Chapter Text
The firefight had been going sideways from the second they breached the compound.
Explosions thundered through the steel rafters as the enemy’s last-ditch defenses activated—turrets sweeping low, pulse rounds slamming into walls and tearing through cover. Smoke choked the corridors. The team was split. Comms were flickering in and out, static dancing between clipped orders.
John had been covering the east wing, pushing deeper than he should’ve alone. Standard op? No. But the fallback point was compromised and the hostiles had locked onto Yelena’s position. So he moved. Fast. Loud. Reckless.
“Three on the left!” he barked into the comms, voice fraying. “Suppressing fire!”
He hurled a flashbang around the corner and charged after the burst—shield up, boots pounding over scorched tile. One shot to the chest. Another to the leg. A third grazed his ribs but he didn’t stop. Not until he’d cleared the hallway, taken out the last two guards, and kicked open the central generator room.
That’s when everything went to hell.
The generator—unstable and half-rigged with alien tech—was already overloading. Sparks spit like lightning. The hum in the air was deep and wrong, vibrating through bone. John’s gut told him to fall back. But he saw the power surge spike on the monitor. Saw it jump straight into red.
If that thing detonated, it wasn’t just the op that would fail—it’d take half the block with it.
“Shit,” he breathed. Then threw the shield at the panel and ran straight in.
He barely had time to disconnect the primary line before the overload triggered a secondary collapse.
The explosion wasn’t clean. It was all jagged metal and concussive heat. The blast knocked him off his feet and slammed him into a support beam. Everything went white—then black.
-
“You Done Being Stupid?”
The dust hadn’t even settled when Bucky shoved a smoking beam out of the way and grabbed John.
“Walker!”
Fingers clenched tight in the straps of his tac vest, jerking him back like he was nothing more than a misbehaving mutt. John hissed through his teeth, whole body tensing as his left side screamed in protest.
“Jesus— fuck —easy, man—”
“You don’t get to ask for easy ,” Bucky growled, voice sharp, chest heaving from exertion. His eyes scanned John, laser-focused, furious. “What the hell were you thinking?”
John didn’t answer. Not right away. He was too busy blinking through the spots in his vision and trying not to pass out from the dull, hot pressure in his ribs. His right hand was trembling, blood smeared along his knuckles from the punch that landed wrong. The shield was still humming faintly, lodged halfway into the wall where he’d thrown it like a goddamn boomerang from hell.
“I handled it,” John finally muttered, lips cracked and voice raw. “It was under control.”
“ Under control? You jumped into a firestorm with no backup and pulled a guy twice your size off a bomb with your bare hands . Then you tanked the shockwave like you’re made of adamantium— which you’re not , by the way—and now you’re bleeding all over my boots!”
John’s knees buckled slightly. He caught himself. Barely.
Bucky caught him harder.
The metal hand came up under his arm, locking around his bicep like a vice. He didn’t let go.
“Goddamn it, Walker,” Bucky muttered, softer now. “You’re shaking .”
“I’m not—” John tried to lie, but his breath hitched. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
John coughed, something wet catching in his throat.
“You’re bleeding through your side,” Bucky muttered, eyes narrowing as he took in the dark stain spreading beneath cracked armor. “You got a puncture? Internal?”
He staggered when Bucky pushed him toward a nearby wall—gently but firmly—letting him lean back against the cool concrete while he crouched to check the damage. John winced as Bucky lifted his shirt, sucking in a sharp breath when fingers pressed against his ribs.
“Don’t touch—fuck—”
“That’s broken.”
“Just bruised.”
“That’s at
least
two cracked ribs, genius.”
Bucky’s hand was warm against the bruised skin, his touch gentle despite the bite in his tone. John flinched anyway, jaw clenched tight.
“You’ve got blood down your side and glass in your palm. You dislocated your goddamn shoulder and reset it yourself like you’re in a straight-to-DVD action movie. What is wrong with you?”
John didn’t flinch. “Since when do you talk this much?”
Bucky took a breath. Slid a hand behind his neck. Let his thumb press lightly into the pulse point there—steady, grounding.
“You keep pulling this shit,” he said, voice lower now. “Taking the worst of it so the rest of us don’t have to. Like you’re trying to prove something. You know you’re not invincible, right?”
John’s eyes flickered, glassy.
“...Never said I was.”
“You act like it.” Bucky leaned in closer. “You act like it doesn’t matter what happens to you. Like we wouldn’t care.”
Something in John’s expression cracked at that.
His breath hitched, just once. Shoulders slumped, finally letting some of the pain show in the way his body sagged against the wall.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, quiet. Honest.
“You didn’t scare me,” Bucky replied. “You pissed me off .”
John’s breath caught. He shifted his weight again, and his knees buckled. His vision swam.
That’s when Bucky narrowed his eyes. And then—without another word—he scooped him.
Full fireman carry. Like he weighed nothing.
John let out a startled, pained grunt. “Bucky—what the hell —”
“Shut up,” Bucky said, already moving, boots crunching over debris.
“I can walk.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I don’t need to be carried like a—”
“Like a dumbass who just walked through an explosion and tried to bleed out in peace?” Bucky adjusted his grip, hauling him tighter. “Yeah, well. You lost the right to complain the second you played human shield.”
John groaned, his voice rasping against Bucky’s collarbone. “You are the worst .”
“And you’re concussed. So if you throw up on me, I’m dropping you.”
He didn’t mean it. Not really.
John knew that. He could feel it in the way Bucky’s hold didn’t slip, not even when he stumbled over a twisted hunk of rebar or when the aftershocks of adrenaline made his hands shake. His voice might be all steel and sarcasm, but his arms were steady. Protective.
Behind them, the building groaned—a sound of settling ruin and near-collapse. The kind of sound that said next time, you might not make it .
John turned his face into Bucky’s shoulder, mostly to block the smoke, but partly to stop the world from tilting again.
He didn’t fight the carry this time.
Didn’t have the strength. Didn’t really want to, either.
“I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” he mumbled.
Bucky snorted. “Too late for that, Captain Catastrophe.”
“…That’s not even catchy.”
“Doesn’t need to be.” Bucky paused just outside the evac zone, setting John down gently on a piece of uncollapsed pavement. “Just needs to be accurate.”
Medics were already heading toward them, radios crackling. Someone shouted for a stretcher. Bucky didn’t move, crouched beside John, one hand braced on his knee, the other steadying his shoulder.
“Next time you feel like throwing yourself on a grenade,” he said, quieter now, “maybe don’t.”
John blinked up at him, exhaustion dragging at his bones. “Only if you promise not to follow me in.”
Bucky gave him a long, unreadable look.
Then, finally— finally —a ghost of a grin. Dry. Wry. Barely there.
“No promises.”
-
They made it halfway down the hall before Ava appeared.
Silent as ever, stepping out from a side corridor like a shadow given form—arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes locked onto the sight of Bucky storming forward with John slung over his shoulder like a duffel bag .
Her gaze dropped to the blood on John’s fingers. The bruising blooming across his exposed side. The way his head was barely lifted, breathing shallow against Bucky’s back.
She didn’t speak at first.
Which somehow made it worse.
Bucky didn’t slow down. “Don’t say anything,” he barked.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said calmly. Her eyes didn’t leave John. “What happened?”
“Ask him ,” Bucky snapped. “He’s the one who decided it’d be a great idea to charge a detonator rig with a half-collapsed support beam over his head.”
“It was stable at the time,” John slurred weakly.
“It was on fire at the time,” Bucky shot back. “Like literally — fire . Actual flames.”
Ava stepped aside wordlessly as Bucky shouldered open the med bay doors.
“Great,” the nurse muttered from behind the desk. “Another one. What is it this time—concussion? Fracture? Missing kidney?”
“Cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, burns, glass embedded in his hand, and enough stupidity to fill a bunker,” Bucky barked. “ Help him. ”
John winced as he was set down—not gently—on the exam table. Bucky didn’t even pretend to be gentle now. He just dropped him like a sack of bricks and stepped back, arms crossed, pacing the room like a pissed-off rottweiler.
John tried to speak. “It was—”
“ Don’t. ” Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do not give me another half-assed line about how ‘you handled it.’ You nearly bled out in a death trap and you limped away like it was a goddamn Tuesday .”
John’s jaw clenched. He looked away.
Ava moved forward quietly.
She didn’t speak right away. Just peeled off her gloves, sat on the edge of the cot next to him, and brushed the blood from his brow with the softest touch imaginable.
Then—her fingers gently tilted his chin toward her. Their eyes met.
“You okay?” she asked, voice low. Not a trap. Not judgment.
John swallowed hard. He nodded.
“Liar,” she whispered.
Then, her hand ghosted over his side—careful, but firm enough to make him flinch.
He didn’t hide it fast enough.
Her brows drew together just slightly. Still calm. Still composed. But there was a storm gathering behind her eyes now too.
“You’re not walking out of here without scans,” she said.
“Didn’t plan to,” he rasped.
Bucky scoffed in the background. “Good. Because if you even try , I’m stapling your ass to the gurney.”
John let his head fall back with a groan. “So much love in this room right now.”
“Love would’ve let you bleed alone,” Bucky muttered. “ This is rage.”
“You know,” John croaked, eyes half-lidded, “that actually makes me feel better.”
Ava didn’t smile. But she let her hand rest lightly over his—the uninjured one. Just enough pressure to say: I'm here. I saw what you did. You idiot. I'm still here.
And across the room, Bucky kept pacing. Still pissed. Still sharp. But quieter now.
Because John was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
-
The med bay lights are dimmed now, save for the soft pulse of the vitals monitor and the glow of the screen tracking John’s scans.
He’s dozing. Or almost dozing. One arm bandaged, shoulder stabilized, ribs tightly wrapped. The cut above his temple is stitched, but blood still lingers faintly in his hairline.
Every breath is shallow. Controlled. Like even unconscious, he doesn’t trust his body not to betray him.
Ava’s still beside him. Legs crossed at the ankle, posture relaxed—but not asleep. One hand rests on the cot near his. Not touching. Just close enough that if he reaches out in a fevered haze, she’ll be there.
Across the room, Bucky stands by the window.
He hasn’t sat down once.
Not when the nurse read off the list of injuries. Not when John started mumbling half-conscious apologies. Not when Ava said softly, “I think he was trying to end it fast. Keep us out of it.”
Not even when the toxicology screen lit up red.
That part hasn’t left his mind.
Something in the air—weaponized, maybe experimental—spread during the blast. The others made it out before it hit full force. John didn’t. The scans caught elevated levels of something they haven’t even identified yet. And John hadn’t mentioned a thing. Not when they found him coughing blood. Not when he staggered to his feet to keep covering their flank.
He knew.
And he didn’t say a word.
Until the door slid open with a soft hiss, and Yelena padded in wearing mismatched socks and a hoodie three sizes too big.
“You gonna burn a hole in the glass if you keep staring like that,” she said, quiet.
Bucky didn’t look over. “He’s an idiot.”
“Mm.” She came to stand beside him. Tilted her head. “But he’s our idiot.”
Bucky finally glanced over. “He’s reckless.”
“He’s trying.”
“He’s going to get himself killed.”
“He’s trying really hard not to.” Yelena leaned her shoulder gently into his. “You know that.”
Bucky exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that shook a little at the end. “He keeps doing this. Taking it all on like he’s supposed to be the one bleeding in the dirt while we walk away clean.”
“He’s been trained for that,” Yelena said. “Punished for anything else. You know how it works.”
“Doesn’t mean he deserves it.”
“No.” She looked over at John—faint bruising at his jaw, a soft line between his brows even in sleep. “But he listens, eventually. Ava yelled at him with her eyes for an hour.”
“She didn’t yell,” Bucky muttered.
“She whispered very threatening things.”
“…True.”
A beat.
Then Yelena bumped his arm lightly. “You want to sit down now?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you haven’t sat down since the explosion.”
“I haven’t.”
Yelena eyed him. “You can keep glowering from the chair. I won’t tell.”
Bucky hesitated. Then, slowly, moved to the seat Ava had vacated briefly earlier. He didn’t say anything. Just sat next to the bed, elbows on knees, hands clasped.
Ava looked up at him. Gave a small nod. Then stood quietly and left to get fresh coffee.
John stirred in his sleep, fingers twitching faintly like he was reaching for something. Bucky’s expression softened just slightly as he reached out and wrapped his hand gently around John’s wrist—steadying, grounding.
The touch calmed him.
“You’re not alone anymore, dumbass,” Bucky murmured. “So stop acting like it.”
He waited, unsure if he’d get a reaction—but John’s chest rose a little deeper this time. A breath that wasn’t panicked. That wasn’t held like a secret.
Bucky didn’t let go.
Didn’t move when Ava returned with two steaming mugs, handing one to him without a word before settling back into her spot. Didn’t move when the monitor beeped gently, signaling a heart rate that was finally starting to steady.
Didn’t move because, for the first time since the mission, John wasn’t drifting.
He was anchored.
And maybe it wasn’t enough yet.
But it was something.
And tonight, Bucky could be enough for that.
Sometimes Bucky wonders how the hell his life ended up like this.
Because four years ago, he’d hated John Walker.
Not the kind of mild irritation or philosophical disagreement kind of hate. No—bone-deep, blood-hot hate. The kind that made him clench his fists every time he saw the shield in the wrong hands. The kind that made it easy—almost satisfying—to break John’s arm in that fight.
He remembered the look in John’s eyes when it happened. Not fear. Not even pain.
Just grief. Blazing, hollow, bottomless grief.
And Bucky—angry, unmoored, still clawing his way out of seventy years of programming—hadn’t said a word when Lemar died. Hadn’t offered a scrap of sympathy. No sorry. No nod of understanding. Not even a look.
He just walked away.
Back then, he couldn’t see past the blood on the shield. Couldn’t imagine John as anything more than a government puppet with too many medals and not enough restraint.
But now—
Now, John’s lying broken in a med bay, ribs wrapped, shoulder wrecked, clinging to consciousness with a stubborn kind of quiet that Bucky knows all too well.
Now, Bucky’s hand is wrapped gently around his wrist, holding on like it matters. Like he might drift if Bucky lets go.
Now, the thought of losing him makes Bucky’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t have language for.
Maybe he still doesn’t have the right words. Maybe he never will.
But tonight, he can stay.
Tonight, he can be the steady presence he never was back then.
And maybe that’s not redemption. Maybe it’s not forgiveness.
But it’s something close.
And Bucky holds on just a little tighter.
-
Ava was back in her chair, sipping lukewarm coffee, watching John’s chest rise and fall in a steadier rhythm. Bucky had dozed off sitting forward, arms crossed over his chest, chin tucked in.
The peace was sacred.
Naturally, that’s when the door burst open.
“HELLOOOOOOOO INJURED AMERICAN SOLDIER MAN!” Alexei announced at full volume, arms flung wide like a game show host. “I BRING YOU... VITAL SUPPLIES! ”
John groaned softly in his sleep.
Bucky startled upright like he’d been shot. “What the fuck —?”
Ava didn’t flinch. She just sipped her coffee again. “Three hours,” she said calmly. “It lasted three whole hours.”
Alexei charged in like a man on a mission, a massive plastic grocery bag swinging from one hand and a six-pack of root beer under the other arm. He kicked the door shut with his boot, nearly tripping on the welcome mat someone definitely did not put there.
“I have brought snacks, healing beverages, and this delightful neck pillow I found in the lounge!” He held up a bright pink U-shaped plush monstrosity with sequins. “It has unicorn horns ! Very good for spinal support!”
“No,” Bucky said flatly.
Alexei ignored him entirely.
He reached the bed and peered down at John, who was definitely awake now but doing an Oscar-worthy impression of someone unconscious.
“Ah. Playing dead. Classic strategy.” He leaned down closer. “But you cannot fool Papa Alexei . I feel your heartbeat.”
“Please stop breathing on me,” John croaked, eyes cracking open.
“ He lives! ” Alexei bellowed. “I knew the American Super Serum would triumph over minor inconveniences like ‘shrapnel’ and ‘internal bleeding!’”
“Shut up,” Bucky groaned. “Before I inject you with something that does knock you out.”
“I am simply injecting morale ,” Alexei said proudly. “I am very good nurse. Ava, tell him.”
Ava:
sip
Ava: “I plead the Fifth.”
John shifted with a grimace, groaning softly as the movement tugged at his shoulder brace. Alexei immediately panicked.
“NO, NO—STOP. DO NOT MOVE. YOU MUST REMAIN STILL. YOU ARE LIKE PRECIOUS RUSSIAN DOLL, VERY FRAGILE INSIDE.”
“Jesus Christ—”
“Let me fluff your pillow—Bucky, stop glowering and give me the unicorn!”
“No one’s giving you the unicorn,” Bucky snapped, pushing himself up. “And you are not fluffing anything.”
Ava looked at the time and stood. “I’m going to the armory. For earplugs. And maybe a grenade.”
“Oh!” Alexei lit up. “Can you bring snacks back? The gummy bears in the kitchen were expired.”
“They weren’t expired,” Bucky said.
“They were hard! Like little rubber bullets. Delicious, but dangerous.”
Ava raised a brow. “You’re dangerous.”
John wheezed a laugh from the bed. “He’s— he’s not wrong. ”
Bucky groaned. “God. I hate all of you.”
“ You love us, ” Alexei said, slapping him on the back so hard Bucky actually stumbled . “We are family!”
Bucky glared at him. “Touch me again and you’re getting defenestrated.”
“Is that the thing with the stabbing?” Alexei frowned. “Or the windows?”
“Both,” Bucky deadpanned.
-
The chaos was already reaching critical mass when the door creaked open again.
Yelena stepped in first—arms full of gauze, antiseptic wipes, and a frozen pizza still in the box . Behind her, Bob trailed in with two plastic containers, an energy drink, and an entire watermelon. Uncut.
She took one look at Alexei fluffing John’s pillow—with the grace of someone trying to smother a bear—and sighed. “Why did I know it was going to be loud in here?”
“I AM PROVIDING MORAL SUPPORT,” Alexei declared.
“You’re providing migraine fuel, ” Yelena shot back. “How is he supposed to rest if you’re screaming like a dying opera singer?”
“I am projecting with love!”
“You’re projecting with volume. ”
Bob grinned. “Hey, hey—look who’s not dead!” He beamed at John, who blinked at the watermelon in his hands. “I brought hydration. It’s mostly water. That counts, right?”
“Is that a whole-ass melon ?” John asked, voice scratchy.
“Yep.” Bob placed it proudly on the counter. “I didn’t cut it because I wasn’t sure what shape your soul needed today.”
Yelena narrowed her eyes. “That’s... vaguely poetic. And also concerning.”
Ava returned just in time to see Bob trying to juggle surgical gloves and Alexei trying to tuck a blanket around John like he was tucking in a toddler.
She paused in the doorway. Took one long look at the absolute circus inside.
Then turned to Yelena. “How much trouble would we get in if we just locked the door from the outside and let natural selection handle it?”
Yelena considered it. “Depends on who dies first.”
Bucky was sitting again, pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of a man this close to cracking.
John, for his part, looked weirdly touched beneath all the bruises. His voice rasped as he croaked, “You all didn’t have to come.”
Yelena raised a brow. “You collapsed from internal bleeding, you idiot. Of course we came.”
“ I brought fruit, ” Bob added, holding up the watermelon again.
“You are not cutting that in here,” Ava warned.
“I brought a butter knife. ”
“That makes it worse. ”
John coughed a laugh—then immediately winced and clutched his ribs. “Ow. Okay. No laughing. Not allowed.”
Bucky reached out without thinking, pressing his palm flat over the brace at John’s side. “Breathe shallow. And stop talking. They’re loud enough for both of us.”
Yelena leaned casually against the wall and tossed a gauze roll in the air. “So. Which one of us gets to yell at him next?”
Alexei immediately raised his hand. “I would like to go again.”
“No,” Ava, Bucky, and Yelena said in perfect unison.
Bob just peeled open his energy drink. “Can I be the support guy? Like, emotional snacks and bad metaphors?”
“Buddy,” John rasped, “that’s already your entire brand.”
-
The door hissed open.
And the air went cold.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine walked in like the room belonged to her. A folder tucked neatly under one arm, heels clicking sharp and deliberate against the med bay floor. She didn’t pause to assess the wounded. Didn’t blink at the sight of gauze or blood or the beeping of the vitals monitor. Her gaze swept the room like someone inspecting a property she might burn down for insurance money.
Perfect posture. Perfect lipstick. Not a single hair out of place.
Like she hadn’t just sent her entire black-ops team into a firestorm and left them there to rot.
No one said a word.
But the tension snapped taut.
Yelena’s expression sharpened—knife-edge calm, the kind that came right before something was set on fire. Bob instinctively edged half a step behind Bucky, eyes flicking between everyone like he was calculating which wall he’d have to phase through to escape. Ava didn’t move, didn’t blink—but her hand slid closer to John’s where it lay limp on the cot. Not touching. Just ready.
Bucky stood up.
His body language didn’t scream aggression.
It whispered something worse.
Val smiled like a predator baring its teeth. “Wow. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually cared about each other.”
Bucky’s voice was low. Unimpressed. “What do you want.”
“I’m here for a progress report.” She made a show of flipping open the folder, then promptly ignored it. “One blown op. Three injured. Six failsafes triggered. One unstable power signature lighting up the grid like Christmas. And my most volatile asset—” her eyes landed on John with surgical precision, “—doing his usual impression of a wrecking ball.”
John didn’t lift his head.
Didn’t bother sitting up.
But his voice, when it came, was clear. Raw. Scraped hollow.
“Don’t pretend I’m your problem child. You only call me that when the body count’s not high enough.”
His breathing was shallow. Labored. Every word sounded like it cost him something—but he said them anyway.
Val raised a brow. “Aw. You almost sounded bitter.”
Slowly, John turned his head toward her. Eyes half-lidded. Glassy. Ringed with exhaustion deep enough to drown in.
“I’m just tired.”
Not angry. Not defiant.
Just… tired. Bone-deep and soul-worn.
The kind of tired that doesn’t leave when you sleep.
“Good,” she said brightly, like it was a victory. “Maybe you’ll be less inclined to do something heroic next time.”
The silence after that crackled.
Then she turned, addressing the room like they were nothing more than assets on a balance sheet.
“For the record, there are no higher-ups. No board. No backup. No Avengers Initiative. Just me. You work for me. You breathe because I allow it. And if any of you forget that again—” she looked back at John, slow and deliberate— “I’ll replace you. Don’t think I won’t.”
John didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t say a goddamn word.
But Bucky stepped forward, eyes dark and voice colder than the air she brought in with her. “Try it.”
Val smirked like it was a game. “That’s the spirit, Barnes. Real team leader energy. But let’s remember—I sign your mission approvals.”
She clicked the folder shut with a snap and started toward the door.
“And John?” she added, not turning around.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at her.
“You’re not my favorite. But you’re loud, and effective, and mean enough to scare diplomats. Keep surviving, and maybe I’ll bump you up the list.”
A breath left him—sharp, pained, close to a cough.
Then: “Can’t wait.”
She left.
The door hissed shut behind her.
Silence followed.
It lingered.
Hung heavy in the fluorescent air like smoke after a fire.
Then—
“...I’m gonna key her car,” Yelena said flatly.
Bob blinked. “She drives?”
“No. But I will find something expensive she likes and destroy it.”
“I’ll help,” Bucky muttered.
Ava didn’t respond. She just looked down at John.
He hadn’t moved since Val left. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. His breathing still shallow. One hand limp on the bed. The other curled into the sheets like he needed something to hold onto and this was all he had.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
His voice was nearly a whisper. “No.”
A beat.
“But I’m still here. That’s what she wants.”
Ava’s expression didn’t soften—but her voice did.
“That’s not why we want you here,” she said quietly.
And that—finally—that broke through something.
His eyes fluttered shut, the weight behind them dragging down.
John had gone quiet again.
Not asleep. Just still. The kind of stillness that meant he was counting the pain, breath by breath.
Ava didn’t miss it.
Neither did Bucky.
She leaned forward slightly, watching the tension around his mouth. “Your breathing’s off,” she said under her breath.
John didn’t open his eyes. “I’ve got broken ribs. Of course it’s off.”
“No. It’s not the pain.” Her voice sharpened. “It’s shallow. Labored.”
Yelena, who’d been mid-sentence complaining about Bob’s snack choices, stopped. Looked over.
“John.”
His eyes flickered open. Sluggish. “M’fine.”
“You’re sweating,” Bucky said, stepping closer. “And this room’s freezing.”
John tried to lift a hand, but it trembled too hard to get far. His skin was clammy—grey at the edges. When Bucky pressed a hand to his forehead, his palm came away damp with sweat.
“Something’s wrong,” Ava said, standing fast.
Bob hesitated. “Wait. What was in that bunker? There was that coolant system—and those weird storage tanks—”
Yelena swore under her breath. “That wasn’t coolant. It was some kind of synthetic compound. You think it leaked?”
“There was that vapor release right before the blast,” Bucky muttered. “He was closest.”
John’s fingers curled slightly into the sheets. “Didn’t feel like anything.”
“That’s how they design it,” Ava said, already halfway to the door. “I’m calling the med team.”
She was back within minutes—two medics and a toxicology specialist in tow. One of them already had a portable scanner out, hovering it over John’s chest and neck while attaching a cuff to track vitals.
“Hold still, Agent Walker,” the doctor said. “We’ll know what we’re dealing with in a second.”
The monitor beeped. Then turned red.
TOXIN DETECTED
NEURO-SYNTHETIC AGENT 04-VT
EXPOSURE: HIGH
IMPACT: RESPIRATORY + NEURAL STABILITY
RECOMMENDED RESPONSE: ANTIDOTE PROTOCOL / IMMEDIATE ISOLATION
Everyone froze.
John blinked slowly, the color draining from his face. “That… that bad?”
The doctor didn’t look at him. Just turned to the team. “Clear the room. Now.”
“No way,” Bucky growled. “We’re not leaving—”
“I said now. We need to stabilize his respiratory system before it collapses entirely. If you want him to make it through the next hour, go. ”
Ava didn’t move at first.
She looked down at John—his unfocused eyes, the way his chest struggled to rise evenly—and nodded once.
“Fix him.”
Then she turned and left with the others.
The door sealed behind them with a hiss.
And the med team got to work.
-
Outside the Med Bay Isolation Room
The door had sealed. A red light blinked above it.
QUARANTINE IN EFFECT.
The team stood in the hallway like the ground had vanished beneath them.
Ava’s arms were crossed tight. Bucky paced like a caged animal. Yelena was uncharacteristically silent, eyes fixed on the floor. Bob just kept staring at the blinking light, jaw tense, like he was willing it to stop.
Finally, Ava turned on the medic who’d stayed behind with the tablet.
“You had him in here for hours. Why the hell wasn’t that toxin detected sooner?”
The medic flinched. “His symptoms… weren’t presenting clearly. The injuries masked the onset—bruising, fever, tremors, shallow breathing—it all lined up with blunt trauma.”
“Yeah, but he was exposed ,” Bucky snapped. “Shouldn’t your scans pick that up on intake ?”
“They should,” the medic admitted. “But we didn’t run a full spectrum tox screen. The protocol only flags that when environmental hazards are confirmed on site.”
Yelena looked up. “You mean unless someone tells you there’s a risk, you don’t check?”
The medic hesitated. “We—well, yes. There are levels of screening, and no one flagged the compound as chemically compromised. Not in the brief. Not in the diagnostics. We were told it was a structural threat, not biological.”
“So someone missed it ,” Ava said, voice like ice. “Or someone lied.”
The medic didn’t respond.
Bob stepped forward, quieter. “What even is that thing? That agent—04-VT?”
The medic shook his head. “I’ve only seen it once. Off-books stuff. Engineered neuro-toxin. Military prototype, maybe. Experimental. It attacks your system like a slow-burn neural suppressant—weakens respiratory function, overrides pain responses, disrupts focus. Meant to destabilize without killing outright.”
“Unless you’re already injured,” Bucky muttered.
“Exactly,” the medic said grimly. “And he took a lot of damage before this even hit.”
Ava exhaled, sharp and furious. “So if we hadn’t noticed—if he hadn’t started crashing—”
“He’d have gone under in his sleep,” the medic finished. “And we wouldn’t have known it until he stopped breathing.”
Silence followed.
The light above the door kept blinking.
Yelena finally spoke. “When he wakes up,” she said, “I’m going to scream at him for not saying anything.”
Ava nodded. “Get in line.”
Bob swallowed. “You think he knew?”
“No,” Bucky said darkly. “If he had , he would’ve told us. He would've made a joke. Or pushed us away. He didn’t know. He just thought he was supposed to suffer quietly.”
And no one disagreed.
-
The hallway had mostly cleared.
The medics came and went with updates and whispered urgency. Yelena had stormed off to find someone to yell at. Bob followed after her, still clutching the watermelon like it was the only thing in the world he could control.
Ava stayed.
So did Bucky.
They didn’t speak.
Just sat in silence—one on either side of the sealed door, backs against the wall, eyes on the quarantine light that blinked red every few seconds.
The sound of footsteps, distant chatter, equipment clinking down the corridor—none of it mattered. Not now.
“He’s gonna hate this,” Bucky said eventually, voice low.
Ava didn’t look at him. “What?”
“Waking up and realizing we sat out here all night.” He exhaled through his nose. “Makes him feel weak. You know how he gets.”
Ava nodded. “Then he shouldn’t be in there alone.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
They lapsed back into silence.
A few minutes passed. Maybe more.
Ava leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes still fixed on the blinking light.
“Don’t you dare die on us,” she murmured.
Bucky didn’t say anything. Just let the words settle.
Inside the room, John didn’t move.
But the heart monitor beeped on.
Steady. Faint.
There.
And outside the door, neither of them left.