Thunderbolts* Post Credits
*This is my delulu post credit scene enjoy 😝*
James groaned under his breath, fumbling through the ring of keys in his hand, the dull ache in his body making it hard to even focus. Every inch of him throbbed, his ribs, his shoulder, even the fingers on his right hand. By now he should have expected it. But somehow, every single mission every fight, found a new way to make him hurt. Pain was a part of his life, almost as much as breathing was.
The hallway light above him flickered, and he cursed as the keys slipped from his numb fingers. Before he could even get a chance to pick them up and try again the door was swinging open.
She stood there, framed by the warm light spilling from inside, one hand braced on the doorframe, smirking at him with that crooked confidence that always managed to knock the air out of his lungs. Her hair was tied into a messy bun, a few stubborn strands escaping to frame her face in a way that was infuriatingly effortless. The last traces of blonde had finally been cut away, leaving a deep, rich chestnut that caught the light.
She wore one of his old t-shirts, the soft, worn cotton hanging loosely off one shoulder, paired with a pair of black leggings that hugged her legs and bright pink fuzzy socks that peeked out from under the hem. The socks — completely ridiculous and absolutely her — made his chest ache in a way the bruises couldn't touch.
"Welcome home, Soldat." Natalia teased, hip cocked to the side.
The sight of her — safe, waiting for him, looking like the one soft thing in his broken world — made something inside him unclench.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and gave her a crooked smile back.
"I watched the news," she murmured against his shoulder, trying to hide the worry she had clearly felt.. "You should have called Sam. Or Bruce. Or me."
"We handled it," James said, brushing it off with a casual shrug that didn't quite hide how drained he was. His bag hit the floor with a heavy thump, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet apartment. He moved toward the kitchen, each step making his body protest — the stiffness in his hips, the dull throb at the base of his spine, even the sharp pinch under his ribs where he was pretty sure he was hiding a cracked one.
"Besides," he added, gripping the back of a chair for a second before pushing forward, "Valentina was the real problem. The Void? Just another maniac with superpowers. She was dangerous because she had too much real-world influence. And you..." He shot her a look over his shoulder, a teasing glint in his tired eyes. "You're dead."
"Still bitter she got you booted from congress?" Natalia teased, following close behind. She moved on autopilot, pulling out the coffee pot and setting it on the machine.
James huffed a laugh, the sound more exhausted than amused. "I never wanted that job anyway," he muttered, working the stiffness out of his shoulder with a rough, practiced motion before reaching up. With a small click and a low hum of shifting metal, he detached his left arm and set it down on the counter like it was nothing more than a heavy tool.
"I still don't understand how I got it," he added, flexing his right hand with a grimace.
"James Buchanan I swear if you put that thing through the dishwasher again..." She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head in exasperation. "That is an expensive piece of equipment."
James opened the dishwasher, unbothered. "It's survived far worse. Vibranium holds up surprisingly well."
He rearranged the dishes to make room and laid it on the top rack like it was a cereal bowl. The sight would have given most people a heart attack. Natalia just shook her head, used to him in ways no one else could be.
"I was talking about the dishwasher." She mumbled, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard above the coffee maker.
The machine gurgled and hissed, the kitchen filling with the aroma of a fresh brew. She filled one mug and passed it to him with out looking.
"Don't break my washer, James." She said, but there was no real threat in her voice.
He smiled and took the cup, gratefully. "Never moya lyubov'." Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She smelled clean, fresh — like peaches and sunlight and something he could never quite hold onto.
He sat back against the counter, cup in hand, as he watched her fill her own cup.
"I don't think Yelena even remembered me." He said after a beat, voice tired from the recent battle.
She shook her head, stirring cream into her cup. "She was young, but she remembered. She asked you to help take down red room."
"And Alexei?"
She let out a snort, short but almost fond sounding. "You've met him. Half the stories he tells are fake, and even he can't keep track anymore."
She crossed the kitchen, her fuzzy sock-clad feet making no sound against the cool tile. The soft swish of her leggings brushed faintly with each step. She slid onto one of the bar stools, curling one leg beneath her, and leaned over her cup, wrapping both hands around the warmth. She inhaled deeply, letting the smell of fresh coffee and the comfort of home settle her.
"It was nice." James said quietly, voice barley carrying over the hum of the dishwasher.
She coughed, nearly choking on her coffee. "I'm sorry — nice? You fought a guy who could literally turn people into shadows, and that was nice?"
"No." He set his mug beside hers. He reached for her hand, threading his fingers with hers. "Getting to know your family."
She looked down at their hands and smiled, her thumb tracing small circles against his skin.
"Maybe it's time to tell them." He propped gently.
"James..." Her voice was hardly a whisper.
"Come on, Nat." He squeezed her hand, his blue eyes steady, anchoring her. "They miss you."
She tapped her fingers against the countertop, a restless rhythm betraying the war inside her. Her gaze stayed fixed on their joined hands, as if afraid to look up and face the hope in his eyes. "Think they'll forgive me for letting them think I was dead?" she asked, voice rough around the edges.
Without a word, James moved around the island, slow enough that she could have pulled away if she wanted to. She didn't. She never really did when it came to him.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her gently against the solid warmth of his chest. For a heartbeat, she stayed stiff, torn between the familiar comfort and the walls she'd built around herself. Then she exhaled, a soft, tired sigh, and melted into him.
"There's only one way to find out," he murmured against the crown of her head, his chin resting lightly in her hair. "And after everything you've been through... I think they'd understand. I know they would."
She closed her eyes, letting herself believe it — just for a moment — as the steady beat of his heart against her cheek reminded her that she wasn't alone anymore.