Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The locker room stank of wet earth, adrenaline, and quiet humiliation.

Rain tapped steadily on the fogged windows like a slow metronome. Inside, the silence was unbearable. The game had ended thirty minutes ago, but the ache of loss still hung heavy, coiled in shoulders and silence. No one moved. Not really. They just sat in the mess of it—muddy jerseys half-peeled off, socks stuck to calves, cleats discarded like broken bones across the floor.

Coach Alexei hadn’t spoken yet. He stood near the whiteboard, hand clenched around a dry-erase marker he hadn’t touched. His jaw was tight. He looked like a man biting his own rage in half, tasting blood.

From the far end of the bench, Bucky sat motionless, elbows on his knees, his dark curls still damp with sweat. His jersey clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. He just stared at the floor, as if it might offer an answer.

No one could tell he was trying not to throw up.

Two years ago, he was the son of a man who carved his name into the back pages of true crime documentaries. Now he was just the captain of a team that couldn’t win. The guilt never left. Sometimes it was a hum under his skin, other times a scream. Today it was silence. Screaming silence.

Jon sat across the room, his thigh bouncing with restless energy. His knuckles were raw again, scraped open during a slide tackle no one asked him to make. He tapped his foot like he was building up to an explosion.

Then he said it.

“Fucking useless.”

The words snapped through the room like a whip.

Yelena’s breath caught. She sat on the floor by the showers, back against the wall, knees drawn up tightly to her chest. Her goalie jersey hung off one shoulder. Damp strands of blonde hair clung to her cheeks. She looked small. Pale.

“She didn’t block a single shot,” Jon added, louder now. Meaner.

Bucky looked up sharply.

Yelena blinked hard. Once. Her heart felt like it had dropped through the floor, but she didn’t flinch. She just curled in tighter.

“I said shut up,” Ava muttered from behind her locker door, voice low, measured, but seething. “You missed two tackles. Wanna start keeping score?”

There was something jagged in her tone. Protective. Dangerous.

Jon turned toward her, eyes flaring with something more than irritation. But when he met her gaze, something else passed between them—an electric, bitter thread of shared secrets and bruised vulnerability. His eyes lingered on her for half a second too long.

And Ava looked back.

Not a glance. A lock. The kind that meant: I know what you are when we’re alone.

Then it was over. She turned away, pulling on her hoodie with sharp, angry movements. Her hands trembled for a moment. She clenched them into fists to hide it.

Bucky exhaled slowly, grounding himself. Natasha stood nearby, arms crossed, posture perfect. Her expression unreadable, eyes fixed on the whiteboard. She hadn’t said a word.

But when Jon muttered something under his breath again—“Goalkeeper my ass”—her gaze slid sideways. Only for a second. Toward Yelena.

A flash of emotion passed across Natasha’s face. Not pity. Not quite. Maybe regret. Maybe the sick taste of memory: a sister in a world that demanded too much, too soon.

Bob sat three lockers down, hoodie up, eyes on the floor. His left hand rubbed the inside of his right wrist absently. A twitch. A tick. The skin there was angry and red under the cuff.

Yelena saw it.

She turned her face away, her throat tightening. She hated that she noticed. Hated that her first feeling was recognition. Then shame.

Bob’s hand twitched again. He was trying to stop. He really was.

He glanced up once—just once—toward her.

She wasn’t looking.

Antonia stood at the edge of it all, shoulders tight, hands clenched around her water bottle like it was the only real thing in the room. She hadn’t said a word. Her face was blank, composed in that way that wasn’t real calm—just a mask she learned young. Sometimes the silence helped. Sometimes it was all she had.

Alexei finally turned.

“You want pity?” His voice cracked through the quiet like a pistol. “That’s what you’ll get. A sad article in the school paper. ‘Shostakov’s Team Falls Again.’ Another joke.”

He looked at them one by one. His eyes didn’t soften.

Except—when they landed on Natasha. A second passed. Just one. The fury faded from his gaze, barely, and a flicker of guilt bloomed in its place. Then it vanished.

“We train tomorrow,” he said. “5:30. No excuses. You’re late, you don’t come. You’re soft, you don’t come. You don’t want this, don’t waste my fucking time.”

He dropped the marker on the floor and left. The door slammed shut behind him like a final judgment.

For a moment, no one moved.

Natasha stepped away from the wall. “He’s right,” she said. Her voice was even. But her fists were clenched. “We’re playing like ghosts.”

“We are ghosts,” Yelena said softly.

Ava stood up. “Speak for yourself.”

Yelena’s lips pressed together. Ava wasn’t mad at her. Not really. But she looked at everyone like she was waiting for them to turn on her. Like they had before. Like they always might.

Jon reached into his bag and grabbed a protein bar. He didn’t eat it. Just unwrapped it, tore off a piece, and let it sit in his palm.

“Anyone want half?” he asked, voice light, fake.

No one answered.

Yelena finally stood, slow and stiff. She walked past Bob, brushing close without meaning to. He stiffened at the contact.

She hesitated at the door. Looked back once. At Natasha. Then at Bob.

He was already staring at her. This time, she saw it.

And she looked away.

The storm outside grew louder. But inside the locker room, the quiet was deafening.

⧗

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting the empty locker room in a sterile, sour hue. The others had left—one by one, slowly, avoiding eye contact and dragging the weight of another loss behind them like broken bones.

Natasha stayed behind, still in uniform, sitting alone on the wooden bench by the far wall. Her cleats were unlaced, her hands idle in her lap. Her expression was blank, almost cold. But that was a lie. She was just very good at hiding things.

The door creaked open again, and she knew it was him before she looked.

Bucky stepped back inside, moving like a ghost. His jersey was gone now, replaced by a black hoodie, still damp around the collar. He closed the door softly behind him, but it still sounded like a verdict.

“You okay?” he asked.

It was a stupid question. He knew it. But it was the only one he had.

Natasha didn’t look up. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

The silence between them was familiar. It wasn’t empty. It was filled with the kind of things you don’t say around other people. The things that would ruin you if you said them out loud.

He crossed the room slowly and sat beside her. Not too close. Not yet. The bench creaked under his weight.

“It wasn’t Yelena’s fault,” she said, voice soft but sharp around the edges. “Jon’s just pissed we lost again. He wants someone to bleed for it.”

“She shouldn’t have to.”

“She always has.”

Bucky glanced over at her, eyes shadowed. “So have you.”

Natasha flinched—almost imperceptibly—but didn’t turn to him. Her hands tightened in her lap.

“That’s not the same,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

There was a long pause. The sound of the rain hitting the rooftop was louder now, filling in all the space between words. Natasha breathed in slowly through her nose.

“I’m trying to keep her safe,” she said. “That’s all I’ve ever tried to do.”

Bucky didn’t speak right away. He looked at her hands instead. The fingers were curled tightly together, knuckles pale. The same hands that had gripped his neck the night she first kissed him like she needed to be ruined by something of her own choosing.

“She looks up to you,” he said.

“She shouldn’t.”

He reached out, gently brushing his fingers against hers. Just once. Just enough to make her look at him.

“She should.”

That cracked something. Not broken, not shattered—just a tiny fracture through the surface of her mask. Natasha blinked, slowly. Her eyes looked tired. More than tired. Haunted.

“Sometimes I wish I’d never come back to this town,” she murmured.

“You didn’t,” he said. “You never really did.”

Her lips twitched—something between a smile and a wound. She turned toward him fully now, legs angled so her knees barely touched his. The closeness made her stomach twist.

“You’re not exactly built for pep talks, you know.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“What are you trying to be?”

The question hung there. It could have meant anything. A boyfriend. A secret. A shield. A ghost.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, slow. Measured.

“Yours,” he said quietly.

Natasha looked down at their hands. Her fingers moved, hesitant, and then slowly curled around his.

“I don’t know how to be loved,” she said. “I only know how to be used.”

Bucky swallowed. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t. That she never had to be again. But he knew words like that didn’t mean anything to girls like her. You had to prove it. Every time. Over and over. Like penance.

So instead he just said: “Then I’ll wait.”

She leaned into him after that, resting her forehead against his shoulder. His hand moved up instinctively, resting gently at the back of her neck. They stayed like that for a long time. No rush. No promises. Just silence.

Outside, the storm kept beating against the windows like a warning. But inside, for just a moment, there was quiet.

And the shape of something fragile, and real, and impossible.

Chapter Text

The locker room after practice was always too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, not the good kind. It was a heavy, close sort of silence—the kind that sank its teeth into the corners of the room and held on. It pressed in around the edges of your hearing, made your pulse seem louder than it should’ve been. The kind of quiet that clung to your skin like a film of sweat and humidity—wet, unrelenting, and impossible to shake off no matter how hard you scrubbed. The walls were lined with chipped gray paint and rusted lockers that echoed the years of fists slammed against them. There was an old radio mounted above the coach’s office door, but no one ever turned it on anymore. The overhead lights buzzed with a dull, uneven drone, one of them flickering every few seconds near the back shower stall like a broken metronome keeping time with regret.

Jon sat alone on the bench in the farthest corner, the one closest to the exit but somehow the hardest to leave. His shirt was peeled off and forgotten at his feet, soaked in sweat and streaked with dirt. His forearms rested on his knees, his hands hanging loose between them, knuckles raw and scabbed from something he hadn’t talked about. His shoulders were hunched, jaw clenched like a trap waiting to spring. His cleats were still on, caked in thick, wet mud from the field, leaving streaks on the floor like drag marks from something wounded. The bruising around his left eye—an ugly, sprawling thing from last week’s fight—had started to fade from violent purple into sickly green and yellow. It looked like a rotten plum beneath the skin, something ripening in reverse. He hadn’t iced it. He didn’t care to.

The door creaked open behind him.

He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t have to.

He could feel her before he saw her. Ava always moved like a warning. Even now, she didn’t slam the door, didn’t stomp in or call out—but her presence cut through the still air like a blade. She walked in without a word, without hesitation. Her jersey clung to her back with sweat and rain, the number nearly transparent in the wet fabric. Her cleats squelched against the tile, echoing in a way that made the room feel even more cavernous. Her hair—usually tied back in that high, no-nonsense ponytail—had come loose in chunks, sticking to her neck and collarbone in damp, tangled ropes. There was mud on her calves, blood under one fingernail.

She didn’t look at him as she passed.

She walked past the empty benches, past the rows of lockers, past the forgotten piles of towels and abandoned mouth guards. She didn’t flinch when her elbow grazed a dent in the metal—one Jon had left there two months ago in a fit of rage neither of them had talked about since. She moved with the precision of someone avoiding landmines. Like even this walk, even this silence, was something rehearsed.

She stopped in front of his bench, didn’t speak, didn’t sigh.

Just bent down and crouched to unlace her cleats.

Jon didn’t move. He watched the back of her neck, the tense line of her spine under the cling of her wet jersey, the sharp movements of her hands. There was dirt on her cheek, just under her jaw. Her knuckles were scraped too. He wondered who she’d punched. He hoped it wasn’t herself.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was thick. Dense. Saturated with every word they hadn’t said and every moment they couldn’t take back. It was filled to the brim with the weight of what they were doing—what they had done and continued to do even though neither of them dared to call it by name. The tension wasn’t new. It had been building for months now, thickening in the corners of rooms, in the shadows of glances, in the way their hands would linger too long or shoulders brushed just a little too close in the hall. It had built and built until it collapsed into something messy and undeniable one night in the backseat of her truck, rain pounding the windshield like gunfire, and neither of them had stopped it.

And now—this.

Jon’s voice finally cut the air, rough from disuse. “You gonna ignore me forever?”

Ava didn’t look up. Her fingers worked the knot in her laces, her head bowed like she hadn’t even heard him. “We don’t talk,” she said simply. “That’s the deal.”

His brow furrowed. “That’s not a deal. That’s avoidance.”

“You say that like you’re not the king of avoidance.”

His laugh wasn’t really a laugh. It was more of a scoff, bitter and dry. “Touché.”

She finally looked at him.

Her eyes weren’t cold. They were worse than that. Hollow. Like she’d emptied herself just to survive the day. Like there was too much inside her and too little at the same time. She looked like a person unraveling slowly and deliberately, thread by thread.

“This doesn’t mean anything, Jon,” she said.

His jaw ticked. He didn’t flinch. “Yeah?” he murmured, leaning forward slightly. “Then why are you shaking?”

Her fingers froze at her ankle.

She hadn’t realized it. Not until he said it. But now, it was undeniable—the small, involuntary tremble of her hands, the subtle clench of her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth. Her body betrayed her in ways her voice couldn’t.

“Go to hell,” she said, the words brittle, cracked.

She stood quickly, spun on her heel, and started toward the showers like she could walk the feelings off. Like the hot water could scald away the guilt, the shame, the need. The moment her back was turned, Jon reached out—not to stop her, not really. Just to connect. Just to feel.

His hand caught her wrist, gently. No force. Just contact. His fingers barely curled around her, the pad of his thumb brushing over the inside of her wrist where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.

“I already live there, Ava,” he said softly.

She froze.

Their eyes met. Her lips parted like she was about to speak, like the words were caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat—but whatever she might’ve said died before it reached her mouth. Her eyes searched his face like she hated how well she knew it. Like she hated that she cared.

Then she pulled away.

She disappeared behind the row of metal partitions, the sound of the shower hissing to life moments later. The noise filled the space she left behind, but it didn’t cover anything. It just layered on top of everything else. It echoed off the tile and steel, the sound of hot water crashing against cold ceramic like a warzone.

Jon sat still for a long time.

He exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding it since last Tuesday. His shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out in slow drips. He stared down at his hands, the ones that had touched her skin seconds ago, the ones that still remembered the shape of her wrist. He flexed his fingers like they didn’t belong to him. Like he didn’t trust himself anymore. Like he wasn’t sure if he ever had.

The silence returned eventually, reclaiming the locker room like a tide. But it was worse now. Heavier. More suffocating.

It wasn’t just silence anymore.

It was her absence.

✦

Bob didn’t go to practice.

He told himself it was because his ankle was sore, that the way it had twisted on Tuesday hadn’t healed right, that Coach Alexei wouldn’t notice or care much either way. He told himself a lot of things. That he needed rest. That the team would be fine without him for one day. That maybe staying home meant he could finally get a handle on the anxiety humming in his spine like a live wire.

But the truth was uglier. Softer. More pathetic.

He couldn’t look at Yelena today. Not after yesterday—after seeing her take that brutal hit during scrimmage, her shoulder slamming into the turf hard enough that the sound of it still echoed behind his teeth. She didn’t even flinch. No wince. No hissed curse. Just stood, brushed herself off, and jogged back to formation like nothing had happened.

And Bob had just stood there, frozen in place, wanting to run to her, to say something—anything. But knowing if he had, she would’ve looked at him with that same cold disinterest she saved for everyone who disappointed her. She wouldn’t have wanted him. Not there. Not then. Not ever.

So he didn’t go.

Instead, he found himself drifting, pulled like a tide toward the church basement two blocks from his apartment. He didn’t even remember deciding to go. He just ended up there, as if his body knew what he needed before his brain could protest.

The building was old, the kind of old that didn’t carry charm—just the slow rot of time. The steps creaked under his weight. The door hinges whined like they were in pain. The hallway to the basement was narrow and poorly lit, smelling faintly of dust, old varnish, and the ghost of potlucks long past.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with the faint flicker of dying tubes. Metal folding chairs formed a ring in the center of the room, their surfaces cold even through thick jeans, groaning quietly whenever someone shifted their weight. A battered coffee urn hissed in the corner, surrounded by Styrofoam cups and powdered creamer packets. The linoleum floor was speckled with stains—coffee, probably. Or something else.

The NA meeting began the way they always did. The facilitator, a soft-spoken man with lines around his eyes and a voice like sandpaper over velvet, welcomed everyone and asked if they would join him in the serenity prayer.

“God, grant me the serenity…”

Some people mumbled along. Others whispered. Bob just sat there, hands clenched in the sleeves of his hoodie, mouth shut. He mouthed the words but didn’t breathe them. He didn’t feel entitled to them today.

The introductions came next. One by one, people offered names, days clean, a glimpse into the battles they’d fought just to make it into this room. “Hi, I’m Mark, I’m an addict.” “Hi, I’m Dani, I’m in recovery.” “Hi, I’m James—ninety-four days clean.” Applause followed each name, the soft, sympathetic kind. Not the kind you hear at pep rallies or stadiums. The kind you give someone who’s still bleeding but standing.

Bob said nothing.

He kept his head down, hood up, hands tucked firmly under his thighs. He didn’t want anyone to see the bandages peeking out from beneath his sleeves—hastily wrapped this morning with surgical tape and cotton pads from the first aid box under his sink. His fingers trembled with phantom memory—he could still feel the sting, the pressure, the relief that came with it, immediate and false.

He hadn’t even meant to do it. Not really. It had been automatic, like scratching an itch. But the guilt came after. It always did. And it clung to him like fog, filling his lungs with every breath he took.

A woman across the circle began to speak. She was older—maybe late forties—with bleached blonde hair scraped into a ponytail, half-grown roots a dusky brown. Her lipstick was faded and smudged on one corner, and she smiled the way people do when they’ve cried too much and still have more left.

She spoke about shame. About how it doesn’t just arrive all at once—it builds. Quietly. Steadily. Like a house you don’t remember constructing until one day you’re inside it, and there are too many rooms and no windows, and the walls are so close you can’t stretch your arms without hitting something. She talked about the weight of secrets. How they press on your chest at night. How you learn to breathe around them like cracked ribs.

Bob stared at the floor the entire time, heart thudding too loud in his ears. Her words rang uncomfortably close. Too close. Like she’d read the journal he didn’t keep or cracked open the parts of his head he tried to bury.

When the meeting ended, it was quiet. Not empty quiet, but the quiet of people trying to gather themselves back into the shape of a person before stepping out into the world again. Some stayed behind to chat, offering each other sideways smiles or light touches on the shoulder. Others filed out alone, heads down, coats buttoned up too tight.

Bob lingered.

He watched the hands of the clock tick past the hour, feeling the weight of each second settle between his ribs. Eventually, he stood and walked toward the back exit—not the front where the sun still shone, but the alley door, where the air was dim and smelled of wet asphalt.

Rain had fallen earlier. The ground was still slick, and droplets slipped down from the rusted gutters overhead, falling with soft, arrhythmic splashes into puddles below. He leaned against the brick wall, hoodie drawn tight over his head, letting the damp air cool his skin.

He didn’t cry.

But he thought about it.

And maybe, if someone had passed by and asked if he was okay, if someone had just looked at him long enough, he might have. But no one did.

So he stayed there, letting the quiet wrap around him, waiting for something to change.

✦

The practice field was empty now, lit only by the dying gold of a late autumn sky. The grass was damp and soft under Bucky’s cleats, the earth soggy from an afternoon drizzle that hadn’t been heavy enough to cancel practice but left everything smelling of petrichor and decay. Fallen leaves stuck to the chain-link fence like wilted prayers. The whistle blasts and shouting had all faded, replaced by the distant drone of cars and the rustling of wind through the skeleton trees.

Bucky stood near the goal line, his breath fogging faintly in the cooling air. He stripped off his sweat-drenched jersey with a tired, deliberate motion, dragging it over his head like it weighed twice what it should. The cotton clung to his shoulder blades before peeling off with a damp snap. His undershirt followed. A long, shallow bruise darkened his ribs, blooming down the curve of his side like a mark from a fight he hadn’t even remembered taking part in. His muscles ached—the kind of ache that used to feel good. Earned. Honest.

Now it just reminded him he was still here.

Alive. Maybe. In pieces, definitely.

He tilted his head to the sky, jaw clenched, veins visible in his neck. Somewhere behind his sternum, the tight knot of guilt and longing and confusion wound itself tighter, like a wire being twisted and twisted until something had to snap.

He didn’t hear Natasha approach.

She never made much noise when she didn’t want to be seen. She moved like she was part of the wind—no footsteps, no voice, just the sharp shift in atmosphere. A presence before a sound.

She emerged from the shadows near the bleachers, her long braid trailing over her shoulder like a piece of armor unraveling. The late sunlight caught the wet strands, making her hair look darker than usual, as if it had soaked up the color of the sky.

“You’re gonna pull something if you keep pushing like that,” she said, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The sleeves of her team hoodie were pushed up to her elbows, revealing old scars along the crooks of her arms—faded, like erased lines on a page that still remembered what had been written there.

Bucky didn’t turn right away. He let her voice soak into his skin before responding. “I like the pain,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

He turned then. Slowly. Deliberately. His hair clung to his temples with sweat, and his chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths. When he looked at her, he didn’t smirk, didn’t flinch. Just looked.

Her lips were pale, her eyes rimmed in exhaustion. There were purplish shadows beneath them, the kind that came from too many nights spent staring at the ceiling, too many mornings where waking up felt like resurfacing from a near-drowning. He knew those signs. Too well. He’d worn them too.

“Did you sleep last night?” he asked.

She shook her head once, sharp, like she was brushing off the question without answering it.

“I didn’t think so.”

She stepped closer, the wet soles of her shoes making almost no sound on the grass. Her eyes flicked toward the bleachers, then toward the gate that led to the back lot. Her voice dropped lower.

“We need to stop.”

Bucky’s brows twitched. Not a full reaction. Just enough to be a crack in his expression. “Why?”

Her throat worked around a hard swallow. “Because if my dad finds out—if anyone finds out—you’re gone. Off the team. He’ll lose his mind, Buck.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. His voice was flat when he answered, too calm to be safe. “He already has.”

She stiffened. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

Her gaze broke away from his and settled on the grass between them. She flexed her fingers, like her hands were trying to shake off something clinging to them. “He raised us. He’s all Yelena has.”

“You’re not a child anymore, Nat.” His tone wasn’t harsh—it was aching. “He doesn’t own you.”

“That’s not the point,” she said, eyes still on the ground. “He’s broken. And when broken men feel like they’re losing control, they do stupid, cruel things. If he finds out you and I…” She trailed off, jaw locking tight.

“He’ll drink,” Bucky finished for her. “He’ll spiral.”

She nodded once.

The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward—it was terrifying. It was the kind of silence you only get between two people who know they’re standing on the edge of something they can’t take back. There was no air left between them. Only everything they’d already said with their hands, their mouths, their silence.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “I love you.”

The words landed like an open wound.

She flinched—barely, but he saw it. A twitch at the corner of her mouth, a crack in her stance.

“Don’t say that,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

“But it’s true.”

She took a full step back now. “That’s what makes it worse.”

His hand lifted halfway between them, like he might reach for her—like he might remind her what it felt like when he held her and the world didn’t hurt quite so bad—but he stopped himself. He let the space remain unbroken.

“So what, we pretend we don’t matter?” His voice was low now. Fractured.

“We pretend we’re smart,” she whispered.

Bucky blinked slowly, lashes damp with sweat or maybe something else. “I can’t pretend with you.”

Her expression crumpled, just for a moment—barely enough to register. Then it hardened again, like a mask sliding back into place. She turned, walking toward the hill that led to the parking lot. The hem of her hoodie caught the wind. Her voice floated back to him like smoke.

“Then learn.”

He didn’t move. Just watched her silhouette shrink against the backdrop of the descending sun. Her braid swayed with every step. The gold light haloed her figure like a saint or a soldier or someone already half in a different world.

She looked like someone leaving a war.

Maybe they all did.

And Bucky stood at the center of the empty field, shirtless and silent, as the sky bled orange and violet, and the night crept in around the edges like something waiting to swallow them whole.

✦

That night, rain slicked the streets of their town, and each of them drifted in their own corners of it:

Jon drove in silence, Ava’s touch still a ghost on his skin.

Ava lay in bed with the lights off, listening to the sound of her heart trying not to break.

Bob sat at the edge of his bathtub, sleeves pushed up, willing himself not to relapse.

Yelena cleaned mud from her cleats with robotic precision, her face blank.

Natasha stared at her ceiling, her body aching with want and guilt.

Bucky sat on his porch, counting the bruises on his knuckles.

None of them knew how to say the truth out loud.

But the lies were starting to burn through the skin.

Chapter Text

The field crackled with late autumn tension. The kind that hummed just below the skin—quiet as electricity in a frayed wire, waiting to spark. It was the kind of cold that didn’t shout, just sank in slow, found the hollows of your bones and stayed there. Breath came in clouds, short and visible, like ghosts slipping from chapped mouths. Cleats gripped the frozen earth with every step, crunching into frostbitten turf that had long since lost its give. Shoulders were hunched, fingers clenched. Every muscle locked into a kind of anxious readiness that had less to do with the game and more to do with the silence that fell just before someone broke it.

The sun was out, but it was pretending. Too high, too bright, like someone had dialed the contrast up too far. A lie smeared across the sky. It didn’t warm anything. Not the field, not their backs, not the ache in Bob’s ankle that pulsed every time he shifted his weight. The wind came in sharp bursts that felt like punishment—ripping through the thin fabric of jerseys, slicing across collarbones, crawling under pads to settle between ribs.

The huddle buzzed with a kind of brittle friction. Helmets knocked together, play calls hissed in low voices. Eyes narrowed. No one smiled.

Then Jon’s voice cracked it open like a flare.

“What the hell was that?”

Everyone froze. Time didn’t stop, exactly, but it bent—like the field was holding its breath.

Jon’s face was flushed, helmet shoved back off his head, chinstrap dangling like an afterthought. His eyes blazed—bright and cold, the way fire looks just before it goes out. He looked at Bob like he was something filthy tracked into the house.

“That was your guy,” Jon spat, pointing with one gloved hand. “He walked through you like you weren’t even there.”

Bob was still bent over, hands hovering just above his knees. His breath came in harsh pulls, each one visible and loud in the quiet Jon had carved open. His mouth was dry. His throat burned.

“I slipped—” he started, voice rough.

“Bullshit.” Jon didn’t wait. The word hit like a slap. “You don’t slip. You give up. You fade out. You disappear the second something matters. It’s always the same with you.”

Bob flinched—not visibly, but inward, where it counted. Where it bruised. He felt the heat rise in his ears, the guilt, the shame, the exhausted sting of being rightfully called out and still wanting to scream. Because Jon wasn’t wrong. Not completely. Not in the way that mattered.

But before he could say anything else, before the silence could grow any louder, someone else cut in.

“Jon.”

Yelena’s voice. Even. Level. Cool enough to slice through glass.

Heads turned like magnets.

She was still half in her stance, feet planted firm in the grass, arms crossed tight over her chest like armor. Her ponytail lifted just slightly in the breeze, a ribbon of dark hair against a backdrop of dead leaves and steel sky. She didn’t blink. Didn’t waver.

“It was a misread,” she said. “We’ve all done it.”

Her tone wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t soft, either. Just… unyielding. A statement, not an excuse.

Jon blinked, thrown—not by the content, but by the source. Yelena didn’t speak. Not in huddles. Not like this. She never interfered, never took sides. She was the quiet blade. The one who executed plays with surgical efficiency and left the talking to people who cared about being heard.

But now she had spoken. And she had spoken for Bob.

Something in the air shifted.

Jon held her gaze for a second too long. His mouth twitched, like he wanted to push back but couldn’t quite figure out why it felt like a bad idea. His jaw flexed once, twice.

Then he backed down.

“Fine,” he muttered, dragging his helmet back into place. “But don’t expect me to clean up your mess next time.”

He turned before anyone could reply.

Yelena didn’t look at Bob. Not once.

But Bob looked at her.

She hadn’t defended him exactly. Not personally. She hadn’t even used his name. But the sound of her voice standing between him and someone else’s rage lit something in his chest—a flicker of heat he didn’t know what to do with. Gratitude. Confusion. Hope. Something worse.

She moved back into formation like nothing had happened. Like her spine wasn’t straighter now. Like she hadn’t cracked the field open with a single sentence.

Practice didn’t pause. The moment passed like all moments did—flattened beneath drills, swallowed by whistles, buried under the grind.

Coach Alexei barked orders from the sidelines like a man trying to keep himself awake. His voice was sandpaper over smoke, worn thin from a long week and longer nights. His coat was too thin for the weather, sleeves pushed back, coffee cup shaking in his hand. No one mentioned the way his words slurred slightly after the second hour. Or how he kept looking at the scoreboard even when it was turned off.

The drills came hard and fast. Ladder work. Contact scrimmages. Endless shuttle runs. It was the kind of practice designed not to teach, but to break you a little. To see who’d still be standing at the end. Most of the players ran like they were being chased by something unseen and meaner than the cold. Like the game was the only thing they could still control.

Bob’s ankle screamed, but he didn’t say a word.

Jon didn’t talk to him again.

Yelena was a shadow—silent, precise, impossible to read.

And somewhere behind it all, static buzzed. In the wind. In the huddle. In the space between looks not given and words not said.

It built slowly. A charge in the air. Waiting for the strike.

Antonia was a ghost.

Not the tragic, wailing kind with chains and sobs. No. She was colder than that. Cleaner. The kind that didn’t haunt—you just noticed when something went missing. A sound. A shadow. A presence that had been there and then wasn’t.

She moved through the field like a rumor. There and not. Wind between bodies. Eyes slid past her the way they did a flickering light: not because they didn’t notice, but because they didn’t want to see.

During the five-on-five scrimmage, it happened too fast for the play to even register. A pass lobbed just a touch too high—arc perfect but foolish—and Antonia moved like a blade. One hand shot up. Fingers curled around the ball with an ease that bordered on cruel. She twisted mid-air, torso contorting in a motion too fluid to be rehearsed, avoiding the reach of a linebacker by inches. Grass tore beneath her cleats when she landed, knees absorbing the shock without a whisper of complaint.

It should’ve been a moment. One of those rare, unscripted flashes of brilliance that forces the world to stop and gasp and say, holy shit, did you see that?

But no one gasped.

No cheers. No helmet slaps. No sideline claps. Not even an exhale.

The field held its breath.

Then Jon’s voice—flat, unaffected, bored—cut through the stillness. “Next play.”

And just like that, it was as if it had never happened. As if she hadn’t bent time in midair. As if she hadn’t moved like something other than human.

As if she didn’t exist at all.

Antonia adjusted her gloves. The velcro scraped as she resealed the strap. She didn’t say a word. Her eyes never met anyone else’s. And no one looked at her. Not directly.

Because seeing her meant you’d have to reckon with her. And that was too much for any of them.

After practice, she didn’t linger.

She walked home alone, as usual, cleats tied together and slung over one shoulder, the hard plastic tapping against her ribs with every step. Her hoodie clung to her skin; her hair, damp and heavy, stuck in strands to her neck and jaw. The wind had teeth now—sharp, persistent ones—and it worried at her clothes like it wanted in.

She passed a dozen cars on the way. None slowed. None stopped.

Her apartment sat three stories up in a cracked building that looked like it had survived both weather and war. The steps creaked. The railing was loose. But the door opened on the first try.

It wasn’t much—just three rooms and a kitchen that always smelled faintly like burnt toast, even though she didn’t own a toaster. The walls were clean, but bare. The furniture was minimal: a futon, a desk, a bed with military corners and a single folded blanket at the foot. No pictures. No clutter. No evidence of a girl who laughed, cried, or wanted things.

Only order. Only silence.

She went straight to the bathroom.

The light flickered once before holding steady, buzzing faintly overhead. The mirror was slightly warped, the kind that made you question your own symmetry.

Antonia stared.

Not at her face, not exactly. But at the shape of herself. The shadow of her collarbone. The tightness in her shoulders. The smudge of tiredness under each eye.

She peeled off her sweatshirt slowly, the way you might remove a scab. Beneath it, her tank top clung to skin still flushed from exertion. Her reflection looked foreign. Like something she’d worn too long and forgotten how to remove.

The scars on her arms were faint now. Pale traces that had once been deeper, angrier. They’d healed unevenly—some thin and silver, others raised like tiny seams beneath the skin. Ghosts of old wars.

She traced one with her thumb.

It wasn’t conscious. Just… inevitable.

And that’s when the memory hit her.

Not a gentle recall. Not nostalgia. A fist. Full force.

Her uncle’s voice, still smooth in her ears after all these years. Too soft. Too sweet. A syrupy poison.

“You were made for obedience,” he’d say, smiling. Always smiling. “Anger is the enemy of excellence. You want to be excellent, don’t you?”

She had wanted to be excellent. She’d wanted to be seen. To be worth something. To be so perfect they couldn’t ignore her.

So she’d nodded.

She’d said yes.

Over and over.

Until yes became the only sound she remembered how to make.

Antonia pressed her palm to the glass. Flat. Firm. Like she could anchor herself to the image. Like maybe her reflection could hold her together better than her own skin could.

The silence in the apartment stretched long and thin, a wire pulled tight across a canyon.

Then—snap.

Nothing loud. Nothing obvious. Just the shift. The ripple. The soundless collapse of a moment held too long.

The next day, she was back.

Cleats on. Gloves laced. Expression unchanged.

Coach Alexei tried that morning.

Tried to be more than just a tired man with a clipboard and a hangover.

He stood in the center of the field like he still believed the right words could fix things. Jacket open. Cap crooked. Steam rising from his breath in sharp puffs that looked like smoke from something dying slow.

“You think this is just a game?” he rasped. His voice was sandpaper wrapped in bourbon. “You think this is some goddamn teen drama where you show up, cry a little, and win the big one?”

No one answered.

Not because they didn’t have answers.

But because they’d heard this speech before—versions of it, at least—and they’d learned it was safest to wait it out.

He kept going.

“Wrong,” he growled. “This is pain. This is blood. This is every scraped knuckle and lost Sunday and fractured dream. This is what you’ll remember when you’re thirty and broken and no one cares what your jersey number was. This is what matters when your name is ash and your future doesn’t call you back. So make it count. Make it goddamn matter.”

For a second—just a heartbeat—it landed.

Eyes lifted. Spines straightened. There was a spark in the huddle, a flicker of fire in all that damp exhaustion. For a moment, they looked at him like they wanted to believe it wasn’t all pointless. Like maybe, maybe, it could mean something again.

Then he slurred the next line.

“Make it… make it b-burn, or… or bleed or whatever the fuck—”

And it was over.

Jon’s face slammed shut. All expression gone. A door locked.

Yelena’s eyes dropped to her wrist. She started peeling off her gloves.

Bob stared at the ground like it might open up and swallow him whole.

Antonia turned before the speech was even done. Walked back to the sideline like she hadn’t expected anything more. Like hope was a coat she’d long since outgrown.

The moment collapsed. The spell broke.

And practice resumed.

Empty again.

Movements rote. Voices hollow. The static came back, buzzing low beneath it all, threaded through the drills, humming in the silence between whistles.

Unseen. Unspoken.

Still there.

Chapter Text

The tiles were white.

That sterile, searing, soul-leached white that lived only in places where things came undone—hospitals, bathrooms, morgues, grief. Light bounced off them in cruel angles, flickering under a ceiling panel that buzzed with a dying bulb. The air was thick with bleach and old pipe mildew, a smell that crawled up the back of your throat and stayed there. The sink dripped. The room hummed. Somewhere outside, a whistle blew, distant and meaningless.

Jon didn’t knock.

The door was cracked—just enough to betray its secret—and that was all he needed. No one left a door like that on purpose. It was a call for someone to care without making them ask.

Inside, the silence was louder.

Bob sat slouched against the far wall, knees pulled halfway up, arms loose at his sides. One hand held a half-rolled strip of gauze, the end trailing across the tiles like a leash snapped from its owner. The other hand rested on his thigh, stained with a smear of blood—thin, watery, not much, but enough to make the cold room feel colder. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, exposing the pale canvas of his forearms. The cuts weren’t deep. Surface-level. Thin and stinging. But there were several. Too many to pass as a mistake.

They looked like red tally marks. As if pain was the only way he knew to count the days.

His face was slack, not from shock but from that heavier kind of numbness—emotional frostbite. His gaze was fixed on the grout between the tiles as though it might open a door if he stared hard enough. He didn’t startle when Jon entered. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, wrists open to the air, like someone waiting to be judged or ignored.

Jon didn’t do either.

He crouched without a word, knees popping from strain and cold. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was sacred. He reached under the sink, pulled out the dull red plastic first-aid kit—standard school-issue, cracked at the corner—and set it on the floor between them.

The latch clicked.

Inside was the usual mess: bent tweezers, half-used gauze, empty wrappers that no one had bothered to toss. He found the antiseptic, unscrewed the cap with one hand, soaked a cotton pad with the brown liquid, and reached out.

He took Bob’s wrist gently.

Not a grip. Not a command. Just a point of contact. Something human.

Bob didn’t resist, but his jaw locked. His nostrils flared once. He breathed out slow, eyes still locked on the floor like the pain might skip him if he looked away hard enough.

The antiseptic hit.

He flinched. Inhaled sharp. But didn’t pull back.

Jon cleaned each cut with steady hands, his fingers rough from training, knuckles nicked from tackles, but his touch now was careful—like he was fixing something precious. Like the blood didn’t scare him. Like the silence didn’t demand anything more than presence.

Bob’s throat worked once, but he still said nothing.

Jon didn’t ask why. He didn’t say “you okay?” or “what happened?” or “Jesus, man,” like so many others might. He just worked. He let the act be the comfort, the gesture be the language.

When the last cut was cleaned and wrapped, Jon reached for the gauze, tearing it into neat strips. He wrapped Bob’s arm, tight but not strangling, a quiet ritual in layers. With each turn, something in the room settled—less tension, more gravity. Like the moment had its own orbit now.

When the final knot was tied, Jon sat back on his heels and looked at him for the first time.

“You want me to leave?”

Bob didn’t speak right away. His lips parted slightly, his tongue dry against his teeth. He blinked once, slowly, like he had to remember how.

Then, softly—too softly to match the violence of the moment: “No.”

Just that.

And the word landed like a stone in water. The silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight, density. Like breath held between people who didn’t know what came next but weren’t afraid of the pause.

Jon exhaled through his nose and leaned back, spine pressing against the wall beside Bob’s. He didn’t touch him again. He didn’t move closer. He just let their shoulders be near. Let the shared space speak.

“My sister used to do that,” he said eventually. His voice was quiet—not cautious, just careful. A hand on glass. “Cut, I mean. Not deep. Not often. But enough. Said it helped her breathe when everything else felt tight.”

Bob’s eyes didn’t leave the floor, but something in his posture changed. His shoulders lowered a fraction. His hands clenched into his lap, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans like he needed to hold onto something—anything.

Jon went on.

“She’s older than me. Lives out in Denver now. Got married. Has two kids. A dog. She still calls sometimes. Says it doesn’t hit her the same way anymore, but the echo’s still there. The noise. Just not as loud.”

A breath hitched beside him.

Not a sob.

Not yet.

Just a small, sharp inhale that didn’t find its way out.

Bob’s face stayed neutral, but his eyes began to gloss. He blinked quickly, then slowly, as though trying to trap the tears before they could fall. But they came anyway—quiet, unannounced. No shaking. No gasping. Just soft, relentless tears sliding down skin that had forgotten how to feel them.

Jon didn’t move.

He didn’t try to fix it.

Didn’t offer a hug or a joke or an escape hatch. He let the moment be what it was—grief unspooling in a bathroom that smelled like bleach and loss. Pain acknowledged without spectacle.

They sat there like that for a long time.

Just two boys, shoulder to shoulder, in the stillness of a place no one wanted to be, bound together not by answers, but by the one small, stubborn truth that neither of them had to be alone in it anymore.

✦

The gym lights buzzed louder than usual that day.

A flat, wasp-wing hum that rattled overhead, nestling into the bones like a second pulse. They flickered now and then—barely, just enough to irritate. Just enough to make everything feel off. The kind of light that made sweat look like oil and shadows seem too long. The kind of noise that didn’t let you forget where you were.

Practice had been brutal.

Not the kind of brutal that made you stronger. Not the “you’ll thank me later” kind with endorphins and progress hidden under bruises. No—this was the kind of practice that stripped you bare. That chewed muscle and cracked spirit and left you hollowed out and chalk-dry. Where every push-up felt like penance. Where every whistle felt like punishment.

The air reeked of metal and dust, of old sweat baked into the floorboards, of effort turned sour. There was blood on someone’s knuckles. Chalk on someone’s shirt. Skin on someone’s teeth. No one joked about it. No one had the energy.

Ava had been off all day.

Not dramatically. Not in a way you could call out without getting a middle finger for your trouble. Just… off. Her laugh too brittle. Her posture too straight. Her jokes, when they came, were barbed and fast, like shrapnel—more deflection than humor. Her smile had edges. Not the kind that cut other people.

The kind that cut inward.

Yelena noticed.

She always noticed. She watched Ava like a hawk in a thunderstorm—restless, sharp-eyed, always waiting for the next bolt to strike. She saw the way Ava winced after landings. The way she wiped her face twice when there was no sweat. The way she kept her water bottle full but barely sipped it. A dozen small betrayals Ava thought she could hide.

“Cramps,” Ava had said with a shrug.

And a headache.

Yelena hadn’t believed it. Not really. But she let it go. For now.

They were halfway through their last set—drills that blurred together, muscle memory more than thought—when Ava’s body gave out.

No warning. No stumble. No drama.

One second she was upright, legs tense, arms in motion.

The next, she was gone.

Just… crumpled. Like someone had reached inside her and cut every string at once. A marionette suddenly boneless, gravity reclaiming what she had fought to defy.

The sound of her hitting the floor wasn’t loud. It was soft, almost too soft, like she’d already fallen a thousand times in her mind and this was just the body catching up. A thud muffled by exhaustion and old gym mats.

For one second, no one moved.

Then—

“Coach!”

Bucky’s voice broke the spell. Loud, urgent, cutting across the gym like a starter pistol. He was already running. The others stood frozen, still caught in the shockwave, but not him. He was there before her body finished settling, hands outstretched like instinct had driven him forward.

Yelena was faster.

She dropped to her knees, hands already moving. One cupped the back of Ava’s skull, cradling it with a tenderness that didn’t match the panic in her eyes. The other pressed two fingers to Ava’s neck, feeling for a pulse she already knew was there but needed to feel anyway. Her lips moved, counting silently.

“She’s breathing,” she said, but her voice trembled, the words held together by sheer will.

Ava’s chest rose and fell—shallow, slow, but there.

Coach Alexei was still twenty feet away, feet dragging like he was stuck in glue. Like maybe if he moved slower, it wouldn’t be real yet. Wouldn’t be happening yet.

Yelena turned on him like a storm.

“Call someone!” she barked, eyes blazing. “Get the nurse!”

But even as she said it, even before anyone responded—

Bucky moved.

He bent low, scooping Ava into his arms like she weighed nothing. She didn’t stir. Her limbs dangled, loose and vulnerable. Her head lolled into his shoulder, cheek pressed to his collarbone. Her skin was too pale. Her lips were dry. Her forehead burned against his neck.

Yelena was already up, sprinting toward the double doors. She slammed them open with both palms, the crash echoing off the gym walls like thunder. “Move!” she shouted at no one in particular. “Get out of the way!”

They didn’t wait for Coach.

Didn’t wait for anyone.

There wasn’t time.

The nurse’s office was three hallways away. Two stairwells. Fifteen doors. Too far.

Too fucking far.

The halls were mostly empty—lunch period ending, the world still turning—and their footfalls were thunder. Bucky’s strides were long, steady, Ava’s hair brushing his chest with every step. Yelena ran ahead, her lungs burning, hand outstretched to shove open any door before it slowed them down. Her braid snapped behind her like a whip.

Ava didn’t move.

Didn’t murmur.

Didn’t twitch.

She was weight and heat and stillness in Bucky’s arms.

And neither of them said it aloud, but the thought screamed anyway:

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

The nurse’s office came into view like a mirage—too quiet, too sterile, too late.

But they didn’t stop.

✦

Chapter Text

The field lights buzzed like they were angry at the dark. Late October had settled in with its usual bitterness, and the wind knifed through jerseys and padding like it didn’t care how hard they trained. The bleachers were only half-full, but the sound still echoed loud, carrying every footfall, every whistle, every half-shouted play.

It was mid-season.

The grass was chewed raw from cleats and rain. The paint on the yard lines had been redone that morning but was already smeared, muddied by sprinting feet and desperate dives. The sky hung low, heavy with storm-threat clouds, the kind that made everything look like it was holding its breath.

Jon’s ribs were screaming. Every breath felt like fire between his bones, but he kept moving—quarterbacking through the ache, threading passes through narrow windows, reading defenses with blood in his mouth and grit in his teeth. He hadn’t told Coach. He hadn’t told anyone.

Except Ava.

She’d found him after practice two days ago, bent over near the lockers, coughing hard into his sleeve. She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him, like she already knew. Like she’d seen it before. He’d barely nodded, and she just muttered, "Dumbass," and helped him tape his ribs without another word. She hadn’t told a soul.

Now, she was on the field too—helmet low, eyes sharp, moving like a shadow made of speed. She blocked like someone had personally insulted her bloodline, and even when her shoulder gave a worrying twitch after a hard tackle, she didn’t slow. Jon caught her eye once across the line, and she didn’t speak, just gave him the smallest nod. They were in it. Together.

The opposing team was faster. Bigger. But they weren’t smarter.

Bucky bulldozed through defenders like a wrecking ball with a vendetta. His forearms were bruised, his knees caked with turf, but he kept pushing. He grunted more than he spoke, his helmet always tilted down like he was daring the line to hold him.

Then came the snap.

Jon dropped back, vision narrowing through the pain. Antonia darted into the open, a slant route clean and clear. He threw it—perfect spiral. She reached—

And missed.

The ball hit the ground. Bounced once. Dead.

Bucky snapped.

"You were open!" he roared, stomping back toward her. "You were wide open, and you dropped it!"

Antonia whipped around, eyes blazing. Her chest heaved beneath her pads.

"Then throw it your damn self next time!" she screamed back. "Oh wait—you can’t! You’re too busy playing meathead to actually watch the play!"

“Maybe if you kept your head in the game—”

“Maybe if you pulled yours out of your ass—”

“Enough!” Coach Alexei’s voice sliced through the commotion. “Back in formation! Final drive!”

They broke apart, seething.

Jon didn’t say a word. Just adjusted his helmet, spit blood onto the sideline, and took his place.

The next play went nowhere.

The one after that got them five yards.

Then a sack. Then a fumble. Then a recovery. The game staggered forward, sloppy and desperate, the clock bleeding time like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Antonia caught the next pass. Made up for the drop with a move so sharp the defender tripped over his own feet. She didn’t celebrate. Just threw the ball to the ref and turned away.

Bob held the line like a wall with legs, every snap leaving him a little more breathless, a little more scraped. Yelena ran interference, her voice sharp and cutting when she called out formations. Ava punched through holes that weren’t there, creating gaps by sheer force of will.

But it wasn’t enough.

The opposing kicker lined up with twenty seconds left. 40-yard attempt.

The snap.

The kick.

The ball soared—clean, true, cruel.

It split the uprights.

Tie.

The scoreboard glowed neon red with the final seconds ticking down.

3 - 3.

Tie.

Not a win.

But not a loss either.

It felt like something. Like not falling off the cliff this time. Like holding ground instead of bleeding it. Like maybe, just maybe, they weren’t doomed to spiral every time the pressure mounted. The tie wasn’t on the scoreboard—it was in their bodies, the way they stood a little taller than last week, the way no one threw their helmet in frustration. The way Coach Alexei didn’t have to say anything. He just nodded once and let them breathe.

Jon stood in the middle of the field, helmet tucked under one arm, the other pressed low against his ribs. He was breathing hard, not from exhaustion, but from the pain. It radiated inward, dull and sharp at the same time, like lightning trapped behind bone. He hadn't told Coach. He hadn't told anyone.

Except Ava.

She'd noticed the way he flinched when he twisted, the way his hand always hovered too long on his side between drills. She'd cornered him in the hallway two days ago, demanded the truth with a whisper and a stare. The kind of stare that didn’t let you lie.

He hadn't lied.

But she hadn't told.

Now she stood across the field, sweat glistening on her temple, jersey grass-stained and her braid half-undone. Her eyes locked onto his through the sea of players and staff and echoing noise. She nodded. Just once. He nodded back. That was enough.

Bucky was pacing. Not angry-pacing. Not storm-pacing. This was frustration with no good place to land. He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw clenched, eyes darting like he was still running plays in his head. Every bad pass and missed block looped on repeat behind his eyes, a montage of almosts.

Antonia slammed her water bottle down on the bench with enough force to make it bounce and clatter to the floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the still-lingering noise of the field. Bucky’s head whipped around.

"If you’d passed when I was open, we could’ve scored!" she snapped, voice loud enough to cut through the post-game static. Her braid was half-unraveled, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes wide and wet with something that wasn’t just sweat.

Bucky turned fully to face her, helmet tucked under one arm, mouth still parted from whatever he'd been about to say to the assistant coach. His voice came out sharper than he intended—quicker, too. Like it had been waiting in his chest the whole time. "If you hadn’t fumbled twice, we wouldn’t have been desperate in the last two minutes!"

The air snapped like a live wire. Heads turned. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Someone’s cleats scuffed to a halt on the asphalt. The energy shifted like a drop in barometric pressure—storm warning.

Antonia straightened slowly, deliberately, like a tower reassembling itself after being hit. Her jaw locked. Fury bloomed hot and fast across her face—so bright and sudden it was nearly visible, like steam rising from cracked concrete. "Don’t put this on me. I had that ball! You threw wide!"

"You weren’t where you were supposed to be!" Bucky barked back, not shouting but dangerously close to it—his voice full of heat, of helpless, misplaced blame, of all the adrenaline that hadn’t gone anywhere.

Her lip curled, and her voice turned sharp, slicing. "Oh, I’m sorry, should I tattoo the playbook on my forehead so you’ll stop screwing up?"

"Maybe if you actually ran your routes—"

"Maybe if you got your head out of your ass and stopped pretending you’re the only one who wants to win—"

The words piled up, tripping over each other, each one sharper, crueler, louder than the last. People were watching now—really watching—not in that passive locker room way, but like spectators at a crash they couldn’t stop.

And then—

"Enough," Yelena said.

Just one word.

But it cut clean through the noise like a blade. Her voice was low, but it carried—had weight, authority, the kind that came from someone who could bench-press both of them and still make it look easy. She stepped between them without hesitation, one arm extended like a barrier, not touching either of them but daring them to move.

"Both of you. Shut it. Now."

Silence. Thick and uncomfortable. The kind that made your ears ring. Bucky’s nostrils flared. He looked at Yelena, then back at Antonia. Something ugly twisted in his expression—anger mixed with shame, like he knew he’d gone too far but didn’t know how to take any of it back. His mouth opened, closed.

He turned on his heel, muttering something half-formed under his breath, and stalked off toward the parking lot, his cleats clicking hard against the pavement like gunshots.

Antonia didn’t move.

She stood there, shaking. Not dramatically, but in that quiet, involuntary way that comes when your body doesn’t know what to do with all the leftover heat. Her hands were fists at her sides. Her breath came shallow. She didn’t speak again.

✦

The gravel crunched under his boots like broken glass, sharp and uneven. Night had crept in slow and heavy, wrapping the parking lot in a hush so thick it felt like the whole world was holding its breath. The sun was long gone, swallowed by the treeline. What was left was that strange, charged kind of twilight where everything looked bluer than it should, shadows stretched long, and nothing felt safe.

The sodium lights overhead buzzed and flickered, casting halos of gold on the cracked pavement. A moth slammed itself against the metal casing again and again.

Natasha was still as stone against the passenger side of Bucky’s beat-up truck, arms crossed like armor, weight leaned back like she’d been there for hours and could stay forever. Her braid was loose, a few red strands pulled free and dancing across her cheek in the wind, but she didn’t brush them away. She didn’t move at all.

Her eyes tracked him, unblinking. Detached but never distant. Like she was watching the inside of a storm gather across his face.

Bucky paced. Not aimlessly—rhythmic. Like a man trying to walk off a panic attack, or cage something worse. Two steps to the left. Pivot. Two back. Hands opening and closing at his sides, like they didn’t know how to be empty. His jaw was tight. His chest rising fast. The kind of fast that hurt.

"You ever think," he muttered finally, voice hoarse and half-lost in the wind, "that you picked the wrong person?"

It wasn’t a question, really. More like an accusation against the universe. His shoulders tensed as soon as the words left his mouth, like he regretted them instantly. Like he’d heard them before, too many times. Only this time they came from him.

Natasha didn’t flinch.

"Excuse me?" Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it was laced with warning—quiet thunder before the crack.

"You could’ve had anyone," Bucky said, louder now, but still without looking at her. "Anyone. And you’re with me. The guy who yells at his teammates in front of everyone. Who ruins good things. Who never learned how to stop breaking stuff—people—himself."

His voice cracked on that last word, barely audible. He stopped walking.

He stared at the gravel like it held some kind of answer. His hands dropped limp to his sides, as if he’d finally run out of ways to hold himself together.

And still—Natasha didn’t blink.

She pushed off the truck with the lazy grace of someone entirely in control of her body and nothing else. Two slow steps toward him, boots crunching grit. She stopped close enough that he could feel her heat, but not touching.

"James Buchanan Barnes," she said, voice low and flat but pulsing with heat beneath the surface, "shut. up."

His head lifted like she’d slapped him. His eyes wide, startled.

She didn’t wait.

Her hands were in his hair before he could think, dragging him down, anchoring him like a bolt to a grounding wire. Her mouth hit his hard. No softness. No preamble. Just contact—fierce and breathless and solid. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about romance. The kind that said: I see you. I know every cracked edge. And I am still here.

Bucky didn’t resist. Didn’t hesitate. His hands moved instinctively, one to her waist, the other buried in the back of her jacket like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go. His breath caught once—sharp and broken—when she pulled back, but he kept holding on, his forehead pressed to hers like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

"You deserve good things," Natasha said softly. "Even if your brain tells you otherwise. Even if it tells you I should run."

She waited a beat.

Then another.

"You hearing me?"

Bucky nodded. Barely. But he did.

She didn’t ask for more. Didn’t need to. She just stayed there, nose to nose with him in the cool dark, while the moths kept slamming against the lights above them like they couldn’t help it.

✦

Back inside, the locker room hummed with the quiet weight of things left unsaid. The overhead lights had already been dimmed to half-power, casting long shadows across the empty benches and rows of lockers. The kind of low light that made everything look softer—until you looked too closely.

Bob stood at his cubby near the far wall, methodical in the way only someone trying not to fall apart could be. He moved like clockwork—folding tape rolls, zipping compartments, tucking things away with precise, mechanical care. It wasn’t just habit. It was armor. Ritual as refuge.

His hoodie sleeves were yanked down too far, bunched awkwardly at the wrists. The strap of his duffel bag cut across his shoulder at the wrong angle, making the whole thing sit lopsided. Uneven.

When he shifted to lift it, he winced.

Just a fraction. Just for a breath.

A barely-there pause in the rhythm of his movement, subtle enough to vanish if you weren’t paying attention.

But Yelena was.

She stood just inside the doorway, half in shadow, arms crossed, weight leaned back against the frame like she belonged there. Like she’d always be there.

Her eyes—sharp, quiet, unrelenting—tracked every detail.

The way he moved his torso slowly, like there was something in his side he was guarding. The way his left arm hovered near it, unconsciously protective. The stiff set of his shoulders. The gauze peeking out just beneath the cuff of his sleeve. Not bright white anymore. Faded, worn, a little too familiar.

He was in pain. And he was used to it.

That was the part that twisted something deep in her gut.

He didn’t look at her. Not once.

Just kept his head down, like if he avoided eye contact long enough, maybe it wouldn’t count. Maybe it wouldn’t be real. Maybe she wouldn’t see what he was trying not to show.

But Yelena saw everything.

And this wasn’t the first time.

Her jaw clenched slightly. Not out of anger—yet—but out of calculation. She was already running through options. Already deciding who to corner. Who to ask. What quiet promises she could make behind closed doors to keep him safe.

She didn’t speak.

Not tonight.

But her gaze followed him all the way to the end of the room. Down the narrow hallway. Until his silhouette vanished around the corner.

Then she moved.

Just a shift of her stance. Just the faintest exhale.

Because Yelena always noticed the cracks before they broke open.

Ten minutes later, the locker room had mostly emptied out. What remained was the quiet hum of old plumbing and the hiss of cooling steam that still clung to the air in translucent wisps. Ghostly ribbons of it curled along the tile, vanishing slowly near the vents. The smell of liniment lingered—sharp, medicinal—layered over the heavier scent of sweat and wet fabric. Someone’s playlist still played faintly from down the hallway, bright and bouncy and painfully cheerful, like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

Antonia sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her open locker, still in full gear. Her cleats were unlaced but not removed, the laces knotted together in a mess of loops and stubborn tension. Her socks were streaked with dirt and blood. A blade of grass clung to one shin like it had something to say.

Her forehead was pressed to her knees, her body curled in tight, as if she could shrink down far enough to disappear into the grout lines in the floor. Her shoulders trembled—not with big, cinematic sobs, but with something smaller, quieter. Something that sat deeper in the bones. A tremor that started in her chest and radiated outward in aftershocks she didn’t try to hide anymore.

Every so often she sniffed. Sharp. Reflexive. Then winced, like even the act of breathing had turned brittle and painful.

Her knuckles were scraped, small crescents of blood where her nails had dug too hard. Her jaw clenched tight enough to hurt.

She’d held it together. Off the field. In front of everyone. Hadn’t cracked. Not until now.

But under the flickering fluorescents, surrounded by benches that still smelled like adrenaline and regret, she let go. Quietly. Completely.

Yelena didn’t knock. Didn’t pause.

She just walked in.

Her boots made a slow, deliberate rhythm against the tile, muted by damp socks and steam-heavy air. She didn’t speak. Didn’t announce herself. Just crossed the room in a straight line and grabbed the first clean towel she saw—still folded on the bench like someone had left it for a future version of this exact moment.

She dropped down beside Antonia with the kind of ease that didn’t ask permission. Not touching her. Not crowding her. Just close enough.

Close enough to anchor.

Close enough to be felt.

Neither of them spoke.

Not at first.

The silence settled between them like something earned, not avoided. Like a shelter they’d both ducked into. No need to fill it. No need to break it.

Yelena didn’t reach out.

Didn’t offer a pat on the back or a hand to hold. She just sat there, arms resting loosely on her knees, legs stretched long, boots streaked with dust from the hallway. Her presence was a shield—silent, solid, unwavering.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. Calm. Like water lapping against the inside of a glass.

“He didn’t mean it like that.”

Antonia let out a short, bitter breath that might’ve been a laugh. It cracked halfway through. “Yes, he did.”

Yelena didn’t flinch. “No,” she said again, slower this time. More certain. “He just doesn’t know what to do with that kind of pressure. So he throws words instead of punches.”

Antonia didn’t lift her head. Just pressed it deeper into her folded arms. Like she didn’t want to hear it. Like part of her did.

Yelena leaned back, shoulder meeting cool metal. The lockers gave a soft clunk under her weight. She let her head rest against them, too. Gaze fixed on some middle distance only she could see.

The quiet returned.

She let it. Let it stretch out, uninterrupted, until it stopped being silence and started being something softer. Something shared.

Then—without fanfare—she reached out and gave the sleeve of Antonia’s jersey a single, gentle tug.

Not pulling her. Not demanding.

Just reminding.

I’m still here.

“You still played like hell out there,” she said, voice steady.

Antonia’s reply came slow. Thick. Muffled into her arms. “Yeah. Well. Hell wasn’t good enough.”

Yelena didn’t argue. Just handed over the towel.

And that was it.

No speeches. No solutions.

Just the two of them on the tile floor, shoulder to shoulder, the sharp edges of the day still lodged in their ribs—and the kind of silence that, for now, was enough to hold the weight of both.

Chapter Text

The day settled soft and low around them, like the world had finally remembered how to breathe. No alarms. No shouting from the sideline. No thunder of cleats against concrete or tension thrumming behind the eyes. Just quiet. Just stillness. Pale light filtered through a ceiling of overcast skies, the kind of early morning gray that swallowed color and softened every edge. It wasn't cold, not exactly, but the air held a kind of damp weight that clung to skin and clothing and thought. Everything felt subdued. Muted. Safer, somehow. Like the whole day was speaking in a whisper, and none of them dared interrupt.

Out on the field, the grass was still damp from last night’s rain, soft underfoot, slick where it pooled in the uneven patches. Drops clung to the blades like tiny glass beads, catching light even where the sun didn’t break through. The earth below was spongy, breathing. The air carried the smell of wet soil and something green and metallic—grass, yes, but also ozone and copper and memory. Not fresh. Not clean. Just honest. Real in a way that reminded you your body was still your own, that your breath belonged to you.

They weren’t scheduled for anything high-impact. No scrimmage. No tests. Just drills. Recovery work. Flexibility and form. The kind of practice where everyone moved slower, like they were walking through water. Some rubbed their wrists absently, others stretched against the fence with heavy limbs and unfocused eyes. No one complained. It felt almost sacred, the stillness. Like the kind of rare quiet that lives between storms—fragile, borrowed, not to be wasted. As if breaking it would mean forfeiting the moment.

Jon was already seated on the turf, cross-legged, settled into the grass like he belonged there. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, exposing long forearms and hands that moved with a surgeon’s precision. Bob sat beside him, one knee bent, one ankle carefully braced in Jon’s lap. The stretch was slow. Controlled. Jon rotated the foot gently, one hand steadying the heel, the other applying just enough pressure to feel where the tightness lived.

They didn’t speak at first. Bob leaned back on his elbows, face tilted toward the sky, watching the way the clouds drifted low and heavy above them. His breath was slow, even, like he was trying to fall in sync with the rhythm of the world. His hoodie was wrinkled. Damp at the cuffs. There was a new scab on the inside of his elbow, thin and raw-looking, like he’d pulled the tape off too fast last night.

“Relax your hip,” Jon murmured, not looking up.

Bob exhaled through his nose. Tried.

“More,” Jon said, quieter this time. Not impatient—just knowing.

Bob gave a soft grunt, barely audible. Shifted his weight. The motion pulled at something deeper—muscle or bruise or maybe something bone-deep—and his breath caught, just for a second. A flicker of pain, masked almost instantly, but Jon noticed. His eyes didn’t change, didn’t even flick up, but his hands shifted their angle, adjusting the stretch ever so slightly, relieving the strain without calling attention to it.

He didn’t ask what hurt. Didn’t need to. There was a kind of understanding between them built from repetition, from late nights in the gym and early mornings in silence. From ice packs passed without comment and painkillers slid across the table before a word was said. From trust that didn’t need to be explained.

The field around them moved in slow motion. Antonia jogged short laps at the edge, earbuds in. Bucky leaned against the goalpost, arms crossed, watching her like he was running mental diagnostics. A pair of crows picked at the grass near the bench line, indifferent to the humans scattered across the turf.

Jon moved to the other leg. Repeated the process. Rotated gently. Watched Bob’s face, the little shifts in jaw tension, the way his shoulders tightened when the stretch reached something tender.

“You’ve been landing too hard on this one,” Jon said quietly.

Bob didn’t answer, but he didn’t deny it either.

“Favoring the right foot,” Jon continued, mostly to himself. “Probably since Tuesday.”

Still, Bob stayed quiet.

“Stop that,” Jon said, with no malice. Just calm truth. “You’ll screw up your hip alignment and make everything worse.”

There was a pause. Then, Bob muttered, “Hard to fix when I still have to play.”

Jon’s grip didn’t waver. “You don’t have to wreck yourself to prove something.”

Bob looked away. Toward the sky again. Toward the clouds that didn’t break.

Jon didn’t push it. Just kept going. Steady. Reliable. Hands sure. Presence quiet.

Eventually, Bob shifted to sit up, brushing grass off his palms. The silence stretched between them, comfortable in its own way. Familiar. Worn-in.

And then, almost as an afterthought, voice low: “Thanks.”

Jon didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded once, like the acknowledgment had weight. Like he received it.

The clouds stayed unbroken overhead. The earth stayed damp beneath them. And the quiet stayed wrapped around their bones, not cold, not warm—just present.

And for a moment, that was enough.

✦

In the training facility, the med hallway was quiet. Most of the team had cleared out after morning check-ins. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, soft and slow.

Yelena sat on the exam bench, hoodie drawn around her like armor, a surgical mask hanging from one ear. Her throat burned like sandpaper, raw from shouting through a cold. She rubbed the edge of her jaw and blinked hard against the exhaustion coiled behind her eyes.

Ava slipped into the room like she belonged there.

No knock. Just a quiet entrance and a warm ceramic cup held out in both hands.

“Chamomile,” she said. “With honey. And ginger. And also... probably too much lemon.”

Yelena blinked at her.

“You’re supposed to say ‘thank you,’” Ava said dryly, but her mouth curved up in a small smile.

Yelena took the mug. Let the heat warm her fingers before she spoke. “I don’t say thank you to people who pity me.”

“It’s not pity,” Ava said. “It’s threat prevention. If you get the rest of us sick, I’ll make you drink dandelion root tea. Straight.”

Yelena huffed a low laugh. It rasped in her throat.

Ava pulled a stool close and sat down, not asking permission. “Drink it while it’s hot.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, steam curling between them. The citrus hit first—bright and sharp—and then the warmth followed, blooming slow in Yelena’s chest.

She didn’t say thank you.

But she did drink every drop.

✦

Further down the field, the goalposts stood tall in the morning stillness. A single ball rolled across the short grass, veering slightly left with each bounce before settling at Antonia’s feet.

She didn’t look at Bucky. Just stepped into place and passed the ball back with enough spin to make him adjust.

“First to three,” she said.

Bucky arched a brow. “No warm-up?”

“That was the warm-up.”

He laughed under his breath. “Okay then.”

They started slow. Probing. Testing each other’s footwork. Antonia was all sharp angles and narrow turns, low to the ground and fast off the pivot. Bucky countered with force—calculated stops, powerful lunges, quick recoveries. They both played tight, like a chess match with sweat.

The first goal was hers. The second, his.

Neither gloated. Neither smiled.

By the third point, both of them were breathing harder, flushed with effort but locked in. The final goal came fast—one wrong step from Antonia, one brutal finish from Bucky—and it was over.

She kicked the ball toward the bench and wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.

“You don’t play like someone who used to be a striker,” she said.

“You don’t play like someone who hates defense,” he replied.

Their eyes met. Something passed between them. Not a truce, exactly. Just mutual recognition. Respect.

Antonia nodded once. “Good game.”

Bucky returned the nod. “Same.”

And that was that.

✦

The locker room was mostly empty by then, the low hum of the ventilation system filling the quiet like a distant engine turning over, soft and steady. The overhead lights buzzed gently. Some of the lockers still stood open, their doors crooked like tired shoulders, exposing half-folded towels, water bottles, and gear bags in various stages of neglect. Everything felt slowed down—muted in that late-afternoon way when the day hadn’t quite ended but the fight had gone out of it.

In the far back corner, behind the last row of lockers where the shadows lingered longer, Natasha sat cross-legged on a dented metal folding chair, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a needle poised in her hand. Her posture was relaxed, but her hands moved with precision—measured, practiced.

Laid across her lap was Alexei’s denim jacket. Battered, sun-bleached in places, stained in others, the thing was more threadbare than whole. One cuff had torn nearly in half, seams fraying like shredded parchment. There were old burn marks near the collar—char marks curling the fabric in odd patterns like black petals. A smear of blue paint along the side, stubborn and bright, refusing to fade even after multiple washes.

Still, she held it gently.

There was no ceremony to her work. No dramatic music, no sighing or sentiment. Just quiet competence. The kind of care that didn’t ask for credit. The kind of attention that came from muscle memory and something deeper—something wordless. She worked in a steady rhythm: pull, knot, check, adjust, thread again. The navy-blue thread she used was a shade too dark for the fabric, but it was strong. She chose strength over invisibility.

A minute passed. Then another.

She bit the thread with her teeth, tied off the stitch, and let her fingers linger over the patch for a moment. Not to admire it—just to make sure it would hold. She smoothed the fabric with her palm, quiet and thoughtful.

Then she reached for a scrap of notepaper from the little stack she kept tucked in the side pocket of her duffel. Torn edges. Nothing fancy. She uncapped a pen with a faint click and wrote quickly, the letters small and precise, each one marked by the kind of decisiveness that left no room for doubt.

You’re not useless. Stop acting like it.
—N

She stared at the words for a breath.

Then folded the note once, tight and clean, and slipped it into the jacket’s inside chest pocket—no flourish, just certainty. She stood, shaking out the denim with a flick, and walked to his locker without hesitation.

It was half open. His gear was always a mess. Boots tossed sideways, his duffel slumped over with the zipper half-undone, and one of his shirts crumpled on the floor like a forgotten thought. She didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just lifted the jacket by the shoulders and hung it neatly on the hook.

The note was hidden. But the stitching would show.

She paused there for a second, staring at the jacket like she was trying to memorize it—or maybe forget it.

Then she turned and walked out without a sound.

No one saw. No one needed to.

She didn’t do it for him to find right away.

She did it so when he did, it would matter.

 

✦

Later that evening, the sky dimmed into something soft and aching—blue-gray like a bruise, the kind that bloomed slowly across the skin. Rain hadn’t come, but the clouds hovered thick and low, pressing against the windows like they were trying to listen in. Inside the locker room, the lights were mostly off, save for one row of overheads near the back, casting long shadows across the benches and tile. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus muscle balm, sweat-soaked cotton, and something metallic beneath it all—old effort.

Yelena lingered by the narrow window, hoodie zipped up to her chin, one sleeve pushed just enough to hold the ceramic mug cradled in her hands. The tea had long since gone cold, the ginger-lemon scent dulled by time, but she hadn’t thrown it out. She just held it. Let the warmth of the memory settle in her palms.

Her eyes weren’t fixed on anything in particular—just the reflection of the room behind her, and the figure moving in it.

Bob sat on the edge of a bench halfway across the room, his back to her, methodically packing his things. His movements were precise but slow, like each one cost more than he wanted to admit. Hoodie sleeves pulled all the way down, covering his wrists like armor. He adjusted the strap of his duffel with careful, deliberate fingers—the kind of care that came from recent pain. He moved like someone who’d learned to flinch in secret. Like someone who thought no one was watching.

But Yelena was watching.

She didn’t speak for a long while. Just let the silence stretch, unthreatening, almost soft. The low hum of distant HVAC filled the space between them. Somewhere in the next hallway, a door clicked shut. The fluorescent light above flickered once, then steadied.

Then—finally—her voice.

“Your arm.”

Two words. Quiet. Firm.

Bob froze mid-motion, one hand still on the zipper of his bag.

She didn’t move. Just watched him through the glassy reflection.

“I saw the gauze yesterday,” she said. “Under your sleeve.”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t answer.

“It’s nothing,” he said finally, low and flat.

Yelena tilted her head, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth—but not a kind one.

“‘Nothing’ doesn’t wince when it bends,” she replied. “Nothing doesn’t bleed through tape.”

He turned then. Slowly. Not defensive—just tired. Eyes shadowed, mouth drawn tight like he was bracing for impact. There was something guarded in the way he looked at her, like he’d spent a long time building walls he didn’t quite trust anymore. The last pieces were still in place, but barely.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” she added, softer now. “Unless you’re stupid about it.”

Another beat of silence fell between them.

And in that quiet, something shifted.

Not much. Just a tilt in the air. Just the smallest exhale from him, shoulders dropping a fraction—less tension, more weight. Like he didn’t have the energy to fight her off, and maybe didn’t want to.

Yelena stepped away from the window, her boots clicking softly against the tile. She didn’t rush. Just walked slowly, like the silence itself was fragile. When she stopped, they were a few paces apart—close enough to feel the edges of each other.

“I know how to wrap wounds,” she said. Her voice was even. Not pleading. Not pushy. “I know what’s real pain and what’s performative bullshit.”

Bob didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened—barely. A flicker behind the eyes.

“I’ve done worse to myself,” she added. “I’m not judging.”

He looked down at the floor, then at the bag in his hand. His fingers flexed along the strap—curling, holding, then slowly easing.

Yelena didn’t reach for him. Didn’t touch.

But she stepped forward once more, close enough now that he could smell the tea still clinging to her sleeves, the faint trace of lavender soap from the medbay showers. Her presence was quiet but certain. She didn’t take space. She held it.

“When you’re ready,” she said. Just that. No timeline. No expectation. “Let me look.”

Then she turned and walked away—no drama, no glance over her shoulder, just the soft whisper of her boots and the fading scent of lemon and something warmer.

Bob stood there a long time.

The room felt larger in her absence, colder somehow. He stared at the spot she’d stood, at the empty air she’d left behind, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The duffel still hung from one hand. His fingers curled tight around the strap again—then slowly, slowly unclenched.

He didn’t follow her.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

It started with the cough.

Ava waved it off like it was nothing. A scratchy throat, a headache, a chill that wouldn’t quite go away no matter how many layers she pulled on. She drank her tea, doubled her vitamin intake, and ignored the tightness behind her ribs.

The team noticed—Yelena especially. The girl had a radar for weakness, even the well-hidden kind, and she’d begun watching Ava out of the corner of her eye. Not obvious. Just a glance here, a glance there. Like she was waiting for something to give.

Ava pretended not to notice.

That afternoon, the sky was low and mean-looking, dark clouds churning over the field like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. The air was thick enough to taste. Practice was meant to be light—strategic drills, short bursts of scrimmage. But things had been off for days: missed plays, botched timing, Alexei’s temper bubbling just beneath the surface.

And Ava? Ava moved like a ghost in a borrowed body.

She was slower than usual. A fraction behind on every turn. Her chest heaved too hard after each sprint. But she pushed through, jaw tight, breath shallow. When Bob jogged past and murmured, “You okay?” she didn’t answer.

The whistle blew. Play reset.

Ava dropped back into position.

And then it happened.

She took a pass at midfield, twisted on her heel to pivot—and went down.

No sound. No stumble. Just a sharp collapse, like her body had simply stopped listening. One knee hit the turf. Then both. Then she crumpled sideways, arms slack, eyes wide and unseeing.

“AVA!” someone yelled.

But it was Jon’s voice that broke through—sharp, panicked, not her callsign but her name.

“Ava—shit—Ava!”

He was the first to reach her, dropping to his knees so fast he skidded in the grass. His hands hovered, unsure where to touch. “Hey. Ava, come on, stay with me.”

Her skin was cold. Damp with sweat. Her breath rattled in her throat like a loose screw.

Bucky shouted for medics.

Yelena swore under her breath and started clearing space around her.

Jon didn’t move. One hand braced gently against her forehead, the other curled uselessly at his side. He kept saying her name, like repetition could pull her back.

And then the world blurred.

✦

✦

She gasped awake.

The light was still too bright—different, but too much. The medbay, not the lab. The scent of antiseptic. The beep of a monitor. A cool cloth on her forehead.

Someone was holding her hand.

Jon.

His eyes were fixed on hers, rimmed with worry, the kind that made his usual calm feel like a mask cracking at the edges. She blinked again, slow, confused. Everything in her body felt heavy—her limbs dulled, her lungs tight, like she’d been dragged out of something deep.

She tried to speak. Nothing came out.

Jon leaned in, his grip tightening just slightly—not possessive, just real. “You’re okay,” he said, voice low. “You scared the hell out of me.”

The last time he’d spoken like that—like she was a person, not a player, not a soldier—was never.

“Where—?” she croaked.

“The medbay. You collapsed during training.” He hesitated. “You don’t remember?”

She shook her head—or tried to. The motion barely registered.

His thumb traced once over her knuckles before he caught himself and pulled his hand back. “The doctor said your fever was spiking. Dehydration. Overexertion. You should’ve said something, Ava.”

Ava. Not “Number Twelve.” Not “you.” Not a cold nod and a tactical command.

Just her name, quiet in the space between them.

She swallowed, forcing her voice through the rasp. “Didn’t want to get benched.”

His expression darkened. “You passed out.”

“And?”

“And you could’ve died.”

That made her pause.

Not because it was dramatic—because it wasn’t. It was factual. Simple. Like the idea had genuinely rattled him.

Her eyes drifted down to her hand, now alone on the blanket. “Did anyone see?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled, rubbing the heel of his palm against his brow. “Everyone. And I yelled. Called you by name. Didn’t even think about it.”

A beat passed.

Ava let her head sink slightly into the pillow. Her voice was soft. “That’s a first.”

Jon looked at her again. Something in his face shifted—not quite a smile, not quite grief. Just something real and unguarded.

“You scared me,” he repeated, and this time the words weren’t tactical at all. “Not just as your teammate.”

That got her attention.

He stood slowly, like he needed distance from what he’d just admitted. But before he left, he paused at the foot of the bed. His eyes found hers one last time.

“You’ve got nothing to prove,” he said. “Not to me.”

Then he turned and walked out, leaving her there in the soft hum of the medbay, hand still tingling from where he’d held it.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time after that.

Chapter Text

The field was hushed. No scrimmages. No whistles. No shouts of victory or frustration echoing off the bleachers. Just the dull, repetitive thud of cleats on damp turf and the low grumble of drills, mechanical and joyless. The kind of practice that was about control, not play.

Jon stalked the sidelines like a man trying not to drown.

He didn’t carry a clipboard. Didn’t bother with notes or encouragement. Just paced, arms crossed, barking commands that came out too loud, too fast, like each one was meant to drown out something else. His voice—usually firm but steady—was splintered around the edges now, brittle with something sharp and quiet underneath.

“Again,” he snapped, eyes on Bob. “You dropped your coverage.”

Bob gritted his teeth and reset. Again.

“Yelena—what the hell was that pass?”

She didn’t answer. Just adjusted her stance and pretended not to wince.

The sky was overcast, a pale iron lid above the field. The air smelled like wet grass and old sweat. Every player was moving just a little slower than usual—fatigue, grief, or maybe just the silent weight of Ava’s absence pressing on their shoulders like another layer of armor.

Jon barked again. “Do it right, or don’t do it at all.”

Yelena faltered in her pivot. Bob slipped during a hand-off. Jon made a sound low in his throat—half snarl, half breath—and said something scathing under his breath, just loud enough for them to hear.

That was when Bucky stopped moving.

He didn’t raise his voice at first. Didn’t need to.

“Enough.”

Jon didn’t turn.

Bucky took a step forward. “I said enough.”

Jon turned on him, jaw wired tight, eyes glassy with a kind of fury that wasn’t about missed drills or broken plays. “If they want to act like amateurs, they can run drills like amateurs.”

Bucky didn’t blink. “They’re trying. Maybe you should too.”

Jon’s nostrils flared. “Don’t start with me.”

“Or what?” Bucky asked, voice low and steady. “You’ll break someone else?”

Silence cut through the field like a knife.

Jon moved first.

Just a half-step, but it was enough—shoulders tensed, fists curled, expression something feral. Rage wasn’t new for him, but this wasn’t rage. Not really. It was something hollow that wore rage like a mask.

He shoved Bucky hard—center mass, both hands, like he needed to push something that wouldn’t budge just to feel something give.

And Bucky? Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He slammed Jon back against the chain-link fence with enough force to shake the entire row. The metal groaned. A couple of crows lifted off from the scoreboard post with a startled flap. Someone gasped—quiet and sharp—but no one moved.

Jon hit the fence with a solid thud, breath knocked out of him, the steel links biting into his shoulders. He didn’t swing back. Didn’t shout. Just stared at Bucky with something wild in his eyes—like he didn’t recognize himself. Like he’d gone too far and didn’t know how to come back.

“You done?” Bucky asked, still holding him there, knuckles white where they gripped Jon’s jersey. “Because if you’re not, we can keep going. But maybe think about who you’re swinging at.”

The silence was thick. Charged. No one dared move.

Then Bob stepped forward. Not in fear. Just quiet, calm, like walking into a storm he’d already accepted.

“Not like this,” he said, voice soft but firm. “Please.”

Jon’s chest was heaving. His face was pale and sweat-slick, like all the anger had boiled out of him and left only exhaustion behind. Slowly, Bucky released his grip, backing off without another word.

Jon shoved away from the fence, staggering for half a second before he caught himself. He didn’t look at anyone as he turned and walked—no, stormed—off the field, fists still clenched at his sides like he didn’t know how to unclench them.

No one followed.

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Not a sigh—more like something kept in too long finally slipping free.

“Alright,” he said to no one in particular. “Let’s reset. Five-minute water break.”

No one argued.

Across the field, Yelena sat down hard on the bench and covered her face with her hands.

Bob lingered where he was, eyes on the gate Jon had disappeared through. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely more than a whisper.

“He called her by her name,” he said. “Not her callsign. Not in code. Just—Ava.”

Bucky nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he said. “He did.”

And the field stayed quiet. Just drills, and the echo of something broken too deep to say out loud.

The sun was beginning to sink, throwing long, soft shadows over the empty field. The bleachers sat half in shadow, half in gold, the metal still warm from the afternoon heat. Practice had ended hours ago, but Yelena hadn’t moved.

She sat on the second row, still in her gear—cleats muddy, socks bunched at her ankles, jersey damp with dried sweat. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees, chin pressed to fabric, as still as a statue. Like movement might shatter something she was barely holding together.

Bob saw her from a distance and hesitated. He could’ve walked the other way. Could’ve left it alone. But instead, he crossed the grass slowly, the quiet crunch of his footsteps swallowed by the wind and the occasional creak of the bleachers settling in the evening chill.

He climbed the steps carefully and sat down beside her—not close, not crowding. Just enough space between them for a pause. For a breath.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon—somewhere far off, past the trees, past the clouds, past whatever the hell today had been.

Bob nodded like he understood. Like he wasn’t expecting an answer anyway.

"I, uh…" He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at his hands. "I was gonna wait. You know, for a better time. A moment that didn’t feel like… this."

Yelena didn’t look at him, but her brow twitched like she’d heard him anyway.

"But I don’t think that time’s coming. Not anymore."

That got her. She turned her head, just a little, enough to meet his eyes. There was exhaustion in her face—deep and quiet and older than it should’ve been. Her walls weren’t up, not completely, but they were cracked. Guarded. Braced for the wrong kind of impact.

Bob swallowed hard, hands clasped between his knees.

"I like you," he said.

No flourish. No lead-up. Just truth, spoken plainly.

Yelena exhaled. Her eyes slipped shut for a moment.

"I know."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just heavy.

The kind that hung in the ribs.

She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again.

"But I can’t," she said finally, her voice rough around the edges. "I can’t do something real right now. I’m trying to hold the pieces together—my pieces—and if I let someone in, even a little… I don’t know what’s gonna break."

Bob didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, quiet, like he’d already figured that out but needed to hear it anyway.

"Okay," he said. "I get it."

She blinked fast, jaw clenched. The wind stirred a loose strand of hair across her cheek.

"I’m sorry," she whispered, and this time it felt like more than just the words. Like she meant it in every way a person could be sorry: for the timing, for the grief, for not being ready for something that maybe could’ve mattered.

Bob shook his head.

"Don’t be," he said.

He stood up slowly, brushing his palms on his shorts. Didn’t make it dramatic. Didn’t linger.

She didn’t stop him.

But as he reached the bottom step, she spoke again—quiet, almost too quiet.

"Bob?"

He turned.

"Thank you," she said, eyes still fixed ahead.

And Bob gave a small, almost invisible nod.

Then he walked away, leaving her with the sky, and the silence, and the ache of everything they couldn’t be.

The showers were nearly silent, the way spaces get after people leave—echoes lingering like ghosts in the corners. The water beat down in steady rhythm, white noise against tile. The harsh scent of soap and sweat hung faintly in the steam, fading now, softening.

Yelena stood alone beneath the farthest showerhead, forehead braced against the cold tile. Her arms hung at her sides, fists clenched like she could hold herself together by force. But her shoulders betrayed her—trembling beneath the spray, breath hitching in shallow, silent gasps. She wasn’t crying loudly. That would’ve been easier, maybe. Braver, even.

No. This was the kind of crying that stayed under the skin. The kind you tried to smother with heat and water and pressure, hoping it would dissolve before anyone saw.

But someone did.

Natasha moved like a ghost through the fog—barefoot, hair damp, a towel loose over her shoulders. She’d heard the others laughing on their way out. Heard Jon slam a locker. Heard Bucky mutter something about “give her space.” But Natasha knew better. You didn’t leave a cracked thing alone in the dark. Not if you’d ever been one.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just walked to the edge of Yelena’s stall, steam curling around her ankles, and waited.

Then, gently—so gently it barely cut through the sound of the water:

“You’re not alone.”

Yelena didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. But her next breath stuttered.

Natasha took a half-step closer.

“You think if you crack, even a little, everything will fall apart.” Her voice was calm. Measured. But underneath, something raw threaded between the words. “I get it.”

Yelena turned slowly, water sliding down her cheeks in rivulets indistinguishable from tears. Her eyes were rimmed red, swollen, fury and grief and exhaustion swirling like smoke.

“Do you?” she asked.

Not sharp. Just tired.

Natasha met her gaze.

And nodded.

Her voice broke on the next words. Not much—just enough.

“I did what I had to,” she said. “I was fourteen.”

Silence bloomed in the space between them. Not empty, not cold—but full. Weighted. The kind of silence that bore witness. That didn’t ask for anything in return.

"I know" Yelena’s breath caught. Her lip trembled. And before she could think better of it, she stepped forward.

Just one step.

But Natasha caught her like she’d been ready the whole time.

Their arms wrapped around each other—awkward at first, then tight. Tighter. The water kept falling, but neither of them noticed anymore. Steam wrapped around them like a shroud. Like smoke on a battlefield. Like fog after a detonation. Two soldiers standing in the wreckage, skin warm but hearts shaking.

Natasha didn’t say it would be okay.

Yelena didn’t ask her to.

They just stood there, pressed together in silence, holding each other up.

And breathed.

Chapter Text

The folding chairs were arranged in a ring, the kind that always looked temporary—too upright, too expectant. Like if you shifted your weight wrong, the whole thing might collapse. The kind meant to suggest equality but always betrayed the vulnerability in the room. There was stale coffee in the corner, a donation jar with exactly one crumpled bill, and a faded poster on the wall that said something like "One day at a time" in a font too cheerful for anyone who'd ever really needed it.

Bob sat in the chair closest to the corner, spine curved inward, like he was trying to disappear into the drywall behind him. His hoodie sleeves were shoved past his wrists, exposing his forearms—he hadn’t done that the first few meetings. Back then, he’d kept his hands hidden, fingers clenched in his pockets like they might betray him. Today, they were twisted together in his lap, knuckles white.

He hadn’t spoken the last three meetings. Not even during introductions. He'd just nodded when they said his name, eyes locked on the floor like it owed him an answer. But he kept showing up. That counted for something.

Today was different.

The leader, a woman in her fifties with cropped silver hair and eyes soft enough to make you angry if you weren’t ready for kindness, tilted her head in Bob’s direction. Her voice was low but firm.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Bob’s inhale sounded like friction—rough, catching at the edges. A breath that scraped.

“My name’s Bob,” he said, voice tight but steady.

The room stilled around him. Not in surprise—just in reverence. The kind of stillness that knew how much effort it took to get a sentence out some days.

“And I’m an addict.”

The words dropped like stone in water. Heavy. Irrevocable. But there was no splash. Just a ripple. The soft reaction of people who’d said the same thing and survived it.

He paused. Not for effect. Just to keep breathing.

“I’ve been clean a few months now,” he said. “Slipped once. Maybe twice, depending on what you count. I thought I could manage it on my own. I couldn’t.”

His fingers flexed once. Then again.

“I lied about it. Not to everyone. But to myself, mostly.” He looked down, jaw shifting like he was chewing on guilt. “I told myself it didn’t count. That I was just tired. That it was just once. I told myself I was still in control.”

He laughed, then, a broken little sound that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m really good at telling myself things.”

Someone across the circle murmured, “We all are.”

Bob nodded once, slow and hollow. “I didn’t think anyone would notice if I started disappearing again. Thought I could just… fade out. Quietly. That if I didn’t make noise, the pain wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

He blinked hard. His eyes were red, but he didn’t wipe them.

“But it does,” he said quietly. “It always does. The pain finds a way.”

For a second, he lifted his gaze.

Toward the hallway.

Yelena stood there, arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the doorframe just out of view from the circle. She hadn’t stepped inside—not even when she first got there, twenty minutes ago. She hadn’t said a word. But she hadn’t left, either.

And she hadn’t looked away once.

Not when he said his name. Not when he admitted the lie. Not when he flinched, visibly, as the words came out like confessions from a wound. She just stood there, her expression unreadable but unwavering. A presence. A witness. A quiet anchor.

Bob didn’t smile. But his shoulders dropped, just slightly. Like the breath he’d been holding for weeks had finally gone somewhere.

And the group kept listening.

Because this time, he wasn’t disappearing.

Not all the way.

✦

The gym was mostly dark, lit only by the low green glow of the emergency exit sign above the double doors and the thin line of amber light slipping in from the hallway through the crack beneath them. The polished floor reflected the dim light like still water, broken only by scuffed lines and the occasional echo of the building settling into itself for the night.

Ava sat alone on the lowest row of the wooden bleachers, one foot pulled up on the bench, her chin resting on her knee. Her other foot dangled loosely, cleat tapping an irregular rhythm against the metal brace below. The laces trailed across the floor, untied and forgotten. Her hair was still damp from practice, sticking to the back of her neck, frizz curling near her temples where sweat had dried. She looked wrung out—not exhausted exactly, but emptied. Like someone who hadn’t cried but had wanted to.

Jon didn’t call her name when he entered. Didn’t ask if it was okay to join her. He just slid down onto the bench beside her with a quiet thud, jeans catching on the edge of the wood. His shoulder brushed hers—barely—but he didn’t move away. He didn’t say anything.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It had weight to it, like a blanket pulled over two people trying to breathe in the same weather. The kind of silence where everything had already been said, and repeating it would only cheapen the truth of it.

They sat that way for a long time.

Eventually, Ava broke it, voice low and rough around the edges.

“You look tired.”

Jon huffed out a laugh that didn’t have much joy in it. “Feel worse.”

His eyes were rimmed red—not from crying, necessarily. Just… worn. Like sleep hadn’t come easy in days, maybe weeks. Like something in him had been stretched thin and left out in the sun too long.

Another beat passed.

Then: “I don’t know how to fix it,” he said. His voice cracked on the word “know.” He didn’t clear his throat. Just let the imperfection stand. “Any of it.”

Ava didn’t look at him when she replied. “I didn’t ask you to.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp. Just plain. Steady in the way grief could be, once it had stopped being loud.

Jon shifted slightly—not to face her, exactly, but to lean a little closer. Not so much that it felt deliberate. Just enough that the space between them grew warm. Like proximity could ease pressure. Like maybe if he sat near her long enough, something inside him might rearrange into a shape that made sense again.

His hand drifted down to the space between them. Hesitant. Rough with calluses from weight training, from the life he hadn’t figured out how to put down. He brushed her knuckles once, fingertips just skimming like a question he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask.

Ava didn’t pull away.

She didn’t move closer, either. But she let it be. Let the quiet stay.

✦

The night air was sharp with late autumn chill, all exhaust fumes and the distant echo of sirens bleeding through the concrete arteries of the city. Natasha eased her window open with practiced care, the sash sliding silently beneath her fingers. Her duffel was already packed—boots laced tight, jacket zipped up to her chin. She swung one leg over the ledge, then the other, and dropped into the damp grass below with the quiet grace of someone who’d done this a dozen times before. No hesitation. No looking back.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled open the squeaky passenger-side door of Bucky’s old Mustang and slid in. The heater whirred faintly. The smell of something warm—coffee maybe, or hot chocolate—hung in the air.

He didn’t say anything. Just passed her a lidded cup from the center console, fingers brushing hers on the handoff. His eyes met hers for a moment, tired but bright beneath the dome light. Then he turned his gaze to the road and pulled out into the night.

They didn’t talk for a while.

The diner was nestled off a forgotten back road, half-lit by flickering neon and the buzz of a failing overhead lamp. It was the kind of place with Formica counters, red leather booths that stuck to your thighs, and a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since the ’90s. The windows fogged a little as they stepped inside. The waitress barely looked up, just waved them toward the back booth by the window—the one with a cracked sugar shaker and the best view of the empty parking lot.

They slid into opposite sides. Natasha shed her jacket with a soft sigh, shaking out her hair. Her eyeliner was smeared beneath her eyes, not from tears—just time. Her knuckles were bruised again. Bucky’s hoodie had a thread unraveling at the sleeve, and his jaw looked like it had met someone else’s fist recently. They didn’t explain. They never did.

A beat passed. The jukebox clicked into something old and slow, some forgotten crooner dragging heartache across a dusty track.

"You ever think," Bucky said, tearing the paper off his straw with slow, deliberate fingers, "that this—" he motioned between them, vague and uncertain "—is a bad idea?"

"Constantly," Natasha replied, already sipping from her drink. “And then I do it anyway.”

His smile came slowly. The kind that almost hurt to wear. Like his face wasn’t used to the motion anymore. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was real.

They ordered without thinking. A shared vanilla milkshake. Fries. Pancakes for her. A burger for him. It wasn’t fancy. That was the point.

Outside, a semi rumbled down the road, taillights like twin comets in the dark. Inside, the diner smelled like grease and burnt coffee and just a little like safety.

They didn’t touch at first. But something in the air shifted—an invisible lean toward each other, like gravity was slowly deciding they belonged in the same orbit.

“Substitutes,” Natasha said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“For the team.” She set down her cup, fingertips tracing the rim without looking up. “You always need someone on the sidelines. Ready to come off the bench, take the pressure when you’re bleeding out and the clock’s still running. I think that’s what we are.”

He watched her carefully. “You mean us?”

She nodded, finally meeting his eyes. “We’re the backups. The ones no one plans for. But we show up. We handle the damage.”

His smile, this time, was less broken. “Guess I better stay warmed up then.”

She nudged him under the table with her boot. He looked down in mock offense, then let their legs rest there, barely touching. Not a full press. Just contact. A confirmation.

“You better,” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips.

They shared the milkshake like something out of an old movie. Bucky leaned forward, chin in his hand, eyes softening when he watched her eat the edges off her pancakes with surgical precision. At one point, his hand drifted across the table—hesitant, then firm, palm up. She set hers down without a word. Fingers threading. No pressure. Just presence.

After a few minutes, Natasha cleared her throat, quieter now.

“I’ve been thinking about asking Alexei to step in for Coach Hayes. Just as a sub. While he’s recovering.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Your dad?”

"Yeah. The team needs stability.”

“You sure about that?” he asked. 

“No,” she admitted. “But I could use it as an excuse to spend more time with you."

His hand tightened around hers gently. “Then I guess if he asks my opinion I'll say yes.”

Natasha didn’t answer right away, but a few seconds later she gave him a small smile.