Welcome to my little Marvel blog! My requests are open. A request doesn’t guarantee it will be written, but I’ll do my best.
Genre: Fluff, angst, hurt, comfort, romance, platonic, family dynamic.
Characters: Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, Yelena Belova, Carol Danvers, Kate Bishop, Maria Hill, Bucky Barnes, Thor, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Pepper Potts, Robert Reynolds, Red Guardian, Ghost, John Walker.
This is a safe space and my PMs are open. Happy Reading!
Summary: In the ashes of Metz, 1944, survival feels like a hollow victory. The medic tent is gone, the battlefield is still smoking, and all that remains is you. When Bucky finds you in the wreckage, the relief in his eyes says everything words can’t. In the quiet after chaos, the two of you cling to what’s real: breath, heartbeat, promise. He wants peace. You want forever. Together, you vow to survive.
Genre: Light romance with a touch of fluff, set against a canon-typical WWII backdrop. Includes military life, mild language, and period-accurate dialogue and gender roles.
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female reader.
Word Count: 2.9k.
A/N: We've come to end of this 1940's Bucky Barnes mini series. I hope you enjoyed it. As mentioned before, it was based on a true story. I enjoyed bringing it to life with everyone's favorite Winter Soldier.
Trigger Warning: War, explosions, etc.
The Last Out Masterlist
October 22, 1944 – Dusk
Somewhere outside Metz, France
The medic tent had been destroyed. What was left of it now hung like torn sailcloth in the dying light. The battle had rolled through like a wave and left everything twisted and smoking in its wake.
You sat against a half-crushed supply crate, arms wrapped around your knees, uniform stiff with dried blood; some of it yours, some not. You weren’t crying. Not yet. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a strange kind of emptiness. Your ears still rang, and the world felt like it had been muted.
Across from you, Bucky stood in the mud. Silent. Soaked through. Staring at you like he didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.
And maybe he didn’t.
He finally moved, boots crunching against broken earth, and knelt beside you. His rifle was gone. His helmet too. He didn’t need either of them right now.
“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper.
You looked at him. Really looked. Mud streaked across his cheek. A shallow cut at his temple. His hands shaking so badly, he had to clench them into fists to hide it.
“I thought I lost you,” he said.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just raw.
You didn’t answer. You just leaned forward, pressed your forehead against his chest, and listened to the uneven rhythm of his breathing. He let out a breath that sounded half like a sob and wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“I saw the blast, I thought…” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I thought they were gonna pull me off your body.”
“I was okay,” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “I was lucky.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were bloodshot. There was nothing left of the confident, grinning boy in the box seat at the ball game. This was the soldier.
The man who’d seen too much.
“I can’t lose you,” he said. “I won’t.”
You touched his face, gently wiping at the dirt smudged across his cheek. “You didn’t. I’m right here.”
He nodded like he wanted to believe it but didn’t quite. Like part of him hadn’t come back from that field.
“I kept thinking,” he said, voice shaking, “about how we joked… about coffee. About the curtains. About all the stupid, normal things.”
You smiled faintly. “They didn’t feel stupid to me.”
He exhaled hard through his nose and pressed his forehead to yours.
“
I was so scared,” he whispered.
You hadn’t realized until that moment how tightly you’d been holding yourself together.
But hearing him say it and seeing him let himself say it, split something inside you wide open.
You started crying.
Not loud. Not messy. Just silent tears, hot against your skin. His arms tightened around you, and you let yourself fall into them, breathing in the smell of smoke and rain and the scent that was just Bucky underneath it all.
“We made it through this one,” you said quietly, when the storm of feeling finally started to ebb. “That’s all we can ask for.”
He kissed the top of your head. “No. I want more than that.”
You blinked up at him.
“I want peace,” he said, voice steady now. “I want mornings. And quiet. And you reading the damn paper in your bathrobe while I burn the eggs. I want you to keep those tags because I’m gonna come home and ask for ‘em back.”
You looked down at your hands, still clutching the spare dog tags he’d given you before deployment.
“I don’t want this war to be the only thing we ever share,” he added. “I want more.”
You looked up at him through tear-blurred vision. “Then let’s survive it.”
His jaw flexed, and he nodded. “We survive. Together.”
October 30, 1945 – A small apartment in Brooklyn, New York.
(Six months later)
The small apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like it had swallowed the world outside. The walls were bare, save for a few framed photos, and the faint hum of a radio filled the space as you moved through the room, tidying up for the umpteenth time. The letter from your mother was in your hands again, the one you had received weeks ago with Bucky’s name still scrawled in ink at the top, but no sign of him on the other end.
It was a life you hadn’t expected. A quiet one, filled with unanswered questions and lingering hope, just as your life in the tent had been. But now, everything was different. It was supposed to be over. But the war, it seemed, never really left you.
You folded the letter in your hands and turned to the window. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the city, the same light that had once filtered into the medical tent as you held Bucky’s dog tags close to your chest.
Just then, the door opened with a soft creak. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.
“Hey,” his voice was soft, worn, but there.
You turned, your heart skipping. Bucky stood there in the doorway, no longer the soldier he had once been. He was a man now. The jacket he wore hung loosely from his shoulders, and there was a quiet weariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, but there was also something else: relief. He was home.
“Bucky...” You whispered, unable to speak any louder as you took a step toward him.
He dropped his bag with a soft thud and met you halfway, the same warmth you had once felt now flooding your chest as he pulled you into his arms. Neither of you said anything for a long moment. You just held onto each other, breathing in the same air you had dreamed about for so long.
“I made it,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m here.”
You closed your eyes, fingers tracing the outline of his back. “I knew you would.”
He pulled back slightly, enough to catch your gaze, and there was that old, familiar grin—a little slower, a little softer than before, but still there. “It’s been a hell of a year.”
“Hell of a few years.” You laughed softly, brushing away the stray tear that had escaped despite yourself.
“I missed you,” he said simply. “I missed us.”
You smiled, your chest tight with the truth of his words. “I’ve been waiting.”
“For me?”
“Always for you.”
He let out a shaky breath, then kissed you, gentle and deep. The world around you felt less empty, less uncertain, with him here. It was a promise. A promise that, no matter what, you had made it through. Together.
One Month Later – A Sunday Morning
The light filtered softly through the windows as you sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug in hand, glancing over the newspaper. It wasn’t the first Sunday morning you had spent in this apartment, but it felt like the first real one.
Bucky came into the room, freshly showered, wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants that still smelled faintly of the outdoors. He rubbed his hand through his hair, a smile tugging at his lips when he saw you sipping your coffee.
“Good morning,” he said, voice low with sleep.
You smiled up at him. “Morning.”
He paused next to the table, hands resting on the back of a chair. “You know… I never thought I’d miss this much.”
“Miss what?”
He nodded toward the paper. “The quiet. The mornings. The normal stuff. You and me... arguing about stupid things, arguing over coffee, all the little things that felt so important back then.” His voice softened. “But this… this feels right.”
You set your coffee mug down carefully and stood, walking toward him. “You know what they say about the best mornings, right?”
“Hmm?”
“They’re the ones where the only thing you can hear is the other person’s heartbeat.”
He raised an eyebrow at you, a playful glint in his eyes. “Really?”
You nodded. “And a lot of coffee.”
Bucky chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. “I think I’m gonna need more coffee.”
looked at you.
“I think it’s about time we start planning our own trip, huh?” he said, his voice full of warmth, like he was only just starting to dream again.
“Where to?”
He grinned, and it was like the old, cocky Bucky was back. “I’m thinking somewhere with a good ballpark. A place with no explosions.”
You laughed softly, nodding. “I like the sound of that.”
And as the room filled with light, the noise of the world outside finally started to fade away—like the war had never been.
You and Bucky were finally home.
Five Years Later
The apartment was quiet, save for the soft clinking of dishes from the kitchen. Bucky was humming to himself as he flipped pancakes, his sleeves rolled up, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. You sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee that had gone cold. The sun had barely crept over the horizon, painting the apartment in a warm, golden glow.
Your gaze drifted over to the shelf across the room. It was tucked between a stack of books—a slightly battered program from the World Series. The program Bucky had bought for you at that game.
You hadn’t meant to forget about it. Life after the war had swept you both up in its quiet joys. But there it was, a small piece of the past, still tucked away in the corner of the room.
You set your coffee down and walked over to the shelf. The edges of the program had curled slightly from age, the paper worn from time and time again being handled, but the ink inside was still clear. You unfolded it, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you read the note Bucky had written, tucked neatly inside:
This seat reserved for my lucky charm.
– J. B.
A lump formed in your throat. The memory of that game, of sitting beside him in that velvet box with the sun warming the air, the crowd’s cheers rising around you, the sense of something simple and good in a world that had felt too dark for too long. You could almost hear his voice, that excited edge to it when he leaned over and asked, “Can you believe this?”
You stood there for a moment, letting the memory wrap around you like the warmth of the sun that day. But then, with a soft breath, you tucked the program into your hand and walked back to the kitchen, finding Bucky still lost in the rhythm of breakfast.
You placed the program on the counter beside him.
“Still holding onto that thing, huh?” Bucky asked with a teasing smile, glancing up as he flipped another pancake.
You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “I’m not ready to let go of the good stuff yet.”
He looked at the program, a quiet understanding passing through his gaze.
For a moment, it was like time rewound—back to that day in St. Louis. The excitement of the game, the possibility of the future. And the feeling of something pure between you.
Bucky set the spatula down and reached for the program, his fingers tracing the note inside. There was something in his eyes, something softer, as if he was remembering the same thing.
“You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I still can’t believe we were there. Together... back when everything seemed like it was about more than just surviving. Like we could actually get through it.”
You smiled, feeling your chest tighten a little. “We’re still getting through it.”
Bucky smiled, that same grin you’d fallen in love with, and reached for your hand. “Yeah. We are. And we’ll keep doing it. Together.”
The world had changed, but there were moments that remained untouched by the chaos. And those were the moments you clung to, like the program from the game, and the promise in Bucky’s words.
You looked down at your hand in his, and your eyes flickered back to the program.
“You still think I’m your lucky charm?”
His thumb gently traced the back of your hand, a playful glint in his eyes. “I don’t just think it. I know it.”
You both laughed then, the sound of it easy, comfortable, like it belonged.
And just like that, the war, the uncertainty, the past, all faded into the background. In this moment, it was just the two of you, the world outside still waiting. But for now, you had your own small piece of peace. The program was a reminder of what you’d been through, but also of what was to come. A future that was no longer uncertain.
Bucky leaned in then, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You know, I think you really are my lucky charm.”
You smiled, letting his words settle deep inside you. “Well, you are mine.”
And with that, everything else could wait. The future was already being built, one quiet Sunday morning at a time.
Summary: In a war that never seems to end, you finds moments of hope and heartbreak in the mud-soaked trenches of the frontline. The rain never stops, the wounded never stop coming, and neither does Bucky. Haunted, hardened, but always returning to you. As rumors of a final German push swirl and the silence before the storm grows unbearable, a bond forged in blood and battlefield becomes your only anchor. But war doesn’t wait for love.
Genre: Light romance with a touch of fluff, set against a canon-typical WWII backdrop. Includes military life, mild language, and period-accurate dialogue and gender roles.
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female reader.
Word Count: 1.2k.
A/N: Part 4! I hope you like it.
Trigger Warning: War, explosions, etc.
The Last Out Masterlist
October 22, 1944 – The Frontline, Somewhere in France
The rain hadn’t stopped. It had soaked through your jacket, plastered your hair to your forehead, and turned the once-pristine white of your bandages into a muddy brown. Yet, despite the cold and the damp, you kept moving, boots squelching in the muck, your mind too occupied with the rhythmic pulse of adrenaline to notice the chill.
The field hospital had set up in a dense cluster of trees, just a few hundred yards behind the advancing line. Your job was to wait for casualties. Wounded soldiers to patch up, heal, and send back to the front. But tonight, it was quiet. Too quiet.
You moved through the muddy camp, checking on the other medics, trying to keep your mind off what was coming.
Then, from the tree-line, you heard the unmistakable sound of boots in the mud.
You didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Bucky.
He was drenched—again. His face was hard with the strain of what he'd seen, but his eyes softened when they found you, and despite the grim situation, you couldn't help but feel the pull of that familiar, comforting smile.
"Don't even say it," you said, cutting him off before he could speak.
Bucky raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Say what?"
You just shook your head and turned back toward the tents, walking quickly to avoid the mess of emotions threatening to flood in.
"You’re soaked again. I thought you were supposed to be tougher than that?"
He caught up with you in two strides, reaching out to tap you on the shoulder.
“We’ve got bigger problems than me getting wet,” he muttered. “You okay?”
You nodded, but the words didn’t feel right. "We're all okay... for now."
The camp was on edge, everyone tense and waiting. You’d heard rumors that the push was imminent. That today, or tomorrow, the Germans would be advancing. You didn’t want to think about it, but you knew it was only a matter of time.
Before you could respond, a sharp crack split the air, followed by a muffled explosion in the distance. You flinched, heart pounding in your chest.
“That’s our cue,” Bucky said grimly. “Get ready.”
You quickly moved to gather your supplies, grabbing bandages and morphine, but there was no need for words. The familiarity of these moments—the rush, the fear, the stoic determination—had become almost second nature.
Later That Day – The Frontline
The distant echoes of gunfire mixed with the sharp crack of artillery as you followed Bucky, Steve, and the rest of the unit through the rain-slicked mud. The soldiers were tight-lipped, moving with practiced efficiency, but there was an underlying current of unease.
Bucky was at the front of the group, his eyes scanning the horizon, rifle ready. Steve followed close behind, keeping an eye on the soldiers flanking them. You walked behind, staying low, your heart hammering in your chest.
"You still got that letter?" Bucky called over his shoulder, his voice a low murmur.
You nodded, hand brushing the dog tags in your pocket. "Yeah."
He glanced back briefly. “Good. Just wanted to make sure.”
"Don’t talk like that," you warned, trying to keep your voice steady.
"I’m not trying to be dramatic," Bucky said, his tone light, but there was a quiet sincerity behind it. "I just want you to know that if—"
"Don’t finish that sentence."
He smiled, that boyish grin that always made your stomach twist. “I’ll be fine.”
The air was thick with tension as you approached a ridge overlooking a small village, enemy forces rumored to be holed up in the buildings. You knew this was where the real danger started, the moment when a single misstep could cost a life. But you were a medic, not a soldier. And that meant staying out of the way when you weren’t needed—and jumping into action the second you were.
Bucky took point, and as you followed, your mind flickered back to the moments in the medical tent. The way he held your hand, the whispered promises of a future. But you couldn’t afford to dwell on those things now. The war had a way of turning everything into fleeting memories, and you weren’t about to make one of those memories his last.
As the unit moved into position, there was a sudden burst of gunfire. The world seemed to slow down, your heart skipping a beat. Bucky dove behind cover, Steve close behind.
“Medic!” a soldier shouted, and your instincts kicked in immediately. You rushed forward, the chaos of the battlefield all around you.
It was a blur with soldiers shouting, rounds flying, mud flying in every direction. But you found your footing, pulling a soldier behind cover just in time. There was a flash of motion to your left, and when you turned,
Bucky was crouched low, motioning for you to stay put.
For a split second, everything seemed to freeze except for the distant sound of an artillery shell coming in too close. A split second of clarity, where everything felt too real.
And then the world exploded.
You woke to the sound of ringing in your ears and the acrid scent of smoke. Your vision was blurry, but there was something, someone, next to you.
Bucky. His hand was on your arm, his face streaked with dirt, but his eyes were wide with panic.
“Hey. Hey, stay with me.”
You coughed, pushing through the fog. "Bucky...?"
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he whispered, voice hoarse. "We’re okay. Just stay with me."
You tried to smile. “I... I never thought we would be the ones to make it out.”
He let out a shaky laugh. "Guess we make our own luck, huh?"
The battle was over. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the damage had been done. Casualties littered the field. And you weren’t sure what the future held anymore.
But in this moment, all you could think about was him. You’d made it this far together. And you’d find a way to make it through what was left.
Summary: October 1944. France. The war grinds on, but inside the canvas walls of an army medical tent, something fragile and defiant love in wartime endures. As rumors of a final push ripple through the base, Bucky Barnes and the reader grasp at moments of stolen peace, old ballgames, and quiet promises. Letters are written, dog tags are shared, and the rain keeps falling. This isn't a goodbye. It's just a rain delay.
Genre: Light romance with a touch of fluff, set against a canon-typical WWII backdrop. Includes military life, 1940s baseball references, mild language, and period-accurate dialogue and gender roles.
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female reader. Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter.
Word Count: 1.4k
A/N: Part 3! I hope you enjoy.
The Last Out Masterlist
October 15, 1944 – Army Base, Somewhere in France
Rain fell in sheets against the canvas tent, turning the camp road into a slurry of mud and churned bootprints. The war had returned in full, pressing on like an old ache; dull and constant. But inside the medical tent, the scent of coffee and iodine still mingled, and the cot you sat on creaked with every shift of your weight.
You were writing by lantern light, your pen scratching slow words into a folded piece of Red Cross stationery.
Dear Mom, I saw a World Series game last week. Never thought I’d write that from over here. The Browns lost, but it didn’t feel like losing…
You hesitated, smiling faintly. Your hand drifted over the edge of the paper.
“Hey,” came a familiar voice, but lower now, more tired.
You turned. Bucky stood in the entrance, soaked to the bone, helmet tucked under one arm, a letter clutched in the other.
You rose quickly. “You’re drenched!”
“I’m fine,” he said with a tired grin. “Heard you got a package. Figured you might have some chocolate left.”
You gestured to the crate beside your cot. “Only if you want it with stale biscuits and dried peaches.”
“War delicacies,” he muttered, peeling off his jacket and sitting heavily beside you.
For a long moment, the two of you just sat in the dim tent, the storm muffling the world outside.
“I got a letter from my uncle,” Bucky said, tapping the envelope. “He slipped a box score inside. Browns lost the Series in six.”
You glanced over. “Still a hell of a run.”
He nodded. “He said he saw me on the newsreel. Apparently, we made quite the couple.”
You felt warmth creep into your cheeks. “Well, we were well-dressed.”
Bucky’s eyes searched your face, lingering there. He looked different now. Not just older, but quieter. Something inside him was folding inward.
“I keep thinking about that day,” he murmured. “The sun. The way you laughed when I spilled mustard on my tie. The smell of peanuts.”
You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “I think about it too.”
He looked down at your joined hands. “I don’t know what’s coming next. Orders are shifting. Rumors of another push. Steve’s been called into strategy briefings. It’s... speeding up.”
You nodded, heart sinking a little.
“I wrote you a letter,” he said suddenly.
Your eyes widened. “You… wrote me a letter? While sitting next to me?”
He laughed softly. “Just in case. You know. If I… If something happens.”
You shook your head. “Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just… I need to know you’d have something. Something real. Something that tells you—”
You pressed a finger to his lips. “You’re not going anywhere, Bucky Barnes.”
He kissed your fingertips, then leaned his forehead against yours.
“I want a life after this,” he whispered. “I want coffee in the morning. I want Sunday ball games and bad radio plays. I want… hell, I want to argue about curtains with you.”
You smiled through the sting behind your eyes.
“Then we make it back. Both of us. Together.”
Outside, the thunder rolled low across the hills.
October 17, 1944 – Steve’s Tent
Steve sat hunched over a map, rainwater dripping from the brim of his cap. Peggy entered silently, carrying a file and a thermos.
“You’re being summoned,” she said. “Reassignment to the 107th. Advance line.”
Steve glanced up. “Bucky’s unit.”
She nodded. “He won’t like it. He’ll want to keep you out of the mud.”
“He can’t protect me forever.”
Peggy crossed her arms. “No, but he’ll try. And so will she.”
Steve gave a small, knowing smile. “They’re good together.”
“They deserve peace,” Peggy said softly.
Steve’s eyes hardened. “We all do.”
October 21, 1944 – Dawn Deployment
The convoy was being loaded. You stood near the edge of the field hospital, your kit bag at your feet. Bucky approached in full gear, rifle slung, boots caked in morning frost.
“This is it,” he said, stopping inches from you.
You nodded. “I’ll be right behind you. Triage unit’s deploying with the second column.”
He stared at you, jaw tight, hands twitching like he wanted to grab you and run.
“I’ll write you,” you whispered.
“Not good enough,” he said, pulling something from his coat.
Dog tags. His spare set.
You looked down at them, heart thudding.
“They’re yours now. Just until I get back. So you know I meant it.”
You looked up at him. “Meant what?”
“That if the world gives us a second chance—” His voice cracked. “—I’m not wasting it.”
Then the order came: “LOAD UP!”
He kissed you then — fierce and brief — and pulled away before it could last.
And just like that, he was gone into the fog.
[Epilogue: One Week Later – A Field Letter]
Delivered via courier, sealed and smudged with ash.
Sweetheart,
If you’re reading this, it means I haven’t had a chance to come back yet. But don’t worry. I will. I always do. Tell Steve not to do anything stupid. Tell Peggy I owe her a drink. Tell the Browns I believed in them before anyone did. But mostly, tell yourself this isn’t goodbye. It’s just a rain delay.
Yours,
—Bucky
You folded the letter against your chest and stared out at the distant ridge, waiting for the sun to rise.
Summary: During the 1944 World Series, Bucky brings you to your first big-league game. A rare break from the war and a chance at something more. Win or lose, the game might not be the most important thing you walk away with.
Genre: Light romance with a touch of fluff, set against a canon-typical WWII backdrop. Includes military life, 1940s baseball references, mild language, and period-accurate dialogue and gender roles.
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter
Word Count: 1.5k
Warnings: Mentions of military life, WWII.
A/N: Here is Part 2. I hope you're enjoying this little story!
The Last Out Masterlist
St. Louis, Missouri – October 4, 1944
Game 1, World Series – Sportsman's Park
The noise was overwhelming. Alive, relentless, like thunder bottled in a stadium. The second you settled into your velvet box seat, the crowd erupted, horns blaring, flags snapping in the crisp autumn wind, grown men hugging strangers as though blood kin. You could smell roasted peanuts, cigar smoke, and spilled beer mingling with the faint sweetness of cotton candy. The St. Louis Browns—baseball’s perennial punchline—were here in the World Series for the first time in the team’s forty-year history. Underdogs among underdogs. And you were here to witness it.
Next to you, Bucky practically glowed.
He’d traded his uniform for a brown tweed jacket and a tilted fedora that couldn’t quite mask the boyish excitement radiating off him. He looked like he belonged in the pages of Life Magazine, all movie-star smile and unguarded joy, as though the war had been peeled back for one stolen afternoon.
“Can you believe this?” he shouted, his voice half-swallowed by the crowd’s roar.
You grinned, shaking your head. “Not even a little!”
He leaned closer, the brim of his hat brushing yours. “Remind me to thank my uncle for being born into baseball royalty.”
You laughed, stealing a glance around. From your vantage behind first base, the park stretched wide and golden beneath the October sun. Soldiers on leave dotted the stands, many still in partial uniform. Wool coats with missing buttons, caps pushed back on sweat-matted hair. A boy sat on his father’s shoulders a few rows down, waving a hand-painted sign with uneven letters: We Believe in the Browns!
“You ever been to a game before?” Bucky asked.
“Only sandlot games. My brothers played,” you said, watching the players jog onto the field, the crack of a bat echoing like a gunshot. “But nothing like this.”
“Then I’m honored to be your first,” he replied with a wink.
You rolled your eyes, but your heart still skipped, quick and traitorous.
Top of the Third Inning
As the game settled into rhythm, Bucky revealed he knew nearly every stat about every man on the field.
“You see that guy on second base? Don Gutteridge. Fastest feet in the American League. If he sees even a whiff of a bad throw, he’s gone.”
“And you know this because…?”
“Because baseball is my second religion,” he said, grinning. “After apple pie.”
You raised a brow. “What about Catholicism?”
He leaned back with mock solemnity. “Third.”
The crowd roared as a double cracked into left field. The whole park seemed to sway with the noise, a chorus of hope and heartbreak suspended on every pitch.
Meanwhile – Outside the Park
Across the street, the muffled thunder of the crowd seeped through brick walls. Steve and Peggy leaned against the side of a corner building, their shadows long in the afternoon light.
“I can’t believe he actually managed to swing the leave,” Steve said, squinting toward the teeming stadium.
Peggy smirked, arms folded tight against the October chill. “Bucky Barnes could charm a general out of his stars if he put his mind to it.”
Steve snorted. “You should’ve seen him back in Brooklyn. Ran the boardwalk like a king. And now he’s bringing baseball tickets to impress a nurse.”
Peggy’s smile softened, her voice quieter. “Do you think she’ll go for it?”
Steve shrugged, faint amusement in his eyes. “If she doesn’t, she’s got more self-control than any of us ever had.”
Seventh Inning Stretch – Box Seats
The organ wheezed to life, belting out “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” The entire stadium rose, voices ragged but spirited, beer sloshing from paper cups, mustard dripping from hot dogs clutched in calloused hands. Bucky stood beside you, singing off-key with unashamed gusto, grin wide and crooked.
When the last note faded and the park resettled, Bucky leaned against the railing, voice low enough that only you could hear.
“I know this isn’t Paris,” he said softly. “And I know the world’s still burning at the edges…”
Your chest tightened, the weight of his tone pulling you out of the carnival of sound.
“…but I wanted you to have this.”
From his coat pocket he pulled a folded program. Inside, in neat pencil, were the words:
This seat reserved for my lucky charm.
– J. B.
Your breath caught. “Bucky…”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he rushed on. “I know it’s just a game. But I haven’t had something to look forward to in a long time. Then you showed up in that infirmary with that stubborn look and your terrible handwriting…”
You laughed despite the knot in your throat.
“…and suddenly I wanted the war to end just so I could find out how you take your coffee when the sun’s out.”
The noise of the park dimmed, as though the crowd had dropped away.
“I take it black,” you whispered.
His smile softened, slow and genuine. “Good. Saves me the trouble.”
Maybe it was the war. Maybe it was the game. Maybe it was the fragile hope stitched into every cheer and every sigh. But you kissed him. Just a quick press of lips, almost lost in the noise.
His hand cupped your cheek, tentative but steady, like he wanted to brand the memory into existence before the world stole it back.
When you drew away, his eyes still held that same unshakable smile.
“Don’t tell Steve,” you said.
“Oh, he already knows,” Bucky replied. “Bet you anything he’s taking notes.”
Bottom of the Ninth – Final Play
The Browns had fought hard, but the Cardinals were iron. The score sat 2–1, Cards.
A hush rippled through the park, as though all of St. Louis held its breath at once. Flags stilled, voices dropped, and the October air sharpened.
Bucky reached for your hand, his palm warm, steady.
The pitch came in—searing, unrelenting—
Strike three.
Game over.
Groans, sighs, the deflated silence of sixty thousand voices at once. The Cardinals had taken Game 1.
But Bucky didn’t scowl or curse. He leaned close, whispering against the noise, “Still worth every second.”
You squeezed his hand, eyes fixed on the diamond glinting under the stadium lights. “There’s still Game 2.”
Summary: Based on a true story. Amid the grit and chaos of an army camp in the autumn of 1944, Sergeant Bucky Barnes is clinging to a sliver of hope—his team might finally make it to the World Series. But getting there means charm, luck, and maybe a little help from the nurse who’s been haunting his thoughts more than he’d ever admit. As the radio crackles with the fate of a baseball team, hearts hang in the balance too. Duty, desire, and destiny collide in a story where even in wartime, a swing for the fences might just change everything.
Genre: Light romance with a touch of fluff, set against a canon-typical WWII backdrop. Includes military life, 1940s baseball references, mild language, and period-accurate dialogue and gender roles.
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Steve Rogers x Peggy Carter
Word Count: 1,180
Warnings: Mentions of military life, WWII.
A/N: Hi there! Welcome to Part 1 of a Bucky Barnes x female reader mini-series. This story will unfold over 6 parts, and I’m so excited to take you along for the ride. Thanks for reading. I can’t wait to hear what you think!
The Last Out Masterlist
The canvas tent flaps snapped in the cool autumn wind as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes paced just outside the mess tent. His boots kicked up dry leaves along the path, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his fatigues, and his eyes darting between his watch and the barracks. A cigarette dangled unlit between his lips.
"You're gonna burn a hole in the dirt if you keep pacing like that, Buck," came a voice from behind.
Steve Rogers emerged from the shadows of the barracks, shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms dirty with grease. He'd been helping fix one of the trucks. Again.
"I thought you were busy playing grease monkey," Bucky grumbled, still pacing.
"I was. But word travels fast. You’ve been talkin’ up this game all week." Steve leaned against a support post, arms crossed.
“What's got you so wound up this time?"
Bucky stopped pacing long enough to yank the cigarette from his mouth and jab it toward Steve.
"You remember my Uncle Pete? Principal owner of the Browns? Well, if they win today, they're going to the Series. First time ever. And if they do, he’s got a box with my name on it." He flashed a hopeful grin. "But only if I can get leave."
Steve arched an eyebrow. "And when, exactly, were you planning on asking the Colonel?"
"I’m working up to it, alright?" Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I was gonna try after dinner. I figure if I soften him up with pie and charm…”
Steve chuckled. "You mean, the same charm you’ve been using on that nurse from D Ward?"
At that, Bucky’s smirk deepened. "Wouldn’t hurt to have someone to take to the game, would it?"
Later That Afternoon – Medical Tent
You stood at the sink, hands red from scrubbing. The scent of antiseptic hung thick in the air. Across the tent, Peggy Carter leaned against the doorframe, sipping from a chipped coffee mug and watching you with mild amusement.
“You know, you’ve washed those same forceps three times now.”
You glanced up, blinking. “Have I?”
Peggy walked over and set the mug down beside you. “You’re distracted.”
“Am I?”
“Mm-hmm.” She tilted her head knowingly.
“Does this have anything to do with a certain Sergeant Barnes, who’s been hanging around like a stray dog near the infirmary all week?”
You laughed softly, brushing a damp curl from your cheek. “He’s... persistent.”
“Charming,” Peggy added. “And cocky.”
Well, yes. But in a sort of... baseball-playing, war hero, good-hair sort of way.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile. “Did you know he’s trying to get leave to go see the World Series?”
“I did. He mentioned it to me when I passed him earlier. Something about box seats and fate and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
She nudged you gently. “If he asks you to go, you should say yes.”
You arched a brow. “Are you encouraging fraternization, Agent Carter?”
Peggy gave a sly smile. “Let’s just say there are worse ways to spend a weekend than watching America’s favorite pastime with a man who looks like that.”
Evening – Officer’s Mess
The mess hall buzzed with low conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, and the faint sounds of a radio crackling with the last score updates from Detroit. Bucky sat two seats away from the Colonel, nursing a mug of coffee like it was fine whiskey. Steve sat opposite him, chewing silently.
Bucky leaned in. “Colonel?”
The man glanced up, one brow raised.
“I was wondering, sir, if—should circumstances align favorably—there might be a chance at a short leave of absence. Just a day or two. You see, the Browns—my uncle’s team—might make the World Series. Never happened before.”
“You asking for leave to go watch baseball, Barnes?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Colonel’s expression was unreadable. “Depends. They win?”
Bucky grinned, nearly tipping his coffee. “Detroit lost today. If the Browns pull it off, they take the pennant.”
The Colonel shook his head, muttering something about baseball madness, but there was the ghost of a smirk on his lips.
“If they win, and only if, then I’ll consider it.”
“Yes, sir,” Bucky said, grinning ear to ear.
Later That Night – Outside the Medical Tent
You stepped out into the crisp night air, arms wrapped around yourself. The moon hung low and pale over the treetops. Bucky stood a few feet away, hands jammed in his jacket pockets.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You nodded. “Hey.”
He took a few steps closer, the gravel crunching underfoot.
“I was thinking,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I do get leave, and if the Browns win… how’d you feel about coming with me to St. Louis?”
Your brows lifted. “To the World Series?”
“To a box seat at the World Series,” he clarified, a bit smugly.
You tilted your head. “You asking because you like me? Or because you think I’ll bring you good luck?”
He laughed. “Can’t it be both?”
You pretended to consider it, then gave a soft chuckle. “If you get the leave, and if the Browns win, I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast,” he said, stepping in closer, voice lower. “Game’s tomorrow.”
“And if they lose?” you asked.
He grinned. “Then I’m stuck here with the prettiest nurse on base. Doesn’t sound like losing to me.”
You rolled your eyes, heart fluttering.
The Next Day – Camp Radio Station
A crowd had gathered around the radio, soldiers elbow to elbow as the game played over the crackling speakers.
Bucky leaned close to Steve. “Top of the ninth, tied up. Come on, Browns…”
You stood just behind them, watching him with amusement. His whole body tensed with every pitch, every swing.
Then—
"And that’s it! The St. Louis Browns win it! 5–2! For the first time in franchise history, they’re headed to the World Series!"
The room exploded in cheers. Bucky spun around, locking eyes with you. “You better start packing,” he said, breathless. “We’re goin’ to St. Louis.”
You laughed as he swept you into an impulsive hug, the two of you spinning in a whirlwind of celebration, the camp fading around you like a dream.
A week later, October 1944 – St. Louis, Missouri
The crowd roared in the distance as you stepped into the sunlit box, hand tucked in Bucky’s arm. He looked dashing in civilian clothes, hair slicked back, smile wide as the outfield.
“Good view, huh?” he asked.
You smiled. “Best seat in the house.”
He handed you a program and a hot dog.
“To firsts,” he said.
“To firsts,” you echoed.
And as the first pitch flew across the plate, the war and worry drifted away for a little while.
Summary: Based on a true story. Amid the grit and chaos of an army camp in the autumn of 1944, Sergeant Bucky Barnes is clinging to a sliver of hope—his team might finally make it to the World Series. But getting there means charm, luck, and maybe a little help from the nurse who’s been haunting his thoughts more than he’d ever admit. As the radio crackles with the fate of a baseball team, hearts hang in the balance too. Duty, desire, and destiny collide in a story where even in wartime, a swing for the fences might just change everything.
Summary: The rebuilding of The Candy Bar is underway. Meanwhile, the Dark Hold's call to Wanda is getting louder.
Warnings: Hearing voices, flashbacks.
Word Count: 2.8k
A/N: I'm back! Sorry this took so long. Flashbacks and the Dark Hold speaking to Wanda are in italics.
Guardian Angel Masterlist
The Candy Bar smelled like caramel again. Not the heavy, syrupy scent of a full day’s production, but the lighter, hopeful one of a space slowly coming back to life. New shelving leaned against the wall, boxes of glass jars waited to be unpacked, and your notepad was crammed with lists: paint colors, equipment costs, floor tile samples.
Christmas and the New Year had come and gone in a blur. Truthfully, you would have missed the holiday entirely if it hadn't been for Billy and Tommy forcing you to put your phone down as they savored the remaining days of the holiday break. But you couldn't focus. You were knee-deep in rebuilding the shop.
Tony’s generous check had made the rebuild possible, but it also came with an unspoken weight. It wasn’t just money but a trust; you were determined not to waste a cent.
Luckily, Pepper had swooped in as your unofficial project manager. That morning, she’d shown up with a latte in one hand and a folder of swatches in the other.
“Alright,” she’d said, fanning four paint samples across the counter. “Pick one that says ‘fun, welcoming, and makes people buy way too much candy.’”
“Pepper, I don't want you to waste your whole day,” you said.
“Please,” she’d said with a smile. “If I can negotiate Stark Industries’ clean energy contracts, I can help you choose flooring without breaking a sweat.”
By noon, you’d picked a warm cream for the walls, a baby-blue tile for the floor, and agreed on a shiny new soda fountain, twice as big as the one you had before. But even with her help, the pressure gnawed at you. Every choice felt permanent, like a test you couldn’t afford to fail.
Wanda joined you whenever she could, helping you shift boxes and unpack jars. At least, that’s what it looked like. Her hands moved automatically, but her eyes darted toward the front windows like she was expecting something, or someone. You chalked it up to stress. After all, reopening a business was exhausting, and you both carried the memory of the fire. The trauma of the night you thought you or the boys might not survive. You didn’t see the tension in her jaw or how she kept pressing her fingers against her temple, as if to block out a sound no one else could hear.
The voice that first whispered to her in the family room a few months ago hadn’t faded; it had only grown louder, more insistent. She knew she should have confided in you. There were countless moments when the words hovered beneath the surface, yet somehow remained lodged in her throat.
“Could you pass me that ledger, Wanda?” Pepper asked, her eyes glued to your financial records.
When the redhead didn’t reply, Pepper glanced up, concern flickering across her face. “Wanda?”
Startled, Wanda shook herself out of her daze. “What? Oh, I’m so sorry! Here,” she murmured, extending the heavy book towards Pepper.
You appeared beside her. “Hey, are you alright?” you asked softly, gently rubbing her back.
Wanda took a deep breath, allowing a small, weary smile to form. “Yeah… just feeling a bit tired, that’s all,” she fibbed, her voice barely above a whisper.
You had been nothing but accepting of her complexities of being in a relationship with Wanda Maximoff. You embraced the chaos of co-parenting two lively eleven-year-olds, accepted the tumult that often accompanied being with someone who risked their life to save people for a living, navigated the unpredictable nature of her magic, but hearing a voice? That was a boundary she couldn’t bring herself to cross.
Billy and Tommy were hunched over the work table in the back room, half-finished homework sheets scattered between their elbows. You’d set them up there so you could keep an eye on them while Harper unpacked boxes.
*^~^*
Half a world away, in a marble-walled conference room in Prague, your parents sat across from two stone-faced men in tailored suits—representatives from Onyx Petroleum’s “international development” wing.
Y/M/N slid a glossy folder across the table. “We’ve confirmed the readings. Vibranium deposits large enough to destabilize the market for decades, sitting untouched beneath the Sokovian shelf.”
Y/F/N leaned forward, steepling his fingers.
“The obstacle, as you’re aware, is extraction. The depth alone is a nightmare, and standard drilling rigs won’t survive the seismic shifts. But with the right power source—”
“—or the right wielder,” his wife finished smoothly, a faint smile playing at her lips.
One of the men arched a brow. “You mean the witch.”
“She prefers ‘Wanda Maximoff,’” your mother said, her tone almost mocking. “And yes. She is Sokovian, powerful, and thanks to recent… incidents, she is vulnerable. She’ll need convincing, but once we have her, she’ll open the way to the Vibranium for us.”
“And how exactly do you plan to ‘convince’ her?” the other man asked, skepticism creeping in.
Y/F/N’s smile was cold. “Leave that to us. She has people she cares about. People who can be… leveraged.”
*^~^*
Back at the Candy Bar, you were too busy debating fudge flavor placements with Harper to notice how the streetlight outside flickered twice and went still—almost like something in the shadows was watching.
And somewhere, far from the safety of your little shop, a whisper wound its way through Wanda’s mind again.
Come back to me, Scarlet Witch
Her hand trembled ever so slightly around the warm ceramic of the coffee mug. She attempted to concentrate on your conversation with Pepper, discussing potential light fixtures, but your words felt muffled and distant as if separated by a thick fog.
“Detka, I just realized I forgot to hand in my last mission report,” Wanda suddenly blurted out, her voice laced with urgency as she set her mug down with a soft clink. Quickly, she snatched her purse from the counter, the leather creaking under her grip. “Fury will have my ass if I'm late. Can you bring the boys home with you when you’re done?”
“Sure,” you responded, a hint of hesitation creeping into your voice.
You leaned in to kiss her goodbye, your lips barely brushing against hers as she darted out of the shop. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of her expression, the doorbell jingling faintly behind her as she disappeared into the bustling street.
The redhead didn’t notice Billy watching the whole thing from the doorway.
*^~^*
Hours had passed, and the boys were still at the shop with you. The house was still.
Wanda stared at the nearly invisible seam in the floorboards, her hand suspended just above it. The closet was silent except for the soft hum of the house settling. But in her ears—louder than her heartbeat—was the voice.
Come back to me.
Then, like a dream slipping through a crack in her mind, the memory returned.
The air had been thick with incense and rot.
She remembered how the sigils on the walls pulsed with dark energy, runic veins etched into the stone. She remembered
Agatha’s voice, honeyed and cruel, echoed off the cavernous walls.
“This is the Darkhold,” Agatha had said, circling the pedestal. “The Book of the Damned.”
The name had meant nothing to Wanda at the time.
Agatha’s fingers brushed the warped leather cover with reverence, as if petting a wild animal. “It holds knowledge forbidden to even the Sorcerer Supreme. Spells that bend time, reality, life, death…”
Wanda had stood frozen, her magic still crackling under her skin from their fight. Her world, her family, was falling apart upstairs. She didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want more power. She wanted her boys. She wanted Vision. She wanted peace.
But the book had stirred when her eyes met it.
A single rune glowed red.
Agatha’s smile had widened. “It knows you.”
Wanda had stepped back. “I don’t want it.”
“But you will,” Agatha said softly, knowingly. “Not because you’re evil, Wanda. Because you’re desperate, and it knows what desperation feels like.”
Wanda’s lips had trembled. She turned away, then left the basement and didn’t look back.
But the book had looked back at her.
*^~^*
The sun was rising when the Hex collapsed.
The house she’d created brick by brick from memory and longing disintegrated in a slow shimmer of red mist. Vision’s touch, the life she’d conjured… all vanished. Against all odds, the twins remained untouched by its destructive force, and Wanda was determined to protect them.
At any cost.
She walked away from Westview with nothing but Billy and Tommy at her side. At least, that’s what the world saw.
But before she left, she returned to the ruin of Agatha’s home.
She moved quickly, unnoticed, her boots crunching over broken plaster and cracked foundations. The townspeople had scattered. S.W.O.R.D. was scrambling. No one saw her slip into the wreckage.
The basement was still intact.
Mostly.
The stone altar had crumbled, the runes were faded, but the Darkhold sat upright in the debris, untouched, as if the chaos had bent around it.
Waiting.
Wanda stood over it, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her face was hollow. Her magic had gone quiet, but her grief was screaming.
She bent down, her fingers grazing the cover.
It was warm.
Like it remembered her.
Like it was glad she came back.
“No one will ever hurt them again,” she whispered, barely audible.
She slipped it into the folds of her coat.
The runes glowed faintly in response only for a moment, then vanished.
She left the basement without looking back.
The Hex was gone.
But the book was with her now.
The fire had been out for months, but Wanda still smelled the smoke.
It lived in the edges of her memory, coiled in the corners of every room, especially when the lights flickered or the stove hissed unexpectedly. She told herself it was nothing. But when her eyes closed, it came rushing back.
The choking heat.
The way she arrived was too late.
And even though you had all walked out of it alive, even though the paramedics had said it was “a miracle,” Wanda couldn’t forget the way the smoke blackened your lungs. The way Billy clung to her and trembled for hours after, silent and shocked. The raw panic in Tommy’s voice as he screamed your name.
She wanted to believe the worst was over. But in her gut, she knew better.
Because that night, something had gotten to you and the boys.
That night, someone had tried to take her family.
“I wasn’t fast enough,” she whispered, so softly even the walls didn’t hear.
The whisper came again, closer this time, almost soothing.
But you could be.
You just have to open the door.
She knew it was wrong. She knew the Darkhold was corrupted. She had studied its history, felt its influence once before, and knew the line it asked her to cross.
But the thought was louder than the warnings now: What if you don’t survive next time?
Her fingers twitched at her sides.
She would never use it. She only needed to understand it. Learn from it. Just enough to strengthen the wards and sense a threat before it struck. That was all.
Just enough to make sure no one could ever hurt them again.
Just enough to be sure.
Her resolve cracked like glass under pressure.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” she whispered to herself. “Not ever again.”
Open it, the voice murmured. It’s already yours.
Wanda pressed her hand to the seam in the floor. Magic pulsed faintly against her skin, recognizing her touch. It flickered, hesitated, and then parted.
The compartment opened.
The Darkhold waited in the dark, nestled in shadows like something sleeping with one eye open.
And Wanda looked down at it not with hunger, but fear.
Not of the book.
Of herself.
Of what she might become.
Of what she might have to become… if someone came for you again.
She pulled her hand away from the floor.
The seam disappeared beneath a faint shimmer of red as the wards resealed themselves.
Wanda took a shaky breath and stepped backward, shutting the closet door with a quiet click.
She told herself it was just a precaution and would never open it again. But the whisper was louder now. More insistent.
And in the darkness behind the floorboards, the Darkhold pulsed once.
Waiting.
*^~^*
The shop bell jingled, and Natasha stepped in with Steve in tow.
“Hey, Candy Maker,” Nat greeted, taking in the chaos of swatches and catalogs spilling across the counter. “Thought we’d drop by.”
Steve lifted a small paper bag. “Brought cookies.”
“Bless you,” you grinned. “The boys are in the back if you want to say hi.”
They didn’t need a second invitation.
In the back room, Steve leaned over Tommy’s spelling sheet. “Alright, kid, how do you spell ‘adventure’?”
Tommy squinted. “A-D… V-E-N… uh…”
“You’ve got this,” Steve encouraged.
Meanwhile, Natasha slid into the seat beside Billy, folding into it with a practiced ease. She didn’t speak right away; she just glanced at his worksheet—fractions. Her lips twitched.
“Fractions, huh?” she said lightly. “My favorite kind of chaos.”
Billy smirked faintly but didn’t look up. “They’re fine.”
Natasha tilted her head, watching him. His pencil tapped too rhythmically, not in concentration but restlessness. “You sure? You’re holding that pencil like it owes you money.”
Billy paused, mid-tap, and shifted uncomfortably. “I’m just... thinking.”
She gave a soft hum and leaned in closer, elbow on the table. “Thinking about math, or something that has nothing to do with numbers?”
He didn’t answer. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Natasha waited, saying nothing, just offering her attention like an anchor.
Finally, he mumbled, “Mom’s… different lately.”
Her posture didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened—quiet, alert. “Different how?”
Billy gripped the edge of his worksheet.
“She’s… listening to something. But it’s not music. Not something we can hear. Like a voice inside her head, maybe. And her magic feels… weird, like it’s not hers anymore. Like it’s being pulled somewhere.”
Natasha’s voice dropped, gentle but serious. “Has she said anything to you about it?”
“No.” He shook his head quickly. “She acts like everything’s normal, but she’s... distant. And sometimes she just zones out. Like she’s not even there.”
His voice was uncertain, too big for a kid to carry alone. Natasha reached out and placed her hand lightly over his. The tapping stopped.
“Billy,” she said quietly, “you tell me the moment that feeling changes. You come find me if it gets stronger, feels off, or anything shifts. I don’t care what time it is or where I am. You come find me. Got it?”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“You’re not alone in this,” she added, squeezing his hand. “We’ve got you.”
His shoulders loosened just a bit, like he’d been holding his breath. But the worry didn’t vanish from his eyes.
Your voice called out from the front, “Everything okay back there?”
Natasha looked over her shoulder. “Yeah. Just helping with fractions.”
Billy ducked his head, pretending to refocus on his worksheet, but his fingers crept toward his pencil again, tapping in quieter, more deliberate beats.
Natasha stayed beside him. Not hovering and not pushing. Just there, steady and watchful, like a soldier holding the line.
*^~^*
The Sanctum’s library was silent except for the faint whisper of pages turning. Moonlight slanted through the high windows, catching in dust motes that drifted in the air like tiny, weightless stars.
Doctor Stephen Strange stood at a heavy oak table, flipping through a weathered tome bound in blackened leather. His eyes skimmed a passage on dimensional rifts when the flame of the nearest candle shuddered, as if some unseen hand had passed through it.
He froze.
A ripple shivered through the room, a tremor not of the earth but of the arcane threads lacing the multiverse. It hit him low in the chest, humming like a tuning fork. The sensation was unmistakable: cold, invasive, threaded with whispers too faint to fully hear but impossible to ignore.
His hand tightened on the edge of the table.
This time, a second pulse came stronger, carrying the faintest scent of ash and ozone. The candlelight dimmed, then flared violently, throwing his shadow across the wall in a grotesque, warped silhouette.
In the depths of his mind, an image formed unbidden: a black book bound in corrupted leather, its runes shifting like molten gold trapped under ice.
The Darkhold.
Fury had insisted it was gone, destroyed, and reduced to nothing in a blaze of red fire when the Hex came down. He had doubted. Now he knew.
The pulse faded, leaving only the faint hiss of the candles.
Strange straightened slowly, the look in his eyes sharp enough to cut steel. He closed the tome before him with deliberate care, the echo of it slamming shut carrying across the library like a verdict.
all the men losing their minds during the blip, not looking after each other or taking care of each other, losing themselves and each other and running off to do their own thing while the only woman in the team was working her ass off to keep everyone in touch and together and take care of everyone and everything but herself might have been the most realistic thing the mcu did
scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that
Warnings: Spoilers for Thunderbolts*! Read at your own risk.
A/N: I love Bob.
Yelena pulled into the parking lot of the therapist's office, the gentle hum of her car's engine fading into serene silence as she turned the ignition off. Her eyes flicked to the dashboard clock. She arrived a few minutes early to pick up Bob. The past few months had been strenuous post-Void, and Yelena had taken on the role of his steadfast rock.
Her gaze wandered out the car window, taking in the world outside. People moved along the sidewalk, some wearing easy smiles while others were glued to their phone screens, each absorbed in their realities. In her heart, Yelena held a deep admiration for Bob's resilience, but now, with the fresh shadows of a Bipolar episode clouding his mind, the spark of his typically bright spirit seemed to have dimmed.
Suddenly, the therapist's office door swung open. Bob paused for a moment, scanning the parking lot until he caught sight of Yelena's car. A faint, almost tentative smile crept onto his lips as he approached.
“Hey,” Bob greeted as he slid into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt with a slight sigh. “Thanks for picking me up.”
"Anytime," Yelena replied, softening her voice to ease his burdens. "How was therapy?"
Bob shrugged lightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "It was...good, I guess. Dr. Riley says I'm making progress."
Yelena offered him a supportive smile as she pulled out of the parking lot. "That's great.”
An enveloping silence settled into the car as they navigated the streets together. Bob drifted into his thoughts while Yelena respected the space he needed. As they neared the tower, she caught sight of his gaze, his eyes momentarily brightening before settling distant once more.
"Hey, Bob?" Yelena ventured, breaking the tranquil quiet. "How about we grab some dinner at that new diner downtown? I could really go for some comforting food."
Bob turned to her, a subtle warmth returning to his expression. "Sure."
As they stepped inside, the diner was bustling with life. The air was thick with the mingling scents of fried food and freshly brewed coffee, laced with the lively clatter of plates and laughter. The two settled into a booth. Yelena reached across the table, her fingers brushing against Bob's in a moment of quiet reassurance. "You’re not alone in this, Robert. We’re all here for you."
His eyes caught hers, a flicker of gratitude shining through the shadows. "I don’t know what I’d do without you, Yelena."
She squeezed his hand gently. "You'll never have to find out."
Bob mentioned one of Dr. Riley’s latest suggestions as they both enjoyed dinner. "She thinks I should find a hobby," he said, a humorous glint sparking in his eyes as he took a bite of his cheeseburger. "Something to distract me from everything."
Yelena nodded as her fork dove into her creamy macaroni and cheese. "That’s a good idea. What are you interested in?"
Bob shrugged, a hint of frustration lining his brow. "I really don’t know. I’ve never really had a hobby."
By the time they finished their meals, Yelena was brimming with ideas. She said as they left the diner, "I’ll talk to the others. We’ll find something you’ll love."
*^~^*
The group converged on Bob's room the following day, each bursting with suggestions. Ever the soldier, John arrived wearing a paintball mask and brandishing gear. "Paintball, bud! Let’s get your adrenaline pumping and blow off some steam!"
Ava rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "John, that’s not exactly soothing. Bob, have you ever thought about photography? I’ve got a fantastic camera you can borrow."
Entering with a stack of cookbooks, Alexi's voice boomed with enthusiasm. "Cooking, comrade! It takes discipline and creativity. You will learn to make the perfect pelmeni!"
Bucky shook his head, chuckling as he disagreed. "That’s absurd. He needs something calming, not more chaos. How about fishing? I’ve got an extra rod. We’ll go together."
Watching the lively debate unfold, Yelena couldn’t help but smile. "I think I have just the thing," she announced, producing a sketchbook and a set of colored pencils from her bag. "Art therapy.”
As the clamor of ideas swirled around him, Bob sat amid this whirlwind with amusement and unease.
"Okay, okay," Bob interjected, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I’ll give it all a try... but if it turns out terrible, I’m blaming all of you.”
The days followed were filled with Bob's well-meaning attempts at each new hobby. Sadly, paintball left him covered in bruises, photography resulted in blurry photos, cooking ended in a kitchen fire, fishing bored him to tears, and art therapy...well, his stick figures still resembled kindergarten art projects.
*^~^*
The team dragged themselves back into the tower after an exhausting day of public realtions; fatigue weighed heavily on their shoulders. They shuffled into the common room, limbs encased in lead. Groans of exhaustion echoed as they sank into chairs.
The atmosphere shifted suddenly. A loud crashing and clattering erupted down the hall, startling everyone.
“What the hell is that?” Bucky shouted, eyes wide with confusion and concern.
Ava’s voice rose above the noise, “It sounds like it's coming from Bob’s room!”
Adrenaline surged through the group as they instinctively brandished their weapons, dread creeping into their minds. They feared the worst—that Sentry had somehow resurfaced and was attacking Bob again. Moving as a unit, they rushed toward his door, tension knotting in their stomachs. Without hesitation, Alexi stepped forward and delivered a swift kick, sending the door crashing inward.
John peeked inside as the door flew open, and his voice trailed off as he lowered his weapon. “Oh my God…”
Bob was inside, practically glowing with enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling as he clutched a pair of drumsticks in each hand. “Look what I got! A drum set! Isn’t it awesome?” he exclaimed.
Ava raised an eyebrow. "Bob, what happened to art therapy?"
Bob shrugged. "I was watching Whiplash last night, and I just felt inspired. I mean, Andrew Neyman's got the passion, the drive...I want to be like that."
Bucky blinked. "Whiplash? The movie about abusive drum instructors?"
Bob nodded enthusiastically. "That's the one! I mean, who wouldn't want to be a world-class drummer, right?"
Yelena set down her gear. "Bob, maybe you should start with something less intense?"
But he was undeterred, tapping out a rhythm on the snare. "No way, I've got this! I've been practicing for hours. Watch this!"
The group exchanged skeptical glances as Bob began to play. The sounds that emerged were akin to a cat in distress. Bucky winced, covering his ears. "I think you need more practice.”
Bob stopped mid-beat, looking crestfallen. But then, a determined glint sparkled in his eye. "You're right! I just need to practice more. I'll be the best drummer this side of Manhattan."
The team hesitated, unsure whether to encourage Bob's new passion or stage an intervention. As they watched him enthusiastically drum on, they realized that this was exactly what Bob needed – something that made him feel alive, even if it drove everyone else crazy.
"Well," Yelena said, smiling, "at least it's keeping you occupied."
John scoffed. "Occupied? He's occupying the entire floor with noise."
Bob, still drumming away, grinned. For the first time in a long while, he felt like himself – imperfect, passionate, and a little bit loud.
*^~^*
As the days passed, Bob's drumming became a fixture in the tower. The team would often gather outside his door, wincing as the sounds of crashing cymbals and thudding drums assaulted their ears.
But amidst the chaos, one person unexpectedly emerged as Bob's biggest fan: Alexi. The Red Guardian would sit in Bob's room, nodding in time with a slight smile.
"Robert, you have a natural talent," Alexi said, his Russian accent sharp and distinct. "The passion, the energy – it's like a symphony of industrial machinery from the Soviet era!"
Bob beamed with pride. "Really, Alexi? You think so?"
The others stared, incredulous. "Alexi, have you been hit on the head?" John asked. Bob's drumming is—”
Yelena quickly elbowed Walker in the ribs.
“Ow!”John shouted.
Alexi waved his hand dismissively. "You don't understand. Bob's drumming is a manifestation of his inner struggle. It's like a sonic representation of his soul."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe it's just a representation of his lack of skill?"
“Hey,” Yelena muttered, smacking her arm. “We’re being supportive here.”
Alexi's face turned stern. "You're just not listening with the right ears. Bob's drumming is art."
*^~^*
As the weeks passed, Bob's drumming showed only marginal signs of improvement, but Alexi's enthusiasm never wavered. The two would spend hours in his room, drumming and discussing the finer points of Soviet-era music theory.
The others shook their heads, smiling. "I don't get it," Bucky said, "but if it makes Bob happy, that’a all that matters."
Yelena smirked. "And if it makes Alexi happy, that's a bonus."
Summary: You're on Bob duty while the rest of the team is away.
Pairings: Robert Reynolds x fem!reader
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings: Spoilers for Thunderbolts*!! Read at your own risk.
A/N: My first Bob fic! I would love more requests for Bob or any of the Thunderbolts*!
From the moment Valentina announced you all as The New Avengers, you drew the line at calling it The Watch Tower. It felt disrespectful to the family you had spent so many years with inside its walls. What was once a vibrant hub of ingenuity was now a sterile shell of its former self.
You weren't a full-time member of the original team; more like an independent variable they called when they needed your specific skill set. Tony dubbed you Nature’s Fury because of your ability to control the elements, summoning storms or conjuring walls of fire. So, when Bucky called you in a hushed whisper from his Congressional office in D.C. and said he needed your help tracking down a group of rogue misfits, you didn't hesitate.
Nonetheless, now was not the moment to get lost on memory lane; you were on Bob duty. The team had collectively agreed: Bob shouldn’t be left alone. So, each of you took turns keeping him company. “It’s simple,” Yelena had said with a reassuring smile, “Just try to engage him, but if he’s not into it, check in every couple of hours.”
With the rest of the New Avengers bickering like a bunch of kids across the Tower and onto the jet, you took a deep breath and approached Bob’s bedroom door.
You gently knocked. “Robert, can I come in?”
“Sure,” came his soft response.
As you opened the door, you found Bob sprawled on his bed, engrossed in a book.
“Hey, I’m about to start a movie. Want to join me?” you asked.
“No thanks. I think I’ll stick to my book,” he answered meekly, lifting a worn copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
“Alright, I’ll be in the common area if you need anything,” you reminded him warmly.
“Okay, thanks, Y/N.”
*^~^*
You had settled into a cozy position on the couch, the warm glow of the television casting soft light across the room. As the heartwarming story of "UP" unfolded, you felt your eyelids grow heavy. Time slipped unnoticed, and you were awoken by the gentle sounds of the Pixar credits rolling in the background. Stretching slightly, you blinked a few times, trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness.
Rubbing your eyes, you slowly sat up, startled by the sound of the kitchen cupboard closing. You turned to find Bob standing there, his oversized sweater sleeves drooping past his knuckles, looking rather sheepish.
“Sorry, Y/N. I didn't mean to wake you,” he said, nervously fidgeting with his hands. “I was just looking for something for lunch.”
“It’s all good. Let me whip us up something,” you replied, running your hand through your hair as you rose.
You rifled through the fridge, quickly realizing that someone needed to step up grocery shopping duties—anyone but Alexi, who always seemed to get stuck in the cereal aisle waiting to be recognized from the Wheaties box.
Determined, you pulled out the ingredients for sandwiches. “What’s your pleasure?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder.
“Um, whatever you want works for me,” Bob replied softly, glancing at the floor.
“Bob,” you smirked. “You know you can actually tell me what kind of sandwich you want.”
He hesitated, then clarified, “Okay, grilled cheese, please?”
“There we go! Two grilled cheese sandwiches coming right up,” you declared with a grin.
You spread a generous layer of butter on each slice of bread and, with care and precision, layered the cheese.
“Uh, don’t you—don’t you need to turn on the stove?” Bob asked his voice a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.
“Not necessary,” you replied, focusing your energy. A flicker of flame danced to life in your palm, toasting the bread and melting the cheese to gooey perfection in mere moments.
“Right,” Bob mumbled, remembering the powers you possessed.
“So, you used to work here with the… original Avengers?” Bob asked hesitantly.
“Yeah, sometimes,” you replied, sipping your Coke. “Whenever they needed me.”
You could practically see the gears turning in Bob's head for minutes as you ate. Finally, he leaned in closer. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course,” you encouraged.
“What happened to you that you can do,” he said, gesturing with his hand in a sweeping motion, “that?”
You paused, memories flooding back after years of being buried. It had been ages since you reflected on your past.
“I’m sorry! I shouldn't have pried,” Bob stammered, realizing he might have crossed a line. “I—”
“Robert!” you interjected softly, careful not to push him away completely. You could see the uncertainty in his eyes; he didn’t want him to retreat into silence. “It’s alright. I understand how strange this all must seem. I was involved in a Hydra experiment, a variation of the Winter Soldier project. That’s how I came to know Bucky. He didn't forget me when he finally managed to break free from their control. He rescued me from the same fate that haunted him.
Bob’s face shifted with sympathy. “That sounds terrible.”
You nodded, surveying the once-familiar confines. “But once I found my way here, things began to shift for me. Trust me, it will happen for you, too.”
Bob averted his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hope so. I know everyone cares about me, but sometimes it’s hard to believe I belong here.”
You paused, realizing that sometimes words alone aren't enough to bridge the gap. “Come on, I want to show you something,” you said, an encouraging smile forming on your lips.
*^~^*
Taking the elevator up, you watched Bob shift uncomfortably. Upon reaching the rooftop, your heart sank for a moment as the cranes loomed overhead, obscuring what used to be a breathtaking view of the New York City skyline. Leading him to the roof's south side, you hoped Val hadn’t managed to get her hands on everything just yet.
To your relief, you glanced over and saw the greenhouse that Pepper had lovingly installed still standing, a little oasis amidst the chaos.
“I used to spend countless afternoons up here,” you said, guiding Bob through the greenhouse's door. The familiar scent of damp earth and blooming flowers wafted over you both. I always found solace in nature.”
Bob nodded, his fingers nervously twirling a lock of his tousled brown hair. “I like nature too,” he replied, his voice quiet and reflective. “When my parents would argue, and things turned… intense, I would slip outside to the garden. It was always so calm and peaceful out there.”
You continued exploring the rows of leafy plants and the vibrant colors surrounding you, pausing to hold up a small, unassuming pot that sat neglected on a shelf. Its surface was dusty and cracked, seeming empty at first glance.
“Um... it looks empty,” Bob remarked, his brow furrowing in disappointment as he peered into the pot, searching for signs of life.
With a warm and reassuring smile, you shook your head gently. “It may appear empty right now, but with a little care and nurturing, it holds the promise to thrive and transform into something beautiful.”
You waved your hand over the pot, and with a soft rustling sound, a small begonia bulb began to push its way through the rich soil, its vibrant green leaves unfurling as if reaching for the light.
“Do you understand, Robert?” you asked.
“That we’re both just sad little bulbs too afraid to emerge from the shadows of our rooms?” he suggested, a weary smile playing on his lips.
“Yes! Wait, no, that’s not it,” you corrected yourself, your hands gesturing animatedly. “We may be shy and feel out of place in this world, but if we allow others to help us, we can find our way through this darkness and be okay.”
“Okay, yeah. That makes sense,” Bob replied with a warm, infectious smile that lit up his face. He tilted his head slightly as he looked at the vibrant begonia in his hands, its rich green leaves and delicate pink blooms swaying gently. “Do you think anyone would mind if I put this in my room?” he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“I don't think they would mind at all,” you reassured him, gently reaching out to grasp his hand.
At that moment, the familiar hum of a Quinjet gently echoed in the distance, growing louder as it approached. You stepped outside, feeling a playful breeze tousle your hair while the jet descended gracefully onto the landing pad nearby.
Standing there with Bob, the pot cradled carefully in his arms; you watched as the team emerged from the aircraft, one by one.
“Hey, Bob! Nice flower!” John called out playfully, a teasing glint in his eyes as he pointed at the begonia.
Ava, standing beside him, shot him a playful shove. “Stuff it, Walker,” she retorted, her tone light-hearted yet protective. “It’s pretty.”
“I see you two visited the greenhouse,” Bucky observed.
“Yeah, I’m going to put this flower in my room,” Bob declared proudly, a newfound confidence shining through his voice.
“That is wonderful, Бобик (Bob),” Alexi boomed, as he patted the young man's back with a hearty thump, causing him to stumble forward. “The tower could use more color,” he added, guiding Bob back toward the entrance with a hand on his shoulder.
Yelena stood nearby; her eyebrow arched skeptically as she looked between you and Bob. “You brought him up to the roof?” she asked her tone a mix of curiosity and caution.
“I was going for a metaphor,” you explained, the words spilling out sheepishly.
“Alright,” Yelena agreed after a moment of consideration. “As long as he doesn't fall off,” she added.
You took one last look at Bob as he engaged with the rest of the team. A smile crept onto your face. “He’s going to be just fine,” you thought, feeling a surge of hope for the young man who had found his place here.
Summary: The aftermath of the Candy Bar fire is weighing heavily on you. You insist you're fine, but you immerse yourself in endless tinkering, a distraction from the pain that refuses to fade. Yet, amidst your restless energy, Wanda is quietly grappling with her own suffering. But her silence won't last forever…
Warnings: PTSD, hearing voices.
Word Count: 6k
Guardian Angel Masterlist
“Mom!! Help us!” Tommy’s frantic voice pierced the thick, suffocating air.
“Mom! Please!!” Billy cried out, desperation ringing in every syllable.
“Wanda!” you screamed, your throat raw from the smoke that choked you and filled your lungs with ash, your pleas barely escaping in a hoarse whisper.
Wanda shot up in bed, her heart pounding violently against her ribcage. A cold sweat drenched her body, and she could feel the remnants of a nightmare clinging to her like a damp blanket. It was foolish to think she would find peace tonight; sleep had become an elusive stranger. Ever since the fire at the Candy Bar, she was plagued by restless nights, haunted by visions of you and the boys trapped in the inferno. The thought of the team racing against time and the agonizing possibility that they might not reach you in time twisted like a knife in her gut.
The redhead looked at you, lost in a tranquil sleep, utterly oblivious to the storm inside her. It had been a week since the fire, and the weight of her unspoken trauma hung heavily in the air. She knew she was struggling, but there was no way she could let you see that.
You have enough on your plate already. The insurance company had turned a deaf ear, refusing to cover the full cost of rebuilding the shop. With dwindling savings and mounting pressures, Wanda couldn’t bear the thought of adding to your worries. Or, more accurately, your lack of worries. She could see that you were hurting. Yet, you stubbornly masked your discomfort with a brave facade.
Wanda slipped quietly out of bed, her heart pounding softly in the house's stillness. She crept down the hall to the boys’ room. Gently pushing the slightly ajar door, she peered inside to see Billy and Tommy nestled comfortably in their beds.
She couldn't help but reach out, her fingers brushing against Billy’s cheek and tenderly running her hand through Tommy’s tousled hair.
Her sons were alive and safe.
She let her magic flow, swirling in a soft red haze around their faces and diving into their dreams. The sight of her boys playing with Sparky filled her heart; there was no sign of the fire. A tinge of jealousy flickered within her—how unfair it seemed that their minds were untouched by the horrors she still grappled with: the war, the missile, Ultron, Westview.
But as much as her scars ached, she wouldn’t trade a second of their happiness for her peace. If enduring her pain meant preserving the joyful innocence of Billy and Tommy, she would willingly face it all again.
With her heart a little lighter, Wanda tiptoed out of their room and into the darkened kitchen. With a wave of her hand, the cupboards creaked open, magically boiling water and steeping chamomile tea with effortless finesse.
Sparky sensed her presence and stood up from his dog bed, whimpering softly. “Can’t sleep either, huh, Sparky?” she whispered, bending down to pick him up. He tilted his head curiously as she settled onto the couch, her steaming cup of tea floating beside her.
Cradling the dog in her arms, she took a long, deep breath, letting the warmth of the tea and the comforting silence envelop her.
Wanda…
The sound echoed softly through the dimly lit room, jolting the redhead upright. She dismissed it as the house settling with its usual creaks. Taking a cautious sip of her tea, she tried to shake off the unease.
Wanda…
“Okay, this isn’t funny!” Her voice wavered as she scanned the empty room, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. There was no one there.
Wanda held Sparky a little tighter, cradling him as she carried her mug to the sink, rinsing it out while lost in thought. Sensing her unease, Sparky leaned up and gently licked her cheek, offering a moment of comfort.
“Thanks, buddy,” Wanda murmured. All at once, a tap on her shoulder shattered the stillness. She spun around, letting out a startled scream, her eyes flashing red in surprise.
“Whoa! It’s just me!” you exclaimed, surrendering your hands.
Wanda’s heart raced, and she let out an exasperated gasp, pressing a hand to her chest. “Don’t do that!”
“I’m sorry. I woke up, and you weren’t there,” you defended. “Are you alright?”
Wanda glanced past you, her gaze sweeping the room one last time before meeting your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep, so I came downstairs for tea.”
“Oh, okay,” you replied, rubbing your eyes. “Well, I can't sleep without you, so…” You nodded toward the bedroom.
“Yeah, let’s head back to bed,” Wanda agreed, brushing past you with a lightness in her step, Sparky still tucked close to her.
“Uh, honey, aren’t you forgetting something?” you said, pointing at the furry companion in her arms.
Hoping you wouldn't question it, Wanda said, “Sparky couldn’t sleep either, so I thought he might join us for the night.”
You couldn't help but smile, “Fine by me.”
With that, she trailed behind you into the bedroom, casting one last anxious glance over her shoulder.
*^~^*
“I think we're making a mistake,” Steve asserted, as he followed Tony through the lab's cluttered chaos. Every surface was packed with half-finished innovations and gadgets in various stages of assembly.
Tony looked up, raising an eyebrow, “Color me surprised, Captain. You usually are the voice of reason.”
“It’s been a week,” Steve continued, his brow furrowing as he crossed his arms. “Y/N deserves to know that her parents ordered the hit on her shop. She can’t just live in the dark about this.”
Tony turned, his expression shifting to one of frustration. “Look,” he said, his tone dropping slightly. “It’s not easy growing up believing your parents are against you instead of supporting you. Trust me; I know.”
Steve shook his head vigorously. “I’m telling her the first chance I get. I’m not letting this go on any longer. She’s been through enough already.”
Tony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he were trying to stave off a headache. “That’s bound to make for a joyful holiday! Merry Christmas, y/n! Oh, and just a little tidbit—your parents almost killed you.”
Steve shot Tony a stern look, clearly not amused.
“Come on, Cap,” Tony defended himself, “She already hates them anyway. What’s the difference?”
Steve stepped closer, his voice firm. “Because we don’t keep secrets, Tony. That’s not who we are. After everything she’s been through, she deserves the truth.”
With a resigned sigh, Tony ran a hand through his hair. “Oh yeah? Then tell me the truth about you and Peggy. Oh, I’m sorry—Captain Carter,” he said mockingly.
Steve’s jaw tightened, and he stared at Tony momentarily. Finally, he turned on his heel and walked away.
“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought,” Tony called after him, his amusement returning as he returned to work.
*^~^*
“Alright, my little pastry chefs!” you announced, setting down a collection of ingredients and cookie cutters on the kitchen counter of the compound, much to the excited eyes of Billy, Tommy, and Morgan. “Today, we’re making Christmas cookies, not just any cookies—oh no! We’re making my award-winning, blue ribbon Christmas cookies.”
“Are you sure you are up for this, sweetheart? I thought Harper was coming over later to rehash the insurance claim?” Wanda leaned in and whispered.
“Yes, but don't fret. I'm always up for cookies!” you replied, smiling brightly.
“If you say so,” Wanda said, worry churning in her stomach. Moments like this made her thankful you couldn't read her mind.
“Can we eat the dough?” Morgan asked, bouncing with anticipation.
“No, sweetheart. That could upset your tummy,” Wanda said.
Still, as soon as Wanda turned her back, you leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially, “But a little taste won’t hurt.”
“Everyone, grab your Santa hats!” you declared, distributing the cheerful headwear. You slid one onto your head, playfully adjusting it before handing one to Wanda.
You began mixing the dough while Wanda and the kids prepared the frosting. Unable to resist the temptation of the dough, you sneaked a small piece and hummed with delight at its familiar sweetness. Out of the corner of your eye, you slipped some to Morgan, putting your finger to your lips with a smirk.
“Shh,” you said softly, then sneakily handed some to Billy and Tommy.
The warm, inviting aroma of freshly baked sugar cookies wafted through the kitchen, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You carefully set the bowls of white, green, and red frosting on the table.
Just then, Kate and Peter arrived, eyes wide with delight at the sight of the cookies cooling on the counter.
“Oooh, cookies!” Kate exclaimed as Peter leaned in to grab one.
You quickly slapped his hand away. “Uh-uh! They aren't even decorated yet!” you admonished.
Peter's face fell, and he muttered, “So unfair,” crossing his arms in mock disappointment.
“Would you two like to help?” Wanda asked.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. " Kate casually waved off the suggestion as she turned to leave.
“Yeah, we’re too old for Christmas cookie decorating,” Peter agreed, following her lead with a shrug.
“Are you sure?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, if you insist!” Kate said, spinning on her heel and rushing back to the counter.
“Bring on the cookies!” Peter declared as he joined her.
You chuckled at their change of heart and handed the two young Avengers bright red Santa hats.
“Sweet!” Peter grinned as he plopped the hat atop his head, the fluffy white trim contrasting against his dark hair.
Kate pulled out her phone and said, “I’m sending this to Yelena!” as she struck a selfie pose.
An hour later, the kitchen resembled a festive battleground, a colorful chaos of frosting and sprinkles strewn across every surface.
Yelena strode into the room. Natasha and Maria followed closely, their cheeks flushed from a vigorous workout.
“I heard a delicious rumor about cookies,” Yelena said, brandishing her phone and showing Kate's cheerful selfie.
“You heard correctly,” Peter replied with a grin, gesturing toward the fridge, where the festive cookies rested, tempting and cool.
The blonde rushed over, retrieving three cookies. She handed one to Natasha and Maria, who accepted, reigniting their post-workout hunger.
“I suppose we should tackle this mess,” you suggested, glancing at the sugar-laden kids who've now spiraled into a gleeful frenzy.
“I got it, detka.” Wanda stepped forward, her hands waving gracefully as vibrant crimson energy swirled around her. In an instant, the chaos began to dissolve; utensils floated back to their places, and the countertops sparkled clean.
Leaning closer to Maria, Natasha lowered her voice to a whisper, “Have you noticed that Wanda has been using her magic more freely lately?”
Maria nodded, then countered, “Have you noticed that y/n is in total denial, doing everything possible to distract herself from what happened to her shop?”
You turned to your friends, anticipation bubbling, eager to hear their thoughts on your festiv cookies.
“Delicious,” Natasha said, as she savored another bite.
“Excellent,” Maria added, giving you a thumbs-up of approval.
“And that’s how it’s done!” you announced, triumphantly dropping the spoon in front of you like a microphone, soaking in the moment.
“Yeah, definitely in denial,” Natasha whispered to Maria.
*^~^*
“Yes, I understand. But surely there must be some way to reconsider the claim. The damage was extensive, and it’s crucial for us…” Harper’s voice trailed off as she listened intently to the response on the other end of the line. After a brief pause, she sighed deeply. “Yes, I see. Thank you for your time.” With that, she hung up the phone, her shoulders slumping as she sighed heavily.
Meanwhile, you were lost in a whirlwind of inspiration that had struck you like a lightning bolt; an idea for a new chocolate croissant had consumed you. Jotting down notes on scraps of paper scattered across the table, your hair stood in disarray.
“Y/N… Y/N,” Harper called her tone, snapping you out of your chaotic note-taking.
You finally lifted your gaze to meet Harper’s weary eyes. Dark circles highlighted your exhaustion.
“Were you listening to any of that conversation?” Harper frustratedly.
“No,” you admitted after a brief pause, your mind still partially occupied with croissant recipes. “But I’m guessing by the look on your face that the insurance company didn’t change their minds.”
“No, they didn’t,” Harper replied, sarcasm dripping from her words as she crossed her arms over her chest in disbelief.
“Well, that’s the way it goes, I suppose,” you mumbled, shrugging as if the entire situation was a bump in the road rather than a significant setback.
Harper stared at you incredulously. “That’s the way it goes, I suppose? What is wrong with you?” she shot back.
“What is that supposed to mean?” you questioned, a twinge of defensiveness creeping into your voice.
“It means…” Harper began, standing abruptly from the kitchen table and pushing her chair back with a loud scrape against the floor. “I’ve been doing everything! I've been making all the phone calls and meeting with our insurance agent and the bank while you busy yourself to the point of exhaustion.”
“It’s a choice, Harper. I’m choosing to focus on the things I can control,” you replied, trying to stand your ground.
“Well, here’s a choice for you,” Harper said, her voice rising as her frustration boiled over. “I’m leaving!”
“Fine, go,” you countered, the words slipping from your lips with a surprising sense of detachment.
Harper quickly gathered her belongings and approached the elevator. She paused, realizing there was no button to call it.
“How do you get the hell out of here? Wednesday!” Harper yelled.
“It’s Friday,” you corrected.
“Friday, get me out of here!” she demanded.
“Yes, Ms. Clark,” Friday replied as the elevator doors opened and promptly closed behind her.
A tired sigh escaped your lips just as Steve stepped into the room.
“Rough meeting?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
“You could say that,” you replied, resting your head in your hands.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he pressed gently.
“Not particularly,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.
Steve studied the sadness on your face, his expression turning serious. “Look, y/n, there's something important I need to tell you.”
Suddenly, Tony burst into the room. “Cap! There you are! I need your feedback on some new suit upgrades I've been working on.”
Steve sighed. “In a minute. This is important. Y/N and I need to talk about something.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s important,” Tony interjected. “But so is this.” He activated a control panel on his wrist, causing a holographic display to flicker to life in mid-air. The display erupted into a vibrant carousel of images and graphics.
“Hey, y/n! Did you know research suggests that exposure to excessive amounts of cat videos can reduce stress levels?” Tony jested.
Before you could process what was happening, the display switched gears and began playing cute cat videos — kittens tumbling over themselves, playful paws swatting at strings, and hilarious feline fails. You couldn’t help but chuckle, but your amusement faded as you shifted your gaze back to Steve, who looked increasingly frustrated.
“Tony, this isn’t a joke,” he said, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice as he tried to push Tony’s hand away. “I need to talk to Y/N about something serious.”
Unfazed, he positioned himself strategically between you and Steve. “Okay, I get it. But before you continue with your serious chat, can I at least show you this crucial adjustment I made to your suit? It’s a game changer!” He gestured emphatically, changing the display again, where a 3D model of his Captain America suit rotated, highlighting its new features.
“Tony, stop!” Steve demanded, his tone sharpening.
Feeling the tension in the air, you took a step back. “You know what? I think I just heard Wanda calling me. I’ll see you guys later,” you said, slowly backing out of the room, not wanting to be a part of their escalating scuffle. “Good luck with whatever this is,” you added with a light wave as you left.
“What’s your problem?” Steve shouted, his voice echoing through the room.
Tony ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t think she needs one of your ‘Captain America talks’ right now,” he replied. “Just let me take this, Steve. Please?”
Steve paused in contemplation. His lips pressed into a tight line as he weighed his options. “Fine,” he finally relented, jabbing a finger toward Tony. “But you better handle this right.”
*^~^*
A few days later, Tommy and Billy stood at the front door, arguing over who got to open it. Tommy won the tug-of-war over the doorknob and swung the door open, revealing Tony in an impeccably tailored suit and tie,
"Hi," Tony said with a smile. "Is your mom around?"
"Uncle Tony! Mom, Uncle Tony is here!" Tommy yelled down the hall.
"What are you doing here?" Billy asked
Tony ruffled Billy's hair. "Just need to discuss something with your Mom and y/n.
Wanda appeared behind the boys, wiping her hands on a towel. "This is a surprise. Come on in. Boys, why don't you go play with Sparky while we talk?"
As they hurried out, Tony took off his scarf and asked, “Is y/n around?”
“Yeah, she’s in the kitchen,” Wanda replied, leading him inside.
You were a whirlwind of activity, expertly juggling trays and baking sheets. You pulled one tray of golden-brown chocolate croissants from the oven just as you slid another in. Then, with a piping bag in hand, you leaned over the cake before you, lost in your decorating.
Tony observed you closely, recognizing the familiar signs of distraction. He’d been there himself after the Battle of New York—immersed in his work, battling insomnia, and shoving down the gnawing anxiety. But instead of crafting suits, you had transformed your home into a bakery.
“Hey, Tony! Care for a chocolate croissant?” you called out, a tired grin lighting up your face.
Tony shook his head. “I’ll take a rain check, y/n.”
You shrugged, the hint of a smile lingering. “Your loss. What brings you by?”
“I need to discuss something important. Can we, uh…?” He gestured toward the family room.
“Sure,” you replied, wiping your hands on your apron and then tossing it aside.
“So,” he began as you all sat down, “We received some intel regarding the fire at the Candy Bar…”
Your brows knit together. “What do you mean? I thought you said they cut the stove wires?”
Tony nodded solemnly. “They did, but… the day of the fire, Belova was listening in on the bug in your parents’ office,” he continued, his voice low. “She heard your dear old dad conversing with a man named Dominic Karofsky, a hitman affiliated with Hydra.”
A look of confusion crossed your face. "I don't understand," you said.
Tony slowly removed his glasses. “Your father was in negotiations with Karofsky. A desperate attempt to—" he paused. “Force you back to Onyx Petroleum for the Sokovia project.”
Wanda instinctively reached for your hand as the shock of Tony’s words crashed over you like icy waves. Your mind raced to catch up, desperately trying to process Tony's words.
“Tony,” your voice shook as you looked down at your lap, numbness creeping in. “Are you telling me that my parents burned down my shop?”
Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly. “Not directly, but yes. I’m so sorry, y/n.”
You suddenly felt submerged in a deep pool; the world around you muted. His words hit you like whispers through thick glass, their clarity lost beneath the surface.
“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice emerged, cutting through the haze.
You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the disorientation that clung to you. “How much?
“Excuse me?” Tony asked.
“How much did they pay Karofsky for the hit?” you clarified.
“Y/N…” Tony’s tone shifted, now more measured and cautious.
Wanda intervened, saying, “I don't think discussing this will help anyone,” while placing a comforting hand on your back.
“No,” you said, your voice rising. “I want to know.”
Stark turned his gaze away, grappling with the weight of your question and the backlash it could provoke.
“Tony…” you pressed, your heart pounding in your chest.
After an agonizing pause, the words barely escaped his lips. “1.3 million.”
You bit your lower lip. Tears stung at the corners of your eyes. You pushed yourself up from the couch, trying to escape the weight this nightmare.
“Y/N, wait!” Wanda called after you, as you stormed out of the room.
Tony placed a steady hand on Wanda’s shoulder. “Let her go,” he said quietly.
With a final, poignant slam, the front door closed behind you, echoing in the stillness that followed.
*^~^*
You parked the car and gazed somberly at the ruins of your shop, where the once-vibrant façade now lay in ashes. A white condemnation sign hung limply across the front door.
As you exited the car, the still acrid scent of burnt material filled the air, mingling with the faint notes of smoke lingering from the inferno. You ignored the yellow police tape that flapped gently in the breeze. Crossing the threshold into the hollowed shell of the building, your eyes were drawn upward to the gaping hole in the ceiling, its jagged edges framing a glimpse of the gray sky above. Below, the checkered pattern of the tile floor peeked through. It was clear that the restoration company was dragging its feet on the cleanup.
You surveyed the interior, where soot-covered shop fixtures lay scattered like fallen soldiers, and twisted brass shelving displays clung desperately to their last remnants of dignity among the wreckage. You felt nothing; a hollow numbness enveloped your heart. Just as you turned to retreat to your car, something faintly glinted in your peripheral vision. You reached down and unearthed a gold frame partially buried beneath the remnants of your front counter. You pulled it free and the picture—the Candy Bar's Opening Day photograph— came into view. Your smiling face alongside Harper's radiating joy and hope. Those innocent, carefree smiles of young women fresh out of college stared back at you.
That was the moment everything hit you like a tidal wave. The fire, the fight with Harper, your parents, and a relentless week of feigning strength all crashed down. Tears rushed down your cheeks as you surrendered to the pain, sobbing uncontrollably, every emotion spilling over in a flood. Slamming the picture onto the floor in frustration. You gasped, feeling the sharp sting of glass slicing through your palm, a crimson bead of blood trailing down your hand.
“Just perfect,” you whimpered.
Suddenly, you heard a voice. “Oh, y/n…”
Startled, you looked up to see Harper standing in the doorway. She quickly crossed the room, carefully pushing the broken shards aside and pulling you to your feet.
“What are you doing in here? It’s not safe,” Harper said, her tone laced with worry.
“I’m so sorry, Harper,” you cried, collapsing against her shoulder. “I shouldn’t have left it all to you.”
Her grip tightened, her eyes steady as she replied, “No, you shouldn’t.”
“Everything feels like it’s crumbling, and I don’t know how much more I can take,” you confessed, your voice breaking as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks.
“I get it,” Harper murmured, as she wrapped her arms around you. “I should’ve been more understanding of what you’re going through.”
“Yeah, you probably should,” you replied, matching her candid tone as you dabbed at your tear-streaked cheeks.
With a playful roll of her eyes, she said, “It’s going to be okay, y/n. We’ll sort this out together.”
*^~^*
Wanda cradled a cup of coffee as she settled across from Tony. “I’m at a loss. Her denial has morphed into anxiety, and I can hear her restless nights. She was up baking this morning at 5 a.m.”
Tony took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression reflective. “She’s tinkering,” he replied. “Trying to drown out the memories. I went through the same thing after New York.”
“What helped you get through it?” Wanda asked.
“I flew down to Tennessee and ended up saving the President with a kid who wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he smirked.
Wanda shot him an exasperated look; her eyes glowing red.
“Okay,” Tony backpedaled. “But seriously, it was letting Pepper in that made the difference. I started talking—real talking. To her, to Banner, to anyone willing to listen. Bottling it all up only made the pain worse.”
A soft sigh escaped Wanda's lips. “I understand.”
“Just keep reaching out to Y/N,” Tony urged gently. “She’ll find her way through this. You both will.”
“Uncle Tony!” Billy exclaimed, interrupting the conversation. “Can you help me fix the drone, please?” He held the broken aerial vehicle high. “It was Tommy’s fault!”
“I didn't break it!” Tommy protested.
“You threw it!” Billy shot back.
“I was just trying to catch it before it hit the ground,” Tommy insisted, raising an eyebrow.
“Boys,” Wanda interjected, trying to quell the escalating argument.
Watching the sibling squabble, Tony chuckled. “Ah, the joys of brotherhood. Sure, I’ll take a look at it.”
*^~^*
A couple of hours and some clever adjustments later, Tony was in the backyard with the boys, demonstrating how to operate the drone for mission reconnaissance.
You quietly stepped back into the house, your heart weighed down by regret and embarrassment over how you had stormed out earlier. In the dining room, you found Wanda engrossed in an old family photo album. Leaning in closer, you caught a glimpse of the bittersweet memories captured on the pages—Wanda and Vision, their faces radiant with joy as they cradled tiny Billy and Tommy in their arms. The love in their eyes was unmistakable. As you watched, a fleeting thought crossed your mind, only to vanish almost as quickly as it had come: Wanda had never looked at you that way.
“There you are,” she said, finally noticing you, jumping up and wrapping her arms around you. “Are you okay? Oh my gosh, what happened to your hand?” Her eyes widened as she noticed the bandage encircling your palm.
“I had a little mishap at the shop,” you confessed, choosing your words carefully. “On the bright side, Harper and I sorted things out. An afternoon in the emergency room gives you plenty of time to talk things through,” you added, trying to lift the mood.
Wanda placed a hand on her forehead, perplexed. “Sweetheart, we need to talk.”
“I know,” you cut in. “It’s just, ever since the fire, I feel like I’ve been on some wild roller coaster. I’m sorry for how I've been. I promise I’ll try to calm down.”
“Y/N, you don’t need to calm down,” Wanda said. “What you really need is to confront what happened.”
You lowered your eyes, unable to meet Wanda's gaze.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, detka,” she said, gently lifting your chin with her fingers. “I know it’s easier said than done, but I’m right here for you, and so is everyone else. If you’d like to talk to Dr. Raynor again, we can make that happen, too.”
“Yeah,” you replied quietly. “Okay.”
Wanda leaned in, kissed you softly, and then wrapped her arms around you. The fear and anxiety you felt started to melt away.
“I love you,” Wanda said, gently caressing your cheek. “Now, could you please make sure that Stark isn’t teaching the boys anything illegal.”
You raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Tony is still here?”
Wanda gestured toward the backyard, where Billy and Tommy were jumping up and down as Tony sent the drone soaring above their heads like an eagle.
“I got this,” you replied.
As you stepped outside, Tony turned with an empathetic grin on his face. “Hey, Willy Wonka. Welcome back. Are you feeling better?” he asked, his tone shifting to genuine concern.
“Yes,” you replied, relief washing over you. “Thanks for hanging out with Wanda and the boys while I—”
“While you bravely faced off against a piece of glass,” he interrupted with a teasing smirk, pointing at your bandaged hand.
You rubbed the back of your neck, heat creeping up your cheeks. “Yeah, not my finest moment.”
“I’m just messing with you,” Tony said, glancing at the boys playing nearby. “I know this situation isn’t easy, but you’ll get through it. We’re going to figure out how to stop your parents.”
“Thanks, Tony. I hope you're right,” you said.
The genius rolled his eyes. “I’m always right. And to that end,” he declared, pulling a slip of paper from his breast pocket and extending it toward you, “Here’s a start.”
You took the offering, your eyes widened at the check.
**Pay to the order of Y/N Y/LN: $1,000,000**
Your voice trembled as you stammered, “Stark, what… what is this? I can’t accept this,” you said, instinctively trying to hand back the check, but he wouldn’t take it.
“Consider it an investment,” Tony said. “I see so much of myself in you, y/n. Your determination, that stubborn spark.” He flicked your bandaged hand playfully. “And like I told a certain know-it-all—a hundred-year-old super soldier—I know what it feels like to grow up thinking your parents are against you instead of having your back.”
You bit your lip, fighting back tears. Without thinking, you stepped forward and hugged him. “Thank you, Tony.”
He wrapped his arms around you, his hand gently patting your back. With a soft smile, he said, “You’re welcome. Your parents have no idea who they’re up against. By the way, I wouldn’t mind a little chocolate kickback when the Candy Bar finally reopens.”
You couldn't help but chuckle. “You know, they really don’t like you. I recall the term ‘egotistical bastard’ being used during that Board of Directors Meeting.”
"Oh, I can assure you, there is no love lost. That is a delightful bonus of this little investment.” Tony smirked mischievously.
“Lunch is ready, boys!” Wanda called out from the back door as the first delicate snowflakes drifted down from the overcast sky. “Tony, would you like to join us?”
“No, thank you,” Tony replied, as he looked at his watch. “I need to get back to the lab before Peter breaks something important.”
“Thanks again, Tony,” you said, holding up the check with disbelief.
“Anytime, Willy Wonka. Catch you later, tiny Maximoffs!” Tony waved goodbye to the boys with a smile before turning to Wanda, “See you at the office, Red.”
As the door closed softly behind Tony, Wanda turned to you with curiosity. “What was that all about?”
You handed the check to her, and she gasped in shock. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s for rebuilding the shop,” you explained, tears of gratitude in your eyes again.
“This is so generous,” Wanda said, placing a hand over her heart.
“I know,” you agreed. “I have to call Harper right away.” Without waiting for another moment, you dashed to your bedroom.
“Mom, y/n is really going to be able to reopen the shop?” Billy asked, his eyes lighting up with hope.
“It looks that way, sweetheart,” Wanda confirmed, handing Billy and Tommy bowls of warm tomato soup alongside crispy grilled cheese sandwiches..
The boys jumped into an enthusiastic conversation, their imaginations running wild as they envisioned the design of the new Candy Bar. Wanda shook her head in amusement as she plated grilled cheese and soup for both of you.
But then, the world went still for just a moment.
"Wanda..."
The ladle she held slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, sending a chill down her spine. It wasn’t just the house settling this time; someone was calling her name, as clear as day.
Billy and Tommy were oblivious, too engrossed in their discussion. As she bent to pick up the fallen utensil, she felt her hands trembling.
Moments later, you burst back into the room. “Harper couldn’t believe it!” you exclaimed, your face alight with joy.
“That is wonderful, darling,” Wanda said, forcing herself to mask the tumult of fear.
“Honey, you’re shaking,” you noticed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just so happy for you,” she lied, her smile not reaching her eyes.
Leaning in close, you pressed your lips against hers. Pulling back, you let out a soft sigh. "I'll be honest with you; the thought of starting from scratch is scary," you admitted, taking a bite of your lunch.
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Platonic Fem!Reader Fem!Reader x Avengers
Summary: Living next door to Natasha Romanoff makes it difficult to overlook when something is off. During a weekend getaway at the Bartons' farm in Iowa, a revelation about Clint shakes the team. Thankfully, you may be able to help.
Word Count: 5k
Genre: Fluff, light angst.
Warnings: Mentions of hearing loss.
A/N: Sorry for the delay in stories! I started a new job and have been busy. I plan to work on the next chapter of Guardian Angel this weekend.
It was nothing. Probably.
Honestly, when it came to Natasha Romanoff, you could never be entirely sure. That ambiguity was just part of her charm. Still, you made a conscious effort not to overanalyze the situation. It wasn't your fault after all. Just because your room conveniently shared a wall with Nat’s didn’t mean you were resigned to being a witness to her nightly escapades. You had heard her slip out of her room repeatedly, always so stealthy that it felt more like a shadow flickering at the corner of your vision than a person making a move. You couldn’t help but wonder where she was going, but you were determined to convince yourself it was likely nothing. Probably.
As you settled down at the communal table for breakfast, you desperately tried to push thoughts of your teammate and friend to the back of your mind. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, mingling with the smell of vanilla, filled the air as Wanda took it upon herself to prepare breakfast for the team. The sight of her expertly flipping pancakes, her red hair cascading over her shoulders as she hummed a soft tune, brought a sense of warmth to the morning.
“Could you pass the butter, Clint?” Tony asked from across the table.
Clint didn’t respond; he didn’t even look up from his plate of pancakes.
“Yo, Robin Hood,” Tony called louder, pointing at the butter dish.
Kate nudged Clint, causing him to look up from his plate.
“Ooh, sorry,” the archer said as he passed the butter.
You couldn’t help but notice how Natasha’s gaze lingered on him, a blend of empathy and concern in her eyes.
Clint shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers drumming nervously against the table. He cleared his throat, eager to redirect the conversation. “So,” he began, glancing around the room as he spoke, “Laura and I thought it might be nice to escape the chaos. How would you all feel about joining us for a little getaway in Iowa this weekend? You can bring the kids, too.”
“That sounds nice, Clint. Consider your invitation accepted,” Steve said as he sliced into his pancakes.
Wanda's face softens, a warm smile spreading across her face. "That’s so kind of you to invite us. The boys would love to spend time with Laura and the kids. And I... I could use a break from everything."
Tony raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement on his face. "Iowa? What's the plan, Barton? Cornfield sightseeing?”
Pepper pinched Tony’s arm as he shrieked. “We would love to, Clint. Thank you for inviting us.”
Tony rubbed his arm. “I'm in, but only if a high-tech farm equipment expo is involved."
Thor grinned enthusiastically as he bit into a slice of crispy bacon. "A getaway, you say? Verily, I am in!“
"Bruce looked up from his plate, a hint of interest on his face, “Iowa, that sounds nice. Peaceful.”
Yelena raises an eyebrow, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. "Iowa. Aside from freezing to death in the middle of nowhere, what's there to do?" She smirked, leaning back in her chair with a glass of orange juice. "Still, it could be... entertaining. Count me in, Barton. But don't expect me to go all rustic and start milking cows."
“You’re going to love it, Yelena,” Kate replied as she poured herself another cup of coffee. “The Barton’s farmhouse is like something straight out of a John Steinbeck novel.”
“Steinbeck was one of my favorite writers,” Bucky said, a hint of nostalgia in his voice as he drizzled rich, golden maple syrup over fluffy pancakes. “I’ve read Grapes of Wrath three times.”
“I’ve always had a soft spot for East of Eden,” Steve remarked, a wistful spark in his eyes as he remembered the book.
“How very James Dean of you,” Bucky kidded, leaving Steve looking momentarily puzzled, his brow furrowing as he processed the reference.
“Who’s James Dean?” Steve wondered aloud.
“Just add it to the list; we’ll watch it while we’re in Iowa,” Sam murmured, almost to himself.
“It’s a movie? I’m lost,” Steve replied, furrowing his brow in confusion.
“Hey, Grandpas focus!” you shouted, shaking your head. Turning your attention to Clint, you added, “It sounds great. I think a little country getaway would just be what we need.”
Clint nodded in agreement before digging into his towering stack of pancakes. The kitchen fell back into silence, broken only by the soft sounds of forks clinking and plates being passed.
Meanwhile, your gaze wandered back to Natasha, uncharacteristically a silent observer. She never resisted the allure of a getaway with the Bartons’. Usually, she’d be the first to jump at an invitation like this.
“You’re coming too, right, Nat?” you asked.
“What?” she replied, momentarily pulled from her thoughts. A practiced smile crossed her lips but didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh yeah, I’ll be there,” she assured, though a flicker of uncertainty lingered in her expression.
*^~^*
The following day, the team boarded the Quinjet with bags in tow. You had heard Natasha stirring in the night again; curiosity tugged at you, but fatigue held you back from snooping on her.
It was nothing. Probably.
The flight to Iowa felt like it zipped by in an instant, but perhaps that was because your thoughts were consumed by trying to decode the enigma of Natasha Romanoff.
As soon as the jet’s ramp thudded against the ground, Nate dashed forward, jumping into Clint’s arms.
“Hey, buddy! How are you?” Clint exclaimed, crouching to embrace his youngest son, his smile broad and warm.
“Great! I missed you! Can we play football?” Nate asked, bouncing on his toes.
Clint glanced at Kate, a playful smirk creeping onto his face as she mimed throwing a football. It was a subtle gesture, but it didn’t escape your notice.
“Sure, bud. How about we round up some tag-alongs to join us later?” Clint suggested, as he looked at the group.
As you stepped into the charming farmhouse, the delightful aroma of freshly baked cookies enveloped you like a warm hug. Laura was pulling another tray from the oven, her face alight with joy as she spotted the group pouring in through the front door.
“Welcome, everyone! We’re thrilled to have you all here for the weekend.” she exclaimed. “With so many of you, a few will need to share the spare rooms, but trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
“I call dibs on the big room!” you proclaimed, charging toward the staircase as if it were a child bolting for the last cookie in the jar.
“Oh, hell no!” Sam bellowed, his footsteps reverberating behind you, as Bucky followed.
Before you could ascend another step, Sam's strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, holding you in place. Then, Bucky swooped in, effortlessly tossing you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing, the world below flipping upside down.
“Put me down, Barnes!” you yelped.
“Not a chance,” Bucky replied, his voice playfully firm. “Not until you agree to let me and Sam have the big room.”
“Never!” you shot back, squirming in Bucky's grasp.
Ever the opportunist, Tony snagged a couple of freshly baked cookies from the table. He tossed one to Morgan.
“This is going well,” Yelena said to Kate.
Just then, a luminous swirl of shimmering red magic enveloped you, and with a gentle touch, Wanda set you back on your feet.
“Thanks, Wanda,” you said appreciatively, straightening out your rumpled clothes.
“I’ll room with y/n,” Natasha declared suddenly, catching everyone off guard.
“Are you sure?” you asked, a mix of surprise and curiosity coloring your tone, given her recent late-night excursions that you definitely weren't still thinking about.
“Absolutely. We can crash in my room,” she insisted, as she effortlessly lifted both your bags and her own as if they were made of clouds.
“You have a room here?” you asked.
“I insisted,” she replied with a smirk, her sly glance toward Clint speaking volumes as he rolled his eyes in response.
Leaning closer, Natasha lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Besides, trust me, you don’t want that room anyway. It’s right above the chicken coop; you’ll be jolted awake by the clucking at 5 a.m.”
“Good to know,” you replied with a smile.
*^~^*
In the evening, everyone gathered on the front lawn to make good on Clint’s promise to Nate to play football. It may have been a friendly game, but you all took the competition seriously—probably too seriously—so you kept score, despite Laura and Pepper’s desire to keep it fun and friendly for the kids.
“Alright,” Tony said, gripping the pigskin tightly. “We’re down by three, so it's time to push for the end zone. Play action. Belova, I need you to slip out to the flat; Thor, you’re stretching your Godly legs with a go route towards that old tire swing. Y/N, swing back with a button hook to midfield, and Clint, you’ll take a sharp post route to the left. On my signal—break!”
You lined up at the line of scrimmage as Natasha squared off opposite you. When Tony shouted, “Hike!” you took a quick stutter-step, trying to juke the redhead, but she was relentless, shadowing every move. Steve had Thor tightly covered in the end zone on the other end of the field while Yelena struggled to shake off Kate in the flat.
Tony worked through his reads, his eyes locked on Clint. Just as Clint broke free, he launched the ball toward the corner of the end zone—a perfect spiral you all held your breath for, expecting it to land flawlessly in the Archer’s hands. But instead, Clint was nowhere near the ball. In a flash, Wanda snatched it out of the air like a hawk.
Bucky and Sam triumphantly hoisted the witch onto their shoulders, and Billy and Tommy burst into exuberant cheers. Their faces lit up with joy as they raced toward their mom, arms outstretched.
“Barton, what the hell? I said a post to the left!” Tony shouted.
Clint, rubbed the back of his neck and sank onto the grass. “Sorry, my bad.”
“Are you deaf or just ignoring me?” Stark didn’t relent.
“Let it go, Tony. We’re just here to have fun, remember?” Steve interjected.
With a dramatic sigh, Tony rolled his eyes and went to the porch, where Pepper and Morgan were sipping homemade lemonade.
You glanced back at Clint, catching the fleeting embarrassment creeping across his face as Natasha rushed over to help him back on his feet. They exchanged a few words, before Clint turned and headed towards the barn, shoulders slightly hunched.
"Hey, is he alright?" you asked Natasha.
"Yeah, he’s just worn out..." she said, her voice fading into silence like a thought left hanging in the air. She absentmindedly played with her arrow necklace, its delicate charm twinkling in the light.
You sensed the fib beneath her casual tone; Natasha Romanoff wasn’t one to lie lightly. She only masked the truth when something was seriously wrong. Just as you opened your mouth to dig deeper, Lila whisked Natasha away, leaving you to wrestle with the growing unease churning in your stomach.
It was nothing. Probably.
*^~^*
“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five,” Natasha called out, her voice steady as she easily powered through each pull-up.
You eyed her as you crawled under the covers. “You seriously installed a pull-up bar in the Bartons’ house?”
Natasha dropped down from the bar, her biceps flexing and glistening from the effort. “Got to fit in the workout where I can.”
With a roll of your eyes, you replied, “We’re supposed to be on vacation, remember?”
She smirked, “No rest for the weary.”
You couldn’t help but mutter, “More like no rest for you, ever.”
“What was that?” Natasha asked, as she climbed into bed beside you.
You shrugged it off, “Nothing. Let’s get some sleep.
*^~^*
You knew that a second glass of lemonade was a mistake. As you slowly sat up in bed, a shiver traced down your spine when your bare feet met the cool floor. Carefully, you slipped out of bed, the faint creaking of the floorboards accentuating the quiet of the night.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, you were puzzled but not entirely surprised to find the bed empty. Curiously, you tiptoed downstairs, guided by the dim glow of a small lamp. There, at the kitchen table, sat Natasha, surrounded by a chaotic spread of papers and bathed in soft light.
“Nat?” you called softly, trying not to startle her.
She jumped slightly, her eyes widening with surprise. “Y/N, what are you doing up?”
“Just went to the bathroom,” you replied, tilting your head. “What about you?”
“Nothing important, just sorting through some mission reports,” she replied, a hint of urgency in her voice as she hurriedly collected the papers, a few slipping from her grasp and fluttering to the floor.
“Let me help,” you offered instinctively, reaching down for the scattered pages.
“Really, it’s not necessary; we should both get back to bed,” she insisted.
Your brow furrowed as you picked up one of the scattered papers and read the title embossed at the top: “American Sign Language for Beginners.”
“Natasha, what is all this?” you asked, peering over the edges of several documents strewn across the floor.
She sighed, the sound echoing defeat as she gave up the pretense. “I’m learning sign language. Or at least, I’m trying my best,” Natasha admitted, her voice tinged with frustration as her fingers brushed over the pages, collecting them awkwardly.
“Why are you learning sign language?” you asked, as you watched her shuffle the papers into a neat stack.
“For Clint,” she replied softly, her gaze suddenly fixed on the ground. She sank back into her chair, her posture sulking as she avoided making eye contact with you.
“Clint? Why would Clint need to know…” your voice trailed off, the realization dawning on you like a heavy cloud. You felt a knot tighten in your stomach.
Instinctively, you pulled out the chair across from Natasha, the wooden legs scraping against the floor as you sat down, your mind racing with questions.
How long?” you asked softly, your tone coaxing her to open up.
Natasha paused for a moment, clearly burdened by her thoughts. Your heart ached as you noticed her attempt to wipe away a tear subtly.
After a few moments of silence, she finally responded, her voice barely above a whisper,” It's been a few months now,” she admitted, her eyes cast down, tracing an invisible pattern on the floor. “Clint’s hearing has been deteriorating significantly.”
“Okay, it's something," you murmured, glancing away.
Natasha furrowed her brow. "What are you talking about?
“Nothing.” You exhaled deeply, running your hands over your face in a futile attempt to shake your shock. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“Just his family and Kate,” she replied, her voice wavering slightly. “He was planning to tell the team tomorrow—that’s why he invited everyone down here,” Natasha continued. “Laura and the kids are learning sign language. I wanted to be supportive, but honestly, it’s harder than I thought.”
“Is that what you’ve been sneaking out for every night?” you pressed.
“Yes, I guess I’m not as quiet as I thought,” Natasha admitted as she ran a hand through her tousled red hair.
“Not when we share a wall,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.
She rubbed her bleary eyes, a mix of exhaustion and resolve in them. “It’s my only free time, and I didn’t want anyone else to find out before Clint was ready to share. He deserves that much.”
“He does,” you replied, exchanging a knowing glance with Natasha. “Now, as far as ASL goes, I might be able to lend a hand.”
Natasha tilted her head slightly, “What do you mean?”
You offered a small smile. “I taught myself sign language during the pandemic,” you explained, a hint of pride in your voice.
Her brow furrowed in disbelief. “You what? Seriously?”
You nodded. “I’ve always wanted to learn, and when we finally found ourselves with extra time at home, I found an incredible teacher on YouTube.”
Natasha leaned in, intrigued but still processing. “You’re kidding? So that’s what you did in your room all those hours?”
You couldn’t help but grin at the thought. You began to demonstrate, your hands moving gracefully, the language flowing from you naturally like a melody.
Natasha squinted slightly. “What does that mean?”
“I never kid,” you replied with sincerity. “But I love Clint, and I would be more than happy to teach you ASL.”
Natasha paused, staring at you with a mix of surprise and disbelief. Suddenly, she sprang to her feet, and before you could utter a single word, her arms wrapped tightly around you as if she never wanted to let go.
*^~^*
As the sun rose on Sunday morning, its golden rays illuminated the Bartons’ farm, casting a warm glow over the bustling activities that filled the property. Cooper led Wanda, Billy, Tommy, and Morgan to the stables, where their trusty horses awaited. They spent the day horseback riding, exploring the scenic trails that wound through the lush fields.
Meanwhile, Pepper and Tony ventured into town for a leisurely day of antiquing, though Tony's face hinted at his reluctance.
At the farm, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Thor donned their work gloves, rolling up their sleeves to help Laura with chores that needed tending to. From mucking out the stables to tending to the garden.
Yelena and Kate whisked Lila off for a fun-filled shopping trip in colorful boutiques and quaint shops.
In a quieter corner of the farm, Bruce found solace in nature. His favorite book was cradled in one hand as he meandered through the vibrant woods, absorbing the peace and serenity surrounding him.
Out in the field, Clint and Nate had turned an ordinary afternoon into an impromptu baseball practice, their shouts of joy ringing out as they tossed the ball back and forth.
Meanwhile, you and Natasha hid out in her room, the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains and casting gentle shadows on the floor. You sat close to her on the carpet, surrounded by a carefully arranged stack of papers and your laptop, which glowed invitingly with images and information.
“Alright, Nat,” you said, your encouraging. “We’re going to start with the alphabet. Just like any language, it lays the groundwork for everything else.”
Natasha nodded, her striking green eyes locked onto yours. “Okay, I’m ready.”
You began to illustrate each letter, your fingers dancing gracefully through the signs, meticulous and fluid.
“A,” you announced, forming the letter slowly with your fingers, ensuring she could catch every nuance. “B… C…”
Natasha watched intently as she mirrored your movements.
After you had guided her through each letter, you paused, allowing a smile to break across your face. “Great job, Nat. You’re picking this up fast.”
A hint of pride flickered in her smile. “Thanks. What’s next?”
“Now, we’ll move on to some basic phrases,” you said, turning your attention to the screen of your laptop where the phrases waited patiently. “These will help you communicate with Clint more effectively.”
You began with simple greetings, demonstrating each sign with care. “Hello,” you signed, your hand moving in a friendly wave infused with warmth.
Natasha practiced the sign, her hands imitating yours until it felt instinctive. “Hello,” she repeated.
“Good morning,” you continued, demonstrating the sign while your thoughts lingered on the connection this would foster between her and Clint.
“Good morning,” Natasha responded, her hands moving with precision, an eagerness blooming in her gestures.
“Well done. Another crucial element to consider is your eyebrows. They also play a significant role in conveying intent,” you elaborated.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she wiggled her eyebrows exaggeratedly at you. “I’ve always found that to be true,” she said.
You rolled your eyes in mock exasperation and gave her a gentle nudge. “In American Sign Language, eyebrow positioning serves as a form of facial punctuation,” you continued, “For example, raised eyebrows can indicate yes or no questions, while lowered eyebrows signal 'wh' questions: who, what, where, when, why, and how.”
As the lesson unfolded, you introduced more practical phrases. “How are you?” “Where is the bathroom?” “Do you need help?” Natasha intently absorbed each new sign. You could see how deeply she wanted to support Clint, a silent promise manifesting in every movement.
Hours slipped by unnoticed, and as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you pushed forward, guiding Natasha through more complex sentences and concepts. By the time the lesson drew close, she exuded a sense of proficiency in the basic signs, her confidence palpable.
“Thank you,” Natasha said sincerely. “This means a lot to me… and I know it will to Clint.”
*^~^*
“Hey, you two. Where have you been hiding all day?” Steve called out as you finally hopped off the last step of the stairs.
“Oh, you know... just watching a Bond movie,” you replied.
“Come on, you’re a terrible liar, y/n,” Tony shot back, a smirk creeping onto his lips.
Suddenly, Sam snapped his fingers with dramatic flair. “They hooked up!” he declared, eyes wide with amusement.
“Ow!” he yelped a moment later as Natasha playfully slapped him on the back of the head.
“We did not!” she retorted.
Just before you and Natasha faced further questioning, Laura announced that dinner was ready. After a hearty meal and dessert, you all sat at the table, feeling full and fighting off a food coma.
“Kudos, Mrs. Hawkeye! That meal was nothing short of spectacular,” Tony exclaimed. “You could give Pepper a run for her money in the kitchen! Ouch!” He yelped as Pepper pinched his arm yet again. “Seriously, could you not do that?”
“Daddy said a bad word!” Morgan piped up. “That means he has to put a dollar in the swear jar!”
“She's got you there, Tony,” Pepper smirked.
Clint looked around the room, breathing deeply as he realized this was the right moment. He turned to the kids. “Hey, Nate, why don’t you take Billy, Tommy, and Morgan to see your action figure collection?”
“Ooh, yeah! I’ve got action figures of all our moms and dads!” Nate exclaimed as he led the trio toward his room.
Clint rose to his feet, a somber expression etched across his face. His teammates, a family forged through countless battles, fell silent as their eyes locked onto him. "I need to share something important with all of you," he began. He took a breath, gathering his thoughts. "I’m not quite sure how to approach this, so I’ll just say it: I'm losing my hearing.“
A palpable hush enveloped the room as each person absorbed his words.
“It’s been getting worse for a while,” Clint continued, his voice wavering as he fought back tears. “I’ve tried to push through it, but…”
Laura stood and took his hand, grounding him.
Steve broke the silence first. "Clint, we’re with you through this, no matter what. You're part of this team, and we’ll find ways to adapt together."
Tony leaned back, a thoughtful frown on his face. "We can develop some tech to help. Hearing aids, custom communication devices—whatever it takes, we’ve got your back."
Bruce added with a comforting smile, "Science has made great strides. We can explore medical options and treatments, too."
Sam nodded. "You’re not in this alone. We’ll tackle this together."
“You’ve faced worse challenges. This won’t hold you back,” Bucky said.
"Exactly,” Wanda agreed. “We’ll discover new ways to communicate. You’re irreplaceable."
“Laura, Kate, and the kids have started learning ASL,” Clint shared, a hint of pride in his voice.
“Me too,” Natasha interjected, as all eyes turned toward her. “Y/N has been teaching me.”
“Since when do you know sign language?” Bucky asked, clearly impressed.
“Since the pandemic,” you replied matter-of-factly.
“Seriously?” Yelena raised an eyebrow. "That's so cool!"
“Wait, is that what you were doing locked away in your room for hours?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, what did you think I was doing?” you shot back playfully.
“Pay up!” Bucky shouted as Sam begrudgingly handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
“Honestly, I don’t even want to know,” you said, waving them off with an eye roll.
“Can you teach all of us ASL, y/n?” Steve asked.
“Absolutely,” you said enthusiastically. “I can put together some lesson plans when we get home.”
“Y/N is a great teacher,” Natasha said, her hands flowing gracefully through the air as she demonstrated a series of signs you had taught her earlier.
“What does that mean?” Bruce asked.
“We love you, Clint,” Clint managed to say, clearing his throat as emotion threatened to spill over.
Thor boomed with conviction, "A warrior’s strength isn’t found solely in their senses. Your heart and skills are what truly make you formidable, Clint."
Kate squeezed Clint's hand, "We’re here for you. Whatever you need, we’ll face it together."
Clint's heart flooded with gratitude as he looked around at his teammates. "Thank you, everyone."
As the conversation continued with energy, ideas ignited, and plans began to take shape, the group rallied around Clint, united and determined to tackle this new challenge just as they always had—together.
Amid the lively exchanges, your gaze locked with Natasha’s. She smiled as she silently mouthed, “Thank you.”
You responded in kind, returning the gesture with a subtle, “You’re welcome.”
