Despite knowing that she’s approaching, it hammers on all of his instincts to have someone standing partially behind him — an annoying itch in his shoulderblades, an urge to sidle sideways to get her back in his full field of view and out of his blind spot. He presses it down.

And Gamora’s usually so reticent that this explanation almost sounds like a flood of words, so it makes him instantly pay attention: straightening, standing light on the balls of his feet, gaze dropping to the bowl as she slides it closer to him.

We pull the weight together, she says, and Bucky feels something sharp twist in his chest.

And he huffs a laugh. It’s like she’s having to explaining math or justice to a stubborn child, the fact that equality isn’t always equity — and yet when she phrases it this way, it finally sinks in. Even reluctant as he is.

“For decades,” he says, a sideways approach to an answer, “I was only deployed as a lone operative. One person, in the night. Sometimes I had armed backup, but they were more like pawns on the board to be sent and manipulated and to die. I’m not really used to working together. So if I’m shit at it, that’s why. But alright. You’ve got a point, and I get the soup.”