

Two months after the whole of New York City was swallowed in darkness, you are still learning how to live as a team. No longer just a weapon in the dark, you’re surrounded—for the first time in your life—by people who care. Who see you. Who refuse to leave, no matter how many walls you put up.

But trust doesn’t come easy. Every mission, every meeting with Valentina threatens to pull you back into the cage you fought so hard to escape. And despite the calm Bob brings just by being near, the weight of your growing feelings for him only adds to the confusion. He’s kind. Steady. Bright. You don’t know how to want something that good without bringing ruin.

This is a story of learning to breathe without looking over your shoulder. Of panic attacks, bruised knuckles, and late-night comforts. Of nightmares eased by warm hands. Of found family and learning what it means to be safe—and starting to believe they might mean it.

What does it mean to love and be loved when inside you have a monster lurking to be set free?

This is the second story to my Silhouette series. If you haven’t read that I highly recommend reading that first.

TW: Mentions anxiety and panic attacks, reader uses she/her pronouns

Chapter 1: Hands we Hold

It’s strange, the way comfort becomes its own kind of terror.

You’re two months out from the mess that was “destroy Project Sentry.” Two months since containment cells and crash landings, since the Void wore Bob’s voice like a mask, since you dragged yourself out of shadow and bone and blood to find someone still waiting for you. Bob and Bucky, mostly. Yelena, too. The rest of the team is still learning where you fit—like you’re some foreign star in their sky, spinning crooked on your axis, not quite crashing, not quite settled.

You wake up most days in the Tower now.

The sheets are too soft. The silence is too quiet. Your name sounds different in other people’s mouths—gentler, like it’s not a curse or a number. Like it means something.

You find yourself hovering near the common room more often, never quite stepping in. Just… existing nearby. Like a ghost testing the edges of walls it used to pass through without thought. There’s no mission. No directives. No needles in your veins. No handlers with bloodstained clipboards tracking your REM cycles like weather patterns.

Just a laundry basket tucked in the corner of your new room. Your name—once just a number among many—printed in messy letters on the door.

You try not to flinch when someone knocks.

You’re not good at this. The human parts. The “movie night” parts. The “let’s cook together even though you burn toast” parts. And Bob—he makes it look easy. He wanders in with smoothie ingredients and a hoodie that’s half inside-out and asks you how you slept like it’s not a dangerous question. Like it’s okay if you lie. Like it’s okay if you don’t.

Some mornings, he stays quiet. Just sits with you on the floor by the window, drinking his weird smoothie thing and letting the sun hit his face. You try to match your breathing to his. You never get it quite right, but he never seems to mind.

You think he might be becoming… home. And that scares the hell out of you.

Because you’re not built for this kind of softness. You don’t trust it. You don’t know how. You’re still checking walls for exits. Still cataloging shadows like weapons. Still waking in a cold sweat expecting restraints and overhead fluorescents and the faint antiseptic scent of the lab where they broke you open and rewired your bones.

Not used to voices that don’t bark orders.

Not used to a kitchen that smells like pancakes and not bleach. You’re still half-shadow in the corners, still more comfortable sinking into a shadow cast on the floor.

The others notice your trepidation, the way you purposefully sink into the shadows whenever it gets too loud, too much.

Bucky says you don’t do well with over stimulation, that he used to be the same way but…Steve and then later Sam helped him. He said that it takes time that you’ll adjust, but on nights where Alexie and Yelena argue, small petty familial squabbles, you’re left forcing your darkness down and barely holding yourself together.

Or when you take sparring too far with John, not used to holding back, fighting for improvement of both parties not to kill the other.

Bucky helps, his slow, careful voice offers advice but comfort comes from Bob and Yelena. One of the two always outside your door on the nights where the tower feels like it’s closing in around you.

Sometimes it’s Yelena, armed with a bad horror movie and worse popcorn.

Sometimes it’s Bob with small talk or stories from his travels, exchanging favorite food from foreign countries and memorable moments in the early hours of the morning.

Sometimes when even that is too much you find yourself with Ava, wrapped in a comfortable knowing silence, gentle hands and tea that smells like honey and dried rose petals. The silent bond of two women who never got to have a childhood outside lab walls.

You don’t know how to offer the same thing back, how to be a comfort to them the way they are to you. How to be someone’s safe place when you still flinch at your own reflection some days.

And they—they let you be here anyway. Let you take up space. Like it’s never been a question.

Bob hands you a mug one night—no questions, just warm tea—and when your fingers brush his, you feel it like static. Like maybe your heart has started remembering what it means to ache in the good ways, too.

You sit next to Bob on the floor. No words. No shadows swirling. Just stillness.

And you think: I could get used to this.

But the thought makes your stomach twist. Because comfort, to you, has always been a prelude to loss. Support systems crumble. Homes vanish. Bonds snap under the weighte of who you really are.

You wonder how long it’ll take for you to break this fragile atmosphere of safety. Wonder when you’ll let the monster inside you slip out.

Having a support system of equally broken individuals is bound to fail eventually right? So you wait, you wait for the other shoe to drop, for that comfortable routine that’s been forming to shatter and twist the place you’ve unconsciously started calling home.

~

You can feel her before you see her. That perfume—a blend of something expensive and sharp, like wilted roses laced with arsenic—hits the back of your throat like a warning.

“Valentina wants a meeting.”

Bucky says it like it’s just another line item on a long list of bullshit. Like it’s not the worst thing someone could possibly say to you in this moment.

You don’t respond. Not at first. Your jaw ticks. Your hands are already curling into fists at your sides, knuckles going bloodless. You feel it start, slow and creeping: the shadow at your feet flickering like a dying flame before surging outward, black tendrils licking across the tile in a wide, predatory sweep. Writhing. Caged.

Bucky sees it. His voice stays calm. “It’s just a debrief. Low-profile. She won’t be staying long.”

That doesn’t matter.

You don’t want her in this building. In this space you’ve begun—just barely—to think of as yours. You don’t want her air in your lungs. Her eyes on your face. Her voice in your ears.

She knows what she did.

And worst of all, she knows you can’t do anything about it.

You’re still staring straight ahead when Bob edges closer. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t give you instructions. He just stands next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hand pressing gently into the small of your back. Warm. Anchoring. The pressure of his palm is enough to make your lungs remember how to expand.

Deep breaths.

One in.

One out.

You find his eyes for just a second. He nods. You nod back.

You keep the shadows from spilling out further, but they curl like a promise around your boots. A leash straining against its hold.

The rest of the team files into the conference room in staggered silence. Alexei excitedly speaks on ‘Thunderbolts first mission’ clearly the only one looking forward to whatever she has planned. Yelena looks at him like she usually does, a mixture of embarrassment and hidden affection only a daughter can hold for their overbearing father. John makes a crack about needing hazard pay. Ava doesn’t say anything, but she throws you a look that says she’d rather be swallowing glass.

You stand at the back. You won’t sit. You don’t trust yourself to stay seated. You don’t trust yourself not to snap the table in half.

She walks in like she owns the place. Expensive suit, perfectly styled hair, eyes like razors and oil slick. That same casual cruelty coiled in her posture, all confidence and calculation. She scans the room. Smiles too slow when she sees you.

You stare back, still as death.

The air pressure drops.

“Thank you all for coming,” Valentina says, tone cool and pleasant, like she’s a guest speaker in a college lecture and not a war criminal hiding behind bureaucracy. “We’ve been offered a unique opportunity to gain some goodwill with the Global Council.”

You stop listening after that. Bucky’s voice rises over hers, trying to soften the edges, translating her orders into something that sounds more like strategy and less like service. It’s a babysitting mission. Escort duty for a summit of international leaders. Show up, shake hands, look intimidating enough to keep threats at bay, and then go home.

Easy. Civilized.

Sanctioned.

You turn before it’s over.

Walk out without a word.

Your shadows pool behind you like a spilled inkblot.

Bob doesn’t hesitate. His footsteps fall into rhythm with yours before the elevator even closes.

He doesn’t speak until you reach the quiet hallway outside your room. Your pace slows only when you realize you’re two heartbeats away from punching through a wall.

“I’m not here for that,” you finally say. Your voice cracks down the middle—soft, but not weak. “I didn’t agree to all this to become a glorified guard dog for people like her.”

Bob watches you. His expression open and concerned. Careful. He doesn’t try to explain it away.

“She locked me in a cage made to smother what I am” you say, bitter now. “She used my pain like it was a scalpel. She let them carve me up. Let them turn me into something monstrous. And now she wants me at her side like a trophy.”

Bob nods once, timid but deliberate. “I…yeah I know.”

“I don’t want to work for her,” you say suddenly, voice cracking sharp like glass. “Not after everything. Not after what she did to you.”

Bob’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“She used you like some—some prop, some shiny new thing to win support. And when it didn’t work, when you started slipping…” You swallow hard, throat tight. “She tried to kill you.”

The words hang there, raw and ugly.

“She manipulated your desire to be something more and played on your emotions calling it progress. But it was just damage control. You were never a person to her. Just a weapon she could polish or toss depending on which way the wind was blowing.”

You see it—flashes of her smirking, of Bob standing tall and proud under her thumb, of the twisted grin she wore the day she almost had him erased. Your shadows twitch at your feet, mirroring the roil in your chest.

“And I had to watch it. I had to feel it happening. You were begging to be seen, and she fed you lies about how being just ‘Bob’ wasn’t enough. That you needed to be Sentry to be valued and then had the nerve to smile while doing it.”

The anger inside at the thought of how she manipulated sweet and trusting Bob made your literal blood boil. The ink in your veins snaking their way up your arms. You look down at your hands, trembling now. “I can’t stand next to her and pretend that never happened. I can’t protect the people she’s trying to impress, not when she didn’t give a damn about protecting you.”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just breathes. One shallow inhale, then another—tight and shaky like his lungs forgot how. You glance up and find his expression caught somewhere between shock and sorrow, as if he hadn’t realized just how much it all hurt until he heard you say it out loud.

Not how she used him.

But that it mattered to someone.

His mouth opens. Closes. Then, finally, in a voice so small you barely catch it: “I—I didn’t l realize you thought that way”

His hand moves to gently hold yours, like his touch alone would stop the trembling. You feel the hesitation in his fingertips. The weight of guilt pressing down on him like gravity’s gone greedy again.

“I thought it was my fault,” he admits. “That maybe I wanted too much. That if I’d just been better—stronger—none of it would’ve happened. That…I was stupid for believing her.”

The shadows at your feet stiffen, shivering with restrained fury. You want to say no, want to shake him by the shoulders and scream that it was never his fault. But you don’t. You let him speak. You let him bleed.

He blinks too fast. Swipes at his cheek like it’s a reflex he hasn’t grown out of.

“That’s not true.” After giving him the moment to get his worries and fears out you quickly shut them down. Gripping his hand back now you give it a firm yet reassuring squeeze.

“You weren’t stupid or weak. You were vulnerable and she preyed upon you like the viper she is. She told you the things you wanted to hear and then manipulated you into believing they were true. But they aren’t.” Your other hand goes to grip the back of his neck. To make sure he knows you’re here to support him and hold him together the same way he holds you.

“You said it yourself, you wanted everyone to know that you could be more than what they thought of you so of course when someone as skilled a master manipulator as Valentina confronts you you’re going to believe her. But the things that she said you Bob wasn’t enough, that people hated Bob, that he was a loser, that you were somehow a different being all together. Those were all lies. Lies she knew you told yourself.” You voice catches because you know that feeling. That self hatred and need to be someone else, someone better.

“She used you and that’s on her. Never feel guilty for trusting someone. Okay?” You look into his eyes, your own anger replaced with soothing concern and an almost gentle need to support Bob.

He takes a moment, eyes shining with what you think might be tears before giving you a shaky nod. You both bask in the silence for a moment, hands never leaving each other, grounding the two of you.

“I don’t want to be near her,” you whisper after calming down. “Not even for an hour. Not even to receive orders. I—” You stop, because your throat is closing up.

Bob steps closer.

“You shouldn’t have to be,” he says gently. “You didn’t sign up for this. You can say no.”

You look away, jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to do this. This whole… team thing. The compromise. The diplomacy. I’m still checking every room for exits. Still flinching at every knock. And now she’s in my space, like it’s her right.”

He places his hand over yours. It’s calloused. Steady. “Then let’s take it back.”

Your laugh is short and hollow. “From Valentina?”

“From the fear,” Bob says. “From the idea that she still gets to own even a single part of us.”

Your breath catches. Something ancient and awful swells in your chest—shame, maybe. Grief. That echo of helplessness from the cage of light and the endless testing.

Bob doesn’t flinch when your shadows move. He never does. He lets you exist as you are—too much, too sharp, too haunted—and doesn’t ask you to be anything less.

Just as you don’t ask him to be anything else. A pair of troubled souls barely holding it together but supporting the other with everything they have.

“I don’t want to go to the meeting,” you say, pouting now. “I want to burn the room down.”

“I’d help,” he says with a crooked smile. “But I think John would be mad we ruined the popcorn machine again.”

That gets a breath out of you. Not a laugh, not quite—but close.

You sit down on the hallway floor. Bob does too, without hesitation, knees drawn up, hoodie strings swinging at his collar.

“Do you ever feel like this place is just a lie?” you ask. “Like it’s too good. Too soft. Like if you let your guard down, it’ll disappear.”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. He leans his head back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling.

“Every day,” he says at last. “But then I remember that I’m still here. That you’re still here. And maybe that’s the point—not that it’s perfect, but that we get to stay. That we get to try.”

Your chest tightens. You hadn’t expected an answer. You hadn’t expected it to help.

He looks at you again. Not afraid. Not cautious.

Just… present.

“I don’t know if I can sit in that room and pretend,” you say.

“You don’t have to.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“The point is—you’re not alone anymore.”

You sit in silence for a long moment.

Bob’s hand brushes yours again, and this time you meet him half way, fingers lacing together with his.

You let yourself breathe in the space between his words.

Let yourself imagine, just for a moment, that there’s a version of you that doesn’t have to burn every bridge before someone else sets it on fire.

That maybe, in this strange new world of sunlit towers and movie nights and pancakes instead of sedatives, you’re allowed to be angry and healing. Furious and human.

That maybe love—whatever shape it’s beginning to take in your chest—doesn’t have to come at the cost of everything else.

You look down at your shadows, still coiled protectively around your ankles like wolves waiting for a signal.

And for once, they don’t feel like a weapon.

They feel like armor.

Bob’s voice is quiet, almost lost to the hum of the Tower above you.

“We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t know if he means the mission, or the future, or the strange tether that keeps pulling the two of you into each other’s orbit.

You nod anyway.

Because maybe, for now, that’s enough.

~

Once you’ve made it back to the room, you’re not surprised to find it already unraveling.

John and Yelena are mid-argument—again—this time about who should be running the operation. Ava sits off to the side, phone in hand, scrolling with the kind of dramatic disinterest only she can pull off. Bucky’s in the far corner, jaw tense, speaking low to Valentina like he’s trying to keep the storm from breaking too soon. His brows are furrowed, arms crossed, the same worn-down patience he wears every time she opens her mouth.

But the moment you and Bob re-enter, all attention shifts. Valentina’s eyes narrow, her expression smoothing into something plastic and performative, all faux concern and calculated charm.

“Good, you’re back,” she says, as if the room weren’t already cracked and splintering at the edges. “Silhouette, you’re going to be needed to—”

“No,” you say.

The word slices clean through the room.

She blinks. That carefully constructed facade glitches.

“I’m sorry—‘no’?” she echoes, voice rising with incredulous laughter. “You’re not seriously refusing a direct assignment, are you?”

“I’m not participating in this glorified babysitter gig,” you snap, arms crossed tight across your chest like you can physically hold the fury in. The shadows at your feet twitch, bristling like guard dogs on chains. “Not for you. Not for them. Not when you’re the one asking.”

The silence curdles.

Valentina steps forward, voice sharpened now, peeling away the mask. “Now you listen here, you ungrateful—”

“She said no.”

The interruption comes from the last place you expect.

John.

John Walker, of all people.

He’s standing straighter now, argument with Yelena forgotten, his eyes locked on Valentina like he’s ready for round two—but this time, it’s not with her. “You don’t get to bark orders and expect loyalty from someone you threw to the wolves.”

“She doesn’t want to do it, then she won’t.” Yelena’s voice joins his, cool and calm and razor-edged. “You can’t make her. Try, and you’ll have to deal with all of us.”

Valentina turns to Yelena as if stunned, clearly recalibrating. “This is a government-sanctioned diplomatic—”

“Oh please,” Ava cuts in, barely glancing up from her phone. “You’re not even good at pretending it’s about diplomacy. This is a PR stunt. A photo op. You want her as a silhouette in the background so you can sell the image of unity, not safety.”

“I thought we were supposed to be a team,” Bucky adds, finally stepping forward. “But teams don’t drag each other back into their own trauma just to check a box for public approval.”

Valentina stares at the lot of them like they’ve grown second heads. Like she can’t comprehend a world where you have people in your corner.

You… you don’t know what to say.

Your hands have curled into fists, but they’re trembling—not with rage this time, but with something quieter. Something warmer. You glance at Bob, who gives you the tiniest nod, a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Pride. Solidarity.

But it’s not just him anymore.

Your heart trips over itself, eyes scanning the room, trying to absorb it. Yelena, leaning casually against the table like this is no big deal, like standing up for you is just muscle memory. John, still tense but silent now, watching Valentina like he dared her to try something. Ava, unimpressed, unconcerned, unafraid to say the truth aloud. And Bucky—steady, grounded, looking at you like you matter.

Something breaks open in your chest. Quietly. Unseen.

You spent so long believing this would always be a fight you faced alone. That being used, manipulated, silenced, was just the cost of existing in a world where power was currency and people like you were just tools to be wielded. But now—

Now, for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not standing by yourself.

You’re standing in a room of people willing to burn bridges just to keep you from drowning.

Valentina exhales through her nose, sharp and clipped, her hands curling at her sides. “I see,” she says, voice tight with barely restrained fury. “Well. I’ll make note of this for future missions.”

You almost laugh.

You don’t care about her report.

You don’t care about her.

Because you don’t belong to people like her.

Not anymore.

You nod once, just enough to feel the weight of your own stance. “Do that.”

And as she turns away in a huff, muttering something under her breath about “insubordination,” Bob steps a little closer again, his shoulder brushing yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod again.

Not because you’re fine. Not really. You’re still shaking. Still raw.

The rest is kind of a blur after that.

More arguing. More planning. Ava rolls her eyes dramatically at some suggestion John makes, and Yelena flicks a pen at him like they’re siblings forced to share the same oxygen. Bucky scribbles something on the whiteboard that sparks a whole new round of tactical bickering. You barely hear it.

You’re sitting next to Bob now, your thoughts still half-stuck in the moment where everything turned. In the way they defended you. Chose you.

You jump slightly when you feel a hand brush yours.

Bob, again.

His fingers find yours like it’s instinct now. Familiar. He doesn’t say anything—just gives your hand a gentle squeeze, grounding you, tethering you to the here and now. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and smile at him. A small one. Soft. Real.

It’s decided, eventually, that the rest of the team will go ahead. You and Bob will stay behind—on standby, just in case things go south and they actually do need you.

You don’t argue. Not this time. Because now it’s your choice. And that changes everything.

And just like that, it’s over.

The first meeting. The first mission briefing. The first time this chaotic, unlikely collection of people sat in a room together and tried to function like a unit.

You’d expected to hate it.

But instead—every single one of them proved it.

They weren’t just Valentina’s next PR-ready superhero squad.

They were something else. Something more.

A team. A mess. A family.

And they looked out for each other.

Even you.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Chapter 2: Easy Days

Summary:

You reflect on the strange idea of belonging. Quiet Tower moments follow — shared meals, morning training, playful debates. Alexei ropes you into a test of strength, competing with the others. You laugh. Your guard drops.

Today is one of the easy days.

A dreamless night. No shadows pressing down on your chest. No voices clawing up from the dark of your skull. Just the quiet hush of morning light bleeding into your room, soft enough not to hurt.

You drink your coffee in silence, staring out the window at the Tower courtyard below. The mug is warm in your hands, chipped along the rim where Yelena dropped it last week. You haven’t fixed it. There’s something… grounding about its imperfection. Tangible. Like it belongs to you now.

You’ve learned to cherish these quiet mornings, even if they still feel foreign.

Afterward, you slip down to the training room — not because you’re cleared for it, but because sitting still makes your skin itch. The bullet wound in your back has nearly sealed, the deep tear in your abdomen still angry and red, but tolerable. Manageable.

Bucky has already warned you. So has Bob. Every time they catch you here, there’s a scolding look or a concerned murmur — something soft that sets your nerves on edge.

You sneak in anyway. Step between the light and disappear into the walls when you hear boots in the hall. It’s easier that way. Easier than explaining why you can’t sit still. Why silence and healing feel like drowning.

You appreciate their worry. Really, you do. It just… unnerves you.

They mean well. But you’re not used to being checked on — not like this. You’re used to being forgotten. Or worse, expected to suffer in silence. You’re not sure what to do with people who try to protect you.

Yelena’s different, though. She gets it. She doesn’t try to wrap you in cotton or guilt you into resting. She just shows up. Sometimes with snacks. Sometimes with knives.

This morning, you find her already in the training room, mid-stretch, hair tied back, boots unlaced.

“Good morning, Котик!” she grins, bright as the sun you usually avoid. That nickname again — little cat. The way it rolls off her tongue makes you feel slightly feral, but… in an affectionate way.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re awfully chipper for someone who got thrown into a wall yesterday.”

Yelena shrugs, bouncing on her toes. “Because today I got good news. Real work. None of that press-tour garbage Val keeps trying to feed us.”

You drop into a stance opposite her, stretching out your sore shoulder. “Oh? Do tell.”

She lunges. You duck, sweeping your leg low to catch her balance, but she twists out of the way with an infuriating laugh.

“Apparently,” she says mid-spin, “we’re going to track down some of Valentina’s old contacts. Ones who worked on the early Sentry Project. Disappeared. Off the grid.”

You freeze. Your foot lands heavy. Too slow.

Yelena’s fist catches you in the gut — just to the right of your healing wound. A hot spike of pain rips through you.

You double over with a groan. Not dramatic, but definitely not ideal.

“Shit! Seven—? I’m sorry!” She’s at your side instantly, one hand hovering, the other on your back. “I didn’t think—”

“No, no, that’s on me,” you wheeze, straightening slowly. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

But your mind is already spinning.

Sentry Project. Human experimentation. Scientists who thought they could play God and walk away untouched. If these people are still alive—if they’re hiding—then this mission is exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

Your voice turns sharp. “These people… they were involved in the experiments?”

Yelena grins, sensing your shift. “Yup. Rumors say they had a hand in some of the first successful augmentations. Before Bob. Before the public knew anything.”

Your jaw tightens. Something deep and dark stirs in your chest — not anger exactly, but hunger. Purpose.

She claps a hand on your shoulder, half-patronizing, half-sincere. “I knew that would get your attention. My fierce little Котик. Always ready to hunt down mad scientists.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to let your blush show. “Shut up. You know why it matters.”

“I do.” Her tone softens. “That’s why I told you first. We’ll go together. We’ll finish what they started.”

You’re silent for a beat. Then a quiet nod.

Together.

You’re still getting used to that word.

—

About an hour later, you trail behind Yelena into the kitchen and immediately walk into what sounds like a full-blown philosophical debate.

“All I’m saying,” Bob insists, waving a grilled cheese like a weapon, “is that if you eat it in the morning, it’s breakfast.”

“No,” John groans, halfway through his protein shake, “that’s lunacy. Breakfast has rules. You can’t just eat leftover lasagna at 9 AM and call it breakfast.”

“Says who?” Bob counters, indignant. “Cows? The Breakfast Police?”

You stop in the doorway, arms folded, hiding a smile. The bickering is so absurdly domestic it feels like a sitcom rerun.

Bob notices you first. His whole face lights up, as it always does when you walk in. Like your presence is something good he forgot he had.

“Morning, seven,” he says.

You snort, gesturing to his grilled cheese. “Sorry, sweets, but I think I have to agree with Walker. That’s not breakfast. That’s a war crime.” The nickname you hold for him flowing out with ease. You aren’t sure when it started but the overly sweet feeling that builds in your chest every time you look at Bob is definitely how the name came to be.

Bob’s mock betrayal is immediate. “Et tu, Seven?”

Yelena slips past you to the coffee pot, muttering something about Americans and their food crimes.

You settle into a stool beside Bob, still smirking as he begins a passionate, half-serious argument about how breakfast is a state of mind.

You let the sound wash over you. The warmth. The safety.

This… this is new.

But maybe not unwelcome.

~

The next day is another easy one. Same routine, morning coffee, training and quiet contemplation. That is until it’s shattered by boisterous yelling.

It starts, of course, with Alexei bursting into the living room like a human avalanche.

“I am clearly the strongest person in this tower,” he declares, chest puffed out, voice booming off the high ceilings. “Red Guardian is superior to Captain America in every way!”

You’re curled into one corner of the couch with your legs tucked under you, nursing a mug of something warm, and you blink slowly over the rim. You have no idea what set him off, but chaos blooms immediately.

“Oh here we go,” John groans, rising from the floor like a man preparing for war. “Man, nobody asked.”

“Jealousy,” Alexei says, pointing a thick finger. “This is the look of jealousy, yes.”

“You couldn’t even beat a Roomba in a hallway,” Yelena pipes up from the kitchen, stuffing chips into her mouth. “Don’t start this again.”

“I was surprised! That robot moved with purpose!”

And just like that, it snowballs.

Ten minutes later, John has ripped a giant sheet of paper from someone’s sketchbook and scribbled a crude bracket system across it in permanent marker. Names are scratched in. Bets are made. Someone—probably Bucky—pours whiskey into coffee.

You’re pulled into the first round before you even get a chance to finish your drink.

Your opponent is Ava, who glances at you with the expression of a bored cat who’s been asked to perform. “This is stupid,” she mutters, sliding into the seat across from you.

“I know,” you reply.

She places her elbow on the table, grabs your hand, and lets you slam her knuckles down to the wood with a theatrical gasp. “Oh no,” she says flatly. “I’m defeated. Whatever shall I do.”

John, acting as a very loud referee, calls it with a dramatic “SEVEN ADVANCES!” like you just won the Super Bowl. Ava walks off without another word, hands already in her hoodie pockets.

Next up: Yelena.

This one is trickier. Not because you can’t win, but because Yelena is Yelena—and if she thinks for even a second that you’re going easy on her, she’ll chase you through the Tower with a flashlight and need to get revenge. She drops into the seat with all the giddy violence of a raccoon in a trash can, eyes shining.

“You better fight me for real,” she warns, narrowing her eyes. “I will know.”

“I’d never dream of it.”

She growls. You win after a long, grueling minute. She grins like a wolf, even in defeat.

“You cheat with your long creepy fingers,” she accuses. “Unfair advantage.”

“I think it’s because I’m stronger,” you say, standing. “But maybe I’ll sprain a finger for next time, to even the playing field.”

Then it’s Bob.

You freeze when John calls out your names. Not because you’re nervous—he’d never hurt you. But something about facing him like this makes your breath catch a little. Or maybe it’s the way he’s already looking at you when you turn, like he’s been waiting. His expression is soft, sheepish. Inviting.

You step toward him like there’s a string tied between your chest and his. When you sit, he does too, sliding his arm onto the table with an easy motion. His hand is warm when yours meets it—calloused fingers, strong wrist, but the hold is gentle. Careful. He is careful, with you. Always.

You expect him to throw the match. Like Ava. Or at least keep it playful.

But when you test his grip with the smallest nudge, you don’t budge him. At all.

It’s like pushing against steel rebar embedded in bedrock.

Your brow rises slowly. “Oh?”

He smiles, and it’s equal parts challenge and affection. “What?”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re actually trying.”

“Am I?”

You smirk.

A flutter starts in your chest—some mix of adrenaline, pride, and that ridiculous warmth you only feel around him. The sound of the room fades to a low blur as you refocus on his hand in yours. You start to push harder. Still nothing. He doesn’t move an inch.

“Oh come on,” you mutter under your breath.

He tilts his head, clearly trying not to laugh.

You’re using real effort now. The table creaks slightly under the strain. Your hair slips loose from behind your ears as your shoulders tense, shadows curling faintly at your feet like they’re eager to join the battle.

Still nothing. His arm is steady. His expression, maddeningly calm.

“Are you kidding me?” you say, eyes narrowing, straining with genuine effort now.

“Guess you’ll have to try harder,” he says, voice low and amused.

Something sparks in your gut—excitement? Attraction? Frustration? You don’t have time to name it, but it scorches through you like a heartbeat.

You dig in, adjusting your grip. You should be able to beat him. Or at least move his hand an inch. But he doesn’t budge. It’s like trying to arm wrestle a statue.

You narrow your eyes. Fine.

The shadows at your feet twitch, subtle as a breath. You pull just a thread of them—barely a flicker—wrapping around your wrist like a brace, letting them coil into the tendons of your fingers for an extra push.

Bob’s brows rise the slightest bit. Not alarm. Not disapproval. Just—recognition.

And still, nothing. His hand doesn’t move. The shadows strain against him, but he’s immovable.

You suck in a breath, half laughing. “Oh, come on—”

He finally lets up a fraction of his grip, just enough to let you slam his hand down with a breathless exhale. The table shudders. The shadows vanish in a ripple of embarrassed static. You’re flushed. He’s grinning.

You don’t say anything right away. Neither does he.

Then, softly, he murmurs, “Well fought.”

You have no idea what to do with how good that makes you feel.

You try to shrug it off as Bucky knocks Alexei and John out of the bracket like bowling pins. John screams, “You can’t use the metal arm, man!” while Alexei rants about sabotage and unfair American tech.

You lean against the table, brushing hair from your face. Bob is still watching you. Still smiling.

You glance at him sideways, not quite ready to meet his eyes. “You definitely let me win.”

“I definitely didn’t,” he says, and it’s almost a whisper.

You roll your eyes and playfully shove his shoulder. “We both know you could probably take us all out without even batting an eye.”

But instead of laughing, his body stills. His smile fades. He glances down, away from you, jaw tightening. Shame flickers behind his eyes like a shadow in retreat.

You blink. Oh. That wasn’t embarrassment.

“Hey…” Your voice drops, quiet, meant for his ears alone. “I’m only joking. I know you’d never.”

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah, well… I did.” The words are muttered, low and brittle. “So.”

And there it is—that jagged guilt, rising like smoke from old ashes. The time he stood against all of you. The time he didn’t know better.

You don’t look away from him. “Listen, we’ve talked about this,” you say gently. “That wasn’t great, yeah. But they never held it against you. I never held it against you.”

He gives a humorless huff. “Doesn’t mean I don’t.”

You hesitate, then reach out, brushing your knuckles lightly against his. “Everyone makes poor decisions when they’ve got a viper in their ear.”

His eyes lift to yours, and there’s something raw in them—open and hurting.

You shift a little closer, lowering your voice. “I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen,” you say carefully. “Yeah, you made the wrong choice. But everyone makes mistakes, Bob. No one here expects you to be perfect.”

He says nothing, but the muscle in his jaw ticks.

“No one was seriously hurt. And they were there for you, not against you. Even if you couldn’t see it at the time.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s listening despite himself.

“They never blamed you. Not once. We knew what Valentina was doing. She fed you lies when you were at your lowest and made them sound like salvation. Anyone could’ve fallen for it.”

He finally looks at you then, eyes shadowed and searching. “I still did it.”

“And then you stopped,” you say, firm now. “You stopped and you came back. That matters. You chose to come back, even when you thought you might not be forgiven.”

You hold his gaze. “That tells me everything I need to know.”

His breath catches—just slightly. And then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

You don’t reach for his hand, but your fingers stay close. Not quite touching. Just there, in case he needs them.

Behind you, someone yells that Bucky just put John through a folding chair, and Alexei is calling for “honorable rematch” with a mouthful of pretzels. The moment could break. Should break.

But it doesn’t.

Not yet.

Until, inevitably, the moment ends.

Alexei barrels in like a human freight train, flinging an arm around your shoulders and hauling you back toward the table. “There she is! Our shadowy champion!” he bellows, practically vibrating with excitement. “Next round—Silhouette versus Winter Soldier! HYDRA on HYDRA!”

You groan. “Can we not phrase it like that?”

“No, no, it’s perfect! You both got spooky government trauma and killer moves. The people demand blood!” He slams his fist on the table. “Or, failing that, a mild wrist sprain!”

You glance at Bob. There’s something still quiet in his eyes, like he hasn’t quite come back from your earlier conversation—but he nods at you, soft encouragement in the line of his jaw. A silent I’m here.

You let yourself smile. Just a flicker. Then you go.

Sliding into your seat, you find yourself across from Bucky Barnes, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He raises a brow. “We really doing this?”

You crack your knuckles one by one, shadows whispering beneath your skin. “Unless you’re scared.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you catch the slight shift in his posture. “You know I’ve got enhanced strength, right?”

You lean forward, forearms on the table, smile curled like a knife. “So do I.”

Your hands meet with a firm clap of contact—skin to skin, flesh to metal.

He’s solid. Veteran steady. Unflinching.

So are you.

Bob, somewhere behind you, mutters under his breath, “She’s definitely gonna cheat.”

“Shut up, Bob.”

“HY-DRA! HY-DRA!” Alexei’s chanting again.

“I swear to God, I will sedate you,” Yelena deadpans.

But none of it reaches you. The world has narrowed to your locked grip and the flicker of heat building between your shoulder blades.

Bucky gives the first push. Controlled, unbothered. His biceps flex under the pressure. Your arm dips slightly, just slightly.

You push back.

Your fingers tense. Your spine pulls taut like a bowstring. Something shifts under your skin.

He pushes harder. You feel your elbow tremble. He’s stronger—but not smarter.

You lean in and let it change.

A breath escapes you—not a gasp, but something older, deeper. Your skin darkens along your forearm, inky veins like smoke blooming just under the surface. Your shoulder clicks—once, twice, the sound wrong, bones reconfiguring at a subtle angle. You hear a wet pop in your wrist, and your arm lengthens just slightly. Not enough for the others to see clearly, but enough for the sound to fill the room. Enough for Bucky to feel it in his grip.

His eyes snap to yours.

“What the hell—” you hear John off to your side, disgust and awe dripping in his voice.

You smile.

Your hand surges forward.

Bucky grits his teeth and fights it, but you can see the flicker of unease in his face. You are not fully human right now. You are sinew and shadow, wrong angles and quiet monstrosity, strength born of something that doesn’t belong in daylight.

The table groans.

The shadows thicken at your back like wings ready to unfold.

Then—crack. A snap of something not-quite-human in your knuckles.

And you slam his hand down hard enough that the table cracks.

Silence.

Utter silence.

Then Bucky slowly lifts his head, blinking at you.

“I don’t want to arm wrestle you ever again,” he says flatly.

You shake out your fingers, rolling your wrist. “Didn’t cheat.”

“You shifted.”

“Barely.”

“That was a monster noise.”

Alexei is on his feet clapping like you just won gold at the Olympics. “Glorious! A true champion of darkness and weird bone sounds!”

Yelena leans toward Bob. “Is her arm longer now?”

“I… I think so,” he murmurs, eyes wide, somewhere between horror and awe.

You catch his gaze, and for a second, there’s that flicker again—something quiet, something reverent. Something like pride.

You tilt your head, teeth flashing. “What? I won.”

Bob just smiles, crooked and soft. “You did.”

You grin wider, letting your hand settle back into normal. Letting the tension bleed away.

Letting yourself be seen.

“Strongest new Avenger—Silhouette!” Alexei crows, seizing your wrist like he’s announcing a prizefighter and parading you around the room in triumphant circles.

You don’t fight it. Can’t, really. Not when the sound of your laughter spills out before you even think to stop it—bright, breathless, real.

The smile comes easy. The warmth in your chest, even easier.

For once, you let yourself have it.

The joy. The win. The weightless beat of belonging.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

A/N: more quiet moments and then not so quiet! I’m testing out how Bob interacts with the others in comparison to seven. Let me know if it feels too off and as always thank you so much for reading!

You can also find this story over on Tumblr at my main page @/GayandBasic I usually post on there first <3

Chapter 3: The Hard Days

Summary:

The team uncovers intel on scientists tied to early Sentry experiments. A mission is planned. Seven’s shadows react violently to the data. She suspects this is more personal than she’s willing to admit. Bob also breaks down for not being able to help out

TW: mentions of abuse/trauma, talk of depression, panic attacks and hinting at bipolar disorder

Notes:

A/N: I know I’ve been pumping these out like crazy I hope that’s ok. Let me know if you would prefer a more solid schedule to post these or not.

Also if you have any prompts or drabbles you want to see feel free to send those over to my tumblr @gayandbasic as well! I want to practice writing more haha I’m having so much fun 😊

As always thank you for reading!

The problem with having easy days is that the bad ones always come harder.

Today is one of those days.

You wake up and know it immediately—something is off. Your skin feels too tight, your breath too loud. The shadows in your room cling to your feet like oil, sluggish and cold. Even your reflection in the mirror looks wrong. The cup of coffee you make sits untouched on the counter. The scar on your side throbs like it remembers something you haven’t let yourself think about in weeks.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’ve had worse mornings.

But it starts to unravel fast.

Bucky calls for a team check-in, tossing a handful of folders onto the table like they mean nothing. You sit on the edge of your chair, a bite of an apple between your teeth, still trying to convince yourself you’re okay.

The moment you flip one open, that illusion shatters.

A grainy, black-and-white surveillance photo stares back at you.

You don’t remember it being taken, but you know the image. It’s you. Younger. Thinner. Hollow-eyed. Hair cropped and greasy, jaw clenched in a way that makes your stomach lurch. The apple in your hand slips through your fingers and hits the floor with a wet, anticlimactic thud.

Your hand twitches. Then you’re flipping through the rest of the file in a panic. Blurred test logs. Graphs marked “SUBJECT 07.” Names that make your spine buzz. Bloodwork reports that spell out things you’ve tried to forget. And then—

Then you see him.

Dr. Armanov.

One of the first. One of the worst.

The photo isn’t even good—just a dated headshot, yellowed with age. But your body remembers what your mind has tried so hard to bury.

The way he always smiled just before the pain started. The antiseptic sting. The jokes he made when you bled too much. The white gloves.

You stare at his face like it might blink back at you.

The ichor in your veins begins to thrum, thick and wild. You don’t realize your fingers have twisted into claws until you hear the table groan under your grip.

Your breathing turns sharp, shallow. Not enough air. Not enough space.

The room tilts. Sound distorts like you’re underwater.

Someone says your name—but it doesn’t land right. Not your name. A nickname. Russian. Soft and concerned.

Котик.

You can’t respond. Can’t move.

You feel your shadows twitch at your heels, desperate to help, but your body can’t decide if it wants to fight or flee or fall apart. It does all three at once.

Papers scatter from your lap as your claws split through the fabric of the chair. The ink in your veins begins to rise, threading dark up your neck. You can feel your bones shift—ribs lengthening, spine crackling, teeth pressing against your gums. Your vision narrows to a single, suffocating tunnel of fear.

“I’ll get Bob!” someone shouts, but their voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a cavern.

The shadows explode outward.

You sink.

You are not in the Tower anymore. You are not in a room with friends. You are in a sterile box, screaming through your teeth. You are thirteen and shaking and somewhere cold. You are trying not to cry because the clipboard says CRYING = FAILURE = INJECTION. You are wrong, wrong, wrong—

The darkness swallows you whole.

Teeth. Limbs. Too many eyes. You lash out at the walls, at the ceiling, at your own sense of self. You rage. You twist. You collapse inward. Somewhere deep inside that swirling mass of panic, your consciousness curls into itself, fetal and afraid.

You don’t hear the door open.

But you feel him.

Bob.

The warmth that follows his entrance hits you like a balm and a blade all at once. You can feel him before you see him—his presence brushing the edge of your chaos like light against soot.

“Seven,” he breathes, barely audible.

You try to answer, but the shadow won’t let you. It claws at your voice, desperate to keep you hidden where it’s safe.

He steps forward anyway.

You want to scream for him to stop. You don’t want him to see you like this. Not as a monster. Not as a weapon.

But he doesn’t flinch.

He drops to his knees beside the epicenter of your collapse and places a hand—gently, reverently—against the floor. “It’s me. You’re safe. I’m here.”

The Void inside him doesn’t stir. Not like yours. It simply watches. Quiet. Waiting.

“I—I know it hurts,” he whispers, voice cracking a bit. “But you’re not alone, Seven. I’m …I’m right here.”

You don’t know how he does it, but his voice, unsure but caring, threads into the storm. And for one awful, beautiful second—you hear it over the panic.

He starts talking. About nonsense. The smoothie he made this morning. How Yelena tried to put three different hot sauces in her eggs. Something about Ava threatening to drown John in chamomile tea. He talks and talks, like casting a line out to sea.

And slowly, painfully, your limbs stop thrashing. The claws recede. The teeth dull. Your breathing starts to hitch instead of spiral.

You feel the shift as you begin to come back to yourself—exhausted, wrecked, trembling.

Knees curled to your chest holding yourself so tight as if that alone will keep the darkness from spilling out.

You try to open your eyes, and light floods in. Too bright. Too much.

But Bob is still there.

Kneeling.

Waiting.

“I’ve got you,” he says, as your fingers twitch against your flesh. “I’ve got you.”

You reach for him like a drowning thing.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you out of the last remnants of your shadows, anchoring you in the present. His hoodie is warm. His breath is steady. Yours is not. But you press your forehead to his chest and count each rise and fall until the panic has nowhere left to hide.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

And when you finally manage to croak out, “I’m sorry,” he pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide and hurting.

“D-Don’t be,” he says. “Don’t ever be sorry for surviving.”

Your throat clenches. You want to say thank you. You want to say please don’t leave me. You want to say i’m scared.

Instead, you nod.

Bob doesn’t let go.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be held.

~

After the shadows finally still, the room holds its breath.

No one rushes in. No one yells. It’s quiet—tentative, reverent. Like the air itself is afraid to break whatever fragile peace is left inside your trembling chest.

Yelena is the first to move.

She pads across the room like she’s done it a hundred times before, like this is routine and not the aftermath of something monstrous. She lowers herself to the ground beside you, cross-legged, eyes scanning you for injury.

“You’re okay?” she asks softly, her fingers brushing over yours before settling in your hand. Her grip is steady. Warm.

You nod, or at least try to. Your neck feels stiff, your mouth dry. Bob hasn’t moved from behind you, his arms still bracketing your sides, anchoring you like a heartbeat in the storm. You shift slightly, tucking yourself closer to his chest. He adjusts wordlessly, chin grazing your shoulder. His hold loosens just enough for you to breathe again.

And then it’s a pile—Yelena’s knee bumping yours, Bob’s hand soothing over your spine, your face buried in the space between their shoulders. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

Ava crouches next, gathering up the papers you flung across the floor in your panic. She doesn’t read them. She just hands them, in a neat stack, to Bucky, who kneels at your side with an expression you can’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Guilt.

He glances at the top file. Recognition flashes behind his eyes. “Shit,” he mutters, low and sharp. “Seven, I—I hadn’t looked. Got these straight from Mel. Thought we’d go through them as a team. I didn’t know some of the names were… Hydra.”

You flinch at the word, but not from him. From the history it carries.

He lays a hand on your shoulder—gentle, weightless. Like he’s waiting for you to shrug it off. You don’t. And he stays.

You realize, distantly, how strange this moment is. How strange it is that hands on your skin don’t make you flinch anymore. That you are surrounded by people, and none of them want to hurt you. That even after losing control, no one here looks afraid of you.

The quiet hums with understanding.

“Take your time,” Bucky says. “We’re not rushing this.”

You manage a whisper, voice hoarse. “What else was in the files?”

He hesitates. “A facility. Remote. Still active. Some of the early Sentry program scientists came from Hydra when Sokovia fell—Valentina had contacts keeping tabs. Looks like a few of them may have resurfaced. Some names… we thought were dead.”

The name from the file flashes behind your eyes. That smirking face. That voice in the dark.

“I want in,” you say.

Bob tenses behind you. “Seven…”

“I want in,” you repeat, stronger this time. “If these are the same people who started all this—who worked on the Sentry Project, who also …made me—then I need to be there.”

There’s no argument, not really. Just silence.

Then Yelena says, “Then we’ll go. Together.”

No one contradicts her.

You glance around the room—Ava and John, quiet but resolute; Bucky, eyes dark with resolve; Bob, still behind you, still silent. The team is already moving forward, planning next steps. But no one leaves you behind.

And for once, being part of something doesn’t feel like losing control.

It feels like coming home.

~

The night ends with Bucky insisting the mission talk be put on hold.

“Watch a movie and relax, Seven,” he says, and then, with the weight of command only Bucky Barnes can wield, adds: “That’s an order.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t have the strength to, anyway. Your bones feel like cooling metal, warped and soft in all the wrong places. Every time you breathe too deeply, the muscles near your wound pull and burn. You swear the Umbra feeds on something more than just your energy when it manifests like that—your marrow, your breath, your time. You feel hollow. Flickering.

So you obey.

The team gathers in the common room like moths circling a flame. Yelena’s already sprawled on the couch, a pillow hugged against her chest, arguing fiercely with Alexei about movie genres.

“No, we are not watching ‘The Thing’ again. You made Seven watch that when she was half asleep and now she flinches every time someone opens a fridge.”

“It is a classic!” Alexei retorts. “Besides, it is educational. Teaches distrust. Survival. Brotherhood.”

“It teaches paranoia and trauma,” Ava mutters from her spot on the floor, where she’s scrolling through her tablet with one leg lazily hooked over the armrest of a nearby chair.

“Exactly!” Alexei beams.

John chimes in from the kitchenette, where he’s digging through cabinets like a raccoon. “We’re watching ‘Road House’ or I’m walking.”

“You say that every time,” Yelena groans.

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece!”

“It’s a movie about a bar fight.”

“A legendary bar fight,” he corrects.

You’re in the kitchen too, leaning against the counter, half-watching the argument unfold while Bob preps popcorn and snacks with a quiet focus. He doesn’t say anything at first, just hands you a bowl and points at the bag of marshmallows. You blink at him.

“What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Put them in the popcorn,” he says, deadpan. “Trust me.”

You arch a brow. “You’re lucky I’m tired. I already almost took the whole tower out today.”

His smile is small, tilted. “Then you deserve the weird snacks.”

You don’t argue with that, either.

You help him mix everything in mismatched bowls—salty, sweet, sticky, absurd—and for a few minutes, the world feels normal. Too normal, maybe. The kind of normal that tugs at something inside you, aching and unfamiliar.

You follow Bob back to the couch, navigating the maze of limbs and pillows. He takes the spot at the end near the corner and—without asking—drapes a soft blanket around your shoulders like a cape. You settle in beside him instinctively, letting your side lean into his. Your bones thrum with exhaustion, but his presence quiets some of the static.

“Absolutely no horror,” Bucky says firmly as he walks in, arms crossed. “We’re not triggering another breakdown.”

“I vote rom-com,” Ava calls without looking up.

“Over my dead body,” John says.

“That can be arranged,” Yelena sings.

Eventually, after enough threats and bribes, you all settle on something ridiculous—an action comedy with poorly choreographed stunts, dramatic music, and too many car chases. Maybe on purpose. It’s loud. Distracting. Good.

You try to curl in on yourself halfway through, but Yelena boots your feet off her lap.

“No shrinking allowed, Котик,” she mutters, nudging your leg until you stretch it out again.

Bob’s hand finds your blanket-covered shoulder. He doesn’t squeeze or say anything. Just… rests it there. Like a tether. You lean into him fully now, letting your head rest lightly on his arm.

Around you, the team snickers at the terrible dialogue. John throws popcorn at Alexei, who shouts something dramatic in Russian. Ava rolls her eyes and steals the marshmallow mix. Bucky doesn’t even pretend to be interested—he’s already half asleep, arms folded across his chest, like the old man he is.

You watch the screen, but you don’t really see it.

What you do see is Bob. His profile in the glow of the television. The way his eyes look slightly troubled every time he glances down at you, like he’s waiting for you to fall apart again but isn’t afraid of the mess.

The thought makes your throat tighten.

“Sleep,” he whispers when your eyes begin to blur. “I’ll keep watch.”

You don’t question it. You believe him.

And that’s what makes it worse, somehow—how easily you trust him now. How much of yourself you’ve already given without realizing it.

But for tonight, that terror is distant. Muted. The flicker of laughter around you, the warmth pressed against your side, the buzz of a half-burnt out movie—all of it is enough to lull you under.

You drift off.

And for the first time since the files hit the table, the Umbra stays still.

~

But later—hours later—you wake to voices.

You’re still groggy, vision blurry in the dark. At first you think it’s a dream. Then you hear your name.

“—don’t feel comfortable with Seven going at all, at least let me be there to help,” Bob says, his voice sharp with an edge you don’t recognize. Not like this.

John scoffs. “What, so we can have two ticking time bombs on-site? No way. Seven shouldn’t even be coming—it’s gonna compromise the entire mission.”

That stings. The breath leaves your lungs like you’ve been hit. You press your palm to your chest.

Yelena fires back instantly. “Good thing you’re not in charge then, Walker.”

Then a pause. The kind that makes the hair on your arms lift.

“Bob,” Yelena says softly, warning in her tone.

Something inside Bob hums to life. You feel it from down the hall—like a pressure shift. Like air before a storm. The Void doesn’t speak, but it doesn’t have to. You know what it means when the space around Bob starts to thrum.

You rise, moving through the hallway soundlessly until you reach the common area. They go quiet the second you appear.

Bob turns, startled. The tension bleeds from his shoulders—but not completely. You catch the look on John’s face, half-guilt, half-justification. Yelena won’t meet your eyes.

You reach out, tugging gently at Bob’s sleeve.

“Hey,” you say, voice low. “Can we talk?”

His answer is clipped. “Sure.”

It cuts deeper than it should. You lead him to your room in silence, unsure if this ache in your chest is disappointment or something more complicated.

Once the door shuts, you turn to him, arms crossed—not in defense, but because you need the pressure to keep steady.

“You can’t come with us, Bob. You know that.”

He stiffens. “Why? Because I can’t be trusted?” His tone sharpens, mocking. “Or is it because I’m a ticking time bomb?”

You flinch. So that’s what this is about.

“That’s not true,” you say quickly. “That comment was more for me than you, anyway. You saw what happened earlier.” Your voice cracks at the edges. You don’t mean to sound so tired.

“You can’t come because you have no training, Bob. This isn’t a game. You could get seriously hurt.”

Something shifts in his posture. A wrongness coils in his stance—shoulders back, chin lifted like armor. You’ve seen this before. In flashes. In the vault. When his voice takes on that hollow, golden ring.

“I’m the strongest person on this team,” he says, too quiet. “Why would a god need something as simple as training?”

Your blood runs cold.

God.

The word spoken like it was a fact not a feeling and unease fills you.

It’s not him, not really. Not the soft-spoken Bob who laughs at his own jokes and folds your laundry with reverence. This version is edged in celestial arrogance. The kind that gleams like cracked gold.

Your brain scrambles for a new angle. Logic won’t work. Not like this.

You can’t talk circles around him in this state.

So you speak the truth.

“Sweets…” Your voice gentles, your stance softens. “I’m not saying you’re weak.”

You reach for vulnerability like a blade turned inward.

“If you come… it’ll make this mission so much harder. For me.”

His jaw tightens. But he’s listening.

A moment passes as you build up the courage to voice what’s truly needs to be said.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He stills.

“The things those people did to me…to the other children. I have to keep my focus. I have to lock down every crack they carved into me and not let the monster out. And if you’re there…” Your voice catches. “If you’re there, I’ll be scared of something else too.”

You look at him, finally meet his eyes.

“I can’t lose you. Not to them. Not to him.” Your voice sounds foreign to you so fragile and small.

The silence that follows is thick. Electric.

He exhales slowly. Some of the gold in his gaze dims. He sits heavily on the edge of your bed, hands dangling between his knees.

“I just hate feeling useless,” he admits. “Y-You could get hurt. I saw what just a picture of that guy did to you and now you—you're going to face that and I’m…just here. Doing nothing.”

You sit beside him. Shoulders touching. Hand reaching for his tentatively.

“You’re not useless,” you say, voice low but sure. “You’re why I made it through today.”

Bob swallows hard. He nods, but says nothing, jaw flexing as he tries to hold in whatever storm is still brewing beneath the surface. His hand remains in yours—solid, grounding. A quiet promise.

You could leave it there. Let the silence settle between you like the blanket draped across your shoulders.

But you’ve already come this far. Already cracked yourself open and let him see the bleeding parts. What’s one more truth?

“I’ve never had this before…” you murmur, barely above a whisper. You gesture between the two of you—his hand in yours, your bodies curled together on the edge of the bed, the fragile stillness that exists only here, with him. “This… whatever this is.”

His brow furrows gently, eyes searching your face.

“I’m not even sure what to call it,” you admit. “But it feels… big. Bigger than I know what to do with.”

A pause. You glance down at your intertwined fingers.

“I know what fear feels like. What rage feels like. I know what it means to survive. But this?” Your voice trembles. “This kind of closeness? It’s like… it’s like a different kind of pain. Not bad. Just sharp. Like my chest doesn’t know how to hold it.”

Bob’s thumb brushes gently along your knuckle. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to explain it away or define it for you. He just listens—gives you space to speak.

“I think it might be a kind of love,” you say quietly, surprising even yourself. “Not the kind they wrote about in the files or injected into my bloodstream to make me compliant. Not duty. Not loyalty. Not possession.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. “Something softer. Something real. And it scares the hell out of me.”

His eyes glisten slightly in the dim light. You don’t look away.

“I’m scared of what it means,” you go on, “and what happens if I lose it. Or ruin it. Or… or want more than I’m supposed to.”

You can feel your heart stuttering now, panic trying to claw its way back in—but he squeezes your hand once. Steady. Grounded.

And something shifts. Not gone, but calmed. The storm in his chest easing, just a little. The ice in yours beginning to melt.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” you admit again, softer now, almost reverent. “But I know I don’t want it to end.”

Your words hang in the space between you like something sacred.

~

I think it might be a kind of love.

Bob can’t breathe for a second.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it. He has. Too often, in too many ways—sometimes at night when he can’t sleep and the Tower is quiet, or when your hand brushes his as you pass each other in the kitchen. When you smile without meaning to. When your laughter sounds like the first time he’s ever heard it from someone who means it.

But hearing you say it out loud?

It’s like the air shifts. Like something old and aching in him goes still, just for a moment.

You’re scared. He hears that in every word. Every pause. But you’re telling him anyway. Trusting him with this unnameable thing growing inside you.

And that? That breaks something open in him.

Because he’s scared too.

Scared of how much he wants this to be real. Scared that he’ll ruin it—like he ruins everything when he gets too close. Like he’s not built for love or safety or the quiet comfort of someone else’s hand in his.

And yet—

You’re sitting here, warm against his side, wounded and exhausted and still trying to make space for him. Still offering him honesty when you don’t owe it to anyone. Still giving him a piece of yourself with no guarantee that he won’t break it.

He tightens his grip on your hand—not too hard. Just enough to anchor you both.

‘She thinks it might be love.’

The words echo again in his chest. Not loud, not blazing. Just… gentle. Like a slow-burning fire catching in his ribs.

He wants to tell you he feels it too. That it’s been growing in him since that first moment you held back your shadows for his sake. Since the first time he saw you laugh, really laugh, and realized he’d do anything to see it again.

But the words are stuck behind the lump in his throat.

So he does the only thing he can.

He leans forward—just a little—and rests his forehead against yours. A quiet promise in the touch. His breath soft across your skin.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “As long…as long as you want me.”

It’s not everything. Not yet.

But it’s enough.

For tonight.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Chapter 4: Wait for me

Summary:

The first mission that demands the entire team leaves Bob alone waiting. Something about this mission leaves a bad taste in your mouth but you leave with the promise to be back soon.
TW: mentions of abuse and trauma, human experimentation, violence

Bob doesn’t say goodbye. Not in the way you expect.

He just stands there, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shadows clinging to his feet like they don’t want to let him go. His eyes flick between your face and the quinjet. You see the words he’s biting down on—be careful, don’t go, take me with you.

You already talked him down once.

It wasn’t easy. Convincing him that if he joined the mission now—without proper training, without support—he could be a liability. That the risk of the Void returning unprovoked was still too high. That Sentry wasn’t a mask he could just put on and take off anymore. That the other version of him, the one that spoke in thunder and broke mountains, might not stay buried if things went wrong.

You told him the truth.

That you care about all of him. The quiet Bob who stammers through compliments. The terrified boy hiding out in the attic. The confident man who believed he was a god.

Even the Void. Especially the Void.

The void within him that feels like a piece of yourself outside your body.

But you also told him this wasn’t the time. That until he could gain real control—until the two of you could work together on what that even meant—it was safer if he stayed behind.

Now, as the quinjet hums on standby and your boots hit the tarmac, you’re walking away from him. Leaving without him.

And the air between you feels thin. Breakable.

Yelena is the one who steps forward.

She rests a hand on the back of his neck, fingers warm and grounding. “Don’t worry, Солнышкo,” she murmurs, the nickname soft like sunlight. “We’ll be home soon.”

Bob nods, but his eyes don’t leave yours. They search your face like he’s trying to memorize something he won’t admit to forgetting. Like he wants to say keep her safe—wants to scream it—but it gets caught on his teeth. A prayer half-swallowed. A goodbye dressed like a promise.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” he says finally. Quiet. Meant only for you.

You want to believe it.

You nod once, stepping onto the jet before your resolve cracks.

~

Your seat vibrates beneath you, a low hum threaded with tension. The air smells sterile, recycled too many times, tinged faintly with metal and something sour—John’s cologne maybe, or your own nerves.

The others are already strapped in. John’s muttering complaints about poor ventilation and budget cuts. Ava has her headphones in, legs crossed like this is just another Tuesday. Yelena watches you from across the aisle, arms folded, one brow lifted. You okay? her eyes ask, even if her mouth doesn’t.

You nod, but it’s not convincing. Not to her. Not to you.

You shift in your seat, the leather cold against your back. Let your body sway with the gentle turbulence. The shadows under your skin twitch like trapped wires. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Again. Again.

Still there.

The mission brief plays in your mind like static.

Locate the abandoned Hydra-affiliated facility. Retrieve any surviving files. Identify and neutralize threats.

Simple. Too simple. Words like that always meant someone expected it to go wrong.

“Should be a quick in and out,” Bucky had said earlier, but now he’s frowning. You catch the look he sends you. He notices how rigid your spine is, how your fingers twitch like you’re fighting off a seizure. He doesn’t say anything—but he sees it. You wish he didn’t.

The jet banks slightly and you swear you feel the Umbra coil tighter inside you. It squirms like it’s trying to burrow deeper, or maybe break free.

You shift in your seat. The safety strap digs into the still-healing wound at your side. You bite back a sound. Focus.

Across from you, Ava pulls out one earbud. “So the plan’s what—apprehend anyone still kicking around and grab what intel we can?” she asks, voice casual, like she’s asking what’s for dinner.

“And collect anything tied to Project Sentry,” Bucky replies. He doesn’t bother hiding the bitterness in his tone. “Valentina made that part very clear.”

You flinch at the name.

Of course she did.

Your fingers curl into the seat’s armrests. The vinyl groans. You don’t look at anyone. You can’t. You know what kind of files you might find. You know what names might appear on the documents, what photos—what memories. There might be recordings. Test logs. Charts that track your pulse as a child strapped to a gurney, waiting for pain.

There might be evidence of what they took from you and repackaged for Bob.

Your blood runs cold. Not at the thought of Bob—never him—but at the idea of seeing yourself through their eyes again. Through ink-stamped documents and redacted assessments. “Subject Silhouette – Unstable. Hostile. Termination recommended.”

A bead of sweat slips down your back. You don’t move.

You say nothing. Just breathe. Pretend you’re here. Pretend you’re whole.

“You sure you’re good?” Yelena asks finally, her voice low and unobtrusive.

You nod once.

She doesn’t press. She just leans back, arms behind her head like she’s giving you space. But her foot taps your boot lightly, once, then again—a silent rhythm. A tether.

You hold onto it.

Somewhere beneath your skin, the shadows hum. They feel it too. You’re getting closer.

Closer to the lab.

Closer to the monster who made you.

Closer to the part of yourself you might not come back from.

~

The jet dips lower, angling into descent. You feel the shift in gravity, your stomach swooping as the cabin lights flicker. Nobody speaks for a moment. The silence tightens.

Then the wheels touch down with a jolt, and John immediately groans.

“Smooth,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Did we land or hit turbulence made of bricks?”

“I hope you get eaten first,” Yelena says sweetly, unbuckling.

John gives her a flat look. “We’re not in a horror movie.”

“We’re walking into an abandoned lab filled with dead Hydra secrets,” Ava points out, stretching. “We’re always in a horror movie.”

You stand slowly, muscles protesting. Your body aches—old injuries, fresh wounds, and something else under the surface. The Umbra still simmers. You tell it to stay.

Bob isn’t here.

You remind yourself again.

He’s back at the Tower, safe. He’ll be waiting.

You sling your gear over your shoulder, gaze flicking to the front. Bucky is already at the ramp, barking a low command to the pilot. The bay door groans open with a slow, mechanical hiss, and then you smell it—

Burnt ozone.

Rot.

The breeze that hits you isn’t just cold—it’s wrong. Heavy. Like it’s passed through something diseased.

Yelena steps beside you, one hand resting on a blade at her thigh. She frowns at the treeline beyond the runway. “Anyone else feel like we’re being watched?”

“I felt it before we landed,” Ava replies, jaw tight. “Something’s off.”

The facility looms in the distance. What little you can see of it is skeletal—charred fencing, sagging rooflines, shattered glass. Beyond the trees, rusted watchtowers peek like bones through fog. The place doesn’t just look abandoned—it looks devoured.

Bucky clicks his comm on. “Keep your comms open. No hero moves. We’re here for recon first.”

John scoffs. “Come on. You really think anything’s still alive out here?”

The words are barely out of his mouth before the shadows bend.

You see it.

A flicker. A twitch in the trees. Something too fast to be wind. The Umbra beneath your skin lurches, cold and alert.

You blink—and it’s gone.

“You okay?” Yelena asks quietly, eyes narrowing at your sudden stillness.

You nod once. But it’s a lie.

As you step down the ramp onto the frost covered, you feel it—the land here is stained. With blood. With memory. The Umbra remembers this place.

You almost buckle as your boots touch ground. The shadows inside you hiss and slither, clawing up your spine. You inhale sharply through your nose.

Not now. Not yet.

John trudges ahead, scanning the fence. “Looks like someone beat us here,” he says. “That gate’s bent open.”

“Could’ve been storm damage,” Ava mutters.

“No. That’s an impact bend. Something hit it.”

You exchange a look with Yelena, unease curling in your gut.

“Let’s sweep the perimeter first,” Bucky orders, voice low. “Stick close. No splitting up.”

“There’s no wildlife,” Ava murmurs after a moment. “Not even bugs.”

You hadn’t noticed, but she’s right. The silence is absolute. Not a single bird. Not even the chirp of an insect. It’s dead quiet.

Yelena breaks it with a cough. “Anyone else getting Chernobyl vibes?”

You huff out a short breath—almost a laugh.

Then John shouts from a few feet away.

A hollow kind of silence hums beneath your feet, like the soil itself is waiting for something. Watching.

“This place gives me the creeps,” John says finally, squinting at the dark facility ahead.

“I feel like I’m being watched,” Ava mutters.

“We are being watched,” you say before you can stop yourself.

They all turn toward you.

You nod toward the building. “Somethings in there” your voice certain.

Alexei lets out a nervous laugh loud. “Good, very cool, definitely not scared.”

Bucky holds up a hand, signaling you forward. “Let’s sweep the entrance. Stay sharp.”

The six of you move like a unit—loose but alert, boots crunching gravel, eyes on every window and shadow. You walk beside Yelena. Her shoulder brushes yours lightly, grounding.

Then the doors come into view.

Or rather, what’s left of them.

The metal is peeled back like something inside wanted out. Or something outside wanted in. It’s hard to tell. There’s no scorch marks. No gunfire holes. Just force.

You exchange a glance with Bucky. His frown deepens.

He gestures for Alexei and John to flank the doorway. Ava draws her second blade. Yelena grabs a flash bomb from her belt, just in case.

Bucky gives the nod.

Alexei shoves the door the rest of the way open.

And the smell hits.

It’s not rot, exactly. Not blood. But something wrong. Chemical and sterile and cold, like copper and plastic soaked in fear.

Yelena chokes back a cough.

Ava winces and mutters, “Smells like a morgue.”

The light inside flickers erratically. Fluorescents stutter overhead, casting long, warped shadows along the tiled hallway.

You step forward.

And stop.

The first body lies just past the lobby. A man in a lab coat slumped forward in his chair, jaw locked open in a scream that never made it out. His eyes are wide and glassy. His hands clenched tight around an old ID badge.

No blood. No wound.

Just terror.

“Shit,” John breathes behind you.

You kneel to check the badge.

Dr. Samuel Verner. One of the names from the file. One of the early Project Sentry scientists.

A sharp prickle climbs your spine.

The hallway stretches forward, dark and narrow, its walls plastered in peeling charts and empty file racks. You count at least three more bodies in various states—curled into corners, lying limp on stairs, frozen mid-motion.

All of them dead. All of them untouched.

All of them afraid.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Bucky mutters, glancing around. “No signs of a struggle. No external injuries.”

“They didn’t run,” Ava says, eyes narrowed. “They hid.”

Alexei nudges one of the bodies with the toe of his boot and grimaces. “Like deer in headlights.”

Or prey in a cage, you think.

John has his shield off now, gripped tight in both hands. “So what did this? And why is there no cleanup?”

“No scorch marks. No containment seals,” Yelena says quietly. “This wasn’t an accident. It was a message.”

Your hands tremble slightly at your sides. The shadows inside you are screaming, writhing just under your skin like they want to pour out and run. You clench your jaw to keep them still.

You’re back here. Back in the dark halls where monsters were born. The place smells like your childhood.

Like cages and chemicals and lies.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until ava’s voice echoes softly next to you:

“I feel it too. The familiarity. The feeling of home.”

You let out a shaky exhale. Ava grew up in a lab like you. She knows.

You shoot here an appreciative look before moving forward.

Bucky’s voice cuts in.

“Whatever happened here…” he says, stepping carefully into the hallway, “it’s not over yet.”

“Jesus,” John mutters.

Yelena crouches beside the corpse, pulling a face mask on. “Whatever killed him… it wasn’t clean. Look—edges look fried. Something cooked him from the inside out.”

Yelena’s eyes darken. “A weapon?”

“Or a test subject,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The words slip from your lips cold and heavy. Everyone looks at you.

You know that smell. You know that tear pattern.

So does the Umbra.

It presses against your ribs, restless. Hungry.

Whatever happened here—it’s not over.

Not even close

The deeper into the facility you go, the less it feels like a place built by people.

The overhead lights flicker every few feet, casting long stuttering shadows that stretch too far, twitch too fast. The concrete halls are warped with age and something else—something like heat damage or claw marks, but neither makes sense. Not here. Not in what was supposed to be an abandoned research wing.

Bucky sweeps corners with practiced ease, his voice low in your comms: “Clear.”

Yelena, beside you, makes a face. “Not exactly welcoming.”

You’re quiet. Not because you don’t have something to say, but because if you speak you fear the only sound that will come out are screams. You can feel it—like a migraine blooming behind your eyes. Your shadow hovers strangely beneath your boots, flickering like it wants to pull away and run.

A door creaks open up ahead. Something skitters across the floor just out of view—too fast, too quiet. Bucky holds up a fist. Everyone stills. You catch the faintest smell of copper.The room is colder than the rest. No bodies, no blood—just humming screens and a long stretch of steel tables littered with abandoned documents and old tech. Bucky signals for everyone to fan out, but it’s Yelena who finds it first—a cracked filing cabinet tucked behind a shattered console.

“Jackpot,” she mutters, tugging open the drawer. Dust kicks up. Her gloved hands flip through faded folders, fingers pausing when she finds one marked Project: Sentry – Phase I.

Bucky joins her, rifling through another stack. “These are all pre-dating Bob. Early trials, prototypes, names crossed out… Jesus.”

You drift toward a terminal still flickering with low power. Static spills across the screen until it stabilizes into a string of images—ID photos, vitals, timestamps. Your stomach knots. One of the faces stares back at you.

You.

Not the version in the mirror now—but younger, gaunt-eyed, scared. A file labeled Silhouette: Termination Failed.

Your fingers tremble above the keys. “We got what we came for,” you manage, voice too calm. “We should get out of here.”

But the air shifts.

Like something else has just started watching.

Then: static in the comms. A harsh crackle.

“…Hey guys. You’re gonna want to see this.”

The transmission cuts out with a sharp screech.

Yelena mutters something under her breath, gun rising. Bucky glances at you.

Your chest is tight. The darkness in you coils, restless. Hungry. Not for blood—but for answers. For something old. Something left unfinished.

Immediately, you’re sinking into the shadows.

This place has more shadow than anything else—deep, tangled veins of darkness pooling in every crack of the ruined hallways. The blood-streaked walls are forgotten as your form melts through the floors and corners, the Umbra welcoming you like an old friend, like it knows where you’re headed.

You’re gone before Bucky can say your name. Before Yelena can curse and follow. The darkness swallows you in seconds, your body a blur of shadow and speed as you step-flit through the ruin, weaving through blood-slick corridors like muscle memory—like you’ve done this before. Like the halls remember your footsteps.

You drop into existence beside John with a burst of shadow and a hiss of air.

He shouts, jerking back and nearly hitting Alexei in the process. “Jesus! A little warning next time, maybe?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re already staring into the room.

It’s untouched.

Unlike the others, there’s no blood here. No broken glass, no bodies slumped in the corners. Everything is pristine—clinical, preserved. Like it’s been waiting.

The white tile walls and sterile layout flicker against your vision. You blink—and for one nauseating second, you’re back in Sokovia. Back in that observation cell they called your bedroom. That cage dressed up as a home.

The echoes are wrong. Too real. Too sharp.

You step forward, glass crunching beneath your boot. Your breath trembles.

There, standing in the center of the room, is a man. Still. Silent. Back turned to you.

And your blood turns cold.

The Umbra reacts, seizing through your chest like it recognizes him before you do. Shadows crawl at your heels, flicking toward the reinforced glass like tendrils aching to touch something lost. Something once beloved.

You barely register Bucky, Yelena, and Ava entering behind you—don’t hear their footsteps or their questions. Don’t feel John’s hand briefly grip your shoulder, trying to bring you back.

All you can do is stare.

Because something about the slope of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his head—it knows you. Or it used to.

You lift a trembling hand to the glass. It fogs under your breath.

And that’s when he turns.

He looks at you—through you—and the world goes very still.

No flicker of recognition crosses his face. No warmth. Just dark eyes, flat and wrong, like a photo printed too many times. Eyes that should feel familiar.

But they don’t.

Except they do.

Your mouth parts. “No…”

He moves first.

The lights above shatter in a cascade of sparks, plunging the room into deeper shadow. Glass spiderwebs beneath your fingers. The man steps forward—not clumsy, not confused, but honed. His form ripples with power, the kind that thrums on a frequency you can feel in your teeth. His body fractures at the edges like something barely holding together.

A whisper crawls through the Umbra in a tongue only it remembers.

One of us.

He shouldn’t be alive. He wasn’t alive. You remember his screams. The blood. The silence that followed. You remember holding his hand when you were just kids in that place, when your hands still had skin and your shadows didn’t have teeth.

And now—

Now he moves like a monster.

“Everyone back!” you bark, too late.

He surges forward, hitting the glass like a wave of smoke and bone. It shatters, spraying shards outward. You pull the dark to shield the others, shadows slamming into place like a wall of solid black.

Bucky is already raising his arm. Yelena’s knives flash silver. They all rally behind you.

The figure emerges from the wreckage with a sound like static, like breath scraping through a throat that forgot how to speak.

Your breath catches. It’s impossible.

The Umbra inside you goes still. Not dormant, not calm—watchful. Like it knows something you don’t.

You lift a hand, trembling. It hovers between your chest and the others, not quite a shield, not quite a warning. “W-wait, okay… just wait.”

You step forward, your boots crunching glass. Light flickers against the walls, bouncing off broken monitors, syringes, shadows that stretch far too long.

“…Nine?” The name spills out like a secret. Like a prayer. You haven’t said it in years.

He lifts his head at the sound. No recognition in his face, only hunger. He twitches, like something inside him is puppeteering the flesh—jerky, disjointed, wrong.

Then everything ruptures.

He moves in a blur of black, like something poured out of a broken bottle. You barely manage to shove Yelena aside as he collides with you, shadows slamming together with a sound like cracking bone and burning ozone.

It’s like fighting a mirror that doesn’t know it’s supposed to reflect. His Umbra is louder, messier—undisciplined fury. Yours is quiet, precise, honed from years of surviving.

You throw him into the wall. He’s up before it crumbles. Slashes at your ribs. You retaliate with a jagged whip of darkness that wraps around his ankle and yanks, but he cuts it free with a claw of sharpened shadow.

“Stop!” you scream, ducking his next blow, not attacking. Not really. You don’t want to kill him. “It’s me—Seven!”

No answer. Only teeth. Too many. Too sharp.

You drag the fight down the corridor, away from the team, shadow-stepping backward faster than human eyes can track. He follows—howling, fractured, furious.

You crash through a medical wing. He tears through a gurney like it’s paper. You phase through a wall of lockers and reform on the other side, heaving. Blood drips from your side where he struck. You can feel the wound pulse in time with the growing dread in your chest.

“Nine, please—I saw your body. I saw you die. What did they do to you?”

He pauses.

A flicker.

He tilts his head. The shadows still for a heartbeat.

You take a step forward.

His eyes—too white, too wide—lock with yours.

And then he lunges.

He feints left, then phases through your attempted block and drives something jagged and cold into your abdomen. A shadow-forged blade, straight through.

You don’t scream. You can’t.

You stagger back, fingers clutching at the wound, trying to force the darkness to hold you together.

Nine looms above you, chest heaving. Some part of him hesitates. You think—hope—he might stop.

Then Yelena’s voice breaks through the hallway, and his attention shifts. He turns.

You throw yourself forward.

You take the full weight of his strike—knocking him back, away from them—but you collapse in the process. Your knees hit tile. You try to rise. Can’t.

Everything inside you howls.

Umbra writhes, thrashing in your blood. You try to stay solid, but your form flickers—part shadow, part bleeding girl.

“Nine…” you whisper again.

He stands at the far end of the hall, breathing hard. And for just one second—his head tilts again, slower this time. A blink of something human in that monstrous frame.

And then he vanishes.

You don’t remember falling.

Only the cold. And the way it suddenly doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

A/N: Some heavy Seven lore coming up pals and boy howdy Bob is going to be in a state when they get back. Cue worried and pathetic man who might just get a smooch by the end 👀

As always thanks so much for reading

Chapter 5: This is Love

Summary:

In the wake of a devastating injury Bob finds it difficult to reel in his emotions and comes to a realization. Yelena worries not just for you but for the man at your bedside.

The impact still echoes in the walls when he vanishes—like a scream swallowed too late. One moment he’s there, looming like the memory of a nightmare. The next, he’s gone. Dissolved into the dark.

But he leaves something behind.

The stench of ozone and blood. The warped warble of flickering lights. The claw marks he carved into the concrete with your body.

You’re left in his wake, crumpled in a tangle of shadow and bone, blood leaking like ink across the tile. It pools under your side, thick and hot. The Umbra stirs restlessly beneath you, trying to stitch you back together but failing. It trembles—like it’s grieving.

The hallway spins above you in jagged bursts of stuttering light. You catch sight of exposed wiring twitching from the ceiling like veins. Something hisses inside the vents—steam or breath, you can’t tell.

A breath.

Another.

Then—

“SEVEN!”

The name crashes into you like a thunderclap. Yelena’s voice—frantic, cracked—tears through the silence as her boots slam down the corridor.

She’s a blur of blond and black, moving faster than you’ve ever seen her. She skids the last few feet, dropping to her knees so hard the sound echoes. She nearly sends a shattered IV stand clattering across the floor.

“No, no, no—hey. Hey, stay with me.” Her hands are already moving, tugging at the torn edge of your suit, pressing hard into the wound. Her voice shakes, but her fingers don’t. Her fingers are steady. Trained. Furious.

You blink up at her, but she’s flickering—too bright, too close. Her outline shimmers like a broken projection. The whole room tilts and sways like it’s underwater.

Then Bucky drops to your other side with a thud, voice sharp and calm in that way that only happens when he’s scared. “Ava. Med kit. Now.”

He doesn’t look at your face—he’s already seen enough in your eyes to know. He’s scanning your side, jaw tight, one hand pressing over Yelena’s to help hold the pressure. “Don’t let her fade.”

You try to answer. Maybe it’s “I’m okay,” maybe it’s “Don’t let him leave.” It’s hard to tell. Your lungs stutter, your throat scorched and dry. You manage a breath, but it rasps out hollow, like it’s leaking from somewhere inside you.

Ava arrives fast, boots thudding on the tile. Her hands fly to the kit, snapping it open, but her gaze is fixed on your face—your eyes. She sees the blood. The gray at your lips. Her mouth hardens into a grim line.

John and Alexei appear behind her, slower. John’s shield is still in his hands, bloodied at the edge. His bravado’s been stripped away. He’s just standing there, stunned. Alexei mutters something in Russian—a prayer maybe, or a curse—as he fumbles to unwrap gauze with shaking fingers.

Yelena shifts so your head rests in her lap now, her arms curved around you like a cradle. She brushes the sweat-plastered hair off your forehead, her thumb trembling slightly as it passes over your temple.

“You absolute idiot,” she whispers fiercely. “You pulled him away from us. You saved us. But I’m not letting you die for it, Котик. You hear me?”

The name wraps around you like a thread—tender and jagged all at once. The shadows cling to your back now, curling protectively, not lashing out for once. They pulse like a heartbeat, weak and flickering. You don’t know if they’re keeping you alive or mourning you already.

You try to smile. Or maybe grimace. It doesn’t matter.

“B-Bob is…gonna b-be so mad,” you rasp.

Then you cough—once, twice—each one slicing through your chest like razors. You feel it before you see it: warm, coppery. Blood on your lips. Dripping down your chin.

Yelena’s hands go still for a second. Then she’s shouting. “We’re leaving. Now. That’s not a suggestion!”

“No argument here,” John says, stepping forward, eyes scanning the corridor like something might still lunge from the shadows.

You try to stay with them. Try to hold onto the blur of Yelena’s hair, the rough grip of Bucky’s gloved hand, Ava’s focused scowl as she works the needle into your side.

But it’s all fading.

The pain fades first. Then the light.

Then the edges of the world start to blur—bleeding out, like ink dropped in water. Your eyes blink slowly. Once. Twice. Each time, they take longer to reopen.

Voices get softer. Warmer.

Then farther.

Somewhere inside, the Umbra whispers your name—not as a call, but as a promise.

You think: Bob’s going to be a mess.

And then you stop thinking at all

~

The Tower is too quiet.

Bob’s not sure when he started noticing it. Maybe it was the third time he circled the living room with the mop, scrubbing at floors that were already clean. Or maybe it was earlier—when he stood in the empty kitchen for too long, holding a sponge like it might anchor him. The silence creeps in slowly, seeping under doors and into the walls like rising damp.

He tries to ignore it. Tries to be useful.

The floors gleam. The dishes are washed, dried, and stacked with mechanical precision. He scrubs the stovetop twice even though he didn’t cook today. Reorganizes the cabinets alphabetically. Then again by size.

It doesn’t help.

There’s a hum in his chest he can’t shake—a vibration beneath the sternum, like something’s trying to claw its way out. Not panic, exactly. But something worse. A premonition with teeth.

He drifts back to his room.

Books. He can fix the books.

He pulls every one from the shelves, lines them up on the floor. Fiction. Non-fiction. Mission reports. Paperbacks dog-eared by you. He stares at the spines until they blur, until he starts putting them back. He doesn’t like how quiet his breathing sounds. Doesn’t like how the light feels off. Like it’s dimmed a few degrees without permission.

He reorganizes them three times.

The Void stirs. Not loud. Not monstrous. Just… awake.

A ripple beneath the skin. A pulse where his shadow meets the floor. A thought: She’s not okay.

He swallows hard and pushes it down.

They’re fine. They’re with Bucky. With Yelena. He repeats it like a spell, a mantra, a lie.

But the anxiety never leaves.

By the time he’s dragging the laundry basket out of the hall closet, his fingers are shaking. He tells himself it’s because he hasn’t eaten. That he’s being dramatic. That sometimes your body lies to you.

He dumps clothes on the bed and begins folding. Slowly. Deliberately. His movements too careful, as if precision can fix the hollowness sitting in his chest like a stone. One shirt. Then another. Then socks.

He’s halfway through pairing a mismatched set when the thought hits—

If I were better, I could be out there. With her.

The socks fall from his hands.

He presses his palms into the comforter and breathes. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He feels the darkness reach for him like a hand over his shoulder. Not sudden. Not even malicious. Just there—the familiar scrape of self-loathing curled in gold-lit tendrils.

Always making things worse, the thought slinks by.

Too dangerous to help. Too broken to be trusted. Just a weight.

His hands curl into the blanket, breath shuddering. The Void’s presence creeps through him, stretching until his fingers twitch like they’re caught in static. He squeezes his eyes shut.

And then—

Fabric.

Worn, thin, soft at the edges. His hands brush against something in the laundry basket, and instinctively he pulls it free.

A shirt.

Your shirt.

It’s old. Faded. A small tear at the collar where the tag used to be. He turns it over in his hands, heart suddenly thudding with something entirely different.

You told him the story once. A quiet day in the shared laundry room just a couple weeks after you started to live together. You bought the shirt with stolen change, scavenged coin by coin from street grates and laundry machines. Said it was the first thing you ever owned that was chosen by you and you alone. “The first thing that was mine,” you’d said, voice soft. “And I picked it because it had a stupid cartoon bat on it and was the only shirt that wasn’t neon pink. It made me laugh.”

He presses the fabric to his chest. Smiles without meaning to. The memory blooming warm behind his ribs, washing away some of the dark.

You are sunlight through shuttered windows. Even now.

He doesn’t notice the jet at first.

Not until the hum of it breaks the quiet.

Not until the Tower security pings with an arrival alert—and the unease in his gut turns into something cold and immediate.

He drops the shirt.

And runs.

Bob’s halfway down the hall before he knows what he’s doing, hands clenched tight. His bare feet slap against the tile. The Tower feels colder somehow, quieter, like the walls are holding their breath.

He rounds the corner to the hangar just as the jet descends into the landing bay, engines whining in protest before powering down. The lights above stutter in time with the hydraulics, casting everything in flickering gold and shadow.

He slows. Forces himself to breathe.

They’re early.

That’s the first sign.

The second: the bay doors crack open not with the usual swagger or chatter, but with urgency. Controlled chaos. No one’s moving like it’s a normal return.

Yelena is the first one out—her face bloodless, jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone. She barks orders at someone behind her without looking back, one hand gripping her radio, the other smeared in something dark.

Ava follows. She’s not running—but she’s not walking, either. Her movements are stiff, frantic with purpose. She has a pack in her arms. Medical.

Then Bucky appears—and Bob stops walking.

Because he knows that face.

The controlled worry and fear. The one that says don’t panic because it’s already too late.

Bob’s lungs forget what they’re doing. A golden hum buzzing just beneath his skin.

They’re carrying someone.

Not just someone.

You.

He can’t see your face yet, not clearly—there’s too many shadows, too many people crowded around—but he can see how still your body is. The unnatural angle of your limbs. The sluggish way the shadows cling to you, not moving like they should. Not alive like they usually are.

His legs move before his brain does. He’s already halfway across the bay by the time Yelena sees him.

“Bob—” she starts, voice sharp, warning—but there’s no time for warnings.

“What happened,” he says. Not a question. Not a whisper. Something lower. Something cracked.

Nobody answers him.

Yelena looks at him and flinches. She flinches.

And that’s when the dread curdles fully into terror.

He tries to reach you—just one step closer—but Bucky’s there now, intercepting him with a hand to the chest.

“Let us get her stabilized,” Bucky says quickly, firmly, eyes tight with grief. “Bob. You have to let us get her help.”

“Let me see her,” Bob says, his voice rising, breaking.

Yelena’s already moving again, snapping into motion. She turns to the people they made sure would be here on arrival.

“Medical, now! She’s lost a lot of blood—go, go!”

A group of medical professionals who were on standby rush forward and take you. They disappear down the hall in a flurry of noise and rushing feet.

Bob stays frozen in place.

Something hot and unfamiliar wells up in his throat.

He felt it.

The whole time. The pressure. The ache. The creeping knowledge that something was wrong.

But he did nothing.

He folded laundry.

He rearranged books.

He stayed behind.

And now—

Now you might not make it back.

~

The medbay is too bright.

The kind of clean, clinical white that makes every wound look worse. The kind that reflects grief back at you, sterile and unblinking.

Bob stands motionless at the glass, hands curled into loose fists against the sill. He hasn’t moved in minutes. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink.

On the other side of the glass, you lie too still beneath the surgical lights. Pale, fragile, a tangle of wires and IVs and dried blood where the medics haven’t finished cleaning you up. There’s a tube down your throat and machines working overtime to compensate for the things your body can no longer do alone.

He counts the beeps.

He watches the monitor rise and fall and rise again—proof that you’re still here.

Just barely.

Yelena stands next to him, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s holding her own ribs in place. She hasn’t said much, not since they pulled her away from your side. Just stood there. Breathing. Bracing.

And then, all at once, it breaks loose.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice raw—strangled through her teeth like it’s costing her something. “I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve been faster. It should’ve been me.”

Bob doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t move.

Just slowly drags his gaze from your form on the table to Yelena beside him, the motion ghostly and slow, like his bones are moving through water.

His eyes are bloodshot. Unreadable.

Yelena flinches under the weight of it. Her mouth works like she wants to explain—but how do you explain this? How do you explain why you didn’t reach her in time? How do you explain the look on her face when she collapsed in your arms?

You don’t.

You can’t.

Bob’s gaze lingers on her a moment longer—then lowers. Not accusing. Just empty.

He should say something. Ask if Yelena’s okay. If she’s hurt. If she needs a shoulder to lean on. He should thank her for not leaving you alone. For trying. For surviving.

But the words don’t come.

His throat locks. His mind screams. His jaw clicks shut like a trap.

Inside the room, the beeping stutters once before finding its rhythm again. He jolts. Breathes.

The glass fogs slightly beneath his exhale.

He presses his forehead to it, gently—like maybe if he’s close enough, you’ll feel it. Like maybe his shadow might reach yours even through the divide.

Yelena doesn’t speak again.

She just steps closer. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t need to.

They stand there, side by side, two quiet ruins watching the person they both love cling to life beneath the too-bright lights.

Together.

Barely holding.

But not alone.

~

The room quiets long after the team’s voices fade.

After the rush of doctors and the sharp scent of antiseptic. After the blood has been scrubbed from the floor and the tubes taped down with shaking hands. After Yelena finally lets herself be pulled away, eyes rimmed red and jaw locked tight.

And then—just you and him.

Bob sits beside the bed, hunched forward like if he leans close enough he can breathe for you.

His fingers are curled tightly around yours. Not enough to hurt, but close. Close like he’s scared you might vanish if he lets go. Like your skin is the only thing anchoring him.

Your hand is limp in his. Still warm. Still here.

He hasn’t moved in hours.

Hasn’t spoken.

Hasn’t asked what happened.

Not because he doesn’t want to know, but because he’s afraid of what he’ll do when he finds out.

He knows they tried—Yelena, Bucky, Ava. He knows they would’ve torn the world apart to get to you faster. That whatever hurt you, whatever did this, must’ve been something awful. Something none of them expected. They’re just as broken as he is.

But it doesn’t stop the anger.

It simmers under his skin like wildfire beneath frost. Like the gold is just waiting for permission to rise.

The Void stirs, sensing it. Feeding on it.

Let me out.

No.

His jaw clenches, shoulders drawn tight. He inhales deep, through the nose, holds it for four counts, exhales slow. Again.

Again.

He won’t lose control. He can’t.

You need peace, not power. Safety, not spectacle.

He shifts in his seat, drawing closer. Eyes fixed on your face.

You look—

God, you look small. Smaller than he’s ever seen you. Swallowed by the wires and the bruises and the bandages. Not like the force of nature he knows. Not like the girl who stepped into a storm to save him from himself. Not like the one who pulled him back from the edge again and again with nothing but soft words and shadow-wrapped hands.

He swallows hard. His grip on your fingers tightens.

The machines beep steadily.

Each sound is a prayer.

A reminder you’re still here. That the thread hasn’t snapped.

He thinks of the shirt he folded earlier. The one you bought with stolen change, smiling like you’d tricked the world. The way you told the story—half laugh, half shame—and how he’d felt proud to know you. How he still does.

How he always will.

And then, finally, it hits him.

The weight of it. The shape of it. The truth of what’s been blooming in his chest for months like a slow-growing star.

If you don’t make it—

If he loses you—

It won’t just hurt. It’ll end him.

Because he loves you.

Not just in the way someone loves a friend. Not in the way someone loves their team, their partner in war.

But in the way you look at something broken and see beauty anyway.

In the way he sees home when he looks at you.

He bows his head, your hand pressed to his lips.

His voice is a whisper, ragged and raw:

“Please stay. Please. I’m not ready to lose you.”

The shadows in the corners of the room quiver.

But they don’t rise.

Not yet.

Only the gold hums, low and constant in his chest. Like it’s listening too.

Like it’s waiting.

~

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear hits your wrist.

It startles him. Not the fact that he’s crying—he’s done a lot of that lately—but how quiet it is. No sobbing. No gasping. Just the steady release of something too large to hold alone.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and careful. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you. The warmth still trapped in your skin.

His gaze drifts, unfocused, and the room begins to dissolve around him—replaced by something softer. Brighter. Safer.

Pancake mornings.

The first time you ever cooked together.

You were both a mess—him with batter on his cheek, you trying not to laugh while holding the spatula upside down. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and burnt sugar and something else—comfort maybe, or the ghost of childhood neither of you got to keep.

He remembers the way your brow furrowed when you concentrated, tongue poking out slightly in focus. The way you stuck the first ruined pancake to the fridge like it was art. The way your eyes lit up when he finally got one golden and perfect.

“Chef Sentry,” you teased, raising your spatula like a sword.

“Only for you,” he replied before he could stop himself.

You smiled. Warm and bright like the sun.

He filed that away and tried not to think too hard about why his heart kicked like that.

Another memory pushes it's way forward.

One of the many movie nights.

The one where you ended up asleep against his shoulder halfway through.

You never meant to. You’d start strong—blanket pulled around you, commentary locked and loaded, snarky remarks at the ready.

But then your body would soften. Head tilting against his side, breath evening out.

He never moved when you did that. Not an inch.

He’d sit there in the dim light of the tower’s media room, watching the end credits roll with you curled against him like gravity had made a decision on his behalf.

His arm would eventually fall asleep. He never cared.

It was worth it. Every time.

Another shift, his mind conjuring memories of you to hold himself together.

You’d started slipping book recommendations under his door.

At first, he thought someone was playing a prank. But then he opened the first one and saw the note scrawled in the margins:

“Read this one slow. The ending hurts in a good way.”

You never brought it up directly. Never said, “I thought of you when I read this.” But you didn’t have to.

You were always like that. Quiet in your kindness. Sharp in your softness. Gentle in ways that didn’t look like gentleness.

He devoured every book you left. Even the weird ones. Even the ones he didn’t understand.

And when he started leaving his favorites outside your door, you never said a word. You just kept the cycle going.

Passing stories back and forth like secrets. Like love letters no one dared sign.

Another moment, he eyes sunken and hollow as he looks at your too still face.

The way you always called him “Sweets.”

At first he thought it was just a joke. A teasing nickname to needle him.

But then came the day you whispered it—barely audible—after one of his worst spirals. You said it like a lifeline. Like a hand reaching down into the dark.

“Sweets,” you murmured, voice trembling. “Come back.”

And he did.

He always would.

He’s still holding your hand when the memories fade.

Still watching the way your chest rises and falls with labored breath.

Still fighting to keep the gold from bursting loose inside him.

He presses his forehead to your hand and lets out a shaky breath.

It’s not a question anymore.

He’s in love with you.

Has been, quietly and completely, for longer than he can admit.

His lips press to your hand like a kiss alone can wake you.

And if you wake up—

When you wake up—

He’ll find the courage to say it out loud.

Even if it breaks him open.

Even if he has to say it while you’re healing, while your voice is cracked and your eyes still fogged with pain.

He’ll say it.

Because the truth has teeth now. And if he doesn’t let it out, it’s going to tear him apart.

~

A hush hangs in the medbay like fog—too thick, too heavy. Machines hum steadily at your side, but each beep feels like a countdown no one understands. Bob hasn’t left. Not really. Not since they wheeled you in, limp and dripping shadows across the floor.

It’s been days.

Yelena’s soft footsteps echo down the corridor long before she enters. She’s carrying a tray of something warm—rice, maybe. Soup. It’s hard to tell. The smell doesn’t matter. She sets it on the table beside him with a sigh.

“You have to eat,” she says. It’s not a command this time. Just a weary plea.

Bob doesn’t look up. His fingers are still wrapped around yours, knuckles white with effort. He doesn’t need to check if you’re breathing—he can hear it, see it in the rise and fall of your chest—but he checks anyway. Every few seconds.

Yelena doesn’t push. Instead, she crouches beside him, hand running gentle fingers through your hair. She looks older now. Heavier. Her voice lowers. “You are going to be pissed when you wake up Seven. Just look at our poor Солнышко,” she murmurs toward you, not quite joking. “Puffy eyes. Sunken cheeks. Total mess.”

Bob snorts. Just barely. A crack in the dam.

Yelena softens. “You saved us, you know that?” she says to him. “Back there. You weren’t even with us, and still—she held on because she had something to come back to. Said you were going to be so mad.”

Bob swallows hard, throat clicking. His voice is hoarse when it comes. “What happened?”

Yelena hesitates.

It’s Bucky who answers from the doorway. Quiet. Solid. “We found the files. The lab was a graveyard, but… he was still there.” He pauses. “She knew him. Called him Nine. Said he died a long time ago.”

Bob’s eyes flicker, finally pulling away from you.

“He didn’t remember her,” Bucky continues. “But he knew the Umbra. Knew how to use it. They collided before we could intervene. It wasn’t a fight. It was a storm.”

Yelena wipes a hand over her face. “She didn’t even hesitate. Pulled him away from us. Saved our lives.”

Bob nods slowly, eyes red and raw, but listening.

Bucky steps forward, voice gentling. “We’re going after him. Soon. But right now, she needs you here.”

Bob grips your hand tighter. “She has… she has to wake up.”

“She’s will,” Yelena says, firm and immediate. “You think she’d leave you here looking like this?”

He almost laughs. Almost. But instead, he picks up the spoon and starts eating—slowly, mechanically. Because if he doesn’t, you’ll be angry. And he still wants to believe you’ll wake up.

~

You blink up at a ceiling you don’t recognize.

White. Unmoving. Too bright.

The kind of sterile lighting that hums—not from a bulb, but from somewhere deep in your skull. Distant. Cold. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach knot. For a moment, you’re still drifting—your limbs too heavy, your breath too shallow to be yours. But then the scent reaches you.

Not antiseptic. Not blood.

Laundry detergent. Faint cologne. A little sweat.

Bob.

You turn your head slowly, neck stiff and aching. The motion makes something behind your ribs twist and burn, but you welcome the pain—it’s proof you’re here.

Not gone.

There, just beside the hospital bed, he’s slumped forward in a chair. His head is resting on his folded arm, the other hand still wrapped tightly around yours like he never let go. His fingers are rough, too warm. His grip ironclad. You doubt you could slip free even if you wanted to.

You don’t.

His chest rises and falls with soft, uneven breaths. There’s the faintest twitch in his brow like whatever he’s dreaming about isn’t peaceful. His clothes are wrinkled—he hasn’t changed. His face is shadowed with exhaustion, eyes puffy, the corners crusted like he cried himself to sleep.

Like he’s been doing that for days.

You inhale slow and quiet, trying not to break the moment. Memories bloom behind your eyes—fractured, scattered, too bright. A face that shouldn’t exist. Blood. The scream that never left your throat. Nine.

Your chest tightens. You flinch—but push it down.

Later. You’ll ask Bucky. Later.

For now, you lie still and watch him sleep.

Bob, the quiet before the chaos. Bob, who still hasn’t let go. Bob, who looks like he’s holding on by the threads of a dream where you woke up sooner.

You lift your free hand with effort, each joint stiff, uncooperative. You run your fingers gently through his hair—matted and too long at the crown, like he hasn’t touched it since you left. He stirs beneath your touch but doesn’t wake.

His grip tightens instinctively, but his eyes remain closed. You want to speak again, to say something real. Something comforting. But all that escapes is another soft breath.

You watch him for a long while.

Longer than you probably should.

Each breath he takes is shaky, like his body doesn’t fully trust the air yet. Like even in sleep he’s waiting for something to go wrong. His head shifts slightly, cheek pressing further into the crook of his arm, lashes fluttering with whatever dream holds him.

You wonder if he’s dreaming about you.

The thought should make your heart race, but it doesn’t. Instead, it just hurts—a dull, familiar pressure behind your ribs. Like a weight you’ve been carrying without realizing it, something that’s finally settled in a place you can name.

Love.

It comes to you as soft as the light across his jaw. Not a thunderclap, not a scream. Just… truth. Still and sure and slow.

This is love.

Not the twisted, conditional thing they tried to teach you behind observation glass. Not the desperate, bruised affection you used to imagine in stolen moments of silence. This is something else. Something built in the quiet.

In the way he’s holding your hand like it anchors him.

In the memory of his shoulders brushing yours on the couch when neither of you could sleep.

In his terrible pancakes shaped like ghosts and stars.

In the way he lets you pick the movies, even the ones with too much blood.

In the nights he sat with you after nightmares, not asking questions, just breathing until you could breathe too.

You didn’t know it then.

Or maybe you did, but you were too scared to name it.

But now, watching him sleep beside you, eyes sunken with worry, lips still parted like he’s about to whisper your name.

There’s no other word for it.

You love him.

The realization doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like landing. Like you’ve been tumbling through darkness for years and only just found the ground.

You reach for him again, brushing a curl off his forehead, fingers lingering.

And then his eyes open—bleary, red-rimmed, the kind of tired that seeps all the way to the soul.

At first, he doesn’t react. Just stares at your hand like it couldn’t possibly be real.

Then he meets your gaze.

And everything breaks open.

Notes:

A/N: A long one here! I found it hard to decide where to end this one. Not sure if I wanted to carry the waking moment into the next one or not. I hope this is okay! I know I said there might be a smooch in this one but I couldn’t really make it feel like the right moment so I apologize. I promise there will be confessions and smooches in the next one.

As always thank you for reading!!

Chapter 6: Spoken Out-loud

Summary:

There are stories buried in blood, names whispered through clenched teeth—and a kiss that says what words never could.
TW: mentions child abuse, violence and death

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Bob startles—but softly. A sharp inhale against your wrist. His head lifts slowly from where it’s been resting, his cheek still pink from the crease of his arm. And when his eyes find yours?

It’s the deepest blue you’ve ever seen, wide, disbelieving.

“Seven?” he breathes, voice cracking like he forgot how to use it.

You blink up at him, slow and heavy-lidded, the IV line tugging slightly as your hand lifts again to touch his face. Still fever-warm, still trembling. Your own voice barely makes it past your lips.

“Hi.”

That one word shatters something in him. Not painfully—more like a dam breaking after too much pressure. Relief pours out of him in a shaky, disbelieving laugh, his head dropping forward so his brow rests against your knuckles.

You feel a tear then another hit your skin, Bob’s tears of relief that have your heart clenching.

“You’re—Jesus, you’re awake. You’re awake.”

A whisper, reverent and raw.

You nod, weakly, and your thumb brushes the edge of his temple. He’s still holding your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. Maybe it is.

You watch him quietly, your heart thudding unevenly. The dark crescents under his eyes, the red rims, the fine tremble in his shoulders—he hasn’t slept properly. Not since the mission. Not since you collapsed into his arms bleeding and cold and almost gone.

“I thought I lost you,” he says. It isn’t fair, how small he sounds.

You should speak. Tell him you’re okay. Tell him he didn’t lose you.

But you don’t. You just keep stroking his hair and letting the silence sit, gentle and heavy between you, because the truth is—you don’t know what to say yet. You only know that you woke up and he was the first thing you saw. And that mattered more than anything else.

~

Time slips strangely in the wake of pain.

It could be minutes. It could be hours. Bob doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He just sits there, eyes locked on yours, barely blinking. Like if he looks away for even a second, you’ll vanish—like this is some fragile illusion he’s terrified to wake from.

His hand hasn’t left yours.

The silence between you stretches, not awkward or empty, but warm—filled with the soft hush of breath, the faint hum of machinery, the distant beat of something steady. Every now and then, your thumb brushes his. He returns the gesture automatically, as though you’re both checking—still here. Still real.

Eventually, when the fog in your mind begins to lift, you break the silence.

“W-what happened?” Your voice cracks like brittle glass. You flinch at the sound, throat dry and aching from disuse.

Bob is moving before the last word’s even finished, grabbing a nearby cup of water with trembling fingers. “Hold on—here. Small sips.” He presses it gently to your lips, watching every movement like it might shatter you.

You drink, grateful. Then lower the cup with a shaky breath. “Do you know what happened?”

Bob hesitates. “You don’t— uh you don’t remember?”

His voice is nervous. Too careful. And now your own stomach tightens. The way he says it—like the answer is something you might not want.

“I was with… Yelena and Bucky,” you murmur, eyes narrowing as you reach back into the haze. “We found the files. On Project Sentry. I remember…” Your voice trails off, face twisting at the memory of that flickering terminal. Of your own terrified face staring back from the file. Your designation stamped like a warning.

Silhouette: Termination Failed.

Bob nods slowly, sitting back beside you. His hand finds yours again without hesitation, thumb tracing a slow, grounding pattern over your knuckles.

You swallow hard, chasing the fragments in your mind. The bodies. The smell of copper and ash. The silence that screamed. And then—

You remember him.

Nine.

The shadows recoil in your chest like a struck nerve. Your heart lurches. Monitors spike in a flurry of beeping.

Bob reacts instantly.

“Hey—hey, look at me.” He’s on his feet again, both hands hovering helplessly before settling—one on your shoulder, the other cupping your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Deep breaths, yeah? Come on. In and out.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes.

It’s always easier when you do.

The storm eases under his gaze, like the rest of the world can wait. Like this room is the only place that exists.

You breathe in. Out. Again.

The machines quiet. Your pulse steadies.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to freak out. I just—god.”

Bob doesn’t let go. His voice is low, sure. “Don’t apologize. Not to me. Whatever it is… I’m here, okay? We all are.”

Something lodges in your chest at the sound of that. Too big for words. You close your eyes. Nod.

And then, slowly, you begin to speak.

You tell him about Nine. About the others. About the Silhouette Project and the children it swallowed whole. You speak in pieces, stopping when your voice shakes too hard, continuing when Bob squeezes your hand in silent encouragement.

You tell him about the boy who used to hold your hand in the dark. About the screams you both learned to ignore. About the moment you saw him—really saw him—in that white-tiled room, and how something inside you shattered.

Bob doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch. He just listens, his hand steady and warm in yours, his eyes soft with something like heartbreak.

You can’t meet his gaze when you speak again—not for this part. Instead, you watch your joined hands, how tightly your fingers are laced. Yours white-knuckled. His unwavering.

The moment you thought Nine died is carved into your memory like a brand.

And now you return to it, dragging him with you.

~

“There were only four of us left.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, like if you say it too loud the memory might wake up and devour you.

“Out of fifteen. Maybe more. I never knew the full number. They kept us in separate rooms for most of it—boxes painted like bedrooms. But once a week, they’d let us out. Supervised. Like letting wolves sniff each other’s cages. That hour? That was my favorite part of the week.”

You pause, breath catching. Bob’s thumb brushes against your knuckle in silent encouragement.

“But each week… the number got smaller. One week Five just didn’t show up. Next it was Ten. Then Twelve. We were never told what happened. Just smaller groups. More silence. By the time I was eleven, only four of us were left.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“We didn’t have names. Just numbers. But we still found a way to make each other real.”

You let the images rise—like ghosts caught in fog, half-formed but sharp enough to cut.

“Three was older. A teenager, already hardened around the edges. She had this strawberry blond hair that looked like the sunrise—like something from outside, from a world we weren’t allowed to remember. She pretended not to care. Called me annoying, said sweets were for babies… but she always gave me hers anyway. Every time. Just dropped them into my hand without looking. And I always smiled, and she always pretended not to see.”

Your voice grows quieter.

“I remember the sound her neck made when it broke under Nine’s foot.”

Bob tenses beside you. But he says nothing.

“Fifteen was the youngest. He had this wild red hair and more freckles than skin. He followed me around like a shadow. Always asking questions. Always folding paper into cranes because I taught him once and he never stopped.”

You draw in a ragged breath.

“The day it happened, I was showing him how to make the wings neater. His hands were too small, he kept folding them crooked, and I was laughing—really laughing. Then something wet hit my cheek.”

You lift your hand now, like you can still feel it.

“I thought it was water at first. A leak or something.”

But you don’t need to say it.

Bob already knows it wasn’t water.

“I turned my head and he wasn’t there anymore. Just… pieces. Blood on the floor. Bone showing through the tear in his neck. His eyes were still open. One of his cranes soaked red and half-folded next to him.”

You feel Bob’s grip tighten. Not painfully. Just grounding.

You go on.

“The shadow that killed him was shaped like a blade—like a jagged piece of night peeled off a nightmare. I followed it back with my eyes and—there he was.”

“Nine.”

The name cracks in your throat like ice.

“He was standing there. But it wasn’t him. Not really. He looked like me—same hair, same eyes—I think…I think he might of been my biological brother at one point. But when I looked at those same eyes we shared they weren’t… his. They were wrong. Bottomless. Like he’d forgotten what a face was supposed to be. Like something else was behind his skin wearing him like a costume.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until Bob’s thumb brushes the wet from your cheek.

“I didn’t move at first. I didn’t scream. Just took a step back. Then Three screamed for both of us. This raw, broken sound that made the lights flicker. I think she lunged at him—I think she tried to stop him.”

You blink. The image returns too clearly.

“But he didn’t even hesitate. He caught her by the throat. Lifted her like she was nothing. And then—”

You stop. You don’t say it.

You just mimic the motion. A downward stomp. The sickening crunch of cartilage and bone.

“I remember falling backward. Scrambling into a corner. The shadows were screaming. They wrapped around me without me telling them to—coiled like a shield. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look away. I thought he’d kill me next.”

Your voice trembles, but you push through.

“And then… the sound of a shot.”

You look past Bob, not seeing him now—only that blinding flash. The silence that followed.

“Right through the side of his head. I don’t know who fired. Maybe one of the guards. Maybe a scientist who realized they’d gone too far. But Nine dropped. Just like that. Like someone unplugged him. And then it was just me.”

You swallow hard. Your next words are barely sound at all.

“They left his body there. Left all of them. And me, curled in the corner. Blood soaking into my socks. The shadows holding me like arms that didn’t know how to comfort. No one spoke to me. No one explained. They just… moved me to a new room the next day. Like it never happened.”

You look at Bob again.

And something in your voice breaks completely.

“I was eleven. And I was the last one left.”

~

For a long moment, the room is utterly still.

Only the soft whir of machines and the distant hum of the Tower beneath them—nothing human. Nothing loud enough to disturb the weight of what you’ve just said.

Bob’s hand is still wrapped around yours, but now his grip has gone loose. His knuckles pale, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

You finally lift your eyes to his.

And what you see there is unbearable.

Not pity. Never that.

But grief.

For you. For the girl you were. For the blood-soaked memory you just relived. His face twists with something that has no words—something splintered and silent and holy.

He moves before you can stop him.

One hand rises to your cheek, trembling slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too hard. The pad of his thumb traces beneath your eye again, wiping away a tear that never had a chance to fall.

“Seven…”

It’s not a question. It’s not even a sentence. Just the sound of your name shaped like heartbreak.

He leans forward, forehead gently resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. And for a second you just sit there, pressed together at the brow, his hand cupping your face like you’re the most fragile thing in the world.

“I don’t…” He swallows thickly. “I don’t have words for this. I wish I did. I wish I had something better than—I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes. Let the warmth of him bleed into your skin.

“I wish I could go back,” he whispers. “Find you in that room. Take your hand. Pull you out of there. Like in the void”

You feel his fingers twitch like he’s imagining it. Like he’s reaching for the child version of you, curled up in the shadows, alone and covered in blood.

“I wouldn’t let them leave you,” he says, voice tight with something sharp and golden underneath. “I’d tear the place apart.”

You open your eyes again. Bob’s are already locked on yours.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” you murmur, voice raw. “Just… this is enough.”

But he shakes his head, swallowing hard. “No. No, it’s not. You’ve carried this—alone. For so long. And you shouldn’t have. Not for one second longer than you had to.”

You flinch slightly at that. Not because he’s wrong. But because no one’s ever said it like that before. Not with such furious, aching gentleness.

He leans back just enough to look at you fully, still cradling your cheek.

“I know I can’t fix it. Can’t undo what happened. But I can stay. I can make sure you never feel like you’re back in that room again. Not while I’m breathing.”

Your heart lurches.

His voice dips softer now. “You don’t have to talk about it again unless you want to. And I won’t ask. But I want you to know I’m here. All—All of us are. You never have to be left behind again. This team…the people on it— they will fight tooth and nail for you and ..and so would I. Okay?”

There’s something in his gaze that terrifies you more than the memory did.

Because it's real genuine care. For you.

And it’s not loud. Not fiery or wild. It’s something steadier than that. Like gravity. Like a constant pull.

You’re too tired to cry again. So you just hold onto his hand like you’re afraid of waking up to find this was a dream too.

You’re asleep before you know it. Missing the way he brushes your hair out of your face or when he presses a kiss to your knuckles, soft and reverent.

And in the silence that follows, for the first time in a long time, the shadows feel like they’re at rest.

~

Later, when the sun has dipped low enough to cast gold against the white walls, Yelena and Ava return—quiet, firm, and clearly on a mission.

Yelena doesn’t even knock.

She strides in like the room belongs to her, nods once at you, then turns to Bob and jerks her chin. “Out.”

Bob stiffens in the chair beside your bed, bleary-eyed and stubborn. “I’m not—”

“She needs to rest. And you need to shower before the shadows start peeling off your skin to escape the smell.”

He opens his mouth, indignant, but you gently squeeze his hand, and he glances down at the gesture. You nod, just enough. He softens.

“I’ll go update Bucky,” he murmurs. “Just… the basics, yeah? Nothing unless you want it said.”

You squeeze again. “Tell them. They need to know. I can’t—I won’t—leave this one alone.”

His brow creases, but he doesn’t argue. You’re not sure he could if he wanted to.

Bob squeezes your hand before letting it go and rising from the chair, a long reluctant exhale slipping from him like he’s leaving part of himself behind. He brushes a hand over your shoulder before stepping out.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence falls again, but this time it feels less like grief and more like air refilling your lungs.

Then Ava plops onto the edge of your bed with a sigh, handing you a warm mug filled with something cinnamon-sweet. “Drink. Doctor’s orders.”

“Which doctor?” you rasp, lips twitching.

She shrugs. “The one that says something warm always helps.”

You take the mug.

Yelena’s hand comes to rest on the back of your neck, firm and grounding. Not possessive. Not hovering. Just… there. Holding you in place when your mind wants to spiral back into that room. Into Nine’s eyes. Into the wreckage.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“You scared the shit out of us you know. Not in scary spooky shadow way…we thought we lost you for a second” Yelena’s voice scolding but genuine and soft.

“You just rushed ahead… faced that man head on to protect us I’m assuming? Or him?” It isn’t accusatory, just a calm gentle prodding to fully understand what happened to cause such a visceral reaction from you.

The guilt is still there, buried beneath your ribs like something barbed, but it feels quieter with them here. Quieter with heat in your hands and a touch at your back.

You stare into your mug, voice barely audible. “He was my brother.”

Yelena doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to. You can elaborate if you want to but she won’t press, just listens patiently.

“I left him there. All this time, and I—”

“No,” Ava cuts in. Not unkind, but sharp. “They took him. You were a kid.”

“I got out.” Your voice cracks. “I got out, and I didn’t look back.”

Yelena’s fingers flex, thumb pressing just behind your ear. “You survived. And you looked back every damn day. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

You breathe again.

Then—like she’s flicking a switch—Yelena hums thoughtfully. “You know,” she says, leaning against the windowsill with mock casualness, “Bob cried on me.”

You blink. “What?”

“The second night. Wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. Looked like someone dragged him backward through the mud and then kicked him into the floor for fun.” She shrugs trying to cover the obvious worry she holds for the two of you. “He was pretty devastated, all crying big stupid tears and looking like a hurt puppy”

Ava grins. “You should’ve seen him pacing the med bay. Thought he was gonna wear a trench in the tile.”

“He refused to leave your side. Wouldn’t let anyone else hold your hand. Like it was some kind of… tether. Like he was keeping you here.”

Your cheeks heat. You glare weakly at them over the rim of your mug before taking a sip to keep silent.

Yelena smirks. “What? You have to know he’s in love with you.”

You choke.

Ava just raises a brow, utterly unbothered. “Oh, come on. It’s not subtle. The way he looks at you? Like the sun’s gonna go out if you blink too long.”

You shake your head. “No. No, we’re just… close.”

“Sure,” Yelena says, unimpressed. “So close he hasn’t smiled properly since you left the Tower.”

“So close he almost swallowed up half the building when we brought you back in bleeding,” Ava adds, tone gentler now. “So close I’ve never seen him that scared. Not even in his own rooms of his worst moments or fears.”

You look away, mouth suddenly dry.

Your pulse flutters in your throat. Because the truth is—you’re scared.

Not of Ava or Yelena, not even of the teasing. But of what it might mean. Of what it would change.

What if they were wrong?

Bob and you share something strange and sacred. A bond carved out of shadows and survival. You’ve bled in the same places. Carried the same darkness in your chest like a second, monstrous heart. You’ve calmed each other in silence. Grounded each other when the world cracked wide open.

But what if that’s all it is?

What if his feelings only go that deep? Kinship. Familiarity. A reflection of his worst pieces in you and yours in him. Not love. Not real love.

What if you’re reading this all wrong?

He sees you—truly sees you—but does he want you? Or does he just understand the monster well enough not to flinch?

The thought curls behind your ribs like smoke. You wrap your hands around the mug tighter, as if that warmth can chase the doubt away.

Yelena’s still watching you, eyes soft beneath the mischief. “He didn’t leave your side,” she says again, voice quieter now. “Not once.”

Yelena continues to voice what you’ve been trying to ignore for so long “you like him back too. You have to know that yes?”

You look away sharply, “No I don’t have to know that, how would anyone know something like that” even to you your point sounds weak.

Ava snorts, “You stare at his hands like they hold the universe, babe.” Then gently, she leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. “You don’t have to decide what it means. But don’t lie to yourself about what you already feel.”

And you do know…you do know what you feel. But will it be enough?

You glance toward the door Bob left through. It’s been maybe ten minutes. It feels like a year.

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can.

But the next time you breathe, it comes a little easier. The warmth in your chest doesn’t feel so sharp.

And somewhere, beneath the fear, is the fragile echo of a thought you’re not ready to name:

You want him to come back.

~

Bob rounds the corner, hair still damp from the shower, the scent of your soap clinging faintly to his skin like some quiet way of keeping you close. He’s got one of your favorite books tucked under his arm—creases in the spine, a frayed corner, and the faint shadow of your handwriting in the margins.

He’s halfway to your door when he sees Yelena.

She’s leaning against the wall across from your room, arms crossed, boots planted, her expression unreadable but her body language sharp. The kind of stance that means business.

Bob falters, slowing to a nervous shuffle. His heart starts thudding before she even says a word.

“Yelena?” he asks, clutching the book a little tighter. “Is—did something happen?”

The anxiety in his voice is immediate, raw. His eyes flick to your door, then back to her. “Is she okay? What—what happened? Did her vitals drop again? Is she—”

Yelena groans and straightens up, waving him down like he’s an overexcited dog. “Relax, Солнышкo. She’s fine. Resting.”

Bob exhales sharply, almost staggering under the weight of that relief.

Then Yelena pins him with a look.

“But we need to talk.”

Bob blinks. “O-okay? About what?”

Her arms cross again. “About how you’re going to tell her you’re in love with her.”

He chokes.

The two of you reacting the same brings a smile to her lips.

“Wh—what? I don’t—I mean I—what are you even—?”

Yelena tilts her head, unimpressed. “You look like you’re about to pass out every time she smiles at you. You always sit next to her during movie nights sometimes even forcing your way in. You literally can’t fall asleep without talking to her” She steps forward, tapping his chest gently. “This? It’s not subtle.”

Bob opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“I didn’t… I mean maybe I do but I—”

Yelena rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in her skull. “Bob. Everyone knows. The only person who doesn’t is her. And that’s because she’s got years of trauma telling her no one could love someone like her.”

He flinches at that, and her expression softens.

She places a hand gently on his shoulder. “Trust me,” she says, quieter now. “She needs to hear it from you. Needs to believe that this—what’s between you two—it’s real. Don’t wait for something else to go wrong. Don’t wait until you’re standing over another hospital bed wishing you’d said something.”

Bob stares down at the book in his hands. Your name written in the corner of the inside cover. A doodle of a tiny moth scribbled next to it. He swallows hard.

“I just…” he murmurs. “I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to scare her off.”

“You won’t,” Yelena says simply. “Not if you mean it.”

She squeezes his shoulder, then steps back, glancing toward your door.

“She’s awake, by the way. Asked about you. Said she missed the way you snore like a broken air conditioner.”

Bob laughs, startled, a flush rising to his cheeks. He brushes a hand through his still-wet hair.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

Yelena nods, satisfied. “Go. Before I change my mind and lock you out.”

And Bob does. Heart pounding, book in hand, hope fluttering like a trapped thing in his chest.

~

The door hisses softly shut behind him.

For a second, Bob just… stands there. Inside the threshold, book still clutched like a shield, heart knocking against his ribs so hard it’s a wonder you don’t hear it from the bed. The room is dim, awash in warm lamplight and the steady hush of monitors. You’re propped up on a mound of pillows now, face paler than usual, shadows under your eyes, but you’re awake—really awake this time.

And you’re looking at him.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Hey,” you rasp, voice still rough from disuse, but a flicker of something like relief plays in your expression when you see it’s him.

Bob clears his throat. “Hey.”

He crosses the room in a few long steps, awkwardly hesitates at the edge of your bed like he’s unsure if he’s welcome, then slowly lowers himself into the chair beside you. It creaks beneath him like it remembers every hour he spent there before.

You glance at the book in his lap. “That mine?”

“Oh—yeah.” He offers a shy, crooked smile. “I, uh… I figured you might want it back. Or I could read to you. Or, um. Just hold it until you’re better. Or… whatever.”

Your lips tug up, tired but warm. “I’d like that.”

Bob fidgets, trying to settle. His hand hovers near yours, then pulls back. Then hovers again.

“Yelena told me you were awake,” he says after a beat, eyes flicking up to meet yours before dropping back down. “She also, uh… yelled at me a little.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What for?”

He goes beet red. “N-nothing important.”

You study him quietly. His hair is still damp, his clothes freshly changed, but there’s a hollowness to him still—something frayed at the edges, like he’s been holding himself too tightly for too long. You reach for him, fingertips brushing his wrist, and he startles like he wasn’t expecting the contact.

“You okay?” you ask.

He laughs softly, but it’s not a happy sound. “I should be asking you that.”

You don’t answer. Just let your thumb drag gently along the ridge of bone beneath his skin. His eyes flutter shut at the touch.

When he opens them again, you see something there you’re not sure you’ve seen before—something deeper than gratitude, something gentler than awe.

Something that terrifies you.

Your voice is small. “Bob, I—I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Weird?”

You hesitate. “After everything… after what I told you. About Nine. And the past. I just—if you’re only here because you feel like you have to be…”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, too quickly. Then, softer, “Please don’t think that.”

You bite your bottom lip, pulse skittering under your skin. “I just don’t want to ruin what we have. This… whatever this is. I don’t want to mess it up.”

Bob stares at you, like every word you’re saying is slowly undoing him. He leans forward a little, mouth parted like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out.

Then he drops his gaze to your joined hands. His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles. He swallows.

“You’re not going to mess anything up,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

You look at him—really look—and the breath catches in your chest.

Because it’s all there.

Every movie night. Every burnt pancake. Every shared joke. Every time he sat beside you in silence and called it comfort. Every moment he looked at you like you weren’t broken at all.

And it clicks.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Bob lifts his head. “Oh?”

Your voice is hoarse. “I think I’m in love with you.”

He blinks once. Twice. His entire body freezes.

Then—“Wh—what? You—you are?”

You nod, slow and solemn, like it’s some sacred truth that’s finally surfaced. “I didn’t know what it was. I thought I just… felt safe with you. Like I could be myself. I didn’t know that was love. Not until I saw your face when I woke up.”

Bob makes a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His eyes shine again, but this time it’s not from fear. “That’s—that’s really unfair,” he mutters.

You furrow your brows. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been in love with you for months,” he admits, face flaming, shoulders hunching like he’s just confessed a crime. “And Yelena just scolded me for not saying anything so I had this whole plan to tell you, and now you beat me to it.”

You blink once.

Then laugh.

It’s soft and hoarse and half-broken, but it’s real. And Bob laughs too, because of course he does.

He shifts closer.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin, close enough to count the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. His voice is hushed, careful.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches—caught between surprise and the terrifying hope that he means it the way you want him to.

“I—” Your voice falters, the weight of everything catching in your throat. You search his eyes, trying to read them, trying to make sure this isn’t just gratitude or proximity or fear masquerading as affection.

But his gaze doesn’t waver.

Those impossibly deep, storm-colored eyes hold yours like a lifeline, steady and sure in a way you don’t know how to be. For someone who was all stammering nerves and self-doubt just minutes ago, he suddenly looks like this—this—is the most right thing in the world.

And still, the fear flickers in you. You’ve never been good at this. At being wanted. At trusting it could be real.

But then his hand brushes against yours, fingers tentative but grounding, and he says your name like it’s the only one he wants to know for the rest of his life.

And you exhale.

Soft. Barely a whisper.

“Please.”

The space between you disappears with aching slowness. His hand lifts to your cheek, tentative, calloused thumb ghosting just beneath your eye like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His lips hover a breath away, giving you every chance to change your mind.

But you don’t.

Because despite the fear, despite the darkness and the monsters stitched into both your pasts—you want this. You want him.

And when he finally kisses you, it’s nothing like the world-shattering chaos you imagined.

It’s quiet.

Like snowfall on silent rooftops. Like the hush between heartbeats. Like home.

His lips are warm, reverent, trembling just slightly at the edges like he still can’t believe you said yes. You tilt your head and melt into the moment, every muscle in your body loosening like it’s the first breath you’ve taken in days.

There’s no hunger in it. No desperation.

Just a deep, aching relief.

A kiss full of I missed yous and I see yous and I would’ve waited a thousand years for this.

And when you pull back—only slightly, only to breathe—he stays close, forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed like he’s afraid if he opens them you’ll vanish.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he whispers.

You smile.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

Here it is folks! A look into Seven’s past and good old girl talk. Leading up to a confession. I hope it lives up to your expectations…I wanted it to be awkward and nervous. That feeling of not knowing if you’re the only one feeling this way. I think while Bob would find it hard to come to terms with being loved he is more focused on being there for you. And a smooch! Finally haha

I’m excited to keep growing their relationship from here and as always thank you so much for reading.

Chapter 7: Are we Enough

Summary:

Yelena talks Bob down from a spiral in the wake of your kiss and confessions. Sometimes healing means debating names for guinea pigs.
TW: mentions of abuse and trauma, talk of depression and self hatred

The Tower is quiet at night.

Not silent—not quite. The HVAC hums through the vents like a distant tide, and the low buzz of fluorescent light seeps through the cracks in the hall, but it’s the kind of quiet that stretches. That settles into your bones.

Bob sits beside your bed, legs drawn up, arms braced against his knees. The shadows in the corners feel thinner now, less like teeth. The weight on his chest lighter, but still there. Still watching.

You’re asleep, or close to it. Breathing steady, body curled slightly toward him beneath the blankets. Your face is soft in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before—unguarded. Peaceful, if only for a little while. It makes his chest ache.

He should go. Let you rest. But his legs don’t move. His hands don’t stop tracing invisible circles along the seam of his jeans.

And his eyes… well. His eyes never really leave you.

That kiss—

God, that kiss.

He’s replayed it a hundred times since you drifted off. The warmth of your breath when you said please. The tremble in your hands as they cupped his face. The way your forehead pressed to his like it was a promise. As first kisses go it definitely could have been worse.

He should feel weightless.

Instead, all he feels is the gravity of it.

Because now he knows.

Knows what it would cost him to lose you. Knows what it means to love someone like this—with the quiet, patient kind of love that roots itself in the everyday. In shared coffee mugs and movie nights and the way you always fall asleep during the second act. In fear. In awe.

It’s not the love that Valentina promised he would receive as a hero of the people. Not the love that is dependent on his deeds or worth.

It’s not the angry exhausting love that’s an obligation like the way his parents loved.

His fingers twitch like they want to reach for yours again, just to make sure you’re still real.

A memory flits behind his eyes: you laughing over burned pancakes. Your knee bumping his under the table. The way you offered him a fork with mock seriousness and said, “You like your food with the taste of fire and regret, right?”

He’d fallen in love right there.

No it was even before that. Maybe it was when you shielded him from a storm of bullets, or even before that when you nearly tore yourself in half trying to catch him from falling down the elevator shaft. He doesn’t know when he fell in love but he knows what it took to realize it.

Nearly loosing you? It left him raw and ragged, like someone had reached in and bent each of his ribs the wrong way. Like his heart was forced up into his throat to sit there and choke the light out of him.

He can’t imagine what he would be if you weren’t here. The comfortable laundry days, quiet mornings with coffee and books. The laughter when pranking the other members of the team, like wind chimes in his soul.

He can’t lose that.

He won’t.

Outside, the sky is just beginning to shift. A bruised purple bleeding toward gold. Dawn is coming.

And he’s terrified of what the morning will bring.

Bob’s eyes stay fixed on your hand, limp where it rests beside you. Just earlier, that same hand was woven into his hair.

You kissed him.

And the worst part—the part that turns his insides to ash—is that it felt like hope. Real hope. Like the world didn’t end in a fireball. Like maybe he could have this. Maybe he could be this—someone good. Someone safe.

But the thought curdles almost as quickly as it blooms.

Because he knows what comes after the high.

He always knows.

The crash is never gentle. Not for him. Not for the people around him. And now… there’s more at stake than ever.

His fingers twitch in his lap, suddenly too aware of the pulse of power under his skin—the golden hum that never fully sleeps. Most days he can ignore it, smother it under routines and deep breathing and good intentions. But sometimes… sometimes it wakes up.

Sometimes it likes the way his heart races when the panic creeps in.

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to your sleeping face. Peaceful. Trusting.

Too trusting.

What if I break this?

What if I break her?

He was never fully diagnosed, never saw a doctor properly. Just self medicated with whatever he could get his hands on. He knows the words: manic, depressive, mixed episodes, rapid cycling. It reads like a list of ghosts.

He knows how he gets.

The highs are giddy, electric—too bright and too fast. Like flying too close to the sun. He talks too much. Doesn’t sleep. Feels like maybe this time, he could fix everything. Save everyone. Sometimes he tries.

Then the lows. God, the lows.

The kind where getting out of bed feels like a battle. Where the mirror is a weapon. Where silence tastes like rot and every shadow whispers the same thing: You’re a danger. You’re a burden. You’ll hurt them.

You’ll hurt her.

His breath stutters, chest tightening with the weight of it. One hand drifts toward yours, stops just short of touching.

How is he supposed to love you—this good thing, this light in his fractured little world—when he can’t even trust himself?

He wants to be better. Wants it so badly it feels like it might split him open. But wanting doesn’t stop the dark from curling up beneath his ribs. It doesn’t erase the memory of what he’s done. What he’s become.

Sentry. The Void. The boy who cried in his attic, his insecurities and trauma laid bare.

You stir, just faintly, and he freezes. Watching. Waiting. Not breathing.

But you settle again, deeper into sleep.

And Bob—he sits back, hands clenched tight in his lap.

He won’t wake you.

He won’t lose you either.

He needs to figure this out so he can be the man you deserve.

There's footsteps outside the door before it clicks open softly.

Bob startles, blinking hard as he yanks himself out of the spiral. He swipes a hand under his eyes, but not fast enough.

Yelena pauses in the doorway, a takeout cup of coffee in one hand and a raised eyebrow on her face. She glances at you—still peacefully asleep—then at Bob. Her expression shifts.

Not annoyed. Not nosy.

Just… understanding.

She steps inside, softer than usual, like she doesn’t want to startle a wounded animal.

“You look like someone just told you they don’t like puppies,” she says quietly, leaning against the wall.

Bob tries to laugh, but it comes out wrong. Tight. He stands abruptly, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, head ducked like a reprimanded schoolkid.

“I—she’s asleep,” he mutters, stating the obvious.

Yelena studies him for a long moment. Her eyes, sharp as razors in a fight, are gentler now. Still observant. Still cutting—but kinder.

“You confessed.”

It’s not a question.

Bob flinches. “How—how’d you—?”

“You’re acting like someone who either got rejected,” she says, stepping forward to nudge his shoulder lightly with her knuckles, “or is terrified he’s about to be.”

He looks away, jaw tight. “I—I didn’t actually. It was Seven she…just said it.”

“And?” she prompts.

Bob swallows hard. “And she thought she was going to be the one to mess it up. That she was going to make whatever we had weird. And then she just said “oh” like everything clicked into place just then…and we kissed.” His voice trembles at the memory of your lips on his.

Yelena hums. “So why do you look so worried? If she feels the same then why do you look like she said she hates you?”

Bob huffs a frustrated sigh and runs a hand through his hair “because what if she’s wrong? What if what she’s feeling is pity for a broken thing that’s too much of a disaster to leave alone?”

His outbursts actually startles Yelena for a moment before she fully grasps the problem. “Ah. So you kissed the girl who’s half shadow monster and half traumatic childhood nightmares and you think you’re the one who’s too much?”

Bob looks up at her, startled.

She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Come on. You need pancakes. And a distraction before you implode.”

He hesitates. “I should stay here. In case she—”

“She’s still breathing. You’re still spiraling. If she didn’t wake up at that little outburst she won’t anytime soon. Come help me make breakfast or I will drag you into the kitchen by your stupid flannel.”

Bob blinks. “I’m not wearing flannel.”

“Yes. But you give off flannel energy.”

And somehow, it works. He follows with a shake of his head and an incredulous chuckle.

~

The kitchen is familiar and grounding, the counters reflecting the warm golden hue of the sun rising with each passing moment.

Yelena hands Bob a bowl and a box of pancake mix. No words. Just quiet steps and clinking utensils. A shared rhythm.

It helps.

The normalcy. The simplicity. Stirring instead of spiraling.

They move around each other with ease, two people used to kitchens filled with other people’s chaos. Eventually, Yelena starts slicing strawberries. Bob flips a pancake. The smell fills the room—warm, nostalgic.

She breaks the silence first.

“You know,” she says, “every one of us has our own void.”

He glances up.

“I don’t mean like your Void,” she adds, smirking. “Yours has capital letters. Scary voice. Big drama. But the rest of us—we’ve got shadows too.”

She points the knife vaguely. “Bucky with all his guilt and loss. Ava is still fighting the fact that her body is constantly in an unstable rhythm of phasing in and out of existence. John, even—he acts like an ass but we’ve all seen how fast he shuts down when he thinks someone’s disappointed in him or family is mentioned.”

She stirs the fruit into a bowl. “The rooms. The ones that pulled all that out of us? They didn’t have to dig very deep. We live with that stuff. Every day.”

She meets his eyes.

“And Seven? She knows monsters. But she also knows you. She’s not confused about what you are. Not what you are to her or who you are as a person. You’re a good man Bob”

Bob’s voice is barely a whisper. “But what if I hurt her? Not like physically —but just… being me. Being too much.”

Yelena sighs, crossing to him and placing a hand over his on the counter. “You don’t scare her, Bob. You don’t scare any of us.”

He doesn’t respond.

“She’ll be scared for you sometimes, yes. Because she loves hard and fast and all at once. She will probably be scared of herself the same way you are of yourself.”

He breathes out slowly. Something trembles under his ribs, loosening just a little.

“I bet you more than anything I will be having this conversation with her as soon as we are alone.” She presses further, playful grin on her lips.

“She kissed you, yes?”

He nods, cheeks flushed.

Yelena leans closer, playful. “Then she’s already doomed.”

He laughs—really laughs—and it’s the first time it doesn’t sound like a crack trying to hold in water.

They finish the pancakes in peace.

~

When your eyes open, the first thing you register is light—soft, gold-edged morning light filtering through the curtains and painting quiet stripes across your blanket.

The second thing is absence.

You blink slowly, breath catching when you realize Bob isn’t next to you. The hand that had been wrapped around yours for what felt like days is now just a warm ghostprint. You sit up a little too fast, body protesting, and a flicker of worry coils sharp beneath your ribs.

But before panic can bloom—

The door swings open.

“—I think Cucumber is a perfect name for our tiny friend,” Yelena’s voice chirps, smug and unbothered.

A more nervous voice follows, mortified: “You named your guinea pig to mock me for almost dropping us a mile down an elevator shaft—”

“That wasn’t you. That was John, remember?”

They round the corner into your room mid-bicker, a tray balanced carefully between them, stacked with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and juice. Yelena has her hair tied up in a spiked ponytail, and Bob’s hoodie sleeves are still damp, like he tried to dry his hands on the way up and failed.

You snort. The sound hurts—but in a good way. Something in your chest loosens.

They freeze.

And then both their faces light up like someone flipped a switch.

“There she is,” Yelena grins, striding forward like she hadn’t been caught giving her rodent a passive-aggressive name. “About time, Котёнок.”

Bob’s eyes go wide with something too big for relief. He makes it to your side in three steps, barely resisting the urge to drop the tray and just hold you. “Hey,” he says softly, like the word’s a secret. “You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately,” you rasp, your voice scratchy from disuse.

Yelena drops the tray on your bedside table and flops onto the bed, cross-legged like she owns the place. “Don’t worry. You didn’t miss much. Bob was being dramatic so I pulled him into making us yummy food.”

Bob flushes. “I wasn’t—okay, maybe a little dramatic.”

You tilt your head. “Little?”

“Listen okay it was stressful being left here and I might have rearranged every book in the tower and then you came back but—” he admits sheepishly. “Yelena said if I didn’t sleep, she’d sedate me.”

“She still might,” Yelena mutters.

You laugh—just a puff of air, really—but it’s real. And then Bob sits beside you again, right where he belongs, his hand slipping into yours like nothing ever changed. Like everything did.

And for a while, that’s all you need.

Warm pancakes. Dumb stories. A hand in yours. The feeling of being home.

You’ve barely taken a bite of pancake before Yelena leans in conspiratorially, chin propped on her hand, eyes gleaming.

“So,” she begins with faux casualness. “Do you want to know how Cucumber came to be?”

Bob groans quietly beside you. “I already know this story ends with my humiliation.”

“Shhh,” Yelena hushes him. “Let me tell it, Солнышко. It’s important.”

You glance between them, amused and confused. “Okay, wait—Cucumber is real? I thought you were joking.”

“I never joke about small rodents,” Yelena says solemnly. “Especially not heroic ones.”

Bob puts his face in his hands. “Please don’t.”

Yelena ignores him entirely. “So. Malaysia. Months ago. Mission to wipe one of the last Sentry-adjacent labs Valentina was still pretending didn’t exist.”

Your fork pauses midair. “You blew up a lab?”

“She blew up the lab,” Bob mutters from behind his hands.

You recall the lab that you all were in for your final fight with the Void. You look at Yelena, eyebrows raised, “you did say you had been there before…”

Yelena shrugs, like it was Tuesday. “Valentina was already trying to get rid of all the evidence. I just… accelerated it.”

You stare at her, incredulous. “And you found a guinea pig?”

“Actually, in the same room from Bob’s memory,” she nods. “Poor thing was stuck in a maze-like enclosure next to busted cabinets and a bunch of broken vials. He was squeaking so loud I thought he was a distress alarm.”

You try not to laugh, but fail. “So naturally, you rescued him.”

“I extracted him,” she says with a smug grin. “Heroically. From fire and explosions.”

Bob mumbles, “I remember that little guy actually.”

“He is impossible to forget,” she adds.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you named him… Cucumber?”

“After Bob,” she says, perfectly straight-faced.

Your face twists. “Why Cucumber?”

“Because,” she says, slapping Bob’s arm playfully, “you remember! Cucumber cucumber! Sneeze repellent!”

Bob gasps. “It didn’t even work!”

Yelena snorts. “No but we had a group of trained killers yelling cucumber. It was very fun.”

You’re wheezing now, the sound cracking through your sore chest like sunlight through stormclouds. Bob looks vaguely betrayed, but even he’s fighting back a smile.

“Cucumber…” he mutters, sliding your juice closer. “He’s a good guinea pig. Skittish. Judgmental. But good.”

“Just like you,” Yelena teases.

“Great,” Bob deadpans.

“You know…” you start, picking absently at your nails as you lean back into the pillows, “I didn’t know what a guinea pig was before living here.”

Yelena blinks. “What do you mean, didn’t know?”

You shrug, smile a little sheepishly. “No exposure to, uh… animal education in the lab. You’d be surprised how low animal enrichment is on the Hydra curriculum.”

Bob snorts beside you, and Yelena throws an arm around your shoulder like she’s trying to shield you from the shame of it all. “Unacceptable. That’s abuse. Every child should know about the sacred Potato Rat.”

“I’m serious!” You laugh now, cheeks warm. “When Bucky told me we were going to have a cat and a guinea pig, I thought he meant like… an actual pig. Like a miniature swine. I had this vivid image of you walking one on a leash around the compound.”

Yelena lights up. “You thought we had a swine for a pet? I wish!” She elbows Bob. “Bob, we need a pig.”

Bob looks up from the tray of food, bewildered. “I—what? No. I—Cucumber already poops enough, we are not getting a pig.”

“They’re actually really smart,” you offer, teasing.

“And surprisingly clean,” Yelena adds.

“I’m not arguing their intelligence,” Bob defends, laughing. “I’m just saying the Tower is not zoned for a petting zoo.”

“Oh my god,” you deadpan, pointing your fork at him. “Is that… Is that the first time I’ve ever heard you be the responsible one?”

“Someone has to be,” he replies, mock offended. “You two are chaos incarnate.”

Yelena beams proudly. “Thank you.”

“You’re not wrong,” you admit, nudging Bob’s knee under the blanket. “But still. I think I’d be a great pig mom.”

Bob leans closer, voice dropping into something soft and teasing. “You’d name it something ridiculous like Nacho.”

You raise a brow. “Better than Cucumber!”

“Cucumber is dignified!” Yelena huffs. “It’s the name of a warrior. A survivor.”

There’s a beat of silence before you and Bob simultaneously burst out laughing. You clutch your ribs and wipe away a tear, while Bob wheezes beside you.

Yelena glares at both of you like she’s personally offended. “Fine. When I get him a tiny sword and cape and he saves the world, you’ll both be sorry.”

“You’ve been planning the cape, haven’t you?” you ask through your grin.

“…No,” she lies, already pulling her phone out to find patterns for guinea pig armor.

Bob just shakes his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in that soft, helpless way he always gets when the three of you are like this—warm and tangled and a little ridiculous.

For a moment, things are light. Whole. The shadows don’t press in so tightly. You forget the heaviness in your chest, the scar beneath your bandages. You forget, just for a breath, how close the darkness came to swallowing you whole.

Just the warmth of people who made it through the dark and still found time to laugh on the other side.

~

A few days pass, slow and but peaceful.

You’re still sore, muscles tight from disuse and strain, but you’re up—finally allowed to walk a few laps through the hallway. Supervised, of course. You don’t complain. Not with Bob shadowing your every step like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if you step wrong. You’re not sure he’s wrong.

You’re not exactly sure how badly you were hurt, only that you might not have woken up at all. That Nine had buried his blade sharp claws deep enough that the doctors had stopped hoping after the second night. The wound is stitched and salved and sealed now, but you still feel it—a throb beneath your ribs like a reminder. Like a warning. Your body fights to knit itself back together while the Umbra hums faintly under your skin, trying to help. Trying to keep you here.

Bob hasn’t left your side. Not really. He’s there through the worst of it—when the pain spikes unexpectedly, when the nightmares drag you back into memory’s teeth, when you wake gasping and tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. He doesn’t hover (well, not always), but he’s close. Soothing. Present.

So are the others.

Yelena brings snacks and steady hands, teasing you with sarcastic nicknames but brushing your hair back when you’re too tired to move. Ava smuggles in herbal tea with a look that says she’ll kill anyone who tries to take it from you. Even John stops by, awkward as ever, hovering in the doorway like a grumpy uncle until Bob waves him in. Alexei arrives with contraband vodka and an anecdote about how he once wrestled a bear in Siberia “with a stab wound twice as bad, you know.”

You’re fairly certain he’s lying. You pretend to drink the liquor while sneaking the cup for Bob to toss.

The days blur into each other—softness wrapped in sterile sheets, recovery tucked inside jokes and careful glances. Bob is always there, walking slow with you down the hall when your legs tremble, ready to catch you if you falter. You lean on him sometimes, not out of necessity, but because it feels safe.

The others notice. How close he walks. How his hand hovers an inch from your lower back, always touching you somewhere sharing that physical intimacy. How your fingers linger together a little too long when passing cups or remotes. How your eyes search for him first whenever you enter a room. They all see it—but no one teases. Not yet. This thing between you and Bob is still too fragile. Still too new.

A week later, you’re finally cleared to sit in on the next briefing.

You’re stable, healing, still wrapped in layers of bandages beneath your shirt—but upright and lucid enough to contribute. The walk to the briefing room leaves your limbs aching, but Bob stays close, hand gently guiding you by the elbow as if you’re made of silk and glass.

Everyone’s already there when you arrive—Bucky standing at the head of the table, arms crossed; Yelena lounging with her boots up, flipping through a tablet; John and Ava quietly bickering over how much caffeine counts as “too much.”

The room quiets when they see you.

You offer a thin smile and settle into the chair between Bob and Yelena. Bob helps you sit without even thinking. His hand lingers for a second longer than necessary on your shoulder.

No one says a word about it.

You clear your throat. “I’m here to talk about Nine.”

They let you speak without interruption. You keep your tone clinical, your words clean—just the facts. How he was your brother. How you thought he died. How you watched him get shot in the head and still walked away from it. You mention Three and Fifteen, their names numbers now like they were then, and the room dips into silence.

There’s weight in every word, but it doesn’t hurt the way it did when you first told Bob. Not as sharp. Not as raw. Just… heavy. Like ash clinging to the roof of your mouth.

You end with a weak laugh. “That’s twice now I’ve watched someone I love get shot in the head and survive. Starting to feel like I’m cursed.”

Bob, bless him, immediately flushes. His face goes red to the tips of his ears and he mutters something that sounds like, “Well to be fair it wasn’t just my head.”

Yelena elbows him lightly, smirking. “She’s just lucky you’ve got a thick skull.”

“Yeah or that I’m just impossible to get rid of,” he mumbles, eyes flicking toward you.

“Are we not going to address that she just said she loves Bobby?!” John’s voice incredulous. Seems like you two weren’t the only ones who didn’t know your feelings for each other.

“Walker you’re dense as hell” Ava chirps not even looking his way and John just looks between you and Bob baffled.

Bless that idiot Walker.

You don’t say anything, but your gaze flicks over to Bob and lingers there a second too long. Enough for Yelena to notice. Enough for Ava to glance between you with a raised brow.

The moment passes. But the warmth stays.

You sit back in your chair, letting the rest of the briefing wash over you. There’s talk of tracking Nine, of triangulating potential hideouts, of sweeping the other old Silhouette sites. But for the first time in days, you don’t feel like you’re drowning in guilt. Not entirely.

Because there’s a hand brushing yours beneath the table. A gentle pressure.

You don’t pull away.

Instead you lace your fingers with his, feeling a thumb brush over your knuckles you can breathe easier.

You’re not going to tackle this alone.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

Bob is anxious and I love that for him. Next chapter is going to be FLUFF a call before the storm if you will. Maybe even smooches We will see how it plays out while I write it. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and as always thank you so much for reading.

Chapter 8: Sweetness in the Small Things

Summary:

The others think it’s time both you and Bob take a break. Between smoothie stalls and rooftop sunsets, you both begin to realize that love doesn’t need to be different than what you’ve already built—it’s been growing quietly in the small things all along.

The debrief room is too quiet.

It’s the tenth time you’ve all met just to say the same things. “We will keep looking” or “there has to be something we can trace”

This time there’s no words. Just the faint buzz of the ceiling lights and the rhythmic tap of Ava’s pen against her folder. Yelena has her boots up on the table, staring at a datapad she hasn’t touched in ten minutes. John sighs for the third time in a row. Alexei hasn’t even cracked a joke.

You sit stiffly in your seat, trying not to bounce your leg. Bob is next to you, silent and unreadable, fingers intertwined loosely with yours beneath the table. His grip isn’t tight—he doesn’t need to anchor you—but it’s there. Steady. Solid.

Across from you, Bucky finally shuts the file in his lap and runs a hand through his hair. “We’ve got nothing.”

The words echo too loudly.

“No movement. No sightings. No pings on the signature tech Nine used. It’s like he vanished into thin air.” He glances toward you, tone gentler. “We’ll keep looking. But until we have a lead, there’s not much we can do.”

Your jaw tightens. That’s the problem.

Doing nothing feels like a noose. Waiting feels like a trap. The silence hurts.

You nod anyway, eyes fixed on the table. “I understand.”

There’s another pause, and then Yelena swings her legs off the table, stretching her arms overhead with a groan. “Okay. Enough doom and gloom. We’re officially calling it.”

Bucky raises a brow. “Calling what?”

“The debrief. The pity party. The brooding,” she shoots you a look, then Bob. “It’s over. You two are going out.”

You blink. “What?”

Bob blinks twice. “What?”

Yelena smirks, already pulling her phone out. “You’ve been joined at the hip for weeks. You’re finally not bleeding out. And Bob hasn’t smiled in twenty-seven hours. Go. Date. Kiss. Touch grass. Touch each other—actually don’t tell me if that happens—just go.”

Ava chimes in, barely glancing up from her tablet. “She’s not wrong. You both look like feral raccoons living off stress and unspoken feelings.”

John hums. “I’d say let them fight instead, but that didn’t go well last time.”

Alexei grins. “You want me to loan you something nice to wear? Red is very romantic.”

“I—uh—what is happening?” Bob sputters, turning bright red. “I mean, I’m not opposed but—” He looks at you. “Only if you want to. I’m fine not doing anything. I mean not not anything, just—”

You reach out and squeeze his hand. “I’d like that.”

The room settles. Smiles crack around the table. You still feel the absence of Nine like a bruise under your ribs, but the air shifts just slightly—less leaden, more breathable.

Yelena taps her fingers together, pleased. “Great. You’ve got one hour to get ready. Try not to look all dark and gloomy.”

“I am literally made of shadows.” You mutter.

“Shadows that need a good outfit!” She grabs your arm and you’re up and being dragged away. “Barnes this meeting was shit” she calls over your shoulder and a laugh escapes you.

~

You don’t know how this is happening.

Never once in your entire life did you think you’d be sitting on a bed, surrounded by piles of clothes, letting Ava and Yelena argue over what you should wear.

You’ve barely wrapped your head around Bob’s confession—which, you aren’t even sure was a confession. He said he loved you. He kissed you. But then nothing really changed. Not in the obvious ways. He still makes you tea exactly the way you like it. Still walks at your pace through the halls. Still looks at you like the world might end if he loses sight of you.

You haven’t even kissed again.

The memory of that first one makes your face go hot.

This isn’t something you’re used to.

Dates. Feelings.

People wanting you.

You spent your life surviving. Keeping the monster inside. Killing the monsters outside. Focused entirely on hunting down the remaining Hydra agents who made you what you are. The thought of a date? It never even registered on your radar.

All you knew was darkness and death.

“Okay, we’re not doing black.”

Yelena’s voice cuts through your spiral. She’s standing at your closet like she’s about to personally punch it into submission.

Ava snorts from where she’s perched on the edge of your bed, holding up a simple dark grey sweater with a skeptical look. “What’s wrong with black?”

“She’s going on a date, not an assassination,” Yelena replies, hands on hips. “And besides—Bob has literally seen her leaking shadows and bleeding from the mouth. She can wear one color that isn’t funeral adjacent.”

“I like black,” you mumble, plucking at your sleeve.

“You are too spooky,” Ava deadpans, smirking. “No offense.”

You huff out a laugh, startled by how good it feels to laugh. Ava throws you a wink like it was her goal all along.

“I just don’t get it,” Yelena says, tossing aside a jacket and holding up a soft, deep burgundy shirt instead. “We were trained to dismantle weapons with a safety pin, but no one ever taught us what to wear on a date?”

“Shocking that the Red Room did not offer you romantic etiquette courses,” Ava says dryly. “Unless we’re counting seduction tactics and poison lipstick.”

“Ugh,” you groan, flopping backward onto the bed. “We’re so bad at this.”

All three of you fall quiet for a beat, the silence absurdly loud for how many combat experts are present.

“Did you ever…” you begin, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I mean, before the team. Did either of you ever… date anyone?”

Yelena shakes her head. “Not unless you count a two-week mission pretending to be a diplomat’s mistress in Jakarta. Which I don’t.”

Ava snorts. “One time I flirted with a guard to steal his keycard. Then choked him out. Does that count?”

You laugh again, this time almost too hard.

It’s such a stupid thing to feel nervous about, considering everything you’ve survived. But here you are. In a room with two assassins trying to figure out how to go on a date like a normal person.

“If we’re being honest, I don’t think Bob cares what I wear…” you offer, lighthearted but unsure.

“Of course not,” Yelena snaps, her tone stern. “This is for you.”

“You’re too good to dress up for a man. You only look good for yourself, Котик,” she adds, smoothing a wrinkle from your shirt like it’s holy armor.

Her words settle somewhere behind your ribs. Warm and steady. You don’t know how she always knows the exact thing you need to hear—but she does.

“So what’s the plan, anyway?” Ava asks from the corner, balancing a knife as she peels an orange with unnecessarily perfect precision. “We can’t pick a proper outfit if we don’t know where you’re going.”

“I think we’re just going to the farmers market…” you say, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve. “Then come home and cook dinner. Maybe watch a movie?”

Yelena raises a brow. “How is this different from what you usually do?”

You shrug, flushing. “I don’t know. But it feels different.”

~

The late morning air is soft and golden when Bob meets you at the door, one hand sheepishly tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, the other holding a canvas tote bag that reads FEELING GRAPEFUL with little illustrated grapes dancing. He stammers a hello when he sees you—face lighting up, but then immediately flustered.

“You—uh—wow. You look…” He falters. “You look really nice.”

You look down, Ava and Yelena couldn’t settle on an outfit so you grabbed the closest thing to you and kicked them out.

You offer a flustered smile. “Thanks. So do you. That tote bag is criminally stylish.”

“Right?” He holds it up like a badge of honor. “Limited edition.”

You both laugh, and it’s enough to soften the tension just a little as you step out into the quiet hum of the day. The walk to the farmers market is awkward in a way that feels fragile—each of you stealing glances, both clearly overthinking, both pretending you’re not.

Bob walks a little closer than usual. You swing your arms, almost brushing his fingers but never quite touching.

At the market, you wander between stalls filled with produce and jam jars and sunflowers wilting in late-summer heat. You debate the merits of heirloom tomatoes versus cherry ones. Bob tries to hand-select the most perfectly shaped zucchini, squinting at it like it’s a bomb defusal manual.

Then, it happens.

You’re leaning over a crate of green beans when he elbows the corner of a stand by mistake. The display of cucumbers topples like a biblical plague—green missiles rolling in every direction.

“Oh no—”

“Bob!”

You’re both scrambling, dodging feet, trying to chase them down before a vendor sees. Bob nearly faceplants grabbing one that’s rolled under a stroller. You lose one to the crowd entirely and mourn it like a fallen soldier.

“I think that one’s gone,” you say solemnly.

“We’ll remember him,” Bob says, equally serious. “Cucumber 2: The Reckoning.”

You both burst out laughing, breathless, crouched beside a collapsing bin of bell peppers.

“I think we destroyed enough vegetables. We should take a break for a second and chill out,” you say, voice a little breathless from laughter and residual embarrassment. You’ve just finished apologizing to the elderly cucumber vendor—twice—and handing over a crumpled five-dollar bill in exchange for two bruised victims of your romantic misstep.

“Fruits,” Bob murmurs beside you.

You blink. “Huh?”

“Technically… uh, cucumbers are fruits.” He scratches the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes.

You snort, shoulders relaxing. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

“Guilty,” he mumbles, his cheeks pink.

You both drift toward the nearest smoothie stall, manned by a woman so aggressively cheerful it feels like a personal attack. She insists you sample three different blends before choosing, asks if you’re a couple—twice—and then throws in an extra protein boost “for romance.” You’re both sweaty and stunned by the end of it.

When you finally find an empty picnic table beneath the shade of a half-blooming tree, you collapse into the bench across from Bob. The wood creaks under you, and you groan dramatically as you take the first sip of your mango smoothie.

He joins you silently, slouched slightly, like he’s afraid to take up too much space. The tension clings to him like humidity. You catch him sneaking glances at you, eyes flicking down when you look back.

The silence is unbearable.

You take a long, loud slurp of your smoothie and exhale. “This is weird, right? We’re being weird.”

Bob startles, nearly spilling his drink. “Heh… uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“No—I’m being weird too.” You toss your head back, groaning at the sky. “Which is stupid. We’ve been to this market together like… what? A dozen times? It’s always been easy. But now we label it a date and suddenly we’re both malfunctioning.”

You don’t mean it to sound so harsh, but his shoulders hunch and he looks down like you’ve just said the worst thing imaginable. Before he can retreat further into himself, you reach across the table and gently take his hand.

His head snaps up. Your fingers squeeze his, grounding. Steady.

“What I mean is…” you start, voice softer, almost unsure. “I think I was already in love with you all those other times.”

His eyes widen.

You swallow. “Like… last month’s market? Pretty sure I loved you then. And the time we found that weird stall that only sold garlic? Definitely then, too. I don’t know why we’re overthinking this so much. Nothing has changed—except that now I get to say it out loud.”

For a moment he just stares at you, like you’ve just placed the sun in his hands and asked him to keep it safe. He squeezes your fingers back, reverently, eyes shining.

“I thought I was the only one,” he says, voice breaking with the weight of it. “I thought maybe I was just… too much.”

“You are too much,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood—but it comes out too fond, too honest. “But so am I.”

He laughs, small and startled and breathless. “You really loved me? Even then?”

“Even then,” you whisper. “Especially then.”

He looks like he wants to kiss you across the table but doesn’t move, afraid of breaking the fragile, perfect moment. So you lean forward first, just enough that your knees touch under the table.

“You can kiss me, you know,” you murmur, smile playing at your lips. “We’re already breaking fruit stalls together. Might as well go all in with public displays of affection, give these old folk something to gossip about.”

Bob’s grin stretches wide and sunlit, bashful and full of disbelief. “Yeah? Okay.”

He leans across the table to meet you halfway, and when he kisses you—soft and a little shy, smoothie-cool and sugar-sweet—it’s like the darkness inside you fades just a little more. Like the noise quiets. Like everything aligns for one brief, miraculous moment.

You both pull back, blinking at each other, a little stunned. Then, slowly, you smile. And Bob—he beams.

After your smoothies are gone, the two of you drift through the market hand in hand. The earlier awkwardness has melted into something easy—comfortable. Familiar. Like slipping into the rhythm of a song you’ve always known, even if you’ve only just realized you’re dancing to it together.

You’re talking about nothing—prices of strawberries, someone’s dog wearing sunglasses, a vendor’s hat that looks like it belongs on a pirate ship—when something catches your eye and lights up your entire face.

“Eeek, look! Goats!” you squeal, grabbing Bob’s hand with sudden urgency and tugging him toward a stall tucked between a honey vendor and a flower stand.

Bob stumbles slightly at the force of your excitement, eyes wide in startled amusement. “Did you just squeak?”

“Shut up, they’re perfect,” you say, already half-crouched by the pen as you fawn over a small herd of farm goats. The vendor laughs and gives you permission to pet them, clearly charmed by your enthusiasm.

You waste no time, kneeling to stroke one’s soft head, murmuring nonsense praises like it’s the most magical creature in the world. Bob watches you, something quiet blooming behind his eyes. Like he’s memorizing the way your smile curves or the sound of your voice when it’s so completely unguarded.

Then, without warning, one of the goats ambles up to him—curious—and presses its cold, damp nose right to his cheek.

Bob jerks slightly, blinking in surprise. “Ah!”

You burst into laughter, clutching your stomach. “You’re getting so many kisses today, sweets. Looks like I’ve got competition.”

He flushes a little but smiles, rubbing the spot like the goat branded him. “She’s pretty forward.”

“Goat’s got good taste.”

Bob kneels beside you after that, letting one of the smaller goats chew gently on his sleeve. He doesn’t even flinch this time. And for a moment—surrounded by bleats and straw and the hum of a summer afternoon—it feels like you’ve both stepped outside time. Just two people. Just this moment.

Just love, slowly learning how to be soft.

~

You leave the market with fifteen cucumbers.

The vendor insisted you didn’t need to buy the damaged ones, but Bob—red-faced and apologetic—had already handed over a wad of cash, and you had guiltily carried away the entire lopsided display.

Now, in the Tower’s kitchen, the two of you stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at the offending pile like it’s mocking you.

“So,” you say slowly, “what exactly are we supposed to do with this many cucumbers?”

Bob runs a hand through his hair, already looking defeated. “We could make… cucumber salad? Pickles? Cucumber water? Uh… tzatziki?”

“All of that still leaves, like, ten of them untouched.” You glance at the heap, then at him. “What if we put them in John’s bed and just… don’t explain it?”

He tries to hold it in, but a snort escapes. “He’d scream. He’d actually scream.”

You nod solemnly. “And then blame you, which would make it even funnier.”

You start chopping while Bob washes the cucumbers, a comfortable rhythm falling into place. It feels easy again—like old times, like how things always were, just now with this added tenderness that neither of you has to pretend isn’t there.

There’s soft music playing from Bob’s phone on the counter, something jazzy and old-fashioned. He sways while stirring yogurt into a bowl of garlic and lemon, shoulders rolling in an exaggerated dance that makes you laugh out loud.

“Are you… dancing?” you tease, arching a brow.

He shrugs without shame. “This is a date, isn’t it?”

Your cheeks warm. “It is.”

Bob holds out a spoon. “Taste this.”

You carefully take a spoonful of yogurt sauce in your mouth before your eyes widen. “Bob this is amazing.”

He grins, all bashful pride. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” you deadpan. “You know, at first I didn’t even think you could cook. I seem to remember you watching me do most of the heavy lifting in this kitchen.”

His brows lift in mock offense, but you press on, mimicking his deep voice in a gravelly, exaggerated drawl: “‘My diet was cup ramen and meth, Seven.’”

Bob groans and covers his face with one hand, but you catch the smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“I did say that,” he mumbles through his fingers.

“You bragged about it.”

“I was trying to be relatable.”

You both laugh softly, the kind that settles into your bones, warm and weightless.

“I used to not know anything about cooking,” he says again, quieter now, gaze drifting toward the bowl in his hand. His voice softens, deepens—not heavy, just honest. “But then you got hurt, and I started learning how to make soup and other stuff."

You pause, spoon suspended midair. That sentence carries more than it says. It’s not just about soup.

It’s about the long nights he sat alone in the dark, waiting for word on your condition. The hours spent trying to quiet his hands by dicing vegetables and reading recipes he barely understood. A man who once lived on powdered noodles and adrenaline learning how to simmer something slowly—because you needed warmth when you woke up.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for that, you know,” you say softly, turning to face him.

He blinks, like the notion of being thanked never even crossed his mind. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to,” you reply, taking his hand in yours. “You didn’t have to do any of it. But you did. I—” You trail off for a second, sorting through the ache in your chest. “I didn’t realize how much that meant. Not until now.”

Bob looks down, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the back of your hand. “I just wanted to be ready,” he says after a beat. “In case you needed something. In case… I could do something right.”

Your chest tightens. Not with fear this time, but something else. Something gentler.

You set your spoon down and place both hands on his shoulders, gently turning him to face you fully. The kitchen hums around you—quiet, golden, still—but your focus narrows to just him. The man who learned to make soup when you couldn’t get out of bed. The man who waited. Who stayed.

“You already do, Bob,” you say, voice low, steady. “You do so much right.”

His eyes meet yours, startled and uncertain—then softening, blooming with something raw and beautiful and completely unguarded. He looks at you like you’re something luminous in a world gone dim. Like he’s been trying not to believe he deserves this, and is only now daring to hope.

You lean in—no hesitation this time.

The kiss you press to his lips is nothing like the syrup-sweet one from earlier. This one is slower, deeper. Like a vow made in silence. You tilt your head, fingers tightening on his shoulders, and he melts into it with a low, breathless sound that catches in your chest like gravity.

His hands rise, tentative at first, then certain—one resting at your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. Your bodies tilt together as though they’ve been waiting to align like this. As though the ache of distance between you was something neither of you could name until now.

When you finally pull back, breath shared and mouths still brushing, his eyes flutter open—wide and glassy with awe.

“Okay,” he whispers. Like the word is a prayer. Like he’s finally letting himself believe that this is real.

You press your forehead against his, and in the hush that follows, you feel it radiating between you: the quiet, irrevocable truth of what’s been there all along.

Love. Not sudden or sharp—but deep-rooted and patient. Earned.

And this time, neither of you runs from it.

~

Outside, the sky has gone violet with twilight, the edges of the horizon blurring into a dusky watercolor wash of rose and indigo. A breeze whispers over the rooftop, warm with the fading breath of summer, carrying the scent of grilled flatbread and cucumber still lingering on your shared plates.

You sit together on a blanket spread across the concrete, legs tangled lazily, shoulders brushing every so often. Bob’s arm is slung behind you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your spine, and your head leans against the slope of his shoulder just enough to feel the steady rhythm of his breath.

Between you: a half-eaten cucumber salad, grilled pita, and a bowl of yogurt sauce that Bob swears he didn’t know how to make until this week. Every so often, your eyes meet, and you both smile—soft, knowing, secret. Because maybe it is a secret. Or maybe it’s something sacred. Yours alone.

You pop a piece of pita into your mouth and gaze upward at the stars slowly kindling overhead. “I think as far as first dates go,” you say between chews, “this one was pretty amazing. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He hums low in his throat, brushing his pinky against yours. “Wait—do you mean like our first date, or… first first date?” His voice wavers at the end, sheepish and uncertain.

You laugh, soft and breathy, like it’s caught you off guard. “I mean… growing up in a lab didn’t exactly present many opportunities. And then, after I got out—” You gesture vaguely at the sky, at everything. “I wasn’t really in the romance headspace. You know. Living nightmare and all that jazz.”

He goes quiet for a beat. Then, his voice—gentle, but certain. “You deserved one. Even back then.”

You glance over, surprised by the weight behind the words.

“I mean it,” he adds. “You deserved more than what they gave you. More than what the world gave you. If I could go back—if I could’ve found you sooner—I would’ve taken you to every damn farmers market in the country.” He smiles, a little crooked. “Would’ve made you taste-test every smoothie and rate every fruit like it was a mission.”

You let out a choked laugh and blink hard, the edges of your vision blurring just slightly.

“Well,” you say, nudging your nose into his cheek, “you found me now.”

His breath catches. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I did.”

And then, because it’s natural—because it’s the only thing that makes sense—he leans in. You meet him halfway. A kiss that’s all contentment and quiet joy, the kind that doesn’t need urgency or fire to burn. Just the warm press of mouths beneath an open sky. Safe. Real.

You stay like that for a while, tangled up in twilight, two ghosts learning how to live.

Thoughts of Nine and the Void and any other problem you have seem less daunting now, now that you have support.

And just like the many moments spent with him before, the darkness doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing you.

A gentle embrace of comforting shadow.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

A/N: Hope you guys liked that sugary sweet date scenarios and if not don’t worry soon we will be back to our usually regular horror and angst haha. Fun fact I hate cucumbers 😔

As always thank you for reading

🖤🩶🤍

Chapter 9: The Space Between I’m Sorry and I Love You

Summary:

Tension flares, trust fractures, and cruel words cut deeper than intended—but in the aftermath of heartbreak, they find their way back to each other in the dark, choosing love with trembling hands and tangled limbs.

TW: Emotional Distress, Arguments / Raised Voices, Self-Loathing / Low Self-Worth, Past Trauma Mention, Graphic Sexual Content, Depictions of Anxiety and Guilt, NSFW
⚠️ 18+ This chapter does have adult content if you’re uncomfortable or uninterested you can skip ahead after you see this °❀° in the chapter.

It starts like a ghost story, whispered in snippets across countries.

Spread across the table are witness accounts and classified field notes. Satellite images, blurry infrared snapshots, shaky videos taken by trembling hands—each frame catching something impossible. A mass of shadows shifting between trees. Smoke curling from shattered buildings. Screams cutting off mid-breath. Limbs—always too many limbs.

No one speaks at first.

Yelena leans forward, arms folded tight across her chest, scanning the maps layered with red circles and timestamped intel. “Latest sighting’s out of Romania,” she says. “A forest outside of a small village called Gherdeal. Population: about 12.”

The name hits you like a brick to the ribs.

You don’t flinch. But the shadows beneath your skin ripple in response, stretching slow and nervous like a creature roused from uneasy sleep.

John squints at the map. “What the hell’s it doing in the middle of nowhere?”

You stand next to Bob, your arms crossed, shoulder nearly brushing his. Subtly, involuntarily, you shift just slightly away.

He notices.

You know he does.

But your attention’s locked on the village name printed in block letters across a faded piece of parchment. It’s not just the location. It’s the weight of familiarity sinking in your gut like a stone. That dread isn’t imagined. It’s memory.

Nine didn’t just vanish into the wilderness.

He went home.

Your voice, when it comes, is flat. Low and certain. “It’s him.”

John glances up. “I mean yeah, probably. But you sound real damn sure.”

Ava tilts her head, sharp eyes studying you. “Does the location mean something to him?”

You give a single, tense nod. Barely more than a twitch. “To both of us. It’s where we were taken from.” You pause. “It’s home.”

The word tastes foreign in your mouth, brittle and wrong.

Bucky shifts in his seat. His tone is careful but tight. “I thought you grew up in the Sokovia lab. Hydra’s base.”

Your eyes flick to his. “Were you born in your lab, Barnes?”

Silence falls.

Your voice remains quiet, even, but there’s steel in it now. “I had to come from somewhere. I wasn’t grown in a tank.”

John, ever the jackass, mutters from his corner, “Could’ve fooled me. You drip black goo sometimes.”

A short, humorless laugh punches its way out of your chest before you can stop it.

You don’t look at him when you speak next.

“In the 1980s, Romania’s dictator was wiping out small villages all across the country. Hydra used the chaos to move in. Families who refused to abandon their land—Hydra saw them as ripe stock. Test material. They took the children, viable ones. Rounded us up like animals. Loaded us into caravans like cattle.” You stop, jaw tightening. “Then they lined up the adults in the town square. Put a bullet in every one of their heads.”

A shudder pulses through the room. No one speaks.

“I was too young to remember but Three did, her and Nine were both older than I was, would tell stories, before they wiped even that from their minds” you continue, softer now. “I remember him saying he remembered the smell of smoke more than the screams.” Your gaze drops to the table. “We weren’t just test subjects. We were stolen. We had real names once, real families.”

You blink hard, once. “But Hydra washed it all away. With blood and poison. Snuffed out what could have been swallowing it in shadow and horror.”

Bob doesn’t say a word, but you feel the shift in the air beside you—the way his presence tries to reach for you without moving a muscle. The quiet scream of wanting to comfort you but not knowing how.

And for a moment, it all sits there. The bloodied past. The monster still out there. And the people in this room trying to figure out what to do next.

That’s when John breaks the tension.

“Jesus. You all have the most fucked up backstories.”

There’s no judgment in his voice. Just exhausted cynicism. You huff out something close to a real laugh, low and rough and startled.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

And in that strange, terrible way—he’s right. Every person in this room has crawled out of hell. Hydra. The Red Room. Florida. That shared language of pain is the closest thing to family you’ve ever known.

“But I don’t know why Nine would go back,” you say, more to yourself. “He didn’t recognize me before. Doubt he remembers that place. We were only there three years before… before the horror show.”

The shadows settle slightly, soothed by the rhythm of your voice.

“Well, doesn’t matter why,” Yelena says, boot propped on the table as she flips a knife between her fingers. “We find him, stop him from terrorizing civilians, and figure the rest out later.”

You smile. That’s the thing about Yelena—you could drop the most horrifying confession in her lap and she’d still treat it like just another Thursday. She sees you. All of you. Nothing more, nothing less.

“We might be able to help him,” Bucky offers, tone quiet. “If he’s running on programming—like I was. If he’s still got code buried in his mind… maybe it’s reversible.”

He places a hand on your shoulder. It’s awkward and a little stiff, but the gesture is kind. Steady.

“Right, so we go. Snag up spooky brother Nine and bring him back to the tower!” Alexei announces with his usual oblivious cheer, like it’s a neighborhood errand and not an international threat.

You try to smile, but your voice comes quiet. “I can’t ask you all to do this. I should go alone.”

A beat. No one moves.

“I don’t know what he’s capable of… but if it’s anything like me—”

“No.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

The room bursts in a chorus of overlapping objections. Ava shakes her head. John glares. Alexei scoffs.

“You’re not alone in this,” Ava says, firmly. “Never again.”

“We’re a team,” Bucky adds. “Family. We don’t let each other walk into hell alone.”

It’s Bob who speaks last.

“I’m coming too.”

And just like that, the tension turns again—toward something more volatile.

You freeze.

Of course he wants to come. Of course he would. You should’ve known but still you’re caught off guard.

But the air changes. His voice doesn’t come with softness this time—it crackles, taut with something barely leashed. Not panic. Not exactly. But something high and tight and brittle in his chest.

You turn to him slowly. “Bob…”

“I’m coming,” he says again, firmer now. Not a suggestion. A statement. A fact. His jaw is clenched, and there’s a flush on his cheeks that’s not embarrassment.

“Bob, no. You don’t understand what this is—”

“No, you don’t understand!” he snaps, sharper than you’ve ever heard him. “You nearly died. You almost bled out in front of me, and I couldn’t do anything. You—you think I’m gonna stay behind again and just wait to see if you come back?”

The room falls quiet. Everyone looks between you.

Your arms stay folded, but your voice drops low. “This isn’t about waiting. This is about surviving. This thing we’re going after—he’s not just another shadow. He’s like me. And the last time I fought him, I lost.”

“You didn’t lose. You were unprepared.” His voice softens only for a breath. “But You’re still here.”

“Barely,” you bite. “Because the rest of you guys had to carry my ass back here and almost completely abandoned the mission at hand. That’s how I made it. But what if something goes wrong again? You can’t pull me out if you lose control either.”

Bob stares at you, wide-eyed. His hands shake slightly at his sides. There’s something dangerous shimmering just under his skin—light and dark pulsing like a war.

“I’m not helpless.” The words grind out like a promise to himself more than anyone else. “I’m not some scared loser you need to babysit! You think I can’t handle it?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

He cuts you off, half-laughing, half-breaking. “You think i haven’t thought about being by your side every time you guys left? You think I don’t want to be ready? I’ve been working my ass off while you were recovering—trying to be useful, to be safe, to be enough.”

“Enough?” Your voice cracks.

He steps back. Runs a hand through his hair, the pace of his thoughts too fast now. “You all act like I’ll fall apart if I use my powers. Like I’m too unstable or too broken or too much—”

“Sweets,” you warn gently, but it’s already cresting.

“You want proof?” he says suddenly, eyes flashing that dangerous gold. He reaches toward the table—toward the knife Yelena had been flipping—and before anyone can stop him, drives the blade straight down into his hand.

A strangled gasp catches in your throat.

But there’s no blood.

The steel breaks on impact, snapping against his skin like glass on concrete. He holds his hand up to you, defiant.

“See?” His voice is too bright, too steady now. “No cuts. No bruises. Nothing. I’m invincible.”

Yelena curses under her breath. “Hey! That was my favorite throwing knife, придурок!”

Bucky mutters something about “showboating,” but no one laughs.

Everyone’s eyes are on you. Eyes the two of you like the volatile bombs that you are.

The weight of them feels suffocating—like the walls are folding inward. Pressure builds at the base of your skull, thunder in your chest, your pulse a frantic war drum beneath your skin.

You don’t notice the first black vein creeping up your throat. Don’t notice the way your fingers have started cracking, bending into pointed, unnatural angles like claws straining to break free. But Yelena is tensing, shoulders going rigid. Ava’s knuckles go white around the tablet in her hand.

You’re unraveling.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of!” you snap, voice rising before you can stop it. “This isn’t some bullet you can freeze midair or a hundred-year-old man with a metal arm!”

“Hey,” Bucky interjects with a low, offended grunt, but he’s not really surprised. No one is.

You barrel forward anyway. Words sharp and fast and furious. “I don’t even know what Nine’s capable of anymore. I saw what was left of that room—I saw the tiles soaked with blood and limbs torn free. I’m the only one who’s faced him and barely survived.”

Bob takes a step toward you, hands outstretched, the tears in your eyes allowing him to come down from his burning anger. “Seven—”

“No!” you shout, cutting him off, eyes blazing. “You don’t get it. I’m going to have to go in there and kill my own brother. The last thing I need is to be worried about your ass getting ripped in half or—God forbid—snapping again and sending us into our own nightmare hellscapes in the middle of it!”

Silence detonates around you like a flashbang.

Bob flinches. Like you slapped him.

He stares at you, stricken. Staring as if trying to find the version of you who held his hand last week and made cucumber jokes on the rooftop. The version who let him kiss her like she meant something.

But that version of you feels far away now. Hollowed out by fear and guilt and the choking pressure of the past clawing its way back to the surface.

You blink, the rage cooling just enough to feel the sting of what you said.

Yelena looks furious on his behalf, but stays quiet. Bucky’s jaw is tight. Ava shifts, uncomfortable. Even John mutters a “damn” under his breath.

The umbra twitches at the base of your spine. The room is still.

“I didn’t…I don’t need you” you try weakly, but the words catch like ash in your throat.

So you don’t finish.

You push past Bob instead. His shoulder brushes yours, and you feel him lean toward you instinctively—like a reflex—but you don’t look back.

“I don’t need any of you—None of you should be coming,” you grind out, voice low and bitter. And then you sink into the floor shade stepping as far away as you possibly can. Leaving the room without even a whisper.

Bob doesn’t move for a long moment. His arms fall to his sides. His eyes stay on the floor, chest heaving once like he forgot how to breathe until just now.

Yelena’s voice is the one that finally cuts through the quiet.

“…Well. That went fucking great.”

~

Bob is fraying.

Not metaphorically—actually fraying. The edges of him blur when he forgets to hold them tight, shadowed filaments of gloom flickering beneath his skin like he’s coming undone one thread at a time. He stands in the hallway outside the debriefing room, back to the wall, breathing like he just ran a marathon with his heart left behind somewhere on the battlefield.

The only thing keeping the Void at bay is the firm, grounding pressure of Yelena’s hand clamped around his shoulder.

That, and the echo of your voice—sharp with fear, not malice. He knows that. He knows you were scared and spiraling and that you didn’t mean it.

But God, it still hurt.

“She didn’t mean it, солнышко,” Yelena says softly, her words a balm against the wound still gaping in his chest. “You know she would never hurt you like that on purpose.”

Bob doesn’t answer. He just stares blankly ahead, eyes glassy, jaw clenched. The black smoke at the corner of his vision swirls with every uneven breath.

“I yelled first,” he murmurs, broken. “I—I knew this weighed on her. I knew she was already spiraling, but I pushed. I pushed because I thought—” He voices stutters, fingers rising to his head, gripping at his hair in frustration.

Yelena gently intercepts, curling her smaller hand around his and pulling it down before he can start tugging.

“Hey. Easy.” Her thumb traces light, calming circles over his knuckles. “Don’t rip out one of your best features, come on.”

That gets a weak, wet chuckle out of him—barely. But he’s still trembling.

“I don’t understand why she won’t let me come,” he whispers. “Why she wont let me help you all. The Sentry—I’m more powerful than all of you combined. If anything happens—if she gets hurt again and I could’ve stopped it—”

“But you’re not just the Sentry, Bob,” Yelena says, and her tone is steady now. Solid. “You’re Bob. Goofy, anxious, sweet Bob. The man she loves—probably more than anything she’s ever let herself feel before.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as his breath catches. His shoulders shake beneath her hand.

“Then why doesn’t she trust me?” he says in a voice so quiet it could shatter.

Yelena squeezes his hand, firm and certain. “Because she’s scared. She’s scared of losing you, scared of what she might do if that happens. Scared of letting anyone else carry her burden.”

She meets his eyes, gaze unwavering.

“But that doesn’t mean she’s right. What she said was cruel—and she knows it. You both messed up today.”

He blinks, startled by the honesty. But she presses on before he can retreat into guilt again.

“You want her to trust you? Then you have to trust her, too. Trust that she loves you. Trust that she’s allowed to be afraid. And she has to learn to trust us—this whole messy team she’s stuck with. Because whether she likes it or not, none of us are letting her do this alone. Neither of you are alone anymore.”

Bob nods once, slow and aching.

Then again, with a bit more strength.

“…Thanks,” he murmurs.

Yelena gives him a sharp little pat on the cheek. “Good. Now come help me make her a guilt pizza or something. You’re both disasters in love, might as well be disasters with full stomachs.”

He huffs a laugh, finally—barely—but it’s real.

~

You’re on the roof again. The edge of night pressing in, shadows curling along the concrete like smoke. Wind pulling at your hoodie. You don’t remember coming up here—just the swell of dread, the heat behind your eyes, and then your legs moving of their own accord.

The seams of your control blur. Bones ache. Twist. You grit your teeth through the pain as something beneath your skin claws to the surface. Fingers curl too far, joints bending the wrong direction for a breath too long. A reminder. You’re not okay. You’re not stable. You’re dangerous.

So you curl in on yourself, knees hugged to your chest, forehead to your arms. If you just stay small… maybe the nightmare won’t spill out.

Then there’s a hand.

Firm yet Awkward.. A palm pressed to your spine.

Your head snaps up, a startled growl caught in your throat. Your eyes—deep, hollow pits of inky black—lock onto the person crouched beside you.

Not Bob.

Your heart splinters.

It’s Bucky.

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you with that quiet, steady concern he always reserves for moments like this—rare, raw, real.

You want to scream. At yourself. For expecting Bob, for pushing him away, for driving a knife into the one person who always made the dark feel less heavy. You used his fear against him. Spat it like poison. You hurt him.

You bury your face again.

“I really am a monster,” you whisper, voice thick. Broken.

Bucky exhales, long and slow. Then sits down next to you with the clunky grace of someone who’s never quite learned how to be gentle but does it anyway. His warmth seeps into your side.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just rubs awkward circles between your shoulder blades. And slowly—slowly—the shadows ease. Your breathing evens out.

“It’s messy…” is the first thing he offers. It has you looking at him, confused, while you wipe tear tracks from your cheeks.

“Life after Hydra… it’s messy. It’s hard. And one of the hardest things I found is trust. Whether I trust my teammates or myself. Both were almost impossible at first,” he explains.

“What made it possible then…?” Your voice is drained now, tinted with bone-deep exhaustion.

“Steve… he was my best friend since we were kids, you know? I’ve never trusted anyone more in my entire life.” His voice softens in a way you don’t often hear.

“Before the Avengers or Hydra. Before the war or the serum even. We had each other’s backs—just two kids from Brooklyn, and then comrades in a war. That kind of trust was built with years of love and friendship.” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it when he talks about Steve Rogers. His closest and oldest friend.

“Then after the world turned to shit and the Accords happened and the people I considered a team turning on me, he came back and stuck by my side—fought tooth and nail for me against his own friends. His own team. It was like that trust and bond we had back when we were kids was untouched. It made me realize that no matter what I did—my fault or not—Steve was always going to be in my corner.”

“Why are you telling me this?” you sniffle a hint of pitiful jealousy at the bond he was allowed.

“Because that’s what you need. You need to learn how to rely on us. That we aren’t going anywhere, no matter what you say or do or think you are.” His voice is firm. Steady.

“And that Bob needs that just as badly as you do. I can’t offer much in the way of romantic, uh, relationships—but I know that without you, that kid will fall apart. That when you were lying there unconscious for days, the only thing that kept him together was the fact that he was going to be there for you when you woke up. That he wouldn’t let you face this thing alone ever again.”

You let that sink in. Then, in a small voice, you admit, “I’m scared to hurt him more than I already have. He deserves someone not broken. Someone who can support him and encourage him—not snap at him when he just wants to help.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky cuts you off.

“You don’t get to decide that on your own. You don’t get to decide what he wants or deserves. That’s not how relationships—any kind—work. It’s a two-way street, kid.”

You pause and sit in silence, going over his words and breathing deep. This is probably the most you’ve ever even heard Bucky talk and you chuckle at the thought.

“Looks like what they say is true.” You comment after a few minutes of silence, leaving him looking at you confused, eyebrow cocked.

You stand, brush off your pants and turn towards the door “you know…, that the older you are the wiser you become. Thanks old man” you grin and rush down the steps before he can react.

You have to go talk to Bob.

~

The words catch in your throat when you see him—sitting next to Yelena on the couch, shoulders slumped like the weight of the world is crushing every breath out of him.

Yelena is speaking low beside him while eating a slice of pizza, but stops mid-bite when she sees you standing there. His eyes follow hers to you, and your heart breaks.

He’s been crying.

You did that.

The umbra stirs under your skin, whispering malicious things, poisoning your resolve.

You hurt him, and you’ll do it again. You can’t fix a monster with trust alone.

The edges of the room dim slightly, the shadows pulled into your lungs with every ragged breath.

He’s up before you can spiral any further.

You don’t even notice Yelena leave the room, pizza in hand.

His steps are quick, and before you know it, he’s there—hurt, guilt, and something deeper in his eyes.

You look away, the self-loathing clawing so sharp it feels like looking at him alone might wound him further.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, pausing when you flinch. His heart cracks a little, but still—his fingers gently wrap around yours, tugging you forward, pulling you into his arms slowly, carefully. Giving you time to move away.

You don’t.

You melt into the embrace, a new wave of tears building.

“I hurt you.” The words come out strangled. Not an apology. Just the truth. Just the pain.

He says nothing at first. Just holds you tighter.

After a few moments—once your breathing slows—he gently pulls back, catching the fabric of your sleeve, tugging you silently down the hall.

Your chest aches with how quiet he is. But you follow.

Only when you’re in front of his door does he finally speak.

“I’m sorry… can—can we just talk? Please?” His voice is soft. Fragile. He doesn’t quite look at you.

I’ve ruined everything, you think. But you nod.

You follow him inside.

The moment the door clicks shut, you both speak at once:

“I shouldn’t have pushed—”

“I didn’t mean what I said—”

You freeze, blinking at each other.

Then, without thinking, you reach out and cup his cheek. The red around his eyes, the way his mouth is pressed tight with guilt—it shatters something inside you.

“No. No, Bob. You didn’t do anything wrong. I said something horrible. Meant to hurt you and—” your voice catches. He tries to cut in, but you shake your head.

“I used your fear against you just so you’d stop asking to come. That was so fucked up. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Your hand drops as the tears spill again. You wipe at your face, frustrated with yourself.

You’re glaring at the wall when you feel his hands gently turning your face back to his.

“I don’t believe you meant to say it,” he murmurs. “Not like that. We were both yelling… We should’ve stepped back. I should’ve talked it out not—not shouted and thrown a tantrum. I kept pushing. I’m sorry too…”

His voice falters. The guilt in it makes your chest tighten.

“I know how much this matters to you—how hard this all is. I should’ve supported you instead of trying to force my way in. But…” He hesitates, searching your eyes. “What I said still stands.”

Your breath hitches.

“Bob, I can’t lose you. Not like that.” Your voice breaks. “Not when I just got you.”

“You won’t.” His voice is firm now, pleading. “We do this together. Like always. You don’t have to face this alone.”

You lean into his touch, his hands still cupping your face like you’re something precious.

“I’m scared,” you admit, raw and trembling.

He doesn’t answer with words. He just pulls you into him again, his arms strong and steady. You fold into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. One of his hands cradles the back of your head, fingers stroking your hair gently.

The silence is grounding. Two heartbeats, in sync. Two breaths, steadying.

When you finally pull back, the worst of the storm has passed.

“We really need to work on trusting each other,” you murmur, a fragile smile tugging at your lips. “At least that’s what wise old Bucky Barnes says.”

Bob lets out a soft laugh. “Funny—Yelena said the same thing. For people who seem to be kind of messes themselves they sure are secretly full of wisdom.”

You step away, though not far. Still close enough to touch. “That’s just it, though… I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever had in my life. I didn’t realize that also means trusting you not to die.”

Bob huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seven… The night we met I got shot with like five thousand bullets. Then we crash-landed into the desert like a meteor and I walked away without a scratch.”

You stare at him.

He awkwardly shrugs. “I don’t even know if I can be hurt anymore. But even if I could—nothing would hurt more than not being there for you when it counts. N-Not being there again if something happens. When I could’ve helped.”

You take a deep breath. Let his words sink in. Let the fear crack just enough to let some light in.

“Okay…” you whisper. Your voice is tired, but sure.

Bob’s thumb strokes gently over your knuckles. You can still feel the weight of his words between you, warm and solid like the press of his chest against yours.

“Okay,” you say again, quieter this time. A softer kind of surrender. “But… Can I stay with you tonight?”

His eyes widen a little, a flicker of something vulnerable—surprised hope, maybe—but he nods before the hesitation can catch up. “Yeah. Of— of course.”

Your fingers slide from his hand to his jaw, guiding his gaze back to you. You’re still trembling, but not from fear now. Something else coils beneath your skin—tenderness, longing, the aching need to feel close and known and wanted.

Your one hand stays wrapped in the soft cotton of his t-shirt for a beat too long. Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling in the quiet that follows.

His thumb strokes beneath your jaw, reverent. You wonder if he can feel your pulse fluttering under his touch.

You shift first.

Just slightly—just enough that your lips are a breath away from his. A question he answers by kissing you, softly, as if you might still run. His mouth is warm and a little shaky, but the moment it settles against yours, everything inside you goes still. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say it focuses.

The chaos dims. The fear softens. It’s just him. Just Bob. The one person you trust enough to let see the mess beneath your skin.

His voice is a whisper, unsure but open.

“If I…If I asked to hold you now, would you let me?”

He asks timidly, looking down at you with a burning longing in his gaze. You blink slowly, brows drawing together.

“Even now?… after hurting you?”

“Especially now…I want to show you how much you mean to me…ple—please.”

He swallows, as if the weight of everything unsaid lives on his tongue.

“What if I break again?” Your voice is a fracturing whisper.

He places another soft kiss this time to your palm before murmuring. “Then let me be what holds you together.”

Silence again—but it’s soft now. Sacred. Shared.

“I touched you,” he murmurs, voice rough with vulnerability, “not to take, but to give—would you trust me with that?”

Your throat tightens. You nod, eyes stinging. “Only if I can do the same.”

“This isn’t about forgetting what we said,” he whispers.

“No,” you breathe. “It’s about remembering what we still mean.”

°❀° Then: contact. °❀°

Fingers graze. Tentative. A whisper of skin over skin, barely there, and still you feel it like a shock to the system. His knuckles brush the underside of your jaw, thumb trailing the curve of your cheek. You lean into the touch. Not out of instinct—but choice.

“Can this be how we start over?” he asks.

You meet his gaze—open, aching—and offer a soft, “Not start over. Build forward. From here.”

Something shifts. The shadows inside you—once clawing, restless—quiet. The umbra stills. Not extinguished, but at peace for now, buried under the need to be close.

He kisses you again—but this time it’s deeper. Needier. His hands curl around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and a soft sound slips from your lips before you can stop it. It’s months of tension, of unspoken want and hidden love, rising to the surface all at once.

His hands explore—slow and reverent—fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt, gliding up your sides. Not grabbing. Not groping. Just learning you.

You tilt your chin and open for him, letting the kiss grow bolder. Your bodies press together—chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat—and the sheer intimacy of it nearly unravels you. His heart is pounding. Yours answers in kind.

Not out of lust—but out of need.

Not possession—but permission.

His hands come up to your face again, trembling now, and he cups your cheeks like he’s afraid to break you. Like you’re made of something sacred. A relic unearthed after centuries of longing.

“Tell me if this is too much,” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips.

You exhale slowly. “It’s not enough.”

And your hands are already sliding under his shirt, palms hungry and reverent, memorizing the map of him by touch.

“I want all of you,” you say, voice hushed. “Even the broken parts.”

A breath stutters out of him—part laugh, part sob—and he leans his forehead to yours, closing his eyes like he’s breathing you in.

You thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, coaxing a sound from deep in his throat. Then you murmur, voice low and trembling with heat, “You’re wearing too much.”

A breathless laugh escapes him, equal parts nervous and adoring. “I can fix that,” he says, eyes dancing with something between awe and disbelief—like he still can’t believe this is real.

You guide him backward, hands pressed to his chest, and he lets you. His knees bump the edge of the bed and he flops onto it with a startled “oof,” landing in the soft tangle of comforter and pillows.

You can’t help it—you laugh. Giddy and breathless. And the way he looks up at you? Like he’s never seen anything so radiant.

He watches, wide-eyed and flushed, as you step closer. You move slowly, deliberately—giving him space to say no, to hesitate, but he doesn’t.

He reaches for you instinctively, hands warm on your hips, pulling you forward. You straddle him, knees braced against the bed, and sink onto his lap like you belong there.

His shirt is the first to go. He peels it off in one smooth motion, revealing bare skin, flushed and golden in the low light. He’s all planes and heat and vulnerability, chest rising and falling too fast. You lay your palms against him, fingers splaying out, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your touch.

He doesn’t look away.

You reach for the hem of your own shirt, but pause—uncertain, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with skin. Your fingers tremble. His hands come up to still them.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say. “I want you to see me.”

And with that, you pull the fabric over your head and let it drop to the floor. The air kisses your skin, cool and electric. Bob’s gaze drags down you like a prayer—devout, reverent, worshipful.

“Jesus,” he whispers. It’s not crude. It’s not performative. It’s raw. Like he can’t help but say it.

You lean down, pressing into him again, and he kisses you like he’s starving—hands gliding around your waist, up your spine, careful not to rush. Your fingers find the clasp of your bra, fumbling once, twice, before you unhook it and let the straps fall from your shoulders.

There’s no fanfare. No hesitation.

Just the soft sound of your breath hitching when his hands rise—hesitant—and cup your breasts for the first time. His fingers tremble slightly, watching your face for any flicker of discomfort, ready to stop at the first sign.

Instead, you gasp—and not from pain. Not from fear. But pleasure. Sharp and sudden. His thumbs brush over you, gentle and adoring, and it’s like your whole body sparks to life beneath him.

“Okay?” he asks, voice cracked open with worry.

You nod, eyes wide. “More than okay.”

His leans up further, one arm going to support his weight against the bed. His mouth finds yours again, and your hands roam lower, dragging along the ridges of his stomach, down to the waistband of his pants. You feel him twitch beneath you, hard and aching and entirely undone.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, like he’s only just realizing it out loud. “I—I don’t have words for what you are.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then another to his throat, then lower, trailing along the curve of his shoulder. “You too,” you whisper. “You’re the most perfect being to ever come into my life”

He draws a sharp breath at your adoration.

You’ll never forget the way he shakes when you unbutton his pants. Or the way he groans—guttural, helpless—when you press your hand to the heat straining beneath the fabric.

When you pull away just enough to slide them down, he lets out a breathless whine, hips twitching as he helps you push them past his thighs. He’s fully bare beneath you now—thick and dripping and impossibly hard—and when your eyes drop to the sight of him, you feel your stomach clench. Your own slick dripping to match him.

“You want to keep going?” you ask again, just to be sure. Just to hear it.

His answer is immediate. “God, yes.”

You hover over him, both of you stripped bare, breath shallow with anticipation.

He’s trembling beneath you—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of everything you both feel. The months of longing. The terror of losing each other. The desperation to prove, in this moment, that you’re still here. Still his.

You reach between you, hand steady despite the chaos in your chest. The pads of your fingers brush along his length—hot, heavy, twitching—and he lets out a broken moan, hips jerking involuntarily at the touch.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes squeezed shut like the sensation alone could undo him.

You stroke him once, slowly, marveling at the way he bucks into your hand. Then you lift your gaze to meet his again. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth parted. There’s so much in his expression—love, awe, fear, hunger. He looks like a man unraveling at the seams.

“Seven,” he breathes. Just your name. Like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

You guide him to your entrance, holding him there as your breath catches. Even now, even after everything, there’s a flicker of hesitation—a tremble in your hands.

His voice is a whisper: “You sure?”

Instead of answering, you lean forward and kiss him—soft, slow, sealing the moment with something gentle. And then you begin to sink down.

The stretch steals the air from your lungs. Your hands brace on his chest, nails digging in, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of it—how full he feels, how much of him there is, how your body struggles to make room for all of it.

He’s trying not to move, you can tell. His hands grip the sheets, his jaw clenched so tight it could crack. A sheen of sweat on his brow.

“You okay?” he rasps, the words nearly swallowed by a moan.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah—just… just slow.”

You keep lowering yourself, inch by inch, and he’s so deep, so thick, it feels like you’re being split open in the most sacred way. The pressure turns to something molten. When you finally bottom out—hips flush against his—you both gasp at the same time.

You feel him everywhere.

And he feels like home.

He cups your face again, thumb swiping gently beneath your eye, grounding you. “You feel—God, you feel incredible.”

You rest your forehead against his, trying to catch your breath. There’s a delicious ache low in your belly, a trembling fullness that’s nearly overwhelming. But more than that—there’s peace. His arms around you. His body inside you. His heart thundering in time with yours.

You kiss him again, slow and open-mouthed, letting your hips roll experimentally. He cries out against your mouth—something soft, almost a whimper—and his hands fly to your waist, steadying you like he’s drowning.

“You okay?” you ask, echoing his earlier question.

He nods, wide-eyed. “I—I don’t think I’ll last long.”

“That’s okay,” you whisper. “We have time.”

You start to move again—slow, shallow thrusts—letting your body adjust to him, letting the pleasure build without rushing it. Each time you rise and sink back down, his head tilts back, mouth slack, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

The tension between you is unbearable in the best way—each shift of your hips, each moan from his lips, coils that tight spring inside you tighter and tighter.

His hands roam your body now with more confidence, sliding up your back, over your ribs, thumb brushing the peak of your breast until you arch into him. Every touch is reverent. Like he’s worshiping every inch of you.

And then he whispers it again. Like a prayer.

“I love you.”

It knocks the breath out of you.

Not because it’s a surprise—but because of how real it sounds. How much he means it. How much you need to hear it.

“I love you too,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, his throat. “Always.”

He groans like the words physically wound him—and then his hips twitch up into you again, deeper, harder, and your body clenches around him in response.

A sharp, desperate moan leaves your mouth.

“You feel so good, sweets,” you gasp, voice shaking. “So full…”

His fingers dig into your hips. “You’re perfect—fuck, you’re perfect—made for me.”

You start to move again, deeper now. Slower. Building.

And you both begin to break apart, piece by piece, in each other’s arms.

You find your pace together.

At first, it’s slow. A rocking rhythm that lets you savor the fullness, the weight of him deep inside you. You press your hands to his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palms, matching your own. Each movement is deliberate — a promise, a question, a plea.

His hands never stop moving. Palms skimming your waist, up your sides, thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts before trailing back down to your hips. Like he’s afraid this is a dream, and if he doesn’t keep touching you, he’ll wake up.

“You feel unreal,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and desperate. “You feel—feel like a fucking miracle.”

You lean down and kiss him again, stealing the breath from his lungs. His hands fly to your back, sliding beneath your skin, holding you so close your chests press together — sweat-slick and trembling.

You move again. A slow, steady grind of your hips that drags a long moan from his throat. His head falls back against the pillows, mouth slack, throat exposed. Your fingers slide up to tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp.

“You’re so good,” you whisper, breathless against his ear. “You’re doing so good, sweets.”

The praise makes his whole body jolt beneath you, hips bucking up involuntarily. You cry out at the deeper angle, your body clenching around him, the sensation sending sparks behind your eyes.

“You like that?” you tease, lips brushing his temple.

He nods frantically, flushed and panting. “Ye—yes—please. Say it again.”

Your lips ghost along his jaw. “You’re so good for me. So sweet. So full of love. Let me take care of you.”

His hands claw at your hips, dragging you down harder against him. The rhythm begins to falter — not from lack of control, but because the need is mounting too fast, too sharp. Your bodies can’t help but chase the edge.

He thrusts up into you now, matching your pace. Your thighs tremble where they straddle his waist. His name falls from your lips like a prayer as he drives deeper, again and again, each movement hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

Your head falls forward, forehead against his, breath mingling in the charged space between. You feel him everywhere — in your body, your heart, your soul. Every piece of you stretched around him. Every breath filled with him.

“I—I’m gonna—I can’t ..I—,” he gasps, voice breaking on the edge of a sob.

You cup his face, forcing him to up look at you — eyes wide, desperate, shining. “Don’t hold back. I want to feel it. I want to feel all of you.”

He shudders beneath you, jaw trembling, the coil inside him pulling tighter, tighter—

But it’s his name — the way you moan it, whimper it, cry it out like it’s the only word you’ve ever known — that breaks him.

His rhythm stutters. His mouth finds your neck, biting gently at the place your pulse throbs. His hands dig in, anchoring you to him. The sound that escapes him is guttural, needy, full of devotion.

Your nails rake down his back. Your hips grind harder. You’re chasing it now — that peak just out of reach — with him buried deep inside you, whispering I love you into your skin.

The air between you is thick with heat and need and something holy.

Your body begins to tense. Your voice falters.

“Bob—I’m—” you can barely speak.

He cups your face, panting. “I’ve got you. Let go for me. Please—let go.” He continues to rut up into you, movements stuttering and desperate.

And then you do.

It hits like a wave breaking.

Your body tightens around him, muscles trembling as white heat crashes through your core. Your vision blurs. You cry out — his name, a sob, a sound you’ve never made before. One that rips through your throat like it’s been buried there all along, waiting for this.

He follows instantly.

The second he feels you clench around him, sees you break apart in his arms, hears that shattered gasp of pleasure — he’s gone. His grip turns bruising, his whole body locking as he spills into you with a wrecked moan that sounds like your name and a prayer rolled into one.

“Seven—oh god—fuck—”

He buries his face in your neck as his hips jerk, a last few desperate thrusts before stilling completely. You feel the heat of him inside you, the shaking of his arms as he holds you tighter like he’ll fall apart otherwise.

Your hands cradle the back of his head, fingers tangled in sweat-damp hair, holding him through it.

And then there’s stillness.

Not silence — because your hearts are thundering, your breath still ragged — but stillness in the way the world seems to pause around you. Like the moment deserves to stretch. To linger.

Bob’s chest rises and falls beneath you, still pressed impossibly close, his skin sticky against yours, his arms trembling around your waist. He hasn’t said a word — just clings to you like a man shipwrecked, finally finding shore.

You shift gently, just enough to press your forehead to his. His eyes open — glassy, dazed, soft. His lips twitch in a small, reverent smile.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, voice rasped and tender. “That was—God—are you okay?”

You nod, blinking back a sudden well of tears. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Better than okay.”

His thumbs brush your cheeks, catching the tears before they fall. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you whisper. “You made me feel… safe. Loved.”

Something crumbles in him at that. His throat works around the words he can’t quite say — because he’s already said them, over and over, in every kiss, every touch, every desperate cry into your skin.

You slide off him slowly, careful and aching. The shift draws a soft whimper from him and a matching sigh from your lips. You both hiss at the sensitivity, and for a beat you just lie there, legs tangled, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet.

His arms wrap around you again, more loosely this time, one hand stroking lazy circles along your spine. He kisses your temple.

“Stay here?” he asks, small and unsure.

You laugh softly, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “Like I’m going anywhere.”

The quiet stretches again. This time it’s comfortable. Full of something warm and human and whole. His hand never stops moving on your back. Yours find his chest, splayed across the space where his heart beats wildly beneath your palm.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs into the quiet. “You’re not …you’re not alone in this. We face it together.”

He tilts his head so your foreheads press again, lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

“And I meant what I said,” you reply. “You feel like home.”

The afterglow hums between you, tender and thick with love. Not just lust. Not just release. But connection. Healing. The kind of intimacy neither of you believed you’d ever get — let alone deserve.

You lie there until the night cools your skin and sleep starts to pull at the edges of your thoughts.

And when it comes, you let it.

Wrapped in him. Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in something you’re starting to believe might just be… forever.

 

 

Notes:

A/N: Okay here it is you guys! This chapter was a whopper and full of angst and love. I was really nervous writing this especially as an Ace individual I tend to not pay close attention to the smut in other fics but I tried my best!

I hope it was what you all were looking for and I’m so excited to keep going! Thank you all for reading🖤🩶🤍

Chapter 10: What We Wake To

Summary:

Waking comes gently—but the peace is fleeting. After a night of vulnerability and love, the morning brings soft touches, quiet jokes, and a taste of what healing could look like. But shadows still gather at the edges. The mission looms. And with it, the return to a place where everything began—and where something darker now waits.

Waking isn’t immediate. It doesn’t come with a gasp, or breath clawing its way past the nightmares that usually stain your mornings.

Instead, it comes softly—wrapped in warmth and comfort that coaxes you into the waking world like sunlight through gauze. The first thing your conscious mind notes is the weight of want. Strong arms around you, holding you close. Then the grounding thrum of a steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, the quiet rhythm of even breathing under your ear. Legs tangled. Skin to skin. One of your hands splayed over his chest, palm warm.

You shift only slightly, careful not to disturb the stillness, and tilt your head up.

Bob’s sleeping face meets you—peaceful, open in a way you’ve never seen when he’s awake. Vulnerable, only as someone who trusts you can be. There’s something poetic in it. Something sacred.

Your fingers lift without thinking, tracing the line of his jaw—featherlight, reverent. You follow the curve of his cheek, then down the bridge of his nose, and your lips quirk with a soft smile. You remember his kitten-like sneezes and the way he always tries to hide them like it’s embarrassing, like it’s not the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen.

And just like that, the weight of yesterday sinks back in.

How the day began—tense, angry, then bone-crushingly full of grief. The words you both said. The fear. The way it all unraveled… and somehow rewove itself into something whole. Something intimate and real and impossible to name.

Your cheeks flush. You drop your hand back to his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart like you could memorize the beat. Let it anchor you.

But your mind drifts. To what’s ahead. To Nine. To the darkness that still coils at the edges of your soul. You stare at Bob—this lovely, fragile, golden thing—and your heart twists with a fresh wave of fear.

How can you bring this into the battlefield of your past? How can you put him in danger—again?

The thought grips you like a vice.

But then there’s a quiet groan, a shift of muscle beneath you, the warmth of his breath against your temple. A hand slides to the back of your head, fingers weaving slowly through your hair. When you glance up, you’re met with a sleep-soft smile and those deep, warm ocean eyes blinking open to meet yours.

And for a moment, the fear loosens its grip.

He blinks up at you, smile soft, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the back of your neck. “You’re still here.”

The words make your throat catch. You nod, barely breathing. “Yeah. I’m still here.”

His eyes crinkle slightly as he shifts, body stretching beneath yours in a slow, lazy sprawl. You shift to give him space, but he only hums and tugs you closer, like letting you go isn’t an option he’s entertaining yet.

“You sleep okay?” you ask quietly, fingers tracing idle shapes into his chest.

He nods, then pauses, blinking at the ceiling. “I… think so? I mean, I woke up with you still here, so… yeah. Best sleep I’ve had in probably ever.”

You smile, pressing your face into his shoulder to hide the way your eyes sting again. It’s always the simple things that get you. The honesty. The softness.

He turns his head to nuzzle his nose into your hair, breath warm against your temple. “You?”

You hesitate a moment. “No nightmares.”

His arms tighten slightly. “Good. I… I hoped maybe, you know. Being close might help.”

Then quickly, he adds, “Not like—just, I meant—it’s not like I fixed anything, I just hoped…”

You lift your head just enough to meet his flustered gaze and smile. “You helped,” you say simply. “You always help.”

He flushes. “That’s a dangerous reputation.”

You raise a brow. “What, being helpful?”

“Being helpful and huggable. People might start thinking I’m the emotional support dog or something.”

You snort out a laugh, the tension in your chest cracking open just a little. “You’re already that, sweets. Sorry. No takebacks.”

Bob groans and throws his arm over his eyes. “Nooo. I wanted to be cool and mysterious.”

You lean in to kiss his shoulder. “You are cool. Just… like, cuddly cool. Like a weighted blanket with a tragic backstory.”

His laugh rumbles under your cheek and you feel it in your bones, warm and grounding. He lets the arm fall away from his face to cup your cheek gently, thumb brushing under your eye.

“I meant it last night,” he says softly, more serious now. “I want to face this with you. All of it. The scary stuff. The past. I know you’re scared, and I am too, but I want to be there.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod, leaning into the touch. “I’m still scared,” you admit.

“Me too,” he says. “But maybe we’re a little braver together.”

There’s silence for a moment. Not awkward, just full.

Then he shifts, suddenly bashful, voice quieter. “So… uh… do we, like, make coffee now? Or do I kiss you again and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a while longer?”

You grin, hand on his chest again. “Bold of you to assume I won’t kiss you while the coffee brews.”

His face lights up with a crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “God, I’m obsessed with you.”

You kiss him slow, deep and sure. And for a little while longer, the rest of the world really does disappear.

~

The elevator doors open with a soft ding and sunlight spills into the Tower kitchen, golden and warm. The space is already alive with quiet chatter and the rich smell of coffee and eggs—Ava at the stove flipping something with sharp, practiced movements, Yelena perched on the counter eating strawberries directly from the carton, and Bucky nursing a cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him from murdering someone.

And then the room goes silent.

You step out first, Bob trailing a half-step behind you, both of you clearly disheveled in a way that screams we slept together but tried to make it look casual and failed. His hoodie is still tugged askew on one shoulder, and your neck is definitely flushed in a way that gives you away.

Yelena clocks the situation first. And smirks. “Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the living.”

Ava glances over her shoulder, raises an eyebrow. “It’s almost noon.”

Bucky doesn’t even look up from his mug. “We ran a betting pool.”

You blink. “You what?”

Bob looks like he wants to disappear. “Oh god.”

Yelena hops off the counter with all the subtlety of a wolf circling a deer. “I had money on ‘too emotionally constipated to kiss before winter.’ Ava thought you’d combust sometime in August. Bucky said—”

“I said nothing,” Bucky interjects, deadpan, eyes still on his mug. “But I did win.”

“Traitor,” you mutter under your breath.

Bob’s hand finds yours automatically, his thumb brushing the back of it like a grounding tether. You try not to look at him because if you do, you might melt again. He’s glowing in that soft, still-a-little-starry way, cheeks pink, hair even messier than usual.

Ava hands you both plates without comment. “French toast. Eat before Yelena tries to get details.”

“Too late,” Yelena chirps.

“We’re not giving you details,” Bob mumbles, burying his face in his coffee cup as he sits beside you at the bar.

Yelena shrugs. “It’s fine. I already read everything I needed to in the walk of shame body language.”

You look at her, flatly. “There was no shame.”

Bob, quietly: “Some limping, maybe.”

You elbow him in the ribs and he chokes on his coffee.

John finally glances up, shit eating grin in place. “Proud of you, Bobby. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Neither did he,” Yelena mutters.

Bob groans and drops his forehead to the counter with a thud. “Please let the earth open up and swallow me.”

You pat his back with a grin, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. There’s no judgment here. No fear. Just teasing and comfort and a sense of belonging you never thought you’d have.

You lean into Bob’s shoulder and take a bite of your toast.

“Hey,” you murmur low so only he hears. “For the record? I’d wake up next to you again. Any day.”

He turns his head slightly, still hiding his flushed face, and you feel his fingers squeeze yours under the counter.

“Same,” he breathes. “Every day.”

You’re halfway through your French toast, basking in the warm buzz of sunlight and subtle foot nudges under the table from Bob, when the familiar stomp of heavy boots signals Alexei’s arrival.

“Ah! There they are!” he booms, arms outstretched like he’s announcing royalty. “Our tragic lovebirds! I was beginning to think you had both vanished into the shadows forever. Or died from too much emotion.”

Yelena groans. “Papa, please—”

But he barrels right past her with a grin, grabbing a leftover piece of toast from Ava’s plate, who smacks his hand in response.

Then, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer:

“So, Seven, I can have your room, yes?”

You blink. “What?”

Alexei grins, completely serious. “If you’re staying with Bob now—yes, yes, I see how cozy you are—I figure you don’t need two beds. I can put my Red Guardian memorabilia in there. Maybe shrine of my heroic exploits. Life-sized cutout. Signed headshots. Limited edition action figure with retractable shield—”

You snort into your coffee, laughter bubbling from your chest before you can stop it. “You’re unbelievable.”

Bob, already blushing like a sunburn, laughs nervously. “I don’t think that’s—uh—we haven’t really—”

But then, to your surprise, he stops. Shoulders stiffen. And instead of brushing it off, his voice drops low. Gentle. Sure.

“I’d like that,” he says, quietly.

The table stills.

Yelena blinks at him. Ava arches a brow. John chokes slightly on his coffee.

You freeze for a moment, caught somewhere between breathless shock and warmth that spreads through your entire body like honey.

Alexei beams. “Excellent! I’ll start clearing shelf space.”

Bob clears his throat, glancing down at his plate, face scarlet but still smiling. “I meant…not the memorabilia part. Just…the idea. Of her staying. With me.”

You reach under the table and lace your fingers through his, squeezing gently.

Alexei winks. “I will keep Red Guardian cutout in hallway then. For privacy.”

“Absolutely not,” Yelena snaps, throwing a strawberry at him.

“I did sleep better than I think ever in your bed…you might be onto something,” you grin, playfully squeezing his hand.

Bob leans into you, voice still hoarse with nerves, but warmer now. “Same.”

You place a quick kiss to his cheek. “We can work it out”

And for a while, nothing matters but the warmth of the kitchen. The sunlight. The laughter. The steady presence of his hand in yours.

It almost feels like peace.

~

The room feels colder, brighter, more clinical. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as the team gathers around the long table, holographic map already flickering to life at the center.

Red pins. Blue paths. A name on the screen you haven’t seen in years:

Gherdeal. Romania.

The forest where the shadows first swallowed you whole.

You take the seat beside Bob, his thigh pressing against yours in quiet solidarity. He doesn’t speak, but his presence is steady, grounding. You don’t need words.

“We’ve got a location ping — not concrete, but recent enough to chase. There’ve been more sightings. Something big. Something unnatural. And unless Bigfoot moved to Romania, we’re all thinking the same thing.” Bucky goes over any new form of information that’s come in.

You swallow hard. You don’t say his name.

Yelena leans forward. “Are we assuming hostile engagement?”

“Prepare for it,” John says before Bucky can answer. “We don’t know if he remembers Seven. Or if he does he certainly didn’t want a family reunion last time.”

Everyone glances toward you.

You nod slowly, gaze steady. “He remembers something. And if he’s going back there… it’s not random.”

A map zooms in, coordinates locking.

Ava’s voice is quiet. “We bring him back?”

You hesitate. Bob answers for you.

“We try.”

And that’s the word no one wants to say but everyone understands.

Try.

Because if Nine can’t be brought back—if he’s too far gone, too broken, too dangerous—then trying might have to mean stopping him.

Even if it breaks something in you.

~

Your leg bounces—fast, relentless, a rhythm born of nerves and dread. The metal floor of the jet barely muffles the sound, a dull thud-thud-thud echoing your spiraling thoughts.

The umbra is restless. Coiling. Shifting beneath your skin like it knows where you’re headed. Like it remembers.

You feel it crawling behind your ribs, slithering through your chest, pooling in your spine like a second heartbeat. It doesn’t speak, but if it did, you know what it would say.

He’s waiting. He’s stronger. You’re not ready.

You stare ahead, unblinking.

Bob’s hand is wrapped around yours. It’s warm and steady, thumb sweeping soft arcs against your knuckles. He hasn’t said much since takeoff. Just sat beside you, quietly anchoring you to something that isn’t fear.

Even now, you can feel his gaze on you. You don’t look at him yet.

Yelena leans into your other side, shoulder pressed firm against yours. Her eyes are closed, chin tilted back, like she’s just resting—but her presence is deliberate. Protective.

You’re bookended by the only two people in the world who can touch you without making you flinch.

It should be enough to calm you.

It isn’t.

A quiet beep echoes from the cockpit, followed by Bucky’s voice over the comm.

“Ten minutes to target.”

The words slam into your chest like a stone.

Bob squeezes your hand once, grounding. You glance at him now, and his expression breaks something in you—gentle, concerned, and so full of quiet love it hurts.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, just for you.

You nod, throat tight.

But the umbra whispers otherwise.

You’re not afraid of Nine killing you. Not really.

You’re afraid of what he’ll look like.

What he’ll sound like.

What you’ll become if you have to kill him.

The jet hums steady beneath your feet, a quiet mechanical lullaby counting down the minutes until everything changes.

And you don’t know which version of yourself will walk out when the doors open.

Bob shifts beside you, his thumb still brushing your knuckles. You feel him glance toward Yelena, then back to you, hesitant. He doesn’t want to push. Not after everything.

But it’s Yelena who breaks the silence first.

“You’re vibrating,” she murmurs without opening her eyes. “Like a chihuahua. Or a phone on silent.”

You huff a small breath through your nose, something like a laugh trying to exist. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, cracking one eye open now. “I’d be worried if you weren’t freaking out. You’re about to go face a shadow monster with a sister complex”

Bob grimaces. “We don’t know it will be a shadow monster—”

“Oh, come on,” she cuts in, waving a hand lazily. “Well I bet you if not yet they will be.”

You let out a quiet snort. The pressure behind your eyes eases—just slightly.

Yelena opens both eyes and studies you. “You ready for this?”

The question hits harder than you expect. You look down at your lap, then at your entwined fingers with Bob’s.

“No,” you admit. “But I’m going anyway.”

“That’s the spirit,” Yelena mutters. “Gritty optimism. Very inspiring.”

Bob’s voice is quieter. “You don’t have to do this alone, remember that yeah? A-Any of it.”

You glance at him. He looks paler than usual, blue eyes dark with worry, but resolute.

“I mean it,” he says. “If something happens—if it gets bad—I want you to know I’m still with you. Even if I have to stay on the jet. Even if you can’t see me.”

His voice cracks just a little. “You’re not alone in this, Seven.”

Something twists in your chest.

You look between them—Bob, with his soft, anxious love. Yelena, with her dry humor and the unshakable steadiness of someone who’s chosen to stay beside you through hell.

“Thanks,” you murmur. It’s small, but real. “Both of you.”

Yelena bumps her shoulder into yours. “Just don’t die. I’m not giving a second eulogy. The first one was already too dramatic.”

Bob’s lips twitch. “Wait—you gave a eulogy?”

“She didn’t die, but technically, there was a five-minute window where Bucky thought she had,” Yelena says.

You close your eyes and groan. “God. Please don’t tell this story again.”

Bob’s hand finds yours again and squeezes. “Tell me later.”

His voice is soft, but steady now. The kind of steady that reminds you of why you trust him. Why you love him.

The kind of steady you’ll need when your world cracks open.

Just before landing.

The shadows under your skin shift with unease, the umbra pressing too close to the surface. The closer you get, the harder it is to keep it contained.

Bob squeezes your fingers gently. “You’re doing okay,” he murmurs, voice quiet against the low whir of the jet.

“I’m not.” You don’t look at him. “But I will be.”

Ava is buckling her vest, watching the two of you. “This is our last chance to go over the plan. You two locked in?”

You nod once. Bob’s grip doesn’t loosen.

Bucky turns in his seat, arms crossed. “Just to be clear—for the record—Bob stays in or near the jet at all times. No wandering. No hero complex. If something goes wrong, he's not in danger. That was the deal.”

“It’s not a babysitting gig,” Ava adds, her tone softer than usual. “It’s a safety net. We might need you for evac. Or in case Seven goes full monster mode again.”

“That is highly possible,” you mutter.

“It’s alright,” John says with a half-smile. “Bobby here has that under control for sure.”

Bob finally speaks, his voice a little tight. “I remember the deal. I’m not here to fight, I’m here to be close enough to help if it all goes to hell.”

Yelena leans in, her gaze surprisingly gentle. “And we trust you, Солнышко. But we also need you to trust us back. No charging in. Okay?”

Bob’s throat works. He nods. “Right. I get it.”

You glance over at him, seeing the way his shoulders are drawn up, tension in every line of him. “Bob…”

His eyes flick to you. Soft, blue, unreadable.

“I’m trusting you to stay alive,” you say quietly. “Please don’t make me regret that.”

“I won’t,” he says, and somehow it sounds like a vow. “But you have to come back to me. That’s the only way this works.”

You close your eyes for a breath, then nod. One last squeeze of his hand. One last anchor.

The jet dips.

The landing gear hums.

The time for talking is over.

~

Just before the hatch opens.

You pause at the top of the ramp, one foot still on the jet and one ready to step into the unknown.

Bob’s hand wraps gently around your wrist. Not to stop you—just to hold on for one more second. One more breath.

You turn to face him.

His expression is soft, pinched at the edges with worry. You can feel it pulsing off of him like heat. His blue eyes flick across your face like he’s memorizing it—like he doesn’t know if he’ll see it again.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and tight.

“No,” you say honestly.

His thumb brushes your knuckles. “Me neither.”

The umbra twists inside you. Hungry. Anxious. But it stills when he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the corner of your mouth.

“Come back to me,” he whispers. “You don’t have to win. Just come back.”

You rest your forehead against his for a breath, your voice barely audible. “I won’t leave you behind. I’m not whole without you.”

Then you let go.

You step out.

The air outside is wrong.

Not cold. Not warm. Not anything. It doesn’t press against your skin like it should—it just exists. Still and sterile, like the world here has been holding its breath for decades.

The others fan out slowly, boots crunching against dry grass and broken cobblestone. Trees loom in the distance, their gnarled limbs clawing skyward, casting long shadows that don’t seem to shift with the sun. It feels like you’ve stepped into a photograph—frozen. Waiting.

The village is small. Maybe a dozen buildings, most of them weathered husks. Paint peeled off in wide sheets, shutters bolted tight. Curtains drawn in the windows, though you can feel the weight of eyes behind them. Watching.

But you don’t remember this place.

You were taken from here when you were three years old. Whatever innocent moments you might’ve once had—playing in the dirt, clinging to a parent’s leg, hearing lullabies in a language you no longer dream in—are long gone. Scrubbed clean by needles, machines, and pain.

Even if you had remembered… HYDRA would’ve ripped it away.

“This place looks like a horror movie,” John mutters under his breath. He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a twitch in his jaw.

You glance at him, offering a wry smile. “Wouldn’t be a family reunion without some ambient dread.”

He snorts. “Of course this is where you’re from. Everything about this place is spooky as hell.”

A chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“Maybe I was born with it,” you say, deadpan.

“Mmm—maybe it’s murder-gene,” John nods solemnly.

“Naturally spooky!” Alexei exclaims behind you, sounding like a proud dad bragging at a science fair. “That is our Seven. Our own movie monster.”

You roll your eyes but don’t deny it.

The banter does little to thaw the chill.

The deeper you walk into the village, the more the atmosphere turns oppressive. The kind of quiet that isn’t silence—it’s suppression. A silence built on fear, on secrets buried under floorboards and behind closed doors. You pass a small house with a child’s toy sitting on the front step—faded, untouched. A single curtain twitches in the window before snapping shut.

Something here remembers you.

Even if you don’t remember it.

Yelena walks beside you, eyes scanning the shadows. “They know we’re here,” she says softly.

“Good,” you murmur, the umbra stirring in agreement beneath your ribs. “Hopefully all civilians will stay out of our way.”

The forest surrounds the village like a warning.

Dark. Watching. Waiting.

The trees are too close—too still. Their branches twisted and bone-thin, reaching toward the sky like snapped limbs frozen in supplication or threat. It smells like damp earth, rotting leaves, and something older. Stale.

The further out the others fan, the more it presses in—that feeling.

Not just haunted.

Tainted.

Like blood soaked into wood.

Like memory etched into roots.

Every step forward feels like returning to a crime scene where you were both the victim and the weapon.

You pause just at the tree line. Your breath shallow.

Something pulls.

Not physical—no footprint to follow, no sound to trace.

It’s deeper.

A magnetic tug low in your gut, crawling up your spine. The umbra inside you writhes. Hums. It knows something is here.

It reminds you of the Void inside Bob. The way it stirs. The way it hungers.

Your hand flexes at your side.

And you answer.

You close your eyes—and split.

Your shadow stretches unnaturally in all directions, pouring across the frostbitten ground like spilled oil. Then it tears. Shreds. Multiplies. Dozens of thin, sinewy versions of yourself peel away from the original silhouette, crawling and slinking toward the woods on silent limbs. A swarm of shadows moving with impossible grace, slipping beneath roots, skimming tree trunks, climbing bark like smoke.

They make no sound.

They leave no trace.

But they see everything.

Yelena stares. John mumbles a curse. Even Alexei falls silent.

The forest itself seems to react—branches creaking, bark peeling in long vertical splits, the canopy darkening as if the light itself refuses to follow your shadows in.

You remain still at the edge of the trees, eyes fluttering half-shut. You feel them. Your scouts. Dozens of little selves, spreading like veins into the wilderness. Eyes without pupils. Limbs without form. They see in negative—heat, breath, presence. Like sonar in shadow.

And in that silence, you find it.

A gap in the trees. Too regular to be natural.

No sound there. Not even birds.

A dead space. Hidden.

One of your shadows slips close—and flickers violently, shuddering like a candle snuffed out too fast.

You snap upright.

That one’s gone.

Obliterated.

The rest recoil.

Your lips part, heartbeat a war drum in your throat.

Whatever’s out there saw it.

And killed it.

But not before it showed you where.

“Northwest ridge,” you say, voice dark with certainty. “Something’s there.”

Bucky’s head snaps toward you. He doesn’t speak, but his whole body leans forward like he’s ready to follow.

You step into the forest. The others follow without question.

Around you, your remaining shadows shift in your wake, clinging to your feet like a living cloak. The trees groan. The path narrows. And still—you lead.

Because something is watching.

And this time, it’s your turn to see it first.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

Hello pals. We are coming up to the end pretty soon I think. Maybe two or three more chapters. I’ve had so much fun writing this and maybe I’ll write more in the future who knows! But for now we have seven vs nine in the next chapter and Bob really stepping up.

As always I hope you’re enjoying this and thank you for reading

Chapter 11: Where Monsters Go

Summary:

In the heart of the forest, shadows rise—and with them, a nightmare reborn. As Seven descends into a battle of monstrous mirrors, Bob makes a devastating choice: break his promise, or let her break alone. And when the shadows call, only monsters answer.

The deeper you walk into the woods, the more the world warps.

The light fades, not in the natural way dusk gives way to evening, but in a slow, unnatural bleed—like the forest is swallowing it whole. Shadows stretch too far, moving like they’ve forgotten how to belong to the things that cast them. The trees are tall, gnarled, their bark flaking like rot. Their branches hang low and crooked, grazing your shoulders like they’re testing the softness of your skin. The air grows colder with each step. Heavy. Tasting of rust and wet stone.

No birds. No bugs. Just the sound of boots on damp earth and breath fogging in the chill.

Your shadows creep ahead of you like silent scouts, unfurling from your body in slithering coils. They melt into the underbrush, dart up trees, glide beneath decaying logs. You feel through them—like nerves exposed across the forest floor. It’s a thousand silent eyes, your awareness stretched thin and wide.

Something is wrong. Not just the kind of wrong that lingers in abandoned places. This is deeper. Older. Like the land itself was infected.

You don’t speak. No one does. The tension is a vise tightening around all your throats. Even John keeps quiet, eyes flicking to the dark like he’s waiting for something to lunge from it.

Then one of your shadows finds something.

A shift. A heartbeat. Not animal. Not right.

Your feet move before you think. Silent. Certain.

The others follow, weaving between the trees, brushing aside clawing branches and stepping over shattered stone markers that might’ve once been graves. The scent hits you next—blood, thick and coppery, but soured by something fouler underneath.

Then you see him.

At first it doesn’t register as human. It’s crouched like a beast, back heaving with every breath, long fingers sunk into the dirt. Its frame is too thin, limbs stretched past what should be natural, bone visible in places where the skin doesn’t bother to hide it. Veins pulse black beneath a gray sheen of skin, and shadows cling to it like a second skin.

And clutched in one clawed hand, limp and half-conscious, is a man you recognize.

The sight of him hits like a gunshot to your chest.

Dr. Armanov.

The scientist who ran Project Silhouette. The man who assigned your number, not like a name but a simple way to keep track of the children in his care. Who stood in sterile rooms and watched you scream. Who you watched bleed out on the floor of a burning Hydra lab.

You thought he was dead.

But he isn’t. Not yet.

And the thing holding him—the beast crouched in the clearing like a wolf guarding its kill—lifts its head.

The face is familiar. Warped by time and experiments, but familiar. Eyes the wrong color, too wide and too dark—but you know those eyes.

Nine.

Your heart lodges in your throat, bile rising behind it. Your shadows shudder, fracturing at the edges. The umbra writhes in your chest.

He doesn’t recognize you. There’s no flicker of memory in his stare. No relief. Just… emptiness. Like his soul was wiped clean, leaving only instinct behind.

A flicker of the young boy overlapping with the man before you. And the monster he’s become.

Your control slips.

Just slightly.

But enough.

Enough to make the trees tremble.

Enough for the shadows to rise like smoke around your feet.

Bucky says your name.

Low. Firm. A warning laced in worry.

You don’t turn your head, but you feel him shift beside you—a presence at your back, solid and steady like a wall you didn’t know you needed. His hand hovers just near yours, not touching, not crowding—just… ready. In case you shatter.

Then:

“Hey—hey, Seven…”

Bob’s voice crackles through the comm, low and trembling but trying to sound steady. His words wrap around your spine like a tether, a balm to the ragged heat burning just under your skin.

“You’re not alone, okay? I’m right here. We all are.”

It’s enough to make you breathe.

You inhale once—sharp and shallow—then again, deeper. You blink the red haze from your vision and force your fists to unclench, fingers shaking. The umbra recoils a little, still wild beneath your skin but no longer screaming. Your shadows, once flickering with malice, pull back just enough to resemble something human.

Bob’s voice keeps you from slipping under, and Bucky’s presence beside you anchors your body like gravity.

You don’t speak yet.

But you don’t lose control either.

The air is thick enough to choke on.

Something putrid simmers beneath the forest floor, and the silence is alive with teeth. The stench of ozone and rot tightens around your throat. Every instinct screams wrong.

breath caged behind clenched jaws.

Dr. Armanov hangs limp in the center of the clearing—no bindings, no cuffs, no rope. He’s held aloft by fingers.

But they aren’t fingers, not really.

They’re appendages of shadow—too long, too many—snaking from the thing behind him like puppet strings from a cruel god’s hand.

And the thing holding him?

It isn’t human.

Not anymore.

Not fully.

It stands tall and wrong. Elongated limbs like warped branches, bent at angles that defy anatomy. Skin once perhaps flesh-toned now leeched to a deathly pallor, veined with black like marble cracked under pressure, streaked with shadow bleeding from its joints and jaw, from the fissures where skin meets bone. Its face is barely a face—more mask than man, a collage of fractured bone and hollowed geometry, teeth just a little too visible. From its spine—spilled smoke. From its eyes—

Void. And gold.

No sclera, no lids, just two black pits haloed with flickering rings of molten gold, like solar eclipses staring straight into you.

Your stomach turns to stone.

You know those eyes.

You’ve felt those eyes on your skin in the dark. Dreamed them. Feared them. Worn them.

They live in Bob.

They live in you.

“…God,” you whisper.

“Seven,” Bucky murmurs beside you, lower now, voice taut like a tripwire. One hand shifts toward his sidearm. The other toward you.

He sees it. The way your body freezes—not with fear, but familiarity. Recognition.

He’s ready to move.

But your stillness stops him.

“Wait.” You lift your hand.

And then—you step forward.

Just once.

Silent. Measured. As if the wrong breeze might tip this moment into bloodshed.

Your shadows rise in kind—obedient, rippling, slithering along bark and roots and stones. They move like breath. Like they’ve caught a scent. They do not touch.

They watch.

So do you.

You take another step, slower this time. The air is thick with dread—soaked in it.

And then, quietly, from the bottom of your ribs—

“…Nine?”

The creature’s head jerks up like a marionette on cut strings.

But it’s not the monster who answers.

It’s Armanov.

He jolts against the hold like a puppet seized by a new hand, spitting breath through clenched teeth. “Subject 07!” he gasps. “Listen to me—you listen—he’s unstable—he won’t stop unless you—!”

A low, wet growl coils from behind him. A sound that doesn’t belong in a human throat.

The creature’s grip tightens.

You hear it—the scrape of ribs buckling under pressure.

“No!” Armanov screams, thrashing now. “Seven! Contain subject 09! You remember your protocol—your orders—you obey—!”

“Shut up,” you snap, the words sharp enough to cut open the world.

Your shadows erupt like a wound torn wide—lashes of black slicing the air, kicking dead leaves into a swirling storm. Your veins darken. Your fingers shift—stretching into claws without meaning to.

The others tense around you—Ava and John at your sides like sentries. Yelena’s blades whisper free of their sheaths. Alexei doesn’t move, but his eyes are narrowed, tracking every flicker of the monster’s hands.

Still—

Nine watches only you.

His head tilts, slow. Not aggressive.

Curious.

Like something ancient sniffing the echo of a memory.

You try again, your voice dust-soft.

“…Nine. It’s me.”

Another tilt.

The shadows coiled around him pulse—shivering in and out like breath caught in a broken chest. Not threatening.

Wavering.

You feel it in your gut.

There’s something there. Not recognition. Not thought.

Instinct.

“Don’t—don’t get closer,” Bob warns through your comms, his voice cracked open and raw. “Please.”

But you have to.

You need to see what remains.

You step again.

Hands raised. Open. Exposed. Like that alone might speak louder than any word they ever carved into your skin.

Like your shape—your silhouette—might reach the memory buried in his blood.

The forest doesn’t move.

Even the wind has stopped breathing.

Your shadows crawl forward, reaching. His rise in tandem—a mirrored dance of darkness, fractals of trauma drawn into the dirt beneath your feet. Cracked glass. Twin wounds in motion.

The others wait—statues in the tension. One breath away from violence.

You take one more step.

And that’s when Armanov ruins it.

“SEVEN!”

You stiffen.

He thrashes again—bleeding now from the mouth, and worse, smiling. Like a priest lighting a funeral pyre.

And then—he speaks.

Not a name.

Not a plea.

A sequence.

“Marionette. Six. Hollow. Eclipse. Four. Violet. Ashfall. Observe.”

It hits you like shrapnel. Words as blades. Syllables as shackles.

Your body locks. Every muscle hardens. Your shadows whip and stutter, confused, snarling against the pull.

Behind your eyes, pressure builds—a skull-splitting thrum, ancient and cruel.

“No!” Bucky shouts, lunging—

—but Ava’s already in motion.

She’s light and vengeance and moon-glint steel. She phases, ghostlike, through the shadows—materializing beside Armanov just in time.

Her fist hits him mid-word—“Ashfall” never finishes.

Teeth and blood spray. His head jerks back.

He slumps.

Not unconscious.

But dazed.

Silenced.

Bucky reaches her side, panting. “Holy—shit—nice hit.”

Ava doesn’t respond.

She’s watching you.

Her silence is louder than any panic.

“That was a trigger sequence,” Bucky breathes, horror dawning slow and cold. “They gave her a fucking trigger sequence.”

But you can’t answer.

You can’t speak.

Because your lungs have vanished, your body hijacked by programming stitched into the marrow of your bones.

The shadow around you pulses—fighting. Buckling. Surging.

You’re going to lose control.

You feel it.

Bob’s voice erupts in your ear, panicked, breathless. “Seven—Seven please—you’re not theirs, you’re you. Come back to me—come back—please—”

Yelena steps forward, voice steady as iron wire. “Anchor, Seven. Anchor to now. Not them. Not then. You’re stronger than this.”

You tremble, vision swimming. Knees wobbling under a weight older than memory.

But rage finds you.

And from within it—will.

“No,” you growl through your teeth, voice shredded raw. “No. You don’t get to use that. Not anymore.”

Armanov’s daze melts into venom. He bares his teeth. “You malfunctioning little wraith. I own you. You think he’s dangerous? He’s a lost dog. You are the true weapon. Say the right words and you’ll carve them all open—starting with your brother—”

He never finishes the sentence.

Because Nine moves.

Fast.

A blur of sinew and shrieking shadow. The sound that follows is not a roar—but a rupture.

He impales the man like it’s instinct.

Not rage.

Not vengeance.

Just programming.

A shadowed lance straight through him as he rests right between Bucky and Ava. The one from your memory, the one that struck through fifteen with silent precision.

Armanov’s body hangs for a moment on the jagged black limb, eyes wide in shock. Then slumps, lifeless, into the dirt.

The forest falls silent again.

The others freeze.

Weapons still drawn. Breaths caught mid-motion.

But you—you move.

Shadows rise with you. A barrier between your team and Nine.

“WAIT!” you shout, voice hoarse, shaking. “Don’t—don’t touch them.”

He’s still.

Chest heaving. Golden-ringed eyes locked on you.

Blood drips from his hands.

But he doesn’t attack.

And somewhere in his monstrous face—behind the teeth, the shadow, the ruin—there’s a flicker of something that looks almost like… confusion.

Recognition.

Maybe even fear.

Nine doesn’t speak.

He twitches.

A convulsion of muscle and shadow, sharp and unnatural—like a marionette dancing to the wrong tune, every joint pulled taut by strings in the hands of something cruel and unseen. His limbs jerk too far, his head cocks too sharply. Something inside him is writhing—something that wants out.

Then he moves.

Fast.

Too fast.

You barely pivot in time—your spine arches backward on instinct as a spike of shadow, shaped like bone and serrated at the edges, whistles past your throat. It cleaves the air where your pulse had been not a breath ago.

Your shadows surge without command, a shrieking halo of defense, lashing toward the intruder like serpents, like lovers, like a mother shielding her child.

But it’s not enough.

He is faster than anything with a heartbeat should be. Faster than the blur of memory from training rooms soaked in fluorescent white. Faster than you. And—God—stronger.

“Seven—!” Bob’s voice fractures in your ear, terror bleeding through every syllable.

You don’t respond.

There isn’t time.

Instead, you reach downward—not with hands, but with will—and carve a line into the earth.

The umbra obeys like a beast off its leash.

A ring of black ruptures from the soil, snaring the clearing in a writhing loop of shadow. It seethes—wet, thick, alive. It moves like it breathes. Like it hungers. The air inside begins to warp, sound deadening to a low tremor, light bending inward like a black hole collapsing.

The circle closes.

No one in. No one out.

“Don’t follow me,” you say, voice low and quivering, carried only to those standing just outside the barrier. “If I lose control… I won’t know who’s who.”

“Seven, don’t—please—!”

You close your eyes, jaw tight, and rip the comm from your ear. It clatters to the forest floor like a severed lifeline.

The world narrows to this:

You and Nine.

Two broken gods cast in shadow.

He lunges.

You answer.

What follows isn’t a fight.

It’s a rupture.

There is no strategy—no technique. Only claws and teeth and annihilation, both of you hurtling toward each other like nightmares in collision.

Your body warps—bones cracking, joints distending, snapping and reshaping mid-air. From your back, new limbs burst like limbs of a deep-sea creature—too many, twitching with bloodlust. Your edges smear like wet charcoal, your silhouette a flickering mass of hunger and memory. Your monster self, the one you’ve tried to bury, comes howling to the surface.

He answers in kind.

Nine’s form contorts—his bones grinding audibly beneath his skin, his jaw unhinging like a snake’s as darkness pours from between his teeth. His face glitches—shifting like oil on water. A child. A teen. A corpse. A weapon. No one stays long enough to hold.

You see pieces of him.

Of you.

Of what they turned you into.

You shatter into each other.

No sound escapes, only the reverberation of force—like thunder clapping inside a tomb. Shadow-wrought weapons form from the space between you: spears, spines, jagged wings of darkness edged in malice. The air bleeds around each impact. Trees detonate. The forest howls, a wounded thing watching two of its children devour one another.

You feel it when he strikes—talons sinking into your ribs, raking upward, seeking the soft meat of your lungs.

You feel it when you answer—your claws embedded in his throat, wrenching sideways as shadow sprays from the wound in arcs of writhing black.

You don’t feel the pain.

Only the pressure. The pull. The endless becoming.

Your limbs mutate again—jagged black bone splitting through your skin, fractal arms clawing their way out of your back, your shoulders, even your sides. There are too many. Too sharp.

You’re not fighting like a person anymore.

You’re not even thinking.

You’re becoming.

A shape meant to terrify gods.

And so is he.

You are entropy made flesh. Memory turned predator.

The ring around you burns brighter—pulsing, writhing, digesting the world inside it, everything beyond distorted like a dream on the verge of collapse. You can’t hear the team anymore. Not Bob’s screaming. Not Yelena’s blades against the shield. Not Ava’s fists. Not John’s fury. Nothing.

Only him.

Only Nine.

This twisted echo of you. This splintered half you left in the dark. A mirror that bleeds.

You move like twin storms—shadows dueling shadows, limbs elongating into scythes and sickles, lashing through the air with soundless speed. You crash again, and again, and again, shadows colliding like gods breaking time.

You can’t stop.

Because if you do—

If you fall—

You don’t just lose the fight.

You lose everything.

The family you’ve barely begun to trust.

The love you’ve only just allowed yourself to believe in.

You lose him.

And the last pieces of yourself that still know light.

~

Bob stares at the blank feed in horror.

One moment—your voice had filled his ear. Strained, shaking, but still yours.

Then—nothing.

Silence.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the kind that means you’re safe.

The kind that feels like something has swallowed you whole.

A hiss of static crackles in his earpiece, thin and whining.

“Seven?” he breathes, already knowing. “Seven, answer me.”

Nothing.

Not even breath.

The hum beneath his skin surges—golden, electric, violent—a thunderstorm crackling at his fingertips, begging to be unleashed. It claws at his throat like a scream he can’t let out. The Void stirs.

She’s gone.

He staggers back a step, trembling.

No.

No, no, no.

He takes one breath. Then another. A third.

His body is shivering. Holding back the thing that wants to burn the world down just to find you.

He runs.

Branches whip at his face. The forest tears at his arms. Blood blooms, but he doesn’t feel it.

He crashes through trees, over roots and rot, the world blurring around the edges. Gravity means nothing. Pain means nothing. His feet don’t touch the ground so much as shatter it beneath him. He moves like something desperate. Like something hunting.

Like the part of him that can’t survive if you’re gone is already dying.

And then—he’s there.

He stumbles out of the trees into the clearing, nearly falling to his knees, dirt grinding against his palms.

Yelena is the first to see him. She turns fast, daggers half-raised, but her expression cracks when she sees his face.

“Bob,” she breathes. “Don’t—”

“What happened?” he gasps. His eyes are wild, unfocused, darting from her to the barrier ahead. “Why can’t I hear her—why—her feed—”

He chokes on the last word.

“She sealed us out,” Yelena says softly, hand resting on his shoulder, grounding. Her voice is taut, thick. “With the umbra.”

He flinches like he’s been struck.

You promised.

You fucking promised.

That you wouldn’t do this alone. That you’d let him in.

His whole body shakes with fury and heartbreak. “She—she promised,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “She promised me…”

And now—somewhere behind that thing, that wall of slithering shadow and shifting wrongness—you’re alone.

Surrounded by a monster. And becoming one.

Just like you feared.

He swallows the sob threatening to tear free from his throat. His fists curl so tight he feels nails bite into skin.

Then—he feels it.

A shift. A ripple. Like a thread snapping taut inside his chest, the umbra pulling like a tide.

You’re still alive.

But barely.

His name echoes over the comm—but it’s not yours. It’s Bucky, trying to anchor the team. Trying to stay calm.

But Bob’s already moving.

Toward the edge.

Toward the wall of undulating blackness where reality bends and time frays, and something ancient watches from beneath its surface.

The umbra flinches at his approach.

It doesn’t attack.

It shivers.

Like it remembers him.

His boots crunch the dirt. Shadows pool over them instantly, swallowing the leather like rot. The darkness climbs—his ankles, his calves, up his chest like it’s tasting him.

The Void in him doesn’t resist.

It purrs.

It welcomes it.

“Seven,” he says, voice shaking. A whisper pressed into the air like a prayer. “I’m here.”

Not shouted. Not desperate.

But enough.

Inside the ring, your claws stutter mid-swipe. Limbs halt in midshift. Some part of you—the part you thought was already gone—remembers.

Remembers his voice.

His heartbeat.

His promise.

Your shadows recoil, confused. Uncertain.

His voice isn’t a weapon.

It’s home.

Outside the ring, the team watches in horror.

The shadows are moving toward Bob now.

But not lashing.

Swarming.

Like flies to a corpse. Like a lover’s embrace. They crawl over him, up his body, arms first, then his throat. Oily. Hungry. Alive.

“Bob!” Yelena’s voice bursts across the comms, sharp with fear. “Stop! Don’t go in—!”

He doesn’t turn.

He lifts a single, shaking hand.

Power arcs along his skin—gold split by black, veins like sunstruck obsidian. The Void burns under his ribs like a second heart.

He presses his palm to the wall of umbra.

Shadow meets shadow.

And it parts.

Just enough.

Enough for him to step through.

The shadows close around him like a sigh.

He vanishes.

Gone.

Swallowed whole.

“…Well, fuck,” John mutters, almost reverent. He backs up a step, hand on his weapon. “Guess we’re doing that now.”

No one else speaks.

Because no one can look away.

Bucky’s voice is the first to break the quiet.

“He’s going in after her,” he says, jaw clenched, gaze locked on the black ring. “Alone.”

But he knows.

It’s not just bravery.

It’s not just love.

It’s strategy.

Bob knew what this was the second the ring formed.

This wasn’t just a barrier—it was a memory. A replication. A grave. A shame room, where monsters were kept in the dark to protect the people they might love.

Bob isn’t going in to save you.

He’s going in to contain you both.

Because he doesn’t know if either of you can come back on your own.

But he knows he can’t let you go alone.

Not again.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

how are we doing pals?? This was a littler shorter than the others and I fear I may have lost some of you with too much canon divergence. We are coming close to ending the series though so if you guys have any suggestions for either a new series or if you want one-shot based moments with seven still I can continue. I am a little reluctant to leave Seven haha

As always thank you for reading

Chapter 12: What Follows You

Summary:

Among bloodstained paper cranes and looping echoes of the past, a truth unfolds—some ghosts can’t be carried out.

TW: mentions of abuse and trauma, talk of depression, blood, horror, human experimentation, canonical divergence

One moment, you are claws and teeth—too many limbs, bones stretching wrong under liquid shadow—crashing against a wall of muscle and smoke. Nine’s face flickers between man and monster, the air thick with the scent of iron and rot, your vision a blur of gnashing maws and lashing limbs.

The next, the world blinks.

And you’re back in the lab.

It’s so sudden it steals your breath. The roar in your ears cuts to a dead, humming silence. Your claws are gone. Your teeth are your own again. You’re standing where you swore you’d never stand again, in a place that should no longer exist. The sterile white walls gleam under harsh fluorescent light. Somewhere distant, water drips in a slow, steady rhythm, and the air tastes faintly of bleach and copper.

For a wild, disoriented moment, you wonder if this is hell. Not fire and brimstone—something worse. An eternal loop of the moment you lost Nine. The place you became what they made you. The echo chamber of every failure you’ve ever carried.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a wasp nest, and your heart hammers against your ribs.

Guilt slams into you with more force than any blow Nine ever landed. You broke your promise. You’d sworn to Bob you wouldn’t face him alone, that you’d let the others help. But the moment you saw Nine shift—bones tearing themselves apart, skin blooming into wrongness, the shadows writhing like worms—you’d cut them off. You hadn’t thought. You hadn’t trusted.

And now, you were probably dead. Torn apart by Nine, your body left cooling in some forgotten patch of dirt while he moved on to your new family. You didn’t even get to stop him.

The thought caves something in you.

Your knees give out and your back hits the cold, too-bright wall. The chill soaks through your clothes as you slide down until you’re curled in on yourself, arms locked around your knees. You fold small—not out of defense, but in surrender.

You’ve failed Bob.

Failed the others.

Failed yourself.

The silence in this place is worse than screaming.

The silence is too loud. You tuck your head down against your knees, trying not to breathe too sharply, trying not to think about how the shadows in the far corners seem to have teeth.

Then—

The door slams open.

It’s not a Hydra guard, not a scientist. It’s Bob—stumbling through like he’s been running for miles, chest heaving, hair damp with sweat. There’s a wildness in his eyes you’ve never seen before, and for one dizzy second you’re terrified he’s not him.

He’s shaking—more than he should be—and you realize, with a cold twist in your gut, that you’re back in the shame rooms… he had to fight his way through his rooms again. Alone.

“Seven—” His voice breaks on your name.

You barely lift your head before he’s crossing the distance in two long strides, dropping to his knees so hard it echoes. His hands—still warm despite the tremor in them—cup your face, tilting it up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

The moment you do, the rest of the room falls away.

He looks wrecked. Breath ragged, shoulders tense, his gaze scanning you like he’s trying to memorize every detail before you vanish. “God—you’re here. You’re okay.” The words tumble out in a rush, almost like he’s saying them to convince himself.

Your throat tightens. You want to tell him you’re not okay, that you’re sorry, that you broke your promise. But the way his thumbs brush over your cheekbones—careful, almost reverent—stops you. His relief is so raw it’s painful.

And under it, you see it: the fear. The kind you can’t talk down. The kind that settles in bone-deep and stays there.

His fingers are still on your face, like if he lets go, you’ll dissolve back into the shadows.

“Bob—” your voice comes out rough, almost foreign to your own ears, “what did you do?”

“I got you out.” His words are quick, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Had to.”

The hum in your bones shifts—subtle, wrong—and you realize the air here doesn’t move. No drafts. No forest dampness. Just stillness that tastes like dust and old fear. The walls… they don’t quite meet the floor in some places, and when your gaze strays to those gaps, it’s like looking into water that’s too dark to see through.

You’ve seen this place before.

Your stomach drops. “The rooms,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t know where else to put you.”

Your pulse hammers in your throat, the memory of the last time clawing at the edges of your mind. Endless corridors. The constant whisper of your own footsteps. The sensation of being watched. “You put us both in here?”

“I put him in here too.” His voice cracks—barely audible, but the words are heavy enough to hit like a physical blow. “Nine’s somewhere in this place now, but he’s not getting near you again.”

Your first instinct is to tell him he’s insane. That you could have finished it, could have handled Nine without dragging both of you into the one place that still makes your skin crawl. But you can’t say it. Not with the way he’s looking at you—like his fear is still catching up to him and if he stops touching you, the panic will take over.

“You fought your own rooms?” you ask, softer now.

He swallows hard, and the hand at your cheek trembles. “Yeah. Didn’t matter. Nothing in here matters except you walking out alive.”

It hits you then—what that means, what it cost him to get to you first. The burn under your ribs shifts into something tight and sharp.

You try to speak, to tell him he shouldn’t have, that you could have handled it, but the words stick.

When your lips part, the only thing that comes out is a broken sob. Your face crumples as you drag in a tortured breath, the sound ripping from somewhere too deep to name. Wet, hot tears spill freely, your chest shuddering as you fall apart.

You lean into him—collapse into him—and the dam breaks. The pain of fighting Nine, of seeing the man who made you into what you are, of knowing you cut your family off to do it alone—it all spills out in heaving cries. You grip the fabric at his shoulders like you’re afraid you’ll dissolve if you let go.

It’s startling, even to you. You’re used to locking it down, forcing it into anger, keeping it sharp so it can’t be used against you. But now it’s just grief—raw, unrepentant. And threaded through it is the sick, twisting ache of knowing Bob had to tap into the Void and face his own nightmares, all alone, just to get to you.

But instead of only soft reassurance, his voice cuts in—low, strained, and shaking. “You promised me.”

Your breath hitches.

“You promi—You promised you wouldn’t face him alone.” His hands are still on your face, but his grip is firmer now, his eyes bright with more than just fear. “D-Do you have any idea what that did to me, Seven? Sitting there, locked out, knowing you’d shut us out on purpose?”

“I—”

“Trust doesn’t work if it’s one-way,” he presses, his voice cracking. “If I’m supposed to trust that you have my back, then you’ve gotta trust me to have yours. I can’t—” His breath shudders, and his jaw flexes. “I can’t lose you because you decided to protect us by pushing us away.”

The guilt tears something open in you. “I was so scared of him hurting you all,” you choke out, voice breaking, “I thought—if it was just me—”

“You’re not just you anymore,” he says, and the edge in his tone softens, even if the hurt doesn’t fade. His thumbs sweep under your eyes, catching fresh tears. “You’re part of this. Part—A part of me. You don’t get to throw yourself to the wolves and call it protection.”

Your sobs keep coming, raw and unfiltered, until they start to blur together with the sound of his breathing—uneven, too fast, like he’s fighting to steady himself.

Then, slowly, his hold changes. His hands slide from your face to the back of your head, his chest curving over yours like he’s trying to shield you from the very air in the room.

“I’m sorry I’m angry,” he murmurs into your hair, voice frayed at the edges. “I just—God, Seven, you scared me so bad. One second you were there, and the next—nothing. I thought—” He swallows hard, cutting himself off before the rest spills out.

You feel the tremor in him, the way his shoulders tense against yours. It’s not the Void making him shake this time. It’s fear.

He presses his forehead to yours, searching your eyes. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s what matters. I just need you to… to stop making me find out the hard way.”

You nod, because words feel impossible through the knot in your throat.

“I’m not letting go,” he says, softer now but with a vow’s weight behind it. His thumb strokes your cheek, brushing away another tear. “Not here. Not anywhere.”

And for the first time since you saw Nine in the forest, since the scientist’s voice tore into your head, you believe him. You let yourself lean into that truth, even as the shadows pulse around you, waiting for whatever comes next.

For a long moment, you just stay there, pressed into him, breathing in the scent of sweat, dust, and something metallic the Void always leaves behind. The world outside might be gone, but here in his arms, it’s almost quiet.

Almost.

The shadows hum faintly against your skin—too familiar now for you to mistake them for your own. They’re his. The walls around you breathe in slow, unnatural pulses, the color not quite black but something deeper, hungrier.

Your stomach twists. “You… pulled me in.”

Bob’s jaw works as he pulls back just enough to see your face. “Us,” he corrects, voice low. “I pulled us in.”

Guilt blooms sharp and immediate, clawing up your chest. “You promised me you’d stay near the jet. You weren’t supposed to—”

“You promised me you wouldn’t go at it alone,” he cuts in, the words a little too quick, a little too raw. “And you didn’t just break it—you slammed the door in my face and locked the rest of them out. What the hell was I supposed to do, Seven? Sit—Sit there and wait for the comm to go dead for good?”

You flinch. It’s not the volume—he’s not shouting—but the way each word lands, like they’ve been burning a hole in him from the second he started running toward you.

“I get it,” he says, softer now but still edged with hurt. “I get why you did it. But if we’re going to make this work—us—you can’t keep shutting me out. I need you. You keep me grounded. You pull me back when I’m—when I’m not okay.” His voice catches, raw and unguarded, and it squeezes something deep in your chest. “Please… let me do the same for you.”

The words scrape at you because they’re true, and because they’re proof of just how much you’ve forced him to carry tonight.

“I swear,” you murmur, your voice cracking. “I’m going to try harder. Be better. I’m so sorry, Bob.”

You cup his cheek, the simple act steadying you like an anchor. He leans into your touch, eyes closing as he draws in a slow breath. The two of you stay there for a moment—breathing the same air, sitting in the fragile truce of a new understanding—before you finally shift, unfurling your legs.

You reach down to help him up, using your free hand to wipe quickly at the damp tracks cooling on your cheeks.

Your gaze lifts to the walls around you, to the slow, unnatural ripple of shadow that stretches on and on without end. “So what now? Do we have to fight, uh… shadow-void Bob again? Because I really don’t want to do that.”

He huffs out a laugh that’s almost humorless. “Yeah… I’d rather not, either.” But the tension in his voice—the shame, the self-loathing you recognize from the first time in here—still cuts through the moment.

“Okay,” you say, steadying your voice. “Then we find Nine’s room. We take him down here, before he can get out. And then…” Your jaw sets. “Then we leave. Together.”

The way you say it—like there’s no other option—plants something cold and determined in your gut. But it doesn’t loosen the thought gnawing at the edges of your mind: you’ve dragged him back into the belly of his own nightmares, and if this goes wrong, there won’t be a team waiting to pull you out this time.

You don’t let go of his hand as you start walking. The shadows shift around you in sluggish waves, the air thick with that uncanny stillness that presses on your lungs like water. It’s quieter here than it should be—no wind, no rustle, no distant echo. Just your own breath and Bob’s, and the faint hum of the umbra whispering against your skin.

Every so often, the shadows seem to twitch, like they’re watching. Like the Void itself is waiting for you to give it an excuse to close in.

“We’ll find it,” Bob says under his breath, as if the quiet demands reverence. His fingers squeeze yours once—firm, grounding.

The corridor of dark ahead warps, stretching taller and wider than it should. You step through it… and the temperature drops.

When your boots touch solid ground again, it’s not the endless black of the Void—it’s concrete under your feet. Grey walls. Dim, flickering light overhead.

A memory.

It’s not the worst one—not the blood-soaked ones, not the ones that leave you tasting iron and bile—but it’s close enough to sink teeth into you. You know exactly where you are before you’ve taken a second breath.

The room is small. Cramped. The kind of space that was never meant for living in, though they kept you here long enough for the air to go stale and the walls to hold the scent of you. The only furniture is a narrow cot against one wall, a tray in the corner with a crust of bread and a tin cup half-full of murky water.

And there—sitting in the far corner, knees pulled to your chest—is you.

Not the person you are now. Not even the weapon Hydra honed you into. Just the ghost of a girl who didn’t know what day it was, or if the next one would come at all. Your hair is tangled, eyes sunken but sharp, fixed on the opposite wall as if daring it to move. You’re not crying. You’re not speaking. You’re not anything.

The memory-you doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at anyone.

You feel Bob’s gaze flick from her to you, and it’s worse than if he’d said anything. Worse than if he pitied you out loud.

“This is…” His voice trails off, hoarse with something you can’t name.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, though your throat burns. “This was just… Tuesday.”

But you know it’s a lie. You can feel it in the way your chest aches, in the way your fingers twitch like they want to pry the memory open and drag that girl out by sheer force.

Bob takes a step toward her, toward you, but stops when the walls seem to bend inward like a throat ready to swallow.

“She’s not real,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “She’s just what’s left.”

The lights overhead flicker faster. Somewhere far off, the Void growls.

And you realize—this memory isn’t going to let you walk out unscathed.

The girl in the corner doesn’t move—not at first. Her gaze is still fixed on the opposite wall like she’s reading something there.

Then she speaks.

“They’re going to hate you.”

It’s not loud. Not even particularly sharp. Just flat. Certain.

Bob freezes beside you.

“They’ll figure it out sooner or later,” the girl goes on, curling her arms tighter around her knees. Her voice is your voice, but stripped of all the warmth you’ve fought to earn back. “The pushing. The snapping. The disappearing. They’ll get tired of it. Tired of you.”

You take a step back before you realize you’re moving, your shoulder brushing Bob’s. The air feels heavier now, pressing close to your skin.

“They’ll see you for what you are,” she says. Her eyes finally flick to you, and it’s like staring into a mirror that hates you. “A monster that ruins everything it touches.”

The light overhead hums louder, flickering. The walls inch closer—subtle, but enough to make your pulse spike.

“That’s not true,” Bob says, voice firm but low. You can feel the tension in his grip, the way he’s holding onto you like the room might try to pull you away.

But memory-you doesn’t even acknowledge him. She’s locked on you, every word landing like a knife point.

“You’ll hurt them. All of them. Because you don’t know how not to. Because you were made for it. That’s what you do—you break things. People. Families.”

The cot creaks as she shifts, setting bare feet on the floor. She stands, slow and deliberate, and with each step toward you the shadows under her skin twitch like something alive.

Bob shifts instinctively, putting himself half in front of you. “We’re leaving,” he says.

The girl tilts her head at him, eyes hollow. “You’ll be first, you know. She loves you. That means you’ll be first.”

The air in the room curdles—hot and cold at once. The lights snap out, plunging everything into darkness except the pale glint of her eyes and the faint gold glow building in Bob’s eyes.

You can feel it now: this isn’t a passive memory. It’s the Void wearing your face.

And it’s not going to let you leave without a fight.

The thing wearing your face moves first.

No warning—just a sudden, liquid snap of shadow-limbs spilling from her back, coiling across the floor like snakes. They’re wrong, jointless in places, bending where nothing should bend.

Bob reacts instantly, gold flaring under his skin as he yanks you sideways. One of the tendrils slams into the wall where you’d been standing, leaving a gash like a claw mark in steel.

“Seven!” he shouts. Not at the thing—at you. “Don’t let h-her get in your head.”

But it’s hard, because every hissed word is something you’ve thought before, something you’ve believed.

“She’s belongs here,” your double croons, and the shadows twist higher, forming the vague outline of a ribcage around her like she’s wearing her own fear as armor. “She knows it.” The words pointed back at you, Every cruel word. Every wall you’ve built.

“You don’t keep people safe—you keep them away. And the second they get close, you tear them apart.”

Your knees lock.

She’s not screaming. Not laughing. Just stating facts in that dead, steady voice—and some buried, bleeding part of you agrees.

Bob doesn’t. He takes a shaking step forward, planting himself between you and her. The golden buzz within him burns brighter as if to cast out your doubt by sheer presence alone.

“She’s mine,” he says, voice firm and no longer trembling. Low and dangerous, “and you don’t get to have her.”

Your double tilts her head. “You can’t protect her from herself.”

The floor heaves. Shadows pour upward like oil boiling, swallowing the walls, the ceiling, turning the whole room into a lung drawing one slow breath. You feel it reaching for you—not just physically, but deeper, under the skin, under your ribs.

Bob’s hand finds yours, hard and grounding. “We take her together,” he says, gold tinted eyes locked on yours. “You hear me?”

You nod, and this time when the shadows lash out, you move with him.

Your own umbra bursts forward—more limbs, more teeth, more hunger—slamming into hers mid-strike. The collision shakes the room, sending black ichor spraying across the walls.

She’s faster, but you’re meaner.

Bob avoids each lash of her shadow constructs, drawing focus before stepping out of the way for you to land a blow. Each time her voice rises above the chaos, trying to worm in another truth-shaped lie, Bob cuts across her with an almost gentle, “Don’t listen.”

You grab one of her limbs—yours, but not—and twist until it snaps. She screams, a sound that’s more like tearing metal than pain, and the whole room flickers.

It’s not easy. She fights like she knows every move you’ll make, because in a way she does. She knows exactly where to cut deepest—your timing, your tells, the way your guard drops when you think you’ve won.

But you have something she doesn’t: Bob’s hand in yours, his light flaring through the dark, his voice steady even when the walls start to melt around you.

And for the first time, you start to believe he’s right.

The final blow comes when you catch her by the throat, squeezing until there is no air left to escape. The room exhales with her final breath.

You’re on your knees before you realize it, gasping, sweat cold down your spine. Bob’s right there, crouched in front of you, cupping your face like he’s checking to see if you’re still real.

“You with me?”

You nod, but your voice shakes. “Yeah.”

And when you both look up, there’s a new door where the wall used to be. Dark. Waiting.

You can feel it. Both yours and Nine’s room is ahead.

~

The rules of direction mean nothing here.

One moment, you’re in the endless hallway; the next, you’re stepping through a door and falling downward, knees bending automatically as you land—except you’ve just climbed out of a ceiling tile.

The room is too bright. Too clean.

You know it before you take in the details—the “play” room. The one they let the four of you into once a week, like enrichment toys for caged animals.

The air smells faintly of dust and paper.

At the center table, a smaller version of yourself sits hunched over next to a redheaded child with wild hair, folding delicate paper cranes with hands too careful for a child. Four of them, lined up in a neat little parade, one for each of you. The sight punches nausea through your gut.

Bob’s breathing, fast and frantic behind you, is the only thing that keeps you from doubling over. You glance back—he’s watching you like the floor might give way, but his hand finds yours and squeezes hard. We face this together.

Your gaze shifts to the corner by the door.

A boy stands there—Nine, but not yet the thing you know him as. The boy from your childhood, the same face with features so similar to your own. His head is cocked toward the hallway, listening.

You take a step toward him, careful and shaking. You know what this is. You’ve told Bob about this morning—the one memory you’d always thought was your worst. But you’d never heard the other half.

The voices seep in from the door—sharp, clinical, without a trace of humanity.

“…moving to the next phase.”

“…only need one subject.”

“…the rest are redundant—resources wasted.”

“…you’ve seen the data. Subject Seven’s output is the most promising. Controlled application of the umbra, higher pain tolerance, less degradation in neural function.”

The words slither into your bones. Bob’s hand tightens around yours, his knuckles whitening like he’s trying to crush the sound out of the air.

Little Nine doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

From the outside, he looks like any other kid frozen in place, but you feel the shift in him—like the first tremor before a quake.

“…we’ll start Phase Four tomorrow.”

“…extreme stimulus—break them open, force maximum manifestation.”

“…group engagement will determine which one adapts fastest. We cull the others before structural damage sets in.”

A pause. A low, clinical sigh.

“Seven will win. She always does.”

Your stomach twists so hard it’s painful.

Because now you understand. You were the endgame. They weren’t just going to make you fight your family—they were going to push you past any point of control and then keep you that way.

Nine’s gaze drifts from the crack in the door to the table where you—child you—sits with Fifteen. You’re smiling, patient as you guide his clumsy little fingers through the last fold of the paper crane. The scene is so gentle, so achingly human, it’s like it doesn’t belong in this place at all.

And that’s when you see it.

The decision solidified in his eyes, heavy and terrible.

He’s not thinking about survival. He’s thinking about the fact that if the scientists have their way, you’ll walk out of this room alive but with blood on your hands you can never wash away.

His breath shudders as he inhales—like a drowning man taking one last lungful before the plunge.

He holds it.

Keeps holding it.

Memorizing this final moment: your laugh, Fifteen’s little triumphant grin, the half-light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead.

When his umbra finally stirs, it’s not rage—it’s resolve.

He doesn’t give himself time to hesitate.

Hesitation is mercy, and mercy will get you killed here.

Mercy will make her kill them herself.

The umbra unfurls in him like a living thing, slow at first—then snapping outward in a vicious bloom.

Fifteen doesn’t even have time to scream.

One heartbeat he’s grinning at you, showing off the crane he managed to fold without tearing the paper, and the next—

—black spears erupt from Nine’s shadow, driving through his small neck and chest with a wet, choking crack.

Bone shatters. Blood sprays the table, your hands, the half-folded crane.

Fifteen’s face goes slack before his mind can even register fear.

Nine feels something inside him tear, but he can’t look.

He can’t.

Because Three is already moving, shrieking his name, her shadow flaring like a flare against the dark.

She hits him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

Nails rake his face, her sobs breaking through the raw animal noise of the fight.

“Why—why—?” she chokes, voice splintering into grief.

Nine answers the only way he can.

He traps her in the crush of his umbra, forcing her down until her cheek grinds into the cold tile. His knee pins her chest, the black weight of him swallowing her frantic thrashing.

Her bones snap one after another beneath the relentless pressure—first her arm, then her ribs.

Her scream is high and human and hers, and he has to grit his teeth so hard his jaw aches just to keep going.

When she spits blood and tries to look toward you, he stomps down.

Once.

Twice.

The sharp, final crack of her neck echoes through the room like a gunshot.

Silence follows—thick, choking silence—broken only by his ragged breathing and the pounding in his ears.

He doesn’t look at you.

He can’t bear to.

If he sees your face right now, he’ll falter.

Instead, he turns on the guards.

If this is the last thing he does, he’ll make damn sure they don’t lay a hand on you.

The last guard goes down hard, a spray of teeth and spit as Nine’s fist caves in his jaw.

His own breath is ragged now, hitching in the space between heartbeats. The umbra coils and flickers around him like it knows this is the end.

You, the you in this room, the small and unscarred one, are frozen by the table—hands still sticky with Fifteen’s blood, a paper crane crushed in your palm.

You, the you standing here in the present, feel the same cold wetness, phantom-staining your own hands. Your heart is slamming like it’s in your throat.

Then it happens—so fast you almost miss it.

A flash of movement at the door, the glint of steel, and the report of a single shot.

Nine jerks like he’s been yanked backward by invisible strings.

The black roils around him, losing shape.

He turns toward the table—toward you.

Not the child-you.

You.

The present-you.

As if somehow, impossibly, he sees through the years and the nightmare and the haze of dying, and knows you’re here.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing monstrous in his face.

Just relief.

A soft, gutting relief that cuts deeper than the gunshot wound blooming dark across his ribs.

You feel it—how heavy it is, how much it cost him to keep your hands clean.

It floods into you like his shadow did once, a certainty that this was never about surviving for him.

It was about you not having to live with their screams in your head.

His knees give.

He goes down hard, one palm hitting the tile, the other pressing uselessly to the wound. The umbra tries to rise again but it’s unfocused now, twitching and curling like a dying animal.

His gaze never leaves you.

Not the child-you frozen in shock.

Not the present-you, heart in your throat.

And then—

A final exhale, almost a laugh, almost a sigh—

And he’s still.

The gunshot still echoes in your ears when the room lurches.

Your knees hit the tile, palms skidding through blood that isn’t really there—too warm, too slick for a memory. Your breath stutters in your throat.

You can’t stop seeing it.

Nine’s face.

The choice in his eyes.

The way Fifteen’s head snapped like a doll’s, the red arc spattering your cheek, your hair.

The way Three’s scream turned into a gurgle under his heel.

It’s inside you now, burrowed deep, more than memory—like it’s yours to carry.

Because it is.

If he hadn’t… you would have been the one. The one forced to kill the others, forced to loose control, made to murder your family.

Your stomach twists violently, the bile rising until you’re gagging, your shoulders curling in like you can hide from the sound of bones breaking.

And then the tile under you ripples.

The blood, the table, the paper cranes dissolve into a wash of shadow, reforming—resetting.

You’re back at the table.

Fifteen’s smile.

Three’s narrowed eyes.

Nine by the door.

It’s looping.

The Void wants you to live it again.

“Seven!”

The sound is sharp enough to cut through the fog, a familiar voice breaking into the cycle. Hands—warm, shaking—grab your face, forcing your eyes up.

Bob.

Hair mussed, chest heaving like he’s been running for days.

The moment his gaze locks onto yours, the loop buckles—just enough for air to reach your lungs.

“You’re not there,” he says, low and urgent, like he can anchor you with just his voice. “You’re not there anymore. It’s not real.”

But his eyes—God, his eyes—are wet, desperate.

The shame claws harder at your ribs. “I am,” you choke out. “I—this—this is who I am. He had to kill them because if he didn’t, I would’ve—”

“Stop.” His grip on your cheeks tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you from looking away. “You hear me? You didn’t. You never did. And you’re not the monster they wanted you to be.”

The words don’t match the weight in your chest. “You don’t get it—everything I touch, everyone I—”

“I get it,” he cuts in, voice cracking on the last word. “I get it more than you think. And I’m not leaving you in here to drown in this, even if you think you deserve it.”

That’s the breaking point.

Your face crumples, the first sob tearing out of you like it’s been waiting years for release. You fold into him without thinking, arms locking around his shoulders, clinging as if he’s the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath your feet.

The room shudders—then resets.

Nine at the door. Fifteen mid-smile. Three watching with cautious eyes.

But the sounds—the laughter, the faint rustle of paper—are muffled now, like someone has pressed cotton over your ears. All you hear is the steady, grounding thud of Bob’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs into your hair. Not once, but over and over, the cadence slow and certain, until the words wedge themselves between you and the memory, giving you something to hold onto besides the pain.

You breathe him in—warm skin, the faint trace of soap, the electricity that hums beneath him like a living thing—and feel the tight coil in your chest loosen, if only by a fraction. His arms stay around you, one hand at the back of your head, fingers weaving gently through your hair as if he can anchor you there by touch alone.

Then the cranes begin to flutter.

At first it’s soft, almost delicate—paper wings shifting in an unseen breeze. But the illusion rots quickly. Their folds drip shadow like ink from a pen, dark rivulets running down to stain the table. They sway in a wind that doesn’t exist, creasing and uncreasing as though they’re breathing.

Your stomach knots. You know this loop. You know the taste of the air—sharp, metallic, like blood drying on your tongue. You know the way Nine lingers by the door, the way his stillness is only a mask.

Only this time… he moves.

The shadows at the door warp, bulge, then begin to unspool, stretching into a shape too broad, too tall for this room. Limbs bend at angles that aren’t quite human, shoulders brushing the ceiling, the air around him bowing as if it can’t bear his weight.

Nine.

Not the boy in your memory.

Not the mindless, feral weapon waiting somewhere in the real forest.

This Nine is both—stitched together wrong, a body wearing two souls that cannot fit inside it. His eyes flicker from warm, startled brown to the fathomless ink-black void, back and forth, like a failing light struggling to decide what it is. His shoulders jerk with an uneven rhythm, as though one side of him wants to step forward while the other claws to hold him back.

When his gaze lands on you, the room stills.

For a moment, you see it—recognition.

A faint crease between his brows, the almost-ghost of your name on his lips.

Then the void ripples through him, and the look sharpens into something predatory.

“You shouldn’t be here,” his voice rasps—layered, like two tones speaking at once. “This… this is mine.”

Your throat works around words you can’t form.

Bob shifts closer, his hand brushing yours, ready to pull you back.

“You remember this?” you manage.

Nine’s jaw clenches.

“I never forget it.”

His gaze drags over the frozen scene—the younger you, head bent toward Fifteen, laughter soft as paper, hands guiding his through the next fold.

“This is the day I—”

His voice cracks, just for a second.

“—the day I made sure you lived.”

It hits like a punch to the ribs.

Because this… this is his last moment with you all.

His last choice.

His last act before they turned him into what stands before you now.

Bob takes a hesitant step forward, voice low and careful. “You don’t have to keep living here. Neither of you do.”

Nine’s eyes snap to him, jagged as shattered glass.

“You think I chose this?” He flings a hand toward the looping memory—the cranes bleeding shadow, the copper-sweet air, the stink of old blood that never fades. “This is all that’s left. This is where they broke me.”

You force yourself forward, fear curling like barbed wire in your gut.

“Then come with us. Leave this with me.”

For a long moment, he only stares. The black in his eyes pulses, slow and steady, like something breathing inside him.

“I can’t,” he says at last.

“If I leave… it follows.”

And you know he doesn’t mean the Void.

He means the guilt.

It’s there in his voice, in the way he’s almost asking you how to cut it free—

but you have no answer.

Your own guilt still drags its hands around your throat.

The only thing keeping you breathing is the quiet, steady man at your side.

You got out of that lab. You met the team. You met Bob.

But Nine… Nine has been here ever since.

Not living. Not really.

Your gaze shifts from him to Bob, the weight of it settling in your chest like stone—

You can’t bring him back.

Not from this.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

A/N: I wonder if anyone clocked this twist. If you could call it that I mean haha the fact that nine didn’t just snap one day. Making that moment for seven that more traumatic. I wanted to parallel seven pulling Bob back from his void with him doing that for her this time.

As always thanks for reading!

Chapter 13: Nothing Left to Save

Summary:

You finally get the chance to speak with Nine but it doesn’t go the way you hope leaving you with a difficult decision to make. Bob and the others make sure you’re not alone in this choice though.

Bob knew the Void had teeth.

He’d felt them before — the way it could shape his darkest thoughts into something with claws, force him to face pieces of himself he’d rather keep buried. Back in the shame rooms, those teeth had been his own, biting down until he was sure he’d be left in pieces.

He’s never been the fearless type. Not really. Timid, careful, the one who’d rather step back than forward unless someone else needed him to. But when the others were trapped — when there was no way out unless someone stayed behind — he’d gone without hesitation. Because that’s what you do for the people you love. You take the hit. You carry it, even if it breaks you.

Now, watching the Void coil around you, he feels that same pull — the quiet instinct to throw himself between you and whatever’s coming.

There’s a moment where he almost slips. The guilt creeps in, fast and sharp, whispering that he’s the reason you’re here at all. That he’s repeating the same pattern — dragging trouble behind him like a shadow. And then, unbidden, the echo of his mother’s voice, the same phrase that’s followed him for years: Always making things worse.

It burns, familiar and cruel, curling in his chest like smoke.

But then you shift — just barely — and his focus locks on you.

The burn dims beneath something stronger. He needs to keep it together. For you. For the woman he loves.

Because the Void might have teeth, but so does he when someone he cares about is on the line.

~

The moment you step toward Nine, something in the air changes — heavier, watchful, like the whole place is leaning in to see what you’ll do. Bob wants to call you back, but the words stick in his throat.

You move closer, slow and deliberate. Bob’s gaze flicks to Nine, catching the way his posture changes — shoulders angling toward you, voice dipping into something almost human. For a second, it almost looks like relief.

And that’s what makes Bob’s skin crawl.

Because this isn’t the relief of someone being saved.

It’s the relief of someone who’s already decided how this ends.

You stop a foot away, breathing him in like he might vanish if you blink.

Here, in the strange half-light of the Void, Nine looks almost like the brother you remember. His face is gaunt, but familiar. His hair falls long enough to hide the scars running deep along his temples. And his voice, when he says your name, is softer than it has any right to be.

“Seven.”

It hits you harder than you expect.

And for a fleeting second, you think maybe he is still in there. That you could pull him out.

But the truth presses at the edges of that hope, cold and certain:

He’s only like this because of you. Because your mind is bleeding into his, stitching fragments of memory where there’s nothing left to hold them.

Out there, beyond this fractured place?

He wouldn’t know you. Wouldn’t even see you.

Just another thing to tear apart.

Bob shifts his weight, fingers curling into fists at his sides. Every instinct screams at him to move closer, to put himself between you and whatever this is. But one look at your face stops him cold — because he’s never seen you like this. Not afraid. Not even angry. Just… breaking.

Nine’s voice cuts through the hum of the Void — steady, but frayed at the edges. “You don’t understand. Out there, I’m not… me. I’m not anything. They took it all. My name. My face. My mind.”

Your answer comes thin, almost fragile. “We can fix—”

“No.” The word is sharp enough to slice the air between you. Final. “This here? This is an accident. A trick. Your memory bleeding into mine. That’s the only reason I can stand here and talk to you.”

He leans forward, just slightly, as though the admission costs him something vital. The dim light of the Void clings to the sharp angles of his face, accentuating the hollows beneath his eyes.

“When you leave,” he says quietly, “it leaves with you. And what’s left… isn’t worth keeping.”

Bob’s jaw tightens. His pulse stutters, a sick twist low in his chest, because he can see it — the shift in your stance, the subtle loosening in your shoulders — the part of you that’s listening.

“I can’t even hold a human shape anymore,” Nine continues. His voice isn’t loud, but it carries, each word settling heavy. “Not for more than a moment. My body’s gone the way my head did — twisted, bent, wrong. I’m a thing now. And I stay that way.”

The truth lands like stones in water, each one dragging your chest down another inch.

“If you walk away without ending this,” he says, “you’re not sparing me. You’re condemning me. To be nothing but the beast. Forever.”

He takes a single step forward. It’s enough for the Void’s muted light to catch in his eyes — black, depthless, bottomless — and for the first time since you stepped into this place, he looks utterly, unbearably human.

“Please, Seven,” he says. It’s not a command. It’s not even an argument. It’s a plea.

“Let me go while I’m still me.”

Bob’s breath comes slow, deliberate, because if he doesn’t control it, it’ll shake. He feels the Void hum against his bones, feels the way your grip on the air around you falters.

This isn’t the kind of fight he knows how to win.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, Bob doesn’t know if pulling you out of here alive will be enough.

Something in you caves.

It’s not loud. Not a sob, not a cry. Just a subtle breaking — the smallest tremor in your hand, the faintest catch in your breath — but Bob feels it like a blade through his ribs.

Your eyes are still on Nine, but they’ve gone glassy, fixed on some point that isn’t here. He knows that look. It’s the one you wear when your body is still standing, but the rest of you has already fallen.

The words hang between you, and Bob feels them like a shift in gravity.

Let me go while I’m still me.

It’s the kind of thing you can’t unhear — the kind of thing that plants itself in the space between two heartbeats and waits for you to break.

And he can see it happening.

The flicker in your eyes, the almost-imperceptible way your shoulders sag, the slight tilt of your head as if you’re weighing the truth of it.

His chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe. He knows that look. It’s the same one he’s worn, staring down a choice that feels like the only mercy left. He’s not looking at a hypothetical anymore — you could do this. You might even believe it’s the right thing.

The Void seems to sense it too. Its hum deepens, curling close, as if it’s waiting to swallow whatever’s left of you when this is done.

Every instinct screams to put himself between you and this moment, to shield you from words that can’t be unsaid. But he stops short, because this is yours — the last thing tying you to someone who mattered before everything went wrong.

He wants to speak. To tell you not to do it, or that you won’t be alone if you do.

But the truth sticks like glass in his throat: either choice will cost you something you’ll never get back.

Your shoulders shift, slow and uneven, like your body’s trying to remember how to hold its own weight.

And Bob can’t help it — his hand lifts, hovering at your back, not quite touching. A tether he’s terrified to pull on, in case it makes you shatter faster.

You breathe in once, shaky and deliberate.

And then you whisper something Bob barely catches — two syllables, fragile as thread:

“Okay.”

The Void stills. Waiting.

And Bob swears, in the silence that follows, he’s never been more afraid of losing you.

Bob doesn’t even feel himself move — one second he’s standing back, the next he’s there, between you and the dark pressing in at Nine’s feet.

“Seven—” His voice cracks, sharper than he means it to. His hand finds your wrist, warm and grounding, but not pulling. “Look at me.”

You don’t. Your eyes are locked on Nine like he’s the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

“Look at me!” Bob’s tone breaks into desperation. When you finally do, it hits him — the distance in your gaze, like part of you is already stepping over a line you can’t come back from.

“You are not alone in this,” he says, fast, like if he can get the words out quick enough, they’ll anchor you here. “Whatever you choose—whatever happens—we’ll face it together. Me, the others… they’re out there, waiting for you. For—for us.”

Your lip trembles, but you don’t speak.

“I know what it’s like to think you have to carry it alone,” he says, softer now, but urgent. “But you don’t. You showed me—showed me I’m not alone which means you aren’t either. You can put it down, even if just for a minute. And when this is over—” His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, not in restraint, but in promise. “—we’ll pick up the pieces together. However many there are. However heavy they are. I swear it.”

Nine’s voice cuts in, low and certain. “You can’t save me, Bob.” His fathers voice overlaps with Nine’s “always the hero Bobby”

“I’m not trying to save you,” Bob flinches at the words but fires back without looking at him. “I’m saving her.”

Something shifts in the air — a deep, bone-vibrating rumble that makes the shadows around your feet ripple like water. Bob feels it before he hears it: the Void’s mood turning. Bob’s determination and need to save you overriding the voids need to keep you here.

Nine’s expression twists — recognition, then sorrow, then something Bob can’t name.

“It’s pulling you out,” Nine says, voice rising. “You don’t have much time.”

Bob’s grip stays firm. “Then we’re leaving together.”

The light lances down, shattering the space around you, and the world buckles. In the split second before everything folds, Bob sees your hand twitch — like you’re reaching for Nine — and his heart stutters hard enough to hurt.

Not from fear of losing you to the dark, but from the deeper, more gutting thought: that if you go to him now, even in your mind, something in you might break forever. And he might not be enough to put it back together.

That thought cracks something open in him.

He turns fully toward you, both hands gripping your arms now, and the gold in his eyes flares — not bright, not gentle, but raw and unsteady, like sunlight straining through broken glass.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, voice quick and shaking, not harsh but desperate. “Please—stay with me. I can’t let this take you too.”

The Void resists. Tries to take over. He feels it in his bones — the weight of it dragging at him, the darkness pulling you toward the cold comfort of surrender.

Bob digs in harder. The light inside him surges, his two sides clashing for dominance. But one look at you and he knows. Knows you don’t need the superhero sentry or the endless darkness that is the void.

You need him.

Bob.

Just Bob.

So he grounds himself. Tells himself he can fall apart later but right now? The woman he loves needs him, you need him.

His resolve meeting the shadows you carry like two tides colliding. They crash and churn in the space between you, roiling until the pressure breaks, bursting outward in a shockwave that tears through the black.

Nine’s shout echoes somewhere behind you, lost in the quake of it all. Bob doesn’t look back.

The world tilts — the forest bleeding in through jagged rips in the dark — and then the ground is there, rushing up at a speed that promises pain.

~

You hit first, the air knocked from your lungs, but Bob’s there a heartbeat later, his body half-curled over yours as the shadows that had clung to both of you shiver, then seep back into your skin like ink finding their rightful shape.

The Void peels away with a sound like tearing metal, leaving nothing but cold air and the smell of earth.

Your lungs burn as they drag in air too thick, too alive, and every inch of you aches like you’ve been flung from a great height.

Bob’s still half over you, shoulders heaving, his hands locked on your arms as though the forest floor might drop out from under you and send you straight back into the dark. His voice is rough when it comes, but quieter now. “You’re here. You’re with me. That’s all that matters.”

“Seven! Bob!” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp through the ringing in your ears. A moment later she’s there, knees in the dirt, one hand cupping your jaw, the other gripping your shoulder like she’s afraid you’ll fade if she lets go. Her touch is brisk but not rough, grounding you in a way that makes the world feel a little less slippery.

Ava’s on your other side in seconds, her fingers finding your pulse before moving to skim along your ribs. “No breaks,” she mutters, but her voice is too tight to sound reassured. Her eyes flick up to your face, wide and bright with something you can’t quite name — worry, relief, fear. Probably all three.

“Both of them,” Bucky’s voice snaps from somewhere above, clipped in that way he gets when urgency edges toward panic. “Check both of them.”

You turn your head — too fast — and the world lists sideways. Through the blur, you catch Alexei kneeling beside Bob. One big hand braces on Bob’s shoulder, the other brushing along his temple, checking for blood. Bob tries to swat him away, the motion jerky, but it’s more reflex than defiance. His gaze keeps snapping back to you, almost frantic, like every time someone touches him it might pull his focus away and you’ll disappear.

“I’m fine,” Bob rasps, but it’s paper-thin, his voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t loosen his grip on you. His hands are still trembling.

“Not the point,” Yelena shoots back without looking at him, her thumb brushing grit from your cheek. “Neither of you looks fine.”

Bob swallows hard, but doesn’t argue. His breath still hasn’t evened out.

Bucky crouches down beside Yelena, giving both of you the quick, clinical once-over. His gaze lingers on Bob a beat longer than usual — just long enough to read the truth that Bob isn’t admitting — before his eyes cut past your shoulders, narrowing at something deeper in the treeline.

That’s when you feel it — the air shifting colder, pressing heavier into your lungs. The shadows at the forest’s edge condense into something thicker, darker.

And then you see him.

Nine.

Or what’s left.

No human outline now — just towering height and impossible breadth. Limbs too long for their own joints, bending at angles that make your stomach twist. A head antlered in bone and shadow, tilting down toward you. Each breath is a rattling drag, the sound carrying across the clearing like something scraping the inside of stone. His frame lurking in the tree line, pacing like a caged animal.

Your chest tightens, not from fear, but from recognition — and the painful knowledge that here, in this place, he doesn’t know you.

“Move,” Bucky says, voice low, steady, no room form argument. “We’re not staying here.”

Bob’s grip on you tightens — not a command, but a plea — and he pulls you with him, both of you rising slow. His movements are careful, almost halting, like every muscle in his body is still locked in fight-or-flight. The faint shimmer of gold in his shadow still clings to yours, a physical reminder of the fight it took to wrench you both free.

Behind you, the others close ranks. Ahead, in the dark between the trees, Nine waits — massive, mindless, and still watching.

~

Nine doesn’t run. He doesn’t need to.

He fills the treeline, a black mass of antler and shadow, limbs bending in ways that make your stomach twist. Bone spirals from his skull like some ancient, impossible crown. His presence seeps into the air, pressing thick into your lungs until every breath feels borrowed.

Your hand curls into a fist. Every muscle in your body coils, ready to close the distance, to finish it before he can vanish back into the dark.

Bob’s hand catches your arm, firm but not forceful. “Don’t,” he says, voice low, unsteady.

“I have to.” The words scrape out of you, jagged.

“Not alone.” His grip stays. His tone is quiet, final.

Something inside you gives way. Not a clean break — a splintering. You’ve been holding this weight so long it’s part of your spine, but now it shifts, threatening to crush you from the inside.

And you hear yourself before you can stop. “Then help me.”

The silence that follows is sharper than any blade.

“I can’t—” You choke on the words, swallow hard. Your throat feels scraped raw. “I can’t do it by myself. I thought… I thought I owed it to him. That it had to be me.” Your breath shakes; your hands do too. “But I… I can’t. Please—” Your voice fractures, small and pleading in a way you hate. “Please help me put him out of his misery.”

Your knees threaten to give, but Bob’s grip on your arm keeps you from folding. It’s not a restraint; it’s an anchor.

For a long, brittle moment, no one moves. Even the shadows seem to hold their breath.

Then Yelena steps forward. Her hand cups the back of your neck, warm and steady, and she leans her forehead to yours for just a heartbeat. Her voice is quiet, meant for you alone. “We’re here. Every step. Every second. You don’t have to ask twice.”

Ava comes up on your other side, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours. “You’ve been holding this alone for too long,” she says, tone firm but not pitying. “Let us carry it with you. That’s what this is — family. We finish it together.”

Bucky’s voice comes from your flank, rough as gravel but certain. “You’re not the only one who knows what it’s like to live with a ghost you can’t put down. We’ve got you.” His eyes stay on Nine, unblinking, like he’s daring the thing to move while he speaks.

Even Alexei — who can’t seem to help himself from turning everything into a joke — is silent for a moment before stepping closer. His hand lands heavy and solid on your shoulder. “You are not alone, sestrenka,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Not anymore.”

Then John — of all people — shifts forward. No smirk. No mocking lilt. Just a level gaze that feels heavier than you expect. “If this is what you need,” he says, meeting your eyes, “then we make sure it’s done right. No half-measures. No regrets. And when it’s over…” His gaze flicks briefly to Bob before returning to you. “You’ve still got us.”

Bob’s fingers tighten just slightly on your arm — not holding you back, just holding on. “We end it,” he says, golden light threading faintly beneath his skin. “Together.”

Something shifts in the air — less fractured now, more whole. And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you let the weight slide off your shoulders and into theirs.

In the trees, Nine tilts his massive head, moonlight catching along bone and shadow, as if he knows exactly what’s coming.

And this time, you don’t step toward him alone.

You can feel it — the air changing.

Not just the cold pressure of his presence, but something cleaner, sharper. Focus.

No one has to speak. They just start moving.

Bucky is the first to move, ghosting wide to the right. His steps are deliberate, weight low, every motion clean and purposeful. The faint glint of his metal arm flashes once before vanishing into shadow. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the shift in his stance — the quiet promise that nothing will get past him. Not tonight. Not while you’re here.

Yelena slips the opposite way, balanced and silent, knives flashing in the dim light before disappearing again. “I’ll take his legs,” she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. There’s no bravado in it, just calm precision. Her gaze never leaves the hulking silhouette between the trees, but you feel her presence like a tether at your side.

Ava slides in on your right, crossbow already drawn and loaded. “If he moves for the shadows, I’ll pin him. Keep him in the open.” Her tone is steady, but her eyes cut toward you for a beat longer than necessary — checking in, anchoring you without words.

Behind you, Alexei plants himself like a wall, broad shoulders squared to block anything that might try to flank you. “Stay behind me if you must,” he says, and for once there’s no hint of humor in it. His voice is quiet, grounded. “I can take what he gives.”

John falls in opposite Bucky, mirroring his position on the far side. He rolls his shoulders once, settling into a stance that’s all readiness. “We push him into clear ground,” he says. “Don’t give him cover. Don’t let him vanish.”

And Bob… Bob doesn’t drift far from you at all. His arm brushes yours with every shallow breath, gold pulsing faintly beneath his skin — steady now, but ready to flare in an instant. His eyes never leave your brother’s monstrous form.

“I stay with you,” he says quietly, soft enough that only you hear. “No matter what happens.”

You glance at him, and despite the rush of adrenaline pressing sharp against your ribs, your voice comes out steady. “You stay behind someone at all times. I know you’re immortal or whatever, but for my own peace of mind… I need you to avoid contact, okay?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but the nod he gives is frantic and unguarded. That alone eases something tight in your chest. For a moment, your heart swells — affection mixing with the fragile relief of knowing he’ll listen.

Your eyes sweep the others. They’re not just ready. They’re here for you.

The fear is still there, coiled low in your stomach — but it isn’t yours alone anymore. It’s held in a dozen steady hands, wrapped in voices and eyes that say: We’ve got you.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like armor.

At the treeline, he tilts his massive, antlered head. Moonlight slides across bone and shadow, catching along the ridges of something that should not exist. His limbs shift subtly, joints bending in ways that defy sense, the movement slow but full of intent. His breathing is a deep, rattling drag that scrapes against the inside of your skull.

Your fingers flex, your weapon steady in your hands. Six sets of footsteps, six heartbeats, six pairs of eyes all moving with yours.

This is your family.

And when he moves, you’ll move together.

Nine moves first.

One blink he’s still at the treeline, the next he’s there — closing the ground in a rush of antlers, claws, and shadow that swallows half the clearing. The speed is wrong for something his size. The reach is worse — limbs snapping out like whips, bending at impossible angles as he swings for the closest body.

Yelena darts forward before anyone else can, cutting low and fast. Her knives flash silver in the moonlight as she drives in toward his legs, aiming for the tendons beneath that nightmare bulk. Nine’s clawed hand comes down where she stood a heartbeat ago, hitting dirt hard enough to crater it — but she’s already rolled clear, slicing as she passes.

On his other flank, Ava’s shape flickers and warps, body blurring in and out of solidity. One moment she’s there, the next she’s glitching, reappearing at his back. She twists and shifts, drawing his gaze, making him track her instead of landing a clean strike.

Bucky’s gunfire rattles sharp through the trees, muzzle flare briefly lighting the half-glow of the clearing. He and John move in perfect offset — John’s shield intercepting one of Nine’s whipping limbs with a metallic crack while Bucky angles low, his vibranium arm slamming into Nine’s side with bone-jarring force.

Alexei holds the center, bracing wide as Nine’s bulk shifts toward him in a sudden lunge. His hands clamp down on the beast’s antlers, feet gouging furrows in the dirt as he forces the monster back by sheer strength. It’s a brutal stalemate — muscle against shadow-wrapped muscle — and it buys the rest of the team precious seconds.

And through it all, the clearing feels too small, too close, every strike and counterstrike throwing sparks of gold, silver, and black through the night.

You fall into motion the instant Nine’s claws slam into the earth.

Shadows answer your call like muscle memory — a spear snapping into existence in your grip, another forming mid-air and launching toward his shoulder. He twists just enough to let it graze past, but the point wasn’t to hit — it was to see how fast he can move.

Fast. Too fast.

A second spear melts back into vapor before it even lands, curling into a barrier between Nine’s reaching arm and Ava’s exposed flank. The impact rings through your bones, the shadow wall rippling like oil on water before snapping back into place.

A tendril uncoils from the dirt, thick as a ship’s rope, lashing around one of Nine’s legs. It yanks hard, jerking him off-balance for the half-second Yelena needs to drive a blade in deep and twist. His roar splits the clearing, a sound that seems to scrape the sky itself.

You don’t stop moving.

Every breath, every shift of your stance feeds into the next defense, the next strike — weaving spears in arcs that keep him guessing, tendrils that snag at his limbs and force him to adjust, walls of black that rise just high enough to take the brunt of a hit meant for someone else.

And always, always, a cluster of shadows hovering around Bob. They cling to him like a living shield, moving when he moves, stretching into broad plates when a strike comes too close. He doesn’t fight — he runs the edges, scanning for openings, staying light on his feet. But every time his path crosses yours, you see the same thing in his eyes: he’s not here to win the fight. He’s here to make sure you survive it.

Nine slashes wide — too wide — and you know he’s trying to herd you, force you toward the trees. Your hands flick out, pulling two thick shadow spears from the ground and crossing them in an X to stop his momentum. The impact shudders through your arms, teeth rattling, but you hold.

The others keep pressing in — Yelena cutting low, Bucky driving high with the force of his metal arm, Ava vanishing and reappearing in bursts that keep Nine guessing. Alexei and John anchor the line, taking the hits meant to break your formation.

John whistles low from his flank. “No offense, Seven, but you’re like way scarier than this. Did they downgrade him?”

Even from here, you hear Yelena’s snort. “Downgrade? He looks like a deer and a blender had a fight. She’s the nightmare you see after that.”

The minions move as you think, each a phantom copy that darts in to slash, jab, and harry him from every angle. They’re lighter than real bodies, smoke and edge instead of flesh and bone, but they move fast, forcing him to defend from all sides.

It’s working — barely. But you can feel it in your chest, that slow coil of something bigger building under your skin. The fight is only beginning.

Nine’s next strike comes too fast to counter.

A single sweep of his clawed arm cuts through two of your tendrils, through the last minion holding his flank, and then—

Impact.

Your body slams into a tree hard enough to splinter the trunk. Bark and shadow shatter around you, the air punched from your lungs in a burst that tastes like blood.

For a heartbeat, all you can hear is the ringing in your skull and the slow crunch of Nine’s steps drawing closer.

Normally, this is where it happens — the slip. The place where the Umbra floods in, where you’re nothing but teeth and rage until the black burns out and you wake to wreckage you didn’t mean to make.

But not this time.

This time, the decision is yours.

The choice hits like a second heartbeat. You reach inward, past the sting of pain, past the familiar drag of the dark — not to fight it, but to pull it closer. To claim it.

The world exhales.

Shadows pour from your skin in great, writhing streams, swallowing the clearing until the trees are only jagged black shapes against a deeper black sky. The ground drinks it in, the air thickens with it. Even Nine hesitates, head angling as if sensing something shift in the marrow of the fight.

When the flood clears, you are no longer just standing — you’re towering. Massive, monstrous, a silhouette born of nightmare and will. Extra limbs arc from your back, each one a curved blade of living shadow. Claws drip obsidian light. Your teeth glint, sharp and bared, somewhere between a snarl and a promise.

But your eyes are still yours.

Yelena freezes mid-step. John mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Okay… yeah, way scarier than him,” but there’s no joke in his tone now — only awe.

The minions rise again from the dark, but this time they don’t falter. They move as you move, strike as you strike, perfectly in sync.

Nine lunges for Bob — you’re there first, a single sweep of your clawed limb throwing him back so hard he tears a furrow in the earth. Yelena stumbles into the path of a falling branch — you drop a wall of shadow between her and the impact, the wood shattering harmlessly against it.

Every strike is measured. Every movement is yours.

You are not just fighting Nine.

You are containing him — corralling him with walls of darkness, herding him into the open ground where your team waits to end this.

Bob’s voice reaches you through the roar of the dark. Not a warning. Not fear. Just raw, breathless conviction:

“Stay with me.”

And for the first time in your life in this shape, you know you can.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

How are you all holding up? I know this series is heavier and uh more wordy than the first so I really appreciate you all sticking with me through this. I am having so much fun filling out Seven's backstory and trauma. The climax is coming up pretty quick but I did get word that you all would like me to continue with one-shot type moments and what not so if any of you have any requests or situations you're interested in seeing let me know and I will work my best to make them happen! I don't want to get rid of Seven just yet she's my baby haha

Chapter 14: All That Remains

Summary:

The battle with Nine finally comes to a head. What will be standing in the wake of two shadows clashing?

The clearing drowns.

It’s not just dark — it’s thick, choking, the kind of black that swallows breath and sound. You rise from the center of it, towering, monstrous, limbs multiplying in jagged bursts. Claws like obsidian knives scrape furrows into the earth with every shift of your weight. Your mouth opens too wide, teeth serrated and glinting in the half-light.

For a breath, no one moves.

Not because they’re frozen in fear — but because they’re recalibrating. Muscles twitch, eyes track every shift in the clearing, the air so thick with anticipation it hums in your ears.

Bucky is the first to break the stillness. The metallic groan of his arm cutting the air is sharp as he pivots, boots grinding deep furrows into the dirt. He doesn’t flinch when one of your shadow-limbs sweeps past his shoulder — just moves with it, using the momentum to drive a burst of gunfire into Nine’s exposed flank.

“She’s pushing him right!” he calls, voice sharp and certain. “John, cut him off!”

“On it,” John barks back, charging in a blur of silver and black. The shield’s edge flashes once in the moonlight before it slams into Nine’s knee with a bone-jarring crack. The force staggers the monster sideways — right into your waiting claws.

In John’s periphery, your silhouette looms impossibly tall. “Seriously,” he mutters under his breath, “how was he ever the scary one?”

Yelena is already moving low and fast, boots whispering over the damp ground, her hair a streak of pale gold against the dark. She weaves between your walls of shadow like she’s been training with them for years. Every time Nine swings for her, a limb of darkness swats the blow away before it lands.

“Stop with the whining, Walker!” she shouts toward him, grin flashing like a knife. “She’s not scary — just fun spooky!”

Ava flickers in and out of the fray, her form like a faulty lightbulb in the dark — here, gone, here again. A crossbow bolt thuds into Nine’s shoulder, the monster jerking back with a guttural snarl. Ava vanishes before his claws can rake through her, reappearing at his blind spot to fire again.

“She’s buying us time — make it count!” she calls.

Alexei takes a hit meant for Bob — claws raking across his shoulder — but instead of crumpling, he plants his feet and shoves Nine back into your reach. “Ha!” His laugh is booming, wild, full of the thrill of battle. “That’s what I’m talking about! Avengers with a Z! We are unstoppable!”

Alexei’s boast earns all forty of your eyes rolling in perfect, horrifying unison — a ripple of human exasperation stretched over something inhuman. Even mid-battle, even like this, you can’t help it.

Yelena catches the motion from the corner of her eye and snorts. “Oh good, she’s still in there.”

Bob hasn’t left your side once. He runs where you run, ducks where you need him to, always positioned so the curve of your shadows shelters him without needing to be asked. Every time Nine lunges his way, one of your claws slams down in a protective arc.

“Yeah, she is,” he says — breathless, but steady — a mix of awe and absolute trust.

And just like that, the battlefield belongs to all of you.

Every wall you raise becomes cover for someone. Every strike you land opens a window for another. They move with you like a body with many hands, each limb knowing exactly where the others will be.

Nine roars — frustrated, cornered — and the sound shudders through the clearing.

You roar back.

This time, it’s not just a challenge.

It’s a promise: he’s not taking anyone from you again.

The team drives him back step by step, forcing him into the open. Every blow, every strike, every wall of shadow presses him toward the clearing’s center until there’s nowhere left to vanish.

Bucky’s voice cuts low through comms. “Clear her some space.”

One by one, they peel back. Yelena’s knives vanish into her vest. Ava flickers to the edge of the treeline. John and Alexei fall into guard positions. Bob hesitates longest — his eyes meet yours for the barest moment, giving you a small nod — before he backs away.

The world narrows.

Just you.

Just him.

Nine moves first — a blur of jagged antler-bone and shadow-limbs — but you’re already there, erupting spikes from the earth that spear through his thigh and shoulder. Black ichor sprays, hissing where it hits the ground. He snarls and tears himself free, chunks of flesh sloughing away.

You shade-step to his flank, claws ripping across his ribs. Bone plates crack and split, spilling veins of roiling darkness and raw sinew. The stench of it — metallic and fetid — clings to the back of your tongue.

Your doubles swarm in, smoke-born and snarling, their too-wide mouths full of jagged teeth. They latch onto his back, his legs, his throat — tearing strips of bone and muscle away. His roar fractures into something almost human — almost — before warping into the shriek of rending metal.

The Umbra is yours now. It doesn’t pull — it obeys.

His spikes lash out, shredding two of your doubles, but you’re already behind him, claws sinking into the base of his skull. His spine arches grotesquely as you drag him backward.

Darkness surges up your limbs, thick and unstoppable, flooding into him in a choking tide. His knees crack sideways. Antlers snap. The ground quakes under the thrash of his body, claws gouging deep into the dirt.

And still the dark tightens.

Layer upon layer.

Until he’s no longer a predator — just a carcass pinned beneath you.

His breath rattles, black mist spilling into the cold air. The others close in. Bucky’s gun is steady. Yelena’s fists hum with electricity. John’s shield gleams pale under the moon.

When the final blow lands, it’s quick. There’s no speech. No closure. Just a wet crunch that echoes like a gunshot through the clearing.

And then—

Silence.

The shadows draw back, reluctant, leaving the ruin at your feet. Bone shards glint dull in the dirt. The air is sharp with iron and smoke.

You stand, chest heaving, claws dripping. The umbra retreats into your veins, leaving the world hollow without his roar.

Bob steps to your side, his warmth brushing the cold from your arm.

“Seven… we’re h-here, okay?” he says, voice catching.

The words settle heavy — not triumphant. Not victorious. Just the quiet after the worst is over.

Your breath shudders. Knees give way. You sink, hands trembling as they cradle what’s left of your brother — a skeletal shadow-husk, fragile as ash.

A deep, mournful keening tears from your throat. Bob is there instantly, arms tight around you, his heartbeat racing against your ribs. Yelena joins on your right, forehead to your temple, anchoring you.

The others close in, wordless. Warmth and weight surrounds you, mirroring the day you all pulled Bob from the Void. They hold you as you break, keep your pieces together as they crack.

And in the middle of it all, you weep — for the brother you lost tonight, and for the years before you found him again.

Somewhere in the circle, Bob’s arms tighten, and the shadows inside you finally, finally go quiet.

~

They don’t leave him there.

Not in the torn-up clearing where the fight ended, with its churned mud and splintered trees and the stink of blood. Not where carrion birds are already circling in the gray dawn.

You don’t ask. You just start walking, his body — what’s left of it — cradled in your arms.

The others follow without a word.

It’s a long, slow trek through the forest. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but heavy — each step pressing that weight deeper into your ribs. The clearing you choose is deep enough that the trees crowd together overhead, their branches knitting into a dark shadowed canopy.

It’s not familiar particularly.

You don’t remember running through here as a child — bare feet slapping against lush forest ground, Nine at your heels, both of you laughing too hard. Don’t remember collapsing in the moss and watch the clouds through the leaves until someone comes to drag you back.

Those moments were stolen from you. Ripped away with needles and blood.

But the forest remembers. The damp earth and towering trees hold the space for what was and could have been. .

Still, in a way the rest of the world never is. The air hangs heavy with the smell of earth and pine, the faint rustle of leaves above whispering in a language you almost remember. It’s the closest thing Nine ever had to a home — a clearing where the light filtered down soft enough that it didn’t hurt, where you could pretend, for an hour, that you were just two kids hiding from the world.

It takes all of you to dig. No words, just the sound of shovels and hands breaking through the cold, stubborn ground. Bucky’s weight steady as he carves into the earth, John’s movements precise, Alexei working like the dirt itself has wronged him. Ava and Yelena trade places with you more than once, each time brushing mud from your fingers, trying to keep you from wearing yourself out.

When the hole is deep enough, you kneel by what’s left of him. No monstrous height now — just a body that’s more shadow than bone, already beginning to fade at the edges. Your hands shake as you smooth the remains, arranging them like you used to arrange his blanket when you were small.

From your jacket pocket, you pull a folded paper crane — its edges worn soft from years of being carried. It’s not the original; that one was lost long ago. But this is the same fold, the same shape, the same lesson he had fumbled through beside you once, laughing when his looked nothing like yours. You place it against his chest.

The others wait while you say nothing at all.

When you finally step back, each of them moves forward in turn. Yelena is first, her gaze locked on yours as she lets a handful of earth fall through her fingers. “For family,” she murmurs, the words almost lost to the wind.

Bucky follows, his jaw set, movements quiet and deliberate. Ava’s eyes are downcast as she adds her handful, her fingers brushing the dirt from her palms like it’s something holy. John says nothing, but he meets your gaze with a steady nod before stepping back.

Alexei stands over the grave a moment longer than the rest, then drops his own offering of earth with a muttered, “Rest, brother of seven,” in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. The type of quiet mourning that only a father could know builds in his chest. He may be the loud and obstinate one of the group but he’s also a father. Not just to Yelena anymore but to the whole team and a brother of yours means a child of his in his heart.

When it’s covered, you stand in the center of them all. The mound is just another shape among the trees now, unremarkable to anyone passing by. But you’ll always know.

Bob’s hand brushes yours — tentative, but warm. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

The walk back is slow. No one breaks the silence. But the distance between you all is small, close enough that if you falter, they’ll catch you.

~

The days that follow are hard.

Long nights leave you screaming in terror, the echo of Nine’s last moments stitched into your dreams like barbed wire. You wake with your throat raw, air heavy and too thick to pull down, Bob’s gentle — almost hesitant — hands finding your shoulders. Sometimes it’s his voice in your ear, low and steady, talking you through your breathing until the tremors ebb. Other times it’s just the solid weight of his arms around you, holding you through the sobs until your body finally gives.

And sometimes, you drift too far the other way — lost in thought, eyes fixed on the wall, your body here but your mind tangled somewhere in the dark. Those are the moments when the others linger close. Not crowding, not touching unless you let them, but hovering like they’re afraid you’ll slip into the shadows and never come back out.

Yelena sprawls on the couch beside you, absently playing with your hair while pretending to scroll her phone. Ava passes through and sets a steaming mug of tea on the table without a word, the faint scent of chamomile and honey curling into the air. Alexei tells the most ridiculous stories at a volume no one asked for until you’re too tired of hearing his voice not to answer. Even John — for all his bluster — shows up with small, unasked-for things: a blanket, a snack, a sarcastic comment that lands softer than usual.

And through it all, there’s Bob.

Close enough that you can always feel him, but never so close that it tips you into overwhelm. His presence is constant — quiet, grounding — like the simple act of sitting next to you is its own unspoken promise.

They keep you here.

Keep you together.

Not whole.

Not yet.

But enough to keep going.

~

It’s late.

The Tower is muted except for the hum of the vents and the occasional clink of ice settling in a glass somewhere down the hall. You’re on the couch, knees drawn up, a blanket loose around your shoulders while you absently stroke Cucumber’s soft fur. The little rodent was trusted to you by Yelena a day ago, her excuse a dry wave of the hand — “You know, in case Bob needs to go pee or something. Support boyfriend can’t be on duty 24/7.”

Bob’s in the armchair across from you, not quite asleep. His head tilts back, eyes closed, but you can tell by the way his shoulders twitch when you shift that he’s still keeping track of you.

Yelena drops onto the couch beside you without asking, balancing a plate of something in her lap. She doesn’t offer it right away. Just picks at it for a moment, letting the quiet stretch before speaking.

“You keep looking at the door like he’s gonna walk through it,” she says. Not accusing. Just… knowing.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know.” She nudges your knee with hers, eyes on her food. “I did that for months. After Natasha.”

The name hangs heavy between you, unflinching.

“I spent years without her,” Yelena goes on. “Torn apart as kids. Years thinking she was gone. And then I had her back.” She swallows, her voice thinning. “And then — gone again. Before we could… I don’t know. Fix it. Build something new.”

You stare at your hands, fingers knotting in the blanket. “Does it stop hurting?”

“No.” Her gaze lifts to yours now, steady. “That hole? It stays. You can’t fill it with the person you lost. You can’t make it the same shape again.” She shifts closer, her shoulder pressing into yours. “But you can let other people stand around it. Keep you from falling in. That’s what this lot does. That’s what we do.”

Your chest tightens. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the tears from spilling.

“They’ll be here,” Yelena says, softer now. “We’ll be here. Every one of us. Especially him.” She tilts her chin toward Bob without looking, and you glance over to find him watching you both, silent but present, that deep blue in his eyes almost black in the low light.

It’s not the same as having Nine. It never will be.

But you lean into Yelena’s shoulder anyway, letting her warmth and Bob’s quiet steadiness at your back keep you in place.

The silence stretches — not awkward, but full of thought.

Then, almost without meaning to, you murmur, “Thank you.”

Yelena’s brow furrows like she’s about to brush it off, but you keep going.

“Not just for saying it,” you add, voice low. “For… staying. For both of you staying.”

She doesn’t answer right away — just presses her shoulder more firmly into yours. Across from you, Bob dips his head slightly, like he’s not sure he deserves to be included but won’t risk breaking the moment by speaking.

Your fingers twist in the blanket. “Nine… he wasn’t always…” You stop, searching for the right place to begin. “We had someone who cared about us the way you do. She was older — Three. She looked after us, in her way. Made sure we remembered things that weren’t in the books they gave us. Things like the color of roses, or the sound of birds in the morning.”

Yelena tilts her head, not pushing, just waiting.

“One day,” you say, the faintest smile tugging at your mouth, “she taught us how to fold paper cranes. Scraps of medical charts, old requisition forms — anything we could find. We made them all afternoon. Nine was terrible at it. His first one looked like a crushed spider.”

The memory pulls a brittle laugh from your chest before it fades.

“He tried so hard, though. Wouldn’t stop until he could make one that looked right. I picked it up quickly. When Fifteen came in, I taught him too. Like our own little tradition. We’d hang them over our beds. Like… if we couldn’t get free, maybe the cranes would.”

The words trail off, leaving you staring at your hands again.

Yelena’s voice is gentler now. “That’s the part you keep.”

You glance at her, unsure.

“The rest,” she says, “all the ugly parts — you don’t owe those to anyone. But this?” She nods toward your hands, toward the invisible shape you’ve been holding there. “This you can keep. No one can take it from you.”

Across the room, Bob hasn’t moved, but there’s a wet shine at the corners of his eyes that he doesn’t bother to hide. You catch it, but don’t call him on it.

Instead, you reach out — a wordless gesture, palm open, eyes pleading.

He hesitates for just a moment before crossing the space, tucking himself carefully into your other side, mindful of Cucumber still curled in your lap. His warmth is steady, grounding, and when he leans in to press a timid kiss to your temple, it pulls a soft, unguarded smile from you.

You keep talking.

Not about Nine anymore — not directly — but about all of you. The ones who came before the four of you were left behind in that place.

“There was a girl,” you murmur after a pause. “From the same village as me and Nine. They called her Subject 08. Same age as me, a little younger than him. She never said much, but she… she liked rabbits.” You feel your mouth curve faintly at the memory. “Not real ones. Just the idea of them. Said they seemed soft.”

Yelena doesn’t interrupt. Bob doesn’t either. They just let you speak.

“There was another,” you continue. “A boy I hated. Thought he was better than everyone else. Picked on the younger ones. Called himself ‘the superior subject.’” Your hands tighten briefly in the blanket. “One day, he didn’t show up for group. My first thought was relief.” The confession sits heavy in the air, and you breathe through it. “I still feel guilty for that.”

There are more faces, more fragments — not all of them sharp-edged. You tell them about the rare moments when you were just children. Not in training. Not in tests. Just playing. Racing in the hallways. Making up stupid games with broken equipment. Sneaking extra food. Goofing off in the slivers of time they couldn’t take from you.

“That’s what I want to remember for him,” you say at last. “Not what he became.”

The guilt swells, uninvited, sour in the back of your throat. “It’s not fair,” you admit quietly. “That they didn’t get this. That I get to have this—” You glance between them. “—and they don’t. That I have… all of you.”

Bob’s voice is low when it comes. “Sometimes… I feel that too.”

Yelena doesn’t let it linger. She shifts, jabbing you lightly in the side with her elbow. “No. We don’t feel guilty for surviving. We don’t feel guilty for finding each other. We fought for this family. All of us. And no one—” Her voice firms, sharp as steel. “—no one will take it from us. Not ever again.”

You let her words settle. Bob’s quiet warmth is still pressed into your side, his hand steady over yours. Yelena stays leaned into you, solid and unyielding.

You let yourself sink into the moment — Yelena’s solid shoulder on one side, Bob’s quiet presence on the other — the three of you bracketing that fragile memory. The paper crane is still folded in your mind like it was made yesterday, and for the first time since Nine’s fall, you believe you might be able to keep it.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

a shorter chapter here but I wanted to leave it as it is as nine’s final place. I know I didn’t really write him in a ton but I also didn’t want anyone thinking he would be sticking around lol. How are we all doing? I’m not too sure where to go from here personally. I do know that I’ve gotten a ton of encouragement to keep it going tho so we will see what happens 👀

Chapter 15: Healing Touch

Summary:

In the wake of loss, you and Bob find solace in each other. What begins as a quiet morning of grief and confession becomes a turning point—an intimate moment where two broken souls choose love, vulnerability, and the promise of healing together.

TW: This chapter contains themes of grief, trauma recovery, survivor’s guilt, and intimate sexual content (consensual). Please read with care.

You wake with ease, for once.

No shadows clawing at the edge of your mind, no terror dragging you back into the dark. Just sunlight, pale and forgiving, spilling through the blinds and laying warm stripes of gold across your skin. It paints you whole, as though the night never touched you.

A muffled sound draws your head to the side — soft, steady breathing, even in rhythm. You blink away the haze of sleep, and there he is. Bob. Curled into your side like he belongs there, like he has always belonged there. His hand rests over your heart, fingers slack but sure, as if he drifted into sleep counting every beat. Making sure it was still there.

Your smile rises unbidden, soft and fragile, as you watch him. A rare moment, impossibly rare — neither of you anxious, or haunted, or holding yourselves too tightly together. Just this. Just breath and warmth.

He shifts in his sleep, nose scrunching, a small crease wrinkling his brow before he burrows closer. As though your warmth is the only tether he has, as though some part of him fears you’ll vanish if he doesn’t cling tighter. A thin, broken whimper slips past his lips — a sound that twists your heart, too human in its need.

Your hand moves before you think, brushing a dark curl from his forehead with all the care you can muster. The strands spring back into place, stubborn, but the touch soothes you. You let your finger trail down the bridge of his nose, smoothing away the wrinkle until his face slackens, easing back into peaceful slumber.

Turning carefully onto your side, you curl closer, arms winding around his waist. He doesn’t stir, only exhales, the softest sigh, and presses further into your embrace.

And for a long, precious moment, you just watch him. The rise and fall of his chest. The way the sunlight settles into the hollow of his throat, gilding him. The gentle weight of his hand over your heart.

It’s only then — only in the stillness — that you realize. For just the briefest heartbeat of time, you weren’t swallowed by grief. You weren’t staring at the hollow place Nine left behind, or hearing his last scream echo in your head. You were here. You were with Bob. And it was enough.

The realization lands sharp, almost cruel. Guilt floods in, burning through the fragile warmth. It’s only been a handful of weeks. How dare you smile? How dare you hold this peace so close, when Nine is gone? How dare you forget the sorrow he deserves, even for a moment?

Your arms tighten around Bob’s waist without meaning to, clinging to him as though the guilt might drag you under if you don’t hold on.

The thought claws deep, and you clench your eyes shut, as if darkness could swallow the guilt. As if refusing to see might undo the betrayal of peace, the betrayal of forgetting — even for a breath — what you’ve lost.

You don’t even feel the tears as they slip free, soft tracks carving down your cheeks. You don’t notice the shift beside you — the way Bob stirs, his lashes fluttering as he blinks awake. What rouses him isn’t the morning sun or the quiet around you. It’s you. The desperate clutch of your hands at his waist, the tremor in your body as though you’re bracing for some unseen blow.

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches you in the hush between heartbeats, his own face soft and still half in dreams. Then his hand lifts, hesitant as if he fears you might flinch, and feather-light fingers brush your cheek.

The touch startles you into opening your eyes. His gaze catches yours instantly, blue threaded with sleep and concern, sunlight spilling over him until he looks almost unreal — the edges of him gold-lit, haloed.

Bob doesn’t speak. Doesn’t press. Just blinks slowly, eyes searching, and rubs his thumb gently across your damp skin. The silence between you is patient, unhurried, as if he’s telling you he can wait forever. That he’ll be here whether you share the words or not.

Something small and broken catches in your throat. A sound that isn’t quite a sob but carries its weight. You try to gather yourself, to make the moment less fragile than it is. Your voice comes out a whisper, cracked and uneven.

“Morning…”

He smiles — soft, half-asleep still — and shifts closer until the warmth of him brushes fully against your side. His lips find your temple in a gentle kiss, and you lean into it without thought, a sigh escaping your chest like a weight lifting, if only for a heartbeat.

“Morning…” he murmurs back, voice rough with sleep. Then, after a pause, quieter still: “Are you okay?”

Not prying. Not demanding. Just an offering. A space for you to step into if you choose.

You reach up before answering, fingers curving around the rough stubble of his cheek. He tilts into the touch instinctively, eyes closing for a moment like the gesture alone is enough to anchor him. You study his face in silence, weighing the storm in your chest against the steadiness in his gaze.

With anyone else, you might have swallowed it down. With him, you don’t want to. With him, you always want to share — the good and the bad, the scars and the light — to help carry the weight of the world together.

“For…” Your voice stumbles. You swallow and try again. “For a second. Just the briefest of moments. I forgot.” The words catch jagged in your throat. Bob doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t fill the silence — just nods faintly, his thumb brushing along your wrist where you still hold his face, waiting for you to keep going.

The air in your chest feels tight, but you force yourself to breathe through it. “I woke up and you were here in my arms, and the sun was warming our skin and—” your voice breaks, trembling as you force the words out, “I forgot. I forgot Nine was gone.”

You whisper it like a confession, a hideous secret you’ve been guarding. The kind that feels like betrayal simply for existing.

The words hang in the air, raw and trembling. For a moment, Bob just breathes with you. No rush to fill the silence, no instinct to patch over the jagged edges. He lets it exist, lets it settle between you both, watching the way your eyes shimmer like you’re bracing for judgment.

But before the guilt can sink its claws too deep, before you can spiral into the thought that forgetting makes you faithless, his hand slides from your cheek to cradle the back of your head. His fingers thread gently into your hair, steady, grounding.

“You didn’t forget him,” he says finally, voice low but certain. His thumb brushes a tear from your temple. “You remembered what it feels like to be here. Alive. With me.”

He leans his forehead against yours, eyes closing as though the closeness steadies him as much as it steadies you. “That doesn’t take anything away from him. Or from what he meant to you. It just means… you’re still here to feel this. And I think— I think he’d want you to.”

The words are soft, careful, but they land with the quiet weight of truth.

You let his words sink into your heart, pressing against the raw edges of your guilt until they ease some of the sting. It feels like prying barbed wire from your ribs, painful but freeing, forcing yourself not just to hear him, but to listen. To believe. Because Bob—always Bob—tells you the truth. Not the easy comfort you think you want, but the steady, unshakable truth you need.

You take a breath. Then another. The silence stretches, not empty but alive, carrying his warmth, his patience, his hand moving slow and sure through your hair.

“I don’t know what Nine would have wanted…” you murmur at last, voice catching on the confession. “I only knew him for less than half his life.”

Bob doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct. Just keeps tracing his fingers through your hair, waiting, giving you the space to unspool what’s tangled inside.

Your throat tightens, but you push through, letting the words pour out of you like a secret you’re almost afraid to say aloud. “But… I know what I want.” A shaky breath. “And it’s this. It’s mornings like this. Quiet and perfect. You, here with me.”

The admission feels like laying your heart bare, delicate and dangerous, but Bob only presses closer, his chest brushing yours with each steady beat of his heart, as if answering without a word.

And then—soft, almost shy—he clears his throat. “I…uh.” He falters, the way he always does when the truth is bigger than his voice can carry. His thumb stills for a moment against your cheek before moving again, slower now, reverent.

“I want that too,” he says finally, and though it comes out rough, the honesty in it is steady as stone. “I don’t… I don’t always know how to say it right. Or if I deserve it.” His lips twitch like he’s trying for a smile but can’t quite manage. “But when I wake up and you’re here, when you look at me like—like I’m not a mistake…” He swallows, eyes darting briefly away before pulling back to yours. “That’s what I want. More than anything. Just… this.”

He stumbles to a stop, breath catching like he’s afraid he’s gone too far. But you can feel his hands trembling against you, as if the weight of saying it has finally shaken something loose.

You shake your head, sharp enough that it startles him. Your hand finds his cheek again, firmer this time, thumb brushing hos cheekbone, grounding both of you.

“Bob,” you whisper, voice trembling but certain. “You are not a mistake.”

The words hang heavy, daring him to deny them, but you don’t let him. You press on, chest tight, eyes burning.

“You saved me. Do you understand? I was gone—I was drowning in the dark, ready to let it take me—and then there you were. You pulled me back. Again and again, you’ve kept me here when I would’ve slipped away.”

Your voice cracks, but you force the words through, desperate for him to hear them. “Without you, I’d vanish. I’d fall apart. But you—” your fingers curl against his jaw, your forehead pressing to his like you can pour the truth straight into him. “You hold me together. You saved me, Bob. The way heroes are supposed to.”

His breath shudders against your lips, eyes wide and wet, as if no one’s ever spoken to him like this before—like he was worth saving too.

For a moment he just stares at you, stunned, your words ricocheting through him like they’ve cracked something wide open. His mouth works soundlessly, chest heaving with the effort of breathing around the knot in his throat.

Then, with a voice so small it nearly breaks you, he manages:

“You saved me too.”

It spills out like a confession, ragged and unpolished, and he grips your wrist where it cups his face as if he’s terrified you’ll pull away. “I was already… slipping. The Void had me, all of me, and then you—” his breath shudders, tears spilling freely now, “you pulled me back. You—You and the others, you’re the only reason I’m still here. We saved each other.”

The silence after is thick, charged, your hearts thundering in sync. And then you close the last inch between you, your lips brushing his like a secret—soft, reverent, trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. It’s gentle at first, tender enough to feel like the whole universe could fit in the fragile space between heartbeats.

But then Bob lets out a broken sound against your mouth, hands sliding into your hair, pulling you closer like he can’t stand even a breath of distance. The kiss deepens, hungry and aching, full of love and need wound so tightly together it leaves you both panting, breathless, clinging like the world might tear you apart again if you let go.

There’s nothing careful about it now—just two people who’ve been shattered and remade, pouring everything into each other until desire burns against grief, until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly your knees are braced on either side of him, thighs trembling as you hover above. Bob’s head falls back into the pillow, his dark curls splaying out like a halo, and his wide blue eyes search your face with something that’s equal parts awe and fragile terror.

Your palms plant carefully beside his head, arms shaking with the weight of holding yourself steady. You lean close enough that your breath mingles with his, your lips a whisper apart. One hand lifts to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw, and your chest aches when he leans into it like it’s the only solid thing in his world.

“This is still okay?” you whisper, voice breaking on the need. The question isn’t small—it’s everything. Your fear, your longing, the truth that intimacy has always terrified you both. Because wanting this, wanting him, means opening yourself to the possibility of loss all over again.

Soulmates, you think. Or something just as dangerous.

His gaze flickers, shifting from raw nervousness to a steadier glow, like he’s found some anchor in you. He tilts his head and presses a trembling kiss to your palm, his larger hand covering yours, grounding you both.

“More than okay,” he says, voice low and certain despite the faint shake in it. His fingers squeeze yours gently. “Are you okay?”

That simple return—the question back—undoes you. No demand, no fear of rejection. Just that quiet promise that if you weren’t, he’d stop without hesitation. That safety is almost more intimate than his touch.

A smile breaks across your face, shaky and unguarded. You lower yourself until your body is flush against his, his warmth searing through every place you touch. Both hands frame his face now, holding him like something both precious and real.

“I am,” you whisper against his lips, letting the truth fall into the space between you. “Right now, in this moment… I’m okay.”

And the words surprise you with how deeply you mean them. For once, the weight of the past doesn’t choke you. The future doesn’t loom like a blade. All that matters is this moment—his heartbeat under your palms, his breath catching as you press closer, the unshakable truth that no matter what comes, you have him, and he has you.

Bob exhales like you’ve given him something holy, his hands sliding to your waist, holding you as though the world might tear you away again. His lips find yours, soft at first, reverent—an echo of every broken piece you’ve carried between you. But when you answer, when you press into him with trembling need, the kiss deepens into something more desperate.

Not escape. Not distraction. But a fierce, aching act of living.

His hands fall to your waist, not pulling, just resting there, the weight of them grounding you in ways words never could.

You shift slightly, pressing closer, and that’s when the kiss deepens. It’s not sudden, not overwhelming—more like the tide creeping higher with each wave. A slow build. Your lips part, a breath caught between you, and Bob follows with a quiet, almost involuntary sound, low in his throat. It makes your chest ache. Makes heat coil low in your belly.

One of his hands slides upward brushing under your top, careful, giving you every chance to stop him. He ghosts over your ribs, the edge of your arm, finally settling high on your back as if to keep you steady rather than pull you down. The gentleness of it makes your heart stutter.

You press your forehead to his, breaking the kiss just long enough to whisper, “You can touch me.” The words come out raw, not sultry but trembling with vulnerability.

Bob blinks up at you, wide-eyed, like he’s not sure he deserves the permission. “Are you sure?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking small circles at your waist.

Your chest tightens with something equal parts love and desperation. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

It’s then that he finally lets himself breathe you in. His hand slips higher, tracing the curve of your spine, and the other follows, sliding from your waist to your hip, fingers splaying across you like he’s memorizing every fragile line. The touch isn’t greedy—it’s careful, reverent, and yet it leaves fire in its wake.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper. Needier. Not just lips now, but mouths opening, breaths mingling, the faint scrape of teeth as though the two of you can’t quite stay gentle no matter how much you try. It’s not frantic, but there’s a hunger beneath it, a steady burn that threatens to consume if you let it.

You shift in his lap, and his breath stutters, his hands tightening reflexively at your waist. The sound that leaves him—a broken gasp that’s half wonder, half restraint—nearly undoes you.

Your hand cradles his face again, thumb brushing along his jaw. You can feel him trembling beneath you, not from fear but from the sheer weight of holding himself back.

“Bob,” you breathe, your lips brushing his as you say it, the single word carrying every piece of trust and longing you’ve never spoken aloud.

His response is immediate, voice hoarse and wrecked: “I’m here.”

And with those words, the world narrows to the slow rhythm of lips and hands, to the unbearable intimacy of being seen and wanted and held exactly as you are.

The kisses continue until your lungs ache, until pulling back feels like tearing away a lifeline. You shift in his lap and his breath falters, breaking against your mouth. His hands are gentle but no longer uncertain—he tugs the hem of your shirt, pausing, waiting.

You nod before he even asks, and he helps peel it away slowly, as if unveiling something sacred. His gaze rakes over you, wide-eyed and awestruck, and it steals the air from your chest. Not hunger alone, but wonder.

Your fingers fumble with his shirt in return, tugging at the fabric until he raises his arms, letting you strip it away. His chest is warm under your palms, solid and steady, the faint hum of power thrumming beneath his skin like sunlight caged in flesh.

The light to your darkness.

Your other half.

He swallows hard, watching you. Your hands travel back down his chest, slow and calming. His own hands follow your lead, fingers brushing tentatively over your hips then further more sure of their purpose.

With the barrier of fabric gone, every touch feels sharper, more consuming. His hands span your back, drawing you down until your chest presses to his, bare skin to bare skin, and the heat of it nearly undoes you both.

You kiss him again, mouths parting, breaths mingling, your nails scraping lightly over his shoulders. The sound he makes—half gasp, half groan—sends a shiver down your spine.

Your hips shift instinctively, pressing down, and he stutters beneath you, his hands tightening at your waist. You can feel him harden against you, leaving you wanting and aching, hips rolling in slow, deliberate drags that make your breath hitch.

The movement pulls a broken whimper from his throat.

“Seven…” he breathes your name like a prayer, like a plea.

The sound of your name drives you further—an anchor and a spark all at once. You move again, slower, firmer, grinding yourself against his length until you feel him fully, straining beneath you. A low groan catches in his chest, his breath stuttering, fingers clutching your waist with a near-bruising need.

You set a steady rhythm, rocking against him, dragging yourself along his length. His hips jerk up to meet you, uneven and desperate, breaking into the pace you’d started. His mouth finds yours again, and the kiss is nothing like the careful ones before—this one is hungry, frantic, a clash of teeth and tongues that tastes like longing left to rot in the dark too long.

Every time you roll your hips against him, he whimpers into your mouth, the sound sending heat pooling low in your belly. His hands are everywhere at once, gripping your hips, sliding up your back, cupping your face as though afraid you’ll vanish into shadow if he lets go.

The steady pace falters, becomes erratic, lost to the way you both unravel under each other’s touch. Each grind, each roll drags more helpless sounds from him—gasps, groans, broken syllables of your name.

You steady him with a kiss to his jaw, then his throat, whispering against his skin, “I need you. Please.”

His hand trembles as it trails lower, settling at your hip, giving you one last chance to stop him. When you don’t—when you shift into his touch instead—he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

Clumsy hands help shed the last of the barriers between you, clothing tugged aside with whispered apologies and quiet laughter that breaks the tension. And then there’s nothing left—just you, just him, nothing between.

Bob’s eyes flick to yours, wide, vulnerable. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You frame his face with your hands, pressing your forehead to his. “You won’t.”

Slowly, carefully, he guides himself into you, and the world fractures around the edges. You gasp, clinging to him as he fills you, every inch deliberate, reverent. His breath stutters against your ear, his whole body trembling with the effort to go slow.

When he’s fully seated inside you, both of you shudder, caught in the enormity of it. He doesn’t move, not yet—just holds you, buried deep, his hands stroking your back as if to anchor you both in this impossible, perfect moment.

The first slow roll of his hips drags a gasp from you, and his answering groan is broken, wrecked. He moves with care, tentative at first, each thrust an act of devotion rather than desire. But as the rhythm builds—slow, steady, deeper—so does the fire between you.

Your fingers grasp his shoulders, your hips meeting his with growing urgency. The kisses turn frantic, messy, the kind that leaves you both panting against each other’s mouths. He moans into you, soft and desperate, as if he can’t contain how good it feels, how much he needs this.

“God, Seven…” he murmurs against your lips, voice ragged. “You’re—everything.”

The sound of his voice, broken and honest, has you clenching around him, your heart melting with each word.

“Bob…” you whisper, breath catching as you ride him harder. “You—you’re my everything. My other half… mine.” The words spill from the deepest place in you, raw and unpolished, the truth you’ve held buried for far too long.

The admission draws a deep, guttural groan from his chest. His hips snap up harder, faster, as if your words unlocked something feral, something primal he’d been afraid to touch. His rhythm turns frantic, desperate, each thrust a pledge he can’t put into words.

You cling tighter, crying out against his mouth, and he swallows every sound, kissing you like he’s drowning. Every roll of his hips, every broken groan in your ear, drags you closer to the edge until your whole body is trembling, unraveling in his arms.

Your nails dig now into his shoulders, leaving red crescents into his skin as your hips meet his with building urgency. The kisses between you turn frantic, fevered—sloppy and desperate, all teeth and tongue and gasps stolen straight from each other’s mouths. Every thrust makes you cry out, and every cry makes him groan, ragged and helpless, like he’s unraveling at the seams.

“Seven,” he whimpers against your throat, the sound so raw it makes you shiver. His lips trail down your jaw, your neck, catching at your pulse like he’s worshipping every beat. “God—you feel so good, I—” His words dissolve into another broken moan as your body tightens around him.

Your name falls from him again and again, like a litany, like the only word he’s ever known. Each desperate groan pulls you further from yourself and deeper into him, until there’s nothing but the slick, frantic pull of his body against yours, the heat coiling between you.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp into his mouth, hips rocking harder, chasing him, urging him on. “Please, Bob—don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He can’t. His rhythm turns rougher, his hips snapping up in desperate, frantic thrusts, as though he’s terrified of losing you, of losing this. Your bodies crash together, messy and graceless and perfect, breath and sweat and need binding you tight.

The world narrows to this moment—the ache, the fire, the way you cling to each other as if you might both vanish into shadow and light. The build is unbearable, beautiful, inevitable.

It breaks all at once. Pleasure tears through you, sharp and blinding, your body clenching around him as you cry out, raw and unrestrained. The sound undoes him—he follows instantly, spilling into you with a strangled cry of your name, hips stuttering against yours as he holds you impossibly close.

You collapse together, tangled and trembling, breath coming in ragged bursts. His arms band tight around you, his chest rising and falling against yours like he’s just run himself out of existence.

Silence stretches. Only the sound of two frantic hearts beating themselves back into rhythm.

And then, softer than the sunlight pooling across the sheets, his voice:

“I think… I’ve been searching my whole life for this. For you.”

The words catch at something deep inside you, something aching and tender. Your throat tightens, and you press your forehead to his, your hands still cradling his face. “Me too. Even when I didn’t know it—I was waiting for you.”

His eyes shine, damp at the corners, but he doesn’t look away. He cups the back of your neck, grounding you both. “I don’t care what came before. The experiments, the pain… I’d walk through all of it again if it meant ending up here. With you.”

You kiss him then, slow and reverent, a kiss that tastes like every unspoken truth. When you part, your voice trembles, but it’s steady with conviction:

“You’re not my mistake, Bob. You’re my choice. My home.”

His breath hitches, his face burying into the curve of your neck. His words are muffled but sure:

“And you’re mine. Always.”

The sunlight keeps spilling in, warm and golden, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the ache inside you quiets. Not gone. But held.

For a long time, neither of you move. The world outside the bed could burn, and you wouldn’t care. All that exists is the sound of his heartbeat pressed to your chest, the warmth of his body still buried inside you, and the lingering shiver of his breath against your collarbone.

His arms stay wrapped tight around you, not crushing, but close enough that you know he’s still half-afraid you’ll disappear. You run your fingers through his damp curls, slow and steady, coaxing him into calm.

Bob is the first to break the silence—voice hoarse, frayed around the edges.

“I didn’t think… I could have this. Not after everything. Not me.”

You pull back enough to see his face, your thumb brushing the flushed heat of his cheek. “You can,” you whisper, firm as a vow. “You do. You’re not too broken for this, Bob. You never were.”

He gives you a shaky laugh that nearly cracks into a sob, hiding it by ducking his head against your shoulder. “You keep saying things like that, I’m not gonna survive you.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his temple, your voice wry but warm. “Good. Then we’ll just be wrecks together.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter, one that rumbles low in his chest, grounding and familiar. You feel the tension bleed out of him, bit by bit, as you both sink further into the cocoon of sheets.

For a while, you lie in silence again, trading the steady rhythm of your breaths, fingertips idly tracing patterns into each other’s skin. You can feel him relax beneath your touch, every small shiver a reminder that this intimacy is still new for him, still something he doesn’t quite know how to trust—but wants to.

“You know,” he murmurs at last, voice low, “I always thought love would be… terrifying. And it is. But it’s also…” His eyes search yours, wide and unguarded. “It’s the first thing that’s ever made me feel whole.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away. You let him see it all—the fear, the love, the ache of losing and the relief of finding. You lean forward, brushing your lips over his in the gentlest kiss, more promise than passion. “You make me feel whole too.”

He exhales like the words patch something raw inside him. And when he smiles—soft, wrecked, utterly sincere—you feel the barbed guilt loosen inside your chest.

The two of you stay there, curled into one another as sunlight drapes its gold over your skin, whispering small things that mean everything. Quiet confessions. Stupid jokes. Promises without grand gestures—just the kind made in warm sheets, spoken between kisses and laughter.

And for the first time since Nine’s death, the grief doesn’t consume you whole. It lingers, yes, a shadow you’ll always carry. But Bob’s arms keep you tethered, keep you here. Not drowning. Not alone.

Together.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

A much needed break for just Seven and Bob I think we all needed. I put yall through the wringer with the last couple chapters and I think we all needed a bit of tender loving for the two of them. I hope you all enjoyed this break from the trauma and angst.

As always thank you for reading.

Chapter 16: Words of Venom

Summary:

Valentina pays you a visit and despite your best efforts it has you backsliding into doubt and fear of ruining your new family.

TW: psychological manipulation, gaslighting, trauma recovery setbacks, self-worth struggles, grief, intrusive thoughts, mild horror imagery (shadow/void)

The fragile quiet you’d found with Bob doesn’t break all at once. It splinters—fractured by a sharp knock against his door.

He flinches at the sound, shoulders taut, and you offer him a small, reassuring smile before slipping from the bed. The rhythm of the knock still echoes in your bones as you pad across the floor. It doesn’t belong here. Not Yelena’s quick, casual rap. Not Bucky’s slow, deliberate thump. This knock is sharp. Precise. Impersonal.

The kind that makes your stomach sink.

The door swings open before you can reach it. Mel stands in the frame, her posture uncertain, her mouth pinched into a nervous frown.

“Uh—hi. Sorry,” she stammers, eyes darting anywhere but at you. “Valentina wants to speak with you.”

The words hit like ice water. You’d wanted to carry this morning with you a little longer, stretch it into something whole. Instead, the warmth you’d been wrapped in dissipates, leaving dread curling low in your stomach.

From behind you, Bob’s voice cuts in, awkward and protective all at once.

“Can we—uh—get a few minutes? To get dressed?” His head peeks just barely over your shoulder, as though even now he’s trying to shield you.

Mel shakes her head quickly. “Actually… she only wants to speak with Silhouette.” Her tone is apologetic, but it doesn’t soften the blow.

Your voice hardens before you can stop it, cold and sharp in a way you rarely use with the team.

“Why not Bob?”

Mel flinches, almost visibly shrinking under your tone. She fumbles to recover. “It’s just you, ma’am. The rest of the team isn’t needed. She’ll be waiting in the conference room.” A beat. “Okay—bye.”

And then she’s gone, practically fleeing down the hall, leaving the air thick and unsettled.

Tension coils through you until you feel Bob’s tentative hand brush the back of your neck, grounding you. You turn toward him, unsurprised to see your own unease reflected in his gaze.

“I’m sure it’s just some mission update,” you tell him, though your voice doesn’t sound steady to your own ears. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

The words feel like lies, but you press them between you anyway, as if saying them might make them true.

You dress quickly, each movement sharper than it should be. Before you leave, you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple and pulling him into a quick hug. It’s instinct now, the way you reach for him without thinking. The way his warmth steadies you, even when dread knots your stomach.

When you pull back, you give him a smile—thin, but sincere. “It’s probably nothing, okay?”

He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go. And you leave him behind in that room, waiting, while the shadow of Valentina’s summons hangs over you like a storm about to break.

~

Valentina glides into the common room like she owns it. Heels click against the floor, sharp as gunfire, sunglasses perched on her face despite the dim indoor light. She doesn’t need them—everyone knows she sees more than she ever lets on.

The others linger just outside the conference space, scattered like sentries. They try to look casual, but the tension in their bodies betrays them. Yelena perched on the arm of the couch, arms crossed tight, glare fixed unblinking on Valentina. Bucky near the bar, shoulders drawn, jaw locked, pretending not to look but radiating readiness. You’re not sure if it’s protection for you or restraint for Valentina.

You step inside behind her. The door clicks shut.

Valentina doesn’t start with fire. She starts with smoke.

“Seven,” she says, almost warmly, like she’s greeting a niece she barely remembers. “I imagine you’d prefer not to be dragged into meetings like this, hm? You’ve… had a lot on your plate lately.” She slips her glasses down her nose just enough to peer at you, her gaze sharp and assessing. “Loss. Pressure. Trying to keep that… colorful little family of yours intact.”

Her tone is soft—sympathetic even—but you can already feel the walls closing in.

“I won’t waste your time,” she continues, pacing a slow orbit around you. “Do you know how many strings I’ve had to pull to keep Washington from shutting this whole project down?” Her lips curl in mock amusement. “You’re a very expensive experiment, Seven. Unauthorized missions. Collateral damage. Unnecessary risks. Very messy. Very reckless.”

You clench your jaw, forcing yourself not to flinch.

Valentina’s head tilts, as though she’s studying a specimen on glass. “Though… I suppose reckless is your specialty, isn’t it?”

The words sink, heavy. You press your nails into your palms, trying to keep your expression blank.

Her voice lowers, silk over glass. “Do you have any idea what a liability you’ve become?”

Something bristles inside you. “That’s not—”

She cuts you off with a raised brow. “Not what? Not true? One of these days, your grief—your little breakdowns—are going to cost someone their life.” She lets the silence stretch, cruel. Then, lightly, “Maybe his.”

You don’t have to ask who she means. Bob’s face flashes in your mind, and suddenly your throat feels like it’s closing.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage, your voice colder than you intend.

Valentina’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, darling. I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

She circles closer, her perfume sharp in your nose. “You dragged them across the world for your monster brother. Romania. Blood on the ground, buildings burning, shadows out of control. And why? Because you were desperate not to face him alone.”

“They insisted on coming,” you snap, defensive, your voice rising despite yourself. “They’re my family. They wanted to help.”

Valentina tsks softly, like a teacher disappointed in a bright but foolish student. “Family. Such a pretty word.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Families are for people who can be trusted. Not weapons that misfire.”

Your shadows twitch, restless beneath your skin.

“You think they’re your family? Let me tell you what I see.” Her words turn colder. “I see a volatile, unpredictable nightmare that’s going to get every single one of them killed. And you know it. Deep down, you know it.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“That’s why,” she murmurs, “when we first met, you let me keep you in a cage. Because part of you still knows that’s where you belong.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. You feel them lodge in your chest, jagged and sharp.

Valentina doesn’t stop. She presses the knife in deeper, her tone shifting back toward mock-concern. “Do you have any idea how desperate you must be? Risking the only people foolish enough to trust you—dragging them into your grief, your little spirals—just so you wouldn’t have to face it alone?”

Your hands curl into fists. “That’s not true.”

Her brows lift. “Isn’t it? Be honest with yourself. You didn’t save them, Seven. You dragged them down with you.”

Silence hums in your ears. You can hear your own pulse pounding.

“You’ve always been chaos wrapped in skin,” she continues softly. “You call it grief. I call it volatility. Liability. A weapon with sharp teeth. And sooner or later… weapons break.”

She steps back just slightly, enough to smile thinly, like she’s done you a favor by saying it aloud.

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to yourself. You know you’re dangerous. You feel it, don’t you? That little twitch in your shadows when you’re angry, the slip in control when you’re afraid. One of these days, you’ll let go, and when you do… who’s the first person they’ll bury? Bob?”

Her words coil around his name and the mention burns.

Valentina leans closer, voice a silk whisper at your ear. “You’ve been lucky so far. Lucky they tolerate you. Lucky they mistake their pity for family. But luck runs out, darling. And when it does, do you want their blood on your hands too?”

The floor tilts under you, shadows shivering at your heels.

She draws back, sliding her sunglasses down just enough for you to catch her eyes—sharp, dissecting, unreadable. “Here’s the thing: you’re too dangerous to let go, too unstable to truly use. So what am I supposed to do with you, hm? You’re not a soldier. You’re not a leader. You’re a weapon. And weapons… get pointed at something until they break.”

Her smile is thin, humorless.

“Which brings me to your next assignment.” Your shadow coils tighter around your ribcage.

“But… I’m not without mercy.” Her tone brightens, like a judge offering parole. “You want to prove yourself? You want them to keep seeing you as family instead of a liability?” She tilts her head, studying you with feigned compassion. “Then I’ll give you that chance.”

Your pulse stutters.

She paces a slow, deliberate circle, every click of her heel like a countdown. “Intel suggests one of the old OXE research branches in Malaysia might still be operational. Off the books, underground, nasty little shadows clinging to life.” She glances at you over her shoulder. “I want it erased. Wiped clean. Every scrap of it.”

Her voice lowers, measured, almost gentle. “No team this time. No babysitters. No distractions. Just you. Your shadows. And whatever ghosts you find.”

You feel the words sink, heavy. Solo. Malaysia. A grave dressed up as duty.

“If you make it back,” Valentina continues, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her blazer, “perhaps Washington will reconsider your… usefulness. Perhaps I will.” She slips her glasses back into place, smile thin. “If you don’t? Well.” A careless shrug. “Then at least you’ll have gone out without taking the whole team with you. That you served a purpose.”

She leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper meant only for you. “Think of it as freedom, darling. No one else caught in your storm. No one else to bury because of you. Just you, finally doing what you were made for.”

Her perfume is suffocating.

She draws back, smile faint and cutting. “Maybe this is the mercy you’ve been waiting for. A chance to prove me wrong—or finally stop pretending you’re anything more than the shadow of what they made you.”

Valentina turns then, the matter closed, and strides to the door without waiting for your response. The echo of her heels lingers even after she’s gone, leaving you standing in the silence she’s gutted you with.

~

You force your breathing steady, pressing the shadows back down before they betray you. By the time the door opens again, you’ve stitched yourself together—thin, fragile seams, but enough to pass.

The others are waiting, just as you knew they would be. Yelena leans forward, sharp eyes scanning your face like she can peel back the walls you’ve slammed into place. Bucky straightens where he’s been lurking near the bar. Even John and Ava glance up, expectant, wary. And Bob—Bob’s gaze finds yours first, searching, needing to know you’re okay.

You summon a smile that feels brittle on your lips.

“Just… a new mission,” you say lightly, forcing casual into your tone. “Solo recon. Malaysia.”

Bob frowns immediately, but you’re already moving, brushing past the weight of their stares. “It’s nothing,” you add quickly. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

You keep your head high, your steps even, like Valentina’s words haven’t cracked something deep in you.

Like you haven’t just been told you’re the kind of monster who doesn’t come back.

The silence after your announcement is a living thing, pressing in on all sides.

“A solo mission?” Yelena’s the first to break it, voice sharp, incredulous. She leans forward, hands spread as though she can physically hold you in place. “And you’re just… agreeing to that? No fight, no argument? What the hell did she say to you?”

“It’s recon,” you answer flatly. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

“Bullshit.” Yelena’s eyes narrow, her accent cutting sharper as her temper spikes. “This is Valentina. Nothing she gives you is just recon. You think we’re stupid?”

Bob shifts beside you, closer, his voice careful in contrast. “Seven… if it’s nothing, why do you look like someone just kicked the ground out from under you?”

Your throat tightens. You can’t look at him. If you do, the cracks will show. “I’m fine,” you insist, the words clipped, final.

Yelena scoffs, pushing up from the couch. “You’re not fine. And you don’t have to be. This is bullshit. She can’t just—”

“She can,” you cut in. “She did.”

The fight drains from Yelena’s face, replaced with something more dangerous—fear, raw and unguarded. “Don’t do this. Don’t let her send you out there alone. Not after everything—”

“Yelena,” you warn, sharper than you mean.

Bob’s hand brushes yours, tentative, grounding. “She’s right,” he says softly, though his voice trembles. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let us—” He swallows hard, words cracking. “Let me help.”

You finally look at him, and it nearly breaks you—the worry etched into every line of his face, the plea in his eyes. He’s trembling, just barely, like he’s seconds from unraveling.

And then Bucky speaks, voice cutting through the tension, steady and certain. “If she says she can handle it, then she can. Don’t forget—she’s been doing missions like this her whole damn life. Alone. In worse conditions. Without anyone watching her back.” His gaze flicks to you, not unkind. “She doesn’t need us to coddle her.”

The words hang in the air. Yelena bristles, about to argue, but Bob stays quiet, jaw tight, staring at the floor. You recognize it for what it is—not agreement, but restraint. He won’t fight you here, not in front of everyone.

You take that gift and run with it. Straightening your spine, you let the mask settle back in place. “Exactly. I’ll be fine. It’s just a mission. I’ll get it done.”

No one looks convinced, but no one pushes further. Not yet

~

The door shuts behind you, and the room erupts.

“Are you kidding me?” Yelena snaps, rounding on Bucky with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “You’re just going to let her walk into whatever suicide assignment Valentina cooked up? Alone?”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. He crosses his arms, jaw set, watching her burn like she always does before he speaks.

“She’s not a kid, Yelena. You think she hasn’t done worse before we ever showed up?” His voice is calm, almost too calm.

“That’s not the point!” Yelena fires back. She’s pacing now, hands slicing through the air. “Yeah, she survived it before—but she shouldn’t have had to. She has us now. Family. And you’re acting like it’s fine for her to be thrown back into that cage!”

John, for once, doesn’t try to make wise ass remarks. He leans forward in his chair, voice grim. “She’s right, Barnes. Solo recon, no backup? That’s practically a death sentence. You saw how she came back after Romania. She’s hanging on by threads.”

Bob hasn’t moved. He sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands like they might start bleeding if he looks too long. When he finally speaks, his voice is raw. “She says she’s fine, but she’s not. I can feel it. And if something happens—if Valentina’s right—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight. “I can’t lose her.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the whole team knows the dangers of what could happen if you don’t make it back. The Void wouldn’t stop with just New York this time and you wouldn’t be there to pull Bob back.

The thought finally has Bucky exhaling, shaking his head.

“You think I’m not worried?” His voice is low, steady, but there’s weight in it. History. “Every instinct in me wants to back her up. To stay with her until Valentina’s out of the picture. But that’s not what she needs. Not from me. Not from any of us.”

Yelena stops pacing, arms crossed, scowling. “What she needs is not to be sent to die.”

“What she needs,” Bucky counters, “is to know that we trust her. That we see her as more than what was done to her. You cage her—tell her she can’t handle this—you’re just proving Valentina right. And she doesn’t need another handler.”

The words land like a stone in the center of the room. Bob lifts his gaze at last, blue eyes wet, searching Bucky’s face.

“You really think she can handle it? After everything?” His voice trembles.

Bucky’s expression softens, just slightly. “I don’t just think it. I know it. She’s stronger than she believes. Stronger than any of us. She doesn’t need us to carry her—she just needs to know we’ll be here when she comes back.”

For a long moment, no one speaks. The only sound is Yelena’s sharp breath, the way her arms tighten around herself as though holding in all the things she can’t say.

Finally, she mutters, “She better come back. Or I’ll kill Valentina myself.”

The room disperses in fractured silence, Yelena storming off first, muttering under her breath in Russian. John follows, shaking his head, the weight of his disapproval hanging heavy in the air.

Bucky lingers, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, watching Bob like he already knows what’s coming.

Sure enough, Bob sidles closer, his voice low, tight. “You really think we should just…let her walk into this blind? Alone?”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He studies Bob the way only someone who’s lived under command can, weighing the tremor in his voice, the anxious set of his shoulders.

“You don’t trust her?” Bucky finally asks.

Bob’s hands flex restlessly at his sides. “I do. God, I do. But—” He swallows hard. “Trusting her doesn’t mean leaving her to drown if it gets too heavy. And—and she just started to ask for help….just started trusting US.”

Bucky exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “So what’re you asking?”

“At least a comm line,” Bob says quickly, almost pleading. “Something. If she needs backup, if it goes bad—I need to know I can get to her.” His voice cracks. “I need her to know I’ll come.”

For a moment, Bucky just studies him. Then, slowly, he nods. “Alright. We’ll rig something. Quiet. Valentina doesn’t need to know.”

The relief in Bob’s face is palpable, his shoulders sagging. “Thanks.”

Bucky claps a steady hand on his shoulder. “You’re not wrong, Bob. Trust doesn’t mean letting someone walk into fire alone. It just means you believe they can make it through. And you wait on the other side.”

~

The hallways swallow you whole.

Every step away from the team feels like a reprieve, and like betrayal all at once. Their faces linger behind your eyes—Yelena’s fire, Bob’s trembling plea, Bucky’s steady weight. Words meant to shield you. Words meant to anchor you. Family. Trust. Stronger than you believe.

And yet, Valentina’s voice worms its way through the cracks, relentless. Weapon. Liability. Lucky they tolerate you. A cage is where you belong.

It’s maddening. You’d buried this doubt—buried it in the dirt of Romania, in the shadow of your brother’s grave. You’d laid it to rest with him, with the blood and ruin he left behind. The others had stood with you, dug the grave with you, helped you lower not just his body, but the part of yourself he had chained. For a moment, you’d felt free.

Now her words drag it back, alive and breathing, like some horror that refuses to stay buried.

Your shadows bristle at your heels, restless, slipping thin tendrils across the walls like they can’t tell the difference between anger and hunger anymore.

The fury sharpens in you—you want to rip her throat out for even daring. If she had said those things to Bob, you would have let the shadows feast until her voice was nothing but a gurgle.

But beneath the fury, something broken hums, low and treacherous. A part of you nodding along. Agreeing. Whispering that she only gave shape to what you already knew: one day you’ll lose control, and when you do, it won’t just be your blood on the floor.

It’ll be his.

The thought strikes like a blade, and your shadows react before you do. They surge, violent, filling the hallway with a writhing black that ripples along the walls like a living thing. The floor shudders under the weight of it. The air warps, thickens, until even your breath comes sharp and cold.

The corner where Cucumber’s cage sits trembles, half-swallowed by the darkness spilling from you. The little creature squeaks, tiny paws scrabbling at the bars. The sound cuts through you like a bell.

You stumble forward, heart hammering, and wrench the cage open with shaking hands. The shadows coil tighter, resisting, but when you scoop Cucumber into your palm, his warmth burns through the fog. He climbs your arm instinctively, settling into the hollow of your throat, tiny heartbeat fluttering like a drum against your skin.

The shadows falter. Shiver. Retreat by inches.

Your voice comes hoarse, ragged, as you stroke his back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

He doesn’t care. Doesn’t fear. Just burrows closer, whiskers tickling your jaw.

The darkness clings stubbornly to the walls, reluctant to let go, but the longer you breathe in the soft squeaks, the gentle scratch of tiny claws, the more it drains away. Leaving you hollow. Shaking.

You curl up in the corner, knees pulled to your chest, Cucumber a fragile anchor against your skin.

“Wish I could be like you,” you whisper. “Small. Simple. No shadows. No cages. No one calling you dangerous for breathing.”

But the silence after stretches, heavy. Inside, the battle rages on. Valentina’s poison dripping into the cracks, Bob’s voice straining to hold it back. Yelena’s fire screaming family, while that broken part of you whispers liability.

You press your forehead into your knees, one hand cupped protectively around Cucumber’s tiny body. Shadows curl tight around you like armor, like chains, you can’t tell which.

You’re furious with yourself—for letting Valentina’s words crawl under your skin, for giving them room to grow. For letting her undo what you’ve bled to rebuild.

But no matter how tight you press the pieces together, the fracture is there. A hairline crack, humming. Waiting.

No matter how much love the others give you, something in you is listening.

Something in you wants to believe her.

~

Bob finds Yelena first. She’s halfway down the hall, muttering sharp Russian curses under her breath as she stalks toward the elevators.

“Yelena!” His voice cracks, too loud, too raw. She spins, already bristling, but the look on his face stops her short.

His hands are trembling, fingers flexing restlessly like he doesn’t know what to do with them. The gold under his skin flickers faint, a storm pressing against the seams.

“I can’t—” He swallows hard, chest rising and falling too fast. “I can’t sit still. I felt it—the Void. It stirred. Like it knows she’s—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching. “Something’s wrong.”

For a moment, Yelena just stares. Then she steps close, gripping his shoulder, grounding him with the kind of blunt steadiness only she can manage. “Okay Солнышко. Then we don’t sit still. We find her.”

They move fast, words clipped, urgency beating between them. Yelena tries to keep her voice even, tries to keep him steady, but the worry bleeds through in the way she scans every shadow like it might bite.

The deeper they go into the Tower’s back corridors, the heavier the air becomes. It’s subtle at first—lights dimmer, corners softer, edges blurred. Then it thickens, a vignette creeping along the walls, darkness pooling like ink where it shouldn’t.

Bob slows, chest tight, the hum under his skin answering something in the dark. Yelena notices. Her hand finds his wrist, squeezing once, hard. “Focus. She’s close.”

They round a corner, and there you are.

Curled in the farthest recess of the hallway, knees pulled tight to your chest, Cucumber placed on top of your knees, calmly blinking up at you. The shadows ripple faintly around you, tugging toward the walls, restless but receding.

You don’t look up. Not yet.

Bob stops dead, breath caught in his throat. Yelena exhales a curse under her breath, softer this time, relief laced with dread.

The sight of you is wrong. Fragile. Not the weapon Valentina called you, not the fearless shadow-walker—but small, trembling, like the weight of the world has folded you in on yourself.

“Seven…” Bob’s voice cracks as he says your name, reverent and aching, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he pushes too hard.

The shadows at your feet stir at his voice—twitching, alive, like they recognize him as much as you do.

Yelena steps forward first, deliberate, careful, as though approaching a wounded animal. Her tone is sharp but steady, cutting through the thick dark. “You scared the hell out of us. You hear me? No more disappearing acts.”

Your head tilts the smallest fraction, but your arms stay wrapped tight around your knees.

Cucumber squeaks, burrowing closer against your neck, and something in the tension breaks.

You breathe. Slow. Shaking. The shadows at your feet falter, loosening their grip on the walls.

The poison Valentina whispered in your ear stills with their presence alone. And when you finally look up at them, it isn’t the cold, hard stare you’d worn in the conference room. It’s the lost gaze of someone clawing through their own demons. Someone who doesn’t know where to go from here.

Bob is the first to move. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask permission—just lowers himself beside you and wraps an arm around your shoulders. His head tips against yours, the contact clumsy but desperate, a tether he clearly needs as much as you do. His voice is quiet, steady, but the tremor beneath it betrays him.

“Talk to us… What did she tell you?”

Yelena drops down in front of you with all the grace of a soldier who doesn’t care about elegance, only proximity. She sits cross-legged, casual but watchful, and reaches to scratch Cucumber on his fat bottom until he squeaks.

Her lips smirk before they curl in distaste.

“I can guess what she said. ‘You are dangerously attached, you are too emotional, you need to focus on me and what I want… blah, blah, blah. Ugh. Annoying.’” She exaggerates Valentina’s voice, her Russian accent bleeding through, then rolls her eyes. “She always sounds like a badly written soap opera villain.”

A weak huff of a laugh escapes you, almost against your will. It cracks something in your chest, letting air in for the first time since that room.

“Something like that…” you admit, voice trailing off, thin as thread.

You hesitate. The words claw at the back of your throat, desperate to be spoken but weighted with dread. If you tell them, won’t that make it real? Won’t it prove Valentina right—that you’re too fragile, too much of a liability, spilling your insecurities like blood across the floor?

But Bob waits, patient, his head still leaning against yours. And Yelena’s stare is sharp, unflinching, daring you not to say it.

Finally, the words fall, brittle and halting.

“She said I’m… a liability. That I’m reckless. That I’ll get one of you killed. Maybe Bob. That I’m just—” your throat locks, but you force it open, “—a weapon. Not family. Not anything that belongs here.”

Silence stretches. Heavy. Awful. The air thick with it.

Then Bob’s arm tightens around you, pulling you closer like he’s shielding you from a blow. His voice cracks as he murmurs, “She’s wrong.” Then again, firmer: “She’s wrong.”

Yelena leans forward, chin resting on her fist, eyes dark with fire. “Of course she said that. It’s her favorite game. Twist the knife where it already hurts. She sees the scar and tries to rip it open.” Her tone sharpens. “She does it because she’s afraid of you. Because you’re not her weapon. You’re not in her cage anymore.”

You shake your head, the shadows at your feet twitching in agitation. “But what if she’s right? What if—what if one day I slip, and the shadows—what if I lose control? What if I really am the thing she says I am?”

Bob finally lifts his head, turning so you can see his face. His eyes are bright, wet, but steady. “Then we’ll be here. To—To help you, to hold you up, to remind you who you are. You’re not alone in this anymore, Seven. None of us—we aren’t alone. ”

But her certainty only makes the guilt roar louder in your chest. “I don’t want to hurt you” The words spill before you can catch them. “What if one day I hurt you?” Your voice cracks, and the shadows flicker against the walls.

Bob leans back just enough to catch your eyes, his own wide, pleading. “Seven, look at me.” His hand cradles the side of your face, warm and trembling. “You saved me. Again and again. Do you think I’d be here—do you think I’d even be alive—if you were what she says you are?”

You flinch. “You don’t know what’s in me.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice rises, not loud but certain, a steel edge beneath the tremor. “You know I do. I know the dark better than anyone. I know what it whispers. And I know you’re not it.”

Yelena cuts in, blunt and unsparing as ever. “You want to talk about slipping? About losing control? Please. We’ve all been there. Me, Bucky, John—hell, Bob ate half the entire city remember? Difference is, you never stop fighting to pull yourself back. That’s the proof. Not her words.”

But your hands clench tighter, shadows licking at your wrists like shackles. “What if fighting isn’t enough next time? What if—” Your voice breaks. “What if she’s just telling me the truth I don’t want to admit? I’m tired of fighting what she says I am.”

Bob pulls you in, forehead pressing to yours, his breath shaking. “Then we’ll fight for you. You let us take up the fight for a bit…let us fight your battles. You don’t get to decide if you’re worth loving, Seven. That’s our choice. And we already made it.”

Yelena nods, fierce. “Exactly. She wants you to believe being strong means being alone. But you already proved her wrong in Romania. You let us in. We buried Nine together. Family.” Yelena leans closer, voice softer now but no less fierce. “Family doesn’t let one witch in sunglasses tell us who we are. You’re ours. That’s the end of it.”

Her words hit hard. Family. The exact word Valentina tried to poison.

You bite your lip until you taste blood, torn between the jagged fear clawing inside and the fragile warmth they press into you. Valentina’s venom hums in your bones, but Bob’s voice is louder. Yelena’s fire steadier.

For a moment, you let yourself lean into them. Not a weapon. Not alone.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

I finally figured out where I want to go with the story!!

So I know some of you might be wondering why Seven is doubting herself again after she already overcame this in Chapter 14. Recovery — whether from trauma, grief, or mental health struggles — isn’t a straight line. It isn’t something you conquer once and then never face again. It’s ongoing, and even after breakthroughs, it’s easy to backslide into old thought patterns.

That’s what I wanted to explore in this chapter: how fragile progress can feel, and how even one cruel voice (Valentina’s) can crack open scars you thought had healed. But just as important, I wanted to show that backsliding doesn’t erase progress. Seven isn’t back at square one — she has Bob, Yelena, Bucky, and the others now. She has people to remind her of the truth when she can’t see it herself.

Recovery is messy, cyclical, and deeply human. If any of you feel like you’re not doing well please reach out to a loved one or even a stranger. My ask is always open for anonymous chats.

As always thank you for reading!!

Chapter 17: The Day Before

Summary:

The day before your solo mission Bob battles his worry by taking you to a cozy cafe. He wants you both to have a day of normal before the two of you are separated for the first time after Nine.

The Tower kitchen is quiet in the early morning, the kind of quiet that only exists before the rest of the team stirs. The coffee pot gurgles its last breath, filling the room with the sharp, bitter scent.

Bob sits at the counter, both hands wrapped around a mug he hasn’t taken a sip from yet. His shoulders are curled inward, his gaze fixed on the dark liquid like it might give him answers.

Yelena pads in barefoot, hair a messy halo, oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. She doesn’t ask before pouring herself a mug and hopping onto the counter across from him.

“You look like the coffee just called you a bitch,” she says flatly, sipping.

Bob startles, then shakes his head quickly with a shaky chuckle. “No—no, it’s not… it’s not that. I just…” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to make today count.”

Yelena raises a brow. “Today?”

Bob nods, eyes flicking toward the hallway that leads to your room. His voice is small, almost swallowed by the hum of the kitchen. “She leaves tomorrow. The solo mission. And I keep thinking—what if it goes bad? What if this is…” He trails off, throat working around the words he doesn’t want to say. “What if this is the last day I get with her?”

The blunt honesty hangs between them. Yelena doesn’t soften, but she doesn’t mock him either. Her tone carries a quiet understanding when she asks, “You think she won’t come back?”

“I—I know I should trust her. She can handle herself. But something feels wrong. Like—” he presses a hand against his chest, eyes downcast, “—like a gut feeling that this is the last time I’ll see her.”

Yelena exhales slowly, then shifts closer, resting a steadying hand on the back of his neck. “If that happens, then we go to her. Simple as that. Just because she leaves alone doesn’t mean she stays alone.” Her hand squeezes, grounding him.

He nods, but his voice breaks low. “I just don’t know what I’d do if something happens like last time… if she comes back bleeding and barely alive. I’m afraid—” His voice dips into a whisper, shame clinging to every syllable. “Afraid of what it’ll do to me.”

Her gaze sharpens, but her words are steady. “Then we help. We deal. We adapt. Same as always. She isn’t alone, and neither are you, Bob. Not anymore.”

He lifts his head enough to meet her eyes, searching.

“This fear? It’s normal,” Yelena continues, her accent softening the edges. “You love her, yeah? Tomorrow she walks into danger, so today your chest feels heavy. That’s not weakness. That’s what it means to care.” She pats his head gently, then slides back across the counter to reclaim her abandoned coffee mug.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “you want to do something special for her.”

“Yeah.” His voice cracks on it. He grips the mug tighter, staring down into it. “Things have been… heavy. Valentina, the way she—” His throat works. “She got in her head again. And I know she’s fighting it, but I just… I want her to have a day that isn’t about shadows or grief or fighting. A day that feels… normal. Like she deserves.”

For once, Yelena doesn’t smirk. She studies him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she takes another sip of coffee.

“You’re right,” she says finally. “She does deserve that. More than anyone I know.”

Bob blinks at her, almost startled by the simplicity of her agreement. “So… what do I do? I don’t—” He gestures helplessly. “I don’t know what ‘normal’ even looks like anymore.”

Yelena shrugs, swinging her legs idly against the cabinet below. “Doesn’t matter what you pick. You’re what makes it special, not the thing. Take her somewhere. Do something stupid. Eat food. Laugh. Just…” Her voice softens, the edge slipping away for a moment. “Be with her. That’s all she wants.”

Bob exhales, some of the tightness in his chest loosening. He nods slowly, like he’s committing her words to memory.

“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to her. “Okay. I can do that.”

Yelena smirks then, just a little. “Good. Because if you mess this up, I’ll kill you.”

Bob’s eyes widen, and she laughs into her coffee.

Bob doesn’t waste much time after his talk with Yelena. By the time you’re awake and dressed, he’s already pacing the hall outside your door, muttering to himself like he’s rehearsing lines for a play.

When you step out, his eyes go wide, and all the things he’s been practicing scatter like loose pages in the wind. He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh—hi. So… I was thinking, maybe—if you’re not busy—” His words tumble over themselves, nervous and clumsy. “I mean, before you leave tomorrow, I thought maybe we could… go out? Just us? Nothing big, just… normal.”

The word lands heavy, tentative, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to offer it.

You tilt your head, curiosity softening into a smile. “Normal, huh?”

Bob nods too quickly, curls bouncing. “Yeah. You know. Like… food. Or… books. Or food and books.” He looks like he’s about to collapse under the weight of his own awkwardness. “I just—uh—Yelena said people do this kind of thing. And, um, I want today to be… good. For you.”

Your chest tightens at the earnestness in his voice, the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours. He’s trying so hard, fumbling over every word, but underneath it all is nothing but devotion.

“Alright,” you say gently. “Take me somewhere normal.”

The relief on his face is so palpable it almost makes you laugh. His whole body seems to exhale at once, shoulders slumping as though you’ve just granted him permission to breathe again.

~

The bakery is sunlit and quiet, the kind of place that feels tucked away from the rest of the world. The little bell over the door jingles as Bob holds it open for you, his other hand awkwardly hovering like he isn’t sure if he should offer it until you slip your fingers into his. The air is thick with the scent of cinnamon and sugar, warm bread and brewed coffee, the kind of smell that sinks into your chest and softens the knots wound tight there.

It isn’t crowded. Just a low murmur of conversation, the occasional clink of ceramic, the quiet hiss of steam from the espresso machine. The atmosphere is intimate, hushed, like the whole place has agreed to keep its voice down so no one has to raise theirs. Already, your heart eases.

At the counter, Bob looks overwhelmed by the array of choices, eyes darting over croissants, muffins, danishes, as though he’s trying to figure out the “right” answer. In the end, he just orders too many, stumbling over his words until you step in with a quiet laugh and help smooth it over. You walk away with a tray piled high — a small mountain of pastries neither of you will probably finish, but the thought behind it is unmistakable.

With coffees in hand and your loot stacked between you, the two of you slip into a corner table near the window, tucked slightly away from the rest. Your own little nook, shielded by the wall of potted plants on the sill and the golden wash of sunlight cutting across the tabletop.

Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in. He fiddles with a napkin, curls falling into his eyes, but when you brush his hand with yours, he looks up, blue eyes softening like he can’t believe he gets to have this — this quiet, this warmth, this moment with you.

There’s a worn paperback resting by his elbow — the one he’d insisted on bringing along “in case, you know, we wanted to… talk about books, or something.”

At first, it’s easy silence. You split a croissant, crumbs sticking to your fingers, his hands fumbling to break it neatly in half. He pushes the bigger piece onto your plate when he thinks you’re not looking.

And then, softly, Bob clears his throat. “So, uh… what was your first book?”

You blink at him, mid-bite. “My first book?”

He nods, cheeks pink. “Yeah. The first one that was yours. That you remember reading.”

Your mind pulls back, sifting through memories you usually keep buried. As he looks at you expectantly, you confess your own beginnings weren’t so romantic. Your first book wasn’t literature at all, but a tattered manual you found discarded after escaping the lab: Basic Etiquette for Young Ladies. Half the pages were missing, its advice laughably outdated.

“It was ridiculous. Fork placement diagrams, how to curtsy, how to make polite conversation. But I clung to it like it was a survival guide. Like if I could learn to pass as normal, maybe I’d be safe.”

Bob’s expression softens even further, equal parts sorrow and admiration. “That…makes sense. But god, you must’ve hated every page.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I did. I hated it. Thought all books out in the real world might just be guides with useless information.” His hand twitches on the table, like he wants to reach for yours, but he lets you finish.

You lean back, tilting your head at him. “And yours?”

He grimaces, cheeks heating. “Oh, mine was worse. Or maybe better? Depends how you look at it. Uh… the first book I ever sat down and read cover to cover was a conspiracy theory book I stole from a gas station.”

Your brows lift, and you can’t help the smirk tugging at your lips. “Of course it was.”

He laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah. It was all about secret societies running the world. Illuminati, lizard people, all that. Ten-year-old me thought it was the deepest thing ever written. I didn’t understand half of it, but I carried it everywhere, like it was my Bible.”

Your laughter spills over, warm and unguarded. “That explains so much about you.”

He grins sheepishly, but then his smile fades to something quieter. “I didn’t like reading, though. Not really. It was… like you said. Information. Survival. A distraction, maybe.” He fidgets with the edge of his napkin. “Until…”

You tilt your head. “Until?”

“Until I found the one that stuck. The one that made me…” He searches for the words. “Feel something. Made the world bigger.”

You nod, because you know exactly what he means. “For me, it was a field guide on birds. I found it in a used bookstore when I was trying to hide out. The pages were worn, names scribbled in margins, drawings in colored pencil. I didn’t even care about birds, but—” You pause, remembering. “—for once, I wasn’t reading to learn how to survive. I was reading because someone else had loved it before me. It felt… safe.”

Bob’s smile blooms slow and earnest. “Mine was a comic book. Superman, I think. Picked it up in a thrift shop. I thought it’d be dumb, but…” His voice lowers, like a secret. “It was the first time I let myself believe in heroes again.”

Your chest tightens at that, because of course it was.

From there, the conversation unfurls like it’s been waiting between you for years. Not heavy, not forced — just easy.

Bob admits, a little sheepishly at first, to his guilty fondness for pulpy horror novels — the kind with covers so lurid and ridiculous you’d never be caught dead reading them in public. Night of the Killer Scarecrows, Ghoul School, the kind you’d find in a gas station spinner rack.

“They were awful,” he says, laughing at himself, “but god, I read every one I could get my hands on. Like…if the library had a trashy horror shelf, I lived there.”

You squint your eyes, smirking into your cup. “I am not at all surprised by that, sweets.”

But when the talk drifts to real books, his face softens. He tells you about the first “serious” one he ever read — Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man. He admits he didn’t understand all of it at the time, but it stuck. “Those stories felt like someone cracked my skull open and poured stars inside. Beautiful, terrifying, sad. Like someone finally put words to feelings I didn’t know how to name.”

You don’t laugh at that. You just listen. Because it sounds like Bob to be moved by something both wondrous and devastating.

You tell him about stumbling across a battered copy of The Secret Garden. How at first you’d scoffed at the flowery language, but by the end you’d been undone by the idea of a place that grew wild and beautiful again, even after years of neglect. “It was the first time I thought maybe I could do that, too. Grow again.”

From there, it spins outward. He lights up when you admit a fondness for gothic horror — Dracula, The Haunting of Hill House — blurting out his favorite ghost story with the excitement of a kid. You counter with the most absurd thing you’ve ever read: a 1970s community cookbook filled with nightmare recipes. “There was a tuna aspic with grapes. Grapes, Bob.”

He nearly chokes on his coffee, laughing so hard he has to grab for a napkin.

By the time the drinks are cold and the last crumbs of your pastries have vanished, the table between you isn’t just scattered with plates — it’s littered with fragments of yourselves. The books you loved, the ones you hated, the ones you clung to like lifelines.

At some point, Bob stops adding to the pile and just… looks at you. Chin propped in his hand, eyes soft, reverent. Studying the way sunlight falls across your face, how your laughter lingers in the air. His expression says it all: he can’t quite believe he gets to have this — a quiet bakery, a safe moment, you.

You catch him staring eventually. “This was a good idea,” you murmur, warmth threading through your voice.

His cheeks flush, but he doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he says softly, certain. “Yeah, it was.”

~

Eventually, the spell of the afternoon begins to break. The baristas start wiping down tables, the hum of conversation thinning as customers drift out. Bob glances at the clock on the wall and then at you, reluctant to let the moment end but aware of the hours slipping away.

You stretch, gathering the empty mugs and pastry wrappers into a neat little pile, and for a moment it feels almost domestic — like you’ve both done this a hundred times before. Like this is what normal could look like, if the world ever let you keep it.

Bob clears his throat, voice low. “So, uh… dinner. I was gonna cook, but… I also know my last attempt involved setting off the Tower fire alarm.” His ears pink as he rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe ordering in would be safer. Anything you’re craving?”

You smirk. “Anything that doesn’t involve you near an oven.”

He grins sheepishly but doesn’t argue. “Deal.”

The walk back to the Tower is easy, quiet. A cool breeze follows you down the block, and for once, the silence between you isn’t heavy—it’s comfortable. By the time you push through the Tower doors, you’ve already agreed on dinner (takeout from that noodle shop Yelena swears by) and maybe a quiet night to yourselves.

But the second you step into the common room, you realize those plans are already shot.

The place is alive with chaos. Alexei is dragging a heavy cardboard box from the storage closet, dust puffing into the air as he mutters about “proper Soviet entertainment.” Yelena’s perched on the couch with the sharp grin of someone who already knows she’s going to win at whatever’s about to happen. Ava’s fiddling with what looks like an old deck of cards, John is complaining loudly about “official rules,” and Bucky—stoic as ever—just sits at the edge of it all, one brow arched, like he’s already regretting letting himself get roped in.

Bob blinks, confused, until Yelena spots you both. “Game night!” she announces like it’s a battle cry. “Your plans are canceled. We are educating the Americans on how to properly lose.”

She gestures grandly to the table being cleared in the middle of the room, already piling with mismatched board games and dice that look older than half the team.

You glance at Bob, and the smile tugging at his lips is equal parts bewildered and charmed. He shrugs helplessly. “Guess dinner’s gonna be noodles and… Monopoly?”

“God help us all,” you murmur, but you can’t stop the small laugh that escapes you as Yelena starts shuffling game pieces with all the menace of a seasoned pro.

Bob is still grinning at the sight of the chaos when Yelena gestures you both toward the table. “Come, little shadows,” she says, already stacking colorful cardboard boxes like they’re weapons in her arsenal. “Tonight, we destroy Walker’s ego.”

John snorts. “Good luck with that.”

You hover near the table while Yelena sets out game boxes like they’re weapons of war. Bob is grinning nervously at the display, clearly bracing himself for whatever chaos is about to unfold.

“I, uh…” The words catch in your throat before you force them out. “I’ve never actually played a board game before.”

The room goes still for a beat. Even Yelena pauses mid-shuffle.

You try to laugh it off, shrugging. “The lab didn’t exactly stock Candyland. And afterward… it was just me. Not much fun playing something that needs more than one person.”

Ava shifts beside you, setting down the deck of cards she’d been fidgeting with. “Same. No games. Just training modules. I didn’t know what Uno was until a couple years ago.”

The admission sits heavy between you—sad, but not lonely, not when you recognize the parallel.

Bucky leans back in his chair, arms folded. “Chess, checkers, cards. That’s about it for me. Monopoly showed up later, but I hated it. Too long, too loud. Felt too much like… real life.” His mouth flattens, but there’s no sting in it—just honesty.

Then Bob clears his throat, and when you glance at him, there’s something different in his face. Less nervous, more certain. “I, uh… actually know these. Pretty well, actually.”

The table turns toward him like he’s just revealed some hidden talent. Bob rubs the back of his neck but doesn’t shrink from it this time. “When I was a kid, before—before everything—I played a lot. My mom used to bring home thrift-store games. Some were missing pieces, so I’d, uh, make up rules to fill the gaps.”

Yelena narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “So you are telling me you are secret game master?”

Bob lets out a nervous laugh. “I guess? I mean… yeah. I know how they work.” He glances at you, and there’s pride in his voice when he adds, “I can teach.”

The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but they do. Because for once, Bob isn’t the one who needs saving. For once, he gets to be steady, certain, guiding.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Alexei’s face splits into a grin. “Well, look at this! Our quiet one is secret strategist all along.” His booming laugh fills the room, but it’s warm this time, not mocking. “I am impressed, malchik.”

Yelena smirks, leaning back against the couch. “Finally, something you’re not awkward at.” Her tone is teasing, but the pride in her eyes undercuts the jab. She flicks a card at him like it’s a medal of honor. “Alright, big man. Show us how it’s done.”

Even John raises his brows, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. “Huh. Didn’t think you had it in you. Guess we’re all about to get schooled.”

Bob flushes, but instead of retreating, his shoulders square. The grin that breaks across his face is shy, but steady. “I, uh… yeah. I can teach you.”

When his gaze flicks to you, it softens — sheepish but sure, like he’s offering more than just a set of rules. A promise of guidance, of holding steady ground for once.

And the flutter in your chest isn’t worry at all. It’s pride.

Bob clears his throat and reaches for the box like it’s heavier than it is, but once it’s open, something shifts in him. He talks them through the rules — careful, deliberate, but not halting — and when someone interrupts with a joke or a question, he doesn’t fold. He repeats himself, patient, steady. He guides.

Yelena heckles him once or twice (“You’re making this up as you go, da?”) but she’s grinning, and her eyes are bright with pride. Alexei claps so hard when he explains the objective that it rattles the pieces on the table. Even John, who looks like he was born ready to win at everything, quiets down long enough to listen.

And you… you just watch him. Watch his hands move, his voice catch and then smooth out, watch the way the others lean in — really lean in — like they’re not just humoring him but relying on him. Trusting him.

There’s a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the tea you drank hours ago. It’s softer, deeper, a steady thrum that winds through your ribs and settles into the cracks that Valentina tried to pry open.

You glance around the table — at Ava pretending she’s not confused, at Yelena’s sly grin, at Alexei’s booming encouragement, at Bucky’s steady watchfulness — and for a moment, the dread of tomorrow evaporates. Tomorrow you’ll be alone again. Tomorrow the weight will press heavy. But tonight? Tonight you’re here, surrounded by them.

Family.

And across the table, Bob catches you staring, his cheeks flushing as he falters mid-sentence. But then his smile tilts, soft and sure, and he keeps going — explaining, guiding, holding the room together in a way you’ve only ever seen him do for you.

The shadows inside you quiet. For once, they don’t whisper of danger or doubt. They just… rest.

And you let yourself rest with them.

The first round starts off civilized. Bob deals carefully, explaining again as pieces clatter onto the board. Everyone nods along like they’re paying attention. You should have known better.

By round two, Yelena is accusing Alexei of cheating, even though she’s the one hiding cards in her sleeve.

“You are blatantly breaking rules,” John points out, incredulous.

Yelena smirks, leaning back. “You are just mad because I am winning.”

“You’re not winning,” Ava deadpans, phasing her hand through the deck just to snatch the exact card she needs. She slaps it down, smug. “Now I am.”

“That’s cheating!” John and Yelena roar in unison, both lunging across the table. Ava flickers out of reach with a grin.

Alexei is too busy narrating his every move like it’s a wrestling match to notice the chaos. “And now, with the strength of the Motherland, I crush all of you!” He slams his piece onto the board so hard the table rattles.

Bob’s hands hover anxiously over the scattered cards, his voice tight but still trying to keep order. “O-okay, technically, you can’t—uh, actually—guys, that’s not how you—”

But nobody listens.

You can’t help it — you laugh. Full and real, the kind that curls out of you before you can stop it. Even Bucky, who’d been pretending disinterest from his corner, mutters something about the “utter disgrace of this game” as John shouts at him to “back me up here, Barnes!”

When Bob finally gets a word in, his voice is exasperated but threaded with helpless affection. “You’re all terrible at this,” he says, which only makes Yelena smirk wider.

“Maybe you are a just terrible teacher, солн́ышко,” she shoots back, and the table erupts in noise all over again.

You lean back in your chair, shoulders shaking with laughter, and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, there’s no weight in your chest. Just this: the noise, the chaos, the warmth of people who won’t let you fall.

And when Bob catches your eye across the madness — cheeks flushed, curls wild, still trying to wrangle everyone with a shy but unshaken grin — you know this moment will carry you through whatever comes next.

But it only takes one round too many for the fragile order to implode.

Alexei slams his cards down with a triumphant bellow. “HAH! I win! This is why they call me the best game guardian of RUSSIA!”

“Nobody has ever called you that dad.” Yelena deadpans.

“You didn’t win,” John fires back, already on his feet. “You can’t just declare victory because you yelled loud enough.”

“If not me, who is the winner??,” Alexei says smugly, gathering up the discard pile like a crown.

Yelena snatches half the cards from his hands. “Cheater.”

“Pot, kettle,” John mutters, having already caught Yelena swapping cards on three separate occasions before this.

Ava shifts and glitches out of view just quick enough to swap one of John’s cards with hers. He stares at his hand, eyes narrowing. “Wait a damn second— Ava! No powers to cheat!”

She shrugs, sipping her drink. “Prove it.”

The shouting crescendos, voices overlapping until Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s regretting ever agreeing to sit down. “This is worse than Monopoly with Steve,” he mutters.

Bob throws his hands up, curls sticking to his forehead as he groans. “This isn’t how the game works! There are rules—actual rules!”

But Yelena is already halfway across the table trying to grab Alexei’s “winning pile,” John is loudly declaring himself the real victor, and Ava is hiding behind a wall of shadows you summoned just to keep her from getting tackled.

It’s pure, unfiltered chaos.

And yet—your chest aches with laughter. Not the brittle kind, not the kind that covers the cracks. This is sharp and real, spilling out of you before you can stop it. Even Bob, frazzled and pink-cheeked, can’t keep the smile off his face as he looks at you.

Finally, with a single swipe of his arm, John flips the board. Cards and pieces scatter across the floor like confetti.

“There!” he booms. “Now no one wins!”

A heavy silence hangs for a beat. Then Yelena bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach. Alexei complains, Ava smirks behind her teacup, Bucky shakes his head like he’s too old for this madness.

Bob leans back in his chair, utterly defeated but grinning anyway. His gaze catches yours, soft in the middle of the mess. You reach for his hand, fingers lacing with his and gently squeezing. His thumb runs over your knuckles in a comforting rhythm. And in that moment, with everyone yelling and laughing around you, you realize the truth:

Win or lose, this is what family feels like.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

Another light one here guys. Do yall still even read these? haha it’s been mighty quiet on tumblr but here on Ao3 its still fairly active so. Anywho I was feeling cozy quiet for this one so I hope it eases your hearts a bit. Things are about to get a little crazy again so buckle up 🙈

As always thanks for reading and feel free to leave any suggestions or predictions in the comments.

Chapter 18: Trap Beneath the Canopy

Summary:

Summary: The time for you to depart on your solo mission comes. You enter into the Malaysian jungle, only to find that what should’ve been a simple recon spirals into something far more sinister. The silence of the compound hides a deadly truth—one that threatens not only you, but the fragile trust you’ve built with the team.

TW: This chapter contains themes of manipulation, betrayal, depictions of violence, and unsettling imagery. Mentions of needles, drugging, and captivity.

The hangar feels too big when it’s just for you.

All that open concrete yawning under the harsh fluorescents, every shadow stretched long and thin like it’s watching. The small jet waits on the tarmac, its engines a low hum, steady and impersonal. Sleek. Functional. A shadow under brighter lights. No warmth, no comfort—just a seat for you, a pilot already strapped in, and a stack of sealed mission files like a silent dare: board without hesitation.

Your footsteps echo too loudly on the floor. It feels less like departure and more like sentencing.

Bob hovers closest, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. His shoulders are wound so tight it’s a wonder he can breathe, jaw clenched hard enough you can see the strain in his cheek. That faint flicker of gold in his eyes betrays him before he blinks it away—a nervous tell he’s never managed to tame.

“Looks small,” Alexei rumbles. He steps forward like he can put his bulk between you and the entire jet, as though sheer size could stop the world from sending you away. His voice is gruff, but the edges are softer than he means them to be. “You call if it rattles too much. I will swim to Malaysia and carry you back myself.”

“Very practical,” Yelena mutters, perched like a coiled spring at your side. She hasn’t left you alone all morning, following without admitting it. Now she jabs your shoulder, a playful nudge that hides the tremor in her hand. “Don’t forget, Котик—you still owe me a rematch on Uno. You die out there, I’m coming after you.”

A laugh escapes you, small but real. The sound feels fragile in this space, like glass. “Noted.”

John leans against a crate, arms crossed, scowl sharp as ever. But even he can’t mask it entirely. “This is bullshit,” he mutters, low enough Valentina’s name doesn’t need to be said. Then louder, pointed at you: “You better keep your comm on. No lone-wolf hero crap. You call if it goes sideways.”

Ava edges closer, quiet as a shadow, shoulder brushing yours just briefly. Her voice is steady, but her eyes dart restless. “I’ll be on the other end of the line. Promise. You don’t need to carry it alone anymore.”

Bucky waits until the silence weighs too much, then finally steps forward. His expression is stone, but the hand he lays on your shoulder is steady, grounding. “You’ve done worse than this. In worse conditions. You’ll come back.” His tone is even, calm, but it carries weight. Trust. And prayer.

And then Bob moves. Or breaks, really. His hands twitch before they find your shoulders, settling like he’s not sure if he’s anchoring you or himself. His voice is quiet, frayed at the edges.

“Every minute you’re gone, I’ll be waiting. Just… just don’t shut me out, okay? Keep the line open. Even if it’s just breathing. I need to hear you.”

The words hit straight through your chest. You swallow hard before pulling him into a bone-deep hug, clutching him like you can fuse yourselves together for a heartbeat longer. “I will. I promise.” The words are breath against his temple, sealed with a kiss there.

Behind you, a chorus of groans rises—exaggerated gagging noises, Yelena loudest of the lot. You ignore them, brushing your lips against Bob’s with deliberate gentleness—not desperate, not for show, but a vow made tangible. Something for him to carry while you’re gone.

It works. Barely. His shoulders ease, the knot in his jaw loosening. For a fleeting moment, you feel him believe you.

The call for boarding echoes through the cavernous hangar, sterile and sharp. Your chest tightens, but you square yourself. One last sweep of the team—their faces carved into your memory like marks you can’t scrub clean—before you step toward the waiting jet.

“Remember—Uno!” Yelena cups her hands around her mouth like a battle cry.

John groans. “She’s not gonna remember Uno—”

“She will,” Yelena snaps, fierce.

Their voices trail after you, chasing the dread with warmth. You pause at the top of the steps, turning back one last time. They’re all there—every single one of them. Waiting. Watching. Believing.

And you realize this isn’t just a mission. You’re carrying all of them with you.

~

The hum of the jet becomes a lullaby you can’t quite surrender to. A mechanical heartbeat, steady and indifferent, filling the cabin with its drone. White noise without warmth—like the world reminding you that you’re a passenger, not a person.

The files Valentina pressed into your hands sit open across your lap, stark black ink under the washed-out cabin light. Your eyes trace the words without really reading them, your mind snaring on certain phrases like barbed wire.

Weapons ring. Eastern Malaysia. Recovered research fragments. Possible ties to the Sentry Project.

The words don’t just sit on the page—they prickle against your skin. Even in sterile briefing language, they feel like bait left in the open.

The report is vague. Deliberately so. No names, no faces, no indication of who’s actually running this supposed ring. Just rumors. Whispers of scavenged scraps pulled from the wreckage of Yelena’s demolition in Romania. Enough to make your stomach twist. Enough to feel like someone wanted you curious.

Red ink slashes across the margins, Valentina’s handwriting cutting sharp and certain. Must be contained. Do not allow sale.

The notes reek of setup.

Still, you turn the pages. Lists of “possible buyers” read like a hall of vultures—shell corporations, private militaries, the kind of people who circle Sentry’s name like sharks scenting blood. You flip again, forcing yourself through logistics: coordinates deep in the jungle, an unmarked compound blurred on satellite imaging, half-swallowed by canopy. Even from space, it looks wrong. Like the earth itself tried to blur it out.

Your reflection stares back at you from the cabin window, ghost-pale in the glass. Shadows bleed faintly along your jawline, restless, alive, stirred by unease. You press them down, force them still, and flatten your hand over the page like the weight of your palm can pin you to the mission.

Recon only. That’s what Valentina wrote. No engagement unless absolutely necessary. No backup.

Just you.

You tell yourself you should be used to that. That it’s familiar. That you’ve done this all your life. But Bob’s words cling tighter than the harness strapped across your chest, breathing down the back of your neck. Keep the line open. Even if it’s just breathing.

For one fragile moment, you close your eyes. In the dark, you imagine his voice in your ear, low and steady, threading you back to shore. The image is so vivid it slows your pulse, keeps you from tearing the files to shreds and scattering them like ashes through the jet’s engine.

When you open your eyes again, the pages are blurred at the edges. The jungle’s coordinates wait at the bottom of the page, like the open mouth of something vast, hungry, and patient. Waiting to close around you.

~

The pilot doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t have to—his clipped nod and the hum of the engines say enough. This isn’t a ride home; it’s a delivery. A drop into the unknown.

The jet banks low over the sprawl of Malaysian jungle, the canopy below rolling like an ocean of green. Heat radiates up even through the hull, heavy and wet, promising the suffocation waiting beneath.

“Ten seconds,” the pilot calls back, voice tinny through comms.

You stand. Shadows curl instinctively along your arms, whispering at the edge of hearing. You don’t need a chute. Don’t need rope. The sky itself is your entry point.

When the hatch opens, the roar of wind swallows everything. One step—and the world falls away.

Air tears at you, howling past your ears, hot and sharp against your skin. The canopy swells upward in a blur of green, faster, faster, until impact feels inevitable—

—until you slip sideways.

The world fractures. Shadows yawn open beneath you, swallowing you whole. You fall not with a crash but with the soundless grace of a droplet striking still water, rippling outward into black.

For a heartbeat, there is no up, no down. Only weightless suspension, untethered, earth and sky equally irrelevant. Your pulse thrums in your ears, louder than the screaming air you left behind.

You sink deeper, threading through the veins of dark that run like roots beneath the jungle. They tug you along their currents until the fall becomes a glide, a merging.

When you rise again, it’s seamless. No bone-breaking impact, no spray of soil. Just the quiet reemergence of your body from the undergrowth, shadows shivering back into your skin like a second heartbeat returning home.

The jungle inhales around you—wet, heavy. The air clings thick with sap and earth, the hiss of unseen insects crawling beneath it all. Above, the canopy seals shut, erasing the sky as though you never left it.

You move without sound, shadestepping root to root, trunk to trunk, your form blurring at the edges. The jungle reveals itself in fragments: broad leaves dripping, ferns parting, something unseen rustling out of reach.

And then you see it.

Rising out of the green like a half-buried carcass, the structure emerges—concrete and steel, half-swallowed by vines, scarred but defiant. Its angles jut upward like bones resisting the jungle that wants to consume them.

The mark on your map. The place Valentina sent you.

Your shadows ripple uneasily at your heels.

The jungle thins as you draw closer, trees giving way to sagging fencing strangled in vines. The file had promised movement—armed guards, smugglers hauling crates, the buzz of generators straining to life. But there’s nothing.

No guards.

No patrols.

Not even the faint glow of a floodlight.

Just silence.

You slip through the yawning gate, your steps swallowed by the hush. Inside, the air shifts—still humid, but thicker, metallic. It tastes like blood gone stale. Even the insects have abandoned this patch of jungle, leaving it unnaturally still.

The building looms at the center of the clearing, blocky and wrong. Moss and water streaks stain its walls, but the steel doors remain untouched. Intact. Waiting.

That’s wrong.

If scavengers had been here, they would’ve left their filth. If smugglers had moved through, there’d be tracks, wrappers, shells. But the dirt at your feet is too smooth, compacted unnaturally, like someone erased what was here. Scrubbed it clean.

You crouch low, fingers brushing the soil. It’s cold. Too cold. Someone prepared for you.

The silence presses closer, suffocating.

You close your eyes, and the world shifts—monochrome, sharpened edges of shadow bright against the void. That’s when you feel it. Not footsteps. Not engines. But movement. Small. Scurrying under the skin of the building like rats in the walls.

Your eyes snap open. This isn’t a weapons hub. It’s a lure.

You don’t step straight in. Instinct won’t let you. Instead, you slip along the tree line, shadestepping, circling. Every glimpse through the foliage confirms it: windows broken but boarded, walls streaked but scrubbed, vines crawling but not allowed to fully consume.

Not abandoned. Prepared.

By the time you circle back to the main doors, the shadows at your feet are restless, prickling static under your skin. Your gut is louder than the silence now.

You tap your comm, voice low. “Control? I’m on-site.” A pause. Your gaze sticks to the intact steel doors. “…Something’s wrong. Files said weapons ring, guards, movement. But there’s nothing. Not a soul.”

Static hisses for a beat before Yelena’s voice cuts in, sharp and sure.

“Define nothing.”

You exhale slowly. “No guards. No shipments. No noise. Perimeter’s too clean—it feels staged.”

There’s a muffled shift of sound, someone moving too close to the mic. Then Bob’s voice, cracked and strained:

“Seven—this feels weird. I think you should leave…Please.”

The plea cuts deeper than the silence.

You shut your eyes briefly, pressing his fear down into your ribs. “I can’t leave without checking. You know that.”

“Damn it,” Bob mutters, the scrape of his chair loud enough to carry through comms, like he’s already half-ready to bolt across the world.

Yelena cuts in before his panic can spiral. “She’s right, маленькое солнце. If it’s scrubbed, it means someone wanted us to see it this way. But listen, sestrenka—if your gut says it’s wrong, then it’s wrong. Don’t play hero. Recon only.”

Her words steady you, but the itch of shadows doesn’t fade.

“Copy,” you say finally, voice flat. “Recon only. I’ll keep the line open.”

You force yourself to move forward, slipping through the fence where it sags low to the ground. The jungle falls away behind you, the silence deepening as if the air itself is holding its breath.

Your unease only grows. You pause near a sagging stretch of wire, crouch, and let your fingers skim the dirt. Even the ground looks wrong—smooth, tamped flat, as if someone pressed a palm over the earth to wipe it clean. No tracks. No drag marks. No human presence at all.

You flick your comm on again, voice low. “Still nothing. Not even a footprint.”

Yelena answers first, cool as ever. “Spasibo, that’s very comforting.” A pause, then her tone softens, the way it only does for you. “Keep your eyes sharp, little cat. If it’s too clean, someone wanted it this way.”

Static shuffles, and then Bob’s voice slips through—uneven, like he’s too close to the mic. “Okay, so—so maybe talk me through it,” he blurts. “What you’re seeing. Just… narrate. Like you’re not alone in there.”

You almost smile despite the tension. “You want a play-by-play?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” He clears his throat. “That way I know you’re okay. That you’re still… there.”

You don’t argue. His voice helps. “Alright. Fence line’s rusted. Sagging here.” You squeeze through the gap, shadows stretching to cover your movement. “No signs of fresh welding, so no one cares to keep people out. Strange, right?”

“Strange,” Bob echoes. His voice steadies, just a little.

The compound looms ahead—concrete walls half-sunk into the jungle, the roofline jagged, eaten by vines. Windows gape dark, their panes fractured like blind eyes. No hum of generators. No glow of lights.

“It looks abandoned,” you murmur.

“Or emptied,” Yelena corrects, sharp.

“Emptied,” you agree. You step closer, palm brushing the cool concrete. “The file said weapons caches, Sentry files moving through here. But it’s just…” You trail off, because words aren’t enough for the absence pressing at your ribs.

“Keep talking,” Bob says, softer now. Not an order—an anchor. “Even if it’s nothing. Especially if it’s nothing.”

You take a breath, steadying. “Okay. Nothing it is.”

Your shadow slips ahead of you, sliding like water under the warped steel door. What it brings back is hollow space—dust, silence, and the faint, damp smell of rot clinging to stone.

“Interior’s quiet,” you murmur into the mic. “Dust on the floor. No footprints. Ceiling’s sagging, corners are damp. I can hear water dripping somewhere, but nothing else.” You hesitate, then add, “It doesn’t feel… empty. It feels scrubbed.”

“Scrubbed?” Yelena presses.

“Like someone cleaned up after themselves. Too clean. Too careful.”

“Seven,” Bob interrupts, and the way he says your name—ragged, desperate—makes you pause mid-step. “You don’t have to go further. Not if your gut says—”

“My gut says it’s a trap,” you admit quietly. Your voice echoes faint in the hollow entryway, your words sounding like someone else’s. “But traps have teeth. And I need to know what kind.”

There’s silence on the other end, just static and breath, before Yelena cuts in, practical and sharp as a blade. “Then keep your leash short. One room at a time. In and out.”

You nod, though they can’t see it. “Copy that.”

You press your palm flat to the cold steel door. Shadows bleed from your fingers, slipping through the cracks and seams, spreading in thin strands across the floor inside. The image they bring back is vague—crates stacked in corners, tarps slumped over shapes you can’t make out, all swallowed in stillness.

“Main room’s clear,” you whisper. “Or it looks clear. No movement. No heat signatures.”

“Emphasis on looks,” Yelena mutters.

Bob exhales shakily into the line, as if just hearing your voice is the only thing keeping him tethered. “Just… keep going slow. I’m right here. We’re right here.”

Your hand lingers on the door. The shadows strain at your back like leashed dogs, eager, restless. You push the weight of dread down into your stomach and prepare to step inside.

The warped steel door groans when you ease it open, hinges screeching before the sound dies into the hollow belly of the compound. You freeze, breath held, shadows curling tight around your boots.

“Seven?” Bob’s voice crackles in your ear—low, careful, too close. “You’re quiet. Don’t go quiet on me.”

“I’m here,” you whisper. The words feel too loud anyway.

You slip forward, body flattening as your shadow stretches, stretches, until you’re little more than a smear across the cracked concrete floor. The world bends strange when you move like this—edges sharp, colors gone, sound hollowed into a muffled hum. You glide beneath doorways, under peeling paint and rusted pipes, invisible save for the faint ripple of darkness when the emergency lights flicker overhead.

Dust coats everything. Peeling signs hang crooked on the walls, their stenciled letters faded: Authorized Personnel Only. Storage Wing B. Long-abandoned warnings that mean nothing now.

“Talk to me,” Bob whispers again, his voice tinny through the comms, like he’s afraid you’ll fade into static if he stops. “What do you see?”

Your voice is a breath. “Empty hallways. No guards. No sound. Just rot.”

“Too easy,” Yelena cuts in, clipped, clinical.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Too easy.”

You slide past a collapsed section of ceiling, water dripping steady through the breach. The air smells of mold and something faintly metallic, like old blood. A wall of shadows blooms instinctively at your back, sealing the sound behind you.

Your body reforms when you reach a set of double doors—the kind meant to impress authority. Their glass panes are cracked, streaked with grime, but through them you see the cavernous sprawl of the main chamber.

You press your palm flat against the metal, feel the cold bite of it seep into your skin.

“I’m at the main room,” you murmur.

Bob’s breath stutters over the comms. “And?”

You push. The doors creak open an inch, enough for shadows to pour through first, scouting. You follow a heartbeat later, stepping into the vast chamber.

The ceiling soars high overhead, lights dead, cables hanging like nooses. Empty catwalks web the space above. On the floor below: nothing. No crates. No weapon racks. No bodies, no guards, no movement. Just a yawning hollow of concrete, stretching wide and wrong.

It doesn’t look cleared.

It looks staged.

Your voice drops lower, throat dry. “…There’s nothing here. Not even dust disturbed. This place was emptied on purpose.”

Silence hums over the line. Then Bob’s voice, shaky, strained: “Seven… I don’t like this.”

Neither do you

Your boots barely echo as you step further into the main chamber, the emptiness swallowing every sound you make. The shadows cling tighter to your frame, instinctive, uneasy.

“This doesn’t make sense,” you murmur into comms. “No crates. No files. No guards. This isn’t a black market—it’s a tomb.”

Yelena’s reply is sharp, tense. “Seven, get out. Now.”

“I just need a closer look—”

The rest never makes it out.

A high-pitched whine bursts out of nowhere, drilling straight into the marrow of your skull. The sound vibrates through the concrete walls, sharp enough to rattle your teeth. Shadows coil tight around your frame, shivering as though they can feel it too—taut and brittle, like strings stretched to the breaking point.

You stagger, palms clapping hard over your ears. “Ah—!” The groan rips from your throat before you can stop it, pain spiking hot and white behind your eyes.

A high-pitched whine bursts out of nowhere, drilling into bone. The sound vibrates through the walls, sharp enough to rattle your teeth. Shadows coil tight around your frame, shivering as if they can feel it too—strung thin, brittle, ready to snap.

You stagger, palms clapping over your ears. “Ah—!” The groan rips out of you, raw, pained.

“Seven!” Bob’s voice detonates through comms, ragged, frantic. “What was that—talk to me!”

You whip toward the sound, pulse hammering—

—and the world erupts.

A blast detonates against the far wall, thunder tearing concrete apart, heat and shrapnel rolling across the chamber. The shockwave slams into you, your shadows thrashing out wild, ripping across the space in a frenzy you can’t control.

Your cry punches through the channel, ragged, uncontrolled. You don’t even realize you’ve growled until you hear it echoed back through the crackling line.

“Seven?!” Bob’s panic spikes, shattering into static.

On his end, all he hears is chaos: the guttural rip of your shadows shredding steel, the shriek of buckling metal, the harsh, feral howling sound that doesn’t sound like you at all.

“Pull back! Pull back!” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp across the line, but it distorts under the interference, tangled in static until it sounds more like shouting over carnage.

You fumble for the comm. “S-shit… Bob? Yelena? Can you—” The words hitch, warped by static, breaking into a ragged gasp as another surge of energy rips through your veins. Your shadows lash again, feral, uncontrolled, a violent crescendo.

Then the line dies.

Only silence.

Nothing. Just the hiss of static.

Your chest heaves, ears still ringing, panic pushing at the edge of your control. The shadows writhe at your heels, frantic, useless, reaching for something—anything—to hold onto.

The comms stay dead. Just a wall of static that hisses in your ear like laughter.

“Bob?” Your voice cracks on his name, thin and too small for the cavernous dark. “Yelena?”

Nothing.

The shadows reel with you, but even they feel unsteady, their edges jagged, slipping through your grip. Your pulse hammers in your throat, breath coming shallow and uneven. The silence presses in from every angle, too thick, too heavy.

For the first time in months, you feel it again—that old, gnawing certainty you thought you buried. That you are alone. That the line back to them has been cut, and whatever happens now… no one will know until it’s too late.

The realization sinks like stone in your gut, heavier with every second the comms stay silent.

Your knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. The shadows twitch at your heels, feral and aimless, hungry for something to strike—but there’s nothing to fight but the dark.

And then—

The lights slam on, blinding, white-hot against your eyes.

~

“Seven?!” Bob’s voice is raw, cracking against the static. He fumbles with the comm controls, twisting dials, pressing the button on his earpiece so hard it digs into his skin. Nothing but white noise answers.

The comms cut to silence, jagged and absolute.

Bob rips the earpiece out, shoving it back in like that will fix it. “Seven?! Please—come on—say something!” Nothing but static.

Yelena is already ripping wires from the console, teeth bared, muttering Russian curses between clenched teeth. The comm unit hisses, squeals, then dies again.“It’s not her, it’s the line—it’s fried—” She slams her fist against the side of the comms unit, as if brute force will shock it back to life. “Shit!”

Bob can’t stop moving. He paces, one hand dragging through his hair, the other clenching uselessly at his side. “It was her,” he gasps, voice breaking. “I—I heard it—”

“What?” Yelena snaps, sharp because she’s scared too.

“The Umbra,” he chokes. “I heard it. It—God, it sounded like she slipped. Like it had her.” His words tumble out fast, unsteady, guilt searing every syllable. “And then the blast—and then—” He cuts himself off, throat tight, breath hitching.

“She screamed, Yelena—she screamed—”

“I know!” Yelena snaps, but the edge isn’t for him—it’s for the helplessness clawing at her throat. She grabs his wrist, forcing him to still. “Breathe. Do not lose it,маленькое солнце. If she’s alive, she needs us steady, not—”

The static suddenly spikes, high and sharp, filling the room like a howl. Both of them flinch, hearts seizing—then just as fast, it cuts, collapsing into dead silence.

“Seven?” Bob’s voice is a whisper now, a prayer more than a call. His knuckles go white against the comm unit. “Please… please don’t leave me in the dark.”

Yelena stares at the dead channel, jaw tight, every line of her body coiled. “Something’s wrong.”

The words hang there like a curse neither of them can undo.

Bob drags his hands through his hair, pacing like a caged thing. His chest heaves, and the words rip out before he can stop them. “We knew! We knew it was a trap—I felt it—and I still let her go!” His voice cracks, raw with guilt. “God, I should’ve—I should’ve stopped her—”

“Stop.” Yelena grips his arm hard, shaking him once, sharp enough to cut through the spiral. “Do not waste time on what you should have done. We move. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for his answer—just yanks him toward the hall at a run. Bob stumbles after her, the sick knot in his gut dragging heavier with every step.

The others are scattered in the lounge, pretending at ease but failing—Bucky with a half-cleaned gun in his lap, Ava perched on the arm of the couch, John pacing by the windows, Alexei dozing with one eye cracked open. All of them snap alert the second they see Yelena and Bob burst in, pale and shaking.

“What happened?” Bucky’s on his feet instantly, the gun forgotten.

“The comms—” Yelena spits the words like shrapnel. “She screamed, then nothing. Blast, static, cut dead.”

Bob’s hands won’t stop trembling. He grips the back of a chair until his knuckles ache, the wood groaning under the pressure. His voice comes low, strangled: “It wasn’t just the blast. I heard her—I heard the Umbra—she slipped. She’s in trouble.”

The silence that follows is a knife, pressing against all of them.

Finally, Ava’s voice cuts through, sharp with fear she doesn’t bother to hide. “So what do we do?”

Bucky’s jaw sets, grim and certain. “We go after her.”

For a beat, no one breathes. The words drop like a stone in water.

Then John lets out a low, furious laugh, sharp as broken glass. “And where the hell do we start? She could be anywhere—”

“Valentina.” Yelena’s voice is ice. She’s already shoving knives into their sheaths, movements clipped and precise. “She set this up. She knows where.”

Bob snaps his head up, eyes wide and wild. “Then what are we waiting for?” His voice shakes, but the gold simmering in his irises burns dangerously bright. “We tear it out of her. Every. Last. Detail.”

“Easy,” Bucky warns, though his tone carries its own edge of violence. He’s already strapping holsters into place, loading magazines with steady hands. “But he’s right. Valentina put her there—she can damn well get us to her.”

Ava rises slowly, her silence heavier than any threat. Her eyes are dark, cold, a fury that makes the air prickle.

Bob can’t stand still. His hands flex, restless, like he can already feel the weight of pulling you back. His voice comes low, ragged. “She thought she could take her from me. From us. She doesn’t understand—” He cuts himself off, breath shaking, teeth gritted. “We’re not going to stop.”

The room hums with violent agreement. Even Bucky, steady as stone, doesn’t try to temper it. His jaw is iron, his eyes cold. “Then we pay Valentina a visit.”

~

The silence after the blast isn’t silence at all. It’s pressure—thick, suffocating—the kind that presses against your ribs until every breath feels borrowed. Your shadows twitch at your heels, restless, but the ringing in your ears drowns everything else.

Then the lights slam on.

Harsh fluorescents sear through the dark, bleaching the chamber into sterile white. Your shadows recoil, burning back into the walls. You stumble, one hand up to shield your eyes.

And then you hear her.

“Well,” Valentina’s voice cuts smooth as glass, amplified by hidden speakers. “I was beginning to wonder how long it would take you to sniff out the obvious.”

Your stomach goes cold.

She steps into view at the far end of the room, flanked by silhouettes in tactical black. Hydra sigils faint but unmistakable gleam on their armor. Rifles stay lowered—for now. Like they already know you’re caged.

“Hydra?” Your voice cracks around the word, disbelief curdling into something sharper. “You—”

“Don’t look so scandalized,” Valentina interrupts, flicking a hand. Her sunglasses glint in the sterile light. “You think Washington doesn’t still play ball with whoever pays best? But don’t worry honey, I don’t serve Hydra. I use them.”She tilts her head, lips curving in mock sympathy.

Shadows stir at your feet, answering your rage, but the fluorescents burn hotter, beating them back. Valentina’s smirk sharpens.

“You’ve been a thorn in my side since the day I found you. Too unstable to control, too dangerous to let go. I warned you, didn’t I? That luck runs out.” Her voice drops, a knife against your skin. “And today’s the day yours does.”

A soldier steps forward, holding out a restraint—a cuff humming faintly with green light. Familiar. A weapon meant for you.

“They wanted the last surviving subject of project silhouette. To build the research that made you. I wanted the liability problem solved. So we made a deal. I give you back, they give me access. Everyone wins.” Her smile slices wider. “Well… except you.”

“The others aren’t going to believe whatever bull shit story you come up with. Especially Bob, if he doesn’t find me after this he’s going to lose it and we both know what happens then.” I threaten voice low

“Yes, I suppose he will be quite… upset, won’t he?” she purrs, voice syrupy with false sympathy. “Especially when he sees the mess you’ve left—” she gestures to the room.

“But I have that little problem taken care of don’t you worry your scary little head dear. Robert will have the other members of his team to lean on in your tragic loss.” He words calm and calculated.

Your body moves before your mind catches up. Rage surges, shadows lashing upward like spears. Bulbs burst overhead, raining sparks, plunging the room into fractured dark.

The Hydra soldiers snap rifles up too late. You’re already gone, shadestepping into shadow, claws ripping the lead man’s chestplate wide before he hits the ground.

You lash out, shadows exploding in every direction — crushing steel beams, flinging soldiers like dolls, gouging the concrete until sparks bleed from the floor. Rage pours through you, thick and raw, enough to make even Valentina’s smile falter.

But then the hum starts.

Low at first, like a wasp caught in the walls, then building, sharp enough to slice bone. The fluorescents detonate back to life overhead, white and merciless. Your shadows recoil, hissing into nothing.

You whirl — too late.

A needle drives into the base of your neck. Fire floods your veins, cutting your shadows off at the root. Your claws vanish mid-snarl. Your knees slam into concrete.

Valentina’s heels click across the floor. Her silhouette blocks the sterile light above, smug as ever.

“Darling,” she purrs, crouching down like a mother scolding a child. “Did you really think I’d let you run wild in my theater?”

Her men move in — not to kill, but to stage. To arrange. You’re too weak to fight as they drag the corpses you cut down into a tighter cluster, spreading blood with their boots until it looks deliberate. One soldier rips jagged gouges into the walls with a blade, mimicking the wild slashes your shadows left. Another smears soot across his armor, painting chaos.

Valentina watches it unfold, satisfaction curling her lips. “There we are. A picture-perfect disaster. My poor, reckless Silhouette… lost to her own volatility. What a tragedy.”

You choke against the fire in your veins, forcing words out past your teeth. “They’ll never believe you.”

“Oh, sweet thing.” She tilts her head, sunglasses catching the harsh light. “They’ll believe exactly what they see. My men torn apart by your claws. My attempt to save you too little, too late. One poor misplaced bullet, you lash out taking out a support beam bringing the whole place down on your head”

She leans close, voice dropping to silk and poison. “And what will your team think, hm? That you were in control? That you died noble?” Her laugh is soft, cruel. “No. They’ll think you lost yourself. That you finally proved me right and it led to your demise. Useless and alone buried beneath the rubble of your own loss of control.”

Your body shakes, fury clashing with horror. Not for yourself. But for them. For Bob, hearing her voice, seeing the wreck she leaves behind and believing— even for a second—that you were gone, and worse, that you’d lost yourself in the end.

The thought carves you open.

Valentina stands, smooth and unhurried. “Bag her. Deliver her. Hydra’s waiting.”

Rough hands seize your arms, your legs. Light cages you until your shadows are nothing but smoke at the edges of your vision. The burn of the drug drags you under.

The last thing you hear before darkness swallows you whole is Valentina’s voice, sweet and triumphant:

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll tell them you went out exactly as you lived—dangerous, unstable, impossible to save.”

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

A/N: I have no idea if this is good I fear. I have rewritten this chapter three separate times and I just wasn't happy with it at all. I scrapped a bunch of different ideas and landed on this one but still lowkey hate it so I am so sorry if you can tell lol

Chapter 19: The Line in the Sand

Summary:

You’ve gone missing, cut off mid-mission in a silence that feels like betrayal. The team turns to Valentina for answers, but her honeyed words drip poison—casting doubt on your loyalty, your stability, even your love for them. Bob burns, Yelena bristles, Bucky grounds them all, and together they draw a line in the sand: no more games.

TW: Themes of manipulation, gaslighting, and emotional distress.

Bucky Barnes has been through a lot. Too much, maybe. War in the mud and fire of Europe. The long fall from a train. The cold hands of Hydra dragging him from the brink only to unmake him and rebuild him as something sharp, obedient, monstrous. Seventy years blurred into missions and blood, into steel fingers and a name that wasn’t his. The Winter Soldier. A ghost in their ledger, memories carved out and rewritten until he hardly recognized the face in the mirror.

It had taken everything to crawl back from that. Every breath a fight, every step a reminder of the weight of guilt and grief pressing on his chest. Friends lost. Family gone. A country he no longer recognized. And still, somehow, he found himself reaching for purpose again—not in redemption, not exactly, but in protection.

When he first heard her story—your story—it had struck him like a punch. Twisted by Hydra even worse than he was, broken down to bone and shadow, used like a weapon and discarded like one too. He’d recognized it instantly, the same hollow ache, the same sharp edges. And for the first time in a long time, he’d known what to do. He could help. He could guide. He could make sure you never had to walk the road alone like he did.

So he sought you out. Took it on himself to watch your back. To look after the girl who’d only ever been given a number in place of a name. Somewhere in that, he found belonging again. Family, even.

And now—

Now he sits in the Tower’s comms room, the air thick with static and panic, watching the others tear through wires and screens in desperation. His jaw is clenched so tight it aches, the pit in his stomach growing heavier with every unanswered call.

Was this my fault?

The thought loops like barbed wire. He’d vouched for you. Stood at your side when Valentina pushed for this mission, when the others muttered doubts. He’d been the one to insist you could handle it. That you needed to handle it. That this would prove—to them, but more importantly to yourself—that you were stronger than you believed.

But now?

Now the line is dead. Bob’s panic simmers like a live wire in the corner of the room, Yelena snaps orders at the comm techs, her voice sharp enough to cut steel, but there’s a crack in it she can’t quite hide. Ava leans against the console with her arms crossed, but her nails bite half-moons into her palms. Even John looks rattled, his constant pacing scraping at the air.

And Bucky sits there with the weight of seventy years pressing on him, wondering if he just helped send you to the same fate he once lived.

Because he knows how powerful you are. He knows how long you survived on your own. But he also knows the other side of that coin—the isolation, the cracks it carves into you until one day you split. He’d thought this mission might set you free of that doubt. Now all he feels is dread.

Bob’s pacing like a caged animal, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, the gold in his eyes flickering brighter with every breath.

The silence between bursts of static grinds on all of them. Until finally, John spits the thought no one else dares to voice.

“So what do we do if she finally lost it this time?”

Bob whirls, voice breaking like shattered glass. “She’s not gone!” The gold flickers bright in his eyes, hot and volatile. “I heard her—I heard something startle her—she needs our help.”

Yelena’s voice cuts in, ice over flame. “Seven wouldn’t have snapped for no reason. We find out what was waiting for her out in the jungle.” Her glare pins John until he shifts uncomfortably, jaw tightening. “We don’t stop until we know.”

“Oh yeah?” John mutters, defiant to the last. “And how exactly are you planning that? Valentina most likely sent her out there on purpose just to get rid of her. It’s not like she needs two ticking time bombs on this team, and Seven sure as hell isn’t her precious Sentry.” He sneers, throwing the word like a slur. “No offense, but she made Bob to be her perfect hero or whatever. Seven’s just the failed mess that came before him.”

The room seems to stop breathing.

Before John can draw another breath, Bob moves. Faster than thought. His hand slams into John’s throat, pinning him hard against the wall. The impact rattles the frame, dust shaking loose from the corner. His eyes burn, no longer flickers but pools of molten gold simmering with fury.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he growls. His voice is low, thrumming, the kind of sound that vibrates in the bones and leaves no room for argument.

The others freeze, every instinct sharpened. This isn’t just Bob anymore. This is the Sentry — the thing Valentina tried to mold, the force she wanted to weaponize. The air hums with it, hot and electric, the gold in his eyes casting faint light against John’s startled face.

Yelena is on her feet instantly, baton half-drawn, but not aimed at Bob — poised, uncertain, her voice cutting sharp. “Bob. Enough.”

Bucky’s gaze narrows, his hand flexing near his sidearm but not moving for it. He knows the danger better than anyone else here, but he also knows better than to spook a man already standing on the edge.

Ava doesn’t move at all, watching with wide, tense eyes, her breath caught in her throat.

John claws at Bob’s grip, sputtering, the bravado stripped away in an instant. But Bob doesn’t look at him. His gaze is molten, far away, the gold bleeding brighter like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

It’s protective, yes — but it’s also dangerous. A reminder to everyone in the room: the Sentry is never as far away as Bob pretends.

“Take it back.”

Sentry’s voice burns low, molten, carrying the heat of a star compressed into human form. The gold in his eyes sears brighter, locking on John like a predator fixing on prey. The air itself feels hotter, heavier, the hum of his power vibrating through the walls.

“J—Jesus, B-Bob—fine! I’m sorry!” John sputters, clawing at Bob’s grip, trying to drag air into his lungs. The words come out fractured, strangled with panic. But the apology doesn’t loosen the hand at his throat. Bob’s fingers stay clamped, unyielding, the shimmer of light rippling under his skin.

For a heartbeat, it looks like he won’t stop.

Then Bucky moves. No rush, no sudden force—just a steady presence at Bob’s side, his metal hand settling heavy on his shoulder. Not dragging him back. Not daring to challenge him. Just there.

Grounding.

Bob’s gaze slides to him, the burning gold flickering as though pulled back from the brink. For a suspended second, it’s not John choking against the wall that keeps him tethered—it’s Bucky’s eyes, calm and steady, the unspoken weight of someone who’s been exactly where he stands.

Bob’s hand finally loosens. John collapses forward with a wheeze, stumbling back as he coughs and clutches at his throat. No one rushes to help him. Their attention stays fixed on Bob—no, on the Sentry—because what stands before them now doesn’t move like the timid, uncertain man they know.

He takes a step back, but it’s not retreat. His shoulders square, his jaw set, his posture tall and braced, the glow still simmering beneath his skin. He carries himself like something forged, not born—like a force wearing the shape of a man.

“If you don’t think you can handle this,” his voice comes low and stern, stripped of its usual gentleness, “fine. I’ll find her on my own.”

The words roll out with such finality that the room stills. There’s no tremor in them, no stammer, no space for doubt. Just power, sharp and terrible, filling the air like the warning heat before fire erupts.

Bucky studies him in silence, the truth settling like iron in his gut: this isn’t bluster. This isn’t panic. Bob is dangerous—far more dangerous than the whole room combined—and if they don’t find Seven soon, he’ll burn the world down to do it. Worse, he might become something none of them can control.

So Bucky steps closer, closing the distance like he’s approaching a cliff’s edge. His hand lifts, settling at the back of Bob’s neck, the same way he might steady a soldier trembling on the line. Firm. Certain. Not restraining—anchoring.

“Listen,” he says, his voice even, weighted with the kind of promise that comes only from lived truth. “We are going to find her.”

The words hang in the air, less an assurance than a vow.

Bob doesn’t answer Bucky right away. His chest heaves, his jaw tight, the light under his skin flaring in restless pulses like a heartbeat trying to break free.

Then Yelena moves.

She’s been silent until now, eyes narrowed, jaw set like stone. But as she steps into the circle of heat rolling off him, her expression softens—not weak, not pitying, but a deliberate gentling, the way one approaches a spooked animal or a brother on the edge of doing something reckless.

She plants herself in front of him, arms crossed tight but voice steady, threaded with something more tender than her usual bite. “Маленькое солнце,” she says, using the name only she can make sound both affectionate and scolding. “I know what this feels like. To think someone you love has been stolen away. She is important to all of us, our family.”

His head jerks toward her, gold eyes still sharp, but she doesn’t flinch. She leans into it, her stare fierce, unwavering. “But you don’t help her by burning down the world in her name. You help her by being here—being steady—so when we drag her out of whatever hell Valentina threw her into, she has somewhere safe to land.”

Bob swallows hard, shoulders twitching, the power in him crackling dangerously against the air. “She’s all I have,” he chokes, the edges of Bob bleeding back through the Sentry’s fire. “If she’s gone—”

“She’s not all you have and she’s not gone” Yelena cuts in, sharp and certain. She steps closer still, until she’s right in his space, pressing her hand against the center of his chest like she can steady the sun itself. “I refuse to believe that. And if you lose yourself now, if you let this thing inside you take over, then what? You think she wants to come back to ashes? To a you she doesn’t recognize?”

His breath stutters, the flicker of gold wavering.

“You think you’re alone in this? That we aren’t here for you just as much as we are for her?” Yelena’s gaze doesn’t budge. “You want to save her? Then hold the line. Stay you. Because she’s going to need you—not just your power. You.”

The words cut through the heat, sharp as ice and warm as a promise all at once.

For a long moment, Bob doesn’t move. The hum under his skin quiets, the glow dimming as if Yelena’s hand on his chest is siphoning off the worst of it. He drags in a shaky breath, then another, and finally—finally—the tension in his shoulders eases by a fraction.

Bucky squeezes the back of his neck once, firm. “We’ll find her. Together.”

The room holds its breath.

Bob finally nods, a small, jerky motion, but enough. The gold in his eyes dulls back to something bearable, the light pulling inward again. He looks between them—Bucky, steady as bedrock, Yelena, sharp and fierce—and for the first time since the comms cut, he looks like himself again.

~

It doesn’t take long to reach Valentina—long enough to stoke the team’s fury, but not long enough to cool it. By the time her face flickers onto the screen, the group is rigid, silent, braced for war.

They don’t just hate her. They own her. Yelena said it best once: we have enough dirt to bury her a dozen times over. And every one of them knows it.

So when it takes an hour to get ahold of her, they are already lined up and ready—hands curled into fists, weapons within reach, expressions sharp enough to cut.

Yelena sits at the center of the table, posture deceptively casual, shoulders taut as wire. Her expression is pure neutrality, but her eyes gleam with fire. Bob, though—Bob is not neutral. His hands leave finger-shaped marks in the edge of the table, wood groaning under his grip as he wrestles with the storm building inside him. His jaw ticks, gold flickering faintly under his skin.

The call connects. Valentina’s face fills the screen, all polite smile and immaculate hair, sunglasses perched like armor she doesn’t need.

“How nice of you to finally answer, Valentina…” Yelena’s voice is ice. No pleasantries, no games. “No bullshit. Where is Seven? What the fuck did you send her into?”

The others stay silent, but their glares bore into the screen as if she were physically in the room.

Valentina sighs, tilting her head with mock sympathy. “I have my best men working on it now. It was… very concerning when her comms and tracker went dark. Of course, we’re doing everything we can.” Her smile lingers, sharp at the edges. “But if she doesn’t want to be found, I fear it may be out of our hands.”

The line drops cold. A poisoned seed buried in the middle of her reassurance.

Bucky leans forward, voice low and dangerous. “What the hell are you getting at?”

Valentina doesn’t blink. “Only that Silhouette is very skilled at disappearing. Ghosting even the best surveillance. It’s what she was made for, isn’t it? And it’s not unheard of for her to… lose control.” She lets the words drip, each one deliberate. “I mean, she’s hardly the most stable person in this little family of yours.”

The team bristles as one. Yelena’s jaw flexes, Ava’s hands twitch toward her knives, even John’s scowl sharpens to something close to murder.

And then Bob speaks.

His voice is low, steady—but it carries the edge of something brighter, hotter, dangerous. A tone that isn’t just Bob. Not just Sentry. Somewhere between, where both coexist.

“No,” he says, the word flat as a blade. “We won’t listen to your lies. We won’t let you twist her like you twisted me.” His eyes burn gold now, steady as a sunrise about to blind. “Tell us where. Now.”

For the first time, Valentina’s mask cracks—just a flicker, a tightening at the corner of her mouth, a slight stiffening in her perfect posture.

And the team sees it.

Bob leans in, hands still pressed flat to the table, knuckles bone-white against the dents he’s carved into the metal. His voice shakes—not with doubt, but with the force of what’s barely contained.

“She wouldn’t disappear.” His eyes flare gold, not blinking, not breaking from Valentina’s face on the screen. “She wouldn’t leave us—not like that. She cares about this team. About me.” His voice cracks just enough to betray the tremor beneath. “If she wanted to go, she’d tell me. She’d tell us. She’d never just vanish.”

Silence grips the room for a beat. No one looks away from him.

Then Bucky cuts in, voice firm, grounded—cold steel in contrast to Bob’s burning sun. “He’s right. I’ve known her the longest. She doesn’t run without a word.” His gaze is a challenge, sharp and unwavering on Valentina. “Even before this team—even when it was just her against the whole damn world—she’d check in. Leave a trail. Make sure someone knew she was alive. She’s done it before.” He leans forward, every word deliberate. “This? Radio silence? It’s wrong. And every one of us knows it.”

The table hums with the truth of it, the weight of their certainty settling like a blade against Valentina’s throat.

For the first time in the call, she falters. A slight pause. A flick of her sunglasses like she’s buying herself a heartbeat.

Then the mask slides back into place. Smooth. Polished. Poison.

“Maybe that was before,” Valentina says softly, as though she’s offering them sympathy. “Before Romania. Before she had to put her own brother in the ground with her own hands.” Her voice lowers, silk over steel. “Trauma changes people. Grief makes them reckless. You of all people should know that, Barnes.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

Valentina tilts her head, the faintest curve of a smile cutting her mouth. “So maybe she didn’t want to be found this time. Maybe she finally decided the risk of hurting you all was worse than staying. Maybe disappearing was the merciful thing to do.”

Her words slither into the silence, coiling tight, daring them to believe her.

Yelena’s scoff is loud, sharp, cutting straight through the poisoned calm Valentina draped over the call. “Bullshit.” Her voice is a blade, fierce and certain. “Seven would never think she’d hurt us. Not after everything. Not after we pulled her out of that pit she kept herself in. She’s come too far to go crawling back into it.”

Bob nods once, a jerky movement, his jaw tight. His voice is hoarse but firm. “She doesn’t see herself as a burden anymore. Not to me. Not to us. We made sure of that. She knows we want her here. With us.” His hands shake against the table, but his eyes never leave Valentina’s. “She’d never just disappear and leave us behind thinking otherwise. Never.”

Even John, usually the cynic, crosses his arms and mutters, “Hell, she’d sooner break her own bones than break ours. Whatever this is, it’s not her.”

The conviction in the room hums heavy, undeniable. For a moment, Valentina’s smooth veneer stills. Then—she strikes sharper.

“Oh, really?” Her tone is still velvet, but the edges glitter like glass. “This is the same girl who dragged you halfway across the world to Romania, remember? Who threw you headfirst into her ghosts. Her monsters.” She leans forward slightly, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Tell me—did she ask you if you wanted that? Did she stop and wonder if maybe it wasn’t your fight?”

The words sink like hooks, deliberate and cruel.

“Because from where I’m sitting, it wasn’t a team mission. It was her obsession. Her grief.” Valentina’s smile twists. “And you followed her like lambs to slaughter.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with the echo of memories none of them want dragged out. Blood on their hands. Shadows too close to tearing them apart.

Valentina seizes it. “So forgive me if I don’t share your blind faith in her selflessness. She’s reckless. Always has been. And this time?” Her voice smooths, soft again, the false sympathy of a knife before it plunges. “This time, maybe she finally realized the damage she could do… and decided to spare you all from being her next mistake.”

Her words hang there, suffocating.

“No.”

The word hits like a gunshot. Bob’s voice is low, shaking with the effort of restraint, but there’s no mistaking the fury laced in it. The gold in his eyes flickers dangerously. “She didn’t drag us anywhere. We went with her because we chose to. Because we’re a family. And she would never turn that against us.”

Bucky leans forward, voice steady, cutting through the air like a blade. “She’s been through hell and back, and she still called us family. If she wanted to disappear, if she wanted to run—she’d at least tell us goodbye. She’s done it before. She always makes contact. Always.”

Yelena’s voice is next, sharp as a knife’s edge. “So stop trying to sell us the lie that she’s unstable. She is stronger than you’ll ever give her credit for. We’re not buying it.”

Valentina’s mask falters—just for a second. The tilt of her head still oozes condescension, but the cool amusement in her voice is thinner now, stretched. “Oh, how loyal you all are. Blind, even. But loyalty doesn’t change the facts. When her comms went dead, the mission was already compromised. If she’s alive, she’s volatile. If she’s dead…” She lifts her hands in a little shrug. “Then the liability has solved itself.”

Bob surges half out of his chair, the table groaning under his grip. “Give us the location. Now.” His voice isn’t Bob’s alone anymore—it’s weighted, deeper, carrying the heat of the Sentry just beneath the surface.

The pause stretches long, Valentina’s gaze sweeping the group as though measuring whether to push harder. But she sees it—Yelena’s fire, Bucky’s cold steadiness, Bob’s barely leashed wrath. Even Ava’s silence, sharp and unforgiving. They aren’t breaking.

Her smile tightens, brittle around the edges. “Fine.” She flicks her wrist toward a screen out of view, and a set of coordinates appears on the display. “That’s where the signal went dark. A jungle compound, derelict on the surface but—you know better than to think appearances tell the whole story.”

The tension in the room doesn’t ease.

Valentina leans in slightly, voice smooth again, laced with false concern. “But listen carefully: if you storm in without confirming first, you put yourselves at risk of the same trap. She was sent alone for a reason, and—well. You’ve all seen what happens when she slips.”

“Don’t,” Yelena spits, cutting her off with venom in her voice. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that.”

The video call ends with the coordinates still glowing on the screen, the team gathered tight around them—hearts pounding, jaws set.

And for the first time, Valentina isn’t the one holding the strings.

The call cuts off, the coordinates still glowing on the monitor. For a long moment, no one speaks. The silence feels heavier than gunfire.

Then Yelena shoves back from the table, the legs of her chair screeching across the floor. “She lies like she breathes. Every word, poison. If you believe even half—” She cuts herself off, snapping her knives into place with sharp, angry motions. “No. We don’t waste time.”

“She’s trying to make us doubt her,” Ava says quietly, her hands already steadying the straps of her gear. Her voice is low but sharp, like glass under velvet. “The second we believe it, we lose her.”

Bob hasn’t moved from the table. His fingers are dug into the edge, leaving deep dents in the wood. His chest heaves, breath uneven, the faint burn of gold still flickering in his eyes. “She said Seven slipped. That she was unstable.” He swallows hard, shaking his head. “But I heard her. It wasn’t rage—it was fear. Something startled her.”

Bucky shoulders his rifle with deliberate calm, though his jaw works tight. “Exactly. She’s not running from us. If she wanted to disappear, she would’ve told us. She’s done it before—she doesn’t vanish without a word.” He looks around the group, his voice cutting like iron. “We know her better than Valentina ever will.”

“Damn right we do,” John mutters, shoving extra mags into his vest, his movements sharp with fury. “She’s not the problem here. Valentina is.”

Bob finally straightens, the glow in his eyes simmering dull behind the blue as he pulls his gear on. His voice is low, trembling, but there’s no mistaking the edge in it. “She’s not gone. Not lost. She’s waiting for us. And we’re not going to let her down.”

Yelena slams a fresh clip into her pistol, holstering it with finality. She casts a quick glance at him, softer than her words. “Then keep that fire, Маленькое солнце. But keep it steady. She’s going to need you clear when we find her.”

For once, Bob doesn’t flinch from the nickname. He just nods, jaw set.

The room fills with motion—boots pounding, weapons checked, packs strapped down. They move as one, urgency bleeding through every gesture. But even in the rush, the conversation doesn’t stop.

“She dragged us into Romania? yeah right….we had to fight her to let us come along” John mutters again, though it carries an almost irritated scoff.

“She didn’t drag us,” Ava cuts in, voice sharp. “We chose it. Because we’re hers. And she’s ours.”

“And we’re going to prove it,” Bucky finishes grimly, snapping a final magazine into place. He turns toward the hangar, and the rest follow without hesitation.

By the time they reach the jet, the fire in the group has crystallized. No more debate, no more doubt—only fury sharpened into purpose.

Bob pauses at the bottom of the ramp, gaze flicking skyward as if he can see through miles of jungle to where you are. His hand trembles, curling into a fist. “Hold on, Seven,” he whispers, more to himself than the others. “We’re coming.”

Yelena catches the words anyway, brushing past him with a steady hand to his shoulder. “Damn right we are.”

The team boards the jet, the engines roaring to life, their voices still low and fierce as they trade final words. Doubt may linger, but none of them let it take root. Not this time.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

Hey guys just checking in on how we are all feeling still. Do you like the direction this is taking? Seven isn’t going to be present for a bit because I really want to delve into the team dynamic without her 🥲

As always thank you so much for reading

Chapter 20: Missing the Heart

Summary:

Summary: The team reels in silence as they fly toward the jungle coordinates where you were last heard from, their worry fracturing into arguments and doubts until Bob steels himself as the only one who can bring you back.

TW: violence, blood, corpses, implied torture/kidnapping, Hydra mention, gaslighting/manipulation, psychological distress, heavy angst.

The jet is too quiet.

Yelena hates it—hates the silence, hates the way it hums louder than the engines, settling heavy over their heads like a storm no one dares to name. Usually, missions mean noise. John pacing and mouthing off, Alexei cracking jokes no one asked for, Ava cutting him down with dry one-liners, Bob stumbling over reassurances, Bucky grumbling orders. Constant noise.

But now? Nothing.

Everyone is locked inside their own worry.

Bob sits hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, fists knotted tight enough to leave half-moons in his palms. He hasn’t spoken since takeoff. Hasn’t even moved, except for the occasional twitch of his jaw. His eyes stay fixed on the floor, but every so often, when he blinks, a flash of gold flickers through the blue. Quick. Subtle. Dangerous.

Yelena notices every time.

Bucky does too. His gaze keeps sliding over, sharp and quiet, like he’s watching a weapon left too close to the edge of a table. His hand rests casual on his thigh, but the twitch of his fingers toward his knife isn’t casual at all.

Ava hasn’t stopped pulling apart her weapon, rebuilding it, pulling it apart again. It’s not about the weapon itself. It’s her hands. She needs them moving, needs to keep the panic from crawling up her throat.

John paces the aisle like a caged mutt, muttering curses under his breath, not loud enough to shatter the silence but enough to scrape at Yelena’s nerves.

And Alexei—he just sits with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on Bob. Protective, maybe. Or maybe weighing whether to be worried for his daughter once again. That crushing feeling of anguish he felt when Yelena stepped into the void, a constant memory every time he looks at the nervous man before him.

Yelena’s jaw tightens. Enough.

“Stop it,” she snaps, low and sharp. Heads turn. “All of you. Staring at him like he’s about to explode. He is not a bomb.”

Bob finally looks up. Yelena regrets it instantly. His eyes are bloodshot, the deep blue rimmed raw, and behind it the faint, dangerous shimmer of gold. His voice comes hoarse, cracked.

“Feels like I am.”

The silence after that is worse than before.

Yelena forces herself steady, leans forward with her elbows on her knees, and meets his gaze head-on. “You’re not. You’re worried. Same as us. That is normal.” Her voice softens, but not too much. “Don’t let Valentina in your head about this too.”

For a long moment, he just stares at her, the gold simmering then fading back. She holds her ground. Doesn’t flinch.

“H-how can you be so sure? How are you always so confident that things will be okay?” His voice wobbles as he looks at the small blonde woman with desperate worry.

“She is my sister,” Yelena says, matter-of-fact. “She will come back. And until then? You don’t get to fall apart. Понял?”

Something flickers across his face at that—half a grimace, half a smile. The tension thins a fraction. The others ease, just slightly. Not gone. Never gone. But enough to breathe.

Bob doesn’t answer at first. His hands drag down his face, trembling, and for a second Yelena thinks he might unravel right there. But Bucky leans forward, voice steady as iron.

“We got you. You know that right?”

Bob’s eyes flick up, wary, but he stays silent.

“We can hold you up, support you through the panic. Because you’re the only one who can bring her back,” Bucky says. Not cruel. Just true. “If she slipped—if whatever Valentina set up pushed her into the umbra—none of us can reach her. Not me. Not Yelena. Not anyone else.”

The truth hangs heavy. But then Bucky softens the edge, his tone more anchor than blade. “You can. You’ve done it before. You’re her tether. That means you’ve got to hold steady—because if you don’t, she won’t find her way back.”

Bob’s shoulders twitch like the weight is crushing, but before the thought can spiral, Yelena cuts in, voice sharp as a whip.

“Nope. Don’t do that thing where you doubt yourself. She promised she would come back. She promised you. And she does not break her promises.” Her arms cross tight over her chest, her gaze pinning him with ferocious certainty. “So you do your part, little sun. You be the rope she climbs back on. She needs you.”

For a moment, Bob just stares at them, breath shuddering. Then slowly—almost imperceptibly—the tension in his frame shifts. His hands unclench. His jaw tightens, but it’s not fear this time. It’s resolve.

He exhales, the sound steadier than before. “Alright. I can do that.” His voice firms as he repeats it. “I will do that.”

The flicker of gold in his eyes no longer looks like a crack waiting to split him open. It burns steadier now, like banked fire.

Bucky gives a short nod, satisfied. “That’s it.”

Yelena leans back with a faint smirk, though her eyes stay warm. “Good. Because when we find her—and we will—she’s going to need you whole. So don’t you dare fall apart on us, солнце.”

For the first time since the comms went dead, Bob’s lips twitch into something like a smile. Small. Fierce. Certain.

~

The jet cuts low through the canopy, the engine’s growl swallowed by green until it’s gone entirely. When they finally disembark, the heat hits like a wall—wet, clinging, full of the heavy rot of earth and sap. Yelena’s hair sticks to the back of her neck within minutes, but it isn’t the humidity that has her chest tight.

It’s the silence.

Your last words echo in her head: “No guards. No crates. It’s too clean. Too quiet.”

But what waits at the coordinates is anything but.

The jungle clears around a structure that isn’t intact at all. What should’ve been a blocky fortress of concrete is nothing but rubble, slabs collapsed into each other like a body brought to its knees. Steel beams jut upward at odd angles, twisted into blackened claws. Smoke still curls from the wreckage, acrid and thin, carrying the tang of gunpowder and blood.

Multiple bodies litter the ground, scattered like discarded dolls. Some are half-buried under concrete. Others lie crumpled in the mud, their armor marked with gouges too precise to be shrapnel wounds. Too clean. Too deliberate.

“This isn’t what she saw,” Ava whispers, eyes darting across the wreckage. Her voice trembles despite her best effort at control. “She said it was empty.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t empty now,” John mutters, nudging a broken rifle with the toe of his boot. His scowl doesn’t hide the way his shoulders are braced too tight, his stance uneasy.

Yelena crouches near a body, her glove brushing across a dark smear of blood. It’s half-dried, tacky against her fingertips. Not fresh, but not old enough to belong to some long-forgotten firefight either. “This is recent.”

Her hand closes around a small comm unit, scorched but not beyond recognition. She turns it over, and the sight makes her swear under her breath.

“This unit—it’s ours.”

Bob freezes mid-step. His voice cracks sharp, too loud against the hush of the jungle. “What do you mean ours?”

She doesn’t look at him, just holds up the device between two fingers. “Avengers issue. Valentina’s men were here.”

“Bullshit,” John mutters, but his tone lacks conviction. He kicks a loose helmet hard enough to send it skidding across the dirt. “So she sent Seven in with backup? Then why the hell didn’t they call for help? And why did she say there was no one here?”

“Because they weren’t backup.” Ava’s voice cuts in quiet but lethal, her gaze raking the treeline like she’s expecting an ambush. “They were waiting for her.”

Bucky kneels in the dirt, fingertips brushing over a drag mark half-buried under the ash. Too straight. Too deliberate to be random collapse. His jaw tightens as he follows the line toward a patch where the ground dips darker, as if blood was washed into the soil.

“Shit—” Bucky’s voice snaps sharp, a crack of anger that makes them all whip around.

He’s on one of the corpses, boot grinding down hard as he kicks the helmet free. It rolls across the mud with a hollow clatter, landing face-up in the dirt.

The symbol stamped on the armor glints under the weak light. A skull with writhing tentacles surrounding it.

Hydra.

Bucky stands rigid, the breath hitching in his throat sharp enough Yelena feels it in her own chest. His jaw locks, eyes narrowing to a predator’s glare. For a heartbeat, he looks less like their steady anchor and more like the soldier Hydra made him.

The rest of them feel the tension in the air, the usually stoic and level headed of their group suddenly lashing out has them nervous.

“Bucky?” Yelena steps toward him carefully, her own pulse climbing at his stance.

His voice when it comes is low, guttural, final. “These men are Hydra.”

The words drop like lead, choking the air out of their lungs.

No one speaks. Not John with his endless bark, not Ava with her clipped logic, not even Alexei with his ill-timed humor. They just stare, all of them struck with the same dawning horror—if Hydra was here, if Hydra was what Valentina sent you into—

Then where the hell are you now?

No one breathes. The jungle hums faintly at the edges, but even that feels smothered under the weight of Bucky’s words.

Bob’s the first to move. His head jerks up, eyes wide and wild, and when he blinks the gold in his irises flashes bright enough to sting. His voice comes cracked, hoarse, but loud enough to break the silence.

“Hydra—? She—she walked straight into them and we let her …” His fists tremble at his sides, nails biting into his palms until his knuckles split.

“Bob—” Yelena turns from Bucky to face him, but he staggers back, breath ragged.

“No, don’t—don’t tell me it’s fine, don’t—” His voice breaks on the word, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air. “She was so afraid—afraid of ending up back with Hydra—” His hand scrubs down his face, shaking, eyes burning gold again. “God, what if they took her back?”

Ava snaps her gaze to Bucky, tone razor-sharp, trying to cut through the panic. “If Hydra was here, then this wasn’t some botched op. This was a setup.”

“Valentina,” Alexei hisses, the name dripping venom. Yelena nods, her hands curl into fists at her sides. “That bitch knew.”

John lets out a bitter laugh, sharp and joyless. “Of course she knew. Probably gift-wrapped Seven herself. All the talk about family, and she sends her into Hydra’s hands—”

“Enough.” Bucky’s voice is steel, but his eyes flicker with the weight of memory—blood on snow, a muzzle flash, the decades he spent under the same skull-marked flag. He doesn’t need to say it; they all know what Hydra does to the people it gets its hands on. What it did to him.

And what it could be doing to you now.

Bob’s chest convulses with another shuddering breath. His voice comes out lower, tighter, every word scraped raw. “We have to find her. Now. Before—before they—” His throat closes on the rest, too many images crowding his mind to say it aloud.

Yelena doesn’t hesitate. She steps closer, grabs his wrist, steady but firm. “We will. But not like this. You lose yourself before we find her, and they win twice. Understood?”

For a second, he just stares at her, gold burning hot behind his eyes. Then, with a trembling exhale, he nods once. Not steady. Not calm. But controlled.

Bucky glances toward the wreckage, jaw hard, voice grim. “If Hydra touched this ground, then we’re already late. But we’re not too late. Not yet. Fan out. Make sure she isn’t here in the rubble then we go to Valentina.”

The others exchange quick, taut glances. Fear sits heavy between them, but so does fury.

Alexei finally rumbles, low and certain: “Then we burn the whole jungle down if we have to.”

And for the first time since the comms went dead, the silence doesn’t feel like despair. It feels like war.

~

The team spreads out across the ruins, the silence between them broken only by the scrape of boots on concrete and the groan of metal shifting under their weight. The building isn’t a structure anymore—it’s a carcass, ribs of steel bent skyward, chunks of concrete collapsed in jagged piles. Smoke clings low to the ground, acrid and thin, worming its way into their throats.

Yelena’s gloves are already caked with soot by the time she hauls the first slab aside. She moves quick, efficient, ripping through debris like she can outpace the dread gnawing at her ribs. Every time she uncovers another body, her stomach clenches. Another helmet, another insignia—Hydra. She swears under her breath each time, her voice sharp in the hush.

Ava works in silence, her movements precise, almost surgical. She kneels over each body she uncovers, fingers checking for a pulse she already knows won’t be there. Her jaw tightens, eyes dark, every corpse another tally in Valentina’s ledger. Once, she mutters, “So many,” but the words vanish in the smoke.

Alexei takes the brute-force approach, prying beams aside with a grunt, tossing rubble like it’s weightless. Each time he clears a pocket of space, he pauses, shoulders sagging when it’s not her. His face, usually so quick to crack a joke, is grim, eyes narrowed with a soldier’s recognition of how deliberate this carnage is.

John kicks his way through debris with muttered curses, more frantic than methodical. Every body he turns over adds more fury to his stride. “Hydra. Hydra. Always fucking Hydra.” His voice is ragged, pitched too loud, like he needs the sound to cover the fear bleeding through.

And Bob—Bob tears at the rubble with his bare hands.He digs like a man possessed, like if he just pulls fast enough, hard enough, he’ll find you alive beneath the wreckage. Each time he uncovers another corpse, another Hydra agent or Valentina’s soldier, his breath comes sharper, the gold flashing in his eyes more insistent.

“Bob,” Bucky warns once, voice low, but Bob doesn’t stop. He can’t.

Bucky himself moves slower, methodical. He knows what to look for—the difference between the chaotic sprawl of debris and the deliberate drag marks that tell the truth. He kneels, metal fingers brushing over gouges in the dirt, over a streak that’s too clean, too purposeful. His stomach knots, but he says nothing yet.

They work until sweat slicks their skin, until the smoke stings their eyes. Hydra bodies. Unidentifiable soldiers bodies. But not you. Not a scrap of your suit. Not a trace of you beneath the ruin.

Finally, Yelena rips her gloves off, throws them hard against the dirt. “She’s not here.” Her voice is sharp, but it wavers at the edges. “They took her.” She’s not sure if that’s better or worse, the thought of you lying dead beneath the rubble somehow more comforting than you hooked up to whatever Hydra has planned.

Bob’s breath shudders, his hands still curled into fists around a chunk of stone. His voice is hoarse, breaking against the smoke. “She’s supposed to be here. She—she would’ve fought until—she wouldn’t have let them take her back” His jaw locks, words cutting off before they unravel him completely.

Bucky stands, dust streaking his clothes, his jaw set hard. “She probably did fight. But this?” He nods at the drag marks, at the suspiciously clean patch of ground. “This is a planned extraction.”

And the weight of that truth presses down on all of them.

“She fought,” he says, voice grim. “But we’ve seen what she leaves behind when the umbra gets loose. This isn’t it.” He scoffs at the corpses scattered across the mud, bullet wounds punched neat through armor, knife strikes clean and efficient. “This is controlled. Human. Not her.”

Bob’s breath shudders as he drops into a crouch, palms digging into the dirt like he could pull you out by sheer will. His voice comes low, raw, scraped thin. “They have her. They took her.”

“And Valentina knew.” Yelena straightens, the comm unit cracking under her grip before she hurls it back onto the corpse with a snarl. “She knew and she lied.”

Alexei, who has been strangely silent, finally steps forward. Pinched between his thick fingers is a spent cartridge, gleaming too bright against the mud. He holds it up for them all to see before dropping it at Bob’s feet like damning proof.

“American make. Not Hydra. Military issue.” His tone is heavy with disgust. “Her fingerprints are all over this.”

Bob’s head dips, hair shadowing his face. His fists clench in the dirt, knuckles bloodless, trembling. When he looks up again, gold flares hot in his irises, molten and dangerous. His voice is flat, stripped to the bone.

“She handed her over.”

Bucky lays a steady hand on his shoulder, grounding weight. “We will get her back. Valentina is the one who knows what happened so we go to her.”

Yelena’s gaze sweeps the wreckage, sharp and furious. “We take this straight to her face. She can’t spin it if we already know the truth.”

“Straight to her face?” John scoffs, pacing a restless circle. He gestures toward the ruin around them. “What, we storm into her office dripping Hydra blood and accuse her on the spot? That’ll go over real nice.”

“You got a better idea, Walker?” Yelena fires back, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah. We drop Bob back off at the tower! How about we think before we light the fuse!” John jabs a finger at Bob, who hasn’t moved from his crouch in the dirt. “He’s already half a step from—”

“Say it,” Bob cuts him off, lifting his head. His voice is low, rough, the flash of gold sharp in his eyes. “Go on.”

John hesitates, jaw tight, but the words die before they leave his mouth.

“Thought so.” Bob pushes to his feet, slow and deliberate. His shoulders square, spine straightens, and for the first time since the comms went dead he doesn’t look like nervous, stumbling Bob. He looks like something else. Something heavier.

Alexei snorts, shaking his head. “Arguing like children. Valentina plays the long game. If we storm in with nothing but anger, she wins. We need proof and a plan.” He holds up the cartridge again, pinched between two thick fingers. “Something she cannot spin.”

“This is proof,” Ava snaps, her hands finally stilling at her sides. Her voice is sharp, brittle with fear she doesn’t bother to disguise. “Her men were here. That’s all we need. What else do you think Seven bled for?”

“Yeah, well, it’s been almost a full day now, so what’s it matter?” John huffs, arms crossing like he’s bracing for the backlash. His voice drops, bitter and raw. “Seven’s not here. She’s not with Valentina. That means Hydra probably has their little nightmare monster back and is reprogramming her as we speak.”

The words hit like shrapnel. Yelena’s breath hisses through her teeth. Ava stiffens. Even Alexei’s face hardens.

But it’s Bob who reacts hardest.

He's on John in an instant, fists clenching the straps of his suit as he literally flies them into the trunk of a tree.

His fists clench until his knuckles pop, those old trigger words from the clearing in Romania echoing in his ears like a curse. “No.” His voice is a low growl. “No—she beat that before. She’ll beat it again.”

“With us,” John shoots back, eyes flashing. “With all of us there, with her free will still her own. Now? She’s probably strapped to a table while they dig around in her head. You want to play knight-in-shining-armor, fine—but maybe think about what happens if she isn’t her anymore when we get there. Maybe we should figure out how to deal with that before whatever the hell you want to do about Valentina.”

The silence that follows is jagged, barbed. Then Bucky and Yelena are pulling them apart, well more like guiding because no force in the world could move Bob without his consent at this point. Not with the anger seething off of him.

“Don’t.”

Bucky’s voice slices through it, calm but sharp as a knife. His arms are pushing Bob from John, his face unreadable, but his tone leaves no room for argument. “Don’t talk about her like she’s already gone.” That gets Bob to finally pull away, his feet hitting the dirt again with a soft thud.

The words drop heavy into the dirt, heavier than anything John had thrown. Even he looks away, scowl faltering, as if he’s ashamed to meet Bucky’s eyes.

It’s Ava who speaks up now, her usual deadpan tone soft “We can’t help her if we’re all just fighting each other. We have to work together. The way we would if Seven was here.”

Yelena exhales through her nose, forcing herself to sound calmer than she feels. “Fine. But we move fast. The longer we wait, the colder this trail gets.”

Bob’s voice rumbles low, dangerous in its certainty. “She’s not cold. She’s alive. And I’m not letting Valentina bury her.”

For a heartbeat, no one argues. The gold still flickers in his gaze, but this time it doesn’t look like it’s tearing him apart. It looks like it’s holding him together.

Yelena leans back on her heels, studying each of them in turn. Fractured, yes. Angry, afraid, yes. But all pointed in the same direction.

“Alright,” she says finally. “Then we don’t just plan for a confrontation.” Her mouth curls into something sharper than a smile. “We plan for war.”

~

This group of individuals was never one for plans. Not in the way Valentina liked them—neat, contained, obedient. They were chaos wrapped in sharp edges, stitched together by stubbornness and loyalty. So when they marched into her office as a single, unified front, she blinked once in genuine surprise.

In the back of her mind, though, she almost congratulated herself. Tragedy forged cohesion. The loss of you was exactly what they needed to close ranks, to become what she always insisted they could be. Well… maybe not always. But still, grief had a way of binding people tighter than love ever did.

She let herself savor the thought for half a heartbeat, then slipped the mask into place. Sympathetic tilt of the head. Furrowed brows. A sigh just heavy enough to sound rehearsed. By the time her sunglasses came off, her face was already the picture of weary concern.

“My, my,” she said, voice honeyed and low. “I was just about to reach out. Believe me, I’m as devastated as you are. Seven’s disappearance is… troubling. But rest assured, I’ve already dispatched my best men. We’re combing every inch of that jungle.”

Her gaze swept the room, gauging them like pieces on a chessboard. Bob hovered near the back of the group. Yelena leaned forward like a knife about to be thrown. Bucky’s silence was heavier than gunmetal. Ava’s eyes burned holes straight through her. Alexei’s arms were crossed, but his scowl betrayed the restraint of a man barely holding back. And John—well, even John wasn’t mouthing off yet.

Valentina folded her hands neatly, as if she wasn’t staring down a pack of wolves. “Of course,” she added softly, “if she doesn’t want to be found… that may be out of anyone’s hands.”

The words slid out like poison sugar, calculated to sting.

The room stills.

Bob doesn’t speak. Not yet. But his knuckles pale on the edge of the chair he’s stood behind, every muscle locked like he’s holding himself together by will alone.

Yelena leans forward slowly, like a predator scenting weakness. “You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“You sent her in with Hydra agents.” Ava’s voice is quiet. Sharpened to a lethal edge. “We found the bodies. Your bodies. And theirs. All tangled together like meat in a grinder.”

Valentina’s mouth opens—just a breath—but nothing comes out. A misstep. She hadn’t expected them to find where she sent you immediately. This group of chaotic disasters could never get it together to work as a full unit so quickly. She assumed she had more time.

“You think we wouldn’t recognize our own comm units?” Bucky asks, voice low, cold. “You think we don’t know Hydra when we see it?”

Valentina’s smile twitches. “I assure you—”

“Don’t,” Bob says, finally. His voice is quiet. But wrong. Like something ancient cracking beneath the surface.

Valentina’s gaze flicks to him but before she can spin her venom soaked story the others speak up.

“You lied to us,” Yelena snarls. “You sent her into a pit and told us it was a fucking picnic.”

“You handed her over,” Ava adds. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes are wild. Like something’s unraveling just behind them.

“You weaponized her fear,” Bucky says. “Trusted she’d face it alone. That we wouldn’t look for her.”

Valentina exhales through her nose, a soft, almost theatrical sigh.

“That’s quite the accusation,” she says, letting her voice fall into something maternal. “But let’s not rewrite history. We all know she was never the most stable one. Hell—has she ever been on a mission without losing control?”

Her words are gentle knives. Dull enough to sound harmless. Sharp enough to draw blood.

“You’re emotional. I understand. But let’s not pretend she wasn’t a liability. You’re all clearly shaken—”

The sound cuts off mid-sentence.

Every glass surface in the room explodes at once.

The windows crack outward in a spiderweb bloom. Crystal vases implode. Drinking glasses shatter into glittering dust. Her decorative decanter disintegrates on the bar cart.

Silence rushes in—so loud it screams.

Everyone turns.

Bob hasn’t moved from his place at the rear of the room. But the air around him wavers like heat rising off asphalt, the temperature shifting—rising.

The gold in his eyes swirls into a dark black.

What remains is something cold, distant.

“I’m tired of everyone talking about her like she’s gone,” he says. His voice is low. But it thrums with pressure, like the beat of something massive behind a thin wall.

“Bob—” someone breathes.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t falter.

“You don’t get to decide what happens anymore.”

The temperature in the room spikes. Wood creaks. The fluorescent lights that are left unbroken overhead flicker once, then burst in a slow cascade. One by one.

Something dark shivers across the floor, as if you were there to control the shadows of the room.

The others feel only the tension. The charged stillness.

Valentina feels it.

A shift in the room’s center of gravity, as if God just leaned in to listen.

Her fingers curl beneath the desk. Slow. Controlled. But her knuckles are white. Maybe it’s a signal to her guards. Or the reach for a weapon. Maybe it’s a prayer to no one at all.

She tries to recover. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did.”

His voice ripples through the air, cracking the edges of reality. The shadows behind him stretch, recoil, like they’re trying to escape the heat of him.

“You talk about her like she’s some failed experiment. Like she isn’t the reason half of us are still breathing.”

He steps forward.

The ground underfoot doesn’t quake—but the walls do. The structure groans, faint but real, like the Tower itself isn’t sure it can contain what he’s becoming.

Yelena closes in standing firmly next to him but not interrupting or intervening.

“You sent her in alone,” he says, voice hollowed out with fury. “And now you sit here, smiling in a throne built on her blood?”

“She trusted you, even after—after you locked her in a cage she still went on your missions” Bob says. His voice should be shaking. It isn’t. It’s steady, but wrong. Like it’s not just his voice. “We all did. And you fed her to the thing she was most afraid of.”

“You’re mistaken,” Valentina says, a thread of steel entering her tone. “If Hydra was involved, it was without my knowledge.”

Ava steps forward, hand splaying on the desk between them. “Stop. We know your fingerprints. We found your brass. We counted your dead. This wasn’t a mistake. It was a trade.”

“She’s not your asset to barter,” Yelena growled, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “She’s our family.”

“She’s mine.”

The words came quiet. Almost too quiet. But the moment they left Bob’s mouth, the entire room shifted.

Valentina stilled. For the first time since the call began, her expression flickered. Her gaze slid to Bob, drinking in his rigid stance, the tremor in his hands, the molten flare of gold in his eyes. His fury wasn’t just protective—it was personal.

Shit.

She had always known he was attached to you, her little experiment clinging to another broken thing. But this… this was deeper. More dangerous.

“Yours?” she repeated softly, her voice cooling like steel dipped in ice. “Robert, I warned you about this. Attachments blur judgment. I assumed what you felt for her was simply your power recognizing its reflection—kinship, nothing more. But now?” Her lips curved, all sympathy on the surface, knife hidden beneath. “Now you’ve convinced yourself it’s real.”

Bob’s jaw locked, but he didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The silence after his claim spoke louder than anything.

Valentina let the quiet stretch, her smile thin, cruel. “Oh, darling. That makes things so much simpler. Because when she does lose control—and she will—you’ll be the one too blind to stop her.”

Bob’s throat worked, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His silence told her everything.

Valentina leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. Her voice softened, all silk and poison. “I know you believe it’s love. But let me remind you—love does not make her less dangerous. You saw what happened with her brother. She couldn’t hold herself together then. She won’t now.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “That was different.”

“Was it?” Valentina’s gaze slid lazily toward him, before returning to Bob. “The girl has Hydra written into her bones. You can’t scrub that out with affection. You can’t bury it under promises. When the umbra takes her, it takes her. And next time, Robert, it won’t be a controlled collapse you can pull her back from. It’ll be you. It’ll be all of you.”

“Stop,” Yelena snapped, fury cutting through her voice.

But Valentina wasn’t finished. Her words sharpened, the mask of sympathy dropping for something colder. “Face it—she’s gone. Vanished into her own shadows. She always does. It’s what she was made for. And if Hydra got their hands on her again…” Valentina let the thought hang, savoring the tension, before whispering, “Then you’ve already lost her.”

That was when Bob snapped.

The chair beneath his hands groaned as his grip tightened, wood splintering under his fingers. His eyes burned molten gold, not flickering this time but steady, dangerous, searing through the screen.

His voice came low, rumbling like thunder caged in his chest. “Don’t you dare speak about her like that. She’s alive. And I’m going to bring her back.”

Just as Yelena feels like she may need to step in, he turns his gaze meeting hers and she sees there that he has this under control. She can’t help the grin that creeps across her face and she places a grounding hand on his arm.

“You all seem to love playing with fire.” Valentina’s tone was clipped, cold, her gaze cutting across them one by one.

For a moment, everything held still. The air itself seemed to wait.

“Tell us where you sent her.” Yelena’s voice was a blade through grinning teeth, honed sharp, leaving no room for argument.

The jungle had been brutal. But this room was worse.

It smelled of roses and bleach.

And outside the window, the city glittered on, indifferent. Like monsters didn’t wear heels and perfume. Like they didn’t smile while your sister bled somewhere in the dark.

●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●

Notes:

A/N:I am super sorry if this chapter is a mess and is repetitive I had a really hard time writing this chapter. Maybe because I don’t have Seven to lean on or the change into messy team dynamic but still super support. Sorry this took so long I got covid from Atta Boy and it's been kicking my butt. Get ready for some fun comic book abilities that bob will explore when they come for Seven....

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Silhouette