Chapter Text
The press conference was over. The lights had dimmed, the reporters scattered, and Valentina de Fontaine had swept out with the self-satisfaction of a woman who thought she’d just rewritten the last page of American history.
She hadn’t. Not really. The “New Avengers” announcement—complete with its sleek new branding and unconvincing smiles—might’ve looked clean on camera, but Bucky Barnes could still smell the blood and shadow in the seams of it. Literally and figuratively. The floor under his boots still creaked like the bones of the city they’d just barely pulled back from the Shadow Realm. And he could still feel it—like soot under his skin. Like a dream that never let go.
The others had scattered across the half-built tower, the only floor in the damn place that was fully operational. Floor 42. Irony, maybe. The elevators only worked to here, and anything higher still had raw wires hanging like veins in drywall.
Alexei was telling a story in the corner. Something about Cuban cigars and how he once wrestled a genetically modified gorilla in the ’80s. Yelena, sitting nearby on a stacked crate, leaned into Bob with an exhausted smirk, her shoulder brushing his. Bob—still pale, still with that half-lost look like he hadn’t quite rejoined the world—laughed softly, more at her reaction than the story. Ava sat cross-legged a few feet away, tuning something in her gauntlet. And John Walker leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, one boot braced against the wall, not talking, not quite gone, but detached.
Nobody said it, but they all felt the same thing. That weight in the air. The quiet between storms.
Bucky sat on the edge of a tool crate and stared at the space between his boots. His uniform still smelled like smoke and asphalt. His vibranium arm was scratched, but not enough to count. He hadn’t said much since they came back. Since they made it out.
Since New York made it out.
Someone—probably one of the PR handlers—had left bottled water and a tray of nutrition bars on a folding table. Bucky hadn’t touched any of it.
His phone buzzed once, face down on the crate next to him.
He didn’t look. He knew who it was.
Sam’s gonna be pissed.
But not because of what Valentina said at the end.
He could still hear her voice, like syrup over steel: “And now, America, meet your new Avengers.”
It had felt wrong the second she said it. Like wearing someone else’s dog tags. Like standing in a uniform that didn’t belong to him.
Yelena had muttered something sharp in Russian under her breath. Even Bob, freshly scrubbed from being the cause of half the devastation, had winced at the title.
But Sam—Sam wouldn’t believe Bucky had anything to do with that. He’d know Bucky didn’t ask for this spotlight. He never wanted it.
No, Sam would be angry about something else. Bucky knew exactly what.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Not during the chaos. No one could have. Not when the city dipped into that oily unreality, when phones stopped working and time bent sideways. Not when the Shadow Realm had wrapped around their necks like a noose.
But before that.
When they knew Bob—Sentry—would be a problem.
When the sky cracked open, and something deep and old and broken slipped through.
That’s when Bucky should’ve picked up the damn phone.
But he hadn’t.
Because something in him—some quiet, self-destructive reflex—had whispered: Don’t drag Sam into this. Don’t let him see you fail.
But that wasn’t protection. That was shame.
The elevator dinged.
Everyone went still.
Bucky didn’t look up. Not yet.
He knew that sound, knew the rhythm of those footsteps even before the doors fully opened.
Yelena’s brow arched slightly. “Well, that was fast.”
Alexei opened his mouth like he was going to say something dramatic. Then caught the look on Sam Wilson’s face and wisely shut it.
Bob stood, awkward and tall, then sat back down just as quickly, gaze flicking toward Yelena. She gave a small nod. It was okay. He didn’t have to say anything.
Sam’s suit was still a little dirty. Like he’d just landed hard, like he’d flown in fast to get there.
He walked in like he knew exactly where he was going—and he did. His eyes didn’t scan the room. They locked on Bucky and didn’t move.
Bucky stood slowly. Like the guilt in his chest was made of metal.
For a beat, no one spoke.
Then Yelena stood and said quietly, “We’re going to… check out the roof.”
Alexei nodded. “Yes. Fresh air is good. Very good for stress.”
Ava followed, wordless.
Bob hesitated. He looked at Bucky—then Sam—then turned and quietly slipped out beside Yelena.
Walker lingered.
His eyes flicked between the two of them. Then he gave a shrug, pushed off the wall, and muttered, “Don’t break anything important. We just got the damn floor working.”
The door shut behind him.
And then there was only Sam and Bucky.