Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Watchtower's common room basked in the amber glow of sunset, wrapped in that particular post-mission quiet where heroes decompress in their own ways. Dinner was still hours away, leaving everyone to their individual rituals. 

Bob Reynolds sat cross-legged on the carpet, journal spread open before him like an altar.

His own ritual involved stickers, dozens of them scattered across the coffee table and floor in a cluttered mess.

“Today was good,” he sang to himself in a sing-song voice, pressing a holographic star upon his checklist.

“Did all the dishes.” A constellation sticker found its spot below the star on the page.

“Organized the fridge.” A black hole followed soon after.

“And finally finished The Picture of Dorian Gray — though I didn’t really like it.” This time, a googly-eyed rock.

Walker glanced up from his bent shield, the polishing cloth paused mid-swipe. “You know they make apps for that, right?”

“True, but apps don’t come with scratch-and-sniff stickers.” Bob peeled off a strawberry and took an experimental whiff. “Hey, this one actually smells like real strawberries. Want to try?”

"Pass." Walker returned to his shield with renewed vigor.

Bob shrugged and continued his work, but footsteps interrupted his focus. Bucky Barnes approached, tactical gear still clinging to him like armor he couldn't quite shed. His gaze swept the room—Walker at his polishing, Alexei regaling Ava with tales involving seals and questionable life choices while she listened with her usual quiet attention, and Bob surrounded by what looked like a craft store box had toppled over and spilled its contents on the floor.

"Hey Bob." Bucky settled into the chair across from him, his metal arm catching the dying light. "How are you doing?"

Bob's hand froze halfway to a glittery unicorn sticker, "Oh. Hi. What's... what's up?"

"I just asked how are you doing?" 

"Oh, right. Pretty good actually." Bob placed the unicorn carefully on his page. "Been keeping busy with the journaling and maintaining the Watchtower. Oh, did you hear they finished those temporary bedrooms? Perfect for overnight missions if you need to crash here sometime."

"That's nice." Bucky's tone stayed carefully neutral. "How's therapy going?"

Something shifted in Bob's expression—just a flicker of wariness. "Dr. Worth?" His voice remained steady, but his hand stilled over the sticker pile. "It's... going well. He says I'm making progress. Why do you ask?"

"And your medication?"

The room's ambient noise—Alexei's booming voice, the whisper of Walker's polishing—seemed to fade as the silence around Bob grew thick as syrup. His hand hovered over his stickers, suddenly uncertain, before he forced his brightest smile.

"Oh you know. Taking them according to what Dr. Worth prescribed," he said, but the words came out too quickly, "Morning and evening doses. Even made a color-coded chart for the fridge. Yelena helped design it”.

"Are you sure about that?" Bucky reached into his jacket, producing two prescription bottles with a pharmacy label, date and instructions on it. There was still some condensation on them. "A few pills are missing from the first one but the second is untouched. The first should have been empty and the second half-gone by now."

For just a moment, something flickered across Bob's face—surprise, maybe even panic—before the confident mask slipped back into place. He barely glanced at the bottles.

"Oh, those. They’re the backup supply." Bob waved a dismissive hand, his tone taking on an almost condescending edge, "I keep a bottle with me in my bedroom and take my doses there”.

"Bob." Bucky folded his arms, "Last time, you told me you only got two bottles and that you always store them in the fridge. I don't recall you or Worth mentioning any backup prescriptions."

The mask cracked. Bob's journal snapped shut, stickers rustling like autumn leaves. His confident facade wavered for just a second before returning, but now it felt brittle.

"I can explain—"

Bucky nodded, "I'm listening." 

"Well, you see, the thing is—" Bob was already moving with inhuman speed. He vaulted over the couch in one fluid motion, heading for anywhere that wasn’t here.

"Don't let him out of the room!" Bucky shouted, already rising from his chair. "Someone stop him!"

He made it five steps before Walker's shield caught him in the midsection—gentle but immovable. Bob stumbled backward, arms windmilling, straight into Ava's waiting embrace.

"Got you," she said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. She knew it wouldn't hold him long—not with his strength—but maybe it would buy the others a few seconds.

Then something strange happened. Bob didn’t break free. Instead, his hand ignited with light—an instinctive flare of power that tore through Ava. She gasped as her form flickered, her arms dissolving into afterimages before snapping solid again. In that instant of disorientation, Bob moved before she could catch her breath.

"What—how did you—" She stared completely bewildered at her hands.

Bob stumbled forward, thinking he was free, only to crash directly into Alexei's chest.

"Друг," Alexei said, wrapping Bob in what appeared to be a friendly embrace but functioned as a perfect restraint. "Not so fast."

"Let me go, Alexei." Bob twisted with surprising strength. 

"Not a good idea while you're panicking." Alexei replied, tightening his grip as Bob began to struggle, "Wow, it’s like wrestling an angry bear”.

Walker and Ava moved in to help secure him.

"Release me!" Bob's voice shifted, losing its meek edge, gaining something sharper. Alexei grunted as Bob's elbow found his ribs.

Bucky stepped forward, metal hand extended. "Easy, just calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

The words hit like a shockwave. Not metaphorically—literally. 

A pulse of invisible force erupted from Bob, sending all four of them flying backward. Walker slammed into the wall, Alexei crashed over into another sofa, Ava phased reflexively as she tumbled, and Bucky's metal arm sparked against the floor.

Bob stared at his hands in horror. "I didn't—I don't—"

The shock lasted maybe three seconds. Then he bolted. Walker and Bucky recovered first, launching themselves forward in perfect sync as Alexei joined them after a slight delay. They tackled Bob just as he reached the new door that had the large new Avengers logo on it, all three hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Ava materialized beside them, still shaking her head in bewilderment. "Okay, seriously—how did you get me to phase like that earlier?"

"I don't know!" Bob's voice cracked from beneath the pile of super soldiers, “I don't know what I did! I don’t want to be here!”

“Bob.” Bucky panted while attempting to solely use his non-mechanical arm to pin him down. "We're trying to help!"

“I'm managing fine. I–!"

The new door in front of them slid and clicked open as Yelena stepped inside, taking in the sight: Three grown men panting in various states of dishevelment piling on top of a thoroughly freaked out Robert Reynolds.

Her brow arched, "What the Hell happened here?"

John, still pinning one of Bob's arms, said flatly, "Bobby here hasn’t been taking his meds".

"They're gross and dry and make me feel awful. I have to take 12 of them a day. TWELVE!”. Bob emphasized that last number loudly.

Yelena sighed, stepping closer. She crouched so her gaze was level with his. 

"Didn't you tell me you wanted to get better?" Her voice stayed gentle but firm. "Isn't that why you talked to us about seeking help? Bucky spent considerable effort finding you the right therapist. If you won't do this for yourself, do it for the people who care about you."

The transformation was immediate. Whatever rage and fear been building inside Bob cleared and his expression softened, turning almost shy.

"Okay," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

The three men released him cautiously, expecting another escape attempt. Instead, Bob accepted the prescription bottles from Bucky, shook out his six pills from the one that was already open and dry-swallowed them without protest. His face contorted like he'd bitten into a lemon, but he finished his recommended dose for the evening.

Walker blinked slowly. "How—?"

"That's my умничка," Alexei beamed, clapping Walker's shoulder. "I don't know how she did it either but next time, we skip the wrestling and let her talk to Bob."

Yelena wasn't watching their amazement. Her focus remained on Bob, who had gone statue-still, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else.

"I'm so sorry for the trouble, everyone. I-I need to head back to my room for a bit." His voice had flattened to something mechanical—a stark contrast to his earlier artificial confidence. "Don't worry. I'll take them properly from now on. Promise."

Bob rose unsteadily and left the area with quick, awkward steps, his cheeks burning red with embarrassment.

"Should we go after him?" Walker asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I mean, after all that... we don't want him to you know…"

"I'll talk to him," Yelena said immediately, already moving toward the door. "Give me a few minutes yeah".

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

KNOCK KNOCKS

Two raps on the door. A familiar rhythm to Bob.

"Come in."

Yelena eased the door open. Traces of sunset bled through the blinds, painting the room in deep amber and shadow. Bob sat hunched at the edge of his bed facing her, blanket pulled over his head, shoulders folded inward. In his hands: the two-faced rabbit plushie she'd bought him weeks ago—one side white and serene, the other shadowed and fierce. He clutched it against his chest, fingers buried deep in its soft fur.

"What are you doing, sleepyhead? It's too early for bed."

Nothing. Not even the slight shift of fabric that would indicate he'd heard her.

She crossed to him, settling onto the mattress beside him with careful distance. From her jacket, she fished out a crumpled packet of gummy bears. When she held them out, he finally looked up through the blanket's shadow. Wet lashes clung together in dark spikes over his blue eyes.

"Here." She offered the candy, the plastic crinkling softly. "For the medicine taste."

His fingers trembled as he accepted the packet, holding it like it might dissolve. "Thanks."

"What happened out there?"

He worried the wrapper's edge between thumb and forefinger, tearing small deliberate holes in the plastic. The sound was barely audible, but in the quiet room it felt loud as thunder.

"Why'd you stop taking your meds Bob?"

His jaw worked silently, muscles tensing and releasing beneath pale skin. 

"I’m so sorry I've been lying to you when I promised not to." Shame darkened his voice until it was nearly inaudible. "I ticked off those dates on the fridge, made it look like I was taking my meds but I broke your trust. If you want to break up with me, I understand."

"I'm not happy you lied to me," Yelena said, her voice steady as stone. "But I'm not breaking up with you because I’m unhappy." Her hand found his shoulder through the blanket—solid, warm, grounding. "But Bob, why did you lie to me?"

"I tried to take them for the first few days but they tasted like chalk and metal and make me feel wrong. Sluggish. Like I'm moving underwater. So I just stopped”.

"You could have crushed them into food. Mixed them into juice or soup. You're smart enough to solve a taste problem in less than five minutes."

A hollow laugh escaped him, bitter and self-aware. "Yeah. Silly me."

Her light blue eyes narrowed, studying his face with the same intensity she'd once reserved for enemy targets. "That's not the real reason."

He shrank deeper into the blanket's cocoon. "You don't want to know..."

"Bob." She didn't raise her voice—didn't need to. The single syllable carried all the weight of her patience and determination. "Look at me."

He did, and fresh, new tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over.

"If I tell you," he whispered, voice cracking on every word, "you'll abandon me or lock me away somewhere. That's what people always do when they realize who I really am."

"I won't tell anyone until you're ready alright?" she said quietly, the promise settling between them like a shield. "Just…breathe first."

He obeyed, drawing ragged air into his lungs and releasing it slowly, until the tremor in his chest gradually eased.

"Now. The real reason?"

His fist pressed against his sternum, knuckles white with pressure. "Worth says the meds will level me out eventually, that the fog will lift but…they don't stop them." The words came out fractured, each one a struggle. "The Sentry. The Void. Even medicated, they're still here in my head whispering and the fog just makes it easier for them to slip in when I'm not paying attention."

Yelena shifted closer on the mattress, studying his profile in the dying light. "What do you mean by slip in?"

"Some days I lose hours completely. I'll be making coffee and then suddenly it's midnight and there's a dent in the kitchen wall shaped like my fist." His voice barely carried across the small space between them. "Other days I remember everything, but it wasn't me making the choices. My hands moving, my mouth speaking, but the thoughts aren't mine."

His grip tightened on the plushie until his knuckles went bloodless. "I used to find peace in being too drunk or high to think clearly. But now? The idea of blacking out when I could wake up to find New York in ruins?" He swallowed hard. "That frightens me more than anything".

"I haven't seen you become the Sentry or Void, though. You haven’t looked different".

"But have you noticed me not being myself?"

The question hung in the air between them as Yelena's mind began turning over recent weeks, searching for moments that were off…

One afternoon Bob had wandered into the training room while the others were sparring. Nobody expected him to suddenly pipe up with interest in joining them.

"Mind if I get in on this?" he'd asked, dressed in the clothes he usually wore to exercise in the indoor gym, "Looks like fun."

Alexei had beamed with pride, clapping him on the back. John had smiled reluctantly and offered to start him slow, showing basic defensive positions.

Bob had only smirked. "Don't need the basics. I've fought on the streets before. Just throw me in."

The confidence was jarring. When he squared his shoulders and rolled them back, chest puffed out. It felt off but no one had questioned it at the time. They were just relieved and happy to see Bob engaging with combat instead of shying away, finally testing what he was capable of.

And he was indeed ridiculously powerful. Val hadn't exaggerated when she'd boasted he was all the former Avengers rolled into one. Everyone had witnessed it in that first fight: A single punch hurling one of them into the wall hard enough to leave a crater; an invisible shield absorbing their attacks; melting the gun clean out of John's hand with nothing more than a glance. All while holding back. 

Whatever he was truly capable of, no one had yet seen the full extent of it — and thankfully, he seemed intent on keeping it that way too for now.

But raw power without discipline only went so far. His footwork faltered. His guard dropped. He left himself open in ways a trained fighter never would. Yet the lack of polish came with its own menace because Bob didn't fight clean.

Yelena remembered too clearly: John had him pinned, the match nearly over, when Bob suddenly lunged and sank his teeth into John's shoulder. John's curse echoed off the walls, Alexei doubled over with laughter, and Bob had only grinned—blood staining his teeth, eyes bright with satisfaction.

It was ugly, reckless, but effective. And for the first time, Yelena realized how dangerous Bob could be if he ever chose to wield his abilities without restraint.

What's more – and this was something she’d also noticed from the first time she fought him – Bob learned fast. With each exchange he grew sharper: footing corrected, stance steadier, mistakes absorbed with unnerving speed. Through it all, his focus stayed locked on John. He circled him repeatedly, looking more smug with every hit he landed, relentlessly until he finally claimed a round and Ava had to intervene before one could seriously injure the other.

From the sidelines, Yelena had watched with growing unease.

"What made you so confident today?" she'd asked once the sparring ended.

Bob had shrugged, wiping the sweat dripping down his temples with a towel. "Good weather, I guess."

That was all he'd given her.

Another memory: The kitchen at midnight. Yelena had gone there to get some water but stopped short at the sight of Bob and Alexei already there.

Bob stood rigid at the sink, hands braced against the counter. The harsh overhead light carved his face into sharp angles, jaw clenched tight. Alexei lingered by the table, uncertain, shifting his weight.

"Bob?" Alexei tried, voice pitched cautiously. "Are you all right? Standing there at this hour—it's unsettling."

When Bob answered, his voice was different. Slower. Precise. Cold.

"You pretend well, Alexei. The friendly father routine. Do you do it to make up for the years of abandonment? For leaving Yelena and Natasha to the Red Room?” 

Alexei froze. "How do you know that?"

“I saw everyone's worst memories that day in New York. Including yours. She still carries the scars of what you allowed to happen. Do you regret it every day? Telling yourself it was for the best, letting them be trained as assassins, having their bodies and minds torn apart? Or is it easier to pretend you abandoned them for noble reasons when you were really just afraid of getting attached to them at the time?”

The words landed with devastating precision. Alexei flinched, color draining from his face.

"That is not—Bob, I..." His breath hitched, shame flickering raw in his eyes.

As Alexei staggered back, Bob blinked. His shoulders sagged. He looked down at his hands as if waking from a trance.

"Why am I in the kitchen? What time is it?"

His voice was his own again—fumbling, confused.

"You were sleepwalking," Alexei said hoarsely. "Yes. That must be it."

Bob rubbed his eyes, muttering apologies, and shuffled toward his bedroom.

From the shadows of the doorway, Yelena had watched it all. Alexei leaned heavily against the counter, shaken. And Bob—sweet, bumbling Bob—had no memory of the words that had cut Alexei open.

"I chalked it up to mood swings, but now that you mention it..." Yelena's voice was thoughtful. "Yes. I have noticed."

Bob's laugh came out hollow, broken at the edges. "I knew it." His grip tightened on the plushie until his knuckles went white. "And there's more."

"What now?"

Color crept up his neck, staining his cheeks with something more fragile than shame. "I love you, but it isn't just me who loves you. They do too. The Sentry, the Void. They've noticed you."

Something cold and sharp settled in her stomach. The words hit her harder than she expected, dredging up old fears she'd thought buried. Being wanted, being watched—it made her skin crawl in ways that had nothing to do with Bob and everything to do with years of being treated like property. "Noticed me how?"

"They love you too. They want you in their own ways." His voice splintered on the words. "Maybe it's still me, filtered through them, but it feels real. I'm so scared that it will make everything worse."

Yelena’s hand slipped from his shoulder. The room felt smaller, air thinning around her. She rose from the mattress, crossing to the window, pressing her palms against the cool glass. Outside, the Watchtower’s lights blinked against the dark city like faint, borrowed stars. Since Natasha’s death, everything had felt temporary, fragile. Even this secret thing with Bob—something she wasn’t sure she could explain, or if it would last.

Bob’s grip on the stuffed rabbit tightened until his knuckles blanched. His voice was small, breaking.

“I’m sorry. Did I upset you? I know it’s not fair—asking you to accept the selfish part of me. Or the part that tried to end the world. It’s too much. I don’t want to drag you into this. Maybe it’d be better if you—or I—just… walked away before I hurt you.”

Yelena froze, breath sharp in her chest. Slowly, she turned, steady despite the ache rising in her throat. Her fists had curled at her sides without her noticing; she forced them open.

“There it is,” she said, almost cold. “The Red Room taught me not to get attached. That anything precious gets taken. And now you’re trying to take yourself away from me before I even get the chance to decide.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“You tell me there are other parts of you that want me, and I’m supposed to just accept that and leave you? No. That’s not your choice to make, Bob. It’s mine.”

“I’ll always give you a choice.” His voice cracked but grew firm, conviction burning through the tremor. “That’s why I told you. I could have kept quiet about the Sentry and the Void noticing you but that would’ve been another lie. And lying again honestly feels worse than letting you walk away. You deserve the truth and nothing but the truth from me from now on, even if it costs me”.

That brutal honesty—unguarded and trembling—was the reason she trusted him at all.

“I’m already in love with someone who could level cities if he lost control,” she said, her mouth tugging into something not quite a smile. “Someone who blacks out, someone the world would lock away if they knew. And yes, Bob… you do scare me.”

The words slipped out before she could swallow them back. Silence thickened, pressing in on both of them. His shoulders sagged, chest rising unevenly as though the air itself weighed too much.

“But what scares me more is being alone again, like you”.

The admission left her raw. For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then she crossed back to him, each step deliberate, and sank onto the mattress.

He flinched when she reached for the blanket. With slow, steady hands, she peeled it back from his head and shoulders, revealing his pale, tear-streaked face, the rabbit still crushed to his chest.

His eyes widened, fragile hope flickering there in the dim light, as though he’d been bracing for her to recoil instead.

She didn’t. She stayed close enough to feel the warmth of his trembling body, her presence firm against the weight of his fear.

“I don’t have a purpose anymore,” she admitted, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “The Red Room gave me one. Natasha gave me another. And now, even as an Avenger, I’m only fighting alongside everyone because it’s all I was trained to do.” Her hand lifted, pressing flat against his chest, steady over the frantic rhythm of his heart. “The only thing that feels real—the only thing that makes sense—is you.”

His eyes fluttered closed, breath shuddering at the contact.

“I knew what I signed up for the night we kissed,” she continued, resting her neck against his shoulder steady as bedrock, “You’re broken, messy, too-powerful, over-apologetic and…I still care about you. If the Void stares at me, I’ll stare right back. If the Sentry gets dramatic, I’ll laugh in his face. And if you try to leave me because you’re scared like today,”—her mouth curved sharp, a warning and a promise—“I’ll remind you why we’re together.”

A laugh broke from him then, cracked but filled with wonder. Relief poured through it. She wasn’t running.

“You’re not the only one with inner demons,” she added softly. “I have mine too.”

His hand found hers, fingers weaving tight. Wonder softened the harsh lines of his face. “So you’re… okay with loving the other parts of me if they show up too?” He tapped his temple nervously.

“Yep. I don’t care how many parts of you there are. I’ll try love them all the same”.

In truth, her words were uncertain but not exactly lying. TThe thought of Sentry’s bravado or the Void’s cold stare hovering at the edges of Bob’s love made her skin prickle. But wasn’t love about accepting someone’s worst parts too? She’d try. She had to. Especially the worst parts. They needed the most love.

His laugh came again, freer this time, before he pulled her close and kissed her. Soft at first, then desperate, filled with relief that tasted like gratitude and coming home.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her skin. “I love you, Yelena.”

The room quieted around them, no longer suffocating but steady. Outside, twilight deepened into violet night. 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Four rapid and loud knocks interrupted the stillness.

"Yelena? Bob?" John's voice carried through the door, steady but softer than usual. "You okay in there? Sorted things out?"

Bob's body went rigid beneath her touch. Yelena gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before answering. "What is it?"

A pause, then: "You left your journal and stickers scattered downstairs. Thought you might want them back."

When she cracked the door open, John stood in the hallway holding Bob's journal with the colorful sticker sheets balanced carefully on top. He offered them without ceremony, his expression unreadable in the dim corridor light.

Bob stared at the book as Yelena passed it to him, his face cycling through anxiety and hope. "You didn't read it, did you?"

"No." John's answer was flat, matter-of-fact. "Why would I want to know about your daily routine in the Watchtower?"

Relief flooded Bob's features as he clutched the journal against his chest, protective and grateful. "You didn't have to put it quite like that, but... thank you."

John studied him for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them, before nodding once and disappearing back down the hallway. His footsteps faded into the building's ambient hum.

Bob stared down at the journal in his hands, bewildered. "He didn't have to bring this back."

"No," Yelena agreed, settling beside him again, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. "But it was thoughtful of him."

For the first time that night, something fragile but genuinely warm flickered to life in Bob's eyes.

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

For a few days, everything seemed fine. Bob kept his promise, swallowing his pills without protest and Yelena had checked on him via video calls. He’d had no further spirals, no missing hours, no strange flickers in his voice. Yelena had almost convinced herself he'd been overthinking it—that his fears were just fears.

Then her phone rang.

Friday afternoon, she was walking back toward her home, still shaking adrenaline from a solo mission when Bob's name had lit the screen. 

He rarely called her directly unless it was an emergency—he preferred clipped texts or nervous audio messages.

Her stomach clenched as she answered. "Hey, Bob. Is something wrong?"

"Not at all." His voice came through lighter than she'd ever heard it. Confident, almost playful. "I was wondering—are you free tomorrow afternoon? There's a funfair in Prospect Park, though we could make a date of it. I was going to surprise you by heading there myself but security doesn't exactly let me walk out unnoticed. I could fly out, skip the guards, but you and everyone else told me not to use my powers and…I respect that”.

The tone alone put her on edge. Bob was never this smooth.

"A funfair, huh?" Yelena paused, staring at the exterior wall of her apartment building, "Suppose I could use a break."

"So that's a yes?"

She could almost hear the smirk actually threading through the receiver.

"Sure," she said, wary but curious.

"Great. Meet me tomorrow at noon. The Watchtower."

He ended the call.

The next day, Yelena arrived on time. The elevator doors slid open, and she froze.

Bob was waiting for her on one of the couches, but not the Bob she knew. His posture was loose with the kind of ease he rarely wore, shoulders relaxed instead of hunched defensively. His hair was combed back, sleeker somehow and she could swear it appeared less dark brown and had more of a dirty blond hue to it, catching the light in ways that made her blink twice to be sure she wasn't imagining it.

And his eyes. His eyes weren't the familiar dark blue she'd grown used to. They shimmered with a golden sheen.

Yelena recalled John’s observation had sparked an uncomfortable discussion among the team (sans Bucky as he was out doing something on his own again) occurring a few days after they'd escaped the Void's realm. John had been blunt: 

"Did you guys ever notice how Bob can…alter reality? It’s likely only subconsciously but…think about it. He magically emerged from that place wearing new clothes. The loose blue shirt and brown pants along with sneakers materializing from nothing? He should have still been in his…uniform but nope, the clothes remained long after we all left and he still wears it sometimes too”.

It was the only set of clothes he’d had for a while until a few days later, he was given 3 sets of casual wear courtesy of Valentina. Everyone was silently trying to skirt around the unavoidable topic but now that it had been brought up…

"Yeah Genius we all saw it," Yelena had spoken with some sarcasm. "The question is what we do about it."

The implications hung heavy in the air. Bob's documented powers were already beyond their understanding—flight, strength, energy manipulation, telepathy. Adding unconscious reality alteration to that list crossed a line none of them were prepared to face.

"If he doesn't know he can do it," Alexei had pointed out, "maybe that's for the best yah?"

"Some things are better left unsaid," Ava had concluded, ending the discussion with finality. "At least for now."

In the end, they'd reached an agreement. No one would mention the clothes. No one would ask questions that might lead Bob—or worse, the Sentry and Void—to realize the true scope of their abilities. God knows what they would do if they knew they could reshape the world around them with a single thought .

Back in the present, Yelena slowed her steps, studying the rest of Bob. The clothes themselves looked different too. He wore azure blue jeans, fitted instead of baggy, and a short-sleeved yellow shirt with similarly coloured blue lines at the edges that stretched over lean muscle she'd half-forgotten existed beneath all that shapeless fabric. 

The muscle wasn't the surprise—she'd seen glimpses of it when he was exercising in the gym. It was more the certainty in showing it, especially today when they were going out in public.

He caught her staring. His grin, sharp, cocky, almost careless, split his face with a confidence that hit her harder than she expected, "You like the fit, sweetheart?"

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not Bob.”

“Of course I’m him.” He frowned and spread his arms in mock offense, tilting his head so the light traced the strong line of his jaw. “I’m just the better-dressed version.”

"Can you…change back to him?"

"No." His answer was immediate. "This is the only time I get to be out. Don't worry though—Bob's fine, just resting in his headspace, not being tormented by the Void”.

"Are you sure he's okay with this?"

"Very sure." His grin returned, sharper now. "Actually, he's the one who suggested I take you out today. Said I deserved some time in the driver's seat." The words rolled off his tongue smoothly. "He wanted you to get to know this side of him too”.

The words rolled off his tongue smoothly as he gestured to himself grandiosely.

The corner of her mouth betrayed her, twitching before she smoothed it away. She hated giving him the satisfaction. But the truth was, he wore this confidence too well.

Bob had mentioned Him first during a round of Never Have I Ever —that he discovered that there was a third aspect of him besides the Void that existed. 

Therapy had helped him piece it together: They were manifestations of an undiagnosed Bipolar disorder likely birthed from Project Sentry. The Void was his depression; this other version, the one who’d borrowed his name from that said (very illegal) project, was the mania. She’d rarely seen Bob’s delusions of grandeur or manic episodes and had only glimpsed this aspect of him twice, back at the penthouse and that other time in the training room. And now here he was to spend an entire day with her presumably.

“Shall we?” The Sentry asked, extending his hand as though the answer were already his.

She took it.

This wasn’t Bob, the man who frequently curled into himself and avoided going outside to crowded places unless he felt bored in the Watchtower (which was rarely to say the least). This was his other face: larger-than-life, brazen, the side he feared she couldn’t accept. 

I don't care how many parts of you there are. I'll try to love them all the same.

Her own words echoed in her mind, spoken that night when he'd been afraid she'd run. She'd meant them then. She meant them now. He’d promised to take the meds for her. Why shouldn’t she keep to her own promise—to love every side of him?

===

They approached the fairground's entrance, the temporary gates framed by colorful banners and ticket booths. The sun was a warm gold colour slipping toward the horizon. Beyond the gates, the Ferris wheel creaked lazily against the pale sky, striped tents glowing under strings of bulbs already flickering to life. The air was thick with sugar, grease, and warm asphalt drifting from within, where more game booths than rides caught Yelena's eye.

"Sun's out. Nice day, isn't it?" The Sentry tried to bring up a casual chat 

Yelena didn't respond, face partially sullen. She'd been silent before and since their arrival, and he wondered why.

"Hello?” He waved a hand in front of her face, “You don't look happy to be here".

"Well, last time we spoke you looked down on me, told me you didn't trust me anymore, then slammed me into the ceiling."

"You tasered me with enough energy to knock out a grown man. I had a reasonable reaction," he countered. "Besides, I hurt you the least out of everyone. I saved your—"

A football came flying from the park area beside the entrance. In a blur, his hand shot out, plucking it from the air. The leather slapped into his palm with practiced ease.

"Whew." He held it aloft, spinning it lazily on one finger. "See? There I go saving you again."

A boy playing in the grassy area nearby waved and shouted, "Mister, can I have my ball back?"

"Sure thing." Sentry yelled back. He set the ball down, nudged it with his foot—what looked like a casual kick.

It wasn't.

The ball screamed across the grass and smashed into a tree beside the boy. The trunk split with a deafening crack. Birds burst skyward. Gasps rippled from other families waiting in line. Children cried. The ticket booth operators craned to see what had happened.

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering a Russian curse.

"Oops," he said brightly, entirely unbothered. His grin didn't waver. He caught her hand in his. "Time to go in."

Before she could argue, he was pulling her through the entrance gates and into the fair's whirl of neon and laughter.

Everywhere, there was color and noise: the metallic jangle of rides, bright shrieks of children, the smell of butter and powdered sugar thick in the air. He walked through the place like he owned it, her hand caught in his, pulling her through the crowd as if the world had opened just for them.

He stopped in front of the strength hammer game, eyes lighting up. The barker waved at the mallet, calling over the din: "Step right up, test your strength! Ring the bell, win a prize!"

Yelena arched an eyebrow. "Don't."

"Don't what?" His grin was wicked. "Don't embarrass everyone else?"

Before she could answer, he had the mallet in his hands. It looked absurdly small in his grip. He swung once, testing the weight. The wood groaned in protest.

Then he brought it down.

The puck shot skyward with a scream of metal, slammed into the bell so hard it bent. The crowd gasped. Someone whistled low.

The barker's jaw dropped. "That's not supposed to—"

He handed back the mallet with that same wicked grin. "Guess you'll need a stronger bell."

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose, but her lips betrayed her with the faintest twitch. "You're insufferable."

"Admit it," he said, nudging her as they walked away. "You liked that."

She rolled her eyes. "You're a show-off."

"Only for you."

The rest of the evening unfolded in a blur of games and carnival rides: A shooting gallery where he shattered three bottles in one shot before being politely asked to stop; winning a stuffed bear the size of a child, then presenting it to her with mock solemnity; dragging her to the bumper cars where he forgot his own strength and sent two teenagers spinning across the floor. They crawled out dazed while he only laughed, throwing her a conspiratorial look.

“You wanna go on the Ferris wheel?” Yelena asked.

He shook his head, “Why would I? It’s not the same as flying and I get bored with sitting still”.

Later, at a ring toss, Yelena claimed a victory: Three perfect throws landed every ring around the bottles while he watched with genuine admiration. The prize she won? A cheap yellow knockoff Labubu —all wrong proportions and slightly cross-eyed.

"Ewww those went out of fashion two years ago," he observed, scrunching his nose at the bootleg prize.

"Heh. The smug little gremlin kind of reminds me of you…” She pressed it into his hands, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Keep it."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really?”

She nodded.

"Funny, I would have thought this was more like you." He turned it over in his hands disapprovingly but kept the critter in his pocket anyway.

Yelena should have been annoyed. Maybe she was. Though, somehow, she found herself almost smiling back. 

When the fair finally quieted and the sky darkened to a blend of blue and orange, they sat down on a bench at the park's edge, away from the crowds of people. Lights flickered on the rides behind them, the Ferris wheel turning slow and steady against the arriving stars.

"So," he said, tilting his head, "did you enjoy yourself today?"

Yelena crossed her arms. "You nearly destroyed a bell, two cars, and a man's pride. I'm not sure 'enjoy' is the word I’m looking for".

He smirked. "But you're not frowning."

She gave him a look that wasn't quite denial.

His gaze stayed steady on her, but something shifted underneath. The smirk slipped. "Don't tell me you still hate me? For that first fight at the Watchtower? Sure I hurt you but like I said earlier, I made sure you barely got a scratch…”

The fairground noise blurred behind them, distant and hollow.

Yelena studied him in the half-light. The Bob she knew would've apologized three times before asking her that. 

“That day in the Vault…” Yelena’s voice faltered, then steadied. “We’d barely met, and I already felt something. Even before I saw your worst memories. There was a pull I didn’t want to admit.” Her mouth twitched, half a smirk. “Not a soulmate pull. More like…I thought you were cute. Sad puppy cute. With bite. It amused me”.

His brow lifted, surprised into a low laugh. “That’s good to know. So why did you push me away?”

“Huh?”

“You said I could trust you and suddenly you…changed your mind and said I couldn't do that. You got pretty dismissive of me afterwards…” 

“Yeah, that I did.” She sighed guiltily, arms folded again, gaze shifting to the dark silhouettes of other rides flashing in the distance. “I was stressed trying to get us out of that place and I have attachment issues. Always had them. I planned to leave you and everyone else the moment we got out of that hellhole.” She exhaled through her nose. “So I told you not to trust me. Figured if I made the break first it’d hurt less, we could go our own separate ways and never have thoughts about one another ever again".

“And when I threw those words back at you…” he pressed.

“I hated you for it. More than I should have.” She crumpled the paper in her hands and tossed it into the bin. It landed with a dull thunk, “Shouldn’t have been surprised—you only gave me the words I deserved but I hated it anyway. And after we lost…” Her voice thinned, bitter. “…I lashed out at everyone. I really hated you in that instant although I hated myself much more”.

She let the silence stretch, then exhaled. Her arms dropped. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing his forearm—warm, solid beneath the thin fabric. 

“The hate didn’t last though. Not after I thought it through. Still…” her voice dipped, “I’m a little scared of you.”

His posture shifted, “Is there anything I can do to make you feel less scared?”

For the first time all evening, his easy confidence was thinning at the edges—like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh it off or admit he heard her. And in that crack of silence, she glimpsed her Bob, fragile and unguarded, staring back through that other persona.

Yelena’s mouth pressed into a line. “I don’t know. Just don’t push me away like that again. Don’t throw my words back at me like a weapon. If you want me here, then let me be here. You did want me, right? Would you have left Valentina if I hadn’t said those things?”

His grin came slow, sharp at the edges. “Those words— no one can be trusted, we’re all alone —Bob already believed them before you ever spat them out. That’s who he is. Suspicious, paranoid… but show him a little kindness? Stroke his ego? He's all yours. He’ll roll over, beg, bleed, even die. A lovely little lapdog he is”.

Yelena shivered, unbidden, at the memory of Bob distracting the soldiers and collapsing in a hail of gunfire so she and the others could escape. She dreaded to ponder how Valentina could have easily twisted (and would one of these days again twist) that same desperate hunger for affection in Bob against them.

Sentry continued to speak, his tone dropping condescendingly, “I’ve carried those same thoughts too. And now…I see why he clings to you. Perfect little pair, the two of you are a tragedy waiting to happen: Bob’s a coward, he’ll run the second he believes a relationship is falling apart. And you? You push people away the moment they seem to get too close to you. Funny that you’re begging me not to push you away when one day you might do the same to him again . Hypocrite”.

Yelena’s jaw tightened. She looked past him at the glowing midway lights, refusing to let him see the sting.

He tilted his head, studying her. Then the edge softened. “And yet, when it mattered, you didn’t run. You searched for him in the dark. You said yes when he confessed, even when you had every reason to say no. Maybe you’re braver than either of us believed.”

The hurt lingered, but so did the weight of his words. She narrowed her eyes, mouth curling into dry humor. “Are you sure you’re Bob’s ‘ideal hero’ self? Because right now, you aren’t much like Bob”.

“Well… Bob doesn’t see himself in either of us either. It’s very confusing. He thinks of the Void as a separate entity, even though it’s been a part of him since his awful childhood. And me? I’m the part of him that he feels the most connected to and yet tends to forget about, the version he wishes he could be but never believes he deserves”.

Yelena arched her brow in disbelief, “An egotistical smug showoff?”

An unbothered and joyful laugh escaped him.

“No. Strong, worthy of love, happy. That’s all he’s ever wanted.” His eyes flickered, shadowed with memory. “For years, he chased happiness in bottles and powders. Every pill, every hit, he tried to convince himself that numbness was bliss because the pain was gone. For a while, he almost believed it.” A trace of bitterness edged his tone. “But even in the haze, he knew better. Numbness wasn’t joy. And he hated himself for chasing it anyway, because it was all he had.”

His grip on her hand tightened, then eased as he lifted it, brushing her knuckles with a slow kiss. “Perhaps you can give him that real happiness he seeks.”

Yelena met his gaze, skin still warm where his lips had touched.

“You make it sound like I’m meant to fix him,” she scoffed, “I can’t. That’s not my job. Some days I can barely keep myself together. Happiness isn’t a prize or a pill. And like you say, I don’t know if we’ll last — we’re both good at pushing people away. Still… if, right now, we can make each other happy? Isn’t that enough?”

Her mouth curved, wry, daring him for an answer. 

Sentry hummed low in his throat before straightening, sliding off the heavy conversation as if it were a discarded coat.

“Ah this is a Bummer. I only wanted to know why you hated me. Not go into some deep psychological spiral. Guess I killed the mood, didn’t I?” He ran a hand through his hair, “Ah well. Nothing a good dinner can’t fix.” 

It was almost disarming, the way he shifted from raw honesty to casual charm in a heartbeat, as he tugged her away from the rides and flashing lights. The fair had started thinning out by the time they crossed the park and ducked into a diner just off the main street. Neon buzzed faintly in the window and red vinyl booths that smelled faintly of grease and coffee. The air-conditioning hummed overhead, a contrast to the lingering warmth outside.

Sentry held the door for her with an exaggerated flourish, grinning when she rolled her eyes and walked in.

The waitress brought menus and Sentry didn’t even glance at his before ordering two cheeseburgers, fries, and a milkshake.

“Woah, that’s not all for you is it?” Yelena questioned.

“You’ll thank me when I finish yours too.”

“Not happening.” Yelena flipped through her menu with more patience before making her order quickly.

Dinner arrived quick and steaming. Sentry attacked his food like it had personally wronged him, while Yelena ate at her usual measured pace. He caught her staring once, lips twitching as if he’d scored another point.

“You keep glaring like you’re annoyed,” he observed while chowing down a mouthful of fries, “but I can see through it. You’re enjoying yourself. You really did enjoy yourself with me today although you’re not really saying it aloud”.

She stabbed a fry through a smear of ketchup, voice dry. “No. You’re mistaking tolerance for enjoyment. I tolerated you”.

“Mm. Tolerance is Step One.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice so the hum of the diner almost swallowed it. “Step Two will definitely be harder but I’ll get you to truly like me one of these days”.

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t push it.”

For once, he didn’t laugh at her. “Well, other than that rather…depressing heart to heart talk earlier, Did you…?”

“Did I…what?”

“Did you really like being with me?” His fingers toyed with the edge of his empty plate, restless energy hidden under his posture. 

She hesitated, caught off guard by the earnestness under the swagger. The truth balanced on her tongue, heavier than the bite of burger she hadn’t finished, “Oh my God, you really don’t want me to hate you, don’t you?”

“WelI…I am a part of Bob. Hate me and you hate him too”.

Yelena’s hand stilled around her fork. She met his gaze, blunt as ever.

“Fine. I kinda hate you,” she said simply.

Something flickered in his expression—guilt, quickly masked.

“But…” She set her fork down, reached across the table, and pressed her fingers lightly to his wrist. “If I really hated you, I wouldn’t have taken your hand or gone out with you today”.

“I’ll take that answer as a Yes.” He did a fist pump with his right hand as the corners of his mouth tilted up, not into the smug grin but something smaller, more human. His left hand turned under hers, palm open.

===

Later that night, once they had eaten and paid the bill, the city lights slid past in streaks of neon and shadow as the black sedan they were seated in cut through the traffic. The partition window at the front was rolled halfway down, and the driver—an OXE agent in a dark suit—kept his eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The hum of the engine filled the silence.

Yelena sat stiffly, arms folded, gaze fixed out the window. She could feel his stare on her from the next seat over, burning against her skin.

“You know,” he said at last, voice pitched light with an edge of pride, “I could’ve flown us home. Would’ve been faster, if you’d just said the word—”

“No.” Her answer was sharp, clipped, cutting through the hum of tires on asphalt. “We can’t risk the Void emerging. The last thing anyone needs is another apocalypse-class event because you got careless with using your powers”.

The agent’s green eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, but said nothing.

“You know that Countess is a liar as much as I do.” His tone soured, the pride slipping into a simmer. “The Void didn’t emerge because I used too much of my power during that fight. He came out because I was killed . That Bitch had some kind of bomb buried in my head a-and triggered it somehow even though I knocked it out of her hands. That’s when the Void took over and you know… Voided everything.”

Yelena shifted her gaze from the window, “So what triggered you to take over?”

He leaned back, the passing glow of streetlamps bathing his jaw in hard lines of light. “The first time? Bob died. I stepped in. Then I died, and the Void rose up. Dying seems to be one trigger.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what about now? Bob hasn’t been dying as of late under our watch but he’s told me he blacks out—losing hours or minutes at a time. He also mentioned he is used to it because it would usually happen after an “episode” but because you both exist within him, it’s concerning for all of us. Not to mention that you’re here right now so…Why are you here instead of Bob?”

For a moment, the only sound was the engine’s steady growl, the faint static of the OXE agent’s comms crackling slightly in the front seat.

“I’ve got a theory,” The Sentry murmured, voice dropping. “It’s not about the use of powers. Other than well…death. It happens simply because of him. His lack of real control over his emotions. When Bob's spirals downward mentally, the Void gets his turn. But today?” His gaze flicked sideways, sharp, too bright. “Today he was excited. Genuinely. About seeing you. About this date. That’s why I’m here. His sudden uplift dragged me out as surely as his despair calls to the Void.”

Yelena blinked, the truth sinking in heavy.

Sentry’s grin softened, “Aww don’t be sad Lena. Is it such a bad thing that I’m here instead of him? The Void’s such a downer. At least I’m the fun one”.

"Wait." Her voice immediately turned ice-cold, an abrupt realisation coming over her, "Earlier you said Bob wanted you take me out today, that he wanted me to get to know you. Now you're saying you took over because of his emotions. Which is it? "

Sentry shrugged, unrepentant. "Does it matter? I'm here either way."

"It matters because you lied to me." Her arms crossed tighter. "Bob didn't give you permission, did he? You just... took over”.

"As I said, he was genuinely excited about seeing you. I didn't steal anything—I was summoned by that happiness. He was happy ," Sentry insisted defensively, "And honestly? He got to feel that joy without the anxiety that usually ruins everything for him. Win-win."

“So what now?” she said, voice flat. “He’s not supposed to be happy or sad at all or else you or the Void happen? That’s already too much to ask of anyone”.

His grin thinned, settling into something more thoughtful. He lowered his voice, careful enough that the agent up front couldn’t catch every word. “Maybe that’s the problem. You and everyone are so focused on prevention. Don’t let him sink too low. Don’t let him soar too high. Don’t let him feel too much or he’ll break. Take more drugs and hope the meds silence the both of us in his head when they really don’t but, what if prevention isn’t the answer?”

Yelena’s brow furrowed. “…What are you suggesting?”

“Balance.” His eyes gleamed faintly in the wash of neon. “Satiation.”

Her gaze remained steadfast. “Satiation?”

"You starve an animal, it claws harder. Feed it, it settles. The Void drowns in sorrow because that's all he knows. I burn bright on adrenaline because it's the only space I get. What if—" his fingers drummed against his knee, restless "—instead of starving us, he let us out sometimes? Willingly. Controlled bursts. Enough to keep us steady. Maybe then we wouldn't have to claw our way to the surface whenever he tips." He leaned back, voice quieter now. "Call it balance. Call it compromise. Maybe it's the only way any of us ever get peace."

Yelena's expression hardened. "You make it sound reasonable. But letting either of you 'slip out' whenever you want? That's Russian Roulette with other people's lives".

His smirk returned, crooked and unrepentant. "And isn't that what makes it exciting?"

The casual way he said it—like danger was just another thrill—made her stomach turn.

From the front seat, the OXE agent cleared his throat. "We're back."

“Thank you,” Sentry said smoothly, already moving to guide her out of the car. His grip lingered just a second too long on her arm before he let go when they stepped into the building.

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

Growing up in the Red Room, Yelena never had space for feelings, much less love. Affection was weakness; attachment, ammunition for enemies. Even her body had been taken without consent, reshaped into something utilitarian. When that wasn’t enough, her handlers went further, stripping away her ability to choose before she could even understand what choice meant. Now, nearing thirty, independence and intimacy felt like uncharted territory.

The closest she had come to love was the bond she’d shared with her adopted sister Natasha—and Natasha was gone. She had loved her adoptive parents, Alexei and Melina, too, though knowing what they had done and allowed had soured those feelings. Still, she tried: visiting when she could, answering calls, sending gifts for birthdays and Christmas—small gestures meant to bridge years lost while she was Blipped out of the world.

One December, a few years back, grief and rage gave her a mission. She traveled to Ohio to erect a gravestone for Natasha, abandoning her goal of freeing other Black Widows once she learned they were all already freed by the time she returned and, at the grave, she arranged an assortment of stuffed animals, cards, and flowers. Once that was done, she tried to whistle the secret tune she and Natasha had shared. Nothing answered—except a sudden sneeze from beside her. She turned to see her (still current) employer Countess Valentina Allegra de Fontaine holding a tablet with Clint Barton’s photo pulled up. With her usual smug half-smile, Valentina claimed he was the one responsible for Natasha’s death. Then, almost casually, mentioned a client who was very eager to see him removed...

The ache of loss pressed on her, sharp and unrelenting. Part of her knew Barton wasn’t truly to blame, yet she needed someone to focus her anger on. Convinced he had caused Natasha’s death, she hunted him with ruthless precision: grappling across rooftops, exchanging blows with allies and enemies alike, anything to silence the storm inside her.

Then, when she finally cornered him within an ice rink, she fought with all the lethal precision drilled into her by the Red Room. Barton was skilled, but rage sharpened her edge, and soon he was on the ground, weaponless, breath ragged. She closed in for the killing blow—

And then he whistled.

The sound cut through her rage like glass, the secret tune only she and Natasha had ever shared. Her body froze. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t Barton lying there, but Natasha—laughing, alive, reaching for her. Hearing it stopped her in her tracks as sorrow and longing shook her to her core. And in that instant, Barton conveyed what he had been trying to tell her all along: he hadn’t killed Natasha. She had loved him, and she had loved Yelena too. She had never stopped thinking of her, even when she vanished from the world. She had sacrificed herself not only to save Barton, but to bring Yelena—and everyone else—back. Nothing either of them could have done would have prevented it. Distraught, Yelena spared Barton, intentionally failing her mission, and allowed herself, at last, to mourn.

Freedom from the Red Room and closure over Natasha’s death should have brought her peace. Instead, it left her adrift. She continued to fill her now purposeless days with mercenary work, drawn to dangerous, high-paying jobs that might well kill her. Violence was familiar; it dulled the storm inside better than silence ever could. When she wasn’t working, she drank, swallowing bottle after bottle of vodka until grief, longing, and regret blurred into nothing. A part of her almost welcomed the risk, morbidly hoping one day that a bullet, a blade, or a fall would finish the work for her and carry her back to Natasha—because ending it herself was the one line she couldn’t cross.

It wasn’t only feelings of purposelessness and loss she was trying to drown but also the very ideas of love itself. Alexei had once suggested romance might fill the emptiness inside her, make her happier, and she had tried—clumsy encounters in bars, hurried kisses in the dark, whispered promises like secrets—but nothing held. They simply washed over her like the wine and spirits she swallowed to numb herself and soon, she came to assume that her time in the Red Room had also broken the part of her that could have loved a significant other beyond repair…

Yet that explanation never sat right. She had met another ex-Black Widow to build a family and life for herself despite sharing the same scars. If it was possible for her, then why not for Yelena?

One sleepless night in Prague, scrolling through social media, she stumbled on a word that fit like a key in a lock:

Aromantic Asexual. 

For most of her life, she experienced the world without romantic or sexual attraction. The relief was immediate and profound. Perhaps she wasn’t broken after all, just different (Or at least, that was what she wanted to believe) and for a long while, this understanding brought her peace...until Bob entered her life and complicated everything.

Her first attempt to drive him away had backfired spectacularly. Worse, it hurt everyone around him more than it helped. So she made a choice, and with it, a promise: They would stick together. She would protect the lonely and abandoned man from being used the way she once was: Shaped into leverage, treated as nothing more than a living weapon. It was as much about saving him as it was about sparing herself from watching someone else become what she had been forced to be.

And what’s more, thanks to Valentina’s clumsy, last-minute attempt to salvage her reputation, the two of them had been pushed even closer together as teammates.

‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’, as the saying went.

A friendship with Bob had seemed manageable. Safe. Comfortable. Predictable. But something unexpected had taken root between them—a bond that defied neat definitions. It wasn’t romantic desire driving her toward him, but a deep, steady love that tugged at her in ways she hadn’t foreseen. Protective, consuming—this was a connection that she could not properly describe. She loved and cared for him fiercely, wholly, but on her own terms, in a way that didn’t mirror typical ideas of romance.

So when she noticed Bob’s feelings for her intensifying from platonic to romantic, panic took hold. She tried to maintain her boundaries by making her sharp comments more frequent, small defensive but joking jabs meant to keep him at arm’s length. Not because she didn’t care but because she couldn’t yet articulate that her love existed outside of the conventional. 

She had hoped he would let his intimate feelings for her fade, that he would never act on them, sparing them both the risk of a mismatch neither could navigate. But they didn’t.

And when Bob finally spoke those three words, her instinct had been to push him away as she believed he deserved someone who could love him better. She laid out her aromantic asexuality like evidence in a court case, certain it would settle the matter and explained her limitations with clinical precision—no children, no traditional romance, no fairy-tale ending where true love’s kiss would transform her into a woman capable of loving normally. Told him that whatever picture of love he carried in his head, she didn’t belong in it.

She thought that would end it.

Instead, Bob had only smiled—that soft, fractured smile of his—and shaken his head. He told her he didn’t need her to fit a mold or chase expectations she’d never asked for. He wanted her exactly as she was, including whatever shape her affection took, even if it didn’t resemble what the world called normal and they began a relationship: Slightly awkward, somewhat imperfect, but theirs.

A few weeks ago...

One of the first things they discussed was setting boundaries—the most important being that no one else needed to know about them yet, not until they were ready. After that came the harder conversations: what intimacy meant for them, what she could give and what she couldn’t, what he wanted and what he didn’t.

"I need to explain stuff better," she said one evening, legs tucked beneath her on his couch. "About being AroAce. I don't think I got it really right before."

“What do you mean?” Bob looked up from his book, giving her his full attention in that way that still surprised her sometimes.

"When I first found that label, I thought it was simple. Black and white. You either feel romantic and sexual attraction or you don't." She picked at the hem of her shirt. "But it's not that straightforward. There are... Different types."

"Okay," he said softly, closing the book completely. "Tell me."

"I've been reading more about it on the internet, trying to understand myself better." The words felt strange in her mouth—when had she ever cared about understanding herself? "Some AroAce people are completely repulsed by romance or sex. Some are indifferent. Some can enjoy it under certain circumstances, even if they don't feel the attraction that usually drives it."

Bob nodded, waiting.

"I think I'm what they call sex-neutral. Maybe even sex-favorable with..." She gestured vaguely between them. "With you. I don't crave it or fantasize about it but I can enjoy the physical sensations like kissing you. And more importantly, I like the closeness it creates between us."

"And romantically?"

She was quiet for a long moment. "That's harder to explain. I don't feel romantic attraction the way movies and books describe it. No butterflies, no desire for candlelit dinners or grand gestures. But what I feel for you..." She met his eyes. "It's still love, Bob. Deep, fierce love".

"So you do love me?" he said, and there was wonder in his voice.

“Yes. Not in the way you love me, but yes. I’m still figuring out what it means, what category it even fits into. Maybe I’m Demiromantic—only capable of romantic feelings after forming a deep bond with someone. Or maybe what I feel for you exists in a category all its own.” She shrugged lightly.

Bob leaned on her shoulder,  “Does it really matter what we call it?”

“Sometimes I think it does—for understanding myself, for knowing I’m not broken.” She glanced down, then back up at him. “Other times, I think labels are just ways to make other people comfortable with what they don’t understand.”

"You're not broken," he said firmly. "And if you are. We’re two broken people in love trying to get better together”.

She leaned into his warmth, still marveling that she could want this kind of closeness without it feeling like a trap.

Later that same week, a different conversation unfolded with the same careful honesty that was becoming their trademark.

"Can I ask you something?" Bob's voice had broken the quiet one evening, tentative, like he was afraid the words themselves might hurt her.

She'd raised a brow. "You already are."

That shaky laugh of his slipped out, then faded. His cheeks pinked, and he looked away before forcing himself to continue. "If you're AroAce, and with your surgery... can you even—" He swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do sex? I mean, do you even want to? Or have you ever? God, this is so awkward to ask."

One of her hands unconsciously tugged at the collar of her shirt. She knew this topic would have inevitably come up at some point. The bluntness should've stung, but it didn't. What struck her wasn't the question itself, but how he asked. Not assuming. Not demanding. It was so rare she almost didn't know how to answer.

"I never had the opportunity for sex Bob. At all. Red Room girls weren't given 'chances.' Still, I've touched myself. Before and after the procedure. Pre-op, the urges came often. Post-op, less. Not gone, but dulled. My body can still feel pleasure. I just don't crave it the way most women do."

Bob's gaze lifted, cautious. She forced herself to meet it. "But with you... I don't mind trying. If it's what you want."

The silence stretched. She shifted, legs parting slightly in invitation—graceless, half challenge, half shield.

Bob flushed, the red climbing his neck. "I'll only want it if you want it too. I don't want this to feel rushed. Or like I'm taking something from you when you don't want to give it."

Her chest pulled tight. Slowly, she closed her legs, shaking her head. "Good thinking, Bob. I'm not in the mood right now anyway. So... maybe another time."

A small, relieved smile flickered across his face.

Time passed. Bob never brought up sex again until he'd approached her after a mission, wearing a bathrobe loosely tied over his bare chest, hair mussed from a shower he had likely taken minutes ago.

"Evening," he said, voice low, casual, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

Yelena froze mid-step, towel in hand. She blinked at the expanse of his chest visible through the gap in his robe, water droplets still clinging to his skin, the scent of his soap drifting toward her.

"It's cold tonight. You should put a shirt on." She stepped past him toward the living room, completely missing the way his face fell slightly.

Only later did Yelena feel embarrassed by the whole thing because she'd realized he was trying to flirt with her and she hadn't picked up on it. The details hit her like a delayed punch—the way he'd positioned himself in the doorway, the deliberate casualness of his voice, that smirk. He'd been making an overture, and she'd responded like he was reporting the weather.

It was then that during his next attempt he'd tried being more forward with his advances and, of all places, Yelena lost her virginity not in some romantic candlelit bedroom cliché but in the Watchtower gym...

It was just the two of them that day. After the mission, everyone else had gone off to their own routines, leaving Bob and Yelena their first real private session together. She’d only meant to join him for a workout, not to short-circuit his brain when she strolled in—towel slung over one shoulder, water bottle in hand, dressed in a black crop top that showed off her toned abs and yoga pants that clung like a second skin.

Bob’s mouth fell open as he drew a shaky breath. He nearly dropped his water bottle. 

"You good?" Yelena asked, one brow arched.

"Y-yeah," he stammered, cheeks flushing. "I've just never seen you in a crop top before."

She smirked faintly. "I only wear them for exercise. Or on lazy days. Stomach out in combat? Not practical. Stomach out when I'm sweating buckets? Practical."

Bob nodded quickly, though a bead of sweat was already sliding down his temple. "Yeah. Same. I, uh—sweat easily."

He wore a loose tank top and shorts, and the way his eyes kept flicking back to her exposed midriff made her sigh.

Yelena's mouth curved as she unscrewed her water bottle. "Oh, do you wear crop tops too, then?"

Bob nearly choked on his own breath. "What? No—I mean—well, not that there's anything wrong with—" His ears flushed red as he stumbled over the words, hands flailing for an explanation.

She took a slow sip of water, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Relax. It was a joke."

They warmed up on mats, stretching and doing jumping jacks before jogging in place, then returning to seated stretches. Yelena corrected his form when his hamstrings refused to cooperate, kneeling beside him to press down gently on his shoulder. "You're not even close. Like this."

Bob tried. He really did. He mirrored her movements, staying a half-second behind, his gaze constantly flicking from the floor to the defined lines of her body. All he could focus on was the press of her hand against him and the fine, glistening sheen of sweat that already coated the exposed strip of her abdomen from their warm-up. 

"Bob?" Yelena finished a set of high knees, her breathing steady and measured, "You ready for the weights?"

Bob didn't answer. Heat pooled low in his stomach. His throat was going dry. His own pulse was hammering wildly against his ribs while he stared transfixed at the damp trail leading into the waistband of her leggings

In his earlier life, he would have loved to snort at least five lines of coke from her abs in some private motel room while they lay together.

"Bob, you're distracted," she said flatly.

His cheeks turned scarlet. "I'm sorry, I just—" He fumbled for the small towel tucked into his shorts. "You've got... erm, can I...?"

Yelena followed his gaze down to her stomach.

She frowned. "Could I what?"

He swallowed hard, lifting the towel an inch. "Wipe you down. Your abs. They have sweat on it...I’d like to clean them, if you’d let me…?" His voice cracked at the end, more plea than demand.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Yelena leaned back on her hands, tilting her head. "You're asking if you can clean my torso? That's what you're working up the courage for?"

Bob winced. "It sounds stupid out loud."

"It is stupid," she said, but there was no sharpness in it. Only dry humor. "But at least you asked."

She leaned backward, gesturing to herself. "Go on then."

Bob's breath hitched. Carefully, reverently, he lowered the towel to her skin. He dabbed first, tentative, wiping away the sheen of sweat across the plane of her stomach. The terry cloth was soft, but he could feel the firm muscle underneath, the heat radiating from her. His hands trembled. When he finished, he lingered, eyes searching hers for the signal to stop.

Yelena didn't move.

His hands settled lightly on her waist. His touch was tentative at first, almost unsure, but then he bent forward, hesitated a breath from her skin, about to press a kiss just above her navel. 

His voice came raw, almost whispering against her. "May I...?"

She recognized the tone instantly. Desire. Not the kind she usually encountered. Not the kind she ever yearned for. Her body didn’t answer that call the way others’ might. Still, the tremor in his hands, the rawness in his voice, spoke less of lust and more of fear—fear of doing wrong, fear of losing her. That she understood.

Her fingers slid into his hair, ruffling gently before holding him there. She looked down at him, lips curving faintly. “Go on.”

He closed the distance, pressing his lips to her stomach. Salty, warm, intoxicating. Each kiss grew bolder, his tongue tracing the curve of her abs. She froze at first, breath catching, then a soft gasp escaped her, hands threading through his hair.

“Bob…” she murmured.

He lifted his gaze. “Is this okay?” His voice was rough, vulnerable.

She nodded, tightening her fingers in his hair. “Yes. More than okay.”

Encouraged, he explored her with deliberate, grounding touches, hands firm on her hips, lips trailing teasing nips along her abdomen. When he hovered above her waistband, his breath fanning over her skin, his eyes were wide, uncertain, a hidden desire shining behind them.

“Bob?” she murmured, voice unsteady. “Tell me what you really want.”

He swallowed, cheeks flushed, eyes shimmering with longing, “I… I want to taste you. To make you feel good. I don’t want to get it wrong. I don’t want to… mess this up.”

Her expression softened. 

She studied his face for a long moment. There it was again—That fear outweighing his lust. He wasn’t only begging for her permission to eat her out—he was begging not to fail her. That distinction hit her harder than the words themselves. She couldn’t promise to mirror desire the way others might, but she could promise him this: his need for greater intimacy wouldn’t scare her away.

She framed his face between her palms, tilting his gaze to hers. “Bob,” she said with quiet certainty, “you’re not going to mess this up. Just breathe. And do it.”

With those words, he pushed her leggings and underwear down her thighs in one swift, decisive motion. The cool air of the gym hit her already damp core, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his mouth.

He delved between her folds like a starving man and she was the first meal he had tasted in a decade. His tongue pressed firm and relentless, sweeping from her entrance to her clit in a single, unbroken motion that buckled her knees. Her head fell back against the floor, breath ragged.

Next, his hands gripped her thighs, holding her open and guiding her against him as he worked with feral precision. His tongue lashed and struck, unflinching and eager, tracing every responsive curve and every sensitive spot that he had learned drew a gasp or a shudder. He circled her clit with sudden, sharp movements before sinking into a brief, fervent suction that pulled a high-pitched whine from her lips. Every motion was immediate, desperate, and unhesitant.

“You taste perfect Lena.” He moaned against her, the vibrations an exquisite torture, “You like how my tongue feels on your pussy?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her hips rocking against his mouth.

“Good.” he said, and then he was back at it, his tongue plunging into her as deep as it would go. 

He’d confessed to her once about the lengths he'd gone to fulfill the gnawing ache of his addiction in the past, about how nothing had been off-limits when he needed a quick fix so having sex or performing acts of sex in exchange for various drugs hadn't been out of the question either, and his experience with intimacy really showed. 

The wet sound of him fucking her with his mouth kept filling the room, louder now and Yelena’s arousal, a steady build, suddenly crested into a crashing wave. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, fingers tangled in his hair, no longer guiding him, only holding on as the sensation consumed her. It started deep within, a coiling, tightening pleasure that radiated outward in shuddering waves, her entire body tensing before a deep, rolling release washed through her, leaving her trembling and weak against the floor.

Bob alleviated his ministrations, soothing her through the last pulses of her climax with soft, lapping kisses. He rested his forehead against her thigh, his own body shaking with the force of his want. 

As her breathing steadied after her first orgasm, Bob found himself continuing to tremble with want, his body aching for more. He lifted his head, his lips glistening, his expression stripped bare of everything but deep, awe-struck hunger.

"Yelena," he whispered, his voice rough as he crawled further up her body, "I want... I need...." He swallowed hard. "Can we... have sex? Are you ready for that?"

She hesitated, every nerve alive to the heat between them. It wasn’t fear, but a shiver of awareness—the delicate line she was about to cross. This wasn’t just about flesh or desire; it was about how much of herself she could offer and still remain whole. Her pulse raced, quick and uneven, each breath tasting of anticipation and restraint. She let the choice linger on the edge of her lips for ten seconds before she said it aloud, savoring the tension, the thrill of giving herself to him in that suspended, fragile moment.

"Alright."

Bob planted a kiss near her navel before easing his shorts down, baring himself—thick and veined and so intensely, vulnerably there. He shifted carefully between her thighs, the blunt head pressing against her without entering yet. He froze, his eyes locked on hers pleadingly.

It was a silent question. The last chance to turn back.

She answered it by wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, opening herself to him completely.

It was all the permission he needed.

He pushed into her with one deep, relentless thrust, filling her so completely it stole the air from her lungs. She cried out, a sharp, surprised sound that melted into a long, low moan. He was everywhere—the stretch, a perfect, aching burn. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his entire body trembling with the force of his restraint.

What followed was more tender and careful than she'd anticipated, considering how he had devoured her earlier. Bob moved with reverent attention to every sound she made, every shift of her body beneath his. He paused often, checking in with occasional questions like "Okay?" and "How does this feel?", reassuring her that they could stop anytime she wanted. 

She'd surprised herself by refusing, encouraging him to continue as he worshipped her with a desperation that made her chest tighten and she guided him when she needed to, her hands steady on his shoulders, her voice soft in his ear. 

Maybe it was because this was her first time that he moved with such care, every touch deliberate, every motion purposefully gentle. He wasn’t just trying to please her—he needed her to feel good, because her pleasure was his own. That selflessness, that desperate eagerness to give rather than take, was so very him and it was endearing to her. 

Yet sometimes, in fleeting flashes, the gentleness faltered. His thrusts would grow deeper, more insistent. His hands would grip her with a tightness that bordered on possessiveness. His eyes seemed to gleam brighter, or his skin chilled far too cold against her fevered warmth. For varying seconds he would feel like someone—or something—else. But then the softness returned, as if those things she’d blinked and seen had only happened in her head.

She had let it slip past in the haze then, choosing not to question it.

Her eventual climax didn't crash over her; it unfolded, a deep, rolling tremor that started in her core and radiated outward in relentless waves. Her inner muscles clenched around him, milking his length, and she sobbed his name into the crook of his neck as the pleasure went on and on.

His rhythm faltered. Her contractions gripping him. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his chest, and he drove into her one last time, his own release crashing through him. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of him deep inside, and he collapsed onto her, his full weight a grounding, comforting pressure.

When it was over, they lay entwined on the mat, their ragged, syncopated breathing the only sound in the gym. Bob's weight shifted slightly as he propped himself up on one elbow, searching her face with worried eyes.

The intensity had banked, replaced by a soft, dazed wonder. He brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead.

"Are you okay? Was that... did I hurt you? Did you enjoy it?" The questions tumbled out in a rush.

"God, Bob," she breathed, a small smile playing at her lips, "I had no idea you could be like this."

He paused, pulling back slightly to meet her gaze. "Like what?"

She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “So… intense.”

For the barest instant, he flinched at the word—intense. It was too close to dangerous, too close to what he feared. She leaned forward before doubt could take root, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was hers to give. He sighed into it, his hands moving instinctively to cradle her as if she were the most fragile thing in his universe.

When Yelena finally broke away, her breathing uneven, there was a faint red flush dusting her cheeks, whether from exertion, shyness, or both.

“Well,” she sighed blissfully, “that certainly wasn’t the kind of warm-up I was expecting.”

Bob let out a nervous laugh, the sound caught between relief and disbelief. “Did you… did you like it, though?”

Her smirk was small but sure, and she reached up to ruffle his damp hair affectionately. “Oh, I definitely liked it.”

Yelena said it with such matter-of-fact certainty that his chest ached. For all her inexperience, for all the hesitation he thought she might carry, she sounded almost… proud.

Bob didn’t say it aloud but for someone who had once told him she couldn’t love him the way he craved, the way she kissed him and stayed close afterward still felt exactly like love.

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

Evening, Present Day

The Watchtower common room lay silent and hollow. No John’s animated chatter. No Alexei humming old Russian melodies in the kitchen. Just the two of them with the steady thrum of the building and the whisper of their footsteps against polished floors.

Yelena paused at the corridor junction, glancing back with a soft smile. “Well, goodnight then—” 

His hand caught her wrist before she could take another step. Before she could finish the thought, he pulled her flush against him, his mouth crashing onto hers and swallowing whatever protest might have followed. The kiss bore no resemblance to Bob's tentative touches—this was all certainty and raw hunger, like lightning striking twice in the same place. His hands bracketed her waist, dragging her close until she could feel his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his shirt.

When he pulled back, his grin cut sharp through the dim light. “Christ, Lena, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

For a moment she was motionless, caught off guard. Then instinct? defiance? Both? Made her lean in again, palms pressing against his chest. Not to push him away, but to maintain herself against what he was pulling her into.

“Woah. We just finished dinner. You sure you want—?”

His grin widened, predatory. “You should worry about yourself. You’re the human one here.”

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head toward the security camera mounted above. Her voice dropped to a tense whisper. "You realize we may have an audience if anyone walks in on—"

"That," he murmured, his voice a low growl against her jaw, "only makes it more thrilling."

Her deadpan stare was immediate. "Not for me it doesn't."

He pressed her back until her shoulders met the cool wall, his body caging hers in place. The heat of him seeped through, his lips grazing the line of her throat. "Yet you're not running."

"You're not giving me the chance, pinning me like this."

He chuckled, a rich, satisfied sound, and kissed her again—slower this time, more deliberate, tasting her hesitation like a challenge.

Her pulse thudded hard against her ribs. She turned her head, forcing a breath. "No. Your room. Now. Not out here."

"Why? Don't tell me you're suddenly camera-shy. We weren't exactly discreet in the gymnasium a few weeks ago, surveillance equipment and all..."

"That was different—we were alone then. There are maintenance crews and cleaning workers walking around these halls at night."

"Doesn't that make it more exhilarating?"

She huffed, glancing toward the couches. "If you haven't noticed, these sofas weren't built for athletics. And I don't even want to think about those carpets. Your room, however, has certain… advantages."

He studied her face, expression unreadable as storm clouds, before his grip gradually softened at her waist, becoming almost gentle.

"Fair enough," he conceded.

With effortless strength he swept her into his arms, carrying her toward his room as the door clicked shut behind them. The only light came from a single, low-wattage lamp on the far nightstand, casting the room in warm, dim gold that clung to the curves of the furniture.

A sudden, furious rattling shattered the quiet. The cage bars clanged like a prison break in progress, followed by a chorus of sharp, indignant squeaks that made it unmistakably clear they were not alone in the room.

“Really? You pick now to throw a tantrum, little one?” Sentry grumbled.

Yelena stifled a laugh. “Is he mad you didn't feed him or something?"

"Oh right—” Sentry grimaced, running a hand through his hair, “I forgot to give the little creature his dinner…" 

The timing was ridiculous, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. 

"Yeah, and unless you want Cucumber traumatized, I'd suggest moving him out of the room for a bit as well." she quipped, one brow arched.

"I’ll be right back in less than ten seconds." Bob set her down in the center of the bed, then scooped up the small cage in a blur and hustled it into the hall. True to his word, he was back within that small amount of time as he shut the door behind him.

When he turned back to her, the humor had slipped away. Haloed in the lamp's gold light, he stood over her like a prince about to kiss a sleeping princess awake. The room narrowed to the space between them; his voice dropped, low and commanding.

“Alright. Now that that’s done… strip. Do it slow. Let me see every inch of you.”

Warmth spread across her chest and up her neck. She was still in her faded black short-sleeved top tucked into snug zipperless jeans, the knees dusted slightly with dirt from the bumper cars.

Her fingers, suddenly clumsy, went to the hem of her shirt, lifting it inch by inch. The cotton peeled away from her skin, baring her midriff to the air before she tugged it over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath, the faint outline of her lace bra caught the light.

His eyes dropped there, a faint, approving smirk touching his lips.

“The pants next,” he murmured, his voice husky.

She turned slightly, giving him a profile view as she popped the button and slid the denim down over her hips. The fabric resisted, snug from the day's wear, then gave way, sliding down her legs to pool around her ankles. She kicked them away, left in her black bra and panties, skin glowing in the dim light.

Her breathing quickened, her entire world narrowed to this room, to his commanding presence.

"Now, touch yourself," he ordered, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a visceral thing that coiled in her stomach. "Show me how badly you want me."

Her hands trembled as she reached down, one sliding over the flat plane of her stomach, the other slipping beneath the delicate lace of her panties. Down past the gentle curve of her belly, through the neat thatch of curls until it found her folds and entered them.

A moan escaped her, soft and involuntary. Her eyes fluttered shut as her fingers found her clit. So wet. Slick and hot, already swollen and eager. A breathy sigh escaped her as she circled the sensitive nub.

Although she couldn't see it, she was certain she could feel his gaze on her like a physical touch, hot and possessive, and it heightened every sensation, making her movements more desperate. Her moans grew louder, less controlled, echoing softly in the quiet room as her own touch became almost unbearably electric after the long build-up. She arched her back, her hips giving a faint, reflexive roll against her own hand.

"Eyes on me, Lena." His growl cut through the haze, sharp enough to drag her back. Her eyes snapped open, locking with his as he stripped his shirt away in one fluid motion. The lamplight spilled across him, gilding the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp taper of his waist.

It was only then that she noticed the glint of his belt buckle, low at his hips—hidden beneath his shirt until now. The metal clinked as he unfastened it, the sound loud in the charged silence. In one forceful motion his jeans and briefs were shoved down, cast aside like they meant nothing.

He stood over her now, utterly bare, unapologetic in his nudity. His cock jutted forward, thick and unyielding, raw proof of his arousal. He was magnificent—a statue of controlled power poised above her.

Then, with a swift shift, he was on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled between her parted thighs.

"I'll take it from here," he said, his voice rough with raw need. "I want to feel you come on my cock, not your fingers."

Before she could even process the words, he grabbed both her wrists, pinning them above her head on the pillows. The sudden loss of contact between her legs was a small agony, yet the feeling of his strength, of being completely in his control, was a different, more profound pleasure. He held her there easily, his grip firm without being painful. He leaned down, his body hovering over hers, heat radiating into her skin.

He dipped suddenly, claiming a kiss. It started tender, a soft meeting of lips, then quickly deepened. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she lost herself in the taste of him, in the sheer authority of the act. Yelena responded by tangling her hands in his hair. The kiss was messy, teeth clashing, tongues sliding together in a wet, frantic rhythm.

Mmmnpfh—the sound vibrated between them as their mouths moved in sync.

His free hand trailed down her arm, over the slope of her breast, his thumb brushing a taut nipple through the lace, making her arch her back with a sharp cry. He unhooked her bra seconds later, and soon his mouth was on her breasts, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers pinched the other. He sucked hard, and Yelena let out a moan that was half curse, half plea.

He continued downward, over the quivering muscles of her stomach, and finally hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties.

In one swift motion, he tore the flimsy lace, rending the fabric aside to expose her completely. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room.

"Hey, those were expensive!" She weakly protested as he laughed against her mouth, the sound ragged with heat. The world narrowed to the pressure of his hands and the heat between them. When he finally pulled back, both of them were breathless. His gaze burned down her body, taking in the sight of her glistening, open folds. He released her wrists, though she kept them there, obediently stretched above her, not wanting to break the spell.

"You are so beautiful like this…" he whispered, a stark contrast to his earlier commands.

He positioned himself at her entrance between her thighs, the coarse hair of his legs brushing against her sensitive skin, before shifting forward. She gasped slightly as she felt the broad head of his cock pressed insistently against her entrance. He was teasing her with a promise of what was to come—letting her feel the immense possibility of him without the penetration. Not yet.

"Please, Bob, please…" Yelena whimpered, pushing herself forward, though his hand held her firm.

"Uh-uh," he chided softly. "I set the pace. You take it."

For several heartbeats, she held his gaze—dark, unflinching, his breath hot against her cheek—before he finally pressed forward. Slowly, inexorably, he pushed into her, sinking deeper and deeper. The stretch was unbearable and exquisite all at once, already pushing her to the brink of pain and pleasure as every inch claimed her insides.

"God, you're still so tight, Lena," he rasped. "Relax for me. I won't hurt you."

The command unraveled her. She melted beneath him, every muscle softening, her very will yielding to the promise in his voice.

"Good girl."

The rhythm began with a surge, his hips slamming into hers, cock spearing her open with one devastating stroke that stole the air from her lungs and arched her spine off the bed. A ragged cry tore from her throat, a guttural sound wrenched from somewhere primal. His groan answered hers, vibrating through his chest and into her bones. He was so much, too much…

When Bob had made love to her in the gym, he had been careful, treating her like she was breakable. Now she understood why he had been so achingly restrained that first time. The tremors of hesitancy that belonged to Bob were gone; in their place was certainty, dominance and sheer unrelenting hunger. This manic side of him was something else entirely as he moved rapidly inside her like wildfire through dry grass—consuming, relentless, leaving her breathless beneath the onslaught.

She felt the contrast in every detail. His fingers biting into the flesh of her hips, promising bruises that would bloom purple by morning. His thrusts were delivered at a frantic pace no human man could sustain. She wanted to curse him, to shove him back, to regain control—yet her body betrayed her, arching into him, opening to him, yielding even as her mind reeled. He was not the careful lover she knew, instead a selfish, demanding god taking what he believed was owed. And she was letting him.

"Every gasp. Every shudder." His voice was a growl against her ear, each thrust punctuating the words. "All of it belongs to me. This perfect, dripping cunt is mine."

Yelena tried to moan her approval, though the sound caught in her throat.

He seemed intoxicated by the wordless sounds spilling from her lips, his arrogance swelling with every broken moan. Worship. That's what he heard. That's what he drew out of her, more and more, until his own groans deepened with delight. His hands roamed her body with ownership, cupping her breasts and pinching to provoke her whimpers before sliding down to her hips to pull her down harder onto him. He was pounding into her now with the velocity of a jackhammer, every stroke of his massive length bruising her insides and shaking the entire bedframe. Each pump was a claim, each deep grind a brand. The air grew thick with the rhythm of their bodies: wet slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, his guttural grunts, her choked cries.

With every kiss burning deeper, every thrust pressing harder, every touch demanding more than the last… The force of him was practically stretching her raw. Tears welled in Yelena's eyes before she could stop them. She hoped he wouldn't notice. She told herself she could take it. After all, wasn't she trained for this? To obey when commanded, to be used as a tool?

The Red Room had gutted her from within, etching its claim into her very anatomy—sterile, weaponized, perfected by warped standards. When violation of the body proved insufficient, they pillaged her mind as well, stripping away thought until only obedience remained for years. Now, though technically free, Valentina still wielded her like a blade.

Different hands, same chains. Different rooms, same cage. She had survived the Red Room's butchery only to find herself paraded in another market, her scars repurposed into selling points. Valentina's "marketing meetings" about the New Avengers were little more than appraisals, measuring trauma like currency, packaging pain for public consumption.

The secrets Yelena carried about Project Sentry should have tipped the balance—blackmail sharp enough to cut them both down. Yet leverage meant little when survival was carved into her bones, leaving her convinced she existed only to be spent and discarded once her edge dulled.

Years of conditioning had reduced her world to a single instinct: Endure.

Desire, choice, even selfhood had been scoured away, replaced with reflexive submission. She had been trained to persist, to outlast, even when body and mind screamed in protest—because she learned early that resistance always meant death.

Which was what made this intimacy so disorienting.

In Sentry's arms, those echoes pressed close. There was familiar weight in surrender, the ache of being taken. Yet something fundamental had shifted. She had chosen this fire, stepped into it not as a weapon or tool—as herself. There was strange comfort in this voluntary yielding, disturbing in its familiarity yet precious in its freedom.

Her thighs tightened around him, pulling him deeper despite the sting, letting his fire consume her, letting it be hers to give. He could take from her all he wanted; there was nothing left inside to ruin anyway.

No warmth. No future. Only a barren womb.

The ache sharpened and she gave into it, a shudder tearing through her as release crested and broke. His followed close after, less measured than hers, a guttural surrender that left them both gasping.

Yet before the afterglow could settle, Yelena felt the softness of the mattress below her vanish as the room seemed to tilt and warp around them. Books slid from their shelves to drift like paper boats. Sheets unmoored, a lamp toppled and spun lazily toward them.

"Блядь!" The curse ripped from her throat as it missed hitting her by a hair's breadth, raw panic twisting her chest. The Labubu came tumbling after, spinning end over end through the weightless dark—mercifully farther off this time.

Gazing around in surprise, she realized they were levitating mid-air alongside scattered objects. Her discarded clothes from earlier brushed against her skin, weightless in a way that made her stomach lurch. Even her tears, freed from her lashes, hovered like tiny glass beads, catching the dim light as they hung suspended between them.

A breathless, careless laugh emerged from the god above her. "Fuck, that was wonderful. Let's go aga—"

Sentry's words drifted off, his arrogance faltering as he saw her tears adrift in the weightless air. His thrusts stilled, his chest heaving as he traced their source. Then he cupped her face, thumbs brushing away the floating and falling droplets from her cheeks. Around them the chaos drifted, yet his gaze anchored her.

"Lena? Are you all right?"

His voice carried vulnerability that belonged closer to Bob.

She tried to swallow the sob lodged in her throat.

"I am." It wasn't entirely a lie—her insides still ached from his force, the floating left her dizzy—yet she could endure it. She had endured worse. And part of her wanted the ache that drowned out everything else clawing at her mind. "Please… keep going." She flexed around him, her core tightening around the length still buried inside her, a silent plea for him not to stop.

He shook his head. "No. This won't be any fun if you're crying. I can't."

Already she could feel them sinking, the buoyancy surrounding them faltering. Panic rose sharp in her chest—not only at the fall, at the thought of losing the only thing presently numbing her.

"No! I'm fine," she blurted, voice raw. "Just keep—woah!"

Her movement tipped their balance. The world spun; they tumbled sideways, bodies colliding with the left wall in a muted thud before drifting free again. Breathless, Yelena blinked and found herself on top of him, her knees clamped to his hips, her palms spread across his strong shoulders for balance.

The floor was gone. The bed was gone. There was only him—his heat, his chest rising beneath her hands, his body suspended with hers in a weightless void.

His hands steadied her waist, mouth curving into that maddening smirk.

"Well… you've got me beneath you now. What will you do about it?"

Her pulse hammered. Bob would have asked her. Bob would have given her space to choose. Here, in this strange suspension, she realized she still could. What if she decided differently right now? What if she stopped submitting and claimed this moment as her own? The thought unsettled and ignited her—a chance where she could truly exercise her free will. Her voice trembled, though the words came out steady.

"I want to take the lead this time."

Shock flashed across his features before it hardened into hunger. "Do you now? If so, you'll have to fight me for it."

His hips bucked, a sudden surge that nearly tipped their balance. She pressed into his chest, forcing him still.

"Не смей," she hissed.

That hesitation was all she needed. Using the momentum of his thrust, she twisted, and their bodies rolled in the air. In the shimmer of weightlessness he landed on his back, startled, golden hair fanning around his head like a halo. His cock slipped free with a lewd sound, and he growled at the loss.

Yelena refused to let him reclaim control. She swung her leg over his hips with purpose. Reaching between them, she wrapped her hand around his slick length and guided him in, sinking down in one long motion until his length filled her completely. A cry tore from her lips as he filled her, matched by the guttural groan that rumbled from his chest. The sound that escaped her was neither pain nor surrender.

The pace now belonged to her. She rolled her hips in slow circles, rose, and came down again in a steady rhythm. Wet, obscene sounds filled the floating silence. His hands clutched her thighs as if to hold her still, yet she leaned forward, hair spilling down, their foreheads nearly touching.

"You had your turn," she whispered, breath ragged. "Теперь моя очередь."

He answered with a rough laugh, voice breaking on her name. "Yelena… Christ…" His grip tightened on her waist, testing her again, trying to wrest some control back, torn between holding her and letting her go. She caught his gaze, daring him. She ground down hard, cutting him off with a sharp gasp that turned into a low, dangerous smile.

"Тише, солнышко."

The glow beneath his skin pulsed outward, and they rose higher. Sheets drifted past in lazy folds, a pen spun like a compass needle, and a cushion wheeled by as though caught in invisible currents. Her hair lifted around her face in a golden halo, brushing against flushed cheeks. His body gleamed like a figure carved from light, suspended beneath her.

She anchored her palms to his chest and moved with fierce precision. Each drop onto him felt unreal, as though she were impaling herself on lightning. Every nerve lit. The glide of his cock inside her was sharper, wetter, unbearably deep—and yet, with every thrust, the sharp ache she'd been feeling began to dull. Strange warmth spread through her body, softening the sting, turning each motion into something she could lean into rather than resist. She barely had time to wonder at it before he caught her lips again and she moaned into his mouth, messy, reverent, desperate.

Her thighs tightened around him as they spun in midair, carried in unpredictable directions while their bodies wrestled for dominance. It was chaotic, yet somehow they never struck the walls; Yelena suspected the god beneath her was steadying their trajectory even as he tested her. His hips bucked, a sharp surge that nearly unseated her. She braced hard against his chest, refusing to yield.

He smirked at her defiance, eyes blazing. "You really think you can keep me like this?"

"Молчи," she hissed, grinding down until his groan broke into a curse.

It was tug-of-war with flesh—his strength against her precision, each twist answered, each thrust countered. Yet gradually his grip shifted, not to overpower, rather to anchor. He was holding back, letting her press the advantage. She realized with a shiver that he could have flipped her at any moment, pinned her the way he had before—yet he didn't. He wanted to see how far she would take it.

The glint in his golden eyes gave him away. He was loving this, maybe even more than she was.

Her pace quickened, building into louder, wetter slaps that echoed in the floating hush. Their moans tangled with the rustle of sheets drifting past, the faint thud of objects colliding like muffled drumbeats. Every plunge wrung a sound from him—a groan, a curse, her name dragged raw from his throat.

"Fuck, Yelena… yes… You feel so good… don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Her release hit first. It tore through her in a white-hot wave, and she cried Bob's name as her nails carved crescent shapes into his sides. Her body seized, clenching around him in merciless pulses. The weightlessness made it unbearable, stripping away gravity, leaving only pure sensation exploding through every nerve.

That was all it took. His restraint snapped. He drove up into her in frantic, desperate strokes, undone by the grip of her climax. With a roar, his body arched, spilling into her in hot, unrelenting bursts. Each pulse dragged another groan from his chest as a sudden explosion of light flared from him in a blinding wash of gold. Yelena squeezed her eyes shut, half in awe, half afraid of being seared by his brilliance.

She had never dreamed Bob could unmoor the world itself, undo gravity as though it were nothing. The odd man was full of impossibilities, and she didn't care to ask how or why. Not now.

All she wanted was to sink into him, to feel their limbs entwined, breaths mingling in the hush, while droplets of their release drifted around them like tiny planets caught in the orbit of a massive star.

Eventually, Sentry's glow dimmed and gravity returned in a slow pull, dragging them—and the scattered wreckage of the room—back down. They landed in a crumpled heap on the mattress. His arms remained wrapped around her, possessive yet tender, as if afraid she might float away again. Yelena sagged against him, blonde hair plastered to her damp face, thighs trembling as she gasped against his throat.

"Told you," he murmured.

Her lashes fluttered. "Huh?"

"Valentina was a liar," his lips brushed her temple. "I used my powers, a decent amount of them, and the Void did not emerge."

"Ugh." She groaned, weakly glaring up at him. "That still doesn't mean you should turn off gravity in the middle of sex."

He chuckled low, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. "And yet," he teased, voice warm with satisfaction, "you didn't stop. Nor did you tell me to."

"That's because I wanted this." The bite in her words was softened by exhaustion.

"Tell me the truth. Did the spinning make you nauseous?"

"Oh sure, weightless mid-air sex. Totally normal. Why would that make me sick?" She huffed against his skin, lips curving faintly. "All right… I felt it a little. I was too busy holding on to care. Otherwise? No."

That made him grin, boyish and delighted. "Good. That means you can get up for another round, right?"

Yelena groaned and buried her face in his chest. "I'm tired. My legs feel useless. You'll have to settle for twice tonight."

His smug laugh rumbled against her ear. "Very well. You'll build stamina eventually." He pressed a kiss to her damp hair. "One day, you'll be able to keep up with me because I'm pretty sure I can go for about six more rounds."

She snorted in response.

The grin he gave her was unguarded, boyish, delighted. He pulled her closer, nuzzling her hair, kissing her temple. "You know, today was a great day. Next time… let's go somewhere bigger. Coney Island, maybe. And next time—" his voice dropped to a husky promise, "—we fuck in the sky, among the clouds. Wouldn't that be exciting?"

Yelena huffed, half laugh, half exhausted groan. "Exciting? More like terrifying. You drop me halfway over Brooklyn and next thing you know, cleaners will be scraping me off of a hot dog cart".

He kissed her forehead, "I'd never drop you. I'm Superman. Faster than a speeding bullet."

She rolled her eyes, though her lips softened into a small, reluctant smile. "We'll see."

The silence stretched between them, warm and close. Bob's softness had always been an anchor—fragile, hesitant, yet deeply cherished. This overwhelming confidence was his as well, more arrogant perhaps, yet no less a part of the man she loved. She sank into him and found she could not resent him as she had earlier in the day. Even within the eye of his storm, she had not been swept away. She had chosen how to ride it. In yielding, she had not vanished—instead uncovered herself anew: alive, decisive, present. Dominance and surrender, control and trust, braided into a single truth. Though she had no powers of her own, within his tempest she discovered another strength—the quiet, undeniable power to steady him, to move him, to make even a god yield.

Yelena stirred first, blinking into the spill of pale morning light that slipped through the blinds. She turned her head. Beside her, Bob lay half-drowsing, lashes still heavy, chest rising in a slow, steady rhythm. For a moment she only watched him—the softened edges of his face, the mess of dark hair falling across his brow.

When his eyes finally opened, deep blue yet rimmed with fatigue, she greeted him.

"Good morning, Bob."

He flushed faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Morning, Yelena."

Her voice was quiet, steady. "How much do you remember from yesterday?"

"More than last time," he admitted after a beat. "The fair. Dinner. Those burgers. That hideous Labubu knockoff you won." His mouth pulled into a crooked, uncertain smile. "I felt like me and not me at the same time. It's… strange. I've been remembering more lately. I don't know if that's good or bad. What do you think?"

Yelena propped her chin on her hand, studying him with the kind of patience that always unnerved him. "I'd say it's good—if you're not losing memories as much as you used to."

His gaze flickered, conflict written plain across his face: fear of what still lurked inside him tangled with fragile hope that she would stay—that she would love him even after how rough he had been with her last night. He felt exposed. Achingly so.

She leaned forward, silencing his thoughts with a slow, deep kiss, her mouth lingering against his as if to anchor him. It was an answer in the only language that mattered: acceptance.

When they broke apart, Bob's blush deepened. "Sorry if I… overdid it yesterday. And, uh—" He gestured awkwardly toward the corner where a lamp lay in pieces. "For breaking stuff."

Low amusement hummed in her throat. "Don't worry. Lamps can be replaced." Her lips curved faintly as she added, "Though explaining it to Valentina? That's another story."

Groaning, he yanked a pillow over his face. "Just tell her I had a nightmare and threw things around. She'll believe that. Anyway, go freshen up first. I'm staying here a bit longer."

Yelena shook her head as she pushed the blanket aside and swung her legs off the bed.

"Ленивец," she playfully muttered, gathering up the scattered clothes from the night before. "I should be the one sleeping in after all that."

She padded into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind her. Hot water spilled over her skin in steady sheets, steam rising to curl around her. Tilting her head back, she let the heat sink into her muscles, washing away the remnants of the night.

It wasn't until she was toweling off in front of the bathroom mirror that she frowned. Something about her looked different… yet what was it?

Had she… put on weight? No. That was laughable. Not overnight.

Her reflection blinked back at her. Still the same face, though her body… the differences weren't glaring, not at first glance, yet they were there. Breasts fuller, hips rounder, arms and thighs stronger. Muscle definition carved a little deeper across her stomach. And—she leaned in, eyes narrowing—yes. Taller. By at least three inches.

"What the hell…" she whispered.

Her mind flicked back, unbidden, to that moment where her body had felt strange—the heat, the closeness, that peculiar tingling that had raced through her veins like static and how Bob hadn't felt quite as overwhelming inside her…

'Did he… change me subconsciously?'

For a second, old instincts clawed up. The Red Room. Bodies and minds altered, controlled, shaped into weapons. She had never been asked. Never been given a choice.

This… wasn't that. And Bob hadn't done this to her on purpose.

She touched her reflection again.

Her hand hovered over the mirror, fingers grazing the faint changes. Maybe, deep down, he'd wanted her to feel stronger. Safer at his side. Maybe even beautiful. She only wished he had asked first. Yet she'd also recalled her promise to the others that she would keep his reality-warping secret buried for now.

Her lips twitched into a faint, almost reluctant smile.

"At least he didn't give me Barbie doll proportions." She sighed under her breath. "Then we'd have a problem."

She pulled on the rest of her clothes, noting with a wry glance that her underwear hadn't survived the night. The fit was snug, her bra needing to be loosened by three notches, yet otherwise… she was still herself.

[To be Continued]

Chapter Text

Sometime Before…

At night, Bob lay back against the warm sheets, the pills already dissolved in his system. They dulled his nerves, but they didn’t silence the voices. Not when they wanted her.

I am the only one strong enough to hold her, to guard her, to deserve her.

You don’t love her. You love the idea of her, the reflection you built in your head.

The words overlapped like broken radio signals, whispering directly into his skull. He pressed a hand hard against his temple, as though pressure alone might shut them out. It didn’t.

I’ll love her so completely she’ll never doubt again. She’ll never want for anything.

She’ll leave. They always leave. Better to push her away now—before she abandons you like the rest. But if she stays… if she stays forever… oh, that light of hers will be delicious to covet. 

The contradictions made his stomach twist, nausea rising that had nothing to do with the pills. He sat up, sheets tangling at his waist, knuckles white as they clutched around the headboard.

“Why her?” His whisper cracked. “Why Yelena? I already promised to give myself to you both every month. Isn’t that enough?”

The voices swelled. Protection and possession. Longing and fear.

We are you. You are us.

Is it not fair that we only wish to share what you have?

Power prickled across his skin, static buzzing through the air as though even the Watchtower braced against the storm inside him. Sliding down the headboard, he buried his face against his knees, hands clamped hard over his ears. It didn’t help. The demands pressed from within, curling tight around his ribs like a vice. He could feel them battling through his skull, hungering for her, through him.

Shudders wracked him. Both wanted Yelena completely, each in their own consuming way. He was just the bridge, the unwilling man caught between the God and the End.

He had believed he could contain them—with pills, with silence, with therapy—but it wasn’t enough. His love for her had only drawn their obsession, made her their prize alongside him...

Terror tore his words in a rasp. 

“I can’t keep this from her forever. I have to tell her before either of you takes everything”.

The thought struck heavy, final. This news might not save his lover from the other halves of himself but hiding the truth would certainly make things worse…

Back in the Present…

Steam escaped from beneath the bathroom door in lazy tendrils, carrying the scent of lavender body wash as Yelena's voice drifted through the running shower water—humming a song he didn’t quite know the name of. He’d have to ask her what it was later. Perhaps it was a song native to her homeland or one he’d never heard of before.

Bob remained sprawled across his bed, muscles still heavy with satisfaction. The aftermath of their passion lay scattered around him—evidence of a beautiful crime. His copy of The Creative Act: A Way of Being had somehow ended up spine-down beneath a tangle of sheets, while his carefully organized collection of Penguin Classics and small plushies formed small hills across the room. His model aircrafts and vehicles that had occupied the days in his room fared no better, lying in various states of destruction. A P-51 Mustang fighter had lost a wing entirely, while a vintage Corvette's rear axle jutted at an unnatural angle next to a throw pillow that was perched impossibly on his highest bookshelf, defying both gravity and memory. A broken lamp‘s ceramic base had shattered against the hardwood floor.

Rising with a reluctant groan, Bob began to restore his room back to the way it was. Each plushie he’d placed back on to their shelves (even the ugly Labubu) and each book found its proper place among his eclectic collection: Dog-eared self-help volumes that promised better sleep and confidence nestled beside a leather-bound book containing various fairytales and mythologies. Next, he moved onto re-arranging his model vehicles. The delicate work he’d taken weeks to complete had been damaged in minutes. 

Strange how that didn't bother him as much as it should have.

Methodically, he sorted the casualties into two piles: One for the salvageable and the other for the unsalvageable. The repetitive task grounded his racing thoughts until something caught his peripheral vision—a glint of metal nestled in the shadow between his bookcase and the wall.

His fingers closed around what felt like a fallen screw, but when he brought it into the light, his blood turned ice cold.

It was a tiny surveillance device no larger than a postage stamp, its lens spider-webbed with cracks but unmistakably functional.

How long had it been there? Days? Weeks? The implications crashed over him in successive waves: Every private moment, every time he'd been able to simply exist as himself without the weight of being Sentry or the Void—

"What's in your hands, Bob?"

Yelena's voice sliced through his spiraling thoughts. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been mulling over the camera. She'd dressed faster than Bob expected but water still beaded her bare shoulders and damp hair was slicked back from her face in a way that made her cheekbones appear razor-sharp.

His throat constricted around words that wouldn't come. When he finally managed to speak, his voice sounded foreign. "I found this. By the bookcase. It must have been jarred loose when we—you know".

Three steps brought her close enough to snatch the object from his trembling fingers. Yelena examined it with cool professionalism, turning it over to reveal the tiny serial numbers etched along its edge. Her expression darkened.

"Valentina." The name emerged as both curse and certainty.

"You sure?" Though even as he asked, Bob suspected the same.

"Who else?" Yelena's laugh held no warmth, only bitter recognition. "She can't let go of what she thinks she owns. Of course she'd want a front-row seat to your most private moments. Even what we did last night." Her eyes found his, unflinching. "She saw everything we did, Bob. Everything."

Nausea rolled through his stomach. The intimacy they'd shared, the vulnerability, the words whispered against skin—all of it recorded, catalogued, stored away as ammunition for some future war.

"Then we're completely screwed." Bob sighed.

Yelena was already shaking her head, tossing the broken device onto the rumpled sheets with dismissive force. 

"Nyet. We’re only screwed if we let her weaponize it." Her voice carried the strength of someone who'd survived worse betrayals. "She'll likely try blackmail first when and if there’s a need to—threaten to release footage, make headlines, create a scandal. But what's the worst that happens? The world discovers that two adults had consensual sex? That the mysterious White Widow has feelings for The Sentry?"

Bob's hands found the back of his neck, kneading tension that seemed to live there permanently now. "Headlines mean attention and scrutiny though..."

"Then we try not to make it a weakness." Yelena moved closer, so close that he could smell the lavender-scented shampoo still clinging to her hair, "If she thinks this gives her power over us, she's miscalculated. We control the narrative, not her”.

The certainty in her voice should have been comforting, but doubt gnawed at him with persistent intensity. Before he could respond, his phone chimed with a digital reminder: OXE Mandatory Medical & Ability Assessment - 11:00AM.

Bob groaned, “Almost forgot about that…”

Yelena examined his unhappy expression, “You don’t like it?”

"Yeah. I hate doing these monthly checkups but I don't have much choice." Bob pulled a My Chemical Romance t-shirt over his head—a relic from another thrift store adventure that felt distant now. 

“What do they even do to you there? Make you run on a hamster wheel like Cucumber?” She laughed.

His movements carried the stiffness of someone preparing for battle. “Sort of. They make me run on a treadmill. They hook me up to machines. Sometimes they ask me to demonstrate my abilities."

"Do you?" The question came carefully, as if she understood the weight it carried.

"I do but…I do it in small amounts or try not to." He met her gaze, seeing his own fears reflected in her light blue eyes. "Because honestly, I'm terrified of what the results might show. What I might be really capable of when I stop holding back." The admission hung between them like a confession. "Probably as terrified as you are."

Outside their window, New York continued its relentless pulse, millions of people going about their lives, unaware that their greatest protector was also their greatest potential destroyer. Unaware that in the shadows, someone had been collecting his most intimate moments, stockpiling them until a certain time was right.

The broken camera lay on the bed between them—small, silent, and somehow still threatening despite its shattered lens.

"Well…We should get some breakfast now." Yelena's voice cut through the heavy silence that had settled over them, "I can't think straight on an empty stomach, and dwelling on that camera there won't change anything."

Bob glanced at his phone again. It was past nine in the morning, "I stocked the kitchen last week. There’s pancake batter, some eggs, cereal boxes—"

"Do you think we could make scrambled eggs and pancakes?" Excitement flickered in her eyes, chasing away some of the worry he’d seen in them.

The request was so sudden and so innocent that it nearly undid him. 

"S-Sure, we can do that.” Bob stammered.

They made their way through the Watchtower's sterile corridors, their footsteps echoing differently now. Yelena walked with her usual grace, but her posture seemed off. Bob couldn't quite place it. Maybe the way her shoulders seemed to sit higher or that the hem of her shirt was a bit higher up on her torso than it was yesterday…or maybe not? The stress was probably getting to both of them.

The communal kitchen next to the common room was empty, glass and steel caught the morning light streaming through the tower’s tall windows. The air still carried a hush, broken only by the soft clatter of bowls and utensils as Bob and Yelena worked side by side.

Bob cracked eggs into a ceramic bowl, his movements a little uneven but steadying with each try. Whisk, salt, splash of cream—it wasn’t elegant, but it was familiar. Beside him, Yelena was all precision, measuring pancake batter and checking the recipe card twice before pouring careful circles onto the hot griddle.

The kitchen smells like vanilla, butter, and warmth as the whisk’s steady scrape, the soft hiss of butter hitting the pan, the golden puff of pancakes swelling on the griddle created a pleasant, natural melody around them.

“You’re good at this.” Bob said, nudging the eggs with a spatula, watching them firm.

“You don’t have to flatter me. Pancakes are foolproof breakfast meal. It's hard to mess up unless you lose focus.”

She flipped one cleanly, but some of the uncooked residue still landed on the apron she’d scavenged from a drawer.

“Wow, I realise I haven't done this in a long time—proper cooking.” Yelena chuckled lightly.

Bob glanced at her, then back at the pan. “What was the last food you made yourself?”

“Cup noodles.” Her lips twitched as she poured another round of batter. “What else?”

“I see,” Bob murmured, easing the eggs into soft folds. “Well… you could always come here for breakfast or lunch or dinner and eat with me”.

That earned him the faintest smile. “That’s a generous offer, Bob. Maybe once we figure out how to deal with that camera problem. Who knows how many others are hidden around…”

When the food was done, they plated everything with care. Yelena stacked the pancakes in a crooked tower, drizzling syrup until it gleamed. Bob slid fluffy mounds of scrambled eggs beside them, the butter still glistening. The spread looked almost too domestic for the sterile Watchtower kitchen: pancakes, eggs, coffee and scattered berries.

They sat across from each other in the dining area that had been tacked onto the kitchen which consisted of brutalist benches bolted to the floor and a long slab of stone for a table, all clean angles and no comfort. To Bob the furniture appeared as though it hadn’t been store-bought but transferred from the prison cafeteria. Still, it was the only place to sit and eat so they made do and the delicious food they cooked more than made up for their seating.

As the minutes passed, Bob noticed the way Yelena’s neutral expression seemed to shift to a frown. She nudged berries around her plate instead of eating them, her fork scraping faint lines across the surface of her tray.

"Hey." He set down his fork. "You okay?"

"Of course." The response came too quickly, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've barely eaten anything, and you keep looking..." He searched for the right word. "Sad isn't right. Troubled, maybe?"

"I'm fine, Bob. Really. Just processing that camera we saw earlier." She cut a neat triangle of pancake, chewed it as fast as she could. "It's a lot to take in."

Her shoulders continued to remain tense, and she wouldn't quite meet his gaze. Bob knew better than to push though—Yelena would share what she wanted to share, when she was ready. Still, the distance between them felt oddly wider than it was yesterday.

They finished breakfast in relative silence, cleaning dishes with the same care they'd used to cook. When the last plate was dried and put away, Yelena checked her phone and sighed.

"I should go. Let you prepare for your appointment." She moved toward him and planted a kiss on his lips which he leaned down to accep, "Good luck today".

Her kiss was soft and wonderful, but when she pulled back, Bob again felt that strange sense of displacement he had earlier—as if she were occupying space differently than she had before. He couldn't quite figure out what was wrong yet...

"Take care of yourself, Bob. Doing that is more important than mulling over whatever Valentina has in store for us".

She waved him goodbye as she went down the elevator, leaving him standing in the pristine kitchen, sunlight painting geometric patterns across the floor. He touched his lips. He always missed her when she left.

The breakfast dishes sat clean in the drying rack, but there were still crumbs on the counter, a small puddle of syrup that had dripped from the bottle. Bob found himself grateful for the mundane task ahead—wiping surfaces, putting ingredients away, restoring order. Something normal to occupy his hands while his mind processed everything that had happened since dawn.

What he didn’t think twice about was that when Yelena had kissed him goodbye, the top of her head had reached his chin instead of his collarbone…

Chapter Text

==

OXE LABORATORY, Location Unknown

==

The observation room was dim, lit only by the pallid glow of monitors. Data crawled across steel-blue screens in endless columns: vitals, biometric charts, blood analysis, psychological profiles. Threaded between the clinical reports were slides that didn't belong—marketing dossiers stamped:

[CONFIDENTIAL] NEW AVENGERS INITIATIVE – ASSET OBSERVATION DOSSIER

On one monitor, Robert Reynolds’s blank expression stared back in high resolution. The caption beneath had once read “The Golden Guardian of Good with the Power of a Thousand Exploding Suns.” but now, in its place: “Watchtower Tactical Operator” A downgrade from savior to functionary.

Beneath it, a bullet point further stripped the shine away in cold shorthand: recovering addict, dissociative symptoms, C-PTSD, childhood trauma. A third logged him flatly as “the only successful test subject of Project Sentry.”

The words rolled onwards:

Yelena Belova, White Widow: The Reformed Assassin. A soft PR smile paired with internal notes about volatility, her fierce protectiveness of Reynolds flagged as leverage.

Ava Starr, Ghost: The Brooding Loner. Grainy phasing stills sold her anonymity as “brand intrigue,” while the footnotes warned against provoking her.

John Walker, US Agent: The Anti-Hero America Wasn’t Ready For. Scarlet file stamped liability, his volatility rebranded as controversy.

Alexei Shostakov, Red Guardian: The Old Hero. Smiling portrait annotated with “ego easily manipulated” and “paternal influence.”

James Barnes, Winter Soldier: The Ghost of War. Somber, cult appeal for the public; internally flagged as “conscience risk — unpredictable if opposed.”

Each file doubled back on itself. Polished slogans mirrored by Internal Use Only tabs. Relationship diagrams wired across each other like circuitry.

Dr. Havelock tapped the screen with his pen, voice flat. "The Professor's orders are clear. Push him harder. We've plateaued three times already because of his refusals. It's time for accurate results."

Dr. Kessler scoffed. "And how exactly do you propose we 'push' the subject? He's stubborn as hell. Half the time he stops on his own terms, no matter what protocol dictates."

"Then we adapt the protocol." Havelock's lips curved slightly. "Stroke his ego—just enough. Make it about proving himself, about being the strongest, about wanting to know if he has the strength to protect those he loves. He won't walk away from that kind of bait."

Dr. Moritz shifted, arms folding tighter across his chest. "Isn't that dangerous?" His voice faltered, then steadied. "You've read the files. What if we accidentally bring out the other one? The Void?"

Kessler cut him off with a snort, a dismissive flick of his hand. "Then we don't let it surface. Simple."

"Simple?" Moritz's reply was scathing. "That's not a plan, that's wishful thinking. Talking him down is the only thing that's kept him under control so far. Keep him calm, keep him focused—that's our leash. That Belova woman has been more effective at calming him than any of us, but she won't always be around, and without her? We've got nothing."

For a moment, silence settled, heavy as lead. The monitors kept ticking, the artificial pulse of a man who wasn't even in the room but dominated every word.

At last, Havelock spoke again, his tone cool and measured. “Then we walk the line carefully. Should any instability emerge…” He let the pause stretch, scalpel-sharp. “We invoke consequence. Remind him who pays the price when he falters. That guilt—and the illusion of domesticity—has kept him compliant this long.”

A muted chime cut through the hum of the monitors. Kessler glanced down at the alert scrolling across a secondary screen. “The transport has arrived. Our Subject is here.”

The van's engine hummed beneath Bob as they reached the laboratory—wherever that was. He had long since stopped trying to guess the location. The reinforced windows admitted only thin blades of sunlight, reminders of a world outside but never enough to place it. He focused instead on the vibrations through the floor, the steady rattle of metal against metal, anything to blunt the weight of what waited for him.

The facility was unchanged. The corridors reeked of disinfectant. They handed him the standard uniform: plain white cotton shorts and a T-shirt. He changed behind the flimsy curtain, its transparency an unspoken reminder of how little privacy he had, then stepped into the testing chamber.

Though he had only been here three times before, the room's dimensions seemed to shrink with each visit. Windowless, washed in institutional white, bristling with instruments whose purposes remained opaque even to him. Beyond the glass, silhouettes shifted and murmured in cadences behind several screens, every gesture recorded, every breath observed.

The routine began predictably. Blood first—always blood. They drew a vial, the needle sliding in without ceremony. Then came the health check: height, weight, blood pressure. He stood rigid while they marked him at six-foot-two, as always. The scale read 195lbs. He'd gained six more pounds of muscle mass since last month.

"Any changes to your regimen, Robert?" asked Kessler, eyes never leaving his tablet.

"No. Same as always," he replied, though a cheeky corner of his mind wondered if his night with Yelena counted as additional exercise.

Vision tests followed. Charts that blurred into meaninglessness for anyone else resolved crisply to his sight; he read the smallest rows without strain. Hearing tests came next—frequencies pitched to the edge of human capacity, each one caught.

He hadn't mentioned it to them yet, but through the muffled glass, he was able to hear their voices.

"Consistent twenty-five acuity." said Havelock.

“Thirty-two kilohertz above baseline — hearing well beyond human tolerance,” Kessler remarked, dismissive, as though even excellence bored him.

X-ray scans came next. He lay flat on the cold metal table while the machine hummed and clicked, slicing him into digital cross-sections. The sound reminded him of an enormous insect crawling through his bones.

Next the treadmill. Walk, jog, sprint, faster, faster—his body accommodated each demand with infuriating ease. Sensors mapped everything: his stride, his breath, the efficient thrum of a heart that barely quickened. It was almost boring, this endless proof of what he already knew.

"Able to maintain speeds that would challenge a racecar," Kessler remarked.

"Heart rate decreased significantly since last session," Havelock noted.

Bob stared straight ahead, refusing to glance at the glass. He didn't need to; their eyes pressed against him all the same, dissecting every movement. The treadmill slowed beneath his feet at a signal, the machinery winding down with a mechanical sigh. He stepped off, sweat barely touching his brow, his body showing none of the strain they had hoped for.

He might have walked straight to the bench—except a reinforced door to his right slid open with a hiss. Beyond it stretched a sleek indoor track, a perfect oval of pale, unmarked surface. It gleamed under the sterile lights, custom-built and waiting only for him.

He was unsettled by the sight.

"Robert," Havelock's voice carried through the intercom, calm and measured. "That track was designed specifically for someone of your capabilities. A controlled environment. We'd like to see what your true speed potential looks like."

Bob's eyes narrowed. "Weren’t the treadmill readings already high enough?"

"High, yes," Kessler's voice cut in, clipped, impatient. "But incomplete. You've been holding back. Everyone knows it."

The words prickled. He glanced between the track and the observation window, his pulse quickening despite himself.

Then Moritz spoke, hesitant but insistent. "Robert... Valentina misled you. She told you restraint was the only way to keep the Void at bay. That was her fear speaking, not fact. You've had better control over yourself since the therapy began. More stable than the files suggested. Stronger. Better."

Bob stiffened, the old warning echoing in his skull: Never use your power. Never let the Void out. Another voice rose against it—the memory of what the Sentry had whispered to Yelena only last night. Valentina had killed him once, and it was that betrayal that had drawn the Void, not the powers themselves.

Still, doubt clawed at him. "I don't know..."

Havelock's voice slid back in, cool and precise. "You've disciplined yourself for months. The therapist's work has given you control. This is your chance to prove it—to prove to everyone you're no longer unstable. After all...you are better than anyone else. We'd simply like to see it."

The words landed like a hook. Challenge wrapped in flattery. Pride stirred, hot and undeniable. Bob found his feet carrying him toward the track.

"You know what?" he muttered, adrenaline beginning to surge. "Fine. Let's see what happens."

He crouched at the starting line, muscles coiling tight. Behind the glass, the scientists leaned forward in anticipation.

He sprinted. The world blurred into streaks of color and light. His feet barely grazed the track as he accelerated, faster and faster until the air screamed against his skin. One lap. Two. Three. Each faster than the last, each circuit burning away another layer of hesitation. The surface beneath him vibrated, sensors sparking, monitors failing to keep pace.

And still he pushed harder.

When at last he slowed, coming to a halt at the finish line, his chest rose and fell with only the faintest exertion. He could hear the stunned silence from the observation room even through the glass.

"Jesus Christ," Moritz’s professional mask slipped, "The sensors clocked him at three hundred miles per hour on the first lap—by the third, they couldn't track him at all."

Bob stood there, exhilaration pounding through his veins, tangled with fear. He had never moved like that before. Never so fast, never so easily. Bob’s pulse still thundered from the run, though not from exertion. The terrifying part was how much of him wanted to do it again. He forced himself to breathe in, breathe out, steadying the rush he felt before it consumed him.

The strength trials followed in quick succession.

The sandbag loomed first, thickly reinforced and layered with exotic composites designed to withstand blows that could level steel. Bob struck once, twice—controlled punches that made the bag’s chains groan and rattled dust from the seams. Behind the glass, the scientists urged him to go harder. Reluctance tightened his jaw, but when he finally drove his fist through, the reinforced casing split with a bone-shaking crack. Sensors sparked, the bag tore free of its restraints, and it collapsed in a heap at his feet.

“Sorry.” Bob muttered toward the glass, shaking out his hand.

"Not a problem," came Havelock's precise reply. "We'll have another one ready for next month”.

Next, crates were stacked heavier and denser, each packed with lead. Bob hefted the first as if it were empty, then the second, then the third. By the fifth, the load would have snapped a human spine, but he carried it across the chamber effortlessly.

“Now throw them,” Kessler ordered, clipped and impatient. “At the target marks on the walls. As usual.”

Bob hurled the crates against the padded wall, each impact echoing like a cannon blast. The wall groaned under the repeated collisions, faint impressions denting the target marks. By the final throw, sweat clung to his brow, though his breathing remained maddeningly steady.

Then came what he hated most.

A projectile—an iron rod—was fired at him, propelled with enough force to punch through steel. Instinct flared. His hand shot up and the rod froze midair, suspended in the invisible hold of a telekinetic barrier. He lowered it gently to the ground, pulse quickening.

The scientists pressed for more. Heat this. Bend that. Ice cubes, steel, wires—they pushed them into his hands one after another, demanding demonstrations. With tight concentration, he gripped the steel and heated it, his hands glowing faintly. The metal turned molten, white-hot and liquid, but his skin remained unmarred. He coaxed it into a crude sphere.

“Very good,” Moritz was almost impressed. “Do you think you’d like to fly for us today?”

“No. I've had enough.” Bob let the warped metal fall from his palms with a clang.

Silence hung for a beat. Then Havelock’s calm voice cut through: “Fine. End the trial.”

He was escorted out, led down the sterile corridor into a small office where his regular clothes waited. He dressed in silence, but his ears once again caught their voices through the thin glass.

“He’s frankly a miracle,” Havelock said, measured as always. “The serum continues to enhance his body in unpredictable ways.”

“His powers might continue to evolve, perhaps even accelerate. Each day could make him stronger than the last.” Kessler added detachedly, though a sliver of intrigue did slip through.

Bob’s thoughts churned, though not entirely from fear. The words ought to have chilled him, yet his heart beat faster for another reason. Fear was there, yes, but woven with it was a keener thread—excitement. The dangerous thrill of realizing his strength, of how easily he had broken every barrier in his path.

He dressed in silence, tugging his shirt back into place, when the door opened and two guards stepped in. No words were needed; he knew the routine. They fell into step at his sides, guiding him down the antiseptic corridor toward the offices where the debrief always ended.

They rounded the last corner and froze.

The Professor was already waiting. He stood in the corridor ahead, tall and still. His hands were folded behind his back, expression unreadable.

Bob had long since stopped caring about the man's actual name—Dr. Something-or-other with too many letters after it.

"Robert. Overall, excellent results across the board. Good job.” He clapped once, “But before we conclude today's session, I need you to undergo one more trial."

Bob stiffened, every muscle tightening. "No. I've already said I've done enough today."

The Professor's eyes narrowed.

"This one is different. Urgent. It will only require a minute of your time. We cannot end the session without it."

His tone carried no room for refusal. The guards shifted beside him, waiting. The sterile hum of the corridor seemed suddenly louder. Bob's breath caught, a knot of reluctance twisting in his chest.

He didn't want to. Every part of him screamed not to but the Professor's gaze didn't waver.

Without another word, the Professor turned and led him down the hall. The guards followed at a distance, their boots clicking against polished tile. They stopped at an unmarked door. The Professor opened it, gesturing Bob inside.

The lab was empty. It was all bare counters, various instruments and equipment scattered here and there, and the oppressive silence of a room waiting to be filled. The praise from earlier still rang hollow in Bob's ears, another measurement in an endless catalog of his abnormality.

"So, what do you need me to do?" Bob asked, brows drawing together.

The Professor gestured toward a metal counter. A glass flask sat near the edge, white and unremarkable except for a small scratch on ist side. "Touch that. Command it to float."

Bob stared at the object, then at the Professor, incredulous. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Tactile telekinesis," the Professor replied, already scrolling through notes on his tablet with the distracted air of someone discussing the weather. "We've observed that you possess some form of touch-based force projection. It explains your flight capabilities—you don't actually fly in the traditional sense. Instead, you displace air molecules, generating localized buoyancy effects in yourself or objects you've made contact with. We've documented several levitational episodes during periods of emotional elevation. I'd like to see if you can replicate the effect without that emotional trigger. Your coupling field extends approximately two meters at peak manifestation."

"And how," Bob asked, his voice carefully controlled, "have you observed these episodes?"

The Professor glanced up from his tablet, olive green eyes showing mild surprise at the question. "Direct observation, naturally. We maintain comprehensive environmental monitoring."

Bob's stomach dropped into free fall. Images flashed through his mind—Yelena beneath him, her back arching as his feet left the ground last night. Yelena, leaning into him in rare unguarded tenderness on another morning, planting a kiss that had sent his body literally soaring off the ground before gravity reclaimed him with a stumble. He'd laughed about it then, breathless, and she'd laughed with him.

"Environmental monitoring," Bob repeated slowly. "From where?"

"Various sources," the Professor replied with casual indifference, already turning back to his data. "Valentina provides access to surveillance feeds from the Watchtower. When subjects refuse to participate in controlled testing, we're forced to rely on uncontrolled activation events. It's not ideal from a scientific standpoint, but it's expedient."

The words hit Bob like physical blows. His mind supplied the images unbidden: Yelena beneath him, her back arching as his feet left the ground. Another morning, her kiss sending him soaring before gravity reclaimed him with a stumble. They'd laughed together, breathless and unguarded.

And these men had watched it all. Recorded it. Analyzed it as lab data.

Heat flooded Bob's face—shame so acute it felt physical. Every private moment, every vulnerable touch, reduced to metrics on a spreadsheet. "Localized buoyancy effects." "Emotional elevation." Clinical terms that stripped away everything that mattered, that made those moments theirs.

His hands trembled at his sides. He couldn't look at the Professor, couldn't bear to see that indifferent expression while his most intimate memories were catalogued like specimens.

The floor beneath Bob's feet gave a subtle tremor. On the metal counter, instruments began to vibrate with increasing intensity. A pen rolled off the Professor's clipboard, hovering for a suspended moment before clattering to the ground.

"You and Valentina have been watching me after all…" Bob said, each word clipped and deliberate through gritted teeth.

"Meaning?"

"I found a hidden camera in my bedroom." He folded his arms, shoulders tight. "You know about it, don't you?"

"Well… yes," the Professor replied without looking up from his tablet. His tone was measured, almost bored. "Your privacy is of course respected within reasonable parameters but when you show reluctance to demonstrate abilities voluntarily, alternative observation methods become expedient."

"Expedient." Bob's voice had dropped to sounding barely recognizable as human. "You keep using that word."

The air around him thickened, charged with invisible pressure that made the fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The Professor's white coat rippled as if touched by unfelt wind, his collar tugging upward with increasing force.

"Mr. Reynolds, I need you to remain calm—"

"You want me to be calm?!" The word exploded from Bob's throat as the pressure around them intensified. "You watched me. You watched us. In my bedroom. In my private moments!"

The pen lifted from the floor, spinning slowly in midair. An invisible force closed around the Professor's throat for a few seconds and he gasped for air.

Bob blinked hard, forcing it back as he realized what was happening. The Professor coughed slightly.

Bob's hands shook. He hadn't meant to... "Oh God, I'm sorry."

"This," the Professor wheezed, tugging his collar flat again, "is why we monitor you so closely. You don't grasp the limits of your own strength, and that ignorance is what makes you dangerous to yourself and us."

Bob's chest heaved. "If so then, tell me," he said hoarsely. "That drug you gave me—what did you do to me?"

The Professor smoothed his coat, indifferent composure restoring itself. "We introduced a series of catalytic agents designed to amplify the baseline capabilities of human physiology into your bloodstream via a syringe. The specific compounds and their interactions remain classified, Mr. Reynolds."

"Classified?"

"For your protection as much as ours." The Professor made another notation on his clipboard, as though Bob's near-homicidal breakdown was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "Knowledge of the enhancement process could be... dangerous in the wrong hands. Dr. Martinez and Dr. Webb would agree, I think. Though of course, Dr. Martinez can't agree to much of anything these days."

Bob frowned, confusion cutting through the haze of fury. "Who?"

The Professor's eyes glinted. "Not surprised you don't remember them. They administered the Sentry Serum to you in Malaysia. You sort of made them vanish from reality."

Something stirred in Bob's mind:

A surgical room. His once-frail body strapped to a table. One lab coat adjusted the restraints. Another murmured instructions he couldn't make out. Heat flooded his veins. He remembered slumping back, and then—nothing.

"But not for long." The Professor continued, "They returned the same day every citizen in Manhattan did—restored physically when the Void receded. But they weren't the same. Unlike the others, they spent months trapped inside. Webb clawed his way back to something resembling sanity, though the nightmares never stopped but poor Martinez..." The Professor shook his head with pity. "He never truly returned. Physically present, yes, but his mind remains catatonic. Lost to the Void, I suppose. I wasn't there the day you and your other selves were 'born,' but I've seen the footage. Every angle. Every second. I've also interviewed those who survived long enough before they were killed."

"Killed?" Bob's voice came out hollow.

"Oh yes." The Professor smoothed the front of his coat. "Despite the Void issue, you survived the trial and passed out before it could erase everyone in that building. This meant Project Sentry was finally a success—but witnessing what they'd created fractured the team. Some argued you should be kept alive and studied. Others insisted you be sealed away and disposed of before that thing surfaced again." He paused, letting the word sink in. "The latter opinion won. So they all agreed: You would be placed into cryo sleep, then discarded somewhere to die quietly alongside the other failures. Another dead body in a box."

Bob staggered back, throat dry, a flicker of black curling at the edges of his vision like smoke.

The Professor's tone remained calm, "And here is the cruel irony of it: In erasing the evidence that you survived the procedure, they sealed their own fates. Project Sentry was deemed a failure, and with too many rumours already spreading about its inhumane practices, Valentina decided the safest course was not just to discontinue the project but to cleanse it entirely—the reports, the results, the scientists themselves."

He clicked his pen once, the sound crystal clear in the silence.

"Nearly every employee tied to Project Sentry was silenced. Officially, accidents. Unofficially, assassinations. And do you know who carried them out?"

Bob's stomach twisted. He already hated what the words were building up to.

The Professor's eyes glinted as they lifted from the notes, "Your friends, Three of the New Avengers. Valentina gave the orders, signed their paychecks, and they obeyed. Ava. John. And your beloved Lenochka."

"Stop talking." Bob's voice cracked. There was fury in it, a warning.

The Professor leaned forward slightly as if savoring the strike.

"You cling to them as if they’re righteous but in the end, they're no different from you—Weapons, Mr. Reynolds. Killers dressed up in costumes. Their bloodstains scrubbed clean, repainted as heroes for Valentina's charade".

"I said stop!" Bob's voice broke in echoes, as though two men were speaking at once. "Don't you dare talk about them like that!"

The room convulsed. Lights stuttered and burst. The instruments on a nearby counter rattled violently before crashing to the floor. The Professor's body rose from his chair, feet dangling, throat cinched by the unseen grip.

The crash summoned the guards inside. Guns raised, they froze at the sight—their superior suspended midair, the room trembling with barely contained power.

"Stand down!" the Professor rasped, impossibly composed even as bruises darkened his throat.

Bob blinked, forcing his emotions down as he noticed the weapons pointed at him. Not that they could do any damage to him but still...

The pressure released. The instruments clattered as they fell and the Professor dropped back into his chair, ragged but alive.

The guards hesitated. One muttered, "Sir—"

"It's fine." The Professor waved off their concern with infuriating calm, "You see, Mr. Reynolds? Exactly as anticipated. Pressure exposes what lies beneath. Your powers are escalating—and so must our tests. Today’s session is concluded. Until next month".

The guards who'd entered closed in around Bob, leading him away. He didn't resist. His muscles twitched, his head swam.

Bob wasn't a child. Bob wasn't entirely stupid either. From the start he'd known the people he met in that basement weren't saints—being marked for termination meant  they were all involved in something horrible or had blood on their hands. Later, Valentina had even ordered him (or at least the Sentry) to arrest them or kill them. But he hadn't. He could tell himself now it was mercy, but that would be a lie—back then, that part of him simply hadn't cared enough to bother. They weren't worth the effort. And yet, they had saved him in the Void when they hadn't needed to. Calling them nothing but killers erased everything else. It erased the single act of kindness that mattered most—choosing to pull him out when they could have left him to rot.

It didn't matter whether their bonds were built on lies or truth. He told himself that again and again. They were like family to him and he prayed he could keep them that way.

When they finally returned him to the Watchtower, Bob rode the escalator up, trying not to think of the way the Professor had looked at him on the way out.

Not with fear.

With satisfaction.

As if Bob had finally given him exactly the data he'd been hoping for today.

The day, however, wasn't done with him yet. When he returned to the Watchtower, a package waited outside his bedroom door. No courier, no signature—just his name in black ink.

He tore the wrapper open.

Inside lay a folded hoodie, the fabric soft beneath his fingers. The colors hit him first: bold gold and deep blue—the same palette as the uniform Valentina had once paraded as his colors, the costume he had never asked for. Across the back, stitched wide and unmissable, was the new Avengers insignia. On the chest, smaller but deliberate, sat a segmented "S." The Sentry's mark.

A note rested on top, written in Valentina's looping script.

Robert, Take this new uniform as an apology for the hidden cameras and for sharing the footage with my employees. I did so only for your safety and for proper record-keeping, nothing more. I hope you'll appreciate the gift. Wear it casually, if you wish—but I'd like you to put it on for the next mission briefing. Think of it as showing the world who you are—and who you belong with. Yours, V.

Bob stared at the embroidered "S," his thumb brushing the threads before folding the hoodie and shoving it deep into his bedroom cupboard, where her cameras couldn't reach and her plans couldn't touch him.

The hoodie was soft. Comfortable, even. But it wasn’t for him—not really. It was for the cameras, for the headlines, for an image Valentina wanted to polish and sell.

Maybe he’d wear it one day to remind himself how hollow her “gifts” really were.

He glanced up at the ceiling corners, the light fixtures, the smoke detector. Started checking behind picture frames and under the desk lamp. If there was one hidden camera, there would be others. And now that he had the free time and knew what to look for, he wasn't going to stop until he found every single one.

[To Be Continued]

BONUS MATERIAL aka the Files the Scientists were reading that I wrote out for fun which is meant to act as a sort of in universe ‘character’ sheet written by a secret someone watching them which is part accurate but also part inaccurate:

[CONFIDENTIAL] NEW AVENGERS INITIATIVE – ASSET OBSERVATION DOSSIER
Prepared for Contessa V.A. de Fontaine by [REDACTED].

Last Updated: [REDACTED]

FILE 1: ROBERT REYNOLDS

Codename: Sentry
Status: ACTIVE - Monitored 24/7 in the Watchtower
Threat Level: High
Marketable Role: [The Golden Guardian of Good with the power of a Thousand Exploding Suns] Watchtower Tactical Operator

Notes:

• The only successful test subject of Project Sentry.
• Recovering addict; Recently diagnosed with a history of C-PTSD, Bipolar II Disorder, Schizophrenia and (possible) DID.
• Experiment has resulted in manifestation of two extreme personas (or emotional states?) which he describes as The Sentry and The Void  [Refer to Dr Worth's Reports]
• The “Manhattan Incident” marked the Void’s first full emergence—officially covered up as an extraterrestrial threat that was repelled by the New Avengers.
• Recent behavior suggests stabilization. He is engaged in therapy, group integration, and limited mission support. Currently confined to tactical oversight and recon support via Watchtower systems rather than the frontline "Hero" role originally intended.
• Internal Use Only: Treat with extreme caution. Maintain emotional security to prevent Void resurgence. Neither we nor Reynolds fully understand the scale of his power which may rival [REDACTED]. Attaches quickly to allies, making him loyal but vulnerable.

FILE 02: YELENA BELOVA

Codename: White Widow
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Low–Moderate
Marketable Role: The Reformed Assassin
Notes:

• Former Black Widow assassin. Defected post-Red Room collapse. 
• Possesses sharp instincts—Ruthless, sarcastic, and fiercely protective of certain teammates, especially Robert [Refer to File 1] and her Adoptive Father Alexei [Refer to File 5].
• Internal Use Only: PR goldmine. Attractive, complicated, and emotionally compelling but doesn’t respond well to manipulation. Observed to have trust issues and keeps certain levels of emotional distance from people depending on how well she knows them. Not afraid to turn against leadership.

FILE 03: AVA STARR

Codename: Ghost
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Moderate–High
MARKETABLE ROLE: The Brooding Loner
Notes:

• Former SHIELD asset who was afflicted with “molecular disequilibrium” since childhood after a lab accident. Her condition of fading in and out of reality is managed by her having to constantly wear a specialised suit of armour.
• Other than Robert [Refer to File 1], she’s the only other person with a unique power set that allows her to be both invisible and intangible.
• Either speaks rarely or doesn't say much and is a bit awkward at conversation, but observes everything.
• Claims to like being left alone but often joining the group whenever they are together suggests otherwise.
• Internal Use Only: Minimal threat unless cornered. Do not antagonize. Extremely difficult to track if she chooses to vanish as she’s prone to disappearing and reappearing on her own terms. Has been noted to avoid press. Prefers anonymity. Not viable for front-facing PR.

FILE 04: JOHN WALKER

Codename: U.S. Agent
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Moderate
MARKETABLE ROLE: The anti-hero America wasn’t ready for
Notes:

• Former Captain America replacement. Public image heavily damaged after prior violent incident.
• Aggressive, impulsive, and deeply insecure. Overcompensates with bravado and rigid moral code.
• Works well with others in missions but loosely tolerates teammates emotionally when out of the field. However, his relationship with everyone has been improving gradually.
• Internal Use Only: Possible liability. Responds to chain of command, but barely.

FILE 05: ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV

Codename: Red Guardian
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Low
MARKETABLE ROLE: The Old Hero
Notes:

• Soviet-era super soldier. Aged but still very strong. Loves validation and camaraderie.
• Functions as emotional glue in a team. Disarming presence. Uses humor as deflection.
• Strong bond with younger members. Protective, even paternal. 
• Internal Use Only: Could be marketed more as a charming “dad hero” or “team dad”. Much like Robert, he could possibly be manipulated by ego boosts or flattery. Has moments of surprising clarity.

FILE 06: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES

Codename: Winter Soldier [Formulating a possible rebrand to White Wolf based on a suggestion from marketing. Still up for debate]
Status: ACTIVE
Threat Level: Moderate
MARKETABLE ROLE: The Ghost of War
Notes:

• A 100+ year old former American WW2 Soldier turned former HYDRA assassin turned present day Freshman American Congressman and presently a member of the New Avengers who usually fills in for the leader role when John or Yelena isn’t available on missions.
• Has a surprisingly strong cult following (but not politically)
• Highly principled. Will not tolerate manipulation of teammates. Difficult to lie to.
• Occasionally communicates with Sam Wilson who is rumoured to be building his own team of Avengers at present
• Internal Use Only: Observe and handle cautiously. Most emotionally grounded and analytical of the group. 

OBSERVED TEAM DYNAMICS

Chapter Text

At first, there was only the sound — a low, rumbling purr that rolled beneath Yelena's feet like distant thunder. Then the grass came into focus, tall and green, rippling in the wind. A single collar bell chimed, then another, and another, until six eyes blinked open in the sunlight.

A massive dog with three heads stared at her, its tail wagging too hard to appear dignified.

The middle one — brown-furred, with eyes the deep blue of the ocean depths — looked at her with open affection. The right head glowed with golden fur and eyes that saw everything and nothing. The left was darker than shadow, fur black and matte, its white eyes half-closed in drowsy contentment.

The creature padded toward her, paws sinking into the earth, every motion absurdly energetic. Its body was sleek and powerful, fur shining where light touched it — brown at the heart, fading into gold on one side and black on the other, as though day and night had stitched themselves together along its spine.

"Bob?" she called the Cerberus unthinkingly.

All three heads barked at once, and she laughed — an unguarded, startled sound that caught in her throat. The middle head bounded forward first, knocking her flat into the grass. The other two followed, tail whipping like a banner in a hurricane, tongues everywhere at once. The weight of them pressed her into the dirt, their shared warmth flooding through her chest.

"Alright, alright — stop!" she tried to protest between bursts of laughter. The brown head grabbed her sleeve and tugged playfully; the gold one nosed her palm with stately insistence; the black one sighed and laid its chin across her shoulder, heavy and cold. Their combined heartbeat thrummed through the ground in steady percussion.

She couldn't help but smile and when she finally sat up, the great beast flopped beside her, three tongues lolling, panting in unison. She reached out, fingers brushing the fur where their necks met. Playful, cautious and loving dog heads leaned into her touch.

"Good boy. Or umm Boys?".

The words rippled through the dog. For a moment, all six eyes glowed softly — blue deepening, gold brightening, white shining clean. The middle head pressed closer, nuzzling her cheek with a sound like laughter. She scratched behind its ear and found herself murmuring nonsense — Russian endearments she hadn't spoken since childhood.

The sky above them shifted from blue to white, as if the world itself couldn't decide what hour it was. She leaned back, letting warmth soak through her bones. For a while, it was peaceful. The kind of peace she never trusted when awake.

Then the colors began to muddle. One head blinked out, then another. The field started to disappear as the remaining head, the black one with white eyes, turned toward her — tongue lolling lazily — and before she could react, a large wet swipe brushed across her face.

Once. Twice. Harder now.

Her eyes fluttered open to the real world—to the weight on her chest, the sloppy, insistent tongue dragging warm and wet across her cheek, and the familiar scent of her own dog's fur, earthy and clean with the faintest hint of the lavender shampoo she'd used last week.

"Fanny!" she groaned, wiping her face with the back of her hand, the moisture cooling against her skin. "Da, Малышка. I'm awake."

The Akita woofed proudly, a deep rumbling sound of triumph, and thumped her tail against the sheets in a rhythm that shook the mattress, each thump deliberate and insistent.

Yelena lay down a little longer, suspended in that gossamer space where sleep still clung to the edges of consciousness. Her pulse still carried the echo of that rumbling purr—that strange comfort wrapped in power, reverberating through her ribcage like a second heartbeat. She exhaled slowly, her fingers sliding behind Fanny's ears to scratch at the soft fur there, the motion grounding her in the here and now, anchoring her to reality.

Later, she stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a chipped ceramic bowl cupped in her hands, its pale blue glaze cracked along one side like a spider's web. The remainder of the cereal had gone soggy, each flake bloated and surrendering to the milk that had turned lukewarm and slightly sweet. Still, she kept spooning it mechanically, the metal clinking softly against porcelain, her eyes drifting to where Fanny devoured her breakfast sloppily, kibble scattering across the floor in an expanding constellation of brown nuggets, water splashing from her bowl with each enthusiastic gulp.

"Slow down." Yelena yawned, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "You're gonna leave a mess."

She rinsed her spoon and bowl before crossing to the window where a row of small clay pots lined the sill, their terracotta surfaces worn smooth by her hands over countless mornings. The herbs there—parsley with its bright crown of serrated leaves, mint sprawling wild and fragrant, basil standing proud with leaves like green velvet—leaned toward the morning sun, drawn to its golden warmth as if in prayer.

Yelena brushed her thumb across a basil leaf. It bent under her touch and released its scent.

Fanny nosed at her ankle, her wet snout leaving a damp spot on Yelena's skin.

"No. No more food. And you can't eat these plants. They're mine."

She watered them one by one with a nearby cup, watching the dark soil drink in the moisture, the surface darkening like wet stone. For a blissful moment she pictured a future where she retired to the countryside and owned a greenhouse, its glass panes fogged with humidity, vines spilling down from hanging baskets in waterfalls of green, a random mix of flowers and shrubbery growing wild and untamed, their roots tangled together in beautiful chaos. It was a ridiculous retirement plan, laughable even, but a nice thought—soft and distant and impossibly sweet.

The basil's scent clung to her fingertips long after she left them alone, a ghost of green following her through the apartment.

There'd be another mission soon. Another tight-lipped briefing with Valentina, her superior's face carved from granite and expectation. Another list of orders—bitter pills she'd swallow without complaint. So it was almost a relief to be reminded that mornings like this existed—startlingly, achingly lovely. Her with a dog, a bowl of cereal, the morning light slanting through blinds and catching in the dust, transforming each mote into a tiny burning star...

When the last spoonful was gone, she rinsed the bowl and set it in the sink, the water running clear and cold over her hands. But when she did, she spotted herself in the mirror over the counter, its surface marked with age and hard water stains. The glass held the sunlight, and in it—her reflection, distorted and strange. Broader shoulders, the deltoids pronounced in ways they hadn't been before. Heavier arms, biceps curving with new definition. Muscle she hadn't earned through training, hadn't sweated for, hadn't chosen. A form that looked like hers and not hers all at once, familiar and foreign in equal measure.

She turned away, grabbing a towel with more force than necessary before heading into the bathroom.

Steam soon swallowed the bathroom mirror as she showered, the water hot enough to sting, needles of heat against her shoulders and back, but she barely felt it, her nerves dulled by something deeper than physical sensation.

She stood there longer than she meant to, watching rivulets race down the tiles, running a hand along her forearm and observing the skin shift over sinew. Bob had reshaped her flesh without permission, gifted her a blessing born of love or fear of losing her or both—maybe all three tangled together until they were indistinguishable.

She hoped it was the only thing he had changed. Even if Bob meant no harm by it, even if it would make her more useful in the field, her body had been altered without permission. And intent couldn't erase the echo of that violation.

She could still hear her instructors from that awful place, their flat tone of approval when she'd survived their trials and missions, when she'd dragged herself bleeding across finish lines painted in other people's blood. Stronger now. Always stronger. Always theirs.

She exhaled, sharp and shaky, the breath hitching in her chest like a sob she wouldn't release. Her gaze lingered lower, drawn despite herself to the pale mark carved across her stomach—a thin white line so neat it almost disappeared unless you knew where to look. A line that marked the Red Room's idea of a "graduation gift."

Bob had seen her naked. Held her down. Fucked her in the gym and in his bedroom. She knew he'd noticed all her scars, had felt his fingers trace them at times out of curiosity. Her body was a map of old missions and close calls—burn marks like continents, knife lacerations like rivers, the faint shimmer of healed shrapnel beneath the skin like buried treasure, each one a story she'd survived but never wanted to tell.

It was impossible not to notice, yet he'd kept silent. That silence felt merciful. A form of respect.

It was likely he'd had scars on his body long ago too, before Project Sentry wiped his slate clean. Maybe he recognized hers without needing to drag them into the light.

Then, she'd wondered if he'd noticed the changes to her physique too yesterday morning. The extra height and muscle she'd gained seemingly overnight.

If he had, he'd kept that to himself as well.

Emerging from the shower with a towel wrapped tight around her torso, Fanny was waiting by the open entrance of her bedroom door with her leash in her mouth, eyes wide and expectant.

"You want to go for a walk already?"

Fanny barked loudly, her tail wagging so hard her whole body swayed.

She smirked, "Fine. Let's go".

She dressed swiftly: jeans, boots, jacket. The fabric stretched differently, her center of gravity shifted, strength sitting on her shoulders with unfamiliar weight. She clipped the leash to Fanny's collar, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.

The morning air outside was clean and damp, tinged with earth and rain from the night before. Fanny bounded ahead. Yelena followed, letting the rhythm of their walk settle the thoughts in her head.

For a while, she watched her dog sniff at the grass, the world quiet except for distant birds and the low hum of traffic. She thought of the dream again: the three-headed beast, the way it had pressed close but never bit. How it had felt safe, loved, even when its power could have crushed her.

Fanny barked, snapping her out of it before she could contemplate further. Her dog had found a stick and was proudly brandishing it in triumph.

Yelena laughed. "Good girl."

For the afternoon, she could pretend, for a little while, that everything possibly would be alright.

The next morning...

The conference room sat in half-shadow, blinds drawn against the glare of the rising sun. Bob was the first to arrive—as usual, being the only one who actually lived in the Watchtower. Today he wore a faded grey shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, blue shorts, and a pair of bear-shaped slippers.

He'd already set out a coffee carafe in the center of the table, still steaming, with eight mugs arranged in a neat circle around it. A small gesture, but one he'd fallen into the habit of making before meetings.

A new matte-black case sat on the far end of the table on a pedestal, its surface drinking in the ambient light. The latches gleamed like polished teeth under the overhead fluorescents. Bob's eyes lingered on it for a moment before drifting away. Whatever it was, it wasn't meant for him presumably, and it didn't look like a bomb—so he let it be. He turned his attention back to the Rubik's Cube in his hands, colors clicking into alignment.

Val arrived second, her heels clicking like a metronome across the floor. Her voice slid into mock surprise.

"Hello, Robert. It's been a while. I didn't realize it was Casual Friday. Didn't you get my message about the new uniform?"

Bob didn't look up from the Rubik's Cube turning slowly in his hands. "I did. Didn't feel like dressing up."

"I would've thought you'd appreciate the effort I made—getting my staff to tailor it to your... standard."

"I didn't ask to wear it again," he said, twisting the cube. "And I know you wanted it for PR. Some interview, right?"

Val circled closer until he could smell her floral perfume, "A billboard only works when the product sells, Bob. You forget—you're not just a man anymore. You're an image. And images require consistency. A shame, really. I was hoping to get a photo of you with the rest of the team today."

He clicked the cube one final turn and set it down, all colors perfectly aligned, a small victory of order over chaos, and met her eyes unflinchingly.

"Then maybe stop wiring your image's bedroom and half the private quarters with hidden cameras, and I'll consider playing nice."

The words landed soft, but heavy, dropping into the space between them like stones into still water.

Val's expression didn't flicker, though her tone cooled a few degrees, frost creeping into silk. "I was wondering why those feeds went dark last week."

Bob leaned back slightly, settling into his chair with deliberate ease.

"Didn't break them. Just switched them off." He paused, the corner of his mouth tightening into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Thought about breaking them, though."

A thin smile curved her lips, precise as a scalpel. "Considerate of you not to."

He shrugged, the motion casual but his gaze anything but. "Didn't want to cost the taxpayers more than they already paid to reconstruct this place. I'm also thinking of making a little drone out of them—or turning them into something entirely different. Didn't want them to go to waste either."

Her smile returned, brittle around the edges, crackling with suppressed irritation. "You know there are protocols—"

"I know I'm your pet project," he cut in, tone still low but steady, unshakeable. "But you don't have the right to spy on me. Or on her when we sleep together."

A charged silence followed, humming like static between them, the air thick with unspoken threats and barely contained antagonism. Val studied him the way one might study an unstable equation—equal parts fascination and control, trying to find the variable that would bring him to heel.

"Then you already know," she said slowly, each syllable measured and weighted, "that I can use her against you."

Bob leaned back, "And you already know we won't let you try."

Her smile became a razor's edge. 

"Relax, Robert. No one's using anyone. Not yet anyway.” she chuckled, “You two make a lovely story, actually—if you ever decide to go public. Romantic. Marketable."

He rolled his eyes, the gesture dismissive, tired of her calculations. "You think everything can be packaged."

Val turned to the window and tugged the blinds open with a sharp snap of plastic and metal. Sunlight flooded the room, stark and cold, washing out shadows and softening nothing.

"Everything can," she said, her reflection ghost-like in the glass. "It just depends on the angle you sell it at."

The mechanical door opened behind them with a pneumatic hiss. Voices filled the corridor—Walker's low drawl, rich as bourbon; Alexei's booming laugh, loud enough to rattle windows and as usual, Ava made no noise as she walked in.

Val smoothed her jacket, fingers running over invisible wrinkles, her expression snapping back into control like a mask fitted perfectly into place.

"Showtime." she said sweetly, tapping his shoulder with one manicured nail.

Bob remained seated, watching as the others filed in, each bringing their own energy to the stale air of the conference room. John entered first, tactical gear still dusty from whatever training exercise he'd been running, his eyes sweeping the space with practiced vigilance. Alexei followed, filling the doorway with his bulk, still chuckling at something John had said, his scarred knuckles wrapped around a coffee mug that looked comically small in his massive hands.

"Morning." Walker greeted everyone, his accent softening the word as he walked past Bob. His eyes flicked to the bear slippers, one eyebrow raising fractionally, but he said nothing, just reached for the coffee carafe in the centre and poured himself a drink before taking a seat across from Bob.

Alexei settled beside John with the grace of an avalanche, chair groaning beneath his weight.

"What is in fancy box? New toys for us?" He grinned, all teeth, the expression lighting up his weathered features.

Val moved away from the window, heels resuming their metronomic rhythm, reclaiming her position at the head of the table. "Patience, Alexei. All in due time."

Ava as usual sat by herself a little farther from the rest of them. She glanced at Bob, a flicker of concern passing across her features before her neutral mask reasserted itself.

Bob remained silent, settling deeper into his chair, fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling. His eyes drifted to the door, a barely perceptible tension in his shoulders. She wasn't here yet. The absence felt louder than the voices filling the room.

Yelena was the last to arrive after splashing her face in the bathroom, her silhouette cutting through the doorway. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting everything in that flat, too-clean shade of white that made the conference room feel more like an operating theater than a briefing space.

Valentina de Fontaine stood at the head like a monarch holding court already watching Yelena's entrance with the attention of a cat tracking a bird.

Her gaze swept the room as she moved. Walker wore his usual scowl, arms crossed tight over his tactical vest. Alexei caught her eye with a grin and a small, reassuring nod, his scarred knuckles tapping twice against the table in silent greeting. Ava was seated half-faded near the wall, arms folded, looking like she'd rather phase straight out of the meeting entirely.

Bob was already watching her from across the table, his expression softening the moment their eyes met. He gestured toward the empty chair beside him, offering that small, uncertain smile he saved only for her.

Despite herself, she returned it, warmth flickering in her chest as she crossed toward him and slid into the seat at his side. The familiar proximity settled the restlessness in her bones.

Val clapped her hands.

"Alright, everyone, here's what's next on our agenda." Val began, her voice bright with false enthusiasm as she launched into the day's briefing. The woman tapped a button on the console, and a holographic map flickered to life over the table's center. The projection bathed their faces in cold blue light—shifting dunes rendered in wireframe, faint heat signatures pulsing like dying embers, and the skeletal outline of a convoy scattered across a desert wasteland like the bones of some ancient creature.

She began her presentation in that measured, practiced tone that could have belonged to a press conference as much as a mission briefing. Two nights ago, a research convoy from one of her subsidiary companies had gone dark en route to a desert facility in Egypt. Satellite scans showed a burned-out trail of trucks, cargo lost or scattered, personnel unaccounted for.

With a gesture, the map zoomed in on the impact site—wreckage half-buried in the sand, metal twisted into abstract sculptures of violence, a thin plume of heat rising from a collapsed structure. The culprits were a group of mercenaries who seemed to have an unknown agenda.

The mission was straightforward: Everyone would undergo a HALO-drop at 0400 the day after tomorrow, infiltrate some kind of encampment in the dunes, extract both assets and surviving personnel before the Outriders moved them beyond reach. The goal this time was to be invisible—no witnesses, no forensics, no stories to explain away. Deny, recover, disappear.

She let the projection flicker out, the map dissolving into darkness with a faint electronic hum as she straightened the cuffs of her blazer.Then, with that same effortless poise, she pivoted toward the matte-black case propped against the wall. The polished surface gleamed faintly, drinking in the fluorescent lights but reflecting nothing.

"Alright, before we wrap up," she spoke, voice smooth as glass, "I have a little surprise for our dear Yelena."

She turned with a flourish, one hand hovering over the case's surface. With a soft pneumatic hiss, the latches automatically released, and the case began to open, its lid rising like the mouth of some mechanical predator.

Yelena leaned forward, squinting at the case's contents as the lid rose fully. Inside lay a folded set of mechanical wings—not the angular military kind Sam Wilson wore, but curved, iridescent things that refracted light into fractured rainbows. They were delicate, arching, more like stained-glass artwork than weapons, each panel shimmering with an oil-slick sheen.

Beneath them, folded with surgical precision, was a pearl-toned white bodysuit.

Her eyebrows rose. "What's all this?"

"Your new toolkit," Val said smoothly, almost purring with satisfaction. "Bob won't showcase his abilities for branding, and you—well, you don’t stand out much among everyone here, so we’re giving you something that will".

Yelena tilted her head, studying the wings with a mix of skepticism and reluctant curiosity. "I'm an assassin. I'm supposed to blend in with the environment. Bit impractical, no?"

Ava stirred from her position against the wall, arms still folded. "I agree. They don't exactly scream tactical. More decorative than functional."

Across the table, Walker snorted. "Wings like that would make her look like Tinkerbell."

"Careful, Walker," Yelena said mildly, though her eyes flashed. "I know where you sleep."

Alexei leaned forward, beaming with paternal pride. "Oooh, very beautiful! My daughter will be like graceful swan in sky!"

Bob shifted beside her, his voice quiet. "I think it's kinda pretty..."

Yelena sighed, though her gaze lingered on the wings with reluctant curiosity.

"Well, if you didn't like that," Val said, reaching into the case with practiced grace, "this I think would be more up your alley." She lifted the white suit, holding it up to the light. The fabric seemed to drink in the fluorescents, almost glowing against her hands. "This suit has adaptive camouflage technology—as do the wings. Watch."

She pressed something along the collar, and the suit rippled like water disturbed by a stone. The pearl-white bled away, replaced by the exact shade of the conference room walls—sterile grey-beige, complete with the subtle texture of paint and shadow. It was uncanny, like watching something erase itself from reality.

Alexei leaned back with an appreciative grunt. "Hah! Is like Ghost! Very sneaky. I like this."

"But we already got a Ghost with us. Do we really need another invisible woman?" Walker jerked his thumb toward Ava.

Ava's expression didn't change, but she phased just enough that her arm became translucent, middle finger clearly visible before solidifying again.

"Well... we already have three super soldiers with one of them being absent, so another invisible woman wouldn't be too intrusive but..." Val said, deactivating the suit with another touch. The white returned, pristine and blank as fresh snow. "This will be good. Both offer versatility for you Yelena. What do you say?"

Yelena's mouth twitched despite herself. She looked back at the suit, then the wings, her fingers drumming once against the table. "What if I say no?"

Val's smile widened. "Then you say no but…just test them for this one mission. See how they perform in the field. If they're a dud to you, we shelve the whole thing and move on. No harm, no foul."

Yelena was quiet for a long moment, jaw working as she considered. The wings refracted light again, throwing prismatic colors across the table. Impractical, maybe. Flashy, definitely. But the suit...

She exhaled slowly. "Fine. One mission but if I feel like a circus act out there, I'm dropping them in the desert and pretending they never existed."

Val's smile widened. "Great. That's all I'm asking."

Walker leaned back with a smirk. "Can't wait to see Tinkerbell take flight."

"Keep talking," Yelena said pleasantly, "and I'll test the wings by seeing if they can dodge falling idiots."

Beside her, Bob shifted in his seat, close enough that she could feel the tension radiating from him. His gaze moved from the wings to her face, concern flickering across his features—worry he couldn't quite voice. His hand rested on the table near hers, fingers curled loosely, close but not touching.

She glanced sideways at him, their shoulders brushing. He offered a small, tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and she felt the weight of what he wasn't saying settle in the space between them.

She kept looking back at the case throughout the meeting, at the wings that gleamed like shattered glass, at the suit that could make her disappear.

At last, after an hour the briefing ended. Chair wheels rolled against marble as they were set back in their original positions.

John muttered into his phone near the window, Ava phased through the wall that led to the adjacent corridor, and Bob stayed and stared at his Rubik's Cube as if it might offer him answers he couldn't find anywhere else.

Yelena rose with the rest, jaw tight, already plotting to get out of here. She saw Alexei's grin before she could dodge it—that bear-like warmth that meant he had plans to talk to her.

He loomed close and his hand landed on her shoulder, heavy and solid, fingers squeezing with paternal affection.

"You will make the sky jealous, умничка," he boomed, pride swelling in every syllable.

She forced a smile, brittle as frost on glass. "Da. We'll see."

Suddenly, she felt a tingle. Faint at first, like static electricity dancing across her skin where his palm pressed through the fabric. The longer his hand lingered, the sharper it became. Not pain, exactly. More like pressure building beneath her sleeve, muscles tightening, the seam biting into flesh that suddenly felt too dense.

Her heart kicked against her ribs as she shrugged herself free. "Sorry, need the bathroom."

She was moving before anyone could respond, before Bob could look up, before the wrongness spreading through her limbs became visible.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have. Her boots struck the floor with unfamiliar weight. She shoved through the bathroom door and made it three steps before her breath started coming too fast.

Her bra cut into her ribs with every breath, underwire digging vengeful grooves. The shirt strained across her back, seams threatening mutiny. Her jeans bit into her waist, denim unforgiving against muscle that hadn't been there an hour ago.

The sink filled her palms with coldness as she gripped it, knuckles white.

Ping.

A button, silver and small, bounced once off the porcelain and clattered to the floor. Her shirt gaped where the fabric had surrendered, pulling taut across shoulders that had broadened while she wasn't looking.

Her reflection stared back, and for a moment she couldn't process what she was seeing.

The sink's edge hit lower on her hips than it had before the meeting when she splashed her face in the bathroom. Her chin no longer dipped as far to meet the mirror. She'd gotten taller again. Not by much—an inch, maybe two—but it didn't stop there.

Unconsciously, she gripped the sink harder. The porcelain cracked loudly, a hairline fracture spiderwebbing from beneath her right hand.

"Ah!" She let go like it had burned her and hands trembled as she ran them down her arms, feeling the difference. More mass. More strength coiled beneath skin that felt too tight.

What had happened to her?

‘Think. Think!’

Yesterday morning—waking up bigger, stronger. Bob's doing. She'd known that much. Some gift he'd bestowed upon her without meaning to, without asking, but she'd assumed that was it. One change. Done.

This however was new.

Alexei's hand on her shoulder. The tingle that had spread from his grip. The pressure building beneath her skin, muscles swelling, bones settling into new configurations… It was as if she'd copied some of his strength.

Her breath hitched.

'Copy?'

She recalled Taskmaster—Antonia. The Red Room's most successful graduate before she'd been freed… and later killed. A weapon shaped by someone else's hands, polished to reflect other people's strengths until she forgot she had any of her own. She'd had a talent for mimicry—could watch someone fight once and replicate every movement with uncanny precision. Facing her in combat had been like staring into a perfect, pitiless mirror.

But that ability stemmed from photographic memory and exhaustive analyses. Perfection forged through repetition.

This was different.

Yelena's mind wasn't copying technique. Her body was copying the source itself. The serum in Alexei's blood. She'd stolen a piece of his biology, rewritten her own cells to match his. But she hadn't taken all of it—if she had, her clothes would've split apart completely.

'Wait—this morning…I pet Fanny. Nothing happened then. No changes.'

Perhaps it only worked on enhanced people? Those with powers, with serum, with something to take? Or maybe Bob's gift was still settling into her DNA, and Alexei's touch was just the first uncontrolled trigger.

The first of many.

A strangled sound escaped her throat, caught between a laugh and a sob.

Uncontrolled. She had no idea how to stop it. One touch and she'd absorb pieces of people.

If she touched Ava… would she start phasing through walls? One brush against Walker and she'd—God, she didn't even know what made him different aside from the chronic aggression—would that seep into her too?

'Oh God. Bob…'

The parallel struck her like a fist to the chest.

Bob, who couldn't control his own abilities. Bob, who had to constantly watch himself, living in fear of hurting someone by accident. Who'd been turned into a weapon he didn't know how to safely operate.

And now she was the same.

'No!'

She stopped herself, jaw clenching.

'No. Don't think that way about Bob.'

He wasn't a hazard. He was careful. Conscientious. He was learning to live with what he'd become, to control it enough to function, to help people, to be good despite what had been done to him. He wasn't a weapon—he was a person dealing with an impossible situation.

‘And so am I’, she thought, staring at her reflection.

But God, it was hard to believe that if her own body was going to keep rewriting itself without permission like this…

She pressed her palms flat against the counter, away from the crack, and forced herself to breathe.

No one could touch her again. Not until the mission was over. Not until she understood the rules of this ability. Not until she learned how to control it—if control was even possible.

She could do this.

She yanked her sleeves down to her wrists, tugged the hem of her shirt as low as it would go, creating as much barrier as possible between her skin and the world. She checked the mirror one final time. The crack in the sink drew her attention briefly before she looked away. Let someone else find it and wonder.

Then she walked out of the bathroom the way a blade leaves its sheath—edge out, untouchable, every inch of space around her a buffer zone she'd enforce with violence if necessary.

She had to be fine.

Even if the knot in her chest, the crack in the sink, and the too-tight clothes suggested otherwise.

[To be Continued]

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The next day…

The apartment was quiet except for Fanny's soft snoring from her plush bed in the corner. Yelena had pushed the coffee table against the wall, clearing space in her small living room. Earlier she'd gone for a jog, but she needed to move again, needed something physical to silence the spiraling thoughts about her changed body.

She rolled her sleeves and set her stance. Muscle memory took over—jab, pivot, kick.

She launched into a roundhouse, heel snapping high—

—and didn't come down.

For a breathless second, she hung there, weightless, as if time had snagged on her boot. Her stomach swooped. Then gravity yanked her back, her sole smacking hard against the floor with a thud that made Fanny's head jerk up, ears pricked.

Yelena staggered, breath sharp in her throat. No. Not possible.

She tried again, this time on purpose. Jab, pivot, leap—

Air cradled her body like invisible hands. Two inches. Three. Four. Five... rising upward, suspended in defiance of natural physics.

Her mouth went dry. She was floating. Not high, not far—but floating all the same.

When fear surged—what if I can't get down? What if I hit the ceiling?—her body dropped once more, slamming down with a jolt that rattled her teeth.

Fanny barked once, sharp and alarmed, tail lowered.

"It's okay, Малышка," Yelena whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm okay. I think that's enough exercise for today."

She stood there for a long moment, staring at her hands, then down at her feet still firmly on the ground. Then she pushed the coffee table back into place with more force than necessary and went straight to the shower. Fanny as usual went to sleep safe and sound outside.

When she finally emerged, she pulled on her pajamas—simple black sleep shorts and a cropped tank top—and collapsed onto her bed. Fanny padded over, nosed at her hand once, then returned to her own bed in the corner, apparently satisfied that her human was safe.

Yelena lay there in the dark, one hand resting on her stomach.

She shouldn't have been shocked, considering she'd absorbed some of his abilities. But it was still a surprise nonetheless.

‘Wonder what else is coming?’

Her phone rang, the vibration loud against the nightstand. She grabbed it reflexively.

Bob's name glowed on the screen.

She answered, her voice carefully neutral. "Hello?"

His voice came through, tentative and warm. "Yelena. I don't want to sound clingy, but... you haven't talked to me since yesterday. You okay?"

He sounded worried. Genuinely concerned. Because she'd fled the meeting without explanation, without a goodbye, and then gone silent for hours.

"I'm fine, Bob," she said gently. "It's just... I wanted to be alone for a bit. I needed to clear my head. You have days like that too, don't you?"

A pause.

"Oh. I see." His voice shifted, became softer, more vulnerable. "It's just... you usually say goodbye to me before you go."

She closed her eyes. "I know. I'm sorry."

"The mission's tomorrow." She heard him take a deep breath. "Last time, the comms went out for three minutes. I kept refreshing the satellite feed, trying to get visual confirmation you were still..." He didn't finish. "I know you can handle yourself out there. I just—"

"Bob, I'll be fine. I always am."

"I know."

The irony wasn't lost on her. He was worried about her safety in the field—where he couldn't follow, couldn't protect her, couldn't do anything but wait and hope. And here she was, more dangerous than she'd ever been. Strong enough to crack ceramic, tall enough to need new clothes, capable of defying gravity itself.

He was worried about external threats when the real danger was what he'd unknowingly made her into.

A beat of silence, then his voice returned, uncertain and hopeful. "Do you think... could I maybe see a picture of you? Just to know you're really okay right now?"

"Of course."

She hung up the phone and angled the phone above her, letting the lamplight catch her face and the exposed skin of her stomach where the tank top had ridden up. She took the photo casually and sent it before she could overthink it.

Yelena's name glowed on the screen above a notification for a new image message. He tapped it, and the world narrowed to the brilliant light of his phone.

‘Oh, fuck.’

It was a shot from above. The angle that felt intimate, like he was right there with her. She was on her back, wearing simple black sleep shorts and a cropped tank top that had ridden up, exposing the smooth, flat plane of her stomach. The light caught the subtle definition of her abs, the gentle dip of her navel, the faint trail of blonde hair that disappeared enticingly beneath the waistband of her shorts.

Heat flashed through him, instantaneous and demanding. His cock, which had been comfortably soft, stirred to life, thickening against his leg with a sudden, urgent throb. His mouth went dry. He could almost smell her, that clean scent of her soap and her skin.

‘God, she’s gorgeous.’

A groan rumbled in his chest. She probably hadn't meant it as anything more than reassurance—just showing him she was fine, relaxed, safe at home but the sight of her still undid him: soft light on her skin, loose fabric shifting with every small movement, the quiet ease of her presence. She wasn’t trying to tempt him. She never was.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Yet he needed to answer somehow—to let her see what she did to him. He’d just hoped that she’d be okay with it and hopefully take part in some sexting.

Back in her apartment, Yelena's phone buzzed against the nightstand again.

She reached for it: There was a message. Then an image loading beneath it.

[Having a huge thought about you right now] 

The photo showed him in his bedroom, shirtless, pants unbuttoned and pushed low on his hips. The lighting caught every line of muscle across his stomach. His hand wrapped around his cock still concealed by his briefs, the evidence of his arousal stark and unambiguous. His face was visible in the mirror behind him. Blue eyes dark, jaw tight, vulnerable in a way that made her chest constrict. 

She stared at the screen. Her body registered his image with clinical interest. A faint warmth, recognition of the intimacy being offered, but no urgent heat. Only... acknowledgment. He was a beautiful man. She could appreciate the aesthetics of his body the way she might appreciate a well-maintained artpiece. The strength evident in the cut of his shoulders. The dedication visible in the defined ridges of his abdomen.

She felt affection thinking about his body but not exactly desire. Not the kind he felt. 

She typed back: [Wow. You look very dedicated to that huge thought]

His response came quickly: [It's a very persistent thought. Heavy in my hand. I keep imagining it's your hand.]

Yelena read the words, and several calculations and an idea clicked into place simultaneously.

One: He was aroused, open to suggestion. If she edged him toward that cliff where his control dissolved, perhaps Sentry would surface. She'd get answers about what he had done to her, about what was happening to her body.

Two: She hadn't spoken to Bob since the meeting. Hadn't said goodbye. Of course he'd be worried, wanting connection. She felt like she owed him this.

Three: This could serve them both. Even if Sentry didn't appear, Bob would get the release he clearly needed. And she would get a blessed, consuming distraction from the spiraling panic about her body, about what she could do, about what she'd become.

Her thumb hovered over the digital keys of her phone.

[Tell me what you're imagining. Describe it. I want to know]

She pulled her knees up towards herself and waited. This was a familiar role—investigator, interviewer. She was trained to draw information from people, to guide conversations toward revelation. The fact that this conversation was sexual didn't fundamentally change the mechanics.

And with him being at a distance, it was a little easier for her mind to stay analytical and not be consumed by instinctive lust….for now at least.

His phone glowed with her words.

[Tell me what you’re imagining my hand doing. Describe it. I want to know]

A low, guttural sound escaped Bob’s lips. The invitation sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight to his core. His grip on himself tightened instinctively.

He shut his eyes, the image of her message burned onto the back of his eyelids. He could almost feel the weight of her presence in the room, the dip of the mattress as she knelt beside him. He began to type, his words coming in rough, unpolished bursts, his other hand never stilling its steady, rhythmic motion.

[Your hand... god not shy at all] He hit send, the words a prelude. His breath hitched as he continued, picturing it, feeling it. 

[not asking just taking] He let his head fall back against the headboard, a soft groan accompanying the next text. 

[fingers around me so tight kissing me... you know what youre doing]

Far from the Watchtower, Yelena read the messages, a slow, fond smile touching her lips. She traced the words on her screen. She curled her fingers as if testing the strength he described.

Bob’s mind, however, was already racing ahead. A photo was one thing, a fantasy typed out was another, but he wanted to pull her into his world with more than just words.

He sat up, the muscles in his abdomen pulling taut with the movement. He looked down at himself, at the defined lines of his core. 

An idea, raw and visceral, took root. 

He picked up his phone again, switched it to video, and propped it against a pillow, angling it to capture the length of his torso. He took a steadying breath, the anticipation already coiling low in his gut.

He hit record.

The video started with a close shot of his stomach. His voice, a low, husky rumble, filled the room.

"You said you loved the picture but..." His fingers splayed over his lower abdomen. "A picture doesn't move. Doesn't show you this..."

His hand began to move, slowly, deliberately. His fingertips trailed up the defined vertical line at his center, a slow, sensual caress. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, Yelena.” He let his head fall back, a soft groan escaping his lips as his own touch ignited his nerves, "All fucking day. Worried but mostly sad you weren’t talking to me".

“Right now, I imagine your hands and nails on me,” he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper meant for her ears only. His fingers curled, the pads pressing harder into the firm muscle. "Digging in just enough that I'd—fuck—that I'd know you want me." He demonstrated, his short, clean nails pressing into his skin, leaving faint, temporary marks in their wake. A sharp hiss of pleasure escaped him, "Yeah. Like that. Marking me."

His hand slid lower, tracing the V that led down from his hips. His breathing was heavier now, more audible. The camera saw the ripple of his muscles as they flexed under his own ministrations. 

"Get so hard thinking about it. You wanting me. Me wanting you...You might not get the same type of arousal that I do, but you understand it kinda.”

He moved his hand, his knuckles brushing against the coarse hair leading downward, a clear promise of where his thoughts were heading. He kept the focus on his stomach, on the play of light and shadow over the hard-earned terrain of his body.

“I want you to imagine your hands right here, Yelena,” he breathed out, his voice thick with need. He pressed his palm flat against his lower abs, applying a firm, steady pressure. “You’d feel every tremor going through me. I want you to feel how my body tightens up, waiting for your command.”

He paused the movement, letting the camera capture the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal lying just outside the frame. The unspoken tension was louder than any words.

“Tell me to show you more,” he whispered, a blatant, flirty challenge laced with genuine pleading. “Tell me you want to see what thinking of your hands does to the rest of me.”

He reached out a hand, the video jarring slightly as he picked up the phone, and the screen went black.

==

Yelena’s phone beeped. She smiled. She’d been replaying their last exchange in her mind, a warm, fond feeling spreading through her chest.

She opened the message, and her breath caught. It was a video. Her thumb hovered for a second before she tapped play, her curiosity piqued.

His slightly more confident sounding voice filled her quiet bedroom. It was a low, intimate rumble, She watched, utterly captivated, as his hands moved over his stomach. This was different from the photo. This was performance. This was him, actively pouring his desire into an action, just for her.

She watched the deliberate way his fingers pressed into his skin, and she could indeed imagine her own hands there. She admired the sheer strength on display—not just the physical power of his defined core, but the emotional strength it took to be this…open with her about his desires.

When his voice dropped to a whisper, at last pleading for her to tell him to show her more, her heart swelled. He was handing her the reins to be the architect of his pleasure even from several blocks away.

A slow, flirty smile spread across her lips. He wanted her participation? He wanted her permission? She could give him that. She tapped the reply button, her fingers flying across the screen with playful decisiveness.

Her message popped up on his screen, the notification pulling him from his anticipatory haze.

[My god Bob, I could use your abs could crack walnuts.] She added a winking emoji. [not sure my hands are strong enough. but I'd love to try. show me more]

“You’re squeezing the base”, He sighed lustfully, continuing after receiving her text, his own hand mimicking the action, a sharp, delicious pressure that made his thighs tremble. "Thumb pressing right there on that vein and you're—god—stroking up so slow..." He dragged his fist up the length of his shaft, a bead of moisture smearing against his skin, "Twisting your wrist at the top. Little twist, little tease..."

He could see it. He could feel it. The calluses on her fingers from her workouts were replaced by a phantom softness, a perfect, impossible friction that was entirely Yelena. His own hand was just a poor substitute, a stand-in for the real thing.

"Going faster now... not gentle anymore." he moaned, the words almost a plea. His hips began to piston in earnest, thrusting into the tight circle of his fist, “You’re not gentle anymore. You’re demanding. You want to see me lose control for you.” The sentence ended with a gasp. Your other hand… fuck, Yelena… your other hand is still on my stomach, your nails digging into my skin, claiming me”.

“You climb on top of me”, he wrote, his breathing already deepening, “I can feel the heat of you through my boxers, and you pull them off and I’m already so hard for you. So hard it’s almost aching”.

He paused, closing his eyes, letting the image solidify. 

“You’re sitting up, your back is straight, and you’re looking down at me with that smile I love. You’re so beautiful, so bright…”. 

He stopped the video there and sent it before he continued to stroke himself, unwilling to bring himself to orgasm yet but needing a break from the talking. 

His phone buzzed again. He could barely focus on the screen, his vision blurring at the edges with building pleasure.

Her message read. [Don’t stop there. Keep going.]

His own hand drifted down his stomach, his fingers tracing the ridges of his abs. 

“I can see my hands on you”, he continued, the words coming faster now, “My fingers are splayed across your hips, and I can feel the curve of your bones under my thumbs as you lower yourself onto my cock. Your skin is so soft, but I can feel the incredible strength in you, too. The muscle underneath. I’m holding on. Anchoring myself to you and then, you start to move. A slow, rocking grind that has me seeing stars. I am just… yours. Completely. I can feel every inch of you, hot and tight and perfect, sliding down my length. You take me so deep, Yelena. So deep I feel like I can’t breathe.

Bob’s free hand wrapped around his fully hard cock that was already weeping at the tip. He gave himself one long, slow pull, mimicking the rhythm he was describing for her. The sensation was electric, amplified tenfold by the words he was crafting.

“This feels so good but…I’d love to see you on camera enjoying this too. Your turn…Yelena?”

He needed a little more. He was already there, at the very edge, hovering. His breath came in ragged, shallow pants. Every muscle was rigid, suspended in that agonizing, exquisite moment before the fall. His world had narrowed to this single point of contact, to the ghost of her hands orchestrating his pleasure. 

The video stopped.

Yelena propped her phone against a stack of books on her nightstand, angling it just so. She took a slow breath, her mind not on her own body, but on his. On Bob. On the raw, wanting look in his eyes from the video he’d sent. On the way his voice had dropped to a husky whisper.

Her fingers trailed up her side, over the gentle curve of her hip, and danced across the smooth plane of her stomach. She wasn’t seeking her own pleasure but she did find joy in painting this picture for him, a moving, living response to vulnerability he had been giving her.

She hit record. The video began with a close-up of her smiling, playful lips. 

Her hand swept down, out of the frame, as her fingers, slender and deliberate, hooked into the fabric of her top and tugged it down, just an inch. The swell of one breast came into view, then the smooth, pale skin of her upper chest. She moved with a slow, teasing grace, a performer for an audience of one. 

Her own fingers pinched her left nipple lightly through the fabric, rolling it, and she gasped softly for the camera. She imagined the rough, calloused texture of Bob’s palms skating over her skin. She imagined the sheer strength in those hands, a strength she admired so deeply, capable of such gentle reverence.

“This is how I imagine your hands on me.” she narrated her thoughts into the microphone, her voice laced with a convincing warmth. “Your hands are so much bigger than mine.” She tugged the neckline down a fraction more, at last revealing the dark areola and the hard, eager nipple. She let her fingers dance around it, circling, teasing, never quite giving it the direct pressure it seemed to beg for. She was drawing out the moment, building the tension for him.

Then, she flicked it, a sharp, sudden movement that made her jolt, and a genuine, breathy laugh escaped her. It was a flirty, authentic sound. She did the same to the other one, her touch becoming bolder as she lost herself in the act of giving him this display. The camera watched, unblinking, as she plucked and pulled at both her nipples, her chest rising and falling with practiced, excited breaths.

She ended the video with her hand splayed possessively over her breast, her fingers curled, as if a larger hand was covering hers. She gave the lens a smoldering, flirty look.

“Твоя очередь, Bob.” she sighed, and stopped the recording. She attached the file and typed a short message. 

[Hope this helps]

She hit send.

The notification chimed. He was still riding the high from their previous exchange, his body humming with residual energy. He snatched his phone from the charger, his heart hammering against his ribs when he saw it was from her. A video.

He fumbled with the phone, his thumb clumsily hitting the play button. And then he was lost.

It went straight to his groin, a direct current of need. He watched, mesmerized, as the camera traveled down her body. His breath caught in his throat when she tugged down her top. God, she is beautiful. A perfect, tantalizing glimpse of her.

And then her hands. So teasing. His own hand was already gripping himself through his sweatpants, his erection straining against the confines of the fabric. He was painfully hard, utterly captivated. When she pinched her nipple and gasped, he mimicked the action on himself, squeezing his length through the soft cotton.

“Fuck, Yelena,” he groaned to the empty room, his voice ragged.

He watched, utterly transfixed, as she teased herself. When her hand splayed over her breast at the end, as if guiding his own, a wave of possessiveness and sheer, unadulterated lust crashed over him. He was pulsing, aching, his entire being focused on the screen and the woman on it.

The video ended. He played it again. And again. Each time, his own touch grew more urgent. He shoved his sweatpants down his hips, his hand finally wrapping around his bare, throbbing length. He groaned, his head falling back against the couch as he began to stroke himself in time with the movements on her video.

He had to respond. He had to give this back to her. He scrambled to set up his own phone, his movements hurried and desperate. He hit record, aiming the camera down the powerful line of his torso. His free hand, the one not occupied with the desperate, slow rhythm on his cock, roamed over his own defined abs, mimicking the journey her camera had taken.

“Yelena,” he breathed, his voice thick with need, his gaze fixed on the lens. “You have no idea... no idea what you do to me. None.” His hand pumped his shaft, a slow, slick glide from root to tip, showcasing his size, his arousal, all for her.

He let the fantasy take over completely at that point. His hand became hers. It was her grip, her pace, her will drawing the pleasure out of him.

It was no longer his dimly lit room; it was theirs. The scent of her perfume—clean and sharp like citrus and rain—filled his lungs. The weight of her gaze, heavy with a possessive affection, was a tangible force on his heated skin. Every cell in his body was attuned to the phantom version of her he was conjuring.

"Watching you touch yourself and all I can think about is... putting my mouth on you. Right there on your abs again..." He mimed lowering his head, tongue flicking out. "But instead my grip on your hips tightens. Fingers pressing in and I know there'll be marks later. Little bruises shaped like my hands. And that thought... fuck... that thought makes me throb..."

He was panting now, his body coiling tighter with every word. 

"You lean forward, hands on my chest. Can feel my heart hammering under your palms. You lower your mouth to mine and your hair curtains around us and it's just your taste and your scent and the—god—the feeling of you surrounding me..."

His hand on his cock moved faster, slick and steady. 

"My hips come up to meet yours. Can't help it. Fucking up into you and the sounds... god, the sounds. Your moans in my ear. The wet slide of us together. The slap of skin. My own groans are so—so broken. I'm begging you not to stop..."

He increased his grip around his length.

"Can feel you start to clench around me. Your rhythm falters and I know you're close. My hands slide up your back, pulling you down flush against me. Holding you so tight as my release just... shatters me. Pulsing inside you deep, over and over, whispering your name..."

With a strangled cry, Bob’s climax ripped through him, swift and devastating. His release striped his stomach, his hand working him through it until he was spent, collapsing back onto the cushions, breathless and shuddering.

He took a moment, his chest heaving, before he could even look at the screen. With trembling, sticky fingers, he hit send.

The response back took a while longer this time. 

She tapped play and watched him carefully for five minutes on the small screen, his breathing already rough. His hand moved with steady purpose, and his voice—low, almost reverent—described more of what he was imagining before succumbing to his orgasm.

She rewinded to watch his pleased face more than anything else. His pupils were dilated but steady. No golden glow bleeding into the blue. No tremor in his voice beyond arousal. Just Bob

Still just Bob. No shift. No change.

Nothing.

Yelena's clinical mind noted a pattern in her recent sexual activities with her partner: Bob was powerful and yet needed and enjoyed surrendering to someone he trusted and showered him with love. It was no wonder Val had been able to manipulate him to her side easily back then. She filed that information away— his need for validation and to be controlled — before lying back on the bed and waiting, watching the screen for his response. 

Suddenly, her phone buzzed with a text instead of a video: [can we switch to a live call? want to see you. really see you. hear you]

[I’m alright with that but…What about the cameras? In your room]

The response came quickly: [turned them all off. found the hidden ones too. val knows. she said it wont happen anymore... i think. but i doubt she bugged my phone so its just us]

Yelena smiled at him. She could forget sometimes that Bob was also well capable of protecting himself too. He'd attempted to negotiate for privacy. For intimacy without observation. That was sweet of him. She’d also morbidly wondered if he’d made threats too but Bob didn’t seem like that kind of person (not unless provoked anyway)

She tapped the video call button.

The screen shifted, and suddenly Bob's face filled her phone—flushed, pupils blown wide, lips parted. The camera angle showed his bare chest, the defined muscles of his stomach, and she could see the movement of his hand just out of frame.

She angled her phone so he could see her face, her hair spilled across the pillow, the tank top still pulled down on one side. 

“Hey Bob.” She murmured a soft greeting, kept her voice low and intimate the way she knew he liked.

She watched him carefully. His pupils were still normal blue, if dilated. No golden shimmer. No manic edge to his smile.

"Hey..." His voice was rough. "God, you're... so much better in front of me like this."

A pause. Then his expression changed, concern bleeding through arousal.

"Yelena?"

"Hm?"

"Are you—" He paused, actually looking at her face. "You seem different tonight. Not bad just... I don't know. Distant? You haven’t orgasmed yet though have you?"

Yelena frowned a bit. That silent admission was enough to prompt Bob to shift awkwardly.

“Do you still want to keep going? I want this to be good for you too, not just me getting off while you...” He trailed off, frustrated. “Or maybe you don’t want this at all, and I pushed you into it without realizing. I’d feel awful if that’s what happened. Just—be honest with me, okay? Because right now you don’t seem as... happy as you were the other day. If you want to stop, tell me.”

He was still aroused and wanted to go another round—she could tell from his face—But he was willing to stop if it made her uncomfortable. He’d pulled himself back from his haze of lust to check on her. To make sure she was okay.

“I don’t.” True enough. Her body was responding, “I want this.” Also true—she wanted to help him, wanted the distraction, wanted to trigger Sentry. “Let’s keep going”. Definitely true.

But the words felt incomplete, the half-truth sat heavy in her chest: I'm using this to try to access the other you in your head so I can get answers about what's happening to my body? That would destroy him. Still, she said something else that was true.

“I promise. It’s just... not the same over video,” she added. “It’s hard to stay in it when you’re not here—when I can’t actually feel you”.

Yelena scooted over to her bedside drawer to where a little silicone device still in it’s packaging was tucked deep inside: A sleek, plum-colored phallic vibrator with a remote control. A gift from him, a week ago, presented with a hopeful, slightly nervous smile.  

“Something for you,” he’d said. “If or When we’re apart.”

Well…she supposed this was the right time for it. She had accepted the gift not with a burning need to use it, but she did appreciate the gesture. It was a key to a part of his interests she supposed. And she loved being let in to what he liked even if she herself had little interest in self-pleasure.

Yelena's breath caught as she skimmed through the instructions on how to use it. Being on a live call meant real-time responses. It would require more active participation, more presence in the moment.

Still, this would push things further and it might finally break his control. Easier for Sentry to slip through. Maybe.

Let him see the movement, the intention. Let him watch as she settled back against the pillows, phone propped at an angle with a perfect, intimate view of her body from the waist down. 

She let the camera drink in the sight of her hand holding the toy. 

“This would help. "What do you think?"

"Yeah. God, yeah. I want to see..."

Smirking and performing the act with an intentional slowness that she knew would unravel him, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and underwear and shoved them down her legs, kicking them off the side of the bed. The cool air of the room brushed against her bare skin, and she moaned, a soft, contented sound.

She relaxed back onto the pillows again, her legs falling open just slightly, offering a modest, tantalizing view. Her free hand drifted down her own body, fingertips skimming over the faint lines of her abs, down to the neatly trimmed patch of blonde hair between her legs.

Her eyes locked on the camera lens, imagining it was his gaze, as she brought the toy to her center, but didn’t turn it on. She just pressed the smooth, cool tip against her folds, pushing it slowly until it was completely inside her (which was a lot more difficult than it looked).

She closed her eyes, not to block him out, but to better conjure him. In her mind, it wasn’t silicone. It was the rough outline of his cock. The thought sent a pleasant, warm shiver through her.

Then she opened her eyes and playfully stuck her tongue out at the camera. Her thumb found the button on the remote and pressed the lowest setting.

A gentle, deep hum filled the quiet room. Yelena’s breath hitched, a genuine reaction to the sudden vibration. She kept the toy pressed firmly within her clit by crossing her legs, the sensation a steady, insistent thrum that began to spread heat through her core. A building, pleasant pressure. 

“Oh…” The soft gasp was real this time. She pressed her thighs more firmly together against the vibrating pulse. Her hand on her stomach slid lower, her fingers splaying across her lower abdomen, feeling the vibrations echoing deep inside.

She assisted the humming device, tracing lazy, maddening circles around her clit. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, seeking more pressure. 

Unsatisfied, she increased the speed. The gentle hum became a more urgent buzz. 

"Oh... wow. This feels... this feels so good."

Putting down the remote to the side, she let her now free hand drift up her body, under the camisole. She palmed her own breast, her thumb finding her nipple and rolling it into a hard, sensitive peak. She pinched it lightly, the dual sensations—the sharp pinch and the relentless buzz between her legs—making her moan, a low, melodic sound.

There we go. A genuine shiver of arousal traveled up her spine, causing her back to arch slightly off the bed centre. It was a cascade of physical feedback that was deeply satisfying. 

“Bob…” His name was a sigh on her lips. 

“Lena…ah!” Bob was already jerking off in the background while watching her but she didn’t mind his eyes on her. 

Speaking of which, she glanced at them. Still dark. No gold.

She ignored this and went back to focusing on the feeling, on the building rhythm. The hum of the toy was a constant, a vibration that echoed the thrum of her own quickening pulse. Bob’s camera feed was still on as he jerked off to the sight of her a second time tonight. The way his biceps flexed as he worked on pleasuring himself drew her eyes again and again, a magnet she couldn’t look away from. He hadn’t said anything in a while, his skin sheened with sweat. He was likely out of ideas on what to say as he’d been talking dirty to her so many moments earlier.

Nonetheless, the sight of it made the pleasure she felt now becoming entwined with admiration. Her breath came faster. Her movements with the toy became less lazy, more intentional. She tried to steer the focus of the tip directly on her clit, applying a firm, steady pressure that made her toes curl into the sheets.

"Can feel it everywhere..." A soft, breathy moan escaped her. "Making my legs weak. I'm thinking about how badly you want to be here..."

She increased the speed of the toy even faster now, quickly grabbing the remote and tossing it away again, her breath catching in her throat. The pleasure was cresting, a warm, consuming wave that had nothing to do with fantasy and everything to do with the very real, very intense physical stimulation. Her body was responding, climbing toward its peak, urged on by the sight of him watching her and not saying anything other than groaning her own name.

Her hips began to move roughly against the persistent vibration. The pleasure was coiling tight deep inside her, a spring waiting to release. She was climbing, each thrum of the device sending another jolt of sweet electricity through her veins. Her hand on her breast stilled, gripping the fabric of her top as a wave of sensation washed over her.

"Блядь..." The curse slipped out breathless, involuntary. "Bob... боже..."

She was reaching her limit, the vibrations coalescing into a single, blinding point of sensation. Her moans became less controlled, more breathy. And he was on the other end of this video, watching every second, completely lost in her.

Her back arched high off the bed, every muscle clenching as the first tremor rippled through her. Her body bowed with the force of her release, a long cry torn from her lips—half his name, half Russian she couldn't control—as the climax rushed through her, a sparkling release that made her shudder from head to toe.

"Боже... Bob... да..."

Her limbs felt heavy, liquid. She slowly moved the drenched toy away, placing it beside her. She was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on her brow. She looked directly into the camera, eyes dark and slightly dazed, a soft smile on her face.

Bob's final words as he came a second time arrived in a rush—her name repeated like a prayer, then silence as he came with a loud moan.

"God, Yelena." Bob's voice was rough, satisfied, still catching his breath on the screen as he raised a sticky hand to her. "You're incredible. That was... fuck. I don't have any more words…"

She smiled at him, hoping it looked genuine.

"Are you okay?" His eyes were soft, searching. "That was... was that good for you?"

"It was," she said. "Really."

He smiled, that boyish smile that made something twist in her chest. "Goodnight, Lena. Dream of me?"

"Of course. Sweet dreams, Bob."

She blew him a kiss. He caught it, pressed his hand to his heart in that dorky way he did, and the screen went dark.

One last message lit her phone: [Oh, I almost forgot. I love you, Yelena]

She stared at the words, then set the phone down and looked at the ceiling.

Her body felt pleasantly loose, satisfied in a purely physical way. The warmth that had built in her core had crested and faded, leaving behind a sense of completion that was real, if shallow. She could still feel the echo of sensation where the vibrator had been, the pleasant ache between her legs.

But underneath the physical satisfaction was another emotion entirely. A terrible one.

She'd tracked him for almost the entire time they were on screen—every word, every slip of grammar, every flicker of expression that might signal his control dissolving. Watched for the moment his eyes would shift golden, when his voice would take on that otherworldly quality, when Bob would slip away and Sentry would surface.

She'd been looking for the God.

She'd found only the man.

No golden shimmer. No manic edge. Only Bob—losing control of his pleasure, yes, but still him. Trusting and completely unguarded. Which meant he was getting better at managing his emotions, at keeping his other selves contained.

So why did it feel like she'd failed?

Because she'd just had video sex with someone she cared about deeply. Someone who'd paused his own pleasure to ask "Are you enjoying this?" Someone who'd just told her he loved her. And part of her had been testing him the entire time, using their intimacy as bait to summon Sentry and get answers about what he'd done to her body.

The irony wasn't lost on her. When Sentry had taken her out on a date, she'd spent that entire day trying to keep up with his energy, his arrogance, his casual displays of power while also wanting Bob back. And now, when she'd actually wanted him to surface, when she'd needed answers only he could give...

Nothing.

She lifted her left arm in the darkness, ran her right hand down the length of it. The muscle was denser than yesterday. Her body wasn't her own anymore.

And tonight, she'd used it—used intimacy, used Bob's trust—as a tool.

The disgust rose sharp and immediate. She'd always hated being used—hated when the Red Room had treated her as an asset, hated when missions required her to be a means to someone else's end. And here she was, doing the exact same thing to someone she cared about.

She was getting better at self-awareness, she realised. Good enough to recognize all the ways she was failing. But self-awareness wasn't the same as self-therapy, and knowing what was wrong didn't mean she knew how to fix it.

He meant it. She knew he meant it. And she cared about him deeply—genuinely, fiercely.

But the breathless, consuming thing he felt? The way sex was supposed to be an expression of that feeling?

She didn't feel it. Not like that.

Her body responded to touch, to stimulation. It performed the way bodies do. But there was always distance between the physical sensation and whatever was supposed to be happening in her heart. The video format made it easier to focus on the mechanics, on his reactions, on managing the performance instead of connection.

Maybe if she'd gone to him in person instead. Made an excuse to visit the Watchtower, fucked him right there where the risk was real, where she couldn't overthink, where the physical intensity might have drowned out everything else. Maybe then she could have lost herself in it completely, gotten blissed out enough to forget about Sentry, about answers, about all of it.

But she hadn't. And now she knew something new about herself, even if it wasn't the answer she'd wanted.

“I'm fine,” she told herself, the words automatic and hollow, “I had to try. I needed answers”.

She tried to sleep, but the ache in her chest had nothing to do with pleasure.

Bob deserved better than her.

[To be continued]

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Yelena had learned that there were two kinds of missions from working with Valentina for months. 

Private ones—the kind the woman didn't want the world to see. The original disposal of Project Sentry had been one of those. Wet work, black ops, things that couldn't be explained away in press conferences. Then there were the public-facing operations: humanitarian relief, natural disaster rescues, charity work that kept her reputation polished and the cameras rolling.

This one was private. Stealthy. A burned convoy in the desert, assets scattered, personnel missing. Mercenaries with unclear motives had hit one of Valentina's subsidiary companies hard, and now the New Avengers had to clean it up and retrieve whatever they could before anyone noticed. 

Deny, recover, disappear.

The cargo plane's ramp yawned open to the late afternoon sky, wind screaming through the hold. Below, the desert stretched vast and golden, the sun sinking toward the horizon. In the distance, a city sprawled across the landscape, but their target lay miles beyond it—a compound half-buried in the dunes, isolated and exposed.

"Team, green light." Bob's voice crackled steady in their ears—calm, golden, like he was right there beside them instead of miles away in the Watchtower. "On my mark. Three… two… one."

They jumped.

The wind swallowed her whole. Ava vanished like smoke. Walker dropped like a missile, arms tight to his sides. Alexei laughed, the sound ripped away by the wind. Yelena flared the experimental wings strapped to her back, catching air that carried her toward the target zone.

For a glorious instant, she felt weightless, soaring.

Then the ground rushed up. Too fast. Too soon. She braced—and floated. For just a heartbeat, her fall slowed, air holding her like it had in her apartment before she hit the rooftop softer than physics had any right to allow, boots scraping concrete.

Shaking her head at this, she pushed forward to her objective. The plan was simple: while Walker and Alexei created a distraction at the main entrance—gunfire, explosions, enough chaos to pull attention—she and Ava would slip in through the east side, locate the assets, and extract and if anyone got in their way, they had permission to kill.

Ava had already phased through the outer wall. Yelena followed, vaulting over the perimeter fence. Her legs surged with strength that wasn't hers, and she misjudged the distance—overshooting, slamming into the far ledge in a graceless tumble. Thank god she didn’t trigger any alarms.

She spat a curse in Russian, shaking it off, moving again before anyone could notice on comms.

“Yelena, status?” Bob’s voice, warm and worried.

“Fine.” she lied, forcing steadiness into the word, “Tell me where to go next”.

She navigated deeper into the heart of the area as Bob guided her and Ava towards what they were looking for. The facility was too quiet. The corridors felt abandoned, the air thick with unease and yet, the two of them pushed forward.

Bob's voice crackled through their comms. "Thermal shows some shapes in the cargo bay, southeast corner. Should be what we’re looking for. They look kinda human shaped... but I can’t see what’s inside".

“It’s ok Bob. We’ll check it out”.

The bay doors stood open when they both arrived. Within were scattered crates, tire tracks in the sand visible through the loading dock, abandoned equipment. No kidnapped OXE personnel were anywhere in sight. And in the center—a cluster of containers that didn't match the rest.

Yelena approached, scanning the labels. Her stomach dropped. 

She saw it then. The timer between them. Blinking red. 

00:05.

"Bomb!" Yelena screamed. "Ava, move—!"

She bolted for the exit. Ava was already phasing, her form flickering translucent. Yelena lunged for the door—

00:00.

An explosion ripped through the floor beneath her, a shockwave that picked her up and hurled her like a ragdoll. She flew through the air, before the ground gave way beneath her and she plummeted through collapsing structures, arms flailing uselessly into darkness. 

Yelena hit a watery surface hard, the impact punching air from her lungs.

She then attempted to thrashed upward, but there was no surface—just more water, pressing from all sides. Some kind of underground reservoir, cistern, she couldn't tell. Debris rained down around her, concrete and twisted metal sinking into the black.

No. No no no—

She tried to scream into the comm but water rushed into her mouth, choking her. Her lungs burned. She kicked desperately, searching for up, for air, for anything—but the water was endless and her chest was screaming and the darkness was closing in—

Bob—anyone—please—

Her body convulsed. Black spots exploded across her vision. She was sinking now, tumbling down through the murky water, limbs going heavy and useless.

I can't die here. Not like this. Not—

Her back hit something rough. Jagged. She barely registered it through the haze of oxygen deprivation. Coral? Down here? Shapes moved in the water around her—small, darting. Fish. Silvery bodies brushing against her face, her neck.

And then—

The drowning sensation stopped.

Air. She was breathing. Underwater.

Yelena's hand flew to her throat, fingers trembling, and felt slits. Moving, pulsing. Water flowing through them into her lungs. She touched them again, disbelieving, horror crashing through the relief.

Gills. I have gills.

A choked sound escaped her—half sob, half hysterical laugh. She stared down at her legs through the murky water, half-expecting to see scales forming, her feet fusing into a tail. Am I turning into a mermaid? Is that next?

She gave her legs an experimental kick. Nope. Definitely not turning into a mermaid.

Okay. Okay. Don't panic. You're breathing. You're alive. Now get out.

She forced herself to focus, pushing off from the coral bed. The water was dark, filled with floating debris—shattered concrete, twisted rebar, broken equipment settling like snow. Above, barely visible through the murk, she could make out a faint glow. Daylight. Or what was left of it.

An opening.

She kicked upward, muscles burning, navigating around chunks of collapsed ceiling. The opening was partially blocked—rubble wedged into the gap, creating a bottleneck barely wide enough to see through.

She grabbed the edge of a concrete slab and pulled.

It didn't budge.

Come on—

She pulled again, harder, nails scraping uselessly against stone. Too heavy. Too stuck. Her shoulders screamed with effort but the rubble might as well have been welded in place.

Panic bubbled up again. She was trapped. Trapped underwater with gills like some kind of—

No. No. Think. There has to be another way—

She pressed her back against the wall, planted her feet against the slab, and pushed.

Nothing.

Her vision blurred—not from lack of air this time, but from tears of frustration and fear. She pounded her fist against the concrete once, twice, the impacts pathetically weak.

I can't—I'm not strong enough—

Then—heat.

It started in her chest, a surge of warmth that spread like wildfire through her veins. Her arms began to burn. Not pain exactly, but pressure, like something inside was trying to claw its way out.

What—

Her biceps spasmed. She watched, horrified, as muscle swelled beneath her sleeves. The fabric strained, then tore, seams splitting as her arms ballooned grotesquely. Her shoulders broadened, back expanding, strength carving itself into her body with brutal efficiency.

She stared at her hands—twice their size, three times, corded with power that looked wrong, unnatural, monstrous.

Oh god oh god what's happening to me—

But underneath the horror was something else. A primal realization.

I can get out now.

She positioned herself again, these new horrible arms against the rubble. And this time when she pushed—

The concrete cracked.

A scream tore from her throat, bubbling through water. She punched the slab. Once. Twice. Stone shattered under her fists like it was made of plaster. Metal rebar shrieked as she ripped through it, bending it aside with hands that didn't feel like hers anymore.

She tore at the opening, widening it, chunks of debris tumbling away. One final shove and she forced her way through, dragging her grotesque body out of the water.

Air hit her lungs and it burned as the gills sealed themselves shut with a sensation that made her gag. She collapsed onto the floor, coughing up water, her body still horrifically swollen, clothes hanging in shreds.

She lay there curled in a fetal position, staring at her massive arms with mounting revulsion. 

Footsteps pounded toward her.

"There she is! Yelena!" Alexei's voice boomed as he rounded the corner, skidding to a halt. His eyes went wide—not with relief, but with shock.

Walker was right behind him, weapon half-raised before he froze. "Holy shit—"

Ava phased through the wall, materializing beside them. Even her usual composure cracked, pale eyes fixed on Yelena's transformed body.

They stared at her—at her hulking arms, her torn clothes, the water pooling around her.

Walker recovered first, keying his comm. "Bobby, Good news. You can stop freaking out. We tracked and found her. She's alive."

"We’ll bringing her to the extraction point." Ava added, steadier now, though her gaze lingered on Yelena's arms which were already deflating, her body collapsing back to normal.

“Oh thank God–Wait, What happened to her?” Bob asked, “Why are her arms doing that?!”

“We…don’t know. We’ll ask her on the plane”.

There was a pause, then Bob's voice came through, quieter but strained with relief. "Copy that. Get her back home safely".

Yelena doubled over and threw up, trembling as Alexei carried her in his arms and they walked to where they needed to go in silence.

Inside the plane, silence spread thick and heavy.

The mission had been a failure. No assets recovered, no personnel extracted—only a destroyed facility and more questions than answers. Valentina's stern voice had come through the comms earlier, cold with barely contained fury.

"Return to base. We'll debrief when you arrive." The words had been professional, but everyone heard what she didn't say: You failed me.

Yelena sat near the tail, a towel draped around her shoulders, hair still damp. She squeezed water from the ends mechanically, staring at nothing. Her body still hummed with the memory of changes she hadn't chosen: water in her lungs, muscles ripping through fabric, the wrongness of breathing underwater.

She pressed her hands flat against her knees to stop the trembling.

The others sat scattered throughout the cabin—Alexei slouched near the front, Walker brooding by the exit, Ava ghostlike in her usual corner. 

"You planning to explain the Hulk arms back there?" John’s voice cut sharp over the engine drone.

Alexei shifted in his seat, big hands knotted together. "We think you are dead. Then you crawl from water with arms like..." He gestured helplessly. "Like monster."

Yelena's jaw clenched. She was about to say something when the plane jolted through turbulence. She grabbed the railing to steady herself—and stumbled into Ava. Their skin touched for just a split second.

The world fractured.

Ava as it turns out wasn't exaggerating when she told her that her existence was that of constant agony when not in the special suit she wore. Her molecules were tearing apart, scattering, trying to exist in two states at once. She screamed as her stomach dropped through the seat, her arm translucent and burning like acid in her veins. The plane's metal hull pressed through her chest and it hurt, every atom of her body seemingly rejecting existence.

Instinctively, Ava fumbled at her belt and snapped open a small metal capsule and pressed it hard against Yelena's arm. It was a temporary stabiliser that she'd used for emergencies.

A low hum vibrated through skin and bone. The pain stopped instantly, the world knitting itself solid again. Yelena gasped, her body suddenly, mercifully solid again.

She collapsed against the wall, shaking violently. Her fingers found the device on her arm and she ripped it off on instinct, expecting the agony to return—

Ava lunged forward, panic cracking her usual composure. "Don't—!" But she stopped short, staring.

Nothing happened.

Yelena, unlike her, remained stable and handed her the device back.

"How..." Ava breathed.

Silence stretched. Walker leaned forward, eyes narrowed. Alexei's expression had shifted from concern to something harder. They were all staring at her now.

"Hey, what's been happening to you?" Walker's voice was flat, demanding. "Start talking."

Yelena's throat closed. Her hands trembled in her lap. She could tell a lie that she got bitten by a radioactive animal or something but then there would be more questions. And possibly more lies. There was no way out of this. No more hiding.

"It's Bob," she said finally. "He changed me somehow. Unconsciously? Purposefully? I can copy abilities...but not entirely".

"Bob?" Walker's scowl deepened. "Why in the world did he do that?"

"I don't know!" she snapped, voice cracking. "I don't know the how or why he did it."

Ava's eyes narrowed, analytical even now. 

"He’s a reality warper. That we already know but that doesn't explain why he changed you specifically." She paused, studying Yelena's face. "Unless there's something you're not telling us."

Yelena looked away, jaw clenched.

"умничка," Alexei said gently, leaning forward. "We are team now. Whatever it is—"

"It's not that simple," Yelena said, her voice tight.

"Then make it simple." Walker said bluntly. "Why did the changes happen to you and not the rest of us?"

The question hung in the air. Yelena felt the weight of their stares, the unspoken demand for truth. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

"Because..." She stopped, tried again. "Because we've been close. Closer than—" The words stuck in her throat.

Ava's expression shifted, understanding dawning. "How close?"

Yelena's silence was answer enough. 

"Oh." Ava said quietly.

Walker's eyes widened. "Wait, are you saying—"

"We slept together," Yelena forced out, the words bitter and sharp. "Happy now? We've been dating and things were fine for a while but after one rather...intense night, things started changing. My body, the powers—" Her voice broke. "I think having sex with him transferred something into me?"

The confession hung in the air like smoke.

Alexei's mouth opened, then closed. For once, the big man seemed at a loss for words. 

"You're dating Bob." Walker repeated, still processing the new information as well.

"Yes, okay? We're together." Yelena groaned. "And like I said, he doesn't even know this happened yet. I need to tell him". 

Walker leaned back, running a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."

"I knew it." Ava said suddenly.

Everyone turned to stare.

She shrugged, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "What? The way you two looked at each other. We all suspected something. Or at least I did."

Alexei boomed a laugh, clapping his massive hands together. "Finally! My умничка finds happiness! I was beginning to think you were allergic to joy."

Yelena blinked, caught off guard. She'd braced herself for disapproval—for the overprotective older brother routine, lectures about Bob being too dangerous or unstable. But Alexei just looked... pleased. Genuinely pleased.

Why had she assumed he'd be against it? Alexei had never been the overbearing type. He worried, sure, but he'd always trusted her to make her own choices. Always been relaxed about things that would have sent others into a panic.

Her cheeks burned anyway, "Alexei!"

Ava wasn't finished though. Almost offhand, she added: "For the record, John and I are dating too".

Walker's head whipped toward her. "Really?"

She didn't flinch. "Seemed like the right time to mention it."

Yelena blinked, surprised, then smirked despite herself. "You certainly got over your divorce fast."

Walker rubbed his temples, "It’s complicated. My divorce isn't even fully finalized yet," Walker said flatly. "So yeah, I'm handling things great."

Alexei's grin widened. He clapped both hands on his knees. "Aww you’ve all grown to find love! This is good. Very good. I am proud of you all."

Walker groaned. Ava's mouth twitched into an almost-smile. Yelena shook her head, fighting a laugh.

For the first time since the mission, the tension had eased.

Back at the Watchtower after the debriefing…

Bob had followed the pesto pasta recipe from some YouTube video he’d watched at 2 a.m. the other day – pasta drained, sauce mixed in, salad waiting in bowls that didn't match anything else on the table.

"Deep breaths. You're fine. She's fine, " he muttered to himself, plating the food cautiously. "And you cooked pasta without burning down the Watchtower. You’re good Bob. You’re Good. Everything will be ok and they'll be here any moment now".

The lift chimed. Bob nearly tripped over the rug getting to the door, heart stuttering in his chest.

When it opened, the team filed in—scuffed, tired, alive. Relief crashed through him like a wave. Alexei lumbered toward the table with a grin, Walker muttered under his breath, Ava was silent as ever.

"Welcome back everyone. Dinner’s ready for everyone as—"

And then Yelena stepped inside.

He froze, nearly dropping the salad bowl. It wasn't just the leather jacket slung over her arm or the bottle of wine dangling from her hand. It was her. Taller. Broader. Nearly his height now.

"Yelena—Wha—"

"We need to talk." Her voice was steady, but her eyes flickered with something he couldn't name.

Bob's stomach sank. "Now?"

"No, after dinner." She stepped past him, moving toward the table. "Bombshells drop easier on a full stomach."

"Right. Dinner first."

Bob followed her and set the wine bottle he was clutching with trembling hands onto the middle of the dinner table. 

Alexei's eyes twinkled upon gazing at the dish Bob had made for everyone tonight. "Smells good! Better than last time, at least."

Walker grunted. "Doesn't look like sludge, so that's progress."

"Wow," Bob sighed sarcastically. "You guys are too kind."

Yelena plucked the spoon from her seat and tasted it first. "It's really good." Then, with the faintest smirk: "Surprisingly so."

Bob let out a relieved breath, half-laughing.

The smell of garlic and basil filled the Watchtower kitchen, warm against the metal and glass. Bob carried the steaming bowls to the table, setting them down with more care than necessary.

"Hope nobody minds," he said, voice lighter than he felt. "Plain pesto with nothing extra on top for John, extra veg for Ava, loaded with parmesan for Alexei. And garlic bread is in the middle because… well, who doesn't like garlic bread?"

Walker eyed his bowl, then gave a small grunt. "Thanks."

Ava slid into her seat without a word, pale eyes flicking between Yelena and Bob, but she took the vegetable bowl without comment.

They sat, plates clinking. For a while the only sound was cutlery and Alexei's contented humming. Walker griped about the seasoning but still cleared his plate. Ava picked carefully, her gaze lingering too long on Yelena.

At one point, Yelena twirled her pasta neatly, while Bob's slipped and splattered the rim. She raised a brow and chuckled.

"You fight monsters, but noodles defeat you?"

"Noodles don't have a weak spot," he muttered.

"Sure they do. It's called sauce." She sipped her wine. 

For a brief stretch, it almost felt ordinary. Almost. But Bob's gaze kept catching on Yelena's new frame—the way her sleeves strained faintly, how she ate with quick, distracted bites like she hadn't realized how hungry she was.

The weight of what happened out there still hung between them, waiting.

By the time plates were pushed aside and glasses half-drained, the garlic lingered thick and heavy. Alexei leaned back, patting his stomach. Walker slouched with arms crossed. Ava's untouched crust of bread cooled on her plate as her gaze flicked between Yelena and Bob.

Bob busied himself stacking napkins.

Finally, Yelena set her glass down with a soft clink. "We need to talk."

Bob's head lifted. "Yeah. We do."

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Ava pushed her chair back, smooth and deliberate. "I'm heading home for the night. You two need privacy."

Walker rose too, muttering, "Yeah, I'm out too. Good luck," though the edge was blunted by something almost like sympathy.

Alexei lingered, eyes crinkling with a faint smile. He clapped Bob on the shoulder, low enough that only he and Yelena could hear. "Be good to her." Then he ambled after the others. "Goodnight, you two."

The door hissed shut, leaving the kitchen and dining space suddenly too quiet.

Bob's chest tightened.

"Lena… what happened out there?" His voice cracked soft, almost pleading. "When I lost contact with you underwater?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached for the wine bottle, poured the last of it into both glasses, slid one across to him.

"Drink with me," she said. "Then I'll tell you."

Bob's hand shook as he lifted his glass to his lips to take a small sip, pulse hammering. Yelena it seemed had forgotten that he was trying to stave himself off alcohol but one small one couldn't hurt for tonight he supposed. Especially if he was with company.

Yelena traced the stem of her glass with one fingertip, her tone shifting from casual to heavy. "About that night when you were Sentry—don't get me wrong, it was wonderful. But something happened. You… changed me."

The warmth drained from his face. "Changed you? What do you mean?"

She held his eyes. "I can copy abilities now. To a small extent."

Her hand lifted. The fallen fork trembled, rose from the plate, hovered in the air between them. It spun once, twice, then lowered gently back down. When she tried to pick it up, her hand phased through it in a flash of light.

Bob's breath caught. "How—"

"That night we were together, when you were Sentry, you did something to me." She spoke quickly, cutting through his panic. "At first it was small. Body alteration. I thought I could manage it." Her jaw tightened. "But then Alexei touched me and I had a growth spurt. That's when I knew for sure."

He swallowed hard. "Is that why you avoided me that day?"

"I thought I could handle it until the mission was over." Her fingers curled against the table. "Everyone noticed on the plane when I showed up alive without injuries. They confronted me. I told them I was fine." She exhaled sharply. "Then Ava touched me. Suddenly I was phasing in and out—terrified I'd fall through the plane. I couldn't stop it. Not until she stabilized me."

Bob's face drained of color. "God, Lena…"

She reached across to hold his hand. "The good news is that I can control the phasing now, the quantum instability she calls it, but here’s the bad news: There's no point hiding our relationship anymore. I had to explain to everyone why I suddenly had powers and I'd rather you hear it from me than them".

He flinched. "So… they already know. About us."

"Yes." Yelena clarified.

Bob's face crumpled, his hands burying into his hair. "Oh God, I’m sorry. I ruined you. I don't know how my powers work or how to control them. I–"

Yelena slid closer, the scrape of her chair sharp in the silence. "Bob. Look at me."

His head lifted, eyes wide and glassy.

"You didn't ruin me." Her voice was low and fierce. "This is dangerous and it scares me, but I'm not ruined." Her fingers threaded through his, grounding. "You made me stronger. Just… not in a way either of us expected."

"So you're… okay with it?"

She frowned. "Okay isn't the word I'd use. But I can try to live with it the same way you live with your powers—if it can't be undone."

He shook his head, voice cracking. "I don't want you to be like me. Strong but uncontrollable." His hand tightened around hers. "If you want it undone, I swear I'll find a way. Whatever I did, I'll make it right."

Her gaze softened. "You always do this. Always trying to fix everything, save everyone." She touched his cheek. "Even when no one asks you to."

His throat worked. He cupped her face in both hands, thumb brushing her jaw. "Because you matter to me. More than anyone." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I promise I'll find a way, even if—"

"No." She cut him off gently. "We'll figure this out. Together. Does that sound better than risking yourself?"

"Yeah," he breathed. "Together."

The distance between them closed, slow but inevitable. When their lips met, the kiss was less fire than gravity—steady, certain, pulling them both into the same orbit.

When they parted, she rested her forehead against his.

Bob breathed out, shaky but lighter, "What do we do now that everyone knows?"

The words hung between them, heavier than the kiss.

His thumb stilled on her cheek, his breath catching. For a second he looked terrified—not of her, but of the world outside this room.

"Hmmm.” Yelena hummed, “All I can say is that well…at least we don't have to hide it any longer. From anyone. That’s a relief for the both of us at least".

The last of the garlic and basil scent clung to the air. Yelena's hand still rested in his, her thumb tracing slow circles against his knuckles.

Then Bob cleared his throat, a small, conspiratorial smile tugging at his lips, "I actually have some good news. For once."

Yelena tilted her head. "Oh?"

He leaned in, dropping his voice. "I found a few more of Valentina's hidden cameras. And I destroyed them."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed in amused disbelief. "You did?"

"Couple in the gym, one in the rec room. One in here." He gestured around the kitchen, sheepish but proud. "Not anymore."

Yelena's lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. "You risked Valentina's wrath for me?"

"For us," Bob said softly.

For the first time that night, Yelena's laughter came unguarded, low and real. She shook her head. "You really are insane."

"Yeah," he admitted with a grin. "But you like me anyway."

"I do," she said softly, squeezing his hand.

For once, the world beyond these four walls felt like it couldn't touch them.

Bob's smile faded slightly, vulnerability creeping into his voice. "Do you… want to stay tonight?" He hesitated, searching her eyes. "Or would you rather not? I mean, if you don't want to touch me after—"

"Bob." Yelena squeezed his hand, cutting off the spiral. "I want to stay."

Relief flooded his face, then doubt crept back in. "You're not just saying that because you don't want me to, like… void out or something?"

Yelena's expression softened. She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I'm here because I want to be. Not because I'm afraid of what you might do." Her thumb brushed his cheek. "I'm here because it's you."

He exhaled slowly, leaning into her touch. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She leaned in, pressing another soft kiss to his forehead. "We're in this together, remember?"

He pulled her close, breathing her in. "Together."

[To be continued...]

Chapter Text

Yelena stood at the edge of a lake, late afternoon sun painting the water gold and orange. She recognized this place—a lake near a cabin she’d rented somewhere in rural Poland, two years ago. She'd stopped there between contracts, a rare moment where she'd allowed herself to simply exist instead of move toward the next target.

The air was warm, carrying the scent of pine and wildflowers. No one else around for miles.

She wore a sky blue two-piece swimsuit. The memory was so clear she could feel the rough wood of the dock beneath her feet, see the way sunlight caught in the ripples.

She dove in.

The water was perfect—cool enough to be refreshing, warm enough not to shock. She surfaced, swimming out toward the center with strong, practiced strokes. This was one of the good memories. One she'd tucked away and revisited when she felt miserable or stressed.

This lake had been the cleanest she’d ever swum in, pure enough to drink from, yet its depth always unnerved her. Underwater, when she opened her eyes, everything was clear at first: sunlight filtering down in golden shafts, illuminating the surface with bluish-green hues. However, the light could only reach to around three feet before dissolving into shadow. Below that point, there was only darkness, stretching down and down, fathomless.

She surfaced, floating on her back, letting the false sun warm her face. Eyes closed. Breathing peacefully.

Deep in the black water, two pinpoints of white shone in the darkness, pupils like distant dying stars. Not moving yet. Only... watching.

The shape around them was formless—an absence rather than a presence, a figure cut from the water itself, darker than the dark surrounding it. It had been there since she entered the dream, patient as stone, waiting at the bottom of her memory where light couldn't reach.

Now it slowly began to rise upwards.

Slowly.

So slowly she wouldn't notice the change in pressure, the way the water temperature dropped degree by degree.

Yelena floated, eyes still closed, unaware.

The darkness ascended through the depths—twenty feet below her now. Then fifteen. The golden light from above didn't touch it, couldn't penetrate the living shadow.

Ten feet below.

The water around Yelena's legs turned noticeably colder. She frowned slightly but didn't open her eyes, attributing it to a current, a deeper pocket of lake water mixing with the surface warmth.

Five feet.

Close enough now that if she'd opened her eyes and looked down, she would have seen it—the shape of absence, blank white eyes fixed upward, watching her float above him like prey dangling on the surface.

Three feet.

The cold was unmistakable now. Yelena's eyes opened, and she tilted her head down, peering into the water beneath her.

For a moment she saw nothing. Just the golden light fading into blue, then black.

Then the white eyes opened directly below her.

Her breath caught. Training kicked in—she started to swim, to put distance between herself and whatever was down there—

A hand, pale and cold, closed around her ankle.

Yelena froze, every muscle tensing. She looked down, and the humanoid shape was rising now, no longer slow, no longer patient. It surged upward through the water like smoke being drawn up a chimney, his grip on her ankle pulling her slightly under as he ascended—

The Void broke the surface right in front of her.

Water streamed off his shoulders—except it didn’t, not really. The water just slid away from him, repelled. His blank white eyes were level with hers, his hand still locked around her ankle beneath the surface.

Then his other arm rose out of the water, reaching for her waist. With one smooth, impossibly fluid motion, he drew her toward him and rotated her in the water, turning her so her back met his chest. The hand on her ankle released, gliding up to join the other around her middle, holding her securely as they floated.

Like a mother otter holding her pup. Keeping it from drifting away. Except this was nothing like that motherly form of comfort.

The cold emanating from him seeped through her skin, into her bones. His body—if it could be called that—felt like frozen glacier water given form, solid but wrong, present but absent. She could feel the rise and fall of breath that he didn't need, the pulse of something that wasn't quite a heartbeat.

"Привет, Леношка." The words came out in Russian, directly against her ear. The accent was clumsy but his voice resonated strongly through his chest into her back—a hollow, echoing quality that made her imagine deep wells and buried treasures in the earth.

She didn't struggle. The Red Room had taught her that panic made you weak, and besides—she could feel that his grip, while secure, wasn't meant to hurt. Not yet, anyway.

"Let go of me," she commanded despite her hammering heart.

"Нет. Я ждал… долго… внизу твоего сна. Дай… мне этот момент". 

Each syllable was carefully placed like someone reading phonetically from a script. 

"Why are you here anyway? You're not supposed to be here. Not in my memories." she snapped at him.

"I remember you mentioning this place once. A comment about lakes being peaceful. I searched through your dreams until I found it." His breath—unnecessary, performative—stirred her wet hair. "Water always leads forward or down. Вниз… там я живу."

Yelena's eyes scanned the horizon. The golden light of the sun was dimming now, taking on a bruised quality. The shoreline was blurring at the edges, trees becoming flat and artificial like painted backdrops.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"To warn you."

That wasn't what she'd expected. "About what?"

"You're making him weak. Bob used to understand that everyone is alone. That isolation is the only truth but you made him believe in connection. In love." His hand splayed across her ribs like he was measuring her heartbeat. "A fragile and pointless thing."

"Love isn't fragile or pointless."

"Разве нет?" His cheek pressed against hers—cold, so cold. "Everyone ends up alone, Yelena. Everyone dies alone. Every moment of connection is just postponing the inevitable. I tried to show Bob this truth but your presence undid all that work."

She tried to turn her head to look at him, but his hold kept her facing forward.

"So what? You want me to leave him?" she asked.

"Да." He said with no hesitation.

The water around them was noticeably colder now, darker. When Yelena looked down, she couldn't see her own legs anymore, just black water swallowing everything below the surface. The dream was fracturing—the shores gone, replaced by flat grey walls extending upward into nothing. The sky turned bruised purple-grey, artificial and wrong.

"If so then, you could force me to leave him right now if you wanted to," she challenged him. "Pull me under. Drown me. Threaten me in this dream until I wake up terrified and run but, you're not doing that”.

The Void went very still.

"You're holding onto me," she smirked at him. "Like you don't want to let go."

Silence. Long enough that she could hear the dream distorting.  It was a faint cracking sound, like ice breaking.

"Yes." No denial this time. "I should pull you under. Terrify you. Drive you away from him. That would be good, but I can't."

"Why not?"

The question hung in the cold air. Around them, the grey walls were cracking now, showing glimpses of something beyond—warm lamplight, fabric, the blurry outline of a room.

"Bob used to crave chemicals. Pills, powder, alcohol—anything to escape the emptiness. And I remember it. The need. Every cell screaming for the next fix." He shifted her slightly in his arms so she could finally see his face—Bob's features carved from shadow, blank white eyes that should have been terrifying. "But you... you're worse than any of that."

Yelena stared into those blank white eyes. "Worse how?"

“You have the same hollowness he does. The same recognition of how horribly the world can break you and yet demand you keep moving.” His arms tightened around her possessively, “But you also carry happiness… and it’s contagious. Every time you’re near him, I feel it too. This need for proximity. These disgusting, irritating feelings that go against everything I am."

"You hate it?" she said.

"Very much." The word was sharp, bitter. "I am his isolation incarnate yet here I am, addicted to you too. Wanting you close even though you're the very thing that threatens my truth." He paused. "I should want you gone but I need you to stay. Both at once. For the first time in my existence, I am conflicted".

The dream was starting to dissolve now. The water turned black, the walls around them crumbled.

“We will continue this conversation another time but I will tell you this: You and Robert are both drowning people grabbing at debris. One day you'll just pull each other under. Better to let go now. Accept the solitude. It's better that way."

Finally, finally, his arms loosened. He let her go, and she felt herself starting to float upward, away from him, toward waking. She watched him sink back into the black depths, those white eyes watching her ascend.

The last thing she heard was his voice, another Russian sentence pronounced weirdly but earnest:

"Прощай… любимая."

Yelena jerked awake with a sharp inhale, heart hammering against her ribs. For a moment she didn't know where she was—expected cold arms around her waist, white eyes staring from below, the terrible intimacy of being held by something that both wanted her gone and needed her to stay.

Her breath came in shallow bursts. Her palms were damp. She could still feel the cold against her back, still hear the badly-pronounced Russian.

"Lenoshka, good morning. You okay?" Bob's voice came low and steady beside her. His hand brushed her shoulder—careful, warm, not grabbing.

Oh wait, she was still hearing it. This was real.

She turned toward him, disoriented, eyes wide in the dim light of the Watchtower common room. The TV had gone dark. The morning sun was just starting to filter through the high windows.

Bob's eyes were their normal dark blue. No blank white gaze. No hollow darkness.

"I—" She swallowed, throat dry. "Sorry. Just a nightmare. Also, did you just call me Lenoshka?"

Bob blushed, putting a hand over his mouth. "Oh I've been learning Russian from an app and podcasts before bed. My pronunciation is still clumsy and... I wanted to surprise you but ah well."

'So that explains where the Void learned to talk to me in my native language…'

The realization should have unsettled her. Instead, it was almost funny in a twisted way—the Void borrowing Bob's clumsy accent, his earnest attempts at connection, and warping them into cold possessiveness.

Her breath stuttered, trying to catch. Before she could sink back into those thoughts, something small and warm nudged her cheek. Tiny paws scrabbled against her collarbone, whiskers tickling her jaw.

She blinked down. Bob's guinea pig, Cucumber, had climbed halfway onto her chest from where he'd been nesting in a blanket pile since yesterday night.

Yelena huffed out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, her hand coming up to stroke his fluffy fur. "You're terrible at stealth."

Bob smiled, easing back into the couch. "He gets that from me."

The panic drained slowly, replaced by the sensation of the little creature burrowing against her sternum. She glanced toward Bob, whose eyes held that familiar mixture of anxiety and gentleness—so different from the white void of her nightmare.

It had been a week and a half since the revelation.

A week and a half since the mission in Egypt had gone sideways. A week and a half since they'd extracted, flown home, and revealed their secret relationship to everyone because Yelena's arms had swollen and she'd miraculously survived an explosion that should have killed her. Bucky had returned from Washington the day after, and everyone had already filled him in on what happened.

Valentina was still pissed about the mission gone wrong. The target had slipped away, and they'd be stuck investigating when they'd surface next but on the other hand she'd been interested in Yelena's newfound abilities. There was no hiding from her considering she saw everything they saw on missions.

"It would make you unique," Valentina had said over the phone, "You're the only one on the team without powers. This makes you not just marketable but valuable in ways you weren't before”.

Yelena had told her she'd think about it, though she was still skeptical and scared deep down. The truth was more complicated—the powers felt foreign, but they were also hers now, tangled up with Bob in ways she couldn't quite untangle.

The team had been… accepting once the initial shock wore off. Meanwhile, Bob had been researching—carefully reviewing what little remained of his Project Sentry files, trying to understand the mechanics of what he'd done. It was difficult to figure out how to undo it when he was the only one with a completely unique, barely understood set of powers (not to mention every document related to Project Sentry had been burned in the vault) but they'd been working through it with one another slowly.

Valentina's words kept circling in Yelena's head though. "Marketable. Valuable." She recognized the language—it was the same kind of talk the Red Room had used. You're not a person, you're an asset. You shouldn't be scared, you're being made better”.

Part of her wanted to try to rip the powers out immediately, claw them from her skin like a parasite. But another part—the part that had survived by being useful, by being valuable—whispered that maybe Valentina had a point. The team had powers. She didn't. Past tense.

She hated that the manipulation was partly working. Hated that she could feel herself considering it, weighing the drawback of keeping these powers against the drawback of being the weak link of the team. Valentina knew exactly what buttons to push but Bob didn't. He simply researched alongside her, let her set the pace, and that... that helped more than he probably realised.

Perhaps there was no fix. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And Yelena still wasn't sure which outcome she was hoping for.

Still though, they'd fallen into a new routine. Yelena visited the Watchtower more often, partly to monitor Bob—he'd been teetering on the verge of a breakdown after losing contact with her after the explosion—and partly because it was easier than being alone in her apartment with only her spiraling thoughts. She brought Fanny with her most days now; she had clearance and there was nothing against pets being allowed in. The Akita had become a fixture in Bob's living space, sprawled across the floor while Cucumber watched from his cage with what could only be described as territorial suspicion. They watched TV shows and movies. Did sticker journaling which was Bob's therapist-approved coping mechanism that Yelena had initially made fun of like John but then gotten surprisingly into.

Bob even tried to teach her how to use his abilities since she (sort of) had some of them now.

"It comes from physical contact," he said one afternoon, floating cross-legged a few feet off the ground while Fanny's head tracked his movement with intense focus. "Tactile telekinesis is what those scientists call it. I’m not actually flying—I’m actually moving myself by... grabbing my own molecules and pushing".

Yelena stared at him. "That makes no sense."

"I know. But it works." He drifted higher. "You should have it too. Just... think about moving. Not up or down. Just moving."

She closed her eyes, felt for that strange new tingly feeling that had been buzzing under her skin since the explosion. When she opened them, her feet weren't touching the floor anymore like at her apartment. Like when she tried to descend with those new wings.

"Oh—fuck—not again".

"Don't panic!" Bob dropped back down. "You're doing it! Now just think about going forw—"

Yelena wobbled, overcorrected, and suddenly shot forward like a bullet. She barely managed to stop herself before crashing into the wall, hanging suspended in the air with her heart hammering. She was lucky that she hadn’t collided with the wall hard enough to break her nose or leave a dent in it.

Bob scratched his head. "Okay, maybe we should have just started with controlling hovering in one place first".

“You know,” she panted, still catching her breath, “I wonder why I got no abilities from my dog, and instead got fish gills that let me survive drowning… but that was temporary instead of permanent.”

“Maybe you did and didn’t realize it,” Bob offered. “Don’t you have a sharper sense of smell?”

Yelena sniffed the air. “…I’m not feeling it.”

“Eh we’ll figure this out one day at a time,” Bob offered her a small shrug as if it would solve everything.

There were other adjustments, too—unexpected ones. Bob no longer had to lean down to kiss her, something he mentioned with obvious pleasure. Her new height put them nearly eye to eye, and he seemed to delight in the change, in the way her transformed body felt against his.

The strength was useful too, she had to admit. She could carry groceries that would have required two trips before, could spar with him without holding back as much, could pin him during their more intimate moments without worrying about leverage. Bob of course was very delighted by this, especially when he was between her thighs.

She caught him watching her sometimes with an expression that was usually between wonder and guilt. Once, when she'd absently lifted his entire body into the air with no effort, he'd gone very quiet.

"What?" she'd asked.

"Nothing."

She wasn't sure if his tone was concerned or awestruck. 

Overall, the time she spent with him felt wonderfully domestic. 

"You want to shower first?" Bob asked, pulling her back to the present.

"Yeah, sure."

They both showered in separate stalls, Bob emerging first in a faded Pearl Jam tee and jeans, hair still damp and sticking up at odd angles. When Yelena finished, she padded into his room barefoot, wearing a white tank top and grey denim shorts—comfortable clothes she'd left here during one of her visits. Her hair was still damp, darkening the fabric at her shoulders.

Bob's gaze caught on her nose ring, then drifted lower to her chest before he could stop himself. The tank top was thin enough that the small silver barbell on her left nipple was visible through the fabric. He quickly looked away, pink creeping up his neck.

"I didn't know you had piercings beyond earrings," he said, trying to sound casual and failing.

"Oh these? Been wearing them since the Red Room cut me loose. Can't do it on missions, especially if there's magnets involved..." She scrunched her face. "Would be awful."

"Seems I learn something unexpected about you every week." Bob chuckled. "I'm a little surprised but also not that surprised."

"Thinking of filing a complaint?" she teased, moving to sit beside him on the couch.

"Nah." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Just... it makes me remember things. If we'd met back when I was in Florida, I'd have been a terrible influence on you."

"Oh?" She leaned closer, amused. "How terrible?"

He groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "I got tattoos and piercings too, most of the time after getting blackout drunk, and…" He trailed off.

"And?" Yelena prompted.

"I also had... a heart-shaped womb tattoo," he admitted, muffled through his palms.

Her laugh cracked out sharp and delighted. "You did not."

"Wish I didn't," he muttered. "Lost a bet in a bar and uhh... rest is history."

Yelena was wheezing now, shoulders shaking. "You? With a womb tattoo? That's going to haunt me in the best way."

"If my skin hadn't completely healed over after Project Sentry, I'd never hear the end of it." He groaned again, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.

"What a shame." She tapped her nose ring, eyes bright with mischief. "I think past-you and I would've gotten along just fine. I've even thought about getting my belly button pierced lately too."

He blushed beetroot red. "Mmmm, past-me would've definitely encouraged that."

"And present-you?"

He chuckled, then shrugged, expression turning softer. "Present-me's just glad I didn't meet you back in Florida. I truly would've dragged you down with me."

Her smile gentled. "You underestimate me, Bob. I'm not that easy to drag anywhere."

"Probably not." His voice dropped, sincere. "But I was a mess. And you—you deserved better than to meet me when I was like that."

"I was a mess too," she said quietly. "Still am, some days."

"But we're messes together now. So that's... something." He reached over, thumb brushing against hers where their hands rested on the couch between them.

For a while, they let the silence hold—Cucumber nestled back into his blanket nest, the morning light filtering through the Watchtower's high windows.

Then Bob shifted, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

"You know," he said slowly, "we should have another date. Just us. Go out somewhere. Buy accessories, maybe even get our nails done." He smiled faintly, almost shy. "I've got money saved up from the previous missions. We could use it to do fun things today like... I dunno, get earrings? Do manicures? Thrift shopping?"

Yelena raised a brow, amused. "Getting matching earrings and manicures? You are also full of surprises, Bob."

"Why not?" His thumb traced small circles against her knuckles, a little sheepish. "I'd like that."

Getting her nails done with Bob. Shopping for jewelry together. Doing normal, frivolous, utterly human things—it felt like the most defiant middle finger to the sentient darkness that thought her love for him was a weakness.

"Yeah, I'd like that too. Retail therapy would be great for both of us." She agreed.

Bob's smile went crooked, hopeful. "Then it's a date."

Bob wasn't sure if people noticed them on the street. A tall man in a worn denim jacket, posture screaming don't look at me, holding hands with a woman who carried herself like every inch of the world owed her respect though if anyone did notice, they didn't stare long. Yelena had that effect even before he'd gifted her with powers—confidence that made people's eyes slide away, instinct telling them she wasn't someone to mess with.

She steered them into a boutique with large windows and minimalist displays, expression unreadable until she caught the way Bob hesitated by the door.

"Don't worry," she assured him with a deadpan expression. "I'll protect you from the mannequins."

"Funny," he muttered, following her inside.

The store smelled like lavender perfume sprayed onto a fresh coat of paint. Yelena drifted through the racks, fingers brushing over various clothes and accessories.

Bob trailed after her, hands in his pockets, feeling deeply out of place among the carefully curated displays and generic instrumental guitar music.

"You should look too," Yelena said without turning around, holding up a burgundy blouse to examine the stitching. "Find something for yourself."

"I'm good."

She glanced back at him with that look—the one that said she wasn't asking. "Bob. Look around."

He sighed and made a halfhearted circuit of the men's section. Most of it was too sleek, too put-together for someone like him. Tailored button-ups, jeans that looked distressed…He was about to give up when a navy t-shirt caught his eye, tucked between more tacky pieces. It had a simple graphic of a golden retriever on the front with its tongue out.

He pulled it off the rack.

When he returned, Yelena had accumulated at least three items draped over her arm—a leather jacket, black shirts and a set of blue, red and gold pants.

She eyed his single shirt. "A dog?"

"It's a good dog," he hugged the shirt.

"Yes. It is." She nodded toward the accessories. "Come on."

It wasn't long before Yelena's eyes immediately spotted an earring rack near the counter, spinning it idly with one finger until a pair of silver studs molded into the forms of tiny suns with smiley faces caught the light.

"You'd wear these?" Bob asked, surprised as she picked them up.

She gave him a look. "I like to wear things that aren't always useful as weapons, you know." She held one up against her ear, tilting her head to check the small mirror mounted next to the display. "What do you think?"

Bob's mouth tugged into a smile. "Looks good. Makes you look... cute."

She considered him for a moment, then her lips quirked. "You want a pair too, don't you?"

He froze, then admitted, "Yeah. Matching earrings. Why not?" His smile faltered. "Except...my skin doesn't break so nothing can't pierce me anymore."

“You figured that out from your tests?”

“Earlier than that actually...” Bob winced as he recalled several bullets being fired at him and awakening without a single scratch. That was a near-death experience that wasn’t going away anytime soon…

Yelena slipped the earring back into its box, "We'll see if they have identical ones then. Clip-ons. Don't pout."

"I'm not pouting."

"You absolutely are."

He laughed despite himself, shaking his head as they thankfully found matching sets: one pierced, one clip-on, both smiling suns and they paid for them separately.

Outside the boutique, she clipped the suns onto his ears. "There. Now we match."

Bob ran his thumb over the smooth silver. "Thanks, Lena."

The small thrift shop they strolled into next was bathed in golden light from a stained glass-like ceiling lamp. The shelves overflowed with yellowed books, vintage artifacts and old toys. Plush rabbits with floppy ears, smiling whales, little cartoon ghosts and pumpkin decorations abandoned from a previous Halloween.

Bob wandered toward a shelf near the window, fingers trailing over the merchandise. He already had a reversible rabbit at home—the one Yelena had bought him a while ago, with the happy face on one side and sad on the other. He didn't need another rabbit and so his hand hovered over a few options: a calico cat with button eyes, a dopey-looking sheep. Then his fingers closed around a star with a smiley face tucked behind a row of more conventional plushies.

It was oversized and plush, with five rounded points in faded yellow, blue, and white stripes. The seams were visible, slightly uneven. One of the points sagged lower than the others, giving it a lopsided, weary quality.

He held it up to Yelena, half-embarrassed but smiling. "Look. It's like me." He rotated it slowly so the faded colors caught the light. "Doesn't quite shine right, but..." He shrugged. "Still a star, I guess."

"Do you want it?" she asked.

"Of course."

She smirked and turned toward another shelf. Her hand hovered over a few cute ones—a pink octopus, a smiling frog—but she bypassed them for something tucked deeper in the corner.

A bear.

It wasn't cute in the usual sense. Its fur was a patchwork of gray and beige, with visible black stitches along its arms and sides where it had been repaired, probably more than once. Its glass eyes were mismatched—one brown, one slightly cracked and cloudy. But the strangest part was its stomach: an empty pouch, torn open like someone had gutted out its stuffing and then forgotten to close it back up.

"I like this one," she said.

Bob blinked, moving closer to look. "That's... kind of creepy."

"It is," she agreed, turning it over in her hands. "It's creepy in a cute way." She traced the rough stitches with her thumb. "It's hollow but still functional. Someone pulled its insides out, and it still kept going." She looked down at the empty pouch. "I get it."

Bob's expression softened. He set his star on the shelf beside him and leaned over to examine the bear's hollow stomach more closely. "You mean... because of—"

She gave him a small look, and he stopped. The silence stretched between them, gentle but heavy with understanding.

Suddenly, Bob's face lit with an idea. He glanced toward the counter, spotted a bin of miniature plush accessories—tiny hearts, stars, even toy bandages meant for craft projects—and grabbed one: a stuffed red heart no bigger than his palm, plushy and slightly overfilled so it bulged at the seams.

Without a word, he returned and carefully tucked it into the bear's open pouch, adjusting it so it sat snugly inside.

"There," he said, his voice light but careful. "Now it's not empty."

Yelena blinked down at the bear, at the little red heart now resting in the hollow space. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm creative," he corrected with a grin. "See? The bear's not empty anymore. It has a new heart. Courtesy of yours truly."

Yelena swore a bit of The Sentry slipped into that last sentence. Her fingers brushed over the pouch, feeling the heart's fabric through the thin material. For a moment, her throat tightened. "You know," she murmured, voice quieter now, "you can't just fix everything by stuffing a heart into it."

"Maybe not, but sometimes it helps to start somewhere."

She sighed, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "Fine but you're buying all three of them for us. They belong together now."

Bob glanced at the tri-colored star still sitting on the shelf and back at Yelena's patchwork bear with its new heart, and a warm, fuzzy feeling settled in his chest.

"I feel the same way." he said softly.

They carried their mismatched creatures to the counter—a hollow bear with an overstuffed heart and a three-colored star that didn't quite shine right—pressed side by side like two strange little souls who had found each other in a bin of forgotten things.

The cashier tallied the amount with a knowing smile, and Bob paid without complaint.

Outside, Yelena checked her phone. "There's a nail salon two blocks from here. Still want to do that?"

Bob glanced down at his hands which had calloused, uneven nails from frequent picking when he was feeling nervous. A subconscious bad habit he was still trying to overcome really.

 "Yeah. Let's do it."

The cheap-looking salon smelled of polish and acetone, undercut by something floral and chemical. Generic pop music played overhead. Bob looked like he was waiting for a firing squad again.

"Relax," Yelena said, sliding into the cushioned chair beside him. "It's nails, not surgery."

He eyed the wall of polish bottles lined up like a rainbow arsenal, hundreds of colors organized by shade and finish. "You're sure about this?"

"Yes," she said firmly, already scanning the options. "And so are you."

He sighed, watching as the nail technician gestured for his hand. "Fine. But nothing glittery."

The tech smiled patiently and pointed to the color wall. "What shade would you like?"

Bob stared at the bottles like they might bite him. "Uh... bright blue?"

Yelena reached over and grabbed a deep navy with the faintest shimmer—subtle enough to pass as matte unless you looked closely. "What about this one called Lapis Lazuli?"

"That has glitter," Bob protested.

"That has shimmer," she corrected. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Glitter is for children's parties. Shimmer is for people with taste."

Bob snorted but picked up the bottle anyway, studying it in the light. The blue shifted subtly, almost midnight-dark in shadow. "Hmm. This one's actually... nice. I’ll go with this one".

"Good choice." Yelena was already browsing for herself, fingers trailing along the display until she found what she wanted—a deep burgundy, nearly black in dim light but wine-red when it caught the sun. She held it up to show him. "Look at this one: Carmine-Burgundy".

"Looks like dried blood," Bob chuckled.

"Exactly." She grinned and brought both bottles to the counter. "My treat, by the way. You already paid for the thrift shop."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm paying," her tone brooked no further argument as handed her card to the receptionist before Bob could protest further. "Consider it a gift. Your first proper manicure should be memorable."

"Thank you Lena".

The process was oddly soothing—hands soaking in warm water, the gentle filing, the careful application of polish. Bob watched, mesmerized despite himself, as the color transformed his nails from ragged and bitten to elegant and refined. Beside him, Yelena sat quietly while her technician worked, both of them falling into comfortable silence punctuated only by the soft brush strokes and the tinny music overhead.

When it was done, Bob held his hands up to the light, fingers spread. The navy polish caught the salon's fluorescent glow, that barely-there shimmer winking like distant stars.

"I feel ridiculous," he muttered.

"You look красивый," Yelena countered, admiring her own burgundy nails. She flexed her fingers experimentally. "And now when you punch someone, it'll be with style."

Bob snorted, covering his mouth with one still-drying hand. He kept glancing at his nails as they gathered their things, like he couldn't quite believe they were his.

"Stop staring at them," Yelena said, amused.

"I'm not staring."

"You absolutely are."

He grinned, sheepish. "Okay, maybe a little. They look... nice. I don't think I've ever had my nails painted before."

Yelena bumped her shoulder against his playfully as they left the salon. "Well, now you have."

They waited for a cab at the side of the street, small shopping bags from the thrift store dangling from their wrists, the city noise washing over them in waves—car horns bleating, fragments of conversation drifting past, the rhythmic percussion of construction echoing from blocks away. Both held their hands carefully aloft, fingers splayed like delicate flowers, mindful not to smudge the still-tacky polish. Bob studied his newly-painted nails, marveling at the glossy sheen. He was certain he'd never pick at them again after this. They were too beautiful to destroy, and Yelena had paid sixty dollars in total for both their manicures.

"Thanks. For today. For this."

Yelena glanced at him. "It's just nails."

"Not just the nails." He gestured vaguely with his free hand, careful not to touch anything. "All of it. The shopping, the talking and being with you. I needed it."

"Eh we both did," she said softly.

A taxi pulled up to the curb, and they climbed in carefully, still protecting their manicures like precious cargo. As the city blurred past the windows, Bob caught himself looking at his nails again in the passing streetlight.

"Umm question. Why aren't we going back to the Watchtower?" Bob asked after Yelena gave the driver a completely different address.

"You're coming back with me to my house tonight." Yelena pulled out her keys. "It's decided."

"They won't let me stay overnight, you know. OXE tracks my location."

"They didn't say anything about you staying for dinner did they?" She looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"No. I suppose they didn't". Bob considered the shopping bags in his hands—the star and the bear pressed together, his freshly painted nails catching the dying light of the sun. "Alright. Dinner sounds good."

By the time they reached her modest apartment building, the sun had sunk low, painting the streets in orange hues as they took the lift to the second floor. On the first door to the left, Yelena unlocked it, and before Bob could even step inside, a flash of cream-colored fur came barreling toward him.

"Whoa—" He staggered back as the dog jumped, paws pressing against his chest with enough force to make him grab the doorframe.

"Fanny, down," Yelena said with a sharp whistle.

The Akita dropped immediately, though her tail kept wagging like a metronome.

Bob blinked, steadying himself as he carefully stepped inside and set down the shopping bags. "Hello again Fanny".

Yelena crouched down, letting the dog nose at her hands before scooping her into a hug and putting her down seconds later. "Alright, let's go inside."

Fanny trotted ahead of them into the apartment, nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

The apartment was modest—one bedroom, a living area that flowed into the kitchen, a bathroom he could see down a short hallway. Yelena moved straight to the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, analyzing what she had. "I don't have much. Eggs, some leftover rice, vegetables. I can make fried rice?"

"Sounds perfect."

She started pulling ingredients out while Bob explored the small space. Plants lined the windowsill (herbs, he realized—basil, mint, parsley). A few books stacked on the coffee table. Fanny's bed in the corner, overflowing with chew toys. The dog had already settled there, watching them with alert eyes.

No photographs on the walls. No personal touches beyond the practical.

It felt like a safehouse more than a home.

"Do you need help?" Bob asked as he returned to the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she chopped vegetables with practiced efficiency.

Yelena paused mid-chop, then resumed. "You can help me cut the carrots."

They worked side by side, Fanny eventually padding over to sit at Bob's feet, hoping for dropped scraps. By the time the fried rice was ready, the apartment smelled savory.

They ate at her small kitchen table, Fanny stationed hopefully between their chairs in case anything fell.

"This is really good," he said, scooping up another mouthful.

"It's fried rice, Bob. It's hard to mess up."

"Still. It tastes better than my pasta the other day."

"Funny. I thought yours was better than my homemade cooking."

They fell into comfortable silence for a while, just the sound of forks against plates and Fanny's occasional hopeful whine.

Bob raised his brows, a grin tugging at his mouth. "I didn't want to bring it up when I first heard her name but, why did you name your dog after a vagina?"

Yelena barked out a laugh, the sound sharp and delighted, startling even herself. "Her name was an in-joke of sorts with my sister." She glanced down at Fanny, who was now staring intently at Bob's plate. "I learned she had a really funny alias while she was hiding from the government—Fanny Longbottom."

Bob chuckled, leaning down to scratch behind the dog's ears. Fanny leaned into it immediately, eyes half-closing in bliss.

"And while we were travelling together on our little quest to destroy the Red Room, I discussed with her about dog names for hours once—what breed, what personality, hypothetical dogs you know. I told her if I got a dog, I was naming it after that silly name she had. So—" She gestured at the Akita. "Fanny."

But Yelena's smile faltered, softening around the edges into something more fragile. She watched Bob with her dog for a moment, then looked away.

"Natasha thought it was hilarious," Yelena said quietly. "God, she laughed so hard when I actually went through with it. Sent her a picture and everything. She said Fanny looked like she knew she was part of a joke and didn't care." Her hand came down to rest on the dog's head, fingers curling into the soft fur. "And now…"

Her voice trailed off.

Bob's chest tightened. He stayed still, one hand on Fanny's back, waiting.

"Bob, I need to visit her," Yelena said at last, her gaze fixed somewhere past his shoulder. "Next week in Ohio. It's... it's the anniversary of her death."

The words hit him like cold water. He swallowed, voice low and careful. "Could I... go with you?"

Her eyes met his. She shook her head slowly. "No. I doubt Valentina would approve of you leaving New York. We're already pushing those limits by being at my apartment. It's better if I do this with Alexei. He knew her too. It should be... family."

Bob nodded slowly, though every part of him wanted to argue, wanted to insist he could help, could be there for her. "Oh okay," he whispered. "Just... promise me you'll be safe."

She gave a faint smile, fleeting but sure. "Always."

Fanny whined softly, sensing the shift in mood, and pressed her head against Yelena's leg.

"You know…The powers you gave me," Yelena fingers absently stroked Fanny's fur. "They made me useful but now I see why everyone's afraid of them. Why they want to study you like a lab rat. Why you're afraid of yourself." She paused, searching for more words. "The rush when it works. The fear when it doesn't. The way it eats at you, wondering if you're more dangerous than helpful."

She gazed up at him. "You've been living like this since Project Sentry, and I never really understood until now”.

"Does it scare you?" Bob asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"A little." She met his eyes, unflinching.

For once, she wasn't just seeing the hero or the addict or the man who'd lost control. She was standing in the same storm with him, feeling the same wind.

He swallowed hard. "Yelena... I will try to figure out how to fix this while you're gone. Reverse it somehow."

She leaned back in her chair, considering. "No. Not yet. Not without me."

"Why not? I build and take things without manuals most of the time and I manage fine."

"Because machines are different and you don't experiment on yourself without knowing the consequences first. Or at least, you shouldn't." The admission seemed to surprise even her. She flexed her fingers on the table. "The powers are a problem, yes. But they're also part of me now. I need to understand them before we try to tear them out. Does that make sense?"

Bob nodded slowly. It did make sense. Painful, complicated sense.

Fanny barked at them, tail thumping against the floor as if to break the tension. She nosed at Bob's hand, demanding more attention.

"Awww She really does love you," Yelena observed, standing and collecting their empty plates. "That's rare. She usually barks at strangers for at least ten minutes."

"Maybe it's because I smell like Cucumber. A guinea pig scent must be very trustworthy to dogs I guess." Bob joked, giving Fanny one more scratch before standing to help.

They cleared the table together, Fanny following them to the kitchen sink and sitting between them as they worked. Bob washed while Yelena dried, their movements settling into an easy rhythm. The dog watched both of them with patient devotion, tail occasionally sweeping the floor.

When the dishes were done, they moved to the living room. Fanny bounded ahead and immediately claimed the center of the couch. Bob and Yelena settled on either side of her, the dog's warm bulk a comfortable presence between them.

"Will you really be okay?" Bob asked after a moment. "Going back there? To Ohio?"

Yelena's hand found its way into Fanny's fur, fingers working through the soft coat. "Yes. I told you. Alexei will be with me." Her mouth curved faintly. "I might even get to see Melina face to face again. I haven't had much contact with her since I came back from being snapped."

"Who?"

"Oh, adopted mum."

"Right. Sorry. I can’t recall if you talked about her before…still working on my short term memory issues." Bob exhaled, relieved but still uneasy. He toyed with the seam of a couch cushion, watching the lamplight gleam off his Lapis Lazuli-painted nails. Then, carefully: "Come to think of it, I remember you mentioned once that… you were Snapped while Natasha… you know. What was that like?"

She looked down at her hands and back up, hazel eyes abruptly gaining a darkness to them that wasn't there before.

"It was in New York," she began. "I was on my quest to free the other Widows after taking down the Red Room and I'd started by visiting a friend—another former Widow who I assumed was brainwashed but no, she was fine and we had a nice chat. Then, one minute I was in her bathroom washing my hands and—" She snapped her fingers. "Nothing. Five years were gone like that."

Bob listened in silence. His hand moved across Fanny's back to rest gently on Yelena's.

"When I came back, she had a child and the apartment was different. Everything was different. The city had changed. Everyone had moved on." She gave a humorless laugh. "And Natasha... Natasha was gone. Dead. Sacrificed herself for the Soul Stone while I was just... dust in the wind."

Her jaw tightened, gaze distant. "The mission I'd wanted to accomplish had been completed without me. All the Widows were already freed and scattered across the globe. And me? I came back to a world that didn't need me. Didn't wait for me."

Bob's grip tightened around her hand. He didn't speak. Didn't try to fix it.

"I tried to keep working. Fell back into being a freelance assassin because it was the only thing I knew how to be. But I was… lost." She let out a small, sad sigh. "At one point, I even hunted down Clint Barton—Hawkeye—because Valentina told me he was responsible for Natasha's death. We fought. I tried to kill him but…I couldn't go through with it in the end. After that, I became lost again, directionless, and there were nights—too many—when I wished I hadn't come back at all. That I'd just stayed dust."

His grip tightened further. His voice came out quiet, almost raw. "I know that feeling. The world moving on without you. Coming back to find you've been... erased. Yeah. I know it."

"Bob... are you saying—"

"I was Snapped too," he confessed, the words seeming to hollow him out from the inside. "One moment I was in the garden on my knees, holding a trowel while weeding. The next, the trowel just... vanished from my hands. I was in the same garden, but the tomatoes had been replaced by rose bushes and—like you said—everything was different."

She stared at him. "This is the first time you've told me."

“No one likes to talk about losing five years of their life." He swallowed hard. "And when I came back... I didn't feel welcomed home.

His hand tightened in Fanny's fur. The dog shifted but stayed pressed against him.

"I walked into the living room and my mum grabbed me like she'd never let go. Cried so hard I thought she'd collapse. But my dad..." He paused, jaw working. "He just stood there. Stared at me like I was a ghost he'd already made peace with losing. Didn't say a word. Didn't touch me. And that’s when I heard a baby crying upstairs."

He tilted his head slightly, staring at something she couldn't see.

"Turns out they'd had another kid during those five years. Bryan. Or Ryan. I can’t remember which." His voice went flat. "Dad had built a whole new room for him. Fresh paint, new furniture, ready for when he grew up. And me? Back to the attic. Same as before the Snap. Like some relic they couldn't quite throw away but didn't want to look at either."

Yelena's thumb brushed across his knuckles. "That's awful. They wouldn't even let you share a room with your new brother?"

Bob shook his head.

"I ended up babysitting Ryan during the day when they both worked because I couldn't find a stable job when I got back. But otherwise... It was Ryan's house. Ryan's toys. Ryan's future. I was just... extra baggage." He paused, the weight of it settling. "And I suppose that's all I ever was to them." 

A bitter laugh escaped from Bob’s lips as Yelena’s hand tightened on his own. "No. You are not extra baggage. Not to me."

Bob finally looked at her, eyes raw, the lamplight catching on old grief. "But that's what I felt like. That's why I left for Malaysia. I got tired of Florida. Tired of the attic. Tired of being unwanted. I said goodbye to no one, packed my things and walked out in the middle of the night. My only regrets were leaving my CD player behind. And him."

He stared past her, as if seeing that house again.

"There was a part of me that wanted to take the kid with me. Save him from them but my trip was a one-way ticket, and I had nothing to offer him and my parents..." He exhaled shakily. "I heard them swear they'd do better with him. That he was their second chance. I don't know how true it's going to be but I'd like to believe that maybe Ryan won't grow up like me—broken, haunted, convinced he was worthless."

The silence stretched. Fanny's breathing was steady between them, a gentle rhythm in the silence.

"I always thought I was too broken to be loved, too much of a mess for anyone to stay. That it would be better if I just... ended it." Bob continued, eyes dropping to their joined hands. "There are days I still hear that voice. Days I think maybe the world would be better off without me but then I found you, and you proved me wrong. Now I don't want that anymore. I don't want to die or be alone."

She shifted closer, leaning into his shoulder across Fanny's back. "Well, you proved me wrong too. I'm glad neither of us vanished forever. We wouldn't have met otherwise, would we?"

"Guess the universe got one thing right."

They sat like that for a long moment, hands clasped over Fanny's sleeping form. Outside, the city kept turning. Inside, on her couch with a dog between them, Yelena's gaze lingered on him, grief and warmth twined together. She didn't say it aloud, but the thought pressed through her chest, aching and certain:

Natasha would've loved the both of us.

[To Be Continued...]

Chapter Text

Yelena slips into dreams and finds herself once again standing before the three-headed Cerberus.

The center head is Bob, unmistakably. Soft-eyed, anxious, warm. He leans toward her instinctively, as if she is the true anchor holding the entire creature together.

Sentry, on Bob’s right, nudges Bob away.

His posture is regal, proud, and naturally assertive, radiating command without even trying.

When Yelena steps closer, Sentry’s assertiveness falters slightly.

He growls low, not a threat but a warning. However, when Yelena nudges him gently, Sentry yields to her and lowers his head — controlled not by force, but by trust. He stills immediately, every muscle locked in disciplined restraint.

Dominating, yes but he can be guided…

Meanwhile the left head, the Void, observes the three of them with a coiled curiosity, smoky and unpredictable. He flicks an ear but does not interrupt.

He isn’t a danger to anyone.
Not the loudest presence.

Not for now at least…

The hum of the old van filled the silence, broken only by the static-laced Russian pop song crackling through the speakers. Alexei drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of his Limo, singing along with gusto in a voice that was two octaves too low for the tune.

Yelena slouched in the passenger seat awakening from her brief nap. She rested her chin in her hand as she stared out at the endless stretch of highway. The clouds hung low and gray, the kind that promised rain without delivering.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "We could've rented an OXE Quinjet. We'd be there already."

Alexei's chest puffed out like she'd insulted him. "Bah! Quinjet is cold, sterile. No character! You press button for autopilot, and poof, you are there." He gestured grandly at the windshield, nearly swerving into the next lane. "This is road trip! Bonding! Father and daughter, together, like true Americans!"

"You're not American."

"I am former Cold War Russian turned Modern American hero," he corrected proudly.

Yelena's lips twitched despite herself.

For a while, the road unspooled in silence, the rumble of tires a steady lull. Yelena let her gaze drift to the passing trees, the blur of signs ticking down the miles.

She glanced at Alexei. "Thanks. For coming with me this year." He looked surprised, then pleased.

"Of course, malyshka. I should have come sooner. It has been..." He trailed off, jaw tightening. 

"Too long." "Yeah." Yelena's voice was quiet. "It has been."

"She was my daughter too," he said, almost to himself. "Even if not by blood. I should have visited more." 

Yelena nodded, throat tight. For a moment, silence settled between them again. 

Then, trying to lighten the weight, she added, "Plus, carpooling saves money. Fuel costs are insane nowadays." 

Alexei barked a laugh, tension breaking. "Da! Very practical. I am economical father now." 

“You’re driving a limo you bought from a dealership that predates me by, what, a decade?”

"Svetlana is classic! She has character!"

"She has rust and questionable functions."

"Adds to charm," Alexei insisted, patting the dashboard affectionately. 

Then she sighed, rubbing her face. "Still think the Quinjet would've been faster."

Alexei barked a laugh, starting up another song, loud and off-key. "Faster, yes. But not better. This—this is memory. Road trip! Snack stops! Gas station bathrooms! It will be glorious."

Yelena groaned, dragging her hood over her head. "If you start singing 'American Pie,' I'm jumping out the window."

"Pah! You will join me. We will sing together."

"Never."

Her protest was drowned out by his booming voice as his Limo—which he'd inexplicably named Svetlana—rolled on, carrying them toward Ohio, toward Natasha.

An hour later, the singing had stopped.

Alexei's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary. His jaw worked beneath his beard, and twice he'd opened his mouth to speak before closing it again.

Yelena noticed. She always noticed.

"What?" she finally asked, not looking at him.

"Nothing." Too gruff, too quick.

"Alexei."

He cleared his throat. "I... may have invited someone else. To cemetery."

Yelena turned to look at him fully now. "What?"

"Melina," he said quickly. "I called her. Thought maybe—maybe it would be good. For all of us. To be together. For Natasha."

Yelena stared at him for a long moment. Then she turned back to the window. "Okay."

"Okay?" Alexei sounded surprised. "You are not angry?"

"Ask me after." She paused. "When did you tell her?"

"Few days ago. She said she would try to come."

Yelena nodded slowly, processing. The last time she'd seen Melina was Christmas. Melina had moved to a new farm—one that reminded her of the place she'd had in Russia, back before everything. She and Alexei were still apart, though Yelena had never really asked why. It seemed easier not to.

"She might not make it," Alexei added. "Long drive from upstate."

"Then she doesn't make it," Yelena said quietly. But something in her chest loosened slightly at the thought that Melina might be there.

He was quiet for a long, long time and when he spoke again, his voice had lost its usual swagger. "You know. Bob. He said something to me at midnight after a mission... those words stuck with me".

Yelena turned to look at him, “What did he say?”

"That I do this funny Bumbling Dad act to make up for what happened long ago and yes, I was good at playing the pretend father but I was terrible at being an actual father to you and Nat." The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them back too long. "I tell myself stories. That I had no choice. That it was mission. That you and Natasha would be trained, would become strong. But truth is..." His voice cracked. "Truth is, I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of loving you too much. Of becoming attached and then losing you. My own father—he was never there. My fondest memories are of fishing with him but that’s because those moments were rare. He was often working and absent. I grew up knowing more how to be soldier than father." He swallowed hard. "And when mission was over, when we landed in Cuba and I saw them take you away... I told myself it was for the best. That you would be fine. That this was how it had to be."

“Cold…” Yelena's hands clenched in her lap. Old wounds, carefully scarred over, threatened to split open. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Alexei was quiet for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "After getting trapped in your boyfriend’s weird Void space? I saw what I regretted, what haunted me...It made me realise, I did feel very bad about what I did all those years ago but I’ve been pushing it down." He swallowed hard. "I acknowledge it now. The weight of leaving you and Nat. Of what happened after".

"The Void showed you that?"

"Da." Alexei's knuckles were white on the wheel. "It showed me everything. What I lost as a celebrity. What I destroyed. And I cannot take it back. Cannot fix what is broken." He finally looked at her, eyes red. "I didn't see what I was doing until it was too late. You carry so much, Yelena. Guilt for things that were done to you. Shame for surviving when Natasha did not. Some of that weight? That is mine to carry. Not yours. I put it there when I abandoned you."

The words settled between them, heavy and true.

Yelena wiped her face roughly. "You were an idiot."

"Yes."

"You were selfish and stupid and you hurt us."

"Yes."

"And yes, you can't fix it. You can't go back."

Alexei's voice broke. "I know."

Silence stretched between them, fragile and raw.

Then Alexei spoke again, quieter. "You can choose to forgive me or not, Yelena. Either way... it is okay. I do not ask for absolution. I just needed you to know that I see it. What I did. And I am sorry."

Yelena stared out the windshield, watching the road blur through her tears. She thought about the Void Incident—how Bob’s darkness had dragged them all into their darkest memories. How it had been cruel and consuming but also a mirror, forcing everyone to confront truths they'd spent years avoiding. That was likely what the Void had done for Alexei too. Stripped away the excuses, the bravado, the lies he told himself. Left him with nothing but the truth.

"You're here now," she said finally.

Alexei went very still.

"You're here," she repeated, stronger. "Driving me to Ohio in this ridiculous Limo. Trying to bond with me. Being present. Yes, that doesn't erase what happened. It doesn't make it okay. But it's..." She struggled for the words. "It's something."

Alexei's breath shuddered out. "I want to be better. To be the father I should have been."

"You can't be that father," Yelena sighed, "That time is gone. But you can be the one you’re being now. The one who shows up and tries to be a good Dad."

He nodded, swiping at his eyes. "Da. I can do that."

They drove in silence for a while, the weight between them shifted—not gone, but different. Lighter somehow.

Finally, Yelena cleared her throat. "I was actually there in the kitchen at 1am when Bob said those things to you. I don’t think he was himself. Not entirely.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea how this works exactly but the Void is a part of him. However, it doesn’t want to collapse the entire world in darkness. Not like the first time anyway. I think it just likes to see people in emotional pain and felt particularly pissed when it woke up for some reason. That I still don't get why. The real Bob...He isn't like that. He sees the good and bad in people. Even when they can't see it themselves."

Alexei glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his beard. "He is good for you. This Bob."

Yelena's cheeks warmed. "Yeah. He is."

"Natasha would approve."

"I think so too."

Alexei reached over and squeezed her hand once—brief, gentle.

Yelena squeezed back.

Then she pulled away, sniffing. "If you cry and crash this car, I'm never forgiving you."

He laughed, watery and genuine. "No crying. Only driving. And perhaps one more song?"

"Absolutely not."

He started singing anyway.

This time, after a moment, Yelena joined in off-key.

The Limo coughed to a stop at the edge of the cemetery. The sky had turned slate gray, the air damp with the promise of rain. Neither of them spoke as they got out, boots crunching over gravel until the grass softened underfoot.

The conversation from the drive still hung between them—raw and tender, like a wound that had finally been cleaned but not yet closed.

Yelena carried the flowers herself. Simple white lilies. Her hands didn't shake, but Alexei stayed close.

The headstone was clean, unadorned except for a few weathered tokens left by strangers—a ribbon, a coin, a faded photograph. Yelena crouched slowly, placing the lilies at its base. For a long moment she just stared.

Her voice emerged low and unsteady. "Hey, Nat. It's me again." She gave a shaky breath of a laugh. "Like you didn't already know."

She pressed her lips together, then tried again. "I brought Alexei. He insisted on driving us here in his car that he uses for his business, The Red Guardian Limo Service. You'd laugh at how out of shape it was. He named it Svetlana." She paused, glancing back at him. "We... we talked. Really talked. I think you'd be glad about that."

Behind her, Alexei shifted awkwardly. His voice rumbled out, soft for once. "You would be proud, dochka. She is strong. Fierce. Like you."

Yelena traced her fingers over Natasha's name on the stone, "I miss you. More every year. I keep thinking I'll get used to it, but... it doesn't stop. The ache. The wanting to tell you things." Her breath hitched. "I wish you could've met Bob too. He's kind, silly, gets depressed or manic from time to time but he makes me feel happy."

Yelena shook her head, voice breaking. "Sometimes I don't know if I deserve it. Being happy and alive. You were always better—"

Alexei crouched beside her, his hand settling on her shoulder.

"No," Alexei said firmly. "Different, yes. But not better. She would want you to live, Yelena. To love. To carry her fire forward, not to let it consume you."

Yelena swallowed hard, bowing her head. For a while, the only sound was the wind rustling the grass.

Finally, she whispered, "Happy birthday, Nat."

She rose slowly, brushing grass from her knees, feeling hollowed out but somehow lighter. 

She glanced around the cemetery, eyes scanning the winding path, the rows of headstones, the empty parking area beyond. Looking.

Alexei noticed. "She's not here yet."

Yelena's jaw tightened. "I wasn't looking for—"

"Yes, you were," he said gently.

She crossed her arms. "Maybe she's not coming."

"She will come. She said she would."

Yelena turned back to the grave, not wanting to admit how much she wanted that to be true. Or how much the waiting made her chest feel tight.

A minute passed. Then another.

Then—the low rumble of an engine in the distance.

Both their heads turned toward the sound.

A small sedan appeared at the cemetery entrance, tires crunching slowly over gravel. It pulled into the lot and parked beside Svetlana.

The engine cut off.

Yelena's heart hammered. She couldn't look away.

The driver's door opened, and Melina stepped out.

She stood by the car for a long moment, adjusting her coat, her hands clasped together. Like she was gathering her courage.

Then she started walking toward them.

The last time Yelena had seen her was Christmas. Melina had moved to a new farm—one that reminded her of the place she'd had in Russia, back before everything. She and Alexei were still apart, though Yelena had never really asked why. It seemed easier not to.

Yelena watched her approach—this woman who had raised her, lied to her, loved her, hurt her, and tried to make it right.

When Melina reached them, she stopped a few feet away, her gaze moving from Yelena to the grave, to the white lilies resting against the headstone.

"Oh You chose white lilies," Melina said softly, her voice steady but warm. "Natasha always did like them."

Yelena's throat tightened. "Yeah. She did."

For a moment, they just stood there—three people bound by love and loss and all the complicated things between.

"Привет, моя дорогая."

"Hi." Yelena's voice came out smaller than she intended. Then, quieter: "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"I almost didn't," Melina admitted. "Long drive. Terrible traffic. And I wasn't sure if you'd want me here." 

"Of course I do," Yelena said, the words surprising even herself. "I'm glad you came."

Melina's expression softened with visible relief, and something that looked like gratitude. "So am I.”

Alexei cleared his throat. "I will... give you both moment. Go check on Svetlana." He squeezed Yelena's shoulder once, then walked back toward the Limo.

Melina's eyes gazed upwards to find Yelena's, “You’ve certainly grown over the last several months I saw you Lenochka. What have you been eating?”.

“Yeah.” Yelena scratched the back of her neck, “It’s hard to explain…”

"It’s ok. I know. Alexei told me about your Superman boyfriend, Bob," Melina said gently. "About what he gifted to you. Spoke highly of him. Said he makes you happy".

Yelena's jaw tightened. "Of course he told you."

"Don't be angry with him for that. It's clear Bob is good for you. He sounds like a good man”. Melina said gently.

"It's complicated," Yelena muttered. "At first I thought I couldn’t love anyone the way most couples love each other but then Bob... he complicated my idea of that."

"Well, love usually is complicated." Melina paused. "Natasha would be happy for you. She'd want you to have someone who makes you feel safe."

"He does." Yelena's voice was quiet. "He's... different. Good different

"Natasha would've liked him. She'd be happy you found someone who makes you feel loved in the way you want to be loved."

Yelena's throat tightened. "Yeah. I think so too."

Melina's smile was sad but genuine as she moved closer to the grave, kneeling beside the white lilies. From her bag, she pulled out a small, hand-tied bouquet. The stems were wrapped in faded linen.

Yelena's breath caught. "Is that—One of our old kitchen cloths. From Ohio?"

Melina's fingers traced the edge of the fabric. "Surprised you still remember it. I kept it. All these years."

Her voice trembled, just barely, and Yelena heard it.

Melina glanced up. "I thought... I thought it would be easier for you today if I stayed away but I’ve been putting off visiting her for far too long, as if trying to avoid that she’s dead and gone".

"And now?"

Melina rose slowly, brushing off her knees. "Now I think maybe we've stayed away from each other long enough." She paused. "All of us."

Yelena wrapped her arms around herself. "I never asked this but..How come you and Alexei didn’t get together after we ran from the wreckage of the Red Room. You were getting really chummy with each other before you moved into two different states in America".

Melina's expression was soft. "We hurt each other. We hurt you and Natasha and felt maybe we needed time apart." She smiled faintly. "Maybe we'll get back together now. Your father has been interested in trying again".

Yelena chuckled a little, “I hope that goes well. For the both of you”.

Yelena looked down at the grave—at the white lilies and the linen-wrapped bouquet. Evidence of a past that was both a lie and the most real thing they'd ever had.

Melina opened her arms—tentative, offering rather than demanding.

Yelena hesitated, but only briefly, before stepping forward.

The hug was warmer than she'd expected. Melina's arms were steady, and Yelena let herself lean in, breathing in the scent of old fabric, cold wind, earth and growing things.

It was easier reconciling with Melina than it had been with Alexei, she realized. Sure, Melina had created the mind control serum that turned several Black Widows into obedient slaves for Dreykov. Was well aware Yelena would be one of them. Had never bothered to come back for her either and yet—Melina had owned what she'd done. Had worked to undo it. Had given Yelena more vials of red dust to free the others once the Red Room was destroyed.

Unlike Alexei, who'd spent a few decades in prison telling himself and others lofty stories about his glory days while remaining in denial that her and Natasha’s fates weren’t his fault. That her suffering—and Natasha’s—was somehow justified because it had shaped them into the weapons the world needed. That all of it was worth it.

The thought felt a little cruel, even for her. She didn't say it out loud. But the thought settled in her chest, making it easier to breathe.

For a moment, she was a child again, before everything shattered. When family meant something simple, even if it was built on lies.

Another set of arms encircled them both—huge, engulfing.

"Hope there's room for me," Alexei rumbled.

Melina laughed, the sound warm and startled. "Always room for you, big bear."

Yelena found herself pulled into the middle, sandwiched between them. And despite everything—the grief, the betrayals, the years of absence and misunderstanding—the embrace was… pleasant.

When they finally pulled apart, Yelena looked back at the grave. At the white lilies and the linen-wrapped bouquet. At Natasha's name carved into stone.

They stood together in silence, honoring the sister and daughter who would always be missing from their fractured whole.

But somehow, standing there together, the fractures felt a little less jagged.

They said goodbye to Melina at the nearest airport before Yelena rode back with Alexei. The drive was quieter this time, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

When they pulled up to her apartment building, Alexei killed the engine but didn't move to leave.

"Thank you." Yelena said quietly. "For the trip”.

He nodded, eyes suspiciously bright. "Anytime, malyshka."

She squeezed his hand once, then got out.

Inside her apartment, Fanny greeted her with enthusiastic barking, weaving between her legs as Yelena dropped her keys on the counter. The exhaustion hit her all at once—bone-deep and heavy.

She pulled out her phone and texted Bob: [Made it back. Long day. Hope you're doing okay].

No response.

She frowned but shrugged it off. He was probably hyperfixated on a new DIY kit or deep into a Classic literature or self help book. He’d lately been reading Frankenstein.

By 3 PM, she was half-asleep on the couch, Fanny curled up on her chest, when her phone buzzed.

A call from Walker lit up the screen.

"Walker? What is it?"

"Bob's missing."

The words didn't register at first. "What?"

"He just…flew out of that place where they did those medical examinations on him. We can't find him and his tracker's gone dead." Walker's voice was tight, controlled, but Yelena could hear the edge of panic underneath. "His last known location was in Ohio of all places before suddenly vanishing off the face of th". 

"What happened to him?!" Her voice came out sharper than intended, “What made him fly off?”

"I don't know. Val wouldn't give me details but she’s mobilizing everyone. Including some of her own agents. The last thing anyone needs is another Void incident somewhere across the globe”.

Yelena's hand trembled as she gently moved Fanny off her lap. "I'll move out and search for him. Goodbye".

Bob was missing.

Bob was missing.

The words echoed in her skull, hollow and wrong as she headed to the first place she could think of.

[To be Continued]

Chapter Text

She'd been searching for hours.

Despite her enhanced physique, her calves burned from walking and running excessively, throat raw from calling his name into empty alleys and across deserted parking lots. The darkened paths where they'd walked together just last week stretched before her—mocking in their familiarity. 

At Central Park, The bridge where they'd shared their first kiss, clumsy and sweet and terrifying in how much it had meant. The vintage record store where he'd spent twenty minutes debating between two albums he'd never actually buy. All of it feeling empty now. Hollow.

No sign of him.

She tried the coffee shop next—the one on Gardiner Street where he liked to order hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. She could still taste the sweetness he'd kissed onto her lips that one time, sticky and warm. The memory felt like glass in her chest.

The shop was closed. Lights off, chairs stacked on tables in neat, indifferent rows. Her reflection stared back from the dark window—hollowed out by panic.

She then tried every shop they’d visited on their date the other day but there was nothing. Nowhere. No one.

She leaned against a lamppost.

Natasha's grave was still fresh in her mind. Dirt under her nails. The smell of flowers rotting in the rain, petals going brown and soft with decay. And now Bob, gone, possibly hurt or worse. 

‘Why did he leave? Where would he even go? He must have gone looking for me at some point. Would explain why he was last seen in Ohio at least…’

Her phone buzzed. Yelena didn't want to answer it—didn't want to talk to the group, didn't want to admit she'd found nothing—but there wasn't a choice.

“Still no sign of Bob,” she announced before Walker could ask.

Bucky exhaled on the other end. “We’ve swept the whole east side of Manhattan too. Nothing.”

Ava’s voice followed, quiet but edged with worry. “No sightings of a flying man or an ominous floating shadow man dragging people into a dark place. That’s a relief at least”.

Alexei, trying to be helpful, chimed in loudly. “Maybe he is simply taking a nap somewhere! He likes to nap. Very normal for Bob.”

“It is not normal for him to suddenly fly off with no warning though,” Yelena snapped. “He usually loves staying indoors. I wonder what got him so worked up in that medical exam this month that he just…left.”

Yelena knew Bob hated the idea of having any kind of tracker on him but with him being unable to be found…would one have been better?

“Let’s save the extra theorising for later,” Bucky sighed, “For now, we keep searching until we’re worn out, alright? We check in every hour. If anyone needs sleep, let us know and tap out.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then Walker’s voice crackled through again, reaching for lightness that didn’t land. “Well… wherever he is, Yelena’s right, I doubt he’ll stay missing for long. Who knows—maybe he’ll miss his girlfriend and fly home.”

The joke landed like lead. Yelena almost hung up.

They agreed to keep searching. Empty words that meant nothing. What else could they do?

The sun bled the sky from orange to bruised purple to black. She should coordinate with the team and update them on her progress. She should keep searching—her new powers gave her the stamina for it, the strength to run through the night without stopping. But the emotional weight was crushing her anyway, superhuman body or not, and instead she found herself driving toward the Watchtower, her hands tight on the wheel, her vision blurring at the edges as she gave up her fruitless search.

The building loomed against the darkening sky, glass and steel gleaming faintly under the city lights. It looked cold. Uninviting. She slipped inside, her boots echoing too loudly in the empty halls, each step announcing her presence to no one. Not that any staff here could stop her; she had clearance to come and go as she pleased.

She made her way to the bar floor via the lift, each step heavier than the last.

It had been a long while since she'd come here. The floor wasn't as she remembered. New additions to the area had been built in. Relics from the old Avengers and disastrous events were preserved for posterity—shields, bows, scraps of armor polished until they gleamed under sterile lighting, all displayed behind glass cases.

She moved past each exhibit without slowing, gaze fixed ahead until one display halted her in her tracks.

An old version of her sister’s Widow’s Bite rested in the case. The paired electroshock bracelets lay flat on their stand, blue capacitor lines faint beneath the glass as if they might flicker to life at any moment.

A small plaque beneath them read: Widow’s Bite — Chitauri Invasion, 2012.

She grimaced. Other than her empty grave, this was all that remained of Natasha it seemed: A weapon she once wore now reduced what was basically a static museum piece.

An artifact for future visitors to gawk at or stroll past without ever truly knowing the woman who wielded it, the battles she fought, or the family she belonged to.

Yelena's hand pressed against the cool glass, fingers splaying wide. She stood there for minutes—five, ten, she lost count—just breathing, just trying to hold the grief inside her ribcage where it belonged.

Then she turned away before the tears could fall.

The bar had full rows of whiskey, vodka, gin lined up like soldiers at attention. An arsenal of forgetting. She stood in front of them too as she did at those relics behind the glass cases and felt the old hunger rise up.

She knew what she was doing. Knew her alcoholism was a shitty habit but what else could she do? Sit with the pain? Feel every razor edge of it slicing her open from the inside?

No. Not tonight. She didn't have that kind of strength.

She grabbed the vodka first—didn't bother with a glass. The bottle was cold against her palm, heavy with promise. She twisted the cap off and tipped it back, letting the liquid burn its way down her throat.

Sharp. Clean. Familiar as an old scar.

But the haze didn't come.

She waited, bottle still pressed to her lips, for the softening of edges. The gentle blur that made the world tolerable.

Nothing. Just the taste and the ache, clear as ever.

Her enhanced metabolism burned through alcohol like kindling. She was better now. Stronger, faster, practically indestructible and utterly unable to simply escape her own mind.

"Fuck," she whispered.

She switched bottles. Whiskey this time, amber and promising. Then rum. Then something that might've been brandy, she didn't check the label. Each one went down faster than the last, her movements growing sloppy, aggressive. She wasn't even tasting it anymore—just chasing oblivion like a finish line that kept moving further away.

Come on. Come on.

Her hands shook as she reached for the sixth bottle. Not from the alcohol—it wasn't working well enough for that. From frustration. From the screaming need to just stop feeling for five fucking minutes. To give her brain a rest from the endless loop of possible worst-case scenarios.

She drank faster.

By the time she collapsed onto one of the nearby couches, knees drawn tight to her chest, the bar looked like a battlefield. Half a dozen empty bottles scattered across the counter, another dangling loose from her grip, liquid sloshing inside. Her head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton, tongue slow and clumsy in her mouth.

Finally. Blessedly. The room began to tilt.

"Can't even get blackout drunk anymore," she muttered, laughing—bitter and broken. 

Part of her was grateful. Grateful her body had stopped her from fully drowning. The logical part that sounded like Natasha's voice telling her she was being stupid.

But the louder part—the part that was winning—hated herself for trying. For knowing better and doing it anyway. For being so weak that the moment things got hard, she ran straight back to the bottles like they were old friends instead of executioners working in slow motion.

Natasha would've been disappointed. Would've given her that look—the one that said you're better than this without saying a word.

But Natasha wasn't here. Bob wasn't here.

And Yelena was drunk enough now that the room tilted when she breathed. A small mercy.

She'd told herself she came here to drink away the pain, to not be alone. But that was a lie she was too drunk to maintain now. The truth sat heavier: She was here because she couldn't be alone with herself. Couldn't face that she was someone who needed a bottle to get through a bad day. Someone who'd rather poison herself than sit with fear.

Natasha had done better. Had fought harder. Had died sober and clear-eyed, making that sacrifice to save everyone at the cost of her own life.

Yelena was alive and drowning.

Her dog was waiting for her at home—she knew that, felt guilty about it in a distant way—but she'd come here instead. Come here because some pathetic part of her hoped John's ridiculous theory was true. That Bob would somehow sense she was here and come back for her? That he'd find her drunk and falling apart in the Watchtower bar and their reunion would be romantic instead of miserable?

Sure, it wasn't the most ideal way to be found. But she'd be here. And maybe, maybe they’d wake in each other’s arms on the couch and everything would be okay again.

Rain hammered against the window in relentless sheets, drowning the city in silver. The sound wrapped around her suffocatingly, made the silence inside the room feel heavier. It made every thought feel too loud, bouncing around inside her skull with nowhere to go.

Without thinking, Yelena started humming a melody half-remembered from childhood. It gradually trembled into words—Russian syllables tumbling out broken and off-key.

Melina used to sing this when she thought no one was listening and Yelena had tried to research where the song was from several times but had never found its title or ori. It was either a very old song or one her mother had made up entirely.

The song was about a girl named Jane going on a date with a man. Attending church in the morning, drinking coffee, eating omelets in a tiny café, walking through a sunlit park. Visiting dolphins and penguins at an aquarium. A girl who wished she could remember everything about this lovely day before she fell asleep in a church.

Her throat was thick with vodka and grief, with the rest of the melody coming out slurred and wobbling. She hiccuped between verses as her voice cracked on the notes but she kept singing anyway until the last line faded into the relentless hiss of rain.

She didn't notice she was crying until the tears slipped down her chin and mixed with the small puddles gathering on her hands, warm salt mixing with cold water.

The room fell silent again, save for the faint buzz of overhead lights and the storm raging outside.

Then—

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Yelena's head jerked up and in that same moment, a bright and violent flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the window in stark white to reveal a man suspended mid-air outside.

"AHH!" she screamed, breath catching in her throat.

Rain slammed against him, slid down his silhouette in sheets. Backlit by lightning, he was a stark, unmistakable outline: broad shoulders, familiar height, that posture she'd memorized.

"Bob?"

There was no reply.

He just hovered there, motionless in the downpour, watching her through the glass.

How long had he been there? How long had he been watching?

Her heart lurched painfully, caught between relief and something else. Something that made her skin prickle.

Another lightning strike—closer this time, the thunder following immediately—lit him up again.

This time, the figure moved.

Not forward. Not backward.

Just a subtle tilt of the head that was unnatural and stiff, like the gesture itself was being calculated. Like he was studying her.

Yelena's mouth went dry.

"Bob?" Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to, almost childlike. "Why are you out there? Just... just come inside."

He didn't answer. 

The silence stretched too long. Wrong. Everything about this felt wrong.

Lightning flashed again and she saw his eyes—something off about them, something that made her stomach drop even through the alcohol numbing her senses. They caught the light strangely, reflected it back in a way human eyes shouldn't.

There was a glow there. Faint and golden, like embers buried in ash.

"Bob, you're scaring me—"

Then—

CRASH.

The window erupted inward in a violent explosion of glass and shrieking metal. Rain and wind blasted through the room in a cold, brutal onslaught, scattering bottles and overturning chairs. Shards glittered through the air, catching the lightning as they fell like lethal snow.

Yelena screamed, throwing her arms up as transparent shards rained around her, sharp pieces biting into her skin. The sound was deafening—breaking, tearing, the storm roaring its way inside.

He landed in a crouch, one fist pressed to the soaked floor, head bowed, water dripping from his hair in steady rivulets.

For a long moment, only the storm moved. Wind howled through the shattered window, rain pooling on the floor in dark, spreading circles.

Then he rose.

Slowly. Too slowly. Each movement was precise and controlled in a way Bob never was.

Lightning flashed again, framing him in white and Yelena saw him clearly.

Soaked through. Glass shards glittering in his hair, on his shoulders. And those eyes—golden, glowing in the darkness.

"Jesus Christ, Bob!" she gasped, adrenaline partly slicing through her alcohol fog, "You scared the shit out of me! Why didn't you just use the door?"

He still didn't answer. Only stood there staring at her with those burning eyes.

Relief flooded her anyway. Warm, dizzying, irrational. He was here. He was alive.

"Sorry. I'm sorry I'm angry at you, it's just—" she started, words tumbling out too fast. "No. No, it's okay. I'm just happy you're okay. Walker said you were missing. That something happened during—"

Her words caught in her throat.

He was still staring at her. Unblinking. The glow in his eyes pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat made of light.

"Bob?" she said again, softer. Uncertain.

"Sentry actually.” He corrected her. I'm sorry too, Lena, I didn't mean to scare them. Or you." he took a step closer. Glass crunched beneath his bare feet, barely hurting him or leaving a scratch, "Those scientists dragged me out of Bob using a series of words. I don't know exactly what they did but I wouldn't listen to any of them so I left."

He looked outside, toward the sky beyond it that he'd disappeared into hours ago.

"After that, since I was out, I thought about finding you in Ohio. Fuck OXE and whatever trackers they had on me. But when I flew there and tried to find you with my ‘super hearing’...there were so many sounds. I could hear thousands of heartbeats, millions of voices, all screaming at once in my head. I couldn't filter it out, couldn't find you in all that noise, so I shot into the sky."

Another step. Water dripped from his clothes, pooling at his feet.

"When I did that I realized—I missed it. The sky. The air. I forgot what it felt like to be—"

He paused, and that word hung in the air between them, dangerous and intoxicating.

"—free."

The golden glow in his eyes brightened, washing his face in amber light. 

"It felt good. I rarely get to feel good, Lena." His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he was still feeling it, still chasing that high, "I flew to space and was able to breathe and not freeze to death from the altitudes. God, I was among the stars, and the quiet up there—"

He closed his eyes, savoring the memory.

"No voices. No fear. No cages. Only me and the cosmos. I could have stayed there forever, just floating, watching the Earth turn beneath me like a blue marble in the dark but…my thoughts kept drifting to you. I missed you so much."

His eyes opened, fixing on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"I wondered if you’d come back, gone to the Watchtower in a panic looking for me and here you are”. 

Another step. He was close enough now that she could see the water dripping from his eyelashes.

“I’m so happy I was right! That you came here to find me too".

Yelena's eyes softened despite the wrongness still crawling up her spine. "Bob…"

CLINK.

He kicked an object. The sound was… not broken glass.
He looked down—and froze.

Empty bottles lay scattered like casualties across the bar area, half-submerged in pools of spilled liquor, their labels warped and glistening under the dim light.

He then noticed the way Yelena swayed slightly even sitting down, listing to one side like a boat taking on water. The flush spreading across her cheeks in blotchy patches. The glassiness coating her eyes, making them unfocused and distant.

His expression changed, the golden glow in his eyes guttering like a candle in wind, flickering, dimming to embers.

"You're drunk."

The words came out flat. Hollow. Empty of all that beautiful, dangerous confidence that had filled him moments before. It crumbled away like sand through fingers.

Yelena blinked slowly in confusion.

"Yeah." She lifted the bottle still clutched in her hand in a mock toast, trying for levity, not understanding the shift in the air. Not seeing the danger. "I came back from Nat's anniversary today. Went to see her grave and then when I got back I couldn't find you. I looked everywhere, Bob. Everywhere."

Her voice cracked on the last word.

"I just…I couldn't go home. Didn't want to be alone and sad, you know? So I came here and I—"

She gestured vaguely at the wreckage around her.

The brightness in his eyes died completely.

The shadows around him stopped pooling—they moved. Independently. Consciously. Crawling up the walls like living things with intent, spreading across the ceiling in branching veins of darkness.

"You're drunk," he repeated, "You're… you're just like…"

He took another step closer. The shadows followed, writhing around his ankles like pets eager for attention, climbing his spine like lovers, whispering secrets in his ears that only he could hear.

Yelena squinted up at him, trying to focus through the alcohol swimming in her blood. "Like what? Bob, what's wrong?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. Just stared at her with those dimming eyes, jaw working like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow.

Then—

"No. NO. NO."

He jerked backward, hand flying up as if to reach for her, then snapping back like he'd touched fire. His whole body went rigid, trembling with the effort of holding still.

She could see it happening—could see him disappearing into his own head. The way his shoulders hunched inward. The way his hands clenched at his sides, knuckles going white. The way his breathing quickened, shallow and panicked.

Remembering an awful memory. Reliving it. Hating every second of it.

"Bob?" Yelena pushed herself more upright, "Hey, talk to me. What's—"

His hands found her throat.

She didn't see him move. One moment he was standing apart from her, vibrating with tension—the next his fingers were wrapped around her neck. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting there like a promise or a threat, warm and solid and wrong.

Her pulse hammered rabbit-quick against his palm but shock held her frozen.

Then the memories hit.

Not hers—his.

They crashed over both of them like a tidal wave...

Bob's mother sprawled on the living room sofa, head lolled back at an unnatural angle. Empty white pills scattered across the coffee table like dead doves, a bottle tipped on its side, amber liquid seeping into the carpet.

"Mommy, please—"

Seven-year-old Bob's voice, high-pitched and desperate, cracking on the words. Small hands shaking her shoulder, trying to wake her, trying to make her see.

"Please don't let him—"

She never opened her eyes. Just lay there breathing those shallow, rattling breaths that meant she was somewhere far away. Somewhere pills and booze could take her where his father's fists couldn't reach.

Somewhere Bob couldn't follow.

The bedroom door opened behind him. Heavy footsteps. The reek of sweat and rage.

Small hands dragged away from his mother's unconscious body, nails scraping uselessly against the couch fabric, screaming for her to wake up, to help him, to please, please, PLEASE—

His grip tightened suddenly, violently.

Eyes boring into hers, pupils drowning in dim white light that pulsed like a dying star.

"Bob?" Yelena's voice came out strangled, slurred at the edges, uncertain and terrified. "What are you doing? Let go!"

But he couldn't hear her. Wasn't even seeing her anymore.

Bob—was he still Bob?—savored the tremor running through her body. The frantic pulse beneath his fingers, beating faster, harder, like a trapped bird. The way her eyes went wide with dawning horror.

You think she's special? What a joke. Look at her: Drunk and pathetic and weak. Just like your mother. As if she's different. As if she won't abandon you like all the others who claimed to love you—useless when you need her most. 

Her fingers clawed at his wrist, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. His other hand rose and closed around her throat, doubling the pressure, cutting off her air completely.

She twisted, shoved, drove her enhanced strength against him—but he was so much stronger. Impossibly stronger. Her vision blurred, dark spots bursting like fireworks behind her eyes, spreading, consuming.

Finish her Bobby. End her suffering.

End YOURS.

Her eyes rolled back, mouth opening soundlessly as she fought for air that wouldn't come. Legs kicking weakly, movements growing sluggish, uncoordinated. Dying.

And still, he didn't finish it.

Couldn't snap her neck. Couldn't squeeze just that little bit harder. No matter how tight his grip, no matter how loud the voice raged in his ears, something deep within him refused that final push.

The sight of her eyes—those lovely hazel eyes clouded with tears and terror, fixed on his face with desperate, confused agony—unraveled the taut wire inside him.

He released her.

She collapsed back against the cushions, body convulsing as she sucked in air. Coughing, gasping, retching. Hands flying to her throat, feeling the bruises already forming beneath her fingers.

Rage flared through her drunken haze like lightning through fog. 

"What the hell—" she rasped, voice shredded and raw, barely recognizable. "Bob, you could've—you almost—"

"Shh."

He cut her off, settling beside her on the couch as though nothing had happened. As though he hadn't just tried to murder her. His arm slid around her waist with gentle, terrible insistence—the same hands that had crushed her throat now drawing her close with a parody of tenderness.

"I'm sorry," he cooed against her hair, "I'm here now. You don't have to be alone."

Her throat burned. Fury still clawed at her chest, raw and animal—but the vodka pulled it under like an anchor, seeping through her limbs like poison, heavy and irresistible. Every muscle screamed at her to fight, to run, but her body wouldn't obey.

The shadows at his shoulders stirred and stretched, still spilling across the walls like ink in water. They curled toward her, reaching with greedy fingers.

She sagged against him, hating herself even as she did it. She shouldn’t be seeking comfort from someone who had just tried to kill her, someone whose skin was far too cold and corpse-like against hers. But she didn’t want to be alone.

"Thank you, Bob," her voice was faint and cracking as she surrendered to his arms, lacking the willpower to do anything else.

She didn't see—or couldn't see—the mockery in his words. How they were identical to what she'd once said to him to pull him away from the Void. Didn't notice the way his body had gone completely black and rigid or the shadows consuming everything—the walls, the ceiling, the shattered window—until the entire room had become enveloped in complete darkness.

The Void had pulled her into his cage.

His crypt.

His shame.

And now… hers too.

[To Be Continued]

Chapter Text

She landed hard on what felt like concrete, the impact jarring her teeth. When she looked up, she was no longer in the Watchtower or drunk.

The walls around her flickered like a dying television. It was a cramped bedroom, wallpaper peeling in strips that resembled flaking skin. The air hung thick with the stench of unwashed dishes and chemicals so cloyingly sweet they made her nose burn. Music drifted from an old radio in the corner, a woman's voice crooning about love and loss over crackling static.

Bob stood in the doorway of what must have been his mother's bedroom, but he was younger—possibly 12, all awkward angles etched into his thin frame. His left hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked dish towel, crimson seeping through the makeshift bandage.

His mother lay sprawled across the unmade bed, fully clothed but unconscious, one arm thrown across her eyes as if even the dim light was unbearable. A small plastic bag of pills sat on the nightstand beside her like a silent accusation.

"Mom?" Bob's adolescent voice cracked on the word, barely audible over the radio's melancholy drone. "Mom, I cut myself pretty bad working on that old radio. Can you... can you tell me where the first aid kit is? I think I need stitches."

No response.

"Please?" The word came out smaller now, younger, the voice of a little boy who still believed in mothers who kissed scraped knees and chased away monsters. "It really hurts—"

Still nothing. Only those shallow, drugged breaths and the tinny music filling the silence.

Bob stood there for at least two minutes watching her chest rise and fall in that unnaturally steady rhythm before he finally turned away.

The bathroom was a disaster—towels moldy on the floor, mirror cracked down the middle. But tucked behind the rusted pipes under the sink, he found the first aid kit. His fingers fumbled with the latches as he unwrapped the bloody towel, revealing a deep gash across his palm where a piece of jagged metal had sliced through skin and muscle.

The cut was worse than he'd thought—wide and gaping, still bleeding freely despite his makeshift pressure bandage. He tried cleaning it with hydrogen peroxide, hissing through his teeth as the antiseptic foamed pink in the wound. His clumsy attempts at butterfly strips only made it worse, the edges refusing to stay closed.

The pain was a living thing, crawling up his arm with white-hot claws. Every movement sent fresh blood trickling between his fingers, the throbbing so intense it made his vision blur.

Yelena watched with growing dread as his eyes drifted back toward the bedroom, toward that innocent-looking baggie on the nightstand. Adolescent Bob stared at the packet for a long time, his uninjured hand clenching and unclenching at his side. She could see the war playing out across his features: Disgust warring with need, love battling hatred, a child forced to choose between his own survival or his mother's temporary salvation.

She knew exactly what would happen next.

He returned to his mother's bedside, staring down at her peaceful, vacant face.

His hand trembled as he reached for the packet and shook three small pills into his palm. He dry-swallowed them without hesitation, then curled up in the narrow space beside his mother's unconscious form, rocking slowly, wishing he would one day grow strong enough to protect her or that she could protect him. But for now, they were both lost to the same blissful escape.

The scene dissolved like smoke.

She was now in another place that didn't exist in her memories—Florida. She could tell by the visible palm trees and the oppressive heat. That and the obvious giant sign reading "Sunny Florida Pharmacy."

Bob was older now—maybe eighteen—but his eyes were hollow, sunken into a face that had lost the softness of youth too early.

He crouched beside the back door of the store, attempting to undo the lock as withdrawal made his fingers shake. Three others his age kept watch—these weren't friends. Not really. They were co-conspirators, bound together only by the promise of easy money and free drugs.

"I knew we should have brought a gun or some kind of weapon, man…"

"We don't need weapons. I can do this. Just give me one more minute." Bob's voice carried false confidence that fooled no one.

"Better hurry, man!"

Bob's hands shook so badly he could barely work the lock, and when it finally gave way, the click seemed to echo like thunder in the humid Florida night. Inside, they moved like nervous shadows, Bob stuffing his pockets with pill bottles while his hands trembled from more than just adrenaline. The others grabbed whatever looked valuable—petty cash from the register, loose change, anything they could fence later.

Unknown to them, motion sensors had detected their presence the moment they stepped inside, silently alerting the security company and dispatching police to their location.

Then Bob, already jittery and strung out, made things worse. As he pulled back from the medicine cabinet, his elbow clipped a display rack. It toppled, crashing to the floor in a cascade of metal and plastic that ripped through the silence.

"Shit!" one of them hissed, freezing. "What if someone heard that?"

"It's fine, it's fine," Bob whispered, scrambling to collect the scattered pills. "The place is empty. We're good."

They weren't good.

Sirens suddenly pierced the night air—close, too close. The wailing cut through the Florida darkness like a blade, and it was getting louder by the second.

"Shit, shit, shit—" A thin kid bolted first, abandoning his partners without a backward glance. The others followed like dominoes falling in slow motion, leaving Bob to scramble after them with his pockets full of stolen pills and his coordination shot to hell.

They scattered into the sweltering night, feet slapping against asphalt still warm from the day's heat. Bob ran harder than he'd ever run in his life, lungs burning, heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal trying to break free.

He made it maybe three blocks before his legs gave out. The combination of withdrawal, panic, and months of poor nutrition finally caught up with him, sending him sprawling onto the sidewalk outside a pawn shop that had seen better years. Pills scattered across the concrete, rolling into storm drains and under parked cars—his entire reason for risking everything, now worthless debris.

When the cops found him there, curled into a ball and shaking, desperation gave him one last surge of fight-or-flight adrenaline. He lashed out with what little strength remained—kicking weakly, trying to crawl away, swinging his fists in uncoordinated arcs that barely connected. All that effort amounted to nothing.

Hours later, the police station fluorescents buzzed overhead like angry wasps. Bob sat slumped in a plastic chair, still in handcuffs, when his parents walked through the door.

His father wore a rumpled suit that suggested he'd been pulled from work while his mother clutched her purse like a shield, makeup smudged from crying. Neither looked at their son immediately—they spoke to the desk sergeant first, voices low and strained.

"Breaking and entering," the officer explained. "Burglary. Third offense, but still non-violent. The pharmacy wasn't occupied, no one was hurt."

When they finally approached Bob, the disappointment in their eyes was so sharp it could have cut glass.

"This is the last time, Bobby. The last time we're doing this for you!" His father was furious. "I swear if you ever—ever—put us through this again, you're on your own. No lawyers, no bail money, nothing. Is that clear?"

Bob nodded mutely, not trusting his voice.

"I want to hear you say it," his father grabbed him by his collar, "Say 'thank you' for keeping you out of real prison. Say 'thank you' for cleaning up your mess. Again."

"Yes, Dad. Thank you, Dad." The words came out cracked and small.

"Good." His father turned to the desk sergeant without another glance at Bob. "Where do we sign?"

Bob sat there in his handcuffs, forced to be grateful for being saved from consequences he'd earned.

The walls of memory began to shift again, and another scene crystallized around her.

A gas station at the edge of nowhere. Bob stood beside a payphone—closer to how Yelena knew him now, but in a much worse state.

A fedora sat low over his wild, sleepless eyes. He clutched a battered duffel bag to his chest, the trench coat hanging loose on his too-thin frame, trying—and failing—to hide the scars along his arms. She saw them when he pushed up one sleeve and flinched. Some were punctures from needles. Others were thin, deliberate lines carved into his own skin.

He was like an anti-drug PSA come to life. Yelena would have laughed if the sight weren't so heartwrenchingly sad.

A beat-up sedan pulled up from the road, the driver rolling down the window and jerking his hand toward Bob. The exchange was wordless. Money changed hands, followed by a small baggie that disappeared into the sedan's interior.

Both car and dealer sped away within seconds, leaving the man alone under the sickly fluorescent glow with a handful of dirty bills and the taste of self-loathing on his tongue.

He tried desperately to flag down a passing car—any car that wasn't marked with red and blue sirens. He made jerky motions until a cab took pity on him. Or maybe the driver just needed the money as badly as Bob needed the escape…

The motel he'd ended up in had wallpaper with the texture of dry, flaky skin and a carpet that had given up trying to be a recognizable color. Bob collapsed onto his room bed without bothering to remove his clothes, dumping the duffel's contents onto the stained comforter.

He could have gone home—there was always that option—but “home” hurt worse than any of the scars he carried.

Bills scattered across the surface. They were mostly small denominations, wrinkled and worn from too many desperate transactions. He counted them with shaking hands, muttering numbers under his breath like a prayer or a curse.

"Forty-three... forty-four... shit, where did the..." His voice cracked with exhaustion and something worse than fear. "Come on, come on, it has to add up..."

But it never did. It never added up to enough—not enough to escape, not enough to start over, not enough to matter.

When the counting was finished, Bob reached into his coat and produced a small baggie of his own—payment in kind, the dealer's discount. He stared at it for a long moment, and Yelena could see the war playing out across his features. The same war she'd witnessed in that bedroom, the same terrible arithmetic of survival versus surrender.

Surrender won.

He prepared the needle carefully, and when it slid in, Bob's face relaxed. The tension bled out of his shoulders, the wild look faded from his eyes, and he was at peace.

He curled up on top of the covers, still fully dressed, the empty duffel clutched to his chest like a security blanket. Within minutes, he was asleep.

The scene held for a moment longer, showing her this broken, beautiful creature who would somehow, impossibly, become the man she'd love.

The shadows in the corner began to stir. A figure detached itself from the dark—tall, draped in a coat that was identical to Bob’s. A fedora sat low over features that were almost but not quite Bob's, and eyes glowed beneath the brim, ember-bright in the motel room's gloom.

"Do you know he is still doing this?" the Void murmured. His voice cut the stale air like a scalpel. "Running? Preparing his exits? In his closet he keeps a bag—clothes, cash, a toothbrush. All enough to vanish the moment fear grows too loud in his head, as always..."

He stepped closer, shadows twitching around him like restless serpents.

"That’s why he ran away today. He doesn't trust you, not really. He doesn't trust anyone. So tell me, Lenochka—how does it feel knowing the coward who devotes himself to you was rehearsing his escape the entire time behind your back?"

Yelena forced her gaze back to the frozen Bob on the bed. The self-loathing was carved into his face like a mask. It hurt to see.

"Well…He hasn't left." she said quietly. "Of course, he flew away for a while but he came back and so did you. And you—" her eyes snapped back to the Void, steady as iron, "you’re the dishonest voice in his head that tells him he’s worthless. That’s lying to me right now".

"Dishonest?" he echoed. "Did you forget how he lied to Lindy? How he broke her heart? Bob will always say he wants to stay. He'll mean it. And then one day, when the panic claws up his spine at three a.m., louder than your voice, louder than your touch, he'll be gone." He gestured at the sleeping addict. "This is who he is."

His ember eyes narrowed.

"You should leave him while you can. Unlike Golden Boy, I won't mind if you do. It would be easier for all of us. You're dangerous. You pull him away from me."

"I'm glad I'm a threat to you. And let's stop pretending you're not just hatred. You're his grief. His hurt. His loneliness—but you're also mine... as he's yours."

Silence stretched.

The Void studied her, weighing whether to mock or embrace or devour. His shadows leaned toward her like hungry creatures, but his body remained still.

"...I've seen your memories," he spoke at last. "The loneliness. The hunger to be understood. The ways in which you run from your own darkness." His head tilted. "It tastes the same as his."

"Then you know exactly why I'm not leaving." Yelena stood her ground. “You look at yourself and see someone unlovable, push people away because you’re convinced they’ll throw you out first and you think escaping early will hurt less than waiting for the blow. I know how that feels but…”Her voice softened, almost pitying. “if you do that, you’ll live with that regret for the rest of your life.”

The Void’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked away as if the admission physically stung. Contempt warring with shame before Involuntarily, his arms closed around her.

Cold as marble. A shroud instead of comfort. But the need behind it was unmistakable. Shadows brushed her arms like timid fingers, waiting for her to recoil.

She didn’t.

The motel dissolved—walls peeling away like ash. The gas station. Dealer-Bob. All of it fell into black.

Only the Void remained.

He hovered close without touching, winter breath against her skin. Shadows coiled at her waist and spine—hungry, careful.

“I got it right, didn’t I?” she said.

He lifted her chin with a shadowed fingertip, voice dark and intimate.

"Very well. If you will not give up on him… then stay with me. Forever. No battles. No grief. No graves. Let me take the pain from you—piece by piece—until nothing is sharp anymore.”

“And Bob?”

“He will stay too. No one will hurt us again.” He embraced her with his cold body, “I will not hurt anyone again.”

“And all I have to do is agree to stay with you?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, temptation unfurled inside her like a warm, poisonous flower. A world without ache. Without Natasha’s ghost. Without the hard, scraping edges of being alive.

The darkness around her wasn’t jagged anymore.
It felt soft, padded, almost tender.
Like sinking into cotton candy.
Like finally being allowed to stop.

No duties.
No memories.
No past tugging at her ribs.
Nothing required of her except the simple act of agreeing to disappear.

The emptiness brushed over her like a lullaby, whispering:

You could rest here. For eternity.

And for several long, heavy seconds, she wanted to.

The thought scared her enough to make her breath catch and in that second, gentle memories pushed back against that desire.

Her dog, nudging his nose into her palm when she wanted to pretend morning didn’t exist.
The guinea pig she’d given Bob, squeaking with entitled fury. The smell of coffee she didn’t like but brewed anyway because it would wake her up.

Ava’s quiet glance that said I see you without demanding anything in return.
Stealing fries from Bucky and catching the ghost of a smile he tried too hard to hide.
John leaning against her doorframe after missions, arms crossed, pretending he just “happened” to be there.
Alexei’s rambling pep talks that made no sense but stitched warmth into conversations anyway.

Little things.
Mundane things.

None of them perfect.
None of them whole.

Contradictions held together with stubbornness and metaphorical duct tape.
They made her swear, and laugh, even on days where she felt hollow and couldn’t admit she felt that way.

How could she trade those messy, human moments for a peace so smooth it erased the sound of her own existence?

The temptation slackened.
Lost its hold.

Her spine straightened.

“No.” she declared her answer.

The shadows hissed.
The Void’s eyes narrowed.

"What?” He asked as if he couldn’t believe her answer.

“No. I don’t want to stay.”

The Void growled, “Why do you deny yourself? I know you want this as much as he did—in the motel... in the cell... every moment the world broke his heart...everyone, even us, will always inevitably end up being alone”.

Yelena met the shadow’s gaze without flinching.

"It could be true that we all do end up alone." she murmured, leaning into him. "So why not be alone together? Not in this darkness but out there in the light? With the sun and the grass and the rain? Wouldn't that be nice as well?”

He stilled.

His eyes scanned her face for a lie. She let him search. He found none.

She knew he wasn’t wrong about her. She had wanted to disappear for a moment—curl up on the Watchtower couch and let the world pass over her. But recognition wasn’t surrender. Even if Bob hadn’t come back, she wouldn’t have stayed lost forever. She would get up. She would find him. Somewhere, somehow.

And anger rose in her — at the lies this part of Bob kept whispering into him.

If she wanted to reach him, she had to do it in his language.

Her pulse thrummed once.

Then she moved first.

Her hand pressed to his chest.
No heartbeat.
No warmth.
Just the shape of Bob’s despair.

A fracture crossed his eyes.

Shadows wound up her wrist, testing.

She stepped in — and kissed him.

It wasn’t desire.

She’d never felt it the way others did but she understood the language of touch, the truth it could carry.

The Void shuddered. His shadows tightened like held breath. His eyes widened—shock, confusion, longing turning to pain.

He didn’t deepen the kiss.
He didn’t move.
He just absorbed it like frostbitten skin absorbing heat from a nearby flame.

She drew back.

His eyes searched her face, starving for rejection, for disgust, anything he could taunt her with. 

There was nothing at all…

“You kissed me,” he murmured, touching his own lips. “Why? I don’t understand. Why would you choose to love someone like me?”

His fingers tightened on her arm, desperate, possessive, then he seemed to realize what he was doing and the dream cracked like thin ice.”

The shadows peeled away.
The cold receded.
The Void only watched her with a look that was not hunger, not rage, but yearning.

Wounded yearning.

Then he vanished.

She wasn't back in the common room yet. Rather, she found herself standing in a small, crumbling church of sorts. Stained glass, half-shattered, caught fading light and threw reds and golds across cracked marble floors. The place smelled of wax and old wood.

Bob lay kneeling on the floor before the altar appearing worse than he had in that motel, His face was gaunt—cheeks hollow, eyes recessed so deeply they seemed like twin voids drinking in light. His skin was pale and sallow, stretched too tight across jutting bones.

"I'm sorry..." The words came out in a rasp, barely audible. "I know I'm not good. I know I've fucked everything up. I destroyed my own life. Every time I was given an opportunity to turn my life around, I either ignored or ruined it and now, I've ended up here. At the lowest point of my pathetic life."

He coughed. Hard. Red flecks sprayed onto the floor.

"But even now, I don't want to die like this. All alone. A ghost with a pulse..."

The tears came without force.

"I don't want to rot here while the world forgets me."

He slumped lower, forehead pressed to the cold floor, fists clenched like a child afraid to be left behind.

"I want to be better. I want to matter to someone. I want the strength to wake up and not hate that I woke up... I want so much and yet—"

He sobbed into his sleeves, the last of his strength leaving him in pieces.

"Sorry. You know what? You don't have to forgive me. You don't even have to grant everything I said. Just... give me one thing. A sign. A miracle. One last chance to prove that I can be someone better. I'll take anything. I don't want to go out like this. Not as some forgotten nobody... Please, God."

Bob had mentioned this to her—his visit to a decaying church, the prayer he'd made when he had nothing left.

She stepped forward, her footsteps silent on the marble, and knelt beside him. Her hands found his trembling shoulders.

"Bob, You're here with me. You're not that man anymore. You got your miracle. You're safe. Let's go back, alright?"

His eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused, but aware. He turned his head toward her touch.

The despair in the air began to lift. The room stuttered, colors bleeding like old film.

Reality snapped back with the same violence that had pulled her in. Yelena was back on the couch with Bob curled in sleep beside her, forehead furrowed, shoulders shaking with a sob that was only just breaking the surface.

Bob remained sobbing, the sound raw, wet, almost animal-like. He rolled toward her, and when his face pressed into her shoulder, his eyes opened, tears streaking down his cheeks.

In an instant, every version of Bob blurred together in her mind: the unprotected child, the addict who crawled back from the edge, the man who once whispered for a chance to begin again. The one beside her carried all of them within him. He had survived more than he ever admitted, grown past every point where he should have fallen, and become something far steadier than he believed himself to be.

"Oh, ah—Yelena," he startled, voice ragged. "When did we—when did I—?"

Yelena wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

"I'm so sorry, Bob."

"What for?"

"I was supposed to look for you, and I got drunk instead of doing my job. You went missing and I was so worried—"

"Wait, I went missing?" Bob asked, genuinely confused. “Why?”

"Oh...you don't remember...Do you?" Yelena realised. 

Bob shook his head.

Yelena watched his face for any sign of recognition, any flicker that he was joking, but there was nothing. The blankness in his eyes wasn’t avoidance. It was absence.

“Wow. You really don’t know ummm okay..." Yelena groaned, "Bob, What do you last remember?”

"The scientists were doing medical tests on me again and saying a bunch of nonsense words.” Bob tried to recall, “They made me feel good but my head hurt and it went dark...Then I was having this nightmare about my family and suddenly you're here crying into me. I try not to think about my past, but they–it–it haunts me”.

"You don't have to tell me about your nightmare or whatever," she reassured him, "Tell me something else instead. Any good memories you have of the past?"

He hesitated, then shifted closer, cupping her cheek as though the touch might steady him. "I used to have this friend. Billy Turner. We were kids, always scheming. Pulled scams for pocket change, sometimes worse. Dumb trouble, gangs, things we thought made us invincible." A faint, wistful smile flickered. "After middle school, his family moved to another city and I never saw him again."

Yelena's brows lifted slightly, but she only murmured, "You cared about him a lot?"

Bob nodded, voice thick. "Yeah. He was the first person who made me feel less alone."

He paused, then almost sheepishly added, "Another time, I fought an alligator with horns because it stole my meth. That was fun in a dangerous way".

Her lips twitched despite herself. "That sounds made up."

"I swear it wasn't." His laugh was boyish, startled out of him. "It had yellow horns. Like a bull. It was really funny, although I nearly lost my arm..."

She didn't laugh at the absurdity. She only watched the light in his face, the way his voice softened as he spoke. That was worth more than the story itself.

As soon as she assumed she’d lightened the mood, Bob’s expression shifted. His gaze snagged on the bruises along her neck.

“Lena.”

His voice thinned.

“Your neck.”

He leaned in, then froze. The panic hit hard, flooding his eyes.

"Who did that to you?" A beat. His gaze locked on the bruise. "It wasn't me, was it? Please tell me it wasn't me."

Yelena didn't answer fast enough.

Bob's whole body went rigid beside her. His breath fractured in his chest, and his hands hovered in the space between them, trembling, uncertain, like he wanted to reach for her but was terrified of what he'd already done.

"No. I'm sorry, Lena. I'm really sorry if I..." His voice broke, and he started to curl away from her on the couch, shoulders drawing inward as if he could fold himself out of existence. He wasn't running physically, but the retreat was absolute.

Yelena moved before the spiral could swallow him.

She reached across the narrow space and caught his wrist. Firm, not rough. She pulled him back toward her, refusing to let him slip into the distance he was already creating in his mind.

"Bob. Look at me."

He didn't. His gaze stayed locked on the floor, chest heaving.

"Bob."

Her hand slid from his wrist to his jaw, tilting his face up.

"Look at me."

He finally met her eyes, barely holding together.

"You hurt me, but you weren't in the right state of mind." Her voice stayed steady, grounding. "Stay with me. Please."

"That still doesn't make it okay!" His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "I don't... I don't want to be like my father. And I already did what he did to..."

"But you apologized to me," she interrupted softly, thumb brushing his cheek. "I'm sure he would never have done that."

He sagged a little, the panic loosening its grip just enough for him to breathe.

"No... He wouldn't have." He swallowed hard, the words scraping out. "I'm sorry, Lena. When everything gets too much, I want to run. I don't think. I just... go."

“I know,” she gave him a small, reassuring peck on the check. “You tried to break up with me when the Sentry and Void got interested in me”.

He returned her gesture with a small, miserable laugh. “I thought leaving would keep you safe. I still do.”

“And I’ve told you—It won’t. And I’m not leaving.”

She nudged his forehead with hers.

“Not unless you really don’t want me anymore.”

Her hand stayed on his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.

“Do you hate me, Bob?”

He pulled her into him abruptly—arms wrapping around her so tightly she could feel the tremor running through him.

“No,” he breathed into her shoulder. “Never. I just… feel so inadequate because I can't be the hero people need me to be, the hero I want to be because I’m too unstable".

"You are a hero, though. Maybe not for the headlines, but for us. Every time you warn us about traps, bombs, people we couldn't see—we're grateful. We wouldn't be alive without you. We wouldn't be mostly unscathed without you."

She took a breath. "And I'm not perfect either, yeah? Look at me. Getting drunk when I'm stressed... We've both got our issues, but we're handling them the best we can."

"Yeah. We'll figure it out together." He paused, a tremor of relief threading through his voice. A faint, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. "How about we try couples' counseling next week? With Doctor Worth. I could ask if he's open to seeing us."

"Yeah. That sounds good."

Another pause. Bob studied her face, his expression softening.

"You're allowed to cry, you know."

Yelena immediately shook her head. "I'm fine."

He gave her an unconvinced look.

"I'm not crying," she insisted, though her voice wavered.

Bob's hand slid to her jaw, thumb brushing along her cheekbone.

"It's okay if you want to," he murmured. "I kind of want to keep crying myself. Maybe we can just… do it together?"

Yelena let out a small, sharp breath. "…I don't want to cry."

"Even so… you're shaking." His arms tightened around her. "Let me hold you a little longer. At least until we're ready to get up from this couch."

Her breath hitched, the words barely holding together.

"…Sounds good," she whispered.

She pressed her face into his shoulder and trembled. The sobs came in brief, shuddering bursts—quiet, almost reluctant—as Bob held her steady, his own tears slowing as he matched his breathing to hers.

They stayed like that, tethering themselves to one another in the pale light of the rising sun.

[To Be Continued]