John Walker’s Taco Shield

It’s not the sudden slam of your kitchen window when it drops closed, or the thud of Dex’s body on the tiled floor that wakes you up, nor is it the curse that escapes him when he heaves himself up to put the knocked over spices back into the order he knows you like. It’s also not the clatter of a loose throwing knife that hits the floor when he kicks off his boots, unwilling to leave footprints when he can smell the lemon floor cleaner you must have used when he was gone. 

You don’t even stir when Dex stumbles into your room, distracted and clumsy as he tries to draw even breaths. You’re still laying on your front, limbs tangled in the sheets like you’d been restless all night. He knows you hate sleeping without him, even on nights where you tell him ‘It’s fine’ and reassure him that you aren’t going anywhere. He hates it too, even though he’d never said it out loud, not wanting to unlock that safe inside his mind that would tell him to never leave your side.

None of his gentle touches, that graze of gloved hands along your bare thighs or his lips against your forehead pull you from whatever dream you must be having. If it were any other time he would retreat, peel off his suit and let the hot water of the shower calm him down, but tonight that won’t do it.

It’s the quiet ‘Can I?’ that finally brings you out of sleep. A small question he whispers against your neck even when you’ve told him before that he doesn’t need to ask, ever. But he always does anyways, you think he likes the reminder, that he always has this access to you.

With Julie he’d never felt anything romantic, and that made it easier to keep his distance for all that time, but he couldn’t imagine doing the same with you and his upper lip curls with irritation just thinking about it. 

Even now, settled above you on your bed in an apartment you’ve shared for months, it doesn’t feel close enough, and Dex wants to laugh in the face of all the past versions of him who had thought there was something fundamentally broken inside of him, despite being told otherwise. That false truth he’d accepted for so long that he’d only be able to obsess, and never love, almost any emotion from someone with psychopathic tendencies like him would have to be forced, it’d never come naturally.

What a fucking lie.

Everything was natural with you, mostly because he never expected it, he hadn’t been looking for you. Just revenge.

Dex didn’t even have to force meeting you as his neighbor, somewhere lost in that time shortly after his escape, back when he’d gripped the closest item to use as a weapon as he’d opened the door that first time to see you standing there. He remembers every detail, your flushed face from climbing the multiple flights of stairs, a hopeful smile on your lips as you asked if he had seen the neighbor's cat you were helping to track down. He’d offered to help you without a second thought, without even a first one really because he was supposed to be forming his plan to get revenge on the Fisks for ruining his life, supposed to be balancing the scales. But he’d do anything for you, even back then.

And you’d do anything for him too. 

Even now, at three am it takes you only a second to process his question, the need clouding his hoarse voice like an oncoming storm, and you vaguely register that a hand is tracing against the bare skin of your back even though you’d gone to sleep fully clothed. Had he taken it off or had you?

“Sweetheart?” A raw and strained voice probes again, thinking you hadn’t heard him, and your gasp is muffled against the pillow when a set of fingers you hadn’t taken notice of yet, press down between your thighs. You still have your underwear on, but they’ve been pushed to the side, exposing you to his leather covered hands. 

He still has his gloves on, and the scrape of damp fabric against your jaw when he places a delicate kiss there tells you he still has the mask on too, pulled up just enough to use his mouth. How long has he already been working you up, deciding if his mind was loud enough to warrant using the agreement you had in place?

How bad was his night for him to come straight to you without even getting out of his suit and showering first, betraying his own routine?

“Please,” You nod, finally answering a question that never needed to be asked.

It’s quiet, and barely audible over the dulled city noises just beyond your window, but you think you hear a quiet ‘Thank you’ muffled against your neck.

Dex’s gloved hand pulls away from your cunt, the tips of them reflective in the moonlight with evidence of your arousal, and he’s so glad the two of you put the bed near the window when you moved here together. This building was safer than the one you’d met in, less potential entry points and with the help of Mr Charles and his new line of freelance work, the perks of reinforced glass windows you could sleep in front of with no worry. 

No, with this clean slate you were safe. He didn’t have to worry about you, but that still didn’t stop him from doing so anytime you were apart.

You’re still only half awake when he unbuckles his tactical pants, the sound of the zipper giving you a few seconds notice before his knees are guiding your legs apart, his chest lowering to press against your back, effectively pinning you against the mattress, still fully in his suit. You can feel the outline of the leather gun holster on the middle of his chest, but there’s no solid mass, no weapon, nothing that could hurt you. 

And, god, it’s times like this you remember how big he is, how easily he completely covers your body with his own, and you can’t help but squirm when you feel the head of his cock rock up between your thighs. 

If Dex’s fingers hadn’t gotten you wet enough before, this certainly will, and he settles into a slow rhythm, coaxing your body to relax beneath him with every slide of his hard length, getting you used to him. Your body’s already memorized him, the familiar way he occasionally catches on your opening before pushing further to nudge against your clit, and then he draws his hips back to repeat the motion over, and over, and over.

The gentle grinding must make you fall back into sleep, only for a few seconds, because when you’re alert again it’s to him sinking halfway inside you. 

“Fuck-“ Your lungs seize up when he gets to the last couple inches. No matter how long it’s been, how much time he spends getting you ready for him, it’s always a struggle, and it’s not just the length of him, but the unexpected thickness towards the base too.

“Shh, shh,” Dex takes his time as he continues that slow stretch, “You’re okay, just breathe,” he urges shakily with a small kiss to your temple as he finally settles himself all the way in, his hips flush against the curve of your ass, fingers finding yours to intertwine together. “I’m here.”

One thing you learned early on with him is that during nights like these, when he needs to shut off his head, he never stops talking. Sometimes it’s all to you, whispered praises, declarations of love, telling you how good you are for him, and other nights it’s rambled snippets of things he’s trying to get out of his head, trying to purify himself before he can ever let any of his actions taint you. 

His girl. His North Star.

You always tell him nothing would make you change your mind on him, but he still feels compelled to tell you it all anyways.

“Didn’t want to wake you up,” A quiet grunt escapes him when he pulls back, barely enough so he can rut back into you immediately after, hating that sickening feeling whenever a part of his skin separates from yours. 

“It’s okay,” You reassure him, you want to say more, want to ask him how his night was, if the small smears of blood he’s leaving on your joined hands is his or someone else’s, if you need to be worried that he’s hurt. But the deep press of his cock against your cervix steals every word you want to say, and you can only gasp instead. 

“Shh, m’sorry,” He curses and squeezes your hands in an unnecessary apology because you’re trying to catch your breath so you can ask him for more.

Another thing that surprised you about Dex is how gentle he can be. 

You’ve seen him in action of course, it was unavoidable the day you found out everything when Fisk sent people after you, ‘revenge for his wife’ Dex had said later on. That same day when he had to beg you to run with him so you didn’t end up like Julie, with the wildest look you’ve ever seen in his eyes, face splattered with blood as he asked you to trust him. 

Of course you did, even though you watched as he took down five men in task force branded vests with just a few small movements of his hands. 

You never once doubted the promises he made to keep you away from harm, when you blindly followed him to a safe house he got ready the moment he met you ‘just in case’, you’d understood when Dex told you about his past, the why behind his need to settle the scale by killing Vanessa. 

You know the hands that are squeezing yours like an anchor as his cock reaches impossible places inside you again, are hands that have killed probably too many to count. But aside from those occasional times where you have to half-beg him to be rough with you, or the more common occurrences of hickeys and bite marks that you know he loves admiring whenever he can leave them, he’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt.

“I’ll be careful, you can go back to sleep,” Dex murmurs, less shaky now he’s inside you, he’d said once he always felt bad when he woke you up for this, that he knows you can never fully settle after. He’s managed it plenty of times before, sometimes never going further than satisfying his need to be inside you until he’s utterly calm, like the surface of a lake with currents rolling beneath, threatening to pull you down into them. 

“Don’t need sleep-“ You shake your head, and it’s only when you feel the wet patch on your pillow against your cheek do you realise you must have started drooling at some point. “Need you-“

You always need him. 

Through the layers of armoured fabric on his chest, you can feel the stutter of his breath, the still-there quiet disbelief at knowing you’re always waiting for him, always wanting him in a way that matches his own and fuck it’s never something he thought he’d get.

“That’s my girl,” Dex sighs, warm breath rolling over your face as he presses his face closer to yours. There’s an unmistakable metallic tinge to it that tells you there’s blood in his mouth and fear spikes in your chest.

What does the CIA have him doing-

“You’re bleeding, Dex-“ 

His laugh rumbles through against your back, abrupt and breathy while he smirks at your concern, like you’re worried a paper cut could make him bleed out.

“I’m okay, promise, just need you, Sweetheart.” You catch a flash of his face, dark eyes framed by the fabric of the balaclava, you were right about the lower half being pulled up. His mouth is bloody with a split lip, but it doesn’t hold him back from the lopsided smirk, one that would look threatening to anyone else, but with you it brings a sudden rush of warmth and slickness between your thighs.

He knows, fuck he must know the effect it has because he releases one of your hands from his leather grip so he can slide his arm between you and the mattress, expertly finding your clit in seconds. You should feel some sort of shame, filthy at the fact he’s still wearing those gloves that dance tightly wound circles over where you need him most, an inch higher from where he’s splitting you open on his length.

Everything from now is measured, examined by eyes trained to pick up every tiny detail, every miniscule reaction as your cunt begins involuntarily fluttering around his cock, every thrust growing harder now you’re dripping down him, ruining his tactical pants further along with your bedsheets. 

Dex tuts when you close your eyes to hide from the feeling, but he lets you have the escape, for now at least.

“Dex, I’m gonna-“

“I know, I know sweetheart, let go,” Dex rasps, sweet and condescending, like he’s not making you fall apart with a hand that you can’t be sure hasn’t been used to kill someone tonight. 

The thought should terrify you, he should terrify you, but how could he when he’s littering your face with kisses, holding you like you’re something precious, needing you like you’re important to him.

You’re tightening around him almost painfully, limp and choking on dry sobs beneath him and all you can do is squeeze the hand you’re still holding, your free one reaching behind to try and pull him closer by the back of his neck, aching for him to kiss you as you practically mewl his name, but he keeps a set distance so he can watch you.

“Dex! Dexdexdexdex-“ You can’t get out anything except his name and your eyes fly open to find his already on you, they probably never left. It’s his favorite part after all, the moment you come undone for him, and often he never settles for it happening just once, but he has to right now if he’s going to make that noise in his mind go quiet.

“Got you- I’ve got you.” Dex grunts, snapping his hips into yours and savouring the way you soak him, the strangled moans you make that continue to spur him on, pulling him away from one edge, but pushing him towards another. 

One he’s ready to leap from with a single question, “Inside?”

Dex never left things up to chance, you could argue calculated and precise are two of the three words you’d use to describe him, along with loving, but slowly the two of you had fallen into this habit of playing this game of chances.

Everything had started with small pills that you’d forgotten one too many times to be considered safe anymore, so you moved onto condoms. That method didn’t last nearly as long, coming to an abrupt end one night you both forgot the tiny foil square in the nightstand and remembered that bare slide of skin and skin, a mutual agreement was made that you trusted him enough to pull out each time, letting him paint your stomach or lower back with his spend.

That was until you got reckless, pleading him to stay at a point in your cycle you weren’t at risk of anything serious happening. That’s when you saw that look in his eyes after he withdrew just enough to see himself still leaking from your cunt. Those ribbons of white he fought the urge to gather up and push back inside that screamed evidence you were his. 

You started to say you weren’t trying… but you weren’t not trying. 

Dex knows your cycle as well as you right now, knows this isn’t like those weeks marked a shade of blue on your app that tells you both it’s not a risk, knows the weight of his question that he’d never ask if he wasn’t sure you weren’t safe from potential harm, in a high security apartment with the bulletproof windows even he couldn’t break through. 

But to you, the weight of it may as well be a feather.

“Inside.” You agree. 

In an instant, the remaining hand still locked with yours pulls away, instead sliding up along your throat, where you’re sure he must feel how much your heart is racing, and settles on your jaw. So big that he doesn’t even have to spread his fingers to be able to hold almost your whole face and pull you into a kiss for the first time, his blood and saliva swirling in your mouth as his tongue slides against your own.

“Fuuuck-“ Dex groans into you, long and quiet like you’re pulling it out of him and he shudders, his movements becoming sloppy and harsh until you feel it. A flood of warmth, so much of it that it escapes you almost immediately, despite the fact he’s pressed so deeply inside that you can feel he’s right against your cervix. 

Dex stays in you, long enough for you to know it’s more than usual, long enough to know you should add tests to next month's shopping list. But that’s a worry for another day. For now, you look out at the lights in the city, in a few hours people would be beginning to wake, and you wonder if you’ll catch any evidence of Dex’s bad night on the news.

“Better?” You ask only once his breathing’s slowed and he’s relaxed on top of you.

“Better.” Dex agrees quietly, finally withdrawing his hand from between your thighs to tug his mask off, sweat dampened hair falling into his face. Thankfully his mouth seems to be the worst of it, he’s got a bruise blooming on his cheekbone but his nose isn’t crooked, and there’s no black eye or potential concussion to monitor. “I’m gonna shower, okay?” 

“Think you’re getting away that easy?” You ask when he pulls out, cringing at that uncomfortable sudden wetness between your thighs, underwear still pushed to the side. You’d definitely have to change the sheet before going back to sleep.

“What, you want to come with me?” Dex teases, still not at the same confidence he usually would, still withdrawn from whatever got under his skin.

“Someone has to make sure you’re not gonna pass out,” You mumble airily, teasing him back as you twist over onto your back and stretch, forcing your body to wake up the rest of the way.

“I love you.” It’s effortless from his mouth, not rehearsed, said with the ghost of a smile as he mentally files the sight of you still spent on the bed while he begins to strip off items of clothing, abandoning them on the floor.

A/N: I am SO sorry for the delay, but I got engaged, everybody cheer!! My fiance took me on a surprise trip to new york at the end of August, and on the second morning we got up at 4am to take photos on brooklyn bridge and he proposed right where Peter wrote ‘I Love You’ to Gwen on the bridge in The Amazing Spider-Man 2 (if you want to see a photo, it’s pinned at the top of my twitter which is @ JohnsTacoShield.)

Being in New York for the first time was also kind of insane because I was looking up at the skyscrapers by grand central station just thinking ‘Damn I too would be terrified if I looked up and there was a man-shaped-void just hovering above me rn’.

Anyways, sorry it’s taken me SO long to update, life outside of the internet got super busy as you can tell – this is the last chapter before the time reader allows Bob to help, which means more angst, more self-loathing, AND we finally find out what happened on the night of the party when John gave reader the ‘bad advice’, as well as a look at when they first met.

Enjoy!

The Watchtower - April 28th 2027 - 21:06 pm

The first time you ever killed something, you’d immediately wanted to take it back. It was some distant day in the past now, before you were stripped of emotions like regret, and guilt. 

Your first handlers kept a cage full of pigeons on the roof… or maybe they were Doves? You can’t recall the bird's feathers through the blood when you had been learning to shoot moving targets. Learning to kill. You do however remember the way the rocks on the ground of a poor excuse for a shooting range cut open your knees when you sprinted and dove forward after realising what you had done. 

The rules of reality hadn’t quite set in your youthful mind yet when you picked up the bloodied mess of feathers in your hands and prayed to an unkind universe to undo your act of cruelty.

There's no tears now when you try to put pressure on this emotional wound through the method of scrolling endless encrypted channels in search of something that could stop the bleeding of what you’d done. Or rather, had failed to do. 

Over the past few days you finally found the strength to look at social media for the first time. It wasn’t a slow descent, the second you had opened the news apps you were greeted by your face plastered on articles voicing scrutiny over the team's capability, and right opposite you in most of them, was Sam Wilson. 

The general public aren’t stupid, at least not all the time. Valentina’s plans for this team were made on fragile ground, and she was right, the night you got shot you’d given the media all the ammunition they need to draw into question your character, your background (which thankfully had been touched on very little), and this added fuel to the fire that was the debate around two separate teams of ‘heroes’. 

You hadn’t known the outcome of the mission until today, when you scrolled though endless videos of the dock from that night, when it burst up in raging flames, videos of people screaming and fleeing the area, and somewhere in the background, the sound of a helicopter. None of these details playing out in front of you are in your memory, and your heart pounds uncomfortably in your chest at this notion. 

Video after video blur together as you spiral, trying to fill in the blanks, examining all angles as you try to jolt your brain with anything between the moment you fell to the warehouse floor, and waking up in the medical unit of the tower with the endless wires and tubes. 

Still nothing. 

Your calendar has been completely cleared from anything Avengers related, and none of the medical staff you saw had any of the details of what happened. You have no doubt it’s because of Valentina. And you can’t exactly ask just any member of the team… no one has tried to approach you again after John and Ava’s attempts, and you find yourself agreeing with their decision not to. It’ll make all of this easier for both sides.

You’re about ready to give up on the videos, but the next autoplay makes you freeze. It isn’t some shaky camera footage of the fire from afar like the last fifteen have been, it’s of a podium bearing the weight of the New Avengers symbol.

Of course, the public issued statements from your team always gave little information for the purpose of public security, and Bucky, on the screen of your laptop dressed in a grey suit, has snapped back into his old Congressman media training and keeps this one even shorter than usual. 

“On the night of April 15th, the team engaged in a fight where shots were fired,” Bucky starts, mouth set in a grim line between each pause. Even with your eyes focused on the screen, with him in a suit, you can only see the Bucky who carried you, your blood on his face and the first time you’ve ever noticed fear in his eyes. 

“During our attempt to resolve a hostage situation, a stray bullet hit a tank containing flammable gas-”

No, the bullets had stopped before you passed out that first time, that wasn’t right, and you’d checked over everything in that warehouse when you first got there, there hadn’t been a fuel tank. Had there? Is this just another thing you had misremembered, or forgotten entirely?

Bucky clears his throat before informing the press that you had been caught in the explosion, but your injuries were minor.

“The team just wants to reassure the public that she is doing well, and is expected to make a full recovery soon.” Lie. You would have still been entirely sedated with a tube down your throat when he gave this speech.

“We will not be taking further questions at this time.” He finishes, backing away from the mic, and yet the moment he steps away from the microphone, the questions are thrown at him anyways.

‘Mr Barnes, is it true Captain America is trying to dispute the New Avengers name?’

‘What do you have to say to people who believe the New Avengers should be under the lead of Sam Wilson?’

‘Are you aware of the costs to the city as a result of your team's actions on April 15th?’

Despite Mel’s uncharacteristically firm voice and repetition of Bucky’s words they would not be answering any questions at this time, an endless list of them are still shouted after Bucky, following him all the way to the door. Questions about you, about Captain America and his team, about your own team, and about the fire.

Although you’ve never met Sam, you know this isn’t his fault. Bucky always speaks highly of him, and you have no reason to doubt that, even though you know the brewing tension has been plaguing him even more than you the last few months. But now it wasn’t just tension, it was a problem, the flames have been threatening to burn you all, and the solution that you’ve been brewing the last few hours is going to put them out.

Twenty-Three hours. 

That’s how long it’s going to take you to get from your room in the Watchtower and back to Madripoor. 

From there you can figure your new life out. One without Valentina, without the expectations of the media and scrutiny of the public, one without the complexities of working on a team. 

One without- 

No. 

Don’t think about him now. He’ll be fine, better than fine once you’re gone.

The thought is swallowed down as the video ends. Your laptop still remains open, overheating against the unwashed bedsheets from where you’ve spent hours formulating a plan alongside the endless videos and blocks of text. 

A layer of rust has evidently formed over your skills from being part of a team for so long, the instruments in your brain had sat unused for the better part of a year and strained under the efforts of today's goal. To get out as quickly and as quietly as you can.

It was stupid really, to entertain the idea for the last nine months — that you can be a superhero with your face on a cereal box, made into action figures and polish yourself up for interviews with the press. 

That you can be anything except what you were made to be. 

Apologising to the bird didn’t make it come back to life, why would this be any different.

For the next hour you memorise cargo routes and track flight departures, planning your travel through the airport to a less-than-legit pilot you’d spent your afternoon digging into to check if you could trust him enough to keep quiet for the right price (and maybe just a little bit of threatening reasoning.) It’s only once the device begins to make a whirring noise that you eventually close it, tossing it onto the empty side of the bed next to you, only taken up by remotes and paper notes of your plan. 

You can wipe it before you leave. Burn the ink stained pages in the sink and wash them down the drain. Clean up any evidence you were here at all, aside from the stack of letters on your nightstand, and soon enough you’ll be forgotten.

The same goes for the dust in the bathroom, broken plaster beneath the sink from where you had to break into the wall to retrieve your bag you stashed there when renovations were still ongoing. Thank god your past self had some sort of sense to know this was only temporary you suppose. 

It’s a while until two am, when you have to leave the tower with the lowest risk of being caught. So, until then you just have to keep up with your same routines, which means around now you can safely sneak up to the kitchen without any encounters, not that you’re even hungry, but you cut a deal with your doctor to be able to get your own food rather than the tasteless nutrition meals the care team provided you with. Besides, this might be the last time in twenty-three hours that you would eat anything hot.

First you need to get your food from upstairs. Then you just need to go to the night-time physical therapy sessions your doctors set up in the training room that are supposed to make you sleep well by helping the injuries in your body. Once she gives you a glowing report on the datapad you already know Valentina is monitoring, you can make your move when the tower sleeps. 

You just need to rip off the band-aid, leave the bird to rest so you don’t damage it further, and you both can escape the cages you’ve been locked in for too long. And you’ll have to do it quickly.

After all, it’s been a long time since you had to sneak onto a plane out of a city that never sleeps.

The Watchtower - July 2nd 2026 - 11:48am 

Twenty-Three Hours. 

It’s been one hour shy of a full day before you’re shuffling into an elevator that has a layer of dust clinging to it. Not from lack of use, but rather from heavy renovations if the paint splatters on the floor and construction crews downstairs were anything to go by.

“Steady.” You whisper to your reflection when the doors close, a silver OXE symbol blocking out the flurry of media and important men in suits who suffocated you with their presence in the lobby, ignoring the elephant in the room which came in the form of a fifteen foot tall shattered glass window and beaten up truck embedded into the wall. You have no clue what happened there, but given the news reporters outside you have a feeling you know what’s going on upstairs.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Valentina is doing after all. Engineering her own team.

Even you have heard the rumours from the occasional person working on the OXE cleanup missions, and only one of them, as far as you’re aware, is still alive out of the few you’ve met. Either the rest were clumsy enough to fuck up, or Valentina was having them slowly picked off… and you have a feeling you know which scenario is more likely.

Luckily for you, you haven’t met that same fate yet, being tucked away in Madripoor with the exception of a few international missions when you can imagine her regulars were busy has allowed you to fly under the radar for whatever she’s been planning. Until now that is, swaying with exhaustion and stuck in a metal box with twenty more floors to go.

The scent of Madripoor rain is still clinging to you like a second skin, there hasn’t been a moment to stop and change out of your clothes after Valentina had called you back. 

Back to New York. 

Back home. 

It’s a surprisingly long elevator ride to the floor labelled ‘OXE’, which you guess is where you’ll find Valentina, no one else has been in contact with you aside from a text with the address you’re currently at. The old Avengers tower. 

It’s been a staple of the city for maybe fifteen years now, even long after the Avengers moved upstate and the tower was left vacant and haunted. You suppose to some it could be considered a beacon of hope, placed on a pedestal to those less familiar with the very real effects organisations like S.H.I.E.L.D had scarred onto the underbelly of the country, with this city like a spider in the centre of its web, pulling everything into it. The very image makes your mind drift back to Valentina, and whatever strings on her own web she pulled to secure this.

If she’s been picking off her workers, how many people are even left to even work for her now? Given the ongoing investigation into criminal activities she’s definitely guilty of, you’re half surprised she even still has staff that she hasn’t made disappear. You included… but like the good dog you are, you come when she tugs on your leash with a reminder that your freedom comes with a cost.

And that call was a hell of a pull.  

Dark circles hang under your eyes to remind you just how little sleep you’ve had since yesterday morning… or has it technically been two days now? Screwed up sleep schedule aside, your hair currently resembles a birds nest from trying to sleep between strapped down boxes containing god knows what when you were smuggled onto last night's flight. 

Hanging limply off your shoulder is your emergency packed bag, which inconveniently reeks of damp from being stuffed beneath the floorboards of your apartment, but luckily everything important inside it was dry. You keep it light with the contents never changing wherever you take it, there’s cash in a few common currencies, various ID’s, a basic first aid kit, and a case containing the gun that’s currently tucked into your waistband beneath your coat. 

You’d ditched the phone back in the sea by Madripoor, if you were seeing the only person who had its number, you didn’t see much point in having it anymore.

Although Valentina’s plans are clear, you still haven’t figured out how exactly you’re supposed to fit into them, it’s not like she’d fly you all this way to have you executed now after all. You need to be prepared for anything, and anyone.

Ding!

The sharp bell brings you back to your senses and your face briefly warps in the metal reflection as the elevator doors part like a show curtain, forcing you onto the stage of scrutiny. 

A gust of cold air greets you and the first thing you notice is a voice, Valentina’s to be specific, arguing with someone else, and you take a few uncertain steps out of the elevator, passing over a chunk of drywall as you venture further into the war-torn penthouse.

What the hell happened in here?

“Uh, hello? Hi, uh,” A pair of heels click to your right, crunching on broken glass and you whip around to face the source of the noise.

“The cleanup crew is one level down, you’re on the wrong floor.” A girl with wide brown eyes and a perfect slicked back bun grips her tablet like a lifeline as she sidesteps between you and the rest of the room. She looks like she’s stepped straight out of a business meeting and into a war zone, and your lips twitch into a small smile to ease her clearly nervous energy.

“I’m here to see Valentina.” You gesture your head towards the sound of voices. 

Business-Attire-Girl blinks for a moment, glancing at her tablet with a slight frown as she swipes up to open something that she quickly shields from you.

“You’re… early.”

“Guess the pilot made good time.” You smile again, but you’re at the point of exhaustion where it seems more like a grimace, and she eyes you and her tablet for a moment longer with a confused expression.

Snippets of Valentina’s voice are carried by another breeze, even though you’re in a skyscraper where windows shouldn’t open, and whoever’s responding is growing louder, more agitated.

“Can I..?” The bag strap shifts slightly on your shoulder and you hoist it up as you gesture past Business-Attire-Girl. 

“Right, yes, let me take your bag.” She nods finally, tucking the guarded device under her arm as she extends her hand out to you. 

She seems kind, well intentioned, but you know better than to trust anyone who works for Valentina, especially with this bag. Instead, you grip the strap tightly and shake your head as politely as you can manage when the bulk of it rests against the gun at your waist.

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

“Okay then.” She drags out the ‘o’ ever so slightly, and the outstretched hand retreats, going back to gripping the tablet. “Follow me.”

It’s barely ten steps over random shards of broken glass and bits of rubble before you’re in an open room the size of the whole club back in Madripoor. Despite Business-Attire-Girl’s earlier warning, maybe the priority should be getting the cleanup crew up here instead. You finally see the reason for the breeze that hit you when you came out the elevator, one of the obscenely large windows is completely broken, what remains is some tape haphazardly in a large cross over it.

Your stomach turns slightly at the knowledge of how strong that glass must have been, and whatever had the strength to break it, given the stares were angled outwards.

“Valentina? Your new…” Business-Attire-Girl pauses at the edge of where the room opens, like she’s trying to settle on the right word as an awkward silence falls over the room, “Guest is here.”

Dragging your eyes away from the broken window, you step around who you now assume to be Valentina's assistant who quickly returns to her post guarding the elevator, and lock eyes with your boss.

Despite being the person to get you out of the country in the first place and the one person you owe an unplayable debt to, you’ve spent ten minutes in her presence at most. That day when five years passed in the blink of an eye, and she got you situated on a plane with nothing but your bag on your shoulder and a phone she passed to you as you climbed into the cargo hold with a promise that she would be in touch when she needed you. 

Valentina Allegra DeFontaine looks almost exactly as you remember her during those few short minutes, the only difference being the nervous look in her eyes that mirrored her assistants. Except on Valentina it reminded you of some top-of-the-food-chain predator being caught in a trap; something that up until now you thought was impossible. 

“Right, yes, I have a surprise for you all, come in, for a minute there I thought you weren’t coming.” Valentina beckons you over with her hand to where she’s facing a group of four, some of them eyeing you with expressions that made you wish that your gun was in your hand rather than your waistband. “Glad to see you made the right decision- Mel didn’t offer to take your bag?”

“I’d prefer to keep it on me, if that’s alright.” Don’t take it, do not touch it.

“Right, well,” Valentina’s face falls for a second as she regards you fully in the light of day and it’s like you’re under a thousand microscopes at once, not just from your boss, but the group of people standing directly opposite you. None of them have said a word, but instead give each other silent sideways glances. What are they, telepathic? “You look exhausted, you haven’t showered?”

“Sorry, next time I’ll ask for a cargo hold with a bathtub.” The words come out a lot flatter than you mean to, given your first goal is to diffuse the tension, but faintly you think you hear someone laugh under their breath which reassures you. Slightly. You could also just be imagining it from lack of sleep because when you look to the group to your left, none of them are smiling. Two of them aren’t even paying attention at all, maybe Valentina’s had people in and out of here all morning so you aren’t worth paying attention to. 

“Good, you still have humour,” Something about Valentina’s tone tells you she doesn’t appreciate your flippance right now, but she continues, “I’d like you to meet the New Avengers."

The New Avengers. 

There’s some that you know, some that you don’t, but all of them share one thing in common now they realise you aren’t just some contractor passing through — they’re on the defense. And so are you. 

First up is a stressed looking Bucky Barnes sitting with his body leaning forwards and elbows resting on his legs like he’s deep in thought, the couch he’s on doesn’t look like it belongs in the near empty room, pristine amongst the mess with a blanket haphazardly thrown over the armrest in the worst decorating attempt you’ve seen. If you’ve been paying enough attention to the news to get this right, he’s a now-former-congressman, despite the fact he was previously known as the Winter Soldier. 

Your paths actually almost crossed once, about three years ago when it was your first month in Madripoor. Back then you were hungry, running low on cash when a city wide bounty was announced with his face on alongside Sam Wilson, the new Captain America. Thank god you didn’t go after him now, otherwise this would be far more awkward than it already is. 

It takes you a second longer to realise who the man standing to the right of the couch is, but given he was the only other name you got from the article yesterday it’s easy enough to put the next piece of Valentina’s puzzle into place. 

John Walker is barely recognisable in more casual clothes without the Stars and Stripes and the Ex-Captain America spares you a glance but seems more pre-occupied with trying to straighten out a rather scratched and very folded shield. 

How did he even manage to do that? 

Walker grips one side of it while an older, much larger man, who makes you think of a sketchy looking Santa Claus, holds the other edge and tries to pull. You don’t recognise the man, nor the girl in front of him with short blonde hair still damp from a shower falling into her eyes, eyes that are narrowed at you.

“Who’s this?” An accent, something European maybe, you’re gonna need more than two words to tell. 

“Your new team member.” 

Your new what? 

“Of course, I’ll have to call further press meetings to correct yesterday's lineup, especially since Robert can’t actually control his powers, I like the idea of having the balance between the original six avengers, and a new six, plus Sentry once he’s ready and won’t put the city into a blackout.” Valentina smiles, with a nonchalant shrug, like it’s final, and she nudges you towards the group, all of their eyes now on you.

Evidently, you’re as stunned as they are, because the tone of the room shifts and despite the very broken window, it feels like all the air has been sucked out.

Team member? No, nono this can’t be right, the closest thing to a “team” Valentina ever put you on was the occasional mission with one other person, you work alone, you’re better alone.

Three protests break out at once, with the fourth following a few moments after.

“Hold on-“ That one is from Barnes, whose frown deepens further, if possible, as he stands from the couch.

“Hey no, we’ve almost got it Alexei!” That’s Walker, who isn’t actually protesting what Valentina just said, but more at the Sketchy-Santa, which you mentally correct to Alexei, who almost drops his half of the shield with a perplexed exclamation in what you think is Russian. 

You’d never managed to get the hang of that language during your training. 

There’s some ulterior motive behind this… one she hasn’t explained to you yet, maybe because it was too dangerous to do on the phone, this must be why she’s called you here right? That’s your quickest conclusion, so, for now your best course of action is to go along with whatever she says, and ask her for her plan when you’re alone. But this also means thinking fast when you’re unevenly matched against a whole team of people, who although seem very beaten from what happened in New York yesterday, look far more well rested than you currently are.

It takes a few seconds for your brain to stop lagging and finally catch up with what she said past the words ‘team member’. Six. Bucky, John Walker, Alexei, and the blonde girl you would have to come up with a mental nickname for at another time until you learn her actual one. That’s only four, unless she means the assistant, but even then-

“Is, uh, is that a good idea?” There’s the fourth protest, but not from the blonde girl who continues to stare at you through the fresh argument breaking out. 

The instinct to jump hits you but you refrain as you spin to your left, he’s been so quiet that he almost blended into the marble counter he’s leaning against. Owlish blue eyes blink back at you and a pair of thin lips press themselves together in a sheepish expression that isn’t quite a smile when you lock eyes with him, it’s too nervous to be.

This must be Robert then? Robert, who looks a little too young to have the name only a fifty year old man could have, shifts his weight between his two feet like the ground might disappear beneath him. There’s a loose thread on his sweatshirt which unravels a small hole only being made bigger by the long fingers tugging on it, which he chooses to look at instead when you meet his eyes for more than a second. 

“Not necessarily the new teammate thing, but y’know, me using my powers again, especially after everything we uh… talked about last night.” Robert tumbles over his words as he glances at you, but the question isn’t directed at you, or Valentina.

This… this is the guy responsible for sucking New York into some sort of black hole? But he looks… normal? 

Sure, he’s tall, despite the deceptive way he curls his shoulders in on himself, with brown curls that curve around his face, which happens to be boyishly handsome, and the back of them just reach his shoulders. But he’s not exactly what you had in mind for ‘can destroy a whole city’ powerful. He’s more… unassuming undercover agent than flashy super-person. 

It’s only when he frowns at you that you realise you’ve been staring at him for far longer than necessary, and you tear your eyes away from the tiny scar you catch sight of on his jaw.

“We’ll talk about this privately, Bob, as a team.” The blonde girl emphasises and his unsure nod shakes a few overgrown curls loose in the way of his eyes.

You find yourself looking back at him as you continue to opt out of the conversation, Bob suited him much better.

“She is part of the team.” Valentina repeats, talking about you as if you’re not standing right there next to her, but to be fair you were taking very little notice of whatever the two of them had going on, now that you realise this was who you had heard on the other end of that argument when you first walked in. 

No, instead you’re more pre-occupied by Bob and his occasional anxious glances. What the hell is Valentina getting you into? Getting this clearly untrained civilian into? Why is he looking at you so suspiciously-

“Yeah,” The blonde girl smiles at you but only the lower half of her face responds before it drops, and she spins to face your boss. 

“No.” 

Her accent, you definitely recognise it, but the memory runs away each time your sleep deprived brain tries to pinpoint it, you haven’t worked with her before, you’d certainly remember. She sounds an awful lot like-

“It’s like I told you Valentina,” The blonde girl takes a step further than Bucky, closing the gap between her and Valentina with tired eyes. “We own you.”

The bag shifts again on your shoulder, already aching from the little weight it contained in your tired state. There’s a barstool next to Robert but he looks about ready to bolt if you step a foot in his direction so you eliminate that option. 

“And I own her, Yelena.” 

You grit your teeth so hard you’re afraid they might break with how much you’re biting down the way you want to snap at her, unpayable debt to her be damned, but you don’t exactly plan on ending up like some of your previous mission partners. 

“Lena, don’t-“ Alexei drops his half of the shield, leaving Walker to tumble back into Barnes with a loud curse, and it seems like the tension that’s been building since before you got out of that elevator has finally come to its boiling point. 

And you’ve been dropped straight into the pot with no chance to adjust.

You know you should make a point of taking your gun out when the girl steps forward with her own, sure, after all Valentina was still your boss, but you know her name now, and you’ve known of it for a while.

Whispers of it had floated by a handful of times over the last few years, from girls with accents so similar, so infrequent you would have forgotten it entirely if it weren’t for the stories of the Red Rooms destruction, but it pays to pay attention in your line of work, with the kind of people you worked with, and it just so happens a few of them have been former Black Widows. 

“Yelena… you were a Widow, right?” Please let her say yes, you don’t exactly have a backup plan that doesn’t involve your boss getting shot point blank if you’ve got this wrong, and it’s too late to pull your gun with hers already in her hand and your arms raised in surrender.

It seems like the universe is on your side today because Yelena’s jaw tenses, and she nods. All eyes are on the pair of you, even Bob’s who has made careful steps away from the bar to perch himself on the armrest of the couch and pick at an ugly patterned blanket instead of the hole on his sleeve. Yelena’s are however still firmly on Valentina, who just stands there with her arms folded like this is a regular occurrence for her. It probably is. 

“Were you?”

The other four behind her exchange looks with each other, and then you, a complete stranger in this equation. Even Valentina’s assistant has reappeared from her corner by the elevator, but unless her iPad is some explosive device, you’re not entirely sure what she’s capable of doing to help right now. 

“No, but I’ve been a lot of things, things that we have in common.” You assure her but the gun doesn’t move, “And I’ve worked with some of the girls you saved that day, they told me about what you did.”

“They said I could trust you if I needed help.” The last word is sour in your mouth, you don’t need help, you just don’t need the one person who can guarantee your safety to be shot, and yet the statement wasn’t a lie. You’d received multiple offers from them, the ones who had escaped the Red Room but continued to work as Mercenaries.

There’s a beat where you’re sure she’s going to put the gun down, that you’ve successfully diffused a situation with a Black widow which would be a first for you. But then Alexei opens his mouth. 

“Lena, please, things were so good yesterday, we are a team now-“

Whatever had her defenses lowering stops working, and her face immediately hardens once more. 

“And a day later she’s already bringing more people on her payroll and talking about experimenting on Bob, we can’t trust her.” 

Experimenting on Bob? 

The gun turns to you now. “And we don’t know her.”

To say this is the first time you’ve been held at gun point would be a lie. To say this is the first time you’ve been scared you’ll actually be shot? That would be true.

Fuck, this is it, isn’t it? 

You shouldn’t have answered the damn call, you should have stayed with Zara at the stupid bar, gone home to your shitty apartment. Yelena isn’t some hired muscle you can outsmart, the second you move she’ll pull the trigger, Black Widows do not hesitate. All you can do is take a steady breath, and then-

“I can vouch for her.” 

Now is the time that you pull your gun from beneath your coat, whipping around at the voice behind you so quickly it makes your head spin.

It takes a moment for her to fully appear, the vague shape of a body flickers for a moment before settling in front of you, forearms crossed over the bar and the faintest hint of a smirk on her face despite the gun aimed at her.

Ava Starr. 

Right - six people. Bob taking you by surprise had stopped your mental maths.

“Fuck,” The curse leaves you with a sharp exhale as you lower your gun, it’s pointless tucking it away now given that you’d almost shot Ava with it, and judging by the fact you and Valentina are still alive and breathing, you suspect Yelena knew it was there just out of sight the whole time. “I didn’t realise you were here too.”

“You didn’t watch the news report?” Ava frowns as she stands fully, walking around the bar instead of just phasing straight through it, and she goes to join the group behind you, finally a team of six. 

Yelena’s gun is still in her hand, which is thankfully down by her side, and she’s leaning against the edge of the couch, right next to Bob who’s still sat on the arm of it, looking slightly dazed. Valentina’s seemingly vanished from your side the second Ava appeared, and you spot her talking to Mel in the corner in quiet tones, and given the way Walker and Barnes both have their attention on her, you take it they can hear every word. Super-serum perks you suppose.

“Didn’t have time, I’ve been on a plane for hours.” Sweat pools in your hand from the rush of adrenaline, and your grip tightens around the weapon, partly to stop it slipping and partly to stop the shake in your hand before it starts.

“You know her?” Walker drags his attention away from Valentina, but Barnes’s focus remains on her and you’d kill to know whatever she said to make him frown the way he currently is. 

“We’ve worked together, a while back.”  Ava nods, at least confirming to the rest of the room you weren’t a total stranger.

“Switzerland.” You stop staring at Barnes to add to Ava’s half explanation, of course leaving out the mission specifics. The targets you had to take down, the things you did without question under Valentina’s orders.

“So? I’ve worked with people too who saved my ass, didn’t make them trustworthy.” Walker finally gives up with the shield and tosses it a little too hard onto the couch so it bounces off with a clatter on the floor that makes Bob flinch, his hands flying away from the blanket to guard himself like the shield had been thrown at him directly. 

He was quick to react at least, maybe he does have more experience with fighting than you first thought.

“No offence.” John adds when Ava shoots him a look that says ‘Really?’.

“None taken.” You nod with a tight smile.

Now the adrenaline’s subsiding, you're crashing harder than you already were when you first walked in, even Valentina looks blurry to you as she strides back over, but you fight the urge to rub your eyes.

“Well?” Val gestures expectantly. “How’s it going, everyone getting along now?”

“Ava,” Yelena clears her throat, ignoring Valentina’s words entirely, looking down at the gun in her hands for a moment. “Can we trust her?”

There’s a few seconds where everyone looks to Ava, waiting for her answer, except Bob, who stares right at you. There’s something lethal in his eyes, an intensity you hadn’t noticed the first time, like he’s staring straight past your flesh and bones at your very heart, and it unsettles you more than it should. Does he already know about you, maybe he’s read whatever file Valentina probably has stashed on you. Maybe they all have.

“Yeah,” Ava nods seriously as the group exchange quiet looks, and you can feel the weight of Bob's attention lift off you. “Rough around the edges, but she’s not a total bitch, so that’s a plus.” 

“Hey-” You protest as Ava holds her hands in mock surrender, but Valentina cuts off whatever she’s about to say.

“See, she’ll fit right in.” Valentina smiles pointedly, and you can’t help but notice the way she looks towards Yelena, like she’s waiting for her input. Valentina never waits for anyone’s input.

We own you.

That’s what Yelena said to her.

“Okay.” Yelena nods without looking at you and she stands fully, Bob rising with her almost in sync. It’s only now, next to Yelena, that you realise how tall he actually is without hunching over.

Okay? She had been so willing to splatter your brains across the bar, but now it’s just okay? Either the time trusted Ava more than they should, or have very low standards for just accepting someone onto their team.

“The rest of us still have things to discuss, alone,” Bob-related-things. “But Val is right, you look like you’re going to pass out so do not wait for us.”

The twitch in Valentina’s eye at the way Yelena shortens her name is clear, but she says nothing. 

You thought they were just going to let you go back to Madripoor with your skull intact, not actually let you on the team. For the first time today, you find yourself speechless, standing there mouth parted as Yelena walks past you to a door on the far side of the room.

“Welcome to the team!” Alexei booms, clasping two large hands on your shoulders with enough force to shake you like a ragdoll, and then he’s following the rest of the group slowly making their way towards the room.

“Sorry, Alexei took the last decent bedroom.” Walker nods as he passes you with a lopsided smile, he’s collected his shield from the floor and strapped it back to his arm. Is it possible for someone to have attachment issues with an inanimate object, does he sleep with that thing in his bed? 

“We’ll catch up later.” Ava’s the last one who lingers, and you give her a genuine smile when she passes you with a nudge to your shoulder. It’s tired, and only slight, but it’s real.

“Thanks, Ava.” You say only once the door closes behind her, now the eyes are off you, you tuck the gun back into your waistband.

For not letting you get shot in the head mainly.

The only person who hadn’t given you acknowledgement was Bob, even Barnes had given you a nod of acknowledgement, and you can’t stop yourself from wondering why after how he stared at you. Is he annoyed, upset, angry? Whatever it is, you don’t think he likes you that much. 

It’s fine. You aren’t here to make friends, you’re just here to do whatever Valentina tells you. He can hate you for all you care, it’s never bothered you before, it shouldn’t now. It won’t.

“Great!” Valentina pushes the fake optimism, like both of you hadn’t just been on the verge of getting shot. “Let’s get you to your room- Mel?”

The wide eyed assistant scurries over with a polite smile, she’s become an expert at dodging the mess on the floor without even looking.

“Did they finish the last one like I asked?” Valentina asks with a smile, but her tone is too harsh for her to mean it.

‘Uh,” Mel’s eyebrows raise as she glances between you and the doors she had been guarding. “No, you told me to watch the elevator to stop the contractors coming up while you were sorting… this.” Her voice trails off, unsure and quiet. Maybe she’s had even less rest than you.

Valentina sighs, shooting you an exasperated look like you might agree with her, and Mel issues a quiet apology. But you’re used to Valentina asking for the impossible, you aren’t shocked she’s the same with her assistants. 

“Right, well, you just keep doing that then? Okay, follow me.” Valentina actually snaps her fingers at you and you frown, like you’re some dog in a training ring.

Oh she’s far worse in person than you remember.

You bite your tongue as you follow her over to the elevator, shooting an apologetic smile to Mel as she returns to her spot by the elevator. Valentina hasn’t even given her a chair to sit on.

“The kitchen will be the floor below, where the helipad is, and the rooms are one level below that.” Valentina gestures to the buttons, pressing the one below the ‘OXE’ label. “We’re trying to work on the elevator locking system to stop people accessing the top floor, but we think Robert messed with the electrics yesterday, nothing's working on the main floor anymore.” She waves her hand dismissively like it’s no big deal.

You haven’t come across many powered people, but none of those you had were capable of doing anything like Bob was.

The doors of the elevator part ways to an unfinished hallway, carpet samples discarded on a floor covered in plastic sheeting like you’re walking into some murder scene from Dexter, and it doesn’t help that none of the lights are fitted, just wires sprouting from odd places in the ceiling. 

“You’re at the end.” The plastic crinkles as you step over it, and as you pass the doors you take mental note of the small labels that have been placed on each of them. Barnes and Walker were the first, then Ava and Yelena, which leaves-

Bob’s room is directly next to yours, with Alexei across from him. Great. 

Now that you’re alone with Valentina, you can at least ask what she really had planned with bringing you here, her real motive, and the question that’s been eating at you since you first spoke to Mel.

“Why didn’t you think I was coming?”

“Hm?” Valentina turns her head towards you as you rest your hand on the door handle.

“Earlier, you and your assistant seemed surprised I was here.”

“Oh, right,” Valentina laughs like you’re a child asking her the most simple thing. “The tracker is frozen in Madripoor.”

Tracker? But when did she- Oh. The phone. The phone you tossed in the harbour before getting in that car, that’s how she knew where you were too, she hadn’t even needed to ask on that call because the car was already on its way. She only did so you wouldn’t realise at the time.

“What, you didn’t seriously think I wouldn’t keep tabs on you, come on you’re smarter than that.” Valentina scoffs “But you were a good girl, you know I’d find you anyway if you didn’t come.”

Her words dump cold water over your body. She’d been right earlier, she owned you, you’ve just gone from one cage to another.

The weight of the gun burns against your waist. You could do it, you’ve done it before, you can do it, just pull it out and-

“What am I really doing here, Valentina?” Your fingers twitch on the handle, gripping the metal, stopping your body from reacting.

“Aesthetics, I need people worth rooting for, have you seen the guy Sam Wilson has as the new Falcon? No?” Valentina raises her eyebrows in surprise and brushes some fallen dust from her blazer. “Well, he’s handsome, I need more of that.”

A pretty face.

“So not my skills?” You press down on the cool metal of the handle instead of a trigger, letting the door swing open to an equally dark, unfinished room. At least there’s carpet in here.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re making a team of superheroes,” Even though there’s nothing super about you. “Not a boyband.” You grumble as you step into the room, but she doesn’t follow you, just lingers by the door like some kind of folklore creature that needs inviting in first.

“To the public, it’s the same thing, you know they actually host some Avengers con in New Jersey? Of course you haven’t.” Valentina replies to herself before you can. “People idolise heroes, and right now there’s a huge gap in the market for a team.”

A gap in the market, like you’re a product.

You hear the quiet vibration of her phone and she pulls it out for a moment, tapping on the screen with a frown before locking it.

“Get some sleep, you’re intolerable when you’re tired, and they just fixed the water so take a shower, you have a fitting for your suit tomorrow at ten, Mel will come get you.” And then she’s gone, the only thing left in her wake is heels clicking on unfinished plastic flooring.

You get a suit?

When you make a move to close the door you realise there’s no lock, you guess you’ll speak to Mel about getting one added when you wake up later. Thankfully there’s a small desk with a chair so you opt for dragging that over instead and jamming the back of it under the handle.

Despite its unfinished state, the lights not fitted, the bed with no covers, and an empty wardrobe, it’s an improvement from your apartment in Madripoor, you even have an en-suite.

There’s a huge hole in the wall beneath the sink, exposing the pipes with a few tools littered on the floor in front of it. When you kneel down you can see the small gap to the left, hidden behind the wall that hasn’t been removed.

Perfect.

The bag slips from its place on your shoulder and you place your gun inside before zipping it closed and stuffing it into the gap, pushing it forward until it’s decently hidden behind the wall between the sink and the bathtub.

Now you have nothing, no possessions, no clothes, nothing with sentimental value. But at least there’s toiletries already in here, another thing you guess you owe Mel thanks for. 

Your clothes are peeled off and left in a pile on the bathroom floor, you have to grip the shower wall just to keep yourself upright when the warm water hits you and you wash away the grime of the last day. You consider staying there, sitting yourself down on the floor in the warmth and letting the sound of the water lull you into sleep, but you don’t plan on drowning today. Once you’re satisfied you’re clean, you shut the water off and force yourself to step out of the steam and into the frigid air of the bathroom.

The towel feels like it’s made of a cloud when you wrap it around you, soft and warm from the heated rack and you can’t remember a time you’ve had such a small luxury. Maybe you’ll ask for a TV too, you really should catch up with the news, you just aren’t ready to be part of it. But you no longer have a choice, you never did in the first place.

As you fall asleep, still wrapped in the towel beneath the bare comforter, you think about something you read about Steve Rogers once, maybe in a book or an article. It was some story told by his ex-love, Peggy Carter, about how he used to view himself as a circus monkey, performing for all those crowds back in the war before they let him be a real soldier.

You didn’t quite understand what he felt like until now.

The Watchtower - April 28th 2027 - 21:25 pm

One thing that you can’t blame on the concussion alone is that you aren’t hungry. Your mouth always feels dry — which you put down to the medication — so every bite of food tastes like bland mush as you bite, chew, and swallow over and over and over again. 

Even though you knew this would end some day, as much as you stored the thought beneath floorboards and behind unfinished walls, you didn’t expect it to be this soon, and it’s given way to a brand new feeling. Nostalgia. Every place you left had one thing in common, you never looked back on it, you never allowed yourself to immerse yourself in the moments enough to reminisce, and you hadn’t ever let it be about more than work.

But now, sitting at the small table, all you can think about is how you used to love sneaking up to the kitchen at night for a snack when you couldn’t sleep, rarely alone.

Late night bowls of cereal were always exchanged, you and Bob laughing at your face on the box the first few times you’d seen the branding, back then you’d kicked him under the table and told him he’d be on there soon enough. A fond memory circles the slowly emptying drain of your mind of you and Yelena drawing moustaches complete with angry eyebrows over John's face on every box you had (which was a lot of them.) He’d been angry the next morning, but you’d caught the secret smile in one of the days that followed when he added a monobrow to Yelena’s face. 

The chicken and vegetables on the plate in front of you seem lonely now, almost sad as they stare up at you alongside the half empty cup of electrolytes. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” You stare pointedly at your meal, poking at a dry, tasteless carrot before repeating the process of bite, chew, swallow, and repeat. “I don’t belong here anymore.” 

All it takes is one wrong movement in your seat, one bite that’s too harsh on your jaw, and the ringing starts again.

Nausea burns the back of your throat and the tower sways around you, yet nothing moves except the lights which blind you so much that you have to close your eyes. A pathetic noise sounding dangerously close to a whimper breaks free from the containment of your throat and you have to clutch the fork in your hand so tightly that the harsh edge of the handle bites your skin, just to stop your hands from flying to your head to make sure it hadn’t spontaneously split open. 

You’re okay, it’ll pass.

It’s something you’ve told yourself so many times since the incident that you can’t even remember when you started doing it, was it when you got shot? When you woke up connected to machines and surrounded by strangers sweating you? Or maybe the times you lashed out like a cornered dog at John and Ava and told yourself those times didn’t hurt the most.

Luckily for you, the pain does pass after a few moments, but your mouth’s now dry and your stomach is turning from the sickness it left behind, but you need to keep the contents of your stomach, well, in your stomach. 

Right, one step at a time. You relax your stiff hand from its grip around the fork, drawing air into your burning lungs, and press your feet into the floor. Firm. Solid. Not swaying. Your eyes are the last step.

The first thing you see is an orange box, mocking you from where it’s tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. 

This one is unblemished, no silly drawings over faces or speech bubbles, it hasn't even been opened, and the kitchen holds its breath with you as you contemplate the opportunity, a small parting gift. It’ll be like closure, you’ve never needed it before, but if it helps the ache of nostalgia, you’ll consider it.. Maybe you could find a pen after you get yourself a bowl, seeing as you need to at least force something down before the flight. 

The thought warms your chest with something other than the fire you’ve been burning and your legs are only just bracing themselves to stand when you freeze, cursing internally at the sound of approaching voices.

“Fuck.” You curse under your breath. 

Glancing down at your half full plate, you wonder whether you just leave the evidence of your presence and make a dash for the elevator, or at least try to shove it in the trash on your way out so they wouldn’t know you had been here.

Neither option is viable when the room sways again the moment you stand fully upright, and the chair meets the back of your legs before you even realise you’ve sat down again.

Your whole body tenses like you’re preparing for a fight you can’t see when Yelena and Alexei come down the stairs in the main room, on their way to the kitchen. They must have been in one of the rooms on the top level, usually reserved for meeting briefings, the only other thing up there is Valentina’s office.

It could be worse, it could have been-

There’s a booming laugh that makes you flinch, only slightly, but it’s enough of a reason for Yelena to nudge her father in the side when she spots you, and you quickly turn away. The last time you saw Yelena was when you were being sedated, and you hadn’t seen her father since the truck ride to the warehouse. Even with your eyes fixed on your plate, forcing yourself to eat so you don’t raise suspicion, you hear their footsteps slow, approaching the kitchen carefully. 

Clearly John and Ava have fed back your volatile mood if they’re skirting around some invisible perimeter like you might snap if they get too close. And that would be for the best, just another thing to make it easier to not look back.

“Oh- right, sorry.” Alexei whispers, not so quietly. 

Just eat the food. You’re okay, it’ll pass.

You take a bite of chicken and broccoli, chasing it down with a swig of the salty drink to make up for the lack of saliva and desire to eat, and force yourself to chew faster. A glance at the clock on the oven tells you there’s only five minutes until your physical therapy session. 

The grating metal noise of a toaster sets off the ache at the base of your skull, lights glowing brighter.

No, not again, you only just got it to calm down.

Bite, chew, swallow, repeat.

You blink, trying to will the haze away but the stench of strawberry pop tarts is nauseating. The artificial sweetener transforms your mouth from a desert to being flooded in an instant.

Do not throw up. Do not throw up. Do not throw-

“Ooh, chicken and vegetables, very nutritious!”

You wince at the volume by your ear, looking up to Alexei who’s now seating himself at the kitchen table opposite you, the chair creaking under his weight.

“Alexei,” Comes Yelena's soft warning as she opens the fridge door just behind him, half paying attention to her father, and half browsing the contents in front of her, she doesn’t look at you once. 

Another piece of chicken is at the mercy of your fork as you stab it, hard enough to hit the plate, and you bring it to your lips. 

Bite, chew, swallow and repeat. 

You’re okay, it’ll pass.

There’s two carrots, three pieces of broccoli, and half a chicken breast left, too much for you to finish in peace in just a few minutes. You ignore the mounting pressure behind your eyes and keep chewing, thankful at least for the excuse to not talk, you’re not sure you’d be able to keep your food down if you had to. 

Yelena grabs the milk, opening the box of cereal you’d been staring at before, and you pretend not to notice when she takes a pen and draws a frowny face over Bucky. A ghost of yourself from just a few weeks ago lingers for a second, and you want to swallow so you can attempt to smile and tell her that you wanted to do the same thing, but you can’t. Not anymore.

“You need food to help you grow big and strong! I’m not sure what your parents were like, but when little Yelena wouldn’t eat her vegetables, I would-“ 

It’s the kind of cut that reopens an old scar you never paid much attention to, not really when there were so many others tucked deep inside, but the nausea returns in full swing and douses you with ice water. 

You put up a good fight to keep your fork from shaking, and you would have won it, but when you meet Yelena’s eyes for the first time and her look of undeserving sympathy hits you square in the chest like a physical blow, you let it drop to the plate with a clatter that cuts Alexei off. 

The chair legs scrape along the floor when you stand abruptly, and you toss your half full plate into the garbage on your way across the kitchen, not just the food, but the whole damn thing. 

Parents, or lack thereof, isn’t another thing you need to be reminded of, not right now. Not when invisible hands slide up your body and rest on your throat, when every cut on your body feels like it’s on the verge of splitting open and your head might implode. 

The room falls into a shameful silence when you barely manage to storm towards the elevator with the sharp pain in your side which has you fighting to stay balanced, every step making your body scream as you go against all the advice from your doctors to take it easy. That constant reminder of all the injuries beneath your clothes, which only amplifies the hushed words of ‘What did I say?’ And ‘Nothing Alexei, just give her time.’ roars in your ears as you make your escape. 

Like some divine intervention, the doors to the elevator are just opening, and you almost fall straight into someone as they step out, the tall figure stumbling to the side as they exit, away from your unexpected warpath. 

“Hey-“

Not now.

The words don’t make it out of your mouth. Your heart is stuttering like a broken engine as you slam your palm against the ‘close doors’ symbol instead of replying. Hands tremble, seeking something steady, and press to the elevator wall. 

Dark blue eyes swim with concern in that brief second before the doors close, your name called in a soft tone that barely reaches past the pounding in your head. Leather squeaks over the ringing in your ear when the hands tighten.

It’s only when you see just the reflection of your own sunken eyes in the polished doors do you let yourself sink down to the floor. You need to focus on getting changed for your final physical therapy session, you need to get yourself under control, but instead your brain unwillingly replays the last time you had almost thrown up in this elevator. Something else that had brought nausea knocking at the door of your body just last month, but you feel like you’ve aged a lifetime since then.

The party.

The fucking party.

The Watchtower - April 7th 2027 - 7:59pm

“And tonight, you are charming, you talk to the potential donors, shake their hands, laugh at their jokes.” Valentina briefs the team in a way John once referred to a being like a teacher preparing her class for a school trip she already knows they’ll misbehave on. 

You’re all lingering by the elevators on the residence levels, and in the small bouts of silence between Valentina’s lectures you can just catch the  music filtering down from the penthouse levels above where a party is being held. Yet another private fundraiser with people who are desperate for you to know how much they have in their ‘Portfolios’ and want you to jump through hoops to have them donate it. 

“Pretty sure the original avengers didn’t have to do this.” John grumbles next to you and you mutter a quiet agreement. 

Your mood tonight depends on three things. First, if the catering team have made those little spring rolls you could steal an entire tray of, secondly, if the events team had hired half decent musicians (hopefully they had learned from the awful Christmas DJ), and thirdly-

“Sorry, Bob needed help with his tie!” Molly’s soft voice cascades over the room as she practically glides down the hallway to where the rest of you stand, her arm linked with Bob’s. It’s none of your business, which is exactly why you haven’t asked Bob about it, but lately the ‘team assistant’ seemed to be more ‘Bob’s babysitter’. 

Being stood closest to the elevator grants you the excuse to not respond and right now you’re thankful for the extra seconds it gives you to be able to tame the expression on your face. It’s not that you don’t like Molly, no, you’re just looking out for your friend is all, and you haven’t had any reason to trust her yet.

Bob is good with his hands. You’ve seen him fold a piece of paper into a miniature animal with his eyes closed, there've been too many occasions of waking up beside him with your hair in braids from where he’s busied his hands as a distraction from sleep, and you also know he can tie his own tie. 

When you finally mask your irritation at the clear lie, you turn to face the rest of the team. Molly looks like something crossed between Marilyn Monroe and a catwalk model, a bright smile on her face as she compliments Yelena’s suit and Ava’s hair, it dims slightly when Bob detaches himself from her, shuffling his way past Bucky and John to step closer to you.

“Hey,” You force a smile onto his face when you take him in, a simple black suit and tie and you find yourself uncharacteristically wanting to reach out and run your hands along the rich material, it looks soft. “You look good.”

His throat flexes as he swallows, accepting your words with a tight smile as he fidgets with the cuffs of his suit jacket. Under the lights, his face appears almost tinged pink, probably from where he’s been in a rush to get ready. Despite Molly's assistance, his tie’s a little off and so you reach up without hesitating to adjust it, fingers inches from his pulse. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch John watching you, and your hands falter when you realise Bob’s turned to a statue under your touch. Fuck- is this weird? Should you not be doing this? Is he annoyed at you?

“Sorry,” You clear your throat and break away from looking at John, staring up at Bob with a slight frown. “It was still crooked.”

He manages the slightest nod, eyes raking over you as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, finally breathing and acting like a normal person once more. Or as normal as Bob could be when he’s about to be stuck in a room full of strangers in formal attire and be asked questions he’s not allowed to give answers to. 

“Thanks… you-” 

“Well the original avengers had Tony Stark to pay for everything, you don’t.” Valentina huffs in response to John’s complaint from moments ago, cutting off whatever Bob was about to say as she presses the elevator button, or rather, gets Mel to press the elevator button. As usual, she never lifted a finger if she could make someone else do it for her. 

“Aren’t you a multi-millionaire?” Yelena squints as she adjusts the blazer on her suit. 

God what you’d give to be wearing pants right now. 

Your stylist has dressed you in something that showed far too much thigh for your liking, a fitted black dress that fell somewhere between the gap of light and feminine and sex appeal, more scandalous than the one from the Christmas party. The torso section is tightly fitted with a lace up back that shows skin between the gaps, although it had no corset lines it certainly felt just as suffocating as one, and just below your waist it flared out with a short, ruffled skirt that only just met your finger tips. 

The shoes, however, are the worst part. They pinch all the wrong places on your feet and have exactly zero grip on polished floor, you may as well be ice skating for the next few hours. At least they give you a few inches of extra height, and maybe offer you an excuse to get out of dancing.

“Thanks to the U.S. government freezing most of my assets, and the rest being tied into investments, we’ll all just have to make do, won’t we?” Valentina’s voice is sickly sweet as the spotless Avengers symbol on the door rotates open and the seven of you, plus Mel and Molly, all pack into the elevator.

You’re mentally calculating the weight capacity and weighing up your preference on crashing to your death in the metal box compared to schmoozing with millionaires when Bob's hand finds yours, already warm and sweating. You don’t mind it all that much.

He’s been on the quiet side today, a ball of anxious energy despite how exhausted he must be. Last night he’d crawled into your bed which wasn’t entirely unusual now, not since that night three months ago which you may or may not have still kept secret from the team, but it was out of the ordinary when he stayed awake almost the whole night. 

At least there weren’t any shadows. No, not since that first time. 

You still know as much about the void part of him as you do the workings of physics and the universe. So exactly nothing. But hey, as long as the only shadows in your room were cast by ordinary objects, you both quietly counted it as a win. 

You don’t even need to look at him to know the expression on his face right now and suck in a slight breath when you squeeze his hand. It’s large and solid against your own when he squeezes back, the small action sending warmth up your arm and into your face. 

The small box seems to have changed climates entirely, the air turning as thick as Madripoor summer when you feel Bob’s pulse dancing with your own in your interlocked fingers. Something shifts by your ear as he leans down, keeping his voice quiet, for the two of you alone despite the presence of three supersoldiers for the twelve second elevator ride upstairs.

“I was gonna say you look really-“

Ding!

“Showtime people, smiles on.” 

You catch a look at Valentina’s warped grin in the metal doors of the elevator, before they split apart, and all eyes are on your group. You aren’t even sure he finishes the sentence; words now lost to a heavy chatter of voices. Somewhere in the organised chaos, you lose your hold on his hand, and then you’re fed to the sharks in the penthouse.

Midnight. That’s how long you have to last and then you can pull some Cinderella stunt and get back to your room. You made Bob watch The Devil Wears Prada the other night, maybe you guys can watch the second one tonight, if you can somehow get a message to him to steal a tray of spring rolls from the catering team. 

Bob’s pulled away from the group almost immediately, his arm linked with Molly’s as he’s pulled away from being the centre of attention. As his powers still aren’t under control he’s not technically on the team, not publicly at least, but it’s easier to keep him close at the events than to avoid the swirl of rumours that speculate on him. You’d take the media digging into your past any day over them looking into his. 

The lineup you stand in behind Valentina as she delivers her speech to the crowd matches the one on the cereal box, and the posters, god who knew being an Avenger came with so many photoshoots. 

“Smile,” John whispers next to you and it’s only then you realise you’re frowning, eyes vacant as you stare into the crowd like you’re looking for something. Immediately you pull your shoulders back, straightening as much as you can without your dress squeezing your chest, and force an easy smile. Like you’re happy to be here.

Just until midnight. 

That’s what you tell yourself when Valentina’s speech finishes, and it loops around your mind for the next two hours. You’re halfway to your goal, you can almost taste freedom, then you can take off the slippery heels and get out of the too-tight dress. A dress which a man twice your age is currently staring down the top section of. 

Over the last few years since the blip, you’ve become more and more irritated by behaviour from men that you never used to think twice about, but with his wandering hand about to place itself on your hip, dangerously close to the exposed skin on your back, you begin formulating an escape plan and sip your tonic water in a champagne flute.

You’ve successfully evaded invitations to dance with a light, practiced giggle, complaining about wearing the ‘not-right’ shoes, and most of them moved on. Not this guy.

“You know, young lady, I’m sure I could be persuaded into providing a little funding… maybe you’d like a new suit, one that’s better for showing off this lovely figure.”

The man eyes you hungrily, a slimy tongue running over his thin lips in a way he must think appears seductive, but only ignites violence in your thoughts when you contemplate how much trouble you’d get in for spearing the stem of your glass into his neck. Yeah, sir, that’s not happening.

The smile on your lips aches when you fight back a snarl as you step away carefully, dodging his hovering hand.

“Will you excuse me? I just need to grab a drink.”

“But you haven’t even finished that-“

He’s already out of earshot as you cut through the crowd, squeezing the stem of the flute tightly and picturing the man’s throat instead. 

The bar calls to you through the crowd like a homing beacon and you slink off towards it, not for a drink but just an excuse to look busy. You all but slam the glass down as you survey the room for your fellow team members.

Or rather, just one of them, who both is, and isn’t technically a team member.

You blame your ability to find him so quickly because of the way he’s taller than most of the crowd. It had nothing to do with the way he was always the first person you looked for in a crowded room… or empty room… or any room. He’s currently standing on the far side of the room, Molly still beside him either on orders from Valentina or her own personal preference. 

“Y’know, out of the whole team I’m the one who’s had a successful marriage.“

John’s voice makes you jump, losing your focus on the pair as he slides up to the bar beside you, with a half full glass of wine. It still surprises you that people drink wine for the taste, especially super soldiers who metabolise the alcohol at a pace that makes drinking it meaningless. 

Now that you’re less caught off guard you process his words and choke back a laugh at the last part. 

“Successful?”

“Yes, as in I successfully got married.” He tilts his head at you and shrugs, like his sentiment is obvious. 

The bartender trades your tonic filled champagne flute for a regular glass of tonic water with fresh ice and you murmur a small thank you. It almost looks like a gin and tonic when he adds the lime. 

This time last year it would have been Zara serving you, without the ice because you didn’t exactly trust the tap water in that city, and it would have been easy to evade the current topic of conversation, but not with John. 

The public really didn’t give him enough credit for how insightful he was, and to be honest neither did you, not until now.

“That’s not what successful marriage means, but please continue.” 

“Alright, whatever, but at least let me offer you some advice,” John sips his wine as he turns, resting his back against the bar as he joins you in looking over the crowded room. “Because let’s face it, you’re not going anywhere at this pace.”

“Okay, and where is it that you think I want to go?” You stir the ice in your glass with a straw, frowning at the tiny circles. How do they even make circular ice? 

John ignores your question.

“I saw the whole titanic thing on the balcony last night y’know,” Now you feel like ice, a statue glued to the floor, you knew you shouldn’t have let your guard down last night. 

John continues, knowing if he waits any longer you’ll interrupt, “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Your eyes land on Bob again, across the room, he’s wrapped in shadows and his silhouette is only just illuminated by the soft glow of the lights. He’s not an official avenger… but you wouldn’t have lasted this long on the team without him. 

Bob. Your friend. Your best friend.

He’s so far away in the sea of people, it’s far too dark for you to know if you make eye contact, but you can feel it the second his eyes meet yours across the room. For once, it doesn’t fill you with warmth, but dread.

“Knew it, you looked right at him.” John’s voice drips with the arrogance in thinking he was right (which he isn’t) and you break your stare to glare at him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It slips out as a reflex and John isn’t buying a single damn word of it, no, right now he’s a dog with a bone. A bone that doesn’t even exist.

“Oh I think I do, you loo-” 

An elbow to his ribs cuts off his sing-song tone and dampens his arrogant grin. Barely.

“Shut up.” It’s meant to be a demand, but comes across more like a plea instead. Oh god you can’t be this pathetic over something that isn’t even happening, that will never happen- that can’t happen-

“No, it’s sweet, you and Bobby,” John laughs, his smugness sobering at the look on your face and he stops himself from whatever he was going to say, and nudges your shoulder with his own instead. You never had brothers, of course the handlers you had when you were younger owned others your age, but you imagine this is what it must be like to really have one. 

“Believe it or not I am a romantic, there’s a reason I had the whole high school sweetheart thing before, well…” John fixes his eyes on his glass for a moment with a lopsided smile. 

It’s sad, not in the way that would make you cringe and tease him, but if you were anyone friendlier, maybe you’d give him a hug. 

“Yeah, well, that’s different. There’s nothing going on with me and Bob, he was just helping me get over my fear of heights, which is necessary thanks to you putting me on the upper ground next week.” You keep your voice low, barely referencing the mission details. It’s a simple interception of drugs, something that could easily be dealt with by police and the DEA, but for some reason it had ended up on the team's radar. 

You had begged John to switch your position with Yelena’s when you immediately had a bad feeling about you being in the beams, which was swiftly denied. 

John shakes his head as he pushes himself off the bar, a look on his face that says ‘I’m tired of your bullshit, own up.’

“I’m serious, John,” You narrow your eyes at John and the stupid smirk over his wine glass, clearly he’s not as insightful as you thought he was just 60 seconds ago. He couldn’t be more wrong. 

“Yeah but you didn’t see how he was looking at you-“

“He’s my friend, he was probably just making sure I wouldn’t accidentally fall and push us both off the edge.” You take a drink of the tonic water, crunching a bit of ice between your teeth. 

Despite the way he talks about himself sometimes, Bob is one of the kindest people you’ve ever met. Everything he did came from a good place, as misguided as some of his actions were, how much guilt that still weighed him down after the day he almost swallowed the city in darkness, he’d only wanted to do good. To help people. 

You however? You’re nothing more than a dog who does what it’s told. 

Your hands aren’t skilled with anything but a weapon, you couldn’t even crochet a gift right with basic instructions, and every attempt you’d made at the most simple origami creature from the kids book Bob gave you to keep your hands busy only made you more frustrated when they didn’t come out as perfectly as his did, and he didn’t even need to stupid step by step guides. 

Bob and you are both jagged pieces of a puzzle that mirror each other but could never fit together. 

“Come on, otherwise I’ll stop talking to you, and that old guys been watching you from the moment you walked away from him, I’m sure he’d love to-”

John is willing to throw you to the wolves over this?!

“Wait- hang on!” You grab John’s arm quickly, dragging him back to the bar, which was surprisingly easy given he’s a super-soldier. 

John raises his eyebrows at you, placing his glass down with finality, and waits for you to talk. 

You’ll just lie… tell John what he wants to hear, and then he’ll drop it. You can say you’ll talk to Bob, then when John next asks you can just say both of you agreed it wouldn’t work. You’ll have to explain this plan to Bob later so you’re both on the same page of course, and you can both laugh at how stupid John’s being. Seeing things that aren’t there. 

Yeah, that’s a good plan.

“I don’t know, but theoretically-” You’re convincing, you don’t think you’ve  ever sounded so unsteady, not even beneath the mistletoe at the Christmas party, and John rolls his eyes at your choice in words, “If I did like him, whenever I think things are… he gets all…”

“Scared?” John supplies the word for you, buying into it.

Truth is, if it was real, that would be terrifying to you. Not just the prospect of having to lay your heart bare to someone who could easily reject it, but the constant vulnerability. The very concept of it had been stripped out of you at a young age, you’d only re-learned the idea of trust for the sake of following orders to be on the team, to fit in. To have more than… feel more than that, is a whole other unknown. One you thankfully don’t have to deal with. 

“Yeah, scared.” You swallow convincingly, and take a final sip of tonic water to soothe the surprising tightness in your throat, absentmindedly switching the attention of your hands to the stack of napkins instead of swirling the ice around your glass. 

Crisp, firm, this’ll do.

With your back to Bob, and Molly, and the rest of the room, you start folding.

“Has he said why?” John hums, fingers drumming on the edge of the marble bartop. 

“No, but I think on his side it has something to do with the Void…” Just don’t mention the time your room was covered in weird shadows. “He’s gotten weird about it a few times…”

Understatement of the year, even for a lie.

You make another fold, judging the angles with just your fingers, maybe Bob was right yesterday, you are finally getting better with practice.

“Well, theoretically, if you did have feelings for him, my advice would be to tell him.” 

You set him up to say that, you wanted him to say that, and yet you still bark a laugh, shaking your head, and look to your side where John’s standing, expecting that self assured smirk, but there’s no trace of it, no aura of arrogance, he’s serious. 

“It isn’t that easy, John,” You recover from your misstep.

Really, how did he make it this far in a military career without being able to see through lies?

“Why not?” 

“It just isn’t.” 

“Seems pretty easy.” John shrugs like he’s just arguing with a stubborn child.

“Yeah for you maybe.” You scoff again before you can stop yourself, you aren’t supposed to be arguing with him, you’re supposed to be going along with it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John frowns, folding his arms as he leans his side against the bar, watching your hands toy with the napkin as you fold. You aren’t even watching anymore, just staring at the rows of bottles behind the bar.

“These things aren’t simple, not for people like me, John.”

“What- What does that mean, ‘people like you’?” Concern seeps into his voice like a drop of blood in water and you fold again.

“People like me John,” You repeat lightly as you make the last adjustment, which you’re glad for because your body believes your own lie to the point your hands threaten to tremble. “I can’t have the things you have, I can’t have a life like yours, I can’t have a-”

“A what, if this is about Bob, I’m not saying you-” his fingers are inches from your wrist, but that’s not what makes you flinch, it’s the tiny animal that tumbles from your hands onto the bar.

You’ve made plenty of them sure, but always with mistakes and always with the stupid dumbed down instructions, this one looked like one of Bob’s, small and perfect. 

“Holy fuck, I did it.” The swan sits on the countertop, staring up at you. 

“You made a paper crane?” John reaches for it but you cradle it in your hand before he can snatch it up.

“No- It’s a swan, but it’s…” Stupid. That’s what it is. It's so goddamn stupid and childish, and you can’t help but smile down at the tiny thing. And then you laugh, and John must think you’re insane or having some sort of breakdown with how he’s looking at you. 

“I can make a paper swan.” You breathe out like the ability to fold a napkin is the biggest revelation of your damn life.

You spin around, glass in one hand, napkin swan in the other, and spot Bob just a few feet to the left of where he stood before, still with Molly beside him, and you guess now is as good a time as any to keep your end of the usual promise you both keep to each other sane during these things. At least you could show him your little achievement.

“I need to talk to him.”

“What? That- I’ve just been giving you advice and a napkin is what makes you-“

“A swan,” You correct.

“Fine, a swan. What- you’re going now? Nine months and you’re doing it now?”

Yeah I’m going to go tell Bob I love him, be back in five minutes?

You fight the laugh only because it sounds so stupid just saying it in your head, but you need to keep playing along, to keep John off your back. “I just need to talk to him, I always check up on him during these stupid fundraisers.”

John sighs, deflated as he shakes his head, plucking the half forgotten glass of wine from the bar.

“And I told Valentina I’d stay until midnight, which means I need you to cover for me if she asks where I am, thanks!” The words tumble from your mouth and then you’re quickly making your break for it, ignoring John’s protests behind you.

You just have to keep your head down, look like you’re busy, and you should be able to make it through the crowd unscathed by boring conversations with businessmen and the occasional wife who turns her nose up at the sight of you.

Your sights are set on Molly, who tucks her hair behind her ear as she smiles adoringly up at Bob, sipping elegantly on her champagne without leaving a trace of lipstick on her glass, almost certainly not paying attention to the congresswoman that Bob was speaking with. his hands nervously unbuttoning and rebuttoning the cuff on his suit jacket. 

It only takes seven steps from the bar, you’re just another fifteen from Bob, and before the floor’s sliding beneath your feet.

These fucking heels.

You stumble for just a second, barely tilting enough for your glass to spill, and then someone’s hand grips your waist to steady you. The glass of wine in the man’s hand makes you assume it’s John, but the breath rolling down your neck quickly corrects that thought.

“Hello there, you know, I’ve been wanting to ask you for a dance all night.” 

The man isn’t entirely old, younger than fifty at least, he could be considered handsome with dark hair just slightly greying at the temples, and deep, brown eyes. But those eyes contain the same look as most of the men you’ve ended up killing in your old line of work as they rake up and down your body, lingering on your chest when he positions himself in front of you, blocking your view of Bob.

“Oh- Thank you but-“

The man’s hand slips to your back, his cold fingers running themselves along the parts of your skin not covered by the cross-crossing lace up ribbons, any lower and you would be breaking it. Causing a scene be damned. Despite the smile you wear, you aren’t playing nice when you angle your face up, leaning close to the man’s ear.

“Remove your hand, or I’ll cut it off.” You whisper, just enough so it looks like flirting instead of threatening, knowing Valentina likely had her eyes on you right now. 

But so did someone else.

Somewhere in the room, a glass breaks, and you pull away at the same time the man drops his hand from your back, just in time to watch a crowd part with quiet murmurs at whatever was going on.

There’s a tall figure stalking towards the elevator with long strides, and you catch the flash of blonde hair just making it in before the door closes. 

Bob.

You need to go check he’s okay. Did something happen before you could get to him, has someone said something? It’ll piss Valentina off, the scene you’re both going to end up causing, but you’ll take the repercussions.

The man’s about to reach for you again, but a firm hand clasps the shoulder off his suit, which is probably expensive from the way he tries to push it off and whips around to see John standing in front of him. You’re satisfied with the way he’s choking on his own words, face turning red.

“Excuse me.” John says calmly as he keeps his grip on the man’s shoulder. He’d been watching the whole thing, probably waiting to see if you were actually going to talk to Bob, or if you just wanted to escape from the conversation.

It takes a beat for the conversation in the room to start flowing normally again, and John gives you a nod, a silent nudge that he agrees you should go check on Bob. 

You don’t stop, not even to pass off your glass to a waiter. There’s an uncomfortable buzzing beneath your skin when you reach the elevator, the red and silver Avengers logo rotates to lock you in for your short journey down. You slide off your heels with a quiet curse, kicking them into the corner of the elevator. 

Your heart seems to have found a new place in your body by climbing up your throat. 

“Come on.” You keep slamming the button for the residential floors, hoping that’s where he went. You need to know he’s okay, he could be having a panic attack, or hurt his hand on the cut glass… or that darker side of him, the one that brought the shadows to your room, could-

The metal box lurches to a stop, doors opening to the corner of the lit hallway, maybe he’s gone to his room.

Your mouth is already open, air already in your lungs to call his name when you see them the second you turn the corner. Bob’s back is facing you, just the edge of his face showing, he’s saying something but you’re too far away to hear, now your heels are off your footsteps have been muffled by the carpet, avoiding any attention from the pair. And Molly— her hand’s resting on the arm of his suit as she steps closer to him. He doesn’t push it away. If she’s seen you standing there, she makes no indication.

Her other hand raises in the space between them.

She doesn’t- 

Oh. 

She does. 

She must do if she just touched his face like that, the way you had so many times. But she isn’t you, the way she touches him… it’s different. Molly is beautiful, and kind, and funny, and probably hadn’t hurt as many people as you had. She isn’t as damaged as you are.

Bob and Molly. It makes sense. Practically rolls off the damn tongue. You can already see the magazine articles now that Valentina would have them interview for, about the troubled and handsome sort-of-avenger, and the team's assistant, finding love by chance. 

But it doesn’t matter, because you don’t feel that way for him.

You’re frozen to the spot for half a second. That’s all it takes for her to lean the rest of her way up to him, to let her eyes flutter closed and press her lips to his for just a moment. Then the glass slides from your grip. 

There’s a shattering sound, but you’re not certain it comes from the shards of glass and ice that now scatter on the floor in glittering pieces amongst the fizzing water that soaks into the carpet. No. It comes from inside you. You can feel it. And you don’t know why it feels like your ribs have been crushed inwards, that they’ve pierced all of your organs and now you’re standing here, drowning in perfectly breathable air, and your heart is bleeding.

They both break apart. Molly stares at you with an expression you’ve never seen her wear, something that could be mistaken for regret at this distance, and Bob looks startled and confused. Like he can’t even process you standing in front of him. 

There’s red on his lips, even though there hadn’t been any on her glass just minutes ago, like she’d freshly put it on just for him.

Oh, this… this isn’t a nice feeling at all.

There’s a lump in your throat that doesn’t budge when you clear it, staring at the mess on the floor just inches away from your bare feet. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you guys.” The words are glass shards passing your lips, tearing at the corners of your mouth, painful to get out.

Bob calls out your name, peeling himself away, but you’re already rounding the corner back to the elevator. 

In contrast to how your left hand had lost the grip on your drink, the small origami swan is crushed in your right palm, sharp edges of the paper digging in your skin. It seems so stupid now, so sentimental. It means nothing, so you let it go, dropping it to the floor before stumbling into the elevator and you slam your hand on the ‘close door’ button. 

“Wait, please-“

Bob’s calling your name as he emerges from the hallway, but your eyes are fixed on the floor, on the tiny specks and patterns, trying to find anything to distract yourself as you keep pressing the damn button. It’s a mercy from above that they entomb you when they do, before he can reach you. 

“Don’t be so fucking stupid.” You laugh, a rasping, empty sound from your hollow chest and your breath fogs up the mirror. “You don’t love him.”

There’s twelve seconds before you’re back in the storm of the party. Twelve seconds to turn your world back on its axis and push down the question of when the hell you let it be pulled out of orbit. 

When you raise your head to look in the mirror, you expect the person staring back to be full of anger, dripping with rage and disgust like you’ve come to expect. Instead you’re faced down by watery eyes, a trembling lower lip, and bare shoulders that shake under the weight of half restrained sobs. 

Fragile. Weak. 

Those are the words that you mentally paint across the reflection of the girl in the mirror when you stand abruptly, reeling backwards. Something solid knocks against your feet when you hit the opposite wall, your shoes. Right — you better put those on.

Why are you even upset? 

Bob’s your friend, you should be happy for him, he’s always struck you as a romantic, he deserves someone to be romantic with. You became friends with him for the good of the team. Nothing else. It doesn’t matter if Molly replaces you as the person he gravitates towards on the nights he needs something to hold him together, if she takes the spot next to him on movie nights, if they fall asleep under the same blanket woven together by your sleepless nights. 

You turn to face the doors once more, the crimson symbol taunting you with the weight of its meaning. Strength. 

“Pull yourself together, you could never deserve him anyways.”

The doors part for a second time that night, and this time you welcome it as an escape, instead of something to escape from. Bob’s clearly changing. Maybe you should too. 

The first one down is a glass of champagne from the first tray you pass when you exit the elevator, empty by the time you get to the bar.

“Tequila.” 

Your fingers drum themselves along the countertop, itching for something to do, something to hold. You’d rather cut them off than fold another napkin swan.

“Do you mean tonic?” It’s the same one who’s served you them all night, lips twisted in a smile like you’re joking around with him.

“Tequila,” You repeat.

“Uh, okay- With?” He stiffens at your tone, you’re being too harsh.

“Tequila.” It was Zara’s shot of choice, she never messed with any of the fancy combinations. Something about whatever gets you drunk the quickest being the best. So tequila it is. 

The first burns your nose when it goes down, making the champagne seem like lemonade in comparison, and you tap the glass twice on the bar, examining it in your hands as you wait for a refill. Zara used to have a little novelty collection of these, each with a different place on them, she liked to collect things, you remember that now. 

“Are you sure- Miss DeFontaine said-“ You meet the bartenders uneasy stare with a look of your own to cut him off. Bob was the only member of the team who wasn’t supposed to drink, you just chose not to. It’s fine.

“It’s good, mine’s just a preference.” Your lips feel almost tingly, the words move slower around your mouth, like chewing gum.

“You are in good spirits!” Alexei comes up behind you, heavy footsteps announcing his prescience before he even speaks, and he grins as he gestures to your glass. 

“Mmhm, yeah,” The second shot burns less, the taste slightly less noticeable. “I really, really am!”

The bartender exchanges Alexei’s empty glass of vodka and half melted ice for a new one, but you’re quicker to take it. It’s the brand he likes, the one that smells like jet fuel, and now you know the taste is just the same. 

You feel miles better already, this was all you needed, to relax for once, to let go of everything. Let go of Bob.

“You should take it slow on that stuff, eh?” Alexei sounds so quiet in comparison to the music, you can barely hear him. He raises his hand to someone across the bar, probably ordering another drink seeing as you stole his from under him. 

“I’m good,” You rasp, the circular ball of ice hitting your teeth from the force you tip the glass back with. Oh right, you’d been wondering about those earlier, with John, when you were talking about-

“She okay?” American. Not Alexei.

Is who okay?

You spare a look over your shoulder, it’s only John. Isn’t he supposed to be schmoozing with the crowd? Aren’t you? But you’re having a much better time here. At least it isn’t Bucky, you don’t think you could deal with his questions right now. You’d prefer Ava though, she’s more fun.

You go to take another sip of the vodka but it’s already empty. The bartenders left the bottle in reach though so you top it up, watching the ice bob up and down. 

“Hey,” Fingers snap in front of your face. Well that’s just rude. Or maybe appropriate, you’re just a dog after all. “What happened?”

“Hm?” You turn your head and the whole room spins with you, sending you tilting to the side. Stupid shoes.

John's smile fades when he has to shoot his hands out at the last second to catch you because he’s not sure he’s ever seen you so clumsy before, and he forces it to stay on his face when confusion swims in his eyes at the collection of empty glasses beside you, your lipstick decorating every rim. The gears in his head begin turning.

Where’d Alexei go?

“What do you mean- You… you went after Bob?” He frowns at you carefully, lowering his voice like some big secret is about to be revealed. “You were going to tell him-”

“Nothing happened with Bob.” You shrug casually in contrast to your cold tone, downing the rest of your glass before John can stop you. How many was that now? He’s saying something else, but you take little notice when the bartender takes away your growing collection of glasses.  

“Can I get another?” You flash him a smile but it’s wrong, your face feels hazy and you scrunch your nose as you purse your lips, testing the sensation.

“She doesn’t need another.” The super soldier interrupts politely as possible and the bartender squirms uncomfortably at the situation he’s been reeled into.

Your smile drops, and you glare at him and jab a finger to his chest, missing the center from how much the room is swaying, or maybe it's just him. “Don’t tell me what to do, John.” 

“Wow, you’re kind of a dick when you’re drunk, you know that?” His face is hard, his jaw set as he guides you backwards onto the stool closest to the wall.

Zara always thought you’d be a fun drunk. Figures. She was wrong about everything else.

“‘M not drunk.” You say harshly. Harsher than your friend deserves as he settles you down.

“Get her some water, please?” You don’t want water, in fact you don’t want much of anything, that jet fuel taste is burning your throat still.

“Where’re you going?”

John sighs, shaking his head as he surveys the room, looking for someone. 

“Just stay here, okay?”

“Aye aye, cap’n.” You grumble sarcastically.

It’s not bad, the music's nice, the stool is comfortable. You can’t make out the numbers on the clock above the bar, Roman numerals blurring together, but it can’t be too far from midnight right?

You always make your escape after that, to the balcony with Bob. Oh the balcony, you could do with some fresh air, that’s what you need?

Silver streaks run down the windows when you turn around and slide off your stool, it’s raining. Spring has been dragging its feet but you like the rain. You used to be superstitious about the weather even though it rained all the time in Madripoor, you would take this as some sign something bad is about to happen, but the bad thing already has happened.

There won’t be any Bob to join you on the balcony tonight, it’s a shame, he likes the rain too, especially the rain last night. He hadn’t wanted to go back inside, you could see it in his eyes.

The music is exchanged for the sound of crashing rain when you step outside. It’s a refreshing kind of downpour, soaking you within seconds, you push your hair back from your face to look up, the string lights above you spin like stars, burning into your vision against the blackened sky. But tonight there’s no real stars, only rain clouds, and no Bob, which means no stargazing. No, he was probably downstairs with Molly, doing things you’d rather not picture about your friend. 

And he’s probably great at it too. He’s good with his hands after all.

The laughter comes then, because it’s so absurd, and you should not be thinking those things about your friend. Why are you thinking about if Bob’s good in bed? Why do you care? How many times do you need to tell yourself it’s none of your-

“Hey!” You never heard the door opening, or the footsteps approaching you, if it weren’t for the European blended accent you’d assume it was Ava phasing behind you. 

“Lena-ah!” You gasp like you haven’t seen her in years. Only Alexei calls her Lena, but she makes an exception for you now.

The stupid shoes trip you up again and you’re on your knees, the floor scraping a layer of skin from them with a barely-there sting.

“Fuck,” You curse, pulling each heel from your feet and throwing them as far away as you can, but they don’t even make it halfway to the windows with your terrible attempt. 

“Oh wow, he wasn’t lying,” Yelena mumbles to no one in particular as she helps you to your feet, looping her arm with yours. “C’mon, bedtime.”

Maybe that’s a good idea, you’re tired after all, you were supposed to do something, but you can’t remember what it is. You go to move in the direction of the door to the party, but Yelena shakes her head, pointing to the small side door that was mostly used by you and Bob after late nights out here to get back down to the residential floors without seeing anyone. Technically it was the emergency stairwell, but there’s no alarms on the doors. 

“No, we’re taking the stairs,” Yelena half shouts over the rain.

It’s a blur, getting to her room, you think you almost fall down the single level of stairs at some point, but Yelena keeps you balanced between herself and the red metal handrail. It’s only when you get inside that you realise that you’re shaking from the cold, even though you don’t feel it all that much.

You make it two steps into Yelena’s room, she hasn’t even had time to close the door before you’re breaking away from her grip to make it to her bathroom in time to collapse in front of the toilet. A mixture of stomach acid and jet fuel flavoured alcohol burns your throat on its way up.

“There you go, get it out.” Yelena grimaces but holds your dripping hair away from your face as she settles herself on the edge of the bathtub to your right. 

It doesn’t entirely surprise you that Yelena’s the quiet nurturing type, rubbing small circles on your back when she could have easily left you here and gone to her bed. 

Would you have done this for someone?

She only leaves your side once, to fill up a glass of water for you and press it to your lips.

“Drink,” Yelena instructs, watching carefully to see if it’ll stay down, or if she needs to hold your hair back again. “Slowly.”

Someone tried to give you water earlier, you can’t remember who but they were right because it feels heavenly on your burning throat, the inside of you feels like fire even though you’re still shivering. You take small sips, leaning back against the tub next to Yelena, closing your eyes to the sound of the toilet lid closing and water flushing away the evidence of your fuck up. You can punish yourself over it in the morning, right now you’re being punished enough.

“Better?” The glass is taken from your shaking hand, and you look up to see Yelena placing it on the counter. You pause to think, you’re still drunk, that much is obvious, but no longer on the verge of being a black out mess. 

“Mmhm,” Your hum is croaky.

“Good,” Yelena nods, pulling off her rain-soaked blazer, “Tell me.”

“What?”

Did she ask you something you forgot just seconds later?

“Why you are upset,”

Oh. That. Of course she wants to know.

“I’m not, I just had too much to drink,” Alcohol makes you a terrible liar because there’s nothing to stop the tears you don’t even realise are falling until Yelena’s eyes widen and she’s wiping them away. They burn against your freezing skin and a sob escapes the confines of your chest. 

You also blame your confession on the alcohol, because there’s no way you would tell her this in your right mind.

“Bob and Molly-“ Shut up. Stop talking. Drink more water. Whatever you do, don’t- “Kissed.”

Yelena’s face changes in such tiny ways you don’t know what to make of it. There’s a mixture of disbelief, amusement, and confusion before it settles on anger.

“What?” 

You can’t answer, because with those words comes more stomach acid and alcohol and she’s quick to open the lid when you surge forward. Thankfully it doesn’t go on for as long as the first time before you’re pulling yourself away again, drinking down more of the water that’s appeared in your hand to wash away the aftertaste. 

Yelena’s still frowning, not in anger though, more like contemplation. It’s the kind of face where she knows something you don’t, like when she held a gun to your head.

“You’re sure?”

“Mmhm,” You nod as much as you can without making yourself dizzy, “Saw them, it’s why they ran off earlier.”

Yelena’s eyes narrow and she stands, taking the glass from your hands and disappearing back to her bedroom for a few moments before she comes back with a towel that she tosses onto the counter. 

“Come on, shower, bed.” 

You groan at the thought of having to return to your room, right next door to Bob, at least Yelena’s was on the other side of the wall wedged between Alexei’s and John’s. If anything was happening in Bob’s bed, you were about to be subject to listening to it. You doubt Molly was the quiet type. 

“Well you are not sleeping in my bed smelling of vomit. Mouthwash, shower — now.” Yelena passes you a capful of blue liquid which you swirl around your mouth, spitting into the toilet before she closes the lid to flush it again.

“I’ll wait in here, last thing I need is you passing out and adding a head injury to all of this,” Yelena gestures vaguely to your dishevelled state before pulling you up, slow enough that you don’t fall before she settles you in the tub. She doesn’t bother with the complicated ribbons on the back, opting to cut straight through them with some scissors in her drawer before turning the shower on and setting it to warm when anything hotter feels like needles on your icy skin. 

You’re given privacy by the fogged up glass when you shrug the ruined dress off into a wet pile, discarded in the corner of the tub, and you don’t take the risk of standing, just about managing to wash away the grime without looking at any of the labels on the bottles within reach. As long as it gets you clean it’s good enough. 

“Done?” Yelena offers you the towel, which you take after pulling away from the spray of water, shrugging it over your shoulders.

“Come on,” The water stops, her hands find yours to pull you up. “You can borrow my clothes.”

Minutes later, with a little of Yelena’s help, you’re in fresh pyjamas, hair damp but towel dried as you lay your head on the pillow that looks the least used. Like you, Yelena clearly favours one side of her bed, closest to the door. You’re half asleep by the time she’s changed out of her wet clothes and into something oversized and warm. She puts on some re-run of Dr.Phil, because just like you, she also hates sleeping in silence. 

“You’re good at taking care of drunk people,” The spinning of the room is just about tolerable when you close your eyes, and miss the somber look on Yelena’s face.

“I have experience,” Yelena murmurs, pushing something soft into your arms. “Here, take Toast.”

You’re slightly alarmed for a second until you remember the guinea pig you crocheted for her birthday shares the name with the pet you modelled him after. Crochet Toast is a lot more worn than you remember him being when you first made him, some of the stitching from his eye is coming loose in a way that makes you doubt he stays on Yelena’s nightstand, and not in her bed. 

“Thanks,” You roll onto your side, which intensifies the spinning so you open your eyes to peer at her in the dark, catching her staring up at the ceiling, with that same look of contemplation.

“Y’know th’first time I met you,” Your words stitch themself together with a slight slur, a blend of alcohol and tiredness. “I really thought you were gonna shoot me.”

A smirk takes over her lips, “I was.”

“Why didn’t you? I would’ve if I were you,” You say truthfully. 

Yelena’s quiet for a while, if it weren’t for her slowly blinking eyes you would have assumed she was asleep.

“Before the blip, I helped people, then Val found me, gave me something I wanted….” That was how Valentina reeled you in too, but unlike Yelena, you weren’t helping anyone but yourself. “For a while I was just… drifting without purpose.” 

“Then you mentioned the widows, and I saw it in your eyes,” Even without her looking at you, you feel like you did on that first day, under a microscope. “Even if you didn’t know it, I did.”

“Know what?” With the alcohol still buzzing under your skin, you’re bolder.

“You needed help too.” Yelena confirms, voice only just above Dr. Phil’s in the background. “Were you free? In Madripoor?”

“Nope.” You pop the p, you doubt you ever will be. You find yourself thinking over Yelena’s words, over the thing that separated her from you.

“I don’t have a purpose.” You look down at Toast, tucked under your arm. “Closest I got is this team, and…”

Flashes of his eyes, of the shadows that he never let touch you, of his hair yesterday in the rain, of his lips — covered in red. You close your eyes tightly, willing the memories away. 

“Bob.” Yelena doesn’t have to guess. 

“I can’t have him, not like she can.” Your throat tightens.

“Why not?”

“I hurt people.”

“So have I.” Yelena’s voice is just as raw as yours, but you don’t open your eyes.

“Yeah but you- you’re still good Lena, I’m not just bad I’m… wrong.” Toast is clutched tighter to your chest, like you’re some scared child convinced it would protect you from everything bad outside the safety on the bedcovers.

“Okay,” Yelena breathes out, mulling over her next question and you wonder just how much Dr. Phil she’s watched to get you to talk about things the mandatory team therapist can’t even hope to get close to. “Theoretically, why would you be upset if Bob was with someone else.”

“I don’t know.” You whisper.

But you do. Because it had surprised you two days ago, when you’d dug around with some old contacts and got the text to confirm something you already knew. 

“My friend died.”

You finally use the right word to describe her. She never deserved it, she deserved to break free and travel, to add more novelty shot glasses to her collection, she never had one from New York on her shelf, you could have got her one. A silent tear escapes your face, you’re too tired to fight it.

“Who?”

“Just-“ You yawn, struggling to carry on the conversation. “A girl I knew back in Madripoor.” 

You can’t let it happen again, you can’t get too close to someone if it hurts that badly to lose someone you really had barely known. Bob knows you better than everyone, despite how much of yourself you still keep locked away, if he slowly orbits further and further away, you’ll lose him, but unlike Zara, it’ll be a loss you’re reminded of every day when you wake up without him beside you. Because he’s still here. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Your mind drifts to that last look behind you in the bar, if you never answered that call, would she still be there now? In her different elaborate costumes, spilling to you the details of every date she’s been on with you half listening to her. If she were still alive now, she’d be teasing you about Bob, far worse than John did. 

“She’s not in a cage anymore.” That’s how you fall asleep, picturing that elegant, golden, bird. Free from its enclosure, sailing higher and higher, towards the sun before it disappears entirely, 

You’re fast asleep when Bob comes to Yelena’s door, accompanied by John, after having searched all of the usual places you and him would sneak off together when one of you got overwhelmed. You don’t stir at Yelena hissing a demand for an explanation, or at her telling Bob to cool off and fix it with you tomorrow. Not even when John can be heard saying ‘We all know who’s behind this.’

The next morning you push it down, pretend it never happened, and avoid him. You ignore the crumpled napkin origami swan that’s been delicately refolded and placed in front of your door, and the hollowness it echoes around your chest.

The Watchtower - April 28th 2027 - 21:32 pm

You blink away the memory, push away the knowledge his eyes look the same as they did when he begged you to wait with that red lipstick on his mouth. That they held the same panic. 

You just need to make it through your night-time physical therapy session, which you’re already late for.

Then you can take your pain medication. 

Then you can breathe. 

Then you can leave. 

(I would really appreciate any comments on this because it helps me stay motivated to write, and it’s always great seeing what people like 🫶)

The Watchtower Living Room - January 23rd 2027 - 8:24 pm

“Oh! I’ll text Mel to tell Val, this could be a great PR opportunity and-“

The protests of “No.” And “ Absolutely not.” From you and Bucky overlap the eager voice as you dump the freshly microwaved popcorn into the bowl, cursing when you almost burn your hand. 

You don’t even have time to caution Alexei about the heat before he’s scooping a handful into his mouth like an eager child, quickly chewing and spewing out a string of Russian words with a gasped “You could have warned me-“

“You just saw me take that out of the microwave and almost burn myself – why would you do that?” 

He’s already running his mouth directly under the cold tap, and you glance behind you at the girl who looked most out of place in this situation, dressed in a perfectly pressed mini skirt and blouse whilst the rest of you donned relaxed clothing. 

The team had been assigned Molly after Christmas, a shiny new personal assistant for the whole team, when Valentina wanted Mel solely for ‘big picture things’ and the PR side. At least Mel had been professional and quiet, hadn’t bothered you or tried to get too overly involved.

Molly, on the other perfectly manicured hand, seemed to be everywhere from the moment you stepped outside of your room. You couldn’t deny she was beautiful, tall and airbrushed with an Australian accent that had every man at the New Year’s Eve party asking for her number (and swiftly being denied).

Some days, she reminds you of your old, favoured bartender. But you had no trouble believing she had talons, unlike Zara.

“Also, I agree with our wonderful assistant here!” Alexei clasps his hands on Molly's shoulders enough to shake her perfectly styled hair out of place, his mouth still wet when he grins. She offers a bright smile but you see how she tenses, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. Not in a sad way, but in more of a ‘I traded my soul to be beautiful and successful’ way… Or maybe she is just genuinely kind and amazing and you’re feeling slightly bitter over that. 

What time does she even wake up to be able to look like a supermodel every day she’s here? Does she even need sleep — or is she secretly some sort of vampire and siren who just lived off the energy of people less attractive in a five mile radius?

“Alexei, no, it’s a bad idea- let’s just… wait for it to blow over? Or try to find the person who took the photo?” You suggest, and Molly’s bright smile is immediately dimmed by your words.

Now you feel like you’ve kicked a bunny, great. 

Either way you're more than eager to find out the name of the person responsible for this mess. 

Your heart had almost stopped when the photo had appeared on Yelena’s phone just two hours ago. One of you looking up at Bucky and smiling as you brushed confetti off of his shoulder, it looked like you were leaning in, which only made the second one worse. It was taken from an angle where you could only see Bucky’s back, the edge of his jaw when he had whispered into your ear that night, but it looked like you were kissing.

You’re placing the popcorn on the table, halfway through a perfect daydream of what you would do to said person responsible for that photo, when the whir of the elevator doors and the shuffle of feet interrupts your train of thought, and Molly beats you to greet him.

“Oh! Hi Bob, I didn’t see you come in!”

The thing that seems to annoy you most about Molly is that she also works late an awful lot. Especially on the days where Bob slept through her usual schedule at the tower.

No — you aren’t jealous, you have no reason to be. None at all. The Christmas party meant nothing, you were both caught up in the moment, it meant nothing. It means nothing.

Despite the mood stabilisation medication he was put on for his bipolar, it hasn’t completely gotten rid of his highs and lows, only made them now less likely to ruin the entire city of New York when they happen. This particular one had been going since the Christmas party, weighing him down more every day.

“What are we watching?” Bob fights off a yawn as he takes in the bustle of the room and assumes his usual position at the edge of the couch, leaning against the armrest which has begun to fray from where he would absentmindedly pull at the threads to keep his hands busy. He never misses movie night.

“Titanic, after we finish the meeting.” Ava responds as she places the bowl of Doritos down and takes her own seat in the middle, in between Yelena and Bucky who sits at the other end of the couch.

“The meeting is over.” You grumble, nudging the popcorn bowl to the centre of the table so Bob can reach it, and walk over to the kitchen to get your soda, slipping past Alexei who is currently raiding the fridge for the last of his preferred snacks and beer. Valentina had him put on a diet which meant less alcohol, not that any of you cared and you always made sure to bring home his favourite brand of vodka from the store since Valentina ensured it was always missed off the grocery list by Molly.

“Oh? Why- Why’re we having a meeting?” Bob blinks in confusion, voice tainted with concern at the fear he’s missed something as he takes another hand of popcorn. 

“These lovebirds got caught kissing!” Molly grins at him as she gestures between you and Bucky, who groans and pinches the bridge of his nose for the third time since the photos were leaked.

“What?” There’s an unreadable look on Bob's face as his hand freezes, a piece of popcorn escaping his palm and bouncing to the floor. You must be imagining the static charge in the air as he stares at Bucky.

“No- We were not kissing!” You interject as Alexei walks past you to his usual spot on the couch, an arm full of calorie dense food which he dumps onto the section of the table in front of him.

“Some asshole at the Christmas party took a photo when we hugged on the balcony and it looked like we were, well, kissing. It’s just the angle.” Bucky shakes his head, and that seems to relax Bob, who gives a sheepish laugh and relaxes back into the cushion.

Molly’s the next person to sit down, just as you were walking over to the group, coke can in hand. 

You fight against the urge to crush the flimsy aluminium in your grip.

Molly, oblivious to the way you freeze as she takes the remote to press play on the movie before you can even make it across the room, has taken her seat between Bob and John.

Your spot.

She tucks her feet up under her, kicking her heels off and Bob glances at her, then at you. He’s leaning forward out of his reclined position, about to open his mouth, when Bucky catches your attention with a quiet call of your name.

You look away from Bob to see Bucky shuffling to make room so you didn’t resort to sitting on the floor.

“Thanks.” You whisper as you sit by him, trying to focus on the opening credits instead of the way you can see Bob slowly look away from you at the edge of your vision, and lean back into the couch. 

You feel every second of those three hours and fourteen minutes. Somewhere around the halfway mark Bucky offers you the bowl of popcorn, now half full and slightly chewy. 

You shake your head, all appetite vanishing, and mentally blame it on Alexei chewing with his mouth open, even though that’s never bothered you before.

The breathing exercises your therapist had been making you practice during stressful situations (which was every situation) were coming in handy at least. At least Bucky pretends not to notice when you look away during the king of the world scene as Molly gushes over how romantic it is, or during the car scene. You let your eyes grow unfocused until Rose lets Jack go into the icy water.

That’s it Rose, go you, you don’t need to cling onto something that’s quite literally dead in the water.

When the credits finally begin to roll, John pipes up.

“Wait, Bucky, were you alive when the Titanic sank?”

“Huh? No, that was nineteen-twelve, I was born in nineteen-seventeen, how old do you think I am?”

“Well sorry, I just-”

“Shh, look!” Alexei whisper-shouts at the bickering pair and draws the group's attention to something to his left.

Bob was relaxed back into the cushion, eyes closed and mouth parted slightly, asleep even though he had slept most of the day. Next to him, with her head on his chest and curled into his side, is Molly. Even sleeping she looks perfectly posed, head probably full of dreams, because she’s never done a bad thing to warrant a nightmare.

“Maybe we should leave them?” Yelena shrugs with disinterest.

“Aw, it’s sweet.” Alexei reaches for the back of the couch, grabbing something to settle over Bob and Molly.

Oh this is worse.

That’s your blanket. 

Or rather, yours and Bob’s blanket, draped over them. 

The one you would both use as a barrier between your legs and the cool metal of the balcony. The one you and him would stay up late so many nights to lay on and talk and laugh over pointless things. Things that weren't pointless when it was you and him talking about you.

The sickness from earlier grips your insides and you swallow thickly.

“I’m going to bed, night guys.”

The excuse is quick as you head in the direction of the elevator, which meant passing by Alexei as he took photos of the pair curled up together.

A pair of blue eyes follow you as you make your escape. 

The Watchtower - April 24th 2027 - 04:58 am

In the city that never sleeps, the Watchtower has never been an exception to the rule. 

You all keep odd hours — criminal organisations and end of world threats never sleep — so why should you? The other residents seemed to be just as averse to any kind of rest, a lesson you learned in your first week when you had awoken to a warping metal noise of Yelena crawling through a vent, clicking her tongue and cursing as she tried to call her dust covered guinea pig back to her at two am. 

It’s rare to find an hour where the shared living areas were completely empty, and in that first month you had experienced sleep deprived conversations with a different member of the team every single night. 

After all, what could have been a better way to learn about your new teammates?

You helped Bucky to clean spaghetti from his arm when Alexei hadn’t rinsed his plate before putting it in the dishwasher, you played cards with Yelena, helped Ava to scare John not just once, but three times. 

You even sat and watched odd shows with Alexei as he drank some interesting looking vodka, which you learned was mainly for the taste because apparently his enhanced metabolism burned any alcohol off too quickly. You scrunched your nose up when he offered you some of the jet fuel scented liquid.

You’re no stranger to being unable to sleep in the tower, it had never been in your list of skills, but you were so busy with missions that stretched across time zones that it never developed past being an inconvenience. 

But now, you had none of those distractions. Just you, and endless reruns of Friends on the teams Netflix account.

Sleep, as it turns out, would no longer come easy after that forced sedation, nor would it have the same restful benefits as before. There’s no ‘falling’ asleep either, just the two choices of heavy sedation from medication, or closing your eyes and trying to trick your body into sleep, only to find it would lapse into brief naps that you had no memory of.

It’s kind of like when you got sick and reminisced on every time when your sinuses weren’t blocked, not knowing how good you had it until your ability to breathe was gone. 

Despite your supervised shower earlier, the scent of decaying blood and antiseptic wipes still stubbornly clings to you, refusing to let you go.

The screen you’ve zoned out at blinks with the ‘Are you still there?’ message for three minutes before you bother to pick up the remote to click yes.

On your nightstand drinks glasses sit in various states of abandonment, the surface has become a graveyard of half eaten calorie dense bars. Each one tasted the same, dry and ashy.

It’s taken you a week to admit you need a break from your room, a change of scenery.

It’s still early enough that you can make it upstairs to the penthouse without bumping into John or Bucky on their way to the gym. If you can get some fresh air, see the city, maybe you’ll stop feeling like a caged animal.

Pulling yourself out of the little pit of misery that you call home in the blankets, you press a hand to your side to help brace the wound as you stand, taking sharp breaths through your teeth. It takes a few moments, but eventually the room stops spinning and your head stops pounding from the pressure change.

Now, walk.

It’s become a draining, conscious effort to move your body, feet dragging along the plush carpet as you force yourself to the door, taking a deep breath when you pull it open as quietly as you can. You’re unwilling to draw any attention to yourself as you take a silent step into the hallway for the first time since you left the medical bay.

The air in your room had grown thick and stale, even though the tower was fitted with built-in air purifiers, this feels a little easier to breathe already. 

One of your hands stays pressed to the wall for support as you make the slow walk to the elevator, knowing that if you slow, you’ll lose all confidence and become rooted for the floor. 

Once you reach the end of the hallway, you have to rely on willpower alone to get you to the elevator. The silver doors and gleaming logo seem further away with every inch you get closer, on a normal day it’s ten steps. Tonight, it feels like a thousand until your hands reach the cool metal of the call button and the machine whirrs to life.

It’s only when you’re inside that you can finally grip the wall again for support, palm still pressed to your side for the four second trip to the next floor, and then the doors open, revealing the tower's main shared living area. 

You remember the first time you walked through these doors, greeted by a dazzling New York skyline, and suddenly understood all of those rumoured Avengers parties the magazines talked about.

It’s a wide, open space, two bars, large screens, cozy couches, and the outer deck which had been built for Iron Man’s suits and the Avengers jet, but now served as little more than a glorified balcony and occasional helicopter landing zone… and also your favourite safe haven.

A soft snore echoes in the otherwise silent room.

Your eyes fall to a lump on the main couch, the large curved one that got the most use in front of the TV, and you tentatively approach the lucky person who managed to get some sleep. 

Bob.

You keep your footsteps light, not wanting to disturb him. He’s tilted to the side over the armrest, but not in his usual spot on the couch, like he had fallen asleep upright while facing the elevator. 

The sky was beginning to lighten, casting a pink hue in the room, but nothing was making you feel like less of a ghost, haunting the floors of the tower. 

He might.

You could wake him… ask him to sit outside with you and watch the sun rise. Before… the mission, the party, it had been a regular occurrence. 

But then your mind flashes with images of him from that night, and then in the hospital room, and your muscles turn to stone, like the universe was giving you a warning to not want the things you can’t have. 

You can’t wake him, at least one of you should get some sleep. 

So, instead of reaching for him, you find your hand going to one of the blankets at the end of the couch. With your limited range of motion, you do your best to unfold it and cover him up to his chest. It’s only then when you recognise the pattern. 

Now the universe really is giving you a sign.

You take one last look at the sky, the traffic bustling to life on the streets below, and you take the short walk back to the elevator, mission for fresh air abandoned as the sunlight creeps in. A predator moving in silence.

The world moves at its usual pace; but not you, it’s left you behind and kept on spinning. 

-

Two days have passed since your unsuccessful attempt to reintegrate yourself back into the tower. At least that was voluntary, but now you were forced from your room. You’ve been cornered back in the training room rather than your bedroom floor for your twice a day physical therapy — which ended hours ago — but you’re still here.

Touching your toes should not be this hard; yet you can barely get your hand past your knee. 

Sweat droplets are sliding down your neck in some phantom effort at breaking your focus, and the bandages around your ribs feel more like some sort of saw trap trying to cut you in half instead of holding you together. 

How could you go from a hero little kids idolise for fighting the bad guys, to fighting back tears of frustration and smothering the gasps of pain that threaten your already fragile ego?

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Ava didn’t even use her powers to phase through a wall or anything that should have caught you off guard, but she still made you jump, losing the progress you had made. 

Progress you’ve worked at all night. 

A startled noise escapes you as you lurch back, twisting towards the door and almost screaming when a pain in your ribs stops you from doing so. But you can’t scream, even that hurts too much, so you settle for letting yourself fall backwards with a sticky thud when your wet back meets the sports mat. 

It still hurts of course, everything does. 

“You scared the hell out of me.” You pant, wiping away the sweat and tears from your face. The lights are making your head pound and you squeeze your eyes closed to escape them. As your Doctor had put it, ‘That guy must have landed a hell of a hit with his rifle for you to still be this affected by the lingering concussion symptoms three weeks later.’

Or maybe it’s the waking up at 2am, and then 3am, and then staying up until the sun rises over a grey New York skyline on repeat that wasn’t helping them ease.

You can’t remember the last time you slept through the night, not even that time Alpine snuck into your room, and if you told the doctors they would surely only give you more pills to take. Pills which would slow down your return to missions, your return to being useful. 

“It’s late.” Her voice is nonchalant, stating the obvious. You already knew it was, a hologram clock in the mirror struck twelve almost an hour ago. 

“I know.” You grit your teeth, not at her, but at the worsening pain in your side, turning from dull to burning. 

“Then what are you still doing down here?”

Pain in your temple. Blank eyes staring at you. A puddle of blood creeping towards your face. 

If there’s daydreams, this is a sick version of one. 

“I need to get better, I need to start training again.”

Your voice sounds distant in your own ears, a rapidly descending plane crash, burning up, breaking apart. Your eyes are closed, but it made no difference to the blinding light you were seeing, the aura pulsing behind your eyelids.

“Why?” Ava’s seemingly unaware of your spiral, of the hum of the lights, the way the mat beneath you makes you want to peel off your skin, the way her volume is dialled to one hundred. 

You can’t think like this, can’t feel, can’t breathe. 

“If I were you I would-“

“But I’m not like you, Ava!” You ignore the splitting pain in your side, the warmth of blood seeping into the bandages as you abruptly sit up. “I don’t have powers, or something to make me irreplaceable here, so can you please just leave and let me do this!”

Your chest is heaving, heart pounding, and the roar around you snaps into quiet. Silence falls between the two of you, so uncomfortable and stuffy that it makes you dizzy.

“Want to know what I think?”

“Not really.” You stare somewhere just past her face, wishing she had her mask on, wishing you didn’t have to see the hurt expression. 

What advice would she have, the same things a whole team of doctors and nurses had told you? To take it slow, to rest, to not push yourself too hard?

“That you’re angry.”

At yourself. 

The words don’t hit you like you expect. It’s not a large blow, but rather a tiny million cuts, shredding you open. There’s no bite back from you, just a humming noise as she phases out, and then she’s gone. And it’s your fault.

It takes you ten minutes to pull yourself up off the mat, and stumble towards the nearby changing rooms and showers, where your hot tears mix with scalding water. You don’t care if it’s against the nurses advice to take showers unsupervised at the risk of passing out, collapsing on the tile would probably hurt less than your conversation with Ava.

You almost fall asleep with just the thin, scratchy towel to keep you warm, only able to keep your eyes open long enough to change into loose clothing and get back to your room. This time you don’t take it slow to avoid the pain, you push as hard as you can with each step in the direction of your bedroom, seeking it out.

You’ll probably wake up in an hour or so, already accepting your fate of being haunted by blocked out memories and imagined pain, maybe real pain too, but by then you could see the sun rise again. To see the world keep spinning on.

The New Avengers Watchtower is a living, breathing thing. And right now you’re a virus, a poison to the system. Something to be expelled.

Just five minutes after you make it back to your room, a concerned Bob checks the whole training level after you leave. Part of him is relieved that you must have gone back to rest after Ava had shaken him awake, and the rest of him was heavy with worry. 

He was tired of listening to the others tell him to stand back, to have them worry about his feelings if you reacted the same way to him, as you had to them. 

The Watchtower - January 24th 2027 - 02:33am

A knock at your door pulls you from the odd dream of holding an Avengers press conference where you looked in the mirror and realised you were actually John – something you’ll unpack later.

At least that was better than being awake and aware of the events from earlier.

“Is something on fire?” You groan, looking at the time. 

Something better be on fire.

There’s no response, just the barely audible noise of TV that kept your room alive, currently three seasons into How I Met Your Mother. 

“Hello?” Did you just dream of the knock?

The sound of a door opening tells you that it was real.

You sit up when you hear the slight rustle of clothes and the door clicking shut, then Bob rounds the corner into your line of sight, emerging from the darkness.

You’re about to sigh and tell him you’re too tired to stay up and you’ll speak to him in the morning. Still intent on denying your bitterness over Molly stealing your place on the couch, ready to lie and say you’re just in a bad mood, but when you look at him for more than a second, you freeze.

Bob’s jaw is fixed, tensing and untensing, hands not busied by their usual habit of tearing holes in the sleeves of his sweatshirt, but instead remain firmly clenched at his sides. Like he’s ready for a fight. 

Nothing about the way he holds himself screams nervous or shy, or sad right now, his body rigid and stiff when he moves, like a poorly maintained machine.

No, this is one of his episodes. 

He’s told you about them. Warned you about them. When every emotion in him surges too high, and with the overconfidence comes the anger, the recklessness, the danger. Old conversations bounce around your skull, echoey memories of him telling you about these highs before the inevitable crash; how once he reached the end of that peak, he would have searched for drugs to try and keep him up there. 

But it would never work, and it was also not an option for him now, not after the lab. 

“Hey.” You sit up slowly, not scared of him in the slightest, but wanting to avoid overwhelming him. Self preservation instincts clash with emotions inside of you, waging a bloody war in your mind.

You know what you should do. What you, and the rest of the team agreed to do at the start, is to call in a code black the moment you notice the shadows leering towards him in the darkness of your room, defying the illumination from the lamp.

But you can’t do that to him. 

The room is buzzing, much like earlier when he thought Bucky had kissed you, but this was on the verge of being nuclear, your TV flickering dangerously in response to his presence. 

Bob clearly trusts you enough to seek you out first quietly in a tower that usually brimmed with life, instead of going to Bucky first, as outlined in the emergency plan. 

He needs you.

“I- I woke up- it was a bad dream...” Bob cuts through the previously one sided conversation, swaying where he stood. “The blanket… I thought - I thought she was you.”

His voice is lower, exhausted, using all of his energy just to utter the words to you, but they’re broken up anyways, like his mouth doesn’t quite remember how to speak just yet. 

How long had it taken for him to just walk down the hall to get to your room, how long had he been pushing this boulder up the hill?

“I’m so… tired.”

Bob runs his hand through his hair, like the action of it could rewrite the memory of whatever had clawed its way up through his mind.

There’s no part of you that was prepared to comfort another person, nothing in your skill set that you could pull out, no part of your life you could recall needing to calm someone. Not in this way at least.

This would have to be all you. 

“I know,” You peel the covers off your body, the chill hitting your legs from where you only wore an oversized shirt to bed. That’s the least of your worries right now. Bob first, pants second.

Keeping your movements slow, as if approaching a scared deer and crouched tiger at the same time, you reach up to take his hand. The contact doesn’t even phase him, his eyes fixed on some faraway thing you can’t see. They’re less blue now, more grey, lifeless.

Bob’s good at hiding himself, from everyone, years of plastering on false expressions to protect himself from conflict had made him skilled at that, much like you were. But he can’t hide from you, and he wouldn’t try to either.

“You wanna come lay down?” You breathe out, running your thumb across his knuckles.

If there’s a higher power listening up there, please let him say yes, you don’t exactly have a backup plan for this if he says no.

His lips twitch into a frown, considering it, before nodding. 

“Okay, c’mon.”

A gentle tug from your hand has him led over to your side of the bed usually reserved for your remotes and phone. The clutter is quickly cleared to make way for him, and you climb onto the bed first, but he doesn’t follow, tension building in your grip on him where he’s stopped still at the edge.

He stares down at the side of the bed you hadn’t been sleeping on, uncertain of how far your offer extended, and too tired to ask.

You make the decision for him when you pull the covers back with your free hand, keeping your grip on his hand; scared to let go. 

It isn’t because you were afraid of the very real possibility of that other side of him. The one that lurked like a predator below the surface of the water in his mind, ready to take over at any disturbance – but because you were afraid of letting him go – of letting him think you would ever let him go like this.

Bob’s shoulders are a little less rigid when he climbs in beside you, a contrast to how tightly he grips your hand, like he’s dangling over a cliff edge and you were the only thing keeping him tethered. The ghost of his nightmare clings to him, the weight of it settling on his bones and weighing him down as he sinks into the mattress.

“I’m here.” You try to assure him but there’s no confirmation he’s heard you, he just holds your hands tighter, lips twitching like he wants to speak.

Despite this, his eyes are still distant, dull, fixed on your ceiling and the shadows that had gathered there, a looming threat to you.

“Please don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” You ask uncertainly as his eyes pinch closed, blocking out the world.

Even though you can feel the warmth of his hand in yours, Bob couldn’t have been further away in this moment, muttering quiet pleas to himself.

To make things worse, your TV sputters images before dying completely, leaving only one source of light behind, the tablet on your bedside, but even that’s being coated by the shadows that inched towards you. 

He’s somewhere between wanting to pull you into his arms and being terrified to admit he needs you, with his eyes fixed shut, and grip tight on your hand.

Relax. You can do this. You can do this for him.

Before you can change your mind, your free hand darts forward in the dark, pressing to his jaw and turning his face towards your own. 

“Look at me.”

The second you touch his face, he melts. The build up of static electricity is zapped away into the air, he’s no longer charged. 

For a few short moments, everything’s alright with the world, it’s just the two of you in bed, hands clasped together, your free one stroking against the slight stubble forming on his jaw.

It’s brief. Too brief when something cold touches your back, making you shiver, and before you can turn away from him, he’s pulling you across the small gap between you. You’re pulled entirely against him, there's not a single part of you that’s not covered by him as he clings to you, shielding you half beneath him away from the rest of the world, and pressing his face to your neck.

Despite his brutal start, all of the violence that clawed at his youth like a flower being trampled over repeatedly – Bob has moulded himself into the closest thing a human could be to sunlight. In those molten eyes, you never saw something to fear, just a warm sunrise to bask in. 

You felt it that night on the balcony, and you still feel it now.

It would have been nice, being held against him like this, if it weren’t for the reality of it all. The way he clutches you against him like you’d turn into one of the shadows at any second and slip through his hands. 

He doesn’t sob, doesn’t sniffle, there’s not a sound, but your neck is unmistakably wet with tears. 

If this is it, if this is your turn to be sucked into the Void, you’ll be ok if it means staying in his arms. You move your hand from his jaw, trailing it to the nape of his neck and then up into his hair, mind set on ignoring the circumstances. 

It’s just you and him.

Bob lets out a sound, low and vulnerable as you stroke your fingers across his scalp and he presses his face deeper into the soft warmth of your neck, his warm breath rolling across your throat in shallow bursts that finally start to slow.

“So soft.”

The sound of your heart breaking sounds a lot like the air vents humming to life above you.

You cradle him against you like he’s the most precious thing in the world, your earlier need for pants long forgotten as he keeps you so impossibly close that you can barely tell where he starts and you end anymore. At some point, one of his hands has gripped the bare skin of your thigh, forcing your leg over his hip in his desperate attempt to protect you.

In contrast to him, you stay as calm as you can, fingers lightly carving their way through waves of brown hair, so focused on him that you can’t even remember the last time you’ve been held like this… if you ever had. 

Bob clings to you like a lifeline. Your neck is his oxygen mask, any inch of skin he can press against is covered, your legs tangled with his. He didn’t think any amount of contact with you could ever be enough though, but at least it made it easier for him to breathe.

That’s how you fall asleep, half underneath the large, warm body of your best friend, his lips silently mouthing words against your hairline as he wished the shadows away. 

He knew one thing for certain. The closer he was getting to you, the greater his fears of hurting you became. 

“Please don’t, not her, don’t take her away from me.”

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