Grace In Space

He had never actually flexed this privilege, but he kept it safe and warm under his pillow, ready just in case. He still couldn’t breathe right. The things he had seen… They felt real, not like the expected patchwork of abstract scenes or random, endless hallways or killer clowns. He had seen a flash of light, a rippling force generating so much power and heat it shattered every window in the Watchtower instantaneously. The world was ending, and even he wasn’t powerful enough to stop it. He could only watch, helpless, trying to shield John while John tried to shield you, both of you screaming, burned to ash before his eyes.

Even he couldn’t survive it, though he could endure the pain for longer, burdened with excruciating consciousness and the knowledge of your deaths until his atoms were mercifully scattered.

He shivered, muttering to himself, curling against your back as he gathered you close. His hand slipped up your nightshirt just to feel your warm skin, just to put his hand over your heart and know for certain it was still beating. It brought him back, that rhythm, the steady drumming of your pulse against his palm, so familiar now and grounding.

John had your permission for this, too, but he slept like the dead most nights, lights out and then lights up, not even stirring during the night to rearrange or pee. He was on his back on the other side of the bed, chest rising and falling evenly, sheets caught around his waist. It was raining again, just softly, the open windows making the room so cold you had goosebumps in your sleep.

“You’re cold,” Bob whispered, nosing into the notch behind your right ear. He kept one hand planted over your heart, the other smoothed over your hip, pulling you snug to his waist. Maybe it was selfish, greedy, but he just needed you. He told himself he would stop if it seemed to bother you. His hand cupped your sex through your panties, fingers seeking in short, blunt strokes, teasing over the fabric until he felt you heat up for him, until you moaned softly in your dreams, sweet and squirming, wiggling your butt back against his arousal.

“That’s it, babe,” he murmured, kissing your neck, inhaling the delicious smell of your skin mixed with the bed sheets. “Need you right now, is that okay? Wanna…wanna feel you. All of you.”

In his arms, you tossed again, whimpering as his fingers dodged between fabric and skin, forefinger outlining the damp seam of your pussy with firmer and firmer sweeps. It made him crazy, the way you worked your butt back against his dick, lashes feather soft on your cheeks, lips parting around another sleepy, contented sound…

“Mmf, I um… Put that there…”

Bob smirked into your cheek, listening to you babble aimlessly.

“Put it where, babe? Here?” He eased one finger inside you, shuddering from the slick gush that greeted him. You were so hot and wet and perfect, it went straight to his head. “Is this where you want me?”

“Mm.”

“Gonna be so gentle,” Bob whispered, doing exactly that, letting you accommodate his finger until it was effortless, then he pumped a little quicker, stretching you, going further, his breathing coming faster until his desire sparked into something barely controlled. “Sweet, sleepy girl, I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

You rolled your hips again, meeting the eager thrusts of his finger, one then two. He let you ride his fingers for a while, getting them unbelievably wet, watching you rut against him in your sleep until he could feel the pressure sinking into his gut, dick so swollen and sensitive he was afraid he would burst before he got inside. You whined and almost headbutted him as he slipped his fingers out, peeled your panties aside, and used that slick to coat his leaking head and down his shaft.

“Are you dreaming of me?” he asked, nudging gently then pushing inside, grunting from the comfortable, delicious way you swallowed him up. “Dreaming of this? Dreaming of getting f-fucked by your boys?”

“Ahn.”

Bob closed his eyes, cheek pressed tight to yours, the hand over your heart shifting lower to gently cup your breast, to tug and pinch your nipple into a hard bud. You cried out in earnest, head limp against his left shoulder, legs spasming as you started to wake up, hands flexing on the mattress before one flew to where Bob’s was tented over your sex, over where he was grinding into your tantalizing heat.

“Bob, sweets…” You leaned forward slightly, falling into his grasp, then surging back, pussy tightening around him as you realized he was seated deep inside. “Are you… Are we…”

“Is it okay, babe?”

“Mm.”

“Should I keep going?”

“Mm, y-yeah… Just let me…”

Bob stilled, buried, cradling you to his body, watching while you huffed down a few heavy breaths, eyes fluttering open, then closing again as you oriented yourself, relaxed, head drifting forward, then turning, lips brushing his as the light turned bluer and the rain came down harder.

“Bad dreams?” you asked, mouth resting at the corner of his.

“Yeah.”

“Better now?”

Bob slid carefully out of you, back in, taking his time, letting you catch up, wanting you to feel how sopping wet you had become. Your spine bent, thigh tensing, one lifting to give him better access as you fucked into his strokes. “So much better,” Bob said, kissing you. “The bad shit can’t get me when we’re like this.”

Behind his eyelids, he saw the tower explode again, John’s agonized, helpless look as he covered you with his shield, his scream of frustration, eyes drilling into Bob’s, silently begging for a mercy none of you would get.

But John was warm and safe and alive, too, stirring from the commotion next to him. Bob saw him blink disjointedly, head dropping back and forth before he turned onto his side, slowly discovering the tangle of bodies to his right.

Bob gripped you to his chest harder, terrified to let go. You kissed him again, but he scarcely felt it. He needed to anchor himself again, forget that terrible, lying nightmare and just be.

You were both okay. You were both okay.

“Getting an early start?” John rumbled, bleary, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he shifted closer.

“Bob had a nightmare,” you managed to whisper between moans and little dribbling sighs as Bob snapped his hips, finding his pace again. Not too fast. Languid enough to let you absorb every root to crown stroke, giving Bob time to flatten his hand against your sex, work up friction, rubbing you inside and out.

“R-Room for one more.” Bob flashed John a heated look over your shoulder, taking the hand that had been locked over your clit to take the thigh hitched up around his waist and crank it higher, spread you more, show John what you looked like while you were breathless, moaning, split open.

John took the invitation, unhurried, eyes fixed to the beautiful sight of you getting fucked. His restraint lasted until you clawed at the mattress, trying to reach him. Just like Bob, John was a helpless wreck when it came to you. He couldn’t remember the last time John had denied you anything--foot rubs, back massages, coffee runs, move nights, little treats, elaborate dinners, manicures… You had him wrapped around your little finger.

Bob wasn’t any better, he just didn’t pretend to be embarrassed by it the way John did. Nobody on the team gave Bob shit for the way he stared at you with stars in his eyes, but John? He got as much ribbing as his patched-up ego could handle.

There was hardly a hitch in your rhythm as John joined, the heat of his big body banishing the last of the cold blustering in through the open window. The smell of soaked concrete bled into the apartment, gritty but also fresh.

Your wish fulfilled, you stopped pawing at the mattress, your face swiveling back toward Bob’s for a kiss as he lost himself in the glorious, swollen slick of your body, so sweet and so giving, your hunger for him palpable. He could feel it all over, down to his toes, the way you wanted him, the way you were excited to wake up with his dick opening you up. Your left hand settled on John’s chest, scratching through his chest hair, your other draped back over Bob’s neck, grabbing a fistful of damp hair, urging him faster. Little frantic tugs. Circling hips. The familiar cadence of your orgasm closing in on you as you clenched around him and closed your eyes and sighed out a slurred song of wanton affirmation.

“Mm. Yes. God, yes. Right there. Please, right there. So…So good…”

Nothing made Bob finish faster than listening to you unravel, but then John’s strong, huge hand pressed hard against your sex, playing around until he found your swollen clit. You squeezed down urgently enough on Bob to make him see spangles. Fuck, that was nice. And then John was pushing his fingers against you, rough, demanding, coaxing out the most beautiful sounds…

“Feel that?” John whispered, gruff.

“Yes.” You and Bob answered in unison.

Because he could feel it. John’s hand. John’s fingers. Rubbing through you.

“C-Close I’m close,” Bob blurted out, eyes half-lidded, body drawing up from the crazy pressure crushing down on him from every direction. You were about to pop, John was touching himself, Bob heard the juicy hush of his hand moving up and down his shaft, and your cunt was so fucking tight, spasming around him in waves, John’s fingers grinding against him, too, and all of it was making him delirious, too much, too much—

“That’s it,” John murmured, moving in closer. “You’re right there, aren’t you? Come on, baby, show me how good it feels when I touch you like this.”

You wailed, mouth falling open. Both men had the idea at the same time, taking advantage of that sound breaking out of you, darting in for a sloppy, claiming kiss. Bob felt it happen, unconcerned, turned on, spiraling down the dark coil into oblivion as all three of you shared a kiss, John’s tongue rolling into your mouth, Bob’s meeting his half way, then you twisting to meet both of them, moaning in your throat as you realized what they were doing.

To you. With you. So fucking gone.

Bob didn’t break the kiss when he came, instead he squeezed you back against his chest as he humped out the last quivering strokes, bunching up inside you before letting go, your moan dipping into something lower and more animal as you felt his heat flood in.

He tasted you, he tasted John, he pulled back from your mouths to dig his face into your neck, the pain of that nightmare so far away he couldn’t even remember the stinging aftermath.

You were limp and shuddering, rocked back into him by John’s hand making tight circles, pushing you through it, slowing down only after you bucked forward and whined into his cheek, begging for mercy. As the halo dimmed around you, you reached for John again, both hands wrapping around his length, twisting and tugging until he sagged against you both, forehead tight to your chest.

“There’s my big boy,” you cooed, nibbling kisses along his hairline as his voice cracked around a taut push of air through his throat. He sounded desperate. The bed creaked from the force of his hips slamming into your hands. “I bet you want to cum so bad for us.”

“Mmf.”

Bob watched you jerk him off, chin resting on your shoulder, breathing never slowing, not when there was already something new to see. He was still nestled inside you, getting hard again. God, it was hot, the way you knew just how to touch him, bring a tough, grim super soldier to the fucking brink, hot to watch him finally drop the mask, stripped to the marrow, utterly yours. John set his jaw then disintegrated, physically jostled by the final devastating passages of your hands, up and down, up and down, tighter at the base like you were milking him right onto your stomach.

“Fuck,” Bob breathed, listing against you. “Don’t stop, okay? Make him cum.”

“Can we have it, baby? Can you give us the big finish?”

John swore, eyes snapping open in disbelief as it took him by surprise and he exploded over your fingers, rhythmic, sharp, shocked cries following every gushing arc of spend against your skin.

The quiet was sometimes too intimidating, and you knew that. The post-coital nothingness could be dangerous, a minefield of self-conscious anxieties. Before John could roll away, you coaxed his head up, cupping his jaw, kissing his cheeks and his lips while he whimpered weakly into your face. But Bob saw the smallest smile break, shy and blissful, rosy cheeks and hazy blue eyes almost lost to pupils blown out from pleasure.

He was beautiful when he let go.

You were in the bathroom cleaning yourself up. John sat on the edge of the bed, back to Bob, running his hand through his hair in a way that said something was twisting him up inside. With a sigh, John turned his head to the side, eyes finding Bob over his shoulder. “Sorry about your dream.”

“It happens.” Bob shrugged. “You were both dying and I couldn’t save us.”

John rolled that over quietly for a second. “Nothing can kill you, Bobby.”

“This did.”

Silence.

Bob reached for the obvious thing. “About the, um, the kiss…”

John froze, brows lifting.

“Did you ever… I mean, you were in the army forever, right? I heard guys get up to all kinds of stuff on deployment. Stuff that, you know, doesn’t count or whatever. Far from home? It counts, obviously, but it’s like a special gray area and--” John still hadn’t moved, staring at Bob like he was waiting for him to start speaking English. “But…I guess you were with your ex that whole time, huh?”

Still no movement. Unblinking eyes. Pinpoint pupils.

“And if you were with her then I guess you wouldn’t have. So, uh. Never mind.”

John finally blinked, pulled one hand across his face and slid off the mattress. “Are we going to make this a whole thing?”

Bob shook his head. He didn’t expect him to be so…blasé about it. “No, man. I’m good if you’re good.”

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

“I’ll get the coffee started.”

John was standing in the kitchen, holding a bag of coffee beans in one hand, scrolling his phone with the other, trying to make sense of the fact that Bob’s tongue had just been in his mouth, trying to make further sense of the fact that he hadn’t hated it, when the message from his sister came through.

He heard the bag hit the floor and the beans scatter before he had fully processed the text.

Hey J! I’m in town. Surprise!!! When can I steal you away from your big important job for drinks and dinner?

He knew, of course, he knew it was time. But he was sluggish, in love, protective. Petrified. But this was the nudge he needed.

“Whoa.”

Bob had crept up behind him, noticing the coffee beans scattered across the floor. In a blink, they were vacuumed up, back in the bag, the bag in Bob’s hand, the bag held out to John. You were still in the bathroom; the water was running, which meant you had jumped in the shower. So, it was just him and Bob Reynolds, and the fear gripped him by the throat, shaking him like it had the jaws of a wolverine.

John stared at his phone like it might blow up in his hand, kill them both, level a city block.

“My sister’s in town,” he said. The stupid, annoying, destructive thing was that Katie would like Bob. She would like Bob a lot. She was the wild child of the family. Music festivals. Book clubs. Thrifting. She had a pot phase that John had begrudgingly kept a secret from their parents. If she still smoked the occasional joint, it wouldn’t shock him.

“Is that…good?” Bob asked, clutching the bag of beans to his bare chest. He had put his shorts back on. His hair was rumpled, one side stuck behind an ear.

“It’s…” John dropped his hand, glancing up at the ceiling. He felt frozen, like it was all coming down around his ears at the same time. “The thing is, I promised myself I’d tell Olivia if it got to love.”

He had no fucking idea why he was saying these things to Bob, but John couldn’t hold in the panic, and Bob was there and Bob had ears.

“Yeah,” Bob nodded, like he understood, brows tenting, mouth sagging, like he had to pay child support and deal with visitation agreements and quell the bizarre horror of finding out his ex-wife had a serious boyfriend. Not that John got to complain, obviously. Obviously fucking not. “So. We got there. Or, I mean. You got there. With her.”

John blew out a wry breath, checked the ceiling again. Still there. Still bumpy. He appreciated Bob’s specificity, the acknowledgement that what John felt for him was something else, something a degree below what he felt for you.

“I’m sorry, man.”

John shook his head, now checking his feet. Still there. Still freckled.

“Thanks. I just…have to do it. She and Katie text. All the time. I also promised myself I’d never let this get back to her, that I’d be the one to…to…”

“Rip off the Band-Aid?”

“Yeah.”

John heard the pipes squeak through the walls as you turned off the shower, then the clank of the curtain rings as you got out. Thinking about you in there eased the terror. He had listened to these exact sounds all summer long and into fall. The world kept spinning. Olivia let him spend weekends at the house with their kid while she vacated and went to her boyfriend’s. There were patterns. There was evidence that this was good for him.

He hadn’t cracked his phone into a hundred pieces after getting that text, so this had to be good for him. His heart hadn’t shot out of his butt, he hadn’t fallen to his knees, he was just…there. There with Bob Reynolds, of all people, who was standing in quiet solidarity after cleaning up his mess.

“Just tell her, man.”

John’s head twitched up. Bob wasn’t fucking with him; he didn’t have that face on.

“Right. No sweat.”

“Kind of.” Bob shrugged, nudging John out of the way to get to the coffee maker. It almost pissed John off until he realized his hands probably weren’t working well enough to go through the motions. He heard the cabinet in the bathroom open and close, heard the soft music from your phone while you hummed and went through a skincare routine so complex it would stump some of the codebreakers he had met.

“I was in this halfway house once—”

John wrestled back an impatient groan, backing up into the wall across from the counter, leaning against it, arms crossed as Bob dumped out some coffee beans into the bullet-shaped grinder.

“—and I made friends with a kid there who had three moms and two dads. I thought it was crazy shit at the time, but he was chill.” Instead of waiting, Bob just talked louder over the deafening blitz of the beans being pulverized. “AND I GUESS IT WENT SOUTH BETWEEN HIS FOLKS BUT THEY DID THIS THING WHERE THEY HAD ONE APARMENT FOR HIM AND HIS SIBLINGS, AND THEY’D ALL JUST ROTATE OUT SO THE BUS WAS EASY AND THEY DIDN’T HAVE TO CHANGE SCHOOLS.” The beans were powder, and Bob lowered his voice with a cough, snatching a paper filter out of the squat drawer next to the sink. He shook the coffee grounds into the filter, then plopped it into the empty, black funnel. Shuffling a few steps to the tap, he filled a pitcher with water, calm, steady, thoughtful. “Seems like it worked out.”

“You met him in a halfway house.”

“Oh, sure, that was meth.” Bob shrugged, transferring the water into the reservoir. “Bad breakup, abusive girlfriend, learning disabilities, it was other stuff.” He put the lid on the reservoir and started the machine, then turned and shot John a placid look. “You’d be surprised how many people just won’t go to their parents for help even when they’re in deep shit. Shame, you know?”

John did know.

“I think he called it nesting,” Bob added absentmindedly. You had padded back into the main room dressed in a fresh sleep shirt and shorts. John was familiar with your progressive outfits. You never put on jeans before breakfast. You never sat down to watch TV at night unless it was in your bathrobe. “The house thing,” Bob clarified, torn out of that line of thought by you entering the kitchen. Like a magnet, Bob went to you, sliding one arm around your waist, kissing your cheek.

“Out of blonde roast,” Bob said, apologetic, squeezing your butt.

You leaned into him, but your eyes flicked toward John, murmuring a sweet, “No, we’re not,” flirting with him, before you assessed his mood. It was a cute joke, but he barely managed a whisper of a smile.

“What’s going on?” you asked, sharp as a fucking tack.

“John’s sister is in town,” Bob explained.

“And I’m going to tell her about us,” John stated, having come around to it, oddly enough, after listening to Bob scream about polyamorous strangers over the chaos of the coffee grinder. “After I tell Olivia.”

You detached from Bob right away, gliding toward him with your face so fucking torn up it almost choked the next breath out of him. John gathered you into his arms, shoving his face into your neck, bending down to do it. Still, there was no mistaking it—you were holding him.

“I’m so fucking scared,” he whispered. He didn’t fall; you held him up.

The house was deadly quiet, quiet the way it was the day Olivia got tired of his shit and left. That day, after a few very charged phone calls and a series of more level-headed texts, John had convinced her to come back. The house was hers if she wanted it, they had paid it off years ago, he would find an apartment, and anyway they agreed it was better for a young child to stay put.

It had changed. There were new pictures on the wall, new carpeting in the living room, a fresh coat of paint in the hall, another man’s smell worn into the sofa. Damian was fine, and after an exhaustive background check and a private investigator got involved, John even liked him, but that didn’t change the fact that he felt like a stranger in the house that he had bought, a house that had once been his.

This time, more than any time before, it felt apart from him. Just a place he went to spend time with his son.

Memories came up, of course. Laughter. Pain. The time he had stubbed his toe so hard he had to go to the hospital and Olivia made fun of him about it for months. He had been less of a baby about falling on four grenades. Secret handshakes after a particularly complex piece of furniture got built. Housewarming gifts. Death. Birth.

And now: silence, silence before Olivia gave a single, blood-curdling scream into a pillow in one of the bedrooms. John was old, bitter friends with this feeling—when the floor was sawed out from under him, when the walls closed in, when the shrieking voices in his head got so loud it made him want to get up and walk into traffic.

That might not even kill him, one more irony so brutal it beggared belief.

Here was another: he couldn’t blame her. If she came to him with this same information, he would hit the roof, too.

Their kid was at a playdate. John listened to Olivia leave the house, go out into the backyard to do… something. Call her lawyer, probably, put him on standby. Get ready, we’re about to ruin this man’s life.

One minute passed, then two. He started to get practical about it because what else could he do? He started to imagine all the ways he would disentangle himself from your life together—packing up his stuff, transferring bills, deleting everything off his phone. He was already composing the text message in his head.

I’m sorry, I love you, but I have to walk away from this.

He couldn’t lose his kid permanently. That was out of the question. And you would be crushed, but you would understand, support his decision, and that would make it all hurt worse.

Five minutes passed, ten.

John opened the shared text chain. You had changed the name back to three hearts. Red, pink, yellow. He covered his mouth with one hand; fuck, he was going to be sick. Scrolling, he felt the world spin, realizing how much he would have to delete. There was one picture in particular he dreaded finding, one of you in bed on your side, turned away from the camera, peaceful and soft in sleep. Bob had sent it while he was away on a mission, and it was a lifeline. The thought of saying goodbye to you, to it, hollowed him out.

And, empty, there was only room for that sick, poisonous feeling…

Olivia came back. Her steps were measured, which was how John knew she was pissed but fighting it. Slowly and with immense dignity, she sat down across from him again. John turned his phone upside down and left it on his thigh, awaiting his sentence.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

John cleared his throat and shifted. “I didn’t know if it was serious. Real.”

“But it’s serious?”

“Yes.”

John stilled while she sat with the thing he had been cupping in his hands like a baby bird for almost five months.

“You have a girlfriend,” she said, slowly, testing out each word. That came out pretty normal, actually, and John’s heart had the audacity to squeeze in hope. “And she has a…boyfriend?”

Less normal. Tense. Shoulders up, hands knit where he could see them.

John had done their taxes at this kitchen table.

He rolled his head on his neck, begging his mind to quiet down, remembering the way you had held his hand until the very last second, until he had to leave the apartment or he would be late for this emotional firing squad.

“Yes.”

Olivia watched him like he might be a stranger wearing John’s skin. “And you’re okay with this?”

“We make it work.”

Her mouth dropped open, then she scoffed, then she laughed. “It’s not April so I know this isn’t a joke.”

She had made coffee before John arrived, and now his hands were looped loosely around the cool mug. He studied the oily surface of the liquid. “I’m a jealous piece of shit. I was. Now I’m…” John shrugged, stumped. He couldn’t tell yet if Olivia was going to call her lawyer the second John stood up from the table. Every word came out strangled. “You get teleported to a shadow planet of all your worst moments and suddenly you can survive a lot more than you could before.”

John didn’t mention who had done the teleporting.

Olivia sipped her coffee, carefully, hands trembling as she put the mug back down. She had styled her hair differently, shortened it, but it looked nice, braided on one side, more edgy. Maybe everyone was changing.

The next time she spoke, she sounded more sad than angry.

“I’m sure you’ve considered what happens when some journalist gets a hold of this,” she said, even.

“Armageddon,” John whispered.

Olivia snorted again, rolling her eyes. “Or, like, three really awkward weeks. The news cycle is about five minutes these days. Didn’t you say this guy is the strongest man on the planet? Maybe everyone will shut up if he can kill them with his mind.”

“I don’t know that he can do that specifically, but he is…” John trailed off, consulting the inside of his coffee cup again. “Something.”

More silence. John felt his phone buzz on his leg. Probably you. Probably you worried about him. Fussing. Loving.

“He’s stronger than you and he’s with your girlfriend and you’re okay with this?”

“It’s not a hostage situation and I don’t owe them money, if that’s what you’re wondering, and he’s not stronger than me, we have totally different capabilities--”

“But you said he’s indestructible, that he can fly—”

“—and there’s just nuance… It’s hard to explain. They have a thing, we have a thing, they are different things that intersect. Look, you can meet just her or both or neither of them, I won’t bring anyone around our kid unless you’re okay with it.” John could hear himself and it was dire. Defensive. He took a deep breath, then touched the mug again, spinning it. It was a new cup, nothing they had bought together.

“I’m going to have questions,” Olivia said sternly, sparing him another outburst. “I think I deserve to have questions.”

John leaned heavily against the table, nodding. “I know. You’re the first person I’ve actually told. You can ask all your questions; I just don’t know if I’ll have the answers.”

John didn’t know why he thought he could do this conversation twice in one day. He had planned to, because he knew Olivia and Katie talked, and if one found out then the other would soon after. But planning was not executing, a thing he understood and apparently underesetimated.

Katie wasn’t like him. She had always been the emotionally intelligent one in the family, the open, sensitive one, empathetic to a fault. Which was how they had gotten from normal family bullshitting and catching up to this in about thirty minutes.

“Something’s different about you.”

John closed his eyes, clutching the bourbon in his hand like it was a life preserver.

Jesus Christ. Already?

Katie had insisted on going to BSTRO 38, a trendy place in Manhattan. John would’ve been fine with anywhere, but his sister was a foodie and paid attention to stuff like this. It was honestly pretty cozy inside, warm leather, softly paneled ceiling and golden, twinkling lights. There was an old-world quality to it that he appreciated, and now, having survived that harrowing conversation with Olivia, he wondered if you would like it, too.

And that proved Katie’s point, because he couldn’t go ten seconds without thinking about you, what you were doing, where he’d like to bring you…

“Got a haircut last week,” John said.

It didn’t work; it never did with her.

Katie was his spitting image but with all the rough edges sanded down. Full head of strawberry blond hair, intense blue eyes, refined nose. She was dressed in a blazer and sweater, but she slid out of that blazer now and slung it over the back of her chair, getting down to business.

“You’re seeing someone.”

“Would that be so bad?” John was tired. He was half of himself after that talk at the house. He just wanted to have a few drinks, quiet his mind, then slink home to you and tumble into bed.

The appetizers she had ordered came. She had spent the day wandering around the city shopping, waiting for him. All that time alone had clearly given her time to sharpen her knives, prepare the interrogation.

“What’s she like?” Katie finished her glass of wine, ordered another. She was already a bit tipsy; John could see it in the way blotchy roses sat high on her cheeks. “Can I see a picture?”

It was John’s turn to flush. He felt incredibly stupid, but the thought of showing you off to someone made him explode inside. It wasn’t something he had gotten to do, and he was dying, absolutely dying, to do it. It didn’t count when the team found out, they already knew you were something special.

“Are you blushing?” Katie snorted as she put down her fork and dabbed her chin with a napkin. “You got it bad, huh?”

John didn’t say anything, he just dug out his phone and found a picture, nothing from his camera roll, because again, he was suddenly filled with the electricity of finally getting to brag about his smokin’ hot girlfriend, so he pulled up a photo from a recent NYT article, one where you were in your suit and you looked killer. It was a photo of the whole team, you were, perhaps recklessly, standing right between John and Bob. John handed his sister the phone, pointing.

“No way,” Katie laughed. “She is so far out of your league, J.”

“Still got it,” John groaned, waggling his eyebrows, sitting back, swirling the ice in his cup.

“You’re full of shit. She’s looking at this other guy like he hung the stars.”

John knew who she was referencing before she had a chance to indicate Bob. Grumbling, he leaned over to press his knuckle over your hand.

“She’s holding my beret.”

“So what?”

“My hand is on her back.”

“So is his.”

“That’s because we’re—” John tore his hand back, clamping his jaw shut. Now that he looked at the picture, really looked at it, there was an obvious vibe happening. The three of you were cheated slightly away from the rest of the group, in your own little world. Maybe it was the bourbon and maybe it was how amazing it felt to crow about having you as his, but John didn’t catch himself quickly enough.

Katie stared at him over the food. The waiter came back with her wine, but she didn’t notice, locking eyes with John so fiercely he almost dropped his glass.

“We’re what?” she asked.

“Friends.”

“Male friends who hold hands.”

John squirmed, eyes darting away guiltily. “Male friends who…put…their hands…on…one woman’s back.”

It sounded stupid in his head, unbelievably clumsy out loud. He just didn’t have the fight in him anymore. He slid forward against the table, putting his cup down, face tilted toward his empty plate, chest heaving. “I’m so fucking sick of lying.”

“So stop.” Her voice warmed as she extended her hand across the table, folding it over his wrist. “John, what’s going on? Is something wrong? Are you in trouble?”

“You can’t tell Mom and Pop.” John’s eyes lifted, finding hers. He swallowed, shaking. “Promise me you won’t tell Mom and Pop.”

The text came through just before six. You and Bob were on the couch, tangled up, your head in his lap and his hands in your hair. The tv was on but neither of you were paying attention. A few candles were burning, but it was a wet, rainy day that felt just right for low, simmering, romantic light. In the darkened room, your phone flared, brightening as John’s message arrived.

He had checked in hours ago to let you know nothing was defcon, that Olivia was shocked and confused but willing to listen if everyone involved could be patient. The relief was so intense you burst into tears.

Now, you sat straight up out of Bob’s lap with a gasp.

my sister wants to see the apartment.

Your fingers were numb as you typed back.

Okay. Bob and I are here?

yes she wants to meet you. both of you.

Are you sure about this?

i’m sure. i hate to drop this on you, can you pick up dinner? i’m good for it.

You were grateful for a task; it was going to keep the heart palpitations at bay. Bob’s hand rubbed up and down your back. John’s sister. John’s sister in the apartment meeting both of you. Had he completely lost his mind?

“Babe?”

“John wants to bring his sister by.” You swiveled on your knees, cupping Bob’s face. His surprise registered slowly. “Is that okay with you?”

“Like… while we’re around?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Then she knows?”

“She must.”

“It’s kind of a huge mess in here…”

You laughed, leaning over to brush a kiss across his lips. “Can you clean up while I get dinner figured out?” Suddenly, you were giddy. Nobody had ever come over. The three of you had never hosted anything or entertained. Yelena kept threatening to swing by but hadn’t made good on it yet. You couldn’t stop shaking. You had spent most of the day convinced John would be gone, that you’d spend the evening helping him pack and sort through his feelings.

How long can you stall her? you texted back.

45, maybe an hour.

K. I’ll pick up Italian, just let me know what you guys want.

you’re the best, baby <3

“No wine I’m afraid. We, um, we try not drink around Bob,” John was explaining, wrestling his keys out of his pocket while Katie stood a few paces behind him. He had bought you just under an hour, which was hopefully enough time to grab takeout and get the apartment into a state that wasn’t absolutely mortifying. “He’s in recovery.”

“I get that,” Katie said. “How long?”

“Sober a year and a month.” He jangled the keys more than necessary, giving you both ample warning. Bob would hear it through the door; sometimes he heard neighbors crying two floors down.

Katie sidled up to the door, hugging herself. “You must be proud.”

“We are,” John said, automatically, because it was the truth.

God, it was nice to tell the truth. He felt six inches taller. But behind the euphoria was a vibrating fear. Nobody outside of the New Avengers had seen the three of you together like this, experienced your unique dynamic. Maybe it would come off weird. Maybe John was so lost in it he couldn’t see that it was fucked up somehow.

He turned the key in the lock with a painful breath lodged in his chest.

The terror lessened slightly when you were there, waiting for them, just finishing up with folding a few fleece blankets, tossing them over the end of the sofa. You looked like such obvious girlfriend material it made his stomach clench—house slippers, nice jeans, the sweater he had bought as a replacement for the one he accidentally destroyed. Effortless. The nervous jitter in your hands was sweet, too, as you came up to them with a smile.

John’s eyes swept the apartment behind you. It was as clean as it could get, still ramshackle, still patchwork, but lit softly with candles and a few dimmed lamps. Inviting. It smelled like the washed linen candles you liked with the hint of Italian food that had been carried through the door. He had been worried, coming in with fresh eyes, it would all say midlife crisis in neon lights, convince Katie that her brother was really not having a normal one.

“Hi,” you said brightly, introducing yourself, eyes widening as Katie actually stepped foot into the apartment. “This is crazy.”

“Bonkers,” Katie agreed. John flattened himself against the door while his sister pulled you into a hug, asking, “Are you a hugger?”

Both of you laughed. Laughed! John’s eyes flicked up as Bob peered out from the kitchen, eyes syrupy and wondering.

“Let’s um, get our shoes off and you can have the tour,” John said, fidgeting, throwing his keys in the dish.

“It’s a short tour,” you joked.

Katie followed you deeper into the room. “What smells so good?”

“Baked ziti,” you and John said in unison.

“From Tony’s,” you added, glancing at him, eyes sparkling.

Bob stepped out from the kitchen, giving a tiny wave before his hands knit together in front of his waist. “Hey,” he called softly. “I’m Bob.”

Katie had worked her way through all the standard questions, and John had given answers you found appropriately rewritten. His sister didn’t need to know that the initial impetus for This was a rare chemical agent that had put the three of you into a sex frenzy. Reframing it as the three of you bonding on a particularly difficult mission wasn’t a lie, technically, and preserved one side of his ego you could tell was only propped up now with a cracked board and some rusty nails.

He was becoming more nervous as the night wore on, which surprised you. He had seemed so at ease when he first got to the apartment with Katie, but now, as she continued peppering him with questions, widening her scope, you could sense him retreating into familiar panic.

Bob was winding some spaghetti around his fork, sitting on your left, Katie across from you, John on your right, all of you crammed into the tiny kitchen with dwindling portions of food on your plates.

Bob’s fork squeaked as Katie leaned forward, still tipsy from her happy hour jaunt with John, eyes zipping from her brother to Bob’s downcast gaze.

She studied him for a minute, watching the careful way he did things. “So—” And just the way she drawled out that one word told you what was coming next was going to light a fuse. “Is it like… a gay thing where there’s bottoms and tops and stuff? Is that offensive? I don’t know the terminology--”

“Katherine.”

You heard lots of voices from John, this one was new. Disappointed Big Brother Voice.

It could freeze helium.

“What?” She shrugged, tossing her head, picking up her wine glass of sparkling water and sipping it thoughtfully before dragging her attention back to Bob. Bob, who she had correctly sensed wore his heart on his sleeve, who didn’t filter his answers precisely the way John did. “I’m not judging. Just curious.”

You jumped in, less bothered than John, more diplomatic than Bob. “It’s fluid. There’s not really set roles. We haven’t defined anything, but we could if we—”

“John’s usually bossy,” Bob said, matter-of-factly. He chewed his spaghetti, swallowed.

Katie shook with laughter. “Bossy? Yeah, that sounds like him.”

Bob sat up straighter, smiling. “I like her.”

“Classic oldest sibling stuff,” Katie continued.

John went rigid. You put your hand on his thigh under the table, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Surprised it only took two superheroes to yank the stick out of his ass…”

“I’ll just see myself out,” John mumbled, dropping his napkin on the table, lurching out of his chair.

You flashed Katie a nervous smile, then got up after him, taking his hand. “Hey, can I steal you for a second?”

John tightened in your grasp, eyes cold and dark, mouth set in a pinched line. You could tell he would rather walk naked through Times Square than leave Bob Reynolds alone with his sister. But your fingers threaded through his, and you kissed his shoulder, and he loosened somewhat, nodding. You dragged him through the apartment to the front door, took him out into the hall, then watched as he spun away and fwumped against the wall, head in hands.

“It’s been a long day,” he muttered, staring at the floor, withdrawing.

You let him stew for a minute with your arms crossed, waiting.

“What?” he asked, glancing at you through the cage of his fingers.

“You’re embarrassed by us.”

John’s hands slowly fell away. He didn’t argue, he didn’t disagree, he just went icy and still.

“She knows we’re having sex, John. We’re all grownups here. I’m sure she noticed there’s just one humongous bed.”

“She’s my little sister.”

“Okay, but you’ve been cold all night. I know it’s weird opening our lives up to people, but this is what we are. Bob is Bob, I’m me. We love you and we tease you and if you’re going to be ashamed of us then we shouldn’t do this again.” You nodded toward the door, to where his sister was.

“Fuck.” John scrubbed his hands down his face, pushing himself until he was standing straighter against the wall. “Can I hold you? Please?”

You slid into his arms, resting your head on his chest, breathing into him as he wrapped you up.

“A few hours ago, I thought I was going to lose you,” he murmured into your forehead. “Now you’re meeting part of my family. I feel insane. And you’re right, I’m embarrassed. I don’t know when that will go away, I’m--”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” You nosed into his shirt, sighing. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t let go. The minutes ticked by. His heartbeat regulated, slowing, his lips never drifting from their place on your head. “Do you just need a minute out here?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned back, going on tiptoes to kiss his chin, then his lips. “I’ll make sure Bob hasn’t spilled all of our secrets.”

John managed a thin smile. “Jesus.”

“Take a breath, John. Come back inside when you’re ready.”

John took a breath. He took several. The knot in his stomach had started to solve itself as he stood in the weird crossroads of the apartment hall. He could hear conversations in neighboring units, pipes running, dogs barking, children crying, a tv on too loud, a couple having an argument upstairs. The only thing seeping through the door to the apartment he shared with you and Bob was laughter, gentle, then riotous, then sweet again.

Nothing was on fire. Nobody was texting, calling, accusing him of ruining the fabric of the universe by just doing what made him happy. He had spent so long bracing for impact, he didn’t know how to accept relief without anticipating the next crushing blow.

He looked at his phone. Nothing from his parents. Nothing from Olivia. He heard you laugh through the door again and the pang almost knocked him to his knees. What a thief he was, stealing joy from himself, frittering it away when there was no need to hoard, no shortage anymore in his life.

John went back inside, squeezing his fists a few times, rolling his shoulder like he was charging into enemy territory. Get it together, you fucking loser.

He stopped just after the door, closing it behind him with utmost care, ears bent toward the conversation spilling out of the kitchen. Where the light was warm. Where you two were cutting up with his sister.

“Mom will get over it as long as she gets more grandkids,” Katie was saying offhandedly. There was coffee brewing, he heard the machine, smelled the bitter, chocolatey perfume spreading through the apartment. “Pop will be tough. Yeah. That’ll be… that’ll be tough.”

“Grandkids, though…”

Bob.

John covered his face with both hands, that shock of humiliation and fear spiking through him again.

“I always pictured John with a big family,” his sister said. “Loud, tons of kids everywhere. Probably not the best idea if your job is to save the world.”

“We’re taking it one day at a time,” you said, smoothing everything out the way you always did. Sugar and coffee hit mugs; John strode back into the kitchen just as Katie was being handed hers, a cup you had thrifted that had little molded bumblebees on it. His sudden presence surprised Katie, and the mug slipped out of her grasp, plunging toward the tiles.

Bob suspended it safely above the floor, liquid and all, floating it carefully back up to where Katie could grab it.

“Jesus,” she murmured, dropping down into her chair again, watching Bob over the lip of her mug while the flecks of gold faded from his eyes. “I’m gonna get so many cool mom points when I tell my kids about this.”

Bob smirked down at his feet, cheeks pink. “We can get you merch.” He took his tea out into the living room, blowing on it out of habit. “I’ll sign it,” he mumbled, disappearing.

You were at the sink, soaking some of the dishes from dinner, giving him the space to decide where he wanted to go. John cleared his throat, brows working, jaw circling, then he slid up beside you, kissed the back of your head, held out his hands for a dish to clean.

“I don’t know how you swung this, J,” Katie said, shaking her head. “But don’t you dare screw it up.”

Bob curled himself around you in the dark, right hand tracing the line of your shoulder, down your arm to where your open hand rested on John’s stomach. The apartment was cold again and it still smelled like coffee and garlic. John’s sister had left two hours ago, and after that, nobody had the energy to do anything but crawl into bed and turn the lights out.

You whimpered sweetly, fidgeting against Bob, leg twitching. Worry flickered across John’s face in his sleep. His face was turned toward you, his head thrown back across the pillow, mouth pulled to one side, lip curled.

Your breathing matched John’s, deep and steady, and Bob tried to follow, telling himself whatever was waiting for him in that nightmare couldn’t be real.

John was right, the Sentry was indestructible. If anything threatened to take you both away from him, Bob would fight it to the bitter end.