Chapter Text
Morning at the Avengers Tower wasn’t quiet.
It was controlled chaos—the kind that smelled like strong coffee, ozone, and protein bars. The kind where tactical boots lived beside bunny slippers in the hallway, and someone always left the comms on channel three just to eavesdrop on Bucky yelling at the toaster.
The kind where Bob Reynolds—reformed apocalypse, reluctant morning person, and glowing disaster—woke up most days with sunlight pooling against his ribs and something almost like peace sitting just under his skin.
This was one such morning.
Bob meandered through the corridors leading to the kitchen, barefoot and listening.
Not just with his ears—with every enhanced sense he was still learning to harness.
Yelena was already up—singing something aggressively Russian in the shower down the hall, likely washing off the glitter from her 2AM recon “distraction.”
On the floor below, Bob could hear Ava moving through the gym with precision and silence, her breath sharp in between each strike against a punching bag.
Bucky was there too—on the treadmill—running at a speed that would probably liquefy a normal person's knees.
Alexei was walking toward the elevator, yelling at someone on the phone, and drinking a protein shake with a paper umbrella in it.
And Bob knew two things for certain.
One: the coffee machine in the Avengers Tower kitchen had too many buttons and possibly a death wish.
Two: this team was doomed—and Bob was probably going to be the reason it all failed.
Accidentally, of course.
The kitchen, as always, smelled like expensive coffee and collective exhaustion.
Bob stood on the cold tile, staring at the coffee machine like it might detonate if he pressed the wrong setting. He was wearing someone else’s hoodie, and his hair was still damp from the world’s fastest anxiety shower.
“New Avengers” de Fontaine had called them. There’d been a live-streamed press conference. Posters. Bob’s face—on them.
He wanted to crawl into the floor.
The others made it look easy—existing. Wearing their names like armor, their reputations like second skins.
Ava was precision incarnate. Yelena had enough force of will to hold up a crumbling building and then insult the wallpaper. Alexei made thunder look like it had a soft spot. Even Bucky, with his thousand-yard stares and enough silence to qualify as a threat, still fit in a way Bob wasn’t sure he ever had.
And then there was John.
Bob exhaled shakily.
He couldn’t even think about John without his brain playing dramatic orchestral music and his stomach flipping like it was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
This place wasn’t supposed to feel like home. It wasn’t supposed to feel like anything. And yet—
There were towels that weren’t his in the laundry rotation now. Someone had labeled his drawer in the fridge with glitter pen. He had a toothbrush in three different bathrooms, and Yelena had once stolen all his shirts and called it “team bonding.”
They always let him hover until his anxiety passed, even though it must've been annoying. Ava helped him with his mission reports without complaining. John sparred with him on the days he didn't want to think and pretended not to notice when he stayed behind to breathe through the shakes.
Bucky didn’t always say much—but on the nights Bob couldn't sleep, he was already in the kitchen with two mugs and a silent nod that meant: I’ve been there.
They didn’t always understand him, or his moods. But they made space. Without asking for anything in return.
And sometimes—
Sometimes, Bob believed he belonged with them.
He wrapped his fingers tighter around his mug and focused on the way the steam curled into the air, like maybe he could read something in it. Instructions, maybe. Or absolution.
You’re not a bad person.
You’re not a time bomb.
You’re just... trying.
He took one breath. Then another.
Still here.
Still standing.
And that had to count for something.
Enter: John Walker.
Because of course. John had a way of entering a space that Bob felt before he saw—like pressure shifting, like gravity leaning off-center.
Boots on tile, a tired sigh, and that voice—equal parts Southern steel and dry sarcasm.
“If you break that thing, I’m tattling on you immediately.”
Bob turned to glance at him. “I’m not breaking it. I’m just... staring at it menacingly.”
“Ah. Threat-based brewing. Bold choice.”
John was still in his mission gear from the night before, only now without the jacket. Black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, dog tags peeking from the collar.
Bob tried not to look. He really, really tried.
But the thing about John was that he moved like a man who no longer second-guessed his space in the world. Like every muscle, every shift, had purpose.
Confidence without bravado. Quiet steadiness in a frame built for war.
And Bob had always been a little weak for steadiness, since he’d never been steady a day in his life.
Not that he’d ever say that out loud. Not when the mere idea curled warm and stupid under his skin like a secret too bright to look at.
“Do you even like coffee?” John asked, stepping past him to press exactly three buttons like he knew the secret handshake.
Bob’s brain shorted out for a second.
John didn’t seem to notice. Probably too busy being built like an emotional support action figure with perfectly defined arms.
“I like the smell,” he managed.
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake,” Bob said, more defensive than he meant to be. “It’s... grounding.”
“Right,” John said, waiting for the machine to start grumbling. “Because nothing says emotional stability like threatening a $7,000 coffee machine.”
Bob huffed. “You’re not exactly radiating inner peace either, Walker.”
“I’m perfectly serene.” John said, hand over his heart.
“You’ve got combat boots on in the kitchen.”
“That’s just efficiency.”
The coffee machine whirred to life. Bob tried to breathe like a normal person.
“You’re weird,” he muttered, sipping his tea.
“You’re the one staring at appliances like they owe you money.”
“I have unresolved issues with anything that beeps.”
John snorted. “Don’t we all.”
He took a sip of the coffee. Winced slightly.
“Too strong?” Bob asked, amused.
John shot him a flat look. “It’s perfect.”
Bob chuckled, soft and quiet.
The machine hissed. The hum of it filled the silence between them. And for a moment, neither of them spoke.
John leaned against the counter, the mug cradled in one hand, eyes half-lidded with that easy, post-mission quiet. Not tense. Not watching for danger. Just... there.
Relaxed in a way Bob was seeing more and more these days. Like maybe the infamous U.S. Agent didn’t always wear his edges like armor.
Bob looked away first.
Down into his tea like it held answers. Like the steam might spell out a script he could follow. The steam that was currently curling against his lip—too warm, too much.
The silence stretched. He shifted his weight. Cleared his throat.
“You know they really expect us to act like heroes now?” Bob said finally. “Like we’re supposed to wear matching colors and smile.”
“We’re not getting matching colors,” John replied. “Over my dead body.”
“Too late,” Bucky’s voice grumbled from the hall. “They’re matching.”
He appeared in the doorway, hair a mess, hoodie unzipped and barely clinging to his shoulder, holding what might once have been a protein shake and now resembled radioactive sludge.
He made his way into the kitchen, sidling past Bob with a grunted hello. Bob nodded back. They didn’t need words. Not that early.
“We had that photoshoot the other day,” John said dryly. “We had to match then too. Should've seen it coming.”
“I looked like a sad action figure,” Bucky muttered, sitting down with a tired sigh.
“I looked like a ghost in retail,” Bob offered.
“You are a ghost in retail,” Yelena chirped, sliding into the kitchen without her steps making a single sound.
She plucked the coffee from John’s hand, took a sip.
“Ugh. Masculine. Needs sugar.”
“Make your own,” John grunted.
“No. I live off the indignation of men.”
Bob snorted into his mug, trying to hide it behind a sip.
John turned toward him with the most irritating expression on earth.
“There it is.”
Bob blinked. “What?”
“A smile. I saw it. That’s, what—twice this week? New record?”
“I wasn’t smiling.” Bob said, immediately frowning.
“You were. You’re just bad at it.”
“Take it back.”
“You’re emotionally compromised,” John went on.
“I will set the coffee machine on fire.”
“That’s fine,” John said, gesturing to his stolen mug. “I already made mine.”
“Please don’t burn the tower down,” Ava’s voice cut in as she phased through the opposite wall. “I just finished organizing the tactical gear by color code.”
“Why are you like this,” Bucky asked her, sipping the sludge like it might kill him faster.
“I’m efficient,” she replied. “Unlike the rest of you.”
Bob glanced over at Bucky, really looked at him. He seemed… exhausted. Hollowed out. Like he hadn’t slept in days.
“You okay?” Bob asked softly.
Bucky glanced at him. “I’m fine.”
Bob didn’t push. He just nodded, but the lie hung between them. He knew what “fine” sounded like when nothing was remotely fine.
“He’s brooding,” Yelena said. “Extra broody. Still haven't called Sam?”
The air thinned a little.
Bucky didn’t say anything.
“Let the man be emotionally repressed in peace,” Ava muttered, then took another long sip of her tea.
A beat passed.
Then John sighed. Loudly. Like it hurt him.
“Give me that.”
Yelena blinked at him. “What—”
“The coffee. You’re drinking it like it personally offends you.”
“It does. It tastes like army.”
“It’s my coffee!” John bitched. “You’re offending me.”
He snatched the mug from her hands and turned back to the coffee machine, muttering to himself the whole time.
“Why do I even try. This is why people go off-grid.”
“Put sugar in it this time,” Yelena ordered. “And oat milk.”
“What’s wrong with regular milk?”
“If you have to ask, you're the problem not me.”
John stirred the new drink, sliding the fresh mug across the counter like it was a particularly radioactive item.
Yelena begrudgingly added the milk herself, then sipped. Paused. Looked up at John like he’d just resurrected a childhood pet.
“Okay,” she said. “Fine. I tolerate you.”
“That’s emotional growth,” Bucky muttered, still sipping sludge.
“Do you want one?” John asked, glancing toward him.
“What, a hug? No.”
John rolled his eyes so hard his whole head fell back. “A coffee.”
“Don’t give that man coffee.” Ava deadpanned.
“I resent that remark.” Bucky said flatly. He then pulled out a pocket knife and started slicing an apple with the solemnity of a man performing surgery.
Yelena waited exactly four slices before thieving half of them and retreating without remorse.
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Seriously?”
She shrugged, already chewing. “You snooze, you slice too slow.”
“That’s not the phrase.”
“It is now.”
“You could just ask like a normal person.”
“I don’t believe in the law before 9 a.m.”
Bucky made a noise—part sigh, part growl—and went back to slicing the apple like it had personally wronged him and he was out for revenge.
Yelena leaned casually against his shoulder, head tilted, chewing loudly in his ear.
“You’re grumpy,” she said, reaching for another slice.
“I’m always grumpy.”
“Yeah, but you’re extra today. Like someone didn’t get his goodnight texts from Sam.”
Ava choked on her tea.
Bucky didn’t look up. “I will throw this knife at you.”
“You won’t.”
“You sure?”
“Mhm,” she said sweetly, bumping his shoulder with her own. “You love me.”
More apple slicing. Notably more aggressive.
Then, quieter: “I did call him.”
Yelena blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah.”
She seemed confused. “Well… what number did you call?”
Bucky hesitated. “His office line.”
Yelena groaned like he’d just committed a war crime. “You called his official Avengers phone? Grandpa, that’s like sending someone a message in Morse code and expecting a hug.”
“It’s the number he gave me.” Bucky grumbled.
“That was like, five months ago. Try his cellphone, caveman. You and maybe five other people have his personal number for a reason.”
Bucky muttered something about 'digital boundaries' and 'not being clingy.'
“Send him a real message, not your little Cold War smoke signals.” Yelena said with an eye-roll, swiping one last slice of apple and dodging Bucky’s half-hearted knife jab.
Bob leaned against the counter, watching them argue.
Loud. Messy. A disaster.
And somehow, for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he was still part of it.
John passed by again—mug in one hand, shoulder brushing Bob’s as he moved.
Just a touch. Barely anything. But it landed like a live wire.
It wasn’t the first time. John had this infuriating habit of touching him like it meant nothing—casual, easy, like breathing.
But Bob felt everything. Like his senses were dialed up to a thousand and tuned to a different frequency—just for this.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t say anything. Just stood there and absorbed it like warmth through a windowpane.
“Meeting’s in five,” John said. “Try not to combust before then.”
Bob felt heat spark faintly at his knuckles.
Too late.
“No promises.”
“HELLO, MY BELOVED DISAPPOINTMENTS!”
Bob startled as Alexei stormed into the kitchen, arms overflowing with bakery bags like he'd just raided an entire boulangerie.
Flour dusted his jacket. One croissant was already half-eaten.
“I have retrieved victory!” he declared, dropping the paper bags on the counter with a thud. “And also donuts. And bagels. And possibly illegal Russian poppy seed rolls.”
Yelena perked up instantly, peering into one of the bags like a raccoon in a five-star restaurant.
“You went to Angelina’s? And managed to get bagels?”
“Of course! I cut the line. With intimidation.”
“Bet you twenty bucks he told them he was an Avenger,” Ava said, appearing suddenly behind him and reaching for a scone.
“I am an Avenger.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It worked,” Alexei replied smugly, already chewing. “Look at this. Oatmeal cookie the size of small child.”
Bucky sighed deeply, like his soul had well and truly left his body. “Great. Now we’re on a bakery watch list.”
John grabbed a muffin from one of the bags, tossed another to Bob without looking. Bob caught it, blinked.
He took a bite. God, it was delicious. “It’s still warm.”
“The power of friendship,” Alexei boomed.
“And line-cutting,” Ava added.
Bob chuckled quietly into his muffin.
Further in the room, the living space of the Tower looked less like the command center of an elite superhero team and more like the break room of a very dysfunctional startup.
Tablets lay scattered on the coffee table, surrounded by mismatched mugs, several old books, a suspicious number of cereal boxes, and Yelena’s legs—currently propped up across two couch cushions like she was holding court.
Bob took his usual seat and leaned back slightly on the couch arm, mug warm between his palms.
The morning light sliced through the blinds, flickering faintly against the shimmer across his knuckles and glinting off Yelena’s earrings.
Across the room, Ava reappeared. Bob hadn’t even noticed she’d left. She was holding something black, folded, and undeniably tactical in her arms.
“Delivery,” she said flatly, tossing it onto the couch beside him. “Try not to burn through it.”
Bob blinked down at it. “Is this... a suit?”
“Looks like one,” she replied, already moving past him to sit down on his left.
“Why does it have a cape?”
“You earned flair,” Ava said, without a trace of irony.
Bob picked it up cautiously. It was sleek, fitted, the same dark material as the rest of the team’s—but cut uniquely for him. A faint shimmer along the seams. The cape was more of a trailing mantle, almost ceremonial. It felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with weight.
“Bucky said you’re cleared for light patrol,” Ava added. “This makes it official.”
Bob stared at it.
His first real mission. Not a simulation. Not another sparring session with John. Not more hand-to-hand drills and breathing exercises.
A patrol. A step onto the field. With them.
His throat tightened. He didn’t feel ready. But he wanted it more than anything.
John dropped onto the arm of the couch on his other side, glancing at the suit.
“Looks good. Bet it fits like a glove.”
Bob looked at him, scandalized. “Walker.”
“What? I’m complimenting the tailoring.”
“It has a cape.”
“So it can dramatically billow behind you when you punch people.”
“I hate you.”
John raised his mug in a mock toast. “You’re welcome.”
From the kitchen, Bucky’s voice cut through the noise.
“Okay. Listen up,” he said, meandering over to stand before them, bagel in hand. “We’ve got a breach.”
Yelena took a slow bite of dry froot loops straight from the box. “Like in the building? Because I have knives in all the vents.”
“No,” Bucky said flatly. “Not here. Valentina’s personal servers were accessed several days ago.”
That got a reaction. Even Ava’s eyebrows twitched.
“Her private files?” Ava asked.
“Deep access,” Bucky confirmed. “Classified level. Government-tier encryption bypassed.”
Alexei perked up like a dog hearing a steak drop. “Did they take blackmail files? Bank accounts? Her last will and testicle?”
“Testament,” Ava corrected offhandedly. “God, I hope it was her blackmail files. That woman is five crimes in a trench coat.”
“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Yelena said, grinning like someone had just handed her a legally questionable treasure map.
“They covered their tracks,” Bucky went on. “But they slipped. There’s a fragment of trace code in the backup server firewall. That’s how we know it happened at all.”
John made a low, unimpressed sound into his coffee mug. “I mean, are we really mad someone stole from Val? Feels like a public service.”
“Maybe they took her soul,” Yelena added. “Although if it exists, it’s probably in a lockbox inside a haunted Fabergé egg.”
“She keeps that in her office,” Bucky said without missing a beat.
Everyone blinked.
“I was kidding,” Yelena said.
“I wasn’t,” Bucky muttered into his bagel.
Bob didn’t laugh. His gaze was on Bucky. “Do we know what was taken?”
There was a pause. Not long—but noticeable.
“Not yet,” Bucky admitted.
Bob’s fingers tightened around his mug. He nodded once. Said nothing else.
“We’re splitting up,” Bucky continued. “Yelena, Ava—you’re on recon. I want eyes on the agencies tied to her network. State, defense, private contractors. Look for remote access patterns. Anything recent.”
“Finally, illegal espionage,” Yelena purred. “I was getting bored.”
“In and out,” Bucky warned, brandishing his bagel at her like a weapon. “No attention.”
“I am stealth incarnate.”
John snorted. “You’re a walking disaster with ‘fuck off’ stamped on your forehead.”
“Stole all your clothes last week though, didn’t I?” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
John made an indignant noise. “That was you?”
Ava sighed like she’d aged ten years. “I’ll keep her from burning down a building.”
“Though I make no promises,” Yelena added helpfully.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bucky said, then turned to the rest of them, his voice sliding into the gravelly register he saved for fieldwork.
“Bob, you’re with Alexei. John—you’re with me. Standard city patrol. Midtown. Be visible. Be boring. Show the press that we’re shiny new Avengers and not a demolition crew.”
Alexei beamed. “I will wear my red!”
“You always wear red,” John muttered. “It’s your thing.”
“The people love the red. It commands respect. And danger.”
“And migraines,” Ava muttered.
Bob raised a hesitant hand. “Wait, sorry—I’m paired with him?”
“You are small, I am large,” Alexei said. “This is a good pairing.”
“I have the power of a thousand suns,” Bob deadpanned.
“And yet,” Yelena cut in, “you still somehow radiate the energy of a tired library intern.”
“So what if I like tea?” Bob asked, almost defensively.
“It’s excellent tea,” Ava murmured.
Bob beamed at her. “Thank you.”
The room was devolving quickly. Bucky groaned and ran a hand down his face.
“Just—try not to cause an international incident.”
“No promises,” Yelena chirped.
“Can’t promise that,” John echoed.
“I will try,” Alexei said, making it sound like a Herculean effort.
“I have no faith in any of you,” Bucky muttered and sipped his sludge.
Bob shifted and glanced down at his new suit, which sat folded at his side—mocking him with its sleek seams and deeply unnecessary cape.
John caught his eye. He didn’t say anything at first. Just raised his eyebrows—slow, dry, theatrical—and mimed stabbing himself in the heart like Bob’s pairing with Alexei was the greatest tragedy known to man.
Bob tried not to smile.
He failed.
The laugh escaped before he could choke it back—just a breath, barely audible, but real. The kind that snuck up on him. The kind that felt good.
John’s smirk curved sharper.
He leaned over, stage-whispered: “Look! He’s smiling again. Someone get the camera.”
Bob groaned, lifting his mug to hide his face. “You’re insufferable.”
“Sure, Sunshine.”
Bob glared at him over the rim. John just continued smirking like he’d won something.
Across the room, Ava’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Something still feels off about this.”
Bucky’s head turned. “Yeah?”
She nodded once, slowly. “Smart hacker, deep access, barely a footprint? It’s not just a breach. It’s a test.”
“You think it’s bait?” Bucky asked.
“Or a breadcrumb trail,” she replied. “Either way—it was meant to be found.”
The room sobered a little.
Even Yelena stopped chewing.
“So we follow the crumbs?” John ventured.
“We do what we always do,” Bucky said, standing straighter. “We stay alert. We watch each other’s backs. And we don’t let them see us hesitate.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Alexei slapped his oatmeal cookie down on the coffee table like it was a war declaration. “I call first watch. And second protein bar.”
“I call snacks,” Yelena added. “And murder, if necessary.”
“I’m claiming the only comms unit that self-mutes,” Ava said dryly. “You all breathe too loud.”
John lifted his mug. “I’ll handle damage control. Public relations loves me.”
“God help us,” Bucky muttered, rubbing his forehead.
Bob ducked his head, mostly to hide the smile creeping in. God, he was in so much trouble.
They weren’t polished. They weren’t perfect. But they moved like something bigger than their history, their names, their scars.
They moved like a team.
And maybe that was enough.
For the city.
For each other.