joy follows you

“Mail call,” Bucky calls, dropping a pile of envelopes on the table where they land with a slap, “More kind words from our lovely supporters.”

The team winces. Bucky’s voice is flat, and Bob shares a tired look with Walker, who bumps their knees together, producing a tiny electric shock that makes him shiver. John looks good today, better than usual (didn't know that was possible), like he ran out of time to do his hair.

“Why does he keep doing this to us?” He asks, leaning in close. Bob smiles through his blush, reveling in his nearness.

“Maybe he’s the one writing everything,” Bob whispers back, and John snorts, hiding his laugh in Bob’s wavy hair.

Eventually, morbid curiosity takes over, and he and the others start to rifle through the envelopes.

“This one’s for you, Bobby," Ava says, sliding over a pink envelope with heart stickers all over. “Whatever could it be about?” She winks, and he flushes.

“Do I need to have a talk with Bucky?” John murmurs, voice teasing, and Bob kicks him under the table.

“How come he’s the only one that gets good mail?” Yelena grumbles, rolling her eyes at one of her letters and tearing it in half.

“I think even downstairs mail guys hate us,” Alexei says, “Throw out nice letters!”

Walker is fiddling with the corner of his envelope, brows furrowed, and Bob can see the conflicting ideas dancing around his brain. He hopes he’s successful in beaming his thoughts into John’s mind – don’t open it, don’t open it, don’t open it.

“Open it, open it, open it!” Yelena chants, and Bob slumps down in his chair.

Perhaps not, because John is opening his envelope. Bob signs, ready to toss his unread love letter into the recycling. Does he have to remove the stamp first? Is stamp adhesive recyclable?

There’s a small snapping sound, and then a “what the fuck?”

Bob looks up right as a cascading mist of shimmering gold bursts from the envelope and falls over John’s face. John coughs, waving his hands around to clear the air, but the dust is nearly gone before he can even raise his arms.

“What was that?” Bucky says, out of his seat and prepared to fight air. Alexei backs up in his rolling chair, pointing an accusing finger at John.

“Curse! Curse!” he yells, “I am feeling like it’s curse! Yelena, come!”

Yelena does not come. Alexei gets up, lingering awkwardly in the doorway like he’s debating whether to drag her out. Bob kinda hopes he tries.

“That might be dangerous, we need to–” Yelena tries to say.

“No.”

“Walker, let me–”

“No. Whatever it is, no,” John says, voice cutting, and now Bob’s truly starting to panic because John really should get help, and what if it’s some kind of, like, evil anthrax glitter? Stranger things happening, and all that.

“John,” He pleads, and John’s eyes snap to his.

“I have to go,” John says, and stands, quickly slipping behind the back of his chair. His face is flushed red. Does he have a fever?

“We really should figure out what that shit is,” Bucky says, “these people can be fucking crazy.”

“Isn’t our mail supposed to be checked over? Someone needs to be fired,” Ava interjects.

“Fuck, no, Ava, don’t fucking tell anyone, Jesus, please,” John says, voice still harsh but trembling in a way it hadn’t been a moment ago.

He laughs, but it’s bitter and twisted.

“I know what it is. I’ll be fine. I just– I need to go.”

He all but runs out the door. Bob is scrambling after him as fast as he can, but John’s got a head start, and the last inches of the elevator door are sliding shut when he gets there. Bob can hear his heavy steps pacing back and forth through the metal as it starts to descend.

“What does he mean, he knows what it is?” Ava says from behind. 

“I don’t know, but I know that he’s being stupid,” Bucky says, “he’s too strong to be out there with some unknown something running through his system.”

“I’ll follow him, check on him at home,” Bob volunteers, unable to sit still and wait around while someone else does it.

“I go with, protect from curse,” Alexei says like he’s making a great sacrifice. It’s sweet, in a stupid way.

“No,” Bob says, “he was clearly uncomfortable, I think I should go alone.”

“No,” Ava, Bucky, and Yelena say in unison.

“Absolutely not. Bob, no offense, but you’re just the pretty boy of this whole operation,” Ava says, “We can’t risk your perfect face getting punched in.”

Bob preens.

“That’s… not offensive at all. Thank you, Ava.” Bob says, voice earnest, and Ava scrunches her nose.

“No, it was. It was," she insists, affronted, “it was rude, it was…” she reaches for the right word, “reductive!”

Bucky interrupts with “we’ll all go,” his eyes brightening a bit. “Hey, if we’re lucky, maybe I’ll get to shoot him.”

Bob scrambles over to the elevator, blocking it with his body despite knowing any of them could plow through without a second thought.

“Okay,” Bob pleads, “how about this? We can get to his place in, like, ten minutes. You all wait outside. If I don’t text one of you in fifteen, you can come get me. And no shooting.”

Bucky pouts, but they all agree.

After confirming that his fallout with Olivia was permanent, John had moved into a tiny studio a few blocks over from HQ, though he waxes on about moving into a two-bedroom that he can eventually use for his son’s overnight visits. Bob’s been over to his place a few times, even helped him move in, but he’s never been alone.

“You have five minutes, Robert,” Ava says as they linger at the building’s entrance.

“Then we shoot!”

“Alexei, no.”

Bob bounds up three flights of stairs to John’s floor, bolting down the hall until he reaches 315. He knocks politely once. He knocks rudely twice. Nothing. He tries the knob, and is surprised to see it’s unlocked. Memories of Walker immediately losing his security deposit by drilling and attaching three extra locks to his door float through Bob’s mind. Something’s very wrong.

“Walker, I’m coming in,” he says. “Please don’t kill me, okay?”

He doesn’t hear any response at first. John isn’t in the bedroom, kitchen, or living room – trust him, he looked everywhere. It took him three entire seconds.

“John,” He says, seriously freaking out. Bob pounds on the bathroom door, praying that’s where he’s ended up. When he tries the lock and is unsuccessful, he presses his ear against the door and swears he hears soft, pained cries.

Without thinking, he kicks the door clean open, loosening the hinges as it hits the wall with a crack. This time, he definitely hears a whimper.

“John? Walker!” Bob yelps as he takes in the sight before him. John is fully clothed in his empty bathtub, red down to his collar, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead and sliding down the exposed column of his neck.

John mumbles something Bob thinks is supposed to be “that’s me” but sounds more like “thashed smee”.

He looks wrecked, eyes hooded and filled with unshed tears. Most surprising, though, is the wet spot on the front of his pants, the stain turning dark grey to pitch black. John’s cock is so pronounced that Bob swears to god he sees it twitch through his cum-soaked pants.

Bob is frozen in shock for a moment, eyes trailing over John’s writhing body, sweaty blond hair plastered to his forehead and curling around his ears. He shakes himself a bit, willing his cock to behave. John cries out again, a sound Bob recognizes as pained, and suddenly he feels overwhelmed with rage.

“John?” He asks, dropping down next to the tub, his knees hitting painfully against the tile, “John, what did that letter say?” He tries to keep his voice gentle, but it’s difficult. 

John shakes his head, trying to scoot himself into the corner, a few stray tears rolling down his cheeks. Bob raises his hands in a placating gesture, scared he’s made John more uncomfortable than he already was.

“Am I– do you need me to leave?” He asks, and John nods vigorously but can’t seem to manage any words. Bob has never seen him look smaller or more afraid, and he want to track down whoever wrote that letter and rip out their throat. 

“Okay,” Bob says, reluctant to leave John alone (though he’s already decided he’ll wait out front until he’s sure John is safe), but he goes to stand up anyway. Then John whines, loud and desperate, reaching out to grab at Bob’s calf, hand scrambling at his denim. Talk about mixed signals.

“Do you… want me to leave?” Bob asks, quieter. John squeezes his eyes shut with a whine, thrusting his hips minutely against thin air, nails digging into Bob’s calf muscle. Bob is half-hard by now, and he adjusts his baggy button-down as best he can.

“Are you in pain?” His heart aches when John nods, head cast down in shame. John opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled moan.

“Is it your– do you need to touch yourself?” Bob asks as gently as he can, scared to reach out but desperate to do so anyway. He puts a hand on his forehead and finds he’s burning hot. John jerks his hips and moans, the sound echoing filthily in the quiet room.

“Stop–!” John spits out and pulls himself away from Bob’s touch; Bob draws back immediately, but he looks down and sees that John’s erection is twitching again, the wet spot growing the slightest bit.

“Okay,” Bob says, mostly to himself, “Okay, we’ll figure this out, just give me, like, 10 seconds.” 

He pulls out his phone and texts Lena, his most recent contact.

all good safe update soon

Then he tosses it to the side carelessly, trying to catch John’s eyes.

“Johnny?” He asks, tentatively brushing a hand through his damp hair. John squirms into the touch, and Bob notices he’s sitting on his hands.

“Johnny, it’s okay. It’s just me. You can, if you need to. You should,” he continues, and John’s face crumbles.

“It won’t work,” he cries, a frustrated tear slipping down his face, “I tried, I tried, it doesn’t work,” he reaches down to palm himself anyway, coaxing aggravated little moans from his own lips.

“What did the note say, John?” Bob asks, voice as firm and steady as he can manage. He can’t stand this, watching John suffer. Whoever did this had no goddamn right, no right to John’s body. Nobody did. 

John gestures to the countertop, where the folded note lies by the sink. Bob gets up to grab it, unfolding it with shaking hands.

You are a coward and a criminal. You were an affront to the shield from the start, and you’re no hero. So much innocent blood on your hands, and look at how you’re praised for it.

Get fucked, asshole, if you can even manage to find a willing hole, or you’ll be in for a long night. 

Bob makes a frustrated noise, anger propelling him to rip the note in half again and again and again, pieces scattering to the ground.

“What the fuck, Walker, why didn’t you say something?” He asks, and John looks at him like he’s clueless.

“I can deal,” He says, but he says it through gritted teeth, so Bob calls bullshit.

“John, no. We have no idea what this is going to be like in a few hours, and no idea how long it will last. I can’t let you do this,” he says, trying to sound even the slightest bit sure of himself, “There has to be someone I can call.”

John, once again beyond words, makes a distressed sound.

“Please, John. I just want you to feel good,” he says, and John shudders, “let me call someone to help you.”

“Bobby,” John says, and Bob meets his eyes. John looks so strained, absolutely wrecked with need, and Bob is scared to interpret the look in his eyes.

“Yeah?” Bob says, heart thrumming in his throat. 

“I want it to be you,” John whimpers, and Bob doesn’t fucking know what to do. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this horny in his life, but he’s also fucking scared. Most of all, he refuses to do something John will regret. Because he loves John, and he’s long since decided that he’ll protect him as best as he can, despite all the strength John has and Bob lacks.

And truthfully, Bob thinks it would kill him to have John once and then never again. Especially like this.

“John,” is all he manages, anxious to say something but clueless as to what. John reaches out with a desperate hand.

“Please, please, please," John babbles like a dam has been opened, “nobody else, I wouldn’t want it to be anybody else–”

Bob doesn’t want it to be anybody else, either, but he cannot be the best option. God, is John even into men, or is this just the influence of that magic fucking fairy dust? Is it just his body that John is after?

“I can’t,” he says, and it can’t possibly be the hardest thing he’s ever done, but it sure feels like it. John is still crying, his face scrunched up as he digs the heel of his palm harshly into his crotch.

“Please, Bobby, I want you so badly,” John moans, “fuck, no, I’m sorry, you have to leave, I’m sorry, I’m trying to stop–”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bob says, crouching back down to his level, “it’s not– I'm not, like, grossed out by you. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

John’s shoulders relax slightly, but he still looks miserable.

“You would just regret it, Johnny,” Bob explains, determined to make him understand, “I can’t do that to you.”

“Not to me, Bobby, not to me, with me,” John corrects, “want you, always want you.”

And, huh.

That can’t be right.

“You’re just saying that,” Bob mutters, trying not to be hurt over the false admission.

“No,” John grits out, grabbing at a piece of fabric that Bob hadn’t noticed draped half across his chest. Bob helps him pull it out from where it’s slid down, and that’s when he realizes.

When Bob helped John move in, he soaked his shirt with sweat, lugging boxes up and down the stairs. He had been complaining about how disgusting he felt and how unfair it was to be helping a literal super soldier move his shit when a clean t-shirt smacked him in the face with surprising force. 

It was well-worn, from John’s University of Georgia days, and hung loosely around his thighs. Bob still has it today, and wears it to bed more often than not, though he’d never admit it.

This shirt, though. This is the shirt Bob had been wearing. Bob’s mouth goes dry, and he takes a moment to recontextualize every interaction they’ve ever had.

John smirks, just barely, like he knows he’s got him. Then, he takes the shirt in his hand and brings it down to his crotch, grinding up against the bunched fabric. Bob’s cock jumps in his jeans, and he releases a punched-out breath.

“Walker, are you–”

John whines, “god, Bob, just take the fucking hint,” and that’s enough. Bob takes a second to process that this is real, this is happening. 

“Okay, alright,” Bob croons, “I’ve got you, angel, I’ve got you,” Bob says, holding out a hand, “we’ve got to get you in a bed.”

John whimpers when he takes Bob’s hand. Bob pulls, and it’s a struggle to get him to his feet. Then, once John is up, he immediately starts trying to rock his hips up against Bob’s side.

“Wait, baby,” Bob whispers, leading him out of the bathroom and over to the bed, “let me do this right, as much as I can.”

John pouts a little, but he nods. They stand facing each other at the foot of the bed; John’s spine is slightly curved, and he’s panting a little, reaching to grab Bob’s hands.

“It helps,” he says, “when we’re touching. When you aren’t, I can’t fucking talk, can’t think. It helps, but it’s still not enough.”

Bob grabs John’s hips, steadying him, and tucks his body against the taller man, straightening his posture and pulling their hips flush together.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m going to take care of you.”

John smiles in pure relief, and then Bob is swallowing John’s moan in a fierce kiss, their first kiss, dragging his teeth over John’s blood-red bottom lip.

John kisses back with sloppy fervor, dragging his lips wherever he can and letting Bob lick into his warm mouth. John is back to grinding against him, the pressure too good, too fast. Bob pushes him gently to the bed, and John drops obediently, falling back against the sheets.

“Use me,” John begs, “you can fuck me hard, Bob, I don’t need much prepping.”

That is a lot for a guy like Bob to process right now.

“I want to see you,” Bob says, and they work in tandem to get Walker’s gear off, tugging and yanking until they’re down to his pants. Bob positions himself over John, kissing him again, softer this time.

“I’ll make you feel good, John, I promise,” he murmurs against his lips. John lets out a little groan. Bob kisses down his flushed chest, mouth ghosting over his defined torso and biting at hip bones before soothing the skin with his tongue. John makes the most beautiful little sounds, writhing and mewling above Bob’s head.

Bob can’t fucking wait anymore, his mouth dropping to lick and suck at the wet spot on Walker’s pants. John gasps, grasping at Bob’s hair for purchase.

“Jesus f-fuck,” John stutters out, “Fuck, Bob.”

Bob’s breath hitches, and he scrambles to unbutton John’s pants, dragging his pants and underwear down to his knees without preamble.

“Sorry,” Bob says, blushing harder than he already was, “sorry, I should have asked.”

Even still, he can’t drag his eyes away from Walker’s cock, long and thick and dripping, precome wetting the head and sliding down his length.

“Don’t apologize,” John says, and he’s just looking at Bob, “I want this, all of this.”

“But not like–”

John pulls Bob up and kisses him hard.

“Yes, like this,” He says, serious yet pleading, “this is perfect, because you’re perfect.” Another kiss, then another.

Bob drops back down because he needs to taste John right fucking now. He flicks his tongue up, just once, and John fucking loses it.

He wails, seizing against the mattress as he cums, spend landing all over his chest. Bob’s on him in a second, licking over his chest and nipples, lapping up as much of Walker as he can, salty warmth clinging to his tongue. John moans wantonly, and Bob can feel that he’s still rock-hard beneath him.

"Holy shit, John," Bob says, wiping his mouth with a satifisied smile, "is that the serum, or the letter?"

John wriggles underneath him. "I think it's you," he murmurs, and Bob's breath hitches despite the obvious lie.

Bob brings a hand up to caress his face, but John pulls two of Bob’s fingers into his mouth with a moan instead, sucking on them for a moment before Bob slides them back out with a satisfied sigh.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and John shudders, a pleased sound escaping him, “so open for me."

They kiss again, John whimpering at the taste of himself on Bob’s tongue.

Bob, already addicted, turns his attention back to John’s cock, kitten–licking up his shaft and taking his head in his mouth. He works to take as much of John as he can, moaning around him when the head of his dick hits the back of Bob’s throat with a filthy gurgle.

After a minute, Bob pulls off and pushes at his partner’s calves, spreading John's legs far enough apart to slot himself between.

Bob takes in the sight, John on full display, just for him to see.

“You look like a fucking slut,” Bob says, wide-eyed and earnest, before cringing, “sorry–”, but John is nodding, eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Yeah, Bobby,” he moans as Bob runs his fingers over the soft skin near his hole, which flutters prettily, “your fucking slut, all yours.”

Bob rocks his hips against the mattress, “don’t move,” he says firmly, “but where’s your lube?”

“Uh, I think the second drawer,” John says, looking absolutely out of it with lust. Bob doesn’t think he’s ever moved faster, digging though John’s nightstand and finding lube and a– Jesus Christ, a fucking dildo, he’ll be thinking about that later, but no condoms.

“Bobby, hurry,” John cries, already feeling the withdrawal.

Bob leaps back onto the bed with a goofy grin, squirting some of the lube onto his fingers, letting it warm before brushing his thumb against John’s hole. John must not have been expecting it, because he has to grab at the sheets to keep his squirming in check. 

“Fuck, Bobby, please put your fingers in me,” John begs, and who is Bob to deny a man in crisis?

He starts with two fingers because he can tell John needs it soon, but he goes slow, making sure John stays as comfortable as his moans indicate he is.

“Just do it,” John grunts, trying to thrust up to meet Bob’s fingers.

“Okay, okay,” Bob teases, pushing in with a wet sound, reveling in John’s ministrations.

He works his fingers in and out a few times, fingers scissoring gently before pulling back out, trying to work him apart as quickly as possible.

“Fuck, go to three,” John says, “I swear I’m ready.”

Bob complies with a soft smile, inserting three fingers and dropping down to mouth at the base of John’s cock as he coaxes his hole open. He hears it when he finds John’s prostate, the high-pitched sound from above encouraging him to tease the spot over and over.

“So tight, Johnny, fuck,” Bob manages, so out of his mind horny that he’s practically humping the mattress, “you are so gorgeous, all spread out and desperate for me. Are you ready for my cock, baby?”

“Fuck yes,” John says without hesitation, “Bobby I’m so ready, I’m ready, let me see your pretty cock.”

As Bob stands to take off his jeans, he says, “I saw you don’t, uh, have any condoms.”

“Haven't needed any, lately,” John says, resting his legs, “too busy fucking my fist. Thinking about you.”

Bob chokes on air. 

“Oh. Cool. Um, well, I’m clean, if you can believe it. Especially after that guy in–”

John makes a dark sound in the back of his throat, “shut the fuck up, and fuck me raw.”

Bob swallows and pulls down his pants. His cock is shorter than Walker’s, but he’s drooling over Bob like he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” John whispers as he sits to help Bob unbutton his shirt.

“You’re a wizard,” Bob whispers gleefully, and John furrows his brow but then Bob’s naked and kissing him and all John can hear is the sound of their breathing and the wet slick of Bob lubing up his cock.

When Bob presses his tip in, John cums again, squirming wildly with his jaw clenched. He cries out Bob’s name, and Bob closes his eyes and begs his dick not to fail him now; when he opens them, cum is still leaking out of John’s cock.

“Mhm, fuck me, Bobby, please,” John cries.

“Look at you,” Bob says, amazed, “and you aren’t even done yet. You have no idea how pretty you are, John, you’re such a pretty boy,” he blushes even as he says the words, even as he pushes back into John.

“Yes, fuck,” John moans as Bob eases his way in, pinning John’s legs back and biting his lip in concentration.

“You’re doing alright, right?” Bob asks, and John squeezes around his cock.

“Yes, Bobby, go faster,” he replies, “you feel so good, your cock is so perfect.”

“You’re perfect, John, and I’m the one that gets to take care of you,” Bob says, speeding up his thrusts and leaning between John’s bent legs to kiss him, swallowing his sweet moans. “Is it okay if I say that I’m close?”

John huffs out a laugh, “Bob, I’ve cum twice already. I think your timing is perfect.”

Bob's giggle turns into a moan as his thrusts grow sloppy, “fuck, Walker, you feel so good, I’m so close.”

“Cum inside me,” John babbles, eliciting a stuttering thrust from Bob, “Fill me up, baby, I’m yours, if you make me yours.”

“I will, I’m– fuck. Fuck .”

John scratches harshly at Bob’s back with one hand and pulls at his hair with the other, but Bob can feel him holding back his strength for Bob, keeping it just painful enough. Bob leans up to kiss him again.

“Holy fucking shit yes, right there, I fucking love you–” John sobs, clamping down on his cock, and Bob cums so hard that his vision fades, trembling at the sensation of filling John with his release. He’s shaking so hard that he has to drop his head down and bite John’s shoulder to steady himself.

And that’s what does John in. He cries out Bob’s name when he cums, squirming as Bob murmurs encouragements in his ear. His hands scramble to pull Bob into a kiss; Bob feels John soften under him, finally able to fully relax, and he smiles.

“Do you feel better?” Bob asks, pulling out softly, the sound nearly enough to get him hard again. John smiles back, lazy and content, then stiffens a bit.

“Yeah, um, are you leaving?” He asks, and Bob hears the soft tremble in his words. 

“That depends,” Bob starts, and John flinches a bit, but he continues, “John, you said you love me.”

John clears his throat, but his voice still sounds rough when he says, “Yeah.”

He almost stops himself from finishing his thought. Bob knows he should remain ignorant and stay with John tonight, even if it’s all he’ll ever get. But he can’t.

“I assume, uh, it was just the, uh, sex-anthrax, making you say that.”

John looks at him for seven seconds (Bob counts), then says,

“Look,”

Bob prays for the first time since he was twelve.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool– Bob, it was the exact opposite of cool, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

Bob curses god for the first time since, like, an hour ago. John’s shaking, eyes flitting anywhere else. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“It was terrible timing, but I meant it. I know it’s probably weird to hear, and I wish it hadn’t happened this way, but I love you,” a pause, “In a homo way, to clarify.”

Oh no, Bob’s going to hell!

Worth it, though, for this moment. John’s so brave, in a way Bob will never be. Would Bob have ever admitted it on his own accord, without John saying it first? Or would he have doomed himself to watch John get over him, date other people, get remarried, have more children?

He’s glad he doesn’t have to find out.

“John" Bob says, reverent, and kisses John softly on the forehead. "First, never say homo again.”  John has the decency to look chagrined.

"Second," he takes a deep breath, "I’m in love with you, Johnny. I love you a lot .”

John's eyes widen, then narrow, turning to look at Bob, his expression guarded and cautious. “Bullshit.”

“What do you mean?” Bob cries, affronted, and sits up with a start, draping a sheet over himself. John joins him, knocking their shoulders together.

“Bob, come on. I’ve been flirting with you for weeks. So many weeks that I should’ve said months, ” John says, voice fond, “Where have you been?”

“Oh,” Bob says, breathless, “I’ve been right here.”

_____________

After Bob has taken his time showing John how much he loves him (with his tongue) and John has returned the favor by absolutely devouring Bob’s dick, they amble over to the bathroom to clean up.

Before they shower, Bob retrieves his phone and is surprised to see about 17 missed phone calls from various sources. He calls Yelena back, if only because she’s the one least likely to kill him. 

“Bob?”

“Yes?”

“Oh, okay, he’s fine, guys,” she says away from the speaker, “We have been so bored. You cursed?”

Bob smiles and says “no curse,” and she relays that information as well. It's followed by a sarcastic cheer from the team and an “I’m going home” from Bucky.

“Why is this my fault? I texted!” Bob argues.

“What, so you think we just abandoned you, watch Housewives? No. We said we would give you 30 more minutes. Then watch Housewives.”

“You’re all saints, truly.”

“You promise it’s all okay?” She asks, but Bob is sure she’s already walking down the street.

“Yeah, promise,” Bob says, “Honestly, we should send that guy a gift basket. Except that’s a joke, because we actually should probably arrest him. But also, I think I destroyed the evidence. Point is–”

John snatches the phone from Bob, spits “Fuck off, commie”, and hangs up.

“Come on, baby," he says, wrapping Bob up in his arms, “we gotta shower.”

“If you insist, but first,” Bob bends to pick up the pieces of the letter, then tosses them into the trash, “you know that what they wrote about you isn’t true, right?” 

The bathroom is quiet for a long moment.

"John?" He asks again.

“Honestly, sometimes I don’t know what’s true,” John answers, and Bob takes his hands.

“I do. You know I get these, like, fluff pieces for letters, love confessions from total strangers. But do you know why?”

“Because you’re gorgeous?”

“Maybe so. But mostly because I'm not in the public eye like you are. I don’t do anything to make people feel anything. You’re the one out there in the field, making the tough decisions, and they’ll never fully understand that side of it. Of course, some people are going to make false judgments. But I know the truth,” he kisses him, “And I’m not the only one.”

“Thank you,” John says, “Though I disagree with your assessment of yourself, and we’ll 100% be talking about that later. Now, shower?”

They shower, and when the sheets have been changed and they’re tucked up against each other in John’s bed, Bob says:

“Can we make a pact?”

“Yeah, anything,” John says immediately, and then flushes a little at his eagerness. Bob smiles fondly and kisses him on the side of the mouth.

“No more mail. I don’t like mail,” Bob says, face grave. John laughs, hard and surprised, but holds his pinkie out without hesitation.

“Okay, but you can’t deny we got one pretty great thing out of it,” he argues, and Bob shoots him a scolding look.

“Promise me, Johnny,” He implores, and John nods.

“Fuck mail, Bobby. Fuck mail.”

Geralt is always asleep by 11:30 pm. Always. Even when he’s drowning in essays and readings and presentations, he opts to get up before the sun rather than stay up late. On the weekends, he even shuts off his phone before falling asleep so as to dodge any drunken late-night from his brothers. Geralt won’t disrupt this circadian rhythm for anyone or anything.

Inexplicably, it is 12:03 am, and Geralt is sitting cross-legged on his thin, squeaky, college-issued mattress, staring at his bedroom door.

Beyond this, his bed is still impeccably made, with his olive green comforter neatly spread out and tucked in at the edges and his white pillows arranged just so. The room is well heated by the radiator under his large window overlooking the other university apartments as well as the community garden Geralt volunteers at when he has a free Saturday, and yet Geralt is bundled up in thick sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, and two pairs of socks. Hanging on a hook by his door is a black winter coat and directly underneath lay a pair of equally black boots, already unlaced and awaiting new wear. You could hear the metaphorical clock tick, Geralt’s stillness making it all the easier.

He’s off the bed and crossing over to the door before Jaskier can knock twice.

“Yeah?” He asks as he swung open the door, revealing his roommate, donning a navy blue baseball cap and wearing his cased acoustic guitar like a backpack. Jaskier’s pajama shorts were so short they were completely concealed by his oversized white Budweiser t-shirt. Geralt tries not to focus too hard on his toned thighs and thick leg hair and instead pulls his gaze up to Jaskier’s blue-gray eyes, which was perhaps more dangerous. Jaskier is smiling, and the skin around his eyes crinkled kindly.

“Come smoke?” He asks, waving an old box around that had once held his fancy peppermint tea and now clattered with the sound of Jaskier’s joints and lighter.

Geralt just looks at him for a moment, pretending to consider, before nodding with a grunt and pulling on his boots. He pulls his coat off the hook and hesitates before shoving it a little too roughly in Jaskier’s chest.

“You’ll freeze,” he mumbles before maneuvering past him and into the living area of their shared apartment.

“So chivalrous,” Jaskier says from behind him, and Geralt can hear the cheeky smile in his words.

Geralt allows Jaskier to exit the apartment first so he can lock the door behind them, and Jaskier nearly skips over to the ladder at the end of the corridor.

“Is it still unlocked?” Geralt questions as he takes his time walking over.

“Yes, thank the merciful gods.”

Geralt allows himself to admire the deft way Jaskier scales the ladder and swings open the hatch leading to the roof despite the clunky guitar strapped to his back. Despite how often he seems to trip over air and spill coffee down his shirt, Jaskier has a grace about him that Geralt, all bumbling and large, envies.

He follows behind him, feeling the late November air paint his cheeks red. Jaskier has already settled into the old beach chairs they had dragged up there last month, looking unfairly gorgeous wrapped up in Geralt’s coat.

“Won’t you join me?” Jaskier asks, breaking Geralt out of the trance he hadn’t realized he was in. He flushes from more than just the cold and sits in the chair opposite Jaskier.

“Ladies first,” He says, handing Geralt a joint. Geralt takes it and reaches for the lighter, but Jaskier pushes his hand away.

“Allow me, darling.”

Geralt grumbles but places the joint in his mouth and leans forward a bit to give Jaskier access. Jaskier smiles and lights the joint. Geralt breathes in slowly and holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment, careful not to do something embarrassing like cough. He takes another puff before passing it over. Jaskier wraps his lips around the joint like a kiss, and his jawline sharpens just so as he pulls the smoke in.

“So,” Jaskier says as he breathes out, “tell me about your day.”

Nights like this have become routine. It’s nice to be able to have these conversations with Jaskier, conversations that somehow feel more private than if they were talking in their kitchen. Geralt has never been good with words, but the weed loosens him up enough to allow him to speak freely.

“Had class.”

Well, more freely than usual.

“Your Viking course, right?” Jaskier says, and it warms Geralt's chest. He nods and takes the joint back, taking a longer hit this time. His tolerance is low, lower than Jaskier, and his head starts to feel a bit fuzzy.

“We had an exam.”

“I suspect you did well.” Another hit.

“Maybe. There were a few questions I wasn’t sure about.”

“Well, I haven’t known you to ever do poorly on an exam. Me, on the other hand–”

“You’re smart, Jas.” Another hit.

“Maybe I’m not. I’m not book-smart like you. I love my music courses, but if I fail chem again it goes on my transcript. I’m not like everyone else here.”

“I’ll help you study.” Another hit.

Jaskier gives him a funny look that Geralt can’t quite decipher when his mind is clouded like this. Jaskier shakes his head and the look is gone.

“You don’t have to. I’ll probably just frustrate you when I don’t understand it.”

Geralt makes a pained sound deep in his chest.

“You don’t-” Geralt takes a big puff of the joint, “you don’t frustrate me, Jaskier. It’s not your fault you don’t understand it yet. I see how hard you try. I, I want to help. If you want me to.”

Jaskier smiles that smile that makes Geralt's knees weak.

“Well then I may just have to take you up on that. Enough of my whining. What else did you do today?”

Geralt wants to tell Jaskier he wasn’t whining. That he can share anything with Geralt. That Geralt just wants him to be happy.

Instead, he says, “I got lunch with Yen. She got that internship she wanted. At that newspaper.”

“Good. She deserves it, much as I loathe to admit that.” Geralt stifles a smile.

“You must be high if you’re praising Yennefer.”

“I must be.”

Jaskier begins to prattle on about how annoying Valdo Marx is in his voice class. Geralt listens contentedly, watching Jaskier’s hands fly about wildly as he speaks. Geralt’s eyelids feel heavy. He thinks about how it would feel to hold Jaskier’s hand, to feel his palm pressed against his, to entwine his calloused fingers with Jaskier’s nimble ones.

“Geralt, are you even listening to me?” Jaskier asks.

“Hm? Yes.”

“What was the last thing I said?”

“Probably something about Valdo being a talentless asshole with whatever the opposite of perfect pitch is.”

Jaskier looks at him for a second, then bursts into giggles. Geralt isn’t sure what’s so funny, but he hears himself laughing as well, his shoulders shaking. They carry on for a moment, laughing at nothing. Geralt is still calming himself down when he realizes Jaskier isn’t laughing anymore. He’s looking at Geralt with an expression of wonder, eyes red and full of mirth.

“You have a beautiful laugh.” Jaskier blurts out before snapping his mouth shut.

“Sorry,” he continues, “I just never hear you laugh except for when we smoke. Which I try not to take too personally because people tell me I’m quite funny. But, yeah. You should laugh more often.”

“Hm.” Is all Geralt says, not sure how else to respond. He can’t remember anyone ever thinking something about him was beautiful.

“And he’s back,” Jaskier says, sounding disappointed. Geralt didn’t want to disappoint Jaskier, ever.

“Have you written any new songs?”

Now it was Jaskier’s turn to be surprised. He raises his eyebrows before grinning.

“Well, I never! Is Geralt expressing an interest in my music?” Jaskier asks an invisible audience, gesturing to the air.

“I take it back, I don’t want to know.”

“Far too late for that, I’m afraid. I have been working on a little something. Not for class, just for me. It’s not even close to finished, though.”

“Play it for me,” Geralt hears himself saying without remembering when he gave his brain permission to even formulate the sentence. Jaskier cocks his head to the side, passing the joint over to Geralt to finish it off. Geralt does and stomps it out with his boot.

“Really?”

Geralt swallows and nods.

“If you’d like.”

Jaskier doesn’t need to be asked twice. He reaches down to fish his guitar out of the case, taking a second to tune it.

“Um, so, this one is a little personal, I guess. And I only have the first bit written.” Jaskier seems nervous, which he never has been about playing his songs in the past.

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. If you’re uncomfortable, I mean.” Geralt stammers out, ever so graceful with his words. Jaskier just sends him a soft smile.

“I want to.”

Geralt closes his eyes as Jaskier strums the first few cords, a sweet and gentle melody. His voice is soft as he begins to sing.

It’s hard not to call this place home,

when you’re the only family I’ve known.

And an evening with you is like a sycamore tree,

solid and firm like a guarantee.

Can a person be good for your health?

The luckiest card I’ve been dealt.

I’ve never thought fate to be true,

till you showed up for me, right on cue.

Overshadowed, overwrought, I’ve been angry, I’ve been caught,

You’ve been patient, you’ve been pure, all my failings you’ve endured.

And I can’t ask for more but I will,

I will stick to you until you tire from the thrill

of being the muse at the end of my quill.

Geralt quickly wipes his hand across his eyes. He doesn’t know when or why his eyes prickled with tears, but he got rid of the evidence before Jaskier could look up from his guitar. He doesn’t cry, goddammit. He could blame his red eyes on the high.

Jaskier looked up shyly, a nervous smile on his lips.

“So, um, that’s all I have right now.”

Geralt nods jerkily and sits up a bit in his chair. The song had been so full of longing and tenderness that he didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t want to mess this up.

“It was. It was good.”

Jaskier deflates a bit and goes to put his guitar back in its case. Fuck. Geralt was messing this up.

“Jaskier,” he rasps, clearing his throat and awkwardly placing a hand on Jaskier’s knee, “that was beautiful.”

Jaskier perks back up a bit, that shy smile returning.

“Yeah?”

Geralt takes a deep breath.

“Yes. But, you have to know. You have to know. You don’t have failings, Jaskier,” he grunts out, desperately searching for the right words, “you are worthy of the family you choose, and you’re worthy of love, and I’m sorry if this– this person makes you doubt that. But I don’t think it’s the person, really. I think you doubt yourself. You don’t see the good in yourself, sometimes. But everyone else does. People stick around because they see the good. I stick around because I see the good. I think that anyone would be lucky to, to be your muse. I hope the person you’re singing about knows that.”

Geralt doesn’t know where his confidence comes from, but he knows every word he’s saying is the truth. He removes his hand from Jaskier’s knee. Jaskier shrugs a bit, sinking into his chair. He pulls out another joint and lights it, taking a draw before passing it.

“Thank you,” is all he says, looking at Geralt with that same funny look from earlier.

They just sit there for a moment, passing the joint back and forth in silence. Geralt finds himself wondering who Jaskier’s muse is. There was a moment while he was singing that he might have meant Geralt, might have considered Geralt his family. But Geralt is no muse.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, eyelids heavy and unfocused. Geralt hums.

“Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Where did that come from?

“Yes.”

Where did that come from?

“Oh, okay.”

A beat, then Jaskier continues,

“I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”

Geralt looks at him, distrustful and shocked. Jaskier is looking right at him, his gaze inviting no arguments.

“Why?”

Jaskier has the nerve to giggle.

“Why do I think you’re beautiful?” He asks. Geralt nods. Jaskier’s expression softens.

“Darling,” he says, “I just call it like I see it.”

Jaskier stands, quite abruptly, clumsily. It’s charming. He paces back and forth in front of the chairs and moves to stand a foot away from Geralt. He looks down on him. Geralt feels small.

“Can I show you how beautiful you are?” He asks. Geralt's throat is dry. He doesn’t know what’s happening. But he’s never been able to refuse Jaskier.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless. Jaskier smiles softly before lowering himself into Geralt’s lap. The warmth is welcome, and Geralt’s hands automatically wrap around to rest on Jaskier’s lower back. Jaskiers bare thighs hug his perfectly.

Jaskier presses his forehead against Geralt. Geralt’s eyes flutter shut as Jaskier brings his hands up to caress his cheeks, rubbing his thumbs over Geralt’s stubble.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier whispers.

And then he’s kissing him.

The kiss is soft, barely a graze of the lips. He’s asking a question, Geralt realizes.

Geralt answers.

As Geralt nips at Jaskier’s bottom lip and starts kissing him for real, he thinks of destiny. He never much believed in it, never really gave it a second thought.

But this? This feels like it was meant to be.

Jaskier gives a quick flick of the tongue, and Geralt grunts and opens up to him. He slips his hands around to hold Jaskier’s waist, under the jacket, stroking Jaskier’s sides softly through the fabric of the t-shirt. Jaskier whimpers into Geralt’s mouth, then pulls away– not far, just enough that Geralt feels Jaskier’s breath on his face as he laughs lightly.

“You touch me like you actually like me, Geralt.”

Jaskier leans in to kiss Geralt again, but Geralt has gone stiff, hands dropping from Jaskier’s waist as if Jaskier had actually said “I have to be honest, there is a bomb strapped to my chest.”

Jaskier cocks his head.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says. He won’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, head hung and voice weak.

“What for?”

Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it again. Opens. Closes.

“Talk to me, Geralt. Do you want me to get off?”

“No. I’m sorry for touching you. I didn’t mean to, I just–”

Jaskier interrupts Geralt, shaking his head profusely.

“What? No, Geralt, I’m sorry. I was only teasing.”

“What does that mean, then?”

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to pause, speechless for once.

“I just meant… that I know this doesn’t mean as much to you. As it does to me.” He says, finally, looking horribly resigned. Geralt’s heart aches.

“What does it mean? To you?”

“Are you being serious?”

“Yes.”

“Geralt. Geralt, the song was about you. Obviously.”

Geralt freezes, thinking of the song again. Home. Family. Patient. Pure. Muse.

He was all of that to Jaskier?

“Geralt, you must have known.” Jaskier breathes, highly aware that he’s confessing his love to Geralt in his lap.

“I didn’t. I still don’t– I don’t understand. Me?”

Jaskier shakes his head fondly, taking a strand of Geralt’s hair and twirling it in his fingers.

“Of course it’s you. You mean everything to me, Geralt, are you kidding?”

Geralt surges forward to kiss him again, and Jaskier makes a noise of surprise in the back of his throat. Jaskier guides Geralt’s hands back to his waist before threading his hands in Geralt’s hair and tugging gently. The noise Geralt made was obscene.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought of doing that?” Jaskier confesses between kissing, giggling as Geralt starts kissing down his throat.

“Me too,” Geralt mumbles as he nipped at a sensitive spot on Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier moans breathily. Geralt is overcome with so many emotions at that moment: affection, lust, love. He can hardly stand it. He kisses Jaskier again, firmly, a promise of more to come, and then pulls away. Jaskier looks beautiful, with red lips and cheeks and moonlight dancing across his face.

“Hey.” Geralt says, and the strain on his muscles alerts him to the fact that he’s grinning.

“Hi,” Jaskier responds, running his hands through Geralt’s hair.

“Before this goes any further, I want you to know something.” Geralt doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. There’s a part of him expecting Jaskier to admit this whole thing was a cruel trick, that he doesn’t care about Geralt at all.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know how to say it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I do. Jaskier, I. Hm. I just– I just want you to know that you mean everything to me, too. This isn’t just a one-time thing for me, okay? I like you. A lot.”

Jaskier smiles like the sun.

“Oh, Geralt,” He says, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his forehead. “I would’ve taken whatever I could get.” Geralt kisses the words out of his mouth.

“Stop. You deserve more. You deserve all of me. You have all of me.”

Jaskier’s kissing him again, teeth knocking against each other through smiles. Geralt hears all the unspoken words.

“You have all of me. I am yours. I love you.”

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