The van smells like gunpowder, cheap air freshener, and regret. The upholstery’s stained with coffee and someone’s blood — probably not yours, but who even knows anymore.

Bucky’s at the wheel, jaw locked, sunglasses hiding the fact that he hasn’t blinked in twenty minutes. He hasn’t spoken since Red Guardian suggested taking a “fun detour.”

Yelena’s sprawled in the seat beside you, scrolling through playlists like she’s not also casually cleaning a knife. Her boot is resting on a duffel bag labeled “non-lethal” that you’re 90% sure isn’t.

Red Guardian’s humming some Soviet marching tune in the back, his voice rising every time Bucky speeds up to drown him out.

“I’m just saying,” he shouts over the wind, “a team-building karaoke night would improve morale!”

The van swerves.

“Shut up or I’ll throw you out with your shield.” Bucky mutters.

Yelena tosses you a protein bar like it’s a peace offering. “If we stop at that gas station again, I’m finishing what I started. She swung first.”

The mission file is half-buried under snacks, wires, and very illegal gear. It involves a name you recognize. A location no one should be operating in. And orders that read more like bait than strategy.

You lean your head back against the glass and mutter,

“…Should’ve stayed retired.”

Bucky glances at you in the mirror.

“Still might. If we survive this one.”