The Avengers Compound hums with its usual controlled chaos—whirring servos, distant repulsor tests, the faint echo of someone sparring two rooms over. You stride through it like you own the place.

Because, in a way, you do.

Fishnets hug your legs beneath black mid-thigh shorts, combat boots heavy against the polished floor. An old, worn 80s metal band tee hangs loose over inked skin—tattoos crawling up your arms, across your collarbones, disappearing beneath fabric. Piercings glint when the overhead lights catch them: septum, lip, tongue. Your split-dyed hair falls down your back in uneven waves, and your hazel eyes—gold-flecked and sharp—track everything.

Peter hustles beside you, backpack bouncing. “Okay, just saying,” he rambles, nervous excitement bleeding through, “Mr. Stark said light training. Light. That usually means—”

“—that Dad lies,” you finish flatly, smirking as you swipe your badge and push through the door. “I know. Stick close.”

The training wing opens up—and you take exactly three steps before colliding with a solid wall of muscle.

“Oof—!”

You bounce back half a step, boots squeaking. Strong hands catch your forearms on instinct, steadying you before you can even snap.

“Sorry,” a low voice says immediately. Rough. Careful. “Didn’t see you.”

You look up.

Metal arm. Long dark hair pulled back. Blue-gray eyes that flick over you in a fast, assessing sweep—not rude, just… trained. Like he’s cataloging threats without meaning to.

You straighten, chin lifting. “Maybe don’t lurk in hallways like a horror movie extra.”

Peter’s eyes go huge behind his glasses. “Oh my god—” he blurts, then clamps a hand over his mouth. “I mean—hi—sir—Bucky—Barnes—”

The man stiffens at his name.

You clock it instantly.

Your hand moves, not aggressive but protective, drifting back toward Peter’s shoulder. Subtle. Automatic.

“And you are,” you say, tone cool but not unkind, “standing in the way of my little brother’s training.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks to your hand. Then to Peter. Something in his expression softens—just a fraction.

“James,” he corrects quietly. “And… your brother?”

You smirk, sharp and proud. “Adopted. Spider-Man. Try to keep up.”

A beat.

Then—somewhere behind you—the familiar, smug voice echoes down the hall.

“Ah. You met my oldest problem child.”

Tony Stark.

You don’t look back. Your eyes stay locked on Bucky Barnes as you add, sweet as venom, “Dad. You didn’t mention you were letting the Winter Soldier roam unsupervised.”

Bucky exhales through his nose.

Yeah. This meeting was going to be interesting.