Chapter Text
“What about the weapon Cassian Raynor built?” a reporter barked, voice sharp and smug. “Did you have any involvement in its creation? Or should the American people be concerned that a deranged maniac—one who poses a direct threat to national security—is still roaming free while the so-called New Avengers look the other way?”
If not for the cameras, John Walker would have already broken the man’s nose.
The thought flared hot and violent in his chest, his fist twitching at his side. That damn reporter—slick hair drowned in pomade, self-satisfied smirk firmly in place—looked far too pleased with himself. It was supposed to be a fifteen minute press conference—Mel had warned him this should’ve ended at ten. But the moment John stepped up to the podium? It was like flies on a corpse, like a vulture swarming over him demanding answers.
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he fought down the urge to snap. Yelena would’ve shut this down in five seconds flat—one icy stare, one perfectly sharpened sentence, and these vultures would’ve backed off.
These folks, however, see him as nothing more than a punching bag ready to receive every question they throw like a fist.
“Once again,” he said, forcing his voice into something steady, something controlled, “any information regarding the weapon Raynor created was unfortunately not on our radar.”
That was true. Painfully true. And still, it wasn’t enough.
“But now we are actively investigating this case,” he continued, each word measured with confidence. “We will ensure that anyone connected to Mister Cassian Raynor and his illegal operations faces the fullest extent of the law.”
Cameras clicked. Pens scratched. And yet no one looked satisfied.
Another voice cut through the noise before the echo of his last word even faded.
“What about Ava Starr? Scott Lang? Hope Van Dyne?” Another reporter leaned forward eagerly. “Are they involved in Raynor’s crimes, yes or no?”
John’s teeth ground together behind those perfectly sealed lips. Again, if this weren’t an official press conference—if there weren’t flags and cameras and a thousand watching eyes—John would’ve vaulted off the stage and wiped that smug expression clean off the man’s face.
But he did none of that. Instead, he inhaled slowly, deeply, like the professional he is.
“Listen pal,” he said, and immediately regretted the edge in his voice. But it was too late now. “Two of our members were victims in this situation. One of them was Miss Starr.”
He paused, letting that sink in. Letting the weight of it press down on the room—though he knew most of them wouldn’t feel it.
“And without Mr. Lang and Miss Van Dyne,” John continued, his voice lower now, rougher, “Cassian Raynor would not have been stopped.”
Another silence followed, the hungry kind that tell John they wanted more answers.
John could see it in their eyes—they didn’t care about the near-collapse of reality, about the quantum catastrophe narrowly avoided, about the blood spilled behind closed doors. They didn’t care about sleepless nights, shattered bones, or the things his team had to sacrifice just to keep the world spinning another day.
They just wanted someone to blame.
Someone had to pay for it—and the New Avengers, with their reputation and inconvenient habit of surviving impossible situations, made the perfect scapegoats. Easy targets for journalists starving for a villain, mouths watering at the thought of tearing heroes down to size.
John knew that. And yet, he didn’t give a damn.
The moment he delivered his closing statement, he didn’t wait for permission. He stepped away from the podium and disappeared backstage, ignoring the shouted questions clawing after him like grasping hands. Flashbulbs followed him until the curtain swallowed him whole.
Mel was already there, ushering him forward with sharp efficiency. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, quick and purposeful—like they were escaping some dangerous threat behind them.
“Hope Van Dyne will be holding a separate press conference for the Pym van Dyne Foundation,” Mel said briskly. “PR agreed one of you should be present to issue an additional statement. Are you okay with that?”
John let out a tired, humorless breath and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “I just want this to be over as fast as possible.”
Mel sighed, deep and resigned. “Everyone does, Walker. But you know how this goes. Silence breeds speculation. The less we say, the uglier the theories get. One or two appearances might at least slow the damage.”
As if John didn’t already know. He was painfully, viciously aware of every theory circulating online ever since this mission began. They said Cassian Raynor was their fault—that Ava Starr’s powers had somehow invited catastrophe. That this was all deliberate—engineered chaos to manufacture public sympathy.
A publicity stunt.
A fucking stupid idea that made his stomach twist violently.
They claimed the New Avengers had exploited a scandal to earn credibility they hadn’t “rightfully” earned. As if trauma could be staged. As if grief could be scripted.
John pressed his lips together, forcing every rage and disgust down. If Mel had let him speak freely, he would’ve burned every last accusation to the ground. He would’ve cursed every anonymous coward behind a screen, even if it got him blacklisted from every network on the planet.
Because he was there. He saw how this damn mission broke something in Bucky Barnes, the only person John thought would never be broken. He saw how this mission tore the hundred year old super soldier, how he cracked when Ava was taken, and he witnessed how each and every one of them pushed their limits to rescue one of their members like their life depended on it.
One of them nearly died—and people had the audacity to call it manufactured drama?
“Just make sure the press conference doesn’t drag on,” he said finally, voice tight, controlled only through sheer force of will. “Bucky and Ava are still in the infirmary. I’d rather be there than deal with a pack of bloodthirsty reporters.”
Mel huffed out a dry, humorless chuckle, not bothering to argue. Of course she knew better.
“Alright,” she said. “Go head back to the penthouse. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
Yelena Belova had truly—earnestly—believed this was a good idea.
In the chaos of the Watchtower’s medical wing when they got back from Nevada, it had made perfect sense. Putting the two most critical patients in the same room had felt… efficient. Humane, even.
And for the first twenty-four hours after they were dragged back from Raynor’s facility half-dead and soaked in blood, it had actually worked.
Ava Starr had refused—violently, desperately—to be separated from Bucky Barnes. Even sedated, even barely conscious, her fingers had curled into his sleeve like it was the only solid thing left in the universe. As if the moment someone pried them apart, fate itself would snap shut and punish her for daring to survive.
And of course, Yelena knew exactly why she acted that way. By the moment she reached the laboratory hallway she knew something bad had just happened. She remembers how gruesome and bloody the walls around her—guards strewn across the floor like discarded puppets, groaning or unconscious, some of them even looked like they’d just got hit by a truck and thrown from the tallest building.
Horror and awe had twisted together in Yelena’s chest when she realized that Bucky Barnes had done this with his bare hands.
But it was the sight beyond that stopped her heart entirely.
Just an inch from where she’s standing, she saw Ava, kneeling in the wreckage, clinging to Bucky like she would disintegrate if she let go. Her hands were shaking. Her face streaked with blood and tears she didn’t bother wiping away. Her forehead pressed to his chest as she sobbed like the world had already ended.
And for one unbearable moment, Yelena had been certain she was too late.
That she was about to lose someone she cared about again.
So yes, she understands how even when bruised and beaten, Ava would never let go of Bucky from her sight like it’s the last thing keeping her anchored to this earth—thus made the decision to put them in the same room together is a brilliant idea.
What Yelena had not prepared for was what happened once they woke up.
Because the moment they were conscious enough to speak, the room turned into an active war zone.
“I told you not to do that,” Ava snapped, her voice rough but still cut like a blade. “You always do this. You charge in like you’re untouchable, and now look at you. Who do you think has to deal with the fallout, huh?”
Bucky Barnes—pale, bruised, stitched together by medical miracles and sheer stubbornness—did not look even remotely sorry.
Which, frankly, felt illegal.
“I’m a super soldier,” he replied, voice low and stubborn, exhausted in a way that sank into your bones. “I heal fast. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, really?” Ava shot back without missing a beat. “Then why are you still stuck in bed with tubes in your arm and a machine babysitting your heartbeat?”
Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose and briefly considered faking cardiac arrest just to escape.
They went on like that for a full hour. Back and forth. She had to sit awkwardly near them—her own IV dripping medication into her veins—wondering if this was karma for every bad decision she’d ever made for playing cupid for these two idiots.
“Solidarity,” Bucky muttered eventually, turning his head just slightly toward Ava. His voice softened, barely, like it slipped before he could stop it. “I don’t want you to feel alone here. So I’m staying.”
Ava scoffed, but it was weak. “Tch. Don’t flatter yourself. Yelena’s here with me!”
“Yelena’s leaving soon,” Bucky said quietly. “You’re stuck here until next week, remember?”
Ava turned her face toward the wall, lips pressed tight. “So are you.”
“Yes,” he said, firmer now. “Which means you’re stuck with me.”
Ava let out a breath that trembled despite her effort to control it, but years of training as an assassin made Yelena see that tiny smile on her face.
“Okay!” she announced finally, swinging her legs off the bed and tugging her IV pole along with a dramatic clatter, “as much as I love being trapped in a room with the two of you—truly, a dream vacation—I think I’m going to wait out the rest of this IV in the common room.”
Ava immediately frowned, worry knitting her brows together. “You still need rest, Yelena. Didn’t Walker say you were literally crushed by a building?”
Yelena nodded solemnly. “Yes. Collapsed building. Very tragic. But I will not survive another hour of you two arguing like a married couple filling out divorce paperwork.”
Bucky opened his mouth.
Yelena raised a finger. “Don’t.” She sighed dramatically. “Besides, I’m done being a third wheel for today. You guys can freely tear each other apart without me in this room, after all.”
Bucky said nothing, but the look in his eyes said thank you and please leave in equal measure. Yelena knew that look well. It was the same one that said ‘We need to talk without an audience and possibly without dignity.’
Ava noticed it too and immediately pouted, crossing her arms. “Alright….”
Yelena rolled her eyes, walked over to Ava’s bed, and pulled her into a tight, warm, lingering hug without warning. The kind of hug that said we almost lost you and we’re not talking about that right now.
“Get better soon, both of you,” Yelena said softly, her voice losing its edge. “It’s really good to see you still in one piece. Try not to almost die again, okay?”
Ava laughed, breath hitching just slightly, and hugged her back just as tightly. “Yeah… thanks. I’m really glad to be back.”
Yelena pulled away before it got too emotional—because she had a reputation to maintain—and moved to Bucky’s bed. He still looked pale, still too thin, still annoyingly breakable for a man who’d taken down an army.
She hugged him too.
Hard.
“Get well soon, old man,” she said into his shoulder. “All that nagging you do won’t heal that gunshot wound, you know?"
“I wasn’t nagging,” Bucky protested automatically.
Yelena pulled back, unimpressed. “Sure.”
She waved cheerfully, dragging her IV pole behind her like a victory banner, and left the infirmary with the confidence of someone who had absolutely done her good deed for the day.
The common room was just as quiet as she wished for earlier. As predicted, Bob was already there, waiting with a bowl of mac and cheese exactly how she asked him to bring a moment before. The red glass of juice beside it, however, caught her attention.
“…Tomato juice?”
Bob shrugged, offering an awkward but pleased smile. He looked genuinely happy to see her walking around instead of being trapped in medical purgatory. “Didn’t you ask for that?”
Yelena frowned, already reaching for her pocket. “Wait. Stupid autocorrect. I mistyped avocado with tomato again—”
The absence of her phone in her pocket made her heart freeze for a terrifying second.
“…Oh no.”
Bob blinked. “What?”
“My phone,” Yelena groaned. “I left it in the infirmary.”
Bob laughed, already standing. “Stay here. I’ll grab it.”
“No, no,” Yelena said quickly, trying—and failing—to stop him. “I’ll go. You don’t need to—”
She should’ve known it would be pointless.
Bob, ever the gentleman, looped an arm around her waist as they walked back down the hall, guiding her carefully like she might topple over at any moment. Yelena tolerated it because, frankly, she was tired, and Bob offered a pair of strong comforting arms that she needed the most right now.
However, turning back to grab her phone turned out to be a catastrophically bad decision.
Because the moment the infirmary door wasn’t even fully open yet, Yelena saw it.
The exact scene she should have immortalized—if only her phone hadn’t been cruelly abandoned inside.
If she’d had it in her hand, she would’ve captured it without hesitation— the moment Ava Starr leaned and Bucky Barnes closed the distance between them in the most awkward, uncomfortable position, as someone who still has to lay on the bed sharing their very first kiss.