Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ringtone was low-key annoying, but Bruce insisted on using it — some calming forest sounds nonsense.

Torres sat on the hood of a beat-up vehicle, dust kicking around his boots in the desert wind. One boot on the mirror. Sleeves rolled up. Phone to his ear.

“Bruce,” he said, chewing gum like it owed him money. “You sound like a meditation app with commitment issues.”

“I’m trying to relax you before you go into another one of Valentina’s death traps,” Bruce replied from his lab, his voice soft, careful. “You sure about this one?”

“Nope,” Torres said, popping the P. “But when someone like Val shoves a top-secret location into your inbox at 3AM with a winky face, you show up. Otherwise she starts sending you memes. Bad ones.”

“You really shouldn’t be doing these alone.”

“Don’t say ‘I told you so’ if I die. That’s so tacky.”

“Torres.”

“I’ll call after,” he said, hopping off the hood. “Unless I’m dead. Then I’ll ghost you. Literally.”

Bruce sighed. “Please don’t die. And—hey. Torres?”

“Yeah?”

“…He’d be proud of you.”

Torres froze. Just for a second. Sam’s name wasn’t said. Never needed to be.

"Ok im getting inside, bye... love you".

"I love you too kid".

He hung up.

---

The bunker loomed ahead — concrete and silence. Too quiet. Torres slid in through a busted panel on the side, his boots crunching against old tech debris. It smelled like burnt wires and secrets.

He found the data console buried under a dead S.H.I.E.L.D logo. One word pulsing on the screen:

SENTRY.

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Torres muttered, pulling the drive. “Definitely not gonna end the world or anything.”

Then, a whisper behind him.

Not a sound, really. A feeling. A chill.

He spun — too late.

A blur of silver — WHAM! — something hit his chest and he flew backwards, skidding across the dusty floor.

He groaned. “Okay… rude.”

He pushed himself up, knuckles bloody. A shimmer in the air — a woman, glitching like she didn’t belong to physics.

Ghost.

“Oh hell no—”

He lunged forward, fists up, leading with a tight jab. She phased through it, of course, but he was baiting. He swept low — spinning and kicking where she’d land. Thunk. His heel connected. Ghost stumbled.

Then zap.

Pain tore through his back. He ripped off the Widow’s Bite, tossed it, and turned around—

Blonde. Black tactical gear. Dry smirk.

Yelena Belova.

“Sorry!” she yelled mid-sprint, going right past him and dropkicking Ghost.

“Why does everyone I meet hit me first and say sorry after?!” Torres yelled as Ghost phased through the kick and countered with a roundhouse that threw Yelena into a crate.

Torres dashed to help her up.

CRACK!

A bullet split the air between their hands. Both jerked back.

He turned.

Of course.

John. Freaking. Walker.

Shield slung over his shoulder like a smug accessory, rifle half-raised.

Torres hissed, “Johny Boo. Long time no see.”

Walker scowled. “Don’t call me that.”

“Make me.”

Another clang — a shield met shield. But this one curved like a boomerang and flew with skill.

Taskmaster. Sword. Mask. Vibe of “I’m gonna end you and look cool doing it.”

Chaos ignited.

John threw his shield at Yelena, who ducked and threw a widow disc right back. Ghost blinked in and out, trying to disable everyone’s weapons. Taskmaster went blade-to-blade with John, every strike precise, brutal.

Torres? He moved through the fray like smoke.

He dropkicked Ghost from behind, wrapped his leg around her neck mid-fall (thanks Natasha), and flipped her onto the floor. She phased through it at the last second, but not before he landed a solid punch to her side.

The blood in her skin twitched — he felt it. His fingers tingled.

He stepped back.

Not yet.

He hated using that part of himself.

---

Then, a THOOM.

The far wall shook.

A containment box exploded open. A man crawled out, blinking like a newborn deer.

Everyone stopped.

Tall. Brunette Kinda confused. Definitely in the wrong place.

“Uh… hi?” the man said. “I’m Bob? Please don’t shoot me?”

Torres narrowed his eyes.

“…Bob?”

The man smiled awkwardly. “Torres?!”

“No fucking way,” Torres muttered. “how have you been dude”

“Guys,” Yelena said, aiming her gun at the ceiling. “Maybe not reunion time?”

Then — beep. Beep. BEEP.

The bunker heated like a dying sun. A timer flashed red on the walls. Soundproof tech activated. Ghost blinked — then panicked.

“The phasing field’s live,” she said.

“You mean we can’t leave?” Torres said. “Wow. Love that for us.”

Everyone scrambled.

John rammed a console.

“You’re doing that wrong,” Torres snarked.

“I don’t see you helping, smartass.”

“I don’t see you doing anything right, Johny Boo.”

They found the emitter — blinking blue behind reinforced glass. Torres looked at John.

“Wanna redeem yourself, Captain?”

John sighed. “On your left.”

Torres glared.

“Never. Say. That. Again.”

CRASH. The emitter sparked. Ghost phased out.

Seconds later — click.

The door opened.

She came back for them.

Torres grabbed Bob’s hand. Taskmaster grabbed Yelena. They all made a break for it.

---

He hit face on the wall — then black.

Torres collapsed

Chapter Text

GASP.

Joaquin Torres shot upright like a defibrillator hit him. Breathing sharp. Eyes wide.

Everyone in the dusty corridor turned.

“You good?” Yelena asked, cautious but not soft.

Torres didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked. Once. Twice. Like trying to remember what timeline he was in.

Ghost arched an eyebrow.

“You, uh… kinda died for a sec,” Bob said, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.

Torres finally inhaled. “Yeah. Cool. Awesome. Love that for me.”

He wiped at his face, even though there was nothing there. Old blood memories leave phantom stains.

There was an awkward silence.

And then John—bless his zero chill—broke it with a grunt. “We need to move. The longer we stay here, the more likely Val sends a murder Roomba to clean up.”

Bob snorted.

It wasn’t loud. Barely a breathy chuckle. But John’s ears caught it like a dog hearing a chew toy squeak.

John turned slow. “Something funny, Bobby?”

Torres muttered under his breath, “Here we go again…”

Bob blinked, nervous. “N-no. Just… you said you were Captain America and, uh…”

He trailed off as John took a step forward, all that serum-packed rage simmering right under his skin.

Bob cleared his throat. “It’s just… you’re kind of an asshole?”

His voice went up at the end like it was a question. A peace offering wrapped in panic.

Yelena looked between them like she was watching a car crash in slow motion. Taskmaster tilted her head, clearly deciding who she’d back in the fight. Ghost leaned against the wall, supremely not invested.

John gave a fake, sharp laugh—like glass cracking.

Then he lunged—

Only to be stopped.

Torres had moved first. Fast, efficient, hand gripping John’s arm like a vice.

He leaned in, lips barely moving near John’s ear. The smile on his face was way too sweet to be safe.

“Touch him and I’ll shove that shield so far up your ass, you’ll see Lamar again. Don’t test me, Walker.”

Time froze.

Even John went still. Just for a second. Then he pulled back, face tight, hands up in mock surrender, dripping sarcasm.

“Ohhh, scary,” he drawled. “Got it, blood boy.”

But Torres saw it. That flicker of something in John’s eyes.

He knew he meant it.

Without another word, Torres turned, grabbing Bob’s hand and pulling him forward.

“Let’s go. Before Boo here gets all sweaty and unhinged.”

Bob followed, wide-eyed, still clutching Torres’s hand like it was a lifeline. The others fell into step—no one questioned it. Not Yelena. Not Taskmaster. Not even Ghost.

They reached the elevator.

Only… there was no elevator anymore.

Bob peered over the edge. “Soooo… we’re stuck?”

John rolled his eyes. “Fantastic.”

“Hey, maybe you should jump, Captain Knockoff,” Torres said cheerfully. “I hear gravity loves guys with fragile egos.”

John scowled. Ghost snorted.

And somewhere between all the eye rolls and petty insults, the death trap base rumbled again, reminding them that time was running out.

Chapter Text

"Well, how do we get up and out?" Ghost asked, arms crossed, sounding exactly one brain cell short of giving up.

Taskmaster peered over the gaping elevator shaft like it personally offended her. "The elevator’s out?"

Ghost nodded. “Out as in missing. Gone. Poof.”

John made a sweeping gesture. “I mean, open your eyes, The elevator isn’t here. Like at all. Nada. It’s on vacation.”

“Johny,” Torres piped up, voice sugary with sarcasm, “why don’t you use that serum of yours and—what’s the phrase—jump… to the exit?”

John didn’t even flinch. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”

He cracked his neck.

“But not ‘cause you told me to.”

And he jumped.

For like two beautiful, soaring seconds… it looked cool.

And then he fell back down with a painfully loud CLANK.

Torres straight-up cackled. “Yooo, that gravity dropkick hit different, huh?”

Taskmaster covered her mouth but was definitely laughing too. Yelena chuckled into her scarf. Bob looked down the shaft, eyes wide.

“Should we—like—help him?”

“No,” Ghost said flatly.

John climbed back up, muttering curses and limping like a disappointed action figure. “I hate all of you.”

“Love you too, Boo,” Torres said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Taskmaster exhaled, “Well, anyone got other ideas?”

Bob hesitated… then raised his hand like they were in study hall.

“I might have an idea.”

Cue the dumbest genius plan of the century.

So now they were back-to-back, arms tangled like a giant human knot.

Bob was holding arms with Torres and Taskmaster.
Torres had Yelena on one side, Bob on the other.
Yelena held onto John and Torres.
John gripped Ghost and Yelena.
Ghost had John in one hand and Taskmaster in the other.

It was like a game of Twister hosted by anxiety.

They moved as one down the narrow corridor, careful and awkward as hell. Like a centipede made of sarcasm and trauma.

Almost at the top.

And then…

“We have a problem,” Taskmaster muttered.

They looked up. The hatch to the surface was just out of reach. And separating their hands to climb out?

Would drop Bob. Straight down.

"Y-yeah, so... uh… sorry guys, I didn’t think that far," Bob said, giving the world’s guiltiest shrug.

“Yeah, genius plan, Bobby!” John snapped. “Just always making things worse.”

Bob shrunk. “Sorry…”

“Walker,” Torres snapped. “Shut up.”

Then he squeezed Bob’s hand. A little pet, comforting but silent. Bob blinked in surprise.

Then—Bob twitched. “Cucumber, cucumber, cucumber.”

Torres blinked. “What the fuck, Bob?”

“Sorry!” Bob winced. “Someone told me once if you feel a sneeze coming on, just confuse your brain. Say something weird.”

Torres paused. “Sam told me the same thing when I was like… fifteen. You serious?”

Bob nodded furiously.

Bob sniffled again, a sneeze incoming like a damn missile. Immediately:

“CUCUMBER!”
“CUCUMBER!”
“CUCUMBER!”

Yelena, Torres, and even Ghost screamed it in unison like they were casting a spell.

John, deadpan: “I hate all of you so much.”

And then John, in a true John move, reached for one of Yelena’s grapple-thingies from her back and—

BAM.

They fell.

Everyone managed to grip onto the shaft walls like angry cats. Well—everyone except Bob.

“BOB—!”

Torres let go with one arm and snatched Bob mid-fall, swinging him to safety like it was nothing.

Bob sneezed.

“Bless you,” Torres grunted, still holding him.

Bob smiled through watery eyes. “Thank you.”

“Dude,” Torres panted. “You’re kinda heavy. What are your muscles made of, vibranium?”

Bob shrugged. “I drink, like… a lot of protein shakes.”

They finally made it up and out—battered, dusty, a little emotionally unstable.

Taskmaster turned, ripping off her mask. “So… we all saying goodbye now, or are we killing Valentina for trying to murder us?”

There was a pause.

“Second one,” Ghost said immediately.

“Yup,” Yelena agreed, cracking her knuckles.

Torres cocked his head. “We team bonding or war-criming?”

“Same thing,” Yelena replied.

Even John grumbled something like agreement. Bob blinked, looking around, wide-eyed.

“Are we… actually gonna kill her?”

Torres slapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, dude. You’re the team mascot. Just stand there and look soft.”

“I can do that,” Bob said cheerfully. He really could.

What no one knew—not even Bob—was that his eyes glowed a faint gold when no one was looking.

Chapter Text

Before they could taste the sweet freedom of escape—or at least a breath of fresh air that didn’t smell like old concrete and trauma—they hit yet another problem.

“Um,” Ghost said, poking her head above the ruined wall. “We’ve got company.”

“Like, party company?” Yelena asked.

“No. Like death squad company.”

Because of course there were at least twenty armed guards chilling at the entrance, just casually waiting to fill them all with bullets the moment they popped out. Like a twisted, gun-themed surprise party.

“Well. Shit,” Torres muttered.

“We’re not going that way,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

Everyone turned to him.

“There’s another way. A side wall about fifty feet east—thin concrete. I heard them walk past it earlier. We break it, knock out anyone who comes to check it, jack their clothes, steal one of their rides, and bounce.”

John squinted. “Since when are you the plan guy?”

“Since you jumped off a ledge and lost us five minutes,” Torres shot back.

“Touché.”

So yeah, they broke the wall. Torres kicked it in, fists first, as always—bloody knuckles, no regrets. Seven guards showed up to check out the noise, and Torres greeted each one with a custom blend of punch-to-the-face and leg-choke-to-the-spleen. (Shoutout to Bucky and Natasha.)

They stripped the guards, pulled on the too-tight uniforms, and headed to the vehicle checkpoint, pretending like they weren’t five seconds from a full mental collapse.

Right as they were about to leave—

“Names?” one officer asked, clipboard in hand.

Torres flinched. Yelena tensed.

“No,” John said flatly.

Torres groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You had one job, Walker—”

Before the situation could get worse, it somehow did.

Gunfire. One shot.

“WHAT THE—”

They all whipped around—and there was Bob.

In the open. Holding a gun. Not at anyone. Just pointing it up at the sky.

"BOB?!" Torres screamed.

The soldiers turned. Guns raised.

“NO—!” Valentina’s voice rang out from somewhere in the mess. “DON’T SHOOT—”

Too late.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Bob crumpled.

Torres gasped—no, choked—and his hand clamped onto Yelena’s arm without realizing it. His blood stirred. So did hers.

Yelena winced. “Torres.”

He didn’t respond, breathing hard, eyes locked on Bob.

“TORRES.”

She snapped her fingers in his face. Snap. He blinked and let go—immediately pulling his power back.

They all stared.

Bob… got up.

Stood.

Shirt torn, revealing a lean, scar-laced torso that very much screamed “uh-oh, science experiment.”

Torres blinked. “Okay but like... damn.”

Then—Bob levitated.

“What the hell?!” John barked.

“Nope. I’m out. We’re leaving,” he yelled, yanking the van door open and slamming his foot on the gas.

Torres, in the middle seat, twisted to look back.

Yelena was already leaning over him, eyes wide.

“Go faster,” she snapped at John.

Then—

BOOM.

Bob came crashing down from the sky like a fallen star. Straight into the road.

The van flipped.

Airbags deployed. Screams. Swearing. Crushed snacks. Chaos.

They crawled out, dazed but alive. Mostly.

“Well,” Taskmaster said, brushing glass off her shoulder, “guess we’re going by foot.”

She took off, boots crunching on asphalt like she was on a casual jog.

The others followed, bruised and confused.

Ghost grabbed Torres’s arm, tugging him to move. His legs felt heavy.

Yelena looked back over her shoulder. “We’ll get Bob back though.”

Torres didn’t answer.

Chapter Text

The desert sucked.

That was Torres’ professional opinion.

Sand in his boots. Sun frying his brain. John wouldn’t stop humming. Ghost was poking cactus spines for fun. And Taskmaster was being quiet.

They were trudging along—half dead, half pissed—when a red limousine kicked up dust from behind a dune and screeched to a dramatic stop in front of them.

“Oh god,” Yelena muttered. “No.”

The back door swung open and out stumbled Alexei Shostakov, in all his sweaty glory, arms flailing like someone just told him Taylor Swift was in danger.

“YELENA! YOU CANNOT GO INTO ZE BUNKER!” he yelled dramatically, like this was the climax of some forgotten Russian soap opera.

Torres blinked. “A little late there, buddy.”

Taskmaster gave him a subtle elbow jab in the ribs, probably for the sass, but he caught her smiling. Just a little.

And just like that, they all ended up crammed into the back of the red limo like the world’s weirdest Uber ride. Alexei was in full unhinged dad-mode, babbling about bunker protocols, radiation, and some guy named Boris who apparently exploded once. No one was listening.

Then—headlights in the rearview.

Black SUVs.

Of course.

“Aw, come on,” John groaned, already unbuckling his seatbelt like he was about to start throwing hands with the cars themselves.

Torres popped open a window, grabbed a pistol from his thigh belt (idk what thats called) and aimed—only for Taskmaster to yank him back down and cover him with her shield.

“I had that,” he muttered.

“Sure, sniper boy,” she said with a smirk.

BOOM. One of the cars exploded.

A blur zipped past them—black motorcycle, combat boots, long hair.

“Is that—” John leaned forward. “Is that Bucky?”

Torres squinted, groaned. “Ugh. It’s Bucky.”

“THE WINTER SOLDIER!” Alexei screamed from the front seat, eyes wide with glee.

“Don’t call him that,” Torres snapped.

John raised a brow. “Didn’t know you were so defensive.”

“I still hate the dude though,” Torres muttered, crossing his arms.

The chase ended as quickly as it started. Bucky, in full “cool guy with trauma” mode, skidded to a stop and aimed his rifle straight at the limo.

Torres sighed. “Of course he does that.”

Before he could react, Taskmaster lunged, yanked him out of the seat, and launched them both out the side door like it was Thursday at a gymnastics meet.

Then—BOOM.

Blackness.

Torres woke up to the comforting smell of mildew and betrayal.

He blinked. Groaned.

He was lying on a cracked floor in some sketchy, abandoned building. Paint peeling off the walls, windows shattered, ceiling fan spinning lazily like it gave up on life.

Everyone else?

Tied up.

Hog-tied.

Like, full-blown human pretzels.

Him?

Not tied at all.

Yelena noticed immediately. “Favoritism,” she muttered.

Torres smirked but didn’t say anything. He sat up, rubbed his temples, and glanced around the room.

Then—

“Ahem.”

The room stilled.

Torres slowly turned his head—and locked eyes with Bucky freaking Barnes.

The shift in Torres’ face was instant. Soft? Nope. Calm? Gone. Hatred? Dialed up to eleven.

Taskmaster noticed. She tilted her head slightly, watching Torres like she was trying to read a book in a language no one remembered.

Everyone else was chatting—trying to figure out where they were, who tied them, if Bob was okay, if John was secretly crying (he was)—but Torres didn’t care.

Until he heard it.

“Bob,” Bucky said, his voice confused.

That snapped him back in.

“Bob?” he echoed.

Everyone looked up. “BOB" they all said at the same time like some kind of messed-up sitcom.

Then Bucky’s phone buzzed.

He answered. And his voice—softened.

Torres froze.

No. No no no.

Because Bucky Barnes? Was not soft. He was scowls and punches and brooding. Not this.

Torres squinted, absolutely scandalized.

Bucky looked up, met his eyes—and something in his own gaze flickered. Like he knew Torres was watching. Like he knew the soft tone meant something.

He looked away.

Torres didn’t.

Bucky turned back to the phone.

“…Bob?” he said again, quieter.

“BOB!” everyone else yelled, officially losing their minds.

Bucky just nodded, real chill, still on the call. “Bob,” he repeated.

Torres stood slowly.

Something was off.

Really off.

Chapter Text

They were on the road again. Which would’ve been fine if Alexei wasn’t in the passenger seat, ranting about his glory days, and Bucky wasn’t driving like he was trying to out-brood the wind.

Torres had his arms crossed as he stared out the tiny side window of the trunk, watching the desert blur into boring. “Avengers Tower,” he muttered under his breath.

John, who was trying really hard to be casual, corrected him, “It’s not called that anymore. It’s Sentry’s Watchtower now.”

Torres turned his head so slowly it was almost a horror movie. “I’m not calling it that. Ever.”

In the back of the trunk—yep, they were all stuffed in there like discount action figures—John, Yelena, Ghost, Taskmaster, and Torres sat shoulder-to-shoulder in pure tension and regrettable choices.

“So, uh… that helmet,” Yelena said, pointing at John’s headgear like it personally offended her.

“Oh yeah!” John said with a grin. “It’s pretty cool, right?”

Yelena and Ghost shared a quick awkward glance, the kind of look you give when someone brings a fruitcake to a party.

“It looks horrible,” Taskmaster deadpanned.

Torres immediately nodded. “It really does.”

“Antonia, let’s be nicer here,” Yelena whispered, trying to be diplomatic for once.

“We were all thinking it,” Torres whispered back, resting his head on Taskmaster’s shoulder.

She tensed for a moment—surprised, probably. But then she relaxed, and leaned just a bit closer.

Then—CRASH.

Glass shattered ahead of them, and the whole vehicle jolted. That was their cue.

The back door flew open and the team tumbled out into chaos.

Guns. Shouting. Lasers. Drones.

Another Tuesday.

Torres didn’t hesitate. He launched himself into the fight like it was a dance he choreographed in a fever dream. He punched a guy square in the nose, elbowed another in the ribs, and took a flying leap to choke one dude out with his legs.

Sam would’ve been proud.

Natasha too.

He even fired one clean shot—right between the eyes.

Then he kicked a dude in the crotch so hard the poor guy folded like a lawn chair. “Damn,” Yelena muttered. “Remind me not to piss him off.”

In the middle of the chaos, Valentina’s voice echoed through hidden speakers around the tower.

“Okay, no need for all the violence. I left the door open. You could’ve just walked in.”

Torres froze mid-punch, his knuckles an inch from some guy’s jaw.

“…Seriously?” he muttered, lowering his fist. “Did we really have to drive through the glass like a Fast & Furious reboot? We could’ve knocked.”

From up front, Bucky actually chuckled. Not a full laugh. Just one of those rare “heh” sounds that meant something had genuinely amused the grumpy metal-armed cryptid.

Which somehow annoyed Torres more.

The team regrouped quickly, stepping over unconscious bodies as they entered what used to be Avengers Tower. The halls were darker now, redesigned with a sterile, sleek vibe that tried to be “futuristic” but just came off like an evil dentist’s office.

“Valentina definitely hired a Bond villain architect,” Ghost muttered.

Torres flexed his fists and scanned the area. “Stay close. And keep an eye out. I don’t trust any of this.”

“Duh,” Yelena said.

Antonia tapped her shield. “Time to see what snake we’re stepping on.”

The mission wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.

Chapter Text

The elevator dinged open with the softest ping, completely out of sync with the nightmare that stood waiting for them.

Valentina.

Clad in some designer nonsense like she just walked off the set of a villain-themed Vogue shoot.

“Oh, look at you all,” she cooed, arms wide like she was about to offer cookies and trauma.

She was about to say more, but Torres raised a hand and just—

“Shhh.”

A full-blown shush.

Valentina blinked. “Did you just shush me?” she whispered.

Torres nodded. “Yup.”

A tense pause. One that was definitely not in her script.

“…Okay,” Valentina muttered, before regaining her smug. “Well, John. You look like you... exist. Bucky, why on Earth would you help them? You had such a promising future as a congressman. Well, not really, but you know. Was it to stay close to your ex son?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed at the mention of Sam. John looked two seconds away from launching his entire body at her. Ghost and Yelena both visibly recoiled at her voice.

“And Yelena…” Valentina tsked, “you look like complete shit.”

“Say that again,” Yelena muttered, her hand twitching toward her knife.

Torres wasn’t hearing most of what she said anymore. Not because he wasn’t mad—oh, he was. But because Valentina was standing in exactly the same way Tony used to when he welcomed them into Avengers Tower.

Arms crossed. That little tilt of the hip. Casual and all-powerful.

The kind of stance only someone completely sure of their control could take.

And it made Torres want to rip the world apart.

“Shut it, Valentine,” Yelena snapped. “Now where’s Bob?”

Valentina sighed like they’d just interrupted her wine tasting. “You really think I’m here alone?”

Bucky stepped forward to grab her wrist, but his hand jolted back with a violent spark.

Some kind of energy shield.

“Oh please,” Val smirked. “You didn’t think I’d invite all my problems here without backup, did you?”

Then—

Footsteps.

From the same stairwell Thor used to chase Torres down for stealing Pop-Tarts.

And descending like some discount deity…

Was Bob.

Except he wasn’t Bob anymore.

He was wearing a golden suit, polished and radiant, like something out of a superhero doll box. His dark hair had been dyed bleach blond, the tips stiff with gel. And his expression?

Utterly unsure.

Torres let out a sharp laugh before he could stop himself.

“…Did you dye your hair?” Ava asked bluntly.

“Y-Yea…” Bob said, glancing at the floor.

Valentina was still talking, her voice a grating background hum, something about “new age of power” and “Sentry protocol” and some nonsense no one asked for.

Then everything went to hell.

Bob moved.

Faster than any of them could track.

And the fight began.

They all attacked at once—coordinated, trained, lethal.

And it did nothing.

John threw punches that might’ve knocked out a bear—Bob didn’t flinch.

Ghost phased mid-swing and Bob simply sidestepped, catching her by the collar and tossing her like she was made of feathers.

Torres managed to land a kick. It connected with a satisfying thud—but Bob didn’t even blink.

Then Torres threw a punch—and Bob caught his arm mid-swing.

Time slowed for just a second.

Then Bob threw him down. Hard.

Torres slammed into the floor with a crack, stars dancing in his vision.

“Torres!” Yelena screamed, smashing her fist into the elevator call button.

Bucky tried to grab Bob from behind—but Bob reached up and ripped Bucky’s metal arm straight off.

A horrible, sparking, mechanical pop.

Torres groaned, trying to sit up.

“Get up,” Taskmaster said, kneeling beside him and helping him up. Her voice was surprisingly gentle. “We’ve got to move.”

Together, they staggered toward the elevator, the rest limping behind.

Bob lifted his hand again, golden energy crackling in the air—

But it shook.

His fingers spasmed.

His expression turned from determined to confused.

And Torres—

Torres felt it.

He was doing it. Pushing blood control into Bob’s system—like twisting red steel wires through concrete.

It was nothing like Wanda. Or John. Or even himself.

It felt like tearing his own soul apart just to hold Bob’s wrist still for three seconds.

Just long enough.

The elevator doors slid closed behind them.

The last thing Torres saw before they sealed shut was Bob’s face.

Not angry.

Not cruel.

Just… scared.

Chapter Text

The air outside the tower was too still.

Like the world had hit pause, waiting to see who cracked first.

Alexi tried to put a comforting hand on Yelena’s back. “Yelena, please, we—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, spinning on him. “Don’t talk to me like I’m five. Or like I don’t know what I just saw.”

Then she turned and pointed at John. “And you. Stop looking like you did something. You didn’t do anything.”

John opened his mouth to say something but wisely shut it.

Torres wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

He was staring at his hands.

They felt… foreign. Like they weren’t his anymore. Like something inside him had been unlocked and whatever it was—whatever it cost to use—it hurt.

He hadn’t felt that kind of pain since… well, since Sam.

The pressure behind his eyes was building again. Like he might cry or explode or black out. He didn’t even notice the footsteps until a hand reached gently for his arm.

“Hey,” Bucky said, voice low. “You okay?”

Torres jerked away like he’d been burned.

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine,” he mumbled, not looking up. And then, quick as a breath, he walked away.

Behind him, Bucky’s hand dropped. His face didn’t change, not much. But it didn’t have to. Torres caught it from the corner of his eye—just long enough to see John walk up and pat Bucky’s shoulder in that awkward dude-bro way.

Bucky didn’t flinch, but he didn’t smile either.

Torres felt his stomach twist.

“Hey,” Antonia said softly, placing her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were calm. Steady. He leaned into it, barely, and gave her a small smile.

Then Yelena stormed off.

Alexi chased after her.

And then—

The sky cracked.

Literally.

Like someone had taken a shard of black glass and dragged it across the clouds.

Floating above the city—

Was Bob.

Or… it looked like Bob. If Bob had been drained of color, of warmth, of everything.

He was pure black. Not just in costume—everything about him was a living void. His skin, his hair, his eyes. Just… absence.

His mouth moved. He was saying something. But Torres didn’t hear words.

He heard ringing.

Painful, disorienting, bone-deep ringing.

Torres clutched his ears. No one else seemed to react.

Bob raised his hand—

And people began to disappear.

Not die. Not burn. Just… vanish. Each of them turning into pitch-black shadows, like paper cutouts being dragged across the ground and into the black portal behind him.

A void. Swirling, stretching across the city like a tear in the fabric of reality.

And then—

Yelena ran into it.

No hesitation. No scream. She just vanished.

“YELENA!”

Alexi lunged forward, but John and Bucky pulled him back.

Taskmaster grabbed Torres, anchoring him as the wind from the void began to pull.

“We need to go in there,” Torres said, voice trembling but firm.

“No,” Bucky snapped. “We don’t know what’s in there.”

“Yelena could be dead,” John added.

“She’s not,” Torres insisted. “I don’t think this is death. It doesn’t feel like death.”

Bucky turned to argue again—

But stopped when he saw Torres’ face.

Not angry. Not reckless. Just sure.

“Please,” Torres said. “Just… trust me.”

Bucky hesitated. Then—

He nodded.

And together—

They walked into the void.

Everything went black.

Not like darkness. Not like night.

This was something deeper.

Something older.

Like walking into the shadow of a god.

None of them were ready for what they’d see next.

Especially not Torres.

Especially not Bucky.

Because what waited inside the void wasn’t just Bob.

It was everything they thought they’d buried.

Chapter Text

The void didn't just open.

It ripped.

And Torres was flung into it—no warning, no gravity, just him spiraling into nothing.

Until the nothing took shape.

And that shape…

Was Hydra.

The walls were too familiar. Sterile. Humming with fluorescent lights and the memory of violence.

His hands were covered in sweat. Or blood. Or both.

"Agent 49."

That name.
His ghost name.

His throat burned.

"Disloyalty must be cleansed."

Three figures in front of him. Unarmed. Kneeling.

Marla.
Kesh.
Finn.

He remembered Finn singing to himself while fixing a cracked pipe.
He remembered Marla slipping him extra food rations.
He remembered Kesh putting her hand on his shoulder when he cried and told him, “You still have a heart, kid.”

"Execute them."

Torres screamed inside. But on the outside—his hand raised the gun.

Bang.
Bang.
Bang.

Their bodies dropped.
And the Hydra agents clapped.

Clapped.

He was shaking. He looked down and saw their blood on his boots.

The next void shattered like a mirror—reforming into something worse.

He was on the battlefield.

Endgame.

And everything was on fire.

Smoke blurred the sky. Explosions crackled like thunder. Bodies. Screams. Blood.

But none of that mattered.

Because Torres saw him.

Tony.

Right there. Beside him.

“Hey, you okay?” Torres asked.

Tony gave him a brief smile. “Define okay.”

They both looked at Strange.

The man held up one finger.

Torres squinted. “Is he… is that the middle finger?”

Tony snorted. “god kid I love your timing”

But the smile faded.

That signature Stark smirk melted into something unreadable.

Something broken.

"Kid… you know I love you, right?"

Torres frowned. His stomach turned. “What…?”

Tony stepped forward and cupped the back of his neck.

“You’re annoying. You’re loud. You stole my suit once and almost got yourself vaporized. But you’re… family. Weirdly. Uncle-level family.”

“I don’t like where this is going.” Torres whispered.

“You’re not supposed to.” Tony said softly.

Then—he kissed his forehead.

And blasted him across the field.

The repulsor beam hit so hard, Torres couldn’t even scream.

He hit metal. Something cracked in his back. His ears were ringing. Blood was in his mouth.

Through blurred vision—he saw Tony running.

“No. No no no no no—”

Torres dragged himself to his feet, stumbling, everything tilting.

He watched it unfold.

Tony tore the stones from Thanos.

Tony snapped.

And the world burned white.

And then—Tony collapsed.

Torres was screaming and sprinting through fire. He fell next to Tony, barely able to breathe.

His chest was hollow.

His lungs were collapsing on grief.

Tony’s face was torn, burned, barely recognizable—but his eyes found Torres.

Just once.

Torres laid his head on his shoulder.

He couldn’t hold his hand—Tony’s fingers were half-destroyed.

So he just held on. To the armor. To what was left.

“I’m sorry,” Torres whispered through tears. “I’m sorry. I should’ve stopped you. I could’ve stopped you.”

Tony couldn’t answer.

He just stared at the sky.

His breathing slowed.

And then—
He stopped.

No last words.
No quip.
No closure.

Just silence.

Torres didn't scream.

He howled.

The kind of cry that shakes your ribs. That snaps something inside you.

He kept muttering, “Please. Please wake up. Please—”

Pepper was there. Rhodey. Peter.

But Torres didn’t see them.

He only saw the blood on his hands.

Hands that couldn’t save him.

Then Bruce grabbed him, tried to pull him away.

Torres kicked. Scratched. Screamed.

“No! No! Let me go! He’s not gone! I can fix this!”

Bruce wrapped his arms around him and whispered something, but Torres didn’t hear it.

He collapsed.

Dead weight in Bruce’s arms.

A shaking, crying mess of a soldier who couldn’t save the one man who never asked him to be anything but a kid.

He stayed in that memory.

Watched it over and over.

Watched Tony die thirty-two times before he had enough strength to leave.

When he finally dragged himself out—

He fell.

Onto a wooden floor.

Dust and silence.

And sitting there—

Bob.

Golden suit. Blinding. Hair blond and off-color.

Bob looked up at him.

“You’re bleeding from your eyes.”

Torres didn’t wipe it.

“Yeah,” he said. “That happens when I cry.”

He crawled to him.

Sat down.

Said nothing.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

Torres blinked against the thick haze. The air in the void was... off. Warm like childhood, but not in the comforting way. Warm like cheap carpet and old, dusty air vents that never quite worked right.

He noticed it in the corners first. Posters torn off the wall, a cracked desk, the way the furniture was spaced too perfectly. The way a bed—too small—sat tucked into the edge like it wanted to disappear.

That’s when he heard it.

Yelling.

Muffled at first. But sharp. Measured. Familiar.

The cadence of someone used to yelling.

A voice rising and falling like a storm outside a shut window.

"Stupid kid—worthless—get it through your thick head—!"

Torres flinched.
But Bob didn’t.

He sat on the wooden floor like it was his safe zone. His knees were pulled to his chest, his fingers nervously picking at the edge of his pants.

“It’s one of the nicer ones,” Bob whispered.

Torres turned, brows furrowed. “What?”

“This memory. There’s worse.”

Torres swallowed. The room—this room—it was Bob’s. The void had led him here, not just to Bob, but to Bob’s core.

And it reeked of shame and survival.

Torres took a breath and stood, brushing dust off his jeans.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Get up. We’re getting out of here.”

Bob didn’t move.

Just looked at the floor.

“O-oh. You should go without me,” Bob muttered, voice cracking. “It’ll be easier.”

Torres gave a dry laugh. “No, it won’t.” He knelt again, facing him. “I need your help, Bob. I can’t do it alone.”

A moment of silence.

Then he reached out, gently putting a hand on Bob’s shoulder.

Bob tensed. Just for a second.

Then slowly turned his face—
Not all the way, though. He was crying. Quiet and private. The kind of tears you didn’t want the world to see.

That’s when they heard it.

THUD.

They both jumped and turned—

Yelena was face-down on the floor, groaning.

“...Oh hi, guys.” She pushed herself up like this was just another Tuesday.

Torres raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Emotionally? Never. Physically? Eh.” She dusted off her coat. “Okay so how are we getting out of this hell-hole?”

Torres looked to Bob.
Bob looked back.

“Help us,” Torres said quietly. “Please.”

There was silence. Then eye contact. Something passed between them.

Just as Bob opened his mouth to answer—

“Are you two going to kiss?” Yelena whispered.

Bob blinked. “...Probably.”

Torres turned red as hell and looked away fast, clearing his throat.

But before anyone could make it any more awkward—

CRACK.

A wooden chair slammed into Torres’ shoulder.

“Did a chair just fucking hit me?”

Yelena ducked as a coffee table launched toward her.
Bob yelped as the curtains wrapped around his neck like demonic spaghetti.

“Oh hell no,” Torres growled, trying to pry the fabric off Yelena and Bob.

“Don’t fight it!” Bob shouted. “You can’t die here!”

“Not the pep talk I need, Bob!” Yelena snapped, strangling the curtain back.

A bookshelf groaned as it tilted—

“TORRES, LOOK OUT!”

But then—

CRASH.

A loud metallic clang echoed as Bucky—looking pissed off and oddly heroic—let the bookshelf SLAM into his vibranium arm.

The whole room froze.

Chairs mid-air.
Curtains retreating.
The yell from below—gone.

The rest of the crew poured in through fragmented void cracks, their bodies bruised but eyes alert.

Yelena looked around. “Everyone okay?”

Nods all around.

She glanced specifically at Bucky. “You good?”

Bucky gave the driest, dead-eyed smile imaginable.

“Oh yeah. I’m great. I have a very happy past.”

The sarcasm hit like a punchline in a funeral.

Everyone went quiet.

Torres wiped blood from his temple and grinned anyway. “What, no tortured violin music? Missed opportunity.”

Yelena muttered, “Yeah, or a sad piano cover of ‘Mr. Brightside.’”

Bob chuckled. Just a little. The first real sound from him since he stood.

And Torres looked at him again.

Not as The Sentry.
Not as the experiment.

But as the scared kid in a haunted room who still found the strength to stand.

And somehow, that was enough—for now.

Chapter Text

They speedran Bob’s hell.

Void after void, like flipping through channels on someone’s worst nightmares. No time to breathe, no time to reflect.

Just run.

First memory:
Bob’s dad. Screaming. His voice like rusted nails dragging across a chalkboard.
Little Bob, maybe five, curled up under a table.
John didn’t hesitate—just clocked the man in the face

Second memory:
A guy in a chicken costume. Holding a sign but smacking them with it like it was a sword.
“What is this??” Ghost yelled, ducking under a wild swing.

“THIS ISN’T MINE,” Bob shouted—then paused. “Wait… no yeah it is.”

Alexi blinked at him. “Why were you a chicken?”

“I WAS ON METH,” Bob screamed like it explained everything (it kinda did).

They didn’t ask more. Just sprinted through the next door.

And then—
They fell.

Flat on their backs, air knocked from their lungs.

This one was different.
Still. Cold. Sharp, sterile white lighting above them.
Concrete floors. Machines that hummed.

“…That’s where it all started,” Bob whispered.

Torres sat up slowly, rubbing his head.
Yelena squinted. “…I was here before.”

Torres muttered, “It’s giving Hydra, tbh.”

Bucky made a sound that was one part groan, one part trauma-confirmed grunt.

Then—
From the long metal table in the center of the room—

It moved.

The black figure.
The Void.
It stood, faceless, humming with something that wasn’t just power—it was absence.

It said something, but Torres couldn’t hear it—
Just ringing. Screeching. Static in his blood.

He focused. Tried to find something inside the thing. A pulse. A rhythm. Blood.

Nothing.

It was like trying to breathe underwater with lungs full of smoke.

The Void lifted its hand.

Everyone—except Bob—was flung back, like ragdolls.
Metal tendrils rose from the ground, wrapping around them, anchoring them to the walls.

Bob just stood there.

Breathing.

And then—he charged.

Fists flying. Screaming. Punching the Void until it collapsed under him. Bob didn’t stop. He was unleashing. Years. Decades. Every hit like breaking open a locked room inside himself.

But the Void let him.

And then it started to take.
Crawling up Bob’s arms, tendrils of black wrapping around his neck, into his skin.

He didn’t scream. But the tears did. They poured.

Yelena broke free first, ripping herself from the metal and running full speed into the storm. She hugged him—arms tight around his chest—but it didn’t stop him.

Then the others—Taskmaster, Bucky, Ghost, John—broke free too.

They ran. They held him.

Torres was the last to break out. The metal clinging to him like guilt.

He ran.
Threw his arms around Bob from behind, resting his head on Bob’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re not alone.”

Bob trembled. He leaned into Torres’ touch like a dying flame needing heat.

They all pulled—together. One final effort.
And suddenly—

SNAP.

The void shattered.
They all collapsed to the ground, a pile of limbs and sobs.

And then—sunlight.

New York.
Back on Earth.
Normal sounds. Horns. Wind.

Bob blinked, rubbing his face.

“You did good there, Bob,” John said, voice uncharacteristically soft.

“…Thank you, Walker. Where—”

Alexi’s eyes locked on something.

Valentina.

“Oh I’m going to KILL that woman,” he growled and charged.

“WAIT—"

They all sprinted after him.

Torres grabbed Bob’s hand mid-run. “C’mon, we’re not missing this soap opera.”

They rounded the corner—

FLASH.

Cameras. Dozens of them. Blinding lights.

Valentina stood there with that smug-ass smirk.

“Okay, okay, I know what it looks like—”

“YOU THINK?” Ghost snapped.

“LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO…” Val said dramatically, holding her arms out, “THE NEW AVENGERS!”

The crowd erupted. Applause. Cheers. Confetti cannons.

“…What the fuck,” Torres whispered.

Bob started clapping. Genuinely.

Torres gently grabbed his hands and lowered them. “No. No clapping. We don’t reward that.”

Yelena walked up to Valentina, leaned into her ear and whispered:

“We own you now.”

Then smiled sweetly to the cameras like a Disney princess with a knife behind her back.

14 months later

The New Avengers Tower stood tall again, sleek and sharp.

Torres walked in with Taskmaster, Bucky, Ghost, and Yelena trailing behind.

“Well Torres, can’t you talk to your old friends? Make them side with us?” Yelena asked.

Torres snorted. “We’re the government’s lapdogs. They’d rather kiss Doom than help us.”

Taskmaster raised a brow. “What if we tell them we’re just here to watch Valentina?”

“…They might.” Torres tilted his head. “Didn’t think of that.”

Bucky stared at him. “You didn’t tell them before?”

“I didn’t think of it,” Torres said again, more defensively.

“Wow. That’s crazy.”

“Crazy how I’m still cute though,” Torres muttered under his breath.

They stepped into the main lounge—

“OH HI GUYS!”

Bob waved from the couch. Alpine, Bucky’s cat, was sprawled on his chest like a queen.

She spotted Bucky—
MEOW—

And sprinted across the room, launching herself into his arms.

Bob grinned. “She missed you.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just held Alpine close, his face unreadable but soft around the edges.

Outside, the storm gathered again.
But inside the tower—for now—there was peace.

Chapter Text

The clock read 2:47 AM.

Most of the tower slept. Even Alpine, who normally prowled like a fluffy little goblin at this hour, was curled up on Bucky’s chest somewhere upstairs.

But not Torres.

Torres didn’t really sleep. Not much. Not well.
His body felt like it was always on. Like if he didn’t move, he might melt.
So he got up. Grabbed a glass from the kitchen. Filled it halfway with water and chugged it like it could rinse the thoughts out of his skull.

As he turned toward the fridge—he saw it.
Light.
Coming from the living room.

Someone was up.

Torres padded over quietly, expecting maybe Ghost scrolling through war crime memes again.

But it wasn’t her.

It was Bob.

He was sitting on the couch in the dark. Backlit by the streetlamps outside, he looked like a half-drawn sketch.

Just… staring out the window.

Like he was waiting for something terrible to crawl out of the sky.

“Hey,” Torres said gently. “You good?”

Bob jumped.
Spun toward him like he'd been caught stealing Christmas.

“Y-Yeah. I’m just, uh…” Bob gestured vaguely at the window. “Y’know.”

Torres hummed and walked over, lowering himself next to him on the couch. “Can’t sleep either?”

“Do I ever?” Bob muttered with a weak chuckle.

They sat in silence. The city buzzed softly beyond the glass.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Torres said, voice quiet. Measured. Like if he said it too loud, Bob might vanish.

Bob nodded slowly.

“I care about you, okay?” Torres continued, eyes searching. “I’ll help you if you need. No matter what.”

There was a flicker in Bob’s eyes. Something electric. Fragile.

“I know,” he whispered. So soft, Torres almost missed it.

Then—
Something changed.

The way Bob looked at him shifted.
His gaze dropped—Torres’ eyes, then lips, then back again. Over and over. Like he was searching for permission.

And then—
Bob leaned in.

Torres froze for half a second—just half—before his eyes slid shut and he leaned back in.

The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Awkward in a way that meant something.
Then it deepened.
Torres brought a hand to Bob’s cheek. Warm. Grounding.
Bob’s fingers slid behind Torres’ neck, pulling him closer.

It got warmer. Desperate in a way neither had meant to show.

And then—
Torres pulled away.

Hard.

Breathing heavy, he stood up.

“I—I’m sorry,” Bob whispered, voice cracking like glass under a boot.

Torres didn’t say anything.

He just turned and walked away.

Back down the hall.
Back to his room.
Back to his own head where everything screamed louder than the city.

He shut the door behind him and pressed his back to it, hands trembling.

“Fuck,” Torres whispered, dragging a hand over his face. “Why did I leave—why did I leave—now he thinks I hate him.”

He wiped his mouth like it could erase the memory, like it would make his heartbeat stop tripping over itself.

Meanwhile, on the couch—

Bob sat perfectly still.

Then dropped his head into his hands.

“Why did I do that,” he whispered.
“Fucking stupid—now he hates me—why did I—”

He let the words rot in the silence.

Outside, New York buzzed like nothing happened.
Inside, two hearts beat like alarms in separate rooms.

Neither of them slept that night.

Chapter Text

The next morning should’ve been about feelings.
Torres was ready to talk about the kiss.

But nope.
Yelena blew into the room like a chaos hurricane.

“Okay, I don’t know why,” she said, looking like she hadn’t blinked in ten minutes, “but the Old Avengers are coming here. So get your shit together. Be ready. Don’t embarrass me.”

Everyone paused mid-morning routine. Coffee cups halfway to mouths. Blank stares. One slice of toast hit the floor.

“Wait, what?” Bucky said, instantly suspicious. “How do you know that?”

“Clint texted me,” Yelena replied with a shrug, waving her phone. “It was mostly emojis. But I understood the fear.”

“Ah.” Antonia squinted. “So we all just need to…”

“Tiddy this place, make some food, find their favorite foods, don’t kill each other—” Yelena counted off rapidly on her fingers, “—and Torres? Make sure you don’t talk to Bucky or John. I need us to seem functional.”

“What the hell—” John started.

“Functional, John,” Yelena snapped, not looking up.

Torres rubbed his temples. “Clint likes pizza and coffee. Thor loves Pop-Tarts. Bruce eats whatever but prefers spicy. I’ll handle Bruce. And Steve… he used to love the spaghetti my dad made. I’ve got the recipe, I’ll do that too.”

“Okay so we buy pizza and Pop-Tarts,” John said, already reaching for keys.

“I’ll send everyone the grocery list,” Torres added, texting like a man possessed. “I’ll need help in the kitchen.”

“Uh, yeah sure… Bob,” Yelena said, flashing a smug little smile.
Bob stuttered but nodded. “Y-Yeah. Of course.”

John, Ava, Antonia, Yelena, and Bucky headed off to the store like a weird superhero Trader Joe’s crew. Alexi left on drink duty. Because apparently impressing Earth's Mightiest Heros meant stocking their favorite sodas and juices.

“So much for just spaghetti,” Antonia snarked over the phone, squinting at Torres’ massive ingredient list.

“I’m making dinner, not prison food,” Torres sighed. “An actual dinner that makes us look like people they can trust not to accidentally start a war.”

He hung up dramatically. Bob blinked at him.

“Why are we having dinner so late?” Bob asked.

“When do you usually eat dinner?”

“I don’t.”

There was a pause.

Torres licked his lips. “Um. About… what happened last night—”

“Nothing happened,” Bob cut in, fast, voice almost too loud. “I mean… what happened was just… heat of the moment, you know? Nothing… real.”

Torres’ heart twinged.

“Nothing real?” he repeated, eyes narrowing slightly.

Bob gave him a fragile smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Y-Yeah. Just a kiss. Didn’t mean anything. Nothing, you know… real real.”

“Right,” Torres said. His mouth tasted like regret. “Just a kiss between bros. Total bromance. No feelings. Just—” he made a finger-gun gesture with the saddest little pew pew noise in history.

The silence was sharp.

Luckily, the rest of the gang exploded back in, arms full of groceries, breaking the tension.

Torres took control.

“Bob, oven’s preheated, stir the sauce—careful with the chili. Antonia, you’re on garlic bread. Yelena, wash those damn mushrooms, you don’t know where they’ve been.”

Two hours later? It was magic.

Table set. Spaghetti bubbling. Coffee brewed. Pizza stacked like a greasy offering to the gods. There were even hand-folded napkins. Bob may or may not have Googled “fancy napkin triangle origami.”

Then: 7:57 PM.

“Alright!” Torres clapped. “Everyone change! Bob, shower, you smell like a dumpster fire that fell in love with gasoline. Wear your best clothes!”

“Why do we need to be so extra” John muttered, adjusting his tie.

“Because one word from them and the world will want our heads,” Torres replied flatly.

“You keep saying y’all, not we,” John pointed out, arching a brow.

“That’s because they love me,” Torres grinned, wicked and proud. “I don’t need to impress them.”

Bob, toweling off his hair from the world’s fastest shower, watched Torres laugh as he disappeared into his room.

He smiled.

Chapter Text

Dinner was absolutely cursed.

Pizza, Pop-Tarts, government spies, and world-ending trauma all gathered around a single table like some cosmic joke.

Yelena had already stabbed a bread roll out of frustration.
Bob had dropped the same fork four times.
Thor was three Pop-Tarts in and demanding someone “bring him a Frost Giant’s beverage.”
Alexi was trying to arm wrestle Clint. Clint was winning.

But none of that compared to the real chaos:

Torres. Was. Talking.

Like—actual full-sentence conversations. Laughing. Smiling. Sharing weird childhood stories. Leaning on Steve’s shoulder and reminiscing about that time in Tunisia where Sam made Bucky wear a crop top and everyone pretended it was for stealth purposes.

The New Avengers were LOSING it.

Antonia—stone-faced Antonia—was genuinely slack-jawed. She leaned toward Yelena, whispering:

“Since when does he speak more than two words at once?”

Yelena just blinked.

“Since when does he smile like that?”

Bucky, meanwhile, sat silently at the edge of the table. Watching. Jaw tight.

Because every story Steve told—every happy memory—had Sam in it.
Sam’s voice. Sam’s laugh. Sam pulling Torres and Bucky close and calling them “his idiot children.”

The kind of memories that made Torres light up.

The kind of memories that made Bucky flinch.

Steve was midway through a story about a mission in Berlin when Torres giggled—full on giggled—and playfully hit Clint on the arm like they were high school besties.

Everyone at the table turned.

Antonia dropped her glass.
Bob blinked hard like maybe Torres was a ghost this whole time.
John leaned over to Ava, muttering, “Okay that’s not the same guy who threatened to punch me for asking his middle name.”

The vibes? Immaculately confusing.

Antonia crossed her arms, muttering,

“I guess I’m not the only one he trusts…”

There was a flash of something in her tone.
Not jealousy. Just… surprise. A little ache of being replaced.

Steve, who had clocked the entire room’s reaction, just smiled.
“Yeah,” he said. “Torres used to talk all the time. He and Sam would never shut up. It was like having a podcast follow us everywhere.”

Torres snorted, eyes soft. “Sam had opinions, okay.”

Then Bucky spoke.

“Yeah. You both did.”

And just like that, the warmth vanished.

Torres' face dropped. His shoulders tensed.
Even his laugh seemed to snap back into a shell.

The air shifted.

Antonia slipped her hand under the table, found his.
His fingers curled around hers, tight.

Steve saw it all.

The moment—the exact second—that sweet, open Torres cracked and retreated.

The table tried to recover. Clint cracked a joke. Bruce asked about Alexi’s Red Guardian suit. Bob dropped another fork. (Fifth time.)

But the tension lingered.

Steve, watching the way Torres avoided Bucky’s eyes like they were made of fire, spoke softly:

“You two were close, once.”

Everyone stilled.

Torres looked away.

“We were.” His voice was flat. Final. “And then we weren’t.”

The words were a gunshot.

Bob’s eyes darted to Bucky, then back to Torres.
Bucky’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Steve just nodded.
He knew better than to push.

He also knew why.

He could still see it—Vormir. Sam. The sacrifice. The guilt.

Sam choosing to die.
Bucky being the one who came back.

Torres never forgave him for that.

The New Avengers didn’t know. Not the full story.
They just knew Torres hated talking about Vormir.
And Bucky never said a word.

But the old team? They remembered the aftermath.
The screaming. The silence. The broken boy who refused to let anyone in—except maybe Antonia. Maybe.

So when Clint leaned over with that classic smirk and said,

“At least he’s still capable of emotional reactions. Especially around Bob.”

Torres immediately choked on his water.

“Wh—WHAT?” Torres sputtered.

“Oh come on,” Bruce added, sipping his drink casually. “It’s practically written in neon signs. You two are a rom-com waiting to happen.”

Bob made a sound. Something between a hiccup and a wheeze.

John leaned forward, blinking. “Wait, what?”

Yelena deadpanned, “You didn’t know? It’s been obvious since the lasagna incident.”

Clint grinned. “There’s so much unresolved tension there I’m getting secondhand anxiety.”

Bob was full tomato-red.

Torres was frozen. Like he’d just been caught naked in emotional 4K.

Antonia leaned over, barely hiding her smirk.

“I think they broke you.”

“Shut up,” Torres whispered, face in his hands.

Later, as they were cleaning up, Steve looked over at Bruce and Clint and said,

“He’s still in there. That kid. Underneath all the walls.”

Bruce nodded. “We just haven’t seen him in years.”

“And now he’s laughing,” Clint added, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. “Even if only for a minute.”

“And Bob?” Bruce asked.

Steve smiled.

“Might be exactly the chaos he needs.”

Chapter Text

The wind up in the sky used to scare Torres when he was little—well, younger. But Thor? Thor had always made it feel safe. Like flying with a seatbelt made of thunder and dad jokes. And now, even if Torres didn’t say it, being held high above the world again cracked open something in his chest. Something warm. Something painful.

He hated that he missed it.

He hated that it helped.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Thor.”
Torres’ voice had been soft. Tired. Like a storm cloud trying not to rain.

Thor had only smiled. “You always loved it when I flew you high and you watched the stars. Always made you feel better.”

Torres had tried not to smile. Failed.

The walk before the sky stuff had been...tense.

“Wanna join me for a walk?” he’d asked.

Not to the whole room.

Just to the Old Avengers. And—maybe—Antonia, who pretended to be absorbed in her phone.

She didn't say yes, didn’t say no, but stood up anyway and followed, a half step behind Steve like she wasn’t curious but was totally listening to every word.

They walked in the kind of quiet that only grief fills. Their boots crunching against gravel. The city distant and muffled, like they were ghosts in their own timeline.

Then Steve, because he has to Steve about everything, broke it.

“You know… you can’t blame him forever.”

Torres' jaw flexed so tight it could’ve cracked.

“I know,” he whispered.

Clint stayed silent, fiddling with an arrowhead in his pocket like it was a rosary.
Bruce sighed through his nose. Loud but resigned.

Torres didn’t say anything else. Just turned to Thor and said—

“Well Thor, flying. Let’s go.”

And that’s how they ended up here.

In the sky.

Above it all.

Where grief doesn’t echo so loud.

Thor held him like he always had—carefully, like Torres was something both powerful and breakable.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Just floated there. Stars above. Earth below.

Then—

“Steve is right, you know,” Thor said gently.

“I know,” Torres whispered again, so quiet it got lost in the wind.

“But I don’t… I don’t know how to fix it.”

Thor looked at him with that tragic softness only the truly ancient could have. “Yeah. But it’s very clear Bucky is desperate to have you back.”

Torres didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The wind carried the truth.

“Mind dropping me off at the tower?”
His voice was small again. “I don’t want the whole talk with Steve right now.”

Thor chuckled. “Yeah, sure.”

They descended in silence, the city glowing like some soft fever dream.

Right before Torres stepped away, Thor squeezed his shoulder.

“Night, little phoenix. Love you.”

Torres smiled—really smiled for the first time all night. “Night. Love you too.”

The tower was quiet. Dark. The kind of quiet that makes your bones ache.

Torres padded into the living room.

There was Bucky. On the couch. A beer dangling from one hand. Eyes heavy, like he hadn’t slept since the war. (Whichever one.)

Their eyes met.

A soft, sad smile from Bucky.

An even softer one back from Torres.

No words.

Torres just walked past, heading to his room. But the silence wasn’t cold anymore.

Just... healing. Or trying to be.

And for once, that was enough.