Chapter Text
Ava’s voice finally fractured the heavy quiet, her laugh dry, eyes not even trying to disguise the defeat. “Well. Guess we did it. Pushed Barnes past the point of no return.”
John scoffed, folding his arms across his chest as he slumped lower in his chair. “Bucky’s been at the end of his rope for weeks. It’s his own damn fault, trying to hold all the shit together by himself. Stubborn idiot doesn’t know how to ask for help.” There was no real bite to his words, just the resignation of someone who’d seen too many leaders crumble under the weight.
Yelena rose from her seat, shaking her head as she stretched out the ache in her shoulder. “If we keep this up—this endless cycle of talking over each other and ignoring what’s right in front of us—we’ll end up exactly where he said. A pile of corpses and a headline no one will care to read.” Her voice softened. “He’s right. Our so-called team spirit is garbage, and we’re all guilty. No one’s tried to change a damn thing since the day we started.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t trust Valentina, either. She’s circling Bucky like a vulture, and I have a bad feeling it’s about to get worse.”
John rolled his eyes, reclining deeper. “Come on, Valentina’s not that reckless. Not after what went down with Bob. She knows she can’t pull another stunt without all of us seeing it coming. She’d have to be insane.”
Ava’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “She’s not insane, she’s just desperate. We’re not heroes to her—we’re a human shield. As long as she keeps us dancing, she stays out of prison and in the spotlight.”
Yelena’s gaze sharpened, a pointed warning as she fixed her eyes on Alexei. “Then we keep an eye on her— subtlety for once.” Alexei raised his hands, as if to say, I’ll try.
She pressed on, “But more than that, we try for Bucky.”
The days that followed crawled past, heavy with effort. Yelena watched the news alone, every channel replaying their latest humiliation—the failed AIM sting, the arrival of Captain America, the crowd’s open preference for a symbol over a reality they barely understood. She listened as pundits questioned their very existence: Can we trust the New avengers? Who do they really answer to? Even the public, usually too distracted to care, seemed galvanized, social feeds lit with division and scorn.
Disgusted, she flicked the TV off, the echo of angry voices replaced by a hush she found no more comforting.
The elevator chimed. Yelena glanced over to see Bucky step out, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. His hair hung limp, suit rumpled, every line of him spelling defeat. She guessed immediately where he’d come from: another press event, another round of public flaying at Valentina’s side.
Bucky moved straight for the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped the cap with his metal thumb, and dropped onto a barstool. He didn’t look at her, but Yelena didn’t wait for an invitation. She slid off the couch and crossed the room, perching on the other side of the counter.
“How’d it go?” Her question was soft.
He took a long pull from the bottle, then let it clink against the granite. “Oh, fantastic. The media’s favorite game—‘Which ex-assassin do you trust less, the one with the star or the one with the shield?’ They barely asked a single question about the actual mission. Just Sam, Sam, and more Sam.” He laughed, a dark sound. “Honestly, the highlight was nearly getting my head caved in by a flying bottle. They must be running out of tomatoes.”
Yelena offered a half-smile. “At least next time you can duck behind Alexei. He’s basically a moving wall.”
Bucky snorted, but the sound faded quick. He leaned his elbows on the counter, head bowed, voice low. “They’re not wrong to be scared. We keep screwing up. If it keeps going like this… can’t blame them for not wanting us around.” His voice trailed off, defeated.
Yelena watched him in silence for a beat, then gave a little snort. “Well, fuck, Barnes, if you’re waiting for some golden piece of advice, you’re shit out of luck with me. I don’t have any magic words. Never did.” Her accent thickened with honesty. “Only thing I ever learned from Natasha about this mess was to keep fighting until you’re too damn tired to care. Not sure it works so great, though. You look fucking exhausted.”
He managed a tired laugh, low and humorless. “Yeah. That obvious?”
“Obvious enough,” she shot back, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “So. You gonna sit there brooding like a sad bastard, or you want to tell me what’s actually going on in that steel-trap head of yours?”
Bucky hesitated, swirling the bottle in his hands. The bar’s surface blurred for a moment, his focus slipping, everything around him receding to a distant hum. He blinked, swallowing hard—when his eyes cleared, he caught Yelena studying him, concern hidden behind a mask of impatience.
“You just checked out on me for a minute there,” she said, voice less harsh. “You do that a lot lately?”
He gave her a wary look, and for once didn’t try to dodge the question. “Yeah. Sometimes I just…lose track. Comes with the insomnia, I guess.”
Yelena’s tone softened—just a shade. “The nightmares are back, right? That’s why I hear you pacing at three in the morning. Thought you might start wearing tracks in the floor.”
Bucky shrugged, every muscle rigid. “Sleeping’s a fucking lottery these days. Most nights, I just keep reliving the worst of it. Shit I thought I’d buried.” He paused, knuckles white around the bottle. “And then there’s the rest—”
She leaned in, elbows on the bar, giving him nowhere to hide. “You ever tell anyone? about the dreams?”
He almost laughed. “What, you think the team’s up for a group therapy session? Alexei would start a fistfight, Walker would play the victim, Bob would apologize, and you’d call us all idiots.” He paused, something like regret flashing in his eyes. “Never thought I’d miss the sound of Sam’s voice telling me to get my shit together.”
Yelena scoffed, but not unkindly. “Sam is an idiot and he’s not here, is he? We are. So, you know… if you ever want to actually talk about it—about any of it—I can promise I’ll only call you an idiot half the time. Deal?”
He smiled, the expression faint, shoulders lowering a fraction. “Deal.”
A silence settled, Yelena let it linger before adding, “For what it’s worth, I’m trying not to fuck things up as much lately. I don’t have a clue how to fix this mess, but I’m not quitting. And neither are you. I won’t let you.”
He tipped his head. “Yeah. I know you’re trying. Clumsy as hell sometimes, but… it means something.” His eyes met hers—grateful. “Thanks, Yelena. Really.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, Snowflake. I’ll start charging for therapy.”
He let out a small, genuine laugh, and for the first time in days, it sounded almost like relief.