man o' war

John gives the cameras a strained smile and a half-hearted wave nonetheless.

The shelter inside smells like wet fur, kibbles, and a tang of ammonia from mopped-up dog piss. The camera shutters and flashes from outside, combined with the incessant barking inside, make for an incredibly overstimulating experience so far.

At the front desk is a lady organizing a bunch of papers. Rina, as it says on her nametag, carries herself with the exhaustion of someone who’s definitely underpaid and overworked, and probably questioning her entire vocation.

“Hi, ma’am, I’m here to… volunteer?” he phrases it more like a question, raising his voice a bit to speak over the barking. “I’m John Walker.”

Rina looks up and her eyes glaze over with recognition, but without any of the starstruck aspect. In fact, she looks like she couldn’t care less. “I know who you are, sir. Just a moment, please.” she gives him a perfect customer-service-smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

She squares up the stack of papers, sets them aside, and takes a pen to twist her hair up into a bun. She stands from her seat. “Follow me, I’ll show you around.”

The barking only gets louder as Rina leads John through a room lined with kennel fences. Dogs of all shapes and sizes throw themselves at the bars of their enclosure, tails wagging like crazy or standing stiff with warning.

“Your application says you signed for dog walking duty, so that’s what we’ll be doing today. Normally we walk them in packs of up to four, but since you’ve never done this before, you’re just getting one dog.”

She’s a bit hard to follow over the sound of the barking. John nods anyway and scratches his brow. “Yeah, no, that sounds good.”

“One of our guys is just giving him a shower before you two leave.”

From the back room, there’s the sound of running water from a hose. There’s some clamor, too, like someone trying to wrangle a dog. “Bravo, c’mon, sit! Just stay still! What are you—wait, don’t jump—Bravo!”

A soaking wet black Labrador bursts out of a side door, tail wagging and flicking water everywhere. The dog bolts straight for John and leaps up on his jeans, two soapy paws on his thighs. “Woah, hey! Easy there, buddy!”

“Well, there he is,” Rina sighs. “I thought you had it handled, Bob.”

“I did! But I think he heard the new guy so he got really—Walker?”

John’s head shoots up, his eyebrows furrowing as he recognizes the sound of that voice. It’s actually Bob. Like, the Bob Reynolds. He’s in a drenched grey hoodie and sweatpants, a leash tangled around one wrist, and a sponge held in the other. “Bob?”

Rina blinks between them. “You two know each other?”

They both scramble to respond. John can’t say that Bob’s technically a New Avenger yet.

“We, uh—worked together before, and we’re sort of neighbors?” “No, yeah, soccer. Peewee league, like way back.”

But whatever explanation they have is easily drowned out over all the barking. Whatever it was, Rina doesn’t care. She shrugs. 

“Okay. That’s great. Bob, take over, please? Mr. Walker’s on dog walking.”

She disappears down the hallway and returns to the front desk like she’s regretting ever clocking in to work today. That leaves Bob, John, a dozen barking dogs, and Bravo, who’s focused on making a good impression on the new guy.

John clears his throat and scratches behind the wet dog’s ears. Bob shifts his weight and gets all slouchy, like he usually does when he’s expecting Walker to say some snarky remark. “We got a one-day volunteer application from a VIP the other day, they didn’t tell me who it was. I-I didn’t know it’d be you.”

“Did Mel put you up to this, too?”

Bob shakes his head in confusion and reaches for the purple towel draped on his shoulder. He wipes away a fleck of soap from his eyebrow. “Mel? No, no. I work here, part-time. I started maybe three weeks ago? Yelena said being around animals might be good for me.”

The brunet’s hair is slicked back in wet curls. The sleeves of his hoodie are pulled up to his forearms. John’s thinking, he looks good in this, before he shuts that train of thought down immediately. Good, as in, regular-civilian good. Like, guy-who-has-his-shit-together good (and other excuses John is telling himself).

He almost forgets he’s supposed to respond. “Oh. Yeah. Good for you, man.”

Technically Bob is living as a civilian. Valentina opted to keep his Sentry identity under wraps for now, ever since the Void incident five months ago and Bob hasn’t been able to control his powers very well yet. But living a fairly normal life seems better for Bob anyway. He’s the only one out of the team that can go out of the Watchtower and go to a Whole Foods without somehow triggering Twitter (or X, whatever it’s calling itself nowadays).

And having a job explains why he’s gone on Tuesdays and Thursdays (ahem, not that John is keeping track). It doesn’t explain, though, why Yelena gets so cagey every time John tries to ask about Bob.

“Hey, you seen Bob today?”

“Nope.”

“Really? I thought maybe he’d be with you.”

“He’s probably out.”

“Out? What would he need to go out for?"

“Because he’s a normal human being, Walker, I don’t know. People go places, they do things outside. You should try it sometime.”

“For the record, I do go outside—”

“The balcony does not count. Neither does the missions.”

“—whatever! I just wanna know where he is, Lena.”

“Since when have you been taking attendance?”

“God forbid I wanna know where our friend is, so I could ask if he wanted to get lunch.”

“You? Lunch? With Bob?”

“Yeah. Lunch. You guys don’t have that in Russia?”

“Ugh. I genuinely don’t know where Bob is, Walker. But wherever he is, he’s fine.”

…So that must have been a lie. John returns to the present with the thought ask Yelena why she’s being weird at the back of his mental to-do list. 

Bob crouches down in front of Bravo and clips a collar and leash around the dog’s neck. “Sorry about Bravo. He just gets really excited about new people coming in. I’ll just dry him off, then we can get him ready.”

John learns that there’s a lot more to dog walking than just walking a dog. Bob runs him through the basics: leash safety, dog reactions, treat discipline. Apparently he has to keep Bravo on a short leash around other dogs, because the lab gets too excited it’ll overwhelm the poor guys.

John is given a tacky-looking Liberty Paws-branded fanny pack containing poo bags and some treats, which John refuses to wear properly and slings it cross-body like it’s a tactical pouch.

Bob’s already leashed up three dogs—a feisty chihuahua named Peaches, a very regal-looking Dachshund named Frankie (short for Franklin), and a Jack Russell named Charlie that looks just about ready to go.

“You sure about that?” John asks, eyeing the dogs. “I could hold one of them, so we’re both holding two.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ve walked them before. I got this handled.” Bob’s trying to untangle the three leashes from one another. It doesn’t look like he has it handled, but John shrugs and leaves it be. Bob probably knows these dogs better than he does.

“Suit yourself.”

Outside, it’s a circus. Poor Bob’s like a deer in twinkling headlights. There’s cameras, phones, people calling out for John and yelling questions at him. Luckily, the ever-so-friendly Bravo doesn’t seem to mind, but Bob’s dogs are getting a bit skittish at the crowd.

John takes matters into his own hands. He shields Bob away from the flashes and waves the photographers and press people away. “Alright, back it up, people. You’re scaring the dogs, c’mon.”

Some of the crowd is warded off, but the lenses never stop tracking them even from a distance. Bob clutches the leashes a little tighter, half-concealed behind John’s broader frame.

“It’s fine. They’ll run out of things to take photos of eventually.” John mutters.

They start down the block, with Bravo leading the charge with his nose to the ground, sniffing every tree and lamp post. Every vertical structure seems to smell so interesting to this guy.

Bob keeps glancing over his shoulder, still visibly uncomfortable with the cameras. His attention is being pulled away from the dogs, because it looks like the press might just follow them all the way to Central Park.

“As far as they know, Bob, you’re just a regular guy. It’s me that they want a photo of, you’ll be fine.” John nudges Bob, and that seems to bring him back to the current. They cross the street and some of the photographers are already dispersing by the time they reach the end of the block.

“Are you used to all this?” Bob says, catching up to walk beside John. Charlie seems particularly interested in Bravo, sniffing around and mimicking the lab’s every move like a little brother.

“I mean, I had a golden retriever when I was a kid. I walked her all the time.”

“The paparazzi, Walker.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Then no, not really. But this is a bit better than the death threats. No one’s asked me why a war criminal’s part of the New Avengers yet.”

It comes out a bit more self-hating than he means. The joke, if you could call it one, doesn’t land on Bob. The never do. He just gives John this quietly sympathetic, pitying look, almost like a wince. It’s the same look Bob gave him at the Vault, after John slipped into the Void for a few seconds. Now there’s just a bitter aftertaste on his tongue.

Bob tugs Frankie away from a wet puddle. “...I don’t think I could do it. Live under the spotlight like that.”

Bob’s had his life literally end and restart a couple of times throughout his life; and in a way, John has, too. They’re both still trying to be a functional member of society again after being an experimented-on drug-addict, in Bob’s case, and working in covert ops and going under the radar, in John’s case. 

But doing it all in the watchful eye of the world doesn’t really bode too well.

The blond shrugs. “It comes with the job, I guess. But I think out of all of us, you’d be a bit more suited for PR.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, Alexei’s too obsessed with finding fans at the grocery store, Ava goes ghost before anyone gets to her, Bucky’s really bad at interviews, Yelena—she holds herself pretty well, actually. I’m… me. And you’re nice.”

“Nice?” Bob says like he’s in disbelief that it’s coming from John Walker, of all people.

“Yeah. Like, you’re not going to yell at a reporter or throw a trash bag at them. You’re honest.”

“Wait. You’ve done that?”

“You never saw the clip? It was all over r/PublicFreakout at the time…”

By the time they make it to Central Park, most of the press has waned out. There’s still a few randoms who recognize John but don’t come up to ask for a photo, preferring to sneak one instead, thinking it’s not too obvious. But it’s nothing they can’t ignore.

The dogs are excited to hit the grass. Charlie and Bravo are trying to chase a group of pigeons, Frankie is very focused on finding himself a pooping spot, and Peaches is barking at anything that’s moving up on the trees. They’re all still a bit manageable, even if they’re pulling in different directions.

Bob and John settle on a bench under the shade of a tree, bit of a ways away from the joggers and kids playing around. Peaches hops up onto the bench beside Bob, her dainty paws clicking on the metal slats. She raises her chin with a sense of regality, like this random bench in Central Park she’s sitting on is the actual Queen’s throne.

John stretches his legs out and spots an ice cream truck in the distance, bright pink and teal with a bit of a crowd starting to surround it. “Hey, you want something? Ice cream, hot dog?” he nods towards it. “My treat.”

Bob perks up from his slouch and the dogs react too, their heads tilted at the word ‘treat’. “Really? Uh, sure. I haven’t had ice cream in a while.”

He probably hasn’t had many things since he woke up in that vault with potentially world-ending superpowers.

“Name your poison. I’m guessing you’re not a plain vanilla kinda guy.” John stands and tugs Bravo up to come along with him.

“Mint chocolate chip, if they have it.”

John squints at Bob. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“No, as in, you’re not getting that.”

“What, why? It’s my favorite!”

“Yeah, well, your favorite is literally toothpaste, Bob. Did nine-out-of-ten dentists recommend you that one?”

Bob pouts. “It’s a comfort flavor. I was stoned with my ex one time and it was all his parents had in the fridge. It’s not that bad.”

Bob’s ex. His parents. A guy. Bob’s had a boyfriend. Cool. No, yeah, that’s fine. 

John pretends not to react to that sudden load of information and plays up the bit by rolling his eyes and grimacing. “Fine. I’ll be back.”

John walks off toward the truck with Bravo in tow, still shaking his head.

The line isn’t long, but it gives John a moment to glance over his shoulder once he’s walked a bit further. He sees Bob squinting up at the sky, looking up at the buildings. Peaches is now sitting on his lap. Charlie and Frankie lie down next to each other on the bench, watching the joggers pass by from afar.

It’s nice to see Bob taking it slow, when he’s never had it this easy before.

John ends up ordering a simple and classic vanilla for himself and the infamous mint chocolate chip for Bob, which the vendor tops with extra sprinkles and a little blue umbrella. John’s about to ask why he didn’t get any sprinkles and an umbrella, but doing that as a grown ass man probably isn’t a very good look on him. So he holds his tongue.

“Here,” he says once he’s back, sitting on the bench next to Bob and holding out the decorated cone. “Your Colgate with chocolate, as requested.”

Peaches is standing on her hind legs now, distracted and barking at a squirrel she spotted up on the trees. Bob is trying to rein her in, but Charlie and Frankie soon join her from underneath. He’s trying to take the cone while simultaneously managing all the leashes getting tangled up in the bench rails.

“How about I hold onto the cone, and you just lick up into it?” John deadpans, to which Bob freezes and looks at the blond with an incredulous, flustered stare. For a moment, he does seem to consider taking up that offer.

“I’m kidding. Give me Peaches, I’ll hold onto her.” John hands the cone over, and just as they’re about to exchange, Peaches starts pulling hard on the leash.

Bob loses his grip, and the leash slips out of his hand. The dog takes off after whatever she saw further in the distance, a tiny beige blur zipping into the green. Her neon pink leash trails behind her like a party streamer.

“Oh, shit, Peaches!” he yelps, leaping to his feet. Charlie and Frankie try to follow after her, but Bob is pulling them back.

John groans and hands Bob his ice cream cone. Bob scrambles to hold them both in one hand. “I’ll go get her.”

He clicks his tongue and Bravo spurs into action. Like two characters in a buddy cop B-movie, they take off sprinting after Peaches. He runs through a low hedge, sidesteps a confused jogger, and sees the chihuahua veer off into a patch of thick greenery.

“Peaches, come here!”

She ignores him and takes a sharp left, darting into a bush. Peaches is incredibly fast for a dog that’s about the size of a subway rat. She’s running under benches and past a few joggers that John bumps into, and has to profusely apologize for. Bravo is following John’s lead, tongue lolling out in a smile like this is the greatest game of fetch he’s ever played.

Peaches zips around a tree, Bravo skids in the grass like a race car, and John lunges forward on the other side of the trunk to grab her before she can make another run for it.

“Gotcha, you little rat…” he mutters, holding Peaches in one hand and shaking his head at her. He looks down. His shirt is sweat-stained and has a few smudges of dirt from Peaches’ paws, his jeans grass-stained from passing through the bushes (not that he was very presentable in the first place). John sighs in defeat.

When they get back, Bob is anxiously anticipating their return. Charlie and Frankie perk up when they see John, Peaches, and Bravo walking back. John returns to his spot next to Bob on the bench, and this time, hooks Peaches’ leash around his wrist. Bravo settles by John’s feet, panting, but happier than ever.

“I’m going to hold her this time, mm’kay?”

“Thanks for getting her.” Bob hands over John’s vanilla cone, now a sad sticky mess dripping down Bob’s fist. “Sorry about the ice cream. I didn’t want to lick it, obviously.”

John takes the cone and huffs. “So you let it drip all over your hand?” “It’s fine.”

As John licks what’s left of his ice cream, he can see Bob darting out his tongue to lick the drops of vanilla off his own hand. Getting in the space between his thumb and index, like a cat. John stops whatever he was doing and stares without blinking, mouth slightly agape. They make eye contact. Bob looks unnerved.

“Wh-What? Is there something on my face?”

John snaps back into reality, away from whatever trance seeing that put him in. He can’t be thinking like that about a guy that’s essentially his coworker. “No, uh… you… you enjoying your ice cream?”

Bob smiles and looks at his half-eaten cone. John then takes notice of the blue umbrella, now tucked behind his ear like a flower. It’s cute. (Objectively cute. Like anyone would find that cute.) “Oh, yeah, it’s great. Tastes just like I remember it.”

“You’d just need to brush your teeth to remember that taste,” John mutters under his breath.

Bob tilts the ice cream over to John. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, Walker,” he wiggles the cone a bit. “C’mon. I swear it’s good.”

John raises an eyebrow and leans in slightly. There’s a flicker of playfulness in his blue eyes. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes a bite straight through the minty green scoop, taking up at least half of what’s left over. Bob is taken aback at the action and swallows hard—John sees that jaw clench almost imperceptibly as he pulls away.

The blond nods to himself as he chews, as if assessing the flavor, then licks the side of his mouth. Would Bob taste like mint if he…

“Okay. I hate that I don’t hate it.”

The weird tension lifts slightly, and Bob wheezes out a breath. “Hah, I told you so—but, you call me crazy for liking mint chocolate, but you straight up bite ice cream. That’s psycho.”

“I never called you ‘crazy’, I just thought it was a weird flavor. And I’m not seven years old, that’s why I bite ice cream.”

Their potential petty argument about sensitive teeth is interrupted by Bravo getting jealous that the humans are getting something to eat. He puts a paw on John’s lap and gives him his best puppy eyes.

John’s not one to deny such a polite request. He gives Bravo a few treats from the fanny pack to satisfy that craving, and to his amusement, Bravo knows a few basic tricks. Soon, the rest of the dogs get excited about treats, and are gathering around John’s legs begging for one. The sight makes Bob laugh.

Soon enough they start walking again, and John is firm in his resolve to be carrying the unruly and dramatic Peaches all the way back just to prevent any more chasing incidents. Bob knows better than to argue with Walker when he’s made his mind up.

The walk back to the shelter is a little quieter. The dogs have gotten their excitement out and are about ready to tucker out when they return. Bravo isn’t sniffing every structure, Charlie and Frankie just follow behind him, and even Peaches is too tired to raise hell again. She’s held in John’s strong arms like a little baby—what a lucky dog.

“You’re really carrying her all the way back?”

“Yeah, I mean, she seems to like it.” John chuckles, looking down at her in his arms. She’s going crosseyed from how sleepy she is, tongue sticking out between her snaggletooth.

“You’re just spoiling her.”

When they return to Liberty Paws, Rina seems surprised that they returned with all four dogs still alive. Bob clips the dogs’ leashes back onto their hooks and John goes to refill their water bowls. In the process, he also tosses a few chewed-up rope toys laying around into their designated toy baskets. 

Charlie, Frankie, Peaches, and Bravo return to their kennels and all flop over after digging into their water bowls. Bravo in particular whines at John as he’s being put away, sad that his new friend is leaving.

“You don’t have to stick around, you know,” Bob says once they’re done, “Dog walking’s the only thing you had to do here.”

John shrugs. “I’ve got time. Might as well get the full volunteer experience.”

Bob’s mouth quirks up. “There’s still feeding, if you’re serious.”

“Yeah, why not? I’ll order us lunch while we’re at it.”

The next hour passes faster than John expects.

He starts at the wash station, scrubbing out stainless steel and plastic bowls dented and chewed up around the edges. It’s not the most glamorous work, but there’s something mindless and grounding about it. Hot water, dish soap, rinse, stack, repeat. He’s never worked as a dishwasher at a restaurant before, never worked a ‘regular’ job since he went into the military at eighteen, but he can imagine it’s about the same as this.

Bob lugs bags of dry kibble out from the storage closet. He’s the one sorting out the meal portions with a list on a clipboard. Each dog gets a specific amount, and some have a mix of wet food or medicine that needs to be added in there. 

When noon strikes, the humans have to eat, too. John orders lunch for him, Bob, Rina, and the other employees at the shelter just as a nice gesture for having him. They get a group picture in, smiling around the table with everyone and Bravo and a few other dogs they let out of the kennels for a bit. John smiles wide in the middle with a ‘shaka’ sign reminiscent of a brief surfing phase when he was younger. He pulls Bob in closer by the shoulder, who just gives a shy, tight-lipped smile.

If every day of the rest of this week was going to be like this, then maybe this whole thing isn’t that bad of an idea.

Bob clocks out at three. The two of them step out into the late afternoon light, smelling like the shelter and dog hair clinging to their clothes. The air, for once, doesn’t smell like all the lovely things going on inside the shelter.

“You really stayed for my whole shift,” Bob says softly, looking at John.

“Correction—I stayed for the dogs. And I guess you could say I had fun, too. Tiring, but fun.” John shrugs, brushing away some of the dog hair off his shoulder.

They both stand there for a while, like neither wants to walk off first. Bob slouches again. John rubs the back of his neck.

“You heading back to the tower?” John asks.

“Oh, yeah. Subway’s that way,” Bob points at 110th Street, three blocks over.

“...I can drive you, if you want. I’m just parked down the block.”

Bob thinks over it for a second.

“Okay. I’d like that.”

Some things are too good to be true, and John just can’t catch a break.

John and Bob are in the elevator of the Watchtower going up to the residential floors. John’s just learned that Bob needs a bit of catching up to do in terms of internet culture—like a sixty year-old grandpa, the guy has been getting his news off television and newspapers in Southeast Asia for the past six years of his life before getting picked up by OXE for Project Sentry.

He doesn’t even have a phone—John knows this part—it was taken away when he was experimented on and obviously never got it back, considering he was proclaimed ‘dead’ for a good few months. He rarely used it when he had it, and he never bothered to get himself a new one.

It’s baffling. Who doesn’t have a phone in the year 2028?

John’s in the middle of showing Bob his infamous r/PublicFreakout clip where he throws a trash bag at a TMZ reporter. John is leaning in and showing the video on his phone, looking a bit too proud of himself, while Bob just nods along with a concerned smile.

The elevator doors slide open on the 70th. Mel steps in, and the two of them break apart to the opposite ends of the small space as if they’d been caught red-handed. John fakes a cough.

“Oh, there you two are. Ms. de Fontaine wants us in the meeting room. Like, right now.” She adjusts her posture and stands in front of them, facing the doors.

John shoves his phone back in his pocket. “Am I in trouble?” Then her sentence processes in his head. “Wait, us? Bob, too?”

“Yes. Bob, too.”

He looks at Bob with a quizzical expression. Bob just pouts and shrugs.

On the 79th floor Mel ushers the two of them down the hall to the meeting room, walking briskly with some kind of fear that either all of them are in trouble, or she’s in trouble, or just them. Either way, it doesn’t sound good.

Valentina is already inside, seated at the head of the long table, flicking through photos on her tablet mirrored on the large LED screen. Candids from their day today, pulled from major tabloid outlets, of John and Bob walking the dogs, and some moments at the bench in Central Park, laughing together.

Valentina zooms in on Bob in every photo. “Would anyone like to explain to me, why Robert is in these photos?”

Bob opens his mouth like he might try to answer himself, but John beats him to it. “The shelter I got assigned to is the same one Bob’s part-timing at. Pure coincidence.”

Valentina’s eyes flick over to Mel, who gives a short shrug that’s almost like a wince. “I-I didn’t know. I just chose the nearest shelter in the city taking volunteers.”

“He’s not supposed to be public facing yet,” Valentina exhales through her nose, “He’s supposed to be off the radar, not walking dogs with U.S. Agent.”

John doesn’t respond immediately. He rolls his neck—it’s been a long day, he’s exhausted, and having to listen to Val’s nagging is just the cherry on top of this fucked-up cake.

“I just work Tuesdays and Thursdays. I don’t really go anywhere besides work and the grocery, if we need it.” Bob adds softly, stepping out from behind John’s shadow.

“You need to quit that job,” she responds, pointing at him accusingly. “And you need to stay here. You can’t be seen associated with the team, not before we’ve figured out your new Sentry rollout.”

John makes a disgruntled face. He steps forward. “You can’t just coop him up here like Rapunzel.”

“He is not cooped up. He’s protected. He—and you all, have everything you need here.”

“You’re isolating him,” John barks back, “He should be able to live like a normal civilian—which he is—and that means going wherever the hell he wants!”

Mel is about to open her mouth to interject, but Valentina raises a hand and she swallows her words. She looks just as nervous as Bob is, as the conversation starts to escalate.

“I think you and I both know, John, that Robert is not a normal civilian. Need I remind you of the danger we were all under not too long ago?” — Bob dips his head shamefully at that. A hot red anger surges inside John, threatening to boil over.

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” John grits out between his teeth and steps closer to the table. Valentina leans back on her chair, her throat bobs uncomfortably but she keeps her chin up in faux-confidence.

“Walker, it’s fine—” Bob steps forward and reaches for the hem of John’s henley, but John holds a hand up as if to say just let me handle this.

“I’m trying to keep this from blowing up in both your faces. And everyone’s, really.” Valentina says slowly, “And God knows your reputation’s terrible enough as it is, John. That’s why we’re working on this, aren’t we? That’s what I assigned Mel for.”

John huffs a sharp breath and stands straighter. He keeps his distance just to prevent himself from doing something drastic. “If you want me to do this whole goddamn PR stunt bullshit this week, let me do it with him.”

The room goes still. Bob’s mouth is agape, his expression incredulous. For a split second, even John himself looks dumbfounded at his own proposal.

Valentina gives him a strained smile, and it’s clear her patience is wearing thin. “I’m sorry, did you not listen to anything I just said the past five minutes?”

John doesn’t even blink. “No, I heard you.”

Bob shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to find a way to insert himself somewhere in this conversation that’s literally involving him. “John—”

“And I mean it.” John’s tone is sharper and demands attention. “You want me to play goody-two-shoes? Fine, I’ll do it. But I’m not doing it alone.”

Valentina squints at him, leaning forward slightly. Okay, she’ll bite at whatever kind of bait this is. “”And why would you possibly want to do this with him?”

There’s a pause as John thinks about what to say, for once. It’s long enough for Mel to glance between John and Bob with a pensive expression, trying to gauge what exactly is going on here.

“He doesn’t try to micromanage everything I say, he’s not on some power trip, and he makes it feel less like I’m being dragged through glass doing all this.”

Valentina’s eyebrows quirk up in a curious, yet amused expression. She certainly didn’t expect John, of all people, to be complimenting Robert like this, albeit to insult her in the process. Everyone else in the room seems just as puzzled as she is.

“Val, if I may,” Mel raises her hand awkwardly, to which the older woman gestures to allow her, “I… I don’t think it’s a bad idea. To have them both go through with the plans this week.”

Valentina’s gaze doesn’t leave Mel, but she doesn’t immediately respond. She’s thinking it through—weighing the risks, calculating how badly this could backfire if the public got wind of who Bob really was, what had been done to him, and the person behind it all. Obviously, her.

“You think this is a good idea?”

Mel gestures between Bob and John. “Honestly? People already saw them together today, and no one’s made the connection. Our sweep of the old Sentry files is squeaky clean, for the most part. We don’t need to spin it into a press release to introduce Sentry, but… maybe letting them be wouldn’t hurt.”

“See? Exactly.” John says, even though it’s not exactly what he meant. He just wants someone else to join him in opposing Valentina. “Are we good? Can we leave?”

Valentina sighs. She sets down her tablet on the table and rubs at her temples. At the very inkling of a nod, Mel lets out a breath that she’s been holding in the whole time, and John nudges Bob toward the door.

“Mel, stay a minute.”

“Oh. Sure.”

They’re both quiet in the elevator this time. John stands on one side, arms crossed, gaze locked on the number display going up. Bob’s on the other, hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed on the floor. Neither of them says a word. Too much happened too fast.

Then, at the exact same time;

“I should’ve asked before I said something—” “I don’t mind doing this with you but—”

“Sorry, you go first.”

They both stop. John shakes his head. “No, you first.”

Bob sighs. “I’m okay doing all of this with you. But I don’t need you to defend me from Val. I can speak for myself.”

John doesn’t bark back, nor does he double down. He just nods. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. Won't do it again.”

Bob’s a little surprised at how fast that was. How easy. He thought a sorry from Walker must be a rare commodity.

“That’s all. Your turn.”

“I should’ve asked you before I said something.” John pinches the bridge of his nose, “I guess I just… didn’t want to do it alone. I thought this whole thing was stupid when Mel pitched it to me, but I didn’t think it was bad. But whenever Val’s involved it makes me feel like a puppet. And I hate it.”

John figures Bob can relate on that front, how effortless it is for Val to get under people’s skin and use them to do her bidding. Even something as innocent as walking dogs can feel like a terrible cover-up job to save her face, even if the intention is to help John.

“You really don’t have to do this with me.”

There’s a pause. Part of John hopes that Bob still wants to.

“It’s fine, Walker. I don’t mind.” Bingo. “I think it’ll be good for you.”

John snorts. “You’re sure? You said you don’t think you can handle the spotlight.”

Bob doesn’t answer right away, because John’s right, he did say that. They’re both running through worst-case scenarios in their head. Headlines exposing everything—the press figuring out who Bob is. Not just as Sentry, but the Void that swallowed half of New York, turning everyone into tormented shadows of themselves. Or some outlet unearthing pieces of Bob’s past; Malaysia, the clinics, the drugs, the pills. Whatever the internet can mange to dig up, the world would never see Bob the same way again.

And Valentina’s going to be there to say I told you so.

“Really, Walker,” Bob says, gentler now. “Like you said, the press is going to be on you. I’ll just be the guy in the background, right? John Walker and friend.”

It’s not very convincing, but John wants to drop this topic already. “...Right.”

The elevator slows down on the 86th and a soft ding rings out as the doors open to Bob’s unit. He gives John a small nod.

“Good night, Walker. See you tomorrow?”

“Only if you want to.”

Bob rolls his eyes, and he opens his mouth to respond but the doors close again before John can hear what he says.

“Well, I do.”

Later that evening, John sits at the kitchen counter with a half-eaten bowl of Wheaties. He’d cook himself an actual meal if he wasn’t tired, but they’ve got enough stock of those Wheaties boxes to put a doomsday prepper to shame. Might as well take advantage.

The lights are dim, the TV’s off, and he’s scrolling through X one-handed on his phone, shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. This is another one off those nights that, depending on what he’s going to see on his phone, will affect just how well he’ll be sleeping.

At first, it’s not much; just linked articles about the shelter visit, a video of him carrying Peaches right after he chased her halfway through the park, and — oh cute, the Liberty Paws account posted a photo of him and Charlie a few hours ago. 

He reads through the replies. His eyebrows slowly knit together. “Oh, what the fuck.”

There are many things Valentina Allegra de Fontaine is good at: manipulation, blackmail, illegal operations, corruption, and above all—marketing. The unveiling of the New Avengers was a masterstroke in rebranding a bunch of criminals, sure, but the reception is mixed at best.

Turns out, Wheaties boxes and magazine photoshoots aren’t enough to erase the fact that to the public, Bucky Barnes is an ex-terrorist with a failed political career, nobody cares about the washed Soviet super soldier, and John Walker once murdered a man in broad daylight with Captain America’s shield.

The people need heroes they can believe in. Heroes who look like they can rescue a cat stuck up a tree one day and stop an alien invasion in the next. Real do-gooders who care about the safety of the average American.

And what better way to start, than with John Walker?

“…What the hell is this?”

John was just on the way out of the gym when Mel grabbed him by the hem of his shirt and dragged him down to the boardroom. Ambushed him, basically. Now he’s seated at the far end of the unnecessarily long conference table that has more seats than their team of six need.

He squints at the LED display up front. Mel prepared a presentation just a few hours ago, and it seems like she’s had way too much fun with it. It’s American flag themed, but in cutesy pastel, so it’s more pink, baby blue, and cream white. There’s a clip art of two eagles with sunglasses in the corner, big title in bubble font that reads— ‘John Walker’s Healing Era!’

“What the hell is a ‘healing era’?” he mumbles under his breath.

Mel ignores the question. She figures John wouldn’t understand nor care about the connection between Taylor Swift lore and Gen-Z slang words. “Well, sir, Valentina and our team really want to work on your public image.”

Her smile is tight-knit and she holds her tablet close to her chest like a clipboard. “We have a few ideas on how to make it work. Technically my idea, but we, yes.”

John raises an eyebrow and humors her. “Oh, yeah? What’s wrong with my public image?”

She knows it’s rhetorical, but it’s the wrong question anyway. She frowns and swipes to the next slide. A collage appears on screen: screenshots of headlines, Twitter posts, Reddit threads. A censored frame from a video of that day. A photo of him on the day of his hearing, next to his then-wife, pride as broken as his arm in the sling.

Fall of a Hero: The John Walker Story Walker Walks Free After International Incident The Failure of Captain America 2.0 Who Let This Guy Be Captain? Where is John Walker Now?

They’re all familiar to him. He’s skimmed through every one, during sleepless nights doom-scrolling and Googling his own name. They’re all burned into his retinas. He could probably see them if he closed his eyes. But seeing them plastered on a huge screen in front of a pink cutesy background makes it worse. Terrible, actually. Just incredibly tone-deaf and eerie.

“Okay. Jesus, Mel,” he mutters, eyes flitting away from the screen, “I get it.”

She moves to the next slide, and it’s tonal whiplash. There’s a stock photo of a man holding a dumb and happy golden retriever, but John’s face is badly edited on top. A sparkly transition makes text appear.

Who is John Walker? - Pookie bear ❤︎ - Cares about the community - Dog-lover!!

‘Pookie bear’? Now it’s starting to get weird.

“We want to remind America of the man behind the uniform. The real John Walker, a man of the people. You need to be marketable for this whole New Avengers thing to work for you.”

John opens his mouth to retort, but Mel’s already flipping through the rest of the slides, all with other stupidly edited stock photos. John painting a mural with children, John handing out bags at a food bank, John at a ribbon-cutting event for a local library. In every one of them, they use the same old photo cut-out from back during his Captain America days; a polished smile, a proud light in his eyes.

“So you want me to do… community service?”

“Yes,” Mel says, brightening. “Walking the dogs, handing out food to the homeless. You know, wholesome stuff! Family-friendly stuff.”

He drags a hand down his face. “You know I have an actual superhero job, right? Missions? Training? U.S. Agent isn’t very fit for charity work.”

“This is your new mission, sir.” She slides a black folder down the long table. It stops in front of John. It’s got the New Avengers logo on it, professional and sleek. “Valentina promised you a clean slate, right? We can start here.”

He opens it. It’s a list of activities for the rest of the week. Shelter dog walking, which starts tomorrow. Food bank assistance on Wednesday, community mural painting on Thursday, then urban gardening on Friday.

“Cute,” he says flatly.

Mel’s starting to get tired of John’s attitude. A bit of her non-professional personality slips in, and John can tell that Val made her come up with all this on a whim. She glowers at him.

“It is going to be cute, John.”

“Well, I don’t do cute, Mel.”

“It’s either this, or more headlines about the time you painted the pavement with a guy’s skull.”

He leans back in the chair and sighs, defeated. He just wants to go back to his room and shower. “Fine. I’ll show up tomorrow. Can I go now?”

Like a switch has been turned on, Mel smiles and switches off the screen with a remote. “Yes. At 10 AM tomorrow, you’re going to Liberty Paws to walk those dogs and you’re going to enjoy it.”

John leaves the boardroom with the black folder tucked under his arm, still thinking about all those stupid stock photo edits with his face on them.

“Pookie bear,” he mutters, disgusted with the term.

His reflection stares back at him in the elevator mirrors. His shirt’s got sweat stains in his pits and his collar. His beard’s getting unruly—hasn’t trimmed it since the Vault incident, and it grows pretty quick. A grim expression is ingrained into his face.

He scoffs at himself. As if anyone would ever call this washed deadbeat a ‘pookie bear’.

He’s not Captain America anymore, and he hasn’t been for three years now. He wouldn’t call himself a good guy, either.

But maybe he can fake it for a week. How hard could charity work be?

He grabs her around the waist, grinning like a fool, and yanks her down beside him. They tumble in the dirt, limbs tangled and their laughs overlapping. Blades of dry grass poke at their shins.

Her shirt rides up slightly. He holds her a bit too tightly without meaning to as she sits on his stomach. Fingers press against her skin. He freezes.

The laughter dies out, and Rhett’s pulse is at his throat. It feels wrong, almost perverse, to admit that he likes the feeling of her warm, soft skin under his hands. Her chest rises and falls, close enough to feel. She has that spark in her tawny eyes, like she can read his mind and understand in her core, the thoughts of a boy in adolescence.

His hands stay. Her hands, firm on his chest (a sensation most familiar to him now), keep him pinned down below her. She’s leaning in slowly, and he closes his eyes in anticipation of what’s to come. In this shred of his memory, maybe this is what he would’ve wanted. What he expected, but never got. He doesn’t remember wanting it. He feels like he shouldn’t.

Rowan’s lips are soft. Then Rhett’s lips touch stubble, rough and scratchy. He smells aftershave. Tobacco. The wormwood in whatever cologne he had on that night. And as their lips part to make way for tongue, he can feel him . Taste him . His tongue. His breath as he breathes in for another kiss. The sweat, the spit, hot in his mouth.

His eyes feel like they’re glued shut. He can’t resist the heat pooling in his loins, like a dam inside him is going to break. Rowan pulls him in like he can feel that resistance, his heavy hand threading through Rhett’s hair. He hears that low, husky moan and feels Rowan’s lips move to his neck, kissing further down…

Something smacks the bottom of Rhett’s boot, and the dream is gone in an instant. He jerks upright in his seat. He can feel his pulse all the way to his fingertips, and sweat is cooling fast on his skin. 

Rhett is parked outside the house but he doesn’t even remember getting in the truck. At the very least, he managed to drive himself home without getting another DUI.

In his drunken stupor, Rhett removed his shirt and draped it over his bare chest as a makeshift blanket. His jeans feel tight and uncomfortable, and there’s a hot sensation boiling in his stomach.

“What the hell…”

Outside the car door, the perpetrator of the boot smack, is Royal. He nudges Rhett’s boot again, eyebrows furrowed and his face as stoic as ever. “If you think I’m gonna bail you out of your responsibilities, you got another thing comin’. Get dressed. Checkin’ the fences.”

If his father noticed anything or not, he doesn’t say. He just walks away without waiting for a response.

Rhett wipes a hand over his perspiring face and curses under his breath. He leans his head back, eyes closed, jaw clenched. What the hell was all that? He tries to recall exactly what it was his brain dreamt up, but he’s coming up on a blank. He’s reeling from the sensation and trying to will the tent in his pants down with deep breaths.

He doesn’t get to have a moment of relief from this. Soon he pulls his shirt back over his head, grabs his hat on the dashboard, and climbs out of the cab. He trudges behind his father on the way to the stables to fetch their horses, squinting from the morning sun under his hat.

Even in the haze of his hangover, he does remember having spoken to Rowan Yao last night. Rowan’s a man now, that much he can recall. 

“Did you know Rowan Yao’s back in town?” he rasps out.

Royal glances over his shoulder at him. “No, your mother didn’t mention anything. How is she, Rowan.”

Rhett remains tight-lipped. He resists correcting his father, figuring it isn’t worth having that difficult conversation so early in the morning.

“I, uh… saw hi— her —at the bar last night, after the rodeo,” He feels guilty even if he knows Rowan isn’t here. “She said she’s taking care of her mom while her brother’s on honeymoon?”

“Right. Maybe we can invite her and Holly to dinner this weekend, I’m sure Cece’d love that.” They walk past the stable doors and Royal nods to himself.

Inside the stables, Perry is tightening the cinch on his chestnut quarter horse. “Well, the prodigal son is finally awake. Who’re we inviting to dinner?”

“Rowan Yao,” Royal answers, “Holly Callahan’s kid.”

Perry leans against a stall post, grinning. “Oh, yeah? Didn’t you have a crush on her back then or somethin’, Rhett?”

Rhett is carrying his saddle over to his dark bay when he shoots a glare at his older brother. “What? No.”

“No, you definitely did,” Perry snorts, “But she was always pretty tomboy-ish, wasn’t she? You’d think Mrs. Yao raised two boys.”

“I didn’t have a crush on her.”

“Whatever you say—but point is, you used to be real close to her.”

“Yeah. Used to .” Rhett strains with the effort as he saddles up on his horse and rolls his sore shoulders.

“Alright, you two,” Royal cuts in, voice flat. “Knock it off. We’re still missing two damn cows. We’ll head east, then start from there.”

It’s been a tense day since Rhett woke up, like something shifted in the air and he just can’t seem to say the right things. Maybe he got bucked so hard last night, he knocked his head on top of the strained wrist. That’s gotta be it (or at least, that’s what he’s telling himself).

After a tense conversation with the Tillersons about their west pasture, they return home by noon with two cows still missing and Sheriff Joy telling them that the FBI is giving up on finding Rebecca. Nine months in and no leads pointing anywhere.

Perry is already going through a lot with his wife’s disappearance, and instead of being there for his older brother, Rhett just finds ways to get into Perry’s skin. He just can’t help but think that Rebecca wouldn’t have gone up and left for no good reason—Perry must’ve said something to her. Rhett, of all people, would know how volatile his brother can get when he’s angry.

By nightfall, as an apology, he brings Perry out for some drinks at the bar. There’s more people, now that it’s the weekend. He and Perry have a booth all to themselves, about two beers and one tequila shot deep at this point. Rhett’s starting to stumble over his words.

“What if… what if I just wasted the last ten years chasing this? I mean, you had a wife and kid by my age.”

“It’s a slump. You’ll ride better at the next one. Take some risks and don’t regret ‘em—that’s all I’ll say.”

Perry’s words slide right off. They’re just half-hearted words of comfort like a fortune cookie from a cheap Chinese restaurant. They’re both at their worst. The only comfort they can find is at the bottom of a bottle.

That being said — “I do think we’re gonna regret this tequila, though.”

That, they can agree on. They smile and clink their glasses. The second shot goes down easier than the first.

Maria Olivares walks by, accompanied by three other girls Rhett recognizes as some of her friends from high school. He saw her at the rodeo last night, but his terrible performance didn’t motivate him to catch up with her at the arena.

He keeps his head low so as to not draw any attention, but he can’t stop looking at her, and Perry follows his gaze. She looks just as gorgeous and unattainable as she did back then. She’s got no man with her, maybe she’s finally single again.

“What’s Maria doin’ here?” Perry asks.

“I don’t know.”

Perry nods his head slowly. He looks like he’s thought of something funny.

“...What?”

Perry chuckles. “First it’s Rowan, now Maria. The girls of your past are comin’ to haunt you, Rhett.”

Rhett rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he knows Perry’s right. It’s like God is showing him all his regrets in womanly form. And one of them isn’t even a woman anymore.

“Man, you’ve been in love with that girl since you were sixteen years old. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why you two never got together.”

“Yeah? Well, I can.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“She had a boyfriend. Went to college. I stayed here.”

“And Rowan?” Perry raises an eyebrow, “You stopped hanging out with her after seventh grade. Avoided her, actually.”

That God-awful ache in Rhett’s chest is flaring up again.

“We just… grew up. Grew out of each other. I got sick of playing tag and wrestling and watching movies and all that stuff. Then he— she went off to Chicago.”

None of it convinces Perry. Rhett doesn’t expect him to understand, anyway. Perry had Amy with Rebecca while Rhett was still figuring himself out at fifteen.

“How many excuses are you gonna make before you man up—”

“No, listen to me. Listen—”

“—and go dance with her?” Perry tilts his chin towards Maria, standing by the bar, sipping a beer and laughing with a friend. Rhett gives him a weak, resigned smile.

“Get up!” Perry urges, “C’mon, you bull-ridin’ son-of-a-bitch. Get that ass up, go get that girl!”

Rhett needs some liquid courage for that. He grabs his bottle, gulps down what’s left, and though his legs feel shaky, he stands from their booth. He smooths a hand through his hair and walks toward the bar.

But just as he nears, Rowan Yao appears out of nowhere (he seems to be really fucking good at that) and slides in beside her like they’d known each other for years. Maria smiles and laughs at something Rowan says, and he whisks her away like it was the easiest thing in the world.

It takes Rhett about five years to work up the courage to ask Maria out. For Rowan, a complete stranger? About five seconds.

He stands there, stunned. His eyes follow them as Rowan gives her a seat by the table. He’s definitely got her charmed by the way she’s all smiles and engaging with him in a conversation. Rhett starts to feel sick as he walks back to the booth, and Perry’s laughing at his expense. His brother probably doesn’t even realize who that was. He’s not going to bother explaining.

There’s a swampy, sour feeling in his gut that the beer can’t wash down. It festers as he watches them talk—Rowan’s hand gesturing, Maria laughing. They’re laughing so damn much , actually, what the hell could Rowan be saying that’s so funny?

There’s certainly worse men that Maria could be talking to—like the Tillersons, seated in their own booths and with their own women—but Rowan ? Does she even know who he used to be?

What gives Rowan the right to come back to Wabang with a brand new identity and charm the people Rhett can’t even bring himself to talk to?

Maybe it’s his Chicago-made city boy charm. Talking to people has always been so easy to Rowan, he’s the more outgoing one between him and Rhett. When they were kids, she spoke to Rhett first, always invited him to hang out after class. On weekends she’d knock on their front door sweating and panting like she rushed all the way there after lunch, asking, “Is Rhett home? Can he come play?”

She was always looking for him, at church, at school. Does Rowan even know he’s here at the bar too? Why didn’t Rowan come up and talk to him instead? Rhett strains his brain to remember last night. Fuck . He must’ve said something last night. He feels like he’s fucked up again.

Jesus. He’s getting way too worked up over this shit. Knowing his childhood friend and high school crush are talking to each other doesn’t sit well with him at all. He’s supposed to be having fun with Perry.

Rhett makes an effort to brighten his look so his brother doesn’t make fun of him even more.

(It’s jealousy. But as with most difficult emotions, Rhett’s not going to call it that.)

After nearly a decade of falling off of bulls, maybe he’s finally gone and lost his damn mind.

A few more beers and two rounds of darts with Perry later, it’s all water under the bridge (which means, hastily buried until it dredges back up again for later). They’ve moved to the bar counter, and Rhett finds himself in a passionate discussion about the Tillersons and the land dispute. He thinks it’s bullshit, but if it’s straight from the county assessor, it’s gotta mean something. 

They’ve had this coming eventually. Their homegrown family-owned ranch could never compare to the Big Ag guys and their peace-disrupting quad bikes and luxury log cabin estate.

“Well, that’s—that’s what I’m saying,” Rhett mumbles, “We can’t compete with those commercial guys. All this old-school stuff Dad keeps—”

“Look, look. The family and the land are always gonna be more important to him than the money. The guy only knows one way.”

“Yeah,” Rhett scoffs, “And that way is gonna cost him his whole ranch. If we’d sold ten years ago…”

His brother laughs and shakes his head. Rhett takes that as a sign to leave it be, because Perry probably thinks he’s being ‘naive’ and ‘idealistic’. He can talk about it all he wants, but there’s no changing their stubborn old father’s mind.

“Hey.”

“Mhm.”

“Promise me something.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t give up on that rodeo stuff.”

He probably won’t. It’s all Rhett’s ever known, it might as well be all he’ll ever be.

“Alright. No, I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep riding bulls if you think about moving on.”

“Moving on?” Perry chuckles, “Moving on from what?”

Rhett nudges him. “Perry, c’mon. From Rebecca.”

Rhett watches the life drain from Perry’s eyes and God damn it, he’s done it again. 

“Shit. Y’know, I’m sorry. I’m drunk,” he rushes out and grimaces, “That was just… that was a stupid thing for me to say.”

Perry shrugs, but there’s tears welling in his eyes already. “...I think I’m at the end of my rope.”

He dips his head low and sobs silently, shoulders quivering. The instant regret and guilt clears up the alcohol-induced haze in Rhett’s head.

“No, listen to me. You’re gonna be okay. Alright? Amy, too. Trust me.” Rhett tries to say something of comfort, but he knows it can’t quell the darkness already brewing within his brother. He just hopes they can forget this conversation ever happened in the morning.

Perry stands to leave and he stumbles. Rhett catches him, steadies him with a hand on the shoulder. “Woah, woah. Y’alright? You need to go outside?”

His brother breathes in sharp through the nose and Rhett pats him on the back. “Alright, go puke. Then come back inside and we’ll… finish our beers.”

His eyes follow Perry, making sure he doesn’t fall on his ass on the way out. Sometimes it feels like he’s the one that has to take care of his brother. 

Rhett resorts to reading the label of his beer bottle because he’s sick of sitting with his own thoughts. He peels and picks at it like he tends to do when bored.

“Two beers, please.”

He turns to see Maria next to him, ordering from the bartender. They make eye contact as she tosses a few bills on the counter.

“You got screwed.”

Rhett blinks. “Sorry?”

“Whoever put you on that bull screwed you over, you’re better than that. Unless you got a lot worse over the last five years.”

“I was surprised to see you there,” he smiles, “What happened to school? I thought you were gonna be a vet, or something.”

“I burned out. That, and…” she shrugs, “I missed home.”

“You missed this place?” He can’t fathom ever missing and returning to a place that’s got barely anything in it. She found a way out, he thought she’d stick by that.

“Well, yeah. I mean… among other things.”

Rhett chuckles softly and his heart is fluttering with nostalgia. He feels like he’s seventeen again and joking around with her by the lockers in between classes.

“So, what about you? You finally got off that ranch?” she asks, grabbing the beers from the bartender.

“Uh, no. No, actually.”

She seems surprised to hear it. “You told me the first thing you were gonna do was escape.”

Rhett just hisses between his teeth and shakes his head. He could name a hundred different reasons to leave, and a hundred different reasons to stay. And staying has always weighed heavier in his scales.

“Well,” she clinks a bottle against his, “At least we can see each other around again.”

He nods toward Rowan at the other side of the bar, sitting alone at the table facing away from them. He pretends not to know him. “Is that for your guy?”

“Rowan?” she smiles, “He’s cute. But no, he’s not my guy.”

Rhett instantly feels some strange relief wash over him.

“Hey, do you want to, um… do you wanna…” he trails off. Through the front door window, he can see Perry and Trevor Tillerson outside having some kind of disagreement. When Trevor shoves Perry back, Rhett immediately goes on high alert.

“Oh, shit. One second.”

He pushes himself off and bursts through the door. “Hey, hey!”

“Fuck you, man!” Trevor yells in response to something Perry said.

Rhett plants himself between them and shoves Trevor back as he tries to reach for his brother. “You touch him again, I’ll put you in the fuckin’ ground!”

“Oh, is that right?” Trevor gets all up in his face, lip curled with the classic arrogance of a Tillerson. “Well, if you fight the same as you ride bulls, I’m pretty sure I’ll come out on top.”

Rhett scoffs and turns away, squeezing his fist. For a split second, he thinks about walking away. Just turning around and dragging Perry inside, letting this go. Being the bigger man.

But this here is Trevor Tillerson—he’s not letting this opportunity go to waste.

He lands a jab that hits Trevor right on the jaw, sharp enough to send him to the ground. There’s a dull pain that sears through Rhett’s bad wrist, but he shrugs it off. The bastard’s back up in a heartbeat and they’re grappling each other like dogs in a fighting pit, dust kicking up beneath their boots.

Trevor’s knee hits Rhett right at home, and the wind is knocked from his lungs.

The front door swings open, and Maria comes out with Rowan right behind her. Rowan slides in between them to break up the fight, placing a hand on Rhett’s chest and pushing him back towards Perry.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on?”

Trevor’s focus turns to Rowan with an immediate recognition, and he guffaws. “Holy shit. This fuckin’ dyke’s back in town?”

Something changes in Rowan’s face. His whole body tightens, jaw flexing, tawny eyes going dark. His expression turns into something wounded and cold.

Rhett knows that look, he’s seen it before on his father when Wayne Tillerson taunts him. On Perry, when the authorities first suspected him after Rebecca’s disappearance. Rhett never thought Rowan would be capable of that kind of rage—he can tell Rowan’s thinking about being the bigger man, too.

None of them can say they’re any better.

Rowan lunges after Trevor before anyone can stop him, slamming the asshole down. They hit the gravel hard, and the sound of Rhett yelling after Rowan is swallowed up by the crunch of the impact and the scuffle that follows.

“Rowan—shit!”

Trevor claws at his shirt and gets a good few punches to the side of Rowan’s head and face. There’s a sickening crack but Rowan gets up like nothing ever happened. Rowan kicks the back of Trevor’s knee and hooks him thrice even as his fists bruise from the contact on bone.

It takes both Rhett and Perry to drag Rowan off. His chest is heaving as they drag him a few feet away, arms pinned, blood trickling from a broken nose that he wears with a smirk. His eyes are still honed in on Trevor down on the ground, curled into himself like a wounded dog.

Rhett doesn’t have time to think. He cups Rowan’s face in his hands and brushes a thumb under his eyelid to check his pupils. He curses under his breath when he sees how blown out they are.

Maria hovers over them, pale. “Oh my God, is he gonna be okay?”

“Head back inside,” he points toward the door, then turns to Perry. “Watch him, alright? I’ll go get the truck.”

Maria heads inside with Rhett as told. Perry holds the bruised Rowan up and cranes his neck to get a better view of the man, now that it’s just them left behind.

“...You’re Rowan Yao?”

“Yeah,” Rowan tilts his head to meet Perry’s gaze and gives him a woozy, lopsided and split-lip grin. The blood from his nose is now dripping down his chin. “Nice to see you again, Perry.”

This is a bizarre way to learn that Rowan Yao is a man now. But he’s definitely gained Perry’s respect.

From a few feet away, Trevor is pushing himself up. He looks just as bad, if not worse than Rowan.

“Son of a bitch,” he groans, “Y’know, I felt for y’all, about my dad going after your land. But now, I don’t give a shit. We’ll take everything you got. Your whole world will fucking disappear, pal. Just like your goddamn wife.”

Rowan lunges again, but is held back by Perry. Trevor flinches ever so slightly. “Eat shit, Tillerson!”

Perry takes the jab about Rebecca with a grimace and swallows his own rage. His concern for the kid outweighs whatever he was crying about a few minutes ago.

“And you,” Trevor spits a wad of blood and phlegm inches from Rowan’s boot, “You can cut your hair and chop your tits off, but you ain’t a real man with no balls. Just a bitch in a button-up.”

“I’ll fuckin’ show you a real man.”

Rowan surges forward again, and this time it’s with vindication. Perry underestimates just how strong Rowan is and the boy slips out of his grasp easily, fist flying toward Trevor before he can stop it. At this point, Perry lets it happen, because a sick part of him wants to see Trevor get his shit kicked in.

He watches Rowan drive his knee to Trevor’s nuts and huffs in amusement as the bastard keels over grabbing his crotch. Rowan straddles Trevor to land a few more hits. By the fourth punch, Perry snaps back to reality.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Rowan doesn’t intend to stop, even as Trevor holds his arms in front of his face to block the punches. They’re both exhausted of stamina, and Rowan’s punches get weaker. Rhett’s truck screeches to a stop in front, his headlights illuminating the dust settling around them. He slams his horn to get them both to quit it.

“That’s enough, Rowan!” Perry hauls the boy off the now-unconscious Trevor. Rowan spits his own wad of blood back, and Perry shoves him in the backseat of the truck and slams the door shut.

They had to make sure Trevor was still alive and breathing before Rhett drove away from the scene. Getting charged with murder, on top of the land issue, won’t serve them any good. Knowing Trevor and his fragile ego, maybe he won’t say a single word to the authorities after getting his ass kicked by a ‘girl’.

Rowan lets out a soft, broken laugh from the backseat. His nose is all crooked and swollen. “Bastard had it coming.”

Perry, seated at the passenger seat, leans in towards Rhett. “You didn’t tell me Rowan’s…” he whispers, nodding toward the bruised man behind them.

“I didn’t think it was important to mention,” Rhett shrugs. But really, he’s saving himself from having to explain something he doesn’t completely understand either.

“You didn’t think she becoming a he was important?”

“There’s more pressing matters here, Perry.”

He glances at Rowan through the rearview mirror, and for a moment he sees past all the bravado and the wince that follows the laugh. His eyes soften with concern. “You good back there, Ro?”

“ Ro ?” Rowan perks up and leans forward, grinning through the blood in his teeth. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

Rhett swallows hard and looks away. The nickname slipped out like an old habit. “I–I mean, it’s your name .”

From out the window, Rowan notices they just drove past the street he lives in. “Hey, wait, you just missed…”

“You’re concussed, kid,” Perry says, “We’re taking you to the hospital.”

His eyes widen and he immediately thinks of his mom at home, hopefully sound asleep thanks to her medication. “ What? That’s two hours away! Take me back—I’m fine!”

“Look at yourself, man! You’re bleeding all over.” It’s clear in Rhett’s tone that he’s not taking no for an answer on this.

Rowan touches his nose and suddenly his whole face is sore. He feels a wetness under his nostrils and he’s made aware of the strong, metallic taste on his tongue. He starts chuckling to himself again, his panic set aside and forgotten. He’s definitely out of it.

The sound makes Rhett’s heart throb in a way that makes him uneasy, then he remembers all at once — “What if we tussled, right now? For old times’ sake.”

Fuck. Now is not the time for this.

“You always act like you’re afraid of me.”

Rhett white-knuckles the steering wheel. He can tell Perry’s watching him carefully from the side.

“God, but that felt good ,” Rowan lets out a sigh and leans his head back on the headrest, then groans. “But what was that thing Trevor mentioned… ‘bout the land? They’re taking your land?”

“They’re takin’ the west pasture.” Perry responds.

Rowan leans in, eyebrows furrowed. “What? That’s fucking crazy. You guys owned that land for years! Why’re they choosing now to… oh, fuck .”

He starts to double over. Rhett looks back and forth at Rowan and the road with panic settling in his gut. “What? What?!”

“I’m gonna—f-fuck…” Rowan dry heaves. Perry looks just about ready to jump out of the truck.

“No! No—Perry, Perry! The fuckin’ glove box!”

Rhett reaches back and pushes Rowan away from the console, but that just means he’s going to throw up behind the driver’s seat. Perry frantically opens the glove compartment and searches through, feeling for anything in the dark that can hold vomit. He feels the crinkle of a gas station plastic bag shoved in there, and just as he turns to hand it to Rowan, it’s too late. He’s already thrown up half his guts all over the floor.

“Motherfucker…” Rhett hisses and rubs a hand on his face, his nose flaring from the stench of bile stinking up his truck.

“Sorry…” Rowan groans in between gags, and thankfully he lets the rest out in the plastic bag.

Rhett sighs. “Just… breathe slowly. And roll the windows down.”

Perry turns to look at his younger brother, and laughs so loud his gut aches. He hasn’t laughed like that in a long while. He claps a hand on Rhett’s shoulder, jostling him a bit. “God, look at us. Like no time’s even passed.”

He rubs at his frown lines with the heel of his palm and forgets, too late, that it’s the bad wrist. A soft hiss slips through his teeth. Then a voice cuts through the noise of the bar, low and amused.

“I don’t remember you ever sulking this much, Rhett.”

Rhett’s jaw clenches. He turns, slow and deliberate. There’s a man next to him leaning against the bar, wearing a black denim jacket over a white tee, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. Dark hair and almond-shaped brown eyes that he doesn’t bother looking at for too long.

Jin Callahan, Rhett deduces hastily in his tipsy state. Holly Callahan and Paul Yao’s boy. They’re the only half-Asian family in Wabang, hard to miss around these parts. Holly, born and raised in the town, attends the same Bible study group as Cecilia. Their family used to come over for dinner, back when Rhett’s mom still did Sunday roasts after church.

Their two kids, Jin, and their youngest daughter, Rowan, were always around. But Rowan moved away with her dad long ago, after Holly and Paul divorced. Rhett remembers them in half-misted childhood memories. It’s a lot easier that way.

At Jin’s remark, he scoffs and rolls his eyes, lifts the bottle to his lips. “Shouldn’t you be sipping wine with your wife in… Italy, or whatever? Your honeymoon got cut short?”

Jin tilts his head and smiles a little. “...Wow. Do I really look that much like him now?”

Rhett furrows his eyebrows at the remark. His eyes sweep over the man again, slower this time. Then his stomach hollows out like the floor just gave way, and all the alcohol drains from his system in an instant.

“Rowan Yao?”

Standing in front of him like it’s nothing.

Rowan, who snorted when she laughed and sat with her legs spread apart like a man, who roughhoused with the other boys without a care. Rowan, who had trouble fitting in with the other girls, and always preferred denim overalls and jeans over the dresses she’s forced to wear on Sundays.

Before Rhett can take it back, he’s already said her name out loud.

…Her? No, that’s not who’s standing in front of Rhett now. That don’t sound right.

Rowan notices the stare, the stalled recognition. With his hands in his pockets, he shrugs, like he’s used to confusing the people around him. “Yeah. Been a while, I know.”

That’s one way to put it.

Rhett’s mouth goes dry; suddenly he feels like he’s thirteen again.

“I–I, uh…” he wants to punch himself. “I thought you were in Chicago.”

“I was. Jin asked me to take care of Mom while he’s out, so… Here I am. Got back here just a few days ago.”

Rowan’s voice is deeper. Her His shoulders are broader. Hair short. Jaw shadowed with stubble. But her his smile’s the same, lopsided and dimpled like Rhett remembers from summer afternoons at the ranch, barefoot and laughing, wrestling in the dry grass until Cecilia called them in for dinner.

He has that same spark in her eyes. Tawny, firelit. Like at any time he’s going to rag on Rhett for something he did or poke all the spots he’s ticklish, just like she used to.

Rhett clears his throat. “Oh, yeah. My mom’s mentioned Holly a few times. Said it’s been getting pretty bad lately? Repeats conversations within the minute, forgets people’s names.”

Rowan nods along. “She thinks I’m Jin most days, or even Dad. I just play along, I mean, I look like this now, after all.” he breathes out through his nose, a hollow and rueful noise as he gestures towards himself. “It’s rough. And that’s just the half of it.”

Rhett looks down at his bottle, thumb scraping the blue label. Holly, like most older women in Wabang, didn’t take shit from anyone. She never let anything slip by her – not at church, not in town. She always brought baked goods and the latest town gossip to the dinner table.

Rhett was always a bit scared of her. He can see exactly where her kids get their strong personalities. But to have a mind like hers unravel so quickly…

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he responds, “Can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like.”

“It’s fine,” Rowan shrugs, “Well, it’s not, but… you get it.”

At one of the corner booths, a group of bull riders let out a burst of laughter. Rhett grimaces at the noise.

Rowan jerks his chin towards the door. “You smoke?”

“Sometimes.”

“Good,” Rowan huffs and pushes off the bar, already moving. “Come back out with me. I can barely hear myself think in here.”

Rhett hesitates. His thumb smooths over the picked out label, then slides off the stool and follows suit.

The air outside is cooler than Rhett expected. Dry. Still. The kind of stillness that makes everything louder: the buzz of the fluorescent light above them on the roof trim, the crunch of gravel beneath their boots, his own pulse, steady and loud in his ears.

It’s a quiet that breaks him open and demands veracity. He’s not sure if he can take it.

Rowan tosses a glance over his shoulder as they step into the parking lot, as if to make sure Rhett hasn’t run off yet. He leans against the log siding of the building and fishes a Marlboro pack from his jacket pocket, thumbs one loose and holds it out for Rhett.

He takes it, lets it hang between his lips, unlit. Rowan lights his own first, cupping the flame from his zippo lighter against the cool breeze. The orange glow softens his face, catches in the edge of his jaw.

Rhett’s trying to turn his gaze away but then Rowan steps closer, just at an arm’s length. It’s close enough that Rhett has to hold his breath as Rowan brings the lighter to the end of his cigarette.

He must not be as casual as he thinks he is, because he can feel Rowan’s inquisitive gaze on him. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite,” he mumbles with a low, husky chuckle. Husky. Something Rhett never thought Rowan’s voice would sound like.

The lighter flicks back to life again. Rhett dips his head and draws in, smoke filling his lungs, hot and biting. Rowan’s eyes are trained on Rhett. He quickly pulls away from the flame before he can cough and make an even bigger fool of himself.

For a while, they smoke in silence, standing side-by-side in the parking lot. Their cigarettes burn slowly between lips, between fingers. Ash falls upon the gravel like snowflakes. Rowan flicks his zippo open and shut in a languid rhythm.

Click-click.

Click-click.

“So, how long are you back for?” Rhett asks.

Rowan shrugs. “However long Jin and Mari are in Europe for. Can’t be more than four weeks.”

Click-click.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he adds.

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Cheyenne, or Casper. Maybe even Texas.”

Rhett chews the inside of his cheek. Smoke spills from his mouth and he can only pray that all his thoughts go out with it. He shrugs and snorts without much humor. “Well, if you saw me out there tonight, you’d know why.”

“No, I saw,” Rowan laughs, “The bull was bucking before the pen even opened. I don’t think it was all on you.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I ate shit in front of half the county.”

“You’ll get ‘em next time, cowboy,” Rowan nudges his shoulder gently against Rhett’s, echoing Perry’s words from earlier. “I’ll cheer for you on the next one.”

Click-click.

Now it’s Rhett’s turn to stare. He watches the curve of Rowan’s throat when he swallows, how he purses his lips with each puff of smoke. The air is still heavy with all the things Rhett has to relearn and unlearn about the brand new man standing next to him.

“You remember when we used to wrestle out back behind your dad’s barn?” Rowan says with a small laugh, “You got mud in my hair and my mom got so mad at you.”

Ah yes, one of the moments that made him terrified of Rowan’s mom for years. The corner of Rhett’s mouth twitches slightly and he hangs his head low as though to conceal it. His smile widens nonetheless. He shakes his head and says, “Oh, my God. You kept overreacting about it, too. Made it so much worse.”

“I was in the hot tub for almost an hour before dinner, and I could hear Cecilia telling you off outside the bathroom.” Rowan continues. The smoke leaves his lips while he laughs.

“And you tackled me first, by the way. Then when I returned the favor I got in trouble.”

“Oh, c’mon, you liked it. You had fun.” And there it is again, that mischievous glint in Rowan’s eyes. The same one he had when they were kids and about to do something stupid.

Rhett rolls his eyes and takes a long drag to keep himself from smiling too hard. It doesn’t help. Something warm creeps up at the back of his neck. He flicks away the ashes on the end of his cigarette.

The lull that follows doesn’t feel as oppressive anymore.

Click-click.

“Everything was just easier back then. I think about it a lot.”

I don’t, Rhett thinks. I try not to.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so the silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable yet again.

Then Rowan shifts in front of him, blocking the breeze. The smoke curls and trails into the air as the cigarette dangles between his lips. He smirks and holds his arms up defensively. He resembles those tough guys in street fight movies. “What if we tussled, right now? For old times’ sake.”

Rhett blinks and stares at Rowan dubiously. That’s the furthest thing from what Rhett wants to do at the moment. “What?”

“What if we tussled right now?” Rowan repeats, “C’mon. You used to pin me every time. Thought you might want your ego back after tonight.” He gives Rhett a series of playful air punches to the chest, making dumb sound effects with each blow.

“I heard you the first time. No, I’m good.”

“Scared you’ll lose?” Rowan teases.

This time, Rhett’s tone is sharper. “I said no, man.”

Rowan doesn’t stop, doesn’t listen. Before Rhett can step aside, he finds himself grabbed by the shirt collar and shoved back against the wall. The log siding hits Rhett’s back with a thud. He braces instinctively, and a dull pain sears through his bad wrist. The cigarette falls from his hand and lands between their boots.

Rowan’s smoke rolls, hot and suffocating between them. Rhett doesn’t dare to breathe it in.

They’re close, too close. Rowan’s hand stays pressed against Rhett’s chest with a surprising amount of strength (yet another new thing Rhett is learning about him), but not firm enough to keep Rhett from breaking free if he wants to.

“You always act like you’re afraid of me.” Rowan grits out. The cigarette on his lips bobs with every word.

He gets a strained whisper in response. “I’m not.”

“Then what is it?”

He doesn’t have an answer. He stands there, unmoving. He swallows thickly and notices Rowan’s eyes trailing at his Adam’s apple.

Eventually, Rowan figures that getting Rhett to admit anything is a futile effort. He sighs and steps back like letting go of a live wire, hands in a placating gesture. He flicks the last of his cigarette away. It arcs through the dark like a meteor and lands with a hiss in the gravel.

Click-click.

He snaps his zippo shut with a metallic finality. Tongue in cheek and biting himself back from saying anything else.

“...I’ll see you around, Rhett.” he tosses one last look over his shoulder and heads for his car.

Rhett doesn’t move, still braced against the wall. He only allows himself to breathe after the headlights sweep the lot and Rowan’s car fades into the distance. A pathetic, shaky sigh.

The weight on his chest lingers after Rowan is gone. He tells himself it’s the drinks. It’s the shitty ride. The wrist. Just a shit night all around.

Whatever makes it all go down easier.