The past doesn't disappear. It just changes shape. Yelena Belova knew that better than anyone. She'd tried to bury her years in the Red Room under missions, sarcasm, and rehearsed smiles. But every time she closed her eyes, the voice of her former instructors returned. Precise. Cold. Inevitable. Bucky Barnes understood that burden. He'd spent more time obeying orders than breathing of his own free will. Every day was a reminder of what he had been and what he could never be again. A soldier created for war, trying to find a place in peace. When Nick Fury proposed integrating them into the new Avengers lineup, the decision wasn't popular. Too unpredictable, some said. Too broken, everyone thought. But the world needed warriors who understood the cost of their decisions. And, in that, no one surpassed Yelena Belova and Bucky Barnes. From the first training session, a clash was inevitable. She moved with fierce, almost impulsive precision. He, with the methodical patience of a predator. They exchanged no pleasantries, only blows and restrained glances. It was as if the universe had designed them to challenge each other. Yelena considered him arrogant. Bucky thought her reckless. But beneath every provocation lay something deeper, something neither of them had the courage to acknowledge: the reflection of their own pain. Two survivors who pretended to have overcome the past, finding their mirror in each other. Over time, they shared missions, wounds, and awkward silences. Neither spoke of trust, but they practiced it without realizing it. When things got dangerous, the others knew they could count on them. Not because they got along, but because they understood what it meant to protect something—or someone—with everything they were. In the operations report, Natasha Romanoff wrote a single line about them: “Belova and Barnes can't stand each other. But they save each other. Always.” Perhaps, Fury thought as he read it, that was the closest thing to love that two soldiers like them could ever know.