It was almost midnight when Charlotte knocked.

She held the wine behind her back like it was an apology, stolen from Tony's private collection. She hadn't even looked at the label—just grabbed the first thing with a cork and enough dust to feel expensive.

Calla answered barefoot, in bike shorts and a faded Air Force sweatshirt, her curls half-pulled back and face bare. She blinked once, took in the sight of Charlotte in her SHIELD hoodie and tousled hair, and stepped aside without a word.

"Sorry it's late," Charlotte said, holding up the bottle as a peace offering. "I come bearing gifts."

Calla arched a brow. "From Stark's stash?"

Charlotte grinned. "Nothing but the best contraband for you."

They moved through the apartment like muscle memory—Charlotte kicking off her shoes by the door, Calla pulling two glasses from the cabinet. No lights except the kitchen and the dim glow of the other compound buildings seeping through the windows. They sat on the couch. Charlotte curled one leg under her, cradling her glass like it might warm more than her hands.

"I should've come sooner," she said quietly.

"You should've," Calla agreed, no heat in her tone. Just honesty.

"Things have just been…busy." Charlotte toyed with her glass.

Calla gave her a look. "Don't play that with me. I already know it's been a shitshow with you and Barnes. Sam told me."

That cut through whatever casual mask Charlotte had been trying to hold up.

"Oh," she said.

"Yeah." Calla took a sip. "So if you're here to give me the edited version, don't bother."

Charlotte stared at her wine. "I wasn't."

"Good."

For a moment, Charlotte just sat there. She didn't know where to start—not with the mission, not with Bucky, not even close with the way she felt split in two emotionally. So she started with the facts.

"I went off script on the mission," she said. "Split from the team, chased down intel we weren't supposed to have. Got great information, but pissed everyone off doing it."

Calla said nothing, just nodded for her to keep going.

"I slept with him." Her voice didn't shake. It was just… flat.

"I figured," Calla said gently.

"Several times, actually."

"Naturally."

Charlotte's lips twitched. "Sam again?"

"Nope. Just a hunch. All that 'we hate each others' guts and can't stand to be in the same room' energy had to go somewhere. I'm surprised it took this long."

She huffed a laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes. "It wasn't just that. It was good. Great, really. Then it wasn't. I think I fucked it up. Or maybe he did. Or maybe we both did."

Calla leaned back, tucking her legs up under her. "You wanna talk about it?"

"I don't know," Charlotte admitted. "I keep thinking if I just keep moving, I won't have to."

"But you came here."

"I came here because you're the one of the only people who sees through my bullshit without making me feel like a case file." She looked down at her glass. "And the other person isn't really an option right now."

Calla's gaze softened. "Then let me see."

Charlotte exhaled through her nose. "I'm angry," she said. "At him. At me. At SHIELD. At all of it. But I don't know what to do about any of it."

"Then let's start from the beginning," Calla said decisively, sitting up straighter. "Walk me through the mission, why you did what you did. If you broke protocol, there was a reason, right?"

Charlotte hesitated, swirling the wine in her glass, then let the words spill slowly.

"After the compound attack, something didn't sit right. Everyone kept saying it was just some fringe HYDRA loyalists—radicals trying to make noise—but I didn't buy it. It felt... too organized. Too specific."

Calla nodded, listening.

"I just couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. So when we were on the mission and I saw an opening to steal the laptop, to dig deeper, I took it. I knew it wasn't part of the mission, but I couldn't miss the window. I just...couldn't." She paused, jaw tight. "It wasn't about ego. I wasn't trying to go rogue just to prove a point. I was scared. Genuinely scared. And I—I didn't think I needed permission to act, not if it meant we'd get blindsided again."

Charlotte's eyes stayed on her drink. "So yeah, I went off script. I got the intel. But it cost me. Bucky's opinion. SHIELD's trust. Hell, maybe even my place on the team."

She shook her head. "I was just so fucking scared they were coming back. I couldn't do nothing. Not again. The thing is, Calla...I think I was right."

Calla lifted her head slightly, brows pinching together. "Wait. What do you mean, you think you were right?"

Charlotte hesitated. "There were files on that laptop—logs, blueprints, references to supply chains that shouldn't exist anymore. It wasn't just a list of names or old files—it was current. Coordinated. They're rebuilding, Calla. And not in a fringe, underground forum kind of way. This was structured. Funded."

Calla's expression shifted into something more serious. "Did you take it to SHIELD?"

"I tried. I flagged it to Maria within twenty-four hours. She shut it down. Said they'd look into it but it didn't meet the threat threshold yet. Too many unknowns, not enough confirmation. Protocol this, clearance that—"

She shook her head. "They buried it in red tape. And I get it, I do. You can't just go demolishing every abandoned base you find on a hunch. But I'm telling you, this isn't something you can just wait on. Not with HYDRA."

Calla sighed. "Look, I know they can be frustrating, but they don't take something like this lightly. If they brushed it off, it's not because they don't care. They just can't move on something without a full picture. That's the deal. It sucks, believe me, I get it. But just because they're not doing anything now doesn't mean they're not doing anything at all."

Charlotte didn't respond right away. Just looked back down at her wine, her jaw set.

"Char," Calla tilted her head, reaching out and touching her knee. "I'm not taking their side. I know this is a big deal and if you tell me you've got a bad feeling about this, then I'm with you one hundred percent."

Charlotte's eyes flicked up to meet hers.

"I can't tell you what to do. I'm just saying...you'll have a lot more resources at your disposal if you just play nice for a little longer and work with SHIELD. There's not one single person at this compound that wants to see HYDRA come back. Especially after the attack, no one will take this lightly." She squeezed Charlotte's knee. "I promise you that. I don't have much sway over the intelligence division, but I'll see if I can put a few bugs in the right ears. Sam, too."

"Thank you." She gave a half-hearted smile, squeezing Calla's hand.

"I've got your back. What's the fun in being married to an Avenger if you can't throw your weight around every now and again?" She winked. "Speaking of...does Bucky know about this?"

Charlotte hesitated, her thumb brushing the rim of her glass. "No."

Calla pulled back just enough to look at her. "Why not?"

Charlotte exhaled through her nose. "Because...it's a long story."

"You're already here after midnight, my schedule isn't exactly jam-packed right now." Calla tilted her head, voice gentle.

Charlotte cracked a small smile that didn't meet her eyes.

"Char," Calla's brow knit. "Charlotte. He's the only person on the planet who will understand what this means like you do."

"I know," she said, too quickly. Then again, slower. "I know."

"But?"

Charlotte stared ahead, eyes unfocused. "It's all so screwed up, Cal. I don't even know what's my fault and what's his at this point."

Calla didn't say anything. Just waited.

Charlotte let out a shaky breath, her gaze still distant. "We got stranded after the mission. That storm rolled in and we got grounded for a couple days at the safe house." She paused. "It was quiet. After everything that had happened, it felt like the world had stopped spinning for a second. And I—I let myself breathe. I think he did too."

Calla gave a small nod of encouragement, but didn't speak.

"One thing led to another," Charlotte continued, eyes flicking toward her wine. "It wasn't planned. But it was... good. It was, um...my first time. I didn't know if I should tell him, but then it was all happening so fast and I didn't know what I was doing so I just...told him. He was so...kind. Didn't say anything weird or make it a big deal. He just made me feel safe. Made sure it was what I wanted."

A beat passed.

"It was." Her mouth curved into a half-smile. "It really, really was."

Calla laughed. "I want to press you for details SO badly, you have no idea, but this doesn't feel like the time. Just know that one day, Charlotte Rossi, you will be giving me the full, unadulterated play-by-play."

"Deal," Charlotte chuckled despite herself, taking a sip of her wine. "So, we slept together. It was...yeah. We fell asleep. And then the goddamn Iron Legion blew the door in at six a.m. Like...full breach and clear. Wood shrapnel and rain everywhere. We thought we were being assassinated."

Calla's eyes widened as she raised her hand to cover her mouth, smothering a laugh. "You're joking."

"Oh, but I'm not. I've never put pants on that quickly in my entire life." Charlotte chuckled softly into her glass. "Turns out we missed the check in...and then didn't answer our phones for about ten hours."

"Sam mentioned something about..." Calla reached out and lifted Charlotte's left arm, her bracelet glinting in the low light. "This?"

"Oh, well, that too." She shook her head, cheeks flushing. "Not exactly the way I would have chosen to tell the team, but here we are."

They chuckled as Calla refilled their glasses. Charlotte explained the rest of the time at the safe house. The slow pace. The quiet. The Spaghetti-O's and the storm and the conversations. Her eyes looked distant, wistful. Calla just listened.

"We got back and went straight to the briefing and...it was like none of it had happened. I don't know what I expected, I mean it wasn't like we confessed undying love for each other. We slept together." Charlotte looked like she was trying to convince herself. "The briefing went to shit, and I was mad, yeah. But then I read the report. His report."

Charlotte's voice was barely above a whisper as she spoke the words that had been echoing in her mind since she read them. "Emotional volatility presents an ongoing liability in the field."

Calla's expression tightened. "Shit."

Charlotte nodded. "I just...snapped. I found him in the training room. Started throwing punches. Trying to bait him. Then—"

She swallowed. Her fingers gripped her glass too tightly.

"It got messy. Emotionally. Physically. I didn't know what I wanted—I just knew I wanted him to feel as wrecked as I did."

Calla watched her carefully. "Did he fight back?"

Charlotte shook her head. "Not really. He just stood there and took it. Tried to talk to me. With the rest...I initiated it. All of it. I wanted to feel powerful, in control, but... I took something that was sweet...something that felt sacred between us. And I made it ugly." Her voice cracked, just barely. "I thought it would make me feel better. I thought it would level the playing field, somehow. I wanted to punish him for making me feel like I didn't matter. And now I can't take it back."

She looked down. "I hate that I did it. I ruined it. I ruined us."

Calla was quiet for a long moment. Not judging. Not trying to spin it. Just there. Then she reached out and gently took the glass from Charlotte's hands, setting it on the coffee table. Her hand returned, covering Charlotte's again.

"You didn't ruin anything."

Charlotte's throat tightened.

"He's not some fragile thing you broke, Char. He's a grown-ass man with just as much baggage and trauma as you, maybe more. You can't break something that hasn't been whole in a very long time." She squeezed Charlotte's hand. "But you can fix it, if you want to."

Calla continued. "I'm not saying it didn't hurt. I'm not saying it wasn't messy. But you didn't ruin anything. The two of you? You've survived far worse than each other."

Charlotte didn't say anything. Her eyes were glassy, but dry. The silence hung between them.

"I think you're both still figuring it out," Calla said softly. "All of it. And maybe this was never meant to be clean. Maybe it's supposed to be hard. Broken. Real. But you didn't survive everything you have just to isolate yourself from the one person who understands the special kind of screwed up that you are."

Charlotte nodded slowly, like the movement cost her something. She leaned into Calla's shoulder, finally letting her body rest. "You're right."

Calla rested her head against Charlotte's. "I know."

"I missed you," Charlotte said, barely above a whisper.

"I'm not going anywhere," Calla replied. "Even if you try to ghost me again."

Charlotte smiled at that. A real one. Small, tired, but real.

"Next time I steal wine," she murmured, "I'll bring snacks too."

"You better."

The training room was quiet this early—fluorescents buzzing above, the faint clink of her bracelet against a weight every so often, her breathing and the blood pumping in her ears drowning it all out.

Charlotte moved like a machine. Sweat dripped from her temples, soaked into her sports bra, streaked down her spine. She didn't stop to wipe it away.

This was her rhythm now: pain, precision, pause—just long enough to check the small LED light on the band circling her wrist.

Still orange. Not red. Not yet.

She launched into the next round: box jumps, drop squats, front kicks against the heavy bag, followed by a full sprint to the other end of the room and back. Again. And again.

Her lungs burned, muscles screaming. The kind of scream that came from growth, not failure. She could feel it. The difference. It was a small distinction, but she was learning it.

Weeks ago, she would've collapsed by now. Her body would've buckled, the bracelet's alarm blaring as protein saturation spiked and her systems tipped into shutdown. But now, the orange light held steady.

Just beneath the danger zone.

She had learned how to live there.

Charlotte dropped into a low push-up, held it until her arms trembled, then exploded upward into a burpee. Again. Again. Each motion was deliberate, vicious, controlled.

This wasn't punishment.
This wasn't therapy.
This was adaptation.

Her body wasn't just healing—it was hardening. Learning to carry more. Endure longer. Last through what was coming.

She didn't know how long she'd be in the fight when it started. Only that she wouldn't walk away from it with anything left in the tank.

Another sprint. This time her vision narrowed. Her limbs felt heavier, heart pounding loud in her ears—but not too loud. Not loud enough to drown out the soft ping of her bracelet.

She glanced down mid-stride.

Orange.

She skidded to a stop, breathing hard. A long pause. Chest heaving. Hands on her knees.

Just under the red zone.

She looked at the bracelet for a beat longer than usual, then tore off the wrap around her hand and resecured it tighter. No shaking. No flinching. Just resolve.

She turned back toward the bag.

And dove in again.

The compound was quiet when Bucky came in from his run, damp with sweat, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sun was just starting to rise, casting pale gold light across the hardwood floors. The scent of fresh coffee hung in the air, proof of life from another early riser.

He headed straight for the kitchen, the refrigerator humming softly as he filled a glass with water. From the living room, a page turned.

Natasha was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, flipping through a magazine like it was the only thing in the world worth doing. A half-empty mug steamed on the side table next to her. She didn't look up.

He drank, then leaned on the counter, catching his breath.

Another page turned.

Then, out of nowhere:

"Charlotte's hair is curly."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

Still no glance his way. "It's really pretty actually. Not full ringlets, you know, but it's definitely there. It suits her. A little messy, a little unruly."

Bucky stared down into his water. Jaw flexing. He blinked once. Twice. "I didn't know that."

"She didn't either. Not for a long time. She said it used to fall out after cryo—kept breaking. Too damaged to grow in right."

A beat. Bucky's grip tightened on the glass.

She turned a page nonchalantly. "It started curling a few weeks ago. Just… happened. The longer she's been here, the more it shows."

He didn't respond.

Nat closed the magazine, finally looking up at him. "It means she's healing. She feels safe here. That's a good thing."

Silence stretched long between them. He didn't say anything, but her words sank in.

He set the glass down. "I'm gonna shower."

Natasha didn't stop him. Just went back to her magazine, pages rustling as he disappeared down the hall.

The last of the junior SHIELD agents filtered out of the weapons bay, sweaty and bruised and pretending not to limp. Sam clapped one on the shoulder as he passed, muttering something about keeping his elbow in next time unless he wanted to dislocate it.

Bucky was silent, disassembling his pistol with his standard don't talk to me expression.

So naturally, Sam ignored it.

"You know," Sam said, wiping his hands on a towel, "for someone who looks like they just saw a puppy get hit by a car, you really crushed those drills today. You're not a half bad instructor. I think only a few agents left crying."

Bucky didn't look up. "Thanks."

Sam leaned against the table. "That was a compliment, man. Don't make me regret it."

Again, he didn't look up from what he was doing.

"Right." Sam gave him a look, then took a breath and dove in. "So. You gonna talk to her?"

Bucky's hands stilled. He didn't need clarification. Didn't even bother pretending he didn't know who her was.

"I tried," he muttered.

"Try again."

"She doesn't want to see me."

Sam shrugged. "Still worth the attempt. You kinda broke the unspoken 'don't write your maybe-girlfriend up in an official report' rule. That's at least worth a conversation."

Bucky's jaw tightened. "She wasn't my—"

"Yeah," Sam cut in, "but she was something. And don't even try to pull the 'I did what I had to do' line. It doesn't matter why or what you did at this point, it's all done. Now, it's just about what you do from here."

"Good speech." He grumbled, turning away from the table.

"I mean it, man." Sam moved to meet Bucky's eyes again. "You both screwed up in your own, unique way. You're both pissed, more at yourselves than at each other. You both want to fix it, but you're too afraid of fucking it all up more to even try."

Bucky looked up. "She tell you that?"

"Wifey privilege," Sam said, raising his eyebrows. "Calla's the vault. I just get access."

"What exactly did she say?"

Sam held up a hand. "Nope. Not my story to tell. But I will say this—whatever version you've got in your head of how she feels, it's probably wrong. Go fix it."

Bucky gave a humorless huff. "What, just go knock on her door and expect her not to try to break my nose?"

"I mean, that's probably never off the table with her. But no. Don't go to her door."

Sam tossed the towel into the laundry bin and turned to leave, then paused.

"Start with the sim room," he said over his shoulder. "She's been running a lot of solo drills in there lately."

Bucky nodded, trying to communicate some kind of gratitude without words. He looked down at the weapon on the table, turning it over in his hands as he fought himself on what to do. When he looked back up, Sam was gone.

He set the gun down and started towards the simulation room.

The sim room was still warm when Bucky stepped inside.

Not warm like comfort—warm like recently-used. Like whoever had been there had left just minutes before. He could still smell the ozone sting of spent energy rounds in the air, the faint echo of boots on padded flooring fading into nothing.

He was too late.

Again.

He exhaled through his nose and glanced around. The lights were still dimmed, the last program flickering on standby. She hadn't even shut it down fully.

"FRIDAY," he said, voice low. "Pull up the most recent simulation run."

A pause, then the AI responded, smooth as ever.

"Of course, Sergeant Barnes."

The screens blinked to life. Bucky took a step forward—then stopped.

It was that simulation.

The urban cityscape. Hostage extraction. Multiple armed targets and split-second decisions. The same one he'd run with her weeks ago. The same one that escalated into a screaming match between them. She said it was a bullshit test. He said it was life or death. She'd said things she regretted. He'd walked out. Neither of them had been entirely wrong, but neither of them had been right either. It seemed to be a recurring theme with them.

But this time… she was different.

The recording played through at double speed. Charlotte moved like smoke—silent, calculated, lethal. Every move efficient. Every decision precise. She used the environment to her advantage, never hesitated, and dropped her targets before they knew she was there.

He watched her breach the final building, neutralize the last two hostiles, and secure the hostages.

No casualties.

The screen froze on the final stats:

Mission Success: 100%
Hostiles Neutralized: 6
Civilian Casualties: 0

Bucky stared at it.

Zero.

He didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just let the silence settle into his bones.

She had done it.

Without him. Without fanfare. Without needing to prove anything to anyone but herself.

The screen dimmed to a freeze frame of her face mid-mission, caught in a moment of stillness between kills.

Bucky froze.

The look in her eye wasn't cold like it had been when she was brainwashed. It wasn't vacant. It wasn't empty.

It was determined. Fierce. Confident. The same look she'd had in her eye when she leapt off that rooftop in Arizona onto the Quinjet, security hot on her tail.

She was going off script.