#uswlker

The room is dark except for the faint wash of moonlight bleeding in through the blinds. Laura doesn’t knock, she never does, not anymore. The nightmares had clawed her awake again, leaving her chest tight and her hands shaking, the echo of blood she never spilled still burning behind her eyes.

She slips in quietly, bare feet on the cold floor, until she’s at the edge of his bed. John doesn’t move. He’s a heavy sleeper, but she’s done this before, and she knows that he doesn’t question it anymore. She slides under the blanket, the heat of him already loosening something in her chest. He’s the only one who doesn’t ask what she saw. Doesn’t tell her it was just a dream. Doesn’t look at her like she’s dangerous.

It’s not long before his breathing shifts, faster, heavier. A sharp jerk in his shoulders. Even in sleep, he’s still in some war. She turns toward him, reaching out without thinking. Her palms cup his face, warm against the rough line of his jaw.

"Hey," she murmurs, not to wake him, but to anchor him. "It’s fine. You’re fine. I'm here..."

The tension in him ebbs slowly, like water receding. His eyes never open, but his breathing steadies, and her thumbs smooth over his cheekbones until he’s quiet again.

@uswlker asked: you're the one who told me to let off some steam.

Eyebrows   raise   as   she   finds   herself   pinned   to   the   bedroom'   floor,   amusement   spread   on   her   features   and   chest   breathing   heavy   with   the   pressure   of   his   own   body   on   hers.   He   is   not   subtle,   he   had   never   been,   the   friction   of   clothes   on   clothes   is   enough   to   drive   her   wild   and   she   does   her   best   to   keep   her   mind   from   giving   in   so   easily.   "I   was   talking   about   some   training   or   casual   black   ops   action,   not   trying   to   drive   me   through   the   bedroom   floor."  

Bobbi   jest,   but   it   had   become   routine   for   her   to   welcome   him,   her   legs   opening   to   welcome   him   between   them,   the   way   her   hips   shift   and   respond   to   the   grinding   of   his   own.   And   if   she   is   being   honest,   when   she   said   blow   off   steam,   she   was   not   really   thinking   of   training.   .   .or   only   training.   Stamina   and   durability   as   well   pent   up   energy   seem   to   be   an   issue   in   all   super   soldiers   she   knows,   herself   included   and   a   man   like   Walker,   well,   he   tends   to   keep   a   lot   inside.   She   is   good   at   levelling   up   the   weight   on   his   shoulders   but   sometimes,   the   best   way   to   let   go   was   simply   that.   .   .put   their   mind   to   something   else.  

The room smells like damp carpet and old smoke, the kind of place that has seen more deals go bad than good. The rain outside paints streaks down the cracked glass, city lights bleeding through in muted gold and red. Yelena sits cross-legged on the sagging bed, a half-cleaned pistol resting in her lap. She isn't in a hurry, the job is done, for now, and the storm outside means neither of them are leaving until morning at least. Yelena cannot help but laugh (soft, breathy, and mostly to herself) as she looks over at John. He's soaking, head to toe.... it's the way he shakes his head to negate the moisture atop his mop, that makes her think of a golden retriever. Walker claims the rickety chair by the table. Blood still caking both of their faces, various limbs. He's working with his rifle with a rather methodical care, the kind of focus she comprehends...the type born from needing your hands busy so your thoughts don't wander somewhere dangerous.

For a split second, she catches him looking. Just once. Long enough for the corner of her mouth to twitch upward...it stings slightly. A mild abrasion. Ugh.

She doesn't spoil the moment the way she yearns to with some smartass commentary, no matter how badly she wants to.