synopsis: in which you’re car mechanic!rafe’s favourite customer.
warnings: suggestive bordering on smutty, so proceed with caution.
The orange sun hangs low in the sky when you drive your car slowly through the opened bay doors of cameron’s auto repair shop — the only car shop you trust with your vehicle, for obvious reasons — before stepping out.
The place is completely empty, save for a couple of old chevies planted on vehicle lifts. An old 2000s r&b tune is blaring from the radio, and two long, denim-clad legs and worn out Jordans are sticking from under a beat up car, dull grunts coming from under it.
“Hello? Rafe, you there?” You call out, voice ricocheting off the walls, through the empty space. “In a sec.” The strained voice from under the car responds, the sounds of metal clinking against metal ring through the room one last time before the man pushes himself from under the car and sits up within a second.
You have to swallow your nerves when your eyes land upon Rafe. Delicious tanned skin, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead from a whole day of hard work. A grey tank top is clinging onto his upper body, black stains of oil adorned his forearms and surprisingly also the tips of his blond hair. His shoulders are also shiny, coated with sweat. One single cigarette is tucked behind his ear casually, and a slow, sticky smile spreads on his face when he sees your familiar, pretty face.
“Well, well, well,” Rafe’s voice is low and gruff, eyes raking over your figure, unconsciously taking one confident step toward you, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “If it isn’t my favourite girl.”
You miss the way Rafe’s eyes linger a second too long to admire the way your jeans are wrapped perfectly around your plump ass. You mean all business, turning toward your car. “I don’t know really,” you start, voice unsure and uncertain. “I was driving home and I don’t know— the engine was making this spluttery sound. And I didn’t know what to do, so I came here.”
You didn’t notice the way you were rambling until you feel Rafe’s heavy gaze bore through you. A sharp chuckle escapes him at your distressed state. “Easy, baby,” he reassures you lowly. His speech is slurry, almost sleepy. The term of endearment shoots straight to your stomach. He says it so comfortably, so casually. It makes you wonder if he would call you that if you were his girl too.
He moves swiftly toward his work bench, wiping his hands off with an evenly dirty rag that doesn’t do much, except for smearing the oil stains even more on his big hands. “Y’just needed my help, didn’t you?” Rafe flashes you a slow smile before opening your car door to pop the hood open. “I— I just didn’t know where to go.” You confess softly.
“Let’s take a look then.” You don’t do anything to hide the faint blush on your cheeks. The way he moves, smiles, how the tendons in his forearms flex when he pushes open the hood. You’re lost in your fantasy about the man in front of you, you almost don’t hear him calling for you with that usual mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come here, baby. Want y’to look with me.”
His warm hand clasps around your wrist when you’re close enough to pull you nearly into his chest. Without a word, he settles you in front of him, bending you over the hood of your car by pressing one hand to your lower back, the other caging you in on the other side.
Rafe’s body covers you like a shield. He smells like gasoline, cigarettes and something soft, like fresh laundry. The man is also much taller than you, and you can feel it. The way the rugged lines of muscle scrape over your back every time he moves to check the cables. You also feel the thick ridge of his length poke into the plush of your ass, and you have to try your best not to squirm every time he pushes himself more into you.
“You see this, sweetheart?” Rafe whispers, even though you’re alone. His mouth is so close to your ear, it feels as if he’s kissing your ear every time he speaks. He points to a random spot— you don’t completely follow, mind too hazy to focus on anything than Rafe’s voice, his warm body behind yours.
You nod silently. “Spark plug’s broken,” the blond tells you. You catch his stare as you turn your head around. “But I’m gonna fix it for you, yeah? Thirty minutes.” A filthy, knowing grin is plastered on his face as Rafe sees your breath hitch when you fully turn around. He makes no move to start working.
Your eyes are wide open. A broken spark plug? How did you not notice that? Rafe releases a slow breath at that cute expression on your even cuter face. You look like a damsel in distress. “‘S nothing bad, sweetheart. Just glad you came to me for help.” He hums gently, still with that wicked smile on his face, tilting your head up with his grease streaked fingers on your chin. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, yeah?”
“How much do I owe you?” Your quiet voice cuts through the thick, hot, tension-ridden air. You look up at Rafe from under your lashes, your hand casually resting in the crook of his elbow.
His gaze hardens— just for a moment. The thought alone of you paying him for something as easy as replacing your spark plugs has him annoyed. “You ain’t gonna pay for shit, princess.” Rafe tells you, voice achingly tender in comparison to his sharp glare. He emphasises his words by giving your chin a wiggle. “Y’think I’m gonna let my favourite customer pay?”
Rafe takes one step closer to you, which seems impossible because it looks like you two are glued onto each other. He shoots you that classic, filthy grin again before turning you back around, heavy hand pressing you down over the opened hood of your car. Instinctively, your back arches into a perfect curve, ass pressing into Rafe’s front.
Tension simmers in the air upon the realisation what you’re doing. You’re both quiet for a moment. Your breath feels heavy in your lungs when he reaches down again, voice deep and low in your ear.
“Besides, I know a better way for you to pay me back.”
➤ summary: your and the girls' little trip into nature ends up in you getting hurt and having no other option but to call Rafe
➤ w/c: 4.3k
➤ warnings: fluff, mild injury, lots of tension, grumpy Rafe, protective and soft Rafe, best friend's brother trope
masterlist taglist
It was already past afternoon when the sun started getting lower and setting the wild trails far away from Figure Eight in that warm and golden color. The trees all around you looked giant and intimidating with the way they were moving softly high in the sky with the soft breeze.
You, Sarah, and Kie decided on a whim to hike out to the old lookout point near the bluffs—a spot Sarah swore had the best view of the sunset and where she and Rafe used to go when they were younger and the world didn’t set them apart.
JJ, John B, and Pope needed to do something they swore was mega important on almost the other end of the island, and knowing them, Cleo volunteered to go there and make sure that they stayed out of trouble. So there were the three of you, almost in the middle of nowhere, with backpacks full of snacks and water and, well, just too much optimism about the “easy” trail and a promising view at the end.
You all walked at a steady pace, talking about Sarah’s latest little fight with John B, while you looked around with awe and relished the peace and fresh air. The path turned rocky; the big roots of the old trees peeked out from the ground here and there. You tried to step carefully, looking down and not rushing to not trip over your own feet, but in one moment something went wrong.
You didn’t even know what actually grabbed your attention or why you suddenly got distracted, but the second you did, you felt your feet sliding down the slippery and moss-covered root, making your ankle twist in a way that shot a hot-white pain through you.
“Shit— ow, ow, ow!” You gasped when your body fell on the ground, almost in agony. Reaching out for the source of pain instinctively, you hissed when your fingers trailed the already swelling place on your leg. The girls turned at the sound, instantly crouching in front of you with worried and scared eyes.
“Oh God, what happened?” Sarah reached out carefully, hand hovering just above your leg so as not to hurt you.
You blinked away the sudden tears in your eyes, which appeared before you could even notice it. “I— Fuck, I slipped on something. It hurts so badly, and I think it’s starting to swell.”
Kie twisted your leg carefully, examining the damage. “Can you put a weight on it?”
You tried to place your foot on the ground, barely even touching it, yet your vision instantly blurred from the pure and agonizing pain.
“Nope. Nope, definitely not.”
The three of you stared at each other in dawning horror. The trail back to the main road was long, not to mention that then you had to find a way to get back home because you decided that a half-hour walk from Tanneyhill to here would be a great warm-up. A stupid decision, you now thought. The boys would probably take forever to get there, and by the time they would be able to find you in an unknown territory, it would already be dark.
Sarah stood up, pulling out her phone and biting her thumb while she was thinking. “I could call dad, but he said he has a meeting today. Rose… she’s like totally useless.” She hesitated, before looking at you with expression that you though was somewhere between guilt and pity. You didn’t like that. “There one other person, who can get here fast and who know the place…”
“Rafe.” You said it flatly, and she nodded, while Kie scoffed and rolled her eyes beside you.
Sarah winced. “He owes me, and he knows these paths better than I do since he liked to hide here all the time. Plus…” Her voice dropped, like she was not sure whether it was okay to say it or not. “He’s weirdly not awful to you. Like, he tolerates you more than anyone else.”
“Tolerates. Such high praise.” You snorted despite the throbbing feeling in your ankle.
But you knew that there was truth behind it. You and Sarah were inseparable since you both were twelve, and all that time Rafe had no other choice but to have you around, especially during sleepovers at Tanneyhill. He had grown up watching you two, always grumbling something about you being insufferable together, yet… not actually doing anything to avoid you or scare you away. Instead, over time he started watching his tone when you were around. When the random dudes got too handsy and weird at the parties, he told them to fuck off. Once, he gave you his hoodie when someone spilled a drink all over your shirt. Another time he gave you a lift when you had no other way to get back home.
He watched out for you—subtly, carefully, never letting you know that he was caring or paying attention.
He never explained himself, and you never asked.
So asking him, of all people, to come and play some kind of savior for you? Yeah, that seemed totally ridiculous.
“He will be angry. Or just laugh and ignore it.” You sighed, dropping your head back and trying to even your breathing when the pain mixed with the sudden anxiety started pooling low in your stomach. “Or probably both.”
“Yeah, he literally called me a weirdo hippie the last time we saw each other.” Kie rolled her eyes, plopping down beside you with a grunt.
You laughed. “And before that you called him a freak because you thought he was following us.”
“Okay, I’m calling.” Sarah merged in while she was walking around you with an extended hand and trying to find a better signal.
A few long minutes had passed before you heard long dials, feeling suddenly sick and, if it was possible, even more nervous about the whole situation.
“What?” Rafe’s voice came out sharply, like he was already annoyed with Sarah’s call.
“Hey, Rafey.” Sarah said sweetly, using the nickname he absolutely despised. “We need a favor.”
“I’m busy.” He said after a long pause, and you could imagine him rolling his eyes or pinching the bridge of his nose.
“We’re kinda stuck on these trails away from the Figure Eight. Y/N twisted her ankle, like pretty badly, and she can’t walk. Me and Kie can’t carry her.”
Silence, then a long sigh. You bit your lip, wincing and waiting for the worst. “You idiots. Why the hell did you even go there? After the fucking rain and without telling anyone?”
“Can you come? Please?” Sarah ignored his lectures, using her best not-annoyed voice. “We’re like… two miles away from the east access point.”
“Fine.” He muttered. “But if it’s a joke, I swear—“
“It’s not.” Sarah interrupted. “Thanks.”
He hung up the phone.
You looked down at the ground, weirdly interested in the grass near you, feeling that your face was burning with embarrassment.
Probably almost an hour later, when you already couldn’t feel your ass from sitting on the solid ground, while girls tried to distract you and cheer you up, you finally heard solid steps somewhere not too far away.
Rafe appeared around the bend, wearing faded gray shorts, a blue shirt, and that perpetual scowl. His hair was messy from the wind, and he looked like he’d been interrupted mid-workout—or mid-nap—and wasn’t thrilled about it.
He took one look at the three of you and shook his head. “Un-fucking-believable. You three couldn’t go for a walk in the neighborhood like normal people?”
Sarah stood up. “Hi to you too.”
He ignored her, looking straight at you, and you swore you saw the instant change in his eyes—maybe concern, maybe relief—but you could’ve just imagined that. He walked closer, crouching in front of you.
“Show me.”
You hesitated, but his eyes weren’t angry or accusing; you slowly and carefully lifted your injured leg off the ground. Rafe’s fingers, surprisingly gentle and careful, examined your ankle, touched the swollen place, then ever-so-slightly twisted it. You hissed, nails digging into your thigh from the pain.
“Easy.” He murmured. “Don’t think that it’s broken, probably just a bad sprain. You tried putting something cold on it?”
“No ice in the wilderness, Rafe.” Kie scoffed from behind him.
“No shit. There’s no ice when you’re irresponsible enough to go out here without a fucking first aid kit.” He looked back over his shoulder at Kie and his sister, making them both roll their eyes. Probably for the hundredth time. “Where are your other Boy Scouts, anyway?”
“They are busy on the other side of the island and couldn’t come.”
“Of course. Useless per usual.” He gently placed your leg back on the ground, standing up. “What if a storm rolled in? Or if there was no service?”
“Okay, we get it, Dad.” Sarah sighed, pointing back at you. “Are you gonna help us or what?”
“Not “us”, but her. You two can figure it out yourselves.”
“Asshole.” Kie grumbled.
“Shut up.” Rafe snapped back, but there was no actual heat in it.
Then he crouched again, turning his back to you and looking at you over his shoulder. “Get on.”
You blinked stupidly. “What?”
“Get on my back. Before I change my mind and leave you here.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs, mouth suddenly dry. Rafe Cameron—Rafe—was offering to piggyback you. The same Rafe who once called you “Sarah’s annoying shadow.” The same Rafe whose hand you’d accidentally brushed in their kitchen once and felt like it electrocuted you—you were scared to even look at him after that.
You swallowed. “I… I don’t want to hurt you. Or make it weird.”
He glanced over his shoulder again, blue eyes narrowed but softer than usual. “You’re not heavy. And it’s already weird. Just get on before I drag you.”
“I thought you were going to just…” You stopped yourself.
“Going to what?”
“…I don’t know.” You mumbled after a few seconds because, literally, what else were you expecting to happen? Him teleporting you back home?
“Mhm, exactly. Now move.”
You looked back at your friends, Kie with a frown on her face and Sarah looking like she was trying to hold back a smile and failing miserably, who then nodded in agreement with Rafe.
With a shaky breath and a grunt of pain you tried to swallow down, you shifted forward. Your arms tentatively landed on his shoulders, your chest just barely touched his back, trying to keep space in between your bodies. Rafe’s hands touched your thighs, then slid under your knees when he tried to place you comfortably and gently on his back to not disturb your foot.
He stood up easily, readjusting your position and gripping your legs a little bit tighter. You tried to stop the fluttering in your chest that made your neck and face burn from the skin-on-skin contact.
He made a frustrated groan. “You’re gonna fall off like that. Lean in, dumbass. I’m not gonna drop you.”
That was actually the last thing you were thinking about.
“I—okay.”
You pressed a big closer. Your chest meeting the solid warmth of his back. Arms slid just a bit lower—enough to loop around his neck, but not enough to choke or make too much contact.
Rafe nodded like he was still not satisfied with your position but let it slide just for now. He told the girls to carry your bags, follow him, and look where they were stepping in that annoyed yet protective way only Rafe Cameron could master.
He started walking, moving steadily like there was no weight on his back. Carefully enough to not disturb your leg or let you hit any low-hanging branches. Sarah and Kie were somewhere behind you, seemingly far enough that you could barely understand what they were talking about. The pain in your ankle was a bit duller now, or maybe you were just too aware of the situation, and your mind pushed it somewhere aside just for now.
The heat of his body seeped to you through the thin material of your clothes. The unmistakable smell of his cologne—something warm, woody, and expensive—invaded your senses. With the way you were seated, you swore you could see and feel the way his muscles moved with every step, making it way too hard to focus on anything else.
You tried to hold yourself still, your posture stiff and detached, to not make it seem too weird or too intimate. Because touching Rafe Cameron, being so close to him, wasn’t something that you allowed yourself to think about. And this was just a favor—nothing more, nothing less.
Just a few minutes after, your back started killing you from an awkward and way too rigid position. You wiggled slightly, pulling backwards, making Rafe adjust and grip under your legs tighter to hold you still.
“Stop fighting it.” He grumbled low enough that only you could hear it. “You’re yanking me off balance.”
“Sorry.” Your voice sounded small and hesitant.
“Just… relax. Lean against me properly. Wrap your hands tighter if you need to. I got you, I promise.” He said it a bit softer, barely slowing down his rhythm.
Your heart stuttered. Slowly, you forced your body to comply—you leaned forwards, now fully leaning against his back, letting your hands wrap a bit tightly around his neck with your fingers feeling the solid muscles on his shoulders. Your cheek rested on your own forearm just mere inches from his own face, in a position that gave you a perfect opportunity to stare at his side profile up close.
You exhaled deeply as the last remaining tension bled out of you.
“There.” He hummed, almost gently. “That’s better.”
You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, Rafe.”
He didn’t reply right away. Just kept walking, pace steady. Sarah and Kie trailed behind, talking softly, giving you space. You felt yourself getting sleepy from the motion and smell that fully enveloped you until Rafe just barely turned his head. His soft blue eyes caught yours instantly, and with the way your heart started pounding against your ribs, you swore he could feel it too, because he was close—way too close to be innocent and normal.
“How’s your leg?” He looked away, focusing back on the trail.
“Um, it’s okay. Pulsating, but bearable.”
“You scared me there.”
“I did?” You furrowed, stunned.
“Yeah.” Rafe nodded once, voice lower. “When Sarah called me and said you couldn’t walk.”
“Oh… I thought I annoyed you.” You laughed even if admitting it out loud stung something deep in you—something you couldn’t name. “I thought you would be mad and tell us to deal with it ourselves.”
“You do annoy me, but like… in a good way. I wouldn’t leave you here, especially hurt, you know that?” Rafe’s voice suddenly sounded serious when he side-eyed you to catch your reaction.
You hesitated. “I guess now I do.” Your fingers tightened on his shoulder ever so slightly, and you swore you saw a soft smirk forming on Rafe’s lips before silence fell around you again.
When fifteen minutes later you saw a familiar view of the parking lot, Rafe suddenly shifted you slightly higher on his back, grip steady and firm on your legs. Protective.
“You owe me.” He said gruffly.
“Name it.”
The silence seemed heavy when Rafe hesitated to say something back to you. Your eyes studied the side of his face again, now a bit more openly, seeing the way he stared right ahead of him, yet it seemed like the answer sat heavy on his tongue and he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
The trail slowly flattened out into the gravel of the parking lot, and you finally saw Rafe’s dark blue SUV sitting lonely under the tree and the fading orange light of the sky.
“Dinner.” It came out so suddenly you thought you imagined it. Your breath caught.
“Not like some fancy bullshit at the Figure Eight or whatever.” He added quickly, suddenly almost tripping over his own words. “Just something nice. Without others. You can pick any place if you want. Or I can. I mean—whenever you’re not hobbling around like a baby deer.”
It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t a demand either. Like Rafe said it in a way that made an easy escape just in case you said no or laughed at the idea. Your mind just went blank for a moment, because there was no way he actually meant what you just heard.
Your face went hot, your brain suddenly very aware of how tightly you were pressed against him and how his fingers twitched under your legs as if from nerves.
“…Diner.” You repeated, slowly, catching the way his jaw clenched.
“Yeah.” He shrugged one shoulder like it was no big deal, but you felt the tension in his frame. “You owe me. That’s the price.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood. “Okay.” You said before you could overthink it into oblivion. “Dinner. Deal.”
Rafe didn’t say anything else, but you felt the corner of his mouth twitch against your forearm.
When you finally reached the car, Rafe let you carefully slide off his back. You landed on your good leg, but the moment you did, he turned around and lifted you up again—this time in bridal style.
You tried to protest, but the girls came into the view, talking about him being way too fast while they got in the back seat of the car, seemingly not paying attention to the position you were currently in.
Rafe maneuvered you slowly, opening the passenger door with one hand and placing you down carefully. He crouched beside you, adjusting your leg and making sure that you were comfortable.
“Try to not put any pressure on it.” You just nodded, because the words were stuck in your throat.
To make things worse, Rafe leaned over you, his shoulder brushing your chest, when he reached for the seatbelt and clicked it into place, his fingers brushing your thigh. Your eyes flicked up when your breath caught in your throat, and for a second he froze too, just looking down at you.
Your heart dropped into your stomach, face heating under his gaze once again. When Rafe finally moved away and closed the door, you closed your eyes just to pull yourself together.
He sat in the driving seat, and the car roared to life. The girls were whispering something in the back, completely oblivious to the tension between you and Rafe.
He tried to keep his focus on the road, not letting himself get too distracted with you. But your presence affected him in a way he couldn’t explain, and his eyes flickered to you every few minutes.
Your hand rested near the console in between your seats. Rafe’s hand, restless, found a place there too—close enough that you could feel his warmth. You stared straight ahead, pretending to watch the trees blur past. Your fingers twitched, and the next moment his hand touched yours—barely, way too timid at first. But when you didn’t pull away, his pinky wrapped around yours.
You still looked out of the window. No reaction on your face, even if inside everything was burning.
Ten minutes later he pulled outside of your house, and before Rafe could even kill the engine, Sarah leaned forward in between two front seats, looking at Rafe with a twinkle in her eyes. His hand shot away from yours.
“You should take her home, Rafe. Me and Kie will wait here, yeah?” She looked back at Kie encouraging her to agree. Rafe’s eyes bored into yours, looking at your reaction.
“Fine, but don’t touch anything in here. Don’t want you two rummaging through my shit.” He grumbled, unfastening his seatbelt.
“Bruh, wouldn’t touch anything with a three-foot pole. Don’t even want to know what freaks like you even do in their cars.” Kie’s face twisted when she folded her arms, trying to take up as little space as possible.
Rafe’s jaw clenched. “Shut up before I drop you off on the street and make you walk back home.”
“Could you both stop?”
Rafe glared at you, but neither of them said anything else. Rafe hopped out of the car, while you opened the door and tried to step on the ground safely, but he was at your side in a second—sliding one of his hands under your legs and placing the other one on your back.
You made a soft gasp, hands wrapping around his neck involuntarily to hold yourself back from falling.
“Rafe… I can do it myself. It’s not that far.” You protested, embarrassed that he had to carry you around for the third time today.
“Don’t want you to hop around like a flamingo.” He pressed your body closer to his, leaving no room for any protests from you. Your head dropped lazily against his shoulder in surrender, as you used an opportunity to stare at him again, and from this position you were able to notice the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose and cheeks. You nuzzled closer, hiding a smile.
Rafe reached the door in a few long steps, taking your keys and fidgeting with the lock until the door opened in front of you.
The house was dark and quiet; your mom was still probably at work and oblivious to your little trip; the soft scent of candles and something weirdly yours filled Rafe’s lungs, and he breathed in deeply like he couldn’t get enough. It was the first time he went further than the front steps when a few times he dropped things that you accidentally left in Tanneyhill.
You guided him through the house, insisting again that you can go upstairs yourself and meeting with the same response as before. Rafe finally entered your room, carefully placing you on the bed and looking around for a pillow to rest your foot on, but also stealing glances at the interior around. The books on the table, your heels on the floor near the dresser, a giant mirror with photos tucked into the corners of the frame, and plushies all over your bed. It was cozy, warm, felt so lived in, and tugged at something deep inside him—something that made him want to stay just a bit longer.
Rafe got the ice from downstairs, towering over the bed to arrange everything.
“Here.” He murmured, covering your ankle with a packet of ice that made you wince but feel some kind of relief at the same time. “Keep it elevated. Ice for twenty minutes. Don’t put any pressure on your leg, okay? You can text me if you need anything.”
“Okay.” You looked up at Rafe, your voice barely above a whisper. He nodded, his hand lingering on your leg a few moments longer than necessary before taking a few steps back. “Thank you.”
The tension was so heavy when your eyes were locked on each other. You knew he wanted to say something more, seeing the way his lips parted and his hand flew out almost nervously to rub the back of his neck.
But then he just nodded, jaw tight, and turned away to leave.
Fuck it.
You moved before your brain could scream at you and convince you to stop. Rafe’s name slipped softly from your lips, the ice pack falling down on the floor with a heavy thud when you jumped up on one leg.
“What the hell are you—” Your hands grabbed his shirt the moment Rafe turned around, tugging him closer and down to your level.
Your lips touched his. Rafe groaned in surprise, stiff as steel against you, but the moment you pulled away and looked at him—embarrassed, mortified that you read it all wrong—he moved forward.
Rafe’s right hand held your face, the other one steadied you at your waist to help you stand on one leg. He loomed over you, fully enveloping you with his broad form, and finally kissing you the way he meant to for a long time—greedily, messily, like it was still not enough to satisfy him.
You both pulled back after a while, staring at each other and smiling the moment the reality hit you. Rafe tugged you closer, for the first time feeling he had permission to hold you against him and relish the moment.
“I don’t mind this type of payment, but you won’t wiggle your way out of the dinner, y’know?” He teased, smiling, against your temple. Your hands found their place on his shoulders and squeezed softly.
“Yeah, just… felt like doing it.” You whispered.
Rafe finally laughed, backing you softly towards the bed with a strong hand around you. He arranged everything again—your foot up on the pillows, ice pack—and then leaned over you, hands pressed on both sides of your hips, face just inches away from yours.
“Next time, just ask.” He murmured before kissing you again—now, slowly, tenderly, taking his sweet time to taste you. “I’ll text you later.”
“Okay.”
When he left, you fell back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling of your room and feeling like it all was a fever dream. The pain in your leg was now the last thing you thought about.
Your phone pinged beside you with a notification.
Sarah: you two TOTALLY kissed
Sarah: he’s trying to hold back a smile, i swear
You threw the phone down without an answer, covering your face with both hands and feeling that you couldn’t hold back a smile either.
Maybe the day wasn’t as bad as you thought at first.
just thinking about jj when reader has an attitude…
⊹‧₊˚݁˖ Ი𐑼⋆₊˚˖⊹
“a’ight, whatcha wanna eat? we don’t have much — say thanks to john b’s messed up eat-in-the middle-of-the-night habits — but i can hop on my bike ‘n’ run t’the store real quick if y’want me too. might also be able to get you another one of ‘em … thingy’s you like; what’re they called again?” he asks while walking towards the kitchen, a warm hand on your lower back to guide you over with him. you replace his palm with the side of a counter, watching as the blonde scowers for the remnants of his best friend’s midnight feasts.
“i don’t care, ain’t my problem,” you mumble, low enough that, if you decide to, you can go back and act like it’s nothing, like it was a breeze passing by the wind instead of a challenge you’re setting up. but you don’t, instead you only add onto the act my crossing your arms, rolling your eyes, and jutting out your bottom lip in an exaggerated pout that isn’t really directed at anything.
placing the cereal box back into the shelf he’d snatched it from, jj turns around slowly, moving around the counter to stand by where your still making a face. he tilts his head, keeping a hand locked by your hip, trying to catch your dazed off eyes. he adjusts his cap, rings glinting in the sunlight as he tries his hardest to keep his tone light and airy: “couldja repeat that one more time f’me, princess?”
“i don’t fuckin’ know; it ain’t my— ow—“ your scoffed words get cut off by the blonde’s calloused hand now gripping your jaw and chin — the cold of his rings mixing deliciously with the heat creeping up your neck — forcing you to meet his gaze. he’s somehow managed to slot his leg between yours, indirectly pinning you to the counter so you can’t even try to squirm away from the incredulous little glint in his eye.
“nuhuh, we’re not doin’ this today. you’ve been droppin’ lil’ things all day — yeah, obviously i noticed; the whole island noticed babygirl — ‘n’ i’m sick of it,” he starts, leaning a tad bit closer so you catch every muttered word that leaves his lips. his fingers flex against your flesh, the tips of his fingers pressing into soft skin as you snark, “didn’t say anything. maybe you’re just going crazy—“
“you sure y’wanna continue with that lil’ speech of yours?” he asks, digging the pads of his finger deeper int your skin. not enough to hurt — never enough to hurt — but enough for you to understand his how real he’s being right now. it’s not a continuation of the challenge you’ve set up; it’s a warning for the consequences of continuing, and although it’s silent it speaks volumes louder then words ever could.
“this colour ain’t pretty on you, baby; didn’t think that was possible ’cuz your so perfect but life sends surprises all the time,” he rambles, eyes tracing over your features as you try to keep your position. he shakes his head, stopping himself before he goes totally off topic, “anyways— keep sayin’ this shit, keep doin’ this shit t’me, ‘n’ i swear i’ll have you gaggin’ on your words. d’you hear me?”
you don’t respond to him. in fact for a couple of beats, all you do is blink up at the sun-damaged hair crammed into his cap, and the ocean-blue eyes that seem to be studying yours. he coaxes: “c’mon baby lemmie hear your beautiful voice.”
“okay …” you murmur, your stare fixed on his as he straightens himself. his hand slides off your jaw — your instinctively moving your own to trace over the minuscule half-moons he’s managed to press into them — a certain sort of warmth evaporating as he steps back out of your personal space.
“goodgirl. glad we git that cleared up. now d’you want me t’get some food or not?”
you watch as he returns to rummaging through john b’s messy kitchen, placing old pizza boxes and empty beer cans off to the side to really cover all bases and check every nook and cranny. there’s a smirk playing on his lips, but it’s not his usual sort of playful smirk; it’s more satisfied than anything, and it says everything you need to know: “you got a kick outta that, didn’t you?”
“maybe. so what? ain’t like you don’t like it when i put y’back into your place.”
ᯓ★ a / n : this is me. i’d give him attitude. also i LOVE the anon who sent this, ur so peak 🧚♀️
✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | ✪ g's star reads | 18+ below the cut
@redeemingvillains
✧.* with all due respect ✪
lorenzo berkshire is a compulsive playboy, an obsessive flirt and a disastrous tease, so when you come to visit hogwarts for the spring term hot off of a terrible breakup, your best friend pansy has one rule: he can look, but he can't touch.
@kyber-crystal
✧.* through the seasons
he would love you till the end of time. everyone can see it, and they can only hope that you’ll come to your senses and realize that too.
@marvelwitchergilmore
✧.* Pains and Promises
A rivalry that has been going on for four years suddenly begins to change when you help Fred's little sister.
@maria021015
⚠︎ verituserum
Fred, George, and Lee have been avoiding you all day and you’ve had enough. When you blackmail your way into the Gryffindor common room to confront them, you don’t expect Fred to start bombarding you with strange compliments. You definitely don’t expect what comes next.
✧.* Dress Code ✪
When your friends dare you to test Fred Weasley’s jealousy, you find yourself in a series of increasingly bold outfits - from short skirts to scandalous dresses - only to be met with maddeningly calm reactions. While your friends are convinced Fred is simply unshakable, you can’t help but wonder if he even notices at all. But when your frustration finally boils over, Fred proves he’s been watching the whole time - with a smirk, a kiss, and a line that melts you completely.
⚠︎ Reconcilliation
You and Fred Weasley had been together for years. Your lives were so well meshed, it was almost impossible to tell where he ended and where you began. So when you arrive back at the apartment you two share, the last thing you expect him to say is ‘we need to talk’.
✧.* Rule #1
Being best friends with Ginny Weasley was the easiest thing in the world. Or, at least, it had been at the start. The two of you had three simple rules.
@cipheress-to-k-pop
✧.* little sister, my arse
You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.
@yasministration
⚠︎ wrong twin
for a long, gruelling minute, angelina is under the impression that her best friend has a crush on her boyfriend. but no, that's the wrong twin.
@mssorceressupreme
⚠︎ Your Warmth
gryffindor quidditch team throws a celebratory party at the lake after their win, and you decide to go though you were not one for parties. someone then pulls a prank on you (not fred), throwing you in the lake, not knowing you can’t swim.
✧.* You Belong with Me
it almost felt like unrequited love to you, until you agreed to go to the Yule ball with George, causing his twin brother to get jealous.
@petalsandplots
✧.* Cherry Thief
Fred becomes obsessed with your cherry lip gloss, teasing you relentlessly until his charm gives way to something softer. Between laughter, warmth, and a stolen lip gloss, one thing becomes clear: Fred might joke about everything, but not how he feels about you.
@neurthewanderer
✧.* Where is My Wife?
In which Fred Weasley doesn’t die. He just passes out dramatically, wakes up confused and high on anesthetic, and asks for his wife like it’s the most urgent mystery in the world.
@lumosflairr
⚠︎ JUST FRIENDS
You and Fred are just friends. However, you can't help but feel a tug at your heart whenever he does little things - making you question if your 'just friends.'
@ifaxchsn
✧.* five minutes of heaven
Fred risks losing Quidditch unless his grades improve, so his girlfriend sets up a study reward system: 25 minutes of focus earns him 5 minutes of kissing. The deal motivates Fred, turning dreaded study sessions into playful, passionate moments. With her help, his grades rise, Quidditch victories follow, and their romance only deepens — proving she’s both his best tutor and his greatest reward.
@htchnr
✧.* aching knees
in which you fall asleep against Fred's thigh in the common room and it absolutely fries his tired brain.
@binchidavinci
⚠︎ She Said No
‘When a guy at the Three Broomsticks won’t take the hint, Fred makes sure to clarify that you’re not available. Of course, this is done with fists.’
@spencersmopbucket
🔞 Another Man's Treasure
You're Cormac McLaggen's girlfriend — but Cormac pays more attention to Quidditch than you. Shame, shame.. Fred just can't let you go to waste.
@andy-15-07
🔞 Wicked
A lazy afternoon turns into something much more when Fred Weasley can't keep his eyes—or hands—off you
@mssorceressupreme
🔞 Hate and Love
in the mission of transporting Harry safely to the Burrow, you and Fred get thrown off-track as his broom breaks, resulting in an overnight detour at a hotel.
Summary: On a quiet evening at Hogwarts, she asks Fred for a promise — that no matter what happens, they’ll always find their way back to each other. With a tender “Promise,” he reassures her, and together they walk, laugh, and share quiet moments beneath the starlit sky. In that magical night, their bond feels unbreakable, filled with trust, love, and the certainty of being together.
The Hogwarts grounds were bathed in the warm hues of sunset, the sky streaked with pinks and golds that reflected on the surface of the lake. Fred and I walked slowly along the edge of the water, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of owls forming a serene backdrop. His hand brushed mine occasionally, sending small sparks of warmth up my arm, and every time I looked at him, I felt my chest swell with a mixture of joy and nervousness.
He laughed at something I said, a joke that had barely been funny and the sound made my heart feel impossibly light. It reminded me of all the times we had spent together, the pranks, the laughter, the late-night talks in the Gryffindor common room, and the way he could make even the worst day feel magical.
I hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of everything I wanted to say. I stopped walking and turned to face him. Fred noticed the serious look on my face and raised an eyebrow, his grin softening into something warmer.
“Fredie…” I began, my voice quiet and slightly trembling. “Promise me something?”
His expression shifted immediately from playful to attentive, curiosity glinting in his eyes. “Anything,” he said, his hand reaching for mine instinctively.
I took a deep breath, squeezing his fingers. “Promise me… that no matter what happens, whether we get caught in a prank gone wrong, or someone tries to pull us apart, or the world just… gets too much, we’ll always find our way back to each other. Promise me we’ll never let anything come between us.”
For a moment, he was silent, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time. His usual sparkle, that mischievous fire in his eyes, softened into something deeper, something steady, reassuring. He leaned a little closer, brushing a strand of hair from my face, and I felt my heart thump so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
“Promise,” he said finally, voice low, steady, and filled with certainty. The single word held more weight than anything else anyone had ever said to me. And in that moment, I knew he meant it with every fiber of his being.
He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and smirked that familiar grin, teasing but tender. “And if I ever forget, remind me, yeah? Don’t let me get lazy on my promises.”
I laughed softly, the tension in my chest easing as I let my head rest against his shoulder. We walked along the lake in silence for a while, just listening to the gentle lapping of the water and the whisper of the wind through the trees. Around us, Hogwarts rose in the distance, golden and peaceful, as if it were quietly blessing the moment.
Fred suddenly nudged me with his shoulder playfully. “Race you to the willow tree?” he asked, his mischievous grin returning, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re on,” I said, grabbing his hand, and we ran together, our laughter echoing across the grounds. But even in the midst of the play, that promise lingered between us, a tether of certainty and trust. No matter what challenges came our way, no matter how chaotic life became, that promise was ours unbroken, unshakable.
As the sun dipped fully below the horizon and stars began to twinkle overhead, we finally collapsed on the grass beneath the willow tree, breathless and smiling. Fred pulled me close, wrapping an arm around me, and whispered, “See? Nothing can ever get between us. I promise.”
And in the soft glow of the starlit Hogwarts sky, with the world hushed around us, I believed him.
Summory: After the war, you return to the Burrow changed and distant. When you tell Fred, “You don’t know me. I’m not the same person anymore,” he simply smiles and replies, “That’s okay. I’ll get to know you again.” In that moment, love becomes something new , not what you were, but what you can be together.
The Burrow used to feel like laughter.
Now it just… echoed.
You stood at the edge of the garden, where wildflowers had grown over old footprints remnants of a life that felt like a dream you could no longer reach. The air smelled faintly of smoke and summer rain, and for a long moment, you just stared at the crooked house that had once felt like home.
You hadn’t been back since the Battle of Hogwarts.
Too many ghosts lived here now not the kind that floated through walls, but the kind that whispered through memories. You nearly turned around, but a voice, warm and familiar, stopped you.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you lurking around here again.”
Fred Weasley.
You turned slowly, heart catching in your throat. He was leaning against the fence, arms crossed, hair a bit longer now, a faint scar tracing his jaw. But it was his eyes bright, mischievous, and impossibly kind that undid you.
“Fred,” you breathed, the name tasting strange after so long. “You’re… here.”
He grinned faintly. “Where else would I be? Mum won’t let me leave for too long, says the place falls apart without me.” His voice tried to sound light, but there was an undercurrent something softer, something uncertain.
You smiled weakly, but the ache in your chest grew heavier. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” he agreed quietly. “You look… different.”
You gave a hollow laugh. “War tends to do that.”
The words hung between you, sharp, fragile, too honest. Fred’s grin faltered, and for the first time, you saw the exhaustion behind his usual spark.
He took a hesitant step closer. “I heard you weren’t doing too well,” he said gently. “That you-”
“-weren’t the same?” you finished, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. That’s true.”
Fred’s brow furrowed. “You don’t believe that’s a bad thing, do you?”
You shrugged, voice low. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. The girl you knew, she’s gone. You don’t know me, Fred. I’m not the same person anymore.”
Silence.
Then, with a softness that nearly broke you, he said,
“That’s okay. I’ll get to know you again.”
You blinked, stunned by the simplicity of it. No grand speeches. No empty promises. Just Fred steady, real, Fred.
He smiled faintly, closing the space between you until his fingers brushed yours. “You think I fell for who you used to be? No, love. I fell for you. And if you’ve changed, then I’ll just have to learn the new bits. I’m a quick study, you know.”
Your laugh cracked through the tears. “Still cocky, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t be me otherwise,” he teased softly, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen.
He looked at you then, really looked, as if memorizing the person standing before him, not the one you used to be. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let him.
You both stood in the fading sunlight, the garden around you buzzing with life bees humming, leaves rustling, the world daring to breathe again.
Fred’s hand found yours. “We’ll start small,” he murmured. “A cup of tea with Mum. A walk. Maybe a prank or two if you’re up for it.”
You smiled softly, resting your forehead against his. “And if I’m not?”
“Then I’ll wait,” he whispered. “As long as it takes.”
The war had taken too much. But somehow, in the quiet between heartbreak and healing, Fred Weasley was still there stubbornly, selflessly, choosing you again.
james buchanan barnes still hasn’t warmed up to you, and you don’t know why. funny how the coldest season of the year is when the winter soldier starts thawing…
or: bucky has a crush and doesn’t know how to handle it.
🎄 WARNINGS/TAGS: my first ever tower fic!!!, everyone is alive au, canon typical violence, references to other fandoms, mentions of alcohol consumption but no intoxication
🎁 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader is part of SHIELD/avengers, reader is able-bodied and has hair
🎅 AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is dedicated to @firingstars!!! when i drew your name for this fic exchange i was so damn happyyyyy (insert the jumping cat here) yari you've been such a great friend. you are welcoming and kind on the get-go and i am so grateful for you—not just because of the things you do for our community, but also for who you are and the joy you bring us ❤️❤️❤️
ALSO you're a genie ass with the wishlist and i hope i did it justice! here are the things i tried to include: bucky doesn’t know how to be romantic anymore and has a violent crush on you; partners in crime; neighbors and enemies to lovers (not quite, but i tried sprinkling it a bit 🥀)
i love you to bits princess, i hope your holiday season is everything you want it to be!!! mwah 💋
thank you @iamthatonefangirl for organizing ily! <3
The air hisses.
The Quinjet bridge lowers, metal whirring to meet the ground with a thud. Cool breeze and colorless sky rush to flood your senses while you and the rest pour out of the deck: soldiers, high-strung, knots slowly untangling as you free yourselves from a sealed space.
The reality of a mission accomplished only sinks at the sight of the Avengers compound.
“Great job out there,” Natasha pipes up from behind you, footsteps gaining until you’re walking side by side. “That control room must’ve been, what, six hostiles? All packing?”
“Seven.” You fiddle with the thumb drive, the mother lode of that sweep. A small thing with big secrets that cost so many bodies.
Well. At least they were bad bodies.
“Didn’t know you were counting.”
“Only because someone else is,” the redhead replies.
He merges in the trek towards the base, seamlessly catching up to Nat and you. You glance at the handsome shadow wrapped in black leather and Wakandan steel.
James Buchanan Barnes.
A man to the team, a mystery to you.
For one second, it’s quiet except for three pairs of boots on tarmac. Then Nat cocks her brow and Bucky reluctantly coughs out the answer to a question not asked for with words.
“Ten.”
She lets out a dry laugh. “You win.”
“What’s the prize?” you ask.
“Bragging rights, obviously,” Nat volleys.
You click your tongue. “That arm is basically a cheat code.”
Sam enters stage right, smiling at you as he takes his visors off.
“'Y’all are acting like Legolas and Gimli.”
How sweet; he’s picked a reference Bucky can understand. Bucky, whose face scrunches up like he had a taste of lime.
“…What?”
“You know, the two dudes from Lord of the Rings?” you offer playfully—like he never made it clear he read The Hobbit before it was cool.
He shoots you a deadpan look, bluest eyes drawling yeah, no shit. You bite back a small grin.
“I mean, all that friendly competition?” Sam again. “Sickening, but kinda cute.”
At this point Nat falls back to speak to one of SHIELD’s, probably something to do with the mission manifest. Now it’s just the Falcon and the Winter Soldier to your right and left—the angel and devil on your shoulder.
Or is it the devil and his other devil friend with a staring problem?
“For the record, he’s Gimli, right?” you tease, thumb pointing at Bucky. Sam barks out a laugh so free, you feel the fight fading further into the past.
Bucky’s reply proves he’s the flattest argumentator in the world.
“Gimli’s a great character.”
“Who asked a lady to give him a strand of her hair,” you quip.
“Way to take it out of context, doll.”
The nickname lands on you with the weight of an uppercut that’s not entirely unpleasant. Sam holds up both hands in the air like it’s a stick-up.
“Hey, I’mma take myself out of this conversation.”
“You started it.”
It’s both your voice and Bucky’s. Same syllables, same time.
You freeze: it’s dangerous how a little coincidence like that can trigger a powerful stutter in your chest.
But then someone calls out your name right as you enter the shade of concrete structures—Agent Hill—and you’re pulled right out of the moment.
“See you boys later,” your feet sidetrack from the shared path, grateful for a chance to escape. You wave the drive in your hand. “Hell hath no fury like Fury with encrypted secrets.”
The Falcon gives you an easy salute, while Bucky just stares and puts his hands in his pockets.
As you follow Hill to a different part of the compound, you miss the look in Bucky’s eyes.
Sam doesn’t.
“Ten?” he starts, a handsome grin on his face. “You’re overcompensating back there, and it’s not hard to figure out what for.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky murmurs.
A hard clap slaps Bucky’s back. He doesn’t lurch, just blinks slowly at the best thorn-on-his-side he calls a friend. Annoyance with a touch of don’t you even dare think about it, and a hidden not now.
“Whatever, lover boy. Just don’t get hurt tryna impress her.”
Then Sam’s gone, probably off to bother Steve about how the mission went without a Captain to order the team around. How his old buddy Bucky swung too hard at too many bad guys for a dame.
Don’t get hurt. Bucky contemplates those words and the impossibility of it.
There’s no way it won’t hurt. It’s called a crush for a reason.
A slow-crawling loading bar floods the screen’s pixels. The program runs its course while your mind does the same, tired eyes shifting to a point in the green beyond glass walls.
The mission is done and dusted, but you’re still unsettled.
Why is Bucky like that around you? He’s fine with the rest of the team: Steve, Nat, and Sam most of all. Doesn’t talk much, but friendly enough to take a joke.
With you?
It’s quick ducks out of whatever room you step in. Jaws lock the moment you get paired up for a recon. Missions are laced with a rivalrous undertone: he gets to the scene faster, hits a little meaner. Afterwards, on the jet or in the debrief, his tone is still clipped, voice low.
Like the red zone is a radius centered around you.
As much as you don’t want it to bother you, it kind of does. Especially after you’ve seen him with the others.
He bickers quietly with Tony. Makes small talk with Wanda about Eastern European tea blends. One time, you saw him and Nat train together at the gym, fighting on the mat. Limbs sweaty, chests heaving. She puts him in a headlock with her thighs and he chokes out a laugh.
Stop, you scream to yourself, rapidly blinking away the poisonous, vaguely green thought.
That’s an emotion you have no clearance to.
You desperately grab your focus by the neck, dragging it back on the screen.
Still 24%.
Can’t this stupid program work any faster? It needs to stop giving you time to spiral.
Because you’re thinking about how it’s not the age gap—he’s literally a century old—and it most certainly isn’t the gender gap, either.
Running a hand through your hair, you sigh.
Some people you meet in life just rubs you the wrong way. This is completely normal and happens from time to time—except this time, you’re the one that he has a problem with.
It triggers too many thoughts for your tastes. Thoughts that don’t have anywhere to go, like did I do something wrong?, or should I not have compared him to Gimli?
But answering those questions is like decrypting a code with the wrong key: misleading and dangerous.
Which is why you do what you’ve always done.
Blame it on the hormones, use your job as a distraction, and try not to think about whether you’d be so bothered if this were about any other guy.
The latter is the hardest to do, because it just so happens that this particular guy shares a wall with you.
It’s early November and Bucky is stewing under his skin.
The compound quarters are private enough, but it doesn’t help quell the heat that comes from having you as a neighbor.
Because he bumps into you in the hallway while you wear nothing but shorts and an oversized tee, eating spring rolls from a plastic plate. You’d say “want some?” and he’s suddenly working up a sweat despite the 40-degree weather.
He’s seen you in skin-tight tac suits, soundless when you move. Backless dresses and stilettos at some glittery gala. You’re more than beautiful enough to ruin him without touch, and yet pajamas are his downfall.
It doesn’t take much to admit he’s attracted to you. Not out loud, at least.
The first thing that ensnared him was your voice during movie nights he got coerced into joining. Whispered jokes that made Natasha snort. Then he heard your laugh next, twinkling and sweet, at which his mind’s eye conjured your sleep shirt and shorts. Errant imagination twisted that innocent laugh into another sound that’s just as ecstatic—
That made him grit his teeth and adjust the way he sat. For the first time after everything that’s happened to him, he remembered what teenagehood felt like.
Ever the disciplined soldier, he pushed those thoughts away every time.
They get worse after each shove.
The more things he unearths about you, the more endeared and damned he is. You rain bullets to the layers of polycarbonate and glass around his heart. The hit that made a crack was the first time he saw you fix a strand of hair behind your ear.
It was during a brief. A far-from-private event, with five other pairs of eyes in the room. Instead of paying attention to Steve or the open packet in front of him, he was busy being jealous of your fingers for being allowed to touch. Busy schooling his own hand to not twitch in impatience and curiosity—because what would your hair feel like, could he please find out?
He was dangerously close to reaching over and doing it for you.
So yes, he’ll take the blame for not knowing how to act around you.
Because you exist and he can feel himself be physically pulled into your orbit. Feet point to wherever you stand. Eyes follow you like he’s on an assignment. Hands curl into fists, holding back how much they want to say hello to your waist.
Like right now.
You saunter into the lounge, making a beeline towards the water dispenser for a glass. Heads are turned, and of course they are: you’re in a nice dress, light makeup, and kitten heels. That outfit on you is the perfect balance between professionalism and playfulness, more devastating to him than the sin that is your exposed back in ballroom lighting.
“Going out, pretty?”
Of course it’s Nat who says that, all sultry voice and bold words.
You look back, still filling up that tall glass with water. Strange, because you’re a tall glass of water—
“Yeah, actually,” you say, tone light, but the confirmation sinks like a weight in his stomach.
Sam’s eyebrows scrunch from his spot on the couch. “Like, out out.”
“Uh-huh. Out out.”
Nat’s lips curl into a smirk. “Hinge or Tinder?”
You scoff out your offense. “Doesn’t matter. He was funny, and he didn’t send a single dick pic in our one week of talking.”
“Whoa whoa whoa, miss ma’am,” here comes Sam’s big-brotherly crash-out, “first of all, you been talking to a guy without telling us, and now you’re going out on a date with him… just because he didn’t send you a dick pic??”
“I don’t know if I’d call it a date, Sam,” you reply from behind the rim. Where Bucky should feel reassurance, he feels the beginnings of dread. Because what is it if it’s not a date? A one-night-stand?
Sam’s hand on Bucky’s shoulder snaps him out of it.
“Bar’s real low these days, huh, Buck?”
Bucky’s blue eyes watch as you blink back at him, which is when he realizes he’s sitting on the common room couch, cleaning a fucking dagger on a Friday night.
Call him a lethal loser.
“Uh, yeah,” is his unintelligent reply, glancing back down onto the black blade in his grip.
But damn your gravity, because he can’t resist looking up at you again.
You shoot him a small smile, then shift your gaze to Sam and Nat as you exit.
“I’ll let you guys know if he’s a dick.”
“You’ll let us know about his dick?” Nat calls out, feigning care about what’s on the television. Sam cackles. Bucky gets the urge to stab his thigh.
“You heard me!” Your voice trails outside and disappears. So does your form.
Just like that, you’re no longer in his periphery, out of reach despite sleeping in the room next to his. Off to go on a not-date with some guy who was ‘funny’ and ‘didn’t send you dick pics’.
That can’t be all it takes for you to say yes. He can be funny, can’t he? In his own, uh, unique way?
He can feel his friend’s eyes are on him without looking. Can sense the teasing lace the air like lightning before it strikes. The way he sandblocks the knife is a silent response, too-forceful scrapes sounding like unspoken threats.
The blade is already more than clean.
“Careful, buddy, that’s sharp,” Sam says.
It is sharp—the weapon he’s tending to, but also that sensation in his chest when you leave. He gets it now, why it’s so frustrating when you are or aren’t around.
Because he’s fought so hard to belong again, but you make him feel different just by existing.
You’d think criminals would give themselves a break as the calendar inches closer to Christmas, but maybe this is their version of a holiday rush.
Heightened hostility means more missions. You get paired with Bucky on a bunch of them.
Underneath the cold and cruel December, something brews whenever the two of you are together.
Like last week at that repurposed HYDRA base in the outskirts of Minsk (good to know the villains are into reduce-reuse-recycle). The two of you spent seventy seconds bickering into the public comms about the plan for a possible shootout… while said possible shootout was already happening.
“I said I’d handle the three on the right!” he barked between shots.
“They were right there! Did you want me to ask for permission?!” you shouted, firing a round at another enemy agent.
They replied with the barrel of an assault rifle.
You ducked behind a concrete wall, parallel to where Bucky took cover, eyes wide. Casings of ricocheted bullets clinked noisily onto the floor.
Then at the quiet reload, Bucky huffed, rounded the corner, and bled his gun dry.
After the smoke lifted, he stared at you like he wanted you to admit his plan was better.
You murmured a quiet “thank you” to placate his spirits. He let the matter go immediately.
The brush of his fingers when he passes a spare magazine to you felt illegal. That hitch in your heartbeat wasn’t just adrenaline. You felt his gaze like touch when he gave you a once-over, nodded at the low “you good?” like it didn’t trip up your breathing.
Diverging professional tactics and… whatever this is aside, you and Bucky made a good team. Enough for you to be made an independent unit.
Which naturally meant more bonding time.
Said bonding time?
Being locked in a barehanded brawl inside of a ship container, out of all places (don’t ask), five people above its usual capacity of zero. Three of them are men out to deliver a death that’s more humiliating than the kind brought by a gun. More painful, too, judging by the bodybuilder frame one of them sported.
Two of them are you and Bucky. Lucky for you, your partner’s strength probably evens out the match.
It’s a blur of movement inside a 9×9 feet box. Of course the largest guy lunges at you, ready to fracture ribs and break a skull like it’s a football game. You roll to the side just in time. A disc flies from your right wrist to his chest, then bright blue flashes in the dark interior as the thug’s form spasms with a yell.
You use the sting to time the twist you deliver to his arm, a strong yank at an impossible angle till it cracks! and he yells in pain.
Then a hit to the back of his neck and he chokes on his own breath, before collapsing to the ground with a loud thud.
You make a mental note to thank Natasha for lending you that nifty taser.
The two other men crowd Bucky, but he dodges as if he’s read their movements in today’s papers. He ducks from a punch swung behind him, then bobs up to hit the one in front of him square on the face. There’s a loud oof followed by weight hitting the steel floor, echoing like a punctuation.
That guy doesn’t get back up. Probably won’t for a while.
“Does your man know what you do for work?” Bucky asks out of the blue, eyes focused on the last villain standing. This one’s a little harder to read, skirting and circling with speed that reminds him of boxing rings. Wilier than the musclehead whose arm you broke.
“It’s implied,” you answer, zip-tying Bucky’s most recent casualty that’s groaning on the floor, half-conscious. You try not to let the surprise show—why would your mission partner ask about this, and why now?
“And he’s not my man.”
A swift hook lands on Bucky’s side—the bad guy got him, but he doesn’t flinch. Because he uses it as leverage, hand gripping the offending wrist to thwack a mean uppercut—vibranium versus jaw. Jaw loses with a loud crack.
But the opponent still stands. Your soldier evades a counter-attack, backs up into a smooth weave, still finding the time to speak.
“Did he finally send you a dick pic?”
Your hands frantically dig into the pockets of the fallen ones, searching for the mission objective.
“Worse,” you pant, “he ghosted me.”
Something about that shifts the fight. It was all tiptoed advances—until Bucky swipes at the man’s ankle before sending a decisive jab across the face. It sounds like a broken nose. Dark red drips on the ground where the man’s form slumps, motionless.
Your fingers find the outline of a keycard inside a leather jacket. The not-musclehead had it. You fish it out.
At last, the three stooges are out of commission.
Now it’s just you and Bucky, chest heaving.
“Feels bad fighting for a guy’s attention, so I didn’t do it,” you declare, handing him the keycard.
His warm fingers brush yours when he takes it. “Between fighting for him or fighting him, he should be grateful either way.”
You laugh on the walk towards heavy-duty swing doors, pretending the air isn’t charged with leftover electricity from the taser.
He watches your back like he’s ready to punch and thank the man that was stupid enough to leave you alone.
The Christmas party at Stark Tower is an excuse to dress up and get drunk—Tony’s words, not yours. Designed to be lavish to the point of hedonism just because he can, and he’s him. You’d think the billionaire holds a secret grudge for skipping frat life at MIT.
There’s an open bar with mystery shots: if you’re lucky, you get the one laced with Asgardian mead. A part of the penthouse got turned into a dance floor with a DJ in one corner. You see agents willingly put their arms up in the air, surrendering to sensual basslines. There’s chatter from the sofas and laughs from upstairs. Stories told and traded.
After an hour of non-stop socializing, you slip out to the balcony for some fresh air. As fresh as the twenty-fourth of December can get, at least—it’s freezing, but at least that sobers you up quick. You’re no longer half-tipsy on fancy cocktail.
The city looks so alive underneath you.
White-gold lights twinkle, almost a perfect reflection of the decorations inside the Tower. If you listen closely, you can hear the honks of traffic. From here, you witness New York’s pulse, lives streaming in transit. The bigger picture looks beautiful.
You hear footsteps behind you, then the sliding glass door closes.
He joins you on the balcony.
“What are you running away from?” you ask before you even turn to see him.
When you do, your feet freeze.
You’re not a blind woman. Bucky always looks good, but tonight he looks even better.
The suit is a deep navy instead of his usual black, which in and of itself is a miracle. Then there’s everything else: the top button of his shirt is undone, revealing hints of a silver ball chain from which you know his dog tags dangle; his hair moving in the slight breeze. Generous warm light from the party spills from behind him, creating a soft halo around his outline.
“They’re playing truth-or-dare poker,” he announces, voice quiet.
He looks straight at you when he answers, and you swear your mind makes up the rest of that sentence. What about what’s happening out here? That and the gaze nearly flusters you, so you peek at the scene past him.
“Thor’s topless,” you note. “So it’s just strip poker?”
“I want to say he got dared, but knowing Thor...”
You can’t help but smile, leaning against the railing. Something to anchor your spine to, despite the risk a thousand-foot fall to the bone crush.
“You’re not joining him?”
Bucky smiles back. “A man should know when to be humble.”
Maybe it’s the self-deprecating look in his eyes. Or the alcohol that’s loosened your knots. Or the pretty Christmas lights in the background. A secret part of you wants to ask if he looks at you the way you look at him. Instead, you force out something that’s less dangerous while still being entirely honest, wrapped in an attempt at cool.
“You sure? I’ve seen you—you’re not half bad.”
He looks down, still smiling.
“You saw me topless with a six-inch gash on my right rib.”
“What doesn’t kill you makes you hotter, or whatever,” you grin in response.
Then he chuckles. You do too.
A gust blows and you’re too late to mask the shiver that wracks you. The next thing you know, he’s shedding his jacket. You feel the wool twill warm your shoulders and back.
“Wouldn’t want you to get sick,” he says, giving you a once-over.
You’re made aware of two things: your dress of choice, and the tips of his shoes pointing right at yours, close enough to touch.
“Thank you,” is the response you manage to muster. “You’re gonna be okay like that?”
It’s just him and his dress shirt now. You watch him roll the sleeves up.
“I’m used to the cold.”
Those blue eyes are on you again. You recognize the look as one of remembrance: he wears it when studying codes and control panels.
You’ve never been on the receiving end.
He breaks the silence first.
“You look... really beautiful.”
His voice, low and husky, joins his jacket in wrapping around you. You find yourself warming up.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you offer. It’s meant to sound light. Instead, you sound lost.
Standing in front of him without targets to neutralize feels like being compromised. Letting him see you in a party makes you feel naked—and you’ve worn less around him.
You swear his hand was about to do something when your name is called. Both your heads snap to the source at the same time. It’s Tony Stark.
“Inside, lovebirds. Chop chop!” Tony’s voice is muffled by glass.
“He sounds like a prissy headmaster,” you murmur.
Bucky wipes something—or nothing—off his nose. “Don’t want to anger the host.”
The two of you walk inside, mourning a lost moment. The air shifts when the doors slide open, cold on your back, warm on your face as you reenter the threshold of riches.
Something whirs mechanically overhead. You and Bucky look up at the same time.
It’s a mistletoe, real and red-ribboned, hanging from the most unnecessarily automated extension that makes itself known from a hidden compartment in the wall above the door. A traditional decoration made robotic.
“How’d that get there?” you ask, too calm for the speeding rhythm of your heartbeat.
“This room is booby-trapped with mistletoes in eighteen other locations. A project I started especially for you.”
Tony replies from the truth-or-dare couches, swirling his glass of vice. In that vicinity are people who look too pleased and not at all surprised at the turn of events.
Nat looks like a cat that got the cream, while Steve and Sam wear smug smiles. There’s a childlike glee in Thor’s eyes and a bit of secondhand embarrassment in Banner’s. Hill and Barton are at the open bar a few feet behind, watching the scene like it’s a late night show.
“You can run but you can’t hiiide,” Tony sings.
Bucky calls out. You can’t tell if he’s playful or serious.
“You’re clinically insane, Stark.”
Tony smirks back.
“Crazy recognizes crazy, baby.”
You ignore the way your heart’s rhythm snags when Bucky looks back at you. A mile-long list of ways to escape this run through your mind, all of them either downright offensive or completely revealing of the emotions you don’t want to admit you have.
You settle for a route that’ll break the least amount of hearts but devastate yours—something polite and forgettable.
Leaning in, you press a soft kiss on Bucky’s cheek.
His cologne wafts more than his jacket around your shoulders allowed. Blue eyes are already watching as you pull back, your movements so slow it’s almost imperceptible.
Or is it time that chooses to slow itself down? God knows the relativity of it is made worse whenever you’re together.
Your whisper is quiet enough to stop you from saying more, loud enough for only him to hear.
“Merry Christmas, Bucky.”
He hears your heel clack once on marble floors. The sound echoes, almost ominous, like a death knell to something that wasn’t given a chance to bloom. You’re walking away again.
You keep doing that. It hurts every time.
But something takes a hold of his gut, the place below where pain flares. It’s a sensation that reminds him of war and the brace before impact, but stronger. More purposeful.
Something like determination.
He doesn’t let you take two steps before catching your wrist in his grip, almost yanking you back into place. There’s a gentle pull. Your eyes widen, feet spinning back to him. His gravity cancels your centrifuge. Then he steadies you with a hand on your waist—oh, so that’s how you fit, like home—before he leans.
The kiss is deep.
“Mm—”
He traps you in his grip. You can’t run, but most importantly, you don’t want to.
You don’t want anything else but this.
When your body relaxes into Bucky’s and your eyes close, whoops and hollers fill the room. The sounds fade away, as does the grip on your wrist. That hand moves to cup your jaw, slanting his face over yours. You slip a hand onto his chest.
The slotting of a perfect puzzle piece.
He’s all you see when you part. The party doesn’t exist. At least not now.
“So,” you whisper, still breathing his air, “how long have you wanted to do that?”
“Too long,” he murmurs back.
His fingers and yours tangle, half warm, half vibranium.
“Gotta thank Santa for granting my wish this year,” he smiles.
The admission makes you blush—you’re his Christmas wish. His nose bumps yours. There are obnoxious oohs that you try to block out: you can berate Thor and Tony later. Your voice finds itself again.
“I kind of thought you didn’t like me.”
“Only didn’t like how clueless I was around you.”
“The ‘friendly competition’ wasn’t exactly clueless.”
Bucky studies your face, his own looking slightly sheepish.
“I just wanted to keep you safe,” he replies. “You have any idea how terrifying it is to watch you run into a room with guns waiting on the other side of the door?”
A thrill of hope and you feel the worth of the wait pay itself off.
“Like you don’t throw yourself into the fire,” you chide. It comes out loving.
He doesn’t respond. Only watches your eyelids flutter, blue eyes tracking every shift in your expression. You blink like you’re still processing reality, lips parted as if you’re slowly waking up from a daydream. Everything else is a low buzz in the background. The whisper between your lips is a confirmation.
“You kissed me.”
“I did,” he nods, “and not just because it’s tradition.”
“Kiss her again, tin man!”
The two of you ignore Sam’s bellow from fifteen feet away.
“Need more convincing?” Bucky smiles. You nod once, already looking at his lips.
Then he kisses you again.
As your eyes close, you vaguely hear Natasha saying “you owe me twenty dollars, Rogers” in the background. The party bursts into celebration, while you find stillness between his lips, steadiness with your hands on his chest.
His fingers fix your hair, tucking the strands behind one ear.
Finally.
(what if this was my only christmassy fic. what then. 😭)
bucky barnes masterlist · main masterlist
Summary: The Thunderbolts have a guest staying at the tower—someone assigned to keep an eye on them. She’s a former SHIELD agent who once worked alongside the original Avengers. And for some reason… Bucky looks genuinely rattled by her presence.
Words Count : 5,789
Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -
Main Masterlist || 2nd Masterlist
If you enjoyed this, please leave a like, comment, or reblog — it really means a lot. Thank you for reading.
The sun outside was the colour of weak tea, but the atmosphere inside the room was tightly controlled, sterile, and quiet. You were perched on the edge of your ergonomic chair in your anonymous, functional office at the U.S. Embassy in London. Your focus was entirely on the screen, where Sonya Falshworth, the MI6 liaison, was ending her summary.
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the glass desk, the familiar weight of the task settling over you. “How’s the Skrull situation in the Midlands holding up?”
Sonya, a woman whose competence you deeply respected, gave a slight, tired shrug. “Still on best behaviour, I’d say. As long as we—the human contingent—stick to the diplomatic demands. They’re functional, if perpetually sullen. Your protocols are working.”
“Good. I trust you to maintain the détente while I’m on leave, Sonya.”
Sonya’s smile was thin. “Count on me. Have a good flight. And send my regards to the VP.”
You managed a polite, practiced nod as the video call ended, but a muscle twitched in your jaw. Vice President. You wanted to correct her, to point out the absurd, accelerated political changes that had happened since former President Ross was finally locked away. The VP wasn’t the VP anymore. The VP was now the President.
It was the new President who had called you directly. He didn’t care about your diplomatic work with the Kree or your reputation in the Hague. He cared about the simple, brutal fact that you had been there, on the ground, when the world fractured.
-Flashback Start-
The President’s voice, scratchy and serious over the secure line, had taken you straight back to the days of panic.
He hadn’t wasted time on pleasantries. “I know what you did in the U.K., Agent Y/N. I know the full movement of the Skrull infiltration. You stabilized the sector. You did it without firing a shot, and you worked with MI6 like a machine. You were reliable.”
You tightened your grip on the phone. Reliable. That was the word you had chosen when you signed the Accords, choosing the structure Tony offered over the freedom Steve embodied.
“After Agent Hill died, and Fury went dark…” the President continued, his voice heavy with the loss that still felt too fresh, “there was a vacuum. You filled it, overseas. Your job was to prevent any alien faction from making trouble. Nobody wants another ‘Thanos the Snap’ incident. You proved you could handle the quiet threat.”
“My job is here, Mr. President,” you stated, your heart rate already accelerating, sensing the shift.
“No, Y/N. It’s just relocating. I need you home. I need you to oversee Valentine’s operation.”
You paused, your brow furrowing. Valentine was a name that had been circulating in intelligence circles—a shadowy figure recruiting enhanced individuals under vague government contracts. “What do they call themselves?”
There was a noticeable hesitation on the President’s end. “They started as the Thunderbolts. But recently, Valentine rebranded. Now they called as the New Avengers.”
Your hands went cold. You sat upright, your spine rigid, a wave of offended disbelief washing over you. “I’m sorry?”
“I know. I had the same reaction when I heard it,” the President sighed. “But anyhow. I want you to come back, because the new incident in New York—the one they’re burying—was caused by one of Valentine’s superhumans. A volatile asset called the Sentry. Or the Void, depending on who you ask.”
The danger was real, immediate, and exactly why you were needed. But the name… it was a violation.
“Don’t tell me they live at…” you trailed off, a terrible premonition forming in your mind.
“At Stark’s former tower, Y/N. Valentine bought the deed and the infrastructure. She calls it their headquarters.”
The news struck you like a physical blow. Your breath caught in your throat. The Tower. The place where you had laughed, planned, loved, and ultimately, made your defining, regrettable choice. The idea of that space being corrupted by a New Avengers team run by the government was unbearable. You felt a profound sting of betrayal—not from anyone else, but from the universe, mocking your attempt to leave the past behind.
You closed your eyes briefly, took a soldier’s breath, and pushed the emotion down, locking it away.
“I… I’ll be there as soon as possible, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Y/N. We need you.”
-End of Flashback-
*****
The trans-Atlantic flight felt like a breath held too long. You landed in D.C., and within the hour, you were walking the hallowed halls of the West Wing. The familiar scents of old wood polish and quiet power did little to calm the tense coil in your stomach.
When the massive wooden door of the Oval Office swung open, the scene inside immediately put you on guard. The President stood behind the Resolute Desk. And across from him, already settled in, was the subject of your mission: Valentine.
Valentine rose with the fluid grace of a dancer, her tailored suit impeccable. Her smile was wide, but there was a hungry, analytical look in her eyes as she took you in, assessing the diplomatic polish and the soldier’s rigidity beneath it.
“Y/N. Agent Y/N,” she practically sang, walking toward you with easy confidence. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face. The President has told me so much about your stabilization work overseas.”
“Miss Fontaine,” you responded, offering a curt nod that was all business.
“Good doesn’t cover it. It’s a relief,” Valentine continued, placing a hand lightly on your elbow—a gesture that was far too familiar, far too soon. “Handling the Skrull integration without a single major diplomatic fallout is a feat, truly. A testament to your loyalty, even when working in the shadows. We need that kind of loyalty in the public eye now.”
You only gave a small, noncommittal hum. You felt the President watching you, but you couldn’t look at him yet.
The President stepped in, offering you a brief, firm handshake before turning to Valentine. “Fontaine, I want you two to be completely aligned on this. Y/N is my direct liaison to your team. She reports only to me.”
Valentine beamed, pulling you into a surprisingly forceful, brief hug that left you momentarily stiff. It was a calculated breach of personal space, a declaration of dominance hidden under professional warmth.
As she pulled back, her eyes skyrocketed with knowing mischief. “Of course, Mr. President. And Y/N,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret only the two of you could understand, “I truly can’t wait to show you the Tower. You spent so much time there with the original team. It must be fascinating to see how we’ve… re-optimized the space. Think of it as a painful nostalgia trip, on the government’s dime.”
The deliberate mention of the ‘original team’ and the ‘painful nostalgia’ was a sharp, direct stab. Valentine knew exactly what she was doing: reminding you that your history was now her real estate. You swallowed, keeping your expression neutral. “I look forward to the tour.”
The President cleared his throat. “Fontaine, I need a moment alone with Y/N to go over the final parameters of the liaison agreement. You can wait with my chief of staff.”
Valentine nodded, her smile never faltering, and gracefully exited the office.
The heavy door clicked shut, and the manufactured tension dissolved, replaced by a deep, shared silence. You finally looked at the President.
He moved around his desk and rested his hand on the back of a visitor’s chair. “Sit down, kid.”
You sat, loosening the collar of your jacket. “You shouldn’t have asked her to leave.”
“I needed to ask you something important. Will you be alright, Y/N?” he asked, his voice softening, all officialdom gone.
“Why did you ask me that?” You deflected, annoyed that he saw past the facade.
His gaze was genuinely sad, weighted with the years and the losses they had both endured. “Because this feels less like a mission and more like walking back into a graveyard you helped close. It’s cruel, frankly. That place, that team… they were your family, and you chose to walk away for what you thought was the greater good.”
“It was the right choice then. It’s irrelevant now,” you said tightly, the old defense mechanism kicking in. “You don’t have to worry about that. Uncle.”
The President's shoulders eased slightly at the sound of the word he hadn’t heard from you in years. Few people in the world, and certainly none in this administration, knew the familial tie between the President and the secretive diplomat assigned to oversee the Thunderbolts. It was another layer of protection for them both.
He nodded, relieved and solemn. “I trust you in this. We don’t want more alien starting a war, or another country wiped off the map. It seems like Earth is just a magnet for new problems from the outsiders, and Fontaine’s operation is too powerful to be left unsupervised. You are my firebreak. Don’t fail me.”
Your spine straightened, the soldier finally answering the command. You met his eyes, not as a niece, but as his agent.
“I won’t.”
******
The private jet was ludicrously spacious—a flying penthouse designed for corporate power plays. You sat across a low table from Valentine, the leather of your seat soft and rich, the silence thick and insulating. You had managed to secure the window seat, giving you a false sense of distance, but Valentine’s presence felt like a constant, low-grade hum.
She hadn't brought a laptop or a stack of files. She simply sat, watching you, a faint, calculating smile playing on her lips. It felt less like a shared flight and more like a lengthy observation exercise.
Finally, the scrutiny became too much. You turned from the view of the Atlantic clouds, meeting her gaze directly.
“Is there something you want to ask me?”
She laughed softly, a dry, melodic sound. “Direct. I appreciate that in a colleague. Yes, actually, there is. How does it feel to have the new President as your kin? I wouldn’t know. My own family is... long gone. And certainly none were ever elevated to the highest office.”
It was an outrageous question, a blatant attempt to confirm the private moment in the Oval Office, an effort to find the edge of your composure.
“Proud,” you stated, the word crisp and final. It wasn't a lie, but it carried none of the warmth of the true relationship. It was the answer a loyal functionary would give. Is that why she’s being this nice to you?
“Ooh. Short and sweet,” she drawled, her surprise genuine. “A woman of few words, then. I suppose that’s preferable in a high-risk diplomatic environment.”
You decided to shift the conversation back to the mission. “Since we’re discussing my loyalty, let’s discuss yours. The President mentioned the Sentry, or the Void. Can that asset truly be trusted, Fontaine? What happens when he inevitably goes berserk?”
Valentine waved a dismissive hand, reaching for a remote on the table. “Don’t worry about Bob Reynolds. That’s what Sentry is actually called—Bob.”
The casual, almost affectionate way she referred to the unstable powerhouse grated on you. “Bob?”
“Yes. A gentle soul, when managed correctly. He calms immediately if Yelena Belova is near him,” Valentine explained, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of sharing a secret. “Think of it like Natasha with the Hulk. A unique handler-subject dynamic that just… works. A soft touch to manage the brute force.”
The air felt thin. The mention of Natasha. The casual comparison of her quiet, deep bond with Banner—the connection that saved cities—to Valentine's manipulative pairing of a murderer and an unstable god, was sickening.
You focused on the clouds rushing past the window, fighting the rising tide of memory. Natasha. You could almost hear her voice in the common room, her quiet judgment always fair, always accurate. And Banner. The man whose fear you never fully understood until you felt Steve’s disappointment, the fear of losing everything.
“I see,” you managed, the control back in your voice, but the word tasted like ash.
Valentine, ever the observer, caught the tremor in your stillness. She didn't apologize for the comparison, only for the reaction.
“I’m sorry. Losing a friend… I know that’s still sensitive for you.”
“Losing a friend? Yes. It still hurts,” you corrected, looking back at her. The pain wasn't just losing Natasha; Tony, it was losing the idea of who you all were, the impossibility of ever having that shared purpose again. It was the guilt that you weren't there in the final moments for some of them.
Valentine smiled, but it was forced, suddenly revealing a lack of depth beneath the practiced charisma. “Oh, boy, this will be a long flight.”
She signaled to her assistant, who appeared silently from the galley. The assistant placed two chilled crystal glasses and a bottle of champagne on the table.
“A toast, Y/N,” Valentine said, pouring the sparkling liquid. “To new beginnings, and to keeping the world tidy.” She raised her glass.
You nodded, raising yours in return. “Cheers.”
The champagne was excellent—crisp, dry, and immediately soothing the tension in your throat. You took a few deep sips. Then, without warning, the world tilted. It wasn’t the familiar vertigo of jetlag. It was heavy, sudden, and completely synthetic. Your eyelids felt like lead.
You gripped the glass, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to slump forward. This wasn't exhaustion. This was deliberate.
Before you could utter a single word of accusation, the lights of the cabin dimmed, and you sank into a thick, inescapable blackness.
******
The cold, metallic scent of ozone and exhaust was the first thing to register. Then the low, rhythmic hum of a powerful engine and the blur of tall buildings flashing past the window.
You woke up not with a jolt, but with a creeping sense of disorientation and a dull, throbbing weight behind your eyes. You were no longer in the jet. You were seated in the leather interior of a sleek, black SUV, and the chaotic familiarity of the New York skyline was rushing by. The street signs confirmed it—You were on the FDR Drive, heading straight toward Midtown.
You blinked, clearing the last remnants of the chemical sleep. Your hand immediately went to your sidearm holster, finding only the smooth fabric of your suit jacket. Disarmed. Of course.
“Have a good dream, Y/N?”
Valentine’s voice, bright and utterly devoid of sincerity, came from the seat beside you. She was perfectly composed, illuminated by the cold light of a tablet she was reading, reviewing what looked like a dense security report.
You sat up straighter, the simple action requiring conscious effort. You turned your head slowly toward her, the look in your eyes sharp, professional, and entirely hostile.
“You put something in my drink,” you stated, the accusation flat and controlled. There was no rage, just the cold certainty of an agent who had been compromised.
Valentine didn’t even flinch. She kept her eyes on the tablet for another beat, then offered a casual shrug as she finally looked up.
“I just wanted to help you rest. You looked exhausted after all those stressful hours in the air, not to mention the Skrull drama,” she said, her voice laced with false concern. She paused, letting the silence stretch, savoring the moment of complete advantage. “Besides, I would never hurt the President’s niece, Y/N. That would be… poor diplomacy.”
You felt a white-hot spike of fury mixed with profound frustration. This woman was infuriating. Not just because she had confirmed the drugging, but because she treated the betrayal as a calculated, thoughtful gesture of kindness. She knew exactly what buttons to push: the loss of control, the secret relationship with the President, the forced intimacy of the situation. An arrogant, political puppet master, you thought bitterly. Just another self-proclaimed genius using people as assets.
“My fatigue is my own business,” you responded, keeping your voice low and steady, denying her the satisfaction of a reaction. Your mind, though slow, was already racing, cataloging every weakness in her posture, every exit strategy from the moving vehicle.
Valentine merely smiled, a predatory gleam returning to her eyes. “I know. But as your supervisor during this evaluation period, your health is officially my business now. Look, we’re almost there. Just past the bridge.”
You followed her gaze. Tower. It dominated the skyline, a familiar, agonizing beacon. The building wasn't just metal and glass; it was an anchor, dragging you back to the promises you broke and the people you lost.
******
The black SUV pulled up to the private entrance of the Tower—a place so familiar you could navigate it blindfolded, a place you swore you would never see again. The moment the door opened, you stepped out onto the familiar pavement, smoothing the front of your coat as if the action could steady your shaking resolve.
Your gaze immediately shot upward. The spire was still there, sharp and unapologetic, reaching for the heavens. You remembered watching it countless times, always waiting for the flash of red and gold as Tony rocketed home, or the blinding crack of lightning followed by the sudden, magnificent arrival of Thor. Thor. Always thunder, always chaos, always home. Now, it was just a very tall building with a very different name on the lease.
Valentine joined you on the sidewalk, admiring the architecture with a possessive air. “Quite the monument, isn’t it?” she asked, pulling you from your trance. “Did you ever come back here after… everything?”
“No,” you replied, adjusting your jacket to hide the tremor in your hands. “Not since the Snap.”
She tilted her head, observing you with that calculating curiosity. “Ah, yes. Everyone went their separate ways. Did you… did you turn into dust, Y/N?”
The question was blunt, casually cruel. It was the type of question asked by someone who had read the reports but never felt the event.
“Yes,” you said, the word clipped.
“That must have been terrible.”
Terrible. You took a steadying breath, the noise of Manhattan fading into a hollow echo. Terrible wasn't a strong enough word. It didn't account for the sudden, absolute nothingness, followed by the jarring, sensory-overload everything. It left a hole in your heart that time had only widened. You were in Wakanda, dust swirling around you, and then you were back—Dr. Strange's magic, portals opening, the final fight a blur of speed and sacrifice.
Then the silence. The funeral. Tony’s sacrifice. Then the crushing weight of the news about Natasha—that she didn't come back, that she traded her life for humans. And Steve. You never got the chance to talk to him, to look him in the eye and apologize for choosing Tony’s side, for the betrayal that drove a wedge between the last remnants of your old life. He went back in time, lived his life, and now he was gone, too.
It felt like you had woken up from a six-year sleep just to attend a mass funeral. It hurt. It hurt so badly the pain had solidified into a permanent, icy core of regret.
Valentine gestured toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
You followed her into the clean, cavernous lobby. Your mind flashed back to the day you, Natasha, and Tony dragged a struggling, snarling Loki out of this very building, a triumph that felt a lifetime ago.
Valentine led you toward the bank of elevators. Instead of calling out, she nodded to her slick, young assistant, who stepped forward and pressed a sequence of buttons with hushed reverence. The absence of the familiar chime struck you.
It used to be JARVIS, you thought, the loss feeling immediate. JARVIS already knew where everyone was going. He’d anticipate the floor before you even spoke. Now, it was just a button press, cold and impersonal.
“Before we reach the top floor, let me give you a quick tour,” Valentine said, a note of theatrical excitement in her voice. “We’ve optimized the building. You’ll see how efficiently we’re using the vertical space.”
You felt a physical sting as the elevator began its descent instead of its ascent. Each floor was a punch to the gut. The familiar spaces were gone, remodeled, sterilized.
Valentine gestured grandly into a sprawling, high-tech command center. “This used to be the primary lab, right? Where Stark and Banner did… whatever they did. Now it’s our tactical analysis hub. No more unpredictable gamma bursts, just pure intelligence.”
The lab. The vibrant chaos where Bruce tried to teach you biochemistry and Tony played heavy metal music too loud. Gone.
On the next floor, Valentine pointed to a small, sleek kitchenette area, all chrome and induction surfaces. “And the pantry. Very high-end now. No need for the old, industrial-style brewing equipment.”
Your throat tightened. That was where Natasha used to stand every morning, making her bitter, perfect coffee, offering you a cup while going over the night’s surveillance logs. A small, cherished routine. Now it was just stainless steel and a reminder of a ghost.
“What about the garden?” You were referring to the small, secluded green space near the lower residential floors. You remembered that Thor always made his grand, disruptive entrances there, leaving scorch marks and divots in the grass that drove Tony Stark to furious distraction. It was also the quiet place where you always tried to calm down, sometimes drinking hot chocolate with everyone on the first day of snow.
Valentine chuckled, a thin, dry sound. “That’s gone. Prime real estate, Y/N. We needed the operational capacity. We converted it into a secure, underground motor pool and drone deployment bay.”
Ah. So it’s all gone, you thought, the reality sinking in. There was nothing left to salvage.
You stayed silent, a professional veneer over a heart that was splintering, allowing Valentine to interpret your stoicism as awe, while inside, you were mourning a home that had been systematically stripped of its soul.
**********
While on the top floor. The team was scattered, engaged in mundane activities. John Walker sat rigidly at a console, monitoring data. Yelena Belova was perched on a leather sectional, reading a physical book. Bob Reynolds—the Sentry—was innocently eating a huge bowl of colorful breakfast cereal. Alexei Shostakov (Red Guardian) was loudly scrolling through social media.
Only Bucky Barnes was detached, standing in the far corner, looking out over the city.
“Why did Valentine suddenly call us up here?” John Walker muttered, looking up from his screen with a frown.
Yelena murmured, without looking up, “She said there was some kind of sudden inspection. Ordered by the President himself. We have to be on our best behaviour. Didn't you guys read the email?”
A general murmur of negative responses went around the room.
“I did.” Bob announced cheerfully, holding up his cereal bowl.
“Good job, Bob,” Walker sighed.
Suddenly, Walker's comm buzzed. He checked a wrist-mounted device. “I just got a text from Mel... she's a former SHIELD agent who became a diplomat for the U.K. She’s the one coming in.”
Alexei slapped his knee, a booming, disruptive sound. “Ooh, a politician! Valentine really needs to be in the government’s good graces, huh?”
“So she’s part of the original team!” Yelena exclaimed.
“COOL!” Alexei boomed.
“What's her name?”
“Y/N L/N.”
Bucky Barnes, a good twenty feet away, flinched. His head snapped away from the window, and his posture instantly lost its casual ease, becoming coiled and tense. The name hung in the air, a silent bomb.
The elevator doors hissed open.
The team instantly went silent. They scrambled, dropping their cereal bowls and tablets, snapping to a loose, semi-formal line facing the elevator. The realization that they were meeting a true relic of the old regime—and a Presidential liaison—drew every eye. All except Bucky, who remained rooted near the window, his back to the wall, a statue carved from regret and metal.
Valentine stepped forward, radiating proprietorship, placing a hand lightly on the small of your back—a subtle display of ownership.
"And here we are, meeting the new dream team," Valentine announced with theatrical flair.
You held your chin high, stepping fully into the room. You stepped past Valentine, cutting off her prepared introduction, and addressed the team directly. Your voice was low, clear, and projected the unshakeable authority of the Presidential office.
“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. My name is Y/N. I am here under direct Presidential order as a liaison and oversight officer. I will be observing your methodology, evaluating your operational security, and reporting directly to the President. Please, carry on as usual.”
A heavy silence followed. John Walker, recovering first, offered a tight smile. “Understood, ma’am. Just doing our jobs, ma'am.”
Alexei Shostakov, never one for subtlety, boomed: “True! People don’t trust us yet. So work on that, please!”
You gave him a slight, dry half-smile. "I appreciate the feedback, Colonel. I'll take it under advisement."
Yelena, always sharpest, studied you, a slow grin spreading across her face. "She's cold. And a little sarcastic. I like her." Ava nodded in agreement.
Valentine clapped her hands again, forcing the attention back to the last man. "Bucky?" she called, turning her head.
Everyone, including the new members, turned back and looked toward the window. Bucky was still there, a statue carved from regret and metal.
"You didn’t say anything, Bucky," Valentine pressed, her voice dripping with calculated malice. "Don’t you want to say anything for an old friend?"
Bucky took a step away from the wall, moving slowly, deliberately. He walked closer and stopped near the team, just outside the radius of his teammates, forcing a small gap in the line.
You locked eyes with him across the wide room. The world dissolved until it was just the two of you—the operative who stayed with the system, and the man who was everything the system broke.
You hated him. Not because of his past as the Winter Soldier—you were a SHIELD agent; you understood weaponization. You hated him because his very presence was a reminder of what you had thrown away. He was Steve’s best friend, the person Steve had given everything for, the symbol of the fight you had abandoned.
Bucky straightened, his blue eyes meeting yours across the wide, renovated room. You felt Valentine’s curious gaze lingering on you, but your focus was locked solely on the man you hadn't seen in five years.
“Y/N,” he murmured, the name a soft accusation.
You held his gaze, your expression unreadable, a shield of indifference forged over years of diplomatic work. Your response was a single, cold shard of sound.
“Barnes.”
John Walker broke the stunned silence. “Did something just… happen between them?”
Alexei Shostakov chuckled, loud and long, a massive hand covering his mouth. “Ooh, younglings. This is going to be fun.”
Valentine clapped her hands once more, a signal that the meeting was over and the performance was complete. “Great. Everyone has known each other.” She looked back at you, her smile returning to its default, hungry setting. “Y/N, please make yourself at home. We have prepared your room.”
You widened your eyes, the professional mask momentarily cracking. Your voice was a low, involuntary question. “I’m staying here?”
Valentine raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Of course. Didn’t the President tell you? Ah! Well, it’s only temporary, but… you will be in your old room.”
*************
The heavy door clicked shut, and you were left alone in the beautiful, professional cage that was your old room. The silence was not peaceful; it was a loud echo of everything lost.
You stood rigid, the professional mask dissolving as you took in the sleek, muted, and expensive interior. The renovation was a brutal lie. It was designed to look new and efficient, yet every sleek line was a reminder of the warm, chaotic life it had replaced. You walked slowly toward the bed, reaching out to touch the soft, expensive quilt. The warmth, the gentleness, the softness, the laughing. All of it was gone, condensed into this new, sterile surface, stabbing your heart with a thousand lost memories.
You closed your eyes, the sterile air dissolving into phantom scents of antiseptic and bad coffee. This room had been the team's triage unit. You could almost see Natasha perched on the bathroom counter, efficiently stitching a nasty graze on your forearm while Maria Hill leaned against the doorframe, deadpan commenting on the mission's sheer idiocy. Ointment, bandages, and hushed gossips. It was where you were all just agents, not heroes or political pawns, patching each other up and burying the bad jokes. That shared, fierce vulnerability was now the sharpest edge of the knife.
And this room was the witness.
It was here, late one night after a particularly brutal confrontation, that the professional distance between you and Steve Rogers dissolved. The air, thick with exhaustion and unspoken worry, had thinned until all that was left was honesty. The moment he had reached out, a simple touch of his hand on your shoulder, had felt like the entire weight of the world lifted, and that vulnerable connection had marked the point where a part of him—the personal, hopeful, human part—had become irreversibly a part of you. You had let him in. And that intimacy, now a ghost, was the deepest regret.
Your vision blurred. You had loved Steve Rogers, utterly and hopelessly. He was the impossible man. You were the pragmatist, choosing order, choosing the Accords. Your decision was the final, definitive betrayal. He came back for the final fight, but there was no time for absolution. When he left, traveling back through time, you were denied a single word of farewell. That final, agonizing missed moment was the thing you could never forgive yourself for. And Bucky—his best friend—was the one who got to say goodbye.
The deep silence of the sterile room was brutally shattered by a sudden, sharp, human knock on the door.
You flinched violently. It wasn't the soft, anticipatory chime of the door announcing a presence, not the familiar, soothing voice of JARVIS already knowing your intent. This was a jarring, raw intrusion. Your heart hammered against your ribs.
“Come in,” you called, the words tight and strained, snapping back the mask of the operative.
The door clicked open, and he was standing in the doorway: Bucky Barnes. He stood framed by the neutral gray corridor, his eyes searching yours, his body stiff with an awareness of the history they shared.
The silence that fell between you was thick, suffocating, and louder than any noise.
“Hi,” he said simply.
You waited, your arms crossed tightly over your chest.
“I didn’t give you a proper greeting downstairs,” Bucky continued, taking a hesitant step inside, his voice low.
“I don’t care,” you replied, the coldness automatic.
He winced, the guilt clear in his eyes. “Y/N. I’m sorry. It’s all because of me.”
Bucky felt the crushing weight of that guilt. He understood the wellspring of your anger was justified; he was the catalyst, the reason Steve Rogers left the Avengers and fractured the original team. The last time you had seen Steve on the battlefield in Wakanda, there was no chance to speak, only a hurried exchange before the Blip, and then Steve was gone on his final mission with the time machine. Bucky accepted his part of the blame.
You walked toward the window, turning your back to him, staring at the indifferent lights of the city.
“I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye,” you whispered, the anguish for Steve and Natasha, Tony, finally escaping, thin and sharp. The raw separation was the wound that wouldn't heal.
“I know,” Bucky replied softly, his voice heavy with the same impossible loss.
You scoffed, turning back to him, the cold, diplomatic mask snapping back into place. “Isn’t it ironic? You’re part of the team that broke the first time because of you. And now you’re here, still trying to put the pieces back together under Valentine’s thumb.”
Bucky held your gaze, weary but resolute. “I am trying to do the right thing, Y/N. That’s all any of us can do now.” He knew the bitterness was aimed not just at him, but at the impossible circumstances he represented, and he stood his ground.
You took a deliberate, predatory step toward him, closing the distance. Your voice dropped, losing all trace of human emotion, becoming the cold steel of a Presidential mandate.
“Listen closely, Barnes. My job here is to ensure the President's security. You are all volatile assets under constant observation. I will watch every step you guys make. If there’s a little bit of a mistake, a single breach of protocol, or one uncontrolled incident, I will report back, and I will wipe the New Avengers from the face of the earth. Do you understand?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened. He saw the genuine, chilling conviction in your face, recognizing that your anger had been forged into absolute, ruthless official policy.
You held out your hand, flat and steady, the gesture cold and purely business. “Your cooperation is mandatory. ”
Bucky raised his flesh hand—the one not encased in metal—to meet yours. Their palms met in a firm, professional handshake, void of any personal history. “Likewise, Agent Y/N.”
You withdrew your hand and tilted your head slightly, giving him a silent, imperious signal to leave. Bucky hesitated for a long moment, recognized the finality in your eyes, and turned, walking out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the silence once more.
One floor up, in a small, acoustically damp room that served as their unofficial surveillance post, the New Avengers team huddled around a speaker.
Yelena Belova slowly took the headset off her ears, her usual smirk replaced by wide-eyed astonishment. John Walker stared at the control panel, chewing his lip.
“Well, that was fun,” Alexei Shostakov whispered, a genuine note of shock in his voice.
“She threatened to… wipe us out,” Walker muttered, running a hand through his hair. “And Barnes just took it.”
Yelena leaned forward, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Did you hear Bucky’s voice? The cold Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier—is afraid of her. This is news to us.”
Ava nodded, her eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "He apologized, and she replied with a declaration of war. That’s not just history; that’s drama."
“This is not going to be boring after all,” Yelena concluded, a slow, malicious grin returning. “I think this 'oversight officer' just made our lives very interesting.”
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Summary: The Thunderbolts have a guest staying at the tower—someone assigned to keep an eye on them. She’s a former SHIELD agent who once worked alongside the original Avengers. And for some reason… Bucky looks genuinely rattled by her presence.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -
Main Masterlist || 2nd Masterlist
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Silence flooded your mind the moment the screen went dark. Not peaceful silence—no, this one pressed against your ribs, heavy and tight, like you were sinking beneath thoughts you couldn’t shape into words. Seeing Steve’s face again… hearing his voice after all this time… it cracked something open you’d tried so hard to seal shut.
Bucky noticed before anyone else. He always did.
You hadn’t blinked since the broadcast ended; your eyes were still fixed on the empty screen as if you expected it to speak again.
He hadn’t expected to see Steve either. Not like that. Not appearing out of nowhere. Not today.
Why now? he thought. Why the hell would he show up now?
You drew a slow breath—one that felt too thin—and headed for the balcony. The air felt tight in your chest, like you couldn’t get enough of it.
Outside, the height punched you in the gut the way it always did. You muttered under your breath, “God… this tower is still too damn high,” and exhaled shakily.
“Should I call Bob in case you jump?”
You flinched, turning just enough to see Bucky lingering behind you. He wasn’t joking—not entirely—and you could hear the caution in his tone.
You scoffed softly. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”
You leaned your back against the glass wall and let yourself slide down until you were sitting on the floor, knees up, head tipped back. Your eyes burned. “It’s just… unexpected. Hearing his voice again.”
Bucky lowered himself down beside you without a word. For a long moment, the two of you simply sat there—shoulders almost touching, breaths syncing, the quiet stretching between you in a way that strangely felt safe.
Then he said, voice calm and honest, “Thank you. For guiding this team.”
You didn’t react at first. The weight of everything pressed too heavily on you.
But then he continued, softer, “If we ever hit a perfect hundred… does that mean you’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, but inside, his stomach twisted.
He didn’t want you to go.
The thought of this team without you—without your clarity, your grounding force—made something cold settle in his chest.
What if you stayed? he wondered.
You turned your head toward him. “There won’t be a perfect score, Bucky. It doesn’t exist. If a team was perfect, it wouldn’t be a team anymore—it’d be something godly.”
A faint breath of a laugh left you. “Even the Avengers don't get a 100 score. And even gods fight. Look at Olympus story. They tore each other apart.”
Bucky watched you in silence, the city lights reflecting in your eyes.
He thought about how much you carried. How much you hid. How much you still hurt. And how unfair it was that you had to be the steady one for everyone else when your own heart was still cut open.
“This new Avengers team… they actually work,” you said quietly, rubbing your thumb against your knee.
“Today they work in two squads, two styles, and they still get the job done.”
Bucky nodded.
“If they fail today,” you added, your tone sharpening, “this team wouldn't exist anymore.”
He blinked, startled. “You’re bold.”
“Life hasn’t gone easy on me,” you replied flatly. “And dealing with people who can lift cars, punch through walls, or fly—well, I don’t get to be soft. I have to stand my ground, or I will get swallowed.” Silence settled again. Heavy. Honest.
Then Bucky spoke, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”
You turned your head just enough to look at him.
“I should’ve told you everything back then,” he muttered. “And he should’ve said it too.”
Your fist tightened until your nails dug crescents into your palm. “You should have.”
“I know.” His voice cracked in a way most people would miss.
“And I’m sorry.” A shaky breath escaped you. “The moment Steve walked away… I left too. I ran.”
Your eyes lowered to the balcony floor. “Because staying in this country felt like staying in his shadow.”
Captain America.
The name stuck to him like a brand.
And it stuck to you, too—whether you wanted it or not. You swallowed hard.
“Where is he now?”
“Steve?”
“Yeah.” Your voice thinned. You didn’t know what you wanted—closure, anger, a clean goodbye—but you wanted something. Anything other than this choking silence in your chest.
Bucky hesitated. “You’re not planning to kill him, right?”
“Bucky.” You exhaled, tired. The way you said his name—calm, weary, familiar—hit him harder than it should’ve.
Nobody called him that gently anymore. He straightened slightly, his jaw tight.
You shook your head. “How disrespectful do you think I am? Picking a fight with a senior citizen?” Bucky choked on a short, stunned laugh, his eyes widening before he tried to hide it.
God. Even now, you could still do that—cut through the heaviness with a single deadpan line. And somehow, it made his chest hurt even more.
****
You had the address. Bucky gave it to you like he was handing over something dangerous—because he knew, better than anyone, what opening old wounds could turn you into.
But you weren’t ready.
Not because you were scared of seeing Steve…
but because you were almost sure you’d punch him in the jaw.
And what would that look like?
You, beating up a senior citizen.
A retired Captain America.
Perfect. You’d become public enemy number one before dinner.
You sighed and headed straight to the training room, hoping hitting something would bleed the impulse out of your system.
The door slid open. John Walker was already inside, throwing practice punches at a dummy. He glanced over when he heard you.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” You forced your voice steady. “You free? I need a sparring partner.”
He looked around, as if expecting someone to jump out of the vents.
“Uh… is Bucky okay with that?”
You scoffed, slipping on your gloves. “I didn’t know I needed permission from him.”
John raised his hands in surrender. “Just asking.”
You stepped onto the mat, motioning for him to follow. He did. You started light—testing footwork, throwing controlled jabs. He countered cleanly, disciplined. Not flashy. Just solid soldier training.
After a few exchanges, he spoke, a little hesitant.
“So… you worked with the original Avengers, right? With Steve Rogers.”
A punch landed harder than you meant. John absorbed it but raised an eyebrow.
You knew why he asked. He carried the title once, too briefly, and the whole world judged him for not being Steve.
“It’s alright,” you said, circling him. “Ask what you want to ask.”
He exhaled. “Was he… really that good?”
You stopped, gloves resting at your sides for a moment.
Memories rose—both beautiful and bitter.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “He was. But being good doesn’t mean he didn’t hurt people.”
John nodded slowly, absorbing that more than your punches.
You resumed sparring, letting instinct do the work.
After a moment, you threw your own question.
“How did it feel? Holding the shield?”
He caught your kick, stepped back, and released you with surprising gentleness.
“I can’t describe it,” he admitted. “But I can’t forget the moment either. Carrying that legacy… even for a short time… you feel it in your bones.”
You nodded.
You’d followed his story from afar. He wasn’t perfect, but he’d tried—really tried—without the serum, without the privilege of superhuman strength. Just a soldier trying to live up to an impossible standard.
“You’re a good soldier, Walker.”
His eyes widened. The compliment hit him harder than any blow you’d landed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “That… means a lot.”
*****
After the shower, the hot water finally knocked the edge off your nerves, but not enough to make you brave. You were towel-drying your hair when your phone buzzed.
Clint.
‘i heard you're in town. wanna meet?’
You didn’t even pretend to think about it—you smiled and typed ‘of course.’
If there was anyone who wouldn’t judge you for avoiding Steve like the plague, it was Clint. He’d seen everyone at their worst. Including you.
You headed out, hoodie on, hair still damp. The hall was quiet—until it wasn’t.
Yelena and Ava were leaning against the wall like two bored bouncers who had nothing better to do than judge your life choices.
“You know,” Yelena said, squinting at you, “as a supervisor, you kinda don’t supervise anything.”
You raised a brow. “I thought you didn’t even want me here.”
“At first,” she shrugged. “But you’ve grown on us. Like mold. Expensive mold.”
Ava smothered a laugh.
You smirked, because honestly, that was about as close to affection as you were going to get from them. “Relax. I’m just meeting an old friend. I’ll bring food when I get back.”
“Good,” Yelena said immediately. “We like food more than emotional conversations.”
Ava nodded. “Preferably something fried.”
You waved them off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll feed the gremlins.”
****
You spotted him first—Clint, baseball cap, plain jacket, trying way too hard to look like someone's bored suburban dad instead of a retired Avenger. He glanced up, recognized you instantly, and his tired face lit up.
“How’s your real retirement life?” you asked, stepping in.
Clint turned, pulled you into a side hug. Solid, familiar. “Hey… real retirement?” He snorted. “Seems like I can’t have that.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Looks like I have a student now.”
You scoffed. “You? The man with patience as thin as paper?”
He actually laughed. “Yeah, well… life is weird.” Then he tilted his head. “Never thought you’d come back.”
“Duty calls,” you said simply.
“Your uncle call you?”
Your eyes widened.
He lifted both hands. “Yeah, I know. We know. Just me and Natasha, though.”
You sank back in your seat and sighed. “Can’t hide anything from her.”
“Or me,” he added proudly.
You rolled your eyes. “Clearly.”
He took a sip from his mug. “So… you here for the copyright lawsuit too?”
“What?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? Sam Wilson sued the New Avengers. Over the name thing.”
“…What?”
Clint nodded. “Problem after problem. At least it’s not aliens this time.”
You scoffed. “Yeah. That’s the only good part.”
You took your coffees and walked out into the park. It was quiet, the kind of night where even the streetlights hummed. The air had cooled enough to feel clean against your skin. The two of you eventually found an empty bench and sat—Clint leaning back like he owned the whole park, you sitting forward, hands around your latte.
He studied you for a moment.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?” He turned his head. “I’m deaf, not blind. I can still read your face.”
You groaned. “It’s just…”
“It’s about Steve, isn’t it?”
Your mouth fell open. “How—”
“You left because of him,” he said gently. “And now you’re back with the same scars.”
You exhaled. Slow. Heavy. “Can’t hide anything from you.”
“Nope.”
You both laughed a little, the kind of laugh that comes from old familiarity, before Clint’s smile faded into something more thoughtful.
“I didn’t meet Steve after the Snap,” he said. “Five years disappeared for me. When I saw him again? There was… something different.”
You looked at him, waiting.
“All of us who stayed alive—we couldn’t accept the loss. Couldn’t move on. For me?” His jaw tightened. “I couldn’t accept that my family was gone.”
You nodded. Clint was the definition of a family man. Every fight, every mission—he always measured it against his wife and kids. He lived for them. Without them, he’d been a blade with no sheath.
“For Steve…” Clint continued. “The way I saw him back then—he accepted reality. Maybe too well.”
You felt something twist in your chest. Because you’d seen it too. The acceptance. The shift. The quiet ache in him that didn’t belong to your Steve anymore.
“Y/N,” Clint said softly.
“Hm?”
“If he wanted to stay, he would’ve stayed.”
The words hit harder than a punch. Not cruel—just true. Clint didn’t sugar-coat. He never had. You stared at your cup, watching the steam fade.
He nudged your shoulder. “You’re my friend. And I want you to move on.”
You swallowed. Because part of you knew he was right. And another part of you wasn’t ready to admit it.
But tonight, sitting on that park bench with Clint’s quiet honesty wrapping around you like an unexpected blanket—you finally let yourself breathe again. "Thank you Clint."
******
After saying goodbye to Clint, you stopped by a small deli to pick up snacks for Yelena and Ava—because a promise was a promise. On your way back, the glow of a familiar neon sign caught your eye. The pizza place. And through the window, you spotted Peter Parker again, standing behind the counter, waiting on an order.
He wore the store’s polo—slightly oversized, sleeves rolled up sloppily. He looked exhausted but still managed that awkward, earnest focus only Peter could pull off.
You pushed the door open. The bell jingled.
“You work here?” you asked, brows raised.
Peter jumped. “Oh—hey! Yeah. Rent isn’t cheap.”
You nodded. Responsible kid. A little too responsible for his age.
You walked straight to the cashier. “I’ll take six large boxes. And I want him to deliver it.”
You pointed at Peter like you were selecting a weapon off a wall.
The cashier blinked at you. Then blinked at Peter. Then blinked at the giant tip you slid across the counter.
The owner suddenly leaned forward, grinning like a man possessed.
“Absolutely! He will deliver it as fast as the wind!”
Peter muttered, “I’m… pretty sure OSHA has opinions about that,” but no one heard him.
You and Peter stepped out together, the stack of boxes balanced neatly in his arms.
“So,” you asked, “do you like working there?”
“Yeah. It’s easy,” he answered, adjusting the boxes with one hand like it was nothing.
“And your internship?”
“I don’t really have much work right now, so it’s pretty chill.”
You watched him for a moment, wondering why this kid triggered your protective instincts so hard. Something in you just… couldn’t help it.
Finally, you asked the question you’d been chewing on.
“Peter. Are you Spider-Man?”
He froze mid-step.
Boxes wobbled.
Eyes went huge.
“…How?”
You shrugged, amused. “Don’t underestimate my experience. And don’t worry—I’m not going to ask anything or interrogate you.”
He swallowed. “I kinda hoped you’d invite me to the New Avengers.”
You stopped walking. “Why? That’s a big responsibility for you.”
Peter looked down, hiding the flicker of hope in his eyes.
If only you remembered everything.
If only you remembered him.
Back then you always protected him—shielding him from Tony’s relentlessness, giving him advice he clung to for years.
And now he could barely get a full sentence out without wishing those memories were still inside you.
But still—this moment, talking to you like this—was better than nothing.
“Just be careful, Peter,” you said softly. “If you ever need anything, call me.”
You handed him your name card. “I may not have SHIELD or the Avengers anymore, but I have connections.”
“The Avengers…” he murmured. “I miss that name.”
“…Me too.” Your smile was sad, quiet.
The tower appeared ahead, tall and familiar in a way that ached.
Peter hesitated, then said, “You can’t change the past. But you can change what’s next.”
You stopped. “That’s… wow. That was a strong word, Peter.”
He blushed so hard you could practically feel the heat off him.
He rushed forward, dumped the boxes on the receptionist’s counter, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“I—I should go! Homework!”
And then he sprinted out.
Bucky appeared from the hallway, eyebrow raised. “What’s with the pizza?”
“It’s for the team.” You picked up the top box and handed it to him. “Thanks for helping.”
You leaned back against the wall. “I heard Sam Wilson doesn’t like the New Avengers team.”
Bucky squinted. “How did you—? And why does it feel like the elevator’s taking forever?”
“You talked to him yet?”
“No.”
You sighed. “You should.”
When the lift doors slid open, the sound in the common room shifted—soft chatter turning into a collective, hungry-aware silence. Every pair of eyes zeroed in on the stack of pizza boxes like wolves spotting prey.
Ava didn’t even pretend to be civilized.
She sprinted past everyone and snatched the box right out of Bucky’s hands.
“Mine!” she declared, already peeling open the lid.
The rest of the team drifted in fast—Yelena, Walker, Alexei, Bob—all orbiting the pizza like a gravitational pull had taken over. In seconds, the entire group had clustered around the counter, hands reaching, voices mixing, shoving and arguing over toppings.
You and Bucky were the only ones left by the elevator, forgotten but in a strangely peaceful pocket of quiet.
You exhaled.
Then, simply, you said, “I’m going to meet Steve.”
Bucky’s body froze.
Subtle—barely visible—but he stiffened, breath catching in his chest. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he heard you right. His jaw clenched, eyes flickering with concern, guilt, and something protective he’d never admit out loud.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
His voice lacked its usual bite; he sounded almost careful.
“Tomorrow,” you answered.
Silence wrapped around him.
He studied your face the way soldiers study weathered maps—searching for danger, for cracks, for something he wished he could shield you from but knew he couldn’t.
Finally, you added, “Tell him.”
Bucky swallowed hard.
He gave a small, reluctant nod.
Not approval—more like acceptance. And a hint of fear for what tomorrow might bring.
Behind you both, Ava shouted, “HEY—WHO TOOK MY GARLIC DIP?”
Normal chaos returned.
But Bucky stayed still, his eyes lingering on you just a second longer.
As if bracing himself for the storm he knew was coming.
*****
The drive to the quiet, unassuming retirement community felt like a betrayal. It was too domestic, too peaceful for the man who had once carried the weight of the free world. You found the lake easily. The small, secluded bank was lined with weeping willows and a single, weathered wooden bench overlooking the water.
He was there.
The older man, dressed in a muted gray cardigan, was gazing out across the shimmering lake. You felt the familiar, seismic shift in your chest—the one that occurred only when you saw him. He looked softer, aged by time rather than war, his shoulders settled. He looked like a man who had chosen to be profoundly still.
You walked up to the bench, stopping just behind him.
“Can I sit here?” you asked, your voice flat and steady, the cool professionalism of the Oversight Officer layered over the trembling woman beneath.
Steve’s head snapped up. His blue eyes, still clear and immediately recognizable despite the lines around them, widened in shock. The surprise was instantaneous, but the reaction was perfectly controlled—years of soldiering and a lifetime of hard choices smoothing his expression back into calm neutrality.
“Y/N,” he murmured, the name a soft, unexpected plea. “You’re here.”
You sat beside him. For a moment, you didn't look at the man who had walked away from your future. Instead, you focused on your own reflection in the water, noting how sharp and formidable you looked now. The sun had made you braver, the five years of work had made you colder, and the diplomatic mandate had made you unbreakable. He was looking at a different person, one forged by the betrayal he represented. He would never return to your side.
“I didn't think I’d see you again,” he said, his hands resting on his knees. “Not after you went to London.”
“I have business in New York now,” you countered, keeping the subject distant. “I’m here to check on the team.”
“Bucky told me you were back in the Tower. It must be… strange.”
“It’s sterile. Efficient. It’s no longer home.” You finally turned your head, meeting his gaze. “But that’s been the theme of the last decade, hasn’t it? Things ceasing to be home.”
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken accusations. Everywhere you went, there was always a trace of him. You had tried sometimes to open your heart, meeting new people, but no matter what, you always compared them to Steve. You felt pathetic for it.
He sighed, shifting his focus back to the lake. “We didn't know if any of us would come back after Thanos. None of us knew that plan would work. For those five years… I accepted you died.”
I accepted you died. The casual cruelty of the phrase hit you like a physical blow, even though you knew it was true. Clint was right. Steve have accepted the condition back then.
“The time machine,” Steve continued, his voice softer now, more confessional. “When I went back there. everyone I knew was alive. And then I saw her.”
“You’ve made your choice,” you stated, the phrase hollow and final.
“Yes,” he confirmed quietly.
The confirmation—the one you had known in the marrow of your bones for years—still tore a fresh wound. It was devastating to hear the truth made so concise, so real.
“The reason I walked away,” Steve started, his voice cracking, “is because I didn’t have the courage to be honest with you. Not that day. To tell you the truth, Y/N…” He looked you in the eye, his expression heavy with sympathy and immense guilt. “I just don’t love you anymore.”
The words were precise, brutal, and calculated to cause maximum damage. They were designed to set you free, yet they felt like a clean shot through the heart. You didn't flinch, but your hands, resting in your lap, curled into painful fists. You knew it, but hearing him say it—the definitive closure, the erasure of all future possibility—crushed the residual hope you hadn't even known you still held.
“Those five years without you,” Steve began, trying to explain the chasm the Snap created.
You cut him off, your voice low and dangerously controlled. “It wasn’t just five years. After the airport fight, you never called. It’s more than five years. But for me, waiting for you is forever.”
Steve flinched. The mask of controlled calm dissolved, revealing the immense regret for the years of silence that preceded his final decision. The true, messy timeline of their failure had finally been spoken.
“Everywhere I go, I’m still haunted by your presence. That’s how you affect my life,” you said, letting the tears well up, though they didn't fall. Your eyes were fixed on his, demanding he witness the damage. His sympathy was instant, his guilt radiating off him in waves.
“I did leave scars on you, Y/N,” Steve admitted, his voice rough. “But you’re stronger than me. Braver.”
You pulled back, confused and slightly offended. “How?”
Steve offered a small, sad smile, referencing the moment he knew he had failed her. “I had no courage to talk to you and say goodbye before I left. I left it all on Bucky’s shoulders.”
You felt a fresh wave of nausea. He was right. He was always the one who ran—first from his feelings, then from the Accords, and finally from the future. The realization that he saw his own cowardice mirrored in your strength was nauseating.
“You look stronger and happier now,” he said, attempting a forced reassurance. “I want you to be happier than me. You deserve it.”
You clenched your fists, the pain of accepting this impossible, final reality was almost unbearable. He was giving her permission to move on—a pathetic, self-absolving gesture.
“To tell you the truth, I’ve always known that you would leave,” you confessed, the realization dawning years too late.
“Why is that?”
“I saw the way you looked at the sky,” you explained, the tears finally starting to track paths down your cheeks. “It was always like you were longing for something that wasn’t here. I should’ve known that you still hadn’t gotten to this era.”
Steve looked genuinely defeated, unable to deny your painful insight. “I didn’t understand my own feelings at that time. Except for you. I loved you so much… back then.”
Back then. That phrase was the final punch, solidifying the distance between the permanent present and the cherished, dead past. He had moved on.
“I want you to move on. Forget me. Find a better man than me,” he insisted gently.
You threw your head back and laughed, a short, sharp, wounded sound. The advice felt like a final insult.
“I want to see you happier than ever, that it could make me drown in regret,” he finished.
“Who the fuck do you think you are telling me what to do?” you scoffed, shaking your head.
“That’s not what I…” Steve began.
You didn't let him finish. You stood up abruptly, your heart a cold, hard lump in your chest. “But you’re right. I should have moved on a long time ago.”
Steve watched you rise, the exhaustion of a century of struggle visible on his aged face. "I know. It's the only thing I truly want for you."
"It's going to be difficult for me to forget you," you said, the confession raw and involuntary.
"You could," he replied, his voice a soft rasp. "Once you found the one."
You looked at him one last time, recognizing the impenetrable wall of time and choice that now separated you. The wall was higher than any skyscraper. You had to move on. Really move on.
You turned and walked, not quickly, but with a terrifying finality. You didn't look back. Your mission, your coldness, your authority—it was all necessary armor, now more than ever.
As you neared the exit of the grounds, heading back toward the anonymity of the city, you saw a familiar figure. Bucky Barnes was leaning against the car, clearly waiting for you. He wasn't guarding the vehicle; he was an anchor in the present. His arms were loose, and his metal hand rested near his hip, posture open.
His gaze, dark and instantly concerned, met yours across the distance. He straightened immediately.
“Everything alright?” he asked, his voice low, lacking any pretense or accusation—just raw concern.
The question broke the icy resolve Steve's words had built. You felt the armor crack. It was Bucky who stayed. It was Bucky, Steve's shadow and burden, who had walked away from the past and was standing here, now, in the unforgiving sunlight of your present. For the first time since landing in New York, a fragile, unearned warmth spread through your chest. He wasn't a ghost; he was a possibility. He was here.
Yelena and Ava watching her leave for a casual meetup, and then Yelena teasing her about supervision… I laughed so hard. But then you see the respect and genuine warmth underneath. It’s such a natural dynamic. They act tough, but they genuinely look up to her.
They pretend to resist her guidance, but secretly, they want it. It’s like she’s earned a small corner of peace and authority in their chaotic lives. They respect her because she’s been through everything they’re afraid of facing too soon.
summary: During the day you're just a normal student at Midtown High. But during the night you are Harmonia, a hero with sonic manipulation powers.
word count: 6.4k+
pairing: peter parker (mcu) x fem!reader
notes: inspired by this request
i'm so sorry it took so long to post this anon! i've had it in my drafts prepared and ready to go but then i got sidetracked with the electric touch series and then october... anyways, here it is!! i hope y'all like it <3
warnings/tags: reader has sonic manipulation powers, fluff, lots of quips, teenagers being teenagers, the avengers are together - civil war who?, secret identities, science talk
The first scream is more of a crash—metal on asphalt, tires skidding sideways—followed by the sound of three different car alarms wailing over each other like they’re competing for Most Annoying Noise in Queens. You’re already on the fire escape, hood up, mask on, letting the sound waves hum through your bones. It’s like a pulse against your ribs, tugging you toward the source.
By the time you hit the street, the would-be robbers are halfway into their getaway car, a shiny black sedan that absolutely does not belong on this block. “You know,” you call out, voice amplified just enough to cut over the sirens, “it’s polite to ask before you take someone’s ride.”
The driver freezes. The passenger turns, muttering something you can’t hear—not that it matters. You snap your fingers and send a sharp, high-frequency pulse toward the sedan. All four tires sag instantly, rubber flopping as they deflate in perfect unison.
The driver swears and the passenger pulls a gun. You tilt your head. “You really don’t wanna try that.”
“Oh yeah? Why not?”
You let the smallest smile curl under your mask. “Because you’re gonna have a massive headache in three… two…”
The sound hits them like a physical shove, low and concussive—not enough to knock them out, but enough to send them stumbling back, clutching their ears. You’re halfway to cuffing the first guy with the zip ties in your belt when something red and blue swings into your peripheral vision.
“Woah, woah, did you just—” Spider-Man lands in a crouch between you and the sedan, hands up like he’s breaking up a fight. “—pop their tires with sound? That’s… okay, I’m not gonna lie, that’s insanely cool.”
You glance at him. “Thanks. You’re the bug guy, right?”
“Spider,” he corrects automatically, standing to full height. “Not a bug, technically. Arachnid. Eight legs, web shooters—”
“I got the gist.” You wave toward the groaning car thieves. “You here to help, or are we doing the friendly neighborhood hero turf war thing?”
He hesitates, then shoots a web to pin the driver’s sleeve to the sedan. “I vote team-up. I mean, if you’re good with that. You have a name, or should I just call you, uh… Sonic the Hedge—?”
You arch an eyebrow under your mask. “It’s Harmonia. And don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to burst every streetlight on this block.”
“Noted,” he says, though you can hear the smirk in his voice.
The police sirens are closing in now. You step back, letting him web up the second guy while you check the surrounding rooftops. “You’re fast,” he calls over.
You shrug. “Sound travels faster.”
That earns a short laugh, but then his head tilts like he’s cataloguing something about you—the way you stand, maybe, or the rhythm of your voice. You don’t stick around to find out.
As the cops pull up, you send one last sonic pulse into the air, the crack of it like a firework, and leap for the nearest fire escape. By the time you’re on the roof, Spider-Man’s looking up at you, one hand shading his eyes. “See you around, Harmonia!”
You can’t help tossing back, “only if you can keep up, web-head!” before disappearing over the ledge, sound humming in your chest like a secret you’re not ready to share.
---
Headphones were your sanctuary, contrary to popular belief, most of the time you weren’t even listening to music. They were just used as noise blockers because things were constantly loud at Midtown.
The four of you always met up at the front of the school before classes started—most of the time at least, if Peter wasn’t late. Luckily, today he was on time. You held up a white paper bag, “guess what?”
Peter perked up immediately. "Please tell me that’s food."
"It’s food," you confirmed. "Donuts. Four of them. Fresh. From Angelo’s."
"Angelo’s?" Ned’s eyes went wide. "You got the good ones? How?"
"Babysat for Mrs. DeLuca last night. Payment was in sugar instead of cash." You shrugged, opening the bag enough for the smell to drift out. "Totally worth it."
MJ eyed the bag suspiciously. "Is this a trick? Because if you’re about to say they’re raisin-filled or something, I’m out."
"They’re not raisin-filled," you laughed. "One chocolate glaze, one jelly, one vanilla sprinkle, one cinnamon sugar. Choose wisely."
Peter immediately reached in. "Chocolate glaze. No regrets."
"Bold move," Ned said, taking the jelly. "You live dangerously, Peter."
"Excuse me, jelly is the dangerous one?" Peter raised an eyebrow.
"One wrong bite and your shirt’s ruined forever," Ned said through a mouthful.
MJ took the cinnamon sugar without hesitation. "Sprinkles for you, then," she said, nodding at you.
"Fine by me," you said, biting into it.
Peter licked chocolate from his thumb. "Seriously though, donuts before first period? You might be my favorite person right now."
"Wow," MJ said dryly. "That’s a low bar."
He made a face at her, then looked back at you. "Hey, are you free after school? I, uh… need to run by the robotics lab and could use an extra set of hands."
"Depends," you said. "Is there free food involved?"
Ned pointed at you. "This is why we get along."
Peter laughed. "I can’t promise donuts, but I can probably find leftover pizza from the Decathlon team fridge."
You pretended to think it over. "Hm… stale pizza versus homework. Yeah, I’m in."
The bell rang, and you all started toward the doors, Peter falling into step beside you. "So, uh," he said, lowering his voice just enough, "Angelo’s still open this late in the morning? I thought they sold out early."
You smirked. "Guess I’ve got good timing." Peter gave you a curious look, but before he could say anything else, Ned started talking about some new LEGO set, and the conversation shifted.
---
The final bell couldn’t come fast enough. By the time you got to your locker, Peter was already hovering nearby, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Ready?” he asked, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.
“Yeah, just—” You shoved a notebook into your bag. “Do I need to mentally prepare for whatever’s in that Decathlon fridge?”
He grinned. “Probably. But that’s half the fun.”
You both made your way down the hall toward the robotics lab. The place was empty except for the faint hum of the 3D printer in the corner. Peter dropped his bag on a worktable and started rummaging through a box of wires and small circuit boards.
“Okay,” you said, leaning on the table. “What exactly are we doing here? You just said ‘extra set of hands’ like I was gonna be soldering something.”
“Well…” He gestured vaguely at the mess in front of him. “I’m trying to get this drone stabilized, but the gyroscope’s acting weird. If you can hold the frame while I adjust the sensor, that would help a lot.”
You picked up the lightweight drone, turning it over in your hands. “It’s like a baby helicopter.”
Peter snorted. “A very delicate baby helicopter.”
“Got it, no dropping the child,” you said, gripping it more carefully. “So… this is for school?”
“Kind of. I mean, yeah, it’s technically for the robotics club, but I also just wanted to see if I could make it… better.”
“Better how?”
He hesitated, fiddling with a wire. “You know. Faster. More stable. Stuff like that.”
You tilted your head. “Uh-huh. Totally normal teenager thing.”
“Hey, I am a normal teenager,” he said quickly, shooting you a look.
You grinned, deciding not to push it. “Right. And normal teenagers always have a secret side project involving high-tech drones.”
He muttered something you didn’t catch, then asked, “can you tilt it a little? Yeah, like that. Perfect.”
You held it steady while he worked, watching his hands move with practiced precision. He was clearly in his element here—focused, confident. It was a different side of him than you usually saw in the cafeteria or at your lockers. “Okay, try not to flinch,” he said suddenly.
“Wait, why—”
A tiny spark popped from the sensor as he tightened a screw.
“—ah! What was that?”
“Just static,” he said quickly, grinning again. “You’re fine. The drone’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re lucky I’m not charging for hazard pay.” By the time he finished, the drone was humming faintly, little rotors spinning in slow, steady circles. “That’s… actually kind of impressive,” you admitted.
“Thanks,” he said, trying to play it cool but clearly pleased. “Wanna see if it flies?”
“Only if I get to name it.”
He blinked. “Name the drone?”
“Yeah. If I’m gonna be part of the team, I get naming rights.”
Peter sighed in mock defeat. “Fine. What’s the name?”
You pretended to think deeply. “Buzz Lightyear.”
He laughed. “Okay, yeah, that’s perfect.”
The drone lifted off the table smoothly, and you both stepped back to watch it hover in place. Peter glanced at you, and there was something almost thoughtful in his expression—like he was filing this moment away for later.
You ignored it, focusing on the drone. “So, where’s this famous fridge?”
“Oh, you’re about to regret asking,” he said, leading you to the back corner where a beat-up mini fridge sat humming ominously.
The second he opened it, you gagged. “Oh my god—what is that smell?”
“History,” Peter said with mock solemnity, handing you a slightly squashed slice of pepperoni pizza.
You stared at it, then at him. “You better be paying for my hospital bill if this kills me.”
“Deal,” he said, and you both sat on the floor, eating cold pizza next to a humming fridge like it was the most normal thing in the world.
---
By the time you got home, the sun was already dipping low, throwing a warm glow across the tops of the buildings outside your window. You dumped your backpack on the floor, swapped your jeans for something you could actually move in, and pulled your hood up.
The city was louder than usual tonight. Not in the “there’s traffic” way—more like that buzz you felt in your bones when something was about to happen. You tugged your mask into place and stepped out onto the fire escape, the metal cool under your sneakers.
The hum sharpened as you moved. By the time you reached the rooftops near Roosevelt Avenue, you could already pick up fragments—shouts, a scuffle, something heavy hitting the pavement. You followed it like a bloodhound, each vibration through the air a breadcrumb leading you closer.
Rounding the edge of a rooftop, you spotted it: two guys in cheap ski masks trying to drag a bright red delivery scooter into the back of a van. The delivery guy was backed up against a wall, hands up, eyes wide. “Really?” you called, stepping into view. “Stealing dinner now? That’s low, even for you.”
One of the guys spun, pointing at you. “It’s that noise freak!”
“Noise hero,” you corrected. A single snap of your fingers sent a tight sonic pulse into the van’s side panel. The metal shuddered violently, making the two men stumble. “Go,” you told the delivery guy, jerking your chin toward the street. He didn’t need telling twice.
The thieves looked at each other, then bolted for the van. You sent another wave after them—low, concussive—knocking one to his knees.
That’s when you heard the familiar thwip and the equally familiar, “hey, fancy meeting you here!” Spider-Man landed just ahead of the second thief, webbing his ankles together before he could climb into the driver’s seat. “What is this, our second run-in? You’re making a habit of showing up right before I do.”
“Maybe you’re showing up after me,” you shot back, stepping forward to cuff the guy still on the ground.
“Ouch,” he said, mock wounded. “Harsh, Harmonia.”
“You still calling me that?”
“Yeah, it’s catchy. Marketable. You could get t-shirts made.”
You snorted. “What, with my face on them? No thanks.”
He perched on the van’s hood like it was the most natural thing in the world, watching as you secured the last thief. “So… are you, like, a Queens local? Or do you just commute here to make me look bad?”
You looked up at him, heartbeat ticking faster under your mask. “Queens is… familiar.”
“That’s vague,” he said, clearly fishing for more.
“That’s intentional,” you replied, already stepping back toward the alley mouth.
He tilted his head. “You know, most people at least ask before disappearing on me.”
You shrugged. “Guess I’m not most people.” And with that, you jumped for the nearest fire escape, landing light and fast before scaling the next rooftop.
Spider-Man called after you, “see you next time, Harmonia!”
You didn’t look back, but your mouth twitched under the mask. “If you can keep up, web-head,” you muttered, disappearing into the night.
---
The next morning, Midtown was buzzing—literally. Someone had caught grainy phone footage of “Spider-Man and the Sound Girl” taking down two scooter thieves, and it was making the rounds faster than homework rumors.
“Did you see this?” Ned practically shoved his phone into your face the second you reached your locker.
You gave it a glance. “Looks like Spidey made a new friend.”
Peter appeared on your other side, trying very hard to look casual. “Yeah, she’s, uh… pretty good. Quick, too.”
MJ raised an eyebrow. “Do I sense jealousy?”
Peter scoffed. “No! I mean, come on, I don’t even know her. She could be anybody.”
You pulled your books from your locker, keeping your face neutral. “Guess she’s just got good timing.”
Peter glanced at you for a beat longer than necessary, something almost calculating in his expression, before Ned distracted him with a quiet, “dude, the comments are shipping you two already!”
You pretended to be absorbed in your schedule, though you could feel Peter’s gaze flicker back to you more than once.
---
It was a couple nights later when the universe decided to hand you round three.
You’d just hopped the last rooftop before your usual patrol loop when the city’s background noise shifted—shouting, heavy boots slapping pavement, and something glass shattering. You zeroed in, the vibrations in the air like an arrow pointing you straight to it.
This time, the scene was a little more ambitious: five guys in matching leather jackets hauling flat-screen TVs out the back of a pawn shop. The front window was a spiderweb of cracks, alarms wailing so loud you almost felt bad for them. Almost.
“Really, guys?” you called, stepping into the pool of flickering streetlight. “Because nothing says ‘subtle’ like stealing TVs the size of doors.”
One of them barked a laugh. “And what are you gonna do about it, Sound Girl?”
“It’s Harmonia,” you corrected, hands sliding into your hoodie pocket. “And I’m gonna ask nicely first, ‘cause I’m polite like that.”
Another one snorted. “Or what?”
You smiled under your mask. “Or I’ll make sure you hear this conversation in your nightmares for the next week.”
“Wow,” a voice piped up from above. “That’s… actually terrifying.” You didn’t have to look to know who it was. Spider-Man swung down from a lamppost, landing with his usual flair right in front of the thieves.
“You again,” you said, tilting your head.
“Me again,” he echoed. “Looks like you started the party without me.”
“They were gonna leave,” you deadpanned.
“Were we?” one thief muttered.
“Were you?” Spider-Man echoed in the same tone, making the guy blink in confusion.
You sighed. “You’re confusing them on purpose.”
“It’s a valid tactic,” he said, shooting a web that glued one guy’s hands to the TV he was carrying. “See? Now he can’t put it down or use his hands. Efficient.”
You flicked your fingers and sent a low, focused pulse through the pavement. The vibration rolled under their feet like a mini earthquake, making two of them stumble into each other.
“Woah,” Spider-Man said, eyes widening behind his mask. “We could be, like, the ultimate anti-theft device.”
“That’s your sales pitch?” you said. “Because it needs work.”
“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”
One of the thieves recovered enough to charge at you, but you sidestepped and snapped a sharp, high-pitched crack right by his ear. He flinched so hard he almost tripped over his own feet. Spider-Man chuckled. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“I already reminded you once,” you said, yanking another guy’s jacket to pull him off balance. “You’re a slow learner.”
By the time the sirens started getting closer, the two of you had them all either webbed to the wall or cuffed together with zip ties. Spider-Man perched on the pawn shop’s awning, watching you finish the last one. “You know,” he said, “for someone who likes to vanish after every team-up, you’re actually pretty fun to work with.”
You looked up at him. “You’re saying that like I’m applying for a job.”
He shrugged. “Hey, I don’t hire, I just… recommend people. Hypothetically. To important folks.”
“And hypothetically,” you said, stepping back into the shadows, “I’m not looking for a promotion.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You sure? You’d look good in red and gold.”
You snorted. “Not my color.”
“Fair enough,” he said, and just like last time, you were already gone by the time the police pulled up.
---
The next morning, Midtown was back at it. Ned was animatedly describing the latest “Spidey and Harmonia” clip to MJ, who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“—and then she just boom, knocked the guy sideways, and Spidey was all, ‘woah, that’s cool,’ and I swear he sounded like—”
“Like what?” you asked, sliding into the group at your locker.
“Like he was impressed,” Ned finished.
MJ glanced at you. “You seem awfully interested for someone who claims she doesn’t care about local vigilantes.”
“I don’t,” you said smoothly, shoving books into your locker. “Just keeping up with the news. You know. Civic engagement.”
Peter came around the corner, backpack half-zipped. “Morning. Did you guys see—”
“Already talking about it,” Ned cut in. “We were just saying how Harmonia’s basically Spider-Man’s perfect partner.”
Peter froze for a second, then laughed a little too quickly. “Yeah, uh… she’s… fine. I guess.”
MJ smirked. “That’s the most suspicious ‘fine’ I’ve ever heard.”
You just kept your head down, hiding the smirk tugging at your mouth.
---
The apartment was usually quiet, your mom worked late hours which means she was usually asleep when you got home from Midtown. Except today. You unlocked and opened the door to hear her talking to someone else.
You froze halfway through stepping inside, the grocery bag in your hand digging into your fingers.
"—oh, here she is now!" your mom said brightly from the living room.
You turned your head and almost dropped the bag. Sitting on your couch—your couch, the one with the weird squeak in the left cushion—was Tony Stark. Casual hoodie, expensive watch, like this was completely normal.
"Uh…" you said intelligently. "Hi?"
Tony glanced over at you like you were five minutes late to a meeting. "Hey, kid."
Your mom was beaming. "Mr. Stark was just telling me about this scholarship thing for talented students in science and engineering. Isn’t that amazing?"
"Yeah," you said slowly, still staring at him. "Amazing."
Tony stood, smoothing his hoodie. "Mind if we talk? Just… student-to-philanthropist."
Your mom gestured down the hall. "Go on. I’ll start dinner."
You didn’t even have time to protest before Tony was steering you toward your room. As soon as the door shut, you blurted, "okay, what—"
He held up a hand. "Save it. Let’s just skip to the part where you admit you’re Harmonia so we can both get on with our evenings."
Your heart jumped. "I’m not—"
Tony tapped his watch. A faint hologram projected between you: grainy but unmistakable footage of you in your hoodie and mask, sending a sonic pulse that flattened a guy against a wall. "Pretty sure that’s you," he said.
"It’s not," you said quickly.
"Uh-huh. And I guess your height, build, and very distinctive move where you tilt your head right before you blast someone is just a coincidence." He wandered toward your closet like he owned the place. "Let’s see… if I were a teenage vigilante with questionable taste in outerwear, where would I keep my crime-fighting gear…"
"Don’t—" You lunged, but he was already pulling the sliding door open.
Behind your hoodies and a couple of sweatshirts, tucked in the corner, was your dark hoodie with the reinforced lining and the modified gloves. Tony held it up by the sleeve. "Bingo."
You sighed, dropping onto the bed. "Fine. It’s me."
"Was that so hard?" he said, hanging the hoodie back up. "For the record, you’re good. Little flashy for my taste, but the teamwork with Spider-Man? Solid stuff."
Your head snapped up. "You know Spider-Man?"
Tony smirked. "Kid, please."
You crossed your arms. "So what, you’re here to tell me to stop?"
"Nope." He leaned against your desk. "I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. You’ve got potential, and potential needs guidance. And resources. And maybe an upgraded wardrobe."
Your stomach did a weird flip. "Are you… asking me to be part of the Avengers?"
"Not quite. Think of it as… the junior varsity team. With better tech."
You hesitated. "And if I say no?"
"Then I leave, and you keep doing your thing with whatever you can cobble together from RadioShack, and eventually you run into something you can’t handle. Not a threat, just statistics."
You rolled your eyes. "Nice pep talk."
"Look, I’m not here to scare you. I’m here because you’ve got skills, and I’d rather you learn how to use them before you end up in over your head."
You stared at him for a moment, mind spinning. "…Do I get to keep the hoodie?"
He smirked. "We’ll negotiate."
---
The next morning, you walked into Midtown like nothing had happened. Which was easier said than done. Because it was hard to forget that Tony Stark had been sitting on your couch less than twelve hours ago, offering you… well, not exactly a job, but something.
You adjusted your noise-cancelling headphones over your ears, the soft hum helping keep the morning chaos at bay. The hallway was already loud—lockers slamming, people shouting across rows, sneakers squeaking on the tile.
Peter, MJ, and Ned were clustered at the usual spot by your locker. MJ was leaning against the wall, flipping through a paperback. Ned was mid-rant about something, hands waving. "—and I told him, you can’t just eat twelve tacos in under three minutes without consequences—" Ned spotted you and grinned. "Hey! Saved you a spot."
You slid into place, tugging your locker open. "Good morning to you too."
Peter eyed your headphones. "You’ve been wearing those more than usual lately. Everything okay?"
You shrugged, swapping out books. "Just loud today."
"Every day is loud," MJ said without looking up.
"Exactly," you said, shooting her a knowing look.
Peter chuckled. "Guess you’ve got a point." He glanced at Ned. "Tell her about the video."
Ned lit up. "Oh, yeah—new clip dropped last night. Spidey and Harmonia, round… what is this now? Three? Four?"
"Three," Peter corrected automatically.
You raised an eyebrow. "Keeping track, Parker?"
His ears went pink. "I mean, you can’t miss it, it’s all over the place. She’s getting popular."
"She’s pretty good," Ned said around a grin.
Peter groaned, turning back to you. "Anyway, this one’s wild—Harmonia knocked a guy sideways without even touching him. Like, just bam, he’s down."
You kept your expression neutral, stuffing a notebook into your bag. "Sounds… efficient."
"Yeah," Peter said slowly, watching you. "Efficient."
You shut your locker. "So, what’s the plan for lunch?"
That broke the moment—Ned immediately started pitching the idea of hitting the deli down the street if they could sneak out for twenty minutes. MJ countered with the fact that detention wasn’t worth a sandwich.
You listened to them bicker, the sound muffled through your headphones, heart settling back into a steady rhythm. "Fine," you said when they finally looked at you for an opinion. "We stay. But only if someone brings me dessert from the cafeteria."
Ned pointed. "Deal. I call the chocolate pudding."
"Then I call the vanilla," Peter said quickly.
MJ smirked. "Guess that leaves you the mystery flavor."
Peter groaned again, and you couldn’t help laughing as you followed them down the hall toward first period, the hum of your headphones smoothing over the rest of the noise.
---
The next time you saw Spider-Man, it wasn’t over a couple of low-level thieves or a stolen scooter. It was chaos.
You’d been halfway through your patrol when the air shifted—sirens overlapping, car horns blaring, people screaming. You followed the vibrations cutting through the city’s usual noise until you hit Midtown Manhattan, and yeah… it was bad.
A giant mech-looking thing—like someone had decided Transformers needed a budget knockoff—was stomping its way down 7th Avenue. Cars were overturned, shop windows shattered, and every time it swung one of its massive arms, the street cracked.
"Well," you muttered into your mask, "this is above my pay grade."
"Hey!" A voice came from above, and you glanced up just in time to see Spider-Man swing down, landing on a light post. "Guessing you’re here for the ‘giant robot ruining everyone’s Tuesday’ thing?"
"Yeah," you said, jogging toward him. "You know, I was really hoping for something smaller tonight. Like a jaywalker. Or a guy stealing hot dogs."
"Trust me, hot dog guy’s easier," he said, webbing a flying chunk of debris before it could hit a taxi. "This thing’s been chucking cars at people for the last ten minutes."
"Any idea who’s piloting it?"
"Pretty sure it’s not Optimus Prime."
You snorted. "Okay, bug boy—"
"Spider-Man," he interrupted automatically.
"—whatever. You go high, I go low?"
"Sounds good. And hey—try not to get squished!"
"No promises."
You sprinted forward, the thud of the mech’s steps rattling your ribs. The thing turned its head—if you could call that metal plate a head—and started to raise its arm toward a group of people scrambling out of a coffee shop.
"Not today," you muttered, snapping your fingers and sending a sonic pulse that hit the mech’s knee joint like a jackhammer. It staggered, the sound echoing back in a metallic screech.
Spider-Man zipped up onto its back, sticking to the metal like it was nothing, and started yanking at some exposed wiring. "You ever think about how insane this is?" he called down. "Like, we’re basically just kids doing—ow—this kind of thing!"
"You’re the one climbing a death machine!" you shouted back, dodging a swinging arm.
"Yeah, but you’re attacking the death machine’s knees, so who’s really making smarter life choices here?"
You grinned under your mask. "Me, obviously."
Another arm swung toward you, this time faster. You dove into a roll, coming up with both hands extended. The blast you sent this time was low-frequency, hard enough to make the mech’s whole frame shudder.
Spider-Man whooped from above. "That’s it! Keep it busy!"
"I am busy!" you shot back.
A panel popped open under his hands, and you heard the sound of him muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "okay, Tony, let’s hope you were right about this."
Before you could ask what that meant, he yanked a glowing cylinder out of the mech’s back. The thing froze mid-step, then gave one last metallic groan before collapsing sideways—thankfully away from the crowd.
You stood there, breathing hard, as Spider-Man hopped down next to you, holding the cylinder like a trophy. "And that, my friend, is how you take down a discount Megatron."
"Pretty sure I softened it up for you," you said, trying to keep the grin out of your voice.
He tilted his head. "Pretty sure I just saved you from getting crushed."
You both stared at each other for a beat before breaking into simultaneous laughter, the sound cutting through the distant wail of sirens.
"You know," he said, tucking the cylinder under his arm, "we actually make a pretty good team."
"Don’t let it go to your head, web-head."
"Too late," he said, mock-serious.
By the time the NYPD rolled in and started setting up a perimeter, you were already stepping back into the shadows, scanning for an escape route.
"Wait—" he called, jogging a few steps after you.
You glanced over your shoulder. "Next time, Spidey." And then you were gone, the sound of your own pulse thrumming in your ears as you disappeared into the city.
---
You were halfway through your homework on a rainy Thursday afternoon when your phone buzzed with a new text.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Pack an overnight bag. Someone’s going to pick you up for a little trip.
You stared at it.
Then stared harder.
Then checked the number again—definitely not anyone you knew.
"Yeah, that’s not creepy at all," you muttered, setting the phone down… only for it to buzz again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: No, this isn’t creepy. Yes, your mom knows. Don’t make this weird.
You blinked. "That’s… actually creepier." You typed back before you could overthink it: Who is this?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Tony Stark.
Your stomach dropped. Seriously?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Check outside in ten minutes if you don’t believe me.
Ten minutes later, you were standing in the doorway with your backpack, peering out into the drizzle. A sleek black sedan rolled to a stop in front of your building, the kind that screamed “expensive” and “don’t touch.” The back window rolled down just far enough for you to see a very unimpressed Happy Hogan behind the wheel.
"Uh… hi?" you said cautiously.
"Get in," he said.
"Can you at least tell me—"
"Get in."
You sighed, glancing back toward your apartment before climbing in. The leather seats were way too comfortable. Your bag sat awkwardly in your lap as you buckled in. "So, where exactly are we—" Happy pressed a button, and a tinted divider slid up between the front and back seats. You blinked at it. "Seriously?!"
Nothing.
"Okay, but like, can you at least—" You knocked on the glass. "Happy? That is your name, right? Not, like, a code name for some secret driver squad?"
Still nothing.
"Fine. Silent treatment. Totally fine. I’ll just… sit here and—seriously, are we going to talk about how I could be getting kidnapped right now?"
The divider remained stubbornly in place.
You groaned, slumping back in the seat. "You know, for a guy named Happy, you’re really bad at living up to it."
---
The ride took a little over an hour, long enough for you to go from mildly nervous to extremely curious. The rain had cleared by the time you pulled through a guarded gate and onto a long driveway. You sat up straighter, eyes widening as the trees gave way to…
"Is that—" You pressed closer to the window. "Oh my god. That’s the Avengers Compound, isn’t it?"
The car slowed in front of a glass-walled entrance. Two security guys in black suits were waiting. Happy finally lowered the divider just enough to say, "we’re here," before getting out and opening your door.
You stepped out, trying to act casual, but your brain was basically screaming ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
"Any chance you’re gonna tell me why we’re here?" you asked, glancing at Happy.
He just gestured toward the doors. "Inside. Stark’s waiting."
You let out a breath and started walking, backpack straps tight in your hands. The doors slid open as you approached, and you were immediately met with the sound of voices echoing down the sleek hallway.
Somewhere in here was Tony Stark.
And you had no idea what he wanted this time.
Happy led you through a maze of shiny hallways that looked like they belonged in a futuristic movie set, not a real building. Every footstep echoed faintly against polished floors, and you were trying very hard not to gawk at the walls lined with framed photos of the Avengers mid-battle.
Eventually, you stepped into what looked like a high-tech lounge—sleek couches, a wall of glass overlooking the compound grounds, and a workbench in the corner covered with enough gadgets to make your science teacher faint.
Tony Stark was leaning against the table like he owned the place—which, okay, he probably did.
"Kid," he greeted, waving you over. "Glad you made it without getting carsick. Happy’s driving is… questionable." Happy grunted from the doorway but didn’t argue.
You crossed your arms. "Are you finally gonna tell me why I’m here, or do I have to guess?"
Tony smirked. "Patience. We’re waiting for one more guest."
Before you could ask who, Happy slipped out and disappeared down the hall. Tony busied himself with a tablet, tapping through something that you were pretty sure was hologram-worthy.
A few minutes later, footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Happy reappeared—this time with Peter trailing behind him.
You blinked. "Peter?"
Peter froze mid-step when he saw you. "Uh… what are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?"
Tony looked up from his tablet, entirely too pleased with himself. "Excellent, you two know each other. That makes my life easier."
You glanced between them. "Wait, you brought us both here on purpose?"
"Obviously," Tony said. "Because I have something for each of you." He tapped the tablet, and a panel on the wall slid open, revealing two mannequins—one wearing a sleek, upgraded version of your Harmonia gear, and the other… yeah, it was definitely an updated Spider-Man suit.
Your eyes went wide. "Hold on. Why is there—"
Peter’s head snapped toward you. "Wait. That’s your suit?"
Your brain stalled. "Why do you have a Spider-Man suit here?"
Silence hung for a beat, and then both of you said, almost in unison, "no way."
Peter pointed at you. "You’re Harmonia?!"
You pointed right back. "You’re Spider-Man?!"
Tony was grinning like he’d just won a bet. "And there it is. The big reveal. You’re welcome."
Peter turned back to you, looking like his brain was short-circuiting. "This—okay, hang on—this whole time? All those videos of you? That was you?"
You threw your hands up. "I could say the same thing about you! I literally joked about you being the bug guy last week!"
"Spider," he corrected automatically, then groaned. "Oh my god, that makes so much sense now."
You narrowed your eyes. "How?"
"Because you disappear a lot. Like, a lot. And you’re always busy."
You crossed your arms. "Like you’re any better? You’ve been bailing on lunch for ‘robotics lab emergencies’ for months."
Tony clapped his hands once, cutting through the mutual accusations. "Alright, lovebirds, save the pointing fingers for later. We’ve got an audience waiting for you."
Peter blinked. "Audience?"
You frowned. "What kind of audience?"
Tony just smirked and gestured toward the hallway. "Come on, rookies. Time to meet the rest of the class."
Peter glanced at you, clearly just as lost, but followed when Tony started walking. You trailed after them, the sound of your sneakers echoing off the walls.
The hallway opened into a massive open space—part lounge, part war room. And yeah, there they were. The Avengers.
Steve Rogers was leaning against the back of a couch, arms crossed, looking like he’d stepped straight out of a history textbook and into a Henley shirt. Sam Wilson sat nearby, casually tossing a stress ball from hand to hand. Wanda was perched on the arm of a chair next to Vision, who was reading something on a datapad. Clint Barton was sitting cross-legged on the floor, fletching an arrow, while Natasha stood behind him, watching the room with that unreadable spy expression. Rhodey was by the window, deep in conversation with Bucky Barnes, who looked… well, exactly like every candid photo you’d ever seen of him on the internet—slightly grumpy but in a way that was almost comforting.
And off to the side, flipping through something on a touchscreen display, was Dr. Bruce Banner.
Your brain short-circuited for a second. Bruce Banner. The man whose papers you’d read for extra credit. The guy who had essentially rewritten sections of modern physics textbooks. The Hulk, yes—but also Bruce Banner.
Tony strolled into the middle of the room. "Alright, people, we’ve got some new recruits for you to meet." Every head turned.
Peter froze for half a second, then gave an awkward little wave. "Uh… hi."
You managed something slightly more coherent. "Hello."
Steve pushed off the couch, his expression warm. "Stark didn’t tell us you were bringing in two at once."
"Yeah, well, I like surprises," Tony said, grinning. "Everyone, meet Spider-Man—" He jerked a thumb at Peter. "—and Harmonia." He pointed at you. "You might’ve seen their highlight reels."
There were a few nods and smiles from the team, but you and Peter’s eyes had already locked on Bruce, who had set down his display and was smiling politely.
Peter blurted first. "You’re Bruce Banner."
Bruce chuckled. "Last time I checked."
"I’ve read your work on anti-electron collisions—" Peter started.
"—and your paper on sonic resonance fields in high-pressure environments," you finished at the same time.
Bruce’s eyebrows went up, clearly surprised. "Really? Those are… not exactly light reading."
You felt yourself grinning despite the nerves. "They’re fascinating. The way you mapped the particle decay rate in the anti-electron experiments? That was—"
"—genius," Peter cut in, nodding so fast you thought he might give himself whiplash. "Seriously, your methodology—"
Bruce held up his hands, smiling wider now. "Okay, okay. Flattery will get you everywhere. Maybe you two can drop by the lab later."
"Yes, please," you said instantly, at the same time Peter said, "absolutely."
Sam snorted. "Great, now Banner’s gonna have interns."
"You say that like it’s a bad thing," Bruce said, but his tone was warm.
Tony clapped his hands again. "Alright, now that the meet-and-greet’s over, let’s get these two squared away. Suits, gear, brief tour, and maybe—if they behave—Banner can show them the lab without blowing anything up."
Peter glanced at you, a spark of excitement in his eyes, and you knew you were both thinking the same thing.
it's your first halloween since the breakup. this time, you're not in a matching costume with him. no more forcing him into it. the feeling of him acting like he hated it, but he didn't. especially because it made you so happy.
as a greek goddess, you looked ethereal; in a short white dress that flowed with every step and gold jewelry gleamed all over your body, and eyes laced with the shine— every bit the goddess he used to worship.
"i call next on beer pong, c'mon. i'll show you how it's done." the familiar voice beamed over all the noise and every other person around you.
his laughter too. you shouldn’t still know the difference between his real laugh and his 'i can't stand this idiot' laugh.
but you did— and it made you nauseous.
"hey, maybe don't turn around..." kiara grimaced, biting the rim of her red solo cup.
"what? what's wrong?" you spun around, following the sound of him without thinking— like it was coded into you.
spotting him instantly, you really can't believe your eyes. what the fuck?
a greek god.
he was a greek god. you were a greek goddess.
you were fucking matching.
"i tried to warn you," she groaned, looking at you with a frown.
a golden wreath crown, the white toga, and his flip flop sandals. he looked different. his buzz cut was stiffly growing out, but he knew he made it work.
maybe you’re seeing things, but his arms were bigger, more defined than you remembered. he didn't look good— no, he looked… hot.
why does every little detail of him haunt you?
as the party went on, you both kept missing each other's gazes. rafe watched you interact with every guy, every girl, and even your drink. a habit he hadn't dropped since the breakup it seemed.
and you, fighting a proud smile, watched him win beer pong over and over again. his cocky, asshole toothy grin and waving his arms up in the air— motioning for cheers.
drink after drink, you've already lost count. your feet hurt in those ridiculous heels, you felt sticky around the humid house party, and you needed to hide in the bathroom for a breather. asap.
"hey, i'm going to the bathroom. i'll be right back!" you shouted by kie's ear.
she nodded. "need me to come with?" she asked knowingly. even if you didn't tell her how you felt, you were radiating your emotions through the amount of drinks and sighs escaping you subconsciously.
"no, i'm okay. thank you," giving a false smile, you turned and made your way to the stupidly long line for the bathroom. stumbling past tipsy dancers, strangers locked in kisses, and a karaoke corner belting out off-key tunes, you finally made it to the back of the line.
a girl flew out of the closet, clearly furious, and plowed into you. you tripped on your own feet and pitched backward, arms flailing.
someone caught you from behind, arms grasped around your waist.
your heart relaxed with relief, and you stood yourself straight, "jeez, thank you so—" you dusted yourself off, looked up, and paused. "rafe?"
"hello," he chuckled. "are you okay? that chick just zoomed right past you. good thing i was here."
"right..." you fixed yourself without even noticing. "yes, i'm good."
and for some reason, your heart seemed to be struggling figuring out if you're face to face with a lion rather than your ex boyfriend… but both situations were plausible for the most part.
"i like your costume," his eyes moved ever so slowly down your body, like he had forgotten and needed the memory back desperately.
you groaned, cheeks pink with embarrassment, "yeah, thanks. showing up to a halloween party and accidentally matching with my ex wasn't exactly on my bingo card for tonight."
"it isn't so bad," he pointed at you. "you look good, i look good. mostly you look really good, doll."
you nodded awkwardly. but honestly, there were a million butterflies in your stomach.
a weird cloud of silence filled the space between you two.
he held your gaze like it mattered more than anything, even as you darted your eyes everywhere else. the effect he had on you was impossible to shake.
you cackled, hand hovering over your lips. "i'm so sorry."
"what are you laughing at, drunky?"
"no, no. you're right. i'm really drunk. this is just so much funnier drunk for some reason," your words slurred as you went.
"what is?" he tilted his head at the way you talked.
"the accidental matching costumes. running into you. no— literally falling into your arms. it's funny, right?"
rafe let out a low laugh, a smirk tugging at his lips. he was having fun with you, even if the rest of the world would never know— only you, if you dared to ask.
"i hope i won't have to carry you home again." he elbowed your arm teasingly, reminding you of last halloween’s memories.
you rolled your eyes, smiling small. "kie's been getting pretty buff. i think it'll be her this time."
"kie's a mermaid. i'm a greek god. shouldn't it be me?" he snickered, flexing an arm for you. "c'mon, look at that."
"you're something else. how do we always end up crossing paths?" you pushed his arm down (also to feel the progress secretly).
you smiled, tilting your head as he laughed. the tipsy warmth in your chest refused to let you look away, even if you wanted to.
"don’t just look at me like that… i expect more than that from a goddess," he bit his lip, something he did when deep in thought.
you didn't say anything. you were already playing out the rest of the night in your head. maybe that was the issue between you two.
rafe was always in the now with ease, but you? you were always in the future, a hundred steps ahead and overthinking each one. too many clashes.
but from now until the moment you get home, he stayed close, never leaving your side. kie kept glancing at you, making sure you were okay. and as the minutes passed, you and kie got progressively drunker. rafe refused to leave you two alone, insisting on staying involved.
eventually, he dropped kie off at her house, then on the way to yours, his eyes never leaving you during the car ride. he even fed you a granola bar and handed you water from the center console, like he couldn’t help but take care of you.
and when he carried you out from the truck, he kept you close against him, arms keeping his jacket wrapped around you. you couldn't even recall the second he put it on you either…
and by the time you were inside the house, rafe brought you up to your bedroom, tucking you in and taking off your makeup.
"i don't know if us crossing paths often is good or bad— but i miss you, sweet girl." he muttered as he tossed the makeup wipes away.
he just watched you for a bit, and you pretended you were asleep.
because the second you fell asleep, you would wake up and realize that you would never get that version of him back.
the one who laughed too loud at parties, who carried you into your house without a second thought, who made even the chaos feel like a dream.
like seeing you in a costume that mirrored his and remembering how close you once were— rafe cameron was only effortless, only captivating, when he wasn't really yours.
— a/n: 1200 words… hahah this is way longer than i wanted it lmao but i told y'all i cannot write a fricking blurb... i really liked this tho 💔💔my heart HURTS FOR MY BABIES UGH
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