Archive of Our Own

The thing about the Watchtower is that it’s still very much an active construction site, all exposed wires and iron beams and unfinished concrete. It feels a bit to Bob like they’re sleeping in a warehouse or, on his more morbid days, a graveyard. He remembers when the aliens first came to New York, in the way he remembers most things from that era of his life, through the glossy sheen of a lot of drugs. In the false memories he’s constructed, he sees it playing out like a movie. He’s stopped on the street in front of one of those stores where the front window is full of TVs, and they’re all tuned to footage of the Avengers protecting Manhattan, in glossy technicolor and stunning Hi-def. In reality, stores like that don’t exist anymore, and he probably just woke up on the wrong end of a bender, checked his phone, and realized that the world was very different, but not different enough to change anything for him, not really, and how sad is that? An alien ship lands in the middle of Times Square, hundreds of people die, and all he could think about was how he was going to score more meth when he had no money and nothing to trade for it besides his back molars and possibly another kidney. And now Bob is living in the tower from those glossy, Hi-def fake memories, except in real life the tower is a lot less glamorous and a lot more full of floors they still can’t go on because the glass in the windows hasn’t been replaced yet.

At first, they all sort of avoid each other, skittish like unsocialized animals, which Bob supposes they are. They stick mainly to their own rooms, darting through the common spaces (the one working kitchen, the living room with the sunken conversation pit) like they’re worried they’re gonna get in trouble for being there. Yelena takes over a comically huge bedroom that in Bob’s mind used to belong to Iron Man, or whoever the richest Avenger was (were they all rich? They all seemed vaguely rich to Bob, but that can’t be true.) It has a massive bed and a walk-in closet and an en-suite bathroom, and Bob figures Yelena chose it for one of those reasons, or perhaps because of its proximity to the only training gym that isn’t also full of tarps and plywood beams. But then he walks in one day (invited, of course) and sees that the majority of the room is taken up by a guinea pig enclosure.

When Bob asks about it, Yelena just shrugs.

“He likes the space.”

Ava sets up shop in the room nearest to the kitchen, which Bob soon realizes is so she can phase straight through the wall whenever she wants food. It nearly gives him a heart attack every single time, which just makes Ava smile that thin smile of hers, not mean, necessarily, but definitely amused at his expense. Whatever. It’s nice seeing her smile at all. It took Ava the longest out of any of them to get adjusted to the new space. She spent days walking around on edge, glowering at the walls, snapping at Walker even more than usual. When Bob asked her about it (from a good distance away, just in case) her sneer finally broke, and she admitted it all reminded her a bit too much of the lab, what with all the cold metal and general lack of homeyness.

After that, Bob went out and bought some throw pillows and mugs from the Goodwill on West 14th. It sort of felt like putting a bandaid over a still-unfinished-super-tower, but when Ava saw the mug he’d picked out for her, covered in little cartoon ghosts, she smiled, and it hadn’t been at anyone’s expense.

Bucky has a bedroom, but he’s in and out all the time, sometimes back in his apartment in Brooklyn, sometimes down in D.C. tying up loose ends, and sometimes in Louisiana, with Captain America, who is apparently none too pleased about the whole “New Avengers” thing but who still has Bucky down to stay with his family at least every month or so. It’s a confusing dynamic, one Bob doesn’t want to pry into. He likes Bucky, probably a weird amount, considering they barely know each other. Maybe it’s just because he has this sort of world-weary thing going on that Bob enjoys. Plus, he’s the first one to actually try and make the living room a place they can, well, live in. In addition to Bob’s throw pillows, he adds a TV, a coffee table, a bookcase and a record player. It’s not plugged into any sort of fancy sound system, even though Bob is pretty sure the tower comes with one. It’s just placed on a little table, with a pile of old vinyl resting beside it. Sometimes, when Bob is tip-toeing around the tower, trying not to be noticed, he hears faint singing coming from the living room. Bob always lingers in the hallways then, making sure to stay out of sight, at least until the song finishes.

Alexei is the oddest. He takes over the basement, which is an bold choice, considering the elevator only works about half the time. But after a couple weeks of being there, the five, occasionally six, of them still giving each other a wide berth, Alexei summons them all down to the basement, saying he has “surprise.” It’s a good thing the elevator is working that day.

“What are the odds he’s been hiding bodies down here?” Ava asks, leaning against the elevator wall, her arms crossed.

“None,” Yelena says. “Not because that’s not something he’d do. He just has a guy in Jersey who takes care of that.”

“Classy,” Walker mutters.

Bob has been doing his best to not look at Walker too much lately. The berth between them has been the widest, and Bob figures that’s for a good reason. He does, however, look up at that moment to find Walker already watching him, his brow furrowed, like Bob is being particularly vexing, which is weird, considering Bob hasn’t said anything. Though, to be fair, it wouldn’t be the first time Bob’s mere presence has pissed someone off.

“Here we go,” Bucky says as the elevator finally arrives to the basement with a disconcerting thud.

The doors slide open, and Bob is momentarily blinded. He nearly yelps in surprise, before he realizes the light is not a flash grenade, or the scopes of a dozen rifles, but strobe lights.

Alexei is standing in the center of the basement, which has been outfitted to look like a cross between a middle aged man’s bedroom and a grimy club. There’s a boxing bag hanging from the ceiling, a fully-stocked bar and a bed covered in a massive bear skin, with the head still attached. Bob can’t imagine that when Iron Man originally built this tower that this is what he had in mind.

“YOU LIKE?” Alexei demands, shouting over the thumping bass music that’s emanating from some unseeable source.

“Oh my God,” Yelena says, her voice muffled. When Bob turns to look at her, he sees this is because she’s covered her entire face with her hands.

“IT’S BACHELOR PAD!” Alexei shouts. He gestures to the basement. “GREAT FOR PARTIES, EH?”

“We aren’t,” Bucky starts, then has to try again, because the music is too loud. “WE AREN’T THROWING PARTIES HERE. THIS TOWER IS A TOP-SECRET HEADQUARTERS.”

Alexei frowns. He reaches into the pocket of his track suit pants and pulls out a tiny remote. When he presses a button on it, the entire party stops, music cutting off and the lights disappearing.

“What do you mean, secret?” Alexei asks. “We’re tallest building in midtown. They can see us all the way in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

Alexei has been learning more American city names recently and Pittsburgh is his new favorite. Before that, it was Tucson, Arizona, which he pronounced like he was gargling marbles.

“I mean, we can’t just go letting anyone in here,” Bucky amends.

“I saw a pigeon fly in here the other day,” Ava points out. “Just came straight in through the window.”

“Yes, our security isn’t exactly stellar,” Yelena says.

“Wait, sorry, do you want him to throw parties down here?” Bucky asks. “In this old man sex dungeon?”

Yelena’s nose wrinkles at the descriptor.

“Is bachelor pad,” Alexei says quietly.

Ava shrugs. “I mean, why not? It’s not as if we’re doing much else in here, besides not getting missions.”

Bucky looks to Walker, who, to Bob’s surprise, puts his hands up in faux-surrender.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “I don’t really care what happens in the old man sex dungeon, as long as I don’t have to be a part of it.”

“Please stop calling it an old man sex dungeon,” Yelena says.

Then, to Bob’s mild horror, the entire group turns to look at him. It takes another beat for him to realize they’re waiting for him to weigh in on this. Like his opinion actually matters, and he’s not just living rent free in a giant tower with a team of superheroes because they are, in effect, permanently babysitting him.

Bob lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I, uh, I think throwing parties down here would make Valentina really, really mad.”

Then, without even really meaning to, he smiles.

There’s a beat of silence, before Alexei lets out an earth-shaking cheer.

“BOB!” He exclaims, barreling over and throwing an arm around Bob’s shoulder. “I knew I like you for a reason. You are good man, Bob, very good man.”

Ava lets out a choking sound, which Bob realizes a second later was actually a dry laugh.

“It’s like living with bloody teenagers,” she remarks. “Throwing a party to piss off the parents.”

“If our parents were a crazy, controlling psychopath and the U.S. government,” Yelena remarks. “Which, hey, not so different from our actual childhoods, really.”

Even Bucky is smiling now, barely, reluctantly, but smiling all the same.

“Fine,” he agrees. “Alexei, nothing illegal. We’re already in enough trouble as it is for just existing.”

“Nothing illegal,” Alexei says, then leans over to Yelena, speaking in a loud whisper, as if Bucky isn’t right there. “Weed is legal in this country, yes?”

Bob accidentally looks over at Walker then, still buckled under the weight of Alexei’s arm, to find that same, furrowed expression on his face. So, Bob did do something wrong. That’s the only explanation as to why Walker would be looking at him like that. Face heating, Bob turns away, and tries not to let it bother him too much.

It’s another week before Bob realizes he has no idea where in the tower Walker is actually living. Bob chose a small room on the floor that seems to be getting the most use, the one with the kitchen and living room, down the hall from Ava but still far enough that he’s not getting in anyone’s way. Considering he bendered himself all the way into human experimentation before waking up in an underground bunker wearing nothing but a pair of scrubs, Bob doesn’t exactly have a lot of possessions to move into the room. He’s been accumulating clothes slowly, using as little of his stipend as possible to do it. The fact that he’s getting a stipend at all still baffles him, considering he’s not actually doing anything, but then Yelena says it’s less of a stipend and more like hush money, which makes a lot more sense.

Still, Bob continues to get most of his stuff from the Goodwill. A couple of sweatshirts and some jeans, a few pairs of sweatpants, clothes for training, which he’s slowly been trying to do. There must be a way for him to be useful, and he wants to believe he can hold his own without Sentry or the other guy popping out, but it’s hard. Every time he exerts himself at all, the voices start. Sentry’s always first, eager for attention, chanting in his head about how Bob doesn’t need to bother with any of this, how he could crush whoever he wanted, put his hands on either side of their skull and press.

At that point, Bob usually stops working out. Instead, he’s taken to going on walks. He’s finding that he likes being around people a lot more now. It’s nice, reminding himself that there’s a whole world outside of his head.

He’s about to go on one of these walks, dressed in a t-shirt and some grey sweats, when the door down the hall from him opens. At first, his brain skips, thinking he misplaced Ava in the hall and they’re actually a lot closer than he thought, but then he realizes it’s Walker stepping out of the room. The room closest to Bob’s.

Holy shit, they’re neighbors.

“Have you been there the whole time?” Bob blurts out.

Startled, Walker looks up at him. He’s dressed casually, in jeans and a hoodie, and Bob still finds it so unsettling, seeing him out of uniform. Actually, he’s still getting used to it with everyone. The first time he saw Bucky in pajamas he nearly choked on his cereal.

“Yes?” Walker says, turning to look back at his bedroom door, as if checking to make sure it’s still there. “Uh, is that ok?”

“Of course,” Bob says hurriedly. “I mean, I’ve just never seen you come out of there before.”

Walker shrugs. “I get up early. Like to keep busy.”

Bob nods. That’s fair. He figures Walker probably spends a lot less time wallowing in bed than him. He’s actually proud Walker is seeing him now, on one of the rare occasions where Bob feels the urge to be active, as opposed to emerging from a stupor having not showered for a week.

“Cool,” Bob says, when he realizes he's taking way too long to reply.

Walker raises an eyebrow, then seems to take in what Bob is wearing for the first time.

“Where are you going?” He asks. Bob looks down at his sweatpants and running shoes, feeling self-conscious.

“On a walk,” he says. “Helps clear my head, sometimes.”

Walker nods. Bob knows they’re all, in theory, seeing counselors right now, Bob included, but he wonders if the rest of the team is having the same growing pains he is. The first therapist Valentina got for him was a complete yes-man, acting as if Bob was some sort of drowned kitten, and not an adult man who could handle somewhat difficult conversations. The second was a woman who didn’t talk at all, only listened to him and nodded, and that just made Bob nervous. He’d like to think the third time will be a charm, but he doesn’t have high hopes.

“Ok,” Walker says, then turns to leave.

“Wait!” Bob calls, the word out of his mouth before he can stop it. Walker pivots on his heel, turning to face him, his eyebrows raised. Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Do you — I mean, you could come. If you want.”

The offer hangs between them for a few seconds too long, and Bob wonders if Walker is going to pretend like he didn’t hear him. Maybe that’d be for the best. Actually, Bob might save him the trouble, and just go back into his room, wait for Walker to leave, and then never come out again.

“Sure,” Walker says, shrugging, and then starts walking down the hall.

Bob watches him go, before realizing with a jolt that he’s meant to be following. Jogging a bit, not wanting to get left behind, he does.

Autumn arrives like a switch being flipped, one moment it’s too muggy to leave the house and the next the city is trapped under a permanent drizzle and everything is damp. Bob hates when the weather gets like that. It makes time go all squishy, grey morning turning to grey afternoon turning to a week going by without notice. He expects this September to be much of the same, but surprisingly, he finds his energy levels are a bit more consistent. The counselor he’s seeing now, referred to him by Bucky, with zero of Valentina’s involvement, is a lot better. No nonsense but undeniably kind, and she doesn’t try to change the subject when Bob asks about her kids, or her book collection, or her wife. Bob likes that, getting to take the attention off him for a bit. It makes it easier to actually talk about what’s going through his head when they do circle back to him eventually.

They’re still trying to work out the right combination of meds, enough to stabilize him without turning him into a zombie. It isn’t perfect, not by a long shot. Bob gets on a big upswing that carries him for three, sleepless nights, and by the end of it, he’s a bleary-eyed mess, pounding on his head, trying to get Sentry to just shut up, for once.

YOU ARE A GOD. 

I’m not, Bob thinks desperately, his head hitting the concrete wall. He’s sequestered himself away on one of the unused floors. All the electrical paneling is exposed, live wires tracing their way across the ceiling, and Bob tries to center himself, tries not to think about how it would feel to put one of those wires down his throat.

YOU WOULD SURVIVE BECAUSE YOU ARE A GOD.

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Bob hits himself again, hard, but then there’s the sound of shuffling, and when he looks up, Pierre Bezukhov is staring at him. The guinea pig makes a chuffing noise, then trots up, sitting primly by Bob’s foot. He stares down at him, wondering if he’s seeing things.

A second later, Yelena emerges, calling for Pierre. She pushes aside the tarp Bob has tucked himself behind, seeing him and Pierre Bezukhov together. Her expression goes briefly stormy, before smoothing out.

“You came down here alone,” she says.

Bob nods. “I didn’t want to be any trouble.”

Yelena lets out a breath, then walks up to him. Bob can’t shake the feeling that he’s in trouble somehow, doesn’t until Yelena sinks down in front of him and produces a cucumber from her pocket. She offers it to Pierre Bezukhov, who sniffs it apprehensively.

“Such expensive taste, this one,” she tuts. “It’s what I get for naming him after a rich man.”

Yelena doesn’t say anything else. She and Bob sit there in silence, watching Pierre steadily demolish the cucumber, despite his initial reluctance. By the time he’s done, Bob doesn’t feel better, but Sentry isn’t being quite so loud, and for now, Bob takes that as a victory.

His walks with Walker start becoming a regular thing. It’s not like Bob expects them or anything, but every couple of days, he comes out of his room to find Walker waiting for him, not impatiently, more so just…there. They don’t talk much, mostly focus on covering as much ground as possible, looping all the way down around the harbor, or else up towards Central Park. The crazy thing is, no one stops to talk to them. Bob imagines that Steve Rogers couldn’t go two feet without someone asking for a picture, but if anyone recognizes him and Walker, they certainly don’t do anything about it. If it bothers Walker, he doesn’t show it. It certainly doesn’t bother Bob.

It’s on one of these walks that they come across a woman shouting on the street, a tiny, white dog perched in the crook of her elbow. The person she’s shouting at, a very tired looking Black man, is wearing a flannel shirt and gardening gloves. He’s watching the woman with a bored expression, like he’s waiting for her to run out of steam. Bob exchanges a look with Walker, and with neither of them saying a word, they both slow down as they pass.

“—unsightly mess!” The woman exclaims.

“Ma’am, for the third time, this is a community garden,” the man replies, and it really does sound like he’s been repeating himself, possibly way more than three times. “The city already knows it exists. They helped set it up.”

“Well, it’s certainly not being maintained to the proper standards,” the woman sniffs. “This is a nice neighborhood, you see, a nice neighborhood, full of nice people—“

Every time the woman says nice, the man’s expression flattens further, as if he’s trying to disassociate his way out of the conversation. Bob really can’t blame him.

Bob cranes his neck, looking through the open gate. It’s a very pretty garden, with lots of rows of low, wooden planters. It just looks like it could use a bit of tidying, some weeding and potentially a new coat of paint on the sign. Definitely not an unsightly mess, though.

“Uh, excuse me?” Bob asks.

Both heads swing around to look at him. Immediately, he clams up. He looks to Walker, but Walker just looks confused. Bob really needs to get better about thinking before he speaks.

“I, uh, I was wondering if you needed any volunteers for your garden.”

The man raises his eyebrows, eyes darting over Bob, then to Walker. A faint look of recognition passes across his face, but it’s gone just as quickly.

“Do you live around here?” The woman demands. Bob inclines his head.

“Sort of,” he says. He turns, scanning the skyline for a beat before he finds the tower. He points at it. “We live over there.”

When he turns back, the woman’s mouth has dropped open. Her eyes dart to Walker, then back to Bob, then she’s holding her tiny dog very close and hobbling away, muttering quietly to herself.

Bob turns back to the man, who fixes him with a vaguely amused expression.

“Look, I appreciate the offer,” he says. “But don’t you guys have better things to do?"

"Honestly, sir,” Walker pipes up, coming to stand beside Bob. “We really don’t.”

It takes a while to get everyone together — Bucky was over in Brooklyn and Ava was in the middle of her counseling session and Alexei was with his amateur pickleball league, but eventually, everyone congregates at the garden. Yelena shows up last, but only because she’s the only one who thought to actually get supplies.

The man, who Bob learns is named Henry, just stands back and watches, looking sort of baffled by the whole thing. To be fair, they do look odd, Alexei in his tiny white shorts and Bucky with his metal arm tugging out weeds from the pumpkin patch. Ava leaves to buy paint and then redoes the sign with surprisingly adorable drawings of flowers around it. When she catches Bob staring, her eyes narrow.

“Shut up,” she says, even though Bob didn’t say anything.

At various points, people from the neighborhood stop to peer through the gate, trying to see what’s going on. Bob hears at least one mutter about Bucky, who is far and away the most recognizable of the group, but no one stops for a photo, or an autograph, or to yell at them, which is more so what Bob was expecting. Two kids do pull up on bikes though, after they’ve been at it for an hour, and Bob’s arms ache and his face is pretty much half dirt.

“Hey!” One of the kids calls out from across the street. “Where’s the raccoon?”

His friend whacks him firmly on the arm. “That’s the Guardians of the Universe, dumbass.”

The work is slow going, but no one complains. Eventually, Henry returns with a six-pack of beer, and his wife comes and joins him, and their two girls. After that, an older couple from the building toddles in, bringing some lawn chairs and soon, half the apartment has piled into the small garden, and they’re taking a break from all the weeding to sit and drink and talk. Henry flicks on some fairy lights, making everything glow, and Bob sits on a patch of dirt and watches Ava talk to an older lady in a wheelchair, the two of them laughing like they’re old friends. Alexei is with Henry’s girls, lifting them up, one on each arm, which they can’t seem to get enough of. Bob is so absorbed in watching everyone that he doesn’t even notice Walker approaching until he sits down next to him. He’s holding a can out to Bob, and Bob goes to refuse it, before he realizes it’s just a seltzer. He looks up to find Walker already watching him. For some reason, the tips of his ears have gone a bit red.

“June brought them down,” he says, angling with his chin towards Henry’s wife. Bob nods, accepting the drink.

“Thanks,” he says, just holding the can in his hands, unsure of what to do. Walker rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t strike Bob as particularly mean. They sit side by side for a few minutes, watching as the indigo sky steadily darkens overhead.

“Why did you stop earlier?” Walker asks. Bob turns to face him, but Walker isn’t looking his way. It strikes Bob as purposeful, before he wonders whether he knows Walker well enough to make assumptions like that. “We could’ve just kept walking.”

Bob considers this for a moment, taking a sip of his seltzer. It’s grapefruit flavored.

“I guess I just thought I could be helpful.” Bob smiles, hoping this isn’t coming off as too self-important, too preachy. “It’s really, really rare that I think I can actually go into a situation and make it better so I figured, why not.”

Walker finally turns to look at him, and Bob is caught off guard by the intensity in his expression. The furrow. It’s not, as Bob had first assumed, anger in Walker’s eyes. It’s puzzlement. Like he’s trying to figure Bob out.

I’m not that complicated, Bob finds himself wanting to say, but doesn’t.

“You make situations better,” Walker says, so quietly Bob thinks he might’ve imagined it. Bob feels his lips part, but then Walker is turning away, taking a long sip from his beer. Before Bob can say anything, Yelena is plopping down beside him, a huge grin on her face.

“You’ll never guess what they grow here,” she says, then produces a foot-long cucumber.

Laughter bubbles up from Bob before he realizes what’s happening, and then he’s doubling over, nearly spilling his seltzer.

“What are you—?” Walker starts, then leans over to see what Yelena is holding. She waggles it, her lips pressed together in a smile. “Oh my God.”

“Are you guys seeing that thing?” Ava materializes, kneeling down beside Walker, making him jump. “It’s enormous!”

Alexei walks over then, eyeing the vegetable like he’s sizing it up for something. “Eh, not that big.”

Bob laughs so hard seltzer comes out of his nose. He’s still laughing when Bucky finally rounds them all up, saying it’s time to stop taking advantage of these nice people’s hospitality. They all walk back to the tower together, light pollution turning the sky hazy and purple. When Bob isn’t looking, Walker comes up next to him and, without breaking his stride, bumps their shoulders together lightly. Bob takes another drink of his seltzer, smiling against the lip of the can.

When Bob dreams, it’s not of the Void.

Sometimes he wishes it was. He can hear the damn thing all the time, whispering in his ears on his worst days, reminding Bob that whatever good situation he’s found himself in is fleeting, because who the hell would want him around for that long. If he dreamt about it, he could at least pretend it was a monster, something he could fight, no matter how badly everyone says that went last time. Still, Bob likes the idea that the Void is a psychical thing. A very powerful, very scary physical thing, but a thing all the same. Something he could grab.

In his dreams, he can’t seem to hold onto anything.

He’s running down this infinite hallway, but his feet are sludge, and he can’t seem to make any progress. His mom is in here somewhere, which is weird, because he’s in his old apartment complex, the one with the hole in the drywall, where Bob woke up covered in his own vomit on that bare mattress, saved only because he’d happened to pass out facing the right direction. There’s all this banging coming from behind the doors, these horrible screams, but Bob can’t get a hold of any of the doorknobs. They keep on slipping out of his hands.

“Bobby, sweetie, come inside.”

Bob turns around and he’s not in that apartment anymore. He’s in his old backyard and it’s nighttime. The fireflies are out. Bob remembers how he used to try and catch them in jars, before he realized that trapping them like that just kills them.

His mom is leaning against the doorway, smiling at him. She’s wearing an apron, which is odd, considering his mom was never much for cooking. Bob goes to approach her, but he can’t. It’s like he’s stepped in two gopher holes, his feet entirely sunk into the grass.

“Bobby, come on, it’s dinner time,” his mom says, but she’s not impatient. She’s just smiling at him. She’s still smiling, in fact, when his dad comes up behind her. In Bob’s dreams, he’s always tall, much taller than he ever was, looming over the doorframe, his face all shadow, his body misshapen, like it can’t figure out if it’s human or not.

“Mom!” Bob cries, but no sound comes out. His dad doesn’t do anything, which is worse, because he just keeps standing there, his eyes like headlight beams, staring at Bobby, daring him to move.

Then, his dad is right in front of him, and his mouth is open, rows and rows and rows of white teeth exposed, and Bob can’t move, can’t go anywhere. He’s back on that mattress, he’s sinking further and further into the earth, and his dad is standing above him, so much taller than he has any right to be.

“Bobby, I mean it, get inside," his mom says again, her voice far away.

What she doesn’t understand is that Bob is inside. He’s here, in the shadow of his father, which isn’t just a person, but the entire house, the entire world. Bob knows there’s only one way out from under it. He wonders if he’ll have the strength to do it. If it’ll actually work this time.

“Bob.”

Bob blinks. He doesn’t wake up screaming, but judging by the way Walker is looking at him, he probably was just a few moments before. His room is dim, the cheap curtains he got from Ikea doing little to keep out the light of the city. Walker has his hands braced on Bob’s shoulders, but the second Bob wakes up, the hands are gone, and Walker is backing away.

“I heard screaming through the wall," he says by way of explanation. 

Bob swallows, wishing his heart rate would calm down. “Had a bad dream.”

The ghost of a smile graces Walker’s face. “Figured it was that. I mean, I hoped it was. Either that or we are an even worse team of superheroes than I thought and you were getting ambushed in the middle of the night."

It’s sort of like Walker’s attempt at a joke. Bob finds himself smiling.

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

Walker shrugs. He’s wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a worn t-shirt from some diner down in his hometown. I STUFFED MY PIE-HOLE AT DAISY’S! Bob stares at it for a moment, then looks back up at Walker, who still hasn’t made any move to leave.

“You gonna be alright?” Walker asks.

Bob nods, and finally Walker moves to the door, but hesitates. The hallway light is on, so he’s all lit up from behind. Bob stares at the shadow of him, wondering why on earth Walker is still lingering.

“Night, Bob,” he says, then closes the door behind him.

Bucky is the one who puts the plan into action. Even though he’s been leaving most of the leadership duties to Yelena, he still knows New York better than any of them. Valentina has them on retainer for a series of promotional photoshoots and not much else, leaving them with ample free time. So, one day, Bucky marches into the living room, his hands on his hips, which Bob has learned to read as a code for, we are going to have a serious team meeting now.

He sits up from where he was sprawled across the couch, his feet in Ava’s lap. The five of them were watching The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. Well, he, Ava and Yelena were watching, Walker was sitting in an armchair pretending to read but actually watching and Alexei was asleep. Bucky kicks his foot unceremoniously, startling him awake.

“This better be good, Barnes,” Yelena says. “They just arrested Jen Shah.”

“Who?” Bucky asks, then shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Come on. We’re going out.”

Walker sits up straight, book discarded. Bob sneaks a glance at the cover. Slaughterhouse-Five.

“We have a mission?” Walker asks.

“No mission,” Alexei says, sinking down further into his own seat, eyes still closed. “It’s Saturday.”

“Villains don’t take weekends off, Red,” Ava remarks.

Alexei cracks one eye open to look at her. “Why not? We do.”

“It’s not a mission,” Bucky says.

“Then what is it?” Bob asks, because if it’s not a life-threatening mission, he might actually be able to help. To his surprise, Bucky offers him a small smile.

“Get your coats. We’re going to Brooklyn.”

The non-mission, it turns out, is helping out at a community center in Greenpoint. They’re hosting some sort of charity run to raise money for Amelia Podolski, who Bob soon learns is a middle school librarian going through treatment for bone cancer. The treatments are extremely expensive, far more than she can afford on her meager teacher’s salary, so the community center is raising money to help out. They don’t have much to do, other than hand out water bottles and bring around collection buckets to the crowd that’s amassed to see the runners streak past. Some of them are decked out in all sorts of silly outfits, including a chicken suit, which earns Bob some pointed looks from the team. It’s early November, cold but not too miserable, and Bob stands on the sidelines, passing out granola bars and stomping his feet to keep warm. At one point, Bucky comes to stand beside him, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather bomber.

“Why’d you bring us here?” Bob asks. Across the street, Alexei and Yelena are posted up at the bake sale stand, which has devolved into something of a bidding war, people offering cash to see Alexei lift up increasingly heavy things.

When he looks at Bucky, he’s watching the runners, a far away look in his eyes.

“I figured it’s about time we actually started showing up for people,” he says. He turns to look at Bob, eyes focusing on him in that intent way that always makes Bob remember who he’s dealing with, how skilled Bucky really is. Not frightening, just perceptive. “You started it, anyway.”

“I did?”

Bucky nods. “The community garden. That’s the most helpful the ‘New Avengers’ have been since we were formed. I have no idea what Valentina intends for us, other than posing for cereal boxes, but in the meantime, while there’s no intergalactic threat, or at least not one anyone’s telling us about, we’d better make ourselves useful. Otherwise, what’s the point of us?”

Bob nods, turning just in time to see Alexei put both hands under a Kia Sorento and heave it above his head, letting out a roar of victory.

“Clearly we still have some work to do,” Bucky remarks lightly. He pats Bob firmly on the shoulder, which might’ve made Bob jump a few months ago, but now he just smiles, watching Bucky walk away, no doubt to tell Alexei to put the car down before someone gets hurt.

“He’s looking at you, you know.”

Bob jumps, turning to see Ava now standing beside him.

“What?”

Ava nods with her chin across the street. Bob follows her gaze to see Walker standing there, hands in his pockets, decidedly not looking Bob’s way.

“Who, Walker? No, he’s not.”

Bob turns to see Ava smiling that thin smile of hers, which in retrospect isn’t mean at all, but almost…playful. Like she’s getting away with something.

“Well, not when you’re looking, he’s not,” she says. “But he does it a lot. Trust me.”

“And exactly how much time do you spend watching him watch me?”

Ava’s smile grows. She’s got on a pair of yellow fingerless gloves that are mostly just lumps of yarn, courtesy of Yelena, who’s been trying to do more “mindful” activities lately. She got exactly one pair of fingerless gloves deep before declaring the whole thing too frustrating and giving up, but Ava still wears the gloves whenever she can. It’s sweet.

“I live in the walls, Bob,” Ava says casually. “I see everything.”

After that day in Greenpoint, they start going out a lot more. They’re still technically “non-missions,” which Bob supposes means they’re operating in an unofficial, non-New Avengers capacity, but they always go as a team anyway.

First it’s Thanksgiving at the soup kitchen in Queens, which Alexei takes over like he’s running the Soviet Army. Then it’s helping to rebuild a school up in the Bronx after the roof collapsed from the snow, which could've been done by a construction crew, but goes a lot quicker with three super soldiers involved. They help take care of some students after a protest at a college on the Upper West Side, pouring milk over their stinging eyes. They’re not dumb enough to try and escalate the situation, which would just lead to more civilians getting hurt, but they do the best they can to get everyone to safety. And throughout all of it, Bob is there, pitching in when he can, never rushing into action, sure, but what action is there to rush into? It almost starts to feel like he’s part of the team, carrying his weight in a way he was worried he’d never be able to, but he quells those thoughts just as quickly. This is just for now. Soon, a real mission will arrive, and Bob will be reminded of just how useless he really is. He keeps on telling himself that, even as Bucky continues to give him those reassuring pats on the arm, and Yelena shows him how to sew up a wound with dental floss, and Walker keeps on watching him with that same puzzled look on his face, occasionally interspersed with rare, quiet smiles.

This isn’t going to last, a voice in his head reminds him, and Bob is worried that he can’t tell which side it’s coming from.

He tries to keep himself grounded. It’s nice, but it isn’t permanent. As long as he remembers that, everything will be fine.

Then, the fire happens.

The apartment on West 135th and Malcolm X goes up like a tinder box, the fire spreading so rapidly that, by the time they get there, the building is like one huge, open flame. There are firefighters at the scene already, but they’re fighting a losing battle, too much fire and not enough time to get everyone out.

From inside the building, Bob can hear panicked shouts. He genuinely thinks he might keel over and be sick, before Ava is surging past him, already tugging on her helmet.

“I can get inside,” she says, voice muffled. Bob expects the rest of the team to protest, like he would if he could find his voice, but instead, Yelena just nods, eyes scanning the facade of the building.

“Get everyone to the roof,” she decides. “Alexei, John, Bucky, you get up there, get ready to jump everyone down. Bob, tell the firemen to prepare a net, whatever they have to catch people.”

Bob is moving before he even has time to register what’s happening, which he supposes speaks well of his instincts. He’s already told the firefighters the plan before his brain catches up to the fact that Yelena just asked him to help, like it was nothing, like he might actually have something to offer here.

The firemen are surprisingly compliant, or maybe it’s not surprising, considering this is New York, and these guys have probably had to collaborate with some superhero or another on a semi-frequent basis for the past thirteen years. Bob watches, his heart in his throat, as one by one, Ava and Yelena help get people up to the roof, where Bucky, Walker and Alexei take turns getting them down onto the ground. The firefighters keep their hoses aimed at the flames, and for a while, it actually seems to be working, more and more people deposited safely on the pavement, where Bob helps usher them to ambulances.

Then, Bob looks up, and sees the man waving in the window. 

Time slows to a crawl. Bob darts his eyes up to the roof, where the team has gathered. Ava and Yelena are there, which means they probably thought they got everyone out, which means that the man waving frantically through the closed window at Bob is going to get left there.

He thinks about calling for a fireman. He thinks about trying to get his team’s attention. Unfortunately for him, all of this thinking happens after he’s already charged forward, into the burning building.

The second he’s inside, the acrid tang of smoke fills his nose, his lungs, making his eyes water.

THIS IS NO THREAT TO YOU.

Sentry is so loud it makes Bob jump, but he just pulls the collar of his shirt over his nose and rushes up the stairs, towards where he thinks the man in the window might’ve been. He really, really did not plan this well, which only becomes more evident when he reaches the third floor and sees the flames crawling up the wall, devouring all of the oxygen in the hallway.

JUMP INTO THE FIRE. YOU WILL NOT BURN.

No, thank you, Bob thinks, and plasters himself against the far wall, trying very hard not to think about how hot everything is. He makes it to the right door, or what he hopes is the right door, and shoves his shoulder against it. Maybe Sentry is closer to the surface than he thought, because the door gives easily.

The man swings around, and Bob can see he’s a young guy, not much older than him, probably. He’s got on a pair of clear frame glasses and is wearing a CUNY t-shirt. There’s a pair of crutches propped up against the far wall, and immediately Bob realizes what a mess he’s just gotten himself into.

“You gotta help me, man,” the man says, hobbling over to Bob. “Are you with them? The, uh, Thundermen?”

“Sure,” Bob chokes out, then wraps his arm around the man’s waist. It’s slow going, getting him back out into the hall, where the flames have grown, stretching over the ceiling now.

“Just keep your eyes forward,” Bob says, because that sounds like something Yelena would say. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

LEAVE HIM. WHY DO YOU CARE ABOUT PEOPLE WHO ARE LESSER THAN YOU?

“Shut up,” Bob mutters.

“What?” The guy asks, as Bob gingerly guides him back down the stairs.

“Nothing,” Bob says, then promptly shuts his mouth, because his lungs feel like they’re about 90% smoke at this point.

Once they get outside, there are fireman rushing up to them, taking the weight of the man off Bob’s shoulders, which is a good thing, because he promptly collapses onto his knees. He manages to take a few, heaving breaths of cold air before there’s the sound of shouting, and multiple sets of footsteps are coming his way. He looks up just in time to see Walker yank him up by his collar.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” He demands, shaking Bob. Bucky is there in an instant, pulling Walker away with ease, then Ava rushes up to Bob, holding him up by the shoulders, trying to keep him steady.

“The fuck is your problem, Walker?” She spits, swinging around to glare at him.

Walker is struggling against Bucky’s grip, his eyes locked on Bob.

“Why did you do that?” Walker demands.

Bob opens his mouth to speak, but only a cough comes out, and he’s doubling over again, Ava guiding him back down to the ground. He sits down heavily, blinking up at the sky. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he feels like he can see way more stars up here. When he looks back down, Walker is still watching him, his face contorted in a mask of rage.

“I had to get him out,” Bob manages to say.

“That’s our job, Bob,” Walker says, and the words shoot through Bob, straight to his core. Of course it’s their job. What was Bob thinking, pretending he could actually be helpful?

“John,” Yelena says, her voice surprisingly soft.

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, but Walker is shaking his head, eyes practically glowing in the light of the fire.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” he says. “Do you really think you’re worth that little?”

The whole group goes silent. All eyes are on Walker, even as the firemen continue to swarm around them. Bucky’s arms must go lax for a second, because Walker finally manages to break away from him. He’s surging forward, coming to kneel on the ground in front of Bob. Bob braces himself, but Walker just reaches up, taking Bob’s face in his hands. Gently. Why is he being so gentle?

“You can’t do things like that, Bob, you hear me?” Walker asks. “I mean, what if you’d gotten hurt. Or — or—”

Walker trails off, and Bob wishes it didn’t hurt so much to speak, so he could say something comforting, even if he doesn’t know what he’d say.

“I mean, what would I have—?”

Walker cuts himself off again, and it’s only then that Bob realizes he’s trembling.

“Fuck,” Walker chokes out. “Sorry, Bob, Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

And then Bob is being tugged forward into a hug.

He freezes, completely unsure of what to do. Walker’s arms wrap around his shoulders, and Bob allows himself to go lax, falling into Walker’s embrace. Walker tucks his face into the space between Bob’s neck and shoulder; Bob can feel the rub of his stubble against his skin.

They stay like that for what could be minutes or hours. Bob isn’t sure. All he knows is that at one point, he finds the wherewithal to reach up and wrap his arms around Walker’s waist, keeping him close. He feels like he’s floating three inches above his body, or possibly like he’s dying, but he just stays there, letting Walker hug him and hugging him back until, finally, Walker pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he echoes. “I never should’ve grabbed you like that, I was just—”

“Scared,” Bob finishes, before he can stop himself. It wasn’t rage he’d seen on Walker’s face earlier. It was fear.

Walker nods. He slowly helps Bob up onto his feet, and then Alexei is stepping in, sweeping Bob off the ground in a rather dramatic bridal carry.

“It’s ok, bratishka,” Alexei says firmly. “We will patch you up.”

“We’re taking him to a hospital, Red,” Bucky says.

Alexei leans over Bob and spits on the ground.

“Nonsense,” Alexei says. At this point, the world starts to go fuzzy around the edges. The last thing Bob hears before he goes under is, “The boy needs to be with family.”

Christmas arrives at the tower with a surprising amount of fanfare. Bob just figured, considering their backgrounds, Christmas would be a sore time for all of them. It turns out, it is, but for some reason, that doesn’t stop any of them from getting into the holiday spirit. Yelena, on her latest mindfulness quest, tries baking cookies, which goes horribly, until Walker steps in and shows a shocking amount of aptitude in the kitchen. Ava decorates the whole living room with so much kitsch it’s like a Hallmark movie threw up all over it. When Bob asks her about it, she flushes red.

“I’ve never had a Christmas before,” she says. “Sue me.”

Alexei tries to get them all to go Christmas caroling, which is resoundingly shot down, but he does manage to make everyone drink his special eggnog, which it turns out is just regular eggnog with an entire bottle of vodka poured into it. Alexei sets a nonalcoholic portion aside for Bob, but he’s the only one who gets off scot-free. Everyone else is cajoled into drinking at least three glasses, even Bucky, who surprises all of them by announcing that they’re going to watch a movie together. Bob settles down on the couch, Ava beside him, a plate of Yelena’s sort of edible cookies in his lap, while Bucky turns on It’s A Wonderful Life.

Bob watches while, on the screen, George Bailey grows up, falls in love, gets married, has kids, and then contemplates throwing his life away, staring down into the black void of that water, the snow swirling around him.

It’s around then that Walker sits down on the couch next to him. All the lights are turned off, so Bob mostly sees him in shadow. It’s the closest they’ve been since the fire, since Walker grabbed him by the collar and then hugged him like he was terrified Bob was going to disappear. Ever since then, Walker has been flighty around him, never lingering in the same room as Bob for too long. Even their walks have stopped. Bob misses them more than he’d like to admit.

“I’m—” Walker begins softly.

“Walker, if you’re about to apologize again, I swear to God,” Bob whispers, not wanting to disturb anyone during the movie.

Walker actually huffs out a laugh.

“You’re right,” he whispers back. “After a while, self-flagellation just becomes narcissistic.”

Bob finds himself smiling in the dark, even if Walker can’t see it.

“Those are some pretty big words for you, Walker,” he remarks. He feels Walker shrug rather than sees it, his shoulder moving against Bob’s. He must’ve moved closer on the couch.

“I contain multitudes, Robert,” Walker replies, and Bob can’t help but notice the shiver that passes up his spine at the sound of his full name leaving Walker’s lips. He tries not to focus on it, or on the way their legs are now pressed together.

It’s a little later into the film, after George Bailey has seen the awful state of the world without him in it (“His wife, a librarian,” Yelena remarks dryly. “The horror.”) that Bob looks over to see John peering down at the illuminated screen of his phone. It’s hard to mistake what’s on it — some news article about how embarrassing the New Avengers are, how they should be ashamed of themselves for even taking the name, for trying to stand where real heroes stood. Without thinking, Bob reaches over and places his hand over the phone. Walker looks up at him, surprise clear even in the half-light provided by the TV.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” Walker murmurs, but tucks his phone away all the same. “Besides, it’s either that or stare at photos of Liv and Markie.”

Markie. Bob’s never actually heard Walker mention his son by name before.

“I’m sorry you can’t be with them today,” Bob says. Walker looks at him, his blue eyes so clear even in the dim light. On screen, George Bailey is back on that bridge, and the water is just as dark, but this time he’s begging Clarence for another chance at life.

I wanna live again! Please, God. Let me live again.

“Thanks, Bob,” Walker murmurs, and he really is close, much closer than Bob initially thought. Bob feels a weight on his leg, warm and comforting, before he realizes it’s Walker’s hand, resting just above his knee. Bob feels his lips part, face tilting, just slightly, and Walker’s eyes flash wide, something like fear darting across his expression.

Then, from the armchair, Alexei blows his nose so loudly it makes Bob jump. The hand disappears from his thigh, and Walker is turning away, his eyes glued to the screen like they never left. Bob forces himself to turn all his attention back to the film, even though the heat from Walker’s palm still lingers, seeping through his clothes.

By the end of the movie, there’s not a dry eye in the house. Since no one wants to go to bed having just cried, Alexei commandeers the sound system, and after Yelena shows him how Bluetooth works, begins an extremely painful round of Christmas karaoke. By the time midnight rolls around, and Alexei has started in on a passionate rendition of "Do They Know It’s Christmas?", everyone is singing along, Bucky included, if a bit begrudgingly. Bob’s almost able to forget all about how he nearly leaned over to Walker and did something monumentally, life-ruiningly stupid.

Almost.

Valentina tries to get them to attend a New Year’s Eve party being thrown by the mayor, some stuffy affair in a big, fancy house out in the Hamptons, full of people who want to gawk at them or else pat themselves on the back for giving such down-on-their-luck-victims-of-human-experimentation a second chance.

Bucky respectfully declines on their behalf, saying that the team already has New Year’s Eve plans. Alexei is throwing a party, and it would be rude to miss it, considering it’s happening in their basement.

Bob wakes up early that morning, gets ready, makes himself a somewhat decent breakfast (oatmeal, instead of cereal) and then spends a very pleasant afternoon avoiding Walker. After Christmas, their roles have reversed, and now it’s Bob who can’t bring himself to be alone with him, too scared he’ll do something dumb and fuck everything up, not only for himself, but for the whole team. Bob is just lonely, which he already knew, but he figured having friends that actually want him around would’ve cured that. Apparently, though, Bob still wants certain things. Things he figured he’d stopped wanting a long time ago. It’s not like he has any right to want them in the first place, particularly from Walker, of all people, so Bob just does his best to keep the feelings down. He knows that, as a collective, they’re trying not to do that anymore, but he figures this is a special case.

Yelena finds him down in the basement that evening, surrounded by at least two dozen half-blown up gold balloons.

“I’m worried I don’t have very strong lungs,” Bob remarks, gesturing to the sad array. Yelena sits down beside him, Pierre cupped in her hands.

“Clearly you don’t,” she says. “This is very sad.”

Bob laughs, prodding one of the mostly-deflated creations with his foot. Yelena eyes him for a beat, her thumb absently stroking Pierre’s fur.

“You seem good,” she says. It’s not a loaded statement, just a remark. Bob raises one shoulder in a shrug.

“Sometimes I am.”

Yelena’s mouth curls up in a smile. “Sometimes, Bob, is all we have. For example, sometimes we get to throw a New Year’s Eve party in a sad man’s excuse for a bachelor pad, instead of going out and killing people or almost getting killed. Sometimes is pretty good, if you ask me.”

Bob grins. She’s right. Sometimes is pretty good.

When evening rolls around and the party kicks off, Bob is honestly shocked by how many people show up. He wasn’t aware any of them had friends outside of each other. He does, however, recognize some people — Henry and June from the garden, some folks from the community center in Brooklyn, even a couple of firemen from that night in Harlem. No one is whispering about them or acting like they’re oddities in a zoo. No one is bringing up the fact that the people who used to live in this tower were a lot better at being Earth’s mightiest heroes, or whatever they used to call themselves. Bob drinks seltzer and chats with Ava and has a very good time, right up until the moment when Walker corners him by the snack table. Unconsciously, Bob looks around the room for a way out, but Alexei is behind the DJ booth, and Yelena and Bucky are engaged in what looks like a rather animated discussion over which New Year’s Eve broadcast to tune into, Ryan Seacrest or Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Bob’s eyes dart back to Walker, feeling caught. He’s expecting to see anger in his gaze, but instead Walker just looks unsure, almost shy. Bob immediately feels like the worst person in the world.

“I thought we were cool,” Walker continues, his words coming out all clipped and jilted, the way they do when he’s nervous. “I mean, I get if we aren’t, I just—”

“We are,” Bob assures quickly. “I’ve just been—”

Coping with the fact that I wanted to kiss you the other night? Busy trying not to kiss you every time we’re in a room together for longer than five minutes?

“— training,” Bob finishes lamely. Walker’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, which Bob immediately takes offense to. He whacks Walker on the chest before he can stop himself. “Don’t look so surprised, asshole.”

Walker absolutely beams at him, which confuses the hell out of Bob for a number of reasons. He watches as Walker rubs faintly at his chest, wondering if he accidentally hit him too hard before remembering that Walker is a super-solider, and right now, Bob is just a guy.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Walkers asks. “We should train together.”

Bob winces. He wasn’t totally lying when he said he’d been training. He had been, but training for him was usually a solo activity, considering he had to be incredibly careful about not letting Sentry or the other guy out, and that was usually easier without other people around.

Walker registers the change in his expression, his own face falling, before understanding seems to dawn on him.

“Oh,” he says. “That kind of training.”

Bob nods. “Yeah. I just think it’s safer for everyone if I do that sort of stuff on my own.”

Walker frowns, looking like he wants to say more, but at that moment, the debate between Yelena and Bucky apparently comes to an end, because the TV is turning on and Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen are there on screen, in the midst of doing a shot together.

Bob goes to leave, aware that he’s contradicting what he said earlier about not avoiding Walker, but also aware that he doesn’t want to be anywhere within a ten foot radius of the guy when midnight rolls around. Bob has bad impulse control, and that’s a recipe for disaster.

“Bob, wait,” Walker says, catching Bob lightly by the wrist. There’s no real firmness in his hold, Bob could easily shake him off, but he finds himself turning around anyway.

“I can still train with you,” Walker says. “If you want.”

Bob opens his mouth, then closes it again just as quickly, worried he wasn’t clear enough earlier. But Walker’s expression is determined, not a hint of fear in his gaze, and Bob realizes that he’s being serious.

“Walker,” he begins warily. “It really isn’t safe.”

“Neither are most things we do,” Walker points out. “This party included. I think that punch Alexei made has drain cleaner in it.”

Bob lets out a startled laugh, bringing up his free hand to cover his mouth. Walker smiles at him again, that same smile from earlier, the one that makes Bob feel like there must be some sort of mix up if Walker thinks Bob is worth looking at like that.

“Point is, if you want my help, I’m willing to take the risk,” Walker says. “Besides, I trust you.”

Something blooms deep in Bob’s chest, something treacherous and soft and terrifying. Wanting Walker is one thing — a surprising thing, sure, like, hey, after a couple rounds of experimental drug treatments that altered my DNA and made me into an all-powerful killing machine, I somehow still have a sex drive, who knew? Bob can handle surprises, and he can handle weird, but he doesn’t think he can handle whatever this is that’s happening between his ribs, making him feel like someone reached inside him and flicked all the lights on. Like Bob had been wandering around as an empty house and now, suddenly, there’s life inside.

He pulls his hand out of Walker’s grip and Walker lets go immediately, his arm dropping back by his side.

“I should go, uh, feed Pierre,” Bob says, and then he’s scurrying from the room, not allowing himself to turn around and see if Walker’s still looking at him as he walks away.

When it comes, it comes like an old friend. 

Bob wakes up and there’s a weight on his chest, as present as if someone was perched there, keeping him glued to the mattress. He thinks very hard about getting up, but what would the point of that be? Another day of going through the motions, of pretending to be some kind of decent, helpful person. What a fucking joke. After everything he’s done, after the massive fuck-up he’s made of his life, did he really think someone was gonna swoop in and rescue him? A team of superheroes devoted to the sole purpose of making Bob feel better about his miserable excuse for a life? It’s pathetic, and he’s pathetic for thinking anyone has ever cared about him like that. Not even his own parents cared about him like that, the people who were meant to love him more than anyone. Bob was created with a hole for that love inside of himself and every day it’s sat there, empty, rotting at the edges like old wood. He’s a hollow vessel, just waiting —

to be filled.

Bob forces a breath in, realizing that he’s nearly dizzy with the lack of oxygen.

feels good doesn’t it feels good to hurt yourself like that sometimes feels like control and control can feel almost like power if you wield it right

Bob screws his eyes shut. One breath in through his nose, another out through his mouth. He continues doing this until his brain is nothing but static, but even then, the task of actually getting out of bed feels monumental.

useless little scared stupid boy can’t even do the bare minimum sad broken pathetic bobby can’t even take a punch can’t get back up wants to cover his ears lie under the covers wants to take the rotten thing inside of him and burn it out

Pills. Bob needs to take his meds, but they’re so far away. And what would be the point? Who would even notice, if he just stayed here in bed for a few days? For an entire week? He’s not a real part of this team, not a real part of anything, really. A nothing person. A space where a person should’ve been, but one never quite formed.

a void

Bob can feel it, crowding in at the edges of his vision. It would probably feel good, he reasons absently, to succumb to it. Like floating, his body no longer weighed down by all these thoughts. Like pretending to fall asleep in the car and getting carried back into the house, not a memory Bob has but one he’s often imagined having before.

unlovable thing broken thing useless stupid foolish thing if it happened here what a burden that would be what an imposition better get up and find somewhere to curl up like a wounded dog better take yourself out now before someone has to go to the trouble of doing it for you

The darkness pulses, and if he lies very still, it almost feels like an embrace. Bob’s eyes fall closed.

When Bob wakes up, Yelena is lying next to him. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, as it often does during these lows. He’s in his bed, in his room, in the Watchtower. And Yelena, his friend, his teammate, is lying beside him, her attention focused on the book open in front of her. It takes Bob a second to realize it’s one of Walker’s, the one he saw him reading a few weeks back. Slaugtherhouse-Five.

“Hello,” Yelena says, turning to face Bob, a small smile on her face. “I would say morning, but I’m pretty sure it’s after five.”

“What’s going on?” Bob asks, his mouth dry.

Yelena purses her lips, seeming to consider the question.

“Well, Ava and I were in the kitchen, and then we saw a black shadow coming out from under your door, so we thought we’d better check on you.”

If it didn’t feel like an impossible task, Bob would shoot bolt upright in bed.

“The void came back?” He asks, already knowing and dreading the answer. To his surprise, Yelena shakes her head.

“It tried,” she says. “But it was weaker this time. Easier to send back to where it came from.”

Bob can hardly process what’s happening.

“You came for me,” he says, and he means for it to come out like a question, but it doesn’t. Yelena narrow her eyes at him.

“Of course we did,” she says. “My God. I’d be offended if I had the energy, so I suppose it’s your lucky day.”

She leans over to the bedside table, producing a water bottle with a straw.

“Drink,” she says, and then angles it so Bob doesn’t even have to sit up to drink from it. He takes a few sips, before collapsing back onto the pillow, feeling indomitably tired.

“Ava will come later,” Yelena says. “I have a pottery class in a few hours.”

Bob, despite the weight still pressing on his chest, manages a smile.

“Pottery?”

Yelena nods, grinning down at him. “Yes. I'm horrible at it. You should see my vases. They literally all look like dicks.”

“Or cucumbers,” Bob offers. Yelena laughs brightly.

“Good point.”

Bob drifts in and out for a while after that. At one point, he must gain sentiency enough to ask Yelena to read to him, because she does. None of the words leaving her mouth make sense, but Bob finds it soothing all the same, especially the part about everything being beautiful and nothing hurting. Before he falls asleep for real, he feels the faint impression of lips being pressed against his forehead, and then everything fades away.

Bob isn’t sure how long he stays in bed. All he knows is that every time he wakes up, he’s not alone.

Ava lies beside him, just like Yelena did, but instead of reading, she’s doing a series of increasingly complicated crossword games on her phone. Bob leans over, his head on her shoulder, and watches her until his eyes start to go all blurry, and then he’s falling asleep again.

Next time he comes to, Alexei is sitting in a chair pulled up beside the bed, and if Bob’s dreams weren’t so categorically awful during these lows, he’d think he was still in one. Alexei is wearing honest-to-God reading glasses, perched on the end of his nose, looking every bit like the Santa Valentina accused him of being. He’s reading like Yelena was, but instead of Vonnegut, he’s flipping through a newspaper.

“Bratishka,” Alexei begins when he notices Bob is awake. “What is your star sign?”

Bob runs a hand over his face, clearing some sleep from his eyes.

“I have no idea.”

Alexei tuts. “We must fix this. Otherwise how will we know who is compatible for you?”

A delirious giggle escapes Bob’s lips, and then he’s turning over, eyes sliding shut once more.

When he wakes up next, Bucky has taken up residency in the chair. Bob keeps his back to him, so Bucky can’t see that he’s awake. He’s on the phone with someone, speaking in hushed tones.

“Yeah, I hear you,” Bucky murmurs. “I’ll be back down soon.”

There’s a beat of silence. Bob tries to make himself go back to sleep, feeling guilty about eavesdropping, but before he can drift off, Bucky’s speaking again.

“He’s a good kid, Sam,” Bucky says. “Reminds me a lot of me.”

There’s a pause, followed by a quiet huff of laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, a good kid despite that, I guess.”

Another beat. Slowly but surely, Bob feels the tide of exhaustion rising back up to meet him, dragging him under. The last words he hears sound distant, like they’re coming from a TV left on in the next room, but they’re unmistakable all the same.

“I know, Sam,” Bucky says. “I love you too.”

When Bob finally emerges from the haze, however many days later, he wakes up to see Walker standing by his door. No, not standing, exactly. It’s more like he’s been posted there, his posture ramrod straight, eyes trained on Bob’s bed. Muscles aching, Bob forces himself up onto his elbows.

“You’re up,” Walker says. Bob can practically see the impulse to move coiled in Walker’s body, but for some reason, he stays by the door.

“In theory,” Bob says, his voice scraped raw. He turns his head, searching for the water, and this is what compels Walker to finally move. He grabs the bottle Yelena put there and kneels down beside the bed, offering it to Bob. He takes it, draining the bottle dry before sheepishly passing it back to Walker, who accepts it without blinking.

“How long have you been standing there?” Bob asks. He has a horrible feeling the answer is something like all night, in which case he might shrivel up and die of guilt.

Walker looks away, the tips of his ears going red.

“Not long,” he says, and Bob can tell he’s lying. He wonders when he started to know Walker well enough to pick up on things like that.

“You could’ve sat in the chair,” Bob says. “Or, you know—”

He avoids saying “gotten into bed with me," but just barely.

Walker finally turns to look at him. He looks almost mad, which now Bob understands to mean he’s afraid, just like how when Walker looks afraid, he’s usually something closer to happy. He’s funny like that.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says.

Bob grins, shaking his head. “You’ve seen my most traumatic memories. I’m pretty sure we’re long past uncomfortable.”

Walker nods, seeming to concede the point, but there’s still something trapped in his gaze. Bob resists the urge to reach over and tilt his chin up, to make Walker look him in the eye.

“I know,” Walker says. “But, well, you still call me Walker. I figured distance was probably what you wanted, at least from me.”

Bob stares at Walker, whose eyes are now cast down to the floor, as if he finds the wood paneling particularly fascinating.

“John,” Bob says, and John’s eyes dart up to meet his own. Bob feels something slide into place, a lock finally giving way, a broken bone suddenly righted. Bob scoots over in the bed, leaving ample room for John to climb in beside him.

“I’m not gonna be up for a while,” he says. “In case you wanted to stick around.”

John remains there, kneeling by the bed, for another moment. If Bob was less tired, he might be freaking out right now, but as it stands, he just waits, giving John the time he needs to slowly push himself up off the floor and climb in beside him.

He’s so stiff, Bob almost laughs, before figuring that might frighten him off. Instead, he just rolls over onto his back, so they’re both lying side by side, staring at the ceiling.

“Do you ever think about going home?” Bob asks.

John turns to him, frowning.

“What do you—?” John starts, then hesitates. “Oh. You mean my old home.”

Bob nods, wondering why his tired brain is choosing this topic of conversation to delve into. Feels a bit heavy for this time of day, whatever time that might be.

John is silent for a long time, and Bob wonders if that’s one path they simply won’t be going down, a step too far, despite all they’ve already been through. But then, John is speaking slowly, like he’s choosing his words very carefully.

“No, I don’t think I’ll ever go back,” he says. “Not completely. I mean, what would be waiting for me? An empty house?”

Bob turns his head so his cheek is pressed against the pillow. He watches John’s profile — the strong cut of his nose, the angle of his jaw.

“I’m going to do everything in my power to be a positive part of Markie’s life,” John continues. “But even when I see him and Liv, I know it isn’t going to be like everything is the same. It isn’t.”

John turns to look at Bob, and once again, Bob finds himself in the worrying position of being much closer to John Walker than he intended. His tired brain, however, has no objection to this, and has him burrow in closer, until Bob is nearly pressed flush against John’s side.

“I’m starting to become ok with that, I think,” John says. “Or, I feel ok about it sometimes.”

“Sometimes is all we have,” Bob remarks, recalling Yelena’s words.

John nods. His eyes are such a startling shade of blue, Bob is surprised he never really spent any time noticing them before. Now that he’s staring at them, he’s having a very hard time imagining he’ll ever want to look anywhere other than John Walker’s eyes.

Jesus. He really is out of it.

Letting out a sigh, Bob settles back in, determined to sleep off the last of this exhaustion. There’s a loaded pause, where John is thinking so loudly Bob can practically feel it vibrating in his own skull. Then, John is shifting on the bed, bringing up an arm and curling it around Bob’s shoulders, tugging him in so Bob can rest his head on his sternum, just above his heart.

“This ok?” John asks, his mouth pressed against the top of Bob’s head. Bob nods. Distantly, he’s aware that his heart is pounding, almost like Bob’s body is reacting when his brain can’t, too lulled by exhaustion and the smell of John, laundry detergent and lemon soap and sweat, to care much about anything other than falling back asleep.

When he does, there are no dreams waiting for him. Only flitting images, the memory of strong arms wrapped around him, and the faint impression that somewhere, on a distant planet Bob can’t quite reach right now, someone is running their fingers through his hair.

The training routine he and John develop goes something like this: they spar until Sentry gets too bloodthirsty and eager, and then they take a break to do something else, like weights or cardio or swimming (yes, the tower has a pool, it took them about six months to find it, go figure) and then they get Chinese food. It still makes Bob incredibly nervous, especially when he’s sparring with John and Sentry is in his head, calculating all the ways in which he could kill John, how easy it’d be, how good it would feel.

When those thoughts come, Bob has to take a deep breath and remind himself that those thoughts aren’t coming from some secret, dark part of himself he’s tricking everyone into thinking doesn’t exist. They’re coming from Sentry, a different being entirely, who sometimes tries to take the reigns, but who Bob is ultimately in control of.

He’s practicing some basic maneuvers with John — jab, uppercut, a punch to the sensitive part of the torso. John walks him through the motions as Bob tries to find the upper limits of his strength, how hard he can go before Sentry is roaring back to life. Occasionally, someone will pop in to watch, usually to cheer on Bob and critique John’s form, which John takes in stride. He’s gotten better at that lately.

“I want you to run at me,” John says. Bob shakes his head, but John is already preparing himself, getting low, shifting his center of gravity. “I mean it, Bob. I can handle it. Just try to knock me to the ground.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Bob protests.

“You aren’t gonna hurt me, Bob,” John says.

“Sentry threw you into a wall,” Bob reminds him. “He ripped off Bucky’s arm!”

John lets out a sigh, straightening up slightly.

“I know that,” he says. “But you’re not Sentry.”

Bob watches him, still on-edge, but John is unflinching, waiting to see what Bob will say. The power, Bob realizes belatedly, is entirely in his hands right now. It feels so different from the way he thought power was supposed to feel, that it takes him a moment to recognize it.

“Ok,” Bob finally agrees. John gets back into position, giving Bob a moment to get oriented. Just run at him without ripping his head off, Bob thinks. Easy.

He charges at John, aiming for his midsection, trying to knock him off balance. John takes the blow easily, and gets Bob in a grapple, keeping him in place, before knocking his legs out from under him, sending Bob sprawling to the floor.

He still can’t hear Sentry, so Bob takes a gamble and grabs John by the ankle, tugging hard. John goes down, and Bob is there in an instant, swinging a leg over his hips, pressing John’s wrists to the mat.

YOU SHOULD HAVE HIM RIGHT HERE.

“Oh my God,” Bob blurts, and practically leaps off of John. He skitters away, breathing hard, watching John push himself up onto his elbows.

“You alright?” John asks, face flushed, his hair all mused. It’s gotten so much longer lately, and Bob can’t deny how much he likes the way it looks, particularly when it’s messy like this. Apparently, he’s not the only one.

HE IS YOURS. GO CLAIM YOUR PRIZE.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob says, and clambers to his feet. He goes to head for the showers, before turning around, offering John an apologetic look. “Sorry, uh, just Sentry acting up.”

A half-smile tugs at John’s lips. “Telling you to kill me again?”

Bob feels his face heat. “Something like that.”

Once he’s showered and had a moment to cool down, he rejoins John in the hall, hoping he doesn’t think to press further about Bob's abrupt departure from training. He can’t even think of how he’d begin to explain that the megalomaniacal, murderous god that shares his body really wants John, just as much as Bob does.

The Chinese place they go to is way downtown, away from all the fancy eateries that crowd midtown, with their three-hour waits and tiny portions. It’s an actual hole in the wall, with a plastic tarp covering the door and plastic chairs and plastic tables. The dumplings are a dollar each and you can bring your own drinks. Bob loves it.

He and John are seated across from each other, crowded around one of the tiny tables. The server and chef are both taking their smoke break, leaning against the wall outside, laughing and talking. It’s one of the those rare, nice days in February where it feels like spring is right around the corner, even though there’s still a lot more winter left to get through.

“Has Alexei shown you his dating profile yet?” John asks. Bob nearly chokes on his seltzer.

“What?” He demands, sputtering. John laughs, reaching over and patting Bob firmly on the back. Bob straightens up, face still red long after the coughing has subsided.

“He’s on Raya,” John explains. “I have no idea how he got a referral code. He’s been on, like, three dates already.”

“It’s a little sad,” Bob remarks lightly. “That the middle-aged man who lives in our basement has a better love life than all of us combined. Except Bucky, I guess.”

John takes a sip of his beer, and Bob does a really good job of not looking at the way his throat moves when he swallows.

“I mean, do you think you’d ever want to do something like that?” John asks, and the question is phrased so strangely it takes Bob a beat to process what’s actually being asked.

“You mean date?” He blurts out. John isn’t meeting his eyes, which isn’t all that weird, considering John spends a lot of time scanning whatever room they find themselves in as a force of habit. Now, however, his eyes are just trained on the plant in the corner, which Bob is ninety percent sure is made of plastic. Bob clears his throat, considering the question.

“Uh, maybe,” he eventually settles on. “In, like, some fantasy world where my whole deal wouldn’t send someone running for the hills.”

John’s eyes dart back to him, his brow furrowed. “Bob—”

“That isn’t me being self-pitying or whatever,” he cuts in. “It’s just the truth. I mean, imagine I invite someone back to my place, but my place is as a half-finished super tower, and my roommates are all former mercenaries, and I might suddenly turn into killing-machine or a sentient shadow bent on destroying the world.”

John shakes his head, hiding a laugh behind the rim of his bottle.

“You’ve gotten better at controlling it,” John points out.

“Yeah, well, all those other points still stand,” Bob says, grinning. John regards him for a beat, and it scares Bob how he can’t seem to figure out what John is thinking. He’s gotten so good at reading him lately, it’s like looking in a mirror. Now, however, John’s face is totally inscrutable.

“You wouldn’t send anyone running for the hills,” John finally says.

“I’m speaking from experience,” Bob says, which is the truth. It’s not like at any point in his life he’s been anything approximating a good partner. In fact, he’s never really been anyone’s partner, period. Hooking up with people who seemed to be on the same downward trajectory as him didn’t exactly lead to healthy romantic relationships. After a certain point, it just felt like another form of self-harm, a way for him to punish himself, which was all he used to want to do.

Now, he doesn’t want to punish himself anymore, and he isn’t sure how to turn his body into something someone could treat gently. 

Then, John reaches over the table, placing his hand on Bob’s wrist, and Bob remembers, oh yeah. My friends treat me gently all the time.

“You haven’t sent any of us running,” John points out.

“You guys have famously poor judgment,” he says. John grins, pulling his hand away, and Bob immediately misses the warmth.

“And yet, you still haven’t left,” John says, taking a swing of his beer. “So we must be doing something right.”

What Bob doesn’t say is that he would never even think about leaving, not in a million years, for more reasons than he feels comfortable naming. He knows how people react to that sort of intensity from him, has seen it play out enough times to know when to keep his mouth shut, but the truth is, he could stay in that tower forever. Maybe everyone else will want to move on, find real families, start real lives, but Bob knows he’s in it for life. This is it for him.

“What about you?” He asks, looking to get the attention off him. “Do you think you and Liv would ever…”

Bob trails off, unsure of how to finish that question, equally unsure of why he’s asking it in the first place. Maybe because he wants to try and do away with these thoughts that won’t stop circling in his head, urging him to reach across the table and see what John’s beard would feel like against his hands. If John is still in love with his ex-wife, it’d probably be easier to make those thoughts go away. Probably.

“No,” John says, and Bob looks up, unable to mask the surprise on his face. John shifts on his seat, looking profoundly uncomfortable, and yet continuing all the same. “I mean, I still have a lot of respect for her, of course. And she’ll always be a part of my life, with Markie and all. But Liv is a human being, not some prize I get to collect at the end of this for becoming a better person. We’ve made our choices. I’m not going to try and rewrite the past. I don’t want to.”

Bob stares at him, faintly away that he’s gaping. He slams his mouth shut.

“That’s…surprisingly mature, John,” he finally says. John rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t strike Bob as anything other than fond.

“There’s a first time for everything, I guess,” John says. A beat of silence passes between them, and Bob realizes he can still feel the tension radiating off of John, like he's bracing himself for impact. His hand is curled around the neck of his beer in a fist.

“For the record,” Bob begins. “I’m not running, either.”

John’s eyes flash back to Bob, overly-blue even in the pallid fluorescents.

“Not that I’d have anywhere to go,” Bob adds. “But. Whatever. Just in case you were wondering.”

Neither of them speak for a while, and it should probably strike Bob as odd, that he’s just sitting there, staring at John, but it doesn’t. It feels…nice. Quiet. There are no voices screaming in his head, trying to tug him downwards, or force him back up. He’s just here, feeling the condensation of his seltzer collect against his hand, listening to the faint sound of music carried in from the street. John opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something, something important, but then there’s a commotion near the door.

Bob swings around to see Ava and Yelena standing there, waving their hands frantically over their heads, as if he and John might not be able to spot them otherwise, despite them being the only other people in the restaurant.

“What are you clowns doing here?” Ava demands.

“Having dumplings,” John says, bemused. “What are you two doing here?”

“Getting drunk!” Yelena exclaims, and then she and Ava are both lost in a fit of laughter, falling all over each other. Bob turns back to John, who raises an eyebrow, before moving to stand, tossing a few bills on the table for their meal as he goes. Bob follows him, coming to stand in front of Yelena and Ava, who are still trying to catch their breath.

“Bob!” Yelena exclaims as she straightens up. “I have an incredible theory. Would you like to test it with me?”

“Uh,” Bob says. Before he can think to say more, John is sliding up beside him, throwing his arm around Bob’s shoulder. Bob’s entire body lights up at the contact, so obvious he’s certain everyone can see it.

“What kind of theory?” John asks skeptically. Yelena looks at him, then at Bob, then at John’s arm, then over to Ava, and they’re laughing again, slumping against the doorframe, completely gone.

“See?” Ava demands. “God, I told you, I told you! Bucky owes me so much money!”

Bob cannot for the life of him figure out what’s going on. Yelena manages to get upright again, wiping at her eyes.

“Come on, boys,” she says, motioning for John and Bob to follow her. “John, you’re buying us drinks.”

“I am?” John asks, finally removing his arm from Bob’s shoulder. Bob follows them out onto the dark street, where there are similar crowds of people passing by, some linking arms, others tossing their heads back to the sky in laughter. It’s like the whole city has emerged to take advantage of this warm evening, conscious that they might not get another one for a while.

The theory, it turns out, is that Yelena can give Bob a piggyback ride. He isn’t sure why this is a theory — it seems pretty obvious that she’d be able to, considering she regularly throws around men twice Bob’s size. She asks him to test it anyway, and Bob does, climbing on her back. Yelena lets out a cry of victory, sounding remarkably like Alexei, and then she’s carrying Bob down the street, Ava and John close behind.

“See?” She says, her hands firm on Bob’s legs. “I’ve got you, Bob.”

Bob lets out a laugh, leaning forward to rest his chin on Yelena’s head. There’s not a lot Bob is sure of in the world, but he’s certain that, no matter what, Yelena won’t let him fall.

They end up at some basement dive, full of neon beer signs and fraying pool tables. Bob gets a lemonade, and Ava buys the rest of them a round of shots, and soon she and Yelena are trying to convince the bartender to change the music. Eventually, he relents, mostly because both of them can be quite intimidating when they need to be, even while drunk.

The moment the opening notes of Thunderstruck by AC/DC start playing, they both let out a cheer. Yelena drags Bob to his feet, and he stands reluctantly, letting the two of them tug him to a space between the tables they’ve decided is now a dance floor.

At one point, Bob looks over to see John leaning against the bar, watching them. Maybe it’s just the low light, or the fact that Bob is sort of delirious with happiness, which is not a feeling he can ever recall having experienced before, but there’s something about the way John is looking at him, with that quiet, half-smile on his face, like he’s simultaneously amused and incredulous at his own amusement, that makes Bob think, just maybe, he and John don’t have such different ideas of forever after all.

It’s a Wednesday in March when they finally get the call. An actual, real mission. Yelena is talking to Valentina on the phone, one hand on her hip, pacing around the living room while the rest of them look on. When Yelena finally hangs up, she turns to the group, a stormy expression on her face.

“There’s a man on the F train,” she says. “They think he took some kind of bootleg super-soldier serum. He’s already stabbed three people.”

“Jesus,” Ava exhales, and then she’s vanishing to go get suited up. It takes them all about three minutes to get ready, and Bob is just standing there, watching them prepare to leave, all of his worst fears coming to startling fruition.

He feels like an awful person for even thinking it. Three people have been hurt, could possibly be dead right now, and Bob is worrying about himself. What an asshole he is. And he actually thought he could be useful, be something more than dead weight. Now, he’s forced to confront how stupid that was, like some sort of childish fantasy, imagining he and all his friends could live in a tower forever, sequestered away from the rest of the world.

Then, Yelena is standing in front of him, placing her hands on Bob’s shoulders.

“You want to stay or come with?” She asks, and Bob blinks.

Surely it’s not as simple as that. In this scenario, it definitely doesn’t matter what he wants. He should be the last person any of them are thinking about right now, but when he looks up, everyone is standing there, watching him. No anger. No impatience. Just…waiting.

“I want to come,” Bob says. “I want to help.”

“Great,” Yelena says, patting his arm. “Then suit up.”

The suit, it turns out, is protective body armor, developed by Bucky with John’s help. It’s nothing like the gaudy Sentry outfit, with the massive, gold belt buckle. It’s a dark navy, almost militant, with an honest-to-God shield that Bob can strap to the back. When they move out, Bucky on his bike, the rest of them in the armored car, Bob sits in the back between John and Ava, trying not to feel like he’s about to shake apart. He doesn’t want them getting distracted because they’re trying to keep an eye on him. He doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt. He doesn’t want to be a burden.

They arrive to the station, piling out of the car, but before Bob can move, John is there, putting a hand on his knee. Bob looks up at him, wondering how obvious his fear is, if everyone can smell it on him.

“If he comes at you, run,” John says. “Can you promise me that, Bob?”

Bob nods. “I won’t be in the way.”

John shakes his head, eyes briefly darting out the open door behind Bob, where chaos continues to unfold.

Why is he still in here with me? Bob thinks. Shouldn’t he be out there, helping people?

“You aren’t in the way, Bob,” John insists, leaning in, so Bob has no choice but to meet his eyes. “Ok? I just really, really don’t want you to get hurt. Like, it’s crazy the amount that I don’t want you to get stabbed by some guy on super-roids. Alright? And that’s not because I think you’re useless, or because we don’t need your help.”

John hesitates, swallowing.

“It’s because,” he starts again. “It’s because—”

There’s a thump on top of the car, and John jumps away from Bob. He's climbing out the door before Bob can so much as blink. He turns around to see Bucky leaning in through the other door, one eyebrow raised.

“You coming?”

Bob nods, steeling himself, and gets out of the car.

Apparently, the man, after freaking out in the middle of a crowded subway car and stabbing multiple people, took off into the tunnels. Luckily, no one else was hurt, but the guy is still out there somewhere, out of his mind on this bootleg serum, armed and angry. The six of them split up, John, Yelena and Alexei going one way down the tunnel while he, Ava and Bucky head down the other. It’s dark, and the ground squishes menacingly under Bob’s feet, but he just continues on, letting Ava and Bucky’s flashlight beams guide him further and further into the shadows.

“He could be halfway to Brooklyn by now,” Ava grumbles, her flashlight roaming up and down the tunnel’s curved walls.

For their first real mission, it feels a lot less intense than Bob was expecting, which he supposes is a good thing. He keeps his shield at the ready though, just in case.

Then, there’s a clattering noise up ahead, and something that sounds suspiciously like shouting. Bucky swings around to Bob, and in one, fluid motion, tosses him the flashlight. Bob surprises himself by catching it.

“Stay here,” Bucky says, and then he’s rushing off, Ava right on his tail, blinking out of existence.

Bob holds the flashlight, biting down on the impulse to go after them. This is good. He’s here, and feels useful, and he’s not putting anyone in danger by rushing in where he isn’t wanted. He’s feeling as good about his choices as a guy standing in a disgusting subway tunnel can feel.

But then there’s a small shuffling sound behind him, and Bob turns around to see a guy cowering against the wall. The flashlight beam lands on him and he flinches away, bringing up a hand to cover his face. His eyes, Bob realizes, are bloodshot, the pupils massive.

Immediately, Bob thinks this must be someone who escaped from the train, started running and then gotten lost. Bob takes a steadying breath. He can handle this.

“Hi,” Bob says, approaching slowly. He tries to remember what Yelena does, how she manages to make people feel safe without talking down to them. “Are you alright?”

The man’s entire body is trembling, and he’s curled up in a little ball, his clothes filthy. Bob takes a cautious step closer before sheathing his shield, trying to make it clear that he’s unarmed.

“I don’t know what the fuck they gave me, dude,” the man says, his voice shaking. “It…it was laced with some shit, I swear.”

Bob lets out a quiet snort. “Been there.”

He kneels down, trying to get at eye-level with the guy.

It’s only then that Bob sees the blade, still held in the man’s grip, still dripping blood.

Bob freezes mid-crouch, torn between turning on his heel and running and staying still, worried that any moment will startle the man, make him even jumpier than already he is. Bob keeps his hands held up in front of him, sinking down further.

“What did you take?” Bob asks slowly.

The man lets out a moan, head lolling back to hit the tunnel wall.

“I don’t know, but it’s fucking with my head,” he says. “And now these people are trying to find me, and I can’t go back to fucking jail, dude, I can’t. I just got into public housing and I—”

The man lets out a shaky breath, rubbing his mouth, which leaves some blood smeared there. Bob tries not to react to that, tries to keep his gaze steady in the way he’s seen his teammates do. It’s clear that this guy is strung out, and that whatever bootleg serum he took was probably given to him in some other package, heroine or fent, most likely. Bob’s heard about this before, the way more and more drugs are getting laced with watered-down shit stolen from old SHIELD labs. The cops are as good at handling it as they are with anything else, which is to say not good at all, just locking people away instead of targeting the actual issue — people feeling desperate enough to take a drug without really knowing what’s in it. Bob’s been there before. In fact, he’s been exactly where this guy is, high out of his mind and terrified about what he might do, what he’s already done.

“I get it,” Bob says, forgetting that he’s supposed to be behaving like a hero right now, and not like a guy who’s also done his fair share of scary drugs. “Trust me, I do. But you can’t stay down here. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

The man looks up at Bob, his skin so pale it’s almost green. The hold he has on the knife is slackening, and Bob thinks that if he’s very careful, he could reach forward and take it from him. Bob starts to do just that, keeping his eyes trained on the man’s face, watching him carefully.

“I didn’t mean to hurt those people,” the man says, his voice hoarse. “You gotta believe me.”

“Sure,” Bob says, nodding his head. “I believe you. How about you pass me that knife, then, just so you don’t accidentally hurt anyone else?”

Dazed, the man looks down at the knife in his hand, then back up at Bob, his eyes glazing over. Shit. Maybe Bob shouldn’t have called attention to it. He goes to pull his hand back, but it’s too late. The man is reaching forward, his grip inhumanly strong around Bob’s wrist. Bob feels his bone grind together.

“You really don’t want to do that,” Bob cautions, but the man shows no sign of hearing him. He rises to his feet unsteadily, forcing Bob up with him, and Bob watches in mounting horror as white foam begins to sprout from the man’s mouth, the veins on his neck straining. It’s like something out of a horror movie. One moment, there’s a perfectly normal guy standing in front of Bob, and then next, his muscles are bulging, bones snapping and contorting, until he’s some half-formed beast. His bloodshot eyes lock on Bob, and he lets out a gurgling roar.

Bob has only a second to process the man’s other hand grabbing him by the throat before everything goes white.

Bob comes to already standing. Or, not standing, really, but floating. Suspended in the white space of Sentry, nothing but emptiness spread out around him in all directions. It isn’t the Void, with its horrible shadows and choking memories, but it’s frightening in its own right. All that pure, sterile nothingness.

“SENTRY!” Bob calls. He’s alone, and then suddenly Sentry is there, looking at Bob with his own face, which he’s contorted into a look of pity.

“They left you on your own,” Sentry says, his voice dripping with sickly condescension. “They don’t care about you. How could they? What would a bunch of humans know about caring for a god?”

Bob shakes his head, hating how he can’t seem to feel his body. He used to want that, that numbness, but now it just leaves him feeling disoriented, like he can't figure out which way is up or down.

“You aren’t a god,” Bob replies.

“Yes, we are,” Sentry says, calmly, like he’s explaining something to a child. “We answer to no one. We need no one.”

It’s a comforting thought. Bob hates needing people. He needed his father, and look how that turned out. He needed his mom too, and somehow that always led to the two of them getting even more hurt, Bob’s love for her just another cudgel his father could use to beat her with. Bob needs his team, but they clearly don’t need him, not really. They would all be fine without him.

How foolish of them. He’s stronger than all of them put together, stronger than anyone. He could have this world under his thumb in a second. Then, no one would be able to tower over him, making him want to shrink into himself. He would never feel small again.

Sentry smiles at him, Bob’s own mouth twisted into a wide, gruesome smile.

“Yes,” he says, reading Bob’s thoughts, or perhaps they’re his thoughts after all. “Look at what we're capable of. What we can do, to the people who hurt you.”

Bob is back in the filthy subway tunnel, watching himself, or watching Sentry, he supposes, use his body to wrap his hand around the man’s throat and shove him back into the wall, so hard the entire tunnel shakes. The man’s unseeing eyes are wide, his mouth snapping at the air. Sentry is taking his time crushing the man’s windpipe, like he’s enjoying it.

“See?”

Bob turns around to see Sentry standing there, watching the scene unfold with mild disinterest.

“He thought you were weak,” Sentry says, and it doesn’t take much for Bob to realize that the “he” in question isn’t the man the other Sentry is currently pinning to the wall. “He thought he could kick you around, like you were nothing. But he is nothing. We are everything.”

“BOB!”

Bob turns around to see Yelena running through the tunnel, flashlight in hand, Alexei and John close behind her. But they can’t see him. They can only see Sentry, baring his teeth at the man, preparing to break his neck.

Sentry doesn’t even turn to regard them. They are nothing to him.

“Bob, it’s us!” Yelena calls. She goes to run towards him, but Sentry raises his other hand, sending her flying backwards. Her head hits the wall with a sickening crack and she slumps to the ground.

“STOP!” Bob demands. Sentry pays him no mind.

“Bratishka,” Alexei tries, and Sentry doesn’t even let him finish. He brings up his hand, making a slicing motion, and Alexei falls like his strings have been cut, letting out a guttural howl of pain.

“STOP IT!” Bob rushes up to Sentry, but it’s not like he can touch him. He is Sentry. He’s the one doing these awful things to his friends, and he can’t do anything but watch it unfold, just as powerless as he’s always been.

John approaches Sentry, and Bob shouts, trying to get him to stop, even if John can’t hear him. Sentry, finally done playing, snaps the man’s neck as easy as breaking a twig. The man falls, his misshapen body sliding down the cracked wall. All of Sentry’s attention is on John now, and Bob is unable to get to him, just like all of his worst nightmares come to life.

“I know you’re still in there, Bob,” John begins, but that’s as far as he gets before Sentry crooks his fingers, bringing John’s body forward sharply, until he’s close enough for Sentry to grab him by the throat. He hoists him up, holding him a foot off the ground.

“I am Bob,” Sentry says, his hand tensing around John’s throat. “We are one.”

Sentry tosses John to the floor, and his body goes flying, slamming into the other side of the tunnel. Sentry eyes him for a moment, before raising his other hand. The man’s discarded blade floats off the ground, hovering in mid-air.

“No,” Bob says, hardly believing what he’s seeing. Sentry doesn’t need a weapon like that. He could destroy John with a wave of his hand. This is nothing but a game to him. He’s playing with his food, relishing the way John backs up, eyes trained on the blade floating towards him.

“What’s the point of this?” Bob demands, desperately trying another angle. “He can’t hurt you. Just let him go.”

Sentry doesn’t turn around, continuing to advance on John, the knife hovering beside him like a loyal pet.

“If they actually mean nothing, then what does it matter if they live?” Bob demands. “Let them go! If they don’t matter, let them go!”

Sentry growls, and Bob’s depth perception fluctuates. One moment, he’s watching the scene unfold from far away, and then he’s there in Sentry’s head, seeing John crouched on the ground before him.

Realization arrives like a brunt impact. Suddenly, Bob gets it.

“I know why you’re doing this,” Bob says, and he can’t tell if the words are coming out of Sentry’s mouth or not. “You’re trying to prove that they don’t matter, that I — that we don’t need them.”

“We don’t,” Sentry says, both in Bob’s head and outside of it. “We don’t need anyone.”

Bob barks out a laugh. “Yes, we do, you fucking idiot! You think you’re a god?”

Beside Sentry, the knife wavers, just slightly, as if his concentration is wavering. Bob surges onward.

“We couldn’t even get out of bed some days if it weren’t for these people,” Bob says. “You’re weak. Without them, you’re weak!”

It’s a risky move, Bob knows this. Out of the corner of his eye, he can already see the shadows growing, stretching. One cannot exist without the other. Sentry can’t be here without the Void being close behind.

“And that’s ok,” Bob continues, keeping his focus on Sentry, who’s finally halted in his approach to John. “You are weak and selfish. You hurt people. You’re a coward.”

would be better if you didn’t exist at all

“NO!” Bob insists, clapping his hand over his ears. Sentry copies the motion, and Bob can see the shadows follow suit. He’s trapped between them, teetering on the edge of a cliff, suspended between two mirrors. “Because you’re only those things sometimes. So is everyone. You think you’re unique and special, but you aren’t. Everyone is horrible sometimes. So what?”

The feeling begins to slowly return to Bob’s limbs, like he’s emerging from a deep sleep. His brain revolts against it, wanting so desperately to sink back into those shadows, but he refuses, curling his hands into fists until he can feel the bite of his nails into his skin.

“Sometimes you can be good,” Bob says. “I can be good. So can everybody.”

He swallows, and the tunnel comes back into focus around him. He’s back in Sentry’s body, back in his body, the knife still hovering by his side.

“Sometimes is all we have,” Bob says. “And sometimes, I’m you.”

Now, he turns his head to see Sentry standing there, the shadows at his back. He’s watching Bob like he’s a particularly vexing bug. Bob smiles.

“But right now, I’m me,” he says. “And you can fuck off.”

Sentry cocks his head to the side, and just as Bob feels him recede back into the recesses of his mind, the knife flies forward, directly towards John’s exposed throat.

“NO!”

Bob stretches out his hand, and something inside of him roars to life. A warmth, like light seeping in through the shadows, like the searing heat of the sun, destructive and life-giving, horrible and beautiful. It’s not Sentry, or the Void. It’s just Bob, trying to make the knife stop, throwing everything he is into turning it around. He sees John’s eyes go wide, and in the next moment, the knife is flying backwards, its path redirected. Bob smiles, relief coursing through him. John looks up at him, and their eyes lock, and Bob understands it, then. He wonders why it ever felt complicated. Right now, nothing could be more simple.

It’s in that moment that the knife flies back towards Bob and sinks into his gut.

When Bob comes to, he's staring up at a white ceiling, wondering why the hell his stomach hurts so much. Did he eat something bad? Alexei has been cooking dinner some nights of the week, and the last time Bob tried his food, he couldn’t get out of bed for a whole day after. But this pain is different. More concentrated, sharper, and —

Oh my God. Bob goes to sit up, but then there are strong hands on his shoulders, and he’s being gently pushed back down onto the bed. John is staring down at him, his blue eyes wide.

“Christ, Bob,” he exhales, shaking his head. “Can you at least wait a bit before trying to tear your new stitches?”

Bob lets out a breath, the events in the tunnel rushing back in in punishing clarity. He’d almost become Sentry again. He’d felt the snap of that man’s neck in his hand, had enjoyed the feeling. He’d almost hurt his friends.

“Where are Yelena and Alexei?” He asks, mind racing. “Are they ok?”

“They’re fine,” John assures, still leaning over him, his thumbs rubbing absently in the fabric of John’s hospital gown. “It’d take a lot more than a couple of bruises to keep them down.”

Bob nods, adrenaline slowly receding. He feels like he got hit by a car in addition to being stabbed, which he supposes is an aftereffect of fighting control back from Sentry. He turns his head to the side, taking in the room he’s woken up in. It’s definitely a hospital, all right. There’s a chair set up next to his bed, and a TV in the corner, and a wide window on the other side of the room, giving Bob a view of the doctors bustling past.

“How long have I been out?” He asks.

Finally, John sags back into the chair. He keeps one hand on Bob, though, as if he’s afraid he might vanish if John isn’t touching him at all times. The thought makes Bob smile, which he tries to keep at bay. He doesn’t think it would be appropriate to smile this soon after he got stabbed.

“Not long,” John assures. “You lost some blood, but we got you out of there quick. You’re lucky the knife you stabbed yourself with was tiny. Oh, that reminds me, when I said I really didn’t want you to get stabbed by some guy on super-roids, that included you stabbing yourself. I thought that was self-explanatory, but I guess I should’ve made it more clear.”

Now, Bob is unable to keep the smile off his face. John sinks back into the chair further, letting out a long-suffering sigh. He brings up his other hand, rubbing it over his face.

“I’m fine,” Bob assures. “You were right. I’m getting better at controlling it.”

“Awesome,” John says drily, letting his hand fall back into his lap. “Next time, let’s find some grounding methods that aren’t related to self-mutilation, ok?”

Bob nods, but he knows he’s still smiling, and judging by the unimpressed look John is giving him, he’s doing a very poor job of hiding it.

“You look way too happy for a guy who just used his own psychic powers to stab himself,” John continues. “Seriously, Bob, it’s like you think you’re some sort of human punching bag. It doesn’t help anyone if you’re getting hurt, or—”

“John,” Bob tries, but clearly John is on a roll now.

“I mean, we were all worried,” John barrels on. “I’ve never seen Bucky so angry in my life, and that guy used to assassinate world leaders for a living. And Yelena was fuming the second she woke up, worried you might’ve hurt yourself, which you did, for the record.”

“John.”

“You aren’t just a part of this team, Bob," John continues, running a hand through his already messy hair, looking more unhinged by the second. “You are this team. We need you. Not just because you’re helpful, or powerful, or useful, but because you’re you. You just existing matters more than all that other shit put together. You could literally sit here and do nothing and it would still matter more than, like, ninety percent of the stuff I do. I just need you to understand that—”

“John!”

John finally stops, his mouth snapping shut. When he meets Bob’s eyes, he looks angry, but Bob knows what that look really means by now. He’s known for a while.

“Shut up,” Bob says, and then he’s leaning across the bed, not caring if he rips his stitches. He places his hand against the curve of John’s jaw and tugs him in for a kiss.

It’s light at first, just the press of dry lips, and then John gasps, opening his mouth, and Bob feels his entire world come undone. John reaches up and cups Bob's face, gentle, always so gentle, and Bob falls into it, his tongue exploring the wet heat of John’s mouth. It feels like someone threw all the windows open inside of Bob, like all these things that have been kept in the dark for so long are finally stretching towards the light. Everything smells like springtime.

John groans against his mouth, pressing his fingers into the space between Bob’s jaw and ears, opening his mouth even further. Bob melts into it, his other hand rucking up the hem of John’s t-shirt, drawn to the heat radiating off his skin. He presses his hand against the flat plane of John’s stomach and feels John shudder beneath his touch.

Then, there’s a knock on the window.

The two of them spring apart, and Bob turns his head to see the entire team poised on the other side of the glass. Yelena is balancing a teddy bear the size of a small child in her arms and Alexei is holding about balloon that, for some reason Bob can’t discern, says IT’S A BOY! Bob is so relieved to see them, to see Ava and Bucky too, that it takes him a second to realize that they aren’t alone.

Behind them stands Valentina, her wide-eyed assistant, and about a hundred reporters, all with their cameras raised.

Unsure of what else to do, Bob lifts his hand and waves.

Everyone remains frozen for a beat, before one reporter snaps a photo, and all hell breaks loose. Bucky starts shooing people away, and Bob is pretty sure he hears Ava threaten to break someone's lens, and then the whole team is ushering people back down the hall, Valentina included, who looks like she’s a half-second away from turning around and trying to break down the glass.

Bob turns back to John, expecting to see some mixture of anger and panic in his face, but John is just smiling at him, all soft and a little dazed. Bob grins back, his nails absentmindedly scratching at the skin of John’s stomach.

“How do you think Valentina’s gonna spin this one?” Bob asks. John seems to consider it for a moment before leaning back in, pausing a breath away from Bob’s lips.

“Honestly?” He says. “I really don’t care.”

Then John is kissing him again, and Bob finds that outside of the feeling of John’s lips on his, and the fact that all of his friends are safe, he doesn’t care about much else either.

Bob wakes up to the sun streaming in through his cheap curtains, sending beams of light across the floor. He shifts up in bed slightly, doing his best not to disturb John, who’s rolled over on his side, back rising and falling steadily. He’s been spending a lot more time out in the sun recently, meaning his blond hair is a shade lighter than usual and there’s a smattering of freckles across his shoulders that Bob loves putting his mouth on. He resists the urge to do it right at that moment, figuring John could use the sleep, before reaching over to the bedside table and retrieving his phone.

He opens his news app. The media firestorm over the past few weeks hasn’t let up at all. If anything, it’s only increased in fervor. The New York Post has Bob’s current favorite headline: GAY-VENGERS? There’s a bolded pull-quote from Valentina a few lines down in that article, “Diversity and inclusion have always been at the core of this mission.” He takes a moment to scroll through the comments, the majority of which are saying that it should’ve been Steve Rogers and Tony Stark instead, or Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, or Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, or literally any other pairing besides fake Captain America and some random guy named Bob.

Whatever. It’s not like the internet liked them very much to begin with.

The bed dips, and when Bob looks down, John is rolling over towards him, blinking awake. There’s a bit of gunk near the corner of his eye and his hair is a complete rat’s nest. Bob thinks he’s never seen anyone more beautiful, and then John flushes scarlet, which makes Bob realize he just said that out loud.

“Morning,” John says gruffly, his voice shooting straight to Bob’s toes, making them curl. John nods with his chin towards Bob’s phone. “What are you doing?”

Bob shrugs. “Catching up on the news.”

John looks skeptical. He sits up, peering at Bob’s screen. To Bob’s surprise, he lets out a startled laugh. It makes Bob grin in response. Ever since John got a flip phone, he’s handled dumb internet stuff a lot better. It’s hard for it to feel like the entire world when you can’t even see it.

Bob glances back at his screen, intending to find a comment he liked, where the poster said their kiss was part of a vast government conspiracy to normalize things like anal sex and drag story hour, but then John is putting his mouth on Bob’s neck, and Bob forgets about the news entirely.

“Robert,” John hums against his skin. “Put the phone down.”

Bob’s hand goes limp and his phone clatters unceremoniously to the floor. He turns to the side and then John is there, kissing him, the heat of his lips making Bob dizzy. John works his mouth open with his tongue in wide strokes, lazily, like he’s savoring it. All the blood in Bob’s body rushes south with embarrassing swiftness, and he’s rolling over on top of John before he can stop himself, pressing him down into the mattress, legs bracketing either side of John’s hips. John pulls back slightly, huffing out a quiet laugh, his hands cradling Bob’s face, which Bob is quickly realizing John definitely has a thing for.

“I thought we were training today,” he says.

Bob shakes his head, some hair falling into his eyes, which John quickly brushes back.

“I can’t,” he says. “My feeble constitution is still recovering.”

“That is such bullshit—” John begins, but Bob doesn’t give him a chance to finish before he’s leaning down again, nuzzling his nose against the slope of John’s neck. John lets out a trembling breath. He’s incredibly sensitive, Bob has learned, in more ways than one. Reactive to every touch, always letting out these little sounds that Bob wishes he could imprint on his brain forever.

He can feel the hot pressure of John growing hard against his leg, and Bob fumbles for it blindly, cupping John through his sweatpants. John lets out a soft curse, reaching up and knotting his fingers in Bob’s hair. Bob lets himself get tugged upwards, John crashing their lips together in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else.

“You want this?” Bob asks, surprised by how rough his voice has become.

John nips at his lips, which Bob loves, but never has the voice to ask for. He’s glad John’s learned to do it anyway.

“Don’t be cute,” John mutters, sounding very put-upon. Bob grins against his mouth.

“That’s impossible.”

He climbs off of John only for the time it takes for both of them to tug their pants and boxers off, which all end up in a pile at the end of Bob’s bed. Bob dives back in immediately, slotting himself in between John’s legs, positioning himself so their cocks line up. John’s curls up towards his stomach, lilting slightly to the left, crowned by a swath of blond curls that Bob is worryingly obsessed with. The moment their erections touch, John lets out a hiss of breath between his teeth, almost like he’s in pain, head lolling back against the pillow.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Baby, that feels amazing.”

Bob grins, before presenting his palm to John. John licks it automatically, without even needing to be asked. It’s weird how good they’ve become at this, all this silent communication, like they’re operating on the same instincts.

Bob brings his wet palm between them, leaning up on one elbow so he can look down as he wraps his hand around their cocks, stroking them. John looks up at him, blue eyes half-lidded, like he can’t quite believe what’s happening, which is funny, since this is like the twentieth time they’ve had sex. Not that Bob is counting or anything.

Bob leans down and bites John’s shoulder. He isn’t sure what it is about being intimate that makes him wants to bite things, but luckily John is a good sport about it. John’s hand finds his hair again, knotting his fingers through the wavy strands. Bob looks up at him, panting in what he assumes is an unattractive way, but there’s nothing but lust in John’s eyes, making him look slightly delirious.

Bob twists his wrist, the feeling shooting through him like an electric shock, and he watches in barely-concealed awe as John’s entire body reacts, his head falling back, exposing his neck. Bob presses a row of kisses along it, relishing the scrape of John’s beard, the way he smells like sweat and sunlight. Bob wants to smell that forever. He wonders if it’d be weird to ask John to shower less.

They already did this last night (and the night before, and the one before that, but reversed) which means John is already loose by the time Bob manages to fumble for the lube and begin working him open. John fists one hand in the sheet, the other still trapped in Bob’s hair, just this side of painful in a way that Bob relishes. John's intense about eye contact during these moments, like he has to be looking at Bob to confirm that he’s real, so Bob lets him look his fill, slipping another finger in.

“You feel so good,” Bob says, breathless, honest. John works his hips down, and Bob nearly loses it right there, feeling the muscles flex and contract around his fingers.

“Hurry up, Reynolds,” John says, sounding completely rung out already. “We don’t have all day.”

Bob grins, diving in for another kiss. He’s not one for taking orders (that’s John’s department) but he does as he says, slipping his fingers out and lining himself up with John’s entrance. Before John, he’d never done this before, and now he’s worried he likes it way more than a normal person should. He wants to stay inside of John forever, like for a whole day straight, which isn’t an idea he’s floated yet. Maybe one day.

“Good?” He manages to ask once he’s bottomed out inside of John. John nods, too far gone to speak, and Bob begins to work his hips forward in shallow thrusts. “Jesus, Johnny, you feel like you were fucking meant for me. Such a good boy for me, so perfect.”

John’s whole face is flushed, completely overcome, which is a sensation Bob can relate to. He leans down, speaking the next words into John’s mouth, pitching his voice low.

“Touch yourself,” he murmurs. “I want you to touch yourself while I’m inside you, Johnny.”

John, always the good soldier, does as he’s told. This power feel so different to Bob than anything else, nothing like the awful brutality of Sentry. It’s a different sort of power, one that’s freely given and all the sweeter for it. John trusts him, so he lets Bob take control. It’s that simple.

“Baby,” John manages, his voice breaking on the word, and then he’s coming all over his stomach. His whole body seizes, and Bob feels it around his cock, then he’s spilling over too, following John right off the edge.

He stays buried deep in him for a few breaths, letting his weight fall forward onto John’s chest. John wraps an arm around his shoulders, burying his mouth in Bob’s hair, planting a thoughtless kiss on the top of his head.

“I really like fucking you,” Bob says, the words spilling out of him in the way they always do after he’s just came. He rests his chin on John’s chest, looking up at him. “I like being fucked by you too. A lot.”

“I appreciate the feedback,” John says, his expression soft.

“No, I like it so much,” Bob says. “Like, too much. Thank God I don’t have a real job. I’d have to quit just to stay in bed with you all day.”

John lets out a laugh at that, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He’s gonna have such deep smile lines when he’s old. Bob can’t wait to see them.

Once they’ve managed to get themselves out of bed and cleaned up, they wander into the kitchen. It’s a pleasant spring day, and the tower is still unfinished, but there are less floors they can’t go on now, and more that Bucky and Yelena have already started drawing up plans for. They’re gonna have a couple more gyms, and a pottery studio, an indoor greenhouse, a painting room for Ava. Occasionally, Bob will float an idea for something to add. It’s not like he’s stopped second-guessing himself when it comes to things like that, but for every smile he gets in return, it becomes a bit easier. A lot of things feel easier, these days. Not every day, and not all the time, but sometimes. That’s more than what Bob could say before. So much more, it feels like something close to a miracle. But he knows it’s not, and that makes it even better.

“Oh, Walker, thank God,” Ava exclaims the second they walk into the room. She snatches John by the wrist, tugging him towards the stove. “You have to fix this, now.”

“Jesus, A, I just woke up,” John laments, allowing Ava to pull him on all the same. Ava spares him a skeptical glance.

“No, you didn’t,” she says. “You and Bob have been up for hours. My room isn’t that far from yours.”

Bob exchanges a look with John, both of their faces going red. From the kitchen island where she’s sitting perched on a stool, Yelena looks up.

“Oh, good, you two made it,” she says. “Alexei is trying to kill us all.”

“I am not!” Alexei insists. Bob takes a step closer to the stove, leaning over John’s shoulder to see Alexei stirring something in a pot. It’s a milky sort of color, and he’s pretty sure he sees eggshells floating in there.

“I don’t understand your insistence on using this kitchen,” Bucky remarks, leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in hand. “It’s New York. There are literally thousands of places to get breakfast in this city.”

At this, everyone turns to look at him, and Bucky puts his metal hand up in defense.

“I’m just saying!”

“We like using the kitchen,” Ava insists. “As long as Alexei isn’t the one doing the cooking.”

“This is old army recipe,” Alexei insists. “Very protein rich.”

“That’s awesome, big guy,” John says, bumping Alexei lightly to the side with his hip. “But I’m just gonna make everyone eggs, ok?”

Alexei eventually relents, but only when John promises to make bacon and sausage and French toast as well.

Bob heads over to the island, settling in the stool next to Yelena. There’s already a mug of green tea waiting for him. Yelena leans over, nudging their shoulders together. Bob turns to look at her, a question in his eyes.

“Good day?” She asks. It’s their way of checking in with each other, gauging where their head is at. Bob nods, taking a sip from his mug.

“Good day,” he says. “You?”

Yelena’s eyes drift across the kitchen briefly, before settling back on Bob, a small smile on her face.

“Good day.”

Bob nods, satisfied. Up by the stove, Ava is leaning her hip against the counter, critiquing John’s form when it comes to cracking eggs. Bucky has poured Alexei a cup of coffee and the two of them are going over the latest Mets stats. The sun is clear and bright, beaming in through the windows, and Bob figures that spring is well and truly here. At one point, John turns around, catching his eye, and he smiles at Bob in a way that Bob knows is just for him. It makes that same light in his chest pulse, spread throughout his limbs.

He knows the warmth won’t last forever. There will be cold days again, horrible days, days where Bob is going to have to fight his way back to the surface. But he’s done it before, and he’s starting to believe he’ll be able to do it again, especially because he won’t be doing it alone. Things will get bad. They always do. But then there are mornings like this, where Bob swears he can see the shape of his future, so real and tangible it’s like he reach out and touch it.

Sometimes, Bob imagines he'll get to keep this, his friends, and this home, even if he isn’t always good, even if he doesn’t always feel like he deserves it. Sometimes, Bob even finds himself thinking that it doesn’t much matter what he does or doesn’t deserve. All of this belongs to him, and it was given freely, with nothing expected in return. And he’s going to hold onto it, for however long as he can.

Sometimes, on mornings like this, Bob lets himself believe that it might be forever. And when John comes to sit beside him, their legs pressed flush together, without a word being exchanged, Bob knows that John believes it too.

For now, that’s more than enough.