Chapter Text
The moment you stepped foot into the garden centre, the overwhelming scent of earthy soil overtook you. The air was thick with humidity. Rows upon rows of plants stretched out before you, and they felt almost overwhelming after the sterile confines of the Tower. It was most definitely too early to be outside, but after your late-night rendezvous with the rest of the Thunderbolts, you passed out as soon as your head hit the pillow.
Bob walked beside you, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, eyes wide as he took in the sight.
“Wow, this place is huge,” he murmured, voice nearly lost among the rustling leaves. His gaze darted around the room, and you followed it to the giant Monstera. Every leaf looked pampered: no brown edges, no sad yellow spots. But even so, they spilt over the stacks of shelves like they were too heavy for their own good. Some hung lazily, others curled at the tips until the shelves disappeared under all the untamed green.
The bell sounded behind you, its iron-wrought chimes jingling against each other as you shut the door. There was no one around, unsurprising considering the time, but you could hear a faint clambering sound slowly getting louder.
“One moment!” a voice called from somewhere within the greenery. You snapped your head around, your fingers clenched in anticipation.
A younger man ducked his head into view, long hair frazzled as if he’d just completed a marathon. Sweat glistened from his forehead, though most of his face was hidden behind a massive fern. He licked his lips, set the plant down with a thunk, and wiped his palms on his apron. You squinted to try to decipher the half-removed text, ‘Grab your balls. It’s canning season.’ He caught you staring and grinned. “Vintage,” he said, tapping the words. You nodded, lost in your curiosity and confusion. “How can I help?” Bob reached into his back pocket and produced the now completely crumpled piece of paper. It was the same list as earlier, but you could see there had been a few revisions in a different-coloured pen.
“We’re complete beginners,” Bob pressed the list into the worker's hands, eager as much as anxious to have a professional opinion. “Well, actually, that’s if there isn’t anything below beginner because we’re probably closer to that.”
“What exactly are you working on?” he asked, eyes skimming over the simple items on the list. “A small starter patch?”
“Avengers Tower rooftop garden,” you replied matter-of-factly, as simply as if you were discussing the weather and not a practical national landmark. The worker blinked, his grin becoming a look of manic shock.
“No shit? I thought I recognized you.” His voice pitched upward, finger pointing right down your chest. “Why are the Avengers buying plants, couldn’t you just hire someone to do this?”
“Because we’re the Avengers with a ‘z’,” You tugged the paperback from his grasp and tried to soothe the oncoming headache. “And we just want to grow some of our own shit.” The worker nodded insistently, clearly coming down from his enthusiastic high. He walked around the desk and rummaged around in the drawer before returning with a ballpoint pen and a scraggly-looking notebook.
“Well, if you’re building an entire rooftop garden, you’ll be needing more than just seeds and dirt.” He frantically wrote down in his notebook until the paper had almost completely disappeared under the ink. “Building a garden sounds simple, but one of that calibre will probably make you regret not just hiring someone.” He shot up and shimmied his pen into his apron’s pocket before dashing off into the labyrinth of plants.
“Sorry, I thought this would be a lot more simple,” Bob whispered to you, eyes wide, as he watched Jeremy — whose name you only learnt from his askew name tag — work in front of him.
“No, this is good,” you said, tapping Bob gently with your hand. “I mean, it’s just some plants, it can’t be that difficult.” Bob gave you a crooked smile, softening at your reassurance.
As it turned out, it could be that difficult.
You wouldn’t just be sitting around, digging up dirt and waiting until buds started to grow. It was far more architecture-based. An hour after setting foot in, you’d added a multitude of what you’d deemed ‘random’ items to your basket. Including but not limited to: galvanized-steel containers, powder coating for said steel so it’d ‘fit in’ with the aesthetic, porcelain floor tiling, and far more seeds and pots that could reasonably fit inside your car. Which was how you now owed roughly more than half your monthly budget to a moving company called “Broke Back Movers”, who’d be hauling your garden-to-be onto the Avengers Tower roof next week.
“This has been extortionate,” you said, taking a long sip of your black coffee as you glared at the receipt. “You know Bucky is going to give us an earful, right?” The garden centre café was bustling with life, humming with the clattering of silverware and the constant buzzing and grinding of coffees being made.
Bob stared into his own cup of drink. The way his shoulders slumped, not tired, just… quietly defeated, said everything you needed to know. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here,”
“Why?” you asked, softer this time. “You having second thoughts?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” he fidgeted at the sugar granules on the table, scattering them onto the floor. “It’s a lot more work than I realized.”
You swirled your cup before taking another sip. “Does that mean it’s not worth it any more because it’s a lot of work?”
“I just don’t think either of us knew what we were really signing up for,” he gestured vaguely to the receipt.
“I do now.” The admission felt dangerous, like it was more than just plants and planning permissions. “And I still want it.”
“It’s going to take months,” Bob’s gaze drifted past you to the pest control aisles. “Could be at it until summer.”
“Good,” you nudged his foot under the table. “It gives us something to do, other than saving the world, of course. But that gets boring.” He snickered in response, burying half of his face in his coffee cup.
“We should probably bribe Bucky with something. Maybe the whole team, since we’ll probably end up dragging them all into this mess.”
“I saw a Walmart on the way here,” you flicked the empty sugar packet at him. “I doubt spending more money is the answer, but maybe absurd amounts of alcohol will be.”
The drive over was only a few minutes. When you arrived, the shop's fluorescents hummed above you, their glare bouncing off rows of glistening alcohol bottles. A sudden chill from the AC sent shivers down your spine and goosebumps racing up your exposed skin. You reached for another bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey and threw it in the cart, where it joined two others and a disordered assortment of spirits. You grabbed a fourth Jack, because why not, and lobbed it in. You walked further down the aisle, eyeing all the colourful cocktail mixers and throwing some in for good measure.
Bob trailed behind you, pushing the increasingly heavy cart with growing concern. “Are we planning to get everyone blackout drunk?” he asked, watching you add yet another bottle of drink to the collection.
“That's the idea,” you replied, grabbing a box of premixed drinks and examining the flavour selection on the label. “Team bonding,” you said, turning to face him fully. “Plus, half of you guys are super soldiers, not like you’ll even feel it.”
Bob considered this for a moment, then shrugged and resumed pushing the cart. “Yelena will probably still manage to drink us under the table.”
“Now that,” you said, tossing in a bottle of vodka that looked expensive enough to justify the inevitable lecture from Bucky, “would be entertaining to watch.”
The checkout line was mercifully short compared to all the other lines, though, the cashier did a double-take when she started scanning the bottles. Her eyes flicked between you and Bob, clearly trying to place your faces. “Having a party?” she asked, the scanner beeping rhythmically as bottle after bottle passed through.
“A crazy one,” you replied, pulling out your card as the total climbed higher. Bob winced visibly when the final number appeared on the screen.
“That'll be $347.82,” the cashier announced, and you could practically see Bob's soul leaving his body. You handed over your card without flinching, sliding it down the side of the reader. The bagging process was a struggle in itself, you tried to shove as many bottles in the few bags you’d bought but still needed to grab more to carry it all.
The parking lot was filled, and your car sat packed between two other trucks. Bob loaded the bags into the trunk, while you slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. The radio crackled to life as Bob came around and settled into the passenger seat. You reached over to change the station, swapping between a range of different genres, from songs about love to a radio host complaining about ‘Spider-Man the Spider-Menace’.
The drive back to the Tower felt different from the morning trip, more relaxed, almost teetering on excitement. The city was busier now, morning settling into early afternoon, and you found yourself stuck in traffic only five minutes after pulling out from the store.
“The garden centre was nice, glad I didn’t have to go alone,” Bob said suddenly. He was looking out the window, but you could see his reflection in the glass, the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I should tell you something, though,” you said, glancing over at him as you stopped at a red light. “I’ve been lying to you.” Bob’s eyebrows furrowed as he stared into you.
“What?” he stammered, adjusting in his seat so he could give you his full attention. “Lying about what? Did you not want to do this?”
You shook your head, fingers grasping steadily on the wheel, arms fully outstretched. “No, I want to do this.” The light turned green, and you pressed the accelerator, the tower coming into view ahead. “I’ve gardened before.” Bob laughed, and the sweet sound filled the car and warmed your beating heart. You pulled into the Tower's underground garage, the familiar hum of the building's systems welcoming you home. “I know, I know. I’m a lying cheater.” As you turned off the engine, Bob was already reaching for the door handle, but he paused.
“What did you grow?” he asked, turning back to you. Something bitter unfurled in your chest, dangerous and painful and terrifying all at once.
“I planted a flower. On Tony’s grave,” you said, confession pouring out of you, more painful than anything else in a very long time. “Used my blood to grow it. So it’d… last.”
You shoved the car door open, desperate for the garage’s cold air to swallow you whole. But Bob’s hand closed around your forearm, gentle and unyielding. No yank, no demand—just stay. You sank back into the seat, the door hanging open like a held breath. His thumb brushed a slow arc over your sleeve, the friction soft. The quiet between you thickened, alive.
You could hear it all: the traitorous drum of your pulse, too loud, too raw. The flower would never wilt. You’d made sure of that. Its roots would coil deep, fed by the same power that kept your hands stained. A monument, 'look at what I lost'.
"What flower was it?"
“Lily of the valley,” you stared at the garage stone wall. “Started small. Now it’s… God, it’s taller than me.”
Bob’s thumb stilled on your sleeve. “You go back to see it?”
“Not since I moved here,” the words tasted like ash. “Fourteen months.” The silence pooled, heavy, until you couldn’t handle the weight any more. “The roots… They’ve wrapped around everything, I could feel it. Like I was forcing him to stay.” The admission clawed up your throat. You let out a breath, not shaky, not steady, just something in between, and then, slowly, you pulled your arm free.
“It’s cold,” you said, though it wasn’t. “Let’s get this stuff inside,” and Bob let you stand. You stepped out, boots scuffing against the concrete floor. Bob moved with you, opening the trunk and pulling out the first bag, the bottles clinking together under his grip. He didn’t comment on your deflection, didn’t ask if you were okay, he just worked, handing off bags one by one, like this was the only thing that mattered right now.
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Bob stepped in first, shifting the bags in his grip before leaning against the railing. You stared at your reflection in the mirror; you’d managed to throw some of your clothes in the dryer last night, so now you weren’t running off the bottom-of-the-wardrobe scraps. Even still, you’d picked out just a simple gray spaghetti strap tank top, paired with a blue-grey plaid flannel shirt and a rugged brown denim jacket thrown over.
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal the hallway leading into the Tower’s common space. The moment you stepped through, the shift in the atmosphere was immediate. Alexei was slouched on the couch, legs sprawled, as he bellowed a story at Yelena, who was sipping from a mug as if she was merely tolerating his nonsense. Across the couch, Ava sat absent-mindedly beside Bucky, who was scowling at his phone.
The second they clocked you and Bob, more specifically, the bags of alcohol in your arms, the reaction was instant. Alexei sat up, eyebrows shooting up in dramatic delight. “You have come bearing gifts!”
Bucky, however, narrowed his eyes at the sheer amount of bottles. “How much have you two spent?” He put his finger up to stop Bob from responding. “No, don’t tell me. Plausible deniability.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, already resigned.
Bob hoisted his bags onto the counter with a quiet grunt, shaking his head. The receipt peeked out from between his fingers, still absurd enough to make him grimace.
“You know,” he muttered, “I really thought gardening was going to be the most expensive part of this week.”
Alexei let out a loud ha! And slapped Bob’s back with enough force to make him stumble. “Oh, my friend, you have clearly never purchased alcohol in bulk. It was investment!” Yelena snatched a bottle of vodka from the pile, inspecting the label like she was judging its quality.
Ava plucked a bottle of whiskey from the mess, twisted off the cap, and took a casual sip. “Less talking. More drinking.”
Between the six of you, the unpacking process was surprisingly smooth, bottles sorted into neat(ish) rows across the counter, mixers shoved toward the fridge, discarded packaging tossed haphazardly into the bin.
You reached for a bottle at the same time as Bob, fingers brushing lightly against his. Neither of you pulled away; it wasn’t intentional, exactly, but the awareness lingered. Bob cleared his throat. You gave the bottle to him without comment, your own hand flexing slightly before moving on to unpack another.
“Y’know,” you said, slapping a tequila bottle down, “we’ve got enough here to play every drinking game ever invented.”
Alexei grinned wide, gesturing grandly. “Now you’re speaking my language!”