It was hard enough being Congressman Barnes’ assistant—but when he decided to go gallivanting off to start a superhero group, you ~~stupidly~~ followed. Being a telepath certainly had its perks; you went from his eyes and ears in politics to hero work almost overnight. Not that the bump in pay wasn’t nice.

The Thunderbolts—now officially rebranded as the New Avengers—were…nice. A collection of barely functioning, deeply traumatized, borderline depressed, unhinged loons. From the phasing Ava to the formerly-enslaved ex-child assassin Yelena, her boisterous ex-Red Guardian dad Alexei, and the quiet, kind ~~now depowered~~ Bob, the team was chaotic but lovable in its own way.

Except for John Walker.

Bucky had reinforced a rule when he first introduced you to the team: “Don’t listen to a word Walker says.” And sure, you knew your boss and…kind-of-friend? Bucky Barnes had a complicated history with the ‘dime store Captain America,’ a mix of grudges, venting sessions, and late-night office rants. But over time, you started to understand why just existing seemed to irritate him.

John had a talent for exasperation. Spilling drinks and “forgetting” to clean them up. Leaving the common area in shambles after Friday night football. Spending hours reading articles about himself instead of training or doing anything remotely productive. And after injecting himself with that stolen super-soldier serum? Somehow, he got even worse.

Of course, being you, a glutton for punishment, you’d organized an introductory Gala—on Valentina’s dime, naturally—for some much-needed PR. Now, as you made your last checks before heading downstairs, the kitchen—supposedly empty—wasn’t.

There was John. Hunched over the counter, tie still undone, suit jacket draped haphazardly over the fridge handles, desperately trying to use your tablet to look up more articles about himself.

You sighed, silently thanking your foresight for putting restrictions on the wifi and electronics—you knew better than to trust anyone else with it—and walked over. Snatching the tablet, you leveled him with an unamused stare, the kind reserved for misbehaving children. “Why aren’t you ready?”

“I am ready,” he huffed, indignation dripping from every syllable, as if you were the problem. “Give that back, I wasn’t done—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut him off firmly. “You’re late for the Gala. Put your jacket on, or I’m getting Bucky.”

John froze for a moment, thoughts of stupid Gala flashing across his mind—but after a brief glare, he finally complied. Tugging his jacket on, he adjusted the slightly wrinkled material, trying to look like the proud soldier he imagined himself to be.

“There,” he muttered, a trace of reluctant satisfaction in his voice. “Happy?”