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This is where I am supposed to be.
It was not a thought Yelena had often, not really, but up here, perched on the construction platform on the face of the Watchtower that overlooked the south side of Manhattan, she felt like maybe it was true. It was so quiet up here. But not in a freaky way, a sinister way, no: it was just quiet. Calm. Like how she imagined it would be if she could fly, if she could soar up into the clouds above the noise of people and streets and cars and all of that shit and just… float.
Hardly any street sounds made it up here, and the wind whipped around her hair when it came from the west because of the shear, but it was peaceful. Empty. Let her head murmur down into silence, fill with nothing but the wind, let her focus on whatever the next task was. And whatever it would be, they had full operational control over: Valentina’s hands were tied completely. Bucky and Mel had seen to that, quietly passing information to that impeachment committee he was always complaining about, and deFontaine had been quickly relegated to an In Name Only position on the bipartisan board that oversaw the New Avengers. Zero pull, zero input, zero control. Just a powerless, withering asshole stuffed into a skirt-suit set who couldn’t keep staffers for more than a month and looked more and more frazzled at every meeting. Which Yelena had to admit, you know, was kind of satisfying.
Yelena hated politics. Really. She really, really hated politics. Bucky had been re-elected three months ago, but had chosen to hand his seat over to the woman who’d been the Democratic party’s second choice of candidate for his district after he’d realized he couldn’t both be an Avenger and a Congressman— something about conflicts of interest, blah blah blah. And anyway, he had decided he wasn’t really cut out for politics. Brooklyn hadn’t been happy, but they’d gotten over it.
One thing that popped into her head as she sat there on the construction deck, listening to the wind, as it often did here, was this: Did Natasha come up here sometimes, too? To listen to the world’s silence? Did maybe she stand right where I am right now? It wasn’t a far-fetched thought. The Watchtower was the old Stark Tower. Avengers headquarters. Newly rechristened as the New Avengers Tower. The residence floors were even in the same place. Mel Gold had taken them through a tour, explaining: the top six floors had been gutted, but totally refurbished, kept as living quarters— there’d been very clear records kept of which original Avengers had lived in which room, and everyone had quietly let Yelena take the one that had used to belong to Natasha. Even Walker hadn’t been a dick about it, not even when Bucky didn’t give him a chance to claim the floor that had belonged to Steve Rogers, insisting Alexei take it instead, which had delighted her father to no end.
So now Yelena slept in a bed that was pushed exactly where her sister’s had been, so long ago and yet so close. Sometimes, alone at night, she pretended that Natasha was right next to her. That time and distance and death did not exist: that they were face to face, huddled under the blankets like they had so many years ago, as children, giggling at night with a flashlight and covering their mouths while Daddy and Mama had called out: you two had better be sleeping! Whispering hot damp childhood secrets to each other, breathing out the scent of toothpaste into each other’s faces. Tomorrow I’ll show you the tree you can climb in the woods. I have a bunch of chocolate in my sock drawer for when you’re sad. Becka says she has a magic rock that can make your wishes come true.
“Yelena?”
She turned unconsciously, wiping tears from her eyes and focusing on the shape hovering in the plastic-sheeted hole leading to the large observation floor they couldn’t use until the wall was repaired. Bob was standing there, back pressed up to the edge of the wall like he was afraid he’d fly right out. His loose sweatshirt blew in the wind, lifting and flapping around his waist like a flag. “Oh, hi, Bob,” she said brightly. “Uh, what are you doing up here?”
“Um, I— Alexei sent me to find you, he says he wants you to taste a, this, I can’t pronounce it, a soup or something for dinner tonight. He’s been working on it all afternoon. Um—” He pushed his neck forward, the wind lifting his brown hair up and back, then shuddered and gulped, closing his eyes and stepping back.
Oh, right. Heights. “I’m coming,” Yelena said, pushing herself up and walking back to the open wall. He held the plastic open for her and followed her in, a sigh of relief leaving him as he picked at his fingers. “You really don’t like the heights, huh? Must suck. You know. Because we live in a giant skyscraper.”
“I just try not to think about it,” he said, half a smile on his face.
“Yeah? Does it work?” They got into the elevator up to the residential floors, and he pushed the button for her before standing back.
“Sometimes. Well, usually.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“At least the elevator’s not glass,” he said as it began to move, lifting them even higher.
“Or at the bottom of a shaft, up which we then have to climb,” she added, which got a chuckle out of him. She turned to face him, looking up at his eyes. “You know, I have never said it, but that was a very smart idea, and thank you. Because without you, probably, we all would have died.”
“Oh,” he said, a pink stain blooming on the back of his neck. “Uh. It was just a thought. You know.”
“It was a good thought.” She aimed for his arm with a gentle nudge of her elbow, and he looked down quickly at her and then at the floor, like he didn’t know what to do with the mild compliment. That was normal: she was used to it by now. So she turned back to the doors. They slid open on Alexei’s floor, and she walked forward, Bob tailing her again. “Dad?” she called, looking around at the entry hall, which was still piled with cardboard boxes of her father’s crap from the rental in DC. The whole place smelled like food, like something meaty and briny, warm and fragrant and familiar.
“It smells really good, whatever he’s making,” said Bob, perking up behind her. “I—”
“Lena!” bellowed Alexei from the kitchen. “Yes! Come in, come in! Did you bring Bob back with you?”
“Of course I brought Bob, you said this morning you wanted a group dinner. What do you—”
“Come! I am making solyanka! Walker has been very informative on this thing called meal prep , yes— no need for frozen dinners. Get in here, come, come!”
“Oh, my God,” said Yelena, torn between laughter and embarrassment as she waved for Bob to follow her and rounded the wall into the kitchen. Ingredients and dirty dishes covered the counter, and Alexei stood in the middle of the floor. T-shirt, sweatpants, socks, slippers, and an apron that featured a massive portrait of Lenin, face was warped by the body it stuck to. “Why are you wearing that thing, what the—”
“Ava got it for me before she left. Housewarming gift. Very nice woman.” Her father beamed, teeth glinting in the lights.
“As long as you don’t wear it in public, Jesus—”
“Oh, just try the solyanka , eh? Cheer you up, remind you of home.”
“Fine. Come on, Bob.”
Bob stirred like he’d forgotten he was in the room. “M-me?” Oh. Uh—” He followed her to the pot and looked down dubiously at the stitch red stew. “Are those olives? What’s in this?”
“Ah, you are so American, Bob,” scoffed Alexei, pushing a mostly-clean spoon at Yelena before pitching his voice into an artificially high-pitched tone. “‘Oooh, what is in this? Is the meat free-range? Is the egg fed with the grass? Does it have vegan?’ It is food, Bob, very good food. You go all through Southeast Asia and you don’t eat the whole time? Eh?” His tone was kind, though, gentle prodding, and Bob chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck as Yelena dipped the spoon into the solyanka and blew on it to cool it.
“Well, I was on a lot of drugs. Food wasn’t, uh, really a priority.”
“Eh, understandable,” Alexei replied. “But after you eat my solyanka it will be priority. Yes? Good?” That last part was directed at Yelena, who was savoring the taste: perfect blend of salty-sour, rich and warm down to her toes. “Bob, you get sour cream out of fridge, we’ll mix a little in bowl to try.”
“Oh, my God, it’s good,” she admitted, and Alexei clapped his hands together in delight as Bob pulled a sour cream container out of his stuffed fridge and opened it.
“Wait, no, sorry. This is… leftover lasagna from Italian night?” he said, sounding confused.
“Ha! Yes, Lena! You like the kielbasa? I could not get it from a good place, had to go to Whole Foods. But I think it works fine. Bob, sour cream is somewhere else, uhhh, I think, bottom of fridge door.”
Yelena took another spoonful, rolling it around her mouth. “Mmm, yeah. Wow. And is that salami?”
“And bacon,” he said proudly. “Wait until you try with lemon slices and some sour cream and a little dill. Bob? How is it coming in there?”
Bob, who had found another plastic sour cream container, looked up like a deer in the headlights at the sound of his name and fumbled the open tub and lid, his fingers dipping into creamed spinach. “Shoot, sorry,” he said, managing to not drop it. “I, uh, I think I contaminated it.”
Alexei waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, is fine. Your hands are clean. And if not, it gives the leftovers character, yes?”
“Ew. Don’t worry about it, Bob. The sour cream’s probably gone bad anyway,” Yelena said, shooting a look at Alexei.
“Sour cream is already technically bad, Lena; it cannot go more bad. Bob, don’t you worry, I’ll find it. You try the solyanka and tell me what you think.” He nudged past the younger man and opened the fridge again, mumbling to himself in a sing-song cadence as he looked through the fridge for the elusive ingredient, leaving Bob with spinach smeared up his fingers and still clutching the plastic tub.
“Oh, I—well, uh—” His eyes were darting down to the pot and back to Yelena. “I gotta wash my hands before I, I mean—”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she assured him, dipping her spoon back in and lifting out a good mouthful. “It’s good, I promise. Here. Open your mouth.”
“Oh.” Bob parted his lips, and she had to fight the urge to say something very silly like here comes the airplane as she pushed the spoon between his lips and deposited the stew into his mouth, careful not to clack it against his teeth. Briefly, she glanced at his eyes as she pulled it back, and he wasn’t looking at the stew or anything else. Just at her. Steady and sure and trusting, and as his lips closed and he chewed, those dark eyes closed. “Mmm,” he hummed, shaking his head. “Wow. Wow. That’s— that’s really good.”
“Wow, you sound so surprised,” she deadpanned, turning her back to wash the spoon and cover her flustered emotions because what had that been about? Why would anyone stare into the eyes of someone spooning solyanka into their mouth like that? Even really, really good solyanka?
“I didn’t think olive and meat soup would, um, taste like that,” he explained, extending his spinach covered hands out. “Sorry, can I wash my hands really quick?”
“Oh. Yes! Yeah. Sorry. Here.” Yelena turned the faucet back on for him and reached for the soap, sliding out of the way so he could reach into the sink, but he’d already set down the tub and reached for the soap himself. Her hand collided with his, spinach smearing up her wrist. “Oh—”
“Sorry! Sorry.” Bob shot her a look, laughed a little, and shook his head as a little self-loathing crept into his embarrassed tone. “Man, I just… can’t do anything right tonight, huh?”
“Don’t say that,” she said at once, looking directly up at him, hip to hip, against the sink. “Hey. Don’t say that, Robert. Okay?” He looked down at her, his lips parted again as he searched her face, maybe looking for a sign she wasn’t serious when she was, maybe looking for something else.
“Okay,” he said softly.
“Found it!’ barked Alexei from the fridge, and both of them jumped, startled. Yelena closed her eyes in exasperation and handed Bob the soap. “Just as suspected!” He turned around and brandished an empty butter container, bright yellow. “Okay, now we try it with the lemon and dill and cream. Ah, you will love it.”
“You know, meal prepping is supposed to be for, like, a week, and I think you made enough for the Russian Olympics team to swim in,” she told him, turning around as Bob studiously scrubbed his knuckles with his head down. “You don’t even have room in the fridge! Where are you going to keep it?”
“In your room’s fridge,” he said, beaming as he set out four thick bowls and ladled the soup in. “You have all that space and no good food. Just leftover tacos and pizza. Come on. Eat.”
“Who else is coming?” asked Bob, eyeing up the bowls.
“Barnes. He said it’s been a long time since he had good Russian food. Bad memories, you know. But he’s willing to try. Which is very good, I think. Very good.” Alexei carried the bowls to the table (his table from home: dark wood, four mismatched chairs with plastic on the cushions) and carefully laid them out. “I would have invited Ava and Walker, but of course they left yesterday. Doing that mission in Madripoor. Very quiet. Only two.”
“Would have been nice to get an invite,” Yelena said, half to herself. She’d never done a mission in Madripoor before, which was why they’d sent Ava and not her, but she’d always wanted to go. Excitement, nightlife, plenty of organized crime. What wasn’t to love?
“Ah, small mission. They have it handled. Right, Bob?”
“Right, right,” said Bob, drying his hands on a dishtowel.
A voice rose from the entry hall. “Hi in there. Anyone home?”
“Hi, Bucky,” called Yelena over her shoulder, pulling out the utensil drawer and selecting four spoons that looked the closest to matching. “Come in, we’re just about to sit down.”
“Get the cabbage out. Oh, and we need vodka,” said Alexei, going for the freezer.
“Oh, my God, Dad—”
“What? It’s not a good Russian meal without drinks!”
Bucky came around the wall, eyes creased with good humor. “Oh, it’s a whole party, huh?” he asked. “I should have brought something.”
“No, no, no. You are a guest, you bring nothing, you sit down.” Alexei waved a hand as Yelena retrieved the cabbage from the back of the top shelf of the fridge, standing on her tiptoes to reach around the containers and Ziploc bags. “Bob, slice a lemon. I’ll get the dill.”
“A lemon,” Bob muttered to himself as he reached into the fruit basket, “a lemon, slice a lemon, okay, that’s easy, I can do that.”
“Here,” said Yelena, thrusting the cabbage at Alexei, “and we need plates if we’re going to have cabbage.” Privately she was wondering if she could get Bob to look at her like that again, like the way he had when she’d fed him the stew and if she could, what had the impetus been? Maybe it had been a fluke. Maybe nothing. Maybe it was just really good solyanka. Either way, it had been oddly pleasant.
“I got the plates,” said Bucky, crossing the kitchen to the cabinets.
“No, no, you are a guest,” said Alexei, elbow-deep in the vegetable drawer. “Lena, tell him he’s a guest and needs to sit.”
“I’m not going to tell Bucky Barnes to sit like he’s a dog,” she said archly, watching out of the corner of her eye as Bob got a knife and carefully sliced the lemon into even, neat slices. “Nice work,” she told him quietly so no one else could hear, and the tips of his ears, poking out of the loose brown curls at the sides of his head, went red. That, too, was pleasant. “Okay,” she said louder, to the rest of the room as she ticked off each item on her fingers. “Dill, lemons are almost ready, cream, spoon for cream, spoons for soup and cabbage, plates, bowls…”
“Shot glasses,” interjected Alexei, carrying four in one hand over to the table with the frosted bottle of vodka.
“Shot glasses. Okay.” She looked back over. Bob was setting the slices onto a plate neatly, taking his time, and once he had it all arranged he picked the plate up and brought it to the table. She wasn’t the only one who had noticed his effort, either. Barnes lifted an eyebrow, glanced at the plate, and then back at her.
They’d had enough conversations between them about needing to strike a balance for Bob between flattery and encouragement that all she needed to do was raise her eyebrows back at Bucky in response and nod, glancing at Bob’s back. “Hey, look at that,” said Bucky easily, walking over with the plates. “That’s almost too pretty to eat there. Looks like a flower.”
“Oh. Thanks,” said Bob, flushing a little and fumbling with his hands as a smile flashed across his face. “But, uh, I hope you eat it.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I will,” Bucky assured him. “Okay, all good? I’m starving.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Alexei, motioning everyone to their seats. Once everyone had plopped down— Yelena on one side, Bob on the other, Bucky and Alexei at the long ends— Alexei puffed his chest out and filled everyone’s shot glasses, lifting his high. “Nahzdorov'ye!”
“Nahzdorov'ye!” answered both Yelena and Bucky, and Bob mumbled something unintelligible, his lips working as they all threw back a shot and started garnishing their respective bowls with cream and lemon and dill.
“So,” said Alexei expansively, leaning back as he placed his dill with delicate fingers, “any missions coming up for us, the rest of team?”
“Not very soon, I don’t think,” Bucky said, mixing up the cream and taking a hearty spoonful. “Might be something domestic soon, though. Oh, wow. Mmm. That’s incredible.”
“I don’t mind a break, honestly,” said Yelena, making a dent at her cabbage to let the soup cool a little, like she preferred it. “You know. Some time to myself to think is nice. Especially when money is not a problem.”
“Yeah, it shouldn’t be for a while,” Bucky said, chuckling as he took another bite. “Mmm. We got full, uh, discretionary funding or something in Congress. I guess after the last president turned into a Hulk, you know, the government’s willing to throw money at anyone who can promise it won’t happen again.”
“Can we actually promise that?” asked Bob around a mouthful of stew.
“Ah, probably not. But it makes the people feel safer, yes?” Alexei gulped down another shot of vodka and chased it with stew. “And we have already proved ourselves in the great battlefield of— of danger, and, ah, threats to public safety.”
“Don’t make me think about those magazine interviews again,” said Yelena immediately, not wanting to bring up threats to public safety while Bob was in the room. “Proving myself in, you know, the area of fighting and punching and blowing shit up— that is one thing. Proving myself to the media is probably more stressful than being in the Red Room.”
“You are the one who wanted a public-facing role,” said Alexei, chuckling.
She laughed. “Yes, okay, I didn’t know it would be so hard! You have to say all the right things and do the right things and don’t even blink wrong! It’s exhausting.”
“And you wonder why I left politics,” Bucky put in, laughter in his voice. “It’s awful.”
“It’s awful!” she agreed, laughing.
“Nobody’s going to make me prove anything, right?” asked Bob, and his voice was so cautious, balanced, quiet and careful that Yelena looked up almost before she’d registered what he had asked.
“No. Nobody’s going to make you do anything,” Bucky said immediately, glancing over at Yelena. “We talked about that the first week. To the public, you’re a man of mystery. To the government, you’re an intern, you know, like Mel, living here most of the time and helping out but not a working part of the New Avengers. It’s all fine, and it’s gonna stay that way.”
“What about to you?” asked Bob, and he was talking to Bucky, but he was looking at Yelena and she didn’t know what to say, to do: she shoveled soup into her mouth and burned her tongue and coughed, throwing back vodka to wash it down. He caught himself, corrected. “I mean—you know, to the team?” he asked, looking over at Alexei and then at Bucky. “I know I can’t really contribute. I never— I don’t like asking in front of everyone else. But, you know, just you guys…”
Yelena knew what he meant. In front of them: Bucky, who understood what it was like to be a scientifically exploited human being with a dark side. And Alexei, who was always kind and gentle, joyful even when he was teasing, like the father Bob had deserved to have. And Yelena, who— who—
Actually, she didn’t know why she was all that special. She’d just been kind to him. Tried to help him. That wasn’t special, that was basic human decency. She’d just been contrasted with Walker, who had been an abrasive jerk the moment he’d laid eyes on Bob. Next to that set bar, anyone would look like an angel. He didn’t mean her. Couldn’t mean her. But he was looking at her again. Why was he looking at her again? Her heart thudded oddly in her chest as she gazed right back at him, clearing her throat. “Everybody on this team likes you, Bob,” she said firmly. “Everybody. You don’t have to be, what, some super-soldier assassin, or a black ops agent or something, to be a valuable member, okay?”
“I don’t know,” he said thinly, ducking his head a little and playing with his spoon. “Uh, sometimes— it sometimes kind of feels like I’m being kept here, you know, to make sure I don’t— that it doesn’t— happen again.”
“Kept here?” asks Alexei, bewildered. “Kept here?”
The last thing Yelena needed was her father blundering his way into screwing this whole thing up. “Dad, maybe don’t, okay, not the best time to—”
“You don’t like it, then you can leave any time you like!” her father pressed on, ignoring her frantic attempts to shut him up. “Any time. You can go anywhere here. You have Metro card. You have money. You have—”
“Please give me the vodka,” said Yelena to Bucky under her breath, and he willingly passed it to her, eyes fixed on Bob as Bob stared at Alexei. She gulped down a shot and poured another, cringing inwardly: what did Alexei think he was doing, telling Bob to leave?
“You are free! This is America, yes? You can go wherever you want to go. Nobody is keeping you in a prison, not like in that lab. But I think you like to stay. Right?”
“Oh, my God,” groaned Yelena, tossing back the next shot and pressing her hand to her forehead.
Alexei threw his hands up in confusion. “What, Lena? What? It’s true! He likes to stay! Who wouldn’t like to stay? We don’t pay rent! The government pays rent! On the most expensive high-rise penthouse suite in America! Ha!” He shook his fist. “This is success! This is fortune!”
“This is making me wish I could get drunk,” Bucky whispered, snatching the bottle back and tilting it to his mouth as Bob bent his head, looking flustered and uneasy and embarrassed and torn all at the same time.
“But I think most of all, you like to stay because my Lena is here,” said Alexei, tossing back another shot, and Yelena’s ears rang, pounding harsh with blood like seashells as her cheeks burned so hotly that she was sure all her training was completely useless, totally useless and why, why, why was Alexei still talking? She wouldn’t look at Bob. She refused. She stared at her bowl instead, at the floral pattern on the rim. “Which is important. And understandable. Yes? Because she is very special.”
“Oh, my God,” Yelena burst out, jerking up out of her seat. “Dad, can you please not talk about these kinds of things—”
“Yeah,” Bucky interjected, hand raised, “I think I’m gonna second that motion.”
Alexei was not to be deterred. “What kinds of things am I talking about? Huh? I can’t say he likes to be here, I can’t say he’s free to do what he wants, I can’t say he—”
Putting her hands over her eyes, Yelena moaned, “Just stop talking stop talking oh my God—”
“ —obviously likes to be around all of us but mostly you? Am I supposed to pretend to be blind? Huh? What—”
Bob stood swiftly, his chair screeching on the floor, which got Yelena to peek between her fingers and also finally got Alexei to shut up. He was staring at the table, unblinking, jaw clenched and trembling just a little, and as Yelena stared at him, lowering her hands, miserable with humiliation, he slowly brought his eyes up to hers.
And he maintained the stare. Even and quiet and sure, unblinking, focused entirely on hers and she didn’t know what he was trying to communicate, didn’t know at all, but whatever he saw on her face relaxed him enough that he leaned over slowly, took the vodka from Bucky’s place setting (and Bucky was leaning slightly forward, eyes trained on both of them just in case, always prepared for the worst, Yelena knew that) and lifted it. “ Nahzdorov'ye,” he said, eyes still fixed on Yelena, and then he lifted the neck to his mouth, tilting his head back and gulping down several mouthfuls.
Well, at least he wasn’t losing it. “Oh, shit,” said Yelena, blinking away from the way his throat was moving and giving her father a stern look. “See, look, you’re going to make him drink too much because you’re crazy and you say these crazy things when we are just trying to have a nice dinner.”
“Good for him!” said Alexei, beaming as Bob put the bottle down, weaved a little, and sat back down in the plastic-covered cushion of the chair. “Hey! We will make a hero out of you yet, Bob!”
“Uh, only if my superpower is substance abuse,” he said dryly, rubbing his eyes before he looked up at Yelena. “You’re right. Crazy things. I— guess it’s just crazy,” he said quietly, and she felt it like a gut punch, a swift tug to her insides: no, that hadn’t been— what? Was Alexei right? How had she— there was— this couldn’t be—
“I think we all need another round of drinks, right now,” said Bucky quickly, reaching over and taking the bottle, “and I think the super-soldiers need double.”
“Super-soldiers,” said Alexei, beaming with pride. “You hear that, Lena? He says super-soldiers. That means him and me. The Red Guardian and the Winter Soldier. Me and him. Ah, yes.” He gladly took another shot, and kept talking, but Yelena was barely paying attention. Bob’s face had fallen quiet, and he was looking everywhere but at her while he finished his food and took another shot. She hated it. Hated that dead mask on his face he wore when he was shutting himself off, closing in. She wanted to do something to break it. Anything.
So Yelena extended her foot under the table, avoiding her father’s slippers and Bucky’s socks, until her feet in their socks touched Bob’s ankle. She did not look at him, but she felt him go still, and then she put her foot down so it was just alongside his. Quiet as his face. A little sign, a message: I’m here. I’m still here. I can see you. “Not everything my father says is crazy, I think,” she said lightly, sipping vodka and looking over at Bob briefly. Their eyes met. An instant. An eternity. “Just, you know, some things. Not all of them. Not all the time.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s why he’s banned from speaking in the presence of a camera,” Bucky said, chuckling a little, and Alexei roared with laughter, cheeks red, and Bob’s mask fell away and he laughed, actually laughed, his bright smile flashing before he ducked his head, cheeks red, and moved his foot— for a moment she thought he was going to slide away, that she’d misjudged and he was weirded out, but then he just lifted it and briefly touched his socks to her ankle. Mirroring her movement.
I’m here, too, said that gesture, louder in Yelena’s mind than her father’s booming voice or Bucky laughing or the conversation they were all having. I’m here too, and I see you.
Stumbling off to bed at one in the morning had not been on the agenda for the day, but trying to keep up with two super-soldiers— well, technically three super-soldiers— had been a ride Yelena had not prepared for. Once enough vodka had been downed, Bob had opened up and relaxed enough to joke with Bucky and Alexei about the quality of the serum they’d received, trying to figure out how much booze was too much for each of them, and all of them had come to the conclusion, after a third bottle had been opened, but right before her father had passed out face-down in his empty bowl of solyanka, that Bucky had the most alcohol resistance, right up there with Bob as a close second, and Alexei had the least.
She’d paced herself. Lots of water. Bread. Food in her belly. But her head was still swimming a little as she stumbled into the wall of the elevator and tried to find the right button to take her back to her floor. “Shit,” she mumbled, trying to focus. Bucky had volunteered for kitchen cleanup all alone. So considerate. Very nice guest. “Button, floor…”
“Here, I can help,” said Bob’s voice, and she closed her eyes, leaning her head against the elevator as he pushed the button for her suite. He was cute. So cute. Flushed with vodka, smiling, happy. “Uh, you okay, Yelena?”
“I’m fine,” she said, clearing her throat and bringing herself back to the present. “Very fine. I don’t usually drink that much. Just so you know, you know? It’s my dad. Bad influence.” She flashed him what she hoped was a nice smile. “Are you? Fine, I mean?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “yeah, just a little buzzed. It, um. It’ll wear off.”
“I am also just a little buzzed. A little. Not a lot,” she said with great dignity. “You know, if you’re going to hang with the Russian— or I guess, um, in Bucky’s case, Russian-adjacent part of the New Avengers, you know, you’re going to have to learn to enjoy vodka and drinking late night parties, and, uh, rugs on the wall. And taking your shoes off. And borscht. That’s a big one.” She rolled her head to the side with a sniff, taking in his face. “It’s supposed to be hot, you know, but everybody thinks it’s supposed to be cold, so everybody thinks it’s disgusting. But it’s not. You know? It’s not.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Bob looked halfway amused, which was good, because she liked making him smile. But he also looked, like, kind of shy, maybe, and then she mentally rewound back to their conversation at the dinner table as the elevator doors opened on her floor.
“Did you want to talk about anything?” she asked before she could lose her nerve about it.
“What, um,” he said, and immediately there was the guard on his face, the mask. “What did— what do I— what do you think I might want to talk about?”
Yelena swallowed. The doors were still open. “Oh, I don’t know. Uh, like the, uh, crazy things my dad says. Like, maybe if you wanted to talk about that, I thought, you know, you could come in and we could talk about that.”
Bob didn’t move for a moment. His dark eyes were fixed on the floor, on the crack between the elevator and the floor to her room. On the void between, tiny and endless, a crack of pitch blackness in the building that eyes never saw and a finger couldn’t fit into, but a void all the same. “Do you … want to talk about that?” he asked, his voice quiet and low and cautious.
Why was he putting the ball back in her court? “Um, maybe. If you do. If you don’t, then no harm done, right? You can just… go down to your room. And sleep. And I’ll maybe get more drunk, and try to forget that my dad ever said all that crazy stuff. If— uh, if that’s what you want.”
Bob’s hands clasped together, thumbs working nervously up around his wrists, his fingers, the ends of his sweatshirt sleeves. The doors were still open: they’d stay like that until they sensed motion going past them or someone else called it to a floor. “I don’t want you to forget about it,” he said softly, raising his eyes to hers. “And I’d like to come in. But I don’t know if I really want to talk about it, either.”
“Oh. Okay. Um, well, then you can come in, and we don’t have to talk about it. We can just sit together and not talk about it. Is that okay?”
“That’s— yeah, that’s okay. I’d like that.” Bob’s voice was low, sincere. She stepped out of the elevator and he followed, always behind her, just like she’d told him the first time she’d met him. You stay behind me. Down the entry hall, which wasn’t quite a copy of her father’s, but still had character: she hadn’t had much in her apartment but she’d brought what she did have here. Her kitchen was fairly bare-bones, still. It was hard to wrap her head around being paid so much money on a twice-a-month basis that she could have bought out a Le Creuset catalog. A thing to get used to later. Not now. There was a small living area with a single couch. A coffee table. A TV. Not a lot of decorations yet, but she had set up a curtain to block off the sleeping area from the living area. It was nice to have spaces. A smaller space to sleep, where she didn’t feel like her back was exposed to a giant empty room. As the lights came up, Yelena indicated the sofa.
“You can sit if you like,” she told him.
He wordlessly crossed the floor and sank down onto her sofa as she got a glass of water, drained it in one go, refilled it, and brought it to the coffee table, sitting down next to him and tucking her feet up under her body before leaning her head back on the sofa, exhaling through her nose, and just resting a moment. This was nice. Peaceful. She could almost imagine Natasha in this room, sometimes. Not now, not with other people in it, but sometimes. Next to her, Bob was quiet. Yeah, this was very nice. She shifted her weight and turned, curling up on the sofa facing him with her knees up to her chest, eyes still closed as she rested her cheek on the velvet upholstery of her couch. He moved, too, his weight shifting, and she cracked an eye, seeing that he was curled up facing her just as she was facing him. Like a mirror. His eyes were closed, too, his breathing even and slow. Yelena shut both her eyes again and rested, enjoying this. Just nice. Quiet and silent. Some time passed. She didn’t know how much, but she was half nodding off when something gently touched the hand that was limp on the couch cushions between her feet.
A hand. Warm, alive. She inhaled softly, stirring, and half-awake, flipped her palm up to curl her fingers around his lightly. “Mmm,” she mumbled.
He said nothing, but he carefully squeezed her hand, his thumb rubbing over the base of hers, the bottom of her palm.
I don’t know if I want to talk about it.
That was fine, she thought, stirring back to full consciousness. Totally fine. Lots of people didn’t like talking about things. Especially if they had some kind of trauma back in their past concerning it, which she thought maybe might be the case with Bob sometimes. Some of the things he said… well, he had had a rough life. And people with rough lives often didn’t like to talk about it. But there were lots of other ways to communicate without talking. She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, in a gesture meant to be reassuring and warm, and his hand stilled, letting her do it, then pushed a little past and over her thumb and slid a few inches up her wrist and forearm, over her long-sleeved shirt, fingertips rubbing softly. Stroking. As if he was testing the texture of her shirt, the smoothness, the knit, the resiliency of the body underneath.
This was a question. She knew that: she was versed in as many forms of nonverbal communication as she was verbal, so Yelena turned her own hand and, eyes still closed, answered. Fingers dragged up his sweatshirt sleeve, over the fabric, gentle pressure on his lean, hard forearm. She knew he was in good shape, kind of, from that ugly yellow skintight suit Valentina had put him in a month and a half ago. But she’d not seen him since without his baggy, loose clothing, which he wore like a shield.
Come to think of it, she herself also preferred loose clothing. Shapeless. Something to hide in. When she had spent most of her life in the Red Room, her body cast as something alluringly feminine, a thing to be exploited and used and weaponized in any way that was useful to a mission… well, Yelena liked to take a little control back, maybe, in the way she chose to wear clothing. Everyone was different. Maybe he felt the same way: hiding, shielding, covering, making himself small even though he wasn’t small, he was six feet tall and she she knew those big sweatshirts and hoodies hid broad shoulders and—
He had moved again. This time, he’d slid further up to her elbow, past it to her bicep, his fingers caressing gently, exploring, and she wondered how far he’d let himself go as she slid her own hand further up his arm, eyes closed. Oh. That— those were some developed arm muscles. Yes. Her hand unconsciously curled around it, mapped out the shape and position. Solid. Firm. She slid her hand higher, then, just under the boundary of where he’d touched her, up by the shoulder, and felt out the divot where his shoulder met his bicep with her thumb.
At some point during all of this, his breathing had started coming a little faster. She noted that as he slipped his hand further up her arm, over her shoulder, and felt out her upper back there, over her shoulder again, and sliding up to her shirt collar where her bare neck was exposed, his thumb slipping over her skin briefly and it felt…
Good. It actually felt really good. Yelena actually couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched her like this— intimately, gently, but not, like, sexually; not in a way that was entitled to her body. He was waiting. Waiting, and taking time, waiting now once she had shown initiative, shown she liked it, waiting for her to respond and act before he took his cues from her and went further and even though they hadn’t said a word, not a word, she knew what he was saying. Just knew, as surely as if he’d said it aloud.
So she let herself feel what she felt without hyper-analyzing his movements: how nice it was to be touched like this, how glad she was he’d come into her room to not talk, how much she cared about him, wanted him to be whole again. A kind man. A good man. Someone who just wanted to help, who thought about other people despite all of his problems and wasn’t that what made the New Avengers who they were? Fucked up people all trying to do the right thing? Nobody was perfect. She didn’t care about perfect, but she cared about him. Yelena drew her hand over his collar, down his chest, between his pectorals: would he mirror her exactly or take initiative? That might be interesting to find out. Up again over his sternum, across his upper left side, over the firm flesh beneath his clothing and back down again to the end of his sternum. And then she waited.
Bob’s breathing hitched a little. He shifted his weight just a little, so slightly, and pulled his hand, his fingertips down over her neck, down her chest, between her breasts without touching them at all, even over her shirt. She could feel the warmth of his hand seeping into her through the fabric. Back up. Over the top of her pectoral muscle, his hand trembling, stroking her skin, then back down her sternum where he rested his fingers in a perfect mirror of hers.
She opened her eyes. His were already open, dark, and boring into her. But he said nothing, even though his lips were parted and his breathing was coming funny like he’d just run somewhere fast and his pupils were dilated. So she said nothing, either, just slid her hand up and briefly stroked just the underside of his right pectoral muscle before sliding down, over his waist, letting her hand rest on his waist with her thumb stroking softly against the thick sweatshirt.
He made a tiny noise. Maybe it was a moan or a sigh or a grunt, she didn’t know: it was small and frantic and weak and then his hand was slipping up, utterly controlled as he let his fingers run alongside just the underside of her right breast before slipping down and pressing over her stomach, sliding over her shirt and cupping her waist in his large hand.
I can’t go further without saying something. I shouldn’t. Her own breath was coming kind of weird. Heat was puddling between her thighs and he hadn’t even kissed her yet. Funny. Short. Ragged. She should say something. Anything. Would it break this thing they had built? Would she ruin it all? Her lips parted anyway, her mouth open—
Her phone went off, music echoing through the room. Drums, a fast beat, a wailing electric guitar, a voice. There must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief. There’s too much confusion! I can’t get no relief! She jerked up off the sofa and dived for her phone: it was an alarm she’d set last night for something stupid, probably: it didn’t matter.. “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, frantically silencing it and turning around. Bob was still on the couch, a sheepish, punch-drunk look on his face. “That was, I don’t even know what that was. Old alarm. Uh—” It occurred to her that she didn’t know what she was supposed to say when something ruined the mood. At all. In the slightest. Natasha would have known, would have been able to save whatever this was with a few words and a smile, but Yelena wasn’t Natasha and her sister was gone forever and could never explain how to do it to her now, never. So she fought back sudden tears and just shrugged. “Did I ruin everything?” Her voice broke. She didn’t mean for it to, but it did.
“No,” said Bob, intent and firm. “No, you didn’t. You— you could never ruin anything, Yelena.”
“Yeah? You sure?” She wiped her eyes, trying for a smile. “I’m so bad at this,” she managed, remaining where she was in the middle of the floor and bringing her hands up to her eyes. “I was really enjoying that, you know, and now I just… oh, God, I am so bad at this.”
“Hey, no. No. Hey.” Bob got up, came to her, reached up and took her shoulders in his hands like he was just a little nervous about it, but determined. “I’m the one who’s bad at this. Okay?”
She looked up at him, smiling through her tears. “What? You’re not bad at this at all, what are you talking about?”
“I’m— I’ve never done this type of thing with anyone I actually cared about. Not once, not ever,” he whispered, holding her by the shoulders, and she closed her eyes, touched, as tears streamed down her cheeks. A very wet laugh escaped her throat as she tilted her head back and sniffed.
“Oh, God, don’t tell me that, that’s so much pressure, I’m going to mess it up, huh?”
Bob shook his head, cupping her shoulders. “No, you can’t, you couldn’t mess it up. Never. I’m the one who’d mess it up. I—I’m the one afraid of talking about how I actually feel, I’m the one who— I’m the problem here, not you. It’s me. I’d— I don’t know, accidentally use my weird, uh, telepathy power of beaming all your worst trauma into your head, or whatever, while I’m touching your skin or something, or— or, I don’t know, you know? I’m gonna mess it up, not you, and that’s why I never— why I— I said I didn’t want to— talk, but, but, uh, but not talking was fine, that was great. But knowing me, I’d probably find a way to mess that up, too. You know? I just—” He laughed, sour and dry as spoiled wine as he bent his head, letting go of her. “It’s probably just better if I go. Back to my room. And we just don’t talk about this again. I— I don’t— I don’t want to make this worse so I think I should go, you know, I—”
She put her hands on his firm chest, shaking her head. “Oh, fuck it,” she breathed, and inched up on her tiptoes, pushing her mouth against his softly. It wasn’t intended as anything deep or passionate, just a little gesture intended to maybe briefly stop the self-loathing that would not stop pouring out of his mouth like a flood, but Bob made a noise like someone had throat-punched him and his hands came up to press open-fingered against her back and pull her close, his lips moving under hers and his head leaning down and forward to meet hers as she lowered herself back down to the floor. Her own hands had somehow migrated north up into his soft brown hair, where her fingers tangled in it, clutching as she pulled his head down with her. When he broke the kiss to breathe, he kept his forehead pressed close to hers, noses bumping as he swayed a little.
“Uh,” he breathed, his voice hitching.
“Sorry, I— if you really want to go,” she told him, trying to not go cross-eyed because of how close he was to her face, “you can go. Okay? And I won’t be mad, and it won’t make anything worse. But if you want to stay, you know, you can stay and that won’t make anything worse either. Unless I make it worse. Not you.”
He drew in a breath, shaky and unsure. “Hendrix or… Bob Dylan?” he asked, not making any move to pull away from her.
Yelena blinked, taken aback. “Did you hit your head? What?”
Bob chuckled. “Sorry. The song. All Along the Watchtower. On your phone alarm. You— do you like the Jimi Hendrix cover, or the Bob Dylan original better?”
Oh, we are talking about American music now? “Between them both of them, you know, obviously Jimi Hendrix, but if we are talking best cover of all time, that is U2, off the album Rattle and Hum, 1988, live version, and don’t argue because I will fight you about it.”
“Hendrix definitely made the song better,” he agreed, nodding his head and brushing his nose against hers.
“Yes, he did. He did so good that Bob Dylan played it like that live, like, for the rest of time.” She brought her hand up and touched his cheek, brushing the soft brown curls off and back behind his ear.
Bob pulled away, looking right into her eyes. Intent and dark and cautious. “Do you think maybe he… ever worried that he was going to make it worse?”
She blinked. “Jimi Hendrix? The best guitar player of all time? Seriously? No way, he—” Then she caught herself. “Oh, um, I mean, yes,” she amended quickly, relieved as Bob snorted, shaking his head at her attempted save. “Yes, all the time, absolutely, he probably said to himself, hey, I am a subpar player, really, I will totally mess up this really good song written by a guy who can’t really sing at all—”
His hands were still on her back, but sliding down over her shirt to her waist. “Maybe he did. You never know. Deep inside.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she said, gazing up into his face. “But he didn’t let himself, you know. Hold himself back. He didn’t do that. He went for it and it turned into a Top 40 hit. Legendary.”
“Yeah. He went for it.” Bob searched her face, eyes darting from eye to eye and down to her mouth. “I’m not… good at this,” he said haltingly, cheeks pinking up again.
“Me either. Um, but I’m pretty sure the easiest place to start is, you know. On a bed.”
His throat bobbed. “Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Come on. I’ll show you,” she told him, suddenly eager to evade that piercing dark stare as she took his hand and led him to the curtain that divided her room from the rest of the apartment. At least she’d made her bed this morning. Some semblance of having her shit back together. Fluffy black duvet, white sheets, a colorful string of lights dangling above her headboard on the wall. A pile of laundry she hadn’t gotten around to folding yet. She took him straight to the bed and sat him down next to her, not letting go of his warm hand. “My sister was the one who was really good at this,” she said, looking down at the carpet. Colorful carpet. Alexei had insisted she take it: a thick wool knotted pile in geometric shapes brought somewhere from Russia. Dark red and navy blue and cream and green and black and yellow. “She always knew what to say in situations like this, or any situation, really. But sometimes I think to myself if maybe that’s not— if that’s maybe just—” She blew air out, frustrated with her inability to explain. A lock of bleached hair lifted and fell back down, tickling her nose. “Like maybe it’s more real if you don’t know what you’re doing all the time. And it’s better to make mistakes. Because then you learn. You don’t have to be perfect, you just have to learn.”
Bob’s hand tightened on hers. “Oh,” he said thickly. “I never thought about it like that. Huh.”
She gave him a smile. “So, um, this is the part where you can kiss me if you want to. If you don’t, that’s also f—”
He leaned in so fast she almost blinked and missed it, tilting his head sideways and mashing his mouth against hers and no, it wasn’t perfect— it was sloppy and wet and his teeth got pushed into her lip a few times— but it was good, really good, and she reached up to clutch at his head, his shoulders, hold him close as he figured it out and parted his lips and found her bottom lip with just the tip of his careful tongue before kissing here there. It sent heat everywhere, all over, shivery and pleasant and wow, wow this was nice. Yelena moved her hand down to his waist, slipped a hand between the bottom of his sweatshirt and his skin and he was like a furnace, damp with sweat, smooth skin and muscle.
“I think maybe you should take off your sweater,” she gasped once he’d freed her mouth to catch a breath.
“Yeah, just— just give me a second,” he responded, hands cupping her waist. “Whoa. I didn’t—mmm.” He breathed a moment, heavy in the silence between them.
“You didn’t what?” she pressed, wondering what was wrong. Had she done something?
“I didn’t, um, think it could feel this nice,” he said, like it was a surprise. “But it does.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, biting her lip. “Yeah, it does. Right?”
“Right. I—” He hesitated, looked down at his knees, and back up at her face. “I want— could you take my sweatshirt off me?”
“Oh, you want me to do it? Okay.” She reached down and lifted up the heavy knit, sliding it up: he lifted his arms and let her tug it off over his head, leaving his loose soft curls a tousled nest and leaving him in just a T-shirt and his gray sweatpants. He looked naked with his arms showing above the wrist, let alone the elbow, and she couldn’t help but reach out and touch his forearms, which were leanly muscled, surprisingly thick, and dusted with blonde-brown hair. In the light from her bedside table, it shone like a halo. Like he was made of gold. “You have really good arms,” she said, at a loss for anything else to say, and slipped her fingers up over the crease of his elbows, to the insides, around his bicep.
He flinched away, and for a horrible moment she thought she’d really messed it up until a giggle came out of his mouth. “Ah, sorry,” he said, ducking his head and blushing.
“You are ticklish on your arms?” she asked, laughing. “I didn’t know, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Just a little, like just around the backs of my arms. I forgot. It’s been a really long time, you know, um, since…” and he pressed his thin mouth into a line and looked away for a moment.
She raised her hands in surrender. “Hey, well, I promise I won’t tickle you. Unless you want me to. Some people are into that.”
The joke got him to smile, pulled him back out of his reverie. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. So, anyway, here.” Yelena put her hands on his knees. “You can take off my shirt. You know. Fair’s fair.”
“Oh,” he said in a very different tone of voice. “Oh. Yeah, I— yes. Okay.”
“Here.” She lifted her arms again, and he reached out, picked up the hem of her shirt and lifted it up, off her arms, got it stuck on her earrings— “Ow, oops, hold on, let me just—”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine, it’s fine, sometimes I do this to myself, huh?” She bent her arm and disentangled the shirt, then helped him pull it off her head, throwing it to the side with his sweatshirt. And since she hadn’t bothered with a bra— never did on days when she didn’t have to— she got to watch Bob’s face as he visually went over every single inch of her skin, eyes wide, jaw clenched, until he looked up and met her gaze again. “You good?” she asked.
“Uh, you’re— really pretty,” he managed, shaking his head, eyes darting back down to her chest. “I mean— that’s— sorry, I—”
“You want to, um, touch them?”
“Can I?” he asked, jerking his head back up with wonder in his eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah, man, go ahead. Here.” She reached out and took his wrist in her hand, pulling his fingers to her heart, letting him feel her pulse for a moment— and his fingers were so hot, warm, slightly damp but she didn’t care— before sliding his palm down to cup her right breast. “Like that. Yeah?”
“Oh, my God,” he mumbled, and squeezed almost unconsciously, eyes half shut. His lips moved, silently forming words she didn’t catch as he lifted his other hand and touched her, moving to her other breast, lifting and cupping and he was so warm, so nice, so nervous and careful.
“You still with me?” she asked softly, reaching out to touch his hair, smooth it back.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry, it’s fine. You want to lie down? On the bed?”
“I want to—” He swallowed, tore his hands off her, and took off his T-shirt, exposing his bare chest and shoulders and Yelena felt her mouth drop open briefly before she looked away out of habit, because seeing him with no shirt was just— it was— “Sorry, is this okay?” he asked anxiously, which brought her back around, focused on his face.
“Yes! Yeah. Sorry. I just, it’s so, you— you normally, you have those big baggy clothes, you know, and now I see this?” She waved a hand at him: well-formed muscles, rounded shoulders, comparatively narrow waist. “Like where were you keeping all of that, huh? You look great.”
He shrugged a shoulder, blushing, and when he blushed it went down his neck. “Bucky’s been letting me use his gym setup. Gives me something to do.”
“Well, whatever it is that you’re doing, it’s working,” she told him. “God— you know how, like, the— the English Victorians got all scandalized and turned on by an ankle, that’s what I feel like. A Victorian lady. Fainting over your arms and very sexy chest.”
That got another laugh out of him. “I’m not that sexy,” he protested, still pink in the face.
“Uh, yes, you are. But it’s okay if you don’t believe me. Here.” She reached down, took off her pants, and deposited them with the rest of the discarded clothing, then laid down on her bed, sighing. “Come down here, okay?”
“Oh— okay,” he said quickly, and lay down by her, arm pressed to arm, the back of his right hand against the back of her left. She lay like that for a minute, then shifted and rolled to her side to look at him. All the hair was back off his forehead, trailing in light brown curls over his ears, except for one single lock of hair that rested between his open eyes. Yelena reached out and touched it, stroked it, coiled it around her finger absently. He was looking right at her, and she pretended she didn’t know, didn’t see as she ran her hand down his cheek, down his jaw, his throat, his collarbone and down his chest, ending at the soft flat nipple, which she brushed with the pad of her finger, over and over. “Yelena,” he murmured, low and thin.
“Yes?” she asked, immediately making eye contact and pausing her movement.
“Don’t stop doing that.” His eyes were damp, just a little, and his nose was red. “Please.”
“Okay. I won’t.” She kept touching him there, kept her hand there for a moment as she sat up and reached over and he let her touch him everywhere his skin was exposed, neck and arms and shoulders— but not the sensitive, ticklish backs of his arms. Was it her imagination or was he growing warmer under her hands as his breathing turned shallow and rapid? She certainly was getting warmer. “You have to tell me if I do anything you really don’t like, you know,” she said lightly, rubbing little circles into his hipbone, over the thin skin and the sharp jut of his pelvis above his sweatpants.
His voice was tight and halfway to raspy when he spoke. “Okay, I will. If you do.”
“Okay. You can touch me, too, you know, if you want to. While I’m doing this.”
“Feels… really good,” he forced out, blushing all over as he reached out and touched her bare thigh, ran his hands up and down the pale blond hair on her legs. She stiffened as his fingertips brushed high up on the inside of her thigh, and had to fight the instinct to jerk her hips at him: she’d scare him off if she went too fast. “Really good,” he repeated, closing his eyes. “Oh, God.”
“Anything you want?”
“Yeah, take my pants off,” he said quickly, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah, yes, just—” He lifted his hips and reached down, his hand leaving her skin as he tugged down his sweats and exposed a pair of powerful thighs, lean long legs thatched with more golden-brown hair, and…
Well. It had been some time since Yelena had seen one of these up close, even covered by a pair of red boxer-briefs that said REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT on the left leg in white block text. Gag gift from Walker when they’d all moved in, she remembered. But she couldn’t bring herself to make a joke about it right now. “Do you want me to touch you there?” she asked, glancing at his face again.
“Shit. I forgot about the underwear,” Bob said apologetically, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes and grimacing. “Ah, fuck. I’m sorry. I—”
Anxious to avoid a detour, Yelena put a hand on his chest. “Hey, it’s not the worst I’ve seen. You’re lucky mine are clean, okay, I have a stack for when I’m behind on laundry and they are so ugly, they have all these holes and stains from being shot or whatever and the elastic is like, completely gone in the legs—”
He snorted and pulled his hand off his face. “Granny panties?”
“Right, right. Granny panties. These are cute. Very cute.” She patted his thigh affectionately. “Very cute, very American gift from the most American guy we know.”
“I think I want to take them off, actually,” he said, the remnants of a blush still blotching his face like the last vestiges of a sunset.
“Okay. You do you and I’ll do me.” She rolled back and slipped off her underwear as Bob sat up, turned, and peeled down the boxer-briefs, his back to her as he sat on the edge of the bed. Good ass, too, firm and nicely rounded and not too small, with those little dimples above, on his lower back. He turned his head to the side, his hair brushing the back of his neck, and took a breath, his back expanding, contracting. His lips moved silently as he nodded to himself, a quick, even beat like a pulse— whispering something, but what that was, she didn’t know. “You need a moment?” she asked, unsure.
“Hm? Oh. No. I was— I was singing,” he said, ducking his head as he turned around fully. “Um, the song. All Along the Watchtower.”
“Oh, yeah?” She lay back down on the bed on her side, and he mirrored her, head on her pillow, very close and both of them nude and it was funny how she didn’t really care or notice what he looked like anywhere but his face right now. Who cared? “What part of it?”
He reached up and laid his hand on her hip, drumming out the beat to the song with his middle finger. When he sang, his voice was quiet, on pitch, surprisingly good. “No reason to get excited, the thief he kindly spoke. There are many here among us who feel like life is but a joke. But you and I, we’ve been through that, and this is not our fate. So let us stop talking falsely now—”
She joined in for the last line. “The hour’s getting late.”
“Mmhmm,” he agreed, and nosed close into her face for another kiss, seeking it out, careful and inquiring. She gave it willingly, parted her lips, slid her own arm down his side and back up again. “So, uh, which of us is the joker and which is the thief?” he asked huskily, kissing her chin.
“Mm, well, um, I am definitely the thief,” she said, breathing a little fast.
“So I’m the joker,” he concluded, moving his hand back down her body. Something about his tone was heavy, resigned. “The useless guy in the court, right? Makes everyone laugh. Doesn’t do anything. I guess that’s okay. Fitting.”
“That’s not true. No.” She pulled her head back and put her hand on his cheek, making him look at her. “You know, the joker— it’s got more than one meaning. In tarot, you know, the card— the Joker card came from the Fool card in the Major Arcana.” She stroked his cheek with her thumb. “I once had to do a mission infiltrating a circus, okay, I learned this from a psychic. Anyway, the Fool, he means new beginnings. Chaos, but a fresh start. And unlimited potential.”
A tear slid from his eye, dripping across the bridge of his nose. “Oh,” he said thickly, sniffing. “Huh. Okay.”
“Yeah. So don’t— yeah.” She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “You’re just right. Just as you are. And we all like you. And we are not gonna make you leave or treat you like, I don’t know, a loser roommate or something. You’re with us for good. You’re ours.”
“I’ve… never lived with anyone who wanted me around before,” he said softly, reaching up to brush her own hair back. “I think, um. Maybe. I could get used to this.”
“I really, really hope you do,” she whispered, and kissed him again, her heart full and her body warm. “Mmm, because, you know, this thing we have going on, I’m going to be really sad if you leave now.”
“What— what exactly do we have going on?” he asked, shifting closer to her body until he was pressed up against her, every inch of him, ankle to shoulder.
She blew air out, thinking. “Um, I’m not great with labels, really, maybe like a… deeply emotionally connected friends-with-benefits kind of thing? I—” Yelena shifted her thigh against the front of his pelvis, frowning. “Jesus Christ, what is that? Did you steal Walker’s Colt .45 and bring it into bed?”
“No,” he said, blushing, but grinning.
“Are you sure? Because it feels like you maybe did. Holy shit.” She lifted her thigh, pressed against him, and watched as he bit his lower lip, as his eyes half-shut. “Where the hell were you hiding this in that stupid Sentry suit?”
“It came with a jockstrap,” he said, chuckling.
“It came with false advertising, is what it came with. You should sue. So you want some tips on how to use that, or are you good?” Yelena lifted her knee up, rested it on his hip.
“No, uh, I think I’m pretty clear on the mechanics of the next part,” he told her, reaching down and touching her and that was nice, too, really nice, sent a shuddery wave through her as he brushed right up against her most sensitive parts and slid his fingers back cautiously, parting her delicate flesh, rubbing a little. “But, um, if I need help, I’ll ask.”
“Okay. Good,” breathed Yelena, reaching down to touch him. “Actually, you know what, um, maybe I’ll help here. Just for a second. Okay?”
“Sure,” he said thinly, moving his hand. She tilted her hips and notched him where he needed to be, breathing evenly as she slid him inside her. Just a little, just to get her warmed up, but Bob went rigid, panting, hands locked on her waist. “Oh. Shit,” he gasped.
“You okay?”
“Yes, yeah, just, just trying to not, not hurt you—”
“You can’t hurt me,” she whispered, tilting her hips again, pulling him in further. “It’s okay, you can’t hurt me, you couldn’t, not even if you tried, you know that, right? It’s okay.”
He made an inarticulate sound and buried his face in her neck, gasping, one hand curling around her wrist, the wrist of the hand that was guiding him in before his hand joined hers, palm to back, and together they moved, breathed, slid him home. “Fuck,” he choked, hips rolling unconsciously, the push and pull sending ripples down Yelena’s legs and making all her hair stand up on end as she tugged him close around the head and groaned, chin tilted back, mouth up against his cheek.
“That’s really good, you know, keep doing that—”
One of his hands gripped her hips, her ass as he pulled her in closer, guiding her to him as he rocked into her, over and over again. Something damp smeared her mouth, something damp and salty. Was he crying? Was that good or bad? She stroked his hair, or tried to: there was a lot of moving going on and even if she didn’t finish it was fine. There would be time for learning more lessons later. She wrangled her left arm out from under her body and used it to cushion the side of his head, pulling her head back down to kiss him on the lips as their bodies rocked, crashed together, came apart again.
Every single movement felt like it was lighting her nerves on fire: there was nothing else in the world but her and this man and the bed they lay in. Nothing else mattered. Nothing existed at all but this, this, this perfect moment and the feelings surrounding her, drowning her. Yelena had not let herself pay attention to how this had made her feel, physically, at least, and was surprised at how intensely good it felt. Her thighs trembled as she tightened the grip around his hard waist, buried her own head in his shoulder. “Fuck,” she gasped, letting the words spill out without a thought like paint on a canvas, indistinct and senseless, “fuck, fuck, fuck it’s so good, you’re so good, so good, yes, yes, don’t stop, okay, don’t stop, just, just go, yes, go, fuck, fuck—”
He groaned and shifted his hips, changing the angle, and that pushed him right up along the front of her insides and against something she’d only ever been able to find one time with that stupidly expensive vibrator she’d lost years ago in Chile and oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Lightning arced up her spine, radiating out from her core, and Yelena lost her mind, shrieked, clutched him around the head, and pounded her hips down against him, seeking that friction, that one spot, that—
“Here, here,” he gasped, and rolled them both so that he was on his back and she was straddling him, “here, do it, I want you to do it, I want you—”
“Ohhhh, fuck ,” she wailed, and planted one hand on his chest and the other on the headboard, jerking her hips back and forth taking him hard and deep and lush as his hands gripped her hips, her waist, drifted up her back and her chest like he was mapping her out even through this and then Yelena flung her head back and flew apart, breaking, all of who she was bearing down through her hips and mouth, into eternity, into a thousand pieces of light that nothing would ever be able to put back together again. Her vision blurred as she gasped in deep sobs for air, slowly sliding down, down, down to his chest. Which was very warm, very damp. She did not care as she planted her cheek right over his heart and tried to remember what her own name was. Everything felt wet and sore and puffy, delightfully sore, like a good workout. Which, you know, sex totally was. But Bob was— he—
She lifted her head. His head was back, lips parted, wet eyes half-open, a look of bliss erasing everything as his hips twitched, slowed, and stilled. “Oh,” she said faintly. “When, ah, when did you finish?”
“Still— on the— tail end,” he gasped, heavy-eyed as he found her. “Oh, shit. When. When you made that noise.”
“Which— what noise?” She didn’t remember making any noise.
“The—” He chuckled, shaking his head, gone all loose and pliant and warm and happy. “You want me to demonstrate it?”
She laughed, too, resting her chin on him and lifting her hips off him, off from around him and laying herself down flat on top of him. “I don’t know, maybe. Maybe it’s good to know for the next time?”
“Uh, I don’t think you could recreate it if you tried, which is, you know. A good thing. But you— like this,” he said, and let out a low, long cry, deep and vibrational and halfway to primal that tickled the back of her neck and gave her chills, just a little. But it really sounded a little ridiculous, even so.
“That was sexy?” she demanded, blushing. Why were her cheeks wet? She wiped her eyes, laughing. “No, that is not a sexy noise.”
“It was very sexy. Hey.” He reached down and raked her hair out of her face, tenderly cupping her cheek. “It… it was really hot. I promise.”
“Okay. Well, next time, I’ll make sure I try to add in noises like a cow stuck in a fence, you know, just to set the mood.”
“No, no,” he said, laughing, and she’d never seen him laughing like this, never seen the quiet assurance he seemed to carry now as he touched her face and shifted his weight to a more comfortable position. “No, maybe more, uh, like a moose.”
“A moose. Oh, Bob, you are on thin ice, my friend,” she teased, kissing him so she knew he was joking. “Okay, I am going to go pee now. You can stay the night, as long as you don’t wake me up or kick in your sleep.”
He peeled himself off her, resting his head on her pillow with a deep sigh. “I— oh, I didn’t even think about, um, protection or—”
She waved a hand as she sat up and stretched, every muscle delightfully sore. “Ah, no. Don’t worry about that. We’re both clean, we had our physicals three weeks ago, remember?”
“Yeah, but…” He gestured vaguely at her stomach, and then she knew what he really meant.
“Oh. That. No, no. Uh, I had a total hysterectomy when I was like seventeen.” She spread her hands like a stage performer. “Ta-da! Soviet assassin program. Very useful, no periods. Except now I have to be on estrogen for the rest of my life. Which they didn’t think through, probably.”
“Shit,” he said, sitting up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t be. It’s fine. Now you do.” She reached over and touched his warm forearm. “Come on. I think I’ll need a cold washcloth to sit on.”
“That bad?”
“That good.” Yelena got up and opened her curtain as he followed. “And I could use a glass of water, you know, that was thirsty work—”
The elevator doors opened. Before either of them had a moment to react, in strode Bucky, five Tupperware containers stacked in his hands, stopping short just shy of the wall that separated the hall from the kitchen. “Oh, my God,” he said wearily, closing his eyes as Bob slid in front of Yelena, one hand in front of his crotch.
“Uh. Hi,” said Bob, uncertain.
“Oh, my God, have you ever heard of knocking?” demanded Yelena, face burning as she put her hands on her hips and peered out from behind Bob’s shoulder. “Jesus!”
“Sorry, okay, I came down here because the solyanka is supposed to go into your fridge!” Bucky made it to the counter with his eyes closed, set the stack of Tupperware tubs down, and covered his eyes with his metal hand, gesturing with his right as he turned back to face them. “There’s no room in Alexei’s.”
She had completely forgotten about the solyanka. “Yes, I know, it does not mean you don’t have to knock! This is a private room! Maybe I’ll walk into your room all hours of the night or when you’re naked or showering or—”
“Yep, got it, point taken.” Bucky turned around and moved back toward the hallway, but cast a look back at Bob. “You two being safe?” he asked sternly, like someone’s father, and Bob tilted his head from side to side like he was thinking, then nodded. “All right, good. That’s all I care about.”
“Please do not subject me to a sex talk from the Winter Soldier, okay, that is just humiliating,” said Yelena, one hand on the small of Bob’s back where she quietly rubbed her thumb like a windshield wiper, back and forth.
“Oh, really, that’s the embarrassing part about this situation? Okay,” muttered Bucky. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Alexei.”
“Thank you,” said Bob quietly, and Yelena pressed a tiny quick kiss to the back of his shoulder.
“Or anyone else,” added Bucky. “We good?”
“Totally fine, good, thank you, goodbye right now, please, bye,” said Yelena, waving him out of the room. Bucky beat a quick retreat toward the elevator and the doors closed behind him, leaving them alone. “God, we need a separate pair of doors on every residential floor, don’t we?” she asked, looking up at Bob.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he said. Then he perked up. “Hey, I can have input on the construction remodels, maybe. Do you think Mel would like some help? I can be, you know. Organized.”
“I think she’d really appreciate it, yeah,” said Yelena, smiling at him. “Okay, how about you help me put the solyanka away before we clean ourselves up, huh? I’m going to have to rearrange my leftover takeout shelf to fit it all.”
“Sure, I’d love to help,” said Bob immediately, walking right over to the fridge and opening the door without waiting for her. “Oh. Uh, you have a lot of takeout boxes in here.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go through them all. Don’t worry. Hey, Bob?” He turned his head toward her, bright and clear, and she smiled. “I’m really glad you came in to, uh, to not talk.”
“Me, too,” he said, beaming. “Yeah. Me, too.”