#jwhe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did Mel put you up to this, too?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, you seen Bob today?”

“Nope.”

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

“He’s probably out.”

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

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

“For the record, I do go outside—”

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

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

“Since when have you been taking attendance?”

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

“You? Lunch? With Bob?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Suit yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The paparazzi, Walker.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you think that?”

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

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

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

“Wait. You’ve done that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mint chocolate chip, if they have it.”

John squints at Bob. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“No, as in, you’re not getting that.”

“What, why? It’s my favorite!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peaches, come here!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. I hate that I don’t hate it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just spoiling her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next hour passes faster than John expects.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob thinks over it for a second.

“Okay. I’d like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Bob, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think this is a good idea?”

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

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

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

“Mel, stay a minute.”

“Oh. Sure.”

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

Then, at the exact same time;

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

“Sorry, you go first.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s all. Your turn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good night, Walker. See you tomorrow?”

“Only if you want to.”

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

“Well, I do.”

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

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

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

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