#thunderbolts request

Bucky: The hot water cascades down your skin as you run your hands through your wet hair. You tilt your head back ever so slightly and keep your eyes shut to relish the feeling of the water trailing down your body. It cleansed you of the day's hardships, relaxing the tight muscles in your shoulders in the process.

You barely register the soft knock before the door opens slightly. When you turn your head to peer through the foggy glass, Bucky stands in the doorway with his hand clutching the handle.

“Hey… mind if I join you?” Bucky’s voice is low. His eyes shamelessly drag down the length of your body, drinking it all in for his own pleasure.

You know better than to rely on your voice so you nod your head timidly. You try to distract yourself and turn back to the shower head. But your heart begins to race when you hear the rustle of his clothes.

He steps in behind you only a moment later. His metal hand grazes your waist first; it's cool against the heat of your skin and his flesh hand tucks damp strands of hair off your neck.

Neither of you speaks at first. He simply presses close, his forehead resting against your shoulder and his lips ghosting over damp skin. You feel him breathe in slow and deep like he’s grounding himself with you.

When you finally turn to face him, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted. His hands find your hips. He kisses you like he’s starving—soft at first, then deeper and wetter. His tongue sliding against yours. The water pounds against your backs as his hands slide down to lift your thigh, pulling you closer.

“You’re killin’ me,” he murmurs against your mouth. His voice ragged as he trails his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to leave bruises.

You let out a soft hum, teasing. “Good.”

Desperately needing you, Bucky leans forward to capture your lips once again, but the hand that shoots out lays flat against his chest and stops him. His brow furrows in slight confusion until he watches you sink to your knees in front of him.

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand through his wet hair, cock already hard, thick, flushed dark.

Coming face to face with his hard length, you can't help but wrap your hand around him, stroking his length slow and deliberate. You glance up at him to watch the way his stomach tenses at the first stroke. His jaw clenches, lips parting on a broken breath as you lean in and lick a slow stripe along the thick vein.

“Shit,” he groans, leaning back against the tile.

You take him into your mouth—slow at first, inch by inch, until the thick head nudges the back of your throat. His breath punches out of him in a guttural moan. His metal hand grips the back of your head, trembling with restraint.

“Oh baby, fuck—” Bucky sounds so desperate, drunk on pleasure.

The heat of your mouth drives him insane. He can’t tear his eyes away, jaw clenched as he watches you suck him deeper, cheeks hollowing, water streaming down your skin. His thighs tense when you moan around him, the vibrations wrecking him completely.

His groans only grow louder as you suck him deeper, water streaming over both of you. His metal hand fists in your hair, his thighs trembling as you hollow your cheeks, working him with your mouth. He guides your head gently, thrusting his hips to fuck into the warm of your mouth. You happily take all that he has to offer.

“Please—please don’t stop,” he gasps, utterly wrecked, his thighs trembling as you take him deeper, swallowing around him. “You feel so fucking good—shit, I’m close—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

He can’t even finish the sentence. His body tenses, hips jerking as the first pulse hits.

“Fuck—fuck—” Bucky groans, voice breaking completely as he spills in your mouth. It's hot and thick.

His metal hand gripping you like he’s barely holding on. His breath comes in ragged moans, head thrown back, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

You swallow around him, the warmth filling your mouth as he chokes on another broken gasp. His thighs tremble. He looks down at you—wrecked, flushed, eyes blown—watching you take every last drop with a look of dazed, breathless adoration.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, barely able to stand. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

He pulls you up gently—hands cupping your face—pressing soft, trembling kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead as the water pours down around you, his heart pounding so hard you can feel it through his chest.

John: The bathroom door clicks shut and the lock gets set in place. You already in the shower, but you don't look towards the noise. The quiet drag of his footsteps on tile sends a shiver down your spine. You know exactly who it is. You don’t need to look to feel the weight of his gaze raking over every inch of your wet, bare skin.

The door to the shower slides open slowly and he steps in behind you. Before you can even draw in a steady breath, his hands are on your hips—big, rough palms that roam over slick wet skin. His chest presses flush to your back; his cock already hard and heavy against the curve of your ass.

"Look at you," John's lips brush against the shell of your ear teasingly. The rasp of it makes your stomach clench.  "You drive me crazy."

His fingers trail up, gliding over your ribs, sliding higher until they cup your breasts—palming and teasing. The rough pads of his thumbs brushing across peaked nipples as you shiver under the steady assault of his touch.

“You gonna be good for me?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your ear. “Gonna let me have you the way I need?”

Despite fighting everything in you to let him have you right there, you decide to flip it. You turn slowly to face him.

The water is running down the curve of your spine, your chest is brushing his as you look up at him through soaked lashes. Without a word, you sink to your knees on the slick floor.

John’s breath punches out of him in a low, wrecked sound. His cock twitches, hard and flushed. Then his hands fall uselessly to his sides because his control is slipping fast.

His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his stomach, and when your hand wraps around him, his head tips back with a guttural growl.

“Fuck, sweetheart… ”John grits out. You take him into your mouth, sucking him deep, and working the underside of him with your tongue.

His hands tangle roughly in your hair, guiding you faster, groaning low and dark every time you moan around him. Your lips wrap around the head, tongue circling, tasting the salt of pre-come as you suck gently, then deeper. His fingers brush the wet strands of hair out of your face so he can get a better look at you.

“Look at you… fuck, you’re so good—so good for me—” John praises.

Every time you hollow your cheeks and swallow around him, his groans grow louder—rough, filthy sounds that let you know exactly how close he is.

“Shit—fuck—” His hips jerk forward. His hand is tightening, but he still fights to keep it controlled. You only take him deeper, your hand stroking the base in time with the slow bob of your head. “Fuck—gonna—gonna come—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

You suck harder, moaning softly around him, and it’s over.

With a strangled groan, his whole body jerks, muscles locking tight as he spills in your mouth. His thighs tremble as you swallow, your hand stroking him through it as he pants your name like a curse.

“Fuck—fuck—” He shudders violently, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his cock twitching with the last aftershocks as you pull back and lick him clean just how he likes it.

When John finally manages to catch his breath, he lets out a wrecked, breathless laugh—still shaking, still ruined—before reaching down to pull you up and kiss you hard, tasting himself on your tongue, his hands gripping your face like he can’t let you go.

“Next time,” he murmurs roughly against your lips, voice still shot, “I’m not letting you get away with just that.”

Bob: When you made the announcement that you were going to shower and extended the invitation for him to join you, Bob was quiet as he followed you into the bathroom. He watched your every move—the way you laid your clothes out with careful hands, the soft way you folded a towel, the small hum of contentment as you tested the water temperature.

There was something so gentle in the way he looked at you. Like you were something fragile he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

He didn’t turn away when you started to undress. His eyes followed each slow reveal of skin, and he mirrored your actions without a word—shedding his layers until there was nothing left between you.

By the time the bathroom filled with steam, you stepped under the spray, sighing as the heat hit your skin. He came into the shower behind you and closed the shower door softly.

“Hey,” you murmured softly, offering a shy smile over your shoulder.

His tongue darting over his lips and he swallowed hard. “You’re… you’re beautiful,” he said, voice quiet almost like he was embarrassed to admit it.

He stepped closer, hands tentative at first—tracing the curve of your waist, fingertips feather-light as though still asking permission. His breath was shaky, his chest rising and falling faster as his hands slid over slick skin.

When you turned to face him fully, his eyes were wide, dark with something soft and achingly sweet. He captured your lips with his own, slow and gentle at first.

His tongue glides against your lower lip, tasting the water dripping from your mouth. He exhaled against you, then kissed you deeper this time, his hands sliding up your back to pull you closer, pressing your bodies together beneath the stream.

“God, I love you,” Bob whispers against your mouth. Your lips curve into a beautiful smile.

When you pulled back, you held his gaze, your hands trailing down his chest. Then, without a word, you sank slowly to your knees on the slick tile.

Bob’s breath caught sharply. His eyes went impossibly wide, mouth parting in shock as his back hit the cool tile wall behind him. His cock was already hard—flushed and heavy—and he made the softest, broken sound when your hand wrapped around him.

“What are you—” Bob started, voice trembling, but it cut off in a sharp gasp when you leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed tip. "You don’t have to—"

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, looking up at him through wet lashes. That look you gave him made him cave.

“Oh Jesus—” he choked out, his head falling back for a split second before his eyes snapped back down, locked on you like he physically couldn’t look away.

The first pass of your tongue made his knees nearly buckle. His hand darted out and clutched at the wall for balance. The other buried instinctively in your wet hair, not to push but to anchor himself.

When you sucked him in deeper—slow, unhurried, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t take—he let out a wrecked, breathless moan.

“Baby—oh my God—” Bob’s voice cracked, soft and desperate, his eyes glassy as he watched the way your lips stretched around him, the way your cheeks hollowed. His whole body trembled, hips barely rocking forward, his self-control fraying fast.

You moaned softly around him, the vibrations making him whimper—an actual whimper, soft and helpless. You move your head a little faster, taking as much of him in your mouth as physically possible.

“Please—fuck—please don’t stop,” Bob gasped, his breath coming faster, the pink flush rising all the way to his throat. “Feels—feels so good—Jesus, I—”

His voice kept breaking—his cock twitching deep in your mouth—as you worked him steady, your eyes never leaving his flushed, wrecked face. He looked overwhelmed, lips parted, brows drawn tight like he could barely handle it.

“I—baby, I’m gonna—” His voice dissolved into a moan. His hips jerking helplessly as he came hard.

The hot salt of it filling your mouth in thick pulses. You swallowed around him, soft and slow, still stroking him gently as he shuddered, his legs nearly giving out. You greedily swallowed just about everything.

His hand trembled against your head, his breath torn from his lungs in broken little gasps: “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—fuck—”

When you finally pulled back, wiping your mouth, he was staring down at you with wide, dazed eyes, still breathless, still red, still visibly shaking.

“Are you okay?” you teased softly, standing to press a kiss to his jaw.

He let out a weak, wrecked laugh, pulling you into his arms and resting his forehead to yours.

Bucky: The briefing room is cold and silent except for the sound of tension building between the two of you. Bucky leans back against the table, arms crossed over his chest, still in his black tactical suit, dirt and bruises fresh from the mission. His jaw is tight. His eyes are colder than usual.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” you snap, breath shaking as you glare at him. “I’m not your enemy, Bucky. I’m on your side.”

He says nothing and keeps that stoic look on his face like he's unfazed.

“You don't have to do things alone anymore. You left me standing there while you ran headfirst into the middle of it, and I’m supposed to just stand by and watch you get killed?” You trying to help him see reason.

He shifts but still won’t meet your eyes.

“I’m tired of it,” you say, voice rising. “I’m tired of not knowing what you’re thinking. You shut me out every time something gets hard. You don’t let anyone help you. You don’t let me help you.”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt,” Bucky finally says, voice flat but low.

You throw up your hands. “That’s not your decision to make—”

“You mean everything to me,” Bucky cuts in, sharper now. His eyes finally lift to yours. “I’m not gonna let something happen to you because of me.”

You take a step toward him. “And I’m not gonna sit here and let something happen to you, but you don’t even let me in long enough to try! You always—” You shake your head, hands clenched at your sides. “You always act like you’re on your own. Like you’re some kind of broken weapon instead of a—”

He moves fast.

One hand cups the side of your face, the other finds your waist, and then he’s kissing you—hard and without warning, swallowing the rest of your sentence like it physically hurt him to hear it.

His lips are warm, the kiss urgent, his breath ragged against your mouth. You stumble slightly but catch yourself on his chest, the cold edge of his vibranium arm brushing your skin.

Your anger falters. Your breath hitches. Your heart pounds.

He pulls back first, still so close you can feel the brush of his breath. His voice drops low. “You done yelling?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...I might be.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—half smirk, half something softer. “Then come here.” And kisses you again.

John: It wasn’t your first fight and it certainly wouldn’t be your last. Both of you were too stubborn to back down, unable to admit that either of you were wrong. Every mission brought out the worst—and sometimes the best—in both of you. Mostly the worst.

The two of you are nose-to-nose in the hallway, your finger pressed into his chest like it might actually shove him backwards. The tension is crackling between you, loud and electric, almost louder than your voice.

"You’re reckless!" you snap. "You didn’t wait for backup, and we told you the sniper wasn’t alone!"

John scowls, his jaw tight. His eyes are wild with adrenaline, and under the anger is something else—something unspoken, simmering.

“If I hadn’t moved, you’d be the one with a bullet in your leg,” he growls. “But sure—let’s stand around and wait for clearance while you bleed out.”

“I didn’t need you to play hero—”

“You never do, do you?” he bites out. “You can’t admit when you’re scared, or when someone saves your ass, or when—”

“When what, John?” you cut him off, voice sharper than ever. You push harder, taking one single step closer until your chest is flush with his and there’s no room for either of you to breathe. “Go ahead, finish the damn sentence—"

His hand snaps out and grabs your jaw—not rough, but firm, grounding. Before you can fire off another word, he pulls you in and kisses you.

Hot. Hard. Immediate.

Your protest dies in your throat. It knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your hands fist in his shirt—whether to pull him closer or shove him away, you don’t even know. He kisses you like this has been burning a hole in him, like the only way to shut you up was to finally do what he's wanted to do for far too long.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, eyes locked on yours. You can still feel his breath on your lips. You stare at him blankly, wondering what the hell just happened.

“You talk too much,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse.

And then, like he didn’t just rearrange your entire reality, he turns and walks away, leaving you stunned, speechless, and burning in the hallway.

You don't follow. You can't. Not yet.

Bob: The Watchtower is quiet; the night swallowing everything except the low hum of the building around you. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the short distance followed by the soft patter of rain falling over the city.

The doors to the lounge slide shut behind you, and you don’t stop to see who it is because you already know. You haven't stopped moving and your heart won’t either.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you confess, pacing across the room. “You said you'd come to me if you had problems. That if something was bothering you—”

Bob stands just a few feet away. He watches you with wide, guilty eyes, shoulders drawn tight. He doesn’t even look real right now—too still, too statuesque, too… distant.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I needed space."

“I understand that," you say, turning on him again, voice brittle with frustration and worry that you can’t seem to shake. "I do. I get that sometimes you need air, but you can’t just… you can’t go somewhere I can’t reach you. You can’t leave me behind like that."

He gaze drops away from yours like he's still riddled with his own guilt and can't bare to look at your face. His silence aggravates you slightly.

"You always do this—" you look away yourself, but his gaze flickers up. "You push everything down and you don’t talk to me and—”

“Please—” His voice cracks. His hand reaches out an inch but doesn’t quite make it.

You can’t stop. The panic’s still in your throat, still clawing its way out. “You don’t get to just come back and expect me to be fine, Bob! I care about you too much to just—”

Then suddenly—

His hands are on your face, soft but shaking.

And his mouth is on yours. Then he's kissing you. You melt against him before you can think, before the storm in your chest can catch up.

It’s not rough or hurried. It’s gentle in the way someone kisses glass—terrified of breaking it but too desperate not to try. His lips are warm, his breath shaky, his hands cold against your jaw as he holds you in place like he’s afraid you’ll vanish this time.

You go still. Your breath stutters. But you can’t stop your hands from gripping his arms desperately. The world shrinks to the feel of him—the way he kisses you like he’s drowning, like this is the only thing anchoring him here.

When he finally pulls back, your lips still brush with the ghost of the kiss. His forehead presses to yours. His voice is a whisper—raw, cracked.

“I’m here now," Bob murmurs. "I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes slip shut. Your breathing slows. His does too.

You swallow the knot in your throat and manage, quietly, “I hate when you do that.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But I had to.”

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. A handful of random things that didn’t require heat, thought, or emotional investment. Just enough to quiet your stomach and keep you upright.

Call it lazy. Call it survival. Tonight, it was the best you could do. Tonight, it was girl dinner.

Yelena: When Yelena walked into the kitchen and spotted you hunched over the kitchen island, she froze mid-step. Her mouth dropped open in shock.

"You're doing girl dinner?" Yelena gasped in exaggeration. She put a hand to her chest like she was offended. "Without me?!"

You didn’t look up. Just gave a tiny nod and muttered, “I didn’t feel like cooking.”

She just watched you eat for a moment, arms crossed, head tilted like she was studying a rare animal in the wild. She padded over in socked feet, rounded the island, and leaned forward on her elbows beside you. Her tone stayed light, but she didn’t tease.

“You forgot crunch,” she says, after noticing all the fruits and cheeses. “And spice. Very important for emotional balance.”

"Didn't want to go through your stash," you commented with a mouth full of peanuts. She rolled her eyes, pushing off the island and heading towards her cupboard where she hid her snacks.

She took out a bag of spicy chips, a tiny jar of pickled onions, two pieces of dark chocolate wrapped like treasure. She lays them down beside your food and sits next to you on the counter, legs swinging.

"Girl dinner," Yelena sings, puts her hands up, and does a little dance. You look at her utterly amused, unable to fight off a smile.

So the two of you indulge yourselves in a tasty effortless meal that you made together.

Bucky: He’d only come down to the kitchen for some water, maybe a late-night tea if he was feeling generous. The place was usually dead quiet after midnight. But as he rounded the corner, bare feet silent on the tile, he saw the dim lamp by the island was already on.

And then he saw you.

Sitting cross-legged on one of the stools, hunched slightly, your elbows resting on the counter like they were the only thing keeping you upright. You were still in pajamas — soft, oversized, familiar. In front of you sat a sad little spread: crackers, cheese that hadn’t been sliced all the way through, two limp baby carrots, and a soda can half-crushed in your grip.

You didn’t even look up as you absentmindedly dragged a carrot through some ranch dressing, chewing slowly. Your eyes distant. You weren’t crying. You weren’t visibly upset. But something about the quiet slump of your shoulders pulled at something deep in his chest.

"That dinner?" Bucky's voice came out low and careful.

“Sort of.” You shrugged.

He cautiously approached the kitchen island, leaning his forearms agaisnt it so he could really gauge at your whole spread. "Let me guess— you didn't feel like cooking anything for yourself tonight?"

You let out a small laugh. "Yeah. You got that right."

His lips curved into a gentle smile because there you were in front of him. Your words were soft, small, and honest. He let the silence stretch for a moment before finally muttering:

“You know I’d cook for you, right? All you’d have to do is ask.” Bucky offered.

“I don't need a full meal, not tonight.” Your lips twitched — not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one.

That did it. Something in his chest squeezed a little tighter.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just exhaled slowly through his nose and walked around the island. You watched him curiously as he pulled open the fridge and started gathering things: Alexei's takeout leftovers, some old rice, half an avocado, and a piece of naan folded up in tinfoil.

He silently joined beside you and started constructing his own version of 'girl dinner.'

John: Initially, John thought it was odd finding the kitchen light on when it was so late. Most of the team had long since crashed— even Alexei, who snored loud enough to rattle the walls. But when he rounded the corner, it made sense.

There you were, sitting at the kitchen island, elbow propped up on the counter, spoon dangling from your fingers like you’d forgotten it was there. A mostly-empty jar of peanut butter sat in front of you, surrounded by a sad little constellation of snack foods: three crackers, a few grapes, a slice of cheese not even fully unwrapped, and a single pickle spear.

You didn’t look at him when he stepped in, just let out a quiet sigh and plucked a grape off the counter like it weighed ten pounds. You even had a glass of half drunken wine, but then you cracked open a can of some highly carbonated drink.

John pauses.

"That's disgusting," John said flatly. He observes your spread of junk food. "None of this looks healthy."

You finally looked up at him with a tired blink, dragging the can toward your mouth for another sip like you just couldn't bother to care. Then you proceeded to shove some crackers in your mouth.

"It's girl dinner," you corrected him. “It’s not supposed to make sense.”

“That’s not dinner. That’s… an existential cry for help in snack form.”

You sipped your wine, then chased it with the soda again, and watched his face twist in real-time.

“Oh my god—stop doing that!" John pleaded. His voice sharp with genuine distress. His nose wrinkled, his whole face twisting as if he'd just witnessed a car crash in slow motion.

You looked back down at your snack pile, grabbed a baby carrot, and dunked it in the peanut butter without hesitation. "I just didn't feel like cooking," you shrugged.

"You eat like a raccoon," John claimed shaking his head with theatrical disappointment. “A drunk raccoon that broke into a gas station.”

You finally glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You act like I don’t hear you eat cold pizza in the gym hallway at two in the morning."

He pointed a finger, jaw dropping slightly. “That’s different. That’s recovery fuel.”

“Yours is pizza, mine is pickles. Let me live.”

He stared at you, mouth opening like he wanted to argue—but then he looked at your face. He saw the way your shoulders drooped and the distant look in your eyes. It looked like you were barely holding yourself together with carbs and carbonation.

"Let me guess—bad day?" John wondered.

“Didn’t feel like dealing with anything else,” you said finally. “Dinner included.”

He turned and opened the fridge without another word. You furrowed your brows in confusion.

“What are you doing?” you asked quietly.

“Making you real food,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re not ending the night with a dinner that looks like a toddler’s dream and a nutritionist’s nightmare.”

“You don’t have to—”

He smiled more to himself. “Yeah, I do.”

Ava: She found you lounging on the couch in your pajamas with a paper plate of snack food in your lap. You stared off into the distance mindlessly, blinding grabbing another cracker to feed yourself.

Slowly, Ava came to approach you and crouches beside you on the couch. She spares a glance down at your plate of cold snacks with a furrowed brow, but no criticism.

"Rough day?" Ava asks. You gave a small, tired nod.

Ava sighed and brushed a loose strand of hair off your face, her fingers cool and gentle against your cheek. She didn’t push, didn’t ask why. She just saw you.

"I could always cook something for us," she gently offered. When you shake your head again, she takes a strawberry off your plate and lies back beside you on the couch. “Then I’m eating this with you.”

She quickly found the hummus and pretzels, helping herself to some food. Still keeping your eyes ahead, you silently offered your wine glass to her which she gladly accepted and took a long swig of it herself.

You let your head drift against her collarbone as your eyes slid half-shut. She took another bite of something off your plate, humming softly at the taste. The two of you passed grapes back and forth without looking, the comfort of her presence so seamless it felt like breathing.

She doesn’t get the appeal, but she gets you, and that’s all that matters. You end up curled together, sharing quiet bites.

Alexei: When Alexei walked into the room, he was absolutely baffled and shocked by the array of foods you'd managed to scrounge together.

You’re sitting on the couch in one of his old shirts, a plate balanced on your knees—crackers, cheese cubes, a few slices of salami, and maybe a pickle or two.

"What is that?" Alexei asked with a hint of disgust in his expression.

“Dinner,” you tell him simply.

He tries to read you, squinting at your plate like it’s a riddle.

“Where is rest of it?” he asks finally, pointing with all the seriousness of a man interrogating an international spy.

You shrug. “This is the rest of it.”

His brow furrows. He leaned forward to take a cracker. “That is snack. Not dinner. Children eat this before real meal.”

You grin, amused by his indignation. “It’s girl dinner, Alexei.”

“Girl dinner?” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing a foreign code word. “What, all girls eat… small food?”

You nod. “Sometimes. When we’re tired or don’t feel like cooking.”

He stands there for another full minute, arms crossed, completely unconvinced. “You fight trained assassins for twelve hours,” he mutters, “but you cannot make canned soup for yourself?”

You laugh, shrugging it off like it was nothing. “I didn't feel like making dinner!”

He sighs dramatically, dragging a hand down his face before turning toward the kitchen. “No, no, this will not do. You need protein. Vegetables. Warm food. Something from pot.”

“Alexei—”

“Nyet. You sit,” he insists, already rummaging through the fridge. “I make you real dinner. Russian dinner. No tiny crackers.”

You can’t help smiling as you watch him clatter around the kitchen, muttering about “ridiculous modern nonsense” and “hungry little soldiers.” Twenty minutes later, he sets down a steaming bowl of something hearty and red in front of you.

He folds his arms, proud of himself. “See? Dinner. Not girl dinner—woman’s dinner.”

You take a spoonful and grin. “Fine. But only if you share it.”

His whole expression softens, shoulders relaxing. “Deal,” he says, sitting beside you with a pleased little grunt and taking out his own spoon. “But next time… maybe I try this girl dinner too. Looks easy.”

You smirk. “You’d last five minutes before making borscht.”

He chuckles, already planning it.

Bob: The hallway was silent. He had meant to pass through— maybe grab some tea, check the news, disappear back into the safety of silence before anyone noticed him. He preferred the world quiet like this. Like nothing could break or ask too much of him.

But the kitchen light was on. And so was the sound— soft, almost imperceptible. A sniff. A wet breath held a little too long.

He stepped in gently. You didn’t see him right away.

You were curled into yourself at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched, a paper plate of snacks in front of you— nothing warm, nothing properly nutritious. You still had two apple slices left, a stack of dried crackers, a carbonated drink that had gone stale, and an assortment of cheeses.

It looked like you'd been crying for a while, not the messy or loud kind. Just this slow, quiet ache of tears that slid down your face like they’d been there a while. You didn’t wipe them away. You just stared at your food, trying to chew through the lump in your throat like maybe that would help.

Bob stood in the doorway for a second, just breathing. Then he crossed the room.

No words. No sudden moves. He pulled out the chair beside you and sat, his presence warm and unintrusive. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t force you to look up. He just sat there.

For a while, it was only the sound of your quiet breathing, the occasional sniff, the crackle of the soda can shifting as condensation slid down the side.

Eventually, he reached out slowly, steadily and picked a cracker off your plate. Ate it like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like this was dinner. Like this was okay.

When you finally glanced at him, eyes rimmed red, he met your gaze with a gentle, understanding smile. "Mind if I join you?" Bob asked hopeful.

Your chin trembled. You shook your head. You watched him take one of your apple slices.

"I like the red apples best. They’re always much sweeter than the green ones— I don't want to bite into a fruit and it'd be sour." Bob spoke so casually and lightheartedly that it was quite refreshing.

It certainly caught you off guard. A small, wet breath escaped you— not quite a laugh, but close enough. He smiled back at you and stared for just a second.

Then he leaned back, arms folded loosely, gaze drifting to the far window where the sky had turned black and soft with stars.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I just… don’t want you to feel alone.”

That’s what undid you. Not the comfort. Not the silence. But the quiet knowing behind it— the way he saw you without reaching in, without prying. Just being there, steady as gravity, kind as light.

You leaned toward him— not asking, not warning — and he shifted only to let your head rest against his shoulder. He stayed still. Let you breathe. Let you cry, if you still needed to. Let your paper plate of snack food sit untouched on the table as the minutes passed like clouds.

Bob was there. Standing on the pad, soaked to the bone and hair plastered to his forehead. He didn't bother with cover—the rain lashed down relentlessly. Shirt sticking to his frame and his hair dripping into his eyes. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just waits patiently.

Behind him, in the short distance, Bucky, Alexei, and Ava also stood in the middle of the downpour. They’d stayed behind—it was supposed to be a simple data grab. Now they stood in the storm, fearing what that silence over the comms meant.

Even Valentina stood under an umbrella by the door, courtesy of Mel. Her expression was unreadable. Displeased.

The hatch lowered with a mechanical grind. And Bob straightened up a little.

John was the first one to appear and step out. Jaw clenched from frustration, one arm holding a bandaged side. He squinted through the storm and stepped aside.

Coming down the ramp, Yelena tried her best to support Y/n who came down with a limp and John came up beside her to help on the other side. With some struggle, Y/n was able to drape both of her arms over their shoulders; her weight uneven and her body failing her.

She limped down the ramp—her right leg dragging slightly, soaked in blood. Her face was pale, lips pressed in a tight pained line, and a deep gash on her head with blood running down the side of her face.

"Everything hurts," Y/n grunted out, wincing from the pain.

"Well, that's what happens when you decide to take on an army of security guards alone." John grumbled. His voice was sarcastic, but the tension in it betrayed real concern. They’d barely made it out in one piece.

"Next time..." Yelena began, still catching her breath. "We'll take them on together."

Without the overhang above them now, the three are fully soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds with how hard the rain was falling. A careful lift of the head results in Y/n stopping in her place. Her eyes locked ahead.

Bob.

Just there. Standing in the rain and soaked just like them. Worry etched permanently on his face. His mouth parted in slight disbelief. His shoulders relax noticeably at the sight of seeing her alive.

On either side of her, Yelena and John spare a quick glance at each other. It felt like the whole team knew there was some unspoken tension between Bob and Y/n, but it hadn't been addressed by any of them. Their gazes switch between the two of them, watching them carefully.

Bob took one tentative step forward. Then stopped, uncertain.

Y/n didn’t hesitate.

Both Yelena and John felt her shift out of their grasp.

She pulled away from them, wincing sharply at the pain in her leg. Her body screamed in protest, but instinct overruled everything else. She straightened as best she could and limped the last few steps on her own.

And then—she crashed into him.

Her arms wrapped around his neck. The force of it knocked him back a step, startled—but he caught her instantly. She reached up, cupped his face with trembling hands, and pulled him down into a kiss.

Their lips connect without hesitation, without planning.

It feels more desperate than romantic. A kiss born of fear and adrenaline and the dizzying reality that they’d nearly lost each other.

The thought of not coming back to him had haunted her the entire flight home. So she kissed him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

Like she couldn't bare the thought of being without him a second longer. She clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world and the only person who was worth fighting for.

Initially, Bob froze only for a second—then he was holding her like the storm didn't exist, one hand on the back of her head, the other at her waist, grounding her back to reality. He melted into her so easily, lifting her just slightly off the ground to close the last of the distance.

Behind them, the team stared in stunned silence. Even Yelena and John stood wide-eyed, brows raised.

And from the shadows, Valentina narrowed her eyes. Observing. Calculating.

Holding her impossibly close, Bob had no desire to release her anytime soon. Their lips moved together in sync, not rushed, not hesitant—just overwhelmed. He didn’t want to let go. She didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Their first kiss—born out of too much fear and too little time left in this world.

The rain pounds around them, soaking through everything, but neither flinches from the sound of thunder.

Finally, needing air, they broke apart—just barely. Breath mingled between them. She leaned her forehead against his, their noses brushing.

"I—I almost didn’t come back," she whispered, voice cracked from fear.

Bob shook his head immediately, as if trying to shake the words from reality. “Don’t say that,” he pleaded. His voice was raw. “Please don’t say that. I couldn’t—I couldn’t live if you didn’t come back.”

Tears welled in her eyes. A broken sob escaped as she brought the back of her hand to cover her mouth, her fingers trembling.

He pulled her tighter against him, like he could hold her together by sheer will. The adrenaline faded. Her composure cracked. Her body began to buckle under the weight of everything.

Her favorite thing is picking you up without warning and just walking off with you. You don’t even see it coming. One minute you’re walking through the common room, the next Yelena is scooping you up under one arm like a shopping bag.

“Put me down,” you demand, arms flailing.

“No,” Yelena says casually. You just know she's grinning like the devil. “I like this. Very portable. I should carry you everywhere.”

“Yelena!” You shout in protest.

“Shhh. Little people need their rest.” She grins wickedly, ignoring your half-hearted punches to her back. “You are like angry squirrel. So tiny. So fierce.”

She eventually sets you down, ruffling your hair on the way. You glare. “You’re insufferable.”

She blows you a kiss. “I’m your favorite. Admit it.”

Bucky: Out of all of them, Bucky is the one whose most playful about the height difference. He never said anything, but you always wondering if you reminded him of Steve; at least, the Steve he knew before the super soldier serum.

Because you were quite smaller compared to him. He was almost protective of you for that. He always casually drapes his arm over your shoulder and drags you into his side just like how he used to with Steve.

His newest thing was resting his arm against the top of your head. Something that you made you wonder if he ever did that to Steve when they were kids.

You didn't hear him initially, but you felt him gently rest his vibranium arm lazily across your head like it’s a perfectly shaped shelf. Your shoulders slouch in slight defeat.

“Comfortable,” Bucky murmurs. You can feel the smirk without even seeing it.

“Barnes,” you growl, trying to get out from under him. “Seriously?”

“You’re like… travel-sized,” he says thoughtfully, as though this is a profound realization. “Convenient. Efficient. Fits in carry-on luggage.”

You finally manage to grab the mug and swat his arm off. “Keep talking and I’ll fit you in a suitcase.”

“Sure you will,” he teases, stepping back with a small grin. “Need a stool? Or should I just carry you around on my shoulder?”

The look you give him could kill a lesser man, but Bucky just grins wider.

John: You've known for as long as you've known him that he's a total asshole. The biggest frustration for your give height is having things be just out of reach. And it's something that John always uses against you.

You reach for something on the high shelf, fingers brushing the edge, when John snatches it first. He holds it above your head with a crooked grin, leaning just out of reach.

“Gotta be faster than that, champ,” John teases, waving the item like it would trick you into reaching for it. “C’mon, jump for it."

"Walker," you warn him. You hold out your hand with the thought that he'd just give it to you, but he didn't.

“Don’t strain yourself,” John chuckles, crouching slightly just to piss you off more. “Need me to lift you? Or I could bend down. Real slow. Make it fair.”

You swipe at the item and miss by inches. “Give me the damn thing.”

He finally hands it over but ruffles your hair in the process. “Relax, short stack. No need to get feisty.”

You shoot him a death glare while smoothing your hair. “I’m going to stab you one day.”

“Better aim up,” he fires back.

Ava: She's always acting like she can't see you when you're practically standing directly in front of her. She'll even go as far as calling your name and pretending she can't see the obvious. You always frown, which gets an even bigger smile out of her.

“Oh—didn’t see you there.” Ava jokes.

You give her a flat look. “Hilarious.”

You ignore her and head over to the couch. When you sit down, your feet don't naturally touch the ground. It's something that's never bothered you and something you don't even pay attention to.

But it is something that Ava notices. She can't hold back a smile as she watches you curiously.

“Do you… need a booster seat?” Ava wonders.

“I will end you,” you mutter it under your breath like a promise.

She makes her exit from the room, but not before calling out: “You’re lucky I like you, hobbit.”

Alexei: He always surprises you by coming up behind you, locking his arm around your neck in a headlock, and furiously rubbing his knuckles against your head. He laughs heartedly and you struggle to fix your hair.

He moves away to stand next to you. And you're eyeing his towering frame with narrowed eyes.

“Tiny Comrade!” Alexei bellows, slapping your back so hard you stumble. “So small. So deadly. Like… tiny grenade.”

You sigh. “I’m average height.”

“For child, maybe,” he teases. “In Russia, we grow them bigger. More sturdy. You? Very efficient. Minimal bones to break.”

He scoops you into an uninvited bear hug that lifts your feet clear off the ground. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” you mutter into his chest.

“I have no shame,” he says proudly, setting you down and mussing your hair once again. “But I am proud of my Tiny Comrade.”

You groan, but you can’t help the small smile.

Bob: He's always been so tall and awkward. It physically hurts your neck just talking to him. So Bob's constantly crouching down to be level with your height. Something you find completely unnecessary, but he finds somewhat amusing.

While you’re both reviewing schematics, Bob bends his knees so he's the same height as you. He's barely hiding a grin as you glare at him through the corner of your eye.

“Just wanted to… you know… get on your level,” Bob claims.

“Bob. I’m not that short.” You try.

He hums innocently. “You’re kind of… mini. Compact. Featherweight.” He smiles softly like it’s a genuine compliment.

“Not helping,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Later, when you making food in the kitchen for yourself, Bob discovers that he needs to get into the drawer you're standing in front of. Instead of asking you to move or asking you to grab the utensil for him, Bob simply picks you up like you weigh nothing and moves you three feet to the left 

He sees your glare and holds his hands up: “You’re just easier to relocate, I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t broken. It was worse ; your shoulder was out of place, twisted wrong, and your fingers were already going numb. You couldn’t answer. The sob ripped through your throat before you could stop it. Your teeth clenched and the noise that came out of you wasn’t even human — just pure pain.

Bucky: Lifting your head, you could just barely make out a figure coming through the haze and smoke. He was at your side before you even knew it.

“Hey—hey, don’t move.” His voice dropped low, controlled, but the edge in it betrayed how fast his pulse was running. His metal hand hovered just above your arm, the other already pressing against your good shoulder to steady you. “Where’s it hurt?”

You tried to lift your arm and nearly blacked out. “My shoulder—oh god, I can’t—”

“Yeah. Alright. Shit. Dislocated,” Bucky muttered, assessing the angle, the way your arm hung wrong. His jaw tightened.

You could see the flicker of memory behind his eyes — the medic drills, the field fixes, the times he’d seen this before. But this was you.

Your breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. The tears rolling down your face and making your eyes red rimmed. "I—It hurts," you managed.

“You’re gonna be alright, I promise," Bucky nodded and grabbed your injured shoulder as gently as possible. It caused a surge of panic to override your senses.

You shook your head, biting back a sob. “No, no, it’s bad, it’s—”

“I know.” His voice cracked just a little, enough that you noticed. “But you need to let me fix it, or it’s gonna stay that way.”

Your teeth chattered though you weren’t cold. “It hurts so bad, Buck. Please help me.”

He knelt lower, catching your trembling chin gently with his metal fingers. “Look at me. You trust me?”

You nodded, tears streaking hot down your face.

“Good. I’m gonna reset it, but you have to breathe with me, okay?”

You tried to inhale, but it came out shaky. “It won’t work—”

“It will. I’ve done this before. You’re tougher than you think, sweetheart.” He swallowed. “Just—breathe. One deep one.”

You did, just barely. Your breath hitched halfway through as the joint throbbed.

He gave a slow nod. “On three.”

You hesitated, voice trembling. You were quick to grab his sleeve, stopping him. “You’re not gonna—do it early, right?”

He exhaled through his nose. His hesitation felt like betrayal. “You want me to lie to you or get it over with?”

“Bucky—" Your eyes grew wide.

"One,” Bucky began.

“Bucky, please—wait—” You begged.

“Two—”

“Don’t—” And he pulled.

Your scream ripped through your lungs painfully. The pop echoed like a gunshot, followed by your broken sob as your body jerked in his grip. For a second you didn’t know which way was up or down; the pain was so sharp you forgot to breathe.

Then you realized he was holding you. His hand still braced around your arm, the other against the back of your head, pulling you close as you trembled against his chest.

“Hey, hey, breathe, breathe,” Bucky murmured. His voice was soft but urgent. “It’s back in. You’re okay. You did it.”

“I—” You could barely speak, your breath catching between hiccups. “You didn’t say three.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, shaky and wet. “Yeah. I know.”

You tried to glare at him, but your face just crumpled again. With tears in your eyes, staining your cheeks and snot coming out of your nose, you looked like an absolute mess. “That hurt so much, Bucky.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He brushed a trembling hand over your cheek, pushing your hair away. “You scared the hell outta me.”

You sniffled hard, trying to stop the shaking. “You sound scared.”

“I was.” His voice softened even more. “Thought I was gonna make it worse.”

You blinked up at him, eyes blurry, throat raw. “You didn’t.”

For a moment, neither of you moved from that spot. The world shrunk down to your breathing and the ache radiating from your shoulder.

Then he exhaled slowly. “Let’s get you bandaged up, yeah? Maybe a sling.”

“Can I… just sit a second?” You panted, still feeling out of breath.

“Yeah,” he said immediately, still holding you close. “As long as you need.”

Eventually, Bucky thought it best to bring you back to base so you could get bandaged up properly. He helped you into the medical wing, inviting you to sit on the cot while he rummaged through some drawers for gauze.

Finding some, Bucky rolled up his sleeves and unwound the roll of gauze in his hands. His hair briefly fell into his face, but you watched him steadily, mesmerized by his calm movements. He stepped into the space between your legs and started wrapping your arm.

When his fingers brushed your skin, even accidentally, he went still, just long enough to meet your eyes as if waiting for permission to continue.

“Tell me if I’m too rough,” he murmured.

“You're fine,” you claimed, trying your hardest not to get lost in his eyes.

He looked doubtful, but kept going. Each pass of the bandage was gentle, deliberate, the faint scrape of fabric the only sound between you. When he finished, his hand lingered near your collarbone, thumb tracing the edge of the wrap to make sure it wasn’t too tight.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “You’ve got a really steady hand.”

“That’s not true” he said, smiling a little. “You just make me slow down.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He froze, then gave a soft huff of a laugh and looked down. “Sorry. That sounded—”

“Nice,” you said quietly.

He looked up again, eyes searching yours. The space between you suddenly felt small and some invisible force was bringing you closer to him.

“Hey,” Bucky said, voice rough now. He drew your attention away from his lips. “You really scared me.”

“I know.” You swallowed, your throat tight. “I'm sorry I scared you."

He huffed through his nose, almost smiling himself. “Yeah, well… I guess I'm just not great at watching people I care about in pain.”

Something in his tone made your chest ache. You reached for his hand, the one made of flesh and bone, and his fingers curled around yours instantly, warm and sure.

For a long moment neither of you spoke. The world shrank to the sound of your breathing and the steady pulse beneath his thumb where it brushed your skin.

Then Bucky leaned forward just a little—slow enough that you could have pulled away if you wanted to. You didn’t.

His forehead rested against yours first, a quiet question written in the pause that followed.

You gave your answer by leaning in the last inch.

The kiss was soft, barely there at first, just the warmth of his mouth against yours, careful of your shoulder, careful of everything. It was more exhale than motion, the kind that leaves both people a little stunned when it ends.

When he finally drew back, he stayed close, eyes still closed. “Was that okay?” he whispered.

You smiled faintly, heart hammering. “Yes. More than okay.”

He let out a breath that sounded almost like relief and rested his forehead against yours again. “Good,” he murmured. “I'm glad you're okay."

You laughed softly, not really knowing what he was referencing truthfully.

John: Rolling into a sitting position felt like the most impossible task at the time because of the unbearable pain shooting through your arm. You choked on your tears, sparing a single glance down and fearing the worst.

"Oh no—" You winced at the slightest movement. You squeezed your eyes shut to block out the pain. "Oh, shit—fuck, no, no, no, no, no."

“Hey! HEY!” John’s voice cut through the static, coming closer, too loud, too sharp.

"Shit, no, John—" You saw him coming towards you and tried your best to scoot away from him in fear that he'd only make things worse.

He ignored your attempts to get away and crouched down beside you. His hands hovered, not quite touching. “Where’s it hurt?” John searched your eyes for any answer.

You tried to move your arm and nearly vomited. “My—shoulder—”

He looked once, and his face twisted. “Ah, shit."

John reached out to help you.

“Don’t touch it!” you gasped out, voice shaking from fear. He stopped. “John, don’t—please—”

“I have to,” John snapped, more out of panic than anger. He hovered his hands over you, uncertain where to start. “If I don’t, you’re gonna stay like that until we get back to base and it’ll be ten times worse by then.”

“Then I'll wait for someone else,” you begged, your voice cracking. You could feel tears burning behind your eyes. “You’re shaking—don’t—”

He was shaking. You could see it, the twitch in his fingers, the adrenaline still flooding his system. He’d just come out of a fight— still wired, still halfway to breaking something.

“John,” you whispered, desperate. He looked into your eyes. “Please don’t do it like this.”

His jaw worked as he stared at your arm. His breathing was fast, harsh. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said quieter, but the fear was still there, hiding under the edge in his voice.

“It already hurts,” you choked, pressing your good hand against your chest. “It’s not in place, I can’t—oh God—”

“I know, I know.” He ran a hand down his face, forcing himself to focus. “Okay. Okay, listen to me. You gotta let me fix it. You trust me?”

You didn’t answer right away. The look on your face said everything: that you wanted to trust him, but the idea of him resetting it when he was this wound-up terrified you.

“I promise,” he said again, softer now, kneeling lower until he was eye-level. “I won’t rush it. I swear to you.”

You blinked through tears, your breath trembling. He stared into your bleary eyes, trying to convince you that he was trying to help.

You sniffled up some tears. “You’re not gonna—like—yank it?”

He gave a small, bitter laugh under his breath. “No. I’m not gonna yank it. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” you managed, half-panicked, half-trying to keep him steady. You held his arm with your good hand to stop him.

“Yeah.” He sighed and met your eyes. “I’ve done this before. It’s ugly, but it’ll be over fast.”

You bit down hard on your lip as he took your arm gently, adjusting your elbow and wrist. The pressure sent a shock of pain so sharp it made you cry out again.

“Shh, shh, I know,” he said quickly, his voice breaking a little. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you’re okay."

When John lifted his head again, he could see the way you were squeezing your eyes shut tight and clenching your teeth just in anticipation. He quickly brought his hand to his mouth and yanked off his tactical leather glove with his teeth.

"Here— bite down on this," John offered.

Your eyes were wide, tears running freely now, but you nodded. You put the glove in your mouth and bit down hard. The leather tasted like sweat and metal.

“Good girl,” he said softly. "I just gotta rotate—yeah, like that—”

You braced yourself.

“—and push.”

The pop was deafening. You screamed so loud it startled even him, even through the leather glove. The pain flared white-hot, then dulled in waves as your arm fell back into place. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think— just sobbed, the sound catching in your throat until you couldn’t tell if it was pain or shock.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His hands were on your face now, his own trembling. He gently removed the glove from your mouth, ignoring the drool that followed. “You’re okay, it’s in. It’s done. It’s done, I promise.”

You gasped out, struggling to catch your breath. Your head lulled in his hands, suddenly feeling very weak and tired. “You—you scared me.”

He froze, guilt flashing across his face like he’d been struck. “I know. I know, I didn’t mean to. I just—I couldn’t stand to see you like that.”

You blinked through tears, chest still hitching. “You came at me like—you were gonna make it worse.”

“Yeah.” He looked away, jaw tight. “I'm too much sometimes. I’m sorry.” His voice was low now, calmer, almost fragile. “That’s on me.”

You nodded weakly, wincing as you tried to breathe past the pain. “It hurts so much.”

“I know.” He slipped an arm under your knees, another behind your back, lifting you slowly this time— carefully, like he was afraid you’d shatter. “Here. We’ll get you to medical. You just—don’t move, okay?”

You couldn’t even answer, just rested your head against his shoulder. The tears were still running down your cheeks as he carried you back.

A few hours later, you sat on the edge of the cot in the medbay. Your shirt sleeve torn off and shoulder wrapped in gauze. Your breath still hitched every time you moved.

Next to you, John was seated with the bandage roll between his fingers. The same hands that had reset your shoulder shaking a little less now that he'd fixed you up.

“You’re sure I’m not hurting you?” he asked quietly, his voice stripped of its usual bravado.

You shook your head. “It’s… fine,” you managed, though your lips trembled.

John frowned. “Doesn’t look fine.” He adjusted the wrap carefully, brushing your skin with a tenderness that didn’t fit the man you saw on missions. His eyes flicked up to yours for only a second, then dropped again. “You scared the hell out of me back there.”

“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted before you could stop yourself. “When you do things like that—charging in—”

He froze, the words hitting harder than he expected. “Yeah,” he murmured, gaze softening. “I know. I don’t mean to.”

You could see the conflict in him: the man who’s always trying to prove himself, the soldier who forgets to be careful. He took the sling and carefully eased it over your head, guiding your arm to rest in the sling. His hands hovering awkwardly like he didn’t know what to do next.

“You’re done,” he said, forcing a small grin. “Not bad for a guy who usually just tapes up his own cuts and bruises.”

You smiled faintly. “Not bad at all.”

He lingered there, eyes tracing your face like he was trying to memorize it—every line, every bit of exhaustion and stubbornness. His jaw worked as if he was talking himself out of something. Then, finally, he stood to his feet and went to back away.

“I’ll… let you rest.”

You nodded, though something in your chest tightened when he turned toward the door. You thought that was it—until he stopped halfway, shoulders tense.

Much to your surprise, John turned back towards you. In two strides, he was back in front of you. His hand brushed your good shoulder, hesitating—then, before you could ask what he was doing, he cupped your face, leaned down, and pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t fierce, not like him—it was brief, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to, but couldn’t walk away without it. When he pulled back, his voice was rough.

“Guess I’m worse at leaving than I thought.”

You blinked, breath catching, still feeling the warmth he’d left behind. “John—”

He gave a faint, crooked smile that didn’t quite hide the nerves. “Get some sleep, darlin’. I’ll be right outside.”

And then he was gone, leaving the faint scent of his aftershave and the lingering ache of something you both pretended you didn’t want.

Bob: It happened so fast you didn’t even understand it at first. All you felt was a sharp, ugly crack and a bolt of white pain that swallowed everything. The air left your lungs in a broken gasp, and for a moment you thought you’d been shot.

“—hey, hey, what happened?” Bob’s voice was there immediately, closer than you realized. His hands hovered near your arm, trembling even though he was trying so hard not to show it.

You couldn’t answer. The pain was too big, too loud. All that came out was a choked sound, half sob, half gasp.

He very carefully helped you into a sitting position, being mindful of every wince coming from you. Your arm hung at an unnatural angle, your shoulder visibly displaced under your skin.

“Oh God…” Bob’s voice cracked. His face grew pale and he looked away briefly to hold back the urge to vomit. “Okay, okay, that’s your shoulder. You dislocated it."

“I—I—I know,” You couldn’t even get the words out. You’d never felt anything like it— that deep, nauseating pain that crawled up your neck and made the edges of your vision blur. You began to cry from the pain.

"Shh, shh, don’t cry." Bob tried to reassure you that everything was going to be alright. He brushed a tear or two away with the pad of his thumb. "Just don't try to move.”

He took a moment to assess his options; his eyes darting back and forth as if debating in his own mind. You looked at him desperately begging for something, anything from him.

Bob swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. “It’s gonna be okay. I can fix it. I swear, I can fix it, just… breathe with me, okay?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to nod. Tears leaked out anyway. You couldn’t control anything— your breathing, the trembling, the low, panicked noises slipping out of your throat.

He gently rested his hand on your back. Even through the tremor in his voice, he spoke like he was coaxing a frightened animal. “You’re alright, sweetheart. I got you. I’m right here.”

Your breath hitched. “Hurts,” you whispered, barely audible.

“I know,” he murmured, guilt flooding his tone. “I know, I wish I could take it from you.” He took another shaky breath and looked at your shoulder again. “Listen— I’m gonna have to pop it back in. It’s gonna be fast, okay? It’ll hurt, but then it’ll stop. I promise.”

You stared at him through the tears. “Y—you sure?”

He nodded rapidly; his lips quirking up in a fleeting moment. “I’m sure. I’ve seen this before. Just… trust me, okay?”

Your lips quivered. “I’m scared.”

That broke him. His voice caught on the next breath.

“Me too,” Bob admitted softly. “But you’re not alone, alright?"

You blinked through the tears, feeling them sliding down your face at an uncontrollable pace. Your eyes and cheeks wet and red from all the crying.

"Hey—" Bob caught your gaze. "You look at me. Don’t look at your arm — look at me.”

You did, even as your whole body trembled.

“Okay,” he whispered. He gently placed his hand on your shoulder. “Deep breath for me. One… two…”

He didn’t even say three— just a smooth, practiced pull and twist, enough force to realign the joint without snapping anything else.

The pop echoed in your ears, followed by a burst of agony that stole your breath. You screamed once— short, broken. And then the world went black for a few seconds.

When you came to, everything was still and muffled. You were lying halfway in Bob’s lap, his hand cupping the back of your head, his voice shaking as he whispered your name over and over.

“Hey—hey, you with me?” His thumb brushed your cheek, frantic but gentle. “Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes.”

You blinked weakly, the world swimming back into focus. His face was pale, his eyes glassy. You could see his bottom lip trembling.

“It’s back in,” he said quickly, trying to smile through it. “It’s done. You passed out for a second— scared the hell out of me.”

You tried to talk, but your throat felt raw. “Bob…”

“Shh, don’t. Just breathe.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He brushed your hair back lovingly. “You did good, honey. So good. I’m sorry I had to do that to you.”

You leaned your head weakly against his chest, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “Hurts…”

“I know,” he murmured again, pressing his cheek to the top of your head. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

He stayed like that with one hand cradling your shoulder to keep it still and the other holding you close until your breathing steadied enough for him to lift you carefully, whispering quiet reassurances all the way back.

Hours later, the world still feeling a little off-kilter. The painkillers dulled the edge of your shoulder, but left everything hazy as if you were floating just outside your body.

Bob stood right in front of you, sleeves rolled up, quiet focus in his face. He’d been the one to carry you into the medical wing, and even now, hours later, he still looked shaken—like if he blinked too long, you’d vanish again.

“Hold still,” he murmured, fingers brushing lightly over your arm as he adjusted the bandage. His touch was deliberate, careful in a way that made your pulse skip. “This part’s supposed to sit higher. If it’s too loose, it’ll pull when you move.”

You tried to smile, but your voice came out small. “You’re fussing.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, giving you a soft, crooked grin without looking up, “I’m good at that.”

He leaned closer, brows furrowed as he pressed the gauze into place. His breath brushed your collarbone, and you felt heat bloom under your skin. His hair fell into his eyes and his eyes focused on the task at hand.

You swallowed hard. “Bob…”

He glanced up at the sound—just once—and that’s when he realized how close he was. His hand was still on your arm, the space between you barely there. His usual composure faltered, replaced by something tender, almost startled.

“I was just—” he started, then stopped, words dying in his throat. The world seemed to narrow to the sound of your heartbeat and his uneven breath. You could feel his hot breath fanning your face and you watched his eyes flicker down to your lips.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

And then, so softly it could have been an accident, he leaned in to kiss you.

It was slow, weightless like he was afraid you’d break if he did it wrong. When he drew back, he was breathless. His eyes were wide, searching your face as though waiting for you to tell him it was okay.

You blinked, dizzy and warm and a little dazed. “That was…”

He gave a quiet laugh, the sound rough and boyish. “Probably not part of the medical procedure.”

You smiled faintly. “Didn’t feel like an accident though.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “It wasn't.”

He stayed there a moment longer, still holding your arm as if afraid to let go before finally exhaling. “Alright,” he murmured, softer now. “No more moving that shoulder tonight. Doctor’s orders.”