blow for blow, breath for breath

by delulumiims

Summary:

Bob nods slowly. There’s a quiet between them that feels full, not empty. And then, after a moment, he steps forward and hugs John—just presses his forehead into his shoulder, breathing in the warmth of him. John wraps his arms around him without hesitation, his hand resting on the back of Bob’s neck.

Bob tries to navigate through his unlabeled relationship with John, while violently ignoring the dark pull that is slowly dragging him down.

Bob wakes up slowly, the weight of sleep still clinging to his limbs. The sheets are warm around him, but the space beside him is empty. He reaches out instinctively, fingers brushing against the cool fabric where John had been, and that’s when it hits him—he’s alone in the bed. His eyes flutter open, and the room is quiet. 

Light pours softly through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the slight mess of clothes from the night before, and the faint imprint of John’s body in the mattress. 

He doesn’t panic. Not immediately. For a moment, he just lies there, blinking up at the ceiling, his heart ticking a little faster as last night comes back in soft, slow flashes.

He remembers John’s hands, firm and steady against his skin, the way he had touched him like it mattered—like he mattered. He remembers the sound of his own breath hitching, the way John had murmured to him through it, gentle and grounding. It hadn’t felt like a mistake. It hadn’t felt like something they weren’t supposed to be doing. It had just felt good. Safe. 

Bob closes his eyes again, letting the memory wrap around him for a moment longer. A part of him doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t know what’s waiting outside that door—what version of John he’ll find when he walks into the kitchen. Was it just a moment? Just heat and adrenaline and a lapse in the weight they both carry?

Sitting up slowly, Bob winces at the cold air brushing over his bare chest. He reaches for the edge of the sheet and pulls it higher over his waist. His clothes aren’t where he remembers leaving them. He looks around the room, eyes sweeping over the chair in the corner, the floor near the bed—nothing. 

He exhales, tries not to overthink. John must’ve moved them. Washed them maybe. It seems like something he’d do—quiet acts of care when he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Bob gives a half-smile at the thought. He stretches his arms out, the muscles in his back pulling slightly, still sore from their training session the day before. From everything that came after.

Getting out of bed slowly, he pads across the room, bare feet against the cold floor. He pulls open one of John’s drawers, hesitating for a moment before sifting through it. He finds a soft, worn T-shirt and a pair of sweats that look big enough on him but will probably hang off his hips. He tugs them on quickly, the cotton clinging faintly to his skin. 

It smells like John—like detergent and something deeper, familiar. Bob stands still for a second in the middle of the room, feeling oddly comforted and out of place at the same time. It’s disorienting, to be standing in someone else’s space like it’s his own, wearing their clothes after a night like that.

His hand comes to rake through his hair, trying to decide whether to stay or go, to wait for John to come back or to walk into the kitchen and pretend like things are normal. He glances at the bed one last time—the messy sheets, the dented pillow—and then to the door. 

His heart flutters with quiet nerves, but beneath it, there’s something steadier, something calm. 

He steps into the kitchen, barefoot and quiet in the oversized clothes that still carry John’s warmth. The room smells like eggs and toast, something savory sizzling on the stove. The low murmur of conversation between Yelena and Ava fills the space, their voices soft in that early morning way, casual and familiar. Yelena leans over the table, gesturing with her fork, while Ava smiles faintly, nodding along. It’s comforting, domestic even, in a way that catches Bob a little off guard.

“Morning,” he says, voice still a little rough from sleep as he pads closer to the table.

Yelena glances up first. Her eyes catch on the shirt he’s wearing—John’s shirt—and something flashes briefly across her face. Then it’s gone, replaced by a casual smile as she mutters a quiet “Morning” back and shifts in her seat to make room for him. 

Ava lifts her fingers in a silent wave, her mouth full of food, and Bob feels the usual warmth of their presence settle around him as he slides into the seat beside them.

Behind the counter, John turns at the sound of Bob’s voice. His eyes land on him—just for a second—and then he gives a short nod. “Hey,” he says, then turns back to the stove like it’s nothing, like Bob didn’t spend the night in his bed, curled against his chest with his fingers twisted in his hair. 

Bob watches the way his shoulders move under the soft cotton of his shirt as he stirs whatever’s in the pan, deliberate and focused. But every now and then—when he thinks no one’s looking—John’s eyes flick back toward him.

Bob bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“So,” Ava says after a beat, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Yelena woke up half of this place with her yelling this morning.”

Bob stiffens just a little in his seat, and he can feel the heat start to crawl up the back of his neck. He doesn’t dare look at John. He’s not ready for that.

But Yelena, to her credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “It was nothing,” she says quickly, waving a hand like the whole thing wasn’t mortifying. “Just… wasn’t my business.”

Ava raises an eyebrow, clearly about to press further, but Yelena is already launching into a completely unrelated topic about how the coffee machine is broken again and that she refuses to drink the instant stuff Alexei brought as a replacement.

Bob exhales quietly, grateful. He joins in with a little laugh, making a comment about how he’s pretty sure Alexei drinks coffee made of concrete, and the table relaxes again. The conversation flows easily after that—banter and teasing and sleepy jokes about missions that almost went sideways. 

Bob leans into it, feeling the rhythm of it all—the team, the quiet company, the fact that no one’s pushing for answers he’s not ready to give.

But even as he listens to Ava talk about someone tripping over their gear mid-fight, he keeps catching movement out of the corner of his eye. John, still at the stove, keeps glancing back. Not often enough to be obvious, but enough for Bob to notice. It’s like he can feel him watching, can feel the weight of it—curious, cautious, maybe even a little soft.

The front door clicks open with a muted mechanical sound, followed by the familiar creak of booted footsteps. Bucky walks in with that usual tired, measured gait of his—one that suggests he’s been on his feet too long and didn’t get quite enough sleep, which is probably true. 

He shrugs off his jacket as he enters the kitchen space, letting it hang on the coat rack like it weighs more than it should, then runs a hand through his hair, still slicked back from whatever meeting he just came from.

“Morning,” he says gruffly, though his voice carries more warmth than usual. His eyes sweep the room—land on Bob for a second, then John, then Yelena and Ava, and he gives a nod that feels… satisfied. “Good, you’re all up… except Alexei, I see.”

Yelena narrows her eyes playfully. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” Bucky mutters as he walks over to the coffee machine and inspects it with mild disdain. “Usually he’s up and about, but I guess not today. Great.”

Bob catches John watching Bucky from over his shoulder as he slides eggs onto the last plate. The move is quiet, practiced—he places breakfast in front of Bob like it’s second nature now. No big fuss, just a quick glance at Bob’s plate to make sure it’s right before returning to grab his own and finally sitting down across from them.

Bucky leans against the counter with a fresh mug in hand, metal fingers drumming idly against the ceramic as he takes a sip. “Anyway,” he says, “just got back from a thing. Conference. Sam was there.”

Yelena perks up. “And?”

Bucky nods slowly, like he’s still sorting through the words. “He’s warming up to the idea. Of us, I mean. As the new lineup.”

Bob blinks. “Wait… really?”

“He didn’t say it out loud,” Bucky adds with a slight smirk. “But the way he talked about how we handled the situation last month? That was his version of a compliment.”

Ava laughs. “So… he thinks we’re capable of not completely ruining everything. That’s high praise.”

“Trust me,” Bucky says, settling into a seat at the edge of the kitchen island, “from Sam, that is high praise.”

There’s a beat where everyone takes that in. The words settle into the room slowly, not with the shock of sudden news, but with the weight of something that might actually stick. It’s been months of missions, of training and arguments and small victories, and maybe—just maybe—it’s starting to count for something.

“Means we’ll probably be settling into the title more now,” Bucky continues. “No more ‘maybe team.’ You’re it.”

John sits straighter at that, his fingers loosely curled around his fork but unmoving. He doesn’t say anything—just listens, the line of his jaw twitching ever so slightly as he processes it. Bob glances at him for a second, long enough to catch the flicker of something in his eyes. 

John settles, less like a soldier waiting for orders and more like someone who is allowed to enjoy the company. His gaze meets Bob’s just briefly before flicking away.

Yelena raises an eyebrow from her spot at the table, still chewing toast. “So, birdman is finally getting over his sentimental crap.”

Bucky smirks over the rim of his mug. “Well, he didn’t say we were doing a good job. He said, ‘they didn’t cause a diplomatic incident.’”

John chuckles under his breath, pushing some eggs around on his plate. “I mean… he’s not wrong. We’ve come close. Real close.”

“Only once,” Ava adds, cutting her toast with a butter knife like it’s a steak. “And that was not my fault. I was under the impression that ambassador was already briefed.”

Bob’s sitting quietly between them, taking slow bites of food, glancing now and then at John, who’s settled into a slightly more relaxed posture, elbow on the table, one hand bracing his cheek. “So… is this official now?” Bob finally asks, looking toward Bucky. 

Bucky shrugs, but his tone is more grounded than dismissive. “As official as it gets without the press conference and fireworks. We’re not gonna be plastered on cereal boxes tomorrow, but yeah. The higher-ups aren’t looking for replacements anymore. And Sam stopped using the word ‘temporary’—which is a big deal.”

Ava whistles. “Damn. That means we’re… what did they call it?  The new Avengers?”

“No,” Yelena says firmly. “We are not calling ourselves that.”

“Agreed,” Bucky says with a quick nod. “But the reality is—you’ve all proven yourselves. Bob, you handled that energy collapse better than anyone expected. Yelena and Ava got people out safely. John…” He pauses, nodding across the table, “…you stepped in when it counted. You all did.”

John’s eyes flick up at that. Just for a second. Then back down to his plate like he’s not sure what to do with that kind of praise, especially coming from Bucky.

Yelena nudges Ava with her elbow, smiling. “Guess we’re not just the weird cousin team anymore.”

“More like the scrappy underdogs who managed to win a few rounds,” Ava says, raising her cup in a mock toast. “To being underestimated.”

John sets his mug down softly, clears his throat. “So what now?”

Bucky leans forward, both arms resting on the counter. “Now? We keep working. We train harder. We build trust. We make damn sure that if anything happens, we are the first call—not the backup.”

“Right,” Bob says, nodding slowly, “and… people are okay with that?”

“They’ll have to be,” Bucky replies. “Because we’re already doing the job. They just haven't caught up yet.”

There’s a quiet that follows. A slow-blooming sense of pride, of seriousness. Of this is real now.

Then Yelena breaks the silence. “Okay, but does this mean we get better gear? Because if we’re gonna be official, I want something that doesn’t squeak when I run.”

“I want a jet,” Ava adds.

“I want a damn day off,” John mutters, rubbing his face.

Bob just laughs softly, and something settles in his chest—an understanding, a calm. 

He thinks about what this means—all of it. He doesn’t know where he fits in the equation of it all. Not really. Not when everyone else has a defined role, a purpose, a power they can use openly. His own abilities are… complicated. Still too tangled up in danger, still too much a mystery even to himself.

He swallows hard. He can feel it now—how distant that shadow has become. Not gone, but quiet. Like it’s watching from behind glass instead of hovering over his shoulder. Still there. Still waiting.

He wants to believe he’s stronger than it now. That all the work he’s done, the focus, the restraint, the long nights in the training room—it’s all added up to something good. Something that might make him useful. Not just a ticking time bomb they let stay because he’s likable, or because he’s broken in a way the rest of them understand.

John told him once that he didn’t need to be useful. That he didn’t have to prove anything.

But Bob doesn’t believe that. Not really.

He wants to be useful. He wants to help the city, the people in it, the ones who are lost or scared or holding on by a thread. He wants to be someone Yelena trusts completely, not just someone she keeps one eye on. He wants to stand beside Ava and Bucky and say I’m here too. He wants to keep John safe—not just from the world, but from the ways Bob could hurt him if he ever slipped again.

Because the truth is… if the Void did take over, even just for a second—he could wipe them all out.

That’s what terrifies him most. Not the idea of hurting strangers. But the thought of hurting the only people who have made him feel like maybe he’s worth something again.

Yelena is the first to vanish, muttering something about training hours and “a weapon she left in the south wing” that no one’s brave enough to question. Ava goes next, coffee in hand, headphones already in, likely retreating to run diagnostics or just get a moment of quiet. Bucky lingers only long enough to double-check something on his phone before calling over his shoulder that he’d be in the briefing room if anyone needs him. 

And just like that, it’s just John and Bob left, the low hum of the fridge the only thing cutting through the stillness.

John pushes his chair back, the legs scraping faintly across the floor, and starts gathering plates and mugs into a stack. He’s quiet about it—focused, a little too sharp in his movements. 

Bob watches the way he moves around the counter, how he doesn’t quite meet his eyes, how his shoulders don’t seem to drop the way they did just minutes ago when the team was laughing and eating. There’s no tension exactly, but something about John feels coiled. 

“I’ll help,” Bob says gently, pushing himself to his feet.

John pauses, already halfway to the sink, then gives a quick shrug like he doesn’t want to protest but also hadn’t planned on saying yes. “Sure. Thanks.”

They work side by side in a kind of companionable silence, water running, dishes clinking softly, Bob wiping down surfaces while John rinses plates with steady hands. For a while, there’s nothing more than that, the softness of cleaning and the air between them still slightly charged with things unsaid. It’s not uncomfortable, not really. 

But Bob notices the way John’s jaw ticks when their arms brush, or how he keeps his eyes forward, like facing Bob too directly might set something off inside him.

So Bob breaks it, gently. “So,” he begins, tone easy, “now that we’re… The new Avengers, or whatever they end up calling it—how’s that feel for you?”

John pauses. His hands still under the stream of water, the plate in his hand forgotten for a moment. “I—” He looks down, shakes his head a little like he’s trying to find the words in the sink. “I don’t know.”

Bob waits, drying a plate with slow, even strokes.

John speaks again, quieter this time. “It’s not the title that bothers me. I’ve had a title before. A lot of pressure came with it, sure, but this feels… different. Like I’m not trying to fill shoes anymore, but I’m still being measured anyway.” He exhales. “Still under the damn microscope.”

“You’re not the only one who feels that way,” Bob nods, leaning against the counter. “It’s weird, right? But I think that… we’re not here because we’re perfect for the job. Maybe we’re here because we care enough to do it anyway.”

John glances over at that. His eyes soften a little, just slightly.

“And you care, John,” Bob adds, “even when you think you’re screwing it up. That counts. Probably more than the title does.”

There’s a beat of silence, then John lets out a breath, not quite a laugh, but close. “I don’t know how you always say the right thing.”

“I don’t. I just try to say what I’d want someone to say to me,” Bob says, offering a small, crooked smile.

John finally meets his gaze—really looks at him—and something in his face shifts. He seems a little less tense, a little more grounded. He turns off the faucet and wipes his hands on a towel, tossing it onto the counter without taking his eyes off Bob.

“Thanks,” he says, voice lower now, quieter. “For not making it weird earlier.”

Bob grins. “You’re welcome.”

He’s pretty sure it’s not going to be awkward. Not painfully, soul-scorchingly awkward like he feared when he first rolled out of bed and remembered the night before in bits and flashes—John’s hand on his wrist, the quiet, electric moment of almost, not-quite, maybe. The kind of moment that makes you walk funny for the rest of the week, emotionally speaking.

But it isn’t. John doesn’t look at him weird, doesn’t act cagey or different. Just slides a mug of coffee across the table to him like he’s done it a thousand times. 

Bob leaves the kitchen with the ghost of something unspoken sitting just beneath his ribs. That quiet ache, the kind that makes him brush his fingers over his own arm like he’s been touched even when he hasn’t. He’d wanted to kiss John—badly, plainly—but he didn’t.

The next few days pass without anything big shifting. No stolen kisses. No heavy moments under doorframes. They still move like a team, like friends, like two people who’ve quietly seen each other naked—in body, in mind—and agreed not to rush the meaning of it.

John’s still himself; sharp-tongued when it’s funny, soft-spoken when it matters. Bob’s still watching, still listening. They train together. Eat together. Trade comments under their breath in group meetings that make Ava roll her eyes. John flicks peanuts at his head when he zones out; Bob kicks his foot under the table when he smirks too wide.

And yet, underneath all that casual, something’s changed.

Not in a loud way. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But Bob feels it in the way John sometimes leans just a little too close, like he forgets there’s air between them. In the way Bob wants to reach out and fix the wrinkle in John’s shirt collar, but doesn’t. In the way their eyes hold on each other a second longer than necessary, then both look away.

They’re still stuck on supply duty together, but it’s kind of nice. There’s a rhythm to it—John taking inventory, Bob organizing crates, both of them working in sync without needing to talk much. Every now and then, they brush past each other in the narrow aisles of the storage shed and it feels like something unspoken is passing between them. 

Bob still gets flustered sometimes, like when John says something low and tired but kind, and means it in that way that makes Bob’s stomach twist a little. But he doesn’t back away. Doesn’t shut it down. He just lets the quiet sit between them, lets himself lean into it a little.

It’s sometime that week, maybe a Wednesday, maybe not—days blur more easily now. They’re in the kitchen again, sleeves rolled up, water running, the quiet hum of domesticity wrapping around them like a familiar old blanket.

John’s focused on scrubbing a plate, jaw tight with concentration, a small line between his brows like something’s weighing on him, but not enough to speak aloud. The sun slants in through the window, catching on the faint steam rising off the sink, turning it golden.

The kitchen is mostly clean, the sun casting a soft golden light across the tile and the curve of the sink, catching in the rim of a drying mug. Bob is standing at the counter with a dish towel in hand, drying the final plate. His hands move automatically, but his attention drifts—to John.

He doesn’t miss the way John looks at him now, eyes flickering across his face before darting away again like he’s trying not to stare too long. They look at each other like they’re trying to find a reason not to kiss again, like maybe they both want to but are afraid of what would come after.

Then John breaks it with a breath. He glances at the time on the microwave display and clears his throat. “I, uh… I’ve gotta head out. Meeting someone.”

Bob raises a brow faintly, towel still in hand. “Yeah?”

John nods and rubs the back of his neck. “My ex. Just—one of those things we’ve been meaning to talk about. Closure. Or whatever.” He tries to say it lightly, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s not quite sure how to frame it.

And then—his hand. It lifts, slow and without calculation, and he places it on Bob’s back in passing. Just a warm touch, solid and grounding, as if he needs to reassure himself that Bob is still real. Bob feels the weight of it, the familiar warmth, the way it lingers half a second too long before John pulls away and grabs his keys and phone from the counter.

He’s already heading toward the door when Bob calls after him. “Hey.”

John turns, hand on the doorknob, brows lifted in a soft question.

“I’ll be down in the training room later,” Bob says, casual but clear. “Got something new I want to show you. If you’re up for it.”

There’s a pause. And then John smiles, small but full of something that makes Bob’s chest feel a little too tight.

“I’ll be there,” he says.

And then he’s gone. The door closes softly behind him, and Bob’s left standing in the kitchen with the towel still in hand and the feeling of John’s palm still warm on his back.

The silence settles thick, almost like the echo of a wave pulling back. Bob sets the towel down beside the sink and leans both hands on the edge of the counter, his shoulders rolling forward slightly as he lets himself finally breathe without being watched. Not that John was watching him like that—or maybe he was. It’s hard to tell these days, and harder still not to care when he is.

The hum of the refrigerator fills the quiet, and Bob finds himself staring at the floor tiles, thoughts spiraling inward. There’s been a steady shift in him lately—something quiet and slow, but undeniable. He’s been getting stronger. 

Not just physically, not just in the way his reflexes are quicker and his control steadier, but deeper than that. In the way his powers respond to him now. They don’t fight him as much. 

Bob’s fingers curl a little against his side as he thinks about the other part—the part he hasn’t told anyone yet. The part he hasn’t wanted to share.

The memories.

He knows he could do it. He’s seen flickers of it when he’s pushed himself harder during solo sessions in the training room, moments where he brushed so close to John’s mind that it was like their thoughts echoed in his bones. 

He’s never gone all the way in, not since that time. Never truly entered someone’s memory. Not even accidentally. Because he knows what that kind of power could mean.

And the truth is—he’s afraid.

Not of what he’ll find in someone else. Not really. He’s afraid of what it would say about him. About the kind of person who willingly steps into another’s most painful memories. Not to help, but to use. Because that’s what it would be if it happened in the field, wouldn’t it? 

Strategic. Efficient. Terrifying. The idea of weaponizing someone’s trauma makes something curdle in his gut.

He hasn’t told John. Not because he doesn’t trust him—but because he’s scared John might look at him differently if he knew. Like Bob’s one wrong turn away from becoming the very thing he’s spent years trying not to be.

But lately… lately, it doesn’t feel as heavy. The fear. The pressure. The void. It all feels quieter. Like he’s becoming, and not unraveling. Like maybe for once in his life, he’s actually growing into who he’s meant to be—rather than running from what he was made to be.

Bob drags a hand through his hair and exhales slowly. He doesn’t know exactly what he’ll try yet, or when. But he knows he wants to. He wants to face it. Not just the physical strength, not just the control—all of it. The memories. The fear. The choices.

And maybe, when he does, he won’t be standing on the edge of that decision alone. But for now, he pulls away from the kitchen and starts toward the training room.

It’s quiet there, save for the rhythmic hum of energy pulsing beneath Bob’s fingertips. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he kneels on the padded floor, a discarded crowbar sitting to his left. In front of him, a small, dull combat knife is mid-shift, metal folding in on itself like water being pushed by invisible hands. 

It shakes a little—still imperfect—but Bob doesn’t look away. He breathes out through his nose and concentrates harder, focusing not on destruction, but on transition.

That’s the trick. Not forcing it into something brutal or threatening. He’s trying to rework the very idea of a weapon, to make it harmless—a new kind of defense. He imagines a baton turning into a twisted piece of scrap, a pistol flattening into an ugly brass paperweight, sharp edges dulling and disappearing before they can do any harm. His powers answer slower when he’s careful, but they do answer.

The knife in front of him curls on itself one last time, finally melting into a puck of unrecognizable metal, round and smooth like a river stone. Bob exhales and lets himself smile, the kind that starts in the chest and doesn’t quite make it all the way to his face. 

He wipes his palms on his thighs and leans back on his heels, just starting to consider cleaning up, when the door opens with a soft click. A flicker of excitement rises in his chest—he was expecting John, was hoping for him, actually—but when he turns around, it’s Yelena who steps through instead, framed by the hallway light like something caught mid-stride.

She stops at the threshold, her eyes sweeping the room in that calculating way of hers before they land on him.

“Not who you were hoping for?” she says, a smirk tugging at her mouth. Her tone is light, teasing—but there’s something careful behind it too.

Bob shifts, brushing dust off his hands as he stands. “I—no, it’s fine,” he says quickly, scratching the back of his neck as if that might disguise the flicker of disappointment he’s sure she caught.

She strolls in slowly, her boots making soft thuds against the mat. “You’ve been down here for hours,” she says, giving the warped pile of metal a curious glance. “What were you doing?”

Her posture shifts the second she glances back at the melted knife. Her eyes narrow, lips pressing into a tight line. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s suspicion. Her body stiffens like she’s preparing for an argument before a single word’s exchanged.

“You’ve been using them,” she says, not even bothering to hide the sharpness in her tone.

Bob straightens where he’s standing, trying to hold his ground. “Yeah,” he says, cautious. “I’ve been working on—”

“Bob, you—” she cuts in, stepping toward him. “You said you weren’t touching that side of it. You said you were giving yourself space.”

“I was,” Bob says quickly. “I am. I’m just—”

“You can’t control it,” Yelena snaps, her voice rising slightly as her hands gesture to the warped metal on the ground like it’s evidence in a trial. “You know you can’t. It’s dangerous for you!”

Bob takes a breath, trying to stay calm. He doesn’t want this to be a fight, but she’s not making it easy. “Yelena, I haven’t even gone near the void. I haven’t touched anyone’s mind. I’ve just been focusing on physical matter, on—”

“Oh my god,” she mutters, a bitter laugh slipping out as she runs her hand down her face. “You’re doing this with John, aren’t you?”

That catches him off guard. “What?”

“You’ve been training with him. You’ve been using your powers with him. That’s why you’re so calm about this all of a sudden.”

Bob hesitates, which is as good as confirmation.

“Are you out of your mind?” Yelena says, stepping toward him. “You trust him with this? You didn’t think to tell me? The man doesn’t even have powers and you’re testing your limits around him?”

“He’s not in danger,” Bob says, sharper now, the edge in her voice bringing out one in his. “I know what it feels like when it starts to go dark. I know the signs. It’s not like before.”

She doesn’t budge. “But it could be! It could, and if you’re not prepared—”

“I feel the difference now,” Bob insists. “The void doesn’t own me like it used to. It’s not even near me when I’m working on this. It’s distant. Like background noise.”

“Until it’s not,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “Until you think you’re okay and then one day you blink and you’re tearing someone’s mind inside out.”

Bob’s jaw clenches, and his arms come up to mirror hers. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust your power,” she corrects, though there’s something uncertain in her voice now—like the line between those two things isn’t as clear as she wants it to be. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Bob asks, softer now. “Because it really doesn’t feel like it.”

They stand there for a beat, tension thick between them. Yelena looks at him, at the tense set of his shoulders and the way he’s trying not to flinch at her words, and something flickers in her eyes—worry, guilt, maybe even fear.

She doesn’t say anything else, just turns abruptly and walks a few paces away, jaw tight.

Bob exhales through his nose and finally speaks, voice low. “I’m not trying to lie to you, Yelena. I’m not hiding anything. I’m trying to get better, and you—you keep acting like I’m going to break in half the second I try.”

Yelena doesn’t look back. Her voice wavers when she answers. “Because I remember what it looked like when you did.”

Bob doesn’t respond. He just looks down at the quiet puck of melted metal on the ground, suddenly unsure if it was ever something to be proud of at all.

She stands there for a moment longer, her back to him, arms crossed tightly like she’s holding something in. Bob doesn’t speak. He’s said everything he can, and now it’s up to her to decide what she does with it. He hears her exhale, something quieter and softer than the tone she’s been using. Then, she turns around.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it’s the real kind—the kind that feels like it costs something. Her voice is still cautious, still measured, but there’s something sincere in the way she says it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” She shrugs helplessly. “You scared me.”

Bob nods slowly. “I know.”

“I’ve seen you hurt,” she continues. “I’ve seen what it does to you. I’ve seen what it looks like when that thing takes over, and I don’t want to see it happen again. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Bob doesn’t say anything. It’s too hard to answer that kind of worry with just words. But she sees something soften in his eyes, and that’s enough.

“I have to tell Bucky,” she adds, quieter now. “You know I do.”

His stomach tightens, and he shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah. I figured.”

Yelena takes a step closer, her voice gentler. “It’s not a punishment. No one’s trying to lock you down again. But we need someone else to supervise your training—someone who understands what they’re looking at, in case… just in case.”

There’s a flicker of frustration in Bob’s eyes, even if he hides it well. “So what, John’s not good enough?”

Yelena shakes her head. “He’s too close to it. And maybe you are too. That’s not a judgment. It’s just… people get messy.”

Bob looks away, jaw tight, but he doesn’t argue.

Yelena touches his arm briefly. “You’re doing great,” she says. “I mean that. You’ve come so far. I just want you to keep going in the right direction. And I don’t want the people who care about you—me, Ava, even John—to have to clean up the damage if it all goes sideways.”

Bob gives her a reluctant nod. “Okay.”

She nods back, then starts walking toward the door. She hesitates for a second before she opens it. “Bucky is not going to be mad,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder. “He’ll probably be impressed, honestly. Just… let us help you do this right.”

Then she slips out, and the room goes still again.

Bob stands there alone, the silence humming in his ears, staring at the melted piece of metal he’d shaped with such concentration just a few minutes ago. It doesn’t look like a threat now. Just something strange and quiet and half-transformed. He sighs and picks it up, weighing it in his palm. It’s warm, a little warped. Sort of like him.

———

The common room is dimly lit, the low hum of the overhead lights mingling with the quiet clinking of mugs and the soft murmur of conversation. Bob steps in silently, feet soft against the floor, and pauses when he sees them—John and Ava seated across from each other on the couch, leaning in slightly, animated in their own way. 

There’s a brightness in John’s voice, something almost eager in the way he’s explaining something with his hands. Ava is smiling, her fingers curled loosely around her arms, nodding along.

Bob walks past them toward the small kitchenette, giving them space, but he can’t help glancing over as he boils water for tea. It’s not eavesdropping exactly—more like observing from the edges, letting himself witness a side of John he hadn’t quite been prepared for. 

There’s a looseness to him tonight, not the usual guarded stiffness, not the weight of someone constantly trying to prove himself. He’s smiling without checking if anyone’s watching, laughing in a way that doesn’t seem meant to deflect. It’s different. 

Bob doesn’t remember when that started. Maybe it was after that first night, or maybe it was earlier—those quiet moments on the balcony, or that day they’d baked banana bread like it wasn’t a big deal, like domesticity was something they were allowed. John wasn’t what Bob expected. 

When they first met, he thought he was all sharp edges and misplaced patriotism, a walking weapon with too many regrets and not enough guidance. But watching him now, explaining something to Ava with a little spark in his eye and a fondness in his tone, Bob feels something shift.

He stirs the tea absentmindedly, eyes still lingering on John. He thinks about how gentle John had been with him—not just physically, but in the way he’d looked at him, like he mattered, like he wasn’t a burden or a risk. 

No one had ever looked at him like that. And now, even as John talks to someone else, that softness still lingers in him. It’s written in the way he sits, how he leans toward people, how he nods like he’s listening with everything he has.

Bob takes a sip of his tea, letting the warmth settle into his chest. He doesn’t approach them right away. He just stands there for a while, letting himself be in the background, watching. 

And as he does, he realizes something simple and a little terrifying—there was a time—not even that long ago—when comfort felt like something invented in stories. Back when he was twenty and using whatever he could get his hands on just to numb the world down to a dull hum. 

That was the worst part, really; not the guilt or the cravings, but the aloneness. The cold kind that seeped into his bones no matter how many people were in the room. He could be surrounded by voices, by family, by the buzz of street life and empty conversations, and still feel like he was floating just out of reach. 

He leans against the counter, the steam from his tea curling up like ghostly fingers, warm and fleeting against his face. His eyes flicker to John now and then—still laughing softly, Ava nudging him playfully—but his thoughts turn inward. 

He hadn’t meant to sink so deep into himself tonight, but that’s always how it starts. One quiet room, one still moment, and suddenly he’s wading through the past like it’s ankle-deep water that never quite dries.

He thinks about how different things are now. How different he is.

He’s not floating anymore. He’s landed. He’s on solid ground, in a room full of people who see him, not just the past that clings to him or the powers that twist through his bloodstream like oil and ink. 

He’s made a place for himself here—among the broken parts and hopeful rebuilding. He’s found… comfort. Familiarity. A team.

He thinks about Yelena, especially. About how she’s probably the first one who looked at him and didn’t flinch. Not because she didn’t see the darkness—no, she absolutely did—but because she recognized it. Like looking into a mirror with someone else’s reflection staring back. 

That first week in the tower, when she’d visited him in his room, where he was reserved into his loneliness because he didn’t want to feel anymore, she hadn’t said much. She just sat next to him. Told him a half-joke about a mission gone wrong. And then, only when he was ready, she told him he could let it out if he needed to.

He hadn’t needed to. Not that time. But he remembered it. He remembers everything.

That’s why, when she found him earlier, her voice sharp and her face pulled into something like fear and disappointment, he hadn’t taken it to heart. 

She wasn’t mad—she was worried. Because she knows what it’s like to lose control. To let the darkness take the wheel while the rest of you just curls into a ball and prays to come back. It’s why she got so rigid when she caught him using his powers without someone around. She’s not afraid of him. She’s afraid for him. And that means more to him than he can ever say outright.

Bob lets out a soft breath and takes another sip. The tea is a little too hot, but it anchors him.

He’s never had friends like this. Never had people like this—people who yell and laugh and throw pillows at him during movie nights and hand him a wrench mid-mission without asking what he’s doing. 

He’s never had someone like Yelena—who can read him in a glance and doesn’t shame him for being scared. He’s never had someone like John—someone who touches him with care, who asks before he stays, who doesn’t treat his brokenness like a threat or a burden.

And maybe it’s ironic, or maybe it’s exactly how the universe works—but he realizes now that loneliness, for all the damage it does, is the one thing that unites them all. That thread, thin and cruel and quiet, winding its way through each of them until they landed here. Found each other. Started to stitch something new from the frayed ends of their lives.

Bob holds the mug in both hands now, letting the warmth spread. It’s a first, but he doesn’t feel like he’s waiting for the ground to give way beneath him. He feels… steady. And he’s not about to let that go.

He shifts his weight off the counter and steps closer, his tea warming his palms, the scent of chamomile mingling with whatever John had been making earlier—eggs maybe, or toast, something simple and unfussy, like the man himself when he wasn’t wrapped up in his own defenses.

He catches a lull in the conversation between John and Ava, something about logistics and recon assignments, and clears his throat with a casual, “You two talk loud.”

John glances over, something teasing in the arch of his brow. “Easier to eavesdrop that way, right, Bob?”

Ava smirks, tilting her head at Bob. “He’s subtle like that.”

Bob shrugs, sipping from his mug as he comes around the island to stand with them. “Nothing to eavesdrop on, this stuff sounds boring.”

Ava scoffs playfully. “Yeah, you would think that.”

“You’re just in time, either way,” John says, leaning back against the counter. “Thought maybe you’d come save me from this interrogation.”

“Oh please,” Ava cuts in. “I was politely asking why you labeled every mission folder with the same code name.”

“I thought it was efficient.”

“It’s confusing,” Ava shoots back, raising her brow.

Bob snorts. “Okay, I have to agree with Ava. Pretty sure you’ve got three different missions labeled ‘Condor Strike.’”

John defends himself with a small gesture of his hands. “It’s a strong name! It evokes imagery.”

“Of what, John?” Bob deadpans.

“Of stealthiness,” John says, pointing at him like that somehow proves a point.

Ava throws up her hands. “See what I’m working with?”

Bob grins, the air between them lightening, settling into that easy rhythm that’s starting to feel familiar—like muscle memory. He leans against the back of one of the chairs and watches as John shakes his head, pretending to be exasperated, and Ava continues to roast him over the naming system. 

He finds himself relaxing into it, letting his mug rest against his chest, letting his smile stick around even when no one’s looking directly at him. 

A few minutes pass and he excuses himself gently from the conversation, finishing the last of his tea before setting the mug in the sink. His body feels heavy, not in a tired way exactly, but like the kind of weight you carry when something’s brewing under the surface—thoughts, feelings, memories. He offers a nod to Ava and John, muttering something about needing a breather, and makes his way to his room.

Once inside, he pulls off the hoodie and trades it for a long-sleeved shirt that falls loose around his frame. The familiar fabric brings some comfort. He tugs on a pair of old sweats, his mind turning over everything from that afternoon—the training room, Yelena’s face when she saw him, the way she’d softened just before she left, that promise to report it anyway. 

He sits on the edge of the bed for a second, running a hand through his hair. It’s not guilt, not exactly. It’s more like dread. The one that coils in your stomach and waits for someone else to say the thing you’re already scared to hear.

A knock pulls him out of it. It’s quiet, but deliberate.

“Yeah?” he calls, already knowing who it is.

The door opens, and John leans in a little, hesitant. “Hey. Can I—?”

Bob nods, stepping aside and trying not to overthink the fact that he still feels a little awkward around him today, even after everything. “Yeah, come in.”

John enters and closes the door behind him. There’s a look on his face—not angry, not upset, just serious in that way John gets when he’s carrying more than he says. Bob watches as he crosses the room, glancing once toward the bed before choosing to lean against the desk instead.

“So,” John starts, crossing his arms loosely. “I heard about what happened with Yelena.”

Bob lowers his eyes, a flush crawling up the back of his neck. He presses his thumbs together. “Of course you did.”

“She told Ava. Ava told me. That’s how things go around here.” John gives him a look, like he’s trying to keep it light but can’t quite keep the edge of concern out of his voice. “You okay?”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t want to lie, and he’s not sure how to say what’s been knotting up in his chest since Yelena left the room.

John waits, but not passively. He takes a few steps closer, hands on his hips now. “Look, I’m not mad. I just—if something happens with Bucky… If they think you’re unstable or that you can’t control it, they’re gonna step in. I need to know that you’re gonna be okay with that. That you’re gonna get through that talk.”

Bob finally looks up. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I’m trying. I’m not pushing myself too far, I swear. But it’s…”

He trails off.

John’s eyes soften. “Yeah.”

Bob exhales, and there it is, just beneath the surface. “I don’t want to be seen as a threat, John. I’ve already spent too long trying to prove I’m not what I used to be. That I’m not what the Void wants me to be. I’ve got control now. I really think I do. But if they decide I don’t… I don’t know what that means for me.”

The last part slips out before he can stop it. It hangs there.

John doesn’t flinch. He takes it in. Steps closer until he’s in front of Bob, looking at him with something steady in his eyes—something grounding. “Bob, I know what it’s like to be monitored. To be seen as dangerous before they even let you speak. But you’re not that. And yeah, Yelena’s right to be cautious, and Bucky’s gonna do what Bucky does, but that doesn’t change what I’ve seen in you.”

Bob swallows hard, meeting his gaze. “And what’s that?”

“That you’re strong. Smarter than you think. Way more careful than you give yourself credit for. And you give a damn about people, even when you pretend you don’t.” John lets out a slow breath. “So just be honest. You don’t have to prove anything you’re not. Just show them what you are.”

Bob nods slowly. There’s a quiet between them that feels full, not empty. And then, after a moment, he steps forward and hugs John—just presses his forehead into his shoulder, breathing in the warmth of him. John wraps his arms around him without hesitation, his hand resting on the back of Bob’s neck.

John looks at him like there’s a war going on in his head—like he’s half a breath away from saying something honest and terrifying, and he doesn’t know which part of himself is going to win. Bob notices the twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flex slightly where they hang at his sides. 

He still has a hand resting lightly on John’s arm, thumb pressing gently against his skin, grounding them both. He can feel the tension there—coiled and hot like something waiting to break.

“Just say what you want to say,” Bob murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, exactly—an explanation, a confession, a name for whatever it is that’s passed between them. But he knows he wants it. Wants to hear John say something real, even if it hurts.

John opens his mouth, then closes it again. His eyes flick down to Bob’s lips and back up. He mutters something under his breath—Bob can’t even catch it, just the low scrape of his voice—and then he leans in.

The kiss lands like a decision made too late but all the more urgent because of it. It’s not hesitant, but it carries the weight of everything John’s been holding back—weeks of glances, close calls, and silent nights filled with too much proximity and not enough clarity. His hand finds Bob’s side, then moves quickly, purposefully, sliding around to Bob’s lower back as he pulls him in.

Bob exhales sharply against his mouth, startled but not resisting. His fingers curl into John’s shirt, his chest pressing up into the heat of him. There’s something raw in the way John kisses—deep and slow and full of that same controlled intensity he trains with, like he’s been trying not to let this happen and now that it has, he’s not wasting a second of it.

When they finally pull back, just a little, Bob’s breathing hard, eyes fluttering open. John still has a hand on him, his palm warm where it rests against the curve of Bob’s back.

“I didn’t plan that,” John murmurs, his voice hoarse.

Bob gives a soft, breathless laugh. “Yeah, I got that.”

John’s eyes are wide as he steps away, a flush creeping up his neck, and he clears his throat like it’ll erase the moment. “I, uh… I gotta go. Just remembered—Yeah.”

He starts backing toward the door, clearly ready to flee the scene, and Bob just stares at him for a beat, caught somewhere between confused and charmed.

Then he huffs a laugh, shaking his head fondly as he leans forward to pat John’s chest with two fingers. “Smooth,” he says, voice thick with amusement. “Really subtle. You should try teaching stealth classes.”

John lets out a noise—half a laugh, half an embarrassed groan—and turns away before Bob can see the full extent of the grin tugging at his face. “Shut up, Bob,” he mutters as he pulls open the door.

Bob leans in the doorway behind him, still grinning, calling out, “If you’re gonna make a habit of kissing me and running off, at least leave a note next time!”

John flips a hand in the air without turning around—dismissive and embarrassed and maybe just a little endeared—and disappears down the hall. Bob watches him go, heart a little lighter than it was a minute ago, the echo of the kiss still lingering against his mouth.

Weirdo, he thinks fondly, and heads back to his bed, smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.

———

The call comes just after breakfast, not formal or official—no stern summons over comms, no dramatic knock at his door. Just a message from Bucky, plain and simple: Hey, you got a minute?

But Bob knows what it’s about. Of course he does.

He’s been waiting for it ever since Yelena left the training room. The pit in his stomach hasn’t left since. Even now, walking the short hallway to Bucky’s room, he feels like a teenager summoned to the principal’s office—except instead of detention, it’s possibly losing the one thing that’s made him feel in control for the first time in years.

The door’s already open when he gets there. Bucky’s not behind the desk like Bob expects—he’s over by the small shelf near the window, pouring two glasses of water. That alone disarms him a bit. This isn’t an interrogation. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, glancing back with a nod. “Come in. Sit.”

Bob steps in and lowers himself into the bed. His hands are already clasped together in his lap before he realizes how tightly he’s holding them.

Bucky hands him a glass and sits down opposite him. There’s no clipboard, no file, no team of doctors waiting in the wings. Just Bucky. And something about that—about the quietness of it—makes it worse.

“I know you’ve been working on your powers,” Bucky says simply. “Yelena told me.”

Bob nods, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

There’s a silence that stretches just long enough to make Bob shift in his seat.

Bucky finally speaks. “You doing okay?”

The question is so unexpected—so human—that Bob looks up sharply. “What?”

“I mean, with all of it,” Bucky says. “You. Your head. The void. The work. You been handling it okay?”

Bob hesitates. He wants to say yes. He wants to say he’s stronger now, that he can shut out the darkness and the static and the constant pull. But there’s no point lying to someone who’s been through something similar. Maybe not exactly, but close enough. Bucky would see right through it.

“I’m managing,” Bob says instead. “It’s not like before.”

Bucky watches him closely. “Yelena said you’ve been training with John.”

Bob nods again. “He’s… careful with it. He never pushes me too far.”

“And you trust him?”

“I have no reason not to, right?”

There’s a beat. “That’s good. I trust him too. But it’s not really about John. It’s about what happens if this gets bigger than what he can handle. Than what you can handle.”

Bob exhales slowly, finally saying what’s been chewing at him. “I didn’t want to hide it. I just wanted… to get ahead of it. To be in control of it before someone tried to control me again.”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice softens. “I get that. I really do.”

They fall quiet for a moment. Bob doesn’t fidget, doesn’t shrink—but he doesn’t look up either.

“Yelena’s worried,” Bucky says after a while. “And that’s her job. Mine too. But I’m not here to shut you down.”

Bob looks up at that, cautiously hopeful.

“I’ve seen what happens when people get punished for trying to get better,” Bucky says. “And I’ve been there when people were told their power was a liability. I’m not gonna do that to you.”

Bob’s shoulders drop a little. Not relaxed, but no longer braced.

“That said,” Bucky continues, “we’re gonna make a few changes. You can keep training. But you won’t do it alone, or in secret, or without supervision.”

Bob swallows his pride and nods. “Okay.”

“And,” Bucky adds, giving him a pointed look, “you keep John involved, if you want. But you don’t lean on him like a crutch. You’ve got to build this for you, not for someone else’s comfort.”

Bob manages a small smile at that. “Got it.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, finally seeming to relax. “You’ve come a long way, Bob. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all by doing it alone.”

That… hits something deeper. Bob doesn’t say thank you—doesn’t trust himself to—but it’s there in his expression, in the slight shift of his eyes, in the way he finally, fully settles in his seat like maybe he can breathe again.

“One more thing,” Bucky says, leaning forward a bit in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. “We’re gonna start holding group training sessions.”

Bob turns back slowly. “Okay…”

“This time it won’t just be sparring or tactical drills. We need to get more aligned—mentally, strategically. Not just a bunch of people with skills, but a team. And part of that is everyone showing what they’ve been working on.”

Bob stiffens a little. “You mean… you want me to use them? In front of everyone?”

Bucky nods. “If you’re ready. I won’t make you do anything you’re not in control of, but yeah. I want the team to see what you can do. Not just to show off, but so they understand how you work. So you understand how you work, with them.”

Bob swallows. His first instinct is to argue—say it’s too early, that they won’t get it, that someone will flinch or say the wrong thing and it’ll all spiral. But he doesn’t. Because deep down, he knows this was coming. If he wants to be part of this team—really part of it—then the secrecy has to stop. He has to stop hiding behind the idea of who he used to be.

“Okay,” he says, quieter this time. “I’ll show them.”

Bucky studies him for a moment. “You don’t have to show everything. Just what you’re comfortable with. But I want them to know that you’re not a liability. And more importantly, I want you to know that too.”

Bob looks down for a beat, then back up. “I’ve been working on something. Changing the shape of things, disarming weapons midair if I can get to them fast enough.”

Bucky’s brow lifts, intrigued. “That’s good. And smart.”

“I thought maybe if I could stop something before it became a threat, it’d prove I’m not just… reactionary.”

“It does,” Bucky says simply. “That’s exactly the kind of thinking we need.”

Bob senses the end of the conversation and moves to get up, but Bucky stops him with a quiet, almost reluctant shift in his voice. “Actually,” he says, pushing himself up from the edge of the bed, “we’re doing it now. The training session.”

Bob turns, and for a second it feels like the air in the room gets heavier. He nods once, slow, even though his chest tightens the way it used to before something bad happened—before a slip-up, a withdrawal, a memory. But this isn’t that. This is different. This is him choosing it.

They step into the common room together. The light outside has started to shift, casting long orange lines across the floor. Everything feels unusually still. Bob’s eyes flick toward the kitchen, but it’s empty—no voices, no John. Just a few clean mugs and the faint smell of old coffee.

Bucky doesn’t wait. His voice cuts clean through the quiet, “All of you. Training room.”

There’s the sound of feet down the hall. Yelena appears first, moving quickly and already suspicious, her eyes sharp and unreadable as they land on Bob. She slows just a little as she steps into the room, like she’s still deciding how to feel. Alexei and Ava are right behind her, Ava clutching a tablet to her chest, blinking like she’s walked into something serious. John is last, walking slower than usual, gaze unreadable until it finds Bob and lingers just a beat longer than it should.

They all filter in, confused but silent. No one says anything right away—they’re just waiting. Trying to piece together what’s happening.

Bob hangs back a little, letting the others file past as Bucky leads the way. There’s a buzz in the air—low chatter, the thud of footsteps, someone cracking a joke that gets a quiet laugh—but Bob doesn’t join in. He just watches. Tracks the way everyone falls into step, the casual ease of people who’ve done this a dozen times before.

He walks when they do, trailing a few paces behind. The hallway lights hum overhead. Everything smells faintly of metal and floor polish, sterile and familiar. By the time they reach the elevator, the group’s already shifting into something more focused—shoulders squaring, expressions sharpening, bodies leaning toward that inevitable edge of readiness.

When the doors slide open to reveal the floor with the training room, Bob steps out with the rest of them, his mind already spinning with what is expected of him.

He can feel the attention on him. It itches at his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He stares at the floor for a second, then lifts his head and breathes out through his nose. His hands are at his sides, one still wringing the hem of his sleeve without meaning to. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes—he’s not ready for that. Not until Bucky steps beside him and rests a hand on his shoulder.

It’s not much, but it’s grounding. Bucky’s calm is never loud, never forced. It just is. Like a reminder Bob didn’t know he needed.

“He’s been practicing,” Bucky says, addressing them without looking away from Bob. “On his own terms. And now he’s ready to show you. This isn’t a test, or a threat. He’s here because he wants to be. Let’s give him space to do that.”

For a moment, nobody responds. The silence stretches—but it doesn’t break. Yelena looks at him, that same guarded look on her face, and Ava shifts where she stands, eyes flicking between them all. Alexei says something Bob doesn’t really catch, and John is still, unreadable, but his arms have dropped from where they were crossed, like he’s listening harder than he wants to admit.

Bob lets out a slow breath and finally lifts his gaze. He meets Yelena’s eyes first—just briefly. She doesn’t nod. But she doesn’t look away either.

Bucky steps forward, arms crossed, voice steady but with an edge that says he means business. “John, up front.”

John doesn’t hesitate. He moves past the others, jaw tight, eyes flicking briefly to Bob before settling into a neutral stance in the center of the training room. The others shift around them.

Bucky turns to Bob next. “Spar with him. Like you usually do.”

Bob nods, barely, and walks forward. He can feel every pair of eyes on him, the way the air changes when he steps into the mat. It’s heavier now—not just pressure, but something like memory, like all the things he’s fought his way through tightening around his spine. He rolls his shoulders out, then lifts his eyes to meet John’s.

John’s expression softens just a little. That’s all Bob needs.

They circle each other, slow at first. The rhythm is familiar, grounding—Bob steps left, John mirrors him. There’s a kind of quiet understanding in it. John feints with his shoulder, Bob shifts his stance. His focus narrows to just the two of them. He tunes out Ava’s soft murmured notes on the tablet, the creak of Yelena’s boots as she shifts her weight. Alexei’s clapping. Just John. Just movement.

They exchange a few warm-up blows—nothing serious, just testing. Bob ducks under a punch, throws a quick jab that John blocks without effort. It’s not flashy. It’s muscle memory, practiced and clean. Bob can feel his own heart starting to slow into that familiar beat of concentration. But the tension never fully leaves his chest—not with the others watching. Not with what he’s about to do.

John steps back, then comes in fast, his shield swinging out in a low, arcing strike. Bob sees it coming—he always does—but this time, he doesn’t dodge. He focuses.

It’s subtle, almost too subtle to notice in real time. The moment before impact, Bob reaches out—not physically, but with that part of himself that still feels foreign, unsteady. His fingers twitch slightly at his side. The shield glows faintly at the edge, just for a heartbeat.

And then it changes.

Instead of striking him, the shield collapses inward, morphing—no longer metal, no longer a weapon. It folds into itself like liquid, reshaping into something soft, pliable. Fabric, almost. A padded cushion drops to the floor with a soft thump.

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches long even when it only lasts a second. John blinks, staring at his now-empty hand. His fingers curl around air.

Bob breathes, slow and deliberate. His hands are trembling.

“What the hell?” Ava mutters under her breath, but not unkindly—more amazed than anything.

Bob can’t help it—he smiles. It’s small at first, barely tugging at the corner of his mouth, but when he hears Alexei let out a full-bodied, proud cheer from across the room, it widens, blooming with something deeper than just satisfaction. It’s relief. It’s belonging.

Alexei claps louder, practically bouncing where he stands. “Yes, little Bob! That is how you do it!” His voice echoes across the training room, unfiltered and full of joy. Bob lets the warmth of it sink in, lets it wrap around the part of him that still doubts, still second-guesses.

Yelena’s still leaning against the wall, arms crossed—but her expression has shifted entirely. There’s something softened in her face now. Her chin lifts slightly in acknowledgement, and her eyes meet his with a rare kind of stillness. She doesn’t have to say anything—he can read it in her posture, in the pride that settles quietly in her features. He sees it because she knows. She’s seen the worst of what he’s afraid of.

Bucky steps forward, clasping his hands together once as he speaks. “Nice work. Both of you.” His gaze shifts from Bob to John and back again. “That was exactly what I wanted to see. Adaptability and teamwork.”

Bob turns to John, who just shrugs and offers a small, almost sheepish smirk. He still looks a little stunned, like he hadn’t fully expected Bob to pull it off, but there’s no question about the respect in his eyes.

“Can you change it back?” John chuckles, a smile tugging on his lips.

Bob looks up from where he’s adjusting his shirt. He nods once, expression calm, and walks over to the shield lying on the table. His fingers move with practiced ease over the tech embedded in its edge—small notches, invisible to most, until he presses them just right.

There’s a quiet mechanical whir. The plating pulls back, layers shifting with a smooth clink of metal-on-metal, until it settles back into its original form. No extra tech. No new shape. Just what it was.

He steps back, meeting John’s eyes. “All yours.”

Everyone watches in a kind of quiet awe, the room still as the shield finishes locking into place with a final, satisfying click. The simplicity of it—of turning something back to what it was, not forward into something new—seems to stand out more than expected.

Bob glances up, scanning the room. He catches Yelena’s smile—small, crooked, genuine. It’s not mocking or amused, just… warm. Proud, even. Like she knows what this moment means without anyone needing to say it out loud.

Bucky cuts in, voice strong but even. “Alright, from now on, Bob’s officially included in all combat training sessions. No more sitting on the sidelines. You’re part of this team, and it’s time we all start working like one.”

Bob swallows, nodding. The words hit somewhere deep. It’s not just about powers anymore—it’s about trust.

Then Bucky turns his head toward the back of the room. “Yelena. You’re up next.”

She pushes off the wall with a tilt of her head, almost amused. “With him?” she asks, jutting her chin toward Bob.

Bucky nods. “Yeah. I want to see how he holds up against you. Keep it clean, keep it fast. Push each other.”

Bob raises an eyebrow, glancing sideways at her as she approaches. “Are you gonna go easy on me?” he asks, trying for lightness.

Yelena only grins, sharp and playful, and cracks her knuckles. “Not a chance.”

At first, it’s almost like a dance—Yelena’s movements are practiced, familiar, even graceful in the way she steps forward with a calculated jab, then pulls back just enough to give Bob time to react. She’s holding back, and Bob can tell. Her strikes come in slow, wide arcs, her body language loose, easy. Too easy.

Bob blocks each blow, his arms moving on instinct. He’s mostly relying on close combat—deflection, redirection, footwork he picked up from John and quietly perfected in their training sessions—but there’s a nagging awareness in the back of his mind. It’s not just the fight. It’s the look in her eyes. Protective. Careful.

He ducks under a kick, plants his feet back on the mat, and blocks another hit. Then he lets out a breath through his nose and straightens up. “Yelena,” he says, his voice low but sharp with intention, “stop holding back.”

She pauses mid-swing, her fist still in the air. Their eyes meet, and something flickers in hers—a flash of guilt, maybe, or understanding. He doesn’t wait for her response.

To make his point, he reaches out with his powers—not with the memory piece—but with the trick he’s been working on. As her next punch sails toward him, he extends his hand and warps the impact just before it hits, the air around them shimmering for a second as he diverts her momentum with the smallest twist of his fingers. Her arm swings wide, thrown off course.

Yelena stumbles back a step, surprised. Her eyes narrow. “Okay,” she mutters. 

And then she’s on him.

This time she’s faster, more precise—her hits land with intent, sharp and sudden. Bob moves to keep up, blocking, dodging, occasionally redirecting her force with the glow of his energy flickering along his palms. They fall into a rhythm again, but it’s different now. She’s testing him, and he’s responding. He can feel the pulse of his powers running underneath his skin, steady but restrained. He doesn’t let it take over. He controls it.

Her knee nearly connects with his ribs, but he twists away just in time, catching her elbow and using the momentum to spin her off balance—but she recovers fast, always one step ahead.

He redirects another strike, but in the moment his footing falters, and she sweeps under him with a brutal kick. He stumbles—and that’s when her fist catches him right in the jaw.

He staggers backward, a surprised laugh escaping his throat before he even registers the pain. He wipes a hand across his mouth, catches a little blood on his thumb, and laughs again, this time louder. 

“Shit,” he breathes, shaking his head as he grins at her. “That hurt.”

Yelena steps toward him, winded but smirking. “You said not to hold back,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

And Bob—cheeks flushed, jaw throbbing, heart pounding—nods. “Yeah. I’m glad you listened.”

The energy in the room shifts after their turn—like something had been unlocked. They all start to loosen up, not just in muscle but in spirit. Alexei claps Bob on the back hard enough to jolt the breath from his lungs, laughing like it’s the best thing he’s seen all week. Ava, with her arms crossed and a crooked grin, mutters something about “not being able to babysit the newbie anymore,” and Bucky gives Bob a brief, meaningful nod before calling the next round.

They take turns sparring, switching partners as the session rolls forward. Bob watches the way each of them moves—their styles so distinct, so shaped by who they are. Yelena is sharp and fast, a storm in compact form. Ava fights like she’s thinking two steps ahead. Alexei is brute force, and John—John is all discipline and instinct. Bob’s fought him the most, and it shows. He doesn’t flinch when John charges. He meets it.

Even Bucky joins in at one point, throwing himself into the fray with effortless calm, like his body remembers how to fight even before his brain does. When Bucky faces off against Alexei, Bob stands off to the side with the others, panting and sweaty, nursing a bruise forming beneath his ribs, and watches like he’s just been let in on something secret. 

Eventually, they pair up into duos—Bob and Ava against John and Yelena, then Alexei and Bucky switch in, mixing it up. It’s chaotic but focused, bodies moving, colliding, redirecting, reacting. Bob doesn’t think about the Void. He doesn’t think about his past or what he might do wrong. He’s just here, now. Fighting, moving, giving. For once, not holding back.

His blood is thrumming, heart thudding so fast it almost hurts, and he can feel every part of himself fully awake. He isn’t just the guy who makes tea when things get tense, or the one who mops up after a mission. He’s fighting with them, holding his own, contributing something real. His limbs burn and his vision narrows in bursts and he loses count of how many rounds they’ve done. All he knows is that he doesn’t want it to stop.

He laughs mid-duel, completely breathless, blocking a jab from Ava and twisting it into a shove as John yells something across the mat. Yelena flips Alexei onto the ground and Alexei yells out dramatically in defeat. Bucky just smirks and mutters something under his breath.

And for Bob—for the first time in what feels like forever—this feels right. Not perfect, not easy, but right. His skin is flushed and sore, and he knows bruises will bloom across his legs and arms tomorrow. But he feels connected. Like this is what’s been missing all along. This unspoken bond that forms when you fight beside someone, when you learn their rhythm and they learn yours.

He’s never felt more like part of a team. Never felt more real.

They’re all still riding the high of the session—sweaty, bruised, laughing in half-breaths—as they start peeling off gloves and padding across the floor toward their things. The gym smells like heat and grit and victory, and no one’s really in a rush to leave, not even Bucky. He lingers by the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching them settle down from the buzz.

Then his voice cuts in—not loud, but enough to hush the banter. “Alright. One last thing before you all disappear.”

Everyone turns. Yelena tosses a towel over her shoulder. Alexei wipes his forehead with his shirt. Bob, still catching his breath, watches Bucky with a pulse in his ears that hasn’t quite leveled out yet.

“Starting tomorrow, we’re rotating patrol,” Bucky says, casual, but clear. “Real fieldwork. Real routes. We’ll set up in pairs and cover the city by section, two teams per shift. Schedule’s going up first thing tomorrow, so no complaints about being confused or out of the loop.”

A few quiet groans ripple out, half-joking. Ava narrows her eyes with mock suspicion. “You saying we actually have to do the job now?”

Bucky gives a dry smile. “Welcome to the team.”

Bob’s chest pulls a little tighter. Not in a bad way—just in that strange, cracking-open kind of way. Patrol. The word buzzes like static in his mind. It’s not practice anymore. It’s real. They’re actually trusting him to be part of it. Not babysitting duty. Not just hanging back to make tea and do recon. Real movement. Real risk.

He nods, slow, almost to himself. Everyone starts filtering out with murmurs of “see you in the morning” and “hope it’s not freezing” and “dibs on the early shift.” Bucky tells them all to rest up—“You’ll need it”—and that’s the cue. Group dismissed.

John brushes past him quietly as he pulls off his training shirt, his body still gleaming with sweat under the overhead lights. He doesn’t say much—he never really does when he’s tired like this—but his hand lingers at Bob’s lower back. A slow, firm press of warmth against the curve of his spine. Just enough to make Bob’s breath hitch a little, even now. Even after everything.

“You did good, Bob,” John says, almost beneath his breath, and then he’s walking off, towel slung around his neck.

Bob’s heart stills for a moment as he watches him go. Then he finally drags himself to the showers too, the heat of the water stinging over the bruises on his shoulders, along his ribs, his forearm. He doesn’t mind. There’s something kind of nice about the ache—proof of what he did, what he gave today. Proof that he was part of something.

By the time he’s clean and dried off and back in his room, everything feels softer. Quieter. He pulls on a long-sleeved shirt, oversized and familiar, and sweatpants that hang loose at his hips. His muscles are heavy, stretched and spent, and the cold of the evening creeps in through the windows just enough to make the warmth of the sheets feel like a small kind of heaven.

He grabs a book from the nightstand—not even sure he’s in the mood to read, but it feels right to have something in his hands. The pages rustle softly as he folds into the bed, propped up by pillows, his limbs still carrying the buzz of movement and adrenaline. He tries not to think too hard. Not about what patrol will be like. Not about how far he’s come. Not about what John’s hands felt like earlier, or the look on Yelena’s face when he held his own against her.

Just the sound of the page turning, the distant hum of the hallway outside, and the warmth wrapped around him like a slow, quiet kind of pride.

Then, John walks in, quiet like he always is when it’s late and everyone else has gone to their rooms. Bob doesn’t look up right away—he hears the door click shut behind him and the soft thud of boots hitting the floor, then the bed dips with John’s weight. 

It’s familiar now, the way John always finds his way back to him at the end of the day. Bob tries to keep his focus on the book in his hands, holding it steady against his bent knees, but he can feel the heat of John’s gaze, like it’s creeping up through the pages and into his spine.

He lowers the book just enough to peer at him over the top. “What?”

John doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, climbs up fully onto the bed, his movements slow and casual like he’s got nowhere else to be. He slides closer, settling between Bob’s legs without saying a word, until his hands are resting on Bob’s thighs—warm, firm, grounding. 

Bob swallows, his fingers still curled around the spine of the book, trying not to show how fast his heart’s beating. There’s something about the way John touches him, so assured and unhurried, that always leaves Bob a little stunned. Not nervous, not uncomfortable—just raw. Like he hasn’t fully caught up with the fact that this is real, that it’s allowed.

John’s looking at him with this half-smile, soft at the edges, and finally says, “You did really good today.”

Bob lets the book fall into his lap and glances down at John’s hands on him, then back up. “You already said that earlier.”

“I meant it then, and I mean it now,” John replies, giving his thighs a light squeeze. “I like seeing you like this. You looked… grounded. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

That makes Bob look away, just briefly, because compliments still feel like open wounds—raw and delicate and a little too close to the parts of him he keeps wrapped up tight. He tucks his chin down, brushing his hair out of his face, and breathes out a quiet laugh.

“Okay,” he says, a little hoarse. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering, John leans in and kisses him. It’s not rushed or eager, just a slow press of lips that catches Bob off guard, even if it shouldn’t anymore. It’s always like this—John just does what he wants, and somehow it always feels like what Bob needs. 

Bob kisses him back, gentle at first, then deeper when he feels John’s thumb stroke small circles over his thigh. And when they part, just barely, their foreheads still close, Bob’s voice is quieter—teasing, but slightly breathless.

“Do you have a thing for sparring or something?”

John huffs out a laugh, and it warms the air between them. “Maybe.”

Bob snorts and tips his head back slightly, resting it against the wood behind the bed. “That‘s what gets you going? A few punches and some sweat?”

John smirks. “You in a fight? With that look on your face and your powers actually under control? Yeah. Kinda does it for me.”

Bob rolls his eyes but he’s smiling now, a little flustered but not pushing him away. “You’re so weird.”

John leans in again, lips brushing along the edge of his jaw. “Takes one to know one, Bob.”

And Bob doesn’t argue with that. Not when John’s hands are sliding around his waist, not when he’s pressing closer, and not when the only thing that matters in that moment is how good it feels to be wanted like this—not because he’s broken or haunted or in need of fixing, but because he’s strong, capable, and finally starting to believe that maybe he belongs here too.

John kisses him again—slower this time, softer. Like he’s not in a rush to get anywhere, like he’s just taking his time with the moment. His hands slide under Bob’s shirt, warm and careful, and Bob lets out the quietest breath, the kind that catches in the back of his throat when he’s trying not to react too much too fast. But it’s hard. 

It always is when John touches him like that—like he’s sure of what he wants, and what he wants is Bob.

Bob opens his mouth slightly, not to speak, but to breathe, to invite him closer, and his hands come up—gentle, almost hesitant at first—until his fingers are cradling John’s jaw. His thumbs brush along the curve of his cheek, his skin slightly rough with the beginning of stubble, and he holds him there like he doesn’t want to let go. 

John shifts, guiding him slowly down with steady hands, until Bob is tucked beneath him, back against the sheets. It’s familiar now, the way their bodies settle like this, like they’ve done it a dozen times before and will do it a hundred more. 

John’s weight above him isn’t overwhelming—it’s grounding. He braces himself on either side of Bob, arms tense, just enough space between them that Bob can still see his face, can still see the way he looks at him—eyes a little dark, a little soft, full of something that makes Bob feel like he’s being seen all the way through.

And Bob loves that. Loves that view—John above him, confident and sure, the lines of his body tense with want but still careful, always careful. He likes how John never makes him feel small, even when he’s beneath him. Likes how he’s always looking, watching, making sure it’s okay. 

It’s all over his face—concentration, desire, affection—and it makes something twist in Bob’s chest in a way that isn’t painful anymore.

He lets out a quiet sound when John lifts his shirt higher, the fabric gathering around his ribs, warm hands skimming up his sides. It’s not loud, just a breathy noise he doesn’t catch in time, half-surprised, half-embarrassed, and John’s mouth curls into a smile against his skin like he heard it anyway. Bob ducks his head for a second, flustered, cheeks flushed.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, but it’s barely even a protest.

“Don’t what?” John asks, his voice low, mouth grazing along Bob’s chest now. “You’re allowed to like it.”

Bob covers his face with one hand, groaning softly into his palm. “God.”

John laughs against his skin, and Bob can feel it more than he hears it, a warm vibration that runs all the way through him.

“No, it’s just me,” he says, and Bob just shakes his head, trying to hide the grin tugging at his lips.

But he doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t pull away. Just lies there, heart thudding in his chest, letting himself be wanted, touched, seen. Letting himself feel good. Letting himself have this—have John.

Bob’s hands find John’s back, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at first, then slipping under it without thinking, seeking the heat of his skin. John groans quietly at the touch, but keeps moving, mouth trailing lower, warm breaths hitting sensitive skin. 

When he grabs Bob by the thighs and pulls him just a little closer, Bob lets out a soft noise, a mix of surprise and something else—something deeper.

“I want to try something,” John murmurs, his voice rough with something between nerves and anticipation.

Bob nods before he even processes the words, the trust automatic. “Okay,” he breathes.

John’s eyes meet his again, and there’s a flicker of hesitation—like he’s double-checking, like he needs to be sure—but Bob reaches up and cups his cheek, thumbing gently at his jaw.

His hands drift up, resting against the firm line of John’s chest, fingertips pressing just enough to feel the tension coiled beneath his skin. His grip finds John’s hips, steady and sure, guiding him closer until their bodies are nearly flush, heat passing between them like a current. 

John doesn’t move at first—just breathes through the thrum in his ears, seemingly trying to hold on to some semblance of thought—but it’s slipping. Bob’s touch is quiet, but it says everything. And when John glances up, flushed and wide-eyed, Bob sees as the hesitation he’s been clinging to disappears.

Bob watches as John slowly trails down, the weight of his gaze following each careful movement. John doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t need to. His mouth finds Bob’s stomach, warm and insistent, kissing over skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grab or push or take. He just stays there, his hands splayed at Bob’s sides, mouth dragging across the soft slope of his abdomen, his jaw brushing ribs and hip, pausing now and then to mouth at his skin—lazily, almost reverently.

And then he starts leaving bruises.

He’s staking some sort of quiet claim, not with control but with closeness—with care. His mouth lingers low on Bob’s side, just above his hip, and when he sucks slow and deep against the skin, Bob feels the air leave his lungs like he’s been punched—not from pain, but from the heat of it, the way it makes his pulse roar in his ears.

He doesn’t say anything, can’t. His whole body feels wired and electric, his nerves stretched too thin and too full at once.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, uncertain for a second, before he reaches for John’s hand. Their fingers touch, hesitate, and then tangle together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. John’s other hand shifts, steadies himself beside Bob as he rests his head just over Bob’s stomach, the rise and fall of Bob’s breath moving against his cheek.

Bob’s legs are loosely wrapped around him now, not to hold him in place but to keep him close—like he needs him close. His thighs bracket John’s sides, knees bent, and there’s a stillness to it, even with the heat still lingering in the air. 

John squeezes his hand, just once, and Bob exhales slowly, grounding himself in that one gesture. His free hand comes down to brush lightly through John’s hair, hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure this is real, or that he’s allowed to touch him so gently in return. But John leans into it.

For a moment they just stay like that. John breathing against his skin, Bob wrapped around him—quiet, safe, flushed and floating somewhere between calm and chaos. 

Then, he slips his hand underneath Bob’s pants and he pulls, just slightly. Bob doesn’t really know what he’s planning. There’s a pause in him—an inhale that never quite becomes a breath, a flicker of movement behind the eyes like he’s weighing something too heavy for words. And Bob doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

But he hopes—god, he hopes—that John is about to touch him where he’s aching. Throbbing.

John lowers his pants and boxers just enough to let his cock breathe, and Bob hisses at the cold air hitting his skin. John shushes him, kissing him on the skin right above, spreading his fingers around the base, and presses his lips to his hardening length.

He moves slowly, like he’s trying to make this last—like he’s trying to remember every sound Bob makes, every way his body reacts beneath him. His mouth finds Bob’s cock again, open and wet, the drag of his tongue purposeful as it tastes the salt of his skin. He hums as he kisses just at the base of him, a low, satisfied sound that vibrates through Bob’s chest. The heat coils tighter in his stomach.

Bob makes a soft, involuntary noise in response—half a breath, half a whimper—and tightens his grip on John’s other hand. It’s sweaty between their palms now, but neither of them lets go. He doesn’t think he could even if he tried. It feels like holding on to something that’s anchoring him, pulling him back from the edge of something overwhelming.

John murmurs something against his throat, the words muffled and warm, and Bob blinks, still catching his breath. “What?” he asks, voice soft and breathy, not quite steady.

John lifts his head just enough to look at him, his eyes darker than usual but not unreadable. There’s something vulnerable there, something honest in the curve of his mouth, even as he tries to play it off.

He exhales a short breath—half a laugh, half a surrender—and says, “I’ve never done this, so I’m going to need some pointers.”

Bob stares at him, a little dazed. “Done what?”

“What do you think, Bob?” John says flatly, looking at him for a moment like the answer should be obvious.

Then, wordlessly, he dips back down and resumes kissing his cock. No explanation, no elaboration. Just the press of his mouth back to Bob’s length, the warm weight of his body pinning Bob down just enough to make him feel safe, wanted.

Bob opens his mouth to ask again, but the words get lost in the warmth of John’s mouth on his skin. He closes his eyes instead and lets himself feel it—the way John isn’t just touching him but memorizing him. The way this isn’t about proving anything or chasing pleasure but about being there, about staying.

Finally, John takes him in hand and begins working on him through the wetness coiling at the tip of his cock, leaving Bob panting and gasping. He squeezes him, slowly rubbing the veins that stand out, pressing his jaw—beard and everything—to the underside, licking him from base to tip.

“Shit—“ Bob bites out hoarsely, dropping his head back against the headboard when John seems to just sort of move his hand a little to hold the base and then drops his mouth down on his cock. 

Warm, wet heat envelopes him and he has a sudden thought—it doesn’t matter to him how well John does this, just that he keeps his lips wrapped around him, running his tongue along the sides of his length, until he comes back up for air. 

It feels delicious in a way he didn’t expect—mostly because in the past, he had always done this inebriated—but also because this is John doing this for him. The same John who trains until his body gives up, the same John who was in the army, who had been married to a woman. The John who has never done this before, and is currently trying to just to please him.

He keeps at it, slow and steady, his mouth dragging over Bob’s cock like he’s trying to claim it, to leave a trace of himself there. His lips are soft but unrelenting, and every time he mouths over the same spot, Bob feels it deeper—like the nerves under his skin are catching fire, like something in him is being rewritten.

Bob doesn’t even realize he’s trembling until John shifts, pressing closer like he feels it too, like he wants to hold him together with just his mouth and the warm weight of his body. Bob’s hands thread through John’s hair, the grip light but desperate. He doesn’t want to stop him. He wants more.

It’s so wet, so dizzying. His legs have stopped working, boneless from the heat pooling in his stomach and the slow, focused way John devours him like a prayer. And then there’s that flicker—John’s breath hitching, the way his lashes tremble against his cheekbones, the faint shine in his eyes when he lifts his head for just a second. 

He’s not hiding it well. Bob sees it, feels it, the way he’s trying to keep himself together even as he falls apart against him. The way he’s grinding on himself against the sheets as he works on him like he is made for it—broken sounds drowning in the soft squelch of his mouth dragging against Bob’s skin.

Bob exhales shakily, voice thin and high and edged in wonder. “Feels good, feels really good—”

His hand slides down to cup the side of John’s face, thumb brushing over the damp line beneath his eye. He doesn’t say anything about the tears—just strokes gently, almost reverently, and guides him through it. 

“Keep going,” he murmurs, a little breathless, a little shaky. “Please.”

John doesn’t say a word. He just obeys, lips pressing around him, a hot sigh fanning out across his skin as he settles into the space between his legs like it’s home. His hand tightens around Bob’s, their fingers still locked. It’s quiet for a moment—just the sound of breathing, of his jaw working on his length, of wetness, of skin against skin.

John takes him all the way in—hard and sudden, no warning, no build-up. Just heat and urgency crashing into Bob like a wave, like a dam breaking loose. It steals the breath right out of him, makes his whole body jolt with it. 

His head knocks back against the headboard with a dull thud, but he barely registers the sting, because all he can feel is John—his hands, his mouth, the orgasm that rips through him and leaves him shaking.

A sob tumbles out of his throat. He’s overwhelmed, overtaken. His eyes blur with it, his chest rising and falling too fast to keep up. The adrenaline is crashing down on him, leaving him burning and cold all at once, blinking up at the ceiling like it’s too much and not enough at the same time. His fingers twitch uselessly against the sheets, and his thighs are still trembling around John’s head.

John pulls back slowly, breathless, like he’s just now remembering how to. There’s something wild in his eyes—shiny, unfocused, like he’s not quite sure where he is. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, just wipes his mouth with the back of his palm, slow and deliberate. His lips are flushed, slick, parted like he wants to speak but can’t find the words.

Bob’s still panting, still watching him through his lashes, dazed and loose-limbed. His hand comes up to rub the back of his head where it hit the wood, but even that feels far away. 

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “What the hell was that?”

It’s not angry, not even close—it’s reverent. Stunned. He looks at John like he’s seeing him for the first time.

John’s face lingers near Bob’s thigh, not quite touching, not pulling away either. And for a long second, neither of them moves. Bob’s heart won’t slow down, and John looks like he’s trying to catch his breath from a sprint he didn’t know he was running.

He shifts slightly on the mattress, still catching his breath, still warm in every place John’s mouth had been just minutes ago. His chest rises and falls in a slower rhythm now, something steadier, more grounded—but his thoughts are still a tangle of want and disbelief and something deeper he doesn’t have a name for.

He looks at John, who’s still looking a little out of it, flushed and a bit dazed. Bob watches him for a second, then says softly, “Want me to… return the favor?”

John’s eyes flick to him, and he shakes his head, something stubborn settling in his features.

“Nah,” he mutters. “I took care of it.”

Bob blinks. That lands somewhere deep inside him, sharp and tender all at once. He doesn’t say anything—he’s not sure what to say that wouldn’t come out too soft, too much, too soon. Instead, John leans in again and presses a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. 

Then he crashes onto the bed beside Bob with a soft grunt, arms folded behind his head, eyes already half-closed.

“We should get some sleep,” John says, like he didn’t just tear Bob apart and put him back together. “Wake up in time for patrol.”

Bob snorts, still grinning as he shifts onto his side to face him. His hair’s a mess, his shirt is somewhere around his ribs, and he’s never felt more at peace in his skin.

“You can come to my room whenever, you know,” he says, voice easy, honest.

John turns his head and looks at him. There’s that flicker again, something unreadable behind his eyes. But instead of teasing or pushing it away, he just smiles—small, real—and reaches out to brush his fingers lightly over Bob’s wrist, a quiet thank you in touch.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Might take you up on that.”

And then they both go quiet. The hum of the city is faint through the windows, and Bob stays like that for a while, watching John breathe, feeling his own body slowly unwind. 

———

The morning light filters in through the blinds, cutting soft stripes of gold across the sheets tangled around Bob’s legs. He stirs when he hears the gentle tapping of John’s fingers against a phone screen, and he opens his eyes to find him still in bed—messy-haired, shirtless, back leaned against the headboard with his phone resting lazily in one hand. 

It’s a rare sight; usually, John’s up and out before Bob even realizes the day’s started. There’s something almost surreal about waking up beside him, seeing him like this—unarmored, caught in the soft quiet of morning.

John glances down and catches Bob looking. His expression shifts immediately, mouth quirking into a half-smile. “Morning,” he murmurs, slipping the phone onto the nightstand as he sits up straighter. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Bob hums, voice still rough with sleep. “You didn’t.”

They don’t talk much as they get dressed. There’s an easy kind of comfort between them now, but under Bob’s skin, a faint buzz of nerves starts creeping in as he pulls on his sweatshirt and ties his boots. Last night had been… a lot. Good, incredible even—but now the world is back to business. 

He knows he can’t float in that little bubble they built in bed forever. And that thought—it leaves a chill around the edges of his mind.

By the time they walk into the kitchen, the others are already there. Bucky’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he nurses a coffee. Ava’s perched on a stool with her chin in her hand, scrolling through something on her tablet, and Alexei is making a horrifying amount of noise trying to work the espresso machine. The smell of burnt coffee lingers in the air.

Bob keeps his shoulders straight and his expression casual, even though he feels a little like everyone’s gaze might snap to him and John the second they walk in. He’s hyper-aware of how close they’re standing, of the warmth still clinging to his skin from earlier. He busies himself with getting a cup of tea just to keep his hands from doing anything stupid.

“Morning,” Bucky greets without looking up.

“Hey,” Bob replies, forcing the word out with a steady tone.

Then he sees it—tacked to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tiny Captain America shield. The patrol schedule. His eyes drift over it carefully, name by name. Today, he’s paired with Yelena on the west side of the city. John and Ava are stationed in the east. 

That’s manageable, he thinks—he likes working with Yelena, even if she has a way of reading through him like glass.

His eyes drop to the next day. Alexei’s name is there, paired with John. But Bob’s isn’t listed. 

Something clenches in his gut—not quite jealousy, not quite disappointment, but a mix of the two with something colder underneath. He knows it doesn’t mean anything bad, knows logically that they can’t all be out every day. Still… after everything, not seeing his name feels like a step backwards, like maybe he isn’t needed the way he thought he might be.

The gear still feels new on his body—snug in places it shouldn’t be, unfamiliar weight dragging on his shoulders like he’s wearing something he hasn’t earned yet. Bob adjusts the straps as they walk, the city stretching out in front of them in hazy midday warmth. He and Yelena stick close, winding through slower corners of the neighborhood, where people greet them with cautious glances that slowly soften into nods or little waves.

It’s calm. That’s the thing. Nothing explosive. Nothing violent. Just the rhythm of a city trying to breathe. There’s a vendor shouting over a broken cart wheel, a kid on a bicycle weaving between the sidewalk cracks, an old woman in an oversized coat who stops to ask if they’ve seen her cat. 

Yelena handles it all with a kind of dry ease—soft jokes under her breath, a smirk tucked into the corner of her mouth when someone says something odd. Bob tries to keep up.

But underneath the quiet surface, Bob’s hands won’t stop twitching. His fingers curl into themselves at his sides, and his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Every time someone looks at him too long—especially after looking at Yelena—his stomach knots. She looks like someone who’s supposed to be out here. Sharp, poised, not the kind of person you hesitate to trust.

And he… he doesn’t know what people see when they look at him. Maybe someone playing dress-up. Maybe someone soft. Maybe worse.

He listens to Yelena talk to a teen slouched on the steps of a convenience store. She’s telling them to stay out of trouble, but in a way that doesn’t sound condescending, and they laugh before flipping her off with a smile. She just grins. Bob wishes he could be like that—so easy in it.

They start walking again. He swallows hard and keeps his gaze forward.

You’re not fit for this, the voice says. That same voice that used to haunt him when he was sick and shaking and trying to convince himself he could get clean. You were rotting in a motel bathroom two years ago, remember? You think this makes you one of them?

He breathes through it, quietly, hoping Yelena doesn’t notice. But of course she does. She always does.

“You’re too quiet,” she says, not turning to look at him.

Bob shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

“Hm.” A pause. “That usually means you’re being mean to yourself.”

He huffs a laugh that doesn’t reach his chest. “Maybe.”

They move to sit on the edge of a low wall now, legs dangling, the city breathing quietly around them. The sun’s shifted a little in the sky, casting their shadows long and thin over the sidewalk. It’s calmer here—no kids running, no loud music from corner stores, just the quiet drone of traffic a block away and the occasional hum of life behind shuttered windows.

Yelena glances at him, elbows on her knees, fidgeting with the velcro on one of her gloves.

“I wanted to say…” She doesn’t quite meet his eye. “I was wrong. When you used your powers and I panicked.”

Bob looks down at his hands, flexing them once. They look like regular hands. Not weapons. Not voids. Just…hands.

“You weren’t wrong,” he says after a second. “You were scared. I get that. Honestly, you probably should’ve freaked out.”

Yelena snorts quietly. “Don’t give me an excuse to feel good about it.”

“I’m not,” Bob says. “Just saying I don’t blame you. It was messy.”

“Still,” she continues, and now she does look at him, her eyes a little softer than usual. “I should’ve trusted you when you said you were in control.”

Bob smiles, weak and tired but real. “It’s… mostly because of John,” he says.

Yelena raises a brow. “What does that mean? Like he’s your therapist-slash-boyfriend now?”

Bob laughs under his breath, looking away for a moment. “Kind of feels like that sometimes.”

She watches him for a second, studying the way his face warms when he says John’s name, the way he can’t help the way his mouth pulls at the corners.

“So?” she says. “What’s he like to you?”

Bob shrugs at first, but then he starts really thinking. “He’s…steady. He listens. Not like—fake listening. He actually hears me, and he remembers things. He makes space for me.”

Yelena tilts her head. “That doesn’t sound like the guy who used to put holes in walls when he was mad.”

“I think he’s trying,” Bob says. “It’s hard for him, sometimes.”

Yelena watches his face closely. There’s no dramatics, no gushing, just this quiet sincerity that makes her chest feel tight in a way she doesn’t quite understand. She nudges him with her shoulder, teasing at first—light in her voice like she’s trying to keep things easy.

“What you’re telling me,” she smirks, “is that you’ve got the golden retriever of murderers wrapped around your finger. That’s impressive, Bob. Truly. I salute you.”

Bob laughs softly, shaking his head. “He’s not a murderer.”

She raises both brows.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Maybe a little. But like, a reformed one.”

She grins, but the moment doesn’t last long. Her face softens as she looks at him again, her tone quieter this time.

“But really…how are you doing?”

Bob glances away, instinctively tugging at one of the loose threads at the hem of his sleeve. “I’m okay.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He sighs, and the laugh that comes next is hollow. “I don’t know. A little…off, I guess. It’s like—everything’s good. Everything’s really good. And that’s the part that scares me.”

Yelena tilts her head. “Why?”

“Because it never lasts,” he says. “Like, I’ve been here before. Where everything feels solid. Like I finally got a hold on things. And then—bam. It crashes. Always. And I just—”

He exhales slowly, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from saying too much. But she doesn’t interrupt. She waits.

Bob glances down at his hands again. “I feel the sadness, like, deep down. Even though there’s nothing wrong. Not really. I wake up with this pressure in my chest like I’m waiting for something awful. And I hate that, because I’m so happy. Especially with John. But I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff with him, and I’m scared I’m gonna fall. Or worse—pull him down with me.”

Yelena watches him for a moment, the teasing long gone from her face.

“You’re not gonna ruin it,” she says firmly. “You hear me? That’s the thing about being happy—it’s scary because you care about it. But it doesn’t mean you’re doomed.”

Bob’s eyes are glassy now, blinking hard.

“But what if I disappoint him?” he asks, quiet. “What if I get…bad again?”

Yelena reaches out and puts her hand on top of his, fingers steady.

“Then he’ll be there,” she says. “And so will I. You don’t have to carry all of it alone. Not anymore.”

Bob doesn’t answer right away, just stares out at the street like maybe he can will himself into believing her. But when he squeezes her hand back—just once—it says enough.

The comm crackles to life in Yelena’s ear, Ava’s voice tight and urgent.

“Yelena, Bob—on the east side near the square. Protest just turned, some guy’s getting aggressive. We’re trying to contain it but he’s escalating fast.”

Yelena straightens immediately, one hand already on her comm. “Copy that, on our way.”

Bob follows without hesitation, nerves spiking sharp and fast in his chest. He doesn’t ask questions—just keeps pace as they sprint through the alleyways and cross the streets until the noise starts bleeding into the air: raised voices, the rhythmic chant of protestors clashing with angered yelling, the unmistakable sound of a crowd on edge.

They round the corner and find the scene—two groups divided across the plaza, signs and banners raised, voices clashing. Most are shouting, but one man—middle-aged, red in the face and wild-eyed—is the center of it. He’s already shoved someone. Now he’s charging at another protestor, fists clenched.

Bob steps forward without thinking.

“Hey!” he calls, his voice firm but not sharp. “Hey—stop. Let’s just talk, alright?”

The man doesn’t even glance at him at first. He’s focused, consumed. Bob sees the way his jaw is clenched tight, how his whole body is vibrating with something deeper than just anger—something fraying and breaking.

“Don’t come near me,” the man growls. “They’re ruining everything—they’re the problem—”

“I get it,” Bob says, his hands raised slightly. “You’re angry. But this—this isn’t going to fix it. You’re going to hurt someone, or get hurt yourself.”

Yelena is circling subtly, keeping herself between the man and the closest group of protestors. Bob stays centered on him, slow and steady in his steps, watching the man’s eyes flicker toward him.

The man’s eyes land fully on Bob now, wild and searching—and then he stumbles back a step, points a shaking finger at him, and shouts, “You—I know you! You’re the Void! That’s what they call you, right? That’s you!”

Bob freezes. Just for a second. It’s like his brain short-circuits, static rushing through him. The air thins. For a moment he sees it—black veins under skin, screaming echoes in his own mind, the chaos he once drowned in.

It’s like something shifts in him. His fear is still there—tight, biting—but he lets it sit next to the calm he forces into his body, lets it ride shotgun while he finds his footing again. If the man’s scared of that, then maybe—maybe he can use it.

He takes a step closer, voice lower now, eyes steady.

“Yeah,” Bob says. “That is what they used to call me.”

The man flinches.

“And I know what it’s like to lose control. To feel like something bigger than you is going to take over and ruin everything. I’ve been there. I lived in it. You think I wanted to become that?”

He softens just slightly, but doesn’t look away. The man’s breath is ragged now, on the edge between lashing out or collapsing.

“I know what fear does,” Bob says. “It makes everything look like a threat. Even people who are trying to help.”

He glances at the protestors. Some are still filming. Some just watching with tense, careful eyes.

“You’re not crazy,” Bob says gently. “You’re not wrong to be angry. The world is a mess. But this—hurting someone, turning yourself into the thing you’re afraid of—that’s not gonna fix any of it.”

The man’s shoulders shake. “They lied. They said everything would get better…”

“I know,” Bob says. “They told me the same. But you gotta choose what you do with what you feel.”

Then—officers arrive, their presence sudden and stark. One of them tries to move in quick, reaching for the man’s wrist, but the man panics—he swings, just barely missing the officer’s chin as the crowd gasps.

“Wait—wait!” Bob steps between them, his hands out. “Don’t hurt him, he’s scared—he’s scared! Just give me a second!”

Bob’s fingers brush the man’s arm—just for a second. Just to steady him, maybe. But the moment contact is made, something cracks open inside him. The world tilts. His breath catches in his throat.

And then he’s somewhere else.

It hits him like a punch—heat, smoke, the sharp smell of blood and dust. Screams echo in the distance, twisted metal groans above them, and Bob is no longer standing in a city square. He’s crouched low, pressed behind the eyes of a man desperately clawing at a slab of broken concrete.

There’s a voice—small, thin, from underneath the rubble.

“Dad…?”

The man chokes on a sob, hands torn open and bleeding as he tries to lift it. He’s talking to the boy, promising things will be okay, that he’ll get him out, just hold on, just please hold on.

But the sound is fading.

The light changes.

Bob’s not himself anymore—he’s him, the man, trying to dig, trying to move fast enough, but something cold starts seeping in. The edges of the world flicker. The screams in the distance grow distant, then distorted—like they’re being swallowed.

The air shifts. The sky above twists into something wrong.

Bob knows this feeling.

The Void.

There’s a moment—so quick he almost misses it—where the boy looks up, eyes wide, reaching out with his small fingers. Then he’s gone. Vanished.

Not dead. Not crushed. Not buried.

Just… gone.

Back then, when Bob had been the Void—when he hadn’t known how to stop it. When it had ripped people from this world and locked them in that other place where time didn’t pass and light didn’t reach. That was one of the days.

The man is staring at him now. Not with fear. Not anymore. Just raw, exposed pain.

Bob lets go of the man like he’s been burned—his fingers twitch and retract, trembling at his side as his body reels from the memory, or vision, or whatever the hell that was. He stumbles a step backward, boots scraping against the pavement. The man doesn’t lash out again. Doesn’t scream or argue. He just stares at Bob—face pale, breath uneven, eyes hollowed out like something inside him has been dug up and dragged to the surface.

Bob can’t breathe right. His own heart’s pounding too loud in his ears, and his chest rises and falls like he’s just run a mile. Everything feels far away—the shouts of the officers, the murmur of the protest crowd, even Yelena’s voice as she comes up beside him.

“Bob,” she says, her tone softer than usual, “hey. Are you okay?”

He blinks. His mouth opens, but there’s no answer. Just air. Just the lingering weight of a boy’s hand reaching out from under rubble, eyes wide, full of trust. Full of hope. A hope he’d swallowed up into the void like it was nothing.

Bob swallows hard, nods once, too quickly. “Yeah,” he lies. “I’m good.”

Yelena frowns. She doesn’t press. She knows better. She just walks beside him when they’re cleared to go, not saying much. The rest of the patrol is quiet. They pass by shops, street corners, apartment blocks. Kids playing with chalk on the sidewalk. A dog barking from a rooftop balcony. Life as usual.

But Bob doesn’t see any of it. Not really. All he sees is the memory replaying in his head—hot and sharp like a shard of glass lodged in the back of his mind.

He’d taken that boy.

No—the Void had. But what was the difference, really? He’d been the vessel. The channel. The one who let it all happen, because he hadn’t known how to stop it. Because he’d let the hunger move through him, let it pull at the corners of the world and snap people from their lives.

They make it back to the tower just before sunset, and Bob doesn’t go straight to his room. He doesn’t change out of his gear. Doesn’t check in with John or tell Bucky how it went. He walks into the kitchen—empty, lights dimmed with that blueish tint of the early evening—and he sits down at the long table by the wall. The one that catches the last slant of sun through the window.

And he stays there.

He doesn’t even realize how long it’s been until the shadows stretch and the sky turns navy. The others come and go in flickers—someone walks in to grab a drink, another asks if he’s eaten. He nods again. More lies. Just to get them to leave him alone.

He’s not hungry. His stomach’s knotted so tight it feels like rope.

He leans his elbows on the table, forehead pressed to his palm. The room is too quiet, and yet too loud—buzzing with the echo of that voice, and then the silence that followed it.

He doesn’t cry. Not really. His throat burns, but nothing falls. Just that familiar ache settling into his bones like old friends—guilt, grief, self-loathing. He sits with it. Feeds it. Lets it spread through him like ink in water.

Maybe he shouldn’t be out there. Maybe he shouldn’t be on patrol. Not when the ghosts still follow him. Not when his power can still pull at the seams of reality and remind people—remind himself—what he’s done.

The man’s face won’t leave him.

Neither will the boy’s.

He wonders if the Void remembers them. If it keeps them preserved in the dark somewhere, frozen in the exact moment they were taken. He wonders if the boy still calls out for his father.

And if so, does anyone answer?

He knows—logically, rationally—that the boy probably came back. When the Void situation was resolved, when the darkness receded and those lost were found again, the whole terrifying ordeal was supposed to be over. That was the promise everyone held onto. The thing they repeated to themselves to stay sane: They’re back now.

But no amount of logic can erase the shadow of what happened in between.

Even if the boy didn’t die under the rubble—if he somehow survived that chaos, the suffocating dust and endless darkness—there was still that unbearable stretch of time. How long was it? Hours? Days? And during that time, what was the boy feeling? What was he thinking? What horrors had he seen in that suffocating nothingness?

Bob shudders, picturing the little boy trapped somewhere between worlds, isolated and terrified, powerless to scream, to reach out, to fight back. The crushing silence, the suffocating emptiness.

And what about the father? The memory still burns in Bob’s mind—the man’s hands digging through rubble, frantic, desperate, his face twisted with grief and fear as he tried to pull his son free. That moment when the boy vanished—just gone—from his grasp. 

Bob’s chest tightens with the weight of that pure, raw terror. He imagines the father’s heart breaking right there, shattered by the helplessness, the incomprehensible loss. The way a parent’s whole world can shatter in a second, turning to dust like the crumbling buildings around him.

And the man didn’t stop, didn’t give up. Months later, he’s out here protesting—shouting at the world, lashing out at those who oppose him. Bob understands that rage now. That fear that never left. The gut-deep terror of losing someone you love, the kind of pain that drives people to the edge, that twists their soul.

Bob feels the heavy weight of that fear and sadness settle deep in his own chest. It gnaws at him—not just the memory he saw, but what it means. The fear that he was once that—the Void, the dark place where people get lost and never come back. And now, even as he fights to be better, to be useful, to be part of something good, that shadow lingers. It’s a reminder of what he almost was. Of the chaos he almost became.

He lets the silence stretch out around him, the weight of the memory pressing down, reminding him of the fragility of life—and the terrifying spaces where people can get lost. The spaces he once ruled.

And in the quiet, all he can think about is that scared father. That scared boy.

And how close—how terrifyingly close—they came to being swallowed by the Void forever.

John steps into the kitchen quietly, like he knows the silence means something. He doesn’t ask anything right away—just walks over to the counter, fills the kettle, and waits for it to boil. Bob doesn’t say a word. He just keeps staring at the countertop, eyes a little unfocused, hands still resting in his lap like they’re made of something heavier than skin and bone.

When the tea’s ready, John sets a mug down in front of him. It’s chamomile—Bob can smell it immediately—and he murmurs a soft “thanks” as he wraps his hands around the warm ceramic, even though he doesn’t take a sip.

John leans against the counter next to him, arms folded, and starts talking. Nothing heavy. Just recounting their side of patrol. Some lady gave Ava a handful of homemade cookies. A little girl waved at Alexei and called him “Shrek.” John smirks a little telling that part, and Bob almost smiles. It’s easy talk. Light. John knows how to make space when Bob needs it. How to talk just enough for the both of them.

But Bob’s not really there, not fully. His body is, and his hands are warm from the mug, but his mind is still stuck somewhere else. Somewhere darker.

John must see it—he always does.

He stops mid-sentence, walks a little closer, and places a hand gently against the small of Bob’s back. Not possessive. Not pressing. Just there. A quiet sort of reassurance. Like he’s saying I’m here, without having to say it.

Bob looks up, startled by the contact—his eyes searching John’s like he’s expecting a question or a concern. But John doesn’t speak. He just looks back at him and keeps his hand where it is. Steady. Present.

It’s enough to make something shake loose in Bob’s chest. Not a breakdown, not a flood of words—just this aching sort of pressure, like his heart’s been holding its breath for too long and is only now exhaling.

He shifts, almost instinctively, just a little closer, resting his temple lightly against John’s side. He still doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have the words for the hollow ache in his chest or the shame still clinging to his ribs. But he doesn’t pull away either.

And John doesn’t ask.

He just stays with him there. Quiet. Still. Like he knows that whatever Bob saw out there today—whatever pain is crawling beneath his skin—it’s not something that needs fixing or solving. Just something that needs witnessing.

The rest of the week blurs, in that quiet way time sometimes does when your mind is somewhere else. When your body moves, but your heart stays behind.

Bob goes out on patrol when he’s scheduled—puts on the gear, laces his boots, steps into the city with Yelena or John or Ava by his side. He smiles when people talk to him. He asks questions, listens politely. He even cracks jokes once or twice, but they feel hollow in his mouth, like he’s mimicking something instead of really saying it.

Because that gnawing feeling doesn’t leave. Not for a second. It just sinks deeper, settles in the pit of his stomach and curls up there like it’s made a home. He keeps seeing that man’s face—that moment when Bob touched him and saw everything. The sheer terror of watching someone you love disappear into thin air, taken by something you can’t even name. Something Bob used to be.

And maybe the boy’s fine now. Maybe he came back when the void disappeared. Maybe he was lucky. But the not-knowing claws at Bob. And the knowing—what he was during that time—hurts even more.

He keeps it all to himself. That’s the worst part. He doesn’t say a word. Not to Yelena, not to Bucky, not to John.

Especially not to John.

Because John’s still coming to his room most nights. Slipping in like it’s routine now, like it’s theirs. And it is, in a way. Bob doesn’t stop him. He wants him there. Craves the warmth of him—his weight under the sheets, the press of his mouth against Bob’s skin, the strong, certain way he touches him like he knows exactly where Bob begins and ends.

Some nights, John climbs on top of him and kisses him deep, slow, until Bob forgets his own name for a little while. Until he’s breathless and gasping and gripping onto John like he’ll fall apart if he lets go. It’s good—so good—it’s just not enough.

Because when it’s over and they’re lying tangled up together, skin still slick and hearts still racing, that darkness creeps back in. Bob will stare up at the ceiling while John drifts off beside him, and his chest will ache. Ache with the weight of what he was, what he still feels like deep down. 

And underneath it all, the slow, rotting feeling that maybe he doesn’t deserve to be touched like this. To be loved like this.

John doesn’t seem to notice—not really. He’s gentle with Bob. Playful. Thoughtful in ways that catch Bob off guard sometimes. He brings him coffee in the mornings. Makes some offhand joke about how he snores (he doesn’t). Brushes his hand over Bob’s back when no one’s looking. Tells him he’s proud of him, without needing a reason.

Bob smiles and thanks him and lets himself be held. But he’s slipping. And he knows it. Detaching slowly, like he’s watching his own life from outside of himself.

At the tower, the others laugh at the dinner table and he joins in, but it’s like there’s a fog between him and them—like the sound is coming through cotton. He hears them, but he doesn’t feel it. He goes through the motions of training. Spars. Talks. Performs. And yet, his body feels like it’s acting on instinct, his mind always just a step behind, dragging.

He knows what this is. He’s been here before. It’s that slope—that sinking pull of guilt and shame that whispers that the joy was never meant for him anyway. That it’s borrowed time. That any minute now, John will see him for what he really is. That the others will realize he doesn’t belong here. That maybe the void never really left—maybe it’s just waiting, coiled up inside him like a second spine, ready to unravel again.

But he can’t say that. Not when things are technically fine. Not when people are finally looking at him like he’s one of them. Not when John is looking at him like that.

So he swallows it down. Night after night. Patrol after patrol. He tells himself it’ll pass. That if he just holds on tight enough—if he keeps doing the right things, saying the right things, being the right kind of person—it’ll all go away.

But somewhere deep down, he’s starting to wonder if the feeling isn’t going anywhere. If this is just what comes after happiness—for him, anyway. The quiet unraveling. The cold shadow in the chest. The waiting for something to go wrong.

The room’s washed in soft lamplight, and Bob is curled up in bed with a book he’s been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes. His eyes move across the lines, but nothing registers. The words slide right off his brain like rain off glass. Beside him, John is leaned back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone, thumb swiping slowly, rhythmically. The kind of quiet that should feel comfortable hums between them, but it doesn’t—not for Bob. Not tonight.

He turns a page he hasn’t read.

John doesn’t look up at first. But then his thumb stops. He glances over. Pauses. And says, without preamble, “Okay, what’s going on with you?”

Bob’s breath catches. He doesn’t answer right away. Just blinks at the book like maybe the words will finally stick if he stares hard enough. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice light. Careful.

John exhales and locks his phone. “Come on. Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re pretending you’re completely fine.”

“Maybe I am completely fine,” Bob says, a little sharper than intended.

John shifts to face him more directly, his jaw tight. “You’ve been off all week. You barely talk unless someone speaks to you first. You’ve been zoning out during training, you didn’t even come sit with us at dinner tonight, and you flinched when I kissed you yesterday. Don’t tell me nothing’s wrong.”

Bob shuts the book. His fingers curl tight around the cover. “I just—I’m tired. I’ve been on patrol.”

“We’ve all been on patrol. This isn’t about that,” John says, voice low but firm. “You’ve been… I don’t know. Distant. Like you’re not really here half the time.”

Bob shakes his head and tries to look away, but John reaches for him. Not roughly, but enough to keep him still. His hands press to Bob’s shoulders, grounding. “Don’t shut down on me,” he says quietly. 

Bob swallows hard. His chest is so tight it aches. “It’s nothing. I’m just—I’ve been thinking too much.”

“About what?”

“It’s stupid.”

“I don’t care. Tell me.”

Bob looks at him then. Really looks. And he can’t lie—not when John’s eyes are this focused, this concerned. Not when he’s still holding onto him like he’s afraid Bob will drift too far if he lets go.

He tries to twist out of John’s grip. It’s not aggressive, not really—but it’s frantic, the way panic is when it’s soft and creeping. His hands go to John’s chest, then his shoulders, pushing without force, without direction. 

“Let me go,” he mutters, his voice cracking on the edges. “Seriously, just—just let it go, John—”

But John doesn’t move. He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he holds him harder, and when Bob pushes again—truly tries—John tightens his arms around him and shoves him gently but firmly back against the headboard. Not to hurt him. Just to keep him still. Bob’s back hits the wood with a soft thud, the mattress bouncing slightly beneath them.

“Stop,” John says quietly, but his grip says more than his voice does. It’s not forceful so much as insistent. Not going to hurt you, but I’m not going to let you run either.

Bob’s breathing hitches. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just run a mile in the freezing rain. “You don’t get it,” he says, still trying to squirm free, even if his strength is failing fast. “You don’t—you shouldn’t care this much. I’m not—” He swallows, jaw tight. “I’m not good for you.”

John’s eyes narrow. “Stop saying that.”

“Why?” Bob snaps, eyes wild now. “Because it makes you uncomfortable? Because it ruins this little fantasy where I’m not the guy who ruined half this city—?”

“That’s not who you are anymore.”

“You don’t know that!”

John grabs his face. Not rough, just firm, thumbs along his jaw, tilting his face up so he has to look at him. Really look.

And that’s what breaks Bob. Not the strength of the grip. Not the restraint. The look.

John’s eyes don’t move. Don’t flinch. They’re fixed—unblinking, steady, quiet in a way that feels louder than anything Bob’s heard all day. There’s no judgment in them. No pity either. Just this strange, unwavering focus, like he’s seeing something beneath the surface. Not just looking at him, but really seeing him.

And it knocks the air out of Bob in a way he hadn’t prepared for.

Because it’s not the kind of look he’s used to. Most people see the version of him he hands out in pieces—tidy, manageable, tailored to their expectations. He’s spent years perfecting the angles, the delivery, the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He knows how to distract, how to smooth things over before anyone notices the cracks.

But John doesn’t look away.

He sees him.

All of him.

The unfiltered, messy, unraveling parts. The twitch of his jaw when he’s trying not to cry. The way his hands tremble just slightly as he fights the urge to fold in on himself. The flushed, heat-prickled shame clinging to his skin like sweat. The fury—raw and half-buried—that’s not directed at anyone else, only at himself.

Bob hates how exposed he feels under it. Hates that he can’t keep still, can’t hide. His eyes dart to the side for a second, then back again, and John’s gaze is still there—anchored. 

His throat tightens, and for a second, he wishes John would look away. That he’d shrug or smile or crack a joke to break the tension. Something, anything, to pull him back into familiar territory.

Bob doesn’t know what to do with that. With being seen like this and not being met with recoil or disgust. With being held in someone’s eyes like he’s allowed to be flawed, and fragile, and still worth the room he takes up.

He wants to say something—to break whatever this is before it swallows him whole—but his mouth won’t open. All he can do is stand there, chest heaving, a hurricane of emotion rolling under his skin.

His nails dig into John’s arms then, hard enough to leave crescent marks. Not out of anger. Desperation. He’s gripping onto something solid while the rest of him feels like it’s falling apart. His whole body feels lit from the inside with some cracked, raw emotion that has nowhere to go. He can’t scream, and he can’t cry, so he clutches.

John doesn’t pull away.

He leans in a little closer, keeping Bob pinned there—not with weight, but with presence. His hands fall to Bob’s sides, grounding him.

“I’m not letting this go,” John says, quiet but certain.

“You should,” Bob rasps. His voice is shaking now. “I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

John tilts his head, and something fierce flashes across his face—something tender and stubborn and painfully human. “Then stop acting like this is some solo descent,” he says. “Because I’m already in it. I chose this.”

“You don’t know what you’re choosing.”

“Maybe I don’t,” John says. “But I’m still choosing you.”

Bob stares at him. Just stares. The tears sting the backs of his eyes and he hates it. Hates that he feels so seen, so exposed. He doesn’t want to fall apart in front of him. But it’s too late—he already is.

He stops pushing.

His hands unclench, slide down John’s arms like melting wax, and then they’re gripping the fabric of his sleeves instead, knuckles pale. His breath shakes again.

John wraps his arms around Bob like he’s done it a hundred times before, like it’s second nature, like he expects Bob to fall apart in his arms sometimes and he’s already made peace with it. There’s no hesitation, no discomfort—just strength. Warmth. The kind that doesn’t demand anything in return.

Bob breathes him in—soap, sweat, something like cedar—and it just makes it worse. Or better. It blurs together now. He’s shaking against him, fists curled into the back of John’s shirt as if that’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His face presses into John’s neck, and then the tears start. Silent at first, then trembling, then breaking into little gasping sobs that leave his throat raw.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

John doesn’t shush him. Doesn’t try to talk over him. He just lets him cry, lets him feel, which somehow is harder than everything else. He grunts quietly, low in his throat, but it’s not annoyance. It’s something like god, you’re killing me and I’ve got you at the same time.

Then he pulls Bob closer. Really close. Like he’s trying to fold them together, to eliminate the space between their chests, between their ribs, like if he can hold Bob tight enough he can take some of it away. Bob’s hands scramble up to John’s neck, then into his hair, and he clutches—not delicate, not tentative. 

He pulls until their bodies are flush, until John has no choice but to hold him back just as hard.

His arms tighten around Bob’s back, one hand splayed between his shoulder blades, the other curling into his waist like he’s anchoring him there. His breath is warm against Bob’s ear, a steady rhythm to match the storm in Bob’s chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” John murmurs finally, voice low and rough. “So cry if you need to. Stay here as long as you want.”

Bob’s crying doesn’t stop, not yet. But it slows. The jagged edges dull a little. Because there’s something about being held like this, about not being pushed away, about not being feared, that lets the guilt start to bleed out without swallowing him whole.

And so he stays wrapped up in John’s arms, tears soaking his shoulder, hands buried in his hair. He stays like that because John isn’t afraid of him—because somehow, impossibly, John still wants him like this. Ruined. Shaking. Human.

And for the first time in days, Bob lets himself believe that maybe he won’t lose everything after all.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of bloodwarm