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Chapter Text

Late morning light spills in through the tall windows, catching dust motes in its beams. The low whirl of the coffee machine and the faint clink of ceramic fill the kitchen with a quiet noise as Tony leans against the counter, sipping an espresso and scrolling through a tablet in one hand.

Jenna’s footsteps pad in from the hallway in a slow, dragging rhythm. “You couldn’t have waited ten more minutes to start the coffee? I was just beginning to forgive you for existing,” she mumbles with a grin as she enters, still hazy from her nap. She’s in soft joggers and a cropped tank, a pale blue one that makes her sun-kissed skin glow. Her long honey brown hair is tied up loosely, a few strands curling around her face. Her cheeks are flushed from sleep, freckles more vivid than usual thanks to the summer sun, and her hazel eyes are heavy-lidded as she rubs at them.

Tony doesn’t even look up. “It’s noon, Jenna. You’re so dramatic.”

“Rude. My sleep schedule is fucked, you know that. Besides, I get the dramatics from you, thank you very much.”

She walks toward the counter, yawns, and then mid-step, stops dead. Her gaze lands on the man standing at the island, back half-turned until he straightens and turns fully to face her.

Captain America. Steve Rogers. In the kitchen. Her kitchen.

Blue eyes, square jaw, broad shoulders in a plain navy Henley that hugs his torso just right… Her mouth opens slightly. Then closes, suddenly aware shes gawking. She glances back and forth between the two men before her gaze stills on Tony.

“You didn’t tell me we were having guests over,” she says an octave higher than normal.

Tony looks up, grin twitching. “Didn’t think I needed to tell you about manners, either, yet here we are.”

Steve steps forward with a warm, easy smile. “Sorry for the surprise. I’m Steve.” He offers his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Dr. Stark.”

Jenna hesitates half a second, then straightens her shoulders and crosses the kitchen to shake his hand. She has to crane her neck up to look at him from this proximity. He has a firm grip, cool skin, and… holy hell, those forearms.

She nods, still trying to appear more relaxed than she is. “Please, just call me Jenna. And Likewise.”

Their eyes lock just a second too long.

Tony snorts softly behind his mug. “Alright, save the goggling for later, Jenna. Some of us are trying to caffeinate.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t look away from Steve right away. “You here for the debrief?” she asks, folding her arms lightly.

“Yeah. Thought I’d get a tour of the place while I’m at it,” Steve replies. “And I was hoping I’d run into you, Tony’s been talking you up for months. Figured I should meet you before we’re put on a job together.”

She raises an eyebrow at Tony. “You’ve been bragging about me, Dad?”

Tony shrugs, nonchalant. “Only the parts that won’t get me sued.”

Steve chuckles softly, and Jenna feels the smallest flutter in her chest, but she brushes it away.

“Coffee?” she asks Steve, walking toward the machine, flipping her mug out of the cabinet without looking.

“Sure,” he says, watching her with a faint smile. “Thank you, Jenna.”

She slides Steve’s mug across the counter toward him, then lifts her own to her lips, taking a long sip. She leans a hip against the counter and gives Tony a sidelong glance.

“Hey, dad, I can give him the rest of the tour if you need a break.”

Tony arches a brow. “What, suddenly interested in the architecture you walk past every day?”

She shrugs, casually. “I was asleep for hours. Gotta stretch my legs.”

Steve glances between them, amused. “I don’t mind. I could use a guide who doesn’t spontaneously name every room after themselves.”

Tony scoffs, “fine. But if she starts giving her version of the HQ history, just know that at least 60% of it is either heavily dramatized or emotionally blackmailed out of someone.”

“Oh come on, I’m delightful,” Jenna says over her shoulder as she turns to leave the kitchen.

Without thinking, she reaches up and pulls the tie from her hair and golden brown waves fall loosely down her back. She doesn’t notice the way Steve’s gaze lingers, or how Tony clocks it with a suspicious squint as he sips his espresso.

Steve steps up beside her as they head toward the hall. “You’ve got quite the setup here,” he says.

She hums. “I’ll show you the real stuff. Not just the lame ass PR tour Tony gives, but the secret gym behind the R&D wing, the floor that still smells like electrical fire because someone”—she raises her voice slightly—“overcooked a prototype arc reactor.”

“It worked! You just don’t like the smell of genius!” Tony shouts from the kitchen.

She rolls her eyes, walking a little ahead now, turning her face away just enough to hide the tiny, nervous smile tugging at her lips.

Steve follows, hands in his pockets, watching her quietly.

***

Late morning bleeds into early afternoon as Jenna and Steve finish up the tour, eventually descending down a sleek staircase into the basement-level training wing. The moment she steps inside, the air shifts with the faint smell of sweat and rubber mats. She pauses in the center of the space, hand on her hip as she gestures toward the expansive workout area. There are racks of training gear, benches, the works, and in the far corner is the sparring ring.

“And this,” she announces with a slight grin, “is where I come to let out my repressed rage.”

Steve raises a brow as he takes in the space. “Impressive.”

“Most people say intimidating, but sure, let’s go with impressive.” She walks toward the sparring ring, hopping up onto the edge. “You ever use this thing, or are you too noble to beat people up recreationally?”

Steve smirks. “I’ve been known to get in the ring now and then.”

She gives him a quick once-over, arms folded, leaning back slightly, casually teasing but still sizing him up. “I bet I could kick your ass.”

Steve lifts his eyebrows. “You think so?”

“I mean, no, not literally.” She shrugs, her voice dry. “You’re twice my size and like 90% muscle. But I’d make it interesting.”

That earns a real laugh out of him. “You’re on,” he says, climbing into the ring.

She blinks. “Wait, really?”

“You challenged me.”

She exhales dramatically, pulling her hair back into a high ponytail. “Alright, fine. Just don’t break me, Steve. I’ve got a full schedule today.”

They square off in the center of the mat. Steve keeps his stance relaxed while Jenna bounces slightly on her toes, eyes sharp and light on her feet. She goes in first with a quick jab, a feint, then a sweep aimed at his legs.

He dodges, grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re fast.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t rely on a shield to save my ass,” she grins, pivoting to strike again.

They trade moves for a minute or two. She gives at least 50%, darting in and out, being clever with her angles and agile. Steve doesn’t mock her or hold back too much. He’s clearly gauging her skill, impressed despite himself.

She lands a palm flat against his chest at one point, smug. “Ha.”

He catches her wrist gently. “Good.”

Then he spins, catching her off-balance, and lowers her to the mat with practiced ease.

“Oof,” she mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “Okay. Rude.”

Steve offers a hand, helping her up. “You weren’t bad.”

“‘Weren’t bad’? Wow. Go easy on the compliments, Rogers,” she says, stretching.

He smirks. “You talk a lot for someone who just lost.”

“I got one hit in.”

“Out of ten.”

She crosses her arms and lifts her chin. “It was a very satisfying hit.”

The doors slide open behind them and Tony walks in holding a coffee and an energy bar, eyebrows lifting as he takes in the scene. “Really, Jenna?” he says, loud enough to echo. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you start beating up the national icon?”

Jenna grins, brushing her hair out of her face. “He started it.”

Steve raises a hand, mock-solemn. “I can confirm that is not true.”

Tony walks over, squinting at Steve. “Did she actually hit you?”

Steve just grins. “We were sparring. She’s got some genuine skill.”

She throws her hands up. “See? He said I’m skilled.”

“Okay, this might be my fault,” Tony raises his arms in surrender. “I should’ve warned you, she’s genetically predisposed to challenge authority. Comes from spending too much time around me.”

Steve chuckles. “That explains a lot.”

Jenna wipes her brow with a towel, still catching her breath. “You hungry? I’m thinking of making something.”

Steve looks at her, thoughtful. “Sure. If you’re not too sore from losing.”

She spins around, pointing at him and clearly delighted by his jab. “Alright. That’s it. You’re banned from my kitchen.”

***

Jenna’s bedroom shuts behind her softly and the silence settles around her as she ruminates about her day. She lets out a deep sigh and drops onto the edge of her bed, pulling her knees up to her chest. Her heartbeat has just barely returned to normal. She runs her fingers through her hair, and stares at the far wall for a moment.

“Okay, no. Nope. We are not doing this,” she mutters aloud.

But her brain is already doing it anyway.

The way Steve moved in the ring was so natural and controlled and strong. He’s way stronger than she expected. Like, yeah, she imagined him to be crazy strong but… wow that grip. That moment he caught her wrist, gentle yet so firm, and the way his hand felt wrapped around hers when he pulled her up off the mat. Her stomach flips and she groans, falling back onto the bed.

“Shit.”

Her hands are over her face now. I just met him, she thinks. Literally. Just. Met. Him. He is a colleague, a soon-to-be co-worker…

She takes a deep breath in.

…with arms carved from marble and a voice that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room… Nope. Stop, she lectures herself. You’re not doing this. You’re twenty-three, not thirteen.

She sits up sharply. Her cheeks are warm. Glowing, even.

God, I’m blushing just thinking about him. I need to get a grip.

She rises, pacing now, lecturing herself further.

No crushing. Nada. Zilch. Do not make this messy. I mean, for Gods sake Jenna you’re going to be working with him. Team dynamics matter. Do not screw this up…

“…Oh man he’s hot,” she whispers.

She stares ant the wall for a moment, then exhales sharply, grabs her water bottle, and turns on her heel.

“Okay, I need to hit something.”

***

The training room is empty now and Jenna storms in like a woman on a mission, eyes blazing and ponytail bouncing with every step. She doesn’t even bother wrapping her hands, she just slips on the gloves and goes straight to the heavy bag.

Wham.

Feelings are for suckers.

Wham.

He probably dates people who are soft spoken and even-tempered, someone who doesn’t carry ten pounds of baggage.

She hits harder, faster, focused, but dammit it doesn’t help, her heart’s still fluttering. She growls, thuds one final punch into the bag, and lets her forehead rest against it, breathing hard.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself. “You’ve got this. You’re a Stark. You don’t get flustered. You never get flustered.”

Her voice is steady, but her blush lingers.

The doors hiss open behind her as if on cue. Tony steps in, now nursing what’s probably his third coffee of the day. Man, can he pound coffee back. He watches her silently for a few seconds, one brow arched, before finally speaking up.

“Well, if it isn’t Rocky Balboa.”

She slams one last punch into the bag before stepping back, breathing hard. She yanks off her gloves, tossing them onto the bench almost angrily without looking at him.

“What,” she says, half-growl.

Tony lifts both hands in mock innocence. “Nothing. Just checking in before you punch a hole clean through my multi-million-dollar walls.”

She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, snatching up her water bottle. “I’m fine.”

Tony strolls closer, peering at the heavy bag, then at her with exaggerated suspicion. “Lemme guess, you’re mad you lost to Mr. Muscles?”

She lets out a sharp breath, half laugh, half exasperated sigh. “Please.” She twists the cap off her water bottle, taking a long sip before continuing, casually, like she hadn’t been speed-running a mental breakdown five minutes ago. “I was taking it easy on him.”

Tony snorts. “Uh-huh.”

She smirks, finally glancing at him. “I save the real stuff for the battlefield. Not for newly made acquaintances.”

Tony points at her approvingly. “See, that’s character growth. You didn’t embarrass us too much on your first impression.”

She shakes her head, amused despite herself, and slings her towel around her neck.

“You’re welcome,” she mutters dryly, grabbing her gloves off the bench. She starts walking toward the door without waiting for him, tossing over her shoulder, “tell Captain America he owes me a rematch someday.”

Chapter Text

— A Couple of Months Later —

Snow crunches beneath Jenna’s boots as she crouches behind an outcrop of rock. A cloaked SHIELD jet waits a mile back under the tree line; she had insisted on finishing this approach on foot, and the trail of six unconscious guards behind them proved her intuition right. Beside her, Steve mirrors her crouch, his weight lowering without a sound. His shield is snug between his shoulders; one gloved hand lifts to brush its rim with his thumb in a tiny, unconscious ritual she’s clocked him do more than once. She feels her mouth twitch, the edge of a smile threatening, but she reins it in as his eyes flick over the tree line, then land on her.

Natasha starts moving through the shadows, voice buzzing in their comms. “Quite a few heat signatures ahead. Stationary, not patrolling. They’re waiting. They know we’re here.”

Tony’s voice crackles in through the link, a soft whir from his suit’s HUD audible. “They don’t know I’m coming. Sixty seconds and I’ll kick the hornet’s nest on the north ridge. Jenna and Cap, south approach. Nat, go be a rumor.”

The mission is simple: take out the weapons smugglers and leave the rest to the clean up team. Jenna feels the familiar thrill fill her body, the pulse of adrenaline mixed with eagerness. She flexes her fingers once, pressing a thumb to the middle of her palm for a few moments before shaking out her shoulders, and glances to her right.

“Ready, Jenna?” Steve asks, mouth tipping with that contained amusement he saves for mission-starts, like he’s checking a knot he already trusts.

She gives him a curt nod, eyes locked to his. He mirrors it, and the two of them slip from cover in practiced sync. She veers left, he breaks right, their footfalls near-silent, movements reflecting each other’s without needing to be planned.

Above them, the ridge pulses with light as Tony delivers on his promise. A sharp boom echoes in the distance, non-lethal, flashy, and loud enough to get the guards’ attention. Eight of them peel off toward the noise, just as planned.

“North distraction successful,” Tony mutters. “That’s eight idiots less to deal with, don’t all thank me at once.”

Jenna and Steve close in on the rest. There are three clustered near the comms station, three lingering by the tent. Tactical gear, rifles slung loose, posture casual. Overconfident and stupidly so.

Natasha’s voice comes in calm and low: “I’m moving in on the other side. Give me a minute, keep it clean you two.”

Steve gives her a hand signal: you take left, I take right.

Jenna’s first target is half-turned, rifle loose in his hand. She closes the distance, grip snapping around his collar before he can breathe. One knee drives into his gut, doubling him; her elbow cracks into the back of his skull. He drops, silent and she pivots. The second guard fumbles with his radio, distracted by the ridge blast, but she doesn’t give him time to react. She sweeps low, her leg scything through his knees. He hits the ground hard and her fist follows, lights out before he can cry a warning. The third whirls, eyes wide, rifle half-raised, but Jenna is faster. She drives forward, shoulder connecting with his chest and the impact slams him back into the tent pole, rattling the canvas. She clamps her forearm across his throat, leverages her weight, and twists. The struggle lasts only a few seconds before his body goes slack, collapsing into the snow. Her breath fogs out, even but steady. Three down, easy. She scans the shadows, waiting for movement, but the tent stays still.

Across the camp, Steve’s efficiency is quieter but no less brutal. She watches the silhouette of his shield arm rise and flash in the dim light. One guard crumples without sound. The second barely pivots before Steve’s hand closes around his rifle and wrenches it free, then a flat strike across the jaw folds him to the ground. The last comes at him head-on; Steve sidesteps, seizes, and drives him face-first into the snow with a precision born of long practice. One by one, they lower their opponents without noise, until the clearing is still again.

Steve’s voice echoes in her comms: “Clear. Yours?”

She glances down at the body. “Clear.”

“Comms station is ours,” Nat adds, voice even. “Sending a data pull to Fury now.”

Tony lands with a soft whirr nearby, faceplate retracting as he steps up to the tent and peeks inside. “No secret labs, no doomsday devices. Besides the weapons, just bunk beds, canned beans, and a very outdated satellite uplink. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.” He glances at Jenna sideways, smirking. “You bored yet, Jenna? Thought you liked a challenge.”

“She made it look easy,” Steve says before Jenna can answer. “I think you’re slowing down, Tony.”

“Slowing down?” Tony says, mock-offended. “I built a suit that can fire missiles and make espresso at the same time. I’m aging like a Bordeaux.”

Natasha reappears at Jenna’s side, brushing snow off her gloves, and nods toward her. “Nice work.”

“You too, Nat,” Jenna murmurs, bumping their elbows.

Tony throws a glance over his shoulder as they start walking back to the tree line. “So; snow, rocks, and underwhelming gunmen. This is what passes for a normal Tuesday now?”

“Better than board meetings,” Steve says. “Or dance lessons, although Tony still refuses to take one,” he riffs on an inside joke made a few weeks ago.

“Because I already have rhythm,” Tony fires back. “Unlike some people who learned the waltz during the Great Depression.”

She catches the faintest smirk tugging at Steve’s mouth. “It was swing. And I happen to be very light on my feet.”

“Okay, Twinkletoes,” Tony snorts.

Nat shoots Jenna a look that translates to: are you hearing this? Jenna knocks her shoulder lightly in return: yes, and don’t you dare stop them.

“So what’s the score now?” Natasha asks her quietly. “Us: twenty-three, them: zero?”

“Twenty-four, if we count the one who tripped over his own feet after Tony spooked him.” Jenna replies dryly.

“That one was definitely on purpose,” Tony chimes in from ahead. 

“Pretty sure Jenna could’ve handled all of them solo,” Steve adds, glancing back at her. His voice stays casual, but the undercurrent isn’t. Admiration delivered plainly, aimed exactly at her. It makes her chest swell with pride, especially coming from him.

The jet comes into view, waiting like a sleek bird crouched in the snow. As the loading ramp lowers, the conversation trails off into easy silence. Inside, the warmth seeps in and Tony sprawls into a seat, helmet off, tossing a protein bar hand to hand. Steve sits across from him, stripping his gloves, and Natasha leans against the wall with her arms folded. Jenna takes the seat by the window, stretching her legs out, boots crossed. A blanket waits in the seat beside her. It’s hers, she realizes, from a flight some weeks ago. It feels like home in a way she’d never admit out loud.

“So,” Tony says, breaking the momentary silence, “Jenna, if you had to rank us in coolness where would we be?”

“I’d rather rank which of you needs more therapy,” Jenna mutters.

Steve cracks half a smile. “Pretty sure I’m ahead in that one.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” she adds, not missing a beat. “You’ve got about seventy years of repressed trauma to unpack.”

Tony gives her an approving look. “This is why I adopted her.”

Steve shoots her a half-laugh, then leans back and rests his head against the seat. “Okay, but seriously, the way you took that last guy down… I mean, not that you need it, but if you ever want to spar again, I’m game.”

Natasha lifts a brow. “Careful, Rogers. She won’t take it easy on you this time.”

The banter fades into a comfortable hush. Nat closes her eyes. Tony folds his arms, grin still etched in place even as sleep tugs at him. And Steve glances sideways, eyes catching her in that quiet way he does. It makes something low in her stomach flip before she can breathe past it.

***

Sunlight streams through the glass as the jet docks and they all spill out into the HQ’s hangar. Tony makes a beeline for the lab and Steve heads toward the gym for a post-mission cooldown. He’s only just started moving into the compound this week, so his routines are still finding their rhythm. Jenna rides the elevator up, and when the doors open onto her floor the air shifts instantly. It’s her space, tuned to her and her alone. Down the hall the surf room hums alive on cue, water curling in slow rolls across its glass-lined basin. A faint briny tang of salt and wax hangs in the air. Tony’s latest “totally unnecessary but completely awesome” invention, and hers to claim.

Her room waits just beyond, warm with filtered sunlight, plants sitting under synced lights, air lingering faintly with the smell of eucalyptus and cedar. She strips down, pulls on a swimsuit, pads barefoot across the hardwood.

There’s a message waiting on her StarkPad:

From: Dad

I’ve upgraded the surf room. I’ve also added some cool lighting so you can pretend you’re on a tropical vacation. You’re welcome again.

She grins despite herself, thumbs back a quick reply:

To: Dad

ur the best x

She flips to Steve’s contact next.

Surf room’s open if you wanna try it out. I figure if we’re gonna be going on missions together, we should probably get to know each other outside of gunfire and adrenaline. Your call.

She sends it, tosses the StarkPad onto her bed, and stretches.

From the ceiling, a low, dry voice chimes in: “You’ve now used the phrase ‘ur the best’ fourteen times in the past two weeks. I’m beginning to question your standards.”

She glances up. “Good afternoon to you too, Monday.”

“I’ve prepared your preferred surf parameters: medium wave flow, 83 degrees, artificial sunset setting enabled. And yes, I have activated the ocean breeze scent even though I find it ridiculous.”

The massive surf room hums to life in front of her, water churning in smooth, rhythmic pulses. The lights dim slightly, casting a warm orange glow mimicking early evening. Nice touch, Dad.

Just as she’s about to grab her board, Monday chimes again: “Incoming presence: Captain Rogers. He’s walking slowly, very hesitantly, in fact. He’s possibly uncertain if this invitation was sarcastic.”

As if on cue there’s a knock on the door.

“Jenna?” Steve’s voice. “You serious about that invite?” He stands in the doorway longer than necessary.

She nods, grinning, “come in.”

He hovers at the threshold, gripping his towel as if he’s nervous. His eyes skitter off her swimsuit first, then flick back once, brief but unmistakable before he clears his throat and steps inside.

“Thanks,” he says, and it sounds like he means it. His gaze sweeps the room then, the rolling basin, the golden light, the faint scent of ocean air. “Wow. This is… way cooler than the gym.”

“Perks of having Stark family membership.” She hoists a board under her arm effortlessly, and gestures at one for him to grab. “Ever tried?”

“Surfing?” He chuckles, awkwardly taking one in both hands. “Closest I’ve come was jumping out of a plane into the ocean. No board.”

“Tragic,” she teases, toeing the water.

Steve laughs, a real one this time. It’s warm, low in his chest, and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Any chance I can avoid making a complete fool of myself in front of an expert?”

“Nope,” she fires back sweetly, wading in. “But I’ll teach you anyway.”

Above them, Monday drones: “Activating Beginner Mode. Baby Waves engaged. Try not to drown, Rogers.”

Steve blinks up toward the ceiling. “What was that?”

“Oh, that’s Monday,” she says, already paddling out. “My moody AI assistant.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, peeling off his shirt and folding it neatly. She looks away, cheeks heating, pretending to adjust her strap.

He steps into the water cautiously, as if mapping the field, but there’s something lighter in him here too. “Alright,”  he says, eyes lifting to hers, a touch of confidence peeking through. “Let’s see what I’ve got.”

The water is warm as it rolls under them, boards bobbing slightly with each rhythmic push from Monday’s programmed tide. She demonstrates the basics for Steve first; how to paddle, where to place his hands, and how to pop up onto the board in one motion. She makes it look effortless. Steve watches like he always does, focused, every muscle listening. And then he tries…

SPLASH. Water sprays as Steve wipes out spectacularly.

“You okay?” she calls, grinning wide.

He surfaces with a sputter, slicking hair back from his face. A laugh spills out, unguarded. “That was not graceful.”

“That was adorable,” Monday observes flatly.

“I think he’s warming up to you,” she tells him.

“God help me,” Steve groans, but his eyes crinkle as he paddles back.

They drift side by side and she tilts her board toward his. “You’re actually doing better than most first-timers,” she admits, genuinely. “You’re a fast learner.”

“I’ve had worse teachers,” he replies, giving her a small smile. It softens the lines around his eyes and makes him seem… a little less Captain America, and a little more Steve.

They ride another short wave together and Steve gets to his knees this time before tumbling off again. He breathes heavy as he brushes water off his face, and turns to her, catching a wide grin on her face. “You’re really loving this, aren’t you?”

She nods, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Yeah, I am. Watching Captain America fall off a surf board was definitely not on my bingo card for this year.”

When she carves a clean ride across the pool, Steve is already paddling toward her, determination set in his shoulders. “Alright, Jenna. One more. I’ve got this.”

“You definitely don’t,” Monday mutters.

“Oh shush, Monday. I have faith.”

This time Steve manages to stand up, just for a few seconds, but long enough to earn a solid cheer from Jenna and a reluctant “…well done” from Monday.

He ends up collapsing back into the water, laughing like it’s the most natural thing in the world

When he drifts to her side again, chest rising hard, hair plastered back, there’s a boyish grin tugging his mouth. “Okay,” he pants, still smiling. “I’ve had my fun wiping out. Now it’s your turn.”

She raises an eyebrow. “My turn?”

“Show me what you can really do. Don’t hold back.”

“You sure? I don’t want to bruise your ego.”

“My ego’s been through worse,” he says with a laugh, leaning back on his board. “C’mon, Jenna. Impress me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice.

“Monday?”

“Already escalating to Show-Off Mode,” Monday sighs.

Bigger waves start to form as she turns and paddles out. She turns her board, paddling back as a wave catches her, then she’s up in one fluid motion. The board carves through the wave like it’s part of her. She twists into a tight spin at the lip, toes gripping the board, then drops low before making a few more turns. Then she punts herself off the ramp of the wave and jumps off the board, landing in the water with a cannon ball and disappearing under the surface. She resurfaces moments later, grabbing her board, wiping her face and grinning.

“Damn,” Steve’s staring with his mouth slightly open. “That was… incredible.”

She paddles closer, hair plastered wet against her shoulders. For a heartbeat, the warmth in his voice lodges in her chest, the feeling sharp and not yet familiar. She flicks her hair back and forces a smirk instead. “Don’t get carried away. It’s just a glorified pool.”

“Still,” he gives her one of those warm, quiet smiles that says he’s impressed, not only by what she did, but by the ease and confidence she wears like a second skin. “I’m very impressed. Remind me never to underestimate you. On the field, in the water… anywhere, really.”

As the wave machine winds down and the lights shift into their natural mode, they both climb out of the pool to the towels that are waiting. She tosses one at Steve, who catches it easily, water still dripping off his chest.

“Not bad for a first surf lesson,” he says, rubbing his hair dry.

“You’ll get there.”

“You offering more lessons?” He asks.

“You gonna come out of that room of yours and eat dinner with me?” She asks in return, moving towards the exit.

He nods, “sounds like a fair deal.”

The door swishes shut behind her, and the soft hum of her shower begins before she even steps inside. Monday, as usual, one step ahead. “Water set to your preferred temperature. Try not to fall asleep standing up again,” he says dryly.

She rolls her eyes, shedding her suit as she steps under the spray. Heat pours over her, steady and perfect, easing the ache from her shoulders. Salt rinses away, muscles loosen, and for the first time all day, her mind goes completely still. When she emerges with warm skin, she pulls on something soft and ties her hair back loosely. The faint trace of eucalyptus soap clings in the air.

Monday chimes in again, voice slightly more neutral. “Captain Rogers is waiting outside your door now. Likely wondering if ‘dinner’ was a polite way of saying ‘go home.’”

She smirks, “let him in, Monday.”

The door slides open, and Steve’s there, hands in his pockets, looking just slightly unsure again, like he’s still adjusting to what this kind of downtime means in her world.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t want to barge in. Figured you’d lead the way.”

“Good call,” she quips, brushing past him with a smile. “You’ve earned dinner. Just… don’t let Tony talk you into eating anything he ‘cooked.’”

“Noted,” Steve says, a faint grin tugging as he falls into step beside her.

The main floor is warm with amber lighting, the scent of something good wafting from the kitchen. Tony stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, wine-dark drink in one hand and tablet in the other. Natasha occupies a booth in the corner, long legs stretched out, tablet balanced casually, eyes on the screen but awareness sharp as ever.

“Hey,” Tony says without looking up. “How was surf camp?”

“Nobody drowned,” she says, slipping into a seat. “Monday was only mildly abusive.”

“That’s his version of affection,” Tony says, distracted by his tablet.

Steve grabs a plate and joins her, still chuckling. “I may have wiped out thirty times.”

“But,” she adds, tilting a look his way, “he did stand up once. A proud day for surf-kind.”

Natasha glances up at that, eyes glinting. “Next time, invite me. I want front-row seats for that show.”

***

Night folds in soft and quiet, her loft aglow with the shifting colours of a paused TV screen. Curled into her oversized beanbag, a blanket draped over her legs, Jenna scrolls through a menu of half-forgotten spy thrillers and questionable 2000s rom-coms.

A knock sounds on the doorframe, just a light tap.

“Hey,” Natasha says, poking her head in, looking relaxed in a hoodie and leggings. “Hope I’m not interrupting your ‘me time.’”

“Never, come on up,” she says immediately, patting the open spot beside her. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Nat sinks into the couch next to her, pulling the blanket over her legs without asking, already at home.

“So,” she says, grabbing the remote and cycling through the list of movies. “Do we want something with explosions, trauma, or absurdly attractive spies making terrible decisions?”

“Why not all three?”

“My kind of night.”

They settle into a comfortable rhythm, watching the movie, tossing popcorn at each other during the dumb parts, trading snarky commentary.

Halfway through, Nat glances at her, expression soft but serious for a second. “You did good today. You always do, but especially with Steve. You’re settling into this team like you’ve been here for years. And I think he needs someone like you around.”

Jenna blinks, caught by the honesty. “He’s easy to get along with,” she says slowly. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for him to know the real me, but I’m happy I have you for that. It’s nice to get a break, you know? No cover story, no pretending. That shit gets exhausting.”

Nat leans back, eyes still on the screen but her voice weighted with experience. “Took me years before I could say the same after I got out. Years of walls, years of not trusting anyone with the real me.” She pauses, then adds softer, “You’re miles ahead.”

That lands deeper than Jenna expects and her throat feels uncomfortably tight for a second. She covers it with a teasing grin. “Wait, you trust me?”

Nat smirks faintly, eyes on the screen. “Don’t tell anyone. Would ruin my image.”

***

“Good morning,” Monday murmurs, softly jolting Jenna awake. “You have 5 messages, 2 mission briefings, and exactly zero tolerance for loud noises. Coffee’s already brewing.”

Jenna stretches, a small groan slipping out as her muscles remind her of yesterday’s session. Surfing and a mission? Totally worth it.

As she steps into the bathroom to get ready, Monday adds: “Captain Rogers is in the gym. Tony is in the lab trying to prove that protein bars can be compressed into bullets. Romanoff… hasn’t left your couch.”

She glances up into her elevated loft and sure enough, Nat is still there, one arm slung over her eyes, blanket tangled around her legs, clearly having claimed the space for the night.

“She threatened me when I offered a wake-up alarm,” Monday adds.

She laughs quietly, pulling on a fresh outfit and tying her hair up.

“What’s on the schedule?”

“Mission briefing at 0900 hours. Director Fury. Something about hostages.”

Jenna smirks to herself as she makes her way toward the door.

Chapter Text

The door slides open with a low hiss as Jenna steps inside, Steve just half a pace behind her. The room is nearly empty, only Nick Fury stands there, arms crossed, his one good eye already locked onto her. The tension hangs as thick as a gathering storm. The only sound in the room is the soft hum of a holographic map hovering above the table, a tactical layout of a large vessel bobbing somewhere off the eastern coast.

Fury doesn’t waste a second. “Sit,” he says.

Jenna and Steve take their seats without a word, sliding the chairs out and settling in. Fury taps a control on the table, and the hologram zooms closer. It’s a massive S.H.I.E.L.D. ship: The Lemurian Star.

“It’s been hijacked,” Fury says, leaning in over the table.

She feels her stomach tighten. Beside her, Steve’s jaw tightens, the smallest flicker of reaction. Both of them sharpen, instinctively on edge.

“They’re holding S.H.I.E.L.D. techs hostage. Theres sensitive cargo onboard; weapons, prototypes, classified intel, stuff we cannot let fall into enemy hands.” His gaze cuts into her like a blade. “I’m sending you two in along with the STRIKE team.Priority’s the hostages.”

He slides two slim tablets across the table toward them. Jenna catches hers easily, thumb brushing over the screen and scanning mission schematics, satellite visuals, possible enemy placements.

“You’re wheels up in one hour,” Fury says. “Quinjet’s fueled and waiting.” Fury looks at them both, expression hard as stone. “Questions?”

She glances at Steve. He shakes his head. “No questions,” he says, voice even.

She nods too, already rising from her seat. “None here.”

They move toward the door together, the quiet readiness of two people who don’t need to speak to feel the same momentum. Just as they reach the threshold, Fury’s voice cuts through the air.

“Jenna. Stay a second.”

She pauses mid-step, glancing back. Steve does too, brows drawing slightly together.

Fury jerks his head. “Go on ahead, Rogers. She’ll catch up.”

Steve hesitates, only a moment, then gives her a small nod and leaves door sliding shut behind him. Jenna turns back to Fury who’s already stepping closer, reaching into his coat. From an inside pocket, he pulls out a small, unmarked black flash drive and holds it out between two fingers.

“Steve’s got rescue op, but you’ve got something else. You’re gonna find a secured file terminal in the command room,” he says quietly, his voice a notch lower. “Plug this in. Download everything you can. Don’t leave a trace.”

She moves forward and takes the drive from him, the plastic cold and heavy against her palm. She doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, and don’t let Rogers know. If he does find out, I’ll deal with him myself,” Fury adds, locking eyes with her.  “This stays between you and me.”

She closes her fingers around it, feeling the gravity of it immediately, and nods. “You got it,” she says under her breath. “My lips are sealed.”

Fury studies her for a moment longer, then nods once. He reaches out and sets a heavy hand on her shoulder, the gesture brief but solid.

“You’re one of the few people I trust with this,” he mutters. “Don’t make me regret it.” Then he steps back.

She slips the flash drive smoothly into her jacket pocket and walks out without looking back. The door hisses open again and Steve is right there, waiting, his arms loosely folded.

He lifts an eyebrow slightly, curious, but she just shrugs, flashing him a small, easy smile. “Ready to go?”

He watches her for a second longer as if he’s trying to read something deeper, but whatever he sees he lets go. “Yeah,” he says, giving a slight smile of his own. “Let’s move.”

Side by side, they walk down the hall toward the hangar, their boots echoing off the sleek floors. The flash drive in her pocket feels heavier with every step.

***

The sky is dark, the water below calm and glass-like as the jet slices through the sky above the Indian Ocean. Inside, it’s quiet, save for the rustle of fabric and clicking of parachute straps. Jenna is standing near the hatch, suited up in her stealth gear—tight, sleek, combat-ready, a perfect blend of intimidation and finesse. Her heart beats steady, the adrenaline already starting to pulse.

Steve stands beside her, fully suited in his navy uniform, shield magnetized to his back. His jaw is set in the serious way he gets before these kind of missions. “Target is the Lemurian Star,” he says, voice even, “a S.H.I.E.L.D. vessel hijacked by pirates led by Georges Batroc. There are fifteen hostages on board, including Jasper Sitwell. Orders are stealth. Were aiming for no alarms, and no messy extraction.”

The ramp begins to lower as Steve turns to the team, mostly STRIKE operatives along with agent Rumlow, then to Jenna. “You ready?”

She gives a quick nod, “yes sir.”

He gives her a small smile. “Then follow my lead.”

And then he jumps. Without a parachute.

Jenna leaps after. With a parachute. She doesn’t have a death wish.

Steve hits the water and is on the deck first, taking down two guards before they can blink. Jenna lands a bit after, unclasping her parachute. She rolls and rises behind one who doesn’t even hear her coming. One strike and he’s out. From here, it’s a clean sweep. Jenna moves like a shadow, ducking into lower corridors while Cap clears topside.

Jenna peels off from the main deck under the guise of “securing the comms room.” She reaches the terminal, an encryption buried under S.H.I.E.L.D. infrastructure—it’s clearly not standard. She slots in the encrypted drive Fury gave her and it begins copying files immediately.

Steves voice cuts through the comms, “Jenna, Batroc’s on the move. Circle back to Rumlow and protect the hostages.”

“Shit. Monday,” she murmurs. “Keep this quiet.”

“Already masking it with a fake maintenance loop,” Monday replies.

Steve’s voice hardens, “Jenna—“ 

“Come on,” she mutters to herself, “any second now…” She can hear the fight pounding across the deck above, the sound of Steve throwing who she guesses is Batroc through a bulkhead door. She curses under her breath. A moment later, the hatch behind her hisses open.

“Jenna?” Steve asks, voice sharp and demanding. “What are you doing down here?”

“Backing up the hard drive,” she responds quickly, fingers still moving. “It’s a good habit to get into.”

Steve strides in, sweat streaking down his temple, shield strapped across his back. He steps up beside her, eyes narrowing at the streams of S.H.I.E.L.D. intel pouring across the holographic display.

“You’re saving S.H.I.E.L.D. intel,” he says flatly.

“Whatever I can get my hands on,” she counters, ejecting the drive just as the last bar hits full.

“Our mission is the hostages.” His voice carries that low, controlled weight that usually makes people fall in line.

She finally turns to face him, pocketing the drive. “No, that’s your mission.”

His jaw tightens. “You just jeopardized this whole operation.”

Before she can fire back, there’s a sharp clatter: a grenade crashes through the windows. Steve reacts instantly, deflecting it with his shield and grabbing Jenna’s waist as the blast rocks the chamber. Jenna shoots the nearest window and Steve drives them through it, glass shattering as fire blooms behind them. They hit the ground hard, Steve bracing her fall with his body.

“Okay,” she breathes, rolling off him. “That one’s on me.”

“You’re damn right,” Steve snaps, standing and heading towards the door.

The mission doesn’t pause. The two of them sweep down a narrow corridor, the hum of the ship steady beneath their boots. STRIKE clears the upper decks while they head deeper. They turn the final corner and see fifteen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents bound in a makeshift control area. Three mercs linger, twitchy and unsure. Steve moves first, shield slamming forward as he bursts into the room. Jenna flips over a console, heel cracking into a merc’s jaw with brutal precision. He drops before he even registers her. Steve’s shield ricochets cleanly into the other two, dropping them in seconds

“All clear,” she calls, already moving to cut the zip ties off the nearest hostage.

“Thank God,” one breathes. “We thought—”

“You’re safe,” Steve says calmly, untying the final agent. “Is Sitwell with you?”

A tall agent in a crumpled tie lifts his head. “Yeah. That’s me. Jasper Sitwell.”

Jenna helps him to his feet, studying him. He’s clearly shaken, but unhurt. “You’re lucky,” she mutters. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

He gives her a stiff nod, probably still deciding if he’s grateful or embarrassed to have needed the rescue in the first place.

Steve taps his comms. “All hostages secured. STRIKE team can begin evac.”

“Copy that,” comes Rumlow’s voice. “Extraction inbound. Good work.”

As the evac team arrives, Steve grabs Jenna’s arm gently and guides her into the next room over.

His voice is edged with suspicion. “That backup you were doing earlier… did Fury send you down there for something?”

Jenna meets his eyes and hesitates, then exhales. “Yeah. I was pulling intel on his orders.” She pauses a moment and looks at him, almost apologetically, “if you have a problem with it, take it up with him.”

Steve watches her carefully for a moment, his expression almost unreadable. She can see the tension behind his eyes, not at her, but at the idea of being left in the dark. Again. He exhales quietly, glancing away toward the extraction point. “No, I get it,” he says. “Chain of command. Just wish Fury would trust me enough to say it straight.”

She nods once, grateful he isn’t pressing it further. There’s an understanding there, even if it’s laced with frustration, one soldier to another. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for putting us both in danger.”

“It’s not you,” he exhales. “Just… tired of the secrets.”

“Yeah,” she says, eyes flicking to the ground. “Me too.”

The whine of a jet engine grows louder as the extraction team finishes loading the rescued agents. Jenna and Steve are the last to board. They both step inside.

***

The Triskelion hums with quiet efficiency as Steve steps into Nick Fury’s office. The director is waiting, arms folded, expression carved from stone.

“You just can’t stop yourself from lying, can you?” Steve says, his voice low but sharp.

Fury doesn’t blink. “I didn’t lie. Agent Stark had a different mission than yours.”

“Which you didn’t feel obliged to share,” Steve counters.

“I’m not obliged to do anything,” Fury replies flatly.

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Those hostages could’ve died, Nick.”

“I sent the greatest soldier in history to make sure that didn’t happen.”

“Soldiers are supposed trust each other,” Steve says, the words clipped, weighted. “That’s what makes it an army. Not a bunch of guys running around and shooting guns.”

Fury’s one good eye hardens. “The last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye. Look, I didn’t want you doing anything you weren’t comfortable with. Agent Stark is comfortable with everything.”

“You sure about that? I can’t lead a mission when the people I’m leading have missions of their own.”

“That’s called compartmentalization,” Fury snaps back. “Nobody spills the secrets because nobody knows them all.”

“Except you.”

“You’re wrong about me,” Fury says, though there’s no softness in his tone. “I do share. I’m nice like that.”

The conversation doesn’t end so much as shift. Fury strides out, Steve following, and they step into the waiting elevator.

“Insight bay,” Fury orders.

The computerized voice replies immediately: Captain Rogers does not have clearance for Project Insight.

“Director override. Fury, Nicholas J.”

Confirmed. The elevator begins to descend.

Steve leans against the rail, his eyes still on Fury. “You know, they used to play music.”

Fury almost smiles. “Yeah. My grandfather operated one of these things for forty years. Worked in a nice building. Got good tips.” He glances up at the ceiling, as if the story lives there. “Every night he’d walk home, roll of ones stuffed in his lunch bag. He’d say hi, people would say hi back. Then the neighborhood got rougher. He’d say hi, and they’d say, keep on steppin’. Granddad got to grippin’ that lunch bag a little tighter.”

Steve studies him. “Did he ever get mugged?”

“Every week some punk would ask, What’s in the bag?” Fury’s mouth quirks. “Granddad would show ’em. A bunch of crumpled ones… and a loaded .22 Magnum.” There’s the faintest flicker of pride in his eye. “Granddad loved people. But he didn’t trust them very much.”

The elevator slows, then opens. Steve steps out beside him and his gaze catches, stopping cold. Hanging in the cavernous launch bay are three massive Helicarriers, shadows of giants suspended in steel and light.

“Yeah, I know,” Fury says, watching his reaction. “They’re a little bit bigger than a .22.”

He gestures toward them. “Project Insight. Three next-generation Helicarriers synced to a network of targeting satellites.”

“Launched from the Lemurian Star,” Steve notes.

“Once we get them in the air, they never need to come down,” Fury explains. “Continuous suborbital flight, courtesy of our new repulsor engines.”

“Tony,” Steve mutters.

“Well, he had a few suggestions after he got a look at our old turbines.” Fury doesn’t sound apologetic. “These new long-range precision guns can eliminate a thousand hostiles a minute. Satellites can read a terrorist’s DNA before he steps outside his spider hole. We’re gonna neutralize a lot of threats before they even happen.”

Steve turns to him sharply. “I thought the punishment usually came after the crime.”

“We can’t afford to wait that long.”

“Who’s we?”

Fury folds his hands behind his back, his gaze never leaving the Helicarriers. “After New York, I convinced the World Security Council we needed a quantum surge in threat analysis. For once we’re way ahead of the curve.”

Steve’s voice hardens. “By holding a gun at everyone on Earth and calling it protection.”

“You know, I read those SSR files,” Fury says, finally looking at him. “Greatest generation? You guys did some nasty stuff.”

“Yeah,” Steve admits. “We compromised. Sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. But we did it so the people could be free.” His eyes cut back to the massive carriers. “This isn’t freedom. This is fear.”

Fury’s silence stretches for a beat, heavy. “S.H.I.E.L.D. takes the world as it is, not as we’d like it to be. And it’s getting damn near past time for you to get with that program, Cap.”

Steve steps back, his decision already written in his posture. “Don’t hold your breath.”

He turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Fury standing alone in the shadow of his own creation.

***

Later, Jenna sits alone in her quarters at HQ, reading over some old prototype logs. Her legs are curled beneath her on the edge of the bed and the room lit only by the faint glow of her bedside lamp. The silence is fragile, thin enough that even Monday’s voice cutting in feels like a crack through glass.

“Miss Stark. Director Fury’s vehicle has gone offline. Estimated last position: Independence Avenue.”

A chill spikes down her spine. For a moment she doesn’t move, just stares at the wall as her pulse kicks into overdrive. She knows Fury doesn’t just go offline. Not unless something is very, very wrong. She starts moving, boots hitting the floor, keys in hand. 

“Pull traffic cams,” she says sharply, shoving her arms into her jacket, fingers sliding the zipper up as muscle memory takes over.

“Already compiling footage,” Monday replies. “It looks… bad.”

Her jaw clenches. “Alright, let’s go.”

Within minutes, she’s weaving her way through Manhattan traffic, her StarkPad mounted beside her feeding her a live grid of shaky surveillance footage. She catches glimpses of smoke, shattered glass, the chaotic scatter of headlights on Independence Avenue. Her gut twists.

Half her mind is on Fury, calculating how compromised he might be and whether he’s even still alive, but the other half is already scanning for patterns and for what isn’t being said. If Fury was hit, it wasn’t random. Someone knew where he’d be. That means leaks. Inside leaks.

“Updates?” she snaps into the comm.

Monday’s voice crackles back, cool as ever. “Fury has gone dark, but I’ve noticed Captain Rogers is no longer on premises. Location ping shows him en route to Brooklyn.”

Her brows knit together, heart stuttering for half a second. Steve? “Brooklyn?” she repeats, one hand tightening on the wheel. “Why?”

“Destination: former residence,” Monday answers smoothly. “Perhaps to retrieve belongings… or contemplate life choices. Shall I continue tracking?”

She exhales sharply through her nose, hair falling loose across her face as she pushes it back impatiently. Steve, of all people, doesn’t just walk away mid-crisis, unless he knows something. Unless he’s chasing something.

“Yeah,” she mutters, jaw set. “Keep me posted. I’m already en route.”

***

The old building is quiet, dust clinging to the corners of the hallway. Steve unlocks his door with a mechanical click, nudging it open. Inside, the apartment feels abandoned. Half-packed boxes line the wall, stuff he never quite finished moving out; the reason for this trip back to his old place. A pile of mail is stacked on the floor near the entrance, but its the soft sound of music coming from the counter that draws his attention: his record player. He didn’t leave it on. Steve steps inside, puzzled, when he hears a soft shuffle. He turns a corner and sees Nick Fury sitting on a chair, covered in shadows.

Steve steps forward, just barely. “I don’t remember giving you a key.”

“You really think I’d need one? My wife kicked me out.”

“Didn’t know you were married.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t about me.” Nick says, shifting in his chair.

“I know, Nick. That’s the problem.”

“I’m sorry to have to do this, but I had no place else to crash.” He has his phone in his hands now, and starts typing, showing it to Steve: ears everywhere - S.H.I.E.L.D. compromised

Steves eyes widen. “Who else knows about your wife?”

Fury writes down another text: You and me. 

“Just…my friends.” He mutters.

“Is that what we are?”

“That’s up to you.” Fury reaches up to Steve and presses something into his hand, a small, encrypted flash drive; the flash drive Jenna was using. 

And then suddenly, the window explodes inward. A sniper round tears through the room as bullets penetrate the wall. Steve throws himself down but Fury collapses, blood blooming across his jacket. Steve glimpses a figure across the rooftop—the glint of a metallic arm—and he chases it.

Outside, Jenna’s car screeches around the corner, tires biting the pavement. She kills the engine before it even settles, boots pounding against asphalt as gunfire cracks in the air. Her lungs are burning by the time she hits the stairwell, but she takes the steps two at a time anyway, sidearm drawn. Training takes over: count every door, mark every shadow, clear every corner.

She bursts through the apartment door just as Steve drops beside Fury, hands pressed to his wound, his face grim with urgency. For a heartbeat, the world freezes: Fury slumped against the floorboards, Steve bent over him, blood blooming too fast across his jacket.

Her knees hit the wood hard as she skids next to them. “Fury—” Her voice breaks before she steels it, hands already scanning the wound, assessing, cataloguing. “God, what the hell happened?”

Fury’s breath rattles in his chest, eye flicking to her with stubborn focus.

“Sniper… came out of nowhere…” Steve answers, low, controlled, but she can hear the edge in his voice. “We need to get him out of here.”

“Already called it in,” she says quickly, mind moving ten steps ahead. “S.H.I.E.L.D. med-evac’s en route. Under three minutes.” She notices Steve reach for his pocket, checking something, out of the corner of her eye.

“Hang on,” she whispers, gently touching Fury’s shoulder. “You’re not dying. You hear me? Everything’s gonna be ok.”

Minutes blur. The med team storms the room, working efficiently as they load him onto the gurney. Outside, the street is chaos. Flashing lights paint the night in red and blue. Jenna and Steve stand side by side in the crush of sirens and shouts, their shoulders brushing as if grounding each other against the intensity of the situation.

“This… doesn’t make any sense.” she mutters, a hint of frustration peaking through.

Steve looks down at her, searching her face. “What doesn’t make any sense is how you knew to come here.”

Her stomach knots and she exhales slowly. “Monday was tracking Fury’s location. When I got the call that he went offline and saw the footage, I followed. When he went dark I had Monday scan for patterns, and I saw you heading this way. I couldn’t just do nothing.”

His eyes narrow, just a fraction. “You were tracking me?”

“I wasn’t tracking you, Steve.”

“You just had your AI following my movements?” The sting in his tone cuts deeper than she expects.

Jenna forces her voice steady. “Not to spy, just to be aware. In case something went wrong.”

He crosses his arms, the tension running up through his shoulders. “That still sounds a lot like surveillance.”

Her voice lowers, but she doesn’t flinch away. “You don’t think it’s smart to know where our assets are? Where our friends are? You’re a walking target. So’s Fury. So am I. If someone disappears, I need to know where they were last seen.”

His brows knit. “That’s the same justification S.H.I.E.L.D. gave for tracking people without their consent.”

She goes still, words hitting harder than she expects. “Look, you’re right. I’m sorry, I should have told you. I get how this looks. But I’m not S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she says quietly. “And I’m not tracking civilians. I track threats. I track allies. And yeah, I tracked you. Because if something like this happens…” she trails off, and avoids his gaze.

He looks at her for a long moment, voice turning gentle. “You have a tough time trusting people, don’t you?”

Her jaw tightens, old scars pulling at the edges of her composure. “You have no idea,” she scoffs. “I’ve learned from experience that keeping tabs is better than just waiting around, hoping someone’s gonna show up.”

Steve’s face softens. “I get that,” he says. “More than you probably think.”

She studies him. “Then why do you sound so mad?”

“I’m not mad,” he replies. “I just… I believe in trust. Real trust. And that means transparency.”

She glances down at her boots, then meets his eyes. “I’m trying. Believe it or not.”

His eyes search hers, and whatever he sees makes him nod faintly. “You could’ve just asked.”

She gives a small, guilty smile. “I figured you’d say no.”

“Well… maybe I wouldn’t have. Not if you’d explained why.”

She tilts her head, cautious hope creeping in. “Would you say yes now?”

He huffs, almost laughing despite himself. “I’m not giving you permission to stalk me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Relax. It’s not stalking. It’s tactical awareness.”

He rolls his eyes, but the faint curve of a smile betrays him. “Just… talk to me next time. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

Steve exhales and nods, as if something heavy just got a little lighter. Ahead of them though, the street feels cold and exposed. Something huge is happening beneath the surface. And now, they’re both at the center of it.

***

The sterile brightness of the hospital room is constricting: white walls, white coats, white light overhead, all of it too clean against the smell of antiseptic and blood that sticks stubbornly to her hands. Fury’s blood. Jenna leans into the corner, fingers picking at the corner of her nails, boots planted, watching the scene unfold like a hawk perched on a wire. Doctors swarm Fury’s bed, voices clipped and urgent. The defibrillator crackles once, twice. His body jolts. The monitor line stays flat and her chest tightens.

Across the room, Steve stands rooted, jaw locked and eyes unreadable. The stillness of a soldier. She can see the cracks, though: the twitch in his hand near the bedrail, the way his shoulders draw just a fraction tighter with every second the monitor refuses to change. Natasha is stone too, catching her breath from hastily coming here, but there’s something fragile in her eyes Jenna has barely seen before. Pain she hides behind poise.

When Hill finally lowers her gaze, voice quiet, “Time of death…” the room sinks into complete silence.

Natasha moves first, standing with fluid grace and slipping from the room, shadows clinging to her as if she was never there. Hill follows, already in motion with next steps, leaving only Jenna and Steve behind with the stillness. Jenna pushes off the wall finally, her arms loosening just enough for her to breathe. She studies Steve. His face is hard, but his mind seems to be somewhere else.

“So,” she says quietly, her voice breaking the sterile hush. “You saw who did it?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. His fingers twitch again as if needing something to hold onto. “Yeah.” A pause stretches before he drags his gaze up to meet hers. “He caught my shield.”

Her breath stutters. “He caught it?”

“Like it was nothing.”

For a second she just stares at him. Her mind runs calculations: strength, speed, leverage. It just doesn’t line up unless… this isn’t just any man. Her gut twists. “Who the hell is he?” she whispers.

Steve’s eyes flick back to the table that Fury’s body was just occupying moments ago. His expression is a storm she can’t read, grief, anger, and something rawer underneath. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But whoever he is… he’s fast. Strong. Trained.”

Jenna nods slowly, gears turning hard in her mind. Training and weaponization—she knows that pattern too well. “Then we find out,” she says, voice steady, as if promising herself as much as him. “We’ll find out everything.”

Steve turns back toward her. His expression softens just a fraction, resolve settling into him like steel. “You in for what’s next?”

Her answer is instinctive, without hesitation. “I’m in.”

***

The Triskelion hums with its usual order, but inside Pierce’s office the air feels heavier. Steve steps in alone, shield slung across his back, the weight of Fury’s death still pressing at his chest, the flash drive burning against his pocket like a brand. Pierce meets him halfway across the wide, glass-walled room. His handshake is firm, his smile almost warm, a statesman’s smile polished by years of practice. He gestures toward a framed photograph on the wall: a much younger Nick Fury standing beside him, uniforms rumpled, eyes brighter..

“Nick and I met back in Bogotá,” he starts. “He led a covert op through the sewers and got everyone out alive, including my daughter. Disobeyed orders. Saved lives.”

Steve nods quietly, understanding the weight behind the story. “You gave him a promotion.”

“Never had cause to regret it,” Pierce replies. Then, his expression shifts, becoming sharper. “Captain, why was Nick Fury in your apartment last night?”

Steve keeps his voice even. “I don’t know.”

Pierce raises an eyebrow. “You know it was bugged?”

“I do. Fury told me.”

An unkind smile tugs at Pierce’s mouth. “Did he also tell you he was the one who bugged it?”

Steve’s silence answers for him.

Pierce taps a command into his tablet, pulling up footage of a man in handcuffs. Batroc, mid-interrogation, face bruised and sneering.

“They picked him up last night in Algiers,” Pierce starts. “Batroc was hired anonymously to hijack the Lemurian Star. Paid through a maze of fake accounts, the trail ending with a company linked to Jacob Veech, a man who’s been dead for six years. Coincidentally, Veech’s last address was right next to where Fury’s mother lived.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Are you suggesting Fury hired the pirates?”

“The theory is, the hijacking covered a botched sale of classified intel. And that sale led to Fury’s death.”

Steve meets Pierce’s gaze, steady. “If you knew Fury, you’d know that’s not true.”

Pierce’s smile is cold. “That’s why we’re talking. Nick believed sometimes you have to tear the old world down to build a better one. That makes enemies.” He pauses. “You were the last person to see him alive. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

Pierce leans in slightly, voice quieter. “So I’m going to ask again. Why was he there?”

Steve’s answer is firm. “He told me not to trust anyone.”

Pierce considers that for a moment. “Maybe that included himself.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Those were his last words. Excuse me.”

He turns, strides toward the door without waiting for dismissal.

Pierce calls after him, his voice carrying a hard edge. “Captain. Someone murdered my friend. I’m going to find out who, and anyone who gets in my way is gonna regret it.”

Steve doesn’t respond, just gives a small nod before walking out, the weight of the conversation heavy on his shoulders.

***

Jenna sits at a table in the hospital in fresh clothes, blood now washed from her skin and a cooling coffee sitting untouched in front of her. Natasha sits across from her, arms folded, silent but thoughtful.

“I think I saw him once,” Nat says quietly. “The guy on the roof—Steve said he had a metal arm.”

Jenna looks up, sharply. “You didn’t say anything before.”

“Didn’t have proof. Still don’t. But rumors…” Nat’s mouth twists faintly, eyes unreadable. “Whispers. Ghost stories inside the Red Room. They called him the Winter Soldier.”

Jenna shakes her head, “The Winter Soldier… That’s just a myth.”

Nat’s face says otherwise. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Jenna’s jaw tightens as she pulls her hoodie over her head and adjusts the knife that’s hidden at her side just under it. Her phone buzzes on the table, and she glances down.

From: Steve

Need backup. You have my location.

She pockets the device and rises, giving Natasha’s shoulder a squeeze.

“You going ghost?” Natasha asks.

Jenna shrugs, “I don’t think I’ll be back for a bit.”

Nat nods once, almost like she expected it. “You two be careful out there.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “We will.”

***

Jenna arrives at Triskelion as Monday whispers updates into her earpiece: “STRIKE team en route to intercept Rogers. They’ve locked down multiple floors. You have a five-minute window.”

Perfect. That’s plenty of time.

The tension is palpable the moment she rounds the corner into the lobby. Steve stands centered, shoulders squared, shield strapped to his back. Around him are Rumlow and his STRIKE agents, boxing him in under the guise of “security procedure.”

“Sorry, Cap,” Rumlow says. “They want you on the 7th floor. Insight debrief.”

“Didn’t know Insight had a 7th floor,” Steve replies calmly.

Rumlow’s smirk doesn’t reach his eyes.

Before the trap can snap shut, Jenna’s voice cuts in from behind. “Funny place for a party.”

She strolls up beside Steve, hands shoved in her hoodie pockets, posture easy, but the look she throws Rumlow is anything but casual. Steve glances at her with a quick flicker of relief, then the barest nod.

“Glad you made it,” he murmurs.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The elevator dings. More STRIKE operatives step out in formation, no pretense this time. The lobby air feels charged, heavy.

Steve leans toward her slightly, voice low. “You sure about this?”

She shifts her stance, weight balanced, every line of her body ready. A smirk ghosts across her face. “Born for this.”

Rumlow lifts his chin. “Captain Rogers, stand down. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, bracing the shield. “That’s not gonna work for me.”

It breaks in an instant. Steve explodes forward, shield slamming into the first agent and sending him crashing into a column. Jenna pivots to intercept the one at her flank with a sharp step in, palm heel strike to the nose, and he’s down before he knows what hit him. Another lunges for her; she drives her elbow into his ribs, sweeps his leg, and drops him flat, boot pressing into his chest just long enough to steal his fight.

Rumlow comes at her next, heavier, stronger, but she meets him head-on. He swings, fast, but she slips just outside his reach and snaps a jab across his jaw. The hit staggers him, not drops him. He recovers quick, reaching to grab her arm, but she twists free, using his momentum to slam his shoulder into the elevator frame. He growls, shaking it off, and comes back harder. She uses his momentum of running forward to twist behind him and manages to draw a knife in one smooth motion, the blade flashing just enough to halt him. The edge rests near his throat, steady, her grip iron.

“Try me,” she says, breath even.

Across the room, Steve moves like a storm, shield ricocheting through helmets and knees, dropping men in clean, efficient arcs. Within seconds, the lobby is littered with groaning operatives. The last two glance between the super soldier and the Stark girl with a blade at Rumlow’s throat, and bolt.

Rumlow, panting with a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth, stares up at her. “This isn’t over.”

Her eyes are ice. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” A sharp crack of her hilt to his temple puts him down.

Steve is at her side in a heartbeat, gripping her forearm. “We need to move. Now.”

They burst through the stairwell door, alarms blaring overhead. Red lights flash across the concrete walls as the building roars awake behind them.

She looks around and spots Steve’s Harley parked in the corner. “Drive fast. I’ll cover.” They both run for it and she hops on behind him with a grin, face lighting up despite everything.

“Hang on,” Steve mutters as the engine roars to life.

The tires screech against the concrete as they blast out of the garage. The wind rips past Jenna, hair flying, her hands braced around Steve’s waist. She doesn’t notice the faint color rising along the back of his neck, the way his shoulders tense for just a heartbeat before he leans harder into the throttle. She’s focused on the scene behind them, the STRIKE team bursting out the door with SUVs. Bullets ping off the pavement as Steve weaves through traffic, ducking beneath an overpass. She glances over her shoulder, taking shots where she can at their pursuers.

“They’re gaining,” she shouts over the noise.

The motorcycle leaps off a low embankment and down into the freeway underpass, weaving through early morning traffic. She raises her sidearm again, twisting back and firing into the wheels of the nearest SUV. It fishtails and slams into the divider, blocking the rest.

“Nice shot,” Steve says.

***

After the chaos at the Triskelion, the mall they find refuge in feels almost surreal. The bright lights and chatter are a flood of normalcy they don’t have time for. Jenna keeps her hood up, Steve’s cap pulled low. They blend into the crowd, just two more faces in the rush of weekend shoppers. On the way over, Steve had told her everything about  what Fury said: the flash drive, S.H.I.E.L.D. being compromised. Now, inside the electronics store, they move with purpose, rows of glowing screens cast pale light across their faces. Steve slides up to a display laptop, casual as he can manage. Jenna subtly inserts the flash drive.

Her eyes scan the area as she explains, “The drive has a Level Six homing program. As soon as we boot up, S.H.I.E.L.D. will know exactly where we are.”

His expression remains stoic. “How much time do we have?”

She glances at the loading bar on the screen. “About nine minutes from now.”

Steve leans closer, shoulder brushing hers as he watches the screen intently. “Fury was right about that ship. Somebody’s trying to hide something.”

She nods, fingers flying over the keyboard. “This drive is protected by some sort of AI. It keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Can you override it?”

A hint of frustration creeps into her voice. “I don’t know, the file is heavily encrypted, I might not have time. I’m gonna try running a tracer. This is a program that S.H.I.E.L.D. developed to track hostile malware. If we can’t read the file, maybe we can find out where it came from.”

An employee approaches with a friendly smile. “Can I help you guys with anything?”

Without missing a beat, she plasters on a bright smile, leaning into Steve and lifting her hand to his chest. “Oh, no. My fiancé was just helping me with some honeymoon destinations.”

Steve catches on, albeit a bit awkwardly, and wraps his arm around her waist. “Right! We’re getting married.”

The employee beams. “Congratulations! Where are you guys thinking about going?”

Steve glances at the screen where the tracer has locked onto a signal. “New Jersey.”

The employee’s enthusiasm falters momentarily. “Oh.” Then he eyes the glasses Steve is using as a disguise and his face lights up again. “I have the exact same glasses.”

“Wow,” Jenna interjects, “you two are practically twins.”

The employee chuckles. “Yeah, I wish. Specimen,” he gestures at Steve. “Uh… if you guys need anything, I’ve been Aaron,” he points to his name tag.

Steve nods. “Thank you.”

As Aaron steps away she notices S.H.I.E.L.D. agents closing in. Steve’s voice drops to a whisper. “You said nine minutes. Come on.”

She remains calm. “Relax. Got it.”

The screen displays the location: Wheaton, New Jersey.

Her eyes narrow, “you know it?”

A shadow of recognition crosses his face. “I used to. Let’s go.”

He pulls the flash drive from the computer, and they both exit the store. They merge back into the press of shoppers, slipping into anonymity.

Steve’s tone is clipped, eyes darting across the flow of people. “Standard tac-team. Two behind, two across, two coming straight at us. If they see us, I’ll engage. You hit the south escalator to the metro.”

Jenna acts swiftly, lowering her head a bit and says, “Shut up and put your arm around me. Laugh at something I said.”

Steve hesitates. “What?”

“Do it!”

He obeys, forcing a chuckle and curving his body towards her, hand tightening at her waist. To anyone watching, they’re just another couple. The agents hesitate for a moment, but keep walking by. They step onto the escalator. Jenna’s heart gives a sharp jolt—Rumlow is coming down the opposite side, eyes sweeping the crowd. Time is running out.

Without warning, she turns to Steve, whispering urgently, “Kiss me.”

His head snaps toward her, eyes wide. “What?”

She maintains her composure, “Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”

Steve swallows hard. “Yes, they do.”

Before he can protest further, she grabs his collar and pulls him in. Their lips meet and the world blurs around her. It’s supposed to be cover, but dammit, heat sparks low in her chest anyway, butterflies flaring despite herself. Rumlow’s gaze slides past, uninterested.

Jenna breaks the kiss first and she searches Steve’s face, grinning slightly. “You still uncomfortable?”

He exhales, a mixture of surprise and something else flickering in his eyes. “That’s not exactly the word I would use.”

The moment is fleeting and the mission resumes. Together, they navigate their way out of the mall.

***

The city lights of Washington D.C. fade into the distance as she and Steve drive north under the cover of night. The hum of the engine fills the silence between them until Jenna glances over, a hint of amusement tugging at her lips. “Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?”

He smirks, eyes on the road. “Nazi Germany.” He raises an eyebrow. “And we’re borrowing, take your feet off the dash.”

She smiles, lowering her feet. “Alright, I have a question for you, which you don’t have to answer. I feel like if you don’t answer it, though, you’re kind of answering it…”

He sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What?”

She hesitates for a moment, then asks, “was that your first kiss since 1945?”

His eyes widen slightly. “That bad, huh?”

She shakes her head quickly, hands raised in mock defence. “I didn’t say that.”

He chuckles softly, “well, it kind of sounds like that’s what you’re saying.”

“No, I didn’t,” she grins. “I just wondered how much practice you’ve had.”

He glances at her, a playful glint in his eyes. “You don’t need practice.”

“Everybody needs practice,” she laughs.

Steve’s expression turns thoughtful. “It was not my first kiss since 1945. I’m ninety-five, I’m not dead.”

She tilts her head, curiosity piqued. “Nobody special, though?”

He exhales, a hint of wistfulness in his tone. “Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to find someone with shared life experience.”

She nods, her voice warm, “yeah, I get it. It’s not exactly normal, is it?”

He glances over at her, a teasing glint in his eye. “What about you?”

She scrunches her nose, shaking her head. “Nah, me neither. Never really worked out, not in this line of work, or me being who I am. It’s a lot, you know, my… past and the ‘Stark’ name to live up to.” She pauses just long enough to make it clear she won’t go deeper. “It’s been easier to keep to myself.” She says it casually as if it doesn’t hurt to admit.

Steve studies her for a moment longer than she’s comfortable with before turning back to the road. “It’s hard to trust people when you don’t really know them.”

She sits back, watching the trees blur past the window. “Well, I’m not hiding anything from you, Steve. Well, now that you know I’m stalking you,” she says in a joking tone. “Except for the classified, the embarrassing, and the deeply traumatic. You know, the usual.” Her tone is playful, but she keeps her gaze fixed on the windshield, not daring to meet his eyes. Her hands knot loosely in her lap, a slight twitch betraying a flicker of tension she doesn’t want him to see.

Steve chuckles under his breath, though his eyes linger on her profile longer than she realizes. “That’s… quite a list.”

She shrugs, smirking faintly. “What can I say? Keeps me mysterious.”

***

Early morning fog drapes a long-abandoned military base in a pale grey mist, birds scattering as the stolen car rolls to a stop outside rusted fencing. Weeds choke the once-proud walkways and the faded sign is barely readable.

Steve stares through the windshield, jaw tightening slightly. “This is it. Camp Lehigh.”

Jenna steps out beside him, eyes scanning the empty lot. “This place looks like it’s been dead for decades.”

“It was my first base,” Steve says quietly. “Back before the serum. Back before everything.” Something flickers in his eyes, early memories coming to the surface.

“Has it changed much?”

“A little.”

Jenna looks at her phone, confirming the location one more time. “I’m sorry but… it looks like this is a dead end. Whoever wrote the file must have used a router to throw people off.”

She looks up as Steve starts walking ahead, leading her toward a building in front of them. She follows. “What is it?”

Steve pauses. “Army regulations forbid storing ammunition within five hundred yards of the barracks. This building is in the wrong place.”

Steve cracks open the lock with his shield and they enter cautiously. Jenna flips on a light switch to the left of the door revealing an office. She walks deeper into the compound, gaze pausing on a familiar logo carved above a steel doorway. “This is S.H.I.E.L.D.” she breathes.

“Maybe where it started,” Steve says, walking further. He follows Jenna into the next room where she’s stopped in front of a row of picture frames.

“Wow,” she breathes, almost to herself. “That’s Howard Stark, Tony’s dad.” Her chest tightens. She’s never met him, never will, but his presence lingers everywhere. In Tony’s brilliance, in his anger, in the unspoken weight of their name. Seeing him here, enshrined in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history, makes her stomach twist. She swallows it down and lets her gaze slide to the next frame.

Peggy Carter.

Jenna recognizes her instantly. She’s read the files, watched old footage, done her homework purely out of curiosity. But it’s not the photo that holds her attention; it’s the way Steve is looking at it. He’s looking at Peggy’s picture like the rest of the room has fallen away, something a little deeper than wistfulness, a private ache, a tenderness Jenna’s never seen in him before. The sight cuts straight through her, sharp and quiet. She doesn’t say anything, angling her body a little, pretending to study the other frames to give him space. But the image lingers in her chest, an echo she can’t quite shake. He turns away saying nothing, walking further down the room and stops by a massive bookshelf. 

“If you’re already working in a secret office…” he grabs hold of the edge and pushes the bookshelf, sliding it open to reveal an elevator behind it, “…why do you need to hide the elevator?”

The elevator rattles as it descends, shuddering slightly like it hasn’t been touched in decades. When the doors slide open, Jenna steps into a cavernous room lined with ancient computers, hulking machines that look like they should belong in a museum. Dust hangs thick in the air.

She frowns. This can’t be the data-point, she thinks. The tech’s prehistoric. But something about the setup nags at her instincts. She crouches near one console, fingertips brushing over an outdated keyboard. A small port catches her eye. “Well, look at that,” she mutters to herself, pulling the flash drive from her pocket. She slots it in.

A low hum stirs through the room as lights flicker to life. One of the computers shudders awake with a grinding whir, words flickering onscreen: Initiate system?

Jenna taps the keys, “Y-E-S spells yes.” The ancient fan belts wheeze, monitors glowing. She smirks faintly. “Shall we play a game?”

Steve glances over, brow furrowed.

“It’s from a movie,” she explains, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Ah, never mind.”

Before he can answer, a cold, accented voice fills the room: “Rogers, Steven. Born, 1918. Stark, Jenna. Born, 1990.”

Her stomach tightens. Above them, a camera whirs to life, its mechanical eye locking onto them. “Whoa. Is this some kind of recording?”

“I am not a recording, Fräulein,” the voice corrects sharply. The screen flickers, resolving into a grainy black-and-white photograph of a man in wire-rimmed glasses. “I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I am.”

Jenna’s eyes narrow. “Do you know this thing?”

Steve’s jaw hardens. “Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull. He’s been dead for years.”

“First correction, I am Swiss. Second, look around you. I have never been more alive. In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however was worth saving on two hundred thousand feet of data banks. You are standing in my brain.”

The words send a chill down her spine.

“How did you get here?” Steve demands.

“Invited.”

“Operation Paperclip,” Jenna says quietly. “After the first world war, S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited German scientists with strategic value. Zola must have been one of them.”

“They thought I could help their cause,” the voice continues smoothly. “But I helped my own.”

“HYDRA died with the Red Skull,” Steve snaps.

“Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

“Prove it,” Steve growls.

The monitors flicker, reels of archival footage playing: Johann Schmidt, founders of S.H.I.E.L.D., shadowy transfers of power. “HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom,” Zola drones. “What we did not realize, was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded and i was recruited, and so was the new HYDRA: a parasite inside its host. For seventy years, HYDRA has grown. It has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war. And when history did not cooperate, history was changed.”

Jenna shakes her head, voice sharp. “That’s impossible. S.H.I.E.L.D. would’ve stopped you.”

“Accidents will happen,” he purrs. An image flashes of Fury’s recent near-death. “HYDRA created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain its security. Once the purification process is complete, HYDRA's new world order will arise. We won, Captain. Your death amounts to the same as your life; a zero sum.”

Steve’s temper finally snaps: with a roar, he slams his fist into the nearest monitor, glass shattering across the floor. Jenna flinches at the sudden outburst, eyes flicking to him with a sharp jolt of shock, then steadies, watching quietly, unsettled but seeing the grief beneath his anger.

The voice continues on a different monitor, calmly through the static. “As I was saying…”

“What’s on the drive?” Steve demands.

“Project Insight requires insight,” Zola answers. “So I wrote an algorithm.”

“What kind of algorithm?” Jenna asks, panic flickering in her chest. “What does it do?”

“The answer is fascinating. Unfortunately… you shall be too dead to hear it.”

Metal groans and the steel doors behind them start to grind shut. Steve hurls his shield toward the gap, but it slams against reinforced metal, landing back in his hand, too late.

“Missiles inbound,” Monday confirms in her ear. “They’ve locked onto this location.”

Steve rips the flash drive out of the console and the terminal goes dark. He glances around desperately. “Jenna!” he shouts, pointing toward the floor.

She follows his line of sight where she spots a narrow hatch covered by steel grating. She doesn’t even get a chance to process before the world starts to erupt, but her body reacts for her, pushing her towards Steve. In the blink of an eye, he throws the heavy grate aside and grabs her, his arm locking tightly around her waist. She barely registers the motion before he dives forward, pulling her with him, and the two of them drop through the opening just as fire and rubble rain down from above.

She hits the ground hard, shoulder slamming into the concrete wall, but Steve twists his body to shield her as the blast caves in the roof. The sound is deafening. She flinches, instinctively curling in. His shield is already up and his body is braced over hers, catching the worst of it. Her fingers curl into his clothes as dirt and concrete crash down around them, chunks slamming into the vibranium with teeth-rattling force. Everything shakes, the ceiling collapses, and darkness falls like a curtain.

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until it’s over. It’s silent for a moment, so still it feels wrong. She feels a sharp stinging sensation coming from her forehead and tries to open her eyes, but her right is heavy with blood, forcing it shut.

“You okay?” Steve asks, breathless.

She nods, even though her heart’s still hammering in her throat and she’s shaking a bit, whether it be from adrenaline, fear, or their proximity, she doesn’t know. “Yeah. You?”

He gives the smallest nod. His shield is still braced above her, chest pressed close, her fingers still tangled in his shirt and his around her waist. She can feel how tense he is, every muscle locked, ready to protect her the second more comes down.

She looks up at him in the dim through one eye, and their faces are inches apart. His eyes scan her quickly, like he’s checking for damage, and he instinctively raises his hand to her forehead inspecting the wound. She gives him a tiny nod to tell him she’s alright, and they can do this later.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”

She crawls out from under him, coughing a bit as he shifts the shield aside and starts clearing a path through the debris. She helps, pushing aside what she can, the grit stinging her palms. Eventually, with a loud crack of shifting stone, moonlight breaks through the dust and Steve hoists himself up first, reaching a hand down for her. She takes it without hesitation.

***

The door swings open to reveal Sam Wilson, standing in a T-shirt and sweats, his expression going from casual to wide-eyed in an instant. Steve and Jenna are standing on his doorstep looking like they crawled out of a war zone with their faces smudged with soot, clothes ripped and stained, blood crusted at the edges of fresh cuts.

“Im sorry about this,” Steve says. “We need a place to lay low.”

“Holy—what the hell happened to you two?” Sam blurts, stepping back fast. “Get in here, before somebody calls the cops.”

They shuffle past him, both sagging onto the couch like it’s the first piece of furniture they’ve seen in days. Sam disappears down the hall, muttering under his breath, and returns with a first-aid kit tucked under his arm.

“You guys okay?” he asks, crouching down in front of them. His tone is sharper now, not casual at all.

Steve nods once, jaw tight. “We took a hit. Bunker went down on top of us.”

Sam’s hands still. “…What bunker?” His eyes flick between the two of them, waiting for one of them to say they’re joking.

“The one built over Hydra’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Steve answers flatly. His voice carries no room for humor.

Sam just stares. His mouth opens, then closes again. “Hydra,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the word for cracks. “Inside S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Yeah.” Jenna leans forward, elbows braced to her knees and eyebrows creasing. The movement splits the cut on her forehead again and warm blood trickles down, staining her temple. She wipes it with the heel of her hand, frowning at the smear of red it leaves behind. Her skull feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out.

Sam snaps open the first-aid kit and holds up two fingers. “How many?”

She squints. “…Two. And hi, by the way. I’m Jenna.”

Sam’s mouth quirks. “Yeah, figured, you fit the description to a T. I’m Sam Wilson. Veteran, neighbor, guy who probably should be regretting letting you inside.”

Her brows lift as a grin tugs at her lips. “Oh? The description?” she drawls lightly.

Outwardly, she’s playful, teasing. But inside, her thoughts spin: what description? He talked about me? How detailed are we talking here, Steve? Physical? Tactical? Personality? Did you just drop my name in passing, or was I actually… a topic?

She tilts her head, keeping her voice light. “What kind of description are we talking about, Sam? Nothing too bad, I hope.”

Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Nah. More like: ‘tough as hell, sharp…’ something about not being able to get you out of his head. Only good things, I promise.”

Jenna’s pulse skips. He can’t get me out of his head, huh?

Her eyes flick sideways to Steve, who’s suddenly very interested in the floorboards. A faint color creeps up his neck, betraying him. “Alright,” Steve mutters gruffly, shifting in his seat. “Can we focus on the task at hand?”

Sam hides a smirk, and Jenna’s grin lingers just a second longer before she lets it slide.

“You sure you’re not regretting letting us inside yet?” she teases Sam instead.

“Not yet.” Sam smirks and digs for antiseptic wipes. “But if you bleed on my couch, I’ll have to reconsider.”

She chuckles softly and leans back so he can clean the cut. “Noted. And thanks for letting us in, seriously.”

“Of course.” His tone dips back into serious territory. “So S.H.I.E.L.D.’s compromised. Hydra’s back. And I’m guessing it’s worse than I want it to be.”

Steve’s quiet through most of this exchange, his gaze fixed on Sam with a kind of heavy gratitude. And watching Jenna and Sam volley back and forth, slipping into an ease that usually takes months to do… something unspools in his chest.

Sam finally looks up from cleaning Jenna’s cut, meeting Steve’s eyes directly. “What do you need?”

Steve hesitates, then looks at Jenna. Her eyes are steady on his, silently passing the choice back to him. “We need help.”

Sam studies him for a moment. Then he exhales, sits back on his heels, and says, “Alright. I’m in. But first,” he points at the both of them with the antiseptic wipe still in his hand, “you two are getting cleaned up before you dirty up my house even more. You can save the world after you’re showered and I make sure you’re not concussed.”

That earns him a faint laugh from Jenna, and even Steve’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

***

The water runs warm over Jenna’s skin, washing away the dried blood, dirt, and rubble from the collapsed bunker. Steam curls around her, thick and comforting, but her mind refuses to quiet. Sam’s words echo in her head, but it isn’t Sam she’s thinking about, it’s Steve. The idea that he’s noticed her and talked about her in whatever way it was. It knots something low in her stomach. Why does it matter so much?

No, she knows the answer to the question. Because the version of her Steve sees now, the foster kid cover story Tony crafted for her, is easy. Palatable. Admirable, even. He seems to trust it and trust her. And that trust is addictive, however scary it might be. But he doesn’t know the truth. He doesn’t know the blood on her hands, the way her past was carved out of orders and obedience, the way ORCHID burned her into something sharp and dangerous long before Tony ever gave her a real home. He doesn’t know how fragile this version of her really is, how fast it could all crumble if he saw what she used to be.

She presses her palms to the tile, bowing her head under the spray. The thought of Steve, someone so inherently good, looking at her with anything but that quiet respect, the thought of him recoiling from her, it terrifies her more than HYDRA ever could.

She exhales sharply, like she can steam the thoughts out of her chest. Jesus Christ. She doesn’t have time for this. Not with HYDRA in the shadows, not with Fury gone. Not with the fact that the agency they were working for wasn’t what they thought it was. And yet, the questions linger, stubborn as the ache in her ribs.

She shuts off the water, the silence in the small bathroom almost jarring after the steady rush. Steam clings to the mirror, blurring her reflection into something softer, almost unrecognizable. She dries off quickly and pulls on the clean clothes Sam left folded for her.

She opens the door, the cooler air of the hallway hitting her skin, and there he is. Steve’s leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, like he’s been waiting without quite admitting it. His hair is still damp from his own shower, plastered unevenly to his forehead. He straightens when he sees her.

He smiles, tired but warm. “Hey. You alright?”

“Better now,” she says, though she’s not quite sure if she means it. “Still feeling like I got hit by a truck, though.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah. That was a bit rougher than our average mission.”

Jenna studies him, remembering the way he threw himself over her in the bunker, shield raised, body braced to take the hit. “You covered me without even thinking.”

“Of course I did.”

Her heart trips a little faster at how simple he makes it sound. “I owe you, Steve.” she says softly.

He shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He looks down like he’s unsure what to do with his hands for a moment. “I don’t usually get nervous in the field,” he admits. “But when I saw you in that moment…” His voice trails off, unfinished but clear.

She steps just a little closer, not even an inch, but it sends a message. “I would have done the same,” she says, “if it was the other way around.” This, she means. 

His eyes lift to hers. For a moment, neither of them moves. Then he nods, the corner of his mouth tugs into the faintest smile. “I know.”

The moment passes with the smell of bacon and coffee drifting up the stairs, and they head down to the kitchen.

Sam glances up from the stove. “You two clean up alright?”

Jenna drops into a seat, exhaling. “Slightly less like walking corpses. Thanks again.”

“No problem. You’ve earned a meal.”

Steve grabs two mugs, fills them, and sets one in front of her.

“So,” Jenna takes a sip of coffee, “the question is, who in S.H.I.E.L.D. Could launch a domestic missile strike?”

Steve doesn’t miss a beat. “Pierce.”

“Who happens to be sitting on top of the most secure building in the world,” she finishes.

“Well,” Steve adds, “he’s not working alone. Zola’s algorithm was on the Lemurian Star.”

“So was Jasper Sitwell.”

“So, the real question is, how do the two most wanted people in Washington kidnap a S.H.I.E.L.D. Officer in broad daylight?” Steve asks.

Sam slides plates full of breakfast food onto the table. “The answer is, you don’t.” He steps away briefly. When he returns, he carries a covered box. He sets it down, flips the lid, and takes out a large folder, setting it on the table. Steve opens it and holds up a photo of Sam with his para-rescue team.

“Wait, is this Bakhmala? The Khalid Khandil mission, that was you.” Jenna says, gears turning in her mind. She looks to Steve, “you didn’t say he was para-rescue. I heard they couldn’t bring in the choppers because of the RPGs. What did you use, a stealth chute?”

Sam hands Steve another file, and his eyes widen as he sees a picture of Sam with a wing suit on. “I thought you said you were a pilot.”

“I never said pilot.”

A flash of concern shows on Steve’s face. “I can't ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason.”

“Dude, Captain America needs my help. There's no better reason to get back in,” Sam grins.

Jenna glances at the wings, then back at Sam. “Looks like we’ve got a team.”

Sam grins. “Damn right you do.”

***

Back in Washington D.C., Jasper Sitwell swipes to answer a call and presses his phone to his ear, his posture rigid. “Yes?” he says, stepping away from the group he was with.

Across the street, Sam Wilson lounges casually at a table, sunglasses on, phone in hand, looking like any other passerby. “Agent Sitwell,” Sam says smoothly. “How was lunch? I hear the crab cakes are pretty good.”

Sitwell stiffens, glancing around. “Who is this?”

“The good-looking guy at your ten o’clock,” Sam replies. When Sitwell looks the wrong way, Sam adds dryly, “Your other ten o’clock.”

Sitwell turns and spots him.

“There you go,” Sam says, smirking and raising his drink in a lazy salute.

Sitwell narrows his eyes. “What do you want?”

“You’re gonna walk around the corner, take a right. Two spaces down, there’s a grey car waiting. You and I are gonna take a ride.”

Sitwell huffs. “And why would I do that?”

Sam’s smile sharpens. “Because that tie looks expensive. And I’d hate to mess it up.”

Sitwell glances down and freezes. A small red dot dances across his chest. Someone nearby has a clean shot. Grinding his teeth, Sitwell complies.

Minutes later, on an isolated rooftop, Steve slams Sitwell against the wall with unyielding force. Jenna stands at Steve’s flank, silent, her arms folded, weight balanced on the balls of her feet. The edge in her stillness is more intimidating than shouting.

“Tell me about Zola’s algorithm,” Steve says coldly.

Sitwell gives a thin smile. “Never heard of it.”

Steve doesn’t budge. “What were you doing on the Lemurian Star?”

“Throwing up,” Sitwell says with a shrug. “I get seasick.”

Without a word, Steve grabs him by the lapels and marches him toward the edge of the roof. Sitwell’s smirk flickers.

“This supposed to scare me?” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You’re not gonna throw me off the roof. That’s not your style, Rogers.”

Steve tilts his head, calm as ever. “You’re right,” he says evenly. Then he steps aside. “It’s hers.”

Sitwell barely has time to register before Jenna moves, fast and efficient with no wasted motion. Her boot slams into his chest, sending him screaming over the ledge. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, just watches him fall with her arms still crossed.

Sam flies up with his wings deployed, holding Sitwell roughly by the collar. He drops him back onto the rooftop like a sack of laundry. Sitwell hits the ground hard, gasping, scrambling upright with his hands raised in surrender.

“Zola’s algorithm!” he blurts out. “It’s a program… for selecting targets for Project Insight!”

Steve steps forward. “What targets?”

“People!” Sitwell says, desperate. “A TV anchor in Cairo, the Undersecretary of Defense, a high school valedictorian in Iowa City, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange, anyone who could be a threat to HYDRA. Now, or in the future.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “The future? How could they know?”

Sitwell gives a short, panicked laugh. “How could they not? The twenty-first century’s a digital book! Zola taught HYDRA how to read it.”

Jenna and Steve lock eyes, grim recognition passing between them.

“Your bank records, medical histories, voting patterns, e-mails, phone calls, even your SAT scores,” Sitwell rushes on, words tumbling over each other. “Zola’s algorithm analyzes your past to predict your future.”

Steve’s voice sharpens. “And then what?”

Sitwell pales, eyes flicking toward the door like a trapped animal searching for an exit.  “Oh my God… Pierce is gonna kill me.”

Steve steps closer, looming. “What happens next?” he demands again.

Sitwell swallows hard. “Then the Insight Helicarriers eliminate threats,” he says, voice almost breaking. “A few million at a time.”

***

Sitwell sits stiffly in the backseat, hands awkwardly folded, as Sam drives toward the Triskelion. Jenna is in the back seat behind Steve, keeping an eye on Sitwell.

“Hydra doesn’t like leaks,” Sitwell mutters, voice tight with nerves.

Sam doesn’t even glance back. “Then why don’t you try sticking a cork in it.”

Jenna smirks faintly, but it fades when she glances at the clock. Sixteen hours until Insight launches. “We’re cutting it a little close for time.”

“I know,” Steve says. “We’ll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the Helicarriers directly.”

Sitwell stiffens. “What?!” he sputters. “Are you crazy? That is a terrible, terrible idea—” 

The roof above their heads crumples inward under sudden weight, cutting him off. Before they can react, a blur tears through the window, spraying glass across the seat. Sitwell screams as an arm yanks him out of the moving car and flings him straight into oncoming traffic. 

“Holy shit—“ Jenna launches herself to the front, landing on Steve’s lap as bullets spray where she was just sitting.

They all duck instinctively as the person fires a few shots at them. Steve yanks the parking brake and the car fishtails wildly, sending the figure sliding off the roof and into the street. They stand up, metal arm glinting in the sunlight—unmistakably The Winter Soldier. Another car slams into theirs, ramming it hard enough to grind metal on metal and tearing forwards through the street. The Winter Soldier leaps again, landing heavily on their hood. With terrifying force, he punches through the windshield and rips the steering wheel clean out of the dashboard.

“Shit!” Sam yells, fighting to keep the wrecked car steady as sparks fly.

She fires through the cracked windshield, aiming for the Winter Soldier’s head, but he’s already leaping back onto another vehicle, moving impossibly fast. The engine groans and the car starts tipping sideways.

She barely hears Steve shout, “Hang on!” As he grabs her and Sam, pulling them close before he kicks open the passenger door. In one breathless second he hauls them both through the doorframe, and then they’re skidding across the pavement, clinging to a torn-off car door like a makeshift sled as they whip through the streets.

The Winter Solder gets back on his feet and takes a grenade launcher from an agent and aims it towards Jenna, firing. Steve pushes her out of the way hard, shield taking the blow and sending him flying over the edge.

HYDRA agents spill out of blacked-out SUVs, firing at Jenna and Sam from every angle as they run and maneuver their way across the bridge, Jenna occasionally firing bullets from her hand gun and managing to land a hit that knocks off his goggles. She’s almost at the edge of the barrier, sprinting behind a car when she hears the launcher fire again—it hits the car she’s behind as she jumps over the edge, car flying off after her.

Jenna hits the pavement rolling, and ducks behind a car. Her heart hammers as she sees The Winter Soldier jump off the bridge and head her way. Think fast, Jenna. Fumbling in her jacket, she grabs one of her decoy devices, a small speaker, and tosses it under the car, letting it play a pre-recorded audio loop of her voice. “Make an LZ, twenty-three hundred block of Virginia Avenue. Rendezvous in two minutes,” her voice crackles.

The Winter Soldier hears it and takes the bait, and rolls a small grenade toward the sound. The blast shatters the car in a plume of smoke and metal, but she’s already moving. She leaps onto his back, wrapping her arm around his neck, trying to choke him out. He throws her off like she weighs nothing. She hits the pavement hard but recovers quickly, drawing her pistol and firing at his exposed joints. He raises his arm to block, but she hurls a small electric shock device onto his metal limb. It clamps down and fries it, making him stagger.

She runs, dodging through stunned civilians, shouting, “GET OUT OF THE WAY! MOVE!”

She ducks behind the wreck of a sedan, breath ragged, ears ringing from the last blast. Glass crunches under her boots as she peeks out just in time to see Steve stagger free of an overturned bus. He’s off balance, soot-streaked, his shield tangled in debris. His back is turned. Her stomach drops—he doesn’t see him. The Winter Soldier is already sighting down the barrel, his aim steady, merciless. Her body moves before her mind catches up. She surges out of cover, sprinting across the narrow gap.

“Steve!”

He half-turns at the sound, confusion flashing in his eyes as she slams into him, hard enough to shove him out of the line of fire. The crack of the shot comes a half-second later, hot metal tearing into her shoulder, white-hot pain detonates through her arm. She stumbles, momentum carrying her behind a low concrete barrier. Her knees buckle, and she crumples against it with a gasp. Her hand goes to the wound automatically, slick warmth soaking her palm.

“Jenna!” Steve’s shout cuts over the gunfire, hoarse and desperate and finally pulling his shield out of the wreckage. He starts toward her but instinct jerks him back as another shot rings out, and he whips his shield up just in time. The bullet ricochets, sparks flying.

No time to falter. He crashes into the Winter Soldier with his shield up, blocking a deadly punch. The two of them collide like forces of nature, fists and steel slamming into each other in a brutal, savage rhythm. Gunfire flashes. The Winter Soldier fires a rifle, then a sidearm, switching weapons faster than most people can blink. Steve deflects round after round with his shield, closing the distance between them. For a moment, the Winter Soldier rips Steve’s shield away and hurls it back at him, but Steve dodges and they crash together again, grappling. He finally manages to grip the Winter Soldier’s metal arm throwing him hard towards the ground. The Soldier’s mask flies off, skidding across the asphalt. She watches from where she’s crouched, bleeding, her breath frozen in her lungs.

Steve stares at the man in front of him, blood draining from his face. “Bucky…” Steve breathes, his voice breaking.

The Winter Soldier’s expression is blank, but something flickers across it. He raises his gun again, mechanical and merciless. “Who the hell is Bucky?” he echoes, confused and then shakes it off.

Sam rockets in from above, hitting the Winter Soldier with a flying kick that sends him staggering. Bucky catches himself fast, but the moment’s hesitation costs him. Jenna seizes the chance, grabbing a grenade launcher from where it fell during the fight and fires it directly at him. The explosion engulfs the street in smoke. When it clears, the Winter Soldier is gone. For a second, all she hears is the ringing in her ears, and then the wail of sirens splits the night. Black-clad agents swarm in from every direction. She, Steve, and Sam back into a defensive triangle, but it’s too late. They’re surrounded, outgunned, and bleeding.

Rumlow strides forward, weapon raised. “Drop the shield, Cap! On your knees! Get down! Now!”

Steve throws a glance at Jenna and Sam, a silent apology, then slowly drops his shield and raises his hands.

Rumlow kicks Steve’s leg out from under him, forcing him down. “Don’t move,” he growls, the agent beside him pressing a gun to Steve’s head.

Another agent keeps his weapon trained on Jenna and above, helicopters circle like vultures.

“Not here,” Rumlow snaps to one of his men. “Put the gun down. Not here!”

Grim-faced, the agents cuff Jenna, Steve, and Sam, dragging them toward armoured transports. She doesn’t struggle. She just clenches her jaw and walks.

***

Hands bound, shoulder aching, no weapons: Jenna and Sam sit side by side in the back of a tactical vehicle, flanked by Hydra agents posing as S.H.I.E.L.D. officers. Steve sits across from her, face covered in soot. He just stares at the ground, jaw clenched, knuckles white against his restraints. She leans her head back against the window, shoulder pulsing with pain.

“It was him,” Steve says, eyes glued to the floor. “ he looked right at me and he didn’t even know me.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam asks. “It was like, 70 years ago.”

Steve lets out a faint, bitter breath. “Zola. Becky’s whole unit was captured in ‘43, Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did must’ve helped Bucky survive the fall. They must’ve found him and—”

“None of that’s your fault, Steve.” Jenna cuts him off.

“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”

The vehicle hits a bump and Jenna’s shoulder slams into the doorframe. She bites back a hiss of pain as blood falls from her wound.

“Damn it, we need to get a doctor here,” Sam pleads with the guards. “If we don’t put pressure on that wound she’s gonna bleed out here in the truck.”

The soldier to his left pulls out their baton, silencing them, before hitting the guard to their left, knocking them out. They take their helmet off, revealing Maria Hill underneath.

“Come with me if you want to live.”

“Hill?” You ask, barely believing what’s in front of you.

Maria offers a quick, sharp nod. “You’re welcome. Now move!”

They don’t need to be told twice.

***

Jenna, Steve, and Sam follow Maria Hill through a dimly lit, concrete tunnel in a massive army base. Sam is holding onto one arm while Steve holds pressure against her shoulder. She winces with each step, vision blurring slightly, but keeps pace. 

Maria shouts to a nearby medic, “get her under care, she’s lost at least a pint of blood.”

“They’re gonna wanna see him first,” he shouts back, running up to them and taking over Steve’s position.

At the end of the tunnel is a small medical bay. They brush aside a layer of plastic curtains to reveal Nick Fury, alive and lying on a cot.

“Don’t take it personally. It was a necessary death.”

Jenna stares, jaw slightly dropped. “You let us think you were gone.” The medic forces her to sit and she winces as he starts to work on her shoulder.

“Hydra wanted me dead,” Fury says calmly. “Seemed like a good idea to let them believe they got what they wanted.”

Steve steps forward. “Why all the secrecy? Why not just tell us?”

“Any attempt on the directors life had to look successful,” Hill chimes in.

“Can’t kill you if you’re already dead. Besides, I wasn’t sure who to trust.

***

The room is stuffy, lit only by a scattering of lamps that cast long, uneven shadows across stone walls. Steve and Sam stand on opposite sides of Jenna, and she’s sitting at the table, arms crossed, gaze flicking between Fury and the photograph in his hand. He studies the picture of Alexander Pierce with an expression Jenna can’t quite read, anger, regret, maybe both. His voice is low when he finally speaks. “This man declined the Nobel Peace Prize. Said peace wasn’t an achievement. It was a responsibility.” His eye lifts from the photo, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “It’s stuff like this that gives me trust issues.”

“We have to stop the launch,” Jenna says, her voice carrying firmly into the quiet.

Fury exhales through his nose. “Council’s not exactly taking my calls these days.” He flips open a hardened case on the table. Inside, three slender chips glint under the light.

Sam frowns. “What’s that?”

Maria Hill steps closer. “Once the Helicarriers reach three thousand feet, they’ll sync with the Insight satellites. Fully weaponized.”

Fury closes the case with a sharp click. “We breach those carriers, replace their targeting blades with these.”

Hill cuts in quickly, shaking her head. “One or two won’t cut it. All three have to be linked. If even one ship stays operational, we’ll be looking at mass casualties.”

Fury doesn’t flinch. “We have to assume everyone aboard is HYDRA. We get past them, insert the server blades, and maybe, just maybe, we salvage what’s left.”

Steve’s voice cuts through like steel. “We’re not salvaging anything. Not just the carriers. We’re taking down S.H.I.E.L.D..”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. had nothing to do with it.” Fury cuts in.

“You gave me this mission,” Steve fires back, stepping closer, his presence towering. “This is how it ends. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been compromised, you said it yourself. HYDRA grew right under your nose and nobody noticed.”

Fury’s good eye narrows. “Why do you think we’re meeting in this cave? I noticed.”

Steve doesn’t back down. “And how many paid the price before you did?”

Fury stiffens. “I didn’t know about Barnes.”

Jenna’s chest constricts at the name, but she keeps her face neutral, eyes flicking between the two men.

Steve’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Even if you had, would you have told me? Or compartmentalized that too?” His words fall sharp, final. “S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, It all goes.”

Hill crosses her arms, siding with Steve. “He’s right.”

Fury’s gaze shifts to Sam, who shrugs, casual but unwavering. “Don’t look at me. I do what he does… just slower.”

The faintest ghost of a smile tugs at Jenna’s mouth despite the tension as they look at her. “You know I’m on Cap’s side.”

Fury finally leans back, resignation seeping into his tone. “Well. Looks like you’re giving the orders now, Captain.”

Jenna studies Steve’s face in the dim light. He doesn’t revel in it, doesn’t even hesitate. He just nods, resolute, already carrying the weight of the choice on his shoulders. After that, the room turns into an armoury, weapons strewn across the table, files and layouts being passed around. Jenna moves over to a storage crate nearby, slowly rotating her arm and testing her shoulder. It still hurts, but she’ll fight through it.

Sam walks over first, adjusting the harness on his EXO-7 wingpack. “You should be in a hospital,” you know he says, giving her arm a pointed look.

“I’ll live,” she shrugs with her good shoulder.

He squints at her. “You sure?”

She glances at him. “Trust me, I’ve been through worse. But thanks for the concern.” 

That earns a crooked grin. He steps closer, resting his hands on the back of a chair. “You know, you two make one hell of a team.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What, me and Steve?”

“You and Steve. Well, all of us, really.” He nods toward the door. “Even Fury, grumpy ass and all.”

That makes her smile. “Think we’ve got a shot at actually pulling this off?”

Sam’s face grows serious. “Hell yeah. But we’ll probably get shot at a whole lot more while we’re doing it.”

She laughs quietly, then pauses. “Thanks, Sam. For sticking around.”

“Hey, you helped me feel like flying again.” He gently taps her shoulder as he walks away, carefully, so it doesn’t hurt. “See you in the sky, Jenna.”

She’s left alone for a moment, until Steve steps in. He’s fully suited in his classic uniform, borrowed from the Smithsonian. It fits him like it was waiting for him.

She looks up. “Nice threads, Captain.”

He smiles faintly. “Thought I’d suit up for the occasion.”

He leans against the wall beside her, both of them staring at the scattered plans on the table. “I wanted to thank you. For saving my life back there.”

“I said I owed you, didn’t I?” Jenna gives him a tired smile. “Like I said, I would’ve done the same if it was the other way around.”

“You didn’t have to take a bullet to the shoulder to prove it,” he says with a concerned smile.

“Yeah, well, I have a flair for the dramatics, you should know that by now.”

That earns a chuckle from him. “You sure you’re gonna be okay out there?”

She glances up at him again. “I feel like I should be asking you the same thing.”

There’s a brief silence and Steve’s jaw tenses. “I keep thinking… maybe there’s still something in him. Some part of Bucky left.”

She nods slowly. “Then let’s make sure he has a reason to come back.”

They both fall into a quiet moment, side by side. The air is heavy with what’s coming.

Then Steve speaks again, soft but certain. “I’m glad you’re here, Jenna. I’m glad its you.”

Jenna blinks. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

The alarm light above the safehouse console turns green. “It’s time,” Steve says.

She nods, stepping away from the crate and grabbing her gear. “Then let’s go save the world.”

***

Jenna, Steve, and Sam soar in low across the Potomac, hidden beneath HYDRA’s radar. She’s in her suit now, the same one she wore during the Lumerian mission. Her shoulder throbs under the fabric, but the painkillers dull it enough to keep moving. She presses her thumb to her palm, steadying her breath.

Steve stands at the rear of the jet, holding the ramp lever. “You guys ready?” he asks, voice steady through the comms.

“Nope,” Sam mutters. “Not even a little.”

She grins, cracking her neck. “Come on Wilson, a little faith won’t kill you.”

The ramp lowers and wind howls in. Steve steps forward, his shield gleaming under the rising sun, and speaks calmly into the comms, his words radiating through the speakers inside the building:

“Attention, all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. This is Steve Rogers. You’ve heard a lot about me over the last few days, some of you were even ordered to hunt me down. But I think it’s time you know the truth. S.H.I.E.L.D. is not what we thought it was, it’s been taken over by HYDRA. Alexander Pierce is their leader. The Strike and Insight crew are HYDRA as well. I don’t know how many more, but I know they’re in the building. They could be standing right next to you. They almost have what they want: absolute control. They shot Nick Fury and it won’t end there. If you launch those Helicarriers today, HYDRA will be able to kill anyone that stands in their way, unless we stop them. I know I’m asking a lot, but the price of freedom is high, it always has been, and it’s a price I’m willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it. But I’m willing to bet I’m not.”

“Did you write that down first, or did you say it off the top of your head?” Sam grins from behind him.

Alarms start immediately. Confusion scatters across the faces of friends and foes alike, firefights breaking out between loyal S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and HYDRA operatives, and the place becomes a warzone. Jenna lands on a Helicarrier platform hard, rolling, immediately disarming a guard and tossing her dagger into the leg of another. Steve’s in front of her in a flash, shield raised, clearing a path.

Sam shoots overhead, dipping between the towers with aerial precision. “I’m heading to carrier one,” he says in her ear.

“I’ve got two,” Steve replies.

“Then three’s mine,” Jenna says, sprinting for the elevator bay.

Jenna’s path is chaos. HYDRA agents flood the halls, but she’s faster. She elbows a soldier in the throat, plants a boot into another’s chest, and slides under gunfire ducks behind crates to fire her own bullets. Gunfire continuously echoes off the steel walls as she sprints through the belly of the helicarrier, weaving between blown-out support beams and mangled catwalks. Every muscle in her body burns, and her shoulder aches, but she doesn’t slow down. Her mission is clear: reach the targeting server, place the chip, and bring this monster down.

A HYDRA agent lunges out from cover, rifle raised. She ducks low and drives her good shoulder into his gut, flipping him over the railing in one clean move. He vanishes into the churning depths of the engine room below. She doesn’t stop. She can’t.

Hill’s voice crackles in her ear, “you have five minutes.”

“Working on it,” she mutters.

Another agent blocks her path ahead and she sweeps his legs out from under him and keeps running, glass crunching under her boots.

Finally she sees the control station, the final port where the chip needs to go, and runs towards it. She skids to a stop, sliding across the polished floor, and slams the chip into the console. Lights flash as it locks in place, the system beginning to override. She exhales, relief flickering through her for half a second, until she turns around. Dozens of HYDRA agents spill into the room, rifles raised, forming a tightening circle around her.

She lifts her comm to her mouth, breath steady. “Sorry boys,” she says, voice calm. “I’m surrounded. You’re on your own now.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, busy with their own fights, but she doesn’t wait for a reply. She sprints toward the center of the room, toward the giant fractured glass below where a deflected grenade had blown a gaping hole in the helicarrier’s reinforced glass. Without hesitation, she leaps.

The wind tears past her, a wall of sound. She pulls her chute mid-fall, teeth gritting as the harness snaps tight around her shoulders as her descent slows. She drifts down toward the ground far below, battered by the wash of debris and broken glass raining from above. When her boots finally hit solid ground, she skids to a halt and looks up and watches, breathless, as the helicarriers tear into each other in a firestorm of missiles and explosions; Steve and Sam must have gotten their chips in. A relieved smile spreads across her face.

“Steve, get out of there!” Hill shouts into the comms.

“Not yet,” he says.

She knows he sees him. Bucky.

Up above, still inside the carrier, Steve is kneeling, bloody and bruised from his encounter with The Winter Soldier. Alarms scream, red light strobe, and fire erupts along the walls as the Helicarriers target one another. The whole ship is crumbling and breaking around him, debris raining down from the ceiling.

“You’re my mission,” Bucky growls, raising his fist.

“Then finish it,” Steve says as he tosses the shield aside. “Cause I’m with you till the end of the line.”

The carrier trembles with the sound of its own destruction.

***

An hour passes. S.H.I.E.L.D. is done, the Helicarriers are rubble and HYDRA is exposed. Fury’s in hiding and the world will never be the same. Jenna and Sam comb the banks, eyes raw from smoke, hearts hammering with every second Steve doesn’t appear. Then, finally, she sees him. He’s half-submerged in the reeds, drenched, battered, barely breathing. Relief slams into her so hard she’s running before she knows it. She drops to her knees in the mud beside him, hands braced on his chest.

“Steve,” she breathes.

His eyelids flutter. He coughs, blood at the corner of his mouth. “He… saved me,” he rasps. “Pulled me out.”

Her gaze darts to the river, searching the ripples, but there’s no sign of the man who was once Bucky Barnes. Just empty water.

Her throat tightens and she presses a hand against Steve’s shoulder. “You’re safe,” she whispers

For the next 48 hours the city is on lockdown. The Triskelion has collapsed, S.H.I.E.L.D. And HYDRA files alike have been leaked worldwide. What was once a towering, untouchable intelligence agency has been reduced to scorched earth and public scandal.

Steve lies in the hospital bed, a wrap around his stomach, IV in his arm, cuts and bruises blooming like shadows across his face and torso. Jenna sits beside him, arm still bound in a sling, shoulder throbbing where the stitches pull. Her hair’s damp from the shower she finally got, and she’s dressed in a tank top and soft sweats. There’s a second chair behind her, empty. Sam went out for food, but not before putting on the Trouble Man soundtrack which plays softly in the background.

When Steve stirs, long lashes flickering, his eyes lift instantly. She studies him a second before letting a small smile curve her mouth. “You look like shit.”

His voice is gravel, but there’s warmth in it. “And somehow you don’t.”

Her head tips toward the mirror on the far wall. Her reflection stares back at her: bruised, scratched in a few places, a thin butterfly bandage cutting across her cheek. She lets out a laugh, loud enough to startle herself. “Sure. Whatever you say, Captain.”

He doesn’t laugh, not fully. But his mouth curves just enough. Their eyes lock, the silence thick with unspoken things: relief, gratitude, something steadier than either of them expected to find here.

“You saved a lot of people, Steve,” she says quietly.

“We saved them,” he corrects, firm but not sharp. “I couldn’t have done it without you and Sam.”

His gaze lingers on her, and she feels it like pressure against her chest. She holds it until it grows too much, then lets it slide off with a smirk. “Well, it’s not every day I get to take down a corrupt global spy network.”

“You also took a bullet to the shoulder, climbed a Helicarrier, and flipped a few guys twice your size.”

“Yeah,” she shrugs with her good arm, the motion tugging at her stitches. “I’m hardcore like that.”

They laugh softly together, the kind that fades but leaves the air lighter.

“You gonna be alright?” she asks.

Steve takes a long breath, eyes on the ceiling before shifting back to her. “Yeah. Just… figuring out what comes next.”

She tilts her head. “Any thoughts?”

His gaze drifts to the window, where the city skyline cuts against the pale morning sky. “We figure out how to build something better.”

Her hand shifts closer, resting lightly on the edge of his bed. “Well, I’m with you.”

His eyes meet hers again, pretty blue and unguarded. “I know.”

Chapter Text

—Eleven Years Prior—

It had been eight days since Jenna arrived at Stark Tower; eight days since ORCHID collapsed in flames, since she'd stepped out of that compound drenched in blood and no idea what came next, since she watched Tony Stark extend a hand toward her, not as a target or an enemy, but as a man trying to help. But still, after eight days, she couldn't make sense of any of it. Tony had given her a room that was far too big, too quiet, and too clean. There were no cameras in the corners, no loudspeakers in the ceiling, no bars on the windows or locks on the door. The bed was so incredibly soft that she had to sleep on the floor, and still she hadn't slept through the night once.

She wanted to be grateful and to adjust like they kept telling her she could. Pepper brought her food and new clothes, and she nodded politely when they spoke. She tried to stay out of the way for the most part, but she couldn’t help but keep her back to the wall whenever she could and flinch every time the elevator dinged. She barely spoke unless someone asked her something directly, and even then she weighed every word like it might be used against her. She hadn't even cried, because honestly she just felt numb. Her whole life was uprooted and changed; how could she process it in a day, or even a week? So, she just existed in some in-between state for a while, trying to figure out what this, what living, meant. Until the morning it finally broke.

It was supposed to be a quiet day; Pepper had gone out for meetings and Tony had been spending the day in his lab, building and trying not to hover. Jenna had ventured out of her room earlier than usual, wrapped in one of the oversized hoodies Pepper left folded on the end of her bed—she preferred them this way, it made her feel small and hidden for the first time in her life. She sat curled into the corner of the living room couch, legs tucked up to her chest and holding a random book open to a page she had been staring at for a couple minutes. The quiet scratched at her brain, and no matter how much she tried to distract herself she couldn't, so she turned her focus to the edges of her nails that were starting to be torn apart from picking. 

Then suddenly, as if breaking her out of her trance, there was an explosion. It wasn't really a proper explosion, but one of the workshop power converters downstairs shorted and popped. The sound it made, though, that was real. It reverberated loudly through the walls, deep, sharp and sickening. It sounded like the underground detonations back in ORCHID, and it triggered an image in her mind of a body hitting steel and the scream of a door being blown open.

She was off the couch before she even registered the movement. Her back hit the far wall and she raised her hands out defensively, body crouched. Her breath stuttered and caught and her eyes darted around wildly, scanning the walls, the door, the shadows beneath the furniture. Her chest burned with pressure to the point where she couldn't breathe right. Her ears rang and the room tilted sideways. Something inside her started screaming and wouldn't stop. 

Isn't this supposed to be over? She thought. 

She didn't know how long she stood there, frozen, trembling with nausea building in her stomach, but when she finally moved, she bolted. Hallways blurred past, many she hadn't even explored yet, and she ran until her body couldn't anymore, until the pain in her chest throbbed and her head swam. She collapsed in one of the corners of the Tower, a storage room with two windows and a vent, easy to escape if needed. Her back hit the cold wall and she slid down it, fingers digging into her hair as the world tried to rip itself apart around her.

Her breath came in shallow, broken gasps and panic clawed at her throat. Her hands trembled so violently she couldn't control them and the blast kept echoing in her ears. Her chest heaved but nothing got in, which made her heave heavier and made her vision blur and darken around the edges. She pressed her forehead to her knees and tried to squeeze herself into something smaller, tighter, safer, but it didn't work. She was going to suffocate. She was going to throw up. She was going to die and she couldn't even figure out how to stop it. Why is this happening? Why am I doing this? Her thoughts spun until the door in front of her opened with a quiet sound that she didn't hear through the sound of her gasps.

"Jenna?" Tony's voice barely filtered into the room, but it still made her flinch. He stepped in slowly, and paused just inside the doorway. "Kid?"

She still didn't respond. She couldn't. She heard him breathe out, that familiar kind of exhale she recognized from the few nights she'd heard him pacing down the hallway past midnight after she screamed herself awake. He said her name again, quieter this time, unsure if she'd break if he used it wrong.

Jenna curled tighter into herself, teeth clenched so hard her jaw throbbed. Her hands now clawed into the fabric of her sweater and her nails bit through cotton to skin. She wanted to answer and say she was fine, to make it stop, to pull herself together the way she always had, but every ounce of control was gone. The version of herself who could handle anything had finally betrayed her.

Tony waited, heart breaking at the sight as he stood in the doorway, watching her shake and struggle to pull air into her lungs. Not knowing what to do next, he let instinct take over and crossed the room to sink down beside her slowly, giving her time to pull away if she needed to. She didn't.

"It looks like you might be having a panic attack," he said softly, as if he understood. There was no judgment or accusation in the words, which was surprising to Jenna. "It's okay. You’re safe here."

She still couldn't say anything. When she tried to her throat closed and her breath hiccuped, so she stayed quiet and tried to breathe through it.

"It's like drowning in your own head, right?" Tony's voice dropped another notch, as gentle as it ever got. "Like everything closes in and you can't stop it, no matter how hard you try. All you need to know is… Jenna, you're not crazy."

Her breath hitched again, worse than before, catching on something, and she doubled forward raising her hands over her head to hide her face. She hated this. She hated him seeing her like this. She hated not being in control.

Tony didn't move, and his voice stayed steady. "Okay. It's alright. Just try to match me, in and out. Slowly. Theres no rush."

He inhaled, then he exhaled.

"Again."

Inhale. Exhale.

Jenna tried, but her body still refused to cooperate. Every inhale got snagged in her chest, every exhale broke apart halfway through. Tony kept going. Even when she couldn't keep up, he just breathed next to her, over and over. 

Eventually, something in her chest began to loosen, but it took shape in something else; she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, and tears hit before she could stop them. They were hot and angry, slipping down her cheeks in messy streaks. Her shoulders hunched as she tried to bite it down, to swallow the sob already catching in her throat. The first breath that left her came out in a strangled, broken gasp, and the next one tore through her like a rip in the dam.

The sounds that came out messy and loud and full-bodied. The gut-deep sobbing racked through her with no rhythm or mercy as she folded in on herself again, arms crossed tightly over her stomach, forehead pressed to her knees. Her voice broke open with it, choked sounds slipping past her clenched teeth, every inhale jagged, every exhale sharp and heavy with everything she couldn't name. 

Tony didn't move or even flinch, and that made her feel even worse. 

"Go," she rasped between sobs. "Please... please just go. Don't look at me."

He stayed silent.

"Please. I don't want anyone to see me like this."

"Kid..."

"I'm… I’m serious." She still wouldn't lift her head. "Please. I can't—just go. I'll be fine."

Tony looked at her, thoughts racing. This is a fourteen year old girl who had been trained to kill without hesitation, who had carried unspeakable weight in silence, who hadn't let herself cry in who knows how long, who was sitting here in a storage room on the floor of a billion-dollar tower, sobbing like a child. She is a child, and yet she's still trying to send him away as if to protect him from her pain.

"I don't want to leave you alone," he said quietly because he didn't know what to else to do in that moment.

She shook her head. "You don't get it. You don't understand what I've done."

"It doesn’t matter what you’ve done," he answered.

She cried harder after that. He didn't want to leave her, but he also didn't want to stay if it made her feel worse. "Okay. I'll give you space." He stood slowly, not turning his back on her, just easing up and stepping quietly toward the door. 

Before he opened it, he looked back once. "You're not alone, Jenna. I'll be just outside."

***

For a couple of days after that, Jenna moved in the quiet corners of the penthouse, barely being seen or saying a word. She barely even came out of her room even for meals, waiting until she knew Tony was out of the kitchen to grab leftovers from the counter or fridge. He had no clue what to do with it. He didn't press, especially not after the other day, but he didn't want to wait too long to reach out.

Eventually, he decided to approach her. She was curled in the same corner of the couch with that same book in her lap, staring at the same page. Her eyes tracked the words like she was trying to make sense of them, but her mind wasn't really there.

Tony stood in the doorway for a moment before making his way over, a cup of tea in one hand. He offered it out gently. "Figured you might want this."

Jenna blinked up at him, a little startled, then hesitated before taking it. "Thanks."

He gave a half-smile, not pushing. "Do you, uh... mind if I sit?"

She shrugged and shifted to the side. "It's your couch."

Tony lowered himself on the other side slowly, with the kind of patience that didn't come naturally to him, but learned to use around her. He sat there for a moment, quietly sipping his own mug, letting the soft hum of the city through the windows fill the silence.

"You feeling any better?" he asked eventually, keeping his tone light. "After the other day."

Jenna stiffened, and kept her eyes down. "I'm fine."

"That's… not what I asked."

Her fingers tightened around the cup and her mouth pressed into a thin line, but she didn't respond.

Tony glanced over, trying to read the moment. "Look, you don't have to talk about it, but I just wanted to check in, that's all."

"I'm fine," she said again, sharper this time. "You don't need to keep asking."

He nodded slowly, letting the words settle between them. But obviously she wasn't.

After a minute, her voice broke the quiet, lower now, almost a whisper. "It wasn't supposed to be like that."

Tony turned slightly, his brow drawing together. "Like what?"

She stared at the mug in her hands for a moment, trying to find the words. "I was trained to survive and fight and follow orders. I've been through pain, I've been through hell, but I never—" Her voice caught. "I’ve never froze before."

Tony set his mug down carefully on the table. "Jenna—"

"I was weak." Her hands started to tremble so she set down the mug. "It was just a sound, a stupid noise, and all of a sudden I couldn't breathe? I thought I was stronger than that."

"You are—"

"No, I'm not." Her voice rose suddenly, hoarse and sharp and shaking. "I'm not, okay? I'm not anything. I'm a mess. I can't even make it through a couple of days without falling apart. You know I’ve killed people," she said, the words hitting like stones, hard and unrelenting. "I followed orders and I killed and I never thought twice because that's what I was made to do. And now I'm here and I'm supposed to just, what, be normal? Act like all of that didn't happen? Like I can just go to school or sit on a couch or drink tea and pretend I didn't destroy lives for people who used me like a weapon?"

She stood up suddenly, pacing the room, her arms wrapping tight around herself. "I'm not a daughter. I'm not a kid. I'm not even human sometimes. I don't sleep and I don't know how to be around people." Her words were laced with heavy frustration. "I can't stop hearing the things they said to me or the things they made me do, and every time I start to feel like I might be okay, it's like something yanks me back under and reminds me what I really am."

Tony stayed seated, watching her carefully, his heart aching with every word.

"And now you're here, trying to help me. And Pepper's here, being kind to me. And I don't know how to handle it. I don't know how to believe it's real, because it wasn't supposed to be. People like me don't get saved, Tony. We don't get a happy ending, we don't get out, and every part of me is waiting for this to go wrong. I'm already messing all of this up."

She stopped for a moment, hands shaking, eyes wide and glassy. She looked at him like she was trying to understand how he hadn't walked away yet. "I hate myself and I don't want to be me, but I don't know who I am without them," she whispered. "And... and I don't know how to be someone else. "

Tony stood slowly and walked over, hesitantly resting a hand gently on her shoulder. She didn't pull away, but she didn't lean into it either. She looked like she was bracing for something awful.

"You don't have to have it all figured out," he said softly. "You don't have to be anything but here with us, for as long as it takes."

Then, like someone had flipped a switch, her entire body went still. Her face drained of all emotion, her hands dropped to her sides, and she turned away.

"Can I go to my room now?" Her voice was flat.

Tony hesitated. "Jenna—"

"Please."

He nodded, and she walked out without looking back, leaving the mug half-full on the table and the door clicking shut behind her.

***

The next morning was quiet as Pepper stood at the counter, looking over some files. Tony sat at the table with a mug in his hands, untouched. He had been staring into it for ten minutes. Jenna hadn't come out of her room yet. It had been two days since her spiral in the living room, and all she had shown was silence from behind that closed door. She'd taken her meals in there, barely spoken more than a few words at a time. She hadn't looked either of them in the eye.

Tony ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't working."

Pepper glanced over. "I know."

"I keep thinking she's going to snap out of it. Like one day she'll just... talk again. But this isn't just about a rough week."

Pepper nodded, walking around the table and taking a seat across from him. "She's been through something none of us will ever understand."

"She's a kid, Pep. She's a kid who had to kill people and follow orders like a damn machine, and now she's here with us, trying to figure out how to be normal when nothing about her life has been." He exhaled, staring down at his hands. "I just don't know how to help her."

Pepper's voice was soft but steady. "I think it's time we ask someone who does."

Tony met her eyes.

"I've been looking into therapists," she said. "Not just any therapist, but someone who specializes in trauma, military training, PTSD, and has experience with kids. Someone who can meet her where she is."

Tony leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. His expression flickered between concern and guilt. "I don't know if she'll go," he muttered.

"I don't know either," Pepper admitted. "But I think we have to try."

Tony's eyes lingered on the hallway that led to Jenna's room. "She's definitely not the kind of kid who'll come out and say 'I need help,'" he said. "She probably doesn't even think she deserves it."

"Then we'll show her she does."

Jenna came out around midday with a hood pulled over her head and her sleeves tugged down to her knuckles. She moved slowly, drifting toward the fridge. She didn't look up when she heard Tony sitting at the counter, sipping his tea loudly.

"Hey," he said quietly.

She paused, but didn't answer.

"You want some eggs? I was about to cook."

"I'm not hungry, but thanks."

Tony nodded. "Okay."

She opened the fridge, took a bottle of water, and closed it again. Her fingers fidgeted with the cap.

He watched her carefully. "You sleep at all last night?"

She shrugged. "A little."

Tony took a deep breath. "Jenna," he said more gently this time. "Can I talk to you about something?"

Her shoulders tensed as she turned around slowly, arms folded over her chest. Her posture was guarded but she was trying not to be obvious about it. Her eyes stayed glued to the floor.

"You're not in trouble," he said quickly. "It's nothing like that. I just... Pep and I have been talking about ways we can support you better."

Jenna's gaze finally reached him and she stared at him like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Here it comes, they’re finally kicking me out.

"We're worried about you. Everything you've been through... well, it's a hell of a lot for anyone, let alone someone your age."

Her jaw tightened and she brought a hand up to rub her eyes.

"I know you're strong," he added, "you wouldn't have survived what you did if you weren't. But even strong people need help sometimes, especially the strong ones."

"I don't want to talk about it," she said quickly.

"You don't have to talk about it to Pepper and I, but I think it might be good for you to talk to someone who's trained to help and knows what they're doing."

Her expression froze, then flickered in defence. "You think I'm too messed up, don't you?"

"No," he said, immediately, "I think you've been hurt, and you don't deserve to keep carrying everything alone. All I'm saying is that it might be helpful—"

"I'm not some broken project you have to fix," she snapped, more defensive than angry.

"I know that."

"Then stop trying to patch me up like one." God, she hated herself for snapping again.

"I'm not. I just—Jenna, I've been where you are. Well, not exactly, but you know what I mean. I've had nightmares and I've looked in the mirror and hated what I saw too many times to count. I know what it's like to think you don't deserve to get better. All I'm saying is... what if there's a chance you could feel less like this? Even just a little. What if it didn't have to be this hard forever?"

Jenna’s eyes turned glassy and her voice, when it came, was quiet and strained. "What if it doesn't work? What if I'm just too... fucked up."

"Then we'll try something else," Tony said. "As many times as it takes, we will keep trying. I'm not going anywhere."

Jenna turned the water bottle in her hands slowly, contemplatively. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask."

She walked past him without another word, disappearing back down the hall, the door closing again behind her.

***

The next day, Jenna sat on the couch with her knees pressed up to her chest and her hood pulled up even though it wasn't cold. A blanket clung to her shoulders, but it didn't seem to comfort her. The television was on, flickering muted light across her face.

Tony entered quietly again. She didn't look at him, but she didn't flinch either. He took the nearby armchair and sat, sharing the silence for a few minutes.

Finally, Tony cleared his throat. "So... tomorrow?"

Jenna stiffened, just barely noticeable, and her gaze shifted to the far wall. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket, and that was all the warning he got before something inside her cracked.

"I don't want to go," she said. Her voice was tight, almost sharp, with panic that hovered close to the surface. "I'm not doing it."

"Okay," Tony replied. 

Her head turned toward him slightly. "Okay?"

"I mean, it's not ideal," he continued, "but I'm not going to drag you in kicking and screaming. That's not how this works."

Her throat bobbed and voice dropped to a whisper. "You don't get it."

"Probably not," he replied, bracing for what he knew was coming next.

"I can't tell some random person all the things I've done." The words came out faster now, relieved to be spilling out. "I can't sit there and talk about it like it's a story. I did really, really bad things. I hurt people in ways you can’t even imagine." Her breathing started to change into something faster and rougher.

Tony leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees. "Jenna."

"You'll hate me if you knew," she said, voice now trembling. "You say you won't, but you don't know everything. You have no idea what I've done or what I let them make me into. I was good at it. I was the best. Do you get that? I was proud of it." Her voice cracked hard on that word.

"I liked the praise. I let them turn me into a weapon because I thought it meant I was worth something and now I don't know how to live with that. I don't even know how to look at myself. I've been trying to act like it doesn't matter anymore," she continued spiralling, wiping her face roughly with her sleeve. "Maybe I can fake normal so no one sees how disgusting I really am or how rotten it is underneath. Every time you or Pepper are kind to me, every time I start to feel something good, I feel sick because it's not mine to feel." 

Her breathing started to get heavier and tears started welling up in her eyes. "Tony, I really don't deserve it and if I go tomorrow and I open my mouth and all of that comes out... I mean, what if you finally realize I'm not worth the effort?"

Tony took a deep breath, punching the bridge of his nose for just a moment, before making an almost intense eye contact with her. He spoke in a firm voice, "you're not a monster. You're not disgusting. You were a kid who got broken into pieces by people who never deserved you. And maybe I only know a tiny bit of what you carry and whatever it is you're afraid of, but I know that you don't need to earn kindness, Jenna. Or love. This is just basic human right."

"But I'm not good," she whispered. "You think I'm brave or strong or trying but I’m not and I hate myself, and I don't know how to stop." She folded in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her middle, as if she could hold her insides together through sheer force.

"I hate the way I've been feeling," she choked, tears blurring her vision. "I hate how angry I get, how I panic over nothing. I hate how I lash out and then feel sorry five seconds later. I hate that you try and I push you away anyway. I hate that I'm supposed to be getting better but I'm not. I'm not getting better, I'm getting worse. I hate that I'm scared all the time, and I hate that I can't trust anything, and I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself—" she grabbed her hair and pulled her knees closer to her chest.

Tony angled himself more towards her. "Hey. Hey, Jenna, breathe. You're okay. You're safe."

She shook her head, gasping through it. "I don't feel safe. I don't feel anything. I feel like I'm still in it, like they're still in my head. Every time I close my eyes I'm back there and I can't stop it."

Her whole body trembled with the effort of trying to keep it all in, but the edges were fraying. Everything was spilling out now and it didn't matter how hard she tried to shove it back inside.

Tony raised his arm to the back of the couch. "You're not supposed to have fixed it all in a couple of weeks. Or even a couple of months. You survived something unimaginable. And now you're doing the hardest thing anyone can do, you're still here."

She shook her head hard.

"You're still here," he repeated.

Jenna's arms dropped to her sides, her fists clenching. Her eyes brimmed with angry, helpless tears. "I can't do this," she said. "I can't go tomorrow. I can't sit in a room and explain why I'm so messed up. I don't even know where to start."

"You don't have to know where to start," he said. "That's what the therapist is for."

She looked at him like he didn't get it. Why the hell was he trying so hard to? There was something utterly terrifying about that, the way he kept showing up and still wanted her here even though she was acting erratically with every single thing that was being thrown her way.

"I'll even stay if you want me to," he said. "I'll sit outside the door or hang out somewhere in the building. You won't be alone."

She rubbed her sleeve under her nose. "What if I say something and they report it? They’ll probably send me to jail if they find out—"

"They won't," Tony cut her off. "I picked them myself and they don't work for anyone but the people they help."

Her whole body suddenly went still, then sort of sagged, in a way that told him she had reached her limit. She had nothing left to give tonight.

"Alright," he said gently. "That's enough for one night. No decisions, okay? I just want you to rest."

He stood and picked up the blanket that had slipped down from her shoulders. He offered it out, but she didn't move to take it, so he laid it over her. Jenna didn't say anything else after that. She turned her head toward the back of the couch and let herself fall silent, eyes fixed on nothing.

***

Jenna woke up early. Her eyes were swollen and sore, her throat felt like sandpaper, and her whole body was heavy from the hours she spent crying into her pillow until exhaustion took her. She didn't even know what her reason for crying was, all she knew was that everything was overwhelming.

Everything ached as she sat up. She sat there for a second, drawing her elbows up to her knees and pressing her palms to her eyes. She finally threw her legs over the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floor and she dragged herself toward the bathroom. She showered, brushed out her hair, and stared at herself in the mirror. The skin around her eyes was bruised with fatigue and her mouth was a hard line. Beneath the rough edges, and even deeper, past the guilt, grief, and self-loathing, there was a sliver of stubbornness. In the middle of the night, she had made the decision that she hated herself too much to let herself stay this way. If this was what Tony thought could help, then fine. She'd try.

The house was pretty quiet as she walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. She heard Tony and Pepper's voices as she neared, but when she stepped into the room they went silent. Tony looked up from where he was leaning on the island, mug in hand. Pepper, standing at the counter, turned at the same time.

Jenna stopped just inside the doorway and lifted her chin a little, even though her voice was hoarse when she spoke. "I've decided I'm going."

Tony set his mug down. "Jenna—"

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, cutting him off. "About yesterday. About everything, really. The way I've been acting and shutting down, the way I... react to things. I know I've been difficult and—" She stopped herself before saying something too harsh. Her fingers twitched at her sides, then lifted to rub at her face. "I just— I'm trying, okay? I don't know what I'm doing but I want to get better. And if this therapist can help... then I'll go."

"You don't have to go," he said in a soft voice. "No one's forcing anything. I just want you to know you have the option and that this is here for you."

"I know," Jenna said, quieter now. "But I know I need to try. I need to figure out how to live like this without ruining everything."

Pepper stepped forward, her tone soft. "You're not ruining anything, sweetheart."

Jenna gave her a faint, skeptical look, but didn't argue. "I wanna get better," she repeated, her voice steadier now. "No matter how long it takes."

Tony nodded, and something tight in his expression eased. "Okay."

***

The building was a modest brick complex tucked into the quieter end of Manhattan with an awning over the door and ivy climbing halfway up the left-hand side. It was much less impressive than Jenna thought it was going to be from seeing the way Tony lived. Jenna stood on the sidewalk just outside, arms folded tight over her chest. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands again, shoulders tucked in so she could fold herself smaller. She'd been quiet the whole ride there, but on the inside she was freaking out.

Now, she stared at the brass doorknob not daring to touch it. Her stomach churned, her head felt too full, and her limbs were leaden. She hated not knowing what waited on the other side—she had no control over what might happen.

Tony stood beside her, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. "You ready?"

Jenna didn't look at him, but she gave a slight nod that felt like dragging a whole planet uphill. Then, with a sharp inhale through her nose, she reached forward and pushed the door open.

The waiting room was quiet and plain: two chairs, a couch, and a bookshelf near the far wall full of self care books and a diffuser. The walls were painted a warm gray and a small desk lamp glowed next to a small speaker playing soothing music. Jenna sat down on the couch, stiff at first, then leaning over to rest her elbows on her knees, eyes glued on her shoes and letting her pulse slow down one beat at a time. 

After a minute or two, a soft voice called her name. "Jenna?"

She looked up. The woman standing in the doorway was tall, but not imposing. Her dark curly hair was loosely pinned back, and she wore a light blue blouse under a long cardigan. She looked about as threatening as a librarian. Jenna didn't move.

Tony gave her a gentle nudge with his knee. "I'll be right here. Or out front, wherever you want me."

Jenna swallowed hard, stood slowly, and followed the woman into the next room. The inside wasn't like any of the interrogation rooms she'd known. It was empty of any two-way mirrors, shackles and chairs bolted to the ground. Instead there was a wide, low window that let in a soft morning light, a pair of soft armchairs angled toward each other, and a small side table with a pitcher of water and a box of tissues. Jenna stood just inside the threshold, scanning everything and marking down the exits and all possible weapons. Her heart still hadn't slowed down one bit.

The woman walked over to the far chair and sat with a soft sigh, crossing her legs. Her posture was open and comfortable. "My name is Dr. Lauren Miro," she said after a moment. "You can call me Lauren, or Doc, or nothing at all if that's easier. I don't mind."

Jenna stared at the floor and let her fingers become busy picking at the edges of her skin.

"Would you like to sit?" Lauren gestured to the chair across from her.

Jenna hesitantly moved to the edge of the wide windowsill instead. She kept one foot up in front of her and the other on the ground. It felt better to keep her options open.

“First sessions are a little strange,” Lauren said. “You don’t know me yet, and I don’t know you. We could sit in silence, and that would be fine. Or we could talk about anything you want, like what you had for breakfast, a book you like, what you see outside the window. This doesn’t have to be a story about your past, it can just be about you right now.”

Jenna’s jaw clenched. What breakfast? I haven’t eaten. But she didn’t say that, she just kept quiet.

Lauren folded her hands loosely in her lap. “You’ve been through a lot. I won’t ask you to jump into the hardest parts, so I will ask you something simple. How does your body feel right now?”

Jenna frowned. What kind of question is that? Her first instinct was to shrug, to say my body is just fine and it’s none of your business anyways, but something about the way Lauren had asked made lying harder. Besides, she already committed to the fact that she was going to try. She thought about how her shoulders were practically inside her ears and her heart was punching at her ribs.

“Tight,” she muttered, so quietly she almost hoped it wouldn’t be heard.

Lauren nodded, gentle. “Tight. Can you show me where?”

Jenna hesitated, then lifted one hand and tapped her chest, right where it hurt.

“Thank you,” Lauren said softly, as though Jenna had just given her a gift. “That’s good to notice. When we go through hard things, our bodies keep holding on to them even when we’re in new places. Sometimes the body lets you know that before the mind does.”

Jenna looked down quickly. She didn’t like the idea that anyone could read her just by looking. That was Jenna’s job.

Lauren waited a bit before continuing. “Do you want me to show you something? It might help loosen that tight feeling. If it doesn’t, you don’t have to do it again.”

Jenna shrugged, sleeves still twisted between her fingers.

“Okay,” Lauren said. She lifted one hand, slow enough for Jenna to see every movement. “Take your thumb, and press it into the middle of your opposite palm firmly, but not so hard that its painfull. Just hold it there.”

Jenna watched suspiciously.

“Then breathe in,” Lauren said, demonstrating. “And out.”

Jenna swallowed. She didn’t move at first, but her chest ached, and the room was too quiet, and she needed something to do with her hands besides destroy her sleeves. So she tried.

Her thumb pressed into her palm, and she took a shallow inhale, then a jerky exhale.

Lauren breathed with her, slow and steady. She didn’t exaggerate, but she did it loud enough so that Jenna could hear the rhythm. After a few rounds, Jenna’s shoulders sagged an inch. She hated that it helped. She hated that this stranger might be right abut something.

“Better?” Lauren asked.

Jenna gave a small shrug again, slightly softer than before.

“That’s all right. Sometimes it helps a little, sometimes not at all. It’s just a tool you can carry.”

Jenna’s eyes flicked up at the doctor’s face and saw only patience.

“Can I ask what it was like, coming here today?” Lauren asked after a pause.

Jenna’s fingers curled tight again. The words pressed against her teeth before she could stop them. “I didn’t want to.”

“That makes sense,” Lauren said, and nothing else.

Jenna frowned. That was it? No lecture? No but it’s good for you?

Lauren leaned back in her chair, letting the silence stretch. “What made you decide to walk through the door anyway?”

Jenna thought about Tony waiting outside, about Pepper folding clothes at the end of her bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made her stomach twist. She didn’t want to say those things out loud, because it felt like weakness, so she gave the smallest answer possible.

“They said it might help.”

“That’s honest,” Lauren said. “And brave too, to try something even when you don’t want to.”

Jenna’s cheeks burned. Brave. That wasn’t quite the word Jenna would use. Brave is missions and blades and finishing what you started, not shaking on a windowsill.

She muttered, “I’m not brave.”

Lauren tilted her head slightly. “You don’t feel brave?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Lauren said again, without argument. “What do you feel?”

Jenna’s throat closed. It occurred to her that she had never been asked that before. She was only ever asked things like did you complete the objective or were there any delays in execution. How did she feel? She didn’t know how to answer that one very well.

“Nothing, I guess,” she said, steeling her voice. “I don’t feel anything.”

Lauren nodded. “Numb?”

Jenna dug her thumb into her palm. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out so she gave a small nod back.

“That’s not unusual after what you’ve been through,” Lauren said. “Numbness is a way the mind protects itself when everything is too much. It doesn’t mean you’re broken.”

Jenna’s head jerked up, eyes flashing for the first time. “I am broken, that’s why I’m here.”

The words ripped out before she could stop them.

Lauren’s expression softened, but she didn’t argue. “It feels like that,” she said.

Jenna glared down at her shoes, jaw trembling. Her eyes burned but no tears came. She hated herself for blurting it out.

Lauren let the silence breathe again before asking, “what would it mean to you, if it were true? If you were broken?”

Jenna’s stomach twisted. She whispered, “Then it can’t be fixed.”

Lauren nodded, slow. “That’s a heavy belief to carry at fourteen.”

Jenna squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop saying fourteen like it matters.”

“It matters to me,” Lauren said gently. “Because you weren’t supposed to carry what you did at that age. No child is.”

Jenna’s nails bit her skin so hard it stung.

Lauren’s voice stayed even. “You don’t have to tell me what you went through yet, but I want you to know something before we finish.” She leaned forward just slightly. “You are not a machine that needs fixing. You’re a person who survived, and we can work together on what comes next.”

Jenna’s throat closed around a lump. She wanted to scoff, to spit something sharp, but the words stuck.

Her thumb pressed harder into her palm, the grounding trick. She hated that she was using it.

“Would it be okay if, next time,” Lauren started, “we started with something simple again? Start with the present, like how your body feels, what your mornings are like. Small things.”

Jenna nodded, tiny, like a hinge creaking.

Lauren smiled softly. “Okay, perfect. That’s enough for today. You did well.” The words felt foreign. Jenna shifted uncomfortably, tugging her sleeves lower.

When she stood, her legs felt heavy. She followed Lauren to the door, every muscle still ready to run if needed.

The elevator was quiet on the way down. Jenna stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, back rigid against the corner of the panel. Her reflection stared back at her in the polished metal, eyes puffy, mouth drawn tight, jaw locked so hard it hurt. She didn't look at Pepper or Tony and kept her mouth closed. By the time they reached the car, Jenna climbed into the back and pulled her knees up into her chest, curling against the window and resting her forehead against the glass.

Outside, the city rolled by in blurry blocks of concrete and sunlight. She watched as people passed on sidewalks, talking, laughing, living normal lives. Jenna hated that she didn't know what that felt like. She hated that even trying to know had left her cracked and aching. Her stomach churned and the feeling of nausea creeped up on her. Her face was hot and her chest wouldn't unclench. The session hadn't even gone badly; it was the feeling of being exposed that was unbearable to her. When they finally reached the tower, Jenna didn't wait until the car was parked to bolt out of the car. 

She could hear Pepper calling gently behind her, "Jenna, honey, wait a sec," but she didn't stop.

She pressed the elevator button and stepped inside, slumping hard against the wall. She made it to her room and collapsed onto the bed, burying her face in her arms. All the talking and the idea that someone else was going to know things about her, or at least had gotten close, was all too much. She was overwhelmed with shame and exhaustion. But still, something felt a little bit different, as if one brick had been pulled loose from the wall inside her chest for the first time. She hated that it made her feel like crying.

***

—One Year Later—

The scent of the room was familiar and comforting now. Sunlight filtered in through the low windows, catching in the fibers of the couch where Jenna sat, legs pulled up loosely in front of her. The chair across from her was occupied, like always, by Dr. Lauren Miro who kept her notebook open in front of her. Jenna fidgeted with the sleeve of her hoodie like she always did. It was one of Tony's old ones this time that she took off the back of his chair in the lab once and never returned.

"So," Lauren said gently, her voice as even and unobtrusive as ever, "how have your past couple of days been? How are classes going?"

Jenna had been coming here about four times a week since she had started, and a few months ago she finally felt like she had made some really good progress.

"Mmmmm," Jenna hummed, shrugging. "Fine."

"Fine," Lauren echoed, with a hint of a smile. "That usually means something happened."

Jenna hesitated for a moment, weighing the risk, before muttering, "I said something really stupid."

"What made it feel stupid?"

Jenna breathed out through her nose, rubbing her face. "Ugghhh," she half sighed, curling up a bit tighter. "We were in the lab, Tony and I. Just messing with some stabilizer design and... I don't know, it was going well, and we were joking, laughing, and then we made a breakthrough and then I..." She closed her eyes like she could physically rewind it, shaking her head. "I accidentally called him Dad."

Lauren just nodded.

"I didn't mean to," Jenna said quickly, like it mattered. "It just... slipped out. I've never done that before, obviously. Oh man, I felt so dumb."

"What happened after?"

Jenna picked at a loose thread, humming again, "mmmm, well he didn't freak out, which was like, kinda weird. He just touched my shoulder and said there was nothing to apologize for. I don’t know." She swallowed hard.

"You're trying to downplay it again—how it felt, your emotions, the whole experience. What else happened? There's more to it, isn't there?" She asked. This was one of their agreements, or at least something Jenna told her to do: call her on her bullshit.

Jenna exhaled. "You're right. He acted normal about it and that felt nice. And... Well, yesterday he told me he had been talking with Pepper." Jenna took a deep breath, and her eyes started to water. "He said that if I wanted this to be permanent, like me staying with him, he was ready. Adoption. He even said the papers are sorted if I choose to stay."

"And how did that feel?" Lauren asked, nodding. Jenna caught the corner of her mouth turning upwards for a brief moment.

"I don't know." The words came fast, but her tone was shaky now. "I said yes. I didn't even think, I just said it because I want it. I want it so bad it hurts. The thing is though, I really don't get why he’d want me, right? I've told him things I've done, things I've been through. I mean obviously I'm not normal and I sure as hell ain't easy to take care of. But I'm not someone you just choose, you know?" She laughed once, but it was hollow. "I spent half my life being a weapon, and now I'm supposed to be someone's kid? I know we've talked about this, but that just... it doesn't make sense."

"It makes sense that you'd question it," Lauren said softly. "When people have made you feel disposable for so long, being chosen can feel suspicious and painful. Terrifying, even."

Jenna nodded slowly, her throat tight, pressing her thumb to the centre of her palm.

"But it's not just about what you've done," Lauren continued. "It's about who you are now, and who you're becoming."

"Yeah. I've worked so hard," Jenna whispered. Her hands were in her lap now, clenched tight. "Harder than I ever did in ORCHID. That place taught me how to fight and obey. But learning how to be... normal and feel safe even in my own skin... learning how to feel anything at all without shutting down or lashing out has been harder than any mission they've ever given me."

There was silence for a few seconds.

"Yet still," Lauren said quietly, "you've done it. You're doing it."

Jenna wiped at her cheek roughly, annoyed to find it wet. "What if I mess it up? What if I forget how to do this and I go back to being the old version of me?"

"You won't. But if it does happen, we'll keep working together," Lauren said. "You're not alone, Jenna. You're not property or someone's tool, you're a person. And you're allowed to want good things. You're worthy of it and you deserve it. You always have."

Jenna nodded, blinking fast. Her jaw clenched. "I just... it’s hard to believe that all the time, but I'll try."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and let a smile form on her lips.